The Book Lady

Moving Day

2008-11-28T23:31:17Z

To the average reader, it would seem as if I have been neglecting my bloggerly duties. After all, I haven't posted in, oh, a while. And what more is there to blogging than posting?

The average reader would, however, be deeply incorrect. In addition to beginning an astonishing number of posts that went nowhere and arranging a special surprise for next weekend, I have been wandering around, lost and blindfolded, in the land of web design. Turns out when you value quality control (or, okay, are an anal perfectionist) like me, web design becomes an obsession, creating hollow-eyed zombies out of (fairly) normal people. Even now I find myself fighting the urge to tweak one more line of code on my shiny new homepage, add a tenth widget to my brand new blog, or install yet another show-offy plugin on my radically improved photoblog. I could also change the fonts. Or perhaps the link colors. Or the wording on the welcome page.

See? I am now a crazy person. CSS did that to me. Robin and Pam do share part of the blame, though, since I was forced to watch longingly from the shadows while both of them obtained pretty new websites. In the meantime, I languished here in the land of free hosting. And so, yes, when I obtained the freedom that came with setting up my own webbly home I went a little nuts. On the blog alone there will be footnotes! And polls! And cool subscription options! And many other unnecessary frills to astound and delight! I'd like to think it's worth it. And if the universe is willing (please make it so!) this will be my last big move ever. Yeehaw.

And now, without further segue, the boring, practical stuff...

Feeds:
If you already subscribe to this blog using an RSS feed, you may or may not have to change your subscription. If you use the Feedburner feed, no modifications are necessary. I can take the feed with me, so for a few days it will still show information for my old blog. When I have a new post up, I'll switch it over to start displaying info for the new blog. (Feedburner is cool like that. If you don't use it for your own blog, I recommend it.) And, of course, if you subscribed using my regular feed address then click here to change to the Feedburner subscription. Or you could just get email updates. Your choice.

Links:
New website: http://www.caryncaldwell.com
New blog home: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/blog
New photoblog: http://www.caryncaldwell.com/photos

Note:
If you have blogrolled this page, I thank you from the depths of my soul. In a while I'll put up a redirection from this blog to my new one. However, if you're feeling kind, changing the links would be great.

Hope to see you over at my new home on the internet!

The Burn

2008-10-22T22:56:19Z

The bedroom door swings open, light from the hallway streaming in. <a title="Cat Obsession category on PWP" href="http://carynsphotos.wordpress.com/category/photography/cat-obsession/" target="_blank">The cats</a>, who have been lumped on top of me, scatter. Their eyes are wide, their tails at half mast.

"Sorry to wake you," says hubs from the doorway. He was not tired when I succumbed to sleep an hour before, and had not yet been to bed. "They said we might need to evacuate, so I thought I should warn you. Just in case you wanted to be ready."

I am still fumbling my way out of sleep, and this intrusion seems less like reality than like an extension of the dreams that have already begun to evaporate. Nodding, I push back the covers, peeling away some of my exhaustion and in the same motion feeling my brain begin to buzz and wake. A chilly breeze crawls along my bare arms, further rousing me.

"Why?" I mumble. My voice is dry from disuse, and I pause to clear it. "What's going on?"

"Fire. Come on. I'll show you."

Barefoot, I pad after him through the house and out the front door. We stand side-by-side on the smooth flagstone path and watch. The sky to the east is a billowing pink plume, the cliffs around us awash with shifting shades of rust and salmon. Above is an infinite black sky strewn with a million stars. All around, neighbors have wandered onto their porches or into the street to watch the drama unfold. It is surreal to be pulled from the peace that comes with sleep, only to witness destruction in the dark with near-strangers.

The fire is close, a few miles at most, but all we can smell are the dew-dampened grass and the rotting leaves of autumn. This is good news; the wind is not blowing the inferno in our direction. We retreat inside to plan, in case it shifts. Plans are good. They make us feel in control.

<a title="Cat Obsession category on PWP" href="http://carynsphotos.wordpress.com/category/photography/cat-obsession/" target="_blank">The cats</a> are our first priority. This does not require agreement; it simply is. After that, the computer with my writing. Our photos, wallets, journals. A few other things we've accumulated over the years. That's it. All else can burn if necessary -- not easily, but without such heart-wrenching loss. I am stunned at how few essentials we possess, and absurdly proud.

Later, once all is gathered, I try to sleep. It is barely possible. My limbs hum with adrenaline, my mind races with thoughts. When sleep comes, I flit along just under its surface, waking often. The cats, oblivious to the drama, doze on through the night. Hubs leaves to investigate and does not return for hours.

This morning the flames are contained, and those who live near are wrecked from stress and adrenaline and lack of sleep. Things could change, but for now all seems safe.

There is a curious kind of joy, a buoyancy, that comes with escaping disaster. It weaves through the building where I work, joining and then overtaking the smell of stale smoke curling in through the vents and window cracks. Although I think longingly of the sleep that escaped me last night, some of the mania flows through my veins, too. And somehow the mixture feels just right.

Seeking the Elusive Elixer of NO

2008-10-13T03:07:02Z

Dear Friend / Employer / Charity / Business Acquaintance / Neighbor,

I regret to inform you that the answer to your recent request is a firm and resounding NO. I do understand the position that you are in, and that you would appreciate my: help with the move / coming in on my day off / making a generous donation / becoming a dues-paying member of your newly established professional group / walking your dog five times a day while you’re on vacation. However, due to a recently expanded work load in my personal and professional lives, as of this morning I have committed to saying NO to every request and offer, and you have the distinct honor of receiving this message first. Congratulations.

Please understand that this was a difficult decision, and one about which I deliberated for quite some time, but I find I must be consistent in my refusal, lest hurt feelings and resentment ensue. As this is a new program, it is subject to change at any time, so you may wish to renew your application in the future.

Once again, I appreciate the importance of your request and am honored that you thought of me. If you have any questions, feel free to contact me in the same manner in which you have done so previously.

With regrets,

Caryn
a.k.a. The Chronic Yes-Woman

P.S. Hey, that was a good attempt, wasn’t it? I almost had you going! Anyway, for those who want my help, I’ll be over next Saturday -- say, around eightish? Who needs to sleep in on the weekend, anyway? For all others, the check is in the mail. I should warn you, though, that next time I really <em>will</em> say no. I’m not kidding. Meanwhile, thanks for the chance to practice my rejection technique. I realize it needs a little work on the follow-through, but I think I’m onto something here.

P.P.S. I’m serious here. Next time, the answer is NO. Really. I promise.

A Post About Repairs -- Now With Photos!

2008-10-02T02:20:01Z

Seems everything needed repairs this week. First there was an elderly but sturdy machine at work, which required my second-favorite set of instructions ever: the now-infamous page 36 from the vintage manual I keep in a nearby cupboard.

Raise your hand if you had to stifle a juvenile snicker when you read the title above. Raise both if you were unsuccessful. Very good. You get three points if you're the first to spot the spelling error, and ten if you can identify the machine in question.

Page 36 also requires a trip to the following diagram, which I would argue makes their assurance that it's only "7 easy steps" a giant lie. Like the photo above, click if you need more detail, but do so with care lest your brain explode.

Despite my near-uselessness when it comes to anything mechanical, I managed to muddle through and get the mystery machine up and running again -- just in time to go home and spend another evening trying to fix my book. Alas, that task doesn't come with an instruction manual.

Aren't they pretty? Good thing I don't use red ink, or these pages would look like they'd been murdered, and that would ruin the tone of the whole book.

Then, of all the luck, I needed repairs, too. Yes, the flu visited again, just a month and a half after it last stopped by. So much for my weekend plans. Instead of going into the mountains to take photos like the one below, which I snapped a few years ago...

...I got to photograph things around home. This is not nearly as exciting -- or as pretty.

Unfortunately, alien creatures kept popping into the frame at the last minute. The blobby heads and tails were so big that even Photoshop couldn't help me fix the results. Too bad. I do hate to leave things unrepaired.

A Matter of Timing

2008-09-21T21:56:59Z

On Friday morning steel gray clouds scudded across the sky and a restless breeze washed over the neighborhood, heralding bad weather to come. Hoping for rain, I ducked into my car and turned the key, then glanced over my shoulder as I sped down the driveway, later for work than usual. Then a thought struck me and I lurched to a stop a few feet from the end. I must have my sunglasses. It may have been too shady for shades, but the sun could break through later, leaving me to squint my way home again at the end of the day. I unclicked my seat belt and threw open the door.

At that precise moment, the sprinkler in the front yard spluttered on. The head had come to a stop facing the driveway the evening before and now, with no warning, morning-cold water slammed into my face, my skirt, the inside of my car. I gasped, jumped out of my seat, and closed the door, then sprinted onto our porch and out of range. As time ticked, I paused to wipe the drops from my face and watch the sprinkler sweep across the yard, dousing everything in its path.

I laughed, of course, and shook my head. I had to. It had been that kind of week, every day filled with miniature disasters, every night spent in tense tossing instead of sleep, every email and phone call left unanswered. This Friday morning comedy routine only added to it all with such perfection I wanted to put it in a novel, down to the promise of rain hovering above the scene as if foreshadowing the whole event. It was, however, too well-timed to be real, too slapstick to be believed, and therefore too weird for fiction.

The Revisionist's Curse

2008-09-13T17:20:29Z

It seems I am in A Phase. Over the weekend I waved a cheerful goodbye to two unfinished novels, then dropped them off my nightstand. The week before that, I got twenty-three pages into another before dumping it onto my library donations pile without so much as an apology. This morning I broke up with a fourth, a best-seller with reviews that swore there was no way I would not love this book. After forty-eight pages I gave up and searched my pile of unread books for yet another victim.

Most of the time I go through books the way I would eat chocolates if my hips allowed it. I finish one and delve immediately into the next, savoring the characters, the plot, the clever turns of phrase. Each time I exercise or clean house or push a squeaky-wheeled cart up and down the grocery store aisles, I plug into an audio book, letting stories wash over me. When hubs and I take our canvas chairs to a nearby overlook to watch the sun set over the desert, we often tote along something to read aloud to one another.

But I cannot, no matter how much I try, completely lose myself in reading while I am in the middle of revisions. Once I spend hours analyzing each sentence of my own work, the picky part of my brain is turned on. From then on, every bit of writing I encounter, whether it is mine or someone else's, is routed through my editing filter.

That is happening now. The obligatory six weeks have passed between the draft I wrote this summer and the edits required to start submitting it. Now, after several days spent performing major surgery on my novel at every opportunity, my brain has once again turned into an Equal Opportunity Editor, and I've gone from eager-to-read to impossible-to-please. The quality of my reading does not matter. If I am spending hours each day examining my own writing, then by habit I will analyze every other sentence to waltz my way as well. Only blogs, it seems, are exempt, perhaps because the style is so different.

My inability to switch off the ruthless reviser inside me is exhausting and inevitable, and totally unfair to the author of whatever pleasure reading I attempt. Worse, my inability to relax with a good book feels unnatural and somehow very wrong. Reading, after all, is what led me into writing, and now writing is preventing me from enjoying reading.

I've gone through this before, and I know that it will end. Within days of finishing edits, I will be able to see an adverb without feeling the impulse to ink it out. I will once again have the patience to read backstory -- it is, after all, sometimes necessary. I will not automatically pause after I read each line of dialogue, wondering if it should be reworded to make it sound more authentic. I will, in short, be able to lose myself in a book again, which is the best possible incentive for finishing revisions. I'm already saving several books I know I will love for after edits, as a reward.

The second best incentive, for the record, is getting to begin a new story. My next book has already begun to evolve in my mind, and I cannot think of it without a little zing of excitement. But first, revisions.

caryncaldwell @ 2008-09-02T06:52:00

2008-09-02T12:57:25Z

I had the pleasure of meeting debut author Joanne Rendell at a conference this summer and hearing all about her new book The Professors' Wives Club, which is coming out today. Not only is she a lovely person with a fantastic blog and a great accent (she's originally from the U.K.) but from the reviews and the premise of both this book and her next it appears she's also a terrific novelist with a promising career ahead of her. I already ordered a copy for myself and can't wait until it arrives. Please help me in welcoming her to the blog and to congratulating her on her well-deserved success!

Hi Joanne. Thanks for coming. I know I've already put my copy of The Professors' Wives Club on order, but for those who don't know anything about it yet, what is it about? What inspired it?

The Professors’ Wives’ Club tells the story of four women doing battle with a ruthless dean at Manhattan U – a university in downtown New York which looks a lot like NYU, where my husband teaches. The power hungry dean is set to bulldoze a beloved faculty garden. What he hasn’t bargained for, however, is the guts and will of the four professors’ wives who are determined to halt the demolition plans. In their fight to save the garden, the women expose the dark underbelly of academia – and find the courage to stand up for their own dreams, passions, and lives.

That sounds like an interesting premise. You just don't read that much about university life, even though so many readers have been to college or are there now so they can relate. What inspired you to delve into this subject and write The Professors' Wives' Club?

I actually came up with the idea for the book when out with a friend, another professor's wife like me. We were gossiping about other professors' wives who we both knew and it struck me then what interesting characters professors' wives would make.

These women – and, of course, there are professors' husbands and partners too – are in an interesting position. They are often deeply connected to the university world. They live in faculty housing, take their kids to university childcare, and work out at the university gym. However, when it comes to university decisions, they have little power.

I liked the idea of pitting these seemingly powerless women against a dean who, in his little kingdom of the university, has so much power.

In addition to being the wife of a professor, you yourself have a very strong academic background, including a Ph.D. in English, yet you write (and, I presume, read) commercial women's fiction. Some might see that as a difficult leap, especially with the focus so many English departments put on high-brow literature. Was it hard for you to break out of your academic shell and just write and read for the fun of it?

Not at all. I’ve always been a big reader of commercial women’s fiction. Even when I was at grad school, I always had a stack of such books by my bed. Some of my peers and professors might have frowned on my well-thumbed copies of Bridget Jones’ Diary or Weiner’s Good in Bed but I didn’t care. I ate them up!

Popular fiction by women, for women, and about women has always gotten a bad rap. Romance novels continually get stereotyped as “soft porn for desperate housewives.” Chick lit has been dismissed by the literati as throwaway “fluff” obsessed with shopping and shoes. And even women writers like Jodi Picoult, ones who tackle more serious issues, are often labeled “hysterical” and “melodramatic” by snooty reviewers (if they get reviewed at all!).

It has become one of my missions to expose just how sexist and elitist this is. Why is it that women's fiction gets such a bashing? Women do most of the reading these days, yet still the fiction we write struggles to be taken seriously? It makes me so mad, but it also makes me a fierce defender of popular/commercial women's fiction of all kinds - from romance to Picoult!

I can definitely relate to that, especially since I experienced the same thing in my own academic career. So since not everyone is so englightened, how do you feel about your friends, family and contemporaries from your academic life reading your work? What about reviews? Are you worried about them, or do you just plan to ignore them?

I love it. It makes me a little nervous too, of course. You can’t help wondering what everyone will think when they read it and whether they will like it. I particularly love the idea of academics reading this book – if they dare! So far, there are few books out there that explore the private lives of women on campus. Novels like Michael Chabon’s Wonder Boys or Zadie Smith’s On Beauty have looked at university life, but mostly from the male perspective. When literary fiction sets a book on campus it invariably tells a story about a male professor who’s either sleeping with or contemplating sleeping with his students! I’m tired of this story and maybe other people are too?

Reviews can be the best thing in the world if they’re good and a real kick in the teeth if they're bad (especially when they’re posted on Amazon for the world to see!). But it’s all part of the roller coaster ride of publication. I’m learning that a thick skin is essential. As writers, we have to remind ourselves that reviews are just one person’s opinion. Furthermore, we have to appreciate that those people in powerful positions who get to say what is a “good” or “bad” book (in other words, the reviewers in the press or book trade) are often white, male, elite, and are not necessarily interested in the kind of books we write! In short, we can’t take reviews too personally; there’s too much politics and personal taste at play.

Yes, I can see how once again a propensity toward literature can affect reviews of women's fiction. Although you are a great champion of women's fiction -- including romance, the most popular subgenre of women's fiction -- The Professors' Wives Club is not a romance novel. Nonetheless, you were at the Romance Writers of America conference last month. Why? What did you take away from it?

My publisher was the one to suggest I go. At first, I was flummoxed. Me? There are no bodices or billowing pirate blouses on my cover after all, and when I looked at the RWA’s criterion for membership my novels didn’t fit the bill: “Books catalogued as romance” and “A main plot centering around two individuals falling in love.” My novel has romantic elements, for sure, but it’s more about women learning, growing, and finding happiness from themselves and from their friendships with other women.

But then I perused the RWA’s website further and was reminded of the staggering success of the romance industry. More than a quarter of all books sold are romance and in 2006 romance fiction generated $1.37 billion in sales (outselling every other market category). In the current climate where book buying is on the decline and where authors are increasingly expected to do the lion’s share of their book’s promotion, a new writer would be foolhardy not to want to learn something from the perennial success of the romance world.

Thus, I signed up and at the end of July jetted off to San Francisco for the conference. It was a blast! The Romance Writers of America are such a supportive and generous group of (mostly) women. They are so smart and professional too. Plus, they’re eminently welcoming. They don’t care if your book doesn’t fit the genre exactly. In fact, it was rare to meet anyone who wrote a standard romance, if bodice ripping and ravishing princes are what you were looking for! I met young adult fiction writers, chick lit writers, and other commercial women's fiction writers like me. One woman I talked to wrote books about aliens, another about elves; others about panthers and vampires.

Mostly, I had a great time meeting wonderful and encouraging women. I also learnt so much about the publishing industry which I would never have known if I hadn’t attended. I’m going to the RWA convention every year from now on!

Yes, it was a wonderful conference, wasn't it? Although my first attempts at writing were in the romance genre, I'm not longer solidly there, and yet I have learned more about writing from the romance community than from any other. Those women really know how to band together and help each other, and they've analyzed what does and doesn't work in storytelling. What better place for a writer to learn? So other than joining RWA or similar organizations, what other advice do you have for unpubbed writers out there who are hoping to become published someday?

Join a writing group, either on or offline. Other writers are often fonts of wisdom not just about the craft of writing, but also about the publishing business.

Keep reading. Whichever genre you intend to write in – whether it's mystery or literary fiction – make sure you know it inside out.

Keep writing. I really treat writing as a job. I sit down at my desk and tell myself I must write 500 words a day. I then get going. Often I trash a lot of what I write the next day, but at least I have words on a page to work with.

Keep learning about writing. Even now, with two books published, I continually go back to my books about writing (such as John Gardner’s Art of Fiction). I have to keep learning about, and reminding myself, what makes good dialogue, or how to transition well into a flashback scene, or how to go easy with the adverbs, or how to show, not tell. Writing is a craft and thus something you must keep working at.

You mentioned above that you are about to have two books out, and I noticed on your website that your second one will be released in the summer of 2009. I'm curious now! What's it about?

The novel tells the story of two women, professors this time, who work in an English Department. One of the women, Diana, is older, very serious, and extremely established in the academic world. She’s only interested in very serious literature and has written a number of books on Sylvia Plath.

The other professor, Rachel, is new to the department. She’s young, enthusiastic, and her scholarship looks at popular women's fiction. Her scholarship ruffles a lot of feathers in the academy because people see the books Rachel looks at as trashy and unimportant. Diana is particularly adamant on this point and really doesn’t like it when the young professor comes to the department.

The book basically looks at the tensions between these two very different women and also shows all the repercussions in their department and in their lives when they are forced to work side by side. A handsome visiting professor from Harvard and some high-profile, misbehaving students only serve to make sparks fly even more between the two women.

It sounds fantastic, and I love that it addresses the idea of literary fiction vs. women's fiction. It reminds me of some of the essays novelist Jennifer Crusie has written in defense of genre fiction.

Thanks for visiting, Joanne! Now I'm off to see if my copy of The Professors' Wives Club has arrived yet. And if others are interested, they can pick up copies everywhere, including Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, Target, and their local independent bookstores, starting today. Happy reading!

Thou Shalt Not Swim on Sundays

2008-08-30T15:28:16Z

Last Sunday morning as my bare feet slapped across the scorching pavement between the ladies’ locker room and the edge of the community pool, I spotted just one empty lane. I moved toward it quickly, claiming it as mine, then slid into the chilly water, shivered in anticipation, and dunked my head. The moment I rose I wiped the water from my face, strapped on my goggles, and took off toward the deep end -– to be swamped within seconds by the swim-capped middle-aged women on either side of me as they splashed past in unison.

Their wake left me floundering in a choppy sea, and by the end of lap one I had small craft warnings going off in my brain. Seizing any excuse for a break, I slogged back to the shallows and grabbed my water bottle, then watched in dread as my neighbors, clearly friends who had decided to work out together, executed time trials in tandem, arms and legs cutting through the water with perfect precision, churning up the water around them.

Drink over, I spent the next several minutes flailing between them, my velocity in the storm-tossed water approaching that of a half-squashed beetle. Meanwhile, the ladies pushed out lap after lap of <a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20070102052147/http:/en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_stroke" target="_blank">Butterfly</a>. If you’re not familiar with this awkward stroke, let me give you a little history: Despite what the link above claims, it was actually invented in the sixteenth century as a form of torture, and is now employed by swimming snobs and fully appreciated only by those who have mastered it. (For the record, the latter also applies to complex guitar solos and making pastry from scratch.)

The situation deteriorated around the eighth lap, when I helped myself to a flimsy kickboard for a few rounds. How is it possible to grab a sturdy, self-respecting kickboard actually capable of keeping my front half afloat any day except the very one when my ego -– and my ability to keep from asphyxiating on chlorine and water -– are most on the line? Even without the continuous shower from the ladies in the next lanes, the kicking would not have lasted long. At least with freestyle and breaststroke, I could spend most of my time with my head in the water, hiding my shame.

Around the fourteenth lap I began to take on water, and soon had a puddle the size of a baby pool sloshing inside my goggles. My arms, which have no respect for authority, began to tire despite my threats, and when I had thrashed once more to the deep end of the lane I clung to the wall and turned to decipher the clock on the side of the pool house through the foggy lenses. I nearly cheered. Three minutes to go.

Which is when the Wonder Twins decided they’d had enough of swimming and headed for the locker room. Now, if only I’d gotten everything else in line -- the goggles, the kickboard, my arms -- I would have had a very nice 180 seconds of swimming ahead of me.

Plums Aplenty, and Tomatoes Too

2008-08-24T19:15:57Z

Five evenings in a row I have waded through our yard in bare feet, stopped before one of our two overburdened fruit trees, and plucked plumped-up plums or peaches from the branches. I eat as if standing over a sink, bent at the waist and legs spread, letting the sun-warmed juice pour out of the wounds I make in the fruit's flesh and drip into the summer-thick grass. A peach stain on a T-shirt can mark it for life, but in this desert the grass is greedy for moisture.

While the plum tree has been in business since long before we bought our house, the peach is a new addition, tucked into the ground just three years ago. The woman at the garden center instructed us to nip off all infant fruits for several years so the tree could settle. I would not have obeyed, but the decision was made for us. Until this summer it withheld its treasures from us, choosing instead to grow and spread. And this year, like a gift, it is heavy with peaches, small and sweet and beautiful.

We have more, though, than our twin trees, all flourishing in turn, overlapping their seasons so we always have something fresh and delicious from last frost to first snow. The sugar snaps this spring grew fat on their vines as the tomato plants rooted and flowered. And when the peas withered and died in the summer heat, the tomatoes took over, the plants filling with engorged red orbs.

In July the tiny green globes on our neighbor's apricot tree, which graciously spans into our backyard, swelled into sweet orange fruits, just waiting for my hands to pluck and eat, one after the other. And eat I did, pulling the fruits from the sun-dappled branches overhead, closing my eyes as the flavor burst on my tongue.

The apricots have long since ceased production and the last of the peaches went to my parents last night. Soon our plum tree will be free of fruit, the bounty shared with friends and family and neighbors, but the first of our cucumbers is now begging to be picked. This evening we will have salads in celebration.

Some people own stoic mansions hidden behind sweeping gates; swimming pools brimming with cool, blue water; low, shiny sports cars that hug the curves in the road at any speed. But a garden and fruit trees are, to me, the greatest of luxuries.

In Which I Use too Many Parentheses (and Can't Remember the Rules of Capitalization for Titles)

2008-08-10T17:11:32Z

It is a coincidence that I contracted the flu yesterday, just hours after a library copy of Breaking Dawn -- the fourth and final book of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series -- fell into my hands. The fact that it is also a weekend (which means I don't have to feel the guilt associated with staying in bed for two days in a row, sucking down grape juice, popping pills and reading the 754-page tome) is just one more bonus but, yes, it is still a coincidence. If my weekend were a recipe it would require the following ingredients: one part restlessness, two parts reading machine, and four parts cat bed, since the three felines have apparently decided either that sleeping on The Couch of Death is passé or that I am more generously padded than said couch. (And, let's face it, the latter is probably true.) The past two days have also been comprised of stoic suffering and an attempt to be a pillar of strength in the face of adversity. (How am I doing so far?) Also, I've been watching way too many Vlogbrothers videos.

This means difficult times are ahead for our house. Remember that vacation I just took? The California one that not only necessitated camping supplies, beachwear and winter clothes (since, hello, San Francisco is really cold in the summer) but also a full conference wardrobe and makeup? Well, since Thursday was a catch-up day (which mysteriously did not include unpacking) and Friday was a work day, my bags have spent the past several days sitting in my bedroom, conveniently located at an angle guaranteed to make hubs trip if he should get up in the middle of the night. And since moving makes my skin hurt when I'm sick, unpacking isn't going to happen this weekend, either.

The good news is that I can't procrastinate forever because my work wardrobe is severely limited while most of my favorite clothes are wrinkling inside a garment bag. So what's the holdup, other than my schedule, my symptoms, and too many meds? Laundry. Because all those suitcased clothes are destined for a good washing. It is ridiculous to hate doing laundry. I have it so easy compared to anybody else in the history of the universe. For one thing, I have machines to do it. For another, said machines are located in my kitchen, which is just down the hall from a closet that houses a large stash of empty hangers. Also, long ago I made it a policy to never buy anything that requires an iron. And, finally, it's a weekend, so I can stick around to change over loads. See? Not a big deal. Except it kind of is somehow. So while I feel like an over-entitled gen-X middle-class American whiner for saying that I hate to do laundry, well, there it is.

As for writing about the trip itself, well, I stink at trip reports. I usually find them boring to write, and if I'm bored, you definitely will be. The good news is that you have lots of options if you want to know what hubs and I were up to. For one thing, I've already processed many of the 950+ photos from our trip and uploaded them to my phlog. (Phlog = photoblog.) So as a bonus not only do you get visuals, but I also have inane little paragraphs captioning them. The first picture is, predictably enough, of the Golden Gate Bridge. The next one, which is much cuter and lacking both the color orange and any sign of motor vehicles, will be up on Monday. Until then, this link probably won't work. New photos up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from now until my photos, the internet, or I end.

And if your nosiness concerns the conference I attended in San Francisco, you could revisit the links given in this post or the blogs belonging to the lovely and talented Alyson Noel, the vivacious and scarily elusive Melissa Blue, and the super-sweet Melina Kantor, all of whom I also had the pleasure of meeting at RWA and with whom I wish I'd had the chance to spend a lot more time. By now some of them have probably addressed the conference more thoroughly than I. Either way, their blogs are still worth the visit.

Disappointed by my reticence? Fine. If you have a specific question about our vacation, put it in the comments and I might answer it. Unless, you know, you want me to just write about the whole thing, in which case I earn a free pass to ignore you. And if there are no questions then I'm off the hook, so yippee.

The Song that Never Ends

2008-07-28T05:56:17Z

So I'm strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room's tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy '80s ballad.

Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.

My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it's death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?

I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.

*Yes, we're already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven't been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging's been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I'll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you're going, too, maybe I'll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam's posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.

In case you were wondering...

2008-07-15T15:55:56Z

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.

How to Look Like a Local in Six Easy Steps

2008-07-10T14:39:04Z

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.

A Good Model Is Hard to Find

2008-07-02T15:00:55Z

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.

Snails in Brown Uniforms and Kidnapping Mothers

2008-06-26T22:53:34Z

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.

Bugg'd

2008-06-23T01:56:57Z

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

Of Rocks and Heights and Alibis

2008-06-14T03:05:13Z

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.

This Is My Blog on SoCNoC

2008-06-06T19:42:05Z

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.

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!
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.
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.
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.
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.

I Will Never Be:

2008-05-31T03:33:00Z

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?

SoCNoC and a Contest Winner!

2008-05-28T22:41:11Z

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?

Things I Won't Post About Today

2008-05-25T17:47:01Z

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.

Driving Sideways and a Contest!

2008-05-20T13:02:36Z

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!

Writing off into the Night

2008-05-18T16:45:32Z

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.

Today is Not Friday & Boy Bands, a Reprise

2008-05-15T02:39:00Z

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?

Computing Roadblocks and Playing with Pixels

2008-05-12T01:14:00Z

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.