and finishing a book (written by Mr. Louis L’Amour, not by me)

and helping a little with the high school play (Beauty and the Beast, and you so want to come see it)

and doing house-ish stuff (the usual bread-y and clothing-ish and sweep-like stuff)

and thinking about losing 15 pounds

and taking a week off from revisions before I hit Draft 4.0 (tomorrow?)

and generally unplugging

and it feels good.

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.

So last night at the WIFYR mingle at The King’s English (I love you, The King’s English), Claudia Mills and I had a conversation that inspired me. (Not unusual to have that type of conversation with Claudia. She IS inspiring.) Here’s what we decided.

1. While publishing is very nice, of course, you can have a satisfying writer’s life w/o it. You can go on writing retreats with writer friends. You can join and enjoy critique groups. You can host a reading. In other words, you can introduce those parts of a writer’s life you think would be fun into your own life.

2. And speaking of fun, what’s the point if it isn’t? There are published authors (with a LOT of titles even) who can still grumble with great bitterness, “Look at everything I’ve done and what did it get me?” Where’s the joy in that?

Let’s have fun, you guys.

I love, love the idea of making The Fun a part of the writing experience. Because it should be fun, indeed. (And also work.) (But also fun.) This is why we choose to be writers, instead of paralegals or plumbers or tap-dance instructors — because writing and the write-y lifestyle can be so much fun. [1]

On that note, writing is happening here. (Insert happy noises.) A little at a time, and complete with some fun. The words come, the ideas come, the story grows, the word-count increases (why, why is that so important to me? oh, yeah. i’ve become one of those type-A types.) and It Is Good — the doing part. I’m not yet sure about the actual words. But that is not to be decided now. This is a first draft, remember?

[*DING*] Oh, look. It’s time to get outside with the kids and dig up more bulbs.

(Pray for us.)

—

[1] I am certain that paralegal work can also be fun. And tap dancing. Plumbing? I’m receptive to arguments either way. But for me, it’s all about the writing. And the reading. Oh, the good, good reading. (Ha! Made you wait!)

I think I wouldn’t go out in the car.
I’m sure I wouldn’t go out in the rain.
I wouldn’t fetch or carry or drop off a child.
I simply would not go.

I would stay, possibly.
I would cook, maybe,
I would sit, probably.
I would nap, certainly.

Dear Monday: school-free holiday, planless day,
I look forward to you.

Just a whole lot.

Then I lost it.

Not forever, you know.

But, temporarily lost it.

Once I listened
When they said, “Mom.mom.mom.mom.”

Once I asked, “Can you tell me that again,
so I really understand?”

Once I wanted, really wanted
to know about the day.
The friends.
The classes.
The trauma-drama.
The giggles.
The boy.
The tears.
How the mud got on the jeans.

I’ll want that again.

But maybe not today.

Once, listening to the music practice made me glad.

Not so much today.

Once the requests were met with, “Sure.”
“Help yourself.”
“No problem.”
“It’s my pleasure.”

Today? More likely, “Seriously?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“You’re killing me, Smalls.”

And it’s not just with them.
It has disappeared with myself, too.
I have no more patience for low word counts.
Slow revisions.
Missed obligations.
Belated action.
Dusty bookshelves.
Piles of clean clothes growing dirty again before they’re folded.

It’s time for a day off.
A day without the need for patience.
No patience required.

Ah. I need it.

(And I’m getting it. I think.

Details will follow.)

Maybe.

But here’s something we talked about.

Healthy literacy is like a healthy diet. To eat well, you need a blend of this and that. Lots of variety. Lots of color. Would it hurt you to have a cupcake once in a while? Of course not. Go for it. As long as you’re eating real food, too. If all you eat is cupcakes, you’re going to get a tummy ache.

Healthy literacy is like that. If all you read is Post-Apocalyptic Zombie Mermaid Romance, you’re going to get a tummy ache. So we talked about that. We discussed healthy options, things that make brains grow and thoughts stretch. Some parents require kids to eat foods they’re not comfortable with, in order to give them vitamins. Some teachers require kids to read books they wouldn’t choose, in order to feed them ideas and questions.

There is a point. Here it comes.

I asked the kids, “Is there anything you should NEVER eat?” – and there was a short silence and then some funny response. But my point was this: You should never, never eat rat poison. It is only made to kill. Likewise, there is “literature” out there that is like rat poison. You shouldn’t read it. It will poison your mind and kill your soul. But guess what. It is not my job to tell you what that literature is – I won’t tell you what you shouldn’t read.

It IS my job to help my Kids figure that out. Especially if I’ve tasted it and I know it’s poison. Or if I’ve never tasted it but someone I trust has pointed out the poison. Sometimes, books/movies/magazines/music are practically LABELED Rat Poison. These are things I teach my kids to avoid, because I’d rather not have them poisoned and their souls killed. But it is not my place to say Rat Poison should not exist.

But I will stand up and say that it should not exist in my home. And I will fight it off here.

Sadness is not rat poison.

Cursing is not rat poison.

Bad choices, when followed by consequences, are not rat poison.

Those things are called LIFE. And life is important. We should live it, read it, explore it. And we should talk about it in our home. And we will. Even when it is hard. Because we want to be people who are open to ideas and thoughts that will help us make intelligent choices and become empathetic humans. And most of all, we want to be good. Well. Healthy and wise. And we will choose to read some things, and choose not to read others, and we will not take that choice away from you.

2: Daffodils ready to explode, any minute.

4: Kids home for Spring Break!

9: The hour I require them to be out of bed.

13: Tiny tomato plants growing in the egg carton beside my kitchen window. (Averaging 3 new ones a day, YIPEEEE!)

5: Exclamation points in this post. Am I possessed?

3: Flower beds I’ve weeded/cleared (while wearing a coat, all). Did I ever, ever weed last summer?

4: Great blog posts I’m considering poaching (I’m looking at you, Melanie J!)

9: Fruits and veggies on my Costco shopping list. Any chance I’ll come out of there spending less than $100? I didn’t think so.

0: Kids home tonight (Grandparent sleepover!) We’re eating Sweet Corn Tamale Cakes (like at Cheesecake Factory, but made here, with love. And butter.)

32, 416: Times in the past 48 hours that I’ve regretted teaching Kids 3 and 4 the theme song to “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.”

1: Plane tickets to purchase today (no for me – Kid 2 is going to DC this summer!)

1: Really cute Husband working in the next room, editing a film with some doggone jazzy music.

1000: Number of words per day I’ve averaged this week. Writing, that is. Reading? Many more.

6: Days till Kid 1 goes back to school and brings me home Mr. G’s copy of “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo.”

1: Song I need to learn in Spanish, then teach the family, in order for us to sing it in church on Sunday.

5: Days left until I need to be on school schedule again.

25: Percent written WIP.

1: New dress wanted (needed?) for Whitney Awards dinner. I think needed.

But that’s okay. It IS. Because submitting by the calendar is a great idea, but only if your work is ready. Which mine is not. If I were a baker, my work would still be dough. Were I a tailor, there would be no hems, and my dress full of pins. A filmmaker? Lots of footage, but far, far from locked picture.

Sorry. I know. It’s been a long time.

And there was stress here this weekend. And also strep. Not me, though. I’m still in voice for OPENING WEEK of JOSEPH. I know. I was really concerned last week, seeing as we had not actually learned all the songs and dances. (Not so worried about the songs. I know the songs. Dancing? Not my forte. Really. Stop laughing, brothers who read my blog. See? They know.) But we’re costumed (basically) and ready around here, so bring on opening night. (That’s Thursday. If I suddenly drop off the face of the blogosphere, you’ll know why.)

Does anyone else wonder why the word “strep” comes up misspelled, but “blogosphere” is fine? Yeah. Me, too.

On the literary front (stop laughing, brothers. I mean it.) MRRO is getting fun reviews and lots of blog-time. There’s another week to enter to win a copy over at Bloggin’ ‘Bout Books, so go get signed up. Or don’t. But it’s only fair if I tell you all about it.

Also, it was my little brother’s birthday yesterday, and I forgot to call. Is he still my little brother if he turned 34? Yup. And do you want to hear a cute thing from my kidhood? Here it is: His birthday, like I just told you, was March 14th. And my half-birthday was (and is) March 15th. And seeing as at the point in my kidhood we are discussing, there were only 3 kids in our family (as opposed to the 10 that we had a little later), there was always half a birthday cake left over for my half-birthday. And my Mom always made just enough of a big deal about it that I was pretty sure that I was special. I know, right? She was pretty awesome.

So happy half birthday to me. Now I must go and practice that one part I always mess up. Yes. THAT one.

Bye!