My Little Crooked House

It all began last September with the simple wiggle of a fence picket.  Snap! 

“Oops,” my next door neighbor offered with an unrepentant smile.  “I guess we have to tear the fence down now.  Darn.”

We had hated the warped and twisted gray fence that encircled our backyard ever since we had moved into our house three years earlier.  Every time we went outside the conversation would always turn to our ugly fence and what we could do to fix it.  Over these discussions of what could be, what might be, what would be nice and what we could afford, we built a lifelong friendship with our neighbors.  The fence became our joke and our gathering place for chit chat.  We leaned against it to talk about our children, our families, our work and our plans for the day.  So, that September day when the first picket was ruthlessly ripped off, (Just kidding Dave) we took great joy in tearing down the fence.  Only, when it came time to remove the last post, there was a distinct air of sadness that filled the backyard.  Nobody was ready to say goodbye to that last post, the most crooked and warped post of the entire fence.  After all, it had been the post that brought us together as friends. 

It’s my belief that all places of happiness in life can only be reached by crooked paths.  We weave through dark forests, bright meadows and narrowly avoid the occasional pit of quick sand to finally reach our goals.  And I think the same adage can be said of friendship.  Deeper bonds are forged in hardship and over twisted, gnarled wood, than over perfect fences with perfect landscaping.  So, we left the crooked post standing as a reminder of the crooked paths that have led us to this happy place of friendship. 

As I was walking past the crooked post this week watering my flowers, I couldn’t help but feel thankful.  I’m thankful for the past, for how far my backyard makeover and how far my life has come over the last year.  The forty-one bushes we planted are beginning to grow.  The bulbs we planted are beginning to sprout.  And the grass seed…well, it still just looks like dirt, but that gives us something else to discuss in the backyard this spring. 

 Celebrate your imperfect and beautiful crooked path today.  You never know where an ugly fence could lead you.  Do you have something crooked and ugly in your backyard?

There was a crooked man and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence upon a crooked stile.
He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse.
And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

Happy Spring Everyone!

The Tartan

Here’s to it!

The fighting sheen of it.

The yellow, the green of it.

The white, the blue of it.

The swing, the hue of it.

The dark, the red of it.

Every thread of it!

The fair have sighed for it.

The brave have died for it.

Foemen sought for it.

Honour the name of it.

Drink to the fame of it.

The Tartan.

-Unknown

This poem hangs on the wall of a restaurant where I love to go to in the mountains of North Carolina.  Every time I eat there I think that I will someday use it at the beginning of a book about some handsome highlander that lived long ago.  However, I seem to only be dreaming in Regency England at the moment, so I thought I would share it.  I can remember eating at The Tartan Restaurant as a little girl with my family.  I come from a family that has always been very proud of its Scottish roots, so a themed restaurant at the foot of Grandfather Mountain was the logical choice when we attended the Highland Games.  It’s also not uncommon to wake up to bag pipe music at 7:30 am on Saturday mornings at my parent’s house, but that is another blog for another day.  In recent years Mr. Alpha Male and I have become regulars there mostly due to his love of country ham, my daily need for coffee and the fact that it is the only restaurant within five minutes drive of the house.  And it is the perfect place for one of my favorite pastimes, people watching.

The Tartan is one of those places where only the locals eat and most of them have blue hair.  The walls are dripping in Scottish folklore and there is plaid covering every surface lying in wait for the annual Highland Games.  Yet, filling the tables inside the restaurant on the other fifty one weekends of the year are all the simple mountain folks that stopped in for a sandwich or a cup of coffee.  Friends are hailed from across the room as neighbors and acquaintances pause to say hello.  It makes an interesting mix of foreign and local that I find irresistible.  Keep your swanky bistros and your elegant fine dining establishments, I just want to people watch from my booth at The Tartan.

“I brought you some extra country ham.  Didn’t think that servin’ they gave you in the kitchen looked like enough for ya,” Diane offered as she slid another small plate onto our table.  Mr. Alpha Male thanked her as I continued to munch on my French toast. 

“How’s that baby o’ yers?”

“Well, ya know, my chickens roost in that tree in the yard every night.”

“Is that a new shirt ya got there?”

“I hadn’t seen ya round church lately.”

Pieces of conversation swirl around me inspiring questions of who these people are and where they are going when they leave here.  What dramas have they had in their lives?  Have they loved?  Have they lost? Everyone has a back story and ultimately an impending doom, so why not weave them into fiction as I sip my coffee?  Could I ask for better inspiration than the mountain folks found in The Tartan?  I don’t think so. 

What is your favorite place to people watch?

Lost in the Query Letter Woods

Do I have any idea what I’m doing?  No.  Do any of us?  No.  Here is my story.  Be entertained by my blunders and learn from my mistakes.

I finally wrote “The End” on my first manuscript at the beginning of January.  After jumping up and down for several days, toasting with my blog partner, and printing my book—just to look at it and smile, I had no idea what to do next.  As I began the editing process, I bought two books on Amazon.com.  One book was a listing of literary agents and the other was a “how to” book on writing query letters.  I was proud of my resourcefulness.  Why did everyone stress over this process when there was a book conveniently for sale out there that would hold my hand, and walk me through the writing of this dreaded letter? 

I read.  I highlighted.  I dog-eared pages.  Then I wrote a two page long letter proclaiming in the first paragraph my need of a literary agent and why the reader of my letter would be the agent for me.  Keep in mind I sucked up in a manner that was still vague enough to be a form letter or “specifically unspecific” as I like to say.  I then outlined the entire book—no need to look any further to discover more about this story, it was all right there.  How easy I was making some literary agent’s job!  Then I closed with my list of writer credentials which included my college degree in an unrelated field, my love of books, and my travels to places not even in my book.   My query letter was written just as the wonder book told me to write it.  Perfect!  

And then I sent it to a few literary agents.  I was sure this was it.  This was all it would take to get “The call.”  That was when I started getting the form rejection letters.  After the forth rejection that, (Thank you Jessica Faust at Bookends Literary Agency) said I didn’t have enough hook, I started to do some research.  I began to follow every literary agent’s blog that exists or once existed.  I listened to their complaints.  I read their critiques.  I learned.

Here is what I found:  I was so wrong; it was embarrassing.  A query letter should be 1 page or less, (250 words.)  It should start with the synopsis, which should tell what the story is about without revealing the ending.  If you can’t hear the engaging voice of the movie trailer guy in your head as you read it, it needs more hook.  Use phrases like: she had a choice to make…or he had to decide between…  The essence of your writing should shine though the synopsis of your book without telling a series of events.  Take out the agent kiss up routine.  Hello, they know why you need an agent!  That’s what they do for a living.  And if you, like me, have no experience, don’t try and make some up.  Let your story speak for itself.  To summarize, start with your synopsis, then tell the title, word count and genre, thank them and that is all you need.  Cut everything else!

Now, here I sit about to send out the first round of revised query letters to the literary world.  I hope the Query Shark will be proud, and she and her friends will not rip me limb from limb.  I’ll let you know what happens this time…

Am I the only one who has been lost in the query letter woods?

Anniversary Woes

 “It should be hot, smooth skin,” Mr. Alpha Male stated as he read further into the scene we were editing.   “There needs to be a comma after thigh.  …her right thigh, as his tongue traced…”

You would think that having a sex scene that you wrote read back to you in slow motion by your significant other would be a romantic way to spend your anniversary.  But, you would be wrong. 

Yesterday was my 15 year anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.  There was a time, 10 years ago, even 5 years ago; when I would have wanted an exotic vacation, jewelry, or a fancy night out on the town to celebrate such an occasion.  However, with our little boy asleep upstairs, and the remnants of his toys strewn across our living room floor, there we sat together on the sofa, diagramming every sentence of a spicy scene I wrote for A Matter of Time.  We laughed.  I turned an unseemly shade of red.  Was it erotic or even sweet, the way we spent our anniversary evening? No, unless you consider the willingness to correct grammar all night sweet- which fortunately I do.  Then it occurred to me, as I cringed at my use of the word turgid, real life and fictional life, are exactly opposite concepts to one another. 

In fictional life, all heroes smell nice even after a day of riding horses.  They never have bad breath, gas, or any annoying habits.  The heroines never have to use the bathroom at inconvenient times; and they are never grouchy in the mornings.  The timing of changes in life like: career moves, marriage, and children, always come together perfectly to create a happily ever after.  There is always plenty of money for ball gowns and London Townhouses.  The bad guy gets what he deserves in the end, while the good guy reaps the rewards.   And I’m certain that they celebrate all anniversaries in extreme style.

And then there is real life.  Bills, stress, stinky feet, crying babies, colds, dirty dishes, and work all seem to punctuate our daily routines, leaving no room for the sweeping romances I like to read and write about.  However, I wouldn’t have it any other way.  It was a perfectly un-perfect way to spend my anniversary with Mr. Alpha Male.

I am thankful for the gritty, real life that I’m surrounded in everyday, even if I would rather be wearing a ball gown while I write this.  How real is your real life?  Would you rather be wearing a ball gown?

A Writer's Farewell

     It was a brisk, clear afternoon when I created you.  The leaves were turning brilliant shades of yellow and red outside my window, just as I feel a shroud of gray covering my heart today.  I must say good bye to you my beautiful, my sweet, my creation.  Go now with the knowledge that you were loved.  Go now with the knowledge that you were, for a time, needed.  Rest well in darkness.

My Sincerest Apologies,

Elizabeth Michels

The Starbucks Scene

The first scene sacrificed to editing

from A Matter of Time

     Laura could feel the warmth of Xavier’s large masculine hand on her back urging her forward, closer into his arms. But could she trust him? Was he just here to do Trevor’s bidding and to seduce her riches away from her? Then in the next moment her thoughts of staying away from him for the sake of her own future tumbled out of head as his lips descended upon hers, warm and soft.   

     Xavier skimmed his hand down the side of her neck causing her to shiver, he looked deeply into her eyes and said, “Laura, I want you, it is our destiny to be together, as one.”

     Laura could feel the heat of Xavier surrounding her, pressing against her breasts as she arched into his arms hungry for more, at any cost to her future .  In one amazing……  

     “Abby?”

     Startled by the sound of someone calling her name from the far end of the barista counter Abby snapped shut the romance novel she was reading and placed it quickly on the small round bistro table; nearly dumping the real African fabric decorated coffee mug containing her grande mocha latte all over her low fat raspberry muffin.  While she struggled to stabilize the coffee she glanced up sheepishly to see who was calling her name. 

     “Great… of all people,” Abby mumbled coarsely under her breath. 

     Who else was it but Brittany Brooks walking her way, looking like she just stepped off a runway?  Brittany, with her long flowing blonde hair, the type of hair that always fell perfectly around her disgustingly pretty face.  She looked like a million bucks, and was probably wearing close to it from what Abby had heard.  They had lived on the same hall at Converse College, Abby left with a Bachelors of Arts, and Brittany left with the same plus an M.r.s. Degree courtesy of a starting linebacker for the Carolina Panthers.  Brittany was one of those girls that made Abby feel instantly self-conscious of what she was wearing, how thin she looked in it, and how successful she was in life.  

     Why had she worn this today Abby wondered.  A sundress and flip flops?  What had she been thinking?  Well at least, last she checked, she was having a good hair day today. 

     Abby adjusted her purse to a more prominent position on the chair beside her, as if the small metal Coach symbol would protect her more against the coming attack than the thickest armor shield.  When Abby glanced down to reaffirm that she was in fact wearing clothing at all, she noticed her book lying on the table in front of her with the cover face up.  The cover featured a muscular open shirted man looking passionately at a woman in a revealing ball gown fainting into his open arms. 

     Gasping, she quickly flipped the book over to lay face down on the table in hopes it would look like something from fine literature, and make her appear highly intellectual.  Abby put on her party smile and slid her hand back in her lap so little miss perfect would not see her un-manicured fingers. 

     “Abby?.....Abby Rhode.  Why it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.  What are you doing here?”

     “Oh, I live here now.  I just bought a……um, a historic home here in Charleston..” Abby hesitated as she responded; thinking historic was a nice way of putting it.

     “A historic home, oh that is just lovely, I hope you have a good contractor for any upgrades you want to do.  I should give you the number of the company we used to build our vacation house in Banner Elk North Carolina.  It was featured in Architectural Digest, you know,” Brittany said dismissively.

     “Thank you, but I am using a local company, excellent group, they came highly recommended from several sources,” or picked randomly from the yellow pages Abby thought as the words left her lips.  “I’m doing an extensive restoration; I just talked to Southern Living the other day about a feature article when it is finished.” 

     “Well isn’t that nice, do send me a copy of the issue when you have the home shot won’t you?”  Brittany replied with an air of sarcasm in her voice.  “So, there’s a special someone now?  You’re not doing this alone are you, Abby?  I have to say just finding time to meet with my interior designer was a headache when we renovated Stephen’s house to make it more to my taste.  By the time we chose the granite for the second kitchen off of the home theater, I just didn’t care anymore, you know what I mean?”

     “The house is mine.” Abby said defiantly then decided to embellish the truth of her life slightly.  ”I am seeing someone, though.”  And maybe just a few details to make it believable, “He’s a doctor, a uhhhh neurosurgeon.  He is actually the reason I moved to Charleston. 

     “Really?  Well isn’t that delightful, which hospital?”

     Abby panicked.  She had not been in Charleston for more three weeks; she didn’t know the names of the hospitals.  Other than the nearest Starbucks, gas station, and the number for pizza delivery, she didn’t know much of anything.

     “Well,” Abby thought quickly.  “He’s at the main one, the uh, big one….downtown, here in Charleston, where we are.  Yes, he’s the reason I moved to Charleston.”

     “Oh, how nice.  We should all do dinner together later this week,” Brittany replied, confusion briefly clouding her perfect face.

     Abby tried to shake off the lies pouring unchecked out of her mouth and steer the conversation back to safe territory.  “Mmmm, so what brings you to Charleston, last I heard you were living in..”

     “Ohh, I’m down from Charlotte for the week while Stephen is having the yacht packed up for the cruise to Paradise Island for a little vaca,” Brittany said visually sizing up Abby’s current lifestyle in one almost imperceptible sweep of her violet eyes.  “I was just out looking for the perfect pair of poolside shoes to match one of my swimsuit cover-ups, and I just cannot find a thing that’ll work.  Of course, all of our clothes for the trip were custom made through my personal shopper.  But, the shoes she brought over before I left were just awful.  Oh, the hassle of it all, you know?  Did you hear that Jennifer is pregnant?  Yeah, Matthew is so happy about it.  We just met up with them last week at this fabulous new restaurant back home, and she looks fabulous.  Pregnant, eating everything in sight, and still so thin, don’t you just hate her?  Of course we do go to the same trainer so I can’t be too critical.”  Brittany laughed looking at Abby’s low fat raspberry muffin with an air of silent judgment.

     “That is wonderful news, I’m so happy for them.” Abby said pleasantly.  “How do you like living in Charlotte?”

     “Love it!  It’s such a great city.  And Stephen is really happy with the Panthers.  He’ll be busy with the season soon, so Angela and I, you remember Angela, don’t you?  Anyway, we’re planning a trip to New York to shop and see shows while the hubbies are busy.  Oh, that’s my blackberry, I better go, sweetie.  So great seeing you.  We should get together soon” Brittany said in a tone meant to be believable, but never followed through with an actual getting together, as she answered her phone.  “Hi honey, how was golf this morning?  Oh, good. Yes, I’ll be back soon.  Love you too, bye bye……Bless his heart he just can’t do a thing without me.  See you later.”  Throwing up a airy group of diamond studded, French manicured fingers in farewell, Brittany turned and glided out the door. 

     As quickly as she had come, she was gone.  She had however spent enough time to take the good afternoon Abby was having and reduce it to a low fat raspberry hell.  Brittany had the sweetest way of doing that to people.  Not that she was a malicious destroyer of good days, she was just better, she was an elegant steak dinner and made Abby feel like a cold tuna sandwich by comparison. She had officially been delivered the Christmas Card as she liked to think of it.  Everything is perfect, everyone is happy, I lost ten pounds without trying and have enough spare money that my only concern in life is the perfect pair of pool shoes for island vacations.  Abby tossed her hair back and took a large defiant bite of her muffin with her chin raised toward the now closed double doors leading onto King Street.  So what if she gained a pound from its delicious fluffy innate muffin-ness?  Who would notice, her fictitious neurosurgeon boyfriend or the fictitious photo journalist from Southern Living?  “Oh my goodness, I really said that, didn’t I?  How embarrassing,” Abby mumbled into her coffee, completely disgusted with herself for her poor lying skills.   Why, oh why, had she not sat upstairs on the balcony overlooking the main floor of the Starbucks?  She could have gone on with her day blissfully unaware that Brittany was even in town.  

     Pulling herself together, Abby looked over the shopping bags at her feet and remembered that her life was not all that bad.  Shopping was supposed to make you feel happy and pretty, not depressed, unless shopping for swim suits, that was always depressing.  She smiled and forced herself to think of all that was good about today.  She had found the perfect antique-looking candle holder for her historic home while in a little shop down the street, and a cute new shirt in Banana Republic.  Abby sighed forcing a pleasant smile to her face and gathered her bags to leave. 

Words for 2011

What is your New Year’s resolution?  I have found that I’m compulsively asking that question of everyone I know.  The problem is that I don’t have one.  After I said about a week ago that I was vowing to make up my bed every morning of 2011 and Mr. Alpha Male laughed me out of the room, I find that I’m not all that resolved about anything.  My only resolution is to keep living everyday and working everyday toward my goals, just as I have done all of 2010.  But, that is nothing new.  So instead of declaring a resolution for the new year, I am choosing to have words to live by for 2011. 

The first words to live by come from my Dad when I was a little girl.  Every time I can recall scraping a knee or bumping an elbow and would crumple to the ground in a ball of crying blonde mush, he would say, “Hurry and get up before you get hurt.”  Not only is this great advice for playing any sport where trampling is an issue, it is great life advice.  We all fall down in some way or another be it job loss, divorce, parenting mishaps, or just day to day foibles.  However, the faster we pick ourselves up and move on, the less hurt will set into our bones. 

The second words to live by come from the guy that taught me in driver training when I was 15.  I have no idea what his name was, but I remember when he said, “Don’t look at the cars, look at the space between them.  Don’t look at where you can’t go, look at where you can go.”  Not only did this get me over my fear of changing lanes, it got me over my fear of changing tracks in life.  This wild journey we are on weaves us onto some of the most unexpected roads and occasionally it leaves us stranded at a truck stop or two.  However, if we look at where we can go the options are limitless.

In 2011 I will continue to get up and look where I can go every day. 

I will continue to live every day to the fullest.

 I will live on faith, love and coffee, just as I have in 2010.

And, on at least a few of the days in 2011, I will make my bed. 

What is your New Year’s resolution?

There'll be Parties for Hosting, Marshmallows for Roasting...

I looked up from my Christmas present wrapping to see my little boy sitting in the middle of a tangled mess of red ribbon.  It was wrapped around his little fingers lying in twists and turns all around him on the floor.  He beamed with happiness at his accomplishment.  While I had been busy measuring and cutting in the floor beside him, he had been busy unwinding an entire spool of ribbon in his lap. 

“Look Mommy, I have tape in one hand and ribbon in the other,” he said quoting his favorite Curious George story. 

Normally this is when my “Oh no, there’s a mess” tendencies kick in, but this time I just laughed.  We were having too much fun wrapping Mr. Alpha Male’s Christmas presents to worry about messes.  I have discovered recently that in trying to meet preholiday work deadlines, getting ready for parties, baking cookies, and buying gifts; I have forgotten to just enjoy the Christmas season.  My nose has either been in my laptop, or I’ve been scurrying around with a mile long to do list.  I have not stopped to enjoy the simple pleasure of laughing while wrapping presents or actually watching a cheesy Christmas movie on tv.  It’s an easy mistake to make, to live for the day at the end of the paper chain and not take the time to enjoy all the little links in between that make up the Christmas season.

“It’s not Christmas.” My little boy utters those words every morning when I go into his room to wake him up for the past week.  And every morning I tell him, “It’s not Christmas day, but it is the Christmas Season.”  The anticipation of Christmas Day is almost too much for any two year old to bare.  The presents, the cookies, the lights, the friends and the family that are all wrapped up into what makes Christmas the most wonderful time of the year.  But are we just counting down the days, or living everyday with the love that this season is built around?

Counting down the days…I can remember as a child making chains of red and green construction paper to symbolize the passing days to Christmas.  I would hang it on the wood paneled wall of the family room by the door to the kitchen.  Unfortunately, I don’t think my daily Christmas reminder ever made it to the big day, as I grew up with two older brothers that liked to jump and rip and tackle.  I’ve been thinking about my little paper chains this year more than ever because I am not only counting down the days to Christmas, but also counting down words left to write until I finish my book.

 I think as we get older we never really lose that sense of wonder involved with looking forward to a big box with a bright red bow under the tree on Christmas morning.  Instead, I think it is only what is wrapped up in those packages that changes over the years.  Is it simply survival of all the shopping, family visits and parties that await us under the tree?  The end of a long difficult journey of writing a book is wrapped up and waiting for me under the tree this year.  And yet, I am making an effort to experience and live everyday of the paper chain that is this beautiful season.  The end of the paper chain will be here before you know it.  What is at the end of your paper chain?  And more importantly, what should be cherished in the small loops of red and green somewhere in the middle?

Merry Christmas!