writing a book

What Do I Say?

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Weaving my way around this drive-thru Starbucks is like a game of Pac Man. I’m inside lugging 15 pounds of notes and books, a computer and one small power cord to my phone that does not make or break the weight, but can be the deciding factor of whether I will still get emergency calls from the school about forgotten lunches. So I keep it.

I see moms pulling out all manner of Crayons and Hello Kitty coloring pages. There are meetings between Metros and women who are avoiding the highway in this mess of snow. Which is quite pretty from my view over a steaming mocha.

“Would you mind if I share this table with you?” I ask her.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m leaving soon anyway.”

Lovely. There are reasonable people in this society.

Her hair is chopped with texture that doesn’t happen right out of bed. She highlights her makeup around the dark lipstick she’s chosen to accent her emerald dress. Her knee-high, black, healed boots are professional, with sass. And she has the personal skills of a great salesman. Someone who works with people, likes people, makes people her business.

I’m guessing, of course.

“The snow is much prettier from here,” I say.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I know. The highway is still closed.”
“Oh, it is?” I wouldn’t know. I only see it when I’m finding a Costco. And I don’t watch the news because all I need in the morning besides strong coffee, enough Pop-Tarts to split three ways, and a drop-off lane, is the school cancellation number.
“My husband was here but he thought he’d give it a try. He’s still sitting.”
Yeah, I’m with you. I’d rather be stuck in a coffee Taj Mahal too.

She didn’t ask what I’m doing here. I didn’t offer. What do I say?
Well, I’m writing a book. (I know. Who isn’t? Yes, I do realize the statistics.) My second try. The story, the idea, gives me chills. I believe in it and some say I’m great with words. I have almost 4,000 of them but they could all be bad. I’ll probably get lots of rejection letters but you know what? I’m doing it anyway. Because if I could write my own headstone whenever the time comes that I need one, it would say: She Held Nothing Back.

 

 

Whoops Abound

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Whoops and hollers abounded this Christmas when the kids opened a Wii they didn’t even know they wanted. Inwardly, Chase and I were whooping too. We are not forerunners on the technology front. We live simply in this way, without satellite or cable, with movies we borrow from the library or rent for $1. It was a decision we made in protest to all the family time that was being robbed by Wipeout and American Idol. Still, we open the lid of our Toshiba when we want a Parenthood fix but the Wii, let’s just say it was a big hit.

My son is a Mario extraordinaire. A fanatic.

My daughter, the little one, she holds the remote and shouts like she’s part of something big. She is.

My other daughter, the oldest, she tries. Oh how she tries.

It is such great entertainment when they play together. My older daughter will often die on her first jump, a single slide, an erratic I’m- just- going- with- full- force attitude. It’s hilarious. But even funnier is the way she’s perfected “Button A.” The button that puts you in a bubble. Milliseconds from a painful death in rolling lava and she bubbles herself. Midair and heading for the enemy, she floats. It’s genius, really. Until her brother dies. Until he has to be in a bubble too. Because then the game is over.

I feel like I’m in a bubble right now. A writing bubble. I might come out for a snack or to ensure that no is strangling anyone else. I do what I have to, and not much more because I’m dangling above everything in my own space. While the kids jump and run and fight enemies below me, I am hovering with 26 letters and a passion.
In this space, my characters are like real people, the intersecting story of their lives, a part of me. I know them. I like them. And I think you will too.

The Lunch Crowd

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There are 9 of them sitting in front of me. They are curly, straight, colored, braided, short and long -haired. They are chewing salads and smiling as they relate stories of having babies. They are Panera Bread’s lunch crowd. At least one table of it. Make that three tables pushed together, one square, two rounds.

I do not know this scene. I haven’t lived it myself. Not really. Once when I worked as a dental assistant we had a lull of patients so three of us went to a Mexican restaurant for an hour. This was in stark contrast to race downstairs while a mouth was numbing parade we usually did. The only thing I remember said that day was, “I’m eating my calories in cheese today.” Hmm, I thought. I eat my calories in more ways than cheese every day. But OK.

That’s what I know of lunch meetings.

Two days ago I was depressed. I was going over note page after note page of background on made-up characters. I was willing to write but utterly uninspired. Until…

“A breakout novel rattles, confronts and illuminates. It is detailed because it is real. Its people live because they spring from life, or at least from the urge to say something about life. Their stories challenge our hopes, plumb our fears, test our faiths and enact our human wills.

These novels change us because their authors are willing to draw upon their deepest selves without flinching. They hold nothing back, making their novels the deepest possible expression of their own experience and beliefs.”

                   -Donald Maass

Now I remember. I remember what I want and that it’s worth a fall on my face to try. Because stories rock me, the good ones. And there is a pull in me to create something that “rattles,” and teaches and inspires back.

Carry on ladies, maybe someday you’ll be talking about my book.