'How To Make Friends and Monsters' Review By Emma!

The laughter I heard from Emma as she read “How to Make Friends and Monsters” (2013 Zonderkidz) by Ron Bates was enough to worry me. I’m used to hearing whining for a glass of water, an extra tuck-in, more time to stay up coming from the general area of the children’s bedrooms in the evening.

Laughter? Not so much.

“How to Make Friends and Monsters” soon had all of us cracking up as Emma read out loud paragraphs.

The best thing for me about this book is how quickly it charmed Emma. She tends to go gravitate toward mysteries, fantasies and dramas. A funny science fiction book about boy, not so much. Since this book, she has given other titles with strong male characters a chance, despite the fact that, you know, most boys are gross.

Right now, she’s reading “Okay for Now”  (which made both of us cry at the end) and “Wonder,”  which she better finish fast because I want to read it.

I’m convinced that if “How to Make Friends and Monsters” weren’t so great, she wouldn’t have cracked the covers of those two tomes.

Without further ado, here is Emma’s review of “How to Make Friends and Monsters.”:

Emma was so excited about this review, she went through two pens. You may not consider using Wonder Putty, Facespace, a logic board, a microprocessor and some DNA to make a friend. But that’s just what Howard Boward did in “How to Make Friends and Monsters.” And it sure did make a wonderful book!

First of all, I love how I can relate to Howard. I thought I wouldn’t really be able to because of the fact that I am horrible at and hate most kinds of science! And science is Howard’s thing. But I was pleasantly surprised. Howard and I think so much alike! For example, when Howard tells you, “I mean, where is a 12-year-old inventor supposed to find a decent supply of fresh, raw organs?” I could seriously imagine that being a sentence in a story I would write!

Speaking of that, I love the humor in the book. Even at the most suspenseful parts of the book, humor was used. For instance, the lines:

Josh smiled as if reliving pleasant memories.

“I’ll tell you what. For old time’s sake,” he said, “give me your lunch money.”

And I did.

Also, the lines: “’Go Franklin! Go! Go! Franklin, Go!’ I’m pretty sure it’s a cheerleader thing.” showcased the book’s humor.

And humor is only one of the things Ron Bates incorporated in “How to Make Friends and Monsters.” It’s amazing how he incorporates middle-school drama, science fiction, humor and astounding characters, and most of all, pure AWESOMENESS in his book.

I have never read a book like this one.

Lastly, the book opened up my perspective. I would never have thought to pick it up if I saw it at the library. But now, having experienced the book keeping me reading until 10 p.m. and then waking up and reading it through breakfast, and after I finished breakfast, and during lunch and dinner, let’s just say I would not be at all surprised if this book became a Nutmeg Nominee.

In conclusion, if you want a no-I-will-not-play-LEGOS-I-am-in-Bookland type of book, then don’t waste time at the library (no offense to librarians). Just do whatever it takes to get your hands on “How to Make Friends and Monsters.”

Things I've overheard today:

Ten-year-old: “Ew! Ew! Ew! EW!!”

Six-year-old: “What happened? Oh. I licked your nose. Sorry.”

Six-year-old: “Your brain’s the size of a chicken’s hip.”

Ten-year-old: “Yours is as useful as a country-style bean.”

Ten-year-old: “Want to superglue stuff?”

Six-year-old: “Sure.”

Ten-year-old: “We’re all going to die someday. You’re going to die… I’m going to die… Dad’s going to die … Jasper’s going to die…” (Here's Jasper just playing dead.)

Ten-year-old: “Stop it! Stop it!”

Six-year-old, singing happily: “Poke! Poke! Poke!”

Ten-year-old: "Mom! He's annoying me!"

Six-year-old: "No I'm not!"

Ten-year-old: "Yes you are!"

Six-year-old: "I'm not! I'm not! I'm not! I'm not!"

Ten-year-old: "That was annoying."

Six-year-old: "Mom! She's confused!"

Conversations I’ve actually had recently:

Six-year-old, about his sister: “She pushed me!”

Me: “Are you ok? Why would she do that?”

Six-year-old: “I know! I was just trying to kick her!”

We’ve got six long days until school begins. Wish me luck.

What's the scariest thing you've ever heard come out of your children's mouth?

How about the funniest?

"Andi Unexpected" review by Emma!

“It’s here!” I swear, the neighbors probably heard when my 10-year-old spotted “Andi Unexpected” at the breakfast table.

By the time she finished her cereal, she was three chapters into Amanda Flower’s upcoming release. In the novel, 12-year-old Andi Boggs begins to unravel a family mystery when she opens a Depression-era trunk tucked away in the family attic.

This story gripped Emma from page 1. By the same time the next morning (thanks to some reading way past bedtime), she finished the novel. In true Emma fashion, she dug right back in at page 1, this time with red pen in hand.

Without further ado, here’s Emma’s (very first) review:

To start this review is difficult for me to write, because there are so many amazing things about the book. It’s hard to organize them!

From the minute I started “Andi Unexpected,” I felt really excited. I had stopped reading another book, so if this book wasn’t good, I’d be very disappointed.

And it was 100 times better than I expected. And I expected it to be awesome.

To start, I loved how real the book seemed! For instance, on page 24, when Andi asked, “Why do you think Bergita acted so weird when I told her my full name yesterday?” was an example of the reason the book felt so real. In most books, characters don’t ask the questions that really bug them and the reader, like a regular kid would do. And even when they do, they don’t get a truthful answer. I love that Andi does ask those questions, and that the grown-ups answer them honestly.  

I loved how the mystery teases you throughout “Andi Unexpected.” I was so hooked that I stayed up all night just to read the book! (Not all night. Just until my parents came in and told me, “GO TO BED!” And then I read more as soon as I woke up.) The mystery was just like in life, when you think you have something horrible and then it turns a completely unexpected turn.

The characters also felt very real. Take Amelia, for example. She’s young and interesting. I mean, really? Would someone send kids to old crabby aunts? Most likely not if there was any other option. Amelia was an aunt I would expect kids to be sent to.

I love the changes in “Andi Unexpected.” The changes are in characters, intensity level and the story itself. For example, at first, when Andi and Colin began to discover Andora, it only seemed a small curiosity. But as the story progressed, it became a passion worth a risk. I think it is amazing how Amanda Flower made that happen. I also love the changes in Bethany. Amanda Flower really showed how Bethany felt sad and alone during her conversation with Bergita rather than just saying she felt sad and alone.

Another great thing about “Andi Unexpected” was how the story changed. At first, Colin and Andi’s only problem was struggling to find information, but then Dr. Girard joins the search … I thought maybe he’d appear once or twice, but then … Well, you’ll have to read the book.

I really loved “Andi Unexpected” and I recommend it to anybody who’s in the mood for a leave-me-alone-I-want-to-finish-this-book type book. I really hope it’s a series so I get to find out what happens to Andi in the future. I have a feeling Colin and Andi aren’t just going to turn out to be the sit-still-at-home type of people.  

Carving with breath

 

So my girl and I are still reading Thoreau, inching through essays and dissecting them way past bedtime. We’re underlining passages (in crayon, because that’s how we roll), getting sidetracked by analogies, speed reading through the economics section, debating the reading essay.

Here are a few lines that we’ve underlined:

“A written word is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read, but actually breathed from all human lips,--not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself.”

This enchanted my budding writer.

I think it didn’t occur to either of us until just then that when we sit down with a blank page before us and cover it in ink, we are being artists, even though that ink forms words instead of designs.

That moment almost made up for the next few paragraphs where Thoreau bashes reading anything other than the canon. I happen to love reading contemporary fiction with my “saucer eyes.” He writes: “This sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-Indian in almost every oven and finds a surer market.” I love gingerbread.

My girl loved “I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavor.” She connected it to moving a few years back. She could’ve wallowed. (In fact, on her first day of school, when the person just in front of her in line at the cafeteria took the last strawberry milk, she did get a little weepy.) But instead, she elevated herself, making friends and joining in as much as possible. It didn’t come naturally to my cautious child, but it did happen consciously.

We talked for a long time about Thoreau’s call to “As long as possible live free and uncommitted.” As someone who fell in love at 15 and married that man just after college, I tend to commit. I have an amazing life, and am grateful every day for the choices I made. But at the same time, I do want her and her brother to live life uncommitted as long as possible. Is that wrong? Cue discussion.

But if I had to guess, I’d say my girl’s favorite line is the following:

“The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it.”

I’m pretty sure she’s among those few.

 

Summertime fires are a'blazing

Ben: "Stop!"
Emma: "Stop yelling!"
Ben: "Stop!"
Emma: "Stop yelling!"
Ben: "Thanks a lot!"
Emma: "For what?"
Ben: "For what you did!"
Emma: "What did I do?"
Ben: "You don't know what you did? Stop!"
Emma: "Stop yelling at me!"
Repeat.

This is my life. Be jealous.

And to think, only 59 days until school starts.

You know what was absolutely brilliant of me? Taking on a massive project for a newspaper company that deadlines the second week of summer break. You know, the time when the children—who absolutely adored each other and the endless reprieve of summer days last week—realize that they actually annoy the crap of each other this week.

Soon we’ll float into the next phase of summer, wherein they unite against the oppressors in their life (me).

But I’m plugging through, holding firm to the glorious highlights so far … my youngest swimming his heart out in the community pool, my oldest breaking her record for pogo stick jumping, the fact that they can finally refill their own water guns.

And the knowledge that these summer meltdowns last about as long as a Popsicle in my 6-year-old’s sweaty grip.

(They’ve already moved on to lamenting the evils of reduced screen time. “It’s not fair!” What’s not fair about it? “The unfairness of it!”)

There is one part of summer that so fulfilling and restorative, rivaling even not setting the alarm clock each night. And that’s bedtime reading.

I’ve been reading “Walden (Or Life in the Woods)” to my 10-year-old each night. Because we’re not in the mad rush of schoolyear evenings, we’ve been luxuriating through Thoreau’s essays. I know much of the words go over my girl’s head, as they do mine.

But what clicks with her fills me up. Such as when she laughed aloud when I read: “I should not talk so much about myself if there any body else whom I knew as well.”

I love that she asked me to repeat three times, “The finest qualities of our nature, like the bloom on fruits, can be preserved only by the most delicate handling. Yet we do not treat ourselves nor one another thus tenderly.”

Yesterday’s essay spoke of what is necessary of life. Thoreau says the greatest necessity is to keep warm, “to keep the vital heat in us.” But we’re always after a bigger, better fire.

I’m keeping that in mind now, listening to today’s happy hour fight dissolve into laughter when my son admits he doesn’t really know what he wants his sister to stop doing.

I’m going to concentrate on the beauty of my fire—my children, at home, safe, healthy and strong; work that fulfills me; books that inspire me; love that surrounds me. It’s an awesome fire.

 

Death dog wants to cuddle

So a new babysitter took care of our crew this weekend, a super sweet 14-year-old who sometimes babysits a friend’s child.

She was darling—played tag with the children outside, made sure they brushed their teeth, kept the T.V. watching to a minimum and had them in bed on time. (Basically all of the stuff I wish I did more consistently.) The children loved her!

So did Jasper.

You remember Jasper, don’t you? The fluffy, sweet-faced lunch-bag pee-er?

Here’s the thing: Jasper isn’t the smartest pup. He rams into the screen door full force every. Single. Day. He tries to go through the hinged-side of a door when it opens. He once barked at my purse for a half-hour straight. He went nose to nose with the neighborhood black bear, tail wagging wildly, too stupid to know he might be tasty.

But I digress.

Here’s the thing you really need to know about J-dog. As soon as you sit on a couch, Jasper will sit beside you. He will shimmy until he is perfectly molded to your side, his head resting against your shoulder. It doesn’t matter if you were a stranger a moment ago. You sat on the couch. You need cuddles.

So I know that as soon as our sweet babysitter put the children to bed, she waited out the hour until we came home with Jasper glued to her side.

And I feel so, so bad for her.

Once we got home, I asked how the children behaved. She said they were amazing. I asked if Jasper bothered her. There was a moment of silence, and then she commented on how affectionate he is. But there was a weird reluctance.

“He’s due for a grooming,” I said (I’m prone to total verbal diarrhea. If I don’t know what to say, I’ll simply say all the thoughts. All at once.) “He smells gross, but I didn’t want to bathe him because I treated him for ticks, but it’s just the usual needs-to-be-groomed smell. He has an appointment on Tuesday. Emma says he smells like canned peas and corn chips when he needs to be groomed.”

Silence.

Soon enough, I would find out why.

The smell! It hit me as soon as I walked back into the house. I went to the living room, where Jasper was parked on the couch, awaiting cuddles. It hit me again.

Something dead—long dead—was in the house.

“Is that horrible smell coming from Jasper?”

My husband, because he is a good man, leaned into Jasper and breathed in. And then he immediately began to retch.

A black decaying slime coated Jasper’s neck down to the middle of his chest. While the children played tag, Jasper must’ve played roll-in-the-dead-bird. Insert the sound of me puking here.

We washed the stink pup while I became more and more mortified. “I need to explain it to the babysitter, so she doesn’t think we just let our pets smell of death.”

“Don’t worry,” said my husband. “I’m sure she probably thought that’s just the way our house smelled.”

Awesome.

Because it was so late, I sent the girl a text instead of calling. I tried to explain that our dog—not our house!—was disgusting.

“I was wondering about that,” she replied.

Again, awesome.

I am ashamed

I started watching Game of Thrones last week.

Today, I'm one episode away from finishing season 3.

Earlier this week, I found myself suggesting that my son's toy soldiers lay siege on another troop to sack the city.

I bid my daughter farewell as she left for school this morning.

I think a dragon would make an excellent addition to our family.

And I may never recover from the Red Wedding.

I haven't felt this emotionally wrecked since finishing "The Hunger Games" trilogy.

I need to go back to just watching HGTV.

Pie worthy of reservations and other observations

Some real life situations were just meant to be put in a book.

Last weekend, I met a ton of future characters.

I went to a local auction, held in a small barn every Saturday night. Potential buyers arrive about 5 p.m. to check out the antiques going on the block later that evening. Everything, most of it shrouded in an inch or more of dust, is piled up on stage.

After checking it out, guests head to the back of the room for the main attraction. Pie.

You actually can reserve a slice of pie up to an hour and a half prior to the auction. That’s how good the pie is. And let me tell you, pie worthy of reservations is definitely finding its way into a future story of mine. (I went with a slice of the apple walnut cranberry, but next time I’m definitely getting chocolate pecan.)  

The next step is grabbing a threadbare ancient should-I-really-touch-it seat cushion from a pile in the back of the barn. Put it on one of the chairs lined up before the stage to reserve y our seat and then head elsewhere until 7:30, when the auction begins.

The auction itself? Jam packed with characters. All around me were profiles dying to be penned. The auctioneer, for example, is the ex-husband of the pie maker. By the end of the night, hand-carved, all-wood French country side chairs went for $5 a pair while four small candle lanterns—one with a shattered pane—went for $50.

And me? I almost bought mahogany Victorian-era parlor furniture. Sure, half the seat cushion of the love seat was bulging out of a tear in the fabric. And, yes, dust billowed up from the side chairs whenever it was bumped.  Then, of course, there is the fact that I DON’T HAVE NOR EVER WILL OWN A PARLOR. But the set went for $40. Forty. Dollars.

I also discovered that attending an auction will make the top of your head and tip of your nose incredibly itchy as bidding exceeds your budget.

Don't mess with a squirrel

As a parent, I often string together words that I’m sure no one else has ever uttered ever.

Such as, “Yes, while Effin does sound a lot like Ellen, naming your stuffed animal Effin Dog is not OK.”

“No one has ever died from lack of Pop-Tart.”

“Did you pee on your karate belt?”

But here is the latest can’t-believe-I’m-about-to-say-this-out-loud example of parenting. “Hi, officer? This is a non-emergency. I just. Well. My 6-year-old son? He was bit by a squirrel. And we’re not sure what to do now.”

Giggles from the urgent care nurses beside me. Quiet sob from said boy. Complete silence from the policeman.

Let’s back up a bit. (Bit. Ha!)

My niece graduated from high school last weekend, and we traveled to Pennsylvania to help celebrate her. It was an awesome party – steamed hardshell crabs, Frisbee and beanbag games, tons of aunts and uncles, and a herd of feral cousins running through the yard. My littlest was among this herd, catching toads, spying on his sister, playing with the water hose and generally having the time of his life.

Until …

(Dun, dun, DUN!)

So here’s what I saw: From the top of the yard, where I was pouring myself a cup of iced tea, I heard screams. Then gasps. Then laughter from uncles. And finally, I looked up to see my dirt-encrusted, sweat-soaked son barreling toward me, his face twisted in horror, blood dripping from his finger, and sobs pouring from his rodent-betrayed soul.

“What happened?” I yelled as I ran toward him.

The oldest cousin (age 13): “It’s not my fault! I told him not to touch it!”

“Touch what?”

“The squirrel!”

“He got bit by a squirrel?”

Cousin, trying not to grin. “Yeah. But it’s not my fault.”

To son: “You got bit by a squirrel? Seriously?”

Son: “Whaaa!”

Here’s what I didn’t see: So apparently while the little cousins were playing in a sprinkler, the oldest cousin spotted an injured squirrel crawling in the grass. My son ran to it, put his hand toward it, and the squirrel lunged. It latched on. To his finger. With all of its super-sized rodent teeth of pain.

Son freaked out, twirled in frantic circles to dislodge crazy squirrel. “He spun, like, four times,” oldest cousin said later.

Finally the squirrel let loose and so did complete chaos.

Because, seriously, how does a parent react to a wild squirrel bite?

Laughing probably isn’t the best first response.

“It’s going to be alright. You’re going to be fine,” I reassured my sobbing son.

“No, I’m not!” he wailed. “I was bit. By. A. Squirrel! I’m never going to be alright!”

(Just try not to laugh at that.)

We loaded him into the car seat, his bleeding finger wrapped in a washcloth. Then every aunt and uncle and grandparent blocked our exit to offer advice.

“You need to bring the squirrel! Aaron, get the squirrel!”

“Did you wash the bite? Put antibacterial junk on it!”

“He’s going to need antibiotics!”

“Has he had his rabies shot? Or is that just for dogs?”

“Oh my God. Rabies! He’s going to need dozens of shots!”

“Did you call the urgent care place? You should let them know you’re coming. They might need to look up squirrel bites or something.”

Someone handed me a plastic bag. The squirrel, who had passed on to the acorn-filled pasture of the sky, was zip-locked inside.

Once at the urgent care center, I realized my face was covered in Old Bay seasoning, my sundress was pit stained, and my bleeding, rodent-bit son was soaking wet. The only clean spots on his body were the tear tracks down his cheeks. And I then made another realization: I, thankfully, lived six hours away from there and would likely never see these nurses again. So I just said it.

“My son was bit by a squirrel. What do we do now?”

They laughed. “Sorry. It’s our first squirrel bite.”

“No kidding.”

They recommended calling the game warden, whose office was closed. Second up, calling the local police. Also closed (Did I mention? This was 7 p.m. on a Saturday.) Third choice, dialing 9-1-1 for the first time in my life, knowing full well this conversation was being recorded, and once again saying, “My son was bit by a squirrel.”

“And the squirrel? Has it been terminated?” Police officer asked.

“Yes. It’s in a zip-lock bag by my car.”

I’ll spare you the details that followed, which involved several other police departments (for real), messages to a game warden, and general, “Well, the thing is, I haven’t dealt with a lot squirrel bites.”

In the end, we cleaned and disinfected, called the pediatrician and confirmed that no one has ever in the history of world died of a squirrel bite. No one has ever seen a rabied squirrel. And frankly, as one Department of Environmental Protection doctor put it, “He sort of provoked the squirrel. They don’t like being picked up.”

You don’t say.

Meanwhile, my son is fervently hoping that it was a radioactive squirrel and he’ll soon develop squirrely powers.

“He’ll crack all the toughest cases, bringing justice to the world one nut at a time,” my very punny daughter deadpanned.

What's in a name?

Before heading out to our town’s Jamboree, my daughter talked endlessly about a terrifying ride.

“It’s called Scat,” she said.

My husband laughed and we traded knowing looks. “No way I’d sit on a ride called scat,” I smirked, and told her how that’s also a name for animal poo. “I’m sure you got the name wrong.”

An hour later, we’re at the Jamboree and see this.

Yup. It’s a ride called Scat.

Names are important.

In some of my favorite books, names convey character traits without the author ever having to do more than mention them. Let’s take a few of my favorites:

•          Remus Lupin in the Harry Potter series: Seriously, Hermione? It took Snape’s research report on werewolves to clue you in on that one? The guy didn’t have a chance other than to howl at the moon.
•         Mae Tuck in “Tuck Everlasting”: Mae’s name, in my opinion, has a dual meaning. Just like flowers will bloom each May, she will be there, hopeful and bright but eternal. Secondly, “may” means permissive. She allowed her son’s to drink from the spring. She allows them to enter the town and the wider world.
•         Jem Finch in “To Kill a Mockingbird”: Big brother is rare indeed. He’s everything good and pure and innocent. The reader wants Jem to sparkle as flawlessly after his encounters with the cruelty and pain as before. And, just like a precious gem, he’s stronger than he appears.

As a writer, I often spend way too much time narrowing down the perfect name for my characters. The thing is, some of these names are more clues to myself than they are to the (hopefully one day) wider audience.

For example, in the manuscript currently on submission, my main character’s baby sister is named Molly. Baby Molly is born with Downs Syndrome, something unexpected that throws the family into chaos … until they see that Molly is stronger and more capable than they initially thought.

No obvious reason for the name Molly, other than that it makes me think of my nickname as a child: Little Miss Molly. Picture a mom with her hands on her hips, shoulders stooped to look eye-to-eye with a child who just—out of nowhere*—hauled off and kicked her big sister. Whenever I did something unexpected, Little Miss Molly was my moniker.

And, considering I was a painfully shy child who spent most of her time whispering and/or hiding behind the closest trusted adult, these occasional outbursts of feistiness were more than enough to clue my parents in that I wasn’t always going to be timid and in the background.

*For the record, she deserved it.

Avoidance crafting

Time to rename this blog to Things I Did While Plotting. But if you didn’t know I was a writer, that would sound very, very creepy.

So while I’m still stewing away about a new idea and planning to fix where my current manuscript went a bit off track, I’ve been distressing.

Ha! I bet you thought that was typo. That I should’ve said I was “stressing.” But no, I was distressing.

Here’s a rocking chair that my mother-in-law gave me.

My father-in-law wanted to put it in their tag sale, but it was a bit too sentimental to part with to strangers. After all, he had given it to her when she was pregnant with their first baby (my husband!).

So I took it in and completely wrecked it.

First, I sanded the you-know-what out of it. Bye-bye, harvest gold flowers!

Then I painted it white.

Then I painted it grey.

And finally I distressed it with steel wool. This, in hindsight, would’ve been smarter to do outside.

I also reupholstered the cushion, which was a basic white to start. As mentioned previously, I’m stupendously cheap. So rather than buy actual yards of fabric, I bought a Target curtain panel on clearance for $14.

From that, I covered the cushion and had enough left over to cover a black plastic comfort gel mat that we used in our kitchen. After painting the cabinets, it got a little splattered and I wasn’t able to scrape up all of the paint. So I covered it instead, using this as a guideline.

Viola!

Now I am officially out of old and borrowed furniture.

Of course, I did see an ad for a tag sale at church this weekend…

Off to detention!

My daughter’s fourth-grade class went to Ellis Island today by way of the gymnasium.

The class took part in the school’s annual immigration program, in which each student is assigned the name of an actual immigrant who arrived in Ellis Island aboard the S.S. Rose. The students, in character and dress, went through medical and intelligence exams, legal inspection and customs before being naturalized as American citizens.

It was an eye-opening experience for all of them, and me. I got to take part in the event with the role of legal inspector. Think DMV worker, calling forth immigrants, asking them dozens of questions and checking their forms, and then either allowing them to move forth into the naturalization line or SENDING THEM TO DETENTION!

It was so. Much. Fun.

Among those I sent to detention (with the help of my pint-sized son, who escorted detainees to the barred area) was my daughter, aka Rifka Isaachson. She was blatantly outraged that I would send her there (“Your own daughter!), but off she went because I was the legal officer and what I said went. Moo-hoo-haha-ha!

But, like a true writer, she got her revenge.

A part of the project is maintaining a diary of the immigrant’s experience. I took a peek at “Rifka’s” diary. Here’s what she wrote about me.

An inspector was glaring at me and beckoning with a finger. She gave me a reminder of a crooked green witch. She glared at me, ‘What’s your name?’ she growled so fast the words blurred together. I choked back laughter as I imagined her in crow-black painted hat.

‘Rifka Issachson,’ I managed.

The witch-inspector gave me a speedy list of questions. ‘Don’t like your attitude,’ she hissed. ‘DETENTION!’

What? I had thought, ‘No!’ But with my head held high, I marched away from the witch’s evil cackle.

Seriously? Her own mother?

One of those days

Something I just said to my kindergartener, as he lay on the floor whining: "Your behavior is quickly going from mildly annoying to about-to-be-in-big-trouble."

Spaghetti-limbed son: "Aaaarraaagh."

I have a feeling I'm not going to get much writing done today.

She's crafty. (Not really.)

So it’s been a long time since I posted. I’m sorry about that, but I’ve been super busy being unproductive professionally. It happens.

I made this.

From this.

And then I made this.

I forgot to take a before picture, but it was a dark brown changing table.

And finally, I made this, using this as a guide.

The thing is: I’m spectacularly un-crafty. I tried making roman shades, and it worked out wonderfully if you didn’t try to open or close them or expect them to actually reach the bottom of the window. I once tried making my daughter a fairy tutu for Halloween. She looked more like a sparkly zombie. I tried making a birthday cake for my husband once, and let’s just say it involved hidden crunchy layers and a jar of jam.

I shouldn’t craft. It’s just that I have massive writer’s block, complicated by the stress of being on submission with publishers.

You know that stomach-melting, soul-crushing moment in middle school when you tossed a note onto your crush’s desk? The one that had “Do you like me? Circle yes or no.” written on it?

Being on submission means being stuck in that moment for months. And months.

I’m managing to subdue it while doing things around the house or playing with the kids. But sitting down at my computer with Word open? I’m a pathetic fourth-grader with a bad perm all over again.

The stress has led to some serious creative outlets other than writing.

Now that I’ve run out of frames, coffee tables and changing tables to repurpose, I’ve moved onto collecting other people’s basement junk. Mostly this is because I’m also spectacularly thrifty.

OK, I’ll be honest. I’m cheap. That coffee-table-turned-ottoman? Cost me about $20 to create. The changing table? That one was $3. The picture? About $15 and a stapled finger.

But after all of those things were in place, I noticed our living room rug. It’s lovely, but small, and our room is long. The space around the rug to the couch began to make my nerves itchy. So I started rug shopping during what was supposed to be writing time.

The first place I went was a local furniture store that was going out of business. “Sacrificial mark downs” was advertised. Hmm. We have different ideas about what sacrificial prices mean. “Do you have swatches that we may use to compare colors?” the salesman asked as I walked in.

Um. No. “I’m just browsing for now.”

“Well, let me direct you to our rug expert.”

Rug expert: “Are you looking for wool blend? Hand-hooked? Oriental? Contemporary?”

Me: “Um. A big rug?”

And that’s when he gave up on me and pointed to a pile of rugs they were “sacrificing” for more than I made last year. OK, more than I made the past three years combined.

HomeGoods was next. Lots of big rugs. A few more digits on the price tag than I wanted.

I went on Craigslist. And I learned an important lesson: While purchasing second-hand items is great for the environment and bank account, not all things are wise purchases second-hand. Such as, oh, I don’t know. Rugs.

We drove halfway across the state (which actually isn’t far. It’s a small state.) to pick up a 10-by-12-foot rug for a steal of a deal. The Oriental rug looked lovely, if a little faded. “We’ll take it!” I said.

The moment the rolled-up rug was in the car, my husband’s eyes began to water. Soon they were flaming red and he was coughing.

By the time we drove back halfway across the state, he needed his inhaler.

“Cats,” he said. “They must’ve had cats.”

“I’ll vacuum the hell out of it,” I answered.

So we got home, unrolled the rug, the dog peed on the rug, I cleaned the rug, and then proceeded to vacuum up several cats. Husband still couldn’t breathe. I spent nearly the cost of the rug on carpet cleaner, carpet brushes, baking soda and a candy bar, then invested several hours behind a closed door scrubbing the rug.

Husband still couldn’t breathe.

We borrowed a steam cleaner. I steamed cleaned the entire house.

Husband could breathe. Also good news: The rug wasn’t faded after all. It was just once furred.

We spread out the rug. Finally! Proportions were perfect! The rug went under both couches. Awesome! It was so clean!

A few days passed. “The rug is lovely,” I’d say occasionally.

“Beautiful,” husband would respond.

“It’s too dark. I don’t like it,” daughter would pipe in.

I noticed, but pushed away the thought, that the rug clashed horribly with the prints on the wall.

A few more days passed.

“I don’t like rug,” husband said.

“I don’t either.”

“Thank God.”

Now we have a new rug, from IKEA. The old rug is now in my daughter’s room. Where it’s just lovely. Beautiful. But it keeps her bedroom door from closing.

And I still have writer’s block.

Star by Her Eye

Each snowflake has its own pattern,

Did you know? She asks.

Yes, I say. But I've never been able to see just one.

She stares around her as snow falls.

And there. On her eyelash.

A perfect star.

I don't say anything.

How could she see something so close to her eye?

Look! She cries. Captured on the pink fleece of her jacket

Delicate minuscule perfection.

She throws out her arms.

All of these! They're all this beautiful.

Can you imagine?

But I just watch the star by her eye.

Rearranging furniture

“What are you doing?” my 9-year-old girl asked yesterday, as her father and I hoisted a loveseat down the stairs.

“Feeding your mother’s obsession,” my husband replied.

I’ll admit, I am a little obsessed when it comes to decorating. Let me rephrase: When it comes to redecordating.

I’ll arrange a room and absolutely love it. A few days later, I’ll think how nice a different chair would look in that one’s place. Or how much more functional a bookshelf would be there rather than here.

Before you know it, all of the rooms are redressed. I’d say this happens on a monthly basis.

(This has gotten decidedly worse since Pinterest and Houzz entered my life.)

Take this room, for instance. A month ago, it was cold and dim, dark wood-paneled and packed with guitars, a keyboard and snare drum set, an elliptical machine and a futon. Basically, it was the catch-all for backpacks, snowsuits, boots, and anything else I wanted to close a door on. *

Now it’s lemonade yellow, lightened by a gorgeous new light (Can you believe it? Less than $25 from IKEA and only required about a dozen Hail Marys while my husband stood on a ladder to install it!), and it’s where we relax to play video games or read while the kids hang out at their new art station.

Until next week, when I re-envision it all over again.

It’s a lot like my work-in-progress, a contemporary middle-grade manuscript about a boy trying to break out of his dorkdom by taking center stage in the school play. (Come on! You knew I’d bring this around to writing!)

I was weaving the story like mad, stitching a chapter or more per day. And then I hit a snag. I just couldn’t deal with a character making a few quick choices that didn’t seem right for her. It’s like those wood-paneled walls. They just were too dark, too out of sort. Keeping them made everything else seem messy.

Once I brainstormed how to bring some necessary light to those scenes, the decisions she made began to make sense again. The rest of the plot fell back into place.

But now? I’ve got to rearrange some hefty plot furniture, and I’ve got to do the heavy lifting on my own.

So, how about you? How often do you rearrange your furniture, both figuratively and literally?

It’s so refreshing when it’s finished, but so daunting just before, isn’t it?

*My office is now home to the four guitars, three box speakers, a keyboard, snare drum set and a futon. I might live to regret that decision.

Debut Novella for Marisa Cleveland!

I'm taking a break from my usual rants on writing, motherhood and New England and instead celebrating an agency sister's debut novella! Check out the details below. All you have to do is leave a comment on the question below and you're entered to win Valentine's Day goodies!

Marisa Cleveland's novella, The Valentine Challenge, debuted from Entangled Publishing! Join the celebration by visiting participating blogs and commenting the answer to this question:

In your opinion, what's the sexiest part of a man?

Between now and February 28th, Marisa's super secret judges will browse the blogs and choose up to three winners to receive Valentine goodies! No purchase necessary, but a Like on Amazon is always appreciated!

Title: The Valentine Challenge
Author: Marisa Cleveland

Publisher: Entangled Publishing (Flirt)

Genre: Contemporary Romance Novella

Book Description: When Stacey Bradford's hot boss convinces his company's board to close her best friend's flower shop - days before Valentine's Day! - Stacey declares war. Intrigued by Stacey's devotion to her friend, the hearts and flowers holiday, and belief in true love, Marsh issues a challenge - prove love exists or deliver the closing documents to her friend herself. Stacey never could resist a challenge, but when Marsh makes Valentine's Day the deadline for their deal, Stacey must decide how far she's willing to go...for love.

Author Bio

Marisa Cleveland loves to laugh, hates to cry, and does both often. As a writer, she writes. Every day. Perhaps because she married her best friend, her adult romance novels focus on playfully naughty relationships developed through friendship and family-oriented values. She loves to connect with writers and readers.

Author Links

Website and blog: www.marisacleveland.com

Twitter: www.twitter.com/marisacleveland

Facebook: www.facebook.com/marisacleveland00

Super Amazing Participating Blogs:

http://amandaflower.wordpress.com/

http://amielouellen.com/

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http://katemeader.com/blog/

http://www.kateserine.com/blog/

http://jamieayres.com/

http://www.jenjdanna.com/

http://www.jennysulpizio.com/

http://nocturnalreadings.blogspot.com/

http://lynnetteaustin.blogspot.com/

http://www.sarahgagnon.com/

http://sonyaweiss.com/

http://tonyakuper.blogspot.com/

Timeline of a Blizzard, Final Entry

7 a.m. Saturday: Digging.

11 a.m.: Still digging.

Noon: Break for play. Six-year-old, while trudging through hip-high snow, “I thought this would be funner.” Still digging, I had to agree.

2 p.m.: Exhaustion.

5 p.m.: Head over to equally exhausted neighbors’ for a snowed-in hodge podge dinner of homemade pizza, chicken nuggets and deviled eggs. It. Is. Delicious.

9 p.m.: Asleep before my head hits the pillow.

8 a.m. Sunday: Smells like someone made Brussels sprouts.

8:12 a.m.: Brussels sprouts smell intensifies.

8:13 a.m.: Begin to panic over horrible Brussels sprout smell.

9 a.m.: Outside, sunken into thigh-high snow, barking out directions to husband on high-rise ladder as he hoists a extendable pole with a broom tied to it in arcs across the roof, trying to uncover the sewer vent.

Snow is in my boots. Snow is caked to my stretch pants (yes, another good day for lounge wear. Shut up.) Snow is the bane of my existence.

Husband uncovers vent, but in the process sends a mound of snow onto his own head. Snow is hilarious.

10 a.m.: Pause to change into snowpants and dry socks. Inside, Brussels sprouts smell partially digested. Worst. Blizzard. Ever.  

11 a.m.: Success! Vent cleared. Air cleared. Fire roaring. Munching on a Pop-tart. Life is good.

Timeline of a Blizzard, part 4

2 a.m.: I wake up (or rather, am woken up by thirsty 6-year-old) and go downstairs to get a glass of water. When we went to bed, the snow was about 8-inches deep. Now, we have this.

And it’s still dumping buckets of snow. Hmm. I go back to bed and try not to panic.

4 a.m.: Yup, still snowing.

7:30 a.m.: This should make letting the dog out interesting.

7:43 a.m.: The children emerge from their bedrooms. Six-year-old gasps at the snow piled up against the door. “It’s half of me!” Nine-year-old appears whipped into a blizzard frenzy. News and Facebook reports pin the snowfall level to somewhere between 23 to 30 inches.  

We make first attempt to let the dog out, by opening the garage door and trying to coax him up over the mound of snow. Dog looks at snow, looks at us, goes back inside. Smart puppy.

8:23 a.m.: Husband ventures outside, asking us to wait a few minutes before heading out ourselves so he can clear a path. Unexpectedly, small son begins to cry. “Don’t worry,” husband says. “You can come outside in just a moment.”

Small son: “Just don’t shovel away all the snow!”

Not a problem.

 

Timeline of a Blizzard, Part 3

3:00 p.m.: We decide to watch a family movie. “Narnia and the Dawn Treader.” Again. It’s still snowing.

3:10 p.m.: I head upstairs to do some laundry. The snow is up to the dog’s belly.

5 p.m.: Somehow I’ve fallen asleep! In my bed. With my shoes off and the blankets on. Hmm.

I head downstairs, feeling guilty about my involuntary nap, to see this. Playing in a blizzard is tough work.

And, oh yeah, it’s still snowing. But it's also wicked windy. (I can say "wicked" now that I've lived in New England for more than a year.)

I fill the tub with water, just in case power goes out, and am glad I resisted the Poptart temptation.