The Book Lady

1) This post has been stickified, which means it will remain at the top. All other entries are below.
2) But if you want to get technical, the real posts (and most of the comments) are at my regular blog, which is at http://booklady.wordpress.com.

The woman in the grocery store parking lot the other day, the one who accidentally hit her car's panic button again while stuffing her keys into the front right pocket of her jeans? Yeah. That was me, moving through life with my usual grace, beauty and stealth.

I live in a tourist town, which means that in certain seasons we are overrun by camera-toting sightseers intent on packing in as much adventure as their credit cards and cranky kids will allow. From early spring to late fall work hours increase as many businesses close later, grocery stores morph into scary places filled with clots of vacationers and their cockeyed carts, and our favorite restaurants are inundated by sun-stunned visitors escaping the heat. Shortly thereafter I begin to have nightmares in which our house is taken over by unwelcome tourists who feel that we are unreasonable for not letting them wash their Hummers in our backyard.

Whenever possible during these crazy months, hubs and I escape our personal half-acre of paradise to take pictures of other wonders and spend time with someone else's tourists for a while. Although the scenery's different, many of the tourists look exactly the same, as we've discovered by traveling widely. This year it will be California. Last year it was South Carolina. In August. In record heat.

After growing up in a Midwestern city that attracted many businesses and college students but nary a tourist, living in a place like this has been an experience. When your daily life is someone else's vacation, you learn a lot. For example, I've learned when to visit the grocery store, which streets and restaurants to avoid and, most importantly, how to dress like a local. The last skill has netted me requests for directions in several neighboring states, Philadelphia, Boston, and Madrid. It may not be handy if you don't know your way around the town you're visiting, but it can help you avoid getting scammed by people who take advantage of clueless travelers, and it can net you better service in restaurants, bars, and grocery stores.

Giving the appearance that you're at home isn't that difficult. The number one rule is: Avoid wearing fanny packs. Locals and attentive tourists alike have beheld the horrors of such adornments in large concentrations, and so they do not use them. This is not to say that fanny packs don't have their perks; if your butt is too flat, for example, they provide the illusion of bulk. Since I'll never have that problem, I eschew them altogether. Rule number two: Be nice to wait staff. Also, drive like you have at least a passing familiarity with traffic laws. Walk with confidence, even if you don't know where you're going, and learn to look but not gawk. And finally, for the love of God, do not take video footage of buildings, mountains, trees, or other unmoving objects.

See? It's not too tough. For bonus points, don't use a local's garden hose to wash your car without their permission. They don't like that sort of thing.

Last time around I promised a few updates, and I'm here to deliver. But first, I'd like to welcome those who never unsubscribed from my earlier blog, Novelist in Training, and have now found themselves mysteriously transported here. This weekend, after six months at my new blog home, I finally figured out how to change my old feed so that it would pick up these posts. If you showed up here after all this time and are still feeling lost, take a stroll around the archives for a bit with a special detour at this post, which describes what befell my last blog.

Now for the promised updates, along with piles of gratuitous cat photos for no additional charge. (You're welcome.) I hereby vow not to turn this into a blog about photography -- especially since I already have one -- but my new camera arrived on Monday, and boy is it scary. Um, pretty. That's what I actually meant to write. It's pretty. Shiny and black and covered in buttons and dials that do God-knows-what, but I'm finding out, and by this time next decade I'll be an expert.

Our friendly local UPS guy dropped off my new toy on Monday afternoon. Hubs and I both happened to be home, and he's still laughing at how quickly I sprang from the couch, bounded over two cats, dodged the dining room table, and sprinted to the front door on the off-chance that he would give up waiting for me to sign for it and take off, camera still in tow.

Opening the box revealed the usual camera essentials, along with one industrial strength instruction manual (weighing in at just under 200 pages, all in English), a quick-start guide, and two instructional DVDs. Since I'm a good, rule-abiding citizen I waited the requisite 90 minutes for the battery to charge, sifting through the directions and viewing one of the DVDs while I waited. I then loaded the Nikon, turned it on, swallowed the terror that the display screen induced, removed the lens cap, and searched for a subject. I didn't have to go far: The Basil was lounging on his side only a few feet from me. I aimed, focused, and caught him as he spontaneously decided to lick himself. Yes, the very first shot with my new camera caught my cat licking his crotch. My life is so glamorous.

It was about a thousand degrees outside, so a trip around the block was not an option. Hubs had left to run errands, so my cats were the obvious choice for models. Since it did not involve petting or food, however, they found the attention boring and much yawning ensued.

I'll spare you the illustrious first photograph, as well as the next several, which were of the back of Echo's head (being a cat, he refused to look my way simply because I wanted him to do so) and give you Rosie. Click on the picture for a larger photo, in case you need a little more tongue action or just want to see what sort of resolution my camera gets. Clearly this cat is not meant to model, since I focused on her eyes and she promptly yawned, baring her none-too-impressive fangs and pushing the top of her head entirely out of the picture.



And, since one cat photo is never enough, here's The Basil, post crotch-lick. He's one hick kitty, is he not?


When hubs came back from his errands, we got out of the house for a while and went on a hike. Here's a picture of the sunset. Other than cropping and a few minor adjustments, it's pretty much straight out of the camera. Like the photos above, click on this one for an enlargement.



And, finally, for the other update I promised, a recap of Friday night's birthday celebration. Despite a history of hazardous birthdays, my father and I both survived my mother's surprise with no more harm than a lack of sleep due to a later-than-usual bedtime. The activity? A trip to watch our local theater company perform Steel Magnolias. Since the movie version always makes me cry, I haven't seen it lately, so I'd forgotten how many good lines there were. It was very well-done, and we watched avidly, laughing and, yes, crying in all the right places.

All in all, it was a good birthday.

I'm antsy in a way I haven't been since I believed in Santa Claus. This year for my birthday my family members pooled their money to allow me to purchase my first ever big-girl camera. Well, the first I've owned since the ancient Minolta I perma-borrowed from my parents when I was on my high school newspaper staff, then handed over to my brother when I graduated and no longer had daily darkroom access.

I ordered my new toy last Thursday, and it's still in transit, which means that I've been checking shipping information every three hours, just in case the package mysteriously traveled from Secaucus, NJ to my corner of the southwestern U.S. in less time than it would take for me to watch Anne of Green Gables for the seventy-eighth time. (<-- An estimation. Probably a low one.) I'm actually squirming with impatience.

Too bad, since according to UPS, which is now employing an especially slow breed of Peruvian snail to deliver all its packages, my new toy should arrive Monday evening. That's a whole weekend and several full week days from now.

The good news is that the filters I ordered to go with it have already arrived, so I can fondle them and dream of pictures to come whenever I'm tempted to check the tracking information yet again. Out of the two filters I ordered, the one below is my preference, not because of its spectacular performance -- it's still sealed in its case -- but because of the packaging. And what, ladies and gentlemen, do you think this amazing filter might do? Go ahead. Take a guess.



Yes, that's right! This special filter adds a hat!

Oh, wait. No it doesn't. It has something to do with UV rays. Um. Yeah. That's right. Too bad, since that blue hat is pretty snazzy, I must say.

As much as that amuses me (and, oh yes, it does) I have plans to do more than gaze adoringly at my filters and check the UPS website for the quadrillionth time. Tomorrow evening, for example, my mother has informed my father (who also has a June birthday) and me that we are to be spirited away to a mysterious location. I've been given strict instructions on when to show up and what to wear, but no other clues as to the occasion. I'm hoping it's a rave; I've never been to one, and I admit I'm a little curious about what sort of event this town of mine could put on. It's entirely possible, too. After all, this is the woman who took me hot air ballooning for one birthday and requested a canyoneering trip, complete with two rappels over 100 feet each, for Mother's Day a few years ago. Nothing is beyond her, which I admit is kind of fun.

My other big plan for the weekend involves skidding into Monday morning's SoCNoC deadline with an unimpressive number of words written for the month. So far I've managed just over half of the 50,000 required, so unless I develop an unprecedented amount of discipline and creativity and an unhealthy reliance on caffeine, I'm not going to make the official word count. Which is fine, since I'd rather take my time now than untangle a hurried manuscript later. Anyway, I did warn everyone that I'm writing at my own pace, even if said pace currently feels slower than the slothful snails who've been holding my brand new Nikon hostage.

I had a wonderful weekend, full of great company, beautiful weather, delicious food, and gorgeous scenery. But who wants to hear about all that? The best stories are about adversity, not seamless perfection. They also have at least one antagonist -- which we'll get to shortly.

On Friday afternoon we pushed off a muddy shore in southeastern Utah for a three-day rafting trip down a flat section of the Green River. Hubs couldn't make it, but we had a full crew nonetheless: my parents, my brother, his wife, and her parents as well as a frightening number of provisions, including two rafts, a kayak, forty-eight tortillas (or possibly more), twelve bananas, four cans of bug spray, and a dog. (As you can tell by the number of links in this post, I also packed my camera. But then, that shouldn't be a surprise. Just click on the links sprinkled throughout this post to see accompanying photos, all of which are mine except the one of the Mineral Bottom road.)

We spent a gorgeous summer afternoon drifting lazily along the river, watching the herons fish, the swallows dive, and the shadows grow longer. We read and chatted and swam. We laughed. We napped in the sun and admired the scenery. In short, it was everything a river trip should be. A freakin' stereotype. We could have starred in a beer commercial or an REI catalogue.

Until we pulled ashore for a short but much-needed break.

The mosquitoes smelled us coming before we hit the shallows. Within seconds we were stormed by swarms of blood-hungry bugs, all desperate for a drink in a sparsely-populated land. We dug into our bags, searching out DEET, which had little effect on the tiny fiends. It was our first indication that weather, timing, and sheer bad luck had led us into a mosquito infestation of epidemic proportions, the likes of which I can safely say I have never before seen. We did our business quickly, slapping at the bugs while trying to balance, then scurried back to the boats and pushed off, swatting the mosquitoes that followed in our wake.

Night brought us to our doom. We unloaded the boats, made and ate dinner, and set up camp, followed all the while by clouds of insects. My sister-in-law's mother (my mother-in-law-in-law?) selected a spot for her tent, then asked the rest of us about our evening plans. Since everybody knows that mosquitoes go away at night, my brother, his wife, and her father informed her that we planned to sleep outside. Shaking her head, she set up her tent while we prepared our islands of serenity on a rock slab far from the water's edge -- and, we hoped, far from the accompanying mosquitoes.

As you have probably guessed, this brilliant strategy did not work. The setting sun brought mild relief at best. Only campfire smoke had any effect on the unholy creatures, and we could not leave open flames unchecked while we slept. Instead we used the only armor available to us, swaddling ourselves in clothes and pillows and sleeping bags despite the heat, then bracing for the next attack. It did not take long. This time, however, it came in the form of wind, as a sudden gust ripped my pillow off my head with the force of a camp counselor waking those too tired to face the day without help. My fleece flew off next. Sensing an opening, the tenacious insects dove in under the cover of night, zeroing in on my ears and neck. Despite the wind, which by all rights should have sent the tiny aerialists halfway around the world, they landed on the targeted areas with ease and hunkered down for a nice, long drink.

Invigorated by the snatched pillow incident, I recovered rapidly, again shielding all skin from wind and bugs, tucking in with extra vigilance to protect against my newest enemy: the wind. Only two square inches of skin remained open to the elements, allowing me to breathe. I braced myself against the buzzing as the bugs tried to worm their way inside my armor, and against the breeze as it blew my fleece against my face. And then it happened: a single brave mosquito landed on my lips. Spluttering, I sat up without thought and slapped it away, my carefully arranged protection spilling off around me, all hope of sleep vanishing into the night. I have had my share of adventures and handled them with varying degrees of poise, but I could not, would not sleep like this. Ever. Which left me with two options: insomnia or escape. I made my decision as another hot breeze tore at my hair.

Although I woke my mother-in-law-in-law from a dead sleep, she greeted me cheerfully and ushered me into her tiny abode, a self-proclaimed two-person tent built for one-and-a-half. She cut off my apologies with thanks for making her feel better about her choice of accommodations.

Before we'd even drifted off to sleep, my brother had carried his tent to our end of the field and created shelter of his own in four minutes flat. His wife arrived moments later, tanked up on Benadryl and dragging the rest of their camping supplies.

The next day we rushed through breakfast and the loading of the boats. Terrified at the thought of another night like the one we'd just experienced, we set out to make miles: thirty of them, to be precise. After ten hours of rowing under the desert sun against an upstream wind, we slid into takeout with enough time to sling everything onto the trailer, pile into the cars waiting for us, drive up the legendary Mineral Bottom road, and find a campsite -- all well before sunset, thanks to the summer solstice. We feasted in peace on top of a mesa, our mosquito-free existence marred only by a misplaced cactus, a horde of harmless gnats, a stink bug and, for some inexplicable reason, a couple of horses looking for food and attention. But, thank God, there were no mosquitoes.

This afternoon when I got home, I showered off a half dozen alternating layers of bug spray, sunscreen, and grime, then took an iron tablet and dropped into bed. The last thing I remember thinking was, the next time someone warns me about insects when I plan to disappear into the wilderness for a while, I may just listen to them. Though even as I scratch my bites, I still can't find it in me to regret the trip. Other than the mosquitoes, we had a wonderful time. And as for the little buggers, what doesn't kill us gives us something to blog about.

My sister-in-law's leg early on the first evening

I’m married to a crazy person. I’m sure he’d say I drove him to it, but the truth is he’s always been this way. A hike is never finished until he has explored every available square inch of the terrain we’re crossing -- especially the ledges and the high spots. For some inexplicable reason, his motto seems to be “When in doubt, go higher. Actually, whenever possible, go higher.” The good news is that this only applies to elevation and not to drugs. The bad news is that elevation has its own dangers.

In contrast, my motto is “If I pause to take a picture here, no one can tell that I really just want an excuse to stop and catch my breath.” Which is why this picture is so typical of our relationship. We were in Canyonlands National Park on the winter solstice a few years ago. He’d just dragged me all over creation in search of God knows what, and I'd let him because I needed the exercise. While I stopped to take a picture of more rocks, he decided to go out onto them. I didn’t realize he was crossing onto the boulders until it was too late -- to get a picture of him in mid-air, that is.

If you thought I was going to write “too late to stop him” up there, you were incorrect . That would never work, so I barely bother anymore. I just cross my fingers and take a picture in case I need an alibi. “Really, Your Honor. I didn’t push him. See? I was over here the whole time, taking a picture.”

By the way, if this photo looks familiar, that's probably because I originally posted it on Playing with Pixels quite a while ago. I ran across it yesterday and thought I'd share, since I've been yearning for another trip to Canyonlands, despite the summertime heat. Click here or on the picture for a larger version with abbreviated text.

I don't know about you, but I'm getting tired of seeing the same post up on here day after day. However, I'm still SoCNoCing in addition to, you know, having an actual life, which makes this a good day to revive my Five on Friday tradition (if you can call something I've only done twice a 'tradition'). If the planets re-align or my ingrained sense of guilt gets to me or I become sick of writing a million and a half words a day on my book, I'll be back to more regular posting early next week.

When I first started Five on Friday, it was with the intention of sharing five favorite links and a video. Since then, other bloggers have played with the meme, and it has morphed into something different for each of them. It's a fun thing to watch. However, this time around, I'm going to have to go with the original idea, because I'm a bit of a stickler. Since all my creativity is being siphoned off for my book, you get an obvious topic this week: Five writing-related links I've found helpful, plus a bonus video for those who have no moral objection to the wonders of YouTube.

1. Feeling lonely? Directionless? Looking for a good community of writers, some great writing advice, an abundance of laughs or, at the very least, a cult to replace the one you left after that religious phase you went through in high school? Might I suggest Will Write for Wine? It's a podcast! It's a forum! Best of all, it goes well with chicken and pasta!
2. If you've seen the size of my TBR piles (yes, plural) you'll know that reading isn't dead -- not in my household, at least. But if you'd like proof that others share my addiction, you may find some solace in "Book Lust" by New York Times columnist Timothy Egan. While not a traditional writing resource, it provides plenty of inspiration for those who are convinced that the book industry is doomed. Unless they're really cynical, in which case they've probably already given up on being published anyway, and are therefore unlikely to be reading this.
3. Link number three is the perfect time to pause for a moment of gratitude, because even if reading isn't dead, it's still not an easy industry to break into. Yet I'm an info geek, and with all the resources for writers available out there, I'd still rather be writing now than at any other time in history. For a taste of what I mean, take a look the following three agent blogs. (You get three links for the price of one here, since narrowing it down was pretty close to impossible. Plus, I'm feeling generous.) If you haven't read Nathan Bransford's blog, Ask Daphne by Kate Schafer, and Pub Rants by Kristin Nelson, I highly recommend that you trot off there next and take a look at the advice they have to offer both aspiring novelists and those who are already published. Follow the links in their sidebars to find even more great editor/agent blogs.
4. For those times when I need a character name and either can't come up with one or realize that I've been inadvertently naming characters after former elementary school classmates or B-list actresses, I visit the Random Name Generator. Just plug in a few parameters, press the button, and you will be presented with a list of names to choose from. Best of all, if you don't love any of the ones that come up, you can just do it again. And again. And, for those more into procrastinating than writing, yet again.
5. As it turns out, it's hard to narrow this topic down to five, which is why Writer's Digest creates an annual list of the 101 best web sites for writers. (Note: It was loading very slowly on my computer, so some patience may be required. Then again, if you're reading this list you're most likely interested in publication, in which case you probably already have a well-developed sense of patience. Good job.)

And, finally, the promised bonus video. Although everyone and their cat has probably seen this by now if they have least a passing interest in novelship, my internal sense of right and wrong has ordered me to share it with you anyway. Enjoy.

Now it's your turn. (You just knew I'd turn this into a homework assignment, didn't you? You can probably even guess what I'm about to ask. Let's see if you were correct.) Now that you've seen a few of my favorite writing-related websites, what are some of yours?

In other news, Ilana Stephens, a talented writer and fellow Will Write for Wine forum member, interviewed me last week for her blog. Since I've mostly disappeared from the internets lately I'm only now sharing the link with you. I've conducted a few blog interviews myself, but I've never been on the receiving end of the questions. I have to admit, it was pretty fun, and it made me feel kind of important -- and since I'm the proud owner of and slave to three haughty cats, my ego could use the boost.

1. An artist
2. A soloist
3. A football fanatic
4. A size zero
5. An evil overlord
6. A henchman
7. An oenophile
8. A jazz enthusiast
9. A mathematical genius
10. A snooty post-modern deconstructionist

And you?

Every year when NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) rolls around, I stand on the sidelines like an outcast kid, watching while everyone else gets to play. Because let's face it -- if there's an inconvenient month to write 50,000 words, it's November. (Actually, 50,000 words is nowhere near convenient, no matter the month.) That's why when I found out that the New Zealand group Kiwi Writers claimed June for their own novel-writing month, I waited and debated and finally signed up. June's still a busy month (and, blast it, it still has only 30 days instead of 31 like some months I could name -- yes, I'm looking at you, January), but at least it doesn't contain Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations. Not that I have cause to whine, since I'm cheating anyway; I only have about 43,000 words to go on my current book, instead of 50,000. Even that means 1,434 words per day, however, with no days off. I'm nervous and excited and already counting down the days until July.

Pain, suffering, and daily writing sound like a good way to spend the next month? If so, check out the Southern Cross Novel Challenge (SoCNoC). It's free, and includes access to forums with a wealth of resources and plenty of people to encourage you. You can even friend people, since this is the age of social networking. (My user name is caryn.) Plus you don't have to be a Kiwi, since New Zealanders are a welcoming sort.

Even if you don't join, feel free to throw a few tips my way in the comments for this post. I could use some. (And, no, Don't do it! doesn't count.)

In other news, I seem to remember that there was a contest on here a few days ago, for which debut author Jess Riley donated a copy of her new book Driving Sideways. Well, this afternoon Random.org declared Ilana Stephens the winner! Please visit her blog and congratulate her. And if you haven't picked up your own copy of Driving Sideways, rush right out and grab one because it's a wonderful read.

P.S. Someone e-mailed me today (Tuesday) using the link on the left-hand sidebar. My stats tell me that they filled out the form, sent it, and got the thank-you screen, so I know it wasn't spam. However, I had an e-mail glitch (which is now fixed, thank goodness!) and did not receive it. Could you please try again? I don't handle suspense well, and I'm dying of curiosity. I just know you were writing to tell me I won a million dollars or you want to give me a book deal or something. That's it, right? Right?

I’ve decided not to blog today. I thought I’d announce this decision, so you’d know that you were being neglected, instead of just suspecting it. It’s a beautiful May morning, and I plan to enjoy it. But just so you know what you’re missing, I’ll fill you in on a few things you will won't learn on here today.

I won’t share my new secret knowledge: ring-billed gulls (commonly -- though incorrectly -- known as “seagulls”) practice kung fu when we're not looking. Maybe I’ll mention it another time instead. If it comes up.

If only I were blogging today, I could mention in passing that hubs requested a pie in the face for his birthday and a rutabaga for Christmas, and now I’m terrified and intrigued -- what will he ask for next? But since I’m busy elsewhere, I will be forced to disclose that tidbit another time.

On this fine morning, I will not share my suspicions that Echo the Cat looks like an Olsen Twin. This is especially clear in the link I would post if I were posting a photo to back up this information which I will not share today. Which I’m not. Or something. Now I’m all confused…

I hereby refuse to admit that our other two cats are unusually close. Often.

On a day like today, when many of you are probably hard at work on your novels, it would be far too embarrassing to reveal that I take pictures of random objects when I have writer's block. Much better for you to suspect that I dedicate 100% of my attention to my book whenever I’m not at work or blogging.

And, because I’m afraid of public humiliation, I will never -- today or any other day -- reveal that I refer to this picture as “Cactus Itt” and am desperate to take scissors to the plant’s shagginess. I fear you might disagree or, worse, laugh at me.

So there you go. I bet you feel as if you’re really missing out, with scintillating topics like these available if only I were willing to take the time. Maybe on a day when there aren’t flowers to enjoy and books to write, and cats to tease, I will go more in-depth. Or perhaps not. In the meantime, if you're feeling bereft of bloggie tidbits, I suppose you could always stop by my photoblog, Playing with Pixels. To navigate through the album, just click the right or left side of each picture to go backwards or forward, respectively, or use the arrows beneath. Or, if you haven't done so already, read the post below and then enter to win an autographed and personalized copy of Jess Riley's hilarious and poignant debut novel Driving Sideways. Or find some other way to entertain yourself. You're resourceful; I can tell that about you.

Author Jess Riley stopped by to share a little background on her new book Driving Sideways, which officially went on sale this morning. I've been a long-time reader of Jess's blog, and am happy to say that every bit of her humor and warmth carry over into her debut novel. (Yes, I already started reading my copy, and I've found myself both laughing out loud and sharing passages to the closest people, cats, or pieces of furniture because it's that good.) Enjoy what she has to say here, and then keep reading to find out how you can buy or win your own copy of Driving Sideways.

People sometimes ask me how much research I did for Driving Sideways. And I reply, “Research? I was supposed to do research?”

I’m kidding of course. As one who has had neither kidney disease nor an organ transplant, I had to do a ton of research before I started writing. I also took the Driving Sideways roadtrip twice: once before writing the novel, and again after I had a publishing contract, just to make sure I got it right.

The second time I headed west, I met my gracious blogging host Caryn for lunch…she was so funny and charming and had the most beautiful hair. I’d been driving in a Toyota for more than thirty hours by then, and my hair was actively campaigning for reassignment to someone else’s head. But because she is quite possibly America’s Sweetheart, she didn’t seem to notice and invited me to guest blog on her site today. (Thanks Caryn!)

As I write this, there is just one calendar day before the book’s launch. Here are some of the thoughts that have been bouncing around my head a day before the book is finally released:

My handwriting has really deteriorated since the third grade. I just know I’ll sign someone’s book and later they’ll be like, “Who’s ‘Jeff Bubby?’”

I read three different excerpts to my Dad’s English classes at my alma mater, UW-Oshkosh, last Thursday. And I was shocked at how bawdy some of the humor is. Really, I would like to take a black marker to my grandmother’s copy. Also, the women planning the book launch party? They said this to me: “Yes! You were right about the bathroom humor! You’re so shy and genteel in person, and then we read the reference to the five-alarm bucket of chicken wings and the hives and it was like, WHOA!”

In case anyone asks, there are several reasons for this: 1) the main character, Leigh, struggles with a terminal illness and the accompanying surgeries, daily medications, and lifestyle changes. Thus, she is understandably obsessed with the human body and its various functions. Call it ‘morbid preoccupation.’ 2) Roadtrips can be exhausting and monotonous. After several hours in the car, your sense of humor can deteriorate to very basic levels. I think you know what I’m talking about. And, 3) I am a six year-old with severe ADD at heart.

Also, I have one last grant proposal to write some time in the next two weeks. Procrastination, I shake my fist at you!

I want to close by asking if any of YOU have any questions about the ‘behind the scenes’ of the publication process…I’ll check in a few times and do my best to answer. Thanks for reading and helping me celebrate release day!

Enjoy what Jess had to say? You can pick up copies of Driving Sideways and read more about it on the Random House website, from Amazon.com (complete with a preview of the first scene!), from Barnes & Noble, or at your local bookstore. Even Target's got copies (online now, in stores June 19th)!

Now, for what you really want to know: Just how can you, dear reader, win a free autographed and personalized copy of Driving Sideways for your very own? Just leave a comment here and tell Jess and me why you want the book. Be creative, silly, or painfully honest -- we want to know! All entries must be in by midnight M.S.T. next Monday, May 26th. I'll post the results on Tuesday or Wednesday.


If you already have your own copy, feel free to comment anyway. Congratulate Jess, thank her for sharing her experiences, compliment her hair (which, for the record, is so much nicer than mine), ask questions, or just tell everyone else how great the book is.

Happy reading! 

When I'm writing, I can spend the entire day trying to get those voices in my head to talk to me, tell me their stories. Whether or not it works, the moment I turn out my light and try to fall asleep, the characters inevitably come out to play.

I'm never sure whether to be delighted or annoyed. My ultimate reaction usually depends on how comfortable I am and how many sleeping cats are pinning me in place. Then there's the spouse factor: after the final goodnights have been mumbled and we've lived in silence for several minutes, it's just cruel to turn the light back on, no matter how great the dialogue in my head and how convinced I am that I will not remember it in the morning unless I record it right then and there. (Naturally, I still haven't remembered to stock my flashlight in my nightstand, although I've learned never to be without a notebook and a pen. Which is why this whole thing was written in the dark. See?)

Of course, just because I succumb to pressure from my chatty characters or Dolores, my on-board narrator, it does not mean that the words were worth the shuffling and fumbling required to capture them on paper. Even if they are legible (at best, my handwriting is a poor imitation of cursive), when I'm in the zone of near-sleep my ability to judge writing quality is questionable.

Take, for example, the night when I absolutely, positively could not sleep no matter how I tossed and turned. If anything, my desperation only pushed that blissful unconsciousness further away. Finally, I settled into thinking about my book. You see, I had a character to name, and this seemed the perfect time to do so. In my sleep-deprived state, I decided that I wanted something unique, so I reached around for the most beautiful, unusual first name I could find. Once I settled on it, I was so happy that I knew I needed a last name to go with it. And so I thought and thought and finally came up with the perfect companion to that first name. It was so lovely, so wonderful, that I couldn't wait to assign it to a character the next day. Since this was before I learned to keep a notebook handy, I committed it to memory, rolled over, and promptly fell asleep. When my alarm rang the next morning, I had the nagging thought that I was forgetting something. So I fished around in my memory for a while, and came up with it: the name. Only in daylight did I realize that I had, with no sense of irony whatsoever, named my character Dream McKnight. Sure, the name could work, but it would be the bane of the character's existence, not something of which she could be proud.

With incidents like that, it's no wonder I record my nighttime ramblings so reluctantly, even if I'm usually glad that I did so.

Ever get lost in your calendar and become convinced it's another day? Several weeks ago I spent an entire Thursday sure it was only Tuesday. Every time I remembered, it was like this little bonus. Today, however, it didn't work out so well, as it was Friday in my mind while everyone else was slogging through another Wednesday. Every hour or two something would happen to remind me that I was the one who was confused. The frequent jolts back to the Land of Reality were unpleasant at best.

If anything, this evening's activities made the condition worse. Nothing says the weekend has arrived like an evening get-together on a friend's back porch, complete with margaritas and snacks. I'm now at risk of not going in to work at all tomorrow morning, and have instructed one of my coworkers to call me if I don't show up. I almost hope she doesn't; I could use the sleep.

Please understand -- I really like my job, and I love most of the people I work with. But, Lord help me, I do despise my alarm clock. And so I yearn for the weekend with every fiber of my being, just so that I can wake at dawn out of habit instead of obligation. Which probably explains my confusion about the days -- it is my body's way of telling me I need a Saturday, no matter what the calendar says.

The chronological confusion has only worsened since our evening margarita consumption, not because of the alcohol but because of an incident that occurred shortly afterward. Now I'm not even certain what year it is. 1989? 1991?

Here's why, and this one's really embarrassing, so be gentle. Turns out there's a New Kids on the Block, version 2.0, complete with a group blog wherein each member signs his name with an exclamation point. (Yes! You, too, can read blog entries from Danny!, Jonathan!, Donnie!, and Joey Mac!! Isn't it exciting!) They even have new music, which is where my chagrin kicks in, because to my everlasting shame I found myself almost sort of kinda tempted to tap my foot to "Summertime" when it played on the radio a few minutes ago. Don't get me wrong, I'm not about to go buy the cassette tape and listen to it forty-eight times in a row like, uh, some people I know. (Hey, I never claimed to be proud of my middle school years.) But it was kind of catchy. It also whisked my right back to the late eighties, a time I try not to visit all too often.

Before being reintroduced to NKOTB this evening I knew what year it was, even if I couldn't always pinpoint the day with 100% accuracy. Now I can't even be certain of that much. At least I have music and margaritas to console me. Sing along with me, will you?

 

 

In an unprecedented -- and totally warranted -- act of aggression, I am about to use my current computer to purchase its replacement. We require little in a new system. In addition to the very basics, we'd settle for the following features, none of which our current beast has:

1) A monitor that does not make heavy breathing sounds.
2) Volume control that does not sweep up and down at the computer's whim.
3) The ability to turn it on more than once a week.

Unfortunately, comparison shopping is tough because none of the above qualities are listed as options. I am hoping that means they are now standard, along with enormous hard drives, high-tech flat-screen monitors, and Vista, none of which we need but it seems we're going to end up with anyway because all but the lowest-quality computers seem to have them now. (Note to self-appointed Mac missionaries: We are not getting one, so don't bother suggesting it. Thank you.)

Alas, this means new couch for us for a while, since that would make for a pretty scary credit card bill, but the Couch of Death affects me most when I'm also suffering from other allergies (way to kick me when I'm down), so things should get better here soon, and I'll aim for finding a replacement by next spring instead.

And while we're more or less still on the subject of computers (Ha! How's that for a segue?), I have broken down and started another blog, because I quite CLEARLY do not have enough to do. See, much as I like to write, I have other hobbies, too. One of them is sleeping in. Another is eating cookies. And yet another is photography. Since the first two do not make for an interesting series of blog posts, I decided to create a photoblog. After all, as anyone who's ever known a proud grandparent has learned, photos are more fun when you share them with strangers. Not having any grandkids, I've had to settle for taking photos of landscapes, flowers, and other elements of nature. As a nod to my inner grandparent, I've even indulged in a few cat photos, although I promise not to overwhelm.

I have eight or nine images on there right now, just to get started and give people an idea of what they'll see, but I've scheduled many more; a new one will appear each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, which is really a good deal compared to the biweekly updates on here.

If you're curious, you can check out the blog, Playing with Pixels, at http://carynsphotos.wordpress.com. To navigate, just click on the right-hand side of the picture to move through to the end of the album, or use the left and right arrows below. You can even subscribe to the RSS feed or receive email updates, just like for this blog, because I like to get fancy like that.

Good afternoon, class. Today’s lesson is on the importance of looking at your food before consuming it. To illustrate, we have a special guest appearance. This cheerful green pepper was sliced open by one of my coworkers during dinner preparations last autumn. Like the Virgin Mary Toast, all evidence of this miraculous occurrence would have been lost had she tossed the pepper core without a glance. Let us all have a moment to pause and reflect on the tragedy and waste so narrowly averted.

Thank you. I hope each and every one of you now understands why it is important to always look before you eat, or slice, or throw away your food. Any questions? Good. Class dismissed.

Now the details, since I know some will ask. First of all, I can vouch for the picture, since I’m the one who took it. That's my desk underneath it, and my Christmas cactus blooming in the background. How could I not capture it on, uh, pixels, when presented with such a spectacle on a day when I happened to have my camera at work with me? The only retouching consisted of adjusting the lighting (too dark), sharpening (too blurry), rotating (too vertical), cropping (too big), and resizing (again, too big). You can trust me. I’m a writer. I may exaggerate, but I never lie. And, finally, if you’re having trouble getting your bearings, click here for a larger version of the above photo, or here to see the opposite side of the slice.

It has come to my attention that I am now allergic to our couch. This is not wholly unexpected. Spring is in the air, which means if you look at me wrong, I sneeze. With pollens already irritating my sensitivities, it doesn't take much for anything else to send me over the edge into a reaction -- in this case, a couch I purchased for fifty bucks from my ex-boyfriend's ex-roommate's ex-girlfriend (really) twelve years ago when she moved to another apartment and didn't want to take it with her. In addition to a fold-out bed so treacherous it could mangle the strongest back, it houses an assortment of writing implements, several handfuls of change, and enough fur to make a full-grown cat.

Adding another allergen to my repertoire was not one of my goals for this year, no matter how worthy the specimen may be. To be honest, I'm still trying to get used to having allergies in the first place. Thanks to good luck in the lottery we call genetics, penicillin, strawberries, bees, and even poison ivy have never given me so much as a rash, sneeze, cough, or itch.

And then by chance I moved to the desert -- the climate that physicians in Ohio (where I grew up) recommended for those sensitive to pollens and the like. Now I gleefully spend every spring sneezing. Which is where the couch comes in (again). When springtime rolls around, and the pollens are at their worst, something in or on the couch, knowing that I am temporarily weak, joins in and gives me hives. Since my husband's not moving back east, and I won't move without him, the couch has to be the one to go, because I can handle spring in the desert or I can handle ancient upholstery, but it turns out that I can't handle both.

This is not a decision to be made lightly, however. I've had my sofa over a third of my life -- longer than I've owned any item of clothing, three times longer than my husband and I have been married, and twenty-four times longer than I've had my car. Shabbiness and reaction-inducing upholstery aside, there are some serious attachment issues here. Which means I must a) learn to hate the thing so much I must be rid of it or b) find a replacement I like even better. Since the latter has turned out to be nigh unto impossible, it looks like I'm fully relying on choice number one. Once the Couch of Death (See? I'm trying.) is properly vilified in my mind, maybe it will be easier to send it to the great furniture warehouse in the sky and invite a younger, prettier model into our family room. I'll even try not to feel too guilty about it, but I'm making no guarantees.

Closeup: Couch of Death + Minion (for scale)
Click on photo for enlarged villainy. It's probably worth it.

I am in love with my tulips. It was a pre-meditated emotion, although I never expected it to be so strong. Last fall I loaded up a new audio book on my iPod, dumped three hundred dried and ugly bulbs into a large bowl, stirred them, then stepped outside into the cold, windy October day. As the clouds spit occasional drops of rain at my neighborhood, I hacked at the chilled dirt around our house with an ancient trowel and carefully placed bulb after bulb into the loosened soil. This better be worth it, I thought as an icy drop of rain struck the back of my neck, followed immediately by a gust of wind.

Later, after my aching muscles healed and the last lines of the story I'd been listening to faded away, I began to forget which types of plants I'd so carefully buried in the fall-caked soil. I did not try to keep this information, but let it drift along on the same rivers of forgetfulness that have carried away far more important details -- friends' birthdays, state capitals, the proper spelling of hors d'ovouers. ( <-- This is not it.)

All winter I eyed the patches of dirt, waiting for signs of stirring. A few days ago we finally had foliage. And today we have these:

I knew I had tulips, but I did not know they would so far surpass the ordinary varietals. They are flanked by grape hyacinths and other purple flowers whose name I'm certain I've never known. Other greenery has begun to emerge from the ground all around them. They will soon bear their own flowers, and I will be surprised all over again.

I do so love spring. Especially when I plant ahead for it.

There are three things you should know about my day:

1) It's Friday.

2) I got to go into work late.

3) While at work, I had to assemble a piece of furniture.

The first is universal, the second is lucky, and the third is capable of canceling out the pleasure of the other two. Oh, the project started out just fine, as all bad ideas do. I sliced open the box, pulled everything out, and got cozy on the floor with all the necessary ingredients: a rubber mallet, a screwdriver, and the recently unboxed parts -- including the deceptively labeled 'Assembly Instructions'. Which is where the project hit the skids. Because as it turns out a job illustrating for this particular company does not require an actual working knowledge of basic drawing skills. My friend Christa has freshman art students who can draw better diagrams than these. Let's take the 'cord management system', for example. Despite the fancy name, which must have required at least mild ingenuity on the part of the writers, the illustrators did not deem it necessary to actually label it on the assembly diagram, which is just not fair. This left me to guess, and guessing + me + hardware = trouble. Which is why it took me over an hour and assistance from a friend with an engineering degree to finally get the thing fully built. Even he was bemused by a few of the directives, so I finally ended up skipping several of the more confusing ones. So far the cart is still standing and the world has crashed to a halt, so I think I'm safe.

Okay, I know I've been known to hyperbolize on occasion and I sense that you think I'm doing so now, but I assure you I'm not. And so, for your viewing pleasure, I've scanned step one. There are seven more where that came from, but I think this one gets the point across nicely. Just click on the photo if you'd like a larger version. It still won't make sense, but at least you can say you tried. You can even attempt to find where the elusive 'cord management system' is if you're feeling ambitious.

The good news is that sharing this with you has cheered me up considerably. Indeed, now that I've begun to move past the irritation-at-self-and-others stage of this trauma and the cart is fully assembled, I have started to develop a little affection for these instructions -- even if the illustrators did cheat. I can even appreciate the fact that no one was injured during the cart-building process.

This will never be my favorite company communique, however, despite its total lack of sense. No, that honor is reserved for the single sheet my husband pulled from a box before assembling the simple wooden magazine rack contained within. The page has resided on our refrigerator ever since:

Yesterday I managed once again to be on the receiving end of a wound of unknown origin. Random injuries are a daily thing for me. If I haven't managed to hurt myself, break something, or stain a piece of clothing, I haven't gotten out of bed yet. I am currently in possession of the aforementioned cut (a scratch embedded in the fleshy part of my palm, rendering the comfort of Bandaids impractical), as well as at least four others. I won't catalogue them for you (because who wants to read a list of cuts, bangs, bruises, and abrasions?), but in the interest of full disclosure I'll admit that two shirts have also been harmed in the making of this weekend: one last night, splattered by spaghetti sauce (another good reason I don't often cook) and the second this morning, dipped into my peanut butter toast breakfast.

I've resigned myself to this fate and I can't say it even bothers me all that much, once the initial pain and throbbing reminders are doused by time, medicine, or -- in the case of the stained clothing -- laundry detergent. There are even a few advantages to a life of accident pronness. (Another thing I'm prone to doing: creating new words.) For one thing, there's hope that my minor daily pains are a hedge against occasional catastrophic ones. This may be flawed logic -- after all, one of my first actions upon this Earth was to undergo open-heart surgery -- but I'm optimistic. Other advantages include the bonding that occurs when swapping tales of injuries past, and ever-increasing background knowledge for my writing. Flimsy, yes. But they're all I've got, and since I've had this penchant for accidental pain for over thirty years, I've learned to appreciate the good points and try not to wonder about tomorrow.