Exploring My Truth--Writer Style

I just finished reading an article posted to the Pittsburgh Mom website titled “Know Your Truth…and Stand by It.” It was written by blogger Heather Starr Fiedler who frequently finds herself defending her views and opinions online. She must know in her heart what is true for her and stand by it.

The timing of this article is interesting to me because just yesterday I told my husband, “I need a sense of direction.” I was speaking in terms of my career, which still doesn’t feel well-defined as yet, and which I feel (as a 40+-year-old person) should be by now.

My husband, being the helpful gent he is, pointed due north, and then south, east, and west.

“You are vastly unhelpful,” I said.

“You just need to pick a direction and stick to it.” Life always seems so black-and-white simple when I talk to my husband. And yet it rarely seems that simple in my own head.

So reading this blog post about knowing your truth has made me think: What is my truth? Who do I want to be? How do I want to identify myself as a writer? A novelist (my lifelong dream)? An eco-mommy blogger (my current pastime)? An essayist (my only “officially” published genre)?

I’ve struggled for a couple of months to come up with a cohesive website for my writing, but keep coming up short. How do I reconcile these various parts of my career into a cohesive whole, the “me” who is Sue Nelko Carr, writer? What is my truth as a writer?

I’m still narrowing that field down, but here are a few items for starters:

I am a wife and a mom of two.

I care deeply about raising my children in a chemical-free, healthy environment.

I am sickened by the state of our nation’s food production system.

I am a frugal, highly budgeted shopper.

I am working to reduce, reuse, and recycle more each day.

I enjoy exploring these ideas via the written word.

I also enjoy creating new worlds and new characters via fiction and would love to be a career novelist.

Because I am a wife and mother (and also hold down three part-time, paying gigs), I struggle to find the time to write anything most days.

So where do I go from here? Good question. One I will continue to explore (though which direction I’ll face during the process is still a mystery--thanks darling!). 

In the meantime, please check out my latest blog post for Mrs. Green’s World in which I explore the environmental benefits of the increasingly popular and deliciously frugal staycation. Enjoy!

Maine Attraction--part I

I've been neglecting my blog, and I feel badly about it. It's been a busy month, with school wrapping up for both of my children and for me. Yes, I've finally completed my MFA after three and a half fulfilling years, and I finished with a bang, if I may say so myself: 4.0 grade average and a Best Thesis Award to add to my resume. *Sigh*

Okay, enough basking. In the meantime, I've also begun a new gig as a freelance editor, in addition to attempting to carve out time for revisions on two novels, so needless to say, time has been of the essence.

But I hate to ignore my faithful readers. So as an interlude of sorts, I'll be posting some of my graduate school writings over the next couple of weeks for your reading enjoyment. And so, without further ado:

MAINE ATTRACTION (part 1 of 3)

by

Sue Carr

Anyone familiar with the state of Maine will tell you that it’s a haven for outdoor enthusiasts. Fishing, hiking, skiing, canoeing, bird watching, snowmobiling – it’s all there in the unspoiled majesty of the secluded wilderness.

Anyone familiar with me will tell you I’m not an outdoorsy girl.  

But when my husband, Dave, suggested a quiet week at the lakefront cabin where he vacationed as a child, I didn’t hesitate. After all, I loved watching Northern Exposure, and dreamed of visiting Alaska. From what I understood of it, Maine was a closer, slightly more densely populated version of Alaska. More importantly, I wanted to see a moose.

Don’t ask me why a decidedly non-outdoorsy girl has a thing for moose. Perhaps it’s the manifestation of a suppressed desire to commune with nature. Perhaps it stems from my love of our plush honeymoon accommodations at Disney’s Wilderness Lodge, decorated with carvings of northwest wildlife in the safe, civilized metropolis of Orlando. Or perhaps it’s sheer marketing prowess. Among the moose accoutrements I’ve been enticed to purchase over the years are a moose “welcome” sign, moose bedding, even a moose incense burner.

The idea of seeing a moose in the wild so thrilled me, in fact, that I apparently tuned out any further description my husband gave of this cabin in Maine.

We departed the Philadelphia suburbs before sunrise in mid-August. The five of us – Dave, his parents, his brother Scott and me – crammed into my in-laws’ early-90’s Chevy Cavalier for the ten hour drive. Being the smallest in our party, I took the “hump seat” sandwiched between my mother-in-law and husband in the back. Not a bad position for the first five hours or so, but after about seven, my ankles stiffened from trying not to infringe on anyone’s floor space, and my butt ached from hours in a seat not actually intended for human use. The thought of relaxing by the water at our lakeside cottage was all that kept me from jamming a heel into my father-in-law’s back when he passed yet another gas station in his quest to find gas a couple cents cheaper further up the road while the gas gauge flirted with “E.”

We approached Maine through the tumbling green peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountain range under unblemished skies. As we neared Howard Pond, we passed signs for the Sunday River Ski Resort. I daydreamed about our cabin nestled in ski resort country. Maybe there would be trails leading over to the resort, where we could hit tennis balls or do some sightseeing. Maybe we could make this a regular thing, summering in Maine for several weeks each year.

But we kept driving farther and farther from Sunday River, as signs of life became scarce. Every few minutes a careening logging truck would practically blow us off the road like a miniature clown car in a cartoon, but otherwise we passed no one.

Finally we turned onto the semi-paved road that snaked sharply upward into the dense woods. As we turned, we passed a forlorn clapboard structure resting by the side of the mountain advertising stamps and live bait. This, Dave informed me, was the only source of essentials for at least ten miles.

Surely he was exaggerating.

The exhausted Cavalier churned its way up through the forest on an ever-narrowing path. As we jostled up the road, I gazed at one lovely lake house after another, waiting for my father-in-law to pull over and announce that we had arrived.  Just as I thought the car might finally peter out, he veered into a patch of packed dirt outside a small brown cottage that resembled a child’s playhouse – and by “resembled” I mean “was approximately the size of.” This couldn’t be it.

I pried myself from the back seat, arched my stiff, aching back, and surveyed our lodgings. The cabin clung to a steep hillside amid the dappled sunlight of the forest. As we yanked our bags from the trunk, my mother-in-law pointed out places where this one twisted his ankle and that one got in trouble for hitting baseballs into the lake.

Built by a friend of the family back when people still built homes with their own two hands, the cottage felt like a playhouse even from the inside. The plank walls offered shelter from the elements, but no insulation (which is why, Dave explained, we visited in August and not October). The miniature kitchen could comfortably hold a person and a half. The bedroom with its gray woolen blankets held two twin beds in an “L.” The living area included a small table, low bookcases packed with Agatha Christie novels, and padded benches along two walls by the fireplace that doubled as twin beds. The scent of long-burning wood fires permeated every fiber of the cabin. I inhaled deeply. It was cute. Cozy. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Dave must have recognized the pained expression on my face, and pointed me to the bathroom. Thankfully the cabin had at least this amenity. I shut myself in, thankful for the privacy even if only for a few minutes. But I couldn’t sit down until I carefully inspected every crevice and beam for black widows, as anyone should in such situations. Surprisingly, I found none.

When I came out, I sat by Dave on the bench. “There’s no shower,” I pointed out.

“Right. I told you that.”

“You said there was a pump that brought water up from the lake.”

“Yeah, for the toilet and the sinks. I told you we could bathe in the lake.”

“You said we could.” I poked him in the shoulder. “You didn’t say we had to.”

He shrugged and stood up. “You heard what you wanted to hear.”

I followed him onto the narrow screened porch at the back of the cabin. My bathtub, a.k.a. Howard Pond, filled the valley before us. The calm pool of blue was more of a lake than a pond, truth be told. At least half-a-dozen hummingbird feeders dangled outside, decorating the view like jewels on a necklace. Several of the tiny birds hovered, sucking the sweet nectar left by our host. In the silence we could hear the buzz of their wings. I had never seen these delicate birds up close. When I stood next to the screen, I could feel the almost imperceptible breeze from their blurred wings. I found myself watching them fly, hover, drink, back up, fly, hover, drink. This wasn't the wildlife I had come to see, but they were intriguing. Fly, hover, drink. Fly, hover, drink.

Okay, maybe not that intriguing.

Unfortunately, the hummingbirds proved to be the main entertainment. We had no television (not that there would have been cable anyway), no internet (or anything resembling electronics aside from the coffee pot), and no cell phone coverage (although we did have a land-line telephone, the kind with a cord like the one I recently spotted at the Pittsburgh History Museum).

There weren’t even any moose grazing nearby.

We settled onto the porch to gaze on the still, blue lake. “So, what should we do?” I asked. Any vacation I had taken to that point involved the doing of something at any given moment – sightseeing, dining, amusement park thrill-seeking – at the very least, shopping.

Dave smirked. “This.” He sank further into his chair and sighed.

After about fifteen minutes of glancing from the hummingbirds to my family, waiting for anyone to do anything, I went inside. I pulled Murder on the Orient Express from a shelf, curled onto a bench, and dove in. I could do nothing for one day.

The Ten Things I’ve Learned from Teaching a Writing Workshop

As some of you know, I’ve been teaching a writing workshop to 5^th through 8^th graders at a local private school. It’s my very last task on the path to earning my Master of Fine Arts degree. Initially, I thought this would be a fun-filled romp through the creative process with eager, motivated students. But my experience thus far has taught me…well…

1.      Students at this age are often reluctant to voice their enthusiasm for any topic, particularly to the person in “authority” whose job it is to teach it to them. And especially if they happen to be among friends at the time. Let’s face it, most of the time it’s not cool to like school.

2.      Students at this age have no problem expressing their apathy, or complete hatred, for an academic topic—even to a nervous, brandy-new teacher—as discontent is always cooler than enthusiasm.

3.      Students at this age like to eat. If you want them to be creative (and even moderately enthusiastic), feed them.

4.      Much like giving instructions to a preschooler, specificity is key. Just like you can’t tell a preschooler to use the potty without including the instructions to a) wipe, b) flush, c) pull up your pants, and d) wash your hands—e) with SOAP—you can’t expect your students to write creatively without some sort of direction. In fact, the more direction you give, the cleaner the results. (Just like with the preschooler.)

5.      Even reluctant talkers become chatty when they get on a topic they truly love. I’ve found orcs and zombies to be of particular interest to my group.

6.      Students at this age (or any age, really) aren’t so big on take-home assignments, no matter how fun you make them sound. I allow time at the end of each workshop for in-class writing instead.

7.      As a novelist, I had grand plans for my students to chip away at large writing projects during our workshop, crafting characters, settings, and plots over the course of several weeks. Surely they’d be just as interested in creating epic stories as I am! Not so, actually. Short, quick-hit assignments work best.

8.      When you’re dealing with reluctant writers, throw out the criticisms for the time being. Tell them all the things they’re doing right. You’ll see smiles emerge, chests inflate, and fervor grow.

9.      Imagination in students at this age is boundless. Encourage them every way you can to unleash it.

10.  Students can be taught to love writing. I didn’t always believe this to be true, but it really is. Teach kids how to have fun with writing and they will respond with gusto.

We’re only halfway through, but already I feel I’ve gleaned a semester’s-worth of knowledge from these students. I can’t wait to see what other discoveries emerge in the coming weeks.

Eating the True Self Berry

During a freewrite in class the other day, I was reminded of a book I recently read to my daughter in which the main character has access to “true self” berries. When eaten, this miraculous fruit will reveal your true self, stripped of any pretense or deceptive self-image. When the villain of the story partakes of the berry, she turns into a warty toad, the personification of her slimy, detestable personality. The heroine, however, eats the berry to regain her wings and become the fairy she is meant to be. It occurred to me that most—if not all—of us could benefit from this amazing fruit. For how many of us fully recognize our true selves?

I thought of this story because, during this freewrite exercise, we were asked to meditate and imagine ourselves in a beautiful and peaceful place. I immediately pictured myself in Nova Scotia, sitting on the pier in Pictou, waves lapping at my feet, the clear blue sky arching overhead, and a colorful, bustling fishing village surrounding me. I remember sitting alone on a bench with the breeze tousling my hair, writing in my journal. What I find interesting in remembering this place as a peaceful one, though, is that I wasn’t happy in that moment. In fact, I was crying.

At that point, I was almost halfway through a 14-day field seminar with other graduate students from Chatham University. The trip was lovely, filled with exploration, natural beauty, and camaraderie. But my husband of almost 14 years (at the time) and my two children (6 and 2 at the time) were 2,000 miles away visiting my in-laws in Florida. And I missed them. Terribly. The sound of two toddlers frolicking behind me on the pier only magnified the hole in my soul at that moment, expanding it to a gulf, an un-crossable canyon.  

So how could this moment bring me anything close to peace? Because it was one of those moments that brings life into perfect clarity. During that trip, I had a rare opportunity to focus on me—my writing, my thoughts, my work as an artist—and nothing else. For fourteen days I didn’t have to wipe a face, scrub a toilet, answer an e-mail, or wash anyone else’s clothes. I felt, for the first time in a long, long time, that I could exist independently my traditional roles—mother, wife, daughter—because the people who defined me in those roles weren’t around to define me. I defined myself. It felt empowering.

And yet, in defining myself, I came to the critical realization that these roles are as integral to me as a heart is to a body. While there is a part of me that is only me—myself, my thoughts and the words I craft from those thoughts—that part of me is empty without those other roles. Who am I without the affection and love of my children? Without the support and guidance of my parents? Without the selfless and seemingly endless love of my husband? Without these influences, these roles, I am an entirely different person, someone other than my true self. And that’s something I would never want to be.

Making Changes

Tis the season to make some changes. Have you noticed? Promises and prompts to change ourselves abound at this time of year. New Year’s resolutions. New year, new you. Out with the old, blah, blah, blah. The quantity of TV ads touting gym memberships, exercise balls, diet plans and workout videos is staggering. Department store ads bombard us with organizational mechanisms to help us finally whip our chaotic hoarding selves in order. Even schools join in, urging us to finally make that career change we’ve always wanted to make but never realized until we saw their ad. How could we not feel inspired?

I’m jumping on the change bandwagon myself, hauling my lazy bones out of bed a half hour earlier to do daily cardio, purging the sweet treats from the house, rearranging rooms (needless to say, my husband isn’t too excited about this one). But while change is exciting, it’s also difficult. Downright painful, sometimes, as my aching muscles can attest.

A particularly agonizing change I’m working toward right now is the revision of my first novel. You may remember this novel from my frustrated blog posts last summer in which I lamented the obvious poor taste and lack of vision espoused by the more than a dozen editors and agents who never even bothered to request the full manuscript, let alone offer me a six figure multi-book contact. Silly people. Or so I thought. But after a kind yet in-depth critique from my mentor, I came to realize that I had been the silly one. This novel wasn’t ready. It wasn’t even close. And here I was, trying to shove it down the throats of massively overworked agents who had at least fifty other manuscript packages – some good, many not – to slog through along with mine. And there would be another fifty the next day. And the next. When I finally looked at my piece with a more objective eye, I completely understood the many responses I received with the same basic message: “It’s well-written, but I didn’t fall in love with it.” An infuriating response at the time, but one that is becoming clearer to me the more I write. It’s one thing to master the mechanics of writing. It’s entirely another to grab readers, to make them care deeply about your main character, to laugh, to cry, to turn page after page after page. This, alas, is much harder to master. Thankfully, I now have an amazingly talented writing group to help me do just that.

My manuscript, originally planned as a young adult novel, is now becoming a middle-grade novel (which, apparently unbeknownst to me, it was all along, except that I never let my word count know). And so the main goal in revising is to cut. Cut the introspection, cut the flowery language, cut long narrative passages, cut, cut, cut. Stephen King said it best, I think, when he compared manuscript revision to slaughtering children (as only he would). Ripping out phrases I worked tirelessly to craft because they don’t fit the character or my target readership is excruciating. They were such lovely phrases, after all. Surely they should be read by someone other than me.

But it’s a necessary process. And strangely rewarding. In fact now that I’ve begun, I make it a personal goal to cut X amount of pages from each chapter, and I find I’m merciless in hitting that goal, no matter how many “darlings” I have to sacrifice, because once I’ve slashed a chapter, I immediately see the improvements.

It’s a painful process, but worth it in the end. As most change is.

Scheduling Success

Since my last post (which, I realize, was several weeks ago already), a number of you have asked for an update on my “week of no solitaire” and my new highly scheduled life. I am proud to say that, since posting my last blog, I have wasted not one single moment on solitaire, mahjong, Sudoku, or any other similar time-sucking activities. (Although, you may have guessed from my recent lack of blogging that I neglected to include “write blog” to the schedule. I have since rectified that problem.)  

Since instituting this new system, I have achieved record-setting writing productivity – approximately 100 pages of writing over a two-week period. A little over 80 pages of that went into my thesis, with another 8-10 going toward other projects. Whew!

Now, granted, the thesis needed to get done. I had set a deadline with my director, and I was determined to make it, no matter what. Merely sticking to the schedule wouldn’t have cut it. I spent many consecutive late nights typing like a crazy person. But the schedule helped me stay on track during the days and accomplish all the other things that needed to get accomplished at the same time. So, overall, I’d call it a success.

I have since added a helpful element to my scheduling: the “to-do” list. Not a novel invention on my part, I know. But up until now I have only utilized to-dos at the very busiest times of my life when I have a million things to get done in a short time and forgetting something could be catastrophic: my wedding; preparing for the births of my children; Christmas; every time my neat-freak brother-in-law comes to visit.

I’ve discovered that these useful little tools, just by the fact of their existence, prompt me to accomplish things I wouldn’t have otherwise. It’s as if writing a list and sticking it on the fridge makes each task mandatory, as opposed to some idea I’m just toying with. I feel obligated to cross items off, and if I don’t, I feel I owe an explanation to myself and others as to why tasks didn’t get done. What could possibly have been more important than washing the insecticide gunk off the windows? Why didn’t I get around to re-potting the fall flowers? And could anything really have been more important than mopping the floors? (Well…)

Now that the schedule is in place and my thesis is drafted, it’s time to move forward. The revision schedule starts now: 5-6 revised chapters each week for the next six weeks. At the same time, I’ll be writing personal essays, juvenile poems, and short stories for my independent study. Mix in with that trips to the pumpkin patch, Halloween parties, a quick trip to visit Nana and PopPop, plus the very real possibility that I’ll once again host Thanksgiving, and it’s shaping up to be a busy fall. But I love every minute of it. And with the help of my schedule, everything should get done on time with a relative level of sanity.

So what about you? How will you keep yourself sane and organized this fall?

"Free" is Easily Wasted

I’ve been noticing lately how a remarkable amount of my “free” time gets mysteriously wasted each day. I start off with the best of intentions: exercising first thing, showering and dressing before my husband leaves the house, getting my daughter to the school bus on time with (usually) everything she needs.

Then it all falls apart.

While my little one catches his favorite Disney Junior shows, I check e-mail. Two to three hours later, I finally get off the computer, having answered e-mails, investigated several lucrative e-mail offers, checked Facebook, “liked” several posts, replied to several more, clicked on one too many YouTube links, checked CNN and the Weather Channel for major happenings, and caught up on my blogs.

Yep. Two to three hours of nothing, really.

Then I’ll get up and do a few chores before lunch. After little one has eaten and is lying down for his nap, I repeat an abbreviated version of the morning computer routine before starting to write. But wait – before I start to write, I need to play just a couple games of solitaire, you know, to get the creative juices flowing.

An hour later, I start to write. By then, I only have maybe an hour before little one wakes up, my daughter gets home from school, and the homework/dinner/bedtime routine kicks in. Many days, as I’m anticipating my darling husband’s arrival, I have to wonder, “What did I really do today?”

It’s been said a million times: we all have 24 hours in the day, and none of us knows how many of those 24-hour days we have in front of us. So why on earth would I squander a single moment of any of them? Let alone many, many, many moments?

So here’s the deal. For the next week, I have created a schedule for myself (no, I will not post the schedule as I’d like to keep that little bit of crazy to myself) on which I have blocked out every minute of every day. Some of the blocks are for things like checking e-mail and blogs, reading, and working on my Sunday crossword. But other blocks are for actual seriously productive activities, like tackling the spring cleaning list I never got to in the spring. Or working on the Christmas stocking for little one that’s been sitting in a box under my bed for three years. Or – gasp! – writing. And for the entire week, I will avoid at all costs playing solitaire.

So who’s with me? What activities are sucking the time and productivity from your life? Could you swap them for activities that are more meaningful and fulfilling?

Let’s live every day – every moment – to the fullest. I don’t expect anyone ever cried from their deathbed, “If only I’d played more solitaire!”

What's Your Guilty Pleasure?

The other day, I was searching for a piece of writing I’d done a while ago. This is usually an easy task, because I’m meticulous about organizing my electronic files. I utilize folders and subfolders religiously, and have each piece of writing filed not only by subject matter, but by title and draft number. So it’s usually pretty easy to find files.

But then I noticed a folder I’d created a while back called “other writing.” I honestly had no idea what I had tucked into this folder, so I clicked it open. In it, I found several projects from an undergrad public relations writing class I took about ten years ago, and a file I titled “momlit.”

Oh, yes. My attempt at a chick lit novel.

Now, for those who aren’t familiar with it, the “chick lit” genre became popular within the last ten years or so, and incorporates the many aspects of modern womanhood. They tend to be lighthearted and humorous, and often feature career and/or relationship entanglements that get their heroines into marvelous scrapes reminiscent of a good romantic comedy. Think Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones books, Sophie Kinsella's Shopoholic series, or the Emily Giffin Something Borrowed series. They tend to be wildly popular, and yet are generally frowned upon by the literary community as commercial, sub-par fluff. A guilty pleasure, if you will.

 A subgenre of chick lit, “mommy lit,” takes a similar lighthearted look into the unlikely antics of young moms. This is what I had started in my file, “momlit.” I started working out a storyline for this book back when my 7-year-old was still attending Gymboree and my world was all about new-mommyhood.

When I peeked at the file this weekend, I was pleasantly surprised by my own diligence. As a compulsive planner and thought-organizer, I had not only sketched out the overall idea of the book, but had created a sixteen-page chapter-by-chapter outline that explored character motivations and followed the progression of various subplots. Yea, me! Why had I put aside a project on which I had already spent so much time?

And then I remembered – grad school. Once I started grad school, I not only increased my writing workload, but I also became more critical of the writing I produced. MFA students, after all, don’t write chick lit.

But why not? I enjoy reading it. In fact, when I allow myself to read it, I devour it at about twice the rate as the healthy “literary” stuff. It’s like drinking Shamrock Shakes at McDonald’s every March. I know they’re filled with all sorts of artificial ingredients, calories and fat, and yet when they come back each spring, I consume as many as possible. They make me happy, like a guilty pleasure should.

Why are we embarrassed by our guilty pleasures? Why can’t a grown woman admit to enjoying a Shamrock Shake? Or a vampire romance? Or watching people eat toilet paper on reality TV? And why shouldn’t a perfectly respectable MFA student write a humorous novel about the wacky, tumultuous life of a new mom? I say there’s no shame in guilty pleasures. We should slurp them down with our heads held high.

So what’s your guilty pleasure? Shout it out and own it. Then, you have my permission to go indulge.

Journeys

This morning on my walk up the “really big hill,” I got to thinking about journeys.

We just returned from a trip to visit my in-laws in Florida; two weeks in the brilliant sunshine living a life of relative leisure, where we traveled frequently by golf cart, began each day with a swim, and spent our afternoons playing dominoes or visiting zoos and museums. I didn’t have to cook or clean a thing, I barely touched my hairdryer, and I wore hardly any makeup. It’s amazing how freeing life in a retirement community can be. And yet, it was not exactly the trip we had originally planned.

The trip we had been discussing for months over dinner each evening was supposed to be a cost effective road trip to Nana and Pop Pop’s. It morphed into something far greater, with multiple days at Disney World and an unexpected purchase of airfare to save my ever-temperamental back. Worth every penny, but not what we had planned.

Journeys are like that, whether they be literal trips or the more figurative life journey we all share. You begin planning with one destination in mind (a no-frills trip to Florida, a career as a lawyer, retirement in a sunny locale where the grandkids will visit often), but more often than not, the plan gets changed up multiple times, sometimes significantly, before the destination is reached. If it’s reached at all. Road trips become flights, jobs get eliminated, dreams get reshaped to fit our circumstances.

When this summer began, I set lofty personal goals. I would finish a complete draft of my thesis. I would visit key destinations for project research. I would sell that pesky novel that’s been in the works for years. I would train for a 5K. I would bike daily. In my spare time I would start a new middle-grade novel. Ah, summer.

Then a herniated disk killed any chance of running to the end of my block, let alone in any kind of race. My one attempt to swing my leg over my bike laid me up for days. The novel I thought was so thoroughly complete…well, it turns out, wasn’t. And the thesis? Turns out, writing with the kids home from school is harder than I thought.

Did I expect the derailments? Of course not (though my loving husband would tell me I should have, since I always plan to accomplish way more than is humanly possible and end up disappointed). But I’m rolling with them. I still have the month of August to work furiously on my thesis (maybe Grandma can log some serious babysitting hours). I can still squeeze in a trip to Ellis Island (if my brother agrees to put me up). The editorial comments on my novel will ultimately make it a far better piece to send out into the world. It will all be good.

And as for my back, Julius at Rehab Services assures me he’ll have me feeling better than my old self as soon as he can, with core strength like I’ve never had before. Hooray! Though I wish I could have arrived at that destination via a different route. Ah, journeys.

In the meantime, I scale the “really big hill” every morning on my journey to recovery. It’s a workout, akin to a Stairmaster; it often makes me sweat; and it’s frequently painful, because I don’t take my pain meds until after breakfast. But I have to say, the view from the top is always worth it.

Journeys are like that.

Everything I really need to know I learned from my Daisy Scout

This past weekend, my daughter became a Brownie. She was baked in a cardboard oven as a Daisy, and popped out in her brown vest, ready to take on all the new adventures of Browniehood. I’m so proud of her for being a scout, and for all the good work these girls have done over their past two years as Daisy Scouts.

The Daisy Scouts are the kindergarten and first-grade arm of the Girl Scouts, and help initiate young girls into the world of scouting. We played games, sang songs, ate lots of snacks (some healthy, some not so much…) and learned about everything from guardian angels to the American Revolution. Our little girls made snack bags for the homeless, took Christmas gifts to dementia patients at a local senior care facility, and donated cookies to our troops overseas.

I’m amazed how many times my daughter will reference lessons from her Daisy meetings while doing everyday stuff. When she sees friends being unkind, she’ll say, "She's not being a sister to every scout!” Or she’ll pat herself on the back for turning off lights or putting her plastic bottle in the recycle bin, saying “I’m using resources wisely.” She proudly displays her Daisy vest, adorned with colorful petals, each representing a lesson learned from the Girl Scout Law.

It got me thinking: the lessons these young scouts learn are applicable to all of us, every day of our lives. They could even apply to, say, writers. Take a look at the Girl Scout Law they’ve been studying over the past two years, and you’ll see what I mean.

I will do my best to be

honest and fair – in what I write and in my critiques of others’ writing.

friendly and helpful – by offering advice and mentoring to students and colleagues who ask for it

considerate and caring – by lending support to fellow struggling writers

courageous and strong – so I can continue to hold my head high when the rejections start pouring in

responsible for what I say and do – on, say, a blog, or a work on nonfiction that could mar someone’s reputation (mine included)

and to

respect myself and others – and never get down on myself or my colleagues just because we haven’t published anything recently

respect authority – by considering the advice of agents or editors who offer it, even when I’m sure my work couldn’t possibly be improved

use resources wisely – by doing my research and only querying agents or editors who may actually have an interest in what I’ve written, rather than querying blinding and wasting everyone’s time

make the world a better place – by writing works that uplift, educate, entertain, offer insight, or otherwise make a positive impact on my readers

and be a sister to every Girl Scout [writer] – by feeling genuinely happy for my colleagues when they experience success, rather than white-hot jealousy that it wasn’t me - not that I’d ever feel that way J.

Words to live by, I think. So glad my daughter does.

To Freelance, or Not To Freelance?

Back in the day, when I first left my high-powered job in higher education marketing and public relations (chuckle, chuckle), I began freelancing, with a focus on the business sector. Brochure copy, website copy, that sort of thing. I’ve been thinking lately that I should get back to it.

And then I think maybe not.

There are definite “pros” to freelance business writing, in my experience. It’s quick, clean, and easy. You get an assignment, you’re given most (if not all) of the information you need to put the assignment together, you have a deadline, and, after a relatively brief period of time (a couple days, a week, a month) you turn in the assignment. After another brief wait (in most cases a month, but possibly longer) you get paid. Usually a tidy sum of money. Certainly more than most fiction writers are used to seeing in a single check.

But there are some “cons” as well. Resentment being one of them. Now why, you might ask, would anyone resent something as innocuous as freelancing? Especially if it pays well?

Because it ate up my writing time with projects I didn’t care about.

I posted a while back about the limited time I have each day to write. Two or three hours in the afternoon, on a good day. Often less. This is the challenge of writing with small children in the house (and being “blessed” with the super-human ability to fall asleep anywhere, any time, typically around nine o’clock in the evening). So each day during my freelancing career, when I’d sit down to write up a brochure on asbestos removal or prepare web content on Pennsylvania’s fresh water fisheries, I would grumble inside, “I should be working on my own stuff!”

So I stopped. I dedicated myself to my creative work. I started graduate school to fully immerse myself in the experience. And I’ve felt fulfilled ever since.

But, as anyone who writes creatively will tell you, while the personal/emotional/spiritual rewards can be great, the monetary ones are…well, not so much (typically). Take my novel, for example. I’m going on six years of uncompensated writing time. Granted, I haven’t been plugging away at it forty hours a week over those six years, but I’ve logged at least a couple hundred hours on this piece. This piece that hasn’t yet earned me a dime. And might never.

That’s the rub of creative work. It may or may not ever pay off, financially speaking. And that can be frustrating when you’re trying to keep two sprouting kids in long-enough pants, a never-ending list of school supplies, and dance/karate/soccer/scouting fees on a single income.

Hence my reason for pondering freelancing again. I’d love to hear thoughts from others walking the walk.

Writing is a Team Sport

Anyone who says that writing is a solitary activity is missing a huge piece of the equation. The writing group.

A few nights ago, I got together with three of my MFA girlfriends to talk craft and give feedback. I submitted pieces of two projects: the first three chapters of an early middle-grade chapter book, and the first three chapters of my ill-fated, oft submitted but never requested, 5-years-in-the-making young adult supernatural mystery novel.

Which I learned, by the way, is not a young adult novel at all. But, of course, I didn’t know this on my own. I had to be told this by my mentor and advisor who reviewed the manuscript for me only a week or so ago. How did I not know this? I mean, I was always told that the age of the main character determines the age of the readership because kids like to read about characters who are their age or older. My main character is fourteen. Ergo, young adult. Right?

Not so, people. The content and tone of the manuscript do far more to determine the readership. So even though my character is fourteen, which would place him squarely in the young adult category, the content and elements of the book are clearly middle grade, for a plethora of reasons I won’t go into here. But I couldn’t see this on my own.

I also couldn’t see, in this manuscript about which I have been querying and submitting furiously over the past six weeks, that I need a chapter prior to the first chapter to make the readers care about the main character before he’s plunged into the darkness of the spirit world. After all, if your character falls into peril before the reader gets to like him, who’s going to care? Of course, what I remembered from all my years of writing instruction is to begin in the heart of the action. Start with a bang at the moment of change. I thought I was doing the right thing. Why couldn’t I see it?

Because I needed objective eyes, which I could not possibly have after honing this manuscript for five (almost six) years. Sometimes it takes that outsider’s perspective to shed light on the dark spots that only appear gray after you’ve looked at them for so long.

Thankfully, I now have many objective eyes. I just hope I remember to never, ever send out a single piece of writing again without running it past my amazing writing group first.

To Do Before 40: An Updated List

I celebrated a birthday last week (don't worry, I wasn't expecting a gift), and it occurred to me that I'm getting frighteningly close to that mid-life milestone: 40.

I have to admit, there are moments when I feel every bit of my age, and then some. My former bookstore job where my youthful coworkers regularly swapped stories about barroom revelries provided many of those moments. And grad school. Almost no one else in my classes has children or can relate to temper tantrums, potty training, and the fact that I had to miss John Green's apparently amazing presentation at the Carnegie because it was the same night as my 7-year-old's sleepover.

And yet there are times when I still feel like a kid myself. I mean, I have homework and writing projects. I get graded and commute to campus. The hubby and I still gear up for Pitt football games. In fact, there are fleeting moments when I look around and wonder, “Who put me in charge of these children? Don't they know I don't have a clue? And this house? Last I knew, I was living in a 7^th floor apartment on the 71A line with my college sweetheart and a cat.”

Alas, here I am. And as I approach the Big 4-0, I'm reminded of a list I made back in high school of all the things I wanted to accomplish before I hit 30. I haven't been able to dig up the list amidst all my scribbled notebooks (yes, I still have many, many scribblings from high school...), but I seem to recall a few of the items:

Ride in a hot air balloon

Try hang-gliding

Travel to England

Publish my first book

Become the youngest person to win the Academy Award for best screenplay

Attempt an Everest climb

I achieved precious few of the items on my list. Perhaps it's because these lists tend toward the dramatic. I mean, hang-gliding? Who does that? And Everest? (Well, from what I understand, you can pretty much pay your way up there nowadays, but still.)

At least I made it to England.

Notably absent from the list were things like getting married, having children, buying a house and establishing myself in any kind of stable career that would actually earn an income. I suppose I figured all those things would work themselves out.

And they have. Thankfully, since those have been some of the most pivotal and meaningful developments in my life.

Still, I've decided to revamp the list for 40. Here goes:

1. Have at least one of my manuscripts accepted for publication by a reputable publishing house.

Yeah, that's pretty much the only thing I feel is missing from my life right now. The rest is icing on an already amazingly delicious cake.

I have two years to do it. Wish me luck!

Time to Knock Off the Pity Party

I've been hosting a gala pity party for myself over the last week or so. Among other things, I've been dealing with congested, runny-nosed children sleeping fitfully and acting fitfully; an aggravated sciatic nerve that triggers sharp pains down my leg and has brought all spring cleaning and other household projects to a screeching halt; and fourteen manuscript queries submitted without a glimmer of interest from anyone. Granted, I've received positive feedback from the folks who took the time to respond beyond a form letter (if they responded at all):

“Great title.”
“Fast pace.”
“Creepy atmosphere.”
“Strong writing.”
“Well-thought-out story.”

But the letters all end the same way. “Unfortunately, the story just didn't grab me the way I wanted it to.”

Which makes me want to reach out and grab them and demand, “But what does that MEAN?” How do you fix a story that doesn't grab someone? Are the characters at fault? Is there too much description? Not enough action? I set up teenage angst, introduce ghosts, and reveal a murder within the first twenty pages. What doesn't grab?

“Couldn't you go back to some of these folks and ask them for more specific details?” a friend asked. I smiled at the sweetness of her suggestion. Then I explained that most agents state in their submission guidelines that they’re too busy to respond to everyone, and a non-response should be interpreted as non-interest, so I didn't think any of them would take kindly to providing additional feedback on a manuscript they didn't want in the first place. I don't want to get blackballed from the literary community before I've even entered it. And so I must struggle with this question alone.

And with back pain.

And frequently interrupted sleep cycles courtesy of little congested noses.

Thus my pity party.

But, as all parties must come to an end, so shall mine. I attended a thesis reading last night spotlighting all of the new graduates from my MFA program. I watched a dear friend and amazing writer win the best thesis award while combating her intense fear of reading in public. My heart swelled for her. She wrote a magical thesis and deserved the honor without question. And she made it through without a stumble.

I also spoke with my advisor and mentor about my submission dilemma. “At what point do I need to step back and reevaluate the manuscript?” I asked her. I hoped against hope she'd tell me I just hadn't submitted to the right person yet.

“I think you've reached that point,” she said. My heart sank to the floor. Then she asked, “Would you like me to read it for you?”

And suddenly, a light at the end of the tunnel. Others have read the manuscript for me – other writers like me, who are struggling to pave their own paths into the world of publishing. But here was an actual published author – not to mention incredible woman and dear friend – offering to take time out of her summer break to read my manuscript and make suggestions.

What a gift! Naturally I'm taking her up on the offer.

The colds are clearing up. I'm icing and stretching my back regularly. And I'm using this past “down” week to remind myself that, in the big scheme of things, these problems are minuscule and temporary, and if they are my biggest problems, I am truly blessed.

And I am.

Mother's Day

In addition to the many writing blogs I follow, I check in regularly with several motherhood blogs. I try not to do this too frequently because, though they can be uplifting, I find they often tend to foster deep feelings of inadequacy. If you’ve read some, you’ll know what I’m talking about: glowing posts about amazing holiday craft projects, details of outings to educational locales, photos of family bike treks through the national parks of America.

I love my children, and as an at-home mom I have oodles of time to dedicate to them. But where others seem to pack their days with activities straight off the pages of Family Fun magazine, my days tend to be loaded with things like grocery shopping, scrubbing toilets and doing endless loads of laundry thanks to the repeated failed attempts at potty training my three-year-old. (Which, by the way, I have not managed to tackle with the loads of positive energy advised by the complimentary potty-training DVD I received in a package of disposable training pants.)

Am I a bad mother because I don't scrapbook or take the kids to the museum regularly? Am I failing at my job because I snap at my kid when I have to change his wet bedding for the second time that day? Am I scarring my daughter because I don't sit with her at the table to color with her, but instead glance over periodically as I dry the dishes or make dinner?

I hope not. Because when a morning like yesterday comes along, with two rosy-cheeked little kids crawling into my bed with gifts, cards, hugs, and giggles, it reminds me of what really matters, and that there's nothing I'd rather be doing, even with all the daily trials and challenges.

I’m not alone, as a friend reminded me today. She passed on this link to a 2005 article from Newsweek written by Anna Quindlen about the overly high bar set for mothers today, and how we should all keep in perspective what is truly important. Cheers, Anna!

How does this relate to writing? Because writing is one of the activities that “steals” time from my kids. In the afternoons, from lunchtime until about four in the afternoon, when I could be crafting castles out of popsicle sticks with my daughter or drilling my son on alphabet flashcards, I write. I put my son for a nap and instruct my daughter to find some way to amuse herself and stay out of my hair. Mean mommy? Maybe. But, honestly, like Anna Quindlen, I can remember only rare occasions when my mom sat down to play with us, and those occasions usually happened over a board game after homework and dinner. In the afternoons, we were on our own – outside, if the weather at all permitted.

So no, not a mean mommy. In fact, in many ways, a better mommy, because I could never be a happy mommy if I felt I was sacrificing my dreams.

Luckily, my daughter understands. Many days she spends her quiet time making up stories, too.

On the Hunt

I have written my first novel.

I have a friend who tells me I should revel in this fact, soak it in, glow a happy glow. After all, as someone who shares a home with a 3-year-old and a 7-year-old, I’m lucky most days just to finish a sentence, let alone a novel.

And yet I have this pesky dream that’s been nagging at me for, oh, a few decades now. I want to be a published children's author. Preferably a world-famous, award-winning, beloved-by-children-everywhere author. But for the moment I’d settle for the simple publishing contract.

“But, you’ve written a book,” my friend says to me. “That’s the hard part. That’s the part so many people talk about doing but never do. And you’ve DONE it. That’s a big deal!”

While I appreciate his enthusiasm, I can’t resist pointing out one simple fact: that until I put my work out into the world where people can read it, it’s simply a really huge Word file on my computer.

So why not put it out there? Why not self-publish, or e-publish?

I’m going to defer this question to Amanda Hocking, the teen fantasy e-publishing sensation who has gotten a good deal of press lately for the large sums of cash she has raked in by self-publishing her own e-books. To paraphrase her blog entry from March 3^rd (which I highly recommend you read to get a good, solid handle on this topic), the marketing and promotion of her work takes so much time that she has little left for anything else. Including writing.

Remember those two young people I mentioned who live with me? They’d like to get at least some of my attention. And that husband guy – him, too. So self-publishing isn’t a route I choose to take, for my own sanity and the avoidance of a mutiny when no one has eaten for a week because the groceries really don’t magically restock themselves.

Thus I’ve begun the process of seeking an agent or an editor (preferably both) for my first novel: a young-adult supernatural mystery about a fourteen-year-old boy haunted by the recent death of his brother, and by ghosts long dead from his town who have a dark mystery to reveal – and whose secret history closely intertwines with his own present life.

I’ve been honing this novel for a little over five years. Granted, I didn’t write non-stop for five years. I took large chunks of time off for things like moving houses, birthing babies, earning a master's (still in process) and starting a travel business (which I have since left – what was I thinking?). I was told once by a fellow writer that the first book is the most difficult. I guess he was right, since I finished a draft for my second book in only 3 ½ months – younger audience, shorter book, and only a first draft, but still very promising.

So I’m on the hunt. Eleven queries sent so far. I’ll use this blog to keep you all posted on my progress, as well as to toss out other tales of life in general. I hope you’ll enjoy!