Those little writing lightbulb moments never seem to come with good timing. For me, I seem to be struck with lightning just as I’m loading my groceries onto the conveyor and can’t stop to grab my pen and journal. Suddenly, I become a crazy woman muttering a stream of brilliant dialogue under her breath, hoping to heaven that I’ll remember the words until I’m through being nice to the cashier, swiping my card, presenting my coupons, indicating plastic or paper, and waving off the chatty bag-boy so I can hot-foot it to the safety of my car and record my inspiration.

My other bad place is the shower. Always the shower. There’s not much to think about during mindless shower routines other than the next scene, or how I’m going to seamlessly transport my character from the Phoenix airport to Sedona without worrying about lost luggage, car rentals, road maps, and the weird toothless guy that keeps turning up at every stop. Then it hits me! That’s when I figure out the details — in full shampoo regalia. I’ve yet to find the directions that say, shampoo, receive inspiration, rinse and repeat.

So, what do I do when I’m in a place where it’s impossible to write out my thoughts? I obsess. That’s what I do — obsess. Mull it over and over, until I can sit down with pen and paper, or better yet, my computer with its hand-saving Dragon Naturally Speaking software.

It’s a funny thing about inspiration — it rarely visits when I’m ready for it. Rather, it knocks on the door of my mind when I’m dressed in jeans and a baseball cap, no makeup, and I’m just going out the door for a walk. Or it slaps me just as I’m sitting down for coffee with a friend, or when I’m holding hands with my dear hubby in the dark of a movie theatre.

I wish I knew what other writers do during those awkward visitations. Me? I just do my best, knowing if I miss one moment of inspiration, another will surely come along soon.

I heard of one writer who just wrote things down on scraps of paper when he thought of something good. At night, he’d throw whatever pieces of paper he had in a shoe box. At the end of a year, he had enough written thoughts to flesh out an entire book.

I’d do that, too, if I could figure out how to write in the shower.

I can feel it in my bones. This is the year of discovery — if not discovery of my work by my future fabulous agent and editor, then the self-discovery of broader writing interests and new ways to stretch my wings.

It’s not hard to imagine exploring new genres, writing articles, short stories, pithy comments, op-eds, or any number of other possibilities in the writing world. My slate is blank. My mind is open. If what I am is a writer, it should make no difference what I write. The point is to feel it in my bones, to find new ways of expression that are uniquely mine.

I remember one day calling my friend to tell her that I had discovered not simply my purpose in life, but rather, I had discovered who I was. I told my friend I was a writer. I totally ruined her day! In fact, I ruined her month. It seemed she was then compelled to figure out what she was. As of this date, I think she’s still trying to figure that out.

I suppose self knowledge of what we are is half the game. When I realized, with uncertainty, that I was born to be a writer, it didn’t mean that I knew how to write. It only meant that I had a course. A direction. Perhaps, a foghorn in my ear to keep me off those rocky writing shoals. Once I knew what I was supposed to be, the rest is, as they say, practice, practice, practice.

My good and faithful husband has a great saying about practice. He says, “Just because you practice, it doesn’t make you perfect. Perfect practice makes one perfect.” Of course, he’s talking about golf, but the same concept applies to writing. And so I now find myself daily, with my nice wrist-saving Dragon headphone bobbing in front of my mouth, practicing dictating out loud, adding punctuation as I speak, perfecting a new skill. Writing is writing, whether I speak it or type it. It would be much nicer if my hands were involved in this lovely practice. This perfect practice. Nevertheless, I am practicing. And where better to perform all this practice but in my blog, which is seldom viewed, but nevertheless a wondrous work of art.

For 2008, I’ll be working my perfect practice on my third novel, (this time with my good and faithful Dragon added to my daily Latte/Chardonnay regimen). I’ll spend some quality time writing short stories, articles, and pithy comments that may facilitate the discovery of who I am. In the meantime, my future fabulous agent and editor will surely be working on producing my most recent manuscript, All the Dancing Birds. Oh, I’ll also send out more query letters. In fact, I’ll send out as many as it takes. How else will my future fabulous agent and editor find me?

Being a writer means being a patient person. So says Anne Mini (see www.annemini.com. 12/31/07). I concur. But being patient doesn’t mean being idle. Now is the time for that perfect practice that just may help me hit that Tiger Woods long ball within the writing world. In fact, may we all find just the correct writing stroke we need to hit our hole in one to win the game.

All my best,
Auburn

       
Happy New Year, everyone!

What say we make this the year we all successfully publish our lovely books? Okay?

Not to get all nostalgic on you, but this has been an amazing past year. My manuscript, All The Dancing Birds, was awarded finalist honors by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. Writing this inside-out view of an Alzheimer’s sufferer was not easy. There is great agony associated with Alzheimer’s. Surprisingly, patients are accutely aware of every loss as it occurs, but lose their capacity to communicate such awareness. How terrifying this must be! All The Dancing Birds allows a glimpse into the failing mind of a woman living with this still incurable disease. It does so by locating compassion, some humor, and a lot of grace for its falling-down characters.

2007 also was the year of the Big Move, from Seattle to Phoenix. I’ve left behind friends I may never see again, and rain boots I hope never to need again. But, I found a place where one doesn’t need to spend the winter wrapped in a quilt. I discovered that walks under the sun gives one energy to deal with stricken wrists, rejection letters, and even the occasional ever-so-rude, complete non-response to queries regarding my manuscript. Fiction is a tough sell, but at least these beautiful Arizona days make it bearable.

I’ll hold good thoughts that we may each experience a prosperous and successful 2008. When I was a child, I always received in my Christmas stocking a nickel and an orange. The orange was for health … and the nickel was for wealth for the coming year.

So, oranges and nickels all around! May we find our works happily published, and may we all go on to do what it is we do so well … write, write, write.

Have I mentioned my dear husband lately? You know, the one who brings me my morning paper and a nice skinny latte, no foam, no sugary stuff — without being asked? That Guy? (He does dishes, too, by the way.) Well, that Grand Guy gave me Dragon Naturally Speaking for Christmas. He thought it might save my poor little wrists, along with his ears who have to listen to my endless whining.

Do you want to scare the wits out of a woman? Simply strap a headset on her with a microphone bobbing in front of her mouth, and then tell her to dictate — out loud — to her computer. Holy Spumoni! Who would know this could be so hard? I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know from where to pull my words. Without my hands getting in on the action, I find myself nearly a mute. My husband says that could be a good thing. I find that not in the least amusing. I must admit, though, the words before cleanup can be pretty amusing. Imagine saying, New York Times bestseller, and it comes out something like, New York Times beasts killer. Isn’t that what everyone wants? The next best beasts killer book on the shelf of their local bookstore?

It seems my mouth comes out with some interesting words that I didn’t know were hiding behind my lips. Even enunciating as clearly as possible, I’m finding words I didn’t know possible in combinations I thought completely illogical. Computers are very literal, while I’m about as wild as one can get when thinking out loud. Add in the need to punctuate while speaking, and you have one crazy woman with a latte in one hand, and a dog-eared copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves in the other.

It’s probably a good thing that I have few visitors yet to this site. By the time I have some droppers-by, perhaps I’ll get this thing down to a level roar. In the meantime, I’ll be the one in her office laughing wildly at herself. (You should see how the Dragon interprets laughter.)

And for those few errant words I may miss … well, I’ll enjoy these early missteps and simply thank my handsome husband on behalf of my two needful wrists.

Even when I don’t use this wrist-saving Dragon to help me memorialize my words, I think I’ll continue to laugh at myself because, well … after all, every writer needs a laugh now and then, especially while in the midst of creating the next tragic Heathcliff and Catherine-esque characters.

Okay, everyone — hold up your glasses. I’d like to make a toast. I know it’s not New Year’s Eve yet, but you can’t blame a girl for getting a jump on things. I can’t let this perfectly good glass of wine go to waste without toasting something … or someone.

So, let’s toast all us little guys — We who write our stories with our big hearts and sometimes less-than-confident fingers. We who get up at four in the morning … or stay up well past bedtime just to ponder a few new sentences, or roll some words across our tongues to see which best fit our purpose. Oh, and here’s to those of us who finish our stories, and then find the courage to actually consider the rough-and-tumble notion of sending out queries. Queries! To agents or editors. My God, how brave to do such a thing! And especially, here’s to those of us who fall down and scrape our knees in the scuffle, yet still hold up our handful of rejections letters because we’re so damned proud of ourselves for getting in the melee in the first place.

I’m proud of us all.

If I sound more schmaltzy than usual, I suppose it’s just because I get all misty-eyed this time of year. All the music gets to me. The presents. The bows, for heaven’s sake. The silly Christmas bows. My hundredth viewing of Miracle on 34th Street sends me over the top. Santa seems to be my influence de jour, and then there’s that gosh-darned Grinch when his heart grows three sizes in one day. That’s a three-hanky film for the likes of me.

Oh, sorry. Back to the toast. Okay, so here’s to that grand moment when one of our stories gets noticed. One of the pack rises high enough to catch an agent’s eye. An editor’s pen. Here’s to one of the little guys who gets to run their fingers over the cover of a printed and bound book. Their Book!

For the past several days, my favorite writing guru and bloggist, Anne Mini, (see www.annemini.com) has featured two excellent writers who’ve each found the courage to navigate the rocky avenue of self-publication. I’ve come away from reading their interviews with renewed confidence and inspiration that publication IS possible, even if we do it ourselves. Studying their respective experiences has allowed me to consider the question, So what if I’m a little guy? Who says I can’t produce my OWN fait accompli? Who says?

So, hold your glasses high to all us little guys. After all, we’re the ones who watch the mail for that one magical acceptance letter that will change our lives and cause our tiny little hearts to grow three sizes in one day. As always — Here’s to us.

Clink!

How many people decide to have their kitchen remodeled four days before Christmas? Not many, I’d wager. For one thing, it puts a cramp in the annual cookie baking extravaganza when the oven is unplugged and the refrigerator is inaccessible. Not to mention what it does in the gracious-to-guests category when they’re greeted at the door with dust masks, ear plugs, and eye protection.

I’ll try to remember this next year when I get the brilliant idea to re-do every bathroom in the house on Christmas Eve.

Remodeling is messy. It’s noisy and dusty — it’s unfriendly business. Sometimes, however, it’s necessary as was the case in our kitchen.

I suppose the same could be said for revising one’s manuscript. It’s messy business too, and do-overs don’t always coincide with the luxury of time or inclination. For me, my wrists say, uh, not right now. We’re busy hurting. My head says, wha’ — are you crazy? Another edit? But nevertheless, my heart wants the best work possible.

Remodeling your kitchen may only occur once. But remodeling your manuscript may take several go-rounds before every word is just where it should be. A good manuscript … just like a good kitchen … requires architectural planning, structural design, good bones, and proper underpinnings all before the final showcase dressing of shiny words and polished paragraphs can be applied.

So, this year I find myself … wrists and all … with my own form of saws and hammers working madly to make certain my manuscript is the showpiece I know it can be. Its words are important, but its structure is no less important. Yeah, okay. I’m crazy. Still, a writer needs to be crazy-like-a-fox when it comes to telling a compelling and worthy story — even if it is four days before Christmas and there’s nary a cookie on my plate.

As a child, I was sick every Christmas. Every Christmas! I had rheumatic fever. Scarlet fever — twice. Chicken pox. Measles. Pneumonia. The sniffles. The creeping crud. You name it, I got it.

Every Christmas I was sick.

Until I met my husband. Maybe I was just trying to show off for him. Maybe I was simply eating better. (My sudden zoftig figure was certainly evidence of all those popcorn movies and late-night dinners.) Whatever the cause, my husband seemed to be the cure. He still is.

Although I remain on the injury list (yes, still those darned wrists), I expect to be healthy again this year. This Christmas, I’ll sit in front of our beautiful tree with a glass of wine instead of a shot of Nyquil. I’ll have a smile on my face rather than a spreading rash. And pleasure will fill my throat instead of swelling, aching tonsils. Yes! I’ll once more be healthy.

I’ll also be happy.

I’ll have sent out a few more queries to be opened — one of which will surely be opened by my future big-time agent. I’ll have put the finishing touches on my manuscript and have it dressed and ready for its curtain call. I’ll have started outlining my next book while I’m waiting for my new agent to breathlessly overnight a contract for my signature. I’ll have practiced my happy dance for the moment we have a winner in the big-time editor’s bidding war over my book. I’ll have done my homework and behaved as a professional all through the process — from story concept to a fabulously-jacketed product, prominently featured in all the bookstores.

Perhaps I’m dreaming. But my dreams nevertheless contain the essence of hard work that, given the right timing and the right guidance (see the fabulous, www.annemini.com), these dreams may well come true.

Last evening I watched for the 50-gazillionth time the classic holiday movie, White Christmas. Gosh, those kids! Running off to an inn in Vermont to help out their former Army general, inviting a couple of cute sisters along for the ride, falling in love … and having their dream of a snowy-white Christmas come true just in the nick of time — well, it’s just the kind of story that fuels the hearts of dreamers like me.

So, I’ll stay healthy again this year. I’ll certainly be happy. But mostly, I’ll continue to work toward my dream of publishing in the big-time.

It’s been five days since I’ve had the courage to pull up to my computer. Five days since I heard the news that things were getting close. Very close. Then … three days now of swallowing hard, wiping tears, finding my bearings once more in a world without my friend, Pat.

Friday night, this dear friend took up residence in a place other than his body. After a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease, this very young man (think of him as the Michael J. Fox of Alzheimer’s) bravely died in the arms of his equally brave wife.

I’ve never known such a courageous couple!

Jill kept her husband home for all but the last 45 days. Even then, she agonized over relinquishing her caregiver role. Still, during his final hospitalization, she spent every waking moment with him; reading to him; rubbing his swollen feet or soothing his ragged heart; lifting his head to try to engage him in one last conversation. One last moment of connection. One last smile.

We all figure Pat is at peace now, and imagine him — mind fully restored — looking askance at our paltry understanding of where he might be. What he might be doing. And certainly why we’re crying over it all. That would be Pat!

Christmas will always be poignant now. But, I’m listening for a bell. You know that bell — the one from It’s a Wonderful Life. The one that will let me know — without doubt — that another angel’s received his wings. But this time the angel’s name isn’t Clarence. It’s Pat … and he’s my friend.

Pat’s death urges me … compels me … to now double my efforts to find an agent for my award-winning manuscript, All the Dancing Birds. The story tells from the inside-out what it’s like to suffer from Alzheimer’s. It’s a cruel disease and its inner workings are more than unkind. Nevertheless, it’s a story we all need to know. It would be good for us to know about courageous men like Pat who manage to retain their dignity even when all else is lost.

So, Pat, if you’re listening — enjoy those new wings. Take pleasure in that well-earned peace. Oh, and if you get a chance, would you flutter your wings by some really good agent and give him or her a nudge? I’d sure like to have that book published. After all, it’s a story dedicated to you!

I used to be the silent suffering type. Thirteen years ago, I recovered from brain surgery on nothing more than Extra Strength Tylenol four times a day. I dragged myself from a wheelchair and flopped around in a freezing swimming pool, hoping perhaps one over-achieving brain cell might like to try its hand at walking. I slurred my words into the poor ears of anyone who would listen, simply to improve my speech. Never a complaint slipped past my lips. Never a whine. Not one moan.

Boy have times changed!

I complain with the best of ’em now. I’ve even just today ordered a Stephen Colbert WristStrong bracelet with the hope that someone … anyone … might ask me about it so I can legitimately whine on ad nauseum about my wrist.

Until I receive my red plasticness WristStrong bracelet, however, let me pass on some good information about repetitive wrist injury. Writers … yes, you who spend a good deal of time at your keyboard … are particularly at risk. So, sit up and take note. Believe me, prevention of wrist injury is well worth the trouble it takes to follow these simple admonitions:

1. Stay Healthy

Maintain a healthy body weight and a good cardiovascular system. An unhealthy body causes stress everywhere. Add that to any environmental stressors and you may have a problem. (I’ve been mistakenly under the impression that zoftig is the new beautiful. Wrong! Repeat after me — treadmill and light weights. Treadmill and light weights.)

2. Stay Strong

Keep your wrist, arm, hand and fingers strong. It is harder to overuse something if it is normally worked harder. Strengthen the muscles involved and increase flexibility through stretching. (This is hard for those of us who live in writer’s caves with pasty skin and sagging muscles.)

3. Don’t Break the Wrist

Lay the outer part of your forearm on a hard surface. Let it rotate inward naturally. Keep your wrist straight. That is the natural wrist position. The palm should be at a 30-45 degree angle and the fingers curled. Keep that position whenever possible. Flexing and twisting of the wrist causes all the tendons and nerves to rub over leverage points at the joints which can cause a lot of problems. (Yeah, tell that to my computer who doesn’t seem to give a darn.)

4. Use Your Muscles

Control the movement of your hand and fingers through muscle use not tendon/ligament use. One big problem with typing on keyboards is the lack of strength needed to press a key. This causes you to simply start a motion of the finger and let momentum carry it through. This can cause minor hyper extensions and wear and tear on the tendons and nerves. Musicians are prone to this as well, due to the speeds they need to achieve. Developing strong fast twitch muscles is a better alternative. (What are strong fast twitch muscles? Can’t I just go buy them? Didn’t I see a sale on fast twitch muscles at Target?)

5. Take Breaks

Take regular breaks to relieve stress. Take this opportunity to stretch and increase blood flow. You should break for at least 10 minutes for every hour of continuous work with 30 second micro breaks every 10 minutes. Performing a warm up and cool down stretch will help as well. (Breaks! Now you’re talkin’ MY language.)

6. Change Positions

Change your position and posture regularly. Change of position will call in different muscles, kind of like a relief pitcher, letting the first group rest. (Change position, as in go to the nearest coffee shop for a double espresso latte? That kind of position change? Cool!)

7. Get a Good Grip

Use a proper sized grip for your hand. Look at your natural wrist position again. Now bring your thumb and fingers together until they are separated by the width of two quarters. That is your grip size for holding things. That is your ideal grip for things like handrails or screw guns. Now continue to close your hand until the thumb overlays the first joint of your index finger. That is your grip size for manipulating things with your wrists, things like hammers, shovels or golf clubs. (I’m still trying to figure out the size of rubbing one nickel together. I’m a WRITER, after all.)

8. Maintain Your Distance

When working with your hands keep them in the middle ground, not too far, but not too close to your body. This allows muscles in your arms, shoulders and trunk to help share the load. It also keeps your joints in the middle of their range of motion, which increases blood flow and reduces the flex of tendons/ligaments/nerves over those leverage points at the joints. (I’m all for sharing. Anyone have an agent they’d like to share? Hmmm?)

9. Don’t Go to Extremes

Just because your joints can pivot that far does not mean yours should. Do not flex your joints to the edges of your range of motion while working. Most muscles can not maintain control of your body at these extremes which can lead to hyper extension and muscle pulls. It also flexes the tendons and nerves over those leverage points of the joints. (And you say this to someone who wants to overachieve? Someone who wants to publish? Please!)

10. The Low Down

Do not flex upward. The hand is designed to grip, so most muscle control and joint range is aimed at a downward flex. There’s less leverage on an upward flex so the body has to work harder to move that way. The tendons and nerves also have harder leverage points to stretch over. Keep palms and fingers somewhere between flat and the grip position. Keep your typing and mouse click upstrokes as short as possible. Do not use the scroll wheel as that motion is almost entirely upward flexing. (Now they tell me about the scroll wheel. I’ve been a scroller since birth.)

Tomorrow, maybe we’ll talk about the proper beverage grip.

Yesterday I wrote of my father. Today’s thoughts are of mom.

She was the one in the apron. The one who held us together with a spoon and a spatula. Mother knew how to knead. Her breads were beyond compare. Her cookies were devine. I know she tried to teach me culinary arts. Unfortunately, my best efforts came while standing at the kitchen sink, holding a glass of soapy water high above my head, tipping the glass until its contents trickled out like Bridal Falls near Crater Lake, Oregon.

Thinking of this now, I still seem to trickle out my best efforts. Last summer’s Finalist accolades at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference have still not produced an agent. An editor. I’ve religiously read the amazing help from Anne Mini at www.annemini.com and still I’m stymied.

Yet, I know there’s a recipe to be followed here. I know it takes placing one’s behind in one’s chair and tapping out (even with a screaming wrist) one letter after another to potential agents. It takes research, followed by further research. It takes paying twenty bucks a month to Publisher’s Marketplace to ferret out the prospective agents who represent similar material. It takes more manuscript edits to make certain I’m presenting the best possible product.

That’s what we’re offering, you know — a product!

Any other manufacturer wouldn’t be in business long if their product was inferrior. Why would a writer be any different? As I look through my local Border’s Books, I notice how the new writers are amazing. Just as my mother did, every word is kneaded just so. Every cookie is sprinkled with just the correct amount of sugar. Every recipe is followed to the letter.

So I’m putting on my apron. I’m using my best cookie cutters to make certain my words form perfect shapes. I’m making certain that everything is tasty.

Mom would be proud of me!