Moving Day

And I'm off... to my new home. Please, please come see me here (at BeccaWilhite.com).

More Fun

Look! A great review by YA Book Queen. This fun blog is run by Lea, who is 18. Girl Power! She ran the review today and is running a contest in the next few days. And speaking of contests, my Good Friend Melanie J is running a giveaway of MRRO - you can jump over to her hilarious blog and throw your hat in there, too.

Meanwhile, I get to experience shame at the hands of eight-year-olds today. I'm teaching a dance for a musical program at school. I know. This is enormous irony. But away I go, to dance and sing my little guts out.

Over and out.

Ten Things That Make Me Happy

1. Sunshine. It's out there, people, and I like it.
2. Caramel Syrup. Recipe on demand.
3. Good books. Try "The Chosen One" by Carol Lynch Williams. It's gripping.
4. Nearly-toothless six-year-old boys. Honestly, how does he eat?
5. Relaxing Sundays with yummy food in the company of good friends.
6. Yoga on wii Fit.
7. Homemade bread - made by someone else (thanks, Kim!)
8. Drainage. Dripping. Melting noises. Mmmm.
9. Blue-painted toenails.
10. Knowing by morning what's for dinner.

Fun Stuff Friday

Here's some fun:

Today I found out that Bright Blue Miracle is a finalist for a Whitney Award. This is a cool awards program for writers who also happen to be LDS (that's Mormons, you know, and we're really nice people). The award is named for Elder Orson F. Whitney, who said, "We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own." Which is awesome, but maybe not totally fitting for BBM. Because, clearly, it's prose. Other than that tiny detail, right. Totally Miltonesque and Shakespearean. Totally.

Also, I was interviewed on Novel Journey today. I'm not sure if they didn't like MRRO, or just didn't have a chance to read it, but there's not a review (but I sound kinda cute, dont' you think?). Check it out if you have a minute.

Also we're going on a family date tonight to the local High School basketball game. Think Kid 1 will be sitting anywhere near us? Yeah, we don't count on it, but it will be fun. And she may surprise us, you know. Her friends think I'm cool, remember?

Have a loverly weekend, all!

Writing Style

I'm learning things about how I write. More specifically, how I write successfully.*

I'm convinced that Writers with Character come up with a brilliant title, dazzling characters, a wicked hook, and a stunning plot. They outline. They plan. They write fifteen hundred to two thousand words every day and make a book.

I get the rest of it, the revising, the critiquing, the editing, the re-revising, the totally re-writing. I know that part. But the planning, the plotting, the outlining, is like some gorgeous pear at the top of the tree -- no matter how much I reach for it, I can't touch it, and then I'm sore and cranky.

But, being the kind of girl I am (a little slow), I keep trying for it. I reach for that outline. I write so many words every day. I struggle. I hate my words. I sigh at my futile reaching. But what do you know: there's another pear, equally gorgeous, waiting for me right at eye level. I just need to change my focus and grab it.

I may not be a Woman of Character (surprise!) and I'm going to have to be okay with that. I may never have a successful writing experience coming from an outline. I may never even write a plot-heavy book. But there are other pears on the tree, see?

Let's switch metaphors here:

My writing style is different from what I think it should be. I'm not that Writer of Character I imagine. I'm more like a toddler playing with pretty beads, picking one up and looking at all sides of it, holding it up to the light, tasting it, maybe shoving it up my nose (or maybe not), and deciding I love it. So I put that bead in the Keepers pile. Then I pick up another bead, one that makes me smile, or maybe even one that reminds me of something sad that I don't really want to forget. So I'll stare at that bead for a while, polishing it on my shirt, and put it into the Keepers pile, too. Before too long, I have a great big pile of shiny beads, some big glass ones, some cheesy plastic ones, some groovy silver ones. I love my pile.

But what good is a pile of beads?

So I have to string them. And then probably dump them back onto the table. And restring them and dump them a few more times. Then I'll see that I need a few more beads. And some spacers. And I'll take a little break here and there. And do you know what happens then? I can put an end clasp on it, and it will be complete. A whole necklace.

Will it make me a fortune? No. Will everyone want a necklace just like that? Certainly not. Will I be able to love it anyway? I will. Because I chose each bead. I polished each one and took time to love every inch of the string.

And so it is when I write successfully. I allow myself to write the scene I'm feeling. To dive in to the middle of a relationship and then let the details, the process, the lead-in follow. To discover each shiny, light-filled bead and to put it in a pile. To go back and write another scene, choose another bead, until I fill my pile with scenes I love: some big ones, some shiny ones, some cheesy ones, some gorgeous, light-filled ones.

And when it's time to string them together, I remind myself that this isn't the end -- I'm not finished if I don't want to be. There can be more stringing and un-stringing and re-stringing until I'm pleased with the whole effect.

But what if my favorite bead doesn't fit? Do I have to throw it away? Course not. I can put it on the desk and look at it every day. Maybe it will inspire a whole new necklace.

And isn't that the whole idea? The Inspiration part? So here's my point. (You knew I had one, didn't you?) Ask everyone about their style. Pry. Discover all the pears on the tree. Try reaching for some. Find the one that's in your reach.

Then go forward. Plot, if you're a plotter. Eavesdrop, if you're a dialoger. Analyze, if your a character-er. Pick up those pretty beads if you're a beader. Outline, for heaven's sake, if you're an outliner. And good for you. Do it. Write it. Paint it. Create it. Sing it. Whatever you're doing, do it. Add to the pile.

When the pile grows, that can only be a good thing.

*With adverbs, apparently.

MUD

I saw some. Yesterday, as I was picking up Kid 4 from his buddy's house, I stepped out of the Mighty MiniVan, right into one of my favorite things: Squishy, squelchy mud.

Oh, mud. I love you. I love your fudge-brownie color. I love your smell -- that mix of dirt, mulch, water and hope. Hope that Spring will, in fact, ever return.

There is not a tiny spot of mud visible anywhere at my house, because it's all several feet deep in crusty snow. But if I'm nowhere around here? You can bet on finding me at Kid 4's buddy's house, on my knees, nose to the ground, happily inhaling mud.

IOU to the Universe

When you go to writer's conferences, there is a great deal of excitement and anxiety. And here's why: Every person attending the conference thinks*, "This is it. This is my break. I'm going to meet the agent and both editors in attendance, and they are all going to fall at the feet of my manuscript. There will be tears and begging and promises of Best Friendship Forever. We may near the word "auction" thrown around. I am here at this conference, and I Have Arrived."

Sound familiar?

Except, really? Not.

There's some research somewhere that would tell you the percentage of conference attendees who win a contract on the manuscript they bring to the conference, but honestly, we all know I'm too lazy to do that research. So I'll just tell you this: It's not a very big number.

Here's why.

A ton of the attendees at any given conference are bringing a first draft. Do I really need to say more about that?

Of the ones carrying a polished manuscript, many, many of them are first manuscripts. As in, this is my first novel.

WARNING: Here's where this hypothetical-ish blog post turns into a hypocritical blog post.

People don't usually get first manuscripts published. (Just stay with me, please.) Since with the act of writing, we become better writers everyday, it naturally follows that a third novel will be greater than a first, and the fifth will be vastly more wonderful. Paraphrasing several authors' takes on this, a writer needs to write four unpublishable novels before he's ready to have that golden #5 purchased.

At this point, you may be thinking that I got very lucky.

You would be correct.

I wrote a first book that was submitted, agent-free, to a publisher, chosen out of the slush pile, shined up, given a fabulous cover, and published. Then I wrote a second one that was also published (and will be in stores, like, any minute). So, if we're doing the math correctly, here's the thing. I owe the universe something like eight unpublishable manuscripts.

And I'd like you to know that I'm hard at work filling that IOU.

The things I'm writing at right now are bland. Un-spark-ish. Contrived. And it's seriously discouraging. BUT. I know that the exercise is good for me. I'm flexing the writing muscle, even if it goes nowhere. Someday I'll regain my cleverness. I'm certain. And the only way to do that is to keep working on it. Keep flexing that muscle. Keep the words coming, and not worry too much that they're boring or stupid or heartless.

Why am I telling you all of this? Because I know, I KNOW that I am not the only one discouraged by the spewing of un-brilliant words. We can't all be on our game all the time. And I want you all to get it -- it's not ON all the time, and that's so totally okay.

Just keep writing. Just keep writing. Scratching. Scribbling. Plotting, dialoging, twisting, charactering. Writing, writing, writing.

The Universe will thank you.

*We really do think it, even if only in a tiny portion of our subconscious. Why? Because we've loved and nurtured and sweat over and lost sleep about this manuscript. It's precious. Like a favorite child. Not that we'd ever have a favorite child. Natch.

Plodding (it's nothing like Plotting, I fear)

We're working on BeccaWilhite.com.

I know, right?

Everyone is as excited about this as I am (and as Husband is - he's providing all the beauteous photos). So what that means is that I have to learn something new.

Darn it.

I'm transferring to WordPress (because... I don't know why. I just have to, so they tell me) and it's sort of science-y.* There's lots of cool stuff I could spend hours learning. Or I could work on a book. See my dilemma? So what I think I'm going to do is this: For every thousand words I write (in an actual manuscript) I can do half an hour of messing about with my new site. Have I mentioned lately that I'm WAY more at home in the kitchen than on the computer?

So stick around, and when something really official happens, you won't miss a thing! Happy weekend, y'all.

*This is a word I've loved forever - remember that Johnny Bravo cartoon parodying "The Fly"? "Whoa. Science-y."

BookLove

Do you have a favorite book you've EVER read? One that you remember with some deep emotion, or come back to over and over? (Or am I the only re-reader around here?)

I was thinking about some of my favorites, and that there are a bunch of books I've read many times. Let's say Five times. Or more.

Les Miserables: (I don't know how to make French letter thingies on my computer, and Blogger doesn't know that "thingies" is a word. Silly Blogger.) I read this every year for the first ten years Husband and I were married.* The whole Romantic style with its overly long sentences and dramatic descriptions is hard for me to take in general, but I love this story so, so much that I'm willing to wade through it.

Pride and Prejudice: This is a favorite bathtub book. The newsprint pages of my copy are all bendy and thick from tub-induced humidity. I could read this three times a year and not get tired of it. My favorite reading ? When I read it out loud to the Kids. I did the voices. They laughed a lot. Mmmm. Happy books + happy Kids = goodness.

If Life is a Bowl of Cherries, What am I Doing in the Pits? (Do you know Erma Bombeck? If you don't, do yourself a favor and see if any of her books are at your library. Had there been blogs in the seventies, she would have been the Queen. Well, she WAS the queen, but of newspaper columns instead. Go on. Try her. You can thank me later.)

Harry: I love me some Harry Potter. And don't get all up in my grill if you hate it. Yes, there are too many adverbs in these books. Yes, nobody can just "say" anything - they have to say it "somehow" - and yes, that does bug. A little. But not enough for me not to love the books. You don't have to agree, just please be kind.

The Fountainhead: Ayn Rand could write. And spookiness - she has characters that are so convincing that they could make me rethink how I felt about something I ABSOLUTELY knew.

Walk Two Moons: Sigh. My vote for Greatest Kids' Novel Ever. I kneel before Sharon Creech and bow my forehead to the floor.

Where the Sidewalk Ends: This was my favorite book as a kid. I have my parents' copy, all loved up and a little stinky from thirty years or so of kiddish affection. It makes an appearance in RRO, along with Grandma Jennie's oatmeal butterscotch cookies (and her name).

The Very Hungry Caterpillar: Did I tell you that Kid 4 ate our copy? He really did. Bites of board book, ingested. Mmmm. I'd long since resigned myself to never being Mom of the Year. But next royalty check, I think I'll finally re-buy the Caterpillar.

The Great Quillow (by James Thurber): I have a copy of this one that's illustrated by the magnificent Stephen Kellogg. The pictures are magical, and so is the story. One part David and Goliath, one part Morality Tale, seven parts tongue-in-cheek sweet, ironic humor. LOVE.

The Book Thief: Honestly, does anyone else have to tell you to read it? Just do it if you haven't. I'm not kidding. It may change your life. And I will personally give you a dollar if it doesn't make you cry. (Next time we hang out, you read me that second-to-last chapter. If you don't produce a tear, I give you a dollar. Promise.)

This is in no way a thorough list. There are more, lots more. I even read nonfiction, occasionally. (Usually cookbooks.) But not five times. Never five times.** I want to know what you read, over and over. Or if you don't, I want to know that, too - because I might understand. There are some things that are great, once, and that greatness diminishes upon further viewing (remember Mission Impossible? I hope you only saw it once).

*We're still married. It's a weird tense thing. A time-tense thing. Not a stress-tense thing.

**Okay, except Scripture. That's not on the list, but I do read it over. And over. And I love it, too.

Bossy?

I don't particularly like being in charge. I love having other people I can turn and point to, either when something is great or when a major disaster happens. I love having Husband - for so many reasons, but also so I can say, "Ask Dad. Tell Dad. Go cry to Dad." I am not bossy, because I don't crave the backlash.

But.

I am always right.

See where the problem comes in?

Even when I'm not in charge, I know exactly how everything should be run, and done, and carried out.

It's a curse.

FAQ

I love when writers post their FAQ. So I'll give you all a little important information. Here are the things I get asked most frequently:

Q: Do I have any clean pants, Mom?

A: Did you put them in a hamper? Because if you did, I washed them. If they were carefully wadded up under your bed, they're still there.

Q: What's for dinner?

A: Check the calendar. I wrote it down.

Q: What do you think I should do?

A: (tearing my hair)

-- Oh - were you expecting writing questions? Those come, too. --

Q: What do you do with all your extra money?

A: (Laughing maniacally) Is there such a thing as extra?

Q: But don't writers make lots of money?

A: Writers who write lots of popular* books make lots of money.

Q: Here's a great idea for a book. Want to write it?

A: Probably not. I've got ideas - that's the easy part. The actual writing is where it gets a little tricky.

Q: What's the best part of being a writer?

A: Daily naps. Second best? Writer friends.

Q: How do you find the time to write?

A: Every day comes filled with twenty-four hours. I choose what I put in those hours (and how long each thing will take) - at least to some extent. I prioritize. I wake up early. I never clean my house if I can help it.** I have 4 kids in school. I minimize other commitments. I don't answer the phone. I do much less PTA than my guilt tells me I should. I hit my daily writing goal and then I move on to something else (like a whole lot of picking up and dropping off of adorable kids).

Q:Your characters sound like you.

A: That is not a question.

Q: Okay, I'll try again. Do you write yourself into your books?

A: There has to be something autobiographical in every writing - even if it's to say: This is what I don't really believe. It's natural to put yourself into your writing, because you come with a certain viewpoint, a set of lenses through which you see the world. It's good to change lenses when you write, but recognize that the lenses are there. Also, um, yeah. I do write myself.

Q: Do you write fiction because you're scared of the Truth?

A: I write fiction because it's my favorite vehicle for Truth. The True parts are what remain after the story is over.

Q: When is your next book coming out?

A: Technically March 4th (I think). Really? Any time. (You can already pre-order on some sites!)

Q: What are you working on now?

A: Something that's starting to take shape after 15,000 useless words. Sometimes I have to write for the sake of writing - flex a muscle every day. That leads to a whole lot of useless c-r-a-p. But maybe eventually the character will emerge and demand her story to be told. That's the magic part.

And there you have it - some of the things people ask me regularly. Want to know anything else? Your socks are under the couch. You're welcome.

*I almost said "good" books, but that isn't necessarily the same thing.

**I'd love for you to think that's a joke.

Itchy?

You know that feeling where you're itchy in your own skin? Where you have some huge stretch inside and you can't get it out? Where everything is fine, but you still feel just a little... off?

I'm here to tell you that cleaning the house doesn't fix it.

Staring at the computer because you don't have any words? Also not fixing it.

Taking a shower doesn't fix it either, but at least you'll smell nice.

Exercise helps, a little, as long as you're actually doing it, but it's not a solution so much as a temporary patch, a band-aid.

But do you know? Listening to 3 kindergarten-aged boys chatter over their plates of lunch (mac-n-cheeze, carrot sticks, apple juice and those pink-and-white frosted animal cookies with sprinkles), giggling and planning and plotting and snorting? That helps. A lot.

Ready, Set, Practice

I went to my first rehearsal for "Joseph" tonight, and it was fun. Fun, I tell you!

We sang songs.

Lots of loud songs.

My throat muscles are tired.

Music makes me happy. Funny music makes me happier. Groovy music? Happiest. This is going to be good. And now if I could only get all my Hawaii laundry finished and take time to write something longer than a blog post... (Let's not hold our breath, shall we?)

Talking to Strangers

So today I went to the bank. I may or may not have needed to cover an overdraft, and if I did, that's none of your business. So I'm in the bank, and I hand over the business to the cute teller girl. She said, with a shy smile, "Um, I need to tell you something."

Not my favorite words at the bank.

Then she says, "I just read your book. I filled up a huge bubble bath on New Year's Day and read it all at once. I loved it!" (Totally her exclamation point, okay?)

I have never seen her before. This is maybe the first unsolicited (as in Not at a book signing or other author event) "stranger feedback" and it was fun. Kids 3 and 4 were with me. Kid 3 asked as we left, "How did she know who you were? Oh, because your picture's on the cover, right?"

Right. Riiiiight.

But definitely fun, right? Right.

Rice Krispies Treats

A friend Becky* once said, "I can't see myself eating a cube of butter**. Or a bag of marshmallows***. Or six cups of Rice Krispies****. So why can't I keep my hands out of the pan when I make Rice Krispies Treats?"

The sum, Becky is greater than all the parts.

So much greater.

* I'm not leaving her name out for anonymity or protection or privacy or anything like that. I just can't remember her last name. This is causing me shame. Shame. Why do I have this compulsion to remember everyone I've ever met? Um, possibly because I come from a family of freakishly good memories. My dad (hi, Dad!) remembers everyone he went to elementary school with, everyone he's ever taught, and all the people he's met traveling. Ever. And my brother (hi, OmaHeck!) remembers the names, faces, social security numbers, and fictional girlfriends of all the guys on the football, baseball, and basketball teams he ever played on. Plus everyone we ever knew growing up, child or adult, and all their pets. I do not make any of this stuff up.

**Um, no. Certainly not. No matter how good the bread it. Never.

***No, of course not. Not that, either.

****Well, duh. That's not even tempting.

More Writing?

Do you know what this is? This? Right here? It's Post # 300. I know. Stunning, right? To think that only two hundred and seventy-five of them have been meaningless drivel! It makes a girl so proud!

So I'm hanging in the lobby (because someone's cleaning my room, perhaps, and also because here is the internet) and I'm watching the pretty waves roll in to the little cove, and I'm sure, certain, positive that I should be writing something other than this blog post, momentous as it may be.

But here's the thing for me about writing.

I need to feel it.

I brought one of those little memory sticks with me. It's purple. It allows me to carry all my drafts over the ocean to Hawaii. It allows me to add to the drafts. Of whatever I brought. Lots of options. And I'm honestly not feeling it at all.

The writing, although good exercise, frankly stinks. It's dry and unfunny and pedestrian and prosaic. (that's different from Prozac - at least that would seem funny, right?)

Side note: There is a man standing at the window looking very much like a late-middle-aged Kip from Napoleon Dynamite. He has on Khaki shorts and a grayish wide-sleeved tank, almost a t-shirt, but not quite. He's wearing square, wire-rimmed glasses and standing with his fists balled on his hips, fingers pointing back up toward his skinny arms. His hair is thin, and his stomach isn't. If I hadn't seen that movie (seventy times) would I have thought that guy was funny? Would I have thought him mentionable? Duh. Of course not. Because it's only the reflection of comedy that makes him comical. Okay, and the outfit. And the fists on hips. But it's the whole picture that makes him -- wait. He just turned his head, and he has the mustache. A skinny one. I'm trying not to giggle, because someone passing by might currently be thinking what a hard-working grownup I am right now. I'd hate to disabuse anyone of that notion.

So the point? I forget. Let's keep talking about that Kip guy. Having something relatable makes stories better.

Never fear: this is not a tirade.

Once I did a school visit where I talked to the kids about Truth and Fiction. Someday I'll write it all up without the "Yeah" and the "Um" and the "Seriously, kid? Is that what you think?" parts. But my point (about that) is that Fiction isn't the opposite of truth. Fiction is the rearrangement of truth. What we love about fiction is the truth that speaks to us underneath the story. We talked, the school kids and I, about Harry Potter. About the true parts (Everyone wants to go home to a safe place. It's valiant to fight against Evil. We want to be connected, especially when we feel different than everyone around us. It's hard to be in the middle of a fight between best friends. Sometimes it's hard to tell who's a bad guy. Good intentions aren't enough. Like that.) and about the clearly made-up parts. We talked about Twilight, about the true parts (teenage girls are attracted to dangerous guys) and the not true parts (it's totally okay for a girl to have her ice-cold undead boyfriend sleep with her in her bed, because nothing's going to happen).

And that's where I like to go when I'm writing. I like to know something true (a family can be built, it's not something that's just going to happen) or something that I hope is true (I am okay, even if I'm not feeling it right now) or even something that I want to be true (love wins) and work it in with things that are not necessarily real. Words become relatable. It creates a reaction - sometimes an explosion (usually just laughter, though) and suddenly it's more than it was. Heads nod. Maybe there are giggles. Maybe frustration. Maybe tears.

It's Fiction. It's Truth. It's Story. It's Real. It's Fun.

Okay, enough. Time to write.

Disconnected

Hurry! Hurry! There's a connection!

I'm staying at one of the nicest hotel/resorts I've ever been to, but internet is not their top priority. You'd think this would lead to much writing time, wouldn't you? In fact, it just leads to me trying, over and over again, to get a connection.

(*sigh*)

But I'm here to let you know that after strange plane situations that led to my arrival in Honolulu at 11:51 p.m. Hawaii time (um, yes. That's nearly 23 hours since I woke up) I am here. I had a great relaxing day yesterday (lots of clouds and wind, not much in the way of Goldening in the Sun) and might even be on Hawaii time, bodywise.

There are waves. There are trees. There is birdnoise. There are tourists and canceled whale-watching excursions (too much waviness out there, people - no snorkeling either, at least not today) but it wasn't MY whale-watching excursion anyway, so I'm fine. There is time to think. To miss my kids. To sleep in. To listen and ponder and wonder and explore.

If it's too cold to actually put on a bathing suit, I will be grateful that I don't need a coat.

If it's too windy to read a book outside, I will be happy to read inside for a while.

If Husband is working 18 hour days here, I will be happy he has a job (especially one that brings us here!)

But mostly, I'm happy to be here.

Thank Heaven for the Draft

Once upon a time I wrote this:

Here's a thought: Don't ask God to tell you what you need to work on unless you're ready for full-scale, wholesale humiliation*. There's a reason "humility" and "humiliation" are related. Ug.

So here I am, wandering around thinking I'm okay, doing my best (in my lazy way) to be good and kind, and giving people the benefit of the doubt. I think everyone's pretty nice, and doing their best, too. I like everyone well enough, so I assume they're all feeling the same about me.

WRONG.

Turns out that it doesn't matter what my intentions are, because the outcome of my actions is universal offense. If I laugh, I'm apparently laughing at someone. If I roll my eyes at life, I'm somehow insinuating that someone is less than I think they should be.

*In fairness, I will admit that this may not happen to you. Because maybe you think you're all right because, in fact, you ARE all right (as opposed to thinking you're all right because you're - like me - deluded)

It turns out that everything isn't always exactly as dramatic as I make it in the heat of the moment. I'd just like to tell you that I'm glad, grateful, delighted that there is such a thing as a "draft" - a place to say what needs to be said, and KEEP IT THERE FOR A WHILE. You know, until I decide that it really shouldn't be said at all, and then I delete it. Or maybe it can be said, but not for a month or two or seven.

Like when I write, because I said I would. And the words are dry and boring and brittle and (avert your eyes, sensitive readers) just total crap. As opposed to the days when I write not only because I said I would, but also because my heart was full of things to write. Those words still need to sit on a shelf in draft mode, but they have much less chance of getting deleted later. And the good news? Because of the "draft" I can just go ahead and write the words, with the chance that they'll be juicy and tantalizing and fresh*, and real keepers.

*Words, not mangoes. Or pears. Words.

My Little Life in Bullets

Today is The Day!

(*) I have a few hours of getting-ready time, and then I spend the day on airplanes. And read books. And end up on Oahu. I must let it escape: WHEE! WOOT! WAHOO!

(*) In other news, Kid 2 received an iPod for Christmas, because her Daddy is good to her. She named this iPod "The Ship" and it tickles her fancy to plug it in to the computer and see these words: "The Ship is Synching."

(*) And this: My little Mama came to hang out yesterday, and she gave me a perm. It looks great. Mostly just wavy, and now I won't have to do my hair in Hawaii. Just shake and scrunch, you know? But. It stinks, and I am going to be in very close quarters to strangers all day. How 'bout that? Not very neighborly of me, was it?

(*) Does anyone remember how to do Algebra 2? Factoring is causing Kid 1 and me to bond over tears. If we were drinkers.... But we're not. Just criers, apparently.

(*) Got a call from the school. Among others, these words, "just wanted to warn you... when the boy comes home with his head a bloddy mess... he's fine, went back to class... no sign of concussion." Okay, then. Good news.

(*) And: "The Magician's Elephant" (by Ms. DiCamillo) only brought tears from me, because I was reading aloud*, and Kid 3, who regularly cries in pretty much any book.** Find it. You won't be disappointed. And I want to write a book with a kid named something as wonderful as Peter Augustus Duchene. Just saying.

(*) I found out that I get to play a narrator*** in "Joseph and the Amazing Techincolor Dreamcoat" in community theatre (yes. you do have to spell it that way. it's rules.) this spring. There will be 3 narrators. I (at 5'6'') will be the short one. Also the alto. I am very delighted to get to do this, and all four Kids are in the children's chorus. Fun family bonding, right? If I were a bookie (the betting kind) I would put the odds of us getting Husband near the stage at about seventeen trillion to one. Any takers?

And you? How was YOUR day?

*Don't you think it's harder to keep it all in control when you're reading aloud? I had to practice long and hard before I could read "The Polar Express" aloud on the train excursion my Kids and I volunteer on every Christmas. Years of practice. Now I'm a stone-cold emotionless Machine.

**Calvin and Hobbes, Series of Unfortunate Events, the Refrigerator Manual. (Yes. I'm lying. She hates the refrigerator manual and refuses to read it. Ever again.)

***If you're going to get a "leading" role in any theatre production, and you're not really interested in kissing someone who isn't your Husband, this is the role to get.

The Eggs Are In The Basket

Look what you did!

It worked. It came. The package arrived yesterday afternoon (because my personal postal worker loves the hour from 4.30 to 5.30). It has inside the paperback "Bourne Identity" which remains my favorite spy novel EVER, as well as Barbara Kingsolver's "The Lacuna" which I bought because I love her other work, most especially "The Poisonwood Bible" (which you really would love and should try if you haven't - even though it's reallllllly long [not a problem for me] the VOICES will speak right directly into your brain. Brilliant.) Also Robert McKee's "Story" which it technically for screenwriters, so technically for Husband and me to share, but also because I hear its fabulous.

So thanks, dears, for your Schopenhauer-esque positive thinking. I'll let you know when I'm in contract negotiations!