Changes are a-comin'.

Only one of my children starts school this Wednesday, he is in fourth grade and switching to the upper elementary.  It's so weird to have a kid that's almost ten, you would think I'm approaching my mid-thirties or something.  My other little nugget of joy is starting Kindergarten and so there is a two hour walk through for half of the kids on Wednesday, nothing for us on Thursday and, finally, the real deal on Friday.  The thrill and painful nostalgia of putting my current youngest in school is an awesome thing.  As a mother I am proud though a bit wistful that my baby is growing up.  Add in the adoption aspect and I actually have occasional moments of anger because I missed the first two years and now she is moving on already.  Luckily, she is an intelligent and confidant little thing and she is going to rule that school. 

There is another part of me though, a part that has been restlessly sleeping these past three months.  It surfaces occasionally to work on a plot idea or to analyze a book that I am enjoying but rests again before too much frustration can set in.  I've encouraged the partial hibernation and it payed off because I had that much more mental energy to use keeping two energetic kids busy.  As an unbelievable result my kids have reached the end of a summer spent with no pool passes, not one amusement park visit, no vacation and no sport teams without hating and killing each other.  If you don't have kids you might not understand, but trust me - it's a major feat.

Anyway, the sleeping behemoth is now sitting on the edge of it's bed and and rubbing it's eyes.  Taking a big ol' stretch and already listing off all of the things that it's been saving up for me.  Plot points, blog stuff, interview ideas, crafting projects and all other manor of things that I have had to give up.  It's safe to say that I will go insane if I don't write it all down, make priorities and a plan.  To do this I am going to start carrying a small journal.  For most writers it's an established habit, the fact that I don't probably makes them doubt my writerliness.  But I always have story stuff playing in the back of my head and have worked well so far with the idea that if it's a really good point then it will stick with me.  Now, I have to organize more than just a plot.  For the first time I am see platform building as a major part of my success as an author and I am putting a lot of thought in to how to go about it.  It's a new one to me, but Lyn Veihl has been very clear about so much of it that I feel like I have a starting point.  As a matter of fact, I think that I will try to review her latest book for my blog as one of the new things that I will be adding.  

So there you have it, my friends.  Changes are coming.  I will doubtlessly change my template but I might even move the whole deal to another site that allows for more layout options.  I definitely plan on opening up my little world in her with reviews, interviews and such.  So give me until Friday and then the fun will begin.  I can't wait!

I love a good mentor!

This morning I went over to the wonderful Genreality website and read two posts that were really good for me.  First of all Lyn Viehl wrote about a person's choice to tear down other writers vs. mentoring and passing on hope and wisdom.  It doesn't really apply to me right now but it was great to see an established writer tell other established writers that mentoring is important.  It made me feel hopeful just to read it. 

In my opinion, even if the wonderful breakfast that I had with Marjorie M. Liu (whose blog is here) is the only personal interaction that I have with established authors, then I consider myself blessed.  For the most part I think of reading a really good book two or more times to be a kind of silent mentoring.  The first read is for my entertainment.  If I want to read it again in a relatively short period of time then it must have some quality that sets it apart and I look for it and absorb.  Lately I have been reading all of Patricia Briggs Mercy Thompson novels again.  I just can't get over her writing.  For many writers they seem to feel that in order to be "real" or have "heart" that they need to be graphic and shocking.  Shocking happens in Mercy's world, she is raped, but even that is handled in a way that makes you feel all of the gut wrenching stuff without needing to take a shower because you were offered too much.  Even sex is handled expertly.  By the time her characters end up in bed, in book four for Mercy, you are glad that the scene is not explicit because you care for the characters enough to want them to have a bit of unspoken intimacy.  You respect them.  

I find that her writing and the writing of Marjorie is so educational but also incredibly intimidating.  How in the world will I ever write that well?  Answer - by writing.  Most authors have years of notebooks and computer files full of stories and poems.  Not me.  I loved writing in high school but then I was in college and working and whatnot.  There has always been a running newsfeed of stories in my head but I haven't taken the time to write them down.  I was too busy and if I sat down it was to read, not write.  So now I am still transitioning to being an author/reader instead of just a reader.  I feel like it's comparable to becoming a teacher/student instead of just sitting passively in class.  

The good part of spending so many years reading without putting it to paper is that I have sat under so many great teachers that my first efforts are much better for it.  I write in novel format because my brain has been trained to do so.  My issues so far are expanding on dialogue and rounding out the world.  I have a stage with main characters and they say what they need, they even have real personality.  What I need to work on are adding minor characters, maybe a subplot and adding more texture to the environment without wandering or having boring spots.  

Maybe that's why I was drawn to Patricia Briggs, she has that stuff down cold.  Someday I'll get to meet her and tell her what she taught me.  Hopefully by then, I'll be a full fledged author and not just a fangirl with dreams.  : )

One last thing, I only covered one blog post here.  There was another post that rocked and I will go into it next time, so tune in again!

14 more days till brain liberation.

I'm not one of those women who basically hates their kids and turns complaining about home life into a hobby, but I am really looking forward to school starting.  This summer had only one half day camp for my son and that ended four weeks ago.  So I've been entertaining two kids on a limited budget for basically the whole summer.  No pool passes or anything, just playgrounds, crafts and zoos.  It's not a bad thing because it's helped to build strong relationships with family members while the kids are young which is priceless. 

 But I am tired.   Tired and a bit bored which means it's difficult to engage the kids.  They respond to enthusiasm and mine is waning.  Also, I've have had to put my writing and crafting away for the summer and I miss them.  I miss having moments in my day where I am not listening for, entertaining or taking care of any child.  Hours when I am doing my work guilt free.  Hopefully, I will be payed for my work by next summer and these guys will both spend part of the day at a camp while I work.  I think that I will be less bored by the end of summer if I can have a schedule and regular work breaks.  

This summer though, will always be a good one in my mind.  We have always been a loving family that gets along with each other, but we are human.  Now that summer is ending the kids are a little more likely to be frustrated and bored, meaning there is more fussing and fights.  Learning to control your actions even when you feel upset has been a major source of discussion in time outs.  What an opportunity to teach that important lesson early in life!  I know some adults that need to learn it and I am glad to say that I have seen the kids make lots of progress.  

So, not a bad summer just a long one.  One that was not about me.  But like I have been teaching the kids - It's not always about you!  

*Enjoy the picture of the kids having fun in a very large and very free box that dominated the living room for many days.*

That damn quilt just means so much.

Here is a little quilt that I made about seven years ago completely by hand.  I made it with friends and it took forever because I spent more time talking and eating than sewing most weeks.  We were learning the art of quilting from a very patient woman who watched us all take months to complete what should have been weekend projects.  Actually, I had been helping my grandmother sew quilts from the time I could hold a needle, but I decided to play it dumb since no one else knew a single thing about it.  It's little and it's well made, cute and sweet.

I like it on some levels.  It's earth tones and I designed the pattern myself.  But looking at it is as powerful as looking at a photo to me.  Not only is my home decor not really quiltish but I can't hang it because I feel like I would be hanging a diary page.  No one else would see it, of course, but I can't bear the thought of displaying what is so intensely personal.

When I look at these four little squares I see the events going on in my life at the time that I made it.  What a year that was.  Hubby lost his job and his dad lost his fight with cancer.  My son was diagnosed with autism, and we left the church that we had attended for years.  We had met and married at that church.  It was not a bad place but I found that after I graduated college I couldn't fit in with the adults.  I guess you were supposed to give up those quaint little adolescent efforts at being yourself and conform.  

I am soooo bad at conforming.

It wasn't until a year later that we struggled with our infertility issues but for some reason I see that in the fabric too.  That doesn't mean that I see it and feel sad.  Actually I see those warm colors and feel like a war veteran.  I feel like anyone looking at that quilt would need me to lay out all of the events behind it so that they would understand the significance of it.  Everyone would need to know that I survived that year and those events and still made something beautiful.  

Quilts are personal things, I have always heard.  In the past they were often made from old clothes and had history from that.  There are prayer quilts and heritage quilts, quilts that commemorate events.  They take a long time to make and they tell a story from your point of view.  It will rarely mean more to anyone else than it does to the actual maker and everyone reads the story a different way.  People admire the colors, the patterns and general craftsmanship, flaws are even sought out because they bring humanity to fabric.  If the quilter chooses they can tell the back story, but even that changes with memory.  That I think, makes quilts very unique.  What other kind of art form can do all of that and still be carried around by a child, warm you on the couch, be used by the pets or decorate your bed.  

There is another art form that I admire and strive to learn.  You can carry it anywhere, to the beach, the theater or restaurant.  Kids can have it, barring adult cover or content.  They can be about pets and their care or adventure or romance or anything else that can be thought of.  If there is a quilt warming you on the couch they are an excellent accompaniment.  They even do well in a relaxing bath if you have good hands and won't drop it. Books have colors and craftsmanship, patterns and flaws.  They have back stories that only the author knows.  Everyone reads a story and plays it in their head through their own unique filter.  They are admired and criticized, displayed and collected.  

Both make a home and both have their own way of carrying history.  Long and involved to craft, they require hours and days and months of care.  I wonder if there are ever conferences that get quilters and authors together.  Probably not, unless it is an author that has written about quilts.  But maybe there should be.  I'd bet they have lots in common.