Accountability

This week, I finished an online writing course. The class is called Writing Fiction with the New York Times, and it’s offered through Stanford Continuing Education. They are offering the class again during the spring semester and I definitely recommend that aspiring writers look into taking it.

We read a wonderful book called The Modern Library Writer’s Workshop by Stephen Koch. There are a lot of writing books out there, and this is definitely one of the better ones I’ve read. Koch explores the writing process from the beginning (how does one get inspired?) to the end (dreaded revising).

The book was great, and it will sit in a prominent place on my bookshelf. The other great part of the class, however, was interacting with other writers. Having the opportunity to turn in creative writing pieces each week and have them critiqued line by line from classmates, a Stanford professor, and a New York Times book reviewer is a process any writer would be happy to have. You may think your work is wonderful, but seven people pointing out that they have no idea why Princess Rialta is climbing a tree in pursuit of a squirrel is priceless. It’s never fun to have work you think is finished critiqued by well-meaning classmates, but it’s better than being clueless when every agent in New York rejects your work.

In the past, I had half-heartedly looked for a writing group in my area, but I hadn’t found one. I figured my lack of results was more a lack of trying than a lack of resources. I live in an artsy community, and I was sure there were writing groups I hadn’t found. Fortunately, my sister-in-law looks harder for friends than I look for writing groups, and she told me about a website called meetup.com. She said it was for anyone looking for people with common interests, but in my head I still thought it was for singles.

When my class ended, I felt like I needed to resume my search for a writing group, so I started searching for writing groups in my area. I found one that met on Saturday mornings, and I decided that I may as well try it out. What had I got to lose (other than three hours on a Saturday morning)?

The group was surprisingly well-organized considering it was comprised of a group of writers. We met at a coffee shop where the meeting started promptly at ten. The first hour was a lecture about traditional publishing versus independent publishing. As I writer seeking representation, I’ve done a fair amount of research into the publishing industry. However, the lecture provided me with new insights into websites I’d only heard about.

The second hour was comprised of critiques for two people who had submitted work online before the group. The critiques were well-organized, each person getting an opportunity to speak. When every person had the opportunity to offer a critique, the writer had a chance to address any critiques or ask questions.

The group ended promptly at noon, the designated ending point. I was thankful that it was kept to a time schedule. I’m a schedule-oriented person. I hate being late, and I hate when things I attend run late. That day, I had to hurry home to make sugarplums before we celebrated our family Christmas.

I’ll continue to attend the writing group, and I’m hoping this post encourages some of you to find people with whom you can share your passion for writing (or drawing or running). One of the biggest complaints I hear from people who’d like to write but don’t is that they don’t have time. Like everything else in life, finding like-minded people who will keep you accountable will help you make time to write.

South Carolina Writers Conference

Several weeks ago, I attended the South Carolina Writers Conference (SCWW) in Myrtle Beach, SC. The conference promised advice on how to market your book. The photo above is one I took from my hotel room balcony, and in hindsight, I believe the view of the ocean may have been one of the better parts of the conference.

The conference was well-run, and I give major props to the people who put it together. The food was good and the conference ran smoothly. Anyone has organized anything as minor as a bridal shower knows that organizing an event that flows smoothly is no easy task. This event ran without any hitches. I was impressed.

Saturday was the main day for classes. I was signed up for four of them. The first was called 'How to Get Your Book Noticed'. I'm not going to throw anyone under the bus by announcing who was leading this class. I'm only going to say that the presentation and advice were not wonderful. Ms. X came into the class on time asking what she was supposed to be speaking on. I suppose I should have grabbed my schedule and found another class to attend at that moment, but I hoped for the best. After all, this woman was outgoing and vivacious, the type of person people enjoying being around.. When she found out the topic was getting your book noticed, she proceeded to discuss how to get your book noticed once you have it published. Although interesting, I'm not sure this was the advice the thirty unpublished writers in the room were hoping to receive. I thought the class would be about those of us who have an unpublished novel sitting on our computer at home, one that cannot be noticed by the general public until a literary agent and publisher takes notice of us.

The advice about bookmarks, postcards, selling yourself in gas station bathrooms (not literally yourself...we're still getting to that part) was handy and interesting, but then Ms. X started talking about wearing low-cut tops and flirting with men to sell books (before mentioning that her religion doesn't allow this, and she doesn't do it anymore). Since I didn't come to the conference to learn how to be a book whore, and since there were both men and (old) women in the class, I found this inapplicable and, yes, slightly offensive. I cut out of the class early because I wanted to get in line for a 'slush fest' in which literary agent Jenny Bent would be reading and analyzing the first pages of manuscripts. I wanted to be sure mine was one of the pages chosen.

I'm mentioning Jenny Bent because I have no reason to throw her under the bus. She was sweet, kind, and helpful, and the slush fest was one of my favorite parts of the conference. Not only did I enjoy seeing what she had to say about mine, I was interested in what she had to say about the others as well. I also found it telling when she mentioned she was reading a page on which another agent had marked several things. "I disagree with everything this other agent wrote," she said. This was both discouraging and encouraging, proving the subjectivity of the publishing industry. One agent could hate your work, but it certainly doesn't mean another won't love it.

The third class I attended was more about grammar than I had hoped, since grammar and editing are some of my strong suits, and the fourth was equally disappointing. The fourth class was on memoir writing.

Mr. X, who taught the memoir writing class, was incredibly sweet and gave me enough information about his life that I could write his memoir. However, I left completely unenlightened about how to write my own memoir. I was disappointed.

Janet Reid's talk about query letters and synoses on Sunday morning was fantastic, and I took a lot of notes on it. Unfortunately, I learned I have no idea how to write a query letter, even after spending several weekends reading the entire Miss Snark blog. I am now reading Janet's blog, Query Shark, hoping to learn more about writing queries.

Overall, the conference wasn't a complete disappointment, but I'm not sure I learned enough to warrant going again.

Fourteener

My sister-in-law is training for a triathlon, and as part of her training, she decided she wanted to hike a 14’er. For those of you who live outside a major mountain range, a 14’er is the term for a mountain that peaks above 14,000 feet. Kylie, my sister-in-law, found the easiest 14’er in the area, one that her mother and I could also hike.

“I think we should leave for the hike at 3:15 a.m.,” Kylie told me over the phone on Wednesday.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “No way.”

“I’ve heard parking’s limited. I really think we should leave at 3:15.”

“I’m not doing that. Mitch has a guy in town for business, and I’m supposed to be having dinner with them on Friday night. I’m going to get home late, and I want to get some sleep. Besides, it’s only going to take us an hour to get there. What are we going to do when we get there and have an hour until the sun rises?”

“Unpack our stuff.”

“I don’t know what you are bringing on the hike, but I’m bringing a backpack, and I’m pretty sure it won’t take me an hour to get it out of the car.”

“It’s just that I’ve talked to people. Parking’s limited.”

“Okay, but how many people are going to start hiking before the sun rises? Doesn’t that defeat the whole purpose?”

“I just think we should get up there early. I’ve talked to people.”

“I just really don’t want to leave that early.”

“I guess 3:30 is fine.”

“I think 4:30 is fine. The sun doesn’t even rise until around 5:30.”

“No, I really think that’s too late.”

“I don’t know. I’ll see if I can find any information on the internet. Right now I just don’t see the point of leaving so early, but I’ll look it up.”

“Okay. I’m just saying. I’ve talked to people.”

Kylie doesn’t accept no for an answer. That is why she always sold the most Girl Scout cookies in the state. That’s why she sold the most apparel when she was a waitress at Joe’s Crab Shack. We told her she should become a salesperson, but she wanted to be in criminal justice. She works in a women’s halfway house, which is another place where not taking no for an answer is a good attribute.

Her persistence has paid off as she has tried to lose the weight she put on when she was pregnant. She’s dropped forty pounds in two months by her sheer persistence. With a full-time job, graduate school, and a daughter, I’m not sure where she’s finding time to train for a triathlon, but as I said, she doesn’t accept no for an answer. Not even from herself.

I told a friend I was going to just tell Kylie I’d be there at 3:30 and then “accidentally” oversleep until 4:30.

“Yeah,” Colleen said. “That’s not passive-aggressive at all.”

“You don’t know Kylie,” I replied, although Colleen did know Kylie, and she was right. I wouldn’t actually do that anyway. I’m too honest. Even if it meant arguing with Kylie on the phone for an hour, I would get my way. After all, it was my car.

We didn’t talk again, but in a conversation with her mother, Annie told me just to show up at 4:30. I don’t know what Kylie’s thinking, she said.

I arrived at 4:40 on Saturday morning, and Kylie, Annie, and Annie’s two golden retrievers were in the driveway waiting for me. I hardly had the car in park before Kylie was lifting the hatch to put in her backpack. Annie picked her stop-sign-red Marlboro backpack from the driveway and set it in the back of my SUV.

“A little ironic to be hiking a 14’er with a Marlboro backpack, isn’t it?” I asked Annie.

She laughed. “I guess. Look how much water I have. Ten bottles.”

“You know you have to carry that on your back, right?”

Annie looked again into her backpack. “Well, I guess that’s true.”

She took out one bottle and handed it to her husband. He took it from her with his free hand. “See you later,” he said.

With dawn breaking behind us, we headed west into our state’s stunning playground: the Rocky Mountains. At sunrise, they are nothing more than jagged blue boulders. Year-round, snow covers the peaks of the most majestic mountains like diamond-encrusted crowns. Pine beetles are killing the trees, and streaks of brown snake through the green landscape. In some places, streaks of green snake through the brown landscape. In several popular ski towns, where the income comes from the beauty, they have removed the dead trees, leaving whole mountainsides bare and cold and empty.

Everything is still in shades of gray when we arrive at the trailhead. The parking lot is already full, as Kylie had warned us, but there was still parking on the side of the road next to the trailhead.

Because of its proximity to the city and its ease, the peak was a popular one to summit, and we started out the hike much the same way we would have started a parade route. People blazed ahead of us while others followed us. And as the terrain got a bit tougher, there were spectators on either side of the trail, cheering on those who still had enough oxygen in them to keep going. There may have been a dearth of the silence that normally accompanies a hike through a blooming mountain meadow, but there was no dearth of enthusiasm.

Annie and I lost Kylie in no time. Kylie just wanted to get to the top. Annie wanted to stop for pictures and energy bars and water. She wanted to notice the columbines and beardtongues. She wanted to pet approaching dogs. She wanted to meet other hikers. I hadn’t realized until this hike where my husband had gotten his passive approach to getting anywhere.

We stopped repeatedly to catch our breath, and often Kylie would come heavy-footed back down the mountain to tell us to hurry up. Do you have to stop, she would ask, pursuing the peak with as much fervor as she pursued just about everything. Since she wasn’t hiking with us, she hiked alongside different groups of young men she found attractive, telling them about her triathlon and her job and her slow mother and sister-in-law behind her.

We knew we had reached the peak when forceful, icy wind shoved us, informing us that we were 14,000 feet high with no barriers between ourselves and the wind’s invisible, inescapable might. Surrounding us on all four sides were smaller mountains, skinny trails of snow like spider’s legs lining their crevices. It was like looking out into an ocean, still-life blue waves erect in every direction, the snow like a wave’s foamy crest. We were on top of the world.

Kylie, who had reached the peak long before us, had started to greet other hikers (mostly male) with high-fives and hellos and where-are-you-froms. I pulled out my iPhone to take a video. I had five bars of 3G, which seemed unusual since I struggle to keep a signal in the foothills in which I live. I circled to capture the landscape, eventually resting the camera on my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.

“Say something!” I instructed.

The smiled at the camera, holding themselves perfectly still.

“It’s a video. Say something.”

They continued to smile at the camera, as if caught up with stage fright. Kylie finally turned to Annie and laughed nervously.

“We did it,” Annie said into the camera.

I shut the camera off and slipped the phone back into my backpack.

The path down the mountain was the same as the path up, but it didn’t feel or look similar. Our lungs were worn from the narrow passages of oxygen in the thin air, and we were tired from not packing enough food, neither Kylie nor I anticipating how long it would take us to get up and down the mountain. Pebbles, such sure footholds as we ascended, slipped out from under our feet like loose roller skating wheels.

“Don’t try to get a foothold with every step,” I told Annie and Kylie, who didn’t hike often. “Just hurry down. It feels scarier, but it’s a lot easier.”

As if on cue, Annie slipped, falling hard and splaying her walking poles across the uneven terrain. I hurried to gather them for her. She and Kylie, still ignoring my instruction to hurry down the steep slopes for better traction, discussed how much easier going up a mountain was than going down.

As we descended and the ground flattened, Kylie hurried ahead, and I stayed behind Annie, monitoring her small, careful steps. She wasn’t the fastest hiker, but she was the most determined. We were passed countless times by younger, more eager hikers, but Annie barely looked up from the rocky path she was navigating. It took her all day, but she did it. Despite her pained knees and lack of hiking experience, she made it up and down the peak.

Kylie was waiting for us at the bottom, pacing back and forth next to my car. I pulled my keys from my backpack and pressed the control to unlock the trunk. She pulled open the back and began to remove her shoes in order to put on her flip-flops.

“Great job, Annie.” I congratulated my mother-in-law on completing the hike.

“Yeah, Mom, good job,” Kylie said. “There were all sorts of people who came down asking me if I was with the old lady. They kept saying, man, is she ever having the worst time getting down the mountain. And you did it. You got down the mountain.”

“A lot of people were saying that to you?” Annie asked.

“Yeah. Just about everybody. Are you with that old lady? That old lady who’s with the tall, blonde girl? Man, is that old lady having a hard time getting down the mountain! Everybody was saying that to me.”

“Stop,” I said, waving my hand at Kylie, who is known for being kind, caring, and tactless. I laughed.

Annie laughed too. “I think I should be insulted. But I’m too excited that I finished to be insulted. Maybe I’ll be insulted later. But right now I’m just happy.”

Writing is Waiting

I read a quote from Flannery O'Connor today. She said, "There is a certain grain of stupidity the writer can hardly do without, and that is the quality of having to stare." She also said, "Writing is waiting."

One can take this to mean a number of different things. She could have meant that writers need to live an observant life, and there is a lot of truth in that. A writer who does not observe how real life works cannot effectively mimic it in writing.

She could also mean that a writer has to spend hours staring at a blank page/Word document/wall before something brilliant (or at least semi-brilliant) comes to her. This is the meaning that hits home with me today as I have spent the last several days staring blankly at whatever is in front of me hoping to get back to a place where I am sharing my mind with a character.

Today, seriously concerned about my lack of words-on-page, I went to a local coffee shop with only a blank notebook and pen. I was nervous. I could spend the afternoon at the coffee shop eavesdropping on other people's conversations and staring fruitlessly at the blank notebook. I could leave with my notebook just as blank as when I arrived. But I had to do it. Because if I brought my computer or a book, I would end up absorbed in things that were not productive for furthering my most recent project.

I did very little eavesdropping. I only heard the incessant sniffles of the man sitting behind me, and one can only ignore so many of those, especially when one begins to eavesdrop and learns the man is researching something on his health care provider's website. Anyone at all would want to bring him a tissue and a face mask, right?

Most of all, I wrote. I decided to pretend my blank notebook was my main character's diary, and changing the point of view really gave me a new perspective on my story. In fact, I think I may like it better. I may do the same thing tomorrow (minus the sniffling sick guy).

Break

It's been a busy couple of weeks. I spent a week visiting my parents, during which my husband came down with pneumonia that, to the dismay of the doctors, hasn't been responding to antibiotics. We were supposed to leave for Isreal this morning. Needless to say (since I am currently writing this blog post), we are not on an airplane to the Middle East.

Between doctor's visits and family affairs and cancelling our plane tickets, hotel rooms, and dreams (okay, that was melodramatic), writing has slipped into the background. And the funny thing about taking a break from writing is that - doctor's visits and family affairs and trip-cancellings aside - once you find things other than writing to take up your time, you can always find things other than writing to take up your time.

I've discovered it's easier to keep a well-oiled machine running than to fix a broken machine. Taking a break doesn't necessarily mean you're broken. Some things are worth the break. Like driving your husband to his CT scan. And some things just aren't. Like seeing Julie and Julia. I've done a little of both the past two weeks. Knowing the difference is the inevitable dilemma of being self-employed, and I suppose it's one I'm still learning.

Anyway, I'm done with this blog post now, and I'm going to open up my forgotten Word documents than contain my 'real' writing. And I'm not 'breaking' until dinner.

Influence

I have decided to apply to a writing conference for the fall. I am anxious to learn what I can from industry professionals. And since I have no contacts within the publishing industry at all, I think it would be great to make some connections.

I attended a writing conference in Duluth, MN several months after I graduated college, and I have always looked back on it with fond memories (to be completely cliche). I had just finished reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being, and I wanted nothing more than to be Milan Kundera. The things I wrote at that conference were always with "what would Kundera do" in mind, and when I told the author leading the workshop that I feared I was plagerizing him by wanting so badly to write something that influenced people as much as his book had influenced me, she looked at me like the naive twenty-one year-old I was and told me I was more certainly not plagerizing him. My writing was my own, and it was okay to be influenced by other authors.

With that in mind, I decided to read as many brilliant authors as I could in hopes that I could one day be as brilliant as them. I don't know that I've achieved that lofty goal, but I was recently told by the teacher of the online writing course I took this spring that my writing was that of a person who has spent her lifetime reading. I am choosing to take that as a compliment, and I am still reading as much as I can, hoping to glean some style from those who have come before me and done it better than me.

With that in mind, I would love to know what books have influenced those of you who read this blog. Any thoughts?

Don't Bury Your Talent

My husband asked me the other night if I was discouraged by the agent search yet. Fortunately my answer was no. I went into this only expecting letter after letter of rejection, so no matter what any agent tells me (good or bad), I know that perserverance is going to be my biggest asset.

And I suppose too that the part of me that reads a lot of books knows that I have something to offer people. I hope that comes across how I intend it. There are a lot of areas in life in which I have nothing to offer: speed skating, basket weaving, gardening, financial planning. Writing is my gift, and not only that, I am passionate about it.

My husband tells me I am a good cook. In fact he tells everyone I am a good cook. However, no matter how many times he tells me that, I will find any way I can to get out of cooking a meal. I have absolutely no passion for cooking, and even if I could whip up a meal like Julia Child, I still think I would prefer to eat out.

I really love writing. I couldn't think of anything else to do with my life. I worked at a gym for little pay for years just because it was as good as any other job to me. I didn't want a job; I wanted to write.

And I need the desire as much as I need the skill. If Anne Tyler felt apathetic toward writing, it wouldn't matter how skilled she was. She would find something else to do with her life.

When I got married, the sermon focused on the Biblical parable of the talents, a message my husband hasn't forgotten. He is always talking about how it doesn't matter how many talents God gives us if we decide to bury them in ground.

So, I'm trying not to bury mine in the ground, and I hope you don't either.

Is Amazon Big Brother?

I know I am just about the last person on the planet to write anything on the Kindle-1984 controversy which has, momentarily, shifted the internet's focus off Michael Jackson. In fact, by the time I finish posting this, I'm sure everyone will be back to speculating about the King of Pop's untimely death. However, as a Kindle owner, Orwell reader, and prospective author, I do have thoughts on this topic.

I read 1984 in high school and subsequently made a video for our class in which I recited Hamlet's to-be-or-not-to-be soliloquy until the thought police, wearing silver ski jackets, abducted me to Room 101 (i.e. a dark basement) and threw white teddy bears at me until I confessed to...huh, that's the only part I don't remember. What did I confess? Anyway, because I have gotten together with my high school classmates several times since then and watched the video, I remember 1984 quite well. The story is about a totalitarian government state that monitors its citizens' every thought and move via the Thought Police. Just think Big Brother, since 1984 is the origin of the phrase.

Several days ago, Amazon removed copies of 1984 from Kindle, Amazon's e-reader, leaving only a cryptic message behind. In place of 1984, Kindle owners had a mysterious message that something had been removed from their archived items and that they would be refunded money for their purchase. For more information, Kindle owners scoured the internet to learn that copies of 1984 had been sold illegally, and consequently Amazon redacted the copies.

Although Amazon seems to be standing by its decision, Kindle owners are outraged. Orwell's 1984 is creepy enough without it being mysteriously removed from your Kindle with only a confusing note that some items (which will remain nameless) have been removed. The removal would have been outrageous enough, but the fact that the book removed was 1984 is just too ironic for words.

All Kindle owners are now wondering if the books they download to their Kindle are really theirs. After all, if I had ordered a paper copy of 1984 from Amazon, I doubt Jeff Bezos would be outside my house in the middle of the night trying to figure out how to get it off my bookshelf without triggering my alarm system. And if he was, well, I would just have to stop shopping at Amazon altogether. Here's the thing, Amazon: we either own the books or we don't. Either the books I downloaded to my Kindle are mine forever and ever or they aren't. Which is it, because it can't be both?

It's a new world we are living in, and I think this story is another reminder that, to some extent, you give up your privacy when you choose to go electronic. Putting 4,000 photos of your kids on Facebook is not the same as putting them in a photo album on your coffee table. Ads in a magazine, aimed at people who read magazines, are not the same as targeted Google ads. And books downloaded onto your Kindle are not the same as books bought at your local Barnes & Noble.

For Better Or Worse (Also: Why is there aluminum foil in my freezer?)

Keep in mind that I am a neat and organized person when you read what I am about to write. It will frame how confusing the events of the past day have been for me. In a matter of less than twenty-four hours, I put cinnamon in our chicken dinner instead of chili powder, I found the aluminum foil in the freezer, and I found leftover pizza in a Tupperware container in a cabinet. I don't know what to make of these events.

In light of that, you shouldn't be surprised to learn that my daily writing goals are not coming to me as easily as I would like. I'm not sure how, but in the last five months of editing and minimal writing I seemed to have completely forgotten what a taxing, frustrating, overwhelming experience writing can be at times. These past few days, meeting my daily writing goal of 3,000 words has been about as simple as, well, keeping my kitchen organized, apparently.

Nonetheless, I am wed to the craft. And like all marriages, I will stick out the rough patches because I know the best parts are worth the worst parts. I will meet my writing goals knowing that next week might be easier (or it might not), but it will always be rewarding.

Write-Brain

Five more queries down... I hope I am doing something right.

I like writing exercises even when I'm not experiencing writer's block because I start thinking in new directions. I am working through The Write-Brain Workbook right now. I just started a few days ago, and I like it. I didn't think I would because it is colorful and clever, and I thought it looked like too much fun to be taken seriously. And, to be honest, I'm actually having fun with it. And I'm taking it seriously.

I'm not going to spend too much time writing on here today because the day has slipped past me too quickly (because I stayed up past midnight watching our DVDs of The Office, and slept in until 7, which caused me to skip the gym to stay home and work on my query letters, but somehow it still ended up 1:30 in the afternoon with a whole lot of writing goals left in the day). Don't you hate days that go by so fast you feel like you missed them completely?

Getting Enough Done?

I am reading David Allen's Getting Things Done. I started reading it last night after spending the day getting a whole lot of things done. The reason I ordered it from Amazon is because I got an iPhone several weeks ago, and my husband, who knows my obsession with organization and could be mistaken for an iPhone salesman if you didn't know he wasn't, suggested Omnifocus, which is an organizational app. I love it because I can check things off a list, which is one of my favorite things to do. I will make lists just so I can check things off them. It works for me. Now my husband, whenever he needs something, tells me to put in in my Omnifocus. He knows I can't stand things moving from the "Due Soon" folder to the "Overdue" folder. He knows I will lose sleep to complete items on a list.

Omnifocus is based on David Allen's book, so I decided to read the book (as if I needed an excuse to read). I made it through to the first exercise which asks you to name the project on your mind the most. I, of course, wrote: Sell my manuscript. The next question asked what my intended successful outcome was, to which I wrote: I sell my novel to a publisher and establish a successful, profitable writing career. Last, Allen asks what my next physical action to move forward is. I wrote: Find an agent by sending out query letters.

I'm already sending out query letters, but should I be sending out more than five a week? I have already gone through the entirety of Jeff Herman's Guide to Book Publishers, Editors, & Literary Agents 2009 (Who they are! What they want! How to win them over!) with an orange highlighter of people who may be interested in my work. I have already gone through Publisher's Marketplace looking for the agents of all my favorite authors. And I already have a spreadsheet of my options started. So I could pump out more queries each week. The question is: How much rejection can I really handle in one week?

Back In The Saddle

I finished my manuscript in February, and although I have an idea for another novel, I've put little time into it for multiple reasons. In order, here are my excuses why I haven't been fully committed to writing a new novel:

1. Let's face it: A finished draft means almost nothing. When I finished my manuscript, I naively thought I was sort-of finished. And then I realized it was 200,000 words long, confusing at times, and full of pointless stories and reduntant adjectives. Editing, I realized, was a whole new, long process that involved hours of printing drafts at FedEx Kinkos, multi-colored highlighters, and strong coffee.

2. What woman, who has just given birth to the most beautiful thing she has ever seen, wants to go straight back into the delivery room? Writing my novel was a mentally exhausting years-long challenge, and when I got to the end of it, I looked at a blank page the same way I would look at Mt. Everest. The task seemed too daunting. My brain didn't feel ready for it. I was exhausted.

I thought I would come up with more excuses than that, but I guess those are the two main ones. To be fair to myself, I have been writing. As I mentioned, I've been doing hours upon hours of editing. And I've been doing writing exercises, and as you can see, I took an online writing class. And I've been reading a lot (if you are a writer in need of an ego check, reading Anne Tyler and David Foster Wallace is one way to lower your self-esteem in a matter of a page). So I haven't been a complete slacker. But the thought of starting another novel, well, it just felt like too much.

This week, however, after sending out my five query letters and signing up for LinkedIn and Twitter, I hopped back into my writing full-force, which is why I didn't go to the gym yesterday and I'm not going out with my friends tonight. I'm climbing back on the daily-writing-comes-first horse. Second manuscript...here we come!

Creative Writing: Rocky Mountain High

Online Creative Writing Assignment: Write a 250-word description of a place with "character," revealing the elements that suggest its history.

Rocky Mountain High

When the rest of the country left the sixties, Boulder stayed behind in its tie-dyed, rocky-mountain-high world.

Boulder’s backdrop is the jagged, white Rocky Mountains. This picket fence separates it from the rest of the world on three sides. On the fourth side is Denver, and those in Denver think of Boulder as their slightly-crazy, still-trendy little sister. Those of us who live in Boulder know better. Denver sold its soul for stadiums and sprawling mansions and spendy restaurants.

The residents are nicknamed yuppie hippies because of their designer dreadlocks and high-priced, eco-friendly clothes. They eat organic food and smoke hydroponic weed. All real estate in Boulder is expensive because no one is allowed to build. A lifestyle of simplicity very few could afford.

We eat at The Kitchen, a restaurant whose practices embody everything the town lives for: locally grown food, wind-powered energy, and a compost pile for the uneaten table scraps. The lower level is a sunny restaurant; the small menu comprised of meals like organic beef risotto with haystack chevre and saba for $24. Upstairs is a dark, hip wine lounge.

Along the Pearl Street Mall, we peruse the eco-this, natural-that shops. Between shops, we wind our way through the homeless and street performers and college students. We are handed a brochure detailing how 9/11 was an inside job.

A ticket for our expired parking meter flaps from our windshield wiper. Seated on the curb next to our car are two college students, stoned. They hold joints in their fingers with the same carelessness people elsewhere hold cigarettes.

“Only in Boulder,” Dave mumbles.

Creative Writing: Long-Stemmed Shoes

Online Writing Class Assignment: Write a 250-word description of a person - real or fictional - built around a single hyperbole. As always, I have not changed anything from the original assignment. Nothing has been edited based on comment or critique.

Long-Stemmed Shoes

Emily is as vain as a peacock. She doesn’t have to be. She has black hair, green eyes, and the body of a Victoria’s Secret model. She was given that body by God, not a plastic surgeon; I know because I’m her sister and I’ve watched it develop since preschool. She doesn’t see it that way, and going anywhere with her requires a two-hour notice…one hour if we go to the gym, and I promise that isn’t a second hyperbole.

We bought the same pair of five-inch heels. I wore mine to a trendy tapas bar for a birthday party. I wobbled from the parking garage into the restaurant, and I only had to stop twice along the way to prevent myself from tipping forward into the pavement. When I got inside, I found a chair and vowed not to leave it. My friend wanted a photo of the attendees, and I made them all crowd around me.

Emily wore the shoes to our uncle’s funeral. She was late, and when she saw everyone waiting for her, she sprinted to us. When it was time for her speech, she wound her way through the pew of relatives and glided to the podium. How easily she walked across the stage in those long-stemmed shoes! I wouldn’t walk across the street in them; you couldn’t pay me to walk across a stage.

I decided I should start practicing walking in those shoes. Just in case we ever wear them at the same time, I don’t want it to look like Ugly Betty meeting Carrie Bradshaw. Maybe vanity does pay off sometimes.

Creative Writing: Greener Grass

Online Descriptive Writing Class Assignment: Write a 250-word description of a natural object, idea, or emotion using animism or personification. Again, this assignment has been left in its original state. I have not changed anything based on comment or critique.

Greener Grass

I wish I were Lauren because she is brilliant. I wish I were Nick because he is kind. I wish I were Jenny because she attracts friends so easily. I wish I were Lisa because she attracts men so easily. I wish I were Mike because he is rich. I wish I were Mary because she is good. I wish I were Scott because he is wise.

When I hear her good fortune, his good luck, their hard work finally paying off, I nod and my eyes fall to the floor. When I look back up - it’s a mere moment I glance away - I smile with false alacrity and chirp a congratulations.

“I would love to do something like that, but I never could,” I say. “I just don’t have the money.”

I’m just not that lucky. I don’t have the time. My father is too sick. My husband would never go for it. My kids come first. Whatever excuse is handy, I use.

At least she’s fat. At least he has a stupid haircut. At least they drive a piece-of-crap car. At least I don’t look like I just walked off the set of The Addams Family. At least I don’t drink so much. At least I don’t start projects I never finish.

I am burning. I am tight-necked and stiff. I am clench-fisted. My legs and arms are crossed, my lips are pursed, and my eyes are narrow. I am cold and mean and distant. I cheer when you fall and grumble when you win. I am anger at its worst. I am jealousy.

Creative Writing: Drunken Sailor Walking

Another assignment from my online descriptive writing class. Unedited again.

Drunken Sailor Walking

Faith twists to the green chair and reaches her hands to hinge onto its seat. Squaring her feet on either side of her hips, she unbends her legs to standing. Her neck pivots to see my reaction. I smile. She is encouraged and turns toward me, freeing her hands from their grip on the chair. Barely navigating the landmines of toys, she makes her way across the rug toward me. She learned to walk two weeks ago, and she swerves like a drunken sailor. Her gaze is on me, not the floor, and she doesn’t pay attention when she reaches the end of the rug and starts on the polished wood floors. I pay attention. She’s wearing socks: pink and cuffed above the ankle. From drunken sailor to uncertain ice skater, I know she is going to fall. She is four steps off the carpet when it happens. She lands on her left side, and her head hits the rug. She looks at me, waits for my reaction to decide whether or not she should cry. I turn away; if she hasn’t cried yet, she’s fine. But I held eye contact too long, and she registered concern in it. Stilted at first, she finds a full wail after a moment. I kneel next to her and pull her into my arms. Silence is instant. I pull off her socks and stand her on the floor again. She falls forward into me. That’s just about enough walking for tonight, her sleepy sigh and heavy head say.

Creative Writing: Yoga Class

My husband suggested last night that I start adding some creative writing to this blog to give people a sense of my true passion, which is not writing information blog updates. I thought it was a good idea, so I am starting with some exercises I did for an online writing class. The purpose of the class was to learn how to write descriptively. I haven't made any changes to what I handed in to the teacher of the class, so these pieces are unedited me.

Yoga Class

Like laying a rainbow onto the wooden floorboards, I unroll my bright yoga mat. Against my turquoise water bottle, a violet golf towel my husband was given in Cabo San Lucas leans. Water in, sweat out.

Mirrors and other students, the things by which I judge my performance, surround me. Two women whisper about The Bachelor, open palms rested on crooked legs. Others lay flat, and still others stretch and move and awake. I observe, elbows on bent knees and palms on cheeks. Music imported from Asia quiets us, signaling the beginning of class.

I am armed with a spring green and winter white block, a thick blue strap, and a vocabulary acquired through years of classes. Down dog, up dog, crow, happy baby, warrior three. These words have all come to define different shapes and postures of my body - asanas. I perform them without much thought now, as one responds to a traffic signal without consideration.

I am only missing one tool: flexibility. I will never grace dancer’s pose or ease into a headstand. A tall, curveless basketball-player frame and lean, long-distance-runner legs are my God-given athletic gifts. Advanced yogi I will never be. Namaste.

Going Public

Writing is inherently a solitary act. I spend all day by myself in my office writing. And when I have free time, I sit by myself and read a book. I shun plans with friends to do this, only sometimes reminding myself that people were created to be in community with each other and that I should really get out and do something with someone who isn't the figment of another author's imagination. I enjoy being alone, and I don't think I'm the only writer who would write that.

Well, enjoying the solitary life is all good until you are on the road to trying to publish a book, and you are suddenly supposed to be accessible to all sorts of people and like to do readings and book signings and tours. Well, I don't know that. It's only what I've heard so far.

I took the first step to marketing myself today by joining LinkedIn and Twitter. I have avoided Twitter despite reading about it nearly every day for the past year. It just has absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever. But then an article from Writer's Digest spurred me to join not only Twitter, but LinkedIn. Both are supposed to make you more accessible both to the publishing industry and potential readership. I figured I would be proactive, and despite that I do not have any publishing contacts or potential readership (sorry, Dad, you don't count), I would sign up for both. I will keep you posted if either of these things assist me in my path to publication. You can follow me on Twitter, although I'm not sure if anything of merit can be said in under 140 characters.

Getting Over Him

It's been thirty-eight days since I sent off my query letter to Mr. S. Since I sent it, I've been to New York and Ecuador, and my parents have come to visit. It's been a busy thirty-eight days. I've held out hope that Mr. S's letter was on its way to my house, but I haven't heard anything yet, so today I got smart. I moved on. Instead of waiting by my mailbox for his letter, I decided to explore other options. I sent five more query letters today.

I suppose finding an agent is a little bit like dating. I started like the big-eyed young girl who fell head over heels for the football quarterback who dates the shiny-haired cheerleaders. Because he dates the type of girls she wants to be, she wants to date him. But he looks past her because there is someone pretty, popular, and outgoing that catches his attention. Eventually, of course, she moves on. Maybe to another football player or maybe to someone who will admire her back.

Well, maybe there is someone out there for Mr. S. with an MFA or a reputation at The New Yorker. And today I decided I'm not waiting around any longer. I sent out five more query letters, which is five agents I can cross of my list. Five down...well, who knows how many more to go. Stay posted. I trust that there is someone out there who will find my voice unique and fresh and beautiful. Someone will admire me back.

Aspiring

I've completed a novel, and I've now begun the journey of trying to get it published. It's strange to move from the spiritual, creative process of creating characters and stories that you hope will move people to the fiscal, practical process of selling the final product.

To be completely honest, I've only sent out one query letter so far. I haven't even received the first rejection that could then qualify me as a true aspiring writer. The SASE is probably sitting on my dining room table right now. I'm in Ecuador celebrating my husband's birthday, still dreaming that Mr. S, the agent I've pinned all my literary hopes and dreams on at this point, has requested my manuscript, and when sent it, he will decide it's the best thing he's seen in decades. Well, a girl can dream, right? I'll be sure to update this blog when I am shuttled back into the U.S. on an American Airlines flight and then shuttled back into reality by the rejection letter. Ah, I hope I am at least good enough for that.