Is That You, Voice?

Some of you may recall a post I wrote about Steven Pressfield's book The War of Art a while back.  I follow Pressfield's blog, and his post this morning resonated with me for a couple of reasons.  First, the title of the post, The 10,000 Hour Rule, refers to the idea that it takes approximately ten years of practice and study to master your craft.  I'm not quite at ten years yet with this whole writing ridiculosity, but I'm getting there - I wrote my first novel in 2004.  Since then, it's been nothing but practice, practice, practice.  When I finished my first book (which is languishing somewhere in a desk drawer, exactly where it belongs), I did what most writers seeking agents did back then: I bought that year's Guide to Literary Agents.  That's right, an actual book.  I also took a writing class at UCSD, attended a writer's conference, went to several writing workshops, and took an unpaid internship at a literary agency.  I snagged any job I could that had anything to do with books, and I networked my butt off.  By 2008, when we moved to D.C., I had two more novels under my belt and some pretty good connections. 

Unfortunately, practice and study alone do not an author make, and despite all my hard work, lost sleep, and tears of disappointment, I wasn't necessarily any closer to publication than I'd been in 2004.  There's no such thing as "almost" having an agent, or "almost" being published.  You either are, or you aren't.  Pressfield's second point in his blog post has to do with something a lot more elusive than time: voice. 

"But what exactly are we learning when we’re beating our brains out all those years?" Pressfield writes.  "Skill, certainly. Patience, professionalism, many other things. But it was something much more subtle—and far more difficult...What these masters were learning was to speak in their own voice. They were learning to act as themselves. In my opinion, this is the hardest thing in the world."


Once again, I'm inclined to agree with Mr. Pressfield.  I didn't realize it until several months ago when an editor told me my voice was well-suited to Young Adult writing.  My voice?  I didn't even know I had a voice, per se.  I thought I was writing in my character's voices, and while that may be a part of developing your own voice, I'm learning that it's only one small part of a much larger whole.  It has to do with style, word choice, dialogue...everything that goes into making a novel belong solely to the author.  You can imitate another author's voice, but if it isn't your own, it isn't going to be authentic.  And if it isn't authentic, people will know.

I love YA as a genre.  I don't know why I resisted writing it for so long.  And now that I'm waist-deep in revisions for my first attempt at a YA book, and actually still enjoying it (which is due in large part to my fabulous NaNoReviMo partners - I seriously haven't been this motivated to revise EVER), I'm starting to think that maybe that editor was right: maybe this is where I belong.  For the first time in a long time I can actually see a light at the end of this very long tunnel.  Maybe it will take a few more years (like I said, I'm not at ten, yet), but I'm hopeful that I will reach that light some day.

And if that means that my "voice" is actually that of a seventeen-year-old girl, well, I'm okay with that too.

Of Screwdrivers and Salmonella

Yesterday I got away for a brief girls outing with my sister Sarah and two friends.  Lunch conversation inevitably turned to men, in particular one friend's recent "date" with her current boyfriend, who apparently considered lighting a single candle foreplay.  She wanted to talk since they hadn't seen each other in a while; he had other things on his agenda.

Since I was the only married one in the group, my friend asked for my opinion of the situation.  Unfortunately, I have very little to offer in the way of experience, since John was my first real boyfriend (and things have clearly worked out for us).  But having been with the same man for over ten years, I have learned a few things along the way, and as far as I can tell, most relationship problems stem from a single fundamental difference between men and women: men are single-minded; women multitask.

Here's what I mean: Man sees one problem, resolves it, and moves on to the next problem.  Woman sees 15 problems and 40 possible ways to resolve them, and then spends half an hour deliberating over the best course of action.  20,000 years ago, this probably meant that the man got away from the saber-toothed tiger and the poor woman got eaten.  But it also meant that the woman had managed to collect food for dinner, kept the cave nice and tidy, and watched Pebbles and Bam-Bam while Fred was out hunting down a single saber-toothed rabbit.  Evolutionarily speaking, this all made sense.  Man did what woman couldn't, and vice versa.  "You complete me," Fred grunted, and it was true.

But in today's world, where so many of our responsibilities blur and our roles are not so neatly defined, it often causes more problems than it solves.  It means that while a girl is thinking about how lovely it would be to have a romantic dinner while catching up with her suitor, said suitor has only one thing on his mind.  It means that in the time it takes John to come to the conclusion that he wants, needs, and shall have an $1800 bike, I have come up with thirteen pros and cons regarding a single $25 sweater at Target (which I inevitably put back).

It also means that when it comes to parenting, what John considers a good idea doesn't necessarily mesh with my own.

When I got home from my outing John and Jack were waiting for me on the front porch.  "How did it go?" I asked.
"It was good," John said.
"Mm-hm, and what did he have for a snack?"
"Brownie batter, animal crackers, and dried fruit."

That's probably how the whole thing played out in John's head.  Here's what really happened:
"How did it go?" I asked, watching from the corner of my eye as John casually handed Jack a screwdriver he'd been using.  I grabbed the screwdriver out of Jack's hand before John even realized he'd given it to him.
"Mm-hm, and what did he have for a snack?"
"Salmonella, sugar, and stool softener."

This is the thing with men and women.  Men live for the here and now.  They see a problem -- child needs snack! -- and they solve it.  They have fun with their kids, not worrying about the consequences of their dietary choices or whether or not it's actually a good idea to play in traffic.

And women, well, we keep people alive.  We see the consequences for today's actions three years from now.  We may not be quite as much fun as good old dad, but we take pride in knowing that our family members have lived to see another day, thanks in part to our hard work and vigilance.

I'm not sure what will happen with my friend and her boyfriend; maybe she'll be able to teach him that he has to eat his dinner if he wants his dessert.  Maybe she'll somehow be able to explain what I still can't seem to get across to John after all these years: that while he's thinking about one very specific thing, I'm thinking about laundry, about groceries, about dishes, about that sweater from Target and whether or not I should return it, and about what five pieces of dried fruit are going to look like on the wrong end of Jack's digestive tract.

With all of that to contend with, boys, you're probably going to want to arm yourself with something a little more substantial than a candle.

Weekly Inspiration: Hanna

Earlier this year a movie came out that immediately became one of my favorites.  (Mike, you may want to look away).

I can't help it - I love movies with badass female protagonists.  And Hanna is the ultimate badass.  A sixteen-year-old girl trained (and genetically engineered) to be the perfect assassin, Hanna finally leaves her life in the woods to come face to face with the woman who tried to wipe out her entire family when she was a baby.  Cate Blanchett (who I also love) is such a fabulous villain in this movie, with her perfect auburn bob and her green suede Prada shoes.  Eric Bana plays Hanna's father, who has spent years training Hanna to be a killer instead of acting like her father (once you know the stakes, you can't really blame him).

The scene where Hanna escapes from the CIA is AWESOME.  It reminds me of The Fifth Element meets Run Lola Run (two of my other favorite badass chick movies).

Hanna goes on to hitch a ride with a British family on vacation in Morocco and eventually makes her way to Germany to meet her father.  Of course everything goes totally haywire, thanks to the b*tch with the perfect red hair.  Good people die, bad people die, and Hanna gets an awesome closing line.  What's not to love?  By the end of the film I wanted to bleach my eyebrows and get a perm. 

But mostly, I was inspired by Saoirse Ronan.  What an amazing actress, and this role is entirely different from her roles in Atonement and The Lovely Bones.  I was so inspired that I based the main character of my novel, Friday, on Saoirse.  If by some miracle my book ever got made into a movie, she would be Friday (except she'd probably be way too old by then, but regardless...).

And on that note, better get back to work.  I have a henchgirl's attempted murder scene to write, and NaNoReviMo is well under way!

Revision Time! With Cookies!

Sometimes the universe provides you with exactly what you need at exactly the right time, without you even realizing it.  Enter Peggy Eddleman, a fellow blogger, recently-agented author, and all around super sweet gal.  Any one who loves cookies enough to use the word "cookies" in their blog title is okay in my book. 

(Speaking of cookies, every time Jack hears the word cookie now, he says "cookie touch."  If you have a Sesame Street-watching toddler, you may catch the reference.  Here's a link, just in case.)

Anyway, back to the matter at hand.  Peggy proposed a spin-off of NaNoWriMo (aka National Novel Writing Month).  For those who don't know, in the month of November, thousands of writers pledge to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty one days; I know, I know, most of you thought this was MOvember, but let me assure you, writing a novel in one month is a lot harder than growing a mustache (I mean, not that I speak from experience or anything, but it's hair.  How hard can it be?).  Like Peggy, my novel is complete, so NaNoWriMo isn't really in the charts for me this year.  But NaNoReviMo?  A month dedicated solely to revision?  That's what I need, people!

The truth is, I HATE the revision process.  I tend to get stuck, and then I start to feel like the entire novel sucks, and then I just want to throw it out and start something else.  But if I can get fifteen fellow writers (and potential cheerleaders) to do it with me, and hold me accountable at the end of every day, then maybe, just maybe, I can survive the revision process.  And at the end of it (well, three-quarters of the way through, anyway) I have our girls trip to Mexico, the perfect metaphorical carrot dangling from a stick.  Although in this case I suppose it's more of a margarita hanging from a stick, but you get the idea.

Yesterday I did indeed get stuck, but after dinner with Erin and Sarah last night, I feel like I'm back on track.  Maybe it was Erin's Shakespearean tie-in, maybe it was Sarah's quasi-time traveling notion, or maybe it was just the delicious panang curry that inspired me, but I've got ideas, baby!  And to prove that I'm really serious about this whole thing, I got up an hour early this morning so I could run my four miles before Jack woke up.  That means I can dedicate all three hours of nap-time to revising.  And maybe, if I'm really good, I'll treat myself to a cookie afterward.

Lucky Lifestyle Contributor Contest: Update

So some of you may recall Sarah's persistent (i.e. incessant) nagging to vote for us in the Lucky Lifestyle Contributor Contest a few weeks back.  According to the rules, only the top 10-20 people (based on number of votes) would make it to the fifth and final round.  And since we came in 8th or 9th, I believe, I received an email stating that we had made it to the final round.  Yay!

Then a few days later I received another email, saying that the invitations to the final round were being revoked until further notice.  Apparently people had been complaining about the voting, a real shocker: basically, Lucky originally required every person who wanted to vote to create an account, after which they could vote once.  On the last day of the third round, Lucky made it so that you could vote an unlimited number of times once you'd registered.  Was it cheating to vote multiple times?  Not according to the Lucky Facebook page, where they encouraged all the voting people could manage.  The same held true for the fourth round, and several people spent literally HOURS voting for us.  I understand why the people who didn't make it to the final round were annoyed - it was a stupid system to begin with.  Lucky should have just taken the time to choose contenders themselves, rather than let us get them millions of advertising hits while they did nothing.  I can't help but wonder if this was their plan all along.  Because...

A few days after the email that revoked our entry to the final round, I received another email stating that, due to "voting irregularities," Lucky would choose who made it to the next round, and who the overall winner was.  In other words, all that voting was for nothing.  But you know, I still thought Sarah and I had a shot.  There were a lot of bad entries and about twenty decent ones, and I think ours was one of those.  Finally, after two full weeks without word, I received an email last night.  We did not make it to the final round of the competition.

I have no idea how the decision was made.  Maybe people who had "suspicious" numbers of votes were disqualified, although I don't believe even the people with over a million votes cheated.  You didn't need a bot to get that many votes; you could literally click every second.  All you needed were good friends and agile fingers.  Maybe because there were two of us we were disqualified (although there was nothing in the rules stating you couldn't have two people on one submission).  Whatever the case, we didn't make it.  I'm not that upset about the fact that we didn't make it, because I didn't ever expect to win this thing.  But I'm angry that Lucky set up such a terribly run contest in the first place, and then decided to completely do away with THEIR OWN rules.  We wasted so much time and effort getting votes that ultimately meant absolutely nothing.  Shame on you, Lucky, for letting it get to that point.  You could have stepped in at any time and changed the voting mechanism, put the competition on hold, or simply canceled it all together.  Now you can claim that MILLIONS VOTED!  And I'm sure your advertisers loved all that extra traffic (which probably translates to money for you, right?).  And in the end, you're doing exactly what you wanted to do: choosing the winner.

I still love Lucky magazine and have no intentions of canceling my subscription.  But including in your rejection email an invitiation to enter future contests?  I think not.

Happy Halloween!

I can't say I've ever been a huge fan of Halloween.  After the traumatic spider incident (where I was mistaken for a Purple People Eater), it just didn't hold the same joy for me.  There was the year I went as a colonial lady and Sarah went as Rapunzel; my drab dress and brown up-do wig just couldn't compete with her silvery-blond tresses and powder blue gown.  And one of my first memories of public humiliation was in kindergarten, when I was forced to take the stage in my ballerina costume.  As I turned to the microphone to tell the audience what I was (kind of obvious with the pink tutu and all, but those were the instructions), the principal turned away and I ended up saying, "I'm a ballerina" with no mic in front of me.  I don't know why I was so embarrassed - I was six, for God's sake - but I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

But then I grew up.  And some time between the ages of six and thirty-one, I gained enough confidence to appear in public in a leotard.  Either that, or I lost my mind.  I'm leaning toward the latter.

Keepin' it classy.

Fortunately, by the time we attended the Halloween parade yesterday afternoon all ill effects from the tasty but surprisingly potent punch I consumed on Friday night had worn off.  Jack looked rather dashing in his bear suit, if I do say so myself.

Jack surveys his adoring fans.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United Bears of America."

Now that I can dress my child up in adorable costumes, I'm learning to love Halloween.  Jack is hibernating as we speak, resting up for the main event: trick or treating in Old Town.  Hope to see some of you there!

"RRRRROOOOAAAARRRRR!!!"

Shut the Fudge Up

I've known for a while now that I needed to curb my swearing.  I may look like a delicate flower, but I've got the mouth of a truck driver.  It's not something I'm proud of - more of a dirty habit that I can't kick.  But once Jack started speaking, it became clear that my foul-mouthed ways had to end.  The trouble was...how?

I've had a potty mouth from a young age myself, and yes, I do place some of the blame on my parents.  I can recall telling my mother that she had an R-rated mouth when I was in elementary school.  Not that I blame her, of course.  If I swear this much with one child, what on earth would I have done with triplets?  Every other word out of my mouth would be a profanity.  But the fact of the matter is, when you're frustrated (and let's be honest, when are you NOT frustrated as a parent?), an appropriately dropped F-bomb is just so satisfying. 

A few weeks back, I was trying (as usual) to do way too many things at once.  Generally I'm attempting to speak on the phone (and God forbid I have my headphones handy) whilst performing various other tasks - feeding Jack, changing a diaper, applying body lotion, etc.  In this instance, Jack was in his crib playing while I was getting dressed, and when I tried to answer my ringing phone, it slipped right out of my hands (cursed lotion).   You can hardly blame me for muttering a frustrated "dammit" while I retrieved the phone.

Now let me just say that "dammit" was a toned down version of my usual expletive choice - a compromise, if you will.  Same goes for "crap" and "mother effer."  I thought that by avoiding the truly heinous four-letter words, I was doing pretty well for myself.  But what you have to understand is that the word "crap," while fairly benign coming from your own mouth, is not nearly as innocuous on the lips of your 22-month-old.

A few minutes later, I went to get Jack from his crib.  He stood up on his tiptoes, reached out to me with his pudgy little arms, and said, rather firmly, "Dammins, dammins.  Shit."

Out of the mouths of babes...

Oh dear.

I was horrified.  I don't even remember saying shit, but I'm afraid there was no one else around at the moment to blame.  So I did the only thing I could do  - I ignored it.  I picked Jack up and took him downstairs, praying to all that is holy that Jack would simply forget.

But despite the fact that Jack can't seem to remember simple things, like not sticking his fingers in electric sockets, for example, he has clung to that choice phrase like a well-loved blankie.  This morning, probably close to a month since the incident, Jack smiled his gap-toothed smile and said, "Dammins, dammins.  Shit."

For a while I'd tried to tell myself he wasn't really saying those bad words.  "Diamonds," I would correct him.  "Shirt."  But I've heard Jack say both of those words in their appropriate context (Twinkle Twinkle Little Star uses the word "diamond," in case you were wondering; I haven't been quizzing Jack on his knowledge of precious gems just yet), and no one had said a thing about stars or clothing this morning.  It's just a fun little expression to him now, like "ABCD," or "Minky, come."  I'm bracing myself for the day when his preschool calls to tell me what little JackJack said on the playground.

And it's not just swear words you have to be careful with as a parent.  Oh no, you have to worry about words like "mucus" and "nipple," too.  Because toddlers are like parrots.  They will repeat anything you say, wherever and whenever they feel like it, polite company be damned.  One must be constantly on guard.  It's easy to slip, I know.  Someone cuts you off on the freeway and you want nothing more than to raise your fist in the air and tell him where he can shove it, but there are no freebies in this game, my friend.  One strike and you're out.

I've accumulated a couple of somewhat satisfying phrases I can use in place of my beloved swear words, including "son of a duck," "son of a mother" (pretty much putting "son of a" in front of anything works; you can even use it on its own), "schmidt," and "jack-hole."  But let's be honest, nothing comes close to the real deal, and the next time I stub my toe or run into the coffee table, I can't guarantee what's going to come out of my mouth.

So from now on, if anyone asks, we've been learning about beavers and mules around here.  No bullpucky.

Weekly Inspiration: New Music

I go through phases with music.  When I find an album or a band that I like, I become obsessed.  Then I go through streaks where I don't buy any new music for a long time.  For example, I purchased Ellie Goulding's "Lights" several months back, and since then I haven't bought a single song.  Then Sarah randomly sent me some Youtube videos from a singer she likes last week, and I discovered all these other great bands.  I thought I'd share a few of them with you, since I'd never heard of them before.  Then again, maybe I'm just totally out of touch and everyone knows who these bands are.  Although since I can't find most of them on iTunes, you never know...

First off, Wolf Gang.  Sarah sent me the link to this video for "The King and all of His Men"

The album, Suego Faults, wasn't available on iTunes, but I did purchase this other song, "Lions in Cages," which is also quite fantastic.

Niki and the Dove's Malin Dahlström (I think - everything is in Swedish!) Photo from The Guardian UK

Second, Niki and the Dove.  This video for "Under the Bridges" features awesome choreography to an equally awesome song.  Love!

And finally we have I Blame Coco, discovered by Sarah a ways back.  I've been listening to "Self Machine" for months and I'm still obsessed with it.  Why is it some people are so inherently cool?  I suppose having Sting for a father helps...

Eliot Paulina Sumner aka Coco

If you have some amazing new band I need to know about, please share!

A Quick Update From the Front Lines

It's like we're running some kind of combat hospital here today.  First we have John, high on pain killers and covered in Betadine after his mansectomy.  In all seriousness, John had to have a lump removed from his chest this morning, and his coworkers have found it quite amusing to reference pink ribbons and Save the Ta-tas.  Fortunately it looks like John is going to make it.

But as John was convalescing this afternoon, I got a call from Jack's school.  You never want the preschool director's first words on the phone to be, "Everything is okay, but..."  Jack apparently tripped while going down the concrete steps and took a very hard fall.  He's got three bruises on his head, including a serious shiner on his forehead and a nice red lump on his crown.  All of this on picture day, no less!  I'm pretty sure the photos were taken prior to the incident, at least.

Both of my boys have been brave little soldiers, however, with Jack cheerfully singing his personal mash-up of "No More Monkeys" and "Patty Cake" (it goes something like this: "No more doctors, baker's man"), and John whipping up a delicious kale salad, sweet potato casserole, and pear crumble for dinner. 


And I'm officially hanging up my nurse's cap and calling it a night.

Before Jack became one of the walking wounded

Happy Fall!

I've always loved this time of year.  I think it goes back to childhood, when fall meant a new school year, a new wardrobe, a new Trapper Keeper...  Fall was when I made my New Year's resolutions.  This year, I told myself, I'll be popular.  This year I'll make new friends, I'll do better in school, I won't doodle incessantly in the margins of every notebook.  Of course, by November those resolutions were already broken, but I never lost hope.

Fall also means perfect weather, where it's crisp enough to wear your favorite plaid coat but not so cold you can't muster up the willpower to leave the house.  The leaves are changing, the holidays are approaching, and culinary delights like pumpkin pie chai lattes appear on cafe menus.  It really is my favorite time of year.

So, to that end, I thought I'd share some of our recent fall exploits.  What can I say?  Give me an opportunity to dress my kid in a pumpkin hat, and I'm grabbing that sucker by the horns - er, stem.

Jack gives the new park on Commonwealth and Del Ray Ave. two thumbs up.  Or he would if he wasn't clutching the remains of a pumpkin biscotti in his fat little fingers.

And here I am, overcompensating for Jack's lack of enthusiasm by smiling like a moron.

This past weekend was a full-out fall extravaganza.  On Saturday morning, we went to the Fall Festival at Mt. Vernon.  What an amazing place to visit with kids.  We went ahead and bought the one-year membership for $25.  It pays for itself in two visits.

So basically Jack had no idea what to do with the hoop.

Checking out the pigs at Mt. Vernon.

Note the joy on Anneliese's face.  Also note her foot position.  I think you can guess what's going to happen next.

On Sunday morning, we met up with Sarah at Eastern Market.  How have I lived here for three years and never been??  There were so many great vendors and fun things for Jack to check out.  The fact that you can buy a bag of fresh donuts for three dollars isn't too shabby, either.

It only took me 138 years to discover Eastern Market.  Auntie Sha Sha and Jack were clearly already in the know.

On Sunday afternoon we headed over to our friends' house in Old Town for their neighborhood Oktoberfest.  I miss the neighborhood camaraderie of Old Town so much.  Okay, fine, so we didn't actually speak to our neighbors when we lived there.  But I like to think if I lived there now, I'd be friends with them.  Especially since our neighbor lived in a multi-million dollar mansion and had a wine cellar the size of our current house.  I did enjoy the view of his yard, at least.  Ah well, at least we can crash our friends' neighborhood parties in the meantime. 

Jack stops to smell the flowers.  I'm not sure the window lurker in the Eighties tracksuit is entirely pleased.

Fall is also an excellent time of year for cooking.  Or for John's cooking, to be more specific.  He made a delicious pumpkin soup with coconut milk last week, and I'm anticipating lots of veggie pot pies with homemade crusts over the next few months.  If you have any delicious fall recipes or fun fall activities to share, please post them in the comments!
Happy fall, everyone!