Picture This

So the lovely and talented Trish, EMLA's social media goddess, suggested we take a closer look at our blogs and determine what we can uniquely offer to the blogging world.

Two things I'm passionate about at the moment are writing and photography, especially if there's an eerie twist. (Hence my March 1 post on the amazing Ruins of Detroit photographers.) But how to combine the two? I started thinking about those exercises in high school English, the ones where they throw out a sentence to kick-start the creative process.

In place of inspirational sentences, I figured I could post photos to get the muse off her comfy couch and back to hovering helpfully over my shoulder where she belongs. Now I'm the first to admit that I'm VERY MUCH an amateur photographer, but this new plan helps me pursue three worthy goals: blog on a more regular basis (at least twice a week), take more pictures, and use those pictures to get unstuck when I hit a wall in the writing process. If this benefits anyone out there in ANY way at all, so much the better!

And what better day to start than today? I chose fall leaves on a weathered path, because based on today's forecast I'd swear we skipped spring and summer and jumped right back into fall.

Mirror, Mirror

This weekend I had the privilege of attending my first EMLA client retreat. Leading up to the flight on Friday morning I kept waiting to feel excited but couldn't move past jittery panic. Those head voices kept taunting, "This was a terrible idea. You don't belong there. You're a groupie and a hack. A HACK, I say!"

Of course every person I encountered was warm, accepting, funny, shining with intelligence and good grace and advice and creative energy. Still, it took me a while to quit acting like a groupie. At one point I got up the nerve to talk to one very gracious, articulate writer and the only thing I could think of to say was, "I really like your shoes."

Why is it so easy to be accepting of others and so hard to accept ourselves? Why are we so MEAN to ourselves?

The hotel bathroom had one of those free-standing mirrors that magnify your face by like 20 times. (And remind me later to punch whoever came up with that oh-so-flattering piece of ingenuity.) It finally dawned on me, glancing in that mirror and being horrified even though I knew it was a distorted reality, that I magnify my nonphysical shortcomings the same way, complete with bad lighting and a handy Big Book of Insults.

You know what? Nobody at the retreat was mean. Not one soul. They opened their arms wide and welcomed me, and something amazing happened. My little bubble of isolation and head voices couldn't withstand the awesomeness. I learned so much. I smiled and talked SO MUCH. I listened to people read from their work and yes, a little envy crept in but mostly I felt inspired and lifted, able to recognize room for growth in my own work and be excited about it without the customary negativity and self-doubt.

It was joy. I miss it already. After inheriting dozens of writerly siblings, you can’t help but come home and attack your work in progress with new vigor and clarity and…dare I say it? Confidence.

Mood Music

To any writers out there, do you listen to music when you write? Does music distract you, or does it get those brain waves hopping? And what if brain waves really did hop around like fuzzy little bunnies? Inquiring minds want to know!

I find that listening to music helps me settle into a more productive groove when I write--especially if I choose music to suit the fictional setting. The book I'm working on right now takes place in a small midwestern town amidst a family of junk collectors. My playlist for this book so far includes the group Mumford & Sons and the soundtrack from O Brother, Where Art Thou?. Yes, I'm channeling a group from London and a movie from the deep south, but somehow it works. Here's hoping the playlist--and the word count--will keep on growing!

Agented!

I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since my first hard-hitting journalism assignment on snails for the Balboa Elementary School newsletter. After cultivating a love for kidlit in college, I finally found my groove and finished my first novel about ten years ago.

Five more years went by before I got serious about submitting, but I was a hopeless newbie. I made a lot of mistakes, and seriously underestimated the amount of time it takes to hear back from anyone in publishing. I submitted to a handful of publishers before discovering the treasure trove of information and support that is Verla Kay’s message board. I switched my focus to agents. I cleaned up my manuscript and received a few requests, but it soon became clear that I was missing the mark.

So while continuing to query I did what good writers should: wrote another book. Unfortunately it was a sequel to the first one--another rookie mistake (can’t sell the sequel if you don’t sell the original!). Plus we lived overseas at the time, creating a disconnect in my own head that I couldn’t seem to overcome. All in all I sent about 50 queries on that first book before moving on.

We navigated our way through a foreign adoption, then moved back across the ocean in ’08. I wrote and polished book #3 and started querying again in Jan. 2010. There were more requests and better feedback this time, but after about 20 queries still nothing concrete. I branched out, rewrote the query, explored writing blogs, and eventually stumbled on an offer by blogger (now agent) Weronika Janczuk to critique a query + 10 pages for anyone who submitted. Her generosity eventually landed me an agent.

Weronika provided great feedback and posted my query in April. The next month I received a request to read the full from Ammi-Joan Paquette of the Erin Murphy Literary Agency. (!!!!!!!!) She later called to suggest revisions and invited me to resubmit. I quit querying and got to work.

It took a second call and another round of revisions before the book was where it needed to be, but on 1/11/11, I got THE CALL from Joan. She is wonderful. Life is good. Here’s what I learned:

Total time from request to offer: 8 months
Conclusions:
a) Don’t give up.
b) Work hard to improve your craft.
c) Find writer friends. They understand! Help each other. Lift others up when they're down, and they will do the same for you.
d) Dig deep for patience and be productive while you wait.

Husbands with infinite patience of their own also help quite a bit. Thanks, honey!

We Interrupt This Ridiculously Long Lapse in Posting...

to share a link to the super cool blog of a super cool writer, Elissa Cruz:

http://elissacruz.blogspot.com/

I've gotten to know Elissa through Verla Kay's message board (see link to the right), a shining oasis for children's writers in all stages of their writing journeys. Elissa is funny, smart, and a force for good in promoting middle-grade books and their authors.

Happy blogiversary, Elissa!

Revisionland

Arrgggghh. I sound like a pirate, but I'm merely venting frustration at the slow pace of my current manuscript revisions. How they taunt me!

Three more chapters 'til I can wash my hands of it, hopefully with my sanity intact--and without anyone nominating me for the Messiest House in America.

Hearing Voices

The amazing Nathan Bransford blogged recently about infusing your writing with a memorable voice. I've been waffling back and forth between first and third person on my current project, trying to decide which is stronger; which one creates a more believable connection with the main character.

First person seems best in this case, but here's where I'm struggling: I find myself second guessing every single descriptive passage.

Me: "Ooh, that's a good phrase, that's a keeper."
*gives self imaginary, premature pat on the back*
Me: "Wait. Is it something a twelve-year-old boy would think or say?"
*says line out loud*
*cringes*
Me: "Crap."
*deletes*

My two previous manuscripts were much easier in this regard (first-person teenage girl, third-person tween boy). Can a grown woman convincingly capture a preteen boy's point-of-view? Sure, J.K. Rowling did it, but she's J.K. Rowling. And she used third person.

This should be an interesting experiment. It will probably require large quantities of chocolate.

Bits and Pieces

Yay! I made it past the first page of my WIP. \0/

My newest difficulty is nodding off while writing. That's right: I'm boring myself into midday slumber. (It may also have something to do with staying up until 2 am several nights this week.)

Mother's Day was a hit, though DH had to catch a flight to NY in the afternoon. He bought me a skillet and sat there watching me squirm, trying to act excited, until he pulled out a pair of diamond earrings--easily the nicest jewelry I've ever owned, next to my wedding ring. What an amazing guy.

I also had to share this last tidbit about our cornball Middle Child. We were sitting at First-Born's game Saturday in the freezing cold weather (they won!). MC wanted to go sit in the car. I suggested he watch the game to get some pointers, since his first game is two weeks away. He rolled his eyes, flung out his hands and said in all seriousness: "But I'm already fantastic!"

Hee. It's true the kid can hit. His other skills...need work.

Zero help required in the confidence department.

First Drafts: the Good, the Bad, and the Horrific

I'm very excited to be working on a new middle-grade novel. That thrill of possibility is like a permanent sugar rush. These past few weeks I've been trying to get to know my characters, discarding ideas that don't feel quite right, fleshing out plot and setting.

The trouble is, I've started this thing several times and each time I end up throwing out most of what I write. I have a passable first page. Good. Fine. Great. But whenever I open the document intending to pound out a thousand words, I get stuck on that first page, tweaking, trying to make every word perfect. Gah. Words that seemed spot-on one day sit there on the page and mock me the next day. MY BOOK IS LAUGHING AT ME.

There's definitely a learning curve. At least the main character has found his voice and is not afraid to speak up. And apparently he has a lively sense of humor.

Back In Business, Baby!

We can't park in the garage because it's full of empty boxes! Wahoo!

There are still plenty of unpacked boxes in the basement, but since we never go down there I can pretend that we're completely moved in.

Suffering from frequent periods of restlessness? Spending way too much time online for no good reason? You too may be suffering from acute procrastination. I can no longer ignore the signs that I'm using the move as an excuse to avoid real life. Time to get back to writing/blogging/being a useful member of society.

Winds of Change

I've been thinking about the concept of blog-as-venue-for-venting-and-random-observations vs. blog-as-potential-platform-for-future-novel. I'd like to make a shift toward more literary-minded posts, but there are so many amazing blogs out there already (with followers, no less!) that address everything from book reviews to finding an agent to marketing your work.

I suppose it's about finding and cultivating your blog Voice, which isn't so different from the writing process itself. I'll give it a whirl and see where it leads.

Ah, Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

It's hilarious to see what I wrote a few weeks ago, something about everything changing and promising job opportunities and resolution to this endless waiting. Plus actually being excited about the query process when I had forgotten how brutal and agonizing and soul-crushing it is, and how it actually involves MORE WAITING.

We (Bryce) didn't get the job in Seattle. I had such high hopes. His company is still dragging its feet on the Naperville move/housing situation. And only one showing on our house this month.

Ugh.

But. I was reminded yesterday why daughters are completely awesome. When I was having a poor-me, despair filled day yesterday, she brought me a plastic tiara and a sparkly magic wand and let me tell you, wearing a tiara makes everything better. I swear.

I may have to wear one every day. Or at least until life decides to be a little more kind.

Holy Life Changes, Batman!

Killer Earthlings is finished! Hooray and hallelujah! Finally finished the first draft Christmas weekend and I'm SO eager to start querying. I've been out of the game too long.
Must. Resist. Premature. Queries. Must. Edit. Instead. Arrggh. (Although I feel like the first half of the book has been tinkered with so much it doesn't need too much work. It's the second half I'm worried about.)

Big things are also happening on the husband's job front. The house has been up for sale for four months in preparation for our move to Chicago/Naperville. This is the month we demand that they move us to an apartment or something (and of course, PAY for it) so Bryce doesn't have to do the back and forth thing anymore.

However, there is another job possibility in the works on the other side of the country. A very, very tempting possibility. One way or the other, this is the week when everything changes.

I also have to take a moment to gripe that 2009 was the year we fixed practically everything in this lovely house of ours (plus a ruined transmission in the van), so we were relieved to see New Year's Day, 2010. A fresh start. Lots of optimism to go around.

Naturally that's the day our furnace went kablooey.

The heat is fixed now, so we're warm and grateful about the $700 price tag, which could have so easily been $4000. And as far as we're concerned, 2010 started on January 2.

In Which Christine Attempts to Join the 21st Century and Also Make Some Money

I finally caved and joined Facebook. Just what I needed--another way to waste time on the Internet! The hubby raves about it though, so we'll give it a shot.

Have also been doing some freelance writing. The pay is pretty abysmal, but at least it's pay.

Rants, Raves, and Randomness

Oh, dear. I’m definitely one of those bloggers who vacillates between productive spurts and long, dry spells.

I’ll pick up the ’08 review soon, hopefully, maybe. Honestly I’d rather not relive the first half of the year, but I’ll get to it eventually. *makes shifty eyes*

Rave: My big sister came from Denver to visit for a few days. It was so cool to see her. I drove to Chicago the night before her flight arrived to enjoy a peaceful night at the Hilton. It was heaven. After the airport we hit the Ikea, then talked the whole way back to Peoria. Man, I missed you, Sis! Hope we can do it again soon.

Rant: When I worked at Stampin’ Up! there was a woman who sold homemade brown-sugar scrub. It was divine. I’ve never tried a product since that could even come close. With the cold temps here my skin is like sandpaper, so I’ve tried the Wal-Mart brand of hazelnut scrub, which smells pretty good but doesn’t leave your skin any softer. I tried Bath & Body Works scrub, which works well, but I’m having issues with the scents. The first one I bought, Vanilla Blackberry Jasmine or some such thing, gave me a migraine as soon as I opened it. That went back to the store in a hurry. Next came mandarin lime, which has been the best so far, but it was the last one they had, so when it ran out I bought mint. Big. Mistake. I used some this morning and I smell like menthol shaving cream. It’s squicking me out just sitting here typing. Ugh.

Such problems, right? I’m also searching for a decent lotion that lasts a long time but doesn’t smell weird. Curel is the best I’ve found so far, but the hunt continues for that one perfect product. I never thought I’d miss the suffocating humidity of the Philippines, but the one benefit was perpetually soft skin.

Rave: On Monday the kids went sledding for the first time. (Although I think we took the First-Born sledding pre-Philippines, but that was years ago.) Middle Child had a blast. Completely fearless. Baby Screech…screeched. She is not a cold-weather child, which kind of makes sense considering where she was born. We went with the Johnson family and had a really great time, until the very last run when First-Born and my friend Lori had a spectacular crash with a little boy who crossed in front of them. No broken bones, thank goodness, but Lori got a heck of a shiner.

Random: The boys are into Pokemon and are always talking about powers and abilities and battles. They thought up powers for themselves, though I forget what those are, and then they decided that their baby sister has Screech power. Hence the use of her current nickname, Baby Screech. Never before in the history of the world has there been a more appropriate imaginary power bestowed upon such a deceptively harmless-looking child.

Rant: Our home warranty policy bites the big one. Our dishwasher broke a month ago and after several calls, they finally sent a guy out to take a look. He charged us $95 and told us the hard water basically destroyed the dishwasher. He left and we heard nothing for days. We followed up again last night to find out that sediment build-up isn’t covered.

Aaaaaaaaagggggggggggggggghhhhhhhh! Thanks for letting us know, people. And for taking so long to do absolutely nothing except charge us $95.

American Home Shield, I renounce thee! The unhelpful, villainous crooks.

Random: I’m entering two stories in the Highlights Fiction Contest this month. One’s already in the mail; the other will go out this week. It’s not a genre I’m totally comfortable writing. I definitely prefer longer pieces for older readers, but it was good for me to stretch a little. Heck, it was good for me to write, period, since the current work-in-progress has me pulling out clumps of hair.

Random: 30 Rock is a funny, funny show. We caught up on the first two seasons through NetFlix. The Husband tells me that I’m Liz Lemon. Or Tina Fey. Or some cross between the two. Should I be scared that I relate so well to so many of Liz’s dysfunctional traits? Blergh.

Happy Wednesday, World!

Of Lights and Tunnels

Our day in court was...a miracle.

1) The judge was friendly and in good humor. 2) The prosecutor had some connection to our lawyer's husband through his family in the Province. 3) We were the first case of the day. 4) The judge said something about adoption being a great thing and not wanting to stand in the way of adoptive parents and their child. 5) He allowed us to give testimony and be cross-examined in front of the court stenographer in a separate room. We went in that morning fearing that neither of us would be allowed to testify due to time constraints, that we'd have to wait several weeks for another hearing for Bryce's testimony, and several weeks after that for mine.

The court social worker will give her statement Feb. 21. Then it's a matter of waiting for the court to hand down the adoption decree, probably sometime in April.

Boo-yah!

Of course we still have to work with immigration and the US Embassy to get all the travel papers in place, but it finally feels like there's an end in sight.

Say it with me: Boo-yah!

If all goes according to plan, we'll be on our way home June 1.

Now that I'm not so preoccupied with all the what ifs, I feel like reading books again, like writing again. I grabbed my tattered copy of One Man's Meat to ease myself back into the reading scene with a few of E.B. White's incredible essays.

Here's my (his) gem of the day:

"The intellectual who simply says 'I am a writer,' and forthwith closets himself with a sharp pencil and a dull Muse, may well turn out to be no artist at all but merely an ambitious and perhaps misguided person. I think the best writing is often done by persons who are snatching the time from something else--from an occupation, or from a profession, or from a jail term--something that is either burning them up, as religion, or love, or politics, or that is boring them to tears, as prison, or a brokerage house, or an advertising firm. A great violinist must begin fairly early in life to play the violin; but I think a literary artist has a better chance of producing something great if he spends the first forty years of his life doing something else--grinding a lens or surveying a wilderness."

Putting mechanics aside, as well as the fact that great writing is often hard-won and develops only after years of mediocre writing (in other words, you have to work at it), I kind of agree with him. And not just because it's likely I won't be published before I turn 40. :) I like the idea of perspective, of bringing decades of life to the table and digging deep to put the relevant pieces of that life down on the stark, empty page.

At 20 I thought I was pretty good at the writing thing. At 30 I thought I had it down cold. Only now, halfway to 40, have I taken to heart that humbling truth that the more I learn, the less I know.

But I also feel a comfort with my own voice, both as a person and as a writer, that I've never known before. Dare I call it maturity? It's a knowlege of what drives me, of what I feel passionate about. It's a deeper understanding of pain and joy. It's a willingness to place less importance on the opinions of others, and an ability to discern--and take to heart--the voices that truly matter.

Sad but True

I'm reading Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird this week. Here's a quote from the introduction:

"My writer friends, and they are legion, do not go around beaming with quiet feelings of contentment. Most of them go around with haunted, abused, surprised looks on their faces, like lab dogs on whom very personal deodorant sprays have been tested."

This book is laugh-out-loud funny. The conversations in her head sound a lot like the ones in my head. It's good to know there are other mentally unstable writers out there who still manage to live productive lives.

Essays and Old Friends

While E.B. White is probably best known for Charlotte's Web and The Elements of Style, I have fallen in love with his essays and find myself returning to them again and again. It's like visiting an old friend.

In the Foreword of Essays of E.B. White he writes:

"The essayist is a self-liberated man, sustained by the childish belief that everything he thinks about, everything that happens to him, is of general interest." [Much like a blogger.] "...Each new excursion of the essayist, each new 'attempt,' differs from the last and takes him into new country. This delights him. Only a person who is congenitally self-centered has the effrontery and the stamina to write essays."

White's quiet humor and keen observations frequently amaze me. He wrote for The New Yorker and Harper's Magazine, published a stack of books, and won an impressive list of awards, including the National Medal for Literature.

His citation for the Gold Medal for Essays and Criticism from the American Academy of Arts and Letters says this: "...When he writes of large subjects he does not make them larger and windier than they are, and when he writes of small things they are never insignificant."

When I grow up, I want to be E.B. White.

Sittin', Waitin', Wishin'

Some days I wonder if I will spend my entire life waiting. Waiting in traffic, waiting in line, waiting for the adoption to come through, waiting to know which US city we'll be moving to (and when), waiting for agent news, waiting for Son #2 to outgrow his whiny phase, waiting for the motivation to exercise and the inspiration to write more and the courage to live without doubt.

Oh, and while I'm wishing for impossible things, how about a little world peace?

Do we ever stop looking forward to the Next Big Thing? Even as kids we count down the hours to birthdays, holidays, school ending, school beginning, first date, first car, first kiss. I have to keep reminding myself (to borrow words from the Red Hot Chili Peppers) that "this life is more than just a read through." That I should value the moment, embrace the here and now.

So, some things to be grateful for:

Honest lawyers. We found an excellent attorney to help us through the next stage of the adoption. She's a Harvard Law grad and teaches at University of the Philippines. She helped draft the domestic adoption laws currently on the books. She has a kind face and is charging us an extremely reasonable flat fee for the entire process, including the four court hearings in our immediate future. No hourly billing. No conference table the size of a football field. And she says we could be done in 7 or 8 months. Hallelujah!

Amazingly supportive friends. The kind that pick your kids up from school when you're stuck in nightmare traffic with patchy cell phone reception.

Pepsi. With ice.


Edited to add that one look at the date of my post gave me a whole lot of perspective in a hurry. Of course we all remember where we were, what we were doing six years ago when we heard the horrific news. In memory of those who died, and those whose suffering endures.