Daniel asked me to blow his bath water because it was hot. It was cute.
Caleb told me the other day that "There isn't Really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It's just a story."
That got me thinking. Rainbows are a gift from Heavenly Father. They are both a sign of His promises to us, and a blessing in and of themselves. It is a shame that we have attached a pot of gold, the ultimate in worldly rewards for many people, to the end of that. It's like we're saying that the end result of God's promise is monetary reward.
Unfortunately, I see that kind of thinking in the church (myself included) all the time. We think that, one way or another, the blessings from obeying this or that commandment should come in a worldly form. Conversely, I often get the impression that people think that if you are poor, you must be sinning somehow, because God blesses the righteous with money. A prime example, of course, is with Tithing. We all quote the "windows of heaven" scripture, saying that God will pour out blessings on us if we pay our tithing "that we'll not have room to receive." So we expect that if we continue to pay our tithing, we'll never go bankrupt or be without food, or whatever.
Of course, we all know that's not true. In fact, we are still poor, despite paying our tithing, but we have blessings that there is not room to receive them. For example, both Tim and I right now are completely overloaded with GOOD creative ideas--him for songs, me for novels--that we don't have time in the year to develop and pursue each one. Even in worldly things we've been blessed. When we pray for some object we think we need, more often than not, we're blessed with many of them. Like when Tim's bike got stolen, we prayed for a new bike and within a month he had four bikes, all good, that cost a total of $25--most of them were free. And just this last week, I prayed that we'd be able to get a color laser printer so Tim could produce the press materials he needs without the extreme cost. We didn't get a sudden extra $500 to buy a new one. Instead, unexpectedly on craigslist, someone posted a Color Laserjet 5 that worked for FREE--just come pick it up. When I got there 24 hours later (usually too late for to catch the deal) not only was it still there, but a newer Color Laserjet 4550 that is compatible with Tim's computer was also there, also free. We prayed for what we needed, and we got two--free.
And a laser printer is a "stuff" kind of thing, even. But it's not a pot of gold. Instead, it's the object we needed, which we might have spent the money on. Or we might not have. It's like giving a homeless drunk man a sandwich instead of $10 that he might or might not spend on the food he actually needs.
It's just a shame that we equate keeping covenants with getting worldly reward (fame, wealth, etc), especially when those things often aren't in our best eternal interest. Satan is clever. If we can become convinced that money is the reward for righteousness, then when we don't get the expected reward, we may be vulnerable enough to blame God for not keeping his promises instead of blaming ourselves for trying to control Heavenly Father by mandating the result of obedience. It's like all those stories we hear about people who were in car accidents or house fires but were wearing their garments and so were unhurt. That's wonderful that they were blessed that way--but hundreds of people are keeping the commandments and get hurt, or bankrupt, or "fail" in their eyes. Or are thrown into a flaming pit with all the scriptures in the city--or worse, have to watch their wives and children being thrown into the pit and not being allowed to stop it. And that doesn't mean that Heavenly Father failed to keep his promises.
Instead of spending our time predetermining the rewards we "will get" for our obedience, it seems like it would be smarter to enjoy the rainbow, trust the promises that it is supposed to remind us of, and stop searching for the pot of gold that probably would poison our souls anyway.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Home with the Kids
It's not the rejections that get me nearly as much as the "rules" I can't seem to follow but feel like I should. So today I felt vindicated. The first page of The Poison Spindle Problem breaks all the rules of TWO top agents, and I tried and tried to fix it but couldn't. So I left it as is and was ashamed, but comforted myself on the fact that the first five pages are what most agents take with the query, and those are okay. Today I got a response from an agent I had queried--she wants to see a "partial" (part of the manuscript to see if she wants to read the whole thing). And this request came based on (drum roll) the query, synopsis, and first page. She said it sounds "charming." So the kids and I gathered all the spare change we could find and made a trip to the post office to mail the three query packets I had set aside, plus the partial. It cost almost ten dollars, most of which will result in letters saying, "No thanks." Turns out writing is a cheapish hobby (cost of paper and ink if you decide to print it), but trying to get published is not so cheap.
We stayed up literally all night last night helping Tim pack and keeping him awake so that he would be ready to leave at 6:30. I told him I couldn't drive him to Denver at 9:30 am--I'd have to get up at 8:30, get the kids out in the car, and survive 2 hours of driving, half of which I would feel incredibly sick and the other half I'd have to try desperately to stay awake driving on Denver's messy freeways towing the trailer, which I would then have to get the neighbor to come unhitch from the van because I'm not strong enough. Then I would spend the next three days trying to recover from being that sick. So Tim and the guys took the shuttle. But we did have to drop them off there, across town. We watched a beautiful sunrise--better than any sunset I've ever seen--on the way home, and then the kids burst into tears because they didn't get to sleep and it was already tomorrow. I told them it was still night in our house, and everyone went to bed and right to sleep. We slept until 5:00 pm. This was weird, because it then got dark again at 6:00. I hate "vampire" days.
Anyway, "today" we had a nice time depositing checks in the night deposits for moosebutter and for us, and having an adventure at the post office with all our spare change. It would have been more fun if the two big kids didn't suddenly "have to go potty right now!" They eventually peed in the parking lot--one on my hand and one on my foot. And on a stuffed animal. Don't ask how we managed all that. It was one of my least favorite trips to the post office.
So I was finishing the last few copy edits in my novel (just in case anyone actually wants to read the whole thing), and I heard one of those sounds that makes moms alternately turn white with fear and red with anger: someone coloring on the wall. It turned out to be of those "couldn't be worse" times. Daniel was scribbling all over the wall with a black permanent marker. The big kids, trying to be helpful, managed to cover the marker with toothpaste (this does often help). We let it sit for half an hour (it has to sit in order to work), and only then did I notice that they also managed to coat Tim's rocking chair with the stuff--and it dried while we were waiting for it to suck up the ink on the wall. This was not pleasing to me. Then, to add to the stress, they used a kind of toothpaste (at my instruction) that has a smell that makes me feel sick. That's why I didn't want to use it to brush my teeth. It also made me not want to scrub the wall with it. And then, when I did scrub, it didn't work. So while I wasn't looking, Anda covered the wall with toothpaste AGAIN! So now I have to start over.....
Maybe not. Maybe I'll just go to bed and pretend the toothpaste will disappear over night. And that the lost library video will appear magically. And that the living room will clean itself. And that Tim really didn't fly to Boston for five days.
A couple of days ago we went to WalMart to look at toys while Tim recorded some parts for his new Christmas album (You're gonna love "In the Corner all Alone"--musical AND literary). Daniel looked at all the toys and finally pulled out a box of crayons. He crawled over and put it in my hands. "Oh, Dan," I said, "we aren't going to buy this." He smiled, pointed at the box, and then started spitting like he was spitting out yucky stuff. Then he pointed at the crayons again. Guess what Dan usually does with crayons? He eats them, and then spits out the bits when I catch him. It was like he was saying, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll spit them out again!" Very cute. A non-verbal one year old trying to negotiate for what he wants.
I've had to learn a new langauge lately as the big kids make up lots of words with few or no consonants and assign meanings to them. They're speaking "baby". And they remember the words, sometimes. So I walked into the bathroom and found Anda playing on the potty (lid closed). "I need to go potty, Anda. Can I go in here, or should I go to my room?" "Beeday-it," she said. "What?" I said. "That means go to your bathroom in baby," she said. "Oh," I said. This is a fairly typical occurence around here lately. "What cereal do you want?" "Uuuooo." "What?" "That's the word for rice krispies in baby." "Oh." Or "Ohohboo." "Is that rice krispies?" "No. That's Uuuuooo. Ohohboo is fruit loops." "Oh."
The irony is not lost on me that Daniel is spending all his time trying to become like the big kids, and they are spending all their time trying to be like he was three or four months ago. Except they insist on standing on their chairs while we eat dinner because they're babies. I don't know where that one came from.
Dinner has been exciting in other ways, too. Caleb insists on making a menu for each meal, which can be annoying when we are about to say the blessing and he won't let anyone eat until he's drawn a menu (pictures, not words, which would be a lot faster). This was tolerable, though, as long as the menus were descriptive of what I was making anyway. At our last meal I looked at the menu as we sat down, and Caleb had added "Gogurts" to the menu, which everyone ordered with glee as soon as Caleb announced they were there. He also refused to put fruit cocktail on the menu because he hates it, and then he said that nobody could eat any because it wasn't on the menu. That was irritating. Daniel saved us, though, by spontaneously learning right at that moment how to say "Peaches!" Renamed, the food was suddenly acceptable, and everyone but Caleb was allowed to eat it.
We stayed up literally all night last night helping Tim pack and keeping him awake so that he would be ready to leave at 6:30. I told him I couldn't drive him to Denver at 9:30 am--I'd have to get up at 8:30, get the kids out in the car, and survive 2 hours of driving, half of which I would feel incredibly sick and the other half I'd have to try desperately to stay awake driving on Denver's messy freeways towing the trailer, which I would then have to get the neighbor to come unhitch from the van because I'm not strong enough. Then I would spend the next three days trying to recover from being that sick. So Tim and the guys took the shuttle. But we did have to drop them off there, across town. We watched a beautiful sunrise--better than any sunset I've ever seen--on the way home, and then the kids burst into tears because they didn't get to sleep and it was already tomorrow. I told them it was still night in our house, and everyone went to bed and right to sleep. We slept until 5:00 pm. This was weird, because it then got dark again at 6:00. I hate "vampire" days.
Anyway, "today" we had a nice time depositing checks in the night deposits for moosebutter and for us, and having an adventure at the post office with all our spare change. It would have been more fun if the two big kids didn't suddenly "have to go potty right now!" They eventually peed in the parking lot--one on my hand and one on my foot. And on a stuffed animal. Don't ask how we managed all that. It was one of my least favorite trips to the post office.
So I was finishing the last few copy edits in my novel (just in case anyone actually wants to read the whole thing), and I heard one of those sounds that makes moms alternately turn white with fear and red with anger: someone coloring on the wall. It turned out to be of those "couldn't be worse" times. Daniel was scribbling all over the wall with a black permanent marker. The big kids, trying to be helpful, managed to cover the marker with toothpaste (this does often help). We let it sit for half an hour (it has to sit in order to work), and only then did I notice that they also managed to coat Tim's rocking chair with the stuff--and it dried while we were waiting for it to suck up the ink on the wall. This was not pleasing to me. Then, to add to the stress, they used a kind of toothpaste (at my instruction) that has a smell that makes me feel sick. That's why I didn't want to use it to brush my teeth. It also made me not want to scrub the wall with it. And then, when I did scrub, it didn't work. So while I wasn't looking, Anda covered the wall with toothpaste AGAIN! So now I have to start over.....
Maybe not. Maybe I'll just go to bed and pretend the toothpaste will disappear over night. And that the lost library video will appear magically. And that the living room will clean itself. And that Tim really didn't fly to Boston for five days.
A couple of days ago we went to WalMart to look at toys while Tim recorded some parts for his new Christmas album (You're gonna love "In the Corner all Alone"--musical AND literary). Daniel looked at all the toys and finally pulled out a box of crayons. He crawled over and put it in my hands. "Oh, Dan," I said, "we aren't going to buy this." He smiled, pointed at the box, and then started spitting like he was spitting out yucky stuff. Then he pointed at the crayons again. Guess what Dan usually does with crayons? He eats them, and then spits out the bits when I catch him. It was like he was saying, "Don't worry, Mom, I'll spit them out again!" Very cute. A non-verbal one year old trying to negotiate for what he wants.
I've had to learn a new langauge lately as the big kids make up lots of words with few or no consonants and assign meanings to them. They're speaking "baby". And they remember the words, sometimes. So I walked into the bathroom and found Anda playing on the potty (lid closed). "I need to go potty, Anda. Can I go in here, or should I go to my room?" "Beeday-it," she said. "What?" I said. "That means go to your bathroom in baby," she said. "Oh," I said. This is a fairly typical occurence around here lately. "What cereal do you want?" "Uuuooo." "What?" "That's the word for rice krispies in baby." "Oh." Or "Ohohboo." "Is that rice krispies?" "No. That's Uuuuooo. Ohohboo is fruit loops." "Oh."
The irony is not lost on me that Daniel is spending all his time trying to become like the big kids, and they are spending all their time trying to be like he was three or four months ago. Except they insist on standing on their chairs while we eat dinner because they're babies. I don't know where that one came from.
Dinner has been exciting in other ways, too. Caleb insists on making a menu for each meal, which can be annoying when we are about to say the blessing and he won't let anyone eat until he's drawn a menu (pictures, not words, which would be a lot faster). This was tolerable, though, as long as the menus were descriptive of what I was making anyway. At our last meal I looked at the menu as we sat down, and Caleb had added "Gogurts" to the menu, which everyone ordered with glee as soon as Caleb announced they were there. He also refused to put fruit cocktail on the menu because he hates it, and then he said that nobody could eat any because it wasn't on the menu. That was irritating. Daniel saved us, though, by spontaneously learning right at that moment how to say "Peaches!" Renamed, the food was suddenly acceptable, and everyone but Caleb was allowed to eat it.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Writing and Why Editors Reject It
Somehow I always swing to extremes when contemplating my own writing. I suspect it has more to do with how much I've eaten and slept than the actual value of the writing, but today (Sunday: not enough sleep, and thus too sick to eat enough) I looked at my manuscript again (which yesterday I declared, once again, "Finished!" for maybe the fifth or sixth time) and said, "Oh no! It's boring, abrupt, longwinded, and doesn't compare favorably with what's out there. Not to mention it's only down to 166,900 words, and many publishers cap their books at 150,000."
So instead of fixing typos Mom and Dad found (and some serious logic and motivation problems which, when I saw their notes, I had to laugh at myself over), I was surfing the "agents who tell us why they reject things" pages online (mostly blogs like Miss Snark and The Rejecter, both famous and excellent resources for writers), and I found a link to a posting from some other blog in 2004 from an editor that spelled out why most authors are rejected. I post the text below, since it was enlightening and made me laugh out loud.
It also gave me hope that perhaps it's not the manuscript that's poor. Perhaps it's my blood sugar levels.
"Manuscripts are unwieldy, but the real reason for that time ratio is that most of them are a fast reject. Herewith, the rough breakdown of manuscript characteristics, from most to least obvious rejections:
1. Author is functionally illiterate.
2. Author has submitted some variety of literature we don’t publish: poetry, religious revelation, political rant, illustrated fanfic, etc.
3. Author has a serious neurochemical disorder, puts all important words into capital letters, and would type out to the margins if MSWord would let him.
4. Author is on bad terms with the Muse of Language. Parts of speech are not what they should be. Confusion-of-motion problems inadvertently generate hideous images. Words are supplanted by their similar-sounding cousins: towed the line, deep-seeded, dire straights, nearly penultimate, incentiary, reeking havoc, hare’s breath escape, plaintiff melody, viscous/vicious, causal/casual, clamoured to her feet, a shutter went through her body, his body went ridged, empirical storm troopers, ex-patriot Englishmen, et cetera.
5. Author can write basic sentences, but not string them together in any way that adds up to paragraphs.
6. Author has a moderate neurochemical disorder and can’t tell when he or she has changed the subject. This greatly facilitates composition, but is hard on comprehension.
7. Author can write passable paragraphs, and has a sufficiently functional plot that readers would notice if you shuffled the chapters into a different order. However, the story and the manner of its telling are alike hackneyed, dull, and pointless.
(At this point, you have eliminated 60-75% of your submissions. Almost all the reading-and-thinking time will be spent on the remaining fraction.)
8. It’s nice that the author is working on his/her problems, but the process would be better served by seeing a shrink than by writing novels.
9. Nobody but the author is ever going to care about this dull, flaccid, underperforming book.
10. The book has an engaging plot. Trouble is, it’s not the author’s, and everybody’s already seen that movie/read that book/collected that comic.
(You have now eliminated 95-99% of the submissions.)
11. Someone could publish this book, but we don’t see why it should be us.
12. Author is talented, but has written the wrong book.
13. It’s a good book, but the house isn’t going to get behind it, so if you buy it, it’ll just get lost in the shuffle.
14. Buy this book.
Aspiring writers are forever asking what the odds are that they’ll wind up in category #14. That’s the wrong question. If you’ve written a book that surprises, amuses, and delights the readers, and gives them a strong incentive to read all the pages in order, your chances are very good indeed. If not, your chances are poor."
From http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/004641.html (most of the rest of the stuff is details about why authors are just too sensitive and think way too much about each rejection they receive.)
So I looked back at my rejections. I thought I had been rejected a lot and that's why I rewrote the book again, cutting those 44,000 words. I had 4 rejections. Now I have 5. I hear that you have to get between 25 and 100 to get an agent, but if you get 12-25 form rejections with no requests for sample chapters, it's time to reevaluate and rewrite. So I'm way jumping the gun on thinking it's terrible.
Probably I should have a snack and go to bed--I'll look at it again in the morning and think I'm a genius and have written the best escapist entertainment in the world and its only a matter of time before it's published, right?
So instead of fixing typos Mom and Dad found (and some serious logic and motivation problems which, when I saw their notes, I had to laugh at myself over), I was surfing the "agents who tell us why they reject things" pages online (mostly blogs like Miss Snark and The Rejecter, both famous and excellent resources for writers), and I found a link to a posting from some other blog in 2004 from an editor that spelled out why most authors are rejected. I post the text below, since it was enlightening and made me laugh out loud.
It also gave me hope that perhaps it's not the manuscript that's poor. Perhaps it's my blood sugar levels.
"Manuscripts are unwieldy, but the real reason for that time ratio is that most of them are a fast reject. Herewith, the rough breakdown of manuscript characteristics, from most to least obvious rejections:
1. Author is functionally illiterate.
2. Author has submitted some variety of literature we don’t publish: poetry, religious revelation, political rant, illustrated fanfic, etc.
3. Author has a serious neurochemical disorder, puts all important words into capital letters, and would type out to the margins if MSWord would let him.
4. Author is on bad terms with the Muse of Language. Parts of speech are not what they should be. Confusion-of-motion problems inadvertently generate hideous images. Words are supplanted by their similar-sounding cousins: towed the line, deep-seeded, dire straights, nearly penultimate, incentiary, reeking havoc, hare’s breath escape, plaintiff melody, viscous/vicious, causal/casual, clamoured to her feet, a shutter went through her body, his body went ridged, empirical storm troopers, ex-patriot Englishmen, et cetera.
5. Author can write basic sentences, but not string them together in any way that adds up to paragraphs.
6. Author has a moderate neurochemical disorder and can’t tell when he or she has changed the subject. This greatly facilitates composition, but is hard on comprehension.
7. Author can write passable paragraphs, and has a sufficiently functional plot that readers would notice if you shuffled the chapters into a different order. However, the story and the manner of its telling are alike hackneyed, dull, and pointless.
(At this point, you have eliminated 60-75% of your submissions. Almost all the reading-and-thinking time will be spent on the remaining fraction.)
8. It’s nice that the author is working on his/her problems, but the process would be better served by seeing a shrink than by writing novels.
9. Nobody but the author is ever going to care about this dull, flaccid, underperforming book.
10. The book has an engaging plot. Trouble is, it’s not the author’s, and everybody’s already seen that movie/read that book/collected that comic.
(You have now eliminated 95-99% of the submissions.)
11. Someone could publish this book, but we don’t see why it should be us.
12. Author is talented, but has written the wrong book.
13. It’s a good book, but the house isn’t going to get behind it, so if you buy it, it’ll just get lost in the shuffle.
14. Buy this book.
Aspiring writers are forever asking what the odds are that they’ll wind up in category #14. That’s the wrong question. If you’ve written a book that surprises, amuses, and delights the readers, and gives them a strong incentive to read all the pages in order, your chances are very good indeed. If not, your chances are poor."
From http://nielsenhayden.com/makinglight/archives/004641.html (most of the rest of the stuff is details about why authors are just too sensitive and think way too much about each rejection they receive.)
So I looked back at my rejections. I thought I had been rejected a lot and that's why I rewrote the book again, cutting those 44,000 words. I had 4 rejections. Now I have 5. I hear that you have to get between 25 and 100 to get an agent, but if you get 12-25 form rejections with no requests for sample chapters, it's time to reevaluate and rewrite. So I'm way jumping the gun on thinking it's terrible.
Probably I should have a snack and go to bed--I'll look at it again in the morning and think I'm a genius and have written the best escapist entertainment in the world and its only a matter of time before it's published, right?
More Recipes
I have finally tweaked and fiddled enough with some of our favorite recipes that they are now both easy and kid-friendly. So I share my modified recipes with you:
Beef Enchiladas:
Mix 1 can red enchilada sauce with 1 can tomato sauce and 1/2 c water. Brown 1 lb hamburger. Sir in 3/4 c sauce and 1 c grated cheese. Put some in each of 10-12 flour tortillas with a sprinkling of more cheese. Roll and place seam-side down in a lightly greased 9x13 pan. Pour remaining sauce over top and sprinkle with more cheese. Bake at 350 for 15-20 minutes.
I suppose you could make them layered, like a casserole, but we like them rolled, served half at a time, sometimes on a bed of lettuce. You could add any number of enchilada-friendly things to the filling (olives, onions, tomatoes, diced green chilies, etc.), but you don't need to.
Cajun Chicken
Slice 2-3 boneless skinless chicken breasts into thin slices. Stir-fry in 2-4 tbsp margarine until no longer pink. Stir in 3-4 tbsp flour and 1-2 tsp cajun or creole spice (you can usually get it at the dollar store). Slowly add 1 c milk and heat, stirring, until thickened. Serve over "confetti rice" (make rice and stir in 1-2 c peas and 1-2 tbsp pimentos if you have them).
Meatloaf
In a bowl, mix 1 egg, 1/2 c milk, 1 tsp salt, dash of pepper, 1/4 c barbecue sauce, and 2 slices worth (about 1 c) of bread crumbs (blend in blender to make crumbs). Squish in 1 lb hamburger. Form into a loaf shape in a 9x13 pan and baste with 1/4 c more barbecue sauce. Bake at 350 for 1 hour.
My family loves this so much I have to triple the recipe for one meal. And yes, the barbecue sauce is even better than worcestershire sauce.
Beef Enchiladas:
Mix 1 can red enchilada sauce with 1 can tomato sauce and 1/2 c water. Brown 1 lb hamburger. Sir in 3/4 c sauce and 1 c grated cheese. Put some in each of 10-12 flour tortillas with a sprinkling of more cheese. Roll and place seam-side down in a lightly greased 9x13 pan. Pour remaining sauce over top and sprinkle with more cheese. Bake at 350 for 15-20 minutes.
I suppose you could make them layered, like a casserole, but we like them rolled, served half at a time, sometimes on a bed of lettuce. You could add any number of enchilada-friendly things to the filling (olives, onions, tomatoes, diced green chilies, etc.), but you don't need to.
Cajun Chicken
Slice 2-3 boneless skinless chicken breasts into thin slices. Stir-fry in 2-4 tbsp margarine until no longer pink. Stir in 3-4 tbsp flour and 1-2 tsp cajun or creole spice (you can usually get it at the dollar store). Slowly add 1 c milk and heat, stirring, until thickened. Serve over "confetti rice" (make rice and stir in 1-2 c peas and 1-2 tbsp pimentos if you have them).
Meatloaf
In a bowl, mix 1 egg, 1/2 c milk, 1 tsp salt, dash of pepper, 1/4 c barbecue sauce, and 2 slices worth (about 1 c) of bread crumbs (blend in blender to make crumbs). Squish in 1 lb hamburger. Form into a loaf shape in a 9x13 pan and baste with 1/4 c more barbecue sauce. Bake at 350 for 1 hour.
My family loves this so much I have to triple the recipe for one meal. And yes, the barbecue sauce is even better than worcestershire sauce.
Great Kids' Educational TV
My kids are fascinated with a new discovery we've had on YouTube--Pitagora Suicchi, a Japanese Educational Math/Science show. It's all in Japanese. Some of it is subtitled, and some is not. You can access it from this website: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pitagora_Suicchi There are several links at the bottom of the page, and you can also follow the links in YouTube.com to find more episodes. Both kids are absolutely fascinated with the whole thing, but especially the "incredible machines." And they might learn some Japanese in the process!
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
My Genre
It's important for an author to find their genre. Not from a writing standpoint, but from a publishing standpoint. If a publisher can't market a book, they won't publish it. It's a business thing. So authors are encouraged to find their genre.
The trouble is there are hundreds of genres and subgenres. Miss Snark, the leading Agent-blogger, says that 25% of the authors who query her (ask her to read their stuff) don't know their genre at all and label it wrong. 25% more get the general genre but not the subgenre. So half of us don't know what we're doing. Agentquery.com lists genres with this (paraphrased) introduction: It's an easy question to answer for some people. Like "Where are you from?" If you've always lived in Ohio, that's not a problem. But if you were born in Indiana, grew up in California, live in Wisconsin, and work in Illinois, it's harder to answer.
So I got on AgentQuery again to read their description of genres, and then I furthered my research to include Wikipedia, my favorite online resource, and discovered I do write in a specific single genre. One that started the fantasy genre in 1858 with George MacDonald. They call it "Fairytale Fantasy." And, surprisingly, even my other planned works in the Bookstore Series fit the mold. The next book, as yet untitled, is set in the American West. But it is also set in the world of the American folksong and folklore, just like Poison Spindle is set in the world of Grimm and Andersen folksong and folklore. But the actual story, and the way the characters interact and the conventions of the tale are the same, despite the fact that they are set in the American West (which is, I might mention, the Enchanted Wood of American lore--I might cite "In a cavern in a canyon, excavating for a mine" or "Pecos Bill" or even "Johnny Appleseed.").
So I'm delighted. Now I can find an agent. Further, the genre itself took care of my audience problem. The genre is generally written for this certain unnamed unidentifiable audience of fairytale lovers--written for adults, marketed to Young Adults, but not strictly. LIke the works of Robin McKinley--read most widely by intelligent high school girls, so marketed both to YA and Adult audiences, often in different covers. Or Patricia Wrede--read most widely by smart 9-12th graders and beginning college students (she wrote "Dealing with Dragons," which Beth loved). Also marketed to YA, but not in the "high school drama/relationship drama" way. More in the way that Tolkien is often marketed to YA. But, because the readers are intelligent, the books aren't written with that "high school" or "junior high" feel--they just tell great stories.
Unfortunately, no agents list themselves as covering "Fairytale Fantasy" because its a subgenre. But many of the agents on my lists do both fantasy and YA, so I have a place to start. With a real name for my genre, even if I just go with Fantasy, I have a direction to look.
I also finished the most recent edit of my novel. I ended up cutting out 44,500 words---that's 133 pages. And I think it's better. Most of the cuts were like this: "She lay down on the floor and peeked under the door" became "She peeked under the door." Over and over and over.
Hopefully I didn't ruin it. NOw I have to reread to get out the "edited here" errors--like "he said" twice in one sentence where I edited dialogue. And then....we look for Fantasy agents.
The trouble is there are hundreds of genres and subgenres. Miss Snark, the leading Agent-blogger, says that 25% of the authors who query her (ask her to read their stuff) don't know their genre at all and label it wrong. 25% more get the general genre but not the subgenre. So half of us don't know what we're doing. Agentquery.com lists genres with this (paraphrased) introduction: It's an easy question to answer for some people. Like "Where are you from?" If you've always lived in Ohio, that's not a problem. But if you were born in Indiana, grew up in California, live in Wisconsin, and work in Illinois, it's harder to answer.
So I got on AgentQuery again to read their description of genres, and then I furthered my research to include Wikipedia, my favorite online resource, and discovered I do write in a specific single genre. One that started the fantasy genre in 1858 with George MacDonald. They call it "Fairytale Fantasy." And, surprisingly, even my other planned works in the Bookstore Series fit the mold. The next book, as yet untitled, is set in the American West. But it is also set in the world of the American folksong and folklore, just like Poison Spindle is set in the world of Grimm and Andersen folksong and folklore. But the actual story, and the way the characters interact and the conventions of the tale are the same, despite the fact that they are set in the American West (which is, I might mention, the Enchanted Wood of American lore--I might cite "In a cavern in a canyon, excavating for a mine" or "Pecos Bill" or even "Johnny Appleseed.").
So I'm delighted. Now I can find an agent. Further, the genre itself took care of my audience problem. The genre is generally written for this certain unnamed unidentifiable audience of fairytale lovers--written for adults, marketed to Young Adults, but not strictly. LIke the works of Robin McKinley--read most widely by intelligent high school girls, so marketed both to YA and Adult audiences, often in different covers. Or Patricia Wrede--read most widely by smart 9-12th graders and beginning college students (she wrote "Dealing with Dragons," which Beth loved). Also marketed to YA, but not in the "high school drama/relationship drama" way. More in the way that Tolkien is often marketed to YA. But, because the readers are intelligent, the books aren't written with that "high school" or "junior high" feel--they just tell great stories.
Unfortunately, no agents list themselves as covering "Fairytale Fantasy" because its a subgenre. But many of the agents on my lists do both fantasy and YA, so I have a place to start. With a real name for my genre, even if I just go with Fantasy, I have a direction to look.
I also finished the most recent edit of my novel. I ended up cutting out 44,500 words---that's 133 pages. And I think it's better. Most of the cuts were like this: "She lay down on the floor and peeked under the door" became "She peeked under the door." Over and over and over.
Hopefully I didn't ruin it. NOw I have to reread to get out the "edited here" errors--like "he said" twice in one sentence where I edited dialogue. And then....we look for Fantasy agents.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Kids say funny things
From Caleb, teaching Anda to read: "TH is called 'eth'; SH is called 'esh'; CH is called 'etch'."
From Anda, out of nowhere: "A bowling ball is too big to swallow. It's also too big to put in your mouth."
From Caleb, on seeing the first snow of the year: "Oh Joy! Happiness at last!"
From Caleb: "I speak six languages: a little Chinese, a little Russian, a little French, a little Spanish, all of English, and all of baby."
From Anda, out of nowhere: "A bowling ball is too big to swallow. It's also too big to put in your mouth."
From Caleb, on seeing the first snow of the year: "Oh Joy! Happiness at last!"
From Caleb: "I speak six languages: a little Chinese, a little Russian, a little French, a little Spanish, all of English, and all of baby."
Really Funny Stuff
I've collected (and written) some of these funnies. Time to share:
On a Subway in Provo: "Today is the first day of your life."
On a craigslist "free" posting: "Free Afghan from Afghanistan--with 2 pillow cases!"
On a poster at church: "We specialize in abuse by trained professionals."
On the One Step Home Pregnancy Test: "Step 1....Step 2.....Step 3....Step 4.... Step 5....."
From a file on my computer called "Stupdi Lines Written by Accident", all by me:
"You and your team start interviewing people who are alive. "
"Nobody's sure where Ebola comes from, but it always comes from Africa."
"You need to find everyone who has the disease and take them to the hospital or it will keep spreading." (the hospital is malignant?)
And lines cut from The Poison Spindle Problem:
"She sat with her back in the corner where the two walls met and looked around."
"Pulled the chain from her neck, breaking it."
"The only thing they disturbed were the flies on the compost heaps, which rose in annoyed, buzzing clouds."
"Kate wasn’t a decorator. Not even a chair."
"Pipes appeared wearing a long white nightshirt holding a candle."
"He shuffled across the room and picked it up, turning it over and over."
"When Kate had stepped out of the bath dressed in the gown, pantaloons, and petticoat...."
Thus we see clearly why I keep rewriting. My pronouns and modifiers tend to dangle, become vague, or otherwise mangle the sentences. My favorite is the one about the flying dungheaps, which made it through three versions by me and three other readers before I caught it.
Hope you had a jolly laugh. Now, back to work.
On a Subway in Provo: "Today is the first day of your life."
On a craigslist "free" posting: "Free Afghan from Afghanistan--with 2 pillow cases!"
On a poster at church: "We specialize in abuse by trained professionals."
On the One Step Home Pregnancy Test: "Step 1....Step 2.....Step 3....Step 4.... Step 5....."
From a file on my computer called "Stupdi Lines Written by Accident", all by me:
"You and your team start interviewing people who are alive. "
"Nobody's sure where Ebola comes from, but it always comes from Africa."
"You need to find everyone who has the disease and take them to the hospital or it will keep spreading." (the hospital is malignant?)
And lines cut from The Poison Spindle Problem:
"She sat with her back in the corner where the two walls met and looked around."
"Pulled the chain from her neck, breaking it."
"The only thing they disturbed were the flies on the compost heaps, which rose in annoyed, buzzing clouds."
"Kate wasn’t a decorator. Not even a chair."
"Pipes appeared wearing a long white nightshirt holding a candle."
"He shuffled across the room and picked it up, turning it over and over."
"When Kate had stepped out of the bath dressed in the gown, pantaloons, and petticoat...."
Thus we see clearly why I keep rewriting. My pronouns and modifiers tend to dangle, become vague, or otherwise mangle the sentences. My favorite is the one about the flying dungheaps, which made it through three versions by me and three other readers before I caught it.
Hope you had a jolly laugh. Now, back to work.
Happy Birthday to Me
Tim surprised me for my birthday by inviting my friends over from the ward. He even cleaned the house. It was really fun. Some even brought us chocolates!
Daniel surprised me for my birthday by taking his first steps. That was cool.
I got to talk to family. That was fun.
And now I'm 30. Wow. Finally I'm a grownup.
Finally I'm old enough in Boulder to start thinking about starting a family. Oh, wait....I'm on number 4 already. I'm not old enough for that, out here, but nobody ever is. So--Hooray!
It was a nice birthday.
And I got a new alarm clock and a new nightgown. Am I obsessing about sleep or something?
And the kids let me make a round birthday cake, one layer. That's wonderful.
Happy birthday, me!
Daniel surprised me for my birthday by taking his first steps. That was cool.
I got to talk to family. That was fun.
And now I'm 30. Wow. Finally I'm a grownup.
Finally I'm old enough in Boulder to start thinking about starting a family. Oh, wait....I'm on number 4 already. I'm not old enough for that, out here, but nobody ever is. So--Hooray!
It was a nice birthday.
And I got a new alarm clock and a new nightgown. Am I obsessing about sleep or something?
And the kids let me make a round birthday cake, one layer. That's wonderful.
Happy birthday, me!
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Scary Moments and a Reset
I had a doctor's appointment today and--horror!--they couldn't find the baby's heartbeat. I was in a mild panic, and they took me across the hall and did an ultrasound. Nobody else panic. The baby is fine. Cute, in fact. He's?SHe's just wiggly wiggly wiggly. While I was watching the small person jumped and rolled over at least five times. THe ultrasound only lasted one minute. So we have a wiggly person with arms, legs, a nose, eyes, mouth, head with a visible brain. What a relief.
Also, I found a great new blog for "newbie" writers: writersgetreal.blogspot.com. Six romance writers give their advice on writing, and all of them said their pet peeves include the "rules" for how to write a novel. I had come to this conclusion myself: the rules only work for the person who wrote them. So I threw them all out. But the bloggers (all professional writers) also said don't use too much description, which was one of the rules. So what do I do?
My general conclusion has been that writing is like teaching. If you don't trust your readers/students, they won't get into what you're trying to say. But if you trust them, and talk to them as people, you all have a wonderful journey together. Beyond that rule: trust and respect the people you are teaching/telling a story to, there seem to be no hard and fast rules.
My other general conclusion is that I am so blessed that (1) I have to sit down a lot because of fibro and (2) I can jump my thoughts around all over the place and follow many distractions while writing cohesively ( perhaps because of ADD?). Because of this, I have been able to be a mom and write, which is consistently something writing moms complain about. Apparently most writers need a clean house and 2+ hours uninterrupted to write. I can't keep the house clean anyway, so I gave up on that a long time ago, and I don't have to be uninterrupted to write. So I can write as a Mom, while most writers have to wait until their children are at least all in school. So maybe these physical handicaps are a blessing. Or maybe writing is the blessing, given to help me not only survive, but create wonderful things out of my weaknesses. Don't they say with faith weaknesses become strenghts? I think maybe I understand a little bit what that means now.
Also, I found a great new blog for "newbie" writers: writersgetreal.blogspot.com. Six romance writers give their advice on writing, and all of them said their pet peeves include the "rules" for how to write a novel. I had come to this conclusion myself: the rules only work for the person who wrote them. So I threw them all out. But the bloggers (all professional writers) also said don't use too much description, which was one of the rules. So what do I do?
My general conclusion has been that writing is like teaching. If you don't trust your readers/students, they won't get into what you're trying to say. But if you trust them, and talk to them as people, you all have a wonderful journey together. Beyond that rule: trust and respect the people you are teaching/telling a story to, there seem to be no hard and fast rules.
My other general conclusion is that I am so blessed that (1) I have to sit down a lot because of fibro and (2) I can jump my thoughts around all over the place and follow many distractions while writing cohesively ( perhaps because of ADD?). Because of this, I have been able to be a mom and write, which is consistently something writing moms complain about. Apparently most writers need a clean house and 2+ hours uninterrupted to write. I can't keep the house clean anyway, so I gave up on that a long time ago, and I don't have to be uninterrupted to write. So I can write as a Mom, while most writers have to wait until their children are at least all in school. So maybe these physical handicaps are a blessing. Or maybe writing is the blessing, given to help me not only survive, but create wonderful things out of my weaknesses. Don't they say with faith weaknesses become strenghts? I think maybe I understand a little bit what that means now.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Cute Baby Tricks
I logged on to blogger last night and noticed that, at 2:00 am, you get lots of foreign blogs being updated. Lots in Portuguese. A few in Finnish. Maybe I should move to Europe--our schedule would be right on there.
Daniel is at that "Does Something Cute Every Day" Stage. I was counting at him (I don't know why, but it wasn't a "I'm gonna count to three and then...." kind of count), and I said, "One," and he piped up with "Two!" I said, "Three, four five!" and he said, "Six!" Surprised me.
He also now says, "Woof" and "Meow", and he thinks that "Mama" means "Kisses."
He also just developed stranger anxiety, so we missed the "get him used to a babysitter" window. Shoot!
Tim is downstairs recording new songs (big surprise, right?). He wrote this gorgeous Christmas Pop song, like something a boyband would sing in perfect harmony and all the teenage girls would cry along with. Sounds like it should be on the radio. And he does this off the top of his head, without any agony, and then doesn't take it seriously because it's so easy. Naturally, this one is going to be a comedy bit. That's what he does. But it just amazed me that he can write classical AND pop AND jazz AND comedy, and it's all so easy that he doesn't even try to sell it or anything because, you know, it's like breathing. You don't sell that. Go figure.
I rewrote the beginning of my novel over and over following all the instructions from well-respected people online. And then I thought it was done, and gave it to Tim, and looked at it again, and it was Total Crap. So I went back to square one and said, "Time to delete and start over--just the first chapter"--and I came up with this great first line for a novel: "Kate hated to read." Then I remembered that That was the first line before I started messing with it. Oh. So I went back to the way it was before, and, lo and behold, I LIKED it. It wasn't any of what I had imagined it was. I would say the editing was a waste of time, but it actually got me into one more rewrite where I found several more rather big inconsistencies in the characters' behaviors (like why does Robin Hood explain Everything to Kate? Head Spy in Serious Trouble wouldn't give all his secrets away to a stranger. Duh. And its not necessary for the story). So, with those fixed, I managed to cut 28,000 words (yikes! that's a lot of dead wood) from just the first half of the book. I thought I might cut 20,000 more from the last half, but the last half is already really good. It was just the beginning that wasn't. Hopefully now it is because I found several more agents I'm interested in working with.
Just now I have to determine once and for all who my audience is. It doesn't feel like a Young Adult novel (think "Over Sea Under Stone" or "Ella Enchanted" for YA). But it's not chick lit (no sex or corporate stresses). So I need to figure out what to call the "16-26 year old smart female" audience--a book for the same age/gender as chick lit, but for people who want escapist fiction, not relationship fiction. What is THAT audience called?
Daniel is at that "Does Something Cute Every Day" Stage. I was counting at him (I don't know why, but it wasn't a "I'm gonna count to three and then...." kind of count), and I said, "One," and he piped up with "Two!" I said, "Three, four five!" and he said, "Six!" Surprised me.
He also now says, "Woof" and "Meow", and he thinks that "Mama" means "Kisses."
He also just developed stranger anxiety, so we missed the "get him used to a babysitter" window. Shoot!
Tim is downstairs recording new songs (big surprise, right?). He wrote this gorgeous Christmas Pop song, like something a boyband would sing in perfect harmony and all the teenage girls would cry along with. Sounds like it should be on the radio. And he does this off the top of his head, without any agony, and then doesn't take it seriously because it's so easy. Naturally, this one is going to be a comedy bit. That's what he does. But it just amazed me that he can write classical AND pop AND jazz AND comedy, and it's all so easy that he doesn't even try to sell it or anything because, you know, it's like breathing. You don't sell that. Go figure.
I rewrote the beginning of my novel over and over following all the instructions from well-respected people online. And then I thought it was done, and gave it to Tim, and looked at it again, and it was Total Crap. So I went back to square one and said, "Time to delete and start over--just the first chapter"--and I came up with this great first line for a novel: "Kate hated to read." Then I remembered that That was the first line before I started messing with it. Oh. So I went back to the way it was before, and, lo and behold, I LIKED it. It wasn't any of what I had imagined it was. I would say the editing was a waste of time, but it actually got me into one more rewrite where I found several more rather big inconsistencies in the characters' behaviors (like why does Robin Hood explain Everything to Kate? Head Spy in Serious Trouble wouldn't give all his secrets away to a stranger. Duh. And its not necessary for the story). So, with those fixed, I managed to cut 28,000 words (yikes! that's a lot of dead wood) from just the first half of the book. I thought I might cut 20,000 more from the last half, but the last half is already really good. It was just the beginning that wasn't. Hopefully now it is because I found several more agents I'm interested in working with.
Just now I have to determine once and for all who my audience is. It doesn't feel like a Young Adult novel (think "Over Sea Under Stone" or "Ella Enchanted" for YA). But it's not chick lit (no sex or corporate stresses). So I need to figure out what to call the "16-26 year old smart female" audience--a book for the same age/gender as chick lit, but for people who want escapist fiction, not relationship fiction. What is THAT audience called?
We aren't wandering--yet
A few days ago I heard Anda say in the bedroom, "Uh, Oh! Dan's doing something really bad!" Then it sounded like rain. Naturally, I ran in. Daniel was cheerfully dumping an entire box of Rice Krispies (the new box, of course) onto the bed and floor. He was MAD when I took it away. Then it took me twenty minutes to find the vacuum, which was holding all the shirts I hadn't felt like hanging on hangers. We did eventually get everything cleaned up. I actually had to use the vacuum twice in one day (I imagine it felt overworked, since it usually holds shirts), and we got the shredded styrofoam off the floor in the family room.
The next day, a sociology PhD student came by to interview Tim about home recording and see his studio. I imagine it was the only studio setup in his research that was constructed from turning a bunkbed on end and strapping the mattresses to the outside with bungee cords.
Later, I once again heard a commotion down the hall. This time, it was cheering. So I again went to find out what was going on. I found Anda and Caleb cheering for Daniel, who was standing up and sitting down over and over again in the middle of the hall--without help, and without pulling up on the walls or anything. "Hooray!" Caleb said. "Daniel's a toddler now!" Dan thought it was great.
Nice to see that all three kids like to play together, even if they sometimes dump the cereal in the bedroom.
Today, the kids informed me that they are planning a surprise party for my birthday. "What is your favorite thing?" they asked, wanting to know what shape I should make my suprise birthday cake in to surprise me with. I told them I would really really really like a round cake. Just plain round. Maybe with a smiley face on it. Not shaped like a kitty, or like Caleb and Anda together. Funny kids. They have a grasp on "Let's do something for mom," but not on "So we'll ask DAD for help."
When they asked what I wanted for my birthday, I almost said word for word what Mom always said, "I want everyone to be good." I understand now what she meant. When I was a kid, I thought she just was trying to save money. I don't think I ever really tried to be good. Now I wish I had. The other thing I want is for everyone to sleep through the night. Not for Tim to wake up with the kids, because I'll wake up, too, out of habit, and lay there wondering if he knows the fast way to get them back to sleep, etc.
I suppose I'll get that once before the new baby comes. Maybe. I comfort myself with the fact that Mom gets to sleep through the night every night now. And she doesn't have people dumping cereal everywhere, or playing in the toilet (except maybe the dog), or writing on the walls with markers, or spitting on the couch, or any of those other things I hate. And I seriously doubt she gets koolaid spilled on her feet on a regular basis any more. There is something to look forward to...
We were about to wander out to Boston, but moosebutter really preferred not to go for two and a half weeks, so now we're staying home and the guys are all flying out for the two weekends. This is a way I prefer--costs less, too, and we'll be travelling plenty later, hitting Utah for a month in November/December. So we're not putting Melody away yet.
The next day, a sociology PhD student came by to interview Tim about home recording and see his studio. I imagine it was the only studio setup in his research that was constructed from turning a bunkbed on end and strapping the mattresses to the outside with bungee cords.
Later, I once again heard a commotion down the hall. This time, it was cheering. So I again went to find out what was going on. I found Anda and Caleb cheering for Daniel, who was standing up and sitting down over and over again in the middle of the hall--without help, and without pulling up on the walls or anything. "Hooray!" Caleb said. "Daniel's a toddler now!" Dan thought it was great.
Nice to see that all three kids like to play together, even if they sometimes dump the cereal in the bedroom.
Today, the kids informed me that they are planning a surprise party for my birthday. "What is your favorite thing?" they asked, wanting to know what shape I should make my suprise birthday cake in to surprise me with. I told them I would really really really like a round cake. Just plain round. Maybe with a smiley face on it. Not shaped like a kitty, or like Caleb and Anda together. Funny kids. They have a grasp on "Let's do something for mom," but not on "So we'll ask DAD for help."
When they asked what I wanted for my birthday, I almost said word for word what Mom always said, "I want everyone to be good." I understand now what she meant. When I was a kid, I thought she just was trying to save money. I don't think I ever really tried to be good. Now I wish I had. The other thing I want is for everyone to sleep through the night. Not for Tim to wake up with the kids, because I'll wake up, too, out of habit, and lay there wondering if he knows the fast way to get them back to sleep, etc.
I suppose I'll get that once before the new baby comes. Maybe. I comfort myself with the fact that Mom gets to sleep through the night every night now. And she doesn't have people dumping cereal everywhere, or playing in the toilet (except maybe the dog), or writing on the walls with markers, or spitting on the couch, or any of those other things I hate. And I seriously doubt she gets koolaid spilled on her feet on a regular basis any more. There is something to look forward to...
We were about to wander out to Boston, but moosebutter really preferred not to go for two and a half weeks, so now we're staying home and the guys are all flying out for the two weekends. This is a way I prefer--costs less, too, and we'll be travelling plenty later, hitting Utah for a month in November/December. So we're not putting Melody away yet.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Why do I think about food so much?
Jon's blog is about helpful, useful, spiritual things. Mine seems to be about food and hormones. Hmmmm.....
If you want to try a completely unsatsfying treat, try fat free no sugar added creamsicles. I bought them by accident. You know how advertisers use the strongest language they can to sell their products? This product's strongest claim in "Quiescently Frozen Confection." It's right on the box.
Another new thing in food we tried this week that was a serious flop was Shake and Bake, the Albertson's version. It turned three perfectly good chicken breasts into dog food. Amazingly yucky. And not easier than your usual tastes good made at home chicken coating (you know, where you throw a half-cup of flour into a bag and shake in some salt and pepper, maybe a little paprika and poultry seasoning, and a bit of powdered sugar if you're feeling frisky). You still shake the chicken. You still cook it the same way. Just home-made doesn't end up quite so thick on the chicken. But it tastes good.
So the pregnancy hormones are affecting my system in weird ways. For example, if I don't eat and sleep enough, I become convinced that someone is around every corner ready to jump out and get me, but only after the sun goes down. I believe they call it paranoia. Also, every person I see, I imagine a grisly death for--not at my hand. Things like trees falling on them, or their car plummeting into the ocean, or....you get the idea. It's not something I enjoy. Let's call it SERIOUS motivation to eat and sleep enough. My doctor said, "You know, we have medicine for that. Let me know if it gets so you can't let go of the dark thoughts, and we'll get rid of them for you." Zoloft, they call it. Or just eat and sleep enough, eh? Why give the baby drugs?
The other weird hormone thing is that "13 years old" feeling again--that one that every time someone you know turns their back or is talking to someone else and you can't hear it, they must be talking about you? Julie knows what I'm talking about. So I hesitate to write in my blog because I'm afraid I'll annoy you all by filling up your email boxes. But, at the same time, I would love to get an email from each of you every day, and I love to get Jon's blog in MY email box, no matter how often it comes. Go figure. Hormones. Nine months of insanity.
Meanwhile, the baby that's causing all this upheaval, making me haunt the kitchen, and forcing me to face the fact that fibromyalgia can be a lot worse than I usually have it (right now, I'm experiencing the "real deal")--he's only as big as my thumb. Caleb says his name is James Tenors Jones. Anda says it's Madeline.
We finally got smart and made a prayer/last story chart so that I wouldn't have to say every family prayer every day anymore, and so that I wouldn't have to keep reading one book for each kid each night. It's really helped. So we added family home evening jobs to it, too. The kids love it. They even made a pocket for Tummybaby. He gets to plan the FHE lesson next week. The kids told me I can help.
So that's us right now. Melody sits idle in the driveway, limiting herself to trips to the library and grocery store because that's all the energy I have.
Oh, and moosebutter has a couple new promo videos finished. They should be showing up on google video soon--check moosebutter's website, I guess, and email your comments to me or Tim. We'd love to hear what you think.
If you want to try a completely unsatsfying treat, try fat free no sugar added creamsicles. I bought them by accident. You know how advertisers use the strongest language they can to sell their products? This product's strongest claim in "Quiescently Frozen Confection." It's right on the box.
Another new thing in food we tried this week that was a serious flop was Shake and Bake, the Albertson's version. It turned three perfectly good chicken breasts into dog food. Amazingly yucky. And not easier than your usual tastes good made at home chicken coating (you know, where you throw a half-cup of flour into a bag and shake in some salt and pepper, maybe a little paprika and poultry seasoning, and a bit of powdered sugar if you're feeling frisky). You still shake the chicken. You still cook it the same way. Just home-made doesn't end up quite so thick on the chicken. But it tastes good.
So the pregnancy hormones are affecting my system in weird ways. For example, if I don't eat and sleep enough, I become convinced that someone is around every corner ready to jump out and get me, but only after the sun goes down. I believe they call it paranoia. Also, every person I see, I imagine a grisly death for--not at my hand. Things like trees falling on them, or their car plummeting into the ocean, or....you get the idea. It's not something I enjoy. Let's call it SERIOUS motivation to eat and sleep enough. My doctor said, "You know, we have medicine for that. Let me know if it gets so you can't let go of the dark thoughts, and we'll get rid of them for you." Zoloft, they call it. Or just eat and sleep enough, eh? Why give the baby drugs?
The other weird hormone thing is that "13 years old" feeling again--that one that every time someone you know turns their back or is talking to someone else and you can't hear it, they must be talking about you? Julie knows what I'm talking about. So I hesitate to write in my blog because I'm afraid I'll annoy you all by filling up your email boxes. But, at the same time, I would love to get an email from each of you every day, and I love to get Jon's blog in MY email box, no matter how often it comes. Go figure. Hormones. Nine months of insanity.
Meanwhile, the baby that's causing all this upheaval, making me haunt the kitchen, and forcing me to face the fact that fibromyalgia can be a lot worse than I usually have it (right now, I'm experiencing the "real deal")--he's only as big as my thumb. Caleb says his name is James Tenors Jones. Anda says it's Madeline.
We finally got smart and made a prayer/last story chart so that I wouldn't have to say every family prayer every day anymore, and so that I wouldn't have to keep reading one book for each kid each night. It's really helped. So we added family home evening jobs to it, too. The kids love it. They even made a pocket for Tummybaby. He gets to plan the FHE lesson next week. The kids told me I can help.
So that's us right now. Melody sits idle in the driveway, limiting herself to trips to the library and grocery store because that's all the energy I have.
Oh, and moosebutter has a couple new promo videos finished. They should be showing up on google video soon--check moosebutter's website, I guess, and email your comments to me or Tim. We'd love to hear what you think.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Sometimes You Have a Bad Day
Yesterday was a bad day. The agent I wanted to work with rejected my stuff. I was sad. But then I looked at her website again and reminded myself that she really IS a romance expert, and I don't write romance. At all. I'd probably be better with a YA expert. And, reading her blog every day I've learned a lot, and, what's more, her site linked me to some other incredibly valuable sites, including other agents that, from their entries in agent guides, I wouldn't have considered, but reading their blogs I am interested. So that was hard, but okay. I have been praying that I get accepted by the right agent because, if my experience with OBGyns is any indicator, given the choice of many myself, I usually choose the wrong person first and have to change around--and that's not so easy with agents as it is with doctors.
Meanwhile, I've been reading online Novel Workshops by experts, and have gleaned some information that is consistently the same from everyone. Everyone agrees that the first chapter of the novel needs to have some serious action, and put the characters into the position that they can't turn around and go back. Everyone writes chapters before that, and you're supposed to delete them. So I went back to Poison Spindle and discovered that, lo and behold, the first chapter and the introduction have zero movement in them. And that everything that happens in them can be summarized in three sentences--which can be put into other parts of the book. So I deleted them. The other consistent advice that's given is that if you read a scene, and nobody moves and nobody feels anything but pretty good, cut it. Makes the book stronger. So I started going through and found bunches of paragraphs that actually DON'T move the story along at all. They are stagnant. Most of them could be re-written into a single sentence, or even a single adjective.
So the short of all of that is: I'm rewriting again while I research another set of agents to contact. The book was 100,000 words too long anyway, and I managed to cut out almost 20 pages from what was the first three chapters of the book--7,000 words gone, with no loss of action or character development. I feel like I did in journalism in high school, when I had to cut 500 word articles to 250 words with no loss of content. It actually makes the writing stronger, more clear, and more powerful anyway. Still contacting agents, though. I've found somet that I don't understand why I wasn't interested in them before--they seem more ideal than any on my first list. Perhaps because I needed to first submit to people who would say no while I learned from them what to do and what to do next.
To add to my bad day yesterday, I felt sick all day.
Caleb was sick, too, and ended up throwing up in the middle of the night. Luckily, for the first time ever, he made it to the potty, used it, and flushed it all away without needing my help.
Also, I went shopping (hard when you feel sick) and got $180 worth of groceries on sale for $100. I was tired, and the kids were fussy, and it was 11:30 pm when we finished and went to check out--and the system wouldn't take my check because it was tagged as "possible fraud or identity theft"--probably because I spent so much so late at night. No matter that I gave the guy my ID and everything. So I had to use a different account, and Mom bailed me out so that would't bounce. So irritating. I got it all straightened out today. I just hate it when people point out that I'm weird. I know it. I don't need to be reminded that nobody takes three kids grocery shopping at midnight to buy 50 lbs of frozen meat and 30 cans of soup. Duh.
Anyway, today is better.
Meanwhile, I've been reading online Novel Workshops by experts, and have gleaned some information that is consistently the same from everyone. Everyone agrees that the first chapter of the novel needs to have some serious action, and put the characters into the position that they can't turn around and go back. Everyone writes chapters before that, and you're supposed to delete them. So I went back to Poison Spindle and discovered that, lo and behold, the first chapter and the introduction have zero movement in them. And that everything that happens in them can be summarized in three sentences--which can be put into other parts of the book. So I deleted them. The other consistent advice that's given is that if you read a scene, and nobody moves and nobody feels anything but pretty good, cut it. Makes the book stronger. So I started going through and found bunches of paragraphs that actually DON'T move the story along at all. They are stagnant. Most of them could be re-written into a single sentence, or even a single adjective.
So the short of all of that is: I'm rewriting again while I research another set of agents to contact. The book was 100,000 words too long anyway, and I managed to cut out almost 20 pages from what was the first three chapters of the book--7,000 words gone, with no loss of action or character development. I feel like I did in journalism in high school, when I had to cut 500 word articles to 250 words with no loss of content. It actually makes the writing stronger, more clear, and more powerful anyway. Still contacting agents, though. I've found somet that I don't understand why I wasn't interested in them before--they seem more ideal than any on my first list. Perhaps because I needed to first submit to people who would say no while I learned from them what to do and what to do next.
To add to my bad day yesterday, I felt sick all day.
Caleb was sick, too, and ended up throwing up in the middle of the night. Luckily, for the first time ever, he made it to the potty, used it, and flushed it all away without needing my help.
Also, I went shopping (hard when you feel sick) and got $180 worth of groceries on sale for $100. I was tired, and the kids were fussy, and it was 11:30 pm when we finished and went to check out--and the system wouldn't take my check because it was tagged as "possible fraud or identity theft"--probably because I spent so much so late at night. No matter that I gave the guy my ID and everything. So I had to use a different account, and Mom bailed me out so that would't bounce. So irritating. I got it all straightened out today. I just hate it when people point out that I'm weird. I know it. I don't need to be reminded that nobody takes three kids grocery shopping at midnight to buy 50 lbs of frozen meat and 30 cans of soup. Duh.
Anyway, today is better.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Waiting for Melody's return
I'm sitting here waiting for Melody (and Tim) to get back.
I got another rejection from an agent today--not what she was looking for, but at least the rejection was professional.
I also got a letter today that began, "Dear Rebecca Jones, It's hard to think about, even harder to talk about, but...How would yoru family get by if they didn't have your salary?" I wanted to laugh. The other piece of junk mail said that I won the jackpot (it's a car ad), but, try as I might, I couldn't find any mention anywhere on the ad of what the jackpot IS. Just the cryptic line "Must be present to claim prize." Probably a low interest rate on a car loan? Great mail.
For weeks I have had severe writer's block on both novels I'm working on--I'd write and delete about 2000 words on each every couple of days (that's about 10 pages). Couldn't get it right. So I moved backward and started doing character development on Maggie, my ex-spy housewife. Mom suggested that Maggie had to have some demon she was fighting, so I went there. And suddenly I had lots to write--flashbacks that I will insert throughout the novel of what happened in her past that made her quit her job and makes her reluctant now to get involved. The key, it turns out, was that her husband has to not know she was a "real" spy--he thinks she had a desk job at the CIA and quit because she got pregnant and wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. To find out what really prompted her to quit, you'll have to read the book...... Anyway, it's suddenly fun to write that one again, and the pieces are falling into place properly now. Writing is supposed to be a delightful journey, not a chore, so this is a relief.
So I went back to the drawing board with the second book in the Bookstore series, too, and realized I don't even know what the bad guy looks like, and Kate has to be attracted to him. So that was a problem. Then I started doing research on Western lore and the conventions of Western Lit and Film, and I have been having SO much fun. It's the same research I would do for a college course on the subject, but with a much more fun result. Instead of a research paper, I get to mine the data for cool character ideas, concepts, motifs, and legends that I get to incorporate into Kate's experiences in the Wild Wild West. So the story has taken on a few subplots, the biggest of which is the Legend of the Lost Dutchman, which I heard in Arizona. Now one of the male leads is the son of the Lost Dutchman's murdered partner, and he's come from Germany to find out what happened to his father, and maybe get to the goldmine his family technically owns half of. It's a lost goldmine on Apache sacred ground, and the other male lead has actually found it and is trying to get the Apaches to let him mine it. And I get to incorporate the tradition that people who go looking for the mine get beheaded, and a crazy prospector who actually lived there in the 1870s, and there's now gonna be a jailbreak, and a bank robbery (pulled off by Kate, of all people!), and a rattlesnake cave (have you heard that legend?). And, of course, buried treasure, crumbling saddlebags full of gold, shootouts on the main street of town, and white slavery. And Kate gets to face off the entire US Army to save the Apaches at the end. Very exciting stuff. So I'm excited to work on that one, too. You'll have to read it when it's done.
I suppose I should pick just one project to finish it. Arizona in the 1870s is pretty different from Las Vegas nowadays, and shootouts at the saloon are a far cry from superspies with their special equipment. I don't want to get it all too mixed up.
I got another rejection from an agent today--not what she was looking for, but at least the rejection was professional.
I also got a letter today that began, "Dear Rebecca Jones, It's hard to think about, even harder to talk about, but...How would yoru family get by if they didn't have your salary?" I wanted to laugh. The other piece of junk mail said that I won the jackpot (it's a car ad), but, try as I might, I couldn't find any mention anywhere on the ad of what the jackpot IS. Just the cryptic line "Must be present to claim prize." Probably a low interest rate on a car loan? Great mail.
For weeks I have had severe writer's block on both novels I'm working on--I'd write and delete about 2000 words on each every couple of days (that's about 10 pages). Couldn't get it right. So I moved backward and started doing character development on Maggie, my ex-spy housewife. Mom suggested that Maggie had to have some demon she was fighting, so I went there. And suddenly I had lots to write--flashbacks that I will insert throughout the novel of what happened in her past that made her quit her job and makes her reluctant now to get involved. The key, it turns out, was that her husband has to not know she was a "real" spy--he thinks she had a desk job at the CIA and quit because she got pregnant and wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. To find out what really prompted her to quit, you'll have to read the book...... Anyway, it's suddenly fun to write that one again, and the pieces are falling into place properly now. Writing is supposed to be a delightful journey, not a chore, so this is a relief.
So I went back to the drawing board with the second book in the Bookstore series, too, and realized I don't even know what the bad guy looks like, and Kate has to be attracted to him. So that was a problem. Then I started doing research on Western lore and the conventions of Western Lit and Film, and I have been having SO much fun. It's the same research I would do for a college course on the subject, but with a much more fun result. Instead of a research paper, I get to mine the data for cool character ideas, concepts, motifs, and legends that I get to incorporate into Kate's experiences in the Wild Wild West. So the story has taken on a few subplots, the biggest of which is the Legend of the Lost Dutchman, which I heard in Arizona. Now one of the male leads is the son of the Lost Dutchman's murdered partner, and he's come from Germany to find out what happened to his father, and maybe get to the goldmine his family technically owns half of. It's a lost goldmine on Apache sacred ground, and the other male lead has actually found it and is trying to get the Apaches to let him mine it. And I get to incorporate the tradition that people who go looking for the mine get beheaded, and a crazy prospector who actually lived there in the 1870s, and there's now gonna be a jailbreak, and a bank robbery (pulled off by Kate, of all people!), and a rattlesnake cave (have you heard that legend?). And, of course, buried treasure, crumbling saddlebags full of gold, shootouts on the main street of town, and white slavery. And Kate gets to face off the entire US Army to save the Apaches at the end. Very exciting stuff. So I'm excited to work on that one, too. You'll have to read it when it's done.
I suppose I should pick just one project to finish it. Arizona in the 1870s is pretty different from Las Vegas nowadays, and shootouts at the saloon are a far cry from superspies with their special equipment. I don't want to get it all too mixed up.
Friday, September 22, 2006
What Happens When You Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast?
Pregnancy is this weird experience. It's at once profound, unique, and completely annoying. It really baffles me that I'm going through this incomparable thing--and that I've done it three times before, and that 90% of the women in the world do it too.
Anyway, morning sickness is becoming a controlling factor in my morning. I wake up okay, but then quickly descend into feeling gross. And, having three other kids, I know I will soon have to face the usual morning onslaught of stench as Daniel has his customary stinky diaper, and Anda needs me to wash the bottle of milk she slept with and rotted, and I can't seem to avoid opening the fridge. The fridge stinks when I'm pregnant. No matter how clean it is (I actually recently washed every part of it--it's clean. It's the only thing in the house that's clean, but it is), and no matter how well I wrap and seal last night's leftovers, when I open the fridge in the morning, it stinks. All these things conspire to make me run to the bathroom.
So today, when I went out to the outside freezer to get chicken to defrost for dinner (see how with it I am? I'm thinking about dinner even when I feel gross and have six hours before I need to start on it). Anyway, I was out there digging up the chicken and I managed to unearth orange vanilla cream "tiger" ice cream. And it looked good. When something looks good in the morning, I'm elated because eating makes the morning sickness disappear, but getting to eating often exacerbates it.
The trouble? If I was going to eat ice cream, everyone would want some. And nobody had eaten breakfast yet. So what to do? I dug up the sugar cones and passed around the sweets. Elation! No more morning sickness.
Flash forward twenty minutes. Suddenly everyone is crying and I feel sick again. Guess what? Ice cream is not a breakfast for champions. I know it has the same or better nutrition as cold cereal. Guess what else isn't a good breakfast.....
So I needed to make real food, and fast. Protien. That everyone would eat. So to the fallback easy fast protien: scrambled eggs. I scrambled up a dozen eggs, thinking the circus would end, but it appears it was just beginning. As I got the grill hot, Daniel crawled up and started tugging on me and the kids started the early "conversations" that lead to fights. Just then, the spatula leapt from the counter (I really don't know how else to describe it) and gouged my toe. The grill was hot and Dan was tugging on me and screaming, and I was holding a too-full bowl of uncooked scrambled eggs. You should be proud of me. I didn't swear.
Instead, I stomped my foot and shouted until Dan let go and crawled away quietly. Then I proceeded to scramble the eggs--no mean trick on a griddle that is made to drain fat from bacon, and apparently liquidy eggs (I don't care what the picture on the box showed...). When I finally turned around, Dan was sitting in a puddle of milk that had dripped from his bottle. He was helping himself to a bagful of mint chocolate chip pop tarts. I didn't stop him. Anda was crawling around my feet trying to confirm that the toe that was bleeding really was the one that was hurting, and Caleb was eating every bit of egg that came off the griddle.
So finally we all got eggs and were happily eating when I looked at the griddle and realized--guess what? The spatula I had used to cook everything was the very one that tried to cut my toe off.
Have you ever been so grateful just to have the food that you ate it anyway?.....
So, in the midst of this chaos (during the Twenty Minutes of Post-Ice Cream Joy), I watched a video Mom sent over of a home birth. It was sweet and touching, and I cried when I looked at the baby. And then the movie ended, and I dried my tears, and, as the emotions faded, I said to myself, "What am I thinking? She's nuts." How did they get the gross water out of the pool in the bedroom? And who had to clean all that stuff up? Birthing is not exactly a clean process. And, oh my goodness, that poor woman was literally up all night in labor (in a hospital, with an epidural, she would have been fresh and happy, having slept all night, ready to push at 9:20 am and welcome her new baby.). And the other kids--even well prepared, they would want mommy to get them stuff, and she would hear them start fighting in the other room or wake up in the middle of the night--and that would, at the minimum, break her concentration. And I can get a water birth, with massage and midwife and everything, in the hospital here. Where someone else cleans up, feeds me, takes the baby while I shower, etc. Okay, I might try to check out of the hospital three or four hours after the baby comes this time because I don't sleep AT ALL in hospitals (they want me to live on a 6:00 am to 9:00 pm schedule--are you kidding?!). But that's where I want to birth.
Of course, there's that other extreme that you find occassionally in Colorado: Home Birth, locked in the bathroom with nobody else there with you. Now THAT is insane.
So I can see the sweetness and intimacy of a home birth. I want that, too. But the practicalities of it all (not to mention we've almost lost three babies at birth or just before) outweighs the ideals. I want my doctor there, and I just don't want to wash the sheets afterward, you know?
Besides, Tim's take on epidurals is significant to me: "I'd rather you have an epidural. I can't stand to see you suffer."
So...pregnancy and childbirth. What am I thinking? Ice cream for breakfast, anyone?
Anyway, morning sickness is becoming a controlling factor in my morning. I wake up okay, but then quickly descend into feeling gross. And, having three other kids, I know I will soon have to face the usual morning onslaught of stench as Daniel has his customary stinky diaper, and Anda needs me to wash the bottle of milk she slept with and rotted, and I can't seem to avoid opening the fridge. The fridge stinks when I'm pregnant. No matter how clean it is (I actually recently washed every part of it--it's clean. It's the only thing in the house that's clean, but it is), and no matter how well I wrap and seal last night's leftovers, when I open the fridge in the morning, it stinks. All these things conspire to make me run to the bathroom.
So today, when I went out to the outside freezer to get chicken to defrost for dinner (see how with it I am? I'm thinking about dinner even when I feel gross and have six hours before I need to start on it). Anyway, I was out there digging up the chicken and I managed to unearth orange vanilla cream "tiger" ice cream. And it looked good. When something looks good in the morning, I'm elated because eating makes the morning sickness disappear, but getting to eating often exacerbates it.
The trouble? If I was going to eat ice cream, everyone would want some. And nobody had eaten breakfast yet. So what to do? I dug up the sugar cones and passed around the sweets. Elation! No more morning sickness.
Flash forward twenty minutes. Suddenly everyone is crying and I feel sick again. Guess what? Ice cream is not a breakfast for champions. I know it has the same or better nutrition as cold cereal. Guess what else isn't a good breakfast.....
So I needed to make real food, and fast. Protien. That everyone would eat. So to the fallback easy fast protien: scrambled eggs. I scrambled up a dozen eggs, thinking the circus would end, but it appears it was just beginning. As I got the grill hot, Daniel crawled up and started tugging on me and the kids started the early "conversations" that lead to fights. Just then, the spatula leapt from the counter (I really don't know how else to describe it) and gouged my toe. The grill was hot and Dan was tugging on me and screaming, and I was holding a too-full bowl of uncooked scrambled eggs. You should be proud of me. I didn't swear.
Instead, I stomped my foot and shouted until Dan let go and crawled away quietly. Then I proceeded to scramble the eggs--no mean trick on a griddle that is made to drain fat from bacon, and apparently liquidy eggs (I don't care what the picture on the box showed...). When I finally turned around, Dan was sitting in a puddle of milk that had dripped from his bottle. He was helping himself to a bagful of mint chocolate chip pop tarts. I didn't stop him. Anda was crawling around my feet trying to confirm that the toe that was bleeding really was the one that was hurting, and Caleb was eating every bit of egg that came off the griddle.
So finally we all got eggs and were happily eating when I looked at the griddle and realized--guess what? The spatula I had used to cook everything was the very one that tried to cut my toe off.
Have you ever been so grateful just to have the food that you ate it anyway?.....
So, in the midst of this chaos (during the Twenty Minutes of Post-Ice Cream Joy), I watched a video Mom sent over of a home birth. It was sweet and touching, and I cried when I looked at the baby. And then the movie ended, and I dried my tears, and, as the emotions faded, I said to myself, "What am I thinking? She's nuts." How did they get the gross water out of the pool in the bedroom? And who had to clean all that stuff up? Birthing is not exactly a clean process. And, oh my goodness, that poor woman was literally up all night in labor (in a hospital, with an epidural, she would have been fresh and happy, having slept all night, ready to push at 9:20 am and welcome her new baby.). And the other kids--even well prepared, they would want mommy to get them stuff, and she would hear them start fighting in the other room or wake up in the middle of the night--and that would, at the minimum, break her concentration. And I can get a water birth, with massage and midwife and everything, in the hospital here. Where someone else cleans up, feeds me, takes the baby while I shower, etc. Okay, I might try to check out of the hospital three or four hours after the baby comes this time because I don't sleep AT ALL in hospitals (they want me to live on a 6:00 am to 9:00 pm schedule--are you kidding?!). But that's where I want to birth.
Of course, there's that other extreme that you find occassionally in Colorado: Home Birth, locked in the bathroom with nobody else there with you. Now THAT is insane.
So I can see the sweetness and intimacy of a home birth. I want that, too. But the practicalities of it all (not to mention we've almost lost three babies at birth or just before) outweighs the ideals. I want my doctor there, and I just don't want to wash the sheets afterward, you know?
Besides, Tim's take on epidurals is significant to me: "I'd rather you have an epidural. I can't stand to see you suffer."
So...pregnancy and childbirth. What am I thinking? Ice cream for breakfast, anyone?
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Melody Gone Along Without Us
Melody has gone off on her latest adventure without us--just with Tim. I get carsick driving half a block to Safeway--9 hours to Provo and then six more to Vegas didn't sound good.
Dinner tonight: I don't know yet. Thinking about it makes me queasy. But last night we had Cuban Picadillo--very tasty and easy--at 11:30 pm because I finally realized everything was getting to be worse than the process of making dinner seemed.
There are only a few times in life when I have total concentration and can block everything out. Like when I'm kissing Tim. Or throwing up. Since Tim is gone, the other one is the one that has been occupying me. It's not that I'm throwing up all the time. It's that I'm trying hard not to. All day. And you know, some things are worse to throw up than others. Oreos? Not so bad. Sugary drinks? Doable. Lettuce? Kill me now. I still have a hard time eating it since I was pregnant with Caleb five years ago. Enough on that.
Babies have forced me to be selfish in some ways, though. If I don't take care of myself, they punish me, starting from the time they appear as a tummy bump. If I don't eat, I get to vomit. If I don't eat, too, the kids won't eat, and then life is hellish. If I don't get enough exercise, they don't either, and everyone gets antsy and picks on each other. If I don't get enough sleep, they don't either, and they fight. I hate fighting. So we sleep selfishly. They force me to make dinner every night or we get grumpy chaos. That (the dinners, not the chaos) saves us lots of money (cheaper to cook real dinners than snack on pre-prepared things), and it's keeping all of us healthier and happier. And they force me to develop my talents, as they insist on singing songs and telling stories together, or making things.
Their stubborn insistence on doing things themselves makes me selfish, too. Daniel MUST climb the stairs by himself now. He throws a fit if I help him with that. Or if I feed him. Oh, selfish me--I get to skip those two things that I hate. And, darn it, they make me sit in my rocking chair cuddling someone warm much of the day, forcing me to either read fascinating nonfiction books or write fascinating (to me) novels. Punishment? I think not.
Overnight somehow Anda taught herself how to say the "L" sound. Now "Wizard" and "Lizard" are not the same thing. I had wondered if she'd ever learn because she didn't just say them the same; she heard them the same. But she really wanted to say "Talulah" properly, so she learned. Cool. She's learning how to read, too, and can identify the letter that begins any spoken word. She's reading three-letter words, and is intensely fascinated with typing real words ("How do you spell Winnie the Pooh, Mom?"). So that's exciting. She's only 3 1/2.
Caleb, meanwhile, has become fascinated with multiplication. He is constantly asking, "What does five fives make?" Or worse, "What does 27 forty-twos make?". So kindergarten math ("Let's count to ten....") is really boring for him. Anda loves it though.
Daniel is verbalizing more and more. Today he climbed up on my lap and said, "Daniel!" and then clapped his hands joyfully and giggled. The problem with his speech is that he says all the vowels, an occassional beginning consonant, and not much else. So we get long explanatory paragraphs from him that we can't understand, and he expects us to act on them. Oh, well. He's only just barely 1. He's a little cautious, too. He won't walk, but he can stroll down the hall holding just one of my hands. Just won't do it himself because he gets scared.
All of these things are fun (except the vomiting), and not easy to notice when we are with Melody as she wanders the country. It's an interesting dilemma: do we have no home, or no Daddy?
Dinner tonight: I don't know yet. Thinking about it makes me queasy. But last night we had Cuban Picadillo--very tasty and easy--at 11:30 pm because I finally realized everything was getting to be worse than the process of making dinner seemed.
There are only a few times in life when I have total concentration and can block everything out. Like when I'm kissing Tim. Or throwing up. Since Tim is gone, the other one is the one that has been occupying me. It's not that I'm throwing up all the time. It's that I'm trying hard not to. All day. And you know, some things are worse to throw up than others. Oreos? Not so bad. Sugary drinks? Doable. Lettuce? Kill me now. I still have a hard time eating it since I was pregnant with Caleb five years ago. Enough on that.
Babies have forced me to be selfish in some ways, though. If I don't take care of myself, they punish me, starting from the time they appear as a tummy bump. If I don't eat, I get to vomit. If I don't eat, too, the kids won't eat, and then life is hellish. If I don't get enough exercise, they don't either, and everyone gets antsy and picks on each other. If I don't get enough sleep, they don't either, and they fight. I hate fighting. So we sleep selfishly. They force me to make dinner every night or we get grumpy chaos. That (the dinners, not the chaos) saves us lots of money (cheaper to cook real dinners than snack on pre-prepared things), and it's keeping all of us healthier and happier. And they force me to develop my talents, as they insist on singing songs and telling stories together, or making things.
Their stubborn insistence on doing things themselves makes me selfish, too. Daniel MUST climb the stairs by himself now. He throws a fit if I help him with that. Or if I feed him. Oh, selfish me--I get to skip those two things that I hate. And, darn it, they make me sit in my rocking chair cuddling someone warm much of the day, forcing me to either read fascinating nonfiction books or write fascinating (to me) novels. Punishment? I think not.
Overnight somehow Anda taught herself how to say the "L" sound. Now "Wizard" and "Lizard" are not the same thing. I had wondered if she'd ever learn because she didn't just say them the same; she heard them the same. But she really wanted to say "Talulah" properly, so she learned. Cool. She's learning how to read, too, and can identify the letter that begins any spoken word. She's reading three-letter words, and is intensely fascinated with typing real words ("How do you spell Winnie the Pooh, Mom?"). So that's exciting. She's only 3 1/2.
Caleb, meanwhile, has become fascinated with multiplication. He is constantly asking, "What does five fives make?" Or worse, "What does 27 forty-twos make?". So kindergarten math ("Let's count to ten....") is really boring for him. Anda loves it though.
Daniel is verbalizing more and more. Today he climbed up on my lap and said, "Daniel!" and then clapped his hands joyfully and giggled. The problem with his speech is that he says all the vowels, an occassional beginning consonant, and not much else. So we get long explanatory paragraphs from him that we can't understand, and he expects us to act on them. Oh, well. He's only just barely 1. He's a little cautious, too. He won't walk, but he can stroll down the hall holding just one of my hands. Just won't do it himself because he gets scared.
All of these things are fun (except the vomiting), and not easy to notice when we are with Melody as she wanders the country. It's an interesting dilemma: do we have no home, or no Daddy?
Sunday, September 17, 2006
The Miracle of Children
I am so nervous about my agent submissions that I can't work on my novels, but I must write, so you get lots of blogging.
For dinner tonight: tomato soup with cheese and oyster crackers. Second course, two hours later: boiled beets with sauteed beet greens on the side. Hey, I'm pregnant.
I wrote half of this, and then, as if to illustrate my point, Daniel hit Delete for me and shut the whole thing off, and I lost it all.
Last night Dan smacked my nose with his head so hard that I heard it crack. Today it's all bruised and sore.
Daniel still has eczema on his ankles, so any time he can get his socks off, he sits on the floor and scratches his ankles and cries. Then he cries some more when we put lotion and socks back on. Can't win that one.
Daniel has also decided that he's a grown-up now, and he refuses to sit in his high chair. The trouble is, he's too little for a regular chair, and he doesn't have enough experience with them to not fall off if he stands up to reach his food. To complicate things, he's also decided that we can't feed him. He has to do it himself--with grown-up sized utensils, which he also lacks experience in. Consequently, he spends most of the meal flinging food all over the kitchen, and then gives up and either buries his face in what's left or digs his little hands in and takes fistfuls, which he shoves into his mouth and all over his face. We've finally taken to putting a variety of foods in a pie pan on the floor and letting him eat dog-style. His preference, not mine.
Daniel also has decided that it is extremely frustrating that he can't go down stairs and that we can't understand the long paragraphs that he babbles. And he's decided that the very best way to express frustration is to scream at the top of his lungs--often without warning, so it terrifies me as I'm driving in blissful silence or going to the bathroom.
His newest habit is falling off the bed backward, scaring me to death.
Meanwhile, Tim and I have altitude sickness, so I assume the kids do, too. Nobody is adjusting to being home very well. Routines don't stay so routine when you leave them behind for three or four months.
Caleb has been touchy, picking on the other kids, shoving his hands or toys into our faces, and crying at the weirdest things ("Anda reached the spoon drawer first--now nobody will get to eat ever again!"). We had a serious heartbreak for him today when we couldn't get to the library on time.
Anda is feeling creative. At least she's being pleasant to live with, but also messy as she goes from project to project, leaving stuffed toys lined up in the kitchen while she washes dishes in the bathroom after she's cut pictures out of magazines and lined up toy trains down the hall and colored pictures sitting in a pile of dumped out crayons, etc. I don't have the energy to keep up, so I've resorted to trying to only step on things that won't break or that I really wanted to get rid of anyway, since I can't really see the floor in several rooms. Unfortunately, in all this creativity, she was playing a game with Baby Kitty, and now Baby Kitty is missing. She got hidden or put to bed somewhere, and we've spent days searching the messes for her. No good. We're also missing two large library books. Also not good. She also waits until I find a quiet second and pick up my laptop, and then, just as soon as I figure out the right next line to type, she comes over and asks to be held. Right then. Never any other time. So I have to put everything away and hold her. Right now she's crying because she can't get the crayon off the picture she colored to put a lighter shade of yellow on, now that she's finally found the right yellow crayon, after 8 hours of looking.
It seems like nobody has going potty figured out yet, either. Everyone except Tim makes me wipe them. Anda makes me stand in the bathroom with her while she goes potty--and I hate standing up.
And the tummy baby? He alternately makes me crave weird things (beets, canned spinach, mexican food, etc.) and averse to weird things (all sugar most of the time, all food sometimes). He makes me nauseated most of the day. I haven't thrown up yet, but I got awfully close when I took out the garbage today. Riding more than one block in the car makes me sick as sick can be--every motion seems exaggerated to me. It's as bad as riding in the car when you're in labor (one of the worst repeated experiences in my life, I might add--bad enough that next time I might walk the two blocks to the hospital instead). Also the baby robs me of my energy, stamina, ability to stay awake at all, patience, tolerance for pain or surprise or noise or heat or cold or discomfort of any kind, makes me hormonal and mean (oooh, aren't you glad you all live 9 hours away?). Oh, and heartburn? Let's not even go there. Also, he's made it uncomfortable to wear my regular clothes--not because they are too smalll, but because anything touching my abdomen makes me want to puke--so I'm into maternity clothes already, and I'm not even 8 weeks along yet. Maybe I'll go for skirts and dresses for a few weeks, still. Maternity clothes are hugely too big.
So why is this called the Miracle of Children? Because they're a pain in so many ways--nobody can eat, sleep, pee, get dressed, talk, play, or breathe without my involvement--but, for all the lack of, oh, everything that I deal with (time, energy, money, space, etc.), I wouldn't trade them for anything. I would be devastated if anything serious happened to any of them. The miracle of children, as far as I can tell, is that despite all the bad stuff, we love them with all our hearts, even when they are making us throw up every morning, or when they all decide to coordinate their crying in different rooms.
For all the trouble, the kids are truly the most valuable thing I have, or have done, or will ever do.
And now I have to stop writing and go take care of all of them, and maybe stop at least some of the tears.
For dinner tonight: tomato soup with cheese and oyster crackers. Second course, two hours later: boiled beets with sauteed beet greens on the side. Hey, I'm pregnant.
I wrote half of this, and then, as if to illustrate my point, Daniel hit Delete for me and shut the whole thing off, and I lost it all.
Last night Dan smacked my nose with his head so hard that I heard it crack. Today it's all bruised and sore.
Daniel still has eczema on his ankles, so any time he can get his socks off, he sits on the floor and scratches his ankles and cries. Then he cries some more when we put lotion and socks back on. Can't win that one.
Daniel has also decided that he's a grown-up now, and he refuses to sit in his high chair. The trouble is, he's too little for a regular chair, and he doesn't have enough experience with them to not fall off if he stands up to reach his food. To complicate things, he's also decided that we can't feed him. He has to do it himself--with grown-up sized utensils, which he also lacks experience in. Consequently, he spends most of the meal flinging food all over the kitchen, and then gives up and either buries his face in what's left or digs his little hands in and takes fistfuls, which he shoves into his mouth and all over his face. We've finally taken to putting a variety of foods in a pie pan on the floor and letting him eat dog-style. His preference, not mine.
Daniel also has decided that it is extremely frustrating that he can't go down stairs and that we can't understand the long paragraphs that he babbles. And he's decided that the very best way to express frustration is to scream at the top of his lungs--often without warning, so it terrifies me as I'm driving in blissful silence or going to the bathroom.
His newest habit is falling off the bed backward, scaring me to death.
Meanwhile, Tim and I have altitude sickness, so I assume the kids do, too. Nobody is adjusting to being home very well. Routines don't stay so routine when you leave them behind for three or four months.
Caleb has been touchy, picking on the other kids, shoving his hands or toys into our faces, and crying at the weirdest things ("Anda reached the spoon drawer first--now nobody will get to eat ever again!"). We had a serious heartbreak for him today when we couldn't get to the library on time.
Anda is feeling creative. At least she's being pleasant to live with, but also messy as she goes from project to project, leaving stuffed toys lined up in the kitchen while she washes dishes in the bathroom after she's cut pictures out of magazines and lined up toy trains down the hall and colored pictures sitting in a pile of dumped out crayons, etc. I don't have the energy to keep up, so I've resorted to trying to only step on things that won't break or that I really wanted to get rid of anyway, since I can't really see the floor in several rooms. Unfortunately, in all this creativity, she was playing a game with Baby Kitty, and now Baby Kitty is missing. She got hidden or put to bed somewhere, and we've spent days searching the messes for her. No good. We're also missing two large library books. Also not good. She also waits until I find a quiet second and pick up my laptop, and then, just as soon as I figure out the right next line to type, she comes over and asks to be held. Right then. Never any other time. So I have to put everything away and hold her. Right now she's crying because she can't get the crayon off the picture she colored to put a lighter shade of yellow on, now that she's finally found the right yellow crayon, after 8 hours of looking.
It seems like nobody has going potty figured out yet, either. Everyone except Tim makes me wipe them. Anda makes me stand in the bathroom with her while she goes potty--and I hate standing up.
And the tummy baby? He alternately makes me crave weird things (beets, canned spinach, mexican food, etc.) and averse to weird things (all sugar most of the time, all food sometimes). He makes me nauseated most of the day. I haven't thrown up yet, but I got awfully close when I took out the garbage today. Riding more than one block in the car makes me sick as sick can be--every motion seems exaggerated to me. It's as bad as riding in the car when you're in labor (one of the worst repeated experiences in my life, I might add--bad enough that next time I might walk the two blocks to the hospital instead). Also the baby robs me of my energy, stamina, ability to stay awake at all, patience, tolerance for pain or surprise or noise or heat or cold or discomfort of any kind, makes me hormonal and mean (oooh, aren't you glad you all live 9 hours away?). Oh, and heartburn? Let's not even go there. Also, he's made it uncomfortable to wear my regular clothes--not because they are too smalll, but because anything touching my abdomen makes me want to puke--so I'm into maternity clothes already, and I'm not even 8 weeks along yet. Maybe I'll go for skirts and dresses for a few weeks, still. Maternity clothes are hugely too big.
So why is this called the Miracle of Children? Because they're a pain in so many ways--nobody can eat, sleep, pee, get dressed, talk, play, or breathe without my involvement--but, for all the lack of, oh, everything that I deal with (time, energy, money, space, etc.), I wouldn't trade them for anything. I would be devastated if anything serious happened to any of them. The miracle of children, as far as I can tell, is that despite all the bad stuff, we love them with all our hearts, even when they are making us throw up every morning, or when they all decide to coordinate their crying in different rooms.
For all the trouble, the kids are truly the most valuable thing I have, or have done, or will ever do.
And now I have to stop writing and go take care of all of them, and maybe stop at least some of the tears.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Recipes: Restaurant-style chicken chimis; pudding; cake frosting
I think I'm almost caught up with stuff I wrote on our last trip. That would be good. This part is just for fun (and for Mary--she and I trade great recipes a lot).
Dinner tonight--a recipe I invented:
Smothered Chicken Chimichangas
3 boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 can petite cut diced tomatoes, drained
1 can diced green chilies, drained
1 pkt mild taco seasoning
1/4 c sour cream
1 c grated cheese
Tortillas
Oil for frying
Toppings to smother it with (refried beans, mexican rice, shredded lettuce, sour cream, guacamole, salsa, cheese, etc.)
Cook the chicken (I boil it, Mom would Foreman Grill it). Mix tomatoes, chilies, taco seasoning, sour cream, and cheese in a pot. Shred chicken into pot; stir until well mixed. Put some (not too much, but it depends on the size of your tortillas) of this mixture into the middle of each tortilla. Fold ends in and roll like for a burrito. Stick a wooden toothpick in at an angle to keep it closed. Heat oil in a large frying pan, pot, or deep fryer until hot. Put the chimis into the oil and fry until golden, turning once or twice. Drain on paper towels. Remember to remove the toothpicks before you serve them. Put in the center of a plate and smother with toppings. Serve warm.
Dessert I'd like to try but was worn out by the time dinner was done:
Cookies and Cream Mock Mousse (recipe courtesy Kraft.com)
8 Oreos
2 c cold milk
1 pkg vanilla pudding
1/2 c cool whip
Crush cookies. Mix up pudding as instructed on box. Gently stir in crushed cookies and cool whip. Serve with additional cookies and cool whip on top if desired.
If you try it, let me know how it worked. I'm thinking it would also be good with chocolate pudding and chocolate-mint oreos. Or maybe white chocolate pudding instead of vanilla....hmmm...the possibilities are endless.
This is another recipe I've modified from several sources that has become a family favorite. You'll never use powdered sugar to make cake frosting again.
Cake Frosting:
1 pkg pudding
1 c milk
1 tub cool whip
Whisk together pudding and milk. Gently fold in cool whip. Frost completely cooled cake--it even can be used between layers. Let set up in fridge for at least 15 minutes. If you use vanilla pudding, you can layer it in a 9x13 cake pan with graham crackers between the layers and top with melted chocolate glaze. Let it set up, and you have eclair cake. Use chocolate pudding, and you have mousse.
Dinner tonight--a recipe I invented:
Smothered Chicken Chimichangas
3 boneless skinless chicken breasts
1 can petite cut diced tomatoes, drained
1 can diced green chilies, drained
1 pkt mild taco seasoning
1/4 c sour cream
1 c grated cheese
Tortillas
Oil for frying
Toppings to smother it with (refried beans, mexican rice, shredded lettuce, sour cream, guacamole, salsa, cheese, etc.)
Cook the chicken (I boil it, Mom would Foreman Grill it). Mix tomatoes, chilies, taco seasoning, sour cream, and cheese in a pot. Shred chicken into pot; stir until well mixed. Put some (not too much, but it depends on the size of your tortillas) of this mixture into the middle of each tortilla. Fold ends in and roll like for a burrito. Stick a wooden toothpick in at an angle to keep it closed. Heat oil in a large frying pan, pot, or deep fryer until hot. Put the chimis into the oil and fry until golden, turning once or twice. Drain on paper towels. Remember to remove the toothpicks before you serve them. Put in the center of a plate and smother with toppings. Serve warm.
Dessert I'd like to try but was worn out by the time dinner was done:
Cookies and Cream Mock Mousse (recipe courtesy Kraft.com)
8 Oreos
2 c cold milk
1 pkg vanilla pudding
1/2 c cool whip
Crush cookies. Mix up pudding as instructed on box. Gently stir in crushed cookies and cool whip. Serve with additional cookies and cool whip on top if desired.
If you try it, let me know how it worked. I'm thinking it would also be good with chocolate pudding and chocolate-mint oreos. Or maybe white chocolate pudding instead of vanilla....hmmm...the possibilities are endless.
This is another recipe I've modified from several sources that has become a family favorite. You'll never use powdered sugar to make cake frosting again.
Cake Frosting:
1 pkg pudding
1 c milk
1 tub cool whip
Whisk together pudding and milk. Gently fold in cool whip. Frost completely cooled cake--it even can be used between layers. Let set up in fridge for at least 15 minutes. If you use vanilla pudding, you can layer it in a 9x13 cake pan with graham crackers between the layers and top with melted chocolate glaze. Let it set up, and you have eclair cake. Use chocolate pudding, and you have mousse.
Agents, Doctors, and Three Year Olds
We arrived. We came home. It's a rather long drive.
The very next day, I had my first pregnancy checkup--it's always nasty, long, and uncomfortable. They even drew six vials of blood (every woman in Colorado is supposed to get both an HIV test and a Cystic Fibrosis Carrier Screen when they are pregnant). But, to make up for it, they did an ultrasound. We have only one baby (what a relief) and it has a heart beat (also a relief). So now the kids are talking about "When Madeline comes." I keep asking, "What if it's a boy?" and they say, "Madeline is a girl's name." Aaaah, the logic of three year olds.
I spent all day yesterday agonizing over the cover letter that was supposed to go with my sample 30 pages that I finally got submitted to Nelson Literary Agency. It was hard because she wanted the same things that were in the query letter, but they didn't sound right as a cover letter for requested material. So I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote and finally got it right, I think, after doing some praying over it (funny how that works even on things that may be trivial, and certainly aren't "spiritual" in nature). So the pages went off today, despite the fact that I suddenly became convinced that everything I've written is garbage, especially the first fifteen pages. It didn't help that the next two responses I got from agents were "No thanks."
A note on agents: They beg and plead and beg and instruct and beg some more for new authors to act professionally. But some of them don't treat new authors professionally. For example, DMLA, a very well-established, large agency in New York, sent me a form rejection letter that was long, patronizing, condescending, and wordy. Okay, wordy isn't a bad thing, but the gist of the letter was "We don't want anything to do with you, but, sweet innocent baby, you should keep following your dreams and reaching for the stars because maybe somebody is stupid enough to want to work with you, if you improve everything you write." I preferred the response I got from Rachel Vater, also a biggie in the industry: "I am not interested in this right now, but that doesn't mean some other agent won't be."
My question, though, is why do they feel compelled to "soften" the rejection and encourage writers to not give up? Everything I've read has made it abundantly clear that the trick is finding the "Match"--someone who likes what you write and can sell it--and that a rejection is not necessarily a personal comment, but merely an expression of a mismatch (usually because they don't sell what you've written.) That said, most agents have also stated that they reject 99% of the queries sent to them--because 90% are poorly written, don't approach what they specialize in, or are just plain bad. I guess their "nice" form rejections are a way to soften the accusations they frequently get of destroying people's "art". I think maybe artists are too sensitive. It's a business, publishing.
So, my conclusion to all this: I hope I'm in the 9% that actually CAN write, and then it's just a matter of finding a match for my work with someone who knows the industry insiders who publish that stuff. Also, I'm glad I'm not an agent. I hate telling people they didn't make the team. Despite my fears that my work is in the 90% that is really crappy, I did send the pages to Kristin Nelson. Maybe she'll like them.
Meanwhile, the almost constant nausea I feel when I'm riding in Melody (or even driving) is preventing me from taking the next tour with moosebutter, and I guess I'm grateful. I didn't relish the idea of taking three-and-a-half little ones to Las Vegas. We'll see about back East.
The very next day, I had my first pregnancy checkup--it's always nasty, long, and uncomfortable. They even drew six vials of blood (every woman in Colorado is supposed to get both an HIV test and a Cystic Fibrosis Carrier Screen when they are pregnant). But, to make up for it, they did an ultrasound. We have only one baby (what a relief) and it has a heart beat (also a relief). So now the kids are talking about "When Madeline comes." I keep asking, "What if it's a boy?" and they say, "Madeline is a girl's name." Aaaah, the logic of three year olds.
I spent all day yesterday agonizing over the cover letter that was supposed to go with my sample 30 pages that I finally got submitted to Nelson Literary Agency. It was hard because she wanted the same things that were in the query letter, but they didn't sound right as a cover letter for requested material. So I rewrote and rewrote and rewrote and finally got it right, I think, after doing some praying over it (funny how that works even on things that may be trivial, and certainly aren't "spiritual" in nature). So the pages went off today, despite the fact that I suddenly became convinced that everything I've written is garbage, especially the first fifteen pages. It didn't help that the next two responses I got from agents were "No thanks."
A note on agents: They beg and plead and beg and instruct and beg some more for new authors to act professionally. But some of them don't treat new authors professionally. For example, DMLA, a very well-established, large agency in New York, sent me a form rejection letter that was long, patronizing, condescending, and wordy. Okay, wordy isn't a bad thing, but the gist of the letter was "We don't want anything to do with you, but, sweet innocent baby, you should keep following your dreams and reaching for the stars because maybe somebody is stupid enough to want to work with you, if you improve everything you write." I preferred the response I got from Rachel Vater, also a biggie in the industry: "I am not interested in this right now, but that doesn't mean some other agent won't be."
My question, though, is why do they feel compelled to "soften" the rejection and encourage writers to not give up? Everything I've read has made it abundantly clear that the trick is finding the "Match"--someone who likes what you write and can sell it--and that a rejection is not necessarily a personal comment, but merely an expression of a mismatch (usually because they don't sell what you've written.) That said, most agents have also stated that they reject 99% of the queries sent to them--because 90% are poorly written, don't approach what they specialize in, or are just plain bad. I guess their "nice" form rejections are a way to soften the accusations they frequently get of destroying people's "art". I think maybe artists are too sensitive. It's a business, publishing.
So, my conclusion to all this: I hope I'm in the 9% that actually CAN write, and then it's just a matter of finding a match for my work with someone who knows the industry insiders who publish that stuff. Also, I'm glad I'm not an agent. I hate telling people they didn't make the team. Despite my fears that my work is in the 90% that is really crappy, I did send the pages to Kristin Nelson. Maybe she'll like them.
Meanwhile, the almost constant nausea I feel when I'm riding in Melody (or even driving) is preventing me from taking the next tour with moosebutter, and I guess I'm grateful. I didn't relish the idea of taking three-and-a-half little ones to Las Vegas. We'll see about back East.
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