The Write Way Home

Monday, July 31, 2006

And You Thought Only Toddlers Asked Endless Questions

I give you, as a jumpstart to your Monday, a list of The Top Seven Questions Asked By Seven-year-old Spencer. Feel free to submit your answers, because, for many of these, I'm fresh out:

7. Do ducks ever smile sometimes?

6. Why are your breasts private?

5. Why did Granmom and Grandad name you "Mommy?"

4. Did they have copyrights when Jesus was born?

3. How long ago were the Olden Days?

2. Why do boys have nipples?

And the Number One Question, posed just today:

1. Why don't you like the smell of your farts?

Friday, July 28, 2006

Make My Day

"I'm going to go pick up Jonathan," I said to Rachel as I grabbed my car keys.

Jonathan had been fishing all afternoon. He normally rides his bike to the river and back, but on this particular day he called and asked if I could please pick him up. I guess I was feeling benevolent, because I told him I'd be there in ten minutes.

Rachel picked up on the benevolence. "You're really in a giving mood today," she said.

"Am I?"

"Yes," Rachel went on. "You're doing really nice things. You took me to Publix this morning and gave me three dollars so I could buy butter for the fudge, and now you're picking Jonathan up."

I was glowing inside by this time. It would have been great if Rachel had stopped right there, allowing me to bask in her praise. But she didn't. She had one more thing to say.

"It really isn't like you."

Thank you, Rachel. I'm glad to know that I'm normally a self-absorbed, mean ol' mommy. Lucky for you and Jonathan I snapped out of it for a little while in order to "do nice things" for you both.

Sheesh.

You thought that was a toad up there, didn't you? No, that's me, during a full moon.

Most days, I keep my children locked in the guest bathroom. I slip them dry bread under the door when I think of it. Neighbors have asked questions about the cat-o-nine-tails I've got hanging on the deck out back. And I make my children walk everywhere, including ballet classes, which are five miles away. I never bake cookies, never give them their allowance, never kiss them good night, never spend time teaching them how to multiply fractions or find a prepositional phrase.

Aren't you glad I'm not your mother?

I may need counseling for this one...

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

When You Wish Upon a Star, You Come Up Empty

This is a passionate rant to every wannabe writer out there. Can you handle raw honesty? Borderline brutality? A swift kick in your nether region? Then read on.

So many people -- so many people -- want to write. That doesn't mean that there are countless talented writers out there; there aren't. (Many of them are, unfortunately, published anyway.) Like other "hidden" talents, though, writing is something that many folks tuck away or bury under the demands of work-a-day life, eventually to be banished forever to the Land Of Never Will Be.

My advice to those of you with fingers itching for the quill: Just. Start. Writing.

A couple of days ago, I stumbled across the blog of an American working mom. The last sentence of her personal profile read, "I wish I could become a children's book writer." Now, on the surface, that doesn't sound like such a bad thing to say. We've all got dreams, right?

Right. Except, saying "I wish I could become a children's book writer" without ever picking up a pen isn't going to get you anywhere.

If I say, "I wish I could be a ballerina" and never step foot on the dance floor, what will become of my dream?

If I say, "I wish I could be a gourmet chef" and never saunter into the kitchen, what will become of my dream?

You get my point.

Writing is not something to wish for. It's not something to hope we'll do some day. It's something to do.

This particular blogger also described herself as a mother and an employee at what she called, "not my dream job." Let's face facts here: Most, if not all, fledgling writers have regular day jobs. Writing isn't going to put food on the table and designer jeans on your wife. So working at "not your dream job" is no excuse for not writing.

Writing is, after all, a craft. As such, it takes a lot of time to develop and mature. Once you finish your first novel, you're still a long (long, long) way from having a finished product that's ready to be peddled. There's a second draft and a third draft and a fourth draft and...as many as it takes to get it "right." Then there are hours and hours of researching literary agents and the publishing industry at large. There are books to read and more books to read; there are writers to network with and writers to swap work with. Once you've landed an agent who is head-over-heels about your work, it's still just the beginning. Shopping the book to potential publishers could take weeks, months...even years. And after all that -- you still might not "make" it.

Now, that's not meant to depress anyone. (Okay, I'm a little depressed by it myself.) My point is: If you want to write a book, what are you waiting for?

Oprah is not going to call you on the phone and say, "You are endlessly fascinating! Will you write a story about yourself so that I can have you on my show?"

Random House is not going to send you a certified letter that reads, "We've heard you have a great idea for a story, and we'd like to offer you a publishing contract with a $50,000 advance."

Nope. You're just going to have to sit down and start writing.

Don't dream about it. Don't wish for it. Don't lament because you haven't written a novel. Get over it, and get busy.

Write.

Okay. Any questions?

Monday, July 24, 2006

Cool Whip: Good-bye Forever!

Behold: Summer Berry Pie.

You've had some version of this in your life, somewhere along the way. Maybe your version was slathered in bottled cherry goo and nestled in a store-bought, foil ensconced, I-think-this-is-supposed-to-be-a-graham-cracker-crust-but-it-tastes-like-cardboard crust.

Heck, maybe you like crusts that taste like cardboard.

But I've posted this photograph today for those of you who read my glowing review of The Fat Fallacy and wondered how it might be possible for you to make some "French Diet" changes in your own life.

Voila! I give you the Cool-Whipless pie.

Almost every "summer" pie or "ice cream" pie or "pour it into a ready-made crust" pie calls for Cool Whip. Now, you may already know this, but Cool Whip is not whipped cream. It's whipped...something. But it's not exactly food. And eating the French diet is about eating real food. Not chemicals.

So, here's an easy answer for all your summer pies: Whip your own cream. It's that simple!

Never whipped your own cream before? Here's how you do it:

Chill a metal bowl in the freezer for a few minutes. When it's nice and cold, pour in 1 cup of heavy whipping cream and 2 to 3 tablespoons of powdered or super-fine sugar. Plug in your electric beaters and go to town. In a chilled bowl, it'll whip up in no time.

One word of warning: don't over-whip it. You'll end up with homemade butter.

Take the wonderful, fresh, fluffy whipped cream and use it instead of that nasty Cool Whip stuff in your favorite pie recipes.

Whip up another cup to use on top of the pie. Or on top of anything else your heart desires.

Whole-fat, organic cream is good for you. And anything labeled "non-dairy" or "non-fat" or "reduced fat" is not.

Neither is anything that's called "creme." That's the manufacturer's way of saying, "Please note that this does not contain cream, or we would have spelled it that way. This stuff actually belongs in the same category as shaving creme, except you eat it instead of slathering it on your face."

And the crust? I made it myself. (Handing the organic graham crackers and a rolling pin to my fourteen-year-old made it go a lot faster. He made the crumbs, I did the rest.)

Tiny changes, baby steps, huge health benefits in the long run.

That, and a delightful way to satiate your sweet tooth. (Yes, I'm aware that there isn't any choclate in this pie. I do occasionally make a dessert without chocolate in it. Occasionally.)

Want to learn more? Don't worry. I'm writing a book about it...

Friday, July 21, 2006

Writers, A Breed Apart

There are many subgenres of human being that belong in a class of their own. Thespians. Musicians. Particle physicists. Workers at humane shelters.

You know what I mean.

I can claim membership, past or present, in several subgenres: I've done the theatre thing, the music thing, the cloth-diapers-are-best-for-baby's-bottom thing.

The one that has prevailed, though, is the writer thing.

Dave (a.k.a. Cheezweezil) called me last Friday night. (That he later accused me of having a mildly "Southern Belle" accent I will deal with later. Privately. After I've sharpened my batleth.) Now, Dave's a nice guy and fellow blogger; Eric and I have both enjoyed getting to know him. He didn't call for my famous macaroni and cheese recipe or to check on the weather in Nashville, though. He called because he and I exist in the same subgenre.

We write.

You see, Dave had a breakthrough on a chapter he'd been working on. He was excited. He needed to talk with somebody who really understood. And I do. Any serious writer would. It's a "writer thing."

Not only do Dave and I share the "writing thing," but we both write for the under-18 crowd. Middle Grade/Young Adult writing is a whole 'nuther monkey when compared to writing for adults. Dave's heart for kids and gift for storytelling are going to propel him forward at a steady rate. You wait and see.

Dave's a genius at critiquing, too. He's done more for the handful of chapters I've sent him than I've ever been able to accomplish on my own. It's not unusual for a writer to have a sharper eye for someone else's work, which is why it's so important to network with someone whose writing you respect.

(Attention writers: did you make a note of that?)

Know what else is important? You've got to be willing to really, really listen when somebody reads your work, looks you squarely in the face, and says, "This sucks."

Well, okay. Dave would never say that to me. But he is quick to point out when something is unclear. And unclear writing does suck.

He's so good with his virtual red pencil, in fact, that I am a little intimidated when critiquing his stuff. I want to be sure I'm as helpful to him as he is to me.

This "we're in the same subgenre" stuff is vital to the survival and growth of any writer.

Spouses are cool. Eric is my biggest in-house support system. He listens to me read each and every chapter out loud -- even the (gasp) first drafts. (Real writers know that "first draft" is a synonym for "kindling.") I could not write without his love, support, and affirmation. No way.

But Eric, bless his Yankee heart, does not exist in my subgenre. I could not ask him to do a written critique or ask his opinion about the quality of the "beats" in my dialogue.

(Though, to be fair, Eric is awfully good at telling me when my dialogue sounds dorky.)

So to Dave and all the other aspiring writers out there: I am honored to share a subgenre with you. Press on, engage yourself with other writers, and read the best books you can get your hands on. Ask questions, research, write until your fingers bleed. Read some more, have others read your work, and keep writing.

One more thing. Don't take yourself too seriously. You'll never make it if you can't laugh at yourself. Heck, I do that all the time.

Oh, and Dave...thanks for the call. I have high hopes for you, my friend!

Labels: writing

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

Don't Worry, You Don't Have To Say Your Name

"Women picking wedgies out in public."

That's the latest hit on my blog in a Google search. There are lots of laughs and head-scratches across the Internet on the how and why of folks visiting blogs and such. I'm still getting a lot of traffic from "tomato sex" and "deboning trout" (though I've never deboned a trout in my life). More recently, it's "plucking chin hairs" and even the ocassional "Eric Boehme" (why would anyone search for that guy?).

But I'm not going to go on about weird search terms.

It's just that, all this blog traffic studying has got me wondering. You see, those of you who have me bookmarked or who are typing in my URL by hand simply come up as an "unknown" referral. No Google search page, no "This Is What I Read" listing from another blog. Simply and infuriatingly, "unknown."

Actually, that's okay. It means you haven't found me by chance. It also means that you like it enough around here to come back -- sometimes daily.

But what I'm wondering is this: How did you find me, anyway?

So do me a favor. Leave a comment here and let me know how you found The Write Way Home. And relax...you can do it anonymously. Just click "anonymous" in the comment box and I'll never know who you are. No one else will, either.

Did someone you can't stand send you this URL just to annoy you?

Were you searching for information on broken ribs? Sauted brussels sprouts? Johnny Depp?

Did you find me on Amazon.com?

Let me know how you found me...and if you're feeling particularly chatty, tell me where you hail from.

There's something fascinating about the way blogs sort of "draw the world together." We become, in a sense, an invisible microcosm, knit together by our words and feelings.

Today, I encourage you to become just a tiny bit less invisible.

Monday, July 17, 2006

Past Meets Present

"One little, two little, three little apples..."

Yes, that's me. Eighteen years ago. Miss Jill, Preschool Teacher -- another lifetime.

In church yesterday, I found the courage to approach a woman whom I'd seen several times over the past six months or so. I'd seen her in church, I'd seen her in a restaurant, I'd seen her name in our church bulletin. I knew her -- I was certain of it. And when I heard her talking to another lady in church, I recogized her sweet, Southern-Belle voice. So I approached her.

"Phyllis?"

She looked at me with absolutely no recognition in her eyes.

"You don't know me, but we used to work together at Creative Care Center."

Ah, yes, she did remember me. But what was my name again?

Funny how two people's lives can be entwined, and then become so completely disengaged as to not give each other a passing thought for years. Phyllis was the music teacher in the daycare where I worked for a year and a half, back in my newlywed, pre-children days. She was delighted to discover that I was an accomplished pianist, so I ended up being her accompanist for the silly, we're-doing-this-to-make-the-parents-happy concerts the daycare did twice a year.

(Try to make a row of three-year-olds stand still on stage and sing a song they can't remember because it's written on about a fifth-grade level. I dare you.)

The children loved their time with Miss Phyllis, and I...well, I liked getting a little break twice a week while they had "music class." Phyllis, eager to use my talents, asked me to accompany for a choral production at the local middle school as well, and Eric and I once provided pre-concert Christmas music at one of the daycare extravaganzas. In short, Phyllis and I "clicked" on a music teacher level. She was one of the (only) pleasant parts of my tenure at Creative Care Center.

Now, here I was, hugging her warmly, eighteen years later. And do you know what she said to me once it registered, exactly, who I was?

"Why, you're all grown up!"

Fancy that. I was not-quite-twenty-three when I met Phyllis, while she was already a late--thirties mom of two middle-school-aged daughters. She was settled, mature. I was...a complete twit.

I never thought I'd have to pass the age of forty to be "all grown up." But it felt good to hear her say it.

I'd like to think that I am "all grown up." Still growing, still seeking, still learning -- but no longer a flighty thing with no clue about much of anything.

At least I don't perm my hair anymore.

I'm sure there's a reason why I've crossed paths with Phyllis again. Time will tell. I'm just glad I had the courage to step right up and say hello. That's proof right there that I've grown up a bit. (Fear of rejection is an ugly thing.)

And yes, I can still name all but one of the children whose faces are showing on that picture. The fact that they're all old enough to be finishing up their final year in college is something I'd rather not remember.

So. I'm all grown up. Good news, that!

I wonder if my sister would agree...

Friday, July 14, 2006

View From the Hammock

Our first hammock died a prolonged, violent death. It was too difficult to say "no," you see, when gleeful youngsters wanted to sit in it sideways and propel themselves from zero to sixty in five seconds.

Once the tattered remains were taken down, we went hammockless for a few summers. Sometimes we'd gaze wistfully out the back windows at the space-where-the-hammock-used-to-be. But money was needed for other things, and "new hammock" did not make the top twenty.

Two weeks ago, we bought a new hammock on clearance. Hence the photo. Kind of makes you want to crawl right in, doesn't it?

Not me. There are too many bugs.

Last weekend, I was merely standing by the hammock talking with Eric, who was lounging with a Merlot, for less than five minutes. I was eaten alive. There was nary a bite upon Eric's fine legs, mind you. Only mine. And my arms. It's like the mosquitoes were lying in wait for me.

And then there are the ticks. You all know that ticks drop out of the trees like bloodthirsty paratroopers, land on your head, and suck your brains out before you realize what's happened. That, and they give you all sorts of nasty diseases.

Add the flies, bees, wasps, and spiders, and the hammock has long ceased to be a source of temptation for me.

Still. It looks nice out there between the trees. And nothing's quite as cute as two or three children squashed together in its middle, bottoms bulging through the mesh, arms dangling languidly from the sides.

It's the epitome of Summer.

May there be a hammock in your weekend!

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Mom/Daughter Writers' Lunch

Naturally, I've given birth to a daughter who, at the age of twelve, is already cranking out novels.

Naturally.

When I was her age, I was writing, too. Except I never wrote anything but poems, short stories, and the occasional first-few-pages of the Novel Of My Dreams. Somehow, I never got past the initial idea. So I've got to say that I'm awfully impressed with my daughter's tenacity and creativity.

If she's not published by the time she's twenty-five, I'll be shocked.

At any rate, Maggie's been after me for the past couple of weeks to schedule another "writers' date." In other words, the two of us grab our notebooks and pens and head somewhere with comfy chairs, like Starbucks.

Well, today was the day. I invited Maggie to join me on a jaunt to Enjoue, my favorite boutique (and if you pop over to the web site, please know that the photographs don't even begin to capture the charm and style of the place). The gift certificate that Eric so generously bestowed upon me at Christmastime was still hanging out in my purse, and the store's huge, forty-percent-off sale told me that the time was ripe for spending it.

Maggie was an absolute doll while I merrily chatted with the store manager and tried on a few choice items. Then, with the Perfect Cream-colored Blouse and a gorgeous pair of hand-forged earrings in tow, I led my lovely daughter across the street to one of the coolest sandwich shops around. We ordered lunch and fruit tea, and hunkered down with our notebooks.

You know, I actually got something done. I'm at the stage of my novel (chapter 21, if you're counting) where everything starts to tie together and build toward the big climax. It's important for me at this stage to keep my ducks in a row as I go, so that I stay on course. Having a "writers' lunch" was the perfect thing for me and for my book.

Maggie got a lot accomplished, too. I can't tell you how rewarding it was to watch her sitting at the table, scribbling away with her blue and white pen, her hair pulled back into long, sleek pigtails and her glasses sitting perkily on her nose. She is the quintessential writer! She is passionate and devoted and temperamental and way too much like her mother for her own good. Fortunately she has enough of her daddy in her to balance her out.

That, and she's got dimples.

Can you tell I've just had a wonderful time with my darling girl? And now I'm ready to dig in and get this chapter underway.

Thank you, Maggie! You are an inspiration.

Labels: writing

Monday, July 10, 2006

Oh, Jack Sparrow, You've Let Me Down

Never in my life have I waited for the release of a movie the way I waited for Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest.

Never.

I'm not the waiting-for-a-movie type. Heck, I'm not even a going-to-a-movie type. I prefer to stay at home and watch them on DVD in the privacy and comfort of my family room.

Something strange happened to me last year, though. I fell in love with the first Pirates movie. I fell in love with the story, the soundtrack, the scenery, the whole Pirate Thing.

I fell in love with Captain Jack Sparrow.

I won't tell you how many times I've watched Curse of the Black Pearl. I won't tell you how often I listen to the soundtrack, niftily downloaded into my iTunes folder.

To be sure, I knew there was a risk involved in getting so excited about a sequel. My rational side told me, "Jill, sequels always suck. The chance that the next movie will live up to your expectations is next to nill."

Somewhere along the way, I forgot to listen to my rational side. And on Friday night, I paid for it.

Yes, that's a picture of Eric and me in our local cinema on Friday, waiting for the movie to start. Eric bought three tickets ahead of time (Jonathan came with us), so we were able to waltz right in and grab some good seats (three rows from the front). See that goofy smile on my face? That "I'm going to see Jack Sparrow in just ten more minutes" smile? It didn't last long.

Sigh.

If you haven't seen the movie, you've at least read a review or two. There's no plot. The humor borders on slapstick. It's too long. It's all action and special effects, no real substance.

Wait, there's more. The constant references to the first movie were beyond annoying. When Jack Sparrow got slapped in the face in the first movie, it was funny. When Will Turner gets slapped in the face in Dead Man's Chest, it's a feeble attempt to remind the audience how hilarious it was when Jack got slapped the first time. Totally unnecessary.

And exactly how many scenes with a multi-tentacled sea creature does it take before the audience really appreciates how scary it is? I, for one, didn't need to see it more than once. As it stands, the Kraken has almost as many scenes as Will Turner, and is only slightly more interesting. Way overdone.

I struggled with the morphing of Commodore Norrington, too. Yes, men "go bad." Yes, life can deal a rough hand and lead a person down the wrong path. But this dude's transformation was so unbelievable that it took me a couple of minutes to even figure out who he was. I never quite swallowed it.

It wasn't a complete wash, despite my overall disappointment. There were some great scenes. Good acting. Cool swordfights.

There just wasn't enough meat to chew on. It was more like watching a video game than a movie. Pow! Slash! Roar! Crack! Bang! Remember the tension in the first movie? Remember how you gasped the first time that cursed monkey jumped in front of Elizabeth's face? Dead Man's Chest is devoid of those moments.

I spent most of the well-over-two-hours trying to figure out what the heck was going on. There just wasn't much to gasp about.

Naturally, I'm going to go see it again. I've got to see if I can pick up a thread or two more of storyline in the midst of all the computer-generated magic.

I feel disloyal. But I also feel betrayed. That's what I get for falling in love with a pirate. I should have know better. I should never have trusted him in the first place.

You've broken my heart, Jack.

Friday, July 07, 2006

Mommy's Magic Touch

Yesterday, Spencer blew into my office wearing a bath towel around his waist.

"I have this wrapped around me to be modest," he said. Then his eyes filled with tears. "My heiny is bleeding."

"Is it?" I said calmly. I've dealt with bleeding heinies before.

"Yes." His voice trembled, tears thickened.

"Did you just go poopy?"

He had. I cheerily asked him to follow me down to my bathroom so that I could have a peek. Anal fissures, hemorrhoids, butt rashes -- I've got a wealth of experience in this area.

I laid Spencer across my lap, making sure first to ask him if he had wiped his heiny clean.

"Well, I was still wiping," he said.

Good. I had been warned.

Undaunted, I spread those little cheeks and did a quick butt check. Seemed like a bit of irritation, but nothing serious. And no poop squirt surprises, either. In short, it was an easy job.

"Now, this is going to feel a little goopy," I said, glopping a generous helping of Vaseline onto his wee bottom. He took it better than I might've. Especially after I assured him that the Vaseline -- and my finger -- were not going to go inside...there. Not on your life.

I concluded that Spencer had wiped himself a bit too hard. He tends to overdo it. I'm not sure what it is about the males in my family, but they're all neurotic about...being clean in certain areas. You wouldn't believe the toilet paper we go through. 'Nuff said.

At any rate, a very happy Spencer wrapped the towel around his bare bottom and prepared to leave the bathroom.

The best part of all this? Spencer's parting words:

"Thank you for fixing it."

Who knew? I thought I was administering first aid, but I was actually fixing my son's butt.

I'm adding this one to my resume.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Let's See, Where Was I....?

I think I've lost the "on" switch to my brain.

It was beyond wonderful having Eric around for four days. We flipped right into "vacation mode," which was seriously good for both of us. We're talking, grabbing dates whenever we could. Late-night glasses of wine. Time invested in our wonderful offspring, which included a morning fishing trip for Jonathan and Daddy, an evening date for Maggie and Daddy (guess who the popular family member is at times like this?), and, of course, the Annual Nashville Fireworks Extravaganza (from which I, of course, stayed home).

Since we've had to cancel our "official" vacation this year (alas, I may pine away to nothing for want of the ocean...), this mini-break came at a good time for all of us. Except, now that it's over, I'm finding that I'm not ready for it to be.

I want...more.

This must be a sign that I am in major need of some refreshment. A more thorough break from the daily routine (after all, the laundry, cooking, and cleaning up of endless messes in the kitchen continue even while Eric is enjoying King Status on his micro-holidays).

Either that, or I'm a spoiled brat.

My life is far from difficult. Not only have I been blessed beyond measure, I have also striven all these years to live a simple, uncluttered life. Summertime means even more of this laid-back lifestyle, since we're on break from ballet (our biggest time commitment by far).

So, why the reluctance to let go of "vacation mode?"

And she heaves a dramatic sigh.

I'll get over it. It's a lovely day (sunny, warm, low humidity) and I'm almost finished with Chapter 19 of the novel affectionately referred to as "Untitled." (The title makes you want to drop everything and wait for it to appear on the bookshelves, doesn't it?) That, and I'm feeling rather perky and inspired today.

The fact that I am blogging is a sure sign of post-vacation-syndrome recovery, yes?

Bear with me. I'll be fine.

At least you don't have to live with me. Just ask Eric.

On second thought, don't.

: Name: Jill; Location: United States

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....