Out With the Old

It's that time of year -- when we make promises to ourselves to improve our looks and our outlooks.

I stopped making resolutions years ago. Now I have goals. I did fairly well in 2006 -- the biggie I missed was not losing 20 pounds -- I think I gained 40. And I accomplished a lot of things that weren't on my list of goals, so I feel pretty good about that. Today, I put together my list of goals for 2007, which is THE YEAR OF MOLLY.

Family traditions are changing this year, too. I thought we had one more year before Y-Chromo decided he'd rather be with friends than family on New Year's Eve, but I was wrong. He'll be at a movie marathon over-nighter on New Year's Eve. So it will be just me, TV Stevie, and X-Chromo watching the ball drop. I don't even know if we can play games with only three of us -- our favorite Balderdash is definitely out. I loaded up on junk food -- frozen cheese sticks, dips, dogs-in-a-blanket, chips, cheeses, crackers. My last hurrah before I face that lose-40-pounds goal.

Other goals for 2007 include finish writing a particular book, debt management, finding a dream job, and a 40-day on-line program about positive thinking called Destination Transformation that my friend Maggie Shayne told me about.

So I have three things to eliminate this year: weight; debt; negative thinking.

What are you trying to shed?

O Night Divine

A couple of weeks ago, my critique group went to a restaurant for a holiday dinner instead of having a regularly scheduled critique session. We had a difficult time finding a mutually accessible date, due to the Black Hole of December, but we did. We had a lovely time.

We also scheduled the Friday-before-Christmas for our second critique session of the month. Christmas Cactus
wanted us to come to her house and see her tree. She bribed us with promises of homemade pierogi. And, after weeks of intense family time, particularly 7 nights of Chanukka, I was ready. But poor Christmas Cactus hurt her back, and pierogi are a physical-labor-intensive treat. The menu changed to take-out pizza and wings.

The rest of us chipped in with treats: a tray of fresh veggies with dip; homemade Italian Christmas cookies; sausage dip (a/k/a heart attack in a bowl); hummus and multi-grain crackers; and of course, Cactus's favorite ice cream, a limited-edition flavor that comes out only every couple of years, and even then is almost impossible to find. The Queen-A-Athena has the best luck and showed up with four half gallons of Perry's Zero Visability. Our evening had turned into a second holiday gathering.

We sat in Cactus's living room, in front of her gorgeous tree, sipping wine and enjoying the calm. Scented candles, a crackling fire, soft holiday music in the background, and much laughter: all of the ingredients for a perfect evening were there.

Sir Cactus arrived with the main course. We adjourned to the dining room, where Cactus had gone all out with her holly-festooned china, gold flatware, and a center piece of a small artificial tree bedecked with her grandmother's costume jewelry. Stunning. We laughed, we ate, we drank lots of hot tea, and three of us actually read something.

After cleaning the dining room, we returned to the living room. More talk, more laughter. Laughter until it pained my bronchitis-wracked ribcage.

The scene was like something out of a movie. A good movie. Since my life most often resembles one of National Lampoon's "vacation" movies, I basked in the ambience. I didn't want to leave.

It was indeed a holy night.

In Thy Dark Streets Shineth . . .

A dual topic blog!

Topic #1: Flashing Lights

The other night, when I was driving X-Chromo to religious ed, I had a run in with a fire truck. It was scary at the time, as well as infuriating. I was on a one-way street, driving in the correct direction. I was stopped at a traffic light. There were vehicles behind me and vehicles beside me. I heard sirens. I heard horns blowing. I saw a fire truck racing up the street. He had the green light. All those of us stopped at the light had to do was wait.

Wait!

The fire truck turned. The wrong way. Straight at me. He blared his horn, and I had no where to go. The truck was blocking the intersection. The vehicle next to me finally pulled all the way over to the right; the vehicles behind me backed up, so I could back up and swing right & out of the truck's way.

I had no way of knowing the truck was going to turn the wrong way down a one-way street. I'm not even sure it's legal for an emergency vehicle to do that. But it's not like the fire truck was using a turn signal or anything. There were flashing lights all over that thing!

My dad is going to check with a police officer friend of his: who was wrong? Me, for not "yielding right of way" to an emergency vehicle or the driver of the fire truck for going the wrong way down a one-way street?

Topic #2: O Little Town of Bethlehem

My friend, Queen-a-Athena, likes to joke that I know an awful lot of Christmas songs . . . for a nice Jewish girl. For several years, I played guitar and led the caroling at the CNYRW Holiday party.

The tradition of leading the carolling is being passed down through my family. Y-Chromo's Spanish teacher gave him a CD/cassette of Christmas carols and asked him to lead the class in singing them. That's right. The only Jewish kid in the city's largest school will be leading the carolling.

Last night, he came into my office and asked me how the song, O Little Town of Bethlehem goes. He doesn't know it.

At CNYRW we have a tradition of singing this carol to two other tunes. My friend Amy was the lastest recipient of this little joke. She was pretty funny. I tried it on Y-Chromo last night, and it didn't work.

First, I sang the lyrics using the Theme from Gilligan's Island. Y-Chromo thanked me. I said, "No, no. I'm pulling your chain. That's the Gilligan's Island theme song. It really goes like this." Then I proceeded to sing the carol to the tune of House of the Rising Sun. Again, he thanked me, and I had to confess to stringing him along.

There's no fun trying to tease someone who just doesn't get it. Maybe next year he'll remember.

Pinching Pennies

Several years ago, TV Stevie bought me a nice tin bank. It's shaped like a British telephone kiosk. I keep it on my desk and toss my loose change into it. This morning, however, I couldn't. It was full! Time to dig out the wrappers for rolling coins. My "secret" writing account is now $37.50 richer. Not bad.

As much as I enjoy the "found money," there are things about rolling coins that irk me.

• The icky metallic smell that won't come off your fingers
• $4.90 in dimes
• $9.75 in quarters
• $1.95 in nickles
• Pennies

Pennies. Not just 49 of them, either. Thanks to my dad, whom I love very much, I am chronically unable to roll pennies without checking the backs of them, looking for this:

The "Wheat Penny." This is what the backs of pennies looked like when I was a child. At some point, the "wheat" was replaced by the Lincoln Memorial, so numismatists everywhere started pulling "wheat pennies" out of their pockets.

I have a slew of them. Don't know what I'll ever do with them, but I have them.

This morning's tally:

• $2.50 rolled pennies
• 1 wheat penny
• 49 unrolled pennies

It's enough to make a woman weep.

So what annoying chronic behaviors did your parents instill in you?

Disappointment, Debt, & Dreamwalkin'

The other day, I received an e-mail from the Toby Keith International Fan Club announcing that Toby would be at the nearby casino in late January. I immediately forwarded the announcement to Queen-a-Athena and Chris, both of whom also would like to see His Toby-Ness.

Because the show is at a casino, there was no advance sale on the tix for fan club members. But I made sure my membership is current so I could enter the fan club raffles for both the back-stage Meet & Greet and the On-Stage pass.

My fellow Toby fans and I decided that we simply couldn't afford the most expensive tickets, but would take either of the two lower levels. And we wanted seats on the aisle, so we couldn't order the tickets on-line.

Tickets went on sale at 10AM on Saturday 12/2. I started calling the casino box office at 9:58am. I tried the on-line method, too, but couldn't specify an aisle seat, and the three seats I got weren't on the aisle, so I foolishly released them. A moment later, the on-line connection said no seats were available. The whole time I did this, I was also speed-dialing the casino. I got a busy signal until about 10:50am, at which point I was put on hold. At 11:05am, a nice young man named James offered to help me. Except he had nothing left to sell me but the $125 seats.

I'm unemployed. I need to be realistic. As much as I want to see his Toby-ness and perhaps meet him back stage again, I can't justify $125. I know my friends can't either.

I'm really glad I decided not to enter the raffles until I had purchased the tickets. How awful would it have been if I'd won the passes -- and not had tickets to the show? If he comes back to area soon--and he plays around here a lot--I can enter then.

Oh well. I had my moment with Toby several years ago. I guess I shouldn't be greedy. But without his music, I never would have written the book that landed me my agent. And he wrote a song about my muse, too. I owe that man. Just not $125 worth.

The Black Hole

I hate December. I'm not a Scrooge, who hates Christmas. In fact, I'm more like a little kid who can't wait for Christmas to get here -- and be over -- because Christmas is a big part of why I hate December. December 1 through December 25 is a big black hole on the calendar.

Like a black hole, December sucks the cash out of my wallet, the line-of-credit off my charge cards, the creativity from my soul, and time from my life.

For several weeks, my critique group has been trying to schedule our two December meetings. We've even decided that one of those meetings will actually be a holiday dinner in a restaurant to treat ourselves (rather than exchange gifts) for being such industrious writers. But take six busy women, three of whom have school-aged children, and all of a sudden December is an oozing, sucking, time warp.

TV Stevie called me today with two additional obligations to add to our family calendar. I want to weep. A Major University basketball game to which TV won tickets; Aida (Y-Chromo's school did it last year, so he wants to see the touring company that's coming to town); holiday parties; holiday concerts; more holiday parties; TV has to work the same night Y-Chromo has Jazz Ensemble rehearsal 6-8pm and will need a ride home. We're pulling X-Chromo out of religious ed for two weeks because of High School night at her middle school next week and her brother's holiday concert two weeks later. Not only are we seriously over-booked, but when she doesn't go to religious ed, Mommy doesn't get her Write-Night.

Every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evening is booked between now and December 25. Toss in a couple of Friday-Monday things, and . . . life is a black hole of timelessness.

Peace on Earth would be better accomplished with a little quiet down time.

Life Lessons

I'm trying to teach my teens about responsibility, but sometimes it's tough going, especially when their schools teach them that the world revolves around them. If X-Chromo's school had its way, I'd be doing something for them 24/7. Y-Chromo's school mostly does get its way, and I am tired of arranging my life, TV Stevie's life, and family moments around Y-Chromo's constant spate of school-related commitments.

This morning, however, I win. Sort of.

It is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and school is out until Monday. However, due to school, I have a myriad of unexpected errands.

X-Chromo needs her eyeglasses repaired. Someone stepped on them in science class yesterday. I'm not sure I want to know the details.

Y-Chromo needs a new saxophone case. He's been asking me to take him to a downtown music store for weeks. I don't want to drive downtown. Since it's my car and my time, I win.

This morning I seized a "teachable moment."

"Write down exactly what you're looking for in a sax case, then place the following calls: 1) The music store that is closest to our house; 2) a music store in a nearby suburb; 3) the downtown music store."

Naturally, he had to give me a difficult time. "What's the number for the music store in our neighborhood? They've moved since the phone book came out."

Me: "Call the old number. Either they took it with them or the phone company will tell you the new number." (How did he get to be 16 and not know this?)

Neighborhood music store doesn't carry sax cases.

Y-Chromo: "The suburban music store changed its name. How can I look it up in the phone book?"

Me: "Look up the old name. Either the number is the same or the phone company will tell you the new number." (He still hasn't learned.)

Fortunately, the suburban store has what he wants. But he didn't ask what time they close. I made him call back.

Hopefully he learned something from this besides how to use a telephone book and what happens when businesses move or are sold to another company: it's easier to call to see if something is in stock than to drive around town chasing the elusive.

Especially when Mom has to do the driving and pay for gas.

Silver Rose

My local RWA chapter has a holiday tradition known as The Rose Ceremony. Throughout the year, members earn roses of various colors for writing-related activities. Today, I earned a silver rose for public speaking. Yes. I went to X-Chromo's middle school Career Day as an author.

As many of you predicted, I had a BALL. I did not take Tarot cards with me.

I arrived early, because I had to drop off X-Chromo, so I stayed. Another participant came in and introduced himself to the guidance councilor with whom I was speaking. He's with county probation . I asked if he knew Chris Wenger. He said: "I love Chris Wenger." She trained him when he first started at probation 18 years ago.

I placed flyers for my local RWA chapter in front of my laptop. At first, I thought I shouldn't do that, because you have to be 18 to join RWA. Then I remembered that military recruiters would be at the school, and you have to be 18 to join the armed forces, too. A woman two tables over came to talk to me, primarily wanting to know if there was a national writing organization or a branch in Seattle. Her daughter writes and is constantly spending "way too much money" to learn the ins and outs of getting published. The woman picked up a flyer -- it has the Internet address for RWA on it -- to send to her daughter. I warned her national membership alone was $75 or so a year. She said that was nothing compared to what her daughter has been spending.

Principal D seemed fascinated with my Power Point slide presentation, especially my lists of words to avoid. He suggested that I come in and present to an English class. Unfortunately, the laptop battery didn't hold up the way it should have, so the second wave of students (including X-Chromo) didn't get to see the presentation.

The representative from the company that sets up Career Fairs for many school districts came to talk to me and the rep for the School of Visual & Performing Arts at Major University with whom I shared a table. He didn't realize I was there as a parent volunteer. He said: "We are always being asked for authors. Could you . . . ?" I handed him a chapter flyer, told him to go to our website, as the flyer was a bit out of date, and he would find contact information there for all of our published authors, many of whom would be delighted to appear at Career Days.

The students were surprised by the need for basic math -- until I explained that's how you figure your royalties (income), how much to pay your agent, and prepare your taxes. They had pre-printed "interview" questions they needed to ask. The Visual & Performing Arts rep and I revised our answers based on what we'd hear the other one say. The students loved my answer about what I like best about the job: I get to make things up, and I get to work in my pajamas.

But nicest of all? X-Chromo's friend DS handed me a sheaf of his poems to read.

Tiffanies and Other Defining Moments

When Y-Chromo was about three, he asked, "What's that holiday after Christmas and after New Years that Christians celebrate?"

Me: I don't know.

Y-Chromo: Yes, you do. It's a girl's name. It's . . . it's . . . it's TIFFANY!

And forever after, all moments of truth and sudden inspirations shall be called Tiffany.

When X-Chromo was in 3rd or 4th grade, she asked me to come to her class to talk about being a writer. Hmmm. Turns out I had a lot of fun. The students and the teacher were great. And many tools that romance authors use are the same ones being taught for the state-mandated ELA test: summary (synopsis); details (show-don't-tell); bubble-maps (plotting/character development charts). The gleam in the teacher's eyes when I showed the students a one-page synopsis for a 500 page book could have lit the entire school building.

A few weeks ago, X-Chromo handed me the phone and said, "DS needs to talk to a real writer."

Huh?

DS is a young man in middle school who writes. He told me the plot of his short story, but said he'd thrown it away and was starting over. He then read me the new opening lines. They were good. I told him they were good. I asked what he planned to do with the story once it was done. It seems DS "publishes" his writing and passes it out at school, which got him into a bit of hot water with Principal D (that's another story) a few weeks ago.

I handed the phone back to X-Chromo, and as she walked away, I heard her say to DS, "I told you my mom is cool."

A few night's later, X-Chromo said, "Mom, you should be in our Career Fair next week."

Me: I'm unemployed, remember?

X-Chromo: You're a writer. DS wants you there. Mrs. Math-Teacher wants you there. All my friends think it would be really cool to have a real writer at the Career Fair.

Me: Right. And I can bring Tarot cards and do readings, too.

X-Chromo: Mom, that's an awesome idea. Don't you use Tarot for character and plot development?

Me: Principal D would kick me out of school if I brought Tarot.

But you know, I'm intrigued by the idea of being a writer in a Career Fair. Too many people think it's easy to write a book and have one published. And it's not. It's hard work. I recently took an on-line class where one person said, "Oh, anyone can write a book." I wanted to challenge her, to say, "I DARE YOU," but didn't. Someone like that isn't worth the aggrevation.

And how much trouble could I get in for bringing Tarot cards to school as a writing tool? After all, I sleep with the PTO president.

Good Vibrations

This weekend was probably the last bit of sanity before the holiday season latches onto me and makes me crazy. TV Stevie's birthday is coming up in a week or so, and that is the official kick-off of our holiday spending season.

The spending isn't just of dollars and sense, but also of time, and as a writer, time is a valuable commodity. As a wife/mom, there aren't enough hours in a day to do everything expected of me. (Of course, some people have unrealistic expectations--like I should clean the house or something. Apparently, they haven't received the memo about the terraced vineyard I plan to plant on our stairs. The dirt is in the corners for a reason. Hello???) I, like everyone else, have a full schedule of holiday parties, performances, and observances starting in mid-November. Not to mention the shopping (which I hate in general).

Back to this weekend.

My RWA chapter held a mini-conference this weekend with Barbara Samuel as our guest instructor. On Friday night, the workshop was on the Zen of Goal-Setting. I attended a version of this workshop at RWA National Conference in Dallas, and it changed my life. On Saturday, Barbara gave a whole day workshop on finding one's voice. It was incredible. Amazing. I usually don't like hands-on type instruction, but Barbara had us doing timed writing on a variety of subjects. It was enlightening, and the results gave me a lot to think about with regard to my writing. I don't believe this sense of accomplishment was mine alone. There was much positive energy in that room.

Between sessions, I got to be with the best people in the world: other writers, several of whom are my best friends. On Friday night, members of our chapter provided munchies and beverages, and hosted an impromptu, completely informal welcome reception. Half of the attendees were from out-of-town, so this was a great mixer. We even had a couple of tarot card readers doing their thing.

After Saturday's session, I went out to dinner with several friends. We had a wonderful, relaxing time. Then, even though I live 5 minutes from the conference hotel, I spent a second night. A smaller group of friends got together, including our "Demented Guinea Fowl", who's moved away from the area, but came back for the event. Oh, how I have missed sitting around with these women, talking, laughing, exchanging witticisms, laughing, eating Lindt Balls and raspberry Milanos-- and did I mention the laughter?

We continued the laughter the next morning at breakfast. There was an intense session of writing for an hour or so, then the laughter burst out again, followed by a few tears as DGF prepared to leave town again.

Everyone should have these kinds of friends, these kinds of associates, and these kinds of events, where everyone comes together, shares good energy, and walks away refreshed. I suppose the fact that these are special events is what keeps them special, but on the other hand, shouldn't every day be special? Shouldn't there always be laughter, Lindt balls, and great friends?

My world would definitely be a better place.

The Zone or Believing in Serendipity

One of my dearest friends, The Queen-a Athena, and I have children attending religious education at the same facility on Wednesday nights. In the past, I would drop off the Chromos and go home. Last year, I borrowed a cue from the Queen-a and started taking my AlphaSmart or laptop with me. We sit together in the library and write. It's productive time for us.

This year, we rearranged our critique schedule (we're in the same crit group, too) so that we would have Wednesday nights open for what I call Wednesday Write Night. The facility's religious leader calls us The Wednesday Night Regulars.

For the past several weeks, I've been working on revisions that my wonderful agent and I discussed. It's editing. It's tweaking. It's not real writing. It's tedious, but it's part of the process, and I embrace it.

Tonight, I worked on a brand new scene. It was wonderful. As I typed, things happened in the scene that reflected events occuring later in the book. Parts of what I wrote tonight were conceived a few weeks ago, but as I wrote, other things happened. I'm a "pants-er" by nature, and tonight is why.

I was in The Zone. X-Chromo said I looked constipated. Queen-a said: "You were VERY in the zone. It was most impressive to watch."

I wrote 3.5 pages in 1.5 hours. If you knew the distractions (including a brief, hysterical conversation with Lars Olafsson), you would be amazed.

I miss The Zone, especially since it seems like I've been revising and/or rewriting forever.

A moment ago, X-Chromo came into my office and asked me if I believed in serendipity. She defined the word from a book she's reading (Boy Meets Boy): "All the random moments coming together to make one beautiful moment."

I realized that that is what happened tonight. Serendipity. The Zone.

For all you writers out there: May the Zone Be With You.

My Life as a Movie Sound Track

I'm stealing this from my great friend, The Queen-a Athena, because it was such a hoot to read her version on her blog.

Here's what you do:

1. Open your music library
(iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool...

Now, a confession.
The first time I tried this, my Creative Zen mp3 player shuffled only the songs from the sound track of my current WIP, which I'd listened to last night. So I had to figure out how to access all the tracks. It turns out that my mp3 player SHUFFLES in playlists; if I want it to access everything, RANDOM is the way to go.

OPENING CREDITS
I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO CARE
(Gordon Lightfoot)
"I wish you good spaces
In the far away places you go.
If you need somebody sometime,
You know I will always be there.
I’ll do it altho’
I’m not supposed to care"
Okay. This makes me sound like a decent human being.

WAKING UP
WHISKEY GIRL
(Toby Keith)
This was tough trying to figure out. I love wine, champagne and loathe whiskey, so I didn't get it. And I had a 67 Firebird, not a 69 Mustang . I still dream about that car. "Sitting there singing every song on the radio." Yup. That's exactly what I did in that car.

FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL
I’LL NEVER FIND ANOTHER YOU
(The Seekers)
Not quite sure how this relates to school. Maybe the opening line: "There's a new world somewhere, they call the Promised Land." Except I hated school. Maybe it's the school of life? "If they gave me a fortune, my pleasure would be small, I could lose it all tomorrow, and never mind at all." Tough lesson that some folks never get. I'd rather be happy than anything else in the world.

FALLING IN LOVE
COMMON BOND
(The Kennedys)
"Something good’s gonna happen,
there's something transcendent in me.
Maybe a kind of beginning,
at the end of a long ordeal
We believe in a higher intention,
Somewhere in the darkness beyond
There’s sign of affirmation that
We all share a common bond"
Oh, yes. This fits. (And I need to add this song to the WEREWOLF CHRONICLES playlist.) Isn't love about transcending the petty? I always thought so. I remember explaining to my mom what TV Stevie and I had in common (Bob Dylan) when I told her we were getting married.

FIGHT SONG
SHOCK AND AWE
(Neil Young)
I swear, this was random. I did not chose this. I was thrilled the first time I heard Neil's LIVING WITH WAR album. My reaction was, "he's back!" The Neil I loved when I was teenager. Pure poetry. Anger at what's happening in the world. All I need to do is sing along to express myself.
"History was a cruel judge of overconfidence."
"The sun was setting on a golden photo op."
"1000s of bodies in the ground,
Brought home in boxes to a trumpet sound.
No one sees them, Coming home that way."
"1000s of children scarred for life,
Millions of tears for a soldier’s life."

BREAKING UP
SHENANDOAH
(Bruce Springsteen)
A melancholy love song, quite appropriate for breaking up. I prefer the Connie Dover version--it's more about lost love--but this one will do.
"Oh Shenandoah, I love your daughter, Away, you rolling river. Away, I’m bound away, 'cross the wide Missouri." If he loved her, he wouldn't have left her. Don't know how it applies to me, though. Except maybe TV Stevie shouldn't work so late at night. Or maybe it's about how even though we love each other, we should be free to do our own things. Like go to RWA conferences.

PROM
FANFARE FOR THE COMMON MAN
(Leonard Bernstein)
I didn’t go to my prom. I was too busy protesting/writing really, really bad poetry to dance. I was not the All-American Girl.

LIFE IS GOOD
SIGN OF THE TIMES
(Menopause the Musical sound track)
"When your roots are gray and your memory shorter,
Hourglass shape becomes a glass of water.
The wisdom passed from women from so long ago.
Strength of conviction and feeling free.
With luck find a reason to smile.
Ignore what’s in style
It’s time I changed my mind
and love the woman I see—
Celebrate the woman who is me."
Self-explanatory.

MENTAL BREAKDOWN
HEALING ENERGY FOR WRITERS
(Jade Lee)
ROTFLOL! This is an RWA workshop from the 2006 conference in Atlanta. It's a great workshop. Again, completely self-explanatory.

DRIVING
MACK THE KNIFE
(Louis Armstrong)
I so totally don't get this, unless it's about my refusal to let Y-Chromo get his learner's permit. Or get into a car driven by a teenager. My cousin's youngest daughter was killed in a high-profile accident several years ago. I will never, ever forget his family's agony. Ever. Sometimes, I still cry about it.

FLASHBACK
GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN
(Cyndi Lauper)
Yup. My mother asking,
"When you gonna live your life right?"
Always knowing that,
"I wanna be the one to walk in the sun."
And I still just wanna have fun.
Life's too short.

GETTING BACK TOGETHER
YOU CAN’T LOSE A BROKEN HEART
(Billie Holiday & Louis Armstrong)
"If you ever break up then try to make up
It’s tough to make a brand new start
Weigh your remarks before you speak.
Or you may be sorry soon
Don’t be erratic, be diplomatic
To keep your hearts in tune."
Well, the lyrics fit the topic, but I never broke up and got back together... well maybe once or twice in high school, but it was HIGH school, for crying out loud.

WEDDING
ORINOCO FLOW
(Enya)
"Sail away, sail away, sail away"
Nice harmonies. I have no idea how this applies to my wedding. Except TV Stevie and I both feel that we should have eloped. And we didn't even have a big wedding. We're just not fancy-shmancy, do-it-up-big people.

PAYING THE DUES
FORTUNATE SON
(Creedence Clearwater Rivival)
"It ain’t me. I ain’t no Senator’s/millionaire’s son
It ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one."
‘Nuff said.

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WAR
SANE & NORMAL GIRLS/THANK YOU DOCTOR
(Menopause the Musical Soundtrack)
"I wish we all could be sane & normal girls"
Because if we were, there wouldn't be war.

FINAL BATTLE
LOVE SONG TO A STRANGER
(Joan Baez)
"Don’t tell me of love everlasting
and other sad dreams I don’t want to hear.
Just tell me of passionate strangers
who rescue each other from a lifetime of cares
If love means forever and expecting nothing in return
I hope I’ll be given another whole lifetime to learn"
Oh, wow. I don't even know this song. It's from a greatest hits album I have loaded into my mp3 player. But yuh. That's deep stuff.

MOMENT OF TRIUMPH
WHEN I PAINT MY MASTERPIECE
(His Bob-Ness/aka Bob Dylan)
YES!!!!
This is another fine example of random perfection.
"It sure has been one helluva time."
"One day everything is going to be different
When I paint my masterpiece."
When I write my Rita-winning, NY Times best-selling novel will definitely be my moment of triumph.

DEATH SCENE
CANTUS
(Connie Dover)
Beautiful song, filled with Latin, French, and incredible harmonies. It’s the story of the Crucifixion. A death scene for sure, but not mine.

FUNERAL SONG
BRAND NEW KEY
(Melanie)
"Don’t go too fast, but I go pretty far. . .
Some people say I done alright for a girl"
Can't ask for more than that.

END CREDITS
I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE SOMEWHERE
(The Moody Blues)
"The mist is lifting slowly, I can see my way ahead
I know I’ll find you somehow!
And somehow I’ll return again to you."
Or in the words of Arnold Schwartzenegger:
"I'll be back."

This was fun!

If anyone out there tries this, let me know.

And check out The Queen-a Athena's blog to see her answers.

Thanks, Kris.

The Party Line

Does anyone remember party lines? I'm talking about telephone party lines.

The notion of something so communal leaves Y-Chromo & X-Chromo aghast. They insist they are deprived because they don't have cell phones. And I wonder, "What would these spoiled teenagers do if they were on a party line?"

When I was very young, my parents did not have a telephone. When they finally had one installed, it was black, had a dial, and was hardwired to the kitchen wall. The handset was connected with a 6-foot spiral cord. And we were on an eight-party line. Eight households shared one telephone line. When the phone rang one long ring, it was for us. Mr. & Mrs. Shute were two short rings. I'm not sure how the other six parties managed.

Eventually, my parents moved up in the world and to a four-party line. Except one of the parties talked on the phone all day long, so no one else could use the phone. I remember my parents complaining to the phone company. The cost of a private line was prohibitive. My early teen years were spent listening to the clicks of the other parties either trying to get me off the phone or eavesdropping. Eventually, my parents went for a private line. I can't imagine how else I could have had those long, soulful conversations with my boyfriend.

When I moved out on my own, I opted for something new: a yellow telephone and touch tone. Yes, we had to pay extra for touch tone. Eventually, I bought my own phones, hooked up my own extensions, touch tone became the standard, etc., but I still never made long distance calls. Long distance calls were an unnecessary expense.

When I married TV Stevie, I was shocked that he called his mother long distance IN STATE (more expensive!) every week. I still hesitate before picking up the phone to call someone long distance. It's still new to me.

Isn't it amazing how technology has changed things? We have cordless phones in our house; long-distance calling is unlimited as part of our telephone and Internet package; we have speaker phones. Y-Chromo does his AP English homework on weekly conference calls -- via speaker phone -- with his friends. Cell phones are a way of life.

Except for Y-Chromo and X-Chromo.

They complain, and I remember the party line.

Here crittie, crittie, crittie...

Critique groups. One hears horror stories about them. Not so in my local RWA Chapter. We are the best local chapter, so it stands to reason that we would have the best critique groups, right?

For a very long time, there were only two organized critique groups in the chapter. After a couple of years, I was invited to join one when someone else dropped out. One of the best writing-related things that ever happened to me. We are a wonderful fit, all writing in different genres, and all very serious about our writing.

An influx of serious-about-writing members created several new critique groups. We long-time members love hearing how these newer members are forming groups the way we did. So now, in a chapter of about 40 members (give or take), we have 5, maybe 6 critique groups: The Packeteers, The Virgins and Prose, the Herkimer Diamonds, the Laptop Dancers, the Creek Critique--and perhaps one other group.

But a few meetings ago, something unusual happened. A member of one of the newer groups said to me, "We didn't know critique groups were supposed to do that." I've forgotten specifically what "that" was, but she mentioned it again at our chapter meeting yesterday: "We thought critique groups were just about reading each other's work and giving feed back."

Well, they are.

When we went around the room to share our accomplishments for the month, she heard that one of the crit groups had gone camping together. In the past, some of us have mentioned retreats, goal-setting sessions . . . all sorts of things.

There is no secret formula for a successful critique group. There is no list of rules. In fact, there is only one rule.

A critique group is about meeting the writing needs of its members.

No more, no less, and it's up to the members to decide what those needs are and how to address them.

My particular group is very much into goal setting and the writing itself. What do we do on retreat? Well, we write. That surprises some people. But that's what we do. We will rent a hotel suite for a long weekend, load up on food & beverages, decide on a couple of movies for movie nights, but the focus is on WRITING. We sit around with our laptops and/or AlphaSmarts, our mp3 or portable CD players and headphones . . . and write. Last retreat, I wrote over 20 pages in one day and finished the first draft of my then-WIP. Over MLK weekend in January, at least three of us had at least one 20-plus page day (I had two!).

It's about the writing. Sometimes more, but never, ever less.

Smile! You're On Wild Kingdom!

My husband's cousins have a son attending the Major University in my city. Cousin J e-mailed us to let us know they were coming in for parents' weekend and wanted to get together with us for dinner. TV Stevie & I checked our planners, and lo and behold: we were free on the evening suggested. TV e-mailed our acceptance, and Cousin J e-mailed back that she'd made reservations for 7:30pm, Saturday night at an Italian restaurant on the strip where all chain/theme restaurants dwell. This particular restaurant has four locations in upstate New York, which, I suppose, makes it a regional chain.

The parking lot was crowded when we arrived. The university's Homecoming Football game had gone into double overtime, creating unexpected crowds. A young man in a fedora, looking like an escapee from the original Godfather, had a walkie-talkie and a flashlight and was directing traffic in the lot. People congregated outside the restaurant doors, and not all of them were smoking.

After standing on line for several moments, we found Cousins H & J, their student son, and his girlfriend. The place was mobbed. And loud. When we finally made it to the hostess stand, what I'd been hearing on line was confirmed: a three hour wait for a table unless you'd done something referred to as "call ahead seating." Then the wait for a table was only an hour and a half.

At this point, we fell into a Woody Allen movie.

Cousin J said, "I have reservations for 7:30."

The hostess said, "We don't take reservations."

A woman standing next to me said in a downstate accent, "Yes, you do. Two days ago, I made reservations with you for 7:30 tonight."

Hostess: "We don't take reservations."

Cousin J: "I spoke to a man four days ago, and he took my reservation for 6 people for tonight at 7:30. I even asked if I need to call again and confirm and was told that wouldn't be necessary."

Hostess: "I'm sorry, we don't take reservations. All we do is have call-ahead seating. You can call up to a half-hour before you arrive, and when you arrive, we put your name ahead of everyone else. But we don't take reservations."

Third irrate customer, also speaking with downstate accent: "But a man took my reservation three days ago, for 7:30 tonight."

Manager arrives. He's fourteen, as opposed to the twelve-year-old hostess. "We never take reservations."

I start looking for cameras. For Woody.

Fourth irrate customer, from somewhere behind me, in a downstate accent: "Really? Someone took mine for tonight last week."

And so on. For several moments. In the meantime, the line behind us grew and grew, while more and more people, all with downstate accents, chimed in claiming that they, too, had made reservations for 7:30pm at this restaurant within the past week.

Manager and hostess continued to deny such a thing could happen.

Cousin J turns to me. "Is there some place else we could go?"

I suggest another Italian restaurant, not on the strip of chains, but close and easy to get to from where we were.

TV Stevie and I talked about it as we walked to our car. Mr. Fedora Parking Attendant apologize profusely and continued to peddle the myth of no reservations. He couldn't have been happy to hear us discuss a competitor. He, however, gets points for apologizing and for graciousness. I think he was sixteen.

Cousin J has a GPS in her vehicle, so she called the other restaurant and learned there was only a 90 minute wait. She had our names placed on the list.

The restaurant I'd suggested is actually two restaurants: fine dining downstairs and casual dining upstairs. We discovered there was only a 20 minute wait upstairs, so we opted for that.

What a treat! We could hear ourselves converse, the food was good, the atmosphere was better than a chain/theme restaurant . . . and they let us stay and talk until they were closing down.

Cousin J told us that her hotel had coupons for free drinks at the first restaurant and that she would collect all she could and mail them to us. They arrived yesterday. Each coupon is good for one free alcoholic beverage with every entree purchased.

Revenge isn't always sweet. Sometimes, it's liquid.

My critique group and I are making plans . . .

Goal by Goal

My friends and I are very goal-oriented. We hold annual goal setting sessions at RWA national conferences, with 6 month reviews during our January writing retreats. We post weekly goals to our e-mail loop and cheer each other on as we move toward making our dreams become reality.

My local RWA chapter is also very goal-oriented.

• We reward people for making monthly writing-related goals with a 50/50 drawing. Drop a dollar in the basket, read your written goal aloud. If your name is drawn the following month, you are present, and you have done what you said you would, you receive 50 percent of the kitty. (The other 50 percent goes to the chapter treasury.)
• We hold a monthly Book-In-A-Week challenge where participants set their own goals, then push to achieve them. Our BIAW Mistress hands out nifty prizes (glow-in-the-dark dollar sign glasses, bookmarks, Superballs, Chinese yo-yos) to everyone who succeeds. We have an e-mail loop where we report daily progress, and the mistress inspires us with words of wit and wisdom.
• Several of us participate in The Happy 100s. We write at least 100 words a day for 100 days. We're near the midway point in our second challenge of the year. We do it for the discipline. One of my friends, the Queen-A-Athena (http://scribblinggoddesses.blogspot.com), would love to join us, but we include the weekends in our accounting, and one of her annual goals is to find balance between writing and other parts of life. She wants to keep the weekends for her family.
• In November, Barbara Samuel (www.BarbaraSamuel.com) is coming to upstate New York to give a workshop on The Zen of Goal Setting. (For more information, go to www.cnyromancewriters.com). I attended a version of this workshop at the 2004 RWA national conference in Dallas. It is probably the most life-impacting writing workshop I have ever heard. I still periodically listen to the "tape" of this workshop.

I took a course in January, called Defeating Self-Defeating Behavior (www.margielawson.com or www.writeruniv.com). A big part of what Margie teaches is goal-setting.

Through this class, I met a good friend, Yasmine Phoenix (www.yasminephoenix.com), and we've started goal-setting with each other.

I share my annual goals with my agent (www.vivianbeck.com). Goal-setting is one of the items we discussed before I signed with her. She believes in doing it as strongly as I do.

I like seeing a tangible list of what I want to accomplish. I like crossing off items, one by one, as I complete the task. I did this every day when I worked in the corporate world. I've found I get more done if I continue this practice as I look for another "day" job and intensify my devotion to my writing.

There are several goals I'm not going to accomplish this week, but now blogging isn't one of them . . . and . . .

Oh! Look!

I just made my Happy 100 for the day, too!

BTS Part II, or I Could Invent a Pinball Game

Y-Chromo, at the last minute, asked for a ride to school. It's two miles. X-Chromo wept and begged me for a ride to school. It's one mile. TV Stevie makes them late. I think they should walk. They'd rather sleep.

So I drove them to school.

The rising sun was in my eyes as I drove to the High School, making it difficult to see the little darlings daring motorists to run over them. Although there was one kid with a modified Mohawk-Mullet whom Y-Chromo begged me to hit just because of the hair. "He deserves it for going out in public like that."

Cops & security all over the place. I know they don't mean anything, but seeing them doesn't do my heart good. Y-Chromo says, "It's the first day when everyone (all 4 grades) is back, and no one's been kicked out or dropped out yet, so it's crowded."

In the meantime, I accidentally go when I should have stayed stopped at a stop sign that's NOT a four-way stop, and the person who had the right of way was justifiably angry. Horn honking, fist shaking. My bad.

I dodged school buses, city buses, garbage trucks and recycling trucks on narrow north side streets where two MG Midgets couldn't pass gas even if there weren't illegally parked cars everywhere.

I cross J Street to drop off X-Chromo at Middle School, and now we're in the SF area. And of course, all the urban soccer moms in their gas-guzzling SUVs are illegally parked no where near the curb at every other intersection, motors running, while their suburban-wannabe teens in their preppie uniforms await public transportation to shlep them to their private schools. God forbid Amanda Kathleen (a/k/a/ Muffin) or Barton the Tenth walk 2 blocks and stand in the cool morning air to wait for the bus, much less attend public school. So why can't the moms park at the curb instead of in the intersections?

Finally, outer S, my very own, very mixed neighborhood.

And all the heavy equipment with which we lived from Sept 2005 to May 2006? IT'S BAAAAACK. Loud, grumbling, belching noxious fumes, and parked right outside my bedroom, living room and office windows, and across from my driveway, making leaving and departing a chore.

Oh #^(*, the jackhammers just started.

Unearthing My Office

I'm lucky. I have a room in my house designated as my office. Doesn't mean it's 100% my space, but I'll settle for the 60% I get. Many writers I know don't have separate rooms in which to ply their craft.

That said, I confess that I rarely write in there. It's the room where my desk top computer resides, the unit that is completely off limits to TV Stevie (except when his computer crashed) and our Chromosomes. It is also the room that contains my closet (our 1920-built house is very short on closet space) and the stairs to the (unfinished) attic. Our center-of-the-house chimney creates an interesting jag in one wall.

TV Stevie has a large bookcase filled with oversized books about movies and actors against one wall. He also has another piece of furnture filled with baseball memorabilia and who-the-heck-knows-what else against the same wall. And there's a chest of drawers that used to contain a lot of both his and my stuff, but that I'm confiscating for my sole use. My very small desk, a couple of small bookcases, a larger bookcase, and a filing cabinet line the rest of the wall space.

But this room has also become the catch-all room. Right now, there are at least 3 clock radios no longer being used by members of the family on the floor. I don't know what else is on the floor, but one can barely walk through the room. I'm going to change that.

I have plans.

I want my office.

I need quiet space.

For two years, I've said that I'm going to clean out my office. This week, I started. Ten minutes a day. That's all, at least for now. Otherwise, the chaos overwhelms me.

Last week, I purchased two big plastic bins. One of them now holds my collection of summer shoes. (Yes, I wear them all. What can I tell you?) I dragged several tote bags and boxes filled with I'm-not-sure-what into my bedroom. Another day was spent breaking apart empty shipping cartons and placing them in the recycle bin. Then I remembered why I had all the empty cartons: to box up books to haul to my local library, which adores donations of books in good condition. And in case you didn't count bookcases, there are four in my office alone. We have almost as many books as we have video tapes and record albums. (Yes, VINYL. But that's another blog.) I have one good-sized (but not too heavy) box ready to go.

My friend Carol (www.terapiajewelry.com) has promised to come over at some point and put a lock on the door for me. My friend Yasmine Phoenix (www.yasminephoenix.com)
sent me door knob signs that read, "HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WRITER INTERRUPTED" and "STOP! 1. Are you bleeding? 2. Is the house on fire? If the answer is no . . . GO AWAY!"

I want the room to be a haven. A place to refill the well. I have wishing well windchimes hanging over my desk to remind me that the well needs to be refilled. Now that my brother has finished replacing the windows (I paid him!), I can rehang my lovely dreamcatcher and prisms in the windows.

I have plans.

There's a rocking chair, a nice one that we bought when I was pregnant for Y-Chromo, draped in plastic on my front porch. It's coming back upstairs just as soon as I can get it up here.

Maybe I'll post pictures to show my progress. If I can find one of the digital cameras . . .

BTS: Part 1

It's one of those perfect mornings. The air is cool, there's a hint of mist clinging to the drooping leaves, and my youngest child, X-Chromo, went back to school today. The calendar may not say "autumn," but the school district has declared it so. TV Stevie had an early meeting, so I drove X to school, telling her all the while that walking is great exercise, especially in such nice weather. She didn't buy it. Y-Chromo is still in bed (grades 10-12 start school tomorrow), enjoying his last day of freedom.

The house is unusually quiet.

I can take this lull and use it or waste it. Since outside employment (even tho' I'd rather be writing full time) lurks in my future, I should be downstairs with either my lap top or my AlphaSmart, taking advantage of these few, precious hours of quiet solitude. Until the phone rings with yet another prerecorded political message--Primary Day is next week. Or Y hauls himself out of bed and wants a ride to school because the AP English students are having an informal study session.

In an interview in the August 2006 issue of the Romance Writers Report, Nora Roberts says, "If I waited to be inspired to do my job, I'd be unemployed."

This is an important lesson. Writing fiction doesn't require inspiration, but rather discipline. I need to rediscover mine.

Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit

A former co-worker introduced me to this delightful little ritual. On the first day of the month, the very first words out of your mouth when you awaken should be, "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit." If you do this, you will have good luck all month long.

If you forget, the last words you speak before you go to sleep that night should be, "Tibbar, tibbar, tibbar" (that's Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, spoken backwards).

I keep a sticky note in my bedside drawer to place on the face of my alarm clock on the last night of the month. One of my Yahoo Groups calendars automatically sends out a reminder each month.

Does it work? Who knows? But, on New Year's Day, even before saying "Happy New Year!", both the Y Chromo and I said, "Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit," at the stroke of midnight. A week or so later, he landed the part in the school play he wanted, and I signed with my literary agent. Coincidence? Maybe. Or not.

"Make it a rule of life never to regret and never to look back. Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can't build on it; it's only good for wallowing in." Katherine Mansfield

Secret Identity Heroes

I have a “thing” for secret identity heroes, particularly Superman and The Scarlet Pimpernel. The Scarlet Pimpernel is, according to my limited, crackpot research, the first secret identity hero. I plan to write an essay for my website on why people are attracted to secret identity heroes, but that’s down the road.

One of my friends is also a Scarlet Pimpernel fan. We, however, prefer different versions. She likes the recent A&E series with Richard Grant. I discovered the story with the 1982 made-for-TV-version starring Jane Seymour and Anthony Andrews, which combines two of the Pimpernel books (the original and El Dorado) and takes the bold liberty of romantically linking Marguerite and Chauvelin. Debating the merits of each version is a fun, passionate pastime for us.

Recently, we met up with a mutual friend of ours while in Atlanta for a writers’ conference. The three of us were part of a large group that descended on the hotel restaurant for an evening of food, friendship and laughter. The subject of the Scarlet Pimpernel came up, with me defending the Anthony Andrews version and Chris proclaiming the superiority of the Richard Grant version when Jenna chimes in that she, too, is a Pimpernel fan, but the 1934 Leslie Howard, Merle Oberon version is the best.

There you have it. The story, in all its manifestations, is a wonderful tale of love and intrigue, with Sir Percy Blakeney a master of disguise, not only as the Pimpernel, but also as a mockery of himself – perhaps the very best secret identity of all. I have read only the original THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL story by Baroness Orczy because it appears to be the only one of the series still in print. However, there is a wonderful website, http://www.blakeneymanor.com/, where one can read the other PIMPERNEL stories.

They seek him here, they seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in Heaven? Is he in Hell?
That demmed elusive Pimpernel.

Sink me!

Unemployed & Shopping for Furniture

I am unemployed for the first time in a couple of decades. For some reason, TV Stevie chose this time to show me a newspaper ad for furniture.

I hate shopping.
I hate shopping for furniture.
I hate shopping with TV Stevie.

But it was really hot, our house isn't air conditioned, and he offered to drive. Lo and behold, we actually found a kitchen table we both like.

I would like it even more if we could replace the hideous chairs he adores.

It's a big table. TV Stevie tends to not understand that space is finite. Unless the stuff in the space belongs to someone else. That's another subject for another day.

Shopping for furniture while unemployed seems to be a trend in my circle:

• A few years ago, a friend was merged out of employment and replaced her entire living room.
• Several months ago, another friend fled her job in pursuit of sanity. I adore her new sofa. In fact, I'm jealous.
• Me? I get to move the horrid yellow Formica and chrome 1950s classic to the front porch and place a sturdy oak table in my kitchen.

And I don't have to take time off to have it delivered.

"Try not to become a man of success but rather to become a man of value." Albert Einstein