Needlework -- Kelly

So many worries…

Is it time for my mother to stop her cancer treatment?

Should I take an aggressive, invasive approach to prevent cancer in my own body?

Need the release of every dollar be fraught with such anxiety?

Why is my sweet daughter suddenly exploding with anger?

After 25 years of marriage and 50 years of living, why do I feel as if everything is starting over?

But such elegant, smooth cord….

I treasure good friends who listen and who have, in some cases, faced the same worries.

Each day my daughter learns in a peaceful, loving academic environment

My sister, at least today, shares rather than attacks my thoughts about our mother’s care.

I’ve found new pursuits – knitting, drawing, and painting – to open a new chapter for my hands; my heart will follow, surely.

I’m grateful for the Lithia Writers, who have my back from so very far away.

And the finest needle, language, in its infinite richness and precision….

May it help me string these beads, and place them in my fingers to touch and consider.

Every word can be a healing, every page a release.

We are fortunate, indeed, to write.

Dominance and Sumbission: A Cautionary Tale --Christy

This business of writing is a subjective one. It’s not like say, accounting, where there’s a right answer—writers have to rely on arbiters of taste, namely agents and editors, to tell us if we will be successful.

To illustrate how powerfully the pendulum can swing between loving a manuscript and loathing a manuscript, I’ll tell you a writer’s conference tale. Pull up a chair, won't you?

A few years ago our ambitious writer’s group decided to go to a conference together. We chose the Whidbey Island Writer’s Conference because it was close enough to drive to and Marcia’s friend had a cottage near the conference that she’d let us use. We polished our work, had business cards printed, and ordered authentic manuscript boxes off the internet. (They tell you never to bring your manuscript because no one wants to lug them back to New York, but we were certain that ours would be the exception. They weren’t.)

The great thing about the Whidbey Conference, other than that it’s on an exquisite little island in the San Juans that you must ferry to, is that you can sign up for as many agent/editor meetings as you are willing to pay for. Plus, the people you sign up with read ten pages of your work the night before so you actually have stuff to talk about. I signed up for four 15-minute agent sessions. At that point I was shopping two manuscripts, a collection of memoir stories and the manuscript that is now The Prophecy of Days: The Daykeeper’s Grimoire. The adult-genre agents I met with, Jandi Nelson and Esmond Harmsworth, were both charming and complimentary and I walked away with business cards and offers to submit from both of them. Then I had a meeting with Jodi Reamer, who was a relatively new agent actively looking for YA clients. She had thoroughly read and made notes on my ten pages, asked great questions, and told me to definitely submit when I was ready. Not long later she signed a new writer named Stephenie Meyer—maybe you’ve heard of her?—and became a capital-a Agent.

My last meeting was with he-who-shall-remain-unnamed because I fear his wrath. But I’ll tell you this: his name rhymes with Hairy Molerat and to my utter bewilderment he is married to an amazing, funny, talented writer. Anyway, back to Whidbey. The minute I sat down with him he looked annoyed. He told me he hadn’t read the ten pages so I’d just need to pitch him. Caught off-guard, my pitch was probably not as polished as it could have been, but I was not ready for the full tongue lashing that followed. He told me, among other choice things, that the plot was too ambitious and I’d never be able to pull it off, that girls aren’t interested in science, and that I should give it up and try something else entirely. Honestly, this went on for the full fifteen minutes; I’d try to explain it another way and he’d find another way to shoot it down. He was relentless and I know this shouldn’t matter but I WAS EVEN PREGNANT! Have you no heart Hairy Molerat? No mercy at all?

When my 15 minutes of brutality were over, I went directly to a bathroom stall and cried my eyes out. My writing group came to the rescue—pugnacious Marcia wanted to kick his a**; Zen Julie wanted me to forget it ever happened, to remember that he is working out his own issues and that it has nothing to do with me; and tender Erin just cried along with me.

The next day at the closing ceremony I won awards in two categories, Young Adult Short Story and Nonfiction Essay. I’d hoped Mr. Molerat would be in the audience to see that I wasn’t the loser he’d told me I was, but of course, he’d done his damage and then taken the red-eye home the night before.

So, the moral. Treat agent/editor responses to your work like horoscopes: only believe the good stuff. Rely on your critique partners to tell you the truth. And never, ever, submit to an agent whose name rhymes with Hairy Molerat.

Falling for Fun---Marcia

--Photographs Courtesy of Rodney Rampy

Last week, despite head lice, James started learning to play hockey. When Daniel was in Mighty Mights, it averaged out to about $5 a lesson: you got an hour of ice time, skates, puffy pants, all kinds of shin and elbow guards, a helmet with a grill, and coolest of all --- a stick.

Having head lice is not so bad when you are fantasizing about holding a hockey stick. So we get to the rink half an hour early to suit up. There is no one at the desk, no one in the lobby, and no one manning the concessions. Hmmmm.

A rumple-haird 20-something emerged from somewhere and verified we were in the right place at the right time, he just didn't know who was in charge. Then a manager came out. I handed him a check for $85 and he handed James a pair of size 3 skates. Okay. We got into them. Now what?

I go back to Mr. Rumple-hair, "So . . . is this it? No shin or elbow guards? How 'bout a helmet?"

He starts looking left and right.

"I think that's it," he said.

Huh.

Let me make it clear. James has zero sense of balance. He spends all of his time at the Roller Rink falling on his heinie, or with me trying to keep him standing by hoisting him up by his armpits. It will be about another ten years before James' motor skills suit his stature. The guy needs help . . . no kidding. James on skates--on ice--Danger Will Robinson.

I begin to look left and right myself.

Other little skaters are filing in. They are all tricked out--think "Can you Pimp My Hockey Player?" Proud boys full of swagger (skates make everybody swagger), with cool helmets, big robot-like gloves, and shiny sticks. These kids are bristling with kid-size doses of testosterone and confidence.

"I guess he could pick out a helmet." Rumple-hair says as he heads out with his bristlers.

James cruises over to pick out head gear. I hesitate a moment, given the lice situation and all, and then it's like, what the hell. I am so tired. Let this kid have something good. besides, the insides are plastic. I wonder, briefly, if there is something they spray in these things, but given the lack of attendance at any of the points of command, I am sure they are not de-lousing the helmets.

C'est La Vie, C'est La Guerre. It is now the official start time for our lesson.

"Well, James, let's get out there."

James can't wait. He barrels, with a swagger, for the doors that lead out to the ice. I am really ticked that my kid is hobbling around with worn out skates and a helmet that doesn't fit, and not an elbow pad to his wobbly name.

There is one other tiny little boy out on the ice. He is in blue snow pants, a helmet, and hockey skates. His ankles collapse inward, his knees are knocking, and he's hanging on to the rink's edge like it's the deck of the Titanic.

His parents look tight-lipped out onto the ice at the spectre of their precious angel splashing his brains out as his skates slip out under him.

I quickly find out that the Peewee lesson was no different last week. There was no coach, no equipment, nada. They were told, it's best for kids just to get the feel of the ice.

"Well, I can let my kid get the feel of the ice for a hell of a lot less than $85. And I'd have skates on so I could help him!" Ooooh, I do get fiesty. The clock was ticking. James was floundering. I stalked back to the front and dug around for the manager.

"This isn't going well, I'd like my check back."

"Um, well, it isn't always like this, I'd like you to wait 'til next week. There's usually a volunteer out there with the kids."

"Well, there isn't now. My kid's at risk and I'm very disappointed."

Manager Man looks out over the smoke coming off my fuzzy hair.

"Ahh, it looks like they're here now. See." He points.

"Ahh. Good. Uh. This lesson was supposed to start at 5:15. It is now 5:40. Please tell me they'll be skating an extra 20 minutes."

"Ahh. No."

"Unbelievable."

"Sorry."

Stalk, stomp, huff. Somewhere between the rows of skate-scarred benches, and the penalty box out in the rink, I get my act together. I can see out on the ice. I can see that my child is having

fun. He's moving, he's trying something new. I tell myself to get my game face on and suck it up.

By the time I meet up with the Grimlips again, there is a nice guy on skates working hard to keep James upright. I keep waiting for James to give up. He falls over and over and over again.

I keep the grin plastered to my face, keep my thumbs Chaney-style--rigidly pointed toward the heavens. Good Job, Bud. Splat. It takes everything I have not to race out onto the ice in my sneakers.

The thing is, James loved every minute. He went back for more punishment . . . twice this week. The coaches are now on board, they are terrified of me, and so, now treat me with the greatest fear and respect. My kid is getting everything he needs--including a really good time, a sport of his own, joy, accomplishment, and new friends. Plus, he now has his very own sporty red hockey stick.

I have to ask myself, when was the last time I applied myself with such fearlessness and passion? When was the last time I let myself fail, repeatedly, in order to grow? I can't remember. But, I am watching my child. I am paying attention. There is definately something to be learned here, and those who know me, know it applies to my writing.

Splat!

Thanks for sending me the photos Rodney.

Pondering the 1980's --Kerry

Last night I succumbed to the lure of Facebook.
It's taken me awhile to acquiesce. I was only somewhat charmed until yesterday's evening foray into the netherworld of 1985.
I journeyed through pages of people, perusing photos and time-traveling. I came to the following conclusions:
1. The hair wasn't really that big of a mistake, it really does come kind of close to the "tousled" look of today if you ignore the side wings and straight up hairsprayed bangs.
2. We really are still the same personalities and have ascended along the trajectory, more or less, that I would have predicted. Lawyers, Mommies, Microsofties, etc.
3. Being in a sorority can be a good experience. Really.
4. The most important things to me are still love, books and writing, among others.
5. Republicans and Democrats can still be good drinking buddies.

Anyone else have additions to the list?

We're 3 1/2 weeks into 2009.

Where are you with keeping your resolutions?

Words and Lawns - Kelly

Last May, I overcame extreme anxiety and hit “send,” pushing two essays of the nest. I submitted these fledglings, the first non-academic work I’d submitted anywhere under my own name since age 16, for inclusion in a collection of creative non-fiction. Its editors are two writers and bloggers I’ve come to admire and respect.

The publication date, “fall of 2008,” implied a decision sometime around October. Apparently they did not receive enough submissions, and instead extended the deadline to December 31. Despite the standard “we cannot respond to inquiries about individual submissions” warning, I sent a “cheery little email” not long ago and received a form response. The project’s website has not been updated in any form or fashion; it still mentions the original submission deadline: May 15, 2008.

I do not have the confidence of the other Lithia Writers. I am meek. It was a huge leap of faith to hit that button. And you know what? When I sent those words away they somehow were no longer mine. The sending itself was the point of this event, not acceptance (or so I’m telling myself until the rejection email arrives).

All this brings me around to my lawn.

Every fall, in the hopes of continuous employment, a landscape service spreads winter rye seed over our two acres. The first time they did this, I blustered, “How dare they assume I want a green winter yard!” Then the compliments began to roll in and I learned to savor the feel of soft, cold green blades under my feet.

But this year? My yard looks like a Chia Pet undergoing chemotherapy.

You see, we’re experiencing a serious drought. Smack in the middle of all those biblical weather systems (floods, blizzards, Gulf hurricanes, etc.), we’re high and dry.

Here and there, hopeful patches of brilliant green have erupted among the brown dirt and sere Bermuda and St. Augustine. Looking down, I see hundreds of seeds, dreaming of germination.

This afternoon, I realized that my lawn resembles the writing life as well. Amid the drought of anxiety, we sow our seeds and we wait.

Here and there, celebration and growth!

There and here, patience and nothingness.

And you always have to mow, either way.

Dear Muse

Last night at out weekly critique meeting, Marcia brought her neighbor Earl. He's a retired professor of music and aesthetics who has now turned his full attention to poetry. I heard him read at her birthday party this fall and was moved to tears by a poem about his mother, so I was excited to hear more. He brought a sheaf of poems and we read about five. There was one about the Muse that I loved so much I asked to take my copy home. With his permission, I'll reprint it here.

Dear Muse

Each night, along another stretch of heart,
I dig, or work some old abandoned claim.
Years of fever for this golden art
and me without an image to my name.
Look. No luxuries; the room is bare.
These books are paperback; those bits of art
were gifts; one bulb to light the desk and chair
where I can lean my mind against my heart.

And all for what? Less than a word an hour;
it barely meets the interest on my loans.
To pay a bird I borrow from a flower,
and I need words that skip like small smooth stones
across a pond; my mind is a stagnant moat.
There are some soft explosions in the silt;
I can make out a promissory note.
You've helped before; I'm overwhelmed with guilt
asking again, but what with all I've spent
I don't have a verse for next months rent.

--Earl Jones

Reason Why I Can't Write No. 4332, Nit Picking--Marcia

Okay, I’m just going to spill it. Last week’s reason why “I Can’t Write” is Head Lice. Yup. My worst fear. I have seven-quajillion hair shafts per scalpimeter. I am louse nirvana. I am a warm hairy haven for creepy crawly scab-like parasites to blood suck to their heartless carapace’s content.

It’s not like I wasn’t suspicious.

The night we arrived home from Christmas vacation, I bolted out of bed. My head was alive with Pringles (prickling tingles). I rudely nudged my snoring husband. Get up! Can’t you see this is an E-mergency! Ahhh. Itch, itch, itch. Gaah. My husband is a 6’1” lumberer. He’s fast as lightning at his busy restaurant, but when it comes to the Honey Dos he’s slower than a glacier. It doesn’t help that he sleeps in the buff, but is unusually modest when it comes to roaming the halls naked. Any red alert requires his robe or a pair of pants. Good God, doesn’t the man know we have children? I’ve been wearing Flak suits to bed for the last ten years!

EIGHT HOURS LATER! when we finally got down the hall and snapped on the light, he half-heartedly fumbled around in my mane.

“See anything?” I asked, talking into the sink as I tried to get better exposure under the vanity’s dim bulb.

“Nah,” he said, scratching himself before shuffling off to bed.

Four seconds later I heard my ten year old climbing down the bunk bed ladder. He caught me in the bathroom still scratching away like an old blood hound.

“Mom, my head itches.”

My youngest has been scratching since Thanksgiving.

The next day I rushed, like a good mother, to Rite Aid and spent $20 on dandruff shampoo and an expensive treatment for scalp dermatitis. A week went by. We were still scratching. I loaded up Monday morning to head off to my job in KINDERGARTEN!--scratch scratch—thinking it’s probably time to call the doctor. That dermatitis cream is just NOT working.

Tuesday night, per usual, I was snuggled down with James reading him a book when I took a good scratch at the back of my noggin and felt something--something vaguely scab-like. I dragged it down the hair shaft and pinched it between my fingers. It took awhile for me to register what I was looking at. It sort of looked like a patch of dead skin. Translucent, brown and grey flecked. Then I saw its weensy legs move.

Just as I jumped out of bed my husband walked through the door. Both kids, moments ago calm and sleepy eyed, began screaming and jumping around on both feet.

“Lice!”

“Lice!”

“It’s Lice!”

“Are you sure?” Hubby asks.

“Well what else looks like a moving scabie with wiggly legs and sucks the blood from your scalp?”

“You don’t know that, it could be anything.” He scanned the room for the remote.

“It’s LICE!” From all three of us.

He was still in his coat, bags in hand, slowly taking in the fact that he was not going to get to unpeel the film on the Haagen Daas and park it in front of ESPN.

“We need you to go straight to Rite Aid and get everything you can.”

“Now?”

“Now!” I win because I am already in pjs, and the louse was in my hair.

My husband proceeds to putter around the house, not really sure we have self-diagnosed correctly. Those of us being drained of our life’s blood by parasites are swarming like an angry mob. There is no possible way for him to move fast enough.

I remembered reading that you can kill lice by smothering them in Vaseline. I’ve had a tin of Bag Balm lying around in my room for years. I find it tucked back in my closet behind some gloves. There is half a tin left. I scoop all of it out. I plaster a baseball sized blob of Bag Balm all over my head. But this only covers the top layer. I rummaged through the bathroom cupboards. Half used bottles of Lubriderm, saline solution, and outdated Immodium tablets are flying off the shelves. No Vaseline, but I do find a small container of organic baby-friendly Vapo Rub. I slap that on my head, trying to massage it into my scalp. My hair now can be honed to a point and stand for days on its own. Think Coneheaded troll meets Rita Marley. Rastafari-with a faint hint of eucalyptus and liniment. But the itching stopped. I wrap my head in plastic wrap for good measure. That’ll killem for sure.

My Hub comes home with $40 bucks worth of product and a bad attitude. He takes one look at me.
“Well that won’t wash out “til Easter.”

“Everything should be good and dead by then.”
We set to work on the kids. Nine, ten, and eleven o’clock went by.

They fell asleep at 1:00 on the couch, too afraid to go back to their beds, now orgiastic communes for loose lice.

I couldn’t blame them. After treating myself and combing at the madness with a microscopic Barbie comb until 4:00 AM, I too fell asleep on a couch—one in another room, one they don’t usually sit on. Sorry.

I tried to put a good face on it. Tell my husband to consider it valuable bonding time. Wow, we rarely spend this much time together in one spot—so what if it’s hunched over our squirming children with clamp light and magnifying glass in hand.

I didn’t see the sunshine until Friday afternoon, when I took a break from the combing and picking and piles of laundry and vacuuming. I thought I was losing my mind.

But the thing is, it wasn’t all bad. I got my kids to wash their hair. I put their heads in the kitchen sink, just like my mom used to do with me. It turns out Daniel has beautiful rich brown curls that glisten prettily when treated with DDT. They no longer fight when I nit pick. Believe me, we all understand the true meaning of that word now. And we’ve had to slow down and let absolutely everything go. Our whole life is about laundry and hair.

Ironically, I got a call from my sister-in-law in California a few hours ago. I hear her voice on the machine and tell the kids to knock it off, Granny must be sick. I call her back as soon as I find the phone. It’s not Granny . . . It’s L-I-C-E.

I have come to find, once I came out of the closet about our family’s dread condition, that everybody has had it. I am not kidding you. Everybody. And everybody has a remedy. None of them work.

The most telling bit of research claims that Ancient Egyptians were found buried with their lice combs, mayonnaise and Rid. To this day, the best cure is a comb and your fingernails. I will, however, try one neighbor’s suggestion of dousing your head in Listerine and wearing a shower cap for an hour or so. I will also try Cherie’s (my sis-in-law) pediatrician’s choice—a head full of Cetaphil applied hair-dye style, blow dried in, and left overnight. If your hair doesn’t break off in your sleep, you’re cured!

The problem with Lice is you are, in good conscience, supposed to tell the schools, daycares, and close friends who may have rubbed themselves against your children’s heads that they may also have the plague.

I called the school, told the office ladies, and they announced over the loud speaker that there had been a “bio hazard” in the Kindergarten and 4th grade and could those teachers please come to the office at their convenience. This of course raised the eyebrows of every good parent volunteering in the classrooms, and set everyone to trying to figure out who had the be-crittered heads.
Next time I will choose my sister-in-law’s way. She wrote an anonymous note to the pre-school, folded it, handed it to my brother who then, like a messenger for the King, pedaled it on his bicycle up to the school to slip under the doorframe.

Unfortunately there was a “Village Meeting” going on; parking lot full--good parents swarming. He had to abort.

“Do you think anyone noticed?” Cherie asked.

“I don’t think anyone saw me,” my brother said. “It was getting dark, I was wearing a hat.”

He went out on his stealth mission several hours later in the dead of night, pulled up the weather stripping on his child’s classroom and delivered the news. His child will not be called “Madagascar” (Kindergartners, what do they know), told to get away, or shunned on the bus. I’m all for subterfuge now.

I find myself scanning the heads in the classroom and at my sons’ basketball and hockey practices for newly shorn hair. I check for nits as I bend over to help a kid with their letters. When I scratch my ankle I think, can they get down there? When I scratch other places I think, oh Jesus, Not There!

I have had a good laugh this week, now that the worst days are over, hearing other people’s stories and laughing at the sheer exhaustion of the work involved. But now you’ll have to excuse me, my ears itch, and I’ve got to go spend some time bonding and legitimately nit picking at my family.

If you need any advice, let me know. I am now an expert at something.

.

Walking Through Walls -- Kerry

I had to give myself permission to watch two hours of daytime television today.

"Watching an inaugaration is considered productive work," I countered my conscience.

I have just finished reading a memoir called "Walking Through Walls", by Phillip Smith. He wrote about growing up with a psychic father, Lew Smith, who just happened to be a famous interior designer to the stars in the post-modern 195o's cocktail world of Miami, Florida before he developed his healing vibrational energy techniques. His son claims his father was way ahead of his time.

Obama is also ahead of his time, in a way. And I hope he is also a healer. I couldn't help applying the title of the book to my blog today; this historic day when Obama indeed walked through walls of racial barriers, set his sights high, and kept on walking to the other side.

What Comes Around -- Jennie

I lend out a lot of books. It brings me super satisfaction to hook up a reader with the perfect read.

The winning pairs have been an old family friend and The Future Housewives of America, my cousin and The Alchemist, my daughter and Mandy, my aunt and Patty Jane's House of Curl. There was also my son's teacher and Possessing the Secret of Joy. And my college roommate and Like Water for Chocolate.

For some reason, it's easier for me to match literature to females, but successful relationships have been formed between my brother and Godless, an acquaintance and Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, and a doctor and Freakonomics.

On rare occasion, someone will give me a book that fits perfectly, like a pair of shoe orthotics that are between being nicely broken in and too worn thin. These have included Pobby and Dingan from my sister, Someday This Pain Will be Useful to You from Christy, and, though I hate admitting it, Four Blondes from my husband. Because I read a lot/teach English/write, I guess, well-meaning people are always loaning me literature they think I'll love.

But as you know by now, I'm a tough critic.

When someone asks to borrow one of my books, I am both eager to lend it and doubtful; I want to be sure it comes back. After writing my name prominently on the front cover, I stress that the book is one of my favorites, to please return it. I know: anal. I always remember who has my book, when I gave it to them, and whether or not it's returned.

You know where this blog is going.

Yep. Someone kept my beloved The Shadow of the Wind.

Here's how it happened: in June 2007, my kids were in swimming lessons at the park. I had just gotten back the Gothic novel from my friend, when a colleague noticed it laying on the lawn, and took interest in it. Said Colleague is a professor of literature, from Europe, with a fetish for all things foreign. I couldn't believe he hadn't heard of the book. It was such a fit! I handed it over with much enthusiasm.

And have waited a year and a half to get it back.

I've missed that $14 book. Since I gave it away, I could've lent it to other readers a hundred times over.

Once my dad told me that he let a co-worker borrow $7 from him, which to this day remains uncollected. So the origin of my memory, okay, resentment, is easy to trace.

I've hinted at needing the book back, even flat-out demanding. No luck. Though I'd like to, I can't imagine forgetting that Said Colleague has my book stashed away on some shelf, buried by dust. Excuse me while I grab a tissue.

Last month, a funny thing happened. I was Christmas shopping at a big gift store, when Said Colleague sauntered over, wearing the store name tag. He explained that he was moonlighting during the holidays, earning extra cash for some hefty wish lists. He'd be happy to give me his employee discount card, he said. I could save 30 %.

Of course I took him up on his offer. He had my cherished book hostage, remember?

With the employee discount, I pocketed a $14 savings.

Guess what I did with it.

Let The Sun Shine In - Kelly

Hair Lyrics

Five preteens, four girls and a boy, sit in the small bedroom. The blue ripcord bedspread marks the backs of their tanned legs. It’s 1969, and they're playing their favorite summer game. While “spin-the-bottle” has been part of their repertoire for some time, let me remind you that it is summer. Texas summer. And it’s 1969.

What this means for those of you who are younger or more economically or geographically fortunate than our five friends is that the 3BR 1.5B brick has no central air conditioning. The boy in question is fortunate enough to have his own window unit and his parents are both at work.

The game is “Freezeout.”

They’ve set the Kenmore at its lowest setting, blocked the crack under the door with a JC Penney bath towel, and are just beginning to feel the first goose bumps. Someone drops the needle on an album forbidden in at least one household, in spite of the squeaky-clean singers, because of a single song, the song they all love, the song that brings them to their chilly bare feet….

“Gimme a head with hair…”

Shining. Gleaming. Streaming. Flaxen. Waxen.

I’m pretty sure I was the only one who knew – at least at age ten – that the song was from a play famous for actual naked people (did you guess that I was the one barred from the Cowsills album?). Our parents worked desperately to convince us that hippies, be-ins, yippies, sit-ins, and other manifestations of malcontent would turn us into “juvenile delinquents.” 

But no amount of distraction shielded us from the daily parade of body bags, the tear-gassed protestors, and the flecks of color entering our all-white world.

We taped our peace sign posters up inside our closets and showed our families Bobby Sherman on our bedroom walls.

In one of those great ironies only the universe can create, I now assiduously work to ensure my daughter has the kind of social consciousness my parents did their best to prevent me from developing.

Toward that end, I downloaded the soundtrack from Hair and slipped it on her iPod Monday night.

Never trust anyone over 50.

A Moment --Christy

I'm not someone who is comfortable positioning the spotlight directly on myself, but I have to remember that this is the blog of a writer's group and writers will, at some point, have monumental moments. My moment was last night, when my book's website went live.

Click here to see it.

I was a very difficult client for my long-suffering web-tastic husband who put this site together. I had to have it just so: I wanted hot Mexican colors; a unique but not kitschy sans serif font; a universal symbol (the ouroborus) rendered by a Central American culture (the Aztec) but made to look like a Chinese chop. Yes, I am annoyingly particular! But he did an amazing job.

The book won't be out for a year, but book selling starts far in advance of publication. This is the "grown-up" version for sales force, booksellers, librarians, and educators - we'll make the site a bit more teen friendly once we're closer to the release date. Thanks for checking it out!

Shelter from the Storm --Kerry

In the backround of my 1970's childhood, a dim political picture emerged on the television screen and dinnertime conversations. The picture included Vietnam, Nixon and long lines of cars with names like Pinto and Dasher waiting for rationed gasoline. However, that's about as much as my parents let me understand. They sheltered me from the graphic horrors of war and the economic fears (11% home mortgages) the same way I shelter my own children from Iraq and the financial crisis.

My children joined the swim team today, the same team I swam on twenty-five years ago.
However, I would come home and talk on a yellow phone attached to the wall with a cord dangling from the receiver. To dial you inserted your finger in a round plastic six-inch circle on the corresponding number. My children came home and used their father's blackberry to make phone calls, do their math homework and email a friend.

Times have changed, but some of the basics of childhood still remain.
The swimming pool is still twenty-five yards and you're still hungry as all outdoors when you're done with the workout.
It's still uncool to take cuts in the line at grade school.
It doesn't matter how much money you have, what you look like, or what you wear as long as you are really fun to play with.
Doing your best is still the best way.

The horrors are still out there, but for the moment they can wait until the end of childhood.

All The News, I Get On Sundays -- Jennie

There's not much "new" about the news lately.

Americans are all well-aware by now that Iraq is a bloodbath, that unemployment and foreclosures are high, that the economy is in the tanker.

For my weekly dose of news, I turn to two sources, only on Sundays: the San Francisco Chronicle, and CBS' "60 Minutes."

If you're after a dose of new news, check out these facts:

1) According to the Chronicle, Americans spent less of our annual income on food last year (9.8%) than we did during 1933 (25%).

2) Granta literary magazine hired its first female editor during a 120 year history.

3) With tips, taxes, and extras, the promotional price of cruises is only half of what they actually cost.

4) If you chose mostly A answers on the etiquette quiz in the "Style" section, you're socially "inept." The solution? "Stop living like a hermit..."

5) Per CBS correspondent Scott Pelley, hip hop star Wyclef Jean, who left Haiti for America when he was nine years old, founded and directs an organization in Port Au Prince, which distributes 50,000 pounds of UN food each month.

There. I've spared you the usual top stories, without leaving you bored, hopeless, or clinically depressed.

Yikes. I sound like Andy Rooney.

In Which I Embark on a Task Long Postponed.... - Kelly

After my daughter was born, I decided I would conquer my "math block." I resolved, at age 41, to complete a calculus course before I turned 50.

One obstacle lay in my path: my last math instruction, trigonometry, had taken place when I was 17. Truth was, I could no longer factor an equation.

Finally I had a reason to be thankful for the sad state of public education. I enrolled in the easiest developmental math course at the university where I worked. While on maternity leave, I factored and solved while my baby slept. I loved it. Putting numbers in neat columns and arriving at finite, correct answers was the perfect counterbalance to the chaos of first-time motherhood.

I breezed through the three "pre-credit" courses once I got my number legs back; the hardest part was using that newfangled graphing calculator. In the old days, such wonders didn't exist and the dinosaur versions were so expensive - even though TI was a 20 minute drive from our school - that we had one per classroom and had to take turns. Yes, Virginia, we used slide rules. Google the term.

My return to work coincided with my entry into "College Algebra." I was doing fine, but the combination of math, child care, sorting out the adminstrivia of six months' absence, and finding time to sleep was not working and I put numeracy aside. And I never resumed, even after I resigned and returned to Texas.

So 50 came and went last month with nary a bit of calculus. No big.

But I have decided that something else absolutely must come to pass this year. I owe it to myself and to one amazing teacher in my past and colleague and friend in the present, Carol Daeley.

I've never read a novel by Charles Dickens.

It's a long story, but over the years it's become a point of perverse pride, a literary party-fact: "Why, yes, I'm an aborted-doctor-of literature and you know what? I've never read Dickens. Take THAT."

But in my sixth decade, it's time to shit or get off the pot. My education is incomplete.

I have chosen Bleak House, and it arrived from amazon yesterday. It lies before me on the bed The die is cast.

Is It So Wrong To Love You? --Christy

Everyone in my writing group knows I’m smell-obsessed. I probably have far too many scent references in my work and I’m always asking the others in the group things like, “But what did the locker room smell like when your main character walked in?”

In my work in progress, the aroma of a Sharpie pen figures prominently. I don’t mind the smell, but it’s not one of my favorites. I’m a big fan of scents that are either severely organic (the inside of a corn husk, good damp soil) or severely chemical (gas straight from the nozzle, WD-40).

What are your favorite smells? Will anyone admit to offbeat or politically incorrect scents? Allow me to start by publicly admitting that I love the smell of gun cleaner and wet cat fur.

My excuse for the day--Marcia

I had heard that Richie had come by to see us while we were on vacation. I was hoping he'd stick around and maybe come back. We haven't seen him in about five years. I was hoping when he arrived I'd be looking good in my new boot-cut jeans, heels, and good hair. But instead, he showed up today, just after a grueling post-holiday training session. One in which I felt more water-buffalo than warrior.

School bus dumps kids, I'm mixing up a pot of goulash, knock-knock. There is a very tall man at the door. Guess who!

This my friends is Richie, the subject of my first novel, and the reason I am not going to be able to write my blog today.

I have been listening to him tell me about meeting lesbians who inherited stagecoach houses from dead cowboys, ladies who mine sea salt off the top of rocks in the middle of the ocean , of getting stuck in a flume trying to rescue his two inner-city culturally challenged young men who did not know how to swim, and now of his golden goddess a black-dreadlocked woman with a diamond in her tooth who he tipped over in a canoe one dark midnight in the middle of nowhere. Professional marijuana trimmers.

He has already told my sons that he'd be happy to share his beer, yes they can drive his truck, after they do their homework, and let's see . . . told em the meaning of "ho" and "Pimp". That in fact, their daddy is a 'noodle pimp." Life with Richie is always exciting.

I was going to write a fabulous story about New Year's and the Polar Bear Swim, how rejuvenating and exhilarating, etc. but, well you know, Richie popped in And when the big man shows, everything stops. I mean when was the last time you heard a good story about being chased by cops throught the hills, culverts, and bamboo of Paradise, California.

It's good to see Richie again, we've all missed him. He reminds us of how lucky we are to have really boring lives, and of the great possibiltiy of excitement in the world. We prefer to get ours vicariously.

My New Years resolution will have to wait. I have to hear how the story ends.

Happy New Years!

Dispatch from Dundee - Kerry

It took me twelve hours and one overnight at the Eugene Shilo Inn before we made it officially home to Dundee. We pulled into the driveway of the house, or should I say slid into the driveway through a foot of snow, after which I pulled the emergency brake and came to a stop inches from the arborvitae hedge as the cats and kids wailed in unison.

All was silent in the car as we contemplated the drop-off behind the hedge into the backyard.

That was perhaps the last moment of silence I have had since our arrival here three weeks ago. But, as all writers know, we just can't stay silent for too long.

Three intense weeks have kept me from this beloved blog but no more, it's back to business.

Here's the rundown:

Through a maze of boxes we erected a Christmas tree and threw some lights on it. The kids all got chicken pox from their cousin and the cats vomited in the basement. The power went out the day before Christmas Eve and I am not putting this in sequential order because it all became one big crazy emotional blur. While the power was out, Christian could not go to work so we lit the house up with candles and played all the games we could find. Not a bad way to spend forty-eight hours with each other. We celebrated our great good fortune to be alive in 2009 dancing with the kids and their grandmother in the living room amidst confetti, noisemakers and Argyle Champagne surrounded by lush Douglas firs laden with snow outside the window.

Anyone have any New Year's resolutions they feel like sharing?

Here's mine, or one of them: No more thinking that life should be any other certain way than exactly what it is.

Once You're In -- Jennie

Celebrity children's books are everywhere.

I'm not talking about books about celebrities. I'm talking about books written by them.

Actors, dancers, comedians, and country singers have tried their hands at picture books, mostly of the tyke self-help nature, others with some stab at ecology. Morning talk-show hosts, afternoon talk-show hosts, even late-night talk-show hosts have authored something.

There are books by celebrity chefs, by a former NFL coach, by governors and governors' wives, and psychologists.

The list goes on.

Former President Jimmy Carter penned a kids' book. So did Fergie (the royal one). Spock spit out a read, and a soccer stud put out two. Just to give you an idea how many children's books are authored by celebrities, Google gives almost 4 million hits!

Why is this?

Are these folks really so talented, they can cross (even conquer) Amazon? Um. No. Unless you can overlook content. And character. And plot.

So why are celebrity books flying off shelves?

It's because of us. Americans. American consumers, to be exact. It's because of our obsession with Hollywood (or Washington, D.C.) (or even Nashville). We have it backwards, turning celebrities into authors, instead of turning authors into celebrities.

The bottom line? Celebrity books are being snatched up at ginormous advances, while invisible, talented writers, who have devoted their lives to poverty for the cause of creating the perfect kids' book, are totally ignored.

I'll just go ahead and say it: it's not fair!

Yes, I'm jealous. And mad and frustrated.

Those folks already have money. They already have fame. They already have everything.

Note to Madonna and Emeril: take your boredom elsewhere! Please! Leave writing kids' books to the unknown, unpaid authors who have an actual interest in it.

Note to you, the yet-to-be-famous: the situation is not totally hopeless. The picture-book market may be flooded with celebrity authors. But middle grade and young adult, far less so. Could that be because those markets are much more difficult? Because they are actually discerning? Is this the Kryptonite of celebrity authors?

Don't stop to think. Just write. Write fast, right now. Forget about content. You might have a chance at publishing a kids' book. Even if you're not a world-renowned financial analyst.

Turning Over a New Lexicon - Kelly

Hello, everyone. I'm thrilled and humbled to be here!

The Lithia Writers can back me up on this one: I am not stodgy. I will say just about anything to anyone anywhere at anytime (though I promise to keep my LWC posts PG-13).

That said, however, I also believe that certain niceties should be observed, and right at the top of the list is Standard English When Appropriate. I toss around slang and, um, colorful diction all the time but I do my best to be cognizant of my audience. And one thing I guard against is the linguistic equivalent of “mutton dressed as lamb.” Nothing is more cringe-worthy than a middle-aged teacher trying to hang with the peeps. Writ small, u will not c me l8er. As a neophyte texter, I faced a dilemma every time I whipped out my thumbs. Character limits forced me to send three messages to every student’s one. And since it took me forever to figure out how to coax an apostrophe from my non-QWERTY device, I wrote without contractions for months.

Eventually I loosened up a bit, but only to a small circle. 

My peeps, u no.

When I teach, my students are usually veterans of the AP wars; they write shell-shocked, stilted, voiceless prose and I must help them loosen not tighten their diction. But I still want things right, damn it.

So when I finally became a mother, those who’d known me for big chunks of the 41 years it took me to breed braced themselves for the birth not only of a girl child but also of a fire-breathing perfectionist bitch of a mother… Joan Crawford with The MLA Handbook.

But just as ligaments and tendons loosen to allow a baby’s body to pass through a small space, my rigidity collapsed in the presence of my daughter’s linguistic development. While an adult mispronouncing a word usually sends me running for the Xanax, I was fascinated by the organic process in which she sussed out verb tenses and found her "r" and "l." But I’m still a perfectionist on the inside, and her spelling is another story altogether. Maybe I’ll come back to that in another post, after enduring homework thanks to a couple of glasses of Oregon pinot noir. A commentator on NPR recently urged listeners to accept the reality that “thru” and “nite” may well become standard spellings in 10 years.

ROFLMAO!!! No wA.

But motherhood has relaxed me. It’s made me a more patient, process oriented teacher and a more self-forgiving writer (which is a good thing, considering that this post ended up in Chicago when I was headed for Providence, but oh, well…). My daughter has taught me more about Being, Impermanence, Suffering, and Life than any wall of texts could. She’s also inspired me and made me laugh.

And she’s a princess of neology.

I’d refer to her as a “neologist,” but Merriam-Webster Unabridged hasn’t extended its definition yet. So as my initial contribution to Lithia Writers’ Collective, I offer you two new words, courtesy of Anna Elizabeth Hudgins, age eight for six more days.

Snoreful: one who snores noticeably. “Mommy, Kaiser's such a snoreful dog.”
Braggative: someone (most often a third grade girl, but you never know….) who seems to think she’s awfully special. “Mommy, Narcissa’s nice, but she’s kind of braggative sometimes.”

Use these with pleasure, and happiest of Januarys to you all,

Kelly

New Year, New Blogger

Seven years ago, a group of women met in a writing class that each had enrolled in to legitimately and routinely escape toddler bedtime once a week. When the class was over, they enrolled again. When that ended, they enrolled again. By the time the third session was over, they had sussed out who was writing the stuff they liked to read and who was editing their writing well and they decided to start a critique group. The Lithia Writers Collective was born. It would not have a fancy name until years later when they needed one for their blog; back then the night was referred to as, simply, “writing” and it was sacred. It was the one night a week one could count on having good coffee and intelligent conversation and husbands knew not to mess with it.

Recently Julie, an LWC blogger who has a stressful full-time job as a middle school Language Arts teacher, admitted that blogging—or missing her blog day—was making her anxious. Inducing feelings of guilt. Here at the LWC we’re anti-guilt and we loath anxiety; that’s what families are for, not writer’s groups. So, Julie is now our contributing editor and she will blog only when and if the muse calls.

In her stead, Kelly Hudgins will be taking over the Friday post. One of the original LWC members, Kelly moved to Texas a few years ago. But, much like the mafia, once you’re a member of the LWC, you’re in it for life. Kelly has her own remarkable blog with a worldwide readership, so we’re fortunate to have her fresh voice four times a month here at the Lithia Writers Collective.

Kelly, tomorrow is your debut…take it away old friend!