The Write Way Home

Sunday, November 09, 2008

Author-in-the-Making

I'm already pleased as pudding that nine-year-old Spencer is happily reading Tolkien's Lord of the Rings.

Imagine my delight when, the other day, Spencer looked up from the pages of The Two Towers and said, "I'm not only reading this because I like it. I'm reading this because it's teaching me how to write well."

I was...floored. Because, honestly, I didn't teach him that. I believe it with my whole heart, of course. Every fledgling writer who asks me what they should do to improve their writing ("College degree? Grammar courses? A new Macbook?") receives the same answer: "Read good books."

It's true, you know. You will only write as well as you read. And somehow, my son instinctively picked up on this.

An author/homeschooling mama's dream child.

Well, most days.

Labels: homeschooling, life, writing

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Reason Number Thirty

I've got a great addition to my 29 reasons for having a baby (and being a writer) after 40: My chances of living to the age of 100 have quadrupled.

I know this because my wonderful mother (who isn't anywhere near 100) just sent me a small article that contained this wondrous bit of news. Men who sire children -- particularly those men who start raising families from a young age -- are also prime candidates for hitting the Five Score club.

In which case, Eric and I will both be driving each other nuts for a long, long time.

Missing from this article, however, are the reasons for this supposed longevity. Why would giving birth after the age of forty afford me all those extra years of wrinkly existence? Does it have something to do with waking up a sleeping uterus and fooling it into producing life-giving hormones beyond its normal capacity? Keeping my cardiovascular system up and running by matching pace with my own toddler right before matching pace with an onslaught of grandchildren?

Or might it be that women who give birth after the age of 40 have a compelling reason to continue to take the very best care of themselves -- for the sake of a tiny person who needs them?

I wonder.

But as long as I'm physically fit and my brain hasn't gone dotty, I wouldn't mind living another six decades. I'll be sure to see all five of my children married by then (since Eric will, of course, make all the girls wait until they're 40). And as long as Eric's not wearing diapers, I won't mind having him around, either.

He is my best friend, after all.

And an extra six decades might be just what I need to get my books published, at any rate. Who knew that having a later-life baby would give the publishing world yet another excuse to move at a rate that only exists outside of our space-time continuum?

Imagine. Fifty-eight more years of "The Write Way Home."

Anyway, thank you, Mom, for boosting my spirits today -- I needed that.

Labels: family, life, writing

Friday, February 29, 2008

It's Leap Day, After All...

And I suppose that's reason enough to blog. One can imagine the claptrap that's out and about today, though -- 29 of this, 29 of that, 29 forever. Ad nauseum.

So in an attempt to be slightly more creative (emphasis on "slightly"), I offer you the following list:

29 Reasons To Have A Baby And Pursue A Writing Career After Forty

1. Unless they stand too close, people will assume that I'm much younger and more energetic than I really am.

2. I have two built-in excuses for maintaining my mostly-hermit existence: "I'm nursing a baby" and "I'm a writer." If one of them doesn't cut it, I can fall back on the other.

3. Folks look at the baby in my arms instead of the gray at my roots.

4. Afternoon naptime is a perfect time for getting some writing done. Unless I'm the one who's asleep.

5. Two words: Older. Siblings. Two other words: Built-in. Babysitters.

6. When I'm not having a productive writing day, I can blame the baby.

7. When I'm not having a good mommy day, I can blame it on the writing.

8. Having a cleavage again after 40 is a boost to the feminine ego.

9. Except when nothing fits right. Which is a perfect excuse to buy new clothing.

10. Posting a picture of the baby counts as having blogged for the day.

11. People feel like they need to admire me. Which, though misguided, is their prerogative.

12. I don't feel quite so old when twenty-something puppies land big book deals.

13. I may actually have a picture book in print by the time my baby's old enough to read it.

14. And if that doesn't happen, I won't have to wait too much longer to read it to my grandkids.

15. When I shop at organic food stores, nobody thinks it's weird that I have a baby.

16. I have a husband who's mature enough to regularly help out with the baby. This time.

17. When the World of Publishing makes me feel like going sociopath, I can cuddle my baby instead. The World -- all of it -- goes away.

18. Spit-up working its way deep inside my keyboard is a viable excuse not to write on any given day.

19. Any moment now, a publisher is going to snatch me up as the next hot Amazing True Story Of My Life author.

20. I haven't gotten this much reading done since I nursed my last baby eight years ago.

21. I didn't have any taste in clothing until I was about 39 years old. Now I can shop at Old Navy and buy baby/mama matching clothes. And I'm old enough not to care if someone thinks it looks stupid. (No, really.)

22. We have one more dependent to claim. So I can continue not making a salary as a writer and still say I've contributed to the family income this year.

23. My dad has one more thing to brag about (he's already been bragging about my writing for years).

24. I can watch old family videos without crying about the days-gone-by. The whole diaper-drool-baby-laughter thing is still going on here.

25. I can share baby advice with Very Young New Mommies and they won't automatically assume that there's no way I could possibly remember what it was like when mine were little.

26. It doesn't matter if I smell like baby-stink. I can write in the privacy of my own office.

27. I have acquired a real "business voice," which I can flip into at a moment's notice. So I'll be ready when that Big Phone Call comes.

28. Unless I can't hear my cell phone ringing over the cries of a hungry baby.

29. In which case I will console myself with fine wine and organic chocolate, because I'm old enough to know that they're both good for me, and wise enough to find any excuse possible to ask for them -- like, being over 40, having a baby, and aspiring to be a widely read, beloved, pre-geriatric children's author.

Labels: baby, life, writing

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Seven Sentences

That's what I've written today.

I'm not complaining; I'm rejoicing. That's seven more sentences than I wrote yesterday. It's seven more sentences than I've written in a long time.

And I owe it to my thirteen-year-old daughter.

"You're going to write today, Tiny," she said. (Yes, she calls me "Tiny." It's short for "Tiny Mommy.")

"Oh, Sweetie, I can't. I can't write today."

"Yes, you can. And I'm going to open Google Talk while I'm writing, and we will send each other messages to encourage us while we're writing!"

I insisted that it wasn't possible. Why, I was behind on the laundry. There was too much to do between Molly's feedings. I simply couldn't write. It wasn't going to happen.

But that's been the story of my life lately, and my oh-so-clever daughter knows it. With wisdom beyond her years, she didn't press the issue. She didn't have to. Her words had already pierced my heart.

Had reminded me that I am, after all, a writer.

I am a writer! And writers...write. Right?

I didn't say a word. I crept up to my computer, opened my (dusty? crusty? moldy?) Word document, opened Google chat. Waited.

The chat box sprang to life moments later when Maggie discovered me. Her words?

TM!!! You good girl! I'm so proud of you!!

And you know, that's all I needed. Affirmation really does work both ways. Mother to daughter. Daughter to mother.

Writer to writer.

Thank you, sweet daughter, for the gift of seven sentences. When this chapter is finished, you'll be the first person to read it.

And when the novel is complete, you'll be the first person I'll thank.

Labels: family, writing

Monday, January 28, 2008

Luscious Language

Last night, I learned a new word.

Orgulous.

Read it. Speak it aloud. Let it roll off your tongue. Orgulous. Orgulous.

Delightful, isn't it? Granted, it's archaic. I doubt you'll hear it in conversation. I stumbled upon it while reading the forward to my Easton Press edition of Pride and Prejudice.

As a side note, no, I don't normally read forwards. It's just that I'd finished the novel, and, like a lover reluctant to part from her beloved, I didn't want to close the cover for untold months, until the next beck and call of my favorite author's masterpiece. So, in desperation, I turned to the forward, just to have a few more delicious pages to feel beneath my fingers.

That's where Lady Catherine de Burgh was aptly described as "orgulous." Readers of Pride and Prejudice -- or, at the very least, viewers of a decent movie rendition of the same (which immediately excludes the 2006 travesty) -- will be able to deduce the meaning of "orgulous." For those without the pleasure of Lady Catherine's acquaintance: orgulous means haughty. Proud.

But doesn't "orgulous" say it so much better? Doesn't the very onomatopoeia of the word spell it out with more depth, more flavor?

Orrrrrrrrgulous.

Why do the best words in our language die away?

Orgulous doctors. Orgulous college professors. Orgulous church ladies. Orgulous administrators. Orgulous female senators.

I could really start having some fun here.

Naturally, I won't dare to use this word in my writing. For one thing, nobody would know what I meant (except you, my dear readers). For another thing, Eric would ridicule me till the proverbial cows came home.

No, seriously. He still quotes some of my absolute-worst, edited-out-sentences from previous drafts. In this house, bad writing dies hard.

Orgulous of him, don't you think?

And that was my treat for the week. Slim pickings, perhaps. But in my book, a nice, juicy, not-oft-heard word goes a long way. Pun sort of intended.

Feel free to share your favorite, lip-smacking words!

Labels: books, writing

Monday, October 08, 2007

A Writer's True Reward

"Mommy," Spencer said in his Thoughtful Voice, "when your book is published, is it going to be like a real book with a cover?"

"Yes, it will."

"Well, when it's published, I want to read it."

"You do?" And my universe danced with glee. "Well, you don't have to wait until then. I can print my manuscript out for you to read. Would you like me to do that?"

His eyes lit up. "Really? Sure!"

That was about two weeks ago. Yesterday I finally got around to printing out a copy of my latest novel, a young adult fantasy near and dear to my heart. Knowing that Spencer would do better with something bound (visions of cascading paper and mixed-up pages set me on the right path), I dutifully printed the novel on both sides of the page (which takes forever) and punched holes with my trusty three-hole punch (that only accommodates three pages at a time) and stuck the punched story into a plastic binder (which didn't hold the whole thing, so I had to staple the remaining chapters together).

It was an administrative nightmare; it was a labor of love.

And I placed the makeshift book, title stuck on the front with blue scrapbooking letters, on Spencer's pillow.

When he discovered it, he ran pell-mell across the lawn (I was lounging in the hammock with a glass of Cabernet, well deserved after all that printing and punching), his face radiant, and threw his arms around me while expressing effusive thank-you's.

Wow.

Now, less than twenty-four hours later, my eight-year-old son has already read four chapters. And you know what? He loves it.

Spencer wears his heart on his sleeve. Actually, it's beyond that: he's downright blunt. If he didn't like my story, he'd tell me (unlike my daughters who, despite having their own strong opinions about things, are more likely to sugar-coat in order to spare my feelings).

But he loves it. It's already intrigued him (he asked me why I didn't call it a "mystery"). It's already made him laugh (my favorite character, no less). And the fourth chapter was proclaimed "awesome" just this morning.

Suddenly, my entire life-of-writing has snapped into perspective. There are others in whose hands my work currently sits. Their opinions "mean something" (i.e., they will or will not wish to pursue a professional relationship with me). Then there are those through whose hands my work has already passed, only to be ultimately passed over, each time for a completely different reason -- or no reason at all.

But every time my son mentions something new that he likes about my story, all the frustrations and rejections and endless bouts of silence fade away. Because I never began this journey to impress the Publishing World, though that wouldn't be a bad thing. I write because I have stories to tell; I write because I love children. I especially write because I love my children, and if they don't love my stories, it hardly matters if anyone else does.

Oh, the joy of capturing a child's imagination! The delight of watching a young person fall in love with my characters, my world. The satisfaction of watching that excitement for a story turn into inspiration to create a story of one's own. Which is exactly what Spencer has been doing.

That's right. He's writing. My eight-year-old is writing chapter books.

True, they're a little on the violent side. I'll make allowances for the testosterone coursing through his body. But you should hear the drama and expression when he reads them out loud to me.

A mama couldn't be prouder.

And so I write. Yes, being a published author, beloved by the children who read me, continues to be a burning desire. But when all is said and done (or written and done, as the case may be), there is no joy in writing like the one I'm experiencing right now.

My little boy loves my book. And today, that's all that matters.

Labels: parenting, writing

Friday, August 24, 2007

Writer On Hiatus

It's official. I am completely unable to pursue a single writing project, whether it be novel or children's book or following up on an agent's request. Honestly, I don't know how pregnant women in corporate America are able to work up to the last minute of their pregnancies. Nothing -- NOTHING -- matters to me more right now than birthing this baby.

Fortunately, my timing is perfect. The publishing industry is notoriously slow in August. My end-of-pregnancy stagnation fits well with the you-won't-hear-much-this-month coming from New York.

Not that I'm enjoying this. I thrive on being creative; I get a "writer's high" when I've had a productive day (you writers know exactly what I'm talking about). As it stands (or sits, really), the right side of my brain is at serious risk for atrophy. The left side, naturally, is thriving -- planning, calculating, administrating. Boring stuff in comparison, but vital to my current state of being.

So. Rather than drive myself insane by continually lamenting my non-productive state (while reveling in my reproductive state), I am making an official declaration of "I'm On Maternity Leave."

There -- I've said it. I'm on maternity leave! I don't have to finish the next chapter or re-work my rhyming children's book or touch base with anyone about anything.

I feel better already.

And as soon as Baby is here and we've had some time to rest and adjust and get the breastfeeding thing down to a fine art, I'll be back at my keyboard. Because I have, after all, a houseful of built-in babysitters. I have no intention of losing myself in a postpartum bog.

Having said all that, I'm off to pray for labor to JUST START ALREADY! May your weekend be joyful. Hopefully the next thing you'll read here is a birth announcement. If not -- well, I'll try not to be too grumpy about that.

Cheers!

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

A Page A Day

Sounds reasonable, doesn't it?

I'm thinking in terms of Baby's Due Date. Of course, the term "due date" is complete hogwash; nobody really knows when a baby is ready to make her entrance -- except Baby herself.

Still, I'm sequential enough that I need a date, so I'll continue to use September 5 to denote the Big Day.

Now, that's exactly six weeks away. If I were to write one page a day in my current WIP (Work In Progress), that's forty-two pages. That translates to roughly four or five chapters. Four or five more chapters before the baby comes! That would make me officially-just-about-exactly-halfway-finished with the first draft of this novel.

Wouldn't that be marvelous?

I could have my baby, rest a bit, and jump right back into a project that's already halfway finished.

Attainable? Yes. Realistic? Yes. Probable?

I'm not sure.

I do need to insert at this point of my hormonally disturbed narrative that Dear Eric, having read my last blog entry, rose to the challenge and finished painting the nursery last night. I might add that my last blog entry was the sole reason that he finished painting the nursery last night. So now I know exactly what to do with my Honey-Do lists in the future.

At any rate, that's one more pre-baby project completed, which gives me that much more peace. Which leads to more productivity and greater creative energy reserves (despite the killer flight of steps that I have to climb to get to my third story office).

The problem is that a-page-a-day doesn't take into account those times when the story just...stalls. I sit there staring at the character in question (yes, I can see them -- can't all authors?), trying to figure out exactly what he's going to do next, and why. Sometimes it's as clear as Caribbean waters, and other times it's a complete muddle. A-page-a-day doesn't take into account endless staring-at-the-screen sessions.

Still, a page isn't that much. If I curl up with my notebook and work out the kinks separately, then I think I can sit down with a fresh mind and get that daily page written.

I know I'll thank myself later.

Of course, there are other factors at play. There's my endless obsession with "checking for good news in my email box." I've got some promising coals in the fire right now and it's hard to put that aside and fully concentrate on my work. (Oh, for the day when I gladly hand over the business angst to a willing and devoted agent! There will be great rejoicing throughout Middle Tennessee and the World At Large...)

Then there's the ongoing Baby Prep. Sure, the walls in the nursery are finished. But now it's time to do the trim work and window sills. Then we have to pay off the crib, pick it up, and put it together. Then...well, you get the idea.

In short, we still have a lot to do. And we've got forty-two days or less in which to do them.

So. A page a day. Will you cheer me on? I'm terribly excited about the direction my new novel is taking, and it'll do me a world of good to immerse myself in its creation, rather than wringing my hands over what needs to be done before Baby Five's arrival.

Talk about the pressure of accountability. Okay, I'm at your mercy. Feel free to check up on me.

And I'm off to write my daily page.

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Thursday, July 12, 2007

My Very First Rejection Letter

It arrived a long time ago. I was eleven years old.

When I was in fourth grade, my teacher decided that my collection of nine, short poems entitled The Planets would be perfect for publication in Highlights magazine. So she typed them up and mailed them off.

Fourth grade ended. Then fifth grade ended. Finally, in June of 1976, I received a personalized letter from an editor at Highlights. (Things haven't changed much in the response-time department, have they?)

The letter, addressed to "Miss Jill Schafer," reads:

Dear Jill:

We gave your creation entitled "The Planets" to our science editor. Enclosed is a copy of a letter he wrote to me.

Perhaps you will want to send this work to another magazine. Here are some addresses of magazines that publish material from children:

[Five children's magazines and addresses are listed here.]

Sincerely,

Walter B. Barbe

The enclosure, a classic, carbon-copied letter typed on brittle onion skin paper, reads as follows:

Dear Dr. Barbe:

This is a highly creative endeavor of Jill Schafer and we should thank her teacher, Mary Frances Schmidt, for sending it to us.

In thinking about publication in HIGHLIGHTS I run into some difficulties, maybe reflecting upon my own imagination. Although Jill did properly select for most planets some important feature, some are in question (life on Mars?) and in general I think we would not want to use it as a way of telling about the planets. So its merit lies in the creative endeavor of putting ideas about the planets into poetry. Unfortunately, this seems to require the whole and rather large package which would take considerable space for reproduction.

In short, however much I would like to do so, I cannot see how to use this. It may be that you can suggest to Miss Schmidt some other mode of publication.

Sincerely yours,

Jack Myers

As far as "first rejection" letters go, this one is a clear winner. It is personalized, complimentary, and offers referrals to more appropriate venues. Mr. Myers indicated his precise reasons for not including my work in his magazine, and expressed regret at not being able to do so.

Amazing. Beyond amazing when one contemplates the outrageously impersonal responses that most aspiring writers receive from agents and editors these days. Perhaps life was simpler, less crowded back then. Actually, I am sure that it was. Nobody was inundated with emails and faxes and Fed-Ex packages that they didn't request. Dealing with all the "extra fluff" must make it difficult, indeed, for most agents and editors to take the time to respond to a query as though a real person had sent it -- a person with a name and a dream and a desire to broach a professional relationship.

Still, there are those out there who take the time to respond personally, regardless of "slush pile overload." And most writers are grateful to read their name and the name of their manuscript while being told "it's not right for me."

I never did pursue publication of The Planets with any of the magazines recommended to me. By the time the rejection letter arrived, I was most likely on to "other things," in typical little-girl fashion. And I didn't even remember the letter until I found it in a pile of "Jill things" at my parents' house a couple of weeks ago. Thank goodness for moms-who-save-things.

So I guess this means that my writing career actually began thirty-one years ago. Ugh. That doesn't sound too good. I think I'll tuck this letter away with other Ancient History instead. Poems about planets aren't really my "thing" these days.

And there you have it -- my first hard knock in the publishing world. It's a good thing I didn't fall to pieces and throw in the towel. I was probably too busy playing Barbies to think about it.

Onward! And to all the writers who read this blog: Onward! to you as well.

Labels: writing

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Oh No!!!!!

Miss Snark is retiring.

I'm at a loss for words.

Labels: links, writing

Wednesday, May 09, 2007

The 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

Wednesday, May 02, 2007

The Stuff That Stinks

Writing -- 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

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

Sharing My Birthday

If I've got to share my birthday, I suppose it could be a lot worse than sharing it with Agent Jenny Rappaport's Blog, which turns one today. In honor of the day, Jenny is hosting a Sonnet Writing Contest. Pop on over to her blog to read my entry, along with all the others (some stiff competition there).

And so today I celebrate the Nth anniversary of my thirtieth birthday. Eric took me out for breakfast this morning before work, which was absolutely the most wonderful, delightful, perfect thing he might've done.

We ordered omelets. Mine had cheese, tomato, and mushrooms. Eric's had cheese, tomato, and ham. Halfway through our meal, we realized that we had each other's omelets. Guess the conversation was just that riveting.

We swapped omelets, and I definitely got the short end of the stick. Eric eats faster than I do, so there was a lot less omelet on my plate after the swap. That's okay, though. I happen to know that he picked up a birthday cake for me last night at Wild Oats. It's hiding in the refrigerator.

No, I haven't peeked. I can...feel it. It's chocolate. It calls to me when I pass through the kitchen.

And now I've got to go do some ironing. "Don't do all that work today," Eric said. "It's your birthday. Don't do all that ironing." Pause. "Except my pants."

Right. Happy birthday, where are my freshly pressed pants? Anyway, I suppose the breakfast makes up for it.

I'm smiling, so I must be right. There's nothing quite like feeling utterly loved by the people who mean the most to you. I'd iron a hundred pairs of pants, just to have that feeling.

No I wouldn't. But it did sound poetic while I was writing it.

Labels: life, marriage, writing

Monday, April 23, 2007

Internet: The Bane of Writers

I'm a long-time fan of Miss Snark's blog. She's sharp-tongued, savvy, quick, and has a heart of gold. (But beware: She is not for the faint of heart.)

Recently, Miss Snark wrote a piece that included advice to writers to, basically, just shut down their Internet connection and WRITE, for goodness' sake. I felt myself prickling defensively on the inside because...well, because I think she's been peeking in my office window. My work habits are more akin to a divergent squirrel than a diligent writer.

It's embarrassing.

Not that I'm not devoted to my craft -- I am. It's just that it's far too easy to "click out" of my Word document in order to check email, my favorite agent and publisher blogs, my latest visitor stats...you get the idea.

And I know I'm not alone.

What's a distracted writer to do? Reverting to a typewriter is out of the question, and my computer is always connected to the Internet, unlike the olden days of dial-up. So it's either buck up and get some major self-discipline -- or bug Eric to buy me a laptop with nothing on it but a Word Processor and a Thesaurus/Dictionary.

That should do it.

To be fair to myself, I'm not a web-surfer-time-waster sort. I'm more of an information-gatherer-check-for-good-deals-on-Ebay sort. And the Ebay thing is seasonal, such as shopping for Christmas or the perfect summer maternity wear. As for the information -- well, I'm checking my writers' boards for information on agent response times, editors who've switched houses, etc. I'm checking my email to see if I've heard back from my sister or if my latest query has garnered a response. I'm checking my blog stats to see if I've picked up any interesting, regular readers.

Like, anyone from NYC. 'Cuz, you know, that's where It All Happens, right?

And wouldn't you know it. Miss Snark wrote, "Checking site meter stats to see if anyone from NYC is reading your blog is not writing."

Ur...um...right. I knew that.

Sometimes I really do redefine "dork."

Thing is, I'm far too savvy to believe that agents and publishers actually scour the blog-o-sphere looking for the next bestselling author. They don't. (Did you all writer-types out there catch that?) Getting "noticed" is all about writing a darn good story and a first-rate query letter and sending it to the right people.

I just like that warm, fuzzy feeling of knowing "someone in the Big Apple" or "someone on the West Coast" or "someone in the same state as the publisher who currently has several chapters of my novel on her desk" is reading my blog. Because I take my blog seriously (meaning, I strive to write well, not that I stick some sort of immeasurable worth on it). I don't blog to vent my pent-up emotions or to share the mundane minutiae of every hour of my life or to entice hapless agents to call me on my cell phone begging for more.

Still, I really do need to adjust the timing of my blogging. Because, you see, any type of "serious" writing expends energy. And I tend to "blog first, work on books second," which is admittedly backward.

So. I've got Miss Snark to thank for the kick upside the head. And I'm passing that kick along to all of my writing readers. The message: WRITE. You've got other responsibilities in life, whether it's raising your children or working a fulltime job or running your household or taking the car in for an oil change. When you do have your golden hour or thirty minutes on the computer, don't squander it. WRITE.

And now I'm going to go take my own advice.

Labels: writing

Friday, April 20, 2007

Ten Stanzas

Yes, I'm crowing a bit. I've written an entire ten stanzas of my rhyming children's book this afternoon. Considering the way my writing's been going lately, that's incredibly productive.

I'm happy.

Add to the productive afternoon a good dose of sunshine, seventy degrees, and the fact that it's Friday, and you've got a recipe for Just Plain Awesome.

All I need is something chocolate. And since we're heading shortly to downtown Franklin, that will be easily remedied. The Cocoa Tree is always ready and waiting to fulfill my deepest organic chocolate desires.

May you have a joyful, soul-freeing weekend!

Labels: life, writing

Thursday, April 05, 2007

A Silly Distinction

Just a brief rant on a too-chilly Thursday:

If you've spent any time hanging out at writers' communities online or reading the blogs of folks involved with the publishing industry at any level, you will sometimes discover a conversation on the difference between "author" and "writer." Aspiring novelists actually debate which one they should call themselves.

Some people claim that one can only be called an "author" after one has been officially published. Tada! You get another bar on your collar. You're a full-fledged AUTHOR now!

Oh, please.

If one plays the piano, one is a pianist. If he graduates from college and starts playing professionally, he is a...pianist. It doesn't even get a capital "P."

Now, if you're writing just to amuse yourself, or just to record memories for your children, or just because you don't know how to type, then you are certainly not an "author." (Though you may, of course, be considered the "author" of your family memoirs.)

But if you are writing seriously; if you are slaving away at your first or second or twelfth novel; if you are actively pursuing publication while continuing to hone your craft in all ways possible -- well, if you want to call yourself an "author," you go right ahead.

Foo on the elitists.

Anyway, I once made the mistake of introducing myself as an "aspiring author" to a gal at our church who is a published novelist. Her response? She invited me to attend her upcoming writing classes. (Yes, I wanted to kick her.) Aside from the fact that her response was not only presumptuous, but rude (did I ask her for help? did I mention that I needed a writing class?), she obviously took the word "aspiring" to mean that I was trying to be an author. What I really meant is that I was trying to become published. There's a world of difference there.

(Are you wondering what I think she should have responded instead? How about something like, "That's great! What do you write?" or, "How lovely to meet another writer," or, simply, "How nice.")

So. I write. I take it seriously. And the next time someone asks me, I won't add the word "aspiring" to it (which sounds too close to "perspiring" at any rate).

Are you an "author" or a "writer?" Be both, or be either. You won't get any grief from me.

Labels: writing

Monday, April 02, 2007

I Write, Therefore I Need a MacBook Pro

Well, it's only fair. Eric has one. I think that he and "MacBoy" have a kind of symbiotic relationship going on. (Not that I really want to know.)

I've got a good list of reasons why I need to have a MacBoy, too. Want to hear them?

1. MacBooks are the new "cool tool" for real writers. Seriously. Why, I'd fit right in.

2. Since much of my time with Eric is now spent with MacBoy on his lap and a glazed look in his eye, I would at least be able to IM him or something on my own MacBoy. It might foster a hint of real intimacy. Maybe.

3. I could write anywhere. The screened-in porch, McCreary's Pub, Starbucks, the beach, the toilet. Imagine my increased productivity. (I shouldn't have typed that last sentence after the word "toilet.")

4. Did I mention it's the new "cool tool" for real writers?

5. I wouldn't have to listen to Eric's silly rants about Why Bill Gates Is The Antichrist anymore. We'd be on the same team. Comrades. Fellow Mac-odians.

6. The glowing apple is really neat. So is the little light that snores when MacBoy is in standby mode. (You didn't know that MacBoy snores? Oh, what you've been missing.)

7. People would see me with my MacBoy in public places and automatically assume that I was a Real Author. I could practice smiling mysteriously while raising one eyebrow.

8. My children would stop favoring their father just to grab a turn on MacBoy.

Anyway, it's not going to happen. Not this year, anyway. I'll have to keep plugging along on my e-machine-with-Sony-monitor. And I'll have to find some other way to get Eric's attention when he's idolizing his MacBoy instead of endlessly doting on his wife.

I'll have to think of another (cheaper) way to be a Cool Writer.

Or not.

Labels: fun, writing

Monday, March 26, 2007

Fastest Rejection In the West

I don't normally post about the inner workings of my pursuit toward publication. This blog isn't a place for me to bellyache about the ups and downs of the elusive Agent Search. When the good news comes, I'll post it. In the meantime, know that I'm hard at work on the "business end" of this writing thing, and that it surely does take a lot of time and energy -- emotional energy, mostly.

But I can't let this one incident slip by.

You see, I just received a rejection letter in nine minutes flat.

I sent a query letter and sample pages via email. Nine minutes later -- nine minutes -- I received a standard form rejection.

It's got to be a record.

I mean, most agents warn you ahead of time that it will take two to three weeks for a response. Sometimes six weeks. Sometimes two months.

And sometimes, they only respond if they are interested in reading more of your material. And that is the stinkiest kind of response there is.

But not this time. Nope. I got slapped upside the head in nine minutes.

Never fear. This is part of the game, part of the process. A writer who can't handle rejection needs to just give up and walk away. I'm used to it. And I've got "good stuff" in the wings right now, too, so this is just one more "tick" on the rejection side of my leger.

But holy cow. Nine minutes?

It begs the question, "Did she even read it?"

Ah, well. That one wasn't meant to be. On to the next. Writers must never put all their eggs in one basket.

Anyway, I'm amused. And if I can be amused by a rejection letter, then I've definitely grown as a writer -- and as a person.

One can only hope.

Labels: writing

Monday, March 19, 2007

Spring Break

A ridiculous term for a homeschooling family, really, since we're not on any sort of "school district schedule." But since the girls have the week off from ballet, and Jonathan doesn't have his Physics class -- well, why not?

And, oh baby, am I ready for it.

I'll be dragging loads of "stuff" to Good Will, spring cleaning my laundry room, enjoying free time with my chickens, and WRITING.

Ah, the joy of writing without having to worry about the responsibilities of homeschooling. Words cannot express!

I'm currently working on a new project -- a rhyming children's book. I needed a mental break from Book Two, and this is something I've been tossing around in my skull for the past few weeks. It's fun, it's different, and it's a wonderful little gem of a project to work on during spring break.

Yes indeed.

Eric and Jonathan are flying out to Arizona on Wednesday, so the house will be quieter and the food will last longer. The thought of one pan of baked macaroni and cheese actually stretching to two full meals is pretty...exciting.

Not to be cavalier about the trip, though. I will miss my Big Man and my Not-So-Little Man while they're gone. I love that they're spending dad/son time together, but I hate that they're leaving. Everything feels wrong when one of them isn't here.

Well, that's me for today. If I'm not around much this week, you'll know why.

Labels: family, life, writing

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

On Good Writing and the Notion of Conflict

I've ranted before about the poor writing examples in my son's grammar book.

Mind you, the actual grammar is impeccable. It's an excellent curriculum and I'm glad I chose it. I have no argument with the grammar content.

It's the writing part. You know, the part where they teach about writing descriptive sentences, using figurative language, and varying sentence order. That sort of thing.

And the deeper we get into Writing Territory, the more nauseated I become.

We're talking Bad Writing 101, or How To Write If You Never Want To Be Published.

I know, I know. Most teenagers who are learning to write do not have aspirations toward professional writerhood. But it's an irrefutable fact that good writing is a valuable life skill, and youngsters are done a vile disservice when they are not taught to write cleanly, sharply, and as brilliantly as they can.

Want an example of what I mean by Bad Writing In A Top-Notch Grammar Book?

Ahem:

"The bear's heart turned to water, and he fled like a frightened rabbit." (On figures of speech)

"A large oak spread its branches protectingly over a small cottage." (On descriptive sentences)

"An owl called enticingly from the woods as we followed Father out into the soft moonlight. A cool breeze fanned my cheeks and left the dampness of dew. Another breeze came to tease my hair, bringing a tempting whiff of peppermint from the tea bed." (On descriptive composition)

Now, you may call me a Writing Snob if you'd like. In fact, you might be thinking, "If my teenager wrote sentences like those, I'd be thrilled."

Well, if your teenager were writing sentences like those, he'd obviously been trained in the Bad Writing school along with his fellow classmates.

I mean, come on! "Fled like a frightened rabbit?" "Spread its branches protectingly?"

Protectingly??

Needless to say, I don't mince my words with Jonathan when something really stinks. Fortunately, he agrees with me almost every time. "Spread its branches protectingly" is too many words -- too clunky -- to be truly effective. How about "embraced?" Or "stood guard?"

"A large oak embraced the small cottage."

"A large oak stood guard over a small cottage."

Still not deathless prose, to be sure. But definitely a step in the right direction.

The point of this particular sentence was, of course, the use of personification. A tree cannot truly "protect" or "embrace" or "stand guard," but that's the beauty of the exercise. It just peeves me that the writers of this grammar book couldn't have done a better job with the actual writing.

Ugh.

The good news is that, despite the substandard writing examples, Jonathan has developed a love for creative writing (read: for making Mom laugh with strange stories). A short composition last week was a bit on the rambly side, reading more like a list of events with no purpose or direction than like a story.

So, like any responsible writer, I introduced the concept of conflict.

"Your story needs conflict," I said. "You need to come up with a problem that has to be solved. There needs to be a climax and a resolution."

And like any responsible fourteen-year-old boy, Jonathan followed my directions and added conflict to his next short story.

He created a villain named Will Conflict.

And there you have it. Bad writing examples aside, Jonathan's innate sense of humor (and gift for irony) is going to carry him beyond anything I might impart.

Test next Thursday.

Labels: homeschooling, writing

Thursday, March 08, 2007

"Hey, Can We Do Grammar Today?"

No, I'm serious. That's a verbatim quote from fourteen-year-old Jonathan.

I'm still in shock.

Let me explain. I've set up our schedule so that we do grammar lessons three days a week, Monday-Wednesday-Friday. That means that today -- Thursday -- is a grammar-less day, a day of great freedom and rejoicing in the lives of certain Boehme offspring.

But this morning Jonathan accosted me in the hallway and said, "Hey, can we do grammar today instead of tomorrow?'' And in his eyes I saw -- enthusiasm. A twinkle, even.

And then I knew. It was because yesterday's lesson was a writing lesson -- a lesson on descriptive sentences and paragraphs. And Jonathan prides himself on his ability to impress me -- and make me laugh -- with his writing.

He didn't want to wait another whole day to show me his assignment. So he asked for a grammar lesson.

I dropped everything and sat down with the kid immediately. I mean, what semi-sane homeschooling mother would do otherwise?

The beauty of this is that I'm a writer. And my teenaged son enjoys creative writing. Does it get any better than this?

Well, yes, I'm sure it does. He's a pain in the butt when it comes to other subjects, like Latin and Algebra. (Fortunately, I don't have to be directly involved in either, since he uses computer software for both.) I'd love to see this kind of enthusiasm across the board.

But we're not wired that way, are we? We come to life when our passions are stoked. And oh! to think that my son's passion is stoked by the thought of writing. Writing!

Mind you, Jonathan's writing is a bit -- avant-garde. Okay, it's downright weird sometimes. But he's the only person I know who can take a ridiculous, nonsensical topic and create a well-constructed sentence:

The starship crashed into the lively skyscraper, which was gaping in the breeze.

Although it was midday, the stupid rooster kept squawking and coughing his ugly sunrise song.

When the spines from the rather unlucky stickleback penetrate his throat, anti-puncture force fields are immediately placed into effect.

One day, while the summer breezes were toasting the June bugs, a fine, dandy chap came trotting down the old path.

To add even more fun to the experience, Jonathan enjoys writing the opposite answers for his review exercises. It's his way of saying, "This is easy, I get it already." And I, being a savvy, quick-witted mom, keep pace with him by reversing the answers in my head, telling myself that "wrong" means "right."

I am the only person on the planet who could teach grammar to this boy.

At least he keeps me on my toes. And reminds me that learning is more fun when we allow our creativity -- and sense of humor -- to take flight. And keeps me humble.

And he's cute, too. That counts for something on the bad days.

And he knows it.

Labels: homeschooling, writing

Friday, March 02, 2007

How To Make A Story Better

Several months ago, I handed the then-second draft of my current novel to the son of a dear friend of mine. Nicholas is twelve years old, an avid reader of science fiction and fantasy, and he's in my "target audience." I thought it would be a good idea to get some feedback from somebody other than my own children.

Last Friday, I finally got a chance to sit down with Nicholas and discuss his thoughts on my novel.

"I liked the story," he began, "but some parts were a little boring."

Do tell. I smiled and waited for him to continue.

"Well, I think there needs to be more action and, like, blood and stuff. Like when he throws that woman, you know?" (Editor's note: There is no "woman throwing" in my novel. I have no idea what he was talking about.) "Well, you should describe how she gets hurt and all the blood and stuff."

This was getting interesting. I asked Nicholas to continue.

"Well, I think that they should all carry weapons. And I think that Kate should stab him in the heart with a big knife, and he should stagger back and go, 'Aaaaaaaaaaa,' like that. You know."

Right. And here I thought I was writing young adult fantasy, when all along it was a horror story just waiting to break out.

"So, what you're saying, Nicholas, is that my story needs more BLOOD."

Nicholas laughed. "Yeah."

Okay, maybe I didn't exactly pick the right beta reader. Nicholas and I began to talk about the books he's read recently, and they are definitely of the bloody, limb-severing type. I mean, the kid has read both Eragon and Eldest. Now, I thought Eragon was a dreadful display of immature, rambling prose, with no less than three episodes of broken bones for the unfortunate protagonist, and a slew of beheadings, stabbings, dragon-munchings, and various other gory deaths. Nicholas also enjoys reading psychological thrillers -- one of which evidently included a chainsaw murderer.

Yep. Lots of blood in the pages of Nicholas's reading history.

"Well," I told him, "it's easy enough to add more action, shorten dialogue where it's too boring, and things like that." (I carefully refrained from mentioning the addition of extra blood, since it's not on my agenda.) "But I want to ask you an important question."

I then proceeded to ask Nicholas if my ending had surprised him, or if he had guessed it ahead of time.

"No, I was totally surprised," he said. "I suspected..." And he went on to explain who he had suspected and why.

Success! That's what I really wanted to hear. Bleeding, dying characters aside, the one thing I want to be sure I've got nailed is my ability to throw my readers off so that the climax really makes them say, "Wow!" Nicholas is a tough cookie, and if I was able to pull it off with him, well, the possibilities are endless.

I had already finished my third draft before chatting with Nicholas (sans extra blood, I'm afraid), and I think I've remedied some of the parts that he probably found a bit too slow. Except, I think I'd better find a less blood-minded reader for this draft.

He did praise the one death scene in my book, though: "That was cool."

Words of high praise from a bloodthirsty twelve-year-old.

(He's an awesome kid, by the way. I knew it was going to be an enlightening experience to listen to his views on my story, and I wasn't disappointed in the least. I just had to be careful not to let him see how amused I was.)

So. I'm in the midst of chapter 4 of Book Two, and find myself wondering, whose arm should I twist off? Who should get stabbed in the stomach? How many characters can I kill off without losing plausibility? What sounds does a person make while he's being strangled?

Then again, maybe I'll just stick to my original plan. I'll leave the bloody tales to someone else.

Labels: writing

Monday, February 26, 2007

The Truth Behind My "Earth Mama" Approach

Some of the comments I received on my last post have spurred me to explain why I've opted to go "all natural" for the birth of my fifth child.

No, I'm not trying to "prove" something -- because I've already proven it. The birth of my fourth child (Spencer) occurred without the benefit of drugs. And it wasn't because I had chosen to do it that way; it was because the drugs didn't work. So you see, I've already been-there-done-that, under duress. And if I could do it without meaning to, I can certainly do it while intending to.

Here's the story, taken from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon. It's much easier to reprint this than to retell the entire story. Especially on a Monday.

(The following is excerpted from My Lima Beans Are Allergic to my Spoon by Jill Schafer Boehme, Copyright 2002. All rights reserved. Used with permission.)

Labor? No Sweat!

Sometimes we are absolutely convinced that we are pros. Whatever the task, talent, or skill, we have told ourselves that, yes, indeed, we've got this one all wrapped up: another slice of the proverbial "piece of cake." And so it was when I went into labor with my fourth child. I had been there, done that. Three onsets of labor, three sessions of timing contractions, three trips to the hospital, three epidurals, and three vaginal births were all on my maternity resume. I was undaunted by Number Four.

As was my usual wont, I stayed away from the hospital as long as I comfortably could. Granted, babies do tend to come more quickly with each subsequent birth, but I felt confident in my ability to assess labor. Eric and I arrived at the hospital at around ten o'clock at night. Discovering that I was only four to five centimeters dilated was a letdown; during Labor Three I had arrived at the hospital at eight centimeters, and the entire nursing staff had been amazed that I wasn't yelling in pain. (Of course, my first question had been, "Can I still get an epidural?" I could not imagine birth as anything but a painless, smiling procedure.)

I settled into my routine of "hee-hee" breathing and posing for pictures. It was easy to comfort myself with the knowledge that soon the anesthesiologist would be arriving with her blessed needle and tubes, and thirty minutes later I would be blissfully numb. She arrived, and I curled up into the required fetal position. The few minutes of discomfort are well worth the results, so, as I had done three times before, I willed myself to relax and breathe.

She was doing an awful lot of poking, and I began to wonder if perhaps this was her first epidural. Patience is one thing I completely lack while in the midst of any amount of pain. After what seemed to me like a rather clumsy entry, the needle was in place, and I felt the warm rush of medicine.

Countdown to sheer pleasure. I knew that I would feel five or six more contractions, and nothing more.

Thirty minutes later, I was still in pain. This was unexpected, but not without remedy. I received a second dose of medicine. Having had a similar experience during Labor One, I was not overly concerned.

The pain continued. Heee-heee-hooooooo. Heee-heee-hoooooo. I flipped into denial. This wasn't really happening. I didn't HAVE babies this way. My deliveries were always painless!

I couldn't wish it away. My husband and I both had to swallow the truth: I was going to deliver without medication.

"Ice chips," I croaked to my husband. He lovingly placed one on my tongue.

I wasn't having fun. This wasn't supposed to happen! I didn't really care if women gave birth this way for countless centuries; the fact remained that I did not give birth this way. I wasn't prepared.

It was time to push. Somewhere in the midst of my experience I had come up with the idea that once pushing began, there wasn't any more pain. I couldn't have been more deluded.

Somebody was helping me prop my legs up. Surely they didn't expect me to push against this horrendous pain! This was inhumane. I could breathe through it, but there was no way I could push through it.

"OK, push!"

They had to be joking.

"I CAN'T!" I screamed. What a ridiculous thing to scream. Did I think they were going to let me off the hook at that point?

"Yes, yes, you can do it!" Oh, nice. Cheerleaders in the delivery room. Where was my husband?

I pushed. I yelled. I yelled more than I pushed. I don't think I ever screamed so loudly in my life.

The anesthesiologist was cringing in a far corner. Her evening was not off to a good start.

Round two began.

My eyes were closed. I yelled with every cubic inch of oxygen in my lungs. Somehow during that completely incoherent process, I gave birth.

The nurse placed my son on my belly. I couldn't focus on him; my eyes kept crossing. I was trembling all over.

"Looooooook, look at your little boy!" My what? What did she want me to look at?

Eric soon came into view, all smiles. The escapade was over; our second son had arrived, healthy and beautiful.

I was beginning to gather my wits about me. Little Spencer Michael wiggled and twitched in my arms, the way newborns do. We were both going to be all right. I had survived the unanticipated, and I held my prize in my arms. My consolation was that the passage of time would soon erase the memory of my unexpected natural childbirth. I was feeling better already. One day soon, this would be in the distant past.

Eric sat down in a chair beside the bed, video camera in hand. I was contented by the thought of his having put down the camera in order to support me through my time of duress. Then, like a rock through a pane of glass, his words shattered my fantasy.

"I got it all on tape!"

I was too weak to strangle him. All I could do was stare at him in disbelief.

"You didn't! I was yelling...I was screaming! I don't ever want anyone to see that! I don't ever want to see that myself! Please tell me you didn't film all that!"

He had.

More than two years passed before I was able to watch the video. The not-so-instant replay of my ordeal didn't do much for my self-image. (Let's just say that it was less than glamorous.) Even though my husband still praises me for being "a trooper," I think that, ultimately, I would rather not be reminded.

I no longer claim to be a pro.

Labels: pregnancy, writing

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

My Little Office Under the Eaves

Those of you who have been reading me for any amount of time know that my "creative Hobbit hole," as it were, exists on the third story of our home, in the shape of a small, irregular room with a tiny window and lots of potential. Ever since I moved my load of stuff up here several years ago, I've been content to type away in surroundings that consist of bare floorboard, unpainted drywall, and a window with no sill or casing.

Really, I've been okay with it. Nobody has used the room but me. I've got my red toile wallpaper chosen and waiting in the wings. It's been a "some day" dream of mine to have a real office instead of a half-finished, almost-office.

It would appear that "some day" has arrived.

Don't get excited, though. "Some day" simply means that Eric is soon to be moving in with me. (Did I hear a collective gasp?) We're giving his office to Jonathan as a bedroom, you see, as part of the "musical rooms" we have to play in preparation for Baby Number Five. Actually, I invited Eric to move in, hardly expecting the enthusiastic response he gave me.

His eyes literally sparkled.

I should have known I was in for it. Because all of sudden the drywall is a problem -- and the floorboards are a problem -- and goodness gracious, we must do something about that window.

Excuse me. The drywall and the floorboards and the window never bothered Eric when this was my office. Now, suddenly, the walls need to be primed and painted. He's already planning on moving my computer somewhere else for a week or so, to protect me from Noxious Fumes.

How thoughtful.

"What color would you like to paint the walls?"

Um, I don't want the walls painted. I've told Eric a dozen times that painting the walls any color is a waste of time and materials, since my heart is set on the red toile wallpaper. Priming isn't optional, but painting certainly is. And I've opted against it.

Yet he persists. "What color would you like to paint the walls?"

"Pink."

That puts him right off the idea.

Still, he's determined to forge ahead with the priming, and now he wants me to go look at flooring with him.

Someone stop this man.

I've got two boys' bedrooms and a baby's nursery to strip down and redecorate. Why is my husband obsessing about a tiny office under the eaves that nobody else can see?

I'll tell you why. Because he's claimed fifty percent of it, and dad-gummit, he's just too aesthetically sensitive to work in a room with bare drywall.

Funny. I've managed to complete two entire novels up here and am hard at work on the third. The drywall really hasn't been that distracting.

Would it be awful of me to retract my invitation? To (lovingly) suggest that he take a hike?

No good?

Oh, I'm doomed. The one lifespace that offers me a sense of "things are okay, everything is good and peaceful" is headed toward certain upheaval. And all because I had a bighearted moment of weakness and invited my beloved spouse to share some space.

This is like getting married all over again.

Stay tuned for the ongoing saga. I'm sure it will get...interesting.

Labels: life, marriage, writing

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Will I Ever (EVER!) Simply Enjoy A Novel Again?

I taught myself to read when I was four and haven't stopped since. I found my "writer's voice" at age six, lost my way for a while, but ultimately returned to my true passion and haven't looked back.

Sounds like the two should go well together, right? Any writer worth his salt is also an avid reader. Reading (good stuff) improves our writing. And writing feeds our need to keep reading.

Except, I've run into a problem. I find that, ever since I've tackled writing on a "this is my lifelong career" level, I have trouble reading novels uncritically.

And it stinks.

Right now I'm reading Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell (a nineteenth century British author). I'm loving the dialogue, the character portrayals (she's a master), the British-ness of it all. But Elizabeth Gaskell does something that drives me crazy -- something I'd never even thought about until I started writing novels myself.

Elizabeth Gaskell shifts her point of view. Constantly. Twice on the same page, even. First we're in Molly's head, then her father's, then Mrs. Hamley's. Then we're back to Molly again.

It's beyond distracting, particularly because modern writers are encouraged to stick to one point of view, period. Stay in your protagonist's head, we're told. Don't jump about or you'll confuse your reader.

Right. Nobody told that to Mrs. Gaskell.

Harry Potter is an excellent example of this modern-day "stay in your protagonist's head" thing. Except for the opening chapters of several of her books that expose a scene that doesn't include Harry (an omnipotent point of view, that), the stories in their entirety are told from Harry's point of view. Not Ron's, not Hermione's, not Hagrid's. Not ever. Everything is beautifully described through Harry's eyes and perceptions. It's "textbook."

That's what is expected of writers these days. Maybe it's a dumbing down of society, or maybe it's just a good technique for creating consistency in a story. I haven't decided.

I only know that my awareness of point-of-view is destroying my enjoyment of reading-for-pleasure.

I recently read one of the most beautifully written young adult novels I've ever laid eyes on: The Singer of All Songs by Kate Constable. Ms. Constable has restored my faith in the modern writer's ability to write truly good, truly lovely, truly well-written prose. It's the first in a trilogy and I'm chomping at the bit to read the remaining two stories. And if you've got a reader in your life who falls into the ten-to-fourteen-year-old category, and who happens to enjoy fantasy, grab this book immediately and throw it in the child's lap. It's a must-read.

The Singer of All Songs tells the tale strictly from the viewpoint of Calwyn, the protagonist -- except for the chapter in which Calwyn is stolen by pirates. There's a scene that takes place on a separate boat, where Calwyn's comrades are being held captive. Calwyn isn't there, but suddenly we are thrust into the hold and exposed to the story from someone else's eyes. It is jarring. Deeply disturbing, even. There I was, experiencing the entire, marvelous tale through Calwyn's eyes, and when someone else took the reigns, it bothered the bananas out of me.

I don't think it would have fazed Elizabeth Gaskell.

Thing is, Ms. Constable probably gave a lot of thought to how she was going to handle this particular scene. She might have done it differently. The scene in the hold might've been recounted to Calwyn later, as backstory. But there was something about the tension, the immediateness of the scene, that ultimately led the author to choose the viewpoint switch.

If I weren't a writer, I don't think I would have noticed. As it stood, I found myself gasping for figurative breath and trying to rectify this woman's beautiful, almost flawless writing with the fact that she had unabashedly switched her point of view.

See what I mean? I'm ruined for life.

I guess it's this way with a lot of things. My dental hygienist, who is divorced but hoping to find Mr. Right, claims that she is not interested in men with bad teeth. My husband, who manages a group of fellow computer geeks, is often heard exclaiming that he hates computers. And I'm sure that the folks who design the rides at Disney World have long since lost the sense of "magic" those rides are supposed to offer.

Still. Reading is such a simple pleasure. I've got to find some way to reclaim it.

Don't even say it. I already know I'm anal retentive. There's got to be another explanation.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Labels: books, writing

Friday, November 17, 2006

The Quantum Reality of Novel Writing

If a> and b> are possible outcomes, then so is ca> + db> for any c,d where c2 + d2 = 1 so the number of alternate universes is infinite.

There you have it. Test next Thursday.

Seriously, those of you who indulge in the excrutiating art of writing fiction will understand what I mean when I say that planning a storyline is akin to studying quantum physics. Each choice must be weighed and considered according to what its possible results may be. And the more carefully chosen these choices are at the beginning, the less major rewrites will need to occur later. Consider:

If Character A leaves with Character B at the end of Chapter two, the story will flesh out differently than it will if Character A sticks around with Character C instead.

A story set in the middle of winter will have different variables than one set in summer.

If LaDiddle Fontaine finds out in Chapter Three that Brawn Fannigan has been cheating on her, her storyline will run a different course than if she doesn't find out until Chapter Eighteen.

On it goes. In short, every possibility needs to be mentally fleshed out to the Nth degree. Hence the quantum reality. Because it all goes on at the same time inside a writer's head. And when someone opens your office door and sees you staring vacantly out the window and you tell him to leave you alone because you're working -- well, he's not going to believe you, is he?

He just doesn't understand quantum reality.

So I've been stuck in quantum flux for days and it has absolutely nothing to do with my recent Star Trek: The Next Generation viewing (we didn't even get to that episode yet).

(Yeah, the Worf episode. Dave knows what I'm talking about. So do all you closet Trekkers that are pretending you didn't hear me.)

That's me, in a nutshell. I'm hoping to break through the chaos soon and decide upon a stable reality for my story so that I can move forward.

But first I've got to fold some laundry. Oh, that I could find a reality without any housework in it.

(Insert melodramatic sigh here.)

Have a fabulous weekend, my friends!

Labels: writing

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

Surely He Must Be Quite Thirsty

Bear with me; this is a Writing Rant.

My regular readers know that I'm homeschooling my children. This year, I've begun to use an excellent grammar series for my twelve- and fourteen-year-olds. I love the series because it's thorough, it's advanced, and it teaches sentence diagraming.

(Yes, I spelled diagraming correctly. I promise.)

Today, Jonathan's lesson included the identification of gerund phrases and infinitive phrases and the diagraming thereof. Super lesson. (Can you tell I love grammar?)

However, as is often the case, some of the sentences used as examples are, simply put, weak sentences. Yes, they're grammatically correct. Yes, they make sense. But from a writing standpoint, they're weak. And it drives me absolutely bonkers.

Case in point is the sentence in my title: Surely he must be quite thirsty.

(Attention grammar aficionados: This sentence was in the review section, not the main lesson. Hence the absence of either a gerund or an infinitive phrase).

The sentence is easy enough to decipher; "thirsty" is the predicate adjective that modifies "he," the subject. Like I said, it's grammatically correct.

The problem? Adverbs. A six-word sentence should not contain two adverbs. Nothing weakens a sentence like a preponderance of adverbs.

So we've got surely and quite in the same sentence when we could do with either one alone:

"Surely he must be thirsty."

"He must be quite thirsty."

Or if it were in the context of dialogue, we wouldn't need either one:

"He must be thirsty."

See my point?

Of course, Jonathan has the benefit of a writer-mom who is careful always to point out weak sentences and encourage her children to do the same. Some things are hard-and-fast and should not be questioned, such as a verb is a verb is a verb (unless it's a gerund, in which case it's a noun).

But other things are more subjective, like Too Many Adverbs. And it isn't just professional writers who need to worry about such things -- it's everybody.

Imagine writing a cover letter to a resume that sounds like this:

"I am really interested in pursuing employment with your very progressive firm. My experience is very extensive and I've carefully and diligently outlined my employment history in the quite detailed, enclosed resume. Thank you so very much for your time."

Yep. If it were up to me, I'd throw it in the garbage without checking the resume.

Let's try:

"I am interested in pursuing employment with your progressive firm. I have outlined my experience and employment history in the enclosed resume. Thank you for your time."

I know, I know...I've just spent more than a month doing heavy-duty revisions. This is the kind of thing that, after you've weeded it from your own writing, sticks out like a festering thumb.

So, to all you writers out there: STOP USING ALL THOSE ADVERBS.

There. I feel better now.

Labels: homeschooling, writing

Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Excited? Or Obsessive-Compulsive?

Question: How many times can a writer check her email in one day?

Answer: Take the number of agents that she has e-queried, multiply by 520, increase by a factor of two for every passing hour until bedtime. Then, check once more.

It's ridiculous; really, it is. I know the response times. I know that some agents (grumble grumble) completely ignore the queries they're not interested in. And I know that I'm neurotic.

I know, I know, I know.

Yet I check my email. And I check it again.

What I want to do -- what I mean to do -- is to begin work on Book Two. I've got the premise laid out and I'm raring to go. This is the third day in a row of Attempting to Write The Opening Scene. I've gotten as far as typing "1." at the top of the page.

It's much easier to just give up and check my email. One...more...time.

Snail mail is easier to deal with. The mailman comes once a day, you check for rejection letters, and then you go about your business. Why didn't I use snail mail, you say? Ugh. Such a lot of bother and expense, just for a form rejection in the end. And you won't believe what a hot button it is in the agenting world. Some agents are completely anti-email query, as though their computers might explode if they were to even consider it. Other agents will only accept e-queries and nothing else. Ever.

E-queries are awesome. Snail mail is yesterday. But that's just one writer's opinion.

I'm going to work on my new novel. After I've checked my email.

Labels: writing

Tuesday, October 03, 2006

I've over-undulated

Strange, the words we overuse without realizing it.

Eric caught on first, and I did some further investigation. As it turns out, I've used the word undulating six times in my novel.

Six times!

Lest you think I'm a thesaurus-wielding ninny, I must point out that "undulate" is simply a part of my vocabulary. Kids used to make fun of my vocabulary when I was young. I've always been a lover of words. Not that "undulate" is such a fancy-schmancy word, but...well, obviously I like it on an unconscious level.

Things should never undulate six times in the course of 290 pages.

Currently, I've gotten rid of three undulatings. At least one more needs to be expunged before the Undulation Level can be considered satisfactory.

I'm looking on the bright side, though. If my revisions have dwindled to the point where I'm getting rid of extraneous and repetitive words, that's a good thing. It means my plot is solid, my dialogue is un-dorkified (mostly...still have a few doozies to deal with), my writing is clean.

The question is, when do you stop? I could clean up like this on a regular basis and never truly feel "finished." It's like doing laundry.

What a thought: "Writing a novel is like doing laundry. No matter how much you clean up, there's another dirty bit waiting in the basket."

That's enough to make me run screaming from my office.

Okay, now 'fess up. Did you have to look up the word undulating? (Insert evil grin here.)

That's okay. I didn't learn what it meant until I was in college. The theatre major in the dorm room next door used to do this odd characterization, which she called "The Undulating Witch." I remember standing there thinking, "What the heck does undulating mean?"

Now I'm thinking, "How the heck could a witch undulate?"

And thanks to Mary Beth the theatre major, I ended up with six undulatings in my novel.

Back to work. Can't wait to see what bizarre, repeated word I'll fish out next...

Labels: writing

Friday, September 29, 2006

Applause?

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

Thursday, September 21, 2006

From An Age Without Agents

The 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

Friday, September 15, 2006

Me? 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, 2006

In-House Editor

That 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. Th