WiP Wednesday: First Day of Kindergarten

My WiP is out for its first beta read with my old critique group friend, Florence. (A beta reader is a person, usually a friend or a critique group member, who is willing to read and critique your novel. You usually trade services with each other.)

I feel a little bit like I just sent my baby to her first day of kindergarten.

Antsy, antsy, antsy!

I'm ping-ponging between "She's going to love it," "No, she's going to hate it," and "It probably wasn't ready to be read! Ahhh!"

The thing about Florence, though, is that she's a plot genius. Believe me, I've read her novels and she has given me such good advice in the past. With my last book, she recommended that I cut out a certain character. I didn't want to part with him, though. I thought he brought out a soft, sweet side to my main character that other characters didn't. So, I left him in.

When I got a request for a full for that book, and then the subsequent rejection, the agent in question said she felt the plot was too convoluted and mentioned THAT CHARACTER in particular as a reason why she couldn't tell where the story was going.

Lesson learned.

So, this time I'm going to take Florence's advice very, very, very seriously. I'm glad she's reading it at this early stage, too, so hopefully I can fix some of those bigger plot problems before I leave for the SCBWI conference (one month away and counting!).

In the meantime, I'm not bored. I'm reading another writing friend's WiP and it's fun, fun, fun. Not to mention that it keeps my mind off mine (which is a very good thing).

How about you? Are you currently reading any friend's work? Developing anything new? Eyeballs deep in revisions? Staying busy?

A Story A Week: Escape

Pen came in from the barn for lunch. Today he had Wallace with him, even though I swear Wallace had been in and out the front door seven times in the last hour. I call it like it is -- lazy.

“Daisy’s out again,” I said.

Pen squinted at me like he didn’t speak English. “Again?”

“The gate’s broke wide open,” I said. “She went and scratched around in your sand pile afterwards. You didn’t notice?”

“Oh, sweet petunia,” Pen said, heading back out the door. “C’mon, Wallace.”

Wallace had just plunked down at the kitchen table with a cold beer. Sweat trailed from his temple. “Now?”

“Sure now,” Pen said. He was generally a patient man, but I could see Daisy was trying him. Last time she got out we got a visit from the sheriff 'cause she clawed around in Mrs. Crabapple’s front yard, nibbling her ribbon winning cyclamen and frightening her granddaughter. Or so she said. Nasty old lady.

“That darn bird,” Wallace said, and set down his beer can with a clunk. “Myrna, put that back in the fridge for me, will ya?”

“Only if you promise to catch Daisy before she makes mischief,” I said, fixing him with my stern look.

“S’not my fault she got out!” Wallace had a smart aleck way about him sometimes. I didn’t like it. Sometimes I was about ready to take his sorry butt across my knee, no matter how big he thought he was, and give him a good switching, like I gave my boys when they were little. Kept them from talking smart. And they still don’t dare. Not to their mama.

But I guess, what else can you expect from a Shoemaker? They’ve been known in these parts as an impertinent bunch. I warned Pen when he first thought of hiring Wallace. I said to him, “That boy will give you nothing but sass, Pen Figgins.” But Pen don’t ever listen to me.

“You was the one that rigged up that new fence,” I answered Wallace. “And it didn’t hold right.”

“Why don’t you just shoot her?” Wallace muttered. “Why do you always got to keep her around?”

“'Cause,” I said, putting one hand on my hip. “I needs those eggs. They’s my business venture and you know it.”

“Not worth the trouble,” Wallace said and lumbered out the door after Pen.

“That boy!” I exclaimed, wiping my sweaty hands on my apron. Of course he knew those eggs were our bread and butter. They’re what gave him his paycheck every month, because this farm sure wasn’t supporting any of us. It was my carving rhea eggs and selling them on eBay for big money that brought in our cash flow.

I liked the idea of being an artist. Gave me a lift when I met with people in society. In the grocery store, sometimes I’d hear people whispering when I passed by. “That's Myrna Figgins, the artist,” they’d say.

Artists don’t need to put up with an overgrown Shoemaker boy’s sass, that’s for darn sure. I emptied half the beer from his can down the sink before I set it in the fridge, top shelf.

A big thank you to Myrna for her inspirational words: sand, broken and rhea. When I started this story, I didn't even know what a rhea was, so thanks for forcing me to find out. (To save interested parties a google search, rheas are similar to the Australian emu. They are found in South America, but some people raise them, usually for their eggs or their meat, which apparently tastes like low-fat beef. They are a bit nastier in temperament than emus.)

One More Wordle

I'm officially a Wordle addict.

I've been working on a short story called The Tiffin Box (adult literary fiction) for months and months. It's been in hibernation and I brought it out tonight to read it over again.

Then I decided to Wordle it. And I love the result, so I had to share.

(Click on the picture if you'd like to see a bigger version.)

Any comments? I know the last time I Wordled a lot of people said they wanted to try it. Did you? How'd you like it?

Calling All Pitch Experts

Okay all you pitch experts, I know you're out there....

I don't usually do this type of thing, but I thought I would THIS ONCE.

First, a confession. I struggle horribly with pitches. Especially one-sentence pitches. Today I was messing around with my WiP and decided to write a brand new one-line pitch. If anyone happens to be reading (I know it's summer and you're all insanely busy) and would like to give feedback on my attempt, I'd be thrilled!

SCBWI LA conference is coming up at the end of July and I want to have an elevator pitch ready so that when someone asks, "What's your book about?" I'll have an awesome answer.

So without further ado, here's BACK:

When Heather gets back to rural America after five years in China, she’s hit with a lot more than culture shock: sister shock (because her older sister and former best friend is impossible to live with now that she’s pregnant and contemplating single motherhood) and I-so-don’t-want-a-different-boyfriend shock (because she loved her rocker boyfriend in China and is not ready to fall for the holier-than-thou farm boy next door).

Feel free to give feedback in any way, shape or form. I have pretty thick skin, I promise. You will not make me cry unless you go out of your way to be mean (which I'm sure none of you will).

But here are a few things I'm wondering about:

1. Am I cheating? This is sort of a long sentence and the use of parentheses allows me to make it even longer.
2.  TMI? We all hate it when someone goes overboard, right? Am I giving too much information? An earlier version had less information, but then I was worried the whole books sounded like a big cliche. 
3. Am I trying to be too clever? I attempted to capture the illusive VOICE of my novel, but I might have gone overboard.

All right, if you feel like it, HAVE AT IT! And xie xie, xie xie, xie xie! (Thanks, thanks, thanks!)

P.S. You do not need to be a writer to comment. I'd love feedback from non-writers, too!!

The Food Post

I love food.

My favorite food when I'm in Mainland China is Chinese food. Some of my favorites are stirfried eggplant (pictured), lamb kabobs, sweet and sour chicken, and broccoli and garlic.

Oh, but wait, there's also great Korean food in China, such as kimbop and Korean BBQ.

And they have the most amazing Teppanyaki restaurants in our former city of residence, too. Teppanyaki is a Japanese style of cooking, similar to Bennyhana's. Bennyhana's, however, IMHO, is a weak comparison to the restaurants we had in our city.

My favorite food when I'm in Hong Kong is Hong Kong food. The one dish I'm thinking about right now is a beef fried rice noodle dish (pictured). I'm not even going to try to spell the Cantonese name. Okay, I'll try. It's something like gong chau gnau hau. Now say that ten times fast. And your tones are probably wrong. *grin*

My favorite food when I'm in America is Mexican food. I had a killer mondo burrito at Taco Del Mar this afternoon ... and in Prosser I'm in a love affair with our local taco wagon.

Now that my mouth is watering, I want to know: what's your favorite food? Does it change depending on where in the world you are? Please share!

A Story A Week: The Demented King

I had never seen a ceiling so high, taller than five of my family’s huts stacked one atop another. The great hall was a cavern, with white pillars as broad and round as giant’s legs. The floor was laid with stone slabs, as pale as the tombstones in our parish graveyard.

I followed the man in the red cloak. One would think that any noise one made in a room this large would be swallowed by the cavernous ceilings. But every one of the red cloaked man’s footsteps struck with a sound like a pick ax against rock. For once, I was glad for my leather shoes. Every time he turned his head and snarled at me to hurry, his voice echoed like the voice of a hundred men.

The double doors of the throne room loomed before us, made from heavy wooden beams carved in the intricate designs I recognized as those unique to our region. My father – God rest his soul – had schooled me in these things. I barely had the sense to study their intricate beauty, however, my vision blurred as it was with fear.

As the minister pushed open one large door, I started back at the unnatural brightness within – the product of light from a thousand torches. People in my village whispered that the lights in the throne room never went out. The king ordered them to be kept burning all day and night. The bodies that hung from the castle walls, some said, had belonged to those servants who hadn’t tended their flames.

I wrung my hat in my fists, ruining the feather my mother had so lovingly attached to the brim only that morning. I had tried to get up the courage to argue with her, to tell her that sending me to a madman king would do nothing to further my chances in life. But the words stuck in my throat. They were treasonous, after all. Everyone knew the king was insane, but no one could speak of it.

Immediately within the doors, the red caped man sank into a low bow. I followed his example. We remained bent over in this posture for a time that seemed eternity, before he sprang up again, took a few steps more, and bowed a second time. I scampered after him. As we made our slow progress to the head of the throne room, I caught my first glimpse of the king.

The throne stood on a pedestal, surrounded by an entourage of servants. The king sat, robed in a patchwork of velvets and satins, one leg swung over the arm of the throne. An ugly monkey perched on one shoulder, grooming the lice from his hair.

In the king’s lap sat a great, gold crown encrusted with precious stones. If I were to sell even one of those stones, I thought – remembering only at that moment to return my gaze to the floor – the price would feed my entire village for twenty years. The fear that such an idea could be read upon my countenance, however, made me bend my head still lower.  Nothing to me was more frightening than a madman with power.

“Who do you bring, Minister?” The king’s voice was shrill. We were barely half-way down the hall to the throne, but at the sound of his voice, the red cloaked man sank to the floor. I followed with such a terrified abandon that my knees cried out with pain as they glanced against the stone. For a moment I feared I’d ripped my good pair of breeches, which would not only frustrate my mother, but might be the end of my life if the king noticed and took offence.

“A blacksmith’s apprentice,” said the red cloaked man, his head still bent low. “He has come to beseech an audience of your majesty, in accordance with the written law of our land, to beg to be allowed to begin work in the trade in which he has been trained.”

“He’s very small,” said the king. “How old are you, boy?”

My cheeks burned. Mother had told me to say I was fifteen, the legal age for beginning a trade, but I was really only twelve. To lie to the king – well, that was treason indeed. I whispered a goodbye to her under my breath; dear mother, who meant well, who had both our interests at heart when she sent me to petition here. It wasn’t her fault my father was dead and we had no other means to put bread on the table than by the blacksmith tools he’d left behind. “Fifteen,” I answered, making my voice as deep as I could muster. My life depended on it.

“He’s as big as the monkey!” roared the king. “Fifteen, indeed! I doubt he’s even as skilled as the monkey. Though you are very skilled, my small Abijon….” My head was bowed, but I could only guess he was speaking to the animal on his shoulder. The monkey screeched a reply and then fell quiet, busy, I had no doubt, grooming the king’s mane of ebony hair.

A silence as blank as the stone floor swept an ever tightening bond around my heart.

“Approach me!” cried the king.

I trembled, not sure to whom the king was speaking, until I felt the minister’s hand grip the top of my arm and yank me up.

“Approach the king, boy,” he hissed in my ear, his breath the foul odor of rotted sugarcane. “But, if you value your life, look him not in the eye!”

I kept my head bowed, and approached the throne.

"And your name?" he cried, when I reached the foot of the steps leading up to the throne.

I opened my mouth to speak the truth. My name was Christina.  But only then did I remember I was meant to be a boy.

"Christian," I said.
 
Thanks to Christina who inspired this story with her words pompous, patchwork and entourage. If you'd like to provide three words of inspiration for a future story, click here.  

Genre Comfort Zones

I have written part of a story this week. I sat down on Thursday afternoon to write a short inspired by Christina's three words ... but half-way through I found myself mentally listing, so tired I couldn't sit up straight.

So, I laid it aside and fell asleep on the sofa ... woke up a little while later with a neck ache! (Note to self: Stop sleeping on sofas! Go to bed!)

That's where my story for this week sits. I love it, but it's challenging, mainly because it's more of a historical fantasy type thing and I'm out of practice writing that genre.

Some fantasy/paranormal writers have said to me: "It must be so hard to come up with increased tension in your story when you're limited to real-world problems." Well, not when you're used to doing it. For me, I find the imagination required for fantasy worlds or situations more challenging.

Do you have a genre comfort zone? Do some worlds come easier for you than others?

(And the main point of this blog post was supposed to be to tell you my Story A Week IS coming, I promise, before the week totally ends. I'm sorry it's late. Look out for The Demented King tomorrow, at the latest! I'll try to get back on the proverbial ball next week ... after ballet recital is over. *grin*)

Humility

Humility.We all strive to be more humble.

But just when we think we're being humble, we're being proud about being humble and that, um, is slightly ironic.

Humiliation. A related word.

What better way to stay humble than to humiliate yourself from time to time? Good theory, right?

Well, I've been testing this theory lately.

Many of you know I love to sing.

Recently I volunteered to sing a song at church that means a lot to me. It makes me cry every time I listen to it on the radio driving around in the minivan. It's a simple song, not too high, not too low, simple words. No problem, right?

The problem is, if you can't stop crying listening to the song in the minivan than you're probably not going to make it through the song when you're up in front of people. I started crying at the beginning. I cried through the ENTIRE thing.

Yes. Humiliating.

Someone upstairs is making sure I stay humble.

This week is crazy-o week. It's spring ballet recital week, and many of you know I've been taking adult ballet classes this year, so I am IN THE RECITAL. I am the third oldest person in the recital, and all of us adult ballerinas are wearing foofy white tutus that were made for ten year olds.

Bear in mind that the younger ballerinas (of normal ballerina age, if there is such a thing) are wearing awesome outfits that compliment their perfectly proportioned youthful figures.

The skirt on my tutu starts around my armpits, because I'm rather taller than most ten year olds.

And I am not a good dancer. I know this because my friend made a video of our dance (so we could learn it) and I watched it on Youtube and almost dropped out right there and then. I look RIDICULOUS. On Friday and Saturday nights I will have family members in the audience to watch me perform a two minute dance that I could barely learn.

Again, humiliating.

But that's okay. Humiliation is good. It keeps me humble.

So, what are you doing lately to humiliate yourself? Please give me some good stories. I need the encouragement. Please don't tell me you play it safe and keep a low profile. *grin*

Last Minute Contest!

There's only a little time left to enter this contest, but I had to tell you about it anyway.

Sarah LaPollo at Glass Cases is an associate agent at Curtis Brown, Ltd. She's giving away manuscript submissions and query critiques as prizes on The Siren Song, Renae Marcado's blog.

All you have to do to enter is follow both blogs and leave your novel's pitch in the comments section of Renae's blog.

Here's what Sarah's interested in:

I’m looking for character-driven novels, mostly. The genres I’m most interested in are literary fiction, urban fantasy, magical realism, paranormal romance, and young adult, particularly older YA or crossover.
This reminds me of some of your books, which is why I had to post about this!

Hurry! The contest closes at midnight Kansas time, so polish those pitches. (And even if you miss this contest, I'm sure Sarah would be a great person to query down the road.)

Good luck, everyone!

Back Wordled

I was up kind of early this morning. (Thanks Sophie.)

So I decided to do something I've wanted to do for awhile. I put my entire WiP in Wordle.

I know it's pretty small. If you click on it, it should take you to the big version on the Wordle website.

I'm glad I did this because it shows me a few things about my book. By pulling out the most commonly used words, it shows what you've really been writing about, regardless of what you *think* you've been writing about.

(1)

My MC's sister's name, Courtney, is mentioned more often than her love interest's, Isaac. I didn't set out to write a romance novel, so this doesn't necessarily bother me. What it does show me is that I have to think about how I'm pitching this book, because it's probably a story just as much about a relationship between sisters as it is a love story.

Any thoughts on this? Does that strike you as being too crowded a plot line? (Be honest.) Do I need to tone down one or the other and focus on one, or do you think having two layers of equal prominence in a plot is okay?

(2)

I also noticed that the words "Like" and  "Just" are huge (which is not a good sign).

Yes, my old friends "Like" and "Just."

Even "Really" is too big for comfort.

I'll be using the Find tool in Word to locate all my "Likes," "Justs" and "Reallys."

So, potential Beta Readers, don't freak out. I will take care of this problem before any of you are forced to read this crazy thing.

Any other thoughts on my Wordle?

Have you tried putting your entire manuscript in Wordle?

It's quick, it's fun, it's enlightening.

What are you waiting for?

One Year

June 13 was our one year anniversary of moving back to the US from China.

That was last Sunday. And I spaced it. I was busy packing up the kids to go to football camp in Boise. Aaron was already gone. Life was crazy. So I missed the anniversary.

Maybe we need to go out for Chinese food tomorrow, just to commemorate our full year back. I can envision us sitting around the table talking about all the ways our lives have changed since our move.

The most notable change for me is that, now, after a full year, I'm thoroughly sick of housework and am ready to pay for my household helper (He Ayi) to fly over to the US to live with us in order to keep our house clean. And did I mention cook for us, too? Chinese food every night. YES. I wouldn't even mind her talking at me all the time. Or scolding me for spending too much money on curtain fabric. I honestly wouldn't mind any of that. I'm ready.

I also feel ready to adopt a pet. Which I guess means I'm feeling settled. Yes, we have the sea monkeys, but they're not all that cuddly. The kids want a cat. I want a cat, too, actually. A nice cat who won't claw up our furniture, who will poop outside, who will not mind the babies pulling his fur. I'm optimistic that we will find such a creature.

Besides that, summer is here, and so are we. We are not jet lagged. We are living in our very own (messy) house. The kids have their own beds, their regular sleeping schedules. We are not in a state of transition. Compared to every other summer of our lives with kids, this is an unusual one.

But we miss China. We miss the safety. I mean, yeah, we could have been mown down on the sidewalk by a bicyclist or taxi. And bikes were often stolen. But overall, we were very safe there. In contrast, Gabe went to a birthday party today for his school friend. The friend's mom assured Aaron at the door that she and her husband had worked for a nearby school district and had all their background checks complete ... That's just something you have to think about here. In China, the kids always seemed to be at friends' houses playing, even spending the night. Here, we haven't made close enough friends for our kids to have sleepovers.

That's a little sad.

I miss my friends. I miss the food. I miss riding my bike. I even miss all the crazy things that would happen on a daily basis that you couldn't possibly predict. I also miss the attention. All the people who were so curious and who asked so many questions about us. Call me insane for missing that. I probably am.

I don't miss the six flights up the stairs to my apartment (especially because the entire time I lived in China I was either carrying a baby around or pregnant -- or both!). I don't miss the spit on the ground. Or the pee. Or the dog poop (or the human poop). Or my stalker taxi driver who sang English love songs to me and yelled out my first name whenever he saw me. Ick.

But I miss China. I miss the owl that lived on the roof across from our apartment. I miss lying in the afternoon sun slanting through my bedroom window. I miss hearing my friends' voices carry up from the sidewalk as they passed below. And the pigeons that nested in the roof. And the gecko that lived outside our kitchen window.

And if you're reading this, and you're there right now -- or maybe you were there but now you're somewhere else entirely, probably in transition -- I miss YOU.

A Story A Week: Endless

Spalding lay on the bleached deck of the groaning ship and watched trees. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering. They were all the same. They’d been the same for days, like he was looking at overgrown Christmas tree farms: dark green with pointy tops. There were masses of them, covering the mountains like hairs on a giant’s arm.

As long as the trees were the same, Spalding was determined to remain despondent. Because as long as the trees were these hated evergreens, they weren’t any closer to the port in Los Angeles.

Spalding pulled the blanket he’d brought from his cabin up around his chin. It was chilly out here, even with the sun blasting down on him. Wind from the ocean swooshed over the deck, flapping the blanket. Spalding glared at the trees. He would have glared at the wind, too, if he could’ve seen it.

Rubbish. This whole trip was absolute rubbish.

Mum came out on deck. Spalding pretended not to see her, but he watched her out of the corner of his eye. She smiled at nothing, tilting her face up to the sunshine, and took a deep breath. He knew why she did; she claimed the air out here would extend her life by several years. She was wearing one of those light summery dresses she’d bought at TJ Maxx in LA before their departure. The hem flipped up in the wind, but Mum grabbed it and held it down.

She started across the deck, the pointy heels of her shoes clicking across the boards.

“Glorious!” she cried as she came along, her voice a booming contralto. “Isn’t it glorious, Spalding? Who would have thought the world could be so beautiful! It renews the soul! I don’t blame you a bit for wanting to stay out here all day, and soak in all this … this wonder!”

Spalding rolled his eyes, but privately. It wouldn’t do to have Mum notice an eye rolling. She didn’t put up with disrespect from her children. Public humiliation was her weapon of retaliation. And with five sons she had lots of experience with humiliating teenage boys.

“I hope you’re taking loads of pictures,” Mum continued. “No one back in England will believe this, will they? That you’ve been all the way to Alaska and back this summer. They’ll all be mad with jealousy.”

Spalding kept his camera near him at all times. He brought it out from under the blanket. “Right here, Mum. I’m snapping shots constantly, whenever something interesting comes up.”

“Good, good,” Mum said, patting his shoulder. “That’s good, Spalding.” She smiled down on him like he was an obedient dog. “The buffet starts again in an hour. You’ll come in tonight, won’t you?”

The deck chair creaked as Spalding shifted. “Don’t know. Don’t know if I want to miss any of … this.” He gestured his arm in a wide circle, taking in the endless expanse of mountains, trees and water.

Actually, what he was sure he could miss was another evening at the buffet with his step-father – the man who remained at table for the entire six hours, eating plate after plate of food until the servers looked at them all with a disdain that made Spalding’s acne-prone skin crawl with embarrassment.

“Ahh, my boy,” Mum said. “You truly are my own child. You’re the only one I have who appreciates beauty like I do. You’re the only one who can feel it in his pores as I do—”

“MaDonna!”

Spalding cringed. His step-father had arrived at the far side of the deck. When Spalding looked at him, he always saw the same features: the squinted pig-eyes, the belly pouring over the edge of his belt like too much froth in a cup of beer, the miniature feet in black trainers. Why his mother had chosen this man to be her third husband was still a gross and detestable mystery to Spalding. The only reason he could conjure up was the cruises. His step-father had an affinity for them. Buffets and karaoke were the passions of his existence, so it made sense that he enjoyed a good cruise.

And Mum, well, she’d always wanted to see the world….

“Oh, dear,” Mum said under her breath. “There’s Terrence. I’m not sure why he’s awake already. It would be lovely to have you with us at the buffet, darling.”

“Yes, Mum,” Spalding muttered.

Mum leaned down and kissed the top of his head and clicked away. He watched her take Terrence by the arm and lead him back inside. Spalding leaned back in the deck chair and let his eyes wander again over the hazy expanse of endless trees.

 

Thanks to MaDonna for the inspiration for this story, with her words hazy, cruise and mountains. If you'd like to provide inspiration for a future story, click here and leave your three words in the comments.  

Changelings and Other Stories

We're back. What a crazy time.

But it was good. Tonight at dinner my eldest said, "It was fun just being with Mommy on our trip. And we got to save money when we ate out because there weren't so many of us."

Yes, Olivia and I had a great time on our trip to Portland. The appointment went well. And we found out Olivia will be getting braces soon, something she is very excited about, believe it or not.

But that was several days ago now. Ancient history. A past life. In between then and now we were in Boise, Idaho at football camp.

Boy, oh boy!

We had fun, but I am exhausted. There's something about spending three days with four children who all take turns throwing temper tantrums that just clobbers you.

I gave them all nicknames for this trip. Here they are:

I'm Not Getting Enough Sleep Girl: This is the four-year-old who I had to wake up at 9a.m. every morning because the hotel breakfast closed down at 9:15. This is the four-year-old who laid on the floor of the breakfast lobby and screamed her lungs out because I didn't give her chocolate milk in her cereal. Chocolate milk? Are you serious? I've never even heard of that before!

I Hate Football Boy: This is the six-year-old changeling who went from being sweet, adorable, wonderful boy one minute to screaming, kicking, spitting boy the next. Why the change? Because I told him it was time to go watch some scrimmages at football camp. The boy's argument: "I hate football! I hate watching football! It's boring!" My response: "We came all the way to Boise to watch football! Why do you think we came all the way here!" The boy literally snarled at me, ran away from me, and hid in a corner, stiffening all his joints so he was almost impossible to move. Boy: "I'm not going!" Me: "Oh yes you are!" He attempted to punch me on more than one occasion. When he later regained his right mind, I reminded him that nice boys don't hit their mommies. Note: This happened every single time we headed over to the stadium. Once he got there he was fine. Go figure.

Anti-Personal Hygiene Girl: This is the eight-year-old who loves to swim in the pool, but later complains about itchy rashes because she will not take a shower to get off the chlorine. My advice: Next time you swim, we're taking a shower. The time to shower arrived. This eight-year-old was reminded to take a shower. This eight-year-old resisted and had to be dragged kicking and screaming (I'm not exaggerating) into the bathroom and had to be held under the streaming shower by a mother who was even more determined than she was.

Mine Baby: Everything to this 1.5-year-old is "No, Mine!". The gumball her brother just got out of the machine is hers. Me: "No, honey, you're too little for gum." Temper tantrum. Whatever toy any other sibling is playing with is hers. Me: "No, honey, they are having a turn now." Temper tantrum. At least this one I was expecting, because, you know, she's a toddler.
And she's still small enough to hold in my arms while she kicks and screams. That I can manage.

Moral to the story: Travelling as a "single" mom (ie. temporarily minus the dashingly handsome sidekick who was busy coaching football) with four kids is not for wimps.  I would be ready for early retirement, if that were an option in my contract. But it's not. And I guess I wouldn't want it to be.

Wonderful things about this trip?

I got to see the dashingly handsome sidekick a lot more than I would have if we'd stayed home. Big plus.

I got to go to Boise. Beautiful city. Loved the Capital Building. And they have beautiful parks. The drive was also very pretty.

I didn't have to cook.

The atmosphere at the camp was so cool. It was fun to see all the different teams jumping around acting macho. I loved their chants, especially during the Challenge on the Blue. (The Boise State field is colored a bright blue, so the teams would challenge each other "On the Blue." It was sort of like a gladiator match or a giant, organized street fight, with all the players standing around in a big ring with scrimmages going on inside. Electrifying experience, even as a spectator.)

All our kids received presents of Boise state shirts from Grandpa. And BSU quarterback Kellen Moore (former Prosser Mustangs QB, mind you) was there to sign them all! Even Gabe was exuberant, despite the fact that he "hates football."

It's good to be home. I'll be catching up for a few days, I'm sure. Hope you all are doing well. Thanks for all your thoughtful comments on the blog last week. They meant a lot.

Busy, Happy, Sunny

Just wanted to say bye-bye for a few days.

I'm heading out for a quick trip to Portland with my oldest daughter (but not my baby! -- first night we'll be away from each other ... blah!) for a follow-up appointment at the hospital that did her surgery last month. I also get to attend my cousin's high school graduation while I'm there. Yippee!

We return on Saturday.

Sadly, the dashingly handsome sidekick and I will be like ships passing in the night. He's on his way out to football camp on Saturday morning. We're all following him on Sunday (Yes, I'm allowed to go -- and bring the kids! And no, I never miss an opportunity to follow my hubby on his trips if I'm allowed to). Boise State, home of the Broncos, here we come!

I'll be writing my story of the week, never fear, but you probably won't see it till the end of next week.  

And after that convoluted farewell, I wish you all the best, sunniest, brightest summer week possible (or fall/winter week if you're in the Southern Hemisphere).

Ciao!

WIP Wednesday: The Last Word

I did it! I did it! I finally wrote the epilogue for my WiP.

This book needed an epilogue. It needed a happy ending, but not an instant-gratification happy ending.

So now I'm done with my third round of edits. Still not sure if I'm ready for anybody to read it. I think I'll go over it a few more times myself, let it stew awhile.

In the past I've been so quick to send out my work, both to beta readers and agents. I get so impatient to see if it will sink or swim.

Because of this impatience, I notice BIG problems too late.

You may know what this feels like.  The BIG problems are the ones that slam into you in the middle of the night: "No! He would not have acted that way! Of course he would have done this instead...." OR "That would be a much better ending!"  You hate those moments when you're in the middle of querying because you know you've just ruined your chances with all the agents who have your stuff in front of them.

This book will slow cook. It's going to be as tender as can be before I send it out to anybody. When it comes time to query, I'll be a little more confident. If I get any requests I'll be able to respond without any speed-reading or last-minute editing. That's my goal this time around. My one and only goal.

I want to say: This is the best I have to offer.  If I get rejections, I want to know it's not because of poor writing or typos or a loosey-goosey plot.

How about you? Do you rush into the querying process, or are you content to wait for that as-close-to-perfect-as-possible moment?

A Story A Week: Blessing

Jan scrubbed out Toby’s soiled underwear in a tub of bleach next to the sink.

Through the window, she watched her husband comb through Toby’s thick hair. They were on the porch – the wrap-around porch, the reason she’d asked Donald to buy this crumbling old Victorian in the first place. It hadn’t been easy keeping up such an old house at their age. But if she’d learned anything in sixty-five years, it was that easy was overrated.

“Okay, buddy,” Donald said. He had a special way of talking to Toby. “You’re lookin’ good. Ready to hit the road?”

The kitchen window was open. A breeze that carried the smell of sunshine on its tail lifted the white lace curtain at the window and set it back down just as gently.

“He’s still in his pajama bottoms,” Jan called through the window screen.

“Won’t hurt him.” Donald glanced back at Jan and winked. “Do you need anything else, or is the list good?”

“No, that’s fine. I’m sure you’ll find other things to buy. You men always do.”

“All right, my boy,” Donald said. He took Toby by the hand and pulled him to a stand. They walked together, Donald smooth and slow, Toby with a lurch to his step, to the front of the porch. The stairs were tricky for Toby. Donald held both his hands and went down backwards.

“Say goodbye to your grandma,” Donald said.

Toby turned his head. She caught a glimpse of the large grin she loved so much. “Bye Grandma,” he said. Of course, most people wouldn’t understand his speech, but Jan did. Of course she did. He was her boy. She understood almost every word that came out of his mouth, and if she didn’t at first, she’d work it out pretty quick.

“You be a good boy for your grandpa,” she called back. “And you both hurry home. I’ll miss you.”

And she meant it.

She well remembered when her own children were little, how she’d beg Donald to take them out for a spell, how she’d revel in their absence, soak in the silence.

It wasn’t that way with Toby. He was more work, sure. And her body was older now. She ran out of gas pretty easy these days. Still, he was Donald’s companion. They played chess. They ate the same thing for lunch. Toby insisted on having matching bowls with his grandpa. She took such delight in watching them together; the house seemed lonely and over-large when they weren’t somewhere around it.

She slapped the underwear in an empty basin and grabbed another pair from the pile. She sure hadn’t expected to be cleaning out mussed underwear after retirement. Or, at least, it should’ve been Donald’s mussed underwear if it was anybody’s. God had been good, though, giving them both their health so they could give Toby a home while his Mama was at work. Trina and Toby had moved in with them after the divorce. It was the only thing to do, and Jan never regretted their coming, not for a single moment.

Donald and Toby were still working their way down the garden walk toward the car. She could hear Donald’s steady voice. Then she heard Toby’s excited squeal, and knew they were about to cross the bridge. It was nothing special, just a few smooth planks of wood over the stream that trickled through their front yard. Still, it was Toby’s favorite. He loved the sound his tennis shoes made clomping across it. He loved the dragonflies that hovered on its banks in the summer. One alighted on his hand when he was sitting on the porch step once. He’d talked about that dragonfly for days.

She knew what those two would do in the store. Donald would lift Toby into the baby seat in the cart. Toby was skinny; he could still fit, even though he was seven. He’d laugh like Donald had tickled him. Then Donald’d push him around the store, and they’d buy all sorts of junk food and maybe some of the things on Jan’s list.

She laughed quietly to herself, pulling another pair of underwear from the pile. Blessings came in curious packages sometimes, she thought.


This story was inspired by Jan, whose three words were dragonfly, grandchildren and bridge. Thank you, Jan! If you'd like to give me three words for a future original story, click here and leave your words in the comment section. Thanks.

First Day of Summer

It's officially summer in the Sonnichsen house. The first Monday of NO SCHOOL. And, as if to confirm it, the weather is scorching hot. The kids played in the sprinkler this afternoon with their cousins.

We'll see how this goes. I'm so glad to have the kids home ... and the slave husband, too. He got up first thing this morning and started doing laundry. I blessed him from where I lay on the bed, with Olivia on one side of me and Sophie on the other.

I don't have great expectations for writing this summer. I'm not sure how often I'll be blogging. I've decided to take life as it comes, relax, not require a lot from myself.

My goals are simple: spend time with my family and rest. And maybe get the house kind of cleaned up (though with four little whirlwinds running around, that's close to impossible). If I can fit other things in, then that's great. I'm going to write when I feel like writing and when it fits my schedule. I'm going to have fun with it.

That's my plan. What's yours? Does the arrival of summer change your life (and schedule) at all?

Dancin' on the Train

This video made me happy, but also homesick for China! Not only is it hilarious, but you get a great feel for what modern China is like. Trains are still the main form of long-distance transportation. If you ever visit, get ready to ride the rails. Enjoy the video! And thanks, Kim and Patrick, for the link! 

Were-llamas vs. Sleep

Even if you don't enter this contest  (though, seriously now, why wouldn't you? Literary Agent Barbara Poelle will critique 10 of your pages if you win!) you've gotta read this post for the Were-llama.

Oh, to be creative enough to come up with a concept like a Were-llama! I am so envious I'm slobbering on myself. Here I am blogging about sleeping patterns, and this person's got a Were-llama. I can't even begin to compete with that!

(This is where I remind myself that blogging is not a competition. I can enjoy the antics of the Were-llama. I should be thankful that Were-llama exists to interview stunning agents like Barbara Poelle. And I can aspire to one day come up with a concept as unique and witty and confident. At this stage in my life, however, it is beyond me. *sniff* This is where I remind myself why I write posts about SLEEPING, because that's what I think about most of the day! Pathetic. I know. Pathetic.)

Now go read the post. I don't even know why you're still here listening to me, to be honest.

Oh, and did I mention that this post also includes a picture of the world's scariest cupcake? Just go.

Sleep Patterns

Four a.m. comes too early.

But my body clock is set to wake. No matter what time I go to sleep.

Thanks, Sophie.

Either I hear her cry or, if I'm in too deep a sleep, Gabe brings her in. I hear her feet pad across the carpet. I reach down and pull her into our big bed. She curls up into me and goes back to sleep.

But I lie awake, until the Dashingly Handsome Sidekick's alarm goes off.

Then I roll over and lie awake in the other direction.

Many days now, Olivia will also make her way into our room with her pillow and curl up across the foot of our bed. I keep my knees up tight so I won't accidentally kick her.

By the time I finally drift back to sleep, my alarm's going off and it's time to peel myself out of bed.

But I'm weary. I know these days will pass. There will come a day when Sophie doesn't wake up at four, when Olivia doesn't lie across the foot of my bed, when I can sleep straight through and not have endless morning hours of THINKING.

Then again, there are gifts: Snuggling close to my baby. Listening to my older daughter breathing. And the thoughts. It's good to have time to think in the quiet and stillness. And this morning, when I returned Sophie to her crib, I saw the sunrise.

I just wish the next day I weren't so tired. That's what I won't miss. 

A Story A Week: Day Fifty-three

There was no light to wake them naturally. Low gray clouds hung over the valley. From her window she could see sheets of rain falling miles away. Rain water ran off the end of the drain pipe onto the deck; the windows were splattered with it.

They slept and Sharon let them sleep. The quiet made her cheerful. She knew forty-two minutes would be enough to get them all ready and out the door. Forty-two minutes. That meant five more for her, right now, in the quiet.

The lemon in the tea soured her tongue. She’d grabbed the wrong tea bag. She dumped the liquid out in the sink and went for another. Jasmine, this time. She double checked the package and turned the burner dial to reheat the water.

His email was still open on her laptop. She knew it was honorable of him to write, because he promised he would. Still, staring at his words depressed her. She shut the lid of the computer. Sometimes it felt too long. Sometimes the burn was too real. Like she was running up a steep hill that would never end.

“He’s loyal, I’m loyal,” Sharon whispered.

That hint of guilt made her creak the laptop open again. Shutting it was like shutting him out, shutting everything out. And she shouldn’t do that. This was sacrifice. Sacrifice should hurt.

Day fifty-two. Hard to believe it’s been that long. Dean and I hitched a ride into town – ten miles – just to get some Internet access. It’s choppy. Might go anytime, so I’ll keep this short. Miss you. It’s going well. Delivered new supplies to a district that hadn’t seen any relief. Able to bring some kids into town to the orphanage a couple days ago. They were glad just to have beds and a couple meals a day – and clean water. I know we’re doing good here. Love you. Sam.

No telling when he’d be back. Where there was good to do, there was Sam. And she loved him for it.

“Mommy?” It was Lily, wrapped up in her blanket, her thumb in her mouth, hair disheveled, eyes gluey.

“Good morning, baby,” Sharon said. She reached out and Lily came to her, crawled up into her lap, wound an arm around her neck. “We heard from daddy.”

“Read it,” Lily said. Her voice was still muffled from the thumb she never took out.

Sharon read.

At the end, Lily looked up. Big blue eyes, just like her daddy’s. “When’s he coming home?”

“Soon,” Sharon said.

“How soon?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe in a few weeks. As soon as those people over there feel better.”

“I want them to feel better now,” Lily said.

“I know, honey, me too.” Sharon shifted in her seat. “We’d better get the others up. It’s getting late. Mommy has to get to work.”

Lily nodded. She was so brave, Sharon thought.

“Day fifty-three, baby,” she whispered into her daughter’s soft hair. “We can do this.”

 
 
This story was inspired by Sharon's words: cheerful, honorable and loyal. Thanks, Sharon! If you'd like to leave me some inspiring words for a future story, click here.

WIP Wednesday on Tuesday: In the Mail

I'm doing a little switch-a-roo this week. Usually I post my Story A Week today and my WIP update tomorrow, BUT...

I've been busy getting my fifteen pages and synopsis in the mail. I signed up for a critique at the SCBWI conference I'm attending this summer and the deadline for submission is June 9.  

So, this morning, instead of editing my Story A Week like I usually do on Tuesdays, I was editing my fifteen pages one last time, making last minute corrections to my synopsis (thank you, Myrna!), and getting it all shipped off at the post office.

All while feeling fluishly ill, I might add, and caring for the younger two resident geniuses. It was an accomplishment.

Now it's over. Good or bad, it's in the mail.

I started reading through another section of my novel this afternoon, because I was thinking of printing off a few of the hospital sections so that Dr. Father-in-law could look them over ... And I realized they stink. I have so much work to do on this book!! I couldn't even give them to my father-in-law. I'd be too embarrassed. I think it was after polishing those first two chapters so thoroughly,  reading other parts was like reading a first draft.

But it'll get there. I don't know if it'll get there this summer, but it'll get there some day.

We unpublished writers get the luxury of taking our time.

How about you? Have you been plowing full steam ahead on any projects lately? Or are you taking a more laid back approach?