The Motivation Of FIRE

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

You've Got What In Your Pants?

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!

Word Wars

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.

Avoiding Mannequinism, or Writing Realistic Dialog

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.

Back To School Curse Words And Teenage Torture Devices

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

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

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?

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

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

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.

The Great Fence Robbery!

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

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.

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!

The Magic Number Twelve

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

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?

The Dentist and other Excuses

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?

Gorgeous Tahitian Drawing

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

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!

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!

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

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.