Blog Guest: My Kid

Baby Girl woke up yesterday, and came downstairs, still in her pjs, still sleepy-eyed. She dug through her backpack and pulled out her notebook. She has been working on a poem (she just turned 10, and the poem is about Virginia, where we live, for her English class).

"I need to change a word. I woke up this morning and had a BETTER word. I don't like how the old word rhymed."

She took her eraser, changed the old word to the new word. I think it's hereditary.

That day at school, she changed three other words until she was happy.

But what stuck with me, was the morning word. How she woke certain of what had to change.

I think I may have a writer.

So without anything further, here is her poem. Then I want you all to give her advice. She is going to take over this blog for the next 24 hours. You tell her what you remember about being a kid writer. About writing stories. What you wished you knew. Anything.

I AM VIRGINIA
Copyright By Bella

I am Virginia, filled with glee
There are various cardinals living in me
Dogwood is my wondrous flower
My flag is filled with remarkable power

George Washington, who was born here,
was president with pride
He even had a confident stride
Although when he was little he cut down the cherry tree
It didn't matter because he became a man of liberty

I am the home of Monticello
Where Thomas Jefferson made many plants grow
He even wrote the Declaration of Independence
A tribute to our country and all its resplendance

Visit me, enjoy my home
May my beauty stay in your heart, wherever you roam

Mood

Music is, besides writing, my kids, reading, knitting, gardening, philosophy, prayer, social activism, physics, math theory, and film . . . one of my passions. But it probably gets bumped way up to the front of the line. I live for music. I consider the iPod a greater contribution to society than traveling to the moon. Much as I also am passionate about astronomy, too. (I can't help being interested in a lot of things.)

And when I write, I sometimes make up playlists, but more often than not, I am aiming for mood. I am aiming, for--and pardon my analogy--those sex songs. You know, the songs that get you THERE. Like in your gut, drop you to your knees songs.

I don't want a soundtrack so much as I want you to FEEL what I feel when I hear:

Velvet Revolver's Fall to Pieces . . . (If a man could sing like that over ME, man . . . life would perhaps be complete)
Howard Shore's entire Eastern Promises soundtrack (melancholy)
Echo and the Bunnyman's Lips Like Sugar (his voice . . . what can I say?)
The Clash (enough said)
Elvis Costello (enough said again . . . the man's a genius)

It isn't words and lyrics. It's what I want you to feel. The shared experience. For whatever reason, that's what I equate to writing. I want to take you there with me.

Anyone else? What sets mood for you? And how does music fit into that? And what are you listening to on the ol' iPod lately?

Transformation

I am one of those people with both incredible good fortune, and incredible calamity. I think of the following story from my life as indicative of pretty much how things go for me. I have Crohn's disease, so each pregnancy has been something of a miracle--and something 99 out of 100 doctors would tell me was foolhardy. Baby #3 started out . . . well, wonderfully. I didn't have nearly the morning sickness as #2, and the Crohn's disease appeared to be staying in remission, again unlike #2. But oddly enough my heart kept skipping beats. Not one or two, but bunches of them, and then it would pound fast to catch up. My "resting" pulse was 120.

LONG story short, an echocardiogram revealed I had a cardiomyopathy, and thus I gave birth with a catheter in my heart. Now (and here's the analogy) . . . a cardiologist can put a Swanz-Gans catheter in with his or her eyes closed. Except mine. Because my NICE cardiologist, the one I liked, DIDN'T get to put it in through some . . . I don't know, privilege issue at the hospital . . . I got the surgeon on call instead. And he, to put it nicely, was a jackass. And so while I was IN LABOR, they tilted me on a table upside down about 45 degrees (imagine being in labor, folks), inserted the catheter in my neck/collarbone, and start threading it to my heart. And then it got stuck. The catheter, which jackass hadn't bothered to check, had a "kink" in it. Entailing me REMAINING in labor, upside down, with half a catheter on its way to my heart, while the "ran" to find another. I was in pain, AWAKE (you are not sedated for a Swan-Ganz) my chest was in pain . . . and well, it was not a highlight of my life. But then, once it was in . . . 20 hours later (thanks to the baby being turned the wrong way), I had a BABY GIRL. One of the four most wonderful things that has ever happened to me. It was worth it. So much so I did it again and ended up with Demon Baby, one of the lights of my life.

But that crooked catheter is always this mental image I have. And like all my analogies, I bring it back to writing. We get stuck. The path is crooked. And we have a choice to get back on the path or . . . well, to get off. To stop writing. To abandon this journey. Which brings me to a wonderful quote from His Holiness, the Dalai Lama:

Encountering sufferings will definitely contribute to the elevation of your spiritual practice, provided you are able to transform calamity and misfortune into the path.

Writers should never expect the work to go smoothly. That's something they don't tell you in college. I don't know about any of you, but I used to be able to whip out essays and short stories for classes with virtually no effort, almost stream of consciousness. Maybe because it was early in my career, maybe because I had this bubbling well of stuff I wanted to set to paper. But no one told me that churning out a novel could lead you places difficult to even write from. Stuck places. Calamity and misfortune.

But in the practice of writing, like life, these crooked spots are to be expected. It's the wise writer who takes a deep breath and elevates himself or herself above the rejection and the crooked place.

And I am late to this party, but you all, by now, know about Liar's Diary. The author has cancer and writers are supporting her by blogging about the book because she cannot do promotion right now. The reviews are wonderful for this book . . . and I've ordered my copy. Support this author, please. Do a compassionate deed today. It'll make you feel good. And then you'll have this great book to read, too.

And thoughts? How do you get through the crooked spots? The calamities. How do you transform the work? Stay focused?

In short, how do you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and keep going?

Phi Beta Writa

I love meeting other writers. It's why I have this blog. Why I have writer pals. Why I had the chat last night. As Liz Wolfe wrote me after the chat, it's almost as fun talking with other writers about writing as it is doing the actual writing.

Especially when I am procrastinating (which is often).

But I think the main reason I love talking about writing is it's the ONE time I feel like I belong. I have wandered my whole life as an outsider, feeling different, feeling eccentric or odd or even lonely. In my head more than in the world sometimes--until I had children (in which case, a Demon Baby who has found a permanent Sharpie pen will pull you into the world faster than you can say "Demon on the loose!"). And constantly . . . and I mean constantly . . . I have this brain that never rests. Other people can zone out. I have to FORCE myself to rest my brain. It's both the most wondrous aspect of my life . . . and the one thing that tires me out sometimes.

Now, when I was in college, I was in Phi Beta Kappa. There was a ceremony. Tuxedos. A velvet dress. A secret handshake. A gold key that I am not even sure where it is anymore. A piece of sheepskin. A banquet. But you know? It wasn't like I "related" to the other people. We didn't all high five each other and go, "Cool, now we're in this club."

Nope. This blog and my critique group are the closest I will ever come to having a crew. A posse. A gang. A sorority. A fraternity. It's the closest I ever come to feeling understood.

It's Phi Beta Writa.

Wanna join?

P.S. Oldest Daughter says this is for losers. But who cares? I'm having a kegger anyway.

Authenticity and Avoidance

First, whatever semblance of control, whatever illusion I once had of some small degree of peace and balance in my house, has been crushed. Demon Baby can now burp on command. Lord help us all. I am sure this is only the beginning of a new phase.

That aside . . . .

I have a work in progress that is on a second draft. I am workshopping it with my group . . . and overall, I am getting decent feedback on it. But I also know that in order to take it to the next level, I have to really dig deeper. In the case of this book, it means examining the motivations of everyone. A highly emotional book about the discovery of a dead baby's skeleton, every reaction I reexamine for authenticity. Every snippet of dialogue. Every glance between characters.

Which is not so different from real life. Almost unconciously we watch others--body language, nuance, the sound of someone's voice. I'm just doing it in the book now. Draft #2 is always when I do that.

The other part of my book that I am looking at is more difficult. I knew on the first go 'round that I avoided a key question. What was my main character's sexuality? Not was she bi or gay or straight, but how did she feel about sex? What kind of sex did she have? Was she open to her partner? And when she has sex in this book with the police detective . . . guess what? I have to take it BEYOND the bedroom door. And not in some romance way. Not in a touch this part. Do this, do that way. It has to be about the harder question of INTIMACY. It's not a romance. It's more women's fiction, I suppose. But in the end, so much of the book is about intimacy. The ways in which we hide parts of ourselves from others. Bury it, like the skeleton.

And let me tell you, I've been avoiding it. Until now here I am at draft #2, and I can't anymore. I've got to delve in. And frankly . . . I would rather avoid it.

I don't think it's that I avoid the questions in my own life. I think . . . and here's where I had to really focus . . . it's that I still am not 100% sure what Cate hides. And for a writer, that's simply not acceptable. So when an editor or agent or critique partner says dig deeper . . . it's this. It's easy to say Cate is lonely and weary, and very wounded. That she has taken up gardening as solace. That her mother emotionally abused her. That her ex-husband wants her back, and she loves him but knows that would be the wrong choice. Blah, blah blah. This is crap you could find out at a cocktail party. Really. In this confessional culture, people will tell you anything about themselves. Heck, they'll do it on TV. It's what we DON'T say. The secrets we don't even admit to ourselves.

There. That's it. That's what my avoidance on this book is. There's not one person, I don't think, who doesn't have something they won't admit even to themselves. And I have to figure out what Cate's is and then weave it in. And Cate is a difficult character. She's got secrets and I am just not 100% sure what they are. So I'd rather . . . oh, download tunes for my iPod. ANYTHING but deal with Cate and her secrets.

Anyone else avoid parts of their book that strike them as . . . too difficult, too honest . . . too raw . . . too close to home?

And thanks to the chatters last night! It was great fun and we'll do it again in a few weeks.

Why? . . . and CHAT!

I watched Half-Nelson with my oldest daughter last night. If you haven't seen it, and you're a film buff, it made it onto many critics' "ten best" lists in 2006. I know why. One of the most compelling, non-preachy perfomances of a drug addict, Ryan Gosling conveyed more with one destroyed look than any scene-chewing actor who might overdo the addict's descent into hell.

But . . . as a writer, one thing fascinated me. My daughter kept asking me WHY? Why is he a drug addict? Why? He's smart. Handsome. Sexual. Smart. Smart (yes, that one kept coming up). And dedicated to his students (he plays a junior high school teacher in an urban area). So WHY?

And really, I had two thoughts. One . . . because. Because he's hard-wired that way. Because addicts simply are pre-disposed to it. And two . . . because. Because he IS so smart and so fascinated by dialectics that within him is the synthesis of drug addict and scholar. (And sorry, if that sounds heavy, you have to see the movie and know a little about dialectic thought.) I think his brilliance made him fragile, because it's tough making it through the world when you are consistently the smartest guy in the room. It makes you see the world differently. And not always in a good way.

But as a writer . . . what I loved is well, you will never know. You are left to interpret and left to debate and wonder. To come to one conclusion and then maybe another one when you think about it a week from now. I think the best books leave you that leeway. The very best of books are often ambiguous.

When we go through high school--at least traditional American education--we're very often asked for the "right answer" in English class. The teacher says "Here . . . here is the symbolism, this is what you should be getting out of this scene." But really, the work of teaching someone how to read a work of literature should be leading them into a thick forest and then leaving them there. Let THEM find the path out--and the evidence to support their view. Because the real answer very often is a giant maybe.

Thoughts?

AND DON'T FORGET tonight's chat at 10:00 p.m. E.S.T. We have eight or so participants so far--room for more. Don't be shy if you're a conistent lurker here. Send me screen names. Also, make sure you have your AIM open from say, 9:45 p.m. E.S.T. on. I will probably work at my desk from about noon on here . . . so I will leave on my AIM in case you want to say "hi" and make sure you're all set. My screen name is ericawrite5. Send me a hello.

The chat will be focused on . . . well, hey, a party among writers. And also about kick-starting our writing for 2008, what we're working on, support and encouragement, and then all-around B.S. The best kind of chat.

So hope to "see" a lot of you tonight. Keep writing, gang. And chime in with your thoughts on ambiguous books and endings.

Do You Talk to Yourself?

In honor of Saturday, of fun, I am going to pass around some mimosas for brunch here at the blog. And tell you, I have officially LOST IT. My mind.

See, writers spend a LOT of time alone. We spend a LOT of time in our heads. There are some tell-tale signs when you've cracked. You've spent TOO much time alone. TOO much time with characters speaking to you. When that deadline is looming a little TOO closely.

So here's mine.

Yesterday, I picked up one of my dogs from the vet after she was neutered (and ladies and gentlemen . . . she was essentially a rescue dog--spay and neuter your pets!). She's a tiny little thing, and so, so sweet. And I naturally am babying her post-surgery. And I was talking to her . . . and I lapsed into speaking about myself in third person. AND I called myself "Mommy"--to my dog. It's not like I don't already have FOUR actual HUMAN children.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love my dog. I love all my dogs (I have three . . . Dreamer and her "twin" adoptee, Cosmo--littermates--and disobedient corgi, Chip). And I do talk to them. But usually, it's more like, "Come. Sit. Here's dinner. Let's go. Time for our walk." I sometimes will say, "Chip, where did I put my car keys?" I seem to think he'll tell me one day.

But this was different. "Mommy is going to get you a nice soft blanket. Mommy needs to make dinner for the kids. Mommy needs to do some laundry." I mean, first of all, who is this Mommy person? And second . . . does the DOG need to discuss this with me?

This is deadline time. And now I know I'm losing it.

Anyway else have telltale signs they're cracking under pressure? And . . . more importantly, I just gotta know . . . how many writers talk OUT LOUD (in the head doesn't count) to themselves? Or their pets? And what kind of conversations are you having?

There could be a collective Baker Act hearing.

Romantic Gestures

Here's a fun list of the Screening Room's Top Ten Romantic Moments (not whole movies--the moments within them).

I agree with some of them. I did like that moment in Lost in Translation. However, I think one of my all-time favorite film romantic moments, in a totally quirky oddball film (my favorite kind) was when Herman Blume (Bill Murray) broke ground for the aquarium in Rushmore, prodded by his nemesis/matchmaker Max (Jason Schwartzman).

It's a sign of the pathetic nature of my life that at this point in time, I would find it a very grand romantic gesture if someone said, "YOU sleep, honey, I will clean up the puking child, change the sheets, and start the laundry from this sexy midnight rendevous of stomach flu."

When I think of my books, I like romantic gestures along the lines of Rushmore. Not flowers and wine and so on (ho-hum), but buying someone a beautiful teaset even though you know she will never use it . . . just because you know she will find it beautiful (Spanish Disco). Or creating a garden for her (Diary of a Blues Goddess). Or even holding her head while she pukes (Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven?). And are you, like me, wondering about this vomit theme?

A man once offered to buy me a black sable (I think hoping I would lie naked on it). Gentlemen . . . NEVER offer to buy an animal lover a fur. My favorite romantic gesture though wasn't a man I dated for more than a lunch or two. He was a French cabbie, and for whatever reason, he was smitten (I think because I am ALWAYS nice to cabbies in NYC and offer them candy . . . it's an awful, stressful job, so I always come prepared with chocolates, which endears me to many a cabbie). However, this cabbie invited me to lunch a couple of times, and ever after, for months, if it was pouring at 5:00 p.m. when I left for the 20-block walk to my train station, his cab was waiting curbside to whisk me away, dry and warm--without asking, without anything--he was just there. I found that utterly charming, but alas he moved back to Paris. So if, Michele, you chance to read my blog . . . Bon Soir.

So . . . you writers . . . what romantic gestures are your characters capable of?

Dark and Scary Places . . . and A CHAT!

First, my topic for the day. I didn't write The Roofer until I had finished and sold a romantic comedy (Spanish Disco). The Roofer was the second novel I ever wrote. It was also the darkest novel I've ever written. And even though I had sold Red Dress Ink two or three more books under contract (titled "Orloff #2 and Orloff #3 . . . i.e., I had no idea what they were going to be), and I assumed they wouldn't buy The Roofer (they actually didn't--MIRA books did), I had to write it--even with those comedy deadlines hanging over my head. But I think it was a book I had somewhat put off writing for a while--it was rolling around my head in some variation for a couple of years--because I was AFRAID . . . of how dark and scary it was. And I was afraid that if I went someplace that dark I wouldn't come back.

Right now, you can't turn on the news without hearing about the sad and untimely passing of Heath Ledger. Yesterday, Daniel Day-Lewis apparently "broke down" while taping Oprah's show about the Oscars, in sadness over Ledger. They had never met. But anyone who follows film (and I am an insane film buff) knows Day-Lewis is beyond Method acting. He disappears into roles, and has a hard time shaking them off. Probably the most acclaimed and reclusive actor of his generation, he is said to "lose himself" in roles, often going to a dark, dark place and even depression. As an artist, I think he related to Ledger--who supposedly, too, had a tough time shaking his demons especially while filming the new Batman and playing the Joker dark and schizophrenic. Of course, most of this is speculation.

However, when my mom and I were discussing it, I did say to her that it's sometimes something creative types don't talk about. You can go someplace dark, access a darker part of yourself and then find it lingering after you should return to your real life. After I finished The Roofer, I pulled the shades and didn't talk to anyone but my family and best friend for a solid two weeks. I didn't want to get out of bed. I just felt "stuck" where Tom was in that bed in the last few scenes. And part of me, creatively, knew I had just done something really good, so maybe I didn't want to quite shake him. In fact, he is, as some long-time blog readers know, my favorite character ever. I don't see him in the same light readers do. I see him as a Christ figure.

Anyway . . . there's a part of me that knows, really knows, get over it. There's enough horrible REAL stuff in the REAL world. So I don't talk about this much. Because I just don't stay in that dark and scary place for long. I don't indulge it. But I certainly know, a little, that the darkness is there if writers let it in sometimes. Maybe that is why I have intentionally written comedy for some balance. That and I am probably a repressed stand-up comic who hates talking to audiences and channels it, instead, into my writing. But I know dark. I do.

Thoughts? Do you sometimes worry about getting "into character" too deep? That it will pull you in and not let go?

AND . . . I'm aiming for a chat in real time on AIM (AOL Instant Messenger), Sunday 10:00 P.M. E.S.T. to discuss the week of writing for Mary's Challenge, and even if you didn't write a damn page for it, to chat about writing and life. Now . . . the always kind-to-me Ewoh, who takes pity on my technological challenges, has told me how to do it. You'll have to email me at erica@ericaorloff.com to tell me your screen name. AIM is a free download, so I hope you all can make it. I will send you back an invite to the room on Sunday night, 10:00 p.m. EST. Now, if I screw it up, take pity on me, but I think I'm going to be OK. Try to email me your screen name by Saturday night so I can confirm it's all a go.

And again . . . have you ever feared where your writing was taking you?

Who's That Girl?

So this was my photographer yesterday. She works with a totally cool camera and film--not digital. She had lights from the 1940s . . . very fun. And in the sad turn of events of my life, turns out I DID need someone to dress me and she arrived with bags and BAGS of clothes, jewelry, and shoes. And she was pregnant and I gave her my favorite maternity outfit. And my makeup artist probably had 500 makeup brushes (of which Oldest Daughter and I were envious), palettes and palettes of colors and so on. And I am trying to set her up with one of my best guy friends, so if she's reading this . . . I'm telling you, he is VERY cute.

So here was the thing . . . when all was said and done, and my photographer gave me some Polaroid test shots (the real pictures are off to the magazine), I look part-Asian--distinctly so. The makeup artist had been saying that . . . and my hair was done in a straightened "China doll" style, which is how it's cut right now. And it was so funny to me, because I saw my heritage on my face. My father's mother always looked Asian--a diminutive Russian, she had the cheekbones and facial shape of, what I presume, was genes from Mongolia, from ancestors way past. People always used to say she looked like the Soviet Georgians from the old Dannon yogurt commercials (remember those?). And then mixed with that is my Slovakian side, high cheekbones, strong noses. Because the photos were so crisp, so artistic, not like family photos, I saw not ME, but . . . me going back into my lineage.

Which was cool.

And of course it got me thinking about writing, and how often I bring into it the flavor of family and bits of who I am. The Russian father in The Roofer. And the women? My heroines, they are often unmistakable in their appearance--Italian, Irish, Russian. Georgia Ray--who did regret her hair but was cool with her curviness--was bi-racial. There is some, I guess, when I write, some sense of clan, of coming from somewhere--some family that defines you. I don't have brown-haired, brown-eyed heroines and leave it at that. The thread of identity is woven through.

In my latest wip, the hero-boy is Russian. His nickname is Koyla, and the clan defines him. It's thematically, despite being a fantasy trilogy, about an American boy pulled into the embrace of the people he didn't know he had. Of finally finding a sense of belonging. That theme is resonating with each page I write during Mary's challenge.

My kids are funny . . . they very much identify themselves as Mexican, or Mexican-American. They are VERY proud of that. And my family, they know is Polish and Russian. But the three older ones also thought my dad was African American. I am talking that my OLDEST daughter thought I was half black until she was 12. It never occurred to her that my father WASN'T black. My next two kids were the same. They mistook his dark Russian appearance for being of African origin. And because I insist they identify people as "flesh-colored," it never dawned on them for a second that we weren't part black--this despite two of them are blue-eyed and one turned out looking Irish. Which I guess says as much about how prejudice is born of parents . . . because they never learned to see race the way some people do.

So, anyway, is heritage part of your characters? And is it your heritage? Or do you research other cultures? And what traits do you think it imbues your characters with?

Outsourcing My Laundry

I was pouring my coffee this morning, which I take very light, and thought of a story that circulated in NYC years ago. It may be B.S., but the rumors making the papers were Calvin Klein was so hard on his assistants that one of them made up a Pantone color guide for the EXACT shade of tan his coffee should be each morning. And woe to the moron who messed it up.

So, staring at my coffee, I thought, "Wouldn't it be great? A perfectly color-matched cup of coffee delivered to my desk each day."

Which reminds me of the American commercial (sorry you guys from overseas) with "Sven" in which he gets everyone in the family up and ready for the day. I need a Sven. An assistant so capable that I don't have to think about those activities of daily living. So that my very next need is anticipated.

So just for fun . . . is there any task right now, as a writer juggling a day job or four kids or whatever . . . that you would just love to have taken care of? What would you outsource?

Me? Laundry. Emptying the dishwasher (which I currently outsource to Oldest Son, so perhaps I would just continue that arrangement). Definitely coffee perfectly matched to the Pantone color chart--just because I CAN. (Evil laugh!)

I would outsource all chauffeuring of my children. HATE errands. I'd love to have my hairdresser blow out my hair a couple of mornings a week. Filing. Can't seem to manage that. In fact, someone to run my office . . . would love it.

So tell me, writers, what would you outsource? Get creative. Like . . . I would love someone to be Demon Baby's Bodyguard. You know how rock stars have "sobriety companions" to keep them out of trouble? Well, Demon doesn't have a crack pipe problem, but he could definitely use someone to keep him from all sorts of trouble. Like yesterday, I came home and was greeted (swear) with "Demon Baby let your bird out of the cage and painted him."

"Painted him? With what?"

"Watercolor paints. Just the beak."

Oh, yes. A Demon Baby Bodyguard.

Anyone else?

Overactive Imagination

So today, Lydia the Python, who lives in my son's bedroom, came out from under her rock cave, and poked her head up to the lid of her tank. As if she was trying to escape. The tank is locked. But nonetheless, I took one look at this and said, "Lydia's got to go." Which was greeted by protests by my family, all of whom love Lydia for some ridiculous reason that I cannot yet fathom.

Now, to be clear, Lydia is a ball python. Her head is smaller than my thumb. They are docile snakes, perfect for "first-time" snake owners. She will max out at about 3.5-4.5 feet. And she absolutely FREAKS ME OUT. I envision her escaping, slithering to my bed, wrapping around my neck, and killing me in my sleep. I cannot be any clearer about how much I HATE THIS SNAKE. But my son is the kid in the family who never, and I mean never, asks for anything. This totally mellow math genius . . . so when he asked for a snake, I said okay. There was a small amount of begging involved. But when we got Lydia . . . she was the size of a pencil. Now? She is the size of my son's ARM!

Little did I realize how this is NOT the pet for a writer. Not the pet for someone with an overactive imagination.

Because that's my brain. On hyperdrive all the time. It's not enough to think, "The snake might escape one day." No, I have to go to some Anaconda-esque horror movie scenario. Like going from 0 to 50 in 1.3 seconds. That's my brain.

I think the creepy man up the street with the too-clean porch, without ANY adornment, neat as a pin house . . . he's a serial killer. He peeks out from behind his curtains. I KNOW it. He's got livers chillin' in his fridge.

It's like a profession, making this stuff up. Oh . . . yeah . . . I'm a writer. That's what I do.

So how about you? Any scenarios that run through your mind? And anyone want a free python?

Threatening

First . . . a Buddhist quote.

A further sign of health is that we don't become undone by fear and trembling, but we take it as a message that it's time to stop struggling and look directly at what's threatening us.
~Pema Chodron

I freely admit, I have trembled at facing a book. Facing a deadline. I have. I have trembled at sending proposals to editors--pouring my heart into an idea and then knowing an editor has the power to reject it out of the gate. I recently talked with a writer friend about how rejections don't stop because you're published. It's just the tenor changes. Now it's your numbers are weak, your readers expect x, this isn't hot anymore, this is too deep for commercial fiction, I didn't like this character because she's too b*tchy, women won't buy this, men won't buy this, teens won't buy this. Take your pick. I can tremble over things like that.

Sometimes I fear I am not "writer enough" for the idea I have. It all seems so perfect in my head, but when it gets there up on my computer screen, I cringe.

But really, it's not the work, the editor, the agent, the rejection, the deadline. It's the fear behind it that threatens us.

The fear of pain (of rejection), of facing the idea that we have to work harder, that maybe we're not as talented as we thought we were and then what does THAT mean, the fear that we've poured so much TIME into something that perhaps will not come to be no matter how much we want it, the fear that our habits of procrastination and disorganization will be our undoing and we simply won't make the deadline. All those external things that we tremble in the face of . . . we must stop struggling against. What is REALLY there?

I often think of Buddhism, of philosophy, of faith, of listening for the still small voice that is God, as going into a damp forest and turning over a rock and shining a flashlight at all the creepy millipedes under there. We have to face the ugly stuff, but if we leave the rock turned over for long enough, something wonderful will happen. Because eventually, the sun will arc over the forest and a little of its light will filter down through the leaves and touch the formerly hidden earth. The millipedes will squirm away, and we will be left with some rich soil in which to dig our fingers.

So . . . what threatens you? What makes you tremble? What are you facing today?

Only You

So much to post, where do I begin. Oh yeah. At the MOST important thing. THE GIANTS WON IN OVERTIME!!!!! All is right with my world today. As an aside, I think it's fairly telling that even though they usually break my heart, I have remained loyal to my Men in Blue all these many years. My heart is bursting today. And in honor of it, Baby Girl and I are going to get our nails done today . . . and she will have the wonderful salon owner, who thinks she's cute as a button, paint her nails blue and white. I will try to post a picture tomorrow. If you think I am shutting up about the Giants until Superbowl . . . well, gang, you just don't know me. I've got two glorious weeks of unadulterated joy to bask in.

Two . . . for those writers participating . . . don't forget to get your butt over to Mary's blog today. Even if you're not participating, you can send us gluttons for punishment a word of encouragement or two. And email her tonight with your page or word count. I have a dinner party tonight, so it's entirely possible my count will be pitiful for the day. We'll see.

Three, a quote about writing from Elie Wiesel:

Write only if you cannot live without writing. Write only what you alone can write.

In March I am giving a presentation on writing for the young adult genre at a conference. And while I happily agreed to do it . . . (and if anyone feels like driving to the Richmond, Virginia area to attend, give a yell) . . . when I start putting my presentation folders together, I am often struck by how inadequate it is to try to explain to people how to write what sells, how to write for a certain genre, etc. Because even though I have a command of the mechanics of it all, even though I have worked as an editor for years, as a writer for years, I am ever aware that the real magic happens when writing calls to you. And the thing that will elevate your writing is that story that ONLY YOU can write. It will never be about seeing what's hot in the marketplace and then writing that story. It will always be about writing YOUR story, informed by your life and experiences and passions and interests.

I once mentored a writer who wrote a phenomenal book about a detective, but we all know that's tough to sell. I believed in him, this writer, but I also knew the detective hadn't quite gelled. I couldn't really come up with anything that I, as reader, could say to someone if I was to describe the detective other than "family man, really smart." And THAT isn't going to sell. The plot was great . . . and I genuinely liked the detective, but there was a "so what" editorially.

So the writer started adding quirks. He toyed with the detective being a gambling addict. A recovering alcoholic. X or y. And in the end, I didn't think it much mattered because the writer was tacking traits on instead of somehow digging really, really deep and finding something that ONLY he could write.

When you start tweaking tics . . . start tweaking nuance, I usually feel you are dooming a book. The specialness has to come blazing out of the gate with a roar. The story only you can tell. I can't teach that.

Thoughts? Do you write from that place? The story only you can tell?

Be Nice to Your Bartender

There's a fairly consistent thread in all my books. Be nice to your bartender.

And no, not so he or she pours you a heavy drink. Be nice to your bartender or server, the person who slings your eggs at the diner, the man who delivers your Chinese food . . . be EXTRA nice, not because they can spit in your food (though that is wise advice because of it), but because I have done that job--bartender, waitress, blackjack dealer--on my feet, a single mother, tired and worried if I didn't get enough tips I wouldn't be able to pay my mortgage. I've been there and KNOW how hard it is to get by hustling tips. I know how hard it is to be nice to people even when they are condescending and think they are better than you are. I will always have a soft spot in my heart for soldiers, because they invariably would hear I was a single mom at this one bar I worked at, and would slip me an extra twenty for diapers, and tell me I reminded them of my kid sister and I should find a nice guy to take care of me instead of having to work until 2:00 a.m.

And so . . . in my books, there are often waiters and waitresses and bartenders. I set scenes in restaurants. And there is a line in the sand. If you see a character be at all demeaning to a server or bartender in my books, chances are he or she is going to get killed off. Because there is NOTHING (or at least not many things) I loathe more than people who treat service people like crap--and that includes housekeepers, hotel chambermaids, bellhops and so on. I have refused to return phone calls after dates from men who I felt condescended to service people. Life is WAY too short for men like that in my life. WAY too short. And so . . . that's this little thing that somehow ends up in all my books. It's a Philosophy of How You Treat People, if you will.

Other little quirky things that end up in my books? Characters who put ketchup on scrambled eggs. If they do? They can be trusted. It's a NYC thing. We ALL do it from Manhattan and that area. And so somehow, I make the good guys like their eggs that way.

People who get down on one knee in my books to look a child in the eye to converse with the child? Definitely the good guy.

Geeks who can fix computers? Good guys. I LOVE geeky men. Pocket protectors are kind of cute. If they love MATH? Oh . . . very sexy.

What else? My characters often light candles in cathedrals regardless of their faith. My characters all pray. I know that seems weird since romantic comedies or women's fiction don't often have people who pause to pray--but they do in my books.

Nan in Diary of a Blues Goddess? She said, "If God takes you to it, he'll take you through it." My characters have faith.

Drag queens? Always sweetie-pies. Based on a queen or two I know. (As I wave hi.) Gay marriage? Makes it in there sometimes. Lilies of the Valley? ALWAYS the flower of choice of characters. Gardenias? The scent my characters love.

My books aren't me. But I'm there all the way through in the way bits of me drift in. So how are YOU present in your pages???

And ladies and gentlemen? Tip your bartender well!

Silent Suitcases . . . and Who's In?

First, a word about showing not telling. I watched Infamous last night. Toby Jones was brilliant. And there's this marvelous shot where Truman Capote and Harper Lee, his best friend (did you know that, all you Mockingbird fans?), are at a train station in Kansas. He has a pile of suitcases almost as tall as he is. She has two. The shot is silent--no music, no voiceover, nothing. And I thought it was brilliant. Instead of endless talk, talk, talk about how he was vain, one shot did it all. In writing . . . I look for those silent suitcase moments.

Second, and more important, are you in?

Here's the little back story. Mary Castillo is one of the most generous-of-spirit writers I have ever had the pleasure to meet in cyberspace. One of these days, we'll meet in person, but until then, this is how we "met."She reached out to me one night a while ago to say she had written this review of "Do They Wear High Heels in Heaven?" on her blog (January 15th entry). I was touched because her review hit on aspects of the book that were personally meaningful to me--themes and thoughts I had about my own characters. She "got" it, and by extension, me. Then I read In Between Men, and I laughed, and I related . . . sometimes our inner goddess gets blurred and lost by motherhood and respectability. Of course, I'm not terribly respectable--but I related, believe me.

We wrote each other emails. I learned about Little Dude and saw pictures of that cutie. I sent her JPEGs of Demon, and the computer wires didn't even catch on fire. Mary is a hero of mine. She's Wonder Woman. She gives back to writers and to students (she's a new mentor to high school kids). She's the real deal.

AND SO, Mary is having a "Book In A Week" on Chica Lit, her blog. You can read how it works. We don't REALLY write a book in a week (though, as she says, if you want to, vaya con Díos). We set a page goal and go at it for a week, offering some support, checking in daily with our page count. On Saturday, we hoist a glass of cyber-champagne no matter how we did. It's a way to kick-start that book, or to keep up with your New Year's Resolutions. Or to just come play with me over on Mary's blog.

And I thought . . . and this may not work . . . but if enough of you all are in, and someone with FAR superior technical ability that I could somehow set up a chat room for us, or if we all shared IM names, we could set up a celebration next Saturday, or even a daily check-in. As an utter techno-failure (yes, Ewoh, I still don't know how to set the alarm clock timer on my coffee maker) . . . that's optional. But in the meantime, if you are in, I'd love to see you on Mary's blog.

Have a great Saturday, gang, and tell me . . . how do you show not tell?

Wrong

Sometimes, when Demon Baby sleeps, I peer through the bars of his crib and hope one day I am not peering through the bars at him here. But, given his high degree of intelligence, I am thinking even IF he one day rips off the Federal Reserve, he'll be the criminal mastermind that gets away and lives in the Caymans. And in the meantime, I like watching him sleep.

And there's another thing. You see, when it's time for him to go to sleep, I take him upstairs and I read him a book. Usually, there is a tremendous amount of negotation on precisely HOW MANY books he gets. I aim for 2. He aims for 22. We meet in the middle.

Then, I put him in his crib. I have him fold his hands and I give him a prayer to recite. Something along the lines of "Angels watch over me. Help me to sleep well and grow. Amen." On bad days, something more like, "Angels, help me to be a good little boy, not a follower but a leader, but less gray hair for Mom in the meantime." Something simple. Easy. A conversation, not rote.

Then I lie down on the bed next to him, and we hold hands through the bars. (Like I said, sometimes I wonder if one day it'll be Plexiglass, but for now . . . .) And then usually in about five minutes, he falls alseep. Completely peacefully.

Now, every parenting book in the entire universe will tell you this is THE most screwed-up way to get your kids to go to sleep. But in my GUT, something tells me he will be a tiny little Demon Spawn for so short a time, it'll be over in the blink of an eye, and there is no way I would rather him fall alseep than to feel someone he loves holding his hand until slumber takes over. When morning comes, he storms into my bedroom like a Demon Baby out of Hell, and climbs into my bed for a cuddle, though lately, I am usually off walking, in which case, he picks a sibling and climbs in with them for a snuggle.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. They have whole BOOKS devoted to how wrong this is. FERBERIZE 'em! And you know what? F*ck the books.

Which applies to writing.

You see, for everything you want to try (writing your first book in first-person, starting with dialogue, whatever) . . . someone, some book, some writing teacher, hell, some BLOGGER will tell you it's wrong. I may even screw up once in a while and say something is the wrong way--but I don't think often. Usually, my response is "it's all in the execution." Because it is.

As a mother, I trust my gut. Nearly 100% of the time. I've never read a book on mothering. I don't buy self-help because nearly every self-help author I ever edited was pretty much on the upper end of the human toxicity scale. They can just talk a good game. I go with my gut, not someone else's. When Demon Baby wants his toenails painted, I paint them. I paint them black so it's more "manly" to appease certain family members, but I don't think I'm scarring the kid for life because he wears Pirate Toenail Polish (which is what Demon Baby and I call it).

As a writer, I trust my gut, too. I "know" innately when something's not working. I can edit people's work. I can "teach" writing. But I can't teach gut instinct.

The only way to learn to trust it is to write. A LOT.

When I was 16, I thought every short story I wrote was worthy of publication. Most of it was self-involved torturous drivel. As I continued writing, I learned I had raw talent, but that every story I wanted to tell wasn't necessarily worth telling. In other words, though I never saw a therapist, writing was acting as my therapy. Who wants to read that? For God's sake, I sure don't. I learned to cut through the crap and find a STORY to tell. With every passing year, my instinct grew. I learned craft, I became an editor, I began ghostwriting and writing for magazines. I edited more and more . . . and . . . the craft only helped hone the instinct.

So, like falling alseep with Demon Baby, I think sometimes you just gotta go with your gut. There isn't "wrong." Sometimes . . . there's just that still small voice. The more you trust it? The louder and more confident it becomes.

Thoughts?

What Do You Need?

If the comments after my last post are any indication, the readers of my blog need sex. But that's not what we're going to talk about today. Oh . . . maybe a little. (I can't control your comments . . . so . . . )

Next Wednesday, a national magazine is flying people in from NYC to shoot me. As in a portrait, not guns. Apparently, they send one photographer, one assistant to said photographer, hair and makeup. And yesterday, the utterly lovely woman who is corresponding with me over this photoshoot, wrote me an email asking, "Would you like me to send a stylist?"

Have you spit out your coffee yet? I could have gotten a little snarky and written back, "Why? To choose between the ten identical black shirts hanging in my closet, or the three identical white blouses from the Gap?" Instead, I did what any self-respecting woman with really bad clothes does. I called Oldest Daughter, whose wardrobe drips with labels like Ralph Lauren, Juicey Couture, Chanel, Steve Madden, Dolce and Gabanna, and Coach. She lives for clothes, and as a perfect teeny little size, she always looks incredible. Her response? "Hell yeah, have them send a stylist." Then, "Oh good, let's go shopping."

Now, just to be clear, I have a bunch of fancy clothes for signings and book parties, but this isn't what the photoshoot requires. I need something nice, but casual. And having been shot for a couple of magazines before, I know they like "color" not black. So I wrote back, "Yeah, in some pathetic turn of events in my life, turns out I need someone to dress me."

I do. And that is when being utterly honest with oneself comes in handy. I know what I need.

And here we go . . . back to the writing. You see . . . in my writers' group, I have a brilliant writer who, when I meander, hauls my meandering writing ass back on the trail. I have an equally brilliant woman who can spot a cliche from 100 pages off. She also has a way with the poetry of words and description that awes me. I suppose they think I bring something to the table, too, or we wouldn't still be meeting all these years later. I know what I need. My guess is they know what they need.

I meet writers who don't believe in critique partners and groups. And that's fine. But then, truly, the need for self-honesty is even stronger. Like people who quit drinking or shooting up without A.A. or N.A. Can it be done? Sure. Absolutely. But without a bunch of people to tell your sorry ass when you're being an ass? Makes it more difficult, I suppose. We all find ways to delude ourselves. Our blind spots.

I sometimes smile (all right, I sometimes smirk) when I see people offering editing services. Because some of them have no business doing so. Editing is an art. You often get what you pay for. And just because someone has a degree in English doesn't mean they are capable. I've been an editor for 20 years. A ghostwriter. I've written 20+ books, have contracts for 7 more. But . . . I STILL need an editor. I still need my critique group. I still need someone to seize my pretty little phrases sometimes and say, "Yeah, this is really beautiful . . . but it doesn't belong here."

Don't delude yourself. As humans, we all need something. As writers, we all do, too. The fearless person looks in the mirror and says, "I know what I need" not "I can do it all by myself."

So . . . what do you need?

Chasing Sunrise

I chase sunrise every morning.

My alarm is set for 6:00 a.m., but I usually get up at 5:30 because my brain just works that way. I get dressed in my walking clothes. Right now, where I live, it's cold enough to take your breath away, so I've been wearing these ridiculous Lycra pants that make me look like an ice skater. I wear one of those shirts that bicyclists wear. So basically, I am a walking ice-skating/cyclist--at least fashion-wise. I grab my iPod, which has a playlist for my walk, and grab Cosmo (not a cosmo, but my dog, Cosmo) and hit the road.

When we leave the house, it's so dark you can't make anything out. No streetlights around here. I can see my breath, of course, and off Cosmo and I go to chase sunrise. You see, I want to see sunrise in ONE spot on my walk. It's a completely unobstructed view, and lately sunrise has been pink and fuscia, and it rises on this vista to my left, and we usually hit it just so.

Not today.

You see, Demon Baby has a hidden stash. I am pretty sure it contains one bottle of red nail polish, a water color set, one paint brush, his sister's car keys, an old cellphone, assorted money (though maybe Oldest Daughter took it--she's been known to consider dollar bills lying around fair game) . . . and the thing I use to wear my iPod on my arm. So pre-dawn, I was searching, gave up, and put my iPod in my pocket. When we find Demon's stash, it'll feel like I found pirate treasure. But nonetheless, I left my house about five minutes later than I usually do.

So we missed sunrise in our "spot." I tried not to. We ran up the first hill at full speed to gain time. But we missed it. I don't know if Cosmo was disappointed or anything. He's usually just pretty content to try to pee on every tree we pass. But my heart dipped a little. We saw sunrise at a different spot, and it wasn't as good. Too many trees block the view.

(Bear with me, I do have a writing point . . . .). So it was on the way home. We hit this different spot, and I look to my left, and I see a pink-purple sky, still with stars in it, and stark trees, leaves long dropped, and it was, without a doubt, as pretty as my and Cosmo's usual sunrise. It was already light, had been for twenty minutes now, so this was just early morning beauty. And at precisely that moment, my favorite song came on my iPod.

It's the Cure. Pictures of You. And the lyrics started.

i've been looking so long at these pictures of you
that i almost believe that they're real
i've been living so long with my pictures of you
that i almost believe that the pictures are all i can feel

And then I remembered. My grandfather visited me last night. THAT was one reason I woke so early. He's been dead for 28 years, but I still have moments where the grief knocks the breath out of me as harshly as the cold wind when I first step out of the door in the dark. But every once in a while, and I'm talking maybe every other year, I have a dream about him so vivid, I feel as if he's really come to me in my sleep. And it reminded me of the song.

And then (here's the writing thing) . . . I was just so glad to be alive. I mean, smiling, tears in my eyes glad. It was just this extraordinary inner moment. Because I realized that for whatever reason, when the gods handed out gifts, I got writing.

I didn't get singing.

Nor cooking. (My poor children!)

I didn't get the ability to play a musical instrument with any particular talent (Oldest Daughter got that).

Athletic aptitude is about none.

I don't play chess well. (Oldest Son got that.)

Can't draw worth a damn. (Baby Girl got that one.)

Don't have a talent for mayhem. (Demon Baby was given that one in abundance.)

But I got writing. And I got this way I see the world. In pictures. And then I feel them. And then I write them. And it's a movie in my head all the time so it's almost real. And that is as good as chasing sunrise each day.

A friend I respect a lot sent me something yesterday about how getting published won't change your life. How chasing that dream, once attained . . . well, it won't get you laid and it won't make you rich. And I agree. For me, it's the inner journey I treasure.

How about you?

True

Alcoholics drink. Liars lie. Demon Babies? They are fascinated with things like the trajectory of saliva. But because they are Demon Babies with extraordinary powers of Demonology, they aren't like mere mortal babies who study the physics of saliva trajectory as it applies to spit hitting sidewalk. No, Demon Babies are interested in the trajectory of saliva entering the ear canal of sleeping mothers. But you're not surprised, are you?

Moving on . . . children giggle. Flowers bloom. The sun rises. Every day. But people? Well, ministers pray. Buddhist monks chant. Chefs cook. A helluva lot better than I do. Crack addicts steal and lie. People . . . tend to be true. True to who they are.

Sometimes, it may seem, I am sure my dad would say, as if I am hopelessly optimistic. WHY on earth would I think saving a single teen mother from a life of crack and poverty by mentoring her as she studies and makes dean's list, will make one damn bit of difference. There's a cesspool of poverty in this country. ONE will not make a difference. But pessimists? They're pessimistic. They are true to that. So I expect him to believe that. And that's OK. Me? I'm a realist. I'm NOT an optimist. I know people are true to themselves. That Demon Babies love the physics of saliva trajectory, that drug addicts will steal your car to buy drugs, that . . . you get the idea. But I choose, I guess, to think starting with ONE is okay. It's enough. For now. Then you can start with another one. And then one . . . and . . . it's not optimism. I think it's TRUE.

What brings on this whole discussion? Well, I went to see JUNO last night. For me, it totally lived up to the hype. But what amazed me, in terms of script and character, was how TRUE it was. Because people in the movie remained true to who they really are. The stepmother character was remarkably three-dimensional. She loved a man, married him, got an unusual stepdaughter in the mix, and kept as tight a lid as she could on the whole situation. She wasn't bad--she just . . . well, got Juno for a stepdaughter and did the best she probably could. And then she had moments--these amazing moments--of championing this girl (no spoilers here . . . ). And it wasn't like a Hollywood movie where music swells and everyone is all happy and rosy and wonderful and everything is fixed. We're never "all" fixed. Not ALL.

And to me, when writing character, that's what's true. Too often, it's easy to give everything a happy ending in a neat little bow, to solve the crime and fix it all. But what's true? In my first novel, Spanish Disco, do you know I actually heard from more than a few readers who said, "I am your new biggest fan because you actually wrote a romantic comedy that ended with the word 'testicles'"? No easy feat. I started the book with an analogy to bloody bodies scraped off the pavement of I-95 like roadkill possums. Along the way, Cassie Hayes changed. She learned to cry. She learned to love people a little. To try to trust. But she also had to grieve something she thought she could never grieve. She was changed, for the better. But she was also true. Because she didn't suddenly have an epiphany and become someone else. She was her. True. Using phrases like, "Touch a word of this manuscript and I'll cut off your testicles." From page 1 to the end, she was true.

People spout, to writers, to be "true." To stay true to character. Sometimes that's not easy. There's a temptation to veer from truth. Usually, what's true is a shade of gray. A lot of times it's not pretty. But it's true, and that's sometimes beautiful.

You see, saliva physics isn't beautiful. I won't lie. But there are other truths that are beautiful about Demon Babies. Like how they like to put their heads on your pillow, nose to nose, and stare at you, then kiss your lips and say, "You're beautiful, Mom." Even when you have saliva in your hair.

Thoughts? What is true about your character?

Life's Too Short For Bad Coffee

Okay. So every Sunday, I get to church an hour early to make coffee and set up donuts. Sometimes, when I have a conflict, I ask someone else to fill in. Recently, my friend asked me to write out the instructions for the giant urn, swimming pool-sized percolator, so that if I'm not there or one of my kids is sick, everyone else knows how to make coffee.

So here's the thing. I looked at the GIANT urn that makes 55 cups. And I just dumped in what seemed a "reasonable" amount of coffee. I like coffee strong, and so I figured, however it came out, I would drink it. Heck. I have four kids. It's caffeine. What's to b*tch about?

Last weekend, Significant Other came to church for the first time in six months. He said, "Life is too short for your bad coffee." True enough. He measured out, per the chef that he is, the amount of coffee per 55 cups of urn. He wrote out a recipe, if you will, for coffee. I won't follow it.

Herein, I decided, is the difference between those of us labeled "pantsters" and those of us labeled "plotters." I like to wing it. I figure the way the coffee turns out is immaterial. It's the experience or SHARING of coffee that counts. I don't do recipes. I do "looks about right."

And my guess is the way I am about EVERYTHING follows through to writing. Doesn't make my way right and more meticulous outline people wrong. Not at all. Just is, I would guess, two entirely different approaches to life, and therefore writing.

Me? I would be the type, and have been the type, to show up at Lowe's with a green leaf and say, "Can you 'sort of' match this color?" And I'll be happy with whatever they give me. My experience with the men at Lowe's is I amuse them to no end. "Can you 'sort of' get this to look 'sort of' like that?" Versus someone who comes up with the EXACT Pantone color swatch and says "Make me citrone green #12349."

Me? I go to my hairdresser and say, "Can you sort of cut along the back . . . I don't know. Stack it here. Make it shorter here. Cover up the gray, see what you can do." Versus,"Here's a picture, make my hair look like this."

I greet my dog trainer. "What are your goals with the three dogs?" he asks. "I don't know. If they could not jump up on the table and do Frisbee tricks in front of company, I'll be happy. They don't have to roll over on command."

My son and I drove around for 20 minutes today trying to find a house 2.1 miles from our own. I can't read a map. I can't follow directions on paper.

"Sort of" and "kind of" rule my life.

You get the idea. So when I write, I "sort of" know how I am going to get to the end, but I am OK with surprises along the way. Like following a map--sort of. I may get there. I may have to call my Significant Other on my cellphone and say, like countless times before, "I am about five blocks from the house and I am lost. Talk me home."

So . . . does any of this sound familar? Is the way you live your life the way you write?

And by the way . . . GO GIANTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Theater of the Absurd

Okay, so there are moments when I just have to laugh. After the hellacious Hospital Run of January 2008, the Five-Day Stomach Flu siege of January 2008, and so on. And on. I look for a little laughter. I don't have to look far around here. It finds me.

So my fish died. No. Not so funny. Absurd maybe. Fellini-esque in the scheme of this month. Blossom, my fish of 2 years, kicked the bucket. And because I have a problem touching dead things (really do . . . I always knew a boyfriend was a keeper if he was willing to bury my assorted dead birds and hamsters over the years . . . and I considered it a HUGE leap into adulthood when I buried two of my beloved birds this year who died of old age) . . . anyway, because I really hate touching dead things, Significant Other was charged with the task of sending Blossom to that great toilet tank in the sky.

Because Demon Baby, as could be expected, is FASCINATED by dead things and loves to find dead bugs and bring them to me as charming hostess gifts (can you BELIEVE how damn lucky I am?), he was invited to attend the toilet funeral, where he was taught to say, solemnly, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, so long fish, thanks for all the joy you've given us" by Significant Other. Then they sang the opening bars of Paul McCartney's "Live and Let Die" (a nod to Shrek III), at the TOP of their lungs, all this at 8:00 a.m., and flushed. Gotta love the theater of the absurd.

So sometimes I wonder . . . you see all my characters are quirky. I don't have a normal one in the bunch. Right from the get-go, in Spanish Disco, my first book, Cassie Hayes bought the same shirt in 14 different colors so she could avoid the nightmare plague that is the The Mall. Based on yours truly, only I buy the same shirt in black--but five of them so if one starts looking greyish from the laundry, I can pitch it for a brand-new black one. And I wondered today, as I listened to the fish funeral, am I just SURROUNDED by weirdness? Am I a MAGNET for the absurd? Or is it simply that I chronicle if for my books and then USE the absurd. If you don't think a fish funeral with "Live and Let Die" is making a book . . . if you don't think the fact that my father negotiating with me to bring him, and I quote, "A pork sandwich with a little mayo and salt and pepper on a nice rye . . . and a beer" to the hospital is making it in a book . . . you get the idea.

Question: Do writers surround themselves with oddballs or is EVERYONE as wacky and we just write about it? What do people with staid, boring families DO with themselves? I mean, if your Uncle Charley isn't offering to take a hit out on the man who has done you wrong . . . you, my friend, are in the wrong, boring family.

Discuss.

Live and let die, my friends.

Or live and let live, as we Buddhists would say.

The Writer's Brain

So a funny thing happened on my way to Writer's Day yesterday. I didn't have one. I'll try to bottom line this so I can discuss how it relates to the writing brain. The very short version is . . . one, it's a good thing I don't have a Webcam. A Podcast. Because right now, I am ten sheets of pale and look like . . . well, I am a writer, so I am not short of both cliched and original metaphors and descriptions for what cat's drag in, etc.

See, instead of taking Dad to the doctor, we went to the E.R. And for one, LONG, grueling day, I was his advocate in the medical world. Tests, I.V.'s, morphine (and frankly, I would have paid good money had they injected that right into my arm the way the day was going, etc.). He's going to be fine. Me? I don't know. Him? He needs to LISTEN when I tell him to drink more fluids and eat. But I digress.

More bottom line? How about mid-morning, opening your writing file, closing it shut inside of five minutes, getting called away to take Dad to hospital, and on the way he makes you swear all sorts of promises about caring for your mother if something should happen to him? Like I wouldn't anyway. It was emotional, wrenching, and if you know hospitals, tiring.

So . . . I come home. Looking like the proverbial cat's bounty. And I was gone all day and evening. I have four kids. I was pounced on--fill out this form, write me a note, do this, do that. And Demon Baby? He actually came up, said, "Up." Told me he loved me and missed me, then proceeded to not let me go for two hours. Which makes writing notes, administering spelling tests, and laundry difficult. I had a proverbial monkey on my back. A Demon Baby on my back.

But here's the writer thing. You knew it was coming.

When I rise, knees hit floor. I pray. It's what I do. Then I do it all day long, I pray. I don't know if I talk to God, Buddha, the Universe, my grandma. It's a long, all-day conversation. Sometimes I just think I am talking to that higher part of me. Conversing with the me who tries to be a good person, the me who is capable to mentoring at-risk kids, and wrapping Christmas presents for low-income seniors this year. The me who is a good mother, not a tired and cranky and nauseous one. The me I aspire to be, who has goodness at heart. Who's capable of infinite patience. No matter . . . me and God, or me and this higher version of humanity, we talk. All day long.

But yesterday? It was less ongoing. It was more, "I don't want to even go there, so if you could just make this CAT scan be clear, God, that would be great." And then I internally shut up. There wasn't much point in cosmic conversation because I was too exhausted to hold up my end. It was more like, "God, just give me strength and let me know you're here once in a while. Okay?"

Until last night about 1:00 a.m. Then I prayed. I had time. I was awake. I was staring at the ceiling. I said thank you. A huge thank you. And not just because things are going to be fine. But because I was grateful that when the proverbial sh*t hits that proverbial fan, that I do feel a cosmic umbilical cord. That I do feel accompanied by grace. So I prayed.

AND THEN . . . here we go, gang. And THEN . . . once my brain was cleared of all THAT, I was free to think like a writer. And ALL THE THINGS I NOTICED were free to jam into my brain. They come as pictures and words at once. Fragments of ideas. And all of them were the things I noticed as a writer, that I am sure "regular" people don't. It's like in the Wizard of Oz. First Dorothy's world is black and white. Then it's Technicolor. I get to live on Technicolor all the time.

I noticed how when someone is old, medical personnel don't talk to them. They talk to YOU. Like the patient is a kid. I noticed that nurses have seemingly never-ending pockets, filled with syringes and tape, and scissors, and according to Dad's first nurse, her vitamins that she is always too busy on the floor to take until she remembers later. I notice that my father really IS blind. Not that I didn't notice before, but I spent 8 hours just staring at him and realizing he didn't KNOW I was staring. He has a fixed stare at something ahead of him, and his eyes are milky, kind of, and glazed, and half-shut, and he never looks at any of the medical people treating him, so they even MORE talk to me. I felt, all day, like a translater. Doctor says something, Dad says, "What?" I tell him. He tells me answer. I tell Doctor. It was like a tennis match. I noticed the CAT scan tech had the most unusual scar on his face, as if part of it had once been smashed in and then popped back out again, and it was kind of blue. I noticed that I now have to lean over the bed and touch my father so he knows I'm there. And that they can draw 15 vials of blood, and then he will ask "Did they take my blood yet?" I noticed all the machines beep like the old elevator at Gimbel's. so Dad and I had a running joke, "Lingerie, Third Floor." I noticed the curtains run on half-moon tracks. You get the idea.

And yes, I will use it all someday. Some hospital scene. It's just it dawned on me at 1:00 a.m., that non-writers don't do this. Maybe non-crazy people don't do this. It wasn't like I woke up yesterday and thought, "You know, if Dad has to go to the hospital, let me take mental notes to use in a scene someday." I didn't look at myself, feel my own emotions, and think, "You know, I will draw on this well of exhaustion so the next time I have a character who's in a crisis . . ." I didn't SCRIPT him to do the whole, "Make me this promise. Make this promise right now" thing. I didn't tell myself, in some scripted sense, "Feel grateful because you HAVE a dad and he's still here and no matter how friggin' exhausted you are, you have multiple good friends, DEAR friends, whose dads died last year, or when they were kids, and they would kill to switch places with you right now." I didn't do any of that. But it's all stuff that now that the crisis is over, I think about and file away and know I will use.

It's just how writers are. Some variation on a journalist going through the detritus that is human emotion and lives. Writers pick over the garbage that it our messy existence, looking for pieces that are still good, that can be recycled. Or the stuff that's bad, but so fascinating we can use it.

So that's MY brain. How about yours? Do you ever have days where you just know--not then, maybe, but later--that you noticed what was probably invisible to everyone else?

Writing Day

Today is a writing day.

"What?" you ask. (See, I can really ALL your minds.) "Isn't EVERY day a writing day?'

"Hahahahahahahahahaha!" I laugh, wiping the tears away. There. My tears of laughter have fallen on my keyboard. One perfect teardop is there on letter "k." Now I typed it and it's not there anymore.

Here's a quote that relates to this post (from one of my favorite writers):

The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn't behave that way you would never do anything. ~ John Irving

And here's the thing about "Writing Day." I get asked all the time--it's one of those interview questions that pops up again and again--"What's a typical writing day for you?" or "What's your writing schedule?"

"Hahahahahahahahahahaha!" Sorry, I had to laugh again. You see, I don't have one. I used to say that I wished I had one, but that Demon Baby and three other children and life as a mother of four and a volunteer and a general b-word got in the way. But that's not quite true. Because I've been this way for so long, I don't know what I would do if I could have a schedule. If in some weird alternate universe the laundry was done and the beds were made, and my dad WASN'T visiting and wanting me to look up "diverticulosis" symptoms on the internet. And Older Son wasn't Food Poisoning Boy (turns out, after some thinking, it's NOT the flu but . . . beef-fried rice--thank God, I don't eat meat). If Older Daughter wasn't creating laundry with her mere existence. (She's a FOOT shorter than I am but uses three towels per shower, which calculates to some heavy-duty towel real estate per square inch of wet body.)

See, this is just how I am. But all that said, and I am quite chatty and laugh-filled this a.m., today is a writing day. Which means that the laundry is only the height of my waist and not my head, no one is vomiting (Food Poisoning Boy just FEELS awful, but the Alien-like eruptions have stopped), Dad has an appointment with a G.I. doctor so I can stop playing Web M.D., the kitchen is (sort of) clean. And so I can, without guilt, without anything but delight, open up my new book, read through the first 75 pages and then send them off to my wonderful new editor, who is really growing on me when he says stuff like, "I am SO excited for this book, I am bringing ARCs to Barcelona."

And, like John Irving says, this is what I do when I have a day like today. When I have a spare minute. I am as GIDDY as a schoolgirl. Or a Demon Baby who has found his sister's stash of M&Ms. Yes, I am at this game YEARS now, and a day like today still rocks my world. It is STILL that fun. It is STILL what I want to do when I grow up.

Yesterday, Alyson Noel summed it up here on the blog in the comments section. A bad day writing is better than a good day as a flight attendant wearing horrid polyester. (And go congratulate Alyson on her new book deal!)

So do you have a writing schedule? And is a writing day still . . . electric? Better than finding your sister's M&M stash? Yesterday was about I-Suck-itis. Today is a celebration. Celebrate Writing Day. Celebrate laundry being done. Celebrate the fact that diverticulosis isn't fatal, Dad. Celebrate Demon Baby's nanny comes today (I get her for 12 wonderful hours a week!) Celebrate . . . you have a spare moment and can write because it's what you do. What do you have to celebrate?

I-Suck-itis

This is apparently going around. One of the MOST talented writers I know, who happens to have just critiqued my new proposal and given me great feedback and ideas, caught it. I know a half-dozen writers suffering from it. I got two emails this week alone from writers who have succombed.

In fact, I have suffered from it in the past. Symptoms? Opening up a file of a work in progress and being very stuck and deciding it's because the whole damn thing "sucks." Or opening up an older work in progress you've been away from for a while (seems long breaks over holidays make this a really common disorder), and finding yourself clutching your stomach because you can SEE for yourself the whole thing SUCKS SO BAD.

If you're pubbed, you can see 28 GREAT reviews at Amazon. But that one crank who says you deserve zero stars? Sure to start a case of I-Suck-itis faster than your Demon Baby can sneeze on you.

So what's a writer to do?

I got news for you . . . there is NO cure. The few writers who are innoculated against it? They have a case of I-am-Genius-osity and can't take criticism. I know one right now and would like to take a contract out on his life. May have to call my Uncle Charlie. But I digress. No, there is no cure for I-Suck-itis. Get used to it. It reoccurs over and over. Just when you think you're over it, you may catch it again.

Chicken soup doesn't help it. Some writers tell me chocolate does. I am really off my chocolate kick big time, so I'm not finding it helpful. A stiff martini can sometimes help. Two will make it worse.

No, I have found the only antidote I know of is to ruthlessly attack the work in progress until you feel the I-Suck-itis lifting and you remember why you became a writer in the first place.

Anyone else know of any home remedies? Come on, yesterday was a banner day at the blog with great contributions. So I just KNOW you all have some recipes to settle down a strong case of I-Suck-itis.

Oh . . . I know one. Happened today, as a matter of fact. I was listening to THIS on my iPod. Ray has been known to make my I-Suck-itis disappear. Really. I was in mile 3 of my four-mile walk, the sun was JUST cresting. And with the beat of his congas, Ray sent me this TOTALLY AWESOME idea for a key scene in my wip. It fixed a weak spot. I-Suck-itis disappeared.

Oh, but I have to warn you. Two or three sleepless nights with a Demon Baby followed by your teenager telling you she wants to pierce her tongue will bring it back. Lucky for ME, she said she was just kidding--ha, ha--she ONLY wants a tattoo. That I can live with.

So anyone suffering? Do share your misery--or your antidote.

You Know You're a Writer When . . .

Okay, first as a personal aside. What