Holding Out for Elvis

I needed an injection of happy this morning.

Not because LIFE is bad. Life is great! Aaron has a job, we're house hunting, it's raspberry and cherry season, the pool water is warm.

It's just my writing life that's not so great. It's just not moving anywhere. And I can feel discouragement creeping in.

An honest post by Sarah Davies of Greenhouse Literary didn't help. She wrote about how she has queries pouring into her inbox 24-hours a day. Thousands upon thousands of queries. And I wonder, how can I compete with all that? Why is everybody and their mother suddenly deciding to become a writer?

But this morning in my Google reader I happened upon a post by Rachelle Gardner, another literary agent. Her post reminded me that I have a lot of books in me, and that if I persevere there's hope.

Anyone can sit down and write one novel. It's the people that sit down and churn out a dozen, two dozen novels, who work on honing their craft and getting better and better that will be the authors of tomorrow.

I don't want to be a one-hit wonder, do I? I don't want to be Mr. Big.

I want to be Elvis (without the hip gyrations).

If my goal is just to get one novel published, yeah, I might as well give up. But I have years and years of writing left (Lord willing) and hundreds of books to write. And who knows which of those books will finally resonate with an agent and a publishing company ... not to mention readers?

If I give up, none of them will. There will only be a silent void. And words dancing forever in my head.

Burn, Baby, Burn!

My children are turning nut brown in the summer sun. I guess swimming twice a day will do that to you.

But I'm still culture-shocking over the fact that here in America brown is beautiful.

In China, all the beauty commercials advertise how white their products will make your skin. I remember seeing one commercial where the model was so sickly pale she looked dead. Absolutely colorless. White as a bleached sheet.

There, whale-belly white is beautiful.

Here, on the other hand, they're advertising spray-on tans. Just call the 800 number on your TV screen and you too can have this gorgeous dark tan, the equivalent of forty hours in the sun ... and everybody knows how a nice tan makes you look slimmer too.

Excuse me while I choke on my bean burrito.

The mechanism used to apply this tan looks akin to those used for spraying fertilizer on plants. The Caucasian models look so happy standing around in bikinis, spraying themselves and their partners with fake tan.

Funny, those Chinese models looked just as happy lubricating themselves with whitening lotion.

Aren't we people a funny, discontented bunch?

But historically, we waiguorens (foreigners) have liked pale skin too. Isn't that where the term "blue blood" came from: having skin so transparent and white that you could see the blue veins through it? A sign of royalty!

Brown only became beautiful in the west when going on vacation to or even living in tropical locations became something only the rich could afford to do. The poor had moved mostly out of the fields and into office buildings. In office buildings and factories you grow sickly pale. If you're rich, you're on a Caribbean beach somewhere, soaking in sun.

In China, the poor are still out in the fields. Being brown still means menial outdoor labor more than sunny beach living. There are more offices now, more factories, but brown still is definitely not beautiful. If you're brown you're a country bumpkin.

So, here we are in our one-hundred degree weather, blue sky and burning sun, finding relief in the backyard pool. And becoming more small-town bumpkin every day, apparently.

Dog Mountain

Yesterday we climbed Dog Mountain.

I know now why it's called Dog Mountain: after we climbed it we were dog tired.

I wasn't as tired as Aaron, but that's only because I didn't carry our 25-pound baby on my back all the way up, or our lunch for that matter. The seven and a half miles took us six hours, which shows how slowly we were going. Especially up.

It was steep, it was strenuous, but the view from the top was worth it. The river cut its way through the valley, between the mountains, carpeted in fir and pine. To the west the forest only grew more dense. To the east, the mountains began to look like mangy dogs, changing to blond mounds in the distance. Mt. Hood's tip peeked at us from the south; Mt St. Helens, snow covered, crouched to the north.

And we stood at the summit of Dog Mountain, the wind slapping our exposed faces and whipping the wild flowers. It felt like the peak of the world.

Kidnapped!

I can't stop smiling.

I've been kidnapped and am being held hostage at the unbelievably gorgeous Skamania Lodge in southern Washington State. My room looks out over the Columbia River Gorge.

My abductor says the reason he took me away is because our anniversary is on Friday. He says I've been married to him for ten years. Ten years! Can you believe the nerve of this guy?

When we arrived this afternoon, he took me on a two-mile hike on the trails around the lodge. We saw a woodpecker, for goodness sake. The meadows were covered in fern and wildflower. I actually cried on the trail, it was so beautiful.

But that was not all. No, that was not all.

Tonight he forced me to eat the most succulent steak I've ever tasted. It practically melted in my mouth. For appetizers he made me eat crab cakes and spinach salad. For dessert, brownies with ice cream and strawberries. Terrible man!

Then we sat in front of the lodge in lawn chairs and, while drinking hot cider, watched the clouds turn pink.

Tomorrow he says we have to do more hiking and have a picnic lunch.

And this place he brought me to has an outdoor hot tub and an indoor heated pool and a work out room with elliptical trainers. Worst of all, he says he's going to pay for me to have a massage tomorrow evening. A massage!

I keep asking him, what's the ransom? When do I get to go home? I've gotta get back to cooking and dishes and small people who hit each other and yell, "Why aren't you getting me my breakfast?" But for some reason, he doesn't seem to be taking me seriously.

Maybe it's because I can't stop smiling.

Golden Boy

I promise this will be one of the rare times I show off about my husband on this blog.

For those of you who already know him, you will not be surprised to hear that I think he's amazing. And you will also not be surprised to hear that he's no longer unemployed. He is now officially a science teacher at Prosser High School, which means he's a Mustang again.

Those were the Prosser principal's exact words when he called Aaron on the phone this morning to tell him he'd been hired: "Would you like to be a Mustang?"

Yes, the Golden Boy has returned.

It's weird being married to a Golden Boy and living with that Golden Boy in the hometown where he achieved his Golden Boy acclaim. The other day I took the kids to gymnastics. There was an elderly lady there who had brought her grandson in to take the class too. Afterwards she asked me if I was Aaron Sonnichsen's wife.

She introduced herself. "I was Aaron's second grade teacher ... I always thought of him as the Golden Boy. So athletic, so handsome, so smart...."

Yes, it's true. I'm just using this blog to show off how wonderful my husband is.

But really, my husband is pretty wonderful. And he was wonderful growing up in Prosser too, which is why I'm always introduced as Aaron's wife, and people are genuinely excited to meet me simply because I'm connected to this amazing person. Yes, my husband the Golden Boy, who led the Prosser Mustangs to the 1993 football state championship. And even scored a touchdown in that game as a quarterback. I watched it the other night on VHS tape. Incredible stuff. No wonder he's a legend. I don't even blame him for licking the trophy!

And I get to ride on the coattails of the legend. Which is why all of this moving-back-to-Prosser has it's own style of crazy ... and a huge dose of how-am-I-going-to-fit-in-as-Golden-Boy's-wife.

I guess we didn't give up celebrity status when we left China after all. The Golden Boy has come home.

Because you can't see how much I'm giggling as I write this, just know that my husband is a very humble person. He's going to absolutely die when he reads this.

Gaping

Saturday morning, 4th of July.

I was entering the farmer's market with my double stroller, passing the barriers that closed the street to cars, when I noticed him.

A small Asian man, probably in his fifties, with a comb over. Thin, upright, wearing the black dress shoes that every middle class Chinese man in China wears.

But it was the expression on his face that froze me. He looked around, without looking at anyone. The tents, the carrots and green beans overflowing from bins, the hot dog stand, the quilt you could win if you entered the $1 raffle. All the colors, so vibrant in the summer sun. And the sound of down-home violin and banjo music floating from the direction of the pancake kiosk. The red, white, and blue of the flag, dipping and flapping in a light breeze.

He looked around with eyes wide and half a smile.

And I thought: "Dude, I know exactly how you feel."

But he'd never know it, because I'm just another white face pushing a stroller.

I passed him again later. Still, he had that wide-eyed wonderment. I stared and stared, hoping he'd return eye contact.

He didn't. He passed on into the crowd, and I had to blink twenty times to stop tears from running down my face. Why did I feel like crying?

And then I knew. For maybe the millionth time, I wished I had an Asian face, so that maybe he would give me a second glance. Maybe he'd see, just by one look at my outward appearance, a few of the things that make up the inside of me.

Maybe he'd guess little details too: that dim sum is my favorite meal; that I know there's no such thing in China as a fortune cookie and General Tso's chicken; that I probably speak his language; that I know all this is completely overwhelming. Just this, being here, in this country on the fourth of July, with all these white and brown non-Chinese faces, and all this grass and blue sky overhead.

I've been there. I am there. "Sir, whoever you are. I can relate to you."

But he passed by into the crowd. And left me gaping.

Big Foot

Just now, as I cut the tags off some new flip flops, it occurred to me how nice it is to live in a country that carries my shoe size.

(I wear size 10. Chinese women's shoes stop at 9.)

The Ups and Downs of Story Arcs

If you're a writer, did you miss this on story arcs at the Blood Red Pencil, one of my favorite writing blogs?

I'm excited to use this method for my WIP; it sounds like such a great idea. A lot of work. But, oh yeah, this writing stuff is supposed to be work, right?

I hope all you Americans out there have a fabulous Fourth of July weekend! Don't get sunburned. It's a hundred degrees here in Washington wine country. Beautiful, dry, scorch-your-skin heat. Phew!

Prompted

Over at Agent Kate Schafer Testerman's blog, there's a contest going on. And you all know how much I like writing contests. Click here to read what the contest is all about and to read through the entries.

My entry is posted below.

Be prepared: the story I wrote is different. If you don't like it, I'll blame the fact that I was up late last night writing it, and in the interest of sanity I probably should have gone to bed. But hopefully you'll like it -- or at least find it interesting. Let me know either way. I love feedback!

Short Fiction: Deceived

I didn't expect to actually go swimming when Mrs. Boosalis called me on the telephone and said, "Taylor, darling. Come to my house. Liberterio and Antonio are in the swimming pool wearing only their Speedos."

My mouth went dry. "Speedos?"

"I called you as soon as I saw," she said.

"I'm on my way," I said, and hung up. Then I sat for a moment staring at the wall, trying to decide which swimsuit to wear.

No American man should ever be allowed to wear a Speedo. But when it came to the Boosalis' Italian visitors, let's just say I didn't mind so much.

I wavered as I packed my swim bag. I mean, wouldn't this just be slightly obvious, showing up at the Boosalis' house on a Friday afternoon in my swimsuit? But I pattered down the stairs in my pink bikini with the brown terrycloth cover up none-the-less, dipping my head slightly when I saw Mom on the living room floor attempting sit ups.

"Taylor ... where are ... you going?" she grunted between crunches.

"Boosalises," I said.

Mom sat up and flipped a tendril of hair out of her face. "You and Chara made up, huh?"

Chara was Mrs. Boosalis' fifteen-year-old daughter. My best friend since kindergarten. But more recently, ex-friend.

"Yeah," I lied. "She invited me swimming."

"Are their exchange students still with them for the summer? Those two brothers?"

I tossed my head, avoiding eye contact. "How should I know?" I gripped the door handle.

"What d'you mean 'how should you know'?" Mom said. "I think you'd know if they went back to Italy. You've seemed interested enough in them this whole time."

"Mom! I meant," I said, opening the door, "that I don't know if they'll be there or not. Maybe it'll just be the Boosalises. Maybe they had something else to do." I hated lying to my mom. But ultimately, I just felt stupid. Who'd want to admit to heading out to ogle well-built Italian boys in Speedos? And that Mrs. Boosalis, of all people, was my informant. "I'm going to be late," I added, and went out.

"Sweetie," Mom's voice followed me before I could shut the door.

"Yeah?" I looked back at her.

"Just be careful," she said. "You know how I feel about ... Mrs. Boosalis."

"Mom," I said as I tossed my hair over my shoulder. "I've been going to the Boosalis' house, like, all my life."

"Yeah, but since Chara's dad left ... things just haven't felt ... you know what I mean."

"I'll be fine," I said, and shut the door.

I crossed the street to their house, pausing as I stood out front. I hadn't been inside for two weeks. Not since Chara and I got into that fight. We hadn't spoken to each other since. I took a deep breath and started down the brick walk, lined with white, red, and blue flowers. Just for the fourth of July, of course. That was like Mrs. Boosalis. Chara would flip if she found out her mother had invited me over. I had to think of some other excuse for coming by, but as I approached their door, all I could think about were Italian boys in Speedos.

My hand lingered over the doorbell button for a moment before I pressed it. After the chimes subsided I heard Mrs. Boosalis' accented voice on the other side of the door, her sweeping figure floating past the glassy tiles that framed the doorway. "I'll get it! No, Chara! Stay where you are!"

The door swung back and she stood there, like an elegant swan, long neck extended, white, gauzy wings raised, her small dark eyes glinting at me over the threshold. "You are here!" she cried, feigning surprise. "Chara, my Chara. It is your best friend in all the world, Taylor. Come in, my darling. This is a pleasant surprise." Then, she winked, squeezing her smudgy black eyelids together.

I walked in, obediently, and glanced into the front room, where Chara was sitting with one leg up on the arm of the cream-colored sofa. The rest of her body was hunched over a Nintendo DS. She didn't look up at me. "Go away," she said, her voice muffled by the shaggy hair that hung in her face.

"But," Mrs. Boosalis said quickly, "what a shame! She's just arrived. And maybe she has something to say to you, Chara, my Chara. Oh, but look, you must have come from the pool or somewhere, Taylor dear, for I see your swimming costume underneath your clothes. And perhaps you would like to continue your swim in our pool?"

Now Chara did look up, the fire dancing in her eyes. "Go. Away."

I swallowed, trying to think up something to say. Probably the right thing would be to say sorry. Sorry I had a stupid fight with you over boys. But as I thought about apologizing, I realized I still wasn't sorry. And saying sorry when I was not sorry, even if it was the only way to see Liberterio and Antonio Maroni in the pool, seemed too hypocritical.

"I've always come over before without being invited," I said. "Just because you're mad at me doesn't mean I have to stay away. I can still have relationships with other people in this house."

Chara snorted.

I looked back at Mrs. Boosalis. She was watching me with that direct, unnerving gaze of hers. Abruptly, I felt uncomfortable. Why had she called me, exactly?

Don't get me wrong. I knew. We'd talked about how hot her two exchange students were. We'd even emailed about this fight between her daughter and me and I knew she thought Chara was being ridiculous. She sided with me. She said all young girls had crushes on older boys. Especially on older boys from countries like Italy, because they have wonderful accents, and just have a different look about them, different than your run-of-the-mill American. If only they were Greek, she'd said. But oh well! Mediterranean men were Mediterranean men. She added that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing at all. And if Chara couldn't accept that, then Chara was crazy.

Mrs. Boosalis was ashamed of Chara. I knew that too. I'd known for a long time that if she could have chosen a daughter, she would've chosen me instead.

I straightened my back as I dropped my swim bag on a nearby chair and turned my back on Chara. I forced myself to smile at Mrs. Boosalis. "A dip in your pool sounds amazing, Mrs. Boosalis. Thanks."

Mrs. Boosalis returned my smile, showing all her white teeth. "Yes, you're always welcome, Taylor dear. We love to see old friends." She shut the door, her long tunic top fluttering. "Ah, but one thing. The Italian boys. They happen to be swimming now. This will not bother you, will it?"

Chara snorted. "Bother her. She probably came over just to see the show."

I winced.

"No, no. Of course not Chara!" Mrs. Boosalis said. "How would she know? She cannot see our swimming pool from her window. How else would she have known?"

"She probably has radar for that sort of thing, Mom," Chara said. "Boy-crazy girls usually do."

I glared at Chara, but she had gone back to her game, attacking the buttons with vicious thumbs.

"I'd actually like to see Liberterio and Antonio," I said. "After all, we are friends."

"Friends," Chara said without looking up. "After all I've told you about them. You still say they're friends?"

"Tut, tut!" Mrs. Boosalis cried. "Chara, you should be ashamed."

Chara flicked her head. "Ashamed of what? Telling the truth?"

"They're nice guys," I said.

"Yeah," Chara said. "Real nice guys. Whatever. That's why I have to barricade the door to my room every night. Nice guys."

Mrs. Boosalis' mouth was set in a hard line. "That's enough now, Chara. I didn't know I'd raised you to be so -- so disrespectful to our guests."

"I didn't know I had such a flaky best friend before either. I guess we just get to know each other better and better all the time." She was looking at me now, through the curtains of her tangled hair. "Just get out of here, Taylor. I know my mother called you. She's just using you, like she uses everybody. For her own sick enjoyment."

Mrs. Boosalis' laugh was high and nervous."Me, call her! Don't be ridiculous."

"Whatever, Mom," Chara said, slapping the DS closed and struggling to her feet. "You're pathetic. Don't you know I can see right through you?"

I cleared my throat, not daring to look at Mrs. Boosalis. "I'm going swimming."

"Go ahead. Swim with them. Show off your little bikini. Fine." Chara stalked to the staircase. "Just don't come crying to me when they play around with you and dump you. Let yourself believe they're really interested. Go ahead."

"Well, perhaps they are interested in Taylor," Mrs. Boosalis said. Glancing at her face, I saw it was pale with rage. "Why would that be so surprising? She is a beautiful girl. Keeps herself impeccably ... unlike others I know."

"Knock it off, Mom." Chara's voice trembled.

Mrs. Boosalis went on. "And you - you won't even try to attract them!"

"I didn't need to try," Chara's voice was hollow. "But if nobody will believe me, well--"

"You are full of lies!" Mrs. Boosalis hissed. 'You could have boyfriends, but I think sometimes you don't even like boys! Most girls would be happy to have attention from boys like that."

Chara climbed a few steps, and stopped to shove a clump of hair behind her ear. "Yeah, Taylor, you can see. She's been a whole lot of help. You -- you've let me down. If anyone was going to believe me, I thought it would be you."

I saw the tears standing in her eyes, and doubt seized me. I glanced at Mrs. Boosalis. Her steel gray, spiky hair set off the firmness of her jaw. It hit me. What if Chara had been telling the truth all along? What if she wasn't just making stuff up because she was jealous?

I caved. "Maybe I should go."

"No! No!" Mrs. Boosalis cried, rushing at me with a force that nearly threw me off balance. "You go swim for awhile. Entertain the boys. Nothing will happen. I will be there. Don't let my dear Chara dissuade you with her lies."

"Go, Taylor," Chara said, her voice steady. "Run. Get out of this mad house."

I looked up at her, standing there, shoulders pushed back. With her hair out of her face now I could see she had her mother's jaw. Defiant.

"I'm going," I said, stumbling over to the chair and grabbing the straps of my bag.

"You go now," Mrs. Boosalis' voice was hard and cold, "and you will never enter this house again. Never!"

I ran to the door, and with my hand on the silver knob I looked back at Mrs. Boosalis.

"Is this some kind of game to you?" The words came out of my mouth before I realized I'd spoken out loud.

"A game?" Mrs. Boosalis said in little more than a whisper. Then, she swooped at me, her tunic flying out behind her. "You dare to speak to me like this in my own house?" she shrieked. "Out! Out!"

As I ran, with that bird of prey snatching at my heels, I realized how narrow had been my escape, how faithful had been my friend.

Alphabet Books

I'm catching up on reading the posts in my google reader. This one by Editorial Anonymous cracked me up.

If you're a children's book writer (or reader) of any variety, you'll get a kick out of it.