Judith Coughlin

My Remodel

2012-01-19T08:17:00.001-05:00

If you've been in my house, you would know there's a hole in the ceiling on the way down to the basement. But if you've visited recently, you would know that hole is gone. Gone baby, gone. It only took me three years.

Apparently, the previous owners, tired of the squeaking stairs, had removed the drywall so they could pound in a few shims in an attempt to quiet things. And, they never put it back. When I moved in, I immediately covered the hole with a piece of white paper, something like the shot below. Except, the wall was white and I used a staple gun.

It was a quick fix, but it lasted a little too long.

Here's a couple of shots of it now. My sister bought the fabric in SF's Japan town.

I still have some touch up to do. Hopefully it won't take me another three years. But in the meantime, I'm loving it!!

My Hero, Jonah Mowry

2011-12-07T08:20:00.000-05:00

While reading the news this morning, I found Jonah. I read his words and listened to his story. And I cried.

Then I saw the video responses and cried some more.

Not because of the hate, but because of the love.

Thank you, Jonah, for sharing. For sharing your story. For sharing your pain, your resilience, and your courage. I don't know how we got here either, but armed with your message, we will move forward. I believe in the power of one, and I believe in you.

Thanks you.

Here is the report...

By msnbc.com
The mother of a gay teen, who gained national attention after he posted a tearful video about being bullied, said she and her 14-year-old son are grateful for the outpouring of support.
"There are a lot of people that are giving their warm wishes and uplifting Jonah, and I think that's good," Peggy Sue Mowry told ABC News on Tuesday, adding, "I am proud of the responses we've gotten from people."
Jonah's video, titled "Whats goin on....," has gone viral since it was first uploaded in August, gaining more than 5 million views and support from celebrities such as Lady Gaga, Jane Lynch and Zooey Deschanel.
In the video, Jonah is seen in a dark room holding up flash cards with words and phrases, such as "Suicide was an option many times," "I get bullied everyday" and "I am tired of being torn down." The video was taped at 4 a.m. before Jonah had headed off to school, according to a post on YouTube.
The clip runs 4 minutes, 35 seconds, and at the end Jonah shares a message of hope: "I'm not going anywhere, because I'm stronger than that. I have a million reasons to be here."
A Facebook page dedicated to Jonah said, "We could all learn a good lesson from this kid. Stay strong Jonah!"
On that page, Jonah also posted his gratitude to supporters.
"I looked thru the messages, and I am happy to see so many people supporting this cause. THANK YOU! In the same time, I am shocked to realize how much HATE is out there. How did we get here? How many children has to die in order to see a change?" he posted on Monday.
On Tuesday, his post read: "Every child deserves to be happy...even at school."

Soup is liquid comfort. ~Author Unknown

2011-11-21T18:58:00.005-05:00

My feelings exactly.

There's nothing I like more than coming in from the cold

to a kitchen that smells of soup.

For one of my favorites, I simmer

carrots, onions & potatoes

with napa cabbage

cut slices of bread

to make croutons

and when I join them all together,
I am in love.

here's the recipe...

potato cabbage soup

3 tablespoon olive oil

1 head of thinly sliced napa

2 large chopped potatoes

1 medium chopped onion

2 chopped carrots

1 stalk chopped celery

2 cloves minced garlic

8 cups chicken (or vegetable) broth

1 bay leaf

1 teaspoon salt

In a large pot over medium heat, heat 2Tbs olive oil, adding the potatoes in small batches until they brown. Then remove the potatoes and add the remaining olive oil, followed by the napa, onion, carrot, celery and garlic, sauteing the mixture until the onion are translucent. Then add your broth, bay leaf, salt, and potatoes. Cover the pot, bring everything to a boil, then lower the temperature to simmer for
2 1/2 hours, stirring occasionally.
At the last possible moment, make your croutons. If you make them any sooner, you will eat them all and there will be none left for your soup.

croutons
cubed bread
1 Tbs dried basil
1 Tbs garlic
3 Tbs olive oil
toss everything together
arrange in a pan
bake at 350 until crunchy

I like to top my bowl with a handful of croutons, a slice of aged cheddar, and a sprinkle of Parmesan.
My husband likes his with a spoonful of crumbled sweet Italian sausage in the bottom.

I hope you enjoy my recipe.

I could eat it every single day.

“Good soup is one of the prime ingredients of good living. For soup can do more to lift the spirits and stimulate the appetite than any other one dish.”
Louis P. De Gouy, ‘The Soup Book’ (1949)

cornucopias

2011-11-16T21:00:00.006-05:00

I recently joined our town's garden club. Went to my third meeting today. Made a cornucopia. The ladies in charge had pre-purchased all the supplies, soaked the oasis and attached a little dish for the oasis to sit in. All I had to do was add some flowers--"Decoratively" the head honcho giving the demonstration said.

So I gathered my gear and went to work. Thought I was doing pretty well until I stood back and looked around. Turns out, my arrangement was not the overflowing horn of plenty the rest of the girls were making, but something a whole lot closer to a cannoli. A stuffed cannoli that kept rolling around the table, leaking water everywhere, all because I didn't secure my little squash correctly. Apparently, the squash is the anchor for the whole apparatus. Head honcho saved me by ripping out everything, securing the errant vegetable and then handing the bits and pieces back me to, "Try again," she said.

anchor squash, so not attractive

So, I took up my shears and gave it another go--Manchurian Candidate flashing through my mind the whole time--and finished up with something that looked a whole lot like the one I started with. And guess what? No praise at all. Unless you count eye rolling.

Now, to be fair, I should have been up front about a few things. First off, I did not recreate the aforementioned cannoli on purpose, and secondly, plants and I are not on friendly terms. Not at all. In fact, I habitually kill them. The reason I joined garden club was because I needed a support group.

And I would have explained all that, only the garden ladies are all my mother's age. So I handle their criticism/input the same as I handle my mother's. I ignore it. Not that it matters, the truth will come out eventually.

The spring bulbs we potted last month, mine are already sprouting.

Giving Thanks

2011-11-12T09:54:00.003-05:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Hands down. A house full of friends, family, the odd guest you were forced to invite. I love cooking for days, filling the table with dishes of yum, gathering around, giving thanks and making toasts. There's something spiritual--yes, spiritual--about sharing meal, sharing stories, laughter. And finding out that your odd guest, was the hit of the party.

To celebrate, I'm sharing a free download. In my house, it will be framed and placed next to the drinks table.

Free Download

pan dulce yum!

2011-11-08T07:14:00.004-05:00

A couple of weeks ago my husband took a trip to San Antonio. Brought me back a present, big box of pan dulce. Yum! I used to ask him to bring me linens when he went out of town. I know, what was I thinking, asking for something I had to wash and iron? Pan dulce is so much better. Now I can just sit back and snack. And when I’m done, all I have to do is wipe the sugar sprinkles off the front of my shirt, and I’m good to go.

If you don’t know, pan dulce is not your average bag of donuts. First and foremost, it’s bigger. That way you can eat just the one. won't even need to sneak the toppings off another (because eating just toppings isn’t anything close to eating fattening.) The second best thing about pan dulce, it’s not as sweet as a donut. Now the carmel pecan at the bottom left, that’s not any pan ducle I've ever seen before. That’s something different. I was saving it for last. Thought it would exceptionally good with a rich dark cup of coffee. Didn’t get a bite. Our dog Riley took climbed on the table, popped open the box, and wolfed it down. Didn’t touch the others, perro mudo, dumb dog.

check it out...

Like a Dawg

2011-09-10T16:21:00.006-04:00

I'm always telling my kids, School is not a fashion show. That I don't care their friends think different. They are there to learn. School is a gift. They need to focus. They need to forget about all that texting and IMing, and every other teenage time suck I'm not hip to, and learn.

I showed them the clip of Coastal Carolina's football coach David Bennett today. From now on, I'm telling them they just need to act more like a dawg and get the job done.

More Sister Love

2011-08-26T16:42:00.010-04:00

My sisters are so creative. This month one is launching a new website while another is opening a quilt store. They're always up to something.

Sew Katie Jean is my younger sister's store. It's in CA. I'm in MA. Not much I could do to help, but when Katie said she needed some projects for display, I volunteered. Here's the fabric she sent...

Stared at them for a good week. I mean, could they be any different? Inspiration was slow in coming, but when it finally hit, words were leading the way.

When I wasn't sewing, I was writing. Creativity breeding creativity. Pillows breeding chapters. Who knew?

A Favor, and then some

2011-07-25T09:39:00.025-04:00

Late Sunday night, I sent off my latest WIP to my agent. Hitting the send button, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My last read-through, was excruciating. I could have replaced every single word. The whole thing sounded like a load of crap, wet and stinking to high heaven. I was so worried, I called both sisters. Told them I needed a favor of all favors, A drop-everything-including-the-child-you’re-holding favor. That I needed them to reread my book immediately. The idea didn’t go over too well. One was in the middle of buying a new house, while the other was opening a new store. But after much middle-sister whining, I finally settled for a run-through of the opening.

And thank God, they loved it. I made sure. We went though every sentence—every word—just to be sure it struck all the right notes. Sisters are great for that sort of analysis. They don’t hold back. If something even whiffs of rubbish, they say so. They come straight out with it. Every writer should have at least one.
To thank them, I'm giving them aprons resewn from bits and pieces of a Moda shopping bag and apron we received on our Spring Quilt Market weekend. I didn’t go over the top with gratitude. I know they’ll be calling for a payback favor soon.

The bag and apron before...

image curtesy of www.boltneighborhood.com

and after...

Amazing Diabolo Kids

2011-06-09T08:31:00.009-04:00

Absolutely amazing!

Spring Salads

2011-06-02T09:11:00.027-04:00

Here’s how dinner usually goes in my house:

Mom, what’s for dinner?
Food.
What kind of food?
Good food.
But now that the sun is shining and winter is over and I am happy to be making something that doesn’t involve braising at 400 degrees for six hours just to keep me warm, it goes something like this:
Mom, are you making salad?
Definitely.
What else?
You can chew on your leg.

This time of year, I am in love with fresh herbs and vegetables. I want to juice oranges and crush tomatoes. I want my hands to smell of heady basil and pungent garlic. I want to strip broccoli stalks of their bark and slice them like chips to be dipped in homemade buttermilk dressing. I want to immense myself in the succulence of spring, body and soul.

Here's a few of our fav's...

curried chicken salad

Ingredients:
4 chicken breasts, cubed
½ cup chopped celery
½ cup chopped red onion
handful grapes, halved
handful of roasted almonds
small handful of raisens
¼ cup chopped dried mango
Dressing:
½ cup mayonnaise
3 tbs curry
salt and pepper
Directions: mix the dressing,
add everything but the almonds
and chill for a good hour to allow the mango and raisins time to soften.

mediterranean salad

Ingredients: 
handful kalamata olives 

handful grape tomatoes

small jar of marinated baby artichoke hearts

 ½ cup crumbled basil feta 

¼ of a red onion, thinly sliced with a vegetable peeler 

½ cup of iceberg lettuce for the crunch

 Good Seasons Italian dressing Toss and enjoy!

whatever is in the fridge

Dressing:
¼ cup balsamic vinegar
¾ cup virgin olive oil
1 tbs brown sugar
1 clove chopped garlic
freshly ground black pepper

This time it was tomatoes, olives, red onion, mozzarella and roasted peas and fresh basil
What makes this salad so good, is that the dressing is added early in the afternoon to allow the different ingredients to get to know each other, share their flavor, and especially, for the tomatoes to sweat some of the juice. I like to mix the dressing in the bowl first, then toss in the tomatoes and follow with the rest of the ingredients.

Crazy Fun at Spring Quilt Market

2011-05-22T20:58:00.005-04:00

That's us in the bottom picture!!

International Quilt Market-Spring 2011

2011-05-17T20:10:00.171-04:00

At market with my sisters. Mary's sporting the temp tatt on her boob, artwork of Aneela Hoey, fabric designer, quilter, tattoo artist to the stars.

My sisters, have attended for years, but it was my cherry on the line this time. And it was freaking amazing. First thing you have to know, I don’t quilt. I sew. Curtains, tablecloths, napkins. Square things. I’ve made a few skirts and dresses, some baby clothes, but they were years back. My mother taught all of us to sew. She’s an amazing seamstress. Made her wedding dress, most of our Easter and Christmas and prom dresses. And we wore them because we liked them. Also because it was either that or nothing, but we like them first. But my sisters took after my mother. They can grab a piece of fabric, cut it, fold it, origami it, run thread through it at speeds that would have made Mario Andretti weep, and voila, loveliness.

Anyway, I swing into Salt Lake the day after those two and my younger sister wants to meet me at the hotel and walk me over to the convention. Said I might get lost. Found her demeanor kinda condescending. I mean, she is the little sister. I’m supposed to be holding her hand. Besides, I’ve been around. I’ve been to BEA, for cripes sake. But I humor her. It’s her arena. I smile. I thank her. Compliment her choice in footwear, snarkily (she’s wearing comfort flats) and off we go.

And then we round the bend, and holy Moda what a party. Before we are even on the floor, I assaulted in waves and waves of color. There are quilts and purses, dresses and aprons, pillows and pinwheels, floral fabrics are paired with stripes and bordered with paisley and then trimmed in gingham and toile and dots. And they are gorgeous. I mean really beautiful.

Not only are they works of art, but they are meticulously sewn. Some of the patterns are so complicated, they must have been an engineering nightmare to piece together. More than a few of the quilters, are in fact, engineers.

And six hours later, after walking through miles and miles of eye candy, my feet are killing me, and I’m begging my sister to switch shoes with me. By the next day, I’ve designed a quilting product and am pitching it to a major notions supplier. By my final day, I have a suitcase full of fabric, patterns and notions, and am sketching out my first quilt. All squares.

Some of my favorites...

unknown artist, lovely sentiment

Joining Army for Japan

2011-04-11T07:47:00.004-04:00

One Day Without Shoes 5 April

2011-04-04T19:50:00.004-04:00

Who could resist such a smile?

One Day Without Shoes is a global event designed to encourage people to go barefoot for a day to draw attention to the plight of children in developing nations who face injury, illness and missed opportunity because they don't have adequate protection.

Check it out...One Day Without Shoes

Army For Japan

2011-03-14T14:07:00.012-04:00

A little help...

Japanese media reported at least 1,000 people are presumed dead from Friday's massive 8.9 earthquake, most drowned by the wall of water that swept across the northeast coast of the island nation. The Salvation Army in Japan is responding to the earthquake and tsunami that brought devastation to the north of the country. Joshua Smith from ( Hydro74 ) has designed a shirt to help raise funding and awareness for those affected by the disaster. The Japanese Kanji on the shirt translates to "Save World Army."

100% of the proceeds of the sales of this shirt will go toward The Salvation Army's relief efforts in Japan!!

For Fun...

2011-03-09T21:11:00.003-05:00

So not my house

Fake It 'Til I Make It

2011-03-03T09:58:00.007-05:00

calvinandhobbes

In the morning, while having my coffee, while trying to make peace with the world, keep my eyes open, listen to the latest list of demands from my teenage kids for rides, money, food, a roof over their heads, I read blogs. After the kids are out the door, it’s my writing time, so it’s either multitask or go without. I multitask. (I suck at it, but I choose it.)

Here’s what I do, I check out a blog I like to follow. Look at their first post, read their first comment, and then go to that commenter’s blog. I don’t do any commenting myself. I can’t spell yet. I can’t connect two thoughts yet. I have coffee spilled on my robe because my hand has forgotten where my mouth is located. I just read.

And what do I find, an inordinate amount of writers spending their days querying and not writing. Now, who the he## came up with that brilliant idea? Where did that fountain of wisdom spout? Just asking. I totally understand, if you don’t query, doesn’t matter what you write. But don’t exchange one for the other. Keep writing. Keep moving through your story. Keep kneading your work. You are a writer. Writers write. It’s what we do best and it’s the most important part of what we do. Writing, more than anything else, is what will get us published. Not query letters. If you’ve ever had to read through a stack of resumes, you know this. They all sound the same. You flip the page and get onto the interesting stuff. More interested in the writing, than a description of the writing.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no book in my hands. I am not published. I am absolutely no expert. (Not that you thought for one minute I was. Just pointing out that I agree with you.) So, what am I trying to say? Just what am I jabbering on about this time? Good writing will get you over the finish line. It’s the only thing that will. Don’t let your real work slide into the background.

Writers write.

There. That felt good.

Any advice you want to share?

Sister Love

2011-02-23T08:45:00.004-05:00

Here are two of my three sisters and my mother. My younger sister Katie, second from left has an new article on her blog, sister love. She was inspired after reading Shanghai Girls by Lisa See. Go on over and check it out. She mentions me. I'm her favorite.

vintagekatiejean

My Inspiration Board

2011-02-07T08:08:00.002-05:00

Images: Life Dorothea Lange

Here's my Inspiration Board. And, I have to say, it's definitely done its job. My characters have taken shape. They're calling out their stories, and I've been pounding away at the keys.

Do you find it intriguing?
Do you see a story here?

While Unwinding...

2011-01-25T21:37:00.006-05:00

I saw something beautiful and was reminded, there is plenty of time in the world to write. Maybe not today, but there is time enough.

Here is something beautiful from...

Vanishing Cultures Photography

Guizhou-China

Borana-southern Ethiopia

Miao-China

Dancer-Canada

Kalash-Pakistan

I'm also working on an inspiration board to help me visualize my story. Do you find pictures helpful as well or is your work too nebulas to constrain?

A Habit, of Sorts

2011-01-18T07:36:00.002-05:00

I have something to share, I don't get a good night sleep without a giant piece of plastic wedged in my mouth. You see, when I'm stressed, I'm a hellacious grinder.

It's been my experience, that as lovely as writing is--spinning a tale, submitting, rereads, editing--rewriting sucks. Gone is all the, high-fiving, cartwheel-turning, happy-dancing you have been doing. It's all hello to, What was I smoking? I mean, reading through my stuff what I thought was winsome prose, only found gibberish.

Look, Jane, look. Look, Dick, Look. See Sally, Jane? See Sally, Dick? And you're thinking what the heck? Where did this sh#% come from? Did I write this, because this isn't even close to what I remember pounding out.

So last week, after many hours spent rewriting, followed by very little sleep, I woke to find I had bit my teeth guard in two. Chomped right through it. But that wasn't all, I also remembered what I dreamt, that I had been rushing to hospital to deliver my baby but every time I arrived, they said I wasn't ready. Sent me home.

So not only am I biting through titanium plastic, I'm birthing, my own book. Okay, it is just in my dreams, but that's got to count for something.

But for the sake of the few teeth I have left, I need to give it a rest. I do, but I can't. I've tried to meditate, but my mind just kept slipping back to my work. I would be deep in my mantra, but inside, my mind would be working through my endgame, bouncing ideas off one another. Really sh#@ hot ideas. I've struck some writing vein, and I just can't seem to lay off. Asleep or awake, crazy or crazier, it seems I'm just going to have to surf it, ride the wave.

What about you?
How to you decompress? and create?
How do you stay loose? and get your game on?

Our Writing Resolutions

2011-01-10T08:50:00.009-05:00

Linda Carter Holman

My resolutions:

1. Write. It’s who we are. It’s what we do. Yes, we are also parents, spouses, children and siblings, but these roles are not secondary to our writing, nor is our writing to them. They are interdependent. As one grows, deepens, develops, so does the other.

2. Don’t write. Don’t blog. Don’t do anything. Refresh. Remember that just because we can, it’s also good for us not to. To turn off. To relax. To breathe and experience those things we would be too busy to notice otherwise.

3. Remember. That one day, we will have moved on. One day we will be sitting exactly where we are now, but our book will be next to us. Most likely we will carry it everywhere. We will have an agent and be published. Our dream will have been achieved, and we will have another. Another book, another love, another goal. It is achievable. We will make it happen.

Three is a short list. There should be more. I have seen a lot of posts lately, New Years resolutions. Here's a few to get thing rolling...

Happy New Year & Happy Happiness

2011-01-03T17:26:00.012-05:00

I’m just back from AZ. Our family flew out to celebrate my in-laws 50 Anniversary. It was wonderful day. A wonderful week. I didn’t miss Massachusetts at all. I didn’t miss my kitchen. Didn’t miss my book. I didn’t even miss my pillow. For the first time in a long time I was able to let go of all the things that needed doing and just be. Was wonderful. I hope it lasts.

Santos & Estella then

My in-laws celebrated their anniversary at a favorite restaurant. A place we have visited often over the years. The food was wonderful, enchiladas with rice, beans, salsas and tacos. I slipped a few tortillas in my purse. Yes, I did! We had all attended mass earlier in the day. The presiding priest was only supposed to bless their marriage, but instead pressed them to renew their vows. He didn’t know they had already asked another priest to perfrom that particular ritual later the same evening. But they smiled and went along. They’re like that. Not just for the sake of a priest, but for just about everything. They are known for not making waves.

Santos & Estella now

I’m not. I’m not sure I would even wish to be. The concept has never been part of any of my resolutions. Probably wouldn’t make me a good writer, right? Most likely I wouldn’t feel this need to share my stories. Most likely would have kept them to myself, probably wouldn’t even have bothered typing them up, sending them out, Would have saved me the rejection, but not the happiness that has followed.

Okay. I'm rambling. Didn't mean to. What I meant to say is that 50 years isn't easy. Writing a book isn't easy. Getting an agent or a publisher or any of it. But when you get there, it all worth it. It's all wonderful and lovely and you cry and hug yourself and you do yours dance and you never, ever regret even the worst days that came along the way.

My sister-in-law, my daughter and myself moving and grooving--or somthing

One of my resolutions again this year is to hold my book. It's not my top resolution, but it's up there. What about you? Where place does your writing hold?
PS Wanna Blog Hop?

Baking vs Cooking

2010-12-10T16:08:00.016-05:00

Baked all day yesterday. Didn’t write one word. And don’t say that’s okay because baking is also creative because no freaking way is that true. Baking is the exact opposite of creative. I mean, if you don’t follow the recipe exactly your cookies come out looking like rocks, feeling like rocks, and probably tasting like rocks. Only you don’t know for sure because you’re not about to risk breaking a tooth to find out especially seeing as the one you dropped into the dog’s bowl bounced right back out again. Which should be no big deal seeing as most dogs don’t have a five second rule when it comes to chowing off the floor. Only it turns out yours has another rule called I am not eating rocks that look like sh*#, because all she does is sniff it and then look back at you like you are the sickest owner ever, tricking her like that. Especially seeing as she was the only one helping you out last week when you dropped that box of eggs on the floor.

But cooking, cooking is creative. It’s imaginative. You can be spontaneous. You don’t have to measure. There is no softball stage. You can make whatever kinda crapola you want and call it dinner. You can say, "Hey, that is exactly what my Chile Rellenos are supposed to taste like."

Dinner last night. So Yum...That's the relleno right next to the arroz amarillo. Okay. What's left of the relleno.

Chile Rellenos

3 fresh green chilies (Do not used canned. Unless you like the taste of the can. If that's the case, go for it.)

Monterey Jack cheese sliced in strips (Jalapeño Jack is really good)

1 egg, separated

1/4 c. all purpose flour

salt

oil

Place chilies on a foil-covered baking sheet and broil. Once they’ve blistered all over, remove them from the oven. Cover with another sheet of foil and pinch the sides closed allowing them to steam. After a good 10 minutes, remove the foil and peel and deseed them.

Next, beat the egg white until stiff peaks form. Fold in the yolk and a bit of salt. After dusting the chilies in flour, dip them in the batter and fry until they are golden.

You might want a toothpick to hold them closed. Helps if you overstuff them with cheese. Which I do.
What about you? Cook? Baker? Candlestick maker?

My Writing. My Not Writing.

2010-11-29T11:28:00.008-05:00

esty

Okay. So I haven’t blogged in forever. Maybe you’re thinking that’s because I have been writing. Nope. Wish I was, but no such luck.

You see, a few weeks ago I decided that I needed a break. That I deserved a break. Up to then, I had been writing like a maniac. Words were flying from my fingers non-stop. I was story-crazed. Getting up in the middle of a dead-on sleep when a phrase or plot line slipped into my dreams. It was so exiting I rushed right to the end of my story before I knew I where I was. Which would have been fine, only when I read through things, I found I had a lot of holes needing filling. A lot.

So I pulled it apart. Literally ripped it open like I would a dress I was sewing. I tore at it until every chapter lie sprayed and frayed around me. Had it in my mind I would just scoop these up, straighten things out, and begin again. Didn’t happen. I had lost my thread.

To fill my time, I redid my breezeway. And hoped. And prayed.

Here's the breezeway before...

And after.

It's nice, but I'd rather be writing.

Vivaldi Beautiful

2010-10-17T15:23:00.006-04:00

I live outside of Boston. North. It’s beautiful everywhere I look. Years ago I flew out here just to see these colors. The red, yellow, orange and pink. Resplendent is the word that continually crosses my mind driving down roads where the sun is low, where light and shadow alternate ubiquitously, where Vivaldi is the only thing worth listening to. It’s all wonderful until I see my lawn covered in browning debris and the show is over. Then I don’t admire those damn flora braggarts one bit.

I am in that same autumn stage with my writing right now. The beautiful prose is behind me and I am mucking through my manuscript word by word. It’s literary floor scrubbing. Its menial grunt work that is so tedious I can hear the ticking of my digital clock as though it’s a hammer on an anvil. Yet I do it, word by word, all the while wondering what possessed me to write such gibberish in the first place. That is, until I come across something I forgot I had written, some little tidbit so beautiful that I have to stand up (have been previously hunched over, chin controlling spacebar) and take a deep breath because the tears are coming fast. Because in that one brief moment I am freaking awesome. I am author. Oh yeah. That’s right. Doing the dance. But only for a minute, because then that hammer starts up again.

But it’s a wonderful minute.

How’s your writing going? Any Vivaldi for you?

Books let us into their souls and lay open to us the secrets of our own. ~William Hazlitt

2010-09-16T08:01:00.005-04:00

Sculpture by Matej Kren

Have I mentioned lately how I am in love with words? There are books whose passages live within me. I carry them around in my being. It’s not that I can recite them word for word. I can’t. It’s more like I’ve ingested the fluidity of their being. I imagine it to be a lot like using recreational drugs. When I feel them flowing through my system, I sit back and let them wash over me. And I am in awe.

“The town had a basketful of feelings good and bad about Joe’s positions and possessions, but none had the temerity to challenge him. They bowed down to him rather, because he was all of these things, and then again he was all of these things because the town bowed down."

The simplicity of this passage, the power of the image, it demands pause. If I could write one sentence like it in my lifetime, I would...well, I would try to write another.

How about you? Are there passages you carry within you?

Back from Hiatus

2010-08-25T16:24:00.011-04:00

I haven’t blogged in forever. I was busy with the Quince, but when that passed, I took up writing. It's been nonstop. I usually don’t write too much in the summer. My kids are out of school, and they’re always wanting things from me. Breakfast and packed lunches and rides and money. Only this year our lives took a bit of a turn. This year my kids became involved in things that didn’t require parental supervision. I dropped them off and picked them up. They went their own way, and I wrote. I wrote myself silly. I wrote and wrote, and almost finished a manuscript. Then last week someone asked how my writing was going, I said, “like butter.” She rolled her eyes. Now, I was on the phone with said person, but I distinctly felt eyes roll. "Is that a literary term?" I heard next.

Now here’s the thing, now that I’m out of the closet and telling the world I’m a writer, I been feeling the pressure of such an outrageous declaration. It’s gotten so bad, I had a hard time writing notes in graduation cards this year. Seriously. I couldn’t just scratch out some note after all. Not any more. I had to write something memorable. Something beyond "good." Well, I don’t know if I achieved that goal. Most likely those kids grabbed up the checks and didn’t bother with the note. I know I did at that age. Didn’t think my parents' friends had any knowledge worth imparting. But still, I struggled. I worried even those few words be scrutinized.

I thought writing, getting an agent, was somehow going to complete me. It hasn't actually gone that way. It's gone another. It's called, "the opposite," it ain't at all like butter.

And yeah, that's a literary term, too. Look it up.

I also wanted to thank Sharon Mayhew for giving me the poke, getting me back here, sharing stories and sharing words. It's beyond good to be here. Go on her site and check out what she wrote about that very thing...Who do you share with?

2010-06-22T23:27:00.000-04:00

On Hiatus during daughter's Quinceañera Extravaganza.

Been Working Hard

2010-05-18T17:00:00.004-04:00

I owe you a blog. I owe myself a blog.

I had planned to write about writing versus rewriting. About what it takes to get down and dirty with every single f’ing word in your transcript. How you have to go down into that hole and just get filthy. How you have to dig in and dig down. How you have to look at every single word like you’ve never set eyes on them before and then decide whether they are worthy to be a part of your work.

That's what I've been doing. I have been in a hole. That’s what it felt like, a hole. I ate, edited, and slept. No más, nothing more. Okay, coffee. Yes, there was coffee. But I don’t think I have ever worked harder in my life. Giving birth, easier. Tons easier.

And when I had finished, when I sent it to my editor for a final once over, he remarked that next time I should edit between the periods. I know, harsh, right? Well, here’s the thing. I suck at editing. I do. We all do. We are creators. We want to dream and write and design. We want to dialog with our dreams. We want to see their faces, to watch them stumble and survive and then suffer some more. That’s the good stuff. Only that’s not what makes us good writers. That’s not what makes us great writers. When my editor dropped his bomb, I asked for my transcript back. I went over it again. I went between the periods. Every f’ing one of them. And I learned. I learned that a good edit is more than pacing and texture, tense and voice. A good edit is about hard work. It is not the time to slide your work to the other side of the table and go out for drinks. It’s about you doing every single thing you can to get it right. And then doing it again, and again, and again.

Someone once told me, the enemy of good is great. But for me, the enemy is thinking I am done with the hole. I’m not. Never will be.

Our Quince Girl

2010-04-07T16:54:00.013-04:00

Updated Photo

My daughter will be celebrating her Quinceañera this year. It’s a big deal. A big party. A big dress. A band and a caterer. It’s sort of like a wedding only without a groom and in-laws and a honeymoon. We’re very excited. Been very excited to see our first baby reach this milestone and move on to and through adulthood. I love that it precludes a sweet sixteen. That it comes without all the pressure of that same baby getting a car and driving on down the road. Although, it would be nice to put the thing off another year just so I could have some leverage to get her to come over to my way of thinking about things, like how short is too short, or too low, or too high, and especially too young.

But all that’s about to change. Quinces are about becoming responsible for one’s self. They’re about standing up and pronouncing yourself to the world, or at least your guests. For our daughter’s, I’m asking the women of the family, the grandmothers and aunts and cousins, to write down some life tips for her, to pass on some of their own life wisdoms, the ones that came hard earned.

I am not sure yet what mine will contain, but I know it will start with,

Stand Tall. Look life in the eye. Be bold. Be kind. Laugh at everything you possibly can.

What about you? What words do you pass to the Quinces in your family?

Why I Write What I Write

2010-03-26T15:22:00.014-04:00

Photo By Dorothea Lange

The story I’m working on now, my latest novel, is that of an African American woman. Miss Eddie or Miss Louise or Miss Callie Bell. I’m not quite sure yet what her name will be exactly, but I am sure of her story. I am sure of the events that took place in her life, of where she came from and where she went, of the loves she had and the trials she faced.

Now, someone recently asked me why I chose to write about this particular woman, and well, here’s my answer: I didn’t. Just happened. I don’t know where her story even came from because it was not the one I set out to write, but then there she was and there I was and when she had something to say, I took note. I listened. That’s as close as I can get to what it means to write about a person whose life is totally different from my own.

Now I did live in Mississippi for five years, and I did hear folks there telling stories of their lives, of their parents and grandparents. I have to tell you, the difference in culture and society and atmosphere between those generations goes so beyond who was walking to school uphill in the snow both ways. It is so beyond when their family got their first flush toilet or TV or nintendo, or whatever else defined my family’s generations as California ranchers. And maybe it was the shock of just that vast difference that made me listen a little bit more than a normal person would. Maybe it was then that this lady started speaking to me. Maybe.

But what I know for sure is, she is not me. She has her own face. Her own story. Her own world. She has a beginning and an end. I have never met her and yet we are sisters. Even if I don’t know her name. Yet.

What about you? How do you explain writing what you write?

Pink Lady

2010-03-14T07:19:00.001-04:00

I know. Isn't it lovely? I'm attracted to things with words--big surprise--and mixed drinks. And thanks to my baby sister, I can now enjoy them simultaneously! The recipe show is for a Pink Lady. I've never had one. I've had pink lemonade and vodka. I've enjoyed a Cosmo or two. Drunk my share of Strawberry Jello with rum and lime (just mixed and poured, before it gels) but no Pink Lady. Until Now.
Or until I get time to mixing one...Actually, I think I have time.
Gotta go.
Cheers!!

Do YOU Own Your Characters?

2010-02-27T12:57:00.006-05:00

Been wanting to blog for the past week only haven’t been able to. Haven’t been able to find the time to because for the last two weeks I’ve been barely holding on to the wild stampede that’s my next book. And yes I am holding the reins and yes I am in charge and directing, but what I am not doing is yelling, whoa or cut that shi* out. Instead, I am slapping those reins and encouraging them to go, go, go. I am standing up in that wagon and screaming out Yippee Ki Yay until I am without a breath left. (Since I am speaking to mostly writers who well know their way around metaphors, I will only pause for the briefest of seconds and explain to the others, those horses are words, words in my book that at this exact second is running strong and full and breathing itself into a thing of true beauty.)

Now it is true, I do not know where the ride ends. Don’t want to. I want it full and exhilarating and exciting because I know if it is to me, it will be to them. (Them being the readers that I don’t know yet, but who are still my nearest and dearest bestest friends, friends that I would never take out on anything but the most exciting ride ever.)

And if it turns out where we are going is nothing but a big steaming poo pie, I will turn things around, go back a little ways, and then encourage all hell to break loose again.

That’s how I write. That’s how I roll. And to answer dear Mr. Nathan Bransford’s question, Do You Own Your Characters or Do Your Characters Own You, that’s all I got to say on that. Take it or leave it.

How about you? Do you own your characters? Is such a thing possible?

Shanghi Girls and Lisa See

2010-02-11T12:29:00.012-05:00

Here I go, again...
What I am supposed to be doing versus what I am actually doing.

I am supposed to right now be writing. That’s what I got up early for and took a hot shower and did my hair for. (And when I say early I mean was dressed by 7:30) (And when I say hair, I actually mean ponytail.) But instead I am blogging. That’s right, blogging IS writing only it is not really writing because it is more like having the girls over and drinking wine only without having to clean your house first. Which I love. (Wine. Not cleaning.) (As if you didn’t know)

But I am not doing any real writing because I have to have the I met Lisa See chit-chat first. Then, and only then, can I clear my mind and go back to my book. So, last week (I know. I held out for a long time), I went to a bookstore in Boston where Lisa See was headlining, and I was so excited. I mean, it is still amazing to me that writers I have admired for years, YEARS, are actually real people that walk and speak and are, on occasion, in the same room as me. It is shocking!

So, there I was, late. Totally not getting the fact that driving into Boston at 7:00 in the evening is not something to be taken lightly. It is the Indy 500 out there, baby. Thankfully, my husband was driving. (I was covering my eyes, my daughter was in back reading, and my son was being pit boss and looking for openings.) (Yes, everyone was coming. I was not going to let them miss this lifetime opportunity.)

But she was lovely. So wonderful, funny, smart. She spoke about the detainments, of falsifying documents, of the shame and fear of still being a guest in the country you have lived in for the past twenty years, or more. But she mixed these with humor and readings and answering questions until the whole room was just a group of girls discussing a book. It was wonderful. She is touring all over the country, and if you get a chance, see her. I’m sure you have already read her books, but if you haven’t you are missing out on some of the most beautiful writing ever.

Have you been to any memorable signings or readings recently?

Mesmerizing Coolness

2010-02-01T09:59:00.021-05:00

Okay. Newest way to keep from jumping right into writing at 7:00 in the morning (used to be playing sudoku and trying clothes on cyber-self) but now, browsing graphic design sites and looking at book covers. Doing it for hours. Okay. Only one hour, but an hour every day, which is at least 1 page worth of writing time. But can’t stop. Can’t stop thinking about my cover.

There was a time when holding a hundred of my own pages was enough to keep me happy for weeks. Okay, yes, still is. Only now I want something besides a staple in the corner. I want a book with a cover. A really cool cover. And yes, I know there are people who get paid a lot of money to design them, and that I’m not one of them.

But doesn’t mean I can’t help thinking the best guy to hire would be the one who got me to buy this...

When I went to buy this...

And without using any gold stars or blurbs or blue lights or anything. Just sticking on a cool picture was enough to get me to forget I was there for Concha y Toro. I know. Crazy. I was mesmerized by coolness. Which is exactly what I want in a book cover, Mesmerizing Coolness.

All time favorite cover:

What's yours?

From Kristen Torres-Toro

From Lisa & Laura

From DebralSchubert

From Erica

From Dawn Simon

A heraldic concept image from Elaine still writing Smith

From Amy Tate

From Cinda

An End

2010-01-21T19:27:00.006-05:00

Now that my book is done, or I should say, now that its passed from my hands and into someone else’s, I decided it’s time to go through all those binders that contain the outlines, the barely legible notes written on post-its in the middle of the night, the drawings and newspaper clippings, all tools I used to shape this book into something more than an idea dancing around in my head. Some are single words, others phrases so disconnected to me now, I don’t recognize where I was going with them. And a very few, amazingly good. Those I’m saving for the next book. Copying myself.

But the thing that surprises me most, is finding complete chapters have barely changed. Many are in different places, moved once, twice or even more. Some are exactly the same. Others, sentences I’ve changed and then changed back just because they sound right. They sound familiar. They sound authentic. Hopefully, eventually, I’m not the only one that thinks so.

How about you? What kind of editor are you? Are you a cut and paster, a slasher, a delete and dumper? Do you save all your ugly bits because they were your first forays into writing?

Haiti's Earthquake

2010-01-13T15:56:00.009-05:00

Image: New York Daily News

When we lived in Puerto Rico, our house was made from poured cement and cinder block. It was built to withstand hurricanes and it did, many times. The Hatians protected themselves from the same force of nature, only they were hit with another and the cinder blocks have come loose. They have buried a nation. As unimaginable as the devastation is, only a few dollars will help provide much needed medical and food supplies.

I am sending something today. Please, if you can, join me.
Unicef
World Vision
Doctors Without Borders
American Red Cross

Jan 21: Another aftershock, yet more survivors being pulled from the rubble. We are all still so hopeful there will be more. That Haiti will recover and reclaim a brighter future.
Feb 9: And a miracle, Evan Ocinia, found after 28 days!

My Year

2010-01-05T16:37:00.012-05:00

Every year on my birthday I do my New Years resolutions. My birthday is on January 5th, and since I’m usually busy taking down the tree, cooking, entertaining, it makes sense to wait. When I finally get around to it, I start at the mirror. I look in my face to see what the next birthday looks like. It's always written there. Never skipped one yet. After that, I make promises. How things are going to be different. How I’m not going to live in regret. How I am going to make every day an exciting adventure. And I believe it for a good long while. Months. And that works for me, but I didn’t do that this year. This year, no promises. This year I started a new tradition.

It is called What I Learned.

Like...

If I want to buy clothes for my daughter, I have to pick the exact opposite of what I would wear.

If I want to buy clothes for my son, I have to pick a size larger than I think he is, because he is growing every second of every day.

It’s okay that the only clothes I buy for myself are blue jeans and white T-shirts because all the rest just hang in my too-small closet. (Yes, I just came from shopping. Bought another white shirt)

It’s okay that I like to be alone. It’s who I am. Need alone time like water.

Friends are valuable jewels. They need to be taken out and enjoyed. Setting them aside until you have time is not a good thing, ever. You will never have more time. If you are lucky, you will have less. Karla Lowrey was such a friend, and there isn’t a day, I don’t miss her.

My sisters are my best friends. They know all my secrets, and they will tell anyone who will listen. This year, I learned that is one of the best gifts ever.
Having someone who knows you, really knows you, and loves you still.

My husband is the best thing that ever happened to me. He is my rock. I am not a rock. I really need a rock.

I plan on doing a lot of learning this year. Learning is good.

Let me know if there’s anything you learned, only be prepared. I might just copy it.

Orange Jicama Salad

2009-12-27T19:45:00.022-05:00

For the salad:

1 large jicama peeled and grated

1 small red onion, thinly sliced

1 cup cilantro

8 oranges, peeled and sliced, membranes removed

1 head bibb lettuce

For the dressing:

¼ cup of limejuice

6 tablespoons olive oil

1 teaspoon sugar

Think of this as an orange salad. The other ingredients are there for more than taste, to give each bite zest and texture.

I always say this, but this is a good recipe to not exactly follow. Maybe you will make it without dressing and without lettuce. Maybe you will add toasted pepitas (pumpkin seeds) or pecans. Maybe you will add pineapple. Maybe you cannot find jicama and will instead you granny smith apples.

Whatever you do, make it yours and it will taste más bien.

Natural Fashion

2009-12-20T20:40:00.010-05:00

I want to share this book Natural Fashion - Tribal Decorations from Africa as photographed by Hans Silvester. The beauty of the people of the Surma and Mursi tribes in the L'Omo Valley, along the borders of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Sudan, areas of heavy conflict, is breathtaking. I had no idea such expression existed, and now that I have, I cannot stop enjoying their faces. What is most amazing is this is a daily expression.

"The tribes’ daily paintings are an essential expression of their lives – more elemental to them than music or dance. Fascinated by the Surma and Mursi tribes’ painting practices and astounded by the beauty of their ephemeral art, Silvester captures the diverse and extraordinary effects that they achieve through their ancient tradition."

Source Malborough Gallery

A slideshow of even more images...

Since you asked, How I got An Agent

2009-12-15T16:31:00.014-05:00

So here goes my story…
I started writing my book Hey Chica quite a few years ago. I could say ten years ago only I didn’t really write for the first seven besides the initial five or so pages. Which I thought were so brilliant at the time, but reading them now, they’re unconnected ramblings. Ideas of ideas. But at the time, they were enough. Enough for me to dream on and plan on and hope on until something better came along. Only I didn’t know that the something better was a lot of hard work.
But my agent story…
So I wrote, queried, rewrote. Went to a conference, everyone wanted my book only not once they had it. Another major rewrite. Went to another conference, everyone wanted my book only again not once they had it. Went to another conference, same thing. Now the agents were very nice, complimentary, but weren’t looking for what I was selling. And I was getting tired of rewriting. Then Elise Capron of Sandra Dijkstra emailed me some six months after BEALA, liked my book, asked to see more and then passed it to another Jill Marr, also of SDLA, who loved it and signed me.

It took me three years, hours of writing, fifty plus queries. Today, I don’t think it was my marvelous query. I don’t think it was my perfect pitch. I think it was mostly not giving up. Rewriting, learning, fixing. And then writing a damn good book. Yeah that helped!

But before I was picked up, I kept thinking I should give this writing thing up, only I couldn't. I tried, but in my mind I owed it to my characters more.
What keeps you going? What keeps you writing?

Mango Salsa Recipe

2009-12-07T09:32:00.003-05:00

Making a salsa, as you probably know, is mostly chopping, mixing, and sitting. But what you might not know is that sitting is the most important. Salsa is a dish that is best eaten after it has sat fifteen minutes on your counter. Only then will the flavors have a chance to mix together and become something new, something more, something that is sweet and tangy and hot all at one time.

For the cutting, I like to almost mince, so you can have a piece of everything in each bite.

You will need to chop:

1 fresh mango

1 red onion, white is too harsh for this salsa

1 serrano chili, deseeded
1 cucumber peeled and sliced

A handfull of cilantro

1 tablespoon honey

Some salt, pepper and limejuice

The best way to enjoy this salsa, or maybe just my favorite way, is on white tortillas chips you have fried yourself. Big time Yum!

Enjoy!

Happy and Dancing

2009-12-03T21:37:00.015-05:00

Okay. So, I got an agent. Oh, yes I did.

Only thing is, didn’t go at all like I dreamed it. Not even close. For one thing, I was dressed way better in my dream and I was sophisticated and calm and well spoken. I had a pen and paper and was taking notes. I think I was even using a pink princess phone seeing as I’ve had this day planned forever.

But in the for-real moment, I’m wearing sweats and talking gibberish. I mean, I was lucky I knew my own name because there was a minute when I forgot what my book was called. Yes. Seriously. And after the we want to send you a contract, and the really? yes really stuff was out of the way, I actually asked the agent if it was okay if I blogged about it. I mean, blogging about it would make it real, right? It wouldn’t be just me on that pink phone in my head. And guess what? She was coherent and normal and laughed. Then I mumbled some other incomprehensible stuff, like thank you and I love you and I don’t know what else, and hung up.

And did the dance. Only it was jumping and screaming and something close to one potato two potato. I mean, my hands were doing the potato thing while my legs were going all hokey pokey, while my kids and my husband were there watching me lose my mind.

You see, I was so Barnum and Bailey in the Big Top Happy, I couldn’t function. So I fell asleep. I mean, in two seconds, out.

And the next day, happy. So totally happy.

Arroz Amarillo

2009-11-22T10:08:00.002-05:00

This is one of my favorite dishes. Your house will smell so good while it is cooking that it won’t matter if yellow rice and black beans are all you have for dinner.

To make this dish, cook four cups of rice, whatever kind you use, however you would normally cook it, only add a few saffron threads right before you cover it to boil. (Right here is a good time to tell you, I always wash my rice before cooking. That way it is shiny, the stickyness is gone, and without the rice dust tastes so much better. To wash it, just put it in the pot you will cook in and add a few cups of water. Then using your hand, move the rice around as though it is in your clothes washer. You will immediately see the water cloud as the grains rub against each other loosing debris. I do this at least three times, pouring and refilling with fresh water each time. It is not necessary to remove all the water, simply hold your hand as a sieve, and pour away as much as you can. Of course, you will have some extra water when you add the normal amount you usually, but it is only a few tablespoons and will not matter.
While your rice is cooking, fry a chopped white onion and two cloves of garlic in a tablespoon of olive oil, adding a big handful of cilantro to the pan at the end.

When your rice is done, simply toss it with your fried mixture and you are ready to eat. Maybe you will serve it covered with black beans and fried onions, slices of avocado and tomato on the side, a handful of queso blanco or maybe some sour cream on the top.

Enjoy!

Time for Celebrations

2009-11-16T22:33:00.006-05:00

http://www.nrm.org/

This month is Jewish Book Month a month, according to the Jewish Book Council, "dedicated to the celebration of Jewish books." It is observed during the month proceeding Hanukkah.
And just thinking about Hanukkah and celebrations, I’m wanting to pray. I’m wanting to cover my eyes and be with God. I’m wanting to hold the hands of my children and cook rich foods and drink thick wine that will leave me with a headache the next day.
I want the celebrations of my childhood when my father stood at the head of the table sharpening his knife before slicing paper-thin pieces of crusty fat from a roast or turkey. I want to again be the guest at my parent’s table where my only job is not to fidget too much, when I can eat everything I want, three deserts and every olive left in the bowl and then go take a nap while my mother washes the dishes.

It is enough that I will do these things for my children. That I have them, and my husband, and sister and cousins, to do them for. It is enough that they will be in my house and they will be fed and be loved. As will I.

But I'm still going to wish this holiday wasn't so big, so green and red and plastered everywhere I am looking these days. I'm wishing it could be like the simpler ones I remember.

So, Happy Jewish Book Month.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Many Happy Celebrations.

Horchata, New Recipe

2009-11-12T16:11:00.009-05:00

My sister in law makes this when we visit her in Phoenix. It’s probably in her refrigerator all the time, but when we visit, the pitcher is full. I like strong coffee. I use deep black greasy beans. If you add this sweet thick beverage to your mug, the drink is perfecto. If your child has a milk allergy or phobia, they will love this drink.

Ingrediants:

2 cups uncooked rice, any kind but instant

6 cups water

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/3 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

Put the rice and half the water in a pan soaking overnight. Don’t worry that the water looks foggy in the morning, that’s what you want. Do not throw that water away. Instead, pour the rice water into a blender adding the cinnamon and sugar and blend it until it you no longer hear the rice, until it is smooth. You will not be able to blend it totally smooth, so don’t worry if you still see some bits of rice. Then taking your mixture, pour it through a fine sieve into a larger pitcher adding the rest of the water and mixing in the vanilla. Then it ready to drink, or to sit in your fridge until you are ready. You can add more sugar, more vanilla, more cinnamon, as you like. Of course you know this. But you can also add something different, ground almonds and nutmeg, cocoa powder or even flax seed and make it your own.

Enjoy!

Meeting Mr. Elie Wiesel

2009-11-04T21:58:00.004-05:00

Two days ago I had one of the most amazing experiences in my life, and I’ve been wanting to write about it since, but I can’t because it just sounds so damn ridiculous, but still here I am blogging it, putting it right out there for the world….

I met Mr. Elie Wiesel at a book signing at Boston University’s B&N bookstore.

Yes, I did too. Got there a good hour early. Immediately asked clerk at door where The Signing would take place. Had wonderful husband go buy book so I could run up five flights of escalators that were set to SSE (Slowest Speed Ever). Stood and waited, and smiled, and tried to figure out how I would say what I wanted to say. Totally ignored everyone else in line, no eye contact, because this moment was big. Okay, gave stink eye to young college student’s two girlfriends because, THERE ARE NO CUTS FOR MR. WEISEL SIGNINGS. Then I saw husband, no longer perfect because he took too long and I had to worry a whole minute that maybe he was lost or reading Six Sigma and had forgotten me entirely. But he gave me the books, and I gave him my camera and said, Picture.

When it was my turn, despite all my lunacy, I was able to step forward, to smile, to say how honored I was to meet him. How much I valued his writings, writings my daughter has recently started reading. How thankful I was that his foundation was doing work in Darfur. The Elie Wiesel Foundation for Humanity And my time was up.

My perfect husband returned the camera, picture taken, and took me out to Thai food.

I will never forget it.

OMG Great Books!!!

2009-10-27T08:31:00.021-04:00

So last week I’m flying to Hawaii to join my husband on a business trip where my big plan is to sit on the beach all day while he’s in meetings and then drink margaritas all night when he isn’t. Only his business gets cancelled last minute, but we still have the plane tickets so we end up staying a friend’s house, so much more fun, and I get girl time all afternoon and great wine and laughs at night. But because I never go anywhere without a book, yes, even the bathroom, even to dry my hair, even to parent-teacher conferences, because how many times do I really need to hear what a joy my kids are to have in class and how they are so polite, and yadda yadda yadda, that I begin to wish my kids would do something involving a spitball just to make one of these things interesting, I have books.

Two: Dennis Lehane’s Shutter Island and William P. Young’s The Shack, and they are the most phenomenal books that I have read in a long, long time, no kidding.

Now let me rewind to say, the only reason I even on this vacation is because it’s our twentieth wedding anniversary and the only thing we’ve done to celebrate the occasion is tear down the wall between our living room and kitchen, so we are way behind the romantic curve. But still there I am on the plane reading with one hand because Most Wonderful Man on Planet is holding onto the other and I don’t want to tell him to let go already because I’m really loving doing these two things together, like having the cake and the ice cream.

But OMG what great books! I went to the airport bookstore and picked them up, one, with no more thought than picking a pack of gum, and the other, because I just couldn’t read another book that was like every other book ever written.

And I don’t mean to be pimping other people’s books here, but these two are so big-time extraordinary that I have to say, READ THEM.

And if you already have, am I right or am I right?

Dallas School District & Dalton Sherman

2009-09-23T12:57:00.015-04:00

youtube

I recently heard about a writer who says she is going to stop being a writer. She’s unpublished and tired of trying. And although I understand it and want to smack her for saying such a thing out loud, I’m thinking, is such a thing even possible? Stop being a writer? That’s just crazy talk. Stop writing, maybe for a few weeks, but stop being a writer? Might as well stop breathing or stop walking upright. Stop being a woman or a redhead or Irish, no problem. Okay, not being a wo
man would be tough. Especially if it means you have to become a man. I mean, yuck.

But besides really wanting to give her a hug, I want to give her my Mom Spee
ch. It’s gotten a lot of playtime lately because last year my husband retired from the military and we moved (hopefully for the last time) from AZ to MA. It was tough starting over, new jobs, new schools, new house, new friends. Right before shoving everyone out the door, I would recite my Be Who You Are, Stand Tall, They’re Lucky to Have You Speech trying to get us all to stop dwelling on what was and begin stepping into what is.

It’s a good speech. I believe in it. I believe in the power of say it, live it, become it. I mean, I get up every day a writer. I say to friends, I can’t have lunch tomorrow, I’m writing. I write writer on every form that asks for my occupation. Ask what I do and I’ll tell you I write. Sure I’m a homemaker and a mother and all the rest of it, but I say writer first. I remind myself. I remind the world.

Probably more than me she needs Dalton Sherman reminding her of how things are.

What would you tell her?

2009-09-11T14:02:00.009-04:00

We all remember where we stood. We all remember the television screen, the sunshine. The beauty of the day and the horror on the television. Today we remember many things, especially the 2,752.

Wishing you peace.

Wishing us peace.

It's Mocking Me. Swear.

2009-09-09T14:37:00.006-04:00

My (2nd) book and I have been best friends these last few weeks. We’re sharing a cup of coffee and getting our chapters lined up. We’re leaving little notes for each other, don’t forget Jim, kill Casey, sex with Miss Ida. We’re staying up late eating popcorn, chatting, rambling, bobbing and weaving. I mean, we’re best buds. We’re inseparable. We’re bonded for life. Until yesterday. Yesterday my girl, my baby #2 blows me off. Doesn’t show. I mean I’m sitting there with nothing but Mac. No words, no typing. No key time. I mean, what the hell? Just dropped me, Kabam!
So I’m wondering, what did I do? Where did the flow go? Did I miss something? Was I having too much of a good time? Did I get carried away in this torrent of words and start to enjoy writing too much? Did I make the mistake of thinking I was beyond the torture of it all?

Because if I did, I mean, if that’s it, I’ll sacrifice the bull. I’ll do the chicken dance or the naked dance or naked chicken dance on youtube, whatever, just give me the words back.

I need the words, man. Give me the words…

And before you say it, I tried a bath, a cup of tea, and a long walk.

Any other ideas ‘cause I’m open. Hit me, baby. What do you do when what you’re doing just ain’t doing what it should be doing because…YOU SEE. YOU SEE WHAT I’M DEALING WITH? THE WORDS ARE MOCKING ME!

Help!

Gots to share.

2009-08-31T07:57:00.007-04:00

Don't ask me how I stumbled here. Couldn't tell you. Was blog hopping and Wammo!
Wammo!

Had to share...

The Intern

Read it.
So simple.
Wammo.
Right between the eyes.

If you're liking, pass it on.

PS Yeah. I know. Gots is not a word. But I like it anyway.

My Writing

2009-08-26T09:53:00.006-04:00

www.carterholman.com

Got back into writing the last few days, and am totally in love with myself. Again.

Now I know I’ve had that euphoria more than a few times recently, but writing is tough. It’s unforgiving and relentless work. Everyone is a critic. Your own mother, your friends, your sisters, even your kids, will read one of your stories and after gushing full on for ten minutes about how much they loved it, they then tell you your characters’ names suck or point out that you’ve never been an 80 year old women, or that your story is needs a happier ending. Not that they aren’t right. I mean, if it was their *%#)ing book, sure. But it ain’t. And all you can say for yourself is, well, that’s the way it’s supposed to be.

Whoa, getting off track there.

So, I am working on my second book, story of an evangelizing preacher whose son may just be the true Son of God. And instead of picking up a few pages before I left off, I start reading from the beginning. Just to get things rolling. Reminding myself of motivation, quirks, personalities and backstories. But there were so many passages I forgot, so it was like reading someone else’s writings. And I kept telling myself, this is good. This is really, really good. I wanted to know where things were going even though I knew exactly where things were going. I was self-voyeuring.

So, got to celebrate the good days. The days when you’re writing is streaming. Or the days when you are just writing. But especially the days when you’re writing is totally f*#&)ing awesome.

Mostly because you or someone else will be reading those same words someday and their, or your own little voice, will be telling you if you just fix this one thing…

FYI New HBO Documentary

2009-08-24T20:37:00.006-04:00

WHICH WAY HOME

"As the United States continues to build a wall between itself and Mexico, Which Way Home shows the personal side of immigration through the eyes of children who face harrowing dangers with enormous courage and resourcefulness as they endeavor to make it to the United States.

"The film follows several unaccompanied child migrants as they journey through Mexico en route to the U.S. on a freight train they call “ The Beast ”. Director Rebecca Cammisa (Sister Helen) tracks the stories of children like Olga and Freddy, nine-year old Hondurans who are desperately trying to reach their families in Minnesota, and Jose, a ten-year-old El Salvadoran who has been abandoned by smugglers and ends up alone in a Mexican detention center, and focuses on Kevin, a canny, streetwise 14-year-old Honduran, whose mother hopes that he will reach New York City and send money back to his family. These are stories of hope and courage, disappointment and sorrow. They are the ones you never hear about – the invisible ones."

http://www.whichwayhome.net

My Summer, My Sisters & Stephen King

2009-08-17T16:30:00.007-04:00

I have just returned from vacation out to the west coast. I didn’t write for a bit of it. I read somewhere that Stephen King writes everyday, Christmas, Thanksgiving, his birthdays. I don’t quite get that. I mean, his family must be the polar opposite of mine. About the only alone time I get with mine is when I’m peeing or pretending to be. Sleeping doesn’t count as there is always a niece or nephew with a booger the exact shape of Texas that they need to show you immediately because some other kid is climbing around their neck demanding it back.

My vacations are for cooking and listening. It’s the time I sit down with my sisters and catch up on our lives, our stories, the chance to remind each other of the days when we were The Silver Stars an acrobat team that entertained anyone caught walking down our street on a otherwise hapless summer day. We were something to behold, three girls wearing silver astronaut costumes swinging so high on our swing set would literally walk across our lawn. Too bad my mom wasn’t around to take pictures, much less, save us from breaking our necks, because none of our kids will believe we are anything even close to adventurous.

But without my writing, I have begun dreaming of words, big three-dimensional ones that I crawl over, reading as I go along. The story was really good, maybe just because it smelled like marshmallow fluff, but I can’t remember a bit of it. Mr. King would have remembered it. Would have wrote a story about someone finding an old jar of the stuff still having some dried up bit of something in it that they bury in the back of their dresser instead of throwing it in the neighbors garbage like any normal person would have done because every normal person I know knows that fluff’s second best use is for preserving cursed voodood things and that the only way to make sure that voodoo doesn’t get to know your name is to introduce it to someone else fast. But Mr. King’s character would keep it around, probably accidentally serve it to her grandmother’s dog the one that would eventually kill everyone in that town except for some redhead kid who picks it up and puts it in his bicycle basket and then just keeps on riding.

Hey, this book is almost writing itself. Maybe I should switch to horror. That way I can forget I'm still working to make goat hearding sound the least bit interesting.

The Kahini Movement

2009-07-20T11:08:00.004-04:00

My absolutely favorite books, and incidentally, the kind of books I try to write, are life stories. Stories where you become another person, live another life. I have travelled overseas some, Europe and Asia, and am always amazed by the similarities in cultures. Outside so different. But inside, inside courtyards and living rooms, inside kitchens and familial embraces, the same.

Well, I have found this blog Kahani Movement
"Ka⋅ha⋅ni means "story" in Hindi (कहानी). We help you capture untold stories from first-generation South Asians in the U.S. and provide those stories with a platform to be heard." And I am absolutely fascinated with it. It is a turning of the tables. In their own words, sometimes accompanied by pictures, are stories of people coming to America, or maybe merely traveling outside their communities, looking in courtyards and kitchens. It is not the work of professional writers, but that simply makes it all the more beautiful, especially the clip of the two brothers talking about their parents.

If you have a few minutes, it's well worth a look. But be careful, it's like falling into the Pensive in Harry Potter, one story is never enough.

A Man, A Goat, A Story

2009-07-16T23:13:00.007-04:00

Something remarkable happened the other day. At least for me, remarkable. I wrote a short story IN MY HEAD. Wild, huh? I’m a get on the computer and write writer. I start with a basic idea and then the story breathes and dare I say meanders as my fingers punch away one thought after another until they’re one gigantasoric sting of paperdolls holding hands. But this story, all brain born, baby.

It started taking shape while I was watching the news, George Stephanopoulos to be exact, discussing Iraq. So I’m sitting at the table eating cherrios and drinking coffee while listening to the latest diatribe as to whether or not we’re calling this a win or not when I start thinking about how the Iraqis might be feeling about just that thing. So that thought takes hands with another, only it’s a man trying to get back to doing whatever it was he was doing before we put our boots on the ground.

I have to say, I didn’t even recognize it as something more than a passing wonder at the world. Only that man, let’s call him Rahim, wanting his old life back kept sneaking into my thoughts until before I know it, he’s talking. Telling his story. Telling me about his wife, his kids, his goats. Telling me how he felt about his homeland, how all those rocks and sand were as precious to him as the faces of his children. So I start researching goat herding. And let me tell ‘ya, there’s a lot more to it than The Sound of Music and that lonely goatherder had me believing. But while I’m researching, Rahim keeps talking to me about his life before the Americans moved in pitching themselves right next to the only well within ten miles. And how he could give a rat’s as* what the last word on this thing is unless it’s something like we're leaving.

And then there it was. Whammo! A 5000 word story. All I had to do was write it down. It wasn't half bad. Sure beats all those other times I tell myself the story running around in my head stinks just so I don't have to get out of bed and find a pen at two in the morning.

What is it with crying babies, high fevers, vomit and good stories, all forming in the wee hours of the night?

Call Me

2009-06-29T11:02:00.008-04:00

Okay. It’s been how long, four weeks? Still nothing. No call. No email. No note. No nothing to tell me they liked my book, that they are so totally fascinated by the world I created that they are rereading its every page, that they are so absorbed in imagining who will be in the movie version they are already calling Salma and telling her to clear her calendar because they’ve got a manuscript for her to read that is so good everyone will forget wondering if she could ever top Frida.

Not that I am sitting by the mailbox, cell phone in one hand house in the other waiting. Not that it didn’t cross my mind, but was too hot, too buggy. No, I’m not a waiter. I’m a get myself so busy I forget I ever wanted to spread my whole being out across hundreds of pages for the whole world to see, especially my mother who doesn’t know I know words like pun** (Spanish for the very worst curse ever created that rhymes with runt) Or that I know anything about having sex backwards or upside down. Not to mention the girls I went to high school with, the ones who I promised I was never having sex until I was either married and/or found myself in bed with Tom Cruise.

So what have I been doing? Stripping the learn Latin by reading and rereading the names of the ten flowers on your kitchen wallpaper because the only way you can stop yourself is with a gun to your head and… no, you would still read. Then, weaving tree limbs to form an arch over the path I cleared that leads to the compost pile I’ve started so that I can have my very own garbage dump in my back yard. And while it’s all stuff that been on the top of my some day I’ll be so bored out of my skull I’ll do it list, I want more. I want a call. I want to hear a something from someone or from everyone.

And FYI because there has been so much FYI out there, any way I get the news is perfectly acceptable. I have no guidelines. I’m easy.

Wow! That really felt good. Now, off to read Salma Hayek's fan site. Gotta be prepared, right?

How to Bring Your Game

2009-06-08T08:39:00.008-04:00

"If you're pitching a project, definitely bring a couple of printouts of a one-sheet, a proposal, a synopsis, and a first chapter (or whatever you have available)."

So says Rachel Gardner and she’s the bomb. I mean, signing with her is right up there with being The Wanless Winner Wonder. Big. Only without the crazy horse shirt because that would be like wearing your one page, and there’s no way that’s happening unless Janet Reid says so. (She's trying to lean out of my picture, crazy girl, crazy me for not letting her.)
So, I had the one-page, but I didn’t bring it. I left it in the hotel in my bag because too many agents said, don’t bring nothing, or something like that. And I listened, because the week before I hit every pitch slam, writers’ conference, BEA, Bea Arthur site in the universe. I mean, if it was out there, I read it. Which is why I have to say, Rachel, girl, please drop any what to take bombs before the shindig, before the $600 bucks, before I’m out there doing my own pageant walk packing only my pen, a tampon and a barf bag I stole off an airplane,

Which is not to say things didn’t work out for me. They did. Every agent I met with said bring it on. They all wanted a look/see. I on the other hand was a blithering idiot. I stumbled on my name, for Cripes sake. I called my book by the wrong title. I said it ended someplace it didn’t. I held that barf bag right on my lap like it was a holy relic. I think the only reason they asked to see something was to get me to shut up and move on so they could listen to the next one right behind me who obviously pitched way better because no way could they do worse.

But last conference, I had my one page. I laid it on the table in front of me so they could glance at it while I spoke. Mine was almost my query with a couple of passages, my bio, and a demographic on the growing Latino market. Not a lot of anything, but it was there and they saw it and looked at it and didn’t look at me. Which was great because…well, my mind was stuck on don’t throw up, don’t throw up while my hands folded and unfolded that barf bag. Yes, that same bag. Does that make it my lucky barf bag?

So where am I going with all this? Somewhere beyond here. Somewhere that allows each one of us to define who we are, what kinda pitcher we are, by what we bring to the table. After all, nothing we’ve got in our hands is going to carry more weight than our writing. Not our pitch, query, one-page, nada. Unless it's our page 1. Now that’s the golden ticket.

BEA Again

2009-06-03T08:31:00.003-04:00

Last few posts have been about BEA and it ain’t over yet. There was so much going on. If you haven’t gone ever, you’re missing a big shebang. One thing that keeps crossing my mind is how much more positive the mood was this year compared to last. I’ve got a few ideas why…

1) The economy. I keep hearing publishers are running out of fun money. For myself, I ran out of fun money the day I left for college, so I’m thinking, what the fu*#? Fun money, please. Money is not fun. Money is gasoline. It propels us. Gets us where we’re going. And I think they should to use it to get to the bookstore and daze around in disbelief that my book isn’t there. Why, why why?? Now where was I going? Oh, yeah, the economy. No fun money=fun people. Agents cannot afford to be standoffish (yes, it’s a word). Writers are their bread and butter. It’s a law of the universe. It’s symbiosis.

2) AuthorFail/AgentFail. I swore I wouldn’t mention it again. I know. But I think after everyone jumped on the I got it worse than you bandwagon, they wanted off even faster. The complained. They were listened to. They felt better. They were happier.

3) Alcohol. I didn’t get any, but I saw a lot of people surreptitiously sticking heads in purses and briefcases. I’m not judging. Would have shared if I was packing, but I’m not judging.

4) Great writers. These are just a few of the people I met.

Susannah Dunn: Securities and Exchange lawyer, writer. Can put on her makeup on without a mirror. One of the most relaxed, comfortable people there.
Barbara Mank: Writing a coming of age story. And we’re talking the 40+ one, the second one, the best one.
Debra Schabert: Freelance writer, blogger, and one-time rock star. debraschubert@blogspot.com. My BEA buddy.
Marilee Spanjian: She’s a builder/contractor with one kid in LA, one in Scotland, and one interning at Marie Clair, plus she’s a writer.
Marit Menzin Children’s Book Illustrator. Think Listen to the Wind by Greg Mortenson. www.maritmenzin.com

Now I debated going. Questioned saving the money. Saving myself the fifty thousand things I was going to have to worry about if I did go. But it was so worth it. Even without the pitching. It was worth the big bucks just to hang out with people passionate about their dreams.

As for pitching, next time. Lots to tell…

BEA Writers Conference

2009-05-31T11:27:00.006-04:00

It was a blast!! And to everyone one, I can't thank you enough for talking me into it. I also especially want to thank Debra L Schubert for offering to hook up and be my BEA buddy. What a big difference not having to walk in alone. Don't be surprised if I blog for six weeks about it, there is that much to say! If you don't remember this was my second conference, but what a difference between one and two. A difference in me, a difference in agents, a difference in confidence.

I ended up taking my whole family with me. At $300 a night for the hotel, I didn't want to waste the digs. We drove down from Boston, and they hung out in museums, Hard Rock, the M&M store. Didn't miss me one bit. But that was something I didn't do in LA. And I have to say, I loved having them in the room with me. The night before, at breakfast, my husband even drove me to the conference. Their company really took the edge off.

When I got to the conference, I took the above picture and called Debbie. She was already saving seats, right in front, for Novelist Karin Slaughter's keynote. And boy was Karin fabulous. She used to own a sign company and quit to go into writing full time. She said it took her ten years to get an agent. She spent that time honing her craft, developing her writing. She writes murder mysteries. What else with a name like that, right? I bought one later, fantastic. But it was interesting to hear someone talk about the struggle, about how important it is to keep going. She spoke about how few people really make it to the top of their game, no matter what the game is. That is a life truth. We tell our kids often enough how it's not always the best and brightest, but usually the hardest workers that move ahead. Her other big push was contracts. Read them. That’s something I’m terrible about. I took a contracts class in college, so I can get through a lot of it, but that last ten percent of gibberish I just let go. And Karin made a great point about that, get someone else to explain it to you, preferably your agent. Loved that. I mean, most of us would sell our book for a new set of tires, right? And her advice really made sense. Once you’ve worked that hard, ten years, five years, whatever, work just as hard to protect your words.

Great advice from a great writer. She looks a lot like Jodie Foster, right?

NEXT POST: Pitching

BookExpo America-It's a GO!

2009-05-26T08:16:00.006-04:00

Just to show writers aren't the only ones prepping for BEA, here's a few agents weighing in on what we should do/not do and how important a good outfit is...

Janet Reid on not being a Yahoo at BEA – Yahoo Networking

Miss Snark on being original - Over Shopped Query

Rachel Gardner on What to Pitch - Rethink Your Pitch

And, just to show I'm not the only one thinking about my outfit, here's Colleen Lindsay - What Color Converse Should I wear?

So, thanks to their advice, and some of my own inherent wisdom, I’ve booked the hotel, packed my Tweeps badge, printed the conference itinerary, highlighted my agents wish list, and dry cleaned my cute clothes, sans converse. And I'm rethinking how things went awry in LA.

I mean, I know how to interview. I've done it at least 15 times over the course of so many years. Now, my resume is good, but I can nail an interview like nobody's business. I've always know, if I get an interview, I've got the job. So what happened at BEA/LA? Why did I choke? For some unknown reason, besides me just being an idiot, I did not connect the idea that preparing to pitch is much the same as preparing for an interview. Not all the same, but similar. I mean, no one asks you to describe your last book. Why did you leave it? Can you describe the one thing you learned? But they do want to know all things, only in reverse.

So this time I’m working my pitch. I’ve already written it a dozen different ways, and this time I own it. I’ve prepped for it like I once prepared to push a 9lb baby out of a space smaller than my then bellybutton. Yeah, that’s right, I’m reading books. I’m making notes. I’m getting focused.

And then when I get to the conference… And this is the big stuff, the clincher… I’m breathing. And not just any breathing, I’m doing the just relax-and-remember-who-you-are breathing. (For all you fellas, it’s the exact opposite of birthing-baby-breathing.) And then, I’m going to meet other writers and have a good time. I’m going to enjoy it and myself. I’m not going to wish I had read one more NY Times article, studied up on one more agent, or somehow been more worthy. Ain’t happening. This time, I’m shooting for fun.

If you’re going, say hi. I’ll be wearing the above badge, and hanging with a fellow Write on Target writer.
Hope to see you!

Who Doesn't like a party!

2009-05-23T07:21:00.003-04:00

Query Tracker is having a party!
The grand prize of this hulla-baloo is a FREE CUSTOM WEBSITE designed by the awesome Carolyn Kaufman and QT’s daddy, Patrick McDonald. That’s right. FREE. (They’re the Purple Squirrel Web Designers. Check ‘em out.)
You want that, don’t you? Um, yeah.
You get one entry into the grand prize drawing for every contest you enter.
To celebrate QT’s second birthday, they are holding several fun contests spread out over three weeks.
The first two weeks they will be announcing the contests and taking entries.
On the third week, they will award prizes for each contest (one each day), and culminate with the grand finale prize on Friday, June 5th.
Help them advertise. Post in your blog an announcement like this. Be sure to EMAIL elanajohnson (at) querytracker (dot) net your link and real name so she can put your name in the drawing. You can link to this post so everyone knows how to make sure they’re entered for the FREE WEBSITE!
And hurry! You must have your blog post up by next Saturday, May 23 to get an extra entry.
Spread the word! Win a website!

BookExpo America-To Go or Not To Go

2009-05-13T15:16:00.003-04:00

I will register for BEA.
No I won’t.
I will register for BEA.
No I won’t.
So went the last two weeks. Right now I’m in, I’ll do it later. I haven’t convinced myself I’m going yet. Which is crazy because it is only days away. Now, I’m not totally unprepared in that I have the pants, shirt, jacket, shoes. Although now that I say that I think I want another pair of shoes and shirt and jacket, just to be sure I’m extra professional, casual, together.
But what’s with the not going when I know that if BEA goes off and I’m not there I’ll be sitting on my couch eating a giant bag of lays with a tub of onion dip followed by movie popcorn, martinis, and ugly crying. I know this will happen because…well, it’s happened once or twice. Or more.
So why am I not doing this thing? Fear, right. I’m afraid of being afraid. I’m afraid everyone is going to know I’m afraid so I will look like a jerk and probably drop things and trip over myself and say something stupid. And how do I know this? I don’t. I’m good in crowds, with people I don’t know. I’m good at small talk. I’m good at putting on mascara, lipstick, and one foot in front of the other. But I am not good at not getting better at something. That sucks. I’m not at all good at going with the flow when the flow ain’t going anywhere.
So, what’s a girl to do?
Should I go? Should I pitch and slam, again?
Or should I stay and drink?

My Apologies

2009-05-06T08:03:00.001-04:00

I’ve spent the last few weeks running around looking at blogs when I’m supposed to be writing my short story for WD, and what I’ve discovered is a lot of people posting about the fact they are not posting. Either they are sick, their kid is sick, they have a family emergency (which turns out later is a fancy way of saying their kid is sick) or they are “under construction” which probably means some unimaginable accident has befallen them, maybe they’ve taken an anvil to the head or something. I mean, I’m not the brightest bulb in the bulb whatever, but even with my limited knowledge of the web-o-sphere, all construction is done with the delete button. No need for orange cones or security tape, please. As if clicking into that site might put me in peril of falling down some Alice in Wonderland freak rabbit hole. So here’s the thing, I’ve never acknowledged my absence. And according to my research, which I spent two hours doing when again, supposed to be writing, is apparently very rude. I just figured, if you don’t see me, I’m not there. So, I do apologize if you’ve missed me and wondered why you were left in La-la Land without me for even five seconds, which is about as long as it takes to hit the back button and get on with your own much more interesting life.

But back to staring at my short story… What’s got me is I can’t decide if my protagonist John (yep, John. No wonder I’m not published with an imagination like that, right) anyway, whether John gets killed or kills himself. What’s more dramatic? A malicious hater taking his own life after realizing he’s really been hating himself all along, or the good guy taking him down because good always conquers evil?

Any thoughts?

Cinco de Mayo

2009-05-05T09:33:00.002-04:00

In my family we will celebrate Cinco de Mayo on Saturday. My in-laws are coming from AZ and already our mouths are watering knowing Tata will be at the grille. And before you say anything, I know Cinco de Mayo is not a real Mexican holiday just like I know that until recently St. Patrick’s Day was not an Irish holiday. But what they both are, are days we eat—I mean, we celebrate our culture.

In my book, Chica describes one such day…

Marching through the city, music is playing and the scent of many dishes is riding the air. Maybe you see another flag beside the normal one and feel hands pulling you into the street. Come, celebrate, they say, except I think in Spanish. Maybe for a moment you think you too are a Mexican because you are wearing such a big grin, dancing with your body wrapped around another, moving as one in such a way that you would never do at your own dances where you are all in a line and not touching one bit, which I have to tell you should not be called dancing at all. But on this fiesta day when you are eating and dancing more than you have done in the whole of your life, you forget we are different. You forget you ever said Mexican like it was a dirty word. On such a day when the party is over, maybe you say hasta luego, see you soon. But only this time you mean it.

Feliz Cinco de Mayo!!

Coffee & The Problems of the World

2009-04-28T09:23:00.009-04:00

So, I’m at my sister's this weekend with her husband and their two kids, and my husband and my two kids, and my cousin and her three kids sans husband because…well, he’s the smart one.

So, I’m at my sister’s this weekend casually drinking a cup of coffee in the corner of the kitchen while the combined seven kids are rotating around the table like they’re competing in a backwards game of musical chairs only balancing grape juice and Captain Crunch while stuffing donuts in their mouths faster than fast so they can be first one to the second donut even though my sister buys these really big ones that are bigger than my head and they’ve already eaten a good acre of strawberries.

So, I’m only watching, because I’m solving the problems of the world, which is what I call my reflection morning time when I haven’t had a full cup of coffee so am not able to do anything but lie in bed and stare into space which I can’t do because I’m at my sister’s and she’s still in bed because she trusts her kids with juice and donuts and the internet and I don’t trust mine with lifesavers

So, I’m "standing with coffee" when one of the kids notices I’m in the room and says, “You look like you’re going to throw up.” I of course only grunt because he’s just making an observation and not looking for conversation. But it got me thinking what a beautiful thing it must be to just say whatever is in your mind. I tried it on my husband when he returned from running. Told he stunk. He didn’t bat an eye. So I told him he smelled like dirt and grass. He smiled.

So, here’s the thing, telling the truth flat out is overrated. Spinning the truth, that’s the good stuff. And, yes, it may come across as wordy, overwritten, meandering or verbose, but if any of us was looking for concise we’d curl up with The Wall Street Journal and not Amy Tan.
And we all know that ain't happening.

Miss Snark's First Victim or Twenty-second

2009-04-16T12:58:00.004-04:00

Two days ago, I opened myself up to Miss Snark and her readers with some extremely interesting results. When Miss Secret Agent opened submissions for a first-page look see, I submitted five seconds after the alarm went off barely making the cut. But thank goodness I did. It has been a wonderful experience. The feedback has been terrific, even those that aren't head-over-heels in love with me simply because they get me. The hear me. And if you've been reading along, you know that's one big worry for me, marrying up the voice in your head with the words on the page. Well, I did miss the beat with a few, it's expected. But I was surprised to find that people pointed out two phrases that I changed last minute which I find very telling. In that rewrite, rewrite, but don't reword unless you are really feeling it.

Anyway, I'm open to your criticism and candor, so hit me, baby.

Miss Snark's First Victim

22 Secret Agent
TITLE: A Big Fat Truth
GENRE: Women’s Fiction

I was ten before I stopped thinking my papi could set right the trouble in our lives only just hadn’t gotten around to doing it yet, before I stopped thinking our way of living was anything close to normal.

Before that time I would spend every evening sitting at his side while my mammi and my sisters watched their telenovela, while my brother went out looking for girls easy with their kisses. For that short bit after dinner, I would be his only child. We would sit on our porch after the sun had lost its strength and had to slip away and hide until the moon itself was too tired to hold up the sky. Our legs would hang over the edge where he still hadn’t put any steps so there was only one big jump into the dirt of our garden. We would sit close, without even a finger of air between us, as if we were one person even though with all my heart I knew he was the whole of the world while I was only his youngest child and that my usefulness was something too close to nothing. He had already told me I was too big for his lap, too big to be lifting for kisses, so I knew I had to make sure and be something special he would not chase away like he had all the others.

Your You

2009-04-08T08:19:00.003-04:00

A number of years ago I was one of four women that would get together once a month for dinner. We were of varied ages, backgrounds, but we all liked good conversation, good food. We all wanted a Great life experience. Well there was this one girl (no, it’s not you) that somehow we all decided was the “wise one,” mostly because she taught us all yoga, spoke four languages, and could hold her foot behind her ear. (No, it’s not you. Lots of people can do that.)

So one night, dinner finished, we’re all sitting around discussing who we are, how close we are to the person we want to be. That’s when this same girl sweeps in and starts giving us, us. She was good. Nailed us. Now, I can’t remember what she said about me, whether it was good or bad, but I remember it was almost flattering, stupefying precise. And I wanted her to go on. Heck, she could have kept talking all night with me hanging on her every word like they were coming from Gandhi himself.

Thing is, today, feel totally different about that night. Maybe it’s being forty, maybe it’s motherhood, I don’t know. What I do know is that allowing someone’s definition of you to stick, for however long, is not a good thing. Now, I’m not talking about “you would be better to stop at four martinis,” kind of wisdom. That kind of mind-bending insight is always a good thing, hands down. I’m talking about the kind of stuff that has you rethinking your you.

That night I let those words stick. I left them on me like they were my lunch money pinned to my sweater. I didn’t shake them. For some time I let them be all I was.

Then I stopped.

Same things with rejections. They are not you. They are not your writing. They are an opinion, albeit in most cases, a learned one. But still only one, uno.

Take them off. Today. And then, write your you.

Girls, girls, girls

2009-04-02T08:41:00.004-04:00

A British study finds that families with sisters are happier and more emotionally connected than those with brothers.

Oh, yeah, that's right, girls rule.
PS I have three sisters

Photo: Life Magazine

Final Thoughts on #queryfail

2009-04-02T08:27:00.003-04:00

No offence, but can we get to the end of this queryfail agentfail thing already? Please? Pretty, please?
I think we’ve passed the point of “enough said.”

There have been some sound comments from both sides, and I think we all understand each other much better now. I can envision changes happening. That’s got to be a good thing.

Now I don’t want to be a meanie—and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, because writers are eloquent, sensitive and they’ll hurt back with words I can only begin to imagine—but let’s move forward.

Let’s move forward into what’s going on in our market, Kindle and Google. Let’s take a hard look at where our writing is going and figure out if it’s now a journey with more uphill than down. Writers, and agents, work hard for their money, but we are in this new chapter together. That’s the way it is. There ain’t gonna be no Kindlefail.

Hidden Gifts of Rejection Letters

2009-03-30T12:21:00.003-04:00

List below

Came across this article a few months ago, and of course, I had the normal reaction. Bull%$*# Please are you kidding me? Rejection—gift? What a load of toad farts. I even considered writhing a reply. Okay, I did write one. A big long diatribe listing all the reasons writers need to curse every single all-too-polite rejection, why we should tear them up into tiny pieces and set them on fire in our sink. Not that I did that, or thought about that, or—Well, it felt really good until the fire alarm went off.

Hey, I come from a planet where rejection is personal. Just is. You’re the last one picked for dodge ball, you only dance once at the prom and it’s with your girlfriend, your kids prefer Aunt Mary’s peanut butter and jelly to their own mother’s. Well, these things hurt and they stay with you. But it is also that hurt that gets you to stop closing your eyes when the ball is flying at your head and stick up your hands instead. To say yes to the geeky dweebs just so you can show off your Christina Aguilera booty-grinding, more like Elaine two-stepping, dance moves. To give in to cutting off the crusts that they’re no way ever going to eat until they turn ten and their friends laugh at them anyway.

There are no two ways about it. Rejection is personal. Reading a rejection letter causes hands to sweat, hearts to seize, tears to fall. Causes that little voice in our heads to shout out all sorts of abuse, They don’t like you, You suck, You’re writing sucks, You’re an idiot, You’re fat.

But (as if you weren’t expecting one) it does get you to rewrite. Maybe it takes ten rejections, maybe twenty, maybe fifty, but one day you finally do it. Rewrite your whole manuscript, dropping entire paragraphs, changing arc, deleting characters. You move on, resubmit, start again. And when you later come across your first bestest book in the bottom of the garbage can, you laugh that you ever wrote anything so—well, bad.

10 Hidden Gifts of Rejection Letters by Debra Darvick

1. Rejection letters take you out of submission limbo.
Familiar with that hell whose name is Waiting? Is the agent reading your submission? Chortling with her cronies over it? Using it as a doorstop or drink coaster? With that rejection letter in hand, you now know where you stand. No more wondering. No more worry. Of course no more hope either. Time to move on. Next.

2. All it takes is one rejection letter to make you an instant life member of a club whose luminaries include Walt Whitman, J.K. Rowling and Dr. Seuss.
What published writer has never received a rejection letter? These are our badges of determination. Of striving. And on bad days, of lunacy. Take heart. No one’s, and I mean no one’s, first query snags an agent and a book contract. Unless of course you are Madonna, Jamie Lee Curtis or Fergie.

3. Rejection letters strengthen you, build courage, determination and belief in your work.
Where would you be if you didn’t rail at your most recent rejection letter: “Agent Babe, you are WRONG! I will NOT make my overweight heroine svelte, my gay character straight or turn my borzoi into a chihuahua!”? Rejection letters give you practice taking a hit and moving on. Are you going to let one agent’s (or one dozen’s) opinion make you give up your intention to publish your book? Hell, no.

4. Rejection letters can be stockpiled for future use: wallpaper; bonfire kindling; shredded for an environmentally sound substitute for Styrofoam peanuts.
Personally, I’m going to turn them into a necklace. My other creative outlet is beaded jewelry. I’ve just found a way to roll paper strips into beads. I plan to make a necklace from paper strips cut from my rejection letters and wear it to my book signings, the National Book Awards Ceremony and Dinner, and the Academy Awards. OK, OK, I’ll start with the signings and take it from there.

5. The good ones (offering constructive criticism) help you develop as a writer.
And you will get some good ones in amongst the ones who used your manuscript as coffee coasters and doorstops. Thoughtful rejection letters, in addition to being a balm to your weary writer’s soul, afford the opportunity to revisit your work, to consider it through another’s lens. Such letters may lead you in a new direction.Or you might just add them to your stack of kindling. Good rejection letters are a clue that you are on the right track and getting closer. Take heart.

6. Get a few rejection letters beneath your belt and you can blog authoritatively on sites such as absolutewrite.com's Water Cooler.
There are more web-based communities devoted to the world of submissions than you can shake a keyboard at. At the abovementioned Water Cooler, bloggers share their agent experiences. Which ones don’t follow through? Which ones are reputable? Which ones should be drawn and quartered for asking for a full and then never getting back to you? Rejection letter in hand, you can add your voice to the fray.

7. All it takes is one good one to renew your faith in agents.
Number Seven is a corrolary to Number Five. There are good agents out there - human beings who love books as much as you do. Why else would they be in the business of trying to link their authors with publishers? Or take home reams of manuscripts to read over the weekend when they could be training for the New York City Marathon instead? A good rejection letter, whose tone is sincere and offers advice, can revive your flagging spirit.

8. Rejection letters keep the USPS in business.
The Internet has taken a huge toll on the USPS. Mail carriers may go the way of the Maytag man. And then what will happen to the stamp designers? To the workers who assemble all those annoying circulars that come thru the slot as fourth class mail? To the Neiman-Marcus Christmas catalog? Rejection letters might mean you can’t quit your day job but they do help others keep theirs.

9. Rejection letters let you know who your true allies are.
Are your loved ones sympathetic when a dreaded rejection letter falls through the slot? Do they bring flowers or send sweet e-mails of encouragement? Or do they chide you and say, “NOW will you get serious and put this silliness away?” Rejection letters let you know who you want on your team in this endeavor.

10. The number of rejection letters you receive is proportional to the euphoria that will envelop you when you do get The Call.

Author Platform and the Politics of Preschool

2009-03-26T13:41:00.003-04:00

Been reading a crap load of articles on Author Platform this week, do writers need one, how to get one, what defines a platform, is it a shoe…

Thankfully, Michael Hyatt has weighed in with an opinion I am going with: You don’t need one. http://michaelhyatt.com

Thank God.

Let’s face it, writing is a full-time profession, and most of us already have one of those, then there’s maintaining a website, blogging, twittering, emailing and fornicating. Well, maybe not fornicating. But writing is a deadly busy occupation. Most days I am up to my eyeballs in the business end of it (online presence) for a chunk of the time I was planning on devoting to writing.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love blogging. I love hearing what other authors and agents are experiencing, what's going on in the literary world, the things I need to know to be "in the know." I mean, it’s a solitary profession, right? If we don’t meet in the blogosphere every once in a while, we are gonna start writing about our bellybuttons pretty soon. So, where am I going with this, I want to get myself out there because I want to, because you’re interesting, because I want to hear another voice inside my head other than my own. Sharing stories, sharing struggles and triumphs, is great stuff. And that "stuff" is what's going to make me a better writer. For me, I'm leaving PLATFORM to the professionals.

Pulling Words, Pulling Pork

2009-03-23T20:27:00.004-04:00

After a weekend spent washing clothes, raking leaves, and performing many other endless domestic duties that come with owning a house and birthing children, I went to bed last night dreaming of my computer, of words, of the unsaid.

And I was up early. No snooze button for me, baby. Coffee in hand, news on the TV, eating cereal, herding my loved ones out the door, making sure they had brushed teeth, were packing lunch money, relevant homework and clarinets, then I sat down to create something beautiful.

Nothing happened.

So I went to the gym, swam some laps (great brainstorming exercise. As long as you kick and breath, it’s mostly mindless). Swam 45 minutes, another 10 in the sauna, a hot shower, back home in a little over an hour.

Still nothing.

So I cooked. It’s what my heroine, Chica Suarez, does when she has thinking to do, (I call her a heroine because sometimes surviving life is an act of heroism) and I made pulled pork sandwiches with a warm spinach salad.

Now it didn't happen right away, it didn't even happen for quite a while, but somewhere between the two something hit me. Something about the smell of barbeque, the tang on my tongue, the smell of sweet grass, wiffle balls and sunshine, and I was off.

There is something in the process of creating, however we do it, painting, drawing, molding; it awakens something in our subconscious that no amount keyboard head-banging is ever gonna get hold of.

Mine took a while, but the good things always do.
In case you're ever in the same state of unwrite...

My Pork Recipe

Last night’s pork butt
Simmering in last month’s Piggly Wiggly bottom-shelf-on-sale barbeque sauce
With extra soy
Extra sugar
Extra honey
And extra beer, mostly for the cook

Let it simmer until it falls apart, maybe two hours, depends on how you cooked it the first time. But keep adding beer so it doesn’t dry.

Meanwhile, make a Warm Spinach Salad

Open a bag of spinach and wash it. Even though the bag says it’s clean, cold water will freshen its flavor. (While its drying, toast and butter some buns)

For a dressing:

Over medium heat, warm ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil and add the spinach tossing until it just begins to wilt. Then add:
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
1 tablespoon sugar
salt & pepper
and sugared pecans

Blogging and Our Border-II

2009-03-17T21:13:00.006-04:00

Latina.com did a follow-up story today on rape trees:
The Steep Price of Immigration for Latin American Women

Here's a segment.

"Dr. Sylvanna Falcón, [a professor at Connecticut College who has done extensive research into human-rights abuses along the U.S./Mexico border] explains one possible reason this systematic abuse of women has gone unchecked for so long, "Our society takes rape seriously, but it doesn't take this type of rape seriously. In all of our national discourse around securing our borders, rarely, if ever, do you hear about any kind of protection for people who might be crossing. Largely, that's because the discussion has been framed around protecting us—protecting the U.S.—and once you get into that framework, what happens to the other person is not even on the radar."

On US soil, but not on the radar.

Blogging and Our Border

2009-03-17T16:37:00.008-04:00

I spent my morning drinking coffee and reading blogs. I enjoy seeing what’s going on around the blogosphere. Today I found a lot of stories that reminded me of my high school years, who was popular, who said who was fat, who said who was fat and stupid. I was going to write about that, too. Jump right into the current flow and add my two bits just in case some of those surfing millions come across my pithy post and rewards me with a comment.

Only I didn’t. I didn’t want to talk about that. Today I wanted to address what needs to be spoken of, and if you read my twitter, you might guess it’s about rape trees. Now, I’m not going to tell you all the ugly details. You don’t want to hear it, and I don’t want to say it. What I want to say is that things are happening on Our border that we have to find some way to deal with. They are not new. They are only migrating into our Americasphere.
Full ariticle: Latina.com

Thoughts on #queryfail

2009-03-11T22:31:00.000-04:00

“To write a novel, delude yourself into thinking you’re really important & it’s really brilliant. To sell a novel, cut that out!” Lindsey Lee Johnson

I missed the queryfail event, damn. It was really good stuff kinda like sneaking in the teachers’ room and finding them smoking and cursing. Only thing is, I’m not feeling so good now because I’m remembering that query I wrote last week about my fiction novel. Now, the thing is, I know better, really. I’m not stupid. I read the paper, many different newspapers (only don’t ask me to name them). But when you’re sitting there weighing every word, taking out and putting in, trying to sound enticing, competent, and least of all, like an idiot, sh#t happens, just does.

All right, so I didn’t query about Girls and Unicorns or Bob, Johnny and His Truck or Frogs From Heaven. I didn’t tell them about my dream, my cats, or my relationship with God. I didn’t misspell their name or call them Sir or Madam. I didn’t tell them my word count, pages and font, that I was meant to be a best-selling author or at least Oprah’s new book buddy, or that I was “summiting” a book that that is both a story and a novel, a truth-filled trip into my own history as well as my life.

To date, I haven’t “mustard” the courage to TYPE IN ALL CAPS TO BE SURE TO GET NOTICED or wrote a query letter to request permission to submit my proposal about a book that isn’t written and that I can’t write, but that I know is meant to be so if they write it I’ll willingly split the profits even though I’ve already queried fifty agents and they don’t want to do it, but since they are an agent in good standing (which I know because I googled them) maybe they could bring the idea up with some of their not-so-discriminating colleges.

All I did was put the word “Fiction” next to “Novel.” I mean, that momentary lapse of prudence shouldn’t leave me in the ranks with Unicorn Girl. I mean, what the he*#! I mean, what the hell! And yes, I used an explanation mark. Deal with it.
Or forget I said anything, Madam, Sir, Dear Bestest Friend.

Barbie has a tattoo, no way.

2009-03-04T18:35:00.001-05:00

When she and I used to hang out, she never did anything like that, not even close. Okay. Maybe the signs were there and I just didn’t see them, or didn’t want to see them. Let’s face it, she never wore a bra, not even once. But it was okay for a girl built like her. I mean, she did have that great figure, long neck, tiny waist. She was in great shape. A girl like that could get away with it. Come to think of it, I bet she got that idea from GI Joe because he always went commando. Back in the day, when she was my best friend, he was always following her around and I don’t remember him ever even wearing a shirt. That was Ken. Ken wore a shirt, usually a tuxedo shirt because it came attached to his coat, but he didn’t wear socks or shoes. And Barbie only hung with him when she was dressed up and needed a ride somewhere. He didn’t mind driving her pink car. But Joe was the one she kissed, over and over. I don’t think they even hugged. They just stood there kissing and kissing. If I’m remembering it right, it was quite romantic. Yeah, there were signs, even back then, that she was just the kind of girl who would get a butterfly tattoo.

2009-03-04T12:20:00.000-05:00

Dress by Joy Kampia O’Shell
Creativity...
It’s elusive, isn’t it?
It comes in the middle of the night, when we’re sitting in the dentist’s chair, when we’re shoveling snow. Basically, when we’re nowhere near our computer/sketchbook/notebook.
I used to track my own, peak times, triggers, environments. Then I would still myself, open my mind. It was like pulling threads from a silkworm, hand over hand, coaxing, begging. Didn’t work.
What works for me today is to not expect it. To recognize its fluidity and let it be something that is apart from me.
But--big BUT--when it comes, stop. I don’t know how many inconvenient ideas I’ve lost over the years because I just didn’t have time to think them. I know I’ve told myself too many times, later, tell me later. Only there is no later. You only get it once.
Maybe when you’re eating a burger.

My Way to Strategic Acceleration

2009-02-24T17:30:00.000-05:00

I love to play tennis. I used to play three times a week in a mixed doubles group. We would get out there at 9:00 in the morning and play until lunch time. It was a lot of fun, lots of laughs, and a good workout, but I hated going. In fact the only way I would get myself dressed and out the door was by pretending I wasn’t going. I would put on my shorts (just because they are laid out), put on my sunscreen (well, because who wants another wrinkle), eat a healthy breakfast (well, who really likes jelly donuts fifteen minutes after they’re in your mouth), put on my shoes (because it was more comfortable that way) and then, well, why don’t I just go, see who’s there, I’m up and dressed anyway. And I would have a great time. I just couldn’t start out thinking that I was going to play three hours of tennis. I would never have gone when I could spend those three hours doing something really important like writing, reading... okay, napping.
We all have things that keep us from getting what we want, some are real and some are imagined, but most of the time, for me, the biggest obstacle is myself.
Read this great article on just this kind of thinking.
Procrastination: THE Results Killer!

Put Your Title to the Test

2009-02-20T09:07:00.002-05:00

http://www.lulu.com/titlescorer/index.php
Have you seen this site? It’s probably one of those things that everyone has been fooling around with forever, everyone except me...
So, I put in mine, In the Fields of Another, which I have been told at different times is too ethnic, too sad, too long.
Now, I really like the title. I mean, maybe it isn’t exactly right for this book as the main character isn’t really from the fields, but I do think it’s pretty good, as titles go.
But Lulu, in her ultimate wisdom, gave it a 26.3% chance of being a bestseller.
So, I tried Fields of Another, same score
Then I tried...Well, you get the idea. Fun stuff.
By the way, To Kill a Mockingbird, 26.3%.

Characters Welcome

2009-02-16T20:15:00.000-05:00

This is my dog. I’m thinking she’s the only one I know who won’t mind being called a character. And if she does, a few cheese crackers and she’ll forget the whole thing.

Anyway, have you see those Characters Welcome ads?
Well, I’m loving them. I’m loving that someone out there is reminding us that being an individual, being unique, is a good thing, a wonderful thing. Kind of like the French ugly beautiful. Not that the people on these ads are ugly, or strange, or un-beautiful. No. Not that. Just that their mass message about being exactly who you are to the point of reveling in it is so refreshing.

Now juxtapose that with the flip of my dial taking me to the channel with the Real Housewives. You got to love not liking those ladies. I know there’s a few shows, and I’m not sure which geographical entourage I was watching, but this group looks so much alike I had a hard time following who was doing what. (Or maybe I just didn’t really care, not sure.) But lots of tall, tan, blond girls hanging out, exercising, spending money. Quite a show. I’m hoping they don’t get that one in Tehran.

Writers Digest Short Story Competition

2009-02-13T19:50:00.000-05:00

So, yesterday I found out that I placed 21st in the 9th Annual Writers Digest Short Story Competition, and I was really excited. I mean, I’ve never entered a writing contest before, so I’m thinking this is great, and...well...they’re giving me 50 bucks to spend on WD books, which is very nice, quite unexpected, and of course I’m spending it on the one with my story in it (which as soon as I find out what it’s called-- expect a link) but then today I write back to the notifying competition agent (if I may call her that) and ask, Now, how many people are in this competition? I mean, I need to know because I was so flying high on this illustrious achievement until I mentioned it to my son who upon hearing my news gave me a high-five saying, “Wow, I’ve never heard of anyone winning 1st place 21 times.” Whereupon I immediately set him straight. Whereupon he immediately said, “Oh, cool.”
Damn...
Well, so far they have not emailed back, like they care that my son no longer thinks I’m a literary genius. But, if they do, I’ll be sure to share.
Oh, when the book comes out, my story is called “A Special Boy.” I know the title stinks, right? I mean, that was my working title. I guess I never changed it and now it’s too late. The real title was “Under the Livelong Tree.” Now that if I had only used that title, 1st place, all the way, baby!

Short Story--The Special Boy

2009-02-12T09:01:00.001-05:00

21st Place in Writer's Digest 9th Annual Short-Short Story Competition
The Special Boy
By Judith Coughlin

The name of my village is no longer spoken between men. It is gone from the place I was born as completely as if it had been scorched from the earth. Even if I spoke it to you now, you would hear only grunting and clicking. You would not hear its sweetness or be able to see its people. You would not know the kindness of their faces. When you heard me, you might even laugh with the others and make the sound of the monkey while pointing at me as though to say that animal is missing a brother.
My name is Charlee. But this was not the name the Gods sent my mother when she sat among the smoke pots listening for the word to call her child. The name she heard was Kalonga, but because my father, did not believe she had heard them correctly, he made her sit again only with her belly uncovered so the Gods would know it was this child they were naming. Even so, they did not change their minds. They only grew angry.
The name of my home might have been Village of One Family for every boy was brother and every girl sister. In our huts we slept on mats only for brothers, ate food cooked only by sisters, and our women were happy women. The one that was my mother had birthed many children, but when she saw my face she would stop her work and wave to me. Her lips would shape my name. Like the animals we hunted, we were raised to wear our sameness easily and not think of ourselves. And although I was only another boy with two arms and two legs covered with skin like night, a boy whose chest was also without hair and whose jangles were small enough to cover with the skin of a sand rat I thought I was very special boy and not like the others.
So it was that one day while I stood with my brothers throwing spears into the hide of a dead inymazane, practicing for the day we would hunt the gazelle, I saw something move in the grass and set loose my spear without thinking of what my arm was doing. Only after it happened did my mind see little sister peering through the grasses, a spear now through her heart, her life spilling its redness from her small body. So I did not follow my brothers when they followed my spear, but sank to my ankles and hid such a hand that would do such a thing. But my brothers’ cries came to me, hands pulling me to my feet, because it was not little sister I had killed but instead a wild pig. Some of my brothers were already dragging it to the huts, their voices calling to the mothers and fathers to come and see what they had done.
“It is my pig,” I shouted after them. “I saw its eyes in the grass and killed it,” I said, quickly forgetting I did not see what my hand decided to kill. “It was my spear,” I said, when the mothers and fathers had come to us and were clapping heads and shoulders that were not mine.
“It is my pig,” I shouted at my father even though he stood next to me and could easily hear my words.
“It is not your pig,” he answered back, placing his hands on the sides of my head so I could only look at him and not see the smiles and pointings of my brothers.
“I killed it, Father. I used my spear just as you have shown me.”
“Whose point was on your spear, my son?”
“It was my own, Ubaba.”
“And what stone gave you your point?”
“What stone…? It was one I found myself.”
“What tree gave you your spear?”
“What tree…?”
“How was it that your spear knew to fly?”
“Father…!”
“Where did you get your breath?”
“I killed—”
“You did not kill that pig. Your brothers killed that pig. Your fathers killed that pig. We taught your hand to aim. We cut the tree that gave you your spear. We showed you how to turn a round stone to point. We fed the boy that wore this arm. We killed that pig; your brothers, your fathers and your mothers.” And although I wanted to cry at him, to beat my fists, I did not say more but only took his hand and went with him to celebrate before he could see my tears. He had already told me many times that I was not smarter or faster than the other boys, when I knew that I was. He had told me many times that the Gods would easily find the one who stood higher than the others, that the Gods would kill that one first.
But because I was such a stupid boy, when again the sun had taken its place above my head and warmed the air and all the life around me, I went out ahead of the others who were still wiping the sleep from their faces. I was first to the grasses to empty my waters and first to the women to be fed my cakes. When the basket came to me, I took the biggest cake and ate it slowly without gobbling. I filled my mouth with goat’s milk and thanked the sisters without joking and teasing. Then I went to the trees and climbed the tallest one. Calling the other boys to me, I began dropping fruit without looking to see who would catch it. I only climbed and cut, letting others pick what they could from the ground.
That is why I was the first to see the green men, the beast they were riding and the dust it was breathing. From that tallest tree I saw how quickly it came, but I did not call my brothers to watch because I did not want to share the story I alone would tell. I saw the fathers meet them in the field, saw the pointing to our village and how the fathers fell from their feet when the beast began again to breathe. Only then did my voice call to the mothers who were too far to hear me and only waved to a stupid boy sitting in such a tree.
“A beast!” is what I yelled to my brothers who were now also watching the thing as it came at their bodies and threw them under its belly only stopping beside the mothers and sisters.
“Run!” is what I yelled to our women whose eyes were now great with fear, whose arms were now grabbing for babies.
“Run!” is what I called when I saw the green men pull black sticks from their backs and saw the women falling as the fathers had done.
“Run…” is what I whispered to the brothers, sisters and mothers whose blood covered the earth that was our village.
And because I watched these things until the dark had come to hide a boy such as me, I was alone when a green man stepped from the shadows and grabbed my arm tight in his hand.
“Where are you going?” he said in my words.
“To see my family.”
“They are gone. Only you are still here.”
“I must go.”
“You are not afraid of me?”
“I am not afraid of you,” I said, even though my body shook as the leaves of the live-long tree.
“Then maybe I will not have to kill you.”
It is that man that gave me the name of Charlee. He showed me pictures that moved of men with black sticks like the one he gave to me. When I saw these pictures I was with other boys, drinking things that burned my lips and made my head as heavy as that of the rhino ubhejane. When I had seen them so many times I knew their words better than my own, that man took me to a place where I was made to point my stick at an umkhulu. That is when he told me I must kill this grandfather or I would be the one to die.
When I have done this thing, he tells me I am indeed a special boy.

The End

The Most Unbelievable Biscuits EVER

2009-02-06T18:30:00.000-05:00

2 sticks of real butter softened
2c. self rising flour
8oz. sour cream

Mix lightly, just until ingrediants are not quite 100% blended. Any more and they are just too tough. Then drop spoonfuls onto an ungreased cookie sheet.

Bake at 450 for ten minutes.

When they are finished, let them cool five minutes and eat. But don’t serve them in on a towel or cloth, the are simply too buttery and will just saturate the fabric.

They are melt-in-your-mouth delicious. The best you have ever tasted. But if you want to go one better, add cheddar cheese, chopped scallions and bacon bits.

Inaguration Day

2009-01-20T09:25:00.001-05:00

What a beautiful day to be an American. I wish I could have been there, on that mall. I wish I could have stood with all those people who thought such a day was important enough to get up in the wee hours of the morning and stand in frigid temperatures only to watch a monitor. I wish my claps would have joined theirs, that we would have shared smiles, hugs, laughter. And even though I know our prayers were shared, how I would have liked to have stood with them on such a day.

President Obama’s speech

My Birthday & Buttercream Icing

2009-01-05T13:25:00.000-05:00

Nov 5, the date of my last entry. It’s unusual. I always have so much to say, and seeing as I moved from AZ to MA recently and still haven’t met too many people, I wonder just where all the words have been going.

Anyway, today is my birthday. Being that it lies so close to the new year it is always the day I set resolutions, plan life strategies, clean mental closets, see where I went wrong the year before, that sort of thing.
At the top of my list, writing. I have come to terms with what kind of writer I am. And I am not an everyday writer. I’m not. And I’m not going to fight it anymore. Now don’t go looking up old posts about me jabbering on about how important it is to write everyday, it is. It’s just that this year, I’m going to take those days when all I get are notes or single sentences or single words as good days. I mean, sometimes I go over those notes and I get a good ten pages out of them. Which means, I think, that every day I am a writer, every day I am capable, a genius even. Even if I don’t know it.
So, besides writing, I’m devoting time to laughing and this year, much, much more. Now if we’re old friends, then you know I love laughing, but I want it to be an everyday thing. I want it on Monday mornings and and Thursday afternoons. I want it to fill my evenings with my kids. I want people to hear it in my voice.
And then loving. I want to love more. I want to love a good cup of coffee everyday. I want to buy lilac soap because I love the smell. I want to take lots of unnecessary pictures because I love photography. I want to be in love with life.
Next, I want a great bra. No more poking. No more pulling. No more I can’t wait to rip this thing off of me.
There’s more, but I’ve tortured you enough. Besides I’ve got another word, so am back to writing...

Fantastic Buttercream Frosting by Bon Appetit
8 ounces white chocolate
1/2 cup whipping cream
2 cups unsalted butter, room temperature
8 egg whites
2 1/4 cups sugar
2 tsp grated orange peel
2 tsp vanilla extract
Stir white chocolate and cream in heavy small saucepan over low heat until melted and smooth. Cool to room temperature. Using electric mixer, beat butter in medium bowl until fluffy; set aside.
Combine whites and sugar in large metal bowl. Set bowl over large saucepan of simmering water (do not let bottom of bowl touch water). Whisk until sugar dissolves and thermometer inserted into whites registers 160°F, about 3 minutes. Remove bowl from over water. Using clean dry beaters, beat meringue until cool, stiff and shiny, about 10 minutes.
Beat butter, about 1/4 cup at a time, into meringue, blending well after each addition. If frosting looks curdled, place bowl over very low heat for 3 to 5 seconds to soften slightly. Remove from heat and beat until smooth. Repeat warming technique as necessary. Gradually beat in cooled white chocolate mixture, then orange peel and vanilla extract. Chill buttercream until beginning to firm, about 30 minutes.

Vote

2008-11-05T13:20:00.000-05:00

I went to the polls yesterday. I took my kids with me so they could see the process, or at least my part in it. My part was small, insignificant, symbolic, but I went. It was a beautiful day, clear skies, hardly any traffic giving me plenty of time to turn my attention to the men I now knew more about than my own lower lip. And I did, I thought of them one more time. I thought of each one overseas with our troops, negotiating treaties, visiting heads of state, representing America, and I voted. My kids were not too impressed, “Yeah, Mom. Okay. That’s nice. Can we go now?” But years later, they will remember this day. They will remember a country before Obama rocked our world, and brought people of all colors to the polls with hope in their hearts, hope for him, hope for us, hope for our children.

Massachusetts & Meandering

2008-11-01T15:20:00.000-04:00

You know those days when you have trouble writing so you get on the web and read about what everyone else in the world has to say about writing and then after six hours and a whole bag of chips, just to keep your focus, you get slapped with a reality that you knew all along--The truth that writing comes from writing? Well, been there lately, for about a month actually.
It started with me moving from AZ to MA. Good time to take a few days off writing, on the road and all that. Then there were the weeks of finding a house, followed by the weeks of closing on a house, the weeks of unpacking the house, rearranging and painting the house, and then ending with, I’m so sick of the damn house.
So I went back to my book, only I didn’t know where it was going anymore, I had lost its flow, its pace. It was no longer alive to me, and therefore, wouldn’t be to anyone else.
What I am trying to say is, don’t do what I did. Don’t let go of your months, years, decades work, because life is too busy. Life is always too busy. Everyone is busy. If you’re too busy to write for an hour, write for ten minutes. Write even if it’s crap.
Finally, don’t waste time reading about someone else’s writing. Your writing is within you until you put it down on the page. Crap and all.
Best of luck!

Mozzarella y Tomato

2008-07-24T08:20:00.000-04:00

Obviously you don't need the recipe. But I did want to show you another way to serve it. I really like it with chopped basil sprinkled on top, but some people have a thing about green food.

Our Second Amendment

2008-06-26T10:27:00.001-04:00

Is ME more important that WE every time? Is the Supreme Court protecting our right to life when they overrule a ban against handguns in DC? Is this the direction we want our country to continue to go, protecting one individuals rights to the detriment of others?

Una Cumbia

2008-06-24T10:32:00.000-04:00

The Recruitment of Mexican Guest Workers
The New York Times
May 24, 2007

By ELISABETH MALKIN Before planting and harvest time in the United States it has been common for local recruiters to fan out across Mexico’s parched countryside to sign up guest workers. The recruiters charge the Mexicans hundreds of dollars, sometimes more, for the job and the temporary visa that comes with it.
FYI Things are not so easy.
As for me, I went to Mexico last week, to Nogales, a border town. It was my first time there, but most border towns are the same. Streets are potholed, dirty. Signs are missing letters and lights. But pharmacies and dentists have replaced most of the chick let and shaved ice hawkers. They are still accommodating the tourists’ tastes and pocketbooks, which is a good thing for both sides. But the smells are still Mexico. I recognized roasting corn, lime, and tortillas right away. My stomach was growling within a block. The restaurant we went to was only the next one on the street. We did not study our Fodors beforehand. The dining room was filled with couples, families; a grandmother seated alone, a good mix, and always a good sign. Three gentlemen with guitars came by while we were ordering. They offered to play Guantanamera, but we said no thank you. We asked them to play a favorite cumbia, and they obliged. I didn’t understand it. It was fast, their fingers were flying, and we were all smiling. They played until our food came and then they moved on. They played Guantanamera at the next table. The dish I ordered was fabulous, only I didn’t get its name. It was wonderful. We are having a small fiesta at our house this weekend, so I will be working on the recipe this week. I’ll let you know how things go!

Alfredo Quinones-Hinojosa, Farmworker Turned Surgeon

2008-06-17T10:39:00.000-04:00

“Twenty years ago, he hopped a border fence from Mexico into the United States and became a migrant farmworker.Today, he is a neurosurgeon and professor at Johns Hopkins University, and a researcher who is looking for a breakthrough in the treatment of brain cancer.”
Full article: NPR
I love this story, for reasons that don’t need explaining. I first read about Mr. Quinones-Hinojosa a few years ago, doing research, then again in Readers Digest in the doctor’s office, and then again on NPR. His is an amazing story, an American story.
We’ve all seen trailers. We’ve all seen poverty. We look away most of the time. It’s too much to take in, to accept. Maybe we look away because there is nothing we think we can do, because there are too many who need help. Maybe we are afraid. Maybe their destituteness is too close, even when it is across town, even when it is a picture.
I was in Mexico last week. The border towns are not the best of Mexico. They are not the best places to discover Mexico or its people, but it is still there, whether I look or not. The houses are still crumbling, waiting for power, for fuel, for floors. Children are still missing school because their parents are too busy working to get them there, because it is too far, because they just no longer can.
But when I go home, when I turn on the hot water and wash the days dirt from me, I forget. It is easier this way. Maybe the next morning I get a letter in the mail about children in Africa, beautiful children who need a school. Maybe I send them some money.

A Day in Cedar Rapids

2008-06-15T10:46:00.000-04:00

I returned yesterday from Cedar Rapids. My husband was asked to come interview for a company headquartered there, and I was also invited. A week ago, it seemed a nice get away. But when we arrived, the city was suffering through The Flood of 2008. A fifteen minute drive from the airport took us an hour and a half, not because the roads were wet or it was late, but because everyone had to see the water that was covering their landmarks, their library, museums, their history. We saw it, too. Dark, smelly, it flowed through the old parts of town, swept entire houses off their cinderblock foundations. It was a tough few days for us, but more for the people who left their homes, their families, and the sandbags, to meet us and show us around town.
The day we left the sun was shining. We wish them more.

Huevos Rancheros Recipe

2008-06-10T10:49:00.000-04:00

This is not a picture of huevos rancheros. This is a picture of huevos con chorizo or eggs and chorizo except there is also potatoes and cilantro in the recipe. And I have to tell you, you do not want to make this dish without those four things, or maybe five things. The last one is lime.

I will call it Huevos Rancheritos, just for fun.

6 eggs
3 potatoes
1 chorizo link
1 handful cilantro
1 slice lime
some salt and pepper

Chorizo: Heat your chorizo in a warmed pan, crumbling as you go. Do not add oil. It is not necessary. When the chorizo is beginning to brown, when it has released all its oil, remove it to a plate.
Next the potatoes: So you have made roasted potatoes the night before and they are in a bowl in your fridge. Add them to a warm pan with a tablespoon of olive oil. When you hear them begin to sizzle, add salt and pepper, cover them with a lid and turn down the heat for five minutes. When they are warmed through, move them to the side.
Eggs: Add another bit of olive oil to the same pan and cook your eggs, adding bits of potato as you go, adding all the chorizo when you are through.
Scoop your mixture into warmed corn tortillas. Add some guacamole, or mashed avocado, maybe some cheese.
Cilantro & lime: Add them both, to be healthy, because they are green, because neither will taste good without the other.

And, enjoy!

My Salad Nicoise Recipe

2008-06-03T10:57:00.002-04:00

Vinaigrette:
1½ Tbs balsamic vinegar
½ cup extra virgin olive oil
1 Tbs brown mustard
1/2 clove garlic, minced
1 Tbs brown sugar
Salt & pepper

Salad: 2 grilled tuna steaks
1 bag of mixed greens 2 handfuls grape tomatoes
½ red onion sliced thin 5 hard-cooked eggs 1 cup mixed greek olives
1 pan roasted potatoes
3 handfuls roasted green beans 
To prepare the vinaigrette:
Mix all ingredients together and allow to sit 15 mins on counter to blend.
For the Salad: Sear the tuna in a hot pan with a tablespoon of olive oil. Cook for three minutes and then turn for an additional minute. Remove the steak on a plate to cool.
To roast the beans and potatoes: Preheat oven to 400°F. Wash and dry the beans and potatoes. Place them separately on a flat pans drizzled with olive oil, salt and pepper, tossing to ensure they are evenly coated. Cook for 30 minutes until they are just beginning to brown.
Boil the eggs. You know how, I think.
Mix the salad greens with half your dressing and place in the middle of your platter. Then assemble your remaining ingredients as you wish. Maybe you will toss your tomatoes and onions with dressing. Place your potatoes next to your beans and your olives with your tomatoes. The eggs around the edge. Maybe you will pour the remaining dressing down the middle or maybe you will leave it for your guests.
Then, enjoy. Of course.

Molcajete de Shrimp

2008-06-02T21:36:00.002-04:00

To you: Thanks for asking. I love to talk/write food!!!

The ingredients:
4 slices of bacon
1/2 pound grilled shrimp (Don’t be afraid of the end of the tail, that
is where most of the flavor is.)
1 Tbs olive oil
2 cloves garlic, chopped
1/4 cup homemade salsa
1 cup monterey jack
1/4 cup cilantro

To prepare this dish, your molcajete, or pot, will need to be very hot. You can place it face down over hot coals while you are grilling the shrimp or you can heat it in the oven, 425 degrees for fifteen minutes should do it. The first time I had this dish in Mexico, there was a wad of aluminum foil underneath with a small candle to keep the queso hot. However, when I make it myself, I don't do this as the queso is eaten so fast, the extra heat will only burn your fingers.

Directions: In a pan, fry the bacon until crispy, shaking to remove most of the oil, before chopping it in big rough chunks. Wiping your pan clean, heat the olive oil, adding the garlic and frying until it turns brown and crunchy. Garlic cooks slowly, but burns quickly, so don’t take your eyes off it. When it looks toasted, add the salsa, shrimp and cilantro, tossing no more than a few times. It’s a more interesting dish when the ingredients are not entirely mixed. That way, you get more bacon and shrimp in one bite, cilantro and salsa in the next.

After your ingredients are mixed, take your heated molcajete and spread half your cheese in the bowl, topping with the shrimp mixture, and then the other half of the cheese.

This can be eaten with chips or tortillas, corn or flour, but in front of my spot, I usually place the corn tortillas. Sprinkled with lime, esta perfecto!

Enjoy!

Post Bea

2008-05-29T11:05:00.000-04:00

Well, I went, I pitched, I made friends, I was asked to submit!
Yeah! Kinda. . .
I have to say, everyone was wonderful. The conference wasn’t “the cattle call” I was lead to expect. Yes, there were a lot of writers. Yes, we shuttled from one room to another, in our cutest outfits, standing tall, smiling knowing smiles, pretending we weren’t ready to pee our pants should Donald Maass walk by--maybe that part was just me.
But it was well worth the nerves and jitters to be sitting down all comfy with a cup of coffee while listening to Jacquelyn Mitchard describe her writing history, with all its ups and down, dirt and all, and laugh. Of course a few hands went up, writers that needed to know her writing schedule, and notes were made anxious to record her magic formula.
Then I went to listen to c. Boy, rapid fire, fun, informative, inspirational. He gave you bang for the buck, no doubt.
At lunch there was a nice man across our table, Michael Larsen. Of course, I had no idea he was an agent, passed him the coffee, asked for the cream. He was kept busy by a pretty women next to him. And I had the pleasure of sitting between two fun writers, both non-fiction, and lots of laughs. Which was a huge improvement over the last conference I went to where someone asked for my dessert, and then gave me the stink-eye for saying, no way, Jose.
So, after lunch I went into a session that had Sharlene Martin, Andrea Brown, Katharine Sands, and Jacqueline Hackett up there giving everyone the skinny on what they’re looking for, what’s hot, what’s not, what your query should contain, the usual. I have to say, I expected more. I mean, these ladies had some gems in them, I’m sure, but the questions proffered. . . I guess some people, who somehow get themselves to BEA, have never heard of Writer’s Digest or The Writer’s Handbook, or query etiquette at all. So that was that, but I did take a few notes, and it was nice to see these ladies were just regular gals.
So now it’s pitch time.
The feet are tapping.
Papers are fluttering.
Pens are scratching.
There’s a frenzy in the bathroom for mirror space, hairspray and lipsticks are out, even saw a toothbrush.
We’re all rounded up for our instruction session, and there’s a mass of people in the back all standing by the door ready to dash to their number one agent when the whistle was blown. Of course, I was a rookie, so I’m hanging out in the third row scrounging for brownies.
So the list comes out, hands start stretching, and they’re off.
I sat with Taryn Fagerness of the Sandra Dijkstra LA first. She shot down two proposals before mine (which I know because the writers were only feet from me) but she listened, queried, smiled, thanked me, and asked for the first fifty. Actually, all the agents I spoke to asked for something.
So here’s the thing. So what if it’s a nuisance to stand/sit on line for three minutes with someone. It’s just about the easiest thing I ever did for my book. Much easier than trying to figure out another way to say xxxx, you know? But still, I saw real tears from people who hadn’t pitched yet. I saw people run for the door when their turn came. I saw writers angry, pointing fingers.
It was tough, don’t get me wrong, but I’d do it again and again. I mean, Jacquelyn Mitchard said her books were like her children. I feel the same way. I gave them life. They’re mine. I want the best for them. And just like my babies, I will, and sometimes do, have to walk through fire, or shuffle along with the masses, waiting for an agent to notice my genius and cut me from the herd.