Getting all random again

1. My six-year-old daughter asked me to mail this letter. I love her.

2. I received the Irresistibly Sweet Blogger award from Jenna over at Literally YA (thanks Jenna!). She received it from blogger Jenna Cooper. (They're both new bloggers...why not pop over and follow them. Let's show them blogging is still going strong!) Does anyone know another blogger named Jenna I could pass it to? Yeah, I'm weird that way.

3. I won Laurel's Triplicity contest and now have $30 to spend at Amazon. Since I have been on a strict book-buying budget, this is HUGE. My problem...there are so many fantastic books coming out I can't decide. Give me a few suggestions in the comments. PLEASE?

4. Did you know Query Tracker has a forum where you can post and get feedback on your query letter, synopsis, and even your first five pages? All you need to do is register, post your material, and give feedback to other users. I just did this and found it extremely helpful. Generally, the feedback was tactful and constructive (there's always one that could have taken a few extra minutes to word something a little nicer).

5. Last night was one of my worst days as a parent. Tomorrow will be worse. My darling boy has been sick. For seven months. Three bouts of pneumonia, one hospital stay that included four failed attempts to get an IV started, six x-rays, two massive shots of antibiotics in his bottom that left a purple bruise the size of a dollar bill, seven vials of blood drawn, one cystic fybrosis test (supposed to be painless, gave him electrical burns - negative, thankfully), one TB test (still waiting for results), one CT scan (which would tell us if they needed to remove part of his lung -- Thank God, no). And no answers.

My child bore all of this is his quiet, stoic way, saying only "Ouch" and squeezing my hand. Last night we had to tell him that on Friday we will go to the hospital where they will sedate him and stick a camera up his nose and into his lungs to try to figure out what's wrong. I couldn't promise him it wouldn't hurt. I couldn't promise there wouldn't be needles. My quiet child shook for a moment and then burst into heart-rending sobs. He cried as I've never seen him cry. I had -- still have -- no idea how to make him feel better. I look in his eyes and see that silent plea for me to make things OK. I don't know how. And lurking all around this is my own fear of what they'll find. Everything else fades to pale when your child is sick.

6. And yet life must go on. We're going to Chuck E. Cheese today, because pizza, skeeball, and large rat-like mascots can help take the pain away.

A lesson in building tension and stakes

I couldn't write today.

I couldn't write because my son has been diagnosed with pneumonia.

My son has pneumonia, which means we may not be allowed to fly to Scotland on Thursday.

We are flying to Scotland on Thursday to celebrate my husband's 40th birthday with his family.

We are traveling 4000 miles to celebrate with the family because one family member is quite ill and we don't know how much more time well will have together.


Sometimes life gives you a harsh example of how upping the stakes can effect the impact of a story. Lesson learned, but frankly I would have rather learned it from a book.

Breathing and Book Clubs

We're having a breathless sort of week in my house. For months, my son has been struggling with his asthma and last week, a chest infection has sent him spiraling downward. This week alone has seen ten hours in doctors offices, one chest xray, seven prescription drugs to be taken daily, and at least ten breathing treatments a day (including throughout the night). And to top it off, my husband is away all week (a twice-yearly experience that always makes me want to send flowers to all single moms and military wives I know because these women deserve medals for doing it solo all the time).

Yesterday, we spent three hours at the doctor's office as our pediatrician did her best to keep us out of the hospital. I love love love our pediatrician, one of those fabulous doctors who takes the time to talk to you and never makes you feel like she's just thinking about the next patient she has to see.

After popping in to the exam room to check on our progress, Dr. B spied my copy of Sara Gruen's Ape House (loved it, by the way -- not as much as Water for Elephants, but only because WforE is one of my all time favorite books). We had a great chat about books and exchanged some recommendations. She also told me about the book club she belongs to. I must admit that as she was telling me about it, I felt like a high school wannabe, fairly desperate to join this group of cool kids.

A group of sisters created Buttery Books, a book club that does themed book club parties, complete with recipes, etc. You can check out their website here. I love their selection of books and the recipes and ideas are great. You can also contribute your own ideas and suggestions to their site.

If you go visit, I'd love to hear what you think.

Unh.

I had grand plans for November. I was going to start writing WIP2 (the month is a coincidence; I'm not participating in NaNoWriMo), finish another serial for the magazine, do a whole bunch of freelance work, start exercising, drink less, and eat better.

Um...fail fail fail fail fail fail.

First problem? TOO. MUCH. CANDY.

My son has a nut allergy, so we buy a mixed pack of candy that's safe for him and when he comes back from trick-or-treating ("guising" in British parlance, a term that I just love), we swap the off-limits stuff for the safe stuff. Which means we now have a big bowl of Butterfingers, Reese's, Snickers... all my favorites. I had two for breakfast. Plus one more with my third cup of tea. And a few afer lunch.

And speaking of lunch, that brings us to the second problem. I went to my husband's work place to get my flu shot and we decided to go to lunch after we got our jabs. We ended up at Babe's Old Fashioned Burgers. Big, drippy, loaded burger with a side of real onion rings and a large unsweet tea. Yummm... But now, unh.

I'll write tomorrow. And exercise. And eat better. But for now, I need a nap. Afer just one more Twix.

Am I for real?

Last week, when I sat down with my son’s teacher to discuss the upcoming year, I mentioned that since I worked from home, I was available to help in the classroom if she ever needed it. “What do you do?” she asked. “I’m a writer,” I replied, cringing a little because I feel like I’m lying when I say this. Her eyes lit up. “Really? That’s excellent. We’re doing a whole unit on authors and writing right now! Maybe you could come talk to the class?” And even though I felt like a total fraud, I said I would.

Am I scared? Hell, yes.

Not only do I have to control twenty 3rd graders for thirty minutes, but I have to face that room full of nine-year-olds and act like I’ve got some reason for being there. I feel like I’ve got to prove to them and the teacher that I’m legit.

Sure, I’m a core contributor of fiction for a magazine and I do some non-fiction content development (and these things help pay the bills), but so far, the book thing hasn’t happened. And for some reason, I find it difficult to believe I’m a real writer in the world’s eyes because I don’t have the agent, the book deal, the name recognition. In fact, I've stopped mentioning that I'm working on a novel because I don't want to deal with the "When's your book being published?" issue.

So my question is this – when does a writer become a “real” writer? When you get paid for something? The first time you get something published? When you quit your job to write full time? When you make sacrifices so that you can write?

Do you tell people you are a writer? What's the reaction?

And on another note, if you have any suggestions for my 3rd grade debut next week, I’d love to hear them. I plan on showing a photo prompt, and then going around the room letting them take turns giving me characters, setting, problem (conflict), the events, and the solution. When we’re done, I’ll read their story back to them. Thoughts?

The things we shouldn't do as adults

As a woman of a certain age, contemplating a certain major birthday coming up next year, I'm painfully aware of how things don't work quite the same as they used to.

Like clothes. Honestly, get out of the junior section. Those clothes just aren't made for women with hips.

Like my body. I'm not going to say anything here because it is too depressing that I'm already starting to notice this.

Like recreation and entertainment. Over the weekend, we took our kids to a minor league baseball game with the boy scouts. We were having a great time -- we ate popcorn, we drank $6 beers, the kids tried to catch foul balls. And we were really amused when one of the fathers was asked to participate in the bat race in the middle of the 6th. Do you remember bat races? That's when you stand a bat up on the ground, put your head on the top of it, spin around it ten times, and then try to run in a straight line. All very funny.

So the time came and our man stepped out onto the field in front of a crowd of 6000. He and another man (also of our age group) completed their spins and headed for third. Except our friend veered to the left, fell down and hit the fence in front of the dugout, striking his head on the fence post. The crowd thought this was hilarious. When he rejoined our group, this man was seeing double and his whole left arm was numb and tingling.

We found out today that after they game, they went to the emergency room because he was having major trouble moving. After xrays, a CT scan and an MRI, they diagnosed a fracture of his C6 verterbrae. He will be in a neck brace for the next 6-8 weeks and may be facing surgery. All for a silly bat race.

So note for the future: leave kids' games to the kids.

Inspiration

My novel THE SHADOW SCRIBE began as a short story in a "Writing Science Fiction and Fantasy" course I completed in my senior year of college (and to be honest, I'm surprised I earned an A in that course because my short story was neither science fiction nor fantasy). It was the story of a woman who started telling a story in her sleep. Because it had a strong historical element, I set the story in Boston, which was the most historical city I knew at the time.

Shortly after I graduated, I packed up my wordprocessor (one of those crossover Smith Corona typewriters that had a 3 1/4" floppy drive) and went to Scotland on a 6-month student visa, intending to really live. And then write all about it. In six months, I never wrote a word. But what I did do was meet the man who would someday become my husband. I knew right away he was "the one" and he must have had similar feelings (even if he wouldn't admit it) because he brought me home to meet his parents. He grew up in a small village outside Edinburgh. We took the train to the town and walked to his house.

And we came to this:

Which opened to this:

Which finally led to this:

That's right. That's the house my new boyfriend brought me to. An absolutely gorgeous Georgian house in the Scottish countryside. Actually, I'm in that house at the moment, eighteen years later. I'm in the room on the second floor on the right end.

Walking into the house for the first time, I was not only completely intimidated, but I was totally in love. With the house. OK, the guy too. But as an American, I'd never encountered a place like it. And it was someone's house. Home, actually. Two parents, five kids, pets, antiques, piles of laundry, squabbles, and stuffed to the brim with knick knacks and more love than I'd encountered anywhere. Christmas at the house was amazing, as was our wedding reception.

I started having fantasies -- and serious discussions -- with my husband about maybe buying the house someday when his parents retired. Talk about an amazing place for kids to grow up (acres of gardens, woods, and a canal at the bottom of the property) and none of the siblings could stand the thought of it not staying in the family. But given the UK housing market, it is unlikely we could ever afford it. Still, it was fun to dream about.

But I also started thinking about how strange it would be to move in and change a place that everyone had known for 25 years. How could we redo the kitchen? Or dare to move the couch there?

As I had these thoughts, the writer's side of my brain suddenly came alive.

Inspiration!!!

That short story that I wrote so long ago sprung back to life. Boston? Hah! I had a historical location to rival no other. And the subplots of a woman moving into her husband's childhood home -- fertile ground for a writer! 

So what's my point, other than showing off the pictures of my lovely little vacation spot? (Just to rub it in, here's the view from my bedroom:

and a view of the town, including the ruined palace and the 750-year-old church:

My point is that you never know what will inspire, and ultimately, result in a finished project. Writers talk a lot about writing what you know. But I think it is infinitely more important to write what ignites you. THE SHADOW SCRIBE took on a whole new life when I was inspired by this house. Maybe four pages remain of my original short story, but there are literally hundreds of pages that are intimately tied to this house and how I feel about it.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to dreaming of where I might move the couch if the house is ever mine.

Is this seat taken?

I am about to embark on a 16-hour overnight journey with my husband and two children. And, of course, I am all stressed out. I've spent hours on the Continental website trying to sort out the seating, hoping that we might have a little extra room for my kids to stretch out and get some sleep (I have already accepted that I will get no sleep at all). At the moment, my kids and I are in one row -- 14 A, B and C. And my husband is in14 F, same row but by the window, separated from us by two strangers. I've already explained to him that we will be playing Rock-Paper-Scissors to see who gets to ride in the quiet seat.

It is no surprise that last night I dreamt about flying. And agents (because I have those kinds of dreams all the time). I dreamt that I won with Rock and was sitting quietly by the window while my husband dealt with Goldfish crackers and coloring books. And who sat down next to me? Janet Reid. And I was too terrified to say a word. I spent the entire trip debating whether I should volunteer that I wrote a book, because I didn't want to be one of those people. She was so cool that I didn't want to come across as uncool.

But Janet was REALLY nice. And very funny, just as you would expect. She drank a lot of gin. And shared my kids' goldfish crackers.

I woke up before I decided whether to mention my book or not. And now, in the waking world, I am kicking myself for missing an opportunity.

This just proves how blurred the line between imagination and reality can get for writers.

And what about you? Do you dream about your book? About agents?

Five Questions, Five answers

Laurel at Laurel's Leaves tagged me to give Five Answers to Five Questions. I've seen this meme around a lot recently and I'm glad Laurel tagged me because I'd already been thinking how I would answer. The 'five years from now' question really has me wondering because I never end up where I thinking I'm going to.

What were you doing five years ago?

• Settling into our new house in Leeds, England
• Watching both my stepmother and my mother-in-law battle breast cancer (and win)
• Trying to convince the paediatrician that my son’s food aversions were not ‘just a phase’
• Writing The Shadow Scribe with some purpose for the first time
• Setting up a music program at a Mommy and Me-type group

 Where would you like to be five years from now?

• Writing for a living, whether as a published author or a freelancer, so that I can be there for my children when needed and still contribute financially to my family’s future. And of course, do what I love.
• Taking a family trip of a lifetime to Africa
• Supporting my children as they move into middle school and high school
• Traveling to Japan for several weeks on my own
• Getting a higher writing degree (MFA, MA, PhD?) so I can teach writing

 What's on your To-Do list today?

• Pilates
• Work on part two of my serial
• Make an appointment at the spa to finally use my gift certificates from November
• Take my daughter for testing to see if she skips kindergarten
• Water the flower beds

 What snacks do you enjoy?

• Guacamole and chips
• Nutty chewy granola bars
• Life cereal
• Popcorn
• Frozen raw cookie dough chunks

 What five things would you do if you were a billionaire? (I'd actually do these if I were a millionaire)

• Fly first class. I’ve had enough of international flights in coach with two kids.
• Buy up land in cities and suburbs and put it in trust so we have green spaces, not half-empty strip malls.
• Have homes near all of family members (UK and US) so that visiting becomes easier
• Give vast amounts of money to research into Autism, mesothelioma, and breast cancer
• Set up/donate to existing foundations for bringing the arts (music, art, theatre, and of course, writing) back into schools.

I suppose I should tag others now. I personally like tags and awards, but worry that if I tag or award others, they'll be all like "I don't have time for this stuff!" So let me know in the comments -- how do you feel about tags and awards? Do they make blogging fun or is it just one more thing you don't have time for?

What I learned this weekend

I learned a few valuable things this weekend and I thought I would share them with you.

1. Do not mail chocolate bunnies to south Texas in April, because they will go into the mail looking like bunnies and come out of the mail looking like this:

2. Easter egg hunting in the Hill Country takes on a whole new dimension. You have to watch out for cactus. And scorpions.

3. Texas has some real pretty weeds. The bluebonnet is the prettiest. There must have been twenty people who pulled their car over to take pictures in this field.

4. Sometimes, you meet a character from one of your stories. I'm working on a serial short story and have been struggling a little with developing the main character. I knew what I wanted her to be but couldn't quite get her backstory to fit. At a party this weekend, I met someone and it just went off like fireworks in my head -- this woman was my character. Suddenly, my backstory was clear and Serina came alive. She won't be based on this person (who is so fabulous and kind that I know she wouldn't mind) but she will be the person I picture as I write the story.

Anyone else learn anything new this weekend?

Using real life as bait

Lately I've been feeling that things are going pretty well for me, at least in terms of the writing thing. I'm waiting to hear back on my revised full manuscript from three agents who expressed interest, one of my short stories will appear in '100 Stories for Haiti', and I've just submitted a three-part short story serial for final approval at a major British magazine. So what's the logical next step? Get a job. That has nothing to do with writing.

That's right. I have a job interview on Tuesday. I didn't plan this. The whole freelance writing and do-what-I-can-with-the-novel gig has actually been working out pretty well, which is good, because there aren't many jobs for my career in San Antonio (recipe developer, food scientist, food stylist). But last night on Monster there was a job listing I just couldn't pass up. I applied and got a call for an interview this morning. In truth, I'm probably underqualified, as this is a total dream job (side note -- this is the job my MC has). But worth a shot.

And I figure, what better way to make the Universe cough up an agent and book deal than to get a full-time job that requires real commitment?

I'm now predicting my dream agent will call on Tuesday while I'm interviewing. Cuz that's the way the universe rolls. Yeah, fate has a sense of humor.

Am I tempting fate? Have you had any of these little happenings, where you think you are going one way and life hands you something else?

Writing for a living

I had one of those head in the hands moments yesterday, where I was overwhelmed by the desperation to have the whole novel-writing situation turn into something real. I have those moments regularly but what set me off on this one was is the state of my house. It really needs to be cleaned. And I'm not talking the Martha-Stewart-I-really-must-dust-the-baskets kind of cleaning, but more like I-can't-see-through-the-shower-door-for-all-the-soap-scum kind of cleaning.

My house used to be cleaner than this, for those six glorious months that my full-time job was writing. Every day, I would write for four or five hours while my children were at school, leaving an hour or two before they got home for real life stuff, like cleaning and cooking and laundry. Which meant that I could focus on my family and myself (hobbies and reading and more writing) on the evenings and weekends. I've never been happier than that time.

I know I was extraordinarily lucky to have the opportunity, and it was only because we had just moved from England to Texas. My husband had a job that paid enough to make it on his salary for a while (we have rarely had two incomes due to college, maternity, etc. and as a result, are very good at living within our means). And I had such a specialized field (Food Research & Development) that I knew it was unlikely the crappy economy would cough up a job for me in my new city. It made sense for me to finally put my fingers where my mouth was and write the novel I've been talking about for almost two decades. So I did.

But it was too good to last. Ballet lessons and rising food costs and children who keep outgrowing shoes meant that I needed to get a job. Now that I work about four days a week (including Saturdays), something has to give. And it isn't going to be the writing. Result: dirty house. And empty fridge. And thank you notes that are a month overdue. And abandoned craft projects. And dead plants.

I think every writer has the dream that they could give up the day job and write for a living. But I think everyone's definition of that is different, dependent on their lifestyle. Honestly, if I could make ten or twenty thousand a year, I could write for a living. There is a lot I'm willing give up to be able to do my dream job.

So hear that, Universe? I don't have big wants. It doesn't have to be a six-figure deal (not that I would turn it down, of course). Anything you want to send my way would be great. I'd appreciate it. Thanks.

What about you? Knowing the reality of the publishing world and what it pays, how likely is it that you could give up the day job if you got a book deal?