Found Objects

Though George Carlin does a whole routine about it, I am not terribly attached to my "stuff." I don't have to have the latest gadgets, and though I admittedly love my Buddha statues, my photographs, and the piano I rarely play, I know it's just "stuff." And other than my iPod and my home itself, I don't covet big-ticket items. I don't need the biggest TV, the best car, the fanciest clothes.

However, it's spring cleaning time, and so I am going through my "stuff" and packing things up for charity. If you listen to the organizational gurus (and my house is cluttered, so I listen to them like a groupie), if you haven't worn something in a year, give it away. This does make sense, and so I am doing that with my clothes. Except for two of my sweaters.

In my bottom drawer, packed way at the bottom, is a white angora sweater with pearl buttons. It doesn't fit me. In fact, it's shrunk, and I haven't worn it since I was 19. But I love it. I adore that sweater because my father and I got in a HUGE fight the night before I got it. He was wrong . . . and hurtful. He said some things that people say and then can never take back. He still can't take it back. But the next day, to make amends, he gave me fifty dollars and told me to buy something special. He didn't say he was sorry. Just sort of thrust the money on my dresser. I left the fifty-dollar bill lying there and ignored him. And then my mother came into my room and told me amends are amends, and to take the money and buy something special, just as he had said. And that was an order. So I did. At the time, fifty dollars was a lot of money to me . . . and I bought the most extravagent sweater--the white angora one. Something I NEVER would have bought myself. I thought it was the mot beautiful thing I had ever owned. And it probably was. But I've kept it all these years because my dad said I was beautiful in it. And because it represents something. No, we can't take back words. That's lesson number one, and so I try to remember that and bite my tongue. It's the Buddhist way. Speak less. Not more. And lesson number two is about forgiveness. You take amends when they come.

My second sweater is black. It is hand-beaded, and it's vintage. When I used to wear it, which I did all through my early 30s, I had to wear something under it, not because it was revealing, but because it itched--pure wool. The beading is gold and in a very 1940s kind of pattern, and I presume the sweater is from that period of time. It belonged to my grandmother, my beloved Irene. Now, just to be clear, the entire time I knew my grandmother, the woman lived in polyester pants. Usually in patterns that a circus clown would reject. She never, and I mean never, dressed like a 1940s femme fatale. But the sweater was amongst her things when she died, and I took it and stared at it, and thought . . . at some point in her life she WORE things like that. I kept it in my closet for a while. Then I started wearing it. It never failed that when I did, someone would remark on it--"They don't make sweaters like that anymore." And no, they don't. It was beautiful, and I wore it for years. Now I am saving it for my daughters. When I see it, it's another lesson. That we each grow old, but in every older person is a story of who they once were. I try to remember that and to be patient with senior citizens. I love that my son volunteers in a nursing home. I tell him that everyone there has a story, even if they have forgotten it.

And now it comes back to the writing. Like an archeologist, those two single items tell you a lot about who I am, what is important to me, what I believe, how I live my life. But the rest of my closet is full of crap and yarn, and Christmas wrapping paper and stuff I haven't worn in a year and can give to charity. I chose TWO items to tell you about myself. As writers, we are archeologists. When writers tell you not to waste words, I think we need to take that advice to heart. When you describe a person, their bedroom, their office, you as writer are the filter. You as writer are the archeologist. You as writer are the creator. Choose to describe items that matter. Not for what they are or how much they are worth, but for what they represent.

So tell me, what does an object in your novel tell us about your character? What do YOU have that tells us something about you?

Never Underestimate a Few Words

Home again.

Eye? Purple with shades of black. Head? Persistent headache. But . . . knee? THIS is now my number-one issue (with the obvious exception that I am still allergic to something that has the ability to put me into anaphylactic shock but I don't know what it is . . . ). The hospital didn't undress me . . . neither did the ambulance. So I didn't realize my knee was smashed. And when I was checking out of the hospital, I THEN became acutely aware I must have landed on my knee while tumbling to the pavement. It was scraped and red. A little swollen. Now it is spongy and has the consistency of pudding on the sides. Knees aren't supposed to be pudding-like. And don't ya LOVE that I'm a writer and came up with that????? LOL! We'll see what my doctor says. Perhaps I have a whole new diagnosis. Pudding Knee.

So home to massive piles of laundry and dog hair (no one here to vacuum up after my beasts this week). And back to the blog and deadlines and writing and life.

So, my editor meeting was a smashing success. And now that I've had a day or two to think about it, he at one point looked at me and said . . . "Marketing is all a part of it nowadays." As if we're all not aware, right? Every author scrambling for promo. And then . . . importantly: "Never underestimate the power of being able to pitch your book in a sentence."

You see, Magickeepers is about a rogue clan of Russian magicians who emigrate to the U.S. after the fall of the Romanovs and hide their identities by working as illusionists in Las Vegas. Magic is real in my book . . . and only by blending into show business can they keep their heir apparent safe. But yeah, in a sentence? I can do it. Is it three books, a thousand pages total at least? Yeah. But one sentence. Why so important? Because your pitch doesn't stop when you sell. There are independent bookstores and the chains and marketing and PR and press and . . . librarians and eventually, for this book, KIDS . . . and not everyone is going to give you an hour to share your vision. While I would love to have lunch with every independent bookstore owner in the U.S., I can't. So I need a sentence. I need to shorthand.

I've said before that I know, sometimes, when a writer is in trouble (in terms of trying to make a sale) when telling what his or her book is about requires a ten-minute backstory.

A few words. A sentence. It can be important.

Oh . . . and one more thing? One tiny detail? The sentence has to be unique. You have to get attention with it.

So . . . in your wip, have you nailed it yet?

Do share!

Forest, Meet Trees

Day three of black eye is even more hideous. I look like a strange creature, indeed. But I am somewhat less loopy and feeling more intelligent than my last addled days, so that's good. And now for a discussion of forest and trees.

My new editor was as terrific in person as I could have possibly hoped. He's a thinker--and I like that. He asks probing questions. I like that, too. And at one point, he said to me, "Since this is a trilogy, where does book #1 end in terms of the hero's journey?" And I gave my answer . . . which is that he has a small triumph in this book, but now sees the world is far, far darker than he ever thought, that he is in more danger than he ever thought . . . and that he has to accept the tremendous new responsibilities thrust onto him by his birthright. My editor liked my answer--in fact, he firmly believes that trilogies should end book one with small triumphs but a sense of danger. And therein I had a forest meet trees moment.

You see, sometimes on this blog we talk about themes, and story arcs, and symbolism. Some of us write on a level where we don't think of those things until we're done, or they emerge bit by bit. But for me, I like to, once in a while, climb the mountain, get out of the forest of writing and denseness and plot and action, and get WAY up high and survey where the hell I am. At what point in the journey am I? Where did my character come from, and where is he going?

When I think about writers getting lost in the middle, finding the middle point soggy, or feeling like they have lost their passion for the story, I sometimes wonder whether it's that we have lost the ability to see above plot, to see this clear journey. Like Hansel and Gretel, lost in the dark woods, dropping breadcrumbs, we're moving forward without being sure of what is behind us and what is in front of us.

Sometimes, for me, the very heaviness of a deadline pressing down can make me lose my breadcrumbs, too. I have a pace to keep, pages to write, and I don't feel like I have "time" to sit down with a cup of coffee and just "be" with the hero and look at the journey. I'm too busy writing the journey.

But as John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Sometimes, I think it's good to just pause. Climb the mountain. Survey the landscape. Answer some basic questions. Think on it.

Thoughts? Do you sometimes get so caught up in the writing itself that you lose your way? And what breadcrumbs do you drop to find your way back?

Me and Mike, Part Deux

Hello all:

Thank you for all your well wishes . . . and for all the emails flooding my box. You are all great. Love and peace to you all.

Mike Tyson's blow has now spread down my cheek . . . and I look a fright. A real fright. If I do my makeup "just right" I look clown-like. My eyebone . . . I am pretty sure is fractured . . . so not fun. Even my hair brushing against it hurts. What do prize fighters do????

And no, I still have no idea what I am allergic to. But next week . . . tests.

And tomorrow, I am meeting my new editor. For Magickeepers, my middle-grade fantasy series. (I just have to figure out how to "spin" my appearance so that he understands I am not a prize fighter but . . . without being too dramatic. I prefer a "funny" spin.) Now editor meetings are a wonderful thing. I have never left one without being utterly energized.

Editors are an overworked breed, and I don't know a single one who doesn't preface the reason for their career with an "I love books." The editor-author relationship, to me, is usually just wonderful . . . and so far, from the comments I've seen him give me on the first 75 pages of the book, I am blown away by the absolutely brilliant insights and thoughts he has given me. This is a man who has done his homework, who "gets" the genre. So I am looking forward to it.

As for my family, Oldest Daughter is coming to Manhattan with me as escort (and so she can shop), and my epi-pens will be in my purse, and she has instructed me, "Eat nothing weird at lunch." So there you go.

And now a question . . . because we ALWAYS bring it back to the writing.

As I went through my blackout . . . I was rather observatory about the whole thing. When I was losing my vision, I noticed how my eyes divided up the vision field into a thousand "pixels" and I had a buzzing sensation. And then . . . I had a sense that blacking out would be blissful. Like this horror and pain would just end.

And then when I woke up with a black eye, it looked back. But I have discovered day TWO of a black eye is WAY worse than DAY ONE. And that given the bruise is spreading down my face, day THREE doesn't look promising at ALL.

So . . . have you ever experienced something and realized . . . gosh, there are details you never KNEW? Details you may even have gotten WRONG before? As a writer?

Do share.

Peace,
E

Me and Mike Tyson

So . . . my reality show continues. I am sporting a massive shiner, I think I broke the bone over my eye, and my knee is a mess. AND I ended up in Bellevue Hospital yesterday.

Yup. Quite an adventure. Short version, I've been getting these massive hives for a year now off and on. Can't nail down what it is I am allergic too. Could be a bunch of things. I usually take a Benadryl . . . and try to find some correlation on a food diary. Nothing. They've been getting worse and worse, and I KNEW I need to go see a doctor, but I haven't gotten around to it. So yesterday, I had a hive attack . . . and long story short, my heart was tachycardic . . . my blood pressure dipped to 70 over something . . . and I went temporarilu blind--couldn't see anything, but could hear voices sort of.

So . . . outside Grand Central, I fell face first, unconcious, and it now looks like Mike Tyson and I went a round. Completely "out." Fire department EMTs came (cute!), adrenaline into my heart like Pulp Fiction, and assorted shots and so on. Off to Bellevue. Bed next to me had a heroin addict looking for methadone.

Soooooooooooooo, after hours there, I was sent home with several epi pens and steroids. And the order to see a doctor pronto when I get home lest "next time" I have a heart attack for real and that's the end of me. So what the HELL am I allergic to?

Anyway . . . my reality show continues.

And you want to know what I thought as I was coming to in Bellevue?

That I wrote a SCENE in the Bellevue ER . . . and I have NAILED it. It IS a nuthouse and it's a damn good scene!!!!!

Only a writer.

Peace,
E

Reality Show Continues

Today I am headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rockefeller Center, and general walking around Manhattan. We are eating bagels. Salted bagels. Oldest Daughter wants to haggle with the guys on the street who sell the illegal knock-offs of Gucci and Chanel. Ahhh, New York City.

I usually stop by St. Patrick's Cathedral. I'm no longer a Catholic, but . . . you know, a few candles lit in a cathedral to my deceased grandparents is good for the soul. Then I can go sit on the steps of the NYC Public Library by the big lions and sip some Starbucks.

Actually, I'm keeping an insane schedule. Tomorrow I drive almost to Canada. I am sleeping on a couch. Demon Baby is still waking at 5:00 a.m. But guess what? I didn't bring work

I actually am . . . GASP . . . taking a vacation. Scary.

But here's the thing . . . I am still THINKING about my works in progress. But instead of the sort of weary/I have too many deadlines attitude of a couple of days ago, I am energized. Excited about my manuscripts. LOOKING FORWARD to getting back to them this weekend.

Yes, I am thinking about them, but this forced break of bagels and the streets of Manhattan is doing me some good. There is something to be said for giving yourself a forced break from work.

Anyone else? Courting burnout? Taking a break? How do you know when it's time to recharge and what do you do to get energized again?

Erica's Traveling Reality Show Tour: Spring '08

I'm in NYC. Visiting my "family." My extended family. We are like a reality show. In fact, there's isn't a reality show real enough for us.

I was born on Yonkers, New York. I was raised in several places, including Bermuda where the British teachers hammered the accent out of me. You can tell I am from "up North." But mostly . . . I have kind of an anchorwoman accent--not any one accent in particular. Except when I visit New York. Then, the closer I get to a hundred-mile radius, the more my true New York accent comes out. Get around my family, and I sound just like 'em. For the record, if you are FROM Yonkers, you say it like YAHN-KHUZ.

We are loud. In my real life away from New York, I can be loud amongst friends when teasing during a poker game, but I am quiet more often than not. Not here. In order to get a word in edgewise, shouting is in order. Shouting and cursing. Everyone is affectionately termed a "jackass." It's a form of endearment in this house. If my aunt wants you to get moving, she screams, "move your can."

Get the idea? If she wants you to be quiet, she screams, "Shut your piehole." All said with love. All said with love.

And I am struck, more than ever, about how much where I was raised, my family, and so on, informs my work. Ninety-nine percent of my heroines are from Manhattan. It's because I don't know how to write someone from somewhere else. New York is such a part of you, that it's a woven bit of everything you are.

So this is my life for the next week. Jackasses and screaming and a reality show I wouldn't trade for anything. It's also part of my work.

So how about you? Is where you are from part of your work?

Mars . . . Meet Venus

I don't pretend to "get" men. At all. I just don't. I have NEVER been lucky at love. I seem to have a large blinking sign on me that says "TROUBLE, please apply here."

I have two sons and two daughters. I love my guys, but I don't always get them either. You can read this Demon Baby post to see what I mean. No matter how much I try to have peace talks . . . Demon Baby wants to "fight." He is, as they say, "all boy."

As a feminist, I have to tell you I am a pretty God awful mother. Really. I say that with no false modesty. I love fiercely, but I don't have the "mom" gene in any traditional sense. I am terrible, in fact. I don't cook. I don't like to clean or do laundry. I hate being a soccer mom. Every day when I have to go sit on the sidelines while Baby Girl plays softball, I call my bestest friend in Florida and leave her messages on her answering machine like, "This is what my life has become. I am sitting in the rain at softball. I hate my life." I don't feel by virtue of my sex I am inherently better at any of the following: wiping baby asses when changing diapers, cleaning up kid puke, being the room "mom" (I have yet to meet a "room dad" in a combined total of . . . 26 years of kids being in school), and changing the roll of toilet paper (see my rant in previous comment section).

However, I do agree we are different. Having just edited a male author writing about sex in a romance, I can say we are WAY different. For instance, I say, often, to my best friend that I would "do" this man in a heartbeat. But that's about the extent of it. I don't refer to his private parts, I don't discuss exactly WHAT I would do to him, etc. However, the writer I just edited seems to think . . . well, that women are just sexed-up sex kittens just waiting for a chance to discuss men in the dirtiest of details like Penthouse Forum.

So I thought, for fun, we could post what we would tell the opposite sex if given the chance. When writing "as" a male character . . . I feel like I generally "nail" their perspective. But I screw up sometimes. Thank GOD, I have a guy in my writers' group. He protests vehemently when my male point of view gets a little too "touchy feely." And as soon as he points it out, I "see" it. So much so that now I really pull back. Thank you, JVZ.

So . . . if I was going to tell you male writers a thing or two about women, I would say:

• Yes, we have PMS, but NO, we really don't like being ASKED if it's that time. Just notice we're crabby and shut the f*** up.
• No, I am NOT, by virtue of my sex, better at being the room "mom" or any of the things I cited above. I just am not. I happen to not be LAZY, and I happen to love my kids, therefore I will DO IT, but it doesn't mean I like to, and it doesn't mean it's because I'm a woman and I am better at it by nature. Look, men tend to be the architects of war--look at the invasion of Normandy. THEREFORE, you are PERFECTLY capable of planning the school Valentine's Day party or any of the rest of it. You just don't want to.
• When a group of two or more of us are alone, we really, I promise you, don't have pillow fights, don't strip down to our panties and bra, and don't discuss you except to complain.
• Finally, yes, I do cry at the Hallmark commercials. But if you want to know how tough a woman is, place any of her kids in any kind of harrowing situation--be it sickness, a bully, or emotional pain. Then you will find out what we are made of.

So . . . writers . . . tell us . . . what do you want writers of the opposite sex to know about YOUR gender so they get it right?

Why Write?

The discussion yesterday of what writers are worth begs another question after seeing the responses and comments. Why write?

I have to be REALLY honest here (aren't I always?). I write to earn a living. Yes, I can be completely lofty and craft-driven. It can be my passion. I would write even if I didn't publish, but it would be in a different form, I think. I might blog about my kids, or about life, or about philosophy, or physics, or the universe. I might blog about God or gardening or knitting or my prayer and spiritual life. I would always write because it's who I am.

But I write, very specifically, to earn a living. I don't write to be known or have my book on a cover. The fact that it is on a cover earns me money. I write because I am not particularly qualified to do anything else. I can run a small newspaper, I can write for magazines, I can be a ghostwriter or book editor, but I can't usually get to the office on time, and I don't particularly like having a boss. I don't want someone to tell me what time I get to eat lunch. I don't like the way an office full of people can come to near-blows over issues pertaining to making the coffee or how to label personal items in the fridge. I don't want Big Brother reading my email or looking at what sites I visit. If I feel like wasting time, I want that perogative. Because given my work ethic, if I waste time now, trust me, I'll be working hours and hours unseen and still doing the work of two or three people because, as Demon Baby says, "That's how I roll, Baby." (He also is fond of, as we walk out the door now, saying, "Let's rock and roll, Mama." I am doomed. The kid is eccentric.)

But in the end, I write to make a living. So that entails writing things that are publishable. Watching the market, watching trends, thinking and plotting career strategies. And lots of writing.

I meet people all the time who are "thinking about" writing a book. I can meet them ten years later and they will STILL be "thinking about" it. I meet people whose books are so far from marketable that I don't quite know what to say. There's writing for friends and family and yourself, and there's writing to sell. They are two different animals. There's thinking about it, and doing it.

So when I think about what my time is worth, what I am worth as a writer, it is predicated on my being absolutely CRYSTAL clear about why I write. I really and totally do not write because I would just die without it. It's not how I breathe. It's important to me, it's part of me. But no, I write to earn a living. I would die without my children and without prayer, not without writing. I write because I like the lifestyle. I write because I don't particularly work and play well with others. I get frustrated by stupidity really fast, which pretty much precludes me working in most corporations. I write to earn a living and it's what I do, I think well. And that means I need to be razor sharp about what's selling, what's dead in the water, and how I spend my time.

This is what I do. And if I seem . . . steely-eyed about it, I am. Writing keeps a roof over my head, food on the table, and a violin in a case for Oldest Daughter. I don't have time to craft a novel no one will buy. I don't have time to "think about" it. I have to DO IT, every day, ass in this chair. FOCUS.

So why do you write?

How Much Is Your Time Worth?

How much is your time worth? This will be both an existential post . . . and a practical one.

The really terrific Mark Terry recently did a 10-part blog series on freelance writing for a living. As such, he included resources for hunting down freelance work. Now, as an aside, I have supported a family of six as a fiction writer for years now, but I have kept a couple of really top-notch business or publishing clients, mostly because I've been with them so long and I have actually come to really enjoy the people I work with. Sometimes I get a big job, sometimes I don't hear from them for a while . . . and that suits my fiction career nicely. That's a freelance writer/editor.

Anyway, most of my regular readers and friends know I have an 18-year-old daughter who is going off to music school in the fall. Music school thus, if you don't know, falls out of the realm of "state college tuition." State school costs, around here, $15,000 with tuition, room, and board. We're WAY upwards of that. Oh, and I bought her an 18th-century Italian violin this year. And a new bow. Bows can cost the amount of money some human beings spend on a car. For a bow. I paid more for her instrument than the down payment on either of my first two houses. So, by necessity, I let it be known among my old clients that yes, I'll take work if they have it.

Anyway, while perusing Mark's resources, I was astounded by the audacity of some of the people advertising for writers. We're not unionized, but apparently they think that means we're all hacks and idiots. Or, more likely, desperate. Ads for COMPANIES--corporations--who want someone to write an entire self-help book for a flat fee of $1,000. I'll pick myself up off the floor from laughing so hard. Ads from upstart blog sites or online sites who will spend 2,000 words for an ad describing their completely arrogant, picky, condescending "requirements" with caveats like, "Don't apply if you're not a pro, don't apply if you're a flake, etc." They want Pulitzer-winning writers, but hey, we can only afford "for now" to pay you $20 for the entire assigment, "but that should change as we grow." Let me jump at this one.

The sad thing is, they will FIND writers who will work for what is, as a friend of mine put it, only a living wage in Sub-Saharan Africa (which in itself is a sad statement on the world, but . . . I digress). There's nothing wrong, as a writer, with starting small to build your clippings file, but . . . my own opinion is the business model some of these people have is at its heart corrupt. "I don't have enough working capital to pay people, so I will offer them nothing or close to it, then when I make some money, I will offer to pay them--but I will not offer any back compensation for the work they've already done which has now afforded me the capital to pay them."

If that business model sounds like some e-pubs that have gone out of business and screwed writer friends, then so be it.

Now the funny thing is, if you, like a friend of mine and I recently calculated, added up ALL the writing, all the workshopping, all the drafts, all the submitting, all the rewrites, all the reading and correcting galleys, all the promo, etc. that go into writing and having a book published, even with a decent advance, we probably make 5 cents an hour. We do fiction because we love it. And yes, you can make a living at it, even if you are not him. But you have to work hard at it. But at least, I think, the publisher, by giving you a REAL advance of a decent size, is recognizing that work.

So I set a price, bottom line, for editing or writing. When I first started making real money as an editor, I gulped at my price. But I practiced being able to say what my fees were. And then I thought about what DOCTORS charge per hour, what LAWYERS charge, what accountants charge. And I didn't feel so bad. At all.

The second part of this post is a more esoteric question. What is your time worth? If I had a dollar for every person who asks me "How do you do it?" I wouldn't have to work. Yes, I have four kids; yes I always volunteer; yes, I blog; yes, I write; yes, I have hobbies; yes, I love to read; yes, I do, indeed, have the infamous Demon Baby. But what I DON'T have is a lot of . . . well, crap. I don't feel some guilty compulsion to volunteer for every event at school--unless it's something I am passionate about. I don't watch television unless it's something I really, really want to watch. My time is precious. I shared about having Crohn's disease two posts ago. You learn just HOW precious time is when you've been deathly ill. My time is worth a lot more than . . . wasting it.

To that end, what I REALLY cut out of my life are negative people. More often than not, I walk away from angry people, from the people who cut a swath of hostility. I don't need to spend my time arguing with the jackass up the street, or my son's Evil Science Teacher. When she asked me for a conference to discuss my grievances, including that she apparently feels no need to try to make science fun and engaging, I told her I didn't have time. Not that I didn't have time to care about my son, or that I didn't have time to spend with him. I don't have time to spend with HER. Not even a minute. My time is THAT precious. I am not going to fundamentally change the negative people. I told her so. Yeah, the schools don't like me too much, but I feel my time is THAT precious. I guard it vigilantly.

So that's my post for the day. Underpaid writers . . . time-sucking negativity.

Thoughts?

A Parallel Universe

Through a series of both fortunate and unfortunate events, I have four deadlines riding up against each other over the space of three months.

It's doable.

It's doable in some parallel universe with no Demon Babies and no soccer practice, no softball practice and no family crises or illnesses. If I don't ever have a kid puking in the next three months and if everyone can always find their homework.

It's doable if I opened the door one day, and he walked through to cook dinner every night. While he was at it, if he felt like making out on the couch for a while to relieve some stress, I wouldn't complain. Someone else might, but I wouldn't.

In this parallel universe . . . I would have an entire laundry TEAM. All they would do is match socks. The Sock Commandos would have their work cut out for them, and the Sock SWAT team would guard the laundry room door and the dryer for any stray socks who even THINK about escaping to wherever it is unmatched pairs run to.

I would have a Demon Wrangler. He would carry holy water and yell "The power of Christ compels you" every time Demon Baby tried to feed--like yesterday--plastic sandwich baggies to the dogs. The sad fact is, Dreamer is dumb enough to try to eat them. So I would also need him in my parallel universe.

If one of my kids DID get sick, I would have him. If he also felt like relieving my stress . . . not complaining.

In this world, I would have them. In particular that bald guy. I think he's hot. Yeah, I know the OBVIOUS choice is that tall guy with the thick blond hair. But no, gimme the other one. Especially since he cleans. I bet a guy like that also knows how to change the roll of toilet paper when he's used the last sheet NOT take the new roll out, set it on the sink counter and leave the empty cardboard roll on the toilet paper holder.

If ALL these things come together. If she sprinkles pixie dust, I can do it.

So tell me, in your parallel universe . . . who's on your team? Anyone got deadlines?

A Story, A Cause, A Friend

I have a story to tell about me, a cause, and a friend. This top picture of me was taken before I was diagnosed with Crohn's disease. I was a normal (well, that's debatable) person. I had spent my entire life, as far back as I can remember, having agonizing stomachaches and fevers and tiredness, but as a "classic overachiever" every doctor I saw attributed my problems to stress. And so, like a lot of people, I trusted the white coats. After Oldest Daughter was born, I even had bleeding each time I went to the bathroom; I lost 25 pounds in one month, and the imperious jerk I went to see chalked it up to . . . "worrying too much as a new mom." This second picture was taken less than 60 days after the top one. Yes, that is me, the same person, unrecognizable on so much steroids I thought I would blow up. By THIS time, I had nearly died, my parents had been called in the middle of the night to my bedside to say "good-bye," I had lost pints of blood, and the white coats were now discussing both blood transfusions and major surgery to remove most or all of my colon. Sixty days.

I spent the next YEARS of my life clawing back from death's door to some semblance of the life I had before. I had a diagnosis, but what I didn't have was a cure. In fact, all these years later, I am still waiting for one. This is Crohn's disease.

As a writer and a person and a mother, having Crohn's disease impacts my life. Not just a little but in almost everything. Right now, for instance, I am really rundown. I've had a "bad day" in terms of my gut. I am concerned that if I don't rest enough I will come out of remission. As for my family, Oldest Daughter's memories almost all revolve around me being sick in some form or another. Christmases in bed. Hospitalizations. Pain. My other kids don't know me any other way. I get the joint pain manifestation, too, so on a bad day, on a scale of 1 to 10, my joints hurt at a 20. They scream to me. SCREAM. Until my brain hurts.

I don't talk much about it. My family knows. My best friend. But living with this disease is the hardest part of my existence. I wish for a cure every day. My kids have a 30% chance of inheriting it. I wish for their sake there was a cure. I left Western medicine for Traditional Chinese Medicine and acupuncture, and I have been in remission for a year and a half now. But still I have God awful, curse the gods, bad days.

Now I have to tell you about a friend. You know him as Ewoh. His name is Brian Howe. And he made me cry. Hard. But in a good way. You see, Brian is going to run a half-marathon to raise money for the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation. He is running the race in my honor, and in the honor of others he knows with the disease. I cannot TELL you what a tremendous gesture of friendship that is. It is really overwhelming actually.

This is the link to his fundraising page. I hope you will visit it. Or just let him know what a beautiful person he is for doing this.

This blog is about a writer's journey. My journey has included more pain than I would ever share with anyone or on this blog. I think that's some of why I am a writer. I had to make sense of pain. I had to make sense of having an incurable illness that has at times relentlessly tried to destroy me. But along the way, I have been SO LUCKY to have met the most incredible people. They have come along when I needed them most.

I just want to thank you for taking the time to read this post today. And I want to thank Brian. For me, for my family, for all the people research will help. I wish and hope and pray for a cure. But I consider myself blessed that I have . . . good friends.

Peace,
Erica

What Teaching ESL Has Taught Me

In a weird juxtaposition of events yesterday, as I was feeling so devastated by this news, I met my new ESL student. I have taught ESL as a volunteer, first through organizations, then on my own. It always seems that somehow, people are put in my path who very much want to learn to read and write English. Maybe they might see it as I am put in THEIR path. But I don't think so, as I always learn MUCH more than I could ever, even for a moment, hope to teach them. I even learned a very important lesson about writing through teaching ESL.

But first what my students have taught me. . . . My first family, the Tran family (and I cannot do proper accents in Blogger, so . . . ) came here as refugees. There were easily 20 of them, including a grandmother who looked ancient but ruled that family like a warrior. I started with them when I was 18, and I remember looking at their faces and seeing fear and a weariness that I had never seen on people's faces before. Vietnamese "Boat People" experienced murder and rape on the high seas by "pirates." Family members drowned. Babies were born dead. People left with nothing, literally, but the clothes on their backs. From the Trans, I learned that people will risk all--even their lives--for freedom. I learned that refugees are often the most cast-off and desperate people in the world. And too often forgotten as the next crisis looms.

My next family was also Vietnamese, though the stepfather was from China. I worked through a formal relief services agency, though I was not the religion of that agency. They just needed teachers willing to go to the family's house twice a week. When I first started with Huong and his family, there were many volunteers. That dwindled to . . . well . . . me . . . within two months, as the excitement and energy, I guess, of helping wore off and the real intense and difficult work was just beginning. For example, one of the daughter's worked in a factory. One day I arrived, and she was in bed, and the family brought me to her . . . and showed me her leg. She was injured on a piece of machinery, and the cut went to her BONE. Literally. I had never seen anything like it and the family wanted me to "fix it." They had no medical insurance, but I was positive she could lose her leg unless we got her to a doctor. I dressed it as best I could, and tried to get someone to see her. She would lose her job if she missed one day, and her supervisor on the machinery had seen the accident . . . and did nothing. Just get back to work. Yes, in America. There were other problems. Tuberculosis and a black market of TB drugs in Washington, D.C. I learned that as long as there are refugees, there are people who will take advantage of them for a buck or for their usefulness as cheap labor (and this family all had green cards). I learned that Mama, who should have been taking her TB drugs, was buying them on the black market to mail back to Vietnam to an uncle who had it a lot worse. The family, as a whole, was depressed, isolated. They would sometimes just sit and cry. I used to go and spend whole days there, and we would watch videos of Vietnamese soap operas. I always knew the "bad lady" was the one in the red dress with the long, long red-varnished fingernails, but the family always felt they had to interpret for me. "Oh, she very, very bad, Teacher. She want the nice lady's husband." In the time I spent with them, I probably have a thousand stories . . . I loved them most of all, I think.

My next student was Brazilian. She had never had formal schooling beyond 5th grade or 6th grade. One day we were talking about the earth, and I realized she thought it was flat. I dragged out my astronomy books and showed her how it was round. We spent an hour looking at amazing photos of stars and planets. From my beloved friend, I learned the power of knowledge. I also learned that we should look with wonder on the things we often most take for granted, like the sun and the moon.

I am very excited for what I will learn with my new student.

As for the lesson about writing? My first ESL class I was given a set of workbooks. I quickly discovered they were crap. And I devised my OWN program. People do not, as refugees, need to learn to say, "Please, put the book on the table" and other scripts. They need to learn to communicate and function FAST in our world, because the sad fact is, in my opinion, Americans are NOT terribly patient as a society with foreigners. Most of my friends were treated pretty rudely, in fact, every single day, because their English was bad. Or worse, they were treated as if they were DUMB. So my program was that lesson 1 was 911 calls, doctors, fire department, police, and explaining what hurts when you are sick or your baby is sick. Lesson 2 is the grocery store and the food you need. Lesson 3 is the hardest of all . . . the bank. Try explaining to someone who has never had a checking account or more than a few dollars (my second family had never used money at all very much but had bartered) what a paycheck REALLY is--it's LIKE money, but you can't SPEND it until you either CASH it or put it in YOUR checking account where it STAYS in that bank building and you write CHECKS that then comes out of your account. Usually, I have to say, it's a multi-lesson thing. Anyway, from there we go on to job interview skills and so on. But the formal program? Useless. How does this apply to writing? We often say, here on the blog, that so much of learning is just doing it, working at it, honing your craft for years and years. You have to do the real learning yourself, no matter what someone teaches you. You toss out what doesn't work for you. So many people use GMC (Goal, Motivation, and Conflict). I can't. I improvise. I do my own thing as it works in my real world.

So that's what I'm thinking about this Saturday morning in my corner of the world. If you are a praying person, please pray for the people of Tibet. And tell me . . . have you ever taught someone something . . . and realized you learned much more than you could ever imagine? Have you ever mentored a writer or critiqued someone and realized YOU learned something instead?

Peace,
E

Original

I had an incredible ah-ha writing moment yesterday.

You see, I had agreed to judge a writing contest--a fellow blogger over at Teen Fiction Cafe asked me to for the chapter of her RWA. Necessarily, then, I was reading one "first chapter" after another. When you read this way, I think it's a lot easier to notice flaws. It's also a lot easier to notice one that stands out because you're disappointed when the chapter ends. And it's a lot easier to mentally make comparisons between writers. Now I at least understand why some agents, and RWA chapters, and blog sites have contests for first paragraphs or first pages or whatever.

I was given a score sheet, and after I finished each first chapter, I had to score 20 different areas on a scale of 1-5 and then tally. Surprisingly (to me at least) the winner that emerged wasn't the one I would have kept reading--because it's not the type of book I would pick personally. But that actually showed me that I was being objective (as objective as possible given, of course, that I am a subjective human being, as we all are). If I had to give the authors a score of 1-5 on, say "Is the premise sufficient to sustain the length of the book?" and 19 other areas, and the author who won consistently scored higher even if it's not something I would read, then "objectively" (or at least as objectively as "judging" writers can be) she won.

But my real ah-ha moment was in understanding why so many writers with SUCH fierce talent struggle to get published. Because in some entries, I as an editor could see "Wow . . . talent!" The voice was there, it was polished, the details were vivid, the dialogue funny. But though the characters were engaging, they were just another variation on a thousand books before it--the city girl out of place in the country, the bad boy on a motorcycle, the Jane Austen-esque historical, the Manolo-clad heroine, the mother too busy for her own daughter, the . . . You get the idea.

Now bear with me for the ah-ha. Contest judging is VERY MUCH like being an editor or agent. Think about it. While you MIGHT read an entire book, most of the time, you are giving a writer two or three chapters--maybe even just one--to engage you. So necessarily, you, or your assistant, are reading first chapters after first chapters looking--and hoping--for the one that makes you tingle. The one that makes you pause--THIS is original, this is FRESH, this is high-concept.

We all know everything's been done before. But the task is to make your "what's been done before" sound totally original.

I talked to my new editor yesterday. I am SO excited about my new deal--a spring 2009 release. And I can tell you . . . in all honesty, you have NEVER heard of a story like this before. Yeah, there are a couple of familiar things. A distant father, for example. But nothing like it that I've ver heard of. And that made me excited, and I can't wait to announce it.

And so, I get it. Why you have to approach editors with something new. I saw talent in the contest, I really, really did. But to compete, you need something original. This is something we all need to keep in mind. Because as we compete in the greatest "First Chapter" contest ever--trying to get published--the competition is fierce.

Thoughts?

An Open Door

When I was in college, one of the ways I earned extra money was as a tutor for the athletic department. For an entire year, I tutored one Kenyan marathon runner who desperately needed to pass Sociological Theory in order to graduate.

To pass Theory, you needed to be able to write essays (no multiple choice in Theory). Which would be fine if the first time you ever heard a word of English wasn't four years previously. So this runner, named Peter, and I struggled.

But what I remember most about Peter wasn't our intense studying sessions--I definitely recall trying to explain Karl Marx to him and not having a lot of luck. But what I remember more vividly are a lot of small moments as he became my friend.

Peter told me his story, of living in a village, tending goats, with seven brothers, several sisters, and his mom and dad, when he was "discovered" by an American track coach scouring Kenya for runners. Peter had never left his village, let alone boarded a plane--or even worn shoes. Soon, his world changed upside down. It would be like you or I suddenly going to the moon. And though he got a full scholarship, there was no extra money forthcoming for plane trips home on summer breaks or Christmas. To say he was homesick was an understatement. By the time I was his tutor, he hadn't seen his family in five years.

A lot of the ignorant, entitled (I also had a scholarship to this mostly wealthy--tuition is now over $40K with room and board--nearly all-white Southern private university) students there shunned Peter. They said he smelled (he didn't wear deoderant and didn't understand America's fascination with cologne). And he wore the same clothes over and over. (Because he only OWNED a handful of outfits.) I never saw him without his brown cardigan, no matter HOW hot it was. But I saw, instead, a truly graceful man with a generous spirit. I like to think that I helped him be a little less lonely and homesick. I tutored him, but we sometimes talked for hours afterward. But my favorite memory of him has to do with an open door.

We met at the library and got the key to a study room to again cram his head full of Karl Marx and Max Weber, and again pray to the gods that he could spill enough of it out on paper that he could pass the ONE course he needed to graduate. He was taking the class for the second time. I shut the door, rolled up my sleeves, and whipped open my notebook. Peter stood without a word and opened the door. I knew we would be talking. A lot. This was the library. You're supposed to be quiet. I reached behind me and shut the door. He got up and opened it.

"Are you hot? Why do you want the door open?"

"For you."

"I want it closed."

"No. Your honor."

Turns out, a shut door and two single people behind it in HIS culture would damage the reputation of the young woman in question.

"I have too much respect for you to shut the door. You are my friend."

It has been many years, and I still sometimes well up thinking of that moment. Peter did, finally, pass. Because eventually, the professor agreed to let him take the final orally. Writing was difficult for him--but he could speak well, albeit somewhat broken, English. So right up until he walked in that room, and with dignity walked to the chair where he would have to spill out all I had taught him, we were cramming. And I waited outside the door and prayed. He passed. He graduated. He returned to Kenya.

Peter worked for the government there. And he died several years ago. I cried all day when I found out.

There are people who intentionally write hateful things. And there are people in life who will leave a door open for you. My wish for you all as writers and readers is your life be filled with those who open doors, not shut them.

As for craft . . . I always say my best advice to writers is to be students of life. Look for the small gestures that create your characters. Like open doors.

Thoughts?

Tick

You know, the older I get, the less and less I ever want to gossip. Having been quite hurt by a pretty well-known writer I'd never met spreading a falsehood about me (that was not inherently something mean--but was very false and personally hurtful to me), I know how it feels. Heck, there's not one person who, over the years, hasn't been gossiped about from grade school on. It's why I avoid my neighbors. That whole "Desperate Housewives" thing is not for me.

I can share that the feeling of people discussing you is the reason that I wish I knew then what I know now. I would most definitely have always taken a pen name. If only to gain some distance between me and my work, in a sense. Is it gossip to be reviewed? Of course not. You want as many of those as possible. But in this era of bloggers and snark, not every review remains impersonal. But you just take it in stride. Or, if you are like me, you NEVER, EVER Google yourself. And I stopped reading reviews at Amazon. In fact, I stopped reading reviews anywhere. My editors and agent call me with them sometimes (PW or Kirkus). I usually just say "good or bad?" Thank goodness they've been mostly the former.

But the real reason I bring up gossip is the whole situation in Albany, New York. If you haven't been following New York politics, New York's governor, Eliot Spitzer has apparently been a frequent customer of call girls. Expensive call girls ($4300 for two hours). Unsafe sex. Did I mention he's married and has three children? Did I mention he ALSO ran on a platform of reform, that he routinely (as attorney general) prosecuted white-collar crime and prostitution? On top of it, he's always struck people as holier than thou, rabidly vicious in his prosecutions. In short, a pr*ck. So all of New York is watching this drama, and there are calls for his impeachment.

Bear with me . . . I'm getting to the writing. Like Senator Larry Craig, like former New Jersey governor Jim McGreevy, Spitzer issued an apology with his wife by his side. No slacker herself, she's Harvard-educated and attractive, and apparently VERY bright.

FINALLY, Orloff arrives at the writing. See, part of me hates watching this spectacle. I don't watch TV news ever (unless it's the BBC) precisely because I don't want to hear the talking heads and pundits rip this situation apart. I don't want to watch people, like vultures, pick over this life. Not because I, former New Yorker, like Spitzer. I don't. It's the human pain. BUT . . . I have to say as a writer, as this whole situation goes down, I am thinking, thinking, thinking. WHAT MAKES ALL THESE PLAYERS IN THIS DRAMA TICK? How did he think he'd never get caught? (Money laundering got him caught--no, he doesn't appear to have laundered money but the way he moved a lot of money through different accounts appeared suspicious to the banks, who alerted the IRS, who alerted the feds.) The guy is BRILLIANT by all accounts. He prosecuted white collar crime--he knows how people get caught! Okay . . . then what makes a guy have a call girl come to him the night before Valentine's Day and have unsafe sex? Creepy. What makes his wife stand by him? Because I can tell you . . . I "might" for my children stay with someone--I don't ever try to judge a woman's (or man's) decision in that regard--but I ain't gonna stand in front of the press for a photo op while he cops to this behavior. So why? Does she like being Mrs. Governor that much? (He was rumored to have wanted to be the first Jewish president of the U.S.--maybe they both had aspirations for the White House.) And then . . . the writer in me thinks of the nuclear fallout in both their lives. It's BAD ENOUGH your son-in-law is a cheating bastard. But hookers? If he and his wife stay together, what will the holidays be like? What of his daughters having to go to school?

In short . . . it's not GOSSIP I want at all. That makes me feel queasy. I don't want to delight in someone's pain. But it's really wishing I could delve into the psyches of the players. Some cases, like the Scott Peterson murder trial, rivet me that way. Because as I delve, I think, "There's a future book here. There's something in this near-Greek tragedy that's usuable as writer." It's not the salacious details I want--I really DON'T want to know exactly what $4300 for two hours buys you. It's what makes all these people in this situation TICK.

So tell me . . . do certain news stories or human dramas fascinate you as a writer? Do you think of characters as you are watching them unfold? Do you like gossip? (You can 'fess up here--hey. some people like their People magazine.) Do you want to know, as a writer, what makes people TICK?

Are You Creative?

This is my sister's store and business.

Sickeningly talented, isn't she? If you click on events, wait for the slide show to load.

Creative.

To be completely and utterly clear . . . the only way I am ever going to use a hot glue gun is to glue Demon Baby's pants to a chair to make him hold still. I am no Martha, that's for sure. When I took the watercolor class, my painting was . . . awash in color. I love it. But . . . he has nothing to fear.

Most of my friends are creative types. Writers, artists, magazine editors, book editors . . . but oddly enough, I don't think of MYSELF as creative. Maybe because I feel like . . . well, that's just the way my brain works. It doesn't seem "hard" most of the time. I just wake up with story ideas. I like to write about people and characters because I am always wondering what makes people tick. But creative? I don't know.

I want to make a film. I feel like that would be creative. But film school will have to wait until Demon Baby goes off to kindergarten--and I am utterly sure he hasn't been expelled. I like to garden. That just feels messy and dirty, but I know there's an element of creativity to it. I knit. But really . . . knit, purl, knit. I enjoy it as a hobby, but creative? I don't make things like those found at this blog. I'm working on this sweater right now.

I love music and can spend hours fine-tuning my playlists on my iPod. I have a piano in my office. Sometimes I play. Badly.

I think, in the end, I have a messy way of looking at the world. Things spill onto other areas. Nothing is neatly defined. If I were a painting itself, I think I would be a Jackson Pollack.

Thoughts? Are you creative?

A Kick in the A**

I decided to give myself a kick in the a** and see where I am with those New Year's Resolutions. REMEMBER THOSE????

Well, time to see how the hell I am doing. Might as well. It's a Monday. Ass-kickings are best served the first of the week.

1. The biggie. Go back to my modified macrobiotic eating--with a determined resolution. Well . . . actually, I've done this. I'm back to morning smoothies, alfalfa sprout sandwhiches on organic bread (yup!), and lots of water. I haven't give up coffee again, but I've cut down. Lost five pounds. Generally feel better. NO MEAT. It now simply grosses me out.

2. Either do yoga or walk 4 to 8 miles a day. Or both. I haven't been able to give up a full hour of morning silence at 5:30 a.m. to do this consistently. I was GREAT about this for a month, but deadlines beckoned and I NEED that Demon-Free hour to write. I HAVE gone back to yoga at night (when Demon can go into childcare at the yoga studio). So . . . I hope when I am over the hurdle of the next months (three deadlines), I can get back to the morning walk.

3. Learn something new. Well, I took a watercolor class. That was great. And I am signing up for an online college course in physics. AND . . . I decided to take Oldest Son's electric Fender and teach myself guitar. If I find that I am not the next Eddie Van Halen, I plan on taking up drums with Baby Girl. IDEALLY, I want to enroll in film school and make a documentary. But I "think" I might have to wait Demon has entered kindergarten two years from now. That sound you hear? The collective scream of kindergarten teachers dreading his arrival.

.4. Financial goals. I have three . . . they have to do with what's in my savings account, debt, and what I want to make this year. Well, savings account sucks. Debt sucks. MAKING really good dough this year. So . . . with the third item, I should be able to tackle the other two.

5. Finish four proposals and one full book (separate from what I'm contracted to do). Write the screenplay lurking in my brain. Enter it in the screenwriting contest I want to enter. Well, this is a discombulated mess, because I just got an offer on a proposal, and I have another proposal out there, plus I signed a three-book deal already for a middle-grade fantasy series. So I need to ponder what I want to do with this resolution. I think . . . I will probably aspire to do two more proposals and finish an uncontracted book that I workshopping with my writers' group and then shop that.

6. Be more organized. Progress. I'm keeping up with laundry, my office shelves are neater. My desk? Not so much. But I am making progress.

7. Stop sighing. MAJOR ass-kicking here. Not there yet. Working on it. But not there yet.

8. No mindless anything. This means no rising and going right to work mindlessly without stopping to pray. No mindless TV ever. No mindless Internet surfing. I don't count visiting my friends' blogs as mindless, but a lot of my Internet surfing is fairly aimless. I am doing really well with this one. I don't count Scrabulous on Facebook as mindless. I am increasing my vocabulary. LOL! I am a lot more "present" and mindful with Demon Baby, and am finding when I am, the kid cracks me up. A lot.
9. Going with number 8, I want to see the world more as Demon Baby sees it. As miraculous, not mundane. I am going to expect miracles. All the time. Every day. And see what the universe deposits on my doorstep. (Hopefully not dog poop.) Not there with this one. Working on it. I am trying to actually drop to my knees in prayer in the mornings. I find it humbles me . . . and I seem to then expect more beauty from the day. But not there yet.

10. And finally . . . I have two or three volunteering ideas. I have a major volunteer project now, which I'll keep private. I am also organizing a drive to raise money for Oxfam to buy farm animals at one of my kids' schools. So . . . still want to do more. I am happy to say Oldest Son volunteered at a nursing home for four hours today. He is 12. I am trying to be the change I want to see in the world . . . and I hope that means it's rubbing off on my kids.

So, where are you with your year goals??? Have you looked at 'em? Did you set them in the first place? Do you think about where you want to be at the end of this year? Do you do a "big picture" view? Feel free to share where you are at.

Meet Me! And Thoughts on Giving Back

First . . . if you live in the Richmond, Virginia area or driving distance from it, consider coming to the Writers Workshop held by the library. I'm giving a presentation on writing for Young Adults next Saturday. Apparently, you get a box lunch. I forget what lunch choice I picked, but . . . lunch and ME . . . how can you beat it?

Second, a quote for your Sunday morning pleasure:


Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
~Tenzin Gyatso

With a handful of exceptions (in many years of writing) that I can think of, I have met only writers who are more than willing to give back to fellow writers. The few exceptions, oddly enough all youngish women, I just consider an indication of their personal character or the fact that they haven't grown yet, and I consider them the exception not the rule.

In general, what you usually see are writers who are willing to stop and talk craft, and stop and talk the agonies of trying to get published, who share their insider knowledge--whether that's the intricacies of publishing or where to stick a comma. The blog world has its share of negativity--and I avoid those places--and I tend to hang with the positive folks. I will be updating my blog roll this week with all the new, great writers I've met.

Mark Terry, for instance, wrote a 10-piece blog series on freelance writing that should be a BOOK (have you thought of that, Mark?). But it's not just published authors, but writers who just want to share the journey. Share their passion. If you're been crazy enough not to visit SpyScribbler's blog . . . well, then haul your blog-hopping a** over there today.

As for me . . . I always feel what goes around comes around. Lately, I've had a personal patch of roughness, but my pals--both in real life and online--have been nothing but good to me.

So take a hint from the Dalai Lama. No matter if you get the million-dollar contract or not . . . your success will be measured by your character.

Thoughts? Has the comraderie of writers helped you?

Peace,
E

Superstition

I have more deal "news" soon. Big news. Ecstatic news. But . . . no further hints. Why?

I am superstitious.


I never "announce" until not only have I agreed to a deal, gotten my manuscript due date from the editor, and am working furiously . . . but also that the ink is dry on contracts. Nothing "bad" has ever happened to me wherein I got and agreed to a deal and then it fell through. But you never know. I am convinced writers are a superstitious lot.

To that end, my writing pal JVZ sent me this post over at Nathan Bransford's blog. I think it should be required reading for EVERY aspiring author. Every one. And even established authors.

This deal I don't want to jinx has been . . . 13 or 14 months in the making. It has included one face-to-face meeting in NYC over a year ago (starting this timeline), 1 rejected proposal, a second proposal, requests for absolutely brilliant changes in said proposal (the editor has great instincts), my NOT DOING the revisions as my dad went blind, my Baby Girl got rheumatic fever, and I got strep throat, and six of us got the stomach flu. I don't EVEN need to bring in Demon Baby's Nefarious Syrupy Plot to Take Over the World. Suffice it to say, I was not inspired. Then I was. A new first line came to me, the pieces fell into place. I sent off the new proposal. Then I waited. Not long, actually. Maybe . . . 6 weeks, maybe 8. I don't know. Long enough that I forgot about it. Long enough that I didn't expect a deal.

And in this entire time, I have mentioned this book on this blog ONE TIME. One. Because I am superstitious. Because deals sometimes take that long and I don't want to friggin' jinx it. Because I STILL won't reveal what it's about. Not yet. Not until Publisher's Marketplace--where it won't be listed until the ink is dry. Superstition.

A dear friend, who I won't "out" here unless he wants to say so himself, is "thisclose" to a deal. I won't even say where, but it's HUGE!!!!!! "Thisclose." I think it's safe to say that the thought of discussing it openly would make him vomit. Or maybe that's ME . . . I am THAT superstitious.

I thought about it today. Why? Why so superstitious? And then it dawned on me. There's talent. All right, maybe I have some. There tenacity. I know I have that when I am not completely stressed out--and even then I always bounce back. There's timing. Man, do I know about that. I rode Spanish Disco in at the VERY beginning of the Chick Lit craze. And then . . . there's luck. And anyone who tells you differently is lying. It's the luck that had (true story), Spanish Disco going to Editor #1,who adored it--but knew she could never get the book signed at her publishing house because it was too edgy, but she just so happened to know Editor #2 at a different house was looking for edgy, so Editor #1 called my agent and said, "Love it, can't sign it, send it to Editor #2." How often does that happen? It arrived to Editor #2 on a Friday, when she so happened to not have something to read on the train, and so she grabbed it and brought it with her for the train ride, and finished it that weekend . . . and by Monday, she said she was looking to make an offer. Then my agent waited for four weeks for it to really come through, during which time I breathed not ONE word to ANYONE . . . because I didn't want to jinx it. Because there are black cats and four-leaf clovers and deals that take a long time because everything has to fall into place just so.

So tell me . . . are you superstitious? In what way?

BLOG HIJACKING: Cosmo And Dreamer

"Quick! She's gone to make the coffee. Cosmo, start typing!!!!"

"Opposable thumbs would make that easier! But here goes."

All right . . . we're going to give you a dog's-eye view of what it's like to be the pet of a writer. First of all, there are a lot of us pets in this house. She has a noisy parrot, another dog (Fat and Lazy), and a lovebird, as well as a beta fish. We won't discuss the PYTHON. He belongs to Older Boy. But seriously, pets who belong to writers? Well, it's an interesting life.

First, the hours. Mom doesn't get much sleep. Now, we'll discuss the Demon Spawn later, but suffice it to say? We're typing this at 5:30 a.m. Usually, when she gets up, we just BARELY lift our heads. She's up before the rooster crows, and sure as heck up before us dogs want to even roll over and contemplate breakfast. She's up before the sun rises. Sometimes, she takes us for a four-mile walk, which we love. But if something called a "deadline" is happening, she can't spare the hour of quiet. Anyway, usually we're snoring. But we've been planning this blog hijiacking for a while now, so we needed to get up really early today. Baby Girl took our pictures. Cute, aren't we? For mutts of . . . unknown origin. Baby Girl was supposed to get ONE puppy. She came home with two. And Mom? She just shrugged and took it all in stride. Even the fact that one of us was clearly the runt.

Anyway, she gets up early--and we have to be honest, she does NOT look her best at this hour. She starts the coffeemaker, then she usually blogs. Before coffee!! Then she lights candles. Enough to burn the house down. She lights a candle for every friend in trouble or sad, or sick. She even lights candles for people she doesn't know (which we think is weird). She lights one for inspiration. One for compassion. Soon, we have a veritable blaze going. Then she prays. What she's saying, we have no idea. But man, she's pretty intense about it. She's got a LOT on her mind.

Then she sits down again. Now, I don't know how other writers do their whole writing thing, but Mom opens a file and stares at it. For a while. Like what? Is the computer gonna talk to her? Then she often looks at me (the darker dog in the picture), or Dreamer (the white one), or Fat and Lazy, and says, "What do you think, guys?"

She stares some more. Like, is she a WRITER or a STARER? Then she mutters something about whatever's going on in this thing called PLOT, and starts typing. She writes fast. I mean, those fingers fly. Sometimes she talks to herself.

Then the Spawn wakes up. We run for the hills. Let me tell you, she's got four kids and THAT one is gonna be the death of us. He doesn't know how to hug us without treating our ears as handles. Like, what's up with that? And the tantrums, the throwing things, the climbing up inside the pantry, the leaping from the bed onto the laundry basket. He comes in sometimes and asks mom to let him sit in her lap. She ALWAYS stops for that. But then usually he does something rotten, like pull her hair at the same time he kisses her. When she tells him that's naughty, he grins (he has dimples you know) and says something like, "You're beautiful!" A regular Cary Grant, that kid. Cary Grant playing SATAN.

Anyway, her day pretty much goes like this until 3:00 p.m.: type, answer phone (agent), type, Play Little Green Army Men with Demon (this despite the fact that she believes in peaceful resistance and non-violence, but as you can guess, Spawn likes fighting with the Little Green Army Men; she makes him have "Peace Talks" and the Little Green Men have to "resolve their differences"--we don't think Spawn gets it, but Mom tries). After playing Army Men, she answers the phone (her dad . . . she always takes his calls--but NEVER answers for anyone else), type, type, type, type. Checks this thing called email. Plays a turn or two on her 10 ongoing Scrabulous games on Facebook. Types. Hears Demon crashing. Jumps up. Discovers he now knows how to get in the fishtank . . . and he has fed the fish . . . CHEESE. Do you know how gross cheese is . . . inside an aquarium? Plays with him for a half-hour, kisses him, makes him a snack, settles him in with crayons and a coloring book, races back to her desk because she KNOWS she's got less than ten minutes until he's causing havoc again, types really, really, really fast. This whole cycle replays itself numerous times.

At 3:00, Baby Girl comes home. She's probably our favorite because, after all, she picked us out. Then Older Boy comes in. He's grown his hair longer than Mom's and it's really "rock star"-lookin'. He is usually STARVING. We offer to share our food. He looks at us like we're dumb dogs and cruises the fridge. It's hard to see his eyes with all that hair, but Mom usually greets him with, "Hey Buddy, how was school? . . . Oh, and you're perfect, you know, just the way you are." No matter WHAT he tells her. She's kind of like that with these kids. Even Spawn. Older Boy eats pretty healthy. No sweets. But he likes a LOT of pizza. So he usually has that or . . . chicken wings. Which grosses mom out as she's vegetarian. Chicken . . . gross.

Anyway, once they're home, this thing called writing is tough to do. She sometimes gets sad about that because it means she has to stay up late, but she deals with it. Then it's homework, softball practice, Ninjitsu classes. Oldest Girl sometimes breezes in. She's eighteen. She hates dogs. We avoid her. Sometimes Mom and Spawn go outside and feed the birds. Mom likes that. A lot. Demon does, too. Then he tries to chase the squirrels away from the bird feeders with whatever weapon happens to be handy--usually a large stick. Demon Baby hates squirrels. A lot. Because he loves "his and Mom's" birds. A lot.

Sometime around 5:00, mom does laundry, cooks something that resembles human food for dinner. She's NOT a great cook. She hates cooking, in fact.

Once Demon Child is in bed, she comes down and starts writing again. Sometimes, she's just too exhausted. She goes to sleep. But then . . . see here's her secret . . . sometimes she gets up again at 1:00 a.m. and . . . this is where writers are NUTS, she starts writing again. I mean, what can be so damn important? At 1:00 a.m., she REALLY loves us. Because it's kind of lonely, she says, being a writer at 1:00 a.m. In fact, despite all the chaos, it dawns on us that Mom is kind of lonely. She says it's because writers are always "in their heads." Whatever that means. Anyway, she writes until she can't anymore, then goes back to bed for a little sleep until 5:30 a.m.

Crap! She's coming back. Listen, before we go . . . tell us, what would your pet tell the blog if it could? Are all you writers this weird?

Truth and Lies

Long post today. Sorry.

My two sisters and I had totally different upbringings. Same family. But . . . I was oldest, and by the time I left home, pretty much for good, my youngest sister was only ten. My middle sister left a couple of years later, which meant for high school, my youngest sister was an "only." When MY life started out, my parents and I lived in an apartment building in Yonkers, NY, on the same block as my great-grandmother and great-grandfather, great-aunt, and a couple of cousins. We all left for safer neighborhood and better schools, or, in my great-grandparents' case, through death. By the time my youngest sister was in high school, we lived in a 5,000 square-foot French colonial, with a Jag and two or three Lincolns parked in the driveway. All I remember of my father's old Buick from when I was little . . . was that it smelled. You get the idea.

When I tell the "truth" about my upbringing, it is MY truth. And when my sisters tell about theirs . . . it is their own. My father changed from when I was born to when my youngest sister left the nest. He mellowed out, he probably wasn't as stressed about making a living--we got a whole new set of stresses, like the real estate market plummeting, not did he and my mom have enough paycheck at the end of the month to put food on the table. Now, as a mother, I have dragged my kids to war protests and brought them with me to march on Washington. I have insisted we boycott a SLEW of products for political reasons: Burger King, General Mills, I could go on with a lengthy list. When their schools do Box Tops for Education, it's all I can do from going down and protesting by staging a sit-in in the principal's office (Box Tops is sponsored by General Mills). I have dragged them along to the 'hood to help a family in need. They have wrapped presents for 12-year-old teen mothers. I think the "truth" is I am raising them to be fully conscious of issues of social justice. They may just think, "Mom's a nut who won't let us eat cereal."

So I'm sure, if you are a reader/writer, you saw the two major hoax stories this week, that amount to a search for truth in memoir. The first link is to the Margaret Seltzer story, the author who made up a life of foster care amongst the gangs of South-Central, LA. The second is about Misha Defonseca, who invented a life raised by wolves during the Holocaust.

Here are my thoughts--three major ones. Feel free to voice yours in the Comments section.

1) The obvious. Where the hell were the fact checkers? Move beyond that to something MORE obvious. Where was anyone with a brain? In the case of the first book, the Seltzer story, nothing about this woman's story rings true. I can tell you that when I, a white woman, took my kids into the worst of the worst mostly black and Hatian 'hood to do social work, I didn't see a face like mine. I didn't see a car like mine (which at the time was just a kind of crappy older van). When we got out of the car, 90% of the windows in this place shot out or broken, we were stared at. We were going to dinner at a friend's house. I never walked so fast in my life, even though at the time, I was pregnant. So maybe I would more adequately state I never waddled so fast. The fact is . . . people can spot an outsider in a second, and it would not be so easy for a white woman to move, fluidly, amongst gangs in that part of LA. I could also go on about the politics of fostering children from other races, and how the system looks at it closely, so even that rings false, but suffice it to say . . . it doesn't even SOUND real. The second story? Of the Holocaust hoax? A simple Google search would tell you how rare it is for a human being to be "raised by wolves." At times, I think Demon Baby came to me via a wolf pack, but since I can clearly recall giving birth . . .

2) Truth is subjective. Hence my introduction about my truth versus my sister's or my children's. We are EACH entitled to a truth.

3) BUT . . . bear with me. When a Buddhist eats a meal, he or she bows their head and thinks not just of the food on the plate, but the sun and rain that grew the food, the farmer or truck driver or whatever who brought it to market, all the hands involved in creating that meal. It is the idea that we are all interconnected. As such, it becomes a lot harder to be an a**hole. No one is lesser or greater. We're all connected. It becomes harder to eat cereal from companies that do the wrong thing. It becomes harder to be silent, in some ways, over injustice. So I get incensed over these hoaxes, particularly the gang one. And James Frey. Because when you so lose the thread of truth in the quest for a book deal, you are necessarily RIDING ON THE BACKS of real people whose stories those are. There ARE countless children in foster care, countless gang bangers, countless people without hope in extreme poverty and socially unjust situations. There are countless addicts for whom every day is a struggle WITHOUT the exaggeration for the sake of a sale of a book. And so, that, in my sincere opinion, is what karma is. You are, in my opinion, using the rapes and murders and drugs and gangs, using them in an intimate and real interconnected way, to sell your first novel. And Seltzer has taken all of the heaviness of that onto her soul. Just as James Frey has taken in the real death of the so-called "girlfriend" he had, whom he actually barely knew. All her family's grief and pain? He has taken that on. In the case of the Holocaust, I actually believe that writer is mentally ill; nonetheless . . . there is no greater tragedy to take on.

Were I to sincerely believe that any of these people walked a path in which they felt what they wrote was their "truth," I would be more forgiving, just as I am a lot more forgiving of Augusten Burroughs. I think he probably feels he owns that story pretty much as it is.

Finally, we all want deals. I could take certain aspects of my life, memories, triumphs, and tragedies, and mine my life for a sale (perhaps, if anyone thought it was interesting enough). But I would never put my life under a microscope like that, nor, more importantly, my families' lives. So I have chosen the route many of us take. I have "borrowed" bits and pieces of my own life and put them into fiction. But to try, as Selzter has done, to excuse her behavior and say the story must be told, when she knows full well that a first novel is a tougher sale than a white woman as the face of minority gangs in a memoir . . . is so many shades of wrong. All writers who toil at their craft should, I think, be outraged.

Thoughts??

Character on the Couch

A short time ago, our friend Kathy asked me (the blog) to subject her character to examination. To analysis, if you will. So with a nod to Woody Allen, we're sticking another character into analysis today. Jude Hardin is revising his novel, and this is how he presents his character and premise:

RAUK AND A HARD PLACE

GENRE: MYSTERY-THRILLER

STORY: When a teenage runaway case turns into a murder and kidnapping, private investigator Thomas Rauk is drawn into a labyrinth of conspiracy and betrayal involving an international stem cell cartel. When Rauk finally locates the runaway, a bomb is strapped to her chest and a sniper has the only exit covered. The clock is ticking, and there appears to be no way out.

Thomas Rauk: Despite an abusive stepfather, he became a child prodigy on guitar. At twenty-five, he crawled away from a plane crash and watched his band go up in flames. Now, at forty-five, he’s a private investigator and a recovering addict, still living with the guilt and anger only a sole survivor knows. He longs for, and fears, intimacy. If you’re a friend, he’ll take a bullet for you. If you’re an enemy, watch out.


Jude wants to know if this sounds "viable." What do you want to know about this character?

I have to say . . . that I like the idea of a guitar hero as a private eye (in fact, you can read about Demon Baby's Guitar Hero adventures over here). I think it's something that would stand out if developed. I have a few questions:

What kind of guitarist? We don't often hear about child prodigies on guitar except in cases like Jimi Hendrix. And this man who passed away a day or two ago, sadly. Ev