The Way I Feel -- Kerry

Despite the current financial world market crisis, there is one thing we as humans all have in copious commodities that we own outright: our feelings. Whether we choose to ignore them, which may be a relevant subject in relationship to Jennie's manhood blog, or indulge in them, as I do when I have PMS and eat chocolate to soothe myself, somehow we're all stuck having to express them in someway. Perhaps that's what makes some of us writers.

My first official writing "job" was as an intern for the Portland Business Journal between my junior and senior year at University of Oregon. Flushed with an idealistic bent to express my true journalist self, I grandly showed up for work with big hair and a suit with huge shoulder pads, ready to write the lead stories for the day. The editor very politely sat me down in front of a computer the size of a twenty-four inch television screen and explained what my job entailed: editing the real estate classifieds in the back of the newspaper.

I ran to the nearest phone booth downstairs, called my mother, and cried.

The first week I misspelled the prestigious realty firm Coldwell-Banker" as "Coldwell - Baker" and made several typos. The company called to complain. My journalism career was not getting off to a good start.

So I walked into the editors office and told him "how I felt."

Amazingly, he didn't can me, I wasn't getting paid anyway. He assigned me the "funky story" on the front page, I think more out of pity and maybe out of curiosity. I stayed up for forty-eight hours straight to write and edit like a maniac on a typewriter. The editor published it, and eight more articles that summer.

Expressing my feelings actually worked better than say, other ways of expressing them, like drinking beer or driving too fast.

I diligently read "The Way I Feel" by Janan Cain, to my three children. They reward me not by telling me that I'm making them discover their personal power, but by announcing at inconvenient times, "I feel annoyed with you."

On the upside, they also know how to say "I love you."

Oh! BOY-- Jennie

The hard part about using a flawed character in a YA story is that he has to be imperfect enough to be believable, but not so much he's unlikable.

More than anything, I want my seventeen year-old narrator to evoke your empathy while he fights his inner battles to become his own hero. I want you to want what’s best for him: that which will help him grow and succeed, despite his odds. I want you, simply, to like him.

This is tough.

First, it’s challenging for a 37-year old girlie-girl to write the dialogue, actions, and reactions of a boy twenty years younger. Sometimes, I fear that I don’t quite nail it; that the boy drinks the wrong soda, or has some totally effeminate internal dialogue.

Second, I have to constantly remind myself as I write and revise what this boy’s motivation is. Which is way different from mine, from any female’s I know, actually.

Honestly, in the beginning, I didn’t think that this coming-of-age male voice would be so difficult.

I thought I had enough experience to draw from: an athletic husband, four younger brothers, lots of friends and writing students, and two sons.

Here’s what they’ve taught me: 1) Most of them, (okay, all of them), are more simple creatures than their female counterparts, which they’ll do anything to “get,” but not as much to “keep.” 2) They are very competitive. Over everything. And 3) They like to eat.

I also know that they have serious pressure. Society demands that they sit still through eight years of elementary school, excel at sports in high school, then land a good job and heroically provide for their families for the rest of forever. It doesn’t sound very appealing to anyone, especially someone whose nature is to chase wooly mammoths through the mud.

This pressure, though, is the essence of my character. It defines his motivation, his dialogue, actions, and reactions.

Maybe I didn’t nail everything.

But I watched and listened and learned loads about the other half. It made me think.

Regarding men, I’d say that after almost four decades, I’m finally getting a grip on, oh, let’s call it empathy.

September - Julie

The sun is coming through the wall of windows
flooding the bright square classroom with light
sharpening the faces of twenty two second graders
I stand next to the window
by Mrs. Tegner, half her size
She is telling me to stop crying
That it isn't time to go home yet
that I can't see my mom
until three
that my living room
lit by two brass lamps
and containing a gold armchair
a plaid couch
a shelty collie named Bingo
and my mom,
ironing in the middle of it
will have to wait

It's a two-post day! -Christy

There's this thing called Publishers Lunch, sort of the publishing equivalent of Gossip Girl, where this central buzz agency sends out an email summarizing all of the deals that are happening. For me, getting my deal printed in Publishers Lunch has been a weird little side dream—a weird little side dream that has now come true! This just in:

"Christy Raedeke’s PROPHECY OF DAYS, pitched as a YA Da Vinci Code relating to the Mayan calendar which mysteriously ends in 2012, in which a teen, with the help of a gorgeous Scottish lad, must figure out her role in a cryptic prophecy while trying to outwit a secret society that will stop at nothing to control her, to Andrew Karre at Flux, in a nice deal, in a two-book deal, for publication in Summer 2010, by Laura Rennert at Andrea Brown Literary Agency (North America)."

I was really astonished to read this, as I had not known how my agent was pitching my book. Interesting summation…

Avalon! --Christy

I was pretty bummed about the Andrew Karre news; he was the main reason I signed a two-book contract at Flux. His departure was announced just a couple of weeks after I signed my contract and I have to admit, I wondered if I were partially to blame. I imagined him waking up one morning and thinking of the work necessary to get my books to print; in my mind he drops his head in his hands and says, “That’s it, I’m out.”

Okay, so maybe it’s not all about me. Maybe it’s because he was offered a bigger job at a bigger house.

Anyway, his successor, my new editor, was announced: Brian Farrey. My first reaction was, holy sh*t, have things really gone that far south since Roxy Music disbanded? Then I noted the spelling variation. I very quickly put my finely honed web-stalking skills to work and have decided, after just a few minutes of perusing, that I love him already.

Here’s what I know: he’s a writer, he was the senior publicist at Flux, and he’s just returned from traveling the highlands of Scotland.Look at all our common ground: I’m a writer, I worked in book marketing/publicity for years, and the Scottish highlands are one of my favorite places on earth! We’re like twins except he would be the way smarter, way funnier one. He’s probably cuter, too. Alright, alright maybe not twins but I love him like a smarter, funnier, cuter sibling already. I doubt he’s heard of me but I suspect once he gets hold of my manuscript he'll even start kicking my a** just like my real sibling did.

Speaking of getting his hands on my manuscript, after reading a few of Brian’s book reviews for Amazon.com and other sites, I’m a little scared. This guy is the very definition of perspicacious. He’s good in that seems-like-he-has-a-Masters-in-Literary-Criticism-but-also-watches-sitcoms way. He nailed “Mission to America” by Walter Kirn, reviewed it exactly as I would have. (You know, if I could write a really good book review, which I can’t.) Anyone who knows me knows I’m a sucker for academic types who also have their arms elbow deep in the cultural zeitgeist—but it’s one thing to admire that and it’s another to have it unleashed on your manuscript.

This may turn out to be painful but I hope the end result will be much greater for it. Can’t wait to get started.

All Hail The New Chicken Lady--Marcia

Ariane and Scott are leaving. (Those are their real names)

In their frothy, exciting, down to earth, smart, funny, caring, creative, musical, and down right good-neighbory wake they leave us all feeling a little bereft. But they do leave us richer by far. And not in just the emotional sense. Ariane is a bestower.

Princess A made all the ladies on the block delicate dangly earrings of silver and gold wire or chain hung with precious faceted stones and coral. A few of the things she left me are: a vintage Lily Pulitzer patio-grazing gown, a giant Audrey Hepburn style Alligator bag, two Haitian paintings, two much admired hand-painted sun-brellas and now . . . chickens. That's right chickens. It had to happen.

As a group we tried to keep our sorrow at bay by having a last low-key dinner together up at The Corgi Lady's.

I drank too much.

For a going away present I put together photo albums for all the families of our summer together. I put a photo of our street sign on the cover. I cried sorting through the photos and tried not to let my husband or children see the tears. That night, though, we all laughed as we passed the books around and remembered. We've had a good thing.

As we gnawed on ribs and my hubby's Caesar salad, Ariane tried to soothe Dan's ruffled feathers about becoming a chicken rancher. Poultry and a spectacular waterfront rental in Seattle don't mix. My kids, however, picked out and named those chickies. They've stroked their bellies and found Queso's first tiny egg. I have always wanted chickens. Well, not always, but since I stopped going anywhere and doing anything. I like eggs and I like chicken poop. It's good for the garden. But, Daddy's not buying.

You can't blame him really. We already have two dogs, two cats, a bird, we just put some gold fish in the fountain out front, and now . . . chickens! I can sympathize. But how often do you get handed, literally over the fence, an entire pre-packaged chicken deal: three chickens, a custom made coop (super cute), all the fencing, food, watering dish, and attractive mirror backed funky window frame for coop garnish. Come on.

I twisted my husband's arm really hard, and now, as of last night, post Ariane and Scotts visit with the chicken wire and snips, we have a chicken run in the yard. The hour-long project turned into a marathon involving canvassing the neighborhood for a post-hole digger, just about everyone stopped in to check on our progress, and trips to two rental places for said post-hole digger and an appliance dolly. By the end of it, we were holding citronella candles up for Scott so he could see while trying to screw hinges for the gate (also super cute) into round posts. Hello! No wonder screws were raining down on the newly weed-whacked terrain. It was way past the gloaming.

But this morning, before leaving for work, Dan, the new chicken man, went out to check on the Pincesses Leona-Fiona and Giselle-Babette, and everybody's favorite, the little banty Queso. They were sleeping soundly. As soon as the kids woke up, they also went out to check. Daniel lifted the doors over their nests to make doubly sure they made it through the night.

This afternoon, Daniel brought Maia home from school and they both went back to the coop. I put kid-sized chairs and a little table in there and they hung out for a long time chasing and holding chickens. James hopped off the bus and joined the fray. Pretty soon, Scott was peeking over the fence. I was glad he could see his chickens were the belles of the ball.

In the early evening, people started to trickle down. The giant moving van that's been parked in front of the house for two days was starting to look like it would be leaving soon. Some kind of vortex pulled everyone down the street to their front lawn. Ariane kept pulling earrings out of the air for everyone.

It was James who was most honest. At five he cannot help himself. "It's getting ugly, mommy, I just can't take it."

At first he refused to come into their yard. He did not want to say goodbye. Eventually, Adam and Maddie, James and Daniel all gave good hugs and see you soons. Maddie made her own necklace for Ariane. There is talk of a road trip. We emphasize this now for the kids. Corgi lady holds back the tears. Mama Katie pulls up just in time. After his hug, James goes and collapses on a seat sized rock that bridges our yards. He can't move any further and in the dark I can see that his heart is broken. I go back into the empty house where Ariane, Scott, and Katie are talking.

"Ariane, you have to go tell James you'll see him again. I can't get him off the rock."

"Oh Jamesie," she says and comes right away.

They have their moment. She holds him close and he finally lets her. He can hardly look in her face. His own is breaking apart. It kills me. It kills her. He is brave enough to tell her he will be okay and then he goes into the house, where, moments later I find him face down on the couch sobbing more.

It turns out to be a horrible night that pancakes and late night TV can't soothe. Daniel winds up a wreck too. He cries so hard he barfs. "We'll never have neighbors so cool again," he weeps and weeps.

"It'll never be the same." James mirrors, holding onto his bear.

No, it will never be the same, but we've still got the Crown Avenue Consortium, (That's the name Scott gave us on our last night together), we've got a road trip to look forward too, and . . . we've got chickens.

I hope our new neighbors like eggs.

One Whole, Happy (?) Day -- Jennie

Dominic, ten, made a game yesterday from an old pizza box. You toss in five small candies, and you add or subtract the numbers on which they land. The first player to 100 wins, unless you land on enough “pick a puzzle piece” spaces to spell out “You Win The Game.”

While Dominic was creating this masterpiece, Daney, nine, fashioned herself an office. Pushing her nightstand into the corner of her room, she blew through four library books.

Rees, seven, ran around in a full-body Star Wars Clone Trooper outfit, with a red bike helmet and snowboard goggles, spying on the oblivious cat.

After some time, Dominic brought the game into Daney’s office, and they played until Rees came in and ate the candy. Because there were no game pieces, the kids filled a cooler with books, drug it outside behind a rose trellis, and threw a sheet over the top.

Aside from a few meals and bathroom breaks, this was one whole, happy day.

Their imagination is inspiring.

Like my kids, I wish I could clear my calendar and focus on creativity. I wish I had hours, days, weeks just to write, with nothing in the way.

I wish I could pick up and strum a guitar, like Dominic, or lounge in bed with a good book all afternoon like Daney, or chase butterflies in the sunshine like Rees.

Their bliss makes me sad, in a way, that I am too busy now to play, that my Lego homes are becoming obsolete, that my tea parties are few and far between.

It has nothing to do with time. If there were more hours in a day, I would still fill them with laundry, peeling vegetables, and doing dishes.

It has to do with guilt and responsibility and the fear of getting really behind.

I wonder, though, what my writing would be like if I could give it complete, uninhibited surrender. Would it be more fluid than these ten-minute snippets of plot all crammed together?

“If you slowed down your life,” says Dominic. “What would you write?”

“Yeah,” agrees Daney. “You’d have a lot of time, but nothing to write about.”

Reesie has no hesitation. “Stop writing,” he says. “You can read me this story about the police dog.”

Dusk! - Julie

I have to offer a counterpoint to my esteemed friend and colleague, Ms. Raedeke. For me, 'twilight' has a very different feel. Twilight signals the closing of the day; you're not responsible for accomplishing anything further, but you still have several hours which are your own, to do with as you will. This eerie absence of energy my friends speaks of is simply potential energy -- what do you want to with the rest of your evening? Bike downtown for ice-cream? Watch a few worthless sitcoms? Allow a brilliant idea for tomorrow to pop into your head? This deliciously fleeting time is pregnant with possibility.

It was dusk when I experienced what I'm pretty sure was 'grace'. My son was four months old; the gloaming half light fell across some folded laundry on my neatly made bed, and across my son's perfect sleeping face and I felt a frozen moment of perfection that I can still conjure up to this day. Neither daylight nor lamplight could have held it just so.

Counterpoint offered.

Dusk --Christy

Ever since I was a child I’ve hated dusk. To me it’s a deeply unsettling time of day. When the light fades, diurnal animals settle in but nocturnal animals don’t become active until later so there’s an eerie quietness; a feeling that energy is suspended. Life is waiting for the scale to tip, for darkness to fall.

To me, Autumn is the seasonal equivalent of dusk. This time of year I always become agitated in the same deep, primal way that dusk affects me. Most people love Fall; the colors, the crisp air, the interesting light…blah blah blah. I don’t get it.

I put my lamps on electric timers that flick the light on in late afternoon so that I never have to deal with the murky light of dusk, but there’s no electric timer equivalent to help me get through Autumn. I just have to wait it out.

Flying Blind--Marcia

The teacher that I've worked for for the last five years, decided to transfer out. After I recovered from the fact that James would, after all these years, not be in her kindergarten class, and that I probably no longer had a job, I began to get excited. My secret hope was that the school wouldn't find me another spot. Given our weird refugee status, no one expects our enrollment to soar. In fact it's just the opposite. Chances are they would not need to hire a third teacher and I would be Scot free (Is it free like a Scotsman, or free like that guy "Scott" who ran off with the cookie jar or his neighbor's wife sans coincidence--anyhoo). That way I could tell my husband, with a lot of sorrow in my eyes and concern in my voice, that there just wasn't a place for me. Darn. I guess I'll just have to stay home. Sorry, Hon.

I had one blissful day when Daniel went off to his first day of school and James and I folded three-hundred pounds of laundry, gardened, and cooked a beautiful dinner. Oh yeah, and I wrote a little too. But not too much, because this would be the last week I had where it's just James and I, and it's never been just James and I. And, isn't this PLEASANT!

Then, just as we were leaving to pick up Daniel at the Jr. High, where he's in the FOURTH grade (part of the wonderful refugee business), the phone rang. I have a new boss and she's wondering why I wasn't at school that day. Great.

So ended my one beautiful day of housewifery. I hadn't really started my living the writer's life part.

But it turns out I have two neat little jobs. I really like the new teacher. She is not a master yet. It's her first year. But she's as wide open as my mouth at a cocktail party and every kindergartner's dream of pretty with her queen sized sheets of straight blond hair.

My other little job started yesterday and it is not a job at all. I get to sing with 45 third graders. As Nacho Libre would say, "It's the beeessssst." I'm not even the one that has to pull their ears when their naughty.

Mrs. Roney called me in the middle of the summer and said, "You know, I really like you, I was just down at your husband's place for lunch, great sandwich!, and he said you could sing! Did you know we're related--my relatives were La Fond fur trappers too! Anyhow, I think you'd be great as my assistant. wouldn't that be cool!"

Voila, two birds with one stone--more money and I get to sing again.

So, yesterday I show up in a jaunty outfit with the prerequisite beads around my neck--these are vintage red plastic (some of my faves). And I act assistantish.

I put name tags into music folders, I fill Dixie cups with swedish fish and sour gummies. While I am setting out chairs the accompaniest is warming up her fingers on some of the music. I sing along to most of it. Mrs. Roney can't believe her good fortune. She's got that "you've got to be kidding me you know that!" face on. Then the accompaniest starts playing "Jeanette Isabella" and I start back toward Mrs. R.

"I can't believe you're playing that, it's one of my mother's favorites . . . I think I'm going to cry."

I turn back to my chair duty. There's a lot to put out.

"Come here," she says wading through the sea of metal legs. She puts her arms out for me as the strains of "bring a torch Jeanette . . ." play in the background. Little tears pricking my lids. "Oh no," I laugh "She's not dead! I'm just emotional!" I hug my Mrs. Tiggywinkle and she pats me.

The kids start filing in. Some scared some brash. Some just ready for the next activity. Mrs. R has warned me in advance that this will be a challenging year, we have several kids with disabilities. One of them is my favorite girl of all time--I love seeing her again. She has her wonky leg adorned in a polka dot sock, is in some kind of fabulous pink bloomer outfit and has her hair cut in a bob. Isabella was the first to show me that my oldest child had compassion. He protected her like a lion on the playground at preschool. One of the other "challenges" is blind.

Once she started singing, none of us cared that she blurted out stuff in her excitement, or if she stood up when everyone else was sitting down, or sat down when everyone else was standing. A bright faced brown-haired girl immediately volunteered to be her friend and helper.

Watching Emma's face is all the proof I need in the transformative power of music. She was lifting herself to a higher place. Her face alight with joy. Her pure voice sailing out happy. And she had a friend. I heard afterward that it was her first.

It's going to be a good year.

Digital Immigrant vs. Digital Native --Kerry

Apparently I am a "digital immigrant" according to the technology speaker at my husband's recent law seminar in Bend.

"Cool, I'm for immigration. Let's relax those borders and let 'em in," I think to myself.

And that's exactly what digital immigrants do. They had to learn how to use technology, like I learned how to use my first Macintosh at the student union computer lab in 1987. Instantly taken with the handy little box I immediately sloughed off my borrowed typewriter in the third floor of the sorority and spent all my free writing time immigrating from the paper to the screen. For someone who always loses pens and can't find a decent sheet of paper to write on, the computer screen and the equally as exciting accompanying printer was nirvana encased in plastic with a cute half-bitten apple.

My niece, however, is a digital native. Born in, gasp, 1989, she texts at the family Christmas dinner table while she's carrying on a full conversation about her chemistry class at the University of Washington. She took one of the first digital pictures of my children ever on her phone and emailed it to me. I stand in awe of her innate technology trait; it's as though she inherited a gene that enables her to have entire cell phone conversations while at the same time dexterously checking her my space page and vacuuming. The only similar metaphor I have for myself at that age might be the same way as I talked on the dormitory payphone and doodled on my foot. Not quite the same technological panache.

But I did drive a BMW, even though it was accidentally painted bright pink by a color-blind body shop worker. That counts for something flashy, doesn't it? Never mind that the sunroof leaked and various parts flew off it at inconvenient moments. That was the closest mechanical thing that I came to love until my laptop.

I have immigrated, the car is gone, but the ride continues....

One Day at Dairy Queen - Julie

Rina, Jeni and I rolled in after camping, hot, tired, hungry and not feeling like consulting the nutrition information contained on all the placemats. After my customary question to any traveling companions, "Would it totally gross you out if I got a corndog?" was answered to my satisfaction, I ordered two.

We slumped in the slick plastic booths and awaited our calories. The man/child who brought my two individual boxes of corndogs looked at me hesitantly, "Do you want ketchup or mustard or anything like that?"

"Oh mustard, please, thanks!" He hesitated another moment before going back to the kitchen. When he returned his eyes were wild, pleading.

"Well," he started, "we have mustard, it's just not here." I looked in his empty hands. He was right. "Do you...want me to go get?" he said. "It's in a big can or something." He had a look on his face like he had just asked me if I wanted him to go in the back and knife the cook. A plastic container of honey mustard appeared from his pocket. "Do you want this honey mustard?" He leaned on the back of my friend's seat holding the pocket-warmed container in his hands.

"Sure, that'd be great."

I tried a bite of corndog with honey mustard. I really did. The sweetness of the corn breading combined with the sweetness of the honey mustard made my throat close up.

Okay Julie, you're 42, you're at Dairy Queen, and you want some yellow mustard -- come on. So, at the prodding of my friends I stood up and made my way to the counter to say, 'Yes, open the big can and get me some *&^@*# mustard!'

But on my way my eye was caught by the Condiment Counter, well-stocked with salt, pepper, ketchup, and, Lord yes, mustard packets. Hundreds and hundreds of mustard packets.

I quietly grabbed two and went back to my giggling friends, making sure to dispose of the spent packets when I was done, and to leave the honey mustard container next to my two corndog sticks, empty. After all, I had gotten what I wanted.

The Socket is Void-Marcia

Okay...So. Um. There was this contest. It was perfect for me. Very slice of Life-y. My forte. So. Early on I check the calendar. I've got 'til Wednesday, Sept. 9. Perfect. I'll finish up, submit online, and head to Writers' group all proud of myself for my act of completion. Piece of Cake.

The thing is Tuesday morning, while helping my kindergartners color in the red/yellow/red/yellow pattern on their calendar, I get a jolt right through my yellow Crayola. Cripes, as Jennie would say, today (yesterday) was September ninth. I check for a flog over in Housekeeping so I can whip myself. Instead, I go home and keep trying. I attend all my appointments and make it to Open House and still keep trying. My husband isn't home. I feed the kids, I put them to bed. And still---yup--trying. I'd written versions of it before. I'd even had a beautiful weekend to tinker with it. I'd just miscalculated the birthdate. This is soooooooooo Marcia!

I really wanted that $3,000.

The contest submission deadline was 11:59 last night. I cut my last 36 words and pushed the send buttion. I would prove Christy wrong, I can handle modern technology! But my security shield was upset about something and wouldn't let me send, so I try something else. I have a full 30 seconds. So I try again, this time, all the words are there, my name is on it, the word count is right. It is still 11:59. Send! Annnnnh. Nope. "This socket is void." a little yield sign pops up. No kidding. I'm assuming that means the computer had instantly pulled the plug at the correct time. Smart computer there's no fooling you.

C'est la vie, c'est la guerre.

So, here. I give you the opening paragraphs to Real Simple's "Life Lessons" essay contest, ala Marcia's submission.


Somehow in the seven years I’d been with my husband, I had gone from being a free-spirited bohemian size-8 singer/songwriter/writer/actress of the Bay Area to a size 1X isolated, depressed, bitter, resentful, strident mother of one, trying to work from home out of her 1950s Ranch Style, with RV parking, in the suburbs of Medford, Oregon.

To say I was depressed is an understatement. I’d gone from wearing mini skirts and chandelier earrings to a tan pair of maternity pants I had no business wearing, topped with a blue short-sleeve sweater my mother gave me to conceal and flatter my burgeoning figure. Unfortunately, the sweater was missing a button, often slid off a shoulder and left a dirty bra strap showing. My glasses were missing one stem, and were scratched to the point of being useless. (My two year old, completely freaked out by any kind of constraint, regularly pulled my glasses off my face and flung them into streets and parking lots). Makeup was a smear of Chapstick. Getting to shower felt as likely as a trip to France. (I recently heard a mother say she strapped her kid in the car seat and put it on the bathroom floor—it was the only way she could safely shower without her son jumping out of his crib, climbing the refrigerator, or running down the street naked—Hello! Our kids must be related.)

At almost forty there weren’t a lot of mothers my age with young kids in Medford. The postman became my confidant. Chocolate became my best friend. I spent all my time looking back on who I used to be and what I’d lost. I forgot I had any power in shaping my future. I left my happiness in my husband’s hands and he was busy doing other things. I was in full blown mid-life crisis.

Then our house burned down.

I’m glad it did.


So writers and wannabes. Check your dates. Do your work. Meet your deadlines. Another "Life Lesson" learned.

Headlines -- Kerry

I am writing my blog entry at 8:58 p.m., after the kids are safely tucked into bed and the dishes are done.
I've decided that if it weren't for sheer exhaustion, I would be the incredibly prolific writer I'd once envisioned myself being.
Time to adjust the picture.
I write on my daytimer (ancient non-electronic dinosaur). I write on the back of grocery receipts in moments of inspiration. I jot down paragraphs in my laptop in between paying the bills and answering correspondence. Mostly I write in my head while I am folding laundry or driving.
Someday I will write more; but for now at least I'm writing, and attending writing group, and blogging.
And this week that' s enough.

How Do You Know When You’re Done? -- Jennie

After writing a YA story, you revise and revise and revise it. The revision itself takes twice as long as the actual writing. You are determined to make the manuscript the very best it can be.

But where is the line between polishing and obsessing?

After five months of editing, I can still add/delete/change at least ten words on each page.

It just never gets perfect.

At the Big Sur Writing Conference last winter, literary agent Laura Rennert advised us that the more we revise, the stronger the book’s voice becomes.

How do we know when that voice is strong enough?

Maybe we don’t.

Maybe we get to a point where we need to trust our writing groups and readers.

It’s hard to do, that letting go. Especially when, after one more revision, or maybe two or twenty, the book would be absolutely flawless.

Until an agent gets her hands on it.

Essential Writing - Julie

So I've learned that I'm teaching a small class for struggling writers at the middle school this fall. It's called Essential Writing. I'm excited, because, as you may know, I love writing. The kids are not excited, because, as the data shows, they hate writing.

I'm planning the technical, here's-what-good-writing-looks-like, here's-a-comma-use-it, you-ought-to-indent-occasionally sort of thing, but I also want to have lots of activities that are so fun that kids forget they are writing. Over my twelve (gasp!) years of teaching I have accumulated many folders of engaging writing activities, but hope to gather from you, Dear Reader, more of these activities that you remember, as well as other thoughts about Essential Writing. What has inspired you to write? What has inspired you to improve your writing?

What is essential in writing?

Storage Units = Self Loathing

In 1999 Scott and I left Seattle for Ashland. Our first house here was a massive old Craftsman that we wanted to restore. House restoration was something we loved to do before we had kids; now, with two, it seems unimaginable. When we had finished the remodel and the installment of the world’s largest residential pool and the half acre of landscaping, we decided to move. I had just had our second child and was overwhelmed by the upkeep. In that state I didn’t want cavernous rooms with heavy Craftsman furnishings; I wanted small spaces with sleek, modern furniture. I blame it on Real Simple. They should put a warning label on that magazine: DO NOT READ WHILE HORMONALLY IMBALANCED.

We decided to simplify. Scale down. Fortunately we sold while Ashland prices were some of the highest in the state. On the flip side this meant that there was not much out there to buy—house inventory was at an all-time low. We found a cute little house on an amazing piece of property and decided to buy it as a rest stop until we found the perfect house. We moved the basics in and got a massive storage unit for the stuff that couldn’t fit.

It’s now been four years and we’re still in the “rest stop” house. We love the smaller footprint, the way you can clean the entire house in an hour or two, the lovely private yard, and the emotional closeness that physical closeness begets. The only problem is the damn storage unit. It looms. So, we finally decided to have a garage sale to deal with it.

Pawing through piles of stuff is depressing. It’s like a massive exercise in decision making over and over and over again. You look at something and say, “Sell it—I don’t know why I ever bought that in the first place,” or, “I’ll never sell that! It’s a full set of Villeroy & Boch china!” And each reaction has its own emotional baggage: self loathing for buying something you didn’t need or self loathing for keeping something you do not need and don’t have room for.

It’s a lose/lose situation and it won’t be over until Sunday when the Garage Sale is finished and we’ve moved what we absolutely cannot part with into a smaller, more reasonable storage unit. I’m hoping this downscaling will scale down the self loathing as well.

Sunset Magazine with a Twist--Marcia

Katie calls Friday morning to find out what I’m doing.
“I’m cleaning the house. I just found out Greta and Ron are coming for the night. Then I’m going to make my eggplant tart. And I still plan on squeezing in a trip to the pool before the party.”

“Forget about cleaning.” She says. “They can stay at Jean’s. It’s all set up.”

With the wave of the telephone she solves all my problems. I love my friends.

Now my out-of-towners can reside in peace, tranquility, and cleanliness, and I am free to cook, make a mess, and take one more dip before the pool closes for summer.

Beth is the master planner of the group. Her house is Sunset Magazine, September 2008. The bar is set up with sparkling glassware. Pomegranate Martinis are ready in an ice-cold silver shaker. Pinot Gris chills in buckets. Arianne in her Greek Goddess dress passes a plate of crostini and caprese, another of arugula pesto wraps. Dan turns free range chickens on the barbecue. Linens are spread, music plays, candles flicker. Each place setting has a place card, a menu on parchment a view of flowers and candles.

The women have been setting up, cooking, and scheming. The order has come to dress up. We look good. Each of us has her own distinct style. Satin, spangles, film noir, classic and The Princess Arianne in her couture (Arianne is the Chicken Lady, but she was The Princess before that). The men make their statements with shirts. Textures, detail, fabric. Summer casual. They look good.

Our cocktail conversations are serenaded by the squeeze-box revelations of one six-year-old little boy who discovers the happy and sad sounds of the accordion. My sweet
Earl recites poetry that makes the women cry, Eric keeps everyone’s glass full, Chris brings luscious red wine, and Captain Morgan is the first to break out his guitar. At the end of the evening Earl concedes to do a spoken song while Chris and the Captain strum and pick beside him. Ron starts the finger snapping thing. Earl shines.

We drank every bottle of wine, drained the martini shaker, and then had Eric start mixin up the Rocket Fuel.

The Princess-Chicken Lady has had a long week and needs to retire, 87 year-old Earl has not seen this much action in at least a decade. They toddle off together. Greta and Ron need to be escorted to their abode, they drove in from Bend after work. My husband has already taken a passed out James home to bed. Eric and Captain linger and putter. The rest of the Ya-Ya’s cackle our way up toward the guest house together.

It is past midnight when we barge into “Mama Katie’s B&B”. For the last many years we’ve called this house Gina’s, even though Gina and her Halloween bonfires and Christmas Eve dinners moved many years ago. It was the center point between Katie’s house and my house. All of our kids rode electric cars through the living room, tricycles through the kitchen, bounced on the hobby horse, and played on their structure. To this day, Santa (Brian Simmons) appearing on the roof Christmas Eve is one of biggest chunks of change in my kids’ memory bank.

For the last three years it has been home to Katie’s ailing mother-in-law. And now it is empty. Katie has been working hard to get it ready to sell again. We flood in behind our unsuspecting couple. We admire Jean’s artwork, the kids head to the yard. Katie shows them their selection of rooms. She has already made orange juice and stocked up on coffee for them. Our Sisterhood of the Traveling Parties puts the couple to bed, and we roll out and back to Crown again. Katie, let it be said, does not sail her own boat toward home, two houses the other way.

She and I dance in the middle of the street, making very loud shadows under the street lights out in front of Madame Deltour’s. We are singing Abba songs. (My husband when he finds out will be so happy he went home.) We only scare one neighbor out of bed.

With one mind the four adult party-goers, refusing to let go of the evening, bounce into The Deltours. Jennifer cracks another crisp bottle of wine, puts on the soundtack to Mama Mia and the dancing, arm flailing, and loud singing begins. The four remaining children run in circles-- in one door, through the living room, out another, across the patio and back in the kitchen door. The floor is actually bouncing. Let’s see, last time I saw a floor bounce? Delta Chi rattle trap frat house over looking Seneca lake, Geneva New York, 1982.

My Abba repertoire is exhausted after singing Fernando under the street light, and doing a few moves to Dancing Queen over by the fireplace. I was at Lucinda Williams the night before and my battery is starting to wear down. I relinquish the floor to the remaining queens and am in for the biggest treat of the evening. Mme Deltour and Beth not only know every word to every Abba song, they can do all the scenes from the movie. Who needs to go! This is better than anything I would pay $7.50 for. With a brief look before each song they transmit who is going to be Meryl and who gets to be Pierce. And they are hysterical. Katie and I give each other the crazy eye and laugh in disbelief.

I haven’t seen anything so funny since I don’t know when. When did we used to act stuff out . . . the third or fourth grade? I cannot believe these women know the WHOLE THING! Girls, if you are reading this, that was the best birthday present ever. At one point, after using the mantle as a prop, giving Mme. Deltour a sultry look and belting out her song, Beth starts cracking up. “I can’t believe I know the WHOLE THING!” She is laughing and trying to hold little tears in.

The next morning I wake to say goodbye to the lovebirds at Mama K’s B&B. The Chicken Lady and Captain Morgan are already gone on their weekend travels, Beth’s house is dormant. She must be on her way to the cabin at Lake of the Woods. In my mind’s eye I imagine the table as it looked the night before, Eric would have cleaned away everything, only the hurricane globes and white pitchers of iris left behind. The blinds are closed at The Deltours.

Greta and Ron are up and ready, car packed, house cleaned, coffee pot washed and put away. We make a quick trip to Donut Country with my boys and then we wave them off. I look around and the street is empty. I don’t really want to go back home to whatever football game the boys are watching, so I head back to Katie’s to do some debriefing.

After a cup of coffee and a chat with her husband and daughter, Katie and I walk out through the garage together. Nobody uses her front door. Ta-go-doh the Eclectus parrot who lives next door whistles at us and then does a good imitation of my laugh. (Katie’s parties are now on her front lawn-- Ta-go-doh repeats everything!)

Word is out that Jennifer is hung over and needs a hamburger and French fries. We head that direction. Sophie sees us from the plate glass window and comes to the door. Pretty soon everyone is out on the lawn and it is decided we will all go to Jaspers sans Katie. Jennifer has things she needs to pick up at Beth’s. We say goodbye to Mama K and then Jennifer and Sophie and I make our way down the block--again.

Beth’s house is still completely quiet. So the Deltours come to our house. My husband’s eyes light up at the mention of Jaspers. It takes three seconds for my pile of people to get ready. And we do.

We go to Jaspers and order big giant hamburgers, French fries, onion rings and shakes, and sit out on the grass on Highway 99 and say goodbye to summer.

As we pull back onto the block. Eric and Beth are just loading the truck to head up to the lake. They see the cup of coffee in my hand. It is something like 3:00 in the afternoon. They laugh.

As Earl said last night, as he looked out over the twinkling garden before leaving, “To think, I could have missed all this.”

Thank you friends and neighbors for a wonderful summer and a spectacular birthday.

Labor Day -- Jennie

“More,” the agent told me, after reading my YA submission. “It needs more character development, more setting description, more words: 20,000 more.”

Holy Manuscript Overhaul, bloggers!

That’s means a quarter more than what I already had!

I thought there was no way. I'm a "less" kind of a writer. I sometimes wonder if I subconsciously picked a boy book because they tend to be much shorter than general ones.

Over the last six weeks, however, while “recovering” from surgery, I’ve thought. And thought. And thought. Because I really can’t do anything else.

And guess what? There are oodles of places to add more. More of everything!

Today, Labor Day, I am 12,000 words into my revision.

While Christy writes a chapter of her new novel this afternoon, while Julie visits her classroom one last time before her students fill it tomorrow, while Kerry takes her kids back-to-school shopping or jots down some notes about her great new story, and while Marcia squeezes every last second out of summer with her boys, I will add more.

Because “more” is easier than “change,” right?

I can do more.

No problem?