Coming Spring 2009 . . .

It's official!

My next book, titled Tower of Strength, has been accepted for publication and will be released next spring.

My fourth temple-related book, it's set in 1884 Manti, a few years before the temple there was complete. Much of the story centers around events (both real and fictional) that took place in and around the city's Temple Hill.

I love the title they picked; Tower of Strength can refer to both the temple (the towers are under construction during the story) as well as the heroine. Tabitha really is a tower of strength, and that plays a huge role in the story.

This book has been an interesting ride. I loved uncovering the story and characters. I struggled with some of the research. I laughed. I cried.

And in the end, I'm excited for my readers to meet Tabitha Chadwick and get to know her for the strong woman she is . . . even if they have to wait almost a year before meeting her!

Orcs Don't Go Bump in the Night

When he was about eight, my son went to see The Two Towers with his dad. Some people thought we were completely nuts to let a child so young see it. He'd surely get nightmares, they said. It was way too intense for a third grader. But we knew our son.

Some time before, we'd gotten The Fellowship of the Ring on DVD. As I left for a commitment that night, my husband started watching it. I was a bit concerned about the scariness level for the kids, but he promised that he'd turn it off if our son showed any signs of anxiety. The girls weren't interested anyway, so they wouldn't be watching.

When I returned that night, I discovered that not only had my little guy not been terrified by the Orcs (creatures that quite frankly freaked me out in the theater), but that he had watched the movie on his feet, jumping off the couch and pretending to slash Orcs right along with Aragon. I should have known; ever since he could hold anything relatively narrow and long, he'd been pretending to sword fight. The drive must be on the Y chromosome or something.

(Toy store store employees were horrified when we tried buying him a toy sword. What kind of psycho parents were we?! I'm sorry, but a hollow, plastic light saber doesn't do as much damage as a metal butter knife.)

He loved the movie. What about nightmares? None. At all.

A few weeks later, our 3-year-old daughter got a Disney Nintendo game starring Mickey Mouse. The game, intended for preschoolers, had cheery music a cute graphics. Typical Disney. The player was to go through the magical world and gather up the pieces of a broken mirror and put it back together again, because a ghost had broken it. That's about as much as I remember about it. All of the kids played the game, including our son as he helped his younger sisters figure it out.

Within days, he began having regular nightmares . . . about the Disney ghost in his closet.

Somehow the animated ghost terrified him and seemed real, whereas the bloodied Orcs remained firmly in his fantasy imagination. Go figure.

He wasn't allowed to play the Mickey Mouse game anymore, but he was allowed to see The Two Towers. Again, no nightmares.

The only person who got a start was my husband, who, on the way home from the theater, heard our son whisper from the backseat in a perfect imitation: "My precious . . ." who then laughed his head off when Dad jumped.

Attack on the Grammar Fascista

My family is out to get me.

It began a few weeks ago when #2 left the piano bench during her practice time and sought me out in the kitchen.

“This song is so easy,” she said. “Can I play it less times?”

Twitch.

Before I could answer, I had to clear my throat and get my face under control. Then I launched into a speech about count nouns versus non-count nouns and therefore the proper usage of less and fewer.

“It drives me crazy,” I told her. “Commercials mess them up all the time. It’s not less calories. You can count calories, so it’s fewer calories. It’s not like time or flour, which you refer to in general quantities—less time, less flour. So it should be fewer calories. Fewer, people! Fewer!”

#2 just looked at me. “So . . . can I play it less times, then?”

Twitch.

(For any other grammar fascistas out there, I don’t hold to the antiquated school of thought that one must use “may” in requests such as these instead of "can." I’m not a savage.)

The song really was easy. Normally the kids are required to run through all songs five times each, but I decided to be flexible. “Fine,” I said. “You can play it three times today . . . if you ask me again using fewer. Say, 'fewer times.'”

She grinned. “Awesome, Mom. Thanks! Can I play it fewer times?”

“Yes,” I said, glad to have bestowed such a great grammar lesson upon my offspring.

As I turned away, she shot out, “Less times!” Giggling hysterically, she bolted into the living room.

“FEWER times!” I yelled after her.

“LESS times,” she called back, still laughing.

That exchange has since snowballed into the family finding glee at torturing me. They’ve always known that Mom’s a bit of a nut when it comes to grammar and usage, but they’ve never used it against me.

I don’t even know how the conversation got started the other night at dinner. All I know is that suddenly everyone was thinking up horrid grammar mistakes and hurling them across the table just to see the vein in my forehead pulse.

My husband even got into the game. Knowing one of my all-time pet peeves, he found ways to inject imply and infer into every conversation for the next few hours. He purposely (and rather brilliantly, I might add) used them wrong every single time.

That night, by the time I had on my pajamas, I was on the verge of calling for a strait jacket.

“Stop, stop!” I wanted to cry out. “Oh, the humanity!”

But after a good night’s sleep, something wonderful dawned on me. If my family knows enough to use incorrect grammar just to tease me . . . they also know the correct grammar because I’ve taught it to them.

Bwaahahahahaaaaaa!

I win.


Note: Thanks to Luisa, the Ultimate Grammar Fascista (one of the highest forms of praise I am capable of), for the use of her banner.

2, 3, Cha-Cha-Cha

My partner on the university summer ballroom team almost didn’t ask me out.

We’d spent every morning for a good chunk of the summer dancing together. I’d gone out once with another guy on the team—a boy that, while nice enough, didn’t exactly impress when he went on about how desperate he was to get married.

Over the course of the summer, my partner and I became great friends, and yeah, we flirted a bit. But I kept talking about how I was going to serve a mission, and he took me seriously on that.

I don’t remember the first time I saw him, but I do remember the first impression I had of him. It was early in the summer before we had assigned partners and instead the guys rotated between the girls every few minutes. He was my last partner of the day, and I remember thinking, Wow, this guy can really lead, and we work well together. We both finagled things so we’d end up assigned together, and we had a ball all summer long.

During that time, the film Strictly Ballroom came to theaters. I thought it would be a great excuse to hang out—ballroom is what we did, right? It wouldn’t necessarily be a date . . . I was going on a mission, remember. And I insisted that I didn’t like him like him, although when my friends asked about him, I had a hard time sticking to the story . . . . and not blushing.

He and I made plans to see Strictly Ballroom, but then it left the theater before we had the chance. Here was this guy who wasn’t afraid of a smart girl with a scholarship (big points in my book), who could quote Shakespeare for crying out loud, and who had the warmest chocolate-brown eyes ever, and my one excuse for seeing him off the dance floor had fallen through.

Dang. Now what?

Fortunately, he decided that we should still see a movie, so we went to Sleepless in Seattle. Best first date ever. No awkwardness at all. We already had inside jokes and plenty to talk about. It did take him awhile to stop looking for me four inches taller than I really was, because he was used to my silver Latin-heels-enhanced height. That first date turned into many more.

He proposed on my birthday, and the following spring, we were married. It’s been fourteen years now, and each has been better than the last. Today we work together better than we did in our fancy dancing shoes and costumes.

Happy anniversary to my life-long dance partner.

I love you more!

Seeking My Plot

Most successful writers I know have no dearth of story ideas. The majority tend to have so many ideas that they often have to sort through them to decide which book to write first.

There was a time when that described me, too. I had plot ideas swimming in my head all the time, and I have several unpublished manuscripts to attest to that. I worked on them before and shortly after the time that I wrote House on the Hill.

For years I had felt compelled to write something about the Logan temple. I'd had a love of Cache Valley and the temple there for a long time and knew that there was a story I had to write about it. At the time, I had no plans for sticking with the historical fiction genre or for writing more books about temples.

In fact, the next book I wrote was a murder mystery, a sort of sequel for Lost without You, my first book, that takes place ten years later when the daughter, Angela, is a high school senior. I had a ball writing that one (it was totally awesome when my cop brother didn't guess the bad guy).

And then House on the Hill sold. Really well. And readers were suddenly clamoring for more. That's when I got a call from my publisher that boiled down to, "Hey, let's do more of that."

When I went back to the drawing board, I realized that I really loved doing historical fiction. In a lot of ways, writing it came more naturally than some of my other, contemporary, work had. The problem was that my writing mind had left the historical arena. I had that murder mystery plus two other contemporary novels I was working on.

The question loomed large: What should I write next that would be historical?

I decided pretty quickly to write a follow-up to House on the Hill, because the number one question I was getting from readers was, "What happens to Abe?"

Well, I'll find out, I thought.

When talking it out with my husband, he suggested writing about another temple. And then doing a whole series of temple books. I loved the idea and jumped all over it.

That was a few years ago. Now I've got three temple books in print, a fourth written and awaiting acceptance, and a fifth in the research phase. It's great, and I'm loving the experience. I've learned so much Church history, things we don't generally hear about, and I've come to appreciate and respect the early Saints so much more.

The trick, though, is that I no longer have the luxury of thinking about plots ahead of time. I have no inkling of what storyline my temple books will have until I start digging into the research.

How in the world could I decide what would happen in At the Journey's End until after I read up on the types of events that really occurred on the Honeymoon Trail? I couldn't.

For me, the location and its history become a secondary character to the book, the backdrop to the main story. I still maintain that I don't want the history to become the point of any of my books. The history is and always will be the backdrop for the plot and characters. The stage, if you will. You won't find a history textbook, with gobs of things that are "good for you" shoved down your throat. Ick.

The bottom line for me is I can't come up with a viable storyline until I know what constitutes the stage: what was going on in a particular area at a certain period in time, what the "personality" of the place was.

I thought I was an anomaly in my method, but in the most recent Writer's Digest, I came across a quote in an interview with Sara Gruen, author of the best-selling novel Water for Elephants. I don't have any delusions about being the next Sara Gruen, but something she said made me think that maybe I'm not entirely loopy for working the way I do. Talking about her latest book, she said:

"I didn't think about story until I'd done a fair amount of research into the backdrops, but then it was clear."

Yes! I wanted to shout from the rooftops. That's how it is for me, too! Someone else writes this way!

Maddie from At the Journey's End popped into my head fully formed after about two weeks of research. Tabitha from my upcoming Manti book trotted "on stage" one day with her name, a great line of dialogue, and her back story after I'd been reading up on Manti for several weeks (and starting to worry that I'd never have story to tell about it).

This is the point I'm at right now. For drafting purposes, it's getting a bit late in the year for me to not have a story in mind if I hope to turn in a manuscript by the end of the year, like I usually do. There's a bit of pressure growing, that same bit of worry I've felt before.

You've been reading about that place off and on for weeks now, it says. You have no story. It won't come this time. Who are you kidding?

As much as I talk myself out of the worries, the calendar ticks away one day at a time, and I do get a bit anxious. But then yesterday I was (yes!) smacked in the face with my heroine's first name. I don't know who she is yet; I'll have to spend some time getting acquainted with her and her family. I do know she has a brother she's very close to who will play a big part. Beyond that, it's very sketchy.

But it's coming.

This morning I opened up one of my research books that I've been putting off, and I read thirty pages. It's a sign that I'm getting stoked again. The characters will show up when they're ready, and the story will, too.

I can't wait to meet them.

Indoctrinating the Younguns

My mother did it for me over twenty years ago, and I'm doing it to my kids, with no apologies.

When I was around 10, and lasting for several years thereafter, Mom made a point of renting videos as a means to creating culturally-literate children. The great part was that in addition to getting a great education, we also had a ball seeing terrific classic films together.

Now when I run across fellow Gen-Xers who haven't seen these gems, I have to remind myself that not everyone had such a great learning experience from their parents in their early teens.

I plan to show my kids all the same great shows Mom shared with me, but at this point, my kids are still a little too young to appreciate the likes of Lawrence of Arabia, Casablanca, or The Philadelphia Story. Ditto with some of the Hitchcock greats (my personal favorites: Charade and Wait until Dark). My son might be able to sit through something along the lines of The Dirty Dozen, being as there's a lot of guns and fighting in it. And I've toyed with showing them Some Like It Hot, since that's downright hysterical. Even the youngest might be able to get some of it.

But until they're mature enough to appreciate the older greats (with a few exceptions, like Mary Poppins and Chitty, Chitty, Bang-Bang), I'm indoctrinating them with the classics from my youth. We've gone with The Private Eyes, an 80s film starring the inimitable Tim Conway and Don Knotts. A few of the others they've watched include blockbusters like E.T., Big, Newsies, and most recently, Footloose.

(Side note on that one: I've known forever that Footloose was filmed in Utah, but now that I'm an adult—and am far more familiar with Utah County than I used to be—it was a ball watching it and recognizing actual locations. It was also fun to see one of "our" missionaries from the time my parents presided over the mission in Finland. He was an extra in the movie before he served. I had to jump off the couch, rewind the DVD, and point out Elder Sperry to the kids. We caught sight of him two or three times.)

Next up is Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, which I saw over and over again at the Movies 8 dollar theater with my good buddies, twins Denise and Melinda. We saw a lot of movies together that year. (We also smuggled pounds and pounds of penny candy from ShopKo into the theater. Good times.)

Movies on my to-be-watched list: Ghostbusters, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, and The Muppets Take Manhattan. I regularly come up with more to add. That way I can make sure my kids get a taste of the cultural icons I grew up with.

One great thing about all this is that we're having a ton of fun watching these movies together. Each brings back all kinds of great memories for me.

Another benefit: The kids are starting to "get" references in TV shows and movies that refer to things they recently saw because I showed it to them. They're also understanding better why Mom and Dad laugh at parts of the Shrek trilogy and other movies that they don't grasp: Oh! Those lines are references to other shows! It's like a light bulb going off in their heads.

Just the other day, my daughter was home sick. We ended up snuggling on the couch together as we caught an episode of Leave It to Beaver. I didn't expect her to watch the whole thing, but my culturally-literate side kicked in, and I insisted she watch a few minutes of it. That way when she heard mentions of "The Beav" or "June Cleaver" on other shows, she'd know what it meant.

Lo and behold, that very night while watching a DVD, we heard a reference to Leave It to Beaver. She was a bit tickled to be the only kid in the family who had a reference for the line.

So thanks, Mom, for yet one more thing!

I'm Getting There . . .

I've made some progress on my catch-up list from last time:

• Get a way overdue and much-needed hair cut. Hasn't happened yet. I'm thinking maybe Monday or Tuesday.
• Cut the kids' hair. It's on today's "Saturday is a special day" list. This way they'll look less like homeless waifs when we walk into church tomorrow.
• Bake a decent dinner. It's happened once so far, thanks to the crock pot. (I made homemade rolls to go with the beef stew. That counts, right?) But we've had a few unexpected issues that have thrown a wrench into having a great dinner, like an emergency trip to the doctor for DD10's possibly broken arm.
• Do the laundry. It's now caught up to a reasonable level of completeness. The mountain is gone, and everyone has stuff to wear again. We're back to maintenance mode.
• Go grocery shopping. Done. Of course, there were a few things I forgot to put on the list, but I DID go. We now have clean clothes AND food.
• Clean a few toilets. That's on one of the kids' chore lists for today. So I'm getting it done, even if I'm not the one doing it.
• Make the bed every day. Done. Except that I haven't made it yet today. But I will. I swear.
• Get dressed before noon. Managed it every day this week except Friday, but I had good reasons. Really, I did. And today I was showered and dressed WAY before noon. Impressed? Should be.
• Go to the library. Done. I even put a book on reserve that I have a sneaking suspicion will be a Whitney finalist this year. See, I'm trying to read up as much as I can NOW to avoid having a wild attempt to madly dash through 25 books in a few weeks like I did this year.
• Mop. As with the toilets, one of the kids gets to do that today.
• Sleep. Somewhat happening. Critique group tends to throw a wrench into that once a week, but I've gotten close to 8 hours most nights. And today . . . I got to sleep in. Hubby even got up and closed the bedroom door so the kiddies wouldn't bug me. Felt GOOOD. And naps? Nope. No naps. But I didn't really expect to slip one in, either.
• Run miscellaneous errands. Hasn't happened yet. Soon, for sure.

But next week I also need to make time to have some fun with the kids. It's Spring Break, after all. One of their friends is on a big trip to California right now, and when she asked my daughter where we were going for Spring Break, she replied, "Nowhere, really. Well, we're going to the dentist."

(Cringe.) It's true. The kids really do have their 6-month appointments during Spring Break. Long story, but I couldn't avoid it. I'll have to make it up to them somehow. We'll come up with something really fun to do during the break. At least once.

And finally, I may be the last blogger on the planet to jump on board, but for those three people who haven't heard about J. Scott Savage's upcoming fantasy series, Farworld, listen up. The first book, Water Keep, will be out in a few months, and as part of the ramp-up for that time, he's planning a giant blog tour. I get to host him this summer, and one reader from my blog will get a signed Advanced Reader Copy of Water Keep.

To learn more about the series (or to host Scott as part of his tour), click here.

Rewrites and Catch-ups

When the writing conference was over and done with, I had two weeks to get my Manti book rewrite done and turned back in to my editor. (The illustrious and rockin Kirk, seen below during his workshop at the conference. The man is my new best friend.)

It was going pretty well . . . until a cold smacked me upside the head and laid me out, well . . . cold. I bought an extra two days, recovered (for the most part), and turned it in late last night.

What I should have done was buy three extra days, see, because when I got the extension until Tuesday, I didn't look at the calendar. Therefore, I didn't realize that yesterday was not only the day I help in my third grader's classroom, but I had a dentist appointment for a crown (and I'd already rescheduled with my dentist several times) AND a birthday lunch with one of my bestest friends ever. And my daughter's choir concert was that night.

Hahahahahaaa!

To make my promised deadline, on both Monday and Tuesday I woke up at 5:30 am to get some work in before the kidlets woke up. This all by itself is monumental. I should get an award. Seriously.

I value my sleep higher than even chocolate. Leaving early the warmth of the covers and the softness of my pillow is just not an option for me. Heather has gone weeks at a time waking up in the wee sma's to get writing done, and I've envied that. I just cannot wake up that early and still function.

The fact that I walk around like a zombie on less than 8 hours of sleep also factors into the equation. I could easily sleep 9+ hours every night if I had the time.

Whether I behaved like a normal human being for the last two days is in question, but I did get up early, and I did turn in the book on Tuesday, as promised. (Granted, it was hours past the time Kirk had left for home . . .)

The one great thing: I'm really loving the way the book is shaping up. There were elements that were okay before, but with Kirk's guidance, I was able to knock them up several notches. From characterization to plot to pacing, the whole thing just feels stronger and better. YES!

Now that the rewrite is done, I have other projects and deadlines looming ahead of me. Of course. That's the crazy kind of person I am.

But before I delve into those, I thought I'd do a few other things I've missed out on lately:

• Get a way overdue and much-needed hair cut.
• Cut the kids' hair. (If my son doesn't get a cut soon, he's going to start looking like a sheep dog.)
• Make a decent dinner (one that doesn't involve something frozen that's baked on a cookie sheet).
• Do the laundry. (I fear my children are running out of anything to wear to school.)
• Go grocery shopping. (Alas, I had to miss out on my Grocery Game list and sales for this week. There just weren't enough hours in my days. I think it's time I visit Costco.)
• Clean a few toilets. (And touch up the guest bath for when critique group members descend tonight. I'll pretend it's been clean all week.)
• Make the bed every day.
• Get dressed before noon.
• Go to the library (renew the book I've had for four weeks and haven't had time to read).
• Mop.
• Sleep. (At night. But also get naps during the day. Fine. Who am I kidding? Like that's ever going to happen.)
• Run miscellaneous errands (make an exchange of a defective product, get milk money quarters from the bank, yada yada).

Some of those will happen today. Most will happen over the course of the next week or so. It takes me a while to play catch-up. Okay, so I'm frequently in catch-up mode and a bit frazzled.

I'm a writer. We're an eccentric lot, right? Right?

5 Random Thoughts

1) My son is going to grow taller than me in a few months. I'm so not ready for that.

2) The other day, DD5 proclaimed her requirements for the boy she will marry someday:

• He must like her.


• She must like him.


• He must like kissing.

When pressed, she admitted that making sure he's NICE would be a good idea as well. ("Like Daddy," she decided. Couldn't go wrong on that one.)

3) I've been an avid watcher of American Idol since the very first season. It's the one show hubby and I TiVo and then watch together, often when the little ones are asleep. This year the turbo-giant cell phone company, Nokia (based in Finland, my other homeland), is a sponsor.

Now you'll all know what a total nerd I am: I was so pleased to hear Ryan Seacrest pronounce the name of the company correctly; most people don't.

It's NO-kia, not no-KIA.

The stress of any Finnish word is always on the first syllable. Sheesh, people. It's not like it's an insanely difficult language. Oh, wait . . .

4) On a similar note, I've been brushing up my Finnish (once fluent but accented, now covered in brain dust) by reading the Book of Mormon in the language. I have the online English version in front of me so I can consult it when I come across passages that I don't understand.

I'm doing pretty well, except for those Isaiah chapters in 2 Nephi. If I don't understand it in English, what are the chances it'll make any sense whatsoever in Finnish?

That, and even though I attended Finnish public school for three years and could speak with the best the grade schoolers around, you decide how likely it was that I would learn the Finnish terms of things I run into regularly in the scriptures.

During just today's scripture reading, I had to check the English version to translate several words.

Among them:

• plow shares


• pruning hooks


• soothsayers


• Philistines


• idols


• chariots


• haughtiness


• moles


• bats


• nostrils

Yeah, those are words I used in everyday conversation when I was 12 . . .

Okay, I probably heard "nostrils" from some boy classmates. But the others? I don't recall any conversations involving soothsayers or bats.

5) And finally, because it's just too good NOT to post, here's next year's conference king, Jeff Savage, being a total sport after I "crowned" him with all kinds of goofy stuff like "gauntlets of courage" (silver oven mitts) and a crown my daughter helped decorate with foam hearts and glitter. (The red sleeve is mine.)

The Writer Brain Curse

It's bad enough that after years of critiquing and editing my own and other writers' work that it's almost impossible to read a book for the sheer fun of it. I can't shut off the editor in my brain. I can't help but rewrite sentences in my head as I go or notice plot holes and character motivation problems.

But it's getting worse.

The research end of my brain is now poking holes into plots too.

I recently finished reading a book that had a rip-roaring fun plot. The story was action-packed and very well written. My editor brain didn't even have to pull out the red pen too often.

The problem, then? Factual details that . . . weren't.

And this isn't even a historical novel.

Three (among many) that jumped out at me:

1) This one is something almost everyone knows: referring (several times) to knowing that you don't have cell phone reception because there is no dial tone. Excuse me? Okay, so the book is probably ten years old. Cell phones weren't as commonplace a decade ago. But they did exist, and anyone who has used one knows that there is no dial tone. Instead you have those bars that tell you if you have a signal. (I hear that a company is now making cell phones that do have dial tones, especially for seniors who are used to such things. But that's the exception, not the rule, people.) How did this one get past the author and the editor?

The next one I know thanks to my son's new passion: Mythbusters. I swear, that show is going to forever ruin all kinds of movies and books for me.

2) Blasting doors and locks open with a gun. Not possible, even with a dead-on aim, and definitely not with one or two shots. Happened at least twice in this book (and a ton of other books and movies).

And finally, one I learned through funky reading material discovered in an article in Writer's Digest that suggested writers go to expert websites to get their facts straight:

3) A character is murdered and his eyes are cut out of his head so the bad guy can use them to get past a retinal scanner. The catch? According to the article, retinal scanners only work on LIVING eyeballs. You can't take one out of a person's head and hold it up to the scanner. (Sorry, Tom Cruise, that part of Minority Report doesn't wash.) Too bad that a good chunk of this book's plot line depends on that particular murder and retinal scanner.

See what I mean? It's getting tougher all the time for me to suspend disbelief. Maybe that's why I'm reading so much fantasy lately.

Sigh . . . sometimes I'd love to be able to just immerse myself in a good yarn again without overthinking it.

Close Friends & Conference Fun

I wish I had a picture of a particular moment at the LDStorymakers Conference. It was one of those times when your worlds collide, although it wasn't traumatic like when George from Seinfeld was at risk of being destroyed when Relationship George collided with Fun George, but it was a funky moment nonetheless.

After a session on Saturday, I walked over to a table to grab my things. Standing beside it were three people.

Jeff Savage, who has been part of my critique group for about six years, joining just a couple of months before my first book, Lost Without You, was accepted for publication. As the first man in our group, he's been a great asset. We finally had a guy to tell us when our men were acting like sissies. Of course, he's also known for his "Well, I really have just one comment," critiques. When you hear that, brace yourself. The "one thing" is probably major. And darn it all, he's usually right.

Here's a picture of Jeff at the Whitney Gala before presenting an award . . . giving a "talk." You can tell that the figures at the bottom are in their "pre-author" life, because they don't yet have their blogs . . . (That talk will go down in Whitney history. It was hysterical.)

Angela Eschler, my beloved editor who has been the one who worked so tirelessly on all five of my books. I'm not a person who deals well with change. Consequently, when she recently left Covenant, I came close to flipping out. (Fortunately, she left me in very good hands. Kirk totally rocks.) Below is critique group gal pal Michele Holmes at the Whitney Gala (left) with the amazing Angela.



And the last person of the trio was Sarah, one of the Babes that Spires is dedicated to. I've known her since the 8th grade when we started our L.M. Montgomery fan club. We were part of a tight-knit group of friends in high school, took creative writing together our senior year, and in college collaborated on a novel. She was the first person to give me honest feedback. As we wrote together, she freely told me when I had suggested something really dumb . . . and when it absolutely worked. The first time I tried writing a book on my own, I panicked; I didn't have Sarah there on my shoulder to guide me.

And we both have way too many things we could blackmail each other about.

Here these three people from very different areas of my life were standing together, chatting. I had to smile.

And then I thought about all the frightening stories they could share with each other about me.

I can picture it now:

Jeff: You should have read that pathetic opening chapter Annette brought to critique last time. I mean, really. Holy lame. Well, okay. The writing was good on a sentence level. Of course there weren't any grammar or punctuation errors. She's the stinkin' grammar police. But the overall arc didn't work. I really just had two comments. But if she takes my advice, she'll be rewriting that chapter for a good month.

Angela: And I bet she used a dozen semicolons. I can't count how many of those I've had to take out of her books, and she argues over every one of them. Touch-y.

Sarah: Just try drafting with her. [shudders] She's such a control freak. But she listened to me, at least most of the time. If she hadn't . . . man, our book would have been a sappy mess.

In all reality, each one of them represent an important part of my life, and I'm grateful for their friendships and the impact each one has had on my life.

As soon as I can get my hands on some of the other photos taken at the conference (since my own camera hung out at the bottom of my bag the entire time), here are a few I do have. If you've been reading other blogs about the conference and Whitney Gala, you may have seen several of them already.

Here I am right before the dinner at the Gala, with my sweet husband at my side:


With Whitney winners Michele Holmes and Heather (H.B.) Moore. All three of us began attending our critique group as unpublished but hopeful writers. It's amazing how far we've come.


Hard to see, but this is right after I read the winner's name for Best Romance/Women's fiction and got to give the award to the very-much deserving Michele. Also pictured is Lisa Mangum of Deseret Book.


Two years of conference "Queens." Heather and I flank Josi Kilpack and Julie Wright, who were the conference chairs for 2007. As the conference wrapped up, they presented us with big boxes of chocolate. They know me so well.

What a weekend!

That about sums it up. I’ll surely post more later (especially some photos), but for now, I had to just express some overall feelings from the experience.

The conference has come and gone. Jeff Savage (or J. Scott Savage, depending on which of his books you’re talking about) is officially crowned as the next conference chair—and is our first conference "king" instead of "queen."

The attendees were enthusiastic, the instructors fantastic, the food yummy, and everything else just great. Meeting editor Tim Travaglini and literary agent Jaime Chilton—and chatting around a table with them late into the evening—was definitely a highlight for me.

I’m so grateful to all the many, many people who helped us put the conference together. It took a small army of dedicated people to do it all. Thanks to all of you; you know who you are!

When the conference wrapped up Saturday, the hard part was over for me, but the Whitney Gala was still ahead. My husband, awesome man that he is, showed up with a dozen roses for me. (How cool is HE?!)

We got to sit at the same table with Whitney Award winners Josi Kilpack, Brandon Mull, and Jessica Day George. (The last two make me officially cool in my daughter’s book.)

I had the opportunity to announce the winner of the Best Romance/Women’s Fiction award alongside Lisa Mangum of Deseret Book. To my absolute delight, my good friend, Michele Paige Holmes took the award. I was supposed to remain neutral, but I’m sure the thrill I felt was plainly obvious in my voice and on my face when I read her name.

I can honestly say that winning an award myself wouldn’t have been any more joyful for me in that moment. I’ve been friends with Michele for many years, and I’ve seen the long, hard road she’s traveled to get where she is. I was so happy for her that I sat back down and promptly began crying.

Tears continued to be a large part of the night for me. Josi’s winning speech got me all choked up too, as did several others. While I’m sure part of my weepiness stemmed from a serious lack of sleep for three days, each and every tear that night was a happy one. Some people came up to me concerned that I was sad over not winning a Whitney myself. Truly, I didn’t expect to win, so I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t. (I just hoped I’d lose to my other good friend, Heather Moore. And I did!)

But the tears were more than just happiness for good friends. Our table was dead center at the back of the room. As a result, I had a great view of the large crowd that had gathered for the awards. A lot of amazing people were inside those four walls. Some I’d go so far as to call legends.

As the evening wore on, I felt a surging sense of awe and privilege. That night represented the beginning of something very big. And I got to be a small part of it. I even got to be involved a tiny bit in its creation. I was sitting in the middle of a piece of history. The thought was overwhelming. I felt so honored to be in the company of those around me, to bear witness to the birth of something so much bigger than myself, something meaningful, something that I believe Orson F. Whitney himself smiled down upon.

After the 2007 conference, I drove home a bit sad because it was all over for a year.

This time, I drove away feeling uplifted, honored, and overcome. I cried for nearly half an hour as I drove, unable to believe that I . . . little ol' me . . . the gal who scribbled stories about mice in second grade . . . I was there. I am part of this amazing community that began as a simple e-mail support group and has morphed into a powerful force, where some of my dearest friends on the planet belong.

How did I get so lucky?

Like I said, I’ll post more about the conference and the Whitneys later. I’m still trying to finish the "re-entry" process with the family and (with any luck) catch up on some sleep.

And oh yeah—then I have a couple of deadlines to meet, because I get to write and publish books for readers of my faith.

Did I mention that man, I’m one lucky woman?!

(Oops. There go those tears again . . .)

It's HERE! And I'm Outta Here

Quick post today . . .

I'm doing the headless chicken dance today as I load up the minivan and get the family ready for when I leave this afternoon for the conference, which begins early tomorrow morning with Boot Camp.

As you can imagine, there's a lot to do while the kidlets are at school and before I drive off into the sunset. And when I do leave, I won't be back online until next week.

I'm guessing that a good chunk of my readers won't be checking up on me over the weekend, as they'll be at the conference with me.

However, a lot of Storymaker friends won't be there for one reason or another, and they were lamenting the fact. Some of the Whitney finalists are in that number. They asked, half kidding, half serious, if someone could please text message the results of the Whitney Gala as they happened on Saturday night.

Their wish was the Whitney Committee's command.

So here's the fun news:

Three authors who are attending the Gala (Matthew Buckley, Tristi Pinkston, and Jaime Theler) will be blogging live every step of the way.

If you won't be there, you can follow the awards ceremony online as it unfolds.

Check out the Whitney Awards blog during the Gala to see what's going on and who wins.

The dinner begins at 6:30 pm MDT, followed immediately by the awards ceremony. I imagine the bloggers will get started before that, however. Should be fun!

Following which, I'll be collapsing from an exhausting but (I'm sure) wonderful weekend.

See you on the other side!

St. Paddy's Day Scars

As a mother, you try your best to raise your children with love and understanding, shielding them from the darts and arrows of the world.

Invariably, you will fail.

It's just a part of life; you can't shield your kids from everything. Indeed, when it comes down to it, you wouldn't want to shield them from everything, or they'll never learn life lessons. However, no matter how hard you try, you'll end up scarring the little guys in ways you never predicted.

Case in point:

Three years ago, I sent my kindergartener off for another day of school. Off she went, merrily waving to me as she hopped out of the minivan and trotted along the sidewalk into the school.

Two and a half hours later, she came home in tears. In short order, I was informed that it was all my fault.

You see, it was St. Patrick's Day, and I had neglected to be a good mommy. I hadn't sent my little girl to school in green. Apparently, several of the boys in her class thought that fact was great fun and spent the entire school day (thank heavens it was just 1/2-day kindergarten) pinching her. Whether it was at recess, at her desk, or on the carpet when the teacher read stories, all day long, she was pinched.

By the time she got home, the poor girl was traumatized. She fell apart in my arms, relating the horrendous details of her school day.

"Mom, why didn't you make sure I wore green?!"

I've since made a bigger effort on St. Patrick's Day--a holiday I frankly care nothing about. (Today I'm wearing a bright RED shirt . . .) The one and only way I celebrate the day is making sure my kids go off to school with something green. It's probably more of a self-defense measure than anything else.

Today that included my junior high schooler. I had him change his black shirt for a green one. (After all, you never know if those pinching bullies in kindergarten grew up to be junior high schoolers and might decide to pick on a seventh grader who lacks the proper color.)

I even made sure my preschooler had green on today, just in case there was a boy in her class who might try to torture her with the pinching tradition. I certainly didn't want to have another child scarred by the holiday.

So this morning as I'm putting a dot of super glue on a St. Paddy's Day bracelet for my third grader to wear (made with a kit sent by Grandma Lyon for that very purpose), she pipes up with, "Hey, Mom, remember how in kindergarten I didn't wear any green and those boys pinched me all day? Man, that was awful."

Yeah, honey. I remember.

But I was so hoping you didn't anymore!

Oh, well. There's always Easter.

The Countdown

It's ten days away for most of those involved, but it's essentially nine days away for me.

NINE.

ACK!

I'm referring to the 5th Annual LDStorymakers Writers Conference coming up next week, which Heather Moore and I are co-chairing.

Can I just say that I am eternally grateful that
a) I'm not in this alone and
b) that my partner is so capable and
c) that her strengths lie in all my weak areas?

As some readers may remember, we were "crowned" at last year's conference, so this conference has been twelve months in the making. The last couple have been the most intense, of course, and now it's almost here.

We're dotting i's and crossing t's right now, trying to make sure that there are no lingering ends left untied. (It's amazing just how many ends there are to check . . .)

Between now and then, I have a lot to do, for both the conference as well as for my personal life. For starters, I have to get everything ready for Easter before I drive off to the hotel, because by the time I get back, there will be NO time whatsoever for any of that.

The family is heading up to visit grandma while I'm gone, so I should probably help get little people semi-packed before I leave.

Several of the kids have activities that Mom needs to help prepare for, coordinate, or drive to.

And then there are the ponchos I'm trying to finish knitting for my girls so they can all match on Easter Sunday. (Key word: trying.)

In the middle of all this madness, I did something really stupid: I asked my editor about the status of my latest submission.

If you know anything about the writer's ego, you'll know what a really dumb move that was for a writer who is already under stress. The only possible good outcome would have been a response like, "It's Pulitzer-worthy! We loved it!" Then I'd smile and go my merry way, with a little boost to keep going through the next nine days.

I'm sure you can already see where this is going.

Instead of a declaration that I'm the next big thing, we're discussing revisions and notes.

Really, that's no huge surprise. With Spires of Stone I did two rewrites, went over oodles of notes with my editor (and granted, wanted to bang my head against the monitor numerous times), but ultimately came out the other end not only alive but with a much better book that was accepted for publication and is now up for a Whitney Award.

So why am I such a basket case? That would be because writers seesaw between egomania and self-despair all the time, and are capable of flipping between the two in a matter of seconds. My past publishing experiences with five previous novels notwithstanding, I still feel like the rookie just waiting for that next rejection letter telling me my baby is ugly and that I stink.

I should take a nice, hot bath tonight to help me calm down a bit. That is, if I could sit still long enough without checking e-mail for conference stuff, or going over my workshop presentation notes, or working on the table centerpieces, or sending the latest updates about the waiting list and lunch choices to committee members, or . . .

You get the idea.

Basically, I look like Chicken Little on serious doses of caffeine.

To cope, I bought two of the silver bags of Guittard milk chocolate chips. You know, the jumbo ones? Yeah. That should last me, oh, a day or so.

For those readers who are coming to the conference, I can't wait to see you. Once the big day is here, it'll be downright awesome, and I'm sure I'll be having a ball. I've been in touch with a lot of you, and I can't wait to put faces to names.

In all seriousness, the conference has been a huge shot in the arm for me every time. Last year I drove home a bit wistfully, knowing I wouldn't be able to experience it again for another year. Sure, there would be other conferences, but none are the same as this one. If you've come, you know what I mean.

See you in ten days.

A Very Serious Interview

Or not.

Some time ago, Luisa was interviewed on her blog with questions provided by a fellow blogging friend and offered to pass along the love.

I raised my cyber-hand (Oooh, oh! Pick me! Pick me!) and she has obliged. Below are her fun questions and my answers.

Thanks, lady!


1. How did you celebrate your first writing sale?
First, some back story: Our first VCR was a hand-me-down from my in-laws. My writing goal for years was to use money I earned through writing to buy a new VCR before that old one bit the dust for good—which could be at any time.

My first couple of writing sales were articles that were clustered together, so I used the money from them to buy a brand new VCR with—oooooh, self-cleaning heads and the ability to mark commercials! (I’m dating myself here . . . DVD players didn’t exist yet . . .)


2. How many writers does it take to change a light bulb? Please explain your answer.

Just one.

But it might take somewhere around 37 light bulbs to get the job done, because she’ll keep changing it, trying to make it just right.


3. You know the advice, "Sometimes you have to kill your darlings." Was there ever a scene or line that it really hurt to cut, but cutting it made the story stronger?

I remember one line in particular that I wanted to use in my first book, but my critique group hated it. I tried putting it somewhere else, because darn it, it was such a good line, but it just didn’t ever feel right. In hindsight, I’m so glad I cut it. It would have been mucho cheesy.

But in general, I tend to have the opposite problem—my critique group and editor generally come back with, “Why didn’t you include this scene? Or this one? Write about [blank].” And I’m always glad when I take their advice; those scenes have often become my favorites. I’ve heard the same thing from readers, who of course, had no idea that their favorite scene wasn’t in the original.


4. Fast food: yea or nay?
Yea if it means I don’t have to cook tonight.

Otherwise nay, especially on date night. Unless I’m in the mood for a strawberry slush from Sonic.


5. Do you have a secret skill that you never get to show off?
I’ve got one weird and useless skill that’s hard to explain in words (anyone coming to the LDStorymakers conference, corner me, and I’ll do it for you). I got it from my mom, and my sisters can do it to: Using nothing but air, you move your lower lip extremely fast in and out, to the point that it's almost a blur. It looks and sounds rather funky.

I can also crinkle my tongue so it looks like a 3-leaf clover.

I know; such an amazing set of talents.


To continue the tradition, if someone would like me to come up with interview questions for them, just raise your cyber hand.

I can promise you'll get them . . . but it won't be until after the LDStorymakers Writers Conference (which is coming up in about 2 weeks . . . holy cow . . .).

Make—or Wear—a Scene

First off, thanks to everyone who commented and sent me notes of support; I appreciate it more than you know.

I'm doing much better now.

Today I thought I'd mention a fun new product some of my readers might enjoy.

When my brother-in-law Brian was on his mission in Italy, he came across men's ties with artwork on them depicting various events. The idea stuck with him, and now, many years later, he's doing something similar.

Enter Scene Ties, designed by artists with images from the Bible, Book of Mormon, and U. S. History.

Currently, my husband owns this one, which is a pretty, blue-tone number that portrays pioneers crossing the plains. (Pardon the blur; the pictures didn't transfer here all that well):

And my son picked out the one showing Daniel in the lion's den (a play on our last name, I think):

Scene Ties also has ties with the Stripling Warriors, Samuel the Lamanite, and the signing of Declaration of Independence. More of these 100% silk ties are in the works.

So here's the kicker: If you'd like to try one out (or buy one for a gift for the man in your life, or maybe a missionary), check out the web site here.

When you check out, you can get $2 (about 12%) off a tie when you enter this coupon code:

thelyonstale

(Note that there are no spaces or punctuation marks.)

They're really pretty ties; I hope you'll check them out!

Ever had a day

that was supposed to be free and open and fun,

but then you got an e-mail that turned it upside down,

and it kept you preoccupied and stressed all day

to the point that you spent hours and hours drafting a reply and coming back to it and rethinking it

and feeling nauseated and near tears over the entire issue

even after you finally get up the guts to hit "send,"

because you know you still didn't say it right,

so instead of getting anything of value accomplished (having fun with the kids who are out of school for the day, squeezing in some work on that freelance job, or, I don't know, making sure the family has clean underwear), your day is sucked into the void of worry

to the point that it's an hour past dinner time when you finally put the lasagna on the table

and although it tastes great, you can't stomach it

or the yummy rolls, either

and your hands tremble

and your head is killing you

and you find yourself snapping at your poor kids for the stupidest things

and they wonder where their mommy went?

Been there too? Oh good.

Because that's what it's been like.

Hoping tomorrow is better.

Writer Moms & Dads

Not long ago, several of my writer friends were chatting via e-mail about various writing things, including finding time to write.

One woman quipped, "You know, I could really use a wife around here. I'd be able to write a lot more."

We all got a chuckle out of that, and I made the remark that I wondered if the male writers on the e-mail list fully appreciated just how much their wives do that allowed them to write at nights and on weekends.

At least one of them took umbrage with that comment, saying that there's no reason a husband couldn't help out to let his wife write.

Well, sure. I guess. In theory. But that's not how life, at least as a mother, works.

No matter how well-meaning the husband is, stuff happens. Here's a scene that's been replayed many times in my house:

Me: Honey, I'd love to get some writing in tonight. Could you put the kids to bed? DS12 still has to finish his piano practicing, and DD10 has math homework.

DH: No problem. I'll take care of it. Kids, make sure you clean up your dishes after dinner. And don't bug your mom. She's writing tonight.

Ten minutes later, I sit down at the computer and poise my fingers over the keyboard.

Meanwhile, DD8 stands at the top of the stairs and yells so loudly you can hear it in somewhere in Bangkok, "MOM!!!! Can I have a brownie??!!!!"

DH, who is standing ten feet away from her, says, "I'm right here. You can ask me for permission."

DD8: "Oh yeah."

Five minutes later, my office door swings open. DD5 comes in, crying.

DD5: "I fell off the rocking chair and hurt my arm."

I stop writing, thinking that it would have been much simpler for her to walk to the next room to see her dad about this instead of treking all the way to the basement.

I inspect the arm and give her hugs and kisses.

Meanwhile, DH tracks her down.

DH to DD5: "Let Mom write. I'll take care of your owie. Come upstairs and watch some TV with me."

He leads the reluctant girl out of the room, throws me an apologetic look, and closes the office door. Again I turn to the computer.

Two minutes later, DD8 bursts into the room.

DD8: "DD10 won't share her DS game with me, and it's my turn! She promised!"

DD10: "I never promised. And it's my game. It's not fair. Besides, I let her play it yesterday for like, hours."

DD8: "When I tried to take it, she hit me!"

DD10: "Did not. I just tapped you like this." (She "taps." Hard.)

Me, sighing: "Girls, go out, please. This is supposed to be my writing time. Have Dad deal with it."

Both DD: "But, MOM!"

Me: "Go."

DH, coming into the basement. "Girls, get out of there."

At this point I've managed to write, oh, about a paragraph. And that was during the relative silence when, right above my head, the piano blared as my son banged out his concerto.

Moms, for better or worse (usually better), tend to be the nucleus of the home. Things revolve around Mom. Even when well-meaning Dad steps in to help out, the kids somehow manage to go right around him and straight to Mom anyway.

Which is why, a few weeks ago, when my critique group was canceled last minute, I told my husband that since the family had planned on me not being home that night anyway, I'd like to go to the library and write for the evening.

His first response: "Why don't you just stay home and write?"

I laughed and gave him a brief reminder of previous such attempts.

This was followed immediately by a smile. "You're right. Go have fun. When will you be back?"

See, now that is a supportive spouse.

The Lyon's Roar

Cheesy title, but I couldn't resist; it just fit.

Tristi was kind enough to bestow the following award on me:



I am now supposed to give three pieces of writing advice and then pass the award on to some great writers.

I could throw out all kinds of advice (I'm opinionated and nerdy that way), but really, the things that most good writers do can be boiled down to three main things:

1) Write. A lot.
Obvious, yet I can't count how many people have come to me saying they "want" to write but never have gotten their behind in the chair and their hands to the keyboard. Want to write? DO IT. A lot. A good pianist can make a concerto sound effortless, but you can bet your booties that getting to that level took a lot of mundane practicing, including boring scales. Writing is the same way. To make it flow and sound natural takes work. A lot of it.

2) Read. A lot.
I don't know of a single good writer who isn't also an avid reader. On the flip side, I do know some sad writers who declare they don't have time to read. I love how Luisa put it once: that fiction is like a language, and to learn to "speak" it, you have to be fluent. The only way to do that is immerse yourself in it regularly.

3) Be where other writers are.
That means going to conferences, belonging to writing groups, joining a critique group, and networking. This is where you go from wannabe writer to real writer.

And for the award bestowal:

Rob Wells over at the Frog Blog. One of the funniest writers around. Love his stuff. Oh, and he's a closet romance writer. Don't let him pretend otherwise.

Josi who has a real power in her words (I don't recommend trying to read one of her books while on the treadmill. Crying or laughing while exercising just don't mix, people.)

Heather, my conference co-chair and a member of my critique group, who is so good at pin-pointing flaws and finding fixes.

Michele, yet another Whitney finalist (all three of these ladies are), and also a member of my critique group. I hope to have rough drafts this good when I grow up.