Ride 'em Cowgirl

Growing up, I always wanted a horse. The thought of galloping through the fields astride a mighty warhorse stirred my imagination. With a gallant steed, I could be like the heroes of old. I could win battles, earn glory—have adventures that didn’t involve doing dishes or babysitting. (Yes, I was the poster child for tomboys. That’s what happens when you grow up with four brothers.) However, I had one large problem. We owned cows, not horses.

Throughout history cows haven’t been known as mighty steeds. You don’t read stories where fair maidens or manly warriors leap onto their milk cows and plod off to battle. No. Cows are boring. They eat, chew cud, create cow pies, and get milked. They don’t have adventures. At least they usually don’t.

However, one day I decided if I couldn’t ride a horse, I would ride our cow, Babe. She was a pretty thing, tall and splendidly spotted. And, if she wasn’t quite shaped like a horse, I could pretend. I was good at pretending. So, I strode out to the field and clambered onto her back.

Babe did not like that. She did not like that at all. She went from being a docile cud-chewing mound of bovine into a powerful charging demon in one quickly belted, “Moo!”

We flew across the pasture. We soared over irrigation ditches. We careened toward the pear tree where I learned a very valuable lesson about cows. They don’t come equipped with brakes.

I hit the outstretched branches of that tree at full-cow speed. Babe, who fit nicely under the tree, kept running. I bounced off the branch and splatted on the ground, nearly as flat as one of the nearby cow pies.

That was the first and last time I rode a cow, but I didn’t quit wishing for my mighty steed. Even trees and splats can’t stop dreams. 

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?

How The Chair Became Short

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

Monsoon Field trip

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 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?

My Garage Door Hates Me. Really.

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?

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

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.

The Magic and Mayhem Of Firsts

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

The Magic of Birthdays and Books

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

Spiders And Other Poisonous Habits

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.

Attending Your Own Viewing

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

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

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.

The Aftermath of Christmas

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?