One Little Elephant

I'm better at keeping Lenten promises than New Year's Resolutions. My New Year's Resolutions tend to be big and idealistic. I'll vow to tackle a massive problem with precision and perfectionism. I'll maintain a Green-Beret-ishly grueling workout schedule, or write a Tolkien-length novel every three months, or NEVER, EVER eat anything yummy again. I always fail.

My Lenten resolutions are smaller, more focused, and more practical. I usually succeed.

A decade ago our family gave up TV for Lent (one small aspect of the larger problem of time-wasting inactivity). When Lent ended, evening TV returned. But daytime TV had been vanquished for good - a real and lasting improvement. For Lent 2010 we gave up TV again and when Lent ended our evening TV habit had so diminished that DH and I took the perfectly good TV out of our bedroom and donated it to charity. It hasn't been missed.

Lent works for me. But it's December and Lent is a long way off. I need change now. So a New Year's Resolution will have to do.

In the past I'd start my hunt for the perfect resolution by looking at the big picture: Get Healthy, Get Published, More Organized House, Stronger Finances, Spiritual Growth, Be More Social, Volunteer More, etc. Narrowing it down to one or two, I'd create" a plan for achieving this goal".
It was massive, complicated, and looked awesome on paper. It was DOOMED.

Perhaps it's time to take a lesson from Lent. Isn't it better to consistently succeed small, than always fail big?


Something that's helping me write today: Advent. Advent is a time of spiritual preparation for Christmas. And I'm trying to make it that. But when it comes to writing, I'm also using the example and inspiration of Advent preparation by doing small things each day to prepare my writing path for 2011. A smidgen at a time, I'm organizing my writing, my office, my systems, my schedules, my market lists, my submission lists, etc.

As promised, here is the information about the next FREE teleconference class:

Kevin J. Anderson and Wife Rebecca Moesta
December 14th, 9:00 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Topic: Collaborating on a Novel
Call 1-218-862-7200. When the system picks up, enter the code 245657
There will probably be a Q & A after the class.

Something that's helping me write today: this thought. Decide on the goal. Ackowledge the length and difficulty of the journey, then put those thoughts aside. Check the compass regularly. And just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

For 5 years I've wanted to attend the RWA National Conference. I've plotted, planned, and saved. I've bought tickets twice. I've never made it.

Something always comes up. The saved money goes to something more urgent or the conference date coincides with a big can't-miss family event.

But hope springs eternal, so this year I'm plotting and planning and saving to go to New York. I have a pair of fun roomies for the hotel stay and a little money (for now). But how will I get there?

Texas to New York in the 21st century. The answer is obvious, right?

Not so fast. You see, I HATE flying. I can fly. I do - if I can't figure out any other way to (reasonably) get somewhere. But if there's another way, any way, I'm interested.

So I've wasted two good hours today, while I could have been writing, arguing with myself about cars and planes and trains. My husband thinks this is highly amusing.

"Fly," he says.

And I give him all the reasons that wouldn't be good.

"Take the train," he says.

I recite all the pros and cons of training my way to New York.

"Perhaps I should drive," I say. "I could camp along the way like I did to Utah last year. See some of the country."

He grins. "Which country? Canada?"

He's right. I have no sense of direction. I'm famous for my "interesting detours". I once tried to drive from Stuttgart, Germany to Paris, France and ended up at the border of Lichtenstein (or was it Luxemburg?). The border guard was quite amused. But I made it to Paris - eventually. I make it almost anywhere I decide to go, just not always by the most direct route.

So will it be planes, trains, or "the scenic tour"? Not sure yet. But I'll let you know.

How do you get where you're going - in life and in writing?

Something that's helping me write today: a timer which lets me know, in the most annoying fashion, that I've wasted all the time allowed today and it's time to get to work.

Last night I listened to Dave Farland's FREE telephone conference class. Those who dialed in early got a fifteen minute bonus up front and those who stayed a little late (like me!) got to ask Dave a question. Very cool. As before, it was a full one hour class, not just a sample.

These free phone conference classes are really great opportunities. I put the class on speaker phone in my office and do paperwork while I listen. At the end of the hour I have learned something new about writing and (huge bonus) I have a clear inbox. How cool is that?

One of the ways these phone conferences are superior to simply watching a video is that they're in real time. That creates a sense of urgency. It's so easy to put off watching that video class because you know you can do it anytime. And anytime turns into never. With these phone conference classes you can't do it anytime. It's now or no.

So I'm looking forward to December 14th when bestselling Sci-Fi Writer Kevin Anderson will be speaking again (free!). I don't know the topic yet, but I suspect it will be good. I learned so much from his last class. In fact, though I'm still working on implementing the tips he gave in that class, I've already seen a real rise in my productivity from following just a few of his simple tips on being a writer.

Anyway, as soon as I get the phone number and access code for Anderson's free telephone conference class, I'll post it. So stay tuned.

Something that's helping me write today: Setting up an excel sheet that lists all my works by type and current status AND allows me to access those works with a single click. This is making it sooooo eeeeasy to get to work each morning. It eleminates confusion and allows me to switch between projects quickly when I get bogged or bored with one. Love it.

Last weekend I went on a retreat that really got my juices flowing again. It was the perfect combination of time to socialize with my fellow writers (amazingly intellegent, witty, and wise folks) and time to work in a visually soothing and blessedly uninterrupted environment.

I came home Sunday evening from the retreat ready to work. And work I have! But by the following Saturday I noticed that I wasn't able to concentrate anymore. Soooo... this weekend I'm taking another kind of retreat - a retreat from writing.

Perhaps I'll putter around and get some housework done, go for a walk, browse the shops, lure my husband out to dinner and a movie, soak in the tub. Maybe I'll make a much needed trip to the grocery store. But no worries. i'll be back at the keyboard Monday. Because I just can't help myself.

Do you ever find you've temporarily written yourself out? What do you do to recreate yourself while you give the muse a rest?

Something that's helping me write today: taking a day off from writing.

Here is a video of Best-seller Kevin J. Anderson sharing some of his 'Eleven Tips" for writers. Definitely worth a watch.

Want to hear the rest? Then mark your calendars because Anderson will be speaking live on 11-10-10. Below, copied and added with permission, is a blurb from Dave Farland's newsletter for those would'd like to hear Kevin J. Anderson:

"With over 100 books published, Kevin J. Anderson is well-known as a prolific writer. After talking with his fellow writers over the years, he has compiled a list of techniques to increase writing productivity. He’ll share these “Eleven Tips” on a special conference call, discuss his writing process, and also take questions on November 10th at 9:00 PM, Eastern Standard Time. Call 1-218-862-7200. When the system picks up, enter the code 245657."

Additional instructions on how to use the phone system are at Dave Farland's Writer's Groups. Joining the forum is free.

Something that's helping me write today: Hope.

I'm away at my son's College Family Weekend, but in case you dropped by here's a link to one of the places I go whenever I need a lift: 7 Things I've Learned So Far

Something that's helping me write today: This quote from writer Matt Myklusch "Writing isn’t just typing. It goes on all day...Make sure that part of your brain is always on."

I'm away taking care of a sick family member. Back soon.

In celebration of my friends Amy Carson-Strnad and Wendy Marcus First Sales, each is contracting for her own two book deal with Mills and Boon, I'd like to give them both a hand. Or actually four. So here goes...

Click to start the Applause.

Massive congrats! You go girls!

Something that's helping me write today: Joy for Amy and Wendy!

"Really?"

"Yes."

"No, really?"

*blush* "Yes."

"A thousand dollars in August?"

"One thousand and eight. For a family of five. And we're not talking 4-star, more like drive-thru. So we decided to stop eating out. Declared a moratorium on it. No more eating out in September. Not one dime's worth. That's what we said."

"And?"

"Four hundred and two dollars in September."

"Four hundred. How do you know? Do you write it all down?

"I track it electronically."

"Wow. One thousand in August. Four hundred in September. Better. But still, four hundred dollars?"

"I know, I know. A waste. And we need that money for other things. Gotta stop."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Did it. Declared a moratorium on eating out in October."

"Another moratorium? You do know what moratorium means, right?"

"Yep. No eating out this month. None. Not one nickle's worth. That's what we decided."

"Hmmm. Will it work this time?"

"Sure. Probably. Eventually."

"Really?"

*nod*

"No, REALLY?"

"Well, we've only spent $9.00 so far."

"So far? It's October 1st."


Something that's helping me write today: This thought: Sometimes Success is incremental.

I heard about a writing contest - flash fiction with a prescribed opening line. The prize wasn't much, but for some reason I got fired up about it. I rushed home and spent hours writing a flash fiction tale.

Then I went to the website and read past winners. I know. I should have done that before I wrote the story, but like I said I was fired up. Having read the past winners, I felt pretty good about my chances.

The next day I showed the story to my husband who called it "adequately good" which means "yawn". So I spent TWO DAYS improving it. I layered in action, romance, personification, sensory elements, etc. I struggled to make each and every word count. My daughter read the improved version and was more encouraging than my husband had been.

Feeling good about my story, today I took the time to read some of the previous finalists (before I'd read only the winners). That's when I realized I'd been wasting my time.

You see, the reason I'd believed I could compete in this contest was that the previous winning entries were not works of extraordinary writing. But after reading many of the finalists from previous contests I was stunned. The difference in the quality of prose, plots, and characters between the winning entries and the finalists was profound, with the finalists' work being far superior to the winners' work. And honestly far, far superior to mine.

So what did the winners have in common? Their stories dealt with controversial issues. That's when I realized the contest, though billed as a writing contest, wasn't wholly about writing. It was also about promoting the sponsor's ideologies.

So lesson learned: I waste my time and energy when I fail to do my homework.

Something that's helping me write today: a quote. "Opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work." - Thomas Edison

But apparently it offends others so the original post for this title has been removed while I consider whether it is more important to be honest or "nice".

Something that is helping me write today: (or perhaps keeping me from writing?) How honest should I be in my work? And what responsibility do I have to others if my 'truth' makes them uncomfortable?

I worked a temporary job this summer: long hours, good money, sent the oldest off to college without going into debt (Yay!). But the job left little time to write, keep house, or be the doting wife and mother my family is accustomed to. Consequently, the entire family was adamant that they wanted no permanent job in my future.

Cool by me!

So following some time spent digging out of the mess caused by the housekeeper/errand-runner/life-coach/woman-of-all-jobs being busy elsewhere, I'm finally back to writing. After being away from it a while, writing again feels a bit wobbly but still just as delicious.

But it's not honey unless it attracts flies...

I keep running into people who claim to heartily support my choice to stay home to cook and clean and write, but then shoot tiny guilt-inducing arrows at me for doing so.

Is it because in their minds writing isn't real work, that the words "writer" and "housewife" are really secret code for "woman on perpetual holiday"?

Is it because they see my joy and wish they felt that way about how they spend their days? Very possibly. But they chose their own path, so why begrudge me mine?

Is trying to understand their motivations even worthwhile? Regardless of the whys of their behavior, beyond asking them to stop loading their bows, I have no control over the arrows they choose to loose. What I do have control over is my vulnerability to those tiny guilt-dipped arrows. In the end, their poisoned barbs can only pierce what's already been weakened by my own insecurities. So I suppose I'll simply work on me.

Something that's helping me write today: This absolutely gorgeous September day and the knowledge that, generally, even if I had the power to alleviate another's unhappiness by giving up my own happiness, doing so wouldn't be healthy for either of us.

I am a Dr. Pepper addict. So today is a bad day for me. You see as I sat enjoying a Dr. Pepper while watching the evening news I saw something on the screen which means I won't be buying my beloved Pepper for a long while to come - if ever again.

The Dr. Pepper Company is making record profits. Yet they are soooo greedy that they are cutting the wages and benefits of the very folks who produce their products. This impacts not only the families of the workers who lose a portion of their income, it affects the entire economy of the community to which they belong.

If the Dr. Pepper worker can no longer afford to take his family to a Friday night ball game and buy his kid a hotdog, the guys vending the hotdogs, cleaning the stands, taking the tickets, and manicuring the field earn less. SOOOOO when those vendors/cleaners/ticket-takers/groundskeepers go to church on Sunday their tithes are less, their Sunday suppers are more frugal, and they may be driving home on threadbare tires. That means the town's mechanics, grocers, and pastors all have less as well. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people suffer the consequences of the Dr. Pepper execs' greed. And I suspect those heartless execs congratulate themselves on causing all this pain by giving themselves fat bonuses from their enormous profits.

It makes me SICK!

So here's to you, Dr. Pepper Company. Thanks for curing me of my Dr. Pepper addiction. Not one more dime will I knowingly spend on your product until your execs grow a conscience.

So what does this have to do with writing? I don't know. Anyone care to stretch for some sort of meaning?

Something that's helping me write today: The boiling of my blood caused by a monumental sense of betrayal that the company I have spent so many dollars, days, and calories on has turned out to be a villain of the highest order.

My previous temp job called me back to work a 2-3 week contract. So I'm putting in long hours to tuck away a little back-to-high-school-and-college stash for the kids.

But if you dropped by I didn't want to send you away empty-handed. Here is a must-read article by Stephen Ransom, PHD. His predictions about the future of Publishing's Big Six and what it will mean for writers and why are definitely food for thought. Read it all. He doesn't get to the more interesting points until several pages in.

http://www.scribd.com/doc/17243194/RansomStephens-FutureOfPublishing

So what do you think? Is he right or wrong?

Something that's helping me write today: A notepad and pen. Even when I don't have time to sit and write for long stretches I can still plot storylines in my head and jot them down during odd free moments.

“You’re going to regret planting all those trees.”

She stands before the floor to ceiling windows that march across the back of my house, looking past the stretch of lawn to the dense stand of greenery beyond. It’s a ritual, this Condemning of the Trees, repeated each time she visits. I say nothing, forever bewildered at her inability to savor the dignified majesty of the oak, the colorful flirtatiousness of the crepe myrtle, the gentle serenity of the redbud, and the mysterious promise of wondrous autumn color secreted away in the green leaves of the maple and elm.

Blue jays and cardinals dart between the birdfeeder and birdbath. Their smaller less flashy cousins flit among the trees, alert for a chance to dive in for a bath or a meal when the more aggressive fellows are distracted.

She scowls at the trees, the birds that ornament them, and the beagles that loll in lazy comfort beneath their shade. “If one of those trees falls it’ll damage the house. Then you’ll be sorry.”

Again I say nothing, thinking of the mighty twin oaks felled by a spring storm last year. They missed the house, but as my husband said as we stood in the yard together grieving them, he could have fixed the house. Eighty year old trees are harder to replace.

“Trees are trouble,” she states firmly, then wanders away from the window. I sigh, relieved that the ritual of the Condemning of the Trees is nearly over.

She’d once had trees in her own yard, some even larger than my twin oaks. But after her husband died she’d removed them, one after another, glowing with relief as each was cut down, smiling with satisfaction as its dissected trunk was hauled away, its glorious branches fed to a shredder. I remained silent. Her yard is none of my business. But her elation at the sterile expanse of grass remaining baffled me.

When the trees were no more she removed the bushes and flowers as well, razing the flower beds.

Time passed and she began to complain about her neighbors' trees, fretting over their very existence, annoyed that each autumn her large fenced yard, now unprotected by a tree canopy, became a collecting basin for the leaves falling and blowing from the suburban forest beyond her fence. The leaves blanketed the grass like multi-colored snow, inches deep in some places. They piled in yellow and orange drifts against her shed. It was the one time of year her yard looked pretty. To me.

“Trees,” she says reproachfully as she settles on my couch, her back firmly to the glorious display beyond the window.

I take a seat facing the birds and beagles and beauty. And we talk about subjects on which we can agree.

So what does this little tale have to do with writing? Each person has their own version of what is pleasing, beautiful, and nurturing to them. Create for yourself, from yourself, what is pleasing to you. Share it with those who appreciate it. Don’t be disconcerted by those who do not.

Something that’s helping me write today: the coo of mourning doves.

The dress was ink-black perfection. The swingy skirt flirted with dancer’s legs sculpted by dashing heels. The cinched cummerbund style nipped in a waist tiny enough to turn a Victorian green with envy and the rosette bodice was at once sassy-chic and mother-pleasingly modest. The look was sophisticated elegance; modern but with echoes of 1940's Hollywood royalty that harkened back to a time before shocking fans had become more important to movie stars than enchanting them.

"This is the one," she announced, turning to and fro before the dressing room mirror. The skirt swirled it's enthusiastic agreement.

I reached out and snagged the tag. Then frowned at the price. Fifty percent off? Why? It was new stock. Just in. I made her stand still while I hunted over the fabric. There. Two inches of seam had come undone at the base of the spine. I smiled. A simple fix, one the store apparently didn't think worth their time since they'd discounted the dress so radically, but a boon for my bank account. We left the store jubilant. She had the dress. I still had some money.

Her cousin's wedding was in two weeks. The seam would have to be mended before then. I could easily do it myself, but I'd wanted to find a good tailor for other more complicated projects for some time and a darling little seamstress shop had opened nearby. I'd been passing it for weeks, admiring the custom work in the eye-candy window displays. Finally I had an excuse to go inside.

The bells on the door jingled as I entered the shop and I was delighted to find the interior décor fulfilled the promise of the window display. On one side stood a neat as a pin counter with a cash register. On the other side a set of wide stairs led up to a broad carpeted stage that was mirrored on three sides. It was a set, grandly designed to make one feel like a VIP while allowing the tailor to mark a hemline or pant length without squatting. A tiny smiling woman of indeterminate age came out of a hall that led to the back of the store where glimpses of tables, machines, and a colorful riot of fabric and thread spools could be seem.

She took the dress, charged me $9 (cash only), and said to pick it up in a week. A week? For a simple two inch seam repair on a black dress? Business must be good. That night I lay in bed mentally going over items I wanted sewn, wondering which to do first.

The following week I presented my ticket to the smiling woman and picked up the dress. I was rushing to another appointment so it wasn’t until I returned home several hours later that I took the time to examine the work she’d done.

The seam had been mended, but not with black thread that matched the dress. Instead a light blue thread had been used and the job could have been described, generously, as amateurish. The seam was puckered and crooked. So I got out my machine and some black thread and fixed it myself. And I mentally withdrew all those jobs I’d imagined taking to that so-charming little shop.

So what does this tale have to do with writing?

As a reader I’ve occasionally been lured to buy a book by gorgeous cover art and an intriguing blurb only to be disappointed by the craft of the writer once I got it home. I make note of those writers’ names so I can avoid them – and disappointment – in the future.

As a writer I need to be careful before I send a story out that it’s of a quality that won’t disappoint, because the reader may not give me a second chance.

Taking a few extra moments to load her machine with the proper color thread and be sure her work was straight and true would have won that seamstress my return business. Taking the time to be sure my work is the best it can be I hope will encourage readers to want more of it.



Something that’s helping me write today: this advice from entrepreneur Damon Schechter, “Build the road, so you don’t get stuck.” I believe learning my craft thoroughly and building routines/processes/disciplines into my writing that increase the likelihood of producing consistent quality are keys to success.

Necessity is the mother of invention or so the saying goes. For me it seems to be the cattle prod of progress.

I've taken a temp job in the hope of stashing enough cash to attend the RWA National Conference in 2011. My twenty-something boss is a good egg, but like most people of her generation she can text whole paragraphs at thumb-blistering speed. So naturally texting is her preferred mode of communication with me. Problem is, I'm expected to answer via return text, and before taking this assignment I'd never texted before in my life.

Close your jaw. Yes, I am aware this is 2010 and EVERYONE texts. And yes, I have needed to text messages on several occasions in the past: to communicate with a child who was in a movie theater and couldn't talk on her phone, to send a friend a requested phone number or email address to her phone, etc. But I'd never actually sent any of those texts myself. I didn't know how. So I'd call my husband and ask him to text for me. Pathetic, huh?

Well, it became clear quickly with this new job that using my husband as my text secretary just wasn't going to work. The volume of texting and the speed at which my boss was expecting an answer made that impractical. So in fits and starts, with laughable misspellings and texts sent to wrong recipients, and much strained peering with middle-aged eyes at keys sized for Lilliputian fingers, I've learned to text. I'm not yet quick, but I'm fast getting comfortable, and confident.

And that has me reflecting on something to do with my writing life.


For a long, long time I've put off learning how to do things I know will help me become a better writer and businesswoman. Things like learning to build and maintain my own website and create detailed synopsis-style outlines both agents and best-selling writers have told me are crucial to selling my work. Is it possible that, like texting, neither of these things is the monster I've imagined? Could it be that like texting, once I apply myself, I might find the going less painful than I've supposed?

I think I should find out.

Something that's helping me write today: this quote by John M. Richardson, Jr. "When it comes to the future, there are three kinds of people: those who let it happen, those who make it happen, and those who wonder what happened." I'd add there's possibly a fourth sort: those who finally get off the sidelines and start participating in what is happening.

Way too much going on this week so I'll have to pass on blogging today, but I highly recommend you stop by Romulus Crowe's site. He has an interesting scientific measure of the soul up for discussion.

http://romuluscrowe.blogspot.com/



Something that's helping me write today: a temporary (4-8 weeks) job that promises to put enough money in the bank so that I can attend the RWA conference in New York in 2011. Yay!

I woke at 8:15. Not good for a Monday. I'd stayed up playing free cell and listening to talking heads until 2 a.m. Bad choice for a mom who needs to orchestrate the morning exodus of three teens. But there are lessons to be learned every day if you're paying attention. Here's what I learned between 8:15 and 9:15 today:

8:20 a.m. Clothing hung in the laundry room overnight is only half dry by morning. A successful and timely drying process requires fresh, moving air.

Writing Lesson: Successful novel writing requires fresh perspectives and new experiences. Too much time spent sitting in a small room staring at a screen awaiting inspiration can be counterproductive.

8:25 a.m. Number One Son calmly announces he can no longer wait for Sister (whose alarm failed to go off). He must leave for school without her or be late. He drives off in his truck. Number Two Son, with whom she usually rides, had regretfully given up waiting ten minutes earlier and left in his truck. Despite the fact I must now rush to get dressed and take her myself, my heart surges with pride in my boys. They weren't angry or upset with their Sister. Each had generously waited for her as long as possible without jeopardizing his own schedule. But both realize that, ultimately, getting Sister to school isn't their responsibility. It's mine. They've grown into generous young men, but young men with reasonable boundaries.

Writing Lesson: In writing, as in all of life, I need reasonable boundaries. I need to be responsible for what I am responsible for, as generous as possible with others without compromising my own success, and free to move on in life without guilt or anger when things don't happen as expected.

8:30 a.m. DH's car, which is normally safely in the garage, is blocking mine. It's his one day off this week and he's snoozing-in. I could get his keys and move his car or even drive my daughter to school in it. He wouldn't care. But I would. I don't drive my husband's muscle car. Not out of fear (I come from a long line of car-folk; if it's got an engine I can drive it), but out of respect.

Instead I do an impressive (if I do say so myself) series of tiny forward/reverse maneuvers and free my car from imprisonment.

Writing Lesson: Don't be afraid to get your characters into really tight situations. Have confidence in your ability to get them out again.

8:40 a.m. My daughter comes flying down the stairs. Her clothes are perfect. Her unwashed hair is barrett-ed up in fabulous funky fashion. For someone who didn't even have time to shower, she looks like she's ready for an interview at Teen Vogue. Bad hair day dodged.

Writing Lesson: Prepare to be creative. Use your 'easy days' to stock your closet, hair pins drawer, writing ideas file, etc. with things that will allow you to soar over the hurdles the 'difficult days' throw in your path. Don't let anything stop you from being the best you can be.

8:47 a.m. I drop her off at the high school with minutes to spare. I pull out of the drop-off arc and drive a block on the main road in front of the school. I stop behind another car just short of the entrance to the school's student parking lot. We drivers on the main road have the right of way, but the tardy bell will ring in mere minutes and there is a line of about forty cars in the turn lane trying to get into the student parking lot. If they're going to beat the bell they need to get into that parking lot now. The mother in front of me is purposefully blocking the right of way traffic. Her actions are not unusual. If she hadn't done it, another parent would have. No one honks. We wait patiently. One after the other all forty cars whip into the parking lot.

Writing lesson: Being part of a community where people look after each other is a blessing. Remember sometimes even if you're entitled, another's need is greater. Be generous. Help others succeed.

8:55 a.m. An ambulance siren is blaring. I see its lights flashing in the distance. I pull off to the side along with all the other drivers and we wait while the ambulance and the fire engine following it rush by.

Writing Lesson: There are priorities in life. Keep yours straight. If you want your characters to be likeable or at least believable, keep theirs straight as well, or show good reason why they aren't.

9:00 a.m. I keep a basket near the front door. I toss errand items into it throughout the day: checks to deposit, letters to mail, shirts for the cleaners, library books, printer cartridges needing refill, prescriptions to fill, items my kids friends leave at my house that need to be returned to theirs, store returns, special shopping lists for the hardware store/plant nursery/beauty supply/office supply/bookstore, etc. I didn't plan to run errands this morning, but by force of habit I grabbed the basket on the way out. So I run a few errands.

Writing lesson: Build simple systems into your daily life that buy you the time and peace of mind to write.

9:15 a.m. I pull into the driveway at home with a lighter errand basket and take-out breakfasts. I'm glad I brought two. DH is up. His car is safely back in the garage and he has his lawn work clothes on. We eat together on the front porch.

Writing Lesson: Enjoy the simple pleasures in life - like breakfast on the porch with a middle-aged cutie wearing a torn t-shirt and an Indiana Jones hat. Learn to love the buzzy music of the hedge trimmer while you write.

Something that's helping me write today: An empty inbox and a well-organized file drawer. All courtesy of having my daughter spend an hour with me in my office this weekend playing file clerk and general office assistant. She's a gem.

I stalk men at the grocery store. At first this disturbed my husband, but now he encourages me.

My prey can be any of several species: college-age frat-boy, thirty-something tail-gater, middle-aged party-host. He looks different each time, but I recognize him on sight. He enters the store alone and stops short, looking momentarily dazed, like a deer in headlights. Then he spots the aisle signs and beelines for the beer and deli sections. He fills his cart with enough brew to drown a rugby team and heaps platters of finger foods on top.

I creep along behind him with my loaded cart. Watching. Waiting.

Finally he rolls into a checkout lane and I dart in behind him. Should a checker from an empty lane try to wave me over with a friendly "I can help you over here, ma'am," I frown at her and shake my head. I bide my time pretending to leaf through a recipe mag.

As his last case of beer is scanned, I lean in and smile my best harmless-housewife smile. "Do you collect the stamps?" I ask.

He looks confused.

"For the dishes?" I say.

The grocery checker is watching intently, her hand poised above the section of her cash drawer where the stamps reside.

"Dishes?" His head comes up as if sensing danger. He looks about the store. The grocery checker and I both stare at him with polite expectation. "Uh, no, I guess not," he says.

"Well, then," I say sweetly, "may I have yours?"

"Umm, sure, I guess so."

The grocery clerk hands him a stack of stamps worth a small fortune. He passes them, gallantly, to me. I thank him and he wheels off with his game-day beer and snacks.

The grocery clerk grins and lifts an eyebrow at me. "That's how it's done," she says, and starts ringing up my cart.

Just as hunters of old thanked the bison for the gift of its meat, I thank those generous beer-run guys. Their stamps, which might otherwise have landed in the trash with the empty beer cans, allow my family to dine on expensive famous-brand china. They've also helped me gift happy brides with hundreds of dollars worth of wedding registry cookware. All without it costing me a single dime.

So what does stalking beer-run guys at the grocery store have to do with writing? I've shared in previous posts about the financial cost of being a writer. Anything I can do to save money in my daily life softens the financial impact on my family of getting started as a writer.

What are some of your favorite money-savers?



Something that's helping me write today: A decision I made this weekend while gazing out at the vast expanse of ocean off Pelican Island. Moments in time can seem like drops of water in a vast ocean: endless, inexhaustible. Perhaps in eternity they are. But my lifetime here on earth is finite. I need to use my time in a wise and balanced way if I wish to achieve all my goals, writing and otherwise. To that end, instead of posting to this blog twice a week, I'll be rebalancing my writing time by posting only once a week on Sunday evening. We'll see how that goes.

I'm at the beach in Galveston, but in case you dropped by...

A Knight of Writing in white shorts, armed with confidence and a can of beer.

Something that's helping me write today: Letting the sea breeze blow the cobwebs from my mind.

Cost of being a Writer: Officially the total I invested for 2009 in this writing business was $2569. But I'm guessing it was really considerably more than that. Our accountant will only use the amount I can prove with receipts (which was $2569). I messed up by failing to keep receipts for some things and so wasn't allowed to deduct them, so my writing business costs for 2009 were really more than $2569.

Note: My accountant wanted proof I'm not just a writing hobbyist. I was able to produce emails from a publisher showing strong interest in my work. Though the publisher eventually passed, a close miss satisfied the accountant.

Too Much of a Good Thing: I still adore him, but he's still underfoot and will be for at least another week because he was misdiagnosed initially. He's got the proper meds now and is on the mend. No permanent damage. I'm soooo grateful for that. All in all, it's been a growing experieince for me. I'm attempting to learn to write with constant distractions. I won't say I've been tremendously successful, but I'm not failing completely either. So all's good for now.

Just a Dream: Remission!!!! Yay!!! I'm so happy for her. And she tells me she's taken two (TWO!) firm steps toward achieving her dream. How cool is that?

Something that's helping me write today: A great big Dr. Pepper. Yes, I know. But I can't help it. I'm a Dr. Pepper addict.

A couple of salutes. One to Easter and one to two phenomenal talents.


Something that's helping me write today: Fred Astaire and Judy Garland. They are proof that two very ordinary-looking people can be blessed extraordinary talent. And when talent like that is combined with a strong work ethic they bless the rest of us with it as well.

Lent ends today. Time to take inventory (and fess up). Here's how it went:

Eschewing TV

This was difficult at first, but grew progressively easier. By week three I'd forgotten about TV as better things filled the void. I regret the evenings wasted on that silly box in the past, but since I don't feel even a wisp of anticipation that I'll soon be free to watch it again, I'm hopeful Lent has triumphed over this vice.

Surrendering the Dr. Pepper

This was hard, hard, hard from the beginning. Did it get easier? NO!!!! But I stood wobbly-kneed against temptation. Lent ends today and I wish I could say it conquered this vice, but the fact that my insides are wriggling with puppyish joy at the thought of a Dr. Pepper tells me it's not so. Still, there was value in this Lenten abstinence because it made me acknowledge my human weakness and my need for God's strength.

Relinquishing daytime web surfing and email checking

This was at once a great failure and a tremendous success. Failure because I broke this Lenten promise on repeated occasions.

Sometimes I broke it for valid reasons like finding the one pharmacy in town that could fill hubby's prescription when he was very ill or turning in an application for a large scholarship my son only learned he was eligible for on the last day he could apply(he got it!).

Sometimes I broke it when habit intersected with carelessness. If I didn't throw the internet cord over the curtain rod there was a good chance that when I took a break from writing I'd access the internet simply from habit. I'd be surfing before I realized it. This taught me that changing bad habits requires more than good intentions. It also requires altering my environment.

And finally, sometimes I failed to keep this Lenten promise out of simple sinfulness.

Yet despite those failures, I also had tremendous success. I realized the internet is not nearly as entertaining as reading a good book on my shady front porch. It's not nearly as satisfying as snuggling with my husband or laughing with my teens. It's not nearly as gratifying as getting a scene written or the laundry done. When day passed into evening and I could fetch that cord down off the curtain rod, I found myself tending to get on the web, get whatever I needed done, and get off again. Living life became more attractive than surfing through it. I call that success.

So that's the Lenten wrap up. But what does it have to do with writing? Disposing of the vices that keep me bound mentally, physically, socially, or spiritually sets me free to write better and to live better. I only addressed three of that original list of fifteen, but today life is better (in at least three ways) because I did.


Something that's helping me write today: This question which I taped on the wall beside my desk many years ago and still read several times a day. What have you done in the past hour to improve/enrich your life or the lives of others?

I enjoy watching over-the-top kick-butt heroines like Lara Croft Tomb Raider or Xena Warrior Princess on screen. So you'd think I'd also enjoy reading novels with similar female characters. But maybe not.

At a recent writers' conference I was given a goodie bag with nearly 100 postcards, bookmarks, and other 'favors' advertising novels with female protags. As I read through them, sorting the ones that interested me from those that didn't, I discovered something about myself. If the card blurb described a heroine who was a gritty, kick-butt, smart-alecky, or take-no-prisoners type then that card ended up in my 'not interested' pile.

While I think pseudo-super-hero-tough-gal types are great fun in the movies, in novels I prefer my heroines strong, yet feminine. I'm certainly not interested in novels about weakling damsels in distress. But I do tend to favor heroines who are resourceful-real-people types, rather than estrogen-macho.

So why the difference? Why do I enjoy pseudo-super-heroines on the screen, but not on the page? I suspect it's because when I watch a character on screen I feel I'm watching her story from the outside. But when I read a character on the page I feel I'm experiencing her story from the inside. Experiencing her story from the inside means I have to stand at least partially in the character and perhaps I'm not a kick-butt kind of a gal.

Unless, of course, I have to be.

What about you? Do your tastes in movies and novels always run parallel?

Something that's helping me write today: A conversation with fellow writer Jen Fitzgerald this past weekend which has me thinking about the difference between the deep joy of the art of writing and the mere practical benefits of publishing.

I adore the man. He's been my husband and best friend for 20+ years. When I'm with him I laugh and smile. He makes me feel good about myself and my life.

But I want him to GO BACK TO WORK!

Hubby and the kids were off ten days for spring break vacation. Good fun. But when the door closed behind them as they returned to work and school, I admit I actually kissed the door panel before trotting gleefully into my office to write. I sat down in the cozy quiet and slid into my other-world. Delicious.

But not for long.

Hubby was at work only a few hours before he returned home sick. Very sick. Multiple doctor's visits, lots of meds, and several days later he is finally on the mend. But it's been two weeks (TWO WEEKS!) since I've gotten any real writing done. I'm starting to feel cranky.

To all you lucky sorts who can write with toddlers tugging your skirts, teens asking for car keys/cash/consoling, and husbands munching corn flakes in your ear while looking over your shoulder: I tip my keyboard to you.

I can bring that sort of concentration to almost any other endeavor: reading, tv viewing, conversations, algebra, anything. Except writing. At this point in my development as a writer I need to give my full attention to the process.

Constant interruptions are derailing. And anticipation of interruption is in itself an interruption.

So I'm spending my time doing things I can do between interruptions: research, broad plotting and outlining, character development, writing snippets of dialogue, reading, laundry. Four more days to a quiet house.

What about you? Can you work amid chaos or do you need quiet?

Something that's helping me write today: The fact that I would trade every word I've written or will ever write for this wonderful life I share with the people I love. And the comfort of knowing that because they love me too, I'll never need to.

I'm attending a writers' conference so I'm passing the buck and sending you to another blog.

The topic? Electronic queries.

Paper queries are going the way of the dinosaur as more and more agents and editors go electronic-only. Here then, is a short, clear explanation of how to format a query in the new paperless age from agent Nathan Bradford.

Something that's helping me write today: Two requests for partials. Woo-hoo!

The kids are out of school. Hubby is on vacation. And so am I. But in case you dropped by, here's something I found interesting and I thought you might as well.

Fonts

Who knew there were font experts at publishing houses anguishing over the shape of the letter g or carefully considering matching font to genre? Makes me feel fuzzy-warm to imagine my work might one day be fussed over like that.

Something that's helping me write today? Basic pen and paper. Because with those I can work even in a tent in the wilderness. Also the fact that if you run to the top of the bluff and stand in just the right spot you can get bars. Woohoo! But...sshhh...don't tell my hubby. I'm supposed to be on vacation.

Below is a favorite lunch. Cheddar, turkey, and guacamole on toast with a side of nuts and fresh berries. The calorie count:

150 cal. - 2 slices of toast

25 cal. - 2 slices lean turkey

100 cal. - pouch Wholly Guacamole

100 cal. - raw nuts and fresh berries

200 cal. - 2 slices cheddar

575 calories total


Now, let’s pretend I eat this same lunch 5 days a week and I want to drop a few pounds (which I do). Assuming I keep the rest of my diet static, I can lose 7+ pounds this year by simply changing one component of this meal and I won’t even notice the difference. How?

Remove a single slice of cheddar and
this.........................................................becomes this.


By breaking a half slice of cheddar into puzzle-type sections, as shown here, I can still adequately cover the toast.

There’s still cheddary goodness in every bite, but I’ve trimmed away 100 calories per meal.

100 cal x 5 days x 52 weeks = 26,000 calories or approx. 7.5 pounds per year.

Quite a difference, right?

But what does this have to do with writing novels?

I’m coming to believe that tiny, almost unnoticeable changes in my day, implemented consistently over long periods of time, are what will eventually transform a housewife into a published novelist.

So I keep eating that elephant one bite at a time.


Something that’s helping me write today: The example of the confident initiative shown by my handsome, but quiet future-engineer son. When he needed a date to a fancy dress ball, he walked right up to the prettiest, most vivacious girl he knew and asked her out - despite the fact he felt there was a good chance she'd turn him down.

She said, “Yes!”

I wonder if she could teach that word to some agents and editors for me.

She calls to share good news. I rejoice with her. Once the celebration dies down, she begins to talk about the rest of her day. Eventually she runs down and I tell her of a small triumph of my own.

Does she rejoice with me? Nope. She’s a Crusher.

I usually know better than to share my ideas or happy news with a Crusher. But today, lulled by the celebratory tone of the conversation, I slipped. And as a Crusher is prone to do, she tells me I'm doomed to have something go horribly wrong. Rest assured, she says, as if weaving a curse, something bad will happen soon.

We all need a Cheerleader type in our lives. We also need a Devil’s Advocate. When I’m trying to make a decision about what path to choose, I often meet with a person I know is a Cheerleader. I can be assured that they will greet my idea with enthusiasm and point out all its positive aspects. I also meet with a Devil’s Advocate - a person I know will curb enthusiasm and explore the idea’s potential negative aspects. But unlike a Crusher, a Devil’s Advocate will do so in a fair, considered way and leave me thoughtful rather than discouraged. And in the case of happy news, a Devil's Advocate will join the Cheerleader in rejoicing for me.

Both the Cheerleader and the Devil’s Advocate are valuable people to have in my life. They help me navigate the best route from one point in life to another with both enthusiasm and caution. Neither are Crushers.

I try to avoid Crushers. But most of us interact with them at some point in our lives because of accidents of birth/marriage/employment or simply because they have other redeeming qualities we value. So what do I do when I slip up and foolishly make myself the target of a Crusher's prophesy of doom by sharing new ideas, triumphs, hopes, and dreams? I try to change the subject. Fast. Then I give myself a mental pep talk, telling myself that I don’t anticipate any problems, but if problems arise I’ll deal with them then. Worrying in advance is a waste of time and energy.

I hope you have no Crushers in your life, but if you do, how do you deal with them?


Something that’s helping me write today: A pretty walk in the woods with two jolly beagles, an activity that's guaranteed to blow Crusher dust from the corners of my mind.

I know a woman who has a dream.

Each time we speak she tells me about her dream. Then she says she just needs to get her house clean and organized before she can begin.

She lives alone (not even a pet) and is financially independent, so she doesn’t work. And for the twenty years I've known her, she’s been trying to get that house clean and organized so she can begin to work toward her dream. In that same twenty years I've watched her do many positive things: organize numerous successful fund raisers for non-profits, spent endless hours helping people who were down on their luck, cheerfully pay uncountable visits to the sick, elderly, lonely and troubled. She's been a good friend to many and a source of inspiration to many, many more. Hers hasn’t been a wasted life. But she's never pursued her dream.

She’s desperately ill now. Whether she'll survive or not is up in the air. I think her life has been a good and useful one, but when I spoke with her a few days ago she once again shared her dream with me and her regret that she never reached out for it. Then she paused, smiled, and told me she was going to try for her dream despite her illness. But first she needed to get her house cleaned and organized.



Something that's helping me write today: The joy and relief that comes from being a FlyBaby and the memory of this sentiment from my friend Joan, "I'm guessing when I reach those pearly gates Saint Peter isn't going to care how clean my house was, but he may be impressed with the fact I always kept the bird feeder in my backyard full."

I'm a bit under the weather today, but in case you stopped by I didn't want to send you away empty-handed. So here's a little pick-me-up Wendy Marcus over at Must Have Romance directed me to not long ago. Thanks Wendy!

writeattitude

Something that's helping me write today: Hope. And aspirin.

This morning another rejection arrived in my email. Form letter. I wanted a Dr. Pepper so badly I could have screamed.

But learning to handle rejection is part of this process of transformation from housewife to novelist. So I sat down and calmly helped my son fill out his class requests for next fall, then went into the bathroom and was sick. Yep. I'm good at appearing calm on the outside when I'm hurting on the inside. So good, that I can often fool even myself. But I can never fool my gut.

Time to step up to the roulette wheel and spin again. So tomorrow I'll put together a list of targeted agents and/or publishing houses. Shall we see which happens first: 100 rejections or an offer for publication?

Place your bets, ladies and gents.


Something that's helping me write today: belief in myself and a willingness to be gut-sick as many times as it takes.

It's been a week without TV. The blare of that obnoxious little box has been replaced by better stuff: joking with my teens, luxurious dips into my to-be-read pile, a better organized office, a cleaner house, and a dawning awareness of the possibilities pregnant in time that isn't filled with mind-numbing distractions.

It's also been a week without sodas and the worst of the withdrawal is past. I still want, want, want. But I'm learning to live without. The bouts of sugar-high/sugar-low, false-energy/crippling-fatigue are being replaced by a steadier sense of well-being, the ability to concentrate and see tasks through.

With the internet off limits during the day, there's also been substantial improvement in my writing productivity.

Positive stuff, right? So why did I title this post discouragement?

Because I've been wandering the net (before 9:30 am and after 3:30 pm, of course) getting a feel for how one creates a presence on the web. I've viewed author blogs and websites. I've looked at writer facebook pages and read their twitter tweets. I've listened to interviews and peered with search engines into the comings and goings of bestsellers, mid-listers, and debut authors.

And I am overwhelmed. And discouraged.

Everywhere I see writers with clever blogs, uber professional websites, search list results that go on for pages, and tweet activity to rival a rainforest canopy. I feel like a barefoot hillbilly among all the sophisticated, visually stunning, and intimidatingly prolific marketing.

Something that's helping me write today: a clean, well-organized office and this quote from page 325 of Martha Beck's book Finding Your Own North Star:

"I believe with all my heart that if a thing is worth doing, it's worth doing badly...If you're going through a major transition, your hero's saga is absolutely certain to include unfamiliar situations and new skills. The first few times you try any of these...you're probably going to do it badly. Terrific!...being willing to make a mess is a prerequesite to gaining new skills."

My rules for writing:

It's okay to be obssessive.

Don't forget to eat breakfast because if you're having a good writing day you won't remember to eat lunch.

It's okay to be obssessive.

Make sure you like what you write and accept with good grace that you may be the only person who does.

It's okay to be obssessive.

Don't forget to feed the dogs and the children.

It's okay to be obssessive.

If you're going to be obsessive, learn to spell it correctly.

It's okay to be obsessive.

Something that's helping me write today: the dictionary.

"That's all you got?"
"Yep, today that's all I've got."

Commenter Gina asks: What are the fifteen failings you identified for Lent?

Well, I'm not quite ready to lay bare my entire soul on the net, but the three of the fifteen I chose to work on this Lent are dependence on tv, unnecessary web surfing, and my soda pop addiction.

Relinquishing daytime websurfing and email checking

Very difficult. Disconnected the internet and hung the cord on a ladder-only-accessable curtain rod to reduce temptation. Day one was a hard day. But in the last three days I've editted 10 chapters, written two new scenes, identified and solved a timeline problem within my novel, done a ton of laundry, and had a hot meal waiting for the family in a clean kitchen every day when they got home. I feel so encouraged today I was thrilled to throw that cord over the curtain rod at 9:30 am.

Eschewing TV

We don't do tv before 3 pm (a gift of a Lent a dozen years past), so I didn't even notice it was missing during the day. But in the evening I NOTICED. For the last several years I'd taken to turning on the TV for the evening news and letting it run until bedtime. I rarely just sat and watched it. Instead I used it as background noise for couch potato activities like reading, playing free cell, net surfing, etc. Sounds harmless, right? It's not. In just the three days since we turned it off I've experienced the desire to attend meetings, Jazzercise, walk the dogs, and spend considerably more time interacting with the kids. Amazing how removing a vice allows good things to rush in to fill the void.

Surrendering the Dr. Pepper

I'm in withdrawal!!!! Though I admit I eased the symptoms considerably by giving up most things containing High Fructose Corn Syrup at New Year. I've been drinking real sugar Dr. Pepper for the most part since then, so I'd already gotten through the worst of the withdrawal headache in January - three days of blistering pain. I've also eased the digestive withdrawal symptoms enormously by drinking lots and lots of water. And since exposure to refined sugar or sugar water (like fruit juices) increases my cravings for soda pop, I'm substituting real fruit for juice and avoiding refined sugars - adding a virtue to combat the vice.

That's where it's at for now. Now it's time to write novels, so I'm off the net.


Something that's helping me write today: Lent

Today Christians around the world (New Orleans, Rio de Janeiro, Rome, Sydney) will feast and frolic, imbibe and indulge. Tomorrow Lent begins. I confess Lent is one of my favorite times of the year. It's a life boat of hope in my personal sea of hedonism.

The promises made to put aside vices and embrace virtues at New Year are made to self. And those blessed with strong self-discipline probably have great success with New Year resolutions. But those of us born with self-discipline the size of a housefly, and just as easily led astray with a little sugar water, don't find New Year resolutions nearly as productive.

Promises made only to myself aren't enough to keep me 'resolved'. I require more. Apparently I require a promise be made directly to the Alpha Omega of the Entire Universe before I consider it sufficiently binding.

So Thank God for Lent! Literally.

Lent is a time of penance, of suffering offered in repentance of sin. For me, giving up fast food binges, pointless net surfing, and couch potato comas isn't easy. But there's also joy in the release from vice, a swell of hope that turns into a tidal wave of well-being as the weeks progress. And, despite post-Lenten backsliding, there's always long term improvement, some degree of permanent relinquishing of vice.

Last night I attempted to list my failings. I managed to jot 15 items before being distracted by junk food and tv. Five of those 15 were things that directly impact my ability to write novels. The remaining 10 impact my ability to keep writing novels well into old age. Today I'll select a few of those 15 vices to relinquish for Lent.

How about you? Do you have vices that are keeping you from reaching your goals? What are you doing to clear your path to success?

Something that's helping me write today: This quote from Scott Reed: This one step - choosing a goal and sticking to it - changes everything.

I wrote scene #1 of A Zombie Romance in minutes. The only editting required was the deletion of a few extraneous adjectives and adverbs and some punctuation tweaks. That week, I could write anything (or believed I could) brain to paper, and like the result. It was heaven. The following week was very different.

I'm not inclined to believe in muses. At least not when writing is easy. But when it isn't, blaming a muse has appeal.

Getting scene #2 of A Zombie Romance down was a hair pulling experience. I wrote more than 4000 words to get the 500 I ended up with and I'm still not satisfied with those. I ran down one rabbit hole after another, couldn't turn around and was forced to back out. I finally had to just post it and forget it. It's a bit of fun after all and I needed to get back to real work.

Unfortunately last week, my muse, if there be one, was no more interested in real work than she was in a bit of fun. *sigh*

How about you? Do you have a muse? Is she faithful or fickle?


Something that's helping me write today: the courage to fail inspired by this quote from Will Rogers: "If you hit the bull's eye every time, you're standing too close to the target."

Matilda sat forward on the bench and pried one swollen eye wide. The fake nails she'd paid a day's wages for at Pam's Polish Palace just that afternoon stabbed into tender flesh and she winced. Owning a detective agency was not nearly as simple as the instructor at Parson's Junior College had led her to believe. If she had the sense of a rock she'd return Mrs. Hasselburg's money and head straight to the nearest hospital. But she couldn’t continue waiting tables at Joe's Hole-in-the-Wall forever and it'd taken months to land this first case. So despite the fact that the obscenely wealthy Mrs. William Hassleburg the Third had offered her the insulting fee of twenty dollars to spy on, er, investigate her son, Mr. William Hasselburg the Fourth, Matilda was determined to give the woman her money's worth.

She straightened her spine. The Waltzing Matilda Agency had a reputation to uphold, or hopefully would after tonight. And thanks to the fact she'd had the good sense to refuse the tiny clutch Judy had insisted would complete her outfit, she'd fished an antihistamine from her gray detective’s tote as soon as the bee stung her. Well, at least as soon as she’d managed to climb out of the ditch her ancient VW bug had ended in when she'd panicked at the discovery of her tiny passenger. The instructor at PJC had been right. A well supplied detective’s tote was invaluable.

Matilda forced her eye open wide and inspected her clothing through a watery haze. The yellow light of the street lamp reflected dully off the clear plastic cleaner’s bag she’d cut arm holes in earlier and donned caftan-fashion to protect her sister’s expensive designer gown from a ride in the VW bug. The bag seemed whole. Matilda released a breath, reassured the gown still shimmered in pristine pink perfection beneath the plastic. Then she squinted in the direction of her feet. Though she couldn’t see them clearly, Judy's Prada heels were probably in similarly excellent condition. Matilda had removed them before setting a foot out of the car, perferring to hobble barefoot through rocks, burrs and potential snakes rather than face Judy's fashionista wrath. Once she'd climbed up onto the road she’d put them back on, but the four block walk to this bus stop couldn’t have harmed them much. Too bad Matilda couldn't say the same for her toes. Judy's shoe size, like the rest of Judy, was a good deal narrower than made Matilda comfortable.

“Lovely night for a stroll alone in the dark.” The man’s voice was oddly high, yet a man’s voice just the same.

Matilda’s head whipped around in the direction of the street lamp. Her fake nails dug deeper into her eyelid as she searched for the source of the voice. But the dull yellow pool of light beneath the street lamp was empty.

“The cemetery is just a block over. There are three new graves this week. The smell of fresh turned earth alone is worth the walk.”

Matilda’s heart pounded. The voice was clearly coming from the street lamp. But even with her limited sight she was certain both the pavement beneath the lamp and the sidewalk around it were empty.

“I’d be pleased to offer my escort. A woman can’t be too careful on a dark night like this.”

Behind her, Matilda felt a weight settle onto the bench.

Something that's helping me write today: the free and effective push I get to write when I open my email and find Dave Farland's Daily Kick in the Pants.

This is just a bit of fun. It began in a forum on CritiqueCircle.com as a challenge to write about a subject we knew little about. I know next to nothing about zombie-romance and I have no intention of spending even 10 seconds researching the topic, if such a topic even exists. But just for fun I thought I'd write a short zombie-romance and see where it goes. So here are the first few paragraphs. I'll try to add an additional few each Friday until I either become hopelessly fatigued with it or it ends. Feel free to point out all the zombie-lore I get wrong.

A Zombie Romance
by Regina Ruth Richards

Igor limped down the street. He paused briefly in front of the Romano house, but shook his head and moved on. He was certainly in the mood for Italian tonight, but Rita had mentioned there was a new family in town, the Lees, and she had her heart set on Chinese. She’d be ticked if he arrived already full and he hated it when she got mad at him. That's how he'd lost a good portion of his foot last week. Snapping off body parts was how Rita expressed rage.

He rounded the corner and came to a dead stop. His mouth dropped open and his tongue, if he'd still had one, would have hung out. Sitting on a bus bench just a few yards away was the most wondrous creature he'd ever laid his eye on. She was a vision beyond his wildest nightmares.

Something that's helping me write today: the weather outside is cold and rainy so there's no temptation to be out and about. The winter view out my window pleases me in some contrary way. Perhaps because I get to enjoy its beauty from this side of the pane, in toasty warm comfort.

Tomorrow we visit the tax accountant. Throughout the year I toss writing receipts into a file. Today I'll sort and total those receipts. I dread it. Seeing the money I invest in writing each year is one thing, but being forced to look at that "income earned" figure ($0!!!) is deflating. Best get it done. And while I do, for the curious, below is a breakdown of what I spent, or at least what I kept the receipts for having spent, on writing way back in 2007.

Org. Dues - libraries, nat'l/local chapters, crit group: 207.50
Misc. Meeting Costs - lunches, raffle donations, etc. : 217.61
Research Materials - diaries, rare out of print books : 196.26
Contest Entry Fees - nine entries and/or critiques : 237.00
Office Supplies - mostly computer related : 1060.88
Conferences and Retreats - 2 local with no hotel costs : 238.47
Postage : 83.32

Total - not including gas, mileage, internet, various other : 2241.04

Income Earned From Writing : none

Hard to believe that just two years ago I was still sending enough stuff snail mail to have $83 in postage. Nowadays it's all electronic. Times change!


Something that's helping me write today: the comforting memory of fellow writer Jen Fitzgerald's remark on seeing my 2007 expenses..."That's about as much as my husband spends on paintball, and when those balls splat they're gone. Stories last. So write on!"

A local museum advertised a free lecture on Victorian culture, an era I hope will be a good fit for a novel I'm planning. I noted the time and date on my writing calendar a month in advance and rearranged my schedule so I could attend. On the day of the class I gussied up and drove to town. My heart sank when I realized I was the only person in the audience.

I find myself in this situation regularly. And regularly, despite the fact the performer has already been paid in full for their appearance, I'm sent home without receiving the promised lecture, class, demonstration, training, or entertainment.

It's insulting!

By sending me home, the performer and/or their sponsor is telling me that the time and effort I put into being there is discardable, that I'm not important enough, not worth their time, that they were hoping for a better audience.

Luckily for me, the Victorian lecturer that day was a charming professional. She suggested we move to more comfortable seating, gave me a private lecture, and allowed me to ask tons of questions. She made me glad I'd made the effort to attend. Though the lecture was free, her time paid for by the museum, I made a donation before walking out the door. I also marked my calendar to attend her next lecture.

Something that's helping me write today: 15 minutes on the front porch with a glass of tea and a copy of "The 38 Most Common Fiction Writing Mistakes and How to Avoid Them" by the late Jack Bickham, author of seventy-five novels including the much-loved "The Apple Dumpling Gang".

In my last post I complained that I no longer wanted to be a novelist, that it was just too hard. Immediately following that post I wrote, with astonishing ease, an entire scene I'd been struggling for days to even begin. Perhaps I just needed to gripe a little, to blow off steam.

Barabara Sher describes that phenomenon in her book Wishcraft. It's been a decade since I read it, but, if I recall correctly, she holds the view that to be successful a person needs to be allowed to complain at times, to be honest about how they feel, basically to whine. A little. And then let it go and move on.

Telling myself that things are 'fine' when I feel otherwise isn't healthy. On the other hand, constantly focusing on what is wrong would be just as foolish. I suspect balance is the key: acknowledging the truth of how I feel at any given moment, but not wallowing too long in it. Unless of course the feeling is joy, love, pleasure, etc. Those I plan to wallow in quite thoroughly.

Something that's helping me write today: a small space heater in my office ($20) that makes the room the cozy temperature I prefer without running up the electric bill or causing my polar bear husband to overheat in his office on the other side of the house.

Today I don't want to be a novelist. I'm tired of the struggle, the disappointment, the sense of failure. I'm tired of fighting procrastination and insecurity and isolation.

So why not just quit? Because I can't stop writing.

Some people might think that means I'm addicted to writing. Not true. I know what addictions are. I've had a few and, monsterous as they are, it's possible to overcome them, to leave them behind.

Unfortunately, writing isn't simply an addiction. Writing is like the fact that I'm six feet tall. It's something I don't prefer, something I wouldn't have selected given the choice, but something over which I have no control. It's the hand I was dealt, who I am. I'm six feet tall. That's reality. I'm a novelist. That's reality. I must deal with both as best I can.

When I was young I wanted to be a dancer. I believed I had talent and I knew I had heart. One day I shared my dream with my instructor. She told me kindly but firmly that my height would make achieving that dream impossible. I believed her. I quit dance and joined the basketball team. I set new school records.

Today I'm resisting reality. But it's a losing battle. I'm a novelist and must simply make the best of it.