Kristy's Stories

Health. Financial Fridays

2012-02-24T06:13:00.007-08:00

Financial Fridays is shifting gears and talking about health. Why health? Because Americans spend lots and lots of money on healthcare. Some health issues and the resulting costs are unavoidable, but many, if not most, are the result of small, daily choices. And so, while it might seem odd to be talking about fiber, hydration, and sleep in a financial-help post it’s important to remember that your health is as much of an investment vehicle as your 401k. It’s been said that your body is the most miraculous piece of equipment that you will ever possess.

And the bodies we’ve been given are as unique as snowflakes. No body is the same. This sad truth is grotesquely unfair, but there it is. Clyde, a bouncing, wiggly, unable to sit still sixty-year-old, has a burning hot metabolism and at six foot and 150 pounds, he can eat as much as he likes. I know someone like Clyde. When I was pregnant I couldn’t share a sofa with him because his constant fidgeting made me nauseated. Clyde is a very different animal from those of us who are more sedate and he needs to feed his body accordingly.

I have a very sleepy child. He can sleep anywhere. He’s fallen asleep on the stairs, behind the pulpit at church, at school. Loved his naps, welcomed bedtime. His sister, on the other hand, always wanted to play and gave up her naps long before I was ready. She needs less sleep. She has more hours in the day than her brother. It’s not fair, but it’s what she’s b

een given.

So, for the next few weeks while I focus on health, please keep in mind that while I’m not a doctor, I am a mom of many. And as a mom of many, I know that our bodies come in all sorts of shapes and sizes. What’s good for one isn’t necessarily right and best for the other, BUT some things, some basic, small daily healthy choices can, in the end, save you hundreds, if not millions, of dollars in health care.

For the next few weeks/months I’ll be writing about healthy living on my

Financial Fridays posts, but I’ll also be writing healthy living tips on my companion blog—Losing Penny and Pounds. I’m starting a new novel and the blog will be, in part, a marketing tool for my book.

Here's the premise: My main character, Penny, is a blogger who chronicled her recent 70lb. weight loss online and attracted a huge following and unfortunately, a stalker. With the help of her honeymooning best friend, she decides to pretend that she's traveling the world. Her friend is taking pictures of exotic locals and Penny is photoshopping herself into t

he pictures, posting them on her blog and all the while hiding out at a remote beach house where she comes face to face with a novelist, Drake, who has his own brand of stalker-- his boss. The two--Penny and Drake-- who intensely dislike each other, decide to fake a marriage to thwart the boss and protect Penny from her stalker. While learning to share a house, a kitchen and a refrigerator, my characters are eaten by dinosaurs, just kidding—but really, I’m not going to tell you anymore because I want you to read the blog and, eventually, my book. Losing Penny, my novel, should be ready for the world by December, 2012.

My blog, Losing Penny and Pounds, will mirror Penny's blog and will featur

e Monday’s Menus, Wednesday’s Workouts, and Feel Good Friday’s Personal Affirmation quotes. (This will be a blog about healthy lifestyles, not about being skinny at any cost. And, of course, all body parts will be referred to in the most respectful manner.)Please visit Losing Penny and Pounds at Losing Penny & Pounds.

And just in case you're wondering--my novel, A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE, is currently being formatted and should be live soon.

Stars on Thars

2012-02-21T10:15:00.000-08:00

A few years ago I attended a fundraising event sponsored by the Orange County public library system. A friend arranged (paid) for a well respected, literary author to sit at our lunch table and because I’m a generally lucky person, he sat next to me. I found him to be as charming and witty as his books and short stories. At the time, I was struggling to fit my writing into a schedule and I wanted to know his. That’s what we were talking about when we were interrupted by a New York Times bestselling author. Of course, she hadn’t actually paid money for his attention as my friend had—but frankly, he could have been much kinder to her.

I had previously met and complimented the interrupting author at an earlier workshop and so she, an undoubtedly commercial success, introduced herself to the literary author who, even though he was sitting down and she was standing, managed to look down his nose at her. “I’ve really wanted to meet you,” she said. And he replied something along the lines of humph. (Maybe literary genius repertoire requires some mental stewing.)

And maybe I’m imagining the pain and confusion in her expression as she struggled to strike up a one sided conversation, but I couldn’t help reflecting on another literary genius, Dr. Suess. In Suess’s story The Sneetches, there are two types of creatures—those with stars on thars (on their bellies) and those without. The starred Sneetches control the society while the bare belly Sneetches are social outcasts.

And as I watched the New York Times bestselling author walk away and the literary author returned his attention to me, I couldn’t help thinking that in so many ways, in so many situations, we’re not unlike the Sneetches, and we haven’t come very far from where I first learned to love and read Dr. Suess—the elementary school lunch tables.

2012-02-15T15:24:00.000-08:00

Congrats to Kimberly Reid who won the blog hop!

Commas and Pomegranates

2012-02-13T14:42:00.000-08:00

The blog hop lives on--scroll down. It's not too late to win.

I’ve gotten my book back from an editor. To me, it looks like she sprinkled it with little red commas. I scroll through page by page, considering all her commas and suggestions. I fall asleep. And then wake, keep myself alert by eating cookies, telling myself that someone out there, someone without little red commas, may love my book almost as much as I do.

Did.

Because while I loved writing the book, I don’t love editing it. For the umpteenth time.

I don’t know why, but this reminds me of the pomegranate tree in my yard. My pomegranates have split their seams. No longer nice, round red balls—they’ve morphed into inside out pomegranates- exposing their bright seeds for the birds to eat. For many years, my dog would growl and lunge at the fruit, thinking they were toys, balls, being held purposefully out of her reach. She’d bark and jump and when she’d get a hold of one, she carried it around the lawn proudly. Any pomegranate silly enough to grow less than three feet off the ground died a slobbery death. My piano students also loved the pomegranates. I’d feed them the fruit and send the surplus home to their families.

I no longer teach piano and my dog is too lazy to chase the pomegranates. They’re going to seed on the tree. Really, they’re no better or worse being inside out--—they are just different.

Which is a lot like writing/editing my book. The story isn’t radically changed with all those little red commas, it’s just different. And the umpteenth time around isn’t nearly as entertaining as when the story was brand new.

The Letter in the Drawer

2012-02-12T08:07:00.001-08:00

No worries. The Valentine Blog Hop lives on. Just scroll down to the following post for a chance to win my novel and a key necklace.

A few days ago I cleaned out a drawer. This is remarkable in and of itself, but the remarkable thing was I found a letter I wrote to myself ten years ago. At that time I was serving in a young women’s presidency and the letter was an assignment given by our young women’s president. The president and I had been friends since our oldest children were age three. We bought our first homes at the same time and had children roughly the same ages. Fifteen years later, we served in our church youth group. Barb was the president. I was her first counselor. I had six children between the ages of 18 and 4. Barb had four. She also had cancer.

This was a busy time for me. I had six children attending five different schools. I had pianists, flutist, horn players and violinists. I had a track star, and a swim team captain, a book addict, a comic book groupie and a junk food junkie. I had a rental property (which meant I had pesky renters.) I was training for a marathon and I owned an overweight, frequently naughty beagle. I remember that busy time and wonder how I ever had time to write to a novel, but I did. Because I wanted to.

Looking back, I realize now that everything I did I did because, quite simply, it was what I wanted to do. And I’m glad.

A few years after serving with Barb in the young women’s program I was called to be the Relief Society president. I helped plan Barb’s funeral. I dressed her body in temple clothes. More than 800 people came to her service. I hope the years until my own funeral are long and many, but because of my experience at Barb’s I hope I can say when I’m on her side of the veil of life--I did everything I wanted to do.

I don’t think my life will be measured by the books I’ve written on the shelf, but by the people I love sitting on the pews. The books are something that I squeeze into the corners of my busy, full life. I love them, too. But not as much as I love the people I live with.

Valentine Blog Hop

2012-02-06T12:24:00.000-08:00

Sometime soon I'll be publishing my novel A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE and to celebrate I’m offering a coupon for a free download of my novel Stealing Mercy for everyone who:
follows my blog
leaves a comment
and likes my novel on Amazon.
These three steps also qualify you to win a signed hard copy of Stealing Mercy and a key necklace like the one on the book cover.
Thank you so much for visiting my blog. I hope you enjoy your free download from smashwords! Did you follow, comment and like? If so, here’s your coupon code BK66D. I hope you win my prizes! I hope you visit all my friends and win their prizes, too! Hurry, the coupon and the blog hop ends on February 15.

Blurb Help Wanted

2012-02-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

I’ve two blurbs I’m working on and I’m open to suggestions. The first is for A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE, the book I hope to share with the world soon. And the second is a novel I wrote many years ago and am now editing, rewriting, hacking and chopping into pieces. Originally, it was called A LIBRARY IN RHYME, but since I’ve decided to create the Rose Arbor series, that title no longer works. So, I’m also open to title suggestions. Feedback welcome and encouraged.

A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE
An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, it uproots secrets and everyone knows once one secret is told, no secret is safe. Laine’s included. While struggling to shelter her multiplying secrets—the estrangement from her husband—the unknown body lying in her grandfather’s coffin—the sudden and strange appearance of a cantankerous ghost—Laine also searches to answers these questions:
Is she willing--does she want--to end her eighteen year marriage?
What has become of her beloved Poppa Sid?
Is she truly being haunted? Or has she lost her mind?
Laine’s journey takes her to the tiny town of Rose Arbor, her grandfather’s hometown and the place of her grandmother’s death. As Laine unravels the mystery of her grandparents’ marriage she is forced to face two more very important questions—is there love after death? And if a love dies, can it live it again?

THE RHYME’S LIBRARY or THE LIBRARY IN THE ROSE ARBOR or SOME CLEVER SUGGESTION
Crazy Aunt Charlotte is missing again. Blair Rhyme, Rose Arbor’s young librarian, doesn’t bother to check Charlotte’s regular haunts- -the Veteran’s of Foreign Wars lodge, the Four H-Club, or the bins behind Milton’s Fish shop- -because unlike her past vanishing acts, this time Charlotte is dead. Blair has discovered Charlotte’s body amongst the boxes of what-nots and whatevers in the library’s basement. Unfortunately, when she returns to the library with the police in tow Charlotte is missing. Again.
A hooded face in a window, a shoe theft, her aunt’s disappearance- Blair needs to prove to the police, and to herself, that she doesn’t share her aunt’s dementia, but, a former love and a stranger with his own agenda seem intent on trying her sanity.
Desperate to find Aunt Charlotte, Blair tangles with a Boy Scout troop more interested in swinging each other from hooks in the slaughter house than doing good turns, Friends of the Library like Marcus Nichols, an aficionado of science fiction and devotee of all things alien, and Audrey Morris, a spinster who would rather blackmail than card catalogue. Blair also picks up a couple of unwanted allies, a half drowned cat and a feisty eighty-three year old Romeo who is spoiling for a fight. Blair tells him, “I’m just a librarian, hopefully years away from spoiling.”
But, she wonders if spoilage and madness aren’t inevitable. At first Blair dismisses the skin pricking sensation of being watched, but as small disturbances grow increasingly threatening, Blair must examine the boundaries between paranoia and truth before she falls victim to the enemies, real or imagined, that haunted and drove her aunt to madness and death in the Rose Arbor town Library.

First Page Fridays

2012-02-03T10:49:00.000-08:00

I entered the first page of my upcoming novel A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE on Julie Bellon's First Page Friday blog and received this critique from an editor. THANK YOU JULIE AND MS. UNKNOWN EDITOR! Read the excerpt and critique below and tell me what you think. Do you agree? Disagree? Would you like to read my book?

When you’re done, visit Julie’s blog so you can find out how you can buy Julie’s book which has just been declared a Whitney finalist!http://ldswritermom.blogspot.com/2012/02/first-page-friday.html

Soon, A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE will be available as an e-book through Amazon and most e-readers. It should return from the editor on Monday. I had hoped it would be available by Valentine’s Day, but that may or may not happen. Really, it makes more sense for a ghost story to be published on Halloween, but who wants to wait until October? Besides, it’s a love story, actually, two love stories, so Valentine’s Day seemed like a nice fit. Unfortunately, depending on circumstances, I may have to shoot for St. Patrick’s Day…and throw in a leprechaun or two. Just kidding. No leprechauns. Maybe Abe or George for President’s Day? We’ll have to see what the editor,formatter and distributor have to say.

Here’s what the unknown shreditor said:

The Entry
A Ghost of a Second Chance
by K. Tate

The Chinook wind stirred the fallen leaves and tossed them around the deserted street. An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, Laine’s mother had told her; it uproots secrets. And everyone knows once one secret is told, no secret is safe.

Hers included.

Laine paused in front of the Queen Anne Hill Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow over the eastern hills had yet to shine, but Laine hadn’t any doubt that it would rise to another scorching Indian summer day. She looked out over sleeping Seattle. The dark gray Puget Sound stretched away from her. On the horizon, distant ships bobbed and sent quivering beams of light over the water.

She turned her back on the ships, on any dream of sailing away and inserted the key into the heavily carved wooden doors. They slid open before Laine turned the key. Odd. The chapel, built in the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade of the foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through the cavernous room. The morning sounds--birds, crickets and insects--disappeared when the doors closed. Laine’s sneakers padded across the terracotta tile, her footsteps loud.

She had thought she’d be alone, which is exactly why she’d chosen to come at near dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep. She hadn’t slept for weeks. Which may explain why at first she’d thought the girl standing in the nave, facing the pulpit, her face lifted to the stain glass window, might be a ghost, or even, given her surroundings, an angel.

Although Laine couldn’t see her face, the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if she was having a conversation with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the sheep milling about His feet, giving Laine the uncomfortable sense of interrupting. The meager morning sun lit the glass and multi-colored reflections fell on the girl, giving her an iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Laine realized she wasn’t a child, but a young woman, around twenty, wearing vintage clothing.

Ms. Shreditor's Comments

I like that this chapter begins with a secret, because it gives the reader immediate motivation to keep reading. After all, there are few things more compelling in a story than untold secrets. The eastern wind carries with it the threat/promise that Laine’s will come to light at some point in this story.

The Seattle setting feels authentic because the author gives us just enough (but not too much) detail. Establishing setting in a specific geographic location can be tricky; you want to root the reader in the narrator’s environs without sounding touristy. I assess setting in a book the way a psychologist might assess a lie: Just as a psychologist suspects a lie if a person offers too many details, I suspect that an author is writing about a place he or she has never actually visited if the descriptions are too flowery or the story is full of regional clichés. There's nothing wrong, of course, with writing about a place you've never been; you just have to go about it carefully. If you pepper a story that takes place in, say, San Francisco, with sightings of the Golden Gate Bridge, trolley cars, and Rice-A-Roni, the reader is going to see through it. So make sure to do your research and establish setting with a light hand, as this author has done. Give readers enough to go on without turning it into a travelogue.

The writing in general is quite vivid. The author taps into multiple senses to engage the reader in the unfolding scene, and the story takes on an eerie quality when the iridescent girl appears.

One thing to watch for in this sample: verb tense inconsistency. In the first sentence, we have an observation from Laine’s mother in the present tense. It might read more smoothly if it went something like this: “According to Laine’s mother, an eastern wind carried more than dust and ashes; it uprooted secrets.” The first sentence of the fifth paragraph also shifts from past to present tense. You might also try to eliminate the “is” from that sentence by recasting: “She’d chosen to come at dawn so that she could be alone. Later in the paragraph, we switch again to the present with “Which may explain why…” Make sure to pick one tense and stick with it.

This chapter could also benefit from some light copyediting to resolve minor mechanical issues (e.g., “come at near dawn”) and some clunky syntax here and there. But the author does an excellent job of setting the scene, making it vivid, and leaving the reader with enough unanswered questions to keep the reader turning the pages.

Thank you so much for our submitters and for the time and effort our wonderful editors put in to help us. See you next week!

Five Things I've Learned in Five Years

2012-02-01T13:53:00.000-08:00

I’m rewriting a novel I began in 2004. Originally, it took me three years to write all 102,409 words. Most of those were stupid words. I’m not saying that in the last five years I’ve gone from stupidity to witty cleverness. Not at all. But, I’ve learned a few things and I’m here to share. (The Rhyme’s Library is now at 81,000 words and shrinking.)

1. Use wordle. Don’t know what wordle is? It’s a website that creates word clouds out of any document—the more frequent the word usage, the bigger it appears in the cloud. This is an easy way to find your pet words. One of mine happens to be “look.” He looked, she looked, everybody looked. Try it out at www.wordle.net/

2. Don’t use words you don’t typically use in conversation. I actually stopped reading Elizabeth Peters novels because her frequent use of the word orb bothered me. Some words shouldn’t be used more than once and some not at all. Same with phrases. I read a friend’s novel where the lovers kept melting into each other. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds messy and really shouldn’t happen very often. If at all.

3. Watch out for passive sentences. The Rhyme’s Library is riddled with them. Example: the word COULD. Claris COULD hear a soft voice in the background—versus--Claris heard a soft voice in the background. Another example: the word FELT. Claris ran a finger along Alec’s glass of soda, and FELT the cold condensation wet her finger tips. Better-- Claris ran a finger along Alec’s soda glass--the cold condensation wet her finger tips. Example: the word WAS. The trip to the morgue WAS a trip she COULD make alone--OR--She’d go to the morgue alone.

4. Evaluate Criticism objectively. Since writing this story, I’ve been told the same thing by two industry professionals—my plots are too complicated. The first to tell me this was an editor for a small romance publishing company; the second was a reviewer for Publisher’s Weekly—the review was part of the “prize” for my placement in the Amazon Novel Breakthrough whatever. I live by the standard that I can swallow one critique with a sugar cube, but if someone else independently tells me the same thing I should probably take note. So, I’m reading my five year old manuscript and wondering--is this too complicated? Can I be less convoluted? Another thing I’ve been told by more than writerly person is my work is “very British.” Can you believe that two people who don’t know each other would actually use the words “very British?” I don’t even know what that means. Or what to do with it. Which brings me to number 5.

5. Love your work. It may have wrinkles, fat rolls, and zits, but ultimately, it is your story. It’s your baby. Love it enough to cut away its rough edges. Coax it into simplicity. Shave off unsightly adverbs. Love it enough to leave it in a five year time out. And if someone tells you your baby is very British tell them thank you very much.

Vacations--Financial Fridays

2012-01-27T09:42:00.000-08:00

When I was little girl our family would travel. My parents would ride in the cab of the truck and my siblings, our dog and I would ride in the back of the truck. We pulled a camper that smelled of kerosene gas and bacon. After a few windblown hours, we would reach our destination—a lake, typically inhabited by a few deer, rabbits and no one else. I spent the days reading and slapping mosquitoes while my parents fished. At night we would roast fish and then listen to my dad snore.

Did I enjoy these vacations? Not even a little bit. Do I look back on them with fondness? Never.

When I approached marriageable age and dreamed of who I would marry I had two requirements for my future spouse—I had to love him and he couldn’t enjoy hunting or fishing. Period. I had no wiggle room on this last requirement. It wouldn’t have mattered if my Romeo had a thirty million dollar trust fund, looked like Johnny Depp, sang like Sting and wrote poetry like Robert Frost, if he owned a gun and used it on animals I would not have been interested. (Larry is from LA and I’m pretty sure I’ve killed more animals than he ever has—-Hey, I was there and everyone else in my family was killing animals and occasionally I ran out of reading material. Don’t judge me. )

My brother, on the other hand, had a totally different attitude to our family vacations and he grew up to be a very successful fly fishing guide. People travel from all over the world to go on fishing trips with my brother. (Check out his book—love you, Dennis, so proud of you. http://www.amazon.com/Fly-Fishing-Tales-ebook/dp/B006X8AESG/ref%3dsr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1326596197&sr=1-2)

Is Dennis right? Am I right? Yes and yes. We just have different definitions of fun. And that’s okay. Vacations are important. It’s important to have time away from our daily work. It’s important to spend time with people we love doing something that we love. And we need to budget so that we can afford vacations. And we need to calendar in our vacations. Someone once told me that memories are made by appointment and I believe it’s true.

The following is an experience I had on vacation almost two years ago. Remember, lasting memories have to be made. Nothing ever just happens.

19 Miles in Southern Argentina
I visited the Glacier National Park in Southern Argentina and hiked 19 miles. I don’t think I intended to hike 19 miles, but summer’s daylight in the southern hemisphere lasts a long time and there wasn't a compelling reason to return to the hotel.

The scenery was mouth dropping gorgeous and the weather perfect. Lakes a surreal blue, a matching sky, big fluffy clouds, a gently breeze, a soft sun, which made the thunder difficult to explain-- until we realized we weren’t hearing thunder, but the splintering and crashing of glaciers.

Whenever I’d start to feel buff and proud of my ability to hike with Larry and Nathan, I’d be passed by some 60ish sisters with serious looking backpacks. Once I was overrun by a herd of tiny Asian women who looked about as strong and substantial as hummingbirds. But, when I came to mile 10 and the sign that read DANGER, STEEP INCLINE NEXT 1.5 MILES, all the middle-aged ladies disappeared.

And after a few yards, I thought I’d disappear, too. A thirty-degree incline up loose shoal. Step one foot up, slide 6 inches down. No trees, bushes or hand holds. Serious arguing ensued and after I used words such as chauvinists, sexists, and death, I convinced Larry and Nathan to leave me behind. They went to find the lake and glacier and I sat down on a rock.

For about 3 minutes.

A teenage hiker passed by and I asked him far to the glacier. 20 minutes, but he assured me it was worth the climb. So, I came up with a plan. I took 60 steps and then picked up a pebble (they were plentiful.) When I had five pebbles (300 steps) I allowed myself to sit down and replaced the pebbles with a rock. When I had two rocks (ten minutes, 600 steps) a pair of hikers passed and I asked them how long to the glacier. 10 minutes, they said. By the time I had another rock (300 steps, 5 more minutes) I crested the hill and could see the lake and glacier below. I could also see Larry and Nathan at the water’s edge. I found a place to sit down to watch them. I didn’t need to join them; I just liked seeing them together.

There’s the old maxim, by the yard it’s hard, but by the inch it’s a cinch. But, it wasn’t a cinch, ever. It was hard. If I hadn’t taken it at my pace and allowed myself to occasionally sit down, I wouldn’t have made it. But, I did make it. One pebble, one rock at a time. Was the view worth the climb? I’ve seen prettier postcards, but watching Larry and Nathan together at the lake’s edge, that was worth seeing.

When Larry and Nathan caught up with me, Nathan said, “I knew you could do it, Mom.” Which was nice to hear, because I didn’t know I could. We were still 9 miles from the trailhead, but it was all downhill from there.

And How Does That Make You Feel?

2012-01-25T10:32:00.000-08:00

I’m sure that everyone has a writing mantra, and this is mine. When I’m writing and I come to a plot point—occasionally I stop and ask myself this question. If my plot twist sits well, I carry on. But sometimes, it just doesn’t “feel” right. I can’t explain it any better than that. There is a literal physical ‘tingling’ when I know the idea is good and conversely there is a physical ‘argh’ when I know something is just ….whatever it is….cliche…predictable…stereotypical…stupid

This is where my critique partners, writing group and beta readers come in. Often, they can diagnose the problem and help me right/write the wrong. But, lots of times I’m on my own. And I always have to rely on how it makes me feel. No one else can do this for me.

There are many names for ‘that feeling’—gut reaction, muse, inner critic, spirit—but whatever name you choose to give to your inner voice, I really believe that its quiet tutoring is the difference between an argh and a tingle. The trick is to recognize, listen and then try to capture it on paper (or computer screen.)

I suppose there are many ways to do this. I once heard of a famous writer’s wife who complained that often it’s hard to tell the difference between plotting and a nap. Stephen King takes long, solitary walks. I had a writing instructor who wrote on note cards, each representing a scene, and taped them all over his office wall. I’ve friends who swear by computer software that helps organize stories. Some writers get together and make a storyboard—plotting for them is a group effort. Frankly, I’ve never done any of these things (except for the long walks.)

It’s those ah-ha moments that bring me to my computer each morning. I never want to diminish the magic or steal the luster of those occasional really good ideas—the ones that make me tingle.

When the Hero Disappears

2012-01-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

Here’s the beginning of the novel I started seven years ago. I really like it. It’s a mystery. It’s not a romance. But here’s the thing—I’m about fifty pages into my revisions and I’m wondering WHERE IS ALEC? I remind myself that this is a mystery. It is not a romance. I don’t care….WHERE IS ALEC? The story is soooo much more interesting when he’s around. He shows up a lot more after page 77, but I’m not sure I want to wait 70 pages for his reentrance. And if I don’t want to then probably my readers won’t want to, either.

Sigh.

THE RHYME’S LIBRARY

Brobdingnagian \brob-ding-NAG-ee-uhn\ , adjective:
Of extraordinary size; gigantic; enormous.

The wind whistled and moaned around the library, tossing branches and bending trees. A near human-like scream tore Claris’ attention away from the open dictionary, but she dismissed the storm’s violence and resumed her work.
She brought her finger down on a random word. Brobdingnagian--she wrote the word and definition on the chalkboard above the circulation desk and came up with her own sample sentence. Drake Isling is a brobdingnagian twit. And because she gave each of her library patrons a chocolate for every sample sentence they gave her, she took one for herself, even though Brobdingnagian was technically tomorrow’s word. Today’s word was tenebrous: dark; gloomy. Tenebrous describes the weather and my mood, she thought and then realized that she deserved another chocolate for her second sample sentence. My thighs will be brobdingnagian if I don’t stop eating these chocolates. Another sentence—another chocolate.
The bell tower on the nearby Lutheran Church tolled five. Finally, she could close the library. Stop eating chocolates, she told herself, drive to Western Washington University and confront Drake in front of the students lingering after his American Lit class. She knew that there would be a handful of coeds hanging around in Westchester Hall waiting to talk to him. She knew that because she used to be one of them.
Well, not anymore. She’d never wait for Drake again. After today, of course.
The lights flickered and Claris considered it a warning. Wind storms wreck havoc on electrical lines and power outages were a common winter occurrence in tiny Rose Arbor. Flickering candle light, a roaring fire and a good book were only enjoyable at home. But, she wasn’t going home. She was going to Bellingham to confront Drake. Gathering up her things, she debated her plan. Confront Drake or wait out the storm in front of a fire with a Mary Stewart novel? Fight sluggish traffic, wind and rain for the hour drive to Bellingham or cuddle under a quilt and read? Undecided, she locked the heavy wooden doors and headed for the light switch.
Knocking. Someone at the door or the wind? Looking over her shoulder she saw the door knob rattle. It took her a moment to unlock the heavy wooden doors. The storm’s cold wet wind flew in the library, and Claris looked in confusion at the pitching trees and driving rain. Gray skies cracked with lightning. She was about to go back inside when she saw a huddled figure at the side of the porch.
Dressed in a ratty brown coat and mud caked jeans, Will Harris crouched in the flower bed, his head bent low to the ground. He appeared to be kneeling in prayer in the storm. Will, a regular attendee at the library’s story hours, lived on a farm just outside of town with his brother and grandmother. Because of his rapt attention to her stories, his quiet lisp, and unkempt hair, Claris both loved and pitied Will. Not even school age, he typically walked to the library for story hour unattended and now here he was alone in the middle of a storm. She knew it was hard to live with an aging parent, and she guessed Will’s older brother was his chief, albeit reluctant care giver.
Claris ran to the edge of the porch and yelled over the storm’s noise to get Will’s attention. Rain pelted his matted hair and rolled down the shoulders of his jacket. He knelt in the dirt between a rhododendron bush and the side of the library, his face inches from the mud, his hand inserted into a drain pipe.
Rain spilled over the side of the library and beat upon Will’s face and mingled with his tears. Claris came around the porch, pulled her sweater tight across her chest, and ignoring the mud and rain she knelt beside Will.
That’s when she heard a tiny, whining meow. A kitten had taken refuge in the storm drain--its cries and claw scratching in the metal pipe barely discernable above the storm’s racket.
Claris lowered her face down toward Will and he looked at her with big brown eyes that welled with tears. “Buggerbrain, Todd’s dog, “killed all of Midge’s kittens but this one here,” Will said between bighting back sobs, “and my grandma won’t let any of the cats in the house.”
Claris frowned at the rusted pipe. It could probably be cut by a sturdy pair of gardening shears, but she guessed that the easiest, quickest form of rescue would be to unclog the drain.
“Could you keep him? I can’t take him home. Buggerbrain will get him, just like he got the rest.” Will’s big eyes pleaded with her. “Can you keep him?”
She didn’t know if she wanted a kitten, but she did know she didn’t want to squat in the rain After giving a Will a quick pat on the shoulder, she went to the office to fetch a plastic shopping bag and umbrella.
Will trailed after her, talking. “Everyone knows how you live alone and have nobody and but your crazy aunt. And now they say she ain’t talking no more, so you’ve got no one to talk to, and of course, there’s only whispering at the library. No real talking going on ‘round here--”
A small community, an insane artist of small renown- of course people talked. They talked about anything and anyone, and Aunt Charlotte was interesting. Parading through town in her nightie, throwing apples at passing cars, spraying painting neighborhood dogs, Charlotte provided entertainment the town couldn’t get on the local cable stations.
“Of course, kittens can’t really talk,” Will said.
“And that’s a good thing,” Claris said, returning to the porch. Quickly, she explained her course of action to Will. She saw him look hesitantly at the roof, the second story window, and the trellis that ran up the wall. The trellis looked capable of supporting the dormant rose vines. She hoped it was capable of supporting her.
After giving Will a brief wet hug of encouragement, she ran up the stairs, threw open a second story window, climbed out onto the window ledge and tentatively stuck a toe of her penny loafers onto the trellis.
Will gazed up at her with wide eyes, and she tried to wave cheerfully at him. Grabbing the trellis with both hands, she gave it a tug to test its strength. A quick look at the ground assured her the fall wouldn’t break anything that wouldn’t heal, she swung out onto the trellis. This is brobdingnagian mistake, she thought, promising herself another chocolate.
Rain beat upon her and trickled down her neck. Her straight skirt hampered her climb, and she pulled it up to increase her range of motion. Dormant rose vines plucked at her stockings, snagged her sweater, and scratched her hands as she scaled the wall. When she reached the roof, she shot a jubilant look at Will. Todd, Will’s brother, had the child by the arm and leered at her.
Suddenly conscience of the skirt bunched around her hips and the red panties she was quite sure that Todd could see, Claris called down to the boys. Todd grinned back.
“Nice seeing you, library lady,” Todd yelled at her, his tongue ring making his words slur. He tugged Will away.
Claris watched the two figures, one dressed completely in black leather, the other splattered in mud, disappear into the woods that edged the grounds of the library. The bag that Will was supposed to use to trap the kitten lay in the mud like a deflated balloon.
Claris stuck her hand into the muck that clogged the drain and threw it at the retreating backs of the boys. It splattered on the ground. The dead leaves, mud and sticks felt slimy and cold, but she hurriedly mucked out the drain while balancing on the trellis. She was rewarded with a whoosh of water. Triumphantly, she looked down to see the kitten washed out into the garden bed. It stood on shaking stick legs--its fur matted to its skin and protruding bones. It stared, frozen in place, as she climbed down the trellis.
The kitten bolted up the stairs of the porch when Claris jumped off the trellis. She landed hard on the grass, her hands breaking her fall. She stood in time to see the kitten tear into the library through the wide open door.
At least it’s a smart cat, Claris thought as she went after it. She tried to brush the dirt and leaves off her skirt, and she slipped off her muddy shoes and soaking sweater and left them on the front porch before entering the library. Standing in the doorway, searching, she called, “Here kitty, kitty.” A tail, gray and rat-like stuck out from under a rack of books. She lunged towards the bookcase, and her stocking feet went out from under her.
Finding herself on the wooden floor, Claris turned to see the kitten watching her with one blue and one brown eye. She placed one hand in front of her for the cat to plainly see, and snaked her other hand behind the creature. The cat tried to dart away, but Claris grabbed it from behind.
Rolling onto her back she held the squirming, skinny kitten in an outstretched hand in the air above her face. She and the small, gray, and rodent like animal considered each other. “I shall call you either Mouchard after Mrs. Frisby’s famous rats, or Rat-fink,” she told the cat. “Depending on which suits you best.”
The cat twisted in her hand and suddenly she felt grateful to the animal for diverting her thoughts away from Drake. She rolled over, clutched the tiny, clawing cat to her chest and went to the basement in search of a box.
Clutching the kitten with one hand, she slipped her silver bookmark into her novel, and gathered her raincoat and umbrella before heading towards the door that led to the basement. She cradled the kitten in her arms and he held onto her sweater with tiny claws.
It had been less than a year since Claris had converted the Greek rival style home that her grandparents had bequeathed to the town into a library. Her grandparents generosity had stopped at the bestowal of the house and property. Money for upkeep or improvements hadn’t been a part of the will, and an outdated monster of a furnace that needed to be adjusted manually heated the house.
Opening the basement a blast of cold air hit Claris. Somewhere an unlatched window thumped. Odd, she thought as she made her way through the dank and dimly lit basement, maneuvering through stacks of books, magazines, and old newspapers. Who would open a window down here?
Damp and moldy, the basement was a breeding ground for mildew and fungus’ that aggravated her allergies. What else might breed in the basement, she didn’t
want to know. Rodents, undoubtedly. She looked at the kitten in her arms that had finally stopped squirming, and now shivered against her chest. “Are you a mouser?” she asked. “Because I believe this basement could be a rodent smorgasbord.”
She’d been avoiding the basement. As a child she had been terrified of the roar of the furnace, and leery of the dark, cobwebbed corners, and as an adult she was overwhelmed by the flotsam of a family that she had never really known. Claris sniffed and then sneezed. Reason told her that the basement needed to be cleaned, but for the moment she was grateful for the clutter because she within moments she found a fishing creel and an old towel. She dropped the towel in the creel and then placed the kitten in the newly created cage and secured the lid with a leather strap. The kitten mewed pitifully at her.
“Sorry, but I can’t have you roaming free on the ride home,” she told it.
Clutching the basket she went to turn down the furnace. The natural gas furnace was almost her height, and many times her width. It coughed and burped as if it suffered from a digestion problem. Claris turned the heat down to 68 degrees, and then glanced around to find the open window. The wind howled, and for a moment the lights flickered. She took a deep breath, and followed the thumping noise. It came from a room behind a heavy wooden door. Someone had locked it. Why? She fumbled for a moment with the outdated latch and then wrenched it. The latch broke in her hand and the door swung open.
In a corner a window beat to its own erratic rhythm. Little more than an air vent, the window was scarcely six inches high and a foot wide. From the outside it sat only inches from the soil and hid behind a lilac bush, but from the inside of the basement it was high above Claris’ head. Standing on tiptoes, she secured the window at the same moment lightning flashed, a roll of thunder shook the house, and the electricity went out.
The meager light from the window filled the basement with a soupy darkness. Claris jumped, and would have laughed at her own skittishness if she hadn’t accidentally dropped everything except for the creel. A spark of frustration matched a flash of lightning and Claris saw her belongings at her feet, the books and raingear--not the keys. Squatting, she patted the dusty, cold cement with one hand. The basement floor sloped toward a center drain. Although she couldn’t imagine the keys rolling, she moved along the floor in that direction.
A crash of thunder, followed by another moment of lightning showed a gleam of something white wedged between stacks of boxes. Feeling along the floor, Claris pushed against the clutter, hoping to find her keys, but instead found a white sock tucked into a familiar pair of ked sneakers, a dark straight pant leg, and a man’s white shirt.
Aunt Charlotte. She lay on her side; her head lolled at an awkward angle. Claris touched her, and then peered into blank eyes. “Charlotte?” Gently, Claris spoke her name, and picked up a limp, cold hand. Claris began to shake. Putting down the creel, she knelt beside her aunt, and tried to lift her into her arms. Wildly, she thought of CPR, but Charlotte remained wilted and unresponsive and Claris knew that she was dead. Claris couldn’t see any blood or signs of violence. Why had Charlotte come to the basement? How? Typically, the manor called when Charlotte managed to escape her room.
A rustling in the bushes outside distracted Claris. A rat? No, a human face with a sharp nose, barely distinguishable through the mud splattered window. Rain slid off a black slicker, and the tears of rain on the window distorted the features.
Claris called to them for help, but the person stood in a swirl of slicker and disappeared.

CHAPTER 2
Remora: \ REM-er-uh \ , noun;
An obstacle, hindrance, or obstruction.

She thought the nameless face would come to help, but after a moment of huddling in the dark basement, holding her lifeless aunt, and hearing no one approach, panic set in. With tender awkwardness, Claris returned Charlotte to the floor. She picked up the kitten’s creel before bolting towards the stairs.
Stumbling through the gloom and maze of boxes of debris, Claris tripped once over a viola case and tore another hole in her tights. Righting herself, she plunged through the dark to the top of the stairs and finally reached the phone and caught her breath. She picked up the receiver and knew immediately that it, too, was dead. She scrambled through her purse for her cell phone before remembering there wasn’t cell service at the library. No one could call to tell her Charlotte was missing. She couldn’t call anyone for help. Bolting, she took about three steps into the storm before returning for her shoes. She had left them by the front door.
Inexpensive, dirty, size six shoes that no one would possibly steal. Where were they?
She gazed into the library. Charlotte dead, a face in the window, her shoes missing. Was she alone? Somewhere from inside the library a door slammed. The wind, Claris told herself, but when the kitten began to cry, Claris darted down the library steps.
Staggering more than running in stocking feet and a straight skirt, Claris cast a backward glance at the library high on Olympic hill. Rain pelted against her face and soaked her blouse as she toward Main Street and downtown. A streak of lightning cracked the gray sky; thunder rolled with an intensity that shook the sidewalk. Above her wood cracked as a bough of a pine tree broke in the wind. It tumbled to land in a heap beside her. Fallen twigs and branches scattered on the sidewalk poked her feet and shredded her stockings. Clutching the kitten’s creel, she ran the quarter of a mile to the first house.
Claris paused at the gate of Audrey Mortenson’s home to catch her breath. Audrey’s windows were dark, not surprising given the power outage, but the chimney didn’t curl with smoke and the house wore a vacant, empty look. The gate creaked as Claris pushed through. Bracken and large, green slugs littered the walkway. She pounded up the steps and banged on the door, but her knocking sounded hollow.
The rain trickled inside her shirt, soaked her shoes, and filled her eyes as she turned away continued running and stumbling down Main. She could barely see, but it didn’t really matter. Aside from her brief years in college, she had lived in Rose Arbor since Charlotte’s accident. Claris knew the streets well.
She ran into a large, warm expanse of flannel. For a small moment a rain slicker engulfed her, and then she tangled with an umbrella. In her efforts to extract herself, she slipped on the wet pavement and fell with thud on her rear. The creel landed beside her and the cat cried in protest.
Claris looked up at her impediment and saw a pair of heavy boots, Levi jeans, a flannel shirt and an unbuttoned dark green slicker. Rain and embarrassment washed over her. She pulled the creel onto her lap and checked its strap.
“Are you all right?” A tall man with wavy, honey colored hair gazed down at her. She stared up at him. He looked familiar—and then Claris realized he looked like her! Same coloring, curly hair and green eyes—he could be a sibling or a distant cousin—except that Claris didn’t have any family. Except for Charlotte. He stooped down to take her hand to pull her upright. His large hand swallowed hers. “You’re shaking.”
Stepping out of the umbrella’s protective canopy, the rain beat against her. Large, wet maple leaves cart wheeled by and attached themselves to her legs. Claris shook herself, managed to run a trembling hand through her hair and stammered at the man, “I am so sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry, here, let me help you.” He held the umbrella over her.
“No, thank you,” she murmured, stepping away from him.
“Don’t you have a coat, or anything?” He followed, umbrella aloft.
Claris shook her head as she fought the rain. Wind whipped through her hair, and tugged at her wet blouse.
“Wait!” he called, hurrying beside her. “Would you like a ride?”
“I’m not going far.” She pressed on.
“Let me come with you, share my umbrella,” he said, easily overtaking her and blocking her path. He looked pointedly at her shoeless feet. “Let me help you.” He bowed his umbrella towards her. His eyes traveled over her and she hugged the creel closer to her chest. “Have you been fishing?” he asked.
“What?”
He pointed the fishing creel.
“Excuse me, please.” She pushed past him, but he easily kept pace and held the umbrella over her head. I don’t have time for this, she thought and the words became her internal mantra.
“Where are your shoes?”
Claris tried to match his face with the one at the window. It could have been him. She pressed into the wind, trying to ignoring the potential murderer holding the umbrella over her head, but when she stubbed her toe on an uneven bit of sidewalk and dropped the creel, he was beside her.
The kitten shot out of the creel. Claris tripped towards the escaping kitten and stubbed another toe on a bump in the sidewalk. “Bugger,” Claris swore and the man laughed.
She looked into his good-natured face, and fought the temptation to smack him. With a throbbing toe, Claris limped after the cat shimming up a trunk of a maple into the maze of branches.
“Kitty, kitty,” Claris called. The cat scampered out of reach.
Rain trickled down Claris’ upturned face, and she tears welled in her eyes.
The tone of the man’s voice softened. “I’ll get her. What’s her name?”
“Mouchard.”
“Moose-what?”
“Mouchard.” Claris sighed. She closed her eyes against the tears and immediately saw Charlotte lying on the floor of the basement. Her knees buckled and she reached out to brace herself against the tree trunk.
An old Ford wagon splattered up the street, and stopped at the curb. “Claris?” Emily rolled down the window.
Claris looked at her old friend. “Can you take me to the police?”
“Get in the car, dear,” Emily said. The wind ruffled Emily’s gray curls and teased her lace collar. “You look a fright.”
Claris glanced at the kitten and then at the man.
“I’ll save the cat,” he said. “You go get the police to find your shoes.”

And then he disappears until page 77. Double sigh. I'll have to change this.

Congrats!

2012-01-23T09:19:00.000-08:00

Congrats to #27 June! She won the hard copy of my novel Stealing Mercy and the silver key necklace in my birthday blog hop give away. Stay tuned for more free stuff.

The Mortgage--Financial Fridays

2012-01-20T08:32:00.000-08:00

It was election day, 1994. Larry and I walked home from doing our civic duty, discussing how our lives would change. With one ultrasound we’d learned that we would soon out grow our house, our car and my jeans. We began house hunting almost immediately, but we ended up moving into our new home when our twins were four days old. This wasn’t our plan, but finding and buying a house took longer than we expected and the girls came earlier than we expected. I didn’t love our new home then, and sixteen years later, I don’t love it now. I don't think it's a pretty house.

Samuel Clements, aka Mark Twain loved his home in Hartford, Ct.: It had a heart and a soul and eyes to see with; and approvals and solicitudes and deep sympathies; it was of us and we were in its confidence and lived in its grace and in the peace of its benedictions. We never came home from an absence that its face didn’t light up and speak out in eloquent welcome—and we could not enter it unmoved.

We bought our house because it is big and has a very generous kitchen, but mostly because it backs on to the school, the park and is a hop, skip and jump from the community pool and tennis courts. This house made my life easier when my circumstances were difficult. I loved that I could sit in my bedroom, nurse my girls and watch my children playing at recess on the school playground. I’ve loved having my floors and sofas covered with sleeping bags, pillows and friends. I’ve loved making Thanksgiving dinner for thirty in my kitchen. I love living here, but I still don’t love this house. I love the people who live here and the life we lead, but I could walk away from the house.

I've since decided it’s not the house that's important--it’s the life lived inside its walls and beneath its roof.

I agree with Miss Fanny Price, the heroine of Jane Austin’s Mansfield Park.
Her plants, her books, her writing desk and her works of charity and ingenuity were all within her reach…she could scarcely see an object in the room which had not an interesting remembrance connected with it.

So, when purchasing a house I think it’s important to consider the mortgage, the taxes and insurance, but I think how you live is much more important than where you live. Emily Dickinson wrote, “I live in possibilities.” And fortunately, possibilities aren’t limited to any one address or neighborhood.

Book Cover

2012-01-19T09:35:00.000-08:00

I made a cover for my new novel A Ghost of a Second Chance. I’d love to hear your opinions, although I’m not sure they will sway me. I’m in love with my cover, partly because looking at it reminds me of that late afternoon in Laguna. Every time I look at these pictures I’m reminded of the people I love who came with me to this place I love, to take pictures for the story I love and how amazingly wonderful it is that I have so much love in my life

I know that my connections to the story, the time and place, and the people in these photos are unique to me. No one else will be as moved by them. No one else will ever have the same tie because they didn't make the same emotional investment. But yesterday a stranger told me how much she loved my book and that gives me a tiny glimmer that maybe I’ve shared a smidgen of the magic.

And that makes it all worth it.

Books About Grown-ups

2012-01-17T16:55:00.000-08:00

No worries. The blog hop lives on. Scroll down to the Birthday Blog Hop to find out how you can enter to win more than 200 prizes including my novel, a necklace and oh yeah, a free download of my novel Stealing Mercy.

Now, a word in favor of grownup books.

I live in Rancho Santa Margarita, CA. We moved here when the lake was a hole in the ground, the golf course a splotch of mud and the library was a promise. Coyotes used to roam the streets and for awhile a naked homeless man lived in the canyon. We’ve grown up considerably since those early days before grocery stores and dry cleaners came to settle in the town center. Now, we not only have water in our lake and grass on the golf course, we also have restaurants, movie theaters, and a fine library. Rancho is a lovely place to be, but that doesn’t mean anyone from Mission Viejo shops here. The rumor is that Rancho citizens will shop in Mission Viejo, simply because for years the shopping in Mission Viejo was the closest option, but the favor isn’t returned. Why would the Mission Viejo people ever need to cross the bridge to Rancho? It just isn’t done.
Can the same thing be true for young adult lit? Adults read books about teenagers, but do teenagers read books about the middle-aged? (Probably only if they’ve been given school assignment.) With this knowledge in my pocket, it makes sense to write young adult lit. Except that it seems that everyone has a young adult story to tell…and did you know that the majority of readers are sister baby-boomers? Baby boomers have the most disposable time and income—but are they interested in reading about the middle aged?
The novel I just finished, A Ghost of a Second Chance, is about a woman approaching forty. Forty isn’t old. There’s a joke about a woman going through menopause who is at the doctor’s office and she tells him, but forty is the new thirty and he replies, tell that to your ovaries. So, our ovaries haven’t gotten the message, but has our society? With the rise of magazines such as More and bestsellers such as What Alice Forgot and Chasing Rainbows can we say the tide has turned? Can we start reading about grown-ups?

I hope so. I really want to catch that wave. But, tell me what do you think? Is the world ready, willing and eager for books about grown-ups or is the fascination with youth too strong to overcome?

Birthday Blog Hop

2012-01-12T20:09:00.000-08:00

(Grendal, who is usually my model, is clearly upset she wasn't chosen to wear the necklace)

Welcome to my birthday blog hop! Today I’m celebrating two very important events—my birthday and the finis of my novel Ghost of a Second Chance. To commemorate these milestones I’m offering a coupon for a free download of my novel Stealing Mercy for everyone who:
follows my blog
leaves a comment
and likes my novel on Amazon.
(Yes, I was born on Friday the 13th—you’re not really surprised, are you?)
These three steps also qualify you to win a signed hard copy of Stealing Mercy and a key necklace like the one on the book cover.
Thank you so much for visiting my blog. I hope you enjoy your free download from smashwords! Did you follow, comment and like? If so, here’s your coupon code HH82R. I hope you win my prizes! I hope you visit all my friends and win their prizes, too!

Transportation Terrors- Financial Fridays (on Thursday)

2012-01-12T09:01:00.000-08:00

Trains and plane and boats and buses characteristically
Evoke a common attitude of blue,
Unless you have a ticket and suitcase and a passport
And the cargo they are carrying is you.

Manhattan Transfer—A Foreign Affair

Sadly, transportation, or lack thereof, can cause all sorts of frustrations and expense. Here are just a few of our adventures with cars.

When our oldest son, Adam, was a baby we drove a Datsun Kingcab truck. We loved the truck because in those early years we moved a lot and all of our possessions fit in the back of the truck. We bolted Adam’s car seat to the floor and strapped him in. We were good to go. Until we had Bethany.

With Bethany’s birth we decided we needed a bigger car, but living under the belief that we couldn’t, shouldn’t go in debt, we bought a used sedan. Which was great, until we moved from California to Connecticut.

In Connecticut, we only needed one car because Larry rode the train. Unfortunately, we didn’t have even one car. When the sedan rolled off the moving van, it refused to shift out of first gear. I discovered this on Adam’s first day of kindergarten when we were trying not to be late and the sedan could not be coaxed to go more than seven miles an hour.

We desperately needed a car, so in typical Tate fashion, we rented a car and went on a car safari. After the hunt, we finally settled upon a used Grand Am sedan that had previously been a rental car. Three times we tried to buy that car. The first time the salesman couldn’t complete the sale because the owner of the dealership was out sick. Because Larry was working a new job, we had to buy the car on a Saturday—his only day off. So, we waited another week and then made the second attempt. Sadly, we lost the keys to our rental car and spent that entire Saturday searching for the lost keys. We found them that night under the covers of Bethany’s bed. Another week passes with the rental car. And on that Saturday—the dealership was closed. We don’t know why. We could see our chosen Grand Am in the lot, but we couldn’t buy it. Another week passes and the car situation is desperate enough that Larry decides to take a day off work. We rethink the Grand Am, buy newspapers, look at car ads and decided to test drive a brand new minivan. Considerably more expensive than the Grand Am, it sat seven and we were a family of four. We didn’t need the van, but we could afford it, we wanted it and we bought it with cash.

Two days later Larry was asked to be the scout master for the boy scouts. Thirteen thirteen year old boys—we needed a bigger car. That van was the first to serve in a long line of years of devoted to church youth groups.

Skip ahead about fifteen years to when I wrote the following letter.

We recently experienced a death in our family. Our ten year old, fifteen passenger Ford van died. Lately, nearly everyone I meet has asked of its health, so I thought it worth mentioning. It enjoyed a long, joyful life of service, but it huffed its last puff of smoke in Vegas. (Turns out it’s true that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.) It died carrying a troop of 16 and 17 year old boys and their gear on their way to hike the Narrows in Zion’s National Park. I can’t think of a more appropriate end.

The night we bought the van Bethany, who now has a husband, baby and college degree, Nathan, currently serving a mission in Argentina, and Jared, 17 years old and taller than his dad, enjoyed a rousing game of hide and go seek inside the van. Very few vehicles could offer has many hiding spots. The van served in many other important capacities. It carried girls in formals and boys in tuxes to many proms. It drove numerous carpools. It hosted sleep overs, pulled boats and trailers. Filled to the rafters, it made trips to the dump. It even served as a ladder to and from my son’s bedroom window. (And you thought we didn’t know.) It was always easy to spot in a crowded parking lot and it had an enormous horn. Other cars always gave us a wide berth.

Some of my favorite van stories include the day I was at lunch with a group of friends and I got a call from Nathan claiming that the van was missing. A friend, over hearing my conversation, exclaimed, “No one would steal it!” Even though it was legally parked, it had been towed because “the neighbors claimed it blocked their vision.” Another time when we were idling at the curb and had just picked up my daughter’s new boyfriend and future husband from the airport a strange man with a suitcase climbed in, sat down and gave us all a funny look when we burst out laughing. He had mistaken us for a hotel shuttle. Once when we were caravanning to a mountain cabin, friends who were supposed to be following us, trailed after the wrong van. After much honking and light flashing, they pulled along beside a van they thought to be ours and found KinderCare written in large block letters on the side.

The van’s passing marks, for us, an end of an era. With three of our children grown, another with college applications in his hand and one foot out the door, and two teenage girls who will soon find other rides with drivers more hip than their parents, Larry and I rattled like two forgotten peas in a giant tin can. Our children have grown and our car has died.

We’re going to buy a convertible. (Or, if work doesn’t pick up, a basket for my bike.)

Skip ahead about three years to not a letter, but a blog post.

Nancy Drives the Carpool
Paulie Marshall wrote: “Sometimes a person has to go back, really back – to have a sense of understanding of all that’s gone to make them – before they can go forward.”

I’d like to point out that we bought our fifteen passenger van because Alex, husband to Nancy and the most geared headed person we know, recommended the Ford 150 vans. When we were younger and had flocks of children, Nancy drove a 150 and I drove a 350 extended van. And it was great. There were many times when I had my six children, Nancy and her five children and a couple of dogs in the van. We were always noisy, but generally happy.

Nancy’s kids are now all adults and she drives a Mercedes convertible which comfortably seats Nancy and her dog, Sandy. Last week I asked Nancy if she could drive my carpool. Since she works at the school where my girls attend and I knew that her family has a collection of cars in a variety of sizes, didn’t think this would be a problem.

On the given day, Nancy forgot to trade cars with her daughter and she found herself in front of the school folding four teenagers into a car built for two. Taylor sat in front. Natalie, Miranda and Alex squished into the back, sitting, pretty much on top of each other. No one cried and no one died, although I’m sure there was a lot of bouncing and groaning as they rolled over speed bumps.

There’s a lot of life lessons to be learned from this experience.

Even though after one look at Taylor Nancy knew her car was inadequate for the job, she still showed up and did the best she could with humor and grace.

Just like the ducking that occurred when Nancy and crew passed a police car so they wouldn't be cited for clearly breaking the seatbelt law, sometimes you have to keep your head low and try to accomplish what needs to get done without drawing unnecessary attention.

As we get older and pass from one stage of life to the next, it’s easy to forget lessons already learned. As a mom of teenagers and young adults, I sometimes forget about bottles, pacifiers, and the need for large vans.

On the days when my semi-grown children are challenging, I’ll feel nostalgic for the days when they brought me flowers and drew me pictures. They were sweet and my memories of their childhoods are tender, but I also have to remember the tantrums, spilt milk and the carpet that often smelled of vomit and urine.

And then be grateful for the convertibles of this stage of life.

So, what does this collection of stories have to do with saving money on transportation? My point is this—buy the car you need, not necessarily the car you want (honestly, who wants to drive a silver fifteen passenger Ford Econoline? And believe me, I’m not suggesting that everyone goes and buys one—that would be silly and bad for the environment.) Look at what you can afford, what purpose needs to be filled and make your purchase carefully and maybe even prayerfully. And when the time comes and should you lose the rental car keys, think again because maybe your needs are more than you had ever imagined.

Exercise: When buying a car, always check the newspaper ads. Often there are cars advertised “only five at this price”—we always buy one of those five cars. They are the loss liters used to draw in potential buyers. Of course, the dealership hopes that once you are on the lot you’ll be charmed and wooed by the fancier bells and whistles on the sleeker models. But, with the newspaper ad in your hand and a checkbook in your pocket, he has no choice but to sell you the car he advertised. Especially if you’re paying cash.

I know this is contradictory to the standard advice to always buy used. But we tried used and found that cars are a lot like puppies. If you buy one carefully and take very good care of it, it will be a very nice animal for a very long time. Misused cars, misused dogs—well you’re never quite sure what problems you’re inheriting.

So, we buy new but we buy cheap. Often the new cars we buy are less than the listed Kelly Blue Book price—which is particularly helpful when the car is totaled by teenage drivers. This has happened to us twice (which could be a topic for another blog post) and both times our insurance paid us more for the destroyed car than we had paid for the car brand new.

If you love cars—ignore this post. Buy the car of your dreams, if you can afford it. But, if you just need a car that can carry you from place to place without headaches and hiccoughs, buy new, buy cheap and hold your breath when your teenager gets behind the wheel.

CROSSED and Tortured Teens

2012-01-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

A friend gave me Ally Condie’s Crossed to read. After forty pages I put it down and I’m going to try and understand why, not for Mrs. Condie’s benefit—I don’t worry about her, I think she’s a brilliant writer and my little humph I think not will not hurt her career in the slightest—but for my own writer-self. Why do readers put down a book mid-way? Why do viewers abandon a TV show they once loved? I’m sure there’s a zillion answers to these questions, but I’m going to focus on my personal reasons for putting aside Crossed.

I really enjoyed Condie’s MATCHED, but my daughter did not. The prose is lovely, I said. The whole thing is cliché, Natalie responded. And when I thought about it, Natalie was right. One girl, two boys, one approved, one forbidden, the girl loves them both.

I hate love triangles. I know they work for Stephanies Meyer and Plum, but having lived with teenagers for the last fifteen years and having been one once myself, I also know that when the typical teenie is gaga for a boy she doesn’t look right or left. She’s listening for HIS footsteps. She’s waiting for HIS call. Just the scent of HIM puts a spin in her tail. Everybody else is about as important as gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe. Just ask her long suffering and often neglected best friend. (Come on, we all know this! Why do we let young adult authors convince us it can possibly be otherwise?)

And then there’s the evolved society that in its righteous desire to create a utopia went power hungry south. I loved the Hunger Games. I read it in one sitting--didn't eat, sleep and tried not to pee--and when I was done I had to change my shirt because that book made me sweat. And Catching Fire, when I came to the end, made me swear. I barely endured Mockingjay and loved nothing but about the last two pages. I don’t think I’ll ever read another dystopian novel.

And that’s not Mrs. Condie’s fault, because, as I said, I think her prose is lovely, but I just don’t want to read about tortured teenagers. Teenagers torture themselves enough already in real life—I don’t want to read about it for fun. Because for me…it’s just not fun.

And that’s why I put down Allie Condie’s Crossed.

Taxes and Other Legalities--Financial Fridays

2012-01-06T06:28:00.000-08:00

Marta and I used to run with our dogs in the canyon. We knew it was a violation of the city’s ordinance, but we did it anyway. We had our reasons.
1. We ran early, often before dawn. If you combined the weight of our three dogs—we had about 300 pounds of fur, muscles and teeth. I’m not exaggerating, my beagle was extremely overweight and one of Marta’s dogs weighed 140 pounds…and she had two. We felt safer with our dogs.
2. Running on the canyon’s dirt path is much better for our joints and innards than running on concrete or cement.
3. We liked running in the canyon.
4. No dogs in the canyon is a very silly ordinance.
We were caught and received fines of $360. Marta paid her fine. I took mine to court.
After listening to complainants whining over their fines for offenses much more grievous than mine, the judge looked at me and said, “It says here that you were walking your dog.”
I launched into my reasons of why I thought it was a ridiculous, not to mention sexist, ordinance and was promptly rewarded with a lecture on how to rally my neighbors and fight an unjust law, a lowering of the fine from $360 to $100 and a drop of the criminal charges.
Years later, Marta divorced and consequently returned to the work force. Our morning runs (now on the concrete sidewalks) ended. Marta called me one day, furious. She had applied for her dream job and had considered her new position a done deal until they sadly told her that they couldn’t hire her because she had a criminal record! (All for walking her dog in the canyon.)
Theresa, a financial analyst, enjoyed a generous salary and regular lunches at a fast food place near her work. One afternoon after ordering her typical meal at her favorite lunch spot, she found that she didn’t have the cash on hand to pay for her lunch. The owner said, “That’s okay, you come here all the time. Just pay me next time.” So, Theresa never went back. She got a free lunch! If she went back, she’d have to pay, so she never did. But, what did she lose? Her ability to look that owner in the eye and all her future lunches at her favorite place.
Clair and Eric hired a young woman to stay with their seven children for a week while they went on a trip to Hawaii. They agreed to pay her, but never established a price. At the end of the week they gave the young woman a muumuu and a box of macadamia nuts. What had their vacation child care cost them? Not much, unless you consider their reputation and the goodwill of the young woman (who never spoke to them again, but spoke about them behind their back plenty.)
Everything has a cost, although not all expenses can be measure by dollars and pennies. A lost friendship. A smeared good name. Freedom from unpaid debts. A sense of integrity. Carefully consider all costs--fiduciary, social and emotional.
So, whether you’re parking illegally, walking your dog, or cheating on your taxes, my advice is DO NOT DO IT. Be honest. Always. Period. Say what you’ll do and then do what you’ve said you would. Make and keep promises. And contracts. And friends.

Exercise 4
Look around your home and heart—is there something there that belongs to someone else? Return it. Replace it. Make amends. Say you’re sorry and let it go. No matter how much money you have, you can’t afford to hold onto anything that doesn’t belong to you.

Cover Critiques Wanted

2012-01-05T18:24:00.000-08:00

A few exciting things are happening.

1. I’m crossing the final humphda of my current work in progress. The story that felt as solid as Jello has finally melded into something I love. It goes to an editor in ten days—just enough time for some spit and polish.

2. I got a photo shop program for Christmas and I’m excited to learn how to design my own book covers. This means two things—next month I’ll be publishing not only my new novel A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE, but also my short story MAGIC BENEATH THE HUCKLEBERRIES.

3. Next week I’m a part of a massive blog hop and I’m planning on slashing the price of the e-book edition of STEALING MERCY (for a limited time.)

So, here’s my question. Can you tell my novel STEALING MERCY is a romantic suspense from its cover? I love the cover. I loved creating it, BUT would it sell better if it’s cover screamed this is a romaction that will keep you awake at night? Should I redesign the cover before the price slash? (Get a gander of my book on the sidebar.)

Opinions welcome. Thank you.

The Letter I Should Have Written

2012-01-04T09:08:00.000-08:00

Every Sunday I write a letter to my son, a missionary in Taiwan. This past Sunday, being New Year’s Day, I wrote the letter same as always. I mentioned Nathan’s creation of his music video to the Veggie-Tale’s Cheeseburger Song (which is hysterically funny) but then I yammered on about a disappointing real estate deal which I followed up with a long and boring paragraph on marketing my novel.

That same day, my sister-in-law sent out an e-mail describing all the fun and happy ways their family had celebrated the holidays. Here’s the painful thing—our family had also done more than our fair share of celebrating. We went to the beach, built a bonfire, and roasted hotdogs and marshmallows while the sun set. We sent our children on an elaborate scavenger hunt where they had to sing to strangers, recite the Gettysburg Address and build boats and set them sailing in Rancho’s lake. We played games until our minds turned to mush. We threw firecrackers and lit sparklers. Made and ate sushi. Toasted each other with sparkling cider. Walked every morning in the canyon—a parade of Tate’s--dog, babies, teenagers and grownups. I should have written to Jared about all these things, but I didn’t. Because at the moment when I sat down to write—they weren’t on my mind.

What was I thinking about? The real estate transaction turned sour. The fact that a friend from my writer’s group has sold tens of thousands of her self-published novels in the last seven months compared to my hundreds. Here’s a couple of excerpts from my letter:
About the condo: We’re feeling a little like nothing ever happens despite our best efforts—which might be for the best in the long run, but it’s certainly boring.

About my book: I’m learning marketing and strategy and it’s all very fun if not very profitable…but maybe that’s not the point. If it was, I’m sure I’d be very frustrated with that look at all I do, look at all my effort, and very little happens in return feeling.

Discouragement seeps through my letter and it’s so ridiculous because those disappointments are so heavily outweighed by all the love and laughter of our holiday.Reading Rebecca’s letter reminded me that by not writing down, by not remembering the wonderful things that happen—it’s like they never did. The beach at sunset, the games and laughter, the sparklers in the night sky—those are the realities to be remembered.

Real estate investments, books sales—those are nothing but a numbers game dependent on good fortune and chance and I’d have to have a mind of mush to consider them more important than marshmallows, sparklers and the beach at sunset.

Closets, Drawers, Diets and the New Year

2011-12-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

A native proverb says each soul is a house with four rooms: intellectual, spiritual, physical and social. To live a balanced life, we need to spend some time in each room every day. There is a similar scripture--Luke 2:52 “And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man.”

Every January our family gathers for an evening of goal setting. Basing our goals upon the scriptures we have the four areas of focus—
Wisdom (knowledge)
Stature (physical)
And in favor with God (spiritual)
And man (social)
And then we add to the scriptures by including
Financial
And the ominous Other

On the designated night, one by one, we take turns facing the giant 2x3 white board where we’ve written our goals. Larry, the keeper and administrator of the goals, used to keep this board in his closet where it only saw the light of day once a year (actually, it never saw daylight since we have our annual goal accounting on a winter’s night) Since we were generally unsuccessful meeting (or even remembering) our goals, we’ve since moved the board to the kitchen, where it sits propped up against the wall, mocking or encouraging us, depending on how we’re feeling about our successes (or failures.) Anyone visiting our kitchen can see our goals. This can be a little awkward when we’re partying and anyone can see e abolish sweets on our board while we’re inhaling cake, or when Billy Bob comes over and sees be nice to Billy Bob as clear as day.

Is this goal exposure bravery or stupidity? I’m not sure. But in a spirit of sharing, or rash exposure—here’s my accounting of last year’s goals.

Intellectual: Learn digital photography. I did this, in fact with my new photo shop computer program, I’m taking this goal a notch higher.

Physical: Eat only healthy foods 6 days a week. I’m sure I ate plenty of healthy food 6 days a week, but I ate a lot of other food (food being a relative word) as well.

Spiritual: Read the New Testament. I did this.

Social: Using my new photography knowhow, make a memory book for my dad’s birthday. With the tutoring of my photographer daughter, I did this. It’s a beautiful book.

Financial: Market novel twenty times or get a publishing contract. Since I decided to self publish, I ditched the publishing contract idea and marketed my book way more than twenty times. I’m still learning marketing.

Other: Organize every cupboard, drawer and closet. I did not do this, but I did buy an organizational system for my closet, put it to use and sometimes my closet looks like a million bucks. I took a giant cork board, covered it in silky fabric and lace and made a place to hang my jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets and ear rings hang on it as well as one of my favorite quotes And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music. It makes me happy every time I look at it.

And so what did I learn this year (other than digital photography?) I learned that I can organize and control my own closet and that trying to maintain organization and control over space and events that I share with others is futile and frustrating. It’s really best to focus on what I can do, what I can offer and bring to the world and let go of the dreams and aspirations that hinge on someone or something else. Take pride and pleasure in my own efforts and contributions and appreciate what may or may not come back my way.

And this is true of more than just closets, drawers and diets.

My 2011 Favorites

2011-12-26T10:23:00.000-08:00

Wandering through the art galleries of LaConner, Washington with Rebecca. It was too early for the tulips, but since the fields were filled with snow geese, we didn’t care.

Grocery shopping with my dad and spending a day cooking in the kitchen where I grew up, filling my aging parent’s freezer full of premade meals.

Attending Adam’s graduation from law school, reading Lois Lowery’s THE GIVER on the plane ride.

Attending the LDS Storymaker’s conference and redefining my writing goals—coming to the decision to self publish.

Taking pictures of Miranda for the front cover of my novel.

Lounging in a big leather chair at the Mission Viejo mall at 4 am, reading Sarah Dessen’s novel THE TRUTH ABOUT FOREVER and waiting, first in line, for my iPad2.

Hanging out at the lake with my girl’s camp friends, reading Angela Morrison’s TAKEN BY STORM.

Learning how to be a stake relief society secretary and mastering the excel spread sheet.

Celebrating my dad’s 90th birthday with about 300 of his closest friends in the Arlington, Washington ward chapel.

Feeding ducks with Sterling on the Olympic peninsula.

Visiting the sea lions on the central California coast. Reading WHAT ALICE FORGOT on the long drive home. (I LOVED this book, but be warned, it's Australian. If you love Australian and British work as much as I do, you know what I'm taking about)

Going to BYU’s Educations Week with my daughters. Editing my novel during the long drive through the hot desert. Playing the game where Natalie would read a random half sentence from my book and I would try and finish the sentence—something I could do with about 90% accuracy.

Holding the paperback version of my novel STEALING MERCY in my hands.

Hanging out with Melanie Jacobson and about a hundred of our friends, celebrating the release of our books at Nothing Bundt Cakes in Mission Viejo.

Going to see ANONYMOUS with Larry.

Sitting up late into the night with Nathan, working on our ECLECTIC BOOKS catalog.

Hanging out with Jill on a snowy, autumn day.

Watching MIDNIGHT IN PARIS, my very favorite Woody Allen movie with my family.

Discovering SPY, a British sitcom and my new favorite TV show (so sorry Stephen Cobert, you’ve been bumped.)

Meeting Shirley and eating chocolate chip waffles in Provo.

Spending Thanksgiving at Bethany’s new home in Vegas. Reading Sarah Dessen’s LOCK AND KEY on our drive home.

Talking to missionary Jared on the phone on Christmas day.

Sitting beside the Christmas tree, writing on my blog, a stack of books on the table beside me—DEATH COMES TO PEMBERLY, DECEPTION AT LYME, CLEANING NABOKOV’S HOUSE, WITCHES OF EAST END, THE NIGHT CIRCUS, MOCKING BIRD, SPIDER WEB, and THE CLOCKWORK PRINCE. Next year, 2012, I’ll read all of these books and many more. I don’t expect to love them all, just like I don’t expect to love every experience that comes my way.

This year I published STEALING MERCY. Next year I hope to publish my nearly completed novel, A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE and also the novel that spent ten months on an editor at Berkley’s Publishing desk, A LIBRARY IN RHYME. I should soon finish my first go at non-fiction, THE REMEDIAL MONEY BOOK. And then if I’m very, very productive I’ll write the novel bouncing in my head that may or may not be called BITZY’S BLOG.

The future is very uncertain, but as long as I’ve books to read, ideas to write and an incredible abundance of people to love, I’m grateful and awed by the everyday magic that I call my life.

Swaddling Clothes—the Clothing Budget. Financial Fridays.

2011-12-23T09:58:00.000-08:00

It’s two days until we celebrate the birth of the Savior of the world and somehow it just seems wrong to post about shopping…except it’s something that we all indulge in…something that some of us do with exaggerated excess. Since I’m tired of shopping, I’m going to write about something that I know very little about it and try to relate it to something I’m far too familiar with.

Jesus, through Mary, his natural born mother and Joseph, his adoptive father, was of royal blood and would have been king if Israel hadn’t been under Roman rule (see Matthew 1:17) According to Jewish custom, the swaddling clothes, the strips of cloth Mary used to wrap her baby, bore the symbols of her royal heritage. When the shepherds came to worship the baby Jesus, they would have immediately recognized him as their rightful king by the markings on his swaddling clothes.

Which brings me to the question—are we recognized for who we are by the clothes we wear? (Bloggers looking for financial advice are now clicking away in disgust—please wait before you click—this isn’t a lesson on modest dress, I promise.) There are plenty of ways to save money on clothes—garage sales, thrift stores, second hand shops, season end sales, coupons and group-ons, but remember, it’s two days before Christmas and I’m tired of shopping…

One of the few lectures I attended and enjoyed with my husband when he was in graduate school was given by a professor of organizational behavior on “dress for success--” a popular buzzphrase in the 1980s. (Remember power ties?) He said that the reason the business world wears dark boring suits is so that nothing in their appearance would detract from their ideas. What you wear should never call attention from what you have to say. Your shoes should never receive more admiration than your thoughts.

When Larry worked in Midtown New York, we lived in the commuter town, Darien, Ct. A hefty portion of the town’s population daily commuted to the city. We lived about two blocks from the train station and Larry walked to and from the station, but sometimes he would run. Not because he was late, but because he was cold and running was much faster than walking. After awhile, he learned to stop and walk if he saw a car approaching because, inevitably, the driver of the car would assume he was late for his train and stop and offer him a ride. Since he is unsocial by nature, this embarrassed him. Darien is a beautiful community—we had wonderful neighbors there, but I wondered if Larry had replaced his suit, tie and brief case for jeans, a corduroy jacket and a backpack—would the cars of Darien have stopped and offered him a ride? No, probably not. Right or wrong, assumptions are made by the clothes we wear.
New York City investment bankers follow a strict uniform code. The earlier the commute, the stricter the code. In the fall—raincoats--and then one late autumn day wool overcoats replace the raincoats…their attire is far more predictable than the stock markets. For a good reason, remember the advice of the organizational behavior professor--never let your appearance detract from what you have to say. Don’t try to hide behind your clothes.

In New York City, I saw women wearing tea length fur coats to the Macy Day Thanksgiving parade. I have never seen women wearing fur to the Rose Parade in Pasadena, California. Again, for a variety of good reasons, but the overriding reason, the one I want to talk about, is that a fur coat in California would be as out of place as a pair of flip-flops on the stock exchange floor.

If you’re a den mother, wear the lemon yellow shirt with pride. If you’re a yogi, wear your leotard. It’s worth the cost—whatever that is--to let the world know who you are, what your purpose is, and that you need to be taken seriously, because your daily work is seriously important.

Fortunately, for me, I write novels. This means that I get to spend the day in fuzzy pajamas. On the days I wear clothes, I can slouch in pants with holes in the knees and sweaters that grow fuzz balls, but, every once in awhile, I need to look like a respectable, contributing member of society. Sometimes, although usually not, I want to be taken seriously and when I do—I dust off my best clothes and put them on. And although the suit doesn’t change who I am inside and underneath, I can move and act with confidence, knowing that the skirt won’t slip and show my white belly, or that the blouse won’t shift and expose my bra strap. Well cut clothes can do that for you and when you need them, it’s nice to know you have them at the ready. I’ve heard it said that fashion is all about what doesn’t itch, but sometimes, every once in awhile, it’s also about looking your best so that you can share your most brilliant ideas without worrying about your outward appearance—which should never outshine who you are on the inside.

Exercise
If you don’t already have the power suit, save your money and invest in two good outfits--one for summer and one for winter. Make sure they fit and are well cut. Buy matching shoes. (Maybe I’m not as tired of shopping as I thought.)

Super-e-reads

2011-12-22T09:44:00.000-08:00

So excited! Stealing Mercy is featured today at super e-reads. Curious? Click here.
http://super-e-reads.com/2011/12/stealing-mercy-by-kristy-tate/

Grendal's Christmas Greetings

2011-12-20T09:18:00.001-08:00

Merry Christmas,

Grendal here. No one else has time to write the annual Christmas letter so I’m doing it in hopes that someone will stop making and eating cookies and put on their sneakers and take me for a walk.

Adam’s got his sneakers on. Since graduating from BYU law school and passing the California bar, he’s moved into the downstairs bedroom and now he’s picked up his keys. He’s walking out the door without the leash.

Bethany’s Chandler would take me for a walk if he were here. Their family moved to Las Vegas when Brandon graduated from chiropractic school, which is great because they’re able to visit a lot more. Chandler is always up for a romp and Sterling usually has something sticky and delicious on his face and he doesn’t mind being licked. Both boys are pretty good about dropping food and spilling milk.

Nathan is rarely around. He studies information systems at BYU and travels to places like Mexico, Japan and Bolivia on service stints. He found the time to help the mom with her online catalog of friendly family books, eclecticbookscatalog.com (look for the mom’s book) but he doesn’t have time for a walk.

Jared hasn’t been here for more than a year. He’s a missionary in Taiwan. He’s named after his Grandpa Dickson who just celebrated his ninetieth birthday, but I wasn’t invited to that party or that vacation. But neither was Jared junior. He stayed in Taiwan and I stayed with pet sitters.

Natalie is on the Tesoro academic decathlon A team and is in the a cappella choir. She spouts random facts and sings, but she doesn’t drop food or run.

Miranda is on the comedy sportz team and is a drama thespian. She’s funny and generous with the treats as long as I do tricks, although for me that means jumping through hoops—literally.

The mom doesn’t drop food. In fact, she sweeps up dropped food--such a waste. She also eats all the chocolate—which happens to be my all time favorite food. I have to scrounge for it. She spends a lot of time in the kitchen, making all sorts of different types of food, drops almost nothing, sweeps up after herself and feeds me kibble.

The dad only takes me running when the mom comes with us because he has an aversion to poop bags. He thinks he’s too busy and important because he’s senior vice president of whatever and executive secretary of whats-it to pick up poop.

Wait…I hear the jingle of the leash. I smell socks. I have to run. I love this time of the year when the air is cold and crisp and bright lights shine from all the houses and chocolates are passed from friend to friend…and sometimes dropped. May we all paws to consider the gift and life of our Lord and God and give thanks for the only gift that truly matters—love.

Merry Christmas from the Tates and Grendal, the dog.

Thoughts for Food--Financial Fridays

2011-12-16T06:58:00.000-08:00

Financial Friday is a weekly post of excerpts from my remedial money book.

Kelly arrives on campus with money in her bank account. It’s September, so the account is fat, but Kelly knows that whatever is in the account now has to last until December. If it doesn’t, she’ll have to call and ask her dad for more and she’d really, really rather not. The accounting, the explaining, the justifying (her) and the lecturing, sighing and grumping (her dad) is too steep of a price to pay. The rent, the books, the school fees are pretty much up front. She handles those first so that she doesn’t really have to think about them. Because she likes clothes almost as much as she likes shopping, she has a closet full and won’t be needing anything more for the rest of the semester (or, really, her lifetime.) Unfortunately, Kelly has to eat. Every day, four times a day, to be exact. There are some expenses that have to be considered on a daily basis. Here’s Kelly’s meal plan.
7 am. Breakfast—cereal and fruit $1.00
12 pm Lunch with friends at school $3.00
3 pm. Fruit $ .50
6 pm. Vegetables with cheese sauce $2.00
When Kelly goes to the grocery store, she buys hot chocolate, fruit, applesauce, bread, milk, cereal, eggs, maple syrup (Kelly likes to eat French toast when she’s glum) and cheese. Not having a lot of time and having to grocery shop when her roommate with a car decides it’s time to go, Kelly doesn’t give much time to menu planning and she generally eats pretty much the same thing every day, unless she has a date and he offers to pay for dinner, in which case she’ll pick something closest to the cheapest thing on the menu—she eats a lot of salads and soups. On Sundays, she eats with her roommates, the only day of the week where she eats meats and desserts.

Kylie and Kim are newlyweds living off of summer savings, scholarships and grants. Like Kelly, they also begin each semester with a fat bank account that dwindles as the semester nears the end--the difference is they cannot call their dads if their money runs out because they have serious pride issues. They take weekly turns with the cooking and meal planning, but they generally do their grocery shopping together. On Sundays they go for a walk and buy a Sunday paper and will spend on hour or so going through the paper cutting out coupons that they’ll take to the store that doubles coupons. When they shop they’re armed with a menu, a grocery list and coupons. They rarely deviate from their list.

Karla’s husband has an hour commute into the city and Karla has three preschool age children. Because Karla’s time with her husband is precious, she doesn’t like to leave him in the evenings nor does she want to waste their Saturdays in the grocery store. But, as much as she dislikes leaving her husband, or facing a crowded Saturday supermarket, Karla hates shopping with preschoolers even more. So, once a week Karla gets up at five am to do her grocery shopping. She shops at the only store that is open at that hour and has become good friends with the workers who stock the shelves. Because she has more money than time, she doesn’t even look at coupons or store advertisements, but she does make a menu and a list and she rarely deviates from it. She makes four meals a day and they rarely eat out, because eating out with preschoolers is almost as fun as taking them grocery shopping.

Kayla has six children in five different schools. She lives in a neighborhood with more than twenty school age children and it’s common for Kayla to have 10-15 kids hanging out in her kitchen looking for something to eat. Kayla grows plums, peaches, apples and tomatoes in her yard. The kids are welcome to eat anything off the trees that aren’t green—the tomatoes are never chosen. She bakes a lot of cookies. She does her grocery shopping while her children are at piano, or soccer, or swim. She makes out her menu for a month at a time and she doubles her recipes so that she’ll serve half and freeze the other half and save it for a (another) busy day.

Because Krista’s husband’s office is less than a mile from their home, he routinely comes home for lunch. Occasionally, they’ll go to their favorite taco place when his days are slow. Krista shops at two stores weekly—the warehouse store for her milk, bread, cheese, eggs and chicken, and the local place where she always finds the best produce. Every once in a while she’ll go to the expensive grocery store when steaks or roasts are on sale. She shops with a list, makes menus and even though it’s usually just her and husband at the dinner table, she enjoys making dinner. When her grown children are in town, she’ll load up on food at the warehouse store.

I’ll confess, I named all these women K names because I have been all of them. Kelly, Karla, Kayla and Krista—they’re all me at different stages in my life. I’m not saying that these are the best and smartest ways to grocery shop—I know that there are a myriad of ways to shop and save—what I am saying is that everyone needs to find a pattern that works for them and their current lifestyle.

Another confession—I often have guilt because I’m not my mother. I don’t have a life anything remotely like my mother’s. When I was growing up, my parent’s vegetable garden was larger than my California back yard. As a child, I spent countless hours snapping green beans, shucking corn, picking fruit and weeding. Our neighbors had dairy farm and since my dad owned a construction company, we had dump trucks which we would use to haul tons of manure we would spread on our vegetable garden. My dad and brothers liked to hunt and fish and we had a freezer full of bear, deer, pheasant, rabbit, elk, trout, salmon and a little fish called smelt. We ate tail, liver and tongue. We had an entire room in the basement dedicated to food storage and my mother and aunts spent weeks out of every summer bottling fruit and canning vegetables.

I do none of those things. I don’t have an acre of land or dump trucks or dairy farming neighbors. My husband doesn’t own a gun or a fishing pole and we live in harmony with the deer in the nearby canyon. I admire my mom for all that she accomplished and I hope that she would admire me for what I’ve accomplished—even though the difference is much bigger than my dad’s dump trucks. Did my mom spend way less at the grocery store? Absolutely. Sigh….

Exercise
Using the grocery store ads, make a menu using the food currently on special and a corresponding grocery list. Don’t deviate when you go grocery shop.

I'm Guest at Greyhart Press Today!

2011-12-15T17:15:00.000-08:00

Hey! I'm a guest today at http://greyhartpress.com/. I'm only responsible for the post, not the graphics. And no, my novel Stealing Mercy isn't a horror or a fantasy....but stop by anyway. Tell me what you think. Kristy

The Mud Run Miracle

2011-12-12T13:39:00.000-08:00

I just read an interesting thing on a blog. I don’t follow very many blogs, which is completely hypocritical since I love that people follow mine, but I do enjoy the PNWA (Pacific Northwest Writer’s Association) newsletter and editor Bill Kenower’s blog. But, the interesting thing I read on his blog was, actually, not something he wrote. It was the caption at the bottom that read This entry was posted on Monday, December 12th, 2011 at 5:30 pm. Assuming Mr. Kenower lives in Seattle, this caption implies that somehow he is living life 5 hours ahead of Pacific Standard time. Is he living in another realm? Or is it a computer glitch. Which is not nearly as interesting as a time warp.

Mistakes happen all the time. And sometimes they’re so small and insignificant, that I don’t take the time to find out the whys or wherefores. Take, for example, the mud run.

The Camp Pendleton mud run is held twice a year at the military base just off the coast near Oceanside. Wearing throw away clothes and old sneakers, runners wade through a lake, slog mud pits, and climb hills while marines squirt them with fire hoses. I paid money to do this. When I got to a wall I had to climb, a marine stood ready to help. The woman in front of me said, let me do it by myself. After watching her scramble, I said You can help me. He picked me up and literally threw me over the wall. I had imagined a friendly boost, not a heave. Asking for help was my mistake.

Thousands of runners participate in the mud run and I assume everyone brings a bag with a clean change of clothes. I chose to bring a rather funky bag I got from the PNWA that has Pacific Northwest Writer’s Conference, the sword is mightier than the pen written across the front. I told my running partner no one else is going to have a bag like this one. Thinking that it would stand out in the sea of bags and I’d be able to find it easily at the end of the race. And it did stand out and I did find it easily. But, when I opened it I also found 4 new mud run t-shirts from the spring run. (This was October)

Confused, I took my bag and shirts to the guy passing out the current run t-shirt and asked what gives. Don’t you want them? He asked.

Sure.

So, sometimes mistakes work in my favor and sometimes they land me face down in the mud and it really isn’t worth the time or the bother to figure out why.

So, I took my free t-shirt experience and turned it into a scene in the novel I was currently writing, Shells Charms, and gave thanks for not only the t-shirts but also the idea. I was given more than t-shirts that day and every time my husband wears the mud run shirt I gave him I smile and remember.

Ditching Debt Financial Fridays

2011-12-09T14:14:00.000-08:00

Well we're waiting here in Allentown
For the Pennsylvania we never found
For the promises our teachers gave
If we worked hard
If we behaved.

So the graduations hang on the wall
But they never really helped us at all
No they never taught us what was real
Iron or coke,
Chromium steel.

And we're waiting here in Allentown.
But they've taken all the coal from the ground
And the union people crawled away.

Every child had a pretty good shot
To get at least as far as their old man got.
If something happened on the way to that place
They threw an American flag in our face.

Well I'm living here in Allentown
And it's hard to keep a good man down.
But I won't be getting up today.
Billy Joel—Allentown

Marty worked dang hard in undergrad and got himself into the Harvard Business school. He did well. Came out of school with a great job. A few years later, landed an even better job. But, when the economy turned sour and his new company cut expenses—Marty became the most expensive item on the spread sheet and the first thing cut. Now, middle aged he’s too expensive for hire.

After thirty plus years of being a stay at home mom, Lindsey , recently divorced, decided to go to school to become a radiologist technician. The program was difficult, grueling. Two thirds of the class dropped out, but Lindsey hung in there, worked hard, graduated near the top of her class. But, she ‘s close to sixty—and even after all that hard work, she’s unemployed.

The stories continue and the debts mount. People who played by the rules- who worked hard, who ‘behaved’- aren’t finding their promised Philadelphia. And it’s hard, sad and disappointing. There’s no mitigating that, but do the graduations hanging on the wall- really not matter at all?

The scriptures tell us:
Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.
And if a person gains more knowledge and intelligence in this life through his diligence and obedience than another, he will have so much the advantage in the world to come.
Doctrine and Covenants 130:18&19

And not just intelligence and knowledge, but also perseverance, tolerance, patience, determination, and a host of other admirable qualities. And although we can’t hang those attributes we developed and honed while pursuing an education on the wall, no one can take them away from us either. They are an indelible part of who we are. Regardless. Not everything comes with a dollar sign attached.

But, still the price for those attributes may have been high. Debts might have very possibly been incurred. Here’s a debt elimination calendar to help.

“Mark off several columns on the left, write the names of the months, beginning with the upcoming month. At the top of the next column on the left, write the name of the creditor you want to pay off first. It may be the debt with the highest interest rate or the earliest pay-off date. List the monthly payment for that creditor until the loan is repaid. At the top of the next column record the name of the second creditor you want to repay and list the payments due each month add the amount of that monthly payment to your payment to the second creditor. Continue the process until all loans are repaid.”
Marvin J. Ashton

“I urge you to be modest in your expenditures; discipline yourselves in your purchases to avoid debt to the extent possible. Pay off debt as quickly as you can and free yourselves…If you have paid your debts, if you have a reserve, even though it be small, then should storms howl about your head, you will have shelter for your wives and children and peace in your hearts.”
President Gordon B. Hinkley

Exercise
If you have debt, begin a debt calendar.

The Pitfalls of Lysol, Chocolate and Tootsie-pops

2011-12-06T14:57:00.001-08:00

Have you ever done something out of kindness that inadvertently hurt, embarrassed or offended someone? That’s the worst—when you think you’re being thoughtful, kindhearted or generous and—splat. It just lands flat.

So many mistakes are just mistakes. I think very few of us ever intend to be mean or cause harm. Remember the big hair in the eighties? This was a particularly challenging era for me—hairdo-wise—because I’ve very little hair. I used a lot of hairspray. Once, when I was late for something dressy, I thought I sprayed my hair with hairspray but had inadvertently picked up a can of Lysol. I had to spend an evening with investment executives smelling like fresh pine tinged with ammonia. Another time I went to church and a kind woman informed me that the back of my dress was tucked up- exposing way more than I would ever intend. Turns out, I’d sat on a half eaten, very sticky tootsie-pop. Another time, I was on my way to a parent teacher conference and eating a chocolate bar for my dinner. Somewhere along the way half of the candy bar must have fallen into my lap—where it melted, leaving chocolaty goo between my thighs. If I went home I’d miss the conference, but wearing white pants smeared with chocolate didn’t really seem like an option, either. Because the cost of the teacher’s regard was worth the cost of a new pair of pants, I stopped at a store along the way and pretty much bought the first pair I saw. The sales people were sympathetic and kind.

So, whether it’s Lysol, or chocolate, or tootsie-pops, sometimes we have to pay for new pants, expose our backsides or spend a smelly evening, because mistakes happen.

But wouldn’t it be great if they didn’t? I wish I could go through life doing everything perfectly, but that’s never going to happen. Not even for one day. Not today. And probably not tomorrow, either.

Eclectic Books Catalog

2011-12-05T10:46:00.001-08:00

Introducing Eclectic Books- where old world values meet today’s technology. We hope you’ll take a moment to share our catalog with your family and friends, reminding them to include books written by authors of faith in their holiday wish lists. To visit Eclectic Books, please click here- http://www.eclecticbookscatalog.com/
Merry Christmas!

Paying Cash for Karma- Financial Fridays

2011-12-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

Karma: the cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished according to their actions and thoughts.

I’m not sure how much faith I have in karma, but I do believe that you don’t have to completely understand something to have it work for you. Take, for example, cell phones, electricity, airplanes, kidneys…

So, when I stop to help a stranger, do I expect repayment? No. Never. But, I do expect good things to happen, because, in my life, generally, good things happen. I’m not sure why, I just know that good things usually come my way. So, I try to do good things in return and it’s like a spiral moving upward, even when I can’t see a beneficial outcome or a repayment of any kind.

For example, years ago my children were on a neighborhood swim team (go RSM Dolphins). My neighbor mentioned that she’d have to pull her kids off the team because of work conflicts. I offered to drive her kids to and from swim team, resolving her conflict. For me, this was NOT a big deal. Standing on my balcony, I can see the neighborhood pool (that’s how close it is). Driving her kids was a matter of throwing their wet bodies and towels in the car and depositing them on their front porch one minute later. A few weeks later she offered to take my children to a summer arts program where she taught. This was a big deal. She took my children to and from the program everyday for two months. (It was thirty minutes away and conflicted with my twin’s nap time). I never would have been able to have had my children participate in that program without her help. And I’m pretty sure she never would have offered to drive my children if I hadn’t first offered to drive hers.

Another example, a woman I worked with in our church went through a painful divorce. She’d been married for more than thirty years. We became friends. I tried to help her as much as I could. She moved to Lees Summit, Missouri to live with her daughter. About two years later, my sister went through a painful divorce. She had also been married for more than thirty years, and she was moving to Lees Summit, Missouri to live with her daughter. Maybe the move was a coincidence, but I think that because I’d been a good friend to Martha, Martha went out of her way to be a good friend to my sister. She welcomed her at the airport. They went to movies together. Eventually, they became roommates.

One last example, when I was working on my first novel, I pretty much wrote my character up a tree and I couldn’t figure out how to get her out. For two whole days I fretted how I could resolve her conflict. Then I was asked to drive a woman to the Bishop’s Storehouse (the Mormon equivalent of a food bank). This takes about three hours and would eat up (no pun intended) my writing time, but I agreed because, hey, there wasn’t any writing going on, my character was up a tree. What happened may not surprise anyone, but it surprised me. The ladder up the tree didn’t come on the way to the storehouse, or while I was filling the order, or while I was driving back to her apartment, or while I huffed the bags of groceries up the flights of stairs, but the resolution did come and it was brilliant. And I couldn’t wait to get back to my story. Since then, similar scenarios have happened to me repeatedly. I now take a notebook with me to church and to the temple, because that’s where I have some of my very best ideas.

That’s why I believe the best financial advice for living and writing is this- live life as fully as you can. Do good, be good, think good thoughts and good things will happen. That’s why I placed charitable contributions at the top of my budget.

I don’t believe that all blessings are financial. I’ve lived long enough and hard enough to know that for some people, abundance is a curse. And so, when the Lord promises to open the windows of heaven, the promised blessing may not be in coin or dollar form. The trick is to offer to the world what you can, set aside something for someone other than yourself and then “prove the Lord”—blessings will come. Maybe just not the ones you expected. That’s part of the magic.

Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.
Malachi 3:10

Exercise: If you’re not already making charitable contributions, search out a worthwhile charity and set aside a portion of your budget for a monthly contribution. Keep a record and watch for blessings.

The Eyeball Sucking Debate

2011-12-01T14:06:00.000-08:00

Last night it was my turn to read at my writing group and my bit about sucking out an eyeball generated a debate. Some loved it. Some hated it. My critique partners (who are not members of my writing group) also didn’t like it. So, I’m throwing it out here and asking—is it too harsh? Does it pull you out of the story? Does it seem unbelievable? Because it really truly did happen to a neighbor kid—he had a black eye for weeks. And in California the middle school PE classes have about 90 kids in them. It’s sort of a joke. (My apologies to the good physical education teachers—I know you’re trying to do your best in a beleaguered educational system.)

Believe me, I realize that I don’t deserve to have my questions answered. Because I read my stats page, I know that there are a lot of people who daily visit my blog and I really don’t deserve any of you. So, don’t answer if you don’t have an opinion. You don’t even have to read the excerpt. (But, I’d really like it if you would. And if you have an opinion, I’d love to hear it.)

By the way, this is a flash back.

FROM A GHOST OF A SECOND CHANCE
She’d seen Ian weeks before she’d meet him. Tall, lanky, dark hair, fair skin and blue eyes. He wore narrow cut jeans, a button down shirt and a pullover sweater and he’d looked out of place in a school of lumberjack wannabes in plaid shirts, steel toe boots and massive belt buckles. The only class they shared was PE. He spent fourth period running while Mr. Teller, track coach, cheered him on. Since Laine spent fourth period avoiding Mr. Teller, hanging out on whatever opposite side of the field Mr. Teller happened to be on, pretending to exercise, it seemed unlikely that they’d ever meet, especially since there were ninety people in the class.

And they didn’t meet, then.

But sometime in between the jumping jacks and free choice, Clyde Perkins, Kyle Evans, and Jess Leonard met up with Myles Ackerman. They pinned him beneath the bleachers and tried to suck out his eyeball. Pinning him probably wasn’t too hard. Clyde and friends played football and were used to tackling much bigger players than scrawny chess captain Myles, but sucking out an eyeball proved impossible. People talked about it for almost as long as the hickey around Myles’ eye lasted.
Ian hadn’t interfered with the eye sucking. Like Laine, he probably didn’t even know about it until after the black eye had appeared. Unlike Laine, he’d probably been running around the track oblivious to the kicking, screaming and sucking beneath the bleachers.

What caught Laine’s attention happened later the next day when Myles sat alone, a bruised and lonely outcast in the school auditorium, target of jokes and spit wads, and Ian, the new guy with his Boston accent and his Irish flash, the star of every Thurston Middle School girl’s fantasy, sat down on the chair beside Myles, talked to him, and casually draped his arm across the back of Myles’ chair.

Laine knew right then and there that Ian was not only kind, but incredibly brave.

And maybe not that smart.

The Very Best Part About Being Sick

2011-11-29T12:27:00.000-08:00

Our family has the vomit and eat Jello sort of illness. This is bad because:

I haven’t made my bed for several days because I keep on getting in it and sleeping.
Natalie is on the sofa when she’s supposed to be at school.
Adam has been playing video games for hours when he’s supposed to be at work.
My husband hasn’t showered in days and we share a bed.

I was supposed to put the finishing touches on my novel this week and it still has holes big enough to float the mighty Mississippi through. (Or since it takes place in fictionalized Arlington, Washington- the Stillaguamish.) Anyway, my point is because I have all these people floating around and cluttering up my space, my writing has suffered almost as much as my intestines.

The scriptures say that we can take any adversity and turn it for our good-- "Know thou my son that all these things will give thee experience and shall be for thy good." D&C 122:7 This is hard to do when you’re tired of jello, sick to your stomach, cranky and wondering exactly how to make Sid reconcile to his death (Ghost of a Second Chance- the novel that is semi-finished). But, here’s my attempt.

Good things about being sick:
I can lie in bed and read Sarah Dessen novels all day.
Someone else will clean up the dog’s vomit. (Did she just feel like she had to participate? Or is she sharing our virus?)
No one cares if dinner doesn’t happen.

But, I think the really best part about being sick for me is realizing how much I love my real, healthy life. I love praying with my family before they leave home and begin their busy days. I love running in the canyon as the sun rises. I actually like cleaning my house- rubbing lemon oil into the furniture and squirting the mirrors with polish. I love sitting down with my computer and spending time with characters I find interesting and exasperating all at the same time. I enjoy sitting with my family around the dinner table and talking about what happened during our busy days.

And all of that begins again tomorrow, maybe, hopefully, and if not tomorrow, then soon. And that’s the very best part of being sick—realizing how amazingly wonderful it is to be healthy.

Financial Fridays Chapter 4, The Budget

2011-11-25T09:08:00.000-08:00

“Complications can be serendipitous.”

“Is that a word?” Mercy took Trent’s proffered arm and slid a glance at his face as she fell into step beside him.

“Absolutely, it was first coined in 1754. It's defined as "the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for." Horace Walpole, parliament member and writer, used it in a letter that he wrote to an English friend who was spending time in Italy. Walpole came up with the word after a fairy tale he once read, called The Three Princes of Serendip. As their Highnesses travelled, they were always making discoveries, by accidents and good fortune, things for which they weren’t searching.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” She blinked at him and looked as if she expected him to grow wings and fly away.

“The three princes hail from Serendip, the Persian word for the island nation off the southern tip of India.”

“That’s serendipity, not serendipitous.”

He shrugged and smiled. “If serendipitous is not a word then it should be.”

From my novel Stealing Mercy.

Is it too ironic to have a post about budgets on Black Friday? Good things happen and bad things happen. We try to mitigate the bad things by having an emergency fund in the budget. The good things aren’t in the budget. They are, as my hero Trent Michaels said, serendipitous. And they do happen, but if they happened frequently or as a matter of course, we’d stop finding them serendipitous and a smidge of the joy of the unexpected in life would be less bright, less miraculous. It’s so much better to make a plan, work the plan, take satisfaction in the accomplishment and then wonder in grateful awe when the serendipitous happens--or mourn when the catastrophe comes and wipes out our plan and we have to start over, make a new plan, work a new plan. Either way, serendipity or catastrophe, plans and work are necessary ingredients.

The amazing thing about budgets, or plans, is the same exact principle works for time management (calendars) or healthy lifestyle changes (diets). The best thing about budgets, calendars and diets is that they alleviate guilt. Really. Because when you do what needs to be done, you can spend, eat or do whatever you’d like and enjoy it—without guilt, without pressure, without fear—because you know where you’re going, you have a plan and you’ve already done what needed to be done to work your plan.

And without a plan, without the work, we see the catastrophes, but it’s easy to completely overlook the serendipities—and they happen all the time.

Here’s a sample monthly budget for a young family of four living in Las Vegas. I know that this budget won’t be applicable to everyone, everywhere, but it’s a very real budget of a very real family, which I tweaked by increasing the clothes budget—because I really like clothes. You might want to tweak it by budgeting in your music habit, or your yoga expenses, or whatever makes your life interesting and worth living. You can find a myriad of sample budgets on the internet.

In the upcoming weeks, I’ll be posting on each of the following expenses.

Income 4,000

charity 400
savings 300
debt 200
taxes 330
mortgage 900
food 400
transportation 300
clothes 100
vacation 100
allowance 200
date nights 100
insurances 315
utilities 320

Total Costs 3,965

Income-Expenses +35

Exercise-
Using last week’s exercise (you know the one where you kept track of all your weekly expenses—you did do that, didn’t you?) Make a budget. Be generous and realistic.

The Breaking Dawn Premier and What I Learned About Boys from Carly Simon

2011-11-18T16:33:00.000-08:00

I’m sure that anyone not living beneath rock knows that last night was the midnight premier of Breaking Dawn (part one.) My brilliant, straight A, academic pentathlon competitor daughter is (seriously) the president of Tesoro High School’s Twilight Club. Yesterday she and her band of Twi-hards wrapped themselves up in blankets and were the first in line for the show.

I’ve no doubt that when Rob Pat showed his glistening face on the big screen that she and her friends screamed. Maybe they even swooned when the werewolves took off their shirts. Today my brilliant daughter went to school proudly wearing her Twilight t-shirt. I hope she screamed, I hoped she swooned, I’m happy she has a vampire shirt, but—when it comes to real boys, real flesh and blood boys, I hope she’ll listen to the best boy advice I ever heard. It came from Carly Simon.

I personally don’t know the love life status of Ms. Simon. I hope she’s happy. I know that she divorced James Taylor years ago. It’s interesting to me that a romance writer I admire who has written more than 36 New York Times Bestsellers is in her sixties has had two very brief marriages that both ended in divorce. Writing and singing romance is very different from living romance. Here’s Ms. Simon’s advice. It’s from a song Titled Boys in the Trees
I’m home again in my old narrow bed
Where I grew tall and my feet hung over the edge
The low beam room with the window looking out
On the soft summer garden where the boys grew in the trees.
Here I grew guilty
And no one was at fault
Frightened by the power of every innocent thought
And the silent understanding passing down
From daughter to daughter
Let the boys grown in the trees.
Do you go to them or do you let them come to you
Do you stand in back afraid that you’ll intrude
Deny yourself and hope someone will see
And live like a flower
While the boys grew in the trees.

So, to my daughter and to all the daughters—it’s okay to scream and swoon at characters in books and on movie screens, but when it comes to real boys, real flesh and blood boys—let them grow in the trees while you do what you need to do to be your very best self. Take the hardest math classes. Practice your guts out and audition for the very best choirs. Swim as hard and as fast as you can so that you can wear the medal at the meets. Rehearse the monologues that will make the audience cheer. Write the essays that will bring tears to reader’s eyes. And let the boys grow in the trees.

While you are your path, going where you want to go, trying to become as brilliant and talented as you possibly can be, eventually, you will meet others on the same path who share your goals. If you’re lucky, you’ll find someone to hold your hand as you walk that path.

That person won’t be hanging out in your bedroom after you’ve fallen asleep--he’ll be too busy with the very hardest math classes, swimming and singing. He won’t drive you to suicidal activities like cliff jumping into the waters of Washington’s Coast--he’ll be too sensitive to your feelings and goals to ever want to cause you that sort of pain. (Honestly, has Mrs. Meyers ever been swimming in the Pacific in the Northwest? It is darn cold.) He won’t pick you up and carry you away from danger—you have to do that by yourself and for yourself.

Oh, how I hope you will.

Financial Fridays Chapter 3 Doughnuts and Dollars

2011-11-17T21:12:00.000-08:00

Dion has busy mornings. She has a husband and a host of children that need to shepherded out the door at an early hour. Homework in backpacks, books in bags, lunches in hand, goodbyes and kisses given. Sometimes tears are shed, shoes are lost and gym clothes aren’t washed. After the frantic morning rush and the last of the children are deposited at their schools, Dion needs her breakfast of a doughnut and a latte. She deserves the reward. Her stop at the coffee shop is as much of her morning routine as brushing her teeth.

But, what if Dion’s doctor told her that her crippling headaches could be solved as easily as giving up caffeine? Assuming that Dion spent $2 on her morning coffee shop ritual and that she could replace her latte and doughnut with a .10 cent bowl of oatmeal and a .25 cent piece of fruit, she’d save not only $$$ but also thousands of calories a year. (Remember, I’m a math toadie—do your own math.)

Dion might insist her coffee and doughnut are worth the cost and calories—until she adds on the 4% the money could have been earning had it been wisely invested, and times it by a lifetime and then tack on the expense of her medical and dental bills. And who can put a number on the cost of head-achy days?

I’m all about rewards, but I think it’s important to look and see what is blessing your life and what is not. (Please do not think that because I’m spooning out this advice that I righteously follow it and religiously eat oatmeal. I’m aware that there’s often a large dark, rocky chasm between what we know to be prudent and what we actually do. All I’m trying to do is offer a ladder out of what can be a scary place.)

Exercise 3
For one week, without altering your spending habits whatsoever, save every receipt for every purchase made. Do not be judgmental or unkind to yourself. At the end of the week, sit down and add the tally. Learn to distinguish the difference between wants and needs. Recognize those things that you want today that you might be able to sacrifice for something that you want even more tomorrow. This is a gateway step to next week’s exercise on budgeting.

Post Office Expose

2011-11-15T16:52:00.000-08:00

Today I mailed two copies of my novel. (Congrats to Gloria who won my Gobble Blog Hop.) Since publishing my book, I’ve spent a good amount of time and money at the post office mailing copies of my book and today I noticed something odd.
“That will be $6 something,” the clerk says.
“Really? It was a lot cheaper last week,” I reply.
“Oh!” She acts flustered and then tells me other mailing options. I pick the cheapest, $5 something.
She rings up the next package--same novel, exact same envelope. “Look,” she says, acting surprised. “This one is $3.60!”
I think she thought this would make me happy. Instead, I feel suspicious. “How is that possible? It’s the exact same thing.”
“No. It can’t be.”
“I promise you, it is.”
“Well, let’s ring up the first one again and see.” AND—now it’s $3.60.
Is the two dollar difference a big deal? Not really, unless you times it by the hundreds of people who pass through the Rancho Post Office every day.
Why am I sharing this story? I’m not sure. It’s not funny, uplifting or even slightly entertaining. I don’t expect there to be an investigation of the Rancho Post Office. I don’t want the post mistress to lose her job, although I hope she’ll be more careful, and if she’s being dishonest, I hope she’ll stop.
It’s just that when you do the exact same thing repeatedly, it’s fair to expect the same results, and when that doesn’t happen, you have to ask why. What happened? And what can I do about it?
If nothing else—I can share it on my blog.

Oh Deer-- Financial Fridays Chapter Two

2011-11-11T13:36:00.000-08:00

No worries, the blog hop runs through tonight, click here for a chance to win my fabulous prizes.

But, it is Friday--the day I post a chapter from my money book, which I may title MIND MONEY AND MARRIAGE MATTERS. Some may recognize this from an earlier post, and for that I apologize. I hate redundancy. I hate greed and envy even more. They make me miserable.

Let me begin by saying that when I had this experience, I was going through a rough time. Within a week a number of very disappointing things (5 to be exact) had happened. Granted if you twisted those things around you could say they were blessings, but I wasn’t interested in twisting. I think its human nature, or at least my nature, to want to run away when things aren’t going as planned and so when a friend told me they were thinking of moving to Utah, I was filled with envy. Horrible envy that sat on my shoulders, no matter how hard I tried to shove it away. I love my home, I love my friends, I know I don’t need or even want a 6,000 sq. foot house in Utah that costs half the price of my home and comes with twice the yard, but it ate at me for several days. (Okay, I know that at this point many of my California friends are truly disgusted and disappointed with me. They are attaching my name to obscenities and are mightily offended. Believe me, no offense is intended. I’m sorry.)

On Sunday morning I went for a walk in the canyon. Off in the grass were three deer who matched my pace, walking in the same direction. This was interesting, but after about a mile I turned to go home and the deer followed! They kept me company for some time and before turning and running directly across my path. If I had reached out my hand I could have touched them. Eventually, they disappeared into the woods. A passing runner who had seen the whole thing, said to me, “Wow, you were almost run over by deer.”

A scripture came to mind. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”

When I got home, l looked up the scripture. Psalms 23:6 “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” Which seemed rather remarkable since I’d just spent a week thinking of (bigger and better) houses.

I told Larry about my deer encounter and he believes that it means that where ever I am I can live in a house dedicated to the Lord. Of course he’d say that, it will take something more miraculous than lonely deer to make him leave California.

This is another example of the value of Jesus’ commandment to GO and SEE.
Exercise 2
For one week keep a journal of every time you see the Lord’s hand in your life, every scripture that rings true, every prayer that’s answered. This is a remedy for envy.

A scene that I love, but that needs to be cut

2011-11-10T11:55:00.000-08:00

No worries, the blog hop runs through tomorrow, click here for a chance to win my fabulous prizes, but I'm about to cut a scene from my current work in progress, A Ghost of a Second Chance, and because I love it--I wanted to share it before it goes into oblivion. My critique partners think, and sadly I agree, this scene screams of a romance novel—the sort where the hero and heroine stop to kiss for ten pages even though villains, monsters and dogs are about to overtake them. While my novel doesn’t have any over the top villains—not even any dogs—and aren’t being chased when the kissing happens, the kiss doesn’t really make sense. So it has to go, which is just sad. Everyone likes a good kiss.

Tell me what you think.

More footsteps. Whirling, she saw a tall form emerge from the trees. She tried to run, but the wet shoes slid from her feet, slowing her. A hand on her arm stopped her.

“Lainey, it’s me!”

Ian? How had he found her?

He dragged her against his chest, his eyes looking wild. She tried to pull away, but he pinned her to him. Reaching up, she tried to slap him, but he caught her wrist and brought his mouth to hers. He kissed her hard.

She willed herself to fight. Sanity told her to step away. But she couldn’t and as the kiss deepened, she realized that she’d lost sanity a long time ago and if she didn’t do something, anything, she’d be right back where she’d been before Ian stepped out the door. No. She sank deeper into the kiss. Had it always been this way? Kissing Ian, why did such a small meeting of flesh make her knees buckle? Placing both her hands on his chest, she pushed him away.

She stumbled back, out of his embrace. Frustration marked his face and he raked his fingers through his hair. He looked at her and his gaze lingered on her legs. Puzzlement overtook the frustration and then he grinned.

“You have no right--”

Ian fought his smile, but it still lingered around his lips. “Actually, I do. I’m your husband remember? Marital rights.”

“That’s barbaric.”

Ian folded his arms across his chest. “I’m a barbarian? If I were truly a barbarian I’d carry you into that shack and strip off your clothes.”

Laine threw the cabin a worried glance and stepped away from it, which brought her one step closer to Ian. She shuffled to the side, closer to the road.

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about it. I’m considering it now.”

“How did you find me?”

“Delicious.”

Gobble Blog Hop

2011-11-07T17:33:00.000-08:00

Welcome to the Gobble Blog Hop, where bloggers from all over the Internet have come together to throw a party!

Every blog on this hop is offering a fun prize, and entering is quick and easy. Simply follow the instructions on each blog, leave a comment, and bop right along to the next blog. You can win multiple times, so be sure to check out all the participating blogs!

On my blog, you can win a signed copy of my novel, STEALING MERCY (go to Amazon to read its awesome reviews) and a handcrafted journal made in India.

To enter:

1. For one entry: become a follower of my blog.
2. For two entries: go to Amazon and 'like' my novel, STEALING MERCY.
3. Leave me a comment and tell me what you've done. If your e-mail isn't available through your profile, I'll need you to leave that, too - I can't tell you if you've won if I can't contact you!

In STEALING MERCY, modern day genealogist, Bette Michaels, steals the 1889 journal of Mercy Faye. Here’s an excerpt describing the theft:

I’ve never stolen anything. Ever. Not even by accident. I always return extra change if a cashier makes a mistake. I’m meticulous about my taxes, generous with charitable donations, scrupulously honest. And that’s why an unfamiliar guilt worm wiggles in my belly.

I lift my fingers off the piano and glance back into the deserted living room and then at the library’s double doors. Through the windows I see rain dripping from the eaves of the porch. I hear wind rattling the doors and windows and after the crush of mourners filling Dot’s home, the plink of rain seems amplified. As does my beating heart.

I gather up my music and after a quick glance at the casket in the center of the room, I have a silent conversation with Dot. Do you mind? If I find it, I’ll just borrow it. I’ll return it. I won’t keep it. Dot, of course, still and silent nestled against all the silk in her casket, doesn’t respond, but I imagine her smiling, nudging me forward.

If I find the diary, that missing part that would hopefully explain so much, maybe I could just read it, quickly, before leaving. I pause in the entry hall, my feet rooted to the tapestry carpet. To my left, Dot’s library. I see my reflection in the beveled glass doors. I look tiny and fractured in the reflection. My pearls cast a small glow. I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear, debating. If I stand stock still in the entry much longer, perhaps the caterers will come and carry me out along with the empty boxes and trays of partially eaten food.

I’m not driven by impulse. I’d been waiting the opportunity to slip into the library all evening. I’d waited for the guests to leave so that I could look for the missing diary, the one that began in New York. My gaze flits around the room and I see the framed genealogy fan chart hanging on the wall, a stack of library books sitting on the desk, a mishmash of books marching across the shelves. I scan the collection, marveling at the eclectic choices. Standing on my toes, I find the tiny leather bound book on the top shelf.

I flip it open and my heart picks up speed when I recognize the copperplate handwriting. After another glance at the wet world outside the window, I lean against the solid walnut desk and begin to read.

This blog hop officially runs from November 8th to November 11th. The winner will be notified by e-mail. Now that you've entered my contest, come meet my blogging friends and see what fun things they have to offer!

Three Questions

2011-11-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Brittany at My Life Herding Cats sent me these questions. It’s hard to imagine anyone really cares about my answers, but since Brittany asked—and I really like Brittany—I’ll answer.

If you could go back in time and relive one moment what would it be?I was standing on the ramparts of a medieval castle, looking out over acres and acres of wild Scottish countryside. My husband and I were exploring a remote and derelict tower. At that moment, Larry was off somewhere and I was alone. I imagined that if I was a queen, what sort of ruler would I be? Suddenly, it occurred to me that I was a queen, the ruler of my own life. It was an incredible life changing experience when I realized that I had total control and power over my days and years.

I don’t think I needed to be in Scotland for such an epiphany, but the beauty and peace certainly added to the moment.

If you could go back in time and change one thing what would it be?I would redo high school. More studies, music and writing, less boys.

What movie/TV character do you most resemble in personality?I’ve been told I remind people of Helen Hunt and Julie Andrews. But, I do not drink (Helen in Pay it Forward) nor do I burst into song (Julie in The Sound of Music.) Okay… sometimes I’ll burst into song, but I’d never wear a dirndl.

If you could push one person off a cliff, who would it be?Really—just one? This question is much too hard.

Why do you blog?That’s easy. I blog because I have stuff to say.

And now I have to pass my questions onto three people:
Taffy at Taffy’s writing
Maria Hoagland
Shirley at Word by Word

Stealing Mercy's New Blurb

2011-11-05T11:04:00.000-07:00

A girl in disguise.
A villain with a brothel to fill.
A hero wondering why he’s in love with a lad in breeches.
Murder, mayhem and pies, Stealing Mercy is a romantic adventure set in 1889—when the city of Seattle burns.

Unorthodox, but I like it. Any opinions?

Go and See

2011-11-04T08:34:00.000-07:00

Financial Fridays Chapter 1

This post is for those who are unemployed, underemployed, employed in a job that doesn’t match their skill set or for those who need a lesson on how to create and recognize miracles.

I helped my friend, Celine, move. After thirty years of being an at home mom, she was suddenly single and alone. Her settlement in the divorce had been generous, but she’d invested poorly. Sadly, her money, her husband and even her children had left. Her only choice seemed to be to trade her spacious home for a room in her grown son’s house. As I helped fill the boxes that represented Celine’s life, I felt only a smidgeon of Celine’s frustration. She had all this stuff and yet, it seemed, she had nothing. No job training or marketable skills, no visible means of self support.

It reminded me of the account in the Gospel of Mark of Jesus feeding the five thousand.

34 And Jesus, when he came out, saw much people, and was moved with compassion toward them, because they were as sheep not having a shepherd: and he began to teach them many things.

35 And when the day was now far spent, his disciples came unto him, and said, This is a desert place, and now the time is far passed:

36 Send them away, that they may go into the country round about, and into the villages, and buy themselves bread: for they have nothing to eat.

37 He answered and said unto them, Give ye them to eat. And they say unto him, Shall we go and buy two hundred pennyworth of bread, and give them to eat?

38 He saith unto them, How many loaves have ye? go and see. And when they knew, they say, Five, and two fishes.

39 And he commanded them to make all sit down by companies upon the green grass.

41 And when he had taken the five loaves and the two fishes, he looked up to heaven, and blessed, and brake the loaves, and gave them to his disciples to set before them; and the two fishes divided he among them all.

42 And they did all eat, and were filled.

Jesus told his disciples to go and see and I think the advice is as brilliant today as it was back then. GO AND SEE.

Celine and I sat down, offered a prayer and made a list of all her assets and resources. We included all her family and friends. As she saw all that she’d been given, all the tremendous love and support available, her world seemed a little less bleak As she considered what to keep and what to let go, letting go of what she no longer needed was just a tad easier.

Still hard, but easier.

Loss is always difficlut, but it’s easier to swallow when weighed against all that we have and all that we have to offer.

Go and See--Exercise Number One.
Make a list of all your resources. Divide them into three categories.
1. Your own talents, skills and personality traits.
2. Your assets and available finances.
3. Family, friends and organizations that can help.

Think big, be creative, and write down every little thing that comes to mind. That’s the stuff that makes miracles.

Sleeping with Power Tools

2011-11-02T13:11:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Velvet Hubler who won my kindle kontest!

On Halloween night I stayed in the cheapest hotel in Provo that I could find on Travelocity. My reasoning—Provo is safe. Once I'm asleep, all motels/hotels are pretty much the same. It was close to Nathan and we would be up late working on our Eclectic Catalog.

But, it was Halloween and I had a reason for fear. The motel was not nice. Not nearly as nice as its pictures. It had mattresses, odd furniture and clusters of people hanging out on the sidewalk. I went to my room, locked my door and called my husband.
“Get out of there,” he said. “Go and stay somewhere else.”
“It’s already close to midnight,” I whispered, not wanting the people outside of my window to hear me whining. I looked around my room. At least it was clean except for—what was that? A giant power drill stood on the table beside a box of screws.
“I found a weapon,” I told my husband. I picked up the battery operated drill that was roughly the size of my forearm and pushed its button. It made a satisfying angry sound.
After a few minutes my husband grunted a goodbye, because really, from a thousand miles away, what else could he do?
I got ready for bed, pushed a table and chair in front of the door, checked the lock on the window and after offering a prayer for my safety, got into bed. I placed the power tool on the pillow beside me and formulated a plan. In case of attack, throw the box of screws at offender, jump on to table, and threaten eye gouging with power tool.

Fortunately, the next morning I woke up safe, alone and only slightly wet.
(The roof leaked.)

The Beginning of Financial Fridays

2011-10-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

I’ve decided to write a money book. (Several people who know me well are now snickering and guffawing. Ignore them.) Let me explain.

My husband is a math wizard. I am not. In fact, I’m at best a remedial math toad. So, in reality, he should be writing a book on money, not me. I said as much, but he wasn’t interested. I argued, But so many people are having a hard time and you’re brilliant. You could really help. He conceded to help. So, I made an outline.

Let me back up to why I felt I needed to write a money book. I served for almost four years as a president of a charitable organization and during that time I learned many things, but what I saw over and over again is that when people mismanage fundamentals, they can’t manage anything. A large part of my responsibilities as a Relief Society president was visiting women in their homes. When needed, I helped women fill out a menu and make a grocery list for food that they could pick up at the Bishop’s Storehouse (a Mormon equivalent to a food bank.) During my visits the conversations often lead to discussions on budgeting, health and medical bills, marital disagreements on money management, children and spiritual concerns.

So, this book is about what I saw and what I learned. I shared my outline with my husband.

This isn’t a money book, he said.
Sure it is, I replied.
He said, A money book addresses insurances, CDs, IRAs and stock options.

That would be a master’s money book. This is a basic money book. Here’s my outline:
1. Time—when people mismanage their time, they’re wasting money.
2. Budgets—accounting allows you to see the accumulated cost of both good and bad decisions.
3. Health—people spend enormous amounts of money on medical costs. Money that could be saved if they learned to manage their health.
4. Marriage—let’s face it, money causes friction in marriage. It can even cause divorce. And trying to save or especially end a marriage is emotionally and financially expensive. Brutally expensive.

So, it’s true this will be a different sort of money book and it’s being written by a self-proclaimed math toad. I did not graduate top of my masters of business program (but I know someone who did, and that someone covenanted before God to be my helpmeet.)

It’s my prayer that the lessons I learned and that Larry and I share, will help. I’m going to start posting on what I’m calling Financial Fridays. After enough Fridays and enough posts, I’ll collect my thoughts into a book. A different sort of money book. Anyone can read the blog and avoid the cost of the actual book, because I'm all about saving money. I’m also open to suggestions, comments and questions.

If I can’t answer them, I know someone who can.

(No worries--I haven't traded fiction for nonfiction. I'm still very much into my ghost story. My next novel will go public on Valentine's Day as planned.)

Versatile Blogger Award

2011-10-25T11:17:00.000-07:00

I want to thank WilyBCool at Let go of the Past, live Today and create Tomorrow for nominating me for the Versatile Blogger Award. It is an honor!

The rules in accepting this award: thank the person who nominated you, tell 7 things about yourself so that your readers may learn more about you, nominate 15 other newly discovered bloggers and let them know you nominated them.

7 THINGS ABOUT ME

1. I’ve visited 13 countries in the Americas, 13 European countries and 3 Asian countries, but I’ve never been to Kentucky where my Scottish ancestors settled.

2. When I was 12, I set out to read all of Agatha Christie’s works.

3. I missed several days of junior high because I was reading Gone With the Wind. (My mother thought I was sick, when in actuality I was simply sleep deprived.

4. I had a picture of Clark Gable on my bedroom wall from 1973-1981.

5. In college and in high school I dated boys named Bill, partly because I had a major thing for Billy Joel. (I still love jazzy, piano bands.)

6. I can quote Emily Dickinson, TS Eliot, ee cummings and Monty Python.

7. I have been (mostly happily) married for more than half of my life time.

Fifteen Blogs

1. Brittany http://mylifeherdingcats.blogspot.com
2. Ellen's World http://zivotjedobra.blogspot.com
3. The Barnettes http://thebarnettes.blogspot.com/
4. Jon and Rachel http://vanwickle.blogspot.com/
5. Adam http://booyaabuela.blogspot.com/
6. Claudine http://yournestdesign.blogspot.coml
7. Melanie http://melanie-jacobson.blogspot.com
8. Nicole http://nicholegiles.blogspot.com
9. Heidi http://www.tobeluminous.com/
10. Shirley http://shirleybwestenskow.blogspot.com
11. Mandi http://heyyouslackers.blogspot.com/
12. Victoria http://www.archangelmusic.blogspot.com
13. Donna http://weavingataleortwo.blogspot.com
14. James http://doublejtate.blogspot.com/
15. Writing on the wall http://writingonthewallblog.blogspot.com/

Random Viruses

2011-10-23T12:11:00.000-07:00

Don’t forget, there’s still time to enter the kindle kontest. (See posting below.) And if you’re a writer and would like to advertise your book in the first ever Eclectic Books holiday catalog, we’re accepting entries until October 31. We’re super excited about Eclectic Books (where old world values meet modern age technology.) See the Holiday E-catalog blog post for information on how to place an ad or receive the catalog.

Today I’m alone at home in a very quiet house. I’m skipping church because of some sort of virus that makes my head ache and causes chills. This is rare. I’m never sick. This makes me think of my 90 year old, who is also rarely sick.

A few weeks ago, my dad and Uncle John, age 94, were splitting firewood. (I know, I know.) An accident happened and Dad hurt two of his fingers. They aren’t healing as they should and on Tuesday, if healing hasn’t started, his two fingers will be amputated.

So, today I’m thinking about being sick—the catch a random virus and get chills and headache type—versus making yourself sick—the putting yourself in danger and losing your fingers type.

Even random viruses can be avoided. When I taught piano lessons, I’d have a pencil for marking, a piano for playing and a mouth for holding the pencil while I played. Often my students would use this pencil for theory. I know why I held the pencil in my mouth. If I put it on the piano it would fall onto the floor or into the piano (that last one happened a lot and it’s very obnoxious to have a pencil rolling around inside of a piano.) A friend suggested I tie a pencil with a string to the piano—a stupid idea, but probably not as stupid as passing a pencil from my mouth to student to student to student.

We can make ourselves sick in all sorts of unnecessary ways. Physically, mentally, spiritually. Maybe it’s a matter of learning when it’s time to let someone else split the firewood, or wearing a shirt with a pocket protector for a pencil. Fingers can be saved. Germs don’t need to spread.

Most illnesses even the mental and spiritual kind can be avoided if we just take care. I love the Bare Naked Ladies (the band—not naked ladies in general, most people just look better clothed) and they have a song with this line if there’s someone you can live without, just do so. It’s brilliant advice. While it’s true that sometimes we’re unavoidably thrown together with personalities that don’t match our own, we can take care to avoid certain situations and people. We can walk away from gossip. We don’t have to go to that party.

I love the scripture:
For intelligence cleaveth unto intelligence; wisdom receiveth wisdom; truth embraceth truth; virtue loveth virtue; light cleaveth unto light; mercy hath compassion on mercy and claimeth her own.

By Wednesday, I’m pretty sure that my random virus will be gone. I’m not sure what will become of my dad’s fingers. This makes me think that of the two—the make yourself sick or the random virus—the make yourself sick is the worst sickness of all.

Long Live Sweet Romance

2011-10-19T11:09:00.000-07:00

Congratulations to Mandi Tucker Slack who won the necklace and my novel Stealing Mercy in the October Blog Hop! Don’t forget, there’s still time to enter the kindle kontest. (See posting below.) And if you’re a writer and would like to advertise your book in the first ever Eclectic Books holiday catalog, we’re accepting entries until October 31. We’re super excited about Eclectic Books (where old world values meet modern age technology.) See the Holiday E-catalog blog post for information on how to place an ad or receive the catalog.

I had an uncomfortable experience a number of years ago when I attended a workshop where a writer brought in pages and pages of sex scenes to be critiqued. She read one steamy passage and then said, now, skip 70 pages and then she’d read another libido boosting scene. After the workshop, after I stopped blushing, I asked her why she’d saved and clustered her sex scenes just for us. Her answer, my agent said the reason my novels aren’t selling is because they need the sex scenes so I’m adding them. Since then, this writer is self-publishing her novels, sweet romances, sans sex scenes, and she’s sold thousands of her books. I think she’s financially doing much better than she would have had she published within the traditional romance industry AND she’s able to look her grandmother in the eye.

This reaffirms my belief that there’s a giant gaping hole in the publishing industry. I believe in the power of words. I believe in the power of stories and I also believe not every story has to be powerful. Entertainment is as valuable as enlightenment. Sometimes we just need to get away. Go somewhere else--take our mind off of the nitty-gritty of everyday. And even if we can’t afford an African safari or romp in the Amazon, those experiences are available to us, FOR FREE, at the public library. We can have romance, mystery and intrigue if we possess a library card.

I’ll admit I cried when the Border’s Bookstore closed. Whenever I felt sad I’d go to Borders and buy a book and a chocolate. It didn’t happen often, I’m usually upbeat, but when I’d feel trampled upon and world weary, I knew that I could be lifted up just by going to the closest bookstore. Chocolates and books were there, waiting. My son couldn’t understand my loss. You made your choice when you bought your I-pad, he said. I want libraries, bookstores AND books in the clouds, I replied.

I want books with romance, mystery and intrigue, but I don’t want books with titillation, excessive violence or gore. And that’s the genesis of Eclectic Books. Years ago, before the rise of self publishing, I had promised myself that if I ever had the finances I’d start my own publishing company, a company that published books for everyone—from grandmas to kiddos—entertaining books, books that provided an easy, enjoyable escape. Eclectic Books is a realization of that long ago dream. I don’t need a million dollars. I don’t need editors or even paper. I have everything I need—a talented group of like-minded authors and a tech-talented son.

Long live sweet romance. The books in the clouds have set us free. Good books are there—we just need to know how to find them. Eclectic books is my effort to gather (a few of) them together, out of the clouds and into the hands of readers.

Why I Like to Write

2011-10-01T19:27:00.000-07:00

I actually wrote this a few days ago, but since I didn't know how to post it and yet keep the kindle info up for those (few) looking for it, I took it down. But, I don't want to spend a month without posting, so--no worries. If you want to enter the Kindle Kontest, scroll down and you'll find the info. The contest runs through the end of the month, which my husband tells me is too short. So, maybe I'll make it longer. I'm learning. Slowly.

If you want to read about why I like to write-- here it is.

Elizabeth George once said that she writes to stay sane. I do that, too. I also do it to keep everyone around me sane.

Writing keeps me from obsessing. Here’s me when I’m not writing: Carol drops by with a pan of brownies. She looks like a teenager in that halter top. She says, “I brought these for your husband to thank him for helping me fix that broken window.” I say thank you, but inside I’m thinking I really wish she’d wear more clothes. I wonder what she was wearing when Larry was at her house, for how long was that? I can’t compare myself to her—I had six kids and she has a dog. Maybe my abs would look like that if I had countless hours to spend at the gym. Does she work out at the same gym as Larry? Why does she call him all the time? He doesn’t even like brownies. But, I love them. I bet she knows that. She knows that I’m going to eat this entire pan of brownies because now I’m so depressed and one or two or five brownies isn’t going to matter because I’m going to be divorced and single and fat. I better call Larry, although I just talked to him and he’ll be home for lunch in twenty minutes, I need to hear his voice.

Here’s me when I’m writing: the doorbell rings but I don’t hear it because I’m deep into my story. Somehow Mercy has to stop Eloise from going on a drive with horrid Mr. Steele. What can she do—should she confide in Eloise? In the real world, my dog is pawing at me. No. Eloise is a blabber mouth. She can’t be trusted. My dog knows someone has come to the door and she pulls at my sock with her teeth. I shake her off, but she’s so annoying that I have to investigate. Someone has left brownies on my front porch with a thank you note. It’s from Carol, that darling girl from across the street. I consider the brownies and inspiration hits—Mercy will bake Eloise a pie laced with a draught that will make her sleep through her rendezvous with Steele. I put the brownies on the counter and save them for when Larry comes home for lunch. I hurry back to Mercy, Eloise and Mr. Steele, wondering how to make a sleeping draught.
(FYI- Neighbor Carol is fictional, used to make a point about my own lunacy and not a commentary on my highly respectable, modestly clothed and admirable neighbors or my good husband who always lets me eat more than my fair share of brownies.)

Writing gives me someplace to put my head.As a mom, I do a lot of mindless things—driving, stirring, ironing, cleaning toilets—and while I’m doing these mindless tasks, it’s nice to have something to think about (other than my neighbor’s halter top.) I also love research. It’s like a treasure hunt that just keeps going. The internet is an endless source of information and if I can’t find what I need there, I try to think of people who might know and I call and ask them. No one has ever been annoyed. People love to believe that they’re experts and when I call with a question, they’re always happy to chat.

Writing gives me hope.Remember how I said that as a mom I do a lot of mindless things? I don’t really enjoy most of them. I do them because they have to be done, but I’d really rather not iron, clean toilets and mop floors. I’d like to pay someone else to do those things, but since my husband makes several dollars an hour and I make pennies, I can’t pay someone to do those mindless chores that must be done. It wouldn’t be fair. I’ve promised myself that when I’m making several dollars an hour that I’ll hire a chore person. I hope to someday make enough with my writing to justify that expense.

Writing gives me places to go.Remember how I said I love research? This summer I spent a day in Seattle visiting all the places that Laine and Ian would go. I walked through the neighborhood on Queen Anne Hill and took pictures of the turn of the century mansions. I stopped at Kerry Park and watched the boats in the harbor. And then I went to the University of Washington’s library, because that’s what Laine does in chapter four. I imagined her running down the steps and bumping into the girl with the smoothie. It’s like spending the day with very good friends.

Writing gives me insight.I like to think I’m sensitive and intuitive to those around me, but when it comes to my own psyche, I’m clueless. Being a baby born late in my parent’s life, I grew up in a house full of teenagers and adults. If I ever lost my temper, I was subjected to ridicule. (Angry or not, I was almost always subjected to ridicule, but that’s a different post.) I learned to shut down my emotions and I’m pretty good at masking and avoiding them. Writing brings them to the forefront. I’ll unconsciously do things like name annoying characters after annoying people. I’ll usually catch the real life and fictional connections on the rewrite and make the necessary changes, because I’m sensitive enough to know it’s unkind and unwise to hurt even annoying people’s feelings.

And that’s probably much more than anyone wanted to know about my psyche and why I like to write.

Kristy's InKredible Kindle Kontest

2011-10-01T07:04:00.000-07:00

Hooray! Kristy's InKredible Kindle Kontest has begun. One lucky winner will receive a kindle! There are many ways to enter. Please be sure to leave me a comment telling how many entries you've earned.
FOR ONE ENTRY EACH:
1. Mention this contest on a social media site such as Facebook, Twitter, Myspace, or Goodreads.
2. At the beginning of each chapter there’s a recipe. E-mail @ kristyswords@yahoo.com and tell me which one is your favorite.
FOR TWO ENTRIES EACH:
1. Read and write a kindly review on Goodreads or Amazon. (Two entries for each review.)
2. Host me as a guest on your blog.
3. E-mail me and tell me who eloped with Eloise .
4. Set up a book club discussion of STEALING MERCY. (See the book club page of this blog.)

Opportunities for extra entries and prizes will arise over the course of the contest which will end on Halloween. Good Luck!

Holiday Catalog- My Latest Project

2011-09-28T10:12:00.000-07:00

E-clectic Books, where old world values meets new age technology, a bi-annual e-catalog promoting the work of authors of faith.

Kristy Tate, managing editor, will distribute the catalog to participating authors. The responsibility of further distribution will depend and rely upon the efforts of the authors, thus eliminating the need of a master e-mail list and the fuzzy gray area of "selling" loved one's e-mail addresses. Also, when friends and family receive the e-mail they will be more likely to open it if they recognize the sender's name.

The quality and content of the works listed will be self-regulated. Be aware that the readers of this catalog will not be interested in titillation, excessive violence, profanity, sexism, or bigotry.

Catalog details:
The catalog will be distributed via email December 1st, reminding families to add uplifting books to their holiday wish list. Depending upon its success, there will also be a Beach Reads edition in the spring.

REQUIRED INFORMATION: (if you are missing any information below your work(s) will NOT be included in the catalog).
Book genre listing (i.e. fiction, nonfiction, memoir, thriller, fantasy, etc.).
A high-resolution (300dpi) .jpg cover photo.
Book title and author.
Up to 100 words of description (author's website optional).
Publisher, ISBN, and price.
Required information should be sent via email to kristyswords@ yahoo.com by October 31, 2011 (no exceptions.) Please be sure to include Holiday Catalog in the subject line.

Congratulations!

2011-09-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Kswederski who won my novel STEALING MERCY and the handcrafted journal! I visited Kswederski's blog to see if I could find her or his last name and discovered that we like the same authors, so I know we're kindred spirits, but I still don't know how to pronounce her/his name.

Thanks to everyone who visited my blog and a special thank you to those who shared their feelings about journaling. I enjoyed reading all the entries. I wish I had something for everyone who entered... something to consider for the future.

Kristy's InKredible Kindle Kontest update: the reformatting is finished! Tomorrow I'll upload the new and improved STEALING MERCY and as soon as it's live, the game will begin. (I'm excited!)

An Argument for Self Publishing

2011-09-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

I have to share my latest Orange County Fictionaire’s adventure. I’m really lucky to belong to a writer’s group consisting of mostly published authors. (Google us, we’re an impressive group.) We have award winning, best-selling, movie making, teaching writers and then there’s me. And I’m the president. Bottom of the talent totem pole. Go figure. Sometimes I wonder how or why I got in the group let alone why I was made president. I think they voted me in because I had more time and attend regularly. (There’s a post about this railroading, I mean—election--on this blog. If I knew how to link it, I would, but all I can say is if you want to read it, you’ll have to look for it. It’s here somewhere.) In the past week there’s been some e-mails on the group's list flying fast and furiously for and against self publishing. The words schlock (which I've guessed is a Jewish derogatory term) and noble have both been used. I’ve posted my response. I wish I could share the all the e-mails, but I can’t. Respect for privacy and all that. Let me make it perfectly clear--I have enormous respect and admiration for my fellow Fictionaires and applaud their successes. I'm their biggest, noisiest fan. Now, my letter...

All,
I know I’m slow to respond. It generally takes me days to formulate the perfect retort. I’d make a terrible attorney and I generally avoid arguments because, as I said, I usually think of a comeback days later.

I’m going to try to formulate an argument for self publishing, if you’re not interested, feel free to return to whatever it was that you were doing.

Why self-publishing works for me:
1. What’s happening in my family is much more interesting than anything else, including a writing career. I have a great big life. I have six children, two grandchildren, a husband, five siblings, 20 in-laws, and about 60 nieces and nephews. And elderly parents (age 90 and 88.) And a dog. And friends. It would be horrible to attend a wedding or a funeral with a writing deadline hanging over my head. By self publishing, I keep (somewhat tenuous) control of my time.
2. I’m not interested in meeting people I don’t know. I'm not out going. I don’t want to go to book signings. I don’t want to speak at conferences. I do not want to be on TV or on the radio. Crowds make me nervous and as much as l love children, I’m not interested in visiting schools (unless a loved one happens to be attending it.)
3. I’m not motivated by money. Really. I know I’m incredibly lucky and blessed that I don't have to support a family, or even myself and I've lived long enough to see that money has it's challenges, whether you have a little or a lot. (A lot, of course, would be much nicer than too little.)
4. I want to write what I want to write. I don’t want to bend my stories to a formula. I don’t want to toss in sex scenes or write about throbbing loins. I don’t want to sell a political agenda. I like telling the stories I feel like sharing at a particular moment and time.

I know that I won’t win awards. (Although shortly after I wrote this James sent me a link to the Indie awards.)I’m confident that I won’t be included in a literature anthology. No one is going to make movies out of my stories or talk about my work in a lit class. Would my writing improve with the guidance of a good editor? Absolutely. Would I reach a larger audience if I had a marketing team and a publishing house backing me? Undoubtedly. Am I willing to give up my autonomy for those added benefits? No. Sorry. For other’s traditional publishing is the best path, but it’s not for me.

I’m not snubbing my nose at the publishing industry. I admire their talents and their work. I really do. They provide a tremendous service to our country’s culture. But, just like there is more than one way to travel to the library, (car, bike, skate board, scooter) there is more than one way to have a writing career.

I’m extraordinarily grateful for the rise of indie-publishing. It’s allowed me to create a balance between my love of storytelling and a life full of people that I adore. After only two months I already have a small, growing readership of people who tell me that they love my work, and for me that’s icing on a cake of life that was pretty delicious even before I tried indie publishing.

September's Spectacular Blog Hop

2011-09-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the September Blog Hop! Celebrate the beginning of fall with me and my blogger friends by hopping around, visiting our sites, and entering our contests! There are no limits - you can enter the contest on every blog. With over 40 blogs participating, that's over 40 prizes you could win. Just click on the links below to move on to the next blog.

In STEALING MERCY, modern day genealogist, Bette Michaels, steals the 1889 journal of Mercy Faye. Here’s an excerpt describing the theft:

I’ve never stolen anything. Ever. Not even by accident. I always return extra change if a cashier makes a mistake. I’m meticulous about my taxes, generous with charitable donations, scrupulously honest. And that’s why an unfamiliar guilt worm wiggles in my belly.

I lift my fingers off the piano and glance back into the deserted living room and then at the library’s double doors. Through the windows I see rain dripping from the eaves of the porch. I hear wind rattling the doors and windows and after the crush of mourners filling Dot’s home, the plink of rain seems amplified. As does my beating heart.

I gather up my music and after a quick glance at the casket in the center of the room, I have a silent conversation with Dot. Do you mind? If I find it, I’ll just borrow it. I’ll return it. I won’t keep it. Dot, of course, still and silent nestled against all the silk in her casket, doesn’t respond, but I imagine her smiling, nudging me forward.

If I find the diary, that missing part that would hopefully explain so much, maybe I could just read it, quickly, before leaving. I pause in the entry hall, my feet rooted to the tapestry carpet. To my left, Dot’s library. I see my reflection in the beveled glass doors. I look tiny and fractured in the reflection. My pearls cast a small glow. I tuck a strand of dark hair behind my ear, debating. If I stand stock still in the entry much longer, perhaps the caterers will come and carry me out along with the empty boxes and trays of partially eaten food.

I’m not driven by impulse. I’d been waiting the opportunity to slip into the library all evening. I’d waited for the guests to leave so that I could look for the missing diary, the one that began in New York. My gaze flits around the room and I see the framed genealogy fan chart hanging on the wall, a stack of library books sitting on the desk, a mishmash of books marching across the shelves. I scan the collection, marveling at the eclectic choices. Standing on my toes, I find the tiny leather bound book on the top shelf.

I flip it open and my heart picks up speed when I recognize the copperplate handwriting. After another glance at the wet world outside the window, I lean against the solid walnut desk and begin to read.

Bette obviously believed that journals are important enough to steal. Fortunately, for one of you, stealing won’t be necessary. You have the chance to win not only a beautiful, handcrafted journal from India but also a signed copy of STEALING MERCY. All you have to do is:
1. Become a follower of my blog.
2. Leave a comment telling me why you think journaling is important. Or not.
3. Provide contact information so that I can notify you of my upcoming InKredible Kindle Kontest, where one lucky winner will take home a kindle e-reader.

That's it! You are now entered. The contest ends on Saturday night, September 24th, at midnight MST, and the winner will be contacted shortly thereafter. Please either leave your e-mail address in the comment trail or make sure it's visible through your profile so I can contact you to tell you that you're the lucky winner.
Now go visit my other friends ...
September Blog Hop Participants

1. Tristi Pinkston, LDS Author
2. Joyce DiPastena
3. I Am A Reader, Not A Writer
4. Mandi Slack
5. Michael D. Young
6. Six Mixed Reviews
7. Pam Williams
8. Laurie Lewis
9. Kristy Tate
10. Marilyn Yarbrough
11. Stacy Coles
12. Kristie Ballard
13. Lynn Parsons
14. Pushing Past the Pounds
15. Sheila Staley
16. cindy Hogan

17. Jamie Thompson
18. Jaclyn Weist
19. Cathy Witbeck
20. Secret Sisters Mysteries
21. Tamera Westhoff
22. Tina Scott
23. Lynnea Mortensen
24. Danyelle Ferguson aka Queen of the Clan
25. Jeanette A. Fratto
26. Bonnie Harris
27. Melissa Lemon
28. Mary Ann Dennis
29. Stephanie Black
30. Jane Still
31. Janice
32. Laura Bastian

33. Tamara Bordon
34. Betsy Love
35. Maria Hoagland
36. Amber Robertson
37. Debbie Davis
38.
39. Christy Monson
40. Carolyn Frank
41. Rebecca Birkin
42. Melissa Cunningham
43. Emily L. Moir
44. Ronda Hinrichsen
45. Lisa Asanuma
46. Joan Sowards
47. Jordan McCollum
48. Diane Stringam Tolley

Learn more about September Blog Hop here.
Get The Code

Word Choice or the Difference Between Flakey and Scatterbraininess.

2011-09-19T12:51:00.000-07:00

Mark Twain once said the difference between words could be the difference between a bee and a bee sting. The Chinese know this because the word Ma in Chinese can mean mom or horse, depending on the inflection. Inflection, or intent, alters everything.

The same is true for flakiness and scatterbraininess. I completely understand why both are annoying, but the intent is different, not making one more acceptable than the other, but, perhaps, more forgivable.

I’ve heard it said that one of the differences between a female brain and a male’s brain is the connection between the right and left hemispheres. The male’s hemisphere connector is like a one lane bridge—only one thing can pass at a time, meaning that they think about one thing at a time. Think of the male brain as an office filled with cubicles and in each cubicle there’s a guy—a husband guy, a work guy, a dad guy, a church guy, and handyman guy, a golf guy--and when one of the guys has the floor, it’s like all the other guys are deaf and dumb.

In contrast, the female connector is like a six lane highway—we’re able to wash the dishes, talk to Aunt Lindy, watch the babies and mentally compose a grocery list all at once.

I’m not being sexist, but according to current biological studies, men are not simultaneous thinkers. They have higher levels of concentration and focus. Girls’ thoughts are all over the place. But what about Mark Twain, or Shakespeare, or any of the other literary greats? Writers are unique creatures. Male or female, we get ideas at any place and at any time, even when we’re doing other things—even important things.

For example, once when I was Relief Society president I was mentally in the thick of a story, but, as it often happened, people were hungry and needed food, meaning that I had to go to the bishop’s storehouse—a forty-five minute drive from my house. (A trip to the bishop’s storehouse, depending on traffic, usually took me about three hours.) One morning after doing the scores of things busy mothers do, I got in the car and headed for the bishop’s storehouse. Physically, I was in the car on Santa Margarita parkway, but mentally I was in an art gallery in Laguna contemplating a murder (my novel, Shell Charms.) I drove about two miles before I remembered that I’d forgotten to pick up the food order form from the bishop. When I arrived at his house, I stepped out of the car and onto the pavement and realized I wasn’t wearing shoes.

Flakiness would be not going to the bishop’s storehouse because something more interesting came along. Scatterbraininess is going improperly shod (or, in my case, having to return home for my shoes). Flakiness verses scatterbraininess—it’s all in the intent.

That being said, my decision to postpone my Inkredible Kindle Kontest is not a matter of flakiness or even scatterbraininess, it’s a matter of intent. I fully intend to have a contest and give away a kindle, although since this is the second delay, it may not seem like it. I postponed the kindle contest in August because I had the opportunity to participate in Tristi Pinkston’s Awesome August Blog Hop and I didn’t want to give away a kindle when the other bloggers were giving away smaller ticket items. I also had a host of personal things that needed my attention--a trip to Portland, my book launch and a dinner to prepare for a visiting general authority and stake leaders.

I’m postponing again because Tristi’s hosting another blog hop and because of Dr. Debra Holland. Debra belongs to my writer’s group and has made thousands of dollars self publishing her sweet romance novels. (In fact, she gives a dollar for dollar accounting on her blog—check her out. Not that she needs my advertising.) I compared Debra’s success and my own middling sales in the same niche market. There are actually many differences between my career and Debra’s, like her winning the Golden Heart competition, but only one that I can easily and quickly duplicate. Debra has four books out and she chapter swaps with other writers. This means that at the end of each of her western romances, she has a first chapter from another author’s western romance. The fellow romance writer reciprocates. This means that there are four other authors with the first chapter of one of her books in the back of their books.

I hope to chapter swap with another writer on my next book. (In fact, I’ve been reading other romaction authors looking for a good fit.) But, with STEALING MERCY I want to chapter swap with myself, meaning that I’ve included the first chapter of my new book A GHOST OF A CHANCE at the end of STEALING MERCY. This means revising. Revising takes time, but not too much time, because that would be flakey.

So, in this case, it’s not a matter of flakiness verses scatterbraininess, but of trying to maximize the marketing potential of the InKredible Kindle Kontest. A contest that will be Koming as soon as I Kan get STEALING MERCY reformatted with A GHOST OF A CHANCE at the end.

I know that in this post I’ve made up words and misspelled words, which brings me back to my original point of the importance of word choice. Sometimes you just have to go with what works, even if you have to delay, postpone, go barefoot or make it up as you go.

10 Steps to a Successful Book Launch

2011-09-16T14:48:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t going to have a book launch, after all, book launches are for the glittery literati, right? My friends talk about their kid’s and the crazy Spanish teacher, the soccer coach who spits when he yells, husbands and disappearing golf clubs. They don’t talk about Sylvia Plath and they don’t recite TS Elliot. And they don’t do book launches. In fact, when I was telling a friend about my book launch plans, she said, but how can you do lunch in the evening? Launch, not lunch. My friends have lunch down to an art—they’re less familiar with book launches.

But, friends are the critical ingredient in a successful launch.

Step 1. You need a friend like Melanie. Melanie is my writing partner. We hash out our stories every Thursday with a fellow writer, Brittany. Melanie writes Mormon Chic Lit (yes, there is such a niche) and her second book, NOT MY TYPE, came out last week. Our combo book launch at Nothing Bundt Cakes was Melanie’s brain child. She found the shop, made the arrangements with the owner, tested the bundtinis and sent out the invitations. (She admits that she bit her nails, worrying that I’d bail, but I came up with the tag buy a book, bag a bundtini.)

Step 2. You need books, possibly more books than you think you’ll need. (I ran out of books.)

Step 3. You need a friend like Molly. Molly has more table cloths than anyone I know and she let me borrow six. (She also has an impressive collection of linen napkins, but you won’t need linen napkins for a book launch, unless you’re doing lunch, but remember, launch, not lunch.

Step 4. You need a friend like Nancy to contribute two candelabras, two candle sticks, 32 tea lights and seven pillar candles.

Step 5. You need Ginger’s 17 folding black chairs, Jen’s two folding tables, and six bistro tables.

Step 6. You need a Jenny. When I went to Jenny’s to borrow one of the six bistro tables, Jenny took me around her house and said, Do you want this bird? What about this three tiered cake holder? You need this bowl and this platter. I looked at the bowl and the platter and thought, I do not need this platter or bowl and I’m completely overwhelmed by all this stuff. But, on the night of the launch, the bowl held the names for the door prizes and the bundtinis sat on the platter, which just goes to show that everyone needs a Jenny.

Step 7. You need a husband, son and a daughter to help set up tables, chairs and stuff. You need brilliant twin daughters to count and collect money and pass out bundtinis.

Step 8. You need door prizes. Or not. Some people weren’t interested in taking their door prizes.

Step 9. You need money boxes. Melanie and I used wood boxes that had once held the ashes of Mary’s dogs. Years ago, Mary and I scattered the ashes of Babe and Watson in the canyon where we used to run. I kept the boxes. That’s a different story. What’s important to know is you need some place to keep the money. (The boxes had been cleaned.)

Step 10. Most importantly, you need friends. Friends to buy your book. Friends to ask you to sign your book. Friends who bring friends to buy your book. Friends who will pass your book to their friends and say, you’ve got to read this book.

Otherwise, it’s just you all alone in a cake shop and that can be a potentially dangerous situation.

Someone, Somewhere Touched a Button

2011-09-09T10:14:00.000-07:00

Someone, somewhere touched a button and the world went dark. I’m sure the unknown Edison worker didn’t mean to send 5 million Californians into electronic paralysis. He probably didn’t know that such a small mistake could cause bedlam on the freeways, in the hospitals, at the gas pumps and ATMs. He doesn’t know that at our house my husband and son are watching a football game on TV. My daughters are doing the homework on computers and I’m playing solitaire on my I-pad. We have power when most of our neighbors don’t. Are we special? No. We just happen to be in a tiny pocket where the wires still sing with power.

So. No school tomorrow. The newsman tells us our electronic grid is very fragile. We don’t know what this means, except that we’re to use our electronics sparingly. (Thank heavens the temperature has dropped.)This is the perfect excuse not to do laundry. Vacuum? Wouldn’t want to upset the powerboard. We don’t know how the electronic grid works or who mans the powerboard or who was responsible for touching the wrong button and sending our neighbors into the dark, but it doesn’t really matter. We’re all connected, riding in the same boat and to some that means loss of power to a life saving device and to others (like the Tates) it means a day at the beach.

Is it fair? Is it right? No. It just is what it is.

School Starts Tomorrow

2011-09-06T16:49:00.000-07:00

School starts tomorrow. My girls are juniors in high school. I remember being a junior in high school. I was the editor of the feature page of The Arlington Eagle, our high school newspaper. The following year I would be the editor in chief. I divvied out assigned articles; I cut and slashed stories with a red pen. I won awards. I was a good writer and I knew it.

Skip ahead a few years and I’m at BYU, sitting in an English Lit. class. Every time I make a comment, the professor looks at the clock. I assume I bore him almost as much as he bores me. I try to be witty, insightful—it doesn’t matter. I’m doomed to mediocrity in his eyes. Then one day, the professor reads an excerpt from my paper and pronounces, “This is an excellent paper!” He hands it to the girl sitting behind me and she takes it with a sheepish smile.

I sit in the class, stunned. What now? Approach the professor? The girl? Stand up and proclaim the credit that is rightfully mine? No. In that take-my-breath-away moment, I realize something. The opinion of the professor, the girl, and my classmates really doesn’t matter. My thoughts and my ability to communicate them remain the same regardless of their thoughts. This is a hard lesson to learn. I have to remind myself of it often.

I was reminded of it today when I read this blog post by Bill Kenower, editor of Author Magazine. “Unfortunately, if you live by the sword of opinion, then you die by the sword of opinion. If I am a good writer one day because my professor says I am, then I am a bad writer the next because the college literary editor says I am not. I wish I could remember the exact day I stopped tethering my work’s value to someone else’s opinion as well as I can remember all that praise and criticism, but I cannot. I cannot, because there never was such a moment. I started out not caring, as do we all. That tethering had to be learned, a useless attempt to stave off the perceived loneliness born of asking yourself a question that only you can answer.”

Tomorrow my girls will go to school. Teachers, some indifferent and some engaged, will mark up their papers with red pens. I wish I could tell them that all that marking doesn’t matter, but it does. It will matter to them.

Just as it mattered to me until that moment when I realized that it no longer did. Bill Kenower didn’t have that moment. But I did. I didn’t recognize it at that loss of breath moment in the BYU classroom, but I realize now that I was (am) lucky.

Small and Simple Sundays

2011-09-04T16:13:00.000-07:00

I’m a big believer in the power of small and simple things. By the yard it’s hard, but by the inch it’s a cinch. A thousand mile journey begins with a single step. (You probably know some proverbs of your own. I bet your mother taught them to you.)

I believe that small, simple goals are the steps to success and that great, big enormous goals are tools of Satan that we use to clobber out all the good feelings in our souls. Which may sound funny coming from a novelist and a marathon runner, but I didn’t sit down and write a novel in one breath and I didn’t run 26 miles the first time I put on my sneakers. I got an idea which I nursed and then wrote about a few hundred words at a time. Nearly every day. And I took A LOT of classes and workshops. Same thing with the marathon (which, by the way, was ten years ago) I ran six days a week and every week I went a little further than the week before. It wasn’t easy. There wasn’t a short cut. I had giant blisters on my feet and lost all of my toenails. (What was I thinking? I’m deviating, back to my point…)

In Melanie Jacobson’s new novel, NOT MY TYPE, Pepper desperately needs an attitude adjustment and her father challenges her to write a thank you note a week. Originally, the book was titled 52 Thank Yous. (I preferred that title, but since its Melanie’s book and not mine, I didn’t get a vote.) At first, Pepper’s notes are sarcastic and a little mean, but by the end, when love has softened all her rough edges, the note to her father is poignant and sweet.

A thank you note a week—how long would that take? Maybe ten minutes out of a week of 10,080. (My husband would be so proud of me for voluntarily doing math!) Can ten minutes a week change your life? Do you want to give it a try? Maybe you don’t need an attitude adjustment. Maybe you’re already plenty grateful. It doesn’t matter. Think of something small and simple and set a goal. (Remember, big, giant goals are Satan’s weapons used for beating yourself over the head and killing all your hope.

So, I’m calling this Small and Simple Sunday, or, if you’d rather wait until Thursdays—Throw-down Thursdays. I’m going to wait and set my goal on Thursday, not only because it’s the first day of school, but also because it gives me four more days to think of how I want to change…for good.

If you want to join in and make yourself accountable to 80 something fantastic, friendly followers, leave a comment announcing your goal. If you prefer anonymity, write it down and tuck it in between the pages of a journal. Either one works.

Good Things Happening

2011-09-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

Congrats to Stacy Cole who won signed copies of Angela Morrison’s TAKEN BY STORM and my novel STEALING MERCY!

I had hoped to have my Incredible Kindle Kontest up and running today, but due to some new and unexpected upcoming events, I have decided to wait until after September 15th—the day of my Buy a Book, Bag a Bundt Bash, 6-8 pm, @ the Nothing Bundt Cakes bakery in Mission Viejo. I’m celebrating with Melanie Jacobson, author of THE LIST and NOT MY TYPE and if you buy one of our books you’ll get a bundtini. Unfamiliar with bundtinis? You’ll want to get to know them, trust me. We’re offering groovy give-aways and it’s going to be a book, bundt, blast.

Not that the Kindle Kontest isn’t going to be incredible. It will be. I’m giving away an e-reader, a must have for any reader. The contest will run for six weeks, beginning on September 19th and ending on Halloween, which is appropriate, because my next-to-be-released novel is a ghost story. (And I’ll want to talk about that work in progress along the way.) As well as the e-reader, I have some smaller, but still fabulous, gift-giveaways. So, mark your calendars, tell your friends, family and pets that good things will be happening here.

Free Stuff

2011-08-31T10:50:00.000-07:00

The Awesome August Blog Hop ends today. The Awesome August Blog Hop really is awesome—there’s some cool stuff to be won. Free stuff has a luring siren song. It’s hard to resist, even when there’s a pile of stuff on your balcony.

I live in a planned community. This means that my trees can’t grow too high and I can’t build forts in my front yard. When we first moved to Sembrado Street, all the houses were varying shades of peach. I love peaches, but I wanted to paint my house white. I got permission from my immediate neighbors and the association board, but our white house still received a fair amount of attention. When we put up a basketball backboard, we had to paint it to match the house. My point is, any minute now I’m expecting someone from the association to come by and smack us with a fine for the stuff on our balcony.

It’s not my stuff, it belongs to Adam. There’s not room for his stuff in the closets because they’re full of Jared and Nathan’s stuff. Jared’s in Taiwan and Nathan’s in Japan but their stuff is here. Bethany’s in Portland, but even she has stuff underneath the bed.

A few years ago I loaded up our van to take stuff to the dump and after looking what I’d collected I realized almost everything in the van had been stuff I’d inherited from friends and family. Judy’s fake trees, Mary’s rug, boxes of Grandma’s knick-knacks. Free stuff.

There’s some stuff in my house that should go to the dump, but hasn’t because, quite simply, it holds a memory. The armoire in my closet has broken doors, but I remember when we bought it in Maine. We’d been looking for lobster and bought an armoire instead. We wrapped it in blankets and tied it to the top of our van and brought it home. The 1930 walnut sideboard has a broken foot, but I found it at an estate sale in Connecticut and I love it, so even if it looks funny sharing a room with the weight machine and treadmill, it’s still here.

Will I sign up to win more free stuff on this the last day of the Awesome August Blog Hop? Probably, but if I’m smart, I’ll first get rid something old before I bring in something new.

Awesome August Blog Hop

2011-08-27T18:16:00.000-07:00

Welcome to the Awesome August Blog Hop, where bloggers from all over the Internet have come together to throw a summertime party!

Every blog on this hop is offering a fun prize, and entering is quick and easy. Simply follow the instructions on each blog, leave a comment, and bop right along to the next blog. You can win multiple times, so be sure to check out all the participating blogs!

On my blog, you can win a signed copies of Angela Morrison's young adult novel, TAKEN BY STORM (read my interview with her on this blog) and my novel, STEALING MERCY (go to Amazon to read its awesome reviews.)

To enter:

1. Become a follower of my blog. (You will want to keep posted because Kristy's Incredible Kindle Kontest where one lucky winner will take home a Kindle e-reader starts September 1st!)

2. Go to Amazon and 'like' my novel, STEALING MERCY

3. Leave me a comment and tell me that you've done both things. If your e-mail isn't available through your profile, I'll need you to leave that, too - I can't tell you if you've won if I can't contact you!

This blog hop officially begins Monday and runs through Wednesday night at midnight! The winner will be notified by e-mail.

Now that you've entered my contest and made a note in your calendar of my Incredible Kindle Kontest, come meet my blogging friends and see what fun things they have to offer!

Awesome August Blog Hop Participants

1. Tristi Pinkston, LDS Author
2. Karen Hoover
3. Michael Young
4. Kristy Tate
5. cindy Hogan
6. Julie Bellon
7. Margot Hovley
8. Laurie Lewis
9. Mandi Slack
10. Melanie Jacobson
11. Joyce DiPastena
12. Renae Mackley

13. Debbi Weitzell
14. Donna Hatch
15. Carolyn Frank
16. Marsha Ward
17. Stacy Coles
18. Bonnie Harris
19. Danyelle Ferguson aka Queen of the Clan
20. Diony George
21. Lisa Asanuma
22. Susan Dayley
23. Christine Bryant @ Day Dreamer
24. Stephanie Humphreys

25. Ranee` Clark
26. Tamera Westhoff
27. I Am A Reader, Not A Writer
28. Heather Justesen
29. Rebecca Talley
30. Jennifer Hurst
31. Aimee Brown
32. Cheryl Christensen
33. Rachelle Christensen
34. Imaginary Reads
35. Andrea Pearson

Learn more about Awesome August Blog Hop here.
View More Awesome August Blog Hop Participants
Get The Code

Contests and More

2011-08-26T18:10:00.001-07:00

My first forays into the world of marketing and promotion... (Remember, I'm learning and I'm continually stubbing my toes.) Today I'm trying to become a "crusader", to learn more, please go to: http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/08/third-writers-platform-building_02.htm

Next week I’m part of Tristi Pinkston’s Awesome August blog hop. This means that there will be a list of bloggers giving away free stuff and you can visit them, one or all, and sign up for the ones that tickle your fancy. And in September I’ll be hosting what I’m calling Kristy’s Incredible Kindle Contest and one lucky winner will receive a kindle e-reader. It’s all free, of course, anything else would be gambling and gambling offends my Scottish sensibilities.

Do you have a Tupperware lady in your church or neighborhood? Or an Avon lady on your kid’s soccer team—a perfectly nice person that you consistently avoid because once you bought something from her and you don’t want to repeat the experience? I’m terrified of becoming the Tupperware/Avon/person. (No offense to those who are natural born sales people—I admire you, I really do, but we’re made of different DNA.)

My daughter spoke at an early age—but not to people she didn’t know. If someone made the mistake of trying to talk to her, she’d turn her head and pointedly ignore them. When Bethany was little, we spent a lot of time with my good friend Nancy and her children. After months of park days and play dates, Nancy was surprised when Bethany spoke to her in complete sentences. Nancy didn’t know that Bethany could speak, or that she actually had opinions—and that she had, in fact, a lot of opinions for being only two years old. I’m a lot like Bethany.

In college I took a class taught by my husband’s old girlfriend. (I know, I know. I didn’t have choice.) I sat in the back and kept quiet. Later we were introduced and she was shocked to learn I’d taken a class from her. I’d rather be an observer than a leader. I’d rather play the piano than lead the music, although I’m capable of doing both. My point is, I’d rather buy a book than try and sell one. Even if it costs me money (and I don’t like spending money.)

So, follow my blog, learn how to win the stuff I’ll be giving away, buy my book and tell your friends, but PLEASE don’t ask me to lead the music. I'll probably say no.

Contests and More

2011-08-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

My first forays into the world of marketing promotion... (Remember, I'm learning and I'm continually stubbing my toes.) Anyway, I'm trying to become a "crusader", to learn more, please go to
http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/08/third-writers-platform-building_02.html

Education Week

2011-08-22T07:40:00.000-07:00

I went to Education Week at BYU to learn, to spend time with my sisters and to avoid Adam’s fourteen friends. I love Education Week, it’s one of my favorite weeks of the year. I love my sisters and I don’t love Adam’s friends—not because they’re not lovely, but because I don’t know them, and fourteen house guests are best avoided.

Utah has weather drama, even in high summer. Thunder, lightning, pelting rain—I love it in moderation. Rancho, in comparison, is very boring. Seventy something almost year round—yawn. Along with the weather drama, I enjoyed games and good food with my sisters and awesome classes.

Here’s just one of the week’s highlights. The Marriott Center holds about 22, 000 people. I walked into the Marriott for a class and sitting directly in front of me was my sister, Kathy. I thought this remarkable because the Marriott Center is huge and Kathy and I hadn’t coordinated at all. I wasn’t expecting to find her there, I wasn’t looking for her and yet there she was. (I also thought it odd that Kathy wore a navy blue shirt with little strawberries on it that matched 16 year old Miranda’s tennis shoes—navy, little red strawberries. Does this mean that Kathy is young and hip or Miranda is 16 going on senior citizen?) The class where I found Kathy was supposedly on the life before birth and yet the instructor spent a huge amount of time talking about perfectionism. I don’t think perfectionism is an issue for me. I have lots of issues, but I don’t think perfectionism is one of them, but there must have been a lesson underlined that I needed to learn because as Kathy and I walked to campus a bus passed by with PERFECTION—ARE YOU READY? written on the side.

So, I’m not perfect (no surprise there) and that’s okay. I also learned that every life event provokes a chemical reaction in our bodies and that if we retell or revisit an event we recreate that physical chemical reaction. That’s why we need to let go of negative experiences—retelling or revisiting only causes our bodies harm. I learned about simple sugars and fiber and nutrient density and how to stabilize blood sugar. And did you know that learning to breathe for relaxation is more effective than marijuana? I also took two money classes on purpose and one class that dealt with money on accident. That night I had a very vivid dream about our future finances. The next day Dow dropped 400 points.

I really believe that by putting myself at Education Week (or at any place of learning, or at any book of scripture, or book, movie, website of instruction) with an eager, open mind the Lord is able to stuff all sorts of things into my head, including the lessons I’m looking for and the ones He wants me to learn.

I’m home now. The fourteen houseguests are gone. The weather--mid-seventies. Life as I know it returns. I hope to blog a little more often, write more than I have during this busy summer, and be a little better, a little smarter because of what I learned at Education Week.

Smashed Coke Bottle Poodles

2011-08-09T17:22:00.000-07:00

A very long time ago when I was far too young for the responsibility, I served as a counselor in a Relief Society presidency in charge of the monthly workshops. The stake Relief Society president gave me some advice that has stuck with me, and now more than twenty-five years later seems oddly applicable. She said, don’t measure the success of the workshop on the number who attend. Your success will be discovering and offering the workshops that the women in your congregation need.

What she meant was that the classes that teach the latest fad craft might bring the largest crowds, but that was beside the point. For example, when I was a little girl there was a time when it seemed every woman who attended our church had poodle shaped wall-hangings made from smashed coke bottles hanging on their living room walls. What the good stake Relief Society president meant was that smashed coke bottle poodles are very nice, but they shouldn’t be valued above the more necessary classes dealing with weighty matters, even if the women seem to want smashed glass poodles.

Fast forward twenty years and I’m the Relief Society president leaving my first stake leadership meeting. My counselor has a bag filled with candy and instructions on easy crafts. In my arms I’m carrying a notebook filled with information on suicide, eating disorders, addictions and sexual abuse. My counselor looks at my notebook and says, I’m glad I’m not you.

The world became a darker, grittier place for me during my time as Relief Society president. I’ve since learned that candy and easy crafts have their place. The trick is to learn what’s needed, not necessarily what is popular and the latest fad.

I’m trying to keep this all in mind as I watch the number of sales of my novel. The romance industry far out sells all the other literary genres, and quite honestly, if most of the romance novels that sell were on TV, they’d be limited to the Playboy channel. I think romance should be spelled without an X and that’s the type of story I set out to write.

I'm reminding myself of that lesson I learned a long time ago--success is recognizing the need and trying to fill it.

Even if everyone around me is obsessed with smashed coke bottle poodles.

My dad's 90th Birthday

2011-08-08T11:26:00.000-07:00

We held my dad’s 90th birthday party in the gym at the church building. Back in the sixties, the tiny congregation built the chapel with wood donated from my brother-in-law’s father who owned a saw mill. The building of the chapel, as well as the congregation that worshipped there, was, and still is, very much a family affair. Dicksons are plentiful in Arlington and a host of them attended my dad’s party.

My Uncle John, age 93, had to be led to the microphone so that he could say a few very difficult to understand words. Watching him from my place behind the table holding the birthday cake, it occurred to me that I will probably never see him again. He preformed my marriage nearly 30 years ago. When my mother was in car accident more than forty years ago, my Aunt Helen, his wife, picked me up from the hospital. She always called me ‘pal’ and she helped me make a quilt for my husband’s wedding gift. I’m not sure if she knew who I was when I hugged that night.

My dad hasn’t health or memories issues. He still stands straight. He doesn’t take any medications. His 1930 built house and his acre yard are in tip-top shape. Since Mary, my stepmother, no longer wants to bottle fruit or can vegetables, my dad’s garden is now mostly onions, berries, apples and tomatoes. He still drives. Although very slowly.

As my family drove away from Arlington, we listened to a CD my college age son made comparing Billy Joel to Ben Folds (is there really any comparison?) When I was a teenager, I’d been a Billy Joel junkie; I had all his albums. Listening to his music, driving away from the place I’ve always considered home, I had an overwhelming feeling of angst.

Here’s some of the lyrics of one of my Joel favorites.

Brenda and Eddie were the
Popular steadys
And the king and the queen
Of the prom
Riding around with the car top
Down and the radio on.
Nobody looked any finer
Or was more of a hit at the
Parkway Diner
We never knew we could want more
Than that out of life
Surely Brenda and Eddie would
Always know how to survive.

The trip from Arlington to Rancho is long in more ways than one. We stopped in San Francisco, rode on a trolley, shopped in Chinatown and watched the Sea lions near the wharf. While at Ghirardelli Square eating mammoth sundaes, I watched a young man in the neighboring booth unbuckle his belt, pull down his pants, and massage his left buttock. He did this while carrying on a conversation and eating ice cream. After a few moments, he removed a hypodermic needle from his bag and gave himself an injection. The pants went back up, the belt buckled, and I wonder if anyone, other than me, even noticed.

Oddly, he reminded me of the sea lions. There are dozens of empty piers in the wharf and yet the lions crowd onto only a few. They fight for territory. The largest and usually loudest sea lion is constantly throwing competitors off the popular pier and into the bay.

San Francisco was cold and I rode inside the street trolley, protected by glass from the frigid wind, but I could see my husband and children hanging on along the side, laughing, taking pictures of buildings that I couldn’t see. At one point my husband jumped off so that he could take pictures of our girls. He ran and jumped back on.

Which brings me back to Brenda and Eddie, who got a divorce as a matter of course. Sometimes jumping back on just isn't an option.

Brenda and Eddie had it
Already by the summer of '75
From the high to the low to
The end of the show
For the rest of their lives
They couldn't go back to
The greasers
The best they could do was
Pick up the pieces
We always knew they would both
Find a way to get by.

A long with the young diabetic man in Ghirardelli Square, the sea lions, Brenda and Eddie—we’re all picking up the pieces and finding a way to get by. Doing what needs to be done to survive. For my dad, Mary, Uncle John and Aunt Helen the only glory days left are the ones they can recall, which reminds me that while I’m busy getting by, I need to make as many days as glorious as I possibly can.

(Yes, my novel Stealing Mercy is available for download on most electronic readers. My son Nathan added his name to mine because he's a stand-up comedian and thinks he's funny. Actually, he is usually funny, but that's beside the point. For those wondering, I've ordered the proof for my A-Okay and soon Stealing Mercy will be available in paperback. And while this has nothing to do with Brenda and Eddie, my dad's birthday or San Fran I thought I'd mention it.)

Stealing Mercy Debut

2011-08-02T21:00:00.000-07:00

After a series of mishaps, false starts and catawampus formatting, my novel Stealing Mercy has finally made its debut is now available on most e-readers including IBooks, Kindle and Nook for the bargain price of $2.99. (For your reading pleasure I’ve attached the link to the Kindle Store.) http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?ie=UTF8&rh=n%3A133140011&field-keywords=Stealing%20Mercy&page=1

My computer savvy son helped me with the uploading to the whats-it and the formatting to the thingy and I still haven’t scaled the jpeggers for the front and back covers and the spine (maybe tomorrow?) for the POD books.

I have marketing ideas, contests, give-aways and prizes buzzing in my head, but since I’m thousands of miles from home and surrounded by extended family and loved ones, I can only wish you all happy reading until my feet are back on my home turf.

No man is an island entire of itself- John Donne

2011-07-19T20:44:00.000-07:00

Today my computer whizz son is uploading my book so that the rest of the world can read it. My talented daughter made the front and back covers. The picture on the front is of my youngest daughter and we took the photograph on my friend’s stairs. (Eventually, we didn’t use Molly’s staircase, but it was nice of her to let us pose around her banisters.) Miranda, my daughter the model, is holding a necklace that we borrowed from her friend, Summer.

I started Stealing Mercy about eighteen months ago. I had a goal of winning the Romance Writer’s of America’s Golden Heart award and to help me meet that goal, I asked a friend and prolific romance writer to help me. Which she did. I didn’t win the award and (even though there might be some of you who don’t believe me) I’m grateful for that fail as it would have put me on a different path.

I belong to Orange County Fictionaires, a writer’s group made up of incredibly talented and diverse writers. I’m honored and humbled to be among them. I like to think their wit and intelligence has made me a better writer (and person.)

Wendy Moon edited my book. Many people have read it, and although I’m not going to list them all, I want them to know how much I appreciate their helpful feedback and encouragement.

I’m also indebted to my sister-in-law, Cynthia, who helped me to see a bigger picture and a better plan than the one I’d been pursuing. One weekend at her home changed my perspective and my career objectives.

And, while I’m passing around my gourd of gratitude, I have to mention my husband. He’s been holding my hand for twenty-nine years. I know he’ll never let go, no matter what insanity comes our way, and for that stability and security I’m profoundly grateful.

Finally, I have to thank the source of all good ideas. I believe there’s a muse for every creative endeavor and I pay humble recognition to mine. I had the idea for my very favorite scene in Stealing Mercy while worshipping in the temple. While my mind was supposed to be occupied on more spiritual things, I had the idea of Mercy baking tarts laced with a sleeping potion. I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago and started having faith in a God that’s concerned with giant and important things and who also has a sense of humor about stories, tarts and sleeping potions. I really can’t adequately express my appreciation for His guidance in my life.

So thank you, all of you, for the gift of this novel. I hope in some small way, it repays the tremendous debt I owe to the world for all I’ve been given.

Stealing Mercy will go live within a few days.

Book Blurb

2011-07-12T15:38:00.000-07:00

My children are brilliant. I won’t even mention their tests scores or GPAs, because you probably wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I’m lying, because, after all, I do write fiction. Still, despite all their smarts, they’re lacking in experience.
For example, Jared, who graduated with all sorts of honors once said, “Make ice? You can’t make ice!” In Jared’s experience, ice comes from a lever on a refrigerator door, a machine in a hotel lobby or a soda machine. Ice tray? What’s that? And how do you get the ice out?

Natalie, who reads Austin and Dickens for breakfast once said, “There are no leaves on any of these trees! Look, not one of these trees has any leaves.” It was December and we were in Utah. Natalie had spent every winter of her life in Southern California. After all, unless you ski, why go to Utah in the winter? Unless, of course, you must. I’m sure that at some early point in Natalie’s vast and impressive education she learned about deciduous trees, but in sunny California, trees have leaves and blossoms pretty much always. In Natalie’s experience a leafless tree was a dead tree.

Lately I’ve been working self publishing my book and I’m wading in new waters. I’m discovering ice trays and barren trees. Weeks ago I set the goal to have my book up and out before my dad’s 90th birthday party. I broke the project into small goals. Finish book. Have it edited. Get feedback from readers. Write back cover blurb. Make front and back covers. I set deadlines and I made every single one.

Which means that I now have no excuses.

Except, of course, that I’m doing something that I’ve never done before. It would be comforting if I could practice, but it appears that practice swings are okay in golf and baseball, but not indie-publishing. Once I self publish, the book is out there for anyone to see. Warts and all.

Tomorrow, I’m going to self publish a short story. It’s a little less daunting than an entire novel, but until then, take a look at my blurb for STEALING MERCY and tell me what you think… before it’s too late to change.

Stealing Mercy
After a night of terror, Mercy Faye flees New York. Disguised as a boy, she sets sail for a new life in Seattle, but her nightmare, Mr. Steele, follows close behind. Armed with only her chocolates, laced tarts and wits, Mercy sets out to destroy Mr. Steele and his Lucky Island brothel.

Trent Michaels is searching for his missing cousin. He can’t afford complications--or romance--yet, at every turn he finds Mercy Faye. The night before the Great Seattle Fire of 1889, flames spark between Mercy and Trent leaving the life they know and the city they love in ashes.

Their story reaches forward through time to Bette Michaels, a genealogist, struggling with grief after the sudden death of her husband. Although generations apart, as Bette unravels Mercy’s story, she learns that a life can be rebuilt--even after everything is lost.

Through Mercy, Bette learns that sometimes the only way to find happiness is to steal it.

TAKEN BY STORM

2011-07-08T07:42:00.000-07:00

I recently read and loved Taken by Storm by Angela Morrison. Here are a few of her reviews:

A moving novel...Morrison conveys underlying tensions that threaten the teenagers' relationship and test their moral codes...she handles the topics...gracefully without passing judgment. --Publishers Weekly, starred review

"One of the most breathtaking and romantic-to-the-point-you-cry books I've ever read." --The Reader

"There are moments of yearning and transcendence that took my breath away." --Susan Fletcher, author of Alphabet of Dreams

"An amazing story." --Jack Weyland, author of Charly

I met Angela a few months ago and I'm thrilled to have her visiting my blog. Please join our discussion!

Tell me about your decision to use poetry and “chatspot” for prose.

TAKEN BY STORM is what one of my fellow YA authors calls a collage novel. I originally wrote it with dual first-person narrators--Michael and Leesie. I came up with the idea of putting all of Michael's narration in journal-type dive log entries, and I loved that and even had editors love it, but I couldn't get Leesie's part right. She was always a poet, but in the early drafts, I only let her write the poem about her grandmother that she emails to Michael. Ah-hah! Eureka. Let her narrate in poems. For the third piece of Michael and Leesie's puzzle, I pulled out their online chats, that I'd used like dialogue, and put them in as chat transcripts. It was a challenge to get all the pieces to fit together, but when I was done, I was excited. And then I found an editor who is a poet, too.

What are some of your favorite authors? Tell me about their influence on Taken by Storm.

I adore Markus Zusak--especially THE BOOK THIEF. SCBWI Germany hosted him for a workshop when I lived in Switzerland, and I got to go to it. He was amazing. I was astonished that a guy that young had so much confidence in exactly how he wanted his book to look on the page and the pieces he wanted to use to tell his story. It was after his workshop and reading THE BOOK THIEF that I decided to collage my novel.

I'm a huge TWILIGHT fan, too. Stephanie Meyers had a different type of influence on TAKEN BY STORM. She expanded the appetite for YA books in a huge, huge way. Pre-TWILIGHT I could sell TAKEN BY STORM. After, I got a two book contract with Penguin--about a book that has abstinence for one of its main themes. Many of my friends got contracts, too. The YA phenomenon that is still growing owes a huge debt to Queen Stephanie.

I love the symbolism of Michael’s drowning in grief. Tell me about your experience with scuba diving. Were you a diver before writing Taken by Storm?

Yeah. I got the idea for TAKEN BY STORM on a dive trip with my husband to Cozumel. You've got to go to my website and read the whole tale. Check out Storm's Story. But I didn't know anything about free diving. On a trip to Grand Cayman, my husband and I took a free dive certification course. He was great at it. I was awful, but I aced the written test and--and you should have watched our instructor dive. Poetry in motion. For real.

When in Michael’s point of view, he refers to himself as “i” as opposed to the capitalized “I.” And then at some point, Michael switches to the capital “I”. Tell me about that decision and exactly where the change begins.

He uses "i" after the hurricane. He's so shattered that "I" is too much for him. The "I" that he's always been is gone. I worried that an editor would smirk and think that was too artsy, but my wonderful editor was a poet and made sure we kept that. It's kind of tricky to tell you when the change happens without spoiling the ending of TAKEN BY STORM . . . but look for it there. I'm sure you'll figure out why it changes back to "I."

I think you did a lovely job of portraying Michael’s secular upbringing opposed with Leesie’s more spiritual foundation. As a Mormon, I can relate to Leesie, but I’m curious as to the reaction of those who don’t share my faith. Can you share any feedback you’ve received about Michael and his point of view?

My readers adore, adore Michael. They fall totally in love with him. I've heard from readers of all different faiths and belief systems--from atheists to Moslems to Catholics and Mormons, who enjoyed TAKEN BY STORM. They were with me through UNBROKEN CONNECTION, but some didn't like the path Michael takes in CAYMAN SUMMER. I didn't see any other way for it to go--but that's because of my beliefs. And I had lots of readers who cheered every step Michael took.

One of my favorite lines in the book is “a hundred thousand virgin kisses.” Do you have any particular favorite lines?

Oh, that's one of my favorites, too! I also like it when Leesie says, "I'm much better online than in person."

There’s a line from a song that goes something like this “that same small town in each of us,” that I relate with, since I’m also from a small town in Washington. Tell me about the influence of Tekoa in your work.

I had to find a place to send Michael after I killed of his parents and all his dive club friends. I couldn't send him back to Phoenix to the arms of Caroleena and familiar places. Too easy. Not enough pain and suffering. Yes, we authors are totally sadistic. I needed a place I knew well. I lived in Canada at the time and wanted an American setting. I settled on Tekoa. I didn't realize it, but I was homesick. I couldn't go home in real life, but I could go there in my imagination every day.

Are the Salmon people a figment of your imagination, or is it a Native American legend?

The reservation across from Grand Coulee Dam is called the Colville Indian Reservation. I had a mentor at Vermont College tell me that didn't sound like a Native American name and I needed to change it. She didn't care if that was what the Native American tribes there went by. So I did my homework. The reservation took the name of a nearby fort--named after a British guy. Remnants of many tribes lived there on the shores of the Columbia River. They had a good life--compared to so many Native American tribes who ended up on reservations--because they could still fish the river for salmon. They did worship the salmon. And when Grand Coulee Dam went up, they did hold a Ceremony of Tears. I found pictures of it in my research. In their native tongues, they referred to themselves as "the people" or "salmon people," so I used that in the novel. The buff warriors riding salmon in Michael's nightmare are from my imagination--but they echo what I learned about the real salmon people.

My absolute favorite scene in the book is near the end when Michael has a vision of Leesie “standing in front of her white temple snowflakes falling around her—pure, untouched, holy—“ When did you know you’d have to write this scene? Did you foresee it from the beginning?

No. I wrote that scene as part of the very last revision before it went to the copy-editors. My editor actually came up with the idea.

What was your favorite scene? Which was the most difficult to write?

I love the very last scene in TAKEN BY STORM. That stayed virtually the same through all the revisions--years and years of revisions. I foresaw that from the beginning.

Please share why you decided to self-publish Unbroken Connection. Has this been a good decision? Tell me about the pros and cons of self-publishing versus traditional publishing.

My wonderful editor left Penguin right before my second book with them, SING ME TO SLEEP, came out. SING isn't related to TAKEN BY STORM. It's romantic and even more tragic, but different characters, different inspiration, very different story. I'd submitted UNBROKEN CONNECTION to them because I had a very stringent option clause in my contract. They rejected it, but I had all these wonderful readers and bloggers who wanted to read it. They started a FB and a blog campaign in support of UNBROKEN CONNECTION. In the middle of all this, my agent bailed on me. I knew no other publisher would be interested in the publishing a sequel to a Penguin release, so I decided to get it to my fans as fast as I could. I released it first as an ebook, but they wanted a paperback, too, so we did a POD version. And then, as a gift to those same readers, I wrote CAYMAN SUMMER, with them cheering and helping, on my blog, http://caymansummer.blogspot.com. You can buy it now, but it's still available to read for free on the blog.

With a giant traditional publisher like Penguin, you get an advance, professional editors, designers, copy-editors, a PR rep, marketing and sales people. My Penguin releases got reviews in most of the major review magazines--which helps a lot with school and library sales. But you don't have as much control over things like the title, the cover, even the content and length. I enjoyed the freedom I had with my indie releases--especially CAYMAN SUMMER. My sales are much lower, but more and more TAKEN BY STORM readers are discovering UNBROKEN CONNECTION and CAYMAN SUMMER, and I'm in no hurry. The books aren't going anywhere. They always be available. With a traditional publisher they might get your books on the shelves at B&N but they only stay there a few weeks unless it becomes a big hit or wins awards. Books--even though as readers and authors we might think they last forever--have a really short shelf life. Amazon and B&N.com are changing that, but its a shocking reality for the new authors. .

Girl's Camp

2011-07-01T12:03:00.000-07:00

It’s day three of girl’s camp. Most are at the lake, but I’ve stayed behind for those that are hanging in their tents. I can hear their laughter, but they might as well be on a different planet for all our interaction. Still, if they need me, they’ll call and I’ll answer.

We hiked this morning—seven miles, but after about two I returned to camp with Alicia, a small for her age cancer survivor, weakened and forever medicated because of her years with chemo. I wondered what we would say to each other on our oh-so-slow return, but we easily chatted about movies and books. We have similar tastes. But, we’re not similar. I’m healthy and strong—I’ve always been so.

I like watching my daughters. They’re tall and beautiful in a raw, naked way that they don’t even know or recognize. They offer meaningful prayers and are open-armed friendly. Bold, honest, quick-witted. Nothing like me at age sixteen.

Thirty-seven girls and not one remind me of my younger-self. My mother died when I was fifteen. I think back to the people who loved me and I wonder why I couldn’t see or appreciate their concern. I didn’t want their pity. I was so much more interested in my peers. Boys. I was an empty hole of hurt. Emotionally vacant. Not really knowing where I belonged or fit.

The camp director grew up with two of the girls I knew on Study Abroad. London, 1981seems like a life time ago. The girls and the camp director are from Newport Beach. Back then, I thought my dad was rich, and for Arlington, he was. I hadn’t any comprehension of Newport Beach wealth. I only knew the Arlington haves and haves-not and in Arlington, you didn’t need a lot to be a haves. I had everything I wanted and didn’t know the world held so much more.

And less.

So many of the people I’ve loved have been lost, one way or another. Marriages that I thought would always last end. Friends turn into strangers. I wish I could take my daughters and shield them from addictions—substance addictions, sexual addictions, addictions to toxic relationships—but I can’t. No matter how strong I’ve always been, I can’t be strong for them. I can only answer if they call. I hope I can do at least that.

Someone once said that we learn more from our mistakes than from success. I still prefer successes to mistakes. I like to think that with faith I can avoid the big mistakes, the destroy everything I value and have worked so hard for mistakes, but I’m not sure. Although, I’m quite sure that mistakes will happen, no matter what, because deep down inside I’m still that young girl carrying emptiness, sometimes too caught up in myself to see the vacancies in the people around me.

About a mile from camp a man with a tractor pulled up beside Alicia. He held out a long, dark feather. Alicia didn’t take it, but I did and after thanking him, I handed it to her. Now, as I sit in the sun, still far away from the girls and their giggles, I see that Alicia has stuck the feather in her braid. It points up to the sky.

What Goes Around Comes Around, or Sometimes Just Goes

2011-06-21T17:43:00.000-07:00

Karma: the cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished according to their actions and thoughts.

I’m not sure how much faith I have in karma, but I do believe that you don’t have to completely understand something to have it work for you. Take, for example, cell phones, electricity, airplanes, kidneys…

So, when I stop to help a stranger, do I expect repayment? No. Never. But, I do expect good things to happen, because, in my life, generally, good things happen. I’m not sure why, I just know that good things usually come my way. So, I try to do good things in return and it’s like a spiral moving upward, even when I can’t see a beneficial outcome or a repayment of any kind.

For example, years ago my children were on a neighborhood swim team (go RSM Dolphins). My neighbor mentioned that she’d have to pull her kids off the team because of work conflicts. I offered to drive her kids to and from swim team, resolving her conflict. For me, this was NOT a big deal. Standing on my balcony, I can see the neighborhood pool (that’s how close it is). Driving her kids was a matter of throwing their wet bodies and towels in the car and depositing them on their front porch one minute later. A few weeks later she offered to take my children to a summer arts program where she taught. This was a big deal. She took my children to and from the program everyday for two months. (It was thirty minutes away and conflicted with my twin’s nap time). I never would have been able to have had my children participate in that program without her help. And I’m pretty sure she never would have offered to drive my children if I hadn’t first offered to drive hers.

Another example, a woman I worked with in our church went through a painful divorce. She’d been married for more than thirty years. We became friends. I tried to help her as much as I could. She moved to Lees Summit, Missouri to live with her daughter. About two years later, my sister went through a painful divorce. She had also been married for more than thirty years, and she was moving to Lees Summit, Missouri to live with her daughter. Maybe the move was a coincidence, but I think that because I’d been a good friend to Martha, Martha went out of her way to be a good friend to my sister. She welcomed her at the airport. They went to movies together. Eventually, they became roommates.

One last example, when I was working on my first novel, I pretty much wrote my character up a tree and I couldn’t figure out how to get her out. For two whole days I fretted how I could resolve her conflict. Then I was asked to drive a woman to the Bishop’s Storehouse (the Mormon equivalent of a food bank). This takes about three hours and would eat up (no pun intended) my writing time, but I agreed because, hey, there wasn’t any writing going on, my character was up a tree. What happened may not surprise anyone, but it surprised me. The ladder up the tree didn’t come on the way to the storehouse, or while I was filling the order, or while I was driving back to her apartment, or while I huffed the bags of groceries up the flights of stairs, but the resolution did come and it was brilliant. And I couldn’t wait to get back to my story. Since then, similar scenarios have happened to me repeatedly. I now take a notebook with me to church and to the temple, because that’s where I have some of my very best ideas.

That’s why I believe the best advice for living and writing is this- live life as fully as you can. Do good, be good, think good thoughts and good things will happen.

And that’s why on days like today when something good seemed pretty much inevitable, a sure thing, like a cake in the oven or a check in the bank and then the sure, good thing doesn’t happen, the cake falls, the check bounces, and my daughter stops talking of moving to Laguna and starts talking of moving to Kentucky… I have to remember, what goes around comes around. Do good, be good, think good thoughts.

Good things can happen.
Maybe Kentucky will be a nice place to visit. I think they have horses there.

Running at Dawn

2011-06-13T16:42:00.000-07:00

Last Friday marked the end of the semester, making today, Monday, my first chance to sleep in. I choose to run instead. I tell my friends that I won’t be able to walk with them because I’m going to get up and run at 5:30 am. (No one offers to join me). I go to bed with my running clothes and shoes set out for my early morning.

It’s near dawn and I’m jogging up the hill that passes the Oriental church. The star on the chapel is lit, the gate is open, and hundreds of dark haired, tiny people watch me pass. Why are they worshipping so early in the morning? Why are they staring at me?

I realize I’m naked.

I duck into the bushes, disturbing birds who call out, drawing more unwanted attention. There’s dirt between my toes. Branches and bushes scratch me. I decide that rather than taking the sidewalk, I’ll take a short-cut through my neighbor’s house. I hoist over their fence and crawl in their window.

At this point, my intellect weighs in on the unlikely situation. I must be asleep. Running naked? Crawling through windows? I touch my chest and feel my silky pajamas, but when I look down I see skin. Lots of skin.

My neighbors house is messy but quiet. I trip over things on my way to the front door. Soon, I’m on the sidewalk on Sembrado Street. I can see my house. I’m running fast, but time slows. I’ll never make it. I realize I will be running in slow motion when the neighbors get in their cars for work, when the children, carrying backpacks, will head for kindergarten, and when the teenagers, carrying cell phones with cameras, will leave for high school. They will take photos and videos.

I imagine my naked self on You-tube and Facebook, running, but never arriving.

I wake, sweating. It’s close to seven. I’m wearing silky pajamas. Down the hall, my daughter is showering. Outside my door, my dog is scratching. My husband is brushing his teeth.

All around me, life carries on in its normalcy and I realize that self-publishing is like running naked in a parallel universe. My novel-- it’s not real, it’s fiction--but it’s still a part of me. A part that I’m going to share with the world.

And there I’ll be, exposed, warts, hairy moles, saggy skin and all.

From Jared to his Sisters

2011-06-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

Today I’m posting a bit of the letter my 19 year old son wrote to his sisters for their 16th birthday. I’m sharing it because I think it’s darling and it reminds me of all the love in my life. Love doesn’t have a price and can’t be compensated for in any monetary way. Sometimes I forget that. More on that thought after Jared’s letter.

Fine. I guess you can go on ‘a’ date. One. I guess that’s okay, but first your date has to send in an application to me and then in my due time I’ll either approve or disapprove his request.
Requirements for application are as follows:
1 full paged paper explaining:
Why he wants to date you
Where you’re going
Who he is (cross that out, that doesn’t matter)
Who else is coming
Length of date
5 pictures of him
1 picture of the two of you together and if you look unhappy, he automatically fails.

Isn’t he awesome? I miss him. I’m sure my girls miss him, too, but they’re probably a little relieved that they don’t have him breathing down any guy’s neck. Some poor guy wouldn’t want the pressure of trying to impress not only my daughter, but also her hostile brother.

So, back to being impressive. Or not. Last night I went to my daughter’s choir banquet and sat next to a lovely woman and we shared our summer plans. Me: I’m taking my family to my dad’s 90th birthday party and if I don’t get motivated and find a place to stay, we’ll be camping on my dad’s lawn. And since he lives in Washington state, there’s a good chance of rain. Lovely woman: I’m going to 7 countries. (I’m not exaggerating.)

This reminds me of the time I went shopping with a friend. We drove for thirty minutes to go to store that carries long shorts (some people, like me, just look better with covered legs). My friend bought 5 pairs of shorts. I didn’t buy any for reasons that I don’t wish to share. I knew it was a wise decision, because after a few weeks I was back to my normal size and 5 pairs of baggy shorts are 5 pairs too many. Still, it made me cranky at the time.

Another shopping trip. A friend and I went to our favorite store’s 70% off sale. I wanted a belt that I’d seen earlier. I found the coveted belt and sure enough, it was 70% off. I should have been jubilant, victorious even, but no. My friend bought 7pairs of shoes. In my heart, I knew I didn’t need 7 pairs of shoes. I needed a belt, and yet as we walked through the mall carrying our bags, I envied her shoes.

At my dad’s birthday party, we’ll celebrate a life well lived. A life full of love. He hasn’t ever been shopping in Istanbul and he’s never surfed in Nicaragua. I’m pretty sure he isn’t interested in seven pairs of designer shoes or shorts of any length. But, he’d approve of Jared’s letter to his sisters.

Because brothers and sisters, parents and children, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews…This is the sort of thing that you just can’t have too much of and at the end of the day, at the end of a long life, they’re the only things that matter.

Pats and Stars

2011-06-01T16:11:00.000-07:00

There are workmen in my house. We communicate through nods and smiles. They’ve put plastic almost everywhere and taped up all my stuff, which simply means that I won’t be practicing the piano this week. Which means I might be embarrassed, again, when I try to accompany the choir on Sunday.

I’m held hostage in my room. My dog is trapped in the backyard. When the dog does come in the house, her toenails puncture the brown paper covering the carpet. She runs, scampers really, on the paper and she sounds like something from a Stephen King movie I saw back in the 80s or 90s – a whats-it that ate time. The Langoliers, I believe. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I’m sure no one’s particularly interested in the comparison of my dog’s toenails to a fictional creation of Stephan King.

Tonight I’ll be reading a section of my novel to my writing group. I know I’m lucky to be with them. I find it remarkable I’m the president since I often feel that I’m the fat bottomed child at the bottom of the talent totem pole. So, tonight I’ll read. They’ll critique. They’re almost always kind and yet, there are times when I wish that Longoliers would come and eat me and my poor writing up. Times when I wish that all I had to listen to is the sound of my dog’s toenails puncturing paper. I handle critiquing that well…

And that’s the rub with my self-publishing plan. A few years ago, being published could be equated with a pat on the back or a star on the forehead. Self publish and the pats and stars go away. If someone with clout, real or paid for, thinks my stuff is good enough to make it out from under the bed, then it must be, because, look there I am, on a shelf at Borders and Barnes and Noble. I must be good. Or, since I’m not on a big B shelf, I’m just a big bottomed girl anchoring the other talents on the totem pole.

But (and that’s with one t) times and the industry have changed. Ships are going down. The big B’s are closing their stores. People are throwing around F words (like fraudulent contracts). And opinions are shaped around how many people download your book. (But, wait, couldn’t someone with a ton of money buy oodles of their own books to steer themselves right up the Amazon lists? Have people been doing this? Now we’ll never who’s good and who’s a big fat bottom totem-poler.)

A romance writer who has more than a 140 million books in print, supposedly once received a letter from a woman who said, “I don’t like any of your books. I’ve read them all and I didn’t like any of them.”

I’m going to self publish without a single expectation of a pat or a star and if someone hates all of my books but reads them all anyway, then I won’t ask for anything more. When I accompany the choir and they sing one note and I play another, my skill and execution are fairly, glaringly obvious. Maybe it’s the same for writing, but if it is, I’m not hearing it.

Writing Stealing Mercy.

2011-05-24T10:38:00.000-07:00

Thirteen years ago when my twin babies were 3 years old and starting preschool, I sat down to write my first novel. I didn’t know what to write so I did some research and came across a small, start up company that wanted to publish “wholesome romance.” I ordered a couple of their books, read them and thought piece of cake. Of course, the cake was much more difficult to digest than I had thought, but after many afternoon preschool writing sessions, I completed my first book and sent it off to Ponder Romance.

The editor called me. She loved my book, but it wasn’t right for them. We talked for nearly ninety minutes and our conversation went something like this: You don’t read romance, do you? You should write what you love to read.

I’d always loved mysteries. When I was in middle school I tried to read every Agatha Christie I could find. As an adult, I loved Elizabeth George, PD James, and Laurie R King and I watched PBS Mystery every Sunday night. So, I wrote mysteries. Three of them, which doesn’t seem so onerous until you consider that the first one took me three years. (Alright, I admit I was the mother of six children who attended five different schools, participated on a host of athletic teams, and played four different instrument. Plus I was the first counselor in a young women’s presidency, which doesn’t sound so bad until you consider that the young women’s president was dying of cancer and didn’t want to be released. In short, I was very busy and so it took a very long time for my librarian to discover the piano teacher had killed the insane aunt.)

And then I became a Relief Society president. And my eyes were opened to a grittiness I‘d never encountered before. The world became a darker, scarier place. I stopped watching Mystery and I stopped reading them. I still enjoy novels that present a puzzle and a mental challenge, but I’ve stopped reading and writing mysteries.

Once one of my writing instructors looked me in the eye and said, you are a mystery writer, you are not a romance writer. Well, I can be whatever I decide. And I’m lucky because I’ve a good friend who has not only published more than a hundred novels for Harlequin, but she also teaches. So, I hired her to coach me for the Golden Heart (the Romance Writer’s of America contest).

Stealing Mercy is my attempt at romance. I had so much fun writing it. I love my story, heroine and hero. Still, although it’s sad to say, I think that very first kindly editor from Ponder Romance and the well intended writing instructor were probably right. I’m really not a romance writer, because I’m not a romance reader. Stealing Mercy was probably best categorized as a historical romaction until I threw in the contemporary genealogist. Now, it can probably be put under that huge umbrella of women’s fiction. When Covenant Books requested it, they asked me to take out the genealogist and, to my beta reader’s dismay, I did. Ultimately, Covenant Books wasn’t interested in Stealing Mercy, which doesn’t surprise me. After all, it’s about a brothel.

But, since I intend on self-publishing, I can define the genre, write about brothels and genealogists if I so choose. And only hope that someone (anyone at all?) will choose to read it.

Somewhere in the history of this blog I posted its first chapter. My goal is to publish Stealing Mercy before my Dad’s birthday bash this summer so that when my cousins "ask what do you do?" I can say, I write stories. Please read my book and tell me what you think.

(I love large families.)

Nancy Drives the Carpool

2011-05-16T11:44:00.000-07:00

Paulie Marshall wrote: “Sometimes a person has to go back, really back – to have a sense of understanding of all that’s gone to make them – before they can go forward.”

I’d like to point out that we bought our fifteen passenger van because Alex, husband to Nancy and the most geared headed person we know, recommended the Ford 150 vans. When we were younger and had flocks of children, Nancy drove a 150 and I drove a 350 extended van. And it was great. There were many times when I had my six children, Nancy and her five children and a couple of dogs in the van. We were always noisy, but generally happy.

Nancy’s kids are now all adults and she drives a Mercedes convertible which comfortably seats Nancy and her dog, Sandy. Last week I asked Nancy if she could drive my carpool. Since she works at the school where my girls attend and I knew that her family has a collection of cars in a variety of sizes, didn’t think this would be a problem.

On the given day, Nancy forgot to trade cars with her daughter and she found herself in front of the school folding four teenagers into a car built for two. Taylor sat in front. Natalie, Miranda and Alex squished into the back, sitting, pretty much on top of each other. No one cried and no one died, although I’m sure there was a lot of bouncing and groaning as they rolled over speed bumps.

There’s a lot of life lessons to be learned from this experience.

Even though after one look at Taylor, Nancy knew her car was inadequate for the job, she still showed up and did the best she could with humor and grace.

Just like the ducking that occurred when Nancy and crew passed a police car so they wouldn't be cited for clearly breaking the seatbelt law, sometimes you have to keep your head low and try to accomplish what needs to get done without drawing unnecessary attention.

As we get older and pass from one stage of life to the next, it’s easy to forget. As a mom of teenagers and young adults, I sometimes forget about bottles, pacifiers, and the need for large vans.

On the days when my semi-grown children are challenging, it’s easy to feel nostalgic for the days when they brought me flowers and drew me pictures. They were sweet and my memories of their childhoods are tender, but I have to remember the tantrums, spilt milk and the carpet that smelled of spit up and urine.

And then be grateful for the convertibles of this stage of life.

When the Hooray Goes Away

2011-05-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

Last week I had the privilege and pleasure of attending the LDS Storymaker’s writing conference. I loved it and I learned a lot of things. I found every workshop I attended helpful and most made me stop and rethink my work. Storylines, concept, and theme – it’s all a little more clear and focused. But, I think the most important thing I learned was something I discovered pretty much on my own.

At lunch time, I randomly sat down next to a literary agent. We chatted. She told me she represented young adult fiction and I told her I had written such a thing. She told me to send it to her. This has happened to me before. I’ve met agents, they’ve requested my work, and my typical response is cool, calm adult behavior on the outside and childlike yippies and hoorays on the inside. This time, no yippee, no hooray, more of a thoughtful hmmmm…..

I took a class on marketing your book (an excellent class) and the presenter discussed the marketing strategies of different authors. One author spent eight hours a day, six days a week, for three months doing book signings in Costcos. Another author had a $10 thousand dollar marketing budget from her publisher and spent another $10 thousand of her own. She didn’t make anything on her first book, but is now making money on her second and third book. Even my friend Neal, a brilliant writer who collects awards like redheads grow freckles, is never home. He spends days, weeks and months away at school visits, which is noble work, but he's not writing and he's not home. Which might be fine for Neal, but it wouldn't be fine for me. (I'm a hermit.)

I spent the weekend with my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. I’d get up early in the morning and run along the canyon to the Bountiful temple. The mountains were covered with snow. The air is clear there. From Cynthia’s window you can see the temple and the Great Salt Lake. It’s incredibly beautiful. On a wall in Cynthia’s entry she’s hung pictures. She has ten children and 26 grandchildren.

I tried to explain to Cynthia some of my ambivalence towards the agent’s request and this was her advice. (I applied it to my writing, but I think it could be generally applied to any situation). Look at your next five years and what do you see? I see graduations, missions, babies and weddings. I think it’s completely possible that five of my six children could marry in the next five years. Maybe some would even marry within months or weeks of each other. Babies could happen. Can anything be more fun than weddings and babies? Certainly, sitting at Costco for three months would not be fun. Traveling from school to school would not be fun. My life is full… much too full to do anything I don’t want to do.

And so, I’m passing on the agent’s request and considering self-publishing (excuse me, I mean indie-publishing) and not because I’m tempted by the siren song of greater royalties. It’s silly to believe that anything I personally published could sell as well as something backed by a professional team armed with experience and thousands of marketing dollars.

But, maybe, for me, that’s not the point. I’ve written for years without any monetary compensation and so I’ll continue. I’ve written mysteries, romances and young adult stories, because at that moment, that’s what I wanted to write. Currently, I’m working with a very cranky, somewhat hostile ghost. I wouldn’t have that luxury if I had a publisher to please. The ghost shouting my ear wouldn’t exist if I had to listen to editors, an agent and a publishing house.

It’s odd and yet freeing to abandon a life-long dream, to set it down and say this really doesn’t work for me.

Because, quite simply, I don’t want to turn something I love into work.

Piggy-backing

2011-04-27T12:26:00.000-07:00

RIDING TO WORK in the morning, I am pleased to find I am facing outward again. I am not in love with anyone, and I depend on no one for the completion of a happy day.

I can’t ride Ian (her husband) piggyback into heaven. I’ve got to work out my own categories, find my own salvation. My temptation is to take his sweat after it is fashioned into ready-mades and try to wear it as my own. No wonder it sometimes doesn’t fit, as close as our ideas may be.

These are quotes from the journal of novelist Gail Godwin. I enjoy her writings because they make me think. I agree that I can’t piggyback my way to heaven, but I do think that not only is it okay to occasionally piggyback, it’s part of God’s plan. We all share the road back home and we need to carry and lift each other as necessary. And while love isn’t necessary for the completion of a happy day, it certainly makes the days much more meaningful.

On happy days, I find that I’m in love with more people than I can count on my fingers and toes. I prefer happy days. On cranky days, I take note of the way Chester chews his chips (certain family members have complained about being featured in the blog, so I’ve since decided to give them pet names) the smell of my dog (which isn’t really her fault, since I’m the person who bathes her) and the volume of neighbor’s voice as she talks, incessantly, on the phone in her backyard.

I’m happier when I love rather than when I nitpick and fault find. And of course, if I’ve practiced being loving it’s much easier to find a piggyback ride when I need one.

As, sadly, I occasionally do. We all do. No man is an island, and all that. I heard a quote I liked this past week. I believe it’s from Walt Whitman and I wish I could say it as well as he did. (A sudden vision of Mr. Whitman rolling his eyes and groaning.) A step towards self-sufficiency is a step towards ingratitude. I had never thought about it like that before, because of course, as a society, we appreciate the self motivators, the doers, movers and shakers and shun the lie-abouts, but if we’re too self-efficient we don’t learn to lend the occasional shoulder or to ask for the ride when we need one.

And learning to ask can be as difficult as trying to give an elephant a piggyback ride.

Choices and Desires

2011-04-15T10:21:00.000-07:00

When we have a vision of what we can become, our desire and our power to act increase enormously....Desires dictate our priorities, priorities shape our choices, and choices determine our actions. The desires we act on determine our changing, our achieving, and our becoming. Dallin H. Oaks

Sometimes the greater challenge, for me, is not achieving what I desire, but deciding what I really desire and determining if it’s worth the cost.

Sometimes, what I want isn’t good for me. This is basic stuff, and yet, still, ridiculously challenging. Once while I was in Target, I saw a young assistant struggling with an elderly patient. The wheelchair bound woman refused to leave the candy aisle, despite the efforts of her nurse. Enormous, the woman had planted her feet and locked her chair and reached, helplessly towards the candy making a noise much like a dying animal, while the young nurse tried, without success, to wheel the patient away. The nurse tried reasoning, but the woman didn’t want to hear. I wondered how long it take before the woman would realize her nurse was right and her hopes for candy were not only futile, but dangerous. I can relate to that woman parked in her chair in the candy ailse on many levels that I don’t want to share.

Sometimes, because of choices I’ve made, what I want isn’t available anymore. Whether I knew at the time, or not, that my today choice would limit my future choices doesn’t really matter. The choice was made and finis, there I am on the other side of a bridge I didn’t even know I had crossed. This reminds me of two dogs in Chile. Dogs in Chile are a lot like the young lovers in Chile – they’re everywhere. I like dogs and I’m sympathetic towards young lovers, so I found this interestingly different from our hurry up and get somewhere culture (my husband and I were always much too busy doing something to hangout snogging on street corners or park benches.) Anyway, back to my point -- I will not digress into snogging thoughts -- in Chile I saw these two dogs on opposite sides of a wrought iron fence. They were clearly distressed by their separation. Nose to nose, front paws extended and touching, they whined, but it didn’t matter. At one point one dog had chosen to enter the cemetery surrounded by the fence and the other hadn’t and they were now on separate sides of the fence. That’s happened to me, too. Friends I thought I'd always have, relationships that I thought could weather anything, slip away.

Sometimes something that I really wanted turns out to be awful. It’s like the cake at the bakery that’s mouthwateringly beautiful but tastes like cardboard, or the acquaintance that appears charming, beautiful and has great shoes, but when you really spend some time with her, really get to know her, all she does is complain. Which brings me to my last analogy. Shortly after the birth of my third child, Larry was given tickets to a Broadway play. The play had won the Tony, had received awesome reviews, we had smack-dab front and center seats and we were there as guests of an important business contact (and his wife). I love the theater. I love New York. My anticipation for an evening out, in New York, at the theater, with potty-trained grown-ups had been sky-high, but sometime during the first act it became glaringly obvious that this show wasn’t for me. (Despite my sympathy for young lovers, by Broadway standards, I’m a prude of the first order.) We made an excuse and left.

My point is, sometimes, even if I really, really thought I wanted something, sometimes I have to put down the candy, stay on my side of the fence, or say goodnight and go home.

Where, in reality, is the place I most want to be.

Funeral Attire

2011-04-12T09:13:00.000-07:00

At our last writer’s group meeting we talked about doing a collection of short, interrelated stories. Here’s the premise: All of the stories have to take place within 72 hours of 97 year old Sidney’s funeral. There’s a viewing, a memorial service and a scattering of ashes at the beach, although you don’t need to place your story at any of these events. There’s an open casket, but Sidney will be cremated. Set in Laguna, mid October, the weather is warm. You have to read the previous stories to make sure your story jives, but other than that – create your own characters, situations, etc. Feel free to use other’s characters; once they’re out there, they are public domain. And no getting huffy if a fellow Fictionaire turns your sweet grandma into a zombie.

We’ll take turns writing a story (beginning with me, since it was my idea) and commit to having it posted by the next meeting.

This is what we’re doing… and this is what I wrote. I like it so much, I might make it into a novel. My critique partner doesn’t think it answers enough questions to be a short story. I’m not sure it has the legs to carry it another 80k. words. I’d love some feedback. Opinions wanted.

Funeral Attire
The hot Santa Ana winds blew in from the desert carrying the odors of the nearby wildfires, death and disappointment. An eastern wind carries more than dust and ashes, Rainie’s grammy had told her; it uproots secrets. And everyone knows once one secret was told, no secrets were safe.

Hers included.

Rainie paused in front of the Top of the World Chapel doors. The sun, a faint pink glow over the eastern hills had yet to shine, but Rainie hadn’t any doubt that it would rise scorching hot and blistering. She looked out over sleeping Laguna. The dark gray Pacific Ocean stretched away from her. On the horizon lights of distant ships bobbed.

She turned her back on the ships, on any dream of sailing away and inserted the key into the heavily carved wooden doors. They slid open before Rainie turned the key. Odd. The chapel, built in the 1930s, had a musty, empty smell. She stepped into the cool shade of the foyer and the door swung shut, closing with a click that echoed through the cavernous room. The morning sounds -- birds, crickets and insects -- disappeared when the door closed. Rainie’s sneakers padded across the terracotta tile, her footsteps loud.

She had thought she’d be alone, which is exactly why she’d chosen to come at near dawn. Not that she’d been able to sleep. She hadn’t slept for weeks. Which may explain why, at first, she’d thought the girl standing in the nave, facing the pulpit, her face lifted to the stain glass window, might be a ghost, or even, given her surroundings, an angel.

Although Rainie couldn’t see her face, the way the child’s head moved, it looked as if she was having a conversation with the Lord trapped in the glass, or one of the sheep milling about His feet, giving Rainie the odd sense of interrupting. The meager morning sun lit the glass and multi-colored reflections fell on the girl, giving her an iridescent glow. Slowly, she turned and Rainie realized she wasn’t a child, but a woman with a scowl and angry eyes.

“Well, where is he, then?” the girl-woman demanded, placing her balled fists on her hips. She had yellow blond hair, cut in a curly bob, and wore a pale blue sleeveless dress that fell straight to her knees and yet hinted at curves.

“I’m sorry, who?” Rainie tucked her hands into her pockets, feeling inappropriately dressed. She’d thrown on Ian’s sweats, one of the few sets of clothes he’d left behind. Perhaps he didn’t exercise at the hotel, or, more likely, he’d just bought himself a new pair of running clothes. Now that Poppa Sid had died, making Ian The-Man-In-Charge, he could afford new running clothes, the hotel suite, and room services of all sorts. Which didn’t explain, really, why Rainie wore his cast-offs. Just because he’d left them behind didn’t mean Rainie should wear them. And yet, she did. Frequently.

“Sid!” the woman spat the name. Her gaze raked over Rainie and Rainie tugged at the drawstring holding up the sweat pants.

“He’s still at the funeral home.” Rainie swallowed. “They won’t bring the casket here until tomorrow morning. There’s the viewing tonight…” Her voice trailed away and she heard her own sadness.

“Then what are you doing here?” The woman’s eyes matched her dress and as she drew closer, Rainie saw she wore a necklace of the same steely blue. Rainie’s hand instinctively crept to her own necklace, a gift from Poppa Sid, an emerald that he’d said matched her eyes.

“I’ve come to practice the organ.” Rainie shifted her feet. “What are you doing here? Pastor Markham gave me the key.” Not you. How did you get in? She wanted to ask, but years and years of social training held back her questions.

The woman looked from the massive organ and then back to Rainie. “Why are you playing the organ? I’m sure Georgie could spit out the money for an organist. No need for freebie-family members to play.”

Rainie opened her mouth to ask how this woman could possibly know her father or her relation to Poppa Sid, but then remembered her family had never lived a quiet life. Well, except for her. Her own life had been, until now, ungossip-worthy. Her breath caught as if a valve inside her windpipe had been opened and then closed. She took a deep breath and braced herself. She’d get through this weekend. She’d weather the rumors and chit-chat. She could be strong.

Although in nearly forty years, she’d never been before.

“I wanted to play,” Rainie told the woman, lacing her voice with resolve she didn’t feel. “As a gift to my grandfather.”

The woman snorted. “Not much of a gift, that.”

“Yeah, well, it’s something I want to do.” Rainie let a little of her training slip, and brushed past the woman. Her footsteps tapped out an angry rhythm as she marched up the aisle towards the organ. She lifted the massive cover, turned on the switch, and adjusted the bench.

“A gift to your grandfather or an excuse not to sit by your husband?”

Rainie squared her shoulders and bit back a rude retort. She’d have to get used the questions. Even if they weren’t asked so bluntly, they’d still be asked. Maybe not to her face, maybe behind to her back, but the questions would be there, either in people’s eyes or on their lips. And Rainie didn’t have to answer.

The woman appeared at her elbow. “If you’ve come to practice, where’s your music?”

Rainie gave the woman a tight smile as she settled onto the bench. “I memorize.”

“If you already know it, then why you practicing?”

For the first time Rainie caught a hint of the woman’s French accent. “Who did you say are again?”

“I didn’t say and you didn’t answer my question.”

Rainie sighed and began adjusting the stops. “Every instrument is different. A peddle may be broken, the bench could wobble… I’ve just learned from sad experience it’s best to give every instrument a test run. I mean, an organ’s not like a violin. You can’t just bring your own.”

The woman cocked her head. “Sad experiences, you’ve had a few?”

Rainie gave a humorless laugh, because most people would say her life was charmed, but if she lived such a fairytale, then why was she so sad? Because the prince she’d been kissing for nearly thirty years had turned into a toad.

Her social graces training slipped completely away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know you. And because I don’t know you, I don’t feel I need to share.” Rainie hit the keys, a D minor chord, and the music reverberated through the deserted chapel.

“Good for you,” the woman chuckled and hitched herself up on top of the organ. She had reed thin legs, pale as porcelain and covered with silky hose, and she swung them back and forth, like a child pumping a swing.

Rainie lifted her fingers, horrified. The sudden cessation of music filled the room. “You can’t sit on this organ.” Rainie’s words echoed.

The woman cut her sideways smile. She wore bright red shoes with ribbon ties on the ankles and the red heels bumped in time against the organ. “No?”

“No. It’s a 1930’s Wurlitzer. Solid Walnut, it’s extremely valuable and you’re kicking it.”

“You’re very rich.” The woman smiled, but didn’t budge or stop swinging her legs. “You could replace it.”

Rainie groaned. She hated being reminded of her money. It made her feel guilty and dirty. She supposed that’s why she worked so hard at the foundation. She pounded out the first line of Pie Jesu and said, through gritted teeth, “Get off!”

And to her surprise, the woman did. Rainie almost stopped playing, but after watching the woman wander down the aisle, her hands trailing along the pews, Rainie turned her full attention to the music swirling through the chapel and, for a moment, she felt better than she had in weeks.

#
Rainie smoothed down her black wool skirt and pulled her blazer close, as if by buttoning the blazer she could hold in all her broken pieces. The suit hung on her. She’d had to pin the back of the skirt to keep it from sliding off. At least wool breathes, she told herself, refusing to consider that wool, heat, nerves and sweat could, and most assuredly, would cause a smelly combination.

When had she lost so much weight? How had that happened? Had she discovered the miracle weight-loss regime? Could she market it? The lose your guy, lose your gut diet.

Because she’d walked, she’d worn her flats, but stopping at the gate, watching her relatives, friends and business associates climb from the cars in their suits, dresses and heels, she considered going home and changing into something less worn. It’d seemed ridiculous to drive such a short distance, ridiculous to walk the three hilly blocks in heels and of course, it’d be equally ridiculous to walk back and forth.

I’m stalling, she thought. Her eyes flicked over the cars lining the tiny street. This was supposed to be a private viewing, family and close friends only, and yet, somehow, her stepmother had managed to turn it into a celebrity photo shoot. She told herself she wasn’t looking for Ian’s Mercedes, but she stopped counting cars when Ian pulled up.

She stepped behind a mammoth bougainvillea and through the petals and thorny branches she watched him climb from his car. Despite the suit and graying hair at his temples, from a distance he looked nearly the same as he had in high school. Which just wasn’t right. She’d aged, why hadn’t he grown old beside her? The sprinklers had recently shut off and Rainie’s flats sunk into a patch of mud. She slipped slightly in the muck, and felt off balance, unsure.

A voice spoke in her ear. “Why are you hiding in that bush?”

Rainie jumped and then put her hand on her heart to slow it’s beating. She turned and scowled at the tiny woman at her elbow. “You!”

“You’ve got mud on your shoes and plant debris on your jacket.”

Rainie looked down at her muddy shoes and brushed twigs and petals off her blazer.

“I thought that your outfit this morning was perhaps the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, but now,” her gaze swept over Rainie, “I can see I was wrong.”

“What’s wrong with my suit?”

“You mean other than it’s filthy, ugly and must be incredibly itchy and hot? Well, for one thing, it doesn’t fit you. Where did you find it?”

“In my closet.”

“That explains a lot.” The woman clucked as she fingered the pleats on her own blue silk dress. She’d changed her shoes. The red heels had been replaced with a pair of black pumps that would have been sedate if not for the faux diamonds on the toes. “You obviously need a new closet.”

“This is a viewing, not a fashion show.” Rainie folded her arms, studied the tiny woman and used the voice she only trotted out when donors tried to renege on their pledges. “Who are you? Did you work for my grandfather?”

The woman looked sly. “Sometimes.” So, that’s who she was, one of her grandfather’s girls. Rainie didn’t deserve abuse from one of her grandfather’s ladies. Maybe Poppa hadn’t been a paragon of virtue, but Rainie had tried to live her life by a strict code. Insulting grieving granddaughters at funerals breached that code.

“Oh hello!” Ian called.

Rainie’s head snapped up. Even from a distance, the timber in Ian’s voice made her quiver. She’d thought he’d seen her, thought he was speaking to her, but now she saw him cross the grounds, his arms open, his eyes kind, warm and generous -- he could afford all those emotions now -- as he approached a girl in a white sheath dress. Mary or Marie somebody from the reception desk. So much for family and close friends. But, then Rainie remembered, vaguely, something about Mary or Marie being related to Denis Openheimer, of the Openheimer Weiner fame. Of course, her stepmother would invite an Openheimer.

“Who wears white to a funeral?” the woman asked, before bringing her gaze back to Rainie. “Although, it’s better than wearing a frumpy old suit.”

Rainie turned away from Ian, not wanting to watch him embrace Mary or Marie, and looked at the tiny woman just in time to see a fistful of mud flying.

“Hey!” Rainie called out as the mud splattered across her chest. Clods of dirt stuck to her blouse as Rainie pulled it out of her waistband, trying to prevent the mud from running down her skirt.

“I think the proper response would be ‘thank you’.”

“Thank you?” Rainie flinched.

“You’re welcome.” The woman brushed off her hands, spun on her heel and headed towards the back entrance of Poppa’s house. “Now, follow me.”

Rainie looked down at the disaster of her shirt. “I will not follow you.”

The woman stopped in the driveway by the white catering van. “What, you’re going to walk three blocks to change into something equally dowdy? You’re going to risk being late or possibly even not showing your face at your grandfather’s viewing? Think of the gossip, the rumors. Everyone will know for sure that he’s left you. He will think you weren’t brave enough --”

“Stop it!” The words and emotions flew out of Rainie’s iron clad control.

A teenager holding a large pink pastry box stepped from around the corner of the van. “Ma’am?” He had freckles dotting his nose and he looked hurt and surprised by her outburst.

“Not you,” Rainie said, her voice sounding lame and weak. “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to --”

She looked around, but the tiny woman had disappeared.

The kid edged towards her, as if she were a wounded Doberman in need of help and yet still capable of doing serious injury. “Can I help you?” the kid asked. “Get you some water or something?”

Rainie sighed and put her fingertips on either side of her temples. “Look, I hired your company. I’m the one who will pay your boss’ bill.”

The kid backed away from her. His hands clutching the pastry boxes turned white around the knuckles.

“I just…” Rainie swallowed. “There’s a short, blond woman hanging around here. She’s about this high.” Rainie held up her hand so that it was even with her chin. “If you see her, I want you to come and get me immediately.” She’s going to pay, Rainie thought, for at least my dry cleaning.

The mud seeped through her blouse and felt cold and oozy. What to do? Totter home, change into something, anything, clean? Go into town and buy something? She didn’t have her purse. She glanced at Poppa’s house. It had rooms and rooms and closets full of stuff.

She looked out over the lawn. Ian stood on the front porch, pumping hands with Uncle Lester. Ian had on a dark, well cut suit, custom-made by a little Asian tailor named Kim. Even as a teenager he’d been fashion conscious. Other girls had shopped with their boyfriends, selecting their clothes, dressing them as if they were the Ken to their Barbie. Rainie had always been too busy studying, working on the student council, organizing the next fundraiser. Even then, she’d been raising money for somebody, or something else.

Rainie stomped into her grandfather’s kitchen and the catering staff, who had been bustling around the counters and mammoth oak table turned to stare at her, their conversations and chatter coming to sudden and stunned stop.

“There’s a crazy short lady here,” Rainie said. “If any of you see her, I want you to notify me immediately.”

Most of the staff gave her blank stares, but a few turned away, smirking. Short, crazy lady, Rainie thought as she climbed the back stairs. Yeah, right. Short and crazy were both subjective adjectives.

Rainie kicked off her muddy shoes, ran up the back stairs and turned into what was once her Aunt Claire’s room. The room still smelled of violets, her aunt’s smell, and Rainie’s heart clenched with the sudden memory. Softly, she closed the door behind her and went to sit on the bed. The room hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties. Tiny yellow and blue flowers covered everything, the walls, the bedspread, the host of pillows, the dress of the Cabbage Patch doll resting against the pillows.

What would happen now to Poppa’s house, to Claire’s things? Why hadn’t she thought about this? Had anyone? Perhaps her stepmother and her dad had plans but thinking and planning had never been their fortes.

Ian would now officially run the company. He’d been Poppa’s puppet for years, until slowly, almost imperceptibly, he’d begun pulling the strings as Poppa had aged. No one had expected Poppa to live to ninety-seven, especially not his string of ex-wives. He’d outlived all his spouses and two of his children.

Thinking about spouses, exes and current, Rainie unfolded from the bed and went to the closet. She had known her Aunt Claire as a fussy old lady and didn’t expect to find anything other than flowery muumuus, Aunt Claire’s favorite daywear, in the closet. A muumuu or a dirt crusted suit? Rainie had to find something without mud clinging to it and she didn’t need a whole suit. Her suit was fine, thank you very much. She just needed a blouse.

She glanced out the window and saw Ian talking in a circle of her employees from the foundation. Debbie laughed and placed her hand on Ian’s sleeve. White heat flared through Rainie and she closed her eyes against the pain and anger.

When she opened her eyes she saw the dress. Black lace over taffeta, strapless under bodice, pleated band at waist. The sort of thing she’d never buy.
And yet.

She looked back out the window. Debbie had on an impossibly short skirt, the sort of thing no one over the age of thirty should ever wear. Allison, a mother of four children, had on a blouse that lifted when she moved her arms and exposed a bright strip of white belly. In a world of inappropriateness, Rainie, the good daughter, the philanthropist, could wear a black lace dress.

She took off her suit and kicked it into the closet’s corner and stepped into the dress. To her surprise, it didn’t smell of violets or mildew, but of Chanel 5. The lining felt luxurious against her skin and the lace clung slightly as she moved.

She couldn’t wear the muddy flats and she tore into the shoe boxes on the closet shelf. Black lace shoes. Pearl buttons. Three inch heels. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to walk. With the shoe box tucked under her arm, she padded over the bed, sat down and slipped on the heels. They fit perfectly. Oh yes. Oh yes, she could.

As she looked at herself in the mirror, she wondered when and where her aunt had bought the dress and matching shoes. She tried to imagine the aunt she’d known, the wearer of muumuus and of the collector of Cabbage Patch dolls, wearing such a dress, wearing Chanel 5 perfume. There’s so many things we don’t know about each other, she thought, and we pass so quickly through our lives, bumping into and against each other before sailing away.

On an impulse, she reached up and took the pins from her hair. Her curls spilled down her back. She smiled at her reflection, braced her shoulders and left the room.

The door clicked behind her.

which is yes

2011-04-04T10:47:00.000-07:00

i thank God for most this amazing day; for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite and which is yes
--e.e. cummings

This is my favorite time of year in Southern California. The green rolling hills remind me of Ireland and of my first visit to suburban LA. I'd been to Disneyland twice before and so I knew the asphalt cities, the freeways and smog. I'd been to the beaches, but I'd never seen the canyons.

When my husband brought me to meet his family in Westlake Village, we drove through the tiny, twisting roads of Topanga and I saw the rolling green hills filled with poppies and wild flowers. I thought, I could live here.

Later that year I returned in August and the hillsides were brown, charred by summer's heat. By then I was married. The damage was done.

I've friends who love the heat, but I love the rain. Maybe it's my Washington roots, maybe it's because I love nothing more than hibernating in my house with a good book when the noise of the world is muffled by the steady beat of rain, or maybe it's because I know that because of winter's weather there's always a March, there's always an April. The hills will be green often enough.

Over the years I've learned the most amazing thing. When there's been a fire, whether it was controlled or accidental, after the black and ashes, after weeks of rain, the hills are their very prettiest. Green grass, orange poppies, a sea of wild flowers, everything which is natural, which is infinite and which is yes.

That Crazy Frog

2011-03-28T13:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve been away from my writing for a couple of weeks, and I woke this morning excited about getting back to my computer and my novel. Run, shower, breakfast, brush teeth, a load of laundry in the washing machine and finally I settled down, computer booted up… and the crazy frog began to sing. Everyone knows that Crazy Frog song , the one that likes to party… New York to San Francisco, An intercity disco… so if you like to party, get up and move your body.

I could hear, loud and clear, the Arroyo Vista Elementary School jog-a-thon. A thousand grade-schoolers running their hearts out accompanied by a DJ and a variety of songs complied, I’m sure, to inspire little kids to run. Don’t misunderstand me, I love children and I love running, I’m just not a fan of the jog-a-thon, especially when it’s happening on the other side of my fence, making my dog berserk. Perhaps it’d once been mildly amusing when I could look out my window catch glimpses of my children, sweaty and red-faced huffing by, but I today I'm not amused.

When ten o’clock arrived, I pack up and moved to the library. It’s quiet here, but I’m reminded of my last visit. I’d been writing and happened to look up and notice a mentally handicapped woman sitting directly in front of me, staring. I smiled at her and she regarded me without expression, her gaze never leaving my face. I went back to my work, but after a few minutes, looked back up and into this woman’s unflinching stare. I switched chairs. This library is huge. There are many rooms and many chairs. I simply moved camp without much effort. After a few minutes, I once again looked up, and there sat my friend, directly across from me, same expressionless steady gaze. After a few minutes I went to write in my car.

Sometimes, like today, I’m ousted from my preferred spot and other times I’ve had to leave because I was no longer comfortable with where I’d been. Sometimes I’ve moved on because it’s simply the next step on the ladder… graduation, from the apartment to the house, a job transfer, etc.

I was thinking about this while I was visiting my dad in rural Washington. He still lives in the house where I was born. During my stay I got up to run every morning before dawn. The roads are dark there, no lights, the street signs unreadable, but it didn’t matter because I’d been on those roads thousands, if not millions of times. I could never be lost in Arlington, despite the fact that some of the pastures have been converted to housing developments and some of the farms now have gates to large homes. SUVs have replaced cows.

A path through the woods to the farm houses on the side of the slough, up the burn road, my kindergarten on the left, the hospital on the hill, the high school on French, the tiny, moldy house where my husband and had spent a rainy summer on a back alley off of Cob. Once I belonged. People in Arlington treat me kindly because they know my father, brothers, uncles, aunts and cousins. Sometimes I miss that, but I know I don’t belong there anymore. I haven’t for a very long.

I live in a bedroom city of Los Angeles. One woman in a sea of many. When I first went to Boston, this bothered me. By the time I went to New York, I liked it. I love the anonymity, being faceless and nameless, the freedom of not being watched and held up to a standard. But, that doesn’t really happen. It may happen less in Southern Orange County, CA than in Arlington, but I still know people and they still know me. Being watched, or not, is a choice no one gets to make.

Once after a bad haircut, I consoled myself with the thought that at least it was unique. Then I went to Trader Joe’s and counted about five other women with the exact same cut. (I’ve since changed my hair.) Of course, I’m not defined by my hairstyle, but it’s made me think about where I belong and where I fit and how I’ve molded my life to fit my surroundings. Even if that was never my intent.

Sometimes, despite everything that I’d planned, that crazy frog is coming, and everyone is jumping…

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

2011-03-10T17:25:00.000-08:00

I'll admit I picked up this book because of it's great title. Loved, loved, loved it (the book and the title.) It's keeping company with Tuck Everlasting on my favorite shelf.

Here's a quote to take and keep:
"It's better to travel with hope in one's heart than to arrive in safety...Celebrate today's failure because it's a clear sign that our voyage of discovery is not yet over. The day the experiment succeeds is the day the experiment ends. And I inevitably find that the sadness of ending outweighs the celebration of success."

Writing Tips

2011-03-09T09:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday while looking up writery things on the net, I came across an article entitled 7 Things I've Learned So Far, by Jane Borden. I enjoyed her article, but realized her writing tips belonged to her. If I had to make a list of my top writing tips, they wouldn’t be the same. Not that hers were wrong and mine are right, but because we’re different people. Just because we’re involved in the same activity doesn’t mean we’re going to take the same path. Just like there’s more than one way to get to bookstore (on foot, by bike, on roller-skates, by way of the doughnut store) there’s a zillion ways to write whatever’s in your heart, dying to get out.

So, here are my writing tips. They’re undoubtedly poles apart from yours.

1. Don’t fight.
This is pretty basic, but it’s important to remember. If you’re like me, the perfect retort to a rude comment isn’t always at my tongue’s tip at the encounter. If you’re fuming and rummaging through your head trying to formulate the perfecting stinging comeback, you won’t be in tune with your story or characters. It’s impossible, for me at least, to feel in sync with my writing if I’m too busy mentally constructing closing arguments. I’m not advocating being a pansy, I’m just saying learn to be a peacemaker. It’ll help you be a better writer (and a nicer person.)

2. Write somewhere where no one knows you.
I live in Rancho Santa Margarita, but I write at the Mission Viejo Library. Rancho has a perfectly lovely library, but I’ve lived here for twenty years and I know people. Chatty people. So, if I can’t write at home, I go to the Mission Viejo library. (My hometown library, by the way, only has one chair. Sometimes writing at the library isn’t an option.)

3. Pay attention.
Being a writer isn’t an excuse for poor citizenship. Just because you’re thinking about your book and not about the road doesn’t mean you get to run red lights. Once while writing at the Mission Viejo library, I turned off my laptop, stood up, only to suddenly realize that a person on the other side of the glass partition, not more than eight feet away, must have had some sort of collapse. The room was filled with paramedics, a gurney, and a crowd of about forty people. When I left the library, I passed an ambulance pulled up to the curb, lights flashing. I don’t know how I missed all of this, but I’ve since taken it as a life lesson. I never want to be so caught up in my own private world that I can’t recognize and help someone in need.

4. Take Notes.
Truth really is stranger than fiction and I like to look for what I call novel fodder. Strange and incredible things happen every day. People, especially children, say amazingly clever things. Novel fodder happens right outside my door. For example, once while attending a school board meeting at the beach club, as I listened to a member of the school board give his speech and spin his lies, a mother duck and a line of her babies wandered through the crowd, quacking. It was such a funny contraposition I used it in my novel A Library in Rhyme. So, go ahead and eavesdrop. And take notes. Something bizarre it bound to happen.

5. Don’t try to be like Jack or Marylou.
Jack and Marylou belong to my writing group and are very poetic writers. I love their use of language. Their prose is lyrical and beautiful. Their sentences are long. I confess, I fell into the trap of trying to mimic their style. It didn’t work. I just had a slew of run-on sentences. One of the best bits of writing advice I ever received was this, write like you’re telling your best friend a story. If your best friend is Cormac McCarthy, go ahead and wax poetic, but if not…be yourself.

And find the best writing tips that work for you.

Friend's Books

2011-03-07T18:20:00.001-08:00

One of the wonderful things about life is getting know everyone else. I really believe that everyone has something to share, something to teach. Being a writer means I get to meet a lot of other writers and I’m certain their creativity rubs off on me. I always leave my writers group inspired, thoughts and ideas bouncing around my head, eager for my next writing session. Writer’s conferences, workshops, book signings, anywhere writer-types gather to mix and mingle there’s sure to be creative energy flowing. And, if I’m lucky, and I usually am, I make friends with writers who actually sell books.

So, here’s the link to two writer friends. The first is my critique partner, Melanie Jacobson. Her first book came out this week. She’s the answer to my niece’s question, “Why can’t anyone write clean chick-lit?” http://melaniejacobson.net/

The second is a man I met four years ago at a writer’s conference. I don’t know Scott well, but I do remember him, and I’m proud to say I knew him when his book was not much more than an idea. (Perhaps someday he’ll say the same about me.) www.ascottpearson.com

Chapter 1 Redux

2011-03-03T10:21:00.000-08:00

I rewrote the first chapter to Beyond the Fortune Teller’s Tent and read it last night at Fictionaire’s. The last time I read this chapter, no one seemed to like it. Although they liked the premise, they didn’t like Petra. They thought the fortune-teller smacked of Disney cliché. I tried to make Petra more sympathetic; my friends told me that I succeeded. (I’m so lucky to have them in my corner.) And I turned Fiorella the fortune-teller into Fester, thus giving me one of my favorite lines, “He sounds like he needs a squirt of Neosporin.”

*************************************************************************************

The Arroyo Oaks Renaissance fair is the brain child of Mrs. Brighton, part-time English teacher and full time witch. She enchants Arroyo Oaks residents to forego the Medieval Times show- house in Anaheim and lures them to the canyon. Glass blowers, potters, and herbalists mingle with students, teachers and parents. Knife and ax throwing are not only allowed, but encouraged. Games include Drench-a-Wench (Mrs. Brighton) and Soak-a-Bloke (Principal Olsen.) Wizards, elves, beer and barely covered booties are all welcome as long as they help raise thousands of dollars for the drama department.

Petra’s notes

Chapter One

Silky curtains, beaded strings, the faint aroma of vanilla, the fortune-teller’s tent was a gaudy riot of color, the jewel of the Arroyo Oaks Faire. Just looking at it made anticipation, as real and as palpable as a funnel cake, well within Petra. She’d been waiting for eons.

Robyn squeezed her hand. “It’s so romantic,” she whispered. “This is the perfect place for him to ask.”

“It’s so him, right?” Petra returned Robyn’s squeeze, but her eyes never left the fortune-teller’s tent. Most of her friends had been asked to prom weeks ago. Some even had their dresses. Petra hadn’t actually bought her dress, that would have been presumptuous, but she did know which one she wanted to buy. She’d even found the perfect shoes. She hoped Mylan would be okay with the salmon colored vest she’d picked out for him.

“It’s so who?” Zoe demanded.

Petra put her hand on top of Zoe’s orange curls. Zoe was the fly in her honey jar, the pooper at the party, the stepsister that never should have and would have stayed at home if not for sick Aunt Ida. Petra had never even met Zoe’s Great Aunt Ida. She sounded like a potato.

Robyn rolled her eyes at Petra. Robyn and Petra called themselves telebuddies, because they could read each other like open books. Robyn nodded at the tent, her head bob saying, just go.

“Do you think he’s in there?” Petra whispered.

Robyn widened her eyes, as if to say of course. “He said he would be, didn’t he?”

“Who’s he?” Zoe demanded. “Are you talking about Mylan? You are, aren’t you? You know Daddy doesn’t like his hotitude.”

Petra swallowed. It still stung to hear Zoe call her dad daddy. “Actually, he didn’t say anything, but his note said to meet at the tent at two.” Petra gasped as a horrible thought struck. “What if he didn’t send it? What if someone’s playing a cruel trick --”

Robyn shook her head and her curls bounced around her shoulders. “It was Mylan.” She sounded way more confident than Petra felt. Robyn cut her a sideways glance and a small flicker of doubt tickled in Petra’s mind. Why did she suspect the fortune-teller’s tent was more Robyn’s idea than Mylan’s? Petra quickly squelched the traitorous thought and focused on Mylan. He was her fortune.

“Hotitude, the attitude that sadly so often accompanies physical beauty,” Zoe sighed, parrotting her mom.

Inwardly, Petra groaned. It was so unfair of her parents to dislike Mylan because he was a rock star handsome.

“Ignore her,” Robyn mouthed over Zoe’s head. “And just go already.” She gave Petra a little push towards the tent.

Petra dug in her heels, or in this case, her silky flats. “Wait, how do I look?”

“As always, you’re beautiful.” Robyn straightened Petra’s tiara, gave her a small hug, and then turned her shoulders tent-ward.

“Pretty as a Petra poopy picture,” Zoe said, under her breath.

Petra frowned at Zoe and then glanced down at her dress, last year’s prom gown. She and Robyn were the only two at the faire dressed as princesses. All around her she saw women wearing laced up bodices, men in tights and knee high boots, horses covered in bright cloths and even a snowy white owl on a perch. Zoe in her cut up pillowcase and drapery tassel looked more in place than Petra and Robyn in last year’s prom-wear. She sniffed. She didn’t care that she was overdressed. She wanted to look beautiful for Mylan. Only he mattered. He was going to ask her to prom and she was going to say yes. Straightening her shoulders, clutching her beaded purse, she headed to the tent. Her steps faltered and she turned back to Robyn and Zoe, suddenly struck with nerves. “Come with me,” she said to Robyn, taking her friend’s hand and tugging her along.

Zoe’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t leave me here by myself!”

Robyn motioned to all the faire-goers: teachers, fellow students, and neighbors. “You’re hardly alone.”

Zoe’s eyes, for a moment, looked almost as wild as her tangerine curls. “There are witches, people with swords, wild animals!”

Petra saw several people she knew, but Zoe, who had only just moved to Arroyo Oaks, probably didn’t know any of them. She knelt down, so that she could look Zoe in the eyes. “And not one of them will hurt you, I promise. If anyone bugs you, which they won’t, call a yellow jacket,” Petra said, referring to the Arroyo Oaks security guards that patrolled the school grounds and kept peace by way of blow-horns.
“Please, just sit.” Petra stood and pointed at a well placed stump. She wished for perhaps the zillionth time that Zoe would take lessons from her dog. Frosty greeted all instructions with a lolling tongue and wagging tail. Zoe didn’t receive instructions, she counterattacked them. Poodles and eight year olds had very little in common, except for, in Zoe’s case, the hair-do.

“If you leave me here --” Zoe began.

Petra silenced her by holding up a finger. “If you can be quiet, sit and not say a word, I’ll buy you a funnel cake.” She raised her eyebrows to see if Zoe would take the bribe or would if she needed to up the ante and toss in a caramel apple. Her health-foodie stepmother, Laurel, wouldn’t pony up for brand name peanut butter, let alone funnel cakes.

Zoe sat with a humph and picked at the hem of her pillowcase tunic and then her gaze went to the corral across the sawdust strewn path. Her eyes lit up. “I want to ride that horse.”

Petra and Robyn both turned to watch guy lead a stallion through a wooden gate.
“Giddy-up,” Robyn said, starring.

The guy had brown shoulder length hair tied back with a leather thong and wore soft, fawn colored breeches and matching knee high boots. His white shirt billowed around a wide leather belt that hung about his hips. Three simultaneous thoughts struck Petra. The first: everyone else, including herself, wore costumes, but this guy looked at ease in his breeches and boots as if they were his everyday clothes. The second: his eyes and the small smile curving his lips sent a jolt of recognition up her spine, although she knew they’d never met. She would have remembered him. The third: she was quite sure this guy could never be told to wear a salmon colored vest.

“Isn’t he awesome,” Zoe breathed, her eyes large and round. “He’s so huge.”

Robyn gave Zoe a funny look and Petra laughed, shaking her head. “You can’t ride him,” she said, watching the Arabian toss his mane and pull at the reins held by the guy with long brown hair. The stallion fought the bit, rose up on his hind legs and scissored the air with his hooves. “He’s not one of the ponies they lead through rink.”

Zoe frowned, sending her freckles south. “I’m sure he’d rather be with me on the trail than in that silly jousting place.” They’d tried watching the jousting competitions. That’d been a disaster. Zoe, unconcerned for the knights being thwacked about by lances, had wailed in concern for the sweat dripping horses.

“I’m sure you’re right, Zo, but I’m pretty sure I’m right, too,” Petra said. “They’d never let you take him out of their sight. Besides, he looks fast, barely tame.”

“I like them fast and barely tame,” Robyn said under her breath, smoothing down the pink chiffon skirt of her prom dress.

From the jousting arena came the cheering and huzzahs of the crowd. Petra heard the horses’ hooves thundering and the clanging of lances hitting shields and armor. She smelled roasted turkey legs, the fires from the pottery kilns and dung. Her senses seemed on overload and when the guy with the horse caught her eye and winked, dizziness and a skin-pricking sensation of déjà vu washed over her.

Zoe looked up at her, smiled and said, this time, in a voice as sweet as funnel cake, “If you let me ride that horse I won’t tell about your face-sucking Mylan.”

“There’s been no face-sucking!”

Zoe put her fits on her hips and jutted out her chin. “Who says?”

Petra blew a loose strand of hair from her eyes. “You can’t ride that horse!”

Zoe’s gaze cut to the corral and lingered on the stallion. “But you can ask if I can.”

Robyn nodded in agreement, a flirty smile on her lips. “We can ask.”

Petra shot her look that said, traitor.

“Hot horse guy,” Robyn murmured, flipping her brown curls over her shoulder. Robyn’s puppy dog pretty reminded Petra of a brown eyed, curly haired spaniel.

“And offer him money,” Zoe put in. Covered in freckles and cursed with orange hair, Zoe wasn’t puppy pretty or even reptile interesting. She was more weasel cunning.

“How much money?” Petra nearly growled. Since her dad’s marriage she’d been given an allowance ‘to help her find her own financial feet in the real world,’ Laurel’s words, and Petra’s feet wanted to wear an extraordinarily expensive pair of salmon colored heels to prom.

“I saw him wink at you.” If Zoe had been a cartoon character she’d have dollar signs flashing in her eyes. “Maybe you wouldn’t need to pay him.”

“We’ll ask him right after we visit the fortune-teller,” Robyn promised Zoe, sending a let’s-get-together-soon smile at horse guy.

Zoe looked cross, folded her arms and watched the horses parading in the corral, but she didn’t budge from the stump.

Petra turned to the fortune-teller’s tent and forced herself to not look at hot horse guy, although she imagined she could feel his gaze on her back. She towed Robyn with her.

Held up by large wooden poles, the tent had brightly woven damask walls. A barrel-chested man wearing nothing but gold chains, large rings and red bloomerish pants guarded a money jar. A hand printed sign propped by the jar read Fester Foretells your Fate.

“Fester?” Petra asked. “He sounds like he needs a squirt of Neosporin.”

“You’re stalling.” Robyn pulled on Petra’s hand.

“What if he’s not in there?” Petra asked, stopping in front of the guy dressed in bloomers.

“I can hear you,” Zoe said. “I know you’re trying to ditch me.”

“Then will have our fortune’s read.” Robyn said.

Petra scowled at Zoe. “We’re not ditching you. It’s more like we’re parking you.” She made a motion, like she was pulling a lever. “There, I put on the emergency brake. You’re stuck.”

“I’m telling Daddy that you left me here, ALONE,” Zoe said.

“But, what if he doesn’t come inside?” Petra asked Robyn. “He could stand out here for eons while some old biddy predicts I don’t get into a good school and end up selling shoes for the rest of my life.”

“You love shoes,” Robyn said. “Besides, I’m sure he’s already inside.”

“And, just like me, probably listening to every word you say!” Zoe added.

Petra sent Zoe another be-quiet-or-be-dead look before she dropped money into Fester’s jar and pushed back the curtains of the fortune-teller’s tent. When the curtain of crystal beads fell back into place behind Robyn, it sounded like the tinkling of falling glass shards. Heavy incense hung in the air. Petra blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. A crystal ball on a table draped in silks glowed and sent a shivery light that didn’t reach the far corners of the tent. Large pillows dotted the tapestry rugs and Petra nudged one with her foot, wondering if she should sit. She didn’t see Mylan.

“Petra, welcome,” a voice in the semi darkness cackled.

Petra laughed when Robyn, just behind her, jumped. It took a moment for her to find the owner of the voice, a hunched man sitting on a pillow in a dark corner. In front of him lay a collection of tarot cards, face up: a fool dancing, tossing stars into a purple sky, a magician holding a wand scattering glitter.

“I’m afraid you must come alone,” Fester said, leaving his gaze on Petra’s face as his twisted hands gathered the cards, and tapped them into a deck.

Robyn’s eyes flashed a question at Petra. Petra squeezed Robyn’s hand, sending her a silent signal.

“I’ll wait with Zoe,” Robyn said.

Still expecting Mylan to suddenly appear, Petra didn’t even watch her friend leave, but she knew when Robyn had gone by the flash of daylight that came and then left with the rise and fall of a curtain and the jangle of the crystal beads.

“There are journeys some must undertake on their own,” the fortune-teller said, staring up at Petra.

In a Sleepy Hollow

2011-02-23T10:50:00.000-08:00

It may seem insane to begin the sequel to an unpublished novel. In fact, it may seem crazy to begin writing a seventh novel when the first six haven’t been sold. I said as much to fellow writer James, who, in fact, gave me an are-you-insane look. “Why would you quit writing?” he asked. Oh, I don’t know James, maybe it’s time to be a grown up and make a living doing something I can feel proud of, like cleaning toilets.

James wasn’t buying it. “You love the process. You have a roof over your head, food on your table, you’re good to go.” Not exactly a pep talk, but enough encouragement to send me to my laptop and drag out an old memory, truly one of the more frightening, inexplicable moments of my life. One of those am I crazy moments.

This opening scene is very loosely based on a night in the seventies. I was fourteen. My mother was dying of cancer. Her doctors had said there was nothing more to be done. In a last ditch effort, my parents traveled to Mexico for laetrile treatments. I’d been left at home with my twenty-four year old brother, who decided sometime around my bedtime, to go to Canada for the weekend.

I spent that night alone. Or did I? I woke around 3 a.m., the stereo in the room down the hall blaring, the volume turned up as high as it could go. The house was dark. At first, I thought my brother had returned. But, no, he and his car were gone. The doors and windows were all locked. The stereo, an old fashioned turntable, was broken, and putting on a record required not just a push of button, but slipping the record into place, turning on the stereo, and placing the needle on the spinning record. I suppose It’s possible I did all of this while sleep walking and then returned to my bed only to be woken later…

Unlike Petra, I didn’t meet a demon (depending on how you categorize my brother… just kidding, love you, Dennis) and I don’t have a reasonable explanation for the blaring stereo.

In a Sleepy Hollow

Petra Baron couldn’t sleep.

The Santa Ana winds whistled through the canyon, spat dust and tossed the branches of trees. The wind seemed to be laughing at her. Not a hahaha aren’t we clever laughter, nor a teehee jokes on you giggle, but a cruel, moaning laughter that whistled through the stable, toyed at the window jambs and rattled the doors.

Petra fluffed her pillow, adjusted it so that she could see through the French doors without lifting her head. Out of the suburbs, away from streetlights, cars and the blue glare of neighboring TVs, the moon and stars carried more light. The late autumn moon, as big and as round as the pumpkins in the field, shone through the window and cast the room in a silver glow. Sleeping at the Jenson’s farm didn’t frighten her, even though she could see the golden eyes of the mountain lion pacing at the fringe of the property, looking for a hole in the fence, access to the animals safely tucked in the barn.

Since her return from England, she’d been training at the rifle range. She could shoot pistols as well as rifles. Determined to never again feel at any one’s mercy, she’d also enrolled in a martial arts program at the gym. Not that she’d try to Ninja kick a mountain lion, but should a horse scream or a sheep bleat she’d shoulder the shot gun and scare away the big cat.

Little cats, however, required another line of defense.

Petra shifted and tried to pull the quilt around her shoulders, but Magpie wouldn’t budge. Large, heavy, a glob of fur and drool, Magpie was a bed-hog. Magpie’s counterpart, Hector, preferred to sleep under the slipper chair. As was the case with so many couples, Magpie was emotionally needy and Hector was emotionally distant. Petra had tried locking the cats out of the bedroom. After all, they had a five thousand square foot hacienda at their disposal. Six unoccupied bedrooms, a den, a living room, a billiard room, they had free range. Petra only asked for one room, in fact, she’d have settle for one bed, but Magpie, as noisy as her name implied, refused to be shut out. And it didn’t really make sense to allow Magpie to share her space and not Hector. Who, by the way, snored. A malady typical of Persians.

Persians or mountain lions, which cat species did she prefer? Given a choice, she’d choose to be at home in her own bed, Frosty, her standard poodle asleep, sans snoring, at the foot of her bed, but the house-sitting gig at the Jensen’s paid well. She needed all the money she could lay her hands on if she wanted to attend Hudson River Academy, a small liberal arts college where Dr. Finch, the world’s leading professor of Elizabethan literature. Her dad would pony up for a state university, but he wasn’t interested in paying for ‘liberal farts.’ Petra began to mentally recalculate her finances and because money bored her she fell asleep listening to the wind’s laughter and Hector’s snore.

#

The wind whispers the prayers
Of all who live there
And carries them to heaven.
And the rain beats a time,
For those caught in rhyme,
For any who’ve lost life’s reason.

Petra bolted up and Magpie flew off the bed with a meow, her cry barely audible above the music. Pushing hair off her forehead, Petra tried to wake from the deafening dream. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, felt the cold tile floor beneath her feet. The music still played. Electric guitars. A keyboard. Drums. Seventies sound.

She oriented herself. Who’s here? Could the Jenson’s have returned? No, they had just posted pictures of the Vatican online less than two hours ago. Their son, Garth? He attended UCSB. A three hour drive. It must be Garth, she thought. She looked out the window for a car in the drive. No car. He would have put it in the garage. He’d have the remote. The wind had quieted, the trees had stopped dancing. Steam from the horse’s warm breath rose from the stable. On the side of the hill, on the far side of the fence, gold eyes watched her window. The mountain lion, threatening, but incapable of manning sound systems.

She took a deep calming breath. It had to be Garth. She waited for the music to die. She'd learned the hard way years ago that you just couldn’t wait for the hero to ride in on his stallion.

If there are stories in your stream,
Don’t let them stop you mid- dream,
They’re just pebbles for the tossing.
They’re just mountains for the climbing.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Wild hair, smeared mascara, long arms and legs poking out of her Domo-Kun pajamas. She considered slipping into her clothes, but she didn’t want to fumble in the dark to find them, making noise, alerting the intruder. If there was an intruder. No, it had to be Garth, returning home, unexpectedly for the weekend. Why would anyone else break into a house and turn on a stereo? Who would do that?

Petra shuffled to the door, and plucked the shotgun off the wall, just in case it wasn’t Garth. She slipped a cartridge in the barrel and cocked the gun, just in case it was a Seventies-sounds-loving-lunatic.

She felt awkward shouldering the gun and opening the door. Hector squalled when she stepped on him. So much for not alerting the intruder, she thought as she righted herself and returned the rifle to ready position. Pushing through the door, Petra crept through the dark house until she found the source of the noise.

Your head is singing with the whispering,
So many voices, so many choices,
Which roads to take.

The stereo, an old fashioned tape player, six feet tall, flashing lights and thrumming bass, boomed in the billiards room. Petra stared at it and then shouted above the music, “Garth?” When no one answered, she called, “Who’s there?”
Only the music replied. Magpie curled around her ankles. Her pajama topped slipped off her shoulder as she slowly circled the room, gun raised. Outside, beyond the fence, the mountain lion blinked at her.

Petra turned on the light just as the music ended. The tape sputtered at the end and clicked. She walked to the elaborate sound system, a relic of some distant time, and stared at it. Tiny flashing lights, a series of buttons and switches, it looked as complicated as an airplane cockpit. She didn’t even know how it worked. Maybe she’d walked in her sleep, but turning on the stereo?

The tape clicked out its questions, spinning round and round. Click. Click. Click. She found a switch, flipped it, and the system died. In the sudden quiet, she could her heart’s rapid beats and her accelerated breath.

“Not exactly a lullaby,” she said to Magpie, her voice nearly as loud as her thrumming blood.

“Garth?” she called out again. Maybe he was in the shower, or in the garage, or asleep.

She shouldered the gun, just in case. Every bathroom and bed empty. The garage dark, the cars vacant. She checked the windows and doors of each room. Securely locked. All of them. She flung open closet doors, used her shotgun to poke through the wardrobes. The alarm system in the front hall blinked its tiny red light. No one had broken in, at least, no one who didn’t know their way around the security system.
Petra sat down on the sofa in the living room and laid the gun across her lap. Magpie jumped up beside her, while Hector watched from underneath the grand piano. She absently stroked the cat and felt a smidge less panicked, telling herself she was alone. What should she do? Her cell didn’t get reception in the canyon, so she padded to the phone in the office and picked up the line.

Nothing. She looked at the receiver. The wind could have knocked down the line. Maybe she’d walked in her sleep and turned on the stereo. Since her return from Elizabethan England five months ago, she’d realized that life doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes random, inexplicable, even crazy things happened. And crazy things don’t have to make sense. Maybe the craziness makes sense to someone else, because everyone has a skewed sense of reason, and as mortals, mere humans, we can’t know everything. Sometimes, really truly, only heaven knows. Or hell.

Samaritan Strangers

2011-02-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went running during my daughter’s voice lesson. Away from my stomping ground, running in unfamiliar territory, headed for Lake Mission Viejo, I stumbled on an uneven bit of sidewalk and landed on my chin. Statistically speaking, I don’t fall often. In my too many years of running to count and share, I’ve only been injured twice and both times were because of sidewalk malfunctions. This is rather remarkable because for a number of years I would run with my dad’s dog off leash in rural Washington and the giant German Short-hair liked to gallop at me full speed whenever the mood to knock me over would strike, a sort of Kato and Inspector Clouseau thing. (Oddly, I felt safer running with him than without him, and a leash was out of the question, in fact, we didn’t even own one.)

For those who don’t know, chins bleed profusely. I had blood soaked clothes, streaks of blood down my legs, red spotted socks. I don’t know anyone in that corner of Mission Viejo, so I slumped towards where I’d parked my car. A woman in red mini-van asked if I needed a ride. I assured her I was fine (bloody, but fine.) She gave me a wad of napkins and then drove slowly behind me for some time, perhaps waiting to see if I’d faint. Moments later, after the red mini-van had disappeared, a woman in a silver mini-van pulled up and offered me a ride. By this time I’d been sufficiently humbled , so Grendal and I climbed into this Samaritan stranger’s car. My rescuer didn’t seem concerned about dog hair, or the mess I dripped onto her car’s upholstery. I made a joke about blood transmitted diseases and she laughed. She didn’t mind going out of her way, never once asked “how far are we going?” and after she dropped me off at Natalie’s voice teacher’s house, she waited until someone answered the door before she drove away.

This experience reminded me of a totally different sort of Samaritan. Years ago I was on a cross country flight with baby Nathan and my seat happened to be among a flock of Asian businessmen (perhaps thirty.) The gentleman beside me, dressed in what appeared to be an extremely expensive suit, tie and white pinpoint oxford shirt, didn’t speak English, which was fine, because neither did baby Nathan. And the two became friends. It takes about 6 hours to fly from New York to California, and Nathan spent the majority of that time on the laps of Asian businessmen. They passed him around like he was a toy for their amusement and pleasure. When we landed, Nathan’s new friends helped with my luggage. We waved goodbye, friends for the moment, knowing that our paths would unlikely cross again.

Fast forward to last Christmas. I was standing in a crowded store, waiting in line, a million things on my mind. The woman behind me began to cry, and not just a few tears. Sobbing, shoulders shaking. I looked in my purse, hoping I could offer her something, a candy, a breath mint… I had nothing. I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say or do.

Since that time I’ve tried to put into practice this thought, “Bumbling love is always better than perfectly executed indifference,” because whether we’re running, flying, falling or waiting, we all need each other.

Lessons Learned

2011-02-09T13:21:00.000-08:00

Yesterday my son Jared called from the airport. He was on his way to Taiwan. I remember when he was on his way to preschool. And I cried.

At that time I was pregnant with the twins and I had ample reason to cry. I had four children under the age of twelve. Twenty-seven weeks into my pregnancy my doctor asked me to be on bed rest. This inactivity took a toll on me, my children and my house. From my sofa I was able to look out my window where I would watch the people passing by. Daily, our neighbor would walk her dog and I was jealous. By then just walking across the room to answer the phone left me breathless (I had babies where my lungs belonged.) Just adjusting my pillow caused pain. My children were in school most of the day so I had no one to talk to, my house was only clean when someone else came to clean, I’d been released from all my responsibilities at church or at the school so I was bored, lonely and cranky. Watching that neighbor walk everyday filled me with envy.

Weeks later, my babies arrived, my health and vitality returned. I could clean my house, play with my children, walk my dog, and do all the things that I had missed during those weeks of bed rest. I learned many, many things at that time, but the one I’m sharing is this: we all have challenges. We can never look at someone and assess their choices or situations. Imagine my chagrin when I later learned that neighbor I envied had a serious heart condition. Within a few weeks my energy returned to a level that woman has probably never known, or will know in this life.

We all have lessons we need to learn. I’ve tried to teach them to my children. Baseball, soccer, football, track, swim team, roller hockey (that was scary, almost as scary as driver’s ed, not nearly as scary as the prom.) Piano, flute, trumpet, saxophone, tuba, piccolo. When Adam practiced his violin the dog would howl and the babies would cry. Nathan played an instrument that matched him in size. At Bethany’s swim meets, I felt we all bordered on child abuse when we put our babies in the pool and screamed at them (cheered for them, which sounds just like screaming) until they reached the other side – ten years later Bethany was captain of her high school swim team. The scratchy violin became musical. Nathan grew bigger than his tuba. And then one day I watched grown up Adam pick up young Jared for church. As I watched them walk away together, dressed in their white shirts and ties, it occurred to me that the most important lessons that they’ll ever learn, if they’ll ever learn them well, is to love each other and to love God.

Today Jared arrives in Taiwan and he’ll learn lessons I’ll never know.

To Cultivate or to Costco?

2011-02-03T10:11:00.000-08:00

This year I made a goal to send my novel out into the world twenty times. Twenty times equals, perhaps, twenty rejection letters… At least it always has before. It’s true, I’ve won awards. I’ve been given encouraging words, pats on the head, chucks under the chins. I hate this part of the process. I’m not good at marketing. I’d much, much prefer to be cloistered in my room, weaving stories and creating characters.

But, this novel’s done and what do I do now? Even though I’ve the sequel in my head, a story that I find captivating, the thought of writing for no one, again, has me paralyzed. And so today I’ll go to Costco. Paint a bathroom. Organize a cupboard.

And yet, I read something this morning that spoke to me. Here’s the actual quote. Boyd K. Packer: “Plant your fruit trees. Cultivate them, fertilize them, watch them grow, and enjoy the fruit thereof. If the end comes during the process, so what? Do not deprive yourself of enjoying the fruits of your labors by living in fear of the world’s problems that lie ahead.”

This is what I read: Write your stories. Cultivate your characters, nurture them, watch them grow and enjoy your time with them. If in the end, they’re never published, so what? Do not deprive yourself from enjoying the fruits of your labors by living in fear of the rejection that lies ahead.

Today, I’ll go to Costco and I’ll organize the cupboard, but soon, I’m going to enjoy the story that wants to be told.

Another quote. M. Russell Ballard. “I believe if we think about what it takes to be successful long enough and if we are willing to discipline ourselves to the principle of success, we will experience success. Yes, I am a great believer that “as [a man] thinketh in his heart, so is he.” (Prov. 23:7.)

And just one more. George Bernard Shaw said: “People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don’t believe in circumstances. People who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can’t find them, make them.”

The Miracle of Lost Things

2011-02-01T17:51:00.000-08:00

I lose things. Sometimes big, important things. Things that should be attached to my body. Once when I was out of the country, headed to a train station, I lost my passport. I prayed a promise that if I could find my passport, I’d be more careful and never lose another thing. I found my passport within minutes.

I still lose things.

Once when my husband had a business trip, complete with a ritzy hotel, I lost my shoes. We had stopped at a park… and my shoes had stayed parked at the edge of the sand. (They were really nice shoes, because I was going to a very nice hotel. I wanted to play in the sand but didn’t want the sand ruin my shoes, so I took them off. Hopefully a nice homeless person with size 7.5 shoes found them.)

Wallets full of money. Cars in mall parking lots. Glasses. Purses. I’ve lost living creatures, friends.

And that’s why today was such a miracle. Once I owned a small device with three components that I haven’t needed or used in 15 years. It would cost almost $500. to replace. Oddly, I remembered where I’d last put it, in the far left corner of my kitchen cupboard, but I didn’t know if it would still be there… I highly doubted it, especially since the kitchen had since been remodeled. New cupboards installed, the old cupboards trashed.

But there it was in the far left corner of the cupboard, all three parts attached. For me, this was as miraculous as the parting of the Red Sea.