Gifts For Me. Gifts For Them.

The other day my husband was late coming home from work.  I texted him.

"Where are you?"

"I can't tell you.  I'll be home soon."

"What?  Why can't you tell me?"

"You'll see."

I was in the kitchen when he breezed through the door, fists full of shopping bags.  They were not the kind of bags I'm used to seeing coming through my door.  They had strange and exotic names on them, like Dillards.  He ushered me into our room and dumped his bounty on my bed, gesturing like a proud papa.  "For you."

He'd bought me a new summertime wardrobe without telling me anything about it.  And let me tell you, my husband has great taste.  Mostly because he never looks at price tags.  If he likes something, he buys it.  End of story.  He was smart enough to forbid me to look at the price tags of anything now splashed on my handmade bedspread.

An hour later, I asked him to run out and get a small gift for his mother and mine, as they share an important day.  He called me eight times.  EIGHT.  

"Should I get flowers?"

"What kind of flowers?"

"How about a card?"

"No.  Cards are lame."

After he came home with his hard won gifts, I laughed at him.  He can buy me an entire wardrobe without once asking my opinion, but heaven forbid he buy flowers without my approval.

Urgent vs. Important

While at Writing for Charity, Maryrose Wood gave the keynote speech.  She wrote this series

about a girl that becomes a nanny for children that have been raised by wolves.  Good stuff.  She also teaches creative writing at a University in New York (but silly me, I've forgotten which one she said).

The gist of her speech, for all of you who really, really wanted to go to a writing conference and just didn't get the chance, was this:

Don't put off what's Important for something merely Urgent.

Urgent = anything with a notification system.  If it beeps, flashes, or demands that you look, it is Urgent.  That includes texts, emails, tweets, phone calls (does anyone besides my mom actually call anymore?), or more of that sort.  The Urgent things that cybernetically take us away for sometimes minutes, sometimes hours, days and weeks with their pings and flashing lights.

Important = the things that are easily ignored that we have to discipline ourselves to do, but that bring a sense of fulfillment once accomplished.  Writing falls under that category for most authors.  I would suggest anything spiritually minded also belongs in this category.  The Important is easy to mislay, or put off because it doesn't push its nose into our business.  We have to seek it out.

Ms. Wood had us all close our eyes and focus on breathing, only on breathing, for five minutes.  If we found ourselves thinking of something else, we were to derail our distraction and get back on the breathing train.  She says she does this exercise each day before she begins writing, and that it's amazing how ideas jostle and beg for attention when she's done.  It makes her writing sessions much more productive.

Her speech gave us meat to chew on while also providing cotton candy to entertain.  She is living proof that not every writer is socially awkward.

Veiled Encouragement

Last week was singularly unproductive as far as writing goes.  I'd like to blame ill health, or busy-ness, or holiday, or something legitimate, but I can't.  The only reason I didn't write is because I'm nursing a healthy shot of self-doubt.

I'm not writing this to get affirmations of my worth as a writer, I'm just putting it out there that working in a creative field can be tough on a person's confidence.  Some days, every sentence written is another one deleted.  Even sitting in front of the computer becomes an internal shouting match: 

"You can do this!  It's a simple re-write!  Just one page!"

"You suck!  Your work is crap! Your fingers don't even belong on the keyboard!"

Most days, I work through this shouting until the naysaying is minimized, but some days (or in this case, a week), I can't bear the thought of trying.  

Writing is hard.

But, you know, if you want to be a writer, don't let me discourage you.  

We're All a Variation on Gruff Sometimes

I should have taken pictures!  I'm only now realizing it.  Sometimes I'm a little slow on the uptake.

Writing for Charity this last weekend was fantastic.  A lot of great authors were there, like: Shannon Hale, Jessica Day George, Clint Johnson, Maryrose Wood, and me. (There may be a little irony in including myself.  Just FYI.)

However, I got a pleasant surprise.  I submitted a short story to an anthology two years ago that they selected to be part of the book.  It's only been available as an ebook... until now.

Behold! A hard copy of a book that includes both myself and Shannon Hale! Together! I got my copy signed by Ms. Hale and I signed my own name right under it because I'm a geek like that.  There are a lot of great, great stories in this little gem, all based on "The Three Billy Goats Gruff".  I think my favorite is a court document detailing the events according the Troll by Clint Johnson.  Very funny and well written.

I was told you could buy this hardcopy somewhere online, but I can't find it anywhere.  The ebook is available on amazon and all proceeds go to help underprivileged kids get books. So, feel good about yourself if you buy it.

Also, just as a closing note: Mr. Joe Monti, the editor I did my pitch to, was very nice and told me my query letter was just fine, but I need to take my whole story and flip it on its head.  When I've done that, I might have something someone wants.

*shrug*

How To Fail Literarily

I had different intentions for this post, but I have a bunch of nervous energy now and need to spill it.

I'm going to a writing conference this Saturday in Provo, called Writing for Charity.  I've been to this conference before.  That's where I met Janette Rallison two years ago and was inspired to change my favorite short story into my favorite Sci-Fi/Western novel.  So, I'm very excited to go.

Now comes the part where I divulge my reasons for being nervous.

I signed up for a pitch session with an editor from Simon and Schuster.  Eek!  I've never done a pitch session before.  (For those of you who don't know, a pitch session is when an author stands in front of someone who could make or break them and talks about the novel they've been writing for the last few years.  If they're good at talking, and the editor/agent is interested, and the planets align, the editor/agent will ask to read a sample of their writing.  If you want to get published by one of the big publishing houses, or even a medium-sized publishing house, you need an editor/agent to like you and your writing. But usually the editor/agent isn't interested in the talking because writers become writers for a reason.  And even if the editor/agent does get a sample of your writing, odds are it won't go beyond that. Take a breath and close parenthesis.)

So, eek! again!  I've basically signed myself up for failure.

I See Imaginary People (Only Some Of Whom Are Dead)

I'm working nearly every day on a story that I finished the rough draft on almost 5 years ago.  I'm currently doing something like the tenth, or ten hundredth, rewrite.  I know those characters intimately.  I know their opinions, preferences, likes and dislikes, fears.  All of it.

And I'm bored.

I feel like as a writer I shouldn't say things like that.  Like I should l.o.v.e. working with my story and my characters should feel like coming home.  But it's true.  I am bored.  What do I do about that?  Anyone?

For now, I'm slogging away at it, trying to make this story the best I possibly can before taking the leap - again- of trying to get it published.  And trying to all I'm worth to dodge these people I created and can't seem to escape because they live in my head.

My Dreamy Life

Ungh.

That is the noise I make every time I have to lift my head off my pillow.  The pillow case is usually stuck to my face.

Ungh is followed by *hack* and *cough* and then "ouch".

Then I look at the clock, groan my way out of bed and herd my kids into the car for another taxi service run.  When kids are dropped off or picked up, I shuffle back to bed and re-implant my face into the pillow's softness and go back to monosyllables.

Aside from the "ouch", I could totally live like this.