A Breather

I couldn’t resist having my picture taken in front of this tourist trap with the word Curio in the name. The store was jam-packed with old-fashioned curio cabinets like the enchanted one in my recently completed novel. I confess I might’ve studied the contents to make sure nothing inside hinted at a magical universe.

We are back from a mini vacation in Glenwood Springs, Colorado. In an astonishing turn of events, we actually did do some relaxing. Family vacations have always been problematic for us, and often leave me wondering if other families work so hard to have fun only to succumb to internal friction.

I expect that despite Facebook photo albums showing smiley togetherness, most vacations involve whining, frustration and one or two small disasters. At least I hope we’re not the only ones.

I have a friend who refers to “Facebook Families” as a tongue-in-cheek commentary on all those perfect photo albums and squeaky proud parent statuses. When I’m having a less than FB-worthy moment, she reminds me that everyone has those moments. They just don’t post them.

I tend to take a more honest approach to life. Breathe In Breathe Out has featured my messy journey through womanhood, motherhood, and my writing pursuits.

But I’ve always gotten the most responses to my candid posts about raising a son who faces multiple challenges including Sensory Processing Disorder, ADHD and Anxiety.

It’s been a relief for me to be honest about the struggles we face. And it’s been an honor to receive comments from moms dealing with similar circumstances.

But as you may have noticed, I’ve been posting less frequently. There are a couple reasons for this.

First, since this blog is supposed to be humorous, I feel like a failure when I’m not funny. But guess what, sometimes life isn’t funny.

Second, I’ve been focusing my dubious mental powers on writing and editing my latest book.

Third, I’ve been struggling with how to proceed with this blog. For a long time I couldn’t pinpoint what was bothering me. The answer came in a gradual sort of way, and, at the same time, all at once—rather like watching your children grow up before your eyes, then one day looking over to find this full-sized human you thought was an extension of yourself, but who is really a completely separate and wonderful individual.

Breathe In Breathe Out has been about my journey, but it’s not just my journey anymore. In reality, it never was, but I shared it from my perspective—as a mother of a special needs child.

But this is also my son’s journey. I see that more every day. And as he heads into middle school, I need to be more careful with how much of his life I share. It’s HIS life! It’s mine too, but, yeah, you get it.

Although I love to encourage moms who face similar struggles, even that calling takes a backseat to ensuring both of my sons' privacy as they face the challenge of growing up.

I know you will understand as Breathe In Breathe Out takes a breather (hee hee.) I will still share funny anecdotes as they ambush me and glimpses into the spiral of insanity I call my career.

And I hope that my journey into writing YA fiction, which I LOVE, will spawn an entirely new web presence—maybe a cool alter ego who eats sushi and runs marathons. Then again, maybe I’ll stick to eating cheese and reading books.

Thanks for being my friend here on Breathe In Breathe Out. I’m thankful for every person who has read this blog. I hope you’ll stick around as I rethink, reimagine, repurpose, and redesign my focus. I’m pretty sure it’s going to require a new wardrobe. And some new shoes. Yes, definitely new shoes.

Rap Not Required

For the past couple of weeks I’ve been writing chapters from my male characters’ point of views. Because I’m a glutton for punishment and because I get myself in over my head regularly when I’m writing, I decided to include TWO teenage male POV characters in my Work in Progress.

Last night when my husband got home I lamented the day’s dismal word count and challenging subject.

“I’m having trouble writing from a 17-year-old boy’s perspective,” I told

Kory. “I just don’t think I understand them.”

His response was, “No one understands 17-year-old boys, least of all 17-year-old boys.”

“So I shouldn’t ask them how they feel? Should I ask their mothers?”

He shrugged.

I’m not sure interviewing moms would help all that much. After all I’m the mother of an 11-year-old boy and most of the time I have no idea what’s going through his head. Unfortunately, I see this getting worse before it gets better.

I often use music to “get to know” my characters. I find songs that relate to the character’s journey or inner wounds, and by listening to them repeatedly I’m better able to get in touch with that character’s emotions.

Lately I’ve been terrified that I was going to have to start listening to rap in order to better understand a 17-year-old’s perspective. A pesky voice whispered that I should “do the thing that scares me.” But rap? Did it have to be rap?

Rap brings out the granny in me. I just don’t get it. I have no frame of reference with which to interpret it.

And yet I felt like I owed it to somebody to listen to rap. How could my characters be authentic if I didn't?

But the truth is we all experience the same emotions although we might react differently or act upon them differently. The songs I pick for my characters are really songs that help me get in touch with my own emotions. If I get to that authentic place then I’ve grabbed hold of something universal whether I’m writing from the perspective of a college girl, an invalid, or a 17-year-old boy.

I have a pretty good playlist going over on Spotify, and while there’s no rap on it, there are quite a few songs that remind me how it feels to be confused, afraid, angry, or in love. I hope my “boys” Blaise and Whit are living that out on the page.

But if you happen to know a 17-year-old guy who enjoys talking about his feelings, send him my way. I could use the help!

Logic to the Rescue! Again.

I'm posting this from my husband's computer. Why does using someone else's computer or cell phone feel like leaving the house in borrowed, ill-fitting clothes? Yes, there's a screen and a keyboard, but, ugh, they feel so wrong!

You may have guessed that I'm experiencing technical difficulties. Actually, I need a sign for my forehead that says as much. I'm desperately in need of an upgrade. I thought I'd share a little text conversation between Kory and I to kind of let you know where I'm at. This occurred at noon after a disasterous morning.

Me: I'm going to try to finish editing that story now. Deadline is today.

Me: My laptop just died again!

Kory: You'd think that an author could be more descriptive than just saying "it died." Was there any screaming? A parting monologue? What ailment did it succumb to?

Me: It went quietly into that good night. It did not rage against the dying of the light. Is that descriptive enough?

Kory: No.

Me: Now your desktop screen appears to be frozen. Perhaps God is telling me my short story should remain unread. Should I power down and restart?

Kory: Yes.

Me: Does the mouse have to be turned on?

Me: Mouse will not respond!

Me: Batteries!?

Kory: Is the red light blinking? Just take a picture and send it.

Me: Dead mouse.


Me: Dead laptop.


Me: Have no way to take picture of dead career.

Kory: There is a thin cord with a small rectangular connector on the end of it just to the right of my keyboard. It magnetically attaches to the mouse.

Me: Eureka!

Kory: Career back on track?

Me: For the time being.

As you can see, Kory is pretty used to my dramatexts. I have to wonder if he ever groans aloud, shakes his head, and mutters, "Why me, God?" in the quiet of his cubicle. But he is always patient, supportive, and helpful.

Just like Queen Latifah in this clip, he sits in the rain with me, holding an umbrella and offering logical advice should I ever decide to quit dripping, turn around, and listen.

Writing, Weaponry, and my 2012 Song of the Year

Here we go with the New Year thing again. It seems like everyone is picking a special word for the year. A term that represents a goal to strive for. Dream. Reach. Scrub. A worthy discipline to inspire them. Love. Forgive. Sabotage.

I like this new trend of picking one word instead of making an unkeepable New Year’s resolution. Really, I do. The problem is, I have trouble staying focused on one word. Still, I decided to give it a shot. I concentrated and tried to come up with a word for myself for 2012. This is what happened:

Surrender
Thrive
Digest
Blueberry

Yeah, you see the problem. They’re all such great words! I couldn’t possibly pick one.

After I gave myself a migraine trying to think about only one word for more than a nanosecond, I admitted defeat and decided to carry on my tradition of picking a song for the year.

It took me all of two seconds to realize the obvious choice for 2012’s song of the year. Given my near constant state of career frustration, it could be none other than Vampire Weekend’s "Giving Up the Gun."

Let me explain.

On second thought, I think I’ll make you watch the video before I explain. That’ll be more fun.

All I’m going to say is, I’m pretty sure this song is NOT about making a career as a novelist or meant to be any sort of commentary on the publishing industry. But it could be.





I love it! So many good moments. Joe Jonas’ fancy footwork, disinterested handshake and disgusted shirt wipe. The samurai who hacks the ball in half. The fake blonde twins. The ambiguous guys in racing gear. Ahem, THE AMAZON! Overconfident Jake Gyllenhaal getting pinged on the butt. And, of course, Little Red Tights playing her way to the top only to face her toughest competitor—herself.

I laugh every time I see that video, but it wasn’t in my thoughts when I adopted "Giving Up the Gun" as this year’s song. Really it was the title and lyrics that sprang into my mind when I anticipated the coming year. Apparently, the song refers to a period in Japanese history when the country extradited foreigners, cut off trade, and instead of using guns, reverted back to the sword. Sorta rocks, doesn't it? But it’s the weary tone that strikes me. There such a sense of loss, regret, longing, defeat, and, of course, flaming tennis balls.

You see how I can relate?

Just as I did at this time last year, I find myself discouraged, without a contract, without direction, in between projects and wondering why bother? Why pour myself into another 90,000 word manuscript that no one cares about? How can I do this to my family? Aren’t I depriving them of time and resources and balanced meals for my own selfish, unrealistic goals of being an author?

My husband has heard all of this whiney mumbo jumbo about a thousand times, but, because he is awesome, he doesn’t tell me to give it up and go get a job. He probably should, but he doesn’t. Instead he is patient, understanding, and encouraging. Despite his crusty, logical exterior, he has an artist’s heart. After one of my recent rants he told me to put all the publishing stuff aside and just write because it’s what I love. Instead of trying harder to make money and advance my career, he encouraged me to let go of the stuff that weighs me down the most—my continued professional failure—and just do what I love.

In the writing world there’s a collective joke about getting stuck somewhere in your plot. If you say, “Man enters with a gun,” around writers, they’ll chuckle and recognize that the author is trying to force action and excitement into a scene that has gone wandering off into La La Land. “Man enters with a gun” is a last ditch effort to save something probably not worth saving. Better to go back, rewrite, or start fresh.

This year I am giving up the gun. I refuse to use force—to push and strive and cry and sweat in my attempt to achieve my goals. I am going to write for fun and for love and because I have the most awesome husband on the planet and because I can’t make myself think about one word at a time and because I love my writing community and because my brother wants me to blog more. I will accept and revel in any opportunities God places in my lap, but I will not enter into any professional encounters holding a gun.

If you’re wondering if I intend to start carrying a rusty sword around, or a tennis racket for that matter, you can rest assured that I will be weapon-free for the next twelve months. I may have to get a pair of red tights, which, on certain legs (not mine), can be slightly intimidating. But I promise to use my crimson hosiery only for good.

Creative Frustrations

Tomorrow I leave for the American Christian Fiction Writers conference in St. Louis. I’ll be talking with editors and agents, presenting my work, and hoping, always hoping, to get one step closer to publishing a novel.

It seems my son is in the same boat.


Yesterday, Chunky ran out of school waving a stack of papers. He couldn’t wait to tell me about it, so he started yelling the minute he saw me across the school lawn.

“MOMMY, I WROTE A MONSTER BOOK!”

He jabbered on about it as we walked to the car, ran a couple errands, and then drove home. Once in the house, he set to work adding pages to his book. What once was The 4 Page Monster Book became The 7 Page Monster Fun Book.

Finally I had a minute to sit down and go through each wonderfully illustrated page with him. He was so proud. With good reason. The 7 Page Monster Fun Book is a masterpiece!


But then we hit a snag. Chunky wanted to print a copy of his book for each of his classmates because, and I quote, “I want to be nice to them, and I want them to think I’m a nice kid.”

But our printer isn’t working right, and, let’s face it, 25 color copies won’t be cheap.

He fussed and fumed about his frustration until Kory came home from work. The minute his dad walked through the door, Chunky assailed him with his dilemma.

“I wrote a book and our printer doesn’t work! And I want to make one for every kid in my class. I want them to like me. But our printer puts a black line through everything, and if it puts a line through the Domo monster, he’ll just be Do!”


Kory looked to me for an explanation.

I shrugged and said, “He wrote a book. He needs a publisher.”

Kory laughed but kindly and wisely didn’t draw any comparisons between his whiney 7-year-old and his career-frustrated wife.

I’m thinking maybe I should take Chunky’s approach at the conference. I’ll just start yelling across the hotel lobby or conference room about my creative masterpiece the minute I see anyone who can help me reach my goal. And I won’t take “no” for an answer. After all, I want to be nice to people, and I think giving them something fun to read is a nice thing to do. And I want them to think I’m nice too (translation: a good author.)

Too bad I’m not an adorable 7-year-old with a fresh literary voice and kid-approved illustrations.

Push!

I started this summer off with about twenty thousand words left to write on my novel. If you’re not a writer, then to give you a clue, one chapter (for me) is around three thousand words. So I needed approximately six chapters in order to make my final wordcount goal. Right now, if you’re NOT a writer, you’re thinking, “Something’s wrong with her math.”

Anyway, I usually average about a chapter a week. But, it being summer, and me being on the brink of hurling myself into a kiddie pool filled with Ho Hos all day every day, I only managed to get around ten thousand words out.

The kids went back to school on Monday.

Let us now pause to give thanks. And snarf a Ho Ho from the stash we kept in case of emergencies.

So. On Monday. I wrote. FIVE THOUSAND WORDS!

I was pretty excited. I mean, compared to my summer average of one and a half sentences per day, FIVE THOUSAND is pretty good, am I right?

What’s even better is that this is the climax, the most exciting part of the book. Action. Danger. Suspense. Wuv! Truw Wuv! Aside from a brief detour where I had to rethink a Stupid Heroine Moment—“Oh, maybe I should run to safety instead of investigating the scary noise”—the words were flowing.

My critique group meets on Tuesdays, so Monday night—feeling a little giddy and punch-drunk from my writing spree—I sent them an email promising that my chapter would contain a . . . wait for it . . . SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER.

How much better could it get, right? Hunky guy, sans shirt, drops a bomb on unsuspecting, love-blind heroine.

Squee!

I even told my husband about the exciting SHIRTLESS CONFESSION TO MURDER. He immediately assumed his best East German accent and confessed to murder while demanding that I “watch his pecs dance.”

Men! They just can’t take these things seriously.

At least my critique group responded more appropriately.

“Is it hot in here?”

Nearing the end of a book is intoxicating. No, this isn’t my first novel. But this one was a doozy—the equivalent of giving birth to a 10-pound baby after thirty-six hours of labor. And two years of pregnancy.

The nice thing about birthing books is that it’s common practice—even recommended—that you put them on a shelf for a week, maybe longer, and take a breather after typing “The End.”

I expect to be breathing, relaxing, having a mani-pedi, and chowing on Ho Hos (of course) about this time next week.

I’ll send you a birth announcement. And maybe a picture of my sweaty, bloated, happy face.

It's Harder Than It Looks

With the exception of housework, I don’t like to leave things undone. So much so, in fact, that when I’m singing a song and I can’t remember the words I will finish it by saying, “The rest of the song.” My husband finds this hilarious and will wait for me to hum myself into a corner and be forced to sing something like, “la, la, la, yeah…the rest of the song.”

Right now I’m just about out of my mind because I’m nearly done with the novel I’ve been working on for a year and a half. But it’s summer, the kids are home. They are so home. So very, very home. Help! Somebody save me! They’re HOME!

I try all day to keep them busy, entertained, and not killing each other. Bedtime comes late. I wish I had the energy to write once they’ve finally gone to sleep, but instead I end up slouched on the sofa, watching Mr. Bean and thanking God that I made it through another day. And hoping my ADHD kiddo doesn’t grow up to BE Mr. Bean.



Even though I’m not getting a lot of writing done, my Work In Progress is on my mind all the time. Kory is forced to live in whatever story world I’m working on and has become accustomed to me rattling on about fictional characters and problems. Sometimes he listens and gives me great feedback. Sometimes he nods and says, “Uh, huh.”

The other day I was rambling about a plot problem, just thinking out loud while he relaxed on the sofa—probably wishing for some peace and quiet. I finally figured out how I was going to cause the disaster I needed to precipitate the book’s climax. I must’ve stopped babbling abruptly because Kory looked up from his position on the couch, quirked a brow at me and said, “The rest of the book?”

Exactly. I wish it were that easy!

I Don't Have a Special Word!

So it’s January. I realize everyone else is used to the idea, but I toasted the New Year with the highly-addictive cocktail of Albuterol nebulizer treatments and Codeine-laced cough syrup. I can’t remember the stroke of midnight, but I do recall uncontrollable twitching from my bronchodilator “upper” and odd dreams from my narcotic “downer.”

Luckily I was prepared beforehand with some, in my opinion, pretty stellar resolutions.

1. Stop buying cheap shoes.
2. Stop buying cheap bras.

But, according to the social media powers that be, resolutions are SO last year. It seems the thing to do nowadays is pick one word to be your theme word for the year. You know, like Courage. Or Forgiveness. Or Contentment. Or Pizza. Or Fluffy.

This is a way cool idea. But telling me to pick one word to guide my year is like sending me into Payless to buy one shoe. I couldn’t do it even if I tried. And the results would be entirely inadequate.

What’s a girl to do?

Well, nothing, for awhile anyway. I spent the first week of the year in resolution-less, special word-less limbo. In not unrelated news, I also officially decided to give up writing several times during this gray, unpleasant week. I told my husband that the neon signs read, “Stop wasting time trying to get published.” He disagreed, but I have never been one to listen the first time he says something. See Household Budget.

Despite having officially quit writing, I still spent the two extra seconds I had last week working on my novel. During these little creative spurts, I just pretended not to feel the weight of discouragement and not to see the signs that told me, “Your time would be better spent scrubbing grout with a toothbrush.”

The more I practiced this intentional ignorance, the happier I became. Pretty soon a song started running through my head, and I realized I had my theme for the year. In willful defiance of The Signs, I choose to move forward, to continue writing, and to not allow any time for regret.

So here’s my resolution, my theme, my determination for 2011. I choose to Forget and Not Slow Down.