Quick Wake-Up Call

My husband (who is, for the record, a good driver) drove our son to school earlier this week for a seven a.m. badminton practice. My kid was half asleep when hubby had a rare brain fade and almost missed the turn for the school. He braked at the last second, took the turn, and the car hit gravel and skidded sideways, almost putting them in the ditch. My son got out at school and said, "Thanks for the ride, Dad. Felt like I was in some kinda video game, but it's always nice spending time with you." 

Happy Friday - Drive safe!

For readers everywhere...

I love this quote. As a kid, it was moments like these that made me want to write, moments where I had to put a book down for a few seconds to regroup because what I was reading had touched something deep within me. I wish you all multiple moments like these.

Starting 2012 with a cheesy moment

I was in Barbados with my family earlier this month and we came across this gorgeous (and somewhat aloof) peacock at a nature reserve. Like a group of other tourists who were there, I wanted him to perform and give us a show, but he wasn't interested. He appeared bored and uninterested as many of these camera wielding people (not me) jumped up and down, waved their arms and made a variety of increasingly odd mouth noises. Minutes ticked by and... nothing happened.
Finally, everyone gave up and walked away (if you look, you can see them in the background of this pic). But I stayed. Me, who hasn't an ounce of patience in her (anyone who knows me will confirm this).

Feeling a little stupid, I leaned over the rail and whispered, "I get it. I understand, you're intensely private. Fair enough. So am I." And then (I'm not kidding here) he promptly hopped off his perch and flashed me his feathers, turning this way and that while I took a bunch of pictures. Best. Cheesy. Moment. Ever.

Happy 2012 everyone!

Happy holidays everyone

I know this isn't a Christmas tree or a seasonal wreath, but I love this picture. To me, it's the perfect representation of a year coming to a close, twelve months filled with quiet moments, personal triumphs and tragedies, chaos, lots of juggling and the constant need for prioritising. You plan to go left, but life pushes you right. You *think* you have it all under control and then suddenly you don't. And as you move through the days and weeks and months, each year takes shape into something uniquely different than what you originally imagined... I hope you had a good year and I wish you the best this holiday season.

An author's sanity depends on outside support and understanding

I feel sorry for my husband. There are days when he comes home from work (or a long trip away) and I'll say, "Can I talk to you about something? And, to his credit, even when he winces ever-so-slightly and I pretend not to notice (possibly because he knows what's coming?) he always says, "Sure."

And then I'm off, describing a scene in detail and asking his opinion on what he thinks motivated my fictional characters based on what they did or didn't do in said scene. For the most part, he gives me good answers, but there are other days when he takes in a deep breath, blows it out, and says, "What book are we talking about here again?"

Still, he humors me and I know that can't always be easy.

Favorite summer chuckle

Here's one of my favorite laugh out loud moments from the summer of 2011... As we were leaving a family reunion, I hugged my niece good-bye and wished her good luck with her upcoming MCAT exams. My youngest son, standing behind me, heard this. Hours later, he was being unusually quiet so I asked what was wrong and he said, in a sad voice, that he was disappointed in her. "I just don't understand why she wants implants."

Juggling priorities

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 shopping until they drop. I know it won't be like this forever, but these days I have more stops and starts than I care to count. Here's a sample of this week's juggling act:

Front door slams and I hear someone howling in the distance. My oldest runs down to my desk, attempting to look casual. "Uh, Mom? How do you know if someone broke their arm or if it's just, like, sprained?"

My youngest phoning from school to say, "I found my field trip form in my locker but it's due today so if you don't come to the school and sign it the teacher says I can't go."

And let's not forget these:

"That wasn't a gunshot, it was Dad, backing over my basketball."
"Mom? Will grape juice leave a permanent stain if it's spilled on a rug?"
"There's a lady at the door who wants money for blind people."
"Can you help me study for my exams?"

Then, late last night when I was working on chapter 16, having success with a dialogue piece I'd previously had trouble with, my youngest came downstairs and curled up in the armchair across from my desk. He was having trouble sleeping, a by-product of Tourette Syndrome. "Mom, have you got a minute?" he asked.

We talked for an hour - about things he's been worried about, about dreams he's never shared with me before - and when he finally went to bed, I turned off my computer and called it a night, thinking, You will never pass this way again. The rest can wait.

Priceless keepsakes

My youngest, who is now twelve, went through a stage when he was seven or eight where he'd often leave notes on my pillow at night. I would tuck him in for the night and head downstairs to my office to write. Then, hours later when I finally climbed into bed, I'd find one tucked under my pillow, often with a stuffed animal perched on top. Today, they still flatten me.

How to LOVE a good book

When I read, I'm constantly analyzing and trying to learn from my betters. Armed with a pen, a highlighter and post-it notes, pages are unceremoniously folded and comments are often scribbled in the margins (about the story's arc, the narrative drive, character development). I slap post-it notes on pages I admire, noting a great piece of dialogue, a scene that moved me, a well-crafted subplot, the author's ability to set a certain tone or foreshadow, etc.

When I'm done, the pages are often dirty and the book looks like it's been through a bad storm. Some people would cringe if they saw my collection of books, but to me they looked 'loved to death' which is a compliment to the authors who wrote them, wouldn't you agree?

Break out the Kleenex...

Have you seen this article and watched this video? Take a few minutes and check it out. You’ll be humbled by what this father/son duo have managed to accomplish with their lives. If there wasn't a book already published about them, I'd be knocking on their door asking for the opportunity to write it.

Truly amazing...and a great way to adjust a person's priorities for the new year ahead.

A writing update for readers

My apologies for not blogging on a more regular basis. I'm in the midst of manuscript revisions with my current novel, changes and adjustments to make the book stronger -- all of them good, but time consuming when juggling two active kids and my hubby's travel schedule.

It's going to be a busy fall in other ways as well. I'll be speaking at the Waupaca Book Festival in Wisconsin Oct 1 and 2. (If you live in the area, stop by. I'd love to meet you!) Following that, I'll be heading to New York in November to watch my husband run the marathon and meet with my agent. Hopefully between now and the end of the year I'll also manage to throw up a few interesting blog posts -- please check back!

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?

Writing, fishing and the joy of anticipation

This isn't me, but see how she's sitting, balanced on the front of that boat? That's how I love to fish - relaxed, focused and close enough to the water to watch the action when a fish goes after my hook.

I love fishing. Trolling for perch, casting for northern pike, ice fishing in the winter. Growing up, I'd beg my dad to take me with him, and then he and his friends would draw straws because nobody wanted me in their boat.

I didn't have an expensive rod (mine had duct tape on it), my reel squeaked, and my fishhooks were speckled with rust, but it wasn't my gear that was the problem -- it was me. I'd get a bite, my heart would slam around my ribs, and I'd start to hyperventilate. I'd stand up, then sit down, then abruptly stand up again, making the boat wobble all over until whoever I was with yelled at me. (Even the most patient person would). Aside from the hyperventilating, I had no finesse (imagine a fish whipping through the air as I yanked it from the water, equally horrified to be smacking someone across the face as the person getting smacked).

Still, I took it as a compliment when my dad's friends said having me with them was an 'event' and nothing ever diminished the joy I got from the experience itself. I was tenacious and determined and unable to turn away from the 'who-knows-what-might-happen' feeling that came over me each time I climbed into a boat.

I get the same feeling each time I sit down to write a novel. I love letting a story that's been percolating for years come alive and spread itself out across the page. Then comes the fine-tuning which brings everything in line and makes it less a 'diamond in the rough' and more 'the novel that was meant to be.' It's not easy, but I have the best job in the world.

From upstanding citizen to delinquent parent

I might not be the best mother on earth (that I don't bake instantly comes to mind, as does my refusal to iron or sew) but I'm also certainly not the worst.

No matter how late it is, when my boys come home from school dances they kick their dad out of the room and take turns giving me whispered rundowns about their night, whether I want to hear it or not. If there's a problem or a secret, I usually know about it long before my husband does, and if one of them is sick I'm the parent they call. I don't mean to disparage my husband here. It's just that he's known as the 'fun guy' who takes them skating and swimming and snowboarding, whereas I'm more the 'workhorse parent' who gets the leftovers.

All that said, last Friday was not a stellar day for me.

My son, who's twelve, was sick with a cold/flu. It was Friday and we needed groceries but he didn't want to go with me only to get dragged from store to store because I won't leave him in a vehicle alone. So a compromise was reached. I would give him some Nyquil and he'd stay home in bed and watch TV. I'd have my cell phone on and he'd call if there was any kind of problem/emergency. I also alerted my neighbor, who lives 30 feet away and was at home, sick with her own kids.

Fast forward 30 minutes.

I'm in the dairy aisle when my cell phone rings, and when I answer my youngest is overly cheery in that way kids get when something has gone very very wrong. It doesn't last, though, because as soon as I say, "What happened?" he spews out the truth, and the false cheer and bravado disappear.

He fell asleep and when he woke up (slightly groggy) he tried to phone my cell, but instead of dialing 8+1+ the remaining numbers he dialed 9+1 and then hung up.

*Insert fun fact here* Did you know if you dial 9+1 and then hang up the aborted call is immediately routed to 911?

Back to my story... After hanging up, a 911 operator phones my child back and asks him a series of questions, including his name, age and where his mother is? While she does this my child is sniffling and coughing (from his cold) so the girl puts her supervisor on the phone who asks my son if he's being held against his will. (Which, by the way, I think is wonderful because that's exactly how these kind of calls need to be handled). My son assures the man that he's fine, hangs up, and then phones me.

Fast forward 20 minutes.

I park in the driveway and go inside to check on my son, who is hunkered down in bed with a snack and our 180 lb Newfoundland dog. As we're talking, the doorbell rings and (yes, you guessed it) the police have now arrived. Our dog gets to the door before I do and the officer is visibly taken aback by his size. He asks a few questions (keeping his eye on the dog, who is now circling him with an Eeyore doll in his mouth) then asks to speak to my son.

I call my son downstairs and when he finally arrives (taking his sweet time because he's somewhat overwhelmed/intimidated by the whole there's-a-police-officer-in-our-house concept) the officer asks him what happened earlier.

My son explains, then apologizes and says, "I think I probably got confused because I've been drinking too much Nyquil."

"You've been drinking Nyquil?" the officer says.

"No, he hasn't!" I say, and the officer tells me he'd like to talk directly to my son, not me.

Once the Nyquil problem is cleared up (my son confirms it was me who gave him the Nyquil and that it was the correct dose) the officer asks my son if he lives here alone with me.

My son coughs and says, "No, my brother live with us too. Oh, and my dad (insert sniffle here) but he's never here."

"That's not true," I say, embarassed. "It's just that he travels a lot!"

Once again, the officer politely reminds me that he wants to speak to my son, not me, and by then I'm ready to chug a little Nyquil myself.

Minutes later, after he runs out of questions, the officer finally leaves. I shut the door behind him and the phone rings. It's my husband, calling from some airport where he's had an hour-long wait at security, and he says, "You are not going to believe my day."

And I'm thinking...Try me.

The tug of a perfect love affair

Like many of you, we've had company over the last week. Lots of food and conversation, stories and catching up. Christmas morning, I felt a pinch inside watching my boys unwrap gifts that reflect how much they've grown, how fast they've gone from believing in Santa and unwrapping Batman action figures to getting a weight bench or a laptop as their one big gift. It's been great, yet through all of the noise and activity (skating, walks to the river, some of them running 7 km into town and the rest of us meeting them at a coffee shop) a restlessness began to take hold. My mind started to wander and I'd catch myself drifting away from what everyone else was saying.

Yesterday, my husband whispered, "You want to go work on your book, don't you?"

"Is it that obvious?" I asked, and he smiled and said, "To me it is."

Today, a group went snowboarding and won't be home until tomorrow. The rest left to visit relatives and won't return until Thursday. Which leaves me alone, at my desk, writing. And as I do, I realize now more than ever that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, doing exactly what I was meant to do -- which is what I wish for each of you in the year ahead, the perfect love affair between what you most desire and what you were meant to do.

Happy New Year readers, writers and bloggers!

The toughest thing I've done this year? Learning to trust my instincts

Which is great in theory, but difficult in practice.

Once you're published there's lots of white noise going on in the background that's almost impossible to ignore. Everyone has an opinion and you feel pressure (right or wrong) from all angles -- readers, your agent, your publisher, bloggers, fellow authors, book reviewers. Do their opinions matter? Of course. But at some point you realize you can't allow them to hijack your writing either, because then you risk killing your inner voice which could lead to pumping out one vanilla-like novel after another, and who wants that?

I like the 'Go Big or Go Home' mantra, and as I write these days that's what's been going through my mind. Right or not, I've been trusting my instincts more with this novel than I did with the other three. Will doing so make it a stronger book? Only time will tell, but I can tell you that the journey has been far more enjoyable and empowering, so it's all good.

Other tidbits of interest:

Two weeks ago, my thirteen-year-old asked if he could read my novel, The Tin Box. (He's become a reading machine and had temporarily run out of books). Right now, he's halfway done and yesterday he searched me out to tell me he cannot believe I wrote it, one of the most backwards compliments a mom can get. I think.

My eleven-year-old is going to be a pen pal to a girl in Britain. He brought home a permission form and explained that all of the girls in his class had signed up to be her pen pal but no boys, which he thought was sexist, so he decided to write her so she doesn't think Canadian boys are jerks.

Construction work on my street has screeched to a halt for winter (insert heavenward high-five) which means I no longer have a porta-potty in my yard, the phone/internet line won't keep getting cut off for days at a time and we won't get evacuated like we did last month because they've hit another gas line (who hires these people?!)

Last of all, happy holiday season everyone, and thanks for all your kind emails in 2009, readers! Your comments and encouragement mean more to me than you can imagine.

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

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!

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!"

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.

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 :)