Go Take A Flying Leap

Ever wanted something really bad? And I mean, really, really bad…so bad that not only can you taste it, but you can see your dreams so clearly that you could give them a name tag and introduce them to your friends? I have a dream like that. I want to publish a book.

But this particular dream comes with some very scary steps. Writing the book actually seems easy in comparison. Because after it's all written? I had to let people actually read my book. Well, people other than my mom. And what if those people didn't like my main character? What if all my ingenious lines of dialogue came off as flat instead of funny? What if I used the wrong form of 'their'?

And some of that did happen. One person still refers to my main character as a major wimp (I'm looking at you, Betsy!), but that doesn't mean she isn't right. Along with the big scary process of reading my work out loud while others scratched through lines of perfection or didn't care about what shoes my characters were wearing or how long their flowing locks of hair are, I survived. I got hearts and smiley faces. They applauded my dialogue. What's more is that they have made me a better writer. Now, when I'm editing, I hear their voices in my head, telling me to get to the point, amp up the snark, or tone down the adverbs. (And I always use the correct form of 'their.')

As wonderful as my progress is, it's still not a finished book. There's another scary step to take. And this one is a doozy: sending out query letters. This is where I contact agents or publishers, tell them about my book, and then ask them if they'd like to read it, too. Many, many, many of these letters will be answered with a form letter saying "no, thanks." And that will hurt. It will hurt a lot, like if I offered them a portion of my soul, all chocolate-coated and gift-wrapped, only to have them smack it out of my hands and then stomp it to a mushy mess on the sidewalk. And I will have to be polite about it, dip the next piece of soul in chocolate and go on to another potential rejection.

Scary.

But I'm still gonna do it. This year. Sometime. I've got months left. But it will happen. I'm just trying to be as prepared as possible, hence the group allowed to slash my manuscript and tying back together again. And I have beta readers that aren't actually related to me. A beta reader is someone who reads the manuscript as if it were an actual book, then gives the author feedback, like which parts were confusing, boring, exciting, intriguing, or just awesome. My book has all of those.

One more way to prepare for the offering of my truffled soul is to have an editor look over the manuscript. A real editor. Someone who dissects prose and plot for a living, not just a buddy who took some English classes in college. And I have a chance to do just that! Rachel from Fantasy Editing is hosting a contest (and I totally stole the Samuel Beckett quote from the contest page). The prizes are editing for a current WIP (author-speak for "work in progress") or a query letter. Entering is a sort of thrilling/scary process because it is taking another step.

And each step is bringing me closer to the edge. That's where I send out my queries. That's where I'll take my leap of faith.

A Mothering Moment: Getting Pulled Over

The other day, I was driving home after taking my kids to music lessons and we were having an interesting conversation (about what kinds of babies mythical beasts would have…you know, the important topics). I was less than a block from home when I noticed flashing lights behind me. I changed into the far left lane, letting the policeman pass me to catch the bad guys. He pulled right behind me.

Uh oh. I was the bad guy.

Apparently, while discussing the complex offspring of a mermaid and a phoenix, I had stopped at a red light. However, instead of waiting for the light to change, I treated it more like a stop sign, waited a moment, and then drove right through. As if that wasn't bad enough, the cop had been in the next lane and I had passed right by him without noticing.

Well, it was a fascinating discussion with three kids, ages 10 and under, and their quirky perspectives.

After the policeman took my license and registration back to his car (laughing under his breath), the kids start in on me.

Baby: Are you gonna get arrested?
Yes, Baby, because your mother's misspent youth as a street thug has finally caught up with her in Suburbia.

Boy: You deserve to get a ticket.
Gee, thanks. And you probably deserve to be grounded for some reason that I've currently forgotten, but will nonetheless enforce.

Boo: Wow, Mom. You're really setting a great example for us.
Et tu, Boo-te? (But props on the elegant use of sarcasm.) And she totally started the conversation, so really, this is all her fault.

Fortunately, I was let go with just a warning (and the cop was still laughing). It was really lucky for me, considering it was the Man's birthday and the trendy shirt I got him would be disappointing enough to my fashion-impaired spouse without the added pain of an expensive traffic ticket.

Moral of the story:
Contemplate the troubles of a water-born creature that bursts into flames, but keep an eye on the traffic signals.

Dream Weaver

I dream rather frequently. Usually, they are quite vivid and I am able to remember them when I wake up. There hasn't been any dream quite so life-changing as Stephenie Meyer's visions of a glittery vampire in  meadow, but still, quite interesting. And I've noticed a recurring theme: bathrooms.

No matter where the dream may start, I seem to end up in a bathroom of some sort. A dream about being a teacher landed me in the boys' bathroom of my elementary school. An Olympics setting oddly included facilities with commodes resembling dentist chairs. Another dream had very long, narrow stalls with walls that were only waist high, while seated. That made for awkward conversations with the other patrons.

The other night, I had a dream where zombies invaded my neighborhood. After whacking a few neighbors and friends who craved my brains, I sought refuge with other survivors in a secure house. Since room was scarce, I slept on a pool float in the hot tub. And the bathroom? It was scarily similar to the set of "Deal or No Deal," but with toilets instead of briefcases. So maybe it should be called "Pee or No Pee." There was even a model for pets. (Unfortunately, if zombies really did knock on the door, our dog would be the first to greet them.)

Since bedwetting hasn't been an issue for several years, I don't think it is my bladder trying to get my attention. So I turned to the prominent source for dream analysis: the internet. Here's a quote from dreammoods.com:

"To dream that you are in the bathroom relates to your instinctual urges. You may be experiencing some burdens/feelings and need to "relieve yourself". Alternatively, a bathroom symbolizes purification and self-renewal. You need to cleanse yourself, both emotionally and psychologically."

Fair enough. But again, I don't think it's because of my real-life bladder. What alternate insight could this website offer?

"To dream that you are in a public restroom with no stalls or that there are a lot of people around while you are trying to do your business signifies your frustrations about getting enough privacy. You are always putting others ahead of your own needs. As a result, you are lacking a sense of personal space."

I have kids. Of course I have no privacy. And try explaining personal space to a pre-schooler.

"To dream that you can not find the bathroom or that you have difficulties finding one indicates that you have difficulties in releasing and expressing your emotions. You are holding back your true feelings about something."

Now we're getting somewhere! With those same kids running around, even though they are constantly seeking my attention, they don't actually listen to me. Sure, they're looking right at me with vacant expressions but when my mouth ceases to move, they resume whatever it was they were screaming doing.

With a need to release, I turn to my blog to express my dream bladder in the form of runny, pungent words. You are welcome.

Homeowner's Policy

Shortly after we moved into our house, the local waste disposable company invested in a new truck. This one has a big ol' claw that grabs the cans and dumps them. The driver doesn't need to leave the vehicle.

However, this was a new process and the worker assigned to our route was still working out some of the bugs.

His first time picking up our trash can, he crushed it.




The can wasn't a total loss. The back was cracked in several places but it still held together. For a while. The sections of plastic started breaking off. It took a couple years, but eventually the entire back of the trash can was missing. When the stray cats started feasting on our garbage, it was time to take things seriously.

This isn't just your typical patch job. Oh no. Nothing but the best for our trash can. Three layers of card board wrapped the back. Then a whole lotta duck tape. Seriously. See that? That can wasn't losing any more trash. Not on my watch. Surely this fix was going to last forever! Or at least until we moved out of the house.


One month later...

Duck tape just isn't what it used to be.

Bad Romance: Women's Suffrage

I know it seems like I'm just posting music videos lately but I thought this was definitely worth sharing. The video below was all over the place on Women's Day (March 8) but I saw it as a spoof of Lady Gaga's "Bad Romance" so I didn't pay much attention. It took the Newlywed sitting me down and making me watch  this. The video is actually a fairly accurate portrayal of what it was like for Alice Paul, one of the leaders of the Women's Suffrage campaign. They really did put her in a mental institution and force feed her during her hunger strike. And the deciding vote for the final state? He really was a young man whose mother had asked him to vote for women's rights.



Boo watched this with me and wondered what the women wanted to vote for. So we got to have a discussion about life back when women weren't given the same rights and recognition as men. An eye-opener for her, as she had no idea. They have another one about the Declaration of Independence, which Boo also asked about. Is the third grade too early to learn about why the American colonies declared their independence? I didn't think so but I guess they haven't gone into too much detail about it, yet.



Also? That talk wasn't nearly as bad as some we've had in the past.

Only the Good Die Young and I'm Kinda In the Middle

I've been thinking a lot about death - funerals and burial, in particular. And let me just say this now:

I am not dying, nor do I expect to be dying for another fifty years or so.

Got it?

Okay, so no one freak out on me.

So…funerals. I kinda have mine already planned. Well, not so much that I'm going to be handing out outlines to those I want to speak at my funeral or anything. But there are some distinct requests. For instance, for years I've wanted a bagpiper to play "Amazing Grace." Now, I still want the bagpipes but the tune is changing. Sometimes I want "Nearer My God To Thee" and other times I want "I Am A Child of God." I'm not sure I'd want it to take place in a chapel. I want there to be lots of laughing (but so help me, if someone turns my funeral into a roast like that they turned my bridal shower into one, I will totally go all poltergeist on them) and talking. Maybe zumba, too, because that might very well be what kills me. And afterward, everyone should go out for pancakes. No re-heated ham and funeral potatoes! Break out the IBC Root Beer! And there had better be chocolate.

Then there's the problem of where I'd be buried. While I love Utah, I haven't lived here all that long and if the Man ever moved away, I wouldn't want to be left behind (and I may have threatened haunting or something if he does that). Then there's Texas…well, if you've been to Texas than you understand my hesitation. The idea of cremation still gives me the heebee-geebies, but then the Man could just take my jar with him wherever he goes. If he wore jewelry, I'd have my ashes made into a big ol' diamond. Maybe I should stipulate in my will that he has to get his ear pieced and wear me as a diamond stud.

And it's not just the where, it's the how. Cemeteries these days make all the headstones lay flat. I'm sure this is great for maintenance and mowing but for those that get buried underneath that dead grass? Not so great. I don't mind mausoleums. They're above ground and usually very pretty. Of course, having my own cement or stone tomb, complete with black wrought iron fencing and lichen-covered angel statues, would be pretty sweet. I could totally see myself haunting that, you know…if heaven gets boring.

And if you show up to my funeral and there are no bagpipes, then I expect you to go find you some and puff away on 'em. And tell the Man that his new earring looks good, would ya?

Whistle While You Work

Admitting to my defects and faults is not an easy thing to do. Not because I embarrass easily but because I simply don't have many of them. In an effort to relate to those less awesome than myself, I will share one with you here.

I had a great childhood. Sure, there's enough interesting material to fill a therapist's notebook, but really? It was great! Lots of fond memories, inside jokes, and blackmail against my siblings. I never really thought about what was lacking or what opportunities I missed out on during those years. It wasn't until my young son, in his innocence, asked me for assistance and I discovered that I just could not help.

"Mom? Can you teach me how to whistle?"

No, I couldn't. Because I never learned how to whistle.

The sound of whistling was highly annoying to my mother. Therefore, it wasn't allowed in the house. I was far too busy running around outside, using hangers as make-believe bows shooting invisible arrows, to really notice that something was missing, that a core skill would be left vacant as I moved into my teen years. Of course, as a female, it wasn't necessary to master the ability to issue a recognizable "wolf whistle" on demand. So I was still ignorant.

It wasn't until I was an adult, placed in a leadership role where I was tasked with conducting large gatherings that I realized my skills in getting everyone's attention were lacking. I had to rely on others to supply that musically ear-splitting breath.

And still…I can't manage to whistle even the slightest tune. Every now and then, I get tones that don't sound like I'm slowly choking to death and I have to pretend like I'm not surprised. I can touch my tongue to my nose, roll it into a taco shape, unwrap a Starburst in my mouth, and I even used to be able to tie cherry stems into knots. But whistling? Nope. Can't do it.

It's a very good thing that my dog just needs to hear her name to come running back home. Or I don't live in New York and have to summon a taxi. Or that I don't need a ride from the legendary Shadowfax, Lord of the Horses*. Other than that, I will continue living my whistle-free life. I can only hope that my children don't suffer the same fate.

* - If you got that one, award yourself, 20 geek points!

Missing the Middle…and the Point

The Man travels for business quite a bit. While I am not terribly high maintenance, always calling and texting and posting cutesy messages on his Facebook wall, I do insist on one thing: he needs to bring me back a souvenier. It's how I've gotten chocolates from many states and countries.

Every now and then, the Man comes across something particularly unique and brings it home. Once, he brought me soap. But not just any soap, "environmentally conscience" soap. Here, have a look for yourself.

The explanation for their "hole"-ier than thou soap was simple enough: it's always that last little wedge of soap from the middle that gets thrown away because it's too small, so they just took out the middle. Hey, I'm all for conservation and going green. Since hippies aren't actually known for their soap usage, I guess maybe they didn't quite get it. But really? Taking a chunk out of the center is going to fix that wasted soap sliver problem, is it?

Not likely.

The way I see it, the gutted bar is still going to shrink, growing more and more brittle until it finally breaks up - into four smallish slivers of soap. All of which will probably be left in the soapdish to melt away.

And really, how hard is it to just do this:

What do you do with your soap slivers?

11-11-11

Have you met Erin? She's one of those gorgeous, multi-talented people that I would totally hate if she weren't so darn sweet. The only thing I've got on her is that my NaNoWriMo word count is higher than hers. And since copying is a form of flattery, I'm going to copy Erin's idea for today's unusual date.

11 Things I'm Grateful For:

1. Hot Chocolate on cold days. Warms the body and the soul.
2. Chubby-armed hugs and sloppy kisses. Nothing can turn my mood around faster.
3. Being able to be here to send the kids off to school and when they get home. A lot of my friends don't have this opportunity and I admit that some days, I take it for granted.
4. Friends that are equally as a dorky as I am. It's much more fun to let my freak flag fly when I'm in good company. (And when they get all my Doctor Who references…)
5. Zumba. I don't like exercise but this is more like getting in touch with my inner sexy Latina dancer. Sure, I look like a drunken monkey but I don't care! It's fun!
6. The Nephew. I'll have to write a post introducing him but he's only been here a short while and already has made himself indispensable.
7. Naptime. It's a nice break when the kids are sleeping (and I can eat my chocolate without having to share) but even better when I get to lay down, too. My pillow has it's own irresistible siren song.
8. Parents, including in-laws. They're such great examples and help me whenever I ask. Sometimes my big, huge problems can easily be brought down to perspective with just one phone conversation.
9. The Kiddos. There was a time when I was told I'd never be a mother. Each one of my three little ones is a miracle. And not just because they're here, but because they seem to actually like me and laugh at my jokes.
10. The Man. Not only is he basically my perfect match, but he supports me every November when I get the urge to abandon home and family in order to write a book, even when I refuse to let him read it.
11. Jesus Christ, my Savior. Too often I let it go unsaid, but I am so very grateful for His example and sacrifice.

What are you grateful for today?

Don't Step On My Cerulean-Hued, Non-Animal Skin Shoes!

Source

I've already admitted my utter lack of skill in the fashion department, especially when it comes to shoes. Nearly two years later, I haven't changed (although I now own a pair of adorable red heels!). Currently, I am on pair #6 of the same utilitarian black loafers because I wear them with everything. I'd rather stick with what works because by the time I join in on a trend, it's usually long over.

Honest, I really tried to care about shoes! I spent far too much money on an adorable pair of embroidered shoes that I had coveted (yes, coveted, as in "committing the sin of envy") for months. And? I've never worn them. I have a different pair of shoes that are nearly the same color that I opt for instead. Why? No idea. Maybe because the uglier shoes would give me better traction in case I have to run from zombies.

Then, in preparation for my cruise (which I never blogged about because I am a total slacker), I got two new pairs of shoes. Both are open-toed wedges, which I picked because I wanted heels ('cuz I'm short) but didn't want to wear stilettos on the beach. "Stuck" is not a good look. Now, the black pair has become my go-to shoe, taking the place of my trusty loafers. They are higher heels than I usually wear but they're just fun to walk in. I don't trip over my feet or stumble nearly as often as I do in heels. And? Random strangers give me compliments on them. For a chubby white lady who usually has had a kid smear something on her clothes which she then wears out in public because she hasn't noticed, compliments are pretty scarce.

So I stroll along, completing my errands in my cute shoes. I usually don't notice how much my feet hurt until I've been sitting down for a moment (a rare event with three kids to entertain during the summers months). But boy howdy, the shoes turn from pretty to painful after a couple hours. I tried inserts from Dr Scholl's but they won't stick to the shoes and keep flopping out. I found one in my daughter's doll house, being used as a carpet. I've decided that limping really takes the swing out of my swagger.

Also? There should be a law against gorgeous, tall, slim women being allowed to wear sky-high heels around us short, frumpy types. Even my Super Sexy Goddess boots just can't compare.

Moment in Which I Completely Freak Out and it is Almost Justified

The other night, the writing bug really hit me. You know, when that perfect idea bounces around in your skull all day, getting louder and louder, until you absolutely must sit down and get the thoughts flowing out onto the keyboard before they permanently damage your brain.

I was completely enmeshed by subject-verb agreement when I first noticed the tickle on my foot. It was easy to ignore. I had a plot to move forward, people! No time for distractions. Besides, it was probably just the airflow from the fan fluttering in my toe hair. (What an attractive visual image! You're welcome.)

The tickle turned to prickly but I was getting to the shocking reveal and there was no stopping me now! My fingers were smoking on the keys as I wiggled my big toe just a little. As the prick becomes a pinch, I'm starting to lose focus. My already running imagination starts scripting the possible scenario for my foot bother (ya know, because I gots me some o' tha crazies when it comes to "what ifs"). Perhaps it is an ingrown hair forming in protest to the afternoon spent in ugly crocs? Kids are in bed so surely there's no little person attempting to pluck the long strands from my toe knuckle. I'm barefoot but I'm in the house so it can't possibly be a poisonous snake that has somehow mistaken this for a hairy little mouse meal. What if the dastardly house gnomes have armed themselves with tiny pick axes, intent on stealing the bones in my foot, carving and polishing them, then selling the finished pieces in their highly lucrative tourist trade?

Finally, I wrap the scene. The last period barely strikes the screen before I'm leaning over to examine my foot. This is where I nearly throw my laptop into the next room in a effort to stand faster.

Attached to my big toe is a very large earwig. Ewwwww!

I hate those things! They're so creepy, with their pinchy little bums and the slithering way they move. And this one was huge! Nearly the size of my toe! Okay, that's just the adrenaline talking. It wasn't as big as that. More like the size of a quarter. Or perhaps a large penny...that's been folded into thirds lengthwise. Alright, alright...it was a normal size. But STILL! The bugger hurt. (Heheheheh...see what I did there?)

I spent the rest of the evening with one eye searching for split modifiers and the other for slinking insects. One must protect one's valuable and sought-after foot bones in case the retirement portfolio doesn't work out.

How to Kill Harold Crick

When I tell people that I hear voices, their reaction -- after scooting away from me -- is to suggest medication and perhaps time away from the general public. With that kind of treatment, it was refreshing to be in a room full of people that also hear voices. And the room wasn't padded, either.

The voices I hear aren't real people. Well, they're real to me, but I can't introduce you properly. They are the characters in my books. With all that jabbering, they're busy vying for attention, attempting to explain motivation, and just trying to get more page time. Sometimes, they just whine. The happens when I haven't been writing. If that's the case, their thoughts start crowding into my mine, even at the most inconvenient times. Just this morning, Doug, my current main character, wanted to talk about the beginning of his book (he doesn't like it but he's always had self-esteem issues) and The Man wanted to talk about vacations. Kinda hard to give both of them my attention. Lucky for me, Doug is used to being ignored (his mom never was very attentive) so he agreed to wait until after breakfast.

But I was talking about that group of voice-hearing people, wasn't I? (It's no wonder I can't keep thoughts straight...I've got three conversations running through my head right now.) I was feeling the itch for some learnin' when I saw a mention on Facebook about a creative writing class. AND it was taught by Annette Lyon. Sweet! Even though it meant a half hour drive to class on a Saturday morning (I am so not a morning person, especially on the weekends), I was in! And what a glorious six weeks it was! Finally, people who spoke my language. And they were just as obsessive over plot holes! It was bliss.

And then it ended.

*sigh*

Anyone else know of a creative writing class nearby?

Oh, and anyone have suggestions for Spring Break locations? We want to go camping!