Spring Cleaning

I love spring cleaning. That feeling of opening the windows and letting in fresh air, of decluttering and putting things away, packing away winter clothes, taking out the spring clothes. But last night, they called for sleet here . . . and I know spring is a long way off.

However, I tend to view tomorrow, January 1, as the spring cleaning day of my life in general. I make my resolutions. I ponder what I want to accomplish for the year. I reflect on the year past (this last one being not-so-great). I declutter my mind. Buddhists attempt to live in the moment. What we have is . . . well, just this moment. And so for me, this is the last time I will try to look backward on 2007. Instead, I look forward, and center, and try to be right here, right now. I mentally put my house in order.

I also put my physical house in order. It's a big day to put away the Christmas stuff. To put away the gifts, to set aside that which we'll donate to charity.

And I put my "Blog House" in order. To the right, you'll see I added new links to regular visitors and to blogs I now enjoy reading.

You'll also notice that I started a Demon Baby blog, which will be foray into writing on parenting one very smart, very clever, very VERY devilish baby--and other parenting adventures from saying good-bye to my oldest as she leaves for college later this year, to parenting a math wiz and a creative sprite. All while trying to write full-time. Look, nothing up my sleeve . . . a little sleight of hand. Mommies have to be magicians to juggle it all.

This is the last post of 2007. Tomorrow, goals and resolutions. But today, a little inspiration:

All men dream but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dream with open eyes to make it possible. ~~T.E. Lawrence

May you all live your live as dangerous men and women, with eyes open to the world of possibility.

Peace to all . . . and is anyone else cleaning their proverbial houses today?

More on Resolutions

New Year's is looming. So I've got resolutions on my mind. And I have this meaningful quote to share from Buddha:

It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell.

And isn't that the truth? Looking at LAST YEAR'S goals versus what actually transpired this year, I sold the trilogy I wanted to sell that was on my list. I completed proposals and started new books. I accomplished a few items. BUT . . . any of the rest that fell by the wayside were lost battles . . . lost completely by me and me alone. Oh, I have a thousand excuses. Demon Baby takes up huge chunks of time, he had health problems, Baby Girl had health problems, my parents came for a month, I'm exhausted by stress, my significant other did not hold up any of the things he said he was going to and so anything that relied on him necessarily collapsed. But then . . . there should have been a Plan B. So it is ALL, and I mean ALL my fault. This year, I am conquering myself.

And I'm ready. I see the battle isn't time or exhuastion or stress or any of it. It's me, plain and VERY simple when you get right down to it. So the Buddhist quote is what I am posting here, two days before New Year's Day.

What are your battles for this coming year?

Demon Baby Speaks!

Look . . . I took my shoes and shoved them in the toilet, then flushed. My mother has the plumber on speed dial . . . I think they may be having an affair. Come to think of it? I wrote with pink marker ALL over the upstairs landing. And the CARPET CLEANING GUY is on her speed dial. In fact, they tell me I'm Mexican-American, but I think I have an uncanny resemblance to the carpet guy. Well, except for my eyes. I've got the Spanish Eyes thing. And ladies, I use them to my full advantage. And I've got LONG lashes.

Anyway, Mommy is really indisposed right now, what with the plumbing situation. And the fact that I took her rings--the good ones? the ones she THINKS she hides in her jewelry box--and I decided they would be precisely the projectiles to send down the air vents from the second floor to the first. They make a LOT of noise clanging in the vents. Oh, and I tried to release my brother's python. All by eight a.m. You have to wake up PRETTY EARLY in the morning to outwit me.

But . . . seriously, Mom is blogging over at PLOT MONKEYS today. Frankly, I find that FRIGGIN' HILARIOUS, as she thinks I'M a monkey. Yeah, lady . . . who's the monkey today?

Signed,
Demon Baby

Alone Together

Finally had a breakthrough on the proposal my agent has been tapping his foot impatiently for. I just knew it was missing something. And then, oddly enough, this somewhat neglected sentence from five paragraphs in, moved itself, in my mind, to the first sentence.

Like the breath of a ghost against an icy window, the scrawl whispered to us across the centuries.

And that was it. Moving one single sentence anchored my story, about a mysterious illuminated manuscript, and the rest just sort of scrambled into place. I reworked chapter one. Done. Inside of a half-hour. Chapter two, well underway.

And through this all, I have a writer friend who is going through a similar "tear it apart and make it something new yet still the same" process, he for a top editor at a different house than the one my proposal is being ripped apart and reassembled for.

And it's an agonizing process. We both know we're lucky. Editors liked the roots of what we had enough to aks for some changes. But ripping apart and then piecing together your work again isn't fun. He has been someone when I have truly felt like I wanted to jump out a window--or at least duct-tape Demon Baby to the wall--I've comiserated with.

But that's the odd thing about writing. It's not like when you work in an office and maybe five of you work on some hellish project, you all go to Happy Hour together and rejoice when it's done. We're alone. Together.

I think that's why I have this blog. I spend nearly all my time alone, except for Demon. Three kids in school, one with a job four nights a week plus orchestra rehearsals. One in music lessons. The other in martial arts training. Pretty much, I'm alone. Except for the little Poster Child for Hellions, and I struggle through my writing alone. I have my critique group once every two weeks . . . but that's only twice a month. I can't EVER discuss my writing with the Jacka** I live with (at least that's what I'm calling him today, when I came home to a trashed house and piles of laundry and unfed children when I have a house full of company arriving tomorrow). He doesn't write and will never, ever understand the process. I don't think he's even remotely interested in my process. Hell, I don't even understand the process. IS it even a process? A process sounds like something orderly. Something with a beginning and a middle and an end. Then how do I explain walking through a fabric store looking at patterns with my Baby Girl whose obsession with being a fashion designer is in full swing thanks to Santa giving her a sewing machine (and did I mention I cannot sew? This will be interesting as I try to learn a bobbin from a button-hole thingy); Yes, walking along looking at gingham plaid . . . and a sentence decides to move itself.

I know I'm not alone. Not really. We're in this alone together. Right?

Something More

I know many Stephen King fans. I don't read horror, generally, though I did in my teens and I did like him. However, across the board, if you mention the movies The Shawshank Redemption or The Green Mile, both based on King stories or novellas, most people I know wax poetic about them. I know very few men who don't love both those flicks. Even guys who generally don't go for sentimental seem to love them. Women, too. And I have met more than a few people who saw the movies, loved them, and didn't realize they were based on King's work.

Having just watched The Green Mile on Christmas with my brother-in-law, and having seen The Shawshank Rdemption a few times, I think it's this universal need to believe in something more. The power of friendship, the triumph of good over evil, of faith. Maybe, simply, just hope. It's interesting to me that a writer known for writing some of the scariest stories ever, in which very often evil trumps all, seems best-loved for writing very "small" stories. Not complicated. Very heart-felt. Filled with hope.

It should come as no surprise that I am a spiritual person. Faith is woven in nearly everything I do. A healthy dose of faith, a dash of superstition, and a belief in something more. My more-than-a-passing interest in astronomy and quantum physics is really that searching. Buddhism has a great deal to do with quantum physics--so much so that the Dalai Lama wrote The Universe in a Single Atom.

And so I got to thinking about those books people are most passionate about. Those forever books that people hold onto, give to friends, tell people about. For me, they are books that resonate with the idea that there's something more to this existence. They are books that make me hope. The Little Prince. Man's Search for Meaning. And my childhood faves . . . books like Anne of Green Gables, were almost all universally about the goodness of people deep down.

Thoughts? Do you hope for something more?

Misbehaving

I got a great Christmas present from my best friend. A bracelet engraved with the following statement:

WELL-BEHAVED WOMEN RARELY MAKE HISTORY

So true.

So I have decided that's my motto for the New Year. I am not going to behave. I am not EVER going to care what people think about what I wear, what I do, or what I say. Not that I do now (which is why she thought of me when she bought the bracelet).

But most especially, it's a reminder to writers. To anyone thinking about daring to write a novel, quitting the day job, doing something kind of crazy like embarking on a publishing journey.

Don't behave. It's completely nuts to quit a stable day job to write the Great American Novel, but you know what? Life's not a dress rehearsal. Don't behave. To search for an agent, to put yourself out there, you have to misbehave. You have to throw caution to the wind.

I've never behaved and I rather like how things have turned out. I still have seven books under contract. I have a chaotic life I have kind of hated lately . . . but one viewing of "It's a Wonderful Life" cured me of it.

If you don't like your life, only you can fix it.

So I am not going to behave.

I like my new motto for the New Year.

Anyone else have one?

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Wrapped until 12:45 a.m. Collapsed into sleep. Woken at 2:00 a.m. by Oldest Son. "Can we open presents now?"

"What? Are you nuts? It's TWO A.M.! We have to wait until at LEAST dawn."

Every half-hour on the half-hour, re-awoken by Oldest Son. "Now?

"No."

"How 'bout now?"

Joined by Baby Girl somewhere in the vicinity of 4:00 a.m.

"Now?"

"How 'bout now?"

"What about JUST the stocking?"

"ONE small present? Just one?"

"You won't BELIEVE what I can see coming out of my stocking."

"Now? Can we get up now?"

FINALLY, at 7:30, I said they could awaken Demon Baby to open presents (on the ONE morning he slept past 5:45 a.m.).

"Did Santa come to our home this morning?" Demon Baby asked. (This is really how he talks . . . he has an amazing vocabulary.)

Then it was two hours of non-stop opening and putting together of Demon Baby toys. Including the gift of Play-do from his godfather, who MAY be ex-godfathered, thank you very much. PLAY-DO? In the hands of the Demon? What were you thinking?

I'm exhausted.

But Merry Christmas one and all. May your lives be blessed with as much fullness as mine, as much love, as much giggles and morning cuddles and hugs and "I love yous." But maybe with a little more sleep.

Peace to all,
E

Gifting Tales

Totally honest . . . I MUCH prefer giving than receiving. And I am not just saying that because it's the Christmas thing to say. Oldest Daughter thinks I am a NUT for how excited I am for Christmas--and none of it has to do with anything I might receive.

I love finding "the perfect gift." If someone mentions, offhandedly, liking a certain movie . . . that DVD will end up under their tree . . . and I love that look,"How did you know I liked this?" Love it! "Oh, remember once a year ago you mentioned . . . .?"

It's sort of like a totally cool treasure hunt game.

Oldest Daughter gives me long, very expensive lists. But I like putting things under the tree that she's not expecting, too. And I know Demon Baby will be very excited with these.

Looking back at gifts I've received, I have to say my former mother-in-law, now deceased, truly embodied the Christmas spirit. Unbelievably so. And I think it was her tremendous spirit of acceptance. I never felt as if she would have liked to change me in any way. She found out the things I collected--I love snowglobes and Buddha statues now. But at the time, I think I collected teddy bears (no longer). In any case, she would buy things that I liked--not the things she thought I SHOULD like. Her husband also . . . he knew how much I loved this movie and found me a movie still from it. It hangs just to my right where I see it often, and think how special people are who really "get" the spirit of Christmas and what it means. It's not the most expensive thing under the tree, but the thing that stirs a person's heart, that makes them feel special.

My current mother-in-law was the queen of passive-aggressive gift giving. Case in point, I dress in all-black. It makes my life simpler as I don't have to think about matching colors. Lately, I've added red sweaters in honor of Christmas, or white blouses for simplicity, but I'm pretty easy to buy for. One Christmas, I got something that looked exactly like this turquoise track suit . . . only with gold-painted fish and rhinestones on it. Like something a Boca Raton great-grandma would buy at the flea market. Trust me in that I received the message loud and clear--no one else got gifts so ill-suited to them. It takes a special person to want to send a message of "I really don't like you" on Christmas day. But there are people out there who don't get it.

Luckily, her son did not inherit this passive-aggressive streak of gift-giving. He is the king of extravagent and thoughtful gifts. Last year, I got this. At the time, I didn't think I wanted one. Now? Can't live without it. I also got an altar for my Buddhas and meditating (even if Demon Baby interferes with any real meditating I might do--I remind myself to at least bring it back to the breath). I've gotten diamond heart necklaces, and beautiful jewelry, and when a dear friend recounted the dust buster she got, I was grateful I have someone who gives gifts the way I do. Last year, I even got the Rolls Royce of rice steamers. While this may not SEEM romantic, you have to understand that I cannot cook. Refuse to. Hate to. HATE to. This week, I burned chicken nuggets for my poor kids. Just hate cooking. And rice was just "beyond me." If it can't be slapped on a baking sheet and cooked at 400 degrees, it just isn't happening. But this rice steamer? You put in two cups of rice, four cups of water. You don't even have to stir. You press white rice or brown rice, close it, lock it. It beeps when it's done. What better gift for a macrobiotic diet person who hates to cook?

But the best gifts of all . . . those are the homemade ones from my kids. The cards left on my desk. The book I got last year from my Oldest Daughter, who doesn't understand my interest in Buddhism but bought me a book anyway. I treasure it.

So may Santa bring you everything you want under your tree. Gifts of meaning. Gifts of kindness. And do tell . . . what are some of your favorite gifts given or received?

Resolutions

OK, I've got about a week to go until January 1. And New Year's Resolution time.

I'm working on my list.

In general, I usually come up with about ten things I resolve to do, and in general, I usually follow through with maybe 7 out of 10, which isn't a bad batting average. When I write things down, it seems to make them more real, more of a commitment. I used to think that all those self-help gurus who said write down your goals were full of self-help B.S. However, I have to say that since I started writing my goals down, I do seem to "own" them more and keep them.

Now a confession.

The one resolution I NEVER follow through on, the ONE resolution that is forgotten by January 2nd . . . or at least by January 15th . . . is "Take more time for myself to pursue my hobbies and relax." My goal isn't immense. An hour a day to read for pleasure or to knit. I'd settle for a half-hour. But somehow, my wonderful four kids hog up my time so much, along with my deadlines, that a half-hour seems impossible. I usually collapse exhausted into bed at night, with not a knit or a purl in sight. No pleasure reading. No listening to classical music. No . . . nothing.

So this is what I have to work on. I really, really, really need to somehow re-think my goals, my time management, something . . . so that this small goal is possible.

I'll work on the rest of my resolutions and post them this year and keep you all posted on how this overworked writer is doing with them. But I want to know . . . anyone else feeling resolute? Contemplating goals? Putting their house in order as the year draws to a close?

Please share . . . and MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Scrooged!

Last night, I watched A Christmas Carol--an ancient version from 1938. I love A Christmas Carol because I am always waiting for that moment when Scrooge brings poor, beleaguered Bob and his family the biggest Christmas goose in town.

And really, Scrooge's story is about rewriting his life with a new ending. If you ever live vicariously through your characters, then you get to rewrite those parts of your life you would like to do over or do differently. My characters are always smarter than I am. Funnier than I am. They certainly dress better. My characters do not have Demon Babies that think nothing is more hilarious than sticking baby fingers onto Mama's lips and smearing lipstick down her chin. Their lives are far more glamorous usually. But . . . I am never tempted to rewrite my own ending. Writing is all for fun, and I'll stick with my Demon Baby and smeared lipstick, and today, these sweatpants and nightshirt and socks.

When I look to Christmas past, I always feel a bit of nostalgia. I know some people have a difficult time at the holidays. They miss people no longer with us. Or they have horrid childhoods and associate the holidays with memories of Christmas dysfunction. My Christmases, though, were always spectacular. My father grew up very, very poor, and he had never had a Christmas. In fact, until he met my mother, he had never had a birthday party. The day just wasn't observed. So I think he and my mother decided to make each Christmas "perfect," thereby rewriting my Dad's ending. We always got the big-ticket items we wanted--and only now do I understand the budgeting and sacrifice that goes into ensuring that. The tree was always beautiful, Christmas morning always happy and filled with smells of coffee and danish. Then we went visiting. My aunt, my cousins, my other cousins, my OTHER cousins. Yeah, we stretched out visiting from 11:00 in the morning until midnight.

Christmas present? Well, that I always assoicate with my own Christmas with my kids. It's usually insane . . . lots of presents, Christmas music, Demon Baby running wild. But in Christmas present I am always a LOT more tired than Christmas past. Now I know why my poor mother and father looked so exhausted on Christmas. They WERE exhausted--up until long past midnight on Christmas Eve doing the last of the wrapping and putting together bicycles. I somewhat dread Christmas Eve.

Christmas future? Well, I hope mine is less grim than Scrooge's. But I do understand time's inexorable march. Christmas cannot help but be tinged by those no longer here to share it. My Christmas really isn't my childhood Christmas, even if I wanted it to be the same. My grandparents are no longer here. We no longer speak to my father's side of the family (for complicated reasons of extraordinary betrayal on their part). My cousins are scattered across five or six states. Christmas reminds you of the losses . . .

But I still love Christmas. And as a writer, I wouldn't rewrite mine, or want to live through my characters. I like my memories just as they are.

As the saying goes. God bless us, everyone.

Happy holidays! Feel free to share your favorite holiday memories.

Just For Fun

You're planning a dinner party. You can invite anyone--dead or alive.

Let's keep it intimate.

Up to a dozen guests.

Who do you invite?

And if you're feeling creative, what do you serve?
Me? I am inviting:

Viktor Frankl
Albert Einstein
Paul Erdos (see blog post a couple down, called More Than One)
Antoine de Saint Exupery
The Dalai Lama
Jesus
Buddha
Thich Nhat Hanh
Michelangelo
Christopher Hitchens (just to stir things up)
Jospeh Campbell
David Letterman ('cause I think he's hilarious)

I'd serve sushi--just 'cause I like it. And rice. And a lot of wine.

I'd like to think we'd end the evening playing poker and having a few laughs while cigars are smoked.

Anyone care to play?

Peak Experiences

In 1970, Abraham Maslow, anxious to demystify religion, coined the term "peak experience." The dictionary now defines it as:

a high point in the life of a self-actualizer, during which the person feels ecstatic and more alive and whole than is usual.

Maslow believed these peak experiences were transient moments--glimpses we have of a higher ectasy, of a union with the world. And he believed all of us could have these moments, and that those of us who attain self-actualization achieve them for extended periods of time.

So, I was thinking about this last night. And I have to say that all four births of my children were what I call peak experiences. The moment I heard them cry, this fulfillment of nine months of morning sickness, bloated belly, aches and pains and cravings and kicking (and I loved being preganant, so it may SOUND like I didn't enjoy those nine months, but trust me, I did). And every once in a while, I try to recall those moments, to just for a minute pull back into that time. There truly is nothing in the world like the doctor placing this wet, sticky baby on your chest, skin ot skin, for the first time. You count the ten fingers, and the baby grasps your index finger. Each of mine quieted the moment I held them. In Demon Baby's case, that was probably his last still moment.

Now here's where it relates to writing. It's almost impossible to conjure. A peak experience is such an extraordinary moment in life, that has such deep meaning for YOU, that it's difficult to relive in memory, and words fail. I have heard MANY a man try to liken passing a kidney stone to labor. All I can say guys, is NO. It's nothing like labor. Nothing. Now, let me say that I have AWFUL, high-risk, extended labor stories. Oldest daughter was 24 hours of labor, I spiked a fever, complications (she was turned the wrong way); oldest son weighed nearly 10 pounds--do the math pushing that baby out; Baby Girl was 24 hours of labor and a couple of hours of pushing--all with a catheter inserted in my heart (very high risk, that one!), and Demon Baby? Well, don't even get me started. But the entire time, there is all this pain and yet all this anticipation. The woman is aware that no, I am NOT pushing out a kidney stone, but another soul that will be forever entwined with my own. And I have never for a moment wished men did all the labor and hard work of carrying a child for nine months. In fact, I feel sorry for them--it's that awesome (at least for me it was).

So last night, I realized that writing, for me, is as tantalizing as a peak experience. When I have a scene in my head, I see it, full realized. The difficulty--the enormous difficulty--is somehow getting it down on paper so that others can share it. It's never as fully realized as in my head, it is never easy to conjure. Someone who reads my books can say, "I could totally picture this scene or that one"--but I know they can't possibly share my vision.

It's a frustrating thing.

Anyone else struggle with conjuring your visions into the written word?

Way of the Warrior

Older Son took a test for his next belt color in Ninjitsu yesterday, so I hauled Demon Baby with me, and we went to watch the test. And the end of the exam, he got his new belt, and a patch for his uniform. The patch says, in Japanese, "The Way of the Warrior," and over Christmas break, I will sew it on his uniform over his heart.

As a Buddhist, I get that most martial arts is about avoiding conflict. Having the inner confidence so that you do not need to fight. When my son decided to take Ninjitsu, I was very pleased, and after seeing his test, I am even more so. There's a quiet strength to the Way of the Warrior.

Which brings me to writing. No, I can't take a samurai sword and slice this manuscript into submission. But there's a quiet forging ahead in the work I do. A quiet strength. So I wondered what the Way of the Writer Warrior would look like.

I've decided it's about rising before dawn to hit the keyboard. About going within to search for inspiration. About perseverence even when writing seems hard. About modesty and humility in the face of other talented writers--never, ever looking down at a white belt, honoring the black belts among us, the Sensais. It's about training for years and years before even thinking you can wear a black belt. Being humble. Having a strong spirit.

I don't know what I would put on a patch on my heart. But it's enough to know that it's a path and a journey.

What would you say is the Way of the Writing Warrior?

More Than One

I have had more than one writer friend over the years, and
several blog readers and lurkers this year, write to me in a panic. "I have been working on my book for a year, and now I just found out a new book was bought at auction that sounds EXACTLY like my book."

I sympathize. But then I usually tell them not to worry, because it will never be exactly alike. And if it's done well, there's room for more than one. Want a good example? For many years, the book at left was my all-time favorite. The biography of Paul Erdos, I thought the author, Bruce Schechter, had done a brilliant job of describing the mathematician who fascinates me most. I have this "thing" for physicists and mathematicians.

Then, an acquaintance of mine told me he had read the most fascinating book about a mathematician. This acquaintance of mine, at least on the surface of things, appears pretty brilliant in his own right, so I was interested right away. He told me it was a biography . . . of Paul Erdos. "Oh, I've read it. I thought it was hilarious and poignant and wonderful. And I love the title--My Brain is Open." He looked puzzled. "Mine is called 'The Man Who Loved Only Numbers.'" (The book he recommended is on the right.)

Now, not only was I interested in a book about my favorite math god . . . but as a WRITER, I was fascinated. How could two biographies exist on the quirkiest math genius to have ever lived? Two biographies published not THAT far apart. So I read the second one. And it was TOTALLY different. In fact, in some ways, I didn't quite feel as if I was reading about the same man. The nuances were different--and it was equally wonderful, taking nothing from the first book. The first book was told in linear fashion, his life story from birth to death. It was charming and seamless, like reading a novel. The second book was told through a great deal of dialogue--the author had amassed tons of material of people talking about their lives with Paul Erdos in it . . . anecdotes told in first person that were wonderful and funny and made him seem very alive because, with dialogue/interviews, it seemed very immediate.

There's always room for more than one with a fresh approach.

And if I can indulge a non-craft bit of post . . . I've had three or four people email me this week asking what books I'd recommend for someone wanting to learn about Buddhism. So here are my top choices:

For those who are starting as Judeo-Christians and find that Eastern philosophy seems such a leap . . . a book by Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, and probably, aside from Buddha and the Dalai Lama, the most revered Buddhist writer, a "living Buddha."

For those looking to start meditating.

For those interested in Tibetan Buddhism and the writings of His Holiness, the Dalai Lama, a guide to Western-style happiness using Eastern philosophy.

So, there you go, for the Buddhist on your Christmas list.

And thoughts on More Than One? Have you ever panicked that another book sounded too much like your own? I was once asked to blurb a book that sounded exactly like this one of my own. II didn't blurb the other book because I thought that would be weird--and mine was coming out six months before the other one. But you know what? I read the manuscript, and they really weren't anything alike. Just each had an Italian heroine in the food biz.

Peace,
E

What I Know

This is what I know.

I know that if you leave Baby Girl's birthday cake on the kitchen table, and turn your back to look for candles, Demon Baby will put BOTH hands into the cake, pull them up with roses and icing all over them, wiggle his fingers, look at you and grin, "LOOK! Mommy! I'm doing a puppet show."

That is what I know. I know that later, he will spit icing onto the table, and see, "LOOK! Mommy! I'm fingerpainting."

And I know that at the end of the day, exhausted, I will be grateful that I am old enough and frankly too damn tired enough so that I will find these antics strangely endearing. I am going to that child's Dark Side as sure as I am sitting here typing. This is what happens when you have a baby after 40.

I know that children come from heaven, and babies smell like heaven. I know Demon Baby's skin is softer than a rose petal. I know that, like last night, lying in my big bed with contented birthday party Baby Girl and watching "Meet Me in St. Louis," that when Judy Garland sings "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," that though I have seen the movie a hundred times, I will sob my eyes out. That somehow Baby Girl will never stay awake for that scene, and so I will look at her sleeping in the soft glow of the TV light and sob harder.

But there's a LOT I don't know. And so a quote from wise Buddha that applies to writing.

Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumored by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.

~Buddha

Buddhism is an experiential faith. Writing is an experiential avocation and career. I don't know anything. I have hundreds (!) of posts on this blog, and at the end of the day, I don't know anything that I can tell you. I can't tell you how to write. I might be able to tell you here to put a comma, or the difference between and en dash and an em dash (and by the way, if anyone ever wants to know some pain-in-the-ass little editing question, write me and I'll answer it on the blog), but I can't tell you how to write. As to the "rumored by many" bit, a lot of writers will tell you what you can or can't sell. But you know what? No one KNOWS for sure.

So . . . I don't know anything, and it has been a pleasure not knowing anything with all of you.

So what do YOU know? And what DON'T you?

Peace,
E

Sylvia's Paradox

Sylvia Plath said this:

And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. ~Sylvia Plath

It's astounding to me. I admire her writing so much, and this is such a fearless quote. And yet, I have to be honest and think any mother who abandons her child by committing suicide is both desperate and has my extreme empathy . . . and also somehow has lost her courage.

But taking the quote on its own, I think it resonates so much with me. I know aspiring writers want, very much so, to see their name on a cover. I know I did before I was published. But there's most definitely this aspect to being published that no one tells you about. How utterly naked it feels once your book is out there. One, it's being dissected in the public arena--for good or bad. Two, in the era of the Internet, anyone can say anything about you, about your book, and it's there for others to read and see. And finally, there is always an element, I have discovered, of people assuming you borrowed heavily from your own life and therefore your fiction is a thinly disguised bit of autobiography. Your sex scenes must represent your sex life (how else could you write about it?). Your characters' fractured relationships and foibles must be bits and pieces of your own.

It never bothered me much what people thought about me. I was used to being the slightly odd one my whole life. I was a loner, into books more than people. But Sylvia Plath definitely nailed it. When I became published, in a sense, so did my family. When women at signings would share that they really related to Cassie Hayes's difficult relationship with her mother, and they seemed to assume that was MY relationship with my own mother, I felt the strangeness of strangers reading much between the lines. Sometimes I would pause . . . just how dark did I want to take book x or book y? What would people think about ME if I wrote The Roofer?

And then there's the other half of her quote. That in fact, like all authors, I DO borrow from my own life. I couldn't have written Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven had I not, at one point or another because of my own illness, contemplated my children going on without me. Now that Older Daughter is an articulate, near-adult in her own right, she can share the pain of her memories of childhood always being colored by my hospital stays, of I.V. poles in the living room, of my "always being sick" (in her memory). So yeah . . . am I in that book? Definitely. But I didn't hold back.

I am not a fearless person. In fact, I have days consumed by self-doubt. I actually think I have a lot more fear than the average person--that's what an overactive imagination will do for you. But I guess courage is sticking your head into the wind and going forward anyway. It's writing anyway.

I feel for Sylvia Plath. I do. Given the end of her life, the quote is such a paradox. But I'm glad I have the quote here anyway.

Thoughts?

Not So Angelic Light

Here he is.

Demon Baby.

Illuminated by Christmas light.

But do not be fooled.

Peace,
E

Trust

So many plots of novels will, at their heart, come to a moment of trust. Few characters exist as islands. Like all of us, they operate in a world with other characters, and like all of us, they will usually come to a very essenital cross-roads in their storyline, and they must decide. Trust this person? Or not?

Trust the wrong person, and your task of saving the world will be made that much more difficult. Trust the wrong man, your heart will get broken. Trust the wrong cop, the wrong attorney, the wrong . . . fill-in-the-blank, and your character will have the screws turned tighter.

Think of how many movies or books in which you, as viewer or reader, cringed. "Don't trust him" you want to scream at the movie screen. Because you wonder . . . can that character be trusted? Is he really the bad guy masquerading as the good guy? Every single double-cross movie or book relies on this plot element. David Mamet is genius at plots like that. Without trust, our characters don't have sure footing. They are second- and triple-guessing every move they make.

In real life . . . I decided a long time ago to trust. With a twist. I trust that most people I meet are decent people, but decent people will always make mistakes. I don't want to go through my life as a cynic, second- and triple-guessing everyone's motives. I don't want to live my life holding back from loving with an open heart. I've worked with troubled teens, and with people who need a helping hand. Sometimes, you're going to get conned. That's a fact. But I don't want to come across the next person who needs a bit of charity and kindness and think, "Perhaps I should buy them a winter coat because maybe they really CAN afford it and this is a con." So . . . I trust myself. I ultimately decided that I trust myself to be strong enough to survive any betrayal. My heart will break a little, but I WILL get over it. That way, I trust with an open heart while knowing I will survive the sometimes inevitable stab that comes. That goes to my love life, my family life . . . all of it.

My characters tend to operate that same way. They trust their inner circle with their lives. They are sometimes betrayed. But the rest of the circle closes ranks and supports them, and they survive.

So . . . characters at a crossroad? Who can you trust?

Mayhem and Dinner and Organic Writing

When one particular editor of mine believes I've forced a plot point, she says, "I just don't buy . . . . "

And nine times out of ten, what she's stumbled on is puppetry, not organic writing.

What do I mean?

No one has yet to be able to give me a surprise party where I am actually surprised. Oh, I ACT surprised, and I am always pleased at the gathering of friends and family, but no, I'm not surprised. (Sorry, guys.) And most of the time it's because there's something just a tad "suspect" about the way I am lured to a certain locale at a certain and precise time. Like, "Let's go to dinner at precisely 6:00." In my life, the way I roll, it's more like, "Let's go to dinner AROUND 6:00 and hope it happens by 7:00." Preciseness isn't my thing. So that's one giveaway.

Same thing with writing. If you as author stop and think, "I need to get Character A into the scene with Character B so that Character B can reveal Plot Point A, a red herring for the mystery," or if you say, "I want Character A to keep bumping into Character B for a cute set-up to their romance," then to me, it's forced. It's visible.

Instead, if the characters and story drive it, there's a flow to it; it all unfolds organically in a way that's very real. And then you often find organic things spilling unexpectedly into your storytelling. Maybe it's chicken and egg theory I'm discussing here, maybe it's too subtle to even fully explain. But I look at it like this . . . . in one of my favorite scenes in The Roofer, Ava (main character/narrator), Uncle Two (two-time murderer and beloved uncle), Dad (multiple murderer and daddy dearest), Tom (brother, cop, cokehead), and Uncle Charley (loanshark/bookie)have dinner one night. I didn't set out to have a scene in which a fight would evolve. Instead, they're a volatile bunch--no matter what they do, what they eat, if they are gathered together, anything can happen. Tom was sniffing in the scene, hyper, junked up . . . Dad got pissed and punched him with no warning (which is how someone like that would handle it) and broke his nose, blood flew into the sausage (ruining dinner . . . somehow, it just wasn't appetizing after that), the dinner turned into a melee with everyone staking out a corner, someone pulled a knife, Uncle Two's arm got cut to the bone, Ava and Tom left to avoid it disintegrating further into more bloodshed, Dad had to be held back from going after them. It was an organic, for this family, unfolding from sitting down to a meal to bloodshed. I think if I had SET OUT to write a scene of family bloodshed, a piece would have been missing. Tom wouldn't have done cocaine before dinner, Dad would have grabbed the knife first and cut to the chase. Somehow, I would have forced it to its logical end, but some piece would have been left out or rushed. Same result. Different path. Had it not been organic, an editor might have said, "I just don't buy that a father would pull a knife on his own son," but instead, so much happens, so realistically, it might make you wonder why you don't bring a switchblade to your own family gathering.

I don't know if this is something I intuit as a writer, this let it unfold process, or if anyone else goes through this process--if anyone else SEES the difference. Maybe I'm the only one who figures out every surprise party.

So . . . I bet you all want to come to family dinners at my house. As for the writing? Thoughts?

Unrequited

Well, with so many pals of mine across cyberspace and the blogosphere mocking me for my Blue Wiggle obsession in the Land of Sleepless Demon Babies and Infectious Diseases (we're going for a record . . . Demon was in rare form last night), without further ado . . . drum roll . . . here he is. The Blue Wiggle. I know, kind of cute. But . . . usually I go for slightly edgy guys. Um . . . not so much with the Blue Wiggle, who sings, I have noticed, of a pirate named Captian Feathersword.

So he's an unrequited Wiggle love. Along with . . . well, too many to count. Clive Owen. Anthony Bourdain. Jason Statham. How long do you guys have? My list continues . . . .

Which brings me to my post.

I am nearly done with a revision to a proposal. And a key part of it involves obsession and unrequited love. And in one case . . . a woman in love with a castrated man. Sorry guys.

And I stand by my belief that sex is what is between your ears, not legs. With the Internet, for instance, what if you met someone in . . . oh, pick someplace far. Like Tazmania. Or, Australia . . . home of the Blue Wiggle. And what if you had this amazing relationship, but you could never, EVER meet and consummate it?

In my books, I've had heroes in wheelchairs and heroes who are celibate. It's all cerebral. And often unrequited.

So is inrequited love a theme in your work? And really, isn't wearing a Blue Wiggle suit rather castrating anyway?

Possibility

I had the most wonderful lesson on writing courtesy of Baby Girl tonight. She is a character in my new trilogy, and she read four chapters, found a typo (a future editor!), and was overall delighted by the book and can't wait to read more. But she taught me the wonder of children and writing YA, the wonder of books.

You see, I need to add a trait or two to the descriptor for her character. A familial trait in the book are pale eyes, but she needs something more to distinguish her. I suggested flecks of violet in her eyes. But she wanted a tattoo since birth on the palm of her hand.

"What? Who would give their kid a tattoo?" (Asks me . . . the ever-vigilant mother.)

"Here," she pointed. "A tiger's eye in the palm of her hand." (Her character has a familiar, a tiger, who protects her.)

"A tattoo?"

"More like a birthmark. Something she was born with."

"A tiger's eye?"

"Yeah."

Case closed.

And there it is. Baby Girl doesn't need logic, she doesn't need to explain it. The character would simply would be born with it. Just as Baby Girl didn't ask HOW it was her character has a Siberian white tiger obeying her every command. She doesn't ask HOW she can sleep with a tiger without getting eaten. It simply is.

Children do not wonder how, so much as accept the realm of possibility and fantasy. They live in a world where things simply are, just as they think the world is fair. Eventually, they learn it isn't, but for a time, the world can be a fair place. For a time, being a good person can be enough. Wishes can come true. Magic is real. Fairies can be real. So can Santa.

We could all use a dose of possibility. Dream it. Don't ask how. Just know it's possible. Maybe that's why I became a writer after all. I never wanted to grow up. And you?

Ho-Ho-Havoc

Okay, so I really want this Christmas tree. Realy, really, really! However, thanks to the month from H-E-L-L, we got a Charlie Brown tree last night because the good ones were taken. And yes, getting a live tree is green (as in the environment)--did my research . . . as long as you turn it to mulch and get it from a Christmas tree farm.

But 'tis the season. For stress. I found this quote from Buddha.



A family is a place where minds come in contact with one another. If these minds love one another the home will be as beautiful as a flower garden. But if these minds get out of harmony with one another it is like a storm that plays havoc with the garden. ~Buddha



Nothing like Christmas to play havoc with your garden. It's a pressurized version of family. Which brings me . . . to writing.

You see, many of my books have holiday scenes in them. I'm not talking about writing romance books set at Christmas, sold just in late November/early December. Like this one by my fellow Nocturne author (which is a big hit, so buy one for the vampire fan on your list). No, I'm talking about intentionally setting books in November so I get Thanksgiving and Christmas in there. How many books have I done this in? The Roofer, Mafia Chic, Knockout, Double Down, Invisible Girl, Spanish Disco . . . and if I think about it, probably a few more.

And why? Because there is nothing like the holidays to just crush your characters. While it's a time of comfort and joy, it's also usually high-stress, and if there are any family issues, nothing like the Christmas season to bring them to the forefront. Why, it was Christmas Eve nine years ago, when we called my in-laws to wish them a Merry Christmas that my significant other's stepfather told him that I was a b**** and he was a piece of . . . well, one of the unmentionable words on the nun's list from last night's post. Merry Christmas to you, too. :-)

At Christmas, you see people alone. I did that in Spanish Disco because Cassie had no one to spend Christmas with. The Christmas season has a way like few others to both pull people into the warmth of the holiday . . . or leave someone out in the cold.

Grief is sharper at the holidays. Yesterday, I found an old picture, and sat in my office and sobbed because of the inexorable march of time. I don't want my parents to get old. It's that simple. And that terrifying sometimes. I talk to my mother every day of my life. I can't even "go there" to the inevitable of life and loss. I lost my beloved Grandma the day before Christmas Eve. I had a miscarriage in November, and always feel a pang before the holidays set in. You just FEEL more at the holidays. At least I do. And don't EVEN get me started on the Christmas movies. Yes, I sob at It's Wonderful Life. Every year. EVERY year.

So Christmas is pressure. But it's the good stuff too. Demon Baby is freaking out over Christmas. In a GOOD uniquely Demon Baby way. At Lowe's getting our Christmas tree yesterday, he was SCREAMING at all the light-up Santas and all that other Ho-Ho crap they sell. Happy, delighted, shrieking screams of joy. So we bought a "Santa house with light show." It plays this vaguely Mexican-sounding song (being as my kids' father is Mexican, we love this stuff--Baby Girl says it reminds her of her "peeps"--oh yeah, she's eccentric that way), and the house lights up like a friggin' airport runway and does a light show. And Demon Baby dances. Not once. Not twice. No, on the 150th time he presses the light show, he's still dancing like a madman while we all want to take a hammer and smash Santa's light show. I heard the Santa House song in my sleep last night. But . . . I love that he is so into it. He brings us all joy. And migraines. But that's the dichotomy of the season.

So . . . ever intentionally stick a holiday into a book? And how jealous are you of my Santa light show playing all day . . . long?

Peace,
E

Sister Erica Of the Banned Word

Did you see this??? I laughed my banned word for rear end off.


Now, there is no way I could ban curse words. I feel a well-placed banned word is sometimes the ONLY word for certain situations. I like my curse words. A lot.

But as a writer? As an editor?


My list would include the bland--pretty, nice, handsome, lovely, beautiful, etc.

My list would also likely include plenty of adverbs.


And then the qualifiers. Very, really, very much, so much, a lot, sort of, kind of, etc.

So . . . any words make your list?

A Quote to Invite . . .

. . . a fight. Perhaps.

In fact, when I found this quote, by one of my favorite writers, I laughed out loud. And I realized, amongst my writer-pals, that we are probably going to fall into one of two camps. One that believes in it . . . and one that doesn't. Ready?

There's no such thing as writer's block. That was invented by people in California who couldn't write.
Terry Pratchett

I love it.

Not the least of the reasons why I love it is he and Neil Gaiman wrote one of my top-ten favorite books--Good Omens. No, I like it because I have to be honest, I've never had writer's block. But I have had months when all I wrote was crap.

There's a difference. I've had weeks where my output was so minimal, and most of it got deleted. I've had weeks when I felt pretty stuck. But those weeks I often worked the hardest--going off alone and trying to figure out how I was going to write myself out of the mess I was in.

But I've never been at a loss for what to write. Blocked. Unable to write.

I've had Demon Baby Weeks from Hell, and weeks on the Infectious Disease Ward. Last week? ZERO output. And oh yes, I have the stomach flu today. Caught from daughter. That sound you hear? Don't even ask. Yesterday was not fun. Today promises to be no better--I may be years from childhood, but I still hate throwing up as if I was four years old. HATE it. But I digress. Demon Baby Weeks and throwing up . . . that entire month with child number two lost to morning sickness . . . that's not writer's block.

So no, I've never had it. It makes, I have to say, for dramatic scenes of writers when they are depicted in the MOVIES. But I've never had it. I've had a friend or two claim to have it. But does it exist?

So weigh in . . . I'll lift my glass of ginger ale here and try to keep from heaving as you do.

Cheers,
E

Wish Upon a Star

Okay, so a simple Google search tells me the Blue Wiggle is worth $100 million. $100 MILLION!!!!!! I don't know whether to wish I could make up songs for pre-schoolers . . . or fto wish or the Blue Wiggle to run away with me.

I also had yet another sleepless night--Oldest Daughter has stomach flu of truly horrific proportions . . . Demon Baby seems to be settling into a case of bronchitis. So this morning, in my delusional sleeplessness, I became enamored of the Conductor on Choo-Choo Soul. The guy is a beat boxer and an amazing dancer. But I wonder if he's worth $100 million.

So with all these thoughts of $100-million-dollar Blue Wiggle Men . . . and delirium for conductors of Choo Choo trains that dance (as in the train dances AND the conductor dances), I got to thinking that while I have fantasies about Choo Choos and Wiggles, I don't have many about writing. Writing, I guess, has always seemed like a LOT of hard work, a LOT of persistence, and a dash of luck. Maybe a few dashes of luck. So I've always set goals, but I never expended much energy "picturing" what it might be like to have my name on a cover--or 20 covers. Or some huge deal . . . or a movie deal or whatever. I spent my energies . . . well, working.

BUT . . . if I could wish upon a star, I suppose it would be really nice to write a book, have it come out, sell millions out of the gate, and be able to take a full year or two to write the next one. Most genre fiction writers don't get that luxury if we're to make a living. I don't think I'd like to be on Oprah . . . except as it pertains to selling millions of copies. I might like to have J.K. Rowling's career. Not the BILLIONS (oh, that would be lovely, but I'm not greedy . . . . ) but the way in which she doesn't make herself that accessible. She doesn't give interviews, and appears to just . . . well, live her life, only far grander. She doesn't seem caught up in the insanity of it.

So just for fun--it being Christmas season and all--do you have any secret or not-so-secret fantasies as it pertains to your career? To Saturday morning cartoon men? Do share.

Shadow Puppets

First, an admission. I was so exhausted this morning as to fall even further into my Blue Wiggle delusion (see yesterday's post). At 6:00 a.m., after Demon Baby awoke me, after yet ANOTHER mostly sleepless night, I actually took note of the fact that Blue Wiggle has a name--Anthony. And he is becoming cuter in direct proportion to how little REM sleep I am getting.

But on to writing. And shadow puppets

No, I am not making shadow puppets. I am talking about character development. More specifically, flaws.



I think of flaws as shadow puppets, made with a character's existing qualities and the way the light casts on them to create a bit of darkness, a shadow.

What do I mean? Well, no one is going to create a main character for us to root for who tortures animals. There's no light there, only sociopathy. Nothing for the light to play off of. I think the best flaws for main characters start as something light reflects off of. Take determination. Most of us admire it. But when creating a flaw, you can adjust the light and play with the shadows to take it further and further along until it's obstinancy. Now it's a flaw . . . take it further still and it can be infuriating pigheadedness. Take it too far into total darkness, and you've lost the shadows and disappeared into them entirely, and now it's a dangerous obsession. Whether your character follows that obsession and then returns to the gray world of shadows, changed but more connected to the light, is the journey you create.

Start with a sense of humor. Cast the shadows just so and now it's an inability to connect with people most of the time except through joking. Pull it into darkness, and it's a vicious biting humor that hurts all who come in contact with it.

The trick, is casting the shadows just right . . . start with the trait as a positive, and then carry it through to the darkness for a flaw. Keep going and the shadows overtake. Depends on how dark you want to go.

I think of Tom in The Roofer. Started with a loyalty to his sister, pulled it into a flaw of blindness to how far he would go to protect her . . . pull it into full shadows of obsession and addiction.

So how do your characters play with light and shadows?

Clinging

Okay, first, as an aside . . . when the blue Wiggle starts looking like a sex symbol to you, you've been home mothering sick kids for WAY too long. Baby Girl, after seeming to bounce back, took a major step backward last night, and I was up all night long with a vomiting child again. The blue Wiggle looks HOT to me today. I think I have finally lost whatever tentative grip on sanity I had.

But back to writing. I have a Buddhist quote for you:

The truth you believe and cling to makes you unavailable to hear anything new. ~Pema Chödrön

Think about this as it applies to your writing.

Some people cling to the "truth" that they "can't" do x or y in their fiction, or they aren't any good at queries, or they can't venture out to a conference and do an agent appointment, or they can't ask writer x to blurb their manuscript. They cling to insecurities that hold them back from any new reality. They fear rejection so much that they hold onto a false vision of truth that pins them, clinging, to the side of a rock, hanging over a precipice. They create truths to support their fears.

Others . . . well, they cling to the idea that they don't need an editor, that they are ready, that they know all there is about craft. Their truth keeps them from taking risks and improving as writers. They stop growing. They surround themselves with newer writers who fawn over them so that their truth is supported. They fancy themselves "editors" or teachers, when we all need editors and teachers ourselves.

Others? They cling to the rumors that spread through this industry like wildfire--that you can't sell a detective story right now, or a historical or a fill-in-the-blank (when really, if a book blew 'em away, you could sell anything at any time), or you have to follow x and y rules to break in. That there even ARE rules (aside from what's in Strunk and White).

And the worst truth to cling to has to do with facing that precipice. Peering down. Because nearly every writer has SOMETHING he or she really doesn't want to face. That, deep down, the current work in progress is a mess and maybe cannot be salvaged. That the voice isn't working. That they are surrounded by yes-men critique partners and there's some cold, hard reality about their writing that they just cannot bear to hear. And so they cling for all it's worth to the safe rock--which really isn't as safe as one might think.

Let go of some truth today. Hear something new.

Thoughts?

What Is Work?

If you want no better example of the difficulty in truly defining what it is a writer does that is "work," look at the WGA strike. All writers on the staffs of sitcoms and shows are required to turn in to the WGA their current scripts-in-progress so that when the strike is over, there cannot "miraculously" two days later be completed scripts. I.e., they are supposed to be STRIKING, not working, and they should not be developing the intellectual property for the shows they are striking against. But, truly, are their brains at rest? If the script writers develop novels, that's fine. But should they not even THINK, for example, about what's happening to the poor Pie-Maker in Pushing Daisies? (My fave show.) Not advance the storyline in their minds?

I struggle, daily, with the perception in my household that I don't really work. Despite the fact that I have, most years, single-handedly supported six people as a writer, if the children are sick, I'm expected to drop everything and stop working to tend them because don't writers, after all, have unlimited sick days? We don't have bosses. Don't answer to a supervisor. We don't punch a clock. We don't make an hourly or weekly paycheck. So we can take off . . . whenever. Right? Lose a week of work to sick kids and sick self . . . I can make it up, right? After all, I can work ANY TIME since my desk is right there in my home office. The implication is I can work ALL the time, and yet . . . it's trivialized because it's not work done in a business suit but work done in pjs. I take the time off. Not the guy I live with. And just so you don't think he's the only jerk . . . my entire extended family--cousins, sisters, parents, aunts . . . anyone with an opinion . . . doesn't think there's a THING wrong with that. Because I work from home. Why would he call in sick when I'm THERE?

If I am researching Faberge eggs, as I am for my new book, it does, indeed, look like I am doing something totally cool. And yes, it's BEYOND awesome that, in essence, I get PAID to think up an idea, do the research, and READ about things that actually INTEREST me. So yes, in some respects, it doesn't feel like work. The old idea that if you follow your passion, you will love getting up to go to work every day for the rest of your life is true. Most of the time I don't wake up on Monday and groan, "Another day at the office." But, despite the fact that I get to read about Faberge eggs . . . in fact, I am WORKING.

Do I sound pissed off? Especially for a peace-loving Buddhist gal like myself? Yeah. I'm pissed. I'm tired of the misperceptions about my career. Not just about MY career, honestly, but about all my friends' careers. My unpubbed friends get it worst of all because hell, isn't it just a HOBBY until you get paid? And I realize that when you use your brain, when it's an amorphous kind of thing . . . it is hard to define the parameters of what's work. I know, for example, that this blog, while not work by any stretch, is my warm-up for the day. I flip out a few hundred words, and I settle myself. So it's usually wake up, pray, wake kids, get showers rolling, blog while chaos reigns, and then . . . then they're all gone--all except the now-infamous Demon Baby, I have somehow settled my brain into what it has to do for the day.

So no, it doesn't LOOK like work. But I am working.

Thoughts?

A Bit of Christmas Fun

Can you tell I am a child of disco? This is a Tiffany Taylor doll. When I was eight or nine, this was my favorite Christmas present. Now, in the picture, she looks like a brunette. But flip the top of her head around? She's a platinum blonde!

Other favorite dolls included the Chrissie doll. Push in her belly button (I can't make this stuff up) and pull on her hair and it magically grows. I also had a Cher doll, a slew of Barbies. I even had the three-story Barbie townhouse with an elevator. Pink townhouse, of course.

But, despite all of the wonders of dolls with rotating heads and hair that you pull on and working elevators, most of the time I asked for books. Yes, a kid who asked for books and not toys.

One Christmas, I asked for this book. My parents kept asking me, "Are you SURE this is what you want?" Because it was a coffee table book, and at the time not cheap, I wasn't going to get a lot of other things. I was POSITIVE I wanted it. And when Santa miraculously left it under the tree (Yes, Erica, there IS a Santa Claus), I remember sitting on my grandmother's couch, just touching the cover. I was afraid to READ it. It was the single most wonderful book in the whole wide world. I kept it pristine for 20 years until a flood in a basement destroyed it--along with a teeny tiny piece of my heart.

I also asked for just about every Nancy Drew ever published. I remember in second grade, learning what "titian"-colored hair was from ol' Nancy.

I remember getting this book. I couldn't find the ancient edition I had--and still have somewhere. I remember my mother reading me Snow White and Rose Red . . . and having this strange sort of revelation that the Disney version of fairytales were nothing like the violent Grimm brothers. In the Cinderella by Grimm and Company, one of the ugly stepsisters CUTS OFF PART OF HER FOOT to fit in the glass slipper and the blood gives her away. How sick is that?

So this year, my oldest daughter wants a Juicy Couture purse. Oldest son wants video games. Baby Girl wants a sewing machine (and sent Santa an EMAIL reminding him, in her words, "I think I’ve been well behaved this year."), and Demon Baby wants anything that makes noise and has a commercial. No Tiffany Taylor slutty disco dolls. No books . . . but they'll probably get a few anyway as they all like to read. Or in Demon Baby's case, be read to.

So how about you? What was on your childhood Christmas list . . . and did BOOKS make the cut?

A Quote

Greetings from the Infectious Disease Ward. Older son has strep. I have strep. My fever has been hovering in the 102-103 range. I am SO glad I cannot transmit the germs around here via cyberspace.

In the spirit of optimism, I have a quote that I think applies to writing--especially if you haven't yet achieved publication and it's still a dream.

Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.

~Martin Luther

Even if you felt publication might not come, wouldn't you still write? Even if I fear my next book is too quirky to be totally embraced, I still wrote it. We still write in the face of overwhleming odds, don't we?

Thoughts?

E

Support

So I am sick as a dog . . . presuming it's strep courtesy of the infectious disease ward in this house, and so this will be brief as I also have a deadline and need to do some polishing, and then hit the sack again. Though I just took a couple of Adv