Got Spam, Part 1 - Your easy way to become well hung

Ruby Sue began her wild beagle baying just as soon as ShaSha slammed the trunk of her Jetta. She had to slam it hard because someone had broken into the trunk last year and the lock didn’t grip right unless she closed it like she meant business.

Struggling up the walkway under the weight of the frames she carried on her arm, ShaSha yelled towards her front door. “Calm down, you wild beast, it’s just me!”

After several re-sandings and re-stainings she’d given up on ever having a front door that was not gouged and grooved by Ruby Sue’s anxious claws. Sometimes being driven to reclaim was had been abandoned meant you lived in less than perfect conditions.

She balanced the frames against the porch wall as she turned her key in the lock. The door opened with a whoosh as fifteen pounds of wiggling mass launched at ShaSha’s feet. Ruby Sue’s tail whipped against her calves as her wet nose sniffed madly around ShaSha’s knees.

“I haven’t been with another dog, silly girl.”

The wagging and circling slowed down enough for ShaSha to pick up the frames and move them into the house. Ruby Sue stood in the doorway, expectantly looking back and forth from the pink leash hung on a peg inside the door and then to ShaSha’s face. With an indulgent smile, ShaSha bent over to remove her shoes. She’d happily gone trash diving wearing a pair of three inch patent leather pumps, but walking a fast moving beagle on a garbage-scented mission required more utilitarian foot gear.

She slipped her feet into the beat up Mary Jane’s, her arch adjusting with some protest to the thick vegetarian sole. She grabbed the leash off the hook and quickly wrangled it onto Ruby Sue’s collar. With a quick twist she moved the elastic from around her wrist to the back of her head, catching up the bright blue strands of her hair into a low ponytail in one smooth motion.

“Just a short one, girl, to get your wiggles out. I’ve got decorating to do!”

She glanced at her watch. Mac was coming for an early dinner before they headed out to a Dirt Bombs concert at The Duke. Not that he really noticed or cared about the décor of her humble bungalow, not with the designer-done penthouse he owned. For some odd reason he seemed to prefer coming over to her house and eating at the tiny bistro table. The blank wall that made up one end of her kitchen had been bothering her. She’d painted it a really lovely shade of lavender, which complemented the black and white tile floor and the painstakingly painted old cabinets. But nothing had ever seemed quite right to hang on the wall. And if it wasn’t next to free and exactly perfect, ShaSha didn’t want it.

She looked longingly at the frames leaned up against the couch as Ruby Sue practically sprinted out the front door. Later, she promised herself.


Ruby Sue plopped down on her dog bed, her tongue lolling out of her mouth and her breath coming in short heaves.

“Well, that was quite the death march!” ShaSha put the leash back on the peg and closed the front door. With a flick she turned the deadbolt and locked the door. The gentrification of the East Atlanta Village was well underway, but some shady characters looking for an easy score still roamed the streets sometimes. May Avenue had been pretty quiet for the past year, but living in the city she’d learned to never let her guard down completely.

She filled up Ruby Sue’s water dish and put it within easy distance of the still panting dog. With the beagle worn down to obedience she could go outside and get her tools without being nipped and cajoled into a game of fetch.

The shed had seen better days, but the periwinkle and peach paint job at least made the leaning structure cheerful. She’d re-shingled the roof last summer so even if the thing looked like it would blow down in a strong wind at least it was water-tight. She grabbed her four foot ladder, a hammer, the small torpedo level, a measuring tape and the glass jar of brackets and cleats.

Her progress through the backyard was awkward at best. The ladder swung against her legs and the hammer bounced in the back pocket of her jeans. She made it into the back door and carefully plopped her tools down on the bistro table. The hammer rung against the metal table top, but she was careful not to chip the paint. The sunny yellow hue had taken two tries to get right and she didn’t want to have to repaint it.

She lined the frames up against the wall and stood back to look at them. With a critical eye she imagined them lined up in a grouping on the wall. None of the frames held pictures, which was probably why they’d been heaped up on the curb outside a rather ramshackle old house in Grant Park. ShaSha was always on the lookout on trash day and for some reason today she’d gotten up early and decided to just drive around a little. These serendipitous findings often happened to her – almost like objects in need of a home called to her in her dreams.

The largest frame was long and skinny, almost as though it had once held a mirror or a landscape. The old veneer was worn away in a few places and the gold was dull, but the intricate pattern presented a nice counterpoint to the lavender walls and the geometric floor. She carefully removed the old wire and used the level to nail in a new bracket. Since the frames were going up empty and would likely stay that way she didn’t want visible wires. She eyed the wall for placement and then confirmed her placement by measuring. She drove the cleat in quickly and efficiently with two taps. The frame hung straight and true.

She repeated her careful steps with each of the remaining four frames until the grouping hung in a pleasing array on the formerly blank wall. ShaSha stepped back, pleased with her work. Maybe Mac would notice the change, maybe he wouldn’t. You just never knew with men. But she loved how everything hung together.

Got Spam?

I've been under a massive onslaught of spam lately. I'm sure everyone has - my inundation is not because I'm special or because I'm a likely buyer of snake oil. But, seriously - I have a female name - and yet the majority of spam I get is for male enhancement products. How do I know this?

Because I have partials and queries out with agents and editors. Stay with me I know it seems like a segue. I check my junk mail folder hourly because you just never know if a reply from that uber-important key to my future health and happiness has gotten marked as spam.

No, no snake oil here. I'm not gullible at ALL.

So, because I need to find amusement in even the most mundane of human experiences, I've taken the seven best subject lines from my spam and I'm going to spend this week writing about them. Only, what I plan to do is riff on the subject line - I'm not planning on writing about male enhancement as a viable or even needed medical advance, in case you were worried. Sheesh.

So, hang on to your hats. It might get bumpy. EEEEWWWWWW!!! Totally unintentional pun alert.

I'd Rather Be Bad Than Good

I'm grooving along paying bills while listening to The Jody Grind and this song comes on. Isn't that the root of all choices? Would you rather be bad? The song's really about not seeing a certain guy anymore because with him she'd rather be bad. It's the pull of the brassy.

If you were to do a little search of my google history you'd discover that at least once per day I search for, are you ready?

Amy Winehouse news.

Yes, I keep up with her exploits daily. I have both Back to Black and the indi release that wasn't available in the US until November, Frank. I've listened to both of them enough times to have memorized every word, every nuance, every bit of angst and beauty. People who know me are finding my Winehouse Obsession, well, odd.

You see, for the most part, all my choices in life have been of the "I'd rather be good" variety. Don't get me wrong - I have my vices and tattoos and explosive love affairs like any other girl. But for the balance of life I've made the good choices. When I was younger I had a really robust creative period fueled almost entirely by bourbon. Did I write really great stuff then? No. But I did learn I had something to say. Once I wasn't quite so soaked I learned how to control and shape my words. What amazes me about Amy Winehouse is that she has range, control and a searing honestly. Soaked. Soaked and pickled and on the absolute edge. She's made the choice of being bad and made it all the f'ing way. I don't think she has many moments of being good. She celebrated her marriage by carving her husband's initials into her belly with a shard of broken mirror. That's so bad it's nearly unbelievable.

We all know Good has rewards. Even when we have these moments of bad, we still strive for good because we know it's gonna pay off! Bad might be fun and it has it's attractions for artists - that razor edge is where most new ideas come from. Being raw and creating something new doesn't happen on the top floor - it's a dark, basement activity. Some lucky artists can go to that place mentally - they don't drag their body down, shooting up between their toes or carving themselves up, they learn to do it all in a place they can come back from. I don't think Amy's coming back. And if she does, she'll be Marianne Faithful - utterly ruined, yet resolute.

I was watching Project Runway this week (this isn't as much of a segue as it appears). One of the looks sent down the runway was worn by this lanky model with black hair done up in a beehive with a side pony tail. She looked hot. And obviously Winehouse inspired, without the missing teeth, bloody ballet flats and white powdered nose, of course. There was Michael Kors gushing like a GIRL, goofy smile and lit-up eyes, about how much he loved Amy Winehouse and how great the look was.

Watching a middle-aged, iconic, man gush over Amy Winehouse made me realize something.
At the end of the day, I think we love to watch people who actually would rather be bad than good. Especially when they make things happen. It's just too bad the creative forces being bad calls into the world eventually decimate the artist who tries to wield them.

Got Milk?

A Warning: If you are squeamish about mother-type things (most especially that mother of all mother things - the breast) then just stop reading right now.

Okay then. Breastfeeding has been on my mind lately. No plans to take it up again, of course, but I've had one of those odd full-circle moments that sometimes happen in life. My first baby and I had a really tumultuous nursing experience. Her mouth was itty bitty and my breasts were incompetent. We made it eight weeks. The other mom's in my little post-partum yoga group would gasp and avert their heads when they saw my breasts - they were that bad. After several bouts of really severe mastitis (if you don't know, that's this lovely thing when your tits feel like masts) my midwife (MY MIDWIFE!) said, "time to quit, darling. Your health is declining and the baby is losing weight."

So, I became intimately familiar with cabbage leaves. Later that year I was at one of those faculty mixer-type things that grad students who teach sometimes get invited to and the wife of one of my favorite professors was there. We began talking about mother-type things because my friend was about to rush off to nurse her baby. The prof's wife got this look on her face that, for some reason, stuck in my head. It was a look both proud and defiant, with just a glint of malice. She then said, "My youngest is five and I still have milk."

Huh? She then went on to declare that she didn't actually nurse the child anymore, but the milk just never completely left. My brain tucked that little moment away.

Flash forward a few years. I have my second baby and triumph above all nursing issues. I nurse him for nearly two years and even after I cut him off he keeps asking for another three years. Poor thing. The reason I cut him off to begin with was because he was the most acrobatic nurser of all time and I just could not see allowing my nipples to continue to stretch like Cirque props.

I'm haven't been sad to give up nursing. Until recently. You see, there's this baby boom in my neighborhood and our discussion boards are full of all the young mother's giving each other nursing advice and lamenting the stares and shock of strangers.

And now I understand the professor's wife. Saying to women in the full flush of their childbearing years that I HAVE MILK is a certain claim on your own youth. Milk is bounty, it's beneficience, it's beauty, it's the elixir of life (literally!). When you have milk, you are a woman with every piece of your physical passage of life intact.

When it's gone for good, a piece of your youth goes with it.

Writing The End

At 8:08 last night I wrote those two magic words that every aspiring writer (and, really, probably EVERY writer) loves above all other words.

The End

Wild Iris has now run it's course, fulfilled it's arc, circled itself, Freytaged, reached denouement, whatever other term you can come up with for (repeat after me)

The End

I don't feel the sense of deflation I did when I finished Silver Lining, mostly because I already have the next book plotted out and I can't wait to start it. That's a nice feeling. But not nearly as nice as (repeat after me)

The End

Of course, I'm going to bask in the afterglow all day today before I have to face the two least fun words in writing

Edit and Polish

But, that's tomorrow. And in those immortal words of Scarlet O'Hara,

Tomorrow is another day.

Which were, of course, the words written right before (repeat after me)

The End

The Character of Landscape

I left my house early this morning to get to my chapter board meeting. Where I live is just east of downtown, which means I have to take one freeway and then go through an interchange to get to the mother of all messes - the Downtown Connector. Someone in an office somewhere in Atlanta decided it would be a GREAT idea to take two major north/south interstates and combine them as they went through downtown. Brilliant.

Traffic on the connector can range from terrible to horrendous at any given hour of the day. It's my only route north, however, so a girl has to do what a girl has to do. I have a trusty minivan and I know how to merge.

This morning, however, the connector was nearly empty. You see - the one thing guaranteed to empty the freeway in Atlanta is the threat of snow. Even though only a light mist drifted about the city everyone else must have been at home by the window (wringing their hands, I'm sure). Since I wasn't gritting my teeth and using my spare hand to flip off other rude drivers, I had the ability to enjoy the downtown landscape.

I love the city. The buildings stand in their rows like patrons at the bank on the day social security checks are deposited. Varied, resolute, stout, clean, dirty, ornate, prim., expansive. The mist obscures the tops on days with bad weather - making the tallest buildings appear to just disapear into the ether. The jumble and hodge podge is my kind of landscape. I prefer the mess and brilliance of man to the uniformity of nature. Each window on each building is a story waiting.

I suppose I'm not just a people-watcher. I'm a building observer. For me, landscape is perhaps the greatest and most important character study.

When it's all gone in an instant

I'm supposed to be in heavy revision on Wild Iris today. But, instead of revising, I'm revisiting. I grew up in Southern California, where wildfires are an ever-present threat in the fall. Here it is, fall, and SoCal is on fire again.

My mother's house was deep in a canyon, surrounded by foothills, every piece of earth covered with dry brush and oak trees. My father's house was high in the San Bernardino Mountains, tucked into a pocket called Cedar Glen. I've been evacuated from both places, more than once. Evacuation is a tricky business. What do you take? How much time do you have?

At my father's house the danger was being too leisurely and getting cut off. There are only so many ways off a mountain, you know. He was a confirmed bachelor so trying to decide what to take was easy. Hunting riffles, fishing poles and photo albums. The second-hand dishes and cheap appliances could burn. At my mother's house evacuation had a logical order. Every car was loaded, precisely and efficiently, with a pre-determined list of items. We prioritized based on the distance of the flames. Close? Ourselves and photos. On a high ridge? Silver, paintings, books, photos, jewelry. With some time to kill? Anything not nailed down. We never bothered with clothes. Those can be easily replaced. Except prom dresses – those were always included.

We were lucky. At least, for a long time. The Old Fire in 2003 finally claimed my dad's cabin. He'd passed away in 1996, but the cabin had been in our family for over thirty years. Both my sister and I lived in Atlanta by then - our only connection to the terror of fire came through long buried memory as we watched CNN. The fires were horrifying - filling every ridge, every foothill, and every valley - all across Southern California. You can't imagine it unless you've seen it. I think I know what the end of the world might look like.

We knew the fire was raging through Lake Arrowhead and Cedar Glen. We could only hope it didn’t reach Hook Creek Road. Then, the truly unthinkable happened. Right before our eyes, CNN brought us an image of our beloved cabin burning. There is nothing quite so surreal as seeing a place of memory and love destroyed on national television. Just one more "structure" lost."

The fires this year are bringing up all those images. Just a while ago my sister found a still shot of the cabin burning. A Riverside County newspaper had old photos up in a sort of horrid retrospective of infernos through the years.

Nothing you own safely belongs to you once you've faced evacuation and loss. I'm going to write about it. Someday.

Modern Mother

I’ve given birth to a Puritan. My daughter cries and grows upset at any hint of anything sexy. We went to a nice Italian restaurant on a street that is known for three things: Italian restaurants (authentic ones – you’re sure the waiter is packing heat and the guy in the corner with the slicked back hair is taking a “meeting”), upscale antiques stores, and strip clubs. It’s a wild mix, but hey, that’s life in the city. She saw a billboard advertising "Naked Ladies!!" and proceeded to cry for two hours. I dug out my art books and showed her how the female form has been celebrated and depicted since the dawn of mankind. “See that little stone statue, that’s the Venus of Willendorf. See how she’s naked and has breasts – like all women?” More tears.

She’s very bent out of shape that I write books she can’t read. Not even over my shoulder. As she did attempt once. My bad luck that it was a love scene and she reads well and quickly for a third-grader. More tears.

Until I had children, I always thought they were hedonistic little things. Maybe some are. Not my darling. I adore her, of course, and would never do anything to upset her equilibrium. Like cutting my hair, which I am not allowed to do. Or, heaven forbid, dying it red. Which I wanted to do for my fortieth birthday. I had to be satisfied with a trim. Not the life-changing event I had planned.

I wanted children. Even in my twenties I tried. I thought I’d be a young mother. But ex-husbands and personal story arc’s sometimes go wobbly. I was thirty-one when she was born and thirty-four when her younger brother came along. That’s long enough to have lived. A lot. And now I find myself having to put on a persona I never imagined to be the restrictive falsehood it is. I’m a MOTHER.

My babies nursed at a tattooed breast. I swung a hammer restoring our beat up old Victorian while gestating. I’ve drag raced driving a Jaguar, a Corvette and a Plymouth Valiant. I know how to speed shift in a Karmen Ghia. I’ve been married twice. I’ve had love affairs that were mind-blowing, multi-continent and terribly illicit. I’ve drunk many a man under the table – including her father. I’ve spent enough time on construction sites to be able to use every bad word in a single sentence.

Sure, I was also in a sorority and I know how to write a thank you note for any occasion. I understand cutlery and can set a table for a six course meal. I can brew tea for thirty and make finger sandwiches out of delicate little bits of this and that. What can I say - I’m a brassy renaissance woman.

And that’s the problem. This whole mother-as-sole-identity thing might have worked in the fifties. Maybe even in the sixties. But what happens to those of us born after the sexual revolution? How do you stop being who you are so you can successfully raise a happy Puritan?

The Good News Is . . .

I didn't come in last in the Maggie Award for Excellence at this weekend's Moonlight and Magnolia's conference. My long contemporary, The Glenn, came in fourth with a lovely Honorable Mention certificate.

Can I say I was thrilled to death? No, not really. But after reading the critiques I received from the very generous published authors who served as first round judges I can say I was not surprised. (look at all those wases!). Like I told some chapter buddies, I feel like I got invited to the prom and whether or not the date worked out is ancillary. Being a Maggie finalist is the closest I'll ever come to being a rock star. People gave me that "I envy you" look and perfect strangers expressed good wishes for my success. I met some wonderful fellow writers and had an altogether great time. So, what's not to love?

I also had a great pitch session with an agent on my top five wish list and she did ask for a partial - enthusiastically no less.

Renewing My Contract

We used an unusual method to locate where we'd make our home. Way back in 1995 we came to Atlanta for a job fair and somehow the city seemed like home. I could find my way anywhere in what is a sometimes perplexing maze of unmarked streets. We decided to move to Atlanta after the first day. Our spiral bound map book on my lap as we drove around offered up page 52 as the page we wanted to live on. And we did. Our first apartment, scene of some pretty lean salad and cereal days, was on Charles Allen in midtown. This was before midtown really went through a resurgence. We could walk to The Clermont Lounge to see Blondie perform her poetry strip tease. When we had fights I took refuge at The Majestic Dinner.

Our second place was a one bedroom bungalow in a sketchy part of town known as the Old Fourth Ward. India Critendon lived next door and before she died we listened to her stories about life as the best friend of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s mother. Her funeral at Ebenezer Baptist Church honored her and left us feeling like part of the history of the city – in a very small way. We loved that house.

But a big Victorian in East Atlanta beckoned. Utterly destroyed by time and trouble not much was left except some smooth gliding pocket doors and a hint of character. We actually camped inside the house for the first six months. I can’t say bringing a house back from the brink of demolition is not for every relationship, but our was cemented in a mighty firm way, mostly through the use of 27 cases of White Lightening caulk. We were married on the front porch and partied in the back yard on September 23rd, 2000.

So, for our seventh anniversary my husband rented a suit on the 17th floor of the Georgian Terrace. We stood on the balcony and looked out over the city. From our vantage point we could see every neighborhood we’ve lived in and landmarks we’ve come to love. Viewing the progression of your life from on high is something everyone should do. We’ve had our rough patches and our ups and downs in thirteen years together and our moves across the city have brought some turmoil and some beauty. But bless my husband for the suite and that bird’s eye view of our life together. I think I’ll renew my contract with him for another year.

Research in the Age of Google

So, when the descendant of a Scottish immigrant dies in Buckhead - which church do you pick for the funeral?

1. Figure out which denominations of Christianity are prevalent in Scotland
2. Decide to go with Presbyterian to play it safe
3. Discover that Peachtree Presbyterian has virtually NO pictures online and with only seven days to go a trip to look at churches in Buckhead is not gonna happen
4. Decide that the closest thing to the Church of Scotland is Episcopalian
5. Base decision on the nice people at Cathedral of St. Phillip because they provide a virtual tour of their nave
6. AND they provide an online guide to their funeral services (held at 10 am in the winter, 11 am in the summer and 2 pm any time of the year)
7. Breathe heavy sigh of relief and proceed to bury demised character

Strut Day

I grew up in a rural area - granted, it was Southern California so rural is a relative term. We didn't have festivals and street fairs and art shows, etc. Today is my neighborhood's annual Village Strut. I'm getting some writing time in this morning and then I'm heading out for the parade and general debauchery. The main drag through our village - Flat Shoals Ave - closes for the day and the tents go up. Last year I found a great tee shirt for my husband to wear on his favorite holiday - Talk Like A Pirate Day. Bands will gear up and play well into the night, children will run around painted up like butterflies and bats, beer will run in rivers down the street and it will be beautiful.

What you don't realize when you live in a more suburban/rural area is that a big city is made up of many small neighborhoods, each with a different flavor or vibe. A few weeks ago Grant Park had their big shindig, The Summer Shade Festival, and soon Cabbage Town will host the Stomp and Chomp. Atlanta is a great festival city with something nearly every month to showcase a neighborhood or a park.

So, I'll head down and have a beer (or three) listen to some music, buy some handmade something-or-other and enjoy life in the city.

The Story of a Girl and a Dress

So, I'm a Maggie finalist. I've been walking around repeating that randomly for the past month. Everyone is sick of me by now. However, Nicki told me this week I needed a dress worth being in the company of editors and agents - and now I've gone over the edge (my husband has started calling me Jeff Lewis - the guy from Flipping Out). I want something sophisticated, sleek, not black and not matronly. Oh, and it would be nice if it fit. That last requirement is the one that makes me throw my hands up in defeat. I'm tall, and let's face it, rather more fleshy than I would like. Try finding a dress with all that in mind. Impossible.

So, on Tuesday night my marvelous neighbor, otherwise known as coutier Charles Joseph, came over and helped me make a pattern. I have slopers and I sew - which is another topic entirely - so the process was not as painful as it sounds. We came up with something I adore and then he gave me a swatch book from a New York fabric supplier. So, yesterday I spent several hours ordering my four ply silk in gunmetal, some zippers, a little boning, thread - etc. etc. The picture is one of my inspirations for the dress - the actual dress will be longer and in a more formal fabric.

And, even better, Charles Joseph (I just call him Chuck) will sew it up for me if it gets too close to Moonlight and Magnolias and I haven't gotten it done.

So, any thoughts? What do you do when you are faced with an event where you might be in the spotlight? How important is it to present a pulled together appearance when you're trying to find an agent or editor? (Or, should I be spending my time actually finishing the ms that finaled? Wait, don't answer that - I might go Jeff Lewis on your ass).

In The City

After twelve years of living in an urban environment you’d think I would have picked up a little common sense. Things like – don’t take a long walk on trash pick up day. But, alas, when I set out on my morning walk I didn’t look at the calendar. What does Atlanta smell like? Not magnolias.

I was walking and trying to contemplate where I’m heading in my current WIP, Wild Iris. Deciding the ultimate fate of a secondary character requires both voodoo and logic. The character’s life hangs in the balance and I have ultimate power. (imagine maniacal laugh) So, I’m powerwalking along trying not to breath too deeply while singing along with Britney Spears “Toxic” and what do I almost stumble into?

A dead cat. Which makes me unbearably sad. And, since it’s a voodoo and not logic kind of day, it also presages the ultimate fate of my character. He’ll be pushing up daisies instead of smelling roses. Or trash.

Getting Through the Big Black Moment

The nice thing about romance novels is knowing that the big black moment is coming, and the characters will sail right through it and find some kind of resolution. That's why we read these things, after all, isn't it? Because in real life the big black moments come sort of willy nilly and you just can't guarantee yourself a happy resolution.

I like all the "with age comes wisdom" crap - maybe when you're 70 the BBM is just a blip, but I'm finding that this summer my BBM's are coming with startling regularity. And I havne't been finding much resolution - or even much wisdom. Whoever is writing this story I'm living has obviously developed a sadistic streak.

I've tried all my usual tricks - when in doubt pull a tarot card. When in serious doubt - get out the chocolate stash. When in complete doubt - start a new diet.

What I've finally settled on is music. I'm just going to put on some Yeah Yeah Yeahs and hope whatever is at the root of my personal BBM's will be driven away by the raucous beat and winding guitars.

The Sounds of Silence

I took my daughter and my niece to see the IMAX film The Alps at Fernbank last week. Sitting in an air conditioned theater was nice. Sitting in an air conditioned theater watching a film about a snow-covered mountain was BLISS.

As we waited for the film to start I took the chance to do a little people watching. I'm not out in public much because, really, who wants to drag kids around in our Saharan heat, so when I get the chance I really soak it in. I like my moments of silent contemplation, but I noticed something really disturbing as I checked out my fellow IMAX goers. So many of them were sitting there fiddling with cell phones, PDA's, game boys, etc. Their moment of silence was totally taken up with little bitty screens and bright colored blips.

Has contemplation just for the sake of stillness gone entirely out of fashion? Can't anyone amuse themselves with the contents of their own brain anymore?

Have Laptop, Will Travel

This week we scooped all the kids in the family and headed to Hilton Head. With five children in tow, the minivan was full of things like skateboards, books, fishing poles, a guitar and oodles of doll clothes. You’d think, with all that stuff, the children would be entirely occupied. I imagined we’d arrive at grandma’s house and they would immediately be entirely out of my hair and in the pool. Ha! I hadn’t counted on the fact that we’re a fair skinned bunch of folks and after the second day all the children were so sunburned that indoor activities were called for.

However, we're a family of entrepreneurs which means the house is also packed with six adults, each with their own laptop and cell phone, all trying to run businesses, maintain distant servers, create complicated software help systems, market restaurants, design cabinets and sell real estate. As the writer of the family my work brings in the least amount of income – read nothing – so somehow I get elected to deal with the extraneous details of life. Like feeding and amusing five bored children.

Have laptop. Will travel. Will never get to open laptop. Sigh.

Burning Down the House

I have a deadline, self-imposed, but a deadline nonetheless. So, no more hemming and hawing. My BICHOK. (Butt in chair, hands on keyboard). I produced somewhere around 4k words yesterday. And surprised myself. You see, I burned down The Glenn. I had no idea it was going to happen. I was every bit as startled and devastated as my hero and heroine. The name of this ms is The Glenn for goodness sake - it's practically the main character. So, as I wrote about its demise I felt the wound myself. I've never made myself cry while writing (not counting the poems I wrote in a drunken stupor in college) and it's a pretty unique experience. So, today's challenge is to sift through the ashes. Which gives me plenty of material to help face the Black Moment. And, I made it past the half-way mark. Yeah! I'm going to make my deadline. More than just The Glenn is going to burn, baby, burn this month!

Got My PRO Pin!

At yesterday's GRW meeting I finally received my long-anticipated PRO pin. Yeah! I'll try to post a picture of me wearing it. Today is rainy and dismal in Georgia. I'm trying to crank out Chapter 9. I have a bet going with one of my friends. She's an amazing artist - if she had a web site I'd link to it - and she's been avoiding painting some birds for about six months now. She's got all the heart and talent she needs, maybe the universe has just not been ready. So, if she finishes her birds by March 1st and I finish my rough draft of The Glenn by March 1st, we are taking each other out to a fine, fine dinner. However, if one of us doesn't finish then the loser covers the whole bill. Did I mention we've all developed a taste for fine champagne lately? I'm finishing that ms come hell, high water or lack of chocolate.

You catch your breath and winter starts again.

That's from a Dar Williams song. I set my media player on repeat to cycle through all of her CD's when I'm trying to write. Trying is the operative word today. I felt so fabulous having finished ms #1 way back in July. The agent I met at Nationals did end up rejecting it - however, what she sent back was fully edited and commented on. From what I understand that's extremely exciting. Okay. I'm excited to be rejected yet again.

I started ms #2 as soon as the kids went back to school in August and things were going really well. Then, for some reason, in October I just . . . stopped. Now I find myself 50% of the way through and the path is covered with snow. So, as winter finally arrives in the South I need to really think about how my plotting and planning has let me down. While ice storms threaten it's time for me to tromp on through the snow and rediscover the path I know is there.