On writing, living and loving

Long Story Short: upholding the oral tradition

2012-01-12T18:00:00.000-08:00

Most every journalist, at least the old ones like me, has heard of Studs Terkel.
The man was amazing.
He painted portraits of World War II, the Great Depression, race relations, celebrities, criminals and every day American life and people with words.
But he rarely used words of his own.
Terkel was an artist of oral history.
He knew how to get people to open up -- whether for his books, for radio or for television. He knew how to listen intensely and compassionately and how sift through what was said and what was not said for what was true.
He did not simply conduct interviews; He had conversations.
Conversations that brought history alive.
Studs Terkel died in 2008 at age 96, leaving a huge void in the journalism world and in the tradition of oral history. Just that year, I had started working on a nonfiction book in which I tried to emulate his style. I was saddened.
It felt like a huge loss.
So I was pleased today to find a link on my twins blog to the work of Larry Horowitz, owner of Long Story Short, a company that creates video biographies. Someone wanted me to see a video interview he had conducted with 77-year-old identical twins.
The video and the women are amazing.
Horowitz gently guides their conversation, but he does so with few words.
He lets the twins do the rest.
It reminded me of Studs Terkel.
Horowitz spent 20 years as a video and film editor in the advertising business, where he edited commercials for companies such as P&G, Coca-Cola, L'Oreal and AT&T. He left the industry to follow his own passion, to create something more intimate, most lasting.
He had uploaded his interview with the twins to YouTube, where it attracted the attention of the folks at Walgreens. The sisters landed a role in a Walgreen's flu shot commercial. That role led to talk appearances on Dr. Phil and the Rosie O'Donnell show.
All because Larry Horowitz let them speak, honestly, openly and without nervous inhibition. He didn't have to tell viewers about their bond. He let the two women show it. And the result is powerful. So much like the work of Studs Terkel.
Thank You, Larry Horowitz.

How Daniel Abraham made me laugh: A Private Letter from Genre to Literature

2012-01-04T09:54:00.000-08:00

Among the most difficult dilemmas I have faced since I began writing fiction is determining a genre for my first (unpublished) novel, Spring Melt.
Is it crime?
Is it historical?
Is it courtroom drama, women's fiction, commercial, literary or commercial with a literary edge?
I have no clue.
Its complexity complicates the querying process.
Will agents be turned off by my mention of one genre and my dismissal of another?
Will publishers market it to the wrong audiences?
Oh, the stress ...
So when I stumbled across this -- A Private Letter from Genre to Literature by Daniel Abraham -- today, it brought me great comic relief.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Just click on the paragraph below to access the full letter:

I saw you tonight. You were walking with your cabal from the university to the little bar across the street where the professors and graduate students fraternize. You were in the dark, plain clothes that you think of as elegant. I have always thought they made you look pale. I was at the newsstand. I think that you saw me, but pretended not to. I want to say it didn’t sting.

One kind deed after another. Yes, it's a sappy holiday post

2011-12-23T18:56:00.000-08:00

I was bumming.
Big time.
The memorial ornament I had ordered for my aunt had finally arrived late last week, too late for me to make the hour’s drive to the mall to have it engraved. I would have to wait until Monday and then mail it Tuesday, risking that it would arrive after the holiday.
Then I remembered the local contractor who does engraving on the side.
I called him that evening and left a message, telling him how important this was to me.
I held out little hope.
Why should he care? He didn’t know me and it was almost Christmas. Most everyone is overwhelmed during the Christmas season and this guy had a contracting business to worry about as well.
So I was thrilled when he returned the call at 7 a.m. the next day, telling me to leave it in his drop box as soon as possible.
And I was stunned when the ornament was finished by 2 p.m.
But that's how this holiday season has gone.
It's been amazing really.
In this time of high unemployment, nationwide protests and political childishness and I would expect ... well ... depression. I would expect people to be less kind than usual, more bitter, less generous with their time, energy and good will.
Grumpy.
Yet I look at my Facebook page and see links to articles about someone who paid off gifts people put on layaway. A friend posted that someone ahead of her in a drive-thru paid for her meal. She was so tickled that she planned to do the same for someone else.
Her story inspired others to follow suit.
The holiday basket drive in my kids' school raised so much money this year they were able to buy staples to fill voids in recipients' pantries. A woman ahead of me at the Post Office gave another woman the extra change she needed for postage, saving her a trip to her car.
It's just been one kind deed after another.
I first became aware of it -- really aware -- when I left a toy for my son on the bottom rack of my cart in the parking lot at Target. I didn’t remember until the next day when I was sorting gifts. I didn’t dare even dream I’d ever get it back.
Someone could easily have swiped it.
Even if it had been found, what were the chances Target employees would have held onto it for me? Why bother? It would have been easier to put it back on the shelf. Besides, I couldn't find the receipt. I wouldn't be able to prove anything without the receipt.
I called anyway.
It was waiting for me at customer service.
No hassles.
No suspicions.
Just smiles and holiday wishes.
A few days later, I finally came up with a decent gift idea for my father.
I'd been struggling for a while.
He is in a nursing home down south in the late stages of MS. His memory is failing him, especially his short-term memory. He loves literature, but novels are not easy for him these days because he can't remember what he read the day before, or even minutes before.
The editor of Short Story America had sent an email. He offered a reduced rate and free shipping to me and all other writers whose stories were part of the debut anthology. I replied, telling him I would like to get one for my father as a Christmas gift.
They are my father's kind of short stories, my kind.
The good, old traditional kind.
They are short enough that he might be able to get from beginning to end in one session, I explained.
The editor, Tim Johnson, wrote back quickly.
He told me he would mail the anthology out immediately to ensure it arrived before Christmas if I would just send him the address. He knew I was good for the money, he said.
Tim has a family -- a wife and twin girls. He was leaving soon to spend Christmas with even more family. He had other things to think about. Yet he took the time to do this favor for me, someone he knows only through a phone call, Facebook and a story.
It's affected me, all this good cheer.
I find myself leaving the packaging tape at the Post Office for others to use, being more gracious to other shoppers and drivers who seem to be in a hurry, dropping bills instead of coins into tip containers and charity boxes.
I'm itching to pay for a drive-thru meal, but there aren't many opportunities in the middle of Amish country.
It's not enough.
I know that.
I have not repaid the kindnesses that others have shown me this Christmas, not yet.
These kindnesses, this unexpected generosity, have helped me to put my writing aside, even my running aside, and most definitely my aspirations of a clean house aside as we prepare to celebrate this day of giving and sharing and loving.
This day of hope.
It has helped me to concentrate on what is important this season -- people.
The rest can wait.

Leslie Hoffman: Hollywood stuntwoman turned activist

2011-12-01T16:47:00.001-08:00

Leslie Hoffman

When I was a kid growing up in the small Adirondack village of Saranac Lake, I was enthralled by the story of Leslie Hoffman. The fact that her parents owned the local pharmacy already gave her elevated status in town, but she’d made it big.
Really big in my eyes.
Leslie was a Hollywood stuntwoman.
I first heard of her fame at about 11 years old when I was watching Charlie’s Angels, a favorite television series of my childhood. My oldest brother David commented that Leslie had done stunts for the series and the fascination began.
A year or two later, Leslie took a 78-foot leap off the Love Boat. Then she appeared in M*A*S*H, Fantasy Island, Remington Steele, A Nightmare on Elm Street, and dozens upon dozens of other movies and television shows, sparing other actors from the dangers involved in successfully suspending disbelief.
The latter part of her career was spent coordinating stunts in movies and television, including the Star Trek New Voyages series.
She was the first stuntwoman elected to the Board of Directors of Screen Actors Guild, the country's largest entertainment union. She was also the first woman in her line of work elected to the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists Los Angeles Local Board and AFTRA National Boards in the 1980s.
I had imagined her life and her future as one full of red carpets, celebrity dinners and hand prints impressed in famous sidewalks.
Not so.
Leslie's stint with SAG didn't go well.
She advocated for all kinds of members -- women, people of color, children -- and, she says, some colleagues didn't like that. Leslie says she became the victim of vicious rumors and bullying tactics in which SAG and certain stuntmen tried to have her removed from the board and blacklisted her from working stunt jobs. The blacklisting hit her hard, making it impossible for Leslie to find work in Hollywood.
She paid a price for her advocacy and, later, she paid a price for all those stunts.
Leslie suffers from post-concussion syndrome -- the result of a career full of hits, bashes and bangs to her head -- along with chronic back pain. The syndrome resulted in depression and other mental health issues and led to a devastating breakdown in 2003.
The federal government awarded her Social Security Disability Insurance in 2004, and included the previous two years. SAG gave Leslie her pension retroactive to 2002. But when she applied for its Disability Health Plan, a well-hidden clause in the Producer-SAG Health Pamphlet that stipulates that SAG members who suffer a career-ending injuries while working on the set are entitled to health benefits, she was denied.
Despite the federal ruling, the SAG board denied her again during a 2010 appeal, this time saying her injuries didn't happen on the sets. In the meantime, she has been paying for her own health, prescriptions and dental insurance, which we all know costs a bundle these days.
But that wasn't enough to bring Leslie down.
With so many troubles of her own, Leslie still found the energy to fight for others in similar situations, helping them win the benefits and reimbursements she has been denied. She also complained to the U.S. Department of Labor, claiming that SAG has a 30-year history of bullying and blacklisting for financial gain.
Leslie says she received word last week that the Department of Labor will take her complaints to the next level of investigation.
Her claims are not far-fetched. The Labor Department has been investigating allegations of embezzlement by SAG administrators for months, including charges that the CEO of the Producers Health and Pension Plan embezzled funds.
It has been a rough road for Leslie. She will never fully recover from her injuries and it pains her to see that stunt persons still perform without, in her opinion, the appropriate safety precautions. Her fears and her advocacy for head trauma victims have extended to other occupations, such as professional sports, and to other sufferers.
Leslie's head injuries make it difficult to communicate as fluidly as she would like. That sometimes drives away people who don't understand continuous head trauma and its permanent effects. It can be hard for her to tell her story in a way that makes sense -- hard for her to convince anyone to write about it, to get the word out and create change.
Something good has come out of this though.
For me anyway.
I am no longer a full-time journalist. My focus is fiction, so I won’t be digging into files, interviewing actors, producers, SAG members, investigators and doctors to verify the details of her story and get myself a page-one byline. I derive no financial or career benefit from getting to know Leslie or blogging about her battle.
I get something better.
Gone is my fascination for Leslie’s talent and her star-studded career.
Instead, her battle has helped me to become familiar with Leslie, the person, and the selfless advocate she has become. I am proud to know Leslie and I am sure that she has made our shared hometown even prouder.

A holiday confession

2011-11-13T15:52:00.001-08:00

I used to apologize for it, but no more.
I AM one of those people.
I am thrilled when Christmas decorations appear in the store two weeks before Halloween, toy catalogs arrive in September, and magazines with holiday craft ideas on the cover (projects that I must admit I lack any talent for) fill the grocery store racks while we are still shopping in short-sleeved t-shirts.
Santa and his train appeared on our front lawn last night. They would have been there sooner if I could have convinced my husband and the kids to forgo Halloween.
All the kids have Christmas lights in their rooms and our twins have a miniature tree on their train table.
So don't complain to me about any of it.
I love Christmas.
I love the build-up.
I love that cozy feeling.
Bring it on.
But for God's sake, take it down when it's over!
There is a trade-off for the early infusion of Christmas spirit.
When the day is over -- we've been to Christmas service, the gifts are unwrapped, dinner has been eaten and my husband and I have had our nightcaps of calorie-packed Bailey's Irish Cream -- I am so ready to tear it all down.
I try.
I try to keep it up until New Year's, but I usually fail.
One year, the stress was too much.
My husband came home from work on Dec. 27 to find the tree in the bushes behind our house and all the ornaments packed in their boxes. The lights were coiled, the rug was vacuumed and the furniture was back in place.
It was such a relief.
So let's do this:
Let me have my pre-Halloween Christmas giddies.
In return, I will lock all our doors in hopes that I will not sleepwalk through town on Dec. 26, ripping lights off trees, tossing ornaments into boxes and stuffing the greenery into recycling bins.
I'll try if everyone else does.
Happy holidays!

Running, running, running, running, running ...

2011-10-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

It was cool and raining.
Water seeped through my windbreaker and dripped from the rim of my hat as I ran down Main Street in our little town last night.
In the darkness, it was a bit like trail running.
I jumped around puddles that I didn't see until I was upon them, I leaped over broken chunks of sidewalk. I strained to balance as I slipped on wet leaves. While passing under a street light, I glanced at the Garmin watch my husband had lent me.
I'd run almost 3 miles and I hadn't even thought about running.
I had been lost in thought and in the challenge of keeping my footing.
I was running like I used to run more than five years ago before I became pregnant with the twins.
My body was straining, but my mind was free of it.
I had finally regained enough fitness to disconnect the physical from the mental.
I fell in love again ... with running.
I am heavier than I was in my marathoning days and I certainly won't be setting personal records in 5Ks any time soon. My pace was slow, more of a jog than a run. But I felt it again -- that release that hooked the first time back in my teenage years.
I've regained that part of me.
I am back.
I am really back.

Author Patrick Gabridge on the decision to go digital

2011-09-29T03:55:00.000-07:00

In the old days, authors had two reasonable choices when their publishers quit printing their books and the rights reverted back to the writers.
They could hold onto the books, hoping for second printings when fame and fortune created high demand for all their previous works, or they could buy out the warehouses and line their shelves with copies they could sell on EBay or give away to new-found friends (Any family members who were too cheap to buy it in the first place, don't deserve a free copy.).
But times have changed and so have the choices.
Nowadays, anyone can publish books electronically, reaching unprecedented numbers of potential readers with no financial investment.That includes previously published authors whose books have outgrown their publishers and become homeless.

Tornado Siren

Patrick Gabridge is among those authors who decided to take advantage of the digital age. Pat's first novel, Tornado Siren, was originally released by Behler Publications in 2006. Pat is a Boston-based playwright and novelist, who has also written screenplays and radio plays. He is married, with two kids. When he's not writing or in a theatre, he can often be found in one of his three gardens.
I recently talked to Pat, an old high school friend, about his decision to e-publish:

Tell me a bit about your novel, Tornado Siren.
Pat: Tornado Siren is about a meteorologist who studies tornadoes, who meets up with a man who claims to have an odd, mystical connection to tornadoes. According to Ben, he’s been wandering the earth for centuries, from twister to twister. As a scientist, Victoria finds his claims completely unbelievable, but she sees something that shakes her certainty. She ends up walking across Kansas with him to find out if his story is true. In the process, they fall for each other. In terms of genre, I’d label it as a paranormal love story, though it’s also partly a road trip story and disaster novel.

Under the terms of your contract, how long did Behler Publications have the rights to your book?
Pat: Five years.

When you signed the contract, had you thought about what you might do with the novel after the rights reverted back to you?
Pat: I just hoped the book would be a huge success and that the relationship would continue for years, as the book continually found more readers and sold more copies. It sold some copies over two years, but after that, like most books, it disappeared from view. I had talked to them about the possibility of Behler putting out an e-book of Tornado Siren when they first started coming out, but they weren’t interested at the time.

What made you decided to publish electronically?
Pat: I’d been reading a lot of blogs where writers were giving it a try and having some success, especially Joe Konrath. I didn’t think I’d achieve his kind of numbers, but he made some good arguments for giving it a try. Especially for a book that had been published already — so it had reviews and had been professionally edited — but had fallen out of the print. The risk seemed very low. It would take some time to format it and come up with a new cover but, otherwise, the cost was minimal.

How did you settle on an e-publishing company? What were you looking for? Was the reach of the electronic distribution a consideration?
Pat: In this case, I just went directly to the online distributors. So I uploaded a version to Amazon for the Kindle to Barnes & Noble for the Nook, and to Smashwords for everything else. They make it easy. For them, the more books out there, the better. Each one needed some slight tweaks to the manuscript formatting, but it was really pretty simple.

What are the terms? Do you get all the profit or a percentage? Did you find a lot of variety in the terms in your research?
Pat: The terms vary a bit, but not by a huge amount. For Amazon, the amount I get depends on the price of the book. On books priced between $2.99 and $9.99, the author gets 70 percent of the sales price. Above or below that, the author gets 35 percent. So basically, on $2.99 books, I get about $2. (More than 90 percent of the e-books I’ve sold have been for the Kindle, through Amazon.)

Contrast that to when the book was selling in paper for $14.99. My publisher was paying me 10 percent of the net sales price (Small publishers often pay on the net rather than cover price. Larger publishers pay on the cover price.), and I earned about an average of about $0.68 per book.

The other big plus is that authors get paid more frequently for e-books. With my print publisher, I was supposed to get a royalty statement a couple times a year. Many only pay annually. Amazon puts money directly into my bank account, every month. Smashwords and Barnes & Noble work the same way.

Can you pull Tornado Siren at any time?
Pat: Yes. Any of the sites will allow you to pull the book, or to update it. It’s a remarkably flexible system for authors. I can also experiment with price, but I haven’t tried going the $0.99 route yet.

How has the e-version of the novel fared?
Pat: I’m not about to retire on it. I will say that since it first came out in March, I’ve already earned more money from the e-book that I ever received from my print publisher. I think genre fiction has better potential to really take off as an e-book, because there are highly focused communities of readers out there. Amanda Hocking is an example of a genre writer who’s had some astounding e-book success, but she also worked really hard for it and wrote a bunch of books. I just have the one e-book right now.

I love that I’m reaching new readers every month and I can easily track how many copies I’m selling, which is good for a numbers guy like me.

What have you done for publicity?
Pat: I’ve done the basic online work. I’ve posted about it on my blog, on Facebook, on Twitter. Some of my friends blogged about me and my e-book early on. I have an e-mail list of about 600 people, so I sent out e-mails to all of them. I got more active on Good Reads. There’s a link on my e-mail signature. Lots of little things, here and there. There’s more I could do, but time is always an issue.

Has publicity cost you anything?
Pat: Not yet. It’s unclear how much paid online ads or other marketing outreach is likely to do for an e-book that’s self-published and not within a specific genre. I have pretty big doubts whether the return would be there. It’s a tricky having a book that was already published in print, too, in terms of getting reviews.

Are you happy with this decision? Please explain.
Pat: Definitely. It’s earned me a little money and found me a whole bunch of new readers, all for minimal effort and expense on my part.

If you were submitting Tornado Siren to publishers for the first time now, what would you do?
Pat: I’d still pursue traditional publishers first. They have the ability to bring a book to a much broader audience than a self-published e-book. They can land you reviews and interviews that most people can’t get on their own. I think it’d possibly be a little easier to get published now, because there’s a more established niche for paranormal romance/love stories than there was when I was taking this out initially.

I understand you have a few other novels in the works. Will this experience affect the way you seek publication for those novels?
Pat: I’m still trying to find a traditional publisher, using an agent, for both of my two new books. One is a middle-grade book, and the other is adult literary fiction. If my agent can’t sell them, I’ll probably look at smaller publishers, but I’ll also consider publishing them myself as e-books. I want my material to be read, and it’s clear that e-books are one way to help that happen.

Do you have any advice for unpublished authors trying to navigating this ever-changing publishing world?
Pat: Don’t underestimate how hard it is to find a large audience for a self-published book, whether it’s in print or an e-book. There are more books out there than ever before, and fewer people reading them. It’s fun to read stories about people like Joe Konrath or Amanda Hocking, but most people only find a few readers for their books. If you want to find a broad audience, the traditional route of agent-to-publisher still has some big advantages. Whichever way you go, you need to write a great book. If you publish it yourself, you’re going to need a good cover and also make sure it’s well-edited, by someone who knows what they’re doing (i.e., you might have to pay them).

No matter which way your book gets published, there’s a lot of work involved for the author when it comes to marketing. And even then, there’s no guarantee it’ll find a large audience.

That said, it’s amazingly cool to have a book published and have people read it and love it. I hope lots more people find their way to Tornado Siren. Without having it available as an e-book, that wouldn’t be possible.

Hunting, hunting, hunting for my ticket to artistic freedom

2011-09-15T08:50:00.000-07:00

I was so excited to sit down at my computer when all four kids started school this fall and write.
Just write.
It's been six months since I've had regularly scheduled work hours and I had all kind of visions in my head of fully immersing myself in novel number three, taking running breaks whenever I suffered a bout of writer's block, and maybe having a clean kitchen now and then.
Almost two weeks into the school year and I have yet to write more than a blog post.
I've gone running twice.
Dishes fill the sink.
It's my own doing.
A few months ago, after the completion of my second novel, I amicably parted ways with my agent.
So now I am on my own again.
With my agent went the luxury of writing without a care.
I once again have to worry about the business of writing.
And I'm not happy about it.
The innocence that inspired me in the agent hunt the first time around is gone.
I no longer get giddy when I find an agent I want to query. I am well aware that the agent is receiving about 50 other queries on that same day and that my query might not get more than a glance, regardless of how hard I try to get that agent's attention.
I no longer get my hopes up when I get a request for a full manuscript.
It's affirming, but it's just another step in the process.
A rejection is still more likely than a contract offer.
I no longer query any old agent with a web page.
I am pickier now, seeking only agents with proven sales records in my genre and carefully researching their reputations as human beings (No refection on my previous agent. He is a wonderful guy with a great sense of humor.). I want this agent to be my last agent.
I don't ever want to go through this process again.
But I know I have to grin and bear this.
A good agent, in my opinion, is a godsend.
My fingers are itching to write, my mind is racing with plots and characters, but they will have to wait just a little bit longer.
The right agent will set me free.
Free to write.
And that freedom, I know, will be well worth it.

No college reunions for me

2011-09-03T15:04:00.000-07:00

My college alumni magazine arrived in the mail today with big headlines about the university's 150th birthday. The issue featured photos of a recent reunion where people who had graduated before me locked arms for photos, grinned and looked genuinely thrilled to be there.
All those years and they still feel so connected.
Why don't I?
I loved college.
I had lots of friends in college, some of whom remain my friends even now.
I was always involved on campus as student supervisor for the college catering service, an editor on the student newspaper, a participant in intramural basketball, a sound person (whatever that is) for the college television station and in various other activities.
I even double-majored.
I was part of the community as well, more so than most students. I became a year-round resident the summer after my sophomore year, working in local restaurants and taking summer courses. I interned in the local bureau for The Post-Standard in Syracuse, where I eventually landed a full-time job.
I would love to go back and visit someday, stroll around the campus, see how it's changed and soak in that atmosphere one more time. I have great memories there. I love college campuses in general and, if not for my fear that it would distract me too much from my family and my writing, I would probably be teaching on one right now.
But why don't I feel that pull toward a reunion, the pull that those people in that photo clearly felt?
It had been bothering me all day, but I think I've finally found the answer.
For most people, college is the first taste of independence. It's the first time they've ever lived away from home and that experience in itself is thrilling. Yet, they still know they can afford to make mistakes. Even if they are paying for it themselves, they can always go home again should they fail.
College becomes a place of firsts, firsts without fear.
It becomes romanticized, and that romantic feeling remains even 30 or 40 years later.
For me, college was the most financially and psychologically stressful time of my life.
For reasons I won't go into, I'd been on my own since my senior year of high school, sharing an apartment with one of my best friends. I'd been working full time as a waitress since my junior year and in part-time jobs for years before that.
I'm pretty sure I was the only person in my dorm who arrived with boxes full of baking pans, spatulas and frying pans. I didn't want independence when I got it and I didn't want it in college. I just wanted to survive and get a job, a good job that would pay plenty of money and ease my stress for good,
Of course, that didn't happen.
Those crazy people at SUNY-Oswego persuaded me to pursue my dreams, which didn't pay a heck of a lot. They convinced me to follow my heart and soul instead, and find something called real happiness.
Unbelievable.
Those people.
So I think now I understand now how it's possible to think fondly of my days at SUNY-Oswego, to treasure my friends, my experiences and my memories, but to still have no desire to attend a formal reunion. For me, everything about college was real.
Nothing is romanticized.
The faraway smiles in that photo bring back memories I would rather not drag up. They bring with it that tightness in my chest, that feeling of barely keeping my head above water, that fear of drowning in debt and stress with no one to throw me a rope. The feeling that I was somehow different from everyone else even though I was good at pretending that I was the same.
I am sure now, so many years later, that plenty of other almuni struggle with those same feelings, that I wasn't alone even though I thought I was. And I know now, with certainty, that even people who barely knew me would have thrown me a rope anyway if only I had told them I needed it.
Maybe even some of those people in that photo.
I will probably go back someday.
But I will return quietly.
Maybe on my own, maybe for a conference or another kind of celebration.
But not for a reunion.
Not me.

The long summer

2011-07-30T18:41:00.000-07:00

It's been a long summer.
A very long summer.
With early sunrises and late sunsets, no one sleeps in our household.
And no one wants to stay home.
That means no writing at night or early in the morning, and no sneaking in a few words here and there during the day.
I can't even jot down notes at the pool or the lake because our youngest two are still swimmers-on-the-verge. Both have taken their first independent strokes. One even started swimming a little distance the other day. But at 4 years old, they still have no judgment and they certainly don't have enough endurance.
My eyes must remain focused on them even when lifeguards are present.
I know.
I could make it a priority.
I could squeeze a few words in here and there.
But we have four kids and they tire me out.
What I really want at the end of the day is a glass of wine.
What I really want in the morning is a cup of coffee.
But my mind won't rest.
Even without a laptop or a pencil and paper, I find that I am writing. I am writing in my head constantly, focusing on my characters when I should be focusing on the road, blurting out plot dilemmas during conversations about minnows and tadpoles, revising while I'm loading the dishwasher and scrubbing pots and pans.
When September comes around and the kids return to school, I know that I will have trouble doing anything but writing. I will obsess. I will forget my vow to exercise more. I will procrastinate on those home remodeling projects. I will be surprised to realize that it's time to get the twins from preschool and nearly time for my husband to bring the older kids home.
I will have my hands on the keyboard, banging out those words -- those characters, plots and settings -- that are fighting for space in my head. The experience will be freeing just like it was last fall. I will be productive. Very productive.
I am excited.
But ...
why then do I still dread the fall?
Why do I find that I am reluctant to send the kids off to their classrooms, where they will be challenged daily, where they socialize with their friends, where someone else will feed them lunch? Maybe even saddened? Maybe even a wee bit depressed?
I love to write, but the reality is that I love my kids more.
And it's healthy to be pulled away from my keyboard, to get a little color on my arms, legs and face, to have lunch on a picnic table that is situated between the beach and the playground.
It's good for me to converse with other moms while the kids swing or climb on the monkey bars. And it certainly doesn't hurt to sit into a chair at night with stars bright above me and fire crackling in front of me and my husband beside me, watching the older kids instruct the younger ones on the qualities of a perfect s'more.
The things is that every September brings us closer to ages when the kids won't be interested in hanging out with mom in the summer anymore. Every September, I realize that they've grown just a little bit more. Grown a little more independent of me.
That makes me proud, but it also makes me appreciate the time I have with them.
I will always be able to write provided my mind remains sharp and my hands can still navigate a keyboard, but I will not always be able to a push swing or coming running to see a captured crayfish in a net or catch a child jumping off the edge of a pool.
Because the kids won't need me that way.
So for now, the words in my head will just have to move over, cram closer together and make room for more.
They are not going anywhere.
But I am.
The pool, the deli, Darien Lake, the library, the playground, the beach, up and down the street in front of our house, grandma's, Aunt Karen's, cousin Amy's, maybe Aunt Angie's one more time, the mall, Market Street, a hike, and who knows where else.
Who knows.

New policies make it clear: children are not welcome at this YMCA

2011-07-11T19:01:00.000-07:00

For more than 20 years, we have belonged to YMCAs.
In Syracuse, N.Y.;
Phoenix, AZ.;
Cincinnati, OH.;
and most recently, Corning, N.Y.
Our older two kids learned to swim through their programs; they both played soccer and t-ball on YMCA teams. We enjoyed many a summer in the YMCA pools. Our 4-year-old twins recently took their first independent swimming stroke thanks to the talented instructors at the YMCA in Corning, 35 miles from our home.
We sought out YMCAs wherever we moved because we believed in the organization's philosophy and appreciated its family-friendly atmosphere. We were willing to travel 40 minutes each way for lessons this summer because we felt such a strong allegiance.
Sadly, those days are over.
The Corning YMCA has adopted new policies that not only discriminate against children, but also might put children in danger. My twins and I have been harassed by members and employees on most every visit. The director attempted a small change, a consolation, after I complained, but it's too late. The attitudes have been cultivated.
Families with small children are not welcome.
It began in February, but we were unaware of the new policies until the twins started swimming lessons in June. I headed toward the women's locker room with the twins in tow, but I was stopped by an employee who told me that under new policies, we had to use the family locker room.
Only children under 2 may enter opposite-gender locker rooms.
I grumbled (loudly), but I obliged.
Unfortunately, YMCA board members did not change the family locker room when they changed the policy.
We found ourselves crammed in a small room with one bathroom stall, two changing stalls and a single shower for the three adults and six children who were in there. The floor was dangerously slick with water. A line had formed for the toilet.
I was annoyed, but I decided to buck it up.
My kids were already dressed in their suits and had peed at home.
Before the next lesson, however, my boys had to use the toilet. A poor little boy was in the single stall struggling to have a bowel movement. We waited and waited, but the kid just couldn't poop under pressure and the twins were about to be late for their lesson.
So I told the mom not to worry.
We would find another bathroom.
When I asked an employee to direct me elsewhere, she told me I had to send my 4-year-olds into the men's locker room alone. This, from an organization that lost one of its child watch workers to jail in the fall of 2009. He had been caught taking lewd photos of little girls who were in his care.
I refused and told the employee I was taking them into a women's locker room, regardless. We paid the same amount of money as the other members. My boys deserved equal opportunity to pee. Finally, she took me a little-used locker room where the boys were exposed only to the bathroom stalls. Even with the employee hoovering over us, a member berated us for being in there.
The director met me the parking lot that day as we were leaving and offered this change: she would post signs on the locker rooms doors stating that children under 5 would be allowed in opposite-gender locker rooms during preschool swim lessons.
Eventually, the YMCA plans to add another family locker room, she said.
Why the sudden change in policy, particular when the YMCA was unprepared to accommodate all the parents with young kids who use the facilities? A pastor had complained that he didn't like little girls seeing him naked in the men's room showers, which are wide open.
Had anyone considered curtains for the showers?
No.
Apparently, pastors have a lot of pull at the Corning YMCA.
I thought this might work, at least for now.
Twice since the change I have been approached by YMCA members with haughty attitudes who tried to put my boys and I in our place, specifically the family locker room. Twice, I gritted my teeth, slapped on a fake smile and pointed them to the signs on the doors.
But today I couldn't find that smile.
Today, it was not a member who harassed us.
Today, it was an employee and she would not leave us alone.
I told her about the sign. I told her to talk to her bosses. She told me I was wrong and that she knew more than me because she was an employee. Then she demanded the ages of my very tall twins. In answer, I told her our personal information was none of her business and I asked her to leave us alone.
Then I demanded that she leave us alone.
Then I demanded again and again and again.
When finally she left and I approached the front desk to complain, she was already there. Another employee who stepped out of the office insisted that his coworker hadn't harassed us, that she simply didn't know. His boss hadn't gotten the word around yet to all of the employees.
But he wasn't in the locker room.
He didn't hear her.
This employee did not want my boys in there.
This was not simply a policy issue.
This was personal.
This anti-children attitude is, clearly, a prevalent attitude among members and among at least a few employees.
No thanks.
Our two-decade relationship is over.
My kids will swim where they are welcome.

Freedom at the fireworks: a small-town advantage

2011-07-03T22:18:00.000-07:00

It's been years since I've taken the older kids to a fireworks display.
I don't like crowds and our oldest son panics when people box him in.
My husband, who towers above most folks at 6-foot-5, lives in constant fear of knocking heads and shoulders with his elbows. Events that attract thousands to tiny plots of land do not generally merit his consideration.
So we weren't even tempted to attend fireworks displays in our previous home cities of Phoenix and Cincinnati, where people are crammed body against body at most of the official fireworks sites, sometimes even camping overnight to claim the best spots.
But when I heard that Troupsburg, NY, a small (really small) town just across the border from our equally small (really small) Pennsylvania borough, was hosting a display July 3, I gave into the pleas of the older kids and decided it was time to give it a try.
My husband stayed home with our 4-year-old twins while the older two kids and I met up with friends and headed about nine miles north to the hay field just beyond the elementary school, where we were told to park.
We passed a small gathering of vehicles here, a large group of chairs on the side of the rural road there, more vehicles and more chairs until, finally, we found a spot of our own on the edge of the mowed field with no one close enough to even hear us talk.
Those who settled somewhat nearby seemed to be facing the center of the field, but all we saw before us was a van parked about 100 yards away. It was too dark in this place with no houses or street lights to see more.
We chatted and waited, figuring the fireworks must be set elsewhere and that those who directed us believed this was the best observation point.
We were wrong.
Wow.
Were we ever wrong.
Our conversation was disrupted by a blast so close that my daughter flew into my lap. We leaned back in our chairs, our faces parellel to the stars, as the flames burst into thousands of colorful sparks in our own piece of sky, surrounding us and engulfing us.
Dancing, it seemed, just for us.
Only us.
The performance was every bit as breathtaking as the displays I enjoyed in my journalism days in Syracuse, NY, with a grand finalle that brought my 11-year-old son to his feet. It was only then, when cheering errputed from all directions, that I remembered how many other people were there.
Somewhere.
In the field, on the side of the road, in the park down the road, in town on their front lawns or in their back yards.
Experiencing this with us.
It was, as my friend Gail put it, "like our own personal show."
I had to smile.
I immediately knew that next year, I will bring my husband and the twins. There is no reason to fear infliction of injury at this fireworks display, no need to worry that the twins will take over someone else's blanket, no need to feel claustrophobic or panicked. No one will try to sell us $5 glow sticks or light-up twirly things or drinks or snacks.
No one will step on our fingers or toes or jump over legs as we try to enjoy the show.
We will all find a place in this field, our own space, where we can relax and stretch our legs without sacrificing the view. And I will remember, as I did on this night, all those well-meaning people who warned me when we moved here exactly one year ago that I would find small-town life (really small-town life) "inconvient."
Convenience is, I was reminded once again, most certainly relative.

Tornado sirens: a new appreciation

2011-06-02T06:08:00.000-07:00

For most of the six years we lived in Cincinnati, we dutifully ran to the basement whenever the tornado sirens sounded.
But toward the end, in that final year, we took the warnings less and less seriously.
Every thunderstorm seemed to set the sirens off during tornado season and rarely had there been actual danger. Did we really want to wake all four kids and drag them down two flights of stairs in the middle of the night because of a little thunder and lightning?
No.
So on a few of those nights, we remained snug in our beds, listening for changes in the storms and honestly believing that if one hit, we'd have plenty of time to react. Friends and some of our neighbors did the same. Those sirens became "wolf" cries to our ears.
We were stupid.
At about 2 in the morning on Memorial Day, my husband and I were sleeping in an upstairs bedroom in our new community of Knoxville, PA, when a storm came out of nowhere. Violent thunder and lightning rocked the house. The twins and our daughter climbed into our bed.
Our oldest remained in his room.
I stood and reached to close our bedroom window and was shocked to find that my arms were being tugged outward by the wind. I slammed it shut, knowing at that moment that this was no ordinary storm, that we should be in the basement and that our oldest son should not be alone.
But it was too late.
The tornado was already upon us and very quickly made its exit.
The winds quieted.
I was reassured by the fact that I heard no ambulances, no fire signals or sirens.
Then the buzzing of chain saws began.
We awoke to find a community in ruin. The majestic trees that once lined Main Street lie across the road or rested in the middle of houses. The community center that serves this borough of about 700 people had lost its roof. Several homes were damaged or destroyed.
No one had power.
Amazingly, no one was hurt.
Our house was undamaged.
A few days later, the National Weather Service confirmed we'd been hit by an F1 tornado.
No sirens had sounded to rouse us from our beds. No tornado watches or warnings had been issued. A severe storm warning from earlier that night had already expired. We had no way of knowing that it was coming.
The tornado passed too quickly for true terror or panic to set in. In fact, I was oddly calm in the hours that followed. Instead, the panic comes in bits and pieces when I realize what could have happened, what we should have done, how we should have reacted.
I've been hearing the same sentiments from others.
I never thought I'd feel this way.
But I miss those Cincinnati sirens and I promise that if ever I hear one again, I will heed it fully.
The kids will always fall back to sleep and if they don't, so what?
I lose a little sleep.
For one day.
A minor inconvenience.

What happened to "indivisible"?

2011-05-07T17:36:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm just forgetting.
But I seem to remember that the horrors of September 11, 2001 united our country, that partisan politics were set aside, at least for a day or two while even the worst of political enemies locked arms to show Osama bin Laden and al-Qaida that even such a sickening, unthinkable act of terrorism could not divide us.
We are strong, we said.
We believe in our country
We believe our leaders will protect us.
So I find it ironic (and sad) that the death of bin Laden has had the opposite effect. Osama bin Laden is dead and his death should have been another such unifying moment in our history. But instead of displaying a united front, instead of standing behind our leaders and telling the world that democracy works, that democracy is worth protecting and defending, we have exposed our worst weaknesses.
And doing so, we have offered fuel to anti-American fire.
A loud segment of our population immediately declared to the world an intense distrust for the president we elected to office. They told the world they believe he lied about bin Laden's death, that they think he's hiding something. They could give no reasonable explanation for this distrust, leaving the rest of us to assume the worst, that they distrust him because he is black and because his parents gave him a traditionally Middle Eastern name.
Then, it got worse.
These same people demanded a photo of the dead body, declaring that the photo would provide proof (Would it, really?). Even more Americans joined in this rally, not because they wanted proof, but because they have a grotesque and base need to see the dead man.
They feel so strongly that they are willing to suspend common sense and risk our national security for its sake.
Those who deny or belittle the security risk are naive.
We are a capitalist society. Within a day, we would have t-shirts, banners and mugs bearing bin Laden's face in death. We'd probably even have a video game or two. Al-Qaida supporters who might have been on the fence about participating in further attacks would be incensed enough to throw themselves into the cause full force.
Bin Laden would most certainly achieve martyrdom in the eyes of his followers.
Even our allies would cringe at our nation's behavior.
Regardless of whether the photo is released, the damage has been done. The event that was supposed to bring closure, to bring us full-circle from the horrors of September 11, 2001 and provide the world the ultimate proof that democracy works, has backfired.
We have shown the world our weaknesses.
We have shown al-Qaida that we are not as strong as we pretend to be, that perhaps we can be divided and defeated. We have show our enemies and our allies that our melting pot is broken. Certain differences cannot be dissolved within it because there are those who are unnecessarily and unjustifiably frightened by some of its ingredients.
I hope we can overcome this.
I hope President Obama remains strong in his decision to keep the photos secure.
I hope those loud voices fade and are forgotten, within and without of our nation.
I hope that when my children are adults, they will not experience anything like this.
That their hearts will never be as heavy as mine is today.

Parents magazine and the bipolar disaster

2011-04-16T16:11:00.000-07:00

An article in the May isssue of Parents magazine caught my eye the other day.
It was written by a woman whose ex-husband has bipolar disorder and it promised to focus on the difficulties of shared parenting when mental illness is involved.
I am very close with several people who have bipolar disorder, so I was excited and interested to read what the author had to say. This is Parents magazine. Certainly, it would take a fair and well-balanced look at the affects of mental illness on parenthood.
Then I read it and was terribly disappointed.
The woman's ex-husband goes off and on his medications. Once, when he was on his medications, she thought that having a baby would make their marriage stronger, so she got pregnant. Then he went off his meds again and their marriage disintegrated.
He never did anything dangerous to himself or others, but he was often manic and unpredictable. He spent money wildly, rarely slept and once decided that when her parents came to visit, they should sleep in the backyard.
Like many people who experience mania, but not depression, he apparently didn't see the need for medication. Mania feels good. Manics feel smart and invincible. Convincing them that they are sick is next to impossible.
So she took their child and left him.
Can't blame her for that.
The rest of the article is about her attempts at visitation and her struggle with whether her daughter should have contact with her father at all. It's sad and it's probably true, but it's also misleading and will likely take us a few more steps backward toward the days when people with mental illness were locked up forever "for their own good."
The article fails to mention that bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive disorder, is common. According to the National Institutes of Health, about 2.6 percent of adults have it and most cases are considered severe.
It's also highly manageable.
It takes time and patience to find the right medications, particularly since the disorder presents differently in everyone. But anyone can find that balance. Look at Jim Carey, Robin Williams and Rosemary Clooney. How about Alvin Alley, Francis Ford Coppola and Vincent Van Gogh? Or Ted Turner, Buzz Aldrin and Winston Churchill?
Those are just a few of the more high-profile people for whom bipolar disorder is or was part of every day life.
A very few.
The people with bipolar disorder who are close to me have families who love them. They are successful in the careers and they are people I want to be around. They care for their children, they love their spouses, they excel in most everything they do.
I am often humbled around them because, like many bipolars, they are so unbelievably bright and creative.
They struggled before they were diagnosed, they struggled to accept their diagnosis and to get on the right medications, they struggled with the fact that they would have to live with it the rest of their lives.
But they survived and thrived.
As with any illness or disorder, there are people like the ex-husband in the article who will not accept their medical conditions. We can't help people who won't help themselves, so many people go untreated. Too many people. Unfortunately, a small percentage of those people, in states of psychosis, do things that are highly dangerous or so ridiculous that they make the headlines.
Those sensational acts are what average person knows of bipolar disorder.
They are what publicly defines it, the false image that so many of us have fought to change.
And this article doesn't help.
There are far worse dads (and moms) than the writer's ex-husband.
There are abusers, abandoners, and people who are just too selfish to love anyone more than themselves. There are thieves and killers and cheaters. There are far, far worse parents than a bipolar dad who forgets birthdays, talks nonsense and overwhelms his daughter with voice mails and letters about subjects that are beyond her maturity level.
How harmful is he?
How much does it really affect her daughter?
I guess I was naive. I thought the media was working a little harder to give a more accurate portrayal of mental illness, to help people understand that in most cases, it's no different than having diabetes or heart disease or any other chronic illness.
It's incurable, but it's treatable.
People live with it every day and do quite well.
Shame on you Parents magazine for not providing more balance, for not putting this article and this woman's experience into perspective.
Shame.

Time to smoulder

2011-03-28T11:53:00.000-07:00

So close.
I am so close to finishing my second novel.
The first draft is complete.
The second is underway.
But writing will have to wait.
A line has formed in recent months that includes painting the newly re-walled living room, painting our oldest son's room, baking a tent-shaped cake for the Cub Scouts cake auction and tilling a garden plot. All things that have to be worked around kids, kids and kids.
Something is always waiting.
But, when it comes to writing, waiting can be a good thing.
The longer writing waits, the more it smoulders.
As it smoulders, it builds strength.
Plot inconsistencies become clearer with each stroke of the paint brush. Characterization problems are resolved with a few dozen turns of the soil. Novels restructure themselves in a bowl full of cocoa powder, sugar, flour, eggs and vanilla.
When I return to the keyboard, I will have plenty of creative energy to burn.
And the novel won't have to wait long.
I've decided to take a break for a few months from freelance work with the exception of one book editing job that I am excited to tackle. That will give me a few extra hours a week to devote to the novel. I should also be able to sneak some time in at night when all the kids are asleep after the painting is done.
I'm still hoping to be finished, really finished by summer,and the time spent thinking without the distraction of writing might just enable that.
Fewer wasted keystrokes.
Fewer wasted words.
More intense focus.
It's so hard to be patient.
But it's so important to wait.

No ice for tourists in Saranac Lake

2011-02-14T15:00:00.000-08:00

Saranac Lake was beyond crowded this past weekend when the annual Winter Carnival activities culminated with the downtown parade.

The skies had dumped more than three feet of snow on my hometown, which is nestled in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, and that made it even harder to maneuver the sidewalks and streets.

The natives had every right to blast car horns, shout expletives and raise their middle fingers in anger at the tourists who crossed streets in front of moving cars, stood in the middle of the road (in the dark) shooting photos of the lit-up ice palace and stopped them constantly to request that they take photos of themselves with their significant others.

But they didn't.

Sure, I heard the word "tourist" coupled with the word "idiot" breathed once and a while, but it was usually breathed lightly with a giggle or a hearty laugh and a beer in hand. Instead, native Adirondackers (and those who have lived there long enough to earn an honorary title), stopped their cars and waved on people were waiting to cross the streets.

They paused to let other drivers pull out in front of them. They paid their police force to set up a crosswalk in front of the ice palace along with reflective barricades that created a safe area in the middle of the roadway for photo opportunities.

Of course, they are smart people.

They realize that without tourists their economy would suffer.

That requires a certain level of tolerance.

But in Saranac Lake this past weekend, I saw more than tolerance. I saw a community that embraces its identity and prides itself in all that makes the Adirondacks so valuable in so many ways, and that has an intense desire to share that.

(Well, there were a few exceptions, like the owner of the upscale pizza place who berated his employees in front of his waiting customers. He doesn't count though. He's not from there and clearly has not acclimated. No honorary "native" title for him.)

My hometown is even stronger than it was when I left it 27 years ago and the only people who can take credit for that are those who stayed or moved back to uphold and strengthen its foundation, and those who fell in love upon visiting and made Saranac Lake their new home.

I don't want to move back. I am happy raising a family here in northern Pennsylvania (and much warmer). Saranac Lake is for a hardier and more durable sort than I have become (In other words, I am wimp now.). But I am proud --and always will be -- of where I am from.

The value of distraction

2011-02-03T09:03:00.000-08:00

For the past two months, I've been so distracted by Christmas, that social networking job and freelancing, that I've no time -- none whatsoever -- to even glance at my novel in progress.
It was discouraging.
I had devoted all of November to writing the novel after dabbling with it for at least a year. By the month's end, I had reached 52,000 good, solid words and had set a goal of completing the first draft by the end of February. I was excited.
Thrilled.
Then nothing.
Two months and not a single word.
But, as the moment neared when someone else would take over my social networking job, my mind turned back to the novel. When I had stopped writing on Nov. 30, I was stuck. I'd reached the climax of the book too soon and I wasn't sure how to make the novel longer.
Something was missing.
Something serious.
So I thought and I thought and I thought for two weeks.
I didn't look at what I'd already written. I still didn't have time. I simply played it over in my mind again and again and again while I was showering, while I was cooking dinner, while I was driving -- whenever I was physically busy, but my mind was free.
And then it hit me.
I had been entirely avoiding the exploration of the mother-daughter relationship. The daughter, who is highly important to the main character's motivation, was nothing more than a place holder. And I know why I did it, even if I did it subconsciously.
Parent-child relationships are tough. They are a lot of work in real life and I was avoiding that same kind of work in my novel. I had to address it.
Monday was the first day since Dec. 1 when I had an entirely clear schedule. No more social networking. No articles due. Nothing. The twins were in preschool for five hours. After errands, exercise and a bit of cleaning, that still left me 2.5 hours.
So I wrote.
I finished a chapter and wrote another the next day.
I am now up to 57,500 words with no fear that I will reach my goal of 80,000 words.
If anything, I'll need to be careful that I don't write too long.
I am excited again. I feel like I've found my story back.
My new goal? The end of April.

Who needs money, right?

2011-01-04T13:28:00.000-08:00

For the second time in a year, I let guilt over the lack of a steady paycheck get to me.
It's not like I've been lazy. I've written one novel and I'm nearly done with another. I've published a few short stories and I've started freelancing again.
Oh yeah, and then there are those four kids who need my love and attention.
But my novel hasn't sold yet, I got paid for only one of those short stories and I can handle only one or two freelance assignments a month while still working on my fiction. The twins are in school 16 hours a week and the older kids go full-time.
I wanted to make a greater financial contribution.
I wanted validation.
The first time I felt this way, I took a job moderating for a national online moms forum. It was great in the beginning. I was on the site often anyway, so why not get paid for it, I figured. I was the lead moderator only two shifts a week and simply had to help out during other times.
What I had not realized was that good moderators must be fully immersed, especially with this particular site, where the moms could get down and dirty, mean and nasty often. I was cooking dinners with my laptop on the counter, trying to ignore the personal attacks that came my way whenever I intervened.
The hours were long. The pay wasn't great and my stress levels were high.
Worse, I had no time to write.
I finally gave it up after a few months.
That was in the spring.
I'd forgotten the lessons I'd learned this December when a magazine/publisher I write for asked whether I'd be interested in social networking. I jumped at the chance, but I should have exercised restraint. I should have sat down and thought.
The job is a good one for someone who is interested in a career in social networking or who simply wants to earn a few bucks. It involves creating and posting nearly 50 tweets a day on 14 different blogs. Easily done with tools like hootsuite.com.
But doing it right, especially in the beginning, took me away from everything else.
Within a week, I realize that the job was far more involved than I had first believed. If I continued, in the limited work time that I have, everything else would have to end.
Little or no freelancing.
No fiction.
Less time for my kids.
I gave notice today, but said I'd hang in there until they find someone else.
I hope that next time this type of opportunity comes up, I think a little harder and I look back on what I've written here because I need to remember a few things:
I am not a moderator.
I am not a professional social networker.
I am not worthless simply because I don't produce a steady flow of cash.
None of things describe me.
I am a writer.
I am sometimes a teacher.
I am a mother and a wife, who needs to balance all those things to be there when the people she loves need her.
That's what I am.
And that's perfectly valid.

Allison, the mice and the mushroom

2010-12-11T08:49:00.000-08:00

When I was a teenager, I accompanied a friend to an arts fair in our hometown of Saranac Lake, where she had rented table space. She brought an assortment of mice intricately crafted from construction paper and made durable with a clear coat of something that appeared to be shellac.
The mice were posed in various occupations with the instruments of their trades, but the one that impressed me the most was the rock band. She sold that set to a local music store that displayed the rocking rodents in its window. Not bad for a teenager with a bunch of construction paper.
But that was her.
Always creating.
I reconnected with my friend, Allison Moore, on Facebook last year and was thrilled to see that she had pursued art as a career. Allison lives in Seattle now, where she is a tile designer and a potter/sculptor. Her work is amazing. She makes a variety of detailed, high-relief clay images using intricately designed plaster stamps. Some of her designs require a good deal more scuplting to bring them to life and most of her pieces are one-of-a-kind functional art that is dishwasher and microwave safe.
They are original, just like Allison, and she was the first person I thought of when I recently experienced an art emergency.
It happened like this:
My sister had hosted a family reunion at her home outside Kingston, N.Y., this summer. She had lots of artwork on the shelves in the living room and my 3-year-old twins were immediately drawn to the ceramic elephant collection. By the end of the weekend, one elephant had lost its tail. The elephant had sentimental value. It had belonged to my sister's mother-in-law, a wonderful, kind, intelligent woman who died too young more than a decade ago.
There were other young children at the reunion and some of them possessed the same kind of destructive curiosity as my boys, but I think it would be a pretty fair assumption that one of my guys broke the elephant, given the attraction.
No, wait.
Knowing them, they probably broke it together.
My sister was wonderful about it.
She didn't get upset and she didn't ask for compensation.
Still, I felt bad.
I could not replace that elephant and the memories it triggered.
But I wanted to give her something that might someday hold equal sentimental value. I immediately thought of Allison. I told Allison that my sister has a backyard garden that she would like to fill with little surprises -- earth-tone creatures and faces peeking out from behind trees, from around rocks and from within beds of flowers. I wanted to give her something for that garden, something different.
Here is Allison's creation:

Awesome.
The mushroom is 13 inches high and 11 inches in diameter. She even made it extra heavy, so it won't tip. Allison just recently shipped it, so my sister hasn't seen it yet. Hopefully, it will arrive before she views the photo here. I'm guessing I got a friend rate because her work is worth far more than I paid her.
I feel like I did that day at the fair almost 30 years ago, like I am experiencing someone on the verge. Like something exciting is going to happen any moment. Maybe it is, in part, because she is a friend. Maybe it's because I am particularly drawn to her style. Maybe it's because I sense the complexity of the mind that could create such things, but that's what her art does for me.
For me, Allison and her work will always be on the verge.
And, in my opinion, that's a wonderful place to be.

Here is a little more information about Allison:
Allison is a member of the Moshier Community Arts Center in Burien, WA . Visits and order pick-ups by appointment. Allison is a crafts vendor at Seattle's Pike Place Market and also a 10-year member at the Redmond Saturday Market, which runs from May 1st through the end of October. New website link will be available at http://www.facebook.com/l/3c045hy0ZMwC7wHkVEKDkeqU0SQ;www.ArtisanTileNW.org. Send request to the above email address to receive email notifications of show dates. Photos of her work are also avaialble at www.facebook.com/AllisonMooreClayArt. Please include note indicating interest in her ceramic art with friend request.
Many thanks~ Allison

Success: a goal achieved

2010-12-01T08:56:00.000-08:00

I did it!
I met my goal for National Novel Writing Month mom-style and I exceeded it by 2,319 words.
My total for the month: 27,319 words.
I even got a little Christmas shopping done on the side.
And thanks to my awesome husband, the house has not fallen completely to pieces. (He cleans. I am fortunate in that.) It's garbage day again tomorrow and I've already remembered to put it out. I've gotten the kids to school on time every day and they even still know who I am.
That's all far more than I anticipated.
Now for the next step.
I hope to finish the first draft of this novel by the end of January, but I want a better balance.
I want to exercise at least three days a week. I want to keep the house in a relatively orderly state. I want to spend some time playing games with my kids, giving the puppy the attention she deserves (So she won't destroy any more leather furniture) and just hanging out with my husband.
So here we go.
On to December.
About 27,000 more words and a life.
That's all I ask.

Focused and flying

2010-11-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

19,200.
That's how many words I have written since I vowed to write 834 words a day through the month of November in celebration of National Novel Writing Month mom-style. I am 5,866 words ahead of schedule so far.
It's been exhilarating.
But it's also been draining.
I've barely slept, the house is a mess and I have failed in my exercise goals.
I don't care.
It can all wait.
The deadline pressure helped me realize that I wrote the first two acts of my work-in-progress (mystery/suspense) the same way I read any novel of suspense. I wrote it in a huge rush to find out what happens.
I hurried to get to the end, or rather to the climax of the action.
As part of this project, I have refused to go beyond the climax. All additional writing must come in the chapters before. And as I wrote, the villains changed. The literary part of the plot grew, but not too much. The novel became slightly more complex in, I hope, a good way.
I am still struggling to incorporate another 15,000 words into the novel before the climax and I think I can do that. I think I can do that well. I believe that I can because ever since I made this vow, the novel is on my mind night and day.
My poor kids have heard enough of it.
The two oldest simply rolled their eyes the other day when I asked what Dorothy should do with her gun.
My husband has been traveling a lot this month and that's probably a good thing. I've interrupted enough conversations with questions for him about plot and character. I need him as a beta reader and if we spent too much time together this month, I would most certainly turn him off.
I probably should empty the garbage though.
And get some groceries.
And feed the kids.
In a minute.
When I'm done.

My boy, the poet

2010-11-04T16:58:00.000-07:00

I am so proud of my son that I had to share. Riley 10 years old. He had to write a poem for his fifth grade class. Here it is:

Nature

You are the wind that blows
and the snow that froze
the night.

You are the lakes
and an earthquake that shakes
with might.

You are the mountains touching the sky
and the clouds so high
so bright.

The animals you embrace
the people of every race
held tight.

You may delight.
You give me comfort through the day.
I hear you silently calling for me to stay.
Show me the way.

NaNoWriMo mom-style

2010-10-26T11:46:00.000-07:00

November 1 marks the beginning of NaNoWriMo, an acronym for National Novel Writing Month. The idea is simple: start with a blank screen or a fresh sheet of paper and write 50,000 words by the end of the month. The effort has its own website with forums and everything. It doesn't matter whether the words are coherent; Everyone who reaches 50,000 words wins.
I can't do that.
There's no way, not with four young kids, a freelance article due in early December, Christmas shopping, a century-old house that needs lots of TLC and--oh, yeah--not without further neglecting my own physical health.
But something happened today that got me thinking.
I was talking with my agent about the progress of my next novel. When I got off the phone, I felt a rush of creative adrenaline. In less than 45 minutes, I wrote another 1,000 words--solid, strong, plot-moving words. It was the thrill of deadline pressure that had motivated me, even though it wasn't real.
My agent made it clear that he didn't want to rush me, but I can't resist a challenge, even an imagined one. In my 11 years as a full-time newspaper reporter, I never missed a deadline (though I've made some editors sweat). I thrived on the breaking news, the kind of stuff where targeted reporting, fast writing and just the write amount of clarity and creativity could land my story on the front page.
So why not put that to use.
I can't write 50,000 words in a month, but maybe I can write 25,000 words. That's less than 1,000 words a day, 834 words to be more precise. I don't want to start fresh, not when I'm already one-third of the way through my next novel, so I can add to that instead.
I won't officially join the NaNoWriMo effort either. The forums and emails are too distracting. I have trouble enough with Facebook, other writing forums and the twin parenting forums I frequent. I'll be a loner unless some other busy writer out there wants to join me in some parallel word play.
Instead of answering to NaNoWriMo officials, I will answer here on my blog. I will provide updates in the middle of the month and at the end. And I will remain choosy about my words. No junk pages. No ramblings. Nothing expendable.
Though the stream-of-consciousness writing can be helpful for newer writers who are intimidated by the length of novels, I find it's too much work to sort through the yucky stuff. It's easier just to write well to begin with.
One last thing.
I won't wait until November 1.
I'll start right now.

Short Story America: the future of short fiction?

2010-10-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

A cool thing happened today.
I got a call from Tim Johnston, publisher and co-editor of Short Story America. I had submitted a short story to his site less than a month ago and he wanted to publish it.
Even cooler is the site itself.
Short Story America is a start-up with a unique business model. My story, "Balance," will appear as the Story of the Week beginning Friday. When its run is over, it will be moved to the Contemporary Library with all the other formerly featured stories. At the end of the year, Tim and his co-editor, Sarah Turocy, will compile those stories into an anthology, which will be sold in book format. At some later point, all the short stories will be available as audio downloads.
I get $100 for the story plus 15 percent of royalties on all audio downloads. I will share 15 percent royalties with the other authors in the anthology. All royalties will be calculated after publication and marketing expenses. A little different, but I'm okay with that since all the start-up money is coming out of Tim's pocket.
That's not a lot money as far as royalties are concerned, but I can't think of many other short stories publishers who offer royalties at all. In fact, I can't think of any.
Short Story America keeps permanent nonexclusive rights, which might be a dilemma for career short story writers who plan to publish collections on down the line. But not for me.
I am primarily a novelist. If publishers so desperately want to compile my short stories into a collection, they are still welcome to use "Balance." If they don't like the deal with Tim, I'll write another one to fill the slot.
Coolest yet is the look and feel of the site.
Short Story America uses flash technology to make the stories look like real books with illustrated covers, bios and all. Readers click and drag, or just click on the page corners to turn them and it makes a sound like a real page flipping.
My kids had a blast tonight just playing with the pages.
Readers must be members to access the stories, but membership is free.
Personally, I'm thrilled just to be part of this new venture. Some folks are critical, of course, but the short story market must evolve somehow and this seems to me a different and interesting way to do it.
I wish Tim, a short story author himself, and Sarah the greatest of success, not just for my sake, but for the art of short stories and its the survival in this ever-evolving technological world.
They might just have something here.

Meet Dee Garretson, author of Wildfire Run

2010-09-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

My 10-year-old son is an avid reader and a tough critic. So when I received a copy of Wildfire Run, a debut middle-grade novel by Dee Garretson, in the mail I went to him first. I’d barely gotten through the first chapter when he ripped it from my hands and said, “Leave me.” I had to slip the book out of his room when he wasn’t home to finish it on my own.
Even I had trouble putting it down.
Wildfire Run is the story of Luke Brockett, the President’s son. Just once, Luke would like to be normal, to hang out with his friends at Camp David, the presidential retreat in Maryland, and maybe even do something slightly dangerous. But Luke can’t do that. Not with Secret Service agents watching his every move.
Then an earthquake hits, triggering wildfires and other disastrous chain reactions that injure and possibly kill several adults, including those assigned to protect him. Luke and his friends, Theo and Callie, are on their own, trapped in Camp David while wildfires roll in from every direction. They must escape a place designed to keep the worst of terrorists out while also saving those who were supposed to save them.
The result is a novel packed with suspense, but still grounded in the normal struggles among tweens and their friends. Somehow Dee Garretson manages to create a main character who, despite his high-brow status, is no different from any other kid. And while doing all that, she offers a book that is “teachable.” It is filled with historical references and other information about the presidency that makes Wildfire Run appealing as classroom literature.
As a writer, the novel left me wanting to know more about Dee, her writing and Wildfire Run. So I asked and here is the result:

Originally from Iowa, Dee lives in Cincinnati with her husband and two children. She has a bachelor’s in international relations from Tufts University and an associate’s in landscape horticulture from Cincinnati State Technical and Community College. Until she decided to commit to writing full time, she worked as a landscape designer and taught landscape horticulture.

The trailer for Wildfire Run.

Me: At what point in your life did you discover that writing fiction was your passion, something you wanted to pursue as a career?

Dee: I have to say I don’t think of writing as a passion for me. Reading is, but not writing. Writing is more like an intriguing puzzle to me, something I have to solve. I love to make up stories in my head, but the writing down of them is hard work. I wrote stories as a child and a teenager, stopped in college, then started again when my now fifteen year old son was a baby. I was at home with him in a town where I didn’t know many people, and I needed a way to keep my brain occupied. I can’t pinpoint when I decided I wanted to write as a career, but it was about five years ago that I decided I was going to pursue it with all the energy I could spare. That was also at the time when my daughter started first grade and I had bigger blocks of time to write.

Me: Why middle-grade fiction?

Dee: I had spent years working on mysteries and was very discouraged that I wasn’t getting enough interest in my work. My son was at the age where he was reading middle grade and he was so excited about some of his books that he wanted me to read them. I did read some of them, and really enjoyed the mix of adventure and humor I found in them. I like to write in a lighter style, more plot than character driven, and that’s another aspect of middle grade that appealed to me.

Me: What was the inspiration for Wildfire Run?

Dee: Way back when Jimmie Carter was president, I remember hearing all the criticism of his daughter, Amy, for reading a book during a state dinner. All I could think of at the time was that would have been me. It made me aware of the strange lives presidential children lead. I didn’t think much about it again until the presidential primary races in 2008. There were several candidates with younger children or grandchildren, and it led me to again wonder what life would be like for children in that situation.

Me: You have this amazing combination of traits. You are artistic, yet you also seem to be methodical and practical. You wrote this wonderfully creative book with a suspenseful plot, well-drawn characters and vivid descriptions, yet you also know your audience well, researched the details thoroughly and acquainted yourself with the ins and outs of the publishing world, particularly in your genre, before you even sent out your first query letter. Is this approach learned from experience or is this just the way you do things?

Dee: I have you fooled! It is true that I had come to understand the publishing business before I sent out the first query for Wildfire Run, but that is only because I spent all those years before that attempting to get other works published. I learned so much during that time, especially the importance of studying successful popular books to understand why they appeal to readers.

Me: Among the most notable techniques you apply in Wildfire Run is the use of minute detail to advance the plot and build suspense. How did that develop? How did it become part of your writing? Was it conscious or did it just make sense to you and start flowing?

Dee: I’m a big fan of thrillers (those written for adults), and when I decided to write this story, I knew I would need to use those techniques to give the reader the sense of foreboding that the main characters only gradually come to feel. It’s a fun technique to work with, because it gives more options in terms of imparting information to the reader.

Me: Where did Luke come from, his character? Did he change from the beginning of the writing process to the end? Are there any characters who changed dramatically from start to finish or who shifted in importance as you wrote?

Dee: Being the child of a president or any extremely successful person has to be incredibly difficult. I’ve known a few people whose childhoods were overshadowed by their parents’ wealth and power, and it seemed to make it more difficult for them to find their way in the world. My initial concept of Luke did not change much throughout the writing process, but once I had written the external adventure, I went back and strengthened his internal journey. I’ve very concerned about pacing, so getting the storytelling right was important to do first. My philosophy for this kind of story is that if you can’t get the reader pulled into turning the page to find out what happens next, they won’t care about the characters’ internal struggles.
The character of Callie, Luke’s friend, did not change so much as have her story trimmed. I’m very attached to the character and I wrote some chapters focused more on her. Unfortunately, those had to be cut to keep the story moving forward.

Me: How difficult was it to research Camp David; the social and emotional struggles of a First Child and the Secret Service? How close to reality did you feel you had to come in Wildfire Run?

Dee: Researching Camp David and the Secret Service was extremely difficult because I wanted an accurate feel to the book, yet, of course, for security reasons there is not much factual information available. I read every nonfiction book I could find that had mentions of the place and of the Secret Service. I purposely stayed away from any fiction, because I didn’t want to be influenced by other writers’ imaginations. I admire anyone who chooses to be part of the Secret Service for their level of dedication to their jobs, without letting their own political beliefs interfere with the way they carry out their responsibilities, and I hope the respect I have for them shows in the book. I’ve always followed politics and the people involved, so the issues facing different first families were something I felt like I already understood.

Me: Do you intend to stick with middle-grade fiction or do you plan to experiment with other genres?

Dee: I will stick with middle grade fiction for the moment, but I also want to go back to my historical mysteries, and someday I’d like to tackle an epic fantasy.

Me: Is another novel forthcoming? When can we expect it?

Dee: I just finished a second middle-grade adventure, titled Wolf Storm at the moment. It’s about kid actors on location filming a blockbuster sci-fi movie. They get trapped in a blizzard and have to figure out how to survive all the things I throw at them. Plans are for that book to be released in winter 2011/2012.

Me: Any advice for other unpublished writers?

Dee: I could fill a book with advice for unpublished writers, but I’ll just stick with a few bits here. Read as many books as you can in whatever genre you are writing in. There are a couple of reasons for this. One, you don’t want to spend months accidentally writing something too similar to a popular book that’s already out there. In the last year I’ve read the manuscripts of two unpublished writers with that very problem. Because they hadn’t widely read in their chosen genre, they wrote stories no agent would take on because they couldn’t sell the work.

And that brings me to the second reason. You can’t ever forget publishing is a business, a very competitive one, and there are an amazing number of good books out there. It’s too easy to fall in the trap of being overly pleased with your work just because you’ve managed to finish something. Often a writer doesn’t go into the revision stage with a critically enough. Because you have a vision of the story in your head, it can interfere with your analysis of how the story actually reads. Your readers don’t have your vision, so if you slip up in the storytelling aspect of the story, you’re going to lose them in spite of how well written your work may be.

Me: How does it feel to finally see your novel in print?

Dee: I had a weird, unexpected thought when I unpacked my author copies. I held the book, which is relatively small and lightweight and I thought given all the years of work that went into getting to this point, it should weigh much more. It is a thrill to see it in bookstores and it’s even more of a thrill to see it in libraries. I love libraries and the idea that it’s going to be in some for a long time makes all the work worth it.

Doggy days are here again

2010-09-06T18:37:00.000-07:00

No more dogs.

Never again.

That was my firm declaration more than three years ago after we re-homed Biscuit, our Australian shepherd mix.

Biscuit needed more exercise than we could give him after the twins were born, and he let us know by becoming more aggressive about doing his job. He slipped out the door whenever it opened and herded the neighborhood, once nipping a brawling basketball player in the calf.

We had no choice after that.

We gave him to a family who knew what had happened. The father was good friends with our veterinarian, who assured him that Biscuit had intended no harm. Biscuit was gone when the older kids returned from school one day.

They were devastated, especially our daughter who suffers from high anxiety.

I never ever wanted to go through that again.

But our daughter begged.

And her older brother begged.

And, I had to admit, I missed the distraction of a dog while writing. I missed the security of having an alert little creature at the foot of my bed whenever my husband was out of town. I missed the motivation to walk a mile or two regardless of the weather or the hour.

And then my husband admitted that he wouldn't mind taking a break from his work-at-home job every now and then to toss a ball around in the yard. What happened with Biscuit would not repeat itself, I knew. The twins were an unexpected surprise. We never would have adopted a dog had we known they were coming.

So I relented ... under one condition.

No dogs less than one year old.

No more potty training for me.

No way.

No how.

At 3.5 years old, one twin still struggles with the whole concept. I was tired of dabbing, soaking, spraying and steam cleaning. Tired of watching a young one's every move to ensure that he made it to the potty on time. Tired of always being on that kind of edge.

I was firm.
Yet here I sit with the soft, warm body of 7-week-old Clover curled up on my lap.
The worst part is that I was the one who insisted.
Clover is a Border collie/beagle mix, a mistake, according to her breeder. Two registered dogs accidentally ended up in a pen together for less than ten minutes. That 10-minute romp produced a litter of nine. We got the last one.
She is irresistible.
Welcome to the family, Clover.

Home is where the headstones are

2010-08-04T16:57:00.000-07:00

With the twins entering preschool this fall, I decided it was time to reclaim my running legs. So I went for a walk/run the other day in my new town along a route recommended by my sister-in-law.
The route took me through a local cemetery, which was appropriate; By the time I got there, I wanted nothing more than to take a long rest.
So I walked.
I have run through many cemeteries over the years, but I haven't walked though one in decades. Not since I was a child. As a child, I would run from stone to stone, seeking out familiar names and looking for the grave of my sister, who died as a baby when I was only two years old.
I derived a sense of comfort from cemeteries back then even though I was generally terrified of anything involving death. The bodies that lie under my feet were those of relatives or the relatives of friends. They were people who were part of my history.
I felt, oddly, at home.
But I did not get that sense here.
Here, in this cemetery, in the community where I will live for the rest of my life, where we will raise our four children, where my husband grew up, was evidence of a certain status I will never achieve. I am an outsider. I always will be, no matter how deeply entrenched I become.
And that is okay.
I have my own hometown.
My own cemeteries.
I have another place that has fused within my core and will always be part of who I am.
But our kids don't have that.
Two were born in Arizona, and two were born in Cincinnati.
Their roots have easily come loose with each move, leaving little or nothing behind. (Well, not as easily for the older kids this time around. We had to tug a little harder and their leaves are still a bit droopy and wilted from the shock, but I am confident they will recover and flourish.)
I had never understood the need for the formalities of cemeteries before, for gravestones and memorials and family plots. My irrational fears dictate that I be cremated after death, and I hadn't given much thought to where my ashes would land.
My husband has strong feelings though, so I agreed long ago to his request that, when our souls are long gone from this world, my ashes will lie with him, wherever he might choose.
But on this day, I started to understand something. I understood that this isn't just about me. This is about our children and their children and their children. This is about that feeling, that sense of belonging.
Home.
Our hope is that this is the place where our children will grow roots so strong that no one and nothing can rip them out, regardless of where they settle in adulthood. This will be the place they can come home to no matter how long they have been away.
A sense of history and of their place within that history will help those roots grow thick, deep and strong.
Cemeteries provide some of that nourishment.
A great deal more than I realized.
And this cemetery, in particular, provided me with nourishment of a different kind. After passing all those gravestones-- lingering long enough to read the names and the dates of death and birth and realizing that they were often far to close together --I found the motivation to pick up my pace again.
It was hot.
I was (and am) horribly out of shape.
But I ran.
Just a couple of quarter-mile stretches.
But I ran.

Verizon and the secret phone number.

2010-07-11T19:26:00.000-07:00

We moved recently and my husband is working from home.
He needs a second phone line since he is telecomuting, so I ordered one along with another jack.
Unfortunately, Verizon, the only phone company in this area, arranged an entirely different installation date for the second line and neglected to tell us.
Here is my conversation with the customer service representative.
This begins after I was informed that the line will be installed the following week.
I had just one more question.
A simple one, I thought:

(Please note that I did not record this conversation. I had no reason to believe it would be worth relaying, so I didn't take notes either. In other words, I have paraphrased to the best of my recollection. But my recollection is pretty good. This, I could never forget.)

Me: So what is the number for the second line?
Rep: I can't tell you that. It's unlisted.
Me: But I ordered it.
Rep: Sorry. I still can't tell you. It's unlisted.
Me: Oh, so I'll find out when it's installed?
Rep: No. We can't tell you what the number is. It's unlisted.
Me: That makes no sense! I ordered the line. How do I find out what the number is?
Rep: You can make a call to another phone and find out from the caller ID.
Me (pausing, thinking about the probability that if the number is unlisted, it won't show up on caller ID): Can I request a specific number?
Rep: Oh yes. You can do that.
Me: And then I'll know what the number is?
Rep: Yes, then you will know what the number is.
Me: Okay then, how about 814-555-1212 (Note: the number has been changed to a fictional number to protect my husband's productivity.)
Rep: It looks like that's available.
Me: Then our second line will be 814-555-1212?
Rep: Well, we can't guarantee it, but since it's available, I'm pretty certain you'll get it.
Me: Okay then.
Rep: Is there anything else I can help you with.
Me: I really don't think so.

Helen Thomas: she didn't know when to quit

2010-06-08T17:53:00.000-07:00

I was never thrilled about political reporting.
I did it when I had to and I covered politics to the best of my ability. But my heart wasn't in it.
Perhaps it's because I have a former lawyer for a father who could turn any discussion into a unwinnable debate. Maybe it's because I have a bunch of brilliantly braniac siblings who argue with far more knowledge and logic than I ever care to have.
I argue from my gut.
It's just who I am.
But still, the whole Helen Thomas thing makes me sad.
I respected her.
Newsrooms are sexist. I hated that about my former career. Most of my male editors and colleagues were more than fair and, generally. open-minded. But far too many were not. I could tell those stories here, but I will not. I will not because of female reporters like Helen Thomas, women who paved the way and gave me the courage to fight back.
I will not because of the male colleagues and editors (my husband included) who also respected female journalists like Helen Thomas (and me) and who listened and took action when I needed their help. (Rich Sullivan, I have to mention you here. You were my rock.).
I will not tell those stories out of fairness for those who are trying to create change.
Rehashing old hurts would only result in backward steps and threaten the accomplishments of women like Helen Thomas.
But, for all her accomplishments, Helen Thomas did not know when to quit.
Because of that, she stepped backward for all of us.
And she lost my respect.
As we age, most of us tend to become less tolerant of incompetence, of the views of others and of inefficiency. We become less able and less willing to exercise caution in our expression and, in journalism, that's when it is time to quit.
Helen Thomas probably knew that she had reached that point, but she had neglected something vital on the road to that front row seat in the White House press room. She forgot the need for a life outside the newsroom. Outside politics.
So when her time came, long after she lost her patience with the political world around her, she clung to her identity as a journalist. She continued immerse herself in a world that she found less and less tolerable, a world that began having trouble tolerating her.
This became publicly clear in 2006 when she referred to George W. Bush as "the worst president in American history." She is entitled to her opinion, but any good journalist knows that cautious expression of those thoughts is vital to credibility and so is the ability to rise above our own feelings and beliefs. Even the best columnists, those who are allowed to be subjective, back their opinions with evidence of some sort to lend themselves credibility.
Similar outbursts followed until this final unforgivable declaration, Helen Thomas' suggestion at a May 27th White House event that Jews should " ... get the hell out of Palestine... Remember, these people are occupied, and it's their land; it's not German, it's not Poland's."
Thomas then added that the Jews should go "home" to "Poland, Germany ... America and everywhere else."
She later issued an apology, but it was too late.
Helen Thomas resigned from her job with Hearst Newspapers at 89 years old on June 7 after most every other major organization she was affiliated with had already denied her and dropped her. Her resignation should have been a glorious moment, a celebration, a time to relive her accomplishments.
A toast to an icon.
Instead, it was a moment of shame.
It was shameful, not only because of her remarks, but because of it's broader implications for women. Her drive to prove herself as a capable woman in a man's world led to obsession, obsession with a career that has a natural ending long before life ends.
It left her with a singular passion.
And with nothing else beyond the end of that career.
It left her unable to quit.
It shouldn't be that way.
Helen Thomas is free to believe what she chooses about Palestine and the Jews. Like it or not, we Americans can't deny her the right to an opinion and as a retiree, she could have gotten away with it. Sure, plenty of folks would have been critical, but her words would not have carried as much weight.
But on May 27, she was a journalist.
I hope we can all put this into perspective.
I hope we can understand that this Helen Thomas is not the same Helen Thomas who made history as a White House institution.
I hope I can.
Then, maybe, I can salvage at least a little of that respect.

The fourth anniversary of that moment in the Starbucks bathroom

2010-05-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today, I woke up feeling pregnant.
I tried to shake it.
It was silly, I thought.
I assumed it was my cynical nature kicking in: I was finally freelancing regularly for a magazine; I had started querying agents for my novel; I was editing a book for a well-respected graduate school; and, in a few months, our youngest would start kindergarten.
Something had to go awry.
But that pregnant feeling only grew stronger by the hour.
By mid-afternoon, I broke down and took a test.
And as I stood there in that Starbucks bathroom, watching that second line grow stronger, I also watched my writing career fade. I was 40 years old and about to have my third child (and my fourth, as it turned out!). I would never get this freelance/novel-writing thing going full force, I thought.
I was ready to surrender.
But my husband, a former journalist/author turned techie, wouldn't let me. He pushed me right back into the writing battle even though he just as shocked, bewildered, scared as I was. He made sure I was armed with a well-charged laptop. He made me face that Starbucks bathroom, the scene of my perceived defeat, once again.
But not right away.
Tom did allow me a sabbatical of sorts.
He had to.
I was horribly sick and tired that first trimester and beyond. I found out why during my 20-week ultrasound; I was carrying two little guys in there. Two beautiful, perfect and healthy baby boys.
By the time my stomach had improved, my belly was so big, I couldn't reach the keyboard. My fingers were too swollen to type anyway and I was on partial bed rest with two older kids to care for.
My husband didn't mention my writing much and neither did it.
The first few months after the twins were born were a sleepless fog of nursing, diaper changing and shuttling the older kids back and forth to half-day and full-day school and their activities. Tom was still traveling frequently then and we had no family here to help us.
It was all we could do to stay awake for another day.
But by that fall, things had started to settle a bit. The twins were sleeping better, my husband's travel schedule was less hectic, the older kids were both in school for full days. I was getting antsy and, I admit, somewhat depressed. And my husband knew it.
One night in November of 2007, he pulled out my laptop after all the kids had gone to sleep and showed me this site called Blogger. Just start a blog to keep your writing fresh, he said. No big deal, he pushed. Just do it for fun.
And I did.
My first blog, The Boys: Raising Identical Twins, stirred something in me again. That stirring inspired me to pick up the novel and give it a good overhaul. I was surprised by the insight I had gained by being removed from my manuscript for so long. I eliminated major characters, wrote new chapters and deleted others.
I started querying again and one, day, when the twins were two and a half years old, I got the email that led to the happy dance.
I signed with Roger Williams of The Publish or Perish Agency.
Now, four years after that second line appeared in the Starbuck's bathroom, my novel, Spring Melt, is under submission with major publishing houses; my first short story is due for publication in the fall issue of Aethlon, a journal of sport literature centered at the East Tennessee State University; and my second novel is well underway.
Yes, the twins did affect my writing career, but in a good way. Our entire family dynamic has changed since their birth. The older kids have become more independent and have shown a capacity for love and responsibility that blows my mind. The twins have taught us both to both prioritize and relax. Enjoy life more. (Right now, they are squirting hand soap all over the bathroom. So what? Half an hour of fun for $1.99.)
I have learned to write more efficiently and to concentrate on the projects that are most important to me: no more book editing. I have done all this and they are not even in preschool yet. I am 44 years old, I have three-year-old twins, a 10-year-old son and an 8-year-old daughter, yet I am still writing, and I believe I am writing on a more mature level than I was before The Day of the Stick.
My creativity did not whither the day the twins were born, in part, because my husband encouraged me to nourish it.
So, on this day, on the fourth anniversary of the appearance of those double lines, I thank him.
I thank him for loving me, pushing me and believing in me.
(And I would greatly appreciate it if he would pick up some more hand soap on the way home.)

Good-bye Cincinnati

2010-05-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

When my husband and I moved to Arizona almost 11 years ago, it was supposed to be a temporary thing. An adventure.
Our ticket to the life we had always dreamed about.
My husband, a former journalist, had been working from home as a programmer for a media software company based in Scottsdale. His bosses wanted him to move into management to help the company go public. That required a physical move as well.
Two years, they said.
That was all.
The company would pay for our relocation to Arizona and then move us back east when our time was up. We would earn enough from stock options to build a house on his parents' farm in Pennsylvania, something we'd talked about since we started dating.
I had to give up my newspaper job, but I was sure I would find work in Phoenix.
And, when all this was over, he and I would both be able to work from home while we raised a family.
We weren't counting on me getting pregnant before we even got there.
We weren't counting on the company going under.
We weren't counting on living in Arizona for five years, or in Cincinnati for six years.
But we went where life took us, always believing that things would work out in the end.
And they have.
In seven weeks, we will move to Pennsylvania with our four young children. We bought a house to live in while we build our final home. The house is in a burough of about 700 people, where the nearest mall is 50 miles away and the convenience store has hitching posts for the Amish.
And we can't wait.
For the first time, we will be near family and that's far more important than the convenience of 24-hour grocery stores, multiple fast-food restaurants and a selection of wi-fi coffee houses (Okay, so maybe I will miss Starbucks and Panera).
We will be able to help care for his mother as she ages and we will be free to travel to my parents' house when we have vacation time. My husband's sister and niece live within walking distance, and two of my sisters and my stepdaughter are only a short drive away.
My husband will keep his job.
His company has been gracious enough to let him work from home.
We will miss all the people we have come to know in Cincinnati, just as we miss those who we left behind in Arizona. Our older children have roots here. This is where they attended preschool, kindergarten and most of elementary school.
But both kids value family tremendously.
They are as excited as we are.
The twins will have few memories of their birthplace, but we will bring them back. We will remind them that Cincinnati has been good to us. We have plenty of good friends here and lots wonderful memories. Best of all, Cincinnati gave us two healthy young boys.
Arizona was equally good. We left there with a healthy son and daughter; a greater understanding for Mexican/western culture; and an appreciation for a different kind of nature than we were accustomed to. We plan to spend many weeks each year of our retirement there.
And so it is that, with a sense of contentment and fulfillment, that we say this:
Good-bye, Cincinnati.
Good-bye and thank you.

Arizona immigration law: a lame attempt to preserve a lifestyle

2010-04-25T14:06:00.000-07:00

Seth Meyers said it perfectly on NBC's Saturday Night Live last night:
"The last time I heard 'show me your papers' was in a WWII movie...and it was Adolph and his fascists. " Hilter's family, Meyers suggested, ought to get some kind of residual payment from the new Arizona immigration law.
The law itself is criminal and it will never survive constitutional scrutinty.
It can't possibly hold up.
Those who passed it had to know that.
So, it makes me wonder.
Just who supports this new law.
And why.
My husband and I lived in Arizona for nearly five years.
I gave birth to our first two children there.
Our time in the Wild West allowed me to make a few observations. Among them was the difference between those who honestly wanted to resolve the issue of illegal immigration, and those who wanted to keep the cheap labor flowing, but still look good politically.
The proposals from the first group involved such things as day visas and huge fences and tighter borders and more aid to Mexico and naturalization of those who had already illegally crossed into the United States. But these solutions pose a huge problem to second group.
You see, this second group relies on illegal immigrants for perfectly manicured lawns, clean houses, well-reared children, cotton harvesting, mining, truck loading, painting and all kind of tasks they decline to do themselves.
These people don't have to decide whether to hire a housekeeper or a lawn maintenance crew or a nanny. They can have it all because illegal immigrants will work for next to nothing, work as many hours as they can and never, ever talk back.
Most won't dare even ask for a glass of water.
But the folks in that second group can't come right out and argue that.
They can't say, "Keep the illegals coming and keep them oppressed. And don't give the legal Mexicans immigrants or the citizen Hispanics any power because they might want to protect their kind and wreck the whole thing for all of us."
They have to pretend to do something.
To protect their lifestyles and their reputations.
And this is it.
Under this new law, anyone who cannot prove citizenship will be arrested.
Do you think the cops will stop us white folks?
Of course not.
African Americans?
Maybe, but probably not.
The black population in Arizona is slim and poses no political threat.
And illegals tend to go where they have realtives or friends. They are no large populations of illegal Kenyans or Germans or Russians or Chinese in Arizona. What would bring them there? Why would a good cop stop a white guy or a black woman on suspicion of illegal status?
No, this law is clearly and openly geared toward Mexicans.
With this new law, the people of the second group can stand on their balconies and watch as the legal, illegal and citizen Hispanics who had the misfortune of taking their kids for a walk, running to the store or grabbing a bite to eat without their passports or naturalization papers or visas on hand are arrested and say, "Look. Look what we're doing. We're fighting illegal immigration."
And this is what they've done.
This is the reality:
They've made Arizona a threatening place to live for Hispanics who are legally living in the United States, reducing the chances that they will settle or remain settled in the state and, eventually, take political control.
They've given the appearance that they are tackling the problem of the immigration overflow when they know, full well, that nothing has changed on the border. Mexicans will continue to cross the border illegally at the same rate because it's still worth the risk.
Mexico is still dirt poor.
Mexican health care is still lousy.
Border security is no better.
The desire for a better life, for money to send back home, remains.
And so, most important, they've ensured that ...
their desert lawns will remain plush and green;
their tiled houses will remain dust-free;
their children will remain out of sight while they sip gin and tonics or glasses or merlot or marguaritas poolside under misters.
Nothing will change.
They think.
But they've forgotten one things.
This showing of papers didn't work for Hilter.
We won.
And we will win again.

Twin moms and the psychology of rudeness

2010-04-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

The irony was too much.
I was reading a post on an online forum for parents of twins when my 3-year-old identical boys started watching Ni Hao Kai Lan. The theme of the children's show on Nick Jr. was politeness, always finding something nice to say.
The theme of the forum thread was how to avoid unsollicited advice from moms of singletons. Some posters were kind, but frustrated. However, a few expressed in many words that outright rudeness was not only appropriate, but the right of every twin mom.
One poster told of an incident in a department store in which she commented on someone's twins. The mother replied with, "Yes, they are twins. Now leave us alone." The poster was forgiving of her because the other mom didn't know she had twins herself.
When I responded that rudeness is never okay, I was shot down.
So I paid closer attention and this is what I found:
_ Some women enjoy rudeness.
_ Even more so, they enjoy bragging about their rude exploits.
_ Rudeness is addictive.
_ Rude people eventually drive others anyway,
_ Rudeness is like crack-cocaine: it is often practiced by people who are depressed, angry or have low self-esteem. It gives its practitioner an immediate sense of euphoria, but then it brings her crashing down. The only solution is to keep doing it and doing it over and over to re-live that euphoria, knowing that she will eventually self-destruct.
Twins attract a lot of attention, especially when they are babies or infants. So twins offer moms many more opportunities to be rude. Yes, it can be frustrating to walk into a store for a quick errand only to be stopped two or three times by people who oggle your babies, but that's why you build in "oggle time."
I always either gave myself a few extra minutes to run errands or reduced my agenda to only the most vital errands. More often, I hired a sitter for the important stuff or waited until evening when my husband was home.
And it helps to try to have some perspective.
Maybe even some sympathy or empathy for those who approach us.
Most are simply struggling to make conversation.
And most are in awe of twins.
That's a good thing.
I have healthy twins and two healthy older children.
I am forunate.
Very, very fortunate.
And twins seem to make people happy.
Why would I not want to share them with the world?
Why would I want to be rude?
There were times when I was tempted, like when the clerk from Dillard's kept jumping in front of my stroller and stopping me every time I tried to get around her; or like the time an acquaintance kept calling one twin "the fat one;" or like the time the older gentleman at the mall insisted over and over that my twins were not identical.
But I stopped myself.
What good would it do?
Another clerk finally helped me out of my Dillard's situation.
I haven't found a reason to speak with that acquaintance since.
The older gentleman? Well, what do I care what he believes? I smiled, told him I had to get going and walked away.
As for this whole thing about advice from singleton moms, what's wrong with it? Singleton moms have plenty to share about feeding babies, getting them to sleep, making baby food, the best diapers, milestones, etc. Why can't those moms just listen and pick and choose the advice that applies to them?
Why be rude?
Those women did not want to hear it when I wrote that rudeness was unacceptable. Perhaps, I took the wrong approach. Maybe what I should have written was, "Turn on your TVs. Ni Hao Kai Lan is on."

Distance and the evolution of friendships

2010-04-13T10:01:00.000-07:00

A friend and I were chatting the other day when I mentioned a woman I had been close with for many years. First, I described her as one of my closest friends, a friend for nearly two decades. Then I corrected myself. We're not so close anymore, I said.
Not since I moved.
My friend's reaction: So when you move, they're not your close friends any more?
For a moment, I was taken aback. My husband and I are hoping to relocate in the near future and I certainly didn't want this woman to feel like I would place any less value on our friendship simply because of a geographical change.
Not at all.
But these changes in intensity have not been my choice.
They were, simply, an inevitable effect of moving.
It is a lesson I have learned over the past 11 years as we have dragged our belongings back and forth across the country from New York to Arizona to Cinncinati, where we live now. Each time we moved, I felt that huge void, that loss of the immediate physical presense of my good friends, the people I could count on when I was bummed out, excited or just plain bored.
And each time, I vowed to maintain that intensity from afar with phone calls, emails and occassional visits.
I succeeded at first, especially when we all had young children and craved that adult conversation. There is nothing like a good phone call with an old friend when you are cooing with a baby who cannot converse in return.
But then something happened.
Our babies got older and we were stuck in the house less often. They became little people, engaging us in fascinating conversations about bugs and dinosaurs and Swiper the fox. Suddenly, I noticed that my old friends had less and less to say. Uncomfortable pauses became more frequent. The time between calls grew. The calls were shorter and the emails less detailed.
The babies were one factor.
The other was simple logistics.
In my previous communities, I was just one among of a network of friends. When I left, I damaged those networks--some more than others--but the rest remained intact. I left my friends in the hands of other friends, in familiar surroundings with communities that were familiar to them, open and welcoming. Though I know they missed me, the gaps I left were quickly repaired.
I had left them with everything, but me.
But when I settled in my new communities, I was on my own. I had to cultivate new friendships from scratch, learn my surroundings, learn the cultural temperment of the areas and gain acceptance, in some sense, in the communities. I had to built a network from scratch or find a place in a new one.
It was difficult and it was, at times, lonely.
In the beginning it was easy to tap into those old friendships.
Too easy.
But it wasn't easy for my old friends and it wasn't healthy for me. Maintaining intense friendships from afar requires a great deal of energy and a denial of that which is physically present. If I focused all of my efforts on the old friendships, I left little for the people who were new in my life.
I had to reduce my dependence, especially since they had done that long before.
That does not mean that I love the old friend we discussed any less. I would still do anything for her, fly out there to be with her in a crisis, call her with news of any major event in my life. She still means the world to me and our years of "best" friendship can never be undone.
It means simply that we no longer share the details of our everyday lives, what I like to call the minor big things. I don't call her when all the kids are sick and I need to vent. I don't call her when my kids reach particular milestones, when I'm thinking about whether to cover my emerging gray, when I am annoyed about a particular situation in my life.
And I no longer get upset when she fails to share those things with me.
I did not lose friends. The nature of my friendships simply changed and I welcomed new people into my life, like her, the woman I was chatting with. And I have no doubt I will remain connected with this newer friend for many years to come regardless of the miles between us. We met through a mutual passion for writing, something that can be nourished from afar, no matter how quickly our children grow.

When censorship can be a good thing.

2010-03-29T08:08:00.000-07:00

When I started blogging nearly three years ago, I thought that the platform would provide me with a certain level of freedom. Finally, I would be able to express my thoughts, my opinions, my views on the world uncensored.
No editors.
No worries.
But that was not so.
Too many triggers for my passions are connected with indivuals, individuals I care about, people I don't want to hurt. Others are triggered by anger that, if expressed without proper evidence and purpose, could create some excellent lawsuit material for the offending parties.
Finally, there are bridges I cannot afford to burn.
Yet I see it happen every day.
Bloggers bash without consideration of consequence. They reveal private information that belongs to others without consent. They hurt other people and they hurt themselves. They forget, perhaps, that once words are distributed on the Internet, they are impossible to take back.
Twenty, thirty, forty years from now, they will remain.
One blogger in particular affected me deeply.
She wrote on an online forum about complaints from her children. They had pleaded with her to stop brutally ridiculing them in her blog for the sake of page views. She refused to stop, arguing that as long as her children lived under her roof, she had the right to reveal whatever she chose. Her blog wouldn't be funny without them, she wrote.
I'm betting that she won't be blogging the exploits of her grandchildren.
She won't be allowed to know them.
Another woman wrote honestly and humerously about the end of a long-term relationship. Her name and location were part of her profile. The blog was popular, so popular that it inspired her to write a book about ending relationships. Her book is selling well.
But she had to end the blog when strangers tracked down her ex-boyfriend and threatened him. The world is full of sick people, sadly, and many of them are addicted to the Internet.
So, I vent here and I write about raising our twins on my other blog, but I am always careful. My older children have declined to be included in any blogs and I respect that. My twins will decide what happens to their blog when they are old enough to understand. Until then, I write about them in a way that might help other parents of identical twins.
I am not free to write without care because I do care.
I am own editor.
And when I think about topics for my posts, I follow two rules: I must write as if everyone in the world will read it and I must ponder how it will play out several years into the future. Freedom of speech is a wonderful thing as long as we don't abuse it.

Obamacare: for some, it's a lease on life

2010-03-22T11:04:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine informed me the other day that she doesn't have to wonder how she will die. The government and insurance companies will kill her, she said.
She has lymphoma, one of those cancers that never really goes away.
Four years ago, when she last underwent chemotherapy, she paid a $40 co-pay per treatment.
That was it.
But her coverage has changed since then.
If she comes out of remission now, she will also be responsible for 20 percent of each treatment. That would put her and her husband into thousands of dollars of debt with both of them nearing retirement. She also has to worry about the lifetime cap on their insurance.
What if she exceeds it?
What will happen to him?
She can divorce her husband and let Medicaid pick up the tab, but that's a gamble.
Sick people have to be divorced for a certain number of years before the goverment will forgive the spouse of financial liability. If her cancer returned before the deadline, her husband would lose everything and, because they would be divorced, he would have no say in her medical care.
Sometimes, she said, she would rather just give up.
She would rather die.
This is the urgency that opponents to the health care bill do not understand.
Some people cannot wait.
While Republicans and Democrats were battling, people were dying.
Real people.
President Obama's health care bill might not be a perfect solution, but it's a step in the right direction.
My friend still has decisions to make, painful decisions.
But, at the very least, this bill alleviates two of her concerns: there will no longer be a lifetime cap on health insurance; and, if her husband loses his job, they will not have to worry that her pre-exisiting condition will leave them with no health insurance.
If it hadn't passed?
She would probably give up, believing it was the selfless thing to do.
For her husband's sake.
While politicians bickered, she would die.

Perspective: mother vs. mother-in-law

2010-03-16T12:36:00.000-07:00

My mother and my mother-in-law both read the same book recently, a gift from me.
A New York Times best seller.
Both left the same message on my answering machine:
"I need to talk to you about this book."
I had just started the novel and had not yet formed an opinion.
"I couldn't even finish the last chapter," my mother said. "It just wasn't real."
My mother was disappointed by what she felt was an exaggerated plot with exaggerated characters. The main character, a 12-year-old girl, suffers emotionally after the death of her mother and abandonment by her father. My mother didn't find the traumas to be all that traumatic. She didn't find the resolution all that satisfying.
Great, I thought.
The author is a friend of mine.
What if I feel the same way?
Would I be able to face her?
Then I returned my mother-in-law's call.
My mother-in-law, a woman known for guarding her emotions, could barely contain her excitement.
She loved it.
She even cried when she read it.
"I never cry when I read a book," she said.
I was baffled.
Such intense, polar-opposite emotions from two women who are only a year apart in age. Why? I mentioned the conflicting reactions to my mother-in-law. She wasn't at all surprised. My mother, she explained, has an entirely different perspective on suffering.
Here I am. A writer, a journalist, someone who should understand audience.
And she was right.
I had missed it.
The problem is that I am also a daughter, and daughters can't always sympathize with the children their parents once were because we are naturally selfish. We want to be emotionally cuddled when we hit bumps on the road, to become objects of our parents' sympathy, recipients of their wisened advice.
We don't want to see that our parents are still vulnerable themselves, even as adults. We don't want to deal with their unresolved issues because we want them to help us resolve our own. So, sometimes, we are unintentionally blind.
Of course it wasn't real for her.
My mother grew up in Germany during World War II. Her father fled to Romania to escape recruitment in the Nazi army. She was taken from her family at 10 years old and sent to Youth Camps. From there, she was placed in people's homes, where she worked for her keep.
Her siblings were also taken away.
She saw her mother only occassionally.
She has told stories of beatings and hunger and loneliness, but she rarely goes into great detail. Instead, she often recounts her childhood with stories of her youthful rebellion. How she sneaked out windows to pick flowers, how she refused to stay in bed when sick, how she wandered through old castles and played imaginerary games.
If only some rich great aunt had swept her up at 12 years old and gently placed her in a mansion-of-a-home with a private bathroom for each bedroom, a maid who adored her and all the clothes and delicious food she could imagine. How could someone so lucky possibly be suffering to the extent that the main character suffers?
I picked up the novel a few days ago and started reading it with a new curiousity. The writing is beautiful. The author worked her entire life as a different kind of artist and her talents carry into her writing. The images she paints with her words stir all the senses. I see, feel, taste, smell and hear when I read. The experience is exhillerating.
But at the same time, I am guarded.
I am aware of my mother's perspective even as I am drawn in by this young girl's plight.
I feel sympathy for the girl, not because her situation is so horrible, but because of the way she endures it and because of who she is, the way the author has drawn her. I feel joy with her, not because she landed in a wealthy home with lots of love, but because of the way these unique and charming characters surround her and pull her out among them.
My mother's perspective and my mother-in-law's observations dimished my expectations of the novel ... in a good way. They reminded me to tear down my own psychological defenses, to read beyond the literal plot and to focus instead the author's portrayals and resulting portrait of human nature, of the nature of community.
And I got something even better out of it, better than I could have imagined.
The novel, and this experience with it, brought me one step closer to understanding my own mother.

Criticism: tough love for the ego

2010-02-24T07:16:00.000-08:00

An acquaintance once asked me to critique the first chapter of her work in progress.
I didn't know her very well and I was unfamiliar with her writing history, but I figured she had only recently contracted the writing bug because her work was so raw.
So I decided to tread carefully.
I started with all the good stuff.
I piled it on.
Then, I began to point out sections that confused me.
I had barely begun when she stopped me and began to explain. She explained not because she believed her words would elicit more advice or solutions to the problems within the work. She spoke up because she decided that, like everyone else, I "just didn't get it."
She would have to move on.
I was stunned.
She'll never make it.
Not with that attitude.
In college (both in undergraduate and graduate school), we were not allowed to speak while our work was critiqued. For a good 45 minutes, we'd have to sit there jotting notes and biting our lips while six or seven other people tore our work apart and analyzed it bit by little bit.
Sometimes I had to bite so hard it bled.
I doesn't matter what we intend to say with our words.
Readers can't stop, pick up the phone and ask authors what they meant.
The writing must convey the message all by itself and the critique I received in those workshops was invaluable.
It toughened my skin.
The rewrites that followed taught me how to sort through it all.
How to ignore some criticism and embrace that of others.
And, most important, I learned to recruit readers who would be tough on me.
I might not always agree, but I'll take what I can get.
When people offer criticism, it's like they're giving away money.
Some people gives us just a penny or two.
Others give us gold.
But why would we reject the pennies? We don't have to spend them, but it doesn't hurt to accept them and, when we gather enough pennies, we just might find that they are more valuable when combined than we once thought.
But, then again, we need to be careful that we don't waste too much time gathering pennies.
Don't request critiques from people who will simply be enthralled by the fact that we can write at all. Seek out the gold, the readers who read critically and, therefore, are most likely to offer constructive feedback.
It becomes less painful when we think of the work as a joint project, one in which the person giving critique is invested. The work has been created. Now it needs fine-tuning. Sharpening. The critiquer can sometimes see the flaws that we cannot see because we are too immersed.
The critiquer, or beta reader, offers perspective.
I feel sorry for that woman whose chapter I read.
She will likely waste plenty of time seeking out readers who agree with her.
With each honest critique she rejects, her dream of publication will become less and less vivid.
It's a waste.
But it's also a choice.
A choice that requires strength of character, humility and confidence all rolled together.
We all have it within us.
But, if we want to be successful, we cannot let ego rule.

Writing and rocks

2010-02-05T09:10:00.000-08:00

My husband knew better than to ask "whether."
Instead, he simply asked me "when."
When could I teach my son's Cub Scout den about geology?
Then he gave me a list of possible dates.
I was leery.
It'd been a long time since I'd buried my nose in rocks, 25 years to be precise.
I had always had a passion for earth science, but I loved books and writing more. Still, when it came time to declare a college major, I couldn't bring myself to choose English.
I had moved out on my own at 17, during my senior year of high school. I had worked full time most of my junior year and all of my senior year while juggling sports and school work. I didn't want to work that hard anymore.
An English major, I thought, wasn't practical.
I wouldn't make any money.
Too much stress.
So I choose my second love: rocks.
Or, more formally, geochemistry.
That lasted one semester.
Remember when I said I wasn't willing to work that hard anymore?
Geochemistry is a lot of work.
So I drifted about as "undeclared," taking courses in English and in interpersonal communications here and there simply because they were fun. Next thing I knew, my "fun" courses became my dual major and I was working full time as a journalist.
I had made the writing thing work.
And I forgot about rocks.
Until our oldest son became a toddler.
He was fascinated by rocks and fossils, and still is.
As I helped him hunt fossils and identify a few minerals, I realized just how rusty I'd become. My knowledge was old. I was busy. I didn't have time to rekindle old passions, I thought.
But then this opportunity came along.
These kids, these Webelos Ones, are counting on me.
They want their badges.
I knew I couldn't just wing it.
So I dove back in.
It took me about 30 minutes of review to realize why I loved earth science so much. As a hobby, it's easy. No physics involved. No need to memorize world history. No calculus. Just me and a bunch of minerals. Minerals that might have been touched, walked on or looked upon by anyone from cavemen to Cleopatra to JFK.
My love for writing and my love for rocks are not separate passions. They stem from the same sense of curiosity, the same craving to imagine and create, the same appreciation for beauty and art. Rocks are, for me, a muse.
So next Tuesday, I'll hand three Webelos Ones paper plates full of clay. I'll watch as they smash chunks of clay together to create mountains. I'll pay special attention to their eyes as they discover the beauty of creation and evolution.
I might even smile as order them to clean up the mess (because they are sure to throw the clay at something or someone when we're done. How could they possibly resist?). I'll smile because I'll be thinking, thanks Tom.
Thanks for asking me "when."

I used to be a better mom

2010-01-20T16:31:00.001-08:00

I used to be a better mom.
My first two kids had my constant attention except when I was cleaning.
I got online when they were asleep.
I worked on my novel when I had a sitter.
They had it good.
Then came light-weight laptops and wireless networking.
Now, I keep my laptop on the kitchen counter most of the day.
When it's in the basement at my desk, I sneak down and check my email hoping my 3-year-old twins won't notice.
I let them watch too much TV. I don't read to them quite as much as I should. I let the older kids stay up an extra half an hour while I finish one last blog entry, a couple of emails and take a quick peek at my Web stats.
I have excuses.
_ I recently started working as a moderator for a popular online forum.
(I have to become more familiar with its culture--the posters, the topics and the general tone of the community. Right?)
_ My agent might email with an offer.
(Okay, so he'd probably call first. Enough already. These are excuses, remember?)
_ Some horrible ailment might befall a friend I haven't seen in 20 years and the only way I will know is if I check Facebook. (How will it look if I miss the wall post and fail to send a "get well" card?)
Yes, I have excuses.
But today, it started to get to me.
I wondered whether I was cheating the twins.
(I rarely touch my computer from the time the older kids come home from school until just before they go to bed.)
I looked at them.
They were feeding each other pretzels.
Five books were scattered across the living room floor, books I had read to them earlier. Books they had pulled out again and flipped through, pretending to read them aloud.
In the midst of the books was a length of railroad track I had set up for them this morning. Thomas was towing Annie and Clarabel. Diesel pulled a Troublesome Truck. They had played with those off and on for hours.
The television was off .
And they weren't bothered.
No, Matthew and Jonathan were happy.
And I was getting some work done on my laptop.
I had even cleaned the kitchen.
So maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe it's not such a bad thing, this portable, virtual world in my kitchen.
I am not glued to it.
I still get down on the floor with the boys several times a day, flipping them, lifting them and letting them climb on my back and shoulders. I still scoop them up and cuddle them individually for several minutes at a time. We do puzzles together. We count our fingers and toes. We color. We sing the alphabet song.
We dance.
We try to get out of the house for at least a few hours each day.
Perhaps the difference between the mom I was before wireless Internet and the mom I am now is that I am connected, connected with other adults and connected with my work. I am not going crazy for adult interaction or intellectual stimulation while I'm home with my children.
This time around, I have my laptop.
I have my email.
I have Microsoft Word.
I have it good.
But when I power down and take a look around, I realize this:
So do they.

I own a Kindle!

2009-12-27T18:00:00.000-08:00

I got it!
I got it!
I got it!
I got a Kindle for Christmas!
Yes, yes. I know. Kindles are the demise of the publishing world.
With these electronic gadgets in hand, no one will ever buy a physical book again.
All kinds of literary geniuses will be out of work--big publishers, indie presses, authors, editors, agents, bookstores.
Amazon will have the corner on the e-publishing market and will dictate prices, terms, everything, putting all other publishers out of business. It will be the end of an era. No more freedom of written speech.
Gone.
It will all be gone.
As a writer, I should be screaming.
But I don't believe it.
A Kindle, for me, is for the books I would normally read and then pass along.
It's for the fast-reads.
The pure entertainment.
The books that I read simply to get to the end.
And thanks to the Kindle, I will be unable to pass these books along.
My friends and family will have to go out and buy these particular books themselves because they are not getting their hands on my Kindle. Maybe they will get Kindles too, and then they will be unable to pass their copies along.
Who benefits from that?
Yes. The right to share and resell books is something that we have cherished as a culture from the beginning of printed time. But here's what will happen: e-book prices will have to come down, way down.
Buying an e-book will be cheaper than buying a used book.
And guess what Amazon?
Eventually, you will have to share.
Just like physical books, e-books will become available through all e-book publishers, which will pop up all over the place. Our capitalistic society will not allow this monopoly to continue. It will start with the black market, just like it did in the e-music industry.
Pirates will hack into Amazon's book files, convert its books into formats compatible with Sony readers and other e-book devices, and either give them away or sell them cheap. It will all come to a head in court and the industry will be forced to change.
And people will still crave physical books.
I know I do.
And I got plenty of real books for Christmas: the latest from John Irving and Philip Roth. Immigrant, Inc., a nonfiction book co-authored by my dear friend Robert Smith.
Another novel with a title that escapes me.
And I will still buy physical books.
A novel by a new friend, Beth Hoffman, is due for release Jan. 12. I will be at her first book signing that same day with five copies in hand of Saving CeeCee Honeycut, waiting in line for her autograph.
No, my Kindle could never replace the real thing.
It will simply make reading more fun and more portable.
It will allow me to read while my twins play at Jumping Joey's or while I'm waiting in the parking lot for the older kids to be released from their Architecture by Children club or while my oldest son is practicing basketball.
It will allow me to read more books and read them more often.
And I will pay for it.
I will probably pay lots for it because I will be reading lots more.
No.
The Kindle is not the demise of the publishing book.
The Kindle is the answer for the publishing world.
And the answer for time-strapped, stay-at-home, writer moms like me.

I am a coffee addict, or am I?

2009-12-09T08:17:00.000-08:00

Winds are gusting at about 50 miles-an-hour so far today and the weather folks are warning us to prepare for power outages. The last time we had gusts this strong--the effects of Hurricane Ike---we lost power for four days.
My first thought?
I'd better brew fresh coffee.
Quick.
Four kids, and that was my first thought.
I'm an addict.
It's time I admitted it.
In my defense, we do have gas heat and a gas stove. Even without power we will be warm and I can cook. So really, all I can do to prepare is to stock up on batteries and candles and maybe get some ice to keep the milk cold. I could do that now. The twins are at the sitters' house for another half hour.
But I don't want to.
I just keep thinking about that coffee that will done brewing any minute.
Coffee with milk and one Splenda.
Drinking it at the kitchen table with today's newspaper spread out before me.
Maybe it's not so much a caffeine addiction as it is an addiction to what that cup of coffee stands for. I rarely wrote on deadline without coffee beside me in my full-time journalism days. I walked to the cafeteria for coffee whenever I needed to think.
I met my friends in coffee shops.
I wrote good chunks of my novel in an Arizona Starbucks.
My husband and I often end date nights in coffee shops.
So maybe that's it.
Maybe coffee stands for an identity that started to fade when I had my first two kids and that sometimes seems forever lost now that I have the twins.
But I don't have time to think about that now.
The coffee is done.
The clock in ticking.
The newspaper is waiting.

Christmas the online way

2009-11-30T11:24:00.000-08:00

I almost did it.
I almost bought book 6 of the 39 Clues series at a mall book store the other day for nearly $13.
Full price.
Then I stopped myself.
Wait, I said.
Wait for Cyber Monday.
The wait paid off.
Today, I ordered the same book online for $6.50, about half the price, and book 7 for $8.76.
I love Cyber Monday.
And even more than that, I love online Christmas shopping.
I first became familiar with online Christmas shopping when my oldest children were four months old and 22 months old. My infant daughter was allergic to milk protein and had an intolerance for soy.
She could drink only breast milk and she refused to take it from a bottle.
I don't mind nursing in public, but nursing in a crowded mall at Christmas time while trying to entertain a toddler was just no fun. So, one day, I put my son down for a nap and my daughter in her vibrating infant seat and started clicking.
I couldn't believe it.
In about an hour's time, I was done.
Not only had I finished my shopping, but I was easily able to comparison shop, and most online retailers offered free shipping. I saved a bunch of money. I knew then and there that I would never fight the Christmas throngs at a mall again.
That doesn't make me a Scrooge.
I know that the whole mall-battle thing is part of the holiday tradition.
I still enjoy wandering its halls on a weekday evening (never on a weekend) during the holiday season, checking the displays and the quirky novelty items that retailers somehow convince us everyone needs (How about a hand deodorizer? Or maybe a fancy set of nose hair tweezers? That will impress your significant other.).
Sometimes, I pick up a few stocking-stuffers, or wander into a book store and spend way too much money (I'm addicted to book stores). Or maybe I'll just have a slice of pizza in the food court and buy a Far Side calendar for my husband from a kiosk.
But I don't have to buy anything.
I feel no pressure.
And I don't have to stand in line for a register.
I can just leave if I want to.
I can take the twins on a Monday afternoon, let them ride the carousel or the train (with the money I saved online), let them play in the kids' play area, then slather their little hands with sanitizer and buy them some ice cream (with some more of the money I saved online).
Or I can take the older kids to the temporary game store (You know. The one they set up for Christmas with all the cool stuff you usually see only in catalogs.) and let them peruse the aisles as long as they want.
Maybe I'll take them to Hallmark, where they'll wistfully examine all the Webkinz and press the buttons on all the silly little talking ornaments that cost a fortune. We can even wave to Santa and pass by the line that snakes down past the customer service desk, knowing they'll get a chance to chat with him at an upcoming Cub Scout pack meeting.
Better yet, thanks to Cyber Monday and to this whole online shopping craze, I can stay home if I want to.
I can tickle my twins, play board games with my older kids, or settle on the sofa with my husband after they've all fallen asleep, watching A Christmas Story for the zillionth time and sipping on juice glasses half full of Baily's.
All this, while my friends, neighbors and relatives are at the mall.

Like your agent

2009-11-12T09:34:00.000-08:00

An author-friend signed with a big agency.
His agent sold his novel within two months.
To an indie press.
Now, this particular independent publisher has an excellent reputation. His novel might have ended up there eventually. But he will never know, and his is the story I tell most often when writers ask me for advice in searching for an agent.
From what I understand, this agent submitted the manuscript to several large houses at once. And the author's novel was rejected by all of them.
His agent immediately argued that the same scenario would play out if they continued to submit to larger imprints. Why waste time? The author had misgivings. But his agent persuaded him that the indie presses were the best option, even though the novel was well-received by the big publishing houses.
It just was not what those particular editors were searching for.
He finally agreed.
Then along came novel number two.
The agent submitted the manuscript to only one publisher: the same independent press that published the first book. The author was thrilled because he has developed a good relationship with the folks at the indie press.
All is well.
But is it?
Was his agent really looking out for his best interests as a career novelist?
Or did he quickly realize that selling this novel would be hard work, and did he "sell him out" for the sake of a quick commission?
My own agent has been submitting my novel for four months. He is moving slowly, submitting only to editors he knows and respects. He has kept me informed, telling who has passed and why; who still has the manuscript; and who he will submit to next.
At the very least, I am confident that wherever my manuscript eventually lands, he will have found the best fit. I know that because I trust my agent and because, well, I like the guy.
That's important.
You have to like and trust your agent.
So often, writers start the query process with the biggest agencies, believing that bigger is better. But people are people no matter where you go. The big agencies have great agents and lousy agents. The small agencies, or the loners, might take a great personal interest in their clients, or they might take on too much and "sell out" a few for a quick buck.
My point is this:
Lots of books and Web sites explain the mechanics of finding an agent.
But there are two things many will not tell you.
First, educate yourself. Know how the submission process should work and then talk to your potential agent about how he/she does things. If something doesn't feel right or if she/he is too vague, trust your instincts.
Move on.
Second, sign with someone you like.
Why would you put your career in the hands of someone who rubs you the wrong way?
Your agent is your connection to the publishing world, your representative with the people who might buy your book. Your choice in agent is reflective of you and your work. Your agent doesn't have to become your best buddy, but don't selective a representative whose personality hasn't even impressed you.
Sure there's more:
Choose an agent who represents your genre, find someone who is well-established the literary world, who has continually represents the same clients (If all the agent's other clients ditch him/her after the first book and find someone else, that's not a good sign.)
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
There's all that.
But there is so much to be said for intuition.
Go with your gut.

Slump. Please help.

2009-10-21T07:14:00.000-07:00

I am in a reading slump.
And it's disappointing.
Until recently, I'd always had two or three books going at once. I kept one on my nightstand, one on the kitchen counter and one near the treadmill in the basement.
Now, only the nightstand holds a book and it's gathering dust.
I just haven't had time to pick it up.
Time.
Maybe that's the problem.
I haven't used the treadmill since summer.
I'm always on the defensive in the kitchen these days, trying to keep our very-independent twins from emptying the fridge, pretending to cook on the stove and pushing chairs up to cabinets to get the van keys out of my purse.
I never seem to sleep anymore.
I have too much to do.
But I love to read.
I crave a good novel.
I enjoy the escape.
This is a place where I cannot remain.
It is time to map a new course.
The trouble is that I don't know where to begin.
Do I try to get more sleep, foregoing the measly hour a night I get to hang out with my husband, cuddle, watch silly sitcom reruns and talk uninterrupted?
Do I climb on the treadmill more often, ignoring the editing, writing, cleaning and cooking that tear me in other directions? And, oh yes, our four kids?
Do I remove all glass and hot sauces from the fridge, disconnect the gas from the stove and disable the horn button on my key chain so I can just set the twins loose in the kitchen while I read?
Or am I looking in the wrong direction entirely?
Is it the novels?
Is that the problem?
It seems that over the summer, the novels I picked up were impossible to put down. They pulled me out of my world with so much force that I couldn't resist. Not even four kids, a messy house and a pile of unedited interviews could keep me in reality.
Nothing I've read lately has done that for me.
So, perhaps, it's not the time constraints at all.
Maybe, what I really need is a good book.
Any suggestions?

A new friend. a new inspiration: fighting inflammatory breast cancer

2009-09-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

I had dinner last night with a woman who, according to all the statistics, should have been getting her meal through an IV at a Hospice center.
Instead, she was scooping up cheese and beef with tortilla chips from a platter shared with a friend at Cheeseburger in Paradise.
Ashley has inflammatory breast cancer, the deadliest of breast cancers and among the most deadly of all cancers.
She was diagnosed in May and, by then, it was already in her lungs, bones and liver.
She is married and has two children, a 3-year-old and a 7-year-old.
About the same time she was diagnosed, I'd had a scare.
A red circle, following the pattern of my veins on my breast, appeared out of nowhere.
My OB said that if it progressed any further at all, even the tiniest bit, he was sending me to an oncologist because it wasn't an infection and the only explanation he could find was inflammatory breast cancer.
The redness diminished with the help of Motrin and disappeared, thank God.
But in that short time, I'd done enough research to be scared when I met Ashely last night.
No.
Terrified.
I'd learned that IBC generally appears as discoloration (red, pink, orange or general darkness) or irritation on the skin of the breast; spots that are warm top the touch; thickness of breast skin with an orange-peel-like texture; swelling of one breast; or nipple retraction. Sometimes, it's painful, but not always.
Most women simply figure it will go away.
By the time they see a doctor, it's too late.
"Stage doesn't matter with inflammatory breast cancer," Ashely said.
And it's true.
The disease spreads like wildfire. By the time symptoms appear, the cancer has spread so far that chances of survival are slim. About 40 percent of women with IBC survive five years, according to The American Cancer Society. That compares with 87 percent for all breast cancers combined.
Yet there she was.
Ashley.
Scooping cheese and beef with tortilla chips.
Laughing with friends, new and old.
Saved, so far, by research and awareness.
Ashely just finished round five of chemo. She has been drained of estrogen because this type of cancer feeds on it. She takes a drug that rebuilds her bone tissues as chemo destroys it. She will have her uterus and ovaries removed in a few weeks as a preventative measure.
A recent scan showed no discernible spots in her lungs. The masses in her liver and breasts had shrunk. They couldn't see the bone tissue because of the drug, but the doctors believe chemo is working on that too.
She's had a new scan on Wednesday and was still waiting for those results.
Ashley is living, and she is improving.
Against the odds.
October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
Ashely and another friend, my neighbor Kristy, persuaded me to demand an MRI instead of a mammogram this next time around because of my extensive family history of breast cancer (My grandmother died of it and my mother and sister are survivors) and because of the fact that, so far, I've had two scares.
After meeting Ashley, I've decided I will do that.
Like I said, October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.
But why wait.
Even just a few days.
I am going to take charge.
Now.
How about you?

Big Purple Mommy

2009-09-08T19:22:00.001-07:00

For the past few months, I struggled to breathe.
I was under water and I'd lost my focus.
I couldn't find the surface and I was running out of air.
I was dying.
As a writer.
Okay, so maybe that's a little dramatic.
But that's how it felt.
Like the daily duties of life, the needs of everyone in my life, the needs of the household, mine own less glamorous needs (dental visits and doctor visits and a glass of red wine at the end of the night) were closing in around me.
Confusing me.
I had lost my focus.
I couldn't find my laptop.
I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't figure out how or when to write.
I thought maybe I was getting too old, wearing down, losing my creativity, losing my mind.
Then I saw it.
Sitting right there on the bookshelf in the basement across from my desk.
Big Purple Mommy by Coleen Hubbard.
And I remembered the last time Coleen Hubbard saved me from drowning.
We were living in Arizona.
My older kids were 18 months old and almost three.
I had written a few chapters of my novel, but not much.
I just couldn't seem to figure out how to write any more.
Somehow, I stumbled upon her book.
I read it and, a few days later, hired a sitter.
Two actually.
They were sisters (Thank you Andrea and Amanda!) and they insisted on coming together.
Two days a week for four hours a day, I sat in a study room in the local l library and wrote, finally completing the first draft within a few months.
I went back to teaching as an adjunct when I finished, something else I enjoyed, and I didn't worry about my writing. I knew it needed a rest, I knew I need some distance from my novel and I knew my creativity would come back.
We moved, we settled into our home in Cincinnati and I picked up the novel again a few years ago and revised it.
It felt good.
And it was all because of Coleen Hubbard's book.
Big Purple Mommy is all about balancing creativity and motherhood. She helped me realize, with lots of testimony from other creative moms, that I needed to, first, give myself a break when my kids were young, and second, make a huge effort to carve out time for creative work without guilt.
I did that and I was happy.
I began rereading the book again the other day.
And I found myself in its pages.
I'd lost my focus because the twins have stopped napping and because the twins are 2.5 years old. But time will pass, they will get older and they will be less demanding on a minute-by-minute basis. I will not lose my creativity during that time because stuff is always swirling in my head.
If anything, I might just mature as a writer because of it.
The twins will start going to a sitter three days a week for three hours each time next week.
I'll need some of that time to do ordinary things I can't do when they are around--clean, doctor appointments, run errands--but at least one of those days will be mine, all mine.
And I will write.
Thank you Coleen.
Thank you Big Purple Mommy.
For rescuing me again.

Everybody's dancing but me

2009-08-16T08:47:00.000-07:00

This is the week of the happy dance in the Cincinnati area.
School starts Aug. 24 in our district. Some schools started last week. Others start this week.
Parents all over the region are clicking their heels high in the air.
They are doing jigs, popping their joints, sliding gracefully across the kitchen floor.
Not me.
I haven't even bought school supplies yet.
I'll be dancing away Sept. 9 when my twins start preschool. I adore those little guys and they are a blast, but I get nothing done when they are around. They will go for only four hours a day, two days a week.
We'll all benefit from that.
But I'm finding it hard to let the older kids go this year.
I'll be honest.
I have great kids.
My oldest son is nine and my daughter will be eight this month.
Eightty percent of the time, they get along beautifully. They are each other's best friend. When they do argue, it's never because one was intentionally cruel to the other.
They don't do that kind of thing.
And they are really smart: book smart and people smart.
I can talk to them about grown-up stuff and they understand. I can explain the impact of their own behaviors and they understand. They are sensitive and empathetic, so much so that I often have to remind myself that they are children.
And when they are gone, I miss them.
Two weeks ago, they went to Pennsylvania for seven days with my husband for their grandfather's funeral. I'd never been away from them for so long before and I quickly came to appreciate how much they help me around the house and with the twins.
Yes, they have their moments.
Sometimes, they are so whiny I just want to scream.
Sometimes they decide to do "experiments" and they destroy my kitchen.
Sometimes they find every reason possible to avoid going to bed and when 9 o'clock turns into 11 o'clock, I'm ready to tear my hair out.
But there is one other thing that tips the scale in their favor, no matter what else my older kids might do:
When their friends ask them what I do, they don't say, "She makes us dinner." They don't say, "She drives us to school." They don't say, "She cleans the house, takes care of the twins or does the dishes."
They say, "My mom writes books."
My mom writes books.
That's what they say.
Nope.
I just can't feel the rhythm of that happy dance.

Waiting

2009-08-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

The Waiting Place ...
... for people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
or a bus to come, or a plane to go
or the mail to come, or the rain to go
or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
or waiting around for a Yes or No
or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.

--Dr. Seuss: Oh, The Place You'll Go!-

Including me.
And it's killing me.
I thought the hardest part of this whole publishing thing would be finding an agent. So when I did, I figured I was relieved of the stress, that my agent would take that load off me and I would be free to pursue everything else.
But it doesn't work that way.
I was naive.
I had no idea just how hard it is to wait.
Yes, I had to wait when I was sending out query letters to agents, but that was active waiting. I never knew when I checked my email whether I would find a rejection; or a request for a partial or full manuscript; or a request for my nonfiction proposal.
And, if I got a rejection, I didn't let it get me down.
I just whipped off another query letter and prepared to wait again.
I'll admit it; it was kind of fun.
It was even kind of exciting.
This is different.
Don't get me wrong.
I appreciate being in this situation.
And I have a great agent who will do great things.
But, while he is submitting to publishers, I am simply doing everything I possibly can to distract myself. I'm trying not to get my hopes up every time the phones, trying not to check my email every ten minutes, trying not to imagine a whole bunch of editors saying, "Nah."
I'm really trying.
I've written another chapter of my second novel. I'm working on a freelance piece. I'm tearing wallpaper off bathroom walls. I am concentrating on my four children and on making their summer a good one.
But it's not enough because I still have time to think.
Think.
Think.
Think.
Sigh.

Twilight: why even literary snobs are in the author's debt

2009-07-28T05:34:00.001-07:00

I did not want to read it.
I am not a fan of romance.
And I generally dislike the paranormal stuff.
I have a backlog of books I'd prefer to immerse myself in.
But the intrigue finally got to me.
I had to know how one book could could enrage so many writers and, at the same time, convert thousands, at least, of people who had not picked up a book in decades into passionate readers.
So when a friend offered me a copy of Twilight, I couldn't resist.
And I was surprised.
Very surprised.
The answer to Stephenie Meyer's success is simple, but it is also quite complicated.
It's not the writing that makes Twilight a best seller. It is a combination of psychology, seductive descriptions, simple language and skilled storytelling. And that combination is too perfect to argue that Stephenie Meyer simply got lucky.
Let's start with the psychology.
Like any good romance writer, Meyer' chooses a girl who believes herself to be ordinary, who has never even had a date, who is so much like so many of us, especially when we were in high school.
She takes this girl and makes her the object of a highly desirable man's obsession. She gives every ordinary girl or woman out there hope. She feeds her fantasies. She helps her feel good about herself and feel good about her potential self.
Next, she draws vivid and fascinating portraits of these vampires.
I want to watch them walk. I want to breath their scents. I want to experience their powerful arms, their speed, their bodies in sunlight. I want to watch them play baseball.
They are spectacular and original.
Somehow, Stephenie Meyers makes me want that.
Add to that the seduction. The way Edward touches Isabella is almost pornographic.
It's hard to remember that they do nothing more than kiss. I want to find out what happens to them. Does it work? Does she become a vampire?
The plot and it's pacing are enough to pull me through.
Otherwise, I have to admit, the writing is pretty lousy.
If I had to read that a character's eyes, face or expression was "unreadable" one more time, I think I might have burned that book. I quickly grew tired of lengthy descriptions of Isabella's every mundane move. Do I really need to watch her climb each and every stair? Brush her teeth? Pee?
Over and over again?
And how quickly her characters leap to rage. I could never be friends with these people. There is no warning, no build-up. One wrong word or move and they clench their fists, turn purple and refuse to speak to each other.
Seconds later, they are best buddies again, of course.
This lack of emotional transition is the mark of an impatient writer. Someone who is too lazy, too unobservant or too lacking in literary talent to get it right. I found it unforgivable. So unforgivable that, despite the awesome vampires, I could not like this novel.
But, I'm not her market.
I'm not important and that's okay.
The elements of writing that I find annoying in Twilight are among those that make the language accessible for nonreaders or hurried readers. I don't want to be told how someone feels. I want to be shown. I want to feel myself growing angry with the character, or calmer or happier.
More readers than not don't want to work that hard.
From Twilight, they want two things: seduction and action.
The rest is irrelevant.
But, as a writer, there are two things I get from Twilight: more people who are turned onto books, people who might start off with Twilight, but then, later, become more sophisticated readers; and more money for the publishing industry, money that allows editors to take chances on novels like mine own.
So, how can I complain? How can any writer complain? How can anyone deny Stephenie Meyer the right to her success?
I felt it in the beginning, before I read Twilight, before I formed informed opinions of my own.
Her critics--the hard-core unyielding critics who accuse her of single-handedly triggering the demise of literature--are jealous.
Their complaints are, as I suspected, sour grapes.

The Canadian professor from Sri Lanka

2009-07-23T18:44:00.000-07:00

I knew the small man with the smooth dark skin the moment he walked in the door.
This was The Canadian Writers Festival at the New York State University College at Oswego.
The year was 1987.
I was the student director (and the bartender).
As far as I knew, only one author was not native to Canada.
A Sri Lanka-born professor.
A man I'd never hear of.
A poet who'd written two novels.
I served this man a drink and spoke with him briefly.
I don't remember much except that he seemed kind, humble and thoughtful.
I bought his latest novel and got his autograph.
Despite my heavy class load, despite two part-time jobs, despite my editor position at the college newspaper, I read Coming Through Slaughter in two days.
It was unlike anything I'd ever read and anything I've read since.
A blend of poetry, fiction and interviews, all telling the story of Buddy Bolden, a real-life musician said to be the originator of jazz. A genius whose career was cut short by madness.
It was and is beautiful.
For more than a decade, I pushed that book on professors, friends and acquaintences with little luck. I just couldn't get them to understand. This wasn't just a novel. This was art. A multi-dimensional work of art.
Except for the woman I met in Arizona.
She understood. She was from Sri Lanka and her daughter attended preschool with my son. One day, she brought me a novel. Anil's Ghost by the same author as Coming Through Slaughter.
I devoured it.
And I wanted more.
But I got busy.
And I forgot.
Until one day, in 1996, I was perusing the movie section of the newspaper.
I spied a review for a new movie, The English Patient.
The movie was based on the book by a Sri Lanka-born writer named Michael Ondaatje.
The man whose drinks I poured.
The man whose novel, published two decades earlier, was a masterpiece.
The man who forever changed the way I think about fiction.

Message to Amazon: moms are Kindle people too

2009-07-09T13:41:00.001-07:00

Hey you!
Amazon!
Kindle makers!
Over here!
Look at me!
Okay, so I'm not a business traveler looking for a good airplane read; I'm not a corporate something-or-another perusing stock quotes while racing to yoga class; and I'm not a techie who needs the latest gadget.
I'm a mom, a mom of four young kids.
And I am your market.
You just don't know it yet.
Think about it.
I had a career once. I was a journalist. I was in the know all the time and it was great. I was childless too and, in my spare time, when I wasn't running or hiking or barbecuing or taking classes, I was reading novels.
I miss it.
I still read the newspaper every day, or at least some of it.
I read magazines in the kitchen while I'm cooking, or in bed at night when I can't fall asleep.
I still read novels.
I need novels.
Sometimes, I keep one on each floor of the house so I can pick up a book whenever I get a few minutes.
What I don't have is something small and convenient that I can pull out of my purse (or diaper bag) on a rainy day while the twins are watching Blues Clues on the DVD player and I'm waiting behind the wheel for the school bus, which seems to always be late on rainy days.
I don't have anything for traffic jams, or for Jump Joey's when the twins are having so much fun on the play mats in the fully enclosed room that I actually find I have a few minutes or maybe even an hour to myself.
I don't have anything for the doctor's office (the grown-up kind) when I'm so engrossed in giving directions to the sitter as I slip out the door that I forget to bring a book. I don't have anything for those days when I finish a novel and I can't get to the library or the bookstore immediately to pick up another.
And I need another.
Now.
I don't want to read news shorts on a Blackberry or check my email from my cell phone or sing along with Blues Clues.
I don't want to chat on my cell phone with a friend.
I want to choose a novel, download it immediately and read it right away.
I want a Kindle.
Are you listening?
Are you looking?
Please?
Can I have a Kindle?

When kids are screaming and an editor calls

2009-06-23T20:30:00.000-07:00

A fellow writer fretted loudly on an online forum the other day. She was a nervous wreck.
Her agent had just told her that an editor from a publishing house would be calling her within the next "few days."
No specific day.
No set time.
Nothing.
She has children.
What should she do, she wondered, if the kids start acting up when the editor calls?
The tone of her post was apologetic, embarrassed, like she felt she should hide the fact of her motherhood from the editor and she didn't know how. What she wanted, it seemed, was advice on how to pretend she is not something that she most definitely is.
But here's the reality:
With the exception of John Grishman, Jodi Picoult, the "other" Lori Foster and a handful of other wildly successful authors, most writers either have day jobs or they are home taking care of children, writing on scraps of paper while cooking dinner, helping with homework or hiding in the bathroom.
Editors, if they are experienced and good at what they do, should know that. They should know that if they call unannounced, they are taking their chances. And the author should know that the editor knows he or she is taking a chance.
So why get the jitters?
Now, I have not had the good fortune of chatting with an editor from a publishing house just yet, but I have received important calls while caring for my four children. The older kids can usually be controlled with a stern look, but the twins, like most toddlers. tend to get in certain uncontrollable "moods."
Sometimes, they want me to hand them the phone so they can say, "'ello" about 50 times in a row. And they won't let up. They follow me around, both of them together, tugging on my legs saying, "'ello? Please?" and then screeching when I try to shoo them away.
Other times, they are in the fighting mood--cranky and tired, and tired of each other.
Still more often, they are in the "I want" mood. In this mood, they want something, I give it to them and then they want something else. It doesn't end until either they nap, someone takes them outside or Diego comes on the TV.
So I've developed my own rules for handling such situations.
I start with a bribe--a movie, a Popsicle, a lollipop--artfully and quietly handed off or popped in the DVD player while still talking, uninterrupted, in an adult manner with the caller.
If that doesn't work and I get the feeling that things will be okay if I just have a moment to get them under control, I ask the caller whether I can dial back in a few minutes. If he or she can't agree to that, then why calling in the first place?
What's two or three more minutes?
We could have killed that with awkward silence at some point in the conversation.
If I know it's just going to be one of those days, I ask the person on the other end whether I can return the call at a later hour or on a later date, and I make arrangements for someone to help me with the kids.
Then, when I return the call, I hide in the garage or the basement.
I don't mind chatting with the kids around if the caller doesn't mind.
But there is one thing I will not do: I will not give into intimidation.
No call is important enough.
I have a passion for writing. I keep a notepad in the kitchen because I can't help scribbling down my thoughts throughout the day. In fact, I wrote this post between 3 and 6 p.m. on an old steno pad and here I am typing it in at 12:39 a.m.
But my passion for my children is, and always will be, greater.

I have an agent!

2009-06-19T12:22:00.000-07:00

My God, it finally happened.
I signed with an agent.
And he's even a really nice guy.
Roger S. Williams of Publish or Perish Agency is new to the agent world, but he arrives with an impressive resume. He has worked in publishing for 30 years as a book seller and as a sales director at some of the big publishing houses.
He also represents his wife, Gina Cascone, who has sold 30 YA novels as a ghostwriter (more than 2.1 million copies), two memoirs (both published by Simon & Schuster) and more.
Writing must be in his genes. Not only did he marry a writer, but he is surrounded by relatives who are successful authors. They include two sisters, a niece and a brother-in-law, all of whom have published (or have contracts with) with major houses.
Mr. Williams comes from a different direction than most agents. He made his connections with editors by marketing and promoting the books they acquired, a big plus in my book. Lots of agents can sell books, but this guy knows how to market them. He knows, not only what editors want to buy, but what readers want to buy.
He's also witty and honest.
Can't beat that.
It's still a long road.
He still has to persuade a publisher or two that my books are worth a few sheets of paper.
But at least I have a driver now.
I'm no longer sticking out my thumb on the publishing highway, scrutinizing every car that slows down as the driver studies me and we both try to decided whether it's safe or wise to take a chance on each other.
And if I keep writing corny analogies like that, I'm going to make his job a whole lot harder.

The "other" Lori Foster

2009-06-08T12:18:00.001-07:00

They were closing in on me.
I felt it.
I felt it the moment I introduced myself at the Fifth Annual Readers and Authors Get Together Friday night. I heard it in their murmurs to each other. I saw it as they moved forward, toward the two of us.
Toward me.
I had forgotten that some of those people are obsessed.
Maybe even a little crazy.
And so I got out of there--fast.
It was a dynamic I had not anticipated.
I thought I would waltz into the Marriott 20 minutes from my home, drop off my donation for the raffle and say a quick "hello" to the other Lori Foster, the hostess of the event and the one who really gets paid to write.
I had never met her before, though she lives nearby and folks often mistake me for her.
Not the right folks, I'm afraid.
According to Publishers Marketplace, the "other" Lori Foster recently signed a 7-figure deal for her next romance/erotica series. The people she signed with seem to know where to send her paychecks. They are not at all confused.
It's the others.
My son's former teacher was certain that I was the famed romance writer. She was under that impression for more than a year before she finally got up the nerve to ask me. A literary agent once apologized for not getting back to me on her request for the manuscript for my novel. Her assistant had moved my email into the "other" Lori Foster's file.
A few good friends emailed me years ago, shortly after my first son was born. They had seen a novel on the grocery store shelves. It was written by Lori Foster and the title was the same as my son's first name.
Now really, would I write an erotica novel with a main character named after my son?
The other Lori Foster and I have exchanged a few emails over the years. I had thought about going to the get-together even though I don't read or write romance. More than 100 authors were scheduled to attend along with a few agents.
Writers are writers, and it would be nice to share their company, I thought.
But I couldn't go.
My daughter and husband had already planned a rafting trip with a YMCA group.
And I didn't want to spend money on a babysitter. My husband's company recently executed a round of furloughs and we have no idea what will happen when the next quarter begins at the end of June. I just couldn't justify the cost of the registration and the cost of a sitter for the three other children.
So I decided to donate a gift basket full of writerly things from my business, http://www.exclusivewritergifts.com/, instead. The woman who took my donation laughed when I gave her my name and pointed to the other Lori Foster, who was standing just a few feet away.
She was busy.
The buffet dinner was underway.
The fans and authors had gathered.
Things were hectic.
So I introduced myself and said a brief "hello" to this kind, petite woman with whom I share a name, a city and a passion for writing. I had to speak loudly over the din, loud enough for others around us to hear. I began to stutter a bit when I noticed the odd reaction.
I'm sure the novelty would have passed quickly.
I mean, what was there to say?
But it was too strange to be stared at that way.
And so I left, happy to have finally met her, but relieved that I had not registered.

The Great (Writers) Depression

2009-05-28T11:38:00.000-07:00

It seems that this recession is quickly giving way to a great depression.
And I'm not sure how to stop it.
Today, a woman posted on a writing forum that she is giving up writing for good. Her husband is unsupportive, her kids are unsupportive, the rest of her family is unsupportive.
She might as well focus on scrubbing floors, she said.
A good friend who has spent the past 20 years working full time as a playwright, posted his laments recently on a social networking site. I was surprised. He always seemed to be doing so well.
But he doesn't feel that way.
He's bumming.
I went through my own slump last week. The querying process had me down. Way down, even though I've had plenty of requests recently for partials and proposals. It just seemed like I'd been working at this for so long and getting nowhere.
Thankfully, a virtual intervention on a writers forum was successful.
I am much more cheerful now.
I hadn't noticed this much negativity in the writing world before.
Maybe I'd just never opened my eyes.
Maybe it's because the adrenaline rush is wearing off, kind of like it did after my first marathon 16 years ago.
I ran that first marathon on a dare.
I couldn't resist the challenge.
I had run only 25 miles a week prior to the race and my only long run was a 19-miler three weeks before. I was out with an injury for the two weeks before the race, so I didn't get any running in then either.
Yet I ran it in 3 hours, 58 minutes.
I ran on pure ignorance.
Pure bliss.
Pure stupidity.
I ran the last two miles on legs of lead.
Blood soaked through my sneakers as I crossed the finish line.
I lost nine toenails over the next couple weeks because I'd worn cheap cotton socks and 5K running shoes.
I didn't care.
Not then.
I was gleeful.
I was ready to run another.
Imagine my surprise when, a week later, I was too sore to run half a mile.
My toes were too sensitive for sneakers.
My knees were a mess.
That adrenaline rush was gone.
But something else happened. As the rush subsided, my eyes opened. I began investigating all the things I did wrong. I started looking for ways to do it right. I read books. I developed a training method. I bought new sneakers and socks with Coolmax.
I ran another marathon.
This time, I finished in 3 hours, 42 minutes.
So maybe this is a good thing, this loss of adrenaline.
Maybe I was so blissful and so ignorant when I began this querying process that I didn't notice all the writers struggling surrounding me. I didn't see how hard it could be, how disappointing sometimes. Maybe, I was doing it all wrong.
Maybe it's better that my eyes are open now because I find myself focusing more, targeting the right agents, working on my platform, freelancing, submitting short stories, starting another novel.
I was doing okay before.
But maybe now I'll do better.
Maybe that great depression is always there for all of us, always threatening. Maybe that threat is part of what keeps us alive and hopeful and motivated. Because I sure as heck don't want to fall prey to it.
Nope.
Not going to do that.
I am going to work hard and work smarter.
And someday I might even run one last marathon.

The Year of Fog: a disappointment

2009-05-11T10:39:00.000-07:00

I am a horrible person.
Here I am still trying to find an agent to represent my first novel.
I'm not perfect. It's not perfect. I have clearly not earned the right to be critical of those who have achieved far more literary success than I.
But here's what happened:
I perused through the novels in the grocery store the other day, hoping to find that kind of book that gets me so immersed that I can't put down--so into the narrative, the gripping tale, that I forget to change the twins' diapers, forget to meet the older kids at the school bus or forget to put them all to bed at night.
I needed that kind of a mental escape.
From the blurbs all over the cover of The Year of Fog by Michelle Richmond, I thought I'd found just the thing:
"Gripping."--People
"Compulsively readable."--Denver Post
"Grade: A."--Washington Post
And, it made the New York Times Bestseller list.
So I bought it and, by the end of the first chapter, I thought I was hooked.
A Year of Fog is the story of a young photographer who is down on love and children until she meets Jake, a handsome San Fransisco school teacher, and his 6-year-old daughter, Emma. Abby falls in love with both of them and, within a year, they are engaged.
Everything is perfect until that fateful morning when Abby and Emma are walking along a beach in dense fog and Abby releases the hand of her stepdaughter-to-be. Abby is momentarily distracted and, when she recovers, she realizes that Emma is gone.
Really gone.
As a mother, I was eager to finish this novel simply because I had to know what happened to this little girl. As a former journalist, I was intrigued. I am familiar with the pain, sorrow and destruction that come with the realization that a child is missing. Within the first chapter, Richmond convinced me that she knew her subject well.
Abby's emotions are heart-wrenchingly real. Jake's reaction to her is similar to what I had witnessed in families of missing children: they try not to blame each other, but they can't help it. Their relationships often fall apart.
The urgency of their search is familiar as well and hits me deep in my soul. I can't even begin to imagine how I would function, or even breathe, if one of my children were missing. I simply cannot imagine.
The novel rolls along beautifully at first, captivatingly. Most every chapter begins with research about memory or with an analogy involving photography, narrative devices that slipped me, as a reader, easily into the next scene.
At first, the use of those devices was clever.
Later, it became monotonous.
By the end, it was downright unbearable.
What I realized when I finished the book was this:
An excellent writer took an excellent story idea and some excellent prose and built a template for it. She fit the scenes into that template, which was constructed of memory research and photography analogies, hoping that all readers would view her template as art.
I did not.
I saw it as a way to distract from the fact that the plot goes nowhere for the first three-quarters of the novel. Abby doesn't eat. Abby doesn't sleep. Abby and Jake experience little or no intimacy. I grew awfully tired of reading about how skinny and sleep-deprived Abby was growing and, I'll admit, I skipped huge chunks of writing.
In the last quarter, when things start to happen and the narrative devices fall away, it is just too much, too fast. I knew when it would end because the title gave it away and the narrator, Abby, counts the days as they go by. I find myself not caring about day 184 because I know it will be a full year (or just about) before the case is resolved.
And that's how it happens.
I do believe that Michelle Richmond is a highly talented writer with a keen perception of human nature. It just seems that this novel might have suffered from the need to produce a Jodi-Picoult-like bestseller and produce it fast.
And it's a lesson for me as a writer.
The reading public says I'm wrong.
The book is a bestseller.
The reviews I've read are overwhelmingly positive.
But I don't think I'm wrong.
I think the book is a bestseller because it is suspenseful and it is easy to read.
And there is nothing wrong with that.
I just really wanted it to be better.

Still Alice

2009-04-28T06:55:00.001-07:00

I had always thought that, should I ever develop cancer, I would forgo chemotherapy. Chemotherapy is poisonous and barbaric, I believed. It brings us to the brink of death and then drags us back and, some folks never do return.
I'd rather take my chances on clinical trials and new treatments, I thought. And I firmly believed that these decisions should be made while we are healthy, when our minds are not clouded by the subjectivity and irrational passion that comes with disease.
Then I read Still Alice, a first novel by Lisa Genova.
Now, Alice does not have cancer. She has early-onset Alzheimer's Disease. But, like me, the healthier, rational Alice believes that she knows what is best for the Alice to come. She creates a quiz for herself that she takes daily, thanks to the reminder technology on her Blackberry. If she can't answer all the questions correctly, she is directed to a file that will instruct her to take a lethal dose of sleeping pills.
I won't go into the rest of the story because I don't want to ruin it for anyone. But I will say that the novel has altered my perspective on terminal disease. The author, Lisa Genova, has a PhD in neuroscience and works with Alzheimer's patients. She clearly knows her subject and almost seems to crawl into the Alzheimer's mind.
Her depiction of the progression of Alzheimer's is, admittedly, a bit too rosy at times.
Alice isn't anything like my husband's grandmother (Well, she wasn't really his grandmother. She was his step-grandmother and, also, his aunt by marriage, but I won't go into that here.). Alice doesn't confuse real life with soap operas and accuse her husband of cheating on her.
She isn't like my good friend's aunt, whom he found strapped to her bed in a nursing home when he visited. He was told that she had lashed out violently and that they had no choice, but to restrain her.
But the author's decision to leave out the nasty stuff doesn't matter.
We do have an Alice in our neighborhood who lives with her son. She is sweet, kind and completely unaware of her surroundings. Alices do exist. All cases are different and the author doesn't have to rely on the worst-case scenarios to get her point across.
And her point is more universal for me than it is, I think, for most.
Sure, she deepened my understanding of Alzheimer's disease with her well-informed fictionalization. She helped me understand that we are more than our memories and that no disease can change our souls.
But, for me, the lesson was broader.
Through Alice, I came to see that I cannot make rational, informed decisions for myself before I face the possibility of death or terminal disease. I don't know enough yet. I am ignorant, just as Alice was ignorant in the earliest stage of her own disease.
I am ignorant because disease is more than science.
Treatment is about more than medical cures.
And living is about more than being physically or mentally whole.
I am ignorant, but am happy to embrace that ignorance.
Thanks to Alice.

Sniffling gets you nowhere

2009-04-24T10:27:00.000-07:00

To pass the time while waiting for the next round of cuts in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award, many of us 500 quarterfinalists chatted on an ABNA online forum. A common topic was whether we would be upset if we made it no further.
Most of us agreed that we'd be thrilled regardless.
Our novels had been selected from a pool of up to 10,000 first-time novelists. That earned us critiques of our excerpts from two Amazon reviewers and, we would soon be receiving full manuscript reviews from editors at Publishers Weekly.
The reviews alone, we said with skin thicker than armadillos, were worth it. We couldn't wait to read the critiques from Publishers Weekly, we wrote. And most all of us agreed that harsher was better. What good was a pat on the back? We wanted to know how to make our novels better.
Bring it on, Publishers Weekly editors.
Bring it on.
So they did, and virtual lips started quivering.
Not all of them.
Most folks took it well and vowed to move forward.
But the volume of the sniffling few hurt my ears.
One woman wanted to throw in the towel because, amid all the compliments, a reviewer wrote that her novel suffered from disorganization. Gee. A disorganized first novel? Writing takes skill and talent. Organization is simply hard work.
My advice to her?
Get working.
Disorganization is fixable.
From what I read, every criticism by the Publishers Weekly reviewers focused on an issue that could be addressed: organization, depth of characters, pace. Now I didn't read them all, but I didn't find any that bashed a writer for lousy writing.
A successful writer needs thick skin and an open mind. And, for that reason, I have a feeling that the loudest of those rejected and dejected contestants will never be successful. That's a shame. They had some good stuff there.
My own review was everything I had hoped for.
Before entering the contest, I had shelved Spring Melt for further revisions. Too much back story, especially in the second chapter, I figured. I had wanted to rip those parts up and incorporate the same information more smoothly and at a faster pace throughout. But I wasn't sure I was doing the right thing.
Then I saw the announcement for the contest. Entry was free and, with each round of cuts, contestants got more reviews.
Why not?
With the first cut, I learned that my pitch (the general storyline) and my first 17 pages were good enough to attract professional attention. That was, for me, the validation I needed that my novel was worth my time and effort.
(As the rejections pile up, you start to wonder, you know?)
On April 15, I learned that I did not make the semifinals, where the field was trimmed to 100, but I did get that Publishers Weekly review last week. That single paragraph consisted mostly of a well-written synopsis.
But, in that paragraph was a one-sentence gem.
A precious one:

"At times muddied with flashbacks and digressions, this is still a solid story with believable characters and a pleasant and surprising resolution."

Those words --"muddied with flashbacks and digressions"-- were the words I was looking for. That meant that I was on the right track. That meant that If I could just resolve that issue, I would probably have a pretty good book on my hands.
I wasn't just guessing any more.
Now I have to admit that my skin is not thick all over. I'm more like a well-frozen river. I'm super thick-skinned in most areas of criticism, but my skin gets dangerously thin in those few areas where currents run fast underneath.
I'm human, afterall.
But the folks at Publishers Weekly knew just where to skate.
My lips didn't quiver. I didn't start sniffling. I didn't throw any towels.
I did, immediately and with renewed enthusiasm, started tearing my novel part.
So thank you Amazon.
Thank you Create Space.
Thank you Penguin.
And thank you friends, family and strangers who posted encouraging reviews.
I lost.
And I feel good.

Giddy

2009-03-30T19:45:00.000-07:00

For 11 years, I saw my name in print most every day.
Sometimes, I had several stories in one edition; I believe my record was eight.
I loved it, not because people knew my name, but because I believed in the power of writing. I believed in newspapers (and still do). I believed I was changing lives, even if sometimes that change was barely perceptible to most.
But none of that compares to the rush I got today when I received an email from an editor at Aethlon, a literary sports journal centered at East Tennessee State University. My short story, "Conquering Iwo Jima," has been accepted for publication.
I was giddy.
Really giddy.
(Okay, so I'd had a little wine before I checked my email!)
This is different.
Different because this is fiction.
And this is my first.
I had stopped writing short stories soon after I finished my thesis for Binghamton University in 2000. My first son was two months old when I earned my degree and I had started teaching as an adjunct English instructor four months later. Then along came my daughter and, after she was born, I started the novel.
I freelanced (changed diapers), taught (changed diapers), and freelanced some more while I worked on the novel. Five years later, after a weekend of revisions, I was finally done.
Then I learned I was pregnant again.
No biggie, I thought (after the shock wore off).
Nothing was going to stop me.
Nothing except maybe twins.
They kind of brought things to a crawl.
But now they are two and, slowly, I am started to emerge from my mommy fog. One day in November, through that fog, I spied a folder on my laptop marked "short stories." I read through a few of them, made a some minor revisions and started searching for appropriate markets on Duotrope.com.
Within 30 minutes, I found Aethlon.
I submitted "Conquering Iwo Jima" in November and forgot about it.
Then came the email.
And the giddiness.
Just a few weeks earlier, I learned that my novel, Spring Melt, had made the quarterfinals for the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. I'm competing against 499 other writers, so my chances are slim. But I get at least one professional review of my full manuscript out of the deal and validation that I've got something good going here.
That makes it worth it.
I still love writing nonfiction.
I still love interviewing, investigating, creating.
But writing fiction is, for me, like that second child that you love with the same strength as the first, but you love differently. It offers a different path to change. Not better. Just different.
Fiction is a passion for me and one that I have not had the opportunity to pursue as fully as nonfiction. The giddiness comes from the realization that I might, just possibly might, finally get my chance.

Good agency goes bad

2009-03-28T11:45:00.000-07:00

Originally posted March 19, 2009

Objective Entertainment is a big agency that deals with lots of celebrities, so I really didn’t expect much when I queried agent Ian Kleinert a few months back.
I was more ignorant then too.
I thought my journalism experience and my years as a stay-at-home mom were a strong enough platform for my nonfiction book.
My eyes are open now.
The proposal has changed and it’s much stronger.
So is my query letter.
So I expected rejection this afternoon when I found a response from Objective Entertainment in my inbox. But Objective Entertainment surprised me. The e-mail was not from Ian and it was far more appalling than a rejection.
It was from a woman named Tracey Ravenelle.
This is what she said:

“Thanks so such for querying us, but we are unsure that this premise would work in this tight market. All said we would encourage you to do what many of our clients have done prior and self- publish with a reputable, and recommended, publisher. This is a new age in publishing, and as evidenced time and time again, neither The New York Times bestsellers list nor major booksellers discriminate against the self published. Oftentimes, authors choose to get proactive in order to build a sales record and boost their chances of being picked up.
I would like your permission to pass along your information to someone who can help you get started on your path towards getting published. If you are ready to become proactive about your career we will let them know more details about your manuscript and how to get into contact with you. There are a lot of publishers that seem to have gotten the better of new authors, the two that we refer you to are not of that ilk, they have had a number of successes.”

Needless to say, I was floored.
This person has decided that she has the authority to speak for every agent and publishing house out there. Since she believes the market is too tight, apparently every agent will feel the same way. And I am supposed to accept that.
Hmmm.
Now, I don’t want to reveal too much about my agent search, but I will say that I have every reason to believe that I will get a contract sooner or later and that I will publish in the traditional way.
Fortunately, I am not so easily deterred.
But I worry that other writers might be.
A little searching on Absolute Write proved that I am not the only writer who recently received communications from Tracey after querying Ian. In fact, other writers received precisely the same note.
I can assume only one thing.
Tracey, Ian and maybe some other folks at Objective Entertainment, are making money off these referrals to self-publishing houses. They are making money and they are preying on the ignorance of writers who might be inexperienced with publishing, and on their potential lack of self confidence to do it.
There is nothing wrong with self-publishing if that is what a writer wants.
But this is not friendly guidance.
This smells fishy.
Very, very fishy.

The karate scam

2009-03-28T11:40:00.000-07:00

Originally posted March 11, 2009

My 7-year-old daughter became interested in karate through a short introductory course, which was promoted as a fundraiser for her school. She was hooked, so hooked that she quit dance and gymnastics to join.
I had the twins with me when I registered my daughter and they were screaming to get out of their stroller. So I didn’t pay much attention when one of the owners explained the six-month contract and the automatic deductions.
I just signed the papers.
Fine.
A six-month commitment was probably a good idea anyway. It would force her to stick with it long enough to know whether karate was really her thing.
And it is.
She loves it.
But now we must quit.
It’s a matter of principle.
It’s a scam.
For the past several months, the folks at the karate school have lured her deeper and deeper with tips on her belt, new belts, more tips, more belts and lots and lots of games. She has anxiety issues and she loves the fact that the instructors simply take control.
They tell her what to do and she does it.
They tell her not to cry and she doesn’t.
They tell her to be respectful and she is.
But two weeks ago, she received a letter. The letter informs me that she is nearing her testing for lime belt and that’s time to make a greater commitment. My daughter may continue only if I sign a three-year contract, agree to let some outside company continue to withdraw funds from my account, pay double the tuition I’m paying now and give 90 days notice for cancellation.
I’m not stupid.
This is about money.
This is about hoping that, if my daughter stops going, I won’t get around to cancelling for a month or two, and then I will still have to pay for another 90 days. This is about using outside companies who have can easily send those who oppose this system to collections, possibly ruining their credit.
This is not about karate.
One of my daughter’s best friends joined about the same time. Her mother, a single mom, recently lost her job. Two months remained in her six-month contract. She tried talking to the owners. They offered to let another family member fill the slot (She has no siblings), but they refused to cancel her automatic deductions.
I have left two messages, asking to talk about the 3-year contract. They have not called back.
Since then, I have learned from others that they will not call back and they will not budge if I approach then face-to-face (which I will do this week). Fortunately, my daughter is very bright. I explained the situation and she understood.
She’s going back to gymnastics, where I pay tuition every eight weeks by check.

Writing friends

2009-03-28T11:36:00.000-07:00

Originally posted Feb. 26, 2009

I am used to meeting perfect strangers, to learning the intimate details of their lives within the first 30 minutes of conversation.
I’ve made a career out of it.
But as I drove to Panera Monday night to meet yet another person I’d never seen before, my hands suddenly froze on the wheel.
This wasn’t the same thing.
This wasn’t an interview.
I was meeting a fellow writer with whom I had connected online. We didn’t even know what we would talk about. Neither of us has writing friends in the area. We thought it would be nice to get together and to, maybe, form a writing group.
I had never been in this situation before.I felt socially inept.
I forced my fear down my throat with the greater fear that I would crash if I kept focusing on the issue. I parked and grabbed a book from my van. If things got really awkward, I figured, I would always have my book.
I had just sat down with my coffee when she walked in.More than two hours later, when we got up to leave, an employee had to unlock the doors to let us out. My cell phone rang. My husband was worried because Panera was supposed to close an hour earlier.
Conversation just happened and I realized on my way home how much I crave that interaction with other writers. Just last week, Susan Heim, an award-winning author and fellow mother of twins, agreed to write the foreword for my book. I was anxious and excited to tell someone.I told my husband, a former journalist and an author.
He shared my excitement. I told my sister, who has let me lean on her throughout this process even when she probably had much better things to do.
She was thrilled. But I couldn’t think of anyone else who would understand what this meant to me.
So I told the woman I met in Panara, a writer of young adult fiction whose first novel is in the hands of an editor at Harper Collins. She understood, really understood.
And that felt good.

Know the source

2009-03-28T11:30:00.000-07:00

Originally posted Feb. 5, 2009

I have learned a great deal from the folks on the forums of Absolutewrite.com, but a recent thread bothered me. Someone had written an intriguing query letter and had posted it in the “Share Your Work” forum, hoping for advice on improvements.
The responses came quickly: other writers confidently tearing it to shreds.
After the first few replies, some voices of reason began to emerge, published authors or those with agent contracts who suggested that the writer simply polish a few sentences and go for it. It really was good. It just needed a little tweak here and there.
I can only hope that the original poster read beyond those first few replies.
The lesson: know your sources.
The Internet is flooded with forums, blogs and private groups for writers. Absolute Write is one of the good ones. If ever I actually sell a book, I will make a donation. Those folks saved me from doing such crazy things as paying fees to agents, sending silly query letters or signing with publishers that are nothing more than self-publishing companies in disguise.
But every forum has its less-than-credible members and it is important to take advice from their members with a healthy dose of cynicism. Helpful writers will be in tune with your needs and your goals. They will ask questions. They will give answers with confidence, but not with arrogant confidence. They will make you feel good about their replies even if they’ve just suggested that you are going down entirely the wrong path.
I belong to another online writing group that is private. I have found wonderful advice and support there from women who face similar obstacles with their writing, but one fellow writer stood out among the rest. Her advice was often loudly written and left me shaking my head. She always punctuated her harsh words with her experience as a published author.
So I bought her novel (It was out of print, so I had to buy it from a used book dealer.). Her book was awful. The publisher went out of business long ago. When I Googled them both, I found that they had worked together previously. The publisher was likely a friend.
Worse yet, the copy I purchased had been autographed, a gift to a person who had helped her with her research.
Now, when I see her responses, I skip them.
I know the source.

Homesick

2009-03-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

Originally posted Jan 11, 2009

If I took the long way home from school—out the front entrance of St. Bernard’s elementary instead of cutting through the church parking lot—I could see them working.
Volunteers from the village and inmates from a nearby minimum-security prison worked side-by-side each day for weeks, lifting 2-by-4-foot blocks of ice from Pontiac Bay with giant tongs and then sliding them onto a large conveyor belt. Depending on how deeply cold the winter had been so far, the bricks could be up to three feet thick.
I tried not to look too often, maybe twice a week. I didn’t want to spoil the effect—the surprise at the appearance of yet another layer of slushy mortar and crystal bricks; the recognition as the architecture began to make sense and the random bricks became towers or castle walls; the thrill of counting down the days with each brick that the crews sawed, pulled and jiggled, dripping, out of the dark water.
Before my eyes, it rose.
Slowly, methodically, majestically. Until one afternoon near the beginning of February, I would step out of school, walk down the street just a bit and realize that it was done. The crews had slipped the last block of ice into place and the ice castle was complete, somehow even more awesome and more spectacular than the year before.
It is during this time of the year that I get homesick, when I know that the ice castle is under construction and that Winter Carnival is only a few weeks away in my hometown of Saranac Lake, N.Y.
The ice castle is the icon, the foundation, the symbol of the weeklong celebration deep in the Adirondack Mountains. It is a week of sled races and cross-country ski races; a week when prominent grown-ups rule as king and queen, college students reign as prince and princess and the popular clique in high school is elected as the royal court.
It is a week of snow sculptures on front lawns and in the park; of parades and fireworks; of snowmobiles storming the ice castle; and, in the old days, of ice skaters competing to see who could jump the greatest number of barrels.
And a week of alcohol, of course.
Nothing is celebrated in my hometown without lots of alcohol.
I miss my hometown in the spring when the sight of concrete through the hard-packed snow where the sidewalk had been the previous October could send a thrill through me. I miss the gulch in the summer and the natural water slide and Champagne Falls. I miss the smell of wet leaves in the fall and the long hikes free of mosquitoes and tiny biting black flies.
But those are memories I have to myself or with small groups of people. Winter Carnival is different. Winter Carnival pulls everyone in from all income levels, age groups, professions. It brings people back, even those who believed they had torn up their roots and vowed never to return.
It is the truest sort of community celebration, the likes of which I have never experienced anywhere else. Locals even get along with the tourists for a bit: no giving false directions; no selling pine cones for $5 a piece as souvenirs; no lying about the names of the peaks when they assume you know all that stuff just because because your mom gave birth to you there.
Heck, what other community enlists prisoners to help build its ice castle? So I’ll be missing Saranac Lake Feb. 6 when the king and queen are crowned, kicking off the festivities. But don’t worry. I will be back someday with four kids and a husband in tow.
And, maybe, with a little peppermint schnapps in my purse.

Readers are the best critics

2009-03-28T11:19:00.000-07:00

Originally posted Dec. 31, 2008

When I finally completed my novel, I took the next appropriate step. I sent copies of the manuscript to nine or ten willing readers and then paid an editor to review it for style, grammar and content.
The readers were great.
The editor was a mistake.
He did an excellent job copy editing and he gave me some useful advice, but I hired him because he was a friend. That is where I went wrong. I should have done my research first.
Now, I love criticism—brutally honest, constructive criticism. Those writers who can’t take and appreciate criticism shouldn’t attempt to make a career of writing for public consumption.
And the criticism I received from the readers was excellent. It resulted in the elimination of two characters, a few changes in the minor plots and many, many smoother transitions.
The editor’s criticism led to a faster pace in the earlier chapters and the correction of several errors that had slipped past me. But his content advice, his take on the novel as a whole, was problematic.
If I had not had 11 years of journalism experience and a master’s degree worth of workshop experience, I might have done one of two things: I might have cried and given up, or I might have taken all his recommendations to heart and ended up with a novel that was a Grisham rip-off.
As it turns out, he is a huge fan of Grisham and doesn’t much like literary fiction. My novel does move rather fast, especially through the courtroom scenes. But I am not Grisham and I don’t want to be (Well, I wouldn’t mind his paycheck.).
My style is what it is. The book is an historical novel that is primarily literary fiction, but with a bit of mystery and suspense.
In my years of workshopping and in my experience as a freelance editor, I have had to work with many genres that I find somewhat unappealing. I’ve had to get past my prejudices. I have had to edit or critique the work within its genre.
He couldn’t and, in fairness to him, I never asked.
So here is my point.
I was careful when I selected my readers. I should have been careful when I selected my editor. I should have hired someone who came recommended by other fiction writers and who reviewed the work primarily for copy errors.
I should have simply let the readers do the rest.
The reality is that the readers are the market. They are the people we should be writing for, not the editors, not the fellow writers. Teaching them to critique is easy. Simply give them a few questions to ask themselves when they are done and request that they mark places in the manuscript where they have either stumbled or flown through.
So hire a copy editor. But instead of hiring a content editor or a “book doctor,” contract with a book club. Offer to pay for lunch one day if they will agree to read your manuscript and fill out a questionnaire after.
That’s what I should have done.

After 20 years, I heard her laugh

2009-03-28T11:11:00.001-07:00

Originally posted DEc. 1, 2008

When I think about what kind of mother I want to be, Sylvia Bouchard comes to mind. She has been on my mind for nearly 20 years, ever since the day a jury declared her son guilty of murder.
I covered the case. I stood near her in the courtroom. She cried no tears that I could see. She simply clutched her purse and walked up to her son, who had laid his head on the defense table.
Her son, Steven Barnes, was 23.
So was I.
I was a reporter for The (Syracuse, N.Y.) Post-Standard. I was just barely a year into my career. Sylvia Bouchard and I both knew that Steven Barnes did not kill 16-year-old Kimberly Simon, a cheerleader from the small Oneida County community of Whitesboro.
He did not rape her.
He did not strangle her.
Many in the community knew that too, and they rallied behind him. They raised money for his defense when he was indicted more than three years after the 1985 homicide. They filled the courtroom during his trial. They offered his mother a shoulder to lean on, but I never saw her take it.
What I saw was a woman who was focused and determined. A woman who knew she could not afford to break. She was determined to prove her son innocent, but she was also determined that he would be a model prisoner and that, if all efforts to free him failed, he would serve as little of his 25-year-to-life sentence as possible.
She succeeded on both fronts.
On Nov. 25, Steven Barnes received a call in prison. He turned to tell anyone who could hear him that he was going home, thanks to the Innocence Project and DNA analysis. The guards cheered. The prisoners cheered. They loved Steven. He had all the privileges any prisoner could have. He was good. He was honest. He was the boy his mother had raised him to be.
Steven Barnes was a victim. I am generally forgiving of jurors and even of prosecutors. They are people, just like us and they can easily be wrongly convinced. But the trial of Steven Barnes was a joke. The jurors should be ashamed and remorseful. The prosecutor should be investigated. The police who investigated the case and testified should be on trial themselves.
Their evidence consisted of tire treads, soil samples, hair samples and a 35-year police force veteran who said he saw Steven Barnes driving away from the murder site at about the time Kimberly was killed and that he could clearly identify this stranger as his pickup truck passed at 25 mph.
The expert who presented the soil and hair samples made it clear that the tests were not reliable. The police officer and two other witnesses who claimed to have seen Steven Barnes that night gave grossly conflicting testimony to the grand jury, testimony that was presented during the trial.
No one saw Steven Barnes with Kimberly Simon. No one presented a valid motive. No reliable physical evidence connected him to the crime. No witnesses gave reliable testimony.
Yet the prosecutor pursued the case and the jury found him guilty.
It was enough to make any mother crumble.
In the face of it all, Sylvia Bouchard stood her ground. She did not cower with fear. She did not collapse in despair. She did not let down her guard, at least not publicly.
She was strong.
She was reactive and proactive.
She was mother to her son through two decades of imprisonment.
I talked with her and her son on the phone this evening. It had been 18 years since I’d spoken to her. Throughout the trial and the appeals and the fund raisers, I had never heard laugh. I don’t recalled ever seeing her smile. All I saw was that focus, that determination.
This evening, I heard her laugh.

Why self-publishing is not for me

2009-03-28T06:33:00.001-07:00

Originally published Nov. 16, 2008

Even before I started querying literary agents, the queries came pouring in from friends and family.
Why go through all that?
Why not self publish?
Well, here is my answer:
I still have faith in the gatekeepers.
Self-publishing has its place.
Some people want full control of their written work. They want to retain all rights; They want to retain all profits. Other folks don’t have the time or the patience for agents. They see the flaws in the system and they are discouraged. And who can blame them? Some agents will toss manuscripts in the garbage for reasons as simple as margins that are too big or too small.Then there are the people who write only for limited and personal audiences. They write for themselves, their families and their friends. Retaining agents make no sense for them. It’s not worth the time or the effort.
But this is my career, or the career I want.
I want to be writing novels and non-fiction books when I am 80 and I want people to be confident when they go to a bookstore and pick up one of my books that it has passed certain tests—the tests of the industry.
The industry is not perfect, but agents and publishers do the best they can in a world in which paper prices are rising and the competition from electronic media is ever-increasing.
I have read some awesome self-published books and I have been saddened by the knowledge that those books will never reach their sales potential. That saddens me, not because the author is missing out of fame or fortune, but because I know so many others would enjoy reading those books as much as I have.
But those books will never get the distribution and exposure of an industry-published book.
I have also read some self-published novels that left me embarrassed for the author and wishing for a refund. Not only were they poorly written and poorly plotted, but they were riddled with errors.
That’s where the gatekeepers come in.
Sure, some lousy books slip through the gate. But 90 percent of the novels and non-fiction books that make it to the presses through non-vanity publishers are pretty darned good.
And yes, I’ve encounter some agents who were egotistical jerks. I even hung up on one. But 90 percent of the agents that I’ve queried or spoken with have given good, solid and well-intended advice along with their rejections. Some have rejected me with form letters, but the letters were constructively written and professional.
So I will plod on.
I will continue taping my favorite rejection letters to the wall above my desk. I will continue honing my novel, my query letter and my non-fiction proposal based on the constructive criticism of those agents who have nothing to gain by spending time addressing me individually, but who do so out of a passion for the industry.
I will continue to have faith in the gatekeepers.

Writing

2009-03-28T06:23:00.000-07:00

Originally posted Nov. 8, 2008

I am a mom.
I am a wife.
I am a stepmother, a daughter, a daughter-in-law, a sister, a sister-in-law, a niece, a cousin, an aunt, a great aunt, a friend. I’m sure I am even an enemy to a select few.
But no matter who I am to others, I am always a writer.
It is as a writer that I see the world even when I am too steeped in laundry and dishes to reach for a pencil and paper or to tap away on my laptop.
There was a time when I didn’t believe that, when I didn’t believe that writers perceived things all that differently than others and I didn’t believe in myself. Even during my years as a full-time journalist.
But I was over-thinking, and isn’t that what writing is all about?
Writing is about thinking. It’s about perception, analysis and vision. It’s a constant craving to understand the complexities of the world and of human nature and to convey that understanding through written words in a way that excites, energizes and entertains.
When I finally understood and accepted the distraction of that craving and the strength of that lure, when I finally caved in and called myself a writer, other things became clear to me and I began to accept them as well:
That’s why my house is a mess.
That’s why the walls need painting.
That’s why I have no garden and the flowers by the mailbox always die prematurely.
That’s why my older kids roll their eyes when I try to explain the dynamics of their friendships and the various points of view in their arguments.
That’s why my toddler twins grin, cackle and run when they see my laptop.
That’s why I can’t bake a decent cake, knit Christmas gifts, wrap a present with style or learn the art of scrapbooking.
That’s why I don’t get enough sleep.
So I’m sorry PTO.I’m sorry Dr. Sears, Martha Stewart, Suze Orman.
My house is a mess, my desk is a mess, my bills are a mess and I don’t dress well.
It’s not my fault.
I’m a writer.
I write to think; I think to write.