Secondary Venn

I love my best friend. We finish each other's sentences. Sometimes, a conversation will resemble, "Did you see the new . . .?" "Yeah . . . can you . . .?" "I know, I'm stunned." I'm not kidding. Conversation is sometimes completely unnecessary. In fact, display a photo of Tom Cruise (mutually loathe him), George Clooney as Batman (love Clooney, but he's no Batman), or any one of hundreds of things, and we can just look at each other and think, "Yeah. I know." But much as we "get" each other on a soul level, she still has a whole life separate from me.

My kids are the same way. They have their lives as they intersect with me, and their lives separate from me. As they get older, the intersecting part gets smaller--no less intense and full of love--but smaller. And that's the order of things.

So it should be with secondary characters. Their whole PURPOSE is to show their intersection with your main character to help define your character, to advance the plot, to be an adversary to your main character, whatever. Do these characters have whole lives separate from that? Of course, just like real people. But that doesn't belong in the book. That intersecting part belongs there. If that part takes over, or if the non-intersecting stuff bleeds into your plot, it's time for that very painful process known as "Kill your darlings."

The ever-brilliant JVZ, who visits this blog, and I were discussing this--but not in these terms--the other day. There's something really audacious I want to include in the Magickeepers. Something that happened before my hero's time. An accident of his birth, so to speak. And JVZ said I could simply imply it and never answer it, because it turned out the world's most famous elder wizard was gay, after all, and that never really made it into a certain literary monster series. The Venn intersection allowed for hints, but no more.

Now, don't get me wrong. In The Magickeepers, for instance, I know the whole tragic history of every single magician in the entire clan. I know their heartaches, the things they hope for, their motivations. But only ONE magician is the real main character, and he happens to be 13 years old. So the rest of it will have to settle for being Venn intersections.

Thoughts?

Picture Frames

You ever get a new picture frame as a gift or buy one at the store? They always come with a pre-fab "family" in them. Smiling. Perfect. "Picture-perfect," in fact. Not a hair out of place. Toothpaste commercial smile. Adoring. Happy. No tension. No Demon Baby squirming, the children are even perfect.

I get asked all the time, "What do you like to write about?" Because I write across genres, sometimes it's not easy to explain.

But in thinking about it . . . I don't like to write about those people in picture frames.

I like messy lives. Messy hearts. If there's murder, the cop solving it will be a mess. If there's the mob, their relationships will be untidy and angry and loving and evil all wrapped into a messy package with a lopsided bow. In my middle-grade Magickeepers book, the family is Russian and moody, and loyalties are complicated affairs. And the guy I thought was the leader, the role model for my young hero to emulate--turns out he has LOTS of problems, including an ego so big it takes over the room. So the role model is the quieter magician over there--in that corner. The one who watches, saying nothing. He's humble. I like him. But the family? Complicated.

In fact, in real life, when I even SEE a picture-perfect family? I am looking for the cracks. I wonder what dark secrets they have. What goes on behind closed doors. NO ONE could be that perfect, right? My favorite (if you can use such a word for murder) "true-crime" tales are those "perfect" families that then erupt into a murder--did the perfect husband really murder the perfect wife?

Thoughts?

Process as a Reflection

If you live an authentic life, almost everything about your life will seamlessly reflect who you are. So, for example, if you live--authentically--by the Do Unto Others golden rule, hopefully, you will go through life doing just that. I knew a priest once, a really great guy, and we once had a conversation about how some people just don't get it. He said he called these people the "I Love Jesus" crowd, because they would come to Mass and shout the loudest that they loved Jesus, and would flip the bird at the first car that didn't let them cut into the lane to leave the parking lot. The point, said my priest-friend, was to live the love authentically in everything you do. Not just that hour Mass (and an aside to anyone Catholic--he HAPPENED to be a priest, but this inauthenticity is true for every religion on the face of the planet . . . there are people within who get it. And people within who don't).

So it is with me and process. There's a joke in my family, because my Significant Other is Mexican, that we operate on Mexican Time. Which means time is . . . negotiable. If you want my family to arrive somewhere on time, you must tell us the time is at least an hour before what the time really is. I know this is not restricted to my family, because I have an Irish friend married to a Jewish man in New York, and he says they operate on Kathy Time, and that, apparently, means the same thing as Mexican Time.

I can spend hours reading a physics book, but don't have the concentration to pay attention to anything I loathe for more than five minutes. I don't like to be told to be certain places at specific times, don't like organized events (like conferences . . . lecture, lunch, lecture, lecture, cocktail hour, etc.). I usually am good for one scheduled item and then go hide in my hotel room with room service and a book.

Or take directions. I am the person who gets some gadget--a camera, a computer, whatever. And pretty much throws away the directions while I try to just LOOK at the thing and intuit how it operates. And then if I can't figure it out, I hand it to Oldest Son, say, "Figure out how to make it do this," and wait for him to show me. Because I learn better that way.

So it makes SENSE that I don't outline. I don't like feeling restricted. I don't like having a plan. I do like having a general sense of direction, sort of like, when we left for the beach in New Jersey, I knew I was traveling NORTH, but beyond that . . . it was a bit, shall we say, fluid. But eventually I get there.

Or I don't. I have a friend (hi G.L.!) who lives a mile from me, give or take. I could spit and have it land on her house. The first time I drove there, I was twenty minutes late. I had Mapquested it, but went in the total wrong direction anyway, because I'm not good at following directions or reading maps, and ended up miles and miles away before I looked at Oldest Son and said, "This doesn't seem right." Which is how I am when I write. I may get scenes and scenes into a book before I realize something's not quiet right, and then I intuit how to fix it.

No, my process could never work for most people. But it's definitely a reflection of me and my whole crazy life. And I am okay with it. It feels real and authentic to me.

So when you hold up a mirror, do you live an authentic life as a writer?

Bucket List

So Oldest Daughter has a new goal. Study her junior year at a conservatory in England--all year. And then spend a semester in Pau, France, also studying abroad through an exchange program at her school. These are phenomenal goals. And I thought back to college, and frankly, I didn't have the guts to just decide to leave my life here and go away for a whole year, without being able to come home and see my family.

I was afraid.

Fear has such power, doesn't it? It can make you not send out your manuscript. It can hold you back from your goals. It can keep you from telling that special someone you're in love with them UNTIL they've told YOU. Fear of rejection, right? It can keep us from careers we want. From scaling mountains.

Baby Girl wants to climb Kilamanjaro. She also has the foresight to, when she dies, want her ashes scattered from a mountain peak. Yes, she's 10 and thinks of these things.

I want her to be fearless. Go ahead and climb the mountain.

So it got me thinking about my Bucket List (from the movie) . . . those things I want to do before I die. I want to go here. But beyond that, my list isn't very long. Of course, I'd love to run off with him. I mean, he's on the list. But most things I want to do and study and experience, I have. And those I haven't . . . I have too.

That's the blessing of being a writer. If I want to travel abroad, I do--as a character. If I want to try my hand at fighting crime . . . get to do that. Be a doctor? Sure. Be a singer? Have you heard my voice? But HER voice . . . sublime.

So tell me, how does being a writer affect your list . . . and what makes YOUR Bucket List?

The Short List

Last night, all four of my kids and I happened to stumble on The Parent Trap remake with Lindsay Lohan on TV and decided to watch it together. Admittedly, parts of the movie are cute, and the performances good. I like Dennis Quaid a lot, and I enjoy Natasha Richardson (she was wonderful in Asylum). But I said to my daughter, "At the end of the day, I just can't get past the fact that these two pathetic parents each didn't SEE or lay eyes on the other twin for 12 years." They split up a pair of twins with nary a word, and everyone seemed to think this was a find custody arrangement. Yeah, it's a movie. But . . . seriously?

So it is with some elements in books or movies. I think every person has a short list of "things I just can't read about/see/or get past in a plot or character." I know a lot of people, for instance, who just can't get past vampires drinking blood, and so all efforts to make them sex symbols just don't work.

I won't watch "torture porn"--those movies that seem to exist purely for sicker and sicker ways to kill people, particularly women. I won't read torture porn, or books whose sole "grab you" hook is about torturing and humiliating a victim. Somehow the writing, the art, the characters seem to be lost in favor of shocking our American nearly-numb senses by making death even that more outlandish. It's not that I don't think those kinds of books can be done, or done well. I don't believe in censorship. I'm not a literary snob. It's just on my short list of "not going there."

I accidentally read an erotic novel (staying at someone's house, insomnia, grabbed something from the shelf, was halfway through before I realized where it was going) in which the romantic lead was the heroine's father, as in they embarked on an affair. Like that was supposed to be sexy? And this wasn't some sleaz-oid publishing house. The cover was gorgeous, and like I said, I was halfway through a pretty sexy novel before I had my "oh my God, I think I want to vomit" discovery of the big twist. On the flip side, I loved The Ballad of Jack and Rose because it had more complexity to the issues and his utopian ideal. Still . . . .

So . . . no-go on The Parent Trap for me. But what makes YOUR short list of no-can-do?

Deadline Mania

By 9:00 a.m. today, Demon Baby and I had been to The Dollar Store (my new favorite--do you know EVERYTHING is a dollar? Mine even carries name-brand cereal and juices.), the grocery store (because the Dollar Store is wonderful, but they don't have produce), and answered 987 questions from Demon Baby, 986 of which began with WHY? WHY did a bird poop on our car? WHY did someone leave a penny on the ground? WHY does our cart have a wobbly wheel? WHY doesn't the grocery man FIX the broken wheel? WHY? WHY? WHY?

By 9:00 a.m., I felt brain dead.

However, the early-morning trip was brought on by the fact that my poor family has been living under deadline mania for approximately two months. Just back-to-back deadlines. I even worked about 6 hours a day on vacation while my cousins took the kids to the beach. And by the end of this particular bout of Deadline Mania, I looked in my fridge this morning and Demon Baby had no orange juice. I can assure you, a nuclear explosion would be quieter than a Demon Baby with no orange juice (his favorite). Laundry isn't done. Beds aren't made. My kids have been living on this. In short, I surveyed my world and it's not pretty.

So today is Recovery from Mania Day. I will do my favorite thing. Putter. I will slowly restore order to my house. My kids will have orange juice and a nice spinach salad for lunch. I will try to recover until the NEXT Deadline Mania.

So writers . . . since none of you have a Demon Baby to scream at you that there's no orange juice, thereby waking you up to just HOW out of control your life has gotten, how do you know when you've been too self-absorbed and too busy with writing so that the rest of your life is looking sloppy around the edges? Or do all of you do the dance between real life and writing life perfectly. And if you DO . . . what is your secret?

Faith

As the daughter of an atheist, I know how elusive faith can be. You can't force it. You can't argue it into someone's heart. You can have a little faith or a lot of faith, but if you have NO faith, the chasm between none and a little is a far deeper divide than between a little and lots.

So it has been with my summer. For a variety of reasons--the economy (feeding a family of six creatively on less), gas prices (trying to drive less, but there's only so much I can do with that one, especially since my Oldest Daughter chose a college an 11-hour drive from here--and we must get all her crap from Here to There), a looming college tuition bill, personal issues, and so on--things in life have seemed less steady for me than they have in a while. I always toss it up to the universe, "I'm unafraid to work hard." And usually things work out. But it's the FAITH that's been elusive. That still, certain voice that comes to me in the quiet with a serenity and peace. THAT voice . . . well, where the hell has it been?

As an optimist, it's not like I haven't tried to wave some sunny fairy dust over everything, but like forcing faith, it's not a simple thing. And it was only natural it would eventually trickle to the writing.

I turned in two manuscripts this summer. I am delighted with both. And now I'll be tweaking them in rewrites. I feel a huge sense of joy opening the Magickeepers file knowing where it's going to go--from this level to THIS one. But soon I will be in proposal stage. Every writer is in that stage at some point or another, in some fashion of another. I will be in the What's My Next Step stage. In my What Shiny New Idea Holds Promise stage. I may EVEN be in my Maybe I Want to Go Back to University and Do Something Else stage that occasionally breaks through in my life.

I don't know how it is in "real" jobs. But the one or two "real" jobs I had, I went to work, I worked at the same job--even when I got promotions as an editor, I was still editing--I collected my paycheck, I saw the same people, etc. Being a journeyman writer is different. It's always an up and down thing, filled with uncertainty, with periodic pronouncements of doom--NO ONE IS READING, the wise publishing gods say.

It's a profession that requires faith. In your book, in your ideas, in yourself, in some Holy Grail of being published, landing an agent, finishing your novel, selling through, having something that editors want--we're ALL in some way or another riding a wave of faith.

I don't know that everyone feels this way. I don't know that anyone talks about it--at least maybe not in the same terms. But I feel, for me, the only way I survive is by nurturing the still, small voice inside. I sustain it through my blog, through writing friends who "get" the journey, through getting some sleep (AMAZING how much better I feel when that happens). And through waiting for the voice to recover from bouts of ennui. Knowing it must still be there, just resting, waiting for the next Big Thing to excite her.

So there we are today, with my cup of coffee, my Demon Baby yelling at me, and my Ravel playing on my iPod.

Thoughts?

The Stubbornness Scale

Yesterday's post was on why you need an editor. Which brings up, I think, potential posts about where you are as a writer and a person.

If we imagine that most human traits are on a scale of 1 to 10, then I think most of us can say where we are--overall, or maybe on a given day--on the happiness scale. I'm an 8, someone might say. There are all sorts of scales. I myself, on the extrovert scale, consider myself a 7. But I also think of myself as a 7 or 8 on the introvert scale, so what the hell that means, I don't know. I consider myself an 9 on the "openness" scale--I feel like I am pretty authentic and open all the time. I would normally consider myself a 9 on the happiness scale, but lately, that's been like a 7, and I am not sure why--or I am but it's too complicated to go into on a blog. Anyway, you get the idea.

So it is with the stubbornness scale. I used to think I was a 10. But as I (ahem!) got older, the scale kept moving down, down, down. Until now, it's to the left of midway. I just realized everything in life didn't have to be a battle with me digging my heels in and "winning." Sometimes, the spiritually mature thing to do is walk away.

Yesterday, a couple of the posts revolved around separating the "us" from the "writing." I think some of it has to do with that stubbornness factor, this innate sense for some of us that being "right" and having the last word are paramount. If you've ever seen a blog war about something political or something emotionally inflamed, then you know what I am talking about.

I sincerely believe when you get criticism, part of your job as writer is to shut up. To let go of the stubbornness and just listen, absorb, take what works for you--not endlessly defend your work. If the editor (and I am talking about a GOOD editor, a TRUSTED beta reader, a normally excellent CP) didn't get what you wanted to convey, then it's simply not there for them. And here's the painful part--may not be there at all. It may still be stuck in your head, but not on paper.

I realized this lesson, I think, when I actually got published. In an array of nice reviews, I had one for Spanish Disco that was just odd. Really odd. And I felt like writing to this woman on Amazon and saying, "Did you MISS this line?" where it was explained. And THEN it hit me, what my editor had been saying--I cannot go on a 50-state tour "explaining" things that aren't coming across through the writing alone. I'm not my work's lawyer. I'm my work's creator. If what I created doesn't convey it . . . it simply doesn't.

Now, there are were, roughly, 50,000 people who read Spanish Disco in 6 or 7 countries. Did EVERYONE have the same read? "Get" the same message? Of course not.

But in the end, in the editing process, it starts with one good editor or beta reader. And at that moment, you have a choice. Shut the hell up . . . or have to be right.

I think the creatively mature choice is to absorb. You may be wounded for a minute, but stubbornness, at that point, does you no good.

On the flip side, what if you have 12 people telling you 12 different things? Don't you at least need to be able to have a true north? To "know" in your gut what's right? Sure. But I would also suggest that you choose your readers carefully, and that old adage Know Thyself. You see, I always knew I was the "have to be right" gal. And THAT is a character flaw. It took a healthy dose of Buddhist teaching, philosophical reading, and some life pain to not be that person anymore. And my writing is the better for it.

Thoughts?

Why Do Writers Need an Editor?

Yesterday I had an hour and a half phone call with my editor for Magickeepers. This was a follow-up to 4 pages of singles-spaced notes on the book. In a few places on the 'net, lately, writers have been wondering, in essence, about the editor's role. So I thought I would blog about it.

First, I hope no one reading this blog thinks they don't have to polish their work because "an editor" will fix it. Oddly enough a long while back, I was directed to an ongoing debate over on a writer site in which this one guy kept pontificating that it was up to him to have the really great big idea, not to learn where to put commas. My guess is that guy . . . is still unpublished.

Will a misplaced comma sink your chances? No. But 50 misplaced commas in chapter one will. I know anytime I've been asked to read submissions and I see that, I just am frustrated that a writer would so seemingly willfully disregard the basics, or not even have a beta reader or SOMEONE in their writing world to tell them what they're doing wrong grammatically. Same with contest judging when I see some very, very basic elements that are clumsy. Obviously, these writers all think their work deserves to win a contest, which means many writers have serious self-delusion.

An editor, in addition to not being willing to fix 50 misplaced commas and typos, also can't "fix" a "meh" book or a voice that is unoriginal or bland. They can't fix fundamental, core issues that have to do with HOW you write. With your very existence/voice as a writer.

So what the hell ends up in 4 single-spaced pages of notes? Particularly, you might ask, for someone who edits and has edited for a living and has been published before? Well . . . a lot.

My editor is new to me, and we had lunch in Manhattan a while back and I was stuck by how bright he is. I don't think he reads this blog--he's too damn busy--so I am not sucking up. The guy is smart. His notes basically started with "You are a great writer"--no not really, but most editors DO start with something along those lines--"Here's what I like." If you have no idea what's working, it's hard to know what needs fixing. He loves the book.

His notes are then organized in the way he works--first section are story arc issues. These are my big themes, if you will. The WHY, the HOW, the REASONS my hero does what he does. I had left some things unexplained. Part of the storyline involves these rather robber baron magicians racing around the world to reclaim relics lost during the fall of the Romanovs. But I hadn't felt it was important to see just how the relic in question in this book fell into the hands of The Bad Guys. My editor disagreed. In fact--going back to the "You are a great writer paragraph"--what he thinks really works is all the history and the REAL people in time from Czars to magicians to famous authors--who interact with the fictional family. Since he wants even more of what works, the obvious choice would be to show how the relic changed hands through time.

Additionally, the arc notes encompass some "rules" in the book/worldbuilding where it's too subtle yet. I knew I had three books, at least, to play with, but there's a sense of making sure Book I has got a lot of meat to it.

The next section is about worldbuilding--what works, what needs more, more, more because it IS working, so build on it.

Next is the conclusion--went too fast, he felt. After the lengthy phone call, we decided rather than a chase ending, we're going with something more sinister. More of a CHOICE the hero has to make. It's much, much more meaningful (choosing the light vs. choosing the darkness; vs. the choice being out of your hands because of a chase/circumstances). That change was devised during the phone call--which was like brainstorming but more directed.

Everything else was fleshing out certain elements, working on two characters to make them more three-dimensional (they're secondaries, but more could be done with them), and more about pulling in some "reveals" I intended later so that things are clearer for my middle-grade audience.

By the end of the call, I was adding two HUGE key characters, one back story about the hero, and a huge icool item from Book II was being pulled into Book I because it's too darn awesome to save for Book II.

There are a thousand more details and notes I took during the call. But basically, when I look at it all, my editor is helping me go deeper and guiding me to the places where it CAN go deeper without harming story.

Now, why couldn't I do this myself?

I think that's a complicated answer, but it boils down to this. Every draft you take your book deeper, until one day, you must cut the cosmic umbilical cord and let your baby go--to an agent, an editor, to print. Until it goes to print, theoretically, you could improve it. We all can. But the cord gets cut . . . at some point the baby's got to learn to walk on its own. This is the point where a hopefully brilliant outsider, with insights into his list and audience, guides you to the places in that "one more chance" to polish, to add, to push yourself deeper. If you haev written a book where you've said, "I can't do anything more to it"--chances are you haven't had this kind of edit. I now I've given this kind of edit. It's not someone telling you what to do, it's a lot more like pushing you to bare it all on paper. That next level, that other level. And it isn't for cowards, and it isn't for people not willing to be brutally, ruthlessly honest with themselves about their work.

When I got the notes (prior to call), I didn't ONCE feel protective. Everything was going to make the book deeper. And on the call, not ONCE did I react with any "but this is why I did this . . ." or "but this is my story . . ." "but you're not seeing . . . " "but . . ." I didn't feel hurt, sensitive, never used the word "but." Nor did I defend. I DID twice, say, "I was saving that for Book II, here were the hints." In once case, we're leaving it, in the other, I'm getting more obvious.

I do know this kind of editing isn't for wimps. ;-) And it's a process I know I am very lucky to undergo. And to be honest, though I am blogging about this particular set of notes, I have gotten this kind of detail for all my books. However, I do think the YA/middle-grade gets more concerned with the themes. The archetypes.

Thoughts?

What's Your Run?

My dear, beloved, wonderful, generous friend Ewoh ran a race in my honor yesterday, fundraising for a cure to Crohn's disease. He finished . . . and says the run "transformed" him. Leave it to a zen guy like Ewoh to be transformed by sore muscles.

I have to tell you that the last weeks haven't been easy for Ewoh. First of all, he is on the hook for whatever he doesn't raise to his $3,500 goal. That's commitment. Visit his race site! Second, during the long training up to the race, he had walking pneumonia, sickness in his house, and all the usual ups and downs we all have as parents and writers and, in his case, working a day job.

So where did he find the guts? Read back ONE post on his blog. It's all about transforming the mind. Reframing what's got you down.

I have to tell you that the last few months have sucked around here in Orloff-land. I could give you reasons--money, deadlines . . . kids who were sick or had teachers that left a lot to be desired, big decisions, some family stuff I can't go into, a kid getting ready for college, money woes related to a kid going off to college, deadlines, deadlines, deadlines, no life, and to cap it off, some Crohn's pain, which hasn't happened in a LONG time, but I am too rundown and I know it. It's all a big, long whine-fest, though really. It's all a run.

So today . . . I am telling myself how much I LOVE deadlines, and LOVE everything I do. LOVE IT! We all have runs. Uphill, in the rain, in the cold. So I've set my sights on a new finish line.

What's your run today? And what inspires you?

And hop on over to Ewoh's. The guy is seriously awesome.

Nothing is an Accident

Sometimes you see a plan. These sets of circumstances that draw you to the place you are now. Maybe it's just a way of looking at misfortune with an optimist's eye, but I always think that if I had never nearly died of Crohn's disease, I never would have moved to Florida so my parents could help me when I was too sick to really be all alone. And if I had never moved to Florida, I never would have met my bestest friend, Pammie, and if I had never met my bestest friend Pammie, then I would not have been the recipient of the best cookies on the face of the planet. All right . . . so my logic gets a little . . . quirky . . . but you get the idea.

Sometimes you don't see a plan. It's all just a huge happy accident. Or unhappy accident. Or just a mess and you can't see a plan to save your life.

Not so in a novel.

In a novel, NOTHING is there that isn't planned. Not one word. It doesn't matter if you don't outline and have no plan (I rarely do). In the end, even THOSE authors go back and read every word over and over again, excising the ones that don't belong, searching for better words. Deleting scenes, adding scenes, honing dialogue.

Even our character NAMES have meaning. Settings. Clothing choices. It all belongs. My character's father is a wine snob. It's no accident he is drinking the vintage he's drinking -- a lovely 2001 from a certain region in France. I chose the restaurant. I chose the damn wine list. Of COURSE they carry that wine so he can be outed as the snob he is.

There are no accidents. It can look that way. Sometimes I don't even REALIZE the plan, but no . . . there's always a plan.

So what details have you put in your work-in-progress that are no accident? If it's all in the details, what did you choose to show us (not tell us!) about your character?

The Two Sides of Me

Okay, so I returned home from vacation to discover while I was gone, an electrical storm took out both my phone and my Internet (I have a Triple Play pack from my cable provider). No dialtone. No blog. No NY Times online. No nothing.

I was definitely a junkie needing technology detox. The cable company wasn't particularly interested in my tale of woe. So no, I didn't get it all back until a few minutes ago.

And what did I do while detoxing off the Internet? I cleaned my office. Or at least half of it. I can now look to my right and see the shelves of the Writer Chick I Want To Be. You know, the one with all her files neat, who can find a pen when she needs one, whose books all face spine out, neatly aligned.

I am not that Chick.

But for now, the right half of my office is that writer's office. The other half is in total disarray, worse than usual. That side belongs to the Writer Chick With A Demon Baby. The writer who drinks too much coffee, sleeps too little, and can never find a pen.

We all have those Two Side to us, don't you think? There's the Me Who Wants To Go To Yoga Class, and has her mat and yoga gear. Who breathes deep and lights candles. And there's the Me Who Cannot Escape the Demon Baby Long Enough to SHOWER, let alone take a yoga class.

There is the Me Who Has a Garden, and the Me Who Has Weeds.

But it's most obvious, this two-sided me, in my office right now.

So what two Me's live in You?

The Right Fork

At some point in childhood or life, you progress from the kid table to the grownup table. You go to your first fancy event where you are presented with fingerbowls with floating lemon slices . . . and a plethora of forks.

For me, living in Bermuda and then traveling in Europe as a child, my parents made sure I had a basic fork education by first grade. They were very clear about the forks. Start on the outside, move your way in. Don't try to "keep" the fork for the next course--that's why you've got so many of them.

But in the end, you learn if you absent-mindedly "keep" a fork, the entire banquet is not going to erupt into a an explosion of pointing. You will not be banished.

So it goes with the query. I see a lot of "shoulds," and I've even seen discussion about this one agent who loathes the "Thank you for your time" closing. But I generally regard it as simply . . . learn the fork basics, but don't worry too horribly if you accidentally keep a fork. You're not dooming yourself. The basics--moving out to in--are have a hook, do your homework, make sure you get the fundamental information across like genre and main characters and plot. Then move out of the way and hope you get to eat at the grownup table.

Beyond that, like so much of publishing, there's actually a giant craps game going on in a small room adjacent to the banquet hall. So don't lose sleep over forks.

Thoughts? Care to share the opening line of your pitch for feedback?

Things You Discover on a Day Off

Been working too hard lately, so I took my kids away for a couple of days. I missed them in the way you can live in the same house but not really be "there."

I discovered my Oldest Son can do math calculations in his head with numbers and multiplication up to 50 MILLION. That's 50,000,000. In his head. Without having to stop and appear to think about it. Just . . . like I add 2 + 2.

I discovered he also loves prime numbers.

I didn't know these things.

I also discovered the reason he likes playing video games is he can stop thinking about math for a while. Same reason he's absent-minded in school. He's too busy thinking about numbers.

That's the thing with taking a day off. You give it a rest. You discover new things that have nothing to do with work. You discover things about you . . . and your family that maybe you didn't know.

On vacation, I actually usually take stock. I decide... "This isn't working for me, time to try something new." Or I think about goals. But in a way that's less a to-do list and more about dreaming.

Because life, for all of us, can get to be about to-do lists and bank accounts and the mind-numbing routine . .. and not about the stuff that makes us happy.

I decided I'm not connecting with my kids enough in meaningful ways. I feel BAD that I didn't know what my son can do. Or maybe it's so normal to him, he didn't think to mention it. Either way, last night made me sad . . . and I need to make sure I connect. Maybe I would never have known just how high he can calculate if we didn't sit out on a swing and look for stars.

It's good to shake up the routine once in a while. So. . . what does vacation look like to you? And is it a break from WRITING or do you ever really and truly get away from it, being as you carry around the stories in your head anyway?

Deep, Dark Weird Confessions

I am not a serial killer.

But I save very weird trophies of my children's lives. I saved a huge envelope of hair from yesterday's colossal haircut (see previous post). I save baby teeth. I even saved the teeth Baby Girl got extracted last year, roots and all (VERY gross). It's vaguely embarrassing. Occasionally, while going through a junk drawer in our kitchen, a person looking for, say, batteries, might find an envelope with a tooth. "Oh . . . gimme that," I'll say.

I save notes they wrote me when they first could write letters. "Dear MOM, I luv u, luv, your son, FIRST NAME . . . LAST NAME"--they always write their last names when they first learn to write, and add the "your son," or "your daughter" as if I take in hordes of urchins and won't remember who's who. Maybe it's because none of their last names match mine and instead match their fathers' and they want to be sure I know WHICH kid it is. But either way, the notes are saved.

I saved this strange ceramic animal I got for Mother's Day when Oldest was in first grade. It's a bird, but it looks like a turtle. It won't stand upright, so I have to lean it against my bookshelf, supported by a hardcover copy of The Chicago Manual of Style.

In the drawer where I keep my bras, I keep the first bracelet Oldest Daughter made me. It is a cardboard masking tape roll (masking tape removed) covered with glued-on bits of tissue paper in a raibow of colors. I don't know why it is saved in that particular drawer, but it's been there for years, and every once in a while when I see it, I smile.

In short . . . Moms do weird things. We save weird things. We are, in fact, weird. Or maybe it's just me.

But writers are the same. If you go through the 670+ posts of this blog, and all the comments, you will find MANY (not just a few) where someone writes, "I needed to read this today. I am printing this out and taping it to my computer/my mirror/my refrigerator." We writers comb the Internet for inspiration like that. Funny . . . but I really don't think CPAs are combing blogs and searching for Accounts Receivable quotes of inspiration to tape to their bathroom mirrors to get them through the day.

Other weird things? We eavesdrop. Me, who . . . just yesterday made sure they charged me MORE for Oldest's haircut because he's older than a "junior" at the haircutting place and I told them so instead of letting them think he was younger . . . who strives to be honest . . . Yes, I eavesdrop constantly, squirreling away dialogue and stories like nuts for a long winter.

In my purse, I have scraps of quotes, ideas, and scribbled half-thoughts. I cry over fake people. When I killed off a certain someone at the end of a book . . . I cried. He was FAKE. He's not REAL!!!! I still mourn him.

I laugh as I type sometimes. Oh, those characters give me good laughs--um, yes, I am writing it, but THEY are funny, not me.

I invent family trees for families that don't really exist.

So in the spirit of good fun . . .

Step right into the Confessional Booth. "Reverend Erica . . . it's been 5 years since my last confession . . . ."

I promise if I can't absolve you of your weirdness, at least I will commiserate.

What weird writer things do you do? And what weirdness do you save in your real life? (I have an entire can of "fat" from making spaghetti sauce and meatballs in my freezer . . . it's like a friggin' heirloom.) And be forewarned, the person who posts here as Hannibal . . . I already anticipate some weird thing you'll post that you save, so I beat you to it. :-)

Peace,
E

As Promised . . . Rocker Boy and Demon Baby Get Haircuts

I cried. But he looks awesome. So does Demon Baby. Noncomformist, cool Oldest Son . . . chopped it all off today. He's still gorgeous.

I Get It

Oldest Son loves Japanese culture. When he was two years old, our favorite sushi chef at our regular haunt called him "Sushi Boy." He grew up eating sushi--all kinds--and miso soup is a staple in our house. When he got old enough to get into books, he eventually took to manga. All the cartoons he watches are anime.

Me? I tend to be somewhat oblivious. As long as he's reading, that's good enough for me. When he added watching Japanese game shows, those crazy obstacle course shows, I sat down and watched a couple, laughing harder at the commentary than the actual show.

But . . . again . . . it was "his" thing. Then one of his teachers decided that reading manga "didn't count." Didn't count. Couldn't use it for his reading points. It was, to the school, as if he hadn't read at all--even if he read for three hours straight. Which he often did.

Culturally ignorant? Yes.

Oppressively close-minded? I think so.

So I decided to sit down and read one. First, I had to read it from the back of the book. Toward the front. Different. But OK. Then I read the "catch up" pages. Because a lot of manga is continuing storylines, I had to read the "at this point in our story, our young heroes have discovered . . . " Then I had to familiarize myself with the "world." There are often super powers, demons, love affairs, girls disguised as boys so they can better infiltrate certain Ninja ranks. The whole nine yards.

And I have to say . . . WOW. I get it. BIG themes. COMPLICATED themes. Characters having to make agonizing choices. Loyalty. Friendship. Doing the right thing. Girl characters as powerful as boys. Trust. I get it.

The school doesn't. NEXT year, if it "doesn't count," I will go to the school board and file it as cultural discrimination. But I hope it doesn't come to that. I just hope the teachers pick one up and READ it.

Which brings me to this movie. Or this one. I grew up with all girls . . . and parents who never went to the movies. The only use I had for G.I. Joe was as a groom for Barbie. And superheroes weren't part of my view of the world. Nor were comics. Now that I am all grown up . . . I get it. I really do.

Thoughts? If you were a superhero, what would your special power be?

Mine would be "Able to control Demon Babies with a single glare."

Something to Say

This is my 670th post. Maybe when I get to a thousand, I'll throw a party. Will I still have something to SAY at 1,000? My guess is yeah. Maybe. If I'm still breathing, I'll have something to say.

Because here's the thing . . . in the comments of yesterday's post, I wrote that I didn't really become a writer, in my mind, until I had something to say. Unlike some of you, who write because you have stories in your head, or because you love romance or spy novels, all great reasons to write, I think I went through some sort of process to where I had a life philosophy, and writing is just a part of it.

And I needed some living under my belt before I got to that point.

Before I arrived that that place, I can see now all my short stories were really just thinly veiled autobiography. It was cheap therapy. Loose-leaf sheets and a pen, not $120 an hour. I hopped on my own Couch.

After I was done, not that any of us are ever REALLY done, writing got much more fictional. The thinly veiled stuff got more elusive. I processed small bits of truth in there, not chunks of real life. I didn't need to mine my own life for story because my life philosophy made living no less hard, but certainly less internally rocky.

So what did I have to say, after all? I see, arced over multiple books, themes of betrayal and survival, of life as an utterly futile and ridiculous and painful and joyful journey in which you must--over and over and OVER again--discover what you are made of and pick yourself up and go on until you move from a place of pain to joy again and start the cycle all over. I see themes of people searching for meaning and wondering if there is a God . . . or if God is found in the strength of family. I see that good and evil constantly battle and that there is no white and black, only muted shades of gray and you struggle to find the truth. I see that the so-called bad guys often behave better than the so-called good ones because they often value what I do--loyalty. I see themes of God not caring WHO you love . . . just THAT you love. In my new YA trilogy, I see that sometimes you must take up the hero's responsibility and crown, not because you want to, but because you love people who need you.

When my work became less of a journal and more of a broader canvas of worldbuilding and characters making their way . . . I had something to say. THEN I really was a writer.

So . . . do you have something to say?

Question of the Day

What did you want to be when you grew up? And if it was writer . . . does it live up to your expectations?

Me? I wanted to be a vet. Now I just have a lot of pets.

Then I wanted to be a psychiatrist. Now I'm just crazy.

I briefly wanted to be a nun. We won't even go there.

Next a reporter. Robert Redford and All the President's Men had something to do with it. At least typewriters and writing was involved. And Deep Throat. We'll leave that one be.

Finally, I wanted to be a writer. F. Scott Fitzgerald and all that. See #2 above about being a shrink. Crazy all right. F. Scott and Zelda as role models? What was I thinking? Hemingway? I could never hunt.

I imagined sleeping in, writing. A life of leisure and salons and talking writing and perhaps living in Paris.

I'll stop laughing now. Unless Demon Baby takes up French . . . .

Maybe I haven't even grown up anyway.

Cardboard Flatness

When I was in college, I triple majored in English, journalism, and sociology with a minor in creative writing (you could only minor in creative writing at my university). The creative writing department was headed up by Stephen Barza, who since passed rather suddenly from cancer. He was a gentle soul, a really decent guy, who clearly loved writing, and somehow infected me with that love. And the one thing I remember really learning was this thing about "cardboard" characters. They were flat characters, not three-dimensional.

Of course, I wasn't, at 17 and 18, really sure what that meant exactly. Sometimes, I thought it meant if I didn't LIKE someone else's character. Or someone else's short story. I've since discovered that what I now call a "meh" is often cardboard.

But ultimately, I came to understand--all these years later--that it's when I don't believe a character. When I don't FEEL a character . . . then it's cardboard. I learned this lesson, most clearly, in the heyday of chick lit. Now, don't get me wrong, I WROTE chick lit. I still have comedies littered all over my hard drive that I am working on. (Only now you have to call them romantic comedies or comic novels to sell them.) But I soon found out that in this onward rush to publish chick lit, publishers bought in quantity, and writers who were never particularly sure if they could write a novel, popped out of the woodwork with these tales that were rather like their lives or their lives in their 20s or college, with the idea, "Well, I could write a book like that." No research after all. It was all about the voice. Anyone could write one. Or could they?

Along the way, a few acquaintances asked me to read their books. One worked at a place where I used to . . . I never minded doing the favor. I was also asked to blurb a few. And some of the characters, to me, were just a list of traits. 20-something, works in an ad agency, mother is a shrew, boyfriend can't commit. These were women defined through the eyes of OTHERS. (I.e., defined by a boyfriend who can't commit as a TRAIT, as a CONFLICT), versus themselves. I think one of the more "unusual" aspects of Spanish Disco was Cassie, the heroine, was afraid to commit for a far more existential reason than most chick lit. And it was HER trait. Not the trait of the men defining her. They didn't define her. SHE defined her.

The other thing I noticed in some of these manuscripts, was the traits weren't carried all the way through. Being a model isn't a trait. Being a bride isn't a trait. Being insecure because you're defined by your beauty IS a trait. Fearing a wedding because you never got over the one that got away . . . trait. Even more so, the quirks and nuances weren't there. Maybe it was the rush to write a book on the cusp of a trend, or not learning craft because it "seemed" so easy. Last night, I was telling a writer friend about my chicken.

No, I don't have a chicken. But I DO have a chicken cookie jar. It's the singularly most ridiculous cookie jar in the world. If I get around to it, I will snap a picture and post it. My chicken has a beret and a blue checkered suit vest on. And my chicken cookie jar belonged to my grandma. Because I loved her so much, I don't want anything to HAPPEN to the cookie jar (like a Demon Baby). So my chicken sits on a BOOKSHELF and contains spare cash, poker change at times, and occasionally Chinese herbs from my acupuncturist. But that ONE cookie jar can tell you so much about me. Because of who it belonged to and what she meant to me. I'm not cardboard. I'm real as hell.

So all these years later, I think I'm beginning to know what's cardboard. And what's flesh and blood. At least I hope so.

Thoughts?

Unfinished

I have, in my closet, and in baskets around the house, unfinished knitting projects. They are things I started that somehow never got done before Demon Baby found them and decided to "knit" on them, too. I look at them, now a mess of yarn, and wonder, "Do I try to rescue this poor sweater? Or do I start over?"

So it is with my novels. I write, most of the time, on proposal for existing book contracts. In the next three years, I have 8 books coming out. This is how I make my living. How I keep a roof over my children's heads. How I pay the bills. It's also my passion. I am lucky that the two go hand in hand.

Some of these books, I workshop with my writers' group or a select reader or two. Most I don't because my deadlines are often too tight to take an entire book through a workshopping process. Instead, for my writers' group, I choose books that are unfinished, in some state of disrepair, or some state of suspended animation, and I try to push through to the end, a completed book I can then send to my agent to try to sell. Or not. Sometimes, I don't really care. My writers' group projects are the places I really play--like trying out new stitches in knitting.

But I wonder . . . why they are unfinished. I look at them--there's not some fundamental flaw. They actually are novels that represent some of my best work. I wonder if I don't finish them because they are the books that stretch me . . . or that I can get lost in the muddle of themes and symbolism and just surround myself with words that aren't for sale. Just for . . . the art of it. I don't know.

Some of them are less commercial. More literary. Some are totally outside the realm of anything I've tried before. One is a modern retelling of a myth. An allegorical novel.

But unfinished--like those unfinished symphonies . . . they are. Then periodically, I get this burst. Like deciding once and for all--yes, rip out the stitches, start the sweater all over. The unfinished pieces, with no real deadline, are the ones I feel most free to change. As I recently discussed with a friend, checking ego at the door. Everything is on the table and open to being ripped apart. Maybe, because I earn my living as a writer, these special projects of mine are the ones that teach me.

What is left unfinished in your world?

A Review

If ever there was an example of why some book reviews are so biased, so filled with the venom of the reviewer's agenda, there is this one of James Frey's new book in the NY Times. Now, don't get me wrong, I find Frey to be rather morally bankrupt, and I think, unlike the bending of the truth here or there in the servce of a memoir, his case to be soul-selling. But now he's written a novel. It could be the crappiest novel in the history of mankind. I don't know. I haven't read it. But what strikes me about this review is the following:

It’s hard to sustain such a charitable view, though, after seeing a character depicted as “an extremely attractive woman in her early 30s,” a pair of chaise longues as “stylish, yet comfortable” and Beverly Hills’s Rodeo Drive as “lined with the most expensive and most exclusive boutiques in the world.” These aren’t images, they’re ratings. This isn’t fiction, it’s catalog copy.

The thing with reviews like this . . . I defy any writer alive to have 500 pages of writing devoid of three words like "stylish, yet comfortable." If we wrote so that three words like that didn't exist, we'd have such heavy-laden prose that it would be cumbersome. Sometimes, a chair is a chair. So I always discard and don't pay any attention to reviews when the reviewer oh-so-cleverly whips out two or three words as "evidence" someone can't write.

It's hard to separate Frey the person who made MILLIONS on a falsehood of sorts from Frey the writer. It's impossible to know if this reviewer is jealous of Frey's fame. Maybe the reviewer really did hate the book on its own merit. But I can't trust reviews that pin bad writing on a few words. That's not a review.

In the end, I don't read many book reviews anyway. I scan them for plot, to see if it's something I might read. But opinions . . . vary wildly. And I prefer to make up my own mind.

Thoughts? Do you trust reviews? Do you choose your books on the basis of them? Do you ever think about how some reviewers pull out lone sentences and whether that's fair?

Evil Gusts

Very weird thing happened to me yesterday. I was tired and trying to get Demon Baby to take a rest, which is really one of the most futile ventures--I need a NASA team of rocket scientists to figure out how to do that one. But I was lying there, still, on the futon, trying to get HIM to be still, and suddenly there popped into my head a name I hadn't thought of in 25 years. With that name came a slew of others--editors I worked with when I first got out of college.

After the pseudo-rest-time was over, I went to my computer. A click or two of Google later, I discovered one of those editors is in federal prison.

Now, to be sure, I thought this guy was "going places"--I just didn't expect it to be prison. But I did remember a few things about him. He was very good-looking, he had absolutely not one ounce of sincerity or "real" personality to him, he liked to banter, he was smart, he dressed well, and he was trouble when he was drinking. More on this later.

Editor #2, whom I can't name here, was a sexual harasser of the first order long before you could approach human resources with a complaint. He was utterly and completely creepy. He was nicknamed The Slug by the women editors I knew. He was also very smart. And he is now so HUGE in publishing, my mouth dropped open. HUGE!!!!! However, I would be willing to bet that once a sexual harassing creep . . . well, you know where that's going.

Editor #3 was the nice guy. He smoked pot (I know because I went to a Tom Petty concert with him), and he was just a great person--quiet, not the lugubrious creep of #2, or the showboat of #1. He ALSO is successful, but in a quieter sphere of publishing. I am really happy for him. In his picture, he's lost some hair but still looks like a nice man.

Back to Editor #1, since it's a matter of public record, here's what he did (NOT FOR THE SQUEAMISH!!!). Now . . . I sat there yesterday, stunned. I was shocked. Believe me, I was shocked. BUT, on the other hand, I'd seen him drunk. Now, here's the other thing . . . if you hunt for other articles, you will find that he was taking all kind of anti-anxiety meds and was an alcoholic from "job stress," donated tons of money to CHILDREN'S charities . . . and had descended into some personal hell--so the judge went "easy" on him (he could have drawn a longer-than-72-month sentence). So part of me was shocked . . . and part of me thought . . . he was never "real"--his whole personality was a falsehood. Always. He could "smile for the cameras" so to speak. But like so many glad-handing salesmen types, it was all fake.

And PART of me was shocked for the very reason that we never expect to KNOW someone who does something like that. It's like a little gust of evil passed through my life 25 years ago. Of course . . . is my mind ticking with book ideas? Hell, yeah.

So here's the thing. I have said before my FAVORITE "serial killer" book was JUST KILLING TIME (I no longer read them because they scare me too much--but years ago, this was the best one). Look at the reviews! I cannot believe that he never wrote another book. Unless it was a pen name and he really has as someone else. But the thing I remember most from the book was a stat--that 1 in 10 of us has MET a serial killer. That's how MANY there are operating, but the feds keep people in the dark for as long as possible, not releasing to the public just how many cases seem to link until they are concentrated by time and area so much that local press figures it out. We've met them. One in ten. Doesn't mean you are lined up to be a victim. Means maybe they packed your groceries. Maybe they live next door. Maybe you've even worked next to them in a publishing house. Don't get me wrong, the editor I used to know didn't murder. But he might as well have. Because that crime steals souls.

It's weird knowing you've met evil. Like a gust. Passing through.

Thoughts?

Rebel, Rebel

So I often posit . . . why do you write? Why do I write? And really, if I was to be utterly honest, it's because I am not particularly suited to any other job. Full-time writing in some ways is utterly non-conforming. You don't punch a clock, don't have a lunch hour, don't even have to DRESS if you don't want. You can listen to music--LOUD--if you want. You can eat at your desk and not have to worry that someone who annoys you is going to drop by and want to chat. Demon Baby doesn't count. He is a Demon, but he's not ANNOYING. More like a whirling dervish of mayhem. But no, not annoying. In fact, he is rather funny.

So . . . yesterday . . . Oldest Son comes to me and says he wants to cut his hair. I am crushed. His hair is longer than mine by a bit, and it's got curls and is golden, and man . . . the kid's got good hair. To his grandparents' credit . . . not once have either of them nagged him about cutting his hair even though it's longer than his sisters'. "It's hair," has been their motto. OTHER people seem bugged by my kid's hair. I've seen older women, in particular, give him the evil eye. In fact, two weeks ago in Wal-Mart an old woman did just that--quite obviously, in fact. Then she gave ME the evil eye, like what kind of other am I to let my kid have long hair, and I glared at her, pulled him to me, and said, "I THINK YOUR HAIR IS AWESOME. HOPE THE CHICKS DIG IT." And now he wants to cut it. He's really into Ninjitsu, so I wonder if it's just hot. I told him to pull it in a ponytail, but nope. So . . . he's getting it cut. Maybe I will post before and after pictures.

So I thought about my paragraph one and my paragraph two. I don't like conforming. I don't know WHAT it is. I really don't. Sometimes I just don't like conforming for the SAKE of not conforming. And neither, frankly, do any of my friends. I once had a party with my family and friends and I looked around, and commented, "Do you REALIZE, not ONE person in this room has a real job?"

So I wonder, as I often do, is it a chicken and egg thing. Do I write for a living because no one would actually HIRE me? Or did my nonconforming nature send me off in search of a career for a nonconformist? I don't know.

Which brings me to the 4th of July. The great thing about America is it accepts us nonconformists. It lets people like me march on Washington, D.C. in the hopes of getting arrested in protest, Demon Baby in a backback. I wave my flag just like the next guy--oh, but maybe not quite, because LAST 4th, I think I might have painted Baby Girl's hair red, white, and blue.

Either way . . . Happy 4th to all. And remember, the founding fathers . . . they were rebels.

And do you write because you're rebellious? Is there a nonconformist in you just dying to get out?

Intuitive

There are a lot of things I do in my life that I have no idea how or why. I just do. Mom things, for example. My kids can come to me time and time and time again with stomach aches, for example. I feel foreheads, press bellies, ask questions, and 99% of the time say, "You'll be fine; it's something you ate." But that 1% when they come to me and I know, I mean REALLY KNOW "something" is wrong, you would think I was the chief of surgery on E.R. I fly into action and just "know" what to do, who to call, etc. Some of this, of course, is the result of years of mothering, or years of reading up on ailments when someone in my family is sick. It's having Crohn's disease and thus knowing a lot about "gut" ailments. And some is intuitive.

Yesterday, for example, I saw a babysitter trying to console a 7-week-old baby. She changed him, he didn't stop crying. I knew he was hungry--it was that kind of wail--and his mom fed him and handed him back to the babysitter. And the baby kept crying. Baby Girl asked about it, and I said, "He needs to be held differently; that's not a Mama Hold." Which I was quite certain was true. Most of the time I can get any baby to sleep. The secret is to project calm and not get ruffled, and the secret to THAT is intuitive.

So it is with writing. I had sold--not kidding--four novels before I ever saw the following three letters on a writers' board: GMC. I thought it was some movie channel akin to AMC. In fact, I didn't bother to look it up or even ask. I sold another two books before I found out they mean "Goal, Motivation, Conflict" and it came from some workshop.

When I write a book, I think in arcs. If you ASKED me, I mean probingly asked, I might be able to tell you, "Character A starts out this way. By the end she has changed to that way." But I really don't ever consciously think of that. It's a journey, and I just tell my story. I pour out the story until it's complete.

Now, really? I wouldn't HAVE this blog if I honestly didn't know anything about process or characters or themes or symbolism. But when it comes to telling my story, I FEEL it more than I explain it. I intuit it.

I have writer friends who are the opposite. They use GMC models and worksheets. They devise all sorts of outlines and character sketch interviews (they really interview their characters!). And it's always whatever works. I just can't work that way. But I am curious . . . what devices do YOU use?

Discuss. :-)

The Rhythm of a Life

My life, during the school year, has a certain rhythm. Rise at dawn, pray, walk, feed dogs, start coffee, blog in the quiet, wake the kids, 45 minutes of mayhem getting them ready, send them off to school, write, wait for them to come home, homework, Ninjitsu class for kids or driving to afterschool activities, mayhem, dinner . . . quieting down, put Demon Baby to bed, write, climb into bed myself, read some physics or science book, fall asleep, start it all over the next day. Now, to be sure, those "mayhem" spots are really insane. And encapsulated it doesn't read as chaotic and exhausting as it really is. But there IS a rhythm. I know it by heart.

But summer is different. I usually have my own four kids plus and extra kid or two over, we all sleep in a bit (WOW! until 7:00 a.m. for me, how decadent!). I try to write more in the morning before all of them wake up. But they are in and out of my office all day, so much so that my brain hurts sometimes trying to concentrate with the level of commotion.

I'm out of sorts in summer. I wake at 2:00 a.m. and read some nights (like last night, until 3:00 a.m.), or wander the house in this perpetual insomnia thing. We eat more haphazardly--easier meals served "whenever." There's more noise. There's more chaos. I was commiserating with another writer-mom the other day. She resorted to headphones for her TVs because the noise from her child being home and the TV being on more is driving my writer pal to distraction.

Summer should be easier. Bedtime is more relaxed. Everyone sleeps in. Even the dogs laze in the sun in the backyyard. It's a different vibe. This is great for a week or two. I am now at that point of summer when I miss the rhythm. My beat is off and I know it.

For me, the seasons seem to mean more because I have kids on school schedules. But I usually write more in winter. Except this winter will mean Oldest comes home for five weeks from college and my parents are coming for Christmas . . . so more rhythm issues. Maybe a life is meant to be more like jazz and less of a symphony, more played in some improvised fashion.

Either way . . . I am more of a mess than usual. Does your life follow a rhythm? And do you miss it during summer? Or is there never a rhythm you can discern?

I'd Tell You But Then I'd Have To . . .

I rarely tell people I am a novelist. It invites those dreaded questions. What's your book about? I have this great idea for a book--would you write it and we can split the royalties? You know all THOSE questions. I usually tell people I am an actuary. Lately, I've been thinking of switching my career to "theoretical physicist" but then I am afraid someone will ask "What's that?"

Of course, I have four kids . . . and a couple of them tell people what I do, despite my asking them to say I am an actuary. So then I meet parents of their friends. "Oh, your Baby Girl's mother . . . she tells me you're a writer."

"Um . . . she said that? Oh . . . sort of. I work from home."

How's that for sufficiently vague?

But lately, despite my best efforts, acquaintances are finding out what I do. And a funny thing has happened. More and more, I think people realize that I am a writer and ALSO that I appear to listen very well--to observe them. And if they know me for long enough, they realize I remember EVERYTHING. And NOW, some people start to tell a story and stop and say, "Okay, you can't put this in one of your books."

People now have "off-the-record" conversations around me!

I just crack up. Even if I "use" something, it's usually blended and changed in such a way that no one would recognize it. But it's just very funny how my being a writer affects conversation.

In fact, in my work in progress, someone has to go interview someone else, and the interviewer is told, "Don't take notes. People think twice about talking to people when someone is taking notes." And it's true. I'm not a true journalist, but I am there taking mental notes.

Has this ever happened to you? Of course the opposite happens too. Sometimes someone doesn't STOP talking and says, "You have to put this in a book someday."

When I tell stories, I usually just say, "I'd tell you what really happened . . . but then I'd have to . . ." You know the drill.

Thoughts?