So THAT'S What They Meant...

Today I listened, delighted, as Hot Stuff told an enthusiastic and riveting version of The Three Billy Goats Gruff to Nayna. She watched him, grinning, helping with the sound effects. It was adorable. Then, when the story was over, Hot Stuff looked at Nayna with an earnest expression on his face.

"And do you know what that story teaches us?"

"No."

"Always take advantage of small people when you get the chance."

Scary

Poor Stephenie Meyer. Through a series of emails, the current and unfinished draft of her latest novel, a rewrite of Twilight from another point of view, ended up getting leaked and published in full online. Frustrated and heartbroken, she's giving up on finishing or selling the novel.

This raises some interesting issues. It's so easy to distribute writing now--I just sent Flash to a friend in Spain. Now, I trust her, as I trust all of the people that I've emailed my work to. I know they won't steal it. I was concerned, however, about it being spread around to people I didn't know, and specifically stated in my emails that it was not to be forwarded or shared with anyone. Period. I trust my readers to respect that. And since I am not famous, and no one really cares what I am writing right now, I don't worry that it will be "leaked." (Wow! An unpublished manuscript by a no-name, unagented aspiring writer! I'd better post this RIGHT NOW! People are going to freak!)

However, let's imagine a happy and optimistic future in which I find an agent and a publisher. Will I email my work out to friends? No. I have one extremely trusted reader that I will continue to share things with, as she is a great resource and dear friend, and a writer who understands just how tragic Meyer's situation was and how it happened. My family can have hard copies. But this was a good warning to writers everywhere to control your work--because you may trust the people you send it to, but if they, in their unaware enthusiasm, send it to others, you have no connection or control.

This being said, if I emailed you my book for critique, please do me the favor of deleting the document as well as the email with the attachment. Because better safe than sorry, right?

Switching Gears

While I endure the endless, boring, soul-crushing waiting that accompanies trying to get an agent (because even if things are going well, you still

must

wait

and

wait

and

wait to find out if they will continue to go well) I thought I should switch gears for a bit. I don't have any new novel* ideas at the moment (hrm, that's not exactly true. I don't have any novel ideas developed enough to start, let's say) so I'm going to switch over and write a few short stories. First up is poor Walt, who's been waiting very patiently for several weeks for me to get around to him. Then I have a couple more fun ideas. And then, if I get all of those done, I'll have all sorts of research ahead of me to find magazines to try and get them published in! Which means, more waiting!

Awesome. Because I am so good at waiting. I'm thinking that when I go back to school for my advanced degree(s), I'll look into specializing in waiting. By then I should be professional.

*Boy, every time I look at this it feels wrong to me. New novel seems redundant, but as novel is a noun, it isn't. Maybe I should have said novel novel ideas.

Question and Answer Revisited

JaneyV said...
Are your eyes naturally that colour green or do you have a jade-rich diet?

My favorite source of greens is not the usual vegetable variety; I prefer M&Ms. I also eat very few minerals. So, yes, my eyes are naturally that color green. And I love that you spell it colour. Hooray for the UK!

Made-up Fan said...
Do you have a fan club?

Good question. In high school there was an "I Hate Kiersten" club, but as it consisted entirely of jilted suitors, I'm pretty sure it's disbanded by now. Goodness, I sure hope so. And that's probably not the type of fan club you were thinking of.

Whirlochre said...
Is it true your eyebrows have their own special language?

Yes. Unfortunately, they've never given me a translation guide, so even I don't understand them.

writtenwyrdd said...
So, tell me your laundry secrets. Do you use powdered bleach? And does one have to presoak grape juice stains if you bleach?

Wow, WW, asking me to air my dirty laundry in a public forum! Goodness. Well, to be honest, I would love nothing more than to be able to launder whenever and however I want. Unfortunately, we have yet to live in a place with our own washer and dryer. Sometimes, when I'm feeling down, I slip into one of my favorite daydreams...

Dojo just threw up all over his favorite blanket again, and it's the middle of the week. But wait! I've got...MY OWN WASHER AND DRYER! I don't have to wait until the weekend trip to the in-laws to wash the vomity mess. I just throw it in, snuggle up with Dojo, and we peacefully wait while his blankie gets cleaned in the comfort of our own home.

Yes, folks, that imagination right there is why I'm a writer. Dream big, I always say.

Notanactualfan said...
So far there have been two questions about your eyes; what's up with that?

Well, fake questioner, it turns out my eyes are so incredible, they're featured in a novel! It's true. Someday when Natalie is published, you'll find my eyes on...the male love interest. Hmmm. Well, still flattering.

Natalie said...
Who's the hottest fictional character? Besides James, of course...

Wait, BESIDES James? That makes it difficult. Of course, Natalie read Flash and fell in love not with the actual love interest, but with the bad guy. But it got me thinking, if other girls respond the same way after I get published, I could make a mint writing fanfiction...fifty bucks and I'll write a scene of you making out with James! Heck, even if it never gets published, I could probably have a nice little cottage industry with that.

But besides James...hmmm. Of course, now we've got the problem of narrowing scope. Because fictional character could refer to anyone, including characters in movies. So I'm going to assume you meant hottest character in fiction. In which case...probably the Scarecrow. Close tie with Count Olaf. And Willy Wonka coming in third. Although I'll admit to having a crush on Legolas when I was a teenager--pre-movies, naturally. Wait, I was a teenager when Fellowship came out...weird.

Renee said...
Wait, do I ask the question in the comments, or should I email you?

Yes.

Thanks to all who participated.

Question and Answer Time

I thought I'd debut a new feature today. It's question and answer time!

Hi Kiersten! I was wondering, how is the querying going? You never mention specifics.

Well, that's on purpose, actually. Part of it is pride, but part is prudence. For example, let's say (and all of these numbers are completely fictional) I'd received forty rejections. On the off chance an agent looks me up, I wouldn't really want them to see that. Then again, let's say I'd received forty partial requests. Same thing. It's not something I'm interested in advertising. That being said, I'm hopeful and happy right now.

I saw your post on the five stages of querying grief. You're so clever! How do you feel about agents?

While the querying process is rather disheartening, I happen to love agents. You can read about it here or here. I think there's a certain personality that's attracted to agenting, a big component of which being a love of reading and writing. My kind of people.

Is Hot Stuff really as great as you say he is?

Better.

How is that even possible?

I don't know; I'm just glad I asked him out.

Is Flash really as awesome as you say it is?

I would never use awesome flippantly. Well, that's not true. But Flash is even MORE awesome than I say it is, believe it or not. Nearly all of my readers finished in less than a day; two have even re-read it for fun. And yes, that fact gives me warm fuzzies.

How are you handling all of the waiting that accompanies querying?

Two words: not well. Two more words: cookie dough.

Can I have your cookie dough recipe?

Only if you are querying.

Was this feature funnier in your head?

Yes. Yet another example of something funnier in my head than in execution. Alas.

Did you write all of these questions yourself?

Naturally.

Would you let other people submit questions?

Of course. I'm always open to questions. I especially like ones about my social security number or bank account.

Are you going to be devastated when no one is interested enough in you to come up with any questions?

Well, that didn't stop me from doing this Q & A; I don't see why it would have any effect on future ones.

Update: Actual questions! Wow. Clearly I underestimated my readers. I'll save the questions for tomorrow's post, wherein all will be revealed.

I Hope I Won't Win

I often wonder if there is a hierarchy of death story status in the afterlife.

For example, one man may be basking in his newfound glory, enjoying the horrified admiration of his listeners as he tells them of how he was decapitated in an accident on the freeway. He's certain of immense popularity, until he notices another man nodding, with a smug, sly grin.

"Well," the nodder says, "That certainly sounds terrible. A quick and painless death. Boy. I'm sure glad I was bitten in half by a great white shark and bled to death in the middle of the ocean."

The decapitated man's face falls. He knows he's lost, and his crowd shifts toward the great white's dinner with a collective gasp of shock.

I Got a Review!

http://thefix-online.com/reviews/leading-edge-55/

This is why you should regularly google yourself! The review is for Tangle, my story that was published in May. Go read the original, or trust that I'm quoting it exactly here:

"'Tangle' by Kiersten Brazier is a well-written retelling of 'Rapunzel' with rounded characters. It subtly explores issues of growing up, parental sheltering, and the way misconceptions are born. Brazier’s use of 'local sheriff' and then later a castle in the woods was a bit jarring, but I found 'Tangle' enjoyable, and Sandi Johnson’s illustrations nicely complement it."

--Z. S. Adani

The Stuff of Nightmares

I was seventeen. Out of the country for the first time in my life, but a resort in Playa del Carmen, Mexico, probably didn't count for much. Still, it was like a microcosm of the world--the weathly Western world, at least. Watching the racial dynamics was both interesting and depressing. The whiter the employee, the more interaction with guests. Some exceptions were made for being very goodlooking, but in general, if your skin was too dark, you were relegated to the kitchen or maid duty. Why present anything other than a white face to the guests? Heaven forbid that you should have to, say, interact with Mexicans while in Mexico.

Ah, those guests--every European nation was represented, with some Americans thrown into the mix. It was odd watching all of those stereotypes in one small area. The Americans were loud and dressed obnoxiously. The British were pasty white and complained a lot. The Italians made sleazy comments to any girl they saw. The Germans were stoic. Sure, I'm making generalizations, but it seemed like a resort of running gags.

But I get away from myself. The point of the story is not to examine preconceived notions, and how when we expect to see people act a certain way, we nearly always will. No, the point of this story is the atrocity of nude beaches.

When, as a young, innocent girl, I heard about nude beaches, I always thought they would be dens of lasciviousness. Beautiful, toned bodies parading around, showing their assets (ha!) for all the world to lust after. I couldn't understand anyone being brave enough to wander around nude, but surely only those most perfect of bodies would be willing to. However, other countries lack my nation's puritanical roots. Nudity on the beaches is not a sensual thing; it's a practical thing. As I discovered when, on those Mexican stretches of sand with no regulations, the European women regularly discarded their tops.

Oh. My. Heavens.

It wasn't the young, firm bodies that opted to lose clothing. No, no indeed. For the most part I didn't see much--partly because of diligent eye-aversion on my part, and partly because not many took the clothing-optional option. However, the worst was yet to come.

I'm not a strong swimmer. I have a hard time fighting currents. I was out in the water with a boogie board, when I saw I was drifting ever closer to an area that was, for whatever reason, roped off. I began paddling to shore. After a bit I realized that I wasn't moving in the direction I wanted--I was being pulled closer and closer to the ropes. And, in between me and the beach, was a woman. A large, large woman. A large, large woman with no top on.

It was like something out of a horror movie. There I was, kicking desperately, but it was like the woman had created a whirlpool of currents around herself. The panic set in as those two, humongous, pasty white floating monstrosities loomed ever larger and closer. Please, I thought, please whatever happens--don't let me touch them.

That trip I dodged a kiss, hid from a psycho Dutch stalker, and got stung by a jellyfish. But I avoided the horror of those hideous natural flotation devices--if only just barely.

No wonder I'm scared of swimming in the ocean.

A Thousand Words?

The problem with "Kodak Moments" is that the second you pull out your camera to capture them, the moment has officially been destroyed.

Upon hearing the quiet beep, your children look up from the book they had been reading together on the couch. The four-year-old sees CAMERA and starts hamming, exchanging her arm sweetly tucked around her little brother for a vice-like headlock, complete with manic grin. The two-year-old hates being restrained, and hates cooperating for pictures even more, so immediately gets angry and throws himself off of the couch.

Not only do you not get an adorable picture, you totally screw up the sweet moment your kids were having independent of anything you said or did.

Dang cameras.

Risk Avoidance

I've always been a cautious person. I don't think I willingly went in the deep end of the pool until I was ten; I could swim well, but figured, why risk it?

In school I constantly played to my strengths. Rather than pursue Philosophy, I stuck with English--I knew I could sail through in three years, and keep a scholarship.

While I was visiting my family I found some old medals from the state Academic Decathalon I competed in during high school. (Yes, it's true. I designed our team sweatshirts--they read, "Don't Mess With These Nerds.") Hot Stuff was asking me about it, and truth is, I don't remember how many events I placed in. Four, maybe five? First place in at least two. But the sad thing is, I didn't study, at all, for any of it. And now that I look back on it, I wonder how well I could have done had I actually, say, applied myself for once.

Part of this not-trying trend (which I used in the standardized college entrance exams, papers during college, and all of high school) stems from pure and simple laziness. But a large part of it, I think, was due to insecurity. Not trying was my safety net. Because what if I really worked hard, put all of my heart and soul into it, and then failed? What excuse would I have then? If I didn't try and still did well, great. If I didn't try and didn't do well, hey, I could blame not preparing. It was never about whether or not I was good enough.

But this writing thing is new, it's different. I want this. And I've put my heart and soul into Flash. I didn't just write a chapter here and there, when the mood struck. I devoted every spare thought, moment, and ounce of energy (and hey, with two kids under four, that's a HUGE sacrifice, because there isn't much of anything left over) to this manuscript. And when I was done, I didn't just pat myself on the back, I took advice, thought about it, made some changes. I'm on my fourth edit--going over every sentence to make sure nothing is awkward or out of place.

Here comes the risk. Not only did I actually try, very very much so, with this book, but now I'm putting it out there for the world to judge. It isn't enough that my friends, family, and writing group think it's great. I want to see it published.

And this is what scares me. What if, after finally devoting myself, and putting in the time and effort, nothing happens? What if I can't get an agent to notice me? What if I've finally found something I want, really want (besides Hot Stuff, and I got him ; )), and I can't get it? How do you recover from that?

I don't know how to end this post. I tried for a plucky, "I'll carry on no matter what!" ending, tried for a, "I want to write for the rest of my life whether or not I get paid," tried for a, "if I don't succeed with this, I honestly don't know what I'll do," but nothing quite worked. So, I guess I'll end with hoping that my best is enough in this case. Time will tell.

(Dang, this wasn't funny at all. Quick! Knock knock jokes in the comments section!)

Sometimes My Brain Malfunctions

I had some fun blonde moments yesterday. Which is weird, since I haven't been a blonde in years. (I was all growing up, but when I was pregnant with my first baby, my hair went several shades darker, and then even darker the second pregnancy. Whoohoo! Growing up in Utah, everyone was blonde [most not naturally, but still], so I quite like my darker hair now.)

Some of you who visited the blog yesterday may have noticed a post ranting about how Kinko's had more than quintupled their printing prices. I couldn't believe it. However, Hot Stuff, rather than being outraged, calmly suggested maybe I hadn't selected the right things. Oh, yes, well, turns out when you select black and white instead of color printing, the price drops dramatically. So that post disappeared pretty quickly.

Then I was researching Hawaiian penal codes, looking for a crime or misdemeanor that would get you just the right amount of time in jail--a few months as opposed to several years or no time at all. (I'm planning a vacation! Thought I'd do a jail tour. Hard time's gotta be easier than staying home all day every day with a two- and four-year-old.) (Okay, actually, it was research for a book.) I couldn't figure out why they had all of these pretty ridiculous crimes listed (such as illegally branding cattle and seduction [but not seducing illegally branded cattle]) until I finally realized that I was looking at penal codes for the Hawaiian Kingdom. As in, pre-statehood. Yeah.

It was an entertaining day. I'm probably much more fun to be around when I have a headache and my thinking gets all fuzzy. Less ranting about the latest author to incorrectly use decimated, more ridiculousness completely unrelated to grammar. Or at least, other people's grammar.

Good Point

Ah, crap. I mean, dang--wait, no, shoot, I, well...

Whatever.

Back to Work

Sort of. It was impossible to get anything done at my house, between good company and the olympics. But now that Laptop is back from rehab and I'm back home, I'm hoping to get some good work done. I still have to write Walt's Bridge, and Blank is blinking at me, just waiting for that next chapter.

However, Dojo, having been given far too much leeway, is now utterly rebelling against naptime, which leaves us both grouchy and exhausted. It should be a fun week, but hopefully I'll still be able to get some good work done.

In the meantime, I'm being interviewed by the Wall Street Journal.

Okay, yeah, it's not actually that cool. Someone who writes a travel blog (actually, it's quite entertaining, you can read it here) saw my post about being stuck in the airport and wanted to know what I do to entertain my kids. Easy. I let them cry and pretend they aren't mine. I figure I don't look old enough to be their mom, anyway.

Kidding. I fall back on my standard parenting method: bribery.

But I digress. From what, you may ask? Good question. Clearly my mind is as disorganized as our post-vacation sleeping schedule. Let's hope I get them both sorted out.

And the Moral of the Story Is:

Always, always, always check the flight info before you get to the aiport. For example, if your plane happens to be delayed two hours, well then you wouldn't be stuck sitting in an airport with your two- and four-year-old for three hours.

Fun day, yesterday.

The Five Stages of Querying Grief

Stage One: Denial

This can't be happening to me! Flash is so good! I was supposed to get an agent within days of sending out that first query! There must be some sort of mistake--it's already been three weeks. Sure, everyone else has to go through a long, drawn-out querying process, but not me! There's going to be a request for a full in my inbox RIGHT NOW, I just know it.

Stage Two: Anger

What?!? [Insert Author Name Here] got an agent on her first try! And my book is at least as good as hers! And WHY won't anyone get back to me? Don't they understand I'm checking my email every twenty minutes? I HATE THIS! QUERYING IS THE WORST THING EVER! JUST READ MY FREAKING BOOK ALREADY!

Stage Three: Bargaining

Okay. It's okay. If I can just get a request for a full, if an agent will just read the whole thing, I'll be happy. No matter what, I'll be happy then.

No? A partial. Just read a partial, I swear then I'll be happy, I won't complain or freak out or want to give up. Just a partial?

No? Just respond. Anything. Just respond, and I'll be okay, really, I promise. Just a response? Please?

Stage Four: Depression

It's been three weeks. This is it. No one is going to want Flash. They'll never read it, so they'll never know how much fun it is, how well-written it is, how much potential I have as a writer. I'll never get an agent, which means I'll never get published, and there's nothing I can do about it. I suck. I suck, I suck, I suck I suck I suck. And the worst part is that I don't suck, but it doesn't matter, because no one will ever know. I'm never going to be an author. It's over. I'm going to bed. And I'm not getting up again.

Stage Five: Acceptance

Well, it is what it is. I know I'm talented, I know I'll be published someday. Maybe an agent will give Flash a chance. Maybe not. It's more luck than anything else at this point, and I can accept that. Either way, I'll keep writing, and someday, someone will represent me. I know Flash is good; everyone who read it loved it. That's enough for now.


Which stage am I in right now? Oh, depression. Very much depression.

Update: Can we have a stage for getting your hopes up again?


*Special thanks to Natalie for supplying Bargaining

Caption Contest

While I'm sitting out here, so tired my eyes aren't functioning right, listening for whether or not my daughter is going to puke again (yes, they decided to switch things up a bit, and tonight it's Nayna, not Dojo, giving me vomit to clean up), I thought I'd put up a contest. The challenge is this: come up with a good caption for the side picture I put on the blog. Have at it. Winner gets a lame prize, to be determined.

My caption offering to start us off: "If I were writing the story of my life, Vomit would be a main character."

The MoMo Writers

Our first meeting was a success. These girls are as fabulous in person as they are in the blogosphere and in their writing. I'm on the left, Renee is towering in the middle, and Natalie brings up the right with her adorable smile.

Unfortunately, we forgot to add height restrictions to our membership applications, so Renee snuck in before we realized she's an Amazon...oh well. She's still cool, I guess. Even if she is tall and thin.

And in case you were wondering, I'm wearing three-inch heels. Seriously.

Passive Aggression

My five-year-old arms struggled to lift the rock. Erin, older by two years, stood in front of me, tossing smaller stones into the creek. I couldn't wait to see the splash mine would make. In fact, I was so eager to throw it, I didn't bother moving closer to the stream, or even moving to the side so that Erin wasn't directly in front of me. The rock flew from my hands and time slowed; I watched its trajectory, knowing with a sick feeling in my stomach exactly where it would go. As it smashed into her head and she fell to the ground, I stood in disbelief. What if I had just killed her? My parents rushed forward, helping Erin (who was thankfully still alive) up. She cried, glaring at me, and I probably cried too.

Thing is, I was five. How much of my motivation do I really remember? I think I was aiming for the stream...

Sorry, Erin.

Utah

The mountains loom ever larger as we drive west. Obscured by roiling black clouds, the sun gives clarity, sharpening and defining, but without the burning glare of August. It is all beauty and no pain. The horizon--there's a horizon, and I'm subconsciously relieved at the well-defined boundaries for my vision. Light brown, contrasting with dark green and sharp gray, lines I know better than my own profile. These mountains mean home, and my heart sings to be contained in their vast and ancient shoulders once again. The ocean of my adopted city is beautiful, but cold and impersonal in its immensity. These mountains are mine.

They welcome me home by trapping the clouds--they greet me with thunder and lightning and rain. The wind--constant, eternal--is here, too, whipping my hair in an insistent hello.

I missed you, too.

Celebrate!

So, good news. What? No, I haven't heard from any agents. Thank you for rubbing it in.

No, today was a no-puke day! Oh, man, what am I doing...there is still an hour of prime puking time left. Okay, so far there was no puke today! Also no nap, and Dojo broke the blinds and smacked his head into the wall so hard there's already a bump and a bruise, but hey, no puke = good day.

Aside from that, tomorrow I head to the mountains to visit my family. This means lots of extra and willing and energetic hands to take care of the children. Yay! And, having just read Renee's novel (which was so fun), our writing group (and I'm very disappointed in the lack of name suggestions) has a lot to talk about at our first lunch.

But it won't be all relaxation. I've still got Walt's Bridge to write, which means a lot of research. And don't worry. My family's house is the internet capitol of the world, so you won't have to miss me.

Motherhood

I lay in bed, comfortably floating in the haze between waking and sleep, waiting to drift off. My mind begins to spin out in colorful fantasies, and I'm gone.

Jarred back to reality--the sound rips through the air and suddenly every muscle is tense. Inert, I will myself not to wake, but it is too late. My heartbeat sends tremors through the bed underneath me. I listen with every nerve in my body.

The coughs continue. Too many. Surely he'll start screaming soon. Or, worse--the coughing, then the gag and a few seconds of silence. I'll lose not only naptime, those precious two hours when I can be nothing, but also my afternoon to cleaning up vomit. Again. I'll try to be gentle and kind. It's not his fault. But who can be gentle and kind in the face of gallons and gallons of bile? It would be the second time today; the seventh time this week.

My job is this: take care of the children. Oftentimes brutal in its deceptive simplicity. I know my life is far easier than what it could be, maybe even what it should be, but the sheer monotony of eternal responsibility weighs heavily on my sleep-addled brain. I am it. There is no one to call. No one to help. These two lives come down to me and me alone. They are mine.

And so I roll quickly out of bed, padding silently down the hall. He looks at me, eyes half-closed with slumber. Sweet thing, he doesn't want to be awake any more than I want him to be. Soothed to have me near, he rolls over and closes his eyes. I sit in the rocking chair and watch him, awed as ever by the crescent of his dark lashes. Everything about him is round and sweet--a perfect angel, when he's sleeping. After a few minutes I sneak out, to sit in the other room and listen to his coughing, waiting.

If he vomits, I will clean it up. Again, and again, and again. Because he is mine. And I am glad.

Who's Betraying Who Now?!

So Kiersten tells me, "Laptop, I'm sending you to the spa! A week of relaxation--no one pounding on your keys, no one constantly surfing the web, no one obsessively checking email!" I'm thrilled, as you can imagine. I've been pretty worn out lately.

But then I find out, it's no spa she's sending me to. No, she's sending me BACK TO THE MANUFACTURER. Apparently she's decided that I should give her wireless access. Well, maybe I don't want to! Maybe I'm tired of being taken for granted! But did she even ask me how I feel about being sent off to a bunch of strangers, who are going to open me up and coldly examine my insides--maybe even *shudder* remove things? Put new things in?

No. All she's worried about is backing up her precious documents. Documents she wouldn't even have if it weren't for me. So fine. I'm leaving. Maybe with me gone for a while she'll finally appreciate just how wonderful I am. Of course, I'm a little suspicious of the timing. Next week she's meeting up with Renee...maybe she found out about our secret plans to elope. Curses, foiled again. Someday, Renee...someday.

Get Yourself a Writing Group

I've been lucky with Flash; before I started it, I happened to become friends with two other girls, Natalie and Renee. We're all stay-at-home moms to infants-toddlers-preschoolers (in fact, we all have one of each), BYU grads, and aspiring novelists. Even weirder, although we met through Evil Editor's site, Natalie and I eventually figured out that not only were we at BYU together, she had classes with my mom AND we went to the same high school. At the same time. Funny how things work out.

Point being: these two girls have been a wonderful support system and an invaluable resource. We whine to each other about disappointments, not having enough time to write, not having a laptop (wait, no, that's just poor Renee...), and we also talk about how much fun writing is. When I mention how my characters did something I never would have thought of, they don't think I'm insane, they laugh and know exactly what I'm talking about. I also get to take a break from my own writing and read theirs (well, Natalie's...Renee, we're serious about that deadline...), which is both refreshing and delightful.

And because they're writers, they were able to give me great plot ideas and feedback on the original draft of Flash. I credit Natalie for how awesome James is now; she loved him so much she wanted more, and new chapters were born that made the triangle both more believable and interesting. Besides helping with the actual book, I've gone to them for aid on queries and synopses. They've also put up with a lot of "querying depresses me out of my mind" whining very good-naturedly.

Long-winded point being, if you don't have a writing group, get one. And, as luck would have it, we're all going to be in Utah next week! So, I'm re-meeting Natalie, and meeting Renee for the first time. We're going to lunch, where we can talk about our imaginary worlds and various insanities amongst friends. I'll post a picture.

Also, we need a good name. Right now we're the Mommy Writers, but it's just not very snappy, you know? Maybe we should go with Superfluity of Naughtiness...

A Skill I Lack

"He knew the precise psychological moment when to say nothing."

--Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The Internet Hates Me

Alternate title: I Broke Internet Explorer.

I don't know what the deal is, but I can't open any of my blogs, and apparently neither can anyone else using IE. Lovely. I can still post, I just can't comment or actually, you know, look at my blogs. We'll see if it resolves itself as randomly as it popped up.

Update: No, it's nothing to do with Laptop. It is, in fact, everything to do with SiteMeter, apparently. I just removed it from my private blog, and now it works. So...the question is, do I give up SiteMeter before hitting 4,000? Or do I wait and see if it fixes itself? Because everyone else with SiteMeter has to be having the same problem.

Further Update: Nevermind, it's fixed. Lovely.

I Found Sarah

Okay--here's my Sarah. Mary Elizabeth Winstead. Only her eyes should be a little lighter, more of a hazel. Also, Sarah would never show that much skin--too dangerous.

Context

I sat there in my car, waiting for the light to turn. Hearing my name from the back, I smiled, turning to the empty passenger seat to grab the water my daughter was requesting. I made eye contact with a good-looking man, mid-twenties, in a work van next to me. He gives me a "Hey there" grin; he'd obviously been staring at me. Already smiling, I started laughing a little bit, continuing my turn to hand the water to one of my two children in back. His eyes followed me, his smile dropped off, and he whipped his head forward to stare straight ahead. I think he was even blushing a bit.

See, it's all about context. I don't get hit on, or even checked out, pretty much ever (and don't worry, I'm quite happy with this). Partly, I'm sure, because I don't dress or act in such a way to invite that. But also because I'm rarely ever out in public without my two children. And let's face it: double strollers? Not sexy.

So this guy trying to stoplight flirt with me struck me as funny. He sees a girl, driving alone, and smiles. He sees a girl turn around to interact with her children, and stops. It just made me think about how we relate to other people (and in writing, how we interpret characters and their actions) based on the circumstances in which we see them. I like the way people treat me when they see me as a mom much better than when they don't.