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.

Life Is Weird

My husband and I had an amazing anniversary trip to England, Ireland, and Scotland. I was looking forward to posting pictures and blogging about the experience. Then life, as it so often does, threw a wrench in the works. A huge, weird, completely bizarre, "How does this happen?" kind of wrench.

We were sitting in the Dublin airport, awaiting our flight home, when the hubby checked his voice messages and discovered that a man had collapsed while driving down our street and ended up in our living room.

In his car.

This is our house in Peoria, the one that's been for sale since August and is thankfully, mercifully empty. I can't imagine what might have happened if we'd still been living there. Or if someone else had bought it and was living there.

The driver is fine. The house not so much. 45 miles per hour + brick wall = big hole. I think the house is cursed, it's been through so much in such a short time.

I haven't seen the damage yet. It's probably just as well. We're meeting the insurance guy there on Friday and I'm sure I'll shed some tears. It's such a beautiful house. Beautiful and terrible, like Galadriel.

Stupid wrench. A cab driver who heard the story told us cheerfully that luck often comes from unlikely places. The verdict is still out on this one.

The Dangers of Living a Stone's Throw from Wisconsin

Ever since we moved to the Chicago area a few months ago, I've been obsessed with the idea of driving to Wisconsin to tour a cheese factory and eat samples.

This weekend we took the plunge. We came home with smoked cheddar and gouda and farmer's cheese and some other amazing cheese I can't remember the name of. A decent amount of it has already been eaten, mostly by me. I think the original (naive) idea was to "cook" with it, but it goes down just as easily with chips and salsa.

Yum. Several of the cheese factories/retail stores on the oversized tourism board map also serve ice cream and fudge, just in case the cheese isn't healthy enough for you.

I'm in serious trouble.

The Funny Things We Say

Three-year-old daughter:

eppercise = exercise
flamily = family
chocolick = chocolate
ows cream = ice cream
Sleeping Booty (self-explanatory)

Me:

"I'm almost caught up on the laundry." = "I've hidden the laundry in strategic places around the house so I don't have to look at it."

"I'm giving up Pepsi any day now." = "I'll go an extra hour without my sugar/caffeine fix, get a headache, get twitchy, snap at everyone, then lose my resolve and head for the fridge."

"I will no longer obsess about the writing thing." = "I'll bottle it all up then take it out on my poor, unsuspecting flamily."


*My apologies to whomever crafted this Cameron icon. I stumbled across it years ago, saved it to the hard drive for future use because of its sheer awesomeness, and promptly forgot where I found it.

When Good Mountains Go Bad

Today is the 30th anniversary of the Mt. St. Helens eruption. I was seven years old (meep! how time flies!) that Sunday afternoon when the sky went dark in Spokane, WA.

I don't remember feeling scared, really. Just fascinated. When the skies cleared we had a few inches of ash on the ground, like gritty, gray snow. We scooped some up in jelly jars and pill bottles to save for posterity. Plows and snow shovels came out of storage to deal with the rest.

I wish I'd been older. I wish I could remember more. The significance of such a major event sailed right over my little head. One of my most vivid memories involves the paper masks we wore to protect our lungs. Volunteers at school painted clown faces and puppies and kitties on the masks so we'd be more inclined to wear them.

I've always wanted to frame this event as a story, somehow. Funny how the random things that happen in childhood provide fuel for our grown-up imaginations.

Photos from fas.org and US geological survey, respectively. Couldn't find a single photo of those silly masks, though.

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.