The Difference 8 Years Makes

Eight years ago, I dropped off my first child at kindergarten. He was nervous. I was nervous. I also had his (then) two little sisters with me, one in a stroller, and the other I was trying to keep a hand on so she wouldn't get lost in the shuffle.

We took pictures, found his name tag and his desk and all that stuff. And then it was time to say good-bye. He gave me a hug (fortunately without tears). I took a deep breath and walked out the door.

I fully expected to do what friends had told me to expect: sit in the driver's seat of the car and burst into tears.

I didn't. I couldn't. I was too worried about my little guy. He was probably the youngest kid in his class. What if a big bully decided to lay into him? I had been in charge of his world for his entire life. Would a teacher with twenty other kids be able to keep track of him? What if he got lost in the school? What if he got kidnapped from the playground?

What if, what if, what if?

It was all I could do not to stalk the school to be sure he was okay. I drove home, a nervous wreck. I worried all two and a half hours until I could go rescue him. He was fine. Of course.

But I wasn't. Not by a long shot. He survived one day of school. Good. But there were still 179 left in the school year. So much could still go wrong. For two straight months, I was a ball of nerves. Every day, I waved good-bye, and he trotted off with his backpack. He was just fine. One of his best friends was in class, and he was loving recess and reading and art and all the other fun things.

It wasn't until about October when things finally got into a bit of a routine and I could send him off without verging on a panic attack. That's the day I caught a television show about mothers sending their children off to college.

They wept. And that opened the floodgates. My little guy had years yet before he'd be going off to college (although that number is shrinking with frightening rapidity), but he was growing up. We'd hit a bit milestone.

I bawled my eyes out, a mere two months late.

Today I dropped off my youngest to her first day of kindergarten. She's been chomping at the bit to get to school, and this last week when her siblings had school and she didn't yet, it about killed her.

We took pictures, found her name tag, and got her settled on the rug with the other kids.

"Are you going now?" she asked. Her tone was purely curious. She wasn't at all concerned. If anything, she might have been trying to get rid of me because it would be silly for Mom to stay. I gave her another hug and said that yes, I'd be going now.

And I walked out.

I'm not worried this time. I've been through first days of school many times since that day eight years ago. She'll be just fine, and she'll get a great education to boot.

Me? I'm doing pretty good. I'm a bit weepy about this being it: my last first day of kindergarten. Even I can't kid myself anymore that my baby is still a baby.

At the same time, there's a sense of satisfaction. A new milestone for me and the family. For me as a mom. I dreamt of this day for a long time when I was in the diaper trenches. Look how far we've come.

I may shed a few tears yet. My time with her at home when she's a baby and toddler is forever gone now.

On the other hand, you can bet I'll be enjoying my time in the house where all is quiet. I have a feeling I won't have any trouble filling it up.

But I'm looking forward to seeing her walk home on the sidewalk with her big sisters. She'll have a grin on her face; I just know it.

Drafted!

Final word count: 82,940

Working title: Band of Sisters

Time for: Happy dance!!!

Reactions

You never know what to expect from other people after you get the good news that you're about to be a published novelist.

Before the big day arrives, you've surely imagined what it will be like. I'm betting that you're wrong in several cases.

For example, I was pleasantly surprised in how my parents reacted. Growing up, I was the good girl. I regularly brought home the 4.0 GPA. I didn't break family rules. I had friends they liked and trusted. I graduated high school with honors, passed a couple of AP tests, got a scholarship, never drank alchohol or smoked, and so on.

This was all taken in stride. It's what I did. I don't recall much celebration or pats on the back about it. Doing well and doing right were just expected of me.

But for the last six years, ever since my first book was released, my parents have turned into proud peacocks, bragging about me to everyone they know. (Mom's been known to advertise my books wherever she is, including obscure places like Jerusalem. I'm not kidding.) I can't tell you what joy their reaction has brought me. Not that they weren't proud of me before, but this time I'm seeing and feeling it in a way I never had.

On the flip side, I had a close family member brush my success aside without so much as acknowledging that it happened.

We had a phone conversation shortly after my book was accepted. I could hardly contain my excitement. I wasn't bragging or trying to take the spotlight; I just wanted her to share in my joy.

But I didn't get so much as the release date out of my mouth before she railroaded over me in her own excitement, telling me all about this fantastic MLM she was now a part of, how it was such a great company, and how she was going to make all kinds of money off it.

Confused and saddened, I dropped to a stair and listened. That's all I could do. I made all the right comments and assuring noises on my end, but all I wanted to say was, "Gee, I'm so glad your childhood dream of being an MLM rep is finally coming true." I'd worked hard for eight years to make this happen. Publishing a book had been a dream of mine since the tender age of eight. But let's celebrate your new hobby, by all means.

When that book came out, I planned to give family members free copies, but they all insisted that they'd buy their own to support me. When this person went to the book store, she told the cashier we were related. "That's cheap. Why didn't she give you a free copy?" the cashier asked. The question was met with a smile and a shrug, not an explanation. That store probably still thinks I'm an ungenerous hack.

My brother's reaction took me by surprise, in a very good way. You can read about it here. He's been a big supporter. I have a gorgeous necklace with a pearl and a diamond he gave me to celebrate book 2 (diamond & pearl = two items, second book . . . cool, huh?) and a porcelain figure of the Logan Temple to celebrate book 3. All of which he presented to me at book signings with his entire family. (There was something else for that first book. Read about it at the link above.) I still get all sniffly when I think about it.

Old friends, especially those you've known since junior high or earlier, seem to have a level of disbelief that you could have written something and actually published it. (Um . . . thanks.) Sometimes you get a pleasant reaction after they read it. ("Wow. It was actually good.")

Like I said, you never know how people will react. But I can say that my husband's reaction was perfect.

The day the acceptance call came, he'd taken the morning off work. As soon as I hung up, I squealed and raced upstairs to tell him. He hugged me, kissed me, then promptly called his manager to say he wouldn't be coming in after all; he had to take his wife out to celebrate.

Before that call, he refused to let me stop or give up, knowing I'd regret it forever if I did. He's responsible for me getting my first submission into the mail. Our first Christmas, he got me my subscription to Writer's Digest. He had flowers delivered after a particularly harsh rejection. He let me cry into his arms when I doubted myself.

He's always gotten how important this gig is to me. And for that, I'll be eternally grateful.

Especially because he puts up with a lot. Trust me; it ain't easy being married to a writer.

"City of Influence" Has Arrived

Nearly four years ago, my long-time friend Sarah (who I recently talked about here) gave me a call and asked if I'd take a look at a book she was working on for her job. She was (and is) a director at Corporate Alliance, a pretty cool institution that connects businesses to one another to help them all succeed.

I didn't know that at the time. All I knew was that Sarah wanted me to take my red pen all over her manuscript. Which I did. The book was unlike anything I'd ever read before: A fun story that actually taught real, helpful business principles without being dry and putting me to sleep.

Better yet, the concepts were clear, applicable, and the story was witty and well-written. I still remember lots of important lessons I learned reading it.

It's a sort of a fantasy business parable. She once described the book as, "Harry Potter meets How to Make Friends and Influence People." As out there as that sounds, it's a pretty apt description. I know I learned a lot just editing the thing back in '04, and that was several versions ago.

Sarah has slaved over this book for a very long time. At long last (yay!), The City of Influence is in print.

Check it out in all its glory here.

Congratulations, Sarah!

The Mighty STET

I read a blog today that hit home in such a way that I wanted to jump up and down and yell, "YES! That's it exactly!" I can't explain it nearly as well, so after reading this, go check it out.

But here's my experience:

I've been at this writing thing a long time (it's been almost exactly 14 years since my first submission), and for a good chunk of that time, I've been getting critical feedback (probably 11 or so years since I got my first feedback form from a contest judge, and nearly 9 since getting major critiques by peers).

In that time, I've developed a thick skin, and I crave feedback to help me get better. A good reader or editor will point out problems in a manuscript, whether they're big (this subplot drags, and I hate this character) or little (your modifier is dangling, and you're using "just" way too often). When it comes to feedback, bring it on! I want all the warts pointed out and fixed.

So I believe every writer needs a good editor. And a good copy editor, too. (The former helps more with the big stuff, and the latter on the little, word-by-word stuff.)

But sometimes you get the occasional copy editor who, I believe, is really a closet writer, frustrated that they aren't getting published. So instead of smoothing out and polishing your book, they try to rewrite it. On top of that, they get things downright wrong.

To clarify, whenever I refer to "my editor," I'm not talking about anyone who did copy editing. Those are different people, and sometimes you'll get two or three copy editors going over the same book, none of which are my "editor." I've been fortunate to always have fantastic editors.

Almost never do I know who these contracted people are; I don't even learn their names. Some are worth their weight in gold, and I feel as if I owe them large sums for their expertise. Others . . . mmm . . . not so much.

Case in point: Not long ago I had a copy editor who added four misspellings and at least one ma-hay-jor grammar error. (Not on my watch, you don't!) This editor even questioned some of my vocabulary (he/she didn't think "pique" was a real word, for starters).

These kinds of these are a bit annoying, but they're fixable, provided I catch them before the book goes to press. (Although I'm always terrified I didn't catch something they added, and readers will assume the mistake was my fault.)

What becomes a real problem for me are those times when a copy editor tries rewriting the book in their voice. In this case, they took lots showing and replaced it with telling. Some of my best descriptions were watered down to almost nothing. Any bits of my personality and voice were stripped out and replaced with cliches and flat images. Even spots of humor were wiped out.

I have never wielded my power of STET so ferociously as I did on that manuscript as I sat there, steam coming from my ears. On every page, I scribbled it: STET! STET! STET! I felt as if I were fighting for the life of my book, as if its very soul had been sucked out, and I was trying to perform CPR to bring it back to life.

My poor editor (my editor editor, not the contracted person doing the damage) got a serious earful when I turned it back in. Fortunately, she was patient and understanding and didn't even roll her eyes at me. I don't think.

But when I picked up the next copy edit on the same manuscript, it had a note from the new copy editor on the top that I don't think I was meant to see. Something about how, "I understand this author is rather particular about her voice, so I addressed only grammar, punctuation, and clarity issues."

Great, I groaned. I'm officially a "difficult" writer.

But that thought was quickly followed by, Hallelujah! A copy editor who is learning their job!

See, copy editors shouldn't ever mess with a writer's voice. As someone who has done lots of copy editing, I know that. I try very hard to maintain a writer's voice when I do editing work. I know what it takes to clean up writing so it shines and still sounds like the original author.

Ever since seeing that note (and enduring that STET session), I've been tempted to create a label for my publisher to slap onto all my manuscripts before they go out for copy editing.

Something like:

WARNING: This writer has serious control issues. Do not attempt to tamper with her voice. She is liable to blow a gasket.

Frickin' Brackin' ARGH!

So that's a slight exaggeration. But it is frustrating.

I've been slaving away at my work in progress, trying very hard to get it fully drafted by the end of this week. It's been a 12-week goal of mine to get it done, and I'm so close . . .

The goal isn't a random one. It's pretty important I get the book done soon, because of certain scheduling difficulties and plans I have for getting it critiqued by trusted people and getting it back and revised and submitted and . . . you get the idea.

Much of that stems from the fact that I won't be able to write for much of September, so time is of the essence here. (I'll explain why soon. It's a totally rockin' cool reason why I won't be working then. I'll blog all about it afterward. Let's just say it deserves a big huge "WOOHOO!")

Here's the deal: I have five women who are all integral to the book. Each one faces her own issue. Their problems intertwine, and the women help one another. It's been neat to see how they get along and work things out among them.

But, um, problem. Part of the story just refused to come together properly. One character's arc was misbehaving in the worst way, and I couldn't figure out how to knock the puppy back into submission. It's been bugging me for weeks. My poor husband has gotten an earful of me whining about it. I've been trying to ignore it for weeks so I could get work done on other areas of the story.

So . . . if you haven't noticed, the week and my 12-week goal end, oh, TOMORROW. And as of today, I still had no resolution for my poor character, J.

I spent much of today trying to figure her story out. Right around 6:30 this evening, the answer came to me. It's an easy fix, as fixes go. And it'll totally do the job.

Basically, I was trying to do too much with her in this book. Two scenes of hers really belong in a sequel, if I ever write one. So out they'll go. Cut. Delete. G'bye.

Yeah. That's 2,318 words that are no longer in the story. (Each and every one of them counts, people, yes, even the 18.)

The word count on my sidebar doesn't reflect the cut, however. I'm still counting the grand total of words I've written for the whole book. Because it makes me feel better. And because I'm not brave like some people who have folders to hold their cuts. (Hi, Josi!) The final count will be 2,318 words below whatever the rest ends up being.

2,318 is a lot of words. They represent two scenes I really, really liked and worked hard on. My goal wasn't just to get it drafted, but to write 60,000 words over the 12 weeks. If I delete those words wholesale, I'm a couple thousand (and 318) words in the red. If I leave them in my wordcount, I technically make my goal even though the story isn't quite done.

So here's the deal: I won't get too annoyed about hacking them out if everyone promises to buy this book in droves so there'll be enough demand for a sequel and I can use them later. (This is a contemporary book I'm working on, not my upcoming historical . . . wanna make sure everyone knows what they're promising.)

Deal?

Good. Now I can go kick something and feel better.

School Shopping: Ending the Drama

I always hate school clothes shopping. It's not like buying something for yourself. It's a miserable process from any vantage point, an epic saga drawn out by whines and complaints.

To make things easier on myself, I once tried spreading it out over the summer with my three who were in school, taking one in June, one in July, and one in August.

Slight problem: In June, you can't find much for school (like backpacks and lunch boxes, not to mention any SALES) and any clothes you do buy will probably be outgrown just as the snow starts to fall.

Other years, as I've tried sticking to the budget I set for the event, the kids whine and complain and BEG for just this one extra thing. Okay, or two or three extra things. PLEEEEEEASE? And either I say no and look like Cruella deVille, or I give in like a soggy noodle and spend too much.

Either way, I lose.

This year I did something a bit different. I wasn't intending to fix the problem, exactly. I just wanted to experience the fiery furnace a different way. You know, shakes things up for a new kind of miserable.

But lo and behold, shopping this year was easy and (virtually) pain free.

YES!

Flashback: When I was entering my junior year of high school, Mom was just too busy to take my little sister and me school shopping. She handed each of us an envelope with cash in it and dropped us off at the mall to do it ourselves.

At first, I was thrilled. I could buy whatever I wanted. Bwahahahahahaaa!

But then something happened. I found a sweater I loved. I checked the price tag. Yikes. I could get at least two pairs of jeans for that. Did I really like it that much? Hmm. I'd come back and later and decide.

Soon I gravitated toward the sales and clearance racks. I scoured the slightly damaged racks.

I had the power to decide how to spend a concrete amount of money. And I ended up being highly selective with every purchase. I came home with the biggest and cutest wardrobe of my entire high school career.

This year with my kids, I kinda sorta did the same thing, but unintentionally. I told each one exactly how much money they had allotted to spend on school clothes and that they could spend it however they wanted. But when it was gone, it was gone.

Their eyes went big at the sum. Yeah. Anything over twenty bucks is massive wealth as far as they're concerned. I smiled and assured them that the money wouldn't go as far as they thought.

I didn't drop them off at the store with a wad of cash. (They're not old enough for that.) I tagged along with the cart and watched them go, adding up their purchases with them as they tossed items into the cart.

We went in three shifts with the four kids, and the result was amazing.

First was #4, who is going into kindergarten. Over her life, most of her clothes have been gifts from Grandma, hand-me-downs from her sisters, or bought by Mom when she wasn't around. For the first time ever, she got to pick. And boy, did she.

More than once I pointed out a shirt I thought was mucho cute and said, "What about this?"

She hardly glanced over. "Nope." And then she raced off down the aisle and pointed to something else. "I like that one! And that one!" And flung them into the cart. She had fun. She also got a lot of mileage out of her money, because clothes for someone as small as she is just cost less.

Next was the trip with the older girls, #2 and #3. Normally, we try to get backpacks every other year, so #2 wasn't up for a new one this time. But she opted to spend some of her clothes money on a new bag for school. And Mom let her. The power! She also got some earrings for her newly pierced ears in addition to the typical jeans and shirts and socks and shoes.

She also decided to use some of her school clothes money on a swimsuit for the rest of the summer. I wasn't sure about that one, but heck--it was her call. If she whined mid-year about not having enough jeans, it would be her fault. Into the cart went the suit.

#3 decided to not get a new lunch box, because it would give her a little more money to play with, or, er, spend. Her old one wasn't stinky, she said. It would work for another year. She thought long and hard about every purchase and got a great variety of items she was pleased with. (I think she takes after her mother . . .)

For my oldest . . . well, he wasn't able to stretch his dollars quite as far, reason being that he's getting so dang tall. (Next year I may have to allot more to him than his sisters just to be fair . . . and so he'll have enough clothing to cover himself.)

The thing that's freaking me out is that he's now straddling the boys' and men's sections. Most of what we found in the boys' section was too small, but the men's section is still mostly a bit too big. We had to go to both for what we were looking for.

And his shoes? Holy mackerel . . . they're bigger than mine. They're the same size one of his grandpas wears. Yeah. And in a few months, he'll be taller than his mother.

(I officially have a teenager. Pray for me.)

The best part of this year's shopping was that when the money was gone, it was gone. And everyone got that. No one whined or complained or begged for just one more thing. They knew it was gone. The end. Let's go check out.

This year, I don't think I got an ulcer or even an extra zit from the stress. I'll definitely be doing the same thing next summer.

Today: A List

1) People treat you differently when you're wearing a blazer, slacks, heels, and even lipstick instead of your usual mommy uniform of a t-shirt, jeans/capris/sweat pants and sandals. They look at you different and speak to you differently. The entire attitude is something I don't get in my day-to-day life. It was very odd.

(I spent much of the day at the Whitney booth at the LDS Booksellers Convention and ran a couple of errands before and after in my more dressed-up clothes. After having several moments like this, I wanted to yell, "Really, I'm a mom! I don't usually look like this!")

Contrast that with the sweats, ponytail, and zero makeup I had on when Josi from Sundial in the Shade dropped by to pick up some Whitney stuff last week. You know you have a true friend when they don't notice (or, more likely, don't mention) that you look like a drowned rat.

2) While at the convention, I discovered a painting that I just might beg and plead for Covenant to license to use on the cover for Tower of Strength. Al Rounds, the artist whose temples grace my other historicals, has only one Manti Temple painting, and it's a winter scene. That won't work for this book. So unless he paints something new (and quick!) I might not have him on my next cover, and that makes me sad.

The picture I found would be the next best thing. It's by Cortney Lunt, and they told me that it's a brand new painting, so you won't find it online, but you can get an idea of her style at that link.

Since my editor wasn't there today (I missed seeing you, Kirk!), I dragged his colleague Kat over to show it to her. She agreed it would be great on a cover. After that, I had a ball chatting with both Kat and Rachel. They're awesome gals, and Covenant is lucky to have them on board.

3) I'm on the countdown. If I'm estimating right, I'm within 10,000 words of finishing the first draft of my work in progress. The pieces that have been circling are slowly coming together. I really hope I can pull this one off the way it's in my head. The story, characters, and entire concept mean a lot to me, but I'm not sure if it's working on paper as a whole. Yet.

4) While walking out of the library yesterday with my kids (wearing my trusty mommy uniform), a man in the parking lot stopped me and said, "I listened to one of your books and really enjoyed it."

Whoa. That's NEVER happened to me before. No one ever recognizes me unless I'm standing next to a table with my books on it at a signing or I'm at a writers conference with a name badge.

I was so (pleasantly) surprised, that I came back with, "Really? Cool. Thanks! Which one?"

He rather sheepishly couldn't remember the title or even the cover. So that leads me to a few questions:

Do I know this guy? (He looked familiar, but I couldn't place him. He hadn't seen my children before, though. Hmm.)

Did he somehow recognize me in my mommy uniform based solely on my author photo at the back of the book?

Or did he mistake me for another writer? (And it was their book he'd listened to?)

I'll never know the answers. But the moment was a nice ego stroke regardless, even if I had zits all over my face, a stained shirt, and fly-away hair.

Lesson learned: When someone says they enjoyed you work, take the compliment and move on.

Contest Time!

I have a post I'm thinking about doing, but I'm not sure whether I dare write it or put it up here. It might get me a lot of hate mail. But then, I'm so opinionated, I'm not sure I'll be able to not talk about it.

You probably already know the topic. Yeah. That one.

Hmm. Still on the fence.

In the meantime, I've got a new contest up on my website. You'll want to enter this one. Really, truly.

Whitney Award-winner Josi S. Kilpack has a new book coming out next month. I had a chance to read it awhile go, and it's most definitely another keeper.

I can state my opinion on this one, because Josi's on the Whitney committee this year, and therefore her book isn't eligible to win an award. So yay for opinions! I loved the story! Read it!

Josi's known for taking issues that are big and working awesome plots around them. If you recall, her last book, Sheep's Clothing, was about internet predators. The plot of that one still freaks me out.

This time, Her Good Name even has its own blog addressing the latest issue.

So here's the deal:

Visit the Her Good Name blog at the link above. Poke around a bit and see what it's all about. Then go to this page of my website and answer the question you'll find there in the form provided.

All correct answers will be part of drawing to receive an autographed copy of the book later this fall. (One entry per person. And yes, I do pay attention to them.)

Enjoy!

My Favorite Room: Tada!

I've been promising forever, and I finally dug through the digital photos we've taken over the last year to pick out all the ones from my office makeover.

As I think I've mentioned before, when we moved into this house, it was originally #4's bedroom, being as she was still in a crib. Now that she's an official big girl, she's moved downstairs and shares a room with #3. My old office is now #2's bedroom.

I love spending time in my new office, complete with a gorgeous view outside and plenty of sunlight . . . neither of which you'll be seeing in the photos, because the blinds are closed because of the glare.

Finally, without further ado, the transformation of my office, with waaaaay more pictures than you probably care to see!

First, the beginning of the demolition. The carpet is gone, the trim all ripped out. The walls look a bit pink here, but the color was really more of a cool taupe.

Honey ripped out the closet shelves, bars, and trim, leaving this:



Then he built in bookshelves just how I wanted them: most of the shelves are built to hold novels and research books, but a few on the lower right are really tall so I can fit in big binders that are filled with research fun. And below that is room to store boxes of my books and stuff:

I primed the walls and the bookshelves, then painted the shelves a yummy chocolate brown:

Time for the wall color to go up. Again, it doesn't come all that accurately in a picture. The room doesn't look like a tub of margarine. It's more of a golden tan.


The paint looks pretty cool next to the shelves, huh?

Next up: installing the walnut laminate floor:

Ain't it purty?!


Trim work begins. I think my honey's knees and back about gave out doing this one because of all the extras I picked out for him that required that much more time on his knees and bending in awkard positions. I still feel a bit guilty for inflicting that on him . . .


With the trim all done, I volunteered my exceptionally lame handy skills and caulked it all. Be impressed people. Be very impressed. Here's some of the cool molding honey put in, along with some of the less-than professional caulking I did:


When it was time to move in, these books went in first. Anyone who knows me knows right away what they are. (Can you make out the first edition Windy Poplars? Volume V of the journals isn't pictured, as it's still on my night stand.)


Tada!!!

Some day I'll get curtains and do a few other touch-ups, but for now, it's pretty darn awesome.

I purposely didn't bring in all my books. I left a lot downstairs where the kids can read them. Okay, and to leave room for future books. I didn't want the whole place chock-full right away.

A couple of notes about the stuff on the wall: When my first book came out, part of the celebration was getting a poster of the cover framed, so that's the big picture. My BYU diploma is on the bottom. The 4-picture frame will eventually have pics of the kidlets.

And the wooden sign is something I got from Josi Kilpack that brings me joy. It reads, "I will NOT live like a NORMAL person. I AM A WRITER!"

Truer words were never spoken. Or put on a sign. Whatever.

And below is the view from the door, where you can almost sort of see the rugs (the one on the right I featured in my "closer look" photo meme).

One fun thing to note: See the wooden name block on the desk? Below my name, it says, "Writer." I love it, not only because it's pretty, but because my husband bought it for me years before my first sale. Even during all the rejections, I kept it on my desk as a reminder, a symbol of what I was and where I could be someday.

When you've got someone who believes in you, it really helps you get through the rough times in this writing gig. He always has believed in me.

Oh, and the stack of papers are critiques from my weekly group that I hadn't gotten to when I took the picture. That stack is smaller now. Not gone, but smaller. I think I'm down to three or four weeks' worth of notes rather than twice that.

What you can't see in these pictures is the wall to the left of the door, where there's yet another bookcase (of course). Some day I might get a reading chair to go next to it.

And right below the window (you can just make out the black edge) is an electric fireplace Honey got me for Christmas to put in my future office to keep my toesies warm. (I freeze year round. It's really sad. Today might be August 1, but I'm wearing a wool sweater.)

The left wall also bears this print on it from my sister that's very much me. It shows a street with a cafe named after Shakespeare and a chocolate store. Oh, yeah. I could spend all day there.

As it is, I spend plenty of time with the print in my spiffy new office. Honey did a ton of work on it just for me. Yes, I married a keeper.

Look How Far I've Come

While my computer-genius hubby-to-be and I were dating, he once tried to explain what the Internet was. I really didn't get it.

You can't blame me; almost no one understood it back then, and the only people I knew who owned e-mail addresses were computer software students like my fiance.

Why in the world would I ever need to go online or have an e-mail address?

(That sentence now is pretty laughable. Hahaahaaaa! The internet is almost another appendage for me now.)

Honey sat me down in a BYU computer science lab and found a site across the ocean in Finland (he knew I had ties there, of course), and we looked up something on it. It kind of blew my mind that this computer was talking to one on another continent. (Okay, so that concept still blows my mind.) The process took a lot longer than it would today, since it consisted of that "beep-beep-beep-beep-WAAAAAH!" of dial-up.

"You can find almost anything on the Internet," honey told me. (How much truer that is today!)

"Like what?" I asked.

"Like . . . anything," he said.

"Like what?" I pressed, figuring he meant things that only scientists would understand or care about .

"Give me something to look up."

I still didn't get it, but I tried to do my part. "Okay. How about L. M. Montgomery."

(I know how shocked you all are that she's the first thing that popped into my head.)

What we found exactly, I don't remember, but I do recall seeing it and going, "Oh! I get it! So you can look up stuff! Cool!"

What can I say? I'm a slow learner.

I've since gone on to be very comfortable online. Probably too comfortable, judging by how much time I spend there. I've done research, "met" people via blogging, and found great writing support, among many, many other things. (Like avoiding holiday crowds. Yay for online shopping!)

Once, some time ago, hubby and I instant messaged while he was at work, and he was mighty impressed when I used an acronym like LOL. Yes, his wife had learned a few things. But it didn't stop there. Oh, no.

A few weeks ago I bought a jumbo box of Bagel Bites from Costco. (Okay, so I know they're atrocious health-wise. But it was part of maintaining my summer sanity. Deal with it.) The freezer was a bit too full, so I took the packets out of the box to help squeeze it all in so the door would close.

Usually when I do this, I make sure to rip off the heating instructions from the box or at least make a note with a Sharpie on how hot and how long to bake something. This time I neglected to do either. Whoops.

When I went to cook up a batch some time later, I grimaced. Dang. No instructions. I could probably guess, but I'm not the sharpest knife of the chef's drawer, and I didn't want to mess it up.

The solution came to me almost immediately.

I bet I can find the instructions online.

Seconds later, I was at my computer, searching for "Bagel Bites heating instructions."

Of course I found them.

I'm sure back in the Stone Age when we were dating, they wouldn't have been there. But searching online for such a thing wouldn't have crossed my mind, either.

The Internet and I . . . we've both come a long way, baby.

Scary when I'm relying on it for how long to cook dinner.

We Heart Seinfeld

Apparently, I'm making unexpected progress in my efforts to raise children who are aware of cultural references and appreciate many of the same things I do.

I've mentioned my efforts here, here, and most recently, here.

Up to this point, I've focused primarily on movies, but apparently, my influence has rubbed off in other areas.

As evidenced by #4. The other day, she looked at her older sister, wagged her chubby little finger, and declared,

"No soup for you!"

Then she giggled uproariously.

I think this is a good thing.

Research Is Fun Again

For years, I've been writing historical fiction and loving it. I even enjoy the research end. I've learned some of the coolest things along the way, most of which will never make it into any book, but that's okay, because I love to learn.

At times, however, historical research can be frustrating, such as when you can't find a detail you need and have to rewrite a scene so you don't need that detail anymore. Or when the facts you need are so specific that even though you do your homework, you still mess it up and need an expert to clean up the mess.

One big issue with historical writing is that any time someone moves from one place to another and they aren't on foot, there's a very good chance that an animal is involved, whether your characters are riding on a horse, in a wagon, or whatever.

Problem: I don't know animals.

I don't even particularly like them, unless they meow and curl up at my feet. I took horseback riding lessons as a kid, but it didn't cure me; I'm still terrified of horses. Last winter, I wanted to scream and bang my head against a wall because of all my book's horse issues.

To be honest, I'm a little scared to start the editing process on Tower of Strength (which should begin soon), because the horse stuff was so traumatizing.

But my current work in progress is totally different than anything I've written in years. For starters, it's a contemporary novel.

That means, yep, it's happening in today's world. Where there are cars. And cell phones. And jeans. And microwaves. And DVDs and TiVos. And computers.

I cannot tell you what a breath of fresh air it has been to write a scene without having to double-check my OED for whether a certain word was really in the vernacular in 1875. Or to have a character put the key into the ignition and start her car . . . then drive hundreds of miles within hours. To have characters use cell phones. Sing along to a CD. Instant message on the computer.

Yes! I can use technology!

Instead of learning about historical events, locales, food, clothing design, colloquial expressions, and so on, my research thus far has included picking friends' brains left and right.

Instead of looking up what plays might have been performed in the Salt Lake City Theater in the mid-1860s, I go to IMDB to check how many seasons Lost has been on the air.

I don't worry about visiting the locales and taking notes, because I can come up with where each scene is set, and they can be anywhere I've already been. I'm even using houses and restaurants I'm familiar with.

When I put hairstyles and clothing on my characters, I know with certainty that I'm not off by ten years on fashion trends.

It's a pure delight!

I'll likely delve into historical writing again at some point, because I truly love writing in that genre. But man, after immersing myself into the past for four novels and at least that many years, I'm having a ball with something just a bit different.

The Debate Continues

There’s an interesting discussion circulating in parts of the LDS-literary blog world:

What is the definition of "LDS fiction"?

Here are my two cents on the issue.

A lot of people say that LDS fiction is simply work that upholds LDS values. With that definition, Peace Like a River by Lief Enger would be LDS fiction, but (great book that it is) no one could really argue that it belongs under that designation.

Others say the LDS fiction must have Mormon characters or plot lines. It can, but doesn’t have to. I can think of several titles that I’d consider LDS fiction that don’t mention or even hint at the Church.

There’s the argument that LDS fiction has two criteria: that it’s by LDS writers AND maintains the basic values of the Church. Perhaps. That might be a good goal to shoot for. But in my mind, the reality isn’t there.

Personally, for my own writing and reading of LDS fiction, I stand with the crowd of wanting LDS fiction to be "virtuous, lovely, of good report and praiseworthy," high-quality literature that doesn't resort to the baseness that a lot of national stuff does.

That’s pretty much the standard that the big LDS houses like Deseret Book and Covenant try to uphold, even if, at times, their conservative pendulum tends to swing a bit hard right.

But what do you do with more liberal LDS presses like Signature and Zarahemla? Those are run by LDS people, and they publish writers who feel driven to write something that, for whatever reason, might be more offensive or who otherwise don’t fit the DB/Covenant mold.

Granted, their books are largely aimed at the left side of Mormon-dom, but can we deny their existence if we don’t approve of what they publish? Who are we to judge?

While I personally don’t read their more liberal publications that don't maintain my values, there is a segment of LDS people that does gravitate there and enjoys the fare offered.

I have a hard time telling those writers and publishers that they shouldn't be creating what they feel driven to. That’s not my place.

Telling them that they’re wrong to write or publish what they do strikes me as a bad thing, and not only in a free speech kind of way. It also smacks of the very kind of judgment I don’t feel that I, as a Christian, should be making about other people and the way they conduct their lives and, by extension, their art.

It could also be because I feel passionately about my own work and would bristle if someone told me that I was wrong or immoral to write what I do. I’m sure people have been offended by my work (even though it’s published by very-conservative Covenant Communications). In fact, I know for a fact that one scene has offended at least one person. (And for those of you who’ve read all my work, I’m betting it’s not one you’re thinking of.)

I’d hate to think that any reader would vilify me for writing that or any other scene. I write my stories how I think they should be.

When I think of "LDS fiction," I personally do think about the cleaner, values-centered writing that most people picture when they hear that term. And I hope that we as a people will not only improve our game from a literary standpoint, but that we’ll do so while upholding high moral standards.

But . . .

Maybe what we are trying to encapsulate by the term, "LDS fiction" should be called something else altogether.

Why? Because I, for one, don’t feel like I can point fingers at someone who is LDS, writing about LDS themes and characters for an LDS audience and tell them that they can’t call what they do "LDS fiction"—that they can’t be part of the club—because I think their work is offensive. What if I came across a book I despised and thought was immoral? It still wouldn't be my place to say it’s not LDS fiction, not when it’s saturated with LDS-ness.

What I can do is say what I’d like about the fiction currently on shelves. I can support books by Mormon writers who I think exemplify what our fiction can be. I can say what I hope it will be in the future and do whatever I can to support the market and the writers (and aspiring writers) in it.

But I personally can’t rip the "LDS fiction" label off someone else just because I don’t like the way it looks on them.

So what’s the answer? Call the more liberal works something else? Call the more conservative books by another term? Something else altogether? I have no idea. But I have a feeling the debate won’t go away any time soon.

I Needed That

Today I had a much-needed lunch with a dear friend whom I've known since eighth grade (and who has gone by the nickname "J. J.-Panda" since then for reasons I don't recall. I've referred to her before, such as in this post).

Among the many subjects covered in the two hours we chatted over our Training Table sandwiches (oooh, yum . . .) was what's happened to some of our high school friends. One is a professional opera singer. A very, very good one, I might add.

We reminisced about how the two of them sang a duet at the end of one of our choir concerts and how amazing it was. (I swear, she's one of the best sopranos I've ever heard.) It gave me goosebumps, and the rest of the audience, too, judging by the much-deserved standing ovation.

And then she said something that took me totally off-guard: how proud she was of some of those friends for what they've made of themselves with their talents . . . including me.

I snorted. Probably rolled my eyes.

I mean, sure, I've several published books, and that's a big accomplishment. I won't pooh-pooh that.

But I'm no Stephenie Meyer. My husband wishes for the day he could retire and we could live on my royalties (never gonna happen, at least with what I sell). The number of readers I have is microscopic when compared to even moderately successful authors outside this market.

She stopped me cold. "Don't underestimate what you do," she told me. "Really."

And she went on, describing how needed the kind of thing is that I write. How there are thousands of women out there, just needing a break from life, something that takes them away from their stresses for awhile and reaffirms their faith. And then they remember that they bought a book by me, and they crack it open, and it brings them relief and confirmations of their testimonies.

She teared up, and I did, too. But I shook my head, waving her words away.

"No, really. That's been me with your books," she insisted. "And I'm sure lots of other women." She described how one of my books had made its way into the hands of a sweet woman she knew across the country—someone not LDS—who then gave it to another friend. "You don't know how your books are spreading and who they're going to touch. It's important, what you do."

I have to admit that there are lots of times I've wondered if there's a point to it all. I mean, sure, I get some fulfillment out of it. But really, what kind of drop in the literary pond are my books? This can be a rather discouraging market on several fronts, and it's easy to get buried in those many, varied issues.

I believe there's a reason I went to lunch with J. J.-Panda today. There's also a reason she's one of my dearest friends ever. I needed to hear her words, to have her bolster me and lift me up.

On a slightly different note—but one that dovetails with some of those LDS-market issues—I was sent this link today by Josi.

I'm ridiculously emotional today, apparently, because even though it's not a serious or poignant post, it almost made me cry because of the subject matter.

In short, it's about one of the many brick walls we LDS novelists find ourselves smacking our heads against all the time. What a delight to find someone who has taken down her wall and given us a chance.

I have no delusions that this particular brick wall (or all the other LDS book-market issues) will go away anytime soon, but today I'm feeling a bit more optimistic.

And I'm remembering that even if there are just a few readers out there that I've touched, made smile, or bettered a day for through telling a story, then my work does have a purpose.

That's not to say I wouldn't love to have an advance a fraction of the size Meyer gets. (It would be nice to, oh, pay off the house or something . . .)

But I'll try to be more content with where I am, because maybe there really is a reason that I'm here. For J. J.-Panda, at least. Thanks, babe. I needed that.

Distractions

We went miniature golfing today. Kids had a blast (and treats). So as afternoon waned, I didn't feel too guilty heading for the computer to get in my word count.

After a good fifteen minutes of #2 trying to do everything in her power to keep me from writing, the following conversation ensued:

Mom: Cutie, I really need to get 1,100 words in today, and it's getting late.

#2: Do it tomorrow.

Mom: Then I'd have to do twice as many. If I do a little today and a little tomorrow, I'll make my weekly goal.

#2: I could totally do that many words in a day.

Mom: Maybe, but I don't have a whole day. Hey, if you go read a book or something, I could get it done in about an hour, and then you can come with me to the store.

[#2 Scoots me over and sits down in my chair.]

#2: I can write that many words really fast.

Mom: Oh?

#2: Watch this.

[#2 types the following:]

a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a

#2 (giggling with all her might when Mom raises her eyebrows): What? That's a word!

I suppose I should have been more specific. I need to write 1,100 words of a novel. In my work in progress. In a story. That make sense. That readers will want to actually plunk down money for.

The little stinker is getting too smart for her own good. But boy, is she a delight.

Tag: A Closer Look Meme

I can thank (?) Tristi for tagging me on this um . . . delightful . . . meme. :)

Here we go:

1) My kitchen sink

Amazingly enough, when I went around taking these pictures, the sink was empty. Shocker. It obviously could use a good scrubbing, but hey, no complaints. Having it this clean isn't the norm.

2) The inside of my fridge:

Like Josi, I'm a milk snob. My kids are so used to the natural, hormone-free stuff that they will not drink the store-bought gunk if we run out before milk day. Good thing we only go through about 2 gallons a week. I love the stainless steel, even if it gets covered with kiddie fingerprints a bit too easily.

3) My favorite shoes:


I'm not much of a shoe person, really, but I've the most extraordinary luck at D.I. Seriously, it's scary the things I've found there. I got all three of these pairs there, for somewhere around four bucks a pop. How lucky am I?! I KNOW! I adore the black ankle boots on the bottom right and wear them a ton at author events. The other two pairs are way cute, but you really need the right outfit to pull them off, so I don't wear them that often.

4) My closet:

I've never had such a great closet before, not in the two apartments, small house, and then townhouse we lived in before. It's a walk-in, and this is my side of it. Not the most organized, but hey, it's got room, and I love it.

5) The laundry pile:

Not too bad today. The basket on the right is even empty. Be impressed.

6) What my kids are doing right now and

7) My favorite room:

Actually, this is my second favorite room, because my new office just earned the "favorite" title. But I'm not posting that here; it deserves its own post! So here's our great room, somewhat cluttered, right before dinner. This is the thing that sold me on this floor plan in the first place: it's big, it's roomy, and there's lots of gathering space for the family. And I got my dream cupboards. Aren't they gorgeous?! The kids are at the table waiting for me to stop snapping pictures so they can eat already.

The blinds are all closed, because when they're open, there's too much glare for a picture. There's a stray "Happy Birthday" balloon at the top of the cupboards. Ignore that. But take a look at the left side. See that rocking chair (yeah, the thing with the skee-wampus cushion)? That's the same rocking chair I was rocked in as a baby, and I rocked all of mine in it too.

8) My most recent purchase:

I'm assuming this doesn't mean shampoo and apples at the grocery store. This is the runner rug in my new office. (I promise, I promise. More pictures forthcoming in their own post!) I think the rug is bea-u-ti-ful. And it was even on sale. Boo-yah.


9) My fantasy vacation:
I actually have two. In college, I wanted, oh so bad, to go on BYU's London semester abroad. But alas, I didn't get to walk where the Brontes walked or see the Globe Theater or any of that stuff.

The other is (no surprise to my long-time readers) a trip through LM Montgomery-land, including her homes in Norval, Leaskdale, and Toronto where she did most of her writing. (This is the Leaskdale manse where she lived for several years.)


10) Self-portrait:


Scary. I have no words.

As for the tagging:

Don, because I haven't seen a guy do this one yet.

And Jenna, because I want to see her pictures.

Farworld Book Winner

As promised, today I get to give away an Advance Reader Copy of J. Scott Savage's Farworld: Water Keep, which is coming out in September.

A moment ago, I printed out all the names of the commenters on the last post, folded them up, and threw them in a bowl. My girls fought over who got to pick the name out, but eventually peace reigned, and we have a winner:

Congratulations to PIANOPLAYER!

Hope you enjoy it!

Be sure to e-mail me your mailing address (annette at annettelyon dot com) right away so I can pass it along to the powers that be. (If I don't hear from you by Wednesday, I'll draw another name.)

Now for a couple of random things:

1) Children have a way of making everything new again. On the Fourth of July evening as we lit fireworks with some cousins, I sat in a chair like the old person I'm feeling like. My youngest came up beside me and leaned in, gazing at the fountain of sparks. "Oh, Mommy," she said. "It's beautiful." And she was right. I've seen street fireworks so many times (and usually spend the time worrying because hubby and his brothers are pyros--their definition of a "good" firework is one that is nothing but ashes when you're done with it, so they pimp out the ones from the store). It took my little girl pointing out a simple beauty for me to notice it.

2) I'm trying to decide whether to work on my WIP right now or be lazy and watch my NetFlix DVD that's been sitting around the house for WAY too long. I'm a bit achy and tired today, so the movie (an old classic that I haven't watched in ages) is sounding really good about now. I'll probably watch it, even if I end up folding laundry while I do it to assuage any guilt for not getting anything else done.

3) Coming soon: The "A Closer Look" Meme that Tristi tagged me for. I have all the pictures now but haven't gotten them onto the computer yet. Scary meme.

What You Don't Know: J. Scott Savage

My first contact with J. Scott Savage was when I was the chapter president of the Utah Valley Chapter of the League of Utah Writers. I found his contact information in the back of his first book and e-mailed, asking him to speak at the January meeting. He agreed.

A few weeks before the meeting, he came to our critique group's annual Christmas dinner as our newest member, and that's when I first met him. (At Brick Oven. How could I ever forget? Yum . . . .)

That was six and a half years ago, if I'm doing the math right. (I was expecting #4 then, and it was right before my first book was accepted. Yep.) He was a bit of a turkey when it came time for him to speak. I sent a confirmation e-mail to him, and he replied with something snarky like, "What? Was that THIS week? I totally forgot. . . . Just kidding."

I knew right then that he was a goofball, or, er, a riot to get to know.

It's been great having him in the same critique group (especially as the first male, someone to tell us when our male characters were acting, um, less than manly).

Today I get to have fun mentioning his latest publishing achievement, his upcoming book, Farworld: Water Keep, the first in a young adult fantasy series. The book will be on shelves in September, a mere two months away.

Since I agreed to be part of his cool blog tour before I hopped aboard the Whitney Committee and could no longer review 2008 books or publicly mention my opinion of them, I'll keep mum on what I think of the book itself.

Never fear; there are plenty of places you can learn about the book, as his blog tour is going for two months and is quite extensive. You'll be able to find great question-and-answer sessions, reviews of Farworld, and more all over the blogosphere.

However . . . since I can't review the book, I thought I'd have some fun. So . . . this may be the only place you get to find out about the real J. Scott. Here are six little-known facts I've learned about him in the six and a half years I've known him. I picked six because it's a fun number and not too big. I could have gone with twenty-six and had plenty to say. I've got a lot of dirt, but I decided not to mention the . . . oh, wait. :D

1) He enjoys being an anomaly.
For example, he finds it great fun to be the only bass in the room singing, "As Sisters in Zion" at Relief Society Literacy nights.

2) He's observant.
At last year's critique group Christmas dinner, he gave one member a miniature (toy) vacuum that actually sucked . . . that plugs into the computer. I think he knows we women ("The Ladies of Wednesday Night," as he so lovingly refers to us) do a balancing act between housewife and writer.

3) His biological clock is seriously messed up.
The poor man travels so much, my head spins. More than once as we're getting RSVP e-mails about meeting, he'll send a last-minute message along the lines of, "I was supposed to be flying in to SLC tonight, but there was an emergency in [Georgia, Las Vegas, LA, fill in the blank] so I'm headed there right now. Sorry; I won't make it tonight." Forget his biological clock; I bet that half the time even he doesn't know what time zone he's in.

4) Disneyland has played a part in his writing.
On a couple of counts. First, he once wrote a scene as an exercise of how to take a normal, happy situation and make it scary and creepy . . . using the "It's a Small World" ride. (Last time I rode it, my girls loved it, but I kept waiting for doll arms to reach up out of the water and kill me. Yeah. Thanks, dude.)

Second, since his sweet wife, Jen, adores the park, his family goes there a lot. On something like their third trip of the year, he once spent the day at Disneyland, writing, while his family played.

Talk about a writer's happiest place on Earth . . .

5) He feeds his friends.
Or maybe it's Jen who does it. Regardless, whenever he hosts critique group, there will be chips and salsa on the table. A good thing, too, because I often skip dinner as I race out the door. Therefore, most of the chips and salsa end up being eaten by me. Yeah, I know. Oink. (Oops. I think I just revealed more about me than I did about him.)

6) He gives the dreaded, "It's great . . . just two things," critiques.
Those two things are often something like, "I totally didn't buy the premise of the scene" or "The main character's motivation for doing any of this fell flat" or "It's just boring." Dang it all if he isn't right 95% of the time, but fixing his "two things" requires hours and hours.

(And he complains because I write all over his manuscripts. Sure I do, but adding commas and deleting adverbs doesn't take nearly as long as rewriting an entire scene . . .)


There you have it; six things I bet many people don't know about J. Scott Savage. But here's one more you may have figured out: He's a great friend who is willing to help out any way he can. That's something rare and valuable. I consider myself lucky to be one of the Ladies of Wednesday night.

Now for the (other) fun part: One of my blog readers will get an Advance Reader Copy of Farworld: Water!

To enter the drawing, simply make a comment on this post by midnight (MDT) on Sunday, July 6, 2008. I'll put all the names into a hat and have a small child draw the winner. I'll announce the winner here the next day, on Monday, July 7.

If the winner doesn't don't contact me with their mailing address within two days, we'll draw another name. Good luck!

Eagles Don't Make the Man

This has been an odd week for the family. Not only have we been working like mad on my daughter's new room, but she's been gone for all of it at summer camp. (We wanted to surprise her with the finished product. SO worth it! Pictures forthcoming.) She returned this afternoon and was thrilled.

For two and a half hours, the family was together again. We had a nice dinner, and then her brother left for a Scout hike and camp-out. It's like my family is fractured, and I have a feeling that the older (and more independent!) they get, the worse it's going to be.

But on to the point:

As I packed up my son's frame pack with the necessities, I was thrown back to the days when I went on Uintah hikes. I come from a family of campers. As in wilderness, roughing it, actual camping campers. None of this wimpy, drive-up-to-the-site-and-break-out-the-cooler stuff. Puh-leese.

My ward was the same. Every summer, the Young Women went on a week-long trip, leaving Monday morning for the High Uintahs, hiking every day to a new camp site, and coming home Saturday. Those were, quite literally, some of the most molding experiences of my adolescence. Some day I'll wax philosophical about the kinds of things I learned in the Uintahs, especially from our devoted leader, Brother T, but for now, I can't help but share a laugh.

Shortly after high school graduation, I went on a Uintah trip with some friends, along with an adult brother and father (neither mine) for supervision purposes. The group was mixed boys and girls, and I believe every male there was an Eagle Scout.

Hence, I assumed they knew what they were doing.

My first clue to the contrary was the fact that they were packing in at least half a dozen two-liter bottles of ice.

Two major problems with that.

First, do you have any idea how heavy ice is? There's a reason you're not supposed to try to carry more than twenty-five percent of your body weight. Duh.

Second, the Uintahs are covered with fresh springs. If you find a lake (and it's almost hard not to), you can find at least one, and likely several, springs running into it. Sure, you still boil the water to make it safe. You wouldn't drink it straight from the stream. But you sure as heck don't pack in your water when it's right there for the taking.

On the hiking portion, at every break, they'd take off their packs to rest. Okay, first off, that's a total waste of time (getting those things on and off is a bit of a pain). And provided you packed your trail mix in an outer pocket, you can either reach it yourself or have someone else get it for you without having to take off the whole pack.

But another (rather big) problem is that trying to put on a heavy pack while standing on a steep slope can throw your balance off and have you rolling down the mountain like an Oompa-Loompa. You just don't do it.

Then again, what do I know? I'm a girl. A non-scouter.

Then we reached the camp site. The Eagle Scouts got all dude-like and pushed us girls aside to let us observe their masculinity. They went in search of locations to set up the tents. I spotted several great spots, but none seemed satisfactory to them. In short order, they whipped out their camping shovels and began digging rocks out of the ground to make the site level.

In the Uintahs. Which is, by definition, a mountain with lots of angles. Where rocks practically grow on trees. You're trying to dig out all the rocks? Are you kidding me? Didn't you bring a foam pad to put your sleeping bag on? If you had, that would cushion the rocks, because I promise, you won't be getting any ground completely level out here without a bulldozer.

Meals were the biggest joke of all. They brought out heavy pans. (Again, um . . . is it any wonder big brother's hips and back were about to break? His pack must have weight ninety pounds!) They pulled out—and I only wish I were making this up—canned food. Why not pack gold bullion into your pack while you're at it? Might as well if you don't care about weight in a situation where every single ounce matters.

It was all I could do to keep myself upright and stop myself from crying out, "Anyone heard of Cup o' Soup? Ramen? Hot cocoa packets? Anything dehydrated? Freeze-dried? Lightweight?"

I almost looked around for the candid cameras hiding in the pine trees.

The trees had something else in store, though, because after dinner, the men decided we had to hoist all the packs into the pine trees, using ropes, to protect against the bears. I'm sure bears exist in the Uintahs, but I haven't seen any. And even if they do hang around camping areas, don't they, um, climb trees?

I shouldn't have been surprised when they pulled out canned peaches, actual eggs in their shells, and Spam for breakfast. Oh, golly. I had to bite my lips together into a tight line to keep myself from laughing hysterically.

All these years later (and we're approaching the two-decade mark), I still giggle when I think about that trip. They thought they were so darn cool, but in reality, they made the trip so much harder for themselves than they needed to. (I think there's a metaphor for life in that.)

To say I wasn't impressed with their Eagle Scout prowess would be an understatement.

So it was with great pleasure that I remembered my dad's classic know-how (Eagle, schmeagle; I have no idea if Dad earned his, although he probably did, but he knew what he was doing) on what to bring, how to pack it, and what not to put in the pack.

I even had my son stand on the home scale and weigh himself with and without the pack like we used to on the back porch to be sure it didn't weigh too much. We got it a few pounds under twenty-five percent. Perfect.

Scout leaders have the best of intentions, and I have no reason to believe that ours are the kind that lug Spam and ice into the mountains, but if my son's going to grow up to be a real camper—a real manly man—he'll benefit from Grandpa's tutelage.

So Dad, I can't wait until you're home again and we can take my two oldest on a real Uintah camping trip now that they're old enough for it. I'm counting down the days.

The Office

Not the show. MINE.

The back story: We moved into this house four years ago. (We moved to this CITY almost five years ago. That year in the stupid, cramped apartment is a nightmare best forgotten . . .)

When we picked out this floor plan, one of the main floor bedrooms was identified as my future office. Yippee!!! I couldn't wait! But I had to; see, we still had a little person in a crib. While the other kids were old enough to sleep in the basement (with a monitor so paranoid Mommy could hear them sleep), the littlest one used that future office as her bedroom until she was a big enough little girl to venture downstairs for the night.

So what would end up, someday, being my oldest daughter's bedroom has been my office for the last four years. It was odd recently thinking about all the work I've done in that "temporary" space: I wrote a good chunk of House on the Hill in it (although I began it in our previous house and did some work on it in that stupid, stupid apartment). I did all the edits and proofs of it in that office.

At the Journey's End and Spires of Stone were born there as well, aside from the jaunts I took with drafting on my Neo elsewhere. I remember one all-nighter I pulled with a Spires rewrite deadline down there. Oy. What a memory.

Drafting Tower of Strength (to be released in April, if you're keeping track). I remember times of writer's block and when the flow just came. I remember creating this blog. Researching and revising. Coordinating meeting with my critique group. E-mailing with the LDStorymakers. Getting good publishing news and bad publishing news. Of planning this spring's writing conference.

Man, so many memories.

And yet, in a lot of ways, I detested that office. It was relatively dark, being a basement room. And although it had a decent-sized window, the sun came through it at just the right angle to blind me, so I generally had the blinds drawn. I felt like I was in a freaking cave half the time.

I never decorated it (or really organized it, for that matter), because it was "temporary."

I never thought that would mean four years.

But the littlest one is downstairs now. All three girls are squeezed, sardine-style, into the same room during the renovation and switch. My (real!) office has been painted. It's got a gorgeous walnut floor and built-in bookshelves that hubby made himself. The trim is to die for (and I'm a teeny bit proud that I did the caulking myself . . . if you knew how much tools and I dislike one another, you'd be very, very impressed).

I've got a great rug (actually, a two: a rug and a runner). My desks are moved upstairs. My computer is hooked up. Moving my books and files took the better part of a week. (And dejunking the old office was a bit shocking . . . holy cow, HOW did I manage to collect so much GARBAGE?!) The most recent addition was Honey hanging up the door yesterday.

I still have to put up pictures and organize a couple of last things.

In the meantime, now that I've moved out of the basement, we're working on what will be my oldest daughter's new room. One wall needs another coat of paint, and then we have to touch-up the trim a bit, but then we're moving her in. It will be happy day in the Lyon house when that happens.

I'll be posting pictures soon, not only because finishing up these projects has totally usurped my summer so far and I want something to show for it, but because I'm so dang thrilled to have the office of my dreams. In a weird way, I feel more like a "real" writer now. Plus, it's also nice that I'm a bit for accessible to the kids and even to the front door.

(Before, even though I was ten feet from the door . . . but in the basement, if someone rang the doorbell, I'd have to dash across the basement, take the stairs two at a time, and I might still miss the person. Now I can meander slowly and get there in seconds!)

Hubby has been taking pictures of the entire process, so you'll get to see before, during, and after shots. (Can you tell I'm giddy?!)

I can't wait to experience the memories that this office will hold for me. What plots and characters will be born here? I can't wait to find out.

As Brillig would say, the place is frickin' brackin' awesome!

In It Together

Last night at critique group, some of the commentary about my WIP got me thinking about my characters. I noticed something about them that struck me as interesting.

(A caveat: All of them are real to me, so you'll have to pardon the fact that I'm going to talk about them like real people.)

These five women, as different as they are, have one big thing in common. It's not just the one big situation they're in together. It's something else, too.

And, sadly, it's something that a lot of us women share: we compare ourselves to one another.

In general, we come up short in the comparison. She's smarter, prettier, skinnier, is a better mom/wife/housekeeper, and so on.

Or maybe we're judging in the other direction, being harsher on the other person to make ourselves feel better, like the woman who told me once, when I had a toddler and a baby, that I had no idea what stress was like, because she had four kids, and I only had two.

When we compare, we're judging—another person and ourselves.

That can't be healthy. I know that it certainly isn't for the ladies in my book. They range in age from twenty to fifty-five. One is a newly wed. The other four have children. One is an empty-nester. One's a nurse. They are all now dealing with the same difficult situation, yet each responds to it differently. And they're all judging and comparing.

In addition to the one common burden, each woman has her own additional struggle to face, something she keeps back from the others, because of course they wouldn't understand, or they'd judge her, or they'd think it was silly, or they wouldn't be able to relate.

She thinks.

The the truth is, if they could all take off their social masks and get real, they'd discover that while their individual trials are different, that all of these women are very, very human. They're all under pressure. They're all imperfect. They're all barely keeping their heads above water.

What a comfort such a revelation would be to them.

Somehow I don't think my characters are alone in this. I think we all put up barriers, put on a face for the rest of the world, and then compare ourselves with everyone else's pretend faces.

So now I have to wonder . . . what would happen if we all dropped those social masks? What if we let one another know, really know our insecurities, fears, and weaknesses?

I imagine that at first it would be terrifying. But eventually, I think it would be liberating. I imagine we'd actually judge one another less because we'd have more compassion and understanding. I imagine we'd be able to find strength and support among other women because we'd rally around one another instead of worrying about what each other thinks. We'd stop pretending.

I hope the five women I'm writing about can learn to trust one another like that. They'll need one another's support to get through what they're facing. But they'll have to learn to let down those barriers first.

Maybe I can learn a thing or two along with them.

Dilemma

I am known for my intense opinions as well as my tendency to voice those opinions. Loudly. It's taken me a lifetime to learn when to keep my big mouth shut, when to speak up, and more importantly, how to speak up in a diplomatic way that doesn't end up with those involved hating my guts.

Actually, I'm still trying to learn that one. I'm still caught far too often with my foot lodged securely in my mouth.

Which is why I'm in a dilemma today.

There is an aspiring writer I know. This person has been taken under the wing of another writer in a mentor-like situation. All well and good. But some of the advice flowing from teacher to pupil is, in my never-quiet opinion, waaaaaaaay off track.

I can argue the reasons with intensity and prove my point. I drafted a short, polite (I think!) e-mail to the pupil letting them know my concern. But I haven't sent it. Probably won't.

See, it's none of my business.

It's not. It's not. It's not. I have to keep telling myself that. I've been watching this for months now, and not saying something is killing me.

But if I speak up, I'll make the teacher person look bad. I'd likely get both people mad at me, which would be . . . uncomfortable for several very big reasons. I'd end up in a nasty situation of my own making.

And yet . . . I know full well that I'm watching a train wreck in the making. If this person follows the instructions they've been given, they'll end up wasting months (if not years) of time and work in their efforts to be published.

The two facts are tearing me in two directions.

I can either put my nose into someone else's business because they're heading into a ditch (and open a giant can of squishy, angry worms I could never close again) or stay out of it (and keep the peace, but know full well that I had a chance to prevent someone from failure).

Yikes. What to do? I want to hit "send" on that e-mail. Real bad. But I think I'd better delete it.

It's none of my business. It's none of my business. It's none of my business . . .

Searching for the Right Cup

To the few male readers I have, a warning: You probably don't want to keep reading this one. The ladies, most likely, already know what I'm going to be talking about, and they likely agree with me.

Right, ladies? Right.

Okay, then.



About a year and a half ago, I went on a shopping mission. It wasn't a fun shopping trip (you know, that kind that's full of, "Oh, look. Cute shoes!"). It was the absolute worst kind of shopping. And no, I don't mean for swimsuits, because as miserable as that is, one suit will generally do the trick for years, so it's not something that bears repeating very often, and frankly, during the process, your middle section (the area with stretch marks and bread dough) is covered.

Bra shopping, however, must be done a bit more frequently. And it's a hideous, hideous experience. You'd think that all the sizes would actually mean something, that the shape and style wouldn't matter all that much.

You'd be wrong.

This time, I had put off the dreaded trip too many times, to the point that my current supports were flimsy and really . . . . well, not doing the job, shall we say. I finally gave in and dragged my toddler—and a feeling of impending doom—to the store.

I wandered the aisles, looking for sizes and shapes that I thought would work best. With about ten different bras in hand, I went to the dressing room, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, much like facing a lion in its den.

The first bra one was a definite no-go. I tried the second. Same thing. Frustrated (but not surprised), I went for the third. Meanwhile my little girl was getting bored. She began belting the alphabet at the top of her lungs.

After getting her to shush (and nearly swearing because bra #4 didn't work either), I tried on yet another and another, and another. Each one had its problems, which I'll leave up to your imagination, because you women know what I'm talking about, don't you?

Thought so.

None of the ones in the stack came even close to doing the job. I got dressed, and we trucked back out to look for more.

I spent time investigating the displays, managed to gather another armload of potentials, and dove back into the dressing room. This time my daughter noticed feet on the other side of the divider and decided it would be neat to crawl underneath and say hello to the other women on either side of us.

With one arm in a strap and one out, I quickly grabbed her and pulled her back into the booth, trying to explain why there are times we aren't friendly and go out of our way to say hello to people.

In the end (after some two or three hours), I managed to find a bra that worked. I wanted to sing! In such cases, you buy multiples, because you never know when you'll find another one just like it. But there wasn't another of that style in my size. But since I also know that you can tweak sizes just a bit (increase the band size and the cup is a bit smaller, or vice versa), I got another one in the same style and a slightly different size. It would have to do.

Turns out that after wearing either of those bras for about an hour, the result is the "quad effect." I won't describe it further, but again, I'm sure the ladies know what I mean. It's been a frustrating experience. I don't know what I could have done to know this beforehand except for wearing them and staring at the mirror in the dressing room for an hour.

A couple of months after this bra-shopping expedition, I began taking a particularly nasty medication that didn't address the reason I was taking it and instead caused my brain to fall out of my head. Another side effect was making me nauseated all the time. As a result, I lost a bunch of weight. Remember this post?

At the time, I had lots of people wishing they could take the same pills and lose some weight. Yeah, right. And feel as if you're in your first trimester but you're not making a baby? And not even chocolate sounds good? And you're moody and can't think or focus, to the point that not only can you not write, but you're unable to add 6 + 4 without the aid of your fingers? (You think I'm kidding.) It was a miserable period.

So after about three months, my doctor and I decided it would be best to go off the medication. (Very good decision, by the way. Yes, the weight came back when I actually ate food again, but I'm a much happier person.)

But I had lost weight everywhere. So I bemoaned in the doctor's office, "I just bought new bras. I'm going to have to go buy some new ones."

Assuming he knew my concern, he said, "Oh, don't worry. When you go off the medication, you'll get your full size back."

Who cared if I lost a cup size or so? I just couldn't face racks and racks of brassieres and the accompanying trauma that comes with bringing them to the dressing room.

Save me now!

In the end, I just waited for the weight to come back so I wouldn't have to go on another 3-hour torture quest.

But the time has come again. I really need to face the dragon, as the "quad effect" is becoming a real problem.

This time, I'm leaving everyone home and facing the misery alone. To calm the trauma afterward, I'll be treating myself to some chocolate. It's the least I can do for myself.

I've Been Hagged

My local library has a lot of fun throwing parties for families. They do at least two every year, and they're quite the productions.

For years they had a Harry Potter party each summer around Harry's birthday. (Last year's in celebration of the final book was mucho cool. Totally blew me away.)

And there's the an annual princess ball, which they always connect to a neat theme (this year it was Chinese new year).

Kids often dress up for these things, and there's always a ton of fun activities connected with the theme. Families come in swarms. It's a big deal.

This year the fantasy party focused on a new series. Yesterday, the library turned into Fablehaven. The lengths to which they went for the celebration were stunning. Among the features of the night:

• A decorated archway marking the entrance to Fablehaven.


• A search for different fairies as well as Olluch and the Gatekeeper's keys


• Human Foosball (based on Kendra and the Sphinx playing the game)


• Chickens to feed (kids got to guess which one was Grandma)


• Nymphs shooting kids with water guns


• Hags handing out curses (Things like, "Every time someone says your name, yell out a pizza topping." Curses could only be broken by a fairy kiss . . . Hershey's kisses handed out by one of several cute high-school girls dressed up).


• Fairy crafts


• "Magic" milk provided by Meadow Gold (and their giant, inflatable cow as Viola)


• Seeds to plant your own fairy garden


• Fablehaven posters awarded to a handful of attendees


• A magical well with creatures inside (condensed sponges that turned into animals in water)


• and more

The big draw of the night was the author of the NY Times bestselling series, Brandon Mull, showing up to talk and then sign books for an insanely long line.

As in the past, I was once again roped into helping with a library party, and this time I got to be one of the hags running around, doling out curses. (As soon as some kids realized that chocolate lifted the curse, they kept coming back for more curses. I had to put a limit on how many times I'd curse the same kid.)

I struggled at first on what to wear, but finally put together something I thought worked okay. You can't see all the glory in this picture (the huge rusted earrings, the thick gray witch stockings, the torn and ragged shirt, the moles, the blackened teeth). But as I trotted out to my kids to get opinions, they all shrieked.

I guess it did the trick:

A lot of people showed up in costume (mostly preschooler girls as fairies), and my family came to enjoy the evening as well.

When Brandon himself arrived and mulled around, I thought I should go say hello, because while we're not exactly close friends, we had met before when we sat at the same table at the Whitney Awards dinner in March. And I don't know about him, but fellow writers are always a happy sight for me.

But I don't think he recognized me. I mentioned my name. Nothing. That we were at the same Whitney table (WHEN YOU WON. REMEMBER THAT NIGHT?!). Nothing seemed to turn on a light bulb. I think he was stuck staring at the black teeth and icky eyebrows. He just smiled and nodded.

It was all I could do to not tell him that while I think Fablehaven is a really great series, that no, I'm not a weird fanatic woman who dressed up like a hag just for his party like most of the six-year-old fairies running around had. I was there working as a vol-un-teer.

And I'm a fellow writer. We have a ton of mutual friends. Oh, and I was a Whitney finalist too. That night, I presented one of the awards. Ring a bell? Rob Wells mentioned during the ceremony that I came up with the name of the award?

Hmm. How about: I was the only one at your table who didn't take home a trophy?

Never mind. Next time I'll be sure to talk to a fellow writer (NY Times bestseller or otherwise) when I'm, oh, not sporting two gigantic moles on my face.

But hey, I got my daughter's book signed. Before the actual book signing. So there. :D