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.*)

Really.

I’ve been about three thousand percent[1] better than any other time in my life in the writing of the thank-yous this month, but still not getting it done every day. But if I could keep up the 2-a-week thing, I think it would change my life. At least a little.

But I’m here to talk about the other kind. The kind that SOMEONE ELSE WRITES TO ME. Oh, that kind of thank-you notes is THE BEST KIND. I got a package of them in the mail this weekend. A whole package. No kidding. From dozens of the brilliant and lovely kids at Hillcrest Junior High. And not only were they kind and generous, they were clever.

Remember how I like my kids clever?

Oh, yes. I do.

I got origami thank yous. I got ones tied with ribbons. I got illustrated ones, and ones with practical pet suggestions, and ones with brave statements of Goals. I got one folded to look like a book cover, with blue tonenails. A Bright Blue Thank-You Card. Some in verse. Some on colored paper. Some so funny I had to read them out loud. Some just shamelessly telling me that I’m awesome. (Um, thank you. I needed that.)

Do you know what I think would be a good habit for me to get into? Writing You’re Welcome Notes.

So, here we go.

Dear Hillcrest Junior High Honors English Friends,

I loved your package. It made my day. Couldn’t have been more delightful if it contained a coupon for the capture of the next skunk. Or a package of caramels. Or a dozen helium balloons. It was a real pleasure to come and play with you guys and talk to you and listen to your awesome comments and meet your fantastic teachers. I’m so lucky to get to have days like that in my life, days full of eager readers and learners and new friends. You’re very welcome for the visit and the chat, and I hope our paths will cross again. (Please let me know if they do, will you? Because there ARE 200 of you and only one of me, as far as I know.)

Love,
Becca

—

[1] I know. Math is not my strong suit.

Next, in completely unrelated news (but funny to me considering the recent Welcome to the Jungle moment), I got an email from Ticketmaster this morning announcing that THERE ARE STILL TICKETS for this weekend’s Guns ‘N Roses concert in West Valley City. Stunning, but true. So, kids in the Salt Lake City area, grab your top hats and ripped shirts, pour a bottle of peroxide over your hair, and get ready to party.

And now, I think I’ll tell you how excited I am for today. Shall I? Okay. I’m THIS excited. I get to go to Hillcrest Junior High and talk to them about WHATEVER I WANT to talk about. For nearly 2 hours. I know, right? I’m thinking Social Security reform, rolled oats vs. Steel Cut oats, and the properties of moonstones in potion-making.

Or not. Maybe just words and books and cupcakes and post-apocalyptic[1] zombie mermaids and flexing the muscle and the whole “yeah, Me!” attitude.

But I am greatly excited about it. I love going to school. Which I have been doing all week, because my sweet friend needed me to take her English classes. What could be more fun than being a high school English teacher? Only being a high school English sub, I’m guessing.

I sure do hope your day is just as excited-making. Indeed, I sure do.

—

[1] Spelled right. First try. Ha.

We read an article by Mr. McNeil (Of McNeil/Lehrer) on the evils of television, and the kids caught the irony thereof. Also many of them picked up a Moses metaphor, which is awesome – because kids and metaphors are sketchy business at best. And they laughed at the part in the article that called television the “instrument of national linkage” and wondered, How old is this guy, anyway?

I love teaching. I do. So much. But one of my favorite parts is the part where I say, not today, thanks, and I work on my revisions and I write things and I clean the sticky kitchen floor and I bake bread.

But being in the room, with minds whirring, and kids getting rowdy about words, and laughing together, and Learning happening, that is really, really fun. Thanks, Ms. M — whatever you were doing yesterday, I doubt it was as awesome as what I got to do in your classroom.

She has a birthday. She spends this birthday doing really fun things. She finds herself inundated by happy b-day messages here, there, everywhere and SHE LOVES IT. (Fear not. I am done referring to myself in the third person. This causes instant distress in all my Kids. The 3rd person, not the stopping.)

Writing group happens. Oh, writing group, I love thee. See, sometimes we redefine ourselves as “eating/cooking/moaning at the goodness of it all” group. But other times we WORK. And work is good, remember that? And I have some great direction for revisions.

There’s also the new gig: I get to be a Private Tutor. This is second only to my lifelong goal to be a Tudor. Okay, that is a total lie. I’ve never really wanted to be a Tudor. Just to dress like one. (Tights and Wimples, rah!) I am teaching writing to the two loveliest young men, as part of their homeschooling. And people, let me tell you this: It is Fun. We write. We talk. We eat an apple. We write some more. We read. We write. We laugh. We write again. I know, right? Am I the luckiest? Yes. Yes I am.

Familyness happens. And that is good. I like my family a great deal. They are lovely. And funny. And usually very nice to each other. And — did I mention — I like them? Well, I do.

And then there’s the revision. It’s going to be a big one. That may take forever. But that’s okay. I have as long as I need.
I can do what I need to do to make it what it needs to be. <— Did that sound like song lyrics to you? Well, maybe it should be.

Meeting with friends. Eating soup. Playing. Teaching. Presentations in classrooms. Making maps of the United States (okay, only one). Planning stuff. Visiting the sick and afflicted. Exercising with the company of the 2010 BBC Sense and Sensibility (for which Edward deserves his own post). Slogging through a novel that I should just put down already, as my TBR pile grows. Laundry. Soccer games. Cooking. Cross-country meets. Dishes. Watching leaves change (that happens early up here in the mountaintops, but it sure is lovely — come and see). Talking to my parents on the phone (which I love to pieces, but is also an adventure — repeat after me “speakerphone is an invention of the Devil himself”). Watching Kid 1 get asked to Homecoming (also deserves its own post). See? These are the things that keep us from the computer, right? The things that are life. And I’m liking these things.

***And now, I really must clean out a goldfish bowl. Yes, they’re still alive. Yes, this is 7.5 weeks. Yes, they’re growing on me. ***

HERE IS THE LINK to the UVU Wasatch ComEd page, where you can register for either my Teen class, or my Adult class (it’s like the 10:30 show, but without the language issues) [1]

The teen class is an extension of the totally fun library workshop we did this summer, and if you were there, you know that it was awesome. There was laughing. And there was learning. And there was more laughing. And if you weren’t there, no worries, because we’re starting from the beginning anyway.

The adult class (I just love calling it that, it feels so scandalous) is focused toward all of us who want to write, but somehow just don’t make it happen. Brain blockage? Time management issues? Too much pressure? Idea shortage? All this and more, we’ll smack down and get ourselves writing. No kidding.

So CLICK HERE to visit the site, where you can also find watercolor classes and guitar lessons and foodliness and all manner of goods. Try it. You’ll like it.

(ALSO… if you register before Wednesday, there’s a $5 off bonus! Which means you can afford to bring a big bag of peanut m&ms to class with you! I know, right? Who looks out for you? You’re welcome.)

—

[1] It’s actually nothing like the 10:30 show. That was a joke. And there are no language issues unless you don’t understand English. I don’t really teach well in Turkish or Afrikaans.

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.

Ha ha.

Ha ha ha.

Mother Nature is absolutely having a joke with me.

It is snowing. Right now. Big, fat, wet flakes that are covering my tulips like white stocking caps. Isn’t that hysterical?

Snow is sticking to the grass. And the sidewalk. And the road. And the roofs.

And my soul.

(Just a little drama, so you didn’t forget who you were dealing with here.)

It IS May 19th, right?

I haven’t turned a few extra calendar pages by mistake, right?

Remember the groundhog? The one in Pennsylvania? The one who predicted an early spring? Remember him?

You’ll never see him again. I’ve taken care of that.*

—

I’m off to enjoy the snowy day with a class full of clever and delightful fourth-graders. Which, if you can manage it, is the best way to work through Mother Nature’s particular brand of silliness.

—

*Dear ASPCA: That was a joke. I don’t even KNOW anyone who would take a hit job like that. Phil is fine. Really. Thank you.

Oh, here I am.

It has been a crazy, busy few days, and that is all the excuse I have for leaving blogland in the dust. I taught biotechnology and chemistry on Thursday. It was grand. Fun. I mean it. And then the Wilhites gathered around the computer to watch basketball. And we didn’t actually cry, but we had sadness when the Gators* whupped up on our Jimmer.

And Friday? Oh, Friday. It was Writers’ Fest at Clark N. Johnsen Junior High school. Their amazing committee (Hi, Mrs. Blythe!) put on a Great Show. Loads of authors (and at least one illustrator) came to talk and talk and talk about the craft, the joy, the pain, the love, the headaches and the chocolate. Okay, I didn’t talk about chocolate, but I brought plenty home. I was assigned two adorable minions (Hi, Amy! Hi, Katie!) who made sure I was where I was supposed to be and that I never dried up my bottled water or my sense of humor. For some of the classes we talked about cupcakes, and how cupcakes are good, but if you eat nothing but cupcakes you will have issues. Likewise, if you only read one kind of writing, you might get some issues as well. So… balance in diet and in literacy = good. In some classes we talked about money, and getting blocked, and people who have very good hair, and favorite junk foods, and hey, it’s okay if you hate to read, just make sure you do it anyway.

And Saturday we painted in the bedroom at my MIL’s house. I am sadly incapable of painting without wearing the paint. I do a fine job actually painting, but I’m not one of those people who can paint for a few hours and nobody knows about it. Oh, you’ll know about it when I’ve been at it. I had honeywood paint freckles upon my face and in my contacts. I am not making this up.

And Saturday was the Festival of Color, the closest Utah gets to India. I didn’t go. But the photos are glorious, and I want to throw paint. Note to self: Get there next year.

Also, Saturday evening, Kids 1 and 2 and I rediscovered that our Sympathetic Vomiter chromosome is alive and kicking. I’m happy to report that none of us actually vomited, but, oh, we wanted to. I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome.

Tonight Kid 1 leaves for New York City. I’m giddy with excitement for her. And I’m having very few nerves. (That’s her Daddy’s job this time.) She will see many shows and, if all goes according to plan, keep all her friends. *crossing fingers* And her chaperone has asked me to sub, so I get to spend the week teaching AP English and theatre. Don’t cry for me, Argentina**. I think I’ll do just fine.

Also someone (who is not us) is using my credit card. If it is you, I’m asking you nicely to knock it off. Right now. And the nice customer service lady from India said it would stop. So I hope. (She was very proper, but kind of patronizing, and I had to keep reminding myself that it’s the middle of the night where she’s working, or she’d be more patient with me. That’s the downside of outsourcing, I guess.)

*That word always reminds me of that funny scene in Monsters, Inc. when Randall gets pushed through a door at the end. ” ‘Nother gator, Mama.” ” ‘Nother gator? Gimme that shovel.”

** Did you ever see the movie Kronk’s New Groove? Probably not. It’s the sequel to The Emperor’s New Groove, and isn’t very much what I would call entertaining. But it has one funny line, where Kronk’s two secretaries, Tina and Marge, get a little weepy, and he says, “Don’t cry for me, Marge and Tina.” Ha. There. Now you don’t have to see it.

I still have a 5000 words/week writing goal. There will be weeks I don’t make it. And that will have to be okay. But I made it last week. And today I get to teach Kid 4′s class. Which is adorable in all its first-grade glory.

Also, Kid 2 competed? Performed? Violined? Something. She had Suzuki Federation on Saturday. She played Vivaldi. In A minor. It was stunning. Hours of practicing. Many, many hours. And? She was rated Superior. Natch. It was intense. I got a little sweaty. Especially when the first kid in their group played. Holy cow. He was a violin ninja. But My Kid 2 was awesome, and that was fun.

Also, we went to see the musical Hairspray. Oh, the joy. And that woman who played Motormouth Maybelle? She made me cry. I told husband I want to be black. He said, “I know,” and patted my head. Because he knew that at that moment, what I wanted was to be able to carry that kind of emotion in my voice. *sigh*

Then we watched BYU not quite win the championship. Poo. But there was Brick Oven Pizza involved, so it was certainly not a wasted evening. But poor Jimmer. I wanted him to come off Victorious.

I finally saw Megamind. I laughed. A lot. “And I love you, random citizen.”

Sunday = naps. Oh, yeah. I’m getting old, because daylight savings hurts. It does. Ow.

‘K – I gotta go to school now. Have a great day, and be nice to your teachers.

XO
B