getting ready...

...to start writing again. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, a shower and a cup of tea have been tackled, the words will start.

Finished rereading Alvin's Farm just this morning; an early start, awake at 5, at the computer by 6. Getting notes from Bob, who, two hours ahead, was off for a walk with his mum. Now they're eating Indian, along with his sister. All the staff is Indian, but with Midwestern accents.

If you've ever traveled in that area, or seen the movie Fargo, well, there you go.

After a scorching weekend, temps in the mid-90's F, now it's settling back to normal, only 70 F now at 11 AM. No tennis for me this week, only updates via the BBC and Wimbledon's own site. The Williams sisters are both through to the semi's, men's quarters tomorrow.

But tomorrow there are words...

I've known July's activities since the end of March, when Alvin's Farm went from being one LONG book to a prequel and sequel. The story of Jenny Cope, a twenty-nine year old woman in 1975 on the run from her past, she finds herself in central Oregon, living platonically with a mentally challenged man, Alvin of the title. Their friendship is one unexpected, yet, Jenny finds herself at ease with him, unlike all her previous relationships with men, based solely on sex. With Alvin, it's far different, yet, as spring turns to summer, thunderstorms roll through, revealing the tip of Jenny's great fear, one that threatens to unravel her, as well as the burgeoning romantic liaison between her and Alvin Harris.

The Thorn and the Rose continues their story, and that of Sam Cassel, who, like Alvin, is in love with Jenny. Yet, Sam is aware of whom Jenny truly loves, and can only try to remain impassive, standing in the shadows. When great tragedy strikes, all involved are suddenly thrust into situations that call back to their pasts, wondering how in the world life goes on...

Angsty to the gills, as disabilities, sexual mores, yarn, colour and the seventies runs through this story, one that could have been a single, lengthy manuscript. But when I came to what is now the end of Alvin's Farm back in March, I knew. Knew it wasn't going to be a James Michener massive tome, but two books.

And here I am, ready to make it so, as JLP would say...

I haven't written anything since April. I'm not one of those 'write every day' types, definitely more of a NANO author, who sits at the specified time, and lets it all out. This story, like its predecessor, has little paper and pen outlining, everything in my head. Some known to me today, some to come as July presses. Maybe part of it's knowing these characters so well. As when I wrote The Road Home, a sequel to Detours, I KNEW these people. However, this time the story picks up right where the previous manuscript left off, no time lags to accommodate.

The songs are ready, all I need to do is wake tomorrow, shower and eat, make the tea, open a document and type. Every time I'm always a little apprehensive, no matter if there is a detailed outline or not. Maybe that's good, a little fear propelling me. But yesterday was so positive, reminding me it's just getting my butt on the chair, and letting the words come.

That's really all it is...

maybe I'm amazed

I just got back from buying yarn. I need more yarn like I need a hole in the head.

Some days are more blessed than others, whether yarn is needed or not.

Today was that, blessed. Feeling like I held the world in my hands, be it within a manuscript or a novel or just hearing the voice of my beloved.

Or in all three, and being aware of something so lovely, beautiful, gorgeous...

Holy, and I can't really say much more than that.

book I just finished: Joshua and the Children
music I just listened to: James Taylor's Fire and Rain
manuscript I'm reading: Alvin's Farm

in small doses

2002 September... that lovely lake....

I'm listening to the soothing sounds of tennis. Andy Roddick is on, a match ESPN couldn't show this morning because the Tennis Channel had the rights to it. But it hardly matters. I know who won, Roddick in four sets. Saw the after match interview hours ago, as I stitched. Stitching and listening to various other matches, and now it's nearly 6 PM, 8 PM where my husband is...

This might be a long post. Well, it probably will be a long post. Most of them are.

Just how I blog. Not necessarily for anyone but myself and honestly, if you're not blogging for yourself, for whom are you blogging? Or sitting on the front porch of a house that you've known for coming near twenty years. That's where Bob is now, in the Midwest, waiting for his sister and her family to get home.

the pier and wind... September 2002

He's spending the next week with his family, staying at his mum's, who he hasn't seen since we left the UK. She was there too, in her own flat, left right before we did and again has her own place. At 83, she's spry, getting around fine, but it was time for him to pay a visit. Coming on the heels of his work trip, it made sense. Flying back west, he could easily stop and say hello.

The last time he was there was in 2004. On a home leave, dropping Thea off, as she spent that school year going to American high school, living with Bob's sister's family. Five years before, and the house is now getting a new kitchen. It sits along a lake, a gorgeous sight, what I used in Detours. That house, April's house, is really my SIL's house, lake and everything.

the swing and campfire ring, September 2002

As Bob sat on that front porch, we talked of days gone by, arriving in a minivan stuffed full of kids, luggage, leaving behind our English life for a time, before heading west, to see my family.

Now, he's there by himself, he's never been there by himself. We've always been with him, the first time when Thea and Bud were small, Jay in utero. Years ago, to a house gutted, just beginning to turn into the showplace it is now, new kitchen notwithstanding.

Also today Bob sent me an email from some of his other relatives. Aunt Bee died a few days back, and if I remember correctly, she would have been 102 this August.

Aunt Bee

Yes, 102. A cousin of Bob's dad, who lived to 92 himself, which bodes well for me, longevity in Bob's family.

But no matter how long you live, things change. I've been blah blahing about that for a good portion of this blog, how my life is changing via writing (blah blah blah) but not only mine, or the kids.

Bob's too.

His voice was strained, angsty. Sitting in a place that used to mean so much, now empty. The lake, so stunning, only flat water. The Easter egg hunts we used to have and kids on the swing, all phantom memories.

Bud, my SIL and Thea... May 1992

My heart aches for him, he's usually pretty strong. We talked for less than ten minutes, then his mum returned from walking the family's dog. I'll email him later, but right now much is at the surface, no matter the miles between us.

Yesterday I saw my nephew, Jay and I taking a short road trip, spending the afternoon with my brother and his family. Yesterday I saw a one month old baby, today I found out a 101 year old woman had died.

me and CJ... what a cutie!!

Circular, so circular is this life, houses that used to matter now only dwellings, kids gone, places to be filled.

What does it mean? Well, I write, try to figure it out, and writing I'll be doing, taking this week of tennis as a treat. On Wednesday, 1 July, I start The Thorn and the Rose, then in August, The War on Emily Dickinson, barreling into autumn with The Captain and the Kid in September.

That sounds nearly obscene, and I hope I'm not burnt out by the time Jay turns 17 in early September. She'll be 17 and the first time I went to that lake front house she was still inside me, only five months along. She's been going to that place since before she was born, and soon it will only be in photographs, in memory, in one of my books.

April's house is a duplicate of my SIL's, except where Dylan's shop is located. Otherwise, the same layout. Will someone else actually live there someday?

Yeah, probably. Aunt Bee wasn't going to live forever, that house is destined for other occupants. Our kids are leaving, Bob returning to a place so different. I'm listening to tennis, Andy Roddick who never seems truly comfortable on grass.

he was telling me tall tales... must be in our blood!

Never set in stone, like us, how life REALLY is. My life is writing, but also much more. Why these posts are so darned long, sometimes all over the place. I'm not the kind of blogger with a tidy agenda, that's for sure...

Or any agenda, truthfully.

Okay, it is a long post, and I've said enough for today. I know Andy's gonna take this one, so I think I'll turn on the music, and let my mind float. Soon, it's going to be on overdrive, and these carefree moments will be like a dream.

In the past, looked back upon with fondness, wistfulness, and a sense of this moment doesn't last forever. Appreciate what today is, as tomorrow will be something completely different. (Monty Python comparison intended.)

in the sea

Roger Federer has been taken to a fourth set by German Philipp Kohlshreiber, as I turn on the tennis. The sound down, as I know the Fed Express will roll to victory (and if he doesn't, I'll do a small dance!). I'm listening to Mother Whale Eyeless but not by Eno. A San Francisco due, Hilsinger & Beatty redid Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) a few years back, a fantastic rendition of that record.

Jay is sleeping, it's early. Only 7.19, and I'm thinking about yesterday, how at the write-in news of Michael Jackson's heart attack was just coming through. By the time I got home, he was dead.

Sort of comparable to how Farrah Fawcett died. Jay was making dinner, so before the write-in, we went shopping. Before I left, Farrah was near death. Coming home, she had died.

This is life; here, then gone. All we are, heading for some other place. I've been stitching a fair amount lately; I liken it to a puzzle, adding the pieces, making each stitch fit appropriately. We are the same, each day a piece that builds to what will ultimately be all we are.

Like a chapter is every twenty-four hour slot, but so intrinsic to the next day, the whole the sum of the parts.

Sometimes I get so swept in what's coming, I miss this moment, this one right now typing, Bruce Springsteen coming through speakers, and now in the fourth set, Federer is up 3-0. Jasmine tea is waiting for me at the stitching table, set up in Bob's absence. Our small living room doesn't need a square table set permanently, but while he's gone, there's space.

In the sea, there's so much space. Each day in our lives is full of it.

Waxing philosophical, blah blah blah... As Patsy Cline says, Strange....

rockin' with a racket

One of noise and equipment; although I don't play tennis, I love to watch it on TV.

Okay, I love Wimbledon. I enjoy the Australian and US Opens, really don't have time for the French. But the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club captures me like no other sporting event, except for perhaps American football.

Not even the World Series does for me what two weeks at the end of June into July offers.

Today, as I listened to Ann Arbor read the last installment of DTG, I watched Maria Sharapova stumble to Argentina's Gisela Dulko in three sets, Dulko finally taking the fourth match point all the way home. Maria won Wimbledon in 2004, hooting and grunting her way to victory over Serena Williams, but since her shoulder surgery has yet to find her previous form. Today wasn't hers to be had, and now she waits for the concrete courts of Flushing Meadow.

But this day belonged to a twenty-four year old from Buenos Aires. Good for her!

And the tunes roll, as I suss out what has become The War on Emily Dickinson, thanks Karen for the nod. I have to also give Jay's buddy Seth props, as he listened to my ramblings last night. He just graduated high school, is an aspiring filmmaker, and asked the $64,000 question...

"What are you working on now?"

I went into a litany of this and that (leaving out the tennis) ending with Emily Dickinson. Not by name, but what hit me yesterday, sitting in Gayle's in Capitola. I ferried Jay and her boyfriend to Santa Cruz, then drove to my fave spot, where the plotting of this story started to spin in my head. Over a decaff double latte, delicious salads and bread rolls, I penned a tentative chapter listing, that when I told Seth, he seemed intrigued.

Then as I explained further, his enthusiasm increased. Finally his smile came, that of someone young, willing to entertain something a little different. We spent the next ten minutes chatting how it could work.

Equally how it could fall flat into the ground, all coming down to the quality of the writing. Which is squarely on my head. If I can pull it off, The War on Emily Dickinson won't have been in vain.

I'll know in a while, as this is going to be my surprise August project. I was going to take that month off, as I did last year, only reading over July's manuscript, watching baseball, Little League World Series and the beginning of the US Open, as well as the football preseason games. In addition, it will be more words, but as you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

What Gisela Dulko is probably thinking right now. Nothing against Sharapova, but what a thrill for that Argentinian!

it's not that I have anything against Emily Dickinson...

...but ages ago, when we lived in the UK, one day Bob came home from work to find we'd declared war on Emily Dickinson (today's WIKI featured article).

None of us can remember exactly WHY. Maybe just what happens when you spend a LOT of time with the same people. Our homeschooling days, oh what memories...

But back to the topic at hand; I was taking Bob to the airport this AM, as he's off for a trip. Been pondering The Last Remnants... (which is the longest title I've come up with, and is only getting longer) and told Bob that Kell is going to write a book called The War on Emily Dickinson.

Bob thought that was a great title, linking that age-old family mantra to what I'm doing now.

Well, as we approached, I was more worried with not getting killed; San Jose Airport used to be a fine little airport. Now it's a huge, in-debt mess, and while I was quite sleep deprived (having slept poorly and it was 6 AM) all I wanted to do was make sure I negotiated the track. But what I wanted to tell him was the book itself already has a title, that The War on Emily Dickinson was going to be a novel Kell pens...

Then, driving back home, squinting to the blinding sun, it hit me that the book (mine, not Kell's) could have an even longer title: The Last Remnants of Tuesday Morning, or Why I Fought the War on Emily Dickinson.

And right now, that's the working title. Kell's book will still be The War on Emily Dickinson. I, however, need to find an acronym for my title.

TLROTMOWIFTWOED

No, that's just ridiculous.

Or maybe The Last Remnants of Emily Dickinson?

Oh, I don't know...

I'll have to ponder that, and with Bob gone, I have plenty of time... In the meantime, I have a new toy to while away the hours. Last night, between his packing and my stitching, I signed up for Audioscrobbler again...

Last FM is a big part of our lives, especially Bob's, scrobbling all the tunes he plays on the big PC. We've been doing it for ages, since early 2005, and he just hit over 100,000 tunes. I use to scrobble, until last autumn, when they revamped the site.

Then I just said no.

But last night he brought it up, that all the Nirvana I was listening to wasn't being counted, teasing me, taunting...

"You COULD be scrobbling all that Kurt Cobain, you know...."

Sigh.... So, while I won't give in to FB, I did sign up for Audioscrobbler again. Strictly for the work, tabulating all the music I listen to while coming up with insane ideas like a war on Emily Dickinson. (Still none of us knows from where that came...)

You can have a gander at my scrobbler page, get one of your own, if you so desire! I was fortunate that it counted the last week of my listens, why after only one day I have over 400 songs counted. That link sits along the sidebar, under the bits about me, a window to all that I play on itunes. Before, every Sunday afternoon was spent wondering how the charts would look, but since they changed the graphics, we don't bother with that anymore. It will be interesting to see how it evolves. When I quit last fall, I had over 16,000 plays, my big three (The White Stripes, R.E.M., Madonna) taking those first trio of spots. Now, an entirely new list begins to emerge.

And maybe, one of these days we'll figure out just how the war on Emily Dickinson began...

sometimes waking in the middle of the night is okay

Like today, when I woke at 2 AM, only to use the loo. If it was 4 in the morning, I might be looking at the start of my day, hard for me to return to sleep late far into the night. (I'm a morning person, 'nuff said...)

But anything before 4 o'clock is fair game for more shut-eye. And so I lay down, Bob having a snorking, snuffling night (sometimes breathing issues arise, ones that if he went to see a doc would probably be easily remedied, but that's an entirely separate entry that I don't even want to write) and I knew sleep would come, only taking its time.

As I lay, hearing him not quite wheeze but certainly cough, a story hit, not out of the blue, but a title that I love yet haven't been able to properly plot was suddenly filled with reason, purpose, names and details, betrayals and intrigue...

And I'm grateful, especially since I still retain most of what I was thinking. Grateful because that title and the tunes already set aside were withering, falling into a sea of 'This story really isn't going to be about anything is it?'

Shudder! Not a pleasant thought, but now, oh, good grief! Over the last 6 weeks I've had more ideas find their way to my back door than I need. I don't think I'm going to write multiple books in one month; been there, done that and while it's more than possible, it's just improbable. But this story, The Last Remnants of Tuesday Morning, oh, I'm so eager to at least get the middle of the night thoughts down on some paper. That will have to suffice for now, as just last night I sorted a story that maybe be for this time next year. Where is this 2 AM gift now going to slot into things???

No worries. All I am right now is grateful. Grateful for story ideas that manage to sneak their way into my brain. And that I went back to sleep, only waking to the sun coming through at 6-something this morning....

playlist joy

6 December 2005... Jerusalem had been underway for a bit...

So yesterday after writing an entry, I sat with my other love, two of them. Sat and spend all day imbibing in true joy, bliss, great happiness...

No, not Bob or the kids. Cross stitching and the tunes...

It started off with Jerusalem At Dusk, a MASSIVE project that I've had in my stitching basket since 2002. The magazine is Needlepoint Gold, the December issue, and from going through old pics it looks like I started it back in 2005.

Then it sat. For ages...

It's really immense, and only since we moved to this house, all the cross stitching in a box in the garage, that I felt called to have a look. What I've done is quite a bit, but in the long run...

Maybe a quarter, maybe. Within the magazine, the pattern is broken into five chunks, the top three quarters cut into two, then the bottom quarter sliced into thirds. Right now I'm straddling the center and left bottom, trying to get those two pieces meshed so later work will be easier. What I was surprised at was how the new stitching doesn't look much different than the aged work. I was worried the threads would be dissimilar in the shine. I use DMC floss, and it's wearing well.

Then the music... Chibi just posted something about this, and I totally agree. Music for me is the key.

17 June 2009, only slightly more accomplished, much still to stitch...

Started with The Captain and the Kid, which is solely Elton John's Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy interspersed with The White Stripes' Icky Thump. I must have listened to that list four or five times. The only difficulty is the volume leveling; Icky Thump is so much louder, but as the house was mine, Bob at work and Jay on an adventure in San Francisco the entire domicile was MINE!! (She went on a sleepover, and they went north for breakfast, then got a flat tire. She texted me throughout the ordeal, asking if it was sunny in the South Bay. In the city, it was cloudy, cold, and all I could think, as Elton and Jack sang, was my poor baby!!)

But with her absence, the house was mine, Mine MINE!!! And the music was loud, Loud, LOUD!!

Then I went to Another Side of Bliss; Gimme Shelter was meant to be BLASTED!! Merry Clayton's vocals make that tune, and I listened to about two thirds of the total list, maybe. Then Jay texted, they were finally on the road, but it was slow. Bob also checked in; he was heading out as well.

This table works for plotting and stitching, even simultaneously, believe it or not... 17 June 2009

I just put in the headphones because Jay's snoozing, yesterday a long day for her. They finally got out of SF, texting me in Redwood City, and she was ready to come home! Hard to let her go off, in that she's with friends, in SF??? Goodness only knows where, getting a flat sorted!! But I was doing similar things at that age; I took a Greyhound bus from my little middle Sacramento Valley hometown to Oakland to see a friend. I was 16 too.

Would I let Jay take a bus or the BART to Oakland now, alone? Uh, NO!!!

But this part of it, letting go, giving her space, so I can have my own.

Back in August 2005, I had NO idea we'd be in the US only two years later. Only thinking about what I was going to stitch next, sitting at my table, writing not even in my head! But, it was starting, looking for that space now that seems all I know...

And with that space I cranked the music, stitched, thought about plot and story, and settled, for now, two time lines, which had been sitting out there, vague and questioning.

Finally I went to the list I'm listening to now. Call Me Padre is a collection of late 90's and early 2000's rock from groups like dc Talk, Audio Adrenaline, Relient K, Jars of Clay, Rebecca St. James, Jennifer Knapp, Rock N Roll Worship Circus, Newsboys, plus a smattering of old school tunes, Voices Carry by 'Til Tuesday, Valotte by Julian Lennon, Why Can't I Have You by The Cars, Running Up That Hill by Kate Bush, Solitaire by Laura Branigan.

Busy stitching in the UK, July 2006, such a different life...

A gamut of what I love, all pouring through the speakers with great volume, up to 11, thank you Nigel Tufnel.

That list is what I'm rockin' to now, ear buds firmly set, letting my baby sleep, and if I'm deaf when I'm 75, well, Bob's gotta love me. I asked him yesterday if he minded if I went first, you know, leaving him behind.

September 2006, me busy in my corner... Note the arm bands; I still wear them as not to exacerbate stitcher's elbow... Thank goodness I don't get writer's cramp!

He said that as fine, all the Bob Dylan he'd listen too... Yes, I do love that man! Then we ended the day watching Aliens, oh, what a great flick!! Little Newt, played by Carrie Henn, what a tough cookie, and Sigourney Weaver, ooohhh baby!!

So, that was my Wednesday, 17 June. Full of good things, mostly music, hands holding cloth, colours going through fingers, counting stitches as the plot points rained down...

on another plane

This is how NOT into marketing I am right now...

Today Ann Arbor, at KFJC, is reading an excerpt of Drop the Gauntlet. And this, the third Wednesday of the month, is the first I'm putting it here.

Part is I only found out a week ago that she was offering my first novel on Unbedtime Stories. She emailed me when I was getting Thea back to her flat, asking if there were any particular passages I'd like her to read.

I was so out of my head then, I wrote her back a day later only that I was happy with whatever she chose.

It starts in fifteen minutes, and I'll have a listen. Then she'll read some again next week, and there you are.

But right now, being an author just seems like a million miles away.

Not the writing, and there is a difference. I've been editing like crazy, getting ready to write The Thorn and the Rose starting 1 July. Also sorting what I'll be scribbling in September (The Captain and the Kid) and of course November (tentatively Call Me Padre). Yeah, then another is percolating for January/February (Another Side of Bliss), and two days ago I came up with yet ANOTHER idea, maybe for March/April (no title yet, give me a day, maybe a week).

More in my head than I can hold. A few write-in's back Steph noticed I was hastily penning notes. The laptop was off balance at the time (and still is, big deep sigh...) and there was a time line ACHING to be set down. With all these plots, characters, settings swirling, if I didn't write down SOMETHING, it would be gone.

Tomorrow I'll be at the write-in, pen and paper in hand. That laptop... Oh, what a dodgy thing! But that's okay, because I do all plotting in longhand, and I have plotting up the wazoo needing to be sorted.

Not an excuse to not query, not even an excuse to not have yet announced my novel is being read, over the air. On KFJC, next Wednesday, 7.20 AM PDT. Ann Arbor hands over Unbedtime Stories to all of us Bay Area NANO'ers from December through March, and when I took a copy of my book along in March, she was quite pleased. And I'm equally thrilled she's reading from it, but not to sound ungrateful, blase or idiotic, right now it's just that I'm on a different plane.

One coming down, looking for a place to land, soft, easy, known. I'm looking for that which I know. Not cancer, migraine with aura. New babies are great, and I need to see my nephew, maybe next week. He too has been lost in shuffle, but with Bob heading off for a trip soon, I'll need a little distraction. That cutie-pie of a bundle will be a great way to take my mind from the hubby gone.

But, right now, being an author is not on the agenda.

Being a WRITER is high, way high!! Read Sarah's post, to see just what happens when the writing slips, because what she says is so darn true. Maybe that's what has kept me sane over the last few weeks, plotting, creating, sorting, all that which comes with writing. My actual penning of the work happens in bursts, a month at a time, but there is so much that surrounds it, like research, what I did yesterday afternoon. Reading for September's novel, again going back in time, to the early 1980's, Randy Shilts' And The Band Played On reminding me how suddenly there was an illness, a deadly, vicious disease spreading over the landscape, all within my lifetime. AIDS began in the late 1970's, but where I am right now in the story, 1983, it finally had a name, over 400 dead, the toll rising.

People die of AIDS, cancer, all sorts of things. They are born, suffer migraines and how many other maladies, of which I write. My novels are FULL (to the gills!) of dramatic hoo haa, and getting it all out fictionally is usually what keeps me on an even keel. When it spills out, in concentrated doses, suddenly seeking representation, mulling how to increase traffic on the blog, announcing my book being read, raising my profile all seems...

A different terminal of the airport, one in which I'm not wanting to wait.

I have been on more planes over the last 13 years than I can count. Certainly not like a frequent flier, and I've only been in business class once (now THAT was a treat I'd relive...), but I know planes, know the drill, seen the attendants give their spiel; the closest exit might be behind you. Right now I'm slipping outta my chair, nodding politely to the chap in the aisle who had to stand so I could get out of my window seat. Heading to the back, standing near that door. Wide, so large, and even though I'm 30,000 feet up, I gotta jump.

Gotta get off this train, gotta slow down, turn back, head for another door.

Listening to Elton John right now, Someone Saved my Life Tonight. Maudlin from here to there, I know. I don't like being maudlin, and I recall a great scene from thirtysomething, where Michael tells Gary to stop being so maudlin. Both men are on the angsty side, like the pot calling the kettle black, but it's the way actor Ken Olin says that word, stretching out maudlin, like a call to Gary's soul.

Later on in the series, Michael loses Gary. In the last season, it was all about Nancy's ovarian cancer, but in a twist, Gary's killed in a pile-up. Not on his bike, as his best friend from college Michael assumes, but in his car, on the way to see Nancy in hospital. She's been given the all clear on her second look surgery, but it's Gary who is dead.

For a few episodes following, Michael is as maudlin as all get out. One of the disses of that show was how ANGSTY it was; I loved it! (Aha, parallels to my work...) Sucked up all that sturm und drang, just LOVED IT! In my work, on paper, through my pen, onto the Word document.

As for my life, angst can check itself at the front door.

Long, oh my this is so darn long! I write blogs as I do novels, long, blah blah blah... Poor Ann Arbor. That first book, well, it's... A FIRST novel. Oh my goodness it's a first novel! How far have I come, and bless her heart for reading it on air. If you want to hear it, check it out next week, but as for me and author-hood, I'm ducking out, taking a temporary pass. If I can't even think to tell you about this bit of promotion until today, well, then I need to just excuse myself from this querying party, let others in line with more chutzpah, bigger cojones, more moxie. Right now, I just don't have it in me.

Probably cause I'm so darn maudlin. I'm sure that's what Michael Steadman would say....

(And with that, I'll stop beating this dead horse... Thanks for putting up with me!)

first day of summer

Theoretically. It's the first real day Jay's off school, and all I had to do this AM was make the PBJ, give Bob a kiss, and head back to bed...

Sweet, I'll tell ya! So sweet...

Jay and J3 (Jay and her best friend share the same name, and another girlfriend also begins with J, so we have J2, J3, so on and so forth...) are off helping their chem teacher clear out her classroom, have been gone since I dropped them off at 9 AM. Not our usual school run at 7, so very pleasant. No traffic, no rush, no crowds, only a quiet car park, me having begun work, and I returned to finished editing Alvin's Farm. Going to write the sequel in July, so I wanted to familiarize myself with that manuscript. Wrapped that up at noon, then ate a BAGEL (I saw that comment Mike, hee hee...), not sesame or plain, but some berry concoction. Ate that first and am now crunching on carrots and Ranch dip.

A sweet bagel and a savory dip DO NOT MIX!

Listening to Alvin's playlist, Elton John with Rocket Man. Like he, I have a job, five days a week. Not a rocket scientist, oh no. Only a writer, although sometimes I do work weekends, like yesterday. Bob has a trip ahead, not to space, only another coast. He was busy yesterday, so was I.

Reading a story that is set in 1975, and this so going to be a long post, but not only due to my usual blah blah blah. I set some of the responsibility squarely on Dara's shoulders, her recent post about Excerpt Monday sticking in my head, much like other things, of which I will offer discourse, ending this post with a bit of what I've been pouring over for the last few days...

(But of course, if you know me, I've already blown this post. An excerpt is offered, just look for the link in a paragraph below...)

Now Joni Mitchell with People's Parties. I love Court and Spark, Blue too, and The Hissing of Summer Lawns... Ooohhh, such good summer tunes. From ages ago, where Jenny and Alvin dwell, the mid-1970's the golden years of my childhood. I grew up in a hot place, trees and sun, shade and water. Not the ocean, but an above-ground pool, from when I was twelve, but before that, we went to my cousin's house, another pool not built-in, but oval, large, with a deck that saw all my older cousins running and jumping, probably from where I first heard Elton John. My siblings and I were the babies, our mother the youngest of a large family. They lived half an hour away, which at the time seemed like a length journey. Now, compared to the hours I used to fly from the UK, it's nothing, a drop in the bucket. But back then, distances were measured not as they are now. So much has changed, cell phones, email and Facebook making communication instantaneous. Even with an 8 hour time zone difference, living in Yorkshire never felt that far away.

But in 1975, a fifteen mile trek meant something.

Now I imbibe in nearly all forms of modern communication. Email, texting, instant messaging, but not Facebook. I eschew that one social network, partly out of a small bit of stubbornness. Like an Elton John staple, This Song's Got No Title, I have no REAL reason for not being part of the Facebook revolution, beyond that one small part. But larger is a part of me that just says...

no.

In lowercase, small and mild. But VERY MEANINGFUL. (And comes long languid sigh...) While I have no concrete reason for that refusal, every once in a while it's pointed out to me the possible repercussions of that stand. Have a look at today's post from Rachelle Gardner, and you'll see what I mean...

I read her blog most days, sometimes it's the first one I see. That's because of how she posts; automatically that day's entry is up, maybe as early as midnight, but since I'm not usually awake THAT early, it's only a guess. But nearly, without fail, Ms. Gardner has her day's entry ready for my eyes, even before my peepers are really ready for it.

I've been reading her blog for a few months now, almost as long as I've been reading Nathan Bransford's blog. Who doesn't post as early as Rachelle Gardner, and as it now stands I haven't even seen his today's post. Hmmm... I wonder if it's up.

It is, at 1.09 PM, but he has a cold and it's a short piece. Those are the two agent blogs I read daily, sometimes throwing Janet Reid in as well. Getting great pearls from all, each very different agents, as we are all different writers. With different needs, desires, paths upon which we trod.

Today's post by Rachelle Gardner is one I skimmed, partly due to the content. She's talking about platforms, which are more for non-fiction authors, but of course, those penning fiction can take from it.

But, I'm still not going to sign up for Facebook.

Maybe it's more than a bit of stubbornness. Maybe it's that authors of the past never had all the social networking available to them, and seemed to have survived. I'm not a dinosaur, enjoy all the technological and internet bits at my fingertips. Most of them. I text with my kids, email with family and friends. I blog INCESSANTLY, in frequency and length of posts. Skype is my friend, and while I've never been one to constantly use the phone, we have a landline as well as cells. Jay's so good at it, she can balance the home phone in one hand, her cell in the other, two conversations simultaneously occurring. I tease her that when she leaves home, it will only be one phone, her generation fleeing from landlines as I do from Facebook.

She smiles, thinks I'm kidding. But I know her, more sucked into a phone, be it an old fashioned receiver or tidy modern mobile, far more than she's on a laptop or PC.

Reading Alvin's Farm took me back, times so much simpler. Alvin and Jenny have a party line for part of the story, which comes straight from my childhood. We had a four-party line when I was a kid, back in the 1970's, and a family up the road, they had no phone at all!!

I'm serious. We lived out in the sticks, and they were the only house on their stretch of the road. Ma Bell wanted to charge them an arm and a leg to string cables to their house, and they just said no thanks.

Like me and Facebook. Thanks, but I'll take a pass.

I know I'm the luckier. Can you imagine not having a telephone? Not having that cell or mobile so handy; my kids take their phones EVERYWHERE, my girls that is. Bud's more like me and Bob, and that boy doesn't even text. Bob usually doesn't either, but last weekend, during the hospital debacle, it was something he found handy, and at least if I ever needed to text him, I know he'd get it. With Bud, it's a call. And that's fine. We all have our limits, what we'll do.

Mine stops at Facebook.

Will that kill my career? Well, at this point, I'm not even querying. No career, of sorts, to worry over. But one of these days the moratorium will be set aside, and I'll be emailing, probably snail mailing too. (Something I do love, sending mail! Too bad postage keeps going up, and we just received our 2 cent stamps the other day, in the mail.) I'll need those extra couple of pennies slapped upon envelopes for the agents that prefer that sort of note. I appreciate agents who take email queries, but when push comes to shove, I'll happily print out letters, pages of a manuscript, all part and parcel of the business of writing.

Aha.... Big smile. The business of writing....

(Quick shudder...) Okay, so let's get to the nitty gritty of this post. It's only taken me ages and how many songs? Well, let me tell you...

Since This Song Has No Title, I've listened to:

Visions, Stevie Wonder (5.24)
Everything Merges With the Night, Brian Eno (4.00)
Dance With Me, Orleans (3.04)
Tiny Dancer, Elton John (6.17)

Now Heart, with Crazy On You. Already over 2 minutes into that tune, and maybe that's me, crazy. Insane for not utilizing all the means at my disposal to GET MY BOOK NOTICED.

Whew! Okay, that said, let me tell you a story...

Back in 1975, there wasn't an internet. No sir-ree, there wasn't. No cell phones either. Private lines existed, maybe even push button phones. All we ever had were rotary, where you stuck your finger in a hole, pulling the round dial back, letting it go. That click click click I can still hear, so ancient, but a clear memory. I even remember the very first phone number I ever had to memorize. I couldn't tell you my cell number to save my life, but those seven digits are like my heartbeat, numbers like birth dates, my grandmother's number too.

And you know what else? There were writers back in 1975, and none of them had a Facebook.

Not a single one. (She writes with no small huff...)

Here's the dinosaur in me coming, a T-Rex of a mama that just digs in her heels, stubborn as all get-out. I have taken much good advice from Rachelle Gardner's blog, and I'm sure I will continue to do so in the future. But as I don't agree with every single person I know, not even my blessedly beloved Bob, who sneakily added a Bob Dylan icon to my toolbar yesterday, (I owe him a Madonna icon, BIG TIME!) I'm still not going to sign up for Facebook.

Nope. Just not gonna do it...

A few weeks back I was reading about an author, one Richard Price, and while I can't recall the context now, it was something to do with writing (as you might expect). I popped his name into Google, and while he has a WIKI page, there was no website. No blog, certainly no Facebook listing. Maybe he has that, but it wasn't on Google. I went to his WIKI page, and sure enough, those big three weren't listed. No link to any of those seemingly required sites of the modern author, or any other job available.

I had never heard of his name, but certainly knew his screenplays. He has a fine career, but no website that I could track down, no blog, no Facebook. Only his work, predating those modern networking sites, his first novel from 1974.

The year before 1975. Hmmm....

Okay. Well, I think I'll put up an excerpt on Alvin's Farm, as this entry's as long as a novel, nearly. Obviously I had a lot to say on this subject. A lot previously unsaid, but now it's all here, on my BLOG. I blog, oh how I do blog. Maybe I blog enough that a Facebook wouldn't be missed. Or maybe it will be me being skipped over. Maybe.

But if this writing gig is meant to be more than just words in a blog or in documents stuck away in my computer, I sure know it's not only from me.

Like everything else in my life, far out of my measly hands... And if God thinks I need a Facebook, well, I'll deal with that bridge when I come to it.

bad television but only because it's gory

Bob's watching Kill Bill Volume 2, Jay's gone to her friend's house, and I've finished a look through of The Road Home. The sequel to Detours, it ends with a death, one that nearly makes me cry.

Well, let's be honest. I did. A love story that comes to end as things usually do when a couple are in the late seventies, one left behind...

Had to put headphones in, because Kill Bill is so loud, bloody and graphic. But such a well SHOT film; no matter what you think of Quentin Tarentino, if nothing else, that man knows HOW to film a movie.

Witty, quirky, so eloquently made, and even if it's as gory as all get-out, it's just so darn well crafted, the time and care taken with every single frame, I can't stop from looking over, as Jack White and Alicia Keys sing about Another Way To Die. However, the movie's on Spike, so there are commercials. Beatrix Kiddo has just done in Elle Driver, and is on her way to Mexico to see Bill's mentor, to ascertain Bill's whereabouts. The only bit I found not staying in continuity is Uma's hair, which right now is barely to her shoulders, choppy in the back. If I remember correctly (because this movie is on ALL THE TIME, one of Bob's faves) at the very end, when she's crying on the bathroom floor, her hair is long, well past her shoulders, one length.

Otherwise it's a beautifully made film (R.I.P. David Carradine) if not for the content.

It's the middle of the afternoon, and I finished this round of editing while Bob was on his walk. Now he's quite pooped, sitting watching TV, and the rest of our day will be a quiet one. He BBQ'ed yesterday, so dinner's a no-brainer, leftover city. Did laundry yesterday (so he'd have clean walking trousers) and with a slight breeze, doors open, it's a lazy summer day...

I did the editing while he was out, a good ninety-plus minutes, and as I cried, reading what I knew what was coming, it hit me, that in forty years (if we're so blessed) Bob and I will be looking at a similar issue, one leaving the other...

One of the reasons I wrote The Road Home was how much I loved the characters, April and Dylan, all their kids. A family that came to life a year ago, Detours written last July, and for NANO '08, I penned a second volume of that family, but did give them their own title. Unlike Kill Bill Volume 1, which begs for the story to continue, Detours can stand alone.

I may change my mind, if an editor tells me it needs a more aching ending, one seeking resolution. For now Detours ends as it does, The Road Home picking up thirteen years later...

Breaking into three parts, a summer in 2022, moving to autumn of 2035, finishing in spring of 2044. A trio of moments in the Geary/Gregory family, wrapping up a group that is a huge part of me, shadowed by a true story, one my aunt shared when Thea was just a baby.

And at the end, April and Dylan find time has found them, time when one leave the other. It's inevitable, just as is the final showdown between Beatrix and Bill. But so much animosity there, those characters full of angst and tremors, and of course, now Bill is dead...

Bill, David Carradine, however you want to look at it. Death comes, real and fictional, and even when I KNOW how it ends, writing it myself, I still cried.

Truthfully, between you and me, I hope I go first. Not exactly looking forward to that day, and if I had a choice (which I know I don't) I'd rather not be left behind...

Seeing it's not up to me, well, what comes is what we get. At least with April and Dylan, there is resolution. One stands solitary, but is never truly alone.

changes

Been thinking about this since, oh, last night.

Like usual, just springing up all over the place, alterations emerging between editing, a chapter break in The Road Home allowing for a few minutes of idle time...

But the blog's been the same for AGES, and with my recent change of heart as to just what I'm doing, maybe it was a good opportunity to switch a few other things too.

Not querying, not actually seeking an agent, only writing, and maybe that deserves a new look. I started this blog to chronicle how a manuscript goes from a Word document to a novel. Now I'm going to explore how that translates to an author sort of going backwards. Like I need to reach far inside, see just what this is, what life beyond kids at home means, Jay with more year, this her last summer at home. I married Bob, got pregnant, then it was kids. Family, my family, one we made. I was only 22 years old...

Now the last one stands on the threshold, more over than inside, and in 12 months she'll be graduated, ready for her life.

Bob still has his employment, but my job, in flux. Over the last year and a half, well, two really. For two years it's been living here in California, stepping back in my native land, shoes that when I departed with only Thea in tow, I was feeling my way into motherhood. I was 23, that was twenty years ago.

Two decades! I moved from my hometown to the Bay Area, and while we lived here for another two years, Bud born in this very valley, that was the line. Leaving home, baby in arms, no clue as to what was coming.

Ages of time, but so quick in coming, so fast in passing, for my youngest is nearly gone. Words have flown, more than I would think possible. Words coming like rain, turning into one published novel, but like motherhood, it happened so quickly, before I knew what in the world I was doing.

Kids are fine, Drop the Gauntlet okay too. Maybe it takes less time with novels, knowing what one is doing. Or maybe not. With kids, you learn as you go, flying by the seat of one's trousers, hoping it's okay, but sheer youth helps, because, at least for me, I didn't know any better.

Didn't know to be scared, unsure, just forging ahead somewhat blindly. Lucky, blessed really, to have a great guy at my side, Bob as new to it all as I was, but the engineer in him sharper, more objective. I'm only now feeling like I know what I'm doing.

And wouldn't you know it, they're almost gone!

Why I'm pulling the brakes up with querying, need a minute to catch my breath. That was even before cancer and migraines and new babies moved in. And while the words are still flooding my soul (the sequel to Alvin's Farm will be scribbled in July) there is a sense, one I CANNOT deny, of slowing down, stepping back. Is it Jay's last year at home? Thea's hospitalization? A loved one's battle with illness? Me finally getting a CLUE? Before I didn't listen so well. Mired in crisis-mode, everything had to happen NOW, at a breakneck pace. I had three kids in four years, moving to the UK on my thirtieth birthday, where I was forced to sit back, literally kept in a quiet place, the lovely landscape where I learned to take each day for all it was.

Boy, did I chafe at that!!

Now, having returned to my home state, instantaneous America, writing hitting like a ton of bricks, slapping me up the head, I almost feel like I'm flogging a dead horse.

Or sucking back an empty cuppa. But it's getting more clear, even on this cloudy day. A friend in the UK Skyped early this AM, said it was pouring buckets.

No rain here, but some buckets are falling on me, buckets of notions, telling me not to worry, telling me when to eat a bagel.

Soon, cause it is already ten to eleven. Nearly coming on lunchtime. Bagel, cream cheese, that's not changed.

And all the other stuff I usually do too. Laundry never disappears, nor is the teacup rarely empty.

But the blog is altering, the reason for it somewhat too. Right now I'm not trying to publish, just going to write, figure out what happens next in my life.

If an agent knocks on my door, don't fret. I'll invite them in, pour another cup of tea.

In the meantime... More blah blah blah than you can shake a stick at! That too stays the same...

cue Bon Jovi, Wanted Dead or Alive...

back on the chain gang

I'm home. Thea's been deposited, has aspirin, acetaminophen, caffeine. If she has another migraine, she's ready...

I had time with my kids, parents, sister and BIL. And of course, frozen yogurt, even a mocha chip shake... It was a good break!

Not even getting to mornings at my fave coffee house... Fruit and walnut bran muffin along with a de-lish latte and editing... It felt so decadent! Even slept pretty well, but I'm glad to be home with Bob and Jay. He's watching Repo Man, she's studying for her last final, math... I'm glad he was able to jump-start my aging iPod, which decided not to work on the drive home. It's from 2004, and if I can see it through September, I'll be thrilled. Especially since my laptop's been...

Dodgy. Not wanting to shut down, throwing a hissy today when I tried to open a Word document. We're wondering if last month's breakdown was indicative of bigger problems. It's limping along, as is the iPod, and it will be a matter of seeing which one holds out the longest.

But at least loved ones are in one piece.

So, there's my story. Not too exciting, which is just how I like it. Let the guys in Repo Man have all the action. I'm happy to just chill out, maybe eat a chocolate chip cookie, some ice cream on the side.

Back to work tomorrow; editing The Road Home, so far so good. Plus there's two days of housework to sort, linens to wash. Jay ran the dishwasher while I was gone, but the things a mum sees, more than her eyes catch. Which is fine. Then, it's officially summertime, and after the angst of spring, I'm hoping for a long, lazy, QUIET season...

we're all home...

First, I just want to extend such thanks and appreciation to all who have commented and emailed. Your prayers and support have meant so much, and to be able to yak all this and receive such warmth and care was so touching. Again, thank you all from the bottom of my heart!

So... Thea had a complex migraine. That has to be it, because every other test (seemed they did all under the sun) came up normal. Her brain and heart, perfect. Nothing odd from the lumbar puncture, CT scans clear except for one small bone spur that isn't impinging on her spinal cord. The neurosurgeon, who called her migraine hemiplegic, didn't think that needed to be addressed, unless at a later time she notices pain/weakness on one side. He even drew us a picture on Friday night, the only abnormality she seems to possess...

Except now for a penchant towards migraines, hearty little suckers at that.

big Huge SIGH.... She's fine, just fine...

The last two days have been strange, in so many ways. My life, usually quiet, has known crises in the past, plenty of them; maybe why my writing is so angsty, I know it well. But nowadays it's staggered, much time between issues arising, and that is GREAT! This last week, good, bad and just plain ugly coming withing 10 days, good grief! I don't do that concentrated crap so well anymore. And to be completely honest, nothing in my life, not even losing my brother, NOTHING has ever scared me as much as being told my daughter might have had a stroke.

Nothing...

Was it the sheer helplessness, or the deeper knowledge of what it would have meant to her... Something so physically debilitating, the mind fully aware of what faculties have been compromised...

But she's fine. Just fine. A sweep of equipment over her skull, down her throat, examining and probing, revealing all is well. She's fine. Fine. What a strange word. Fine, as in not damaged. Not faulty. Not harmed or hurt, aching or broken. Fine. Like china, so precious and fragile and fine.

Bones and brain, heart and arteries, all fine.

She starts her last two GE classes on Tuesday, and we'll head north tomorrow. I'll spend a few nights, just to make sure. She wasn't exactly thrilled by that (however Bud was, his relieved voice expressing joy that it wasn't all going to immediately fall on HIS head!). But I am her mum, and with Jay down to the last days of school, I can take a couple of days and confirm all is fine, see some loved ones too, still issues hanging out there. But this one, so swift in coming, yet after procedures and prodding, poking and pricks, Thea only had a migraine. A WHOPPER of one, auras and everything, but manageable. She won't be able to drink (doesn't anyway, no drugs either, and I could swear that neurologist wanted to roll his eyes at us, when asking, time after time, if she imbibed...), will have to avoid chocolate and birth control pills (although something Bob printed off the internet said BC pills are sometimes used for migraines... Hmm... Will have to investigate) but otherwise, just watch for those auras... No auras please!!

And now, I have laundry to check. Yes, I'm back home, and all is well....

too many titles

I could call this Another Nearly All Nighter...

or As My Angsty World Turns...

Or More Hospitals Than I Can Count...

but maybe we'll just leave it as, ala Guv Arnie...

I Need a Vacation...

Where to start? I don't even know where to begin. Is it when Thea first told me of her headache, last night around 7.30 PM...

Or when she was sitting on the floor by loo, looking awful...

Maybe when her hands were trembling uncontrollably, there by the toilet...

Perhaps when her mouth and tongue went numb, in that same bathroom or in the car, on the way to the ER when she couldn't feel her forearms.

Oh, I know... It was when the neurologist said that since nothing had turned up on the two CT scans it was probably her brain stem; perhaps she'd suffered a stroke.

Yeah. Over the last twenty-four hours, this is my life...

I wish I was making this up, but words like trans-cranial doppler, TEE (a test she has tomorrow where they numb her throat and put a tube down her esophagus to look at her heart), or lumbar puncture, which she had last night, as they tried to figure out why a headache had morphed into numb limbs, trembling hands, and most worrying, a loss of speech.

My witty, articulate eldest daughter couldn't find her words...

Why I went to bed at 2.30 AM this morning alone, in fear. Had she really suffered a stroke?

I kid you not, no way in the WORLD I could make up this stuff . Thea was admitted into the trauma unit of our nearby hospital due to her massive headache, frightening symptoms and a following nausea that saw her lose dinner all over the blanket after her first CT scan.

Tacos and Blondies aren't pleasant several hours later, but she was so out of it, her hands still not right, she didn't seem to mind.

This is scattered, but then, my life lately has been too. I know my tears came upon mention of a stroke not only due to the horrifying notion my gabby, intelligent twenty-year-old might have lost her power of speech. Something that would kill her, I knew, crying in the cubicle, Bob so close. He took me home, once we knew she was out (and from the drugs they gave her, she was REALLY OUT!).

Took me home, returning to stay with her, as more pokes and prods occurred, but as she said later, no memory of it.

She did recall the spinal tap (fluid was clear), how that hurt. She recalled the initial CT scan, still sick to her stomach, a headache on and off. She remembered getting that last, good shot of meds, because within seconds she felt it, said so. Her speech was still slow, but her face, slightly aware something had changed.

Something that at least would ease her pain.

This sucks. I mean, totally bites. And she's twenty years old! Not a baby, not a little one, but still MY BABY, my first born, my little girl who was fine all day, then attacked by a migraine, as nothing has shown up on any scans, MRI's, heart checks. There seems to be no other reason for this visit to hospital.

Which is GREAT! I mean, a stroke? Encephalitis or meningitis? TRA? (like a stroke, but leaves no tissue damage) PFO? (upper chamber heart trouble affecting young women) no, No, NO!!! No obvious reason for these last hours of my life, and if it means accepting it was a one-off miserable migraine, and she has no other outbreaks...

Well, okay. I'll do it. Because to think one's child has been afflicted permanently with some anguishing malady really...

Makes me cry...

Only an hour and a half of sleep did I get, cold, alone in bed, as we got in at 2 AM, windows left open. We had left before 9 PM, with Thea weak and shaky, having no idea how long we'd be there. I got into bed, as Bob went back to the trauma unit, and all I could think about was a stroke.

My baby might have had a stroke.

Perhaps she had an infection, but maybe... Maybe it was worse. I woke before 5 AM, unable to return to sleep. Knowing Bob was there, but not aware what had happened, I finally rose, got a shower, then found two texts from my hubby.

One was that she was still in the ER, hadn't been moved to ICU.

The other was they had started an antibiotic, in case that was the problem. Bob never texts, but for that situation, he'd figured it out.

I left even before Jay was off for school, the MRI my focus. They couldn't do it overnight, but first thing, thereabouts, she'd get her brain stem examined.

Bob was awake, and Thea asleep. Well asleep, and she would be zonked through most of the MRI. Bob went home, catching some ZZZ's while that took place, and I was alone in the three-bed trauma unit, a separate section of the ER. I sat in there, made notes for a story idea, wrote a note to Bob, which I still need to give to him. All day it was the two of us, back and forth, spelling the other, because once he returned, me to the house for lunch, Thea was moved to a regular room. With no real cause, the MRI showing all was clear and normal, her words having returned, condition stabilized, she was sent to a normal ward.

Cause for rejoice! But still, no answers...

She could talk, elucidate her ideas, thoughts, notions. Before she couldn't find those nuances, unable to put words to the pictures in her brain. Never before occurring, it scared us all, thoroughly.

And by tonight, she was still yakking. I left at 7, once she'd eaten, with one more test tomorrow. I'd love to have her home this evening, but with the IV necessary for that throat-gagging procedure, we said goodnight to her, and will see her bright and early for one more chance to figure out this dilemma.

I know this has nothing to do with writing, yet, it does. Because with all that's been swirling about, loved ones arriving, struggling, and now Thea! I'm toast, burnt and dry, only wanting my life returned. Bob's sandwiches, Jay to school, laundry, writing, repeat. That's me, angst in my work, real life plain, boring.

But not lately. More hoo haa than I want, but we don't get a choice. We get sick kids and ill beloved, new babies and no querying. I KNEW there was a reason I was putting that on the back burner...

Too much else to sort. I had edited Detours yesterday, with 30 pages remaining. I was going to complete that last bit today. Instead I sat in a hospital, two different areas, getting some research sorted (always novel fodder somewhere...). But mostly hoping, praying, waiting for news that my daughter was ok. So far, she is.

But no editing, only family. Only sitting, watching my child, seeing her cry, then resting peacefully. Wiping her tears, then hearing her words. Flowing, clever vocabulary that seemed impossible hours previous. Texting and emailing, calling and talking. Talking with Jay and Bud, one in my kitchen, the other at his place, letting them know their big sister was okay.

No time for fiction. Right now, it's factual, my life and this blog, both.

a letter to Sarah

Sarah, my daughter has been watching Tyra since we lived in Britain... but if I can see an entire series in one shot, I am THERE!! :)))

having read that article, I'm giving myself some leeway... after reaching the semis in the contest, I started to feel like a lame duck for not immediately writing about 100 query letters... going to spend the rest of the year working on manuscripts, sending out the occasional query when the mood strikes. this author really gave me a new lease on my writing, having been surrounded by folks who are DYING to get published.

maybe having a book satisfies my urge, or maybe it was being steeped in the 'real' world (or as real as a fledgling writer can get). those ABNA folks are at a level that while I feel comfortable being among them, there is just this THING within me, hedging. not sure exactly what it is, but at least Kate Atkinson makes me feel not so odd that it's not only about being published, famous, accolades falling from trees...

I just ate an entire piece of chocolate bread pudding... maybe I'm feeling indulged not only by Tyra... :)))

the more I write, the less it seems to matter about agents, publishers, selling the book I've written. it doesn't make a lot of sense (I blame Tyra or Miss J!) but if a Whitbread winner can feel that way, if JD Salinger can hoard a ton of manuscripts, maybe being known, lauded (or heavily slammed, that's part of it too...) maybe that's not the bottom line.

or maybe monkeys are gonna fly outta my....

thanks for hearing my bread pudding induced ramblings! hubby's watching old DS9 episodes, girls are in a klatch, and I'm as full as a tick. keep writing, for YOU!!! that's the most important thing. whatever comes will come. but if the writing sits within our heads, published or not, it will only sit there. better to get it out, not worrying as to the result...

Sarah at Everyday Inklings left a comment on yesterday's post, to which I answered briefly via email, but what I had actually written was the above. Yet, it seemed like a LOT, and I sent only a small reply, telling her I had written more, if she wanted to see.

She did, so I sent her the above, and with her kind permission, I'm reprinting it here. Because as I wrote it, I realized it wasn't only a letter to Sarah, but an answer to myself.

Kate Atkinson's wish to not publish has really resonated with me. So much so that I'm not going to query much this year, instead focus on the writing. As I went to bed that night, I had to chat about this with Bob; we'd decided a year ago, seeing Bud off to college, one child left in the house, that I would spend the rest of Jay's high school career trying to build one of my own, and then...

Well, then all bets were off. We'd have three kids in college, and perhaps it would be time for me to seek some sort of outside, PAYING employment. No problem, I thought.

Until suddenly writing became all consuming, in that writing, editing, poking and plotting really turned into a 9-5 sort of job. The 'work', and while I've changed the hours (more like 7-4 or 8-5, depending on when things get rolling in the mornings), I really approach writing as a vocation. As he turned off the light, I had to ask, need to confirm this feeling of setting aside the idea of getting published was, well, amenable to the spouse (read breadwinner).

I mean, I'd sure rather be paid for writing that working in Target or the equivalent, but you know, university fees don't grow on trees, and Jay graduates in a year. One year...

To my great joy (and slight surprise, that man, always keeping me on my toes) he completely agreed!

Which made me cry; even though I known him for coming on 22 years, still he has the capability to known more me, far deeper than I imagine, or maybe even more than I know myself.

As usual, he put it in a music analogy, comparing writing to a musician getting burned out by the business end; how many artists have been chewed up and spat on the ground by record companies looking at the bottom line, not the person in front of them...

He wasn't looking forward to the whole querying process (maybe because I do get his opinion on letters), and as I just tried to comprehend his understanding of me, of the situation, he continued, only wanting me to focus on the craft, improving my skills, polishing manuscripts. ABNA seemed to have resonated with him too, a small proof that maybe I'm onto something with this whole writing gig.

But instead of capitalizing on the moment, which seems the most logical thing to do, I'm going to pull back on that aspect of things. (of course you know I'm NOT the most logical sort...)

I'm probably not at all conveying what this really means to me. But it's a lot. Deep, like the ocean, and I feel freed, understood, able to step back, see just exactly what is going on here.

Not that I am against being published, not at all. But right now, it's like a tide has turned, and I'm not sure of the direction, except that extensive querying is not it. I mean, I'm not expecting an agent to fall from heaven. Let's get that straight.

But as S.E. Hinton told Nathan Bransford, when God sent her an agent, she had the book ready. What I'm going to do, besides eating some chocolate bread pudding. And trying to avoid another overdose of America's Next Top Model... (research, it was all about the research, I promise!!)

epiphanies and indulgences

so after an up and down last week, I spent Saturday, all DAY Saturday indulged by my family,

and I mean INDULGED... I watched series 11 of America's Next Top Model...

Jay started it, turning it on, then leaving, with Bob and Thea, to have lunch. I had already eaten a bagel, and had housework, entrapped by a show that normally I wouldn't view.

two reasons I did; one, I really needed something mindless. two, I am a SUCKER for a competition.

when Jay was home sick a few months back, we watched most of series 10, episode after episode, until Whitney was crowned. this series had a few interesting characters, but it wasn't only that.

and it certainly wasn't Tyra...

and I HOPE I can pass it off as research one day, writing about the lives of models, or models in the making. yeah, that's it!

as for the epiphany... this was a great link posted by Mary Walters in one of the ABNA threads today. author Kate Atkinson would prefer to NOT be published, if she had her rathers...

it's short, please give it a look. gave me much food for thought, in that, yeah, what if I could just write, and NOT have my work savaged by critics...

hmmm... I pondered this as I edited, clearing a bit of deadwood from Detours, my activity for the next week or so. writing but not wanting to be published. hmmm...

edit edit ponder ponder... get up, make another cup of tea, edit some more, ponder some more. check email, comment on ABNA thread, edit, ponder, drink tea, edit, ponder, use the loo, ponder, edit, close out document, wake Thea.

eat a bagel and some cornbread, carrots and dip, drink more tea, chat with Thea, ponder, finish lunch, drive to the store and chat with Thea about what I've been pondering.

writing, but not wanting to be published.

Thea gave some obligatory uh-huh's, so nice of her. but it's still with me, as she fries up the mince for tomorrow's lasagna. making the sauce today, then off to meet with Bob for dinner, having dropped off his car at the garage. we'll have no wheels tomorrow, maybe for a few days, so lasagna will be tomorrow's supper, should last for Wednesday too. I have plenty of tea, milk and bagels to last, if Thea and I are shut-in, and plenty of time to ponder this idea...

what if you wrote, but never published?

Mary Walters' thread is all about this idea, would you write if NO ONE read it?

like would a model go down the runway if no one was watching? would a designer make clothes if no one would wear them?

should I keep tapping on the keyboard if no one would ever devour my stories?

and I wrote... well, if you check out the thread, go to the next page, scroll down, you can see my answer. basically, yeah, I would keep writing. like asking Mr. Owl how many licks does to take to get to the center of a tootsie pop...

we'll never REALLY know, but I imagine, at least until I run out of ideas, I'll keep plugging away.

and if the day ever comes when I have to make that decision, to stop wanting to be published, well....

maybe that will be the day when all I DO is sit and watch America's Next Top Model.

a scary, hopefully never to come day indeed....