Um.

But at least I did’t fill out all the forms and information and give the scammers Anything personal. At all. Just my snarky comment. And possibly my FB link. Oh brother. Back when I was smart? Yeah, those were the days.

I feel like I’m falling behind a little right now.

I’ve been doing a lot of subbing. I think it becomes 8 or 9 days in a row by the time I’m done. All for the same teacher, who is a good friend and an absolute CYCLONE. She is remarkable in her ability to retain seven thousand pieces of information in her head at any one time. (I do not, in any way, share this ability.) She is also amazing in her manner of coaching young actors. (Likewise, I share very, very little of this ability. I’m pretty good at compliments, though.) Also she just might assume that I’m good at / proficient / capable of comprehending a whole lot of stuff that is, in fact, a mystery to me. But I’m teaching Tale of Two Cities to the cutest AP English class, and when I come right out and ask them, “Who hates this book after the introductory first 6 chapters?” they actually tell me, and I tell them to hold on, because although Mr. Dickens isn’t going to get any less wordy, he is going to get a whole lot more character-driven in the very near future. And then, when I ask, “Who hasn’t been bothered to read this yet?” and they actually admit it, I tell them to get on it, because there’s something coming up that they really DO NOT want to miss. And then we read about Sydney and I sniffle a little in preparation for that which is to come. Oh, Sydney.

*sniffle*

Also, I play. As in, Drama. Teaching drama is a riot of Biblical proportions. Dogs and cats living together, I’m telling you. Oh, so fun. So, so fun. There are some clever and lovely kids I’m getting a chance to know, and I really do like this gig.

And I’m seriously grateful to have it.

Meanwhile, laundry? No. Reading any of the several library books on the nightstand? No. Making delicious, well-thought-out meals? Sorry. Planning / prepping / wrapping gifts (Christmas ones or Kid 4 birthday ones)? Oh. Not so much. Critiquing manuscripts? Don’t make me laugh. And just trust me on this: You do not want to take a close look at my kitchen floor.

Here’s how much I’m not doing: I have a manuscript (possibly finished [for this round]) and a finished query letter. How many agents have I sent it to? Zero. I decided that I need to give this my whole brain, and that means it will happen sometime after the NYC Publishing Industry Month-Long Shutdown.

WHAT? Becca, you ask. What are you thinking?

Well, I answer, I want it to be just right.

How much time do you really think it takes to fire off a bunch of emails? you want to know.

See, I reply, there’s more to it. I need to personalize each letter to each agent. I need to double check submission guidelines and statuses. (Also, I should find out if Statuses is a plural, or if there’s some sort of Latin -i ending. But not right now.) I need to send each agent what he or she wants, like the correct number of pages pasted into my cleverly written and totally not misspelled email. Also, I need to build in time to sweat and grow a few ulcers. Because, well, you know.

And I don’t have to be in a hurry right now. Lots of people do. It’s one of the downsides of having an actual contract. Deadlines. All my lines are currently alive, and I like them that way.

Carrying on. And trying to not forget to be awesome now and then. You, too, I hope.

(*Deep breath. Repeat.*)

Then I cried, remembering that I don’t know how to sew. (… And Backstory.)

Then I stopped crying and put the whole thing off just one more day. (Rising action, friends.)

Homecoming is Saturday. (Crucial information, raising the stakes.)

The hem is still long. (Disappointing conclusion – like Dystopia or something.)

The end. (But wait — plenty of room for a sequel.)

Once upon a time my smaller, younger family moved to Indianapolis. We found a great little neighborhood to live in, and we bought a cute little house for our cute little selves. The trees were enormous, the mortgage was not. Bunnies lived under the shed, and the birds alone were worth moving to Indiana for.  Also, we bargained for the kitchen chairs, which were handmade and super cool (I have yet to own another piece of furniture quite as awesome as those chairs).

So we moved into the house. We unpacked our little belongings. We stocked the cool pantry (it was handmade, like the chairs, and equally awesome) and began our first week in our home. On Sunday, as we are wont to do don’t you love that word, wont?) we went to church for several hours. Four hours, that day. Not all four of those were worship hours, but we were most definitely gone for four hours. Are you sensing that this was a long time? And that this detail may come back to bite us all? Good, then.

Lo, those many hours later, we pulled into the garage. And we smiled at the delight of having a garage. Because we were grateful that way. And then, something caught my eye.

Water.

On the garage floor.

Strange, I thought. How is this floor wet? Hmmm, I thought. It seems to be seeping in from the door over there. The door that leads from the hallway to the garage. The door into the house…

So Husband and I each unlatched a Kid from kidharness, and we walked to the door. Splashed to the door. Husband opened the door, and I looked up.

It is raining, I thought. Raining in my hallway. There was a great deal of water dripping from the ceiling. [1] Especially around the light-fixture area. I stood and stared, water splashing into the soaked carpet at my feet. Kid 2 squirmed out of my arms and began stomping in the puddles. The puddles that were inside our house. I kept staring at the dripping ceiling, because I’m good in a crisis.

Husband, even better in a crisis, ran upstairs to see the source of the water. (Yes. I married a genius. Left to my own devices, I would have stared at that ceiling until it fell on my head. More on that later.) He found that the hose connecting the toilet to the wall had come unconnected. You know this hose? The one that doesn’t actually turn off? The one through which a constant stream of high-pressure water flows, allowing the privileged to flush, whenever we feel so inclined? Yes? You know it? Well, there it was, stil screwed into the wall, but flailing like a firehose that nobody was holding on to, spraying jets of water all over the bathroom, including behind the room-length mirror [2].

In my memory, Husband stands in that bathroom ankle deep in water, handily turning off the water faucet thingie behind the toilet. In reality, I never went upstairs. I couldn’t. I was busy. Staring at the dripping ceiling.

I think he probably said something at that point. Something helpful, like Hey, I’ve got the water turned off. Maybe you could drag some furniture outside. Because I started dragging furniture outside. “Furniture” at this point in our marriage included (but was not quite limited to) a garage-sale papasan and those excellent kitchen chairs. So I took them out. And Husband assessed damage. And I started to sniffle. I also had the distinct impression that the girls should be outside. So I brought something toylike outside and stuck it in the papasan, and told them it was playtime, they were birds, and this was their nest. They bought it. How cute were they?

And so I stood there, having moved from the dripping hallway into the dripping family room, staring at the ceiling while Husband went to Kroger to rent one of those wet-vac things that a person kind of hopes never to have to rent. Also, thank you, Kroger, for being open on a Sunday. At least that Sunday. And as I stood there, watching water seep through the ceiling of our just-bought house, I thought, Okay. We’re good. We have a handle on this situation. [3]

Which was when the family room ceiling fell all over the family room.

Do you know what that sounds like? Three hundred square feet of soaking wet drywall (irony, anyone?) hitting soggy carpet?

Also, do you know how heavy that stuff is? I spun around (Yes. I spun. I was much younger then.) and saw my Kids, still chirping in the papasan, outside, away from danger of being crushed by the ceiling. I prayed my thanks, which may have been the only logical hing I was capable of that day, and started dragging drywall outside. May I mention again, wet drywall is heavy. Really heavy. Also, August in Indiana? It’s hot. And muggy. And humid. And I was wearing a dress.

I like to try to imagine Husband’s face when he returned home that day, giant red wet-vac in hand, from his unplanned trip to Kroger, to see the kids captured in the furniture outside and the ceiling on the floor. Because honestly, I can’t remember. Was he amused? Amazed that I had gotten the girls outside? Grumpy that any of this was happening? Wishing we’d lived there long enough to know… anyone who could come help us? Was he shaking his head? I can’t remember at all. I just kept dragging muddy chunks of drywall outside until the girls/baby birds needed a snack. [4]

The blurry next week included a fantastic homeowners’ insurance response, a very cute restoration team (no, really, they were very cute), a whole lot of fans blowing hot, humid air around our house and under our carpets, rewalling, repainting, re-ceiling-ing, and a visit from Husband’s whole family. All of which we survived. And in retrospect, it was an ordeal. But at the moment, in the whirl, the thing I remember most, the moment that caused the greatest twinge, was throwing away the 12-pack of Charmin Ultra that was pyramid-stacked under the sink. Oh, that nice, thick TP, wasted. It broke my heart a little.

A lot.

Things are clearer and funnier in retrospect, but at that moment, the Charmin was all I was really able to mourn.

Why do I tell you this story today? I don’t know. Irene aftermath? Emily’s floody toilet? (That’s it, really.) Amnesia prevention? (That, too.) I just want to say to all of you who have to do the big messy water-related cleanup, that it shall pass. The mess will go. The carpets will dry (mostly) and the really important things will still be right there, stuck in the papasan, eating grapes and pretzels and singing like baby birds.

—

[1] You may think “a great deal of water” and “dripping” don’t really go together. If this is the case, I congratulate you on your good luck. You have obviously never had water dripping from a ceiling in your home. Consider it a blessing.

[2] That was the longest bathroom we’ve ever had. Maybe 15 feet of mirror. It was a large, heavy mirror is what I’m saying.

[3] I may have a problem with denial. But probably not.

[4] I like to think I fed them gummy worms, but really? I didn’t buy junk food in those days. That was for Kids 3 and 4, apparently.

Do you have a preferred writing time? Are you a morning person? A night owl? A moment-snatcher, during naps (someone else’s)?

Do you need music? Silence? Chaos? Strangers? Midday sunlight? Vivaldi in A Minor performed by the London Philharmonic and directed by a tiny Asian child-genius?

—

I do. I have a SYSTEM. A source for my brilliance. [1] I write on the computer, which lives in the kitchen. I sit on the wooden chair that I steal from the kitchen table. Sometimes I throw a pillow on it. I write in the dark of morning, sometimes into the light of morning, depending on the season and the mojo. During the summer, that season and mojo are a little short. Because, see, I also demand solitude. And silence (or the hum of the dryer, because then I feel like I’m all fantastic, accomplishing TWO THINGS AT ONCE — I know, nearing perfection). And silence and solitude don’t last past seven a.m.

I’ve been trying to convince Husband that I NEED a laptop. He smiles at me in that comforting way which causes me to stick my tongue out at him, since we all know very well that I need food, water, shelter, 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep… but not so much another computer. But I manage to convince myself that if I had a laptop, I could do all kinds of through-the-summer-day writing. I could still do my early-morning thousand words [2]. And then, when Kids 3 and 4 come into the kitchen, pull up stools, and read over my shoulders, I could hug them, smooch their faces, and sneak off to my room, or a closet, or the basement, and write in the comfort of my Very Own Company. Where, of course, I could bust out another thousand words. Brilliant words, don’t forget.

And then, in the warm afternoon, I could take the lappy outside to the chair in the shade and listen to the breeze sigh through the trees as I write another thousand perfect, uninterrupted words.

See? Clearly, the only thing standing in my way — in the way of fabulous, completed manuscripts — is my total lack of laptop.

And, cue The Grand Delusion.

—

I’m all for structure. I’m all for consistency. I’m all for routine. But I’m also realizing that all my NEEDS, writingwise, are not actually food for the Muse. They’re excuses not to get the job done.

I’m not Organizing my Writing Life. I’m putting off doing the work.

*sigh*

Today is the last day of summer vacation around here. And I woke early and got some writing and revising done. And now, with a kitchen full of kids, I’m struggling to remember that I don’t actually have to blog in complete silence and solitude. Tomorrow, the Kids will go away in the morning. And they will not come back for HOURS. And I will have no further excuses to justify my snail’s pace.

Shoot.

Darn it.

All of it.

I don’t want them to go. I don’t want to live on someone else’s schedule. I don’t want to drive from school to school to school dropping off the Left Behind. I don’t want to come last in the Kids’ busy, full lives. I don’t want to watch the mountains turn red and gold and then brown and then white. I’m not ready. I’m not ready for two kids in High School. I’m not ready for drama. I’m not ready for PTA. I’m not ready for undeniable accountability.

But. Here it is, anyway. Accountability, front and center. So, my friends, here is a reckoning. I love that word. I should write a book called The Reckoning. Or you should. Someone should.[3]

*Ahem* At the beginning of June, Fifth Gift was at 30,000 words. At the beginning of July, 39,500. At the beginning of August, 43,500. And today, 47,630.  I don’t know how long it should really be, because I have this feeling that it should end when it’s over, when the story’s told, but I think the story will be told around 55-65,000 words. I think. Maybe not. And hey, if not, then fine. But there is the idea. I am still drafting. But also, revising. I know. That’s against the rules. Well, toss the rules. I’m filling in holes, and how do I know where the holes are unless I read through? I have a beginning, a middle, and an end. So these days I’m thickening it all up. And maybe changing the middle. And the end. And surely the beginning.

And as I go through and string together all the shiny beads, I can add things here and there. And I can take some things out, but I know me well enough to bet that I probably won’t, not on this pass. And I can add a few more things. And I can thicken up floppy characters. And I can let my characters eat if they want to. I can always take out half the eating scenes later. And I can baby step to the first full draft.

And I can live without excuses.

—

[1] Oh, come on.

[2] This is what we call an “ideal” and thank you very much, but I don’t actually need to be reminded that I don’t, in fact, write 1000 words every day. I already know that. I also know exactly how many pounds I need to lose and all my major character flaws. Thank you for playing.

[3] Do you have that song from The Italian Job in your head now? I do.

Well.

Shame on you.

I’ve never felt like that  a day in my life.

—

I’d rather have Snickers.

—

Love, Becca

Like this time.

When the horrible consequence I wrote for my character to experience shows up in the nightmares of my baby. I did NOT read my words to my boy. Not even one of them. And I didn’t talk to anyone about the struggle my MC is going through. But hey, last night Kid 4 woke up several times, sobbing at the things he’s hearing in his head during his nightmare. Specifically, the same sorts of things I wrote into my story, waking my sleeping baby from his peaceful night.

This is a guilt I can’t figure out. I know that my writing doesn’t harm my Kids, [1] but I FEEL like I’ve done this to him. I made up this thing, a punishment for my MC’s line-crossing, and now my Kid 4 is suffering for it. (As am I. Co-sleepers, I am in awe of you. I have never, never encouraged kids to sleep in my bed. I do not love it. There is no sleeping for me.)

Is this even sane? Probably not. Remember, I didn’t sleep last night either. But I have to say, when I got up to write this morning, I wondered “Why am I not writing about ponies and cupcakes and birthday balloons?”

Oh, yeah. I remember, Because conflict drives story. And I want a story.

With all that implies.

Sorry, Kid 4.

—

[1] but that would make an interesting idea for a book, wouldn’t it? And I suddenly want to rewatch Emma Thompson’s Stranger Than Fiction.

I love it when the leaves come.

And they’re coming. Finally.

Also, there is a snowflake logo on my phone’s weather forecast. Twice. For today and for Thursday.

Update: I have just thrown away my phone.

(Don’t worry, Husband. That was a lie. Remember, everyone, that I lie? Well, I do.)

I’ve had ideas for posts. Isn’t that nice? And I haven’t written any of the ideas down. Hence, no posts.

I learned something, yesterday, though. Shall I share? I’m a much happier substitute teacher (specifically for the first grade) when I lower my classroom expectations just a smidge. When I don’t demand that everyone is actually LEARNING something at all times, everyone is a whole lot more glad. When I don’t expect all the kids to actually LISTEN to me, all is well. Shall I apply that to my life? No. I think not.

—

I love the produce man at my grocery store. (Don’t worry. Not that kind of love.) Here’s what happened. I scooted over to the store on Saturday because I had a couple of hours. And so, naturally, I should make jam. Strawberries were on sale for $1.50 a pound or something, so I grabbed up a lot of pounds. And Mr. Produce Man saw me. And stopped me from buying the pretty berries. And handed me 5 flats of slightly less pretty berries, for which he charged me something like $20. Like $.63 per pound. And told me I’d have to throw away a few. Which I did. Maybe one pound worth. I made 14 batches of freezer jam (the less sugar kind, because that’s how I roll) plus had enough halved berries to fill 2 gallon sized freezer bags, for smoothies. All for $20. (And some slave labor by Kid 3, who hulled berries like nobody’s business. I could not have done that little project without her. What a Kid.)

When I scooted over to the store to buy bananas and spinach and watermelon this morning, he waved me over and asked how the berries turned out. He was glad I’d had some big success, even if he maybe-possibly wished I’d had to throw away a few more pounds. The berries weren’t as bad as he’d thought, apparently.

—

WORD COUNT UPDATE:

I am more than half way to my word count goal for the current Work. (I like to call it Work. That makes it sound so terribly important. And prosperous, or something.) Strange things are happening on the pages (and off) in this story, and it’s fun to see it sort of moving along on its own steam, even when I ignore it for a couple of days so I can sub Kid 4′s class.

Which reminds me, I really should be writing at that story right now.

Instead of staring at my hair’s silhouette in the monitor.

But here’s the Becca version-distillation of the thing – some people live in the “If Only” world. If only I were lovely. If only I were brilliant. If only my 1,000 words a day didn’t completely fail. If only my manuscript were finished. If only an agent would send me a PERSONALIZED rejection. If only an agent would fall at my feet and beg to represent me. If only my book would be published. If only copies of my book would sell. If only my book won awards. If only I’d been the one to fill that red-hot Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Mermaids niche.

There’s nothing wrong with dreaming. But do you see the negativity at work in those thoughts? My friend Pat would say, “You need to come from a place of thankfulness.”

So here’s my flip-side, my perverse thankfulness – the “At Least” world. At least I can see my computer screen (usually). At least I have fingers to type with. At least my 1,000 words are coming (even if they’re c-r-a-p). At least I’m cute. At least I have published things. At least someone likes those published things. At least there are still some ideas floating around in my head.

There’s nothing wrong with complacency either (heaven forbid I ever knock the complacency), but hey – wow. That’s all pretty negative, too.

So where do I find my place? What do I need to think about, when I find myself spiraling into the “If Only” or the “At Least” worlds?

I try this: I try to say, Yea, me. Yea, me for writing 1,000 words yesterday, and 500 so far this morning. Yea, me for trying. Yea, me, for finding time to read a little (a very little, lately, but still a little). Yea, me, for going teaching. Yea, me, for being a team player. Yea, me, for making dinner every night. Yea, me, for answering my email*. Yea, me for being on top of the laundry pile. (See it? Right there under my chair? Oh, come on. That was a joke.) Yea, me for working on a story that could be harder and bigger and better than anything I’ve tried before. Yea, me for pushing.

See the difference? If Only  and At Least compare me to some outer standard. Some uncontrollable “other” – and I will always find myself feeling icky with the comparison. But Yea, Me? That’s personal. That’s intrinsic. That’s mine. And if it’s not 100% sincere? At least I’m trying. If only I always meant it…

*If you’re waiting for a response, resend your email. Because I’m totally all over answering the ones I’ve gotten.

My eye doctor is several things, but funny is not one I would think to label him with. A close-sitter? Yes. Efficient? Yes. Able to remember if he’s on “Two? Or three?” or if he’s on “Six? Or seven?” Yep. Comfortable putting his fingers in other people’s eyes? Certainly. But every time I visit him, he feels like laughing the day away.

At me.

Because I want to see, okay?

I want to see the things that are close to me. Sometimes, with uncorrected vision, I can see my own face in the mirror. But I’m usually close enough to leave a smudge on said mirror when that happens. I remember being able to read a book with my glasses off. But that hasn’t happened for more than two decades. Oh, mercy. I am OLDing.

I also want to see the things that are far away from me. Like the cars on the road, or the clouds over my mountain. That mountain? That is the actual view out of my actual kitchen window. Except I actually stole this from google images (in fact, I wonder if that photo was taken from my actual lot). And the reality is much… bigger. But that is a beautiful snowy sunrise from here in the Frozen Mountaintops, and I love this mountain. Love it. If you have never felt an emotional attachment to a pile of rocks, you’ve never seen the sun rise on Mount Timpanogos. When I have days where I wonder, “Why do I live here?” I almost always answer with some form of praise for this mountain. It sings to me. It does.

But also, I want to be able to see it. Forever. With my eyes. Which are getting worse as I get old. See that problem? When I tell Dr. Eye Guy that I want to see the computer and also my mountain, he laughs at me. Ha, ha.

You can see the computer, says Dr. Eye Guy, or you can see the mountain. Take-a you pick. Except also, Dr. Eye Guy isn’t using a bad Italian gangster accent. That’s just in my head. And the thing is, I don’t want to take-a my pick. I want it all. All at once.

Once upon a college time, a very wise and dear man said in my hearing, “You can have it all. You just can’t have it all at once.” I felt those words sink deep. Know that feeling? It’s a good one. The words sank. Deep. And they felt very personal. As though, maybe, the other 21,000 people listening were just there for effect. And that it wasn’t him speaking, so much as it was God, telling ME that I could have it all, if I was patient, and careful, and watchful. And I’ve never doubted it.  And I’ve always treasured it. And I’ve never questioned it.Until I turned 37 and 1/2 this week. And now all of a sudden I’m greedy and anxious and needy and demanding.

I want it all. All at once. Now, in particular. And when it comes to my eyesight in more particular.

There’s just no pleasing some people.