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Wednesday, May 30, 2007In a Perfect World.......I'd be finishing my first draft of "Book Two," since now's the time to get it done without the added responsibility of a newborn in the house (not to mention the subtracted sleep). In the real world, I haven't been sleeping all that well and I can't write when my brain has congealed into a fur-lined mass. Really, I can't. I just stare. ...I'd be writing lists of Things To Pack For The Shore, since lists are a great way of reducing the stress of trying to remember what to bring. In the real world, everything is swimming around in my head while I noncommittally check them off, one by one. Am I stressed about it? Not yet. Not yet... ...I'd remember to faithfully do my 200 Kegel exercises every day in preparation for natural childbirth. In the real world, I'm lucky to get in 50 or 60, because I can't seem to remember and...well, I hate them. And I can't do them while I'm typing. I'm just not that coordinated. (I know this because I just tried.) ...I'd stop worrying about gaining too much weight. Everyone tells me I look great, and everyone knows you should never "diet" during pregnancy. But the weight gain is the one (and probably only) part of pregnancy that makes me break out in hives. In the real world, I'm obsessing over it. ...I'd have gone to see At World's End on opening night, like the rest of the Pirates fanatics in this country. In the real world, Eric only just got back from a week out of town that night, and I'll be seeing the movie this weekend instead. Stay tuned for my next Jack Sparrow emote-fest. And now, it's back to trying to balance my perfect world with my real one. Wish me luck... Monday, May 28, 2007Every Little Girl Needs a Prince Charming
 I wish you could see the love affair in action. For as much as I love my own daddy, I can honestly say that our relationship was never like the one that Eric and Maggie have. Theirs is a beautiful example of what God had in mind when he gave little girls to daddies, and daddies to little girls. Maggie was invited to a birthday sleepover party last Friday. These are her best buddies -- her ballet counterparts. But Maggie had another priority in mind. For you see, her daddy was due to come home after having been out of town all week long. She couldn't bear the thought of not spending time with him that night. So she worked out a plan with her friends. She'd meet them at 5:30 for the swimming part of the party -- and then she'd come home. Because nothing -- no, nothing -- was more important to her than snuggling on the screened-in porch with her beloved daddy. And you know what? That's just the way it should be. Childhood is fleeting, life is precious. And one day, way too soon, Maggie's heart will belong to a new Prince Charming, who will love her and cherish her just the way she needs to be loved and cherished. Because her daddy has taught her what it means to be loved and cherished. And she'll never settle for anything less. Friday, May 25, 2007Flip Flops on a Pregnant Body......aren't a good idea. Eric's been out of town all week, and he's coming home in a few hours. (Joy! Delight! My sweetheart! Someone to stack the dishwasher!) The girls and I had some errands to run this morning. "This morning" stretched to almost 1:30, and I'm exhausted. I blame the flip flops. Who can resist the appealing 2-pairs-for-5-dollars flip flops in a veritable rainbow of colors at Old Navy? Not I. So I bought them (last summer) and I wear them. A lot. I'm paying for it. Naturally the "errands" took longer than anticipated. I should have known, really. Our first stop was Kohl's, so that Maggie could use her birthday gift cards to update her wardrobe. Do you really want to know the tedium of shopping-in-the-juniors-department-for-just-the-right-something? I didn't think so. Next stop: Toys R Us. Definitely on my "Top Ten" list for "Places not very far removed from hell itself." Then, on to Wild Oats, where we were rewarded with huge half-cookies in the sample container. We're talking huge! Cookie samples are usually the size of half my pinkie. These were Wild Oats mongo-cookies, cut in half. Among the three of us, we ate five dollars' worth of free cookies. Wild Oats was a must-stop, though, because I had to buy dried cranberries that didn't have crap added to them. Eric, of course, needs a nice, home-cooked dinner tonight, and as luck would have it, Cheryl Klein posted a wonderful recipe for Curried Couscous Salad With Dried Cranberries on her blog this morning. You should see it, resting in its glass bowl in the fridge. It's an incredibly beautiful salad. And Eric adores curry. Our last stop was Publix, and by then I was absolutely languishing, despite the organic hummus I snarfed whilst driving. And now I can hardly keep my eyes open. That, and my feet hurt. And when my feet hurt, all of me hurts. It's the dang flip flops. I need to talk Eric into buying me a pair of Birkenstocks, don't you think? Especially after I've gone through all the trouble of making him the couscous salad. So I'm off to take a little snooze. Eric won't appreciate being greeted at the back door by a pregnant zombie. Have an awesome weekend (Memorial or otherwise)! Labels: life; pregnancy Thursday, May 24, 2007Cream and Sugar With Your Fertilizer?This is one of those I-just-have-to-comment moments in my life. For the past several days, one of the houses in our neighborhood has been undergoing a huge front yard upheaval. I wasn't really sure if they were having plumbing problems, getting a sprinkling system installed, or if digging up their lawn was a therapeutic thing for them. This morning, I finally saw some progress, and realized that it was actually a landscaping rehaul and not some sort of subterranean disaster. The guys who have been doing all this grunt work are burly, sweaty dudes with bandannas, most of Mexican descent. They're very...well, masculine and sweaty. You know. Yard Guys. So imagine my amusement when, this morning, I drove by the work site and noticed the sign displayed on the edge of the property: "Teacup Landscaping." Teacup? Now, if you were a burly, muscular guy who wanted to make his living doing hard work out-of-doors, would you want to be hired by a company called "Teacup Landscaping?" I'm thinking it's a language problem. Somebody told these guys that "teacup" means "biceps." Or something. Not that "Teacup Landscaping" is a particularly clever name for a landscaping company at any rate -- unless the entire staff consisted of Southern Belles wearing yellow frocks and sipping fruit tea while digging the garden beds. I'd personally feel more confident hiring a company called "Forever Green" or "Lush and Lovely" or even "Gardens R Us." Teacup Landscaping. I'm still not over it. Labels: life Wednesday, May 23, 2007Summoned!The envelope was fat and addressed to me. When I saw that the return address said, "Williamson County Sheriff's Department," I freaked. Not that I have issues with the law or anything (well, maybe just an undying fear of doing something wrong). It's just that I couldn't imagine what could be inside this fat envelope from the county sheriff. It was a summons for jury duty. Well, ducky. I've never been called for duty in my life. My first instinct was to groan audibly (which I did). My second instinct was to read every single word on every single page of the fat wad of documents in my hand. And it occurred to me that it really wasn't that bad. Instead of showing up on the July 2 court date, I was given the option of dropping by the clerk's office any time prior to June 27, and I'd be able to choose the panel dates that were most convenient to me. Guess where I went this morning? I felt like such a townie. I mean, I spend a lot of time in downtown Franklin -- our whole family does. The judiciary building is right across the street from Merridee's, one of our breakfast haunts. It wasn't a great struggle to drive down there this morning, park my van, and hop up the imposing, cement steps. Of course, I had to put my bag through an airport-like security thingie in order to enter the building. That was a little weird. But once I was inside, choosing my session dates took all of three minutes. It's nice, because I basically have to be available for six dates in early July. A simple phone call the night before each session will let me know whether I actually have to show up the next day. It's kind of like being "on call" for a panel session. I might have to go, I might not. It'll be a lot more interesting if I actually get to do something...but it'll be a lot less stressful if I don't. So. I've done my Jane Citizen thing for the day. When I came home, I sketched out a little picture of a courtroom and explained to my children exactly what it was I'd been "summoned" to. (Let's face it -- "summoned" is an ominous word.) I think I amazed myself with my knowledge of how a courtroom works. Rachel had been particularly apprehensive, and my explanation (and cute little drawing) seemed to put her at ease. And I figure, if I get really bored or really annoyed while I'm at the courthouse, I can just pretend that I'm going into labor. They'll usher me out of there faster than you can say "bag of waters." Pregnancy has its hidden perks. Labels: life Monday, May 21, 2007Toes and TutusAnd once again I am awed by the grace and beauty of my daughters. The performance was a shortened, narrated version of The Sleeping Beauty. The first half of the show was a collection of pieces from the Modern, Jazz, and Hip Hop classes. Maggie is a student in Modern I. And both Maggie and Rachel danced in The Sleeping Beauty. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.      Saturday, May 19, 2007Oh No!!!!!Miss Snark is retiring. I'm at a loss for words. Wednesday, May 16, 2007Book PollOkay, as a young adult writer, I've often got questions burning on my brain, and now you'll be privy to some. Please take a moment and post your answers in the comment box -- I'm seriously interested in reading them! 1. If you have children, work with children, or enjoy reading young adult novels -- who are you favorite authors and why? 2. How do you feel about today's trend of more "sex and stuff" in novels labeled "young adult?" 3. What do you feel differentiates between an "adult" and a "young adult" novel? 4. What kind of stories do you feel most comfortable allowing your children (or students) to read and why? 5. It has often been said that fantasy is an excellent genre for encouraging the "reluctant reader" to READ. Do you agree or disagree? Labels: books Monday, May 14, 2007Tender HeartA couple of weeks ago, Jonathan caught a toad. This isn't anything new around here. What's cool about it this time is that he caught the toad specifically for Maggie. So the latest addition to our ever-expanding family is the cute-n-spotted Bufo (which is Latin for "toad," in case you were wondering). When he presented us with Bufo at the "fishin' hole," Jonathan informed me that there were rows and rows of toad eggs right near the spot where Bufo had been...ur, kidnapped. It was fairly clear that Bufo was on "daddy duty," guarding these wee egglets from natural predators. It bothered me that Jonathan had stolen a toad who had such an obvious duty in life -- protecting his offspring. Still, Jonathan was so sweet to think of his sister. I didn't want to sound like some sort of wacky, I-love-the-animals sort, so I bit my tongue. Later that day, Jonathan arrived home with a large plastic bag. Inside the bag were rows and rows of toad eggs. Bufo's babies, if you will. "There was a snake skin floating in the water right near the eggs," Jonathan said. "I couldn't just let Bufo's eggs there." Oh my goodness. My son, Savior of Baby Toads. So now there's a plastic container on our front porch, complete with water, algae, rocks, air pump, and hundreds of week-or-so-old tadpoles. Bufo's private nursery service (of which he is blissfully unaware). The plan? Raise the tadpoles until they start growing legs and breathing oxygen, and then release them back to the wild as microtoads. And yes, they really do start out as microtoads. I've seen them. They are the tiniest, most perfectly formed little creatures I've ever laid eyes on. Unfortunately, they're hard to care for at home, so our previous experiences with microtoads have always ended tragically. Not this time. Bufo's babies are going to have a chance at Grown-up Toad Life on the banks of the Harpeth River. And that's the most recent outpouring of Jonathan's tender heart. He may not see it that way; in his pragmatism, I'm sure he sees it as "what I had to do." But I see more. I see a young man who cares enough about something small and helpless to go the extra mile. I see a young man giving back to the nature he loves so dearly. And I see a young man who is developing his daddy's heart more and more every day -- even through the care of tiny, orphaned tadpoles. I don't even wrinkle my nose when I look at the tadpoles. I love them. They signify so much that is beautiful and noble and endearing about my firstborn son. I've definitely evolved in my role as Mother To Male Children. And that's a good thing. I love you, my Jonathan. Friday, May 11, 2007Friday's Happy ListHave I mentioned I don't deal with stress well? I tend to internalize it. We have a lot going on this month, and it all tends to rattle around inside my head without my realizing it. But it's Friday afternoon and I've got lots of "crossed off stuff" to be happy about. So let's kick off the weekend with a Happy List: 1. Remember those stupid gemstones? Maggie and I just finished gluing them onto her tutu -- all 160 of them. She and her friend orchestrated a let's-get-our-moms-together gluing party, so the four of us sat at my kitchen table and...glued. And you know what? It was fun. Misery loves company, I suppose. 2. One birthday down, one to go. Maggie turned thirteen on Wednesday (how can it be so??), and I'm convinced that she felt like a princess all day, as well she should. Jonathan's birthday is on the 29th, which makes May feel like the Month of Birthdays. Fortunately we're not the throw-a-party-for-three-dozen-kids type, and our birthdays are special, intimate family days. 3. AND I didn't even have to bake a cake. Maggie decided she preferred an already-made, all-natural cake from Wild Oats instead. Vanilla with lemon filling and white chocolate curls. Delightful. Especially the no-baking part. 4. I'm 23 weeks pregnant and still haven't gained 20 pounds. Almost, but not quite. I'm all for healthy weight gain during pregnancy, but the last thing I need is extra blubber to get rid of after the baby's born. So yeah, I'm happy about this. 5. Jonathan's spring drum performances are over. He was -- fabulous. More on Monday. 6. I slept well for the past three nights in a row. It may have something to do with the 80 pelvic rocks I do before bedtime (it's a natural childbirth thing), and it definitely has something to do with the fact that Rachel's been praying for me. Guess she got tired of Ogre Mama lurking about. 7. Miss Snark chose my haiku as one that "made her laugh" in her recent writing contest. Mine's number 25. Not earth shattering news, but making Miss Snark laugh is almost as rewarding as...well, I'm not sure I can come up with a comparison there. Suffice it to say that I'm pleased. Would that publishing one's novel were so easy. 8. My husband just emailed me and said he's taking me out to dinner. And that's about the best thing I could end this post with. Happy Weekend! Labels: life Wednesday, May 09, 2007The Invisible "Said"Time for a Writer's Rant. Recently, Nathan Bransford, whom I admire and whose blog I adore, blogged about the use of the word said when writing dialogue. He offered two examples of dialogue -- one that used the word "said" repeatedly and one that used "said replacements" instead. Then he asked his readers which one they preferred. I didn't like either one of them. (Sorry, Nathan.) Now, if forced to choose between the two, I'd go with the string of "saids," hands down. In my opinion, using "said replacements" is a sure sign of the amateur writer. Or maybe it's just bad writing, period. So allow me to offer my own examples of good tags/bad tags in dialogue, and to invite my reading and writing readers (yikes) to offer comments and opinions: Example One: Use of Repeated "Said:" "What's going on?" Nathan said. "Nothing," Genevieve said. "It looks like more than nothing to me," he said. "That's your opinion," she said. "It's a fact," he said. "It sounds like you don't trust me," she said. "I don't," he said. Example Two: Use of Ridiculous "Said Replacements:" "What's going on?" Nathan asked. "Nothing," Genevieve hissed. "It looks like more than nothing to me," he replied. "That's your opinion," she retorted. "It's a fact," he stated. "It sounds like you don't trust me," she accused. "I don't," he spat. So. If asked to choose between the above examples, which one flips your cookie? Hard call? Well, what if I offer a third choice -- a choice with limited use of "said," no ridiculous replacements, and a little bit of action in between the dialogue? (Disclaimer: I'm writing these examples off the cuff. This is not deathless prose.) "What's going on?" Nathan said. "Nothing." Genevieve looked away. "It looks like more than nothing to me." "That's your opinion." "It's a fact," Nathan said, his voice rising. Genevieve's eyes snapped back into focus. "It sounds like you don't trust me." "I don't." Anyway, there you have it. No "he said, she said" in an endless string, and no strained verbs posing as "said." Not a perfectly written example, but you get my drift. Having said all that, I do believe there's a time and a place for a well chosen "said replacement" verb now and again. Sometimes our character may actually have to "whisper" or "shout," or he might even "bellow" or "cry." But he'd better not be doing these things on every page. "Said" is, ultimately, the perfect "invisible" word -- meaning, of course, that readers don't really see it while they're reading. (Unless, of, course, there's an entire string of "said" similar to my first example.) The replacement verbs are far more intrusive, distracting. So they should be used sparingly. Like exotic spices or expensive perfume. A little dab'll do ya. Rant over. "Please feel free to leave insightful comments," she declared! Labels: writing Monday, May 07, 2007I Just Don't Wanna Do ItI've always been a devoted ballet mom. You all know this because I've waxed poetic about my daughters' dancing and my burning passion and support for it in the past (hopefully not ad nauseum). But I've snapped. You crafty types won't understand, but what I've been asked to do this time is so outside of my natural ability and temperament that I'm seriously unable to approach it without severe angst and resentment. I have to glue one hundred gemstones onto Maggie's tutu. No, really, that's it. One hundred gemstones. A mere drop in the bucket for seasoned seamstresses and costume-makers, but for me? Chinese water torture. Unfair and inhumane treatment. Just plain Wrong. Because I. Don't. Glue. Things. Not even when they break. Not even when it would only take a second. I've had the dang gemstones for over a week. The dress rehearsal is on May 17. And I haven't glued a single thing. Not one. Everything in me writhes whenever I think about it. I look at my daughter's beautiful costume, all smashed inside its plastic bag like so much commercial cotton candy, and I snarl. I seriously can't get over my anti-glue hurdle, and I'm running out of time. "It will make a wonderful mother-daughter activity!" the Ballet Mom In Charge piped. I have a better idea -- how about a wonderful daughter-and-her-sister activity? Because even if I sit down with Maggie and make her help me with the glue job, the fact remains that I still have to sit there and glue the other half, not to mention run out and buy a bottle of tacky glue in the first place -- yeah, the stuff that folks who actually know how to make things buy. "What really works," said the lady at the dance store the other day, "is a toothpick. You just put the tiniest dab of glue on the end of the toothpick and it will be just enough to hold the gemstone on the fabric." Lady, that's well and good, but I don't do tiny dabs of anything on the end of a toothpick. Unless it's a particularly delicate hors d'oeuvre making its way to my mouth. This is killing me. I'd rather clean the urinals in a public bathroom. For no pay. Please don't give me any advice on how to do this stupid project. If you really love me, send me a self-addressed, stamped envelope via private courier, and I will send you the tutu and the cursed gemstones, and you can do the gluing for me. I will be forever in your debt. I'll even send you a free ticket to the performance. I know. All for the sake of art. They're doing a scaled-down version of Sleeping Beauty after all, and my very small contribution pales in comparison to the amount of work that others are putting in. Still. I think that moms who are required to glue things should get a discount on the monthly tuition. Or at least a box of chocolate at the end of the season. A very large box. Okay, I'm done. For now. Friday, May 04, 2007Why Does This Frighten Me?I needed to run a quick errand after lunch today, so I hopped into the van and turned the key. The day was a bit on the cloudy side, so I decided I'd better use my headlights. And I couldn't remember how to turn them on. This wasn't one of those momentary lapses that resolves itself in a matter of seconds. No. I sat there, completely bewildered and unable to remember where the correct lever was. I tried one of them -- and the windshield wipers started to move. That's when I got really scared. To be fair, I had just spent a couple of days driving Eric's BMW. The van was in the shop (soaking up over a thousand dollars worth of repairs, which is enough to make anyone have a momentary brain lapse, I'll warrant). And of course the BMW's headlight switch is completely different than our (dying) Sienna's. And yes, I did look on the dashboard at the spot where the BMW's switch sits, fully aware that I was thinking of the wrong vehicle. And I still couldn't remember how to turn the headlights on. "Don't worry about it," I said out loud (one of my self-calming mechanisms). I started to back out of the garage, sans headlights, and told myself that things would "click" for me once I was actually in motion. They didn't "click." I was sitting in my van on the driveway on a cloudy day, and I still couldn't remember how to turn the headlights on. I've been driving this van for almost a decade. If it weren't imperative that I actually look out the windshield to see where I'm going, I'm sure I could drive it blindfolded. Yet today, for a terrifying two to three minutes, I could not figure out how to turn the headlights on. This was way beyond the typical "pregnancy brain" I've experienced during all five of my baby-currently-in-womb states. Yes, I finally figured it out. But I had to literally sit there and eyeball the entire dashboard until my eyes rested on the elusive handle to the left of the steering wheel -- the one with the little drawing of a headlight on it (put there for morons who have trouble figuring out how to work the headlights). Someone help me. During my first pregnancy, I had a piano student to whom I not-so-affectionately referred as "The Geek." Her lessons were always on the same evening at the same time. During one of these same-evening-same-times, I was in the middle of a grocery store with Eric, doing the weekly shopping. I suddenly stopped and gasped and exclaimed, "Oh my gosh! I'm supposed to be giving The Geek her lesson right now!" The Geek's mom was gracious and kind and insisted that she had had similar "pregnancy moments" like that. She even showed up on my doorstep, Geek in tow, a couple of weeks after Jonathan's birth, with a gift for the new baby. Somehow, though, today's headlight incident feels like it's in a different category. We're talking really frightening. I mean, can I really blame those innocent hormones for this incident? Well, okay. I can. In fact, I will. Yep -- it was the hormones. They started to surge the moment I turned the van on. And for the next three minutes, they blunted my brain function to the point where I couldn't remember how to turn on the headlights. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. And I'm not driving anywhere else today, either. Wednesday, May 02, 2007The Stuff That StinksWriting -- the actual stories, that is -- is cathartic. It's also freeing, engrossing, passionate, deeply fulfilling. All these things and more. You who also write are nodding your heads in psychotic agreement. Seeking publication -- the actual selling of one's manuscript -- is exhausting. It's also -- well, I won't go there. Suffice it to say that, if one isn't careful, one's writing energy will be completely sucked dry by the energy put into the "business side" of things. There are two paths from which to choose: seek an agent, or go directly to the publishers of your choice. Mind you, the second option is wrought with stumbling blocks, such as bold-faced declarations on the web sites of major publishers that state, "We do not accept unagented submissions." Right. As though finding an agent isn't going to be equally insurmountable. Well, almost. Thing is, if you're smart, you'll do your behind-the-scenes homework and discover the names of all the editors who happily accept unagented queries. But again, it's time-consuming. I can spend an afternoon writing, or I can spend an afternoon researching children's publishers, but I can't do both. In truth, though, the majority of serious writers (with the possible exception of those who write picture books) do seek the representation of a literary agent, who can then take care of all that brain-melting business stuff while the writer continues to...write. Sounds good, doesn't it? Except that one must also factor in the huge percentage of rejections that pass one's portal, be it the mailbox by the curb or the ever-so-fickle email program. Have I mentioned that this process is exhausting? Not to discourage you aspiring writers. You just need to be prepared for the long haul. You know -- rejection, disappointment, endless waiting. If you can handle all that, you've already succeeded in a huge way. Want to know what makes it worse, though? Really stinky business practices that sometimes feel like the nail in the proverbial coffin. Things like: * Agents who say that they accept queries by email, but that they will only respond if they are interested in reading more of your work. Know why this stinks? Because you have no way of knowing what the particular agent's turn-around time is, which can really tie your hands. For instance, it's completely non-Kosher to query two agents at the same agency simultaneously. So if you've queried Agent Purple, who only responds if she's interested, and your next choice is Agent Green, when can you safely say that you've been "rejected by omission" by Agent Purple? You can't. It's a guessing game. And frankly, it's not fair. A simple, form "not right for me" is adequate, and, in my opinion, not too much to ask. * Agents who insist on addressing their rejection letters "Dear Writer." In this age of instant mail merge, how difficult is it to thwack someone's name in after the "Dear?" It's common courtesy. Yet even some of the "top notch" agents out there don't bother with this simple nicety. Frankly, I'd rather receive an email with no salutation at all. "Dear Writer" or "Dear Author" is fairly dehumanizing. And this after one has so carefully checked and double-checked the spelling of the agent's name. Tisk, tisk. * Agents who reject a requested manuscript with a photocopied form letter. Yes, it happens. You might think that, by the time you've actually gotten someone's attention to the point where they want to read the whole story, they'd at least be on a "Mr. or Ms. So-and-so" level when it comes time for them to say "no thanks." After all, the agent requested the work and you spent a chunk of change mailing it (manuscripts aren't light). But be warned -- just because someone personally requested your manuscript doesn't mean they'll ever call you by your name. So there you have it -- an idea of the kinds of things that will drive you to distraction if you let them. Ah, but there's the key -- if you let them. The tougher your skin, the farther you'll go. The tougher your skin, the more likely you are to land an agent, provided your manuscript is as strong as your skin. Are you with me? So, yeah, this kind of stuff makes me want to scream nasty things at nobody in particular. But I don't. And you mustn't, either. In the end, it's all about the right query letter in the right person's hand at the right time (in the second phase of the blue moon in the northern hemisphere during a distant tsunami while the stars are aligned with the stock market and the Yen is falling). Whew! I feel a little better now. I think I'll go write some more. 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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