Everything I Know for Today Part 2

My husband has been home for one month. I don't have to pretend that his pillow is him anymore. I like it very, very much.

After only two weeks, my kids are bored with summer. I wasn't sure this was truly possible. It is.

The kids and I are taking a trip to Spain while my husband goes fishing in Alaska. Heat and sunshine. Sand and swimming. Sangria within walking distance of my room.

The gears are still turning. I'm not sure where they're going...no words are coming out on the page yet. But I have faith that they will take me somewhere.

Snipping it in the Bud

The hubby has come and gone. My parents have come and gone. The hiatus was...sort of a hiatus. I didn't truly put things aside because I was thinking about writing even if I wasn't putting words on paper.

Actually, I was taking them away.

While I set the book aside as promised, I did work on the SCBWI W-I-P Grant application to make sure the first three chapters of my book didn't go over the 2,500 word limit. I agonized over every word and every sentence in those chapters.

I snipped. I clipped. I even blipped.

Yep. That's right. I swore. Like a drunken sailor. In German, of course, so my kids didn't know.

I couldn't figure out how to get the lousy thing smaller when I was finally down to cutting the last 50 words. Every word I cut found it's way back in because, without it, something was missing.

A smell. A sound. A feeling. An image. A character thought. A hint of voice.

I wasn't looking at sentences at this point. I was looking at every. Single. Individual. Word.

And two good things came out of it:

1.) I did finally find a spot that always felt a little wonky but I didn't know how to fix. And I fixed it. And my writing sample was 2,496 words.

2.) I really understand what Richard Peck meant when he said to write the tightest page you can. And then cut 10 words.

You have to snip it in the bud. Without taking out what's important.

And hopefully you figure out how to do it before your kids understand whatever language you are swearing in.

Moving Forces, Stationary Objects

My son walked into a chair Friday night and stubbed his toe. It hurt. A lot.

He almost swore a word that would earn a bar of soap in his mouth, adding a few letters to change it at the last syllable. After wrapping a bag of frozen vegetables to his foot for an hour it wasn't hurting so much, and he fell asleep on the couch.

So on Saturday when he was hobbling around, going all drama king about his foot hurting, I told him to suck it up. It's just a stubbed toe for cripes sake. Of course it hurts. It's supposed to hurt when you smash a moving force into a stationary object.

No complaints from him the rest of the day. And none on Sunday morning.

So when I looked at his toe Sunday afternoon and saw it was black underneath, I, of course, finished his word without changing the last syllable and took him to the German hospital emergency room where, after a four hour wait, the doctor promptly confirmed that I am the world's worst mother.

Because his toe is broken.

As broken, unfortunately, as the lousy rewrite I am currently working on...which could use some moving force smashing into the stationary object.

See, I'm at that magic draft where you think you can't possible learn anything else about your story and then: Wham! Bam! Thank you, ma'am. Something bops you upside the head and you suddenly have new eyes.

Eyes which, fortunately, can see right through to the black underside that needs fixing. Immediately. Without several more days of pain and suffering.

So today, I proudly wear the World's Worst Mother badge while both my son and my story hobble around, reminding me they needed fixing in the first place.

Sa Whomped

I've been pitifully lacking about writing in my blog since returning home from the States. I will give you the equally pitifully excuse that I'm busy. Beyond busy.

Sa whomped.

But in between a boy throwing colossal tantrums, a girl full of middle school drama, a pouting, neurotic dog chewing off his nails, and a car that can go but doesn't stop, I do try to make an occasional foray into re-writing my second novel.

I've got writing goals. I've got ideas. I've got desire. I even have a plan.

What I don't have is time. Which is sort of irritating, because I had time all summer when I didn't know end from up about my story.

I'm ready to go, go, go with rewrites. But when I'm forced to one very slow 30-60 minute nightly session, I want to toss myself on the couch in a drama moment. Or chew off my nails. Or throw a tantrum and whomp the sa out of something.

Because I want to finish my book.

I realize that since I'm now...older, I don't really get to act this way. But am I the only person out there, writerly or otherwise, that has such a problem with patience?

George and Zen

You know those times when you should have something to say? When you show up and type some words on the computer and wait for that creative genius (I'll call mine George) to show up and do their thing?

But George doesn't show and you're left with a blank page party, a handful of chocolates, and one nasty headache from the few glasses of coffee or wine that were supposed to get George there in the first place.

What do you do?

I mean, other than take a handful of ibuprofen to get rid of the headache.

I'm not moping anymore. I don't have the blahs. Strangely enough, after a sort of planes, trains, and automobiles trip to the States, I've been working on my mg novel. And I actually like it.

I'm in this Zen-like place where I have no stress about my family or writing career. It feels odd...different...in a 'I don't care if the pigeon gets me' sort of way.

But at the same time, George is nowhere to be found.

So I'm wondering...can Zen and George meet up some place and hang out and have a beer? Or are they like Yin and Yang? Destined to swirl around chasing each other forever.

Something Amazing

Most of my life over the last 10 years has been hurry up and wait.

Hurry to finish my degree, but wait to get a job until we're settled. Hurry to move and settle, but wait to really settle because we're moving again in a year. Hurry to write something well, but wait while the queries decide your fate.

It feels like I'm the bike riding kid in The Incredibles. Mr. Incredible asks him what he's waiting for and the kid says...

"I don't know. Something amazing, I guess."

The kid is a waiter. A writer...is patient.

There is a difference between the two.

A waiter looks around waiting for something to happen. They are the secondary characters in our stories who are forgotten as soon as the page turns or the frame ends. They are the people who spend their lives watching everybody else do something amazing.

Patience has a point. It is selected work on our stories and targeted queries to the right agent or publisher. It is smart choices about our work and our lives. And sometimes it's drinking three cups of coffee and forcing myself to sit still, to test if I can really do it:)

But most of all: It. Is. Work.

So I am tossing out my hurry up and wait life, and I'm trading it for one that is patient.

Which are you?

Are we there yet?

One of the hardest things about writing for writers at all stages is the discipline.

Yes, I said it. Discipline.

We are two year old children who want to play, play, play in the first draft, the sexy new idea stage, but when it comes to drafts two...four...ten...we stop listening to our stories, stare out the windows, and bemoan,

"Are we THERE yet?"

Well...I suppose that depends on where "there" is. If you mean that big final destination banner that says:




Then no.
You're not there.


And even if you are there and have something published, it all starts over with a new story.

If I learned anything as a ten year old on our extremely long drive from Nebraska to the keys in Florida, it was to celebrate along the way. After miles of hours with six people squished into an Oldsmobile, the games played out and too dark to see anything, we stopped.

Somewhere in Mississippi, standing alone by the road in the middle of the night, is a gas station that has the best strawberry soda. The BEST. Further along were boiled peanuts from a little stand run by people selling their special family recipe. And the beaches of Pensacola on Christmas day were as humbling and rewarding as any banner will ever be.

But I wouldn't have tasted those things if I wasn't looking out the window in the first place.

So discipline yourself. Draw out your first draft map so you have an idea where you're going and then swallow the steps along the way, like really great strawberry soda, because they are more important for your story and writing skills than any destination point.


Note: I will be attending the SCBWI Symposium in Bologna until Wednesday...my strawberry soda reward:) More to come...

Gambling

I was walking my dog today and I realized that the things I've done best in my life are the things I took my time on...worked my butt off...and kept going.

My kids.
My marriage.
My book Michelangelo Lives Forever.
My play Muddy Boots.
Running a marathon.
Graduate school.

I am not a gambler. Not one who wins anyway. I play one roll of nickle slots and then watch people throw their money away.

That doesn't mean I don't have the urges to do stupid things.

But it means that I'm starting to recognize my strengths and the way I work, which is something I need to know before finding a home for my writing.

And before I gamble all my nickels away.

Stupid Thing Number 3,914

Let's say we do 1,000 stupid things every 10 years...which makes 100 stupid things every year...which makes 1 stupid thing every 3.65 days.

I actually do more than that, but go with me here.

I was mad into building to the climax of my second middle grade novel, which is a time when I am utterly immersed in my writing and my responses to questions or requests from my family are nothing more than half nods and 'uh huhs,' and I had a sudden idea.

A brilliant idea. Something that could revolutionize the world of Children's Books into a fit and frenzy where everyone would fall on their knees holding their hands to their hearts and call me a genius. And, me being me, I whipped this idea into a succint email and shipped it off to an agent.

An agent that I think I actually like...and might have sought for representation... and might have the chance to meet when I go to Bologna, Italy at the end of March for the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Symposium.

Stupid Thing Number 3,914.

I rounded up. It came early.

He, of course, very politely wrote back with "uhhh...ok...this is probably not for me. And please don't try to find me with your boiling bunny in Bologna." Ok, he didn't actually say that, but my interpretation of his response is such.

So now I'm praying. I'm praying that he is NOT one of the people who are critiquing my two manuscripts while I'm at the conference, because I would probably mutter something unintelligible that would age me ten years in the Stupid Things count.

Though at this point, I'm not sure I can get too much older in that department.

Oh. Thank. God.

I received another rejection today. This time a form letter, albeit a very nice encouraging form letter, and my response was:

Oh. Thank. God.

I kid you not. I said that out loud.

See, I knew this agent wasn't right for me but I sent a query anyway in my frustration and impatience while trying to FIND one.

Because while my many wrinkles and emerging grey hairs might make you think I am almost 40, I'm really still 10, waiting for Mom to hand me 50 cents in allowance so I can blow it on candy at the ShopEZ.

I wanted to write back to the agent to admit that I recognize just how bad a fit we would be and to thank her, because I really am smarter in my relationships than that choice of query reflects. But, for oh so many reasons, I didn't.

Let's just say I pocketed 50 cents.

Because I'll probably need it for some hair dye shortly.