Lessons I’ve already learned this summer

1. When buying a house in November, not having central air conditioning might seem like not a big deal. But it is. It is a big deal.

2. Swim lessons are only fun for those children who already know how to swim. All others—including the instructors and parents—simply endure.

3. Children who make it through an entire school day without eating more than lunch cannot survive an hour without a snack during the summer. Snacks do not include fruit or vegetables. Snacks are carb-only unless there is only one strawberry/yogurt/string cheese/insert-other somewhat-healthy-snack-option-here and two children are hungry.

4. Ice cream makes everything better. The children seem to enjoy it, too.

5. A child who upon being woken every single school day grumbles “Why? Why?”, will pop out of bed by 7 a.m. every day during the summer. Every. Single. Day.

6. The randomly timed 20-minute stretch of adults-only swim time in the community pool always will commence the moment your tired, sweaty crew approaches the edge of the oasis. Those 20-minutes will be the longest of your life.

7. Bug bites, sunburns and hives. Oh my!

8. Accomplishing anything during a heat wave is a minor miracle. This includes preparing meals, doing laundry and most especially actual someday-you-might-get-paid work. Exceptions: scooping ice cream. (See No. 4)

9. When you don’t have air conditioning, you might discover all sorts of reasons to go grocery shopping. And your children won’t even complain.

10. Every once in a while, you will remember that you don’t have to be at the bus stop by a certain time. You don’t have to have dinner at just the right time so as to allow for homework completion. You don’t have a whole lot of “have tos” at all. So you can grab the sidewalk chalk. You can blow some bubbles. You can head to the pool. You can enjoy yourself and your children. You can work later. *

*But you do need to it eventually. Seriously.

Summertime, but the weather is freezing

Summer vacation is officially upon us! And I'm wearing a sweatshirt.

Unfortunately, someone forgot to inform Mother Nature that it is summer, not spring, vacation. Temps barely reached 60 degrees for this first day of swim lessons. Just about half the kids in my son's swim class cried at some point during the hour. One kicked the instructor when she tried to pull him into the pool. My boy glared at me from start to finish.

Don't you hate it when things don't work out the way they're supposed to?

I've got the same issue with the manuscript I'm writing now. I've got to figure out how to add a scene to a section that flows perfectly without it. But if I don't somehow weave this scene in, the entire plot crumbles.

I've read books before where I can tell the author had the same issue. Suddenly there is a new character or development that instead of being a twist in the story, it's an absolute yank from it.

On the other hand, I've read books where the development is so subtle and natural that I totally miss it. It isn't until my second or even third reading of a book that I pick up on the artfully placed hints. I think J.K. Rowling is an absolute master of this. A character I might first dismiss as comedic relief (Gilderoy Lockhart comes to mind) plays a pivotal role several books later.

Which authors do you think are great at making readers feel the action is unfolding just as it should?

Writers, how do you handle adding scenes without a total rewrite?

Whatcha reading?

My girl is finally reading a new series of books! And it’s not about cats!

It’s about wolves.

She’s already on chapter five of “Wolves of the Beyond: The Lone Wolf” after beginning it last night at bedtime. And she loves it!

And maybe I feel a smidge guilty about telling her that the author, Kathryn Lasky, is friends with the authors who comprise the Warriors series author Erin Hunter.  But, to my defense, Amazon seems to think they’d get along, too. The company has suggested the series for quite some time.

And who knows, maybe they are friends. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

As for me, I’m working through reading Connecticut’s Nutmeg Book Award honorees in the intermediate  and teen divisions.

I’ve got to say: My new state has got good taste.

What are you reading?

Out of order

My 5-year-old has a friend over for the day, which means water guns, frog catching, soccer games, grassy feet and dirty hands, and tracks of dirt through the house.

And I vacuumed this morning. D’oh!

I hate when I do things out of order. It’s like when I wipe down the furniture and then notice that the ceiling fan blades are thick with dust.

More frustrating is when my writing is out of order. Most of the manuscripts I’ve written are born with a nugget of action that can't take place until somewhere around page 150. It’s the pivotal moment, the time when the protagonist must decide his or her fate.

This scene is penned in my mind with amazing clarity—the characters’ faces, their passion, their altered life. Usually I’ve thought through that scene a dozen times, and then I get to work on a story that leads to that moment.

That’s when the real work begins. I’m so eager to get to that moment, but I’ve got to make sure it’s still genuine and absolutely real when I finally reach that scene. I have to set the table before I enjoy the feast. Or, to better reflect my oh-so-glamorous life, I’ve got to brown the hamburger before I can eat the manwich.

It’s the opposite of the scientific method, I guess. Instead of an organic, let’s-see-how-this-goes story, my stories are built on making that single pivotal moment ring true. When I’m ready to actually write (usually about four to six months after that pivotal scene snagged my mind), I start with page one.

In my current manuscript, I’m so close to that pivotal moment that I’m itching to speed ahead so I can finally put my thoughts to paper. I’m tempted to gloss over important world building to get there. So I’m deliberately taking my time. I’m stepping back, playing pitch with my son and doing cartwheels with my daughter, all while secretly mulling what my characters need to do to get to that point in a believable, true way.

Fellow writers, where does your story truly begin? Does your story unfold at page one, the final page, or the pivotal moment? Do any of you write out of order?

Open to everyone!

My lunch date yesterday was pretty amazing.

We went to a little local shop that specializes in incredible sandwiches and funky flavor. Local artwork graces the walls, chalkboard signs advertise specials, pizza chefs sing along to the radio, and none of the tables and chairs match. It’s eclectic to the max.

While we were there—I had the “poor pilgrim” (turkey, cranberry sauce, lettuce and mayo on pumpernickel) while my son ate a hot dog and Cheetos (don’t judge me)—the mix got even more eclectic.

An elderly couple sat beside us having coffee and breakfast burritos.

A half-dozen or so teenagers wearing togas—Seriously, togas!—pushed tables together to polish off a pizza.

Two 30-something women chained their bicycles to the rack outside and got pastries to eat on the patio.

A woman in a business suit flipped open her laptop and typed furiously in the corner.

The radio played “Turn the Beat Around” by Gloria Estefan, followed by “Rumour Has It” by Adele, then some old school Jon Bon Jovi. The playlist went on to feature Phil Collins and Will Smith. By the time we left “Almost Paradise” by Mike Reno and Ann Wilson was blaring.

Here’s the weird thing: None of that was weird. Ok, maybe the togas were a little weird.  But no one seemed out of place.

The shop wore its open-to-everyone-expect-anything vibe proudly, from the bright sun catchers and wind chimes hanging from the ceiling to the piles of classic board games on the shelves.

My son and I didn’t want to leave. I felt sure something cool was going to happen any second, and I didn’t want to miss it. We finished our sandwiches slowly and promised to come back soon.

I’d love to write something that has the same appeal. Something that anyone can pick up and instantly feel at home reading. Something a grandma can pass onto her grandchild, something a business man can enjoy as much as a college student.

A book like that, it’s got to be one in a million. Can you think of one that comes close?

Maybe Harry Potter?

In any case, the next time I have writer’s block, I know where I’m heading.  

I should've kept my mouth shut!

Last week, I did something incredibly stupid.

On the phone with my mother-in-law, I said, “Can you believe the children haven’t been sick for six months?” And then I proceeded to go on and on about it. Maybe it’s the vitamins, maybe it’s so much fresh air, maybe I should’ve just shut up.

Even as I was saying it, I recognized that if I were reading the conversation in a book, it’d be a prime example of foreshadowing.

Somewhere a virus was cackling with glee, plotting our home on its map of malaise.

Sure enough, my boy started coughing in the middle of the night two days later. This morning, my girl opened her bleary eyes and muttered, “My throat hurts!” I’m sure in a few hours, he’ll tell me about his sore throat and she’ll start coughing. They love to share. Isn’t that cute?

This reminds me of a column by fellow writer and agency sister Loree Huebner, who wrote this post about writers over thinking their craft.

Perhaps I take writing too seriously when I notice foreshadowing in real life. Fellow writers, am I alone in this?

Have you ever seen something in real life unfold and think it’d make an unbelievable story? Do you hear “dun-dun-DUN!” in your head when someone does something evil?

 Am I asking too many questions this early in the morning?

You’ll have to excuse me. My head hurts and my throat tickles. *cough, cough*

Surviving summer

We no longer have a preschooler in our house.

My boy is now a nearly kindergartener.

“Awesome,” he said about how it feels to be a preschooler no more. “A million awesomes awesome.”

I’m tempted to knock off a few of those awesomes about the situation. “He’s ready to be home with you all the time,” a friend pointed out. “Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

Now my son is an amazing kid. He sees the world in a totally unique way and makes me laugh until I cry at least once a day. I’m looking forward to spending time with him.

But as a writer who works from home, I’m also scared that the end of preschool might mean the end of productivity. And my writing is just kicking into that awesome could-write-for-hours phase! (Please pass the whine.)

Here are my son’s summer plans: “We’ll go for walks, I’ll blast you with water guns, we’ll catch frogs, I’ll splash in the creek, we’ll go visit places and have picnic lunch at parks, we’ll have playdates…”

Notice “I’ll give Mommy some quiet time for writing and drinking hot coffee” isn’t on the list.

My goal is to keep writing daily, and find a way to do that without the electronic babysitter turning my children’s brain to mush. My daughter has another two weeks of third grade, and then I know from experience I’ll have at least an hour or so to write while they devise new and creative ways to annoy each other. (The latest: One screaming “nanananananana” as the other tries to speak. It’s a million awesome awesome.)

As I said before, my writing flows the fastest amid distraction. But if you notice, each of my son’s summer goals directly involves me at all times. No time for finishing another chapter when there is frog school to lead and water gun battles to ensue.

So folks, please share. Which steps do you take to keep writing daily, no matter what?

Reading and re-reading. And re-reading again.

I have a daily argument with my daughter about reading.

This was my daughter during the fairy tale phase. No, it isn’t to get her to do more of it. There is nothing my girl likes more than to curl up with a good book. She has a book with her every moment of the day, at the base of the tree she’s climbing each afternoon, on the rim of the tub she’s soaking in each evening and beside the plate of waffles she’s eating each morning.

Our argument is about what she’s reading. More precisely, what she’s reading again.

My 9-year-old has read only Warriors books for the past several months. I have nothing against the books themselves. On the contrary, I love how rich they are in plot and character development, and the fact that I don't have to worry about content delving into topics I'm not ready for her to explore.

But each time a new book in the series comes out, she devours it within days and then goes back to book one and reads the entire series again.

We go to the library and are surrounded by thousands of amazing middle grade books. But she grabs another book about clans of fighting cats. "This is what I want to read," she simply says.

This isn’t her first literary obsession, and it isn’t something I can honestly say I can’t relate to myself. After all, I read each and every Sweet Valley High book and had quite the crush on Legolas and Aragorn after reading "Lord of the Rings."

Before Warriors, my girl couldn’t get enough fairy and folklore books (the grimmer, the better). And before that, she loved Harry Potter, “A Wrinkle in Time,” Anne of Green Gables and anything by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

And all this same old, same old reading doesn’t seem to affect her imagination. Check out this answer she recently gave to a class test. How'd she come up with a fire-breathing peacock to Mars?

So I know eventually she's going to pick up a new book. But, as a writer, I can’t help but think of all she’s missing until then. “Don’t you want a new story now and then?” I ask.

She shrugs. “When I do, I just write one.”

And that pretty much shuts me up.

What were your favorite childhood books, the ones you could read again and again and always get something new from it?

Top contenders for me were “Where the Red Fern Grows,” “Tuck Everlasting” and “Watership Down.”

Poison ivy is evil. Evil!

My husband warned me when I went gangbusters on an enormous cluster of weeds in our landscaping that I was sure to get a poison ivy reaction. But these weeds finally had driven me beyond all reason. They had to go. To my credit, I did check for leaves of three. But some must’ve been hiding behind other weeds, and I did not leave them be.  

An hour later, our landscaping was a tamed beauty.

“You better wash off,” he smugly warned.

“I will. In a minute.”My best friend.

All day yesterday, nary itch nor bump. That is, until we sat down to dinner. Suddenly my arms were on fire! Angry red flares streaked along my forearm. My fingers curled and all willpower went from resisting dessert to not raking my arms.

“Uh-oh,” I said (which means, in marriage speak, “You were right.” Being married means you never have to actually say “you were right.” Right?)

Now I could string this poison ivy into a metaphor about writing.

I could go on about how sometimes an idea strikes me and my fingers curl into typing position before I make it to the computer. About how napkins, receipts and the back of my daughter’s homework all have fallen victim to the itch to write down ideas.

I could mention how I once stayed up until dawn satisfying the urge to write. I could share the shameful moment that I missed school bus pick up because I was lost in a pivotal point of a manuscript.

But I won’t delve into that now. It’s 3:48 a.m. and it’s taking all human effort not to scratch my arms.

OK, I’ll say it. My husband was right.  

Stealing dialogue gems

“That’s an eagle. Aren’t eagles, like, America’s bird? Like, its top bird or something.”

 “I’m done looking around. The only thing I want to explore now is my ham sandwich.”

“I wish I had earlids so I could stop listening. That would be the time of my life.”

These are some things I overheard while chaperoning my third-grader's field trip to Mystic Seaport. (The latter two are from my girl and 5-year-old boy, respectively.)

As a writer, I catch myself capturing snippets of conversation like Polaroid pictures, cataloging them for future use. A thirty-something mom writing in the point of view as a teenage boy or a fourth-grade girl has to work to keep dialogue authentic. So I steal it whenever I can.

Here’s an excerpt from my work in progress in which I stole bits of conversation from my son (for Scrappy’s dialogue) and reaction to said conversation (from Lucy, in first person perspective) from my daughter:

Scrappy sort of made me realize why April only talks in bursts. It’s really the only way she could ever be heard. The kid never stops talking. Ever.

“One time I played tennis. Guess what? Some guy at preschool said ‘buns.’ I told him buns are butts and he laughed. Sometimes I try to lie and I can’t. What are the things on roofs that aren’t chimneys? I had a nightmare last night.”

I realized my mouth was hanging open just like April’s.

“I heard you had a baby sister, Lucy,” April’s mom called across the table when Scrappy paused in talking long enough to swallow a mouthful of cake.

 “Right now, she’s basically a lump,” I said.

“Lucy, I’m sure—“ But whatever April’s mom was sure about was cut short by Scrappy.

“My favorite color is orange. I’m going to be six someday. I’ll be a police. And I’m going to live in a barn with cats and a wife.”

 “You’re allergic to cats!” I felt a little proud of April for getting a sentence in, even if it was in her annoying everything-with-an-exclamation-point way. “We’re all allergic to something!” And, almost like she planned it, she sneezed.

Scrappy tugged on my sleeve. “Pirates are for real. Did you know that? One time I bit my tongue and bleeded the color blood. Dogs love me.”

My mouth hung open again.

I don’t keep my thievery to just conversations, though. On this field trip, I also filed away how one kid wore bulky snow boots despite the muggy weather and smugly trudged straight through puddles while everyone else in sandals and sneakers sidestepped them.

I noticed how when it began raining heavily, some of the third-graders immediately and without self-consciousness put on ponchos, while another group refused to even pull up their hoods. This is the age where fitting in and looking cool seeps into decision making.

I know I’m not the only writer who steals situations and conversations for her writing. A friend of mine is always listening and observing.

Fellow writers, how do you keep your dialogue authentic?

Keeping it real

My son and I have the best conversations on the way to preschool. Today’s gem:

Boy: “How old is 10 and three-quarters?”

Me: “Not quite 11.”

Boy: “OK. How about 7 and three pennies?”

How incredibly literal he is! It reminds me of when my daughter, who was 5 at the time, whined about going to ballet practice.

“If you do not go to practice, the teacher will cut you from the recital,” I told her.

Her face paled. “I’ll get cut?”

“Yes!” I told her, still not catching on.

“With a knife?!”

Middle grade and young adult readers aren’t quite so literal, but I still wonder sometimes if my analogies are coming through.

In my work-in-progress, aimed at fourth- and fifth-graders, I describe my protag’s embarrassment when her dad waves with “windshield wiper arms” across the park. I’m pretty sure readers aren’t going to think her dad has windshield wipers for arms.

But some things are trickier. Themes run through the manuscript like dropped breadcrumbs and I hope readers follow the trail. I try to follow my old journalism tenet of “Show, Don’t Tell.”

Here’s an excerpt from the same WIP. I’m hoping readers pick up on Lucy’s growing romance with Sam. She never comes out and admits to the reader (or to herself) that more than mutual loneliness brings the two of them together. But I hope readers pick up on that without me laying it on too thick. Let me know what you think!

Sam rolled his eyes at me. I noticed that while he didn’t talk much, but he said a lot with his face. When he was frustrated, he rolled his eyes. When he was mad, he squeezed his eyes shut and his mouth made a straight white line. When he was happy, his cheeks got a little pink and a dimple popped in his left cheek. When I first came into Ms. Drake’s classroom in the morning, he had this little half-smile and his eyes followed me from the door to my seat. I wasn’t sure what that meant he was feeling, but I liked when it happened.

Maybe I was spending too much time looking at his face.

“Why are you staring at me?” Right now his eyes were circles and his cheeks bright red. I guess that’s his why-are-you-staring-at-me face.

I shrugged, fighting off the blush I knew was creeping onto my cheeks. “Just trying to think of a new bet.”

Learning the lingo, New England style

One of Connecticut's oldest trees, in Simsbury (aka, "Simsberry")

We’re transplants to New England, and just learning the local lingo.

Instead of yard sales, tag sale signs beckon us from the side of the road.

Instead of a local carnival, a jamboree boasted a Ferris Wheel, fried dough and Wack-A-Mole.

And the pot pie here is always baked, never “slippery” like my Pennsylvania Dutch grandma’s version (aka, “real” pot pie).

As a native of south-central Pennsylvania, I knew Lancaster had a hidden “g” (“Lang-caster”) and Gettysburg’s “y” was optional.

But here, pronunciation often throws me. Sigourney Road is pronounced nothing like actress Sigourney Weaver’s name.  Quaint little town Simsbury is actually called “Simsberry.” And when delivery folks say they’ll be there at 2 p.m., they actually mean anywhere from three to 24 hours after 2 p.m. Pilgrims take their time.

In my writing, I find localisms finding their way into my dialogue. Whether it’s a dropped “g” at the end of “something” or a York County, Pa.-style “awhile” hanging out in the middle of a sentence, incorporating a local way of speaking adds nuance and authenticity to my characters’ dialogue.

But now that we’re some place new, I’m finding more and more of New England in my current manuscript, from the overwhelming outdoorsy feel of the land to the end-of-the-school-year May Pole dance.

How do you handle localisms in your writing?

Square dancing and other horrors

Today I watched several hundred third-graders face horrendous torture.

It was the annual May Pole Dance Celebration at my daughter’s elementary school, featuring line dancing, square dancing and even a polka or two.

As we parents aimed video cameras, snapped pictures and beckoned to “please, please just smile,” our children actually had to touch classmates of the other gender. *Shudder!*

My girl, her face beet red, kept her head tilted opposite her dance mate, who copied her stance. Together they skipped, dosie-do’ed and bowed to their partners with stony faces and barely touching sweaty fingers.

Ah, memories!

My own square dancing days spurred the fastest calculating I had ever done as I positioned myself in line to be paired with who I was pretty sure could be the love of my life. Not that we had ever spoken, of course.

Unfortunately, I stink at math. I was paired with someone else, who seemed pretty sure I was the love of his life. Not that we had ever spoken, of course.

The awkwardness!

I ached at the thought that my fingers held too tightly, were too sweaty or scratched his skin. My feet were bricks, sure to crush toes with each twirl. Why couldn’t my hair bounce like my friends’ instead of slapping my partner’s face?

The manuscript I’m writing now brings back so many memories like these. My first kiss, my first real fight, my first taste of not fitting in. The clearest memory is realizing that I was the only one in my class wearing dark penny loafers in May. Everyone else had sandals or flip-flops.

But my parents were on a budget, and these loafers fit just fine (thanks to Mom always buying them two sizes too big). I obsessed about these loafers, they way they made my feet look like tanks and my legs like white twigs. Each step I took was a move away from the cool table in the cafeteria.

Here’s where I get to use the best part of being a writer: My kick-butt protag is going to face some of these same tortures and insecurities. But she’s going to come out ok. Better than ok. Just like me. But hopefully she’ll figure that out sooner than I did.

What awkward memories do you have of grade school? Are they reflected in your writing?