Now That You Mention It...

The Only Thing I Want to "Fix" Is A Stiff Drink

Been kind of quite on the blog here thanks to lots of time with my new book. I'm about 20% done on it. And there's already a whole host of things to "fix."

See, the only way I'm ever able to finish a book is by bitch-slapping my inner editor and placating her with a "I'll fix it in revisions, OK? Now please shut the hell up before I throw this laptop against the wall and vow to never write anything beyond to-do list again, m'kay?"

The reason is because it takes me awhile to get the feel of a character. And sometimes, "awhile" means like several thousand words. Then, one day, she starts speaking on her own and I just record the words. There's no more wooden dialogue and stilted sentences. And thankfully, I think I'm just about there.

It's been a difficult process, since my first two books were about the same character. I wrote the second while I was on maternity leave, when my brain was complete crap, and knowing the character better than I know most of my friends made it much easier to write with an average of 2 hours of sleep and 20 hours of screaming baby.

So, my goal right now is to just finish this book. And then the bloodshed and tears (and heavy drinking) can begin.

But, this weekend? I'm SO getting my vacation on. We're not going anywhere, but lots of fun summer/beer/BBQ activities are planned. Starting with fireworks tonight. (Which, based on my extensive experience, means I will get to see lots of klassy drunk people feel each other up under blankets. Awesome.)

Apparently, They're Called 'Faeries'

So, I didn't get to hear Jen Lancaster. Thanks to several reasons, which include:

1. The location she was speaking, difficulty of finding

2. The weather, flesh-searing hotness

3. Cold virus, sluggishness-inducing

4. Room she was speaking, frighteningly small capacity of (Seriously. Like hundreds of people showed up and there appeared to be room for approximately twenty very small, very thin people.)

5. Fire codes, enforcing of, which prevented the rest of us from even entering the room where she spoke.

Despite that serious bummer, I'm moving on.

Next up on the agenda: Write the YA book that's been banging around in my head for awhile. More specifically, the character that won't leave me alone. I got the idea for this character before I signed with my agent, and even mentioned to her off-hand, about an idea I had for a YA book during our initial conversation.

But.

The plot I thought I had? Over. Destroyed. So Last Year. BO-ORING.

New plot? One I thought I'd never write about. You want to know what it involves? Do you? OK, I'll give you a hint: Fairies. 

I know.

I'm so NOT someone who I'd ever imagined would write a fantasy/fairy book. Despite a serious love for Labyrinth the movie growing up, and naming my cat Tinkerbell because she was so wee, the whole fantasy thing has never been my scene. I mean, I've never even seen one of those Lord of the Rings movies.

But, I think I've found a way to incorporate fun, fairy elements into a snappy, humorous YA book. And I'm pretty sure (OH GOD. I HOPE SO) I've found a new twist on what is quickly becoming a "hot" trend.

So. Now.

I actually have to write the freaking fairy tale. (Ha ha. Am so clever.)

Looking Forward to Wine and Whine(ing)

This weekend, I'm going to attend the Printer's Row Book Fair in Chicago. My husband and I went last year. We walked around and bought a few books and went home. (Reality check: Maureen waddled her fat, pregnant ass around the street, complained that she couldn't buy any wine from that cute wine shop over there, bitched about the fiery hotness of the sun and attempted to listen to a panel of YA authors while a homeless woman smoked a large cigarette in front of me.)

It has to be, right? I mean, even though it's going to be ninety-incinerating-faces-melting-off-god-hates-me degrees and I'll be toting my diaper-exploding, cheerio-eating, whiny child along, it's going to be way fun. Because I can stroll around, confident that at this time next year, I'll be a super famous writer, yes? Methinks some wine from that wine shop should help this delusion.

Mainly, though, I'm looking foward to Jen Lancaster's panel. Her books are the kind that I think about randomly while in line at Target, forcing me to laugh out loud, seemingly at nothing to those around me. I look forward to humbling in her presence.

I Am Writer, Hear Me Define Myself

This weekend, I was at a barbeque and was introduced to someone new. After the initial pleasantries re: your kid is cute, how old, etc, this new person asked me this: "Do you work?" Automatically, I replied yes, that I'm a working mom. She asked what it is that I do. I responded with a brief description of my current day job i.e. fundraising. It was only after she walked away that I realized, DUH. I could've also said writer. She probably would've found that much more interesting than hearing about year-end appeals and acquisition solicitations. (Am so good at parties. Stand back and watch as I bore your guests! Behold while I spill my bratwurst on your white couch and then my kid rips up your magazines!)

This example is a microcosm of my current situation. I have a book deal, a two-book deal in fact, but I'm still working full-time. I'm a writer, but my book isn't out yet. And when I tell people it's coming out in a year,  that LOOK glazes over their eyes. The Look of, "Her book must suck if they're waiting a year to put it out." I think people suspect it's like when a studio pushes the release date back for a movie--that's when you know it's a total disaster. Either that, or they think I'm totally lying and seem surprised when I tell them it will be available in bookstores and not just out of the trunk of my car or something.

So, I'm kind of stuck in this weird limbo. A lot of it has to do with the way I define myself. Part of me is still in disbelief, I think. Like I've dreamt it up or something. And yeah, maybe it's best if we just keep this one close in case I'm hallucinating.

Even though I'm getting paid to write, it's still hard to just say, "Writer" when someone asks me about my profession. Maybe it's because I still think of writing as a hobby, a passion really, rather than a job. I mean, I got paid for cleaning out my parents garage when I was in high school, but I didn't exactly call myself a cleaning lady, ya know?

I read Pat Conroy's My Losing Season several years ago. In it, he writes that one cannot be a writer until they call themselves one.

Point taken, Pat.

My Cat Would Totally Blurb Me

I should have my final edits done for my editor by the end of the week. Then, she's going to send it out to collect blurbs. For those of you not in the publishing world, "blurbs" are those little quotes on the front/back of books from famous authors saying things like, "Maureen is a genius. Her book changed my life. Buy this book. Buy this book. Buy this book." Or something like that...

My editor asked if I had any personal (or even secondary) connections to any published authors who might give a blurb. Now, I've been moving along this journey pretty smoothly until now: she totally stumped me.

I sat in my chair, thinking, silent. Not one. I couldn't come up with one. Of course, I could think of a ton of authors I'd kill to have blurb my book, but I don't personally know any of them.

It was a very strange moment, where I suddenly felt like the new kid walking into the cafeteria and realizing I'd have to eat lunch by myself, or at least with the weirdly sexually-active band geeks.

My brain protested, "You know TONS of cool people!"

Reality fired back, "Yeah, but no one is going to care about a blurb from your husband, nine-month old son, cousin or friend. Remember--FAMOUS authors."

Me: Fark.

So, short of tracking down rock star authors and accosting them at book signings in a manner of holding up like ten copies of their book offering a little book royalty money (which they totally wouldn't need anyway) in exchange for some kind words, I'm SOL.

Sorry Publisher. I'm going to have to sit this one out.

I Wish I'd Never Thrown That Pillowcase Away

Dreams. They DO come true.

That's all I have to say after watching the NKOTB* reunion today.

*If you don't know what this stands for, move along. You are dead to me.

Baby Loves Crack Rock

Growing up, my sister was obsessed with a video called Baby Songs. Featuring songs such as "Daddy Be A Horsey" and "Piggy Toes," my sister loved it. As in LOVED it. Much the same way that I love beer.

She was so obsessed with it that it became the only coping mechanism when she'd have a meltdown. Thus, my entire family was forced to endure hours and hours of songs such as "My Mommy Comes Back." I was about eight when this all happened.

Fast forward twenty years, and for Christmas, my sister buys my son, what? You got it--"Baby Songs"--new and improved on DVD! Crisp, digital quality!

I forgot about it until last week, when Ryan started to flip out because I wouldn't let him suck on the laptop cord. In a last-ditch effort, I shoved the DVD into the player and turned it on.

As soon as he heard the opening flute strains, he froze. Mouth dropped open, head snapped toward the television, brow furrowed. And there he stayed.

For like twenty minutes.

He didn't even care when the dog licked his face and wanted to play. Didn't care when Kevin walked by, holding a bottle. There was no screaming, whining or hand flailing. All he wanted were some Baby Songs. And Baby Songs he got.

We thought it was a one-time thing. I thought there was no way the power of Baby Songs could match up with a close-to-bedtime major hellfire and brimstone temper tantrum. But it did.

It's like baby crack.

And I'm more than willing to be his dealer.*

*The only side effect is I discovered I STILL remember all the words. It's like a part of my brain was re-activated and now I've walked around all week singing the lyrics to "Hammer": "Bang, bang, bang, bang/You know it feels so good/To make things out of wood." I may or may not have muttered it as I walked past my coworker this morning. She rightfully stared at me and asked if I was hungover.

Chase-ing Reality

Have you seen the new Chase commercial? No? Not sure? Well, let me enlighten you. It's a commerical advertising their alert system. Apparently, if you have a Chase account, they'll call you to let you know when your bank account is low to avoid overdraft fees. It's a lovely shot of a couple rock-climbing and they get a call from Chase and then authorize money to be moved over from another account before continuing to climb.

I'm sure there's a bunch of ad execs all patting themselves on the back about that one. But my reaction? Is: "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Because? I live in a totally different world. One where if my bank called me about my account getting low, I'd have to say, "Oh. OK. I'd love to transfer money...but I DON'T HAVE ANY. CAN'T YOU SEE MY ACCOUNT IS LOW? THAT EQUALS NO MONEY. THERE IS NO 'OTHER' ACCOUNT."

In my life, there is no fairy godmother account that money can just be taken out of in a moment's notice when my balance gets low. But if they start giving those out, can I please sign up?

Cash Money, Ya'll

People who aren't writers themselves all seem to be under the impression that book in bookstore = mad cash. The reality is all a book in a bookstore means is...just that. You have a book. Which most likely you got some money for. Money which probably didn't change your life, but maybe bought a few extras. (Like new brakes on your car and possibly some hospital bills. But Please. Let's not discuss that again.)

Many, many people are amazed that I'm still working full-time, that we're still fantasizing about winning the lottery and refinishing our floors and debating whether or not we can take that vacation this summer to Hilton Head. And, if you told me ten years ago, while I was still dreaming of the riches I'd make when I became a published writer, the average advance for a new writer, I would've given up and focused on something more lucrative. Like drug-dealing or stripping.

The cold, hard reality is you can't write for the money. If it happens, great. But in this business, you're lucky just to get published. And that has to be "enough." If you're doing it because you think you'll make enough money to fly first-class, you're better off obsessively buying scratch-off tickets or purchasing a metal-detector to search for buried treasure.

The real prize is just to see your name in print. And sometimes I forget that. Sometimes I catch myself thinking about all the things I could buy, places I could go or dreams I could fulfill if I "just'' got that big advance. But then I bitch-slap myself back to Earth and remind myself how grateful, lucky, blessed I am.

Because I really, truly am.

Crap.

I had the mother of all stress dreams last night. I dreamed my editor emailed me and told me they aren't going to publish my book because it's "crap."

Yes. My writing was called crap in my dream.

That's all the email said: "Your book is crap. We're not publishing it. Signed, Your Editor."

I woke up, sweating and it took a good five minutes before I realized it was just a dream.

But man, oh man, those five minutes...

It's like those stereotypical stress dreams involving a missed credit or college course and therefore unable to graduate. Mine usually center around a class I forgot I was taking and thus didn't attend for the entire semester and now won't be able to graduate. Which is totally ridiculous. I mean, I understand missing a final or even forgetting an exam, but forgetting you're taking a class? Can't my subconscious come up with something plausible? Maybe it's the drama factor--missing an exam is one thing, but missing three months of class? Totally. Screwed.

When I was engaged, I used to have stress dreams involving the wedding. My favorite was the one where I forgot to walk down the aisle and came in the side door of the church and sat down in the pew until someone was like, "Um. You're the bride, dumbass."

I'm REALLY REALLY looking forward to the few months before my book actually comes out. I'm thinking a nice, fat prescription for Valium (and wine by the caseload) will be not only advisable but totally freaking necessary.

Ryan says:

"Don't sweat it, Mom. I had a dream the other night that I forgot how to crawl. Man, was that scary!"