Day Twenty-six--When you give thanks and have pie.

This morning, I woke up feeling like a new person. (LIKE a new person--not feeling a new person---just in case anyone read that and wondered if I was tramping out on my husband.)

The NaNo novel is done, and I'M excited to do rewrites. Yay!!! There will be some hacking and slashing. There will be a bit of adding and embellishing... but most of all, today, there will be pie. The sister aka Heidi has promised me glorious banana cream pie. Yummmmm.

Today, I'm thankful for the husband's job and my two wonderful kids who can also be slightly annoying. I'm thankful for the husband and all he does to help our little family stay afloat. We'll have been married twelve years next month and I'm thankful for the good and bad years and that we've grown together. I can't even begin to tell you all the wonderful little things he does every day just because he is the person that he is.

I'm thankful for one car that magically decided to turn off its "check engine" light after three years. I'm not sure why it was on. I'm not sure why it's off--I just know when to be thankful for the little things.

I'm thankful for a wonderful friend in real life who makes me laugh about crappy things. I'm thankful for cyber friends who are so genuine. I'm thankful for my family and how close we all are.

I'm thankful for a belief in God and religion and the knowledge that belief doesn't make me a sheep--but a person that has made a choice to believe in something greater than human frailty and a finite existence and I'm right--and I know I'm right. Truth is stronger than fiction--even if it sometimes also seems stranger than fiction. I know that I'm raising my children in a way that I can respect and accept. I'm grateful to live in a place with the freedom to make these choices, and I'm grateful that my parents raised me to respect the choices of others.

Even with all the stress that comes with it, I'm thankful for the rush and thrill I get from being a writer. I like the feeling I get when I reread something I've written and it feels alive and real and I think, "I did that. I brought that to life. I made that." I like telling the stories in my head and having the characters get their time in the light. I'm grateful for the weird quirky characters that make me smile like Honor... and Reeve, and the Master, and Beth/Juliet, and Devi, and Jake... and Asher... and Scorch. I'm honestly grateful that my memory is so wickedly horrible that I laugh at jokes every single time. I woke up this morning with a few thoughts on things to add to Scorched in the final two chapters--and I'm grateful for that too. These stories feel like living, breathing things to me and it feels nice to be a part of that.

I'm grateful for the moral upbringing I had which has instilled in me the desire to write stories that I can share with my kids someday. I'm grateful that there are other people out there still willing to write stories that I don't feel ashamed to read and recommend and quote from and talk about.

A special thank you to Shelley for writing a children's book that made me smile and call my mom right away.

Another thank you to Diana for writing Sinister which started my day out right today.

I'm grateful... very grateful to be alive today and surrounded by people that I love and who love me. I'm grateful for a laptop to take with me today so I can be surrounded by the characters I've created and sneak in a little editing. (Shhhhh... Everyone will fall asleep after turkey anyway.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Day Sixteen- Following their instincts....

So, I'm still pushing off my planned topic because I noticed something today when I was dropping my kids off.

It's dumping rain here... buckets. So, a lot of parents were dropping their kids off at school. Plus, our school is a nice school so we have a lot of parents that "open enroll" their kids from outside the boundaries so they have to bring their kids. The end result being that the parking lot is mad chaos in a circle for about twenty minutes every morning... and more so on rainy days.

I'd already dropped the kids off when it happened. As I was waiting in line to exit the parking lot, the first group of kids with a parent (on foot) went out of their way to cross in front of me. It happened again and again. I was watching around me and I would guess that people were four or five times more likely to cross in front of my car than other cars. I even had people choose to cross in front of me over the cross walk right behind me. I don't know what it was specifically. I'm overly cautious by nature (OCD in action) so I tend to leave a larger gap in front of me when it comes to driving and idling. Was it that? I also am not a rolling idle sort of person who eats up inches as soon as they become available. So, my brake lights were severely obvious, and I wasn't moving--was that it? What part of these people's instincts said that I was the right person to cross in front of? Their instincts were right--I'm cautious to the point of disturbing. I'm also the one that lost children in stores come to. I can't tell you how many times I've taken a child to find their parent or walked them to the courtesy desk. Children also come talk to me over other adults. What is it about me that says "safe"? When I was helping in T's preschool class, I had several kids--the first day--go home and mention me as a friend.

Instincts. They're weird. Sometimes they're logical. Sometimes they aren't, but they are there. I just wrote a scene that involved instincts of a crowd--which are even more baffling at times. Did you know that if you're ever being assaulted... instead of yelling for help... you should yell "FIRE?" I learned it in a self-defense class put on by a police officer. Statistically, you'll be more likely to have people rush to see the fire than to help. (Plus, I imagine it'll confuse the heck out of your attacker.)

I feel like instincts are key to writing three dimensional characters. Writing fast--as the NaNo opportunity provides, I think gives you even more of an ability to get into characters--to write THEIR dialogue and not yours. Every time I say to myself, "No, he/she wouldn't do that--she would do this," I mentally pat myself on the back for recognizing the difference between my instincts and my character's.

The other nice thing about NaNo is that you can go wildly off onto tangents that you might later cut, but it does get that word count up. Plus, who knows... maybe your tangent is right on your character's instincts.

If you don't feel like talking about this, the post below is empty... so you can say anything you feel like.

I'm having a bit of a Thanksgiving type of day today. I'm so freakishly thankful for antibiotics. I'm also thankful the husband replaced the tire on my car. I'm thankful for meeting Diana. I'm thankful that my parents are home from France after a year and a half and we'll get to see them this week. I'm thankful for a wood pile that is keeping my house warm. I'm thankful my kids are in school for several hours so I can find some peace and quiet. (T has been out of control. I think the strange feeling from his head wound is setting off his sensory system. He has this same problem every time he gets his hair cut.) I'm thankful for so many online and real life friends. I'm thankful that I'm meeting a friend this week for pie and a place that makes amazing pies. I'm very thankful for what sleep I got last night after so many nights of coughing and feeling like my lungs were drowning. I'm thankful for a friend that turned me onto to Castle. I love that show. I'm thankful for a laptop that makes my life so easy. I'm thankful for my husband who made the best roast in the world yesterday on a day that needed it. I'm very thankful today. I'm very thankful for the Frosting I'm about to go eat.

Have a good Monday everyone.

I loathe self-loathing.

Oh crap. I just got a personalized rejection on Honor that seemed eerily similar to my dream. This always, despite the best of intentions, throws me into a depression spiral of doubt--until my sense of humor kicks in--or I get pie--whichever comes first.

So, I started the oven cleaning--and have recently remembered why you only clean a self-cleaning oven on days when you can OPEN YOUR WINDOWS. My life stinks today--literally. Plus, you can't just leave your oven on 900 degrees and go for pie.... (Eventually, I do start to consider fire dangerous again under the right circumstances.)

If I go take a shower and blow off cleaning and running, I can go get pie after the oven finishes and still be back in time for the kids' bus.

On the other hand, the heel of ultimate ugliness has healed and is ready for a jaunt in the running shoes. That might help get me out of this sadness "woe is me" moment.

It's not pie, though. Running is not pie... which is probably good, because pie is high in fat and no one would run if it wasn't good for you.

Oven smoke is making my eyes water... I swear... that's why I'm crying... it's not my poor crushed writer's soul.

Actually, it is the oven. Whose bright idea was this? Who lets me think on my own on a Tuesday? Someone should have put the kibash on this right away. I'm only allowed to make my own decisions on Wednesday nights and Saturday mornings. Wait... I ruined the heel on a Wednesday night. Okay. Saturday mornings. All other days, I'm giving less creatively stupid people veto power.

Eyes burning. Nose stinging. Cough. Choke. Cough. Choke. Tell the husband I love him. Cough. My last moments suck thanks to that rejection, Agent who knows who I'm talking about. Cough. Sputter. Dead.

Brain... exploding... must... find... pie.

I hate this process of querying. It's basically the emotional equivalent to standing outside naked and just waiting for someone to come shove straw underneath your fingernails.

There must be pie for there to be sanity.

I was staring at a synopsis for too long. My brain aches. A book synopsis makes my eyes bleed. It's like watching your child get vampired... all of their juicy goodness is drained down to a Dick and Jane book. It's hard for me to tell the entire story in just a few pages without making it sound like I'm being patronizing. Hopefully, agents are used to that... adjective-free, psuedo writing. "See Honor go to the store. Honor kills monsters. Monsters want to eat Honor. Honor is unhappy." It's mind-numbing... like writing out a lobotomy. The back-cover pitch is fun. Synopsis... ugh.

Hopefully, the quality of my writing is not ever judged on a plot synopsis.

Pie... Must... eat... pie.

Boys will be boys

When B was born, I was full of fresh stupid new parent ideas. (I thought I'd invented parenting, by the way. Just as I thought I'd invented sex.) There were a few that I really thought were important.

1. No guns in our house. I'm an extreme pacifist even though I'm a military brat. I told the husband when we married that he was never to own a gun, hunting was off-limits, and there would be no toy guns in our house. (My bff Stephanie is the same way. I used the term 'bff' just to annoy her.) I was firm on this... really firm. We still have no 'actual' guns in the house and my brother-in-law, who is a cop, either puts his gun on a high ledge or leaves it behind in the car. On the toy guns, the husband has little by little undermined my authority. It started with the nerf guns. They're not "real" guns. They're just nerf guns. They shoot balls for crying out loud. I could handle it. Then came any number of ray guns and blasters. Well... they didn't look like guns... and they were more for "space" fights... right? Then, squirt guns that look like flourescent version of actual guns. Okay... so... wait.... (My assimulation into broken parenthood was nearly complete.) The husband bought a cowboy costume for T. It has a full-on silver pistol with it. Guess what became T's favorite thing in the whole world? At that point, I don't know why I bothered. By then, I'd discovered T could make anything into a weapon. We had several dozen items in "time-out" on top of our fridge because they'd become weapons... including a pool noodle. Somewhere out there, the borgs of bad parenting are having a good laugh.

2. We would be establishing no strange fears in our children. The fear of spiders, snakes, and so on are learned not innate. Thus, as modern-day parents, we would boldly teach our children to fear nothing... but fear itself. There were two impediments to this. The first was grandma... who apparently squeals and dives around if something moves funny. Sigh. My mother screams at paint drying... I swear. The second impediment turned out to be me. I've surpressed my "scream and run around like a girl" reflex... but something evil lurked in the depths of me. I didn't realize while I was so busy saying that spiders and snakes aren't scary that I was teaching them subtly through my OCD to be afraid of lamer things. T walks in the woods like the flora is just waiting to attack and eat him. (I hate nature... in general.) B can't handle coloring outside the lines and learned how to use white-out in kindergarten. Sigh. You fail!

3. This was possibly the lamest of all my parenting goals. I was determined to raise my children as gender-neutral blobs of possibility. If T wanted to play with dolls, I was going to buy him a doll and be "cool" about it. This is when and how I discovered that the gene for trucks kicks in early... much to the husband's relief. (The husband is a bit macho when it comes to what he wants his son... number one son... his first man child... to play with, dress like, admire....) Today, I realized that T is talking incessantly about the P.E. teacher. B. has never so much as mentioned his name. (B has, likewise, become the uber princess of all princessness.) I think sometimes... fate slaps you upside the head just for kicks. I also decided that my baby daughter would wear no pink frilly dresses. Gag... blech. Yeah, it was like walking around with a lightning rod on my head. B LOVES all things girly. BUZZ. Better luck next time. Thanks for playing.

4. So, that I can fully establish how all my early plans went awry or backfired.... I also decided that my daughter would never hear me disparage my weight. I would be "unhealthy" not "fat." (Well, that makes it sound like that was the goal... the goal was really to be trim, buxom, and surpassing all hotness on the meter. LOL. I slay me.) So, while the husband slips and uses the term "fat" (only when describing self,) I don't. Unfortunately, this means that T feels like it's okay to comment on all those that have unhealthy habits. "Mommy, that man is smoking... that means he is going to DIE sooner, right?" T uses his loud voice 24/7 and for some reason has a dramatic tone and volume for the word "DIE." I wave at the nice man who is smoking in a far-off (within ear-shot of loud T) corner and say quietly, "Remember how we don't say that stuff out loud, T." This also means that the word "fat" has been taught to him via friends as a descriptor and he uses it frequently. Although, I will say it doesn't sound much better for him to say, "Mommy, that woman is very unhealthy and will DIE from disease" instead of "Mommy, that woman is fat." I had really good intentions with this one too.

There are a multitude of other ways I've failed in my perfect parenting goals... but you get the picture.

Well, I'm slightly less depressed today. Jane Yolen made me feel better... strangely enough. (I wonder how many other people will say that today.) "How do dinosaurs get back their self-esteem?" Jane Yolen.

On the other hand, there will be pie. The wait for replies from agents has just begun. I hate this kind of waiting. I almost don't want to open my in-box. So, I'll be going to eat pie at my favorite eatery later. It's the only way. Sometimes, soldiering on requires Jane Yolen... and pie.

Since I've already revealed that I like to switch out words from famous film line quotes, this shouldn't surprise you (from "My Best Friend's Wedding- bolded are mine) :

Suddenly, a familiar scent. And, you're off your chair in one, exquisite movement... wondering, searching, sniffing the wind like a dapple deer. Has God heard your little prayer? Will Cinderella eat pie again? And then, suddenly, the crowds part and there it is: sleek, stylish... radiant with charisma. Bizarrely, it's on the telephone. But then, so are you. And then the coconut cream pie comes towards you... the moves of a jungle pie. Although you quite correctly sense that it is... high in saturated fat... like most devastatingly handsome single slices of pie are, you think... what the hell. Life goes on. Maybe there won't be marriage... maybe there won't be sex... but, by the baker's dozen, there'll be pie.

Have a good Tuesday everyone!