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 :)

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!

Wish I were in Denmark right now

Here's the Danish cover for The Penny Tree, which came out Jan 9/09. I love the cover art, though I've no idea what salgsomslag means! I tried to translate it online but got nowhere. Maybe it was intended it to be a subliminal marketing message that didn't come out right in the print process. You know the kind, right? Like how movie theatres were once accused of flashing buy popcorn / buy popcorn / buy popcorn at lightning speed across the screen during previews, only this was supposed to say buy this book / buy this book! *LOL*

On a final note, I just finished reading two novels I've been meaning to read for years. The first was The Dogs of Babel and the second The Bell Jar, an iconic novel that tackles the serious issue of depression and mental health. Both were beautifully written. Have a great weekend everyone :)

Book talk, Camel Rides and IQ Tests

I spoke with a book club from Tampa tonight who went for drinks before we connected (who doesn't love celebratory readers, hmmm?) and after questions about The Penny Tree dried up here's what they asked:

Q: There's nothing more appealing than...?
A: A gentleman. I can't stand men with bad manners.

Q: Something you've always wanted to do but haven't is...
A: Ride a camel. No idea why, but I've spent years wanting to.

Q: Something my husband doesn't know about me is...
A: ...that for three years I've put the same IQ TEST IN A BOX in his stocking at Christmas and each year he says, "This is great!" then puts it aside and forgets I gave it to him. I'll keep re-gifting it until he says something. I'm aiming for five years straight.

Q: Books you've read recently that you enjoyed/admired...
A: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society
(a NYT bestseller, represented by my agent Liza Dawson)
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga (Winner of the Man Booker)
Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson (A true story)
Mr. Pip by Lloyd Jones (Finalist for the Man Booker Prize)

The little darlings that drive a story forward...

Here's a topic that was a reader favorite during my book club chats in 2008 -- character creation. Do you find it hard to think up characters for your stories? Are they based on people you know? Do you have favorites?

Each character I've created to date (protagonists, secondary characters, even walk-ons) has, for the most part, arrived fully formed. Of course, before they showed up in my creative process I'd spent months (or in the case of the novel I'm writing now, years) thinking about the story before I began writing it, including the kind of characters I felt would best drive the story forward.

Once I know who the characters are and what role they'll each play, I think the best way to describe them is how they behave. I really don't like to go overboard with physical description. I prefer to give them beliefs or behaviors or characteristics that set them apart instead.

Yes, there have been a few rare cases where I've "fashioned" a character after someone I know (ie., Tommy in The Tin Box) but I don't typically do that. As for favorites, I have soft spots for Tommy and Lexie in The Tin Box, Erna in The Penny Tree, Louie in The Silver Compass, and a man named Jack in the novel I'm working on now.

Moments for the archives

I'll do a writing related post later this week, but for now humor me while I get back into a work groove...

In an email to my sister last week (she forwarded it to me) my oldest son had this to say: "BTW I know Santa actually doesn't exist. I figured it out on my own and then clarafide it with Mom that its just my parents. Don't tell my brother though. I think the truth would kill him."

Last night, when I told my youngest it was back to school this morning, this is what he said: "Are you kidding!? Learn, learn, learn! Why can't we just stay home for three months straight with our parents? Maybe so many of em wouldn't dee-vorce then cuz they'd have stronger families."

After taking our kids to see Marley and Me, our youngest said this while sniffing and wiping his eyes: "I don't understand why you and Dad put me through stuff like this."

Whoop! 2009 is finally here

A fresh start. Time to kick away the stool and take some risks. Time to focus on what's ahead vs. the puddles we may have had to jump in 2008. If you're a reader, I hope you're in the middle of a gem of a book you didn't see coming. If you're a writer, I hope the characters you dream up this year make your WIP stand out from the masses. And for everyone else, I hope 2009 is a year you'll never forget, in the best possible way.

Time to embrace a keyboard

Okay, I'm officially tired of shopping, cooking, wrapping gifts, and playing host. Good-bye to the tree, the decorations, and all that calorie-rich food. A good 10 or 12 hour hit on a keyboard is what I need right now. When do you take your tree down? Mine's outside on Boxing Day. My husband says I'm brutal, that I should leave it up until New Year's eve, but I'm all about pre-Christmas festivities. After the big day comes and goes, I'm done.

A new year looms and that means it's time for a new look on my website (check) and a new routine where writing comes first, and everything else follows. Each year, snow and cold weather aside, it's this shift alone that makes me love January!

Another year gone...

Make a Smilebox slideshow

Happy Holidays everyone

Merry Christmas - For more funny videos, click here

Getting physical (in a good way)

My husband began running in 2006. Since then he's completed three marathons and six half-marathons. I think it's great, even more so because my oldest, now twelve, began following his lead last year, running 3 km, 5 km, and recently a 10 km run.

This past Saturday, my youngest, now ten and recently diagnosed with Tourette's Syndrome, ran his first 5 km run, the Santa Shuffle, which raises money for the Salvation Army. I watched with my sister, who was visiting, and our dog Sully. (No, I don't run. At least not yet, though I've been spending time on my treadmill and elliptical machines 5 days/week for the last ten months).

Anyhow... my oldest finished Saturday's 5 km run in 28 mins, running across the finish like a deer, barely breaking a sweat. My youngest (paced by his dad) finished in 41 minutes, blinking and twitching so badly as he crossed the finish line I almost cried. (His Tourette's, which often occurs in bouts where he'll twitch/blink involuntarily, is worse when he's stressed). He was worried he wouldn't be able to do it, so worried he'd had trouble sleeping the night before, and yet when he ran up to me at the end, winded and red-faced, he was clearly riding a euphoric high. You could see it in his eyes.

Later, I watched all kinds of people struggling across that same finish line, some taking 60 mins, others 65 or even more. There were parents pushing kids in strollers, couples running with their dogs, groups of elderly who'd walked. Some were robust and healthy, others overweight and out of shape, but they all finished and for that they deserve a high-five.

Running has exploded over the last decade. I think it's great because you don't need talent to do it, you can run as a family, you compete against yourself, and anyone can do it. Anyone.

Wonton soup & the measure of a man

I know a restaurant that sells amazing Wonton soup and each time I go there I'm reminded of the Seinfeld episode where Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer patiently wait in a long line-up to buy a bowl of soup from the infamous "soup guy" at this hole-in-the-wall restaurant in New York that draws crowds of people from all walks of life.

Same thing at this restaurant. There's always a line-up, never enough tables, and the same broad mix of customers. I love going there, because its not pretentious and it speaks to the soup's ability to cut through the invisible social barriers that so often divide us (like how much we make for a living, or the kind of car we drive, or how big our house is).

That said, last Friday I made an impromptu trek into the city to buy take-out soup, a reward for completing a chapter I'd been working on and (more importantly) finishing the last coat of paint on my basement-wall-from-hell which had been ripped apart ten days earlier to accomodate a plumbing repair.

When I arrived, there was the usual line-up. I took note of three businessmen obsessively checking their blackberries, a teenage girl texting, two construction workers and a man who looked like he was homeless given the Safeway cart he'd just parked outside with all manner of bags tied to it.

One of the blackberry-obsessed businessmen stood out more than the others. His suit screamed money and he kept talking on his phone in a too-loud voice. He also wore a fistful of garrish rings that he kept playing with as he tapped one foot impatiently, and a Rolex watch that clearly wasn't made on a production line focused on less-is-more. But what I noticed most was how often he glanced back at the homeless guy behind him, a look of disgust on his face.

When the businessman finally made it to the front of the line, he placed both hands on the counter and ordered his soup (loudly) then flushed red when he realized he didn't have his wallet with him. (Insert an awkward pause here while he pocket slapped for his missing wallet).

And then the most wonderful thing happened.

The homeless man stepped around him, walked up to the till, and withdrew a handful of small bills. With more class than the businessman would ever have, he then spoke to the teller in a polite, hushed tone, and paid for the man's soup. "Oh, no!" the businessman said, mortified. "You don't have to do that."

"I know," the homeless man replied. "But I want to."

The businessman thanked him and left with his head down, jumping into a Lexus and tearing off like his tires were on fire. Not long after that, it was my turn to order. I was distracted, smiling to myself as I watched the homeless man steer his Safeway cart across the icy parking lot outside, cradling his soup. I handed the teller my money, but she waved it away and nodded at him through the window. "He paid for yours, too."

"Mine?!" I said. "Why?"

The woman shrugged. "He said he wanted to pay for the homeless lady's soup behind him."

My eyes about popped out of my head. Homeless lady?! It wasn't until then that I glanced down and realized how I looked: hair sticking up everywhere, minimal make-up, a too-large but incredibly warm winter jacket, paint-splattered pants and a beat up pair of comfy clogs. In some ways I guess you could say the only thing I was missing was the Safeway cart!

Dr. Phil's demographic includes kids?

Every Monday night I take my ten-year-old to basketball practice and I watch drill after drill, bored out of my mind. Last week, a boy plunked down next to me on the bench and leaned his head back against the wall. He wasn't feeling good. I don't know this kid (my son only recently joined this team) so I wouldn't think he'd want to talk to me, let alone initiate a conversation, but he did, and it not only caught me off guard, it made me realize how much kids are exposed to today.

After a few minutes, he said, "You ever watch Dr. Phil?"

"Dr. Phil?"

"Yeah. He's on at four every day."

"No," I said. "I don't usually have TV on at four."

"You should," he insisted, leaning forward. "The guy's amazing!"

I must've given him a skeptical look because he carried on, as enthusiastic as a minister preaching to his congregation. "He, like, talks to people who are all messed up but don't know how badly they're messed up and then he gives them advice and tells them how to fix their marriages or get their families talking to them again or how to stop gambling and get a job so they can get their kids back. Things like that."

"Do you watch it a lot?" I asked.

"Every day," he confirmed.

"You must really like it."

"I do," he said, nodding. "It makes me feel better watching people with a lot of problems in their life, you know? Cause then I see I'm not the only one."

I thought about that all the way home. How watching Dr. Phil seemed to make him feel better about himself, and yet how sad it was that a ten-year-old would habitually make Dr. Phil part of every afternoon vs. climbing a tree or building a fort or laughing along with a more age-appropriate show like Sponge Bob.

A must-have for serious writers

When asked for writing advice, bum glue is the first thing I suggest. I've been there. I get it. I know how easy it is to get distracted, how hard to stay focused, how quickly second-guessing yourself can morph into giving up entirely on what might have been a perfectly good book.

For some, this seems to happen around page fifty (I know a few writers with 4-5 projects on the go, each with approx 50 pages written) while others make it mid-way through the creation of their first draft (around 150-200 pages) before they feel that dreaded.... phfffft!

Like that, gone goes your enthusiasm, your confidence, your creative spark. Recognize this up-down rollercoaster ride? Been there too? If you've ever tried to write a novel, I'm sure you have. It's nothing new. You're not the only one afflicted with this problem and that alone is good news.

Keep in mind, the work, your best work, gets done in the rewriting. Always. Structural issues, character development, dialogue that sings, setting, pacing, dramatic tension, creation of sub-plots that strengthen the main plot -- none of these gets nailed in a first draft.

If I've learned anything over the years it's that I never share the first draft with anyone. Or the second. Matter of fact, these days no one reads it but my agent (who won't see it until it's a strong 3rd draft) and possibly 1 or 2 readers I've cultivated relationships with who can see the big picture and offer advice the way an editor might.

So sit down. Write. And do not move from your chair unless your house is burning down. Even if you write garbage for two hours, that's okay. You can always rewrite it, but at least you're moving your project forward. Here's the other side of the coin: if you allow distraction or procrastination or your penchant for obsessing over that unattainable concept of perfection stop you from writing, you may never get published at all. And wouldn't that be a bummer?!

Bum glue. Don't have any? Get some!

I'm not heartless, just busy

I love this picture. In many ways it reminds me of my life in the form of a dike with a huge, craggy hole in the middle that I'm constantly stuffing with just-completed and half-completed and must-get-done activities so the dike won't burst if left on its own, creating utter chaos.

Here's my point: I'm having the worst time juggling and prioritizing and making everyone happy these days, especially with my husband away and traveling so much.

That said, last week I received a manuscript in my mailbox, which isn't unusual on its own. I often get unsolicited manuscripts, as other authors do. However, this one belonged to someone I've met a few times, but only vaguely know.

Attached was a card and a gift certificate for dinner. The note said, "This may be presumptive but would you mind reading my novel and giving some feedback? Any at all would be great. No hurry, no pressure. ie., if it were to take you a month, I'd understand. P.S. Either way, enjoy the dinner."

I flipped through the 512 page manuscript and took a long, slow breath. He's being naive, I thought. Naive and sadly misinformed about how little disposable time I have.

Careful not to hurt his feelings, I took the time to respond with a letter. In it, I politely explained that I really would like to help, but I don't have time to read his novel, not this month or next or even into the new year. I explained that I'm a month behind on my own novel. Then I gave him some general advice and a handful of pointers (2 paqes worth), suggested some books that might help him move his novel to a higher level, and attached a sample query letter for when it came time to look for an agent. I also returned the gift certificate.

Yesterday I ran into this guy at the dry cleaners. He was with his wife and after I smiled and said hello, he hurled this comment over his shoulder as they exited: "That's the author I told you about. The one who's too good to help anyone else out now that she's published!"

Words fail me, you know? They honestly do.

God bless the plumber...

When I saw this sign, I cringed, thinking about all the nightmare jobs plumbers deal with. Maybe it was an omen. I have, after all, had my fair share of tradespeople coming and going these days -- the treadmill repair guy, the furnace man, an electrician who put in an extra panel for me.

Fast forward a week and here I am, with a plumber ripping apart a wall upstairs, looking for a leak that's making its way from the main floor down into our basement.

I feel sorry for tradespeople who work with the public. Honestly, I do. A painter we recently hired told me one woman wouldn't let him use her bathroom, even though she lived 10 mins from the nearest town and he worked at her house for three days straight. "Happens all the time," he said. Last week, the electrician said one guy wouldn't let him use his phone, even though there was no cell service in the area.

I don't understood people who hire someone and then treat them like garbage. What's the logic? Ego? The need to feel powerful and in control? It's demotivating and completely unnecessary, and if I worked for someone who treated me like that, I'm quite sure my mouth would get me fired faster than the job would get done.

Okay, there's my rant for the day. I'm off to offer my plumber a cup of coffee and get back to work on chapter twenty two. Have a good one!

P.S. We had 318 kids show up for Halloween, by the way.

Bracing for Halloween at our house

Confession: I've never liked Halloween, even when I was a kid. I hated dressing up in costumes (still do) and candy and sweets just aren't my thing. However, when I had kids, I got into the spirit of it for their sake.

I remember when they used to dress up like gorillas or magicians or skeletons. They'd carry plastic pumpkin pails and their heads would swivel with admiration when they saw all the other faux-fir or glow-in-the-dark sequined outfits kids were wearing. Not so anymore. Now they're 10 and 12, and they're hanging a fake dead body from the basketball hoop, setting up fog machines & strobe lights, and trying to decide how many movement activated spiders dropping from the roofline are too many.

Since moving here four years ago, without fail, we've had 250+ kids come streaming up the driveway between 7 and 9 pm every October 31st. The first year it happened, I was dumbstruck. The second, my 84 year old father-in-law was visiting and couldn't stop shaking his head. Last year I stayed bent over at the front door for a solid 30 minute stretch without straightening, shoveling candy into outstretched bags.

Hmmm... Maybe next year a family vacation away at the end of October might be in order! Think they'd go for it?!

Kudos for an article worth reading

Patricia Wood, author of Lottery, sent me a link to this article from Poets & Writers magazine (a favorite of mine; check it out if you haven't already) Thanks, Pat! If you're in the business, and plan to stay, I'd recommend reading it.

I've never met Chuck Adams, but I'd like to. I like what he says, how he says it, and the way he leaks common sense all over the page in this Q&A. For those who don't know, Chuck was the editor who acquired Sara Gruen's now infamous Water for Elephants. I've pasted three excerpts below:

Q. What are you looking for in a piece of writing?
A. The first thing is the voice. If it's got a strong voice, I'm going to keep reading. And if a story sneaks in there, I'm going to keep reading. To me, those are the two most important things. I want a voice and I want to be hooked into a story. I believe very strongly that books are not about writers, and they're definitely not about editors—they're about readers. You've got to grab the reader right away with your voice and with the story you're telling. You can't just write down words that sound pretty. It's all about the reader. You've got to bring the reader into it right away. If the writing is poetic and so forth, that's nice. I'm reading something right now that has an amazing voice, and I'm only fifty-six pages into it, but I'm already getting a little tired because it's so nice, if you know what I mean. It's so pretty. It's like every page is a bon bon, and I want a little break somewhere. It's become self-conscious, in a way.

Q. How long does it take you to know?
A. You can usually tell after a paragraph—a page, certainly—whether or not you're going to get hooked. Every now and then, something will surprise you. I remember one novel at Simon & Schuster that I was reading, more as a favor than anything else. The writing wasn't great, and the story was a little on the predictable side—it was okay, but a little boring—but then I got to the end and it surprised the hell out of me. I went back and thought, "F**k, this is really something. I would have given up after fifty pages if I hadn't promised somebody that I would read it." I ended up buying it and it did really well.

Q. This is the magazine's MFA issue. Do you have anything to say about them?
A. Obviously a lot of good writers have come out of MFA programs—you see it in their bios—so I know there's a lot of good work being done. I will confess that many of the MFA novels I see are better written than they are good books, if you know what I mean. There's a lot of good writing, but that doesn't necessarily add up to a good book. I feel like perhaps in those programs too much emphasis is being put on style and word choices rather than actually thinking about how to communicate with people. It's too much about—to make it sound terrible—but it's too much about showing off and not enough about trying to please a reader.

Again, I go back to the whole thing about storytelling. I'm old enough to have started reading back when it really was primarily about stories. I guess there were a lot of quality literary books being published then, but my mother didn't buy them. I read what was around the house: Edna Ferber and Daphne du Maurier and Mary Renault and Thomas B. Costain. These are writers you don't hear anything about anymore, but they were brilliant storytellers. They were also good writers, mind you, but they were brilliant storytellers. They would grab the reader right away and just not let go.

Today, I'm seeing better writing than the writing in those books, but I'm not seeing better storytelling. That was why Water for Elephants excited me. Sara is a really good writer. She's not a great stylist or anything—you're not going to sit down and read her sentences just for the beauty of them—but she tells such a great story.

I'm not who they think I am

Each afternoon at 3:30 when my boys get off the bus, I meet them at the door, give them a hug, and then head back into to my office to write. I’m usually wearing a sweatshirt, carrying a chapter I just printed out, but clearly they see someone else -- possibly someone wearing an apron, carrying a tray of still-warm tarts. I know this because not long ago my youngest said, “Mom? Why don't you bake anymore?”

I hesitated. It wasn’t that I couldn’t remember when I’d stopped baking. I couldn't recall ever starting!

I admire people who bake, but it's not my thing. I tried years ago and got the same results over and over again. My cakes either sank into oblivion, came out like extra large hockey pucks or bubbled like volcanos and made my eyes burn when I opened the oven (it took three failed attempts at that recipe before I realized it called for 1 TBSP of vinegar, not 1 CUP). Eventually I admitted defeat and gave away every cake pan, pie plate, and rolling pin I owned, happy to spend my time writing instead.

But back to now... and my boys, who were standing at my desk waiting for an answer. Why don’t you bake anymore?

I didn't have the heart to point out that I never had, so instead I decided to morph into whoever they imagined me to be, and when I promised I’d bake a cake this week their faces lit up like I'd just parted the red sea. Then after they'd disappeared upstairs, I scribbled CAKE MIX on my grocery list -- the easy kind, where you drop in an egg, a cup of water, bake 30 mins and serve (apron optional).

Now I just need to borrow a pan!

There's nothing like a good pair of stilts

I had a pair of homemade wooden stilts as a kid, the feet rests worn smooth from use. When I first got them, I fell a lot. Let's face it, walking on stilts is an acquired skill. You're up, down, then up again. You loose your balance, take an unexpected tumble, get bruised, and climb back on.

I took them camping, where I practiced walking over the campfire. I dragged them down to the creek, where I picked my way across from one side to the other while neighbor kids bet on how often I'd wipe out. I even recall walking to the corner store with them to buy ice cream.

My sister thought I was crazy, especially when I came home cut or bruised. She'd roll her eyes and say, "What's the point?"

I had trouble explaining their appeal, my need to strap them on every morning and go for a stroll. Today I understand what made them so compelling, though. Beyond the joy of mastering something bigger than myself, it was the infinite feeling of possibility they gave me.

This past weekend, my kids were given a pair of old drywall stilts and they were a hit. Every kid at Grandma's thanksgiving dinner wanted to try them, and every kid who did wiped out big-time. We broke out the band-aids, the Ozonol, the ice packs, but nothing would stop them. (I myself didn't strap them on -- I may be nostalgic here, folks, but I'm not stupid). At one point, I looked up at my youngest, took his hand, and said, "How's the air up there, buddy?"

"Real good!" he replied. "Mom, they make me feel like I can do anything!" And I smiled, because the writer in me understood exactly where he was coming from.