Things you hang on to

You know how when your kids are little, you hang on to EVERY picture or art project they finish because each one represents some major milestone they managed to accomplish?

A circle. A real circle that is round and doesn't look like a squished eyeball.

A line. One that makes the house touch the ground instead of floating in the air.

A face. With features and more than three strands of hair sticking straight up.

I sort of feel that way about one of my middle grade novels.

I keep trying to rewrite the opening because the general response is that it sets a great tone, but no one is sure where it's going. Readers feel like they are floundering, and they don't trust it.

Now...I understand that the world of the story is very foreign. I also understand I can't let that be some excuse not to draw a better circle, line, or face.

But each rewritten opening completely loses the heart of the character at the middle of the story. It becomes a plot line of information to help the reader understand the foreign world.

So I'm trying to decide...

Do I keep coming back to the original opening because it belongs there?

Or is it just one of those pictures I'm hanging on to?

And I need to decide soon, because I'm going a bit crazy...and I sort of feel like I'm floating in the air with squished eyeballs and only three strands of hair left.

The Sting of a Jelly

I've waited to talk about growing a thick skin to handle rejection for a long time, because usually it comes across as a pumping sunshiney Nike commercial.

When really, it's more like getting stung by a jelly fish.

Which happened to me for the first time today.

My kids and I spent a gorgeous day at the beach jumping over waves...occasionally getting knocked over...sand in all corners of the suits...when I felt a ZIP across my leg that stung enough to make me swear in German. And then each of the kids got zapped, too.

Needless to say, we didn't want to jump waves anymore. I sat on my beach mat to check out the welts on my leg and foot, and they searched the sand at the edge of the water for broken mother of pearl looking shells.

I watched them thinking...that's EXACTLY what it feels like to get a rejection letter.

It bites.

Enough to make you swear in German.

It makes you want to quit playing in the proverbial writing waters.

But eventually, the sting goes away. All it leaves is a little red mark. Maybe a scar. Maybe a spot where your skin is a little thicker.

And eventually, like my kids and I today, you are ready to jump a few waves again. Even knowing that you'll probably get taken out by a jelly or two.

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.

Playing

I had another one of those "AHA!" moments the other day. The ones that make you feel really stupid for not realizing it until it hits you in the head like a present from the bowels of an irritated pigeon.

Writing is supposed to be fun.

I usually LOVE spending my time, fingers on the keyboard, discovering characters and then throwing them into a pit while fixing lazy dialogue like "Help me!"

But lately I avoid the keyboard like it's the worst chore in the world.

In short, I stopped playing.

It's ok. I even know why I stopped. My life for the last few months feels like one big countdown to the day my husband deploys.

I'm not going to lie. It sucks.

And I'm really looking forward to when I'm ready to start playing again.

Fixing the Little Red Wagon

Summer has only started, and my kids spent the whole weekend complaining.

"I'm BORED," came the first whiny voice. "There's NOTHING to do," echoed the second.

So I thought...I'll fix your little red wagon...which is something my Mother used to say to me. Frequently.

Every morning for the rest of their summer break, my kids have to:

1.) Write 300 words. It can be a story, a collection of poems, a letter, or
whatever else they choose.

2.) Read at least 30 minutes.

3.) Complete 1 page of math. They must show their work and discuss their
answers with me.

And for the icing on the cake, I also made them run 2 miles with me.

After the first fifteen minutes of mandatory grumbling about me being the MEANEST MOM EVER since I am ruining their summer break which is, by its own definition, supposed to be a break, they giggled and sang their way through their work. My happy children were happy once more.

And then I had one of those AHA! moments that make you feel really stupid. I figured out why I am mopey, dopey, whiny, irritable, and just sort of bleccchhhhy.

My break from writing has gone on WAY too long. I need to fix my own Little Red Wagon.

So, starting tonight, I'm back to my 300 word a day writing minimum, 2 chapters of reading, and daily research about possible agents that might be a good fit for me.

And I'm even giggling and singing while I do it:)

Sucking

After school today, my son and I had a conversation while eating twisty Cheetos that look like intestines...or inch worms. We were full of spit laughing and he asked me, "What are you so happy about?"

I made a face, "What do you mean? Aren't I always this happy?"

He looked at his Dad before carefully choosing his answer, "Not really."

Now my husband gave him some explanation about me having to get after him for making bad choices...which has been a bit of a struggle since our last move. But that's only part of the truth.

The other part is...

I TOTALLY sucked at a job interview today.

Totally.

I think the guy was as relieved for me to be out of his office as I was to leave.

It's not that I can't do the job. It's not that I'm clueless. It's not that I would slowly waste away at an organizational job with white walls, sterile people, and hour after hour of dealing with egos with a sense of entitlement.

Because I CAN do that job. But my heart isn't in it.

It's in a story about a little girl who is scared to death because her Dad is deploying to a war zone...which is really close to home, as my husband is leaving in a few weeks.

So I'm having a glass of wine to celebrate. Cheers! to working on what you love. Even if it means you totally suck at an interview...or retirement takes a little bit longer.

Moving mountains

I've noticed a very distinct, absolutely true correlation between two things:

The more I have my BIC (Jane Yolen's: butt in chair) to write, the W-I-D-E-R it gets. When I look in the mirror and notice my flatter, flabbier office bottom it's disheartening. And boring.

Now I have two choices:

1. Quit writing.

2. Keep writing. And keep moving.

Punch it up with stairs, hills, and miles. Stop shoving junk in my mouth when I'm bored. Or frustrated. Or working.

My characters are the same way. If I sit on them too much they are as wide, flat, and flabby as an office butt. If I fill them with words they just talk, talk, talk and never get around to doing things. But if I give them a few miles to travel and mountains to climb, they take on a shape that is much more interesting.

So here's to having a butt in a chair and moving mountains all in the same moment...and then working out a few miles more!