50 Shades...You read what?!

Many of my friends have been waxing lyrical over 50 Shades of Grey. Some of them are reading it furtively on their Kindles and Nooks where no one can see the title while others are reading it proudly, cover showing, telling anyone who’ll listen how hot it is.

I haven’t read it. Honestly, I probably won’t, but not for the reasons you might think.

I don’t care that it was originally self-published, although the general consensus of reviewers in the blogosphere is that it could have benefitted from some professional editing. I have no beef with self-publishers. I’ve considered it myself. Get your stuff out there. Get paid. In E.L. James’ case, get paid a lot.

I have no issue with the erotic content of the book. I LOVE a good romance, and many of my favorites don’t fade to black when the hero and heroine finally make it to the bedroom. 50 Shades is part of the subgenre, erotic romance, which I generally don’t read. For my readers who aren’t romance aficionados, the difference between erotic romance and another subgenre of romance with erotic content is that in an erotic romance, the hero and heroine find their way to Happily Ever After (HEA) through their sexual journey. So…the sex is front and center rather than something that occurs along the way.

My favorite subgenres are romantic suspense and paranormal romance. In these subgenres, the protagonists find their way to HEA through a mystery or some sort of spooky doings. Sometimes, they get freaky while they’re being spooky, and hey, I’m all for that, as long as it makes sense in the story.

In a world full of many wonderful romance choices, 50 Shades isn’t something I would pick up and read in the normal course of events. Add to the mix the fact it was written as Twilight fanfic, and I’m really not interested. Edward and Bella explore their relationship through kinky sex? No thanks.

So, you might be thinking, why bother blogging, Kathy? You’re not jumping on the 50 Shades bandwagon. Bully for you. Do you want a cookie or something?

No, I do not want a cookie. Wait! Is it an Oreo? Oh, nevermind. I do not want a cookie. And I really, really, really do not want to read a book review over 50 Shades written by a 15 year old boy. Yes, you read that right…one of my freshman boys wrote their final book review of the year on 50 Shades of Grey. 

He strolled into my classroom with a question. “Hey, Ms. Owens, have you read 50 Shades of Grey?”

I raised my eyebrows. “No, have you?”

“Yeah, my mom let me have the whole trilogy after she finished with it. I couldn’t put it down.”

“I’ll bet. You say your mom gave you the books?”

“Yeah. Do you know what they’re about?”

“I’ve heard about them.” Now the grin starts spreading across his face. He was just waiting to see if I knew anything about the book. 

“Seriously, Ms. Owens, seriously, it’s a great story. Even without all the sex.”

“Seriously?” I repeated in the same tone of voice. Mind you, he hasn’t stopped grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

“I swear to GOD, Ms. Owens, it’s a really good story.” I was so tempted to tell him he sounded like every guy who’s ever read Playboy. “I read it for the articles.”

Uh. Huh.

Instead I said, “Well, I guess it’s up to you to convince me of that in your book review.”

Fast forward to Friday. I read his book review before school started, and handed it back to him in class. 

“You gave me a C.”

“It was a week late and a bit sparse.”

“Sparse?”

“No detail.”

“No detail? You wanted detail?”

“You have the rubric for the assignment. You talked all around the story without really telling me anything. I could’ve gotten what you wrote from the book jacket.”

“I promise I read that book. I read all three.”

"Oh, I believe you read it. That’s why you worked so hard not to tell me anything.”

He changed tactics. “It’s the book I chose, isn’t it? You said you don’t believe in censorship.”

I threw my hands up. “Did I say you couldn’t do your book review over this book? You still have to write a good review, no matter what book you choose. You’re lucky I know you’re a reader and I believe you read it.”

“So you don’t read books with sex in them?”

He knows he wrote a subpar review, and now he’s fishing. I know it. I’m not having the conversation he’s trying to have.

“I don’t read Twilight fan fiction.”

“WHAT???”

“Well, yeah, the main characters are based on Edward and Bella.”

“No way! They aren’t vampires!”

I took his review back out of his hand and read out loud. (I’m paraphrasing here and I don’t remember the characters’ names, but the gist is the same.) “Sally is fascinated by Joe, but then she finds out he has a dark secret. At first she is afraid, but before long, she is drawn into his secret world and wants him to make her a part of it. Now let me read that again and substitute the names Edward and Bella.”

“OH SNAP!”

I laughed and went on with class. I did notice several times that he was staring off into space with a bereft look on his face, and I felt kinda bad. He had an “innocence lost” expression. I think 50 Shades was just a titillating story for him until I offered real faces to put on it.

I like to think I’ve been teaching long enough that things don’t surprise me anymore, and boys wanting to read books with sex in them…that doesn’t surprise me. Heck this book is selling like hotcakes. A lot of suburban moms want to read sexy books. What surprises me is a suburban mom giving the sexy books to her teenage boy.

One day of school left…

Thank God.

To cut or not to cut; that is the question

I got my hair done today. Nothing drastic. My awesome stylist, Sheri, touched up the color and trimmed up the ends, gave it a little shape. My hair is fairly long now, the longest it’s been since I was a child. That pic over there in the corner is 3 years old. I should probably update it. Several times, I’ve thought about cutting my hair short, and then, the day of my appointment comes and I don’t.

Why?

Midlife crisis? Maybe.

Fear of appearing old? Maybe.

Too lazy to do anything besides blow it dry? Definitely.

I had a conversation with a close friend this morning before my appointment, and I asked her if my hair was getting ridiculously long “for a woman my age.” She was indignant.

“For a woman your age! NO! Meryl Streep had long hair into her sixties!”

Well, there you go. If anyone is the definitive model for appropriateness, it’s Meryl, and I’m a long way from sixty. (It might be fair to note that my indignant friend is exactly the same age as me.)

Meryl’s example notwithstanding, where is the line? At what point do I stop looking like a fun-loving woman in the prime of her life and start looking like an aging hippie or a Pentecostal matron? I’ve never identified as either a hippie or a Pentecostal, so I hope the answer to that question is never.

A better question might be at what point will long hair stop being appropriate for me and my lifestyle? Perhaps a list of pros and cons is in order.

Times when long hair is awesome:

1. At a Foo Fighters concert when you want to bang your head in solidarity with Dave Grohl.
2. On the dance floor when you want to wave your hands (and hair) in the air like you don’t care.
3. When your bff snaps pics of everything and you don’t want your face in another pic where you’re doing something stupid.
4. When you’re nervous/bored/agitated/deep-in-thought and you need something to do with your hands.
5. In the winter, when your neck is cold.
6. When you’re a sibling in my family. My little brother’s hair has been longer than mine since he was 18 or 19.
7. When you’re riding in a convertible with the top down. It’s carefree!

Times when long hair is a pain:

1. When you’re riding in a convertible with the top down. It’s a rat’s nest!
2. When you close it in the door of the car. OUCH!
3. When you’re brushing your teeth.
4. When you’re eating a taco.
5. When you’re sick. Sure, we all have a friend who will hold our hair after the party, but where are they when you have the stomach flu?
6. When you’re in a fight. I’ve never actually been in one, but from what I’ve seen in the halls at school, when girls fight, they go for the hair.

The data is there. Let's break it down.

The convertible thing is a wash, and I can use a clip when brushing my teeth and eating tacos. And of course, I can wear a scarf in the winter, but then I'd close that in the car door. My hair will never give me the aura of laid-back cool my brother enjoys. So what is the answer?

Well...Since I’m not finished going to concerts and dancing and doing stupid things and since I rarely get sick and never get into fights, I think my long hair still works. And I have faith that the day I start to look like an aging hippie or a Pentecostal matron, one of my friends will tell me.

You will, right?

Behind and Ahead

I'm frustrated because I am behind on my NaNoWriMo word count. Seriously. I should be at 25,000 words tomorrow, and I'm at 17,043. Do the math. It's not pretty.

I'm thrilled because I've written 17,043 words in 13 days. That's 17,043 more new words than I've written in 6 months. AND I'm not stuck. I know what happens next. My characters are alive in my head and talking to me.

So why am I so far behind in my word count?

Let me show you my Monday...

5:20am -- Roll out of bed, throw on my workout clothes and head to 5:45 Jazzercise. Workout time is absolutely non-negotiable. It is my sanity. Sanity is worth losing a little sleep.

7:00am -- Home again. Shower, dress, attempt to wake the living dead, otherwise known as my sleeping son. The living dead is extra grumpy today. Hello Monday. He's congested, hacking up a lung, and dealing with a souvenir from Friday night's game in the form of a strained back muscle.

7:50am -- Leave for school without the living dead. Call doctor in route and make an appointment. This reminds me to call the vet to get Biscuit's insulin refilled. As soon as I hang up, I forget all about the insulin. WalMart's pharmacy will be closed when I remember it again.

8:05am -- Arrive at school where I immediately make arrangements for coverage of my third hour class as I will be taking the living dead to the doctor during that time. Answer emails, make copies, get bellringer and agenda on the board all while mainlining a 32 oz Diet Dr. Pepper.

8:45am -- Teach first hour.

9:45am -- My much needed planning period, but am I planning? No. I'm sprinting out the door to go raise the living dead. Drag him out of bed, yell repeatedly through the bathroom door that we are going to be late.

10:26am -- Arrive 6 min late to the doctor. They graciously get us in asap because they know I'm a teacher who should be teaching. In fact, the doctor's daughter is in my third hour class which is being covered by someone else. Negative strep test is good. Viral crud that can only be toughed out is not as good.

11:15am -- Arrive back at school where living dead shuffles off like he's walking the Green Mile. I sprint to the library and ask my colleague covering my class if we're still friends. Thankfully, we are.

11:15am - 3:45pm -- Teach my little heart out. My two sections of regular English were particularly awesome with a poignant reading on Emmett Till as we prepare for TKAM.

4:00pm -- Meet and greet in the library for our new interim principal.

4:30pm - 6:00pm -- Plan tomorrow's lesson because I was dealing with the living dead during my planning period. Didn't mind too much as I am ridiculously excited about starting TKAM.

6:00pm -- Pick up son at football practice. Yes, he is my son again. Nothing raises the dead like knocking the crap out of his teammates. Playoff round 3 is this week, so practice goes long. I catch up on Facebook and blog reading while I wait and wish I had my netbook in the car.

6:30pm -- Drive son from field house to trainer's office to get his back iced.

7:00pm -- Pull into my driveway where son realizes he doesn't have his phone. I call his phone, and one of his teammates answers. He's still in the trainer's office.

7:05pm -- Drive back to school. I know, I know. I should have made him wait until tomorrow to get the damn phone, but some battles aren't worth fighting. There's no glory in victory. Driving back was less hassle than living with a teenager who couldn't text or talk to his girlfriend for 12 hours.

7:06pm -- Call from Bruce who saw me pull into the driveway and then pull back out. He's starting dinner. There is a reason I love that man.

7:30pm -- Finally arrive back home. I actually get out of the car and into the house before I realize I haven't picked up the OTC meds the doctor recommended for the viral crud. I decide I can't face getting back into the car just yet. Help Bruce finish dinner and eat.

8:45pm -- WalMart to get meds. Remember I haven't picked up Biscuit's insulin, and the pharmacy is closed. Sigh.

9:15pm -- Do a load of laundry, read blogs, open my WIP.

10:00pm -- Close my WIP upon realizing my brain is totally fried. In an effort to write something, anything...compose a blog post complaining about being behind on my NaNo novel.

There you have it. I'm behind on my word count. I may or may not make it to 50,000 by November 30. Doesn't matter. I've written 17,043 words in 13 days. I know what comes next. I'm gonna finish this mother.

Oh, the humiliation...and other interesting stuff

I'm cheating a little bit. I've pledged to post at least once a week, but instead of a full blown blog post, I'm mostly just giving you some links to follow. As expected, football on Friday night and Saturday pulled me out of writing mode. I'm behind on my NaNo word count, so I have some ground to make up today.

I did spend some time yesterday catching up on the 200+ blog posts and articles sitting in my Google Reader. I skimmed over a bunch of posts I might have read with more time on my hands, but in my NaNo frenzy, mostly just deleted. Two blogs are noteworthy, however, and if they aren't already in your daily blog roll, I highly recommend them.

For writers: Janice Hardy's "The Other Side of the Story" blog is amazingly helpful and instructive. Janice is the best kind of teacher. She takes difficult subject matter and makes it easy to understand. She discusses the nuts and bolts of writing, and I used her pre-NaNo series to plan my NaNo novel.

For everyone: John Scalzi's "Whatever" always entertains. He is a science fiction writer, but his blog is exactly what the title would imply, whatever is on his mind. He is a tremendously talented writer. I frequently laugh out loud while reading his posts, and when he wrote about the death of a beloved dog, wept unabashedly. I read a piece he wrote about September 11 to a couple of my classes who were getting ready to write personal narratives, and almost couldn't get through it because I choked up. In November, he has a series of Thanksgiving Advent posts where he blogs each day about what he's thankful for. He has written about air-conditioning, his ukulele, people who are good at what they do, and being a goofball, among other topics. He's worth a stop on your daily Internet wandering.

Last, but not least, is a link to article that actually made me stop, read closely, and think. The Rumpus solicited readers to send in short vignettes on the subject of humiliation. This article is a compilation of the best submissions. The pieces are in turn, funny, poignant and downright painful.

I considered writing my own companion vignette, but changed my mind. My excuse is that I need the time and writing energy for my NaNo book, but the true reason is I'm not willing to be as real as the writers who submitted were. Strangely, the compilation is not depressing. The editors were intentional in the way they ordered the pieces, and there is humor sprinkled liberally with the pain. The last piece is almost triumphant in that the author realizes she is only humiliated if she chooses to be.

Enjoy the links, and enjoy your Sunday!

If Your Nerve Deny You...

Warning: I generally try to keep the language in my blog posts PG-13, but I'm quoting another source which I refuse to censor, so today, it's R.

Twitter is a great place for discovering interesting tidbits, and today, I came across a wonderful new place to lose a few hours. The Rumpus is a place for all things literary. You will find the usual book reviews and author interviews alongside several columns, comic strips and news of the weird. Two features in particular proved to be a worthwhile time suck this morning.

1. The National Poetry Month Project: Each day in April, The Rumpus will post a previously unpublished poem solicited from a wide range of current poets. If you click through, you will find a link for last year's collection as well. I read, re-read, and then sat and stared at the Day #3 poem, "Why I did not Make Love to your Dead Body," by Kirsten Kaschock for a long time. Wow.... I'll be adding this site to my Interesting Reads links on the the right side of the blog.


2. Dear Sugar: This is an advice column for writers. The first two entries I read blew me away. You should definitely click through and read the whole question and answer, especially if you are an artist of any kind, but I felt compelled to post a couple of her comments below.

From "We are all Savages Inside"

I know it’s not easy being an artist. I know the gulf between creation and commerce is so tremendously wide that it’s sometimes impossible not to feel annihilated by it. A lot of artists give up because it’s just too damn hard to go on making art in a culture that by and large does not support its artists. But the people who don’t give up are the people who find a way to believe in abundance rather than scarcity. They’ve taken into their hearts the idea that there is enough for all of us, that success will manifest itself in different ways for different sorts of artists, that keeping the faith is more important than cashing the check, that being genuinely happy for someone else who got something you hope to get makes you genuinely happier too.

From "Write like a Motherfucker"

How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts and songs in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn’t collapse in a heap of “I could have been better than this” and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve. And “if your Nerve, deny you –,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, “go above your Nerve.” Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig.

Go...read, explore, be inspired by this site. As for me? I'm off to write like a motherfucker.

Why I'm a Steelers' Fan

Here in Central Kentucky, most of us don't have a dog in the Super Bowl fight. We have a few transplants here and there from Western Pennsylvania or Wisconsin, but by and large, most of us are just rooting for the team whose players we like...or whose attitude we like...or whose city we like...or whose colors we like.

I was in that boat last year when the Colts played the Saints. I love Peyton Manning, but I wanted New Orleans to win after all they'd been through in recent years. You can read my dithering here. In the end, I was thrilled for the Saints.

No dithering this year. I'm a Steelers' fan through and through. The third entry I ever posted on this blog was on Super Bowl Sunday two years ago. Here's to you, Pittsburgh!

You can click on the link, but I've gained enough new readers in the last two years that it's worth recapping here.

My fandom comes not from the team itself, but from a community.

A Neighborhood called Speers Hill
Bruce coached for the California University of PA Vulcans from 1993-1997. (You need to click on that link just to see Vulcan, god of the forge, hammering the big V...lol) This necessitated a move from Kentucky to southwestern Pennsylvania. We bought our first house together in a neighborhood overlooking the Monongahela River called Speers Hill.

Cal U was a losing program when Bruce was hired. If you've never lived with a professional coach, you don't know that losing programs require way more hours at the office than winning programs. Bruce often worked 18-20 hour days.

I was six hours from anyone I knew. It snowed 96 inches that first winter. I was alone 20 hours a day with a baby and a toddler. Yep...Bruce had moved me to hell and it had frozen over.

Sometimes, it really did feel like hell when young son was howling in my arms and eldest was running in circles around me repeating, "Mama, Mama, Mama, Mama" and there was no hope of relief. Bruce wasn't coming home for hours, and my own mama was eight hours away. I remember sitting in the floor crying, wondering what I had done to deserve my fate.

Then, I met Tim and Carrie who lived next door. And Billy and Sandy who lived down the street. And Shelley across the street. And Shelley's eccentric dad who lived down the street. (He had "sweet" and "sour" tattooed over his nipples during the Vietnam War. He had a pool, so he displayed his tats on a regular basis.)

Suddenly, I wasn't alone anymore. Carrie's teenage daughters babysat when I needed a break. She and I worked in her garden. All the kids in the neighborhood, including mine, swam in her pool. I went back to school to get my teaching certificate, and Shelley gave me a break at the daycare she ran.

Billy and Sandy had Steeler-watching parties every single Sunday during football season. I went to the parties alone until the college season was over. The adults passed my youngest around and my eldest toddled after the older kids. I got to interact with grown-ups. When Bruce's season was over, he joined the party.

My social life revolved around the Pittsburgh Steelers.

Steeler (the correct pronunciation is actually "Stiller") fans are the most rabid fans I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. I'm sorry Kentucky basketball fans. Your devotion is but a pale imitation of theirs. I have seen furniture thrown off a deck when the Steelers lost. I have seen my neighbor mow down his wife's rose bushes in the middle of the night because he was in a fugue state over their Super Bowl loss (f'n Neil O'Donnell and his four f'n interceptions). I have seen guns fired into the night sky after wins.

My neighbors foamed at the mouth over their Steelers. And because I had grown to love and rely on my neighbors, I began foaming a little bit. The infamous night of f'n Neil O'Donnell's four f'n interceptions, I was screaming like a lunatic at the television right along with everyone else.

Tonight, I will be screaming like a lunatic in support of my Steelers. Bruce will call Tim and Billy to make man-noises in support of the black and yellow. My heart will be with my good friends in Speers Hill, and at the end of the day, it will be a fun Super Bowl because I care about the outcome.

Here's a little video enjoyment, made more even more awesome by the fact they start with DEFENSIVE highlights! Here we go, Stillers, here we go!

So long 2010! I won't miss ya!

The end of the year creates an opportunity to look back and see what you've accomplished. I would rather look ahead than behind, but sometimes you need the behind to move ahead. So with only a few short hours left in 2010, I guess it’s time to take stock of the year.

Winter
I outlined this post before I started writing it, and I could see on paper what I already knew. Fall and winter are the hardest seasons for me. Some very practical concerns might explain this. Football season requires an enormous amount of energy, and my biggest work responsibilities fall during this time frame. However, I know a more fundamental, metaphysical reason exists. The cold gloomy weather of late fall and winter bring me down. Always have. The evidence would suggest I need to move to South Florida or a Caribbean Island.

While I’m waiting for the money fairy and the moving truck, I’ll keep on Jazzercising. I went to my first Jazzercise class January 25. Today’s class will be number 233 for the year. Jazzercise has been life-changing for me. The physical benefits are wonderful. My pants are a size smaller than they were 11 months ago. I don’t find myself breathing hard and sweating doing stupid things like carrying in groceries or climbing up and down the stairs. The real life changer, though, was in my mental and emotional health.

I weathered a particularly difficult personal storm last winter, and every time I thought I would fall into despair, I would go to Jazzercise and find the strength to get through another day. I had always heard about the endorphin high that comes with regular exercise, but I hated exercise so much, I’d never experienced it. I promise you, that high is real. I know because I’m addicted to it. I can actually identify the moment the extra oxygen hits my brain and those endorphins are released. And the benefits snowball. I can do actual push-ups now and hold a full plank. Feeling strong makes me feel confident which in turn makes me feel happy.

Beyond that, it’s just fun. I get to dance every day. This is how I feel when I dance.

Last winter was as cold and gloomy as winters get in Kentucky.


This pic was taken from my deck in January or February. I don’t remember exactly when, but there was a three-week stretch in which we only went to school for three days. Subsequently, we were in school until June 9th. You can read my philosophy on snow days here. Suffice it to say, I don’t love them.

The only positive thing about snow days is that I have more time to write. Last winter I finished my second novel, Crimson Crimes, during that long icy run with no school. It took me longer to write the second book than it did the first. I had cohesion problems with the second that have made me take a hard look at the way I approach plot. Sapphire Sins, my first, played out in my head like film rolling across a movie projector. The film broke midway through the sequel, and when I spliced it together, you could see the gap. The whole process was part of the learning experience. You have problems. You work through them. Your writing improves.

Of course, writing a sequel when you haven’t sold the first book is a mistake so common, it's a cliche. I know why writers do it…at least I know why I did it. It’s easier to keep writing characters you know than to invent new ones. I suppose if I was hell bent on making lots of writing mistakes, at least, they were all wrapped up in a book I feel quite confident will never sell. Only my beta reader has seen Crimson Crimes, and she was honest with me, thank goodness.

“It didn’t suck, but it didn’t keep me turning the pages like the first one did.”

Yeah, I know. That one will probably go in a box under the bed, never to see the light of day again. Unless…I sell Sapphire Sins, and then maybe I’ll rework the whole thing and who knows?

Spring
Spring brought exciting news on that front. I acquired a literary agent in March. Anyone who has queried knows it’s hard as hell to get an agent to even ask for pages, let alone offer representation. After 18 months of querying Sapphire Sins, I finally had both in one fell swoop. The day he called and offered was a glorious day. I was validated. I really could write. A professional in the shrinking publishing industry believed in my work.

I signed a contract. I made a few minor edits on his recommendation. I rewrote my synopsis, as well as a two paragraph back-cover blurb, and then he began submitting. Almost immediately, an editor at HarperCollins wanted to see it. That email ushered in another string of glorious days. I could already see the cover art in my head. I mentally ran my fingers across the raised letters of my name. I imagined the trip to Italy I would take with my fat advance. I dropped the new project I was working on and began tinkering with the broken sequel, thinking a two-book deal would really launch my career.

And then…the editor passed. The writing was good, but they were looking for the next big thing in paranormal romance. Vampires had seen their day and were on the way out. Honestly, this had been my problem in getting an agent. I was on the wrong side of the vampire curve. Timing is everything. We got several more bites, but traditional publishers didn’t want any more vampires, and the book is too long for most e-publishers. So it languished.

Then, in late October, my agent informed me he was getting out of the agenting business. Too hard to make money in a shrinking industry. Tomorrow, on January 1, all the rights to Sapphire Sins revert back to me. I’ve been thinking hard about what to do next, but I’m going to save those musings for another blog post.

Spring brought other happy occasions. I love spring. As the weather warms, I feel lighter. Even the end-of-the-school-year deadlines don’t stress me too much. Light and warmth and lots of natural vitamin D make all the difference in the world.

My brother married his soul mate on May Day in Nashville. If you live in Nashville, I’m certain you remember that weekend. It started raining in the wee hours of the morning Saturday and didn’t stop until the city was underwater. But many waters cannot quench love. It was a great day for my family in spite of the natural disaster.



Another glorious spring day brought my son’s high school graduation.

He’s handsome isn’t he? He’s starting college this January. He worked through the fall at UPS and realized maybe he could stand to go back to school. I have faith that he’ll find his way, but I’ll worry constantly until he does.

Summer
Summer brought my bff, Pam, home from Iraq. Oh Happy Day! Life is so much more fun with her around. If there is a party, she will find it. If there’s not, she’ll create it. The girls’ weekend I blogged about recently? Totally her brainchild. And if you need someone to have your back, no one will have it better than Pam. I’m putting the U.S. Army on notice. I know she’s a damn good soldier, but you may not deploy her overseas again. I forbid it.

Yeah, I’m sure that will work. Speaking of patriotism, I felt it over the July 4th weekend in Ocean City. You can read about that here.

July was memorable in all sorts of ways, not the least of which was my first national writing convention. I attended RWA in Orlando. It was supposed to be in Nashville, but the Opryland Hotel had water halfway up the second floor on May Day weekend, so we went to Disney World instead. The experience was awesome, and you can read about each day's adventure here, here, here, and here. My after-the-conference post is here. As I reread my post conference goals, I realize I haven't done everything I said I would. I've got six months to do better. The 2011 convention in New York is one of my most anticipated plans for the coming year.

August brought a new school year. I love being a teacher. It is my second career, and I’ve never once regretted leaving the business world for the classroom. Teaching is a calling for me. Every school year has its ups and downs, and standing at the halfway point of this year, I’ve experienced both. I have some of the brightest kids I’ve ever taught this year, and they never fail to make me feel optimistic about the future. I also have some challenging students. That’s part and parcel of the job. I hope when the school year is over, I can say I reached these kids and enriched their lives.

Fall
Somewhere in the middle of football season, fall happens. It’s summer, and I’m carting my youngest to camps and practices, saying hello and goodbye to Bruce like ships passing in the night, and suddenly I realize the leaves have turned and it’s not hot anymore. Football season rules our world in the fall. Bruce’s team plays on Saturday (this year on Thursday night several times…what’s up with that?), and my youngest plays on Friday night. Being a sophomore, he also played JV on Monday nights. I logged a lot of hours on metal bleachers this year.

I’m not complaining (at least most of the time). A long season means you’re winning, and having been married to a football coach for 21 years, I can say with authority that winning is better than losing. My son’s team went all the way to the final four in the state tournament this year, and Bruce’s team made the playoffs again after a four year dry spell. Nope…not complaining about that at all.

I guess if I had a complaint about the fall, it would be that my writing stalled. I should qualify…my blogging and novel writing stalled. I’ve written several short stories. One, I posted on the blog and you can read it here. Others were more personal and therapeutic and not for public consumption. If you’re a writer, you know what I mean.

Winter has rolled around again, and I’m focused on not letting it get me down. The weather has already been crappy, and it’s only December. I’m hoping that means the worst is out of the way, and it’s smooth sailing from here on out. (Yeah, I’m delusional sometimes, but it gets me through.) If not, my stepmom. Patricia, bought me a happy light for my desk at work. I’ll let you know if it works.

I know Jazzercise works, and I know spending time with my friends and family works. I know that putting my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard works. So I plan on doing all three as frequently as possible in 2011. I’m a no resolutions person. Don’t resolve to do something. Just freakin’ do it.

So long 2010. I won’t miss ya.

Bring it on 2011! I’m ready.

In the eye of the beholder

My eldest son is an artist. The stack of sketchbooks on his desk show the progression of his art from imitation to innovation.

Some of his sketchbooks are thematic. One of my favorites is centered around William Ernst Henley's "Invictus." The images are surreal and grotesque and perfectly capture the juxtaposition of persecution and defiance in the poem. He's not ready to publicly share those images because they are intensely personal. I get that. I've written stories I'll probably never share because they are too personal.

Lately, my son has been playing with sound and images. Inspired by Dubstep (Go look it up. I couldn't begin to describe what it is.), he used a simple video editing program to combine still images and short sound clips to create what I like to think of as abstract video art.

The viewer brings their own experience to any work of art and uses that experience to create meaning, but abstract art allows even more room for interpretation than other forms. Impose whatever meaning you like on this, or none at all, but I thought it was cool.

Fun with words...or another awesome Internet distraction

Do you need another awesome Internet distraction? Yeah, me neither, but this is waaay cool.

Tagxedo! (Thanks Criss for the link!)

Tagxedo is Wordle on steroids. I've played with Wordle and used it in my classroom. Last year, I had kids create a whole wall of Wordles out of their controversial issues papers. It stopped traffic in the hall for several days.

Oh, the possibilities I see with Tagxedo...

The following two clouds are made up of words from the first chapter of Sapphire Sins.





These were both created using Tagxedo's pre-loaded shapes, but you can upload any image and use it to create a word cloud. I've played with my face, my friends' faces, and my dog, and that was just messing around. Can you imagine what my students will create out of their papers on animal testing, gun control, smoking bans, urban sprawl, gay marriage, cloning, school uniforms, and drivers' licensing laws? I can't wait to find out, and I hope one or two of them will give me permission to share.

As a writer, the shaped word clouds made me stop and think about my first chapter in a different way. I haven't re-visited that manuscript in a while, and as I looked at the word cloud in a heart shape, I thought, "Wow, she really can't decide how to feel about the predicament in which she's found herself." The frequency and placement of the words highlighted my heroine's confusion.

I think I'm going to play with an abandoned manuscript. I stopped because I never could "hear" the characters in my head the way I did with Diana and Raphael. Maybe the word clouds will help me find them. If not, it'll still be a fun distraction on this snowy Sunday afternoon.

Lies, Damn Lies, and well, you know the rest...

I hated my statistics class in college with a blue passion. The words "standard deviation" still make me shudder. Ironically, though, I find reading statistics someone else has generated endlessly interesting.

For instance:

• E-book sales comprise 9% of all trade book sales year-to-date in 2010, up from 3.3% in the same period in 2009.


• Between 2000 and 2009, four-year institutions of higher learning raised tuition an average of 46%.


• By the end of the day tomorrow, $3.7 billion will have been spent on campaign ads, up 75% from 2008.


• Almost 85% of people who snore exceed 38 decibels of sound, the equivalent of light highway traffic.


• The average American eats 10-12 pounds of chocolate per year.

Lord knows, I'm doing my part on that last one.

Recently, I've become fascinated with the statistics for my blog. Blogger tracks your page views by blog post, time of day, geographic place, referring URL's, and the search terms that got people there. Some of the statistics are illuminating, but most leave me bemused.

The United States is naturally the country in which most people view my blog, but just this week alone I had 19 views from the Netherlands and 14 views from Russia. Really? What am I saying that interests the Dutch? Or the Russians? I even had four views from Slovenia. Wow...

I normally have the biggest viewing spikes when I put up a new post which makes sense, right? But occasionally, I get these crazy spikes on old posts. My post on Self Doubt contains a Diana Ross video. 457 people viewed that one in one day, a month after the original post. My readership is modest, so I'm attributing that spike to Diana and not my own words of wisdom.

Posts which share titles with something more famous get lots of views as well. My Invictus post has been very popular, although I suspect some folks are disappointed when they find me instead of Matt Damon. Expectation is the Root of all Heartache has also gotten mad hits. Again, some poor high school student looking for help with his English homework is probably frustrated when he finds me.

Embedded pictures lead people to me. Twice, I have included pictures of buffalo in my posts. (Here and here.) Both have brought people my way. I wonder if any of them stayed after looking at my buffalo?

The most entertaining statistic is the list of most popular search terms which connected people with my blog. My name is at the top of that list...no big surprise...but once you get past the obvious, I find myself in WTF country. Just this week, people found me by googling "he makes my cherry pop" and "Jazzercise with colostomy." Last month, someone used "I never sit on a toilet." Granted, I have actually used the words "he makes my cherry pop" and "I never sit on a toilet," but why would you google those phrases? I've used "Jazzercise" multiple times, but this is the first time the word "colostomy" has graced my blog.

The big dumb eighth grader inside of me wants to let loose a string of random, unrelated words just to see what kind of bizarre Slovenian (no disrespect to Slovenians intended, it's just...Slovenia?) traffic I get. So here goes...

I would expect Dutch apple pie and Russian dressing to make my cherry pop, but expectation is the root of all heartache. Mark Twain knows I don't wear a colostomy bag, even if I never sit on a toilet. It's all lies, damn lies, and well, you know the rest...

I am the master of my fate, Diana Ross, I am the captain of my soul.

Sweet Dreams

I have a new toy for my blog! Music via Lala!

Now when I decide to amuse myself at the expense of some poor songwriter, I can imbed the song right into the blog. I can also play most of the contents of my ipod on any computer anywhere because I've uploaded my library onto my Lala account. Click here to check it out.

I'm leaving you with a couple of songs to jumpstart your dreams.

Bruce's favorite:

Fireflies - Owl City

And one that reminds me of my protagonists in Sappire Sins:

Sweet Dreams - Beyoncé

Sweet Dreams...

January Random: Jazzercise and Joe Biden

Few things make a writer happier than reader appreciation. Yesterday, a colleague stopped me in the hall and said, "I went to your blog yesterday. I thought with the snow day, you would post something new." I have to admit to a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. Not only does someone read my blog, they look forward to it.

I did take advantage of the snow day to write, but all my efforts were spent on my WIP. I've been floundering around trying to find the voices of these new characters in my head. I made some headway Tuesday, but spared no time to blog. So now, when I should be grading Animal Farm tests, I'm blogging on random topics.

I started exercising this week. I've wanted to get back in shape for a while, but I was looking for the right opportunity. I hate running. It's too cold to walk outside, and I'm not interested in going to a gym by myself. Last week, one of my co-workers who has been waxing lyrical about Jazzercise, invited a group of us to come along. Something about the herd mentality made it easier to say yes. Everybody else was doing it, so I might as well go along for the ride.

It was fun. No, really. Jazzercise incorporates dance moves into the cardio portion of the workout, and I was with a big group of my friends. It's kind of like vigorous line dancing, without the alcohol. (Although when my friend, Pam in Iraq, heard Linda and I were jazzercising, she wanted to know if they were offering free wine with a membership.)

I've gone three days in a row now. Somebody told me you have to do something at least ten times before it becomes a habit, so I'll let you know how it goes. When I get tired, I start writing in my head to distract myself. The first night, I was behind a woman with "John 3:16" emblazoned on the back of her t-shirt. Brittany Spears' Three was playing. The incongruity of those two inputs cracked me up. Listen the words sometimes. Three is not referring to the holy trinity. I imagined a character who would think Brittany's three was a religious experience. I might use him in my WIP.



On a separate and totally random note, I watched the State of the Union address last night. I'm not going to comment on the speech or politics, but if you missed it, watch it on YouTube, paying particular attention to Vice President Biden in the background. My fifteen year old was watching as an assignment for his social studies class and pointed out something interesting. Our Vice President is an animated man. His unusually wide smile prompted my son to compare him to the guy on the cover of Mad Magazine. We missed a whole section of the speech because our son had Bruce and I laughing hysterically as he narrated our VP's facial expressions. I think there might be a writer's soul in that boy.

Chicken Run

Have you ever wondered where your grilled chicken sandwich comes from? Me neither, but I found out last weekend. My stepmom's family has a fairly large chicken operation on their farm. They have a contract with Perdue and supply them with 160,000+ chickens every nine to ten weeks. After a day at the swimming lake, my stepmom's sister thought the boys might enjoy seeing the chickens.

To say I was uneasy would be an understatement. I'm not a vegetarian...never have been, never will be. At the same time, my attitude is that a little ignorance about the origin of your barbecue can be a good thing. I'm not sure what I expected, maybe thousands of chickens crammed into tiny cages. I remember the brouhaha between Pam Anderson and KFC, and I really didn't want to see something awful. I did not bring the subject of Pam Anderson up to my stepmom's family. To compare a life of bouncing one's boobs on the beach to the hard work of eeking out a living on a small independent farm seemed disrespectful to the nth degree, but the thought did cross my mind. What I actually saw was fascinating, not at all horrible.

The chickens come to the farm a day or two after they hatch. Jackie told us sometimes the shell is still attached. The chickens we saw had been there about four weeks, and apparently this is their ugliest stage. They had just lost their chick down, but hadn't filled in all of their feathers yet. Imagine a naked vulture head on a skinny white body, and you'll have the idea. Each of the giant buildings on the farm contains between 20,000 and 24,000 chickens. The chickens are not in cages. They roam freely about the floor of the building, and they were all around us as Jackie showed us his automated feeding and watering system.

The building was dark. Dim lights lined the low ceilings, but after coming out of the bright sunshine it was tomblike. Turns out the chickens like it that way. Bright lights freak them out. Jackie shined a pen light on a group of them and they all hit the deck, flattening themselves against the ground and going completely still. I guess they thought they were hiding from us. My younger son was reminded of the movie Chicken Run.

I've been told that nothing stinks like a chicken farm, but I have to say I've smelled worse. Large fans at either end of the football field sized building kept the air circulating, and Jackie told us the sawdust on the floor does something to minimize the smell. They clean the buildings between each flock and sell the fertilized sawdust mixture to other farms. Those farmers spread it on their fields. How's that for environmentally friendly? Now, lest I mislead you, the place did not smell like a rose garden, but it was tolerable.

The creepiest part of the experience was the sound. The air circulators were loud, but not loud enough to cover the chicken noises. Imagine 24,000 chickens making a low warbling sound. Now add the clicking of their beaks against the bottom of the feeder trays. Warbling and clicking, punctuated by the occasional flap of feathers, as a sea of ugly white birds circled us in the dark. A good start for a story I think.

Jackie was honest and said I wouldn't enjoy touring Perdue's processing plant. I believe him and intend to remain happily ignorant on that part of the chicken's journey. All in all, it was interesting. My boys surprised me by asking a lot of questions, and none of us were turned off by the visit. To prove the point, we returned to my dad's house and enjoyed a delicious meal of barbecue chicken, baked beans, and potato salad.