Thanks, kid--I needed that

M: Hey look, my cup was empty before, and now it has water in it. It's magic!
Me: Hmm. Who do you think might have noticed that your cup was empty and filled it up so that you'd have water when you were thirsty?
M: Um... you?
Me: Maybe. You think that's in my job description to notice when your cup needs water and refill it?
M: (Laughs and shakes his head) No, Mommy. Your job is to write books.

Yes, well, among other things. But it's nice to know that even the little people have my back.

Breaching the Wall

This past weekend was the 2010 SDSU Writer's Conference. It's basically a chance to spent a boatload of money to sit indoors, hear conflicting information about vital one-shot things like pitches and queries, and breathlessly throw out what you hope are key details about your project to any agent willing to listen.

Ahem.

I went into the weekend in a foul mood. The days leading up seemed to be a train wreck of kids not sleeping, colds, house inspections, etc. I found myself on Thursday afternoon making homemade pasta sauce (must. use. up. frozen. tomatoes), washing dishes and doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms and building a train out of Legos. Did I mention I was also recovering from pneumonia? Yeah, really, like heavy duty antibiotic pneumonia. After trying to eat--did I mention that the heavy duty antibiotic absolutely killed my appetite?--and getting the kids in bed, I started working on that manuscript that I promised myself would be complete by the conference. At 2am, I finally finished.

I also hit a wall. It's been a year since I published this essay, almost a year since I started writing a novel that would resurrect my life as a writer. And I did it. I squeezed every last drop of time I could with energy I didn't know I had, and I produced something of which I'm very proud. Not only that, but I felt connected with my writer self, fired up in a way that I honestly have never felt. And at 2am, it hit me: this is how it gets done. By staying up late, by squeezing hard, by somehow dividing my single self into two. They're full time jobs--parenting and writing--and I've done them fully. At the same time. And insanity ensued!

Okay, not insanity. But I hit that wall and thought: I am tired. I do not want to do this any more. Granted, the pneumonia didn't help. But I was tired of feeling like I had too much to do and not enough time. I was tired of not enjoying a moment's of rest. I was tired of cramming so much into that little hour I had so that I was cranky on either end. I was tired of doing all this for something that I didn't have to do. Why not just one job at a time?

But I'm on a roll. I've ignited something within myself that is difficult to ignore, and almost impossible to walk away from. Will it be there if I wait? Oh sure, probably. But do I want to wait, with two manuscripts now? I've made it so far--super-humanly far--that I'm torn between wanting to be realistic, and wanting not to give up on myself.

So I found a door. I guess that's what you do when you have a wall. I went to bed and I went to the conference and I groped along all those little chinks in the brick before me until I found a way to get through. It was tough--overwhelming, tear-inducing--trying to push myself forward in the midst of so much conflicting information. But I reached the other side with enough brain power left to assimilate most of what I learned and put it to good use.

That's where I am now. Not a good place, maybe, but it's less pneumonia-ish, and there's no wall. Just more rocky path, hard hills, long distance. Everyone has a journey. I've come to know this as mine.

Omens abound

As a writer, there are some people that I admire more than others. Of course, almost everybody has their favorites. F. Scott Fitzgerald is one of mine. I love The Great Gatsby, as many people do, but I really love his short stories. Much of this is probably because he writes very good ones and I, alas, do not. "The Diamond as Big as the Ritz" is perhaps my top pick. So because I love Fitzgerald, and because I took a course on him in college, I have a fat collection of his short stories around. When I finished the movie version of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,"* I immediately picked up that collection and read the original story. For the record, it's nothing like the movie, but much funnier and less sentimental.

What caught me, in this story, was a single line, one that reminded me why I find him such a fine writer to begin with.

"Never a party of any kind in the city of Baltimore but he was there, dancing with the prettiest of the young married women, chatting with the most popular of the debutantes, and finding their company charming, while his wife, a dowager of evil omen, sat among the chaperons, now in haughty disapproval, and now following him with solemn, puzzled, and reproachful eyes."

"A dowager of evil omen": That's a tiny snip of a fat line that crackles with perfection. It even sounds just like it means. I read things like this and admire, ponder, and sigh, hoping only that one day I can come up with a line that's just that smart, even if I'm prepared to never be on par with Fitzgerald himself.

*Yes, that movie came out forever ago. To be honest, that collection of stories has sat on my desk for maybe six months waiting for me to write this blog post and then put it away. I figured it was now or never, since it will shortly be packed with all my other belongings and moved to the new house. But more on that later...

Happy 2010!

Here's to a fantastic new day, new year, and new decade! The past ten years have been huge for our family--happy moments and sad losses, three houses, four degrees, two children, two nephews, and more countries than I have fingers. Blessings big and small make me realize that there is no bad time, just times that are better than others, and things to be learned--always.

I looked back at my 2009 post, absolutely thrilled to find that I made good progress on all of them, especially the writing. My friend told me kindly, upon reading that post, that I was already a writer. Maybe so, but I managed to prove it to myself, my own worst critic. So this year, I'm going to finish that novel and write another one. I'm going to learn to control my temper, practice really believing in God, and teach M how to ride a bike without training wheels. I'm going to make boeuf bourguignon at least once (thanks, "Julie & Julia").

I'm also letting go of the last day on earth mentality, looking more to enjoy every day as it is in all its glory. Going back to the life abundant attitude, I suppose, where it's more about the sum of all the little things than the big moments you might never create/enjoy to satisfaction.

What about you? I'm not much of a resolution girl, as seen by the fact that I'd utterly forgotten what I'd posted last year, but I do think it's a great time to think about where you are and where you want to be. It's a long road, and there's no time like the present to take the first step.

Back to the Rejection Board

I got the nicest rejection letter the other day from Alligator Juniper, a literary magazine out of Prescott College. I'd submitted a story a few months ago for a contest, one of those on-a-whim moments when I had a few minutes in magical conjunction with an advert for the contest. Just below the standard, typewritten response was a long, handwritten paragraph from one of the fiction staffers telling me several things that they absolutely loved about my piece. Of course, they still weren't going to publish it.

Um, as much as my ego loves stroking--let's be honest, no matter how they say it, it's not called a rejection letter for nothing--I'm left holding this little piece of paper wondering how exactly that's supposed to help me. I mean, kudos for the plug, but seriously, if I didn't think it was good, I wouldn't have sent it to you. The most frustrating thing is that this same story came back with a rejection letter from a different magazine last year with a similar handwritten note. That one went so far as to assure me that I would surely get that story published. It was just going to have to be somewhere else. Good thing I'm all pumped up on peppermint mochas and holiday cheer, or else I might feel just a wee bit dejected.

What, you're out of virtual jeans too?

I spent a significant time before I started this post simply trying to find the last post I did about jean shopping. Because I know there was one--I remember it being especially witty, as I remember most things I write until I actually read them again. At any rate, I'm jean shopping again, much to my disgruntlement. One pair fits in the waist, but not the legs. One pair fits in the legs but has the wrong cut, one pair would fit in a smaller size (which they do not have in stock), etc. I hate jean shopping, but my beloved favorite jeans are about worn to pieces (not to mention nearly white-washed and baggy like, well, super old denim). So I'm on the hunt, again, only this time I have two children who love to come in the dressing room and give me their opinion. They're not particularly helpful ("Mom, those look perfect" "Um, I can't get them buttoned" "Oh. But you should get them anyway"), but they do make for cheerful distraction.

Speaking of distraction, I really do not need to be jean shopping right now, with holiday shopping to finish, a baby shower cake to make, gingerbread houses to construct, and a novel to rewrite*. Or maybe that's why I'm jean shopping instead.

By the by, if you do happen to find that missing jeans post, please let me know. My mind might be hiding right there with it.

*Did I mention rewrite? Oh yes, because it would be too easy to just line edit and move on. How about we chuck the whole first half and reorganize the second? Shall we change and/or eliminate characters, too? I think we shall! What fun it is to carve up something that seems to be melting away under my very keystrokes!

In other news...

It's finished, as much as a first draft can ever be considered finished. 136, 699 words over 464 pages, collected in little snippets here and there from March 30th until today. It's a testament to God, to the endurance He gives us and the truth that He will never ask too much--even if, for so long, I believed that writing a novel while staying home with two kids was absolutely too much. Eight months later, I'm convinced once again that He was right and I was wrong. You'd think we'd learn not to doubt these things, but hey, I got a novel out of it, didn't I? And now the real work begins...

You're kidding, right?

All those books published in 2009, all those many many books, and you at Publisher's Weekly produce a top ten list comprised entirely of male authors. I'm not even touching the equally bothersome point that they're also white. Seriously? Seriously? Let's just be logical: fifty percent of the population is female. Dude, in case you're as bad at math as you are at reading, that's half. If you can't give up five, then three, or two, or even one. You're telling me that no woman wrote a book you consider a top tier read? Seriously???

As an English Literature major, I'm familiar with the traditionally white male domination of the literary canon. But I like to think that we're moving past that, that we're realizing that good literature comes in many forms, and that only through the wide and eclectic breadth of authors can it fully touch the wide and eclectic world population. PWs list represents a rebuttal to the promise of a new book-view.

I have a son and I have a daughter, and I am a writer. I would like to tell them both that the world is fair, that if they choose to follow in my footsteps the doors will be open on both sides, the paths equally rocky and trying. And I will tell them that, because having that hope is sometimes what it takes to keep moving forward, word by word and page by page. But in the end, I realize that in more ways than I know, life is not fair. Thanks, PW. I secretly hope that the angel watching over you is a big black woman, and that she's as pissed as I am.

Are you pissed too? Then check out She Writes. They're calling for action, and although the "day" is nearly over, don't let that stop you. Buy a book by a woman--I just bought Beth Moore's Breaking Free to help me build my faith, but I've also got Dead Until Dark by Charlaine Harris on my bedside table. Hey, woman have a lot of different sides, you know. Post something on your blog, or Facebook, or your front door. Take a stand for women writers, and for the little women who are following in our footsteps.

Literary Mama Magic

Voila! I come home one day and magically have another publication to my credit!

Okay, that's not quite true. Lots of work involved, but all completed some time ago, and mostly forgotten in the daily hustle and bustle that followed. So it does feel like a little like magic.

For those who are curious, this is indeed the story that was a bit too bleak for another publication. And no, it didn't really change much in the bleakness factor. See what you think. I for one thought it was a tough, honest look at a tough situation, one which I can relate to. If it turns out no other moms can, well, perhaps I'm in the wrong line of work.

Mamaphon-tastic

If you have a moment to spare, please check out Mamaphonic. Or, if you're really in a hurry, try here. Mamaphonic is a fabulous zine all on its own right, but I'm a tad more blushingly fond of it right now. And fond too my faithful writing mamas who gave me the little boosts I needed to get there and never took "I don't know" for the answer.

Raining acceptance

Really fantastic to get an essay picked up by an online zine. Not really fantastic to get the same essay picked up by two online zines. But I got to write my first retraction email. Twice.

Bleak is the new black

Hi Diana:
Thank you for submitting to [unnamed literary magazine]. Unfortunately, we're going to pass on this as it's a little too bleak for us. Please feel welcome to submit again in the future, though.
Best,
[unnamed literary magazine editor]
Editor-in-Chief

But he read it! I know that, because it was bleak, just a little. But hey, the kid didn't actually die in the end. Alright, maybe I should get some more sunshine. Or just pick a literary magazine that doesn't.

Silence is overrated

It would be a whole lot easier to work on writing if the boy wasn't using his monitor as a talkie-talkie instead of taking his nap.

Also, when the boy wanders out from said (nonexistent) nap and you promptly pick him up, return him to his room, and tell him that he needs to stay in that room without waking up his sister or he will feel your wrath--to which he bursts out laughing--you will begin to suspect that you (A) are not going to actually get any writing done today and (B) seriously lack cred.

At least he was laughing with you and not at you, right? And who said parenting was easy? And what's cred really worth anyway? Ah, little things, little things...

Happy 2009!

New year, new colors, same vague feeling of dissatisfaction. But only with the colors. And the title. And the layout. Paltry things, all told.

On the up side, I'm happily welcoming the new year with a vigor I usually never experience. 2009! I have so much to look forward to that my little fingers twitter in anticipation: K potty training (and the corresponding smaller, cuter purse I've had my eye on), our ten year anniversary (and the corresponding, ever more fantastic than a cute purse trip to Belize), more play dates, more swimming, a four-year-old's birthday (!). Another defrosting spring and warm dry summer, another crisp fall to arrive when the change will once again be freshly exciting.

I believe I will make myself into a writer this year. I believe I will let go of the past, or at least a few troublesome pieces. I believe I will fail at parenting and forgive myself anyway. I believe I will mend existing relationships and tend budding new ones. I believe I will learn a million new things that I don't know now, yet always needed.

I'm also walking around with the sinking suspicion that each day will be my last, because honestly, isn't this what every endearing heroine says right before the piano falls smack on her head? But at least now you will all know I died happy! Painfully conscious of the irony, yes, but happy too!

30 Days Notice: A Clarification

Upon reading my last post, my husband suggested that perhaps I should clarify that I don't have multiple personalities. I'm not sure that the person with the possible multiple personality disorder has a whole lot of credible in such an assertion, but I certainly don't think I'm mentally ill. I just think I'm a writer, which, some might argue, isn't exactly so different.

What I mean is that I am a writer, have always been one, and am therefore always writing in my head. It's something I've done since I was very little and actually wrote aloud, meaning that I would narrate elaborate stories as I played with my toys. I know that many children do this, but from what I've learned, I did/do it to an extreme. Everything is a narrative, a dialogue, a scene in itself or one step in a very long sequence. I blog in my head, write emails to friends, edit long-abandoned stories.

So really, in retrospect, I have a zillion personalities. They're restless, since the two kids have put a halt to almost all writing, and therefore more vocal, assertive, and otherwise annoying, but I really wouldn't want it any other way. They are the characters yet to be, and the fact that they're still there gives me hope that one day they will find their way onto paper.

Or maybe I really am crazy. What is it they say? Ignorance is bliss? Hmm...