Are You Ready?

"Everything that we see is a shadow cast by that which we do not see."

2012-01-16T22:26:00.000-08:00

The title of this post could be the first line from any best-selling novel. But it's not: it's a favorite quote from a man honored today, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

And here's another quote: Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted.

I know, right?

And one more: A lie cannot live. Four words: simple, and profound. However, (and of course) the most enduring images and sounds of Martin Luther King Jr.'s life come from his "I Have A Dream" speech, the speech that inspired a nation, delivered at the Lincoln Memorial on Aug. 28, 1963. Clarence Jones helped draft the speech that day, and he was standing a few feet away when King spoke.

The 1,651 word speech--for those obsessed with word counts--introduces powerful, sensical ideology, including: Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. Let us not, indeed.
The power of Dr. King's speech is a testament to the strength of writing, and how a well turned phrase can inspire action, and incite change. It shows us that words can change the world.

But probably, my favorite quote from Dr. King is this: Faith is taking the first step even when you don't see the whole staircase.

True, our life is a series of steps, filled with tall risers that can block light, and alter our view. Wise Dr. King reminds us, even today, that we must have faith in life, in ourselves, and in our people. And in the power of words.

Why librarians should be treated like rockstars and why maybe, they already are.

2011-12-09T08:52:00.000-08:00

My local library is in a tither: cutbacks, hours slashed. Recently, 19 of our book wizards were let go, librarians shown the great literary door due to county budget cuts. The library board of directors say that there is no money to pay for weekend or evening hours, or to buy new book titles.

Luckily, in my area, there is a small library, independently managed, with their own board of directors, staffed by a superhero strain of librarians. They, deservedly, are a proud bunch. I travel a half hour to get there, and it's worth every tread I wear into my tires.

There, imaginations burst in the children's department. My kids run into the wonderland where the children's librarian staff has filled the wide room with homemade teepees and twisted limb trees made of brown painted bedsheets honoring our Native Americans. Next to the forest, a pint-sized purple castle is decorated with homemade puppets and shiny wooden turrets of gold, children strewn nearby reading Rick Riordan and Jeff Kinney. Playing chess. The ceiling tall windows, never bare, are painted with bright markers turning the panes into medieval stained glass.

It is a magical place.

As I handed the librarian my non-resident card to pay my fine (I like to keep the library solvent!) and renew my Friday read, A Need so Beautiful, I mentioned my admiration for the set-up. I told her how much I appreciated their vision, and hard work.

She stopped, tilted up her readers, and said, "People say there is a difference in this place, you know." She let her glasses drop back down, smiled a Cheshire grin, and handed over my books, sweeping her hand over the counter. "And isn't amazing that this is all free?"

There is a difference, and yes, pretty much, and though we pay taxes, it is all free, the books and the teepees and the painted bedsheet trees. But without a vision, without a path, a library is just row after row of oaken shelves lined with books. So, to all librarians who think outside of the binding: Thank You. To our family, you are all rockstars.

The Mysteries of Harris Burdick, and a third floor bedroom window.

2011-09-08T00:01:00.000-07:00

"It all began when someone left the window open . . ."

And so begins an outline, due tomorrow for my daughter's writing class, a narrative--in first person present, thank you--inspired by one photo of a Third Floor Bedroom window, left open. Enter, The Mysteries of Harris Burdick, the children's book by author Chris Van Allsburg.

You may know the story, created by Allsburg; the tale goes along that, one random day, Van Allsburg discovered a stack of pictures lying around his editor's office: fourteen ghostly pictures, drawn by a phantom of a man named Harris Burdick as illustrations to a children's story, Burdick promptly disappearing into thin air. According to the Allsburg's story, Burdick never returned, the pictures never claimed.

It's a terrific premise, a better plot, and these ethereal illustrations remind me about the power of writing prompts, and how a muse can help form a mental image, and turn words into

a novel.

She's writing her outline now, my dear little writer, while together we plot and daydream about the paper bird peeling from the wallpaper, and what can happen, if we only have the courage to leave our windows, wide open.

My summer blog stinks, and why it's okay.

2011-09-01T16:07:00.000-07:00

My kids are tanned, Silver Beach picnicked, and Michigan splash padded. My kids have been county fair wristbanded, tennis lessoned, golf course driven, been neighborhood bike ridden, and summer camp ziplined.

This summer,they've swam, fearless, to the faraway neighbor's bright yellow raft, and been picked up at the end of the pier for an impromputu water ski in a tricked out Mastercraft boat. They've been Dunes Lakeshore skim boarded, while warned repeatedly about the reality of rip currents. They've listened to, while sunscreen soaked into their reddening skin, why Lake Michigan is a killer, and why the very bluest water means it's scary deep, while the same lake's creamy turquoise means a friendly sandbar waits to be discovered, just below the water's surface.

This is why my blog stinks.

It's because of the kids.

This summer, I took a breath, didn't sweat my platform, or my klout, my Likes or my wordcount. Wait, that's not entirely, true; I did sweat my wordcount, a little. But it's okay. As we knew it would, summer would end (and it did). School is in. The 2gb card tucked into my digital camera, still full.

And now, I'm ready.

THE GRASS, GREEN; THE LAKE, STILL WET

2011-06-10T15:25:00.000-07:00

I've been writing lately, a lot, but about real things. I've been imagining pretty pictures and locations, but not about the people who live in my head. Boring, agreed. Honestly, the real world is kind of two dimensional, flat. So good news, today, from a newly agented writer reminds me to allow equal time, to finish stories--the ones that keep us sane and drive us to distraction, all at the same time.

So, a slew of red pens, a new ream of printer paper, and congratulations to Michele Shaw, my reader and friend, for finding the flagstone that is a perfect fit, and the agent that will set her on her path.

THE CLOUDS PARTED JUST IN TIME TO SEE

2011-04-29T20:10:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I saw Saturn.

It was meg awesome.

The planet was smaller than expected, and white, not red or even orange, shaped like an engagement ring flipped on its side, but still, undeniably Saturn. The astronomer at Purdue, who planned the public viewing, and through whose cannon-like telescope we viewed the planet said we were lucky--the clouds had parted just in time for us to see.

Someday, perhaps we will take an upcar, like Titus did in the novel Feed, and vacation in low-grav on the moon, visit an aunt on Saturn. Maybe we will, or maybe we won't, build a spaceship, populate the craft with frozen parents, odd cows, and fake rain and sun, and travel through gravity tubes, like in the novel Across the Universe.

Until then, I will have to remember the cloudy nightsky when I saw Saturn, so close I could touch it's ring, if only through reflected glass.

WAKE, and UNDER THE DOME in thirds.

2011-04-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

I loved these books!

First up, "For seventeen-year-old Janie, getting sucked into other people's dreams is getting old." Wake's main character slides in and out of the dreams she catches, the moment someone near her falls asleep. WAKE has voice, chutzpah, and is written in a refreshing third present viewpoint (which works) with a truthful, honest narrative.

WAKE was released in 2008, but I will put this as one of my favorite books read in 2011, and will definitely pick up the sequel, FADE.

On the other side of the literary world, "On a beautiful autumn day in Maine, a transparent dome materializes over the town of Chester’s Mill. Once the Dome falls, all vestiges of normal life are suspended. Things run amok. They get scary."

UNDER THE DOME, by Steven King is a study in dizzying third-person omniscient multiple *MULTIPLE* viewpoints. Clocking in at just over 1,000 pages, DOME, is pure scary, graphic King and a terrific study for anyone hopping around in multiple heads in your works of progress.

If you're a fan of the King *I'm a fan* you won't be disappointed by THE DOME--the book's hefty, but hard to put down. A win/win with a terrific read, and a good upper body workout.

Put Your Title to the Test

2011-04-04T11:45:00.000-07:00

We all know that titles are important when you're querying your novel. And, when I set out to purchase a book, it's the first thing that I notice. That said, can you imagine if Carrie Ryan's wonderfully named Forest of Hands of Teeth was entitled Zombie Woods? Kind of generic, boring, right? Or if Pride and Prejudice was published as its original title, First Impressions (which, gave Jane Austen a form rejection)?

Lulu is a self-publishing house, but they also have an app called Titlescorer. With Titlescorer, when you input your proposed title, the experts will score your title. The score you garner is based on data that Lulu researchers have "gathered from a total of some 700 titles to create this 'Lulu Titlescorer;' a program able to predict the chances that any given title would produce a New York Times No. 1 bestseller."

I'll go first. Hmm, lets see; my first choice title rated a 63.7%. Maybe I'll try something else. Okay, my second option received a 63.7 as well! Next, I input a really crazy title I've been banging around, and lo and behold, I received this message:

"The titleTwilight has a 63.7% chance of being a bestselling title!"

Rockin'. I'm all set! So, will a high Titlescorer guarantee that your perfectly titled novel is a NYT bestseller? Probably Not. But it's fun to try!

It is a Small, Real World, After All.

2011-04-03T12:17:00.000-07:00

My family spent time in Mexico these past two weeks. Many of the hotels that line the sand beaches of Mexico's coast are modern and beautiful, but with infamously poor water purification facilities. You've heard it: Montezuma's Revenge; Don't Drink the Water. And it's true. We were careful with our food preparation and water sources, and suffered our trip with only mild stomach bugs.

Back home in the Land of Plenty, I am mindful of how fortunate Americans are to flip a faucet and have access to clean, good water.

Hubby tells me our experience in Mexico reminds him of another water-challenged country to which he traveled; for two years, he made frequent trips to a remote village near Sierra Leone, West Africa. During this adventurous time, he befriended many Sierra Leoneans with whom he still corresponds--guides, kingdom chiefs (yes, they exist), miners--mostly young, because in Sierra Leone, due to the lack of food and accessible drinking water (not to mention the prevalence of mosquito-borne malaria) reaching old age is coveted and rare.

Now, back home, I am finishing edits to my current work-in-progress (ironically, a novel based around the concept of living in a fantasy world built around water). I turn the faucet to cold for a cool drink, and am thankful for the people who are working to make a difference to provide clean H2O to our friends in Africa, and around the globe. For after all, we are one small, real world.

Midwest writers: become a writing fellow.

2011-03-18T16:40:00.000-07:00

Last year I submitted a bunch of words and won a writing fellowship sponsored by Indiana's venerable, and philanthropic, Ball Foundation. I packed my bags, hydroplaned across the state, through the rain and slid in to the U-shaped table just in time to meet the other eight writers, all amazing, from different backgrounds, and writing different genres or screenplays. Most of us loved coffee. And laptops. And the late Alan Garinger.

At the retreat we shared our love for books and swapped pages and raced to see who got up the earliest to write. Also, I was fortunate to meet a few other young adult writers, including two of my favorites: Leo DiCaprio loving Lara Elrich--WHO JUST LANDED AN AGENT! 'Tis true and good news. Look for Lara's novel THE HERO very soon. I also met candy loving rescue dog aficionado Michele Shaw, who will be agented for her contemporary YA (I know it, 'cause she's awesome). It was time worth spent, with amazing writers.

If you have the inclination and the time, here's how to submit your work.

Good luck!

"Whoa. Slow down there," and other first page notes from a top agent.

2011-03-15T11:36:00.000-07:00

My novel doesn't start in the right place.

It's okay. I knew it then. And I know it now.

Last month I submitted my first 500 words for a seminar hosted by one of my favorite agents. There are two schools of thought regarding where to start your novel. The first, and most controversial is beginning your scene and first paragraph in Media Res, or in "the middle of things." Here, the writer plops a reader into the middle of the action, sometimes in the middle of dialogue. It's tricky, this Media Res, usually reserved for shorts or flash fiction. This is how I began my novel.

However, many agents advise against Media Res, and offer this advise: start your novel with a little background. Allow your reader to have an introduction with your characters. Turn on some music. Buy us a drink. Ease into the scene. Of course, this easing and schmoozing has to be done while building suspense and tension.

The lovely agent took the time to offer some wise comments including "slow down." Let us get to know your characters first before we slam them into action. Also, she also offered this advise:

IF YOU START THE STORY AND HAVE TO FLASH BACK TO ANOTHER SCENE WITHIN 500 WORDS, YOU DIDN'T START YOUR STORY IN THE RIGHT PLACE.

Thank you, lovely agent. I agree, and am off to re-write my first chapter.

Pay it Forward, Part Deux

2011-02-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

Thank you, to Jeannie Moon, one of the nicest people in the writing world. Jeannie gave me the "Stylish Blogger Award." The award is stylishly designed in sparkly gradient text for a writer to "pay it forward," part of supporting our own, and please, check out some of these lovely writers. Some are Already There, some are Almost Ready, but read them and follow them and comment on their posts. I know they have inspired me.

Part of paying this forward means that I also have to tell you some things about me, so, er hmm, here goes:

1. Unless the thermometer ticks toward 90 degrees, I cannot write without socks on my feet.

2. I have most of my MBA, just not the part that got me the degree. Oh, and the 5-year window Loyola gives you to complete the degree after you have those babies? They're serious.

3. Though I don't write about them, I love zombie books and movies. Rule #2 in Zombieland? Double Tap!

4. My musical career path was derailed when Mr. Hinman, eleventh grade, told me it "was join marching band or quit orchestra" all together. I studied journalism.

5. My dad was an engineer and an ambidextrous caricature artist; not about me, but if you know me, it explains a lot. :)

6. I don't have a tattoo, but I know a writer who got one when she turned forty. :)

And now, I'm paying it forward to these blogging writers. Check them out; I think you will find their words inspiring, too.

K. Marie Criddle C'mere
Michele Shaw
K.M. Weiland Wordplay
Ian Sandusky
Megan K. Bickel
Julie Cross
Kendra C. Highley
Julie Lindsey Musings From the Slushpile
Jody Sparks & Butterflies
Elizabeth Cornwell Literary Misadventurer
Denise Grover Swank
Eisley Jacobs
Lara Ehrlich
Crazy Writer Girl
Roni Loren Fiction Groupie

And, always, the lovely Jeannie Moon, to whom I am re-paying it forward.

Stop by the virtual homes of these lovelies and see why they are all, indeed, Stylish Bloggers. And, should you choose to accept this highly coveted Stylish Blogger award to handsomely display on your own blog shelf above your actual wood-burning fireplace, simply pay it forward: select a few not-so-cringe-worthy tidbits to share about yourself and link to other bloggers. Hopefully these writers will provide you inspiration in their words, and bring your attention to someone else, by paying it forward.

2011-02-21T08:03:00.000-08:00

O LIVE IS MIRACLE ENOUGH

To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.

Let every painter paint and poet sing
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.

Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.

Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every heart-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.

There are Zombies in La Chaux-de-Fonds! I know, right?

2011-02-17T22:10:00.000-08:00

One of the fun by-products of creating a novel is the seemingly very un-Kevin Bacon related bizarre facts and events one discovers during research. For example: you probably don't know that a small part of my novel in progress is set in Switzerland, in a small town called La Chaux-de Fonds. You haven't been? Well, sacre blue! Neither have I, but thanks to the internet and YouTube we can travel across the ocean and beyond without removing our butt from chair. So it happened, that while researching this small French speaking town in Western Switzerland I discovered something amazing: Zombies. Yes. Zombies. And I do love me some zombies (though I don't write about them, I do like to be scared about them).

So, merci, and thanks, YouTube, for allowing me to witness a mash-up of two obsessions: La Chaux-de-Fonds, a blink-and-you miss it village across the world; and, the undead. Here they are below, mashed up for the win. And hey, who knew: zombies speak French.

New Limbs and Radiohead, Saturday, on my iPod. Word.

2011-02-17T07:31:00.000-08:00

You're welcome, Thom, and please make The King of Limbs full of awesome.

Now, come to Chicago on your tour, please.

Love,

Atlas Shrugged: The Movie Trailer, and Who is John Galt?

2011-02-14T21:32:00.000-08:00

I am so excited. I adore Ayn Rand. In Atlas Shrugged, Dagny Taggart is one of the finest female heroines in modern literature: intelligent, courageous, and as beautiful as she is strong. She is a rare screen example of life lived on one's own terms, for one's own values. April 15th can't come soon enough.

What They Really Want, is to Learn to Build Rockets.

2011-02-08T19:56:00.000-08:00

In fourth grade social studies, my child is learning about many events that happened in the 1800th year of our state, including Indiana's fledgling ordinances and treaties. Since third grade we have read about Indiana's fur trading and boundaries. About the Wabash River and canoes and longhouses. I understand that we need to know how many years Corydon was our first capital, and why in the early 1800's we moved the capital to Indianapolis (because they have the Colts, of course).

I will never dispute that the land treaty of eighteen whenever-something-something was important then, and it may matter to you (and it should matter to you), that Jennings helped put Indiana on the map because he authored the Enabling Act that propelled us into statehood. Our history, dates and our past: these are things that every student must learn.

And, if nothing else, I do understand that we teach history so that history does not repeat itself.

I shall, however, offer this: put fourth grade state level social studies in synopsis form, like we're proposing a novel. Short sweet and to the point; state-level fourth grade social studies curriculum in yellow and black Cliffs Notes form. A month, tops, and we're done with Indiana and moving right on up to bigger things like China, and what the heck's going on in Egypt, the world and the universe. And California and Texas. And beyond.

I want my children to learn about social studies, but also about subjects they will use today and tomorrow, in this lifetime, like why they can absolutely build rockets someday and why aviation science can be so completely cool, or beginning theory of the universe and I want them to spend way, way, more time on math. Because, here in the Hoosier State, we spend months and a whole lot of pocket change per child to teach them about the Land Treaty of 1785 and the Northwest Ordinance and why Tecumseh totally did not have Harrison as his BFF.

In essence, I would like traditional curriculum schools to spend our precious tax dollars teaching these living, breathing sponges more science and more math, how to compose a letter, and to speak and read a foreign language, like Chinese or Spanish--heck I'd be happy with German, or even French. All so that we can open up our big world for them, and find a way for these children and their children's children to make a living outside of this dying rustbelt--a living that does not include re-stocking foreign made toys and televisions at the local Walmart.

But I know my wishes are in vain, because I have a feeling my old friends--Harrison, Clark and Jennings--will all live again, in a different Harcourt hardcover textbook, entitled Fifth Grade Social Studies.

New Blog Design Inspired by Fleeing Babies. And bats.

2011-01-27T22:09:00.000-08:00

I've read to my minions The Day the Babies Crawled Away until the cover is loose and torn and we all have the words memorized. It's their number one bedtime book.

In "The Day," my favorite children's author Peggy Rathmann features silhouetted babies rolling along with bats and butterflies that tumble and fall during their adventures climbing through cave and cliff. But all's well that ends well, and the babies return unscathed to eat pie and sip sugared tea with their worried mothers, en silhouette.

And don't we all love a happy ending?

Nathans' Sort of Semi Annual First Paragraph Challenge

2011-01-27T07:54:00.000-08:00

Wow. Amazingness! Nathan Branford is running his sort of annualish first paragraph challenge contest on his blog. I love him. It ends today and has over 1,300 entries, which is a lot of words--and a lot of writers. If you haven't entered, mosey on over there; it ends today at 4 p.m. PST.

The Great Semi-colon Debate, Part Deux: Sponsored in Part by Punctuation Man

2011-01-21T13:05:00.000-08:00

I love the semi-colon. At least, I used to.

The semi-colon and I have had a long relationship combining related ideas with seamless ease. If you're trained as a technical writer or print journalist, like me, you've used this happy wink-shaped mark in your writing with little thought. But I've come to agree with many writers that the venerable semi-colon has no place in fiction.

My final draft of my WIP is all about strengthening voice. After reading about the semi-colon debate, and learning how some writers tightened up their scenes by reducing said punctuation mark, I re-wrote some passages of my WIP, replacing semi-colons with periods and rewriting for clarity and editing thusly.

And guess, what? It worked. The action is bolder. It flows and better yet, the words move: especially in action scenes in which I am striving for conflict and suspense.

Master of suspense author, James Scott Bell, writes on his blog, "When it comes to fiction, I think of semi-colons the way I think of eggplant: avoid at all costs." Well, I do love me some eggplant, but I agree with Bell's premise and as Bell continues, he quotes Vonnegut. "Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you've been to college." Heh-heh. Harsh, but right. Did you know, by the way, Vonnegut was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, which is close to my hometown? Bet he would have been a Colts fan.

Punctuation Man is coming to get you, and your semi-colons.

So there you have it, or perhaps you don't if you've kicked the semi-colon to the curb. How do you feel about the semi-colon and do you use this form of punctuation in your fiction? I, for one, will continue my "find and replace" and search and destroy all lurking semi-colons like a crazed zombie in the Walking Dead; however, I will continue to use the helpful little punctuation tag in my non-fiction writerly pursuits.

Shakespeare's Twilight and What Happens When a Bard Loosens his Jeggings

2011-01-19T19:24:00.000-08:00

This weekend was all about getting my Shake on at Navy Pier during a hilarious adaptation of As You Like It. Of all his plays, I think William Shakespeare's As You Like It is by far the easiest to understand and most relaxed. In the play, what happens in the forest stays in the forest . . . life is simpler: commoners and gentry share their food and their devotion without identity concerns while donned in organic rags or damask jodphurs and tight bustiers. It's frivolous and absurd, with more plot holes than Swiss Lorraine--almost as if the Bard threw up his lace decorated cuffs and said, "Fine, sirrah. Whatever. Do you desire then that the gods had made me light?"

Light. Sort of silly but that's exactly how Shakespeare planned the play of charm, a play so artificial that no one could be expected to take it seriously. The Bard knew audiences prefer, above everything else, to be gently and good-humoredly amused. Of course, it's possible to raise an eyebrow at the implausibility of most of the characters and especially the lovely Rosalind, who "hides" her beauty as a man--wink wink--and goes quietly into the night and into the Forest of Arden cross-dressed as a gentleman to protect her exiled BFF.

Sure, in AYLI the amazingly famous quotes are tucked therein including, "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players," and the lesser quoted but one of my favorites: "Do you not know I am a woman? When I think, I must speak" ( insert smiley here). But with AYLI, Bill lets down his ironed and curled hair and loosens his laced back jeggings. Entwined with a sprinkle of angst and squirmy scenes like the novel Twilight and its vampires who sparkle, all the blemishes throughout are calculated to produce smiles of a happy reader and audience, but forsake me not. I'm not comparing the luminous Bard's words with those of Stephenie Meyer's. I am, however, comparing the intent: to compel and entertain, and both do this well.
Perhaps we have something to learn from both famed scribes; as writers, playwrights and authors, we're all one in entertaining the masses. But Bill S. dazzled us first, and I think he did it best.

Frost and Paint on a Morning's Drive.

2011-01-10T06:55:00.000-08:00

"Frostilated," is how my little minion described the snow and ice that clung to limb and branch and bud on this morning's drive to school.

2010-12-28T18:26:00.001-08:00

The love of the diver for his world of wavering light. His world of pearls and tendrils and his breath at his breast. Born as a plunger into the deeps he is at one with every swarm of lime green fish, with every coloured sponge.

As he holds himself to the ocean's faery floor, one hand clasped to a bedded whale's rib, he is complete and infinite. Pulse, power and universe sway in his body.

- Mervyn Peake

Gah! This Blog Has Been Abandoned!

2010-12-15T17:59:00.000-08:00

Abandoned at least until January 1st, for no other reason than I married a wonderful man who is a store owner.

It is the Christmas season, the season we celebrate Christ's birth -- and the final quarter of the fiscal year that keeps my children in shoes and tuition and Rick Riordan novels for the rest of the year.

So I will see you lovelies after the Christmas rush.

Until then, go discover a new cabernet that marries nicely with dark chocolate, shop and write well. Let me know what I've missed when I get back, okay?

Breaking Bad, With Books.

2010-12-06T05:52:00.000-08:00

Watching a rerun of Breaking Bad last night got me thinking about my habits. First, if you're not familiar with Breaking Bad, it's about a suburban drug dealer and how his -- work -- affects his family. But my habit's not anything like that, no way. My indulgence?

Books. Lots of them.

"Helen, that's not so bad," you say, but maybe so. I'm a bit OCD when it comes to these pulpy pages filled with Garamond typeface.

Here's how it works: If I buy one book in a series (and I like it) then I HAVE to purchase the series. AND, if I buy the first set of that series in hardcover or trade, I HAVE to finish out the rest of the series in the same format. That way, My Hunger Games hardcover matches the Catching Fire hardcover and so on. Hardbound Forest of Hands and Teeth slides right next to its companion novel, Dead Tossed Waves. However, my Twilight trade soft (you have one or two of the series too so just admit it and move on) which I didn't "hardcover love" will match the rest, though I must admit I loaned out my copy of shark-jumping Breaking Dawn with the request, "Keep it. It's yours."

I borrow a book on my to-be-read list from the library, read it or not, and if I love it, buy the actual. So, tell me writers -- how do you buy your books? And, if you love the first of a series, will you purchase the rest of the set?

The Man Who Shuffles and a Fenceline Secure

2010-11-11T16:03:00.000-08:00

The Shuffler scrapes his feet along the mottled carpet, every shade of red and brown and blue. The perfect hue to hide the grit from our Midwestern boots. The perfect shade to catch errant drops from the cups of coffee poured into 8-ounce squeaky styrofoam cups flavored with a double shake of desert dry creamer.

It's what you'd expect, public coffee in the public library -- samovar'd all day long until it's burnt old and thick like oil: just how the Shuffler likes it.

I come here to write because often it's just me and Ruby the Red Dell holed up in the Reading Room. Here, the "Quiet Please" signs taped north and south on the cool blue walls are my sentries, deflecting noisy riff-raff like the zombie fence in The Forest of Hands and Teeth.

But he comes too, daily I suppose because when I'm here, he's here, the old man tall as a bookshelf who sways back and forth.

I wonder if he knows what I'm writing while he sips and reads. What he'd think of my stories about world-building and impossible beings that negate the very true National Geographic articles he folds out in his corrugated hands.

We're a silent odd team, the man who shuffles and me.

Snapping up Ruby, I stow my gear into the bag, ready to pick up and shuttle kids and dogs and other breathing things to wherever. With a polite wave, I signal my departure and he winks, rising to walk coffee bar to magazine rack and back again, making sure his fence line of familiarity is secure.

I need a quiet place to write, even the sparky static of soles against carpet is almost too much noise for me to concentrate, so I'm curious: Where do you like to write?

The Worst Advice Ever: Spoiler Alert--It Involves Pretty Tissue Paper.

2010-10-26T08:28:00.000-07:00

Dawn Metcalf, whose debut YA novel, LUMINOUS, is due out next spring, offered up on her blog a terrific post on How NOT to Get Published. Her "tips" are hilarious and brought back memories of the day I received some really bad advice.

One of Dawn's pointers on Screwing Up Royally: Ignore The Blather. She writes, "You know those helpful bits of information professionals put on their websites or submission pages? Who needs 'em? Certainly, this is put there to weed out the mindless drones who can't think creatively for themselves. Do anything it takes so that *your* piece of genius stands out from the crowd! Perhaps try colored paper with pretty graphics in the margins, purple ink..."

And another: "You want to be remembered? Send chocolate, cookies, balloons, potential swag, buttons, postcards, bookmarks . . . a list of potential actors who can star in the movie..."

Funny thing is, years ago I went to a writing seminar where I was told, "Don't query, stand out!" The basis of the the Speaker's recommendation? "James Patterson sends out a beautiful media kit."

I bet he does.

My cheeks burned red, but I raised my hand. "But Nathan Bransford says we have to put together a query letter," I said. "A synopsis too."

She advised that, instead of a query letter, I should send to each of my Fantasy Agents an 8x10 photo of yours truly with my full manuscript and a biography and cover sheet, printed on--wait for it--pretty colored paper. My mug shot and bio were to be affixed, not with a regular paper clip, but I was to run forsooth to find the most sparkly paper clip at Staples, ideally, a novel star or heart shaped clip. Lastly, we were to wrap the bundle in colored paper tissue before we sent it off priority mail.

I didn't heed the Speaker's advice, but I knew it all along: write the hook, form an enticing query, craft the synopsis, and if Fantasy Agent requires, affix my most awesome five or ten first pages. Nothing fancy, just good words written well.

Still, I cringe when I picture my four-pound package landing unannounced on Janet Reid's desk. And the bonfire that would ensue.

So that's my story. Tell me, what is the worst writing advise you ever received?

Romeo and Juliet and Tight Leather Pants.

2010-10-11T08:05:00.000-07:00

You know the story: two lovers from feuding families fall desperately in love and then they die.

Chicago Shakespeare Theatre (CST)'s Romeo and Juliet pimps my shakespeare with a cavernous opening scene, grunged up with graffiti, grit and flashing gates. It's all very 2010, but the Bard's message is still there.

Crossing family means certain death.

I'm not going to review the play because there are those who do that for a living, and I have to admit it's hard to dislike anything in the venerable CST (the gasp-inducing views of the Chicago harbor from the second and third floors are worth the ticket price). I will opine that Ariel Shafir as the ill-fated Mercutio, fills the theatre with charisma whenever he’s on stage. He walked -- no -- ran away, with the production.

Sorry Romeo. For me, it's Mercutio forever.

Ariel Sharif fights to his death in Romeo and Juliet.

Mercutio is a hottie, but the stars of this story are the gel-haired boys, Romeo’s posse, young men who play with swords, dressed in tight leather pants and dark-washed jeans. Who taunt and tease and flirt. They are boys on the doorstep of adulthood. These are the children who must die at the hand of their parents’ foolish conflicts.

But the crux begins with two families, Romeo's Montagues and Juliet's Capulets, strife-ridden with heirloom problems and absentee parents. Like many of today's YA novels . . . with a few less thou's and sirrah's, of course. . . Romeo and Juliet plots family against family, child against parent.

And some of those parents are gone or missing.

Who knew? Shakespeare was one of us--writing absentee parents into his YA plots. Romeo and Juliet uses the Missing Mom trope as metaphor: she's physically present, but emotionally and supportively absent from her children and family. Shakespeare supported the trend: dysfunctional familial relationships make for good plot, and as agent Mr. Bransford said, "It's inevitably going to be a rare book that features a happy, stable child with happy, stable parents."

Absent, missing, or disinterested parents? A new trend in Young Adult Fiction or nothing new. Parents have been AWOL since Lady Capulet tossed over her parent card to Juliet's nurse. And, to quote Chicago reviewer Chris Jones, "If you can't believe in Romeo and Juliet, what's left to love?" What indeed?

Need a spotter? I'm Your Girl.

2010-09-14T19:50:00.000-07:00

Mitchell, my baby Golden, puppy-barked at the deep-throat gurgle bouncing across the water.

I sloshed through cold dew, barefoot, to the end of the dock.

"Thought you'd be up," Bruce said from the water.

I took a long sip of hot sugared Breakfast Blend, surveying the empty seat. "Looks like you could use a third."

Cade twisted the boat's steering wheel, lining up the Mastercraft with my pier--a perfectly executed parallel park, sleepy lake style. "You wanna come?"

The water was all glass and mirrors and floating cottonwood spores. "Let me get my ski."

It was a win-win, helping out two ski buddies, an impromptu summer morning slicing wake on ribbon smooth water, the best I'd seen all summer.

I'm a decent skier; an even better spotter.

The way I see it? It doesn't matter whether you're writing or critiquing, dune mountain climbing or skiing--you've got to have backup. Heck, you may have the most pimped out 5.7 liter V8 boat with a tower rack, non-factory glitter paint, and a badass O'Brien slalom named Betty-- Excuse me. I digress.

My point is, if you don't have a spotter, if you're working without a posse, you'll probably get to where you need, but it's not always pretty, not always safe. And not very smart.

Advice to Writers wrote well on his blog when he quoted West: "Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking."

Truth AtoW, and it helps to turn off Tweetdeck and Facebook, but sometimes we need a nudge, a poke, a tweet or shout-out to affirm, "Yes, we're all in this together."

I spot you, you spot me.

Go out on a limb; spot someone, follow a newbie without being followed back.

You spot me, I spot you.

Read a manuscript for a friend. Befriend the new mom in the car pick-up line. We're all new somewhere, sometime--it's only the location that changes. Make a difference. Be that person, whether we're sharing air and breath or in a virtual world.

Are you ready?

There's Nothing Else to Say Today.

2010-09-11T15:02:00.000-07:00

Kindle or Nook, Ipad or pulpy print: What's your reader?

2010-08-19T06:58:00.000-07:00

I finally got the nerve to go digital. I'm talking e-book reader. Yes, I know.

I went to my book wall, gathered all my beauties and told them what I was about to do. Most of them took the news pretty well, except for hardcover Hunger Games--she pulled out her quiver and bow, aimed, but I was able to talk her out of the shot.

Hardcover Shiver looked at me with his soulful wolf eyes, but I'm a cradle Catholic. I know how to handle guilt.

Fountainhead smirked; Howard Roark went back to standing naked on the cliff.

"We'll see you again," they all said.

Amex in hand, I clicked to Amazon. And guess what the heck ever? Temporarily Sold Out. The Kindle, all the jaunty little screens in cool graphite gray sold out until mid September.

Amazon nicely advised me to order now to reserve my place in line.

Pre-order? Look, Amazon, it's like this: I pre-order books. I've pre-ordered Mockingjay, anticipating rich pages set in not-too-flouncy Adobe Caslon, though I'd settle for Garamond.

Place In line? Maybe for Modest Mouse or Muse tickets, definitely for Radiohead (as if they'd ever) but for a Kindle? Hmm. Maybe karma is wagging its craggy Graveyard Book hardcover finger to reconsider.

I'm second guessing my Kindle choice--maybe the Nook or the Ipad is the reader for me. So now I wonder if you can help me. Which e-reader do you love?

"Do you feel lucky, punk?” and other awesome misquotes.

2010-08-12T09:03:00.000-07:00

If you're like me you love movies! And, whilst writing a scene that was perfect only for the big Darth, I had to look up a quote from the big man in black. This is how I remembered it: Darth Vader telling Luke Skywalker "Luke, I am your father" is a line most movie fans will never forget ... or it would be, if it had ever been said.
The line, from The Empire Strikes Back, was never actually said and is the most misquoted line in movie history.
A poll asked over 1,500 movie fans to name their top movie misquotes with 17 percent voting for the Star Wars blunder.

Real fans will of course know that it was "No, I am your father" delivered by David Prowse in the jaw-drop moment that has been eternally misquoted since its release in 1980.

Number two comes from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs where “Magic mirror on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?” has been turned into the “Mirror, mirror on the wall…” (15 per cent).

Clint Eastwood’s most quoted one-liner "Do you feel lucky, punk?" got third place with real fans knowing it was "Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?"

Casablanca’s "Play it again, Sam" came in fourth place as the line was actually never spoken in the movie where "You played it for her, you can play it for me ... if she can stand it, I can. Play it!" was said.

Not that we’re one to argue with Hannibal Lector, but the chilling Silence of the Lambs quote in fifth position is also a lie. "Hello Clarice" was in fact more a "Good evening, Clarice"

The Top Ten Movie Misquotes were as follows:

“Luke, I am your father” – Star Wars V: The Empire Strikes Back (1980) (17%)
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?” - Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937) (15%)
“Do you feel lucky, punk?” - Dirty Harry (1971) (13%)
“Play it again, Sam” – Casablanca (1942) (12%)
“Hello, Clarice” – Silence of the Lambs (1991) (10%)
“Beam me up, Scotty!” – Star Trek: The Motion Picture (1979) (9%)
“Frankly, Scarlett, I don't give a damn” – Gone with the Wind (1939) (7%)
“If you build it, they will come” – Field of Dreams (1989) (6%)
“I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto” – The Wizard of Oz (1939) (5%)
“Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce me?” – The Graduate (1967) (4%)

Thus and muchly, Darth is now quoted correctly in my chapter.
Tell me, how about you? What's your favorite movie quote of all time?

Peeking Through the Curtains with Google.

2010-07-20T08:52:00.000-07:00

I recently moved my blog back to Blogger from WordPress; I liked WP's analytics, the ability to track the progress of your blog. Google's Analytics tool is also powerful, a useful tracking tool you can insert into your blog's HTML code. Honestly, I didn't realize that Google has such outstanding analytical reports, though I should have figured. After all, it is Google, duh.

Analytics tracks your links from Facebook and Twitter as well as other referring sites, which is really cool. It also provides detailed data on direct hits, or direct URL's to your blog, as well as other data you'll probably never need or use. That's cool too.

Let's face it, if we take the time to create and maintain a blog, it's important to know from where your hits, or clicks to your blog are coming. And, unless you're Stephenie Meyer or Stephen King, you're probably doing the bloggity blog thing yourself. Like me.

Stop me if you've already heard this one, but it goes something like this: In your Google main Account Page, click on Google Analytics. This link pops up the Analytics site, but read this Google blog first; it provides step-by-step instructions on how to set up your account and how to find the HTML code snippet needed for your blog. Then comes the scary part. Pour a nice cabernet -- Jordan 2005 is always good -- click the red wine glass twice on your computer screen and repeat after me: I can insert my own code. I can insert my own code.

It helps to be a tad fearless of the virtual monster called HTML, but trust, it's not hard to insert Google Analytics into your website, or blog. I did it, inserted the snippet of creepy code provided by Google, right in the middle of scary HTML where Google instructed. My blog looked the same, the earth continued to rotate; and Voilà (or if you're from Indiana, Well Lookie There): 24-hours later, precious, tangible data.

Disclaimer: Save a copy of your original blog template FIRST. The Google blog walks you through it, and though it takes a couple of days for your trending report to cook up and boil into data there is good news: Google Analytics really works and I added the HTML code myself. The bad? My tracking data/hits/visits on my new bloggity blog thing really stink; but then again, that's a different Jerry Springer Show.

What's on XM 47? Metric, Help I'm Alive.

Back to Blogger, Oy Vay.

2010-07-17T08:39:00.000-07:00

Moving back home to blogger after a long, bedbug infested stay at Wordpress. Please excuse the funky line edits/breaks/captions as the import from WP was a little, awkward. Have a Super Saturday!

Evil Minions and Gleeks in a Big Bad Mashup.

2010-07-14T10:43:00.000-07:00

"Santana Lopez in Glee is arguably a version of the Dragon Ascendant, taking over Quinn's role as The Libby when Quinn's status as a Fallen Princess (she suddenly became unpopular when her pregnancy was revealed) made her do a Heel Face Turn. However, considering that Sue Sylvester is the real Big Bad it's more like Santana was just upgraded to The Dragon from being an ordinary minion."

It's not Glee gone rogue, it's tropes: storytelling devices and conventions that a writer can reasonably rely on as being present in the audience members' minds and expectations.

The tongue-in-cheek site that authored the Gleeful opening paragraph of this blog is "TV Tropes," because TV is where the writers started, but don't be fooled. It's a valuable tool for anyone writing fiction that features a main character and supporting cast - in other words, it's a useful tool for anyone writing fiction.

According to the TV Tropes web geeks, tropes transcend television. They exist in life. Since a lot of art, especially the popular arts, does its best to reflect life, tropes are likely to show up everywhere. Oddly enough, many of these tropes originated in literature, and even today there are books with enough cultural impact to spawn TV Tropes.

Any trope is here, sorted into a mind-numbing array of sub-tropes, but the Tropes manage to swerve away from cliché. The word clichéd means "stereotyped and trite:" in other words, dull and uninteresting. There are no dull or uninteresting entries here. The site is full of 'aha' moments with spot-on tropes that will cause you to view your neighbor, brother, high school bully or favorite action hero in a left-of-center, altered light.

TV Tropes main page also has useful toys including a pitch generator with hilarious results. My favorite? A pitch for the spoof, Attack of the Killer Tomatoes:

Tomatoes. You pickle them for your ketchup. You squish them for your tomato juice. You cut them to pieces and feast on their raw corpses in your salads. You treat them like vegetables.

And they're not going to take it anymore.

Makes me want to double check the karma of the Beefsteaks in my garden. Perhaps pulpy mutiny abounds.

Hundreds of tropes are broken down by male and female characters, incuding how to write for my favorite, the Badass, and answers the question: Why All Guys Want Cheerleaders - this, despite the fact that the cheerleaders are almost universally presented as shallow, bitchy and led by The Libby.

Veronica: Heather, why can't you just be a friend? Why do you have to be such a mega-bitch?

Heather Duke: Because I can be.
— Heathers

Aah, high school. The Libby; I'm familiar with this trope, though I was the Anti Libby. You see, I was in the band, and though I don't have the inclination to search for the Band Geek Trope, I'm certain it's detailed in the website somewhere.

Fifteen months, 362 pages and 94,457 words. The End.

2010-07-07T16:51:00.000-07:00

Squee! I typed The End. Seriously, what other six letters with a space can give a writer that much pleasure?

Unscrew the Asti-Spumanti or Mountain Dew and Sharpie your name on a plastic party cup, because I just sent off my Badass Novel (BAN) to two First Readers.

Agreed, my manuscript is still a little rough, a few typos left in just to see if the FRs really read the darn thing, but the bones are there, with a lot of muscle. A little fat.

Even if I never get this thing published, I've marked one big thing off my bucket list: Written the Big Badass Novel.

Laundry? Paint the kitchen? Mais non! I'm going to spend the next week working on my "I'm a Real Writer, Yes I Am" website because luckily that's what one of the things I do in real-life, before I get back to the edits from my First Readers. Then off to query agents whilst enticing them with fresh baked snickerdoodles. Didn't I read somewhere that agents love snickerdoodles? Maybe it's cupcakes.

But for now, join me. Pour yourself an Asti, douse a Ritz with extra Cheese Whiz; c'mon there's plenty for everyone. Then sit back and let's enjoy the steam coming off the Dell.

Word of the Year.

2010-07-01T08:47:00.000-07:00

Retrosexual

Definition: a man who adopts a traditional masculine style in dress and manners

Example:

"Think of him as the anti-metrosexual, the opposite of that guy who emerged in the 1990s in all his pedicured, moussed-up, skinny-jeans glory. That man-boy was searching for his inner girl, it was argued. The retrosexual, however, wants to put the man back into manhood." — Lini S. Kadaba, Philadelphia Inquirer, Apr. 7, 2010

Submitted by: West4th, NY

Thanks to uber-favorite geek site Miram-Webster.com

How do You Know When There's Too Much Wind?

2010-06-21T22:54:00.000-07:00

From my window where I should be writing, I'm watching a sailor.

He's hoisted his crisp white main sail, rimmed with a smaller triangle of ink--ten inches of black, like an IKEA dinner plate. Odd, being on the lake at full mast after dark. He's losing wind fast during this static air night. I know he should consider bringing both sails down before dark, yet for some reason he resists and both are billowed full.

Just another boat, but this sailor caught my fancy. While most of the windmen around here boast main sails bearing flashes of gaudy color, angular rainbow stripes and the like -- this one is remarkable.

The attire? Simple and clean. A garment Jackie Onassis Kennedy (or her sister) would have worn: not too much color, a subtle statement in a Walmart world.

An elegant dress for a windy day.

It reminds me of writing, how as authors we are tempted to pack our manuscripts with ancillary words, and how sometimes, we need an oddly placed reminder that one well-chosen word is better than many bright sails.

It All Happens in the Thinktank

2010-06-16T10:37:00.000-07:00

Writing takes a lot of time. So does laundry. And cooking. And cleaning.

I suppose I should toss in a couple of "real job" hours in there as well.

And Finding Things, Lost and Hidden. That takes a lot of time, too.

What I need is a laundry knight, a self-starter with a bright shining team to swoop in, and not only bring the dirty clothes down from their smelly spot in the hamper, but sort and wash them in my basement laundry dungeon-- the room unabashedly known as the thinktank of this Sparkly household. Hopefully, once done folding, mister fancypants will slip on those shiny *metallic is so hot right now* thigh high boots he's tucked into the laundry basket (see photo) and bring everything upstairs.

Until my chain mail'd dude in lather appears, or until my Badass Novel is finished, the piles reach epic proportions. I wonder if this has anything to do with my sudden yen to climb Mount McKinley. I'll bring my gear and scale the mess -- tomorrow. After I finish one more chapter.

Ladle Up a Steaming Bowl of Writer's Block Soup.

2010-06-11T15:35:00.000-07:00

Sparkly Hubby walked into the kitchen this morning and sniffed. "What are you doing?"

"Making soup," I said.

He peered into the steaming pot, grabbed the spoon, stirred the carrots. Sampled the salted rice and onions. "You know, it's going to be eighty today," he said mid-taste, as though I couldn't feel the humid air flowing in from the kitchen window.

"I know."

"Having trouble with something?" he asked.

I nodded. "Third to last chapter."

"Still?" He closed the lid with a tinny clang. "That's what I thought," he answered. "At least the soup's good."

He was right, the soup's good. The writing? Not so much. Sometimes it doesn't matter what you do, the words don't flow. Taking a physical break works for many writers. Me too. There's nothing like slathering a fresh coat of paint on a wall to dislodge the verbal logjam, but I can't do that today: I have a Frankenfoot. A walking cast, the result of a nicely *don't ask* broken toe.

So today, instead of ladders and latex, a stainless pot would free my words. Jerry Seinfeld would be proud, 'cause the guy, well he's funny, uses lots of words, and he likes his soup.

Beef with brown rice on the menu. I chopped veggies and mixed broth, all the while plotting. "Do I really kill off X?" I wondered to myself, "or will a nice maiming do the trick." I continued my mental diatribe: "Will anyone notice if I switch point-of-view, because honestly, X's 'big scene' would resound so much better in first person, not third." Important things, killing-off and point-of-view, at least to a writer; quandaries best solved over a glass of Cabernet, but not this early. It wasn't quite wine-thirty anywhere in the midwest. Maybe in Germany, where they sip lager with their Goetta and eggs, but around here, I've got a rep to maintain. At least around my kids: no wine before noon. Just broth.

Around lunchtime, the rice cooked al dente, the buds still firm but plump and full, we gathered on the deck in swimsuits, and ladled up a steaming bowl of soul-warming, word-inspiring soup.

Served best today with a glass of icy cold tea, because after all, it was eighty degrees outside.

All in the Name of Research.

2010-06-04T17:00:00.000-07:00

As luck would have it, we'd parked the truck and its padlocked trailer right by the "No Overnight Parking" sign, safe and out of the way. The accident happened at that marina, three hours from home after we'd spent the day Waverunning through the bayous and channels of Spring Lake Michigan -- research for my Badass Novel. Car burglary? Nah. Fender bender? Nope.

The accident was far worse than either of those: You see, I dropped our keys in the lake. It's a murky lake with zero visibility, but that wasn't the bad part. The missing key ring, wedged somewhere in the muck and mire at the bottom of Mill Point launch, included two keys -- the ski trailer's padlock keys, and our truck keys. Yes, the truck that would drive us out of the marina and back to our room promising warm towels. Back to dry clothes. Out to a nice dinner.

Black Keys, the band, not to be
confused with my keys in a black lake.

Did I mention GMC emergency lock-out service doesn't stay open past five o'clock anywhere in this world?

With nary a word other than, "I can't believe you dropped the keys in the water," which he repeated over and over, Sparkly Hubby searched for almost two hours, treading water and diving for stainless. In the meantime, I pled with GMC on my cell to please find a dealership, locksmith, Harry Potter, anyone who could make our two keys magically appear. I'd have settled for a time traveler even, a shape-shifter to help me backspace to the moment right before I lost my grip on the wet metal -- sunk in half a second with a sad kerplunk. But alas, there was not a car dealer or time traveler available, perhaps because it was past closing time: time traveler's must be nine to fiver's too.

Finally, as dark threatened, my friend Blackberry, not GMC, helped us locate a locksmith who could carve a truck key for just under a couple of hundred dollars. A key which he would personally deliver . . . in the morning!

A frantic call to the harbormaster at our hotel secured a rare available boat slip for the night -- the Holiday Inn housed a marina. In the dim light, we bid farewell to our truck and trailer, but first, we left a note under the windshield wiper, on paper bummed from a Good Samaritan, penned for the Spring Lake police, pleading to please not tow our stuff.

We loaded up shivering and bemused, yet in amazingly good spirits onto the Waverunner and idled up inky Grand River to the hotel. Maybe this was how Ernest Hemingway felt coming in from the beach.

In the morning we climbed back on the Waverunner and met the locksmith at Mill Point launch. Two hundred dollars lighter, we opened the door to the GMC.

The moral of this novella? Every writer needs a terrific support system, and I am glad to say that my support system is unparalleled. You may think you have a super Sparkly Hubby, but mine is the bestie-best. Because he didn't kill, or even yell at me when I dropped the keys. And he still thinks I am a good writer. And today's his birthday. Oh, and we found the perfect location for my story.

I need to find a way to write-off that two hundred dollar key as a research cost. I'll reimburse him, just as soon as I sell my book.

Is it a War, or is it a Wii?

2010-05-31T19:12:00.000-07:00

Busy Son book time tonight. He scanned his book shelf and asked, "Mom, what is dubayou, dubayou, eye, eye mean?" Me, the Chief Finder of Things to do in a video-game-free household, continued folding socks, misinterpreting the question as another nudge in the gaming arena of Things Wanted Really Bad.

"That's a wee, honey. A computer game by Apple," I answered. "You know, like an XBOX." He pulled out the old National Geographic off the shelf, Sparkly Hubby saves them, and showed me the mushroom cloud. He pointed to the cover. "No, like this," he said.

World War Two, I saw with a jolt. Oh. Just a war, not a Wii.

I'd dumbed my son down. A random question; a busy mother's 2010 answer, age appropriate, so I thought, for a tiny dude.

That said, I'm fortunate -- no spoiled -- that the first that comes to mind is a video game, not a war. Hopefully our not-so-tiny dudes never will know what it feels like to beach on Normandy, rifle in hand, or swelter in a quiet tunnel in Vietnam.

I'm following the political strife in beloved Bangkok, not prime time for American news, but rich fodder for the BBC. The subway station we had trouble exchanging ride tokens? Gone. The humongous shopping mall at the end of the MRT line? Demolished. Burned to smithereens by the rebel supported Red Shirt Army. Seriously, how close can close be?

How much do we take for granted our freedom?

On this Memorial Day, a sincere Thank you to all who have served.

Okay, Sometimes Sucked is the Right Word.

2010-05-21T08:10:00.000-07:00

My Midwest Fellow Fellow Lara just blogged about the most appropriate time to use the word sucked. When? Whilst talking about high school gym, of course.

When Did Suck Become Okay?

2010-05-21T07:15:00.000-07:00

Dropped off Sparkly Hubby at work due to a minor car malfunction. On the XM? His favorite news program: CNBC. Keep in mind, I'm a Fox news girl, but it was on, so I listened. An announcer commented on a story, and used the term "that really sucked." It piqued me. Then he used it again, same context, next sentence. That did me in.

Now, I'm supposed to be writing so I'll make this quick (I'm good at that). I'd like to know: "when did the word "sucked" become mainstream?"

I've heard it often-- news commentators, radio personalities, everyday conversation -- even my favorite librarian at the downtown branch. Kelly Clarkson sings that her life would suck without me. Well, that's getting a little too personal, and to be perfectly honest, I really don't know Kelly that well. Still, does all this mean saying something sucks is okay? Is this the bottom of the word barrel?
I looked up sucked on thesaurus.com, one of my all time favorite websites. Though dictionary.doc acknowledges the use of sucked as slang, my friend the thesaurus ignores it, as if it will go away real soon.

I admit, I use the word because sometimes it fits. Sometimes no other word will do. But really, news announcers, public figures, Kely Clarkson: when did it become *okay* to use slang, wavering around the derogatory area of colloquialisms? Is to too darn hard to say, "it's terrible that you dropped your iPhone into the Lake," or "the fact that I wrecked your new Prius makes me feel terrible." Or, "the sushi could have been fresher." Do we really have to tell our mother or father, co-worker or lover, that our day, hamburger, drive to O'Hare really, breath, sucked?

Well, maybe everything except the drive to O'hare, which really does suck . . .

My Fellow Fellows.

2010-05-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

What an experience. Back home from my Fellowship weekend with nine other amazing writers.

Many thanks to the Ball Foundation and Jama Bigger of the Midwest Writers' Group -- it was the weekend of a lifetime for any writer.

I'm a Jolly Good Fellow

2010-04-20T08:21:00.000-07:00

"Congratulations! Your synopsis and 1,000-word manuscript have been selected for the 2010 Midwest Writers Workshop Fellowship." Well, heck thanks, MWW!

What the hay! I'm a Fellow! Looking forward to an intense weekend of revising my manuscript with some industry experts.

We nine Fellows will spend Friday and Saturday writing and revising manuscripts in progress under the direction of three veteran writing coaches. The fellowships will pay the writers' retreat costs, other than travel and incidental expenses.

Awesome!

"This retreat experience has been an extraordinary event for the previous Fellows. We are very happy to continue this intensive opportunity for writers with serious works in progress," says Jama Bigger, Midwest Writers Workshop director.

Well, all righty then, write on.

Today's View, Sponsored by My Writing Window

2009-12-31T06:22:00.000-08:00

What's on the Blackberry? Crystalised by The XX.

Well, that was exhausting!

2009-12-31T05:54:00.000-08:00

Back from helping Sparkly Hubby with his busy, busy, business this Christmas. Back to writing, and editing. Back to hating my manuscript. All is well with the world.

My peeps have been rummaging around in my pea brain, striking against the inside of my cranium. They seem kind of pissed off -- ignored, abandoned. Not that I blame them; here we were, a team, the bunch of us, off on a roll. First draft, done, ah hah! No problem. Then, dropped, rolled like a gutter ball at glo bowl night, watching as the 7 pound sphere rolled away into the night like a dropped beacon.

So I understand why they're mad. But it's not as if they were forgotten, no, they were the reason I put the wrong date on the mailing, why my direct mail was late. I'll even blame my peeps for my ad rep placing ads on the wrong date -- them, I blame them all My peeps -- them, all them! In my head wracking around -- distracting me from my j.o.b.

I am the girl in GLASS, Ellen Hopkin's novel. I am the plotting meth addict, planning a score after a forced hiatus, though my drug of choice is a keyboard and a fictional boy named Graham. I am feeling the adrenaline pulse through my veins as I plan my reunion with my peeps; oh yes, it will be sweet.

Just as soon as I feed Sparkly Junior his breakfast.

When Are You a Writer?

2009-11-01T20:31:00.000-08:00

It happened again Friday. I was distracted by the cold flat plate, the tech squishing my left side into a part that didn't look like it could fit. Flat meets round. "So what do you do?" she asked, nonchalant, probably her hundredth mammogram of the day. I stopped, trying to stay still as instructed. She caught me off guard.

I do a lot of things, some of them well, some not so well. I design art, I feed hte Minions, find Things Lost and Hidden, help Sparkly Hubby. Sometimes I sneak in a shower. These things are a given, made tangible through practice and error. But what about writing? Plenty of error there, heh heh.

I paused before answering her, guilty like a teenager caught with cigarettes hidden under a mattress. I did not answer her as she squished me onto the plate because honestly I'm not sure when you can label yourself as such. When one is published, I suppose I will answer different. I surmise that the hours I spend plotting and revising don't count -- simply because I am unfinished.

Learning Voice

2009-10-27T17:39:00.000-07:00

As an unpublished writer I read a lot, though I understand a lot of published writers can read :) the onus is on the unproven ones to improve, perfect . . . publish. Ahhh . . . Voice, the resonance of a writer that makes the gentle reader see, understand, reflect. It is up to the writer to reach inside onself and pull out that feeling, open it up big and wide, that big cavernous pit into which the reader will fall and forget that there is H1N1 at school and laundry to fold. It is capitalized because I see it as a crater on the moon, an echo in an abandoned boat house -- waves bouncing against the splintered teak. Many writers relay they reach for music for inspiration, I reach for a book, a good one. Stephen, Anna, Maggie - - Voice, give me Voice.

Today's View

2009-10-26T21:18:00.000-07:00

The dawn breaks early these days but I caught this at sunrise. You're welcome. It's hard not to be inspired when you are writing about the water and you see this.

Boats

2009-10-26T20:47:00.000-07:00

One of the vessels featured in my novel Webbed is a 1965 Riva Aquarama -- a pristine example will go for over a half million dollars, even in today's market -- just try and find one! Crafted and polished of mahogany and teak, they were made by the Riva family of Italy. The Rivas still makes larger motor yachts today. The Riva Superaquarama, aka the Super, was a favorite of celebrities over the world, including the sultry Brigitte Bardot. It was also favored by the Shah of Iran. Yes, that guy. One can dream, can't one? I mean, isn't that what fiction is all about? I have to admit I am a purist, my Riva would be fashioned with the original cyan and white cushions in the back playpen, just like Brigi's, n'est pas?

Today's View

2009-10-17T17:39:00.000-07:00

Seriously, there is a reason why I live where I do; granted there is nothing much here, nary a Target, Barnes & Noble, Home Depot nor a Big R (which I love). Not to mention there is not much of a writing community or a gaggle of critique groups. But, to be honest, the view from my writing window does have it perks. Thus, why I live in the middle of nowhere has to do with about 900 acres of H2O and a slit of heaven at the gloaming, 'round 5 o'clock in the afternoon.

Owl City oh my

2009-10-17T17:07:00.000-07:00

I love the new Owl City Fireflies song! Love it and think the band is amazing. Though I am a little concerned that we heard it on XM today on our drive home; not just any channel, though, it was the DISNEY CHANNEL for whoops sake! Congrats on making the big time Owl City, love ya!

2009-10-16T09:15:00.000-07:00

If you haven't yet, check out wordle.net, a word slash abstract art slash writing jumble that sorts through your manuscript, selecting frequently used words. Very cool!