so what's in your cart?

Okay, I'll admit it. I peek in people's grocery carts when I'm standing in line waiting to check out. At least until I get close enough so I can read a copy of National Enquirer or something else of equal literary status. (actually got in a discussion last week with the man behind me - initiated by him about Rachael Ray's current weight status. We both agreed that we all have bad days and luckily the papparazzi didn't hover around us in Kroger's waiting to see us put two apple fritters in a bag)

But back to the carts. I can't help myself. I always look and I always wonder. I mean seriously, twelve cans of cat food and a box of twinkies? What does this tell me? Do I want to know?

Figured today, I'd wonder about myself for ya. Giant sized Quaker Oatmeal, a bottle of calcium pills, a twelve pack of Coke Zero, twenty four pack of Ozarka water bottles, a birthday card, box of Cheerios, three for a buck Hershey dark chocolate bars, and the People mag with Lindsay Lohan (poor Linds!) on the cover.

Tis a sad commentary, I would say. Sad, sad, sad. I feel much boring shame from this cart.

But the real question is - will the benefits of the oatmeal and the calcium outweigh the dangers of the carmel coloring in the coke? Or the toxic effects of looking at Lindsay's mug shot?

Til next time...

What I write

I'm transitioning today between revision work - sent off again at last - and digging back into a new project. Excited to move ahead. Hoping I can stay moving ahead. (Butt in chair... butt in chair...)

My brain has also -reluctantly - shifted to planning ahead for school. Thought I'd ignore it a little while longer, but the email from my department chair with five (5!!) attached, detailed documents to peruse kind of screwed up that idea. Hard to play ostrich when you've been sent a list of your meeting dates through May, your schedule, your rosters and all the rest of it. Our computerized rosters even now include pictures of the kids, so I can't even just imagine what Amos Snickerdoodle might look like. Now I know for sure. (for those whose sense of humor was removed at birth - although why you are reading this blog I would have no idea - Amos is not a real person. He is not in one of my classes. You do not need to unleash some rant wherein you relive all the baggage of your school days and dump it unceremoniously on my little head)

But speaking of poor, fictional Amos Snickerdoodle - truth is, I think of him when I write. And I think of my reality. And my kid's. And everyone else's, for that matter. Truth is, as they say, always stranger than fiction. And crucial to good writing.

And really crucial because I write for teenagers. And there are few more accurate BS meters in the world than teens. They deserve - okay, we all deserve - characters with a real core, dialogue that sounds like real people talking, a plot with some meat on it, and something solid underneath to chew on. What's this story all about? What do I really believe?

Speaking of which - since it's Monday and perhaps I need reminding -

I would like: My women characters to be strong. My characters' choices to be difficult. My readers to come away knowing that I think that everyone is capable of making the wrong choice. We can hurt the people we love. Even good people can do this. And that the consequences of those choices are the only way we grow. That goes for my villains as well as my heroes.

But for now, I need to put that butt in the chair.

Til next time...

If William Shatner says it's true...

There are two types of people in this world: those who enjoy the gamble of the unknown inherent in booking hotel rooms on Priceline and those who think - well, not so much.

Husband is in first category. He who loves poker, gets slot machines to do his bidding and who lives by the motto of Michael J. Fox's character in American President - "all plans are soft til 30 minutes before the event."

I on the other hand, hate poker, can stuff 20 bucks in a slot machine and never see a winning spin, and like to plan ahead like it's D Day coming. Priceline makes me itch.

Don't get me wrong - if I'm somewhere far flung or exotic, I'm happy to go with the flow. Stay where I can. Whatever.

But if I'm on a business trip or at a conference and I've worked all day, I DO NOT want the directions to my hotel to read "Turn right after the Greyhound Bus station." (no offense meant, but this does not bode best neighborhood possible. It just doesn't)

All that aside, had a mostly enjoyable time traveling with Mr. Priceline for the past few days. Even if I am now convinced that Sirius radio is no less repetitive than the regular stations.

In any case, we're both geeky enough to really enjoy road trips.

And somewhere before it started raining - yet again- we stopped at Amy's Ice Cream in Austin. Homemade ice cream served by people with an awesome number of piercings who can tell you the entire life history of the vanilla beans in your ice cream. It's the best place ever. And peanut butter/honey/choc chip ice cream on a sugar cone? Wow!

But Priceline I could live without.

Til next time...

How many ways can you say it?

There's a lot o' action in one of the projects I'm working on. So I'm always pondering different ways to indicate that the character is excited, nervous, scared, terrified, ready to pee her pants.... well you get the idea.

One thing I've realized is that being a mom really helps with this. From the moment that kid pops out, you have no shortage of opportunities in your life to go, " Oh s---, what am I going to do now." So now when I write, I simply mine those moments for the physical symptoms and describe accordingly. (yikes, that sounded rather clinical, but let me forge ahead with this)

Did my stomach clench? Did my jaw tighten? Did I get a rush of panicked heat from toes to scalp? Did my heart feel like it was going to beat out of my throat and into my mouth? Did my pulse do the Indy 500? My eyes widen? My mouth hang open? My fists clench? My throat tighten? My tongue loll like a hound dog on a bad, bad day? Did I feel like the air had been sucked out of my chest? Out of the room? Out of the universe?

If you're a parent, all those are the least of it. Sometimes you can experience them all in one day. Occasionally in one hour. (Like a couple days ago, when college son informed us that there was a meth lab bust next door to where he works. Squad cars. Swat team with rifles. Lots o' running around) So I always have lots to choose from. Even with that, I still have to make sure I'm not repeating myself too often.

Til next time...

How big is a cubit?

It is Friday. And it is still raining. We went to sleep with it raining. Woke up with it thundering and raining.

It's draining my brain. It's giving me cabin fever. I'm going to turn into Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Which is especially apt since I've spent the past month in heavy revision mode. Husband will peek at my laptop and discover that I've typed 500 pages of "All work and no play makes Joy a dull girl."

Seriously.

Til next time...
When maybe it will be sunny...

Are either of you a paleontologist?

Won't bore you with the details of the evening except to say I was at a meeting of a committee I've volunteered to co-chair in some other facet of my life. The important thing is - I met my very first paleontologist. He's a geologist, too, this guy, but his business card actually says "certified paleontologist."

"So, like, I could bring you dinosaur bones if I found some," I asked. My geeker core was pulsing with joy. Seriously.

"Well," he said. "I really do most of my work under a microscope. But if it was a very small dinosaur..."

Yes, he was teasing. But yes, that's what he does for a living. And other than Ross on Friends, he's the only one I've met. (Maybe I've led a sheltered life. Maybe my parents purposely kept from these people...)

Anyway, he's talking and all I can think of is that line from one of my favorite 80's films, War Games. When Matthew Broderick and Ally Sheedy find Professor whatever his name is so he can stop the Wopper computer from launching all our nukes at the Russians. The Professor (Joshua's father!) asks, "Are either of you a paleontologist?" Great line.

Which got me thinking on the way home about favorite 80's movies. Some that come to mind immediately that I'll watch over and over are Breakfast Club, Sixteen Candles, and Pretty in Pink. Pretty much anything with Molly Ringwald or with James Spader as the bad boy. Oh and Lost Boys! Who didn't love Lost Boys? And Goonies! And St. Elmo's Fire with the entire Brat Pack and that great sound track. And of course, the 80's tour de force, Kevin Bacon in Footloose. Ah yes, 80's movies. Nothing like them. The hair. The shoulder pads. The tights and tunics and off one shoulder shirts and lurid colors. And did I say the hair?

Any of you have any 80's favorites? Anyone, anyone? Bueller?? (I know I've ended with that line before on a post, but I just had to throw it in there again)

Til next time...

The Group

I had to miss critique group last night and I hated doing so. Personally, I live for "group." Mine meets once every two weeks, and sometimes that's not enough. Sometimes it's all that keeps me writing. Because that's always been our rule -you don't come if you don't have something to share. And while we break that rule sometimes now that our group has been the same five people for a few years, mostly we honor it. We know it makes us stronger.

When you are writing novels while also keeping your day job, it helps to have a strong force besides your own too easily strayed inner compass to keep you honest. Sometimes it's only the looming presence of Tuesday night that gets my butt in the chair. I'll make a million excuses - probably half of them truly legit - but the reality is, I won't finish a book unless I, well, finish it.

We're a diverse group, the five of us. Formed under the umbrella of SCBWI, although some of us also write for adults, too. Four women and one guy. We cheer each other on and commiserate with the rejection that comes with the territory. And we try to be as honest as we can. For us that means we generally don't read our own work aloud. We let someone else take a cold read instead. Works for me. I'm often too close to my work. I know exactly what it says, how it sounds. Only it doesn't always sound that way. So these four people I trust let me know when I've missed the mark.

Another time I'll brag on each of them. Want to get their permission first. They've become my writing family, and you take care of family. They're the people who sneaked wine and cheese into the library conference room for my birthday last year, see.

Anyway, if you write and don't have a group, find one. Ours celebrates big sales with the red boa. It was mine originally - I had to wear it on the Senior Football Player's Mom's Homecoming float one year. And when soon after Kim sold one of her romance novels, it seemed a good second life for the boa.

Til next time...