I recently sat in on some interviews. It's a tough market out there, so I thought some helpful tips were in order.
1. If I offer you my hand when I introduce myself, please don't put a dead fish in it. I'm polite, but I'll have to work at not grimacing, wiping my hand on my pants, and saying, "ewww."
2. Mush mouths do not command an audience. "Classroom management mumble, mumble. Kids learn mumble expectations mumble proactive discipline mumble........" I'll just feel sorry for you. High school kids will chew you up and spit you out.
3. Know when to shut up. Don't talk a question to death to hide your lack of a good answer. My BS radar is a fine-tuned machine. If you don't understand a question, clarify. If you don't know the answer, say so and then tell me how you would find the answer.
4. Leave the droning to bees and political pundits. I'll smile encouragingly while I mentally run through my grocery list.
5. Stop fiddling! Put the pen, your glasses, and that strand of hair away!
6. Be awesome. Show me you have your act together, that you have the requisite knowledge, that you're confident and capable.
7. Take care of number 6 and 1-5 won't matter.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Shake it Like a Salt Shaker
I heard the title line of this blog on the radio today. Totally cracked me up. Shake it like a salt shaker. I assume the antecedent to the rather vague pronoun "it" is your body...your booty...your head. The singer was never really clear on that. Whatever "it" is, take your pick, imagine shaking it like a salt shaker. No really...picture yourself salting your french fries, your mashed potatoes, whatever it is you salt...got the mental image in your head? Now select an "it" and picture yourself shaking it like that salt shaker. LOL. That comparison just doesn't work for me, but that's okay. The singer of the song LOVED it. He must have. He repeated it over and over and over.
Writing tip of the day: When using figurative language, make sure your similes and metaphors are painting the image you want your readers to see.
The salt shaker simile did have me listening to the rest of the lyrics. Turns out the song is a list of instructions from the patron of a strip club to the employees. Maybe those gals can shake "it" like a salt shaker. I was mildly scandalized by the graphic nature of the song, but it didn't last long. A lot of song lyrics are pretty scandalous these days, and the mom in me sometimes cringes when I hear what's on my boys' ipods. The writer in me is often amused, and occasionally inspired. The lyrics of a rap song inspired the opening scene of my WIP.
I've listened to some of my friends bemoan the state of modern music, and I guess that's a bellwether gripe separating generations. Sitting with Bruce and one of our friends, we were able to come up with a whole list of songs from the 80's with questionable lyrics. "Pour some Sugar on Me," "My Angel is a Centerfold," "Stroke Me," anything by Ted Nugent, "She's My Cherry Pie," "Pearl Necklace." I could go on and on.
Kids (and adults) will always listen to songs about sex, so singers and songwriters will keep cranking them out. I write romance novels, so I'm certainly not throwing stones. I'm listening and laughing...and double-checking my similes.
Writing tip of the day: When using figurative language, make sure your similes and metaphors are painting the image you want your readers to see.
The salt shaker simile did have me listening to the rest of the lyrics. Turns out the song is a list of instructions from the patron of a strip club to the employees. Maybe those gals can shake "it" like a salt shaker. I was mildly scandalized by the graphic nature of the song, but it didn't last long. A lot of song lyrics are pretty scandalous these days, and the mom in me sometimes cringes when I hear what's on my boys' ipods. The writer in me is often amused, and occasionally inspired. The lyrics of a rap song inspired the opening scene of my WIP.
I've listened to some of my friends bemoan the state of modern music, and I guess that's a bellwether gripe separating generations. Sitting with Bruce and one of our friends, we were able to come up with a whole list of songs from the 80's with questionable lyrics. "Pour some Sugar on Me," "My Angel is a Centerfold," "Stroke Me," anything by Ted Nugent, "She's My Cherry Pie," "Pearl Necklace." I could go on and on.
Kids (and adults) will always listen to songs about sex, so singers and songwriters will keep cranking them out. I write romance novels, so I'm certainly not throwing stones. I'm listening and laughing...and double-checking my similes.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Endings and Beginnings
Another school year is over, and I'm grateful.
I read what I've just written, and I know how it comes across. Another teacher who only works 10 months out of 12 is grumbling about her job and gloating that she has two months off.
Nope...not by a long shot.
One of the things I love about my job is its cyclical nature. The year starts with hope and promise. You get a brand new batch of students, all shiny in their new school clothes, scrubbed and pressed, and as eager as they'll be all year. I teach 9th grade, so my students all have that deer-in-the-headlights look. High school is a new experience. Every year without fail, at least one student starts the first day in tears, but most kids are cautiously optimistic.
As the year progresses, the newness wears off. The honeymoon phase ends, and high school isn't intimidating anymore. Some kids hit their stride and cruise along with ease. Others struggle academically or socially or both. Through the fall and into the winter, I approach these students with energy and a can-do spirit. Somewhere in mid-winter though, when the sky is dreary and the air is cold, my spirit begins to sag. The same thing happens to the kids. I think it probably happens to everyone (unless you're a ski instructor maybe). When my energy is the lowest, I have to push the hardest, and that's often when the kids are most likely to push back.
Winter always seems interminable, but spring finally returns. Scheduling for the next school year is a wake-up call for both the cruisers and the strugglers. Students see the finish line ahead, and my strugglers realize they have to kick it in gear if they want to pass for the year. My cruisers are worried about GPA's and admission to advanced or specialized classes. State testing also brings a burst of energy for everyone. After testing, the race to the finish line is on, and the last couple of weeks are more like cat-herding than educating.
The last grades have now been entered into the computer. The faculty and departments have met. Pacing documents and common assessments for the upcoming year have been written. My classroom has been cleaned and closed. I'm done in every sense of the word. Burnout among teachers is high, and 1 out of every 3 new teachers leaves the profession in their first 5 years. I'm not gloating about my two months off. I'm closing my eyes in quiet gratitude. I'm taking a deep, unencumbered breath.
I'm going to write again. Writing a book is a bit like the school year. You start strong, the characters are all shiny and new, as eager as I am to explore their world. There is a mid-winter to every novel as well, and I've been there for the last couple of months in the sagging middle. I'm finally excited about tackling it again because I know I have whole days stretching out in front of me to push through it.
I'm also rewriting the first three chapters of Sapphire Sins. I hit my stride later in that book, and having some distance from my last revision, I realize I did too much telling and not enough showing in the beginning. I've got a new reader all lined up to test it on.
I'm having one of those wildly happy early June moments. Close your eyes and imagine Elton John belting out The Circle of Life. Every ending is a new beginning. I love that about both my vocations.
I read what I've just written, and I know how it comes across. Another teacher who only works 10 months out of 12 is grumbling about her job and gloating that she has two months off.
Nope...not by a long shot.
One of the things I love about my job is its cyclical nature. The year starts with hope and promise. You get a brand new batch of students, all shiny in their new school clothes, scrubbed and pressed, and as eager as they'll be all year. I teach 9th grade, so my students all have that deer-in-the-headlights look. High school is a new experience. Every year without fail, at least one student starts the first day in tears, but most kids are cautiously optimistic.
As the year progresses, the newness wears off. The honeymoon phase ends, and high school isn't intimidating anymore. Some kids hit their stride and cruise along with ease. Others struggle academically or socially or both. Through the fall and into the winter, I approach these students with energy and a can-do spirit. Somewhere in mid-winter though, when the sky is dreary and the air is cold, my spirit begins to sag. The same thing happens to the kids. I think it probably happens to everyone (unless you're a ski instructor maybe). When my energy is the lowest, I have to push the hardest, and that's often when the kids are most likely to push back.
Winter always seems interminable, but spring finally returns. Scheduling for the next school year is a wake-up call for both the cruisers and the strugglers. Students see the finish line ahead, and my strugglers realize they have to kick it in gear if they want to pass for the year. My cruisers are worried about GPA's and admission to advanced or specialized classes. State testing also brings a burst of energy for everyone. After testing, the race to the finish line is on, and the last couple of weeks are more like cat-herding than educating.
The last grades have now been entered into the computer. The faculty and departments have met. Pacing documents and common assessments for the upcoming year have been written. My classroom has been cleaned and closed. I'm done in every sense of the word. Burnout among teachers is high, and 1 out of every 3 new teachers leaves the profession in their first 5 years. I'm not gloating about my two months off. I'm closing my eyes in quiet gratitude. I'm taking a deep, unencumbered breath.
I'm going to write again. Writing a book is a bit like the school year. You start strong, the characters are all shiny and new, as eager as I am to explore their world. There is a mid-winter to every novel as well, and I've been there for the last couple of months in the sagging middle. I'm finally excited about tackling it again because I know I have whole days stretching out in front of me to push through it.
I'm also rewriting the first three chapters of Sapphire Sins. I hit my stride later in that book, and having some distance from my last revision, I realize I did too much telling and not enough showing in the beginning. I've got a new reader all lined up to test it on.
I'm having one of those wildly happy early June moments. Close your eyes and imagine Elton John belting out The Circle of Life. Every ending is a new beginning. I love that about both my vocations.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Vertigo
No, this isn't a blog about Hitchcock movies or a fear of heights (although I am a fan of Hitchcock and I have an intense phobia of open heights). I've heard it said that you learn the most about yourself in your worst moments, and I agree. So this blog is about my recent bout with Vertigo and what I learned from it.
Until last Tuesday, Vertigo as an illness was something I'd heard about only in passing. I thought it was one of those "old-people diseases." I'm certainly not OLD, so it had to be something else. Actually, when I initially started feeling bad on Sunday afternoon, I thought I'd been food-poisoned by the fried catfish at Cracker Barrel. My deepest apologies to Cracker Barrel for any disparagement I might have done before I realized that wasn't it. I dragged my woozy, nauseous butt to school on Monday because final exams started on Tuesday, and I couldn't leave my kids hanging without that last bit of review. It was a long, miserable day, but I got through it.
Then Tuesday morning arrived. Holy cow. Imagine the absolute worst case of motion sickness you've ever had then multiply it times ten. The room was spinning when my alarm went off. I couldn't focus on the numbers on the clock. I knew I was going to throw up, but I literally couldn't walk to the bathroom. I half stumbled, half crawled to the porcelain throne and proceeded to hurl...the first of several such trips. At one point I simply lay on the bathroom floor because it was too hard to crawl back to bed. I explained my final exam procedures to my sub from my bathroom floor. Bruce took me to the doctor later that morning, and it was torture. Getting dressed made me sick. The car ride there made me sick. The car ride home made me sick. You get the idea.
After determining I hadn't had a stroke (always good news), the doctor told me about vertigo. Apparently anyone can get it. It often follows a bad cold or a bout with allergies. Your inner ear gets all jacked up which in turn jacks up your balance and coordination. Your eyesight is affected. Nausea follows which messes with the digestive system. When balance, coordination, eyesight, and the entire digestive system are wrong, nothing is right. Mental function deteriorates quickly.
I'm not one to wallow in my misery. I hate being sick, and I was happy to go back to work this afternoon -- even for those dreaded end-of-the-year meetings.
So why write about it?
Two important truths were revealed to me during this experience. I suppose I was intellectually aware of both of them before my illness, but they became real in a more visceral way.
First, true romance isn't hearts and flowers. True love is taking care of someone even when it's unpleasant. Bruce took care of me. He stood by with a cool rag when I was throwing up. He led me like a drunk old woman from the car to the doctor's office and back. He woke up in the middle of the night to make sure I took the meds on time. He got the kids up and out the door, fed them, and got our younger one shuttled to his activities. He made sure I stayed hydrated, and after the meds calmed my stomach, he made sure I ate. We spent our 20th wedding anniversary last night sitting at the bar in the kitchen eating the food he cooked for me. It was better than a candlelight dinner at a fancy restaurant. In an often difficult and uncertain world, the knowledge that you have someone you can absolutely count on is the best gift you can get.
The other lesson I learned was one of perspective. No matter how much lip service we might give it, we never really understand what it's like to walk in another person's shoes. I'm guilty of becoming impatient with older folks sometimes when they can't move or process fast enough to suit me. I'm never rude, but on the inside I'm thinking, "Let's go, get a move on." I got a big, fat dose of helplessness and confusion this week. I couldn't walk without help. I sure as heck couldn't drive. I couldn't even mentally process things without an effort on Tuesday because I was so discombobulated. Being helpless sucks in the worst possible way, and knowing you are helpless is humbling.
I watched my dad take care of my mom as she withered away from breast cancer. I watched her accept help with quiet dignity and grace. I was moved by both of them, but I was on the outside looking in. My illness only took me out of commission for a couple of days, and mentioning it in the same breath as hers is lame, but it did give me a brief glimpse of the power of "in sickness and in health" -- both sides of it.
Although I'm still walking with a bit of a list, I can focus on the words on my computer screen. I can think clearly enough to compose them. Those are not small things, and I'm grateful for them.
Until last Tuesday, Vertigo as an illness was something I'd heard about only in passing. I thought it was one of those "old-people diseases." I'm certainly not OLD, so it had to be something else. Actually, when I initially started feeling bad on Sunday afternoon, I thought I'd been food-poisoned by the fried catfish at Cracker Barrel. My deepest apologies to Cracker Barrel for any disparagement I might have done before I realized that wasn't it. I dragged my woozy, nauseous butt to school on Monday because final exams started on Tuesday, and I couldn't leave my kids hanging without that last bit of review. It was a long, miserable day, but I got through it.
Then Tuesday morning arrived. Holy cow. Imagine the absolute worst case of motion sickness you've ever had then multiply it times ten. The room was spinning when my alarm went off. I couldn't focus on the numbers on the clock. I knew I was going to throw up, but I literally couldn't walk to the bathroom. I half stumbled, half crawled to the porcelain throne and proceeded to hurl...the first of several such trips. At one point I simply lay on the bathroom floor because it was too hard to crawl back to bed. I explained my final exam procedures to my sub from my bathroom floor. Bruce took me to the doctor later that morning, and it was torture. Getting dressed made me sick. The car ride there made me sick. The car ride home made me sick. You get the idea.
After determining I hadn't had a stroke (always good news), the doctor told me about vertigo. Apparently anyone can get it. It often follows a bad cold or a bout with allergies. Your inner ear gets all jacked up which in turn jacks up your balance and coordination. Your eyesight is affected. Nausea follows which messes with the digestive system. When balance, coordination, eyesight, and the entire digestive system are wrong, nothing is right. Mental function deteriorates quickly.
I'm not one to wallow in my misery. I hate being sick, and I was happy to go back to work this afternoon -- even for those dreaded end-of-the-year meetings.
So why write about it?
Two important truths were revealed to me during this experience. I suppose I was intellectually aware of both of them before my illness, but they became real in a more visceral way.
First, true romance isn't hearts and flowers. True love is taking care of someone even when it's unpleasant. Bruce took care of me. He stood by with a cool rag when I was throwing up. He led me like a drunk old woman from the car to the doctor's office and back. He woke up in the middle of the night to make sure I took the meds on time. He got the kids up and out the door, fed them, and got our younger one shuttled to his activities. He made sure I stayed hydrated, and after the meds calmed my stomach, he made sure I ate. We spent our 20th wedding anniversary last night sitting at the bar in the kitchen eating the food he cooked for me. It was better than a candlelight dinner at a fancy restaurant. In an often difficult and uncertain world, the knowledge that you have someone you can absolutely count on is the best gift you can get.
The other lesson I learned was one of perspective. No matter how much lip service we might give it, we never really understand what it's like to walk in another person's shoes. I'm guilty of becoming impatient with older folks sometimes when they can't move or process fast enough to suit me. I'm never rude, but on the inside I'm thinking, "Let's go, get a move on." I got a big, fat dose of helplessness and confusion this week. I couldn't walk without help. I sure as heck couldn't drive. I couldn't even mentally process things without an effort on Tuesday because I was so discombobulated. Being helpless sucks in the worst possible way, and knowing you are helpless is humbling.
I watched my dad take care of my mom as she withered away from breast cancer. I watched her accept help with quiet dignity and grace. I was moved by both of them, but I was on the outside looking in. My illness only took me out of commission for a couple of days, and mentioning it in the same breath as hers is lame, but it did give me a brief glimpse of the power of "in sickness and in health" -- both sides of it.
Although I'm still walking with a bit of a list, I can focus on the words on my computer screen. I can think clearly enough to compose them. Those are not small things, and I'm grateful for them.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
A Handwritten Letter
Remember when you were a kid and you wrote notes to your friends? The notes started out simple in elementary school with "Do you like me? Check yes or no." Then in middle and high school, they graduated to long, gossipy letters you passed across the aisle when the teacher wasn't looking. Maybe you wrote love letters to your significant other.
Can you remember the last time you received a handwritten letter?
I came home from running errands today to find a package on my doorstep. It arrived from Iraq where my bff, Pam, is serving. Inside, I found a totally cool, blinged-out camel figurine and a five page handwritten letter. The camel cracked me up after the recent email pic she sent of two camels getting it on. The figurine now occupies a place of honor in my family room, but the real treasure was the letter.
There's something intensely personal about reading a friend's words in her own handwriting. Pam's voice came through in that letter loud and clear. The double underlines under several words, the hole she punched in the paper when dotting an exclamation point, the distinctive curl of her script...the sum total of those things made the letter a visceral experience. It was like having a little piece of her there with me.
I lost my mom six years ago to breast cancer. Every now and again I find a note or recipe written in her hand. It always makes my heart hitch just a little to find an unexpected piece of her. The birthday card in which she wrote, "I'm proud of you," is priceless. I read that handwritten note whenever I need her encouragement.
We live in an age in which it is so much easier to whip off an email message to someone than to write a note, and most of the time that really is the most practical form of communication. Pam and I email regularly...silly jokes, quick notes to share something cool that happened, catching up on gossip...but none of those notes carried the emotional punch of that handwritten letter. Maybe it was because I could physically touch it. Maybe it was because of the time she took to write it. Maybe it was because the content of the letter was more personal. You can be more open when you're not worried about something bouncing electronically through cyberspace. Probably it was all of those things.
The euphoria of my mail call lasted all day. The best thank you I can give her is to answer her handwritten letter with one of my own.
Can you remember the last time you received a handwritten letter?
I came home from running errands today to find a package on my doorstep. It arrived from Iraq where my bff, Pam, is serving. Inside, I found a totally cool, blinged-out camel figurine and a five page handwritten letter. The camel cracked me up after the recent email pic she sent of two camels getting it on. The figurine now occupies a place of honor in my family room, but the real treasure was the letter.
There's something intensely personal about reading a friend's words in her own handwriting. Pam's voice came through in that letter loud and clear. The double underlines under several words, the hole she punched in the paper when dotting an exclamation point, the distinctive curl of her script...the sum total of those things made the letter a visceral experience. It was like having a little piece of her there with me.
I lost my mom six years ago to breast cancer. Every now and again I find a note or recipe written in her hand. It always makes my heart hitch just a little to find an unexpected piece of her. The birthday card in which she wrote, "I'm proud of you," is priceless. I read that handwritten note whenever I need her encouragement.
We live in an age in which it is so much easier to whip off an email message to someone than to write a note, and most of the time that really is the most practical form of communication. Pam and I email regularly...silly jokes, quick notes to share something cool that happened, catching up on gossip...but none of those notes carried the emotional punch of that handwritten letter. Maybe it was because I could physically touch it. Maybe it was because of the time she took to write it. Maybe it was because the content of the letter was more personal. You can be more open when you're not worried about something bouncing electronically through cyberspace. Probably it was all of those things.
The euphoria of my mail call lasted all day. The best thank you I can give her is to answer her handwritten letter with one of my own.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Burning Wild and Gym Candy
I read two books over the holiday weekend. The first was my usual paranormal fare. The second was a young adult novel. I enjoyed one and felt lukewarm about the other.
Strangely, it was Christine Feehan's BURNING WILD that left me feeling tepid. Feehan writes three different series: the Carpathians, the Ghostwalkers, and the Drake Sisters. I usually enjoy all three series, particularly the Drake Sisters novels. BURNING WILD isn't part of any of those series. The protagonist is a leopard person...a man who can become a leopard when he chooses. Of all the paranormal characters, shapeshifters are my least favorite, but that in itself isn't why the book didn't satisfy me. Rachel Vincent writes about cat shifters, and I love her series.
My problem with the book was the characters, particularly the hero. Jake survives his loveless, abusive childhood, but it molds him into an asshole as an adult. Flawed heroes and heroines are par for the course in romance, and that's okay. We all have to overcome our issues in order to love and be loved by someone else. Unfortunately, I never felt like Jake overcame his. He was domineering right up until the end, and Emma wasn't a strong enough character to ever be his equal. She tried, but the only place she had any power was in cooking, cleaning, and raising the kids. Jake swooped in and "handled" everything else. I never stopped being annoyed by his attitude...or hers for that matter.
Otherwise the book was okay. There were a couple of interesting plot twists, and the villains were nasty. As always with Feehan, the love scenes were hot. In fact, I was reading the book between innings at Connor's baseball game, and I had to put it down. I didn't want to have to explain to the other parents why I was blushing, and I don't blush that easily. So there you have it.
I loved GYM CANDY for the exact same reasons I had problems with BURNING WILD. Good characters make all the difference in the world. The boys in Carl Deuker's book could have stepped out of the pages and into the halls of my school. They were absolutely believable. I led a discussion group on the book with a group of boys after school today, and they all liked the book for the same reason. They initially selected it because it was about football, but the realistic characters hooked them.
Mick Johnson is a freshman on the varsity football team. Football is his whole identity. His dad was drafted in the third round by the Chargers, but never made the team, so he has his hopes pinned on Mick. Mick is a talented player, but he's not as big and strong as some of the older boys. He costs the team a playoff game when he comes up a yard short of the goal line. An unpleasant, but believable incident occurs in the weight room, isolating him from his friends and intensifying his desire to become stronger. The steroids come from an unexpected source, and some of the boys in my group found it shocking. Mick convinces himself it's only for a little while, just to get enough of an edge to keep his spot. Of course, the lies and rationalizations spiral out of control, and so does Mick. Deuker exposes the dark underbelly of steroid use in the book, and your heart breaks as this likeable, talented kid destroys himself.
Finding books for boys is hard, especially if they're not into fantasy. This book will grab boys who like sports and realistic fiction. The football scenes are vivid, the characters are three-dimensional, and Deuker assumes his readers are smart. Connor loved the book so much that he read three others by Deuker. For the first time in his life, he's become a recreational reader. As an author, I can't imagine a better endorsement than that.
Strangely, it was Christine Feehan's BURNING WILD that left me feeling tepid. Feehan writes three different series: the Carpathians, the Ghostwalkers, and the Drake Sisters. I usually enjoy all three series, particularly the Drake Sisters novels. BURNING WILD isn't part of any of those series. The protagonist is a leopard person...a man who can become a leopard when he chooses. Of all the paranormal characters, shapeshifters are my least favorite, but that in itself isn't why the book didn't satisfy me. Rachel Vincent writes about cat shifters, and I love her series.
My problem with the book was the characters, particularly the hero. Jake survives his loveless, abusive childhood, but it molds him into an asshole as an adult. Flawed heroes and heroines are par for the course in romance, and that's okay. We all have to overcome our issues in order to love and be loved by someone else. Unfortunately, I never felt like Jake overcame his. He was domineering right up until the end, and Emma wasn't a strong enough character to ever be his equal. She tried, but the only place she had any power was in cooking, cleaning, and raising the kids. Jake swooped in and "handled" everything else. I never stopped being annoyed by his attitude...or hers for that matter.
Otherwise the book was okay. There were a couple of interesting plot twists, and the villains were nasty. As always with Feehan, the love scenes were hot. In fact, I was reading the book between innings at Connor's baseball game, and I had to put it down. I didn't want to have to explain to the other parents why I was blushing, and I don't blush that easily. So there you have it.
I loved GYM CANDY for the exact same reasons I had problems with BURNING WILD. Good characters make all the difference in the world. The boys in Carl Deuker's book could have stepped out of the pages and into the halls of my school. They were absolutely believable. I led a discussion group on the book with a group of boys after school today, and they all liked the book for the same reason. They initially selected it because it was about football, but the realistic characters hooked them.
Mick Johnson is a freshman on the varsity football team. Football is his whole identity. His dad was drafted in the third round by the Chargers, but never made the team, so he has his hopes pinned on Mick. Mick is a talented player, but he's not as big and strong as some of the older boys. He costs the team a playoff game when he comes up a yard short of the goal line. An unpleasant, but believable incident occurs in the weight room, isolating him from his friends and intensifying his desire to become stronger. The steroids come from an unexpected source, and some of the boys in my group found it shocking. Mick convinces himself it's only for a little while, just to get enough of an edge to keep his spot. Of course, the lies and rationalizations spiral out of control, and so does Mick. Deuker exposes the dark underbelly of steroid use in the book, and your heart breaks as this likeable, talented kid destroys himself.
Finding books for boys is hard, especially if they're not into fantasy. This book will grab boys who like sports and realistic fiction. The football scenes are vivid, the characters are three-dimensional, and Deuker assumes his readers are smart. Connor loved the book so much that he read three others by Deuker. For the first time in his life, he's become a recreational reader. As an author, I can't imagine a better endorsement than that.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Inside Outside Upside Down
Who are you?
Are you the person everyone thinks you are? Are any of us? I've had occasion recently to reflect on that question. I believe all of us have two lives, the outer life we move about in everyday...the one the world sees...and the inner life we live in our heads. Our inner lives consist of our hopes and dreams, our fantasies, our fears and insecurities, our true opinions and beliefs about the world around us.
Finding the courage to share our inner life is hard. It requires trust. We know if we give a piece of our inner life away we become vulnerable. We give that person ammunition to hurt us.
In the world of my novel, my hero and heroine can each walk in the other's dreams. They each hear the other's thoughts even across long distances. Of course, this isn't an original idea in paranormal romance, and there's a reason it shows up as often as it does. The idea of having a true soul mate is powerful. It's the driving force behind all romance. Yeah, the sexy alpha males are fun, as is the chase and the overcoming of obstacles, but the real fantasy is finding that one person to whom you can reveal your inner life. All of it. Every wonderful, horrible, embarrassing truth. To know and to be known.
If you have a relationship like that, then you are well and truly blessed. Whether it's your significant other or a trusted friend, a person who accepts the pieces of your heart and soul without judgment is a treasure. The longer you live, the more you appreciate it. Sometimes in youth we are cavalier in giving those pieces away, and we are inevitably hurt. We learn to be cautious.
When a friend trusts you with a piece of themselves, guard it with your life. Don't carelessly toss it out as grist for the gossip mill. If you do, then your relationships will quickly become nothing but a glossy veneer. I can't imagine anything more lonely.
Are you the person everyone thinks you are? Are any of us? I've had occasion recently to reflect on that question. I believe all of us have two lives, the outer life we move about in everyday...the one the world sees...and the inner life we live in our heads. Our inner lives consist of our hopes and dreams, our fantasies, our fears and insecurities, our true opinions and beliefs about the world around us.
Finding the courage to share our inner life is hard. It requires trust. We know if we give a piece of our inner life away we become vulnerable. We give that person ammunition to hurt us.
In the world of my novel, my hero and heroine can each walk in the other's dreams. They each hear the other's thoughts even across long distances. Of course, this isn't an original idea in paranormal romance, and there's a reason it shows up as often as it does. The idea of having a true soul mate is powerful. It's the driving force behind all romance. Yeah, the sexy alpha males are fun, as is the chase and the overcoming of obstacles, but the real fantasy is finding that one person to whom you can reveal your inner life. All of it. Every wonderful, horrible, embarrassing truth. To know and to be known.
If you have a relationship like that, then you are well and truly blessed. Whether it's your significant other or a trusted friend, a person who accepts the pieces of your heart and soul without judgment is a treasure. The longer you live, the more you appreciate it. Sometimes in youth we are cavalier in giving those pieces away, and we are inevitably hurt. We learn to be cautious.
When a friend trusts you with a piece of themselves, guard it with your life. Don't carelessly toss it out as grist for the gossip mill. If you do, then your relationships will quickly become nothing but a glossy veneer. I can't imagine anything more lonely.
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