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Weeding

biltmore garden peace rose

Biltmore Garden Peace Rose (Photo credit: zen)

For the first time in our married lives, Thomas and I have a house, and we love it. I could write a blog just about all benefits of living in a house versus living in a condo, one of the biggest being that my kids now have a fenced yard where they can play in safety. But with that yard comes one drawback: yard work. Of course, Thomas says that’s why we have two boys, but since one of them still tries to cram dirt into his mouth every time he goes outside, it’ll be a while before we can turn that duty over to them.

My least favorite part about lawn upkeep is weeding. I did enough of that as a teenager to make me swear off the practice for the rest of my life. If ever I had a house, I promised myself that a yard man would be included in the budget. As I often do, I spoke too soon. And it seems that our lawn, more than any other, is mostly composed of weeds. My husband set aside an afternoon for working in the yard last week and said he filled two of those big, black garbage bags with weeds, and when he surveyed his handiwork, he didn’t know if anyone else would be able to tell he’d done anything. Part of me thinks, Just mow it. Mow those suckers down, and get it over with. This, however, is only a temporary solution. The roots are all still there, and they’ll pop up again in no time.

As I struggled with one of those nasty weeds—you know, the kind you have to dig down about seven feet to really get—it struck me that I actually weed all the time. It’s something I’ve been doing for years. I’m an editor.

This weekend I’m finishing weeding my own book. It’s almost ready for the presses! Ha. I know if I’m lucky enough to find an agent, the next step will be another thorough edit. It doesn’t matter how well I think I’ve done, there will always be something that can be tweaked just a little bit. I know the yard analogy isn’t one hundred percent accurate, but think about it this way: how many people plant a garden, stand back, and never lift a finger again? Same thing goes for writing. If someone had been foolish enough to publish my book after I finished the first draft, not only would my publishing career have died right there, but the book would have looked like a kindergartner’s half-tended bean sprout with a compost heap in the middle of it, not the Biltmore gardens. (Not saying that it’s reached Biltmore quality yet, either, but it’s a heck of a lot closer.)

And just as there are people who love to get outside and dig their fingers into the dirt, stir up earthworms, and toil the day away, there are those like me who would rather pay someone else to do it. I can say that I feel a sense of accomplishment and pride when the job is done, but I am also not brave enough to start a flower garden or do anything artistic, for that matter. We have grass. End of story.

With writing, however, I do like to get my hands dirty. I don’t mind mentally sweating. I love the initial outpouring of the story, too, don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing like having a brainwave, sitting down, and getting it on paper. But it’s a different kind of fun to go back through it, pruning and weeding and clipping a choice blossom to display in a prominent place, where others can see my accomplishments. Some people hate this part. They would rather mow. This scene isn’t working? Just get rid of it. But in the process, while many problems might be solved by such a drastic approach, some of the good stuff is lost, some really small but glaring mistakes are left to grow up between the cracks, and it’s obvious that the writer hasn’t learned much. The only growth is of the wrong kind: overused artistic license, misplaced apostrophes, passive voice popping up at the worst possible times.

Editing isn’t glamorous, whether you’re an editor by trade or just revising your own work. While authors often thank their editors, the readers don’t know who these people are. They’re largely invisible, but if they do their job right, the work is invisible, too. Or, I suppose a better way to say it is that their work is seamless. A badly edited piece is, on the other hand, painfully conspicuous. I’ve read many wonderful books that were full of some of the worst typos I’ve ever seen. Typos that would not be forgiven if I were to submit a manuscript in such a state. And these are big-name authors with bestselling books. I would be embarrassed to work for those publishing houses that put out books like that. (In fact, I’ve often thought, Note to self, don’t ever go with that publisher.)

Take the time to edit. Take the time to learn the rules before you submit, and then go back and make sure you followed them. Or, if you don’t have the time or really need help polishing your writing, we editors are waiting for you to call on us. Your name will still be on the cover of the book, and it really is your garden, anyway. We’ll just make sure that when others stop by to admire it, there aren’t any weeds choking your roses.

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Write Like It’s Your Job

Writing

Writing (Photo credit: jjpacres)

 

Someone asked me recently if I always knew I wanted to be a writer. My answer: “Always. I was going to make millions of dollars as an author, and I would never need a regular job.” I assumed that something magical would happen in college, and by the time everyone else was finishing internships and putting out job applications, I would be retiring to my bedroom with stacks of college-ruled notebook paper (yes, I prefer to write longhand), where I would churn out bestsellers eight hours a day.

Ha. It’s been years since I’ve been so delusional.

The tough thing about freelancing—or even tougher, doing something for which I have a passion but may never get paid—is making the time for it. That whole writing for eight hours a day thing was shot when I needed to actually make an income. Fresh out of high school, I figured that bookstores would be the perfect venue for me to work through college, and then I would turn around and sell my own books there.

Not only did I not get a job at a bookstore, but the job I did get was the last one on Earth I ever wanted: working for my parents’ small business. My job description had more to do with dealing with people (an introvert’s nightmare) and accounting than writing, although I did eventually become an in-house editor and writer for the company newsletter. I did what I had to do to keep from being a starving artist, and I wrote when I could. Sometimes that meant finding inspiration and writing every spare minute. Other times, I just didn’t feel like writing, couldn’t get motivated, so I didn’t. When I returned from my first maternity leave five years ago, I traded my forty-plus-hour work week and sporadic writing for a shorter work week and a load of responsibilities that left me with less time to write than ever.

Recently, I decided I’d had it. I’m not quite sure what made me fed up enough with myself to change–maybe the dissatisfaction of looking back on an afternoon when I had time to write but piddled around the house, made a shopping list, and spent too long looking at my budget instead. I realized that no one’s going to publish a book that’s not finished. No one will even know about it because I won’t send it out until I feel that it’s the best it can possibly be. And it won’t attain that level of perfection until I actually sit down and work on it. So I sat down and worked on it. Whereas most days I’m lucky to read through a few pages (and maybe fix a typo or three), I actually sat down and read more than two chapters aloud, added a scene, cut a bunch of extraneous fat. . . and I still had time to read the mail and clean up the stuff my kids dumped all over the place when we walked in the door.

It was somewhat of an epiphany (forgive me for being so dense) when I realized that, for someone who wants desperately to write and no longer works full-time, I have no excuse for not writing. Oh, I do plenty of writer things–volunteering for a literary mag and editing among them–but what about that career as a novelist I dreamed about? One of my problems is that I don’t know how to say no, so I fill my schedule with things that I may or may not need to do. And I do have my children to consider, but they nap every day. Why don’t I use those precious minutes to write?

I am not the first writer in the world with this issue. Stephen King, before he published Carrie, was a high school English teacher who typed something ridiculous like two thousand words every night after his wife and kids went to bed. Madeleine L’Engle, after having initial publishing success, went through a decade of rejection, during which she felt useless as a writer and contributor to the family budget. She almost gave up. Almost.

The last thing I want is to look back on my life and see that I gave up. Do I expect to be Stephen King or Madeleine L’Engle? Of course not. I just want to have no regrets. I don’t want to say, Well, fitness was important enough for me to get up early and exercise five days a week, but I just couldn’t ever find extra time to write. I never dreamed of being a workout nut; I dreamed about being an author. No more excuses, no more feeling sorry for myself. I am going to write, to show that I care enough to be serious, and then maybe I will actually be taken seriously. Maybe if I work hard enough, as if there’s actually someone out there who is paying me to do it, I will write something worth paying for. Maybe if someone says, “I’d really like to read the rest of your manuscript,” I’ll feel like I did my best and be proud of what I have to hand over.

Decision made. Mind-set changed. I’m the one in my way, and I’m stepping aside.

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What Ever Happened to Pen Pals?

“There are a lot of us, some published, some not, who think the literary life is the loveliest one possible, this life of reading and writing and corresponding.”

Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

stationery box

Stationery Box (Photo credit: Spyderella)

When I read the above quote recently and got to the part about corresponding, it really made me stop and think. Granted, Anne Lamott wrote Bird by Bird in the mid-1990’s, so a lot has changed since then. Still, if writers don’t keep the art of correspondence alive, who will? There aren’t many great epistle writers anymore simply because there isn’t the necessity these days (one exception is my father—ask anyone who’s read one of his emails).

It is a sad reality that the art of letter-writing is becoming rather dinosaur-ish. An elderly woman I know who has bravely moved into the world of technology starts every email to me with “Dear Sarah,” and she ends with “Love,” followed by her name. She types it exactly as she would a letter, complete sentences and all. The first time I received one of these emails, I chuckled to myself, but I also appreciated the thoughtfulness behind her message. She sat down and carefully chose every word, and I’m sure she proofread it at least once. I am also sure that she hand-writes letters, too, probably on monogrammed stationery, and everyone who receives one of these feels special because of the time she takes. (Granted, she is a retired English teacher, but that means little these days. I can’t tell you how many of my college English professors sent emails full of typos, yet took points away if I so much as misplaced a comma in an in-class essay.)

Here’s what Aibeleen from Kathryn Stockett’s The Help has to say about writing:

I been writing my prayers since I was in junior high. When I tell my seventh-grade teacher I ain’t coming back to school cause I got to help out my mama, Miss Ross just about cried.

“You’re the smartest one in the class, Aibileen,” she say. “And the only way you’re going to keep sharp is to read and write every day.”

So I started writing my prayers down instead a saying em.

When I read this, I was struck by the novelty of writing prayers. The whole “use it or lose it” cliche applies here, and cliche or not, it’s absolutely true.

Of course, I do write a lot, always have. And I must confess that one of my weaknesses is stationery. As a girl—well, even now—I loved to go into bookstores and lose myself in the writer’s gift section. I’ve turned into a little bit of a Moleskine snob, but I still love looking at all the leather-bound journals, just waiting to be filled, or the fountain pens, fancy notebooks, writing cases, and all the different note cards. I used to scrape together what precious spending money I had to buy these little goodies, and when I was much younger, I used that stationery like it was going out of style, starting with my first pen pal. I guess I was in the second or third grade—old enough to write complete sentences and get annoyed when my pen pal couldn’t copy my address correctly (ever), much less get my name right. But I digress. I had a reason to use that stationery, and use it I did. It also gave me reason to practice writing cursive, which I loved, or as I got older, I experimented with different styles, changing the way I wrote A, E, S, and Z. When I separated from many friends after eight years at the same school, I spent the whole summer writing to a handful of them; I still got the occasional letter from one of them until well after I was married.

As for my sons, I wonder if they will enjoy this same activity. Or will they Facebook or text message each other? I admit, I love using Facebook to keep up with old friends without having to be too social. It’s a great way to keep tabs. But it’s also not very personal (or sometimes a little too personal, and that’s when that “Unsubscribe” option comes into play). Peter, who is five, loves getting things in the mail, though. And at his age, anything with his name on it is always positive. He doesn’t get bills or reminders for his annual eye exam. I can’t tell you how many times he walks with me to the mailbox, hopeful that something in there has his name on it. So is the art of correspondence going to survive his generation? When he’s old enough to fill out an address on the front of an envelope, will he have someone to write to? I fear that one of the reasons our country’s literacy rate is so low is because many people have given up. They don’t care, don’t see the value in it, especially when spell check (they think) will find all the errors for them.

I’m here to say that I care; I want to continue buying and using stationery. Besides, it’s not just the children who appreciate receiving letters in the mail, nor are they the only ones who need to be reminded how to write. I’m not going to let progress and this technological age turn my brain into a smooth glob of mush that only absorbs what it’s fed in one hundred forty character bites or only understands three-letter abbreviations. Oh my gosh, yes, I went there.

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Ah, the Infamous To-Do List

list

list (Photo credit: macwagen)

I have a love/hate relationship with to-do lists. As an organized, goal-oriented person, there is little more satisfying than checking off item after item: Done! Done! Done! But, on the other hand, as an extremely busy person, there is little more frustrating than looking at my list of goals and realizing that I’m not going to finish nearly all of what I need to do, and just forget what I want to do. Then I feel worthless. I mean, how hard is it to wash a load of towels, scrub a couple toilets, and unload the dishwasher? And if I can’t take care of my home, then why should I get to indulge in my favorite vice–a good book? Those items that aren’t checked off mock me; they nag. So I get discouraged and quit making lists. But then I forget about the toilets. I know there’s something I needed to do. . . what was it? Okay, make a list again. Just a little reminder–no pressure. Then I end up with sticky notes all over the place and scraps of paper–reminders to check my reminders. And don’t forget the alarm on my iPhone. I have a series of alarms that go off during the day, telling me to wake up, pick up my son from school, go to the doctor, and so on. (But just in case I can’t remember why the alarm is going off, there still might be a little slip of paper with early dismissal 11:00 A.M. written on it).

Are all my lists and reminders and alarms just bits of refuse that get in the way of actual living? Are they wasting the time I’m supposed to be saving by making them to begin with?

Recently, I got fed up with all the work with comes with. . . you know. . . being an adult. Worn out from going to bed too late and getting up at 4:30, one bit of advice I get quite often is to get a nap when the boys do. But that’s usually not an option. Naptime is when I do all the things I can’t do when they’re awake. I mean, I guess I don’t have to change the cat’s litter box. . . but ignoring it for too many days in a row is just plain gross, and cleaning it when my touch-everything-and-put-it-in-his-mouth toddler is up and about qualifies as both gross and unhygienic.

My pattern was to come home, put the boys down, then get to work. I had a mental list, even if I didn’t have a written one. With so much to do, I often ended up frustrated; if I was able to sit down at all, there was little to no time left to write. Yes, I realize I sound selfish. But there remains the fact that, if I’m going to make a living writing, I have to be able to actually write and not just complain about never having the time to do it. (Although I probably could make a living complaining if I dressed like trash and let a camera crew follow me around all day; it seems to work for enough other people.)

So over the past couple weeks, I’ve changed my methods slightly. That handy little timer on my iPhone became my friend in a new way; it saved me from completely frustrating myself with chores. Whether it’s true or not, I believe there’s something to working in concentrated increments. If I know I only have ten minutes or thirty minutes or whatever it is, I become more focused. So I allowed myself half an hour to write, then half an hour to do chores. Or if I had a specific goal, like editing a chapter, I made myself do a chore as soon as I was done with that chapter. Done and done.

This weekend is the big test because we’re moving. The condo that we never thought we would leave—they would have to bury us under the patio, and we would haunt the residents who came after us—is about to be a part of Cotchaleovitch family lore. We put it on the market, figuring why not? No one’s going to want it, anyway, not in this market. We knew we would have plenty of time to save money for a new place, look for said new place, and continue to regret buying the condo almost seven years ago while we waited. But twenty-one hours after we put a sign in our window, we got an offer. Not just a bite, a real offer. Thomas and I walked around in disbelief for the rest of the day. Talk about wrecking an organized person’s day. But it’s a good kind of wreckage.

Now, weeks later, we have a house. Less than a week after seeing it for the first time, we were in a property manager’s office, signing papers. Thomas and I really never thought this would happen. We dreamed about it, sure, but we couldn’t actually imagine moving. Nor did we want to face the amount of work it takes to move.

It’s overwhelming to look around and not know where to start. This is where a to-do list comes in handy. I only wish the list would do the hard stuff for me. It doesn’t go to work or exercise or take care of the kids, after all. I still have to do those things, plus pack, too. Oh, and change our address, get the power turned on—all those little things that people would rather forget about but cannot, ultimately, ignore. Fortunately, when I moved in 2004, then again in 2005, and finally in 2006, I got fed up with trying to remember all the places I had to inform and call that I made a list and squirreled it away, finding it again a week or so ago—a to-do list that is actually worth something, and that something is my time. I’m sure I would have thought of everything on that list eventually, but each item would have come to me in the middle of the night, stealing my sleep and making me paranoid about forgetting before morning.

So I looked at my list and figured out which things were most important, like forwarding the mail and turning on the electricity and water. I’ve gotten through maybe half the list, which is slow-going for me, but I think it’s actually an improvement over what I think of as my natural Martha-ness. And I’m not stressing, either; I won’t allow it. It’s all spelled out, and I’ll get to everything on there in the next week or so. As for the packing, that has more of a deadline. But as with splitting my time between household chores and writing, I’m spending tiny bites of time for me (like this blog) and then spending a little more time packing. (When crunch time comes, I’ll be all about packing and moving, of course.)

This week’s chapel leader at my son’s school quoted the Bible verse below, and it was just what I needed to hear when I felt particularly bogged down by thirty hours of things to do in a twenty-four hour day. In his letter to the church at Ephesus, Paul wrote, “For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago.” (Ephesians 2:10) How refreshing to think that there’s a plan for me, and I’m not required to check anything off on a list to follow it—or to be a worthwhile person.

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Apparently There’s an Award for Blogs with ADD

The Versatile Blogger Award

I was pleased and surprised last week to receive a message from fellow blogger, Christi Gerstle of Novel Conclusions, awarding me the Versatile Blogger Award. That’s awesome–there’s a blog for people like me, who can’t seem to stay on topic. I appreciate Christi for enjoying my blog enough to think of me. In return, please click on her link, and you can read her blog, too.

There are a few requirements for this award. First, display the award certificate on your website. Then, announce your win with a post and a link to whoever presented your award. In return, present this award to fifteen deserving bloggers, and drop them a comment to tip them off after you’ve linked them in the post. Lastly, post seven interesting things about yourself.

I am really going to break the rules here and only award three bloggers the Versatile Blogger Award. It’s not that others don’t deserve it, just that I don’t get to invest as much time as I would like reading other blogs, so I feel unqualified in choosing one over another. But the following bloggers, I promise, deserve it and are worth checking out.

1. Amy Quincy’s Writerly Musings

Do yourself a favor, and check out Amy’s blog, if you don’t look at any others. I knew Amy before she became disabled. I admired her then, as a writer and a woman, and since she became wheelchair bound a few years ago, she’s only grown in my eyes as a human being. I am inspired every time I read her blog, and I usually end up giggling quite a bit, too.

2. The Oregon Pilgrim, Danielle Harris

I look forward to reading Danielle’s posts. She is extremely thoughtful and a busy mom, just like me. (I think she’s actually busier—wow.) This year, she’s striving toward simplicity, and I really appreciate following her weekly progress, even if I don’t strive quite as well as she does.

3. Ari and his Ari Files

Friend, fellow writer, and musician, Mark Ari (only don’t call him Mark because he probably won’t know who you’re talking to) helped me to become the writer I am today. I don’t know how to thank this guy enough. He is awesomeness on a stick, and I also credit him with founding the University of North Florida’s literary journal, Fiction Fix.

Okay, so the seven things about me:

1. As much as I love to write, music is just as important to me, even though I don’t talk about it much here. (I guess because writing about music doesn’t do it justice; it’s very experiential and subjective.) I get it honestly, with two grandparents who were church organists and a father who was very close to going into the music ministry. If I were to list everyone in my family who is musical and all the things we do, this would turn into an e-book. Let’s leave it at this: I cannot imagine my life without song.

2. I used to hate to read. In fact, when I had to do summer reading as a kid, I would pull all my Dr. Seuss books out and go through them as quickly as possible, just so I could fill all the blanks on the sheet that my teacher sent home. (It never occurred to me to cheat.) I loved it when my mom read to me, but otherwise, I didn’t want to waste my time. And the really unfortunate part is that I can’t remember the title of the book that changed it all. It was a book my mom loved as a kid, which she encouraged me to read. I can picture the pastel blue and pink cover art, but the title escapes both her and me. (I think “Sally” was part of it? Maybe?) Oh well. I think I was about ten or so when she coaxed me into reading it, and I’ve been an avid reader ever since.

3. I used to collect teddy bears. Every Christmas until I was in my mid-twenties, my parents gave me a bear, and I still have most of them (along with a number of other stuffed animals).

4. My first car blew a gasket on the way to school one day, filled the whole thing with smoke—and on the expressway, too. It was my first semester in college, about a week before finals. Ah, good times.

5. I am a cat person. I guess my parents and I were the crazy cat people, always attracting strays to our porch. We finally adopted two newborn kittens when their mother was killed by a neighbor’s dogs. I had to beg my parents because they didn’t want to deal with bottle feeding and raising kittens. But I succeeded, and those two boys, Greysox and Cuddlebug were a part of the family for the next sixteen and seventeen years, respectively. My parents no longer have any pets, but my husband and I adopted our fat cat, Willow, when she was about three months old, and she’ll be seven in March.

6. My favorite movie is Aliens. Not Alien, Aliens plural. There’s nothing wrong with the first one; it’s just not as awesome as the second. (I like to ignore that the other sequels even exist, although I thought Prometheus, a prequel of sorts, was pretty cool.)

7. I thought about talking about my favorite author, but it’s too hard to choose, and besides, I’d rather talk about my three favorite boys. They are my husband of going-on nine years, Thomas, and our sons, Peter and Ian. Thomas and I enjoy nothing more than spending time with our little guys, watching them learn, grow, and play together. We also really love going to Disney World! (Yes, Mama and Daddy are big kids, too.)

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Someone Tapped My Brain Again, and Her Name is Anne Lamott

Anne Lamott

Anne Lamott (Photo credit: mdesive)

Did you ever read an article or a blog or a book, and afterward, you felt like the writer tapped your brain (but probably wrote everything much more coherently than you ever could have)? That is how I felt when I read Anne Lamott‘s Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life “It’s one of the best books about writing ever written,” my writer/avid-reader cousin-in-law Julie told me. And I must agree. I only wish I’d known about it sooner. So now it is my turn to pass the good stuff onto other writers or people who are just interested in learning more about the writing process.
Although Bird by Bird is full of hyperbole, the exaggerations really aren’t too far off, at least with how writers often feel (even if we don’t literally move to a trailer park near our therapists, as Lamott suggests at one point). Her style is candid, humorous, and unafraid of pointing out some of the ugly realities of which new and non-writers are unaware. She explains writing truths that experienced writers know but that are so difficult to verbalize.
Below, are some of my favorite passages, although you should just do yourself a favor and read the whole book. If you want (or need) to be inspired, if you want to read about the trials and truths of what an author has experienced, this is the book for you.

Upon the publication of her first book, “it seemed that I was not in fact going to be taking early retirement. I had secretly believed that trumpets would blare, major reviewers would proclaim that not since Moby Dick had an American novel so captured life in all its dizzying complexity. And this is what I thought when my second book came out, and my third, and my fourth, and my fifth. And each time I was wrong.

“But I still encourage anyone who feels at all compelled to write to do so. I just try to warn people who hope to get published that publication is not all that it is cracked up to be. But writing is. . . The act of writing turns out to be its own reward.” (pp. xxv-xxvi)

 —

“A writer paradoxically seeks the truth and tells lies every step of the way. It’s a lie if you make something up. But you make it up in the name of the truth, and then you give your heart to expressing it clearly.” (p. 52)

 —

“Just don’t pretend you know more about your characters than they do, because you don’t. Stay open to them. It’s teatime and all the dolls are at the table. Listen. It’s that simple.” (p. 53)

 —

“I do the menial work of getting [the words] down on paper, because I’m the designated typist, and I’m also the person whose job it is to hold the lantern while the kid does the digging. What is the kid digging for? The stuff. Details and clues and images, invention, fresh ideas, an intuitive understanding of people. I tell you, the holder of the lantern doesn’t even know what the kid is digging for half the time—but she knows gold when she sees it.” (p. 56)

 —

“Over and over I feel as if my characters know who they are, and what happens to them, and where they have been and where they will go, and what they are capable of doing, but they need me to write down for them because their handwriting, is so bad.” (p. 60)

 —

Regarding writer’s block, “I no longer think of it as block. I think that is looking at the problem from the wrong angle. If your wife locks you out of the house, you don’t have a problem with your door.

“The word block suggests that you are constipated or stuck, when the truth is that you’re empty. . .

“The problem is acceptance, which is something we’re taught not to do. . . But if you accept the reality that you have been given—that you are not in a productive creative period—you free yourself to begin filling up again.” (p. 178)

 —

“We write to expose the unexposed. If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in. Most human beings are dedicated to keeping that one door shut. But the writer’s job is to see what’s behind it, to see the bleak unspeakable stuff, and to turn the unspeakable into words—not just any words but if we can, into rhythm and blues.” (p. 198)

 —

“Many nonwriters assume that publication is a thunderously joyous event in the writer’s life, and it is certainly the biggest and brightest carrot dangling before the eyes of my students. They believe that if they themselves were to get something published, their lives would change instantly, dramatically, and for the better. Their self-esteem would flourish; all self-doubt would be erased like a typo. Entire paragraphs and manuscripts of disappointment and rejection and lack of faith would be wiped out by one push of a psychic delete button and replaced by a quiet, tender sense of worth and belonging. Then they could wrap the world in flame.

“But this is not exactly what happens. Or at any rate, this is not what it has been like for me.” (pp. 210-211)

Why our writing matters: “Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They deepen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It’s like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can’t stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship.” (p. 237)

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The Baby’s Crying? No, Really, I Hadn’t Noticed

baby gull screaming feed me

Baby Gull Screaming, “Feed Me!” (Photo credit: minicooper93402)

 

Sometimes being a mother is the most wonderful thing in the world. Sometimes it’s a minute-by-minute battle, and I’m surprised at the end that there aren’t any casualties. Sometimes it’s just plain boring, and I can’t help but feeling slightly jealous of the footloose and fancy-free folks, going to the movies or even on a quick road trip on a whim, while I’m stuck at home. But after a particularly trying evening recently, when I felt like admitting defeat, I stopped myself in the middle of wishing for a mommy vacation. It’s the whole be careful what you wish for thing. I will take a trying evening with my children any night over the empty, nightmarish nothingness of not having them at all.

Right now, my thirteen-month-old, who is a challenge on a good day, is cutting five teeth, three of which are molars. Now, this kid doesn’t sit quietly by and let things happen to him. When he is in pain, he lets you know about it. He lets the guy down the street know. I’m pretty sure he’s trying to let our family in Colorado know. This is all new to me. With my elder son, cutting teeth was not fun. With Ian, it’s unbearable. I am pretty sure that hell is full of poorly written fan fiction, burnt popcorn, and a never-ending soundtrack of Ian cutting teeth.

I am not a stay-at-home mom. I’m a part-time-work-velcro-baby-on-the-hip mom. It worked really well with my first child, and it’s not that it doesn’t work this time, just that, when you bring your kid with you to work, it’s distracting when he starts to scream. And the screaming isn’t limited to teething.  It’s Ian’s mode of communication, and has been since he left the womb. Happy screams, sad screams, mad screams, screams when he’s hungry, screams when he’s thirsty, screams when he’s tired, screams when he wants attention, screams when he’s excited, even screams while he is sound asleep. But the teething screams are the worst.

Someone once told me, “I had a child like that; it was so hard until he learned to talk.” Granted, Ian’s vocabulary is limited, but he knows sign language and can communicate that way—when he chooses. That’s my problem, I know, because I haven’t enforced it like I did with Peter. But even if I were more vigilant, how much would it help? When he was only a week old, his pediatrician said (as Ian turned purple in the face and wailed at the top of his lungs), “Oh, this one likes to be held.” And I thought, Have we already ruined him? Is he dependent on another person to make him happy? What a terrible thought that he might not be able to self-soothe. At two months, when he would only go down in his crib if he was nursed or rocked to sleep, I called his doctor in desperation and finally got permission to let him cry it out. It was excruciating, but he eventually slept.

So at work earlier this week, Ian had one of his screaming moments when a little eighty-five-year-old lady came in. I cannot count how many times I’ve apologized to customers for how loud he is. Usually he’s just happy-loud, but it’s still distracting. Or with the teething, I get a lot of understanding nods and sympathy. But this particular time, this lady actually asked me to take him away. She said she’d never heard anything like it in her life and didn’t want any chance of hearing it again. And I thought, Really? Have you never been in a restaurant when a kid had a meltdown? Have you never been to the grocery store or a park or any place where children go? (Turns out she used to be a stewardess, which makes the whole thing even more baffling.)

I in no way condone parents ignoring their children when they throw tantrums or reenforcing bad behaviors by giving in, but there’s a big difference between the kind of public meltdown that children use to get what they want and real crying. It bothers and embarrasses me when Ian acts out in public (Peter, too, but nine-point-five times out of ten, it’s Ian), and if the normal methods of soothing don’t work, my husband or I take him out. It’s the polite thing to do and what I expect of other parents.

I guess what drives me nuts about the other day is that I fixed the problem; he was already quiet. I wanted to say, Lady, do you have to continue to make me feel like an inadequate parent? I know that I’m not doing as good a job with him as I did with his brother; you don’t have to remind me by covering your ears and looking at him like he has a third eye. I clung to Ian, feeling for him because I knew he was in pain. At the same time, I wanted to tell the woman that at least she could leave, while I was stuck.

But there I go again, thinking the wrong thing. I don’t want to be away from my baby, really. I want him to be well-behaved, a joy to others. But I also want him to be himself, and if that means he’s more spirited than his brother, I just need to work a little harder. I also need to work on myself, and my patience, in particular. And maybe, if I live to see eighty-five, instead of being judgmental and hurtful by saying, “Please, take him away. I can’t handle that. How can you stand it?”, I’ll remember my own trials (all water under the bridge by then, right?) and show compassion to harried young mothers.

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To Prologue or Not to Prologue?

Storm Brewing, Vancouver

 Photo credit: world of jan

I am getting ready to do the whole submit-and-reject thing again with my list of agents. Who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky this time. Like I’ve said before, my novel is much improved from the last time I tried to get an agent. And this time I have a little more hope for my query. The thing I’m nervous about, however, is the bit of story I’m submitting, the bit that will make an agent excited (or not) about my writing. The bit that kids will probably read and then decide if they want to spend their allowances on my book.

I recently attended a webinar with agent Mary Kole, and the first topic she addressed in her Q&A (and it also gets a good-sized section in her book Writing Irresistible Kidlit: The Ultimate Guide to Crafting Fiction for Young Adult and Middle Grade Readers) is about prologues—and she strongly suggests not to write them. The argument against them is that the prologue will pack a punch, fooling readers into thinking the first chapter will continue being just as exciting. In actuality, the first chapter is a big disappointment, including back story and info dump and blah-ness. Why not just write a strong start to begin with?

I’d never considered prologues in that light before. I can think of plenty of books that had prologues that I really enjoyed, but in none of them did I feel cheated when I got to Chapter One. The first chapter of J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter And The Sorcerer’s Stone is like a prologue in that it starts years before the present of the rest of the story. Whether you call it a prologue or the first chapter, it is what it is, right?

The opening of my book is the same—an opening years (actually decades) before the main story. It sets up the plot and gives a taste of what happened to get us to the story. And beta readers like the book much better with this bit of fore-story included. So what’s a writer to do? I’m going to include it, dadgummit. But just for kicks, I’m going to put it here, see what you think. I’ve always hesitated to put my unpublished fiction online because, if readers like it, but it gets changed, they might be disappointed with the published work. Or if it’s terrible now, I’m metaphorically shooting myself in the foot. Well, I’m shooting away. Here it is, the prologue/opening/whatever-you-want-to-call-it of what is currently titled Kingdom of Secrets. Read below, or download the PDF from the My Fiction page, and then let me have it!

 

Kingdom of Secrets: Prologue Excerpt

by Sarah Cotchaleovitch

Ella knew she shouldn’t do it. Mama wouldn’t like it one bit.

After much lip gnawing and twisting of her brown hair between her stubby fingers, Ella decided she couldn’t let the poor pup die.

She ran inside to fetch her mother’s emergency kit from the cupboard over the sink.

Climbing onto a chair, Ella scrambled onto the counter and stood on her tiptoes, but the cupboard was still too high for a girl of four to reach. Not to be thwarted, she got down and dragged the stool up to the chair. She hoisted it onto the counter, stood on top, and swung the cupboard door wide, revealing Mama’s kit.

Movement through the kitchen window caught her attention, reminding her there was a sick pilfit pup waiting outside.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Ella whispered. She nearly toppled off the stool in her haste.

Kit held in front of her, she scuttled outside. The pup lay panting in the shade of the hedge, looking for all of Terra like a cross between a raccoon and a dwarf rabbit.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you all better.”

The pup gave a half-hearted yelp and closed his eyes.

Ella’s favorite thing about the emergency kit was the bottle of hot water. Whenever her mother bought another one, the merchant always promised her silver back if it went cold before two months’ time.

How often had she seen Mama brew a restorative? Into a bowl went a splash of hot water; steam spiraled into the air. The first part was a success, at least.

“Let’s see, let’s see.” Ella’s fingers played over the jars. She couldn’t read, so she trusted her memory of what the ingredients looked like. A bead of sweat formed on her brow and slid down her nose. She brushed it away, gave her concoction a quick stir, and held the bowl under the pup’s snout. “Drink, boy. It’s good.”

The pup opened his eyes and whimpered.

“It’s okay, I promise. Just—just take a sip.” She tilted the bowl toward him.

His black nose twitched, and the pup tested the liquid with his tongue. Starting slowly, he lapped every bit and licked the bowl clean.

Ella moved the pup’s head onto her lap, running her fingers through his silver fur. After a wash and a brush, he would be the fluffiest pilfit in Jackson Village.

The pup sighed. Ella held her breath. He opened his eyes: blue with brown flecks.

“You’re so pretty, Clumps,” she said, naming him without a second thought.

He sat up and yelped, an almost-human sound, the sound of a healthy pilfit.

“Oh, Clumps, you’re all better!” She hugged him to her chest.

“Ella!”

The girl stumbled upward, Clumps dangling without protest in her arms.

Her mother stood at the kitchen window. “Is that my emergency kit?” Dark-haired and blue-eyed like Ella, Mama was madder than a fish in firegrass at the moment.

“Mama! Mama, he was dying. I had to! His mama—she got into the poison mushrooms. All his brothers and sisters died, but I saved him, Mama! Oh, please, please can I keep him?”

Her mother’s face told Ella that she could not keep Clumps, nor would she be allowed a pet for the rest of her life. She mightn’t ever be allowed in the kitchen again, either.

But next second Mama was gone from the window, and that was worse. She was coming to Investigate the Situation.

“Clumps, maybe you’d better go.”

Too late, here she was.

Ella’s mother leaned over and scooped the pilfit pup into her arms. Gentler than her tone suggested, she scratched behind Clumps’s ears, prodded him a little, made him open his mouth. “I’ve got to be more careful around you,” she muttered. “You brewed that restorative perfectly. How did you figure it out?”

“Just. . . just watching you, Mama.” Ella pressed her lips together. This was turning out differently than expected.

“Well, you know I’m going to tell your father when he comes home. We’ll talk about whether you can keep this pup—”

“His name’s Clumps, Mama.”

“Oh, you’ve named him already?”

“Yes, Mama.”

Ella’s mother handed the pup back to her. “Let me be very clear,” she said in her this-is-your-last-warning voice. “You may never get into my things without asking permission again. And never brew a cloakbane without my help. Got it?”

Ella’s eyes were wide and tearful. She nodded slowly twice. Maybe it would be a while before she brewed another, but if she could save the life of a pilfit pup, she knew she could do other wonderful things.

She would give the whole incident some time to filter to the back of her mother’s memory before mentioning that, though.

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Stop Making Excuses and Write

“All I can do. . . is write daily, read as much as possible, and keep my vocabulary alive and changing so that I will have an instrument on which to play the book if it does me the honor of coming to me and asking to be written.”

Madeleine L’Engle

Writer's Stop

Writer’s Stop (Photo credit: Stephh922)

I just don’t get writers who don’t write. If you say you’re a writer, make sure you have something to back up that claim. And I’m not talking about struggling writers—people who desperately want to write but don’t have two seconds of free time to rub together or those other tormented souls who would only write if the mental block would move out of the way.

There’s a particular type of so-called writer that drives me nuts, the type that enters a writing course, presents a piece to a class full of writers, and is unprepared, even offended, when the other writers pick apart her precious offering. Or how about the guy who writes something that has potential but needs some major work before it’s submission worthy? After a round of constructive criticism, he knows his creative process wasn’t appreciated, and he refuses to revise his original draft because that would somehow mean that the words that poured from his imaginative well are no longer pure. I’ve gone to school with both of those types. Many drop out of the writing courses that they assumed would showcase them as beacons of creativity to the rest of us. One guy I knew wasn’t “feeling it.” When the requirement of the class is to apply the necessary changes your classmates recommend, and you can’t bring yourself to so much as fix your spelling errors, you not only don’t make the grade, but you also let yourself down as a writer.

Now, I am certainly not saying that everything we start must be publishable. There is a reason that we write first (or what some call “drawer”) novels. Maybe they are worth resurrecting, but if so, they most likely need considerable revision to make them readable. What I am saying is that there are so many of us who would love to have the time to make mistakes and learn from them, but that little thing called life makes it very difficult to for us. It’s why I abhor lazy, excuse-making writers.

I have an uncle who I don’t see very often, and invariably, when I do see him, he asks if I’m still writing. He asked me once when my elder son was a year old. I felt the question coming and squirmed in my seat. Write? I knew he didn’t mean my daily journal. He was asking about my story, and at the time, I was concentrating mostly on finding an agent, slogging through my old copy of Writer’s Market, hoping to find the perfect match. The problem was that I wasn’t trying nearly hard enough, and when I did send out the occasional query, my lackluster attitude showed whoever read it that I wasn’t ready to publish yet. That happens sometimes. At that point, I was not only a struggling writer, but an uninspired one, as well.

All writers go through those periods. And when we do, it’s best to be honest about them. Sometimes writers do need a break, either from a particularly difficult project or just altogether. (By the way, those little vacations are great times to read.)

For those frustrated writers, the ones who want so badly to say, “I’m a writer” and mean it, remember that writing isn’t the only part of your job description. Reading is a must, as well as being a part of the greater writing community. Years ago, when I first got involved in Fiction Fix, I had to attend and even participate in public readings, and there was little I dreaded more than getting in front of a bunch of people and putting myself in the spotlight. I want to share my work, yes, but I am shy in large groups. With the internet, however, I can choose how much I want to participate and be much more comfortable. If you have the time to read one blog a week to stay motivated, by all means, do so. If you don’t have the time to visit a bookstore or library, much less read the books you already have, consider picking up magazines or literary journals. There are great articles and short stories out there that you can read while you wait in line for a cup of coffee. (Shameless plug—check out Fiction Fix or my short story “Stranded” at Smashwords.com.) If you have a smart phone, welcome to your new e-reading device.

You don’t have to read to be inspired, though. Visit a museum if visual art does it for you, or listen to your music of choice. At a time when it was particularly rough for me, just getting pen to paper, I read my friend Amy’s blog and found new hope when she suggested that the act of thinking is part of the writing process.

If you do have the time, and you choose to join a writing course, workshop, or conference, you have an incredible opportunity to be motivated and also to grow like never before. Just be ready to find out that your considerable intellect and creativity are not enough to save you from criticism and rejection. Those are two facets of the writing (and especially publication) process and no reason to feel unappreciated and give up (but that’s for another blog). If you quit at the point when you think it hurts most, you not only stunt your own growth, but you might not be available when that perfect story shows up, needing to be shared with the world.

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I Don’t Make New Year’s Resolutions

Books

Never have. But there is a certain goal that I have for the near future – let’s say 2013. You see, it’s been a while since I’ve lived in a novel. I’m talking about the kind of book that won’t let me go. The kind of book that I can’t set down if I walk from the couch to the kitchen. The kind of book that makes me forget to eat, that makes me stay up past my bedtime. I read several earlier this year, starting with Suzanne Collins‘s The Hunger Games trilogy. Not only did I let those three books consume me, but I made them consume my family as well. I waited with foot-tapping impatience for first my husband and then my parents to read them. I felt like I was betraying those books when I moved on to a completely different series, starting with Diana Gabaldan’s Outlander. And at first, I wasn’t excited, but I’d promised a friend I would read it. It was jarring to move from dystopian young adult lit to a very adult time travel-slash-love story, but I eventually got into it and had the same can’t-put-it-down kind of experience. I could not wait to get my hands on the next book, Dragonfly in Amber.

The problem was that, after I finished Outlander, my life changed in many ways. My elder son graduated from a two-day preschool to preschool five days a week. My infant son became mobile, and the more he moved around, the less freedom (and free time) I had. I rejoined the staff of the University of North Florida’s literary journal Fiction Fix after more than four years off. My responsibilities are lighter than when I left—reading submissions, commenting on them, and voting—but with seven submissions every week (and no guarantee that any of them will be short), I read a lot of fiction that I might not otherwise choose. Within a month of getting back on board with Fiction Fix, I started this blog. Then I took on a book review project for a publishing company. I thought I would have time to read those books alongside my own for-fun reading, but I eventually took my fiction in sips to meet the review deadline. A couple weeks later, I started a four-year Education for Ministry program through Sewanee’s School of Theology. Finally, I decided to try my hand at e-publication, which required much research, even more reading, and, of course, writing (check out my story “Stranded” at Smashwords.com).

And it wasn’t as if I was sitting around, wondering what to do before. I had a day job and a twenty-one mile, one-way commute; I volunteered at my church and my son’s school; I sang in a volunteer community chorus that rehearsed once a week. Oh, and the freelance writing thing. Can’t forget that. I didn’t stop doing any of those things. I just piled on the fun.

I choose how full my life is, and I love all its varied facets. Things could be easier if I lived a little closer to the action, but everything else is pretty much a constant. And my kids aren’t even into sports or other extracurricular activities yet. I can only imagine how much busier it will be then. Kiss sleep (what’s left of it) good-bye. But not my books—never that! I have to consciously choose not to make a book stretch over two (or more) months. So here I am, trying to make myself accountable.

With Fiction Fix, at least I read a constant stream of fiction. If nothing else, I’m aware of how I don’t want to write by reading an unfortunate number of bad submissions. But I really want to read things that inspire me. In fact, that’s a requirement for writing. I want–need–to read something that hurts to put down, something that makes me want to pick up my own pen (or laptop) and write.

In May 1996, I first heard about schools requiring students to read twenty-five books per year, so I decided to create a list of the books I read to see how I measured up. I’ve kept up with it in the sixteen-plus years since. Fiction to non-fiction, novella to super novel, self-help to founding documents of the United States—if it’s too long to be in a magazine, and it’s complete, I count it. Some years, I barely read more than twenty-five, while several others, I’ve read over one hundred. I squeaked by with thirty from May of 2011 to this past May. I’m already at sixteen for this twelve-month period, so I feel pretty good about reading another nine in the next five months. But I don’t just want to pick up nine quick reads to make my goal. There are books I own that I’ve wanted to read for more than a year, and you now know why I haven’t been able to so much as open them.

When I was pregnant in 2007, my goal was to read every book in the house, 1) because I didn’t need to spend money on new books when I already owned so many that I hadn’t read, and 2) because I didn’t know if I would ever have time to read again after having my baby. I finished all the books I had, then read all of my husband’s. If I did it then, I will find a way to do it now, and I’m even giving myself an extra three months to do so (although I hope I can read much more during that time).

Below is my list, including two books that people lent to me, so I need to read and return them in a timely manner. You can follow my progress on Goodreads (at the sidebar on the left), and get on my case if I’m not reading quickly enough. And if you have any recommendations, why not send them my way? I love a challenge.

Voyager (Outlander) and Drums of Autumn (Outlander) by Diana Gabaldon

11/22/63: A Novel and The Wind Through the Keyhole (Dark Tower Novels) by Stephen King

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott

A Dash of Style: The Art and Mastery of Punctuation by Noah Lukeman

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Inheritance (The Inheritance Cycle) by Christopher Paolini (which basically means I need to re-read the preceding three books in the series, too)

The Lost Hero (Heroes of Olympus, Book 1), The Son of Neptune (Heroes of Olympus, Book 2), and The Mark of Athena (Heroes of Olympus, Book 3) by Rick Riordan

The Help Deluxe Edition by Kathryn Stockett