Today's work dilemma is the inability to remember early parts of the book and to make sure I'm not repeating myself.  Ever had that problem?

Oh, sure, I made a real time chart with the chapter chart and keep track of the events, but the brain feels as though everything's floating around and nothing's settling. 

Not to be punny, but it's very . . . unsettling.

So here's my solution, such as it is:  I just force myself to stay heads down in the mess until somehow it starts to register, starts to make sense.  I continue to keep track on my book chart--you know, the one with time of day, weather, events in the chapter, where the romance is at that point in the book, where the mystery is at that point--and then I simply hope.

Hope that doing the work will make it all come out.  Hope that the brain's not as flaccid and grey as it feels.  Hope.

Yeah.  Hope's good.

So.  What do you do?

Just for fun, I'm going to add this picture of my kindergarten school.  Now imagine, all day (I think!), with afternoon naps.  We'd take our wee mats, lay them on the floor, and curl up for however long.

I look at this picture and it's unbelievable to me now that the place was so deserted, so small, so. . .countryish.  That's not how I in my grown up persona remember the little kindergartner trudging into the building, mat rolled up and sporting flowered shorts and matching top.  Homemade by my mom from flour sacks at the local feed store.

Yep. 

But, really, they were the good old days.  Really!

And my current fashion sense is much improved over feed store flour sacks.

I think.

Well, a lot has happened and here we're barely into spring.  But that's the nature of life, isn't it?  It just. . .happens.

This past week my baby sis had a heart attack.  She's going to be fine, is fine now, but, wow, talk about being slapped upside the head by a life event.  I love her so much.  She's the best, the absolute best.  We're not at all alike, poles apart on so many issues, but sisterhood transcends all that "stuff," you know? 

She's my time machine, the last person alive who knows me from almost the very beginning.  What a gift that is.  What a gift she is--she's kind, generous, loving.  I don't know anyone who works harder, who's more honest, who's more responsible.  I've often wondered how I got so lucky, to have a sister such as she.

At any rate, I guess my brain's locked onto the idea that we should make sure each day's emotional bank account is balanced.  That we let people know what they mean to us, that we don't let pettiness become a road block to the reality of a person, of what that person means to us.

Anyway, if you're on the outs with anyone, think about whether or not you can find a way to resolution of the difficulties, a way to let the annoyances and irritations of interaction vanish.  Maybe it's possible, maybe not.  All I know is that when a person's gone, you don't get a chance for a do-over.

Just saying.

Oh, boyohboyohboy.  What a strange day it's been.  A temperature drop from yesterday of almost 40 degrees, plunging us into quite cold and curl-up-in-front-of-a-fire mode.

Which I think I'll do after I finish the pages for today.

I'm at that point where it just feels like slogging through mud to get to the end.  I want to be the hare, racing along, zipping to the end, not the tortoise.

But, like the hare, I've gone off track while the tortoise has slowly and steadily plunked its feet down and crawled on.

My lesson for this month?

Be the tortoise, not the hare.

But, goodness to godness, Miz Agnes (as we say down home), I sure do want that zipping along in the breeze rush!

Nevertheless. . . . 

Just finished readingSarah Addison Allen's Sugar Queen. 

Since this is about books I like/liked, let me say that it's an example of magical realism, which may or may not be to your taste.  I liked it, though, but I lovelovelove Alice Hoffman's books which really rely on magical realism.

Not scary, but a bit atmospheric, Sugar Queen downplays the supernatural element in favor of a kind of sweetness, I'd guess you'd say.  I like what she does with her heroine's secret obsession with food and what enables Joesy to move away from filling up the emptiness in her life with food.  It's not heavy--sorry, no pun intended--on putting out a message, which was good.

Instead, the food references are sensory and part of the fabric of the story as Joesy becomes free enough to open herself to love and relationships and move on to a bigger--sorry, again!--life.

It also has a southern setting which is woven in nicely as almost a character, too.

It's a pleasant, non-threatening story of finding one's true self and told in a light, charming manner.

Am I sounding sort of lukewarm about it?  Maybe that's how it struck me.  But it was a nice Memorial Day read.

Going to start this new category of books I'm reading and recommending.  If you're interested, check in, comment, add your own recommendations, all right?  And, sidebar, here's a special irritation of mine--"all right" misspelled as "alright."

Whew, now that I have that off my chest (yes, I'd just read it in some book, and it really annoyed me, but then I'm crotchety about those kinds of things), on to GOOD READS.

I've recently finished Jennifer Greene's Blame It on Paris, and, as usual, I loved it.  Some of you know she's a friend of mine, so I'm predisposed to like her writing because I adore her.  However.  When it comes to The Work (capitalized because The Work is important!), I'm pretty hardnosed about recommending books.  I have to like it.  Have to think someone else will, too.  Maybe for the same reasons I do, maybe for different reasons.

On all counts, Blame It on Paris works.  I particularly love her way with the relationship and with her ability to create very appealing characters.

Greene firmly grounds me in a world where I'd like to live, a world where I'd have a heck of a good time.  Oh, yeah, and her books are very, very romantic! 

My other recommendation is Blythe Gifford's The Harlot's Daughter.   I don't read many historicals anymore.  Used to.  Not too many appeal to me these days, but I'm not sure why.  Adored the old Anya Seton historicals, the Laura Kinsale books.  But lately. . . .   Oh, well, who knows?

At any rate, Gifford's historical, set in the time of England's Richard II with all its machinations and court intrigue is a really well-done historical, but the spotlight is right there on the romantic relationship, which is very rich and powerful.  For you writers, I'm suggesting that you take a hard look at how she's shaped her conflict between the two main characters.

Man, talk about the "what's at stake" question--Gifford's put it on the pages.  In spades.  A page-turner.

Happy reading!

It's Sunday, late afternoon in the Chicago 'burbs, and I have both windows of my office open.  Tommy Dooley, the cat with poor bladder control--or should I say, the control's just fine, but he, um, expresses himself through anointing?--anyway, TD is perched on my desk contemplating the glories of a chilly spring day.  Me, too.

The day is my kind of day, really.  Overcast, quiet.  Nice.

I just finished doing a major scrubdown of the porch in order to get ready for an event we call CreativeFest, the brainchild of my author friend, Cathie Linz.  Some of us local authors and some out-of-towner author-friends get together for an intensive re-filling of the vampire-drained spirit.  Since the group's VERY funny and scary smart, there's a lot of laughter and a pretty steady barrage of giggles.  And by Wednesday night, lots of wine!

And those do as much for me as brainstorming an idea or running plot points by my colleague friends.  We do that, too, of course, but it's the "gathering" that does it for me.  An effect similar to the energy-sparking of Chicago North's Spring Fling--I wind up feeling more centered about writing, less angsty, less terrified that someone's going to find out how stupid and untalented and incompetent I really am.

If you're a writer, you know what I'm talking about.  There's always the sense that someone's going to discover the truth, going to find out what an imposter we are.

And if you have no clue what I'm talking about?  Lucky you!

So I'm feeling very creative and orderly here with my plants in place, my porch scrubbed, and things ready--except for the things that aren't! 

Hope you find something to spark your energy, your creativity, too.

And so, as Paul Simon sings, "Baby, I think too much," a quite appropriate song, actually, for writers!, I'm headed to the work computer.

All righty, then!  (I'm channeling Jim Carrey for some reason--go figure, huh?)

Come on over to Brenda Novak's auction for diabetes, www.brendanovak.com , and bid on stuff!  Lots and lots o' stuff!  (Am I sounding like a carnival barker???) 

There are wonderful items up for bidding, including reads and critiques from agents, editors, and authors.

Margaret Watson and I are offering a twofer.  In other words, each of us will read and critique the three chapters and synopis and then take the winning bidder out to a lovely lunch at National Conference in San Francisco.  We'll discuss the ms. first, and then any follow up can occur during lunch.  What a deal, huh?

Between us, Margaret and I have published over 37 books--I think.  Margaret might have completed and sold another one while I'm typing this up.  Yes, she works that hard.  Between us, we have 6 RITA nominations, a RITA, a number of other awards from various contests and RT, and a history in the biddness.

We're already up to $155, so someone's going to get an incredible deal, lemme tell ya!

Well,  folks, that about finishes up my Carnival Barker/Jim Carrey persona.  Seriously, though, our offering is quite a deal and well worth whatever you bid, even if I do say so myself.

In a state of panic.  Serious panic.  Only a few more chapters in the current WIP to edit and lock in.  I'm so anxious to get this project out that I'm almost sick to my stomach.

You know how it is when you're so close to the finish line?  So close to having something wonderful?  And yet there are still those last 100 yards or 20 feet, or five miles?

That's how I feel.  As though I'm coming home and can't quite slide into home base.

And I sure don't want the umpire yelling "OUT!" before I tag home plate!

Okay.  The plane reservations are made for National Conference, and I'm working on getting this current WIP out of the house before Tuesday, 05/20.  It will feel so good to have it. . . elsewhere, out earning its keep, as it were.  You know how it is--these offspring, whether of our minds or of our bodies, need to cut the apron strings and get out of the house and, yes, earn their keep, an odd, but interesting phrase.

If I sound a bit loopy, I am.  Had a heck of a time with today's NYT crossword puzzle (#0402), one Rex Parker ( www.rexparkerdoesthenyt.com ) deems "easy."  A pox upon 'im, guv!  (One of the words in the puzzle, BTW, and one I got).  So I feel quite stoopid.  I do the puzzles as part of my warm up for writing.  The crosswords access a different part of my brain, and I firmly believe force that sludgy brain of mine into more creative areas.

Anyway, that's my excuse.  And why shouldn't I find a way to re-frame play as work-productive?  Seems perfectly sensible to me.

And that ain't hay!  (Another puzzle answer)

Oh.  How much work did I accomplish today?  Hmmm.  Define "work"?

Wow.   Just locked in the air arrangements for the RWA National Conference.  Jennifer Greene and I are doing a presentation on "Power, Ours, Not Theirs," and I'm very excited about meeting new folks and re-connecting with wonderful writer friends and colleagues.

Jennifer's newest book, Blame It on Paris, is such a charmer.  Well, of course it would be.  She always writes wonderful characters you'd love to spend time with.  And of course it has her signature sexiness!

Anyway, she came up with the idea for the panel, and at first, I thought, what an impossibly difficult topic.  It's been fun, though, thinking about the nature of power, of what we can or can't control and how it makes us feel.  I think, too, of the power dynamic in family relationships between parents and children, between parters, within friendship circles.

It's an intriguing topic, and I can't wait to hear what she's going to say!  (And to figure out exactly what my thoughts are!)

By the way, if you have any thoughts on power, power of any kind, but especially power in relationship to your writing, feel free to weight in here--and I'll quote you at National if you permit.

My friend, Myrna MacKenzie, has been hosting a Blog on weddings because she and fellow authors have books with a wedding theme coming out.  Bless her heart, she asked for wedding stories, so I sent her pix and the "Tale of the $10 Wedding Dress," which she posted on their Blog.  She has also recently posted a wonderful, informative entry from a professional wedding photographer.  Gosh, so many good tips about handling wedding pictures, and, especially, dealing with the cost of them.

What's happened, though, is that all this talk of weddings has made me nostalgic.  Well, that and the fact that June 7th brings what would have been our mumblemumblethe number wedding anniversary.

So, just for fun, for memories, and for old times sake, I'm posting the ever popular cutting of the cake from our $100 wedding.  But it was worth it.  And if you want to read the story, go over to Myrna Mackenzie's author site and to her blog.  It's fun!

Enjoy the pix--and drink a toast on June 7th for me. 

Well, what a wonderful Conference I went to a week ago!  Chicago North's Spring Fling was fantastic.  The incredible Debbie Macomber and incomparable Eloisa James were there as was that bundle of energy, Christie Ridgway.  A number of agents and editors were there accepting pitches.

Today's fun soundtrack is sexy-hot Tim McGraw. Hoo, babee. I especially LOVE "Red Ragtop." It takes me back to the days of my youth.

Some writers can't write to music with lyrics.

I need the words in the background. They block out the other stuff going on in my head. I think perhaps I'm a bit weird--oh, what the hey, I KNOW I'm weird--in that I work best in my cocoon of noise all around me.

As long as no one talks to me. Or asks me for something. Or needs my help.

Noise is good.

Need is not.

The delightful weird of work.

In my case, anyway.

So. . . what I neglected to say in yesterday's post was that I, umm, I, well, I finally bit the bullet and sent some of the current WIP out.

Was I scared?  Oooh, boy, yessirree.

But the writerly life requires taking a leap of faith and jumping.  Just. . . jumping into the unknown.

Cross fingers, toes, eyes--hey, anything you can cross and wish me luck and continued confidence, will you?  Yikes.

 Working today to the soundtrack of O Brother Where Art Thou.  For some reason this CD really works for me whether I'm doing the walk at the health club or working in my office.  The lyrics somehow lodge in my brain and conjure up images and ideas.  At the moment, "You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine" is playing and I remember singing that over and over on car rides with my little sister.

 If you've never heard the wonderful, haunting "Didn't Leave Nobody but the Baby" as sung by the ethereal voices of Emmylou Harris, Alison Krauss, and Gillian Welch, you must.  It'll send shivers up your spine.

I can play this CD over and over without tiring of it.  Nostalgia?  Maybe a a call to my southern roots.  Who knows?

And I loved the movie. 

A dear friend gave me a CD of music from Desperate Housewives.  I play that one over and over, too.  Hmmm.  I seem to have a repetitive thing going here.  This doesn't sound good!

Writing--man, some days the voices aren't there, are they? 

Or the energy isn't there.  Or the need to go to that place where you can hear the voices loudly and clearly, where they provide the energy, and you can just slide into the zone.

I thought I'd be energized and rarin' to go after Rob and Emily left, expected that their visit would just lift me up and keep me flying right into that zone.  But here's the thing.  I miss having them here, miss the coming and going, miss the noise--although they're both so quiet that "noise" isn't the right word!

So I'm wading back into the icy waters of work.  You know, edging in, dreading the cold shock, holding my breath.

And outside, oh, outside my window, there's this perfect day calling me to come out and smell it, breathe it in, bathe in its colors.

If I were a surgeon, I wouldn't be looking out my window, would I?  If I were still teaching, I'd be racing around the room checking all kinds of things out, boogieing along at ninety miles an hour instead of sighing gustily and wishing I were outside digging in the dirt.

Well.  Back to work, huh?  Yeah.  Back to work.  Maybe I should pull the shade down. 

But I didn't.

Should have.

So here's the thing:  I adore Fall.  It's my favorite season.  I love the crisp, the cool, the smells.  Ah, bliss. 

I love the fact that new shows will be on TV, that there will be new stuff on the horizon.  I love the foods of Fall, the gorgeous flowers in the Farmers' Market--all those rusty mums and lovely oranges. 

How 'bout you?  Do you like Fall?  Or what's your I-feel-good season?