Getting Older

Husband was going to call up some friends to play basketball at our house this evening. We have a small court that acts as our driveway, certainly enough room for two on two. He called a few friends and his younger brother to play. When he hung up the phone, he looked at me with a puzzled frown on his face and said, "Damn, we're getting old."

My reaction was something like "Well, gee. Thanks."

He scratched his head, perplexed, like he didn't hear a word I said. "I called up Joe, asked him to play this evening and he said, 'Sure...no, wait. I'll have to check with the wife when she gets home from work and make sure she's all right with handling both kids on her own tonight'."

I nodded, not sure how this makes me old.

Husband continued. "Then I called up Sam and asked him to play. He said, 'Great, what time?' I told him around six and he said, 'Well, I got someone coming to fix our water heater. It broke last night. Let me see if I can reschedule it'."

I blinked slowly. "So because your friends have to check with their wives and fix their water heaters, that means that I'm old?"

"I call Joe and he has to check with his wife before he can come out and play. I call Sam and he's got to fix something with his house." He laughed, a playful gleam in his eye. "Wanna know what Cam, my little brother said, when I asked him to come over?"

I waited.

"He said, 'I'm in. What time?'"

So there you have it. The passage of time does funny things. You get older and wiser, but with that comes all kinds of baggage. (Some of that baggage is priceless and cheek-pinching cute, though, isn't it?) Although I don't know anyone in their thirties who would go back to being eighteen, it definitely has its perks. Zip zero responsibilities.

And this is what we have to look forward to from here:



*Wait until the middle of this video for a great laugh. Just when you think he's being a gentleman, complimenting her hair, he says the unexpected. I suppose there are some things time never changes...

Would you rather...

write one book that hits HARRY POTTER/TWILIGHT hard, then drop off the face of the publishing earth,

OR

write book after book, making a long-standing career in the writing industry?

I've heard this question asked a ton. By my non-writing friends. By critique partners. And I think the response could depend on where in the writing industry you stand. If you've already hit it big and can't seem to make another book work as well (anyone read Meyer's The Host?), you may long for a slow and steady career. But, I could imagine someone on the other foot, coveting that #1 NYT or USA Today Bestseller slot.

I'm not sure where I stand. I look at the Twihards and Potterfreaks and think wouldn't it be cool to have a following like that? I could only dream of writing something so profound that it comes to life and overtakes a generation. All Rowling's money aside (and it'd take boatloads to cast that lot aside, I'm sure), I don't know if she'll ever be able to write anything again, for fear it'll inevitably be measured against Harry Potter...and fail.

Could I write one book or a series of books and be done? Could I stuff the storytelling inside me? I don't think so...

It makes me wonder where Rowling hides her scribbling notebooks. And how much they'll be worth when they're uncovered.

What about you? Which would you rather write? One HUGE hit or a series of steady ones? (Not that we have any control over that, of course, but it's fun to ponder.)

Short Term Memory

First thing I did when I awoke this morning was try to find some news. Since the television was occupied by Looney Toones, I started up my computer and began google searching recent events.

Japan radiation update

Rebuilding Japan

Gulf of Mexico oil spill

Oil work on Gulf of Mexico beaches

I got nothing. All articles relayed information from the past. Like I was reading the tragedies from a history book.

So I added today's date to the searches.

I got nothing but a current article linked to the old information. I was flabbergasted. It seems news stations and papers have taken the attitude: It's not top news anymore, so why write about it? This has to be a result of google top searches on those subjects dwindling.

But Americans can't have such a short term memory, right?

Then I hop on Facebook. Most of my friends are shocked that we're still getting rain in June. Like it's never happened before.

Why doesn't anyone remember when high school graduations were held the first week in June? (I graduated today, actually, 13 years ago.) Why doesn't anyone remember how class after high school class had to have a back-up plan: 1) graduation on the field with unlimited tickets 2) in case of rain, graduation in the gym with two tickets. Why doesn't anyone remember the panic when it rained a few days before graduation and everyone was worried it wasn't going to clear up in time to have the ceremony on the field?

On the day of my elementary school graduation a huge storm was brewing. Strong winds cracked our huuuge "Graduation Class of 1994" banner in half.

It may not happen every single year, but it happens enough that people shouldn't be shocked about it.

I'm just wondering why we have such a short term memory? Doesn't anyone care about the cleanup efforts from the oil spill? The one that was said to be the greatest oil disaster in history? Doesn't anyone care about the extent of radiation in Japan or how the radiation dumped into the ocean is affecting that ecosystem? And why, on a much lower level, doesn't anyone remember that rain and storms are often a part of the first week in June?

I'm sure no one will have an answer. I'm just rambling.

And, as you can probably guess, I'm loving this rain. I just wish I could drink my coffee and catch up on my news while watching it.

My weekend with an editor

I spent Friday and Saturday with an editor from Grand Central Publishing. She came to San Francisco to speak with our RWA chapter and answer questions about the industry.

I picked her up from the airport early Friday afternoon, showed her around the city, then spent the whole next morning and afternoon talking about "the business".

I. Learned. So. Much.

Surprisingly though, most of what I learned this weekend had nothing to do with writing or publishing. Of course I took away gleaming tidbits of information about what goes on behind Oz's curtain. Of course there's things I know about being on submission that I didn't know before. Of course I feel like I have a better grasp about how the industry's cogs work. But that's not what I'm writing about today. And because lists are neat and easy and I'm in a neat and easy kind of mood, here's five things I learned from my crazy, whirlwind of a weekend:

1-I should never handle parking tickets. Never ever. I lose them every time. Is it in my wallet? On my dashboard? In my pocket? Nope. This time it was stuck in the machine and instead of waiting for the ticket to spit out, we were on our way, gabbing about Weight Watchers and laughing about big butts (mine mostly). It took a good Samaritan holding the ticket up, screaming through the parking garage, "Did anyone lose a ticket?!" for me to wise up. I'm parking ticket challenged. There have to be others out there...

2-It's freezing ass cold in San Francisco in May. (On a related note: Minus the racks and racks of *I Heart SF* sweatshirts, there are NO warm clothes sold in the city in May.)

3-When a friend is on vacation, thereby able to eat whatever desserts they wish, if you are the one showing them around on their vacation, you are by default on vacation too. Diets need not apply. We ate at the Cheesecake Factory for a mid-afternoon snack after realizing that both of us had eaten there before without trying their infamous cheesecake. (Random similarity, right?)

Doesn't it look delicious? It really was.

4-Doing absolutely nothing is absolutely something. We drove around San Francisco from one spectacular stop to another. We gawked at Alcatraz, drove across the Golden Gate twice, curved our way down Lombard Street, strolled Pier 39, and ate absolutely tongue-lolling food. We talked family, shopping, friends, boyfriends, husbands, school, books and alpha heroes. Although I'd only just met her, by the end of the day I felt like I'd known her for years. We didn't really do anything, yet it was one of the most memorable days I've had in a long time.

And finally...

5-Editors aren't scary three-headed creatures who chomp on manuscripts for lunch, glaring hungrily at debut authors as they begin their submission process. Contrary to what debut authors think, editors are helpful and friendly. They want you to succeed! Editors are people too. Great people who love books and writing (many of them are authors themselves). They smile ear to ear with their clients as all their hard work shines on the printed page. They're people who fight for authors and genuinely love the publishing process.

I had a great weekend. Now excuse me while I get my cheesecake-lovin' butt to the gym.

I am *THAT* mother

Oh, boy. Confession time.

I went to an ex-students wedding on Saturday. Husband had to jet right after the ceremony to get to work...so I was left alone with Princess and Tank. Usually...and I now emphasize the word Usually as if it's the most important word in the English language...Usually the kids are great. They're not perfect angels, but they have manners. They're well-behaved. They're respectful and listen when I tell them to do something.

I prepared for the wedding as a "good mother" should. I brought cars, crayons, pads of paper, tic-tac-toe sheets, barbies, Nintendo DS and three games, Cheez-Its and Popcorn. Enough to keep the kids busy through Armageddon. Seriously.

They. Were. Not. Having. It.

The wedding went off without a hitch. Tank started to get squirmy so I took him outside. No biggie, right?

Within five minutes of the reception starting, things started to break down. Tank didn't want any of the toys. He kept saying he was hungry...but not for the snacks I brought. He was beyond irritable. (Might've had something to do with him getting four shots two days prior...) He had an "accident", spilled drinks all over the beautifully arranged table, played tag with a kid from the table over and proceeded to "tag" him in the back with a fork.

Oh, but it gets worse. Any time I tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down and stop running all over the joint like a madman, he screamed bloody murder and pulled away from me. Not normal for the boy who gets dejected when I discipline him by simply tell him "no" at home. Any of you out there who know Tank, know he is Mr. Mellow-Yellow. He's quiet. Shy. Apparently not this night.

It gets worse. You see, I know my kid is acting up. I know he's being a pain. I don't need to be told by someone else.

A woman the next table over (with two boys my kids' age who were acting like total angels) leaned over to me and said, "I brought toys for my kids. If you want, your son can play with some of these." She handed me a plastic frog. Tank screamed. I said, "Oh no thanks. You see, I brought toys...and food. He's just having a bad day or something. This isn't normal and I'm not sure what's going on with him." She looked at me like I sprouted six heads. Like it was an excuse I've given a thousand times at a thousand different weddings.

I realized...I am THAT mother. The one with the child running rampant around a beautiful reception. Never in a million years would I have thought that to be me. I would have sat Tank in the car on a gazillion second time-out...but I couldn't leave Princess alone in the hall. (I gave him three timeouts in the hall of the bathroom, though, where his scream echoed so loud I'm still deaf in one ear.) I would have left the reception completely...but I already told Princess we could stay for the beautiful Princess cake. She was so excited.

When I told her we had to leave because her brother was throwing a conniption-fit, she threw a conniption-fit like only a six year old girl knows how. Water works started. The bottom lip popped out. Her feet dragged the floor. She pleaded her case with everyone she saw on the way out. I was the evil step-mother tearing her away from the ball.

Oh, boy.

Picture this: I'm dragging a screaming three year old with one arm and holding the hand of a wailing six year old drama queen in the other who "Swears she'd be good enough for cake if I just let her stay!"

After they were buckled into the car and the crescendo escalated in the cab, I slouched against the side of the truck and took a deep breath.

I am that mother.

I was never going to be this mother.

The world has officially flipped on its head.

Then I came to the conclusion that all those other mothers might've been having a bad day too. Their kids might not be hellions every day. They might've just gotten shots. The mother might've been holding the fort all her own with no one to lend a helping hand. The kids might've been sleep-deprived. Hungry. Fussy.

I was so judgmental.

I apologize to all the mothers I've judged through the years for unruly children. I feel your pain. We all try our best...sometimes though, the worst days shadow our best efforts. We end up looking and feeling like failures in the process, but we have to remember: It's a single day. One day.

And tomorrow's a new one.

Today I'm going to take this lesson on perspective and apply it to my work-in-progress. So much hinges on whose perspective a scene is written. The scene at the wedding would have been completely different had it been from the bride's perspective. Or from the woman offering up her son's frog. Or from Tank.

Times like these help me remember that a scene needs to be written from the person who has the most to lose. That night, it was me. I lost my sanity. I'm only now getting it back one behaved child moment at a time.

Freedom!

I couldn't tell you how many times I shouted the phrase today. Yes, today was a milestone in the Miller household.

Both my children were in school this morning.

Which left me totally, utterly FREE. Oh, I know there are those of you who love having babies around and feel sad when those babies separate and walk into the classroom. I know there are those who try for more children once their oldest gets into school. (What, are you crazy?!?) There are also those who cry as their little ones walk through that classroom door and they're left alone to their own devices. (And by devices of course I mean housework, grocery shopping and laundry.)

But not me.

Today (just to prove to myself that I could) I went shopping for a writing chair and desk. (Found the chair, not the desk, but it was oh, so much fun just perusing.) I had lunch. (Veggie burritos from a local taqueria because they're DELISH and Tank eats all mine when we take him.) It was great.

I might've been the only mother skipping to my car as I dropped the kids off at school. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face all day. It's not because I won't miss them around the house because I will. It's just that this is the moment I've waited for since they were born. I've groomed them through the years. Primped them. Taught them. Built them to be good people and good students. (At least that's the hope, right?) And now they get to put what they've learned into action.

Yes, it's a little scary. That Freedom in all its glory also means that anything could happen...

I feel the exact same nervous energy about my new WIP. I have the characters backstory solidly in my head. I know them inside and out--how they hurt, why they feel the way they do. But what if when I start writing (and I give them the freedom to move and breathe around the pages) they misbehave and ruin the darn good story line I've concocted in my head? Those darn characters are mischievous and never seem to behave properly (at least in my books, they don't). My real-life children will behave better, I know they will.

Writers, do you feel me? Do your characters perform on cue, as expected, always? Or do they rummage around and get into trouble where you didn't plan on having any? Mothers, were you the type that relished your newfound freedom with your children in school or did you skulk for the few hours they were in the classroom? Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one...

Dashes, turkey legs and gremlins, oh my!

I think I may have just won the title of the most random blog title ever! My brain is a little fried today and after reading this post you may know why. And the title fits! It does! Let me tell you...I've had a great (albeit exhausting) week. And it's not even finished yet!

Saturday my sister-in-law was married in a gorgeous Irish-themed wedding. I was over-the-moon excited to be the matron-of-honor and, after re-reading this paragraph, promise to quit with the dashes from here on out. Games were played and Queen's favors were won. Smoked turkey legs were deliciously evil and there seemed to be an endless supply of beer. In the midst of the reception where I scored major points in archery and bocce ball challenges and where Husband won the stone toss, I discovered two things about myself. One, that I can wear the heavy, flannel, traditional garb that the women did back then without groaning too much about it. The temperature licked at 100 degrees, but my dress stayed on. It was a larger feat than it seems...take a look at what I was up against...



Which leads me to the second thing I discovered about myself...there is nothing sexier than a strong-jawed, wide-shouldered man in a kilt holding a bare turkey leg. (Side note: I'm not much for historical novels, but as of late I don't know what's going on with me. First, I love McCarty's The Chief, and now I'm drooling over Husband in a kilt. I think it's time I re-evaluate my writing/reading preferences.) (And YES, I have a left arm...it's wrapped behind my back and hidden beneath 10 pounds of stifling fabric. Hungry, sword-wielding Husband didn't gnaw it off.)

After the wedding, Husband and I packed up our two munchkins and headed to Pinecrest Lake, a campground with loads to do. Actually, even though there was fishing, horseback riding, and miles of trails to hike, I sat on the beach and looked at *this* all day:



Not such a bad view, huh?

This is me and Husband back to our modern-day selves, lounging like two lizards on the beach. Don't say anything but I think I liked him as a stone-throwing Irishman better. Ha!



The rugrats had never been camping and I was a little hesitant. In my worst nightmares I could not have imagined how dirty they'd get. The ring around my bathtub looked a little like those gulf oil spill pictures floating around the internet. Although I freaked out every time they kicked up plumes of dirt and laughed or shoved dozens of marshmellows in their little cheeks, they loved every second. Every single sugar-filled, dirty-little second. When we left, they were innocent and cuddly...a little like Gizmo. Remember him?



"Please let me go camping and eats tons of sugar! Pleeease! I'll be a good little gremlin!"

Now imagine Gizmo whacked out on pixie sticks and doughnuts and candy and picture him swimming in the lake waaaay past his bedtime. Yup. You got it. My cute, cuddly kids came home looking a little like this:



"Open this refrigerator so I can get to the deep-fried twinkies or I'm going to saw off the handle with my chainsaw! Raawr!" (And, why yes, that is me hiding behind the wall, too scared to enter the kitchen for fear the gremlins will eat off my right arm. It'd be awful to post a picture here tomorrow of me missing BOTH arms, right?)


Needless to say, I'm so glad the week is over. It's over, I tell you! We're home safe, the kids are clean (back to their mildly innocent, cute and cuddly selves), the piles of camping gear are (mostly) unpacked and I'm drop-dead tired. Wait...it's Thursday? Shoot. What should I do with the rest of my week?

Maybe I could convince my knight in shining plaid to dress up again. *wink

(Edited to add: Anyone wanna do a dash tally? Think I broke the twenty mark?)

Birthday Blues

My grumble, grumble, thirtieth, grumble birthday is coming up on Saturday. I'm kinda freaked out about it. I've never been one to fret about growing another year older. I drown myself in random quotes about birthdays that make me feel young and vibrant when that time of year rolls around. It pretty much works. A few well-knowns like "age is nothing but a number" and "it's not how old you are but how old you feel" do the trick on days I search for those creeping grays.

But thirty? Holy hell.

I'm the last of my friends to cross the threshold.

I really do feel older. (Thanks largely to the two knee surgeries that have left me with a slight gimp and aching pain that rears its ugly head when it's cold out.)

I tell Husband to turn down his loud music when he ramps it up. But come on, who wants to get their eardrums blasted out by Rage Against the Machine or Slipknot every "quiet" Sunday morning?

I'd MUCH rather spend my mornings with a mocha from Starbucks, a Chewy granola bar, and my blank word doc than a sweat session at the gym--even though I know which of those I *should* be doing.

And I'd much rather spend my nights cuddled beneath a blanket than out drinking with friends.

Is that so wrong? Am I making thirty the new fifty? I worry sometimes. Especially when Husband gets back from an open track meet this weekend and says he feels younger. Younger! Can you believe that? The nerve of him to mention youth when I'm about to be old and gray. Hmph!

I actually have plans for my thirtieth. A big bash with family and friends and beer and yummy cake and presents...it's my sister-in-laws wedding! Oh, I'm sure I'll do something the day or week after but for now there's no plans. I kinda just want to curl up on my rocker, pet my cat, drink some tea and watch 60 Minutes*.

*For the record I don't own a rocker, or a cat, I don't drink tea, nor have I ever watched 60 Minutes. And I've especially never done them all at the same time which would absolutely catapult me into the Depends-Zone.*

Anyway, back to my thirtieth. I don't want presents this year. Hell, I don't even want to drink. (Did enough of that at RWA National, thank you very much.) What I would like is a day with no cooking, no cleaning, no loud music, no stress, and hey, what the hell, maybe a book deal thrown in at some point.

Yeah, that'd pretty much blow the top off year thirty.

I'd looove for you all to weigh in. How did you feel at thirty? Were you as freaked out as I am? What did you do? (And if you say you watched 60 Minutes I'm going to chuck my MTWTHF pill container right at your head.)

Edited to add: I forgot to mention (not surprising seeing as memory loss is the first thing to suffer in old age) that the 100 Follower Contest is coming to a close. I'll pick the winner of Eve of Samhain or a $15 Starbucks Giftcard TOMORROW. If you're interested don't forget to follow the "Author Spotlight" link and comment.

Near Death Experience aka Motherly Freakout

You'll never believe what happened to me Saturday night--other than my diet blowing up like a two-ton firework because I stuffed myself at my uncle's birthday with two too many pieces of tri-tip and deliciously yummy chocolate cake and soda and pasta salad and more pasta salad and crunchy outside-warm inside garlic bread and chips and dip and...Whew. I feel a little better after spewing all that...not literally of course.

Well, doesn't that lead right into my post? I had a near death experience on my way home from the birthday party! YES. It's true. At least in my head it is.

Here's what happened.

I left the party well after midnight when the full moon was highest in the sky. The roads were bare save for the few squirrels and possums smattered here and there on the dry asphalt. My radio was blaring "Thriller" even though it was way past Halloween and my fingers were latched around the leather-wrapped steering wheel like a vice.

It's then that I heard the words whisper from the backseat: "Mommy, I unbuckled my seatbelt."

"What?!?" I yelled, glaring into the back.

Sure enough, as slats of moonlight streamed through the back window I saw my daughter's body free from the restraint that would save her life if some whacko came flying around the corner and slammed into us. And it could totally happen.

My mind raced. We were still a good ten minutes from home. I couldn't keep driving. The roads were bare but it'd only take one car veering out of their lane to hit us and that'd be it. But THE ROADS WERE BARE AND IT'S THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, meaning it's prime serial killer hunting season. I couldn't pull over knowing that. There was hardly a shoulder anyway because the road bent and twisted along the river like a shadow hovering beside a dark serpent. There was nowhere to go.

"Put it back on," I instructed her, slowing to a near halt as we approached the bridge stretching over the river.

She struggled. "I can't."

At this point I went into a wild rant about how it's dangerous to take off seatbelts while the car is still in motion much like the rant you'd get from a stewardess if you don't stow away your articles and put your tray tables in their upright and locked position on takeoff. Except I wasn't wearing a pretty smile and a starched suit-dress. I lectured very well anyway and proved my point as a car came barreling around the corner, windows down, Jay Z's "Hustler" carrying on the night breeze.

IT'S GOING TO HIT US! I KNOW IT IS! THE ONE TIME SOMEONE TAKES HIS OR HER SEATBELT OFF IS THE TIME SOMETHING HAPPENS! OH GOD! IT'S DARK! IT'S COMING FAST! I'M HELPLESS!

My saving grace appeared on the right--a small stretch of sand just before the bridge, large enough to fit my big ass truck. I weaved off the road, bounding over rocks and potholes and came to a halt before the little sandy patch shifted into a dirt road and dropped down into the river.

I sighed a breath of relief as the car passed, disappearing into the night. I peered through the dark to where the truck's lights illuminated something near the water. It...it almost looked like people...yes...two, three, maybe more...men. Big men. Damn it. They had to be big mean-lookin' men who didn't look pleased that I'd disturbed their little party, didn't they? Couldn't be little old ladies having a midnight tea party, oh no. Holy hell, there was some sort of bonfire going on and they...why were they all standing and looking at me? Oh shit, my lights were pointed right at them. And what they were smoking was definitely not legal.

I reached frantically into the backseat to latch my daughter's seatbelt. I couldn't reach it.

The men were closer now. Three decided to come check me out, bottles clutched in their grasp. They couldn't have liked my lights shining right on them but I couldn't turn another direction (there wasn't any room), and I couldn't turn the headlights off. Like I'd want to commit myself to the dark where I couldn't see them at all! But I also couldn't keep driving with my daughter's seatbelt off while car after car sped by! I wouldn't press my luck--I couldn't!

I made a split second decision.

I jumped out of the truck, hauled serious ass to the passenger door directly behind mine, leaped across the back bench seat, jerked the belt across my daughter's body, latched it, slammed the door shut, scurried back to my seat, slammed my door closed and bounded back onto the road.

I was seriously winded.

"Why'd we have to hurry?" she asked, innocent and worried.

"Because it wasn't safe!" I snapped, my heart still beating out of my chest. "There were men out there by the river and it wasn't safe!"

"There were men by the river?" It's clear the trauma had left her wondering why her mother just reacted like a raving lunatic. But then she said, "Were they Fishermen?"

"Yes," I answered dryly, my mind picturing gangsters with weed and guns and knives and...fishing poles? "They were really crazy fishermen."

The remainder of the drive home was met with silence as she, no doubt, tried to understand what was going on while I calmed myself down. But I couldn't! We almost died! Those guys could've totally killed us, hacked us up with their filleting knivery and fed us to the fishes as bait for their next meal! Really! It could've totally happened!

Okay, okay, so I may've overreacted a little bit. I didn't leave the party after midnight...we left at nine. A car did come barreling around the corner right as she depressed her seatbelt button, but I thought I heard Michael Bolton not Jay-Z. Okay, that's a stretch too. I didn't hear anything. BUT there were three guys doing something they weren't suppose to be doing near the river. They DID NOT like my headlights illuminating them and they did walk toward me to figure out what the hell I wanted. Except they weren't gangsters or bikers, at least not from what I could discern.

But they sure as hell weren't fishermen...not that I took the time to look for poles or tackle boxes.

Lastly, something I must admit...the freakout...THAT was real. My emotions. My thoughts. Those were about spot-on. Not so much of a near death experience in reality when you look at the hard facts but who looks at facts now-a-days? Everything seems to be driven by feelings and beliefs and desires and hopes and fears. I was definitely running on a few of those skewers that night.

The rest of the night I was completely spent. I crawled into bed and delved into Monica McCarty's The Chief before I called it a night well after midnight. My mind just wouldn't shut off. Thank God the historical romance didn't have cars or seatbelts or crazy men who had bonfires much too late at night and freak out mothers driving home with their restless children.

What about you? Your child ever push the seatbelt button while you were still driving? Have you ever forgotten to latch it completely and freak out when you realize you went halfway across town without it? I could imagine your mind might race through horrible possibilities as mine did. Care to weigh share so I don't feel like the only batty mother?

Know-it-all

I don't know it all. Far from it, in fact. But there are a few things I do know...like every day is a new day.

On top of editing, I've been planning a bridal shower for my sister-in-law, cleaning and cooking like a madwoman and taking care of my usual motherly summer duties (like taking kids to play dates and sports events). I've held it together rather well, with only the minor occasional freak-out. (Very typical of type-A personalities, I must say.)

But yesterday I lost it.

It seemed like every room I cleaned was dirty within two minutes of me walking out the door. Every time I looked at the kitchen sink it was full of dishes again. And every time I came home from the store there was something I forgot to pick up. I'd finally gotten my living room and kitchen cleaned and decorated for the shower, and walked into my son's room to put away laundry. I kid you not--I couldn't put a thing away. The mess was unbearable. I made my way to his bed, zig-zagging around Handy Manny's tool set and Spiderman four-wheelers. I tripped on Mr. Potato Head (totally wrenched my knee avoiding his damn pointy green hat), sat down, and had a good cry.

The Husband came in and found me a few minutes later. He asked me what I was doing (with a half-laughing, half-concerned "are you having a meltdown?" look on his face). I told him "I just needed a minute". He said something like "Want me to leave you alone?" I shook my head, dried my tears with some clean baby wipes, and got back to work. I kept thinking tomorrow is a new day. Hell, six o'clock is a new hour and there are things to do.

No rest for the weary, I suppose. At least not around my house lately. (After working a 13 hour shift this morning and 4 hours sleep the night before, The Husband cleaned out the rabbit's cage and hosed off the patio for the party this afternoon. He grumbled, but sucked it up too.)

That brings me too another thing I've figured out along the way.

Even though we celebrated our 8 year anniversary with a fancy-dancy trip to San Francisco a few days ago, there's a deeper level of appreciation when he offers to mop the kitchen floor and do some laundry than go somewhere romantic. Don't get me wrong...there's much to be said for a kid-free night out...but there's something about a man with a mop that's sexy as hell. Love is shown that way, people, not with roses or candlelit dinners.

Now if I could just figure out how to get my kids' bedrooms to clean themselves.

In which I invite you to have a good laugh at my expense...

Ha ha ha ha!...Ha ha!...Ha! Ahem.

That's better. Now that I got that out of my system I can write with more focus.

I've always believed in the motto "laugh at yourself first before others start the trend."

Maybe it's because I've been a colossal klutz for as long as I can remember. Stubbing my toes on door jambs, dropping things, pinching my fingers in hinges, and tripping over my own two feet are common occurrences around my house. And that's okay. I've come to grips with the fact that I'm an AWESOME mulit-tasker and that's why certain things fall apart...you know, like the ability to walk in a straight line or think clearly.

The last part is the inspiration for today's post.

I haven't been thinking clearly lately. I think it's because half my brain is in Humboldt during a massive rain storm, chasing down a killer (edits for Dark Tide Rising) and the other half is in San Francisco shifting into a vampire and searching for a cure to what's tainting their blood supply (edits for Enemy, Beloved). There is simply no room for day-to-day happenings. Case in point: I was invited to a birthday party on June 13th. I read the invitation carefully, checked my schedule, and wrote it in under Princess' t-ball game. In my head, it was clear as day that the party was Saturday, June 13th.

Nope.

The party is TOMORROW--Sunday, June 13th. I drove to the party and back home again in gusty wind warnings with two kids past their nap time. You'd think that would've been a recipe for disaster.

But I laughed almost the whole way home. I mean, really...who does that? Who misreads invitations and shows up a whole day early? I've heard of guests showing up hours early...no one but no one shows up the day before! *big goofy grin

It's just something else to add to my list of things I've done that should've been embarrassing but instead were hilarious! Also on that list is going to a funeral with smudges of chocolate chip on my upper lip (I looked like Hitler and no one told me--classic), and tripping on the stairs in college in front of everyone.

Every had one of those moments? Something really embarrassing that just wasn't because you couldn't stop laughing at yourself? Laughter really is the best medicine, isn't it? Now I'll go to the party tomorrow and laugh along with everyone else.

I'm such a dork and I wouldn't have it any other way. Now I've got to dive back into those chilly Humboldt waters to finish off my first round of edits. I'm almost there!

Another Summer, Another End

This morning I was reflecting on how another summer managed to sneak up on me. June is brimming with bridal and baby showers, birthdays, parties, graduations and vacations to "relaxing" places. (Though often times the planning and packing takes away some of the "relaxing" part.) Being pretty much a lifetime student and former high school teacher, the whole year seems to end with the conclusion of school. January 1st doesn't seem nearly as "new" as June 1st with nothing but summer days ahead.

So after today, my year is done!

I got to thinking how much different this year feels than last year. My flights are booked for RWA's National Conference in Orlando (yes, it was moved due to the floods), the hotel is reserved, and I even have my brand new laptop bag begging to be used. At this point last year I was in the same place when considering all of those things...

...but I'm not in the same place when it comes to my writing.

Kiersten White did a post a few days back about "last year-this year". Read it here.

I think writing things down that way gives a great concrete comparison. That, and I love lists.

Last year: I started and finished book 1, then realized it wasn't good enough to be published. Booked trip to RWA to learn what I had to do to make this my career.
This year: I started and finished books 2 and 3. Booked trip to RWA to pitch these awesome stories to agents and editors. I'm so in love with Book 3...and by the response I'm getting, I think other people are too.

Last year: I hadn't met a single writer, agent, or editor.
This year: I meet a wonderful group of writers every single month (SFARWA and BDRWA), have a published critique partner (Hi Lisa!), and have met too many agents and editors to count. And they're all FABULOUS.

Last year: I hadn't entered a single contest.
This year: I entered the Golden Heart and didn't final, although my scores were good. I entered the Daphne and also didn't final, but my scores were phenomenal with one "published, award winning" judge saying she can't wait until my entry is published so she can finish reading it.

Last year: I was writing through the night.
This year: I write mornings and afternoons only.

Last year: I sent out 100 queries on book 1 and received 100 rejections.
This year: I sent out 10 queries on book 3 and received 4 rejections and 3 requests...so far.

Last year: Writing everyday.
This year: Writing everyday.

Last year: I wasn't sure if I could cut it in the writing world.
This year: I know I will...it's just a matter of when.

I simply can't wait to see what the next year has in store!

(Oh, and did I mention I'm giving away a free signed copy of Eve of Samhain by Lisa Sanchez or a $15 Starbucks giftcard when my follower count reaches 100? If you haven't hit that "follow" button yet, it only takes a minute...and I'll be glowing in radiant thanks when you do!)

I'm in deep, deep trouble

Oh for pity's sake...

All the good shows on television are ending and I'm still glued to the couch giving my knee the rest it needs.

The Amazing Race is long gone. America's Next Top Model finale was Wednesday. Vampire Diaries ended last Thursday (*not that I watch it...*ahem). And my favorite show, The Biggest Loser, airs its finale Tuesday.

What on earth will I do? Seriously, people, I love to read...but for some reason I just can't bear to finish JR Ward's Lover Unbound. I have no idea why. And until I finish that one I refuse to pick up another. I think part of me believes if I start another story I'll never come back to finish this one...and Viscious' story deserves to be read. It really does.

At last month's SFARWA meeting I got autographed copies of Barry Eisler's Fault Line and Monica McCarty's The Chief. I cracked open the first pages of The Chief and was immediately pulled in. I snapped the book closed...

Can't read it yet...nope.

I'm being ridiculous, I know. But with my good shows ending and my unfinished read idling on my shelf I feel like trouble has come calling.

I guess I better get this knee iced so I can start moving around. Lord knows The Husband would like me to start being a little productive.

On a very side note: It's kinda been a blessing in disguise me being out of commission and The Husband having to pick up the slack by taking over my duties as High Priestess of the house. He's definitely realized how wearing my job is...and when it was time for him to go back to work last night I think I saw him skipping out the door. Mothers, Caretakers, Wives, Homemakers YOU ROCK.

Being Susie Homemaker is not easy to say the least (especially when you're trying to look good doing it)...

Dreamweaver

I used to have recurring dreams as a child. One in particular involved riding my Strawberry Shortcake Bigwheel down the road with my brother who was riding his very own Transformers Hotrod. We must've lived somewhere hilly like San Francisco, because we'd pedal our brains out up and down hills until the road ended...now when I say ended, I don't mean with a sign reading Dead End. I mean the road disappeared into a gigantic body of water that went on as far as the eye could see. Ever seen Lake Michigan? Yeah, that's about right.

My brother, being the logical physicist he was (even at that age), would slam on his breaks and circle around, judging the depth of the water on the road, scheming a way to get through unscathed.

"It's too deep," he'd say, and circle some more, eyeing the distance to the far shore. "We have to turn around."

I'd pedal back, scan the road for oncoming traffic (safety first) then pedal as fast as I could into the water.

"I can make it!" I'd yell.

I don't know where I was trying to go. Water would rise higher and higher, covering my bike, my body, then finally my head. Once I was fully submerged, I always knew to reach up and grab ahold of a trusty vine before panic set in. In every dream the vine was the same--thick, sturdy, safe. I'd pull and pull, climbing until I reached the top of a huge cliff that overlooked the ocean. (Funny, I never noticed that green, poppy-covered cliff in the city before. Hmmm) My brother would be on the other side looking proud that he found a way to reach the top like me...without getting drenched in the process. (Always the competitive brainiac.)

I'd wake up feeling anxious, maybe a little scared. It didn't make sense to me at first. I was okay. I made it to the top safely. Why the panic?

Then it hit me. It wasn't the water, the sinking feeling, or the worry over my brother's safety (although in the dream I was very concerned). It was the thought that the vine might not be there for me to grab onto next time. Each time the dream replayed, I could never stop myself from pedaling into the water no matter how scared I was to do it.

I'm totally having this feeling now. I don't know where my writing will lead me, although I'm pedaling my mental-wheels as fast as they'll go. It feels smooth sailing so far...but oh, look down there...down the mountain where the road ends. See all that murky, unknown publishing business floating around in the water? Looks pretty ominous, doesn't it? Think we can make it? Can I circle around and find another way through safely? Enter a contest or two or three to beef up my resume? Try self-publishing? E-pubs? Write some short stories or a different genre for variety?

You know, when I stop to weigh my options, I get the same feeling from my dream. I pedal-and write. And pedal-write some more. And pedal-write, write, write, write! No matter the uncertainty, the fear, I just have this gut feeling that once I'm fully submerged in the writing realm I'm going to reach up and...

Heroes reducing themselves to Homer Status

Are you watching this season of Survivor? If you've been one of the few living under a rock, allow me to enlighten you. The All-Stars are back. Big time. And they're split into two categories: Heroes and Villains.

The thing I find funny is that in a group of back-stabbing, shit-talking, game-playing villains, a select few (ahem-Boston Rob) are stepping up their game, helping out around camp, and looking more like heroes than they villains they've been labeled as.

And likewise at the hero camp, there are those who are looking more like villains by the way they're cursing out their own team and sabotaging team wins. Gravedigger James disrespected Stephenie as she was leaving by telling her to "Shut her mouth." Doesn't sound like much of a man, let alone a hero, to me.

Many times during this week's show contestants were surprised by the change of character in others. Really? Does it surprise you that a villain would eventually step up to get the work done in a camp that has nothing? Or a hero would lower themselves to berating others when stress-levels soar? (Haven't we all been guilty of this?) Didn't surprise me at all.

Maybe that's because I was a teacher.

Teachers know that in any classroom, even ones filled with college-bound, eager-to-learn, straight-A students, a disruptive student ALWAYS steps up to bat. ALWAYS. And in a classroom full of disruptive students (that's why we don't track anymore, people), there will be a few who sit quietly and do their work, giving the teacher the breath of fresh air that keeps them from strangling the others. (Just being honest here. Personally, I would NEVER, EVER think of doing something that violent...*insert glowing halo and heavenly music here.)

Students and survivors alike fill the roles needed at the time. That's why it doesn't do any good to stereotype and label. Survivor Season 20 is a PERFECT example of that. It's still good reality TV though. :)

Go Boston Rob! Who are you siding with?

Beauty on the Subway

On January 12th, 2007, in the middle of a Washington D.C. Metro Station, a violinist opened his case on the ground, threw a couple dollars in, and started to play. For forty-five rush-hour minutes, he played six classical pieces.

Thousands of people passed him by. Only a handful actually stopped to listen and fewer than that paid for his "symphony". Had they known who he was and what was going on, they might've given more attention. Have a look and listen...




He was not a mere street-musician looking to cash in on some well-played music notes. Joshua Bell was participating in a Washington Post study to see what reaction people would have to true beauty in an unexpected form.

Joshua Bell was the featured violinist on the Angels and Demons Soundtrack as well as the The Red Violin Concerto. A few days prior to this, he sold out a theatre in Boston's Symphony Hall where tickets started at $100 a piece.

To rub salt in the wounds of the passersby, the violin he played on was reportedly worth 3.5 million dollars.

I think this has a message for everyone who's ever said to their child, "Stop splashing in the tub, it makes a mess!" or "We don't have time to stop for ice cream." or "No, you can't go smell those flowers." Beauty and love are all around...in many different forms. If we don't have the time to stop and listen to beautiful music played by a famous violinist, what else are we missing in the world? Seriously, how much time would it take out of your day to sit and listen to a man play his heart out in a subway?

An even more telling question would be...when you first watched the video on my blog, did you skim through it? Did you watch it part-way then stop? Did you watch it at all or did you first need to know how good he was before you gave him a few minutes of your time?

Hmmm...I'd be interested to know.

Check out his website for album and tour dates.

Love and...um..Understanding?

I was talking with a friend yesterday (Holla back, Lora!) when I remembered something really funny happened to me last week that I forgot to mention.

I was getting ready to leave the gym after sweating off five pounds on the EFX machine (not really five pounds but I wish).

A HUGE black man, topping the scales at probably three-hundred pounds, standing well over six-foot-six, blocked my path. My first thought was that this man was MASSIVE. I sure wouldn't want to meet up with him in a back alley. Tattoos wrapped around both arms, disappearing behind his sagging black tank top. His dark hair was buzzed short, matching the stubble grazing his face. Mean-sucker.

He asked in a rumble of a voice, "Would you mind helping me with something?"

Uh...me? Help him? I almost blurted, "If you want a spot, Dude, you might wanna ask someone more in your weight class." But I didn't. Instead, I just nodded like a moron.

He leaned close before asking, "Do you know who sings this song?"

Okay, spotting him for a five-hundred-pound squat, I couldn't do. But I'm not too shabby with calling music as I hear it. So I agreed, pulled my headphones out of my ears, stepped into the weight room and listened.

I heard a deep voice echo through the gym:

"We got enough stars to light the sky at night, Enough sun to make the whole world bright, We got more than enough, But there's one thing there's just not enough of."

Know the song yet? Or the singer? The singer I guessed right away...CHER. Can't mistake her voice.

I told him who it was and started to walk away. The muscle-bound man stopped me with an outstretched hand and said with a goofy-grin, "Do you happen to know the name of the song?"

Are you kidding me? Am I starring on Punk'd? Is this buff weight-lifter really asking me the name of a Cher song to add to his compilation? Alright...at this point I'm already helping the guy and wondering where this is headed. I swore if Ashton came running out of the locker room laughing his ass off, I was chucking a dumbbell at his perfect, Demi-loving face. She wouldn't love him so much when I was through with him...

I listened some more:

"Not enough love and understanding, We could use some love to ease these troubled times, Not enough love and understanding, Why, oh why?"

Being the Cher fan I am, I told him the song was titled "Love and Understanding". That's when I waited for the punchline.

He grinned ear to sweaty ear and said, "Thank you so much." Then he left, walked back to the bench press, where he no doubt chest-pressed a bull.

I laughed all the way to my truck. Now this situation isn't all that different from creating humorous scenes in stories. If you make the reader think something is going to happen (IE: the big-scary-dude asks me to spot him or pushes me into a corner), it's frightening but expected. Yet, if you have that same big-scary-dude act all interested in a Cher song it sparks a laugh.

Try it. Think of a character in a story you're writing. Make them do something out of character and totally unexpected. Although you can't use the technique all the time, it'll sure spruce up the scene! After all, it uplifted my day!

Just to put you in the moment, I've posted Cher's video. Watch it and imagine the biggest-scariest-meanest-bastard you've ever seen taking an awkward interest in it. Heh-heh. Still makes me laugh.

Just a thought...

If you could choose between growing old from the neck up or from the neck down, which would it be?

I heard this prompt yesterday and got into a lengthy discussion about it with the husband. It seems to me, men are more likely to jump at the answer.

This was the husband's conclusion: "Age from the neck up! If you aged from the neck down you wouldn't be able to play sports for very long."

Heaven forbid, right?

Now women, even though they may come to the same answer (which I totally did), have to toss it over. The answer is not black and white...and sadly has nothing to do with sports. Men are seriously from Mars. For women, there is a debatable gray area.

Toss this over: If you aged from the neck up, you could always use botox or get face-lifts to make your face match the rest of your body. Treatments would be expensive, but if they worked you'd have a youthful body, head to toe, for your whole life. If you aged from the neck down, you'd be a natural beauty (at least in the face) until the day you kicked the bucket. Everywhere you went people would say, "You're how old?!? Wow, you look fantastic!" Compliments like that never get old. And hey, you could always cover your body with expensive, designer clothes all day every day, couldn't you? Sounds like a good excuse to keep the wardrobe updated.

What do you think? Age from the neck up or the neck down?

On the bench

Maybe it's the lingering Superbowl thoughts that have inspired the blog today...maybe it's the fact that I got another rejection letter on book #2. Either way, I'm writing about being on the bench because that's how I'm feeling today.

Sometimes I think that writing is very much like football.

Players train, study, train some more, hone their skills, and then bleed, sweat, and pray that one day they'll get the chance to star in the big game. Writing is no different. I go to conferences, network, take workshops, plot until my brain hurts, read, read some more, study like genres, then bleed, sweat, and pray that one day I'll get the chance to become a published author.

Everything leads up to that moment when the coach says, "Johnny, you're in." Or in the case of writing, we wait for that day when an agent will say, "Hey, you. Good work. The contract is in the mail."

But until that day, there is a whole heck of a lot of waiting.



And to make matters worse, while waiting for our own shot, we get to watch all of our friends, colleagues, peers, get their own chance at the field. Don't get me wrong...at every single tiny milestone I'm celebrating with my writing buddies. Their victories are my victories. I jump up and down with them because they work hard and deserve every thing they get.

That's similiar to football too. If you're on the bench during the Superbowl when your team wins, wouldn't you share in the victory? Wouldn't you feel like you're a part of something larger? I bet you would. And rightly so.

But damn, the waiting sucks. And the worst part is, all this waiting is dependant on someone else to say, "Okay, Kristin, you're up. Let's rock." I'm so ready to play in the game, it's not even funny. I wish it was something I had more control over.

Well, I suppose I do have control over something. Until I get my shot I can continue to train. I'll go to conferences, network, take workshops, plot until my brain hurts, read, read some more, study like genres, bleed, sweat, and pray. Then rinse, lather, repeat until the coach calls me in.

Grace like rain

I'm having the best day EVER. A storm is pummeling California. Downpours, power outtages, thunder and lighting are expected to last the entire week.

And I feel like I'm in heaven.

There's nothing quite like the smell of cool rain on asphalt. Its freshness washes away dirt and grime, leaving everything sparkly clean. Birds tweet joyful winter songs and gather to splash in puddles. Clarity exists beneath those dark clouds if you open yourself to it...

If you're lucky enough to get caught in the middle of the storm (yes you heard me right), do something for me. Let the fat drops hit your shoulders. Breathe...slowly. Relax your body from the hairs on your head to the tips of your toes. Close your eyes. Lift your face to the heavens.

Do you feel that?



It's called Grace.