Happy Fourth!

I love the Fourth of July. Not just because I have a big party and blast Springsteen from the porch speakers and we watch the fireworks from my front yard.

No, it's much more than that. I am unabashedly patriotic (in my dyed-in-the-wool liberal democrat way). I love what the day represents--fighting for what we believe in. Standing up for our rights. Saying, no way, we're not gonna put up with unfairness.

I love that over 200 years ago, men were willing to die to create a new democracy, a democracy that has withstood wars and impeachments and terrorism and bungled elections. A government that often works in spite of itself.

And I hope that in 2010 we haven't become blase to the freedoms we have that others around the world can only dream about.

So, as you celebrate today, maybe take a moment to appreciate what we have and say a little prayer for all those who don't.

(This was originally posted in 2008. I still feel like it's appropriate.)

Spreading the word . . .

The lovely Larramie, fairy godmother to writers and readers, wrote an incredibly nice post about my new blog . . . and I have a new post up over there as well. Please stop by . . .

Thanks!

My Mama Taught Me Better

What's going on in society these days? I mean really. Look at Kanye West and Joe Wilson (two names that have probably never been uttered in the same sentence before!).

When did rudeness become acceptable? Defensible? The status quo?

When did apologizing become a sign of weakness or backing down?

My mother taught me to be kind. Be responsible. And yes, to stand up for what I believe in but in a civilized manner. She taught me that the world doesn't revolve around me. I passed those lessons on to my sons. I said I was sorry . . . and I MEANT it when I said it . . . when I'd been unfair to them. Or even just short-tempered. I believe that being willing to apologize shows strength and compassion.

Rudeness is never acceptable. Even when I've been treated poorly, it's not okay. I don't want to stoop to the lowest common denominator. I want to rise above it.

Breaking rules is not okay. I learned this one many times, but the best reminder came when I was 16 and had gotten caught going off campus for lunch (something only seniors could do and I was a junior). Since I was the driver, I got three days detention. Since I wouldn't rat on who else was in the car with me they tacked on another two days (I felt sort of noble about that!). When I tried to defend myself to my mom (who wasn't buying any of my teenaged outrage, by the way) by exclaiming, loudly, that it was a stupid rule, she calmly replied that it might well be but I had two choices: obey it or work to change it. Breaking it was not okay. In honesty, I'd like to say I worked to change it, but no. I did get better at not getting caught (it was all in which parking lot I parked in, I discovered).

But, I digress.

Joe Wilson was out of line to yell "You lie!" during President Obama's speech. He could have groaned or booed. That's what the parties in opposition do. And now he's acting like not apologizing makes him more of a man. Uh, no. It makes him look weak and stubborn and ill-bred. His mama must be shaking her head.

And Kanye? Most of the folks nominated for any award DON'T win. That's the law of numbers. And just because you think the voters got it wrong, you don't get to hop up and announce your opinion to the world. You win some and you lose some. That's life. Deal with it without looking like a doofus. Or worse. What must your mama think?

What's happening? Do we need a MOM SQUAD or something to go from town to town and teach civility? Kindness? The Golden Rule?

Shouldn't it come naturally?

***UPDATE*** check out my NEW blog Just Be Nice . . .

Remembering . . .

It's a strange day this morning . . . crisp blue sky, just like 8 years ago. I was teaching that morning, and I still remember my students' faces as they watched the towers fall.

Can I get an "Amen" on Overkill?

Is this just me? Or did anyone else scream at the sight of Matt Lauer on The Today Show this morning, standing in Michael Jackson's kitchen with his (Michael's) two dogs? I mean, yes, Michael's passing was sad, he lived a very tragic life (even in the classical, Greek sense of the word, not just the overused "News at Five!" sense in which everything is a tragedy). I was a big fan of The Jackson Five growing up, still break into song at times. He was adorable and grew into an incredibly talented solo artist.

Then he went nuts. With the plastic surgery and lifestyle and dancing on top of his lawyer's car last fall.

So, yes, his death at age 50 was sad. But a week's worth of mourning and retrospectives and headlines? Please. That was the entire Today show today. After the "dog scene" mentioned above, I flipped to Good Morning America only to be greeted with the breathless news that "Coming up, a look inside the King of Pop's Bathroom!"

No thank you very much. I don't really want to see inside anybody's bathroom.

Is it just me? Has my curmudgeonly nature completely taken over? Or can I get an "Amen" to letting people die in peace and giving them and their loved ones some privacy?

Me, I'm off to read the paper and drink coffee on my front porch.

Holiday and New Year Musings

It's bitterly cold here in St. Louis today. My husband is at the mall (only 3 shopping days left!), one of my sons is at the Rams game with college buddies, and I'm about to go make another batch of cookies. The crockpot is filled with the makings for White Chicken Chili, and in a few hours friends are coming over to enjoy the chili and cookies and some holiday cheer.

I moved to this town and this house 18 years ago next month, and the two families coming over tonight are the first people I met. They are, literally, my next-door neighbor and back-fence neighbor. At the time, our kids were toddlers. The three youngest of those kids will be joining us tonight, all home from college. It'll be the first party where none of them will have to sneak a beer in the backyard.

Over the years we've worried about teachers and mean kids at school and college acceptances. We've driven carpools, and babysat. We've mourned the loss of parents and buried beloved pets. We've welcomed new puppies and one grandbaby. We all danced at my wedding 3 years ago. We've borrowed eggs and traded recipes and sat up way too late drinking wine. We've brought meals after surgery and driven each other home after medical procedures. We've had health scares and put out one driveway fire.

We try to get together more often, but life gets in the way and we find ourselves running into each other at the grocery store and saying things like "we've got to get together" and we wave from the driveway or holler over the back fence. So, it's a treat to actually have a date on the calendar when we can relax and laugh and reminisce.

And that's one of the wonderful things about this time of year. For one, my house is all decorated and cozy so I want to light the candles and have friends over. For another, it's a time to look back and look forward, and that naturally means thinking about good friends.



When I moved here, so much ahead of me was unknown. Divorce, remarriage. A first novel being published. Teaching full-time and then changing careers. In the past year, even, our three families have weathered sadnesses and celebrations like families all over the world. And I love looking back at the quilt of our lives, pieces here and there of all the things that have made us who we are, woven together in tears and laughter and love.

Who knows what we'll be celebrating at the end of 2009?

But to all of you, I wish you a holiday filled with warmth and laughter and family and good friends. And a 2009 full of joy and surprise and adventure.

See you next year.

As You Shop this Season . . .

Books, books, and more books. They are always at the top of my Christmas wish list. I love waking up on Dec. 26, knowing the fridge is full of leftovers, there's nowhere I have to be, and I have a stack of new books to dive into. If I want, I can spend the day in bed, cozy under my down comforter, and read the day away.

I also love to give books as gifts. They are easy to wrap (you never have to wait for some surly clerk to find a box for you) and they are always a perfect fit. They never go out of style.

Now, I know, that this year especially, people are throwing their hands in the air and acting as though the book business is dying if not already dead. Well, to paraphrase one of the gods of American Literature, I DECLINE TO ACCEPT THE END OF BOOKS.

Books allow us to visit worlds and lives that are far removed from our own. Books take us on journeys we could never plan or afford. Books introduce us to characters who become friends.

When I was teaching, I'd tell my students that they were to always write about books in the present tense because, as I'd explain, when you open the cover of a book and dive into it, the story is happening right then. Those characters are living their story right at that moment. They are always alive in those pages. Cool, huh? Every time I read it, Atticus is guiding Scout and defending Tom Robinson. And Boo Radley is watching and protecting.

So, you see, books will never die. Elizabeth Bennett is smitten with Darcy over and over again (even though she can't admit it!). Caddy Compson will keep trying to help Quentin even though she knows she'll never be successful. But her love is too strong to give up.

These characters live anew every time someone opens the covers of the book. That's what you give someone when you give a book as a gift.

If you're looking for suggestions, check out all my posts on this blog labeled Book Recommendations or Writers or GCC.

My author buddy Carleen Brice has a new blog full of book suggestions.

And every Monday I'll be posting suggestions, ideas, etc.

Today my plug is for memoirs. I know memoirs have gotten a bad rap because some folks wrote ones that weren't. But real memoirs, good memoirs, are wonderful. They read like novels with the added poignancy of knowing a real live person is behind the story. Here are three that I'm a fan of this season:

~Gail Konop-Baker's Cancer is a Bitch about how having cancer helped her reexamine her life and start living the life she wanted. It's funny and inspiring and not what you think of when you hear "cancer book". Just trust me and read it, okay?

~Kin Reid's No Place Safe, a riveting look at what it was like to be 13 and have her mom leading a serial killer investigation. It's a coming of age tale in every way.

~Kathleen Flinn's, The Sharper the Knife, the Less You Cry about her experiences at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.

"Moment of Thanks" Reprise

I wrote this post last year, and ask your indulgence as I post it again. It still seems appropriate. . . .


"You can plan all you want to. You can lie in your morning bed and fill whole notebooks with schemes and intentions. But within a single afternoon, within hours or minutes, everything you plan and everything you have fought to make yourself can be undone as a slug is undone when salt is poured on him. And right up to the moment when you find yourself dissolving into foam you can still believe you are doing fine."

Wallace Stegner, Crossing to Safety

Thirteen years ago, just before dinnertime on the Monday of Thanksgiving week, my seven-year old son was hit by a car. Now twenty, he'll be arriving home from college tomorrow; his twenty-one year old brother the next day. We have much for which to be thankful. But that night, for a few moments, I wasn't sure I'd ever breathe a thankful breath again. When the neighbor boy burst into my house, yelling, "Eric just got hit by a car!" my world froze. I wasn't sure I could face what awaited me just outside my front door. Somehow, I propelled myself outside, after tossing the phone to the neighbor and telling him to call 911. When I hit the porch steps I heard my son's cries and I thought, Okay, he's alive. When I knelt by his side, I saw his feet moving and told myself, Okay, he's not paralyzed. And I knew right then we were incredibly lucky. And I was thankful beyond measure.

Later, after the ambulance ride, after the X-rays, after the doctor shook his head and said, just before releasing him, "He's fine. He shouldn't be but he is," I remembered the above Stegner quote. The salt had been just ready to pour down on me, on us, on our life. And then it didn't. But I knew how easily it could have rained down over our world. A different driver. A bigger, faster car. A shift in the trajectory of my son's body as it flew through the air. But, even now, I have to turn my mind away from those awful possibilities.

Our lives are full of such moments, but many times we don't even know it. We don't know what we've narrowly escaped, what's just missed us. And so, for what we know and don't know, I am thankful. For the times the salt didn't pour down and for the strength to continue when it did, I give thanks.

I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving, but even more, I wish you a spirit of thankfulness as you go about your lives everyday.

Think. Vote. Please.

Earlier this summer, a picture on the front page of The New York Times stunned me. And it haunts me still. It was of a little boy, a toddler, with both of his ankles in casts. He was from one of the African nations struggling to have fair elections in the midst of war. Men had come in, and when his mother refused to say where his father was and how they had voted, they shattered the little boy's ankles.

Think about that for a minute if you can. Think of the terror and horror his mother endured. The pain of the little boy. These were people who faced brutality and possible death just for trying to vote.

We have an election on the horizon and while there has been lots and lots (and lots!) of words said and written about it, there are people who won't vote because they are too busy or they just plumb forget or they don't care. There are also people who will vote without being informed. They'll vote one way because of hair style or skin color or internet rumors that are e-mailed and forwarded by idiots (sorry, Dad.).

And I want those people to think of that little boy and his mother.

I'm voting for Barack Obama and Joe Biden. There, I said it. For all to see. And with no fear of harm coming to my family or me.

I believe that Obama is our best chance for change and hope and a positive direction for our country. I believe that Obama as president can help America regain her stature and good standing in the world. I like that he's smart. I want a president who's smarter than I am. I firmly believe that he wants the same things for his family and their future that I want for mine. I trust him with my economic future. I agree with him on most social issues. I wish he were more adamant about gun control, but I can't have everything. I support what he proposes for health care.

Do I know every last detail on all his positions? No. But I have listened and read enough to trust him and his vision for America.

For the past few weekends, I've walked through neighborhoods in my town, canvassing for Obama. I've chatted with neighbors who are undecided, who have decided for the other side, and who agree with me (and asked for yard signs). Everyone was friendly (okay, one woman was a bit crotchety) and what struck me was the thoughtfulness of those I talked to. One woman in particular said she was really struggling; she likes Obama, but she's pro-life. She couldn't decide what to do. And while I wished I could sway her, I know she has to decide. But she's thinking about it which is the most important.

I wish I could go door-to-door in more neighborhoods, more states. I wish we could talk to and with rather than at.

This election is too important to hand over to the talking heads on Fox News and MSNBC and CNN.

Think of that mother in Africa and her little boy.

And please vote.

Novel 101--"Ripeness is all"

So, it's been awhile since I've blogged here and even longer since I've had a Novel 101 post. Lots of reasons for this, but no good excuses.

The quote above is from my favorite Shakespeare play, King Lear. And, the point of it has been made clear to me yet again. (That's one of the totally cool things about my old buddy Bill--the truths he writes about apply on so many levels and keep teaching me even when I'm not looking for it.). Let me try to explain.

I'm not a patient person. I try, but it's a struggle. (Just ask my family.) But, I know that plenty of things are better with age. With ripening. The tomatoes in my garden. Wine. I know that things take time. There are processes which should not and cannot be rushed. I mean, heck, I'm a writer--getting an agent and publishing my first book took seven years. I've never been in the army, but I sometimes think the phrase "hurry up and wait" came from the submission process rather than the military.

But, as Shakespeare wrote, "ripeness is all." Things happen when they're meant to happen, being ready matters, and don't rush things that shouldn't be rushed. I know this; I just don't always embrace it.

Then, at the end of last week, after finishing the workbook for Writing the Breakout Novel, by Donald Maass, and after reviewing my notes and ideas and list of "what ifs" for my revision, I pulled out a hard copy of the MS of my novel, the one I thought I'd finished in February, but now know I haven't. The copy I hadn't looked at, not once, since February 28. And I started reading it. Almost immediately I went in search of several colored flair pens and these handy dandy little page flags:



Because, I'd discovered something in my MS--it wasn't as "done" as I'd thought. Having not looked at it in four months had given me some perspective, some "ripening"--I was finally ready to see the scenes that needed sharpening, the lines that needed some edge, the passages of prose that needed to be (eek!) killed off.

Even more important, as I started reading I understood some things about my protagonist I hadn't seen clearly before. She'd ripened as well, into someone even more complex than I'd initially seen.

We'd needed the distance from each other, the aging, the perspective--as much as I hadn't wanted to be patient, it had been a good thing (okay, there, Mom, I said it. I finally learned it. Blah, blah, blah, okay, okay, okay, patience is a virtue!).

So, that's my tidbit of writerly wisdom for the week (or maybe month, we'll see how things go). As hard as it can be, as much as I might want to send the MS off to readers, to my agent, to the world, I have to wait for the ripening--I have to allow for the cool days of spring and the warm rains of summer and the sunshine and moonlight and all that it requires. Then I have to look at it again and I have to trust that when it's truly ready, I'll know because my own words will tell me.

Odds and Ends

So it's late June and I'm fully immersed in summer. Sitting on the front porch reading, talking, watching the world go by. Taking my dog on long walks and letting him play in the creek. Grilling almost every night. Even though I'm no longer tied, at least professionally, to an academic schedule, summer is still more than just a season. It's a philosophy, a state of mind. The kids are home and the rhythms of the house change. (Over on my group blog, my post today is about my summer mom makeover. In a sense.)

I'm also blogging less often. But that has more to do (I think) with the writing work I'm doing than anything else. I've decided to take another run at my MS for Unexpected Grace (for regular readers, this is the novel I thought I'd completed in February). I'm excited about this. I know I'm just a few fine tunings away from what I want it to be. And I've figured out how to get there. Which strings to pull, which threads to loosen. And I owe my buddy Kristy Kiernan a huge thanks for pointing me in the right direction. We were chatting a week or so ago, talking about writing and ice cream and dogs and such, and she recommended the Donald Maass book Writing the Breakout Novel.

I admit, I was skeptical. I viewed it (and many writing books, I hate to say) as on the same level of those articles and headlines that promise you can "lose your belly fat and still eat everything you want!" But this book is the real deal. It is practical and smart and hands on. It's not suggesting a formulaic anybody-can-write-a-bestseller plan. It's designed to help writers take a draft to the next level. It has clarified things for me. Crystalized what I was aiming for. Helped me give my characters and plot some needed torque. I highly recommend it. And I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Finally, and most importantly, three years ago today I married my trophy husband, my keeper spouse. Happy anniversary, John.

Random Thoughts on Risotto and Dogs

While I sit on my sofa wondering if it's ever going to stop raining now that I have a convertible, I realized it had been over a week since I've posted anything here. And that was quickly followed by the thought I have nothing to say (other than to bitch about the rain).

So, here are some random musings to fill my little slice of the blog-o-sphere:



~I love making risotto. This is a new obsession of mine, but one that my family readily embraces. I used to think it was hard or complicated or just something I'd only order in restaurants. But, a few weeks ago we were having dinner at a friend's house and she made shrimp and scallop risotto. I watched as she cooked. It involves lots of stirring (which I can do) and patience (which I'm working on). That night driving home I asked my husband for a risotto cookbook for my upcoming birthday. He delivered. And I've made risotto once a week ever since. I improvise the recipes, but follow the basic procedure. You'll find it in this cookbook. I know there are several methods, but this one is a snap and delivers. And, yes, I spend 30 minutes making it right before dinner. But I can sip wine and talk to my husband while I do so. And the results are spectacular if I say so myself.



~We'd all be happier if we could figure out what we're best at and embrace that part of ourselves. I got this idea from my dog. He's a Golden Retriever. And he takes the "retriever" part very seriously. He also pretty much has his "best day ever" every single day. Whenever he comes in from outside, he immediately grabs/retrieves one of his toys and brings it to me. He does the same thing when someone walks in the door. He grabs his rawhide or circus monkey (don't ask) or stuffed lamb and brings it to them with his tail wagging to beat the band. "Hey," he seems to say, "look, I retrieved." Then he lies down, licks his feet and takes a nap from the utter exhaustion of retrieving and being happy. When we went for a walk the other day, I stopped at the creek to let him drink some water (I didn't have much choice to be honest). He loves drinking from the creek. He lies right down in it and laps it up. This time, there were two ducks swimming about 4 feet from him. He didn't bug them, they weren't fazed. When I mentioned it to him (yes, I talk to him in sentences), he was completely unapologetic. But, if he could talk I think he'd say, "Look, woman-who-feeds-me, I'm a retriever. You shoot the duck, I'll go get it for you. You pick it up and throw it across the yard? I'm your fetcher. But otherwise, I'm leaving them alone."

And it occurs to me that both my risotto making and my dog musings can help me as a writer.

With the risotto, I get to be creative and free and toss things in and veer away from the stated recipe (delete the mushrooms, add more garlic and peppers). I can make it my own story. But, there are certain things that must be not be changed. The basic framework. The arborio rice. The right amount of broth (1 1/2 cups rice to 5 or 5 1/2 cups broth). And in my writing, I get to toss in details that ring true for me. Create characters out of thin air. But, there's got to be conflict. And tension. There must be good dialogue and sharp verbs. I have to work within a structure.

And as far as my dog? Well, I can only be the kind of writer I'm uniquely meant to be. I can't copy anyone else. I can't make myself into a different kind of writer. Not that this means I can't hone my skills and that I won't challenge myself to try new approaches. But it does mean accepting and appreciating the writer I am. I'll be happier. And a better writer for it in the long run.

Novel 101 or Each Book Writes Itself Differently

For those of you who've noticed the new word-counter thingie down in the lower left margin, you'll see that I have begun writing Spinning. 3000+ words in.

And it's going well.

And I've always said ("always" being a term loosely applied since this is only book #3, or #4 if we're counting "the book that will never see the light of day"), each novel is its own adventure. Each one writes itself a bit differently. I'm a different author for each book--my experiences (both as a person and as a writer) have changed. So I can't expect the writing or the writing process to be the same.

Here are a few of the starkest changes--and they're good changes as far as I can tell:

~The First Chapter First. In the past, my process has been to get a completed draft done. Without a draft I don't have anything to polish, revise, work with. So, my goal was to get the story arc written, start meeting the characters I'd develop more fully in later rewrites, and not worry too much about anything else. For me, if I could get my first draft to 60,000 words I was in good shape. (My books tend to be in the 75,000 word range when completed.) But, this time around, I took some advice from other writers who've mentioned how much effort they put into that first chapter. And Julie, my very best reader/editor, talked to me last summer about how the first chapter should hint, in some way, about all that's to come. So, with that in mind, I spent most of this month working on Chapter One (and a two page prologue). I polished, I considered, I rewrote, I took my dog for long walks and thought about Jim and Maggie. And, if I say so myself, I think I nailed it. I might just be 15 pages in, but I established a solid base from which to go forward.

~Work From the Inside Out. I did this with All the Numbers. I did it, finally, with Kate in Unexpected Grace, but not soon enough to avoid major rewrites. (Yes, plural rewrites.). I know now to start with the heart. Of the story, of the characters, of the conflict. If it's not from the heart--the emotion, the pain or glory or loss or fear or hopes of the character, then it's just going to be about what happens next. Or what just happened. And nobody will care. It'll be moving your characters from one event to the next. It'll be an agenda.


You'd think I'd have known that as many times as I taught this. (Go ahead and click over. Read the whole thing, or better yet, listen to it. I'll wait.) And every time I taught it, my throat would catch. It's all so quotable. And right. Faulkner says, much more eloquently than I ever could, what I've just tried to say: that we need to write of "the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat." I'm remembering his words this time around.

I'm just at the beginning stages of chapter two. So far, according to my only listener (my husband), I've tapped into the right vein. (Which is a challenge because for the first time I'm writing part of the story from a man's POV.)

It's a journey just begun. And I'm loving every step along the way.

p.s. I got my new wheels yesterday (see previous post). Whoo hoo!

An Evening With the Boss

Not often, but every once in a while, I want to feel 17 again. Not the angsty, high school, I-hate-my-hair, I'm-not-sure-what-to-wear girl I was so much of the time back then. No, I want to feel limitless possibility. Wonder. Freedom. Confidence (or was it stupidity?) that had my friends and me wearing t-shirts that said "Go to Hell World, I'm a Senior." I want to feel like I'm born to run.

Now, next week, those days will be 31 years, two kids, a few (ahem) pounds, and lots of bad haircuts in my past. But occasionally, every once upon a time, I get to grab that 17 year-old inside and let her out for a ride. "Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out" always takes me there. I dare you to watch this and not bop around in your chair.




And Monday night, I got to feel 17 for three hours all thanks to The Boss (and my husband who bought me the tickets for Christmas). It was great (and I'm still recovering). I danced and sang and cheered and raised my fist high because tramps like us were just around the corner from the light of day and we were out on the streets (oh oh oh oh oh!) in the promised land.

And much later, when I was still singing along in my head and I couldn't get to sleep because I was still soaring, I thought how Bruce and I grew up together. And how we're both writers.

He gave me the anthems I needed when I was young and figuring out how to be an adult:

"Hey what else can we do now
Except roll down the window
And let the wind blow back your hair
Well the night's busting open
These two lanes will take us anywhere"

Thunder Road is just about the most perfect song ever written.

And then, when I was an adult and was finding it a bit harder to navigate than I'd thought, I knew he understood:

"Is a dream a lie if it don't come true
Or is it something worse?"

"God have mercy on the man
Who doubts what he's sure of"

And then, we both gained a few more years, and some perspective (and found the keeper spouse the second time around):

"Tonight I'm drinkin' in the forgiveness
This life provides
The scars we carry remain but the pain slips away it seems
Oh won't you baby be in my book of dreams"

He was a voice of loss and sorrow after 9/11:

"Pictures on the nightstand, TV's on in the den
Your house is waiting, your house is waiting
For you to walk in, for you to walk in
But you're missing, you're missing
You're missing when I shut out the lights
You're missing when I close my eyes
You're missing when I see the sun rise
You're missing"

And, in his title song, The Rising, he also gave us a sense of pride and hope.

And today? He's still writing the words that are on so many of our hearts:

"Who'll be the last to die for a mistake
The last to die for a mistake
Whose blood will spill, whose heart will break
Who'll be the last to die, for a mistake"

He's been a fine companion all these years--and an even finer writer. I can only strive to make my words resonate as well.

Oh, and he still looks totally hot in jeans.

One Year Old

One year ago today, I debuted as a blogger. I had no idea how the whole blog world would work out, nor did I have any clue as to how much I would love writing each post (well, maybe not every single one, but 99% of them).

I worried that no one would comment. I worried that I'd run out of things to blog about (yeah, right).

Let me just say, I'm having a blast. I've chatted about my kids, my worries, my dad, my WIPs, revisions. I've been able to recommend books and writers. I've been able to mention causes that matter to me. I've found support in the face of tragedy. I've found friends.

One year ago, I was blathering about my upcoming trip to New Orleans (which totally rocked!); I'm now getting ready to head out for the Virginia Festival of the Book where I'll finally meet--face to face-- my blog pals Carleen and Therese and Jenny. It doesn't seem possible that I haven't "officially" met them, and lots of others, before now because, through this whole cyberworld of e-mails and blogs, and through good old-fashioned phone calls, I already feel as though I've had coffee with them. As though we've commiserated over a carton of good ice cream, celebrated with some good Chardonnay.

In looking over all 75 of my posts in the past year, I think the one I wrote in July about my dog who howls expresses it best.

I want to thank all of you for stopping by, for joining the conversation, for leaving your comments, for letting me know you're out there. The world might be vast and sometimes crowded, other times isolating, but, because of all of you, it rarely feels cold.

So, one year down, many more to come!

What a Tangled Web We Weave . . .

I just don't get it. I mean, didn't we learn this as kids? Didn't we teach it to our own children? I'm not talking about little white lies ("No, that doesn't make your butt look too big.") or convenient ommissions ("Um, no, I hadn't heard that."). I'm talking lies. Mendacity. (Do you still swoon when Brick yells at Big Daddy about mendacity?)



Do people really think they're not going to get caught? Apparently so, but, not to be crass or anything, how flipping stupid are they? Or, perhaps, how stupid do they think the rest of us are?

Here's a newsflash to all the job applicants, memoirists, coaches, plagiarists, resume padders out there--you're going to get caught. In this whole world-wide-web life we live in, somebody's going to hear your lie and think, uh, whoa, I think not. Your sister, your ex-whomever, that guy you were rude to, the original writer. Somebody is going to take a second look at that resume and call one of your references. Somebody is going to see that article about the amazing, stunning book you wrote about your wretched/difficult/gang-filled life and say, um, yeah, I knew him/her and it's not true. And they're going to be able to prove it. See, there's this new-fangled thing out there. It's called the internet. Google. YouTube. Myspace. Colleges have websites. So do newspapers. And corporations. The military.

You're going to get caught. Bank on it.

And think back to that time you were five and your mom or grandpa or neighbor lady caught you in a lie. Didn't you feel lousy? But you were little and cute. You're not little and cute anymore. You're an adult. You're supposed to know better.

New Paths

For the past five weeks I've been immersed in the life of a woman coming to terms with the twists and turns and vagaries of her life. At times, she's felt like a pinball, simply trying to brace herself for the next blow before it smacked into her. She had thought for years, things were following a certain path, that her choices were leading her in a specific way, that she was in control, and that she was happy.

What did John Lennon say? Life's what happens while you're making other plans.

Well, that's what happened to Kate and to me.

I'd thought I had her figured out. I'd believed I knew her. I'd been sure I could tell her story. And, I'd been so busy being right I didn't take the time to listen, to really get to know her. Kind of like when a friend needs to talk and I am too quick with advice or counsel. I get so busy helping I forget to hear what she's really saying or asking for.

Well, in the past five weeks I finally let myself meet her. I finally quit my yapping long enough to listen. To discover. To toss out all the clutter that got in the way.

And, I let myself find Kate. And in the process I learned so much about myself as a writer. It was all pretty cool.

So, my manuscript--re-visioned, revised, rewritten--is back on my agent's desk. Did I get it right? I'll find out soon. It certainly feels as though I did. But if it isn't there just yet, I know to trust Kate to show me her world. And she trusts me enough now to let me into her heart. She knows I'll listen before I start writing.

In the meantime, I intend to get caught up with my blog posts. I've also got a project waiting for me on the dining room table involving lots of frames and even more family photos. I've got a stack of new recipes to try. And I've got a whole new set of characters whispering to me, wanting to let me into their lives, their fears, their hearts. And this time, I've promised to listen more carefully than I did with Kate.

P.S. I also have a new blog post up at the group blog I belong to. It's not about writing, but if you have kids applying to colleges, you might want to check it out.

Sea Change

As some of you might recall, I've spoken often about revising. Well, much of the revising I've done before (and my nattering about it) was little more than a tune-up. Kicking the tires. Right now, I'm immersed in an engine overhaul. I might even have to trade in the car. It's invigorating, terrifying and thrilling. It's taking all of my concentration (just ask anyone in the house who's looking for clean laundry. Or dinner.). Here's the big paradigm shift I've come to understand: I am now fitting the old parts worth keeping into the new, rather than plopping the new sections into the old. Just understanding that has made a huge difference--and made it much easier for me to scrap whole chunks. Delete entire scenes. Toss away pages.

So, now I'm back to work--my posts might be a little scattered for a week or two, but I'm having a blast, drinking lots of coffee, and occasionally coming up for air. And, speaking of looking at things in a new way and feeling inspired about all possibilities, I'll leave you with this:

It Takes a Village

In June 2006, I resigned from teaching high school. At the time, I was ready. I'd taught for 15 years, and while I'd loved it, I was ready to embark on my next career: Novelist. Ever since, I'm often asked if I miss teaching. Honestly? I don't. But I always feel a little guilty about that. And it's more complicated than a simple yes/no answer.

Here are some things I miss--the energy of teenagers, watching them "get it", the funny anecdotes I was sure to come home with, getting to talk about books and poetry I love.

Here are some things I don't miss--standardized tests, helicopter parents, checking up on kids' whereabouts, grading essays, some administrators, the hours.

Before I quit, I already knew all of the above. But there was one thing I was really worried about leaving behind, and that was the camaraderie with the other teachers. Dishing with my buddies in the hall during passing time. Knowing that there was someone next door or down the hall whose room I could burst into and who would get it, whether I was exhilarated or frustrated. Talking about a lesson that worked or didn't. Laughing about another lame excuse from a kid.

I worried that writing full-time would leave me lonely. I'm a social person. I was afraid that not only would I have no one to chat with, but that I wouldn't have anybody to talk to who "got" my job. Who understood the joys and irritations and fears of it (and, believe me, writing is full of all of those. Publishing is a wacky business).

But, I've discovered a writing community beyond my wildest dreams. I've always got somebody to jabber with if I want. And much of it is because of this really cool blogosphere I hadn't even known existed.

I've got links to my buddies over on the left--and what started out as just commenting on other folks' blogs has segued into e-mail correspondences and "blind-date" phone calls. I've met writers at conferences and festivals. We cheer each other's successes; we talk each other down from ledges. We share scoop. We know the lingo; we get the details. We read each other's WIPs and we offer insight.

And sometimes I know I need to pull myself away from the computer and get some writing done, just as when I was teaching I sometimes had to hide out so I could get papers graded.

Just this week, a whole community of girlfriends has been "touring" my book on their blogs as part of The Girlfriend Cyber Circuit (links on left). I've only met one of these women in person--but we all are there to support one another's efforts.

So, to Therese and Kristen and Lisa and Larramie and the great gals at The Writers' Group and Carleen and The Good Girls and Melanie and The Debs and everyone else, thanks for your support and friendship . . . and to those of you who are lurking or wondering if this community is for you, kick your shoes off, pull up a chair, and join the fun. The village is richer because of each of us.

You Gotta Believe

As a kid, I learned the truth of this statement through sports. No matter what, on any given day, any team can win, any player can be a hero or a goat. Last February, my husband and I had a few days in Las Vegas, and true to my optimistic nature, I bet $5 on the 2007 World Series winners and the 2008 Superbowl winners (Yeah, I'm not a real big spender.) The guy at the betting booth chuckled when I told him my teams. I could just hear him thinking, "Yeah, right, Lady. The Cubs and the Packers?" But they're my teams. And while there's no guarantee (and my fingers are firmly crossed which makes it hard to type), the Packers are 3-0 and the Cubs are looking at a magic number of 4. You Gotta Believe.


3 years ago, I had just signed with my agent after writing and querying for 5 years.

Then, 3 months later, she sent it out to editors and within a few weeks we'd gotten a great offer from Random House. (To be honest, she assured me it was a great offer. At that point, I would have signed for a few copies of my book.) There had definitely been moments in the preceding years when I'd been ready to pack it in. Give it up. I was an unknown middle-aged, single mom, school teacher from the Midwest. It really doesn't get more out of the loop than that. But, my agent believed in my book (God bless her) and I had friends who never let me give up (Bless them too). And, deep in my heart, I knew I believed in my story, in my writing. And then other folks did too. The publishing house. Bookstore owners who handsold it. The marketing folks who got it out there.

And finally, the readers who found it, talked about it, and got others to buy it.

I had to believe. That's one of the mantras of published writers--if you give up, the only thing you know for certain is that you'll never be published. Every published author, even the huge bestselling ones, were at one time unknown debut wannabees.

You don't have to just take my word for it, Therese Fowler writes about this more eloquently (natch) than I can here.

Just when I thought I couldn't be surprised any more, the foreign contracts started to come in. To be honest, it seemed like Monopoly money--Germany? Finland and Sweden? Most recently, the Netherlands and China. No languages I can read, of course, but to think that there are people in countries I've never even set foot in, where as far as I know my mother has no pull, who will stumble across my book and read it--I still can't completely wrap my brain around that. Somebody (or several somebodies) believes in me all across the globe. It's pretty cool.

So whatever it is, a contract, an agent, a spot in the playoffs, an amazing record-setting season for Brett Favre, you gotta believe. It's easy. Just do it.