I can’t describe it to you, because I’m not that good a writer. Just kidding. Because I don’t want to offend any more people this week. It’s a goal. Let us just leave it at this: The hair? It’s weird.

And here’s the thing. I found myself trying not to stare at the weirdness thereof. So much so, that I sort of found myself missing the person’s words. Most of them. Like I couldn’t focus on the conversation, because I was Distracted.

Which begs this question: What’s my Weird Hair Issue? I’m pretty sure I don’t have generally weird actual hair. I have way more than my share of bad hair days, but not a noticeable penchant for doing strange things on top of my head. People are much more likely to be moved to sympathy/empathy by my hair than to be struck dumb and deaf with wonder at the bizzarrity of it all. But what is my thing? The thing that gets in the way of communication? Or completion? What is The Distraction?

I have a tendency to write far too many shoulder shrugs. My characters shrug a lot. A lot. This must cause some readers to throw my books across rooms in frustration. Although no one has ever actually approached me with this particular complaint, I imagine it’s out there. And I am working on it. I have a little shock-collar-and-siren arrangement hooked up for when I slip into shruggery. (That was a lie. I don’t have any such thing.)

Also, I lie. Mostly here, on the blog. Is that distracting?

Sometimes I make lists, and I find great satisfaction in crossing things off these lists. (Is that a good thing, like being organized? Or a bad thing, like serious overdependance on outside validations? Both? I’ll take it.) But sometimes I find my lists distracting me from actual completion of things. For instance: Can I count the words I write on the blog as part of my 1,000 words to be written today? The answer is NO. I can’t. But sometimes I do. Because I get to cross it off my list, and that is connected to a thoroughly distracting thrill.

Projects become tangential, and that’s distracting from the goal. Like, I need to deep clean the pantry (always), so I start taking things off shelves. I find a Halloween bucket in there. (Don’t judge. It’s a big pantry. Plus, I may have suggested that Kid 4 use a Halloween bucket as his Easter basket this year at Grandma’s house.) So I take said bucket to the basement, where there is a great storage room full of strange and wonderful and distracting items. Such as my high school yearbook, which is for some reason open on the floor, right next to a carton of powdered milk. No, I can not explain that. Thank you for asking. Eenie, meenie… I choose to pick up the yearbook. And look at a few pages. Two hours later, I pull my wretched bones up from the concrete floor, determined to reconnect with at least seven Dear Friends who must, must be on FaceBook. Cue the forty-five minute time-suck. Meanwhile, the pantry isn’t getting any cleaner. See the problem?

I could go on (and on, and on) but I’ve already passed half my necessary word-count for today. (Just kidding, Husband! Working! On the Manuscript! That’s what I’m doing! Completely!) But really, it’s an interesting thought to me – what’s the “weird hair” that gets in the way of my goals, wether they’re health-related, or parenting-based, or writerly, or something else altogether? And would it be helpful to me if someone pointed out that I do, in fact, have really weird hair?

—

NOTE: It would NOT be helpful. I have plenty of issues already. I do not need another one. Thank you.

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Remember New Year’s Eve? I do. Remember that here in the Frozen Mountaintops it was a balmy -11 (that’s negative eleven) degrees? At eight o’clock? I remember. It was very nice to be at the home of a radiant-floor kind of friend. And remember that Husband took Kid 1 and a few of her friends to the rec center for the big dance? Remember that? And that 15-year-old girls don’t like to wear coats? Because they’re going to be inside?

And then the minivan coughed, sputtered, wheezed, and collapsed?

Remember?

By a significant Godly mercy, Husband and the Coatless Ones were in the driveway of the W. family. Nobody froze to death (except possibly the minivan). Through a series of further significant mercies, the girls got to their dance, the minivan got into the hands of our mechanic friend, Husband returned to the gathering, and the year ended.

*Note: We are very blessed to have two cars. The aforementioned minivan, and Husband’s Mini Cooper (because we’re a mini family). And not to sound ungrateful AT ALL, but do you remember how many kids I have? And do you know how many seats a Cooper has? So what I’m saying is, we’d be fine minivanless, if Husband didn’t work 45 minutes away or it wasn’t many degrees below zero or our Kids could drive themselves places without parents in the car (because at least they could all fit). But as it stands, we need some help.

Enter my parents. Or not, really, because they’re in the Midwest (where it is at least 60 degrees warmer than it is at my house) playing with the Indiana family and the Ohio family. They have a car inside their garage – that garage that’s 40 minutes away from my house. Nobody’s using that car this week. Yea! So I said, Hey, Dad, can I borrow your car? To which he (naturally) responded, Sure, Bec, anything else? And since I’m a girl who’s easily satisfied, I said, Nah, thanks. Enjoy your vacation.

And then Husband and I went car looking.

Oh, I hope that is an adventure that you don’t have to engage in.

Misery. Humiliation. Hope-dashing madness.

**Drama Alert**

Hm. Sorry about that. But you know the feeling of having spent several months narrowing down the list of “next-car” ideas until you find just the right one, only to get to the lot, drool a little, check your teeth in the shiny paint job, and open the door and SMELL STALE CIGARETTE SMOKE? *Attention smokers: Thanks a lot. That is all.*

Every car we looked at, every one we drove, elicited the same response from me.

“Meh.”

So I gave up, sent Husband on his way to finish the job, and went and got my Dad’s car. I borrowed his house key from the neighbor to the west. She was lovely, truly. I thought, how nice to have such a lovely neighbor. I have lovely neighbors, too. But none of them has my house key. In fact, I don’t even have a house key. I just always use the garage. Hm. I wonder if that will someday come back to bite me? Nah. What are the odds of that happening? I got in the car. I fought with first gear. I won. I drove through the canyon, arrived home to single-digit temperature, but a bunch of sunshine, and then keyed my garage code into the little electronic pad on the wall.

Nothing.

Not even a flash of light telling me that I’d somehow put in the wrong code.

I punched it again. Seventeen times. Nothing. I walked through the Path of Awesomeness that Kid 4 made for sledding. I found the kitchen door locked, which I pretty much expected, since I’m the one who locked it. I went around to the front door. Bolted, as it should be when I leave town. I kicked a wall for a while. Then I called Husband and whined. He laughed. And said that he was sorry. And told me to pry the key-pad apart and replace the battery (by going to the store to buy a 9-volt battery just like the ten that are in his locker, right inside the sealed garage door). But I couldn’t get the keypad to open.

To recap: I don’t have a house key. My garage door opener is in the dead van, locked up at our mechanic friends (secondary) shop, where nobody is working. I have an extra key, of course, and it’s right there, inside the house.My stupid keypad is dead. I have a trunk full of produce from Costco, which is liable to freeze.

*Sniffle*

Husband tells me he’s pretty sure there’s a window unlocked. I snort that snort of disbelief. No way. I lock those leaky windows tight as soon as winter hits. I tell him this as I trudge (oh, yeah – you better believe I was trudging) through knee-deep snow to the base of the window he mentioned. Off of which I jimmied the screen (without any visible damage, thank you). I pushed. The window opened.

!

!!

I know. I thanked my clever Husband and went to find some small Kids (walking home from school) who would be light enough to boost over my head and into said window. They didn’t actually recognize me, as I was driving Grandpa’s car. But when I stopped the car directly in front of them, Kids 3 and 4 hopped in, eager to rescue me from my series of misadventures.

Which they did. Both of them felt the need to go through the window, snowy legs and all, and Kid 4 opened the garage door so I could put the car inside, and the groceries away. At this point I was feeling grateful that I don’t swear, because I might have burnt my Kids’ ears off. Also that I don’t drink, because there was still plenty of driving to do.

Then I got Husband’s phone call. He found it. He did. The car of our dreams. The dark gray, smoke-free, headlight-functional, leather-heated-seat fantasy mobile. Almost within our budget. He brought it home. We petted it. We drove it. We took it out into the cobbled, snowy, icy, and curvy streets. We pushed the breaks and the car stopped. We put it in 4-wheel, and it went. We turned on the headlights, and I could see in front of me. We put Kids into it, and they FIT.

Then he had to take it back to the dealership. I waved goodbye (to him, really) and felt peace.

Peace. Remember peace? Isn’t it good?

Fast forward. Purchase the car. Bring it home. Feel no remorse. On the contrary. Feel the ridiculous giddy joy of loving a THING. Once, my friend GV said to me, “I know I shouldn’t be attached to a car, but I LOVE MY CAR.” GV, I hear you.

I hear you. Even if it solidifies my lack of character, I love my car.

Bring on the adventures.

Remember how all 4 Kids are in school all day? (Insert giddy giggle here.) I have learned a few delightful truths these past few days. For instance, nothing coats your house in a blanket of Wholesome better than baking up some brown bread. Everyone who came in yesterday sniffed the air and said, “Mmmmm.” And at the risk of offending the low-carb holdouts among us, I’ll tell you that today I made those baguettes I’ve talked about. And they are gorgeous. Not too pretty to eat, because I have yet to meet that loaf of bread. But very pretty. Also a crusty, crunchy rosemary loaf. Oh, baby. And did you know that bread sings? I’m not being metaphorical. When I took these loaves out of the oven, they did this fabulous crackling thing in the chilly kitchen. For several minutes, on the counter behind me, they sang the “I’m becoming the perfect crust of bread” song. I love that song, did you know?

Another thing: Writing a thousand words is bliss.

Also, reaching the word-count goal? Bliss again. If I’m being unclear, let me restate. Today, I hit the magic 50,000 word mark, so I have the meat of The New Book all there. I can go longer (and I will, because you know, I like to fill in those gaping holes) but I have reached the lower-limit number, and I am delighted. Truly.

And when the writing part is done and the bread is made and the produce is harvested and the laundry is folded and the lawn is mown (mowed?) and the floor is swept and the bills are sent? I have a heavy and dense copy of “Gone With the Wind” to keep me from school-day-induced loneliness. Oh, Scarlett, you nasty. I love you. I’ve never actually liked such an unlikable heroine. Except Emma Woodhouse. She’s a piece of work, too. But I love Scarlett.

And what does September bring to you?

*So I have this thing. I love fall. I grew up in a place where fall was a season, like one that lasted three months, with chilly mornings and warmer afternoons and magical tree-color changes and smells of burning things. I love it. It’s maybe my favorite (when it’s happening – but really? Once it’s spring, I really neeeeeed spring.) But here in the FMs** fall is less a season and more a condition, for a week or maybe two. And I mourn once the leaves have fallen.

**(FMs = Frozen Mountaintops)

What? You’re not surprised?

Here it is. My publisher has been doing a good job of getting word out about MRRO, getting me lots of blog interviews and having the book listed on lots of buying sites. The problem is the blurb.

It mentions Mr. Darcy.

Why is that a problem? Because the book, well, doesn’t.

Sarah has a compulsion about romance novels. But not the Jane Austen kind. Not the, um, legitimate kind. The other kind. The busty maidens and pec-heavy pirates. She has sort of built an expectation for her world out of the pages of that kind of book. And it’s funny.* But the blurb says “Mr. Darcy” and so people are responding to That. To Mr. Darcy. Who doesn’t make a single appearance in the book.

In fact, at one point during our round of Titling conversations, my editor suggested the title, “Wanted: Romance, Jane Austen Style” to which I responded, “it’s so cute. I’ll be back after I rewrite the entire book.” This blurb may be left over from that epoch, but it feels wrong. I feel like I’m trading on Miss Jane’s name. Do you see what I mean?

So here’s the scoop. It’s a funny book. A romantic comedy. About a slightly crazy girl taking a chance and recognizing her worth. there is hotness (though not Darcy-related hotness. Just Bennish hotness – his name is Ben) and some pretty good kissing, if I do say so myself. I hope you will love it. It still makes me laugh (especially her inter-brain discussions) and I hope it makes you laugh. But it’s not about Darcy, because Miss Jane already did that, and nobody matches her brilliance. So pick it up because you love me, or because you love the cover, or because it’s short and you don’t have time for a long read. Or because my cousins are discussing it on Facebook. Or because you read one of the great reviews that have been sprinkled around blogland. But just not because you’re looking for a Jane Austen spinoff. Because I want you to lurve the book, and not be disappointed.

Because I lurve you.

You know.

*Feel free to disagree, you know, nicely.

And something funny happened.

By funny, I mean… odd. Strange. Well, I’ll just tell you.

This really nice lady who was there being an author talked about being a young girl and wanting to write. What she loved was Historical Romance. Swoony period stuff. She was so excited to write and share that she took a manuscript to her grandmother. She was in sixth grade. The writer. Not the grandma. So her grandma read over her work and said to her, “Why in the world are you writing this kind of trash?” I know, right? Heartbreaking, soul-crushing, disastrous. But what this woman learned (eventually, I’m guessing) is that you can’t listen to critics. Criticism kills. I’m totally with her at this point. Nodding my head and everything.

Then.

She introduced her daughter, also working at  being a writer. And she said that this daughter (maybe she was in High school, at least that’s how old she looked to me) is really into paranormal romance. Actually, she said “vampire love fiction” and she said it with a Very Noisy Sneer in her voice. And then she actually said, “I hate that stuff. Hate it. I won’t read what she’s writing.”

And didn’t even seem to sense the irony.

Part of me wanted to laugh. Because, duh. She is her own grandmother. But another, bigger, maybe more sensitive part of me said, wow. That is so, so sad. She has no idea what she is doing. She has no idea that she is criticizing a whole genre, and more importantly, a very important person (hello, her own child!) for participating in it. She sneered at her for reading it. For writing it. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from walking over to that daughter and saying, “Hey, guess what. Lots of people like the thing you do. And maybe it’s a phase. But write it anyway if it’s in your head and in your heart, because maybe you’ll come out of this phase a better writer than you went into it, and someone (even if it isn’t your mom) will read and like some of the work you do.”

But of course, I didn’t say any of it, and that’s probably because it’s none of my business. But hey, writers? If you’re writing something someone thinks is dumb, or overdone, or lame, or copy-catty, or fluffy, or too pop-u-lar, here’s what to remember.

1. Writing (writing anything) makes  you a better writer. Write. Write. Write.

2. Criticism kills. Don’t let it kill your important relationships.

3. If you love it, write it. Because nobody else’s love is going to validate your writing like your own love will.

End of lecture. But I just have to wonder, what am I doing that I totally miss on a regular basis? What deep ironies of my character are invisible in the mirror?

That may be a little strong. But this is going to be a fight. I am in a battle, anyway.