Kristy Baxter

Listening to: Dispatch, “Melon Bend”

So about three years ago, I read an article that gave me a great idea for a short story. It was about a family that discovered a runaway teenager who’d been living in their attic for months. When the family left the house for the day, the kid would leave the attic to steal food, use their laptops and ipods, etc. Something about the article stuck with me, and I knew there was a short story there.

I kept saying I was going to write it one of these days, one of these days, one of these days.

And then I kept feeling bad that I never wrote it. I mean, yeah, I’m busy writing novels, but I can’t take a little time to dash off a short story? What kind of a writer am I, anyhow?*

Eventually, I stopped planning to do it next week or next month. I didn’t necessarily lose interest in the base idea, but face it–after three years, ideas tend to lose their shine.

Until you take a shower just two hours before you have to head to work, and then out of nowhere BAM!–what was once a block of marble becomes a full-fledged sculpture in your head. I’m talking voice, plot, characters, and a central conceit that went far beyond the original inspiration.

Cut to me furiously typing out as much as I can while my hair dries, then running back and forth between the bathroom and my office, writing bits and pieces while I get ready for work (put on foundation, run to office–do hair, run to office–apply eyeshadow, run to office–etc.). Three years after the inspiration, and after three years of putting it off, I suddenly couldn’t wait to get it all on paper. And I saw all that procrastination in a new light.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write the story, or that I was too lazy to do it–the story wasn’t ready, or maybe I wasn’t ready. Now, three years is a long time for a story idea to bake, but whatever. I’d rather let it take shape after a long time than jump on it too soon and ruin any chance of that magic that only seems to come when I let my mind wander. I’m not necessarily promoting procrastination (most of the people reading this will be writers, anyhow–I don’t need to promote something we’re all far too familiar with!), but in this case, it might have paid off.

And besides, I got to have that lightning-strike moment, that OMG-gasp that comes only with sudden inspiration. That’s always worth the wait.

How about you? Ever gotten one of those out-of-nowhere inspirations, whether it’s in the moment or a long time after? And just out of curiosity…was it in the shower, the car, or somewhere else? Popular consensus among my writer friends is that showers are idea chambers. MY IDEAS LIVE IN MY BATHROOM, YO.

*I’m very good at chastising myself. It’s one of my many talents.

Listening to: Silversun Pickups, “Lazy Eye”

So my little brother has been a little less eager to read than I’d like.

He’s 11 years old now. When he was younger, I used to read to him before bed whenever I visited home. He’d pick out a few books (usually Dr. Seuss, as I introduced him to the wonder that is There’s a Wocket In My Pocket and One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish), I’d read them to him, give him a hug and a kiss and tuck him into bed. It was my favorite part of every visit.

On one memorable occasion, I tried to read Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree to him. I started crying about halfway through. He took the book from me, closed it, and said, “No, Sissy.* Let’s try another one.”

And on another extremely memorable occasion, he took a Dr. Seuss book from me before I’d begun and said, “Okay, I’ll read the first page and you can read the next.” Then he just started reading aloud, as I sat there completely flabberghasted and so very proud.

I visited his 1st grade class and read some Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein to a little crowd of adorable kids.

Obviously, that's me on the right.

My brother is the boy in the black and red striped shirt. Yes, he’s a little cutie =)

Over the years, though, he’s become more interested in video games and less in books. I bought him the first Harry Potter book for Christmas, and although he seemed to enjoy it, he hasn’t asked for the sequel. His grades in his language arts (reading, grammar, & spelling) have been declining. I tutor him, I quiz him on spelling words, and it helps–but it’s not enough. Not for me.

I grew up so addicted to books that many pictures taken on family occasions–Christmas, vacations, what-have-you–feature me with my nose in a novel. Actually, speaking of vacations, I usually pack at least a dozen books for a week-long beach trip. And I’ll frequently speed through two in a day.

My whole family loves to read. We are READERS. And being so immersed in literature from a young age, I believe, did a lot for me. It increased my vocabulary, taught me the basics of writing, and provided a wonderful escape as I grew up and real life occasionally got to be too much.  I want all of that for my little brother, but I didn’t know how to get it.

And then something occurred to me.

I have books he could read. Books I’ve written.

My last several books will have to wait, as they’re firmly in the YA category and a bit too old for him, but the first few I wrote skewed a bit younger.

So I asked him. I didn’t want to force the books on him–I wanted him to make the choice. He seemed excited to see my work. I believe his exact question was, “Are any of the characters based on me?”

I printed out a copy of my very first novel, Whispers of the Past, written when my brother was about five years old–right about the time I was reading him to sleep. I took it to him last Friday. He took the book and went back to his video games.

And then that night, my mom texted me. “He’s reading your book and comprehending it very well. He’s read the first few pages and told me all about it.”

Needless to say, there was much excitement in my house. Especially since weekends are the only time he’s allowed video games.

And then last night, he persistently shouted in the background when my little sister called me. “I need to talk to her! Give me the phone!” And then his little voice came on the line.

“I’m on chapter four. I love it. I can’t believe you had them break the glass horse! Is Ben based on me? Or Seth? I wanna know what the other kids’ powers are! Tell me!”

I grinned so widely that it hurt my mouth.

I’ve given my books to friends. I’ve given my books to other members of my family. Heck, editors at some of the publishing houses I’ve dreamed of all my life have read my work and said wonderful things.

No one’s response has ever made me as happy as my little brother’s.

I don’t know if this will make him a more eager reader. If it does, I won’t necessarily credit my gorgeous prose and riveting plots (especially not from that first book, har har)–I’ll credit the fact that my brother knew the author and therefore was more interested in the story. But the why doesn’t matter.

It’s the results that count. And I’m very excited for him to reach that last page–and I dearly, dearly hope that he does what every booklover does and asks for more.

*That’s his nickname for me. He was not, in fact, insulting me for crying.

Listening to: The Mountain Goats, “Collapsing Stars”

There’s a war being waged in my living room. It’s one of a long line of wars that have come and gone over the past several years: the Epic SSX Tricky War of 2005 (which began when Husband told me, “You probably won’t be very good at this game”. That’s a sure way to make me kick your butt), the Wii Fit Plus Hula Hoop War of 2010 (which was the most physically painful of all the wars), and the ongoing Super Mario Bros. Coin Battle/Free-for-All Modes War.

The war in question began in 2010, when we discovered that Tetris was available for the Wii. Now, to fully understand this, you must know my history with Tetris. My family, when I was young, treated Tetris like a religion. My mom and my older sister constantly battled for the high score.* I think in the end, my sister ended up being the all-time victor, with a score no one could possibly top. After all that, the famous Tetris song is ingrained in my head forever and ever. This version of the song, in particular, gave me great joy and also a neverending earworm.

Husband’s family, meanwhile, went all-in for Pac-Man in the early days of gaming, and Husband quickly graduated to other games where he could enact more violence than simply eating a ghost.**

Fast-forward to present day. We discover that we can not only play Tetris, but we can compete with each other.

And thus the war begins.

At first, I am the clear victor. I spend more time practicing than he did, as I find playing Tetris tends to calm me when I got stressed or upset.

However, Husband is sneaky. He discovered several special weapons in the form of power-ups that can be deployed in Vs. mode. He is especially fond of throwing two power-ups at me in quick succession, so that I have to deal with the second before I’ve finished with the first. For instance, he’ll use the “fog up the screen” power-up, which requires the recipient to shake the wii remote to disperse the fog obscuring the screen, and then throw the “pieces come down super fast” weapon at me before I’ve cleared the screen.

He is a devious, devious man.

And slowly, he is catching up to me. He’s getting better at inching away from defeat when his lines near the top. He’s getting better at taking advantage of the extra lines that build up on his screen every time I get a Tetris, and using those extra lines to get Tetrises of his own, which in turn throws my screen into anarchy.

And I do believe he’s in league with the cats, who seem to want to walk all over me and impede my view every freakin’ time we play.

Currently, our records stand at 512 games won (me) to 245 games won (him). The other night, he won four games out of five, so I can’t expect to hold my (astronomical, hehe, TAKE THAT SWEETIE) record for too much longer.

Yes, that’s a LOT of games. This is just one way of bonding with each other, chilling out after a long day, spending quality time as a couple.

Of course, our quality time in this case includes a lot of trash talk and a merciless, war-like mindset.

That’s just what we do.

Have video games resulted in all-out war in your household, or with your friends? More importantly, WHO WON?!

Next post: probably my favorite 80s movie quotes, since I watched Heathers again last week.

*Hm. I guess this isn’t really like a religion at all. I’m keeping this in, though, to see how many people pick at it.

**Although I guess it’s pretty violent from the ghost’s point of view. And don’t get me wrong, Husband is not abnormally attracted to violence. His favorite thing to do in GTA is stand on a car with a chainsaw and see how long it takes the car’s occupants to flee. I have heard him maniacally laughing during long sessions of  his chainsaw-car-evacuation game. It’s really amusing to watch.

Listening to: Muse, “Uprising”

So I spent a few days after Mockingjay’s release avoiding all reviews and commentary on the book–third in a trilogy, I’ve been slobbering for it since last year at this time, and I had an upcoming anniversary trip (six years, baby!) for which I wanted to save the book.

And when I returned from my trip, I decided to check out some reviews here and there. I like to read reviews after, in most cases, generally to chew on others’ opinions and see how their thoughts line up with mine, and frequently to gain new insight on things.

Bad idea, in this case. Because it just got me mad.

Most of the reviews, actually, weren’t the problem. It was the comments that followed. I should have just stuck to review outlets that cater to YA and genre readers, but stupidly, I did not. So many of the comments displayed a certain cluelessness about YA in general, and of course a few threw in jabs at speculative fiction just for good measure.

I’m not going to point to the reviews and comments in question, because it’s not my intention to call anyone out, especially not a random anonymous person on the internet. Suffice it to say that the outlets in question are entertainment-like blogs that usually address their subject matter with a certain level of intelligence. And it was not so much the content but the general tone, repeated again and again, that bothered me. Something like this:

“I thought about checking these books out, but…Young Adult? Really? I think that’s a bit simplistic/tame/childish for my tastes.”*

Also:

“Eh. A love triangle? Sounds a bit Twilight-y in my opinion.”**

Head, meet desk. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

And here we insert the obligatory xkcd link, because I know exactly what I’m doing when I get mad at people on the internet and yet I can’t stop myself from reading more.

It just angers me, not because these people look down on YA, but because they’re missing out because they look down on YA. When you dismiss an entire genre, you close yourself off from shelves and shelves at the bookstore, all because you won’t consider that your assumptions might be wrong.

Let me help you out a little bit with a few examples:

“Simplistic”: In John Green’s Paper Towns, the protagonist learns how we can never truly know people, and how, quite frequently, our opinions of them are colored and shaped by our own experiences–and what we want them to be, rather than what they are. Also? Funny as hell.

Simplistic? What now?

“Tame”: The entire Hunger Games trilogy is a good example of not-tame. It’s bloody, breathtaking, and wrenching. Need another example? The Gone series by Michael Grant. These books had several moments that made me wince or gasp in horror, shock, OMG-did-that-just-happen. And I’m a grown-up.

Tame? Nope.

“Childish”: An older example, but the best I can think of–the Uglies series by Scott Westerfeld. This one takes on societal perceptions and expectations of beauty and conformity, with a little environmentalism thrown in the background.

Childish? No. No matter how old you are, when you look in the mirror, you see what society tells you is pretty or ugly or fat or skinny. You have to look beyond all that to see yourself. And that’s damn hard sometimes.

All of these examples are from different subgenres within YA. From introspective (and yet hilarious) fiction, to gut-wrenchingly horrific but thrilling, to a piercing look at a troubling societal issue. These books address an incredibly wide-ranging set of issues that affects us all, child or adult. And they do it entertainingly. And they do it without talking down to their audience.

I guess what really bothers me is that, in the dismissive tone of so many, we’re not just putting down an entire section of the bookstore. We’re also insulting teenagers. We’re saying that depictions of their lives aren’t as important as anything involving adults. Yeah, there’s drama and angst. Maybe a bit more than in our lives. But there’s also figuring out who you are, what you’re capable of, and where you belong in the world. I know people in their 20s, 30s, 40s, etc. who don’t have that down yet. I don’t have that down yet.

YA is becoming more and more popular among adults, so I have little to complain about, really. It’s gaining respect. It’ll never have everyone’s respect–no genre ever will.  Some people absolutely need something or someone to look down on.

All I ask is this: if you haven’t yet, wander into the YA section on your next trip to the bookstore. Take a look at the incredibly diverse reading material there. And think about when you were a teenager, no matter how long ago that was.

Do already read YA, or have you tried and found it not to your liking? Wander into another foreign area of the bookstore. Pick up something new.

This life is too short to limit our experiences, and that includes reading. So check out something new, something different from your usual.

Give it a shot. I promise, you won’t regret it.

*These same people would have been FURIOUS if, at the ages of 13-18, anyone had called their reading material childish or simplistic. Oh, how quickly we grow from the sneered-at to the…sneerers? Something like that.

**OMG, you guys! So there’s this series called Twilight, and it totally has a love triangle! Not only is it the only YA book in existence and thus everything must be compared to it, but also: love triangle! THIS HAS NEVER BEEN DONE IN ALL OF HISTORY, YOU GUYS.

Listening to: Thrice, “Stare at the Sun”

So I guess I’ve officially lost my mind.*

I’m doing something I swore I’d never do unless I had to…writing two novels at once.

*Gulp*

But wait! There’s more!

The novels are written from different POVs–one’s in first person, and the other is in third person with multiple narrators.

And I almost always work on both in one day.

*brainsplosion*

Actually, it’s going rather well so far. I wouldn’t advise anyone to do this starting out–oh HELL no. It splits your focus far too much, and in order to finish a first, second, or even third novel, you need that focus and passion (also known as obsession). But I’m 40k into the first draft of one novel, and this other idea just kept poking at me.

*Poke, poke* Psssst, hey, you, writer girl, look over here, it would whisper. Aren’t I a pretty, shiny new idea? Wouldn’t it be fun to write me? Come on, you know you want to!

I couldn’t abandon the other novel–not 40k in, for sure, and not at all because I enjoy the characters and the idea.**

So I decided to go for broke. So far, it’s actually working. Plus, I figure that I’ll finish the first one just as I get to the hard part of the second one.

I couldn’t have done two novels at once, much less in different POVs, even two years ago. That was when I was struggling with GRIM LIGHT, which had both first and third (eventually, after changing the third to first and then back to third), and boy did that ever get hairy. We’re talking man-on-the-beach-who-looks-like-he’s-wearing-a-sweater-but-he’s-not hairy.

The greatest thing so far is how, after years of writing almost exclusively in first person, I discover the joy of third. Now, my first two novels were in third, so it’s not like I’ve never done it. But I’ve never been very good at it. Those first two novels read rather blandly, as third never allowed me to get into a character’s head like I wanted. And I could never nail voice in third person. It took me a few novels in first person to really get it.

We all know that each POV has its benefits and drawbacks. For a few years now, I’ve been dealing quite happily with the way first limits the amount of information you can give the reader. It hasn’t really bothered me. Occasionally I’d shake my fist at the sky because dang it, the reader needs to know something and I couldn”t figure out how to impart that info, but I always figured it out and it made for a nice challenge.

And if I got really frustrated, I just reminded myself how much I hated my third person work. That did the trick.

So, when I realized that the 2nd new novel (working title: THE COLLECTOR) absolutely had to be in third person, I did some serious angsting. Could I do it? I’ve done some short stories in third, in addition to the third person sections of GRIM LIGHT, but I wasn’t sure about an entire novel. Especially after the multiple failures way back when.

But I had to try. So I did. And I loved it.

It’s freeing. Really. I love the narrative freedom it offers me, and how I can now get into the heads of multiple characters, figure out their hopes and fears far more easily, and see the world from their eyes. It felt new, surprising, bright. By the time I reached chapter 3, I was practically floating. I had a dentist appointment that day, and I couldn’t stop smiling even while the hygienist scraped my teeth.***

The lesson here, if you’re looking for one, would be this: Just because you sucked at something before doesn’t mean you always will. Somehow, writing in first person for a few years enabled me to write in third. Oddly, it’s the opposite of practice-makes-perfect. Except not, because I was practicing, just not the thing I sucked at.

Okay, I think we’ve reached the maximum confusion threshold here.

So, what have you avoided due to fear of failure? Did you ever come back and try it again?

*We all know I lost it a long time ago. I just have all the paperwork in order now.

**Plus, I have it set in Johnstown, and boy is that ever fun. I feel like I’ve lived here long enough to set a book here. Apparently reaching this comfort level takes about ten years for me.

***OW I HATE THAT PART.

So, I’m quite the girly girl.

I’m not sure if this will surprise those who really know me or not. I’m don’t know how visible or obvious it is. I wear semi-battered Chucks almost constantly, I’m far more comfortable in ripped capris than a skirt, and I love a good dirty pun.

But put me in the makeup aisle at any drug store, and it’s quite clear which chromosomes I possess.

Another thing that brings out my inner little girl: anything that stings. Bees, wasps, hornets–you name it, I hate it. I know no one particularly LOVES these things, but my crazy meter goes pretty high when they’re around. It’s the surprise pain factor. I can handle surprises, and I can handle pain (three tattoos, too many fillings to count, etc.) but combine the two and I turn into a giant mess. Just ask the dentist who performed my first fillings, as I lay in the chair not knowing what to expect at all. He told me to close my eyes and next thing I know, OWWWWWW WHY ARE YOU STICKING A NEEDLE IN MY GUMS OMG THE PAIN.

But when I’m prepared for pain, I handle it pretty well. I laughed through my third tattoo–even during the outline portion, which is the most painful part.

On Friday, I had to watch the possibility of surprise pain flying about my house and then destroy it. Twice. Specifically, I had to kill two big, fat wasps. Seriously, these boys must’ve been eating their freakin’ Wheaties.

I doubt there are few things more amusing than me and a wasp facing off. I mean, personally I’ll take dry British wit or some veiled sarcasm any day, but for most people, the sight of me wielding my weapons while (to the casual observer) talking frantically to myself must be HI-FREAKING-LARIOUS.

Herein, you will learn the time-honored ritual I perform upon encountering one of these beasties in my house when I’m not alone.

1. Find someone else in the house.
2. Ask him/her to please kill the scary monster.

The process differs a bit when I’m alone in the house. I’ve honed it, though, so I can follow the steps in their correct order to ensure success.

1. If possible, isolate the enemy by closing the door.
2. Call The Husband.
3. Tell him what’s going on.
4. Put him on speakerphone.
5. Retrieve hairspray. NOTE: If the beast is particularly large, bring two canisters. Nothing wrong with double-barreling it.
6. Retrieve phone book.*
7. If the enemy is closed off in a room, stand outside the door and chatter aimlessly at The Husband in a futile attempt to stall. If not, stand across the room and chatter aimlessly. Make jokes if possible.
8. If the enemy is closed off, say, “Okay, I’m going for it. 1…2…3…oh crap, I can’t do it.”
9. Repeat steps 7 and 8.
10. Repeat steps 7 and 8.
11. Repeat steps 7 and 8.
12. Finally muster up the courage and get close to/enter room in which the enemy awaits.
13. Set phone down somewhere nearby.
14. Observe the enemy, waiting for the right moment and chattering aimlessly some more. This is the best part for lame jokes. An example from today: “Yeah, I know I’m just stallin’. And I don’t mean the murderous Russian.”
15. When the enemy is in the perfect position–say, on the wall directly above a clear floor space, or on the ceiling directly above the sink–chicken out for long enough that he moves somewhere inaccessible.
16. Repeat step 15 as many times as necessary.
17. When you’ve mustered up incredible amounts of courage, and the adrenaline finally hits your bloodstream, AND the enemy is in the perfect position, break out hairspray and ATTACK. Keep a running commentary on what he’s doing and how much hairspray remains.
18. When the enemy is partially disabled and falls to a low, flat surface, AND THIS IS IMPORTANT: continue the hairspray attack WHILE throwing the phone book on him. DO NOT GIVE HIM AN OPPORTUNITY TO ESCAPE.**
19. Stomp or smack (floor = stomp, counter or table = smack) the phone book. Shout very, very bad words as necessary.***
20. Very carefully, lift up phone book and check on the enemy’s status. If he’s still moving, return phone book to its previous position and stomp/smack some more.
21. Usually, he’ll be officially dead after about ten more blows. Gleefully announce the time of death.
22. Leave the phone book in place until The Husband comes home, because seriously, you did the hard part.
23. Thank Husband for his time and unwavering support in this, the battle of your life.

If you follow these foolproof steps, I GUARANTEE that you will achieve icky-painful-bug-killing success. You will also waste a lot of time, but in the process you’ll prove your bravery and provide valuable entertainment to a loved one.

He can repay you by taking care of the carcass.

*I may be the only person in the Internet world who still appreciates the physical version of the Yellow Pages. They multiply like bunnies, they’re unnecessary for anyone with Internet access, and they’re so very bad for the environment, but I know nothing better with which to smack/stomp big bugs to death.
**If you’re double-barreling it, this requires a certain amount of juggling and physical dexterity. It is also funny.
***I picked this method up from a friend in high school. I feel a lot tougher when I’m screaming expletives, like really really bad words, the kind I’d never say in front of my mother. I don’t know why it helps, but it does.

Like, seriously.

Backstory: Six years ago, I saw one of my favorite bands for the first time–at their final* show ever. After that, I decided I needed to see all my other favorite bands BEFORE they broke up, and this became a new goal in my life.

So I saw a couple of my bands, but I’m nowhere near the mark. One major lapse has been with the band Guster. I had tickets for their show in Pittsburgh in 2006, but they had to cancel due to illness. The only show they ever canceled! So they tell me.

And when I say THEY, I mean Guster themselves. In person. But we’ll get to that.

And they haven’t been back to Pittsburgh since. They went to D.C. recently, and I will (and have) gladly drive that far for a band I love–but the show sold out before I could get tickets. FOILED AGAIN!

In April, I found out that Guster was playing the Three Rivers Arts Festival in Pittsburgh (naturally). For free. This, I could not, would not miss.

So The Husband and I make preparations. We book a room at the Hilton (super cheap–he’s the king of the bargain hunters), RIGHT across from Point State Park, where the festival is being held. The weather is icky that day, so I wear my oldest pair of Chucks. We bring the camera.

We are READY.

As it happens, my friend Jamie** is being all environmental at the festival, standing by a recycling station to tell people what goes in compost, what gets recycled, etc. We arrive at the hotel, and I send Jamie a very creepy picture of the park from our hotel. I could see her from my room. Really, it doesn’t take much to amuse me.

She's down there somewhere.

So we go see Jamie, and we go see Frogtographer Steve, who’s got a booth at the festival, showing the infamous tree frog pics. I got to listen to people walk past and question whether his photos are real or not, and I wanted to be all, “HEY! I have VIDEO PROOF that this is real. And is my job. I’M A WRANGLER, IT’S A REAL THING, SHUT UP.” But I didn’t.

Then Jamie meets us for dinner, and tells us that she was spotted being green and was thus signed up to win backstage passes to meet the band. We made a lot of jokes about how it wasn’t going to happen, yeah right, and I should totally have them sign my bra, no, I’ll have them sign my shoes, I mean let’s be realistic here.

We ran through a massive storm to get to dinner, and walked into the restaurant dripping wet. I worried about the quickly approaching OUTDOOR concert, but yay! The weather cleared up perfectly. The park was a muddy mess, but that’s why I wore my old Chucks, right? Right.***

Seriously, how adorable are we?

Before the concert, the staff announced that winners of backstage passes would be texted at 8 p.m. Jamie joked that, if she won, she’d make me impersonate her–I’m a superfan, and she doesn’t really know many of Guster’s songs.

No impersonation needed, it turned out. She got a text–she’d won, and she got to bring a guest. Have I ever mentioned that I get really shaky when I’m excited? It took me several tries to type out simple “OMFG I’M GONNA MEET GUSTER” texts to my friends.

The concert was, in a word–well, awesome. They played all my favorites, and they were funny and entertaining between songs, and the night was everything I’d dreamed it would be. And about to get better.

PURE AWESOME.

So we go backstage after the band’s had some time to cool down. Jamie got a gift bag with a t-shirt, a CD, and a program, the last of which she gave to me. I debated–should I have them sign the program…or my shoes?

Once in a lifetime opportunity. The shoes.

To be fair, I gave the very first Guster I talked to a choice. Program or shoes? He immediately crouched down to sign my Chucks. That’s how great these guys are. One of them gave me his knee to prop my foot on, and the other held my muddy shoe in his hand.

Photographic evidence of the evening:

Me and two other girls with a Guster

Please forgive my hair in the above pic. It was taken several long, rainy hours after I had last had contact with a brush.

Also, THE SHOES:

My now-even-more-beloved Chucks.

The Husband and I ended up seeing 50% of Guster a bit later at the hotel bar. I did not, to my credit, make a nuisance of myself–I basically walked past their table, said, “Hey, you guys signed my shoes earlier” (to which they replied, “We remember!”) and “You played an awesome show, have a great night!” I don’t want to be a pest, but you know, I can’t ignore them. That would be rude.

There you have it. The best weekend ever.

So…how was yours? =D

*They ended up reuniting a couple of times to raise money for charitable causes. Those shows sold out almost immediately.

**One of my absolute besties, has known me since second grade, and in fact we have a picture from Halloween that year, in which I am dressed as a cheerleader and she is, no lie, an ant. We’ve reached that stage where we don’t even need to speak–we notice the same things at the same time, and we giggle wordlessly. This is friendship.

***Husband kept pointing out big muddy spots for me to avoid, and I was all, “Seriously, this is why I wore my old shoes.” That attitude changed drastically around 10 p.m. or so.

This week, EpicChange.org is embarking on a project to channel our love for our mothers into a project to benefit the work of one awesome woman, Mama Lucy Kamptoni, who built a school for the children in her village, Arusha, Tanzania, with funds raised from a small chicken farm. That school, which began with only 10 students has blossomed to serve more than 400 children, and is ranked #2 out of 118 schools in the district.

You can learn more about Mama Lucy and her work at To a Mama With Love. To honor all her and all the women who give their hearts and lives to raise and educate children, I am creating a heartspace for my mom and donating to the cause in her name at the main site, found here. I invite you to do the same for your mother.

And because I like to put my mouth where my money is, I’d like to tell you about my mom and how she’s shaped my view of the world.

My mom offered me ice cream after my first big breakup.

She bandaged my knees when I skinned them. She wiped away my tears when I was the only girl in my class not invited to the big birthday party. She soothed, and comforted, and scolded when necessary.

She raised five children, and any mom knows that each kid comes with their own challenges and joys. Some of those challenges are bigger, like fighting for the education of a special needs child. Some of them are smaller, like making it to your daughter’s orchestra concert after putting in a long day at your small business–after months of squeaky rehearsals that could be heard through the whole house.

She raised a nurse, a writer, an educator-trailworker-sustainable farmer-vagabond, a special needs child who’s on the verge of going into the world to work for the first time, and the world’s sweetest ten-year-old. Answering to the diverse needs of such diverse children could never have been easy; when one needed comfort after a rejection, another was beyond all contact in the wilds of Alaska, and another needed encouragement to keep working to become a healer.

My mom has never liked having her children far away, a feeling shared by most parents. And yet, when I wasn’t sure if I wanted to continue my college career after a turbulent freshman year, she recommended alternate paths that would take me far from home but give me experience in the world. And when I decided to give my sophomore year a try, she supported that, as well. She supported my decision to change my major from the safe choice of Secondary Education English to the riskier English Lit.

And when I got sick my junior year, she was the one I called after a night spent crying and getting sick on the cold bathroom floor. She accompanied me to every doctor’s visit and surgical procedure–of which there were many. She rejoiced with me as I embarked on a long, difficult recovery.

When I graduated, I think her smile was the widest. And when I got married, her tears of joy were the most sincere. They were definitely the most plentiful, aside from my own.

She’s my mom. She gave me life and showed me how to make every day worthwhile. She showed me how to rise above every challenge the day throws at me. And more than anything, she’s shown me the true meaning of giving, and the true meaning of love.

Mom & Me, on my wedding day

________________

My little sister, Rachael, age 22, has a few words of her own to share:

Mom, I appreciate you as my mother. Because I appreciate having you as a mother to me. I really like you as who you are.

Every time, that you come in my room to wake me up. You’re there on every side. When I wake up on my own by myself. I see you putting makeup on every day. I look at you how much what you look. I even told myself, that you do look beautiful without the makeup on your most beautiful face of all time.

When I’m at home by myself and, sometimes I’m not at home. I will still miss you everywhere. When you go to Aunt Missy’s house and to work. When I’m at a meeting with Dana. When I’m with Kristy to go to see a Penguins game.

You are my most favorite mother in the whole planet earth. You are the most beautiful woman. You are the most incredible cook on the planet. You are my #1 fan.

I love you!

Rache

________________

And my little brother, Brendan, age 10, has his own tribute:

Mom is good cause she cares for me no matter what and I love her no matter what.

________________

I invite you to not only donate to Mama Lucy’s cause, but to blog about and honor your own special mama. Leave a link in the comments, and I’ll update this post to include it. Not a blogger? Tweet about your mom with the hashtag #ToMamaWithLove. This Mother’s day, let’s show our moms how much we appreciate everything they do, all while supporting another awesome cause!

Special thanks to Jordan Knox for getting me involved in this incredible effort. He is, indeed, a solid 8.0 on the handsome scale–and a solid 11.0 on the awesome scale.

Listening to: Travis, “Side”

Well, I’ve been a bad little blogger, haven’t I?

But I’m back now. Mainly because the words, which for a while seemed to trickle out at a scary-slow pace, have returned. With a vengeance.

I’m working on revisions of FLAWED, and a lot of it is fresh material. It was all going rather slow…until Sunday. If you watch my Twitter feed, you know I had a big breakthrough that day. A 7200 word breakthrough, to be precise. That shattered my old record (I think the most I’ve written in one day is 4k).

Then came Monday. 3500 words. Which seems rather shabby compared with Sunday’s progress, but obviously, it’s not.

Frankly, I’m a little freaked out. I have no desire to procrastinate, no desire to do anything but write. I want to sit here with my headphones and my coffee and write until my hands fall off. I don’t even want to go to the cafe, and I pretty much wrote there every day last week. Little Brother, which I’ve wanted to read for like two years now, is sitting on my TBR pile, but I haven’t picked it up. I’m two weeks behind on Vampire Diaries, and while a tiny part of me would like to catch up with it and paint my nails (they’re horribly chipped), the rest of me keeps my butt in the chair.

This is not like me. Sure, I write a lot. I went to visit relatives with my dad for a week, and despite being on the road,* managed about 1200 words/day (and 1500 words on the plane ride back, where I discovered that writing really helps my flying-related anxiety). But I don’t do this all day, every day. That can’t be healthy, can it?

I’ve taken a little time to do a few household chores, and I make sure I get up and do some physical activity at least once a day (oh hai, Wii!). Deep vein thrombosis would really screw up my rhythm, y’know. And I’ve been making sure to get enough sleep.

The Husband has been trying to keep up with what I write, as I write it. This is the conversation we had last night:

Me: You need to get reading, so you can catch up to where I am.

Him: I don’t think anyone can read as many words a day as you’ve been writing.

Well. I can, and I know a lot of writers who can, but that’s beside the point.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about having a high output. And a lot of it’s probably crap, and will have to be either cut or revised when I get to that stage. I’m just…waiting. Wondering when this phase stops, when I go back to the slow trickle, when the urge to procrastinate kicks in again. It’s kind of like when you get on a winning streak, and you wonder: okay, when do I lose, and lose BIG? Or maybe it’s that kind of superstition that for every high there’s a corresponding low.

I’ve had high output phases, but it’s usually at the very beginning or the very end. I’m kind of in the middle. When this is very much NOT supposed to happen.

And I’m having so much fun, too. I’m enjoying this time spent with my characters and the little surprises they give me every day. I love escaping into my own little world; this is probably part of the reason I’m a writer.

So, that’s that, I guess. I’m going to go with the flow until the flow don’t go. Heh.

I just wish I could shut up that pessimistic little voice waaaay back in my brain, the one that tells me I’m gonna crash and crash hard.

Oh wait, I can. By writing.

Did you ever have a period like this, where you just couldn’t stop? What happened…after?

P.S. I tweeted and Facebooked this blog yesterday, and this is my final space to tell you OMG GO READ IT NOW. Numbers 1, 2, 6, and 8 are especially poignant to me right now, but it’s all awesome. I bookmarked it, and I plan to, if I do hit that scary low, go back and read the whole thing again to bring me back up. It’s that good.

*We drove down the coast, but I flew back alone because he was staying for two weeks and I just couldn’t take THAT much time “off”. Which obviously, I didn’t really take any time off, since I managed for the first time to keep up with my writing while traveling. GO ME.

Listening to: Dispatch, “Elias”

Most of my frog-wrangling sessions go rather smoothly, especially as I become more comfortable with the frogs and better able to predict their movements. I’ve been working with Steve the Photographer since August, I think, so the job has become almost routine.

Almost.

We still have the occasional disaster or near-disaster. For instance, during one harrowing shoot that involved the cat and a goldfish as well as Felix the frog–no, I’m not kidding, we really did this–Felix and the cat behaved nearly perfectly until what ended up being the final shot. No, the cat didn’t eat Felix. Felix did, however, decide to jump on the cat’s forehead. Right between the eyes.

Steve didn’t even see it happen, because I jumped nearly as fast as Felix, while screaming, to grab that little bugger off the cat before something catastrophic happened.

Our shoots since then have been mostly calm and uneventful, and I’m really getting the hang of it. Manipulating the frogs in such a way that they pose just how Steve wants them, at least for a second, is something I’ve slowly learned over the past few months. I’m actually really proud of my work with him.

Neither of us were proud, or happy, for an hour last week, however.

We’d shot for maybe fifteen minutes when disaster struck. Steve was shooting from high up, standing on a stool, and when he moved to step off the stool, it tilted slightly. I thought he was falling, so my attention jumped to him–and Felix jumped…somewhere. Steve thought Felix had jumped toward me, so I checked the hood of my sweater and its front pockets, then took it off and shook it. Nothing.

And then we proceeded to form a search party. The cat was NOT invited. Especially after we noticed the small gap under the studio door, just about crawling-frog height.

Do you have any IDEA how many places a frog could hide, even in one room filled with photography equipment and bookshelves covered with stuff we used in former shoots and radiators and…UGH. Then extend that to the entire house. We restricted ourselves to the second floor, but still.

We shoot the frog(s) and whatever they happen to be crawling on inside a small light tent, something like this except almost completely open in the front. Because the frogs have been known to crawl between the flap at the back of the tent and the actual back of the tent, I checked there about, oh, five million times. Steve had reached the point where he was dragging a ladder to the bathroom to check a crack in the ceiling. Seriously, we had lost our minds.

After we checked the windows and curtains in the studio, we pretty much decided to give up. Hopefully, Steve said, he’d find the frog sleeping on a window in the morning (they like sleeping on glass). I checked the light tent one more time, then decided we should take out the backdrop (a royal blue sheet) out and shake it. We did this, then set it aside, and I moved to take out the posterboard it had been hanging on. As I did so, something green next to me caught my eye–

BOOM! There’s the frog, on the inner wall of the light tent, in plain view.

I checked that thing FIVE MILLION TIMES, I’m telling you.

We hustled the little guy back to his tank, but still–I couldn’t believe it. A full hour spent hunting in a big house for an itty bitty frog, and somehow we found him not two feet from the last place we’d really seen him. Just when we were about to give up for the night.

Morals of the story:

1. Sometimes the thing you’re looking for is just out of sight, and you only need to look a little harder. Or take apart the surroundings. Or chase it from its hiding place.
2. Sometimes you’ll find what you’re looking for, just when you were about to give up–so DON’T GIVE UP.
3. Don’t take your eyes off the frog, man. EVER.

Two out of three of these can apply to life, writing, publication, whatever. Or maybe all three can.

All I know is that, for at least an hour, a few days a week, my new motto is: DON’T TAKE YOUR EYES OFF THE FROG.

P.S. We are getting three new baby frogs tomorrow. They will be about half an inch long. If you don’t see me around here for a while, assume I died from the cute.