The Versatile Blogger--Who Me?

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!

A Night With Jon Schmidt

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

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?

Morning Mayhem

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?

Nine Months Of No, The Accidental Engagement, and How To Face Rejection

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?

Memories of Sword Fighting and Cornfields

My whole family, including all the brothers and sisters, spouses (Except Joycelyn, who came by iPhone because she had to work. We missed you.), and all the nieces and nephews, gathered at my parents' house last night to open their mission call

For you non-Utah peeps, a mission is where a young man or woman, or retired couple, volunteer to spend eighteen months to two years teaching religion somewhere in the world for the Church Of Jesus Christ Of Latter Day Saints. They don't know where they'll be sent, so opening the call is a big thing. It could be Russia or Idaho, France or Brazil, or almost anywhere in the world. My parents are heading to Portugal! So exciting! (Even if I'll miss them terribly.)

Anywho, while we were there, the nephews and some of the nieces discovered cornstalk sword fighting. What is that, you say? It's where this



becomes this



And yes, you can wear a kilt. Just saying.

I sat and watched all these little kids with their cornstalk swords and remembered the days when I was the one with my own sword, fighting to the imaginary death with my four brothers and two sisters. We came in every night with welts and bruises from our battles, but it was fun. So very fun.

The next day we'd rush home from school and cut a new weapon. We'd disperse through the fields to check our secret bases hidden in the apple trees or irrigation ditches, then the wars began. We reenacted every light saber duel in Star Wars, and every sword fight in all the pirate books and fantasy novels I'd ever read. Then we invented our own personas, and we put Captain Jack to shame.

Can you hear the laughter and the thunk thunk of cornstalk swords raised in battle? Do you smell the sun on heat-dried grass or taste the apples plucked right from the trees. I can. And I miss it all. All the grass stains and scraped knuckles from over-zealous duels, perching in the trees, gorging on fruit while waiting for the enemy to show themselves. No wonder I write fantasy. Maybe it takes me back to the days when I lived it all with a cornstalk sword, six siblings, and my imagination.

More Ham

Today I told my six-year-old she was so sweet I could eat her. She leveled me with one of those are-you-kidding-me-because-you-have-no-idea-how-this-world-works-and-I-do kind of stares. Then with a straight face she said, "Eat Kid B instead. He has more ham."

I choked back a laugh and tried to keep my face neutral. It was hard, but I managed it before I asked, "Why does Kid B have more ham than you?"

She graced me with the same are-you-kidding-me stare and said, "Because he's bigger than me."

This got me thinking about having more ham. But not in the Oh-my-gosh-I-just-stepped-on-the-scale-and-I-have-more-ham kind of way. I'm talking the little extra umph some people seem to have. The pizazz kind. It's like Alice in the movie Alice In Wonderland. We're talking muchness with a rabbit kind of ham.



And I want some. In every aspect of my life. Writing, momming, wifeing, even cleaning (crazy talk, I know). I want to attack my life and have it be ham. Loads and loads of ham. We're talking this:



not this:



So, today is the day that I will get more ham. How about you? Do you want more ham?

How To Have A Romantic Anniversary or How To Torture Your True Love--If You're a Girl

Hubby and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary over the weekend. Not only does this make me sound really old, but what we did makes me sound even older--and just a fraction cracked.

Don't believe me? You might after I'm done writing this. And sorry in advance to my mom and hubby. Maybe.

So, what romantic activity did we engage in for our anniversary? A secluded retreat to a condo without the kids? A leisurely stroll along the fall colored mountain trails? A romantic candle-lit dinner? Um, no. We went bra shopping. Yup. My hubby loves me that much. It went something like this:

Me, showing hubby a newspaper advertisement for said clothing sale: Hey! Look! A sale!

Hubby: Okay?

Me: You want to go?

Hubby, just staring at me like I was a little cracked. (This happens more than you'd think it would. Strange.)

Me: Will you come with me?

Hubby: Do I have to stand in the bra department?

Me: No. You can go to housewares if you want.

Hubby secretly rolling his eyes. (It's secret because his actual physical eyes didn't roll, but I sensed the inner, mental rolling, because I can feel stuff like that.): Sure.

AND after I tortured him in the bra deptartment, Hubby took me to the book store. I left with two new books. Then he took me to dinner where he said this, "I have great respect for you."

And I said, "Respect?"

And he said, "Based on fear. I'm afraid you might bite me and I'll bleed out through my jugular."

See, isn't that romantic? And, yes mom, I am sorry for posting about bra shopping.

And, (just so I can start another sentence with and) I love you my awesome hubby.

The Time Has Come, or Ten Real Things About Me

Awhile ago, I blogged on ten things I imagine about myself and promised the real ten things would soon follow. So, today, after many sighs and groans, here they are.

The top, or maybe not top--maybe not really in any order, ten real things about me:

7: I have large feet. It's true. My dad called me Sasquatch growing up, but he meant it all in love. I don't have a complex about it at all.

3: I'm a girl and have been all my life.

4: I have four kids. That's why this is number four. (I'm also good with numbers and counting and things. That's why I'm a writer. And, I used too many ands in that sentence on purpose, because I'm good with words and things, too. And, I like to start sentences with and, because it fun and against all kinds of high school English rules.)

1: I spend most of my time in another world having conversations with my imaginary friends. And, yes, I have imaginary friends, otherwise known as the characters in my books. One day, I hope to get paid for having lots of conversations with imaginary people. That would be freaking awesome.

8: I don't like housework, because I'm sane. Sane people don't like housework. It's a proven fact.

10: I like cats, because I'm crazy. Crazy people like cats. It's a proven fact. That's why they have a spokesperson, yup, the crazy cat lady. If the writing thing doesn't pay off, I'm gunning for her job.

6: I can't eat sugar. This is where you can cry for me. Imagine a whole life where you can't eat donuts and chocolate to help you feel better. Sniff.

2: I'm allergic to exercise. I break out in a sweat and get sore muscles and stuff. Clearly, it's an allergic reaction, and I should limit my exposure. I don't want to die from anaphylactic shock or anything. (Okay, I usually work out several times a week, I just like to complain about it. A lot.)

9: I'm an elf, which is way better than a vampire. Sheesh. Okay, maybe this should read: I aspire to be an elf. The rules are so strict on this real things about me stuff.

5: I have a firm grasp on reality.

11: I married up. Yup.

There you have it, some not too boring details about me, and they're all real, even number five and seven. It's hard to believe, I know, but I'm that interesting. Yup. You are now free to get on with your lives.