Are you trying to brush me off?!

That's what my youngest asked me yesterday morning right after he plopped down for breakfast and said, "No offense Mom, but I really don't think you have your priorities straight."

Let me put this in context for you... Like many of you, when I look at my calendar these days, I cringe. My husband's been away 20 out of the last 25 days (still battling health issues from last spring), basketball season has arrived (inc. practices/games) as has volleyball. There's also a steady flow of homework, parent-teacher interviews, halloween's a week away (last year we had 250+ kids), construction crews are ripping up the street in front of my house, we have three birthdays in the next 3 weeks (for both of my kids/husband) and I'm trying to put the finishing touches on a novel.

Back to my youngest... When I tucked him in two nights ago he reminded me to put his party invitations in his knapsack so he could hand them out at school.

I frowned. "What party invitations?"

(insert eye roll from the child here) "Hello?! The invitations to my party? My birthday's on Wednesday, Mom. You didn't forget, did you?"

"Of course I didn't forget!"

But then I patiently went over the calendar with him, showed him how there are no free evenings for the next two weeks (not one) and explained that we'd have to pick a date in early November to have his party. After a brief silence, he glared at me, rolled over and said, "Can we talk about this tomorrow?"

Which brings me to breakfast yesterday where he told me he thinks I don't have my priorities straight because I'm not doing something HUGE on his actual birth date (cake and dinner with family doesn't count, by the way) which in turn led to the question of all questions: "Are you trying to brush me off?!"

My immediate reaction (after resting my forehead against the fridge for a moment) was to burst out laughing, which made him so mad he stormed from the room. My delayed reaction? Well, this morning (his actual birth date) he woke to a brass bell clanging over his head at 6:22 a.m., the exact moment he arrived on this earth 11 years ago. I wished him a happy birthday, told him I loved him and that I'd planned this "bell-waking-surprise" so he wouldn't feel brushed off because things are so crazy around here this month.

(insert conciliatory smile from the child here)
Relationship semi-salvaged... at least for now.

Getting quiet with yourself & other pursuits

"To do anything, the first requirement is that we become quiet. It is in this place of stillness that truth surfaces, understandings expand and creativity blossoms."

I love this quote, so much so that I told author Anne LeClaire I planned to copy it from her website and share it with you. I'm also adopting it as my mantra this fall. ie., Right now, I'm working through a list of commitments I made so I can get to my own quiet place. I have two manuscripts left to read for fellow writers, one book club commitment, and one ARC to read and blurb, then I'm done. After that, I won't be available for anything until after I've shipped the novel I'm working on to my agent.

In keeping with that commitment, here are the answers to a few questions posed to me via email yesterday from the Ladies of the Night Book Club in Idaho Falls:

Do you find it hard to relate to the main characters in your novels?

Not really, because on some level, and for some strange reason, the main character in each novel I've written has been bouncing around my head for years, so by the time I write their story I know them well. ie., the main character of the novel I'm writing now is an 85 year old man and the story is told from his point of view. I first thought of him six years ago when I was in Boston. Since then I've spent lots of time with him and in turn he's evolved into a full fledged character (warts and all) with a full fledged story to tell.

What was the last book you read?
The Flying Troutman’s by Miriam Toews.

What book are you currently reading?
Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson

What are the next four books you plan to read?
The Help by Kathryn Stockett
Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann
Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie by Alan Bradley
The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

What happened to the Cappadora family?

Last year, USA Today chose Jacquelyn Mitchard's debut novel as one of the 10 most influential books of the past 25 years.

It certainly influenced me. I read The Deep End of the Ocean twelve years ago, and then faithfully watched the movie when it came out starring Michelle Pfeiffer. It was a story that grabbed me, wouldn't let go, and in turn motivated me to chase my own dream of becoming a published author.

Today the long awaited sequel arrives in book stores across North America. So if you loved the first book and want to see what happened to the Cappadora family order a copy of No Time To Wave Goodbye today. And if you haven't read The Deep End of the Ocean, order both and treat yourself...

Can you top this dinner party?

I haven't had tons of free time lately for blogging (not to mention a brief lag in anything interesting to share). However, I'm currently at the Hawaii Writers Retreat and Conference, and after less than 24 hours surrounded by like-minded people I laughed all the way to my room tonight. You see, a handful of us ate dinner and watched fireworks from the aft of Patricia Wood's boat. There was Pat, her husband, myself, Sue (a writer friend from Australia) and Lucy, an ex-nun whose daughter writes porn! *insert pause so you can read that again* Honestly, folks, I'm not making this up...

Best birthday invitation ever...

Fellow author Patricia Wood emailed me with an invitation I couldn't turn down. You see, Pat's also attending the Hawaii Writers Retreat/Conference (she and her husband live on a boat in the Honolulu harbor) and her husband, whose birthday is in early September, adores jazz singer Norah Jones as much as I do.

(I always listen to the album Feels Like Home when I'm writing -- click on this link and I've no doubt you'll recognize Norah's work, too.) Anyhow... Pat and Gordon have (gasp) invited me to help celebrate Gordon's birthday by going to the concert with them. Thanks, guys. This will make Hawaii equal parts work and play!

A treat for fellow readers and writers

If you're able, consider making a trip to Alberta this fall to attend WordFest, the Banff-Calgary International Writers Festival.

John Iriving, one of America's most prolific novelists, will be there (author of The World According to Garp, The Cider House Rules, A Prayer for Owen Meaney) along with Margaret Atwood, who's been shortlisted for the Booker five times (winning once) and a finalist for the Governor General's Award seven times (winning twice).

Click here and then on the video link to hear John discusss his writing process and his twelfth novel, Last Night in Twisted River, which will be launched at Wordfest in October.

Best date I've had in years

My youngest is an avid reader, but my oldest has never shown an interest, which (as you might imagine) bothers me to no end. Over the years, I've tried everything. I've read to him, read with him, coaxed, cajoled and bought every kind of book you can imagine to lure him the wonders of a good story... but never with any luck.

At least, not until a week ago when a friend gave him a book he just couldn't put down. He finished it in three days and would not stop talking about it. Without prompting, he recounted the plot from start to finish (in mind-numbing detail) then told me all about the protagonist, the secondary characters and even a few of the walk-ons. He was brimming with enthusiasm, so much so that when I realized he'd been reading Book One of a nine book series, I drove into the city and bought him the next four!

Fast forward to today: My youngest is in a basketball camp this week with a buddy, so I decided to surprise my twelve-year-old and take him on a "date" to see the new Harry Potter movie, just the two of us. I told him last night and he was thrilled. Said he couldn't wait.

He was still in bed when I got up this morning (rare for him) and when I stuck my head in his room I found him reading Book Two ("I'm almost done," he said.) I made breakfast and while he ate, he read. On the 20 min drive into the city, he sat next to me in the passenger seat... reading. Then, for 30 mins while we waited for the film to begin in a semi-dark theatre, he used his iPod as a flashlight and continued to read.

He watched the movie, but as soon as we left the theatre and began driving home... out came the book again! He was still reading when his brother walked through the door after camp, and when his dad got home from work he only had 5 pages left. On his way to bed tonight he set Book Three on his nightstand for the morning. Then he gave me a hug, grinned and said, "Thanks for the movie, Mom. Best date I've had in years!"

What he said.

Hawaii bound for writing inspiration

It's impossible not be inspired when attending the Hawaii Writers Retreat & Conference. Not only are you in Hawaii, which screams relaxation, you're also surrounded by like-minded writers.

This year, I'll be spending time with good friend and fellow author, Jacquelyn Mitchard, whose sequel to the #1 New York Times bestseller The Deep End of the Ocean comes out Sept 15th. (The Deep End of the Ocean was the novel Oprah chose to launch her book club years ago, remember?) Jackie's sequel is titled No Time to Wave Goodbye. If you haven't pre-ordered a copy, do so now.

I'll also be presenting at the conference with fellow author Patricia Wood, whose debut novel Lottery was short-listed for the Orange Prize and has been sold in so many countries I've lost count.

Oh, and of course I'll be writing, putting the finishing touches on my 4th novel so I can hand it over to my agent and have her sell it sometime this fall. So... if you're a writer, what are you waiting for? Flights are cheap right now. Sign up and come join us in Hawaii. You won't regret it!

Got a problem? Let your kid solve it

Last night, my husband and I were going over a detailed family schedule for the next 8-10 weeks, including summer camps, dog kenneling needs, guests coming and going, my husband's travel plans and mine (I have to be away in August for two weeks and will miss my kids first day of school).

We were busy mulling over a few problematic days, tossing suggested solutions back and forth, when our youngest slid into a chair, peered at the schedule and winced. "Wow! Busy summer, huh?"

"Very," I agreed.

He tilted his head and frowned as he examined the schedule, reading my notes and his father's. Then he pushed it away and said, "I know how you guys can fix this."

Encouraging him to share, we sat back and waited.

"Okay," he said. "You guys like me, right?" (we immediately nodded) "And you always have a great time when you're with me?" (hesitant, somewhat obligatory parental nods) "It's simple then... if you want to have a really fantastic summer you only gotta do one thing!" (we leaned forward expectantly) "Make it all about me!" he said, grinning.

Time and the pressure of growing up

I gave my ten-year-old a digital alarm clock for his birthday last fall (along with a handful of other, more exciting gifts) and when he opened the clock, he went unusually quiet. I said if he didn't like it maybe we could get him a talking clock instead (no response) or one with a helicopter that lifts off and flies around the room and beeps when the alarm goes off? (No reaction to this, either).

We had company and he quietly asked if he could speak to me in dining room (a sure sign we were about to discuss something private). "What's wrong?" I asked. "You don't like the clock?"

"It's not that, Mom," he replied. "I'm just not ready!"

"Ready for what?"

"For the responsibility," he said. "First I have to set it and then if the power goes out I have to re-set it, and when the alarm goes off I need to get up right away and get dressed so I don't miss the bus. I like how it is now, how you wake me up and how you take care of all those things."

"Fair enough," I said. "But at some point you have to grow up and be more responsible. I just thought an alarm clock might be a good way to start."

"It's not," he said. "I don't need the extra pressure right now, okay? I'm not saying you're old, Mom, but you don't know how hard it is being a kid today. Clocks are not our friends!"

P.S. I'm posting this now because last night he took it out, plugged it in, and set it for the first time. "Think you're ready?" I asked, to which he replied (after a dramatic sigh), "Mom, you've really gotta stop babying me. I'm gonna be eleven soon!"

Reminder to self -- you won't ever pass this way again & room service is overrated

Ask any author with a family and I'll bet "huge swaths of uninterrupted writing time" will be at the top of his/her wish list. It's a luxury we dream of the way others dream of driving fast cars or shopping til they drop. I know it won't be like this forever. When my kids grow up and move out I'll have all the time I want to write. Not so now, though. Now, on any given day, I have more stops and starts than I can count. Here's a sample from this week:

Front door slams, oldest runs down to my desk, attempting to look casual. (He and his brother have been at the local bike jumps) "Mom?" he says. "How do you know if someone broke their arm or if it's just, like, sprained?"

Then there was Tuesday when my youngest phoned from school, voice hitching and on the verge of tears. "Mom, I need you. Please come get me!"

And let's not forget Wednesday night at 9:00 pm when my oldest said, "Mom, I almost forgot! It's my turn to bring muffins to school tomorrow, and they have to be homemade. Not from a box."

Or Thursday when I wandered upstairs to make espresso and found a teenage girl sitting on the bench in my front entrance. "I'm looking for sponsors for a walk-a-thon," she explained. "Your son said you were on the phone, that I should wait here?"

And my week wouldn't be complete if I didn't add these:

"I opened the back door and Sully took off after a deer!"
"Vacuuming is not a kid's job, Mom. Ask anyone!"
"There's never anything to eat in this house!"
"My basketball's stuck on the roof."
"Can you help with my homework?"
"What're we having for dinner?"
"I can't find my soccer cleats!"
"My trumpet's not working!"
"We're out of milk."

I once read an article about an author who stayed in hotels for months at a time because she couldn't work at home (too many interruptions). Once there she'd hang a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and write to her heart's content. She ordered room service when she got hungry. She slept when she got tired. And here's the best part... she wasn't even on a deadline! P.S. Her intrusive home life included two cats and a roommate who spent 75% of his time travelling with the airline he worked for.

I have a DO NOT DISTURB sign too, but no one takes it seriously. There's no room service here and it's rare that I sleep through a night without a dog or cat or kid waking me up for something. I also don't have the luxury to set up shop at a hotel for months at a time, but to be honest I'm not sure I'd want to, because if I did I'd miss out on those gem-like moments that balance the rest out, the ones that creep up on me when I least expect them...

Like last night, hours after I'd put both kids to bed, when my youngest snuck downstairs and curled up in the armchair across from my desk. He was having trouble sleeping, a by-product of his Tourette's Syndrome. He asked how my book was going and I said, "Fine." "Are you almost done?" he asked. "Almost," I replied. He tilted his head to one side, went all shy on me, and said, "I'm sure proud of you, Mom."

These are anxious times we're living in

When he's in town, my husband's usually out the door every morning by five-thirty. However, one day last week my youngest came down for breakfast at 7:00 and found his dad eating toast at the table-for-three. Here's the dialogue that followed:

"Why are you here?" my son asked.
"I live here," my husband replied.
"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
My husband glanced at the clock and shrugged. "I'll be there in an hour."

Looking worried, my son slid into a chair across from him. "Will you get in trouble for being late?"

My husband's eyebrows shot up. "I don't think so."

"Could you get fired?" my son pushed.

Before my husband could reply our youngest stood up and began pacing around the kitchen. "Because if that happens we could lose our house and then we'd have to live in our car, and if we lost our car we'd have to go live under a bridge, and I don't want to live under a bridge!"

My husband froze, toast midway to his mouth, and I immediately jumped in to reassure our youngest that we wouldn't be setting up house any time soon under a bridge.

Days earlier there'd been a special on TV about two families who'd been impacted by the recession. One was about a single mother and her kids, how they lost their apartment and had to live in an SUV. The other was about a family of four, how the father got laid off and they had to temporarily live under a bridge. It was well-done, the sort of show it's hard to turn away from. I watched it while making dinner and my kids did, too.

I turn off the news when they cover gang wars, murders, sexual predators, child abductions, etc. But not a show like this where my kids get to see how fortunate we are, a show that teaches them to be empathetic about what others may be going through. I just honestly didn't think my son would ever make the leap he did or that watching it might cause him any anxiety. Guess I should've had a more indepth dialogue with my kids than I recall having.

What about you? Do shows like that make you approach the way you're living your life any differently?

Experiencing Mother's Day in a bubble

I float through Mother's Day each year with no worries. I don't work, or parent, and I refuse to get drawn into conflicts. Simply put, for twenty-four hours I'm not available.

However, I am privy to observing what happens around me, and this year, like every other, has been enlightening. The day began with my family letting me sleep in (bliss) followed by my husband making me an espresso (double bliss).

Fast forward one hour and my oldest son has locked himself in his room, yelling, "I can't wait to turn eighteen and move out of here!" while the youngest is pounding on the bathroom door, asking me if I can please get out and of the tub and come "straighten Dad out" because "he's going senile."

I couldn't resist. Exiting my Mother's Day bubble for 30 seconds, I asked my 10-year-old if he knew what "senile" meant, and got this reply: "Are you trying to be funny, Mom? Of course I know what it means. It's when my feet are on earth and someone older, who's being hard to deal with, has theirs on another planet!"

Fast forward another hour. The son who was previously locked in his room is now vacuuming the basement, muttering how much he hates Mother's Day, while the younger one just approached me, glowering. "SOS, Mom!" he said, looking over his shoulder to make sure he doesn't get caught bothering me. "I need your help and it can't wait until tomorrow. Dad's being like Hitler. He wants us to help rake the yard and fold laundry before we take you for lunch. How much longer do we have to put up with this?!"

Fast forward two more hours. Imagine, if you will, the four of us sitting at a table, eating a late lunch while facing snow-capped mountains that look close enough to reach out and touch. "Do you like the card we got you?" asks my youngest, grinning. "And what about the restaurant?" says my oldest, "Because I picked the restaurant."

I tell them the card and the restaurant are perfect. Then my youngest, looking highly self-satisfied, sits back, takes a deep breath of mountain air, and says, "Hasn't this just been the best Mother's Day ever?"

My split-second happy place

"My God, you're gorgeous!" Yup. That's what a better-than-average looking man said yesterday while I was loading groceries into my SUV. I'm not kidding. I saw him staring in my peripheral vision, then he seemed to work up his courage, walked straight over and blurted it out with such blatant admiration I couldn't not smile.

Okay, time to fess up.

Let's go back to where I was loading those groceries and I'll finish... So this guy walks up, says, "My God, you're gorgeous!" and I turn around and say, "You mean the dog, not me, right?" At first his face was a sketch of bewilderment, then he turned red and stammered something unintelligible, waving a hand vaguely at Sully, my 165 lb dog, who (as usual) had half his body hanging out the back of the SUV, hoping I'd toss him some food -- any food.

Happens all the time. Dog loving strangers will walk up and say things like, "Well, aren't you beautiful!" or "You're so lovely I just had to come meet you!" and though I know they're talking to Sully and probably haven't noticed me at all, I usually allow myself a few happy seconds to pretend they're talking to me.

Wouldn't you?

Bite-sized bits for writers

This is a lazy post, but all I can manage right now as I'm editing my manuscript and my mind is elsewhere. That said, below is a compilation of quotes for writers. Enjoy!

- Writing can be like studying. You sit there almost comatose, and, while nothing appears to be happening, all hell is breaking loose in your head

- In writing, as in life, people want you to be honest, until you say things they don't want to hear.

- If you're searching for an agent to represent you, may your stride be longer returning from the mailbox than on the way to it.

- As a writer, all the people you meet will expect you to have read everything they've ever read.

- Some writers compete with other writers. Better writers compete with themselves. The best writers compete with the possible.

- You may hide from strong feelings in your everyday life, but not in your writing.

- Remember, there is no rule that says you have to write the beginning first.

Last of all, here's an anonymous tid-bit I found years ago:

My best moment as a writer came when I presented my first book to my mother. She stood at her kitchen table with moist eyes, repeatedly wiping the palms of her hands on her apron before she would touch the book. May you know such a moment.

The task of compartmentalizing

You know those slippery mercury balls inside old-style thermometers? How impossible they are to catch and hold onto? That's how hard I find it to compartmentalize. I'm a good multi-tasker and I'm organized, but for the most part everything else in my life bleeds together, which can be exhausting.

Is it a male thing? (every guy I know seems to be good at it) Or is it personality driven? Either way, I'm bad at it. Example: I hate watching the news, because if there's been a catastrophe somewhere (a shooting, a kidnapped child, a fire) it'll stay in the periphery of my thoughts for days afterward, upsetting me.

I like this explanation: a fellow author (who's published a dozen novels, half of them NYT bestsellers) told me she believes most writers feel things at a different level, that we have the ability to examine all the events around us in a camera-like fashion, record them in our subconscious with startling detail, and can then effectively draw them out (along with the emotions associated with each event) when we're writing.

Sounds plausible, but I think it's also a personality driven trait.
What about you?

Writing can feel like this (parenting, too)

Metaphorically, I've been busy attempting to thread needles, both with my writing and parenting -- neither an easy task.

Often, I'll spend hours working on a scene and no matter what I put on the page I'm not happy with it. When this happens, I'll put it away and move on to a different scene (time and distance can be remarkable tools). However, there are also times when I'll push back my chair and simply ... stop, knowing that I've accomplished what I'd hoped to and that tinkering with it won't make it any better. And of course it's these moments that make all the long hours worthwhile, moments akin to successfully threading a needle. In the dark. With your hands shaking from lack of sleep.

Dramatic metaphor aside (because writing is hard and I feel it's only fair to represent it that way) I did manage to write two needle-and-thread scenes this week that saved me from deleting four others that have been frustrating me.

Similarly, the ups and downs continue on the parenting front... Like my youngest, who volunteered me for a field trip without my knowledge, tracing my signature off a writing contract (a shout-out for attention, don't you think?).

And then there's my 12 yr old who, for the first time (and I'm sure it won't be the last) yelled, "You don't understand me!" signalling the arrival of that slippery slide into a world filled with teen angst and miscommunication. The same kid who hugged me hours later and whispered, "You and me? Buddies for life," the way he used to when he was five and our days were often peppered with needle and thread moments.

Something about a boy

I used to think if I ever had kids I'd have one, a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl. So sure was I of this that when my oldest was born and they handed him to me, my hands started to shake. What was I supposed to do with a boy? We had nothing in common! How would we ever connect?!

Fast forward 12 years: I now have two boys and every day is an adventure, from what they say (Mom, why do girls get mad when I ask how much they weigh?) to what they do (see video).



Gone are their toddler pot-bellies, the silky super-hero capes they used to wear 24/7, the Batman masks I duct-taped to their faces because they kept falling off. Gone, too, are the glow-in-the-dark sunglasses my oldest insisted on wearing to bed for six months, my youngest's inexplicable fear of balloons, not to mention his much-appreciated though short-lived fascination with vacuuming.

Today, they're only angelic when they're asleep, though they won't actually go to sleep until I kiss them good-night.

When they're awake they equally frustrate and test me, arguing with each other and pushing the envelope, not an ounce of angelic in sight. Even so, the older they get the more often I sneak into their rooms late at night to stare at their pinked up cheeks, wondering what else life has in store for them, if they'll be happy, and if they'll ever meet someone who loves them even half as much as I do.

Spring has sprung? Not here it hasn't

Here was the view from my living room window early this morning, one day after spring officially arrived (and yes, the dog was included in the view, because he went outside and gave himself a snow bath minutes before I got up).



Fair enough. It's hard not to love the air-pocket-quiet that comes with snowfalls like this, I agree. I enjoyed it for the better part of an hour, but after a full day of wet boots and socks, not to mention the smell of wet dog, I'm done. Dish me up a broiling hot summer + some A/C and I'd be a happy girl.

P.S. The only person still grinning tonight at dinner was my youngest, but I think that had more to do with his basketball team winning the provincial gold medal championship yesterday than it did the snow!

Dinner for four, table for three

Do your kids take forever to get to the table when dinner's ready? Do you call them 10x before they finally show up? And by the time everyone does arrive (including your hubby, who's probably glued to his Blackberry like mine often is) has your mood taken a nose dive? As a wife/mother/author, I know your pain and I'm happy to offer a solution.

Here's my kitchen table, a little bistro-style that seats three. The dilemna, of course, is that I have a family of four, which means when dinner is announced each night all hell breaks loose.

Since buying this table 3 yrs ago (much to my husband's chagrin) dinner starts immediately after I announce it's ready, because seats are at a premium. If you're the last one to arrive, then you'll be sitting on phone books stacked on the black desk chair hidden away at the back of this picture. And since no one wants the-phone-book-chair my family runs for a spot at the table each night.

It's become a family joke, Mom's crazy table for three, and I have no plans to replace it. I grew up in a big family where dinner was never a quiet affair. There were seven of us and meals were loud, in a good way (voices rose and fell, cancelling each other out, there was lots of laughter and just as much arguing), but we always ate together and I'm determined my family will, too.

P.S. For those who think I'm crazy I do have a dining room with a teak table and seating for eight, which is where we eat when we have guests. I'd be happy to serve our nightly dinner here too, but whenever I suggest it my kids say they'd rather eat at the bistro-table. Go figure, huh?

Frame of mind is everything...

I love this print. Matter of fact, I wish I had a copy hanging in my office, that's how much it speaks to me.

From my standpoint, it looks like this guy's walking into a dense fog. That he can't see what's ahead, but he's moving forward anyhow. Of course, it also looks like he may have popped back some whiskey first, but I still admire him. Probably because, at this moment, it seems he's set his mind to a task and will not be swayed from it. I get the sense he'll be okay even if he falls, don't you? That if he does, he'll find the strength to heave himself back up on that wall and keep going.

I admire his frame of mind. Matter of fact, I've decided to adopt it myself. You see, for more than a month now my husband has been ill and we haven't been able to pin down why. I feel as though I've been going through each day like this guy in the print -- teetering to the left and then swaying to the right before struggling to find some kind of balance for my family. Today, though, I've decided I've had enough with all the doom and gloom. As my husband keeps telling me, I need to change my frame of mind and look at things differently.

By the way, when I asked what he saw when he looked at this print, he said: "Looks like a guy who got pulled over for drinking and now he's walking a sobriety test line, why?"

Not hard to tell who writes fiction in our family, huh?

Sifting through to find those gold nuggets

Imagine that these hands belong to an editor and each grain of sand represents a manuscript. If so, then this editor has a ton of manuscripts to choose from (which they all do, by the way, more so in today's market than ever). However, this editor (like all editors) doesn't want to buy just any manuscript. He/she is looking for a gold nugget... a book that rises above the rest and shines; a unique story, written well.

I'm posting this because a writer friend emailed today, disillusioned because the novel her agent recently took to market has been rejected over and over. (I won't say how many times or by how many houses, just that it's a painful and humbling process).

That said, my friend has written 5 novels and still isn't published (a common problem, I'm afraid). Frustrated, she's decided to put this one aside (as she has with the others) and has started writing another. I'd like to have it finished by June so my agent can hopefully sell before summer. What do you think?

I told her what her agent probably told her -- that every editor/publisher is looking for the same thing: a big story. That story is more important than anything. I told her IMHO she should focus on quality, not quantity. That she needs to slow down and spend 90 days brainstorming a unique story instead of 90 days trying to write another cookie-cutter chic-lit novel that doesn't stand out from the masses. That once she's got that slam-dunk great story, she should then take at least 6 months to a year and write it.... taking... her... time. I'm not sure I got through to her, but she reads my blog so hopefully this will :)

Contrary to what you might think...

it doesn't get any easier. Of course, logic says it should, and because of this you remain optimistic that writing the next book will be a cake walk, that your ideas will flow through your fingers onto the page with such ease and clarity you'll soon be spinning out 2-3 novels per year!

Well, I'm currently writing my fourth novel and this magical shift still hasn't happened. However, I'm happy to report that other authors I know (some who've published ten or more novels) agree with me on this point: the process itself doesn't get any easier, though with each finished novel an author's growth inevitably shines through -- improvement in the writing, confidence on the page, style, structure, tone, etc.

So for those teenagers writing short stories for the competition I sponsored this spring... don't give up, and remember, the best writing is always done in the rewriting.

Learning to celebrate all that I am versus all that I'm not

I finished high school when I was seventeen and although the local phone company was hiring a ton of administrators at the time (you had to type 50 wpm and I could type 60 easy) they hired me as... a long distance operator.

I know! I was as stunned as you are, though later I realized I got the job because 1) no one actually ever applied for it so they were always short staffed, and 2) I mentioned on my resume that I had experience operating a hotel switchboard from a part-time job I'd had in high school.

I learned a ton about myself in that job though (how I hate shift work, that I love listening in on other people's conversations, that I like working in my pajamas.) Don't misunderstand, I really hated the job, I'm just saying it wasn't a total waste, that's all.

Life progressed from there... I said I'd never get married, and then I did. I swore up and down I'd never have kids, but if I were stupid enough to change my mind, I'd have one, a little girl I'd name Sawyer, and I still wouldn't get married.

Today, I'm a perfectionist, my own worst critic, and I often get down on myself about all that I'm not and everything I haven't achieved with my life. Pointless, isn't it? I mean, a bus could flatten me tomorrow and then what would any of it matter? So... I've decided 2009 is going to be the year where I celebrate all that I am vs. all that I'm not (yes, I know it's a little late to be talking new year's resolutions, but humor me -- these days it seems I'm late with everything.)

Okay... I'll never be a size two, nor will I ever have long, flowing auburn hair, and I couldn't sing if my life depended on it. However, I'm a giving person and a loyal friend. I love my kids (two boys I said I'd never have) and my husband (who I've been with for 20 years) and I like to think that long distance operator gig had something to do with me becoming an author, because I did manage to find a job where I can work in my pajamas!

For the good of all mankind (not to mention my children) I really need some sleep!

I'm deep into 3rd draft revisions of this manuscript (my favorite part, cause this is when the book takes on the shape I originally envisioned.) Creatively, good stuff happens at this stage. I'd liken it to catching one perfect wave after another when you're surfing, though I don't surf. You find your groove and you don't want to stop writing for anything.

The periphery areas of my life aren't cooperating with my surf-board analogy, though (why start now, right?) You see, I'm dog-sitting this week, which means I have 3 hairy beasts tearing around the house, weighing a sum total of 400 lbs. (I'm doing my brother a favor so he can take his wife to Vegas for a few days, which is only fair since he repaired my basement-wall-from-hell last month, saving me a whack of money.)

Of course, my husband's away on business on the very days we agreed to dog-sit (does this surprise anyone?) He conveniently left an hour before the dogs arrived and he gets home an hour after they leave. And really? I'm okay with that. I truly am. Here, though, is where it all goes south...

I've also had to juggle basketball practice, picture day, feeding and walking these 3 beasts (my kids can't handle them) plus the usual nightly homework load that requires parental assistance -- self-portrait of a ten-year-old who can't draw worth stink; memorization of the parts of an eyeball; preparatory blueprints on how to effectively launch an elasticized rocket (!!!)

Adding to this, our dog, Sully, won't allow the other two in my bedroom, and the other two bark when left alone, so I've been sleeping downstairs with them, locked away behind a closed bedroom door so they don't kill my cats.

Did I mention they're cat killers?!

Yup. Sweet as they are, one of them nuked my dad's cat with one sharp "let's play" shake of his head. Which means I've also had to keep my cats sequestered from said beasts 24/7 so they make it through the week alive -- not an easy task all by itself.

And so it is that in that wondrous window of time when kids, dogs, and cats are all blessedly silent (usually between 9:00 pm and 1:30 a.m) I've been writing. Last night, it went so well that I didn't go to bed until 2:00 a.m. I was, however, up again at 3:00 to put a dog out (bowel issues) and then again at 5:15. And, of course, both times, before putting said dog out, I spent 2-3 minutes stomping around outside in my pajamas, scaring away the skunk who seems to think my backyard is his.

*sigh* Then this morning, when I delivered toast to my oldest (just the way he likes it) he gave me a long, searching look and said, as if it were the coolest revelation, "Mom, you look older today than you did yesterday!"

A textbook example of why, in the wild, mothers sometimes eat their young, don't you think?