Here's to writing friends out in the blogosphere --Kerry

There's really nothing quite as nice to a writer as asking her writer friends to proof a piece due for submission in less than twenty-four hours, on a Sunday to boot, and having them respond with feedback and help. This behavior merits a "true writer friend" title, and I bequeath it on Christy and Jennie, who performed the aforementioned good deed.

We writer types spend a lot of time alone hunched over the computer shooing away dogs, kids and phone calls like flies as they alight anywhere near us. We are not generally consistently this ornery, rather it is in the guidelines to the craft of writing that we have to perform in solitude because as my mother would say,"no one else can do it for you." So we are alone alot and rarely does anyone but a writer friend really understand your need to converse with other writer friends who feel your angst over a pending assignment and can help you allieve it.

As a twenty-something fledgling reporter, I thought I knew it all and writing groups were for middle-aged mommies. Gulp, I have reached that pinnacle but hey, it's not so bad here, and I get why we as writers need each other, because Lord knows asking my husband to edit something when he's trying to watch football is just plain crazy and really why chance it?

Autumn Deficit Disorder -- Kelly

It's that time of year when I long for a fall that just won't come. When the usually ubiquitous squirrels go missing, probably to Vermont or some autumn haven, because nothing in the atmosphere suggests they should bother burying acorns. When the desire to pluck a perfectly ripe apple from a tree is defeated by green pecans.

But this morning brought gentle rain and a hint of coolness. Such minuscule harbingers of fall always improve my mood and inspire new ideas.

Along these lines, here are some random plans/resolutions for the upcoming season.

1. Eschew restaurants for food I cook myself.

2. Go to my daughter's soccer practices and games with glee.

3. Revive my blogging spirit.

4. Advocate calmly for health care reform.

5. Advocate calmly, period.

6. Inspired by Karen Maezen Miller, do the laundry.

7. Attack a pile of paper a day.

8. Spend time outdoors, damn the mosquitoes.

9. Touch base once each week with an old friend.

10. Renew.

This Little Piggy

People's appendages seem to be in serious jeopardy lately.

Maybe it's because I ripped off my own toenail (getting into the car) last month, but I seem to be seeing and hearing a lot of toe and finger tragedies.

There's the guy at Dave's fire department who severed his pinky at the knuckle when it got caught in a ladder.

Another brother sliced his finger a few days later.

My little friend Riley tore off her big toenail.

And my friend Linda was run over by a grocery cart, then stepped on by a coffee shop customer.

What's interesting about these stories is not so much the plot of it all, but the characters' reactions to it. Honestly, it's quite telling, the way one responds to driving a hammer into one's thumb.

Though I'm sorry for these folks' suffering, I am, admittedly and sickly, except for the lost finger, amused by the effects. There's been some crying, some swearing, some shrieking, some grace.

I guess there are two things to learn from all this: to study people in appendage crises, and to be extra careful right now when walking barefoot or shutting doors or using electric knives.

43, Luckily -- Kerry

My sister-in-law died on her 42nd birthday a few years ago.
I made it to 43 today and celebrated with, among others, her three remaining children.
I threw a covert glance in her eldest daughter's direction. She resembles her mother the most. I wondered if she felt the injustice of a life cut short every day, like I was feeling right now.
Perhaps every birthday I should glance in these children's direction and remind myself that I too am mortal, that I should never ever forget what an amazing miracle it is that we walk on this earth, for whatever amount of time we're here.
Me, I'm glad for 43.

WOW!

I knew 7/8/9 would be a lucky day! I got my first WoW (Waiting on Wednesday) post - which means a YA book reviewer has marked my book as one she's excited to read! You have no idea how cool this is to a newbie author. Seriously. I'm levitating right now. Thanks Catt!

Click here to check out at Catt's blog, The Dreamer Reader, and see the 7 reasons why she wants to read the book!

Another one flies the coop

When is enough enough? How do you know you are done with a manuscript? I find it a lot easier to write "The End" on a first draft than I do with subsequent drafts. I just sent off my work-in-progress manuscript (Astrid) to my agent and I had a hard time figuring out if I was “done” or not. When someone questions your work, pushes you to strive for more, it’s hard to know if you’ve reached that goal they had in mind for you.

For me, the biggest surprise in this publishing process is how little line editing is done early in the process—mostly you receive “notes” in letter form, describing overall things that need to change with not a lot of direction about how to do it. And it seems you could do one of a hundred things to fix each thing! In my experience, revision has been a bit like throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. But then again, I have a very editorial agent who wants to go through a revision (or two!) before ever sending to editors.

So, Astrid is gone. She’s flown from my email to a desktop where she will be printed and scrutinized. Good thing I have so much to do in the coming weeks—stewing over whether or not the spaghetti is sticking to the wall is no fun at all.

How do you know when you are done?

Dispatch from Salt Lake City -- Kelly

Some random musings from the cross-country drive:

• What do you do when you pull out of your driveway to log 2200 miles, turn on your radio, and get NOTHING? That means no NPR, no random Tejano, no books on iPod. You decide to be in the moment, as deep introspection interferes with driving acuity.

• The taste of fear: being in the middle of the pack of cars and trucks driving 85 mph on I-25, even when it’s down to one lane.

• Even though the amber waves of grain have been harvested to frankly unattractive stubble, the purple mountains’ majesty is out in full force, last lingerings of snow on top.

• Breathtaking? Two huge thunderstorm cells outlining a clear alley when you turn west into Wyoming. Alas, the alley did not stay clear; a truly horrendous thunderstorm (and, as a Texan, I’ve seen my share) with an active lightning display, followed by pea-soup fog on a twisty bit of I-80, makes the last room at the overpriced Best Western look mighty good indeed.

• Little America is still scary.

• The Hotel Monaco Salt Lake City is featuring white sangria in its fabled Wine Hour. Yum.

Books that changed me -- Kerry

I just finished reading "Thirteen Books That Changed America" by Jay Parini.

Books I don't really think about much, but am now more than ever aware of how they influenced readers in their time.

"Of Plymouth Plantation" through the "Feminine Mystique" along with such classics as "Uncle Tom's Cabin" and "Hucklerry Finn" are eloquently summarized (without having to read the cliff notes!) by the author.

I realized how many books have also influenced me in my life.

Anyone remember how cool the real Nancy Drew was? Or the first time you read "Are you there God it's Me Margaret" by Judy Blume?

Years after my juvenile forays into life shattering literature I plunged voraciously into a whole lot of a little of everything, "Ya Ya Sisters," by Rebecca Wells. "Living with Uncertainty," by Pema Chodron - they all changed me.

There are countless others. What about you?

Happy Father's Day! -- Jennie

Here's me and the best poppa in the world in Tahoe last week:

Trip Prep

I began, today, the ritual Sorting of the Clothes.

First stop? Melange Mountain, the stratified heap of miscellany in my dressing area. I recovered a few missing items, uncovered two forgotten purchases, and discovered many things that Simply Will No Longer Do.

Next stop? The Oregon Pile, where I re-heap the clothes I may need for my trip, including long sleeved items and light jackets that make me sweat on sight, even in my air conditioned rooms.

Final Stop? Laundry Junction, where I de-dirt the delicates and soap the sturdy.

Actual packing begins Sunday!

Working Writer-Marcia

Today was a business day. Always fun in writing land. I sent something off to This American Life--It could take six months to hear. I sent something off to O magazine, and drafted a query for Parenting.

It's fun to act like a real writer.

I've been working on my chicken story and hope to post it here later, but Daniel made the Allstar team, for 9-10 boys so, I'm off to the baseball diamonds.

Silence begins...NOW!

In a few minutes I'm heading out to the Moody cabin for some high-level hermitry. Between this evening when I arrive and Monday afternoon when I leave, I'll finish my revision of Book One, get to the halfway point of Book Two, and possibly dabble in a WIP I've got going on the sidelines.

No TV, no intewebz, no children, no laundry.

No problem!

Ding Dong Deconstruction circa 1969--Marcia

My mother hides the Ding Dongs at the back of the fridge so my brothers can have one when they get home from basketball practice or smoking doobies on their surfboards. Only she doesn't know about the doobies part. All I can think about are those Ding Dongs. If I try to sneak a Pecan Sandie my mother can hear the wrapping, If I try to sneak one of my dad's weird Tiger's Milk bars she can heart hat too. Ding Dongs are the perfect food. Packed so tight they are soundless tinfoil hockey pucks. If I can get my hand inside the white cardboard box and back out again without making a whumping noise my mom won't know. She's very busy. There is a lot to vacuum here.

I usually wear a polyester skirt with an elastic waist band and polyester shorts underneath. Girls are not allowed to wear pants to school, but we can't swing on the monkey bars unless we have petit pants or shorts on. Petit pants are really pretty underwear that look like shorts. Caroline Krupp has a pair that are swirly like a melted creamsicle . . . pink, purple, and yellow with a lace edge. My mother will not let me have any of those. This might be a good idea since the monkey bars are close to the boardwalk and any old person walking along the beach can see your petit pants, so I don't beg too much.

I also am not allowed to have a tutu, plastic high heels from Market Basket that have yellow fluffy feathers on them, or Ken dolls. My father did let my mother get my sister and I Barbies.

If it's a day when Jim Grey spits at me at the bus stop, or Chrissy Mac Niece throws dried dog poo on my new turtleneck, or no matter what Miss Hilton in her GoGo boots tells me I can't come up with the right numbers for 24 plus 36, I can't wait to get off the bus and stuff a Ding Dong in my favorite pair of stretchy shorts (red with polka dots--Sears Chubbies) and head to the guest bathroom at the back of the house by the garage.

Cold Ding Dongs are no good. If you can hear your mother calling you, or know your big brothers are about to come storming down the hall banging on the door and rattling the knob then eat it fast. There is no place to really hide a Ding Dong. They'll find it. But the best way to have a Ding Dong is to warm it up a little.

This requires a little extra time. If you don't want to eat cold hard chocolate and dry cake that doesn't taste cakey you have to pretend you're going Number 2. Hold the Ding Dong like a little bird up close to you, but not for too long or it gets ruined and all the coating melts on to the inside of the foil. Maybe count to whatever 24 plus 36 is.

Hold your breath and sit very still. The foil is very smooth on top, but folded like tiny sails all around and whirling like going down a drain at the bottom so it can close together and not show any Ding Dong. Listen make sure no one's coming. It makes a little noise if you don't pick it apart very carefully with thumb and pointer. Open it really slow so there's not even a little bit of crinkling noise. The chocolate coating will be just right, not too soft, and not too cold where it breaks off in chunks and tastes like candle wax after Sunday dinner.

You want to peel all the just-right chocolate off with your teeth, and then eat the cakey cake, sponge-y and hole-y, but not as good as birthday cake. Birthday cake is my favorite. I eat the cake first and the frosting last.

It always seems like there will be a whole bunch of white, pure-white, whiter-than Crest-white blop of cream in the middle. Then you get to the middle and it's only the size of a gumball-machine gumball. It's kind of a gyp. Still, if you can tell your Mom is upstairs sorting laundry or changing all the sheets you have time to eat around the Ding Dong until all that's left is just a fat-pea blop of cream covered in brown cake crumbs. Then you pop it in your mouth. It is quiet and the best part of coming home after school.

Did the front door just open? Can you hear your giant brothers throwing back packs and shouting? Can you hear Mom headed to the kitchen to start peeling carrots and turn on the stove? Sometimes this makes my heart go fast and my face get prickly.

Ding Dong tinfoil is so thin, wipe out all the wrinkles and press it flat against your leg and it's like a Barbie space blanket. Stephanie Brown had a space blanket for Silly Skilly Days, our sleepover Girl Scout camp at Rancho Santiago. It sounded like someone was digging in garbage at a fourth of July picnic every time she rolled over. Sometime I'll tell you about Space Sticks and Tang.

It's nice to try to rub the wrinkles our of the wrapper for awhile. Pick off any crumbs with a wet fingertip, and make up things you could do with that perfect square if you could leave the bathroom with it.. But you have to get rid of it.

It's the only bad thing about stealing Ding Dongs.

If you put it in your pants you could forget and it could fall out, or your brother or Chrissy Mac Niece could chase you and it could fall out. And then they'd make fun of you until you were grown up. Or even after.

You could eat it, it's really thin. But that would ruin everything. I roll it up as tight as it can get. Squinch it down to the same size as the blop of cream in the middle of the Ding Dong and then bury it in the pale plastic garbage can under the bathroom sink. Don't let any of the foil press against the edge of the can or it will show. Careful of gooey tissues, they're gross.

Then you should probably go to the bathroom, or at least rattle the toilet paper roll and flush to make it sound real. Then straighten out your stretchy skirt and shorts, open the door, and pretend like nothing happened.

And that's how you steal a Ding Dong.

Commiserate -- Kerry

"I'd like to have the perfect twin. One that walks out, when I walk in. I'd like to catch that big brass ring. I want everything, everything," Barbara Streisand/ A Star is Born, 1979.
-listened to on a vinyl 78 lp record player by a twelve-year old girl ready to change the world.

"Hey little Mama you're a class all you own," Chris Brown/With You/2009,
-listened to on an ipod portable speaker by the twelve-year old daughter of the aforementioned twelve-year old girl.

I suppose there comes a time in every parents time in the Western Hemisphere, or at least the west coast hemisphere, when we remember with crystal clear clarity being in fifth grade and what it felt like as we observe our children undergo the same experience.

Claire graduated from fifth grade this week. She was hacked off she had to wear a bra (ditto her mother) but even more miffed that she had to still go to bed at 8:30, because Lord knows she was old enough to rule her own life, thank you very much.

She blared music from her room.

I stood outside her doorway and debated my options. Should I play the hardcore mommy card and tell her it was time for bed or should I confess that I remember what all this growth felt like?

My journey with hypnotherapy came to light. According to a basic caveat in the art of hypnosis, we are all arrested children and communicate often as such.

So from one twelve year-old to another, I went in, curled up on her bed, and started to commiserate.

Faith, Hope, and Blueberries -- Jennie

I'm a day or two away from sending my revision back to an editor. I love the suggestions he had given me, even if they were pretty tough to pull off.

Here's what got me through shrinking 55,000 words down to 40K, while flushing out characters and motivation, backstory and arc:

* faith. That what he told me to do was brilliant.
* hope. That I did what I was supposed to do. That he'll like it.
* blueberries.
* long walks.
* yoga.
* days when I didn't work but when the kids were in school.
* a serious love of my character.
* a planned week in Tahoe, following re-submission.

All that. Plus some serious caffeine.

Let Evening Come -- Kelly

My mother died a week ago tonight, and her memorial service was today.

I thought I'd share the poem I read, since I obviously haven't been doing any writing.

Let Evening Come (by Jane Kenyon)

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through the chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.

Let the crickets take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Outdoor School/Indoor Mom -- Kerry

Along the lines of Jennie's post, I am cramming two field trips, laundry and a girl scout outing into my already busy week without my husband or oldest child who are attending outdoor school.

While there is a bit more silence around the house, fewer bodies and more general independence on my part (first in line at the computer and the bathroom all to myself), there is also a chasm.
I find myself drifting into it as I do all the dishes after dinner sans aformentioned husband and dilligent eldest child, reading and tucking the kids into bed, and folding laundry; all tasks my husband and I have shared in tandem almost rhythmically for the last ten years.

In the morning, I ponder the idea of feeding the chickens and walking the dog, after I dress the five year-old and cook a hot breakfast for she and the eight year-old. Then I'll go to the barn, price tag about fifty items and push a whole room full of furniture around.

All my choices, but still, I am exhausted even thinking about them.

Alright, I give, I am not the woman from the 1970's Angelie perfume commercial who sang,
"I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never never let you forget you're a man," that has been seared into my psyche along with the theme song from Batman and the names of the Mod Squad.

Honestly, who is that woman anyway?

What's (Not) Going On?

Not much is going on in the blogosphere.

Understandably.

It's a super busy time of year. The days are longer; there are places to go and yardwork to do. If you have kids, they're going on field trips every other day right now. Plus, there are the track meets, music recitals, choir concerts, softball tournaments, birthday parties, barbecues, and graduations.

If you're a student or a teacher, you have finals.

Or maybe the decent weather has prompted you to get out and make some money in this sick economy.

There's some wedding stuff, too. I've wondered how the bridal industry has been hit by the recession, which has led me to thinking about depression weddings: if there were fewer than usual, if the gifts were more less-expensive or even homemade, if the feast was pared-down and the guest list trimmed.

Seriously, though. I don't have time to think.

I have All Of The Above, plus two manuscripts to revise.

It might be crazy spring, but it's time to get crackin'.

Note for Note-For Mom who Couldn't be there--Marcia

James composed his first song at around three and a half. He was in time-out in what we call "Granny's Room". I was moving through the house doing what moms do and overheard him singing the blues, hunched over like Mississippi John Hurt. . . "Mommy took my video/flushed it down the toilet/ I loved that video now I'll never see it again--Ohhhh." I was impressed with the composition and the poetic license.

There have been other instances of musical genius over the years. Daniel and his two mock-sisters Jenna and Sophie (mock-sisters to each other-separated only by a few houses) had a band called "Ruby Red and City Slick." Sophie was Ruby, Jenna was Red, and Daniel was City Slick. They used to perform at every BBQ, Christmas Party, and vague reason to gather and drink good wine.

The girls had a much bigger desire to put on boas and flap around in front of the parents. Daniel was having none of it. The last night of his incarnation as City Slick, Ruby and Red were definately macking on the mic, pushing Slick further into the shadows. Finally, when the Sistas realized they were about to lose what could pan out to be their main draw, they threw Daniel a guitar solo. Daniel knows he doesn't know how to play, he does know he has a voice, and it's possible he might think he's a tad better than they are. He might have looked at his girls and said something like, "You guys suck," and left the room. The girls quickly went running after him, trying to get Daniel to consider a reunion tour.

James, however, didn't waste a minute. He was on that mini red Fender like a hungry hawk on a dachsund. He strapped that thing on like he'd been doing it all his life. He addressed his audience from his stage by the fireplace . . . "Okay, ladies and gentlemen, this is the halftime show." He struck the strings with all the vigor of Stevie Ray Vaughn impersonating Elvis. He'd been watching somebody's moves. His head kept time, his shoulders were grooving, his knees flexing, there was flourish, there was passion . . . Sweet James . . . the one who never tried to find a place in the spotlight stole the show.

He did it again Thursday night up at the Manor.

He has been taking piano with Mrs. Brown for about three months. Seeing as my sainted mother-in-law thinks he's delayed, we decided to hone some fine motor skills and harness his kooky mind. Mrs. Brown has been teaching in the little yellow house near the crossroads of Roosevelt and Donut Country for 40-some years. Everyone knows Mrs. Brown . . . If they play piano. That is life in Medford.

Every Monday James rushes straight from school, hops on his scooter, and we race down to Mrs. B's. His clothes are usually covered in dust from the rocks on the Hoover playground (yes, rocks!), his pants are hanging down around his hips a good three inches of whatever kind of underwear showing, and his hands are a little grubby. But he loves Mrs. Brown, and he really wants a "sculpture."

Mrs. Brown keeps a very accurate and elaborate tally system based on homework, memorization and performance. When you get 100 points you earn the bust of a composer. Red aka Jenna, has a whole bunch of sculptures, and James knows it. He told Mrs. Brown. James wants to catch up. So James decided to perform at his first recital after something like 10 total lessons. James picked his own piece, "The Shoe Cobbler." an easy choice due to a favorite fairy tale, The Shoemaker and His Elves.

He was told to dress up and that he would be going on first.

I asked James what he wanted to wear. "I want a blue jacket, a blue and red striped tie, a fancy shirt, and black shoes . . . that tap."

Okey-Dokey.

Put a kindergartner in a tie and a blazer in the middle of a room full of very Senior citizens and you are definately going to be a crowd pleaser. We got to the Manor early to do a dry run, but the room was already packed. While we were standing to the side trying to show James where to get on and off the stage, two sweet little old ladies chatted him up. He made sure they noticed the Westies on his tie and his new top siders. "Mom couldn't find tap shoes."

You know you finally belong somewhere when you have issues with some of the people in the room. I had history--some good, some not so good--with just about everybody in the room. So did my husband, but with him all history is good history. It was fun.

Two seconds before James was to take the stage his nose started gushing like a Brooklyn fire hydrant in July. I couldn't catch it all fast enough. Luckily Mama Katie was right behind me. Having Katie with you is equivalent to having an ER nurse in your hip pocket. She shoveled me advice and Kleenex as fast as she could. My mum-in-law scrubbed at the spots on James'tie while I pinched his nose.

I turned to my sister, "Tell Mrs. Brown to stall a minute." Katie and I tried to get James to leave the room so we could hemmorage in private and not spill on any of the audience. James would not budge. Mrs. Brown adapted. The show must go on. She announced that James would be on a little later and the second youngest took the stage. As my sister said, "The La Fonds are here." We can't help but make a scene. As my sister, mother-in-law, son, and several neighbors shifted around in their seats and went back and forth for fresh supplies, my husband went missing.

I wanted James up on that stage before any of the older more talented kids could intimidate him and I didn't want to send him up without the camera rolling and blood staunched. I hissed at Katie, "Where is my husband?" She gave me a wry look that all married women recognize-- a squint that basically says, "Typical."

"Do you want to stick some Kleenex up his nose?" She asked. We hunkered around my little pianist trying to twist a cone small enough to wedge up one of his nostrils. We couldn't get anything to fit. James didn't cry, panic, freak out, or back out. He kept his eyes on the stage and occasionally checked the state of his fancy shirt.

Once my husband emerged from the shadows and the red sea calmed enough not to surge on the Steinway, it was time to send James upstream. I eased us into the piano- playing lane.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"I'm a little afraid."

"Do you want me to walk you up?"

"No mommy," and he pushed past me, as the boy before him made his exit, stage right.

Mrs. Brown, seeing James headed for the spotlight, stood to announce that the medical emergency was over and she presented James La Fond.

My youngest acts like a complete spaz at home. Now that he had the stage he was a complete piano professional. He even faked it through his flub at the end.

He was so brave. We are so proud.

And now, with so much ado . . . we present James La Fond playing "The Shoe Cobbler".

Majicl Farm Fresh Furniture -- Kerry

For three days I stood in the middle of my in-laws barn and sold vintage indoor and outdoor furniture and collectibles.

For the first time in since I closed my furniture store ten years ago, I felt the rush of excitement in selling even the most minute of items, from $2 plastic hummingbirds to $200 dressers.

There is a flow state here for me, the same plane I fly when I am writing.

Dust flies out of my brain and also out of the barn floor.

Perhaps I am manic like my sister, insanely excited about giving old picnic baskets new light and renovating beat up coffee tables.

Well, whatever.

"If it makes you happy," sings Sheryl Crow.

Indeed.