Does everyone notice how quickly the clock ticks as you're working on your writing? You look up from the computers and hours have passed. Or if you're waiting for a manuscript to return from an editor - months can go by. And then you get to the point of finally submitting the work and you sit and wait for a reply as the pages on the calendar gather in a pile at the floor - representing half of a year.

This past November, I took the National Novel Writing Month Challenge (http://www.nanowrimo.org/) and ended up with a rough draft of a new novel from this experience. I had been writing notes about the book since September, but put pen to paper in November and it really kicked me into gear. My first novel has been submitted to publishers and my time has been spent editing this new story. Oddly enough, I had a "chic-lit" writer in me that I never knew about. Many people who have read the first draft feel I have found my voice and were pulled right into the story. Here is a little about it:

Patchwork of Me

So much time has passed since I made a blog entry of a prose or poetry. I have been spending all my free to time to rewrites, edits, and changes to my novel. Some great things have come out of that and I hope to be able to share some news on that novel soon. Until then, my creative brain for writing prose has dryed up. Perhaps it will come back again soon.

Why do people think of the words ‘over achiever’ as a bad trait?

As a child, one of the great joys I had on Christmas morning was opening the small rectangle gift that came each year. I knew what it was, as the shape never changed and I was waiting for it: the yearly book of Life Savers. As I grew up and left home, each year I would travel back at Christmastime and watch as my sister continued the tradition with her children. Sometimes, the search to find them being just as exciting as watching them open it up. This year, I spent Christmas at my own home in a different state from my family, for the first time in over ten years. Christmas morning, I noticed my stocking was more than just a decoration over the fake fireplace I had recently purchased. There was something causing a strange shape and making the stocking stick out.

You watched them. You've even thought about making a purchase. From scrapin' the gunk from the bottom of your feet, to cookin' a meal in under 5 minutes - they have it all. It may only be a 45 second spot, or it could be the full out 30 minute infomercial; there is nothing this country won't try to sell you on TV. Now I'm sure marketing companies may tell you that you need someone to believe in if you're going to buy something. At first it was the man in the colorful sweater, than the British man who made everything sound good. Now we have the guy with the over-dyed beard. And there is nothing he won't hawk. Every contraption he comes in contact with becomes a 'why didn't I think of that?' moment or worse yet - 'I really need to buy that!' I tend to lean toward a different thought.

What is it about cars that make my testosterone level sky rocket?

A festive dinner out
With family and friends.
Dad, who died six years ago
Was there to meet my other half.
In life, they only spoke on phone-
Never face-to-face.

I held a table at a restaurant,
Waiting for all to arrive.
I could see them at the front door,
As my heart raced with excitement.

Suddenly, I woke up,
Before they ever made it to
Where I was-
Never having the chance
For the two to meet.
Perhaps in my dream tonight,
Dad will finally make it to the table.

© ggallen 2008

And so it has begun. My six weeks of “not speaking” to help my vocal chords heal. One would think it would be an easy process, but you don’t realize how often you speak throughout the day until you force yourself to stop. When I was a freshman in high school, we read “The Miracle Worker” and our teacher suggested people go home and have dinner as Helen Keller would have. I, being the over-achieving actor, went right home and blind-folded myself and chose not to speak while eating: to see how other senses would take over. That was for one hour. I am only on the second day now and have already experienced varied emotions. There is a melancholy feeling as if something or someone is missing.

One day.
One day of 365 to ponder
This deadly disease.
A disease that has grown
Over a twenty-five-year life span.
Many still dying an inhuman death,
While others live
With a daily reminder-
In the form of multi-colored pills.
Stigma severely secured to those
Who can afford the medication
As well as the numerous people
That do not have the money
To pay for this life support.
Labels attached to each person
Who fights the battle-
Secretly or out in the open.
Hatred has not subsided
For those who now call it
A “manageable disease.”
They still live with
Stares and misunderstanding.
One day.
One day of many in the lives of those
Living and dying.

© ggallen 2008