Life: One Kick in the Nuts After Another

[Final edit at 6:08pm, accompanied by a tall glass of Jack and water over ice…]

I’m tired of being optimistic. Tired of smiling and pretending I have any influence, at all, on what happens next in my world and that everything’s going to be okay. Because I don’t, and it’s not. Our lobbyist-run government is corrupt, our politically divided country is full of sheeple, and our flat, over-sized televisions spew a thousand channels of shamelessly over-commercialed garbage. Cities, towns, and entire islands all over the globe are disappearing under rising tides. Economies (including ours) are crumbling. Human trafficking, slavery, organized crime, poverty, child abuse, torture, terrorism, and war exist – will continue to exist – everywhere.

With advances in technology, and one-click access to more information than probably every other generation before us, combined, you’d think we’d get better at solving the world’s problems. Instead, phones, tablets, pads, and the mindless games and activities over which we obsess have taught us to look down instead of out and inward. We see it as multi-tasking. We think we know ourselves – and each other – but we don’t. We pop in headphones, link to WiFi, and think we’re connected, but we’re not. Social networking is, in fact, making us anti-social. We tweet our “Check in” at Applebee’s or click “Like” on a friend’s photo of a kitten pushing a smaller kitten in a tiny, red shopping cart and call it “communicating,” while eating lunch surrounded by people doing the same thing. Our “Friends” lists are growing, but our vocabularies are shrinking, and our attention spans are getting shorter. I’d say that’s far from advancement.

As a novelist, I find it all discouraging. What, exactly, does one write about when the world clearly doesn’t give a damn about anything worth writing about? And, given the dwindling number of people willing/able to sit down and read for more than three minutes at a time, where do I find the motivation to produce material for an audience that doesn’t exist? I have enough trouble drumming up readers for a blog post that took a day and a half to write (this one, for example), what’s the point in spending two to five years crafting a story only three hundred people will read, half will pay for, and fewer will review and/or recommend to friends? (Not that I’m ungrateful for those of you who DO buy, read, comment, share, and keep coming back; if YOU didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be here bitching there aren’t more of you.)

The only reason I’ve been able to publish two novels, two short stories, and six magazine articles – and (poorly) maintain a blog – is because my husband makes it possible. I’d hoped to ultimately repay his support and sacrifice by justifying my existence (sporting a substantial ROI, if you will). After ten years, I’m not only NOT making a living, I can’t even cover my vices. Though I’ve certainly reveled in the hundreds of copies sold and the tens of dollars I’ve pocketed in royalties, I’ve arrived at a crossroads.

Ten years, people – TEN! That’s a fucking DECADE of fighting for time to sit on my ass, stare at blank pages, and make up stories, while Scott schleps off to work every day, so the bills can get paid. I’ve persisted through the death of my mother, accidental and suicidal deaths of dear friends, at least half a dozen hurricanes, countless arguments and/or serious misunderstandings with my children and siblings, two near divorces, and a lightning strike to the house that wiped out cable, Internet, and half the sprinkler system. I nearly died in ’08 from poor nutrition and exhaustion! And yet, I have little more to show for all that persistence than a small shelf of books and magazines that collect more dust than royalties, a blog maybe twelve (wonderful) people read, and a husband who’s overwhelmed and out of patience. I don’t want to think about what the next ten years might bring.

Why am I doing this?!

My next project is supposed to be an historical novel that incorporates the origins of firefighting with the history of the Knights of Malta, the eternal clash between Christians and Muslims, and the importance of family and community. The themes are dear to me, and the topics seem relevant and interesting. But, every time I sit down to write, I think, “Aside from the luxury of being at home and available for family, friends, and the occasional crisis (aka, kick in the nuts), what GOOD am I doing?” I’m not making money, creating jobs, or changing the world. I’m not even changing attitudes about anything important, like foreign relations, genetically modified food, the destructive natures of religion and monogamy, benefits of recreational marijuana, pitfalls of vanity and greed, and the very basic need for real, human contact. How do I justify – every day – the hours (days, years) it takes to write a book about people who don’t exist, doing things that didn’t happen, when my husband resents me and the world is going to hell? Surely, you can grasp my dilemma.

If you don’t hear from me for a while, blame Willie and Lukas Nelson. Might as well throw Kid Rock in there, too, since we’re throwing blame around (on everyone but ME, of course, because I’m brilliant, faultless, and totally free of personal responsibility – try saying THAT to yourself in a mirror without laughing…or crying). Through their actions, as well as their music, they’ve inspired me to do well AND do good. I want to make a difference. I want to change the world. MY world, anyway. A successful novelist might be able to pull that off, but the simple fact is: I’m a housewife in Jupiter. Yes, I still believe in my work and my ability, and I couldn’t stop writing if I tried. But, until I reach more people and sell more books than Paris Hilton and her dog, I’ll go on being nobody in the world of readers and writers. And no one will listen. Rather than waste more energy being optimistic and plod forward as merely an aspiring novelist, I think it’s time for a change of focus and scenery. I’ve heard I throw a good party. Maybe I’ll start there…

Until next time.

Peace. Love. Balance.

~ Dawn

Will Write for Beer

Besides the groupie shit I tossed out a few days ago, I haven’t posted in a while, so let’s start with some FAQs, K? Beginning with the obvious: Yes, I’m working on a third book. Yes, it’s historical fiction, set in Malta, circa 1565. No, it’s nowhere near finished. Yes, it’s a prequel (as opposed to a sequel) to my first book, IMMORTAL BONDS. Yes, I plan to make DeSAIN, the villain of the first book, the hero of the third. No, it won’t be anything like CKR (except, maybe, for the orgy scene). No, Kid Rock will NOT appear in the third book, although there is a Joe C. And, no, I’m not rolling in dough. Yet. Why? Let’s just say this gig ain’t as easy as it looks.

Back in ’06 or ’07, I set the sales goal for my second book at “more than Paris Hilton and her dog.” I’ve so far fallen short by a few million units. Granted, Tinkerbell had a better marketing staff. Every time I think about it, though, I’m further disheartened by the fact that I’m actually competing with a dog. And not even a “real” dog, a purse dog! With or without sales reps, you’d think I could outsell a fuckin’ teacup Chihuahua.

Of course, I knew this would happen. One could even say I set myself up. I wrote a book I didn’t want to write, then named it after a guy who’s barely in the book. I used settings like strip clubs and NASCAR races, things that attract an audience not generally known for their literary inclinations, and those who pride themselves on their reading material will instantly – mistakenly – wave it off as an amateur attempt at a groupie how-to. No wonder the dog’s selling better.

Part of the problem is that I have an aversion to asking people to “buy my book.” Okay, it’s a big part. But I’ve said it before: I’d prefer the words speak for me; if people like what I write, they’ll look for more. In my opinion, my limited Facebook (Twitter, Classmates, Google+, LinkedIn…) time is better spent peppering witty and charming comments on friends’ pictures than cramming their news feeds with links to Amazon. They’re easy enough to find. I’m here to entertain, not sell. Don’t see that changing.

Another (rather large, seemingly impassable) hurdle is the book, itself: it’s raunchy. Remember that strip club remark a couple paragraphs back? Though most enjoy it, some are hesitant to admit it. Consequently, not every reader recommends it to someone else. Perched where I am in my career, I depend on word of mouth. Surely, you can see where this “pucker effect” might be a hindrance.

Why is it raunchy? you might ask. Because I wrote it for men who don’t read. (Yeah, that’s an issue, too.) Specifically, I took a long, hard look at my husband, his friends, and my own male friends and acquaintances and asked myself, “What would THEY want to read about?” Answer: Penthouse, fart jokes, binge drinking, and morning wood. Easy enough, right? I’d been monitoring trends in technology and social networking for several years and had noticed more men were communicating, but few exhibited a mastery of the English language. Armed with the knowledge and strong, personal belief that vocabulary improves with reading, I thought it was time to give “the boys” something on their level – or, at least, something that appears that way. Enter Redneck Fiction. Just don’t tell them it’s actually literary-quality shit.

The title doesn’t help, either. On the one hand, I elected to use an acronym for the cover and spine because (a) it was never my intention to capitalize on the Kid Rock name and (b) I didn’t want to discourage non-fans from picking it up. On the other, by not printing the full title on the book, and by using only an acronym in marketing and advertising, I’m not catching the attention of fans and am routinely missing out on the opportunity to reach a fair share of my market. It’s basically a “fucked if you don’t, fucked if you do” scenario.

Why not change the title? Because, given that it seems more accurate to say HE’s chasing ME, I think it’s funny as hell.

Though every coincidence further convinces me I’m doing the right thing, every break that’s come along has been whisked away just as quickly as it appeared, with no progress to show for it. (What was it Garth Brooks said about unanswered prayers?) Then there’s the self-published, Print-On-Demand label that keeps the book off retail shelves. And the industry expectation I wholly disregarded: As a new, breakthrough author, I’m supposed to stick to a genre. My first novel, IMMORTAL BONDS, was paranormal suspense. CKR is contemporary. The next will be historical. Agents and publishers can’t ignore me fast enough.

But there IS hope: BeanPods Press, a small publishing firm created by dear friends Maggie West and David Bean. The first short story I ever published was released earlier this year as a part of their compilation, BIOHAZARD 2012, and they’re bravely taking me on as a permanent author. Their 2013 anthology, FIRST LOVE, will include my second published short story. In a couple months, they’ll be re-releasing IMMORTAL BONDS as an e-book. Next year, we’re looking into offering a collection of my earlier, favorite blog posts and (maybe) an easy-to-follow, illustrated version of “The CKR Diaries.” If I can git ‘r done, they’re hoping to release DeSAIN in 2015.

As for CKR, I might consider re-evaluating my sales goal. Selling millions of copies would be nice, but – at this point – I’d be satisfied if royalties covered my vices and helped me feel like more of an asset around here than a liability. To make that happen, all I need is 200 e-book sales this month. And then, again, next month. And the month after that. And so on. It’s do-able. I’m an award-winning, thought-provoking, genuinely-published author (that’s two novels, six magazine articles, and a short story, for those keeping track), and CHASING KID ROCK is a damn good book! The profanity, alone, will keep me off Oprah’s reading list, but who needs Oprah when I have … well … you, and the handful of others who “get” it. Plus, I have faith in the powers that guided my hand to write the story in the first place that it will get where it needs to go. In the meantime, I’ll keep pecking away at my keyboard and dreaming of the day I get to tell Scott the advance check arrived and he can quit his day job.

Anyone know how to get in touch with Tinkerbell’s marketing staff?

~ Dawn

2012: The Year They Recognize My Genius

My husband says the Golden Age of blogs is gone, that they hit their peak with MySpace and are fading out and away. I think that’s bullshit. There’s still room on the Internet for blogs. You don’t have to look far to see people still write them. Granted half suck, and, sure, the climate and terrain have changed since the MySpace Top 10, but the concept remains the same: I post, you click; you get a free and amusing way to kill a few minutes between Poison videos, I get to dust off my keyboard, spread my wings, and say shit that could get me arrested in at least five countries. Everybody wins! How can something so right be so wrong?

The key is to be interesting and give the reader not just what he wants, but more than he expects. Are you here to laugh? Learn something new? Be surprised? Shocked? Turned on? How ‘bout all the above? I want to lure you deep (down the cleavage, past the belly button) into the world of the written word. I want to touch you where your girlfriend won’t, make you step away from the sound bytes and cartoons, and let me take you places you’d only heard words could go. I want you to get so much out of this blog you need a towel.

To make that happen, I have to (a) know what you want and (b) deliver. Otherwise, my attempts to seduce you will fall as short as that Kardashian chick’s radio career and I’ll be left out here playing with myself. I won’t lie, it might take a little trial and error. Many of us are just getting acquainted. And I’m doing this without a crutch; no theme, no agenda, no topic. When you visit, you’re bound to get an earful (eyeful) of me and my opinions, but, regardless of the subject matter, YOU will forever be the force that drives me. That’s why “Dawn’s Alter Ego” won’t ever be “Dawn’s Wond’rous World of Watercolor Painting”—there’s no sense of surprise in that. Besides, if I felt the urge to talk about sexual harassment, blowjobs (is that one word or two?), public indecency, the Daytona 500, the ungrateful little shitheads* who call me Mom, or Kid Rock, I’m not sure anyone would remember the brush technique we were discussing. I could be wrong.

I figure MY blog, MY rules. And rule #1: NO RULES. I embarked on a full-time writing career ten years and two novels ago, armed with the pledge to get more people to read. That means I can’t color within the lines. I have to be better than the next guy, break through the confines of predictable, genre-based fiction, and take readers on the ride of their lives. Believe me, I’ve thought a lot about settling into a topic. Nearly everyone close to me has suggested it. Sticking with a theme would certainly make this blogging shit easier. There’d be no more “What should I write about today?” dilemmas,  and I wouldn’t have to resort to sharing stories about the year I lost smoking coke or the multiple sexual encounters I had in my (lengthy, notorious) slut phase. A good topic, say Writing Tips for the New Writer, would give me an easy target audience, a plethora of material, and endless opportunities to tell people what to do (something a therapist once told me I have a need for). But I’m bored just THINKING about it. If, as the writer, I’M bored, imagine where that leaves YOU.

Short answer: Someone else’s blog.

What you’ve got here, then, is ME. In all my glory. Who’da thunk the eldest daughter of a truck driver – a hillbilly straight out’ the woods of Rochester, Washington – could grow up to be so fuckin’ interesting? (And, honey, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!) My husband (and probably half the planet) says the Golden Age is dead, but I think he’s wrong. I also think the best bang for your blog buck is right here. Whether you want it clean and quick or slow and thorough, I’m your man…or…well…you know what I mean. I’ll be back eventually with a new post. For now, poke around the site, read a post or two (there’s a shit-load), and get your feet wet. What else did you plan to do? Update your Facebook status (“Got a great deal on shoes! Love my life!”)? Run a Google search for “recipes for stewed prunes”? Trust me, the only person who cares about your shoes is the bitch who saw them first but couldn’t move her fat ass fast enough to beat you to them, and a good soul-cleansing is as beneficial to the system as a nutritious, natural laxative any day of the week.

Oh, one last thing: Don’t be afraid to tell me what you think (where to go, what to do when I get there, etc.). If not here in a comment, send me an email or PM me on Facebook. This is the Internet – it’s INTER-active. It’ll only take a minute, it’ll help me make this a better place, and you’ll have the satisfaction of participating in what might one day be proclaimed the best blog on the World Wide Web. (Don’t laugh: If an actor can be president, a billionaire bimbo can be a best-selling author, and Steve Buscemi can be a leading man, a 47-year-old, stay-at-home redneck fiction writer in South Florida can write a #1 blog. Don’t think so? Feel free to stand back and fuck off.)

Until then, I’ll be right here…playing with myself…and waiting for you. :)

~ Dawn

* P.S. Originally referred to as "the ungrateful little bastards who call me Mom," my children will henceforth be referenced as shitheads - after my daughter insisted they not be called "bastards" any more. ;)

Why am I here?

[Originally posted to the MySpace blog on December 29, 2006 - edited for content, but the message remains the same...]

Why do people tell stories? Why do people listen? Why are some great writers never read? Why are shitty writers (who tell shitty stories about shitty people doing shitty things) read so much? Why do millions of people not read at all? Why aren't we doing more to change that?

Why can't people handle the truth? Why do we spend so much (too much) time on lies? Why can't we say what we mean and do what we say? Why isn't love always unconditional? Why aren't people staying married, anymore? And why the fuck is Danny Bonaduce still on tv?

Some questions have answers. Some obviously don't. And sometimes the answer to one question leads to another question and the answer to that one leads to another one and eventually it's a book.

So, I wrote a book. I sold it to a small publisher in January 2006, started a second book in February, then joined MySpace in June to promote the first book by telling people about the second one. That was the plan, anyway. But something happened on the way to the bookshelf. The publisher delayed production. Then I got sick. So I started blogging, because short pieces were all I could work on and I had to work on something to justify sitting home every day. All of a sudden, I looked up and it was December. New Year's Eve was a week away, and I sat working on a blog post, thinking, "Why am I here?"

Why AM I here?

…?

…?

After a good bit of thinking, I concluded that I'm here to entertain you. Not with pictures or music or video clips, but with words. Just words. Based on your responses, I seem to be doing okay. And I'm enjoying the hell out of it. But, all cards on the table, I'm expecting something in return. Right now, I'm here telling stories, reading stories, and meeting fantastic people. But stringing words together is more than a hobby for me. Someday (soon?), I hope to be enjoying unreasonable dividends for the ungodly number of hours I've put into my novels and short stories. So, if you like what you read here, *please* tell a friend. I do my best to do the same for you.

In return, I will continue to entertain. As often as I can. For as long as I can. I will also make the following promises to you, so your friends won't kick your ass for referring them:

I, Dawn Scovill, being of (mostly) sound mind and body, solemnly promise to…

         Use the fuck-word as often as good taste allows. The reason I make people click that "Yes, I'm willing to continue" button in the first place was so I could say things I shouldn't say in front of kids and relatives. I'd be doing readers a disservice if I didn't throw in a fuck or two.

         Never say anything I don't mean. I don't throw words around. (Think about it.) If I tell you I love you I'm not blowing smoke up your ass.

         Speak the truth. My novels are fiction, but, unless noted otherwise, the blog is all me.

         Never (well, maybe never, and the links at right shouldn't count) ask you straight up to "buy my book". If I do my job here, my words will say it for me.

         Do my damnedest to be somebody someday, so you won't think any of this has been a waste of your time.

Why am I here? Why are you here? Why are your friends here? Why are any of us here? And why IS Danny Bonaduce still on tv?

Who cares.

Let's just sit back and enjoy the ride. :)

~ Dawn 

Introducing: REDNECK FICTION

If the Good Lord had meant for rednecks to read, He wouldn’t have created NASCAR. Or fishing. Or titties. Or Pabst Blue Ribbon. Rednecks are built for workin’ hard and playin’ harder, raisin’ families and raisin’ hell. They don’t spend a rainy afternoon curled up with a novel, they go four-wheelin’. They certainly don’t invite friends over for beer, BBQ, and book readin’. When they want to be entertained by a good story, they turn to Spike and TruTV – where the REAL stuff’s at…

(This is the part where you say, “Dawn, I think you’re stereotyping, and stereotyping is wrong,” to which I would then respond with, “You might be right, and I’ll admit I’m embellishing for comic effect, but – honestly – how many Dukes of Hazzard fans do YOU think ever picked up a book? … Huh? … I’m waiting …”)

A redneck gets up early, shows up on time, deals with assholes and idiots all day, does more than his share, and collects half what he’s worth. He struggles from one pay day to the next, does what he can to keep a roof over his head and what he has to for the health and safety of his family. He dreams of a life he’ll never have, but keeps going because he finds a kind of happiness in the dreaming. He is America’s working class, and – having learned in high school that Shakespeare sucks and reading is for nerds – he has neither the time, the money, nor the interest in picking up a novel.

For that guy, I present CKR.

It started as a fun, little story about a middle-aged Kid Rock fan who gets kicked out of his house then dragged to the Daytona 500. It became a quest to write a book that would bring the huge, untapped market of “men who don’t read” to its knees. I believe I’ve done that…and then some. But don’t take my word for it. Ask around. Or, better yet, pick up a copy. I guarantee you’ll be surprised.

The world might say redneck fiction doesn’t exist, but – to them – I say HA! We give too little credit and even less attention to the bedrock of our nation. Having come from the foothills, on a family farm nestled between the Olympics and Cascades, and as the daughter and eldest sister of the finest rednecks ever produced in the state of Washington, I believe it’s high time we gave them their due.

Rednecks: This book’s for YOU.

Signed,

Dawn Scovill

Periodic blogger, whiskey drinker, proud redneck, and author of CKR

Thank You, Anne Rice

Edgar Allan Poe fascinated me in junior high and high school. Stephen King was natural progression. True, the dark themes were intriguing, especially at that age, but it was their writing that kept me coming back. The way they eased into every scene, taking care to reach all my senses, making it feel as if I stood right there. I found it hard to read anyone else, at least for pleasure. I doubted I’d ever enjoy any writer’s work as much. Then, in college, I was introduced to Anne Rice.

I didn’t simply read her book, INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE, I studied it in Contemporary English class. We were covering existentialism. I loved her style and courage, and her plot and character development were flawless. She knew human nature so well, she could weave the supernatural into a story and make it completely believable. And, though at the time I’d never been there, she made New Orleans sound like a place I’d never want to leave. Thanks largely to her, I now spend most of my days wondering when I’m going to get back.

When asked, as a writer, who my influences are, I always mention King and Rice. No doubt the endless summers reading Nancy Drew had a hand in the creation of who I am, but I spent the majority of my formative years with the top horror writers of the 80’s and 90’s. I don’t read near as much as I like these days, but, in my teens and twenties, I gobbled up as much as I could. And it shows. From King, I learned how to craft a story, build suspense, and tell the truth. Rice added to what I’d learned, teaching me the importance of backstory, description, and emotion, and – because she’s a woman – gave me the confidence I needed to believe I could really do this. Her First Street Witches series cemented my love for New Orleans. Her Sleeping Beauty Chronicles took erotica to the next level, stripped away my fear of going too far or saying too much, and showed me how to write sex scenes like no one else. I feel her in almost every word I write. I couldn’t be more grateful.

Today, she inspires me with her Facebook posts. Through the articles she shares on the trends of the publishing industry, I’ve learned more in the past year than I did in the previous 45. Working in a vacuum as I do, she keeps me up on current events, makes me think about politics (even when I don’t want to), shares relevant, “insider” news on the Catholic church (which helps with the Malta book), and shows me every day that a successful author can still be accessible. I might never have considered self-publishing CKR had it not been for her in-depth discussion threads on the subject. If it sells, I’ll have that to thank her for as well.

If we are our heroes, I’m glad I picked good ones. My challenge, now, is to make them proud.

~ Dawn

Preparing to Dive in 3...2...1...

DIVE! DIVE! DIVE! That’s all hear in my head these days. It might as well be DUCK! or JUMP! or RUN! for all the discomfort it’s causing – butterflies in my stomach, hitch in my breath, pins and needles jabbing at my insides AND my outsides. I’m trying not to look like a nervous wreck, but I’m not sleeping well, and hiding the fact that I’m about to publish another book is impossible.

The feeling reminds me of the hours before Mr. Blaine, our middle school principal, announced the winner of the student council president’s race. It reminds me, too, of the day he suggested I sing a solo at our 8th-grade graduation. It’s like the minutes before my wedding (the last one); the moment I learned I was pregnant; the day I received a publishing contract for IB; the hours leading up to a hurricane. Something big and scary is about to happen. It could end up being simply a wonderful memory, a lesson learned, or it could be a catastrophe. Regardless, it’ll probably change my life. And I’m not sure I’m ready for it.

Something had to give. I’m blessed with the ability to stay home and write because my husband works and travels his ass off. I’m also cursed with a constant guilt that, while I make myself available, 24/7, for him and the kids, I’m not financially contributing. When we moved into a house a couple years ago and took on a bigger mortgage, higher taxes, and totally unreasonable insurance premiums, the guilt became a nagging insistence. I’ve done some editing work, but a single novel can suck up 3-5 days of my time. Between the dog and kids, the husband and the house(s), I already have precious little to spare.

So, I’m diving in. (And yes, for those who’ve been reading a while and noticed, I use “So” a lot when I’m wrapping things up. Sometimes I edit it out, sometimes I don’t. It’s like “just” and “that” – people are creatures of habit. I bet YOU use a few words repetitively, too. So there.) My gut (instinct, little bird, angel on my shoulder) tells me I’m doing the right thing. Given the variety of predicaments I’ve found myself in over these past 46 years, I can’t testify to its accuracy. I have a kick-ass support group right now, though. You, Scott, family, friends, neighbors – for better or worse – are all riding this wave with me. Such an army must surely be victorious. And, with CKR, we’re well-armed; it’s like Kid Rock says:

If it looks good, you'll see it.

If it sounds good, you'll hear it.

If it's marketed right, you'll buy it.

But...if it's real, you'll feel it.

I might not be ready. But it’s time.

Take a deep breath … close your eyes … and listen for the splash …

;)

~ Dawn

February Means 500 -- Again!

The first time our daughter stole the truck, she was twelve. Scott was in North Dakota. I was at a weekly writers’ group meeting, one of the few activities that used to get me out of the house. My phone was on, but in my purse at my feet. Shortly before the meeting was over, I looked down and noticed I had eight missed calls. Half were from Scott, half from the Palm Springs Police Department.

She was cited for (1) driving without a license, (2) not wearing a seat belt, (3) having a passenger without a seat belt, and (4) operating without headlights in the dark. They should have added one for being a dumbass for driving past the police station. The truck was parked in the lot, and they detained the girls outside while they waited for me to pick them up. It wasn’t my first parental consultation with an officer of the law. The same daughter scratched 13 cars in our townhouse parking lot with a rock when she was three. Around age ten, she was spotted spray-painting the sidewalks, court markers, and at least one fence. That news came directly from the officer who stopped by the house to say he’d received a report of a “little blonde girl with a paint can,” and he thought  he’d check our house first to see if she was home.

There were other cases, mostly minor, like the chalk incident. And, since that first joy ride, she’s confessed to borrowing my vehicle “more times than she can count.” Makes one reconsider the ACTUAL benefits of sleeping all night. One instance in particular, which began with a second “operating without headlights in the dark” citation, cost us $700 in fines and impound fees.

For years, we’ve played an endless game of tug-of-war with our daughter. We give her a little slack, she pulls us into the mud. We pick up the rope, reign her back in, hold her steady for a while, get comfortable, give her a little slack, and … she pulls us into the mud. She’s 17 now. Her latest stunt involved taking a group of friends 4-wheelin’ Friday night. She called to tell us about it at 8pm on Sunday. One missing side window, a detached spare tire, a broken taillight, and a shit load of scratches along the passenger side and across the hood later, she’s living in fear and refusing to come home.

We’re gonna miss her.

This is the climate in which my husband and I will be attending Sunday’s Daytona 500. Last year, I broke my ankle the Friday prior and had to navigate the unforgiving grandstand stairs on crutches. The year before, I was wandering the stands, taking in the event while looking for a Jack Daniels vendor I didn’t need, and missed the end of the race. This time, like our first, I’d like to enjoy myself AND see the winner win. Which reminds me: It’s a Daytona tradition for fans to sign the checkered finish line. Having never been a NASCAR fan, and maybe catching the equivalent of a race and a half on television up to that point, I wasn’t aware of the tradition ‘til our first trip in 2006. I’ve made it a priority ever since, even ditching the crutches last year and wincing against the pain to get there. Should you happen to watch the race, be on the lookout for the words “DAWN WAS HERE!” in one of those checkered boxes on the pavement. It’ll be next to “GO SMOKE!” and “I’M IN DAYTONA, BITCHES!”

My strategy for 2011 is to (a) not break anything this week, (b) pace myself at the open bar, (c) make fewer trips to the Jack Daniels trailer, (d) be in my seat for the final lap, a.k.a. pay attention if it rains, and (e) don’t think about the teenager or the truck or the possibility that she and her 24-year-old brother, who came home from the Army last month, will forget to feed the dog, leave the front door open for the rabbits and raccoons, burn the house down, and leave us a mess to clean up on Monday.

Oh, and (f) forget we don’t have liability insurance.

If I survive, I’ll be back with stories and pictures. If I don’t, could someone please stop by and feed the dog?

~ Dawn

To Blog or Not To Blog ... You Mean There's a Choice?!

Am I back? Sort of. I’m afraid to swear on Facebook and, with MySpace down the shitter, I needed a new forum for the CKR Diaries; the ride’s comin’ to an end – 2012’s around the corner! – and I don’t want y’all to miss out. Plus, I needed a place to blog because, as many of you can guess, my self esteem needs stroking. I’d do it myself, but…it’s not the same. You know how that goes.

If you’ll hang in there, I’ll do my best to post new material periodically between CKR stuff. I’ve gotta say, though, it’s been fun going through these old entries, remembering how messed up the beginning was (as if the middle has been any different). A lot happens in four years…I mean, FIVE years. Shit! Has it been 5 years since I started this damn book? Our daughter’s 17 now! I’ve seen Kid Rock 2 or 3 times since ‘06. Scott and I are heading out next weekend for our 4th Daytona 500. Where does the time go? (Can we blame Obama?)

Before I post anything else, I’d like to welcome those of you who are reading this drivel for the first time. I hope you find yourself comfortable here and learn quickly that your comments are important to me. They feed my soul (some might say my ego, but Mom taught me they’re just jealous) and give me a reason to keep doing this. I consider it a privilege to entertain you – know you are among friends.

I also need to thank (and kiss and hug and do obscene things to) all of you who, back in the day, read the Diaries as it all happened. We’ve been through a lot together. I hope things don’t end badly like last time, when you tossed my shit out the window onto the lawn, gave the dog to that weird neighbor who always scratched himself, and told the police it was me that…oh, oops…that was somebody else. Sorry.

Whoever you are, I hope I made you smile today. :) 

~ Dawn