The only local PhD program I’m interested in is American Studies at The College of William and Mary.  W&M is a bit of a drive for me and I’m not even sure I could get accepted, but the program looks intriguing.  Of course, the idea of getting a MFA in writing still appeals, too.  Bennington’s low residency writing program seems perfect-- except for the part about spending ten days in Vermont in January.  I just don’t know.  I have until January to decide about William and Mary, March for Bennington.  Or just maintain the status quo.  I think the reason I keep dragging my feet over getting another (terminal) degree is that I don’t know if I want to teach.  And with a Doctorate in American Studies or Masters in Writing, there is little else to do but teach.  Seems like a lot of money to spend just to have another degree, yes?

Speaking of teaching, I’m happy this semester is almost over.  It seems as if it’s been the most frustrating so far and I have considered making this my last semester of teaching, but I’m sure that has a lot to do with other things going on in my life.  I’m currently scheduled to teach one section of English Comp in the spring, but I’ve asked for at least one more.  I know it seems contradictory-- if I’m considering not teaching any more, why would I ask for more classes to teach?  But it’s not much more work to teach two classes than it is to teach one and if I’m going to do all the prep work for one class, I might as well teach two.  Or three.  We’ll see how that goes.

This one is my favorite so far:

There is still plenty of time to make baby hats!  You can read my original blog post about the campaign and visit the Save the Children website for the activity kit!  Make a hat, save a baby.

The charming Ashley Lister interviewed me this month for his Between the Lines column about my writing, my inspiration, my forthcoming stories and even my menagerie of pets!  I have been a longtime fan of ERWA and can’t say enough about the site, the resources and the woman behind it all, Adrienne Benedicks:

I stumbled upon writing erotica by accident in 1999.  I had just published my first romance novel with Silhouette and I was between novel proposals when I wrote a quirky little story called “Service Entrance.” It was about a woman who pays a man for the privilege of giving him a blowjob.  I had no idea what to do with the story and would have filed it away forever if not for a newsletter called Jane’s ‘Net Sex Guide.  The newsletter was put out by Jane Duvall, who still runs the well-known Jane’s Guide.  The newsletter editor was Adrienne Benedicks and she featured a short story in each edition.  I sent “Service Entrance” to Adrienne and she bought it within days, sending me a lovely, flattering note of encouragement.  From there, I discovered Adrienne’s mailing list for erotica readers and writers and sent “Service Entrance” off to Marcy Sheiner a few months later for consideration in the inaugural 2000 edition of the Best Women’s Erotica series.  Marcy bought the story and I haven’t looked back since.  I have such appreciation and gratitude for Jane Duvall, Marcy Sheiner and—most of all—Adrienne Benedicks for starting my career as an erotica writer.

You can read the rest of my interview here.  And it looks like I may soon be joining ERWA as a reviewer and possibly even a columnist-- if I can convince myself anyone would want to read my self-conscious musings on a semi-regular basis.

Of course, real life is not like thirtysomething and I pretty much picked up on that before I was even thirtysomething myself.  City people seem to live isolated lives, millions of islands-unto-themselves surrounded by strangers whose only commonality is geography.  The city is supposed to be about shoes and sex, power and corruption, crime and murder.  The belief is that the suburbs are the antithesis of that-- block parties and nanny sharing and gossiping, backstabbing (but always there to loan you a cup of sugar) desperate housewives. 

Neither image-- city or suburb-- is really accurate.  People create communities in cities.  Coworkers and friends network at parties into the wee hours, people cohabit and marry and have cherubic city babies, families carve out space for themselves among skyscrapers and subways and city streets bustling with humanity.  City people may be less trusting of their fellow man and less likely to return a stranger’s smile, but they do find a way to create the webs of support for themselves.  Meanwhile, suburb people, with their middle-class accouterments of big yards and bigger minivans can find ways of avoiding all humanity with the click of a garage-door button.  Who needs to be friends with the neighbors when you have three kids under six and in-laws who live ten minutes away? 

I know there are suburban neighborhoods that are much like my beloved thirtysomething.  I realize I have a bit of an anti-social streak perhaps more suitable for city dwelling.  I am the ubiquitous neighbor who always says hello (of neither the suicidal nor serial killer variety), but I would be hard pressed to tell you the names of all but three or four of the people who live in my subdivision of sixty-four houses.  I know them by their dogs who escape the confines of their fence sometimes, I know them by their politics thanks to the yard signs that spring up like mushrooms every four years, I know them by their holiday decorations, tacky or tasteful.  I know the ages of their children based on what they come to my door to sell or whether they trick-or-treat anymore or if they are now (frighteningly) driving. 

Truthfully, I prefer it this way-- my own private island in suburbia.  I like my privacy and I do not like uninvited, unexpected visitors unless they are of the four-legged variety (and even that can be inconvenient, at times).  With the click of my garage door opener, I keep a comfortable distance between myself and the people who live around me. They are far enough away that I don’t know their business, close enough that if I screamed in the middle of the night at least a couple would come running (with guns).  If I see one of them jogging through the neighborhood or pushing the kiddies in a stroller, I wave and smile.  I don’t ask what running shoes they’re wearing or whether little Molly has said her first word.  They are neighbors, but they are strangers.

After Hurricane Isabel in 2003, my neighborhood came together (with chainsaws blazing) to help each other out.  People waved a little harder, smiled a little bigger and shared empathetic, doleful glances at fallen trees while they talked loudly over the rumble of generators.  It was nice.  It was also nice when things returned to normal, comfortable distance a week or so after power had been restored.  There really was nothing left for us to talk about, these strangers who live around me.

A couple of weeks ago, Jay pointed out that our next door neighbors appeared to be moving.  It was hard to tell, really.  There was a white-paneled truck in the driveway and the family’s SUV backed up to the house with the hatch open.  I never actually saw my neighbors carry anything out-- just those vehicles, like overburdened suburban pack mules waiting to carry their belongings away.  It was a bit of a disconcerting mystery, really.  Of course, the fact that we don’t have that kind of relationship with our neighbors-- the kind that would allow us to walk over with a beer in hand and say, “Howdy, neighbor!  You moving out?"-- only added to the puzzle.  We didn’t know what was going on and it didn’t seem polite to ask.

Day after day, the little moving truck and the SUV were filled up with the family’s possessions and driven away.  This went on for days and I am not exaggerating when I say I never actually saw our neighbors through the entire process.  One night when we came home from eating out, the blinds were open and the lights were on, but the vehicles were gone. Jay said there was nothing in the living room and the walls were bare.  I walked by the house, nosy and snooping, and saw that he was right.  Perhaps they were painting?  I noticed their teenage son’s room still had the walls plastered with posters and banners.  Surely they weren’t moving if their son’s room was untouched.

Days went by, a week.  Clearly, they weren’t painting as I saw a stack of boxes and a laundry basket bulging from the back of the wife’s SUV.  Divorce, perhaps?  But that didn’t explain why everything was gone from the downstairs rooms (no one’s divorce attorney is that good).  The vehicles came and went during the day, but were parked in the driveway at night, negating the moving theory.  One night, however, the only vehicle in the driveway was the old Mustang that I don’t think runs anymore.  Yet, their bedroom light was on, as was a stairway light, as they often were in the evenings.  It was as if they had moved out and forgotten to tell the house they weren’t coming back.  Yet, there was no telltale realtor sign in the front yard, no “For Rent” banner swinging among the swirling fall leaves.

They were there again this morning.  The vehicles, I mean.  I still have not seen my neighbors in nearly two weeks, since all of this began.  It’s a mystery, a little suburban puzzle that would only be solved by asking someone.  As it happened, I ran into my other next door neighbors while I was food shopping this afternoon.  They commented that they see more of me at the grocery store (most often buying bananas for the always hungry raccoons) than they do in the neighborhood.  It isn’t an exaggeration.  We chatted about work and school and whether they might get another dog (their beloved pup died two years ago) and I couldn’t resist.  I had to know.  I asked.  Were our other neighbors moving?

The husband gave me a look.  It was an awkward moment.  Yes, they were moving.  No, the house isn’t on the market.  The way he phrased it was, “It’s out of their hands.”

Out of their hands.  Foreclosure.  My stomach dropped.

These are not people I really know, much less know well.  Yet, they are not the nameless, faceless numbers I’ve heard about on the news shows and in the papers in the past couple of months as the economy has crumbled.  They are not the Smith family in Arizona or the Rodriquez family in upstate New York or the young family in Atlanta or the retirement age couple in Florida.  These are my neighbors.  My middle class, suburban neighbors who had over fifteen years invested in this neighborhood.

I cannot imagine what it is like to have your home taken away from you.  No matter how long you might live somewhere-- and this family has been in the neighborhood nearly twice as long as my eight years-- when you put down roots and sign your name to a mortgage, you believe you are buying a piece of security along with a brick and wood home.  You are buying your future, your children’s future, your happiness, your memories.  You are building a family, a life, a dream.  You are home when you buy a house.  To have that taken away… it defies comprehension.

I have no idea of their financial situation or how long it has been bad or how quickly it took for it to get to this point, with their belongings stuffed into bags and boxes and baskets and crammed into vehicles.  I have no idea what was going on up in that bedroom where the television often flickered late into the night.  I have no idea what their teenage son thought or felt as the downstairs was stripped bare while his posters remained defiantly on his walls until the last possible day.  I have no idea… but I can imagine.

I didn’t really know the people next door and I was okay with that.  I knew enough to know we had vastly different lifestyles, opinions and politics despite a similar taste in suburban neighborhoods with semi-wooded yards.  I didn’t know them or what they were going through or even where they are moving to.  We will watch and wait to see what happens next, who will benefit from their misfortune, who will take their place in the neighborhood.  I didn’t know them and I don’t know that I will make a tremendous effort to know the people who move into their abandoned home filled with so many of their memories.  I still like my privacy, I am not keen on swapping stories over the back fence and I will always grumble when the doorbell rings unexpectedly.  But I’ll smile a little bigger and wave a little harder and hope that the next family who moves into our neighborhood will be able to hang on to their dream.

I have often lamented that Virginia-- at least my part of Virginia-- is not exactly cupcake-friendly.  The cupcake craze seems to be a mostly urban phenomenon-- New York, San Francisco and Chicago are just filled with delicious cupcake bakeries.  Bakeries dedicated entirely to cupcakes!  Oh, the wonder!  Imagine my delight when I discovered the Carolina Cupcakery just a few short minutes from my house (in a direction I never travel, which explains why I didn’t know they existed).  Despite the name, Carolina Cupcakery is most definitely located in Virginia.  Happy me!

Jay and I stumbled on the Carolina Cupcakery quite by accident yesterday.  I was willing to come back another time (we hadn’t eaten lunch yet and it seemed irresponsible to be indulging in cupcakes as a meal), but Jay insisted we should go inside.  I’m so glad we did!  The smell was heaven and the selection is truly eclectic. 

The Cupcakery rotates their cupcake flavors and offers a schedule so customers will know what days their favorites are available.  We were in on a Thursday when such flavors as Kahlua and Cream, Espresso Royale, Seriously Southern Red Velvet and Fluffer Nutter are fresh from the oven.  Jay ordered a Chocolate Chipster (yellow cake with a rich, chocolate chip-laden butter cream frosting) and I chose the HoHo Heaven (a Hostess-style chocolate cupcake with chocolate ganache and vanilla cream filling).  Oh. My. God.

In September, Sheri brought me a lovely, luscious cupcake from More Cupcakes in Chicago.  It was a similar Hostess-styled cupcake and I was curious to compare the “big city” version to my newfound Virginia cupcake bakery.  I have to say, the More cupcake was delicious, but the cake was a little on the dry side and there wasn’t much vanilla cream filling.  Yummy, to be sure, and the dryness might be due to traveling from Chicago.  The Carolina Cupcakery’s version was a little more decadent (and perhaps a little larger?), the cake moist and rich, the chocolate ganache generous, the vanilla cream practically bursting.  I love my chocolate and I love it rich, so this was perfect for me.  (However, when I offered Jay a bite he said, “That’s so sweet it hurts my teeth!")

I asked the owner (unfortunately, I didn’t think to ask her name, but I believe it’s Dawn Eskins, according to their website) if she knew about Cupcakes Take the Cake.  She did-- and she said she was listed on the site!  Sure enough, when I checked CTTC, Carolina Cupcakery was there.  I’m not sure how I missed it, but it was a sweet treat to find this little cupcake bakery amidst the wilderness of suburbia!  (And they’re green!) Ms. Eskins gave me a day-old carrot cake cupcake (day-old cupcakes are half-price, which I think is a great way to let customers try flavors they might not otherwise order) to take home with me.  I devoured it last night-- I couldn’t resist-- and though the cake was a little dry from being a day old, it was otherwise delicious.  I’ll be back for a fresh-baked one.

I can’t wait to take Sheri there later this month.  It’ll be a good excuse to try several more flavors.  As if I need an excuse to eat cupcakes, right?

Rachel Telles in New Mexico!



Nicole in Texas!



Kevin Wenzel in Virginia!



Holly Hunt in Texas!



Sexy Secrets in Alabama!



Ron Bailey in Virginia!



And this is Sinclair Sexsmith’s polling place in New York!  Sinclair added, “I didn’t get an “I voted” sticker - they didn’t have any, I asked! - and didn’t snap a shot of myself, but I did take this photo of the sign outside my polling place. cool that it was so multilingual. I heard various different languages this morning, too, which was neat.”

I think it’s pretty neat, too.

Want a book for yourself?  Send me your picture!

Now, I’m going back to the returns!

Voting is sexy!  Want proof?  Read on…

In the spirit of Krispy Kreme, Ben & Jerry’s, Starbucks and sex toy store Babeland, I’m giving away erotica! 

The guidelines are simple:

1.  Vote and be sure to get an “I Voted” sticker. 

2. Take a picture of yourself with your “I Voted” sticker and e-mail it to me (kristina AT kristinawright DOT com) before midnight on Friday, November 7th.  (ETA: Please let me know if I have permission to share your picture here!)

3.  Include your mailing address and book preference (straight, gay or lesbian).

4. I will send you an autographed copy of one of over fifty anthologies I have contributed to. 

5. You don’t have to vote for Barack Obama.  Just vote.  (Though I’m fairly certain Republicans don’t like naughty stories! )

That’s it!  Vote on November 4th, send me a picture before midnight November 7th, get a book.  See, I told you voting is sexy!


****************************************

Various notes and disclaimers:

--Obviously, this offer is only open to those who live in the United States.  However, if you live outside the US I will send you a book if you link to this blog post.  Because, let’s face it, the choices we make here affect the entire world. 

I like Obama, I believe in his message.  I want him to win.  I posted this four years ago the day after Bush won a second term in office and I will re-post this on Wednesday if McCain wins:

If you voted for George W. Bush yesterday, I hope you’re not African-American.  Or Asian-American.  Or Muslim.  Or any other non-Christian religion.

I hope you’re not a woman.  I hope you’re not between the ages of 18 and 40.

I also hope you’re not poor.  I hope you’re not a member of, or married to, the military.

I hope you’re not a college student, small business owner or minimum wage worker.

I hope you’re not gay or bisexual.

I hope you’re not a writer or artist, and if you are, I hope your work is only the most innocent and innocuous of writing and art.

I hope you’re not a teacher, or a student.

I hope you’re not elderly.  I hope you don’t have a chronic disease that requires expensive medical treatment.

I hope no one you love is any of these things, either.

In other words, if you voted for George W. Bush, I hope you are an upper middle class, straight, white Christian male over the age of 40.  Otherwise, you might get what you deserve.

And if you didn’t bother to vote at all, I hope the next four years are memorable for you.

I am not particularly savvy when it comes to politics.  I’m too much of an idealist for that.  But I honestly believe voting for John McCain is voting for more of the kind of politics we’ve seen for the past eight years.  I honestly believe voting for Barack Obama is a vote for hope, nonpartisan politics and a better future for the country.  I honestly believe that.

Vote tomorrow.  Vote for what you believe, even if you don’t believe what I do.  It’s a privilege to vote.  There are people who are willing to travel 9,300 miles just to make sure their votes count.  So, whatever you have going on tomorrow, however busy you are, however long the lines at the polls might be, take the time to vote.  Be thankful that you can.  I know I am.

I will be up watching the returns until I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.  I will be hoping for the best-- for all of us.

So, I realized yesterday that this week marks my blog’s fifth birthday!  Happy Anniversary, little blog!  Before I was Kristina Wright: Musings of an Insomniac Writer, I had a little blog over on Diaryland.  It’s long gone now, which is sad because I think I wrote a couple of entries I wish I still had.  Oh well.  Since the start of this blog, I’ve created a couple of Blogger blogs to keep certain aspects of my life separate from my main blog.  One day, I will incorporate those entries into this blog, too.  Most recently, I created a Tumblr blog primarily for links and quotes and pictures and other internet ephemera I don’t necessarily want to include here.  But, for the most part, this has been my little home on the internet for five years.

The interesting/fun/scary part of keeping a blog for so many years is seeing how far I’ve come (or how old I have gotten) and far I still want to go.  My introductory blog post from five years ago went like this:

I am a writer, a wannabe rockstar, a part-time library assistant, a soon-to-be grad student and a self-proclaimed princess with a tiara to prove my royal lineage. 

I live in Virginia with my husband, a menagerie of pets and more books than the library I work at (well, almost).  My friends are few but loyal, my interests many and varied, my tastes expensive and eclectic.  I’m a Taurus and the description fits: stubborn, loyal to a fault, possessive, self-reliant, wise, jealous, loving and self-indulgent.  I’ve written everything from greeting cards to novels, and writing has always been and will always be my first love.

I like to cook for the people I love, shop alone, garden, travel whenever I can, go to movies and the theater, read and and learn new things.  I love animals, Starbucks frappuccinos, Lush, chocolate anything, hanging out in coffee shops, watching Gilmore Girls, London and Angelina Jolie.  Not necessarily in that order.

I have ridiculously long hair, a tattoo and a convertible.  What more could a girl want?  Oh, maybe a multi-book contract, but I wouldn’t want to be greedy.

My goal in life is to be happy.  For the most part, I’d say I’m succeeding.

That’s Kristina with a K.

Since October 2003, my rockstar status has faded away, I left the library three years ago, I completed my M.A. in Humanities (instead of English, as I had originally intended), and my tiara is in a closet, gathering dust.  I’m still a writer, with five more years-- and dozens more writing credits-- under my belt.  I’m also a community college adjunct now (that Masters degree comes in handy occasionally).

I still live in Virginia, I’m still married to the same great guy (who is also still in the Navy) and I still have the menagerie of pets, though they are an increasingly elderly menagerie.  I’m paring down the book collection, the faces of the friends have mostly remained the same (added a couple, lost a couple), and my tastes are still eclectic but perhaps not as expensive as I get older and realize the best things in life aren’t things at all-- they’re memories. 

I don’t cook as much as I used to and my interest in shopping declines every year, but I would take a trip every month if I could afford it.  I still adore movies and theatre, Lush and Starbucks (though my drink of choice now is a venti black & white mocha).  I spend at least part of most days working/writing/daydreaming at Starbucks, I will always love animals, chocolate and reading, but the Gilmore Girls are gone and Angelina Jolie doesn’t hold quite the same appeal she once did.  I still love learning new things.

My hair isn’t as long as it was in 2003, but it’s still red.  I still have just one tattoo, though I intended to add a second when I turned 40 and just couldn’t figure out what I wanted.  I still drive the same convertible (16 years and counting!).

My goal in life is still the same-- to be happy.  I still think I’m doing a pretty good job.

It’s still Kristina with a K and I’m still writing under my real name.  Some things never change.  My current bio (which is actually a year old) reflects some of the changes in my life in the past few years, but there are other, more subtle changes that perhaps only I can recognize.

Five years of blogging has taught me to be more aware of the world around me and the ripple effect of every thought that finds its way to my blog.  I imagine I’ll still be here in another five years, still suffering from insomnia, still blogging about to-do lists and random musings and my current crush and my recent sales.  I’m still waiting on that multi-book contract, so maybe that will come in the next five years.

Time will tell-- and so will my blog.