Saturday, November 3, 2012

Where I Do Chick Lit

Inspiration usually strikes in the kneecaps for me.  Like when I run into a bookshelf as I make a middle of the night bathroom trek.  And it struck me tonight in the shower.

Inspiration, not the bookshelf.  That would be weird.  And really creepy.  I think I'd call an exorcist if my bookshelf came into the bathroom.

Anyways.............My brain tossed together a novel while I was in the shower.  Fragments of Facebook friends status updates on "30 days of thankfulness" plus someone mentioning what they would do with a ton of money was the inspiration behind this new brainchild of mine.

So I registered for National Novel Writing Month and began the process of giving birth to "Once Upon A Southern Fairy Tale."  Here's what I've got so far. 

There’s a joke that goes like this: What’s the difference between a Northern and a Southern fairy tale?

A Northern fairy tale begins ‘Once upon a time.’
A Southern fairy tale begins ‘Now y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.’

I don’t believe in fairy tales.  At the age of 5, my mother informed me that I should have been a miscarriage, but I was too much of a stubborn bitch to just die.  And that was when she was sober.  She was worse when drunk, but that was usually not until after lunch. 

When I was 7 I found her drowned in her own vomit, but thinking that she was sleeping off a particularly bad bender I didn’t realized for 2 days that she had died.  When the motel manager came looking for the weeks rent, I remember how he rifled through our meager belongings, pocketed a handful of dollars, the remainder of my mother’s booze, and a pocket watch that I believe belonged to my Grandpa.  Only then did he call the cops after threatening me not to say anything.  The state swooped in, dropping me in foster care until they located Great Aunt Mathilda. 

I’m sure you’d like me to say that I cried for the loss of my mother, but I felt more relieved.  I was uneducated, so accustomed to chaos and disorder that when I overheard Great Aunt Mathilda tell her neighbor that I was a like a feral cat, I thought my chest would burst with pride.  The cat on the Fancy Feast commercial had such pretty fur, and the Meow Mix cats were so cute, I knew that I must be very lucky.

When I learned what feral meant the next day I cried.  For three days.

But this really isn’t the story of my childhood and how I grew up.  This is really the story of a million dollars and my attempt to spend it all in 100 days.

My name is Norma Jeane.

Now pull up a chair, ‘cuz y’all ain’t gonna believe this shit.

 (And before you ask, yes, my mother named me after HER).


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Norma Jeane, or J as she prefers to be called, grew up on a diet of fried chicken, collard greens, and biscuits with a heaping dose of crazy Great Aunt Mathilda.  She never expected to leave the confines of Woodbine, but all that changed the day her geriatric patient died.  Handed a million dollars and a to do list, J has 100 days to complete her mission. 

Ride along in Great Aunt Mathilda's ancient Firebird as J, Gam and her bulldog UGA  criss-cross the US following the directives of an eccentric millionaire.