Whimsilly

Imperfect Heroines

2012-01-31T14:53:00.000-08:00

*The beautiful young woman is running as fast as her tight skirt and high heels will allow, but the monster is gaining. She trips, sprawls on the ground and screams just before the beast is upon her.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, saying, “If that was me, I would have kicked off my ridiculous shoes, ripped off that skirt and sprinted in my undies on bare feet across pointy rocks. No way would it catch me.”

Really? Because I’d be terrified. Monster victuals for sure, especially now that I’m older. Even if I dumped the shoes and went commando I’d start running and my hip would go out or I’d be so scared I’d run smack into a pole or something. Bong! Monster chow.

*The pretty teen is severely depressed after breaking up with her boyfriend. She stares out the window as the seasons go by, apathetic and pathetic.

You roll your eyes and shake your head, saying, “If that was me, I’d get right back in the saddle and find me a man who didn’t suck.”

Um, okay. Everyone handles grief in their own way. You go out and find yourself a rebound cowboy and ride into the sunset. I might need more time to bounce back. Others might benefit from a handful or two of Prozac.

*The bookish but attractive-behind-her-glasses girl is the constant butt of the local cheerleader’s jokes. It’s obvious the girl will get even by the end of the book, but you roll your eyes and shake your head, wondering why she waits so long to get her revenge.

“If that was me, I would have kicked that skank’s skinny behind the first time she dissed me.”

Alright, sure. Because some of us don’t cringe at the very thought of physical confrontation. Personally, I was forced into a fight or two in my youth and unless you have some kind of training, let me point out that you may be at a disadvantage to your opponent.

In the examples above, the first girl was overcome by terror, the second girl was overcome by sadness and the third girl was, well, smart. All normal reactions, right? So, why are you so uptight about it? The main female character isn’t perfect, isn’t flawless. So what? Prove me wrong here, but is anyone? Is it wrong for a character to fall short of being a role model for our daughters? Normal girls make mistakes, say stupid things on occasion and their motivation can be selfish.

I’ve seen one too many book reviews where the reviewer commits character assassination – giving low ratings because they didn’t like the main character’s attitude or the choices they made.

Don’t get me wrong, I like reading stories with a good, strong heroine just like the next person. But it’s not a requirement, and frankly, a few flaws tossed in here and there will make the character seem more believable to me. We all whine, we all rant, we all get pimples. Very few of us pee perfume and poop Hershey bars (and I don’t want to read about the character who does)! ;o)

Naked, Wet and Inspired

2011-12-23T08:48:00.000-08:00

The title sounds like an erotic intro, but I assure you, it isn’t. What I’m referring to is a strange phenomenon that inevitably occurs when I’m in the shower—inspiration. I don’t even have to be suffering from writer’s block; I might think my plot and characters are just fine, thank you very much. But when I’m in the shower, minding to the business of getting clean for the day, some part of my brain that is presumably occupied when I’m doing most anything else, is finally free to produce some of my best ideas. Why is that?

Let’s examine some possibilities.

Scent – Aromatherapy researchers have shown that scent can temporarily relieve everything from stress to insomnia to PMS. All I know is: when I’m scanning the grocery store aisle for shampoo, I open the cap, sniff, and base my decision on what to buy on how good it smells. Maybe the process of lathering and rinsing combined with a flowery, fruity fragrance opens up more than just my nasal passages.

Heat – There are very few more pleasurable things in life than the first few moments after stepping under a hot shower spray. Unlike the unpleasant goosebumps that sprout when our husbands or male co-workers insist on keeping the air-conditioner at a frigid 72-degrees, warm water sets off an exquisite chain reaction in the skin. Minescule arectores pilorum muscles attached to each and every hair on the human body react to cold by pulling the hair upright. It is theorized that this functioned as a way to make early man look bigger and more formidable when threatened, by poofing him up (the idea of a poofy, hairy man certainly frightens me). Nowadays, goosebumps in the shower set the stage for what follows:

Relaxation – Breathe that steamy air in…and out. Upon each exhale feel your shoulders dropping as the tension loosens its hold on your neck. We don’t need a yoga instructor to call out instructions guiding us through this part—it’s fully instinctive.

White noise – Sitting in my writing chair, my ears are constantly assaulted by the noises of the household. The base boom of my husband’s computer speakers coming through the office wall as he plays a video game or watches a movie. The incessant chat-chat-chatter from my son as he whirrs around the house like a hummingbird. The click-click-click of the dog’s claws on the wood floor, and his urgent barking at the slightest noise from outside. People actually buy machines that produce constant, soothing sounds to drown out external noise and promote sleep and relaxation. Inside the shower stall, all that can be heard is the steady shush of falling water, a welcome, natural white noise.

Solitude – There are very few places one can go to escape from the world. Even in bed, most of us have to share our space (“Keep your crusty man-feet on your side!"). In the shower, once the glass door steams up, and I can no longer see my cat staring intently at me with his huge, round blue eyes, I’m all by myself. No one judging me; no expectations. Alllll alone.

Refreshment – Clean is good. Just the act of literally and symbolically washing away the day creates a feeling of accomplishment and sets the stage for a receptive mood. I’m clean, I’m relaxed, I’m alone. The shower is my meditation chamber. Let the ideas come!

Haircut Chaos

2011-12-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

Just for fun, I'm resurrecting some of my favorites posts that no one read.

January 2008

I took my four-year-old for a haircut yesterday.

What an ordeal.

This is a child who cannot hold still. I remember my mom talking about my little brother. She'd say, "If we ever get invaded by aliens and have to hide, we're dead for sure because Matt won't be able to hold still and shut up!" Apparently, my son takes after his unkie Matt.

So of course my son got a hideous haircut. Even worse than usual, but that may be my fault. I was rushed yesterday morning and didn't take the time to brush his hair (he was getting it cut, after all, I rationalized) and when we walked in to Fantastic Sam's we must have looked like some kind of dopey back-country folk who don't give two hoots about their appearance. The hairstylist probably thought he needed a cut that would keep his grown-out hair from getting caught in the pigsty gate or the rusted out Chevy.

She was young and it was obviously her first day - my son may have even been her very first haircut - poor thing, I hope she didn't have a career change of heart after surviving the chaos. So anyway, just about everyone in the store had to get involved in mowing the boy's mop. The other stylists took turns coming over and trying to bribe or distract him into holding still. He thought all the attention was grand fun and acted out even more. Then he got hair in his mouth and in his eyes and started whining and disturbing his apron, which made even more hair go flying. The harried hairstylist tried to remain calm, but I could see her hands shaking.

Not even the promise of a lollipop, a rare treat for him, could keep my little guy's shoulders from rising whenever the buzzy scissors hit his neck. When I say the haircut was bad, I do not exaggerate. I literally could do better - on a kid who held still, of course. So this poor hairstylist is going to extreme measures to fix it and it's getting shorter and shorter. Snip, snip, snippity-snip! I started rolling my eyes because he might as well have been bald by then.

Then he began a loud litany of, "When are you gonna be done? Are you done yet?" The fond smiles on the other patron's faces had long since worn thin by the time he was finally shorn.

Liberated from the chair, my boy went straight for the lollipop jar while I futilely brushed at my clothes, which were covered with a thick layer of short, blonde hairs after my useless attempts to pin his head down during the procedure.

As I walked out the door, I sheepishly handed the stylist a $10 tip for sheer effort, even though my son looks like a fuzzy, lopsided baby chick. Next time, I'm hoping to find a salon that, like many dentists' offices, offers sedation - for both my son and me!

Indie Author Discrimination

2011-09-28T14:29:00.000-07:00

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I thought I'd write about some of the issues that led to the creation of my popular video The Indie-Author Lament. By "popular," I don't mean viral or anything, I just mean it hit a nerve with a lot of self-published authors like myself – you know that nerve in your elbow when you bonk it that hurts like hell but makes you laugh helplessly like a loon? Yeah, that one.

From the feedback I got on the video, it's pretty clear that just about every self-published author out there has a story similar to mine. I decided to write the song after two weeks of intensive marketing that left me feeling like a dog that couldn't quite catch its tail. The video was never overtly intended as a marketing tool, even though I did have it in the back of my mind that almost anything that gets me attention can be used to direct people to my product. So in that respect, I accidently stumbled upon a unique marketing tool in itself. People have asked whether the song is true; it mostly is, but I exaggerated some parts to make it funnier - and to make a point. The song is a composite of what the average indie-author goes through.

For those of you who aren't writers, you may be wondering what all the fuss is about.

There are two roads to getting a book published these days, the long road and the shortcut. A simplistic description of the long road is that it's the traditional route where your book has to pass muster with first an agent and then an editor at a publishing house. The shortcut, referred to by its detractors as "vanity publishing" is where writers self-publish their manuscripts. Usually they attempted to take the traditional route, but roadblocks and detours prevented them from reaching their destination. So they chose to self-publish, which on the surface might appear to be a smart move to shave off time in their journey, but more often, like many promising shortcuts, leads them through alligator-infested swamps.

I know I'm pushing the metaphors, but in the war against bad books, agents have traditionally held the front line. They function as the roadblocks; well-armed with opinions on what the reading public wants, and they only allow a chosen few books to get past them. Those that do, must detour on to another set of roadblocks set up by the editor. In this way, books that eventually reach the public are supposed to be error-free and high-quality.

The books that don't get past the agent are a mixed bag. Some are good, some are bad, some are very bad – but some are excellent, because agents aren't perfect and sometimes they reject based on what's hot in the market at the moment, etcetera. There're a lot of subjective reasons why an excellent novel wouldn't get traditionally published, but on the other hand, there's no vetting system in place to prevent the very bad self-published books from stinking up the shelves. Anyone who wants to publish a book can do so, but the bad books erode public perception of indies as a whole. If someone reads a traditionally published author's book and hates it, they aren't likely to give that author's next book a chance, but they probably won't boycott the publisher. If someone reads a badly written or poorly edited self-published book, there's a danger that they will lump all indie-authors into the same category and avoid them altogether.

The marketing advice most indie-authors are given is twofold: establish an internet presence in forums and on social networking sites, and solicit book bloggers to review their book. So whereas publishing houses can provide advertising and obtain reviews from professional book reviewers for their stable of authors, indie authors are on their own - and unfortunately, some do a piss poor job of promoting themselves.

In a certain subset of self-published authors, I'll refer to them as the Spammers (because that's what they are), there's a decided lack of professionalism as far as marketing is concerned. Spammers are not subtle. They are the ones who tweet the link to their book every hour on the hour. They are the ones with seventeen links in their signature line. They dive-bomb forum threads, comment off-topic on blog posts and generally make a nuisance of themselves – and a bad name for indie authors in general.

While the forum and book blogger advice has worked in some cases really well for authors who didn't abuse it in the past, there's been a recent backlash. Some forum administrators purportedly fielded so many complaints about spam that they were forced to create separate groups within the forums, effectively segregating self-published authors – who can now spam each other to their hearts' content – because you can bet readers won't venture to the back of the bus. Amazon UK, in a move they have yet to explain to their customers, has just banned indie promotion on their forums altogether.

Major book review publications like the New York Times actually have policies in place that exclude self-published books. Whether this is a result of pressure from publishing conglomerates who advertise with them or an unwillingness to dedicate the manpower necessary to sift through the chaff: they won't touch them. So indie-authors are forced to seek out alternative ways to get reviews, which are essential to sales. Indie-authors' family, friends and peers often volunteer, but what they need most in order to avoid the appearance of dishonesty is unbiased opinions, and that's where book bloggers come in.

The majority of book bloggers don't accept self-published books, but those that do have unwittingly taken on the road-blocking role of agent. They get the exact same kind of queries agents do and perform the same basic function of filtering out poorly written or badly edited books. This is ironic to the author given that taking the shortcut to publication was supposed to bypass these sorts of roadblocks in the first place. Book bloggers have popped up everywhere and some have become extremely popular: they weather a steady deluge of requests from indie-authors. Many are backlogged several months or even years, so even if they agree to read your book, it won't be any time soon. Many also have a policy of only posting reviews on books they liked. Some do that because they don't like negativism, but in others it's a defense mechanism to avoid confrontations with disgruntled authors. There have been cases of self-published authors engaging in very public and embarrassing flame-wars with reviewers.

So you can see how the aggressive, unrelenting actions of a few have severely curtailed the already limited marketing options of the many.

This anti-indie shift is understandable, but very very frustrating for most of us. My song was a spoof – it didn't offer advice on how avoid these minefields because even though in general indie-authors stick together and support each other, at the end of the day, marketing is a very personal commitment. Each of us has to budget our time and resources as best we can and something that works for one won't necessarily work for the other. But just because things look dire right now for indies doesn't mean it will always be that way. Public opinion swings back and forth, and indie-authors themselves are scrambling to think up unique ways to market themselves and their books. The majority of us keep tight rein on our marketing efforts so we don't humiliate ourselves or compromise our integrity. It's not hopeless, just another challenge. Until someone comes up with a viable solution to the lack of a cost-free, unbiased vetting system for self-published books, the best defense is to have a solid product and to maintain decorum. And it looks like the best offense in today's climate is to think up a unique, non-spam generating marketing platform to wow your potential audience.

The Warrior Princess Workout

2011-09-17T12:11:00.000-07:00

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Driving down the road, you fantasize about spending your lottery winnings. In the shower, you have a flirtatious conversation with a hot movie star. Of course, in your mind you're never a flabby middle-aged woman in desperate need of a grey touchup. You are a Warrior Princess with rock hard abs and not a dimple of cellulite. You'd like nothing more than to trade your mundane existence in for a more exciting life, a more exciting you. These days are usually prompted by

Hormones – it comes and goes every month: those periods of such intense yearning that nothing will fill the hole in your soul but watching back-to-back Jane Austen movies or locking yourself away to drool over steamy pirate novels. When that hormonal cocktail is at its peak, you rediscover your old nemesis

Motivation – that which gets you off your duff and makes you think, for a time at least, that you can do anything you set your mind to. You are now Determined (with a capital D!) to take on the world. And the first thing you need to do is wrest back control of your body. You can't be a Warrior Princess if you look like the Pillsbury Doughboy's main squeeze, so you break out the hand weights and pop in a workout DVD. Fueled by hormonal urges, you are on fire…until you're sidelined by

Physical limitations – the vicious circle of soreness that hits after every workout. That nagging reoccurring pain in your shoulder, Achilles tendon or hip. Pain sets in for the duration – you find it hard to sleep, leading to

Exhaustion – that horrible, headachy feeling, like some psychic vampire sucked out all your energy and left you a mere husk trying to live your life. Getting off the couch is restricted to daily living; the simplest chores feel like you're climbing Mount Everest and just the thought of working out makes you want to dig your own grave and take a nap in it. It's now up to

Mind over matter – an elusive force, slippery as a buttered eel. It takes a monumental effort to get moving, but you still recall how it felt last week when you were in the yearning phase. You remind yourself that phase will return - and you don't want to start all over again, do you? But real life is quite rudely intruding on the fantasy and you're having trouble imagining the

Payoff – will it be worth it that your husband (whose beer belly rivals the pregnant lady next door) will find you more attractive? Is it enough that family, friends and neighbors will notice the new you? Does the prospect of living longer with your newfound health make you happy – or do you cringe at the thought of your workouts being

Endless. My God, have I only been on this friggin' treadmill for ten minutes? Ow…ow…what now? Feels like my knee is about to pop out of the socket! Okay, I think it's time for

Excuses – the opposite of motivation. You worked out hard all week like a good girl, so you deserve a break. And a hot fudge sundae…yeah…calories be damned! During the intense chocolate buzz that follows, you are truly happy for the first time in weeks. But it's doomed to be short-lived. You recognize that this is the first of many upcoming excuses which will disrupt your Warrior Princess goal…but you can no longer be bothered to care because now you're dealing with

PMS – we all get it in one form or another, whether we admit it or not. It heavily influences your powers of concentration, and just acting like a normal human being feels like an accomplishment. Especially since all you want to do is devour the contents of the refrigerator and kill everyone and everything that vexes you, most notably anyone who actually resembles a Warrior Princess. You glance over at your hand weights with deep, heartfelt contempt, pleased when you muster enough self-control not to hurl them through the bedroom window. PMS sheds bright halogen lights on

Reality – that which is impossible to ignore on a consistent basis. These are the imagination's darkest days, when fantasy's influence is on the wane. Power through! – is your battle-cry. And you do, because you have to. Then one day while driving to the grocery store it suddenly occurs to you that if you did win the lottery, you'd be mingling with the rich and famous. Best to get a jump on the body you'll need to pull it off. Time to get cracking on that

Warrior Princess workout.

Calling all Indie-Authors and Readers! Indie Review Exchange

2011-09-05T14:12:00.000-07:00

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My last blog post was quite the downer, but I dusted myself off and figured out a way to make my new website work so that even the rabid "indie-authors shouldn't review each other" crowd can't complain. The site (http://www.indiereviewexchange.com/) is now a place where indie-author members can post their ebooks - which they agree to give away free to reader members in exchange for an unbiased review posted to Amazon. Simple and honest.

My reasons for starting the site (taken from the main page):

Self-published authors face marketing obstacles that traditionally published authors don't - and getting unbiased book reviews is one of the biggest challenges. Amazon customers rely on reviews to help them choose what to buy. A book with no reviews looks like a book that no one wants to read. But other than waiting and hoping someone influential discovers their book, indie-authors don't exactly have a lot of choices.

Major review publications ignore indies that haven't already become best-sellers through the efforts of the author, and as more and more authors join the indie revolution, competition for those reviews that are available to us has become fierce. Book bloggers who are open to reading indie books are inundated with requests, so even if they agree to read a book, the review might not come out for months. The indie author's family, friends and peers often volunteer reviews, but what the author needs most in order to avoid the appearance of dishonesty is unbiased opinions. The final and least savory option for indies is to buy a review from one of the many opportunistic sites taking advantage of our desperation. A paid review or two can certainly jump-start sales, but it, too, is hardly unbiased (even if the company assures you it will be). Paid reviews can be costly and Amazon customers are likely to perceive a review from such a place as "fake."

Indie Review Exchange is dedicated to connecting authors of independently-published (both small publisher and self-published) ebooks with readers who agree to review the ebook in exchange for a free copy - just like the big publishers do. See the site FAQs to find out how to join - it's all FREE all the time.

Please stop by, Join, and spread the word!

WHAT'S GOOD FOR THE GOOSE...

2011-08-15T13:14:00.000-07:00

On the cover of Cassandra Clare's popular young adult book The City of Bones, there's a prominent quote from the author of Twilight, Stephenie Meyer: "The Mortal Instruments series is a story world that I love to live in. Beautiful!"

Neil Gaiman raved, "Stephen King's Under the Dome was one of my favourite books of the year so far."

Taylor Stevens' debut novel, The Informationist, got labeled "One of the best thrillers of the year!" by Tess Gerritsen.

Let me ask you this: When you see a quote from one big-name author singing the praises of another author's book, does your bullshit radar begin pinging?

Why would a famous scribe like Meyer stir herself to offer up what amounts to a huge advertising coup to another author anyway? Let's examine her possible motivation:

The quote was given after Meyer found herself truly moved by a book she chose on her own to read.

The quote was heartfelt and unsolicited, but Meyer was given a copy of the book by the author/agent/editor.

The quote was solicited and Meyer felt she had to provide it, but she honestly enjoyed the book.

The quote was solicited and Meyer was under pressure to say good things about it.

The quote was provided as a tit-for-tat to benefit both authors. Meyer's name and the name of her book appears on the other author's cover, thus giving her extra exposure while the other author gets an endorsement that will potentially sway Meyer's fans to read his/her book.

Unless some industry insider starts blowing his or her whistle, we'll never know for sure, but the fact is: it's common practice in publishing for authors to review each other. When I've seen these quotes in the past, I've generally taken them at face-value, especially if I like the quoting author's work. It never occurred to me to wonder whether I've just been duped into buying a book I wouldn't have if it didn't have such ringing praise from someone I admired.

In the Meyer and Clare scenario, can the reader trust that Meyer really would like to leap between the pages of Clare's book and live there?

I ask because I've been accused of unethical conduct by the reigning opinion-makers at a popular reader's forum (that will go unnamed to hopefully prevent retaliation).

Let me start at the beginning: I created a website, a place where indie-authors could connect and exchange honest, unbiased read/reviews. This was born out of the frustration I experienced trying to promote my books. There exists a series of vicious concentric circles wherein an indie-author cannot sell their book without getting the word out, but can't get the word out without being accused of spamming. Everything we do to promote our work is either restricted (we can comment about it only in segregated sub-communities on forums) or suspect (we cannot ask our family, friends or peers to endorse it). Since we are shunned by major book review publications and ignored by most book bloggers, what are our options other than to pour money we don't have into paid advertising (which is arguably just as suspect)?

According to my detractors on this particular reader's forum, agreeing to swap reviews with another author isn't one of them. The response to my little post announcing the website I created was immediate and fierce:

"Just an FYI before the feeding frenzy starts on your thread. Most readers on XX don't look on authors exchanging reviews with affection. It seems dishonest and some of us feel that we can't really trust a review done by one author in exchange for another review."

"There've been numerous discussions about WHY review swapping is a bad (BAD!) idea."

"We get these posts a lot, Mel, and the overwhelming consensus is that these sort of things are unethical."

"I think that the only reviews that are worth having are professional reviewer sites (not the kind you pay for)."

"…around here, we've had this discussion many, many times. And the consensus is always that this sort of thing is a bad idea. Not only because it can look like gaming the system, but also because it can be bad for business. The appearance of swapping favorable reviews with other writers can cast doubt on all of your legitimate reviews."

Given the admitted number of times this issue has come up in that forum, it seems obvious to me that the concept is NOT distasteful to everyone, but as soon as the idea of swapping reviews is proposed by some hapless forum member, these "self-appointed desk-jockey lynching mobs," as a friend describes them, pounce. Notice the phrases such as "most readers" and "overwhelming consensus." I was given the choice to read the links to previous discussions—proving that the issue has been well-and-truly argued and won—or to take their word for it that It Has Been Decided that swapping reviews is downright wrong.

While my thread was combusting from the negative feedback, I began to get private messages from sympathetic folks unwilling to go against these forum bullies.

"The same thing that's happening to you just happened to me! …Everyone slammed me and called me unethical to the point that I was in TEARS!"

"I saw your book review post and was about to sign up when the comments scared me away."

So why is it that these bullies seemingly don't recognize a practice that already runs rampant in the traditional publishing world? Is Stephenie Meyer "dishonest?" Is she more legitimate than me because she's backed by a traditional publisher who can influence a "professional reviewer site" to read her book? If Stephenie Meyer can give Cassandra Clare a quote, why can't I give one of my fellow indies a quote?

The goose does it, why can't the gander?

My friend puts it this way, "These little lynching mobs don't have any real or meaningful power, and in the petty power they DO exert, they slavishly ape the actions of the people who are over THEM in the rest of the world."

Really, people? Way to go…way to beat down the little guy.

Perhaps my biggest sin in this sad story was that I went public and embraced the tit-for-tat concept instead of accomplishing it behind-the-scenes like the big boys and girls undeniably do. Instead, supposedly I've "cast doubt on all of [my] legitimate reviews." All one of them.

REDO of The Gossamer Sphere Book Trailer

2011-08-09T07:44:00.000-07:00

The Indie-Author Lament

2011-06-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

So I desperately needed to take a break from my book marketing efforts and do something fun, right? I love dinking around with animation software and I've had Crazytalk Animator for some time now with no specific project in mind. I decided to pour all my self-publishing frustrations into a song. It's a spoof, a little ditty poking fun at everything we indie-authors go through to get noticed.

Death by Book Blogger

2011-06-18T16:35:00.000-07:00

Now that I'm trying to get word out about my books, I was happy to find sites like YA Book Blog Directory and The Indie Book Blog Database. They make it easier to find book bloggers—potential readers/reviewers for my self-published books. I've been trolling through them for the last long, torturous week…

Kill me…kill me now.

No, I haven't quite lost the will to live, but if the paper-thin walls of my ego weren't bolstered by stubbornness and a rather urgent need to prove myself, I'd have quit days ago.

There are two kinds of book blogger: the ones just starting out and the ones who've made a business of it. Right off I'll tell you not to bother with the pros unless a traditional publisher's name graces the spine of your book. They are easily recognized as the flashiest blogs with the most followers. They've been around long enough to have gotten the attention of best-selling authors (with ARCs and swag, no less!), so they will almost always have a version of the following sentence under their official review policy page: I do NOT accept self-published novels.

I read that sentence over and over again this week, usually after I spent precious minutes waiting for a site to load, searching for the policy tab and reading through a now-familiar set of rules. If I could beg one thing of book bloggers, it would be to put that "I've risen above slogging through indies" sentence first and foremost to let us down before we get excited that their favorite books to read are exactly what we wrote. Those who've reached pro status are the ones most likely to announce that their review turnaround is two or three months down the road and if they aren’t interested in your pitch, they won't even bother to respond to your email(!).

Which brings me to the book bloggers who DO accept self-published books. With some exceptions, they are the bright-eyed bushy-tailed ones; the dewy-fresh newbies with palpable enthusiasm (who are often very young). All book bloggers love to read, but these newbies haven't gotten overwhelmed with requests by desperate self-published authors…yet. But they are the ones with very few followers, so the word about your book might get out there, but it won't go far.

Here's my stats so far: One week of trolling the Internet for book bloggers, an average of three or four hours each day. Hundreds of sites visited. Sixteen review requests emailed. Five responses. Two were very nice, but said they were too busy. (This could be true or could be a gentle way to avoid saying they're not interested, I dunno.) One said maybe. Two said YES, but both told me it would be several weeks if not months before they would be able to find the time.

Yeesh.

Actually, I don't think there's anything more to be said...

Forum Spam-a-lam-a-ding-dong

2011-06-07T21:07:00.000-07:00

You've got a self-published book or two to sell, so you begin your marketing efforts by seeking out online locations to hawk your wares. The most obvious places are where the elusive and legendary Readers are rumored to be found—book forums—places where Readers discuss their literary likes and dislikes. Nirvana to a new author! Or so we think, until we join the site and discover, well, we're not welcome. Despite the advice we've gotten to get busy promoting ourselves, there're new rules out there, folks, and forum administrators aren't very forgiving if we barge into their territory with an ulterior motive.

Although we writers are generally solitary creatures who have a hard time singing our own praises, there exists a sub-species of scribe hell-bent on spamming the living crap out of everyone and anyone who will allow it. Just like writers who self-publish before their manuscript is ready for prime-time, these spammers are making a bad name for all self-published authors. Forums everywhere are catching on, and they've been making it crystal clear what they'll do to us if we spam, blatantly or inadvertently.

Amazon customer discussions forbids "Any form of "spam," including advertisements, contests, or other solicitations for other websites or companies." At kindleboards, it says right in the user registration agreement, "Spam…(is) forbidden on this forum." And over at Goodreads, most of the groups I've checked out have their own rules against spam. There's a thread in the SciFi Fantasy Book Club group that spells out in no uncertain terms how some Readers, at least, feel about, among other sins of the author, spam.

I joined Goodreads earlier this year, before I decided to self-publish. I love it there, it's such a friendly place, as long as I participate as a Reader who follows the rules (and I have, meticulously). But unless I choose to join the groups set up specifically for others like me, it's been made painfully clear that even the faintest whiff of spam will get me a face full of slammed door. I did join some of those groups—I'm all for making contacts among my peers—but there's an atmosphere of segregation there, and the spam is rampant and even encouraged. Even if I posted my own tentative spam attempt to that mix, I doubt I'd garner many reads, because no matter how helpful and nice the members might be, they aren't there looking for reads. And since I also run a book review blog that doesn't turn its nose up at indies, I'd probably end up with a big red target painted on my virtual forehead. Because, yes! Just like the skittish Reader, I, too am leery of self-published books in general. I've read some truly good stuff, outstanding stuff, in fact, but the last thing I want is for someone with an ulterior motive to woo me and become my online pal only to wham-bam-spam me in the hope that I'll feel obligated to read and review them.

So I understand completely the defensive attitude of forums and applaud their anti-spam efforts—even though it leaves me with very little in the way of promotional options for my own books. Word of mouth is essential for indies; we don't have the luxury of marketing dollars provided by traditional publishers. I need reads, and can't rely on the one thing even more elusive than Readers: Luck.

Summer Fun Ebook Giveaway!

2011-06-07T14:01:00.001-07:00

School's out! Time to take our reading devices out into the sun with us and read, read, read! In celebration of the start of summer, I'm giving away two FREE ebooks on Smashwords for one week only: The Gossamer Sphere (EA72G) and Xenofreak Nation (RU55M). Just enter the code in parenthesis following the titles prior to completing checkout at Smashwords!

My Reasons for Self-publishing (Again)

2011-05-15T08:35:00.000-07:00

Back in 1999, after a decade of starts and stops, I finished my first novel, Uncommon Sense. To say I was naïve about what came next, about the way the publishing industry worked, would be a vast, echoing understatement. I began searching for information, and was appalled when I learned how long the process took. Months waiting on agent query responses, partial responses, full responses. Assuming you snag an agent, you wait several more months on editor submissions. Assuming the book is eventually accepted, you then wait up to two years for the publisher to release it. Yikes! I wasn’t getting any younger. How long was I willing to languish in pre-publication purgatory before I saw the fruits (recognition, if not outright acclaim) of my labor?

My search yielded an alternative: self-publishing. Because I was clueless to any repercussions, the concept appealed to me. I had no one to advise me against it. As a working mom, I didn’t have time to attend writer’s group meetings, and back then, if online groups existed, I didn’t know about them. The information I’d gotten on traditional publishing was highly discouraging. The odds alone gave me serious pause; there are millions of writers out there competing for a select few spots on the bookstore shelves. Getting published is akin to winning multiple lotteries—first you win an agent, then you win a publisher, then you win fans…or not.

So I hope it’s not too hard for you to understand how I was swayed by the promises of my first self-publisher, iUniverse. They had a (paid) program where one of their reviewers would read my manuscript and if it was good enough, it would get a ‘special’ designation as an Editor’s Choice novel. When Uncommon Sense passed muster, I was over the moon. They like me! They really like me! The reviewer had wonderful things to say about the novel.

It felt like a tremendous victory, but I realize now the thing that made me happiest was that someone other than my family and friends read it and approved. I gratefully bought a ticket and boarded the iUniverse train, despite the fact that I had to accept whatever lame cover their amateurish artists threw together. In no time my baby was in print – with a $12.95 cover price, a cost much higher than the average paperback. Marketing, as a basic concept, never occurred to me.

It was before ebooks hit the scene, so of course sales were less than dismal. I can only fall back on the excuse that I really do suffer from a pervasive naivete. This explains why I chose to self-publish my next two novels, The Dragon Diary and Dessert Island. I simply hadn’t learned my lesson. The truth is that I was still caught in the gravity pull of planet Instant Gratification. The gratification in my case had more to do with putting my manuscripts in motion, launching them as it were, rather than jumping through agent submission hoops before inevitably abandoning my books to languish on my hard drive. Certainly I wasn’t gratified by my royalties!

My rude awakening occurred at the first writer’s conference I attended. At the Southern California Writer’s Conference in San Diego in the early 2000’s, I went to lectures and workshops and generally enjoyed myself…until a small-press editor got behind the pulpit and smashed my confidence to smithereens. She had palpable contempt for those who self-published and even went so far as to say that anyone who did would ruin their chances of getting accepted by a “real” publisher because their debut status would be forever gone.

I slunk away, ashamed of myself and my three books. It didn’t take long for me to come up with a plan: I would start over using my married name and hope that no one discovered what I had done.

Thank goodness the stigma of self-publishing is fading! Well, okay, the field is divided on the subject: some sneer and call it "vanity publishing," and others think it's a smart move--authors taking control of their own work. But there will always be poorly written self-published books out there dragging everyone else down. Readers who encounter one of the stinkers will likely avoid taking a chance on another self-published book. Agents and editors won’t even glance at one unless it has proven its worth through impressive sales. And some have proven themselves, although the odds show it’s just another lottery we have to win. Neither quality of writing nor extensive marketing efforts guarantee sales. There is, however, a lot of advice out there now for those considering self-publishing. Indie activists like April Hamilton have helped level the playing field.

Fast-forward to the present. I had signed with an agent in May of 2009 and she’d shopped my latest manuscript unsuccessfully. I’d won the agent lottery, but that was to be the extent of my winning streak. She rejected my next manuscript as being too similar to the one she couldn’t sell and I dropped to the bottom of her client priority list. I wrote for the market after that; a young adult dystopian with a unique premise that I was sure would wow her. After two months, she still hadn’t read past the first five chapters. I was persona non grata with my own agent! Ouch. Reality just wouldn’t stop smacking me in the face. Two years gone, poof! The lure of instant gratification reared its tempting head. I was still not getting any younger; nor any healthier to be honest. The specter of failure began to haunt me. It slowly dawned on me that the lingering shame I felt for having self-published was preventing me from going after not just the small measure of success I might get from doing it again, but any measure of success.

My friend Peter (of MyWritingSpot fame) had been sending me a series of ever-more-insistent emails encouraging me to self-publish again. What follows is his latest attempt, which I initially rejected out of hand because I had yet to sever ties with my agent:

“Hey there,

It's Sunday, so it's time to nag you about self-publishing some more. I have been following this phenomenon for the last two years, and I really think that you are in a place to take full advantage of it. Why? A few reasons:

1. You write books that (are) in genres that are currently selling extremely well in this market (romance, teen paranormal/fantasy). This woman writes teen paranormal/fantasy and is currently selling 100K books A MONTH. A MONTH. At $2.99 a pop, she takes home $2.10 per book. Do the math. http://www.novelr.com/2011/02/27/rich-indie-writer

Oh yeah - and she was never published "traditionally." If a traditional publisher approached her with a book deal today, there is no way that they could offer as much as she's currently earning by publishing herself [insert: this author, Amanda Hocking, recently did accept a book deal from St. Martin’s press].

2. You have multiple books already written and waiting to be sold. One of the keys to being a successful eBook author is to have multiple books available. Especially with your books, you're hitting different markets and can therefore cast a wider net. Once you've hooked a reader, they will want more, and you have several other books that they can purchase now.

3. Traditional publishing is dying, and is not as financially beneficial to the author (not by a long shot).

Gosh, I'm such a nag. I know, but I really feel strongly about this. I think that you should re-issue ALL of your already-published books and all your unpublished books and put them in several different eBookstores. Since I seem to like numbered lists, here's how you might go about doing it:

1. I think you need new covers for some of the books so that you can tie them to your brand. One of the keys to a successful eBook is a catchy cover. But that cover should also be somewhat consistent with your other books, so that the reader can immediately recognize it as one of YOUR books.

2. Reformat the books and get them into all the most popular eBook formats. ePub, mobi, pdf, etc, etc.

3. Put up a website to promote all the books. Tie a blog to the website and start capturing eyeballs.

4. Submit the books to all the major eBookstores - Kindle, B&N, Smashwords, etc.

5. Figure out where/how to promote your book. Send out review copies, get some reviews on GoodReads.com, etc.

6. Promote, grow your fanbase.

7. Make money doing what you love.

If any of the technical aspects of any of this are giving you pause, I'd be happy to help get your books out there. Just let me know.

OK - nagging done. For at least a week, that is. :)

Peter”

It wasn’t the technical aspects that gave me pause. This was in February, and I had just finished my YA dystopian and had high hopes my agent would love it. I was also under the delusion that the odds would somehow swing in my favor and I would eventually be traditionally published. I sent Peter a rather final-sounding reply that I didn’t have the strength or temerity to accomplish his list.

However, once I accepted the fact that my agent and I were not a good fit and requested she release me from our agreement, I wallowed in uncertainty. As much as I felt I didn’t have the confidence to self-publish again, I felt even more strongly that I could not re-subject myself to the traditional ringer. The thought of querying other agents and beginning the process all over again made me queasy.

Writers are compelled to write, even if hardly anyone reads our efforts. You might say we suffer from Einstein’s definition of insanity; we keep doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. So, at the end of this story I’m confronted by the same two choices I had to begin with, neither of which I am all that enthusiastic about! Damned if I do…

I’ve chosen to self-publish again, solely in ebook format through Smashwords and Kindle, beginning with my YA dystopian, Xenofreak Nation.

My honest assessment of my chance of success is that I have no idea if I will win this particular lottery this time around. I can’t help but think I’m due, but like my grandfather used to say, “Spit in one hand and wish in the other. Which hand has the most in it?”

And since I’m not quite the Pollyanna I used to be, I won’t be sitting around wishing and waiting. The word “marketing” is in my vocabulary now, and I even have a basic idea what it means in today’s world! I have Facebook friends and Twitter followers! Since I’m an artist as well as a writer, I have the skills to create cover art and book trailers. I also have some damned good books to hawk, even if I do say so myself.

Animate Text so it Looks Like it's Being Written Using Photoshop Elements

2011-04-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

I made this YouTube tutorial on how to animate text so it looks like it’s being written onscreen. I searched for how to do this and only found tuts in expensive programs like Photoshop CS5 and After Effects. I wanted the ability but wasn’t about to pay for it, so I figured out how to do it using layers in my old version of Photoshop Elements. It’s simple but, like most animation, a bit tedious! And you will need video editing software to put it all together. I just upgraded to Corel VideoStudio Pro X4. If you find the tut helpful, please give it a ‘thumbs-up’ on YouTube!

Why they call it an 'Extended Warranty'

2011-02-03T16:55:00.001-08:00

A month ago my son was idly watching Spongebob when he called to my attention that the picture on our 3-year-old, 50-inch Samsung plasma television had gone out. The sound was still working, though, so I did all the usual things: switched channels, turned it on and off, checked cable wires and cable functionality. Finally, my husband shined a flashlight down into the holes at the top of the back of the television.

“Uh, oh,” he said, stepping back and waving his hand. “Unplug it, quick!”

It hadn’t quite burst into flames, but our house was soon filled with the noxious odor of smoking electronic components.

I located the Samsung warranty, which was for the standard one (measly) year, then found the Best Buy receipt tucked into an extended warranty information pamphlet. Yay! For once, all those thousands of dollars we’d dumped into extra coverage on our appliances was paying off. We were saved!

Well, perhaps we would have been if the warranty had a “Pain and Suffering” clause…

The next day during business hours, I called the Best Buy 800 number. An automated voice gave me my options, none of which were, “If your television exploded, please push four.” I chose to speak to a representative and the call was transferred with a loud “BEE-BOOP-BEBLY-BOOP!” in my ear. Then I got the “wrong number” tone and the call was disconnected. I tried again with the same results.

Okay. Best Buy 800 didn’t want to talk to me, so I looked up and dialed my local Best Buy. The friendly clerk gave me the 800 number for the Geek Squad and then kindly transferred me through. “BEE-BOOP-BEBLY-BOOP!” Not sure what the purpose of that painfully loud transfer tone was, but I made a mental note to hold the phone away from my ear when being transferred by these guys in future.

I spoke to a Geek Squad rep who transferred me to another rep, who took down my information and made an appointment for a repair technician to come to our house. The next morning, I hadn’t heard from the repair people, who were supposed to have called to let me know what timeframe I should expect them, so I called. It was a company located an hour’s drive away from us. When I told the guy why I was calling, he said rather grumpily, “They’re not supposed to make my appointments for me.” Turns out he only comes to our town when he has more than one service call to make, AND he wouldn’t come out until he’d ordered some parts that he thought he might need to make the repair based on my description of what happened to the television. We waited almost three weeks before the parts came in and it was worth his while to make the trip. Mind you, we live in a suburban area of over 150,000 people, but when I called the Geek Squad to complain, I was told that it was the only television repair company that had a contract with Best Buy to provide service to our area.

During that time, we moved the clunky old 15-inch television from our bedroom into the living room. My husband discovered the joy of watching Netflix on his laptop, my son hovered two feet away from the screen until we had to put the dog gate up to keep him back, and I wore my glasses whenever I wanted to see what was going on.

I know what you’re thinking: BOO HOO, why didn’t you people just read a book or play a board game or go outside? But I’m telling you, we ARE a huge book-reading, game playing family. And we love to go outside, but there’s just so much family time you can spend bundled up against the 20-degree January weather. The thing is, we also happen to enjoy watching the large screen television we paid $1600 for (not including tax and warranty). And, to complicate matters, the Super Bowl was approaching rapidly…

So on Repair Day, I anxiously watched over the repair guy’s shoulder as he opened the back of our television. He replaced a part, turned the set on and BRZZZZT! Smoke began to curl towards the ceiling. I ran to open all the windows before the fire alarms went off.

“Okay,” said he, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to have to take this back to the shop.”

Progress, right?

Ten days from that point, we figured we’d waited long enough. I called the repair guy, who told me to call Best Buy. I did, got transferred to a rep (“BEE-BOOP-BEBLY-BOOP!”), and Hallelujah! The rep informed me that at long last a decision had been made. We were to get a new TV!

On the way to the store, my husband and I had a naïve conversation about our options.

Him: We paid $1600 three years ago and those televisions are worth a lot less now.
Me: I know! We should be able to trade up for a much nicer one with the extra cash.

Once inside, the clerk led us to the wall of TVs and said basically, “Here’s the one you get.”

“Um,” my husband replied, staring at the borderline-obsolete technology on display. A thundercloud began forming over his head, so I jumped in.

“But that set’s only $599. We paid a lot more.”

“It’s a comparable television,” said the clerk. “We’re replacing your old one.”

“Oh…I see,” I said as the Truth began to dawn. “We get a replacement set regardless of the price now. So what about taxes, delivery charge and a new warranty?”

“Taxes are covered, but this completes your old warranty, so if you want a new one, you’ll have to buy it. And delivery is $50.”

My husband’s head spun 180-degrees on his neck. It was urgent now that I convince him of the intrinsic fairness of the situation.

“Honey,” I whispered. “You have to consider that we got three years of usage out of the old TV. Best Buy would lose money if they gave us all our money back at this point. It isn’t their fault Samsung made a defective product. And if we hadn’t of gotten the extended warranty, we’d have nothing at all.”

The clerk was listening and chimed in, “I’ll tell you what. I see from your receipt that delivery was free three years ago. Why don’t we throw that in? And the extended warranty isn’t $299 anymore—it’s only $149!”

My husband’s mouth moved stiffly, but the impending explosion didn’t happen. “Can you get it to us before Super Bowl?”

You never saw a clerk type so fast. “How’s Saturday, the day before?”

I’m writing this before we actually get said replacement television, which is perhaps a little Pollyanna of me. After an extended amount of time with no TV, the inconvenience of ‘cashing in’ on our warranty, and the additional cost, I should probably wait to make sure everything works out in the end…

Super (Bowl) Salsa

2011-01-29T12:45:00.001-08:00

This is my own recipe, which took years to perfect, so if you substitute ingredients don’t blame me if it comes out wonky (wink). We don’t like spicy salsa in my house; we’re wimps who prefer to taste our condiments rather than suffer through them. If your clan and/or guests, on the other hand, enjoy the sensation of burning tongue, just add some fresh diced jalapenos to the below recipe and/or get the hot version of the La Victoria chiles. If at all possible, buy fresh, organic ingredients. Also, some people find that cilantro tastes like soap (I used to—yuck!—but as the following article in the New York Times explains (http://www.nytimes.com/2010/04/14/dining/14curious.html), I got over it after being exposed multiple times to the herb and now adore it), so you may want to separate your batch into one with and one without.

Ingredients:

1 small can La Victoria mild diced green chiles
One bunch fresh cilantro (warning! Cilantro looks a lot like parsley and to further confound you, the grocer will often place them next to each other. Double-check to ensure you get the right one)
Six to eight vine-grown red tomatoes. (don’t be cheap and get the Roma!)
One bunch green onions
Two or three red, orange or yellow peppers (no green!)
A few peeled cloves of garlic
Two bags Tostitos Scoops

Thoroughly rinse and drain all fresh ingredients. In a super bowl, toss in the chiles, chop and add about a loosely-packed cup of the cilantro leaves, not stems (a tricky enough task; don’t worry if it’s not chopped fine), chop and add the onions, dice and add the tomatoes, remove and discard the top inedible portion and insides of the peppers before dicing and adding (I use the Chop Wizard from Bed, Bath and Beyond for all my dicing needs). Use a garlic press to crush the garlic, estimate about a teaspoon or two. Mix and refrigerate for a few hours before serving (unless you can’t help yourself and must consume immediately).

By far our favorite chips to serve with my salsa are Tostitos Scoops. This recipe makes around a quart of salsa. In our house, it doesn't last. Enjoy!

Cybersquatters: Legal Extortion on the Internet

2011-01-05T12:22:00.001-08:00

Your name is Jane Doe and you’re ready to join the ranks of .com owners. Congrats! But then you find that someone else already owns your preferred domain name. That’s cool, you know you aren’t the only Jane Doe out there, but what if the owner of janedoe.com is a company that trolls the Internet for business and personal names to buy up and resell? A domain that would have cost you $14.95 a year is available to purchase, but it’s now $350. You’re just getting started and that’s a tad steep, plus, it doesn’t seem fair. It’s one thing if another Jane Doe beat you to the .com or even the .net or .org, but how can these companies or individuals get away with basically holding *your* name hostage until you or another Jane Doe ponies up?

On the face of it, it seems like slightly shady, but perfectly legal free enterprise, right? Ehrm, wrong. If you’re famous, that is.

A person whose name is widely recognized is protected under the Anticybersquatting Consumer Protection Act, which is designed, among other things, to prevent registrants from profiting in bad faith from a domain name that is identical or similar to theirs.

But we’ve already established that you’re not rich and you’re not famous.

So what can YOU do? Not much, as it happens.

You can try contacting the domain service provider (registrar) that sold your name to the reseller in the first place, but they will likely refer you to ICANN, the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers. ICANN is the governing body behind UDRP, the Uniform Domain-Name Dispute Resolution Policy. This is a policy that exists between the registrar and the domain-name holder (the reseller that owns your .com) that supposedly protects you. Well, it would if you were famous or trademarked, but you’d still have to pay a UDRP provider to handle your complaint, starting at around $1000, according to Wikipedia. Or you can really hemorrhage from the wallet by hiring an Internet lawyer.

The reseller that owns your domain name knows this! They count on the fact that it’s cheaper to pay them than it is to fight them, and have likely taken that into consideration when setting the price. Not only that, but they often have an exclusive deal with the registrar (like Tucows) to purchase domain names that have expired. Even if the original owner of janedoe.com defaulted on their registration, it never becomes available to the public to purchase. The instant the registration fully expires it’s sold to the extortionists. If you own a .net or other extension of the same domain name, you may even get unwanted emails attempting to sell the .com to you. (Beware, because this is usually a scam.)

In summation, there are no laws to protect the average Jane from these cybersquatters, and janedoe.com will sit unused in their domain inventory until someone pays the ransom, or, probably, hell freezes over.

Disclaimer: I'm not any sort of authority on this subject, merely a victim who educated herself to the best of her ability and wanted to pass on what (little) she learned. Nothing in the above should be constituted as advice in any way, shape or form.

Circumhorizontal Arc - A "Rare" Phenomenon From My Backyard

2010-02-28T21:52:00.000-08:00

The sun has to be in the right place in the sky at the right time of year. The cirrus clouds have to be at the right altitude, and the ice crystals that make up those clouds must be in the right shape. These are the basic circumstances necessary to create a Circumhorizontal Arc.

After I saw my first one from the backyard of our new house in June of 2008 (I posted the vid of the event on YouTube, here: http://www.youtube.com/user/melissaconwaywrites#p/a/f/0/npL9n1UsR0E), and after I found out what it WAS, and that it was a rare phenomenon, I felt privileged to have witnessed it. After I saw the second one exactly a year later, and then a THIRD a few days after that, I was flabbergasted. Thrice in one lifetime? How can that be? Add to that the many, many Sun Dogs and Sun Halos (and moon Halos!) Iridescent Clouds and Coronas I've seen and photographed, and you can imagine I started thinking that my backyard was a very special place on this earth.

Today, to my astonishment, I saw and photographed another Circumhorizontal Arc.

And I realized that arcs must occur way more often than reported, at least this far north in the US. The real reason I see so many of them is because I look up to the sky so often in order to appreciate the beauty all around me (I do!)

By the way, the best site I've found to date on these kinds of sky phenomenon is Atmospheric Optics, here: http://www.atoptics.co.uk/. If you are at all interested in this sort of thing, this really cool site answers all your questions and more.

Cancer: Instant Perspective

2010-01-07T09:56:00.001-08:00

I was wetting down my son’s hair, wrestling with the hurricane cowlick at the back of his head, when the phone rang. It was unusual for us to get such an early morning call—I immediately thought, “Uh oh.”

The caller ID was unfamiliar, but when I picked up, it was my neighbor up the street; we’ll call her Susan because I don’t want to identify her here. Susan is an attractive blonde, younger than me by at least a decade, with two beautiful children, a new house in our upscale-ish development, and a husband in the medical profession. The few times I conversed with her, we hit it off—both of us are the talkative type with similar senses of humor—but probably for reasons attributable to how busy we are with work and family, we never became more than friendly acquaintances.

Susan’s daughter “Emily” is in my son’s first-grade class, and is a pale, serious child, smart and observant. She always seemed so much more mature than my wild child, which is probably why my son had a crush on her all through kindergarten.

“I thought I had your phone number, but I had to look it up in the white pages,” Susan said. I thought we paid the phone company $3 a month NOT to publish our number, so I was slightly annoyed. “Emily missed the bus, and I’m a mess this morning. I had some surgery last night, and I’m sore and running behind and I know you drive your son to school still, right?”

“Oh, sure!” I said, knowing what was coming. “I’m sick, just a cold, but I’ll keep my germs to myself. Do you have a booster seat?”

She probably meant to keep it to herself, but her talkative nature (so much like my own), the urge to share even the worst news, to EXPLAIN why she was so out of it and needed the help of a virtual stranger (albeit a friendly one), probably prompted her next words, “I just found out I have cancer.”

“Oh, my GOD,” I exclaimed. My son looked up from across the room. He was stuffing his arm into his coat, his hat perched rakishly on his just-combed hair. Tears flooded my eyes.

“I haven’t told Emily,” Susan said quickly.

“Of course. I won’t say a word.” My son asked, “What?” so I put on a cheerful voice and said, “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” and rang off.

I rushed him through the rest: shoes, zip coat, stretchy Spongebob gloves, backpack. I grabbed a plastic grocery bag as we went out to the truck; after strapping him in his seat, I filled the bag with garbage that littered the back seat: mostly straw papers and cup lids and napkins from McDonalds.

Susan ushered Emily out while I proclaimed, “Missed-the-Bus-Express here!” Susan hardly even met my eyes and I fully understood. I didn’t want to so much as offer her a sympathetic look. Right now, she needed to act normal. She needed to hide one of the worst bits of bad news a mother can get. Hide it from her innocent child, who got into our truck like it was any other day, like she rode to school with neighbors all the time.

I fought tears all the way to school. Luckily, my boy blither-blathered on, completely unaware, and if Emily suspected something was wrong, she gave no indication of it. I dropped the children off with a smile on my face, reminding my son to be good.

On the drive home, I thought about Susan. She would want privacy right about now, so I decided against calling her. On the one hand, I wanted her to know I was here for her, but on the other, I doubted she wanted to talk any further about it. She must be reeling right now, but I knew she had family to lean on and hashing it out with a mere acquaintance wouldn’t help. She probably needed to formulate a plan to get back on solid footing.

I thought about my life, of course. About how the little things had been getting to me lately. But no matter how frustrating the elements that make up my existence can be, at least I don’t have cancer…CANCER!—Jesus, that’s the scariest word. Something in your body gone dreadfully wrong, with connotations of chemo-therapy, radiation, indignity and death. Once you get that diagnosis, nothing is ever the same, is it? Even assuming you beat it, your life is now defined by it, forever. You are forced to join the legions of Survivors, and the fear that it will return will never leave you.

So this morning I guess I got a wake-up call. Suddenly the little things are in sharp focus and my perspective isn’t skewed towards the negative anymore. When my son went to school today, I wasn’t hiding anything from him. I don’t have cancer.

One of Those Days

2009-12-22T16:14:00.000-08:00

You ever notice nobody ever says, “One of these days I’m going to have one of those days?”

I got a call last night from my son’s teacher, more evidence that we no longer live in the big city. She wanted to find out if it was okay for her to personally deliver, on her winter break, the gift she’d guided the children into making for their parents for Christmas. Awww…!

I did some quick calculations: appointment with Toyota to get a new tire at 11am meant I’d need to leave the house at 10:30am. Assuming I had my usual poor night’s sleep (snoring hub, cat on and off the bed all night and/or playing the drums in the catbox, nightmare/bathroom/thirsty son) followed by the rare opportunity to sleep in until an incredible 8am, I would have about two hours to tackle the mound of dishes in the sink that I swear breed like bunnies and vacuum the dog and cat fur embedded in the carpets and blowing in the corners like wispy white tumbleweeds.

Morning comes. At 9:38am I’m wearing sweatpants, a stained shirt with no bra, hair unclean and uncombed, and nothing on my face but a layer of sweat as I frantically vacuum so I can get into the shower before my son’s teacher arrives. Just as a memory of the previous night’s conversation poinks into my mind (“Okay, great! I’ll be there around 10:15 OR A LITTLE EARLIER), the dog begins to go nuts in his crate, a sure sign the doorbell rang and I didn’t hear it.

With a resigned look on my face, I open the door. She’s standing there in her holiday finery, cheeks rosy from the cold, holding a wrapped gift with a photo of my son wearing a red Rudolph’s nose on top. Just as it occurs to me that maybe she won’t want to actually intrude on my obvious domestic dishevelment, my son, still wearing his Wall-e pajamas, arrives at the door. It’s an affectionate reunion, a pleasant surprise for my boy, who proudly takes the gift and presents it to me. In comes teacher.

“Oh, dear,” I splutter. “As you can see, I’m running a bit behind this morning.” (I may have actually said something more along the lines of, “I’m so mortified. I’m simply gross and as you can see from the half that I was unable to get to, my home is usually a disgusting pigsty,” but my state of extreme fluster wiped the conversation from my mind.)

Mrs. Teacher assures me that my home is lovely and commiserates with me that she, too, barely managed to get out of the house on time this morning (or EARLY you mean? -I probably thought uncharitably as I got a whiff of yesterday’s failed deodorant).

Once she’d gone (up the street to my son’s classmate Anna’s house, where I’m utterly certain the floors were spotless and the smell of pungent dog didn’t permeate the air), I could only shrug and smile that wry “Murphy’s Law” smile.

Fast-forward to the end of my day. I’ve just endured the following:

a.) Cold coffee from McDonalds. Clearly someone forgot to turn the burner on. This may not seem like a huge deal, but when you’re looking forward to a hot cuppa joe and you’ve driven too far to make another trip through the drive-through to complain, it sours you.

b.) Tire ordered by Toyota staff is not only the wrong tire, but I can’t even have both front tires replaced with stock on hand because the height of my tires isn’t “standard” and only a few tires exist in the whole world that can be used without disrupting the four-wheel drive, should I engage it. Plus, replacement of the malfunctioning heater motor is going to really cost us.

c.) The Geek Squad at BestBuy still hasn’t diagnosed my husband’s computer, even though they’ve had it for eight long days in which my hub has gone into severe video game withdrawal. I am not looking forward to telling him that he’s in for another few days at least of enforced “family time.”

d.) The clerk at Big Five can’t demonstrate the treadmill I’m thinking of buying for Christmas (for my hub to give me) because she can’t find the safety key. I assure her it isn’t her fault. Clearly my Karma is paying me back for some past indiscretion(s).

The good news is: we are all relatively healthy and reasonably happy. Christmas will come despite this one poopy day, and my son’s face as he tears into the gifts “Santa” brought him (we got one extra year of “you better watch out” out of him) will brighten the whole house.

Happy Holidays!

Why I’m Not Doing NaNoWriMo This Year

2009-11-07T21:23:00.000-08:00

According to www.nanowrimo.org, the first NaNoWriMo event took place in 1999 with 21 participants, a “literary marathon” that got bigger and bigger every year until it became the phenomenon it is today. For those non-writers among my three readers (hi, Mom!), NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. Beginning on November 1st and ending on the 30th, wannabe authors all over the world knuckle down and write, write, write, pounding out a minimum of 50,000 words in order to “win.” The prize, of course, being the rough draft of an actual book, something a lot of people dream about, but can’t always find the inner wherewithal to accomplish.

I’ve participated several times, but this year I chose to pass, watching wistfully from the sidelines as a good portion of my writer friends and online acquaintances entered the fray. I had a lot of reasons for forgoing the “fun,” not the least of which was the demanding task of setting up a writer’s alliance book review blog (www.booksquawk.blogspot.com) with several outstanding writers. Plus, my WIP (work in progress) is the second in a series—the first of which, The Gossamer Sphere, is with my agent right now, making the rounds of editors at honest-to-goodness publishing houses.

I started The Gossamer Sphere last year on November 1st.

On their website, the good folks at NaNoWriMo have this to say about what to expect:

“Valuing enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft, NaNoWriMo is a novel-writing program for everyone who has thought fleetingly about writing a novel but has been scared away by the time and effort involved.

“Because of the limited writing window, the ONLY thing that matters in NaNoWriMo is output. It's all about quantity, not quality. The kamikaze approach forces you to lower your expectations, take risks, and write on the fly.”

That’s why I didn’t win last year, and the final reason why I chose to set aside my writing shoes this year. I’m way too OCE (obsessive/compulsive editor) for the official doctrine of “write your brains out and ignore that your manuscript is likely chock full of glaring errors.” On November 30th last year, I had only written 10,000 words on The Gossamer Sphere, so unless you count the fact that I went on to finish it within six months, secured an awesome agent and it’s actually (actually!) being considered by the folks who can Make It Happen for me, then, no, I didn’t “win” NaNoWriMo.

But I miss the excitement, the feeling of satisfaction when I’d eked out 1000 or more words in a day. I miss the feeling of accomplishment, and the mounting belief that this time the words on my screen were something the powers-that-be just might lean forward in their ergonomic chairs to take note of. The Gossamer Sphere is a fantasy/sci-fi, so I often hit the old “research” roadblock, which, along with my OCE, really prevented me from whipping that particular horse across the NaNoWriMo finish line.

I’m not participating this year, but I’m so glad I did last year. I consider myself a NaNoWriMo success story.

If you’re in the thick of it this month, what are you doing here wasting your time reading my silly blog? Get back to your writing space! Make this your year.

I tweet, you tweet, we all tweet for..

2009-10-30T16:01:00.000-07:00

Conceit? Well, it rhymes anyway.

As fun as some of the social networking sites can be, I’m getting a little disillusioned with the whole process. I’m trying to get myself out there, to link up with other writers and professionals in the publishing industry. It’s just…how do I, with the limited time at my disposal, succeed at this networking game (stand out from the crowd), and how do I even measure my success?

I love that sites like Twitter exist, but I can’t keep up. I’m a parrot posing as a small brown bird—one among a flock of billions flying in perfect synchronization, turning on the wing this way and that—all chirping madly for attention. We mellow, brightly colored squawkers just can’t summon the same energy level as those hyper little brown birds who somehow come up with interesting things to tweet and re-tweet all day long. And how on earth do they keep up with what anyone else is saying? My follow flock is modest at less than 70, but even so, with everyone tweeting at once, the rare epiphany is often drowned out in the cacophony.

Those of us putting ourselves out there suffer from varying levels of narcissism, that’s just the way it is, but some (and yes, I realize I’m beating the bird analogy to a pulp with the following) fly where the air is a little too thin. I was under the impression that in order to be successful at self-promotion, a person needed to sort of *hide* the fact that self-promotion was their goal. So we tweet about this, that and the other thing, and toss in a few “hey, come read my blog’s” now and then, hoping someone will accidently click on the link we provide and maybe even read a sentence or two. An actual comment on my blog has been known to put me in a good mood for several warm, fuzzy minutes and a re-tweet puts me over the moon.

So anyway, I’ve noted several social networking personalities. There’s the Blatant Bird, who posts the same series of tweets over and over again as if the pressure of coming up with those interesting comments made him/her snap and go over to the Spam Side. There’s the Re-tweet-a-holic, who can’t seem to come up with his/her own amusing musing, so they forward the best of the best and take credit for it. There’s the Daily Doings folks, who let you know every time they have a satisfying cuppa joe or someone ticked them off at the supermarket. There’s the Social Networking is my Life group—these folks seriously must spend the majority of their days online, dedicated to being in their followers’ faces. There’s the Official Spammers, who don’t even try to hide that’s what they’re all about.

And there’s people like me, I guess I’d call myself a Professional Novice who freezes up half the time, deciding that no tweet is better than a lame-o tweet, so I only buckle under and update every three days or so. But I’m out there, in the thick of it, flapping my wings, leaving a trail of stressed-out feathers wherever I go. ;op

Chicken Bean Artichoke Stew

2009-10-07T16:37:00.000-07:00

The first version of this recipe was an experiment that turned out surprisingly well (unlike the greenbean cornbread that my family and friends won’t let me forget!) Even my husband liked it, and he’s hard to please with anything even vaguely healthy. After several more tweaks, the below version stood out above the rest. The processed marinated artichoke hearts are essential, since they add a characteristic flavor that might surprise you. The beans and lentils are mix and match, use whatever kind you like. The artichoke bottoms aren’t necessary, but I like putting them in for an added vegetable – diced and cooked soft, my six-year-old son can’t tell they’re in there. The best tool to use for dicing them is the Chop Wizard, one of the few gizmos I’ve tried and found to be indispensable in my kitchen. My son, who normally refuses to eat vegetables, WILL eat this stew and ask for more, and even leftovers get eaten.

Toss the following into your crock pot (or in a pot on the stove if you’re in a hurry) and enjoy a tangy, hearty and healthy meal:

1 store-bought rotisserie chicken, pull all meat off and cut into bite-sized chunks directly into the pot (add some skin, too, for flavor)

1 can artichoke bottoms, drained and diced

1 small jar marinated artichoke hearts, pour entire contents into food processor or blender and process until smooth

3-4 cans of any kind of bean (lentil, red, black, pinto) mix and match, drained and rinsed

1 32 oz. container chicken broth

This is my signature dish, the one I’m asked to bring to every potluck, picnic and family dinner. I hope you like it!

Products I've Loved and Mourned

2009-09-26T10:07:00.000-07:00

Just like television shows that eventually have to be taken off the air, companies sometimes stop making our favorite products. Below is a list of the ones I still miss:

Chicken and Cheddar Nuggets, I think Banquet brand—I was addicted to these in college. I would literally walk to the store to buy a box with all the change I could scrounge and that was all I’d eat that day, then the next day I’d do it all over again. I still dream of the crunchy-on-the-outside, moist and cheesy-on-the-inside goodness. Sure, I was probably malnourished, but those nuggets had me under some kind of spell. Maybe they took it off the market because one of the ingredients was highly addicting, like Chicken and Crack Nuggets. I’ll never know, but I’m still Jonesing for them.

Flex Shampoo—update! I found some in my local Fred Meyer! Same old bottle, same familiar fragrance! I remember the first time I smelled it. In elementary school, I think the fifth grade, my friend Greer (yes, that was her first name) had the thickest, most enviable hair, and to top it off, it smelled great. I asked her what brand shampoo she used and begged my mom to buy it. It didn’t change the texture of my wispy flaxen locks, but I left a trail of musky scent behind me wherever I went.

Screaming Yellow Zonkers – according to Wikipedia, ConAgra bought out the company that made Zonkers and then discontinued the product in 2007. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? Not everyone likes peanuts in their sweetened popcorn, ya know!

Lysol Direct—I liked this household cleaner because of the scent, but they discontinued it soon after introducing it. Makes me wonder why. I tried Googling it to make sure my favorite cleaning product wasn’t coating my lungs with some deadly chemical each time I inhaled the clean, musky scent (hm, kinda smelled like Flex, come to think of it), but I didn’t find out why it suddenly disappeared off the shelves. Let’s hope “Lysol Direct Disease” doesn’t start appearing in lungs everywhere!

Mounds—they still make the sweet, dark chocolate, coconutty goodness of a Mounds bar, but the darned thing is hard to find! Sometimes even in the drug store, when facing a wall of candy choices, the Mounds, which was introduced in 1920, is nowhere to be seen. “Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you don’t!” Well, I NEVER feel like a nut in my choice of candy bar. I’ve even been known to pick most of the nuts out of a Snickers bar before eating it, yes, indeedy.

Jimmy Dean frozen omelets—another product that still exists, but is hard to find. I buy these for the picky, picky little eater in the house: my six-year-old son. He’s like me, not a big breakfast eater, but there’s no way he can skip eating before going off to school, so I tempt him with the ham-and-cheesy goodness of these two-minutes-in-the-microwave meals. When I started seeing them with red clearance labels at the local Target, one of the few places I could even find them, I panicked. No way did I want, nor would I be capable of, playing chef that early in the morning, every morning, whipping up omelets for a boy who won’t eat a bowl of cardboard and sugar like every other kid on the block! Luckily, they still have them at Fred Meyer, so I stock up whenever I’m shopping in that neck of the woods.

Sunbelt Chewy Granola Bars, Fudge-dipped Coconut—okay, here’s a slightly healthier version of the Mounds bar that I found recently, just long enough to get addicted and then Bam! Can’t find them anywhere anymore! So, nobody but me loves coconut and everybody but me must have nuts in their candy? Not fair.

What products did you love and then mourn?

Gifted or ADHD? The Surprising Truth

2009-09-15T17:59:00.000-07:00

If you think back over your childhood, your adolescence, your school years and the transition to adult-hood with fond memories, then this blog post is probably not for you. If you consider your personality to be mainstream; if you were woven seamlessly into the acceptable fabrics of society—the cottons, the denims, the silks, the cashmeres—then this blog post will only give you a little insight, a glimpse perhaps, into the inner weavings of the duck-cloths, the meshes, the lamés and the spandexes of the world.

I was one such misfit. I was smart, a borderline genius (which is not to brag, I would have preferred street smarts to book any day had I only known), but school bored me. I guess I was an atypical nerd, if such a thing is possible. I acknowledge I had an advantage in that I wasn’t exactly ugly and I was pretty athletic, but those pluses were mostly zeroed out by my underdeveloped social skills and overdeveloped intellect. Who wanted to hang out with the weird skinny blonde kid in hand-me-down clothes who always had her nose buried in a book or who hung out in the art room at lunch? Not very many of my peers, I can tell you that. Add to that a deep-seated naiveté that lingered into my late twenties, and you’ve got my particular brand of misfit.

So when I had kids of my own and started seeing reflections of my own miserable childhood, I did my best to help. My daughter grew up brilliant and beautiful, but just as much a social pariah as me. Did I fail? I wondered. What could I have done to prevent her pain? And wouldn’t that just make her a different person than she is now—didn’t she grow into one tough cookie who makes me proud? So what if she wasn’t a cheerleader? She was self-assured enough not to WANT to be one, unlike me. She grew up just fine, thank you very much. Her intolerant peers, the aggressive gangs of girls and boys that ran unchecked through her school and made her academic career a living hell, also made her strong.

Now my son, fifteen years younger than his sister, has burst onto the school scene with a whole different dynamic. Since preschool I’ve been scrambling to avoid the ADHD label. He’s a bizzy, bizzy boy and some days I despair of him, just, getting it. In preschool: No, my dear son, it is not acceptable for you to throw your shoes over the fence so you can watch the teacher fetch them for you, nor is peeing in the drain in the bathroom floor instead of the toilet amusing to anyone but you (well, okay, I confess that one still makes me chuckle in private). In kindergarten: Yes, my dear boy, t-ball can be a boring sport, but while you wait for the ball to come, would it kill you to just stand there instead of spinning around until you fall, pulling out tufts of grass, wearing your mitt on your head or kicking up dust clouds in the dirt?

Now he’s in the first grade. Two weeks in and we’ve already met with the principal, who didn’t come right out and SAY he thought my son had ADHD, but who gave a rather pointed example of his OWN struggle with it as a child. However, after what I went through and what I went through for my daughter, I was more prepared to be an advocate for my son. I had graphs, I had charts and I had excerpts from books written by experts. In fact, after the meeting, the principal sent me an email reiterating what he’d already told me: he’d never had a parent arrive at a meeting more prepared than I.

The reason I showed up armed to the teeth with information isn’t complicated. I won’t allow the establishment—the school system or the medical community—to label my son. Stamp four humiliating letters on his forehead, shove stimulants down his throat, and shunt him to the classes reserved for those who refuse, because they can’t help it, to cooperate. The disrupters, the clowns, the bizzy, bizzy bees.

I wasn’t just going into that meeting bristling with denial. No sir, I had a different theory, a theory both more palatable and more logical. My six-year-old reads at a third-grade level, or higher. When he was two, he could put a 100-piece puzzle together, no problem. If you can look past the fact that he never stops talking, to himself mostly, his vocabulary is astonishing. So aren’t ADHD kids kind of, I don’t know, dumb? I thought. What if you’ve got a combination smartie-pants-ants-in-your-pants? A bright kid who just can’t hold still, can’t seem to rein in his enthusiasm, be it for bugs or books or barreling around all over the place?

Enter my indomitable research capabilities. I’m a writer; I do this for a living (albeit a pre-successful living). Poor my memory may be, but I still have a fount of information to draw upon; information about this, that and the other thing obtained via books and the Internet for the sole purpose of giving my writing authenticity. Could there be another reason why I and my children (and various other members of my immediate family) are so darn smart and yet so exasperatingly…different?

It didn’t take me long to find the answer: an unqualified YES.

Kasimierz Dabrowski, a Polish psychiatrist from the early nineteenth-century glory days of psychiatry, developed a concept after years of observation, research and study, that gifted children experience a phenomenon that he termed, “Overexcitabilities.” Gifted children, according to Dabrowski, aren’t just smart, they FEEL more than other kids. They are more sensitive, they respond more to stimuli, they are intensely passionate in ways that normal folks can’t always understand. He broke these overexcitabilities into five categories: Intellectual, where a child might be driven to solve problems, Imaginational, where the world is a child’s stage, Emotional, where the child carries the world’s problems on his/her shoulders, Sensual, where sight, sound, smell, taste and tactile sensations are overpowering to the child, and Psychomotor, where the child has so much energy, such a need to wiggle, jump, run, spin, do, do, do, that they are often misdiagnosed (yes, I said it, and I truly believe it) as ADHD.

A gifted child may experience one or all of the overexcitabilities. Not a disease or disorder that needs to be medicated into oblivion, but a sensory enhancement that causes a child to experience the world differently, sometimes radically so, from his/her peers.

(My personal tongue-in-cheek theory is that in order for the brains of intelligent people to get smart in the first place, something happens in the womb, maybe the developing frontal and parietal lobes needed more oomph, so they steal some essential neurons that would otherwise be used to foster communication between the areas of the brain that enable social interaction…but I digress, as I often do.)

Clues to my son’s particular overexcitabilities were not hard to find. As a baby, he gasped for breath if you blew into his face; as an infant, he refused to put his feet on the grass; bright sunlight makes him sneeze; and I had to cut all the tags out of every shirt he owns—Sensual. My boy is impulsive, he’ll take action so quickly he doesn’t leave himself time to filter the potential consequences through his brain; he is incapable of preventing his body from showing his emotions—he jumps up and down, hands flapping uncontrollably when he’s excited; he absolutely loves to laugh, but once he gets started, it’s hard for him to stop—psychomotor. I hear some kids outgrow the constant questions, but my son’s motto is like a drumbeat in the background of our lives, “Who-what-where-when-why-how?”—Intellectual. And the drama! Sheesh, the kid won’t quit with the stories and the wild scenarios and the intentional fibs to see what will happen—Imaginational.

Yep, I reckon he’s got four of the five, but I’m just grateful to have avoided the Emotional category. I got more than enough of THAT from my daughter!

So.

If any of this resonated with you, I recommend you read “A Parent’s Guide to Gifted Children,” which was a real eye-opener for me. This is a book written by today’s professionals, not the same folks who learned in medical school back in the 80’s and 90’s to prescribe mind-numbing medication, but the cutting-edge researchers who tend to shun Big Pharma’s answer to the ADHD crisis. One-pill-fits-all is not a given if you have a bizzy bizzy child of your own, especially if your kid is smarter than your average bear.

Yes, even today’s experts admit it’s possible, though significantly less likely, for a child to be both gifted AND to have ADHD or some other learning disorder, and sometimes the disorder can even mask the giftedness, like dyslexia. No matter what combination of wonderful your child is, be the best advocate for him/her that you can by educating yourself. Don’t let anyone label your child without a thorough evaluation—and you should learn what that entails, too!

I now think of myself and my children not as patched together from misfit fabrics like some quirky quilt, but cut from the colorful and complicated brocades, damasks and tapestries that make life such a diverse experience. I found the tools to aid my son as he works at developing the necessary skills to blend into his school environment: patience, persistence, understanding and most of all, knowledge.

Pacific Northwest Writers Association Conference

2009-08-03T21:41:00.000-07:00

One attendee’s perspective.

This was my second writer’s conference. I wasn’t able to attend as many sessions as I wanted because my family tagged along on the trip to Seattle, but those sessions I did attend were enjoyable and informative. We didn’t stay at the Hilton, but the conference center was nice. My only complaints, and they’re mild, were the butt-numbingly average chairs—nothing ergonomic there—and the conference rooms air conditioned to within an inch of freezing (however, I’m sure the men in attendance found the temperature perfectly comfortable). Oh, and some of the rooms were too small for the crowd. The chairs were set so close together, I spent one session squished at an angle up against the wall while the man next to me enjoyed the space I created for him. After that, I got to the sessions early to get an aisle seat.

In between sessions, I usually hung out in the large, windowed room beyond a prominently placed sign with the words, “The Writer’s Café,” where they’d set up tables by genre for the attendees to drink the provided coffee, nosh on the good eats and chat up the competition. There, I met a wide range of writers: retired folks with stories to tell now they no longer had a day job; newbies young and old with no idea what they were doing; aggressive, business card-carrying scribes hungry for that first sale. I didn’t see any editors or agents mingling at the Writer’s Café (which is not to say none of them ever ventured bravely inside), and when I happened to run into someone in the ladies room or in the hall whose face looked familiar (because I’d heard them speak or saw their photo in the brochure), they invariably refused eye contact. I didn’t mistake this for unfriendliness. The prevailing undercurrent at a writer’s conference is desperation. Just because I wouldn’t stoop to waylaying conference royalty in the bathroom, doesn’t mean it never happens.

The attendees who had appointment interviews with agents or editors received a numbered instruction sheet (rules) in the mail before the conference. In it, we were given advice such as, “Speak clearly, pleasantly and loud enough to be heard, but not so loud as to disturb other interviews,” “Listen to what the agent, editor or book doctor says and answer concisely,” and “It is perfectly permissible to take two pages of your finest writing with you to the interview. Hand it over ONLY when asked to, not on your own initiative.” This guidance might seem so obvious as to be insulting (who doesn’t need to be reminded not to mumble in a surly whisper?), but it isn’t. I wish I’d gotten such an instruction sheet prior to attending my first conference (in San Diego) with one of my early manuscripts. I was such a newb I broke rule number eight, “DO NOT thrust a sample of your work at the agent/editor.” At that conference, I handed an agent my entire manuscript the instant she expressed interest. It would have been great if she’d have smiled kindly, handed it back and asked me to email her preferred sample length. Instead, I never heard from her again. It simply didn’t occur to me that she might not want to haul reams of paper on the airplane back to New York.

Since I’m newly agented, I canceled the appointment interview with the agent, but I did attend a group meeting with St. Martin’s Press editor Rose Hilliard. Even though one of my fellow attendees tromped all over rule number five, “Be considerate of others. Don’t take over the conversation,” Rose was gracious and charming.

The following are a few of the tidbits I jotted down, bits of advice from the pros, in no particular order:

Know your fan base.

Read your competition. Know who they are and what they’re doing.

If you make a book trailer, make it something someone would want to watch outside of your
book. The goal is to go viral.

They work hard for you, so don’t forget to send your agent a Christmas present.

Contact blogs and websites in your genre and ask them to review your book.

Lawyers charge by the hour to review your contract. If it takes your lawyer more than two hours to do so, find another lawyer.

75% of all books are sold in Nov-Dec, so go for a fall release.

Get a hardcover deal, since libraries mostly buy hardcover.

If you’ve written a non-fiction book and speak about the topic regularly, self-publishing may benefit you.

A book event is theater. Learn how to make it an interesting experience for your audience.

Put free content on your website.

Don’t tweet unless you say something that matters.

People smell BS a mile away. Shameless self-promotion is bad.

Agent Verna Dreisbach got a hearty laugh from the audience with, “Friends don’t let friends read first drafts.”

Agent Michelle Brower is BIG on zombies right now.

Editor Celia Johnson loves anything with a bit of science in it (science-based fiction).

I mostly attended sessions on author/book promotion, and came away with some solid ideas on how to find and retain a readership once I’m published. The dessert reception with Terry Brooks as keynote speaker was delicious and Terry was amusing and inspirational. All the speakers were well-versed in their craft and willing to answer even the most perplexing questions from the audience with frank honesty and humor.

Verdict: the PNWA conference is a class act.

Moving Day! New Blog Site.

2009-07-26T20:51:00.000-07:00

I’d like to formally welcome myself to Google Blogger/Blogspot. I chose this forum to replace my old blog location on the advice of my daughter, who, by virtue of being younger than me, is far cooler, and more knowledgeable of all things Internet. My old blog was buried under ads so thick it was hard to find the actual posts on the page. I copied The Best Of and posted them here under the archives, noticing as I did so that the majority of my faves are about my son, the dog,
and the cat, in that order.

Hm. Doesn’t quite reflect the hip, happenin’ attitude I’m going for, but hey. Who doesn’t have kids and pets—or want them? They really are an endless source of amusement. And husbands. Husbands are fuh-uhn-ny. I’ve never written a blog about mine, not yet. He’s such a sitting duck, it’s almost a crime to poke fun at him. I had a vague idea in the grocery store today that I’d start one by commenting on his habit of periodically growing tired of the same old lunches I pack for him. Even though he always tells me afterward that he didn’t like whatever new and exciting thing I made, he’ll ask me to shake it up once in awhile and surprise him with something other than his usual turkey and provolone sandwich with the tomatoes on the side so they don’t make the bread soggy. So today I went to the deli and read the ingredients on a package of Bavarian head cheese. On the front, in prominent lettering, it says “Chopped onions, select herbs, and imported spices.” Hum, yeah, but in the tiny lettering under ingredients, it says “Pork snout and pork tongue.” Pork snout? Like…nostrils? I started laughing like a loon right there in the aisle, picturing his face after the first bite. He’d peel back the bread and examine the strange composite of mystery meat chunks held together with something resembling that meat jelly you get on cold, leftover roast beef. Yeah, the same ol’ turkey sammie sounds pretty good about now, doesn’t it, honey?

But I digress most heinously.

As a writer of young adult urban fantasy (my agent, Marlene Stringer, is guiding me through revisions for my latest manuscript, The Gossamer Sphere), and humorous contemporary women’s fiction (formerly known as Chick Lit), I should probably bestir myself to blog about subjects more fascinating than those I encounter daily in my current domestic situation. I’m a stay-at-home writer now—after we moved from the fast tempo of a large metropolitan city (San Diego) to a smallish town in southeastern Washington state, so the level of excitement has been dialed waaaay down. A particularly hairy spider or a sprinkler that gets stuck watering the same spot on the lawn can cause my blood pressure to sky-rocket nowadays.

So, I’m glad to be here. Next post will be on the Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference next week. Now, that’ll be exciting.

Wash Your Mouth Out

2009-07-25T13:20:00.000-07:00

July 2008

This morning my husband had to go to work earlier than usual, so my five-year-old son woke up early, too. I was too groggy to get up and start my day, so I informed the boy that he needed to stay in bed.

After a few minutes, he shouted that he had to go to the bathroom. From my nice warm covers, I yelled back permission. Mind you, he knows the rules: get up, do your business, get back in bed.

Of course, he rarely follows the rules and I know it, but I was too exhausted to care. Unfortunately, I was only to get a few more precious minutes of "sleep."

It was just after 6 a.m. when I got out of bed. My son was sitting on his bed, back against the wall, holding his "cloth" up to his face (really a cloth diaper that he uses as a handkerchief every night after I put him to bed - hey, it's better than putting his boogers on the bed sheet, 'cause you know he's going to go digging in the dark). He was whimpering in a forced kind of way, like he knew he was in trouble and was trying to drum up some pre-punishment sympathy.

I asked him what he'd done. No answer, just an increase in the fake crying.

Did he hurt the kitty? No answer, but the crying was turning real.

Without patience, I shrugged and left him to it. Downstairs, with my coffee brewing, the crying increased and got louder. I ignored him, figuring I'd get the answer eventually.

I could hear it when he stood at the top of the stairs crying, and as he slowly descended. Finally, when my son had worked himself up to sobbing, I informed him that he had to the count of three to tell me what the problem was, or he was going to suffer a time out.

He came downstairs and stood miserably before me. I pulled him into my lap and comforted him, thinking, shoot, he must have done something pretty bad to put on such a show. I entreated and cajoled, but now he couldn't tell me what he'd done because he was crying so hard.

I was certainly getting worried at this point. Much as I wanted to know how much damage-control was needed, I hesitated promising him he wouldn't get into trouble if he would just tell me what he'd done. Maybe some other kid might be okay with it, but I know my son, and it would be a huge mistake to give him immunity like that. He'd for sure remember it the next time.

So I patted and rubbed his back as my neck got soaked with tears. Finally, finally, he calmed down enough to tell me, but the words were garbled.

He repeated himself three times until I made out the confession, "I ate some soap."

I was glad his face was pressed against my shoulder so he couldn't see my wide grin. "You ate some soap? How much soap?"

He sat back and pinched his front teeth between his finger and thumb. "It got stuck on my teeth."

I knew immediately he was referring to the peach-colored bar of Dial sitting in the soap tray in his bathroom. We mostly use liquid soap for hand-washing, but that bar has been around for ages.

After he calmed down enough, I gave him a glass of rice milk to take the bad taste away and snuck upstairs to examine the soap. The bar was fully intact, no big chunks missing, just two tiny parallel marks, like a snake bite, gouged out of one end.

Once I stopped laughing, I went down and gave my boy a refresher lecture on poisonous things in the house. He didn't get a "lick" of punishment - I figure after all that fuss, the residual taste in his mouth was punishment enough!

At the Top of my Lungs

2009-07-25T13:03:00.000-07:00

June 2008

It's a good thing I have never been able to sleep in late. Even under optimal circumstances I wake up around 6:30am every day. Which isn't to say I don't enjoy trying to sleep in; an option that's been taken off the agenda since our pets joined the family. Assuming I can sleep through my husband's pre-sunrise routine (only possible when he's feeling magnanimous enough to shower and dress quietly), the kitten begins tearing around the house, which wakes up the puppy in his crate. The combination of not-to-be-ignored whining and the thumpety up-the-stairs and thumpety down-the-stairs wakes my five-year-old son, who always starts my day by belting out, "Mommy! Is it time to get up now?"

It's prophetic that my day begins with so much noise, because if I were to sum up my current existence with one word, it'd be LOUD.

I don't like loud. I didn't expect my life to be loud. In opposition to the mortifying example of my histrionic family, I consciously chose to tone down my loudness gene. I taught myself to think before I spoke, aspiring to a zen-like household, where peaceful silence would produce creative inspiration.

HA!

The disappointing truth is: I yell all the time. I holler, I bellow and let loose with staccato bursts of vitriol at the top of my lungs. My husband, the "quiet" one (unless he's getting ready in the morning), often comes in from the outdoors to inform me he heard me halfway down the block.

With such a fond desire for peace and silence, the question is raised: who am I yelling at?

Let's look at a snapshot of my day, say, the hour that has passed while I sat on the couch typing this essay on my laptop, shall we? First of all, be clear that I cannot sit in one place for an uninterrupted hour. The first disruption comes soon after I choose a title for the piece - in the form of a pleading doggy face placed on my knee. It may have started out as a silent request to go potty, but the simple act of taking the puppy across the street to the little park rarely goes smoothly.

First, my son has to find his socks and shoes, because God forbid I should attempt to leave without him, even though the entire trip *should* last only minutes. I haven't yelled yet - but I'm irritated as I wait for him to go upstairs to get a new pair of socks because he left the pair he'd worn earlier where the dog could get them and they are now unrecognizable lumps of drool-drenched cotton - and the tension builds.

He comes down wearing the oversized rubber swim shoes that he loves because they slip right on. Two seconds out the door my son trips over the shoes and does a face-plant on the front lawn. The puppy dislocates my arm to get to the downed boy before he can right himself. Much licking and biting and tangling of leash ensue. Oh, and the screaming. Don't forget the shrill sounds bleating out of my unhappy son.

Then comes my first verbal contribution, beginning with a word that you will soon become entirely familiar with. I shout, "VIPPER! OFF!"

Once the expedition has proceeded an additional hard-won ten yards to the curb, where I've trained my pooch to stop and sit for his own safety, I notice that the neighbor lady is walking her Shi-tzu. The very moment my dog catches sight of that yappy mop of a canine, he transforms into a lunging, barking, snarling, deaf-to-correction terror.

The Shi-tzu yaps viciously back as her owner silently pulls her to the far side of the park. I yell, not silently, "VIPPER! HUSH!" and place my hand firmly over his muzzle.

When the coast is clear, we look both ways and cross the street. My son bolts ahead down into a grassy depression where he skirts a muddy drainage ditch, looking over his shoulder to see if I am watching him. Before Vipper does his thing, he's distracted by, in order, a golf cart driving on the street with two dogs in back, a patch of dandelions, a bird, an elderly couple who call out that I have the best-looking dog in the neighborhood, and a school bus dropping off children.

As soon as he's done his dooky-walk, the stiff-legged step-and-poop, step-and-poop that leaves a long trail of turds for me to search for like rotten Easter eggs in the grass, I glance over at my son. Who is ankle deep in the disgusting ditch-water.

"AAAHHHH!" I burst out, a border-line scream. His head whips around and he lifts one sodden foot to make a quick exit from the scum. Trapped in slow motion horror, I see him trip over those blasted shoes and start to go down. By some miracle, he catches himself and splooshes to safety.

As my boy runs up the slope, flashing his trademark open-mouthed grin, I launch into a strident lecture that echoes through the neighborhood. I hear myself loudly question the thought process that made him decide he could get away with what he'd just done. He stops a few steps away and gleefully examines his slimy legs and feet.

When he looks up with that unabashed grin, I have to turn away to hide my instinctive smile. Only to see that my puppy is pawing playfully at the full dooky bag I'd dropped at the sight of my child wading in filth.

"VIPPER!" I yell, yanking on his leash. The bag is thankfully intact and we manage to make it back home without further ado. Until we enter the serene environment of my lovely home and I unfasten the leash. As I order my son to remove his shoes and wait for me on the porch so I can get the garden hose, the puppy has spotted the kitten, sitting temptingly on a kitchen chair.

One of my least favorite noises is the sound of Vipper's claws scrabbling across my wood floor, and he treats me to a particularly grating version of it as he shoots for the cat like a homing missile.

It's taken me weeks to get used to the idea that my tiny kitten can handle himself in a fight with the enormous puppy. In fact, the casual observer might recognize that the cat instigates the fighting a good portion of the time. Vipper fights with zeal, but is usually gentle, despite the fact that he can and does put the cat's whole head into his mouth. I'm standing on the threshold, torn between my sure-to-get-into-trouble-again-if-I-look-away son and the puppy, who has already covered the cat's entire upper body with a layer of slobber. I choose the boy and rush to hose down his legs and feet. Upon re-entering, I hear another of my *favorite* sounds: an unmistakable meow of pain.

"VIPPER!" I shout from the doorway, even though I can't see what he's doing. "Leave it!" I practically hear my voice reverberate against my neighbors' double-paned, insulated windows.

I will give it to the puppy, though. He doesn't mean to hurt the kitten. In fact, he adores that cat, and my chastisement is usually unnecessary. He appears from around the corner, head hanging sorrowfully. I enter and see the cat lounging on the table. His fur is spit-moussed up into points all over his head and his tail is twitching invitingly.

I sit for a few minutes with my laptop, but upon noticing the time, get back up to start dinner.

Soon the fish is on the counter in an aluminum foil-covered pan while the oven is pre-heating, the dog has been fed, and my son is watching an old Garfield DVD. I'm distracted by the rude, obnoxious things Garfield is saying to Jon. I study my son's profile and debate whether it will be worth it to summarily end the show just to avoid his sponge of a brain soaking up any more sass that he can use on me at a later date.

I may hate noise, but my ears are acutely attuned to it. The slightest squeak out of place and I'm actively listening. The sound I hear now is the subtle crinkle of aluminum foil. My laptop is safely set aside and I'm halfway out of my seat before the bellow of rage escapes me: "VIPPERRRRRR!"

If his stomach wasn't already bulging from his recent meal of dog food, I'm sure he would have hesitated long enough to take another quick lick of the fish I'd laid out, garnished and glazed, within easy reach of his tongue.

Instead, he tucks his stubby tail and runs full-bore for the opposite side of the kitchen island. From there he increases his short lead with a fast trot around the kitchen table and a squeeze through the space between the couch and the wall. My shouts of, "Come here!" bounce off his flapping-in-the-wind-of-his-escape ears. He's in the living room leading me around the coffee table (not for the first time, I curse the many obstacles in our home that allow him to elude me with ease), when he decides he'd better take his lumps.

I'm sure by now my brilliant dog has figured out that the longer the chase, the angrier the mommy. He stops and waits for me to grab him by the collar. I haul him to his crate and tell him to get in, which he gratefully does.

I'm still simmering, angry not at the poor puppy, but at myself for leaving food where he could get it (truth be told, I'm surprised the cat didn't beat him to it), when I hear the sound of the garage door opening.

Vipper begins to whine in anticipation of Daddy the Pushover's appearance. It's always a good idea to take the puppy out for a pre-Daddy pee and to stash him in the crate before Daddy comes home. We've almost got the potty issues under control, but the excitement of seeing Daddy triggers the sprinkler every time.

My husband comes in and gives me an annoyed look.

"What?" I ask, bursting with the need to tell him all that I've endured today.

"I had the window of the truck down, and heard you yelling at Vipper from halfway down the street," he says.

He lets the dog out of the crate and suffers through the usual spastic greeting, which gets more and more frenetic as my husband gently entreats the dog to stop. Vipper is standing on his back legs, clawing at my husband's thighs and nipping at his hands when I can't take it anymore.

"VIPPER! OFF!" I say loudly. The dog places all four paws on the floor and looks up at my husband adoringly. The lesson is lost on my better half, who gives me another disgusted look and asks, "What's for dinner?"

"Ask him," I say, gesturing to the dog.

My Puppy, My Kitten, My Sanity

2009-07-25T12:43:00.000-07:00

April 2008

We have two new members of the household. Vipper, our Engish Springer Spaniel puppy, has been with us for six weeks now, and last night little bitty kitty Palooka joined the family. In preparation for Palooka's arrival, I read up on how to introduce them, and found that the expert consensus was to confine the newcomer to a room of his own and let them smell each other under the door, then slowly increase contact time, keeping a close eye on how they react. As soon as I saw (and fell in love with) Palooka, I knew the meeting between puppy and kitty would happen later rather than sooner. Palooka is so tiny I can cradle him in my hands. Vipper, in comparison, is huge. King Kong vs. Shrimpzilla. Vipp will be a fifty-pound dog one day. Only last week, at four months old, the vet weighed him at a (spastic, willful) seventeen pounds.

Vipper's breed is very social, so one day I expect him and Palooka to be the best of chums. Right now, however, Vipper's social tendencies are a major hindrance. He absolutely hates to be alone. He loves his crate, as long as the only time we put him in it is at bedtime when he can sleep in the knowledge that I'm within arms-reach. Every other attempt to crate him for even a few measly minutes results in an anxiety-induced mess, to be euphemistic. This has created undue tension between him and me. I'm the alpha dog, but in this he has the upper hand - I either take him with me wherever I go, or I get an unpleasant surprise when I return. My solution was to get him potty-trained lightning fast. He's much happier alone if he is unconfined, with free access to sneak onto the Forbidden Sofa or chew up Daddy's flip-flops.

I know this because a few days ago I aimed the video camera at his kitchen enclosure and told him pointedly, "Be right back," which I'm trying to teach him is code for "I will return, I promise. Please don't make me regret returning."

I left, and upon arriving home, I was greeted by a happy wiggle puppy with Daddy's flip-flop in his mouth. I reviewed the video to see how he'd escaped. Although he chose a path of egress outside the camera's view, the moment the door shut behind me, I could hear the whining. It increased in intensity for two minutes as sounds of a violent struggle ensued, then all noise ceased. The video continued to tape an empty enclosure, but the physical evidence was clear: he'd climbed on top of his crate and skittered onto the kitchen island, knocking over a vase and apparently attempting to open a package of Pupperoni treats while he was up there (I guess the zip-lock technology was too much for him).

So yesterday, after two weeks of only having accidents involving his piddling in excitement or submission, I arbitrarily decided he was ready to graduate out of the kitchen. I say arbitrarily because I think I did it less because he was actually ready and more because I was projecting onto him my desperate need for him to be ready. So I took down the blockade to his section of the kitchen (the sides to my son's old crib) and gave him free access to the downstairs. Less than 24 hours later, he lost the privilege.

You see, Vipper's second endearing quirk is that he's a big chicken. Other than the embarrassment of a big dog who will run from a Chihuahua, this is not a problem in and of itself. The problem involves the necessity for him to "hold it" longer than his little puppy innards can manage. The last several potty runs of the evening are usually a waste of time. It's dark out there, and the sounds of the neighborhood (dogs barking, grass bending in the breeze) scare him silly. He doesn't heed my endless stream of entreaties (why do you eat the head off every dandelion you see?, must you stop and bury your nose in every patch of smut?, are you hiding a rock in your mouth again?) to "make potty!" Instead, he spends an inordinate amount of time suspended at the end of a taught leash with front paws scrabbling off the ground, body determinedly pointed at the beacon of light shining from the back door. Last night he refused to go, which meant that by this morning he'd stocked up on his most effective weapon - poop. His poop is like Kryptonite to me. I can be in a perfectly good mood until I see a steaming pile of insult, and then I get weak with fury.

Most experts will tell you that even if you catch your dog in the act, it won't help to yell and force him to smell his mess. I think that's a bunch of...eh-hem. How's he supposed to know if you don't tell him? When Vipper makes potty outside he gets enthusiastic kudos, and he was quick to pick up on cause and effect (sit, treat, sit, treat). So when he trotted around the corner into the front entranceway and dropped a triple on my shiny wood floor, I pointed out his mistake so he would have no doubt. Then I reconstructed the kitchen barrier lickety-split.

Even the barrier is no guarantee, though. The experts say that a dog doesn't like to potty in his enclosed area, thus the effectiveness of the crate (exception: Vipper). Our problem is that Vipper whines when he needs to potty. He also whines when he wants to get out of the kitchen and socialize, which is whenever he isn't unconscious. I wish I could distinguish between the two whines, but to be honest, he knows more English than I do Dog. So I take him out...a LOT. Because you never know if he's a loaded cannon or he just wants to chew on Daddy's flip-flop.

Which brings me to Palooka, our Ragdoll kitten. I so wanted to make his first day with us a wonderful one. Instead, he spent a good portion of it alone in the laundry room because Vipper used the Kryptonite on me and was particularly alert all day. Usually we can count on some relief in the form of puppy naps. My son and I took him for a long walk to tire him out (using the Halti, an invention of pure genius that stops Vipp's third endearing quirk, pulling on the leash). Once he was snoring in the kitchen, we locked ourselves in my bedroom with (hands down) the cutest, fuzziest, bounciest, purringest kitten in the history of kittens. Now, for those who've read my other blogs and gotten to know my son, you are aware that while his energy is unflagging, his interest can be hard to keep. Palooka had that boy following him around the room with a wad of feathers on a stick for hours. The giggling was non-stop, unlike the giggles Vipper gets whenever he knocks my son to the ground - those giggles quickly change to cries.

I comfort myself with the knowledge that a year from now I'll have a well-mannered dog whose best friend is a floppy cat. Getting there will be an adventure. (Be right back.)

A Homebody Takes Flight, or Hate and Discontent in the "Friendly" Skies

2009-07-25T12:10:00.000-07:00

March 2008

I have a friend who's stayed in cheap hostels all over the world. Here's a woman who can tell at least a dozen fascinating stories about exotic locales and people. I'm not going to do that, chiefly because I only travel when I must. What I am going to do here is describe my recent experience travelling domestically.

First of all, I hate to fly. Some people equate air travel turbulence with the thrilling sensation of a roller coaster ride. I'd rather keep my hands and feet inside the car at all times than contemplate having to use my seat for a flotation device any day. For me, each time the bottom drops out of the plane, I get a glimpse into what it will feel like to know I'm going to die.

It took five airplanes to get me to and from my destination. I flew out very early on a Friday morning and got home late on Saturday, the next day. This tight schedule was intended to spare my husband from having to care for our son and new puppy any longer than was absolutely necessary.

On the first plane I sat next to a man who fell asleep soon after take-off. He was not a large man, but he made up for his size by sitting with his legs wide open and hogging the armrest. I got a crick in my neck leaning away from him. On the second airplane, I chatted with my seat neighbor. We exchanged abbreviated professional information. He seemed really nice, but upon getting home, I looked up his website and found that it did not belong to the man I met, unless he really was a mustachioed weatherman from Milwaukee...a creepy discovery, to say the least!

Once I reached the San Francisco airport, the fun began. The boarding pass I printed at my home airport for the third plane instructed me to go to the ticket counter. I had all of a forty minute window to do so, and I would have to make it back through security. I got lost immediately, but found an information counter and was told that in order to get to United Airlines I would have to hike through an abandoned terminal. Tossing my heavy carry-on bag over my shoulder, I practically ran through the airport. Then I waited in the wrong line, followed by another wrong line. Finally, I made it to the right kiosk. Boop boop boop, I entered my information and was told that I was too late. A series of prominent warnings painted across the wall above the counter told me why: 45 Minute Cut-off. Why I was booked for this connection I will never know, because it was doomed from the get-go. I simply could not have made it on time given the size of this airport. I must have looked pretty pathetic (or perhaps I was blocking traffic), because a "Helper" steered me to a live person. This woman was very pregnant and very mean. As she created a standby ticket for the four o'clock flight, two people interrupted us with complaints of their own.

I actually spared a moment of concern for the health of her unborn child as I considered how the stress of her job must be affecting her. I asked if "stand-by" meant I wouldn't be guaranteed a seat, and she coldly told me it was the best she could do. I fought back tears as I told her I would miss my daughter's college graduation. She shoved the ticket into my hand and said if I hurried I might make it to the original flight, but her voice told me it was unlikely. I tried anyway, running through the vast crowd, knocking into people. Once I made it through security (furious at the lady in front of me who hadn't put her liquids in a baggie - she took forever pulling her lotions and makeup and whatnot out of her luggage), I zoomed up to gate 70, where I discovered that the plane I was supposed to be on had broken down. Salvation. I was the only happy person to get on the replacement plane an hour later. During the wait, I was at least able to get my first meal of the day, while I called several friends to cancel the lunch I'd planned.

So far, things had not gone terribly smoothly.

In San Diego, I took a shuttle to the rental car office, where I discovered I had no credit cards in my wallet. All I had was my husband's debit card. Don't ask how that happened; suffice it to say it involved a disagreement about credit card spending and a pair of scissors. This was not good planning on my part. I sheepishly handed the debit card to the guy at the counter and tried to act casual, la la la. Somehow I got over that hurdle and soon climbed gratefully into my rental car. The gratitude lasted maybe five minutes, just enough time to get lost before finding the freeway. Then: what was that awful stench? They'd tried to hide it with some kind of cleaner, but was it...? Urine? Had a homeless man spent the night in this vehicle? If I wasn't already late, I'd have turned back around. As it was, I spent the rest of the trip, when in that car, with a faint frown of distaste between my brows.

I found to my utter dismay that the "hotel" I'd booked was in reality a "motel." I should have paid more attention to the two-star rating, I suppose. The only good thing about my accommodations: the debit card situation didn't faze them. To get to my room, I had to pass a shady-looking young man on his cell phone who appeared to be a permanent fixture, dodge a large bag of leaking garbage and traverse a severely uneven second-floor walkway that surely would collapse if we had an earthquake or a mild breeze. Inside, I took note of the cigarette burn-holes in the curtains, the poorly patched holes in the walls and, again, a stench - this time of bleach, one of my least favorite odors.

My mother and my aunt were in another room, blissfully unaware of the lack-of-quality in our accommodations, as any truly thrifty person would be. We travelled together to the graduation ceremony. I drove confidently to my daughter's college campus, but unfortunately, that's not where the ceremony was being held. More great planning on my part. When we finally arrived at the hotel ballroom, the security Nazi provided by the school refused to let us in, saying that all the seats were taken and it would be a fire code violation. I can't decide whether I'm proud or ashamed of the fit I threw at that point, but we did get in after my mother loudly played the handicapped old lady card. It's embarrassing, but it trumps 'em every time.

Inside, I was furious to see that there were at least forty empty chairs intended for the graduates. Fire code, my eye.

I have three blurry shots of the whole event because I couldn't get my camera to work (by then I was so exhausted I was running on fumes and unable to comprehend the simplest of tasks). Two of my bad photos appear to be the back of someone's pointy head, and the third is a distance shot of my pride and joy walking in her gown. Afterward, we went to dinner at an Applebee's located in the parking lot of a mall. I found out the hard way that this particular establishment has only one small entrance. It was like a shining Shangri-La. We ended up circling the mall twice and once were even forced to get back on the freeway before I figured out how to get to the restaurant.

After a late meal in which much of my attention was spent preventing my mother from telling dirty jokes to my daughter's friends, we went back to the motel. To my chagrin, no amount of rummaging in my bag unearthed a toothbrush or toothpaste. I placed a chair in front of the door and lay down on the stiff mattress fully expecting to be awakened by a battering ram bursting through the door followed by DEA agents or a SWAT team or the Vice Squad. In the morning, I took a shower, peering into every crusty corner for hidden cameras.

After spending a few hours and a few dollars on my daughter at the mall, I pointed the stinky rental car towards the airport. I was early enough to hit the McDonald's in the terminal. I ordered and stood back to wait for my meal. And waited, and waited. After ten minutes I managed to get the young cashier's attention with a raise of my eyebrows. No, they hadn't even cooked my chicken nuggets, so I waited some more. Finally I had my meal and as I headed towards my gate, I nibbled on French fries - stone cold French fries.

On the plane, just before landing in Salt Lake City, the stewardess announced that all connecting flights were cutting it close. She requested of the passengers that those with connections be allowed off first. Once we landed, it turned out I was at the head of the line to deplane. Only problem: the ramp didn't quite fit and everyone was going to have to sit back down so the pilot could back the plane up and pull in properly. I heard myself announce to the plane at large that this was all my fault, since nothing on my trip had gone as planned. Luckily, the stewardess convinced the ground crew to let us take the stairs, and after yet another breathless dash through an airport, I made the flight with five minutes to spare.

On the last plane I began to read a book I'd purchased at the mall, straight literary fiction, not my usual genre for one important reason: it made me cry within the first forty pages. I like to cry about as much as I like to travel. Irritated now on top of being just plain worn out, I shut the book and reached to turn off my overhead light. Instead of pushing the off button, I tried to twist the light off, as I had earlier twisted the air vent closed. I burned my fingers on the scorching hot glass cover when it fell off and I tried to catch it.

At my home town airport, it took me twenty minutes in the dark and freezing cold to locate my car, but soon I was driving home.

Home.

Nothing felt better than being greeted at the door by my husband and the very excited puppy. I went upstairs and kissed my sleeping son and then came back down to listen to my husband tell me how he'd coped (barely) for two days without me. Other than my pride in seeing my daughter graduate, the only good thing about my trip was that my husband now has a renewed appreciation for all I do.

And I have a fresh take on why I hate to travel: whereas I usually find the humor in all variety of tribulation, travel merely stresses me out. My friend the world traveler probably experienced similar, if not downright hair-raising, predicaments on her adventures. After all, she went to other countries, with foreign customs and language and people. She comes home a la Jacqueline Kennedy, crisply dressed, tan and relaxed. I don't even leave the west coast and I limp off the plane in desperate need of a chiropractor.

Ah, well. My next involuntary travel plans will probably be to attend my daughter's wedding...unless I can convince her to come here for her nuptials. Nah. That would take planning...

Kids Won't Eat Veggies? Green Juice to the Rescue

2009-07-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

March 2008

As a baby, my son ate his pureed peas like a champ, but as he got older he began to reject all but the most carefully disguised fruits and vegetables. It wasn't always the taste, as most people assume it is with picky little eaters; it was often the texture that made him balk at the dinner table.

I followed the advice of the experts and placed the scorned veggies on his plate anyway. The pros assured me it would take time, but eventually my son would develop a liking for his vegetables.

Not only did that not happen, but soon my son's aversion grew so strong he flat out refused to even lick a slice of apple, melon, pineapple, you name it. No amount of cajoling or bribing got compliance. He literally gagged if an uninvited vegetable made it past his lips. After one too many ruined meals, I made sure to pick out the chunks of tomato in the spaghetti and the wedges of zucchini in his linguine. Through much trial and error, I found a few items of the grown variety that he would eat. But beans, bananas and applesauce leave wide gaps in the nutrition spectrum.

Enter Green Juice.

In desperation, I purchased a good quality single auger masticating juicer, the kind with what looks like a big screw that forces the vegetables and fruit against a metal screen until the pulp is separated from the juice. Juice drains out one hole and pulp is pooped out another, into two separate containers. I made a big production out of the purchase and took my son to the grocery store to help pick some "starter" fruits and vegetables. When we got home, I let him stand on a chair at the counter, and with close supervision, guided him in feeding the sliced apples, pears and carrots into the juicer. He helped me rinse off all the juicer's parts afterwards, thrilled to have been included in this fun and exciting activity. I mixed the resulting juice half and half with commercial apple juice and held my breath as he gave it a try.

I needn't have worried: he was proud to drink the juice he'd made. I put the pulp into banana bread and because it was ground so fine he didn't know the difference. Over time, we tried adding a variety of fruits and vegetables in different combinations. My son drank each and every concoction, and asked for more. Now when we go to the grocery store, he will remind me to get a bunch of kale or ask if we have enough carrots. To be honest, he nags me to make green juice he adores the process so much! The key is allowing him to stuff those fruits and vegetables into the juicer.

We don't follow recipes, but there are recipe books out there. In order to get the most out of our juicing experience, I did find a wonderful book, though. The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth by Jonny Bowden not only pinpoints the best foods, the author warns you about foods most likely to be contaminated by pesticides. For instance, we spend a little more for organic apples so we don't have to peel them before juicing. That way we get the benefit of the vitamins, minerals and fiber in the peel, without the chemicals.

When I'm feeling lazy, I also enlist my son's help in making smoothies in the blender. No veggies there, but he gets the fiber from the whole frozen fruit, and he drinks it so fast he gets an "ice cream" headache.

My son still won't eat his peas and he still gags at the distinctive crunch of a stray onion. But with green juice, I know he's not only getting the nutrition he needs, he's also developing a taste for the grassy-green flavors most kids shun.

Puppy Proof: Adventures in Early Potty Training

2009-07-25T11:25:00.000-07:00

March 2008

I'm perched on a stool in the kitchen typing this on my laptop. The legs of the stool and my socks have been liberally sprayed with a bitter-tasting chew deterrent. Oh, hold on, I need to pause for a minute to go spray my pant legs, too...there. I'm puppy-proof.

We've had Vipper for two weeks now. Two long weeks.

Two weeks in which I am no longer free to do anything, anything at all, without considering how it will impact the puppy.

Two weeks that have taught me why it is that puppies are so darn cute - so we don't throttle them!

A typical day in Puppyland involves planning. If my husband is not home to puppy-sit, I must take Vipper with me when I drop off/pick up my son from preschool because Vipper doesn't have the usual distaste for pooping in his crate that all of our dog-eared puppy books say is the norm.

I blame this on his breed, English Springer Spaniel, because they are a hugely social dog. He gets Very Upset if one of us is not within licking distance at all times. And when he's Upset, it appears to stimulate his digestive system, so to speak.

So I'm forced to haul Vipper around in his crate if I need to make a short trip in the car. I put him up front so he can see me, and haul butt dropping my son off and picking him up from preschool so Vipper doesn't have time to get worked up enough to unload a special surprise for my return.

We get home and I let him out into his blocked off kitchen area. I feed him and take my son upstairs, rushing ("Go, go, go - hurry up! I don't want Vipper to go potty!") for his nap. Abrupt kisses, hugs, tuck my son in and less than two minutes later I come downstairs to a relieved puppy.

Relieved? -you ask.

Relieved to see me? Well, yes, that, too.

It's just a puddle, though. A puddle that he ran through, skidded through and generally tracked all over the kitchen.

According to one of the puppy books, I'm not supposed to let him see me clean it up. (I haven't quite figured that rule out. Is it because if he sees me, he'll laugh his stubby tail off? Look at that human. She is my slave. She's working so hard to clean up my doo-doo. She seems to enjoy it. I like her. I think I'll leave her another over here.)

So I put him back in the crate and break out the mop. Less than five minutes later - nice clean floor.

Does Vipper appreciate my efforts? No, sir, he does not. He has, however, taken a major dump-ola in the crate.

Which he stepped in and skidded through and generally got all over his paws and the towel I gave him for his comfort. This is the fifth towel I've had to discard (really, there's no way I'm going to put that into my brand new washer).

Instead of taking him upstairs into my new deep bathtub (I've had one good soak in it since we've lived here; Vipper's been here two weeks and has had four, you do the math), I take him outside and wash his paws with the hose.

I know we're not supposed to be angry when a puppy can't hold it (for TWO LOUSY MINUTES), but do I want to reward him with a nice warm bath and a towel snuggle afterward? You bet your squeaky toy I don't!

Just exactly like a child who instinctively knows when mama is distracted enough not to notice that he's about to pour the sugar canister out on the kitchen table, a puppy knows when it's a good time to sneak into his favorite corner of the kitchen to whizzle. The puppy books will tell you otherwise. They say that your midget canine simply cannot hold it. I beg to differ. If Vipper has no bladder control whatsoever, why have I never caught him in the act? Why does he always just happen to be on the opposite side of the island in our kitchen when the waterworks start?

Oh, I long for the days when he figures it out. I want to be staring into his hazel eyes and catch a glimpse of the intelligence I know has to be in there somewhere. To date we have not gotten through one day without a potty mishap.

Hey...where's Vipper?

WHAT ARE YOU DOING OVER THERE?!

What Happen If? Questions from a Four-year-old

2009-07-25T10:57:00.000-07:00

January 2008

My son doesn't ask why, why, why, like other kids.

He never phrases his questions like a typical preschooler, "Mommy, why is the moon in the sky?" or "Mommy, why do airplanes fly?"

No, my boy practices his own special brand of repetition in his quest for knowledge. His developing intellect wants to know, "What happen if..?" followed by a scenario that is invariably ridiculous, impossible, and where someone always gets hurt.

For instance, he might ask, "What happen if an airplane crashes into the moon?" Then he waits a fraction of a second before repeating the question until I'm forced to come up with an answer my son, with his limited logic, can understand. "An airplane can't fly far enough to reach the moon," I'll say.

Now that he's successfully engaged me, the questions escalate. "What happen if a Martian on the moon jumps on top of the airplane?" I try to stop the silliness by saying, "That wouldn't happen, honey. Martians are from Mars, not the moon, and besides, there are no such things as Martians."

He quickly counters with something like, "But what happen if the Martian is from Texas and is so bad and mean that he ates the man's arm up – his arm and his feet, and the man got so mad that the Martian ended up in his tummy?"

I know better than to enable the conversation further by asking where the angry, hungry man came from. He came from my son's limitless imagination, which I am loathe to suppress, but really, there's just so many ludicrous situations I can wrap my mind around in any given day.

"The Martian will probably get put into a major time out if he can't stop bugging the man," I say, shooting my son a meaningful look.

Ah, if only it were so easy. The incorrigible youngster barely gasps in enough air to fill his little lungs before beginning what will surely be a dizzyingly complicated and implausible narrative.

In desperation, I point over his shoulder and exclaim, "Oh, my gosh, Spongebob Squarepants just came through the front door!"

He whips his head around. "Where?"

By the time he turns back around, I'm in Texas with the Martian.

The following is a recent conversation, as near as I can remember:

"What happen if blood is on my finger and I see something coming out?"

(I tell him we go get a Band aid.)

"What happen if a termite comes out?"

(There are no termites in your finger.)

"What happen if it is really big?"

(That's just silly, now knock it off.)

"What does knock it off mean?"

(It means stop it.)

"What happen if we find a dinosaur bone when we're at school?"

(That would be cool.)

"What happen if the dinosaur bites me on the butt?"

(Dinosaurs are all gone and we don't talk about your butt, remember?)

"What happen if you have really strong pants? Then the dinosaur can't bite you."

(For goodness sake, will you stop?)

"And if he did, his teeth would all fall out and break like glass and be on the ground and somebody would step on it and it would cut their feet all into little pieces and-mmmph!)

(This time it's my hand, next time I'm breaking out the duct tape, do you understand?)

Shakes his head no.

(Oh, for gosh sakes, never mind. )

Holiday Aftermath

2009-07-25T10:37:00.000-07:00

December 2007

The last of the chocolates have only three corners and the final drop of wonderful thigh-expanding eggnog is gone. Gone also is that familiar nostalgic feeling that begins in September when the stores display such gems as the endlessly entertaining singing monkeys, shuffling penguins and hip-swinging Santas.

We have so much to be thankful for at my house, namely: the end of the Holiday Season. On Christmas morning, after Spongedad Grumpypants finally made an appearance in all his bah-humbug, morning-breath glory, the wrap-ripping carnage began. Soon we had three bulging plastic bags of re-fuse that my husband re-fused to take out (he stretched the excuse that the dumpster was overflowing for almost three days).

The ringing in our ears from piercing shrieks of excitement hadn't begun to fade before we regretted the vast majority of "Santa's" gift selections for our son. It wasn't just that I needed a crowbar and flame-thrower to get the packages open - I spent more migraine-inducing time putting the toys together then my son spent playing with them.

I still catch myself humming "Jingle Bells," the song I painstakingly taught my four-year-old for his preschool stage debut in which he completely ignored the teacher and instead ran around in circles and tried to "accidently" kick over a pile of gifts. More than any other holiday blessing, I'll be mourning the passing of the "Santa can see you!" threat...

Happy New Year! (sigh)

San Diego Wildfires: One Woman's Evacuation Story

2009-07-25T10:26:00.000-07:00

October 2007

Mid-morning on Sunday of this week, my four-year-old son was putting together a puzzle while I did laundry and vacuumed. The windows were open to allow the warm autumn breeze to freshen the indoor air. I sat on the couch for a moment to rest, and noticed the slight smell of smoke. Within the hour a haze darkened the skyline visible from the windows of our apartment a little south of the community of Rancho Bernardo in San Diego. I turned on the television and switched channels, hoping to catch any news of what I assumed was a small, local brush fire. From recent news reports, I knew that the fire danger was high due to the dry conditions and Santa Ana winds, but I didn't think it was possible we'd have a repeat of the 2003 Cedar fire, much less something worse.

I tuned to channel 9 because they had hourly news breaks, and sure enough, I soon heard confirmation that there was a fire. It was far from our home, so I closed the windows and forgot about it for the rest of the afternoon.

By the time my husband returned home from work, the smoke was so bad in our apartment, even with the doors and windows shut tight, that we turned the television back on. Now it was easy to find a news update. The Witch Creek fire burned out of control in the gusting wind, and it was headed our way.

My son's room was smokier than the rest of the apartment, so he slept between my husband and me that first night. This is tantamount to no one sleeping at all. I am the lightest sleeper on earth, my husband is the heaviest of sleepers and the least conscious of his movements (read: bed hog) and my son prefers never to sleep at all. No threat, whispered, growled or even yelled, dampened my child's uncontrollable wiggling - he seems to suffer from a bizarre form of restless leg syndrome affecting his entire body. At 3:30am, the radio woke me from a light sleep, and I got my husband up. He and his friend Jeff were flying out of state for job interviews and would be gone until Wednesday.

My son had finally settled into a deep sleep, so he was unaware when the alarm went off for the second time at 5:30am. I got up and got ready for work as usual. Because the smell of smoke was still strong in the apartment, I went into the living room and turned on the television. Every major station had coverage of the fire and they were talking about mandatory evacuations in my neighborhood. I turned on my laptop and found a website that showed a map of where the fire was estimated to be - five miles from our apartment. There were so many structures between us and the fire that I knew in my heart that it would never reach us. Still, I hesitated to follow my usual routine, and instead of heading for work, I sat in front of the television and watched the news coverage. A reporter alerted viewers in my area to expect a "reverse 9-1-1 call" to evacuate.

When the phone rang less than an hour later, I instinctively knew I was one of the unlucky ones. Sure enough, a recorded message in a woman's voice told me it was mandatory that I leave.
I like to think that in my 4 decades I have developed a measure of common sense, but lack of sleep seemed to have rerouted the synapses of my brain controlling logic. In other words, I kind of panicked. In my defense, I'd been listening on the news about the seriousness of heeding the reverse 9-1-1 call. "Ignore it to your peril," "Don't misuse precious fire fighter resources by forcing them to evacuate you," "Get out before you die a terrible fiery death, you fools!" Okay, so the last warning was a product of my sleep-deprived imagination, but I remembered the horror from the Cedar fire, hearing how entire families were trapped on the road and burned to death in their cars as they tried to evacuate. I didn't want to be stuck in traffic with the rest of my neighbors as the fire swept over us.

First I fired off an email to my employers letting them know I wasn't coming in. Then I hurriedly emptied my gym bag of a week's worth of clean exercise clothes and started shoving in what I thought might come in handy. As I looked around the apartment, I realized that I had no idea where our photo albums were, nor our little fire-proof safe. We'd recently sold our house and were only here in this apartment temporarily. We hadn't even unpacked the majority of the boxes.

Into the gym bag went my laptop, six cans of soda water, two bananas, my son's portable game player, four random children's dvds, and a fistful of papers from my bill-paying binder that I erroneously thought were the birth certificates, etc. (I later flipped through the paperwork to discover that I'd saved my typing certificate and the warranty on our couch, among other embarrassingly non-essential documents.)

I called my husband and left a voice mail that we were leaving. I dressed my son and led him out to the calm, vehicle-packed parking lot. He watched, motor-mouth running under an adorable mop of uncombed sleep hair, as I opened the truck door, stirring up a flurry of ash. In almost three months of residing in this neighborhood, other than the occasional wave hello, I had met none of my neighbors. A lethargic-looking young man shuffled from the garbage bin on his way back to his apartment.

"Did you get the call to evacuate?" I asked him.

"No," he replied, looking at me like I was a little insane.

"I did," I said.

He shrugged and walked on. I fastened my son into his car seat and drove out.

The entrance to the freeway was blocked by orange cones and police cars with lights flashing, so I joined a long line of vehicles down a side street. Every gas station I passed had cars lined up out into the street. Most everyone was polite and patient as we inched forward, and the entire scene seemed surreal. I turned on the radio and heard that we should limit cell phone usage.

Ten minutes into the evacuation, my son announced that he had to go potty. I informed him that he'd best hold it unless he wanted to go on the side of the road. The little scamp proceeded to argue with me that yes, he would very much like to go on the side of the road - that sounded like fun!

It took about a half an hour to get on the 15 south. Due to the freeway closure to the north, the lanes were free and clear even with the steady stream of vehicles evacuating to the south.

My cell rang and it was my husband, calling from his layover in Salt Lake City. I apprised him of the situation and he and Jeff insisted that I go straight to Jeff's house. I was hesitant because I had yet to actually meet Jeff's wife Jennifer, and it seemed like a poor time to do so, but my husband put Jeff on the phone and I was obligated at that point to foist myself upon the kindness of strangers.

My son and I stayed with Jennifer for several hours. I never really believed that I would be ousted from my home for long. I didn't think that our apartment was in real danger. What couldn't occur to me was that city and county officials were prepared to keep entire neighborhoods in limbo waiting to get back home while they assessed the damage.

Jeff and Jennifer's son is a two-year-old just as active as my son. Our boys proceeded to bounce off the walls, further stressing me out. I love my son more than anything, but right about then I sure would have liked to have an off switch installed on him somewhere. Compounding the frenetic activity, Jennifer kept trying to introduce her poor little dog into the equation. Every time fat little Sasha came indoors, my son would let loose with his particularly high-pitched screams. He wanted to see the doggie, but the doggie also wanted to see him - and whenever Sasha approached with any kind of enthusiasm, my son freaked out.

I removed my boy from the chaos temporarily, out into the smoky air to pick up pizza for dinner, a particularly grating chore considering I had just the day before committed to a new diet that definitely did not have large amounts of cheese and bread on the menu. But food is a necessary evil, and easy food was the most appealing under the circumstances.

After eating pizza in front of the television, where every station blared fire news coverage, I began to panic in a different way. My son and Jennifer's were getting along surprisingly well, but I knew that would not last. Under pressure of forced confinement, the boys would soon begin to squabble. I understand my son's nature - after all, my four-year-old handful inherited his level of energy from me. Under duress I will admit I'm high-strung, but in opposition to my own nature, I have little tolerance for it. I most desire to be admired for my calm, logical intelligence - a cultivated personality trait that flew out the window soon after the first fire began to burn.
I wanted to go home, or at least be someplace where I had the autonomy to do what I chose without concern that I must follow my host's rules. Jennifer had been nothing but gracious to us, but I just couldn't stay.

I spent about half an hour online trying to find hotel rooms, but even the five-star accommodations were all sold out. Because there were now several fires burning in the county, there had been more evacuations, hundreds of thousands of displaced people. There were plenty of useless hotel rooms available in the evacuated areas, of course.

One after the other, I got phone calls on my cell from two friends checking up on me and my son's preschool director, who told me the preschool was closed for the rest of the week. Just as I'd resigned myself to ousting Jennifer's innocent two-year old from his bedroom, my grown daughter called.

Of course! She and her boyfriend had an apartment in a safe location in the county - safe for the time being, anyway. Why hadn't I thought of staying with her? Well, it probably had to do with my feelings of obligation after my husband and his friend colluded to put me with Jennifer. In addition, I did not want to hurt Jennifer's feelings by rejecting her offer of hospitality.

But I went ahead and did it anyway.

Jennifer was upstairs changing the sheets on her son's bed when I announced that I was leaving, but would she mind if I borrowed her inflatable mattress and a pillow and some blankets because my college-student daughter lived in a one-bedroom slum that barely had basic amenities?

My nebulous plan as I high-tailed it out of Jeff and Jennifer's comfortable home was to buy them a big fruit basket in thanks and apology as soon as things were back to normal. There was no way I could erase the first impression I'd left Jennifer with - that I'm a scatter-brained stressed-out lunatic who can't properly pack an evacuation bag - but my impression of her was that she's smart and understanding and perhaps even forgiving.

Driving in the dark to my daughter and her boyfriend's apartment calmed me. I was back in charge. (Sigh.)

The first thing that greeted me upon entering my daughter's apartment was the unsubtle ammonia stench of unchanged cat box. Right away my son began entertaining himself chasing the fat, lazy flies that buzzed about. My daughter explained that they'd had a stubborn case of flies for some time, and she didn't know why. That attractive-to-vermin cat box in the bathroom came immediately to my mind, but I tried to be charitable, because when I was in college I'd lived in more than one place that was sub-sanitary, including an unforgettable stint in a bat-infested locale. However, the first time my son pinched a dead fly he'd found on the windowsill between his little fingers, I nearly had a conniption.

Since my son hadn't napped at Jennifer's house, he was like a ball bearing in a pinball machine, pinging off the furniture in my daughter's tiny apartment. She and her boyfriend retreated to their bedroom while I tried to calm my son down enough to sleep - a difficult enough task on a good day. Once he was finally out cold, I took a moment to lovingly study his quiet profile, appreciating that our situation may not be optimally comfortable, but we were unharmed and out of the danger zone.

I watched television for another hour before the stress-induced headache I'd been battling all day forced me to try to sleep. I lay down on the spring-loaded, sagging day bed, fearful with every move that it would collapse. My sleep was once again fitful and unsatisfying.

In the morning, the San Diego County Office of Emergency Services, or OES, had a press conference. The county supervisor, the mayor, the police chief, the sheriff, the fire chief and various other grim-faced officials spoke one after the other, each spending huge chunks of precious air-time thanking each other, followed by a few short sentences reiterating what we already knew.

My neighborhood was thus far the hardest hit, with hundreds of homes lost. There was no estimate at that time for "repopulating" the area.

We went out to breakfast. My daughter's boyfriend informed me that any attempt to fight him for the check would result in my losing, so I let him buy. Then we went to Target so I could purchase the items I should have brought with me. Luckily, my daughter had no compunctions accepting my offer to buy her a few household necessities, and we left with an overflowing cart.

The southern California day was hot and windy and our eyes burned from the thick, unhealthy air. Inside the apartment, the tiny air-conditioner struggled to keep the temperature below 90 degrees. I'd purchased a toy for my son to keep him occupied: a remote control spider that he promptly broke. It was clear I'd need to make another toy run, and I wanted to give my daughter and her steadfastly patient boyfriend a break from the exhausting dynamo that was my son, so I packed him up and went to Henry's for some groceries.

My husband called while we were there.

"How's it going?" he asked, like I was out for a Sunday stroll.

"Um...I'd like to go home," I said.

"When are they letting you back in?"

"Every time we call 2-1-1, they ask us for our zip code and tell us we can't go back. But when we look at the evacuation maps online, some of them look like we can. It's very frustrating," I said.
My poor husband wanted to share with me how he thought the interview had gone well, and how they'd met with a (young and pretty) real estate agent and toured homes for sale, but my cell phone battery pooped out. Besides, I wasn't in the mood to hear about how fresh and cool the air was there, how comfortable his hotel room was, or that he'd chugged a few beers with his pal and watched the game the night before. It wasn't his fault that through a strange coincidence he was out of town enjoying himself while I was alone with our son dealing with a major disaster, but I didn't have to be happy about it.

Back in my daughter's apartment, I began to suffer from claustrophobia.

I. Wanted. To. Go. Home.

My daughter, too, started to unravel around the edges. Not, as she told me, because her little brother was bugging her, but because my stressful reaction to the situation was dragging her down. The spaz gene is strong in my branch of the family tree, and she, too, has it in spades. I forced myself to wear a mask of Zen.

The news was not encouraging. More press conferences, full of officious good-ol-boys-and-girls who just could not stop spouting thanks and offering congratulations to each other on what an exemplary job they were doing handling this emergency. We were told that my neighborhood should be able to go home in 24 hours, a promise that had already been made 24 hours ago. We learned about the outpouring of support from the unaffected community, and I couldn't help but be thankful that I wasn't sitting in a shelter somewhere, amongst strangers and at the mercy of strangers.

We saw sobering footage of the roaring fires burning out of control and the devastation they caused and continued to cause. Most people left when the evacuation order came out, but some stubborn (and stupid) folks didn't. A few of them died. More of them pulled firefighters from their jobs to take the time to rescue them.

We heard rumors that some of the fires were arson, not a surprise to those of us who've lived here for awhile. When the Santa Ana winds come, the arsonists are never far behind.

My son went to sleep faster that last night, as if even his boundless energy was flagging under the strain of unfamiliar routine. The glow of the television faded as I made myself as comfortable as I could, looking forward to the 7am press conference in the morning, when I hoped the evacuation would be lifted.

It wasn't. In the morning after yet another press conference jam-packed with, "Before I begin, I'd like to thank the blah, blah, blah-blah-blah," I was beyond disappointed when they announced that Rancho Bernardo was still off-limits. I logged onto several websites with fire burn and evacuation maps that showed that my little community, which, although it shares a zip code, technically isn't even Rancho Bernardo, was not under evacuation order.

It was then that I began to doubt I'd ever been evacuated. I got the call, but did I really listen to what the message said? Why didn't any of my neighbors seem to have gotten a call at the same time as me?

My husband flew in and called on my daughter's cell phone. I begged him to go straight home and see if he could get into the area. Then I looked up businesses in my neighborhood and called them to see if anyone answered the phone. No one at the grocery store picked up, but I got an immediate answer at the craft store. I asked the guy if they were open and he responded in the affirmative, leaving out the word "obviously," even though it was in his voice. For good measure, I called the book store.

"Barnes and Noble."

"Hi. I was evacuated and every time I call 2-1-1 they ask for my zip code and tell me I can't come home, but I'm right across the street from you."

"Yeah, I've been hearing that from customers all morning," the guy said. "2-1-1 is not very reliable."

2-1-1 is the official information hotline for this particular disaster, and his words started a slow, furious burn in my stomach.

"How long has the area been open?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"I guess when they opened the 15 freeway last night people just started trickling back. They can't get in a few miles north, but it's starting to look like business as usual here," he said. "I got home this morning and came right into work."

I thanked him and the instant I got off the phone began to shove our new clothes, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, food and toys into bags. For some reason, the urge to hurry was so great I ran to my truck to move it to a no-park zone, where I could load it up.

"Calm down," my daughter told me.

"I could have gone home yesterday!" I cried. "I might not have even had to leave in the first place!"

My husband called back and told me that he was home. I shot out of my daughter's place like it was, well...on fire.

Other than the heavy smoke hanging in the still air, my apartment complex seemed normal. The first thing my husband told me was that the one neighbor he spoke to said she had not gotten a reverse 9-1-1 call and had stayed throughout. She did tell him that she'd been pretty scared, though. Despite the pitying look in my husband's eyes, I decided to trust myself.

I had been evacuated. The whole ordeal was not the result of my panicked imagination. The majority of maps we'd seen online showed that a vast area, including my neighborhood, had indeed been told to leave. The problem was with the much-lauded reverse 9-1-1 system, which clearly did not alert everyone - could not, in fact, alert those who did not have a land line installed in their homes, because it did not work with cell phones. The problem was compounded by a flawed and overburdened 2-1-1 system, which should not have relied upon zip codes to distinguish neighborhoods. In addition, much of the televised information was woefully outdated. I recall watching the scrolling news at the bottom of the television screen as the newscasters struggled to fill air time with information that would keep their viewers from switching the channel in hopes of finding something they hadn't already heard. The scrolling words said, "BREAKING NEWS!" but it lied. It would have been more truthful to say, "SAME OLD NEWS!" Long after the denizens of areas just south of Rancho Bernardo had been trickling home, the scrolled words still told us it was off-limits.

So now that the fires are almost out and the people are almost all home - those who still have a home, that is - much of the congratulatory back-slapping and never-ending stream of gratitude from those in charge will be replaced by recrimination and accusation from the inconvenienced public. All that the Powers-That-Be can do is compare one emergency to another to see what they might do better next time. The ratio of property loss to loss-of-life is evidence that the evacuations worked. Removing people before they were endangered freed up time for firefighters to attack the fire fronts that would do the most towards stopping the monster from advancing on populated areas.

As for me, I located our safe, our photo albums and our important papers, and I'm now prepared to evacuate.

Take your Precocious Child to Work Day

2009-07-24T22:15:00.000-07:00

April 2007

I woke up on Thursday, national Take Your Child to Work Day, with a free-floating anxiety that I attributed to my plan to introduce my four-year-old son to my workplace. I’d already told my coworkers he was coming; had signed him up, in fact, for the program put on by the office. He was looking forward to seeing real fire fighters and their fire engine, so I suppressed my apprehension and buckled him into his car seat.

I’d been lecturing him for days on how to behave, to the point where I’m sure he tuned out my words and heard instead a voice like the adults on a Charlie Brown cartoon, whah whah whah whaaah. I was hoping that haranguing him to be good would pre-empt his tendency towards naughty behavior, which has lately been the norm at daycare. His daycare provider is a wonderful woman who updates me via email several times a day, and I’ve always considered that service especially nice since it gives me insight into his day while I’m at work. This last month I haven’t even wanted to open the dreaded updates anymore. She’ll start out her email with something like “Everything was fine until…” or “The kids were playing nicely until…” and then I’ll get a numbered list of paragraphs outlining my son’s infractions in excruciating detail.

As we drove into work, I briefed my son on what was expected of him, being sure to inform him that if he misbehaved I’d whisk him home so fast his head would spin (with no real intention of doing so, since it would involve actually leaving work).

He did very well for the first part of the morning. They separated the kids and took the younger ones into a conference room to do fun activities. Later, I got comments from the staff that included the descriptive terms “adorable” “entertaining” “enjoyable” and “sweet heart,” which gave me hope that the day might not end up a complete disaster.

Then thirty children trooped into the big conference room for the demonstration by the fire department. The tables were assigned by age, so my son was front and center. I stayed on the sidelines by his table since he seemed a little wound up. Because the group went in age from two to twelve years or so, the younger kids didn’t understand the terms the speaker, a fire fighter, was using. Most sat and listened anyway like good little boys and girls. My son discovered that his chair could spin and he began a series of distracting back and forth rotations. I hissed at him to knock it off, but he sensed, in the way that all children do, that I was helpless to stop him. The fire fighter was quizzing the children on Stop, Drop and Roll, a concept that I’d never presented to my son, since he’s so very interested in all things “fire and destruction” that I’m afraid to broach it in any capacity, when my son loudly announced to the room that he’d had spicy chips for snack.

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. Everyone smiled indulgently and the fire fighter went on to talk about dialing 911, another thing I’d never covered, since I’m not eager to give my son the go-ahead with the telephone. He’s a true “take a mile” kind of kid and I’m sure the very moment my back is turned we’d have emergency personnel at the door, not smiling indulgently.

Then the fire fighter asked the kids what they would do in a fire emergency if they were in their homes. One kid said “feel the door,” another said “crawl down low,” and my son, who still didn’t understand the topic, but who enjoys the spotlight and apparently felt the continuing urge to contribute to the conversation, said, in a loud, perfectly projected voice, “You take a shower! Or a bath! And you wash your BUTT!”

After a nano-second’s worth of shock, the entire adult population of the room burst out laughing, myself included. I felt my face burn in embarrassment, so much so that I broke into a sweat and my deodorant failed on the spot. Knowing how unsightly my blushes can be, especially coupled with my paroxysmal laughter, I put my hands over my face and turned towards the wall, so that I didn’t see what happened next. When I finally got control, I saw that my son was seated in a tall chair at the front of the room, facing the audience. Standing behind him with a hand on the back of the chair? The taciturn, hard-faced fire captain.

My son did not say one more word throughout the rest of the presentation, nor did he attempt to leave his chair or otherwise disturb the proceedings further. I thought maybe he’d gotten a “time out,” a concept he’s entirely familiar with, but his contented expression belied that idea. Surely his bottom lip would be sticking out about a mile if the fire captain had chastised him.

As the group of children excitedly went outside to tour the fire engine, someone told me that the captain had plucked my son out of his chair and invited him to be “Fire Fighter of the Day,” a brilliant move from one of America’s finest.

My early morning premonition had come true, but not in the way I’d anticipated. Now I have another precious memory of my precocious child, something particularly suited to share with his very first girlfriend…