Friday Obsessions: Rita's, Pedicures, and Snow White and the Huntsman

Oh, readers. Thank you so much for all your beautiful comments on my post from Monday. It's been a rough week and I haven't replied to them all yet, but...thank you. I just want to hug all of you.

Figuratively, I mean. I actually don't want anyone touching me unless it's a masseuse or my (soon-to-be) newborn baby.

See, I'm one of those ladies who has "false" labor for weeks and weeks before the kid actually arrives. But there's not much false about it. So. For the next four weeks, until I can evict the child with IV medication, I'm going to be dealing with some pretty serious pain and generally being in the biggest MOOD ever.

This is the kind of thing that makes you nostalgic for the 1950s, where they just loaded a lady up with sleeping pills and narcotics and a month later, she had a baby.

I am (mostly) not kidding.

But still. It's only four weeks, and Mood or no Mood, life doesn't stop, right? Which makes it particularly lame that I haven't written anything since the Word War on Monday night. L-A-M-E. And to think I wanted to hit 35K this week. Hell, I didn't even BLOG on Wednesday. And I didn't because of...what? Back pain? Swollenness? Exhaustion? Puh-lease. Katniss would probably roll her eyes and spit at  me, and then shoot me straight in the heart with an arrow because I was taking up all the good air.

(As you may be able to tell, I could use a good drill sergeant right now. Seriously, kick my butt. Leave your application in the comments, pleaseandthankyou.)

Ah well. Without further ado...

Everything I was obsessed with this week. 
Because I know you want to know.


1. Pedicures.
It could be because the only shoes that fit on my feet are flip-flops, it could be the inevitable hospital stay in my near future, but either one of those situations makes me terrified of gross feet. I'm doing a self-pedi a week. Unfortunately, I think the Hunger Games colors are not the most gorgeous for Spring-and-summer toes, so I'm using bright pinks and oranges and feeling generally delighted about the state of my toes' grooming, no matter how much they resemble tiny, tiny sausages.

2. Rita's Italian Ice
The first day of Spring was Tuesday, and as always, my beloved Rita's gave away free Italian ices.
This year in the 614, instead of being 50 degrees and rainy, and consequently deserted, like it would be on any other year, it was 85 degrees and PACKED with people wanting some free ice. I know it was tough on the guys working the counter, but heck if I'm not more in love with Rita's than ever after getting it for free on that hot, hot day.

3. Snow White and the Huntsman extended trailer.
Okay, seriously? I'm psyched for two movies this summer. Spiderman, and this. I watched this whole extended trailer with my mouth hanging open. Charlize Theron is TERRIFYING. Heck, Kristen Steward is terrifying.

 And Chris Hemsworth is...well...he's Chris Hemsworth. Thank the Lord in heaven.



That's it for me this week! I'm posting this from the office, so no Scriv, so no WiP snippet, but I'm hopping to slap one up here later, because yes, I did write a few K.

Now it's your turn! What were YOU obsessed with this week?

An Invincible Spring

So. I'm not what you might call the most cheerful person.

I'm a pragmatist. An acute one, even. Which means that this whole crazy publishing business can make me kind of...well...crazy.

There's no right way to write, or get critique, or revise. (No. There isn't.)
There's no one perfect path to being published.
There's no way to know whether the steps you're taking are moving you one step forward or two steps back.

It's true. Frustrating, maddening, terrifying. And true.

If you're used to figuring out how well you're doing by grades, or employer evaluations, or getting a raise...
Dear writer friend, you're going to have to find a different way to gauge your progress, and your worth.
More than that, and especially if you're a pragmatist like me, and you watch this whole writing-and-querying thing go down for awhile, and realize the true subjectivity at work behind everything -
you're going to have to find a way to keep yourself afloat.

I'm still not sure whether I have.
But I do know that I've stopped caring so much about whether and when I get published.

I know. That sounds stupid. Because of course I care, right? I mean, I'm still querying, still working my butt off, still plowing through that new WiP's first draft (one third of the way done as of this weekend, thankyouverymuch.)


Yeah. I care. But I kind of...don't anymore. I want my writing to make me happy. I want it to make other people happy, too, of course. But the reason I started wasn't to hold a shiny hardback or to snag a three-book deal or to have featured advertising on Goodreads or to be a guest on a talk show.

Anyway. Though this might sound depressing to you, and though it has no solid conclusion...somehow, over the last week, I feel better. That's not to say I won't feel worse in a week, or randomly shed a tear over my MS's playlist. That story's still a part of me - always will be, I think. (Seasoned writers, am I right?) But there's something in me saying that even if this book, and the next one, and the seven after that end up in a drawer....it's not the end.

(Not that I know where the end is.)

Thanks for bearing with me in this moment of introspection. I don't know what I'm really saying. And I don't think I have to. Just...I'm surprised, is all. Surprised that, in the midst of the query trenches, I feel okay.

And besides, Spring is just around the corner. Right? 

It has to be.

Friday Obsessions: Yo-Yo Ma, Blogging Ahead, and Peeta's Bread

Happy Friday, sweet readers!  

It's actually been a pretty decent week! I mean, I'm still in the query trenches, but I didn't have to eat any trench rats this week (translation: nothing made me cry) so we're calling that a WIN.

In less pleasant news, my ankles are the size of my head.

The upshot is that I pretty much have to sit on the couch with my feet up at the end of the day. Which means my WiP did not suffer for word-count this week.  Another WIN.

Anyway. Enough about me. Let's get on with talking about my obsessions.
(I know, I know. Self-centered, etc. But it's my blog, you see?)


Everything I was obsessed with this week. 
Because I know you want to know. 

1. Yo-Yo Ma. Very little makes me emotional, music-wise. The things that most get to me are my MS's playlists (duh) and then artists like Yo-Yo Ma, who is an unquestionable MASTER in his field, and plays so beautifully.

His treatment of Bach's cello suites is absolutely astounding, and definitely the music I listen to when I need that weird mix of neutral, calming, and energizing, all at the same time.

But, you guys. There's MORE. Watch this video of him playing. He's an expert, yeah, but check out how HARD he works to nail a piece that he's played a kajillion times - a piece that he's famous for. You can just tell that he is trying so hard to get better - AS IF HE COULD GET BETTER - each and every time.

This is inspirational, y'all. I only hope that I work this hard at everything I write.


2. Blogging-in-Advance. Probably about a month from now I'll need to take a short hiatus (a few weeks at least) from blogging. I'd like to continue to post at least twice a week. Lord knows I have a pile of drafts sitting on my dashboard, but they need to be finished and shined up before I can post them.

Also: I'm looking for guest posts. Especially from those of you who are my favorites. You know who you are. Or even IDEAS for posts I should write. No, seriously. I'm obsessed with getting a backlog done so I can just hit "publish."

Thanks. *kiss kiss*

3. Peeta's bread.
So....my Wisconsin baking bestie Amanda Stein, who runs The Challah Blog, is just as in love with The Hunger Games as I am. (Not just as in love with PEETA, mind. No one loves Peeta as much as I do. Seriously. You may think you do, but you don't. Step off.) 

Anyway. She invented a recipe for Peeta's bread - you know - the kind he burned on purpose to give to Katniss so that he could save her life and then....*sigh*

Anyway. I made some. A couple batches, actually. Want a loaf? I will trade one for a guest blog.
 (*kiss kiss*)



And last but not least, Chrome. Chessie shamed me in a word war on Wednesday - like, cleaned the internet's floor with me, and it's DIRTY down there - so I figure might as well show something for it.

Here's a part of a scene from when Havah visits the Iver, who live underneath Chrome City.

An Iver answered the door. Her clothing looked like a sack - brown and loose and tied with a sort of makeshift belt. Her hair, wiry and dark, was cropped short, like all the peoples’ seemed to be down here. Men and women, the same. 

She peered out the door, and a sheen of sweat coated her brow. Havah grimaced. There was an odd, unclean sort of smell coming from inside the little room. Sweat, and something else. Something warm, something heavy.

“Here for a routine transgression check,” the bionGuard barked at the woman.

Havah swore the woman’s lower lip trembled. “Yes,” she said softly, “of course,” and stepped backward inside.

She stared down at the ground as she gestured toward the tiny, dimly-lit room. There was a single table, three chairs, and a wide white mat on a slightly elevated surface in the corner.

“Do you…live here?” Havah asked.

The woman gave her a strange look, then a curt nod. It seemed to Havah that she didn’t breathe. That she was holding a space open with her silence. Like she was waiting for something.

Just as a bionGuard looked at the woman and said, “Thank you, Iver 3476,” A strange, high sound pierced the air.

The bionguard stopped in its tracks, and the Iver woman clapped a hand over her mouth. Her body heaved with a silent sob.

The high sound crested through the air, again, longer. Coming from nowhere.

The bionguard looked at the Iver woman, then strode straight to her cupboard, snapped the lock off, and flung open the door.

Inside stood a wide-eyed child, the space under its nose glistening with something wet. Its eyes bugged wide, as it stared at the bionguard. The child reached up a chubby hand, strangely stuck to a spindly arm, as if to touch the bion’s sleek silver face.

The bionGuard crouched down to the child’s eye level. A blue light emanated from its eyes, sweeping down over the child’s body. A scan.

“Female,” the bion announced. The Iver woman let out a keening wail and fell to her knees on the concrete floor beside Havah.

Yikkkkkes. I'll tell you right now - this isn't going to end well for anyone.  (Thanks for reading!)

Okay, sweet readers. Your turn - What were YOU obsessed with this week?

Friday Obsessions: Nesting, Inspirational Quotes, and Matzah Crack

You guys. It has been one helluva week. Monday and Tuesday David was out of town for a last-minute business trip (which means I spent those days singlehandedly herding three insane rabid chipmunks our three adorable children in and out of clothes, cars, mealtimes, bathtubs, pajamas, and beds,) Wednesday we threw a Purim celebration at work (so so so much fun but holy hell, exhausting) yesterday was my scullery maid day, and tonight I run one of the most fun Friday nights of the quarter - the one where our stellar a'capella group performs - at work (again, extra fun, but totally exhausting.) And tomorrow I have to go buy a new car. (Because apparently rabid chipmunks require carseats - one for each of them - to keep them safe on the road, or something. And our current car only has space for three.)

So guess how much writing got done this week.
Yeeeeeah.

Anyhoo. Here we go.

Everything I was obsessed with this week.
Because I know you want to know.

1. Nesting. It's cheesy, but true. When you have three at home already, nesting is less "Holy crud I have to get All The Things clean and organized," and more "How am I going to plan for my home not to sink into a pit of condemn-able filth while I'm recovering and keeping a 7-pound helpless infant human alive?"

So. I've been buying lots of paper towels and Clorox wipes, paper plates and napkins (all items I'm normally morally opposed to buying,) microwavable and ready-to-eat food, and months worth of any other supplies we might need.

Also, I'm hiring a cleaning lady, because my hips literally quit on me in the middle of Scullery Maid Day yesterday.

Also, I'm making phonecalls and prepping paperwork so I can buy this car tomorrow. Which is a bit stressful.*

* understatement of the century


2. Reading inspirational quotes and crying. 
It's probably a combination of extra hormones (gross, yeah, but OMG REAL.) and not getting hardly anything done writing-wise, whether WiP or CP related (I'm so, so so SO sorry my CP loves, I swear I have notes and they just need to be transferred and attached to an email and...*weeps*)

 but I really, really, REALLY need some inspiration these days.

And then, you know, because I have so much free time, I make some of the quotes pretty in Photoshop. Because that's totally the same of doing PRODUCTIVE writing things.*
*I know it's not.


3. Matzah Crack. In the last hour of Purim every year, I go into Passover Obsession Mode. Since Passover starts almost exactly a month after Purim, it's part of the Jewish household manager psyche - we start planning cooking and cleaning, and thinking about matzah. Lots of matzah.

And, if you're me, you start thinking about toffee-and-chocolate covered matzah at that point. And then you can't stop thinking about it. And then you make it.

You will eat the batch in about 5 hours.
It will be the first batch of about a bajillion.

You need 4 pieces of matzah, 2 sticks of butter, 1 cup of brown sugar, and chocolate chips.
(Or you need to be my friend, and ask me for some.)
Here's the recipe. 
You. Are. Welcome.

Aaaand last but not least - The WiP. Because, hell, I at least wrote SOMETHING.

Here's a convo between Sarra and Mar. They are sister and brother, and they're Iver slaves. Mar runs the underground revolution. Sarra's just trying to keep little girls alive.

“What shine are you feeding them, Mar? What hope that we’ll ever get out of here?”

“It’s no shine, Sarra. You said it yourself. It’s the Current. We’ve built the ship, and the Current will break it through the Dome.”

“Assuming the Current even still exists - it's going to keep us alive? In that air? What are you even thinking?”

“The air out there isn’t what you think, Sarra. It’s not that bad. It will be harder, but we can live. Nothing can be as bad as this.”

Sarra whirled on Mar, glaring at him. “If you think nothing is as bad as this?” She flung her arms out to the great metal barrels tipping hot orange molten metal into molds, “Then talk to my girls. The little ones, who live in the walls. Who have never even breathed what little fresh air is in this underground. Who…who…” Something wet trickled down her cheek. Mar walked two steps toward her, his experession changing from one of argument to one of concern.

She stepped toward him and buried her face in his shirt. “Who have never known their mothers. Who never will.”

Mar smoothed his hand over her close-cropped hair, and whispered, “Shhhh.’ Over and over again. Like he had when she was a toddler, just a baby really, and Ama had gone into one of her episodes and hadn’t talked to either of them for days. 

Well, that's that! Thanks for reading!

What about you, sweet readers? What were YOU obsessed with this week? I'd love to know.

The Problem with Being A Far Thinker (as a writer)

Ever since I was a little kid, I've loved to know What Was Going to Happen. I would plan my future career and spend hours finding the best colleges to attend and all the classes I would sign up for. I had a strategy mapped out for grad schools, internships, and meeting Mr. Right. I knew how many kids I wanted to have, how far apart they'd be born, where our family would live, and what my work-life balance would look like.



Guess how many of those careful plans actually panned out in the way I imagined?

Yeah. None of them.

Still. Guess what old habit is dying hard in my adult writing life?

Like most of you writers out there, I dream of getting published. I know full well that's never gonna happen unless I work my tush off to get there. Yes, that requires a lot of work and careful planning. I've had self-imposed deadlines for drafting, strategies for sending to CPs, a carefully structured method and schedule for when I would send my queries, and to whom.

Now that the queries for ONE are out, I've started on the next WiP. And, as you may have guessed, I have a plan for when I'll start querying that one.

That's right. I'm planning my query process for a new novel before my currently querying novel is in the drawer.

In some corner of my twisted mind, this all makes sense. I'm allowing One to query  widely, unfettered by any clinginess or obsession from yours truly. More importantly, I'm building an iron, spiky, barbed-wire fence around my heart to protect it in the case that One DOES go in a drawer.  Sounds good, right?

Yeah. Except...not. Why?

My writing life could turn around AT ANY MOMENT.

Between the time I'm typing this blog post and the time it posts, I could get an email from an agent requesting The Call. (Highly unlikely, yeah, but it COULD happen.) It could happen any minute.

And here I am planning query flurries that I might never have to send.

Here's my worry: that being a far thinker keeps me from taking risks, because I'm always driving toward that self-set goal, sometimes without evaluating whether it's the best course. For example, I'm trying to barrel through this draft of Chrome, when maybe I should be overhauling One to make it into a more marketable genre.

(Like, I could make Elias a vampire, and Merrin a vampire hunter.
JUST KIDDING.)

That's the sane worry, anyway. The insane one is...well...that I'm just insane. I have thoughts (that I frequently share with my CPs, sorry ladies) like, "At what point will I quit writing? MS #5? #7?" and "When should I self-publish?" and "How do I feel about small pubishers?" and "Who's buying the drinks if we all go to SCBWI this year? Will I go only if I'm agented, or only if I'm not agented?"

Are you guys ready to throw me across the room yet? (no hard feelings. Seriously.)

I don't really have a point for this blog post. I just know that sometimes my far-thinking-ness seems totally rational and reasonable, and other times I think, "Wow, I'm a certifiable nutcase." And then I kind of wonder if this far-thinking obsession will ever get me into legit trouble, or just leave me shaking my head at Past Me as per usual.

Sweet readers - Are any of you far-thinkers? How does it affect your writing? Do you do anything to curb it?

Un-Invincible

So, you know how I have three kids, a part time job, a husband, a household, and a fetus to manage? And how I can still write a book in like six months? And how people think I'm nuts?

Well, the only way that works is that I tell myself that it's something I have to do. I have to make the time for it. I have to wake up at four in the morning and type chapters on my phone and quit whining and just write the darn book. And there's no such thing as an obstacle so huge as to make me stop working on a project, especially during those precious weekend hours.

It's true. There is no obstacle so huge as that. There is, however, one small enough.


The stomach virus.

Ewwww.

Yep! Caught a DISGUSTING stomach virus this weekend and spent all of Sunday in bed, either at home with a bucket or at the hospital with an IV stuck in my arm.

 I even got all excited because I was going to the hospital for a few hours, where it's Calm! and Quiet! I merrily packed up my Kindle and netbook (well, as merrily as one can with extreme nausea,) and a ton of cords. Turns out, though, that the nurses can just stick something in your IV without telling you that it'll knock you out STONE COLD FOR SIXTEEN HOURS. Which is what happened to me.

Which means I didn't get anything done, writing-wise, this weekend. Also, my house exploded with laundry and kitchen debris.  

So, yeah. I'm not invincible. And I've been put in my place, by a freaky microscopic organism. I've been SCHOOLED, that sometimes I can't write and sometimes that's not because I'm lazy or whining.

On the upside - I'm really glad I had the experience of being knocked unconscious with drugs, because I need to do that to Havah anyway, and now I'll know exactly how it feels. (See? Can't stop my brain. For the most part.)

What about you, sweet readers? When's a time that you've been put in your place, writing-wise or otherwise?

What's the rush?

My dear friend and writing-life coach, Jean, asked me an important question last week. I was in the midst of one of my work/life/family/writing balance breakdowns (which happen every 14 days like clockwork), struggling to figure out how I was going to do my day job, keep my house non-condemnable, get decent meals cooked, love on my kids, AND finish this draft.

After all, I had promised it to my first round CPs at the beginning of November. Then the beginning of December. And here I was, staring at December 9th on the calendar, and wondering how it had taken me five and a half weeks to finish a simple first-pass edit.

So I typed Jean a tear-filled email (I believe Gina was the one to get it about a month ago, you ladies are troopers) about the laundry and crumbs in the carpet and trash that needed to be taken out and bathtubs that needed to be bleached. And how it wasn't possible to do all the things that needed to be done AND hug my babies AND sleep AND get any writing done.

She wrote back a long email that showed that she heard what I was saying and that she sympathized, but what she really wanted to say was right there at the end:

"What's the rush?"


So that question stayed on my mind for several days, as the dear patient lady continued to correspond with me via novel-length email after novel-length email. After all, I know very well that I don't have an editor or even an agent to put me on deadline. (Believe me. I KNOW.) And I know that, as an unagented writer, it won't make a difference whether my project takes days, weeks, months, or even years longer to complete. So why should I rush?

RUSH

verb (used with object)

5. to perform, accomplish, or finish with speed, impetuosity, or violence.

Okay. Well, I obviously shouldn't do that. We all know that an impetuously sent query (or a violently sent one, yeesh) is the kiss of death for a writer. But even at this stage of the game, I don't want to waste my CPs' time by sending them a hastily, haphazardly thrown together manuscript.

So, I asked myself again, "Whats' the rush?" (Because Jean is wise, you know.) 

I started to realize that it wasn't necessarily a sense of rush I felt, but a sense of drive. The feeling that I wouldn't be able to think about anything else, rest easy, or even breathe unless I made a least one little step every day on this draft.

I could convince myself that I'd be okay without writing a little bit every day, but after four or five days of ignoring ONE, I started to get mighty cranky, and resentful, and just generally down in the dumps. (Also my main character would start to scream at me, and you don't want to be near her when she's angry.)


What I learned from this was: I know there's no rush to finish any project, any time. But for me? There's definitely a rush when it comes to writing:

RUSH

noun 

2. the immediate pleasurable feeling produced by a drug (as heroin or amphetamine)

Yep. My name is Leigh Ann Kopans, and I am a writing addict. 

What about you? Do you feel a sense of rush when it comes to your projects? Help me feel not-so-crazy down in the comments.

One Year On

One year ago today, I woke up with an idea in my head and frantically typed 5,000 words of a story that would become THE TRAVELERS.

That day, I thought a lot of things about my writing self.

I thought that writing was some silly endeavor I had to try to get out of my system.
I didn't know that writing was something absolutely ingrained in me, desperate to be let free.

I thought that those 5,000 words were captivating, stunning, AWESOME.
I didn't know that they weren't (but I'd learn to make them better.)

I thought that I'd just write this one book and be done with it.
I didn't know I'd write this book, then write another one, then dream up the skeleton for a third, before the year was out.

I thought there was no way I'd ever show my book to anyone.
I didn't know that the handful of people I ended up showing my book to would become absolute lifelines for me, writing and otherwise, and very dear friends.

I thought that, when those people gave me constructive criticism, I would curl up in a ball and die.
I didn't know that the critique-and-revision stage would turn out to be my absolute most favorite part of the whole process.

I thought that writing and blogging about it would make me even more disconnected than I already planned to be.
I didn't know that so so many of you would find my little blog, like reading what I have to say, and support me along the rocky road that I've only just started out on. (Hi, followers! I really do love each and every one of you.)

I thought that writing was ridiculous because it didn't match up with all the career goals I'd had (and achieved!) before.
I didn't know that becoming an author was a dream living deep inside me that I never knew I had.


I thought that all writing this book would accomplish was losing me sleep and buoying me through a tough year.
I didn't know writing would become part of how I think, the way I look at the world, and who I am.

And, just because you might be wondering....

I thought my book would suck.
It doesn't.


Oh! And those five thousand words? Only one sentence out of them survived to make it to the manuscript I'm querying now. (Yeah. I had a lot to learn.) But that sentence, still perfectly intact, is one of my favorites in the whole book - and looking on my first notes dated one year ago today, I know it was in me from the very beginning:

Could it be possible to belong to someone she had never met?

So, even though I was hating on Past Me something fierce on Monday, today, on my one-year-writerversary, I want to give Past Me a great big hug. She's absolutely changed my life.

Your turn! Tell me what reflections and revelations you've had on your writerversaries. Can't wait to tear up at all your sweet stories.

Writer's Therapy

Imagine Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter all happening in the same month. Now make one of them a week long. (Are you panicked yet?)

That's been my life for the last month.

The cooking, the cleaning, the decorating, the prayer-services-going, the dressing up, the laundry, the managing children on vacation from school. It's all the same for Jewish holidays as for Christian ones, just in the early autumn when it's not, for the rest of American society, normal.

On top of the normal household holiday stress, it's my day job to plan and facilitate prayers services and events for all of it.

 I looked up in the sky last night and almost cried when I saw this:

The lunar month is nearly over. The holidays have died down until Chanukah, which is actually not that big of a deal. I finally took a deep breath.

So, at this point, you won't be surprised that the writing part of my life has fallen far short. It's no secret I've been ignoring my WiP, but I'm ashamed to say that I've ignored a lot of other stuff that writers need to do to succeed, too.  

I need some writer's therapy. So here's the plan.

Real, Solid Writing Time
I've been doing a couple hundred words in the 23 minutes it takes my challah to bake, another fifty while I wait for my kid to finish using the bathroom, a couple sentences waiting in line at the grocery store. There's a reason I've only done about 6K in 23 days, and even those words suck. I need some solid writing time, uninterrupted by beeping kitchen timers, laundry that needs to be turned over, temper tantrums or tussles over toys.

And no one's going to give it to me - I've got to claim it for myself.

Here's an inspirational photograph about how something can sprout, flourish and blossom

 when you LEAVE IT THE HELL ALONE.

(Or: what happens when I don't clean out the potato bin for two months. Oops.)

Critiquing
I've had an absolutely amazing project in my inbox for a month, and another one just arrived. These writers are also part of the critiquing team for ONE, and of course I owe it to them to do my critiquing best on their work.

More than that, though, critiquing makes me a better writer. Not to mention that it's pure writer's therapy to weed passive voice out of a mostly gorgeous manuscript, or to get that "Aha!" moment when you figure out which two words to move around it a sentence to make it really sparkle.

Plus, you know, all the kissing scenes you get to read. Because you can only put so many of those in your own book. (I know. It's sad.)

I'm back to critiquing an hour every morning before the kids wake up, and maybe another hour after they go down to bed, and it feels SO. GOOD.

Reading
The last published book I read obsessively cover-to-cover was over a month ago. Not. Okay. Not at all. Especially when I have at least EIGHT on my Kindle I'm dying to read.

First of all, you can't write if you don't read, widely and raptly. I know this. But the fact that I haven't dropped everything to devour these books says a lot about how stressed I've been. Normally I'd be finished with them in less than a week. Yikes.

Here's just one of the many.

 Seriously, just looking at this COVER is making me want to call in sick to work.

Taking Care of Myself
I'm a working mother trying to write and publish a book, so I don't even spend TONS of time taking care of myself physically on a good day. But before the holidays, I was at least exercising regularly, taking care of hair cuts and colors, and painting my nails once in awhile.

Another biggie is sleeping enough. Because I don't. As it is, my only really productive writing time is morning through midday, because by 8 PM I am so exhausted I can't formulate original thoughts, let alone make them into coherent and beautiful sentences. When I don't get enough sleep, even the morning/afternoon hours are forfeit, because I'm dozing off or riding a caffeine buzz (also not great for the fetus, sorry baby) that only really makes me jittery, not productive.




So, that's my plan for getting back to healthy writer-dom! When you need writer's therapy, what works for you? I could always use more suggestions.

Incognito Writers

Do you know someone who (you think probably) is an incognito writer?

My brother in law is one of those people. He's ultra smart, he reads a ton - a book a week, or more. When he talks about a book he loves, he sits forward in his chair, waves his hands, moves his eyebrows, raises his voice. He can analyze a character or throw down a deconstruction of plot into theme like a mofo. He cares - like, really cares - about grammar rules. He's a social studies teacher, so this past summer, he had way more time on his hands than he was used to.

Yeah, I think he's probably a writer. He's probably staying up late and waking up early to write, brainstorming on his commute every day, and jotting down notes on the grocery list pad in between washing dishes and wiping the counter after dinner.

Photo credit: Matt Adams

I was an incognito writer for awhile. I didn't even tell my husband what I was trying to do (write/publish a novel) until five months in to my last project. (Of course, he knew.)

Why? I was embarrassed.  This isn't what I went to school for. I don't have an MFA. I'm not even an English teacher, or a stay-at-home mom with an English degree. I mean, my career ambitions when I graduated from college were lofty, and I went through years and years of graduate school to do the job I do now. Which is not writing books.

I thought I would be even more embarrassed if I failed, in the ten thousand ways there are to fail at this business - not finish the book, have everyone hate the book, query but get all form rejections, never get an agent, never publish (yes, I'm still working on those last three steps.)

I still am incognito, in a way. Yeah, I've got this website with my name as the URL. It's on my twitter profile that I write books.

But I still do try to play it down. When people I see face-to-face ask me about the book thing, I'm still saying things like, "It's no big deal," or "It's just a hobby," or, "Yeah, it's lots of fun," or, "It kept me from being bored when I was home with the kids."

I tell people in my everyday life that it's no big deal if I never get an agent, if I never publish.

But it is. A big deal, that is. And I never say, "It's a big dream of mine to publish a book. I have a lot of heart and hard work invested in it." I act like I'll be okay if it never happens. I act like a small part of me won't die.

The thing is? Incognito writers are everywhere. Just in the past few months, I've met not one, but FOUR other  rabbis who are working on novels. My dad wrote a novel and part of a sequel in the wee hours of the morning sitting up with my newborn sister - he was an RN and an officer in the US Air Force. One college student I know personally is outlining her memoir - and it's going to be hilarious.  I've heard of lawyers writing, doctors, t-shirt sellers, chefs.

So, agents, and fellow readers and writers - next time your taxi cab driver, or your dental hygienist, or your dry cleaner, or your florist, or your priest tries to tell you about their manuscript - don't discount them. Don't roll your eyes and think, "Here we go again."

Incognito writers are everywhere. And our stuff isn't half bad.

Are you, or were you, an incognito writer? Why or why not? Do you ever plan on changing your ways?

One Writer's Jew Year Resolutions

So, the Jewish New Year is here, y'all. Every year at the beginning of autumn, Jews get together and reflect on how they haven't behaved as well as they could have, or had the best outlook on things, and what changes they need to make.

It's not only about Jewish stuff, or religious stuff. In fact, that's not usually even the stuff that matters most. Thinking about that had me thinking about the past five weeks of my writing life, since I started querying.

While I think I have a pretty decent attitude most of the time, there have been moments when that I haven't been my best writer self. I won't go into details, because I'm sure those of you who have felt stuck or frustrated at any stage of your writing can imagine, or have been there yourself. (And my writing besties have seen some bad attitude-ing firsthand.)

Anyway. It's the New Year, and this one is going to be awesome. I'm hoping, by this time next year, I'll be one step closer to publication. Whatever that means. But I think the only way I'm going to get there is if I really focus to digging in for the long haul. So, here are the things I'm resolving to focus on as a writer at the beginning of this year:

Humility - No matter how good I think my stuff is, or how solid of a handle I think I have on things - I don't. There's always more to learn. Most of all, no one owes me anything. I have to learn to accept that, no matter how hard I work, I might never see my work in print. I am a goal-oriented person, so this is really tough for me. Daily I have to take time to remind myself that I'm doing this for love of writing, so so so much more than for anything else.

Perspective - This is a business, and rejection is nothing personal. And even though I have a better handle on things than lots of people, I'm still so far behind the pack of pros.

Patience -  I am a little fish in a huuuuge pond. Compared to so many thousands of other writers, I haven't been doing this for long at all. I need to be patient with myself, with my writing, with the agents I'm asking to consider it.

Determination - No matter how many glaring problems my CPs point out with my writing, or  how many rejections I get, or how much my wrists ache, or how many times I rewrite an opening, or how stubborn the writer's block, if I really, really want to see my work in print, I must accept that it will never happen if I give up.

Whew! Those are some big ones.

Anything you're hoping to improve about your writerly self in the near future? If you share, I will feel like less of a jerk. *bats eyes*

Finding the Magic

So, ever since that sinus infection tried to kill me (but the Z-Pac won, so awesomely I'm about to write it a love song!) I've been blocked.

I know. You think "writer's block" is a load of you-know-what. So do I. But it's easier than my slacker explanation of "Well, you see, I'm a pantser, and it seems that I get blocked right around 40,000 to 50,000 words, because that's exactly what happened when I was writing THE TRAVELERS..."

*YAWN* You guys don't care about that. Heck, I barely care about that. Just write already, right?

Anyway. Saturday was a beautiful day. I had two options. I could sit hunched in front of my netbook while my husband tried to keep my kids from destroying the house, or I could go apple picking with them.

It took me about five seconds to realize I'd really regret it if I didn't go. Something told me it would be good for my writing, too, although I couldn't for the life of me see how. I had my fancy camera with me like the mamarazzi I am......



....and then I got this shot.



Yep. That's my oldest, levitating an apple. Clearly, he has magical powers.

Alright. I know he doesn't.

But I'll tell you what does: The power of a picture to add a whole new sweet-yet-devastating subplot and important conflict twist to my WiP, ONE.

I'm going to describe that picture in ONE, except it'll be of a little girl. And it's going to make you gasp (I hope.) And it's going to totally freaking rule.

I guess I always kind of nodded my head at all the writing advice posts about "Go out and live your life!" but didn't really give them any credence. Now I do.

When and how has real life - or products of it - inspired you? Now I'm dying to hear about your experiences.

Survival Mode

I should have seen this coming.

Last Thursday, I started back at work part-time. It's the perfect situation, or at least as close to it as I could ever possibly get. Working an average of 6 hours a day, leaving me enough time to write for a couple hours every morning after I drop the kids off from school, and still pick them up at a not-the-last-minute hour.

Awesome! Exciting! Except. The kids started at preschool a couple of weeks back. Any of you who have been through this are already nodding your heads, knowing what I'm going to say next.

See, when children start preschool at a new facility, they inevitably come home covered in germs from eyelash to toenail. Different germs for each of them, since they're all in different classrooms. And as soon as they walk in the doorway home, the germs scuttle off their disgusting, muddy, snotty little bodies, and invade your house.



Then they infect you. And make your life a living hell.  The germ that picked me on Friday, and still hasn't left me alone, is a disgusting sinus cold. My throat's throbbing, I have a persistent low-grade fever, I'm dizzy, and I am blowing my nose so much it's chapped. A stomach virus picked David. The kids are sick too, and at least one of them keeps us up at all hours of the night. It's all we can do to get everyone dressed and pack lunches in the morning, and do the dinner-bathtime-and-bedtime rush at the end of the day. We're going on day 5 of sickness now and there's no way of telling when the germs will burn themselves out.

Between trying to keep myself and my work stuff kept up, with all these disgusting symptoms, my house and my general person is a disaster. You can imagine what ONE (the WiP) looks like. I think I've maybe gotten 1000 words down in the last two days, and those are pretty weak and possibly incoherent.

I know this stage of adjustment, both mental and physical, will pass. But for now, we're in survival mode.

Sweet readers, please regale me with tales of survival times you've gone through, and how you - and, obviously, your writing - have survived.