It's official!
Woohoo! Celebrate! Chocolate Time! And all that jazz.
The Salt Lake Temple-themed book I submitted in December is officially accepted and slated for release in September of this year.
Yes!
Does it have a title yet?
No!
Even after publishing four novels, there's always the possibility that I'll be rejected (something that has happened many, many times, even since publishing).
A couple of weeks ago, Kathy, the managing editor at my publisher forwarded a reader e-mail and then dropped a bomb: My manuscript was going to committee that week.
That means Wednesday.
Which means that by Tuesday I was having an ulcer.
By Wednesday I couldn't see straight. I kept checking my e-mail for any word and would jump every time the phone rang.
Finally, in desperation, at 4:55 pm, I shot off an e-mail to Kathy asking if a decision had been made. I clicked "send," then crossed my fingers in hopes that she'd see the e-mail before leaving for home in five minutes.
I cursed the fact that I ever knew that my book was going to the committee today. Not knowing and then just hearing the decision after the fact wouldn't have shaved 3.8 years off my life like anticipating the worst did.
Shortly, the phone rang. The caller ID registered my publisher. I swallowed hard and answered.
It was indeed Kathy, and YES! I was accepted.
Then came the kicker: The committee had made the decision that morning, and at their noon break, Kathy hurried to her computer to email me a congratulatory message.
It obviously didn't arrive. Over the phone she told me that she had sent another e-mail when she saw mine, but thought she'd better call me to be sure.
Thank heavens she did, or I would have been knee-deep in chocolate by the time both of her e-mails arrived that night around 10:10 pm.
This way I was only ankle-deep in chocolate as I celebrated.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Sadism and the Writer
I've come to accept that I'm a sadist, but in the best way, if that's possible.
Recently I received two e-mails from readers. They were of the variety that make you think, "Yes, I can write! I'm not completely delusional!"
Writers can go from thinking one second that every word they write is magical to falling into despair the next moment, huddled in a fetal position and rocking back and forth, positive that they can't write a coherent word and that they're morons for thinking they can.
It's a bit extreme going between the two opposites, and you never get used to it. One would think that getting novels and articles published would assuage the fears. It doesn't. It just provides you with anxiety because now actual readers (people you don't even know!) are reading your work and making judgments on it. It's enough to send you into heart palpitations and panic attacks.
Ironically, getting positive feedback can be just as paralyzing. I've received some amazing responses about At the Journey's End, including a review from Jennie Hansen at Meridian Magazine that about blew my socks off. I had never before read a review from her that didn't find something negative to say. This was the first, and she finished with saying that the book gets her highest recommendation.
Whoa! Happy dance! Bronze the review!
And immediately following the panic rolls in: it was a fluke. I'll never, ever, be able to write well again or live up to that book. Why bother trying? Give me some chocolate as I curl up and start rocking back and forth.
Right now I have those two e-mails that made my day, and (so far) I haven't gone into the tailspin that can follow. Both messages had a common theme: At the Journey's End kept them reading late into the night. They both stayed up to finish it, one until 4:00 am and the other until 5:00 am.
So I'm single-handedly responsible for these two ladies being zombies the following day! How totally cool is that? As a writer, I can imagine few pieces of information that could excite me more. Apparently I am a sadist when it comes to perfect strangers reading my books.
That might be enough to consider me a bit twisted, but now a new element has entered the horizon that makes me wonder just what kind of person I really am.
I'm working on a project targeted at middle-grade girl readers (roughly ages 8-11). To test-run the piece, I've sent it to several girls I know that age, including two of my daughters, ages 9 and 7. The younger is slightly too young to read it herself, so I've been reading it to her.
After the most recent chapter, she told me that it feels like the story is really happening.
YES! SCORE!
And then she said something else that made me both thrilled and a tiny bit horrified at my own reaction:
"If feels real. That's why I cried."
YES! SCORE!
But wait a minute; since when is it a moment of pride and satisfaction to make your 7-year-old burst into tears?
I've said it before, and the more time passes, the more I'm convinced it's true: writers are weird bunch.
And quite possibly sadistic.
Recently I received two e-mails from readers. They were of the variety that make you think, "Yes, I can write! I'm not completely delusional!"
Writers can go from thinking one second that every word they write is magical to falling into despair the next moment, huddled in a fetal position and rocking back and forth, positive that they can't write a coherent word and that they're morons for thinking they can.
It's a bit extreme going between the two opposites, and you never get used to it. One would think that getting novels and articles published would assuage the fears. It doesn't. It just provides you with anxiety because now actual readers (people you don't even know!) are reading your work and making judgments on it. It's enough to send you into heart palpitations and panic attacks.
Ironically, getting positive feedback can be just as paralyzing. I've received some amazing responses about At the Journey's End, including a review from Jennie Hansen at Meridian Magazine that about blew my socks off. I had never before read a review from her that didn't find something negative to say. This was the first, and she finished with saying that the book gets her highest recommendation.
Whoa! Happy dance! Bronze the review!
And immediately following the panic rolls in: it was a fluke. I'll never, ever, be able to write well again or live up to that book. Why bother trying? Give me some chocolate as I curl up and start rocking back and forth.
Right now I have those two e-mails that made my day, and (so far) I haven't gone into the tailspin that can follow. Both messages had a common theme: At the Journey's End kept them reading late into the night. They both stayed up to finish it, one until 4:00 am and the other until 5:00 am.
So I'm single-handedly responsible for these two ladies being zombies the following day! How totally cool is that? As a writer, I can imagine few pieces of information that could excite me more. Apparently I am a sadist when it comes to perfect strangers reading my books.
That might be enough to consider me a bit twisted, but now a new element has entered the horizon that makes me wonder just what kind of person I really am.
I'm working on a project targeted at middle-grade girl readers (roughly ages 8-11). To test-run the piece, I've sent it to several girls I know that age, including two of my daughters, ages 9 and 7. The younger is slightly too young to read it herself, so I've been reading it to her.
After the most recent chapter, she told me that it feels like the story is really happening.
YES! SCORE!
And then she said something else that made me both thrilled and a tiny bit horrified at my own reaction:
"If feels real. That's why I cried."
YES! SCORE!
But wait a minute; since when is it a moment of pride and satisfaction to make your 7-year-old burst into tears?
I've said it before, and the more time passes, the more I'm convinced it's true: writers are weird bunch.
And quite possibly sadistic.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Tagged . . . Twice
It all started with a seemingly innocent email from fellow writer Marsha Ward about a blog and some people being tagged—whatever that meant. Curious, I investigated and discovered that my friend Tristi Pinkston had "tagged" Marsha in her blog.
The game is simple: When you're tagged, you tell the world five things about yourself that most people don't know.
So I learned five things about Marsha (ouch on the mountain climb, by the way), and headed to Tristi's blog (glad you made it to your wedding day). That's where I discovered that she had been tagged by Jeff Savage (remind me never to fly on a plane with you), who, it turns out had tagged me a couple of days prior.
Being as I've spent the last two weeks with one or two children sick at all times and a weekend when I could scarcely stand up because I was sick myself, I didn't get around to reading my friends' blogs.
Thus I didn't know I had been tagged, or even what that meant until about two hours ago. (Sorry, Jeff!)
So here I am, two days after Jeff officially tagged me, now tagged by Julie Wright as well. Since I'm unaware of any official tagging rule book, I'm going to list five things about myself instead of ten and hope no one calls a foul.
#1. I dressed up as a rapper in high school for a drill team routine.
A fellow teammate, Konnie, did, too. In drill team there were various categories for competition: the typical dance category (I don't recall it having a fancy name), military (my favorite), prop, and novelty. This was for the novelty category, a dance to the song, "Ugly," which was popular around 1990 ("U-G-L-Y, you're ugly." Ring a bell?) Most of the team dressed up in really ugly clothes, including matching green shirts. Half wore in fat suits, and everyone had hair and makeup that would frighten a small child, including teeth blackened out, the whole bit. Then Konnie and I "rapped" and danced in front. We got frighteningly high marks with the routine. The most fun part, though, was performing it for at pep rally before a game with our rival high school. It wasn't a coincidence that the girls' shirts were green (our rivals' color). And instead of spelling out "ugly" in two rows on their backsides like they usually did, the team spelled out our rivals’ mascot, "bulldogs." Silly, yes. But fun.
#2. I met my husband doing the cha cha.
Technically it began when my prom date tried to teach some cha cha steps to me that he had learned out a book. Not particularly exact, but it hooked me. By the time I entered college, I couldn't wait to take ballroom dance. I made it onto one of the summer teams and then wanted to be on the cha cha routine, which we had in-team tryouts for. (Anyone who didn't make the 6-couple cha cha had to be on the Triple Swing dance; ick.) At the end of one practice, I thought that my last partner of the day led well and that we worked really smoothly together. That's my first memory of Rob. We tried out for the routine together, managed to be partners, and by the time we had our first date two months later, we were already great friends.
#3. I love to knit.
To be honest, I hated it when I first learned, but a few projects into the process, I managed to stop holding the needles as if I had to strangle them and discovered that knitting is great fun. Around age 12 I discovered that it helps me to destress and calm down. I tend to be a bit too busy to knit much anymore, but I still manage one decent project a year for my kids, rotating between them. This year it's my 9-year-old's turn. She's requested a light blue jacket with a hood and a big purple S on the back. Her word is my command. And the S is almost done.
#4. I hate shrimp.
Go figure. I have no idea why. But aside from your basic fish (salmon, trout, halibut), I just can't wrap my taste buds around sea food of any kind. It grosses me out. Lobster? Are you kidding me? It's a giant cockroach (scientifically, too; ew). My favorite fish ever: Dad's rainbow trout from the Provo River (or even better, the High Uintahs), skinned, and gently fried in his special flour coating. Sprinkle on a little lemon pepper and let your eyeballs roll back. Oh, yeah.
#5. I know little to nothing about chocolate.
Okay, so as the one of the founding sisters and producers of the Utah Chocolate Show, I'm hesitant to admit this one. I am an expert on EATING chocolate. Does that count? Truthfully, I entered the production end as the copywriter, then doing sales, then PR, and my role continued to morph. Early on show attendees would stop me and ask some involved chocolate question, and I’d get the deer in the headlights look. I still have to pass on the tougher questions to the experts, but I've tried to learn about chocolate over the years, and I really have made progress. I can now make chocolate-dipped strawberries and pretzels and tulip cups. I know what "tempering" means, even if I can't DO it, and I can even give pretty decent advice on what type and brand of chocolate for a few projects. Since one of my jobs is writing a weekly e-letter for show attendees and chocolate lovers, I've had to do research and learn. I've gleaned things I never knew I didn't know. What’s chocolate viscocity? I know (now). You're horribly impressed, right?
And for the fun part: tagging the next victims. So many of my blogging friends are already tagged, that this may be a bit tricky.
Let's go with:
Emmelyn Freitas, a great actress and friend. We’ve known one another long enough that we both have plenty of stories to blackmail the other with. But even longer than our friendship has been that of our fathers’, who are long-time fishing buddies, which goes right back to my #4.
Katie Parker, fellow LDStorymaker and book reviewer.
Linda Paulson Adams, another LDStorymaker. I almost said she was an author, but that’s redundant.
Dave McClellan, husband of my friend Erin, he’s one freaking talented artist.
I know I'm one short. Go ahead; throw a flag!
The game is simple: When you're tagged, you tell the world five things about yourself that most people don't know.
So I learned five things about Marsha (ouch on the mountain climb, by the way), and headed to Tristi's blog (glad you made it to your wedding day). That's where I discovered that she had been tagged by Jeff Savage (remind me never to fly on a plane with you), who, it turns out had tagged me a couple of days prior.
Being as I've spent the last two weeks with one or two children sick at all times and a weekend when I could scarcely stand up because I was sick myself, I didn't get around to reading my friends' blogs.
Thus I didn't know I had been tagged, or even what that meant until about two hours ago. (Sorry, Jeff!)
So here I am, two days after Jeff officially tagged me, now tagged by Julie Wright as well. Since I'm unaware of any official tagging rule book, I'm going to list five things about myself instead of ten and hope no one calls a foul.
#1. I dressed up as a rapper in high school for a drill team routine.
A fellow teammate, Konnie, did, too. In drill team there were various categories for competition: the typical dance category (I don't recall it having a fancy name), military (my favorite), prop, and novelty. This was for the novelty category, a dance to the song, "Ugly," which was popular around 1990 ("U-G-L-Y, you're ugly." Ring a bell?) Most of the team dressed up in really ugly clothes, including matching green shirts. Half wore in fat suits, and everyone had hair and makeup that would frighten a small child, including teeth blackened out, the whole bit. Then Konnie and I "rapped" and danced in front. We got frighteningly high marks with the routine. The most fun part, though, was performing it for at pep rally before a game with our rival high school. It wasn't a coincidence that the girls' shirts were green (our rivals' color). And instead of spelling out "ugly" in two rows on their backsides like they usually did, the team spelled out our rivals’ mascot, "bulldogs." Silly, yes. But fun.
#2. I met my husband doing the cha cha.
Technically it began when my prom date tried to teach some cha cha steps to me that he had learned out a book. Not particularly exact, but it hooked me. By the time I entered college, I couldn't wait to take ballroom dance. I made it onto one of the summer teams and then wanted to be on the cha cha routine, which we had in-team tryouts for. (Anyone who didn't make the 6-couple cha cha had to be on the Triple Swing dance; ick.) At the end of one practice, I thought that my last partner of the day led well and that we worked really smoothly together. That's my first memory of Rob. We tried out for the routine together, managed to be partners, and by the time we had our first date two months later, we were already great friends.
#3. I love to knit.
To be honest, I hated it when I first learned, but a few projects into the process, I managed to stop holding the needles as if I had to strangle them and discovered that knitting is great fun. Around age 12 I discovered that it helps me to destress and calm down. I tend to be a bit too busy to knit much anymore, but I still manage one decent project a year for my kids, rotating between them. This year it's my 9-year-old's turn. She's requested a light blue jacket with a hood and a big purple S on the back. Her word is my command. And the S is almost done.
#4. I hate shrimp.
Go figure. I have no idea why. But aside from your basic fish (salmon, trout, halibut), I just can't wrap my taste buds around sea food of any kind. It grosses me out. Lobster? Are you kidding me? It's a giant cockroach (scientifically, too; ew). My favorite fish ever: Dad's rainbow trout from the Provo River (or even better, the High Uintahs), skinned, and gently fried in his special flour coating. Sprinkle on a little lemon pepper and let your eyeballs roll back. Oh, yeah.
#5. I know little to nothing about chocolate.
Okay, so as the one of the founding sisters and producers of the Utah Chocolate Show, I'm hesitant to admit this one. I am an expert on EATING chocolate. Does that count? Truthfully, I entered the production end as the copywriter, then doing sales, then PR, and my role continued to morph. Early on show attendees would stop me and ask some involved chocolate question, and I’d get the deer in the headlights look. I still have to pass on the tougher questions to the experts, but I've tried to learn about chocolate over the years, and I really have made progress. I can now make chocolate-dipped strawberries and pretzels and tulip cups. I know what "tempering" means, even if I can't DO it, and I can even give pretty decent advice on what type and brand of chocolate for a few projects. Since one of my jobs is writing a weekly e-letter for show attendees and chocolate lovers, I've had to do research and learn. I've gleaned things I never knew I didn't know. What’s chocolate viscocity? I know (now). You're horribly impressed, right?
And for the fun part: tagging the next victims. So many of my blogging friends are already tagged, that this may be a bit tricky.
Let's go with:
Emmelyn Freitas, a great actress and friend. We’ve known one another long enough that we both have plenty of stories to blackmail the other with. But even longer than our friendship has been that of our fathers’, who are long-time fishing buddies, which goes right back to my #4.
Katie Parker, fellow LDStorymaker and book reviewer.
Linda Paulson Adams, another LDStorymaker. I almost said she was an author, but that’s redundant.
Dave McClellan, husband of my friend Erin, he’s one freaking talented artist.
I know I'm one short. Go ahead; throw a flag!
Monday, January 15, 2007
Tower of . . . what?
Brief and rather odd observation this time . . .
I spent the evening cutting hair. First I cut my husband's hair, something I do more often now that his new job has a more strict dress code. Then I did minor trims on two of my daughters. Finally, my son got a cut as well. Okay, so everyone but one child got a haircut.
So far, so good.
Child #3, a rather curious, precocious, and very helpful little girl, often lurks with the broom as I snip, sweeping up around me. It's generally not that helpful in the long run, because more hair falls where she's just swept, and we end up cleaning the same spots as before when we're done.
This time, she was lurking, but not with the broom. Instead, she gathered hair samples from family members to compare colors.
I didn't think too much of it beyond thinking that we have a budding scientist or artist, perhaps.
The kidlets got ready for bed, we read scriptures and a chapter out of the current book, and ushered the little ones off to dreamland. Then I go into the kitchen.
And I find four tupperware-style plastic cups with their lids on, stacked in a tower on the kitchen table.
Each with their own hair inside.
I'm not sure whether to think I've got some secret genius on my hands or to be totally creeped out.
And do I dare ever use those plastic cups ever again?
I spent the evening cutting hair. First I cut my husband's hair, something I do more often now that his new job has a more strict dress code. Then I did minor trims on two of my daughters. Finally, my son got a cut as well. Okay, so everyone but one child got a haircut.
So far, so good.
Child #3, a rather curious, precocious, and very helpful little girl, often lurks with the broom as I snip, sweeping up around me. It's generally not that helpful in the long run, because more hair falls where she's just swept, and we end up cleaning the same spots as before when we're done.
This time, she was lurking, but not with the broom. Instead, she gathered hair samples from family members to compare colors.
I didn't think too much of it beyond thinking that we have a budding scientist or artist, perhaps.
The kidlets got ready for bed, we read scriptures and a chapter out of the current book, and ushered the little ones off to dreamland. Then I go into the kitchen.
And I find four tupperware-style plastic cups with their lids on, stacked in a tower on the kitchen table.
Each with their own hair inside.
I'm not sure whether to think I've got some secret genius on my hands or to be totally creeped out.
And do I dare ever use those plastic cups ever again?
Friday, January 05, 2007
Another Already?
After “What are you calling it?” one of the most-asked questions I get about my writing is, “So, have you started anything new since your last book?”
Lately the answer has shocked a lot of people, because it’s not that I’ve started anything; I’ve finished something and turned it in.
The reaction: “But didn't your last book just come out?!”
Well, yes, it did. But trust me on this one; I’m not some Super Woman who whips out a book in three months flat (HA!!!! It’s hysterical to even think that, especially when you factor in the research involved in a historical novel.)
So to set the record straight, here’s the scoop on how this publishing time line thing works.
In a nutshell, it takes a whole lot longer to get anything through the pipeline than most people realize. The LDS market is much quicker than the national market, but even here it simply takes time.
Here’s what a typical manuscript goes through for me: First I draft the book. Then I revise it several times, giving it to my critique group and revising again. When I think it’s polished enough, I submit it to my editor.
Then it goes out to three different readers who fill out a huge evaluation form with something like a dozen pages or more. This process generally takes two or three months. For a new writer trying to break in, the process can take much longer, since current authors gets priority in getting their stuff out to the readers.
If the evaluations are favorable and the editor feels the manuscript is strong enough, it’ll be brought to the committee. That’s where the final publication decisions are made. Once it’s officially accepted, three or four months may have passed since submission for a regularly publishing author. In my rejection days, this part would take six to nine months or longer.
Then comes the fun of edits—a content edit and likely two line edits as the manuscript ping pongs between me and my editor. This can last weeks or months.
After that are the proofs. Again, several of them, some done by me, others by hired proofers. By the time the book is sent to be typeset into the final galleys (so it’s formatted and printed on the page just how it’ll look in the final book), I’m ready to burn the thing. I can practically recite the book in my head, I’m certain that it’s awful, and if I ever read another word of it again, it’ll be too soon. The proofing stage can be a couple of weeks or an entire month or more.
Once the book is finally ready, it’s sent off to the press. Getting the final copies printed and warehoused takes a good two months, and then shipping them to stores takes even longer.
The upshot is that if the entire process takes less than ten months, you’re lucky. So you submit one book and get to work on the next.
At the Journey’s End was submitted December of 2005 and was released this last September. In January of 2006 I began working on my next book, which I submitted right before Christmas. (Do the math here—the book took nearly a year to complete. I'm not close to Wonder Woman.)
So now I do the waiting game until I hear for sure that this next book (my Salt Lake temple one) is officially accepted. If and when it is, I’ll begin the editing process sometime around March or April.
The delay feels a little weird at times—here I am promoting and talking about a book that I wrote over a year ago, when I’ve been living and breathing (and very excited about) a different book during that entire time. But for readers, of course, it feels immediate. They don’t know when you wrote the thing, submitted it, or, most likely, how long the editorial/publication process took.
But now you do.
So what am I doing now that I turned in my latest manuscript? Naturally, I’m starting research for my next one, set in Manti. The weirdness factor sets in when I think that if all goes well, it’ll be released fall of 2008. By the time I turn in the Manti book, my Salt Lake one should be in print. By the time Manti is published, I’ll be nearly done writing a different book altogether.
And so it goes . . .
Lately the answer has shocked a lot of people, because it’s not that I’ve started anything; I’ve finished something and turned it in.
The reaction: “But didn't your last book just come out?!”
Well, yes, it did. But trust me on this one; I’m not some Super Woman who whips out a book in three months flat (HA!!!! It’s hysterical to even think that, especially when you factor in the research involved in a historical novel.)
So to set the record straight, here’s the scoop on how this publishing time line thing works.
In a nutshell, it takes a whole lot longer to get anything through the pipeline than most people realize. The LDS market is much quicker than the national market, but even here it simply takes time.
Here’s what a typical manuscript goes through for me: First I draft the book. Then I revise it several times, giving it to my critique group and revising again. When I think it’s polished enough, I submit it to my editor.
Then it goes out to three different readers who fill out a huge evaluation form with something like a dozen pages or more. This process generally takes two or three months. For a new writer trying to break in, the process can take much longer, since current authors gets priority in getting their stuff out to the readers.
If the evaluations are favorable and the editor feels the manuscript is strong enough, it’ll be brought to the committee. That’s where the final publication decisions are made. Once it’s officially accepted, three or four months may have passed since submission for a regularly publishing author. In my rejection days, this part would take six to nine months or longer.
Then comes the fun of edits—a content edit and likely two line edits as the manuscript ping pongs between me and my editor. This can last weeks or months.
After that are the proofs. Again, several of them, some done by me, others by hired proofers. By the time the book is sent to be typeset into the final galleys (so it’s formatted and printed on the page just how it’ll look in the final book), I’m ready to burn the thing. I can practically recite the book in my head, I’m certain that it’s awful, and if I ever read another word of it again, it’ll be too soon. The proofing stage can be a couple of weeks or an entire month or more.
Once the book is finally ready, it’s sent off to the press. Getting the final copies printed and warehoused takes a good two months, and then shipping them to stores takes even longer.
The upshot is that if the entire process takes less than ten months, you’re lucky. So you submit one book and get to work on the next.
At the Journey’s End was submitted December of 2005 and was released this last September. In January of 2006 I began working on my next book, which I submitted right before Christmas. (Do the math here—the book took nearly a year to complete. I'm not close to Wonder Woman.)
So now I do the waiting game until I hear for sure that this next book (my Salt Lake temple one) is officially accepted. If and when it is, I’ll begin the editing process sometime around March or April.
The delay feels a little weird at times—here I am promoting and talking about a book that I wrote over a year ago, when I’ve been living and breathing (and very excited about) a different book during that entire time. But for readers, of course, it feels immediate. They don’t know when you wrote the thing, submitted it, or, most likely, how long the editorial/publication process took.
But now you do.
So what am I doing now that I turned in my latest manuscript? Naturally, I’m starting research for my next one, set in Manti. The weirdness factor sets in when I think that if all goes well, it’ll be released fall of 2008. By the time I turn in the Manti book, my Salt Lake one should be in print. By the time Manti is published, I’ll be nearly done writing a different book altogether.
And so it goes . . .
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Blogging for a Friend
Jeff Savage, long-time friend and member of my critique group, is part of a great blog circle made up of six LDS writers (and, apparently, a frog).
Each writer takes a day of the week for their posts. In addition to Jeff, there's Kerry Blair, Sariah Wilson, Robison Wells, Julie Bellon, and Stephanie Black. You can spend a frightening amount of time reading their entries as you laugh your head off one minute and learn something about writing the next. It's great fun.
This week Jeff is having fun with his family at the Happiest Place on Earth. Word also has it that today he has set up shop at a table in New Orleans Square and is writing to his heart's content while his family plays. This is his family's third time to Disneyland this year, and they have a season pass, so getting in cost him nothing. Talk about a writer's dream!
As a result, he asked if I'd sub for him on his blog this week, so I did.
Check it out. It was posted December 12, 2006 (Tuesday).
So now that I'm done with drafting my manuscript and taking Jeff's turn on his blog, what am I up to? This week I'm doing edits on two friends' manuscripts while they do the same on mine. After I input changes next week, I'll submit it, take a break for Christmas, then get to work on several projects:
-Research and writing a Manti temple book.
-A series of middle-grade historical books I recently pitched to my publisher
-A chocolate cookbook (oh, yeah . . .)
-plus other various and sundry projects that are always floating around in my head, including preparing for the two classes I'll be teaching at the annual LDStorymaker's Writing Conference and a project for kids. I'm also tinkering with magazine articles. (I have pieces coming out soon in ByLine and LDSLiving.)
Lots of fun!
And it truly is. When I'm not writing, I miss it sorely. It keeps me level and sane, even moreso than chocolate. At this Christmas time, may you find joy in the things that keep you sane!
Each writer takes a day of the week for their posts. In addition to Jeff, there's Kerry Blair, Sariah Wilson, Robison Wells, Julie Bellon, and Stephanie Black. You can spend a frightening amount of time reading their entries as you laugh your head off one minute and learn something about writing the next. It's great fun.
This week Jeff is having fun with his family at the Happiest Place on Earth. Word also has it that today he has set up shop at a table in New Orleans Square and is writing to his heart's content while his family plays. This is his family's third time to Disneyland this year, and they have a season pass, so getting in cost him nothing. Talk about a writer's dream!
As a result, he asked if I'd sub for him on his blog this week, so I did.
Check it out. It was posted December 12, 2006 (Tuesday).
So now that I'm done with drafting my manuscript and taking Jeff's turn on his blog, what am I up to? This week I'm doing edits on two friends' manuscripts while they do the same on mine. After I input changes next week, I'll submit it, take a break for Christmas, then get to work on several projects:
-Research and writing a Manti temple book.
-A series of middle-grade historical books I recently pitched to my publisher
-A chocolate cookbook (oh, yeah . . .)
-plus other various and sundry projects that are always floating around in my head, including preparing for the two classes I'll be teaching at the annual LDStorymaker's Writing Conference and a project for kids. I'm also tinkering with magazine articles. (I have pieces coming out soon in ByLine and LDSLiving.)
Lots of fun!
And it truly is. When I'm not writing, I miss it sorely. It keeps me level and sane, even moreso than chocolate. At this Christmas time, may you find joy in the things that keep you sane!
Friday, December 08, 2006
Time of birth: 1:05 pm
YES!!! My "baby" is born!
Today I officially finished my manuscript.
I have a few things to thank for it. In part, I have a suspicion that the planets aligned just right. And a few panicked prayers were definitely heard.
For starters, yesterday I managed to get some work done thanks to two big things.
One: The migraine medicine finally kicked in after three hours (how's that for an odd time table?). So by 11:00 am I was almost pain free--feeling a bit off center and more liable to make typos, but relatively close to my normal self. At least close enough to do some writing.
Two: When my friend picked up her kids, she took pity on me and swept away my sweet little four-year-old to her house. She also took my daughter to her tumbling class, fed her lunch, and tended her until my the kids were out of school and I sent one of them down to pick her up.
Then today another dear friend tended my daughter as a favor after I had helped her with some editing on her own manuscript last week. I spent a solid four hours at the computer, breaking only for lunch, then printed the book off. (I love seeing a thick stack of pages and knowing my story is inside them!)
Bottom line: There is no way on this planet or otherwise that I could have finished the book this week without the support of friends. I am one lucky woman to have people willing to help me out. My visiting teacher even offered to help out--I swear she's the best VT I've ever, ever, ever had. I'm also glad I've finally learned to ASK for help when I need it instead of pretending I'm as strong as Xena Warrior Princess.
Some of my critique group members will be reading the book over the next week so I can go over their feedback and get the manuscript submitted by Christmas. (Again, thank heaven for good friends!)
My schedule next week will be pretty much filled with trying to bring Christmas to the house (finally!) and spending as many waking hours as I can with my toddler to make up for the time spent apart from her this week.
I have a feeling we'll be playing a lot of Dora Candyland, but I won't mind one bit, even if I get sent back to the Fiesta Trio time and again. I love being with my little girl.
And my book is WRITTEN!!!
Today I officially finished my manuscript.
I have a few things to thank for it. In part, I have a suspicion that the planets aligned just right. And a few panicked prayers were definitely heard.
For starters, yesterday I managed to get some work done thanks to two big things.
One: The migraine medicine finally kicked in after three hours (how's that for an odd time table?). So by 11:00 am I was almost pain free--feeling a bit off center and more liable to make typos, but relatively close to my normal self. At least close enough to do some writing.
Two: When my friend picked up her kids, she took pity on me and swept away my sweet little four-year-old to her house. She also took my daughter to her tumbling class, fed her lunch, and tended her until my the kids were out of school and I sent one of them down to pick her up.
Then today another dear friend tended my daughter as a favor after I had helped her with some editing on her own manuscript last week. I spent a solid four hours at the computer, breaking only for lunch, then printed the book off. (I love seeing a thick stack of pages and knowing my story is inside them!)
Bottom line: There is no way on this planet or otherwise that I could have finished the book this week without the support of friends. I am one lucky woman to have people willing to help me out. My visiting teacher even offered to help out--I swear she's the best VT I've ever, ever, ever had. I'm also glad I've finally learned to ASK for help when I need it instead of pretending I'm as strong as Xena Warrior Princess.
Some of my critique group members will be reading the book over the next week so I can go over their feedback and get the manuscript submitted by Christmas. (Again, thank heaven for good friends!)
My schedule next week will be pretty much filled with trying to bring Christmas to the house (finally!) and spending as many waking hours as I can with my toddler to make up for the time spent apart from her this week.
I have a feeling we'll be playing a lot of Dora Candyland, but I won't mind one bit, even if I get sent back to the Fiesta Trio time and again. I love being with my little girl.
And my book is WRITTEN!!!
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Migraine, anyone?
Murphy must be laughing his head off. Aside from having four smoke alarms lose their batteries in three weeks (see my "CHIRP" blog about that), I'm having trouble getting my book finished. I promised my editor to have it to her by Christmas, and I'm still working toward that goal
Backing up a bit--the Relief Society president in my ward is out of town for her father's funeral, so I needed to go to Enrichment last night (being as I have the building keys for now as her counselor). Besides, December is one of the few times of the year that I don't meet weekly with my critique group, so I figured it would be good to actually be part of the ward for once.
I've been on the final push to finish my current manuscript (my next historical temple book, this one a romantic novel centered on the Salt Lake Temple). I've gotten a ton done and figured I was right on track to finish up this book between Thursday and Friday, so I could afford to not work on it last night and enjoy the evening at the chapel instead.
The plan is to get the whole thing done on Friday and printed out so some of my writer friends can take their red pens to it over the next week. That gives me a few days after getting it back to make needed changes and submit it to my publisher by Christmas.
So far so good.
For some bizarre reason I came home from Enrichment with a sharp headache that was the kind I knew would ramp up until I'm trembling with the pain, so I took a percocet to get to sleep. It took care of the pain, but kept me up instead of making me drowsy. If that were all, no biggie. At least we didn't have a fifth smoke detector battery go out.
Then this morning, just as I'm seeing my older kids off to school, I start getting blurry vision and the little flashing threads in my vision that signify a doosy of a migraine is on the way. I haven't had a full-blown migraine in several months (and I don't remember ever getting one at 8 am). At least I had prescription medication in the bathroom, so I hurried to get it before the pain kicked in for real.
Trouble is, I had agreed to tend two neighbor kids whose mother really needed the help--for just an hour and a half, but they were coming in forty-five minutes. Barely enough time for the medicine to work and maybe get a shower. It took care of the flashing lights, but the pain has continued to ramp up.
In a few minutes I can take another dose (although I don't know if it'll do much since the last one didn't), but I'm about to lose it (literally, my breakfast) from the nausea.
So instead of working on my book, which would mean going over stacks of critiques from my writer friends and writing a new scene that needs to bridge a gap in the story, I'm sitting here at the computer with my blog trying to distract myself. I'm too miserable to be able to write anything on my book, because it would take too much mental energy.
Instead I want to curl into a ball and rip my head off so it'll stop hurting. My friend should be here to get her kids in about half an hour. Fortunately these are easy-going kids, so they aren't tough to tend at all; one of them is my toddler daughter's best bud, and they just play happily the entire time. Forty-five minutes after they leave, I'm supposed to take said daughter to her tumbling class.
So today should be interesting.
What was that about being right on track with finishing the book on Friday?
I was tempting fate by saying it yesterday. By golly, I'm going to get it done if it kills me. But at this rate, I don't dare speak a word of it aloud.
You never know if Murphy's listening.
Backing up a bit--the Relief Society president in my ward is out of town for her father's funeral, so I needed to go to Enrichment last night (being as I have the building keys for now as her counselor). Besides, December is one of the few times of the year that I don't meet weekly with my critique group, so I figured it would be good to actually be part of the ward for once.
I've been on the final push to finish my current manuscript (my next historical temple book, this one a romantic novel centered on the Salt Lake Temple). I've gotten a ton done and figured I was right on track to finish up this book between Thursday and Friday, so I could afford to not work on it last night and enjoy the evening at the chapel instead.
The plan is to get the whole thing done on Friday and printed out so some of my writer friends can take their red pens to it over the next week. That gives me a few days after getting it back to make needed changes and submit it to my publisher by Christmas.
So far so good.
For some bizarre reason I came home from Enrichment with a sharp headache that was the kind I knew would ramp up until I'm trembling with the pain, so I took a percocet to get to sleep. It took care of the pain, but kept me up instead of making me drowsy. If that were all, no biggie. At least we didn't have a fifth smoke detector battery go out.
Then this morning, just as I'm seeing my older kids off to school, I start getting blurry vision and the little flashing threads in my vision that signify a doosy of a migraine is on the way. I haven't had a full-blown migraine in several months (and I don't remember ever getting one at 8 am). At least I had prescription medication in the bathroom, so I hurried to get it before the pain kicked in for real.
Trouble is, I had agreed to tend two neighbor kids whose mother really needed the help--for just an hour and a half, but they were coming in forty-five minutes. Barely enough time for the medicine to work and maybe get a shower. It took care of the flashing lights, but the pain has continued to ramp up.
In a few minutes I can take another dose (although I don't know if it'll do much since the last one didn't), but I'm about to lose it (literally, my breakfast) from the nausea.
So instead of working on my book, which would mean going over stacks of critiques from my writer friends and writing a new scene that needs to bridge a gap in the story, I'm sitting here at the computer with my blog trying to distract myself. I'm too miserable to be able to write anything on my book, because it would take too much mental energy.
Instead I want to curl into a ball and rip my head off so it'll stop hurting. My friend should be here to get her kids in about half an hour. Fortunately these are easy-going kids, so they aren't tough to tend at all; one of them is my toddler daughter's best bud, and they just play happily the entire time. Forty-five minutes after they leave, I'm supposed to take said daughter to her tumbling class.
So today should be interesting.
What was that about being right on track with finishing the book on Friday?
I was tempting fate by saying it yesterday. By golly, I'm going to get it done if it kills me. But at this rate, I don't dare speak a word of it aloud.
You never know if Murphy's listening.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
CHIRP!
This is the time of year that I tend to do what I refer to as the headless chicken dance. For the third year running, my sisters and I are producing the Utah Chocolate Show.
Fun? You bet. Tasty? Oh, yeah.
Stressful? Save me now!
To add to the fun, for the first time ever, I had a fall release with my fourth novel, At the Journey’s End. I was thrilled when I got the news that it would come out in September, right in time for holiday shoppers.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d have to do book promotion and show production simultaneously, but I figured if I planned carefully, I’d manage just fine.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I also justified that the other big thing going on each fall wouldn’t faze me: finishing a manuscript.
Three major events going on all at once. Not the smartest thing to allow to happen to a person, and this isn’t counting the wife and mother hats I also wear. Or soccer season. Or the million other things that intrude on my life. Like trying to keep the family in clean underwear.
So the other night I dropped into bed after a long day that included book promotion, show production, and three kids’ homework, piano practice, and piano lessons (Superwoman couldn’t fit in writing on top of that, although I tried).
Somewhere around 3:00 am, my toddler began crying out with a nightmare. I groggily went to comfort her. No problem there; I’m happy to do this kind of thing for my children especially now that they usually sleep through the night and I’m not the walking zombie I was a few years back when they were babies.
When I got back to bed, I pulled up the covers and closed my eyes.
And then . . . CHIRP!
A smoke alarm somewhere in the house had just informed me that its battery was low. I groaned and hoped it was a fluke or that I had imagined it. Nope. It chirped again a moment later, so I threw off the covers and went to the center of the house in hopes of figuring out which of the alarms was the offending one.
I stood there for ten minutes. The smoke alarm surely laughed (silently) at my efforts as I stood there, trying not to fall against the wall from fatigue and eventually stumbling back to bed. The moment I pulled the covers up (you guessed it), CHIRP! And then about ten seconds later, another CHIRP.
This time I marched to the same spot as before, demanding the stupid alarm to show itself. It did: twelve and a half feet above the floor in on the vaulted ceiling of the great room. No other alarm in the entire house could have caused me to want to hurl large, heavy objects.
I tried to imagine dragging a ladder into the house in the middle of the night alone. No could do. I also didn’t want to wake up my husband, who had to work late and was running on fumes. I did the math anyway and realized that our tallest ladder wouldn’t come close to reaching the vault even if my six foot husband were standing on top of it.
Just dandy.
I shuffled back to bed, closing the door to muffle the infernal chirping. It didn’t work. I pulled blankets over my head. I braced my ears with my arms. I turned to the side so my ear with slightly worse hearing was up. Nothing worked. The chirping wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t sleep.
At least, not until I was supposed to wake up. That’s the point when the chirping stopped altogether, about 7:00 in the morning. I had finally dozed off around 6:30 from sheer exhaustion and had to drag myself out of bed to get the kids to school on time. The smoke alarm didn’t chirp once the rest of the day.
But I bet you can guess what happened that night at 2:00 am.
After another night of insistent chirps irritating enough to drive one to criminal acts, I went about my day in a sleep-deprived, knee-jerk irritable haze. I’m one of those unfortunate souls who needs about nine hours of sleep to get by without pulling out anyone’s hair. Two nights of almost no sleep—in the middle of book promotion, Chocolate Show season, and manuscript preparations—had me practically twitching and ready to smack anyone who crossed my path.
Fortunately, my husband found a neighbor with a taller ladder and after work promptly replaced the battery so I wouldn’t go through a third night—and end up finding a pistol around 4 am to shoot the stupid alarm with.
I feel much better now that I’ve had a couple of nights’ sleep without CHIRP, CHIRP every ten seconds, but when I lie down, I give the smoke alarm on the ceiling the evil eye, as if to say, "Don’t—you—DARE!"
Fun? You bet. Tasty? Oh, yeah.
Stressful? Save me now!
To add to the fun, for the first time ever, I had a fall release with my fourth novel, At the Journey’s End. I was thrilled when I got the news that it would come out in September, right in time for holiday shoppers.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d have to do book promotion and show production simultaneously, but I figured if I planned carefully, I’d manage just fine.
Somewhere in the back of my mind I also justified that the other big thing going on each fall wouldn’t faze me: finishing a manuscript.
Three major events going on all at once. Not the smartest thing to allow to happen to a person, and this isn’t counting the wife and mother hats I also wear. Or soccer season. Or the million other things that intrude on my life. Like trying to keep the family in clean underwear.
So the other night I dropped into bed after a long day that included book promotion, show production, and three kids’ homework, piano practice, and piano lessons (Superwoman couldn’t fit in writing on top of that, although I tried).
Somewhere around 3:00 am, my toddler began crying out with a nightmare. I groggily went to comfort her. No problem there; I’m happy to do this kind of thing for my children especially now that they usually sleep through the night and I’m not the walking zombie I was a few years back when they were babies.
When I got back to bed, I pulled up the covers and closed my eyes.
And then . . . CHIRP!
A smoke alarm somewhere in the house had just informed me that its battery was low. I groaned and hoped it was a fluke or that I had imagined it. Nope. It chirped again a moment later, so I threw off the covers and went to the center of the house in hopes of figuring out which of the alarms was the offending one.
I stood there for ten minutes. The smoke alarm surely laughed (silently) at my efforts as I stood there, trying not to fall against the wall from fatigue and eventually stumbling back to bed. The moment I pulled the covers up (you guessed it), CHIRP! And then about ten seconds later, another CHIRP.
This time I marched to the same spot as before, demanding the stupid alarm to show itself. It did: twelve and a half feet above the floor in on the vaulted ceiling of the great room. No other alarm in the entire house could have caused me to want to hurl large, heavy objects.
I tried to imagine dragging a ladder into the house in the middle of the night alone. No could do. I also didn’t want to wake up my husband, who had to work late and was running on fumes. I did the math anyway and realized that our tallest ladder wouldn’t come close to reaching the vault even if my six foot husband were standing on top of it.
Just dandy.
I shuffled back to bed, closing the door to muffle the infernal chirping. It didn’t work. I pulled blankets over my head. I braced my ears with my arms. I turned to the side so my ear with slightly worse hearing was up. Nothing worked. The chirping wouldn’t stop, and I couldn’t sleep.
At least, not until I was supposed to wake up. That’s the point when the chirping stopped altogether, about 7:00 in the morning. I had finally dozed off around 6:30 from sheer exhaustion and had to drag myself out of bed to get the kids to school on time. The smoke alarm didn’t chirp once the rest of the day.
But I bet you can guess what happened that night at 2:00 am.
After another night of insistent chirps irritating enough to drive one to criminal acts, I went about my day in a sleep-deprived, knee-jerk irritable haze. I’m one of those unfortunate souls who needs about nine hours of sleep to get by without pulling out anyone’s hair. Two nights of almost no sleep—in the middle of book promotion, Chocolate Show season, and manuscript preparations—had me practically twitching and ready to smack anyone who crossed my path.
Fortunately, my husband found a neighbor with a taller ladder and after work promptly replaced the battery so I wouldn’t go through a third night—and end up finding a pistol around 4 am to shoot the stupid alarm with.
I feel much better now that I’ve had a couple of nights’ sleep without CHIRP, CHIRP every ten seconds, but when I lie down, I give the smoke alarm on the ceiling the evil eye, as if to say, "Don’t—you—DARE!"
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Confessions of a Non-historian
Since the publication of two historical novels, I frequently get variations of the same question:
How can you do so much research so fast?
The simple answer: I don't.
Frankly, if I were a dyed-in-the-wool historian, I wouldn't have a prayer of writing novels; there wouldn't be any time. So I don't pretend to be a true historian. I am, first and foremost, a novelist. I try very hard to make things as accurate as I can, and I would hate to find out I did something wrong (I haven't gotten wind of any errors yet, but that type of news is a historical novelist's lingering fear).
Since grade school I've read books set in or written during the 1800s, so writing about it myself isn't too strange. While I'm not an expert on the period, I do have a decent grasp on how people talked, what they did on a daily basis, and what the customs were. Some of the best compliments I've gotten on my books is that the voice feels real to the time period.
It was interesting to me to find that writing about the past actually comes easier to me than writing contemporary books like my first two. Go figure.
Since I'm NOT a historian, my credentials as one are rather spotty. Let's see . . . AP US History in high school was one of my favorite classes. Getting a 5 on the test wasn't hard for someone who loves this stuff. History was my college minor--that is, until I needed to graduate early and didn't finish the minor. It helps that my favorite books and authors are from the 19th century and that I focused on that era during my studies as an English major. My senior course was on Charles Dickens. (Do I get brownie points for the fact that I graduated cum laude?)
A dear late friend (who I credit with the existence of At the Journey's End), Linda Whiting, was a real historian. She wrote a biography on David Patten, the first martyr for the LDS Church. What began as a labor of love that she assumed would take a couple of years turned into a decade-long journey.
And that was researching the life of one man.
If I want to write novels--and have any reader remember me between books--I can't spend that kind of time on research and publish one book every decade. More simply, I can't be a "true" historian.
But I don't think I need to be. What I do is tell stories. I believe that the history in my books is the backdrop to the human drama that takes center stage. The history is not the point--although it certainly can and does affect the story in profound ways--but instead, the facts and details are the hanger on which the story is draped. So I don't need to know every tiny detail of what happened to whom, when, and how.
What consistutes my research? I do some primary research, but not much. For example, I spent time in the BYU library Special Collections for At the Journey's End, even handling an actual copy of the Book of Mormon edition that Abe gets in the story. I made ridiculously elaborate notes on the size, color, and formatting, and even noted where on the page certain scriptures showed up that I might want to use in the story.
But I also spend significant time digging up what others--those "real" historians--have already found. Those things are often in the form of article collections, a thesis, or books on specific topics. I collect any books I can find about Utah history (Currently I'm borrowing a great book from my in-laws that covers Utah history from the Deseret News since its inception. That thing is a gold mine that will be hard to part with.)
I've been fortunate thus far to find plenty of good stuff that someone else has painstakingly found in some dusty archive and then taken more effort to compile. Librarians are ready and willing to help; they do the hard work and send me the results. Likewise, I've emailed web masters at sites that cover a topic I need more information on--and I've been impressed with how willing people are to help a perfect stranger get the details right. For example, I exchanged numerous emails with a man at the Arizona Railway Museum and another with the Appalachian Blacksmiths Association. Both were gracious and helpful.
One tool I cannot live without is my trusty OED on CD. For those who aren't language geeks, that's the Oxford English Dictionary, the most comprehsive dictionary about the English language. The published version is some outragous length (twenty-something volumes and counting). It includes etymologies, quotations found in print using the words, and--most importantly for the historical novelist--the earliest known usage of each word. With the OED I can make sure that in 1884 people really used the word, "cookie." (They did.)
One other interesting aspect is how many realistic details I've gleaned from non-historical sources. Things about medicine, poisons, fire, herbs, plantlife, climate, and many more work their way into the storyline as well, and I find that information in totally different places.
So I'm not a historian and don't pretend to be. I'm a history fan, but I don't think I'd even go so far as to say a history buff. I enjoy learning about the past and weaving bits of it into stories. I do my best to make sure it's accurate, but when I'm done with the research for one book, I set it aside and begin digging for information on the next.
That means that as soon as I finish my manuscript set in the middle of the Salt Lake Temple construction (which opens in 1867), I'll turn my efforts toward finding information about the Manti Temple.
After that, we'll have to wait and see what piece of history draws me to it next!
How can you do so much research so fast?
The simple answer: I don't.
Frankly, if I were a dyed-in-the-wool historian, I wouldn't have a prayer of writing novels; there wouldn't be any time. So I don't pretend to be a true historian. I am, first and foremost, a novelist. I try very hard to make things as accurate as I can, and I would hate to find out I did something wrong (I haven't gotten wind of any errors yet, but that type of news is a historical novelist's lingering fear).
Since grade school I've read books set in or written during the 1800s, so writing about it myself isn't too strange. While I'm not an expert on the period, I do have a decent grasp on how people talked, what they did on a daily basis, and what the customs were. Some of the best compliments I've gotten on my books is that the voice feels real to the time period.
It was interesting to me to find that writing about the past actually comes easier to me than writing contemporary books like my first two. Go figure.
Since I'm NOT a historian, my credentials as one are rather spotty. Let's see . . . AP US History in high school was one of my favorite classes. Getting a 5 on the test wasn't hard for someone who loves this stuff. History was my college minor--that is, until I needed to graduate early and didn't finish the minor. It helps that my favorite books and authors are from the 19th century and that I focused on that era during my studies as an English major. My senior course was on Charles Dickens. (Do I get brownie points for the fact that I graduated cum laude?)
A dear late friend (who I credit with the existence of At the Journey's End), Linda Whiting, was a real historian. She wrote a biography on David Patten, the first martyr for the LDS Church. What began as a labor of love that she assumed would take a couple of years turned into a decade-long journey.
And that was researching the life of one man.
If I want to write novels--and have any reader remember me between books--I can't spend that kind of time on research and publish one book every decade. More simply, I can't be a "true" historian.
But I don't think I need to be. What I do is tell stories. I believe that the history in my books is the backdrop to the human drama that takes center stage. The history is not the point--although it certainly can and does affect the story in profound ways--but instead, the facts and details are the hanger on which the story is draped. So I don't need to know every tiny detail of what happened to whom, when, and how.
What consistutes my research? I do some primary research, but not much. For example, I spent time in the BYU library Special Collections for At the Journey's End, even handling an actual copy of the Book of Mormon edition that Abe gets in the story. I made ridiculously elaborate notes on the size, color, and formatting, and even noted where on the page certain scriptures showed up that I might want to use in the story.
But I also spend significant time digging up what others--those "real" historians--have already found. Those things are often in the form of article collections, a thesis, or books on specific topics. I collect any books I can find about Utah history (Currently I'm borrowing a great book from my in-laws that covers Utah history from the Deseret News since its inception. That thing is a gold mine that will be hard to part with.)
I've been fortunate thus far to find plenty of good stuff that someone else has painstakingly found in some dusty archive and then taken more effort to compile. Librarians are ready and willing to help; they do the hard work and send me the results. Likewise, I've emailed web masters at sites that cover a topic I need more information on--and I've been impressed with how willing people are to help a perfect stranger get the details right. For example, I exchanged numerous emails with a man at the Arizona Railway Museum and another with the Appalachian Blacksmiths Association. Both were gracious and helpful.
One tool I cannot live without is my trusty OED on CD. For those who aren't language geeks, that's the Oxford English Dictionary, the most comprehsive dictionary about the English language. The published version is some outragous length (twenty-something volumes and counting). It includes etymologies, quotations found in print using the words, and--most importantly for the historical novelist--the earliest known usage of each word. With the OED I can make sure that in 1884 people really used the word, "cookie." (They did.)
One other interesting aspect is how many realistic details I've gleaned from non-historical sources. Things about medicine, poisons, fire, herbs, plantlife, climate, and many more work their way into the storyline as well, and I find that information in totally different places.
So I'm not a historian and don't pretend to be. I'm a history fan, but I don't think I'd even go so far as to say a history buff. I enjoy learning about the past and weaving bits of it into stories. I do my best to make sure it's accurate, but when I'm done with the research for one book, I set it aside and begin digging for information on the next.
That means that as soon as I finish my manuscript set in the middle of the Salt Lake Temple construction (which opens in 1867), I'll turn my efforts toward finding information about the Manti Temple.
After that, we'll have to wait and see what piece of history draws me to it next!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Updates and Book Fun
First, a few updates on previous posts:
1) I’m still weird.
Today I found myself pulling out my poisons book to research snake bites. Which is worse—that I already own that book and have it underlined and highlighted, or that I’m rereading portions for a scene involving a nine-year-old girl who gets bitten by a rattlesnake?
I must be weird and sadistic.
2) The soccer season is improving.
The game following the Yellow Jackets fiasco was a world apart. We lost again, but this time everyone was able to leave the field with their dignity intact.
Even better, my daughters have been expressing how glad they are that they have friends who don’t care about things like clothes and hair, because "those things don’t matter."
My seven-year-old even rolled her eyes at the idea of only being friends with someone if they’re wearing cute clothes. "That’s just dumb, Mom. Clothes don’t make a good friend."
Maybe we should make a banner out of that and hang it at the high school.
3) Writing is also better. The horse is alive again.
I’m to the point now where I can go back to those blood-red critiques and make the changes needed. I’m working on several projects all at once, which helps. I can avoid the one giving me the biggest grief and come back to it when I can take it.
And now some fun I've been having on the book promotional end:
1. Being published is getting cooler with every book.
Last week I got to go to the LDS Booksellers Association convention for the first time. I had heard about the event, but never gotten to go before. My fourth book, At the Journey's End, being released in September, got promoted heavily at the LDSBA Convention. (Yippeee!!!)
I know a lot of other writers get this kind of treatment with book one (envy, envy), but this was my first time. I got a Covenant shirt to wear. I got to attend the Covenant lunch with booksellers at the Mayan restaurant and the presentation and mini concert at the theater next door after that. (I’m hereby converted to Joshua Creek.) After that I got to give out buttons of my book cover at the "button mania" event and bring a bunch of buttons home for future book promotion.
Okay, so not all of the buttons will end up in readers' hands. I gave four to my kids for fun. My youngest wore hers for days in a row and would tell everyone she saw that it was her mommy’s book and that, "We’re waiting for it to come out." She’s my personal marketing department—and probably more effective than I am, cause she’s so darn cute.
The next day I had a book signing at the convention itself—the first and probably only time that I will have a signing where people are literally waiting in line for me to sign their book. It was surreal but oh-so-cool! The Covenant booth was gorgeous and had huge displays of their upcoming book covers. And there was my cover—in all its glory, at least three feet tall.
Booksellers was also a fun time to see author friends and hang out together. Writing is such a solitary endeavor that I cling to any chance of rubbing shoulders with other people who know what it's like. I'm particularly lucky in the awesome group of writer friends I have.
It was also wild to actually see and handle the book. I had seen what the cover would look like, and for weeks and months read and reread, revised, and proofed the thing, but the convention was the first time I actually held the finished product. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to keep a copy; they were all for the booksellers. My author copies generally arrive a few days after the book hits store shelves. It should be shipping around September 1st, so I’ll be looking for the UPS man around the 7th.
However, with my book launch party on the 8th, my author copies might arrive while I’m gone.
2. Launch Party fun!
Speaking of which, as part of the promotion for At the Journey's End, we're throwing launch party at the location that's referred to in the title: St. George.
1) I’m still weird.
Today I found myself pulling out my poisons book to research snake bites. Which is worse—that I already own that book and have it underlined and highlighted, or that I’m rereading portions for a scene involving a nine-year-old girl who gets bitten by a rattlesnake?
I must be weird and sadistic.
2) The soccer season is improving.
The game following the Yellow Jackets fiasco was a world apart. We lost again, but this time everyone was able to leave the field with their dignity intact.
Even better, my daughters have been expressing how glad they are that they have friends who don’t care about things like clothes and hair, because "those things don’t matter."
My seven-year-old even rolled her eyes at the idea of only being friends with someone if they’re wearing cute clothes. "That’s just dumb, Mom. Clothes don’t make a good friend."
Maybe we should make a banner out of that and hang it at the high school.
3) Writing is also better. The horse is alive again.
I’m to the point now where I can go back to those blood-red critiques and make the changes needed. I’m working on several projects all at once, which helps. I can avoid the one giving me the biggest grief and come back to it when I can take it.
And now some fun I've been having on the book promotional end:
1. Being published is getting cooler with every book.
Last week I got to go to the LDS Booksellers Association convention for the first time. I had heard about the event, but never gotten to go before. My fourth book, At the Journey's End, being released in September, got promoted heavily at the LDSBA Convention. (Yippeee!!!)
I know a lot of other writers get this kind of treatment with book one (envy, envy), but this was my first time. I got a Covenant shirt to wear. I got to attend the Covenant lunch with booksellers at the Mayan restaurant and the presentation and mini concert at the theater next door after that. (I’m hereby converted to Joshua Creek.) After that I got to give out buttons of my book cover at the "button mania" event and bring a bunch of buttons home for future book promotion.
Okay, so not all of the buttons will end up in readers' hands. I gave four to my kids for fun. My youngest wore hers for days in a row and would tell everyone she saw that it was her mommy’s book and that, "We’re waiting for it to come out." She’s my personal marketing department—and probably more effective than I am, cause she’s so darn cute.
The next day I had a book signing at the convention itself—the first and probably only time that I will have a signing where people are literally waiting in line for me to sign their book. It was surreal but oh-so-cool! The Covenant booth was gorgeous and had huge displays of their upcoming book covers. And there was my cover—in all its glory, at least three feet tall.
Booksellers was also a fun time to see author friends and hang out together. Writing is such a solitary endeavor that I cling to any chance of rubbing shoulders with other people who know what it's like. I'm particularly lucky in the awesome group of writer friends I have.
It was also wild to actually see and handle the book. I had seen what the cover would look like, and for weeks and months read and reread, revised, and proofed the thing, but the convention was the first time I actually held the finished product. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to keep a copy; they were all for the booksellers. My author copies generally arrive a few days after the book hits store shelves. It should be shipping around September 1st, so I’ll be looking for the UPS man around the 7th.
However, with my book launch party on the 8th, my author copies might arrive while I’m gone.
2. Launch Party fun!
Speaking of which, as part of the promotion for At the Journey's End, we're throwing launch party at the location that's referred to in the title: St. George.
Here are the basic details:
At the Journey's End Launch Party
At the Journey's End Launch Party
St. George Seagull
Friday, September 8th
4:00 to 6:00 pm
Friday, September 8th
4:00 to 6:00 pm
There will be door prizes, a trivia challenge game with prizes, and even chocolate! And of course, I'll be there to personally sign your book.
I've got a lot of signings and other events coming up, which are all listed on my website. Tell your friends about them, then drop by and say hi!
I've got a lot of signings and other events coming up, which are all listed on my website. Tell your friends about them, then drop by and say hi!
Friday, August 18, 2006
Dead Horse Pulp
I am probably the biggest proponent of writing critique groups I know of. From personal experience, I know how valuable good feedback is. After years of writing, reading, conferences, and rejections, my first book was accepted—not even close to coincidentally—after it went through the critique process. My writing has improved by light years since I began attending this same group six and a half years ago. I have no intention of quitting; I don’t dare.
The group has morphed over the years as members have moved and we’ve gotten new people; I think it’s stronger and better than ever. Counting, me, three of the original members are still around, and we’ve gotten several others over the years, maxing out currently at eight. (Although it’s a rare week we manage to have more than five of us.) Among our number are three other LDS authors, Jeffrey S. Savage, H.B. (Heather) Moore, and James Dashner.
I am a firm believer that a writer—no matter how talented—needs outside feedback. One simply cannot see holes and mistakes and weak spots on your own. The moment I think I’m too great a writer for a critique group is the moment my work takes a nose dive.
My first few months in the group were difficult, not only because my writing wasn’t stellar, but because my skin was tin foil thin.
Six and a half years later, my skin has thickened considerably. It takes a lot to get under it now. It's a relief to have my critique buddies point out motivation, character, and plot problems—I get to fix them before the book ever hits the shelf. Sometimes I’ll go weeks at a time with great feedback. Sometimes there’s downer weeks where the chapter just didn’t work or a particular scene is going to need some major rewrites.
In 2005 I ran into months on end of bad weeks, with not a single good one to break it up. It got old after, oh, the first four months, to constantly come home knowing I had major rewrites ahead—again. Why couldn’t I just get it right for once? I felt I was losing any touch I might have had before. To make matters worse, two or three members of the group seemed to have a virtual Midas-like touch—even their rough drafts sparkled. I was the only one going home with a manuscript that looked like someone had bled all over it.
I managed to pull out of the funk, mostly by not stopping. You keep going, you keep trying, and eventually it works out. I finally brought some great chapters that just clicked. I was back on the old path of some good weeks, some bad, most in between.
And then last week happened. By the time everyone was done giving me their evaluations, it was clear that my scene sucked, my characters were unsympathetic slimes, and nothing they did made any sense whatsoever. Not happy news, considering that this was supposed to be a romantic scene.
The chapter had at least two major (and I’m talking MAJOR) problems. The group discussed and agreed on them, not only beating the dead horse, but dragging the poor horse's corpse through the streets, and then for good measure, flogging it until it was little more than horse pulp. By the end, I wanted to scream, "Yes, I get it. I really do. Now could you stop explaining AGAIN why I’m a fraud?!"
Chocolate didn’t help, which is saying a whole lot.
By the time the night was over, I felt like a total hack. Who was I kidding? I was sure I couldn’t really write. Forget the fact that my fourth book is about to be released. I would have given a lot to be able to write a rough draft that didn’t stink.
I know better. I do. I’ve been through the ups and downs of writer life plenty of times before. Some of what I've learned:
1. Revision is what makes writing good. Who cares if I’m not the best at drafting? That's like sketching; it's revision that adds the color and shadows and life to the picture. I’m great at revising, and that’s what matters in the end.
2. Authors have tender egos, regardless of how thick their skin is. It doesn’t take much to put a writer on a high of feeling successful and then send the same writer crashing into despair. We’re an illogical bunch. My skin is thick enough that my feelings weren’t hurt at the group’s comments—I knew they were on target. I was just pummeling myself for not being good enough. Which is beyond stupid, because I know I can make the changes the story needs.
3. Time helps. However, it doesn’t heal all wounds when it comes to writing, because you still have to go back and fix the problems. But time does make it easier to not feel so emotional over those glaring blemishes. When the despair settles, you can go back and make those fixes objectively.
4. Again, after the emotions cool, chocolate is a good motivator to slog through the revisions. It's amazing what I can do with a truffle waiting for me other the other end.
And most importantly:
5. When all is said and done, writing rocks. Getting published is one of the coolest things ever. It’s a childhood dream come true for me. And I absolutely love it.
But it would be nice to be able write rough drafts like a certain person.
You know who you are, MH . . .
The group has morphed over the years as members have moved and we’ve gotten new people; I think it’s stronger and better than ever. Counting, me, three of the original members are still around, and we’ve gotten several others over the years, maxing out currently at eight. (Although it’s a rare week we manage to have more than five of us.) Among our number are three other LDS authors, Jeffrey S. Savage, H.B. (Heather) Moore, and James Dashner.
I am a firm believer that a writer—no matter how talented—needs outside feedback. One simply cannot see holes and mistakes and weak spots on your own. The moment I think I’m too great a writer for a critique group is the moment my work takes a nose dive.
My first few months in the group were difficult, not only because my writing wasn’t stellar, but because my skin was tin foil thin.
Six and a half years later, my skin has thickened considerably. It takes a lot to get under it now. It's a relief to have my critique buddies point out motivation, character, and plot problems—I get to fix them before the book ever hits the shelf. Sometimes I’ll go weeks at a time with great feedback. Sometimes there’s downer weeks where the chapter just didn’t work or a particular scene is going to need some major rewrites.
In 2005 I ran into months on end of bad weeks, with not a single good one to break it up. It got old after, oh, the first four months, to constantly come home knowing I had major rewrites ahead—again. Why couldn’t I just get it right for once? I felt I was losing any touch I might have had before. To make matters worse, two or three members of the group seemed to have a virtual Midas-like touch—even their rough drafts sparkled. I was the only one going home with a manuscript that looked like someone had bled all over it.
I managed to pull out of the funk, mostly by not stopping. You keep going, you keep trying, and eventually it works out. I finally brought some great chapters that just clicked. I was back on the old path of some good weeks, some bad, most in between.
And then last week happened. By the time everyone was done giving me their evaluations, it was clear that my scene sucked, my characters were unsympathetic slimes, and nothing they did made any sense whatsoever. Not happy news, considering that this was supposed to be a romantic scene.
The chapter had at least two major (and I’m talking MAJOR) problems. The group discussed and agreed on them, not only beating the dead horse, but dragging the poor horse's corpse through the streets, and then for good measure, flogging it until it was little more than horse pulp. By the end, I wanted to scream, "Yes, I get it. I really do. Now could you stop explaining AGAIN why I’m a fraud?!"
Chocolate didn’t help, which is saying a whole lot.
By the time the night was over, I felt like a total hack. Who was I kidding? I was sure I couldn’t really write. Forget the fact that my fourth book is about to be released. I would have given a lot to be able to write a rough draft that didn’t stink.
I know better. I do. I’ve been through the ups and downs of writer life plenty of times before. Some of what I've learned:
1. Revision is what makes writing good. Who cares if I’m not the best at drafting? That's like sketching; it's revision that adds the color and shadows and life to the picture. I’m great at revising, and that’s what matters in the end.
2. Authors have tender egos, regardless of how thick their skin is. It doesn’t take much to put a writer on a high of feeling successful and then send the same writer crashing into despair. We’re an illogical bunch. My skin is thick enough that my feelings weren’t hurt at the group’s comments—I knew they were on target. I was just pummeling myself for not being good enough. Which is beyond stupid, because I know I can make the changes the story needs.
3. Time helps. However, it doesn’t heal all wounds when it comes to writing, because you still have to go back and fix the problems. But time does make it easier to not feel so emotional over those glaring blemishes. When the despair settles, you can go back and make those fixes objectively.
4. Again, after the emotions cool, chocolate is a good motivator to slog through the revisions. It's amazing what I can do with a truffle waiting for me other the other end.
And most importantly:
5. When all is said and done, writing rocks. Getting published is one of the coolest things ever. It’s a childhood dream come true for me. And I absolutely love it.
But it would be nice to be able write rough drafts like a certain person.
You know who you are, MH . . .
Saturday, August 12, 2006
Life's Yellow Jackets
My family isn’t particularly new to community sports. We’ve been involved ever since my oldest was in kindergarten soccer. This is our seventh season of soccer (fifteen soccer teams between the kids). We also dabbled in T-ball and coach pitch until we realized we hated it (making another six or so teams).
Sure, I had heard the horror stories of unsportsmanlike behavior. Maybe we lived a charmed existence, because aside from an occasional obnoxious father thinking his kid is the next Olympian, we’ve never had a problem. Rob and I have even dabbled at coaching. Our kids love playing team sports, and it’s been a great experience.
Until now.
This week my second oldest, age nine, had her first soccer game of the season with a brand new team. They played their little hearts out—my girl running and kicking and doing her absolute best until her face was beat red and she was ready to collapse.
Sadly, the other team slaughtered them 10 to 0.
But that wasn’t the problem. All our kids have been beaten before. Slaughtered before. While it’s not nearly as fun to lose as to win, all of our kids have lost games and still come off the field smiling because they knew they did their best and they had fun.
Again, until now.
The team we played on Wednesday could have gotten a medal for unsportsmanlike conduct. It would have been bad enough with the girls’ comments—Only losers wear black shirts. We knew we’d win and make you guys feel like dirt. You guys can’t play at all. You suck. We’re the best. But it was nearly the entire team—who had dubbed themselves the Yellow Jackets (fitting, since they were stinging and annoying).
It was also the parents.
And even the coach.
I couldn’t figure out why the yellow team’s crowd was cheering louder with each goal toward the end of the game. The poor black-shirted girls were wiped and feeling down, and yet the crowd insisted on rubbing it in that they were winning—and by what margin. You would think that parents would be sympathetic. That they’d clap and cheer, but not gloat.
Yeah. You’d think.
“Number nine! Way to go, McKenna!” screamed a dad with bleached hair next to his bleached hair wife as his daughter scored the ninth goal of the game. I wondered if he’d actually dare soil his designer clothes afterward by hugging his sweaty daughter.
When the coach began gloating and encouraging the girls—agreeing that yes, they’re terrific players and the black team isn't good and must feel bad, tee hee—I wanted to scratch her eyes out. If anyone on the field had the responsibility to be an example, it was the coach. Yet she had the biggest grin on her face of anyone.
Any time she gathered the girls around her, she’d concoct new strategies for tromping our team—as if they needed any more help in the smear fest.
The “Black Grizzly” crowd left the field with their heads hung low, the players with tears in their eyes.
It was a tough night all around. I left the game with my arm around my daughter, making sure she knew I was proud of her and how I knew that if she won by so much, she’d never act like that. She tearfully nodded in agreement. “It’s mean.”
Yes. It’s mean.
So simple, and yet why is it such a hard concept for us to grasp? Women and girls especially seem to have a catty nature among them—we’re always in competition with each other.
In high school it’s who got the boys’ attention and/or was asked out to the dances, who dressed the best, who had the best hair, the best clothes, who gets to go to the parties, who has the right friends, who is the most popular, who's the skinniest and prettiest.
Not much has changed for adult women. It’s still who is prettiest and has the best clothes. It’s still who is skinniest.
Sadly, it’s never who’s smartest or kindest or who is the best friend.
That’s one reason I’ve wanted my girls on a sports team—it’s one of the few places in our society where they learn to work as a group, not to be competitive as individuals, but as a unit.
I had no idea that even in that setting girls could get so catty and mean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Yellow Jackets would have told our team that yellow looks better with their complexions than black does.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that the bleach-haired dad was feeding the female competitive drive. He had three daughters, and he flirted with them as if they were high schoolers. The youngest was maybe four, and she’s learning from her father that to be accepted by men and boys she has to look and act like a twit.
The entire family wore name brand, trendy clothes, much of which looked too old for the young girls. The girl who looked maybe six or seven wore long, dangling pierced earrings that belonged on someone much older. All his daughters acted like teeneage air heads, getting praise for doing so. I wanted to wretch.
I wish I knew where to go from here. I don’t have any answers. I do know that this has been an issue for decades and seems to be getting worse. A college friend of mine who was brilliant—genius at calculus, art, and other subjects, full scholarship, Sterling Scholar, and on and on—acted like a dumb blond around both boys and girls so they’d like her more.
As disturbing as that is, it worked almost 100% of the time.
That probably explains why I’m not surrounded by adoring people; I don’t put on a stupid act. When I first met my husband, I made sure he knew I had a scholarship, just to see his reaction. He didn’t have much of one, beyond, “Cool.”
Big point for Rob.
All I can hope for is that my girls will continue to work hard and learn to be able to brush off what others say. That they won’t get their value from comparing themselves to others. That they won’t hide their intelligence in hopes of making people like them.
That they’ll know that aside from being beautiful—because they are—they’re also kind, generous, sympathetic, loyal, smart, and talented. And that those things matter far more than appearances.
No matter what the Yellow Jackets of life may say to the contrary.
Sure, I had heard the horror stories of unsportsmanlike behavior. Maybe we lived a charmed existence, because aside from an occasional obnoxious father thinking his kid is the next Olympian, we’ve never had a problem. Rob and I have even dabbled at coaching. Our kids love playing team sports, and it’s been a great experience.
Until now.
This week my second oldest, age nine, had her first soccer game of the season with a brand new team. They played their little hearts out—my girl running and kicking and doing her absolute best until her face was beat red and she was ready to collapse.
Sadly, the other team slaughtered them 10 to 0.
But that wasn’t the problem. All our kids have been beaten before. Slaughtered before. While it’s not nearly as fun to lose as to win, all of our kids have lost games and still come off the field smiling because they knew they did their best and they had fun.
Again, until now.
The team we played on Wednesday could have gotten a medal for unsportsmanlike conduct. It would have been bad enough with the girls’ comments—Only losers wear black shirts. We knew we’d win and make you guys feel like dirt. You guys can’t play at all. You suck. We’re the best. But it was nearly the entire team—who had dubbed themselves the Yellow Jackets (fitting, since they were stinging and annoying).
It was also the parents.
And even the coach.
I couldn’t figure out why the yellow team’s crowd was cheering louder with each goal toward the end of the game. The poor black-shirted girls were wiped and feeling down, and yet the crowd insisted on rubbing it in that they were winning—and by what margin. You would think that parents would be sympathetic. That they’d clap and cheer, but not gloat.
Yeah. You’d think.
“Number nine! Way to go, McKenna!” screamed a dad with bleached hair next to his bleached hair wife as his daughter scored the ninth goal of the game. I wondered if he’d actually dare soil his designer clothes afterward by hugging his sweaty daughter.
When the coach began gloating and encouraging the girls—agreeing that yes, they’re terrific players and the black team isn't good and must feel bad, tee hee—I wanted to scratch her eyes out. If anyone on the field had the responsibility to be an example, it was the coach. Yet she had the biggest grin on her face of anyone.
Any time she gathered the girls around her, she’d concoct new strategies for tromping our team—as if they needed any more help in the smear fest.
The “Black Grizzly” crowd left the field with their heads hung low, the players with tears in their eyes.
It was a tough night all around. I left the game with my arm around my daughter, making sure she knew I was proud of her and how I knew that if she won by so much, she’d never act like that. She tearfully nodded in agreement. “It’s mean.”
Yes. It’s mean.
So simple, and yet why is it such a hard concept for us to grasp? Women and girls especially seem to have a catty nature among them—we’re always in competition with each other.
In high school it’s who got the boys’ attention and/or was asked out to the dances, who dressed the best, who had the best hair, the best clothes, who gets to go to the parties, who has the right friends, who is the most popular, who's the skinniest and prettiest.
Not much has changed for adult women. It’s still who is prettiest and has the best clothes. It’s still who is skinniest.
Sadly, it’s never who’s smartest or kindest or who is the best friend.
That’s one reason I’ve wanted my girls on a sports team—it’s one of the few places in our society where they learn to work as a group, not to be competitive as individuals, but as a unit.
I had no idea that even in that setting girls could get so catty and mean. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the Yellow Jackets would have told our team that yellow looks better with their complexions than black does.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that the bleach-haired dad was feeding the female competitive drive. He had three daughters, and he flirted with them as if they were high schoolers. The youngest was maybe four, and she’s learning from her father that to be accepted by men and boys she has to look and act like a twit.
The entire family wore name brand, trendy clothes, much of which looked too old for the young girls. The girl who looked maybe six or seven wore long, dangling pierced earrings that belonged on someone much older. All his daughters acted like teeneage air heads, getting praise for doing so. I wanted to wretch.
I wish I knew where to go from here. I don’t have any answers. I do know that this has been an issue for decades and seems to be getting worse. A college friend of mine who was brilliant—genius at calculus, art, and other subjects, full scholarship, Sterling Scholar, and on and on—acted like a dumb blond around both boys and girls so they’d like her more.
As disturbing as that is, it worked almost 100% of the time.
That probably explains why I’m not surrounded by adoring people; I don’t put on a stupid act. When I first met my husband, I made sure he knew I had a scholarship, just to see his reaction. He didn’t have much of one, beyond, “Cool.”
Big point for Rob.
All I can hope for is that my girls will continue to work hard and learn to be able to brush off what others say. That they won’t get their value from comparing themselves to others. That they won’t hide their intelligence in hopes of making people like them.
That they’ll know that aside from being beautiful—because they are—they’re also kind, generous, sympathetic, loyal, smart, and talented. And that those things matter far more than appearances.
No matter what the Yellow Jackets of life may say to the contrary.
Friday, August 04, 2006
Me and My "Twin"
Since it’s been happening for twenty-eight years, you’d think I’d be used to it now, or at least I’d be able to figure out the why it’s happening. But no.
When I was four it made some sense for people to mistake Sheryl and me for sisters, twins, or each other. It doesn’t take much for two chubby-cheeked, strawberry blond little girls with pig tails to look alike. Have them play together a lot, and they’ll naturally end up acting and talking like one another.
But when our baby fat melted away and my hair lost any trace of strawberry (Sheryl kept hers) and mine was a plain old dishwater blond, people still thought we looked alike. Maybe it was the pigtails. We still wore those.
The worst case of the identity mixup was around second grade when I took dance lessons. The studio picked you up for class in a van and dropped you off afterward. I had gone to my first dance class the day before, and now my sister had hers. The van pulled up just as Sheryl crossed my lawn to come play. The driver assumed the girl had to be my sister since she looked like me.
When he tried dragging her to the van, saying, "Come on. You don’t want to be late for class," poor Sheryl thought she was being abducted.
The look-alike thing continued all through high school. When people saw our prom picture, they’d say, "How neat! Twins taking twins to prom!" Not quite. Twins taking a pair of childhood buddies to prom.
On Sheryl’s birthday our senior year, I passed out dozens of suckers to the student body with instructions to give them to Sheryl and wish her a happy birthday. If they didn’t know who she was, I’d say, "She looks like me," and immediately I’d get, "Oh, yeah. I know who she is."
By the time we went to college, we were adults with our own hairstyles, fashion tastes, different heights, and different majors. But I’d still get high school alumni yelling across the BYU quad, "Hey, Sheryl! How ya doin?" I’d wave back and make a mental note to tell Sheryl that so-and-so says hi.
Sheryl and I have since married and had kids. We live far apart and see one another maybe once a year. Not long ago I arrived at the school with my kids to see a lady who had grown up a street away from me. Our sisters and mothers were both great friends. Immediately her face lit up and she said, "You’re a Stringham!"
I laughed and said, "Close. Two doors down."
We keep finding new variations of the old theme, like my sister, who has always insisted she could never see the Sheryl/Annette resemblance. Recently at church, she reached down for something and saw a woman across the room—upside down from her vantage point. "Wow," she thought, "That girl looks like Annette." When she righted herself, she realized it was—you guessed it—Sheryl, who was visiting for the day.
Or the time Sheryl’s son saw my picture in the back of one of my books and declared, "Mom, she looks like you."
But the most unusual variation came last April when my friend Jeff Savage came to speak to my ward book club after we read his House of Secrets. His wife, Jennifer, came along. I’ve known Jen for years, and never once have we ever gotten asked what we were that night:
"Are you two sisters?"
We looked at one another and with a laugh, shook our heads. I took another look at Jen and thought, "Wow. I never noticed that Jen looks a lot like Sheryl."
Which means . . . Oh.
Sheryl and I used to joke that some day we’d end up in the same nursing home as old ladies and be able to fool the nurses.
Ha. Like we’d still look alike in another fifty years. What are the chances of that?
With twenty-eight years down so far, the chances are looking better all the time. We might as well start planning how to really have fun switching places and confusing the nursing home staff.
Just so long as they don’t mix up our medications or give me her enema.
When I was four it made some sense for people to mistake Sheryl and me for sisters, twins, or each other. It doesn’t take much for two chubby-cheeked, strawberry blond little girls with pig tails to look alike. Have them play together a lot, and they’ll naturally end up acting and talking like one another.
But when our baby fat melted away and my hair lost any trace of strawberry (Sheryl kept hers) and mine was a plain old dishwater blond, people still thought we looked alike. Maybe it was the pigtails. We still wore those.
The worst case of the identity mixup was around second grade when I took dance lessons. The studio picked you up for class in a van and dropped you off afterward. I had gone to my first dance class the day before, and now my sister had hers. The van pulled up just as Sheryl crossed my lawn to come play. The driver assumed the girl had to be my sister since she looked like me.
When he tried dragging her to the van, saying, "Come on. You don’t want to be late for class," poor Sheryl thought she was being abducted.
The look-alike thing continued all through high school. When people saw our prom picture, they’d say, "How neat! Twins taking twins to prom!" Not quite. Twins taking a pair of childhood buddies to prom.
On Sheryl’s birthday our senior year, I passed out dozens of suckers to the student body with instructions to give them to Sheryl and wish her a happy birthday. If they didn’t know who she was, I’d say, "She looks like me," and immediately I’d get, "Oh, yeah. I know who she is."
By the time we went to college, we were adults with our own hairstyles, fashion tastes, different heights, and different majors. But I’d still get high school alumni yelling across the BYU quad, "Hey, Sheryl! How ya doin?" I’d wave back and make a mental note to tell Sheryl that so-and-so says hi.
Sheryl and I have since married and had kids. We live far apart and see one another maybe once a year. Not long ago I arrived at the school with my kids to see a lady who had grown up a street away from me. Our sisters and mothers were both great friends. Immediately her face lit up and she said, "You’re a Stringham!"
I laughed and said, "Close. Two doors down."
We keep finding new variations of the old theme, like my sister, who has always insisted she could never see the Sheryl/Annette resemblance. Recently at church, she reached down for something and saw a woman across the room—upside down from her vantage point. "Wow," she thought, "That girl looks like Annette." When she righted herself, she realized it was—you guessed it—Sheryl, who was visiting for the day.
Or the time Sheryl’s son saw my picture in the back of one of my books and declared, "Mom, she looks like you."
But the most unusual variation came last April when my friend Jeff Savage came to speak to my ward book club after we read his House of Secrets. His wife, Jennifer, came along. I’ve known Jen for years, and never once have we ever gotten asked what we were that night:
"Are you two sisters?"
We looked at one another and with a laugh, shook our heads. I took another look at Jen and thought, "Wow. I never noticed that Jen looks a lot like Sheryl."
Which means . . . Oh.
Sheryl and I used to joke that some day we’d end up in the same nursing home as old ladies and be able to fool the nurses.
Ha. Like we’d still look alike in another fifty years. What are the chances of that?
With twenty-eight years down so far, the chances are looking better all the time. We might as well start planning how to really have fun switching places and confusing the nursing home staff.
Just so long as they don’t mix up our medications or give me her enema.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Of Bread Dough and Racing Stripes
Recently my three-year-old was watching me getting dressed. She’s at just the right height (or wrong height, as the case may be). She tilted her head and quite soberly declared, "Mommy, your tummy is SO big."
Gee, thanks for pointing that out. On Sundays I can mask it with control-top hoes and one of those things they now call a "body shaper" but is really just an elastic girdle that makes it hard to breathe.
Now all I needed was commentary on saggy skin and stretch marks.
I smiled and tried to explain that Mommy’s tummy got a bit stretched out because four babies had grown inside there. "Before you were born, you were in Mommy’s tummy, too."
Nice way of shifting the blame, I know.
It wasn’t until she answered that I realized that unlike my older three children, she had never seen me pregnant and didn’t understand the concept.
She narrowed her eyes, snorted the way only a toddler can, and with a shake of her head and a giggle said, "Nooooo . . ." Apparently Mommy was being silly.
Not quite. Like most mothers who have given birth, I have what can be affectionately referred to as "bread dough tummy." If you have it, you know what I’m talking about—that stretched-out skin with the consistency of bread dough that will never be tight again and instead just hangs there. It's one of those after effects of pregnancy that never go away, like stretch marks.
Eight months into my first pregnancy I was rather pleased that I had managed to escape the dreaded stretch mark phenomenon. I slathered on a cream every day. It was supposed to help repair skin, and three weeks before delivery, I was still stretch-mark free.
Then I ran out of the cream and couldn’t justify buying another $50 tub for the last part of the last month. After all, it probably hadn’t done much anyway, and really, how much bigger was I going to get in the last stretch of pregnancy? Whether the cream worked or not, I’ll never know.
What I do know is twofold:
1) babies do grow a lot in their last few weeks and
2) somewhere in the last days of that pregnancy, stretch marks blossomed on my thighs and crawled up my belly.
Watching the red lines travel felt like being trapped inside a science fiction movie with an organism that couldn’t be stopped.
Over the years my stretch marks have faded from scorching red to a pinkish silver, and I make a point of not even looking at them. Avoiding swimsuits tends to help. But a few weeks ago my husband and I were visiting my parents in Israel. Like good tourists, we took a dip in the Dead Sea. As I floated in the bath-warm water, I looked at my legs, hovering barely under the surface.
Did you know that water is a perfect magnifying glass?
The wobbly silver lines I hadn’t looked at in months suddenly looked as wide as racing stripes.
And this time I didn’t have any of my children around to blame it on. "See? You did that to me."
Which is just as well, because the reality is, my children were worth getting every squiggly line and every ounce of hanging bread dough.
Gee, thanks for pointing that out. On Sundays I can mask it with control-top hoes and one of those things they now call a "body shaper" but is really just an elastic girdle that makes it hard to breathe.
Now all I needed was commentary on saggy skin and stretch marks.
I smiled and tried to explain that Mommy’s tummy got a bit stretched out because four babies had grown inside there. "Before you were born, you were in Mommy’s tummy, too."
Nice way of shifting the blame, I know.
It wasn’t until she answered that I realized that unlike my older three children, she had never seen me pregnant and didn’t understand the concept.
She narrowed her eyes, snorted the way only a toddler can, and with a shake of her head and a giggle said, "Nooooo . . ." Apparently Mommy was being silly.
Not quite. Like most mothers who have given birth, I have what can be affectionately referred to as "bread dough tummy." If you have it, you know what I’m talking about—that stretched-out skin with the consistency of bread dough that will never be tight again and instead just hangs there. It's one of those after effects of pregnancy that never go away, like stretch marks.
Eight months into my first pregnancy I was rather pleased that I had managed to escape the dreaded stretch mark phenomenon. I slathered on a cream every day. It was supposed to help repair skin, and three weeks before delivery, I was still stretch-mark free.
Then I ran out of the cream and couldn’t justify buying another $50 tub for the last part of the last month. After all, it probably hadn’t done much anyway, and really, how much bigger was I going to get in the last stretch of pregnancy? Whether the cream worked or not, I’ll never know.
What I do know is twofold:
1) babies do grow a lot in their last few weeks and
2) somewhere in the last days of that pregnancy, stretch marks blossomed on my thighs and crawled up my belly.
Watching the red lines travel felt like being trapped inside a science fiction movie with an organism that couldn’t be stopped.
Over the years my stretch marks have faded from scorching red to a pinkish silver, and I make a point of not even looking at them. Avoiding swimsuits tends to help. But a few weeks ago my husband and I were visiting my parents in Israel. Like good tourists, we took a dip in the Dead Sea. As I floated in the bath-warm water, I looked at my legs, hovering barely under the surface.
Did you know that water is a perfect magnifying glass?
The wobbly silver lines I hadn’t looked at in months suddenly looked as wide as racing stripes.
And this time I didn’t have any of my children around to blame it on. "See? You did that to me."
Which is just as well, because the reality is, my children were worth getting every squiggly line and every ounce of hanging bread dough.
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