nudle

Today's photo randomizer.

   

What I love* today:

Coffee. 

Robert Horton, a principled, drily funny man of movies and comic books. I try not to miss him Wednesdays on Steve Scher's Weekday and I usually do miss him.

My kids, duh. (The 'duh' is a tribute to Iona. Yesterday when I picked her up from school late, she glared. I asked if it was an accusatory look. "Yes!" "But I'm only four minutes late." "Duh, that's a long time when it's raining, Mom!")

Corn chips, specifically the ones from the brand Late July.

Getting a good night's sleep after several nights of not getting a good night's sleep. Han is newly sleeping in a big-boy bed, and though he is excited and proud, he's afraid. Like we're all afraid of change. Afraid when relationships change, afraid when we change, and afraid when the bars are taken off the bed. Afraid enough to yell for Mom at three in the morning several nights in a row. Then Mom's afraid enough of lots of things that she doesn't go back to sleep. And talk about scary, try sleep-deprived Mom. 

Escaping all connected devices (this is what I'm doing next) to go write in the other house, AKA the guest room over our garage, AKA MY STUDIO!

. . . . . . . . . .

* I try not to use the word 'love' in a casual way. But I don't want to replace it with 'like a lot' right this moment; I need to get to the studio and write. I am translating the book into first person for draft #3. And, at some point, I need to sign up for swim lessons for scaredy-cat swimmers (fills me with dread), partly as research (MC is afraid of water) and partly because I'd like to make up with water someday and be able to have fun in it, with my family. That'll be a future blog post, or series of them. Also, when am I going to start that professional writer's blog? What shall I call it? How am I going to execute it? Now is when I wish I knew how to make a web site. Who wants to make me a web site? If only my best designer friend wasn't so busy making a movie. Okay, enough of this. Gotta go.

Just after I throw in random photos of a recent nice day, taken with iPhone because my camera is broken again.

  

Dear Iona,

As I write, you're on your way to spend the night at a farm to see how pioneers lived. Except you'll put M&Ms and marshmallows on your homemade ice cream, and I'm pretty sure pioneers didn't have M&Ms or marshmallows. 

The thing is, I miss you. Most days when you're at school, I'm grateful for the time to work. You'll have a great time. I can't wait to hear the stories. Will you and that particularly prickly friend of yours make up? Will you come back asking to play with someone new? Maybe you'll want to show us how to make ice cream, or weave our own cloth, or you'll ask if we can get some livestock.

When I came into your classroom to say goodbye, you let me kiss you on the cheek without embarrassment. I *think* you're not embarrassed, anyway. Wouldn't you tell me? You showed me the math worksheet you'd just finished, upon which you'd written your name in 3-D block letters and drawn some tiny illustrations. You whispered, "Mom. Big Ben made it into the seven wonders of the world." Mentally, I pumped my fist. You triumphed. You wrote a report a while back in which you made your case for Big Ben.Your report convinced the librarian that Big Ben should be in the top seven. Most important, you had that proud look I love to see. You've come far in the last two years.

I'm glad the sun is out for you. Your convoy is on the road, headed for Puyallup, where you'll stop for lunch. 

My ten-year-old girl. Be safe.

I love you to infinity and beyond,

Mom

Cowgirls and cowboys.

Ewan's birthday card for Iona.

She's turning ten.

If I were happier, would I give my kids more candy? As it is, I give them only a paltry amount, which isn't fair because I have to eat dark chocolate every day. These days I like Dove, these little Kiss-size, foil-wrapped pieces. Sometimes I have two. This almost always happens after lunch, followed by tea, before trying to write writing. While I'm trying to write writing, I want to be drawing (or folding laundry, or selling things over the phone, or doing anything besides writing). Lately, I've only been able to write 500-600 words at a time. It's painful. And it's not even every day.

This post is an attempt to warm up my brain and fingers. I'm reading The Writer's Journey. I wonder if my protagonist has enough of an inner problem. She's shy, and she's kind of lonely. She sometimes gets lost in books. But she needs a real inner problem, not the inner problems all introverted kids have.

Writer's Journey also makes me wonder, does she refuse the quest mightily enough? How can she? She is RESCUING HER MOTHER. Any main character worth anything can't stand around debating fun summer? or rescue Mom? Go find Mom, kid, because she gave birth to you. Or she filled out a foot-tall pile of paper to adopt you. Both are painful in their own way, and you owe her.

Kids these days. Sheesh.

Usually when I run, I put one foot in front of the other at my own pace. I keep that zen frame of mind, not trying to catch the person in front of me or stay ahead of the person behind me.

But yesterday, as I ran down our little street that meets with a bigger street, I noticed (out of the corner of my eye--and that's the second time I've used that phrase today) two women in candy-colored jackets. They were twenty or so yards behind me. I ran. One foot, the other. Wondered how it could still be so cold. Thought about how many minutes would pass before my hands thawed.

Then I heard the chatter. Women's voices, talking, only I couldn't make out the words. Just the pitch. And it was constant. I ran a little faster. I thought, what if they pass me? It will affect me badly. My run won't be as fun if they pass me. Maybe if I run faster, I can get out of range of their voices.

But, no. These two women in their bright clothing kept pace with me. Talking and talking. No matter that I was winded because I was running faster than my normal pace. I was probably running a nine minute mile! But they weren't out of breath. I knew that because they talked and talked and talked. How nice for them that they had someone to talk to. Of course, I was glad I didn't, because then I WOULD HAVE LOST. There was no way I could have kept the pace and chatted.

So I got to my turnaround, where there is a water fountain. I drank. I walked a little. And when I rejoined the path, there they were again. It was their turnaround, too! One of them was taking off her jacket and tying it around her waist. She was very thin and muscular, and had a cute cross-back tank. She was tanned. She probably went somewhere on a trip recently, and was telling her friend all about it.

Just as I was passing them, they started running again. This threatened to be awkward, all of us running at exactly the same pace, but me gasping, and them talking about Aruba or Jamaica or, maybe, spray tans. Which I have nothing against, actually. Spray tans rock.

I dodged off, down the hill, to the little dirt path closer to the lake. Now, not only was I running fast, I was running cross-country. Up little inclines, down. Around curves. Skirting dog-walkers.

I could still hear them. Their voices reached down and tickled my ears in a way that was vaguely goading, and I ran faster. Even when I got to the hill close to home, I still ran. Up the hill. Gasping. Muscles straining. I didn't stop running until I got to the top. They kept running, down below, on the main road.

But I knew I had won. I put my hands in the air, my fingers V'd for victory. Ha! You may have muscles and cute jackets, and maybe you go off on exotic vacations, and you can chat and run at the same time, but I beat you!

I wrote my second query letter. Now I need to finish the book. During my query-letter-writing exercise, I learned that when I promote my work I feel tense and tingly, with a dash of excited dread in my neck region. I remembered that I like working; it feels good after. I learned that my characters get buried. I didn't know that until now. So I have to write the scene in which they get buried. Star Wars comes to mind. Remember the garbage compactor? Really loved that. I can't wait to send out my first queries. I have to hurry. Middle school applications loom. That almost sounds comical, if it weren't true.

Hey, it's sunny in Seattle. Come, go for a run with me!

Does my preteen character amble, stroll, saunter or meander? He's going into a convenience store for a Bombpop. Or does he just walk? This is a kid, just coming on the scene, who's partly defined by his physical grace and lack of self-consciousness.