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Friday, April 28, 2006On Katherine Kurtz and the Fantasy Writer's FantasyI always knew my mom was right when she'd say, "You live in a world of your own!" I did, and I do. And that's probably why I've always been a fan of fantasy books. When Terry Brooks was a pup, when Tolkien was not a box office name, when Dungeons and Dragons was barely off the drawing board -- those were the "early days" during which I discovered the lure of other worlds. Admittedly, there were large holes in my repertoire. For one thing, I had never heard of The Chronicles of Narnia. To be specific, I only knew of a story called The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe because of the cheaply animated version they used to show every so often on Saturday morning television. (Please tell me I'm not the only one who remembers this.) No one ever told me that the story came from a wonderful collection by C. S. Lewis. Same goes for The Hobbit. There was a cheaply animated version of the story that I caught several times on TV. Other than the fact that I was obviously raised in a cultural cesspool, I have no explanation for this lack of basic book knowledge. Fortunately, I befriended a wonderful librarian who picked up on my penchant for fantasy. As soon as the latest Young Adult fantasy book arrived on her desk, she'd set it aside for me. I quickly moved beyond Little House on the Prairie once I realized what else was out there. Let's face it. Traveling across the open prairie in a covered wagon is cool. But raising a winged colt inside a barn while a dark force of evil seeks to destroy it? No comparison. I moved quickly from Young Adult books to an author who soon became my beloved favorite -- Katherine Kurtz. I absorbed her Deryni trilogy into my very blood. These were stories that kept me awake until two in the morning on school nights, turning "just one more" page. Amazing stuff. Well, amazing stuff if you're a fantasy geek. This was the only time of my life when I actually would wait for an author to finish the next book in a series. There was no Internet to surf for information on Ms. Kurtz's progress; no Amazon.com to check for the release date of an upcoming title. No, indeed. There were simply countless trips to the local bookstore, searching the fiction shelves under "K" in hope of finding the next treasure. It wasn't until recently that I discovered something even more amazing about Katherine Kurtz, though -- something that, perhaps, only a writer can fully appreciate. Ms. Kurtz sold the manuscript for her first trilogy -- all three stories -- to Del Rey...by herself. On the first try. Without an agent. Imagine that. Imagine waltzing into an up-and-coming fantasy publisher's office with your freshly polished tome, and coming out with a contract. Imagine the several-decades career that follows. If I mailed something directly to Del Rey today, they would chuck it right into the compost heap. What a fantasy, though (and perhaps I should write it). I have long associated the Del Rey name and insignia with The World Of Fantasy. It's simply the association from years spent curled up with engrossing novels bearing that name on the upper corner of the front cover. In my mind, Del Rey is fantasy. So Ms. Kurtz's success story is nothing short of amazing to me. I spent many years away from the fantasy genre, engrossing myself in the likes of Jane Austen and Charles Dickens (somehow, reading two thirds of A Tale of Two Cities under compulsion in tenth grade didn't do it for me). From what I've recently read of Katherine Kurtz's latest novels, she's become darker. I don't "do" dark. So I suppose the time was right for Ms. Kurtz and me to part ways. Her earlier books are still on my "beloved" list, though. There's something about falling in love with books when you're young. The stories help to shape you, somehow; particularly if you then go on to write stories of your own. No, my writing is nothing like Katherine Kurtz. Knowing what my own passion was as a young adult is what spurs me to write today. I want to pour my stories into the hearts and minds of eleven- and twelve- and thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds in such a way that they will be inspired and exhilarated and, perhaps, touched for eternity. I want them to love my characters with as much abandon as I do, and to strive to be somehow like the strong ones. I do not want to be "famous" and "world renowned" so much as I want to be, simply, "beloved." What better thing is there, after all, than to be "beloved" to a child? Labels: writing Thursday, April 27, 2006Birthday Kiss
 I'm a sucker for this little guy.It's funny. When Jonathan was seven, he was my "big guy;" the oldest of four. Spencer, at seven, is my "little guy." There is quite a bit of truth to the "baby of the family" thing. I call him "Big Dude" and "Pirate Boy." I praise him for having given up his thumb and blankie two weeks before his seventh birthday -- cold turkey. (No visible withdrawal symptoms, either.) Still, he just seems so...little. He's got way too much power for a person his size, too. And he knows it. I may have sermonized for twenty minutes straight about my need for no interruptions during the afternoon so that I can Finish That Chapter. But when Spencer comes creeping through my office door an hour later and climbs up into my chair, sliding into the space behind my back -- he knows I'm a goner. Especially when he starts rubbing my back with his little hands. "You are sooooooo sweet," he says in his high, pre-testoneronic voice. "You are my precious Wawwy." That's what he calls me. Wawwy. It's supposed to be "Mommy" with the M's turned upside-down; except, he spells it with an "a." Would you be able to say "no" to a little kid who is rubbing your back and calling you "Wawwy?" Well, yeah, okay. I do say "no" to him. I just wait until he's finished rubbing my back. And if he starts whining about anything -- anything -- he's outta here. I can't stand whining. Usually he's too busy saying funny things to whine much. Like the morning he was warming himself by the space heater in the bathroom while Daddy was getting dressed. "Ooo, this heater smells like POOP!" Spencer said. "Like poop?" Eric asked. "Yeah, like poop." "Why does it smell like poop?" "I don't know," Spencer replied. "I guess you must've farted." That's my Spencer. He's especially good at pointing out bad breath, too. You can imagine how encouraging that is when I'm kissing him goodnight. "Ewww! Your breath is disgusting." Thank you, dear. It's moments like these that make motherhood worthwhile. No matter. He's an absolutely heart-stopper and he knows it. Now if you'll excuse me...it's time for my back rub. Labels: parenting Tuesday, April 25, 2006FourI've figured it out. In the year 2012, my children are all going to be teenagers at the same time -- for exactly two months. That's right. Four teenagers. Count 'em. Two boys and two girls. Spencer, my youngest, will turn 13 on March 29 of that year. Two months later, Jonathan, my oldest, will turn 20. Thus the "two months with four teenagers." If I survive, will I win something? Actually, I don't have the "brace yourself" attitude that many (most) parents have about the teen years. I don't agree that teenagers are automatically going to cause misery, wreak havoc, and daily remind you how old and stupid you are. I've already got one teen, and I love him dearly. Jonathan will be 14 next month and he still gives me hugs and wants to hang out with his dad and me (sometimes to an annoying degree). Yesterday, he baked chocolate chip cookies for me, because it was my birthday. He'd been down there for a while, steadfastly trashing my kitchen, when he appeared at my office door, asking me to come down and "choose one." Down to the kitchen I went. Jonathan had filled two mugs with ice water, and placed two warm-from-the-oven cookies on a napkin by each mug. "Why are there two?" I asked. "So that we can enjoy them together." I kid you not. That's what he said. And he meant it. In that simple gesture, he made my entire afternoon glow. He's really not from another planet (most days). He can mumble his words, roll his eyes, and tease his little brother like every other almost-fourteen-year old boy. His hair is almost always unkempt, and his bedroom borders on biohazard. But he has the soul of a poet; the heart of a prince. He's going to make somebody a darn good husband. He's one heck of a drummer, too. And did I mention that he's handsome? Eric and I are still trying to figure out where he got his genes. So in that light, I think I can handle two months of four teenagers. Except, of course, for the irrefutable fact that girls are more difficult than boys. Sandwiching two teenaged girls in between the two teenaged boys is probably going to be the most challenging aspect of my two-month teen marathon. "Hormone" is an ugly word. I'm already dealing with mood swings, sulking, and "I'm ugly," -- and my girls are only pre-teens. Ugh! Give me a voice-cracking boy any day. At least I can pack him off to his dad when it's time to talk about "becoming a man" stuff. I'm the one who gets to deal with bra measurements for blushing bloomers, armpit shaving technique, and how-to-insert-a-tampon lessons. At least by 2012 my girls will have all the basics down. The days of "woman-in-training" lessons will be long past. By then, I will be a Well Seasoned Mother of Teenagers. I hear the weather in the Caribbean is going to be particularly nice in 2012, though -- specifically, from March to May. Having a contingency plan is always a good idea. Monday, April 24, 2006What's In a Name?I was born Jill Suzanne Schafer on April 24, 19-something. Almost from the beginning, I was "Jillybean" to my family. As a matter of fact, I still am. Schafer, a good German name that, loosely translated, has something to do with shepherds (help me out here, Iris), has approximately seven different spellings. So almost every time I was in the local newspaper, my last name was misspelled. Quite a bummer when you've got the lead role in a high school musical. Schaefer Beer was fairly popular during my childhood. You can imagine the nicknames I endured. Then, too, there was the never-ending, "Hey, Jill! Where's Jack?" One might think I grew up with a few issues concerning my name. Naturally, I fell in love with a man whose last name was ridiculously unpronouceable by the majority of Americans who encountered it. Boehme is also a good German name, albeit with an Americanized spelling. (Go ahead; I dare you to try to pronounce it.) Not only is Boehme problematic from a how-do-you-say-that standpoint, but it didn't work well with my first name. Two, one-syllable names side by side don't sound particularly poetic. Jill. Boehme. (Yes, it rhymes with "home.") Jill-boehme. Jill-BOEHME. Sounds like two pieces of poop hitting a wall. Splat. Splat. So, to honor my father and add a couple of extra syllables to my name, I dropped the "Suzanne" and became Jill Schafer Boehme. Of course, no one in the South can pronounce "Jill" with just one syllable, anyway. In that light, I really didn't need to assume my maiden name for extra syllables. My daycare children called me, "Miss JEEyuhl." Telemarketers called me, "Mrs. BoHEEmee." Or, "Mrs. BO-ehm." Which is fairly close to "Mrs. B.M." (There's that poop hitting the wall again.) Eric once got a letter delivered to his office, addressed to "Mr. Eric Bone." But I digress. One thing I can say in my name's favor, though, is that it does look good in print. And as a writer, that is by far more important than whether or not people can actually say it. "Hey, have you read that book by JEEyhul BoHEEmee?" Of course, when I decided to make the shift from non-fiction to young adult fantasy, I knew I needed to use a different name. Pen names don't really flip my cookie -- I don't want to be published as "Sage McFleur" or "Windy Storme." In fact, I really wanted to keep my last name intact. It was the "Jill" that had to go. Mind you, I've always liked the name Jillian. Shortly after Eric and I were married, I actually phoned my mother and asked her if she would mind my legally changing "Jill" to "Jillian." I just couldn't get past that two-one-syllable-names-side-by-side thing. Must be the musician part of me. My poor mother. She showed great restraint, but I'm sure she must have been rolling her eyes on the other end of the phone line. I didn't do it. Becoming a legal Jillian wasn't worth the hassle. It's the perfect answer for a "not completely made-up" pen name, though. Being a fantasy writer, I came up with all sorts of odd spellings: Jyllian. Jillyan. Gyllian. In the end, the basic spelling won out. Why mess with the first name when people were still going to stumble over the last name? So. That's why I'm Jillian Boehme. Over the years, I really did learn to love Jill instead of hating it. The name is derived from a root that means, "Youthful Spirit." I like that. (Another Jill in my life once told me that our name means, "Volatile." I summarily reject that. No, you're not allowed to ask Eric what his opinion is.) Anyway, the people who love me the best call me Jilly. Or Mommy. Or...well, never mind. Some things are too private -- even for let-it-all-hang-out me. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy; Thou art thyself, though not Montague. What is Montague? It is nor hand, nor face, nor arm, Nor any other part belonging to a man. What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other word Would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo called. Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Yes, that was from memory. After all, I share a birthday with William Shakespeare. Jill and Will -- born on the same day! That must mean something. Surely it must... Friday, April 21, 2006Hidden Talents
 There you have it, folks. If I ever end up in a Home For Washed-up Writers, I can turn to my suppressed talent of cake decorating. What, you couldn't tell that that's Bob the Tomato? My son liked it, anyway. I think there was enough red dye in the icing to ensure a level of toxins that rivaled biological weaponry. Come to think of it, it did taste kind of funny. Okay, the truth. Yesterday's blog was cathartic. And, in a way, terrifying. It wasn't about me, though, as much as it was about sending a message to the uninitiated: "Don't go where I went." Yes, I know. It doesn't work that way. It's our own, stumbling missteps that truly teach us -- if we allow them to. Sometimes it goes further than that, though. Sometimes we can teach someone through our own pain. Even if it's only, "God help me if I ever do anything as stupid as she did." Transparency is a good thing. I admire it in others and value it in myself. In this blog, what you see is almost always what you get. I hope the transparency of my words takes them wherever they need to go for you. Then I truly will have done my part in "touching the world" with my fingertips. Cake, anyone? Thursday, April 20, 2006Part Two: Cinderella Never Makes It To The BallI should have known it was too good to be true, right from the start. The thing is, I knew absolutely, positively nothing about the publishing world. Absolutely, positively nothing. So when a literary agent read my self-published book and expressed an interest in representing me, it really did feel like a visit from my Fairy Godmother. Basically, it was a friend-of-a-friend sort of thing. Someone had read my book and passed it along to her friend, who happened to be an agent in New York. A few weeks later, I got a phone call. I know. It almost never happens that way. Even in my state of knowing absolutely, positively nothing, I had a sense that there was something "not normal" about this. But I took it as a stroke of good luck -- an unexpected blessing. And as such, I signed on the dotted line. Yes, this was a legitimate agent with three decades of experience. No, I wasn't charged a reading fee or duped into anything overtly unethical. The contract was a fairly straightforward, boilerplate contract. Except for two, not-so-tiny things: 1. There was no thirty-day, get-me-out-of-this-contract clause. 2. The contract was for -- are you ready? -- three years. Ask me if I knew how completely outside of the norm a three-year contract is. Ask me if I had any inkling, at the time, that I had just chained myself to a black hole of agent absenteeism. "I want to mentor you," my agent said into my hopeful, enthusiastic ear. "I enjoy teaching. That's why I speak at conferences." Good! I was ready to learn. "Your book is charming," she said. "Just charming. Send me six copies." I told her about my current work-in-progress (the sacred novel, as it were). "Wonderful. Send me the chapters you've completed so far." So, I sent the six copies via snail mail and the several chapters via email ("I don't normally accept things through email, Jill; I'm doing this as a favor."). Then, the silence began. At first, I assumed that the silence was normal. To be perfectly honest, I was intimidated. For all I knew, my agent might be the Hottest Thing in the literary world. I'd better crouch in my corner, thought I, and not disturb her while she works. After a while, the silence became uncomfortable. How was I supposed to know what was going on? Where did things stand with my non-fiction book? Did my agent remember that I existed? I emailed her. She did not respond. I shrank back to my corner. I emailed her again. She did not respond. You get the idea. Finally, we were able to schedule a phone meeting. 5:00 pm Eastern Standard. I was nervous all day long. I cleared my schedule and banished my noisy children to the nether regions. I gathered paper, clipboard, pen, and my cell phone. And I waited. She never called. No matter that I had cleared my schedule and lost about five pounds from nervous sweating. She never even apologized or mentioned the missed phone call. Not ever. On it went. For over a year. During this time, I finished my novel. In an unusual moment of actual communication, my agent told me to begin the edits on my novel and to send her my work, chapter by chapter, via email. "I don't normally do this," she said, "but I'm going to work on the edits with you. I'm doing this as a favor." (Had I asked for any favors?) So I worked. I sent the chapters. And my agent didn't do a single thing with them, other than let me know that they had arrived. Occasionally I'd get, "You are terrific!" or "You have done a beautiful job." Other than that, it was just more silence. She asked me to send the revised manuscript via regular mail. After weeks and weeks of silence, during which time I had naively assumed that she was pitching my story, she informed me that she hadn't done anything with it because I hadn't sent additional copies to her. Huh? About a week later, she changed her story. "Your story is not in any shape for me to sell it. I'd say it's about seventy percent there." I won't bore you with the play-by-play details of the rest of our non-relationship. From trying to hire me a topnotch editor to "tighten up the story," to charging me over $130 in office fees, to sending me copies of rejection letters from editors on which my name was spelled wrong (I kid you not), it was one big spiral downward. Somewhere along the way, though, I got smart. I started to research the publishing universe. I began to investigate the world of agents; the do's and don't's, the good, bad, and should-be-shot. I discovered Writer.net, Preditors and Editors, and -- my favorite of all -- Agentquery.com. And I learned an amazing things from the agented authors out there: Good agents communicate with their authors. And at the end of it all -- at the end of being held hostage by someone who didn't care a flying fig about me or about my work -- I made the terrifying decision to cut my agent loose. Half an hour on the phone with my lawyer gave me the information and the courage I needed to do it. Per my lawyer's advice, I sent my agent a friendly, to-the-point email. The basic message: Bye-bye! No response. I sent the email a second time. No response. So, I followed "the rules" and mailed a certified letter. Several days later, my now-ex-agent called me on the phone. She was -- to put it mildly -- irate. She yelled at me. She called me names. And then she hung up on me. Yep. That's how our relationship ended. Why was she so angry, you ask? Evidently, her computer was down when I sent the emails -- she was in the midst of moving her office (was I supposed to know this through osmosis?). She hadn't received the emails, so despite the fact that we had recently discussed my serious concerns with our relationship over the phone, the certified letter had blindsided her. "All my other clients called me. Would it have been so difficult, Jill, for you to call me?" she spat into the phone. "Um, you have a history of not returning my phone calls," I said. Funny -- she didn't have an answer for that. I'll give her credit for one thing, though. She was right about my manuscript (assuming that she even read it). Even two drafts later, it still wasn't ready to sell. I didn't need to spend thousands of dollars on a private editor, though. What I did need was a few unbiased readers, a couple of books on writing, and a strong, online network of writers to answer my questions and point me in the right direction. Wow. What a ride. Somewhere in the middle of all that drama, somebody said to me, "A bad agent is worse than no agent at all." I've heard that quoted many times since, and I can't emphasis enough how very true it is. My Cinderella story turned out to be a nightmare. But oh, have I grown. Writers need thick skins, and if my tenure with the Agent From Hell didn't do it for me, I don't know what would. (Well, okay, rejection letters have a similar effect.) Do I have a bad taste in my mouth? Absolutely not. I was born to write, and that's exactly what I'm doing. And I am, after all, a Yankee. I don't need sugar coatings to get me through the tough places; just hand it to me "New York Style" and I can take it. Really, I can. And -- if you're an aspiring writer -- so can you. Labels: writing Tuesday, April 18, 2006Birth of a NovelistAs a writer, I find exquisite pain in reading something that is really poorly written. In fact, it's almost a physical reaction from deep within my digestive track. Ick. Don't get me wrong -- I'm not saying that I'm the "be all, end all" of writers. I've got a lot of maturing to do in my craft. It's just that I've been a book snob for a very long time. And book snobbery tends to intensify with age and experience. Imagine my chagrin, then, upon opening the pages of a just-mailed-to-my-husband-by-a-well-meaning-relative, vanity press book, and reading the opening paragraph...only to find that my worst fears had been realized. The very first sentence ends with an exclamation point. And the last sentence of the first paragraph also ends with an exclamation point. Yes, that's right -- there are two exclamation points in the first paragraph. That, and there's nothing particularly exciting going on. Someone forgot to take Writing 101. I won't go on about it -- it wouldn't be kind. I deeply understand, after all, the passion behind the pen. I want to see every aspiring author succeed. Well, let me qualify that. I want to see every talented aspiring author succeed. I'm not going to mention the name of the particular vanity press -- it's all too well-known. To me, the calibre of this "publisher" is clearly displayed in the following notice, which I found printed directly beneath the copyright information: "At the specific preference of the author, (the publisher) allowed this work to remain exactly as the author intended, verbatim, without editorial input." You read that correctly. The book received no editorial input. None. It wasn't edited. Every last word and missing comma is exactly the way the author left it. Which, in this particular case, is unfortunate. Painful, even. Oh, the things we learn when we are truly open. Writing fiction is a strange blend of exuberance and misery, incomprehensible to those who have not experienced it. It is something that I never dreamed I'd do. Yet here I am, doing it -- and dreaming about how much better I will be next year. And the year after that. The growing pains hurt; but their result is immeasurable. For years, I believed something about myself that turned out to be a lie. "I could never write a novel," I said. And I believed it. So I wrote a collection of non-fiction essays. "I am an essayist," I said. "That is why I can't write novels." To be sure, I've received emails from folks who have read My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon, telling me that they were laughing out loud as they read. There's something deeply affirming about knowing you've made a complete stranger laugh. So I continued to believe that I could never write a novel. "I don't know how novelists do it," I said. Then I wrote a novel. It came about in a strange sort of way. I was curled up in bed, reading The Little White Horse and thinking to myself, "This is schlock. I could write a better story than this." Please understand -- I don't normally have thoughts like that while I'm reading. I think I was having an epiphany...or something. It took me six months to write my first novel, a Young Adult fantasy. When it was finished, I marveled at it. Not because I thought I was Just So Wonderful, but because I was amazed at the fact that this almost-500-page tome had come from me. I was....awed by it. And in my state of awe, I was convinced that nary a word could be changed or deleted. Why, the novel was almost sacred. At this point, I suppose I could have found a vanity press that would allow my work "to remain exactly as the author intended, verbatim, without editorial input." Thank goodness for the wisdom that came from months of researching writing and publishing. Thank double goodness for the Internet, which made the research ten times easier. I had a much better plan for my "sacred" novel. But first, I had to get rid of the Agent-I-Never-Should-Have-Signed-With. That'll have to wait until Part Two... Labels: writing Monday, April 17, 2006Is It Really Spring? Really?
 It's been a long time coming, this spring thing. I often rattle on about how much I prefer living in Tennessee over the Northeast, because of our early springs and long, late autumns. (Translated: I absolutely hate being cold.) This, however, has been one of those annoyingly slow-to-blossom springs. Southerners have a slew of "mini-winters" that occur after the Spring Solstice: Blackberry Winter, Redbud Winter, Dogwood Winter. Each "winter" brings a few days of cold weather and the slow-down of Things Turning Green. I think we got all of our Southern Winters at once this year, with a few others thrown in (Crabgrass Winter, Shagbark Hickory Winter, Cheese Grits Winter, I-Wish-I-Was-In-Dixie Winter...). If I wanted cold springs, I'd have stayed in Pennsylvania. So I'm happy as a Yankee in the South that spring is finally here. I can't take credit for the photograph, though. My son took that. I just stole it and resized it. Of course, springtime means the return of the bugs...and anyone who's known me for any length of time knows that I'm not too stable when it comes to anything with six or more legs. We've already had a wasp, a bee, a flying ant, and a mayfly in the house. That's not a good start to the season. And it gets worse. Just the other morning, Jonathan came into our bedroom holding a small, glass jar. Inside the jar was -- a three-inch centipede. Guess where he found it? It was attached to his ear. In bed. Okay, somebody tell me that this isn't normal for centipedes. Surely this was a mutant, ear-biting variety that only occurs in one out of every eight hundred trillion centipede births (are centipedes born?). Surely your average, run-of-the-mill centipede doesn't attach itself to human ears (while the human is sound asleep) and release venom that causes itching for an entire day. Somebody tell me that a centipede is not going to crawl into my ear tonight. I am so not over this. Still, it's better than the oppressive gloom of winter. I think. Friday, April 14, 2006How To Leave a Lasting ImpressionFor me, some things come easily -- like falling down short flights of stairs and forgetting to shave my armpits before ballet class. One thing that comes more naturally than anything else, though, is letting things fly out of my mouth before I've thought about them. Just ask Eric. He has spent the last eighteen years of his life cringing. Eons ago, during our Life B.C. (that's Life Before Children), a couple whom we'd just met asked us to their home for dinner. We seemed to have a lot in common -- we were all from Pennsylvania, we were all musicians, we were all about the same age. It seemed like the beginning of a good friendship. I don't know how the conversation turned toward animals and pets, but suddenly I opened my mouth and began to yap about a particularly unfortunate mouse in my life. "I once starved a mouse to death," I announced, oblivious to the pained expression on my husband's face. "You what?" Well, gee, there's nothing like a little bit of encouragement to tell one's story to an eager audience, so I launched right in. "Well, I had this brown mouse named Oscar. I'd raised him from babyhood because his mother, Jane Louise, died suddenly of a seizure when Oscar and the other baby mice were only seventeen days old." (I'm sure my audience was, by this point, enraptured.) "Anyway, Oscar developed some kind of rash or something, because he started scratching all the time. In fact, he scratched himself behind the ears so much that blood started to spatter on the glass of his cage, and he was loosing the fur behind his ears. I thought it was really gross and I didn't want to deal with it anymore -- so I let his water bottle go empty and stopped feeding him. Then, when he was finally dead, I just picked up the whole aquarium and threw it away." Lovely dinner conversation, that. And our conversation in the car on the way home was even lovelier. "Why the heck did you tell them that mouse story?" Eric was beyond incredulous. "I can't believe you told the mouse story to them -- we only just met! They're not ever going to want to see us again. You really need to think about things before you say them." Well, maybe so -- but, even after the mouse story, I never did master the art of "thinking before speaking." Why, just the other evening, Eric took me to my favorite boutique in downtown Franklin. While Eric was busy chatting with the store manager, I discovered a cute little tank top and popped behind the curtain of the dressing booth to try it on. Unsure of the overall result, I slipped from behind the curtain and got Eric's attention. "Well? What do you think?" He loved it. He thought it was great. But I wasn't so sure (oh, the curse of being female!). So Eric suggested that I ask the not-even-close-to-turning-thirty-yet store manager for her opinion. Yeah, right. I could just hear her inner voice whispering, "Oh, great, now I've got to make this way-too-old woman feel like she looks okay in the tank top." But Eric persisted, and called her over to the dressing room. "Jill would like your opinion." Thanks, Eric. Having no other choice, I emerged from the dressing booth, threw my arms back, and made eye contact with the approaching manager. "My nipples are showing!" She didn't miss a beat. While she felt that the tank top really looked fine (had she actually checked if my nipples were showing?), she assured me that I could easily wear a bra underneath the already-stitched-in shelf bra -- and even that it was perfectly acceptable for my bra straps to show. Right. It might be "perfectly acceptable" for your bra straps to show if you're not-even-close-to-turning-thirty-yet, but I'd rather not go there. It was probably the most interesting conversation I've ever had in a retail store. And as I slipped back behind the curtain to change, I heard the gal say to Eric, "She's so cute." Aha! I spoke without thinking first and was labeled cute. That's not so bad, is it? Is it? Incidentally, I wore the tank top last night -- on top of another tank top. Problem solved. Now if I could only solve my tongue-with-a-mind-of-its-own problem. I'd make much better first impressions, and my husband wouldn't have to worry about taking me out in public...right? Naaa. I'd rather be "cute." Wednesday, April 12, 2006A Gold Star For Agent KristinI've added another blog to my "For Writers" blog list. But before I expound, allow me to offer the following disclaimer: Agent blogs are not places for picking up agents. Hanging out in agent comment boxes so the agent can "get to know you," sending your query to an agent via her blog, resorting to a first-name basis with a blogging agent, repeatedly posting the link to your "I'm A Really Awesome Writer So Come Read Me" web site, or becoming in any way, shape, or form a Blogging Agent Groupie, is severely frowned upon by agents, authors, and society at large. Okay, now that I've gotten that off my chest... If you're a writer looking for a valuable source of information and insight into the world of publishing -- via some sweet-n-feisty rants -- then hasten to Pub Rants, the blog of literary agent Kristin Nelson. Ms. Nelson hails from the Midwest, but is every bit as connected to the New York Publishing Empire (did I say that?) as your average NYC agent. She's web-savvy and down to earth -- and she accepts e-queries, which is definitely the wave of the future. Go ahead and read a few entries on her blog -- you'll immediately get the sense that Someone Out There is being, well, REAL. You'll also learn a thing or two. I love her blog. Absolutely love it. And I highly recommend it to any serious writer who wants to get an "inside feel" for the world according to an agent. An agent with a personality, even. Visit her. And let me know how you enjoyed your stay. Tuesday, April 11, 2006I Come, I Talk, I LeaveYesterday evening, our son Jonathan had a brief interview as a part of the acceptance process for a homeschooling tutorial in which we will be enrolling him this fall. In short, he'll be attending an Introductory Physical Science class once a week, and will have take-home work for the remaining four days. All the exploding beakers and high velocity impacts will occur somewhere other than my kitchen -- and Jonathan will receive his first high school science credit. Sounds ideal for the scientifically-impaired homeschooling mom, doesn't it? Except, the acceptance process rivals Princeton or Harvard. Forms upon forms, essays, personal references, an interview, extensive bloodwork, criminal background check, genetic testing.... Okay, I'm exaggerating. But everything except the last three items above is the truth. So let's just say that I was a little nervous yesterday. I mean...what if my almost-fourteen-year-old said something utterly dorky? I know, I know, and my sister said it before I ever thought of it: All fourteen-year-olds say dorky things. Mine didn't, though. He did well. He was respectful, answered questions succinctly, and didn't mumble. He wasn't the least bit dorky. The only dork in the room was...me. "I feel like I talked too much," I said to Eric as we drove to Ben and Jerry's after the interview (what's the use of expending energy on an interview if you're not going to eat ice cream afterward?). "Well, you DID!" Good grief, did he have to shout? "I mean, I was getting ready to say, 'Oh, look at the time.' You just kept going and going. I thought you'd never shut up!" Oh, please. It wasn't that bad. I mean, I was perfectly quiet while they were speaking to my son. I didn't answer for him once -- not once. I just sat there nodding my head like an approving matron as he answered their questions. I didn't start talking until they addressed me personally. Honestly, I didn't. "So, is that how you respond when you're nervous?" Eric continued. "I mean, do you talk a lot when you're nervous?" "I -- wasn't -- nervous." Eric then dived right into a completely bastardized imitation of Jill-talking-her-head-off-at-Jonathan's-interview. I'm sorry, but I can't stand stuffy, everyone-sits-smiling-awkwardly-at-each-other roundtables. I prefer to relate to people on a warmer, more relational level. It's a good thing I don't work for corporate America -- I wouldn't last a day. So yes, I did squeal a bit about how much I enjoyed Introductory Physical Science in high school (well, they did ask how I felt about Jonathan's enrolling in the class). And I did express my views on the seven-point grading scale (one of the interviewers brought it up, and it interested me...and heaven help the person who makes me hold my tongue when something interests me). But I certainly didn't run on at the mouth the way my darling husband implied. Okay, so maybe it wasn't necessary to mention the fact that my high school IPS teacher used to shoot students with a ping pong gun whenever they did something stupid in class. I probably shouldn't have mentioned that I was glad that Jonathan wouldn't be blowing things up in my kitchen anymore, either. I'm fairly certain I didn't mention any bodily functions or the fact that Jonathan and I argue over his Algebra lesson on an almost daily basis. And I know I didn't tell them that I'm a complete geometry moron. Jonathan told them that one for me. Over all, my behavior was good. Truly. It's just that, thanks to Eric's tirade, I'm now paranoid that Jonathan's name is going to have a small, red asterisk by it. And the footnote will read, "Neurotic, never-shuts-up mother. Do not invite her to any group functions." Yep. Dress me up, but don't take me out. I'd better stick to writing. Sunday, April 09, 2006It Doesn't Get Any Better Than This
 Yep. That's my sweetheart and me. This is the guy who listens to me read every, single chapter of my novels. Sometimes twice. And it's not because I've asked him to listen -- it's because he's asked me to read. He gives me some darn good feedback (and occasionally rubs my feet while I'm reading). This is the guy who looks at me over his coffee cup in the morning and says, "So, are you going to write today?" I'll tell you what -- nothing spurs me on quite as much as my darling's undying support. This is the guy with whom I just had the most fabulous date last night, in celebration of his birthday (which is on Tuesday -- mark it down!). And even though this was supposed to be his birthday celebration, he bought me a tank top at my favorite boutique. "I like giving gifts better than receiving them," he said to me on our way to the car. How could it possibly get any better than that? Well, I mean, it could, and it does, but I'm not going to expound on it here. I guess I just wanted to say -- behind every neurotic female writer is a good man. Maybe not. But there's definitely a good man behind this neurotic female writer. Eric kicks me out of my slumps, listens to me bellyaching about plot problems, encourages me to keep pressing forward -- and he likes my characters! I could never be married to a man who didn't like my characters. For him, I do the ironing every Tuesday (a fate worse than cleaning public toilets). For him, I have acquired a taste for red wine (Merlot, if you please). For him, I sat and watched Cinderella Man (closing my eyes during the blood-spewing boxing scenes) and actually enjoyed it, just like he said I would. For him, I will sit at this computer today until I've finished Chapter 10. Because there's nothing like the smile on his face when I tell him I've finished a chapter. You've gotta love a man who is convinced he's going to see your name on the bestseller list some day. So there it is, folks -- my gooey, I-love-my-husband post to kick off the week. Feel free to share some of your own, personal goo with me! Thursday, April 06, 2006Hair CheckThis morning, Jonathan plopped onto the upholstered chair with his cup of coffee, like he usually does. "Oh, I've got goosebumps," he said, rubbing his leg lightly. "They're making my hairs all stand up." I smiled. "Hairy man legs, huh?" Because, naturally, the comment wasn't really about the goosebumps; it was about the thickening hair on my not-quite-fourteen-year-old's legs. "Yeah," came the pleased-sounding, almost-tenor-but-sometimes-still-cracking-alto voice. "What about your pits? Any hair under there yet?" "Not a whole lot, but it's getting darker." "Cool." (Is armpit hair cool? I guess it is if you're a thirteen-year-old male.) "Yeah." "How 'bout your chest? Anything there?" "No, nothing there yet." He gestured vaguely toward his chest. "But that doesn't usually come in until later, right?" "Well, yeah," I said, as though I were the world's premiere expert on emerging body hair. "Especially when you're a late bloomer." We didn't get into the hair growing on -- other parts. I had already been made aware, admist great fanfare, of said hair when it first emerged. I didn't want to go there again this morning. So there you have it. I spent a portion of my coffee time discussing the visible attributes of male puberty with my son. And I watched my boy/man grow about four inches while we spoke, filled up as he was with the headiness and confidence and "this is pretty awesome"-ness of slowly becoming a man. Hair or no hair, I love the poop out of him. It's an honor, really, to talk about these things with him. After all, he must feel pretty comfortable with me to bring it up at all...right? Right. He knows his mom doesn't have any hang-ups. Well, okay -- he knows his mom doesn't have many hang-ups. At least, she doesn't have any hang-ups about body hair. Why, I wore capris the other day without having shaved my legs the night before. I spent an entire, hairy day without once feeling like I had to run upstairs and grab the nearest Daisy. Guess that means I'm turning into an old fart. Oh, well. I can be happy in old-fartdom, so long as I have the continued joy of my children's trust and affection. That, and an occasional glass of an excellent California wine. And a few razors....just in case. Tuesday, April 04, 2006Woe Is Me, Saith the Female WriterForget political correctness -- guys just have it easier. I know, I know -- they work hard, they have a lot of pressure on them, they worry about things like baldness and bankruptcy and impotence. But they still have it easier. And beside the fact that they can go swimming without having to worry about shaving and can wear white pants without having to worry about what time of the month it is, there is one huge reason why they have it easier. They can compartmentalize. In other words, they can keep all the little pieces of their lives in small, separate containers inside their testosterone-laden brains, and only worry about the box that currently has its lid open. If they're at work, it's the Work Box. If they're watching football, it's the Football Box. If they're mowing the lawn, it's the...you get the idea. And let's not forget the Sex Box. 'Nuff said. Not so for us women. We don't have any "boxes" inside our brains. We have one, vast space of endlessly moving threads of thought and emotion. Each component of our lives is inextricably attached to every other component. The argument we had with our girlfriend this morning affects the way our meatloaf turns out this evening. The behavior of our children during Story Hour at the public library affects our innate sense of self-worth in bed that night. And each and every primary relationship in our lives -- particularly our marriages -- deeply affects every task, decision, and passing thought, on a minute-by-minute basis. Now, let's apply this whole formula to writing. If I'm a man who happens to also be an author, I might be too tired to write because I had a long day, or I might be too sick to write because I've had the flu for three days. But if I've recently had an argument with my beloved wife, I'll still be able to sit down and pound out a few pages of my latest novel. Why? Because I'm able to close the Wife Box and open the Writing Box. If, on the other hand, I'm a woman who happens to also be an author, and I've recently had an argument with my beloved husband, I'll sit and stare at a blank monitor while every word in the English language eludes me. I might attempt to work out a particular plot detail in my head, only to discover that I am actually going over what I should have said that morning during our argument. I might even type out a sentence or two and think I've overcome my funk, only to dissolve in tears and sighs five minutes later. (No, I didn't have an argument with Eric this morning.) Then, too, I might be a woman/writer who has recently had a terrible misunderstanding with a friend via a poorly constructed email. Rest assured that I will check my inbox every five minutes until the misunderstanding has been resolved. Then, and only then, will I be able to resume my writing. If I've just had a relational hiccup with one of my children, I won't be able to write, either. In short, I cannot under any circumstances remove my writing from the intricacies of my primary relationships. It's almost like there's a huge energy reserve inside of me that's meant for the Most Important Things in life -- namely, my relationships and the pursuit of my passions. If a portion of that reserve is going toward calming the muddied waters of a particular relationship, there won't be enough of it left for my creative endeavors. Does that make me neurotic? Probably. But what it really makes me is completely female. Mind you, I'm not saying women writers are weak and wimpy. Au contraire! In order to make it in the relatively unfriendly publishing world, a woman has to be feisty, sharp, and tenacious. And you and I both know that there are a lot of feisty, sharp, and tenacious female authors out there. Some of them can't write to save their skins, but they're feisty, sharp, and tenacious nonetheless. I can be all those things. Really, I can. But I'm still going to exist in the everything's-tied-to-everything-else world of a woman. I can't help it. If my heart is broken, so is my writing. And when my heart has mended, my writing flows again, with the pain of the heartbreak lending depth and poignancy to my work that perhaps would not otherwise be there. It must be nice to have a Writing Box to neatly open and close at will. It must be nice not to have to wear a bra or shave one's armpits, too. But you know what? I love being a woman. I'll take my complicated, hormonal brain over Eric's all-the-little-boxes-in-a-row brain any day. It's who I've been divinely created to be, and I won't question it. Except, maybe, when I'm trying to finish a chapter through a torrent of unrelated tears. Then, perhaps, I might utter a single, "Why?" And when no answer comes, I will do what any self-respecting female would do. I'll reach for the chocolate. Labels: writing Sunday, April 02, 2006Avast, Me Hearties
 If ye be wonderin' who the scalawag in the picture is -- that be my ever-lovin' father. Yep. No such thing as doing a Pirate Party half-way. Are you in any doubt that my off-centeredness is completely genetic? And you won't believe me, but my dad scared a couple of women walking their dogs on the sidewalk in front of our house. Okay, so I dared him. "Go on out on the porch and shout something like a pirate." Well, honestly, would you expect your 72-year-old father to take you up on something like that? Before I could draw my next breath, Dad was out on the porch, waving his hook and bellowing something about "lassies" to these unsuspecting ladies. You should've seen the one with the baby stroller hustle her heiny up the hill. The other gal forced a smile and said "hi" before high-tailing it away from the rabid old guy in a black bandana. So far, no one has shown up on our doorstep with a padded wagon. And my dad is safely back home in Pennsylvania, anyway. Spencer loved his Pirate Party, though. With a grandad like that, who wouldn't? Now, if I can just get Spencer to stop calling his sisters "wenches" ..... |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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