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Friday, September 29, 2006Applause?So Eric read the final three chapters of my manuscript last night while I dozed off. Literally. I was sound asleep as his pencil was scratching its away across my recycled pages. I awakened to the sound of applause. Eric was standing by the foot of the bed clapping his hands. I felt like the Princess Regent in her gilded litter, bowing and waving to her adoring serfs. Well, actually, I felt completely disoriented, since the applause had startled me awake. I didn't know why he was clapping. I still don't know. He may have been clapping because he really loved the ending, or he may have been clapping because he was utterly relieved to have finally finished muddling through. I'm not going to ask him. Nope. I'm just going to plug through his notes, make my edits, and continue to get this novel in the Best Possible Shape. I'm really loving this Living the Writer's Life thing. And it's only going to get better. Have a glorious weekend! Labels: writing Wednesday, September 27, 2006Two Crickets and a GrapeThat's what greeted me this morning when I entered my kitchen to make coffee. I'm used to things like this, of course. Having two boys in the house has conditioned me to almost not flutter an eyelash when I come across anything slimy, smelly, live, dead, or multi-legged. The crickets are no exception. The thing about these particular crickets, though, is that they're doomed. Jonathan doesn't catch them out of an innate love for insects; he catches them for bait, plain and simple. Why the grape? It keeps the crickets fed and hydrated. When I first encountered the crickets this morning, they were feasting on the halved grape with wee cricket gusto. All around the base of the grape was a trail of tiny cricket poops. Clearly they were thriving. Not for long. As soon as Jonathan decides it's time for another fishing trip, this cricket couple is destined for the Cricket Death Cage. Their one-way ticket out will lead to a barbed hook and the scummy water of the Harpeth River. Morbid, isn't it? So I started my morning gazing sorrowfully at two fruit-loving crickets in a twelve-ounce drinking glass. It was even more painful when the male cricket started singing, his wings vibrating faster than my eyes could follow. I felt sorry for him, and for his subdued mate. Something is definitely wrong with me. Ah, but I didn't scream. I saved the screaming for later, when Jonathan was pulling a rubbery, creature-shaped lure across my kitchen floor on the end of his fishing line. I thought it was a -- well, I don't know what I thought it was. I just screamed. Just when I think I have this "mother of two boys" thing down, something new makes me scream. Maybe by the time I'm a grandmother I'll have this thing licked. Then I'll be the one storing up jars of crickets to give to my grandsons. Just don't make me touch one. I can feel sorry for a cricket but I sure as heck can't touch it. Grape, anyone? Monday, September 25, 2006In Our Spare Time, We're Pirates
  These were too good to pass up. Our beloved CHEEZWEEZIL has created his own pirate crew, including yours truly and that boss-type dude I'm married to. With talent like this, why does Dave bother to write novels? Heck, he could make a living transforming people into characters they've always dreamed of being. Or not. I wish Eric would grow his hair like that. I love the long-haired Renaissance look (as opposed to the long-haired, redneck, Achey-Breaky look). No such luck, though. I've already asked him, and he's declared that he has no desire to grow his hair long. Rats. That's all for today. I'm off to work on (tedious) revisions. Arrr... Friday, September 22, 2006Everyone Should Be So Lucky
 See the cutie with her thumb in her mouth? That's my "baby" sister Jamie.Today is her birthday. I was not quite three-and-a-half when Jamie was born. I accepted her arrival as a personal gift; this was my baby sister. My parents must have inserted that thought into my head, because I really did see her that way. I was allowed to hold her in my lap on the way home from the hospital (with no fear of being pulled over for violation of carseat laws, since there weren't any). I was bursting with Big Sister Pride. When she was just a couple of months old, I put my little hands on her belly and back and said, "Here we go, Suzie Klutz," flipping her from her belly to her back just the way I'd seen my mother do. Fortunately I didn't snap her neck, and she is able to walk upright today. When she was about ten months old, I crawled underneath the crib to retrieve a toy that Jamie, who was standing up at the crib railing, had dropped. My back bumped the metal release bar, the crib railing careened down, and my sister flew onto the linoleum. Mom almost had heart failure, but my sister, once again, survived. Jamie and I loved to play dress-up. She endured all the less desirable clothing and the hats that I didn't particularly like. What are big sisters for, right? When she got older, she was commanded to choose names for her Barbie and Ken dolls other than "Barbie" and "Ken," since my dolls were privileged to keep the original names, thank you very much. I thought up all the story lines for our pretend play, and I once trapped her in her bedroom by locking the bathroom door (adjacent to her room) and rigging the folding door between our rooms with a length of cloth knotted to my dresser. Sweet sister, wasn't I? Yet this is the girl who came to every theatrical performance I played a part in; the girl who sat on the sofa and requested song after song on the piano -- a diehard fan of Great Hits like "The Lonely Goatherd" from The Sound of Music, "One Tin Soldier" from my book of pop hits from the 60's and 70's, and various Christmas songs at any time of the year. And this is the girl who wrote me a note when I was in high school, telling me how beautiful and talented I was and how proud of me she was, when my world was caving in because of a ruthless acne assault. Yep. That's my sister. Our worlds diverged and we grew apart. Then, like a precious gift from the hand of God, we found our way toward each other again, worked through the hurts of the past, and rediscovered the undying friendship that began the day I first laid eyes on her tiny infant face. I love her dearly. Jamie is smart...feisty...generous...and she's got a dry, sharp wit that makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. She knows me way too well...and loves me, anyway. I can tell her really stupid, twitty things that might be twisting their way around inside my brain, and she not only listens, she understands. Seriously. If there's such a thing as "Sister Language," then we definitely speak it. We're not clones. In some ways, we are vastly different. But there is so much common ground that spending time with her -- even if it's on the phone or via email -- is like curling up on an old, comfortable sofa with a mug of hot cocoa. No, I'm not calling my sister "old." I can't do that, since I'm the elder sister. Yuck. Funny thing, too, is that we both hate our birthdays. We've decided it doesn't have anything to do with age, because we've hated our birthdays ever since we ceased being children. It might have something to do with the fact that our mother always made the day extra-special. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that we're both slightly neurotic. Nothing whatsoever. Happy birthday, Sister, despite your hatred of the day. I, for one, love September the Twenty-second, and always will. Eat some chocolate chip cake for me. Thursday, September 21, 2006From An Age Without AgentsThe following letter was penned to publisher Thomas Cadell in London in November, 1797: I have in my possession a manuscript novel, comprised in three vols about the length of Miss Burney's Evelina. As I am well aware of what consequence it is that a work of this sort should make its first appearance under a respectable name, I apply to you. Shall be much obliged therefore if you will inform me whether you chuse to be concerned in it. What will be the expense of publishing at the author's risk; & what will you venture to advance for the property of it, if on a perusal, it is approved of? Should your answer give me encouragement I will send you the work. Talk about your rambling query letter lacking any real information! The letter fails to mention the title or genre of the novel, or even a hint about its plot. Even the author's name has been omitted. Imagine what would happen in this day and age, should such a query be sent. Actually, the response in 1798 was much the same as we might expect today: The letter was returned with declined by return of post scribbled across the top of the page. Nice. Know who wrote the query letter? Mr. Austen -- Jane Austen's father. He was referring to her finished manuscript, First Impressions, and she was most likely not aware that her father had contacted the publisher (talk about meddling parents). The novel was published many years later by its well-known title, Pride and Prejudice. There's hope, fellow writers. Meddling fathers aside, there's always hope. (Mr. Austen's letter taken from Jane Austen by Carol Shields.) Labels: writing Tuesday, September 19, 2006Arrrr! Today Be TALK LIKE A PIRATE DAY!Read about it HERE. Then add your own Pirate Speak to the comment box. Gi'e it your best effort, me hearties -- I want t' hear some verily good Pirate Speak! The comment box is waitin' for ye. (One wonders why I'm not doing something better with my time right now...) Monday, September 18, 2006Suddenly Seventeen
 Eric is my hero.Know where he took me on Saturday night? To the Australian Festival in Centennial Park. Know who was performing? Colin Hay. What? You're not jumping up and down with unrestrained excitement? Okay. Men at Work was my all-time, absolutely favorite band in the 80's (back when I was a twitty teenager). I had a huge poster of the band hanging above my bed. I sat in the dark and listened to Down Under over and over again -- on a 45, of course -- and played my flute along with Greg Ham. Colin Hay was the lead singer of Men at Work. Are you with me now? Eric took me to see COLIN HAY. Right. So I was a tad excited. Eric assured me that Colin would sing a lot of Men at Work songs. It's a good thing that Eric surprised me with the tickets only one day in advance; I didn't have too much time to stress about what to wear (jeans and a pink halter top) and whether I'd look like a stupid 40-something lost in a time warp (no comment). So we spread our blanket on the grass and opened our beach chairs. Eric brought me the most divine gyro and a sleek bottle of Australian water. The night was clear and just chilly enough to warrant a light jacket. The crowd was small and the setting intimate; definitely my kind of concert. (I am so not the stand-on-your-chairs-and-scream type.)  Then. There he was. And I recognized him immediately. He hasn't gained a hundred pounds or lost all his hair. No, indeed. He looked marvelous -- he's aging well. He opened his mouth and began speaking and -- holy cow, it wasn't an Australian accent! It was a fairly thick Scottish brogue. Who knew? I never heard the guy speak before. And yes. I danced. Not until the end, when people started moving toward the stage in anticipation of the song everyone was waiting for (Down Under, of course). Finally, after twenty-four years, I was able to dance without inhibition to my Favorite Song Of All Time. I was so close to Colin that I could have leapt onto the stage and put my arm around him. No, I didn't do it. But I kept my eyes on him throughout the entire song. And...he looked at me. Colin Hay looked at me! Not a passing glance, but a full, five-to-six-second eye meld as he sang and played. Colin Hay looked at me and sang Down Under. What 80's girl could want more? Yeah, I know. He was thinking, "Check out the aging teeny-bopper in the pink shirt. Someone needs to take her home. Quickly." What an absolutely fabulous night. I've got the best husband on the planet, and he knows he's "in good" right now. That might explain why he plopped onto the sofa for a nice nap while I cleaned the kitchen and went grocery shopping this afternoon. And why he and the boys left to go fishing while I made the macaroni salad and dessert for this evening's picnic. I think I'll let him get away with it for a little while. Any guy who takes his wife to see her "teen idol" on a beautiful, late summer evening deserves some leeway. Why, I'll even forgive him for peeing under a tree on our way back to the car. (Sorry, sweetie. You didn't really expect me to blog about this without mentioning the grand finale...?) Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover... Friday, September 15, 2006Me? A Workaholic??Perhaps that's too strong a word. All I know is, when daughter Maggie suggested that we spend some time at the park today, I shot her down with an immediate, "No no no, I've got to work today! I've got way too much work to do." Oy! So our homeschooling lessons were moving along as scheduled, and a little twinge was biting at my conscience. "Life is too short. The weather is perfect. You know you need to take your children to the park today, so stop whining internally and do it." I had to run to the grocery store anyway, since Jonathan had a fishing trip planned with a buddy and needed me to pack him a lunch. It was easy enough to pick up sufficient lunch meat and chips for everyone, so that's what I did. Five turkey-and-swiss sandwiches later, we were packed and ready to go. I dropped Jonathan and his friend off at the river, then whisked my other three sweethearts to the park. Wow. I actually stopped thinking about my book. I enjoyed my sandwich. I got all brave and took some pictures with the D70 (no small feat, I assure you). I....relaxed! I'm really not a "Type A" personality. Frenetic, yes. Passionate, yes. But I'm not all about achieving and winning and running till I drop. My family is truly the most important thing in my life; I'm madly in love with each member. Yet when it comes to this self-imposed deadline for the revisions of my manuscript, the thought of doing anything besides writing in the afternoons is enough to bring on a serious case of hives. But I did it -- I broke away. And my children blessed me with their smiles and thankful hearts. Now I'm back in my little hole under the eaves, ready to revise away. Funny how refreshed I feel. Funny how a little bit of sunshine and fresh air invigorates the soul. Funny how I'll probably forget all that the next time one of my children surprises me with a request for a day in the park. Still, I'm learning. That's what counts, right? Right. And I didn't even scream when a yellowjacket dive-bombed me in the middle of a bite of sandwich. Jumped up, yes, but didn't scream. That's some serious self-control, that is. Have a remarkable weekend! And remember to just stop for a while. You'll be so glad you did! Labels: writing Wednesday, September 13, 2006In-House EditorThat would be Eric. And I don't even pay him. I mean, how many husbands would spend an entire evening reading six chapters of wifey's latest manuscript, making notes in the margins along the way? I've sneered at my husband over the years for his non-reading status. This is a man who has watched Lord of the Rings, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, and Nicholas Nickleby without having read any of the books first. It's enough to make my skin crawl. But oh, he has redeemed himself, and I have been humbled. The guy is darn good at picking out dorky dialogue or overdone exposition. Not only that, but he's entertaining, too. He had me belly laughing at 10:30 last night (which is past my bedtime). There's nothing like listening to a husband's characterization of bad dialogue over a glass of wine. It's a good thing I'm dedicating this novel to him. He definitely deserves top billing. Time to get cracking. I've got some dorky dialogue to rewrite and a few weak words to replace. Thanks, Sweetie! Labels: writing Monday, September 11, 2006Feast and MerrimentThat's what was promised on the wedding invitation I received in the mail today. Seriously: "Feast and merriment to follow ceremony." Feast and merriment? Is it me, or is that some sort of Renaissance throw-back? As far as I know, this wedding is taking place in the twenty-first century. If I'm wrong -- if there's actually going to be a shift in the space-time continuum -- then I guess I can expect revelry, jousting, and four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie as well. Feast and merriment indeed! And this from a woman who is regularly teased by her husband for using archaic terms. What can I say? I'm passionate about Tudor England and I read a lot of fantasy. Sometimes it bleeds through a bit. In college, I made the mistake of reading a journal entry to a dear friend of mine. Everything was dandy until I got to the line, "Why must this woe be mine?" "Wait. Why must this woe be mine?" my friend interrupted. Then she waxed theatrical: "Oh! WHY be this woe MINE?" For the rest of our days as college pals, I was regularly reminded of my dramatic words. "Why-be-this-woe-mine" became standard Teasing Jill fare. You'd think that "feast and merriment" wouldn't cause me to bat an eye. Except that the groom in question is a mild mannered, meat-and-potatoes, sports-loving guy, and his fiance is a no-nonsense business woman. I just don't think of "feast and merriment" when I think of the two of them. Eric's going to have to fork over some funds for my Feast and Merriment Wardrobe. You know the thing -- cloth of gold, onyx pendant, stiff lace collar, lots of pearls. Yeah, a dress off a clearance rack at Macy's would work, too. Singing hey nonny, hey nonny nonny oh..... Friday, September 08, 2006Walk Like An Egyptian
 On Wednesday, Eric and I took the chickens to see Egypt: The Quest For Immortality at The Frist Center for the Visual Arts in Nashville.Whew. That was a mouthful. The Frist Center's a great deal, really. All children under the age of eighteen are free. That's a cost effective field trip for a homeschooling family of six. Honestly? I was disappointed. The exhibit was well done, complete with press-the-button headsets that babbled interesting (or not so interesting) tidbits in one's ear, and cool Egyptian Mood Lighting in most of the rooms. But what I really wanted to see was a mummy. You know -- a "live" mummy, with bits of dried flesh and exposed teeth peeking from beneath crumbling linen wraps. I've studied Ancient Egypt with three of my children so far, and I can tell you just about anything you'd like to know about mummification. So after putting my time in with the books, I wanted to see a mummy in the flesh (or whatever's left of the flesh). I figured they were saving the "mummy room" for last, and I was right. The problem with the "mummy room" is that it was conspicuous in its lack of mummy. Unless you count the mummified cat in one of the side cases. There was a glorious coffin with its lid suspended about eight inches from its top, and lying inside was a wrapped-up something-or-other that you could barely see. It looked like tobacco leaves swathed in beige nylon. That, for all intents and purposes, was the "mummy." I don't even know if it was real or not. I was bummed. There was a cool video playing in the corner -- something about CT scans on a mummified four-year-old Egyptian girl. On the far wall there was a display of fairly interesting X-rays. But you know what? I can look that stuff up on the Internet and gaze to my heart's content. I also learned something interesting about myself during my tour. I need to touch things. There I was in the presence of three-thousand-year-old statues and necklaces and canopic jars, and I felt like I wasn't actually seeing them...because I couldn't touch them. Well, I could have touched one or two, since many of them had no barriers and nothing was roped off. But I have this thing about not breaking rules. So I didn't touch. And I felt robbed. The hieroglyphics were the hardest to resist. I wanted to run my finger over the intricately carved shapes. I wanted to FEEL them. Looking at them just didn't bring them to life for me. It was a weird revelation. I had no idea I was so...tactile. So yeah, I did the Homeschooling Thing and brought my children into contact with Real Egyptian Artifacts. Spencer, who at seven was technically "too young" for the exhibit, absolutely loved it. He broke my heart in the "tomb room" when he couldn't find the next spot to move to, according to the directions coming from his headphones. With teary eyes, he came up to me and said, "I can't find Hour Four..." So I gently guided him to the proper section of the wall and pointed out the Big Snake that the recorded voice was expounding on just then. Spencer's eyes lit up and he became immediately re-engaged. I still can't believe how thoroughly he enjoyed it. He obviously didn't miss the mummy. Then again, he's the only one who hasn't studied Ancient Egypt yet. There you have it. I'm obviously not the Museum Type. Either that, or my suspicions about Nashville are correct (it's not a "real" city, and its "cultural" centers are akin to B movies). Ouch. Guess I really hate Nashville. Still...there was a time when the Frist Center didn't exist (it's housed in the old Post Office building on Broadway). Maybe ten years from now they'll get a real mummy when the Egyptian Exhibit comes to town. Sigh. Thursday, September 07, 2006Air FernThere we were, having our morning coffee on the screened-in porch, and Eric began to wax affectionate over his plants...again. "I love that fern," he said oozily, gesturing to a frothy plant on the nearby table. "Look, it's got a new frond. I love when the new fronds come out, all fresh..." Okay. I think it's great that Eric has filled the screened-in porch with lovely greenery. He even remembers to water it on a regular basis. But let's face it; plant talk is neither romantic nor remotely interesting. I needed to infuse some new life into the conversation. "When I was little, we had an air fern." "An...air fern?" It's hard to describe Eric's expression. "Well, yeah," I said. "It was this little green fern in a glass container, and it didn't have any water or dirt in it. My mom kept it in the downstairs bathroom." I recognized the strange twitching on Eric's face; he was getting ready to laugh. Hard. "Eric, I remember it! It was an air fern. Because it lived in the air! No, really. Google it! Just type 'air fern' in parenthesis." Eric needed no persuading. He grabbed his laptop (which almost always enjoys coffee time with us) and did a search for my oh-so-funny air fern. I just knew I would be vindicated. Especially when pages and pages of entries came up. Eric clicked on the second entry and we both watched the screen to see what wondrous truth would be revealed about air ferns. (Actually, I was waiting for the wondrous truth. Eric was sure that he would find proof that I had just uncovered yet another idiotic tidbit from my childhood.) There it was, right before our eyes: Don't hold your breath waiting for your "air fern" to grow. You may turn blue in the face. The air fern, which is billed in stores and some garden centers as a plant that needs no water or fertilizer, is actually the skeletal remains of a tiny sea animal called Sertularia, a distant relative of coral. The skeletons look like ferns and have extremely fine foliage. In stores they are also sold as "air plants" and "air moss". The skeletons are collected by ships which dredge for them along coastal areas in the estuaries of streams and rivers. They are then treated with chemicals and dyed green. If you have an air fern, don't water or fertilize it -- this exercise will be similar to trying to feed a corpse. And even worse, the water removes the dye and bleaches the stems. (excerpted from Plantanswers.tamu.edu) Oh. My. Freaking. Gosh. I have spent my entire life believing that the feathery green thing in our downstairs bathroom during the late seventies was a real plant that didn't need to be...planted. I remember marveling at it while I sat on the toilet. I remember feeling amazed at how lightweight and vibrantly green it was. All that time, I'd been admiring a super-dyed sea skeleton. Naturally, Eric about peed himself as he read the sorry truth about my air fern. I was stunned -- deflated -- indignant. What is it about growing up in a small town in the Northeast that lends itself to this sort of thing? I honestly can't see my own children falling for something like this (with the possible exception of Spencer, who lives in a world so thick with imagination that it's hard to sort him out sometimes). I can see it now -- my mother will say, "What air fern? I don't remember an air fern. That's dumb!" And my sister will say, "Jill, that wasn't a real plant. You thought that was a real plant?" Then Eric's belief that I am truly the village idiot will have its final proof. Monday, September 04, 2006I'm Stunned By This TragedySteve Irwin, beloved and wacky crocodile hugger, was killed in a freak accident. Read about it here. My admiration for this man, who lived his passion to a degree not often seen, is matched by the depth of my sorrow for this loss. He leaves behind a wife and two young children. I can't believe he's gone. It shouldn't have happened. The man has wrestled crocodiles and mingled with venom-spitting snakes. He's handled all manner of fascinating-yet-dangerous animals, yet his death was brought about by one of the most docile creatures in the sea. Ironic, yes. And deeply tragic. I'm very sad today. Friday, September 01, 2006Jane Austen Didn't Have Air ConditioningAnd neither do I. The unit on our third story died three days ago. "Hot" doesn't begin to describe the state of my office. Today it's more bearable, but still enough to lull me into an irritable drowsiness that is not conducive to getting through my painstaking editing process. At least I'm not wearing pantaloons, woolen stockings, and a corset. And my word processor is much more convenient than ink-and-pen. But....I'm not happy. Oh, Miss Austen. I have always admired you. But now I am convinced that you did all of your writing in the fall and winter. Ugh. Labels: writing |
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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