Revisionland

Confession: I love revising. Love it.

Don't get me wrong, I love drafting too – the suspense of becoming acquainted with new characters and the surprise of figuring out what they'll say and how they'll react. ª

I get the whole Girl Scouts' song "Make new friends…" but I've never had a problem with "but keep the old."

Revisions *contented sigh* are like going home to my friends-since-elementary-school, sitting on a porch and drinking apple cider while we chat and chat.

It's familiar. It's comfortable. And it's engaging. Uncovering new layers, ambitions, motivation. Tightening and interweaving. Discovering threads of nuance I'd already included that need to be enhanced.

Give me colored pens, a large bag of Revision Skittles, and a quiet place to work and I'll stay happily sequestered until St. Matt or the puggles demand some attention or life intervenes. Emerging for bathroom breaks and refills of my mug and Revision Skittles, pausing for Inspiration Walks, Inspiration Workouts and Inspiration Bubble-baths, my mind is full of beloved characters and trouble spots in the manuscript.

And even when I'm away – 26 sixth graders demand a lot of my attention and energy for much of the week – there are scenes and scenarios bubbling away on the back burner of my brain.

So when I'm lacking on Twitter, slacking on my blog and being a delinquent about returning phone calls, don't worry. I haven't been kidnapped by pirates, gotten lost in the woods or come down with an incurable strain of porcine flu.

I'm just ensconced in my revision-cave, sugar-fortified, ink-stained fingers, scribbled-across pages and a smile.

Be back soon.

Falls and Marks

I fell during my run today. One stride I was rushing forward, chattering to St. Matt about an amazing book I'd read yesterday and admiring the foliage; then I was launched into sideways Superman dive, grating over leaves, roots and twigs. I'm sure it was very graceful.

I popped up, shook my limbs, shrugged at a suddenly pale St. Matt, and resumed my run and the conversation: "And it was so consuming; I couldn't turn pages--

He interrupted to point out that I'd given him yet another heart attack and to repeat: "Don't look at your leg. No. Don't. I said DON'T look at it."

I have a weensy issue with blood. Okay, it's a major issue. Bruises, however, inspire macabre fascination. My new hobby is watching my legs turn purple.

But it isn't painful; it isn't even unexpected. I fall A LOT, especially on a trail run – and trail runs in the autumn are their own brand of treachery: tree roots and holes stay hidden under a layer of leaves, just waiting for their opportunity to send me sprawling.

Yet, despite four (is it five?) sprained ankles, countless scrapes, and bruises from indigo to lilac, there's no keeping me off the trails.

A straight out, straight back road run? One where I'll know each step that takes me away and brings me back to the start? Boring.

I prefer runs just like how I prefer my books: full of the unexpected. They'll have a start, they'll have a conclusion, but the moments in between should be an adventure.

I want my heroine to dare to turn left at the fallen log, just to see if it is a real path. I want her to start running up a hill whose peak is hidden by trees – not knowing if she'll have the stamina to reach the top, or even how far away it is. I want split second decisions: stay by the stream or turn toward the covered bridge. And challenges: fording puddles, striding through mud, sliding up a rain-slick hill. She should stop short to avoid spider webs that appear inches from her face, pause to pat the occasional dog sharing her path, and be willing to get her feet wet and her legs muddy. Scratches from that pricker-bush incident should be worn with pride.

It's these books that stay with me; the ones where I can't predict what the hero or heroine will do next. The ones whose characters take risks, do the unexpected, but never forget to notice the beauty along the way. They fall, get back up, continue their adventures.

These books fill my head with questions and what-if's. They linger in my mind and are book-bullied into others' hands. These are the books that leave marks on me long after The End.

But unlike trail runs… the marks don't require band-aids.

Twitter-cation Comes with Umbrella-Drinks, Right?

It feels weird not to check Twitter before bed.

This the tweet I almost posted last night – before I remembered that in order to do so, I'd have to log-in to Twitter.

Immediately afterward I debated whether I was allowed to read e-mail notifications of DM's. (Can I?)

This could be a long week.

When I saw Nova Ren Suma discussing a Twitter-cation last week, I thought, how sad! I'll miss her and Tiffany Trent's commentary. Then others climbed aboard and I thought, how brave.

Last night Tye and Victoria asked me if I was in, and, demonstrating my absolute inability to resist peer-pressure, I caved.

It feels weird.

My mind automatically forms sub-140 character soundbites:

Who was the idiot who decided orange and cranberry belong in the same muffin?

Confession: I have officially eaten more Revision Skittles than we distributed to trick-or-treaters.

Has anyone read GIRL IN THE ARENA? I like the story, but am struggling with the lack of ""marks.

How will I share my excitement about the new Jesse McCartney song "Body Language"? Or confess my St. Matt-mocked crush on him? Or share how I caught St. Matt humming the tune after I played it on repeat for an hour. *gigglefit*

The worst part, however, will be not knowing what's going on with everyone else. So if you could all e-mail me regular updates of your day, that'd be great. I won't even limit you to 140 characters.

Show me the Marshmallows!

In class last week, I showed the kiddos this video*.



When it was over and the giggles subsided, I asked them why they thought I'd shown it. (Sometimes I'll show them something with no real motivation in mind, except to see what they'll guess, but this was not one of those times).

"To show that if you wait, things get better?"
"Yeah, patience is important."
"Nope."
"It's like in writing, you need to keep working when you're stuck."
"Nope."
"You're gonna give us marshmallows?"
"Nice try."

Since it was snack time, the kiddos' eyes shot towards the baggies of Cheez-its and containers of carrots waiting on their desks. "Can we have a hint?"
"How many words were spoken in video clip?"
"16?"
"Not a lot."
"So did we know what those kids were thinking and feeling?"
"Oh yeah!" Nods of agreement, animated recounting of favorite parts.
"How?"
"The way they acted. Like the kid who sniffed his marshmallow."
"And the one that licked it."
"I like the kid who won't even look at it… but he's still holding it to make sure it doesn't go anywhere."

"So, even without saying: I am impatient, you could tell how they were feeling?"
Nods and my-teacher-is-a-moron eye rolls.
"And in real life, do you need your friends to tell you that they're annoyed or scared or surprised?"
"No."
"Because you can tell from their actions and body language, right? Let's try something. Show me what you look like when you're angry."
Grimaces and giggles.
"What about surprised?"
Gasps and louder giggles.
"Hmmm, because in your narratives I'm seeing lots of I was so mad and Mom looked sad. How could you show me that instead of telling me?"

As the pieces clicked in their heads, they reached for their notebooks with eager fingers and waited for their cue to head off and write.

Before I could give it, a hand shot up: "Mrs. Schmidt, is this how you can always tell when someone needs help in class – even before they ask?"

"Exactly! You show me you're confused with your expressions and actions. And because teachers are psychic…"


We all need this reminder sometimes; it's easier to tell than show. That night I went home and checked my own new WIP for places I'd taken telling-shortcuts. And of course I found some. We all do. I found myself trying to rationalize: how many ways can there really be to show fear? Sorrow? Anticipation?

Then I thought back to the video I'd shown my class: There are 11 kids who face the marshmallow test. They each express their frustration and impatience in a unique way. Why would the characters in my story be any different?

When I eliminated the excuses and shortcuts, I found myself doing a lot more reflecting -–how would each character show his/her emotions? The more time I spend thinking this way, the more I learn about my characters.

… And soon, just like with the kiddos in my class, there's no need for the characters to raise their hands and tell me how their feeling, because I know exactly what they'll say or do when faced with a surprise, a challenge, an obstacle.

Now, excuse me while I go make Indoor S'mores.**


*Thank you, Julie Weathers, for posting the link on Twitter
**I dare you to try watching that video 8 times in a row to count the number of kids and not come away craving marshmallows.

blurred boundaries and book thoughts

My ability to differentiate between reality and imaginary has always been questionable. My childhood was a test of my parents’ patience and endurance, peppered with invisible friends, the She-ra incident*, and a fantasy life so vivid people never knew when I was telling the truth or my truth.

I haven’t really ever outgrown this, though now I write my invisible friends’ stories on paper and try not to flinch when I have to refer to it as fiction.

Sometimes the boundary line blurs a bit.

Last night was comprised of NOsleep and THUNDERstorms. The first can be blamed on finishing my first revision pass on my WIP. I’d done a little I-love-this-book dance, E-mailed it to my first reader, then panicked. I wanted it back. What if it wasn’t loved? What if I wanted to change something? But mostly I missed it.

I trudged up to bed feeling achy, not just because of the ear-infection-that-won’t-end, but because I’d sent my story out and it didn’t feel as much mine anymore. I couldn’t protect it.

That’s when the THUNDERstorms began.

I tried to ignore them. Three hours later I was still trying to ignore them, but now the corners of the room looked ominous and the slumbering-puggle-breath on my calf was making me twitchy.

I surrendered to 4:30 AM and decided to start my day with elliptical-hour and a new book.

Sleep-deprivation smears that real/imaginary boundary. I don’t think the ear-infection vertigo or the new antibiotics help either. And the book**…

It clung in my head all day, wisps of plot/characters floating up as I set about going through the motions of pretending to be rested and mentally present.

I came home and dove on it – spending the after work hours intermittently dozing and reading; finishing my nap and the book as the sky began to darken.

But I didn’t feel like I could completely wake or disengage. I was disoriented – the world was settling down as I was getting up and St. Matt wanted my attention while I wanted to retreat and contemplate.

“Too bad it’s dark and raining, I could use a run.”
“Tiffany, it’s not raining.”
“What?” I wandered out on the porch. He was right. It wasn’t raining. It hadn’t rained. Nothing was wet. Disorientation increased exponentially.

I took a reflection-walk in the non-rain. The book swirling in big arcs through my head, its themes mirroring my sense of disconnection. How much of our reality is imposed versus how much is created? Is one version right and another wrong? Who controls what we see, believe, perceive? And if we’re all experiencing things differently and in so many ways, is it possible to ever understand someone else? Yet we pass judgement on others’ realities all-the-time.


The woman approaching on the sidewalk startled me. I’d been absorbed in my envisioned vs. encountered debate about reality and hadn’t heard her– despite the fact that she was juggling two panting doggies and their corresponding *ahem* baggies.

“Hi,” I nodded and smiled and she mirrored my actions, passing by with a tug on the leashes.

If it weren’t for the slight twist of her head and the side of amused grin, I might have remained oblivious, but I caught her second glance and looked down.

I’m wearing pajamas. More specifically, bright blue pajama pants decorated with palm-sized cartoon reindeer.

Awareness rushed back in with a flood of blood to my cheeks. And riding on the tide of embarrassment came clarity too.

Reality is both envisioned AND encountered. Maybe in my case, the imaginary paints with a more dominant stroke, but I’m okay with it. As long as I keep a tangential grasp on the facts – i.e. we no longer set a place at the dinner table for Harvey – I’m okay with believing my world is how I create it. Believing that people are good, that happily ever after is achievable, and that miracles happen. I’m okay with ignoring the times that these beliefs have been proven wrong and believing that what lies ahead is as wondrous as the stories within my head.


And wearing pajamas for a stroll around the neighborhood? I’m okay with that too. Even if they’re Christmas ones and even if it’s June.

*This deserves a blog post of its own someday
** No, I'm not telling which book. But I hope you're lucky enough to experience it someday soon.

A long and sordid tale of Pickles

We have a pickle tray in my family. I’m not sure if this is a normal thing or just a wacky my-family thing, but we do. It’s glass or crystal, I’m not sure which because I’ve never examined it too closely. My mother had learned the hard way to keep me away from breakables. While she scurried about cooking and cleaning for holiday parties, the task of filling this tray inevitably fell to five-year-old me. Possibly because the task took me an absurdly long time and kept me from being underfoot or in backyard mud puddles.

The pickle tray has sections: one for black olives, one for green olives, one for gherkins – which I believed were the shrunken warty fingers of witches, and the last section for dill pickle spears.
I would fill it using a method I mastered in the pick-your-own strawberry patch: one olive in the tray, one dill pickle in my tummy. One nasty gherkin in the tray, one dill pickle in my tummy. This method may take a little longer and may require two jars of dill pickles, but I never complained.

Until a half-hour later -- usually right around the time the first guests showed up -- I would get sick.

My mother would frantically shepherd me to the upstairs bathroom while gathering coats, accepting appetizer trays, and dispensing hugs. I’d boot, rally, and run downstairs to be admired by aunts and uncles and scamper off with my cousins.

Then came THE DAY. The day when my mom informed me that I couldn’t do the pickle tray. “I don’t want you touching it.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Because you’re allergic to pickles,” she answered. “Go set the table – fold the napkins into animals if you want.”

So the Thanksgiving table featured an assortment of origami napkins and the pickle tray was filled by my sister and kept out of my reach.

Thus began a saga of pickle-avoidance: Is there relish in that tuna? I can’t eat it. I need my hamburger without pickles, please. At restaurants I’d push the pickle spear off my plate with my sister’s fork and tear off any part of a sandwich role that’d been touched by the juices.

I was allergic. That’s what allergic people do, right?

This continued for years: No relish on my hotdog, please. I’ll pass on the deviled eggs…

Until one day I was at a deli with my family. By this point I was in high school and had the drill down: “No pickles on my plate, please.”

Yet when my cucumber sandwich was delivered, there was an electric green spear right beside it. “Man! They messed up my order, does anyone want my pickle?” I began my ritual of tearing off the pickle-juiced portions of the bread.

“You really do hate pickles, don’t you?” My mother said with a shake of her head. “That’s so funny, you used to love them.”

I put the roll down, “What are you talking about? I’m allergic to pickles.”

My mom’s mouth twitched in the way it does when she’s trying not to laugh because even though she thinks she’s about to be funny, she knows her audience won’t feel the same way. “Um, Tiff….”

“Yeeeesss?”

“You’re not actually allergic to pickles.”

“WHAT?”

“You’re not actually allergic to pickles. That was just something I told you when you were little because you’d eat them until you got sick.” She shrugged. “So go ahead and enjoy.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I was flabbergasted – all those pickle-free years and burgers.

“I guess I forgot. Oops.”

Oops? Oops? Was there any other part of my medical history she’d forgotten to tell me? I scowled like only a teenager can, ate my pickle, her pickle, and both my little brothers’ pickles. There was more than a ten-year pickle deficit in my diet, and I wanted to start fixing that immediately.

It is possible that I got sick afterward.

I still get like this. No, I don’t still gorge myself on pickles until I ralph. (Occasionally I overindulge in Swedish Fish and coffee, but that’s another story). I do, however, fixate on one task, item, whatever, until I’ve overdone it. With running this can result in over-training injuries. With reading I earn raccoon-like circles from too many late nights with books under the covers. With Twitter it becomes St. Matt threatening to hide Petunia. While writing I spend so much time IMH, that the line with reality becomes blurred.

And this April, it was BEDA. This post completes it; I’ve officially blogged each day this month. BEDA could not have come at a more chaotic time: there were roadtrips, crisis’s, parent-teacher conferences, and TBALMCSAP revisions, but not even the Easter bunny prevented me from posting.

I’m glad that April doesn’t have 31 days, and I’m glad BEDA’s over. It was fun and I’ve loved daily comments, but I’m starting to feel that ut-oh-I’ve-over-done-it feeling. It’s time to slowly back away from my blog and leave it be for a few days.

Except, back when I was a tiny-Tiffany, right after I booted, rallied, ran downstairs, and greeted the grown-ups, before I headed to the backyard to rumpus with my cousins– I’d make a stop at the pickle table to grab another spear or two.

In other words: I’ll see you soon.

Poets, yes. Spies, no.

Sixth graders are not stealthy. This isn’t news to me, but it was brought to my attention today –yet again – in a quite adorable way.

April is National Poetry Month. April is National Poetry Month and my kiddos have been writing poems. April is National Poetry Month, my kiddos have been writing poems, and one of this year’s dads was Poet Laureate of our town. I invited him in to talk to the class. Today.
This is where the not-so-stealthy part comes in.

Mr. Kiddo is in front of the class doing an excellent job of speaking about his writing process. He’s sharing some truly beautiful poems. I’m trying not to tear-up as he reads a poem about when his 12-year-old Buckaroo was just a baby. I glance around the classroom and notice something…

Most of the kiddos are entranced, chins in hands, leaning forward with rapt attention. But two… no, make that three. No, actually it’s four. Wait! FIVE! Five kiddos are futzing in their desks, or have put their head down, or are scribbling something in notebooks on their laps. WHAT? This is unacceptable. We are respectful in room 202!

I attempt some stealth of my own, trying to walk quietly across the room while my heels clack on the tile. One looks up with a sheepish grin as I approach. A second startles and slides what he’s writing into his desk. A third stays face down; her forehead pressed against the edge of the desk. I tap her shoulder, she jumps. I crouch and whisper: “Sweetpea, what are you doing? That’s not very polite.”

And then - I get it. I see the notebook in her lap and I get it. I peer across the table and spy another kiddo doing the same thing. I get it.

They’re writing.

They’ve been inspired by Mr. Kiddo, his talk, and his poems: they’re writing.

“Sorry, Mrs. Schmidt,” whispers the pink-cheeked Sweetpea.

I wink. “Promise I’ll give you writing time after,” I whisper before patting her shoulder, standing, and not-so-stealthily clacking back across the room with a proud smile stretched ear to ear.

Fierce Wonderings

What was the headstone company thinking when they posted a sign reading: “Drive Safe. We Can Wait”? I obsess over this each time we drive past.

This would be an example of a FIERCE WONDERING. Something that puzzles you and sticks with you long after it should linger. It’s a Ralph Fletcher term and one I use in my classroom while encouraging the kiddos to record their own Fierce Wonderings in their writers’ notebooks.

I have Fierce Wonderings all the time. The book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg is a gigantic fierce wondering for me. I read to my class each year hoping that one of them will know the stories behind the illustrations – or that I finally find closure. Nope, but the kiddos do write great more stories that lead to more Fierce Wonderings.

Other Wonderings of the Fierce variety I’m plucking from my notebook:

Graffiti on a local building (I changed the names): Melanie Smith, I will love you forever. No matter what happens. Love, C. I find it odd that good old ‘C’ had no qualms about using his love’s first AND last name, but stuck with his own initial. So she can get in trouble for his vandalism, but he’s off the hook? Also, what does he expect to happen? Does 'what happens' matter to Melanie? Curious…

When I was in the local bookstore about a month ago, a 3-4 year old was wondering from his father to his older sister, to random customers repeating over and over, “I just want to find something to make mommy happy. I just want to get something that will make mommy happy. Can we find something to make mommy happy?” His dad was ignoring him, his sister brushed him off, and I wanted to scoop him up and hug him. What had happened to make him feel, at 4 years old, that his mother’s happiness was his responsibility? His words and desperate tone have echoed in my ears for weeks.

There’s an author I’m not quite sure actually exists. I like her first book a lot, so I googled her to find out if there’d be more. The only place I could find her online was listings on Amazon – where I discovered there’d be a sequel. Even the publisher’s website doesn’t have any more details than were listed in the bookflap bio. When the sequel came out I read it, didn’t like it as much, and went to the web address listed in the bookflap bio (this was the only change from the first bio). The website doesn’t exist. It’s now been six months since I read the book and the website still doesn’t exist. How is it possible for this author to have next to no presence online? I find this fascinating and the conspiracy theory part of me believes she’s not real.

I heard part of a tsunami-story during the media glut in December of 2004 where an American tourist mother was talking about being stuck in a hotel stairwell with her two children. The water was rising rapidly and she couldn’t hold on to both her infant and toddler and keep herself afloat. She chose to let go of the toddler because he had a chance of being able to swim, whereas the baby did not. Something interrupted the news and I never heard the end of the story. In my cupcakes-&-unicorns mind they all survived, but…


This is me – I’m a Fierce Wonderer. I’ll ask St.Matt’s opinion on something (like the tsunami story above) hours, days, weeks, years after it occurs. His response: “Tiffany, you’ve to let things go.”

Let things go? Has he MET me? I can no more let things go than I can stop eating jellybeans, reading, drinking coffee, or writing.

And I don’t really want to. I like fiercely wondering. It’s part of what makes me a writer – I wonder what happened to that mother, both in the stairwell and since then. There’s a story in that. I wonder what motivates a toddler to obsess over buying something to ‘fix’ this mother – and how his father could ignore him. There’s a story in that. The graffiti & missing author? Each could be a story.

And it’s not just sad things that keep me wondering. We just got home from ice cream and the muddy kneed pigtailed nine-year old in front of me in line was squealing, “Today’s the best day ever!” Normally I’d attribute this to winning a soccer game or just the beautiful weather, but her mother had a slightly dazed expression as she leaned down to her daughter and whispered, “Shhh, I know, but don’t tell anyone. Not yet- soon!”

I wonder…

A Matter of Perspective

I volunteered at an Autism Awareness 5K this morning. I probably could’ve run it, but – since the tan lines from last summer’s ankle brace still haven’t faded --I’m babying my ankle this year.

St.Matt and my SIL were running, they had maps of the course in their race bag, along with sneaker chips, safety pins, number and Powerbars.

I had a bright yellow VOLUNTEER shirt that clashed with the khaki capris I’d tugged on at 6:45.

“I’ve got just the spot in mind for you,” said one of the directors, a very nice man I’d never met before.

“Not at the water station?” That’s where I’d been told I’d be situated during volunteer check-in.

“Nope, I need you somewhere else.” He smiled at me in a confident way that made me wonder if rumors of my cheering-prowess had made their way all the way from Boston to Buckingham, PA. Or perhaps he was just wowed by my post-massive-coffee confidence and energy.

Either way, I ended up mid-hill at an intersection were runners would pass me three times. As runners headed down the hill towards me, I pointed them down a side street. They would run a loop and come back towards me and I would point them behind me, down to the bottom of the hill, where they would run around a cone. Finally they’d run up the whole hill and disappear around the corner they’d come from. This was not a little hill.

For 30 minutes before the race I was alone on it. The 24 oz coffee I’d so quickly finished suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea. I had to go and I was bored. I practiced my hand signals – 1st the cul de sac on the left, then down behind me, then up the hill – this was interesting for about 24 seconds.

I tweeted a bit, played some music on my phone, and bopped around in the middle of the street to entertain myself – looking up when I heard giggles and finding two kiddos watching me from a neighboring yard. Apparently I was entertaining them too.

About 20 minutes prior to the race, a runner on a warm-up loop approached me: “So when I reach the first time, how far into the race am I? How far is that loop? When I pass you coming up the hill, how far to the finish?”

I realized I didn’t know. I’d gotten in the truck with the director, been deposited in the middle of the course and I knew nothing but my own immediate intersection.

It’s all a matter of perspective and until I flagged down a bike cop doing a pre-race lap of the route, I didn’t have any. The cop rattled off the stats quickly: “They’re about two miles in when they reach you. It’s about point-4 miles down that loop,” he pointed left. “Then point-4 for them to come back out, and about two-tenths to the bottom of the hill, from there it’s about a half mile back up the hill and to the finish line.”

I nodded and absorbed his facts: 2 miles, 4/10ths, 2/10ths, one-half. “Thanks. And is the rest of the course flat?”

He grinned as he positioned his feet back on his pedals, “Nope, this course was designed by someone with a sense of humor. But you’re smack dab in the middle of the biggest hill.”

Perspective.

While I didn’t move throughout the race course -- I pranced around my intersection and cheered, pointed, encouraged, clapped, and pointed some more -- I needed the officer’s knowledge to give me perspective. It helped me to know where the runners had been, where I was sending them, and where they were going after they passed by. I was asked for these facts by more than a few ready-to-be-done runners, especially when I pointed them up the hill.

Perspective

Writing’s like this too. It’s not enough to concentrate on a single scene. No matter how critical a plot juncture, the writer needs perspective. I can’t – for a moment, paragraph or page – forget where the characters are coming from, or where the plot is headed. Each scene and chapter should be crafted with a purpose: to propel the characters towards the end. When I lose sight of this – lose my perspective – I may craft scenes that are fun or witty or tell interesting background, but it’d be like asking the runners to do the hokey pokey around the traffic cone at the bottom of the hill. It interrupts the stride and slows down the pacing. More than that, it’s distracting.

I don’t always draft in order – sometimes I drop myself off at a plot intersection where things are happening from many different angles – but as long as I keep my attention focused on where characters and plot lines have been and where they’re headed to, I can keep cheering, pointing, encouraging clapping, and pointing some more.

Luckily, while writing I don’t need to wear day-glo yellow, I can usually dance without inspiring giggles, and I have bathroom access.

Hubris & Bitter Irony

Today’s been a day to survive and endure so that it can become tomorrow. I have to keep shrugging off the guilt-cloak that accompanies getting what you indiscriminately, casually wish for. I didn’t cause this – it’s just an awful coincidence. Why do I assume responsibility for things I can’t control?

Three years ago when we decided to get a second puggle, the breeder sent us eight photos and told us to choose the future-Bruschi-Schmidt.

St. Matt and I agonized over the pictures. I wanted them ALL; he wanted #512 or #514. I wanted a boy to balance Biscotti’s pink-collar’edness. He pointed to #’s 512 & 514.
In the end we chose 514 to become our Bru-pup, but what if 512 had become Bruschi Schmidt instead? We wouldn’t have ended up with a dog whose tail wags in his sleep, who Hoovers his dinner without chewing, and whose extreme underbite causes ‘Elvis lip;’ those characteristics are unique to 514.

And #514, what would’ve happened to him? I like to think he has the best possible life as a Schmidt puggle: full of tormenting Biscotti, Doggie Day Care, a garden to snitch green beans from, and two humans to snuggle each night.

But maybe that’s not true. Maybe 514 would’ve been better off named Otis Magee, living with a retired librarian in Wyoming or equally happy as Zeus Foster with a California family of four.
I shouldn’t fool myself into thinking 514’s happiness depended on me choosing him over 512, or assume that 512 is miserable because we didn’t pick him.

My hubris continues into teaching; I manage to convince myself that I’m the best one to teach ‘my’ kiddos – and I’ll come to school sick because I hate turning my kiddos over to a substitute.

I lose the perspective: I only get to borrow these little ones for nine months – same as the teachers before me, same as the ones they’ll have next year. They’re aren’t mine at all. If any of the ‘Schmidties’ had been placed in room 201 or 203 instead of my room, they would’ve been just fine. The fact that this group of kiddos is on my roster means I’ll love them and I’ll teach them to the best of my ability – but it doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have succeeded without me.


And as a writer, the things I scrawl on paper can’t cause things to happen – so amid all the other emotions I’m processing today, I shouldn’t add guilt.

But I have, because the irony’s too bitter not to leave me guilty.

In TBALMCSAP the protagonist deals with something awful, something I’ve luckily never had to experience, and that has required much research. Yet, even in my gratitude, I’ve often thought: God, it’s hard to put myself in that position and I have so many questions, if only...

Today I was handed a cursed opportunity to find answers because someone I love was dealt the same situation as my MC.

It’d be hubris to think I caused this, but the guilt lingers. I wish I’d never wanted a clearer ability to empathize and I half-wish I’d never written the MS. My first instinct on hearing the news was to barter: I’d scrap the writing project indefinitely if everything would work out fine in real life.

But life doesn’t work like that – my writing neither caused this, nor can it affect the outcome. I can tell myself this, I can write it, I can call it hubris, but there’s guilt nonetheless.

There’s also wisdom; in this case not mine. It came from a wise friend, who reminded me that my research for the book prepares me for what’s to come and equips me to be a support system. Rather than abandon TBALMCSAP, she pointed out that it’ll be richer for this experience and may someday be a resource for someone learning what I learned today and going through this terrible experience.

I know she’s right, and I’m tugging at the strings, but right now my guilt-cloak is terror-tightened and laden with research notes.

Hijacking the NTB

We had an addition put on our house this fall. They took the roof off our Victorian and turned our not-quite-walk-up attic into a third floor master suite. We did some rearranging of the second floor bedrooms during the process too. My one request during the whole ordeal (okay, I had more than one request, but the one thing I was truly adamant about) was that I get built-in bookshelves and a writing space.


Up until that point I wrote in our living room which, since there are people and puggles ‘living’ in it, is not a convenient place to write. I would also occasionally take Huey-the-Laptop and write in the dining room, or if it was nice out, write on the patio. Since most of my writing time occurs while other living things are sleeping, the living room was not the worst place to write – but it’s far from ideal.

So, bookshelves and a writing area. St. Matt agreed. The floor plans cooperated too; the front of the new bedroom has a dormer that’s 10 feet wide by 5 feet deep. It’s all windows and has an amazing view. If the blueprints were treasure maps (which St. Matt told me repeatedly they were not, despite all the X’s and dotted lines) then this would be the area pirates would be fighting over. St. Matt gave it to me. I set to work designing my desk – six feet long with room for a window seat on the end. He said sure. I added drawers and bins to my drawings. He said sure. I asked if we could make the surface out of one of the antique doors that had been removed during the process. He said sure. I asked if he was capable of building all this. He said sure. I got excited.

The contractors left and we moved into the addition on 12/23. St. Matt has been busy. I still have no desk. My bookshelves are framed and exciting, but the shelves aren’t in yet. (This has not, however, stopped me from piling books in them and having endless conversations about which books I’m going to select to come upstairs).

Have I been nag-y, pest-y, or whiney about this? Nope. I know, shocking isn’t it? Before you decide I’m lying, here’s why.

I have hijacked the room-that-will-be-a-nursery-if-we-ever-have-kids. Since that’s a long title, I’m just going to call it Nursery-to-be or NTB. Why this room? Because I had a brilliant idea while painting it post-construction.

Like most of my brilliant ideas, this one has an aspect of fortuitous accident. We were in Lowe’s (Home Depot?) AGAIN and St. Matt was doing something boring. So I did what I always do when I’m bored in a hardware store: go visit the paint guys. And that day someone was asking the paint guy about blackboard paint. I decided to eavesdrop. Having purchased his blackboard paint, the other customer left and I chimed in: "That’s pretty cool. If I didn’t hate blackboards with an unnatural degree of loathing, I’d get that."

Paint Guy: "You hate blackboards?"
Me: "Yup, and I’m a teacher, go figure."
PG: "So what do you use in your classroom?"
Me: "I have blackboards, I just won’t use them. I have the kiddos write the date and we stick stuff to them with magnets. I also have a Smartboard."
PG: "Do you hate whiteboards too?"
Me: "Nope. Those I like."
PG: "Well, they make Expo whiteboard paint too, you know."
Me: mouth open.

We left with four containers of it.

St. Matt: What are you going to do with that?
Me: Paint, duh.
St. Matt: What are you going to paint?
Me: Don’t worry, I have a plan. (It should be pointed out these are the same words I used to reassure St.Matt when I dropped tweezers in the toilet, when I also did NOT actually have a plan. I wonder if he realizes when I say: Don’t worry, I have a plan, he should actually immediately become very, very worried).

Back to the NTB… In typical my typical insomnia productiveness, I painted it while St. Matt slept. Boy was he surprised in the morning! It has light green walls, a mini-mural in the closet, a blue clouded ceiling, and yes: the clouds climb down off the ceiling and become white boards on the walls. This is my childhood dream come true: walls I can write on without getting sent to the naughty chair.


These walls are where I storyboarded TBALMCSAP and this is now where I like to write, curled up on the bed in the NTB and facing my color-coded-by-character walls of awesomeness.
If we ever have a reason to use the NTB as an actual nursery, I’m in big trouble. Maybe we could put the not-yet-an-issue-baby in another bedroom. Or maybe, just maybe, St. Matt could finish my writing desk…

… And the still-in-the-distant-future-baby could sleep under that while I continue to hijack its room.

Headphones?

As I drove to work on Monday I slipped a new CD in the dashboard stereo – the car speakers haven’t played anything else since. For four days of commutes to and from the school, I listened to the song "Sunrise" from the In The Heights soundtrack. If St. Matt reads this he’s going to roll his eyes, and offer a prayer of thanks that we do NOT carpool.

I do this frequently. Find a song that embodies an aspect of my WIP and play it exhaustively until that scene is finished. The first time I listened to this song I wanted to pull over and shout: "Eureka!" The issue I’d been having with my ending – resolved by a show tunes duet.

Only, I couldn’t resolve it because I’ve been in my self-imposed WIP separation period. So instead of opening my writer’s notebook and scrawling or opening a computer file and going tappity-tappity-tappity, I’ve listened and listened and listened.

By the time I allowed my fingers to fly across the computer keys this morning, the scene was mentally written, revised and fairly polished. I listened to the song on loop as the words bled onto the screen, and then another five times for good measure once my fingers stilled. (Thank God I remembered to get the CD from my car, St. Matt took it today ‘cause I was out of gas). Now "Sunrise" can be retired until I reach that scene on my next sweep through TBALMCSAP.

Musically I’ve already moved on to my next TBALMCSAP theme: Thriving Ivory’s "Angels on the Moon." This one doesn’t go with a particular scene; it embodies a relationship between two characters. As of right now, its play count on iTunes is 37 – and I only downloaded it Wednesday night.

Does this surprise me? A little. It probably shouldn’t since St. Matt turned to me with near frenzied eyes last night and begged: "Headphones, please, headphones. Or a new song." And that was probably after only repetition 18 or so. (Wimp). It surprises me only because I stop noticing what’s playing around me. I’d notice if the music stopped or changed, but I don’t tire of or flinch away from monotony of my choosing. I love it.

Even better? Twenty days, weeks, or years from now, if I hear "Sunrise" or "Angels on the Moon," I’ll be brought right back to that scene and how much I enjoyed writing it.

Do you care, about all the little things or anything at all?

I wanna feel, all the chemicals inside, I wanna feel

I wanna sunburn, just to know that I'm alive

To know I'm alive

Don't tell me if I'm dying, cause I don't wanna know…

Play count: 43

Maybe we shouldn't talk to each other for a few days...

Were you good at maintaining a post-break-up cooling off period? If you had a spat with a friend and she hung up on you, did you wait for her to calm down and call you back?

I failed at both of those things: over-anxious to go from kissers to companions, I’d want to call and hang out while battle-scarred heart tissue was still exposed; I’ve never handled tension well either, I want things resolved and reassured before the fight’s begun.

Mostly, when I love someone, I want him/her near me.

Granted TBALMCSAP is not a best friend, boyfriend, or even human – but the two weeks of self-imposed separation have been hard on me.

I’ve missed my WIP; missed the characters, had songs I wanted to share with Gyver (we’ve got similar taste in music), and comfort I wanted to offer to my conflicted MC. My finger’s twitched on the mouse, itching to click the ‘open’ icon; I’ve wandered into the spare bedroom and stared longingly at my storyboards, written in color-coded marker on whiteboard walls. In a show of impressive self-restraint, I’ve steered my mouse away and refrained from paging through print-outs.

It’s not permanent, I’ve told myself. It’s better in the long run. I need distance to gain perspective and clarity. I’m not ready. Strangely enough, these words would apply to post-break-up scenarios as well – is that why they’re familiar?

Two weeks – they’ve passed in a blur of insomnia, Jace-flavored Distraction Fairy’ness, caffeinated mornings, midnight workouts, and catching up on grading.

I’ve got big plans for tomorrow. Plans that include not changing out of my pajamas or eating anything that requires cooking. Plans that include turning the ringer off on my cell phone and selectively answering e-mail (so if you’re curious about if I really love you, tomorrow’s a good day to drop me an e-mail).

Before you write this off as a self-indulgent waste-away day, let me correct you; It’s a self-indulgent day of all-consuming revisions.

It’s rare that I can find a whole day without commitments, interruptions, or company – and this one’s timing is fortuitous. It’s been two weeks since I finished the first draft of TBALMCSAP, I’ve suffered through my forced separation from the MS, and now I’m ready and able to belly flop in – purple pen at ready.

My first revisions are brutal – they’re comprised of amputations, reconstructions, and -dectomys of all sorts. There’s a reason I don’t use red pen – I can feel my WIP’s non-anesthetized pain – I don’t need a bloody visual.

So while St. Matt’s at work, while the puggles are snuggled in sunbeams (*please, please, puggles – feel like sunbeam snuggling tomorrow*), I’ll be pajama’d and purple-pen-prepared to tear down and build up.

Let me at TBALMCSAP – I’m ready. I’ve missed you.

My So-Called "Real" Life

On Twitter today I noticed this acronym: IRL. At first I thought it was a typo for URL, and then using my best teacherly context clues, I decoded it: In Real Life.

But as writers, don’t we have a different definition of real life than others do?

It’s not always my house in Pennsylvania, my mischievous puggles, or my saintly husband that seem the most real to me. I’ll go for a writing-run and come home not knowing which Doylestown roads I paced down, but with images of fictitious East Lake blurring past my footsteps.

There are days I’ll shave the same leg twice and emerge from the shower with my head still sudsy but full of conversation between my protagonist and her love.

Yesterday I looked up from writing – and just a blog, not even TBALMCSAP – and turned to St.Matt and said, "Hey, if you want to go for a run, you should go before it gets dark and then we’ll do dinner."

"Tiffany, it is dark. I already ran and I cooked dinner. I ate sitting right next to you, don’t you remember?"

I didn’t. But should I admit that?

Should I confess that sometimes the settings, people, and stories in my head seem more realistic than the ones playing around me in 3-dimensions? That chasing Distraction-Fairy-Jace to Idris taints my dreams and re-directs my thoughts until I find myself surprised not to find runes carved on my own skin? Or that my kiddos’ discussions about the characters in Angie Sage’s Magyk infiltrates their math class, recess talk, and casual conversation until we’re all wishing for a cat/duck or a messenger rat? That I broke my heart and sobbed early morning tears for my main character but rolled my eyes at the co-worker drama that unfolded a few hours later?

I’ve always struggled with this – the real versus the envisioned. My imaginary friends required places at the dinner table and had an alarming habit of ducking out of the way so my dad had to make at least three attempts before he could nail them with goodnight kisses. I caused a minor scandal at the grocery store when my five-year-old self started bawling and screaming at the shopper who’d hit Harvey with her cart.

The bewildered woman looked around, "But I didn’t feel anything. Where is he?"

"He’s around the corner crying and bleeding," I bawled and the woman went wide-eyed and white faced.

My mother, frantic at the sound of my howls, then embarrassed as she tried to reassure the terrified, apologetic shopper she hadn’t run-over my younger brother, lashed out: "Tiffany Allison, Harvey is NOT REAL. He’s imaginary. You MADE HIM UP."

If I’d been the recipient of the cart collision, it couldn’t have hurt more than those words.

But it didn’t stop me from making things up – from creating, imagining, and living dual lives: one corporal, one mental.

It’s possible I’m alone in this. Doubtful, but possible. Even if I were,, however, I wouldn’t feel lonely. How could I? There are stories to live and create, both IRL and IMH.

He's definitely NOT wearing a tutu

When I pictured the Distraction Fairy – which I frequently do while being distracted – I always pictured a her. And she had a pointy chin and ears, blonde hair, wings, wand, the whole sparkly shebang. Come to think of it, she looked remarkably similar to Tinkerbell, only she wore pink instead of green and obviously she has a tiara.

That’s not how I picture the fairy anymore. If you read yesterday’s blog you know that my Distraction Fairy is currently named Jace. And even though he is a blond, Jace would not don pink ruffled chiffon or a tiara for anyone. He’ll sulk, he’ll pout, he’ll be all-around angsty, but he’s not putting on a skirt.

At least he didn’t in Cassandra Clare’s City of Bones…

I don’t know about City of Ashes or Glass yet because I don’t have them YET! Despite having finished book one in The Mortal Instruments Trilogy before going to bed, I don’t yet have numbers two and three.

Frustrating, I know! I turned the last page, looked around and noticed that it was dark out. I looked at the clock: 2:30 AM. Was my first thought: ‘oh geez, it’s really late and I should get to bed’? Nope. It was: ‘aw man, it’s hours before the bookstores open and I can call around to see who has the second and third books in stock.’

It’s quite possible that at this point I became a Distraction Fairy and peppered poor Emily Hainsworth with endless questions, predictions, and what-if’s about the rest of The Mortal Instruments Trilogy.

I take this to be evidence for why I need a Kindle or Sony e-book reader. With a few simple buttons I could have been blissfully re-engaged in Distraction Fairy indulgence.

I presented this argument to St.Matt when I woke him up at 3:30 AM. He disagreed. He thinks this is evidence for why I shouldn’t get a Kindle or Sony e-book reader. Let’s quote him, shall we? "You don’t need anything that’s going to make you sleep even less than you do now."

Point taken.

But doesn’t he realize the Distraction Fairy flew away as soon as I ran out of pages to read? And then what was left? An overwhelming, itching desire to dig into TBALMCSAP revisions and not emerge for days, which isn’t an option right now.

I can do this.

It’s only an hour ‘til I go pick up doses two and three of the Jace-version of the Distraction Fairy and only two days ‘til I can bleed purple ink on TBALMCSAP.

As for St. Matt’s suggestion that Distraction Fairy take the form of culinary masterpieces or a spring cleaning binge, doesn’t he know the fairy can’t hold a wand and cook/clean at the same time? (And I seriously can’t picture Jace in a French maid’s uniform… guess I’ll have to wait and read).

Me, Made of Wonder

Today I'm off to Books of Wonder in NYC to see an amazing *dazzle* of YA authors. (A dazzle is really a group of zebras, but I've always wanted to use it in the 'group' sense, so we're pretending it works. Maybe one of them will be wearing black & white? I'll keep you posted).

Whenever I go to New York, the song from Annie pops into my head (geez, I wonder why?)

NYC, just got here this morning,

2 Friends

5 Authors

1 ME

Oh, NYC, I give you fair warning,

Up front, with squeeing, I'll be...

I've got the last sixth of John Green's An Abundance of Katherines on my iPod to keep me busy on the train so I don't drive St.Matt or the-other-Tiffany nuts. And snacks. And books and my writer's notebook.

But who are we kidding? When I'm this hopped up on excitement, pesting is inevitable.

Don't worry, Petunia's coming too, so Tweeting will continue. Pics & updates later.

***Post-Wondervent Update ***

I have photos, stories and wonder… but they’ll have to wait until tomorrow (Blame BEDA, I need 30 days worth of material, people)

Also blame one of the 3 new pairs of shoes I acquired while grocery shopping yesterday. Wearing new shoes to walk around a city is never a smart idea. Wearing new heels while walking around a city is just plain stupid.

I’m putting my stupid feet up and beginning one of my newly signed books.
See you tomorrow….

Restless ME Syndrome

I have RMS. It’s a second-cousin of Restless Legs Syndrome. This one is Restless ME Syndrome and it has one cause: forced separation from my WIP.

Last Sunday I finished my first draft of TBALMCSAP. ~*Hooray*~!

But then comes the waiting… I like to think waiting two weeks between writing the last word on a draft and beginning revisions gives me a bit of detachment and objectivity.

Or, I like to think that when I’m NOT in the two week waiting period. Waiting stinks. Stinks like sixth graders post-recess in May.

I’m itching to crack open the file. I’m craving the feeling of my purple editing pen against still-warm-from-the-printer pages.

And I’m telling myself: no. wait. be patient. (Apparently I don’t know myself very well)

So what do I do in the meantime? There are still 7 more days ‘til I’ll let myself play with TBALMCSAP again; I need something to fill up the hours that normally would have been spent defining the W in WIP.

I signed up for BEDA. I stocked up on books. I made the haircut appointment I’ve been forgetting to schedule since October. I’m attacking piles of grading. I’m in negotiations with my ankle about running without pain. I’m heading to NYC tomorrow to see an A-squad of writers (which, let’s be honest, is only going to make me more anxious to tackle TBALMCSAP). I’m filling hours and counting them down.

But mostly, I’m driving St. Matt nuts because the only real cure for RMS is writing.

Seven days…

Suggestions/ Distraction Fairies welcome.

Lipgloss and Lylas: Thoughts on Fifteen

I read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton today. I’m not sure why this book took so long to reach the top of my towering tower of TBR. And before it’s asked, I haven’t seen this movie either. I’m not sure I want to – the book was so visual that I don’t know if I want my mental-movie changed by actors. And Tom Cruise… eh.

As I was paging the "Bonus Materials" in the back of my copy, I was shocked to read in the author’s interview that she was 15 (15!) when she started this book.

At fifteen I was writing love poems to the boy who sat across from me in chem. And notes I folded into intricate triangles and passed to friends while the teacher pretended not to notice – these were also mostly about the boy who sat across from me in chem, or whatever my mother had done to annoy me that morning. I wrote some papers too; most memorably a re-write of the ending of Chopin’s The Awakening. (In which Edna dies during a trans-Atlantic crossing while having Robert’s baby – I think I have a copy somewhere, perhaps someday I’ll offer it up as a giggle-instigator).

At 15 I was not writing well-crafted literature that tackled important social issues. Thirteen years later, I still haven’t yet reached a point where I can read my diaries from those years without flinching. I just wanted to know if we were going to the North Shore or Rockingham mall on Friday, what the newest flavor of Lip Smackers tasted like, if Bailey was going to hurry up and dump Sarah on Party of Five, and when the cutie in chem was going to look my way.
I’m 28 now, able to drive myself to the mall on whim (though it’s no longer that appealing), able to purchase (and constantly lose) all the lipgloss I want. I recently found Party of Five in the OnDemand menu and couldn’t suffer through a whole episode. The chem class cutie? I haven’t talked to him since before my wedding five years back.

I’ll never be a teen success like S.E. Hinton – I can’t go back and change the silly girl I was or the superficial drivel I wrote, and I don’t know that I’d want to. I couldn’t be the person I am today if I hadn’t been her. My life hasn’t been all sugar-sweet, neither now nor back then. But despite that, I’ve clung to optimism with stubborn tenacity.

Is my writing still sometime only puddle-deep and topical? Sure. Sometimes. But don’t let that fool you – there’s a lot going on underneath the shiny reflective surface.

Benefits of insomnia... I can do this!

It wasn’t a lack of interest that was keeping me from Dust of 100 Dogs, but rather a lack of backbone.

I didn’t grow one over the weekend, but the visually stunning and slightly creepy cover sitting on my kitchen counter began to taunt me. Also, I got tired of feeling like the kid at school who doesn’t know the inside joke. Quite simply, I was sick of feeling left out: "What are you talking about guys? Huh? Huh? Tell me. I want to know." And all the other readers looked at me disdainfully: "Oh, you wouldn’t get it because you haven’t read D100D." I’ve already survived middle school once – I refuse to go back to that place again.

Although apparently I haven’t out-grown peer pressure…

I was going to start reading it this weekend, but the writing bug bit. Hard! I think it drew blood and left a bruise. Not that I’m complaining, I’m *thrilled!* that I was able to finish the first draft of my WIP (working title/synopsis: The-Book-About-Leukemia-MacGyver-Cheerleading-Superstitions-And-Playlists. TBALMCSAP for short). There was no time for reading. Yesterday I didn’t shower or get out of my pajamas until 5 pm. (Okay, I’ll say it with you: ewwwww!)

I was barely even a presence in the Twittersphere. And sleep? Forget it. The writing bug’s bite is made of caffeine (or maybe that was just the pots of coffee St. Matt made me each night before he and the puggles went up to bed). I don’t know the total number of hours I slept from Friday ‘til this morning – I don’t think I want to know, and I doubt I could do the math at this point anyway. Suffices to say, the number would be a single digit.

But this is GREAT! No, that’s not just the sleep deprivation talking. This is great because I know I’m going to sleep tonight. Like a baby made out of rock who’s overdosed on Nyquil. So all my fear of D100D keeping me up all night – no longer relevant!

I may still be an invertebrate, but my D100D problem is solved.

Can’t wait to join the cool kids club and discuss it when I’m done!

The Distraction-Fairy has moved in...

The writing forces are against me today. It’s like distraction-faries have taken residence in my house. Not only are there the typical distractions (among them, this blog and twitter), but there’s beautiful weather and a house that’s demanding to be cleaned before my in-laws arrive for dinner tonight.

Also, there are the distractions of my choosing; my own personal kryptonites. I should know better than expose myself.

It all starts with Twilight. This time the DVD, not the book, although the book has been guilty of many hours of distracting me from my WIP. I forbade myself from going to the midnight release party – and before you get impressed, I only did so because the versions that came out yesterday had TWO disks, while Target boasted that theirs had THREE. Three’s bigger than two and even though I don’t know what’s on the third disk – I needed that version.

Target opens at eight. I decided to play it safe at get there at seven. St. Matt agreed to join me and even made the coffee. We grabbed books to read during the wait and left the house at 6:45.

When we pulled into Target at 6:53, we were the only ones there. Sure there were a couple cars parked in the lot, but they were empty, some even frosted over. St. Matt emitted an awkward cough that might have been a suppressed laugh, but since he’d gotten up at six on a Saturday to make me happy, we’ll give him the benefit of doubt.

We pulled out our books and settled in to wait, because any minute now the horde of teenage girls would be arriving and I wasn’t going to lose my copy of the DVD due to a momentary lapse of concentration.

St. Matt had brought a book called Predictably Irrational. He says it’s about business, but it sounds like it might be about me; I’m too scared to look.

I’d brought Alyson Noel’s Evermore. I tucked my feet up on the car seat, angled the heat vents, sipped my coffee and began…

Forty-eight minutes later the next car arrived. It was an employee.

About eight til eight a few more cars trickled in and St. Matt said we should go wait by the door. I grumbled. He had to convince me to leave the car and go get the DVD; the DVD I’d made him sacrifice a sleep-in Saturday to come get. Afterward I stayed in the car and read while he ran other errands.

When we arrived home he asked, "What are you going to do first, finish the book or watch the movie?"

"Neither," I huffed indignantly. "I’m just going to change and then I’m going to go get some writing done."

"Okay." He nodded, but I’m pretty sure there was an amused glimmer in his saintly eyes.

I’m positive there was one when he found me sitting on the bedroom floor two hours later, turning pages.

"Good book?"

"I’m almost done – and then I’m going to write." I would’ve been embarrassed by my complete lack of reading-restraint, but that would’ve required me to turn my attention way from the story, which wasn’t going to happen.

I think he said something after that, but I was listening to Ever and Damen and didn’t hear him.

Now I’m finished Evermore and I can’t regret the lost writing hours because the book was that good.

"Movie time?" St. Matt asked when I finally came downstairs, still half-changed: pajamas on the bottom but wearing the sweater from this morning. Oops.

"No. I’m not going to watch the movie yet. I’m not going to immediately call the bookstore and pre-order the sequel either." In a show of remarkable self-control, I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue as well.

I was really going to write next. Really. But then the puggles were lounging in my writing seat. By the time I’d managed to scoot them so I could perch on a corner of the chair, I’d succumbed to mentally crafting this blog.

What could I do but write it down? But now, now I’m going to work on my WIP.

Or I could go watch call the bookstore. Or watch the movie. I never did figure out what was on that third disk…

The Birthday Boy behind the curtain

"Your husband is a saint."

I’ll admit, I’ve heard that comment more than once. Usually after I’ve done something particularly Tiffany-tastic like back the car into the house, drag him to the midnight release party for Breaking Dawn, picked out a pink Kitchenaide mixer for the kitchen (seriously, when HE uses it even once, he can comment on the color), or perhaps, dropped tweezers in the toilet and left him a post-it about it.

"Your husband is a saint."

And I never know how to respond. "So you’re saying putting up with me requires sainthood? Thanks."

But he kinda is.

Every time he allows me to write while he does the dishes or eats Mac ‘n Cheese for dinner.

Or lets me listen to a song on repeat one more time because it matches the mood of the scene I’m brainstorming.

The times he patiently prompts me to: "Finish your sentence, please," when I trail off mid-conversation because I’ve picked up some thread of inspiration.

The way he recognizes my writer-face when I come back from a run and lets me furiously scribble before greeting him.

He’s graciously allowed our family to expand to include the characters from my WIP’s and doesn’t even flinch when I comment, "Mia would love movie," or "Can you imagine Luke’s face if he heard that."

He proofreads my blogs (even this one- Hi YOU!) and lets me talk plot lines and conflicts.

He kisses me goodnight and heads upstairs with the puggles and a nightly reminder to "Try and get some sleep tonight."

He really kinda is.

I’d like to think that the house elves are the ones that make coffee magically appear in the morning or remember to move the laundry I started yesterday to the dryer, but that’s not the case. I appreciate the 17 million things he does behind the scene that enable me to carve out precious writing minutes.

He is.

And I appreciate him: his patience, encouragement & support. I don’t say it often enough, but I do.

And when I get woebegone about my chances of finding an agent, he looks at me in exasperation. I used to think it was because he was sick of hearing the same lament – until he finally told me, "You’re being ridiculous." And clarified that he wasn’t sick of my refrains (although he might have been this as well), but actually he was annoyed that I would doubt myself. In his mind, I was already successful and there was no way I could fail.

It’s time to surrender the argument and offer to polish his halo.

So dearest, saintly Husband, thank you and happy birthday!

Tomorrow, Tomorrow, the play's done Tomorrow, It's only a day awaaayyy!

Warning: the following blog is cavity-inducing sweet & Cheese Whiz-tastic.

I’ve been directing the school play, Annie, for approximately the last four and a half years. Okay, it’s only really been since November.

Why they chose someone who can’t sing, can’t dance, to direct the school musical, I’ll never know. It could have something to do with my complete inability to say ‘no.’ Or it could be that tattoo I have on my forehead (it says ‘pushover’ in invisible Sanskrit).

Knowing that tomorrow is the last time I’ll hear the song "Tomorrow" sung by 108 ten & eleven year olds (and accepting that it will be months before I get all the catchy choruses out of my head), I decided to dedicate this blog to the lessons learned from those scrappy orphans and big Daddy Warbuck’s.

Here’s where the saccharine overload begins.

Lessons I’ve learned from Annie

"I think I’m going to like it here!" – When faced with a new situation *gulp* keep a positive attitude and an open mind. And if the laundry hamper you’re hiding in tips over while Bundles the laundry man is pushing you off stage – just go with the flow & improvise. Plans don’t always work the way you expect them to.

"It’s a hard knock life" (sometimes) – There are bad days: days when words won’t come; days that queries get rejected; days when you get thrown up on during the in-school performance (true story) – but these don’t last.

"You’re never fully dressed without a smile" – Nothing makes a bad day worse than a bad mood. I’m not made of cheer & sparkles, but when I give in to crankiness, it never helps the situation. Plus, smiling’s contagious!

"I don’t need anyone but: " my feedback groups (both of them), my writers’ workshop, my first readers, my blogger friends, my twitter friends…. Okay, I need a lot of people. I’m no Thoreau going off to write in the wilderness. These are the people who lift me up on bad days and remind me that…

"The sun WILL come out tomorrow" – And even though it’s always a day away, as long as I can find something to look forward to and hope for, there’s always a reason to be optimistic and keep going. Who knows, tomorrow could be day Super Agent calls and asks to represent me.

I will now take my bow and close the curtain on this chapter of my life (and on all of these dreadful puns). My only remaining question is: what will I do with all my free afternoons?

No worries, I’m sure I’ll think of something. Or 80 things.

Running & Writing: Learning to sprint

When I participated in high school track, I was a member of the distance crew. I could never be a sprinter because it took me too long to get warmed up. By the time I was ready to turn on the speed, the sprint was over.

In my writing life I function much the same way. I prefer to sit down for an endurance writing session – get lost in the world I’ve created and only re-emerge when my stomach is audibly growling, my muscles are cramping, and my head is utterly emptied. (Oddly enough, this is the same feeling I’d get after a long run!)

But my life doesn’t work like that. There are rare and wonderful days when I can lock myself away and write, but they’re the exception, not the norm. What I struggle with is how to get the most out of the stolen minutes that I smuggle and stack together to construct my writing time.

I’ve tried these tips:

* End your writing session with a half-finished sentence so you can pick up there tomorrow

* Start by reading and revising the previous two pages, then move forward

* End by creating a bulleted list of where you’d like to go next

None work all that well for me – I’m incapable of leaving a sentence half finished, I never want to go back just two pages, and once I start bulleting, I just want to write the scene. How can I teach myself to sprint when I want to run (er, write) a marathon?

How do you make the most of shorter writing sessions?

Pink Laptops & Puggles

At the beginning of each year I have my students draw and discuss their favorite place to write. They sketch a comfy chair in a sunny window, a shady hammock in their garden, they draw snacks and pets and squiggly notes to represent music. One girl drew her pink laptop. Pink! I want one – sorry, Huey, if I could trade you in for a pink version of you, you’d be history.

And every year I feel like a bit of a monster as I do this. Because I don’t have comfy chairs or shady hammocks. And while I can sometimes play music to inspire those that like writing to music, and sometimes have silence for those that like that, I’m not allowed to bring in the puggle pair (I’ve asked), and I don’t have pink laptops to give to each of them. (Pink! I wonder if I could paint Huey…)

So essentially I have my students draw their ideal and then respond with a "Too bad. Enjoy your wobbly desk and clicky pencil that ran out of lead."

But isn’t the world like this as well?

I have an ideal writing place: a desk made out of refurbished antique door that’s situated in a giant picture window with an amazing view. It’s got wireless speakers and a printer, and a laptop that could only be more fabulous if it was PINK. There’s a window seat where the puggles wriggle in sunbeams, a wall that’s painted with whiteboard and even a inspirational sign that reads: "And they lived happily ever after" so that I remember how stories should end on the days I want to throw my not-pink laptop through the picture window.

But how often do I have time to take advantage of this writing space? Um, never. My writing is slotted in during fits and spurts. Insomniac attacks and while cooking dinner. Composed while running and typed while trying to watch the weather, carry on a phone conversation, and figure out what Biscotti’s sneaking off to do.

Writing happens while waiting at the doctor’s office, I type ideas on Petunia (my Blackberry - she's pink), while on the elliptical trainer (you’d be impressed by my elliptical handwriting, it’s definitely improving!), writing happens while I’m showering, driving, teaching, reading… living.

So why do I teach this lesson year after year if I can’t match their drawings of the ideal? For the same reason that I keep writing even when I can’t get to my writing nook to do so. Writing is a part of life – it’s not something that occurs only during a designated timeslot or the magical forces of the universe combine to create perfect conditions.

And one of these days I’ll find the time to clear the laundry and dusty post-its off my writing nook and use it as it’s intended . . . Can’t complain though, because as I type this, watch the Oscars, answer parent e-mails, Twitter, and plan dinners for the week, I’ve also got a warm dozy puggle in my lap, a computer that’s great (even if it’s not pink), and a great soundtrack on I-tunes. Ideal? No. But absolutely satisfying all the same.

Round-up of Query Advice

Many of the agents I follow via twitter or through their blogs have been writing about queries lately. There’s been much discussion about how queries are multiplying like gremlins in the rain and they’ve held competitions to empty inboxes. (And I thought I was competitive… remind me never to challenge an agent to a game of dodgeball…)

A few points stood out to me this week and I thought I’d compile and share.

Style in the query is a must.
http://bookendslitagency.blogspot.com/ Jessica Faust, BookEnds Lit

I know that I fell into the trap of trying to make my query letter sound ‘professional and polished’ (which should really be read as ‘stodgy and dull’). I was worried that if my letter didn’t sound business-y enough, no one would take it seriously. The end result was a letter that was perfect to form, but that had no hint of my writing flavor. (What does my writing flavor taste like? A mix of Diet Coke, Sour Patch Kids, and Honeycomb – delicious!)


Don’t worry so much about your experience. The query is to sell your novel, not you.
http://nathanbransford.blogspot.com/2009/02/more-story-less-you.html Nathan Bransford, Curtis Brown

Hooray! So the fact that my last publishing credit was in my college literary magazine isn’t going to hurt me? Thank you! I spend plenty of my day job reading and writing – but my experiences teaching sixth grade language arts – while amusing and patience-building – don’t exactly fit in with the rest of my query.

Buzzer words:
http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/2009/02/what-not-to-say-part-87.html
Rachelle Gardner, Wordserve Literary

These are the opposite of buzzwords. These are words and phrases that lead to immediate rejection of a query. Using phrases like "literary blockbuster" and "hilarious; you’ll laugh out loud" are buzzer words. Your query letter should show your skill, not tell the agent how amazing you are. (Gah, the same thing I’m telling my 11-year-old students: show, don’t tell!)

Follow the submission guidelines:
http://theswivet.blogspot.com/2009/02/because-you-asked-for-it-compilation-of.html Colleen Lindsay, FinePrint Lit

It was shocking to hear that so many people didn’t bother to read the submission guidelines or type in a personalized greeting. Bad manners, people! What would your mother say?


I highly recommend following each of the blogs above. Any other publishing/agenting/editing blogs you recommend to me?

Happy Querying! Or at least as happy as this fingers-crossed-send-button-pressing-compulsive-e-mail-checking process can be.