A Kiss Behind the Hat

This is a far better perspective of my new hat.  And an anonymous-but-effective glimpse of the True Love I'm so blessed to have in my life.

No, really.  I'm keeping him.  (And he's a great kisser, too!)

San Francisco: Red Hat and Chocolate

Just a tiny recap of my almost-week in San Francisco.  By now, you probably know that my red hat travels with me.

(Not on me. I look awful in red.  Besides which, what if someone spotted me?!)

So two of the highlights of my trip to the city were as follows:

Lunch and general running-around with Christine Nguyen-McGrew, one of my crit partners and the best cheerleader a gal could have.  (You should have heard her squealing over the phone when I signed with Josh.  I couldn't understand a word she was saying.  And it was the first time I'd ever spoken with her.)

Breakfast with the illustrious Gabrielle Harbowy, whose soft-spokenness belies the fierceness of her dedication to all things editorial and bookish.  You'll see her in action next week during the Baker's Dozen Auction!  And, yeah.  She looks amazing in the hat.

And here it is: MY BOX OF TEUSCHER TRUFFLES.  May I just pause a moment and say that walking into the Teuscher shop and picking out a box of truffles was one of the BIGGEST CINDERELLA MOMENTS OF MY LIFE.  I could've stood in there and just BREATHED THE CHOCOLATE all afternoon!  And no, the box isn't empty yet.  There are exactly 6 truffles left.

THANK YOU, TAMMY!

So there you have it.  It wasn't the writing retreat I'd hoped for, but I'm glad I went.  Trolleys, Victorian architecture, and the best sushi I've ever had--not much to complain about!

Still.  I'm glad to be home.  I'm an utter hermit at heart.  Which is probably why I write in the first place.  Right?

Oh.  And today is the anniversary of the first time Mr. A kissed me.  Feel free to celebrate at will. *grin*

A Quick Hello!

Silly me for thinking I'd be all bored and lonely while Mr. A is busy at his conference.  I've got WIFI and an entire city to myself!

Well, not an entire city.  I'm just proud of myself for navigating the nearby streets of San Francisco ALONE this morning.  Without getting lost.

This is no small feat.  (Really.  I'm the type who needs to hold up her left thumb and forefinger to make the letter "L" so I know which way is left, remember?)

So, yeah. I don't mind being a tagalong-to-the-conference wife.  It's a wonderful break from routine and an opportunity to get some solid, uninterrupted writing-and-other-work done.

Like the rest of the slush.  Fewer than 50 to go!  The trickiest part is that there is now a 3-hour difference between Jodi and me.  I keep forgetting that her day is ahead of mine.

(My body also seems to have forgotten that I'm in Pacific time zone now, as I woke up at 4:00 this morning raring to go.)

I'm also pleased to report that my darling Mr. A has put his Authoress-is-afraid-to-touch-it camera in moron mode for me.  As in, I can push a button and it takes a picture.  (Imagine that.)  Funny the things we stress about before a trip.  Especially when we're not especially fond of traveling.

So I'm in good shape!  My Most Beloved Agent is going to be sending more edit notes at the end of the day to keep me busy, and Jodi and I will soon be making our final decisions on the YA/MG entries.  (Have I mentioned I couldn't do this without her?)  Same stuff, different location.

AMAZING how a different location gives us fresh perspective!

Hope your week brings you some fresh perspective, too, wherever you are.

*hugs*

Reunited

At 11:15 on Friday night, I found my jodimitts.

No, they weren't returned to me by a repentant mitt thief.  They weren't lying in an obscure corner of the church parking lot.  In fact, they weren't anywhere they shouldn't have been.

They were sitting on my desk.  In full view.

Um.  It was one of those weeks.  That's all I can say.  Clearly the submissions fiasco, coupled with a difficult personal issue, made bits of my eyes leak out of my skull.  Or something.

So I was plugging Beatrice in for the night.  The kitchen was dark, and I saw what appeared to be a jodimitt lying on my desk.  Excellent sleuth that I am, I stood there for about six seconds staring at it in the dark, wondering if it could possibly be a jodimitt, or if my eyes were playing a cruel trick.  Then it occurred to me that I could turn on my desk light and get a quick answer.

Yes.  Jodimitt.  And the other one was hidden beneath a bit of Desk Junk.  I scooped them up and squealed and pressed them to my cheeks.

"I found my jodimitts!" I said to Mr. A, who had entered the kitchen during my little jodimitt dance.  Sweet husband that he is, he squooshed me into his arms and told me how happy he was I'd found them.

Well, that was after he asked me where.  And shook his head in a too-familiar Yet Another Dumb Moment In My Wife's Life way.  Unconditional love is a grand thing.

I wore them to bed.  Yes, I did.  It was a good way to work through the trauma of having been separated from them for three days.

Probably the rest of your donations through the holiday season should be marked THERAPY FOR AUTHORESS.

*hugs jodimitts*

What Really Happened Yesterday

It's simple.  I checked, rechecked, and re-rechecked the contest data, to be Absolutely Certain I hadn't made a mistake.  Because, yanno, I made a mistake in the first round of adult submissions, and I didn't want history to repeat itself.

Then history repeated itself.

Basically, I forgot to email Michael to let him know the contest was set up, so that he could add the fee bit. It's the only part I can't do myself (the auction is the only thing with a fee, so it's not a normal part of my contest-setting-upping).  So the submissions started rolling in at an alarming rate, and I realized in a flash that they were posting immediately.

And then I realized why.  (This moment of my life is utterly indescribable.)

So I shut down the contest, tweeted seven hundred times, and posted an alert on the blog.  Long story short: I moved the contest times and Michael saved the day.

But here's what really happened yesterday:

I learned that, despite years of personal growth, I still have a long way to go in the GIVING MYSELF GRACE department.  As in, I died about twelve times yesterday because I had screwed up.  And it had affected people all over the globe.  People who had stayed up late to enter the contest.  People who had to leave for work.  People who were excited and nervous and ready to follow the rules.

I couldn't handle the letting people down part.  It felt like a personal Armageddon.

And then I discovered that, while I was drowning in self-loathing, the people I had let down were POURING GRACE OVER ME LIKE A WATERFALL.  Giving me what I couldn't give myself.

Nobody bashed me.  Nobody yelled at me.  Nobody called me an irresponsible, fluff-brained toad.

By the end of the day, I felt absolutely adored.  Forgiven.  Supported without a moment of oops-I-think-they're-going-to-drop-me-now.

If I said "thank you" a thousand different ways, it wouldn't express my level of gratitude.

And now I'm imagining a world that reflects what happened here yesterday--a world in which it's okay to mess up.  In which patience and gentleness prevail.  In which nobody holds a grudge when someone lets him down.

And, yeah.  In which I regularly receive donations labeled "chocolate."  I mean, seriously!  My grin was so wide it hurt.  And I needed some grins like that yesterday.

It took a submission fiasco to show me I still have a way to go in learning to forgive myself when I'm not perfect.  Which is, um, every day.  You were all a part of God's gentle whisper to my heart: "Stop being so hard on yourself when you mess up."

Okay.  Got that.  I may need to print out this post and re-read my own words for the next year or so, but I've definitely gotten the message.  "Authoress doesn't have to be perfect."  Check.

I've officially run out of words to tell you how amazing you are.

Authoress's Great Escape

Hello!  I'm still a bit discombobulated, but it's good to be back.

I think.

Transitions can be tricky, yes?  So I'm kicking off my Big Return with a pictorial history of my awesome vacation.  Because it was crammed with memorable moments, and a few of them are share-able.

Our first stop, after parking for the night at the home of Mr. A's relatives, was an IN-THE-FLESH MEETING WITH JODI MEADOWS.  Not that we were excited to discover that we actually AREN'T the same person.  And that we could, yanno, TALK TO instead of TYPE AT each other.

We met in the parking lot of a local diner, and of course I couldn't wait to plop my red hat onto Jodi's head.  You can see how reluctant she was to try it on.

After a loooooong breakfast (my coffee got so cold that we asked the waitress to nuke it), we headed to the bookstore, where we met up with Ricki Schultz. Okay, it was a little weird being introduced as "Authoress." So I told her my name.

If you try to wheedle it out of her, I will hunt you down.

Anyway, Ricki looks WAY better in the hat than I ever could, don't you think?

And of course, I had to capture the uber-cuteness of Writerly Girls in Hats, just because:

Naturally I had to get in front of the camera, too.  See that flash-drained book?  That's the brand-new-shiny copy of Elana Johnson's POSSESSION I bought while visiting with Jodi and Ricki.  Totally appropriate purchase, don't you think?

And if that's not enough proof that Jodi and I are actually NOT the same person, maybe this will be:

After bidding farewell to Ricki and making my purchase, I made my way to Jodi's house, where I was, with much trepidation, introduced to her Ferret Army.

Clearly my feet are attractive to the long-bodied, hairy type.  Or maybe it was my Birkies.  At any rate, the silly little things won me over in very short order.

This is the part where I publicly apologize to Jodi for maligning ferretkind:

I'M SORRY FOR MALIGNING FERRETKIND.

Because, yes.  They are extremely cute and friendly.  Even when they are biting bits of me.

Regardless of the fact that favoritism might be damaging to ferrets, I was definitely fondest of Bobby, who was too small to wear my hat.  So it wore him instead.

Before it was time for me to leave, Jodi taught me how to--wait for it--spin.  As in, fiber into yarn.  As in, the kind of thing my fingers and brain aren't designed for.

But I did it!! And only because Jodi is a patient and attentive teacher.  And a master of spinning and all-things-yarnish in her own right.

Here is my wee skein, of which I am measurelessly proud:

My delightful Jodivisit was followed by a few days at my parents' home, which was followed by an entire week at the shore.  My heart, soul, spirit, and about half of my brain are still there.

Yep.  Birkies and beach.  The above photo sums up the week.  I can only add that there is something about the ocean that lubricates my mind.  I spent the earliest part of each morning alone on the beach, and part of that time was spent plotting.  I can honestly say that I didn't have a single bout of blank staring.  Not one!  Which proves that I should be living by the ocean.

The pain of leaving my favorite beach town was softened by my trip to New York, which was the last Big Exciting Thing on my agenda.  I met Josh at the sparkly-new Hannigan Salky Getzler Agency, where he introduced me to his delightful assistant Maddie Raffel, who deserves to have been photographed but was, sadly, overlooked.  You can get a peek at her adorableness, though, by following her on Twitter.

I spared Josh the humiliation of wearing the hat in the restaurant, but nabbed him after lunch for the Josh-In-Hat photo shoot.

Honestly, I DIDN'T tell him how to pose.  He just owned the moment.

Of course, Josh isn't the one who needs to stay anonymous.  So here's the faceful version:

Can't you just hear him saying, "Look at my new digs! AWESOME, huh?"

And, yeah. Those are stuffed muppets on his desk. (I didn't ask.)

Anyway, it's always interesting to see if you "click" with someone in real life, right?  Jodi was a no-brainer; we spend so much online time together that it's almost like we're in the same room already.  Not to mention the cell phone squeeing during peak moments in our lives -- like the sale of her book last June and my signing with Josh in December.

My relationship with Josh, on the other hand, has consisted of a few phone calls, a steady slew of emails, and occasional Facebook banter.  It could've gone either way.  As in, "Wow, this guy is NOTHING like the way he portrays himself online!" or "Yep, he's totally the Josh I know."

You guessed it.  He's totally the Josh I know.  And I'm certain (yet again, as ever) that I've signed with the right agent.

I have no idea if he had a similar response to meeting me.  You'll have to ask him.

And, yeah.  One more picture.  With BOTH of us.  But you know I can't REALLY let you see me.  Not yet!

So here it is--Josh and the Ghostly Authoress:

There you have it!  And now I'm back to business as usual.  Thanks for hanging around while I was gone!  Now, what should we do next...?

Is A Tiny Bit Enough?

Mr. A and I have had a disagreement. (Shocking, I'm sure.)

I shared with him my advice to you about writing every day, even if it's only half an hour. Heck, even if it's only fifteen minutes. Because 200 words or 50 words or TEN words are more than zero.

And so you creep steadily toward your goal.

"That's not enough time," Mr. A declared. "You can't get anything creative done in such a short amount of time."

I understand where he's coming from. He's a musician. Composer. Producer. Film maker. All the things at which he could EXCEL if he didn't have to make a living. Doing other things he's good at BUT DOESN'T LOVE.

I've preached at him over the years. Get on a schedule, I've said. Let's pick evenings on which we're both working, I've said. I could, yanno, WRITE while he creates music or videos or whatever happens to grow beneath his fingers.

He's resisted. Because he's one of the most disorganized people I know. (Aren't most artists?)

And yes, it's hard to imagine getting an entire song written in 30-minute intervals. Hard to imagine mastering Adobe Premier in 30-minute intervals.

But the alternative is to not do anything at all. Zero minutes = zero results.

I love Mr. A with all my soul. Yet I believe he's wrong.

I am also a musician. I majored in music education with a piano concentrate. I practiced for hours daily. Truth be told, I resented the reading and studying I had to do for my classes--especially the non-music classes--because it took away from my practice time.

And I was good. Not fantastic. But good. Dedicated. Winning scholarships along the way because of my piano playing.

My worst fear was to become a musical has-been. Surprise! I'm a musical has-been. But that's because I'm not supposed to be a full time pianist. I'm supposed to be a full time writer.

Here's the thing, though. My Baldwin upright sits in the corner, out of tune and sadly neglected. If I were to make the decision to sit down for thirty minutes a day and practice my scales and arpeggios, my fingers would get back into shape in no time. I'd be able to sit down and play my favorite Mozart and Beethoven sonatas and Chopin waltzes without sounding like I was missing a few fingers.

It wouldn't take much! And I'm sure I could find the 30 minutes if I looked hard enough.

But it's not my main passion anymore. And while it would certainly FEEL GOOD to get my fingers back into shape, it wouldn't be the best use of my time.

So, yes. I have the musician perspective. Which isn't so different from the artist perspective or the dancer perspective or the composer perspective or the actor perspective. Or the writer perspective.

The arts require daily feeding. Large increments would be wonderful, but most of us don't have that luxury. So we settle for small increments. Which can be VERY PRODUCTIVE if we're committed to them.

Of course, we can always plan for big chunks of time to dedicate to our creative passion. Setting aside an entire Saturday for writing. Choosing one evening a week to hire a babysitter and have a writing marathon (don't scrapbookers do things like that?). Using one or two vacation days to give ourselves a personal writing retreat. But aside from all that, those small, daily rations keep us going.

Prioritize. Plan. Feed your passion. Write your novel.

Then come on over here and brag about it. I'll be happy to applaud your accomplishment. The one you achieved one daily writing session at a time.

Twitter: On Being Misunderstood

So it's happened again. A harmless tweet was misconstrued and someone's panties got knotted.

Mind you, it was a worthy panty-knot. The gal thought I was complaining about agents. And that's certainly something that should be called out. Public belly-aching about agents is on the NO-NO list for aspiring and published authors alike.

So, yes. By all means.

Except, I wasn't complaining about agents. I was expressing my preference for a short, blunt rejection over a flowery, trying-not-to-hurt-the-writer's-feelings form rejection that doesn't really say anything, anyway.

My tweets:

1. My favorite form rejection format: "This isn't for me, but thanks for the look." Really, it's all I need! Not "While your writing has merit"

2. or "I'm sure another agent will feel differently" (you can't be sure of that!). Just "no, but thanks." Absolutely. (k, I'm done now :D)

That's it. That's me, appreciating the "This isn't for me, but thanks for the look" rejection I'd received moments earlier. It struck me that I almost always skim the long, well-thought-out form rejections, despite their well-meant intentions. No is no. Don't tell me how full your list is or that my work was "intriguing" (you obviously weren't intrigued enough to read more) or that you're sure another agent will snap me up. Just acknowledge the receipt of my query and--wow--thank me.

I love that part. For a busy agent with LOTS more to do than to read slush, a "thanks for the look" is a humble and respectful way to acknowledge the time and, well, human-ness, of the author who queried. I don't expect it and I don't feel slighted without it. But when it's there, outside the context of a long-ish form rejection, I notice. And I appreciate it.

So really, that's all I was saying, in my usual, let's-be-lighthearted-whenever-we-can approach. And someone took it wrong.

It happens. Especially online! But I'm so transparent and consistent in what I say and how I say it, both here and on Twitter, that it always catches me off guard when someone misunderstands me to such a large degree. I may have my real name well concealed, but I'm as "me" as I could possibly be under the circumstances. And--correct me if I'm wrong--anyone who has read me for some time should know that I'm not in favor of griping about agents.

Griping about non-response to queries, yes. But that's a pet peeve I have no trouble being vocal about. (What, you noticed?)

In the end, I don't really care what the rejection says, so long as I RECEIVE a rejection. And since that's becoming less common, each one that arrives is appreciated even more. But short and sweet with a little thank you? Definitely my favorite.

Even better? When the agent takes the time to address me by name. Something else I certainly don't expect or demand, but appreciate all the same.

It's nice to feel human. Particularly in the midst of being rejected. *grin*

That's it, really. Though as a result I think I'll keep my in-the-moment responses to agent-related communiques to a minimum on Twitter. Not that I do it a lot, anyway. I'm not in favor of aspiring authors' walking the internets-at-large through their entire query process. Not professional. Not remotely interesting, either. Sharing the journey in general is great, but a play-by-play? No. That's never been my style and I don't like reading others who have that style.

So, to debunk any myth that may creep in: I appreciate ALL responses from agents. And I'm allowed to prefer one method over others because, well, we're all allowed to have our preferences.

I'll just keep my mouth shut about them from now on.

Maybe.

In Case It's Quiet...

Tomorrow begins a week of in-lawness. That is, they're coming, and I've got to be a good hostess.

All that to say, if posts are sparse this week, that's why. I fully intend to maintain my writing schedule, and I actually trust them to honor it. It's just that I want to strike a careful balance, setting the writing aside as the need arises. There's dedication, and there's obsession. And then there's downright rudeness.

I don't want to be accused of the latter.

Know what's awesome, though? Mr. A is completely supportive. He's already told me he's going to explain things to his parents. As in, "This is when my wife writes." So I really, really can't complain.

Really.

So, yes. I'm going to attempt to be a human being this week. My nose has been buried in Beatrice for so many months, I imagine I could stand the practice. What makes it easier is that I completed my revisions over the weekend (my MG fantasy). This week is all about editing so that I can get it out to my readers in a reasonable amount of time. Which makes for a less stressful week. I can't imagine dealing with the intensity of a 1000-word-per-day first draft while my in-laws were about.

Though that may be on my horizon. I've got the smallest, sizzliest seeds of a story idea. I'm rewarding myself at the end-of-edits with a nice planning-plotting-dreaming session. And hoping something superb comes of it.

No guarantees, of course. But I'm excited nonetheless.

So what does your week look like?

Pink Toes!

The results of a full pedicure spa, including exfoliating rub, hot whirlpool, massage, and pink toes. Color's name? ITALIAN LOVE AFFAIR. I bought a bottle totally on account of the name.

Because I never paint my toenails.

A Very Quick Hello

1. Yes, I had an amazing pedicure spa on my birthday. Unending thanks to Holly Bodger (who organized it), Beth Revis, Sara J Henry, Jamie Harrington, and Tami Moore.

My new heroes. (Heroines?)

2. And my toenails are a decidedly pink shade of pink.

3. Be sure to stop by tomorrow! I've got a super interview with author BETH REVIS for you.

And now, off to Monday Life!

(Bleh.)

Knowing Myself

There's an interesting and unexpected aspect of my anonymous life that I've got to point out. I am, as Authoress, my Authentic Self.

It's sad, how many people never find their Authentic Selves. It's sad, how long it took ME to find mine. I started writing when I was six, but lost my way by the time I went to college. Majoring in music was exhilarating and fulfilling, to be sure.

But it wasn't RIGHT. It wasn't my number one "thing."

And in finding my Authentic Self--writer, self-proclaimed whole foods hippie--I find that the way I present myself to others is a clear expression of who I am. Online, that's immeasurably easier. Despite the fact that I have chosen to remain nameless and faceless, I am as transparent and honest as I can possibly be.

I am, without a doubt, ME.

It's freeing, it's "right." It brings me joy.

But it isn't just through the Authoress persona that I find myself freed. More and more, every day, I am living life as ME. And it's awesome.

A few years ago, I bought something at a department store. (I hate department stores, so that was a little out of character.) The guy at the counter was the chatty extrovert type. After a minute or so of chattiness, he studied me briefly.

"Let's see. You must be an artist...or a writer."

"Why, yes! Yes, I'm a writer!" Was there a pencil sticking out of my ear? Or was it the glasses? "How--how could you tell?"

"Oh, you've just got that look, you know? That artsy look."

Get that! I had THAT ARTSY LOOK. The look that says, "I create! I'm right-brained!"

Mind you, I went through a long period of not knowing who I was when it came to wardrobe. We're talking Lands End. As in, I would buy stuff because I was into the high quality cotton, and Mr. A would say, "Um. That clothing is so fuddy-duddy."

And I was offended. Offended! Maybe I should have LISTENED. Maybe I should NOT have worn clothing that was meant for people 30 years older.

But I must give myself grace. I hadn't found my Authentic Self.

Now I've got my heart set on a pair of these:

AWESOME COCOA HIPPIE PANTS

Can't afford them, but at least I know what I like.

Then there's my pair of awesome fingerless mittens knit by the amazing Jodi Meadows. Last night I posted a picture on Twitter of me, wearing them:

AUTHORESS IN A DIFFERENT HAT WITH JODIMITTS

That hat? It's my favorite. I wear it a lot. A few years ago? It wouldn't have crossed my mind to wear a hat like that.

You may hate it, which is fine. It's "me." It's authentic.

Wearing things that express who I am feels GOOD. It may have taken me awhile to get here, but now that I've arrived, I'm not leaving.

Loss of Authentic Self is an epidemic. The high percentage of people who hate their jobs--really HATE them--is a result of these people not having discovered who they Really Are before beginning their careers. You know those stories you read about corporate managers who leave it all behind and move onto goat farms and become blissfully happy? We may shake our heads or sigh or judge harshly. But when we stop and think about it, the truth leaks in. This man has FOUND himself. This man is TRULY LIVING HIS LIFE now. Without the six-figure paycheck and blood-pressure-raising commute and seventy-hour work week.

Wow.

I'm not completely there. I'm not bringing in a paycheck as a writer--yet. And Mr. A isn't completely there, either. He's got an amazing, well-paying job that's he good at, managing people he actually enjoys being around. But I know his Authentic Self. He is a gifted producer. He has a passion for writing soundtracks. He loves ministering to other men to help them find THEIR Authentic Selves. And he's working on his first picture book.

Yes. We're both "artsy." And my dream is for us to live that artsy-ness to its fullest.

So. You, there, writers at large. Is writing your Authentic Self? DON'T LET GO. Live it. Work hard, learn, grow, BE a writer. Every day. Search your heart regularly for the things that bring you joy and contentment, in writing and in life. Let go, little by little, of the things that rob you of your "selfness."

EXULT in who you were created to be.

I'm thankful for the privilege of writing words that might speak to you today. And I'm thankful to be among so many who share my passion.

Write on!

Blessings

And I'm off to revel in family time.

Thanks to so many of you for your words of advice and encouragement. I really do have my priorities straight; I just needed some empathy and a bit of direction.

You've provided both.

See you after the holiday!

Somebody to UNDERSTAND

Somehow I know that what I'm about to say will resonate with most of you. Profoundly resonate, even.

It's this: The writer's journey, despite a posse of supportive friends and family, is lonely in a way only creative people can attest to--UNTIL YOU FIND A KINDRED SPIRIT. Someone who bleeds stories the way you do, who is walking the journey in a similar place, and who UNDERSTANDS because he is LIVING IT.

That's not such a new concept, really. Any journey in life has its peculiarities to which only fellow sojourners will relate. But there's something about the WOW of having someone speak your language, feel your pain, understand every tiny thing about the writing process that warrants special consideration.

Well, of course I would say that. I'm a writer.

I'm blessed to have found such a kindred spirit, someone whose writing I love, whose opinion I value, whose sense of humor is wonderfully dry and warped and just the thing to make me smile when I need to. Someone whose cynicism at having been rejected eight million times rivals my own. Someone who, regardless of the rejection, presses passionately on.

Mind you, I have other writerly friends, friends who have spoken important and irreplaceable things into my life; friends who share the joyful angst (oh yes, that's what it is) and understand much of what I may babble on about. (I'm absolutely certain that you're ignoring my prepositions-at-the-end-of-sentences, so for the sake of getting this blog post finished, I'm pressing on.)

But when the journey-process-attitude-humor-outlook-goals all line up, to the point where divergence is minimal? Well, that's an immeasurable gift.

That's not to say I'm giving as much as I'm receiving. We are not always to others what they are to us. I'm hopeful, of course, that this is a two-way street, not a throw-the-bum-a-buck-and-pass-by situation.

At any rate, just knowing that those words of oh-honey-I-have-SO-been-there are just a chat box away has been a tremendous source of encouragement as I plough through what has turned out to be the most painstaking and difficult revision process of my life. (No, I'm not being melodramatic. It's really been that hard.)

So to my Kindred Spirit who Didn't Know You Were: Thank you.

And to the rest of you: You are also an irreplaceable part of my Writer Life. I've written countless times how this community has blessed me, enriched my life. That remains true, and I expect that it will continue to be so.

Oh, and the novel? The one that's killing me even as it produces life (in itself and in me)? I'm pressing through until it's done. Don't let me forget that I've told you that. I need the accountability.

I really do.

What Life's Really About

And...she's back!

I'll start by saying that your support and enthusiasm for my having finished my WIP prior to vacation has stayed with me. I think I'll be riding that wave for a long time.

We all need a little affirmation from time to time, yanno? So I hope you all get back what you've given, just when you need it most.

My prattling on about vacation may have left you with visions of sunny beaches or sprawling lakes or endless leisure time with the occasional strawberry daiquiri thrown in. All, of course, whilst resting in the loving arms of Mr. Authoress.

Um. None of the above.

(Well, maybe a little of the loving arms bit.)

Our vacation was really more of a trip--a journey to family and friends, to relationships forged in the dawn of time (not really).

Okay, so that's a purplish way to say College Reunion. And introducing-an-old-high-school-friend-to-my-husband. A male high school friend.

You're on the edge of your seat, right?

The reunion was a direct result of Facebook, my addiction-that-isn't-an-addiction-anymore-now-that-I've-discovered-Evony. You may or may not know by now that I majored in music. It was a small, private school, and everyone in the music department knew everyone else. So a classmate and I organized a reunion for five classes of music majors, since there were so few of us in each graduating class.

Yes, Mr. A was included. He and I met at college. I hated him then, but that's another story.

So we had a brilliant time with dear friends (and the occasional annoying person you could've done without). Most poignant point? My flu-vaccine-damaged friend who flew to the reunion from several states away, pumped high on steroids so that he could get through the evening without falling over. Most laugh-inducing point? My old roommate (and one of the dearest people on earth) telling a story of how she dropped one of her organ shoes on the way to her lesson, and when she went back out in the snow to search for it, the snowplough had already come through, and her shoe was poised on the top of a huge mound of freshly ploughed snow. Oh. And she's 4'11''.

No, really. You had to be there.

Most ego-boosting point? Being told that I looked great. "The same," even.

On second thought, the most ego-boosting point probably occurred when my classmate answered the door and gave me a hug. She pulled back, looked me over, and exclaimed, "Your boobs grew!"

*hem*

Most blasted-into-the-past-by-a-subspace-anomaly point? Breakfast in the lounge of the Hampton Inn the next morning. All those college friends and classmates sitting around at small tables, drinking coffee and eating disgusting food? It was too much like college to believe.

It was amazing.

The majority of our visit was spent at my parents' home, though I was able to get away for some time with another college roommate who couldn't make the reunion. This is a woman who knows me better than anyone on earth--with Mr. A being the exception by a slim margin. She introduced the word "fart" into my life (we called them "stinkers" growing up) and reminds me even today of every single crush I ever had during college (mostly unrequited, I might add).

And then there was the evening we spent with my oldest friend of all--the guy who gave the best back rubs in town and who was never more than a friend.

Stop smirking. It's true.

And wonder of wonders! He and Mr. A hit it off. Swimmingly. We even met again the next day to see the Star Trek movie together. Now, picture me sitting between my husband and an old (male) high school friend in the movie theatre.

Okay, maybe that was a little weird.

We rounded up the trip with a day at Mr. A's relatives in the mountains, and a day with my dear sister and her family.

Lots of driving. LOTS of driving. It's a good thing Mr. A and I get along most of the time.

And yes, we spent a couple evenings going through my first draft, though we didn't get as far as I had hoped. He was as brutal as I knew he'd be. But he also made me laugh. Belly laugh. I'm pretty sure I scared the neighbors.

So here I am, ready to jump into real life again. Though the "real" bit doesn't ring true, since it's the treasured relationships into which I sowed the majority of my vacation time that are "real" in the truest sense. I don't have a tan, I don't feel all relaxed and sorted out. But I feel richer. More complete. Satisfied.

And thankful. It's astounding how you can simply pick-up-where-you-left-off sort of thing with old friends. Except you're both more mature, better able to express your thoughts and feelings.

One college classmate actually said to me, "You hated me freshman year." I looked right at him and said, "No, I didn't. You just annoyed me."

There's no way we would have had that conversation in college.

Anyway, it's time to move on with life and this blog. Our next Secret Agent contest will run the week of July 13. Stay tuned for submission guidelines et al. This month's contest will include a lottery, but will not be automated. I'm hoping to get the automation in place by the time August's contest rolls around.

Questions? Comments? Happy thoughts? I'd love to see you in the comment box! Thanks for sticking around.

Onward we go!

Lettuce Lips

Mr. Authoress and I were enjoying wine and chocolate-coated biscuits by candlelight on the screened in porch. Stirred, no doubt, by the sheer romance of the moment, he leaned close and kissed me.

"MMMMM. You smell like salad."

I pulled back, eyed him. "What?"

"You smell like salad." He kissed me again. "Your lips taste like lettuce."

And there you have it. I'm not going to write YA Fantasy anymore. I'm going to write romance novels. Because how I could live with myself without transcribing this great, real-life material into a story?

Marriage 101

It was a quiet evening for Mr. and Mrs. Authoress, who were sitting together in their living room, one with a lap top (not Mrs. Authoress) and one with a glass of ice water in her hands (not Mr. Authoress).

The glass of ice water slipped from my hands, unannounced, unbidden, as though it couldn't bear the feeling of my palms for another moment. An ice cube skittered across the floor, which brought Mr. Authoress's attention to the forefront.

"What was that?"

"I dropped my water."

"You dropped your water?"

(Why do men repeat things?)

"Yes, I dropped my water!" I began to forage for the missing ice cube while Mr. Authoress got to his feet to inspect the damage.

"Ohhhhhh. It's all over the place!" Really? "You need to clean this up."

That's right, Mr. Authoress. Bark orders at your wife.

I ignored him whilst crawling across the floor to retrieve the errant ice cube.

Mr. Authoress was indignant. "What are you doing?"

"I'm picking up an ice cube."

"Why are you picking up an ice cube? You've got to get this wiped up!"

Struck by the revelation that nobody had ever explained to Mr. Authoress the tendency of ice cubes to melt and create their own little messes, I sputtered a few impatient words of my own (just a few, mind you) and tossed the ice cube into the kitchen sink.

Upon returning to the scene of the crime, I watched in disbelief as Mr. Authoress pulled back the sofa to reveal -- the firmament forbid -- a small pool of water on the hardwood floor. And you know, I was just so grateful that he did it. I mean, it never would have crossed my mind to look under the sofa. I was sitting on it, of course, when I dropped the water. But you know how we women can't seem to think these things through. We need men to bark orders and move furniture for us.

Right?

Not only was I able to clean up the water spill, but we've managed to remain married for another day. Goodness knows where we'd be if I had spilled a glass of Shiraz.

Of course, that's Mr. Authoress's specialty. Spilling red wine, that is. Funny, but I don't recall moving sofas and barking orders when he does it. Even though the ratio of male wines spills to female water spills in our house is about twelve to one.

Not to mention his propensity to leave small electronic equipment in his pants pockets on laundry day, drop his Trio into a sink full of water, and release empty wine glasses onto the bathroom tile (two weeks later and I'm still finding microscopic glass shards).

There you have it. Married life in the Authoress household. Have you taken notes?

A Personal Ego Boost

This is the kind of thing one refrains from posting on one's True Identity blog because, well, people might think one were boasting. (Subjunctive, right? That one sounded weird.)

So this weekend I bumped into some folks I haven't seen in almost ten years. (Nice folks, not the kind of folks you were hoping you'd never see again.)

"I saw you walking by," said Old Friend, "and I said to my wife, 'Hey, that looks like *insert Authoress's real name*." But then I said, 'But she's not old enough to be *insert Authoress's real name*!"

I almost kissed him. This guy is younger than I am. By several years. His wife is younger still. And he thought I was too young to be me.

Too young to be me!

I'm sure the myth was shattered when he got a closer look. But the warm glow wasn't shattered -- not for me. If old friends mistake me for a sipper of the fountain of youth, I'm going to revel in it until my wrinkles are too deep to allow me to play anymore.

So I'm a bit boosted. Stoked, even.

Sometimes it doesn't take much, you know?

Granpappy

Mr. Authoress limped into my mother's kitchen. I knew the expression on his face -- the pinched, geriatric, "something hurts" look that men seem to be especially good at.

"What's wrong?" I tried to sound sympathetic.

"Oh..." Uh-oh. "I think I pulled a back muscle."

Now, hear me. There is a history of back muscle "pulls" and "wrenches" and "what-nots" with this man. Like the time he was playing volleyball a little too vigorously at an office picnic. Or the time he fell off a chair at a restaurant. (Don't ask.) Or the time he decided to leaf-blow the back yard for five straight hours without a break.

Consequently, his announcement didn't produce more than a slight twitch at the corner of my mouth. It was supposed to be an expression of compassion. It felt, however, like a smirk.

"How did you do that?"

"Oh..." Grunt. Grimace. "I was putting on my underwear."

And there you have it. The smirk at the corner of my mouth grew in intensity.

Poor man. It's no fun having an aching back. And it's no fun having a wife who is holding her breath and trying not to laugh instead of babying you and soothing your sore muscles and wounded pride.

I was slightly vindicated the next day in my sister's kitchen. She, of all people, has innate empathy for backache. A large percentage of her husband's salary has gone to a chiropractor in the past two years. I'm sure Mr. Authoress expected more tender treatment at the hands of his sister-in-law.

"So, how did you do it?" she asked.

"I was putting on my underwear."

My sister's laughter exploded from her mouth like a post-baked-beans fart.

I think my husband needs to change his story. Or at least modify his delivery. I mean, an underwear accident borders on the ridiculous. One immediately thinks of leaks and spots and wedgies and other embarrassing things.

How about, "I was getting dressed," or "It happened after I got out of bed."? Or even, "I don't know." Just to completely save face, you know?

Why is my husband compelled to tell everyone that he was putting on his underwear?

No, don't answer that. I don't want to know.

He's feeling better now, I promise. Despite my lack of compassion. Despite his history of back attacks.

Goodness, though. We're not in our twenties, to be sure. But neither are we in our eighties. If he keeps hobbling around like this, people are going to talk. As in, why is that young, svelte chick hanging around with that old geezer?

Ah. A gal can have delusions, can't she? Especially when her husband has trouble putting on his underwear.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go stitch bright yellow warning labels inside my husband's skivvies.

Life's Little Annoyances

So my husband decided to take out a new insurance policy on me.

No, I don't think he's plotting anything. In his words, he's "trying to be prudent."

If you've ever dealt with life insurance policies, you'll know that one of the hurdles to overcome is a patently annoying, come-to-your-doorstep meeting with a local rent-a-nurse for a blood draw and questions about your health and/or penchant for deviant or death-defying behavior.

This morning, I had one of those. A blood draw, that is. It's just the way I wanted to begin my Tuesday morning.

I've been through this before. The first time, it couldn't help but strike me that the nurse at my front door -- the one who was hired to uncover any hidden health problems I might have -- was morbidly obese. By the time she'd walked the twenty paces to my kitchen table, she was completely winded. I felt like I should have been the one taking her pulse, and not the other way around.

In short, she was, without doubt, completely uninsurable.

Fast forward to this morning. I was already feeling annoyed because a) I couldn't have any coffee; b) I couldn't eat breakfast; c) I couldn't have any coffee; d) I had to put my entire morning on hold for a stupid 8:30 appointment in my kitchen; e) I couldn't have any coffee. Add to that the breakfast bread that decided not to rise and the fact that we were inexplicably out of butter, and I wasn't feeling too chipper.

And, too, I already had a distinct prejudice against Nancy, the rent-a-nurse who was on her way. Upon having spoken with her the night before, I discerned an unmistakable smoker's voice. In other words, it was completely shot -- as in, I could have auditioned for the part of Gollum but I was too busy sticking people with needles shot. I fully expected her to be overweight, diabetic, and addicted to hang gliding.

But Nancy arrived thin and nicely dressed, breathing normally and pupils not dilated. Of course, she still sounded as though she ate lit cigarettes for dinner, but I chose to overlook that in the hope that our little kitchen table meeting would be professional and, well, painless.

Because needles don't really bother me. Having to wait for my coffee is much worse than a needle.

To be fair to Nancy, she was friendly, accommodating, and halfway intelligent, the latter not always a given in these instances. She asked the (silly) questions and made me sign the (silly) forms, and she took two vials of blood without causing me the slightest bit of pain. I marvel at nurses who can do this. Seriously. No pain.

And then came the part I wasn't ready for. She wanted me to pee in a cup.

Normally, this isn't a problem. I drink a lot of water and I pee a lot. Except, I had just gone to the bathroom five minutes before Nancy arrived.

Oops.

I wasn't going to tell her that, of course. Especially after she took the time to demonstrate her special "squeeze the cup" technique for avoiding urine spills whilst pouring, and to hand me a latex glove to protect my gentile hand from pee splatters.

Golly, I was all set.

My bladder, on the other hand, wasn't. After squeaking out just enough urine to fill one of the small tubes, I returned to Nancy and sheepishly explained that I didn't have enough pee for the other tube.

"I'll just drink some water, though, and try again in a minute." I guzzled some water while Nancy watched, and felt utterly ridiculous. I mean, what human can will himself to urinate less than five minutes after emptying his bladder?

I made as much small talk as I could, all the while painfully aware that Nancy and I were both waiting for a signal from my recalcitrant bladder. Then I announced that I was ready to try again. I'm sure Nancy was ecstatic.

"Now, run some water in there," she said. "That always helps you go, you know? When that water's running."

Do tell.

Despite the fact that I have never found a correlation between running water and peeing, I turned on the tap so that Nancy could hear me taking her advice (and not hear me trying to pee). It was a grand effort. Really, it was. In the end, I came out with less than half an inch in the tube. I was sure that I'd failed.

"Policy denied. Reason: Failure to urinate."

But no! Nancy declared that there was plenty of pee in the little tube. She gathered up all my labeled bodily fluids and extended her hand for a farewell shake (that explained the glove). I don't think Nancy cared one fig about how much pee was in the container at that point. She was happy to take what droplets she was offered and leave.

Bye-bye, Nancy. Hello, coffee.

If this insurance policy isn't approved, I'm going to pee on someone's desk.