Leisha Maw

The Motivation Of FIRE

2011-11-22T07:05:00.004-07:00

So, I’m doing NaNoWriMo this month. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s National Novel Writing Month. And yes you write a book in a month.

And yes, it is possible.

And yes, those of us who do it are a bit cracked in the head. But we're awesome.

And yes, the first draft is a bunch of rubbish.

And I’m going to start one more sentence with and because my brain is shot.

Anywho, the other night, on day 21, I was at 34,171 words—before starting for the day. That meant before I could go to sleep I had to crank out two thousand words.

Let’s just say I was in need of some motivation. My hubby handed me my ipod. He found my ear buds. He did the dishes so I didn’t have to. He changed the laundry and put the kids to bed. (He is such a keeper!) But, I needed something more to get my brain juices flowing. And yes, I know I’m pathetic, but I have very stubborn brain juices.

So anywho, I asked him if I could have a reward if I wrote my words.

Our conversation went something like this:

Me: I need a reward to make the words come out.

Him: What kind of reward?

Me: I don’t know. What do I like that isn’t food? (Usually I’m all over food as a reward, but I’d already rewarded myself for breathing and other hard things several times that day and felt kind of full. And when you read ‘full’ you should really read ‘afraid of the bathroom scale’.)

Him: Um, you like art, and books, and fire—.

Me: Ohhh! Can I start something on fire?

Him (looking wary): Like what?

Me: Like my manuscripts! The ones I have to revise!

(Here is a picture of said manuscripts.)

Him (looking scared now): No.

Me: Why not? That would be awesome.

Him: You’ll burn the house down. Remember last time?

Me (smiling): Yeah.

Him: No.

Me: I’ll do it outside. In the culdesac. That’s far from the house. It will look cool in the dark with snow falling down. Yeah?

Him: No.

Humph. How mean is that?

I had to write my two thousand words without any cool motivation—like fire. NaNo is hard without fire.

I know you feel bad for me, because I can feel your pity. Or is that aimed at my hubby?

And no, I did not start my house on fire the last time I burned stuff. I just almost burned down the deck.

Anywho, how about you? Are you doing NaNo? If not, are you doing something else this month that pushes you to greater heights? What motivates you in your goals? Drop a comment and share. My hubby will thank you for new non-flammable suggestions. J

We Have A Winner!

2011-11-17T07:05:00.006-07:00

Yes, we do indeed have a winner. Not me, just so you know, but Kid D!

What has she won? Only a really cool art contest for her school district and a local business. And by cool, I mean they-give-out-great-prizes kind of cool...

Okay, just drawing the picture was cool, too. Sheesh.

Here it is:

I would like to point out that Kid D is seven-years-old! And yes, I might be just a little proud of how hard she worked on this project. How hard, you ask? Blood and tears hard. But when she finished her drawing, she decided it was very worth it. She kept looking at it and saying, "I never thought I could draw something so good."

I agreed about it being awesome--not about the unbelief--because I'm just that nice of a mom.

And since I'm sure you're wondering what she won, it was this little old thing called a HUNDRED BUCKS!!!

Do you know how big a seven-year-old's eyes get when they find out their hard work got them one hundred big ones?

Let's just say they eclipsed the rest of her face.

And boy is she ready to spend her loot. I made a few motherly suggestions on how to spend it, because like I said, I'm a great mom. It went something like this:

Me: What are you going to buy?

Kid D: Toys!

Me: Ummm, you're going to spend all of it on toys?

Kid D with eclipse-her-face-eyes: Yes!

Me: Don't you want to buy some groceries or something?

Kid D: No? (The question mark was there in her voice, I swear.)

Me: How about buying tires for the car?

Kid D: No way! (Note that the question mark had a very untimely death. May it rest in peace.)

Me: Ummm, how about paying the heating bill?

Kid D: Mom!

Me: What? I'm just trying to be responsible. It's my job. Double sheesh.

Kid D going off to look at toy ads: I want to buy a whole bunch of Squinkies.

Squinkies?

What are they, you ask? Little, miniature, minute, tiny, itty-bitty figurines about the size of my thumbnail.

Can you imagine a hundred dollars worth of Squinkies laying around my house?

Ummm, I'm going to go try and convince her to go with the grocery idea. Or underwear. Underwear is good. Right?

Winter Bravery

2011-11-10T10:51:00.006-07:00

I have brave friends. Really I do. How brave you ask? You be the judge.

Over the last few months I started biking with these friends. It was a blast. I got a work out as we labored up hills, I got a rush from the wind against my face as we barreled back down them. We even got honked at and cheered for as we biked down the the road with longboards strapped to our backs. I was a cool mom for awhile.

Then the cold came. It moved in and settled like a toothache, mean and throbbing. And it's here for the winter.

I promptly turned on my fire, grabbed a blanket, and went into hibernation. But not my friends. They'd text me early in the morning, all hope and excitement. It went something like this:

Their text: Going riding. Want 2 come?

Mine: Ummm. It's 25 degrees. I'm afraid.

Theirs: It will be fine.

Mine: Too scared. Need fireplace.

And another day:

Theirs: You coming riding?

Me: Don't hate me, but no.

See? They. Are. Brave. And me? It's official. I'm a hermit. A cold-fearing, whimpering hermit.

And then today I got this text: Going for some type of exercise this morning. If we go for a walk instead of a ride, will you come?

And me?

Ummmm...

Well...

Maybe next time.

Really.

Where's my blanket?

Surprises

2011-11-08T07:05:00.008-07:00

So, today's post is about surprises. The first one is--I posted. Yup. Surprise!

As you may have noticed I took a month off due to blog fatigue. But I'm feeling rested now and will be posting more. Yay.

And on to the rest of the post...

Kid A, hubby, and I went to a local high school's play this last week. They're doing Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.

It was really good. They had a huge cast that even involved several local elementary schools' choirs and part of a junior high cast as well. See, huge. I'd never seen the play and sat laughing and tapping my feet to the music when an additional cast member walked on stage.

Who was this cast member you ask?

Only a real live camel!

One Hump Camel - Images - Pictures

Yes! A giant dromedary walked out on stage with all the kids. It towered over them while sauntering around the set!

As you might be able to see by my prolific use of exclamation marks, I was amazed! I was thrilled! I clapped! I laughed out loud! (I may have even squealed. But don't tell anyone. Shhh.)

But why was I surprised? It's not like I've never seen a camel before. I've been to the zoo loads of times. I've watched nature shows on TV. I have google. It's not like it was a new creature that the gods spawned right before my eyes, but here's the thing--I didn't expect a camel to walk out on stage. I was surprised. And it pushed an already good show over the top to amazing for me.

And it made me think about books. Ha! I bet you're surprised...or not. But, think about your favorite books. Don't they all have some kind of surprise in them? Some twist you didn't expect that took your mind and held it captive for a moment or two? All my favorites do.

I'm participating in Nano this year, which is kind of a surprise to me, but as I write today, I'm going to keep camels in mind. And I'm going to try to write one into my story--not an actual camel, but the whole idea of a camel surprise.

How about you, are you going to spring a camel on anyone today? You should because the world needs more camels. Just saying. *wink*

How To Tell If Your Day Is About To Turn Ugly

2011-10-11T06:02:00.005-06:00

Let's just say you were looking forward to a calm Sunday with your family, a little sleeping in, a little church, a little day off from the cares of the world. Sounds good doesn't it?

I thought so, especially the sleeping in part--until Kid D woke me up Sunday morning with this, "Mom, there's water dripping from the ceiling. Inside!"

That, my friends, is how you know your day is about to head south. Fast.

There are some things you can sleep through and deal with later like: the sound of cartoons in the other room, the sound of kids getting their own cereal, or even Kid D saying, "The cat threw up on the floor." The last one makes you groan, but at least you know it's not going to get worse, the deed is done after all. But you can't sleep through water dripping from the ceiling because it is going to get worse. A lot worse. And because it is not supposed to rain inside.

And that rain should never come from the toilet.

Toilet rain is just ugly.

And it doesn't get any prettier when coming through your basement ceiling in bucketfuls after collecting on the main floor bathroom like some sewage-tinged wading pool.

Oh, and water isn't that much better when it sprays out of your main water shut off valve in addition to spilling from the toilet. Just saying.

Sigh, I guess you could just say we have an affinity for toilets. And water. So much for sleeping in.

Telling Stories, Kid History, and Why Am I So Much Buffer Than You?

2011-10-06T08:29:00.004-06:00

Have you ever noticed that kids know a lot about telling stories? They seem to have a inner sense about it--about using dialog, conflict, employing interesting characters, and killer voice. They have skills. Mad skills.

Here's a few examples from YouTube. There are six Kid History episodes so far. Each one is better than the last, and they all teach us great things about telling stories while being down right entertaining.

Aren't they good? And don't you have the strangest desire to go around asking people, "Why am I so much buffer than you?" Or telling them that, "Girls are mermaids. Some boys are mermaids, too." I know I do.

What did you learn about telling a good story?

Recipe for Writing

2011-10-04T08:24:00.004-06:00

My friend Cherie at Herbivore Meals is doing thirty-one days of meal planning on her blog.

Sound great?

It is, even though it's been hard for me to embrace new meal ideas. Just so you know, I have a long standing feud with meal planning. Well, it's more like I have a problem with trying new recipes. We're like strawberry ice cream with chili topping--we don't go well together. Why? Because the new recipe is new. It's different. It takes work and thought and effort. It takes me out of my comfort zone, and my comfort zone for cooking is pretty narrow.

I've never loved cooking. Ever. It's like cleaning the toilets. Really. Why? Because it has to be done or things go south. It just gets stinky if I slack off in the bathroom, but if I skip making dinner a few times people die of starvation. Ack! The pressure!

I have about ten things I cook on a regular basis, from homemade spaghetti to wheat bread from scratch. And what goes on the table tastes pretty yummy, if I do say so myself. (I never said I couldn't cook. I just said I didn't like to.) The only problem is, when you eat spaghetti every week for twenty years you start to think: Meh. Or even: Double meh. Or even: Maybe I'll go clean the toilet.

So, lately I've tried to branch out, add new things to the old rotation, because who wants to be thinking about toilets while they eat? And in my efforts to branch out, I've--shock of all shocks--experimented with new recipes.

Some of them have resulted in a chorus of yums. Others...yeah, not so much, especially the time I ACCIDENTALLY dumped a cup of brine into the casserole I was making. Just so you know, brine doesn't taste good. EVER. Who knew that the people who make roasted peppers bottle them in brine instead of water? I mean really. This was so not my fault. Oh, and you probably shouldn't cook when your mind is off conversing with characters from a book, just saying.

The point of all this is, it's been good to get out of my rut. It's been good to try new things. And even if the family is a little hesitant when something different shows up on the table...and even if they all ask me if there is brine in it, they've liked the change. And I've liked the change.

What does this have to do with writing? Plenty. How many of us are in a writing rut? Do you sit down to write and think: Meh. Maybe I'll go clean the toilet?

It's time to change things up, to get a new recipe. Grab your computer and leave the house. (Yes, you can do this. It's called living.) Go to the library, bookstore, or park and spend a couple of hours working there. The change in scenery will do you good.

Go somewhere without internet access--you might go into withdrawls, but Google will not die without you. And, no, you won't die without it either. I promise.

Call a writing buddy and arrange a writing date.

Start a new project, or pull out an old one.

This doesn't mean you can't eat spaghetti anymore, it just means sometimes you need a change. And yes, sometimes you might eat some brine as you try new things, but the yums are worth it.

What are you going to do to shake it up today?

Horrible Beginnings

2011-09-29T09:23:00.007-06:00

Have you heard about the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest? It's held in honor of Edward Greorge Bulwer-Lytton author of the infamous first line: It was a dark and story night.

Here's the whole thing in it's awful glory.

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents--except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

--Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, Paul Clifford (1830)

This contest invites writers to do their worst and write horribly bad beginnings. They're allowed one sentence. And boy are there some, ahem, winners.

My friend Angela and I spent a riotous half-hour coming up with something...wrong. At least we tried. Then our line became a few. And the few gave birth to snort-educing laughter, well on my part at least--Angela did not snort because she is way too cool to snort. Just saying.

So, without further ado, here is our horrible beginning:

Bernard pushed open the men’s bathroom door and was surprised to find a female leaning over the toilet, elbow deep in the water. She pulled her arm out to lift the strap of her denim overalls back onto her shoulder.

“Hey baby,” Bernard said, “if you were a booger, I’d pick you.”

The brunette pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, leaving a brown smear and smiled back, revealing a hole where her front teeth should have been. She dropped the pipe wrench into her bag and replaced the plunger at the side of the toilet. The scent of her rose to meet his nostrils like the green stench of a toddler’s morning diaper. She wiped her dripping hand across the front of her flannel shirt, smudging the name on her badge: Anita P. Oop.

She winked. “Not if I picked you first.”

Now, this isn't for the contest, it's for fun...and maybe for a writing class my friend is taking, but wow, was it a blast to write. The most interesting thing for me was I kept automatically editing it, you know, trimming out excess adverbs and adjectives and stuff like that. I had to remind myself to let them stay. It was supposed to be bad.

I can't tell you how happy that made me. Why? Because I don't think I would have done that a year or two ago. I wouldn't have realized it was bad. Kaching!

Maybe we need to write something bad on purpose to realize that we are all making progress. So, go out and write your own horrible beginning and post it in the comments. I can't wait to snort some more. He he he.

Inspiration

2011-09-22T09:46:00.003-06:00

So, just in case you didn't know, writing is hard. It's lonely. It takes years and so, so many drafts. And it's hard. My friends often look at me and can't understand why I sit at the computer for hours and days at a time. Heck, I don't really understand it myself. But! Sometimes friends provide awesome inspiration.

I recently participated in a novel exchange with three amazing writers. It was fun to wait and anticipate their reactions to my book, but it was even better to read their books.

As I read every story I found myself energized--wanting to write more on my current draft. I wanted to become better, to craft words and worlds like the ones I was reading. Their stories elevated me in a way reading a book off a bookstore shelf couldn't.

Why?

Because these women are just like me, ordinary people trying to break into the universe of published authors. And I know them. And they rock. Which makes me believe that maybe, just maybe, I can rock, too.

So, thanks for the inspiration and the hope you gave me by writing great books, and for investing in mine. You all truly do rock. :)

You've Got What In Your Pants?

2011-09-20T08:31:00.006-06:00

My very good friend, Friend A, decided to trim her trees. Now, this sounds like a semi-safe activity. You have the normal dangers: saws, falling branches, allergies to work and tree stuff, and...sweat. But, did you know there are hidden dangers in tree trimming?

Yes there are.

Friend A clipped and sawed, pruned and primped her trees, and the whole time leaves and twigs rained down on her. They pelted her hair, scratched her face, and lodged in her shirt. Yes, down her shirt and into her pants. Have you ever had leafy twigs in your pants? Let's just say, POKEY.

One of these twigs kept stabbing her thigh as Friend A trimmed. She pulled at her pants. Then she pinched at her pants. Then she did a shimmy intended to send the offending twig down to her toes. Nope. Twigs don't dislodge that easily when they are stuck in your pants.

Determined to finish her trimming, my friend sawed and clipped on. But that darn twig kept poking her. Poking twigs hurt, so she pulled her pant leg up and tried once more to get it out. As she rolled her pants up, she saw the vibrant green of a leaf and yanked it out.

Aha! Success.

Well, partly.

Half of it broke off, leaving the poking part stuck in her pants. And suddenly it poked a lot more. In fact it felt a lot like being bit. Repeatedly.

Friend A looked at the half-leaf in her hand. And. It. Had. Legs. The legs, attached to the half-BODY, kicked and squirmed. And the body part oozed yellow stuff.

Let's just say Friend A screamed. There may have been a fair amount of jumping, too. Then she ran into the house and stripped down. The upper part of the leaf bug still gripped her thigh, biting. Biting. Biting.

There was more screaming.

And some slapping.

And stomping.

And a shower.

And shuddering.

And some heeby jeebies.

And one heck of a good story.

What does this have to do with writing? Well, like in life, a good story has twists and turns and unexpected events. You have to have figurative leaf bugs stuck in your pants--or at least in your character's pants. Think of all the fun you can have imagining up ways to torment your characters. Mwahahahaha.

Now, stop blog surfing and go write!

Knowing What You Like and Writing What You Know

2011-09-15T08:09:00.004-06:00

Every reader knows what they like. Even young readers know. They might not be able to put it into words, but they know it when they see it. It just plain resonates with them. Let me give you an example that has nothing to do with writing or reading. And yes, it will make sense by the end of this post.

A couple of days ago my hubby and I took Kid A out to eat for her seventeenth birthday. While we were out partying, my sweet neighbor tended our other three children. Now, for those of you new to this blog, my two boys--Kids B and C--are mentally disabled. While they are teenagers in body, they are about eight developmentally and have limited speech.

My friend, who is amazing and awesome, entertained my kids all night. Toward the end of the evening they took an interest in the family portrait hanging in her front room. She had quite the conversation with them about it that went something like this:

Awesome friend(hereafter known as AF): Do you know who those people are?

Kid B and C: Yes.

AF, pointing at herself in the picture: Who's that?

Kids: You.

AF: Right. Who's this?

Kids: Husband.

It went like this through each family member until they reached her super cute teenage daughter. Then it went like this:

AF: And who's this?

Kid C, leaning in closer: Very nice!

I giggled myself silly when I heard this story. What can I say, Kid C knows something good when he sees it. He knows what he likes.

It's the same in a book. It doesn't take a reader 250 pages to decide they like something. Stories don't grow on people like moss. Readers know within the first page or two if it is their kind of thing.

What does that mean for a writer? It means you need to know what you like, too. And then write it. You have to enjoy your own story. If it bores you, it will but the reader into a coma. And just in case you are confused, coma is only one step better than dead. Killing or otherwise maiming/incapacitating your reader is bad.

We spend so much time as writers trying to craft the perfect story, trying to mold it to fit an editor or agent's preference. We try to write their kind of story. Why? We need to be more like Kid C and write the kind of book that will make us say, "Very nice!" That enthusiasm will show in our words, and then someone else might just say the same thing.

Now go have fun writing your kind of story.

Fresh Peach Pie and Joining My High School Alumni Glee Squad

2011-09-08T07:21:00.007-06:00

I made fresh peach pie last night. For some things there are words, really good ones, for others there aren't--except maybe yummmmmmmm. Peach pie is what dreams are made from. I know, I ate three pieces. Triple yummmmmmm. It may also be what diets are born from. I'll get back to you on that one.

I also know what breeds nightmares, because I had a real winner last night. In my dream I joined my high school's alumni glee squad. Just so you know, my high school doesn't have an alumni glee squad, probably for a very good reason, but that didn't stop me at two in the morning.

If you like the television show Glee, you wouldn't like this dream.

Why? We couldn't sing. We couldn't dance. We did a synchronized swimming luau musical. The only words I have for this are: What the freak? And: NIGHTMARE!

I told my hubby about it this morning, and he just stared at me for a minute. Then he said, "That is not cool."

See why I married him? He is a brilliant man and oh so right. Cool and a bunch of alumni (you really should read 'old people' here) dressed in swimming suits performing a synchronized swimming luau musical don't belong together. Ever. I Promise.

And even though I've donned a swimsuit in the middle of a crowded Costco, it was over jeans, and I didn't have to dance in it. Or swim up a waterfall while juggling flaming torches and singing in full voice. Those alumni glee squads are hard core. They even made us practice four hours every day so we'd be as synced as possible for our performance.

What does this have to do with writing? It's just proof that all ideas are not good ones. Sometimes we have to let an idea die, think of it as putting it out of its misery. And if any of you are out there thinking that a high school alumni glee club/synchronized swimming/musical/luau/torture group is a good thing, we need to talk.

Word Wars

2011-09-06T08:21:00.002-06:00

So, writing is hard. Not like back-breaking, sweat-inducing, chain-gang, sweat-shop kind of hard, just the type that makes you bleed out of your finger tips kind of hard. Sounds fun doesn't it? But that's the thing, it is fun...after you get started. Facing that blank page might just be the toughest thing.

That's where Word Wars come into play. I've been having them with my writing group. What the hey diddle diddle is a Word War? Well! I heard about Word Wars from Brodi Ashton, author of EVERNEATH, and Bree Despain, author of the DARK DIVINE series. They have them all the time. These two writers are geniuses, and they're pretty smart, too. They challenge each other to write for an hour straight, and then they post their word totals on Twitter. The highest word count wins. Viola, Word War.

And it works!

Sitting down to write a novel is daunting. Sitting down to write one scene for a mere hour is WAY easier, and knowing your friend is doing the same thing helps a ton. It also doesn't hurt knowing they are trying to kick your can all over the place, and you better produce words as ammo if you don't want to lose the war.

What do you do to jump start your writing, or whatever you non-writers do to torture yourselves? I'd really love to know how you do it.

My Grandma's Cellar

2011-09-01T09:02:00.004-06:00

It's the end of summer and that means canning. What is canning some of you might ask, it's where you take your harvest and bottle it up. Think of it like capturing summer with it's sun and warmth and plenty in a jar so you can eat it in January. Yesterday I did peaches.

Is there a better way to remember summer? I don't think so.

My peaches went from this:

To this:

Anywho, I talked with a friend last night about canning, and we somehow ended up in my grandma's cellar. Not in real life, but in my memories. My grandma had a real cellar, the kind you had to descend into down wobbly stairs, past the cobwebs and into the earth. We're talking the kind of cellar with dirt walls and support pillars crafted out of wood so old it was probably taken from the Arc.

The place was spooky. Things lived in it. Creepy crawly things.

Whenever we visited my grandma I got the job of retrieving bottled green beans, or pickled beats, or the bottled tomato sauce that we called moon juice because it looked like it belonged on the surface of the moon, all cratered and otherworldly until you shook it up.

Can you imagine me as a seven-year-old trembling my way down those stairs into the darkness armed only with a flashlight and a grandma's request? And then there was the smell, tombish and dank. To me it smelled like spiders, and they glared at me from their webs draped across the yellowed foam insulation that connected the cellar to the house like bloated caterpillars. This was were nightmares came to die.

And food did, too. Grandma didn't have new food all fresh and full of sunlight. She'd stopped canning years before when she realized she wouldn't live to eat what she did have.

Grandma had bottled relish from the dawn of time, stacked on shelves cut into the dirt walls and draped in decades of dust. And she ate it. She ate all of the old stuff down there because after living though the great depression she couldn't waste what she had.

I remember sticking my hand into that blanket of dust and cobwebs to pull out green beans so old they'd turned brown, then shuddering my way up to daylight. I was always sure we'd die from eating Grandma's old food. I'd sit at dinner and pray, never touching my beans, just waiting to call 911 when someone killed over from botulism. No one ever did, but I won't eat old beans. Ever.

So, what does this have to do with anything? I don't know, but I do know that my fresh peaches with all their summer warmth don't belong in a cellar. They belong in steaming peach cobbler and pies dripping with homemade ice cream, devoured in front of a cozy fire as snow falls in drifts. You can bottle goodness--just don't put it in my grandma's cellar.

My New Toy

2011-08-30T08:26:00.003-06:00

I got a new toy last night. I bought it from the neighbor for the awesome price of carpooling his son to the high school. The best part about this is, I don't even drive to the high school. Kid A does. Ka-ching!

What did I buy? My very own bike. Squee. I feel like a little kid again. Remember how that felt? All that joy bottled up in your body just waiting to spill out in play?

Now, you should probably know that until about a week ago I hadn't ridden a bike in twenty years. Okay maybe more than that, but who's counting? Not me. Shudder. So, how did I go from bikeless and rideless for decades to owning a bike in seven short days? You know the friend who got me into longboarding? Yup. Need I say more? She's contagious in a very good way. Except she wants me to try bridge jumping next. Ummmmm. Yeah, not so sure on that one.

But! Biking is so fun...and so much harder than I remember it. Of course, I do live on the side of a mountain so there is a lot of uphill involved. As a kid I mostly rode on flat ground. Smart kid.

But! (And yes, I can keep starting paragraphs with but because I am not in English class.) Everything that goes up must come down, and boy is down fun!

What does this have to do with writing? Scads! Often as writers we plod along forever, writing the same thing, then rewriting it. And then rewriting it. And then...yes, rewriting it. While this is good and necessary to perfect your book, sometimes we need a change. A new toy to play with. We need something that reminds us of the joy we can experience as writers. We need to play, yes with words. Fun ones. Words that make us go squee as we barrel downhill. Yes, writing takes work, lots of it, but it's supposed to be awesome. Remember awesome?

My challenge today is to play with your writing. Write something different and maybe even frivolous. Start a new project, forge ahead into new territory. Get a new toy. And make sure it makes you squee with joy. Really. Put aside the thirteenth draft of your novel and just play with words today. You might just remember what made you want to be a writer in the first place.

Avoiding Mannequinism, or Writing Realistic Dialog

2011-08-25T06:51:00.007-06:00

Today we're talking dialog. Why? Because every book needs it, but writing it can be hard. When I first started writing all my characters sounded like mannequins. How does someone sound like a mannequin? Ha, it's difficult, but I have mad skills. You just write every line of dialog so stiff and formal that the reader knows the characters are plastic and dead-eyed. Viola, mannequin. So not a good thing. Do not try this at home, your computer may self destruct. And it's painful. For everyone. Just saying.

I'd share some early examples of my dialog, but it might destroy the internet with its awfulness, and then the feds would find me and turn me over to all the internet junkies to be drawn and quartered. And I burned it, so it would be hard for you to read the ashes. Some things just need to die, and my early dialog was one of them. Really.

What I'll do instead is share my friend Angela Citte's awesome dialog exercise from a writing class she's taking. The instructions were to spend a day just listening to people talk and get the feel of the cadence of their words, the flavor of their voices. Then she needed to write up a scene with nothing but dialog. That means no narration, no dialog tags--nothing but the actual speech. And the characters needed to be distinct and have voice. (That means they needed to sound like living people not mannequins. Or politicians. Shudder.)

Angela chose to listen to her kids and recreated a breakfast conversation/song. I say song because the first speaker sings everything. I can't read it without hearing a four-year-old's sing-song voice. How about you?

THE BREAKFAST SONG

“I like my little doggie. Her name is Alligayla. I like my little doggie. Her name is Alligayla.”

“Lily, stop singing. You’re going to make me puke.”

“Yeah, your songs are weird.”

“And sheeeee likes to dance, and sheeeeee likes to eat some food.”

“Lily, stop singing. Eat your cereal.”

“Dogs don’t dance.”

“And sheeeee likes to sing, and sheeee likes to play with her dolls.”

“Mom, do you have some ‘duck’ tape?”

“Or some of that stuff you can stick over her mouth. Mmmm, mmmm. I can’t sing my weird song anymore.”

“That’s ‘duck’ tape, Zach.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“And sheeeee likes to comb her hair, and sheeee likes to put pretties in her hair.”

“Lily!”

“And sheeee likes to put her make-up on, and sheee likes to wear a princess dress.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Lily, dogs don’t do ANY of that.”

“I like my little doggieeeeee. Her name is Alligayla.”

“That’s not even a real name.”

“IIIIIII like my little doggie. Her name is Alligayla.”

“I know, Lily, let’s play the quiet game and see who can keep their mouth shut the longest.”

“I think you gave me a headache . . . right here.”

“And sheeeee likes to swim in a water, and sheeee likes to go on the swirly slide.”

“You’re making me sick.”

“Yeah, and then he’ll puke all over you. Bleaaaaaa.”

“And you’rrrrre not the boss of me, and you’rrrrre not the boss of me.”

[Silence]

“IIIIIIIIII like my little doggie.”

[In unison] “LILY!”

So? Wasn't that delightful? Did you hear their different voices? Did they come off the page as real kids? They sure did for me. Not a mannequin in sight. I love this exercise and can't wait to apply it to my own stories. I'm going to go through a couple of scenes and remove everything except the dialog just to see if the characters sound distinct or if there is some plastic left. And then I'll delete the plastic and insert life. Ahhh, sweet dialog.

How about you, what's your favorite bit of dialog from a book or movie? Or if you write, what's your best bit of living dialog, and how did you get into your characters' heads to write it? Come on, you know you want to share.

I've Been Liebstered

2011-08-23T09:29:00.006-06:00

Yes, I have indeed been Liebstered.

Ummmm, what is that, you say? Do you need a doctor? Or bed rest? A tissue? A straight jacket? Is it catching?

First off, it is catching, but that's a good thing. Second off, I needed a straight jacket before this, so that question doesn't even count. Thbbbt!

And now back to being liebstered. My writing friend, Jenilyn Tolley, gave me this:

From the minute amount of German I remember from high school and college I think it means she loves me. Or at least she loves my blog. (And it has a heart on it so if my German failed me, I have a pic to back me up.) Bonus! Because I heart/liebster her right back. She's a fun, fun gal with a crazy love of boots. Go check out her blog.

Seriously. Go forth and do. Really. Oh alright, you can wait until you finish reading mine. I know I'm just that addicting.

Anywho, in compliance with the almighty Liebster rules I must now:

1.) Milk a goat.
2.) Do the hula.
3.) Learn to beat box.
4.) Secretly deposit seven zucchini on the neighbor's porch without getting caught.
5.) Drive five carpools simultaneously.
6.) Hug a fat cat.

I'm strangely excited to do number three.

Okay, the real rules, which are so not as fun as mine, are:

Bestow the Liebster Award to awesome bloggers who, at the moment, have less than 200 followers. Then:

1.) Show your thanks to the blogger who gave you the award by linking back to them. (Check.)
2.) Reveal your top five picks and let them know by leaving a comment on their blog. (I'm getting there. Don't get all anxious. Sheesh.)
3.) Post the award on your blog. (Check.)
4.) Bask in the love from the most supportive people on the Internet – other writers. (Oooh oooh. I like this one. Grin)
5.) And best of all – have fun and spread the karma! (Me likey this one too. Double grin.)

So, without further ado, here are my five be-awesome picks. Cue the drum roll.

Sandy at A Writers Heart
CL Beck
Elizabeth Mueller, who has a book coming out this fall. Squee!
Mary at The Gray Willow
And Candice at Suffering From Writer's Blog

Taaa Daaaa!

Don't forget to check out Jenilyn's blog now that you are done reading mine, because she rocks! And so do all my fab picks. :)

Back To School Curse Words And Teenage Torture Devices

2011-08-17T08:09:00.008-06:00

I've never been a morning person. No, not even once. I'm more of a stay up late kind of gal. That's why as summer winds to a close and school hovers in the near distance, I start mourning my mornings--even while I anticipate the sweet tones of the bus engine. Yes, I'm conflicted.

All summer I sleep in. It's blissful and oh so delicious. I'm not talking about wasting the whole day or anything, more like reveling in slumber until seven or eight in the morning. Ahhhhh.

That's all going to end in six days.

Six.

Sniff.

And yes, I hear you out there sniggering and saying, "Just go to bed earlier." HA! Never works. I have teenagers. They're like walking torture devices designed for parental sleep deprivation. If you have one, you know my pain.

So, I have a plan. It's not a very good one, but it's all I got. I'm going to soak up as much sleep as I can in the next six days, because you know that bus I talked about? Yeah, it comes at 6:30. That means I have to get up at five something.

Five!

It's so foul it should be a curse word, the nasty kind that my parents would have pulled out soap and ordered me into the bathroom for. Shudder. And even if I start going to bed at ten, it won't wash the taste of five out of my mouth because me and five don't get along. Somehow I don't think that is going to change in six days.

Do you have a start of school curse word as foul as FIVE? I'll go get the soap.

Thing Number Three

2011-08-12T08:23:00.005-06:00

You know how I blogged about my cat and my basement flooding and worried about bad thing number three striking? Well, the hillside above our house started on fire, and I thought, Crap.

But the firemen were awesome and put it out before any houses went up in flames. Then I thought, Dodged a bullet there. Sweet. Thing three averted.

Wrong. The Universe doesn't work that way. It likes threes. It also doesn't like me dodging bullets. Yup you guessed it, our three happened last night, and no, it wasn't as bad as the house burning down, or even as bad as it flooding, and definitely not as bad as my cat getting hit by a car, but it was messy. (And that was a really long sentence.)

What was our thing three? In an effort to be a good hostess to a book club meeting at my house, I decided to make fresh scones. You have to use oil to deep fry scones. We had lots of scones planned, so we had lots of oil. Do you know what happens to carpet if you accidentally dump a gallon of oil on it? I do. And did it just fall on the ground and goober up one spot? Of course not, such a silly question. It had to hit the floor and splash over fifteen feet of carpet. Curse you cooking oil!

I guess it wouldn't be so bad if we hadn't just learned that the carpet we so painstakingly cleaned and pulled up from the basement flood can't be relaid--something about it being bad if the back comes off the front. Sheesh.

Oh well, at least we've had our three. Knock on wood. Several times. (Please, stop at three, Universe. I'm begging you.)

So, if any of you out there know how to get oil out of carpet, you will officially be my new best friend (oh the glory!), because after hours of trying, I despair.

Bugs And Breaking All The Rules

2011-08-10T11:07:00.004-06:00

Last night I dreamed about bugs. Now, normally I'm not the squeamish kind, you kind of have to get over that if you're the bug slayer of the house when Dad isn't home. But dreams are different. Why? Because bugs don't follow the rules in dreams.

What are the rules? So nice of you to ask.

Bug rule number one: They die when you squish them.

Bug rule number two: They stay dead when you squish them.

Bug rule number three: They are always smaller than you. Period.

Bug rule number four: They aren't allowed to engage in active warfare. This means no ganging up on the humans with the intent to kill everyone. (I know some of you will contest this rule, but getting attacked by a swarm of killer bees is way different because bees--even though they make honey--and wasps and hornets are evil and therefore do not count as bugs. They count as EVIL. And those killer African driver ants that devour whole cows and occasionally people don't live by me, so they don't count either.)

Can you see why bugs that don't follow these rules would be bad? Yup, nightmare city. I spent the whole night trying to fend of swarms of resurrecting/zombie bugs who had it out for me. Shudder. There should be some serious consequences for bugs who break the rules.

But! It did make for an interesting, if freaky, night. Why? Because they did break the rules. This got me thinking about writing. Weird, huh?

We spend so much of our time as writers trying to jump through the hoops and follow all the little rules. Sometime it feels like everyone has a new list of rules: Use internal dialog. Don't use internal dialog. Add physical responses. Don't ever add physical responses. Let your character cry. Don't. Use first person. Use third person. Do the Hokey Pokey. Stab me in the eye! How is a writer supposed to write? It's like getting caught in a traffic jam with five hundred policemen all directing traffic a different way. How is a girl supposed to know who is right? Is anyone?

Somerset Maugham said: "There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are." (Even traffic directing policemen. And no, Somerset didn't say that last part, that's all me.)

I think it all comes down to breaking the so called rules. Martine Leavitt told us at the WIFYR conference that we could break any rule we wanted--as long as we did it brilliantly. Last night the bugs did, they slaughtered every one of the rules. And they captivated me. Even after nearly a full day of wakefulness, my mind keeps returning to them and their bug rebellion.

Maybe it's time for our own rebellion. Maybe we shouldn't stay squished. Maybe we should write larger than life and let the bug spray fall where it may. How about you, are you ready to revolt? What rules are you going to break today?

Living Like You're Eight Feet Tall

2011-08-04T06:51:00.005-06:00

I have a tall friend, I'm talking six-foot-eight kind of tall. He's a great guy and stands above the crowd almost everywhere he goes. In fact, I saw him at a recent community fair where a little old lady, who barely reached five feet, approached him and asked: Are you eight feet tall?

He laughed and told her his real height, emphasizing the shortness of it compared to Goliath standards. I laughed, too, and even though I was only an eavesdropper (the innocent-just-happen-to-be-standing-nearby kind, not the creepy-spy-on-people kind, just so you know) on this conversation, it's stuck with me. Why, because this friend lives larger than life everyday. It's not just his height, it's his personality, his presence in the world, his persistent goodness.

I want to live larger than life, too--in every aspect of myself. I want to write, mother, friend, neighbor, work, and play like I'm eight feet tall, even if I'm only five-foot-nine and shrinking. Yes, I want to live like a giant, in everyway, because I want someone else's life to be impacted for good because of what I've done. Not in a showy prideful way, but in a quiet live-like-a-giant in goodness kind of way.

A very wise man once said:

“Believe in yourself. Believe in your capacity to do great and good things. Believe that no mountain is so high that you cannot climb it. Believe that no storm is so great that you cannot weather it. You are not destined to be a scrub. You are child of God, of infinite capacity.”
Gordon B. Hinkley

How about you? Do you know people who live taller than they are? Does it inspire you to greatness? What makes you want to live life like you're eight feet tall?

I'm Sorry About Your House, And Your Cat, But...

2011-08-02T08:06:00.006-06:00

So, how often does your sister start off a conversation like this: "I'm sorry about your house, and your cat, but at least you have something to blog about."

Yup, it was that kind of weekend.

You know how they say bad things come in threes? Well! Let's just say we've had event one and two, and I'm very afraid for number three. It all started Saturday night. Kid A, my hubby, and I stayed up late watching a show. When I stumbled into bed past midnight and started drifting into blissful sleep, I heard the unmistakable sound of a cat screaming in pain just as a car passed our house.

Sleep vanished, and long story short, someone hit our cat. Poor old kitty. Thankfully, he's alive and kicking, but we didn't think he'd make it through the night. *Sigh of relief*

Then Sunday evening it started to rain. And rain. And rain. Monday morning I bolted from sleep at 5:45 to the sound of rushing water. Being the worry freak I am, I went to see what was causing said rushing, even though Hubby told me it was JUST the rain. Rain doesn't fall in biblical proportions, because when that happens it's called a plague. Let's just say it was plaguing outside.

The sound led me to the basement where I found our window-well filled three-fourths of the way to the top with churning, muddy water. And as if that wasn't enough, Niagara Falls had somehow moved from Canada/New York to my window sill. It looked like this:

But muddier. And meaner, because it wasn't pouring into a river. Let's just say couches and carpet and and basements are not meant to receive Niagara Falls. Ever.

I screamed, shoved the wet couches out of the way, and grabbed some towels. Ha! Towels cannot stop the Falls. As soon as I discovered this great fact I ran/splashed for buckets. Lots of buckets. Then I yelled for help.

Kid A stumbled from her room to the sweet tones of: I need more buckets!

Soon Kid A, Hubby, and I were in a race against Mother Nature and her plague. We filled and dumped (outside--not back on the floor, just clarifying) a four to five gallon bucket of water every two to three seconds for an HOUR AND A HALF. See? Plague.

What were kids B-D doing during all of this? They retreated to their bedrooms and cranked their stereo to the song, Uncle Noah's Arc. No kidding. We bailed out our basement to a theme song. At least it added some humor to the situation.

I also called in reinforcements in the form of my brother, his wife, and my sister. They came armed with sump pumps, shop vacs, and love. The plague finally stopped falling from the sky, and they all helped me suck out copious amounts of water from the basement--and move everything upstairs to dry out. And I do mean everything. The carpet now lives in the garage with fans provides by sweet, sweet neighbors (who also helped bail out several other victims of the plague). The basement has fans of its own, and in a few weeks we'll move everything back after someone re-installs the carpet.

Oh, and the cat lived through the plague just fine. So did we, but can you see why I'm afraid of bad thing number three? Yeah, I may just stay home for awhile and cower. But, at least I had something to blog about today. Ahhh, silver lining.

How was your weekend?

Humpty Dumpty and Writing

2011-07-27T09:25:00.004-06:00

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
couldn't put Humpty together again.

Just so you know, this has been my month. Okay my last three months, maybe more, but who's counting? And no, I haven't been an egg, even if (alas) I may be trending toward that shape. Think of me more like all the king's horses and all the king's men, and I've been trying to put my WIP (work in progress or current manuscript for you non writer peeps out there) back together again.

It's not working any better than trying to fix a broken egg.

So what to do?

Eat scrambled eggs and get a new Humpty--one who doesn't like walls.

I'm done, finished, OVER trying to fix my messed up manuscript. I can't stomach sitting down at the computer and fiddling with the shattered and cracked pieces one more time. Today I will trash it. As in deleted, scrubbed, GONE.... Well, at least I'll take it off my computer and store it on a flash drive, then I'll hide the flash drive in the basement under sixty pounds of photos waiting to be scrap-booked. That'll teach it. That old WIP is never going to see the light of day again. EVER. (I'm just not that brave with the delete key. It scares me. Just saying. But I'm great at hiding stuff. It's a true talent. I call it denial. Aren't you jealous?)

And no, I'm not bitter at all. Really. Why? Because the premise is still a good one, and that I'll keep. And the characters can stay if they start being nice to me. (You've been warned.) It's just my words that have to go. Stupid, messed up, egg-covered words. Be gone I say!

Strangely, I'm excited to start all over fresh and new with no mistakes...yet. It's invigorating and hopeful and tingly and hopeful. Did I mention hopeful? My question is, why did it take me so long to get to this point?

I guess I'm just plain stubborn.

What about you, when do you stop trying to pick up the pieces and just make scrambled eggs?

Yum.

Kissing Up To An Angry Cat

2011-07-21T11:19:00.005-06:00

My cat is angry. Why? Because we left him home while we all went away, which is why you didn't get a post earlier this week. It's really hard to post without internet access. Really hard.

Anywho, back to my cat. We left him home because he's a cat, even if he thinks he's a better human than me. He had food and water and other cats to torment, but he didn't have us--no people to pour his fat little self milk. No humans to open the door when he meowed. No family to cuddle with. None. So now that we are back, he's ticked. Okay, really ticked.

How do I know? He's giving me the silent treatment. Heck, he won't even look at me. He just turns his back and shuns me. Ouch. No one does the silent treatment like a cat. They can make you bleed from lack of eye contact. Seriously. I had to get out the band-aids. Sniff.

And just to make sure I know how mad he is at me, he curled up with kid D and purred. Then he glanced back at me to rub it in.

And they say women have mood problems. Sheesh.

So, I have to make up with my cat, and like any good man, the path to forgiveness is through his stomach. Can you say milk? And cheese? Yes, and even *gasp* tuna. Tuna always works.

My only question is, if he's so ticked, are you? Are you shunning me for my absence? Will you give me the silent treatment for missing a couple of posts? Will you make me bleed?

Hello? Are you out there?

I'll go get the band-aids.

Okay, and the tuna.

Writing Prompt Tuesday

2011-07-12T08:54:00.002-06:00

Today is a writing prompt kind of day. So, your assignment, if you choose to accept, is to write a short sky diving blurb from the view point of the diver's faulty parachute. It doesn't have to be long, just a paragraph or two. Have fun and post your results in the comments section. I'd love to see how many different takes we get on this.

Here's mine:

I knew the day was coming--I felt it in my seams, the fraying and wear. I just didn't know it would be so messy...and loud. Man that guy could scream. I mean, come on, really? If he was so afraid of heights, why did he jump out of a plane? Me, not a sound, well other than the rrrriiiiipppp, oh and the gushing, but that was more the air than me. I just flapped and waved goodbye till the screamer and I both died of deceleration poisoning. Somehow I think it was harder on him, but what a way to go! Yeah, gravity, he's a killer.

How The Chair Became Short

2011-07-07T09:01:00.005-06:00

Okay, yesterday I posted a pic of my newly remodeled chair. It looked exactly like this:

And yes, if you look closely you can see paint smudges from where I used it as a ladder while remodeling the basement. It's just that kind of chair.

Several peeps out there wanted to know how the chair ended up in pieces on the floor. So, by popular demand, this is how it went down.

It involved a 4th of July parade, a red balloon, helium, a seven-year-old girl, a forty-something-year-old man, a tired mother, and an completely innocent fourteen-year-old boy. Oh, and gravity. Gravity is the real culprit. Not me. Really.

So, we went to the parade and melted in the sun...er I mean cheered for the floats, and the football team, and boy scouts, and the candy throwers, and the person handing out helium-filled red balloons--but especially the person who handed out fans. Ahhhhh best part of the parade. Did I mention the melting? Gotta love the fourth.

Anywho, Kid D got a balloon. Fast forward through bbqs, and fireworks, and the impromptu campout in the rain to when we got back home, tired and dirty and tired. Oh and tired. Kid D, who loved her red balloon, lost her grip and the thing floated up to the ceiling.

Enter the forty-something man, aka my sweet hubby, and the chair with a history of being a ladder. Yup you guessed it, crack. The back leg broke. We stared at it, and in my sleep deprived state I said, "I'll just shove it back together and try to fix it in the morning."

So I did. I even tucked the chair under the table like a good mommy should.

The morning came, but I forgot about the chair. Kid B, who knew nothing about the faulty leg, came up for breakfast and ended up sprawled on the floor with a pretty stunned expression on his face. Let it be known, I did not laugh. Promise. I just mumbled something like, "Stab me in the eye." Then I helped him up and took a pic of the chair. See, I'm very motherly. And gravity really is to blame, not me. You believe me, right?

Anywho, there you have it. See why I posted about the Phantom TV Watcher instead? Does anyone else want to request a blog post? Anyone? Anyone? Really, I'm open to suggestions.

And no, this doesn't have anything to do with writing.

Leisha Maw

The Phantom TV Watcher

2011-07-06T08:53:00.005-06:00

So, how did your day start? Mine started with a crack and a thump...and a newly remodeled chair. Here's the pic. I'll let your mind wander and ponder how it became so...short.

Anywho, We had a great time camping with the kids, but the real story today is from my sister's life. She lives down south where it's hotter than the surface of the sun and only crazy people go outside during the summer.

Last night around nine, she and her hubby were watching a show in their room while their five-year-old, Niece K, watched a kid flick on the main TV. Niece K wandered into her parent's room and said, "There's a boy in our house."

My sister stared at her. My bro-in-law stared at her, too. Then they both said, "What?"

Niece K said, "He's watching the show with me."

Now, there should not have been a boy watching TV with Niece K, and for some strange reason this kind of scared my sister. She jumped up and ran to the front room, followed by her hubby and Niece K.

You guessed it, no boy. The questioning commenced. It went something like this:

My sister: Was there really a boy?

Niece K: Yes.

My bro-in-law: Maybe you made him up. Are you sure there was a boy?

Niece K: Yes.

My sister: Where is he then?

Niece K: I don't know. I think he went into my room.

My sister, kind of wigging out because strange boys should not show up in your house and then go into your child's room: What?

Bro-in-law: How old is this boy?

Niece K: Maybe two.

My sister and bro-in-law relaxing because two-year-olds are not scary like say sixteen-year-olds: Oh. Are you sure?

Long story short, they searched the room and the house. No boy. Niece K kept proclaiming that there had indeed been a boy watching TV with her. She even provided a detailed character description down to his baseball cap and sneakers.

They were about to award Niece K with an Oscar for best performance in inventing an imaginary friend when my sister noticed about twenty people going down the street yelling into the gathering darkness. Who were they? A search party looking for a lost three-year-old. Apparently they'd been scouring the dessert and surrounding area for some time.

My sister went out and told them about the phantom TV watcher, and the search moved to my sister's back yard. Yup they found him happily playing in the playhouse.

The mother burst into tears, and Niece K became a hero for watching TV and not making up an imaginary friend. Oh, and the kid got to go home to newly installed kid-proof handles.

So, what's the moral here? When you tell a story, or invent an imaginary friend, make sure you have the details and search party to back you up because getting people to buy into your fantasy is hard, especially if you're five.

I hope your weekend and holiday rocked!

Leisha Maw

4th of July Camping

2011-07-05T16:26:00.003-06:00

Hey folks, and yes, I did just call you folks, due to an unexpected 4th of July camping excursion with the fam I will be posting tomorrow instead of today. Gotta love summer.

Leisha

The Great Fence Robbery!

2011-06-30T09:25:00.006-06:00

One of my friends requested I post about the time someone stole my six-foot cedar fence. Yes, you read that right, and no, this is not a fictional story. Two guys stole my fence in broad daylight. Seriously.

Now, this did not happen at my current place of residence, which shall remain undisclosed thank you very much, so all you neighbors out there who might be reading this, you are safe from fence snatchers and can sleep well tonight. BUT it did happen in a city near you.

This is how the Great Fence Robbery went down.

One summer day I was doing my laundry, and yes, this is proof that laundry is evil. Just saying. But, as I walked to the laundry room with a bulging basket of evil, I noticed two strange men in my yard dismantling my fence with power tools and idiotic grins on their faces.

I just stood there, held my laundry, and stared for about seven-point-three seconds, because who expects to see this in their yard? It had to be a mistake, right? Wrong.

I dropped my laundry and grabbed the phone.

Did you know that if you call 911 and tell them two guys are stealing your fence they don't believe you at first? I swear, it's a sad day when a full-grown woman has to convince the 911 operators that she is indeed being robbed, and no, she is not high on anything, and no, this is not a prank. Sheesh!

With the assurance that the police would be there soon, I hid the kids in a back bedroom, armed myself with a camera, and burst outside to confront the very strange strangers.

Click. Click. Click. Proof for the police just in case they didn't believe me either.

As I snapped their photos, the crooks whirled around and yelled, "What are you doing?"

I hesitated for about two-point-one seconds then yelled back, "I'm taking pictures in MY yard. What are you doing?"

It was now their turn to stare at me. Only, their idiotic grins were gone. Somehow their demonic glares were worse. Shudder.

Now, I know you are wondering what happened next. I wondered the same kind of thing as I edged back toward my door, because suddenly a camera felt like a lousy weapon. They, after all, had power tools...and scary glares...and who knew what else.

Luckily, they didn't follow me into the house, but they did put away their power tools, and instead of politely dismantling my fence with said tools, they used brute force and tore it down. Within minutes only broken posts were left, protruding from the ground like jagged teeth ready to chomp my yard.

The bad guys threw my fence panels into their their waiting truck, which I also photographed, and drove away.

I watched them drive off, still not quite believing they took my fence, and waited for the police.

And waited...

And waited...

And waited...

TEN hours later they showed up.

TEN!

They didn't even apologize for taking so long. Apparently fence stealing wasn't high on their list because it didn't involve weapons, and power tools didn't really count.

I wanted to grab them by their walkie-talkies and yell, "Seriously?" But I didn't because they did have weapons. Big ones. And handcuffs. And my kids didn't need to see me go away, too. The fence was enough loss for the day.

All I could do was take the tardy cops on a flashlight-lit tour of my now fenceless yard and give them the pictures. They never found the fence crooks--or my fence.

Needless to say, we didn't live in the best hood. Okay, it wasn't even the second best hood...or the third. And when the swat team became very familiar with my next door neighbors, we sold our house as fast as we could.

The good news is, we've never had our fence stolen at our new place, so life is sweet. And fenced. And swat team free.

So, what does this story have to do with writing? I'm not sure, but it's a great story. Make sure your own story is, too.

Leisha Maw

How To Throw Away Your Book, or The Art of Revision

2011-06-28T16:54:00.008-06:00

Did you know it's Tuesday? Late Tuesday? I do...now. Yeah, I need help, what can I say? I guess sorry for the late post will have to do.

Anywho, last week I promised a WIFYR post, and here it is. Yay!

During WIFYR I was in the fabulous Martine Leavitt's class. I learned a lot, but one of the best things for me was a discussion on drafts. She mentioned that Cynthia Leitich Smith writes her first draft then destroys it--as in gone. Deleted. Poof.

If you don't believe me, read it in Cynthia's own words:

“I do this drastic thing... that freaks out my graduate students. When I'm finished with the first draft, I print it, read it once, throw away the hard copy, delete the file, and delete trash. Knowing as I go in that the draft is for my eyes only, that I'm not committed to it, frees me up to experiment. It gives me an opportunity to explore the characters and their world. I figure the best, strongest aspects of the character and story will survive when I write the second first draft.”

—Interview with Cynthia Leitich Smith
from the Faerie Drink Review.

Check out more about Cynthia at her website.

Now, those of you out there who aren't writers might not understand how drastic this sounds. I'm not one of Cynthia's students, but the idea is still freaking me out. Writing a draft is like giving birth, but harder. And yes, I can see you out there shaking your heads, but I've done both, so I KNOW. It takes about as long as a pregnancy for me to complete a draft from conception to delivery, and there is a lot of pain and joy involved.

The thought of taking all that work and effort and love and throwing it away feels like murder, or at least the kind of craziness they lock people away for. But the more I think about it, the more it starts to make sense. Sort of.

Martine doesn't throw away her whole book, but she does write the first one hundred pages and then trashes those. She said that by then she's done most of her experimenting and has figured out the main character's voice, objects of desire, and all the good stuff, and she knows where the story really starts. Then she can write the real first draft without all the exploration.

A hundred pages may still sound like a lot, but I've chucked more than that before on projects because I didn't like the direction the book was taking. And do you know what, I didn't miss those pages when I rewrote them, because the best and most important things did survive. And it freed me up to really revise.

That brings me back to WIFYR. Both Martine and Heather Dixon talked about making revising become a true revision, as in re-envisioning the project to make it the best story it can be. You can't do that if you're married to your first draft. Why? Because first drafts stuck. They're supposed to. The first draft is when you give yourself permission to write crap and just get the story out there. If you hoard those words you spewed out, it's like trying to turn vomit into fine cuisine. I guess it's possible, but maybe that's why it took so many drafts for my first book to be readable. It takes a long time to transform raw spewage into yum.

Maybe it would be better to trash the gross stuff and start with fresh ingredients. The menu would be the same, but the result would be so much better, wouldn't it?

Now, I'm not saying I'm ready to compost my whole first draft on my current project, but I am saying I'm willing to completely re-envision it. Maybe my dark elf might end up as an alien, or maybe I'll scrap my whole magic system and come up with something new, and I'm even willing to say goodbye to my favorite lines of dialog. Ouch. But it's like Martine says, "You will get other great ideas, and they will be better every time."

What do you think? Would you have the heart and guts to delete your whole book and start from scratch? How about if you don't write, does this fit in with your own creative endeavors? Can destruction actually help creation? I really want to hear your thoughts.

Leisha Maw

Burnout and Cooking, Oh and Smoke, too. Lots of it.

2011-06-23T08:59:00.003-06:00

Hey all my favorite peeps! My post today is over at The Scribblers Cove. Soooooo, just to whet your appetite, here's the opening paragraphs:

Tuesday turned out to be a pretty smokin' day. Literally. As in the whole house filled with it, and we all still smell like a toxic campfire. Think of it as our new perfume. We're calling it Burnt Burrito. So sexy. Meowwwww! Want some?

So, how did we all end up burritofied? Let's just say Kid C decided he could cook. By himself. Without permission. Yes, be afraid. I'm still having nightmares. Shudder.

The first clue that something was amiss reached me as I worked in my office. A tendril of charring snaked into the room and coiled up my nose. The mom alarm in me spazamed, and I ran from the room to find the billowing burrito. Did you know that if you fricassee one of those they become weightless? Really. And they turn blacker than the heart of a demon. I know, I checked. Don't ask how that is so another post.

Head on over to The Scribblers Cove for the rest of the story. And what's that? I'm a big meanie? Why thank you. I'm so glad you noticed. Mwahahahahaha!

A couple of awards!

2011-06-21T09:03:00.004-06:00

Hey all, the wonderful craziness of WIFYR is behind me. I learned a ton and got to mingle with some awesome writers. So now, I'm back to my regular posting schedule. Aren't you so lucky?

Anywho, while I was in Hawaii, Jonene from The Wonderful Obsessions awarded me with a Meme. Check out her blog and tell her thanks for me!

AND yesterday Brenda at The Startled Spyglass gave me the Irresistibly Sweet Blogger Award.

All I can say is yum. Oh, and thank you, Brenda. Make sure you check out her blog. It's delicious!

Anywho, with these awards I'm supposed to answer some questions. I'll start with the Meme and then move on the the sugar!

Meme questions:

If you could go back in time and relive one moment, what would it be?

Wow, let's see, so many to choose from. I think I'd go back and relive the first time my hubby kissed me. He says I kissed him, and it was soooo the other way around. If I could go back, I could get proof...um I mean, I'd get to have that first kiss all over again. Okay, I'd also be able to prove how right I've always been. And no, I'm not above using time travel to win a friendly argument. He he. And besides, it was a great kiss, in the rain. He leaned in and ahhhhh. Yup that's worth a second time.

If you could go back in time and change one thing, what would it be?

Hmmmm, I don't know if I'd change anything because I've read way too many sci-fi books where changing things set up a horrible paradox and messed up the whole space-time continuum. But If I had to choose, I'd not eat that doughnut from last week. And yes, that is so a good use of time travel. Sheesh.

What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?

Bert.

If you could push one person off a cliff and get away with it, who would it be?

Depends on the day. Wink, wink.

Name one habit you want to change in yourself.

Ummmmm, I'd be more spontaneous because then I'd say wahoo more often.

Describe yourself in one word.

Crazy. Well, you did ask.

Describe the person who named you in this Meme in one word.

Shazam! Because that's even better than awesome or amazing or fantastic or wonderful or... well it's pretty darn cool.

Why do you blog? Answer in one sentence.

Because I get to meet coolio people like you guys.

Now, on to the strawberries, in which I must torture you with seven random things about myself:

1: I like to sing. My poor, poor neighbors.

2: I didn't shower yesterday. See, random. Aren't you impressed that I read the instructions? (I am.)

3: I'm going to shower today. Yup, I'm that good. I'm even going to use soap.

4: I love quaking aspen trees. The leaves always look like they're laughing, and I like me a tree with a sense of humor.

5: I pay my daughter to do the dishes. Yup, mother of the year. Yay me. Of course it helps that she owes me 400 bucks. I'm not going to have to do dishes for the whole summer. Ahhhh, so sweet.

6: I help her with the dishes sometimes because I have guilt. Stupid guilt. Grrr.

7: I'm always surprised anyone reads this blog. You are still reading right? Hello? Hello? Is anyone out there? Hello? Darn it, all alone again...sigh.

Phew! That was hard...and long.

Now the last part where I bestow these fabulous awards to other worthy bloggers.

Ali Cross at Alicross.com
Julie Daines at After The Toilets
Amy at Lap and Storytime
Rebecca Carlson
and Donea at The Queen of Procrastination

Yay! Check them all out! They're fabulous peeps.

Leisha

Hawaii Top Ten

2011-06-14T06:30:00.002-06:00

Aloha!

I'm back from Hawaii full of sun and even a few apologies. I planned on blogging while there, but our internet connection was dodgy. And when it worked, it made a snail stuck in molasses in January in the arctic without snowshoes or a dogsled team seem REALLY fast, hence the lack of posts. Just pretend I'm still on island time.

Anywho, in honor of Jonene's (thanks btw!!!!) guest post, here are the top ten things from our trip.

10: Chickens. Yup, they were everywhere. I even brought proof.

And somehow this sounded a little better than landing in Kauai and discovering the airline lost our luggage. Yup, we are that cursed. But they did find it--a sunburn and a trip to Walmart for toothbrushes and sunscreen and shoes and deodorant and...well a bunch of other stuff later. See, chickens suddenly sound awesome.

9: The Beach and sun. Way better than Chickens, and did I mention it snowed at my house the day before we left? Shudder.

Kid A did manage to get stung by a Portugese Man-of-war jelly fish TWICE! Once on the ankle our first time in the water. The second time from the upper thigh to her calf our last time out in the water(this may have been the reason it was our last time in the water). The thing wrapped around her leg and knee, and she had to peel it off with her fingers. Can you say giant welts? She still has red marks. You know that cursed thing? Yeah, you might not want to go swimming with us. Just saying.

8: Waterfalls.

Beautiful and not a jelly in sight. Ahhhhh.

7: Being surrounded by dolphins.

Again, way better than jellies.

6: The Napali Coast.

5: The Napali Coast, and yes, it gets more than one spot because it was so gorgeous.

4: Yup, the Napali Coast.

I may have like this place just a tad. :)

3: Adventures.

And we didn't even die. Alway a good thing.

2: Hikes.

This is Kid A and me on the trail. And yes, this was a vertical trail. Sooo much fun, especially since we avoided jellies. I did yell at Kid A when she started leaping from rock to rock with a 2000 foot drop on both sides. Kids!

1: Green stuff and cool trees.

And even better than all ten of these was coming home and finding the sitters...I mean the kids still alive. They even missed us (both the sitters and the kids). Pure bonus.

Guest Blog While Leisha's on Vacation

2011-06-02T07:02:00.000-06:00

Hello, my name is Jonene Ficklin (aka: thewonderfulobsessions.blogspot.com) , and my good friend, Leisha, invited me to guest blog today, while she is 3,000 miles away in lovely, balmy Hawaii. I happen to be a fan of both Leisha, and Hawaii, so this is an honor.

Now, Leisha isn’t your run-of-the-mill vacationer. And as she hinted last week, she tends to gain more adventures than she plans for:

http://leishamaw.blogspot.com/2011/05/top-three-things-not-to-do-in-hawaii.html

So in her honor, here are the top 10 things I hope she is/ or is not doing this time in Hawaii:

Let’s hit what I hope she’s NOT experiencing first:

1. NOT Surfing the Big One. I happen to know she got a little practice with speed, running, and adrenaline on a long board last week. The good news is she survived. The bad news is, I hear any surfing close-encounters-with-death tend to be addictive.

2. NOT doing the Wash Machine. Again. (See her blog from last week. By the way, the Wash Machine is a surfing term for getting spun around and around underwater by a wave.)

3. NOT having coqui frogs singing outside her window. I’m told it’s like being surrounded by a preschool class of three-year-olds with whistles. If you’d like to experience it for yourself, check out this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0Ic_3uGzCE&feature=related

4. NOT forgetting sunblock the first day out. Nothing kills a vacation faster than skin the temperature/color of a forge. And although people get paid to move like a robot over there, it’s no fun to do when it’s out of dire necessity.

5. NOT trying the chocolate covered squid. Yes, it is made AND sold AND obviously bought AND eaten there. I know we’re supposed to be brave and try new things, but this one is just plain wrong – especially when chocolate covered macadamia nuts are sold right next to it.

So, here’s what I hope she IS doing:

6. Entering a chicken chasing contest. Apparently, imported mongooses (I checked just to be sure the proper plural term isn’t mongeese – and it’s not) decimated the wild chicken population on all the Hawaiian islands except Kauai. The scuttlebutt is, that the farmers brought them over to kill off rats infesting their fields. When the first batch of mongooses reached Kauai, as they were being offloaded from the ship, one bit a sailor. He chucked all the mongooses into the sea. And nowadays, tourists are surprised to see feral chickens everywhere they go. Chicken chasing has become an official tourist pastime.

7. Trying Hamura Saimin or a Loco Moco. I know these sound like a sneeze, but they’re actually local specialty foods. Hamura Saimin is a noodle and broth comfort dish, and a Loco Moco is (take a deep breath and keep an open mind) white rice, topped by a hamburger patty, topped by a fried egg, topped by brown gravy. I know it sounds crazy, but the locals swear by it. I guess in the 1960’s, some hungry teenagers asked the cook of a local restaurant to make them something quick, cheap, and filling. Voila: the Loco Moco was born. Over time, it’s evolved into a respectable dish, even tweaked and refined by the likes of famed Hawaii chef, Alan Wong.

8. Hiking (and no, not hang-gliding over) the Na Pali coast. Okay, every dinosaur, tropical adventure, and back-in-time movie shows shots of this dramatic landscape. And I really hope she remembers her camera.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hj8cKlXcKWE

9. Taking hula lessons. I would pay BIG money to see any video footage of this.

10. Taking copious notes to be used in her next awesome book. By the way, if you haven’t noticed, Leisha is an amazing writer. So Leisha, have a great time, and come home in one piece – and bring a million pictures. I’m thinking her next blog will be one you won’t want to miss!

How To Kill An Alien

2011-05-31T08:01:00.003-06:00

Right now I am on a plane headed for Hawaii, but just to prove how much I love you guys I did the unthinkable and wrote this post ahead of time. Shocking I know. :)

Anywho, a few nights ago the dream goblin came to visit. Here is how it went down:

Kid D dreamed that one of her first grade acquaintances stabbed my hubby to death. Kid D ended up in bed with us. I don't think she likes this killer boy very much. Come to think of it, I'm not so hot on him either.

Hubby dreamed that the cats pooped all over the clean clothes.

I dreamed that six inches of snow fell overnight and killed all my tomatoes. The horror! Then I dreamed that aliens invaded the planet, and I somehow ended up correcting the eye witnesses' grammar and punctuation while the government officials debriefed them. I kept saying over and over, "Just use simple past tense and get rid of your passive verbs!"

Yeah, go ahead and laugh it up. It may sound kind of whacked, but guess how we defeated the alien invasion? Yup. We action verbed them to death. (And yes, I just used verb as a verb. I can do that, I'm a writer.) Passive verbs turned out to be an evil plague sent in advance by the aliens to weaken us and make us susceptible to domination. But we stopped them with words like stalked and talked and exploded. As in we stalked them, talked to them, and then exploded their brains with action verbs. Mwahahahahaha!

So, now you know how to kill an alien. I realize this is dangerous information, but I trust you to use your action verbs wisely. I'm pretty sure the government will set up special verb safety courses now, kind of like gun safety courses and drivers ed. Maybe they'll even teach it in schools. He he.

Anywho, as far as dreams go, Kid D must be afraid of death, Hubby must be afraid of cat poop, and I must be afraid of snow and passive verbs, because I'm sure as heck not afraid of aliens. Kapow!

What are you afraid of? What strange twists do your dreams take to express these fears? And do you ever dream about verbs. or is it just me?

The Top Three Things Not To Do In Hawaii

2011-05-27T08:37:00.010-06:00

In four day's I'll be on a plane to Hawaii and thought I'd post about what I don't plan on doing while there.

The Number 1 Thing I Plan On Not Doing: Get a concussion.

(This explains so much about me.)

I can hear you out there wondering why this is the number one thing I plan on NOT doing while in Hawaii. It's because it really puts a damper on the rest of your vacation. I know, because several years ago Hubby and I went to Maui for the first time, and on the first day there we went to the beach. Can you say HUGE waves? As in fifteen to twenty foot monsters. Have I mentioned I'm from Utah where we don't have waves. At all. Ever.

Waves in Utah.

Waves in Hawaii

I didn't want to get in, but, yup, you guessed it, Hubby talked me into the water and out past the lethal breakers. We swam. We played. We got tired and headed in. Hubby made it. I didn't. Killer waves that pummel you into the beach are not fun. Neither is watching the world swirl and heave for days after while your brain tries to recover from being in the world's biggest jackhammer powered washing machine. Ouch.

The Number 2 Thing I Plan On Not Doing: Get stranded in the jungle seven hours from the hotel with nothing but a half-empty water bottle and a towel--all while dressed in only my swimming suit.

Yes, we did that, too. On our second day, while my head still felt like it was in the spin cycle. Did I mention concussions hurt, because they do. But don't we do awesome stuff on vacations?

Here's how that one went down:

We woke up, and I felt like dying. Concussions suck. Hubby asked what I wanted to do that day, and I croaked, "Anything but the beach."

We went on the drive to Hana and then on to the Seven Sacred Pools. The roads looked like this:

Concussions and curves = Bad.

But it was gorgeous, and we swam in secluded waterfall fed pools--with no waves. Heaven.

At least until my sweet hubby lost the car keys in the bottom of the Seven Sacred Pools. At dusk. Far, far away from civilization.

Long story short, we ended up being rescued by a native Hawaiian who carted us off to his house in the jungle (with no electricity) and helped arrange for us to get back home the next morning. Truly awesome family. Truly awesome experience. Actually, it turned out to be the best part of a great vacation, but I don't want to duplicate it this time. Just saying.

And the Number Three Thing I Plan On Not Doing: Letting my pale, white, Utah skin burn to a crisp in the tropical sun. Double ouch. Can you say sunscreen and aloe? I'd provide a picture, but I'm not that mean.

Anywho, what does this have to do with writing? Sometimes you think you know how your book will go. You have it all mapped out, outlined to within a in inch of it's death, then something happens. One concussion or another unexpected event and the whole thing takes on a new life. You can either hang on to the old expectations and bemoan the trauma, or you can go with it and see what new adventures crop up. Who knows, you may end up having an awesome romp in the jungle dressed in only a swimsuit. Sometimes the best things in writing can't be planned.

So, go do something unexpected today...just avoid concussions, getting stranded, and burning to a crisp. It's better that way, I promise.

Monsoon Field trip

2011-05-24T07:35:00.008-06:00

This will be a short post because I have...errr I mean GET to go on a fieldtrip with Kid C into the mountains during a monsoon. And no, I don't live in Asia or Indonesia where monsoons are common. I live in Utah--a DESERT. What is Mother Nature thinking?

So, the question I have for you today is: What does one wear to go on a monsoon fieldtrip?

Galoshes?

Rain poncho?

Hip waders?

Or do I need one of these?

What does this have to do with writing. Nada. Who writes during a monsoon fieldtrip? Seriously folks, my computer would get wet and some things are just so wrong.
I'll try to tread water long enough to post a real post on Thursday.

The Magic Number Twelve

2011-05-19T09:37:00.003-06:00

Twelve.

That's the number of days until I'll be standing on a beach in Hawaii.

I can almost hear the surf. It's almost close enough to smell. My friend sent me this link because she's awesome and loves me. Check it out:

http://youtu.be/uBLccEDmn40

What are you looking forward to? What will you be doing in twelve days?

The Great Swimsuit Caper

2011-05-17T07:08:00.008-06:00

Last week I posted about an upcoming swimsuit shopping excursion. (Sorry to those of you who commented, Blogger ate them and I can't get then back.) That turned into the Great Swimsuit Caper.

This is how it went down.

The participants:
Me
Kid A
My Sister-in-law
Her daughter, Cousin B
Her son, Cousin D
A bunch of unsuspecting shoppers

The scene of the Great Swimsuit Caper:
Right smack dab in the middle of a crowded Costco. No wait. Right smack dab in the middle of a very crowded Costco.

I can hear you all out there saying, "Costco? For swimsuits?" You heard me. Costco. Why? You know how they have guest businesses come and sell their products for a few days every once in awhile? Well, they hosted a modest swimsuit company that has a reputation for super cute suits. Let's just say Costco and the movie Field of Dreams have something in common, but this time the whispered voice said, "If you host it, they will come."

And come they did.

Women everywhere. Packed around the swimsuit stand like...well like women desperate for a modest swimsuit. And we were there, too, circling the cute, cute suits with the rest of the horde. But there was only one problem.

Costco doesn't have any dressing rooms. None!

Have you ever attempted to buy a swimsuit without trying it on? Yeah, not a good plan. And every woman there thought the same thing. You could see it in their eyes and in the way they held the suits up--and in how they complained while circling the suits like sharks after blood.

Then my sister-in-law tugged Cousin B close and shoved the top of a suit over her head...and over her clothes.

I did a double take. And the Great Swimsuit Caper was born. Have you ever tried to squeeze a spandex swimsuit on over levis? Well, you guessed it. I did. Several times. Right there in Costco.

At first the other women just stared at us. Then they stared some more. And every person walking by stopped and stared, too. I would have stared at myself if I wasn't so busy trying to shove my fluff, augmented by several layers of clothing, into a skin tight swimsuit. Then the other women joined us. Yup, all of them.

You should have seen the look on the attendant's face as thirty-some women grabbed a suit and shimmied into it over their clothes. So worth every minute.

And we all found a suit. And I never even had to get naked. Bonus! I even had fun. Scads of it. I may never go back to the old way of looking for a suit.

What does this have to do with writing? Well, sometimes you want to tell a story but there isn't a dressing room. You can either wander around wishing you had one, or you can break out of the mold and tell your story your own way.

I recently read Glimpse by Carol Lynch Williams. It's a poignant story about secrets told in verse. And it's amazing. But it wouldn't have been so gorgeous told the traditional way.

Sometimes you have to make your own dressing room. Are you going to try something new on today?

Swimsuit Shopping and Writing Prompts

2011-05-12T09:53:00.000-06:00

Today is the day of the dreaded swimsuit search. I have to find one. Preferably one that fits and hides a few things. And makes me look younger and thinner and and and... Well, you know what I mean. Unless you are a boy, then you don't know and therefore don't count. No offense.

I detest swimsuit shopping. It's right up there with bra shopping and death. And dishes. And pinkeye. Shudder. All bad stuff.

Why do I hate it so? Because I am not a super model. Heck, I'm not even a model citizen. But I am a mom, and as such I have fluff. Yes, fluff. And fluff, not to be confused with blubber because that just sounds so wrong, doesn't look all that good in a swimsuit. But snorkeling in Levis is hard so I need to find the suit. See?

And yes, I will be snorkeling soon. Say it with me, "Hawaii!"

So, I will brave the stores and the changing rooms and even the *gasp* mirrors. I may be scarred for life, but I will be clad in a new suit by the end of the day. Wish me luck.

And just to tie this in with writing, consider this a writing prompt. SWIMSUIT SHOPPING. Get to it, and post your finished swimsuit exercise in the comments. I'd love to read what you all do with this topic.

When Was The Last Time You Went Wahoo?

2011-05-10T06:17:00.005-06:00

Have you ever seen the movie, I.Q.?

There is a great line in it where Tim Robbins asks Meg Ryan, "When was the last time you went wahoo?"

It's a great question. Here's my answer:

Okay, guess what I did on Saturday! If you know me, you'll probably never ever guess, because I tend to be pretty aware of my mortality. If you don't know me, I tend to be pretty aware of my mortality.

I went longboarding!!!

What is longboarding? It's skateboarding on a longer skateboard on a downhill road. You should probably go back and read that sentence at least ten times. And then check out this video on Youtube: Longboarding Let Go

First off, doesn't that look awesome? Second off, I did not look like the person in the video. Far from it. I looked like a cross between a giraffe and a mom trying to board. AND we went down a MUCH MUCH more level road. We're talking gentle slope. And I've only been on a skate board once before in my life, and that was for about four minutes. Inside. On a very flat surface. With someone to hold my hand.

This was different. And guess what? It was sooooooo fun. Beyond fun. I went Wahoo! With a capital W. And even though I fell and roadrashed my palms, I still got back up and longboarded some more. I may be limping and sore, but I'm going again as soon as the swelling in my knee goes down. Why? Because I felt ALIVE! And feeling like that is worth losing some skin and taking stock out in icepack companies.

What does this have to do with writing? So very, very much. As a writer you must be able to put emotion on the page. You have to imagine what the character feels like. It doesn't matter what you're writing, you have to pretend to be that person.

Now, I've pretty much been in hibernation all winter, maybe even a little longer, as I polished up my last novel for submission. It took a lot of time, and I'm happy with it, but it also took something from me. I kind of stopped living there for a while. Yes, it was winter and cold and covered in snow, so most of us that don't ski disappeared inside for the duration, but the combination of a winter of intense writing and lack of living took it's toll. I became cautious in my actions--and in my writing. I didn't want to make mistakes. I didn't want to have to do huge revisions. I didn't want to get hurt.

And it showed. One of my critiquing friends emailed me and asked me why I wasn't loving this new book. I didn't know. Now I do. I wasn't loving life. I wasn't living it, and my emotional stores had empty shelves. How could I write exhilaration if I hadn't experienced it in so long that I couldn't remember the FEELING? How could I write adventure? Fear? Danger?

Boring? I had that one down pat.

Now, I'm not telling you all to go longboard down a mountain, but we do need to leave our houses and computers behind and live for at least part of everyday. We need to stock our emotional shelves so when we write people believe our words and can tell we've yelled Wahoo recently.

When was the last time you went Wahoo?

The Dentist and other Excuses

2011-05-06T06:14:00.004-06:00

As you might have noticed, today is not Thursday. This is important because it's Friday, and Friday is not my scheduled posting day, BUT I have excuses. Good ones. Really. Here is my list.

1: The Dentist. Kid D had an early morning appointment yesterday, and since Hubby works at a job that pays him, and for some reason neighbors look at you a little strangely if you try to get them to take your kids to the dentist so you can post on your blog, that left me to do it. But it was worth it because Kid D is pretty funny when looped up on laughing gas, especially when the dentist tries to get her to admit to having a boyfriend. Ahhh good stuff.

2: I then checked Kid D into elementary and Kid C out to take him to the Jr. High for a tour so he'd be ready to go there next year. Kids with disabilities need this kind of thing. Mom's with kids with disabilities need this kind of thing. And yes, I had to bribe him with McDonald's, but it turned out to be all good because I refused to weigh myself after eating this time. See, I can be taught.

3: Tomatoes. Yup. I bet you didn't realize tomatoes were a good excuse to not blog. Well, they are when you love them and had to plant them, and to plant them you had to rototill the garden, and to rototill the garden you had to kill the wasps in their SEVEN nests that decided to attack. Now that's some serious tomato love. And I had to weed my peas because I love them, too. And I didn't write a single word until nine o'clock last night. Not even about tomatoes. And it felt gooooood.

4: Oh, and I may have been the teeniest bit lazy and in denial that it was Thursday. Shhhhh.

Anywho, I've learned my lesson, and it's not what you suspect. I learned it feels good to play hooky once in a while, and it's even better to live. A writer needs to spend time away from the computer, time living in the real world feeling the sun on their skin instead of watching it out the window. They need to refuel themselves with experiences and let their creativity rest. They need to rebel, not always, just once in awhile, and I'm so very glad I did, because now I'm hungry to write and can almost taste the waiting words. So, I'm off to dream them into reality while I anticipate fresh tomatoes and peas. But, I refuse to dream about the dentist because somethings are just plain wrong.

Are you dreaming or rebelling today?

Images of a Morning

2011-05-03T09:57:00.011-06:00

It's one of those. And since a picture is worth a thousand words, here is my morning:

Breakfast

After Breakfast

Death by Laundry

Gifts Left By Children

More Gifts

Even More Gifts

What I'd Give To Be In Hawaii Right Now.

Me Not In Hawaii

And that is my morning. Send chocolate. Or plane tickets.

Gorgeous Tahitian Drawing

2011-04-28T07:47:00.003-06:00

Have you ever had the opportunity to follow an artist from the start of a project through every step until they reveal the finished project? It's an amazing thing, like watching time elapsed video of a miracle unfolding. Then pop, the picture sits there in all it's breathtaking color, and it's all the more amazing because you first saw it as a sketchy drawing with no real form, just the skeleton of a drawing really. You even got to see the "ugly" phases where the drawing looked like it might never fulfill it's promise, but it did. And it's gorgeous.

I have, and you can, too. Check this link out to The Wonderful Obsessions where artist and writer Jonene Ficklin documented the journey of a gorgeous Tahitian drawing from first pencil scratches to fabulous finished project. And you can win a copy of the drawing. Yup, an 8x10 piece of tropical paradise. Jonene is an amazing artist, writer, and friend of mine. She is also my art teacher and a brave, brave woman to take me on. And she's brilliant.

Watching her work doesn't just amaze me, it gives me hope. Not only in my own fledgling art projects but for my books, too. It reminds me that every masterpiece starts as bare bones and evolves through hard work, ever-expanding skill, and persistence into beauty itself. She shows me it takes a lot of pencil (or key strokes) to turn blank paper into art.

Check out Jonene's blog and see the first pencil sketch to the finished project. And for all the steps in between just check out the Art Lessons tab at the top of her blog. Your eyes are in for a treat.

The Dr. Who Famine Is Over

2011-04-26T08:11:00.007-06:00

The famine is over. What famine? Why, the Dr. Who famine of course. If you don't know what (or Who) I'm talking about, you need to get you some Dr. Who because the Doctor rocks.

Here's a link to BBC America where you can watch the prequel to season six and a bunch of other scrumptious Dr. Who clips.

Web Exclusive Prequel - Season 6 Episode 1 - Season 6 - Doctor Who - Video - BBC America

Season six began last Saturday, but we didn't get to watch episode one until last night. Shazam! It was good! I may have screamed out loud in giddy excitement like a little girl. Oh wait, I am a girl, so it's all good.

The question is, why am I so excited about Dr. Who? Several reasons, first he rocks. I may have mentioned this, but he does, so it's worth repeating.

Second, the show has darn good writers. They know story. Period. They take lovable characters and hurl them into a problem. Then they hurt them over and over again. Can you say Conflict with a capital C? And the writers let the characters try and fail and try and fail as everything escalates like like some crazy chain reaction explosion, and then ultimately the characters win. Well, at least they better because this season started with a whopper of a problem. My seven-year-old burst into tears, and I wanted to join her. I won't spoil it for any of you Dr. Who fans out there who haven't seen the episode yet, but they mean business this year. Again.

Why is it so important to hurt your characters? Because it makes the reader/watcher love them. It's emotional. It hurts. It's therapeutic. Really it is. We watch a show or read a book for the emotional journey. David Farland says it's a safe way to exercise our emotions. Think about your favorite movie or book. Would you want to experience the kind of emotion the characters go through in your own life? Not me. I like my real life to be peaceful, but in a book or show? Heaven!

In my stories I am the pain bringer. I poke and prod and blow life into the conflict, I hurt my characters in the worst possible ways. And hopefully my readers will love them just like I love the good Doctor. And you love them the most when they triumph in spite of all the pain.

Which brings me to the third reason I'm excited for the new season of Dr. Who: he rocks.

Are you going to go on an emotional journey today? Are you going to write one? If so drop a line and tell me how you're going to hurt your characters or who your favorite hurting character is. Me, I'm going to watch as my character scratches out a shallow grave for her friend. *Rubs hands together and grins while holding a tissue*

The Peas Are Alive!

2011-04-21T10:13:00.005-06:00

Okay, first off, sorry I'm late posting this. It's been one of those mornings. I'd tell you about it, but you don't want to know. Really.

But! More importantly, my peas are alive! Everyone cheer and let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Why? Because this is monumental news. Really!

Every year I plant a garden because I love fresh produce. Tomatoes and cucumbers and summer squash. Mmmmmmm. Yum. But the most beloved and coveted bounty of the season is the fresh peas. Way more than yum. Peas and I are close. How close, you ask. I spend eleven months of the year drooling for them kind of close. Addiction may be the right word.

Anywho, peas need to be planted early because the don't do well in the heat of summer, so I planted mine several weeks ago. Several long weeks ago. Okay, it was almost a month.

And then it snowed. A lot. And then it rained. A lot. And my peas never came up. I went out and stared at the sodden dirt. I called to them, begging them to grow. I prayed that the excess moisture hadn't rotted them before they could even germinate. I begged some more. Nothing.

Then I mourned.

And guess what poked their little green heads above the dirt yesterday? My peas. Happy sighs abound.

Aren't they cute?

And they're little living miracles to remind me of the most important miracle of all. An empty tomb.

Happy Easter everyone.

Entwined!

2011-04-19T08:15:00.006-06:00

Entwined. Say it, it rolls off the tongue in an alluring way. It's an intriguing word that makes me say, "What? Who's entwined? With who? With what?"

Well my friend Heather Dixon knows the answers. Check this out:

Entwined is Heather's debut novel and it's as awesome as she is. Here's the jacket blurb:

Azalea is trapped. Just when she should feel that everything is before her . . . beautiful gowns, dashing suitors, balls filled with dancing . . . it’s taken away. All of it.

The Keeper understands. He’s trapped, too, held for centuries within the walls of the palace. And so he extends an invitation.

Every night, Azalea and her eleven sisters may step through the enchanted passage in their room to dance in his silver forest.

But there is a cost.

The Keeper likes to keep things.

Azalea may not realize how tangled she is in his web until it is too late.

Entwined is a retelling of the Twelve Dancing Princesses and for me one of the best parts of this book was the characters themselves. Oh, and the magic, because who can live without magic? Not me.

Heather did a brilliant job of showing relationships between the characters. They weren't just people acting out a story, they were people living, loving, grieving, and struggling to understand WITH each other. Did I mention brilliant?

My favorite example of this is between Azalea and her father. They're both heart sore over Azalea's mother's death, but it takes the whole book before they realize and understand this in each other. I loved that Heather didn't rush this moment, but took her time to fully develop the reconciliation.

I really enjoyed this book. It is simply beautiful. So, run out and buy it and sink into its pages with thoughts of balls and dresses and family.

Enjoy!

Leisha

I've Been Bitten On My Bum And On My Writing Too

2011-04-14T07:30:00.008-06:00

Okay folks, and yes I really did just use the word folks because it's a good word and I can. Anywho, today is one of those days. You know the kind where you wake up late and have three million five hundred and four things to do and only have time for two of them, so you get a short post. Sort of.

And to go with the day, its a random post about biting. Yup biting. And cats. And milk. And yes, they all go together. And I'm writing one more sentence that has nothing to do with anything just so I can use the word and a few more times. And, and, and. And I like it. So there.

Anywho--again, my cat is spoiled. Really spoiled. It's my fault because he's so cute and fluffy and meows when he purrs and luvs me. (When talking cats you have to spell loves wrong, it's a rule.) He also luvs milk, as in stalks us for it.

It all started when he was a baby. Read about it HERE. The problem is he's not a baby anymore and still luvs his milk and will bite our tender sit down spots to get it. Yes, you read that right, he bites our tookuses (or is that tooki?). Not hard or anything, just a nip when we're standing in the kitchen to say, "I require milk and you haven't blessed me with it even after I meowed all cute and fluffy and purry and nice. I even did it a couple of time because you are a human and therefore dimwitted. So now I bite you. Give me milk. Now."

What do I do when my rear end is so abused? Ummm, I give the white, fluffy, demon his milk. Yes, I know, it's all my fault and I'm training him, or he's already trained me, but it's habit. It's a reflex, a no brain function-open-the-fridge-door-and-pour-the-milk-on-autopilot reaction. Oh, and it's lame. Just saying.

Now that you've read all this I'm sure you're asking yourself what does this have to do with anything. Stay with me here, it's like writing. Surprise!

A lot of times we do things that are lame and even a little self defeating when we write. Like what you ask? Oh, how about hopping on the internet to find that one fabulous word in the thesaurus only to end up checking the email nineteen hundred times and browsing Amazon, and checking the news, weather, or whatever just because we really don't want to pound out those pages?

Somehow I don't think I'm the only one who does this. What's wrong with it you ask? Well folks, we're getting snipped on the behind every time we do it. Oh, it's not a bad bite, just a nip really, but when we add all the little chomps together that's one sore fanny. And a lot of milk.

So, today I vow to only check my email twice. And to crank out some pages without surfing the net. I even vow to not use the thesaurus because that just leads to a sore bum.

What do you do that bites?

Oh, and I lied. This is not a short post. Oops.

Green Promises and Unfurling Pages

2011-04-12T07:52:00.010-06:00

Mother Nature has been a tease this year. A mean tease. How so? Well, if you don't live in Utah maybe she's been kind, but here, not so much. She flogged us with a long, long, long winter. Then she gave us some spring. And blue sky, the first in ages. I almost forgot what the sun looked like. And felt like. And ahhhhh. Talk about divine.

Then WHAM!

Snow.

For weeks.

See? Just plain Mean.

And it's not over yet. We're supposed to have storms for the rest of the week. But Mother Nature also gave us a promise. A glorious promise. A green promise.

Can you see the promises perched on the end of the branches like emerald stars?

See? HOPE. Little green morsels of it. It's enough to send my soul thrilling and eclipse the meanness and dull, dull ache of winter. And it teaches me hope in my writing as well.

I'm drafting a new novel and sometimes it's winter, as in the words don't come, creativity freezes up, and frost stiffens the story. Brrrr. Not fun. And sometimes the cold spell lasts and lasts.

But there, peeking through the drafting blizzard, are the new pages unfurling like green promises. Each day they grow, and more appear, and I KNOW a writing summer is coming with all it's color and warmth and fun and sun and holidays and pizazz!

So, as I sit by my window and struggle over words, I'll look up from time to time and drink in the green promises brushing the glass panes and type my way to summer.

What promises do you see today?

An Interview With Kathleen Duey

2011-04-07T08:24:00.005-06:00

Hey all, you know how I've posted about WIFYR, otherwise known as Writing and Illustrating For Young Readers? Well, it's getting closer, and I'm getting even more excited, today especially because I get to post a fabulous interview, compliments of WIFYR, with Kathleen Duey Author of Skin Hunger and Sacred Scars.

Don't they look scrumptious?

Kathleen also has a whole slew of other books, but if I put a pic of them all on here this post will get really long, so just drool on these two, wipe your keyboards off, dive into the interview, and then check out her links for the rest of her books.

Now on to the interview!

1. You've managed to do what every writer hopes to do: make a living from being an author. What are some of your marketing secrets?

I use whatever tools are available to increase awareness of my work—but I try not to get so involved with marketing that my writing is short-changed. There is nothing better than face to face interaction with people of all ages so I attend educators’ and librarians’ conferences, teach at writers’ conferences and fit in as many school visits, city book events,and signings as I can—including Skype visits which are wonderful in these tight-budget times.

The internet provides lots of ways to interact with readers, too. My current line-up:

http://www.kathleenduey.com

http://kathleenduey.blogspot.com/

http://www.facebook.com/kathleen.duey

http://twitter.com/#!/kdueykduey or twitter search @kdueykduey

http://www.jacketflap.com/profile.asp?member=kduey

http://russet-one-wing.blogspot.com/ (an unfinished, in progress, twitter-format-experimental novel)

Bottom line? The best marketing tool is a really good book!

2. You've said that you tried to write "books that matter." How do you define "books that matter?"

I intend (and hope) to write books that readers of all ages experience as some kind of an awakening. I want the world to be a little bit better because I was here.

3. You lived off the grid in the Rocky Mountains for years. How has that life experience affected your writing?

I have mostly written historicals and fantasy books and I don’t think that’s an accident. I walk very comfortably through worlds lit only by fire and steeped in star-silence. The Resurrection of Magic trilogy was my very first novel idea twenty years ago when I was off-grid,but I had to set it aside when my puny skills couldn’t manage the sliding timelines and dual protagonists. After this trilogy, I have several ideas trying to shove their way to the front of the line. One of them is contemporary/very near future, one kind of Medieval, and one is another political fantasy, possibly set in Limori, the same city. We’ll see.

4. You're personable and seem to know, well, everyone, and you seem to be the opposite of the classic "recluse writer." How do you feel that has helped your career?

I laughed out loud reading this. Truth: I am a panic attack graduate and virtually a hermit at home, but somehow I like big book gatherings. I love writers and editors and readers—all manner of book people. I think getting to know folks who love what you love is almost always a good idea!

5. You have some of the most brilliant metaphors I've ever seen. Do they come naturally, or do you have methods for developing them?

I am not much aware of using metaphors in my work, so it is likely a sincere effort to describe something in a way that arrests the reader’s attention for that instant, just a tiny pause in the word flow to notice the odd word… and so slow down enough to feel what the character is feeling.

6. You've always wanted to be a writer, but you say it took a long time for you to make the attempt. What finally persuaded you to go for it?

I had daydreamed about it since third grade when I first understood that people wrote books. One day I met a woman who also had two very young children and was writing a novel.I left her house thinking, “Really? She’s writing a novel? And I am not. WHY??” And I just started making time. The first four years it was by candle light, on an open porch, manual typewriter (off-grid--no electricity!) from 9:00pm until about 1:00am, and napping with the kids midday to make up the sleep. And I just kept at it.

7. What is your favorite recent read in young adult literature?

There is a nearly endless wealth and variety of amazing YA authors now. Holly Black is one of my favorites: White Cat and Red Glove!! Holly writes very human stories dipped in unexpected magic and set in fascinating cultures. Jay Asher’s Thirteen Reasons Why really touched me (and a zillion other readers world wide, yes, the movie is coming). I finally read Octavian Nothing by M.T. Anderson this year and was just… swept away. Paolo Bacigalupi’s Windup Girl is my current read--astonishing!!

So there you have it folks. Isn't she awesome? I'd like to shout out another thanks to the crew at WIFYR for all their hard work and for the interview. If you'd like to go to Writing and Illustrating For Young Readers head over and sign up now. Kathleen still has one opening in her class. Grab it while you can. There are also a few openings with some other fabulous authors. I hope to see you there.

Leisha Maw

Running Toward The End

2011-04-05T08:25:00.005-06:00

You know the old phrase, change is hard? Well, it is. It's worse than hard, it's mean, too. How mean? I'm talking make you cry kind of mean. How do I know? I'm there. Well, figuratively, not drowning in literal tears because that would be messy and make my eyes all red, and who wants that? Not me.

I'm talking about the transition from revising an existing project to writing a new book. Why is that hard? Because it's so, so different. You use different parts of your brain to write than to edit and revise, and I've been revising for a while now. It's almost like my head has forgotten how to just write without going back over every word and sentence in edit mode. Do you know how hard it is to move forward if your mind is always looking back and checking, checking, checking, checking every word you write? It's like trying to run a marathon while crouched at the starting line retying you shoes over and over to make sure the knot is just right. Yeah, you don't get too many miles in if you don't run. Or at least walk.

So, how do you silence the inner editor and move on to a new project? You go into training. My writers group is doing their own WriMO. (That's writing month for you non-writing peeps.) We're throwing caution to the wind and forcing out as much of a book as we can in one month's time. No editing allowed.

How am I doing? Errrrrr. I'm struggling. What did I write yesterday? Ummmm, does revising my opening chapter count? Not so much. I need to pound that darn internal editor into a coma for at least a month, and today is the day the fists fly. I'm going to allow myself to mess up. I'm going to expect it. I'm going to do it on purpose. Even if it almost kills me.

What does this mean? It means sloppy words and crazy pages. It means emancipation. It means fear. It means moving forward not looking back. It may even mean adrenaline and tears. It means progress. It means the true birth of my next book because I'm done tying my shoes. I'm ready to run.

Anyone want to join me? You're welcome to. Just pull out a pen and paper or your trusty computer and spew out those words. I can't wait to see how far we get and where our words take us. Mine take me toward the these words: The End.

So who's up to a good run?

My Garage Door Hates Me. Really.

2011-03-31T08:40:00.007-06:00

Awhile ago my garage door broke. It looked like this:

I looked like this:

Except not quite so yellow, and with more hair, a nose, and ears, but otherwise it's a dead ringer for me. Just saying.

Anywho, I was bummed. Broken garage doors can do that to you. My dad and brother fixed it. And then this happened. Again.

And I looked like this:

Except with more hair. Yup. You know it's my spitting image.

Anywho, my brother fixed it. Again. Then...you guessed it. It broke. Again.

It's official, my garage door hates me. I can feel it glaring at me every time I go out to my car. It's like a lurking monster waiting to strike. And the thing about this monster door is it's something different each time--the cable breaks, the spring does some strange spring thing that equals broken door, the wheels hop the track, the motor groans and does some strange motor thing that equals broken door. It just has problems. Right now it's the sensors that won't let it close. They keep "seeing" something in the way and refuse to let the darn thing go down. And no, we haven't bound and gagged any neighbors and put them under the door. It just hates me.

So, is it time for a new door? A new motor? A new life? Nah. It's just like revising a book. You fix it and then realize there's a whole new problem you didn't see before. At times you even think it's a monster that hates you. AND you may even hate it back. But if you want to get your car out of the garage, you have to fix the door. And I want my car out of the garage, as in I want to get published. And that's why I revise.

What are you fixing today?

The Answers Have Come At Last!

2011-03-29T06:19:00.004-06:00

I bolted from sleep at four this morning knowing I'd found the missing pieces to my current novel. Talk about one of those moments when the world slows down and everything is crystal clear. It's magic. It's profound. It's brilliance. It't speechless-a-fying.

This kind of genius only comes once or twice in a lifetime, and today was one of those days. You know, the kind when you finally grasp the true meaning of life and all the little holes and questions fill in.

What were the missing pieces to my novel? What amazing knowledge was I blessed with? It came in the form of five all-important words. Are you ready to hear them? Are you ready for the awesomeness of them? Can you handle the wake-you-from-a-deep-sleep-because-all-your-problems-have-been-solved words?

Okay, brace yourself.

Really.

These are world changing.

You may never be able to go back to who you were.

Really.

Are you prepared for the awesomesauce?

Here they are:

Put. Grind. Lampshade. Aida Cloth.

Yup. Did I mention I woke knowing these words would solve all my problems? Sigh. Groan. Shake my head and bury it under my pillow.

What these words have to do with my book is beyond me. Why I bolted from sleep with them stamped on my brain and my heart pounding like the book gods had granted me a visit is also beyond me. I mean really. Wake a poor girl up with heart palpitations for Lampshade? Aida cloth? Am I supposed to have my dark elf main character take up cross stitching? Seriously?

Ug. I'm going back to bed.

What words of wisdom have you all been blessed with lately? Because I think I could use them. That or I need to stop eating before I go to bed.

A Visit With Carl Bloch

2011-03-24T09:17:00.003-06:00

This week I visited with a master. Well, with his paintings. A group of friends and I went to the Carl Bloch exhibit at Brigham Young University. Amazement courted me as I stood before vivid alter paintings crafted in the 1800s and marveled at the stories told on canvas.

Many of the stories were biblical, reaching out of an even more distant past to whisper messages of faith and love, other were simple yet profound glimpses of life--an old woman feeding birds, a man walking, a wife reading to an invalid husband. All touched me, moved me with wonder and the power of a single moment caught in time. Of emotion.

As I gazed at the works of this long-dead artist, I couldn't help wonder if he ever thought his works would touch me? And in turn, I wonder if my works will live on to touch someone in a distant time.

Carl Bloch said, "God helps me, that is what I think and then I am calm."

First Line Contest

2011-03-22T07:00:00.001-06:00

Hey all, what's in the first line of a book? Promise? Intrigue? Allure? A hook?

Writers might add hope and prayers. Why? Because you have to grab the reader's attention before that first period. My question to you is, does your first line have what it takes?

Chersti Nieveen is having an awesome first line contest to find out, and the prizes are fabulous. Check it out:

First Prize:
A query critique by agent Mary Kole (Andrea Brown Literary Agency)

Yes, you read that right. You may be excused to grab a paper bag to hyperventilate in. Just come back to finish reading about the rest of the first prize.

You also get a $30 Gift Certificate* toward Writing and Illustrating for Young Reader’s Conference, held June 13-17th, 2011 at the Waterford School in Sandy, Utah.

You can use the bag again if you need to. Just saying.

Second Prize:
A 5-page critique by author Martine Leavitt + 1 page of notes.

Use the bag now because I've had Martine critique pages for me before and the woman is brilliant. Really.

AND you get $20 gift certificate* toward Writing and Illustrating for Young Reader’s Conference, held June 13-17th, 2011 at the Waterford School in Sandy, Utah.

Even the runner ups get awesome stuff. Check this out:

Runner Ups can win one of the following books:
MATCHED by Ally Condie signed copy
FRESHMAN FOR PRESIDENT by Ally Condie signed copy
WHITE CAT by Holly Black signed copy
THE WHEAT DOLL by Alison Randall signed copy
WORLDSHAKER by Richard Harland (Simon & Schuster)
MONSTERS OF MEN by Patrick Ness (Candlewick Press)
FIRELIGHT by Sophie Jordan (Harper)
DEMONGLASS by Rachel Hawkins (Hyperion)
REMOTE CONTROL by Jack Heath (Scholastic)
THE KEYS TO THE KINGDOM: LORD SUNDAY by Garth Nix (hardcover)
THE KEYS TO THE KINGDOM / MISTER MONDAY by Garth Nix (paperback)
A MAP OF THE KNOWN WORLD by Lisa Ann Sandell (hardcover)
MARCELO IN THE REAL WORLD by Francisco X. Stork (hardcover)
THE LITTLE GIANT OF ABERDEEN COUNTY by Tiffany Baker (hardcover)
DAWN by Kevin Brooks (ARC)

See? Fabulous! What do you have to do to enter? First you have to go to Chersti's blog (http://cherstinieveen.wordpress.com) and check out the rules. Then you have to enter. Then you should sign up for WIFYR because it's even more awesome than this contest. Really.

Now, go forth and do.

Really.

Finishing Characters

2011-03-17T07:23:00.004-06:00

He's done. Finished. Hunky. Well, at least I think so. Who is he? The love interest in one of my books, and by finished I mean the sketch I've been working on of him. I want to draw all my characters in an effort to see them more clearly. Guess what, it's working.

Check him out.

Now onto the next one. She'll be harder because I've known her longer and the details will have to be just right. It's tough to take a person you've only seen in your head and put them down on paper with a handful of pencils and lots of erasing. But then again, it's the same way with writing them, it takes lots of words and even more deleting to get them right.

What are you working on today?

I've Been Robbed and How The Universe Failed To Keep Me Away From Small Children

2011-03-15T06:36:00.006-06:00

I've been robbed. Really. It happened at my house. While I was home. My whole family was there, the kids sleeping in their beds, hubby and I tucked in as well. The thief broke in and pilfered from us--right under our noses. Door locks couldn't keep him out, not even our attack cat could deter this guy. I mean look at our cat, he's a major deterrent.

But even Krinky the Fang didn't stop this thief. And the crook took something precious from me.

An hour of sleep.

I can hear you out there wondering and worrying and rattling your dead bolts just to be safe, but it's too late. He's been to your house, too. He slipped past your attack cats and stole your hour the same night he took mine. Yup. Daylight Savings Time. May he rot in a dank prison for eternity for what he has done. If you catch him, show no mercy.

And to top it all off, the universe doesn't want me to talk to children. It's true. How do I know? Well, it told me so when I went with a writer friend to speak to an elementary class about writing and art. I'm telling you, nothing boosts your confidence like the universe asking you to please be quiet. I mean really, I started my presentation and got about three sentences in when the fire alarm went off. Yup. That's when you know that you should go home and stumble back into bed. But I did get to stand in a muddy soccer field for several minutes, so it wasn't a complete bust.

AND I got back at the universe. I'm like a ninja that way because we spoke to the kids anyway. And they liked it. Really. I know this because they opted to give up some of their recess to hear more about art. Okay, that may have had more to do with my friend giving them an awesome art lesson than with me showing them a few pictures and telling them they could work magic with only a pencil and an eraser. But still, I got me some ninja skills.

So take that, Universe. And Daylight Savings Time, be warned, I'm looking for you.

Ouch! Working Out, and Writing.

2011-03-10T06:24:00.013-07:00

I used to be a good girl and work out several times a week with a fabulous group of friends. I also used to be strong and a few pounds lighter. I say used to because I stopped, life just got too hectic there for a while. How long is for a while? We're talking a year. Yes. Can you sense the pain coming? Whimper with me.

Well, yesterday I went back like a scared dog with my tail between my legs.

Actual photo of me.

Why was I scared you ask? Are these friends mean? No. They are awesome and kind, but I knew they would hurt me. And they did. With these instruments of torture:

And this, too:

Even though I used the machine of death, I didn't end up looking like the girl in the picture. I feel cheated. I also feel like this:

But it's all good. I know the pain will fade in another day and slowly, ever so slowly, I'll work my way back to where I was a year ago. And I won't need vitamin I (otherwise known as Ibuprofen) forever. Just for today. And maybe tomorrow. And only when I'm awake and breathing. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to say goodbye to those pesky pounds that came to visit during my year of slackerness. And yes, I can use a made up word because I'm a writer and we have a special license for stuff like that.

What does all this have to do with writing? Way too much. I talked about not writing for a while when Kid D was down with the nasties. The trouble is, if you spend too much time away it's hard to get back into it. Your creative muscles atrophy and get grumpy. Your muse gets fat and lazy and doesn't show up when you sit down to write, even when you promise her chocolate. I know because I set out a bowl for her, and she never came.

It's hard and painful at first to crank out those words. The computer starts looking like this:

I mean this:

Well, I'm off to work those writing muscles because I will not go quietly into the night. And muse, if you're out there, you better show up, or I'll hire one of these:

You have been warned.

What's Wrong With Killing The Good Guy?

2011-03-07T13:57:00.000-07:00

So, while Kid D was down with the nasties last week, we set up a portable DVD player in her room. Can you say movies galore? Her brain may be fried, but her sense of story is doing great. How do I know? Let's just say a young movie reviewer has been born.

One of the shows she watched for the first time was Megamind.

I'd never seen the show and was busy trying to get something/anything done while the wonders of movie land distracted the little sicky from her aches and chills. What I got instead was a ongoing summons to the bedroom with very real story worries.

It went something like this:

Kid D in tears: Mom!

Me hurrying to the room expecting bodily fluids and clean up duty: What's wrong?

Kid D: This isn't right. The good guy just died. The bad guy killed him! They're doing this all wrong!

Me thinking, What has Hollywood done now?: Hmmm. That is strange. Are you sure?

Kid D: He got blown up with the full power of the sun. All that was left was his bones.

Me: You're watching the cartoon I put in for you, right?

Kid D: Yes. The blue guy with the big head killed Metroman.

Me: Well, now. Maybe the blue guy isn't really the bad guy.

Kid D: He is. He said so. And he has a minion.

Me: How do you know he has a minion?

Kid D: Because he's named Minion. Not the blue guy, he's Megamind. Minion's a fish.

Me: Alrighty then.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! It's okay, the blue guy feels bad about killing the good guy so he's making a new good guy.

Me: Alright then. Again.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! The new good guy isn't good! What's wrong with this movie?

Me: Is the new good guy blue?

Kid D: No, he's just doing bad things. People who aren't blue can do bad things, too.

Me really wondering what the show was all about: What's the blue guy doing?

Kid D: Trying to stop him.

Me: So he's good?

Kid D: No. He still says he's bad.

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! The good guy, Metroman, isn't dead. He's just pretending. It's all going to be okay.

Me: Sure it is. *Wink*

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Mom! Metroman won't be good. And Megamind has to save the city.

Me: Hmmmm. Didn't see that one coming. *Wink, wink*

Several minutes later...

Kid D: Megamind is the good guy! He saved the city! That's so cool!

Needless to say I had to watch the show. It was fun, but the best part was watching my seven-year-old gain a greater grasp of story. By the end she loved the twists and challenges to her perceptions of good and bad. I think it was a real eye opener to her that the real good guy wasn't good because of his looks, flowing cape, and flashy smile, and she loved the blue guy. Me, I loved listening to her dissect it with her child's understanding, and okay, Megamind is kind of lovable.

I can't wait for Kid D's reading skills to get to the point we can do this with books. It will be such fun to give her The Thief and wait for the, "Mom!"

What books or movies have challenged your kids? You? Did the experience make you love the story more? Do you like being surprised as you read?

The Nasties

2011-03-03T07:55:00.004-07:00

First off, if you like art check out this contest at The Wonderful Obsessions.

Second, you get a short post today because it's been one of those weeks. You know the kind filled with groans, wet compresses, and sick kids. Kid D is down with the nasties, and I've spent most of my days (and nights) comforting her. This means I've spent zero time writing.

The surprising thing is that the forced time away from the computer turned out to be good. You see, my WIP was sick, too. Not deathly ill or anything, just a fever, cough, and chills.

I knew the poor thing felt off it's game, but I kept thinking, Just plow through this part and it will get better. Wrong.

The time away helped me see the problems in a broader way. I mentally reworked my plot, added a character, got rid of some others, and put a few more twists into the mix. AND I'm so excited to get back to work. Now I just need my lap and arms back.

Does time away from your projects help you see them in a new light?

What Is It With Love Stories?

2011-03-01T06:21:00.010-07:00

So, I've been pondering all the important questions of the universe: what's for dinner, why don't my pants fit right (I have a sneaking suspicion that these two are somehow connected), and what is it with love stories (probably not connected, but who knows)?

Don't we all love a good romance? Seriously, even you men. Now before the egg starts flying (Hmmm eggs for dinner?), I don't mean to imply you men like romance novels or anything damaging to your manness, but admit it, you like a story with a romantic element. I mean, didn't Trinity spice up the Matrix for you?

And who would Jason Bourne have been without his love interest? See, guys like romance. Girls? Yeah, that's a given.

Now, even my own Kid C has discovered the joy of having a sweetheart. Earlier this week the little guy came to me and Hubby with a giant smile spread on his face like he'd woken up and discovered an extra Christmas or something. He gave us both hugs and told us he had a girlfriend. See, Christmas-for him.

Not so much for me. I admit, I panicked a bit. He is pretty young after all, and we tend to shelter him a bit with his disability. His body may be twelve, but his mind isn't.

It went like this:

Me experiencing mild heart palpitations: What?

Kid C just grinning: *grin*

Me growing a smile because his is so darn contagious: You have a girlfriend?

Him: Yup.

Me hiding a giggle, because I can never resist a good love story for long: Who is she?

Him just reveling in the moment.

Me: Is she in your class at school?

Him: Nah.

Me getting into it because I also love a good mystery: What's her name?

Him hugging his ever-present stuffed baby elephant: Rapunzel.

Me savoring the moment of Kid C's cuteness: She is pretty.

Him: Uh huh!

Christmas after all.

I mean, what's not to love? She's nice, she's led a sheltered life, she has great hair, she has a pan and knows how to use it (maybe she knows what's for dinner), she even carries an animal around on her shoulder. So does Kid C, the animal part, not the pan because that would be less safe for everyone. Really. But his baby elephant rides around on his shoulder like it's an extra appendage. Yup, this is a match made in Kid C heaven.

So, spill, what lures you to a love story? Why are we such suckers for them? What draws you to a character in a book? And what is your favorite romance ever?

White Cat and preparing for WIFYR

2011-02-24T07:05:00.005-07:00

Hey all, about a month ago I mentioned the WIFYR conference in Salt Lake City, Utah. If you're a writer and live on earth, you should check it out. Heck, if you live off planet you should still check it out. It's a great conference.

In preparation, I'm not only trying to hammer out a new WIP, I'm also reading books written by the awesome staff. Yesterday I read White Cat by Holly Black.

Here's the blurb from the jacket flap:

"Cassel comes from a family of curse workers — people who have the power to change your emotions, your memories, your luck, by the slightest touch of their hands. And since curse work is illegal, they're all mobsters, or con artists. Except for Cassel. He hasn't got the magic touch, so he's an outsider, the straight kid in a crooked family. You just have to ignore one small detail — he killed his best friend, Lila, three years ago.

Ever since, Cassel has carefully built up a façade of normalcy, blending into the crowd. But his façade starts crumbling when he starts sleepwalking, propelled into the night by terrifying dreams about a white cat that wants to tell him something. He's noticing other disturbing things, too, including the strange behavior of his two brothers. They are keeping secrets from him, caught up in a mysterious plot. As Cassel begins to suspect he's part of a huge con game, he also wonders what really happened to Lila. Could she still be alive? To find that out, Cassel will have to out-con the conmen."

Doesn't it sound gooooood? It was.

I knew I'd like this book when I read the acknowledgments page. Any writer who thanks someone for driving her around locked in the trunk of a car has to be intriguing. And the best part is, not only did the plot keep me turning pages, but the characters and their unique world fascinated me. I always marvel when a writer gets me to care about someone who isn't a typical hero, and there are a lot of characters I felt drawn to in this book who live on the shady side of the law.

Even more exciting is the release of Red Glove, the second book in the Curse Workers series, on April 5,2011. This means I won't have to wait very long to re-immerse myself in Holly's haunting world.

I'm excited to meet Holly at WIFYR and learn from her. Check out her books and the WIFYR conference.

This Means War!

2011-02-22T08:31:00.006-07:00

As the sun crept over the mountains this morning, I knew today was the day. What day you ask? The day war would be fought. Here. Now.

What war?

This war.

The Cleaning War.

And the force is strong with my foe.

My house has had a long weekend to gather it's troops. The dust bunnies alone could take out a squad of marines. Just saying. And then there's the dishes. And the laundry.

Yup, it's going to be a long day.

Then the real battle will begin--cleaning house in my manuscript. I have to take out the trash. Pages of it. Writing a first draft is a bit like having a long weekend, it's fun, but you make a mess of things. So, now I need to convince a dark elf who's been banished to earth to play nice with the humans. Yes, he does have a bit of an attitude, but I have the delete key. Mwhahaha.

What are you going to clean today?

Saying Goodbye

2011-02-17T06:16:00.004-07:00

My parents are moving to Portugal on Monday, and it's time to say goodbye. I've been in denial for months, pretending for all my worth that they weren't really going away, but calling them and hearing an impersonal voice state the number is no longer working and emptying the house of food has a way of shattering even the most well crafted denials.

The thing with goodbyes is they hurt. It's almost like a practice death, a foreshadowing of a much more lasting separation. A reminder that you squandered precious time and there won't be anymore laughter-filled visits with Mom, or dusty days with Dad spend building a basement and memories. There won't be any more birthday parties for grandkids, or noisy family get-togethers, no more tender moments where they lend me strength with an embrace. At least not for a while.

Goodbyes remind you of what you had and didn't cherish as much as you should. Things like being able to drive to their house if I had a bad day and sit at the kitchen table and just be mommy's little girl again, even if it's only for an hour or so. That's a little hard to do with an ocean between you.

Now, my mind tells me I'm being melodramatic, but my heart cries louder, drowning out the reason. I'm just a little kid again, standing on the steps of school as her mommy drives away on the first day of kindergarten. I know she'll come back, and I'll learn things and have fun while she's gone, but for right now, this moment, I don't care about the pretty colors and friends waiting for me inside the classroom. I just want my mommy to come back and take me home. I want to hear her bustling about and asking me if I cleaned my room. I even want to clean it just for her so I can see that happy smile one more time. I want to climb on my daddy's lap and snuggle into his strength. I want to whisper, "I love you." from five-year-old lips and know there is a life time of years before they leave.

I don't want to say goodbye. Ever.

But I must. And I will stand strong and wear out my Skype connection and long distance card with overuse. It may be hard to hug over emails, but I'll use every bit of power behind my words to convey my love. And I will smile as I wave goodbye to take a portion of the sting away from their hearts. And mine.

And I will be that kindergartner and build myself the biggest countdown chain from construction paper, and Christmas won't have anything on the day Mom and Dad come back. And instead of goodbye, I'll practice saying, "Welcome home."

What's For Dinner? A Pass A Long Story? Yum.

2011-02-15T09:10:00.006-07:00

Good Morning! And sorry this is late. I had a "What's for dinner?" kind of morning. It went something like this.

Me staring at blank computer screen wondering what to blog about: Ummmmm. Ummmm. Ummmmm.

Me: ...

Me: ...

Me: O fudge.

It was exactly the same feeling I get every time one of the kids asks, "What's for dinner?"

You know, that panicked moment when you glance at the clock and realize it's 5:45 and dinner is supposed to be in fifteen minutes and you got nothing. Zero. Nada. Cereal?

Well, I didn't want to give you plain old cereal so I found this instead:

Delicious isn't it?

My question is, what's the story behind the pic? How did the bike become a part of the tree? Did a dryad have an unfortunate accident? Or did the tree just need more 'fiber' in its diet?

Here's the deal, I'll start the story, and you all add to it. Just post a paragraph or two about what happens next. It'll be fun and so much better than cereal.

Trenton lay sprawled on the forest floor, helmet askew and moss clinging to his face like Mr. Potato Head's mustache. What happened?

A faint crunching sound drew his attention, and he scrambled to his feet.

You write the rest. Let's hear what happened to the bike. And please play along. Please, please please. *Rubs hands together and grins*

Leisha Maw

One Of Those Days

2011-02-10T06:43:00.008-07:00

Do you ever have one of those days where you wake up feeling like this?

And getting the kids ready for school and showering and finding clothes and writing and breathing feel like this?

And you're the donkey?

Sometimes you just have to be the mouse instead. (Watch it to the end.)

Be the mouse.

The Magic and Mayhem Of Firsts

2011-02-08T06:18:00.008-07:00

Saturday was a day of firsts at our house. First we slept in for three glorious hours. Can you say bliss? Then we got up, because for some reason the children like to be fed and such, and they seem to depend on us for that. Weird.

At 10:18 we experienced a whole new kind of first. Kid A got a phone call. Not that she hasn't talked on the phone before, it's what happened during that call that changed our whole day.

She talked for a few minutes then came to us for guidance. Our conversation went something like this:

Kid A: Mom, Dad, I need to talk.

Us: Okay.

Kid A: That was Friend A. She wants me to ask this guy out to the Sweet Heart Ball.

Me staring at Kid A with bulging eyes: Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmm. Ummmmmm. Isn't that today?

Kid A: Yes?

Hubby trying not to laugh: Do you want to go?

Kid A: I don't know. Friend A really, really, really wants me to ask this guy.

Me trying to breath normally so that Kid A won't be frightened: Isn't the dance semi-formal?

Kid A: Yes.

Me still trying to breath normally since this would be Kid A's first date, and I remember how terrifying that is, but also being a mom and knowing how much effort goes into preparing for a dance, and not knowing what Kid A would wear to a semi formal dance that just happens to be in a about six hours: Isn't that today?

Hubby patting my back to calm me down while asking Kid A: Do you want to go?

Kid A: I don't know. They're doing the day activities at noon.

Me staring in dumb disbelief at the clock, which reads 10:22, and realizing my six hours just shrank to one-and-a-half, and thinking we need a dress, shoes, hair, make-up, money, oh crap--she still needs to ask this guy out: Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm. Ummmmmm.

Hubby still trying not to laugh: Well, you'd better make up your mind fast. Who is this guy?

Kid A: I don't know. Some senior.

I'd finish this conversation for you, but it would be painful for most of us--okay, probably just for me. So instead of pain, I'll sum up. She decided to go because she didn't want to let Friend A down and because there was Chinese food involved. Okay, and because she's a brave girl who can have fun under pressure.

She called to inform Friend A of this monumentous decision while I hyperventilated for a minute or two. Then Kid A informed me that Friend A would be at our door in ten minutes to pick her up to go ask the guy out. I hyperventilated some more and ordered Kid A into the shower.

Then the rush began. I ran to the kitchen shouting, "What do we have to ask someone to a dance?" I yanked open the pantry and stared. "Beans! We have beans!"

Hubby, who had followed me, told me I couldn't use beans. We made cookies. Fast. Okay, I started the cookies, and hubby finished them while Kid A and I did the speediest hair and make-up job in the history of the world. Then she left to go ask some poor, unsuspecting senior to the dance (with a plate of cookies and a can of beans) that was in just a few hours. I felt bad for his mother for a second or two. It would have been more, but I didn't have time.

While she was gone, I called in reinforcements, my mom for a dress, my sister for the real hair and make-up, my neighbor for pictures, a prayer or two for sanity and a miracle. They all came through with flying colors.

By the time Kid A came back from asking the now-stressed senior to the dance we had eleven semi-formal gowns, shoes, and everything else lined up--except an oxygen tank for me.

So the long and short of this tale is, we made it. Kid A looked beautiful. The dance was a success, and so was Kid A's first date.

What does this have to do with writing? Oh, tons of things, but I've gone on too long already. So I'll just list three.

1: Firsts are exciting and scary, and all of us like to relive them. That's why I love YA. It's all about firsts.

2: Sometimes you just have to dive into the writing, like Kid A did with her first date, and let the words fall where they may.

3: When you do dive in, have a support group like someone to help with a dress and make-up. You know, readers, and critique partners, and back-patters, and such. But most of all, just love it. There's nothing better than the rush of excitement as the words come. Oh, and keep some beans and chocolate chips handy, you never know when you'll need them.

Are you going to write a first today?

Leisha Maw

My Shadow, Love, and First Publication Rights

2011-02-03T08:39:00.009-07:00

First off, sorry about the late post. The sub-zero temperatures iced over our ISP's satellite tower and the world almost ended from lack of Internet. I couldn't even check my e-mail. Shudder.

Well, on to the post.

It's that time again. You know, parent teacher conference time. I took Kid D last night. It turned out well, and once again the first grade wrote stories. Last time I had buy the first publication rights to get Kid D to let me post one of her stories on my blog. This time she was ready for me. It went like this.

Me: You did awesome!

Kid D grinning.

Me: Can I put a story on my blog?

Kid D: Sure. How much are you going to pay me?

Me grinning, too: Two dollars for two stories.

Kid D: Deal.

I laughed and paid her. I think she's liking this write and get paid thing. Who can blame her? I'd really like to try it some day soon.

So, here are her two stories with translations attached. Enjoy.

My Shadow

Translation:

I am jumping on the trampoline with my shadow in the sun. It is fun. If the sun is up very high, your shadow is low.

And the second masterpiece:

Love

Translation:

I love to eat ice cream. I love Mrs. Tingey!!! I love school. I love me!!! I love my mom!!! I love my dad!!!

I love this story. Who wouldn't? Ice cream--yum. A beloved teacher--awesome. Love for Mom and Dad--bonus. But love for herself--ahhh a mother's dream come true. I'm so glad she let me buy these.

I'm off to write. I have big shoes to fill. Who knew I'd be trying to keep up with a first-grader. :)

Leisha Maw

Just Wiggle Something

2011-02-01T07:11:00.008-07:00

One of my goals this year is to slim down a few pounds, but I've run into some problems. One, food and I are close. Really close. Two, I detest being cold, so walking outside in January and February is out of the question. Three, I have a low threshold for boredom, and staring at the wall while trudging on the treadmill for an hour is the definition of boredom. Really it is, I looked it up.

In an effort to still meet my goal and not die of either freezing to a sidewalk or falling asleep while tied to a treadmill, I found Zumba. Boring it is not.

During my first Zumba experience, I tripped over myself, I laughed, and I sweated. A lot. I also earned some sore muscles and a swollen knee, but Zumba is addicting--kind of like chocolate but less fattening. Bonus!

Anywho, I went back for another session and tripped, sweated, and laughed some more. Then I found a Zumba workout on demand with my cable provider. If you can hear cheering, that's me.

It is not my family, though. Why? I asked them to Zumba with me. They declined. I begged them. They stonewalled me. I bribed them with promises of not having to do dishes for several weeks. They looked at me like I was a crazy lady, but did we Zumba? Why yes, we did.

But not without some objections once we turned the TV on and they stared at the Zumba professionals. I heard things like, "I can't move like that!" and "You are crazy!"

I laughed and told them it didn't matter as long as they wiggled something. The thing with Zumba is that you don't start out knowing all the moves, you learn as you go. It takes practice and lots of wiggling. And sweating. And laughing.

How is this related to writing? Easy, if you want to write, you have to wiggle something. You can't look at the professionals and decide you don't move like that, you just need to jump in and feel the music. Then you need to practice and sweat. And you need to keep coming back to it every day. And you need to laugh. A lot. Learn to grin at your mistakes and follow the professionals' leads. In time you'll be the pro.

So, are you wiggling something today?

The Magic of Birthdays and Books

2011-01-27T07:21:00.005-07:00

First off, I have a post at The Scribblers Cove today, too. Check it out.

Second off, (okay this should probably be first, but it looked better on the page this way) today is Kid D's Seventh Birthday. She woke up expecting magic. You could feel the anticipation in the air, see it in her missing-the-two-front-teeth grin, and taste it in the cake-and-frosting-rich air.

I asked her if she felt older, and she told me,"Yes! My legs are even longer. You can tell, see? My pajamas don't touch my feet like they did last night."

I smiled and smothered a laugh. You don't laugh at seven-year-olds on their birthdays, even if they are amusing.

Kid D's excitement made me think about books and writing. Don't act all surprised. Most things make me think of writing and books because that's how I roll.

Anywho, every time I pick up a book, I'm like Kid D. I expect magic. Not necessarily real magic with spells and wands and elves and such (though that doesn't hurt), but the magic and wonder of fantastic stories and amazing characters. I want to be transported to a new place, time, and setting. I want to feel like I'm seven and grew during the night only to wake up to balloons and cake. All of it for me.

I want to feel the emotions of characters. I want to experience fear, longing, love, adrenaline spikes, and warm fuzzies. I want to live between the covers with the characters.

I want the magic of a book.

What about you? What do you want when you open a book?

Leisha Maw

It's Time For WIFYR!

2011-01-25T07:33:00.007-07:00

First off, I'm sending out one final plea for Wren to contact me about her prize from my contest. If I haven't heard from you by the end of the week I may be forced to award your prize to the second place winner so that I don't feel like I'm just sitting on it. *Crossing my fingers that I'll hear from you. Please-oh-please-oh-please!*

Anywho, on to today's post.

It's time!

For what you ask? Only my favorite conference of the year. Well, it's time for registration anyway. We're talking The WIFYR of course!

For those of you who don't speak acronym this is The Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference held June 13-17 in Salt Lake City, Utah. Preregistration is in full swing. This means you should click the link above ASAP. (ASAP btw means after you finish reading my post. Just saying.)

Why should you go to WIFYR? Because this week-long conference offers small classes with amazing authors. Check this out:

Beginning Class-- Sharlee Glenn
Picture Book Class-- Trudy Harris
Picture Book Class-- Kristyn Crow
Illustrator Class-- Kevin Hawkes
Chapter Book Class-- Mike Knudson
Middle Grade Novel-- Claudia Mills
Beginning YA Novel Class-- Emily Wing Smith
Novel Class -- Louise Plummer
Fantasy Class-- Holly Black
Advanced Novelist Class-- Martine Leavitt
Advanced Novelist Class-- Kathleen Duey
NEW! Writer's Boot Camp-- A.E. Cannon
Keynote Speaker-- Ally Condie

AND these guys will be there, too:

Agent-- Mary Kole, Andrea Brown Literary Agency
Editor-- Alyson Heller, Aladdin Books
Editor-- Lisa Yoskowitz, Disney

Can you say fabulous? Are you drooling yet? I am.

So dust off your WIP and go sign up for WIFYR.

Leisha Maw

Quilting a Novel

2011-01-20T07:09:00.012-07:00

I recently had a conversation with Jonene Ficklin after we both read a blog post at The Scribblers Cove entitled, Piecing Together A Story. Jonene recalled how foreign quilting had been for her, how overwhelming it was to face a room full of experienced quilting in-laws, and how self conscious she'd been with her unpracticed hand.

I couldn't help smiling as I thought back to my youth. I grew up in a family with a rich quilting heritage. My mother quilted. My grandmother quilted. We probably quilted back to Adam.

For my wedding present my grandma hand-pieced a quilt out of scraps she'd gathered over the years--slices of my mother's baby clothes, dresses my grandmother wore--parts of her life really. The pattern came from her head and years of practice. My mom put the quilt up in our front room, and the gathering began.

Grandma put her last stitches in my quilt. My younger sisters put their first. Neighbors stopped by to add their part. Even my dad and brothers stabbed needle and thread through the fabric for me with clumsy love.

My stitches are mingled with my family's and friends' old and young. Some of the stitches are even and straight, marching across the colorful fabric like disciplined soldiers. Others are as crooked as my grandmother's fingers had become. Some are as fat as baby cheeks. They all tell a story. One I treasure.

As I stroke the fabric and run my fingers along the beautiful designs, I not only see the flowers and patches of color making up the overall picture, I see the faces of these women (and my dad and brothers) who took the time to sit, sew, and visit as I entered a new world.

If writing really is like quilting as the post at The Scribblers Cove suggests, and I very much think it is, what role do the quilters play? They aren't the author. They didn't create the design. My grandma gathered every piece of fabric and sewed the quilt together. She arranged the pattern and provided the materials. She chose the plot, the setting, and the characters. Her hands created the quilt, but it wasn't done yet.

Here is a pic of an infant quilt of mine. It's really just the idea of a quilt. A bunch of pretty thoughts waiting to be drafted into a whole.

Here is a pic of an older one I'm working on. It looks like a quilt, but it's not. It is just the quilt top--all the pretty colors and the design.

It's a novel about to become a real book. But it has rough edges.

And it's missing something--the team of quilters who would finish it. The critiquers, the editors, the support staff. It lacks the polishing that comes with each new stitch and backing and batting and binding and such.

Could my grandma have finished my quilt on her own? Yes, but it would have taken much, much longer, and it would lack the richness of all those varied stitches that mean so much to me. So, as a writer I suggest we all embrace the work and effort of all those critiquers, editors, beta readers, and revisions. They transform your quilt top into a treasure.

Are you quilting today?

Leisha Maw

Spiders And Other Poisonous Habits

2011-01-18T06:55:00.007-07:00

A couple of nights ago I sat down on the couch with Kids A and D to read, chat, and watch for my hubby to come home. It was relaxing until Kid A saw a spider on the couch.

I told her to kill it.

Being a brave young woman, she got some tissue and bent in for the death strike. Then she paused and calmly said, "Mom, it's a Black Widow."

We all vacated the couch in a speedy manner--a very speedy manner.

I told Kid A not to kill it. Some jobs you just can't have a kid do, and poisonous spider slaying calls for adult action. And something more deadly than a tissue. I grabbed the hairspray (yes, hairspray) and doused the intruder with it. Several times. You try escaping (or attacking someone) when your whole body is covered in hardening glue.

Needless to say, the evil interloper didn't take kindly to her full-body drenching and tried to crawl behind the couch. Kid A yanked it (the couch not the spider) away from the wall, and I reapplied the hairspray. Then I did it again several more times. We poked the spider into a mason jar with a pencil, sealed the jar, and put it on the front porch for disposal.

I'm still a little freaked about sitting on the couch. I may have to move every stick of furniture in the house, vacuum under/in/around them all with one hand on the vacuum and the other on the hairspray, and then shower (again) just to get the heebie jeebies to leave me alone.

What does this have to do with writing? A whole heck of a lot. All of us have spiders lurking in our pages or hiding as bad habits. It could be procrastination hanging out on the couch waiting to sink its fangs into you. Or it might be over-confidence and pride that keeps you from heading back to your manuscript for another round of revisions. It may even be doubt that builds its sticky web and entangles you before you can get going.

All of these, and so many more, are camouflaged against our writing couches. If we don't search them out with hairspray in hand, they will bite us. Ouch.

What spiders are you going to pursue and kill today? I'm going searching for distractions, and boy will they be sorry. Will you be a spider slayer today? Enjoy the hunt.

The Versatile Blogger--Who Me?

2011-01-13T08:37:00.006-07:00

Donea Lee over at The Queen Of Procrastination gifted me the Versatile Blogger award!

How cool is that? Thanks so much Donea!

So, according to the rules I now need to tell you seven things about myself. The problem is, I couldn't come up with seven things that didn't sound really boring, you know, stuff like: I love fuzzy slippers and cinnamon gum. So, I called my sister and asked/forced her to come up with seven things for me.

Here is how it went:

Me: Tell me seven things about me.
Her: What?

Me: For my blog.
Her: Seriously?

Her: Alright, you're funny.
Me: Okay. But looks aren't everything, you know.

Her: You never give up.
Me: Stubborn and pig-headed. Check.

Her: That's not what I meant.
Me: Stubborn. Double check.

Her rolling her eyes, and yes, I can hear this over the phone. Like my hubby, she has very loud eye rolls.

Her: You're an artist.
Me: Um, I'm not going to lie on my blog.

Her grinning: Whatever. Let's see, you're awesome.
Me: Didn't we just discuss the lying thing? And that isn't a thing, it's a state of being like on Kung Fu Panda. And I might charge for awesomeness...if I had any. Which is probably why I don't.

Her rolling her eyes more.
Me turning down the volume on my phone.

Her: You are a great cat smuggler.
Me: Ahh, those were the days.

Her: You're a good listener.
Me: ........

Her: Leisha?
Me: ........

Her: Hello?
Me: What? Did you say something? I was thinking about smuggling cats.

Her: Never mind. How many more do we have?
Me: One. I knew seven would be too hard.

Her laughing.
Me not listening because I'm good at that.

Her: You're imaginative.
Me: If by that you mean I spend most of my time off-planet and delusional, you're right.

So, now you know these earth-shattering details about me. (Note: Leisha is in no way responsible for any and all therapy bills incurred as a result of reading this, or any, post. Thank you.)

Now on to some fab peeps I want to pass this award on to. And it was so hard to narrow it to just these few. Really. :)

Debbie at Cranberry Fries
Mary at Writer's Butt Does Not Apply To Me
L.T. at Dreams Of Quill and Ink
All the great writers at The Scribblers Cove
Susan at Ink Spells

Thanks again, Donea!

Attending Your Own Viewing

2011-01-11T06:18:00.003-07:00

First off, I still haven't heard from Wren about her prize in my contest. Wren, if you are out there, please send me an email at klmaw@aol.com. Thanks!

On to today's post. (Aren't you just trembling with anticipation?)

Over the weekend my parents were invited to attend a surprise viewing for a dear friend. Why was this a surprise? Well, for two reasons: this friend was still living, and she didn't know about the somber event.

Let me explain. Her hubby, who is a practical jokester, decided to go all out for his wife's fiftieth birthday. And by all out, yes, I do mean he staged his own wife's viewing as a surprise.

She came home to find the house decorated for a funeral. A real casket loomed in the front room. Pictures chronicling her life stood on easels around the house. A register book lay ready for guests to sign in and give their condolences. And large funeral arrangements of flowers--dead flowers--surrounded the casket. To top this all off, a sign sat by the front door that read, Please enter with reverence. And a companion sign inside the house read, Please join us in mourning Cindy's youth.

How did this remarkable woman handle this? With grace and humor. She sat beside the casket as the guests arrived and went through the funeral receiving line. She smiled and laughed as she accepted black-wrapped gifts and black balloons. She didn't even cart her hubby out of the house in the casket.

What does this have to do with writing? And, yes, it really does have something to do with it, I promise.

As a writer, you have to be willing to attend your own viewing sometimes. Well, your manuscript's viewing anyway. And just like how my mother's friend wasn't dead yet, it might not be time to actually bury the thing, but you may need to sit back and listen with a smile as friends and strangers stop by to review it.

The best thing about this is, most viewers/critiquers will have some great things to say about your manuscript's life. They will also have some less happy things to remember, and since you still have time left before it enters the coffin, you can fix those problem areas. True it can be a little awkward to still be living at your own viewing, but what an opportunity! It's like you get to cheat death and rewrite your manuscript's life. How great is that?

Have you learned to accept critiques with grace and humor? Are you ready to attend your own viewing? I am.

Jumping, Pillows, and Writing

2011-01-06T06:21:00.009-07:00

Recently I took Kid A shopping. During the expedition I may, or may not, have been acting a little strangely. She grinned at me and said, "Mom, all the voices in my head and I agree, you're crazy."

I laughed because it was funny, and because like me, my daughter has stories living in her head. And yes, when you are a writer you do talk to the characters. And because I may indeed be crazy--in a good way. I hope. And yes, I can start sentences with and if I want to. And I do.

This got me thinking (Kid A, not a plethora of ands) about some of the strange/insane/fun things I did when I was a kid. Here's one:

I grew up with six siblings, and we didn't have television. This translated into long days filled with adventure. Once we decided it would be great fun to climb to the top of our one-and-a-half story house and jump off the roof onto a pillow. Yes, a pillow. What can I say, we were brilliant.

My parents got wind of the idea and slaughtered it because they were (and are) good parents. They declared the roof off limits. We moaned and complained then came up with a grand new plan. The roof may have become a no-man's land, but the house had windows. A lot of them. And yes, we really were that brilliant.

We positioned our pillow in the grass, fluffed it once or twice, because we all knew the value of a poofy pillow, and raced to an upstairs window. We all preceded to jump, single file, like a bunch of lemmings onto one increasingly flat pillow.

It was awesome--at least until Mom and Dad found out and jumping from the window onto pillows joined the black list. What did we do then? We moved the trampoline under the window. Yup, didn't I mention brilliant?

What does this have to do with writing? Way more than you think. Really.

Writing, especially submitting to agents and editors, is a lot like jumping out of a high window onto a pillow. It's exciting and feels dangerous. It may even be a little crazy. Sometimes you end up with a few bruises, but the experience is so worth it. And like prepping the pillow before we jumped, revising, revising, and revising can help your landing be less jarring. As time goes by, you even learn to pull the trampoline under the window.

Here's to jumping!

A Grind, A Plop, and A Lot Of Smoke--And Inflicting Pain

2011-01-04T06:23:00.008-07:00

How did your New Years go? Ours went off with a bang...or maybe I should say a grind, a plop, and a lot of smoke. Here's how it went down.

First Hubby's car started making a horrible grinding sound. You know the kind that means your car just became roadkill, and you immediately see an image of yourself as a Flintstones character followed closely by dollar signs. Lots of them.

But we weren't smiling.

And we don't have a dinosaur for a pet. Just saying.

As for the plop, well it was worse than the grind--for Kid B at least, and for my heart. You remember how I blogged about the magic of Christmas and waiting for decades for my disabled sons to get excited? And how it had finally happened? And how happy I was?

Well, Kid B asked for something for the very first time. Ever. He wanted a Mario Cart DS. And that was all. It's the only thing he's ever wanted in fourteen years, and he asked for it every day. A lot. Santa brought it cause he's an old softy.

Kid B had five glorious days with his DS, then it slipped from his fingers and fell with a plop into, you guessed it, the toilet. The evil thing ate it.

We, yet again, shoved a hand down the toilet and retrieved the DS. It now lies in pieces in a bag of rice drying out for a week accompanied by fervent prayers for a miracle.

Kid B feels like this:

Except he's a lot bigger and has more hair. Oh, and more clothes.

I feel worse.

Now on to the smoke. Sigh. Sunday we prepped a chicken to cook while we went to church. I set the oven for 325 degrees and headed out the door. Three-and-a-half hours later we came home and opened the door to billowing smoke. Like this:

But without the flames. Every sad story must have at least one silver lining, that's ours.

One of our kids (probably Kid C cause he often inspires...er inflicts drama on us) helped us out by cranking the oven to 475. Yup. Smoke and charred chicken. And smell that bonded on a molecular level with every surface in our home. Ug.

Yes, it was that kind of weekend.

What does this have to do with writing? Tons. As a writer you must inflict pain on your characters, loads of it, like some demented torturer obsessed with producing tears and heartbreak.

Why? It helps them. Really it does. It provides challenges for them to overcome, and they morph into a hero right in front of your eyes as they rise above all the pain and suffering. It also creates sympathy. You love them for their pain. (This means you should love me right now. Just saying. He he.)

Think about Katniss, would you love her as much if nothing bad ever happened to her? Or Harry Potter? What if he'd had a great childhood with loving parents, and friends, and magic in his life, and roses, and lots of great food, and a dog, and and and... Well, he'd be boring for one, and not nearly as endearing as the Boy Who Lived.

So, does this make me feel better about my weekend? Yes. A little. After all, who wouldn't want to be compared to awesome characters in some small way? I mean, I can go to the grocery store today and tell some poor, unsuspecting stranger that me and Katniss are buds. (And, yes, the odd looks will be so worth it.) Maybe I will even morph into something wonderful in time. Here's to hoping and overcoming drowned gameboys.

So He's A Dog.

2010-12-30T10:06:00.010-07:00

Last night a wicked person turned my hubby into a dog.

Yes, it's true, a big hairy one that drooled on the furniture, chased the cats, and licked my face.

Shudder. I don't even like dogs.

See? Evil.

Then they left him that way too long before changing him back to a human, and the dog thing stuck in his brain. Do you know how awkward it is to rub a grown man's belly and scratch behind his ears? Yup. Strange.

And yes, my dreams are usually strange. I spent the greater part of the night trying to coax my hubby back into humanity. It didn't work. The mental dogness was permanent. Talk about nightmare. You try taking your hubby/dog for a walk. You get really odd looks when you strap a human man to a leash. Just saying. And I'm not even going to go into fire hydrants because, well, this is a family friendly blog and some things are just so wrong.

I woke up feeling like I needed to get Hubby some shots and a really cute collar. I'm just so glad it was a dream.

What does this have to do with writing? Nothing. It's just that kind of day.

The Aftermath of Christmas

2010-12-28T07:59:00.004-07:00

It's that time of year--the aftermath of Christmas. All the presents have been opened, the floor is littered with crumpled wrapping paper, and the tree looks like this:

The magic of the season seeps back into the frozen ground, waiting, waiting, waiting for next Christmas. Everyone feels it, this loss, and wanders around the house with a What do we have to look forward to now? expression on their faces.

I don't know about you, but this year I have my answer in the form of a story that has been tugging on my shirt tails for almost a year, begging to be told. I've had to hush it up. Until now. And I'm almost giddy with the expectation and promise of new adventure.

I know it will be work, but it will be thrilling work getting to know the characters that will play out their lives in my mind. It's like meeting new friends and rushing off to join in their life and death struggles.

So, how about you? What thrilling possibilities will you turn to in the aftermath of Christmas? What grand new adventures will this new year hold for you?

Contest Winners!

2010-12-23T08:48:00.007-07:00

The time has come to announce the contest winners. Can you hear the anticipation? And yes, you can hear anticipation if you listen hard enough. It kind of sounds like drum rolls. Hark, I hear them now.

Here is Kid D picking winner number one:

And the winner of the Barnes and Nobel gift certificate is:

Wren!

The winner of the hand drawn facsimile of a Barnes and Nobel gift certificate (non-negotiable but still really cool) is:

Jonene! You lucky woman you.

And last of all, the winner of the twenty-five page critique is:

Donea!

Well, the drum rolls are fading so that must be the end. Thanks to everyone who entered the contest. And thanks to all you guys out there reading. *Grins*

If you are a winner of one of these fabulous prizes, send me an email at klmaw@aol.com so I can get your addy. I will drop the prizes in the mail right after Christmas because I'm not crazy enough to brave the post office today or tomorrow. *Shudders*

Thanks again everyone and Merry Christmas!

Christmas Wonder

2010-12-21T07:21:00.005-07:00

This is the last week for my contest. Click here for details.

Christmas is just three days away. Three, not four because you don't count today. I know this because Kids B, C, and D told me so. A lot. And by a lot we're talking national debt numbers here.

The fun part of this is, they are so excited. Wonder walks around my house every moment in the form of those three kids. And we've waited a long time for it to come. With the boys' disability they never got Christmas until last year. Kid B's fourteen. That's a lot of waiting for wonder to strike. But strike it has. They're all bursting with it.

Their little bodies squirm and the magic name of Santa falls from their lips more times than they can breathe. Reindeer dance on the rooftops, elves peek in windows, and every present holds a wish my children can hold and shake.

It's more than a single Christmas worth of excitement. It's years of waiting, hoping, and faith all bundled up and delivered to me. And I thank my Lord for it, after all, he understands Christmas best. It all started with him and his own son. And the wonder of a special night.

Maybe as the years thunder past my boys will come to see the true miracle of the night, not in a jolly fat man and brightly wrapped presents, but in Christ. That is worth waiting decades for.

Merry Christmas.

Family Fun and Autopsies

2010-12-16T07:42:00.005-07:00

One more week for the contest. Click here for details. Come on people, you know you want to.

And on to the post.

I've messed up my husband. (I know this must come as a shock to you all. I am so terribly normal after all.) How you ask? I ruined his ability to sit through a movie or a television show and just watch it.

As a writer I can't watch a show without analyzing the plot, studying the characters, and scrutinizing the details. You know, picking it apart to see how it works. Think of it as a movie autopsy. But without the death part--it's cleaner that way, and I don't get blood on my furniture.

Hubby has put up with this for years now, and he held out a long time. He'd say things like, "Can't you just watch it?" And I'd answer with something cheeky. (Again you all must be shocked.)

Last night Kid A, Hubby, and I watched an old SG1 episode. As the show progressed, Kid A and Hubby started dissecting the episode. It was great! They each made comments about the script, the characters and their developing arcs, inconsistencies they noticed, and motivations behind the actions of each character. It was like a show within a show, and I loved every minute of it.

I wanted to throw back my head and say, "Mwahahahahaha! My evil plan is working! I have demented you. You have crossed over to the dark side. Mwahahahaha ha!"

But I didn't. I just grinned to myself and added my own observations. Who said watching TV isn't a good way to get closer as a family? All you need is a little bit of conversation and an autopsy or two. Now go forth and do. :)

A Night With Jon Schmidt

2010-12-14T07:14:00.004-07:00

Don't forget my contest is still on. Click here for details.

Recently I received an early Christmas present--a night out with my hubby and Kid A to a Jon Schmidt concert. And if you don't know who he is, I mourn for you. Check out this video.

Now, you might be wondering why I'm blogging about this. Here are three reasons:

1: Jon is freaking awesome.

2: His music moves me.

3: I write to him every day.

Not like a letter from some creepy stalker woman, I listen to him. When I sit down to write, I plug Jon into my soul and he helps the words spill out of me. I think it's because you can feel the emotion in his songs, and writing is an emotional thing. If you can't impact a readers feelings, you've failed. Miserably.

So, the concert was a big thing for me. Needless to say, I was excited. I think you could say giddy. I yelled like a teenager at a rock concert. I reveled in the beauty of the music. I ignored my sister when she poked me on the shoulder and told me to shush. Sorry, Sis, I love you, but it's a yelling kind of thing to be surrounded by the music that helps inspire you to create. And I wasn't the only one cheering. The guy is good. :)

And now I feel pumped and ready to crank out another book. AND I have two new albums to sink into as the words and stories and people fall from my mind. What a fabulous Christmas present.

What inspires you?

Top Ten Things I Love About Writing

2010-12-09T07:55:00.004-07:00

Sorry for the late post today. Kid D is sick and that slows everything down.

Anywho, if you haven't entered my contest for a fabulous Barnes and Nobel gift card and other almost fabulous prizes click here and follow the directions. :)

Sometimes I wonder to myself about why I write. It goes something like this:

Me: Why do I do this?

Other me: Because you are a crazy person.

Me: Well, yeah, but other than that.

Other me: Ummmm. You like pain?

Me: No. That can't be it. Try again. There must be a reason.

Other me: You sinned in a past life and must pay for eternity?

Me: What? Are you sure you're not the crazy person?

Other me: Whatever. You like this, and you know it.

Me sighing then grinning: It's true. Maybe I do like pain.

So, here is my top ten things I like about writing list.

1: I can do it in my pjs.

2: I can eat lots of snacks and say I"m feeding my brain. Yum.

3: People look at you like you are a crazy person. This is quite fun. You should try it sometime.

4: You get to be lots of different people every day. Who would want to be just one? Sheesh.

5: You get to live in cool new places in your mind--all while dressed in pjs and eating snacks at home.

6: Words are delicious.

7: So are stories.

8: Creating is magical, and we all need a little magic in our lives.

9: It makes me happy. :)

10: What could be better than getting paid to daydream?

There you have it. Why do you write, or paint, or create music, or whatever it is you do to enrich your life? What spurs you on in your quest for success?

Say What?

2010-12-07T06:27:00.008-07:00

My contest is still on. Don't forget to drop a comment and facebook, twitter, or blog about it for extra points.

Now on to today's post.

Saturday we took the whole fam to our church's Christmas party. Think lots of smiling people, lights, and kids bursting with excitement as they waited for Santa to make an appearance. When he appeared, the fat man in red disappeared behind a wall of children and the waiting began. Picture this

but in color, and with more children all hyped on candy, pizza, and good old fashioned yearning. Oh, and it's in the church. Filled with church people. Lots of church people.

Now place me, my kids, and hubby smack dab in the middle of it. And this is what I heard:

Awesome neighbor, who always asks about my books and knows I've been trying to off the bad guy, yelling over crowd noise to my hubby: Hey, did your wife kill that guy yet?

This is what I saw on the faces of about 100 church going neighbors:

Hubby, who didn't see the above reaction: Actually, she killed him today.

Every head swiveled to stare at Hubby. And this happened again:

Awesome neighbor, who also didn't notice the staring throng: Really? Did she blow him up?

Hubby: No. She stabbed him.

Now picture awesome neighbor giving me fist bump and asking if I used an exploding sword.

It was super funny to watch everyone's reaction. It was also super fun to finally kill the guy off. He had it coming for a long time.

How was your weekend? Did you have any say what moments?

Contest and Free Stuff

2010-12-02T08:35:00.005-07:00

This is my ninety-fourth post. What does that mean? It means I'm approaching 100, and my 100th post will fall on December 23, 2010. What does that mean for you? It means prizes. Think of it as Christmas presents from me to you. What kind of presents? Since I'm a poor aspiring writer--books. Well, to be completely accurate, one $15.00 Barnes and Noble Gift Certificate, one authentic, hand-drawn facsimile of a Barnes and Nobel gift certificate(non negotiable, but really cool), and a twenty-five page critique of your own fabulous novel. What else did you expect from a writer?

Here are the rules:

The contest opens now and runs until midnight the 22nd.

You enter by spreading the word about my blog. You know the drill, tweet about it, Facebook it, yell it from the roof tops. Then post a comment telling me you did your duty. You get one point for every social media blurb, just leave me a link so I can check up on you (like Santa seeing if you've been naughty or nice).

You get one point if you become a follower and leave a comment.

You get two points for loyalty if you are already a follower and leave a comment.

You also get a point if you add up your points so I don't have to do math.

Each point equals one slip of paper with your name on it. The slips will all be tossed in a bowl like green salad and then eaten. Oh wait, Kid D will choose three lucky winners, and I'll announce them on the 23rd.

Also, if you don't happen to be a writer and don't have twenty-five pages you want critiqued, you can opt out of that prize or gift it to a writing buddy. Just let me know in your comment if you don't want to be included for that prize. (Crazy talk, I know.)

Anywho, thanks for making my blog a fun place to visit! Let the contest begin! Merry Christmas. :)

When The Dogs Bark, Do You?

2010-11-30T07:38:00.005-07:00

It's time for Kid A to register for next year's high school courses. This event led to a conversation between her and my hubby about college and the vast options opening up to her.

I sat and listened, wading through memories until hubby started reminiscing about the first day of a psychology class. I never took psychology, and now I'm wishing I had, because the first day Hubby and all the other students sat in their chairs and stared at each other, waiting for the professor to show up. They sat some more, stared some more, and tapped their watches in disbelief as the minutes dragged past.

Then someone started barking.

Yes, you read that right, barking like a dog that hadn't seen it's master in days. Drooping heads lifted, eyes widened, and silence reigned. At least it did until the barking resumed--coming from the professor who'd been hiding under his desk the whole time.

Kid A and I listened to the story entranced with the image of a teacher barking to a room full of astonished students. Kid A laughed. I grinned and said, "I'd have barked back."

Apparently that's what the prof wanted. Why? Probably for the same reason I suddenly want to head to a library, or session of congress, hide somewhere, and bark my heart out.

Because, wouldn't it be fun to watch all the reactions? Yes, I realize this makes me more than a little strange, but it would be great research into body language and people.

Writers make a living out of showing people's reactions and emotions with words. We can't just tell you someone was surprised or embarrassed. We have to show you, paint a picture in your mind so you live the event with the character. In essence, a writer shows you who the character really is.

Think about it, if someone, anyone, had barked back that psychology professor would have known a lot about them, almost as much as he discovered about the people who just stared. So, the question is, would you bark back?

Snow

2010-11-23T07:12:00.006-07:00

So, the time has come for snow. This is how I feel about that:

(Actual photo)

This is how Kid D feels about it:

(Not actual photo. She grins way bigger than that when it snows.)

This is what I have to say about it: Let it end. *Whimper*

This is what she has to say about it: Mom, this is a wonderful time of year for me! *Grins and dances through the house chanting "Snowstorm" repeatedly*

This is what the National Weather Service has to say about it:

...BLIZZARD HEADING FOR UTAH THIS AFTERNOON THROUGH TONIGHT...

STRONG SOUTHWEST WINDS WILL DEVELOP AHEAD OF AN ARCTIC COLD FRONT
EXPECTED TO MOVE FROM NORTHWEST TO SOUTHEAST ACROSS THE AREA LATE
THIS AFTERNOON THROUGH TONIGHT. HEAVY SNOW...STRONG WINDS...AND
BLOWING SNOW WILL ACCOMPANY THE PASSAGE OF THE ARCTIC FRONT.
EXTREMELY COLD TEMPERATURES WILL DEVELOP ACROSS THE REGION
WEDNESDAY AND THURSDAY...

My translation: Sit by the fire and pray for June.

Kid D's translation: Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Thanksgiving Lists

2010-11-18T06:22:00.004-07:00

Thanksgiving is around the bend, turkey (or tofu) dinners, family, and all the fatness of life. I'm not talking the fatness of your waistband, but the mesh of things that make life sweet. Here is a short list of some things I'm thankful for:

my hubby
my kids
fireplaces
food
words
music
soft blankets and pillows
the words I love you and I'm sorry
my God
friends
stories
learning
pomegranates
frozen pizzas for the days I forget to fix dinner (this happens way too often)
silence
noise
cell phones
trees
sunsets
little toothless smiles
wet baby kisses
my parents and siblings
cars that work
fuzzy slippers
heaters and air conditioning
the sun and its light that chase away the darkness both inside and out
green growing things
and blue sky that reaches into always
promises kept
welcome home hugs
and sleep
even Mondays
you
me
the words us, we, and our

What are you thankful for? Let's add to the list and remember why life is sweet and fat.

The Call of the Cat

2010-11-16T06:21:00.004-07:00

We have a cat. Okay, we have more than one cat, but this post is about our eldest cat, Yoda. He's going on fourteen now, and that's pretty old for a cat. You know what they say about age and wisdom, well my cat thinks he's a guru. He also thinks he owns us. We think we own him. Can you see where this is going? Yup, you are so right.

Yoda's trying to teach us new habits. Habits that involve nighttime waking. It works something like this.

10:00 p.m.

Yoda standing at the door wanting in: Meow.

Translation: Open the door, my servant.

Me, standing at the door looking at the cold. (And yes, you can look at cold--at least you can in the mountains of Utah in November): Fine, come in.

Yoda: Meow. Purr.

Translation: Thank you. You are a good and faithful companion, and I will reward you well.

Hubby: We are so going to pay for that.

Me: I know, but it's cold outside.

Hubby sighing: I know.

4:00 a.m.

Yoda: Meow.

Translation: I would like to go out for a brief constitutional. See to my needs.

Me stirring from sleep: Uggggg.

4:01 a.m.

Yoda: Meow.

Translation: Now.

Me groaning.

Translation: Stupid cat!

4:02 a.m.

Yoda: Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. (Repeated until my ears fall off, and a strange desire to yell and throw things fills me.)

Translation: Rise and serve me, puny human!

Me: Stupid cat!

Hubby rolling over and groaning.

Translation: I told you so.

Me covering head with pillow.

Translation: I know. Stupid cat.

Repeat until 6:00 a.m. in a vain attempt to train old cat new manners.

Translation: Yeah right. Good luck with that.

What does all this have to do with writing? Yoda sounds exactly like the little voice inside me that says things like: Sit down and write. You're wasting your time. Get of the Internet. You only have two pages today, get to work. Finish this draft. Get up and write. Why are you watching TV? Write. Write now! Don't you groan at me, young woman! I own you. I know how to keep you up at night and don't think I won't do it. Do as I command, and I will reward you well.

So how does this story end? I got up and put the cat out. And I'm sitting at my computer ready to write. So, I guess I can be owned after all.

How about you? What drives you? Is it a voice inside your head that won't shut up? A cat that won't let you sleep? Both? Drop a comment and share your motivation/torment. :)

The Corn Maze

2010-11-11T06:56:00.008-07:00

Last night I took Kid D to parent teacher conference. She sat and giggled as her teacher praised her and her work. They've been writing stories, cute little first grade stories. The three of us, Kid D, the teacher and I, spent a few minutes reading them. I smiled and hugged her a lot. Kid D, not the teacher. That would have been a bit awkward.

Anywho, I asked Kid D if I could share one of her stories on my blog. She turned me down flat. I begged, I cajoled, I gave her puppy dog eyes. Nada. Her decision was firm.

I sat and pondered her cute little face and asked,"Why not?"

She said, "I'm embarrassed."

I told her I wouldn't use her name.

She shook her head, still firm.

I was stumped. After all, intellectual property is serious business, and she owned it. I complained to my hubby that his daughter wouldn't grant me usage. He urged her to let me post it. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I told Kid D that I wanted people to read my stories. Heck, I wanted people to pay me for my stories.

A small smile tickled the corners of her mouth, and a glint appeared in her eye as she said, "No one pays me for my stories."

You guessed it, I bought her story. She's walking around the house two bucks richer, and I have the goods.

Here it is complete with illustrations. The light pencil scrawl is hard to read, so I'll provide a typed translation. (Without the 1st grade spelling. )

The corn maze was tricky! In one path there was a dead woman! There were scary decorations! The corn maze was scary!

Don't you love the dead woman in the box? And, yes, I asked about that. There really was a "dead" woman at the corn maze they went to for the class Halloween field trip. Personally I'm relieved because that means I don't need to get her counseling.

I'm also proud as a bag full of onion rings over my youngest's first published story. I can see great things ahead for this budding writer. Can't you?

Flashlights, Washing Machines, Sinking Ships, and Perfect Storms.

2010-11-09T06:21:00.004-07:00

Last night I went on a lovely boat ride on a vast and swift river. The clear water lapped at the ship's sides then began to fill the ship's belly. Fast. People began to fill the life boats even faster. I began to wrap my computer in about 900 layers of plastic and Duct Tape to protect it from the rising water. Hubby logged on the ship's Internet to check the sport scores. Yup, we have priorities.

Things were going well, after all I had my water tight computer taped to my back, hubby had his sport scores, and we could both swim. Then Kid D sloshed into the scene and announced in her six-year-old lisp that there were no more life jackets.

Kid D can't swim.

I panicked and woke up just before the ship went under. I then lay in bed from four to six trying to do a major rewrite on my dream to include a life jacket for my youngest, or figure out how to swim with both her and my laptop in my arms. Somehow it never occurred to me to try to edit out the flood or not have Kid D on board the doomed vessel. Because why would you remove such a nice plot twist? In the end, I left the computer because, like I said, I have priorities. I did attach a beacon buoy and a pink floaty to it so I could come back and retrieve it.

It's been a few months since I had a flood dream. It's also been a few months since our last washing machine catastrophe. I'm beginning to thing the two are linked because, you guessed it, we had a real flood last night. Thanks so much to the cosmic laundry Carma guy or whatever governs these things. Here are the main points to keep in mind during this story:

1: We just finished remodeling our basement.

2: We have a history of washing machine disasters. (Click here in case you missed the other link)

3: We just finished remodeling our basement.

4: Unlike the boat dream, the washing machine wasn't something you get to wake up from.

5: Did I mention that we just finished a remodel of our basement?

Here are the main facts:

1: Flashlights, even smallish ones, are not good items to place in your washing machine. Especially when they get stuck and jam up the whole monster. It's bad. Very bad.

2: Having about three batches worth of denim pants piled into the same batch by overly helpful children is also bad. So very very bad.

3: Having about five times the correct amount of laundry soap is also bad. And bubbly.

4: Walking down into your newly remodeled basement to find water and suds EVERYWHERE is beyond bad. In fact, it makes you cry. A lot. And maybe think bad words. And use a lot of towels. And cry.

So anyway, there you have the perfect storm of dreams and laundry conditions. Can you guess what I'll be doing today? Writing about it of course. Yup, I have priorities. :)

The Lost Saint

2010-11-04T09:58:00.004-06:00

I was lucky enough to be given an ARC of The Lost Saint by Bree Despain. It's the second Dark Divine novel and comes out December 28, 2010. If you haven't devoured the first book, The Dark Divine, you should before this one comes out.

Here's the blurb from the back of the book:

*Spoiler Alert* - If you haven't read The Dark Divine, this synopsis may contain spoilers.

Really

Grace Divine made the ultimate sacrifice to cure Daniel Kalbi. She was infected with the werewolf curse while trying to save him, and lost her beloved brother in the process. When Grace receives a haunting phone call from Jude, she knows what she must do. She must become a Hound of Heaven.

Desperate to find Jude, Grace befriends Talbot—a newcomer to town who promises her that he can help her be a hero. But as the two grow closer, the wolf grows in Grace, and her relationship with Daniel is put in danger—in more ways than one.

Unaware of the dark path she is walking, Grace begins to give into the wolf inside of her—not realizing that an enemy has returned and a deadly trap is about to be sprung.

Doesn't it sound yummy? Well, it is. Bree does a great job of pulling you into the world of a teenager trying to come to grips with her inner wolf, something we all deal with in a less life threatening and much more metaphorical way.

One of my favorite things about this novel is that it deals strongly with choices and their consequences. I'm dying to share several parts of this luscious book with you, but since it isn't mine, and it doesn't come out until December, you will just have to take my word for it.

Put it on your wish list.

Promises and Pics

2010-10-28T08:08:00.003-06:00

First off, we’re doing a fun pass-along story at The Scribbler’s Cove. Head over there and add you own paragraph!

Second off, today is the Halloween parade at my kids’ school. For those of you who don’t have kids this means that not only do I have to have all my little ones dressed up in their various costumes, but I also have to get out of my pajamas and make myself presentable to the world. This means that you get a goofy picture and a promise.

Here is the goofy pic:

And here is the promise: I solemnly swear to wake up earlier next Tuesday and post a real post in which I use more words than pictures, and that the words will even have meaning and sound decent. Maybe. And I also promise to do it again next Thursday. See? Good promises, huh?

Halloween, Wonder, and Fantasy Novels.

2010-10-26T06:27:00.007-06:00

I've been a Halloween Scrooge. It's true. I can't eat the candy, and my children were terrified of the masks and creatures. They cried and had nightmares for weeks after the dreaded day.

But all that seems to be in the past. This year they are giddy with expectation. It's almost Halloween and the ghouls and goblins in my children are starting to ooze out of their little bodies. Scooby Doo reigns supreme on the TV, and pumpkins haunt the front steps. It's not all fright and monsters--princesses and fantasy live as well in gauzy pink dresses and crowns bedecked with streaming ribbons and sheer, sparkly material. This year the excitement is almost too much to bear.

As I watch my little horde tremble in anticipation of the big night, I can't help wondering, Why are they are so excited? Is it the tinge of safe fear that taints the air? Or is it the glee of running down the sidewalk trailing loot in their wake? Or maybe it's the rustle of leaves and frosted breath that promises, "This is just the beginning--Christmas is coming!" Maybe it's just the candy.

But, then I realize it is more. It's the wonder of the night.

Halloween is the one night they get to be anyone or anything they can imagine, AND everyone else joins in their make believe. The world of daydream and nightmare collide in costumes and candy, and that all adds up to wonder. Loads and loads of wonder. It's like the world pauses in its scepticism and lives out one night of fantasy.

When else do friends become dragons and elves, undead and sorcerers, kings and peasants, superheros and villains? It's a night of magic and mystery. And I should be taking notes. Why? Because I write fantasy. In my own way, I try to create the thrill of Halloween night and package it between page one and the end. I try to capture the emotion and wonder of pretending and believing for oh-so-short a time in fairies and magic. Maybe for once, I need to don a costume and shed my inner Scrooge. Maybe I need to embrace Halloween and live the wonder with my children--even if I can't gorge on chocolate.

How about you? Do you have an inner Scrooge? Are you excited for Halloween? What makes the night magical for you?

Morning Mayhem

2010-10-21T07:01:00.004-06:00

So, yesterday was one of those days. It all started with the melodious yowl of a cat fight outside my window. Have you ever been jerked from slumber by a cat fight? I'm almost positive that they use cat fights as a form of torture. Not a nice way to wake up--especially if it's your cat and you have to run down the stairs half asleep and rescue the thirteen-year-old puddy from probable death and certain vet bills. Yup it was that kind of morning.

As I stumbled back into the house silently cursing my cat, my sleep-fogged mind realized Kid A was in the shower. I stared at the light streaming from under the bathroom door and sighed. No more sleep for me. Time to wrangle the kids.

I descended into the basement, pulled Kid B from bed, asked-begged-urged-forced him to get dressed for school, and made his bed. Then I came upstairs and oozed into my chair and started opening emails. Kid A came in wearing a very confused look.

Here is our ensuing conversation:

Me: You okay?

Kid A: What time is it?

Me looking at the little clock on my computer. Me still looking at the little clock on my computer. Me staring at my watch. Me glaring at the little clock on my computer: Five o'clock!

Kid A: Why is it five?

Me, still glaring at my stupid clock: I don't know. It should be six. Why isn't it six?

Both of us staring at each other doing mental math.

Kid A: You mean I got up at four?

Me: You mean I got up at four?

Me: Why did you get up at four?

Kid A: My clock said six.

Me: My cat said, "**$#!@#%^&*!"

I almost said **$!@%^&*! as I realized I had missed out on two hours of blessed sleep. Two hours! If any of you are moms, I know you share my horror. And I haven't even mentioned that I didn't go to bed until almost one. Yes, cry for me. I cried for myself.

But there is a silver lining. I sat down on the couch to watch for the different buses with the kids, by the time they all departed, so did I. To dream land. I woke up four hours later with a kinked neck and a few missed appointments. So, if I stood you up yesterday, I'm sorry. But at least now you know why.

So, how was your day?

Masks

2010-10-19T06:31:00.006-06:00

I've never been much of a Halloween person, at least as an adult. Maybe it's because I can't eat the candy, maybe it's because my kids struggle with real terror every year as people they know change into monsters right before their eyes, or maybe I'm just plain boring. What ever it is, it's almost Halloween and masks are appearing everywhere--in the grocery store, at the playground, at writer's conferences. They even gave us some. Mine is a sparkly green one.

As the speakers at the conference talked about masks, I realized they were right. Writers wear masks. Lots and lots of masks. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on my story, I don a different character's mask. I may be a twelve-year-old boy fighting a dragon, or I may be an eighteen-year-old girl who sees the future, or even a really disturbed psycho who has way too many people's identities stuck in his head.

It's like these masks by Morgan Hersey:

Each one is different. Each one has it's own personality, history, and mood. And, for me, that's what happens when I write. I place the character's emotions, and history, and attitude over my own for a time. I wear them. I become them. At least if I let myself.

Sometimes it's hard to descend into someone's emotions. I mean, who wants to be a grieving father, or a love-struck palace guard who knows his feelings aren't returned? Sometimes I just want to take all the masks and put them in the drawer and just be me. But I always come back. Every time. Maybe I do like Halloween after all. Maybe I live it every day.

If you want to see more of Morgan's masks here's her website. http://www.masksbymorgan.com/

Apples and Creativity

2010-10-15T08:32:00.006-06:00

Sorry about the Friday post, I spent yesterday at my parents' house picking apples, stacking wood, and winterizing their enormous raspberry patch. It was glorious, but as I worked, thoughts of winter whispered in my mind. Nothing speaks of long, frozen months like climbing into the frosted branches of an apple tree or wading through six-foot tall raspberries to tie them up like old-fashioned haystacks.

Time has trained my mind to turn from summer and warmth and reckless play to winter and snow and the holidays by repeating these fall rituals. The air can turn chill and the leaves can blaze with color on the mountains, but it isn't really autumn to me until the apples ripen and I disappear into the tree tops.

As I worked yesterday, my mind slipped back to my childhood and then to my books. I pondered how, just like time has trained me to prepare for winter by repeating the same activities every fall, I've trained myself to prepare to write by sitting in my chair every day armed with my laptop and imagination. My brain is geared to string words together in that chair, just like it's geared to think winter every time I pick apples or split and stack wood.

I've programed my mind and creativity so show up and engage by showing up myself. And the best part about this is, I never knew I was doing it. I don't know if you can have a habit of creating, but I think, just maybe, you can.

Inspiration, Brushing Your Teeth, and Spit

2010-10-12T10:40:00.006-06:00

I sat down at the computer to blog this morning, and this is what I thought: Ummmm.

I'm ashamed to say that it continued for quite some time. I typed three different blog posts and deleted them all. Why? Because they were lame. Very Lame. Lame with a capital L. You are most welcome for erasing them and sparing you the pain.

My three failed posts got me thinking about inspiration. I needed some. So, I called my sister and asked her to give me a writing prompt. She paused, and all I could hear was a swish-brush-mumble kind of sound.

Again, for the second time, I said, "Ummmm?"

She said, "Brushing your teeth."

I silently said, "Say what?"

She rinsed and expectorated. And I had it. The answer to inspiration.

Spittle.

Yup, you heard me.

I thanked her and hung up the phone. I didn't blog about that. Yet. I went and brushed my teeth, cleaned my tub, took a hot bath, and thought about spit and writing. A funny thing happened. All the ummmm left me, and my mind opened up. Ideas started flowing for my novel. I even had an ah ha moment. Pretty cool stuff.

Why? Because I stepped away for a short time and let my mind relax and ponder spittle while my body cleaned the tub. Sometimes we need to let the creative process simmer, or in this case lather, before we set it down in hard words. Every story needs to be created in the mind before it goes in print. I'll remember this the next time I have an ummmm moment, but for now, I'm off to put my new thoughts into my novel.

So, I owe my sis a thank you for getting me to think about spit. I now have a clean tub, clean teeth, and clean ideas for my novel. Oh,and a blog post dedicated to spit.

What gives you inspiration?

Nine Months Of No, The Accidental Engagement, and How To Face Rejection

2010-10-07T06:33:00.007-06:00

I'm a writer. (That in itself should be enough for you to know that I'm a little bit cracked. But only a little.) As a writer, one of the scariest things I face is sending out my manuscript. Sure there's a chance someone will acquire it, but there is an even greater chance I'll get a rejection.

Rejection hurts. A lot.

I've been thinking about pain as I get ready to send out my latest manuscript, and this made me think about my hubby. Not that he is a pain, or that he causes pain, but because I caused him pain. A lot. It happened a long time ago, so don't look at me like that. Sheesh. This is how it went...

We met two weeks before I graduated from high school. I was young. I was a teenager. He was five years older. He was ready to get married. I wasn't. We fell in love. He proposed. I freaked out and said no. Did I mention I was young? Did I mention I was a teenager? Did I mention we were in love?

See? Pain. Poor guy. Poor me. I can only imagine the courage it took for him to get down on one knee and ask me. You can only imagine the terror that swept through my eighteen-year-old body as I thought about saying yes. Hence the no. But the real story is in the next nine months.

He proposed every other day for nine months straight. I told him no every other day for nine months straight. But he kept asking. I am so very glad he did, because it wasn't that I didn't love him, or that his offer wasn't good, or that I didn't want to marry him, it just wasn't the right time--yet. I needed to grow up a bit. So he kept asking--every other day--and I kept rejecting--every other day--until I accidentally said yes.

Yes, you read that right. We got engaged on accident. It happened over curly fries at the local Hardees. He looked up between bites and said, in the saddest voice imaginable, "Are you ever going to marry me?"

I dipped my fry in sauce and said, without thinking, "Well, yeah."

He stared at me with the most adorable goofy, shocked, I-must-be-dreaming expression, and then I froze with a curly fry halfway to my mouth and thought, What have I just done?

He said, "Really?"

I thought about it and realized (much to my own shock and surprise)that, yes, really. So I told him.

I had to take the keys away from him and drive us to my home. Friends just don't let friends drive in a love/success induced stupor.

But the whole point to this long and painful story is, he didn't give up. Last night I asked him why, and he said, "I knew I wanted to be with you, and if I kept asking one day you'd say yes."

Have you ever heard a more romantic thing?

So, in the tradition of my nine months of no, I will submit my novel, and submit my novel until someone says yes, because I know what I want. And if I keep asking, one day someone will say, "YES!"

What about you? What takes courage in your life?