Thanks a lot, Universe. Jerk.

I'm still getting used to this whole mountain weather plus lake affect thing. I grew up in Connecticut, you know. A lush river valley where daffodils bloom in April when they're supposed to and where the snow melts after a few days.

Apparently the weather here can change pretty quickly.

Take just now for example. It's been overcast today with bursts of sunshine. I consider a really nice day for January. So a few minutes ago I sat down at my computer and found out that J.D. Salinger was dead.

...

(Finding it hard to continue. Everything I think to say sounds treacly.)

I have a confession to make: I never read Catcher in the Rye. I know. Crazy. I never had to read it for class and since in my limited spare time I preferred to read fantasy or books with female protagonists, I never got around to it. But a good friend of mine did introduce me to the Nine Stories, which I love dearly. Upon hearing the sad news, I immediately wanted to reread my favorites ("A Perfect Day for Bananafish", "Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut", "For Esme--with Love and Squalor").

But I couldn't find my copy. I needed that book. Now. So I decided to walk to the local bookstore and see if they had a copy I could buy. Then I would go to the coffee shop and work on the short story I've been thinking about, in honor of the best short story writer that ever lived.

So I grab my notebook, purse, coat. I go outside. It's snowing lightly. No problem, it was doing that this morning. Plus, I have a hood! I'm prepared!

It snows harder. And harder. Within minutes, my jeans and coat are coated with snow, which is trying its damnedest to worm its way into my bag to get to my notebook.

It went from bright and cloudy with a little snow. To this:



And I, realizing that I was still farther from town than I was from my apartment, had to turn back. Now I'm home again, wet, with red fingers that are just now regaining feeling.

I guess I'll be staying here for the remainder of the day.

Editor's Note: In the twenty or so minutes it took for me to write this post, the snow stopped. That Universe. Such a jerk.
j

A Whisper of Spring

Hello, all. It's blustery and gloomy and, in the words of an Australian transplant my husband and I met in Scotland, "wild" outside today. We're only getting rain in Vermont--a lot of rain, but it could be worse. I'd take this wildness any day. First of all, the wind keeps me company and makes me feel like something is happening. There's an energy in the air. And speaking of the air, it smells intoxicating. It's like Spring is screaming to us through the long winter months, through all the long, dark days. She is shouting, "Remember me! Remember the smell of the earth and the warmth of the sun and the sound of bees humming!"

It smells so very good. Like life, and new beginnings, and hope, and adventures, and love.

For those of you who were wondering, my Friday night expedition went well. Luckily when I arrived there was only one girl waiting--the one I'd already met. The next friend to show up was wearing geeky, dark framed glasses like mine, so I liked her right away. The two of them filled me in on the recent romantic troubles of friend #3 and any girl knows that sharing secrets is the fastest way for women to bond. It was definitely more fun than I expected. Phew! So I'm not turning into a completely awkward, recluse writer. Not yet, anyway.

In other news, my crossword obsession has returned. It first developed in 2005 while I was planning my wedding. I just couldn't stop. There's even a picture of me right before I put on my wedding dress with a crossword puzzle in front of me.

Crazy, right? Even the look on my face is all, "Photos? Right now? I'm a little busy here with my crossword puzzles omgI'mgettingmarried!" So it's safe to assume I'm a little (re: reallysupervery) stressed out right now. It maybe could have something to do with our recent move to Vermont, my lack of employment, and the fact that I haven't written in well over a month. I guess it's going to take a while to get back on track.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got about 300 crossword puzzles to do...

Rite of Passage

Surely I must be undergoing some sort of rite of passage this morning, some sacred ordeal, which will decide whether or not I am worthy of finishing the third round of revisions on my novel.

That is the only way I can explain my morning so far. I awoke at 6 AM. I did the dishes. I turned on the computer and made toast. I was about to begin work when an army of lawn care specialists arrived at the house to my left. Their work required extensive machinery with sharp, little teeth that rattled the windows of my rundown Victorian two family apartment building.

I read Palimpsest. I waited.

The army dispersed, their battlefield trimmed and fertilized to perfection. I prepared to begin writing for the second time.

When I walked into the study I saw a yellow monster crouched outside my window, on my other neighbor's driveway. As if it had been merely awaiting my arrival, it bent its toothy head and began gnawing and wheezing and pulling at the asphalt. It's still chewing its way down the driveway, occasionally banging its head against the hard, black mass in order to break it into more delicate pieces for it to savor.

I have until 2 PM today all to myself and then my husband will come back from his appointment. So now I must somehow ignore the thrashing, crashing, digestive noises about a foot from my open window.

Surely this is some sort of rite of passage.

The Tragedy of Roses

In other news, it is raining. Again.

I can't tell if the rain is bringing me down or just amplifying my current mood. Instead of toiling away at the computer, I feel compelled to wander around the apartment (a large, gothic lit mansion would be preferable here, but I suppose I don't have a choice). I should be wringing my hands and sighing and gazing pensively out at the rain. A fading rose behind my ear would be a nice touch, if only I had a yard to garden wherein I could plant roses.

Oh life! You are such a tragedy! Keeping me from the joy of roses. Excuse me, I must pace around the kitchen now, as it's the largest room in the apartment.

Sleep Like a Corpse--It's Good For You!

I am awake and it's 5:30 AM. If this becomes a routine it could really be helpful for getting all my revisions done as soon as possible. Of course I don't really feel like working right now. I feel like blogging.

I was lying in bed thinking about the article I read in Whole Living's Body + Soul June 2009 issue about sleep postures. I couldn't find it online to share with you but suffice to say my favorite sleep posture (on my stomach with head turned to the side) is the "worst" for your body.

I used to sleep on my back. This was considered the *best* posture, so long as you did not use a pillow. Unlikely, but I use a down pillow which isn't all that fluffy, and getting less so all the time.

I would like to blame my bad sleep posture on my husband. At the risk of shocking my MIL, were she to stop by my blog, this is all his fault! Back in college, both of us slept on our backs. But then we started dating and something happens to you when you fall in love. You want to say good night and not have it mean good bye. You want to wake up and know the person will still be there next to you.

It should be noted here that ever since I was a kid I envied the Muppet Babies because they all slept together in two cribs. I do not like sleeping alone--my twin sis can attest to that. I also didn't like it when she fell asleep before me so I found increasingly creative ways (such as swinging my teddy bear over the side of my top bunk into her face while hissing her name) to make sure she stayed awake). Poor twin sister...

Earlier in my husband's and my relationship we'd climb into the creaky, narrow twin bed provided by the college--and barely fit. It didn't help that we lay side by side on our backs like two corpses. Romantic, right? Eventually I trained myself to sleep on my stomach because it made sleeping in a college twin bed slightly less impossible.

And now, according to Whole Living, the natural curve of my spine is in grave danger. I suppose I should be doing the stretching poses they recommended in order to counteract this. As you can see I am complaining about it instead.

This is why I tend to avoid self help magazines.

In other less snooze-worthy news (see what I did right there?), I realized that I have a ton of backlogged posts in my brain that need to get out. I have a lot of writing to do.

Grump Slump

Uh oh, I'm having an invisible day. Maybe I should call it a wraith day so it sounds cooler. Am currently lost in a sea of paste up that I took on from my former employer. It's giving me bad flashbacks to being an editorial assistant. As much as I loved the people there and the books we were publishing, being an EA can be pretty awful. Any time your job performance is dependent on how well you can tape pieces of paper to other pieces of paper (and this is a competitive industry requiring a college degree, people) is just wrong on so many levels.

The good thing is that it's reminding me why I left because sometimes I forget that. I mean, publishing (despite its current identity crisis) still maintains an aura of glamor that never failed to impress people at parties.

I think I've been a grumpy ball recently because I haven't been writing. I worked on my query letter but that hardly counts. Anyway, I foresee another major wave of revisions coming my way so the query letter is not going to be needed for a while longer. I've been getting some great feedback from a friend of mine although immediately after reading his most recent notes (yeah, he's actually emailing me with notes for each chapter, and yes I do realize this warrants several beers and a mention in the acknowledgments) I feel like throwing up. But then later when I read it again it doesn't sound so bad and in fact sounds like very very smart advice.

I just found a way to break me out of my grump slump! According to Moonrat, this Saturday, May 16th is Write Your @$$ Off Day. She explains the day succinctly, "The point is to commit just one day--7.5 hours, from 10 to 6 with a break for lunch--to your OWN writing."

Perfect!!! I'm so looking forward to this. Lately I've had this freelance project on my mind, plus my five year Bates reunion for which I enthusiastically offered to organize a scavenger hunt and locate (free) prizes, plus the knowledge that I need to go shopping for grown up clothes before BEA, plus the fact that I need to get some credits in a hurry before my AFAA cert runs out in August despite the fact that back to back ankle and knee injuries have prevented me from teaching kickboxing for the past two years.

But on Saturday I can write and write and write. I won't even work on revisions! Maybe I'll kickstart the YA apocalyptic first person novel I've been working on in my head, or try a couple short stories on for size, or finally get to work on that epic poem about Kitsen (my version of Kitsune). We'll see. I can't wait!

This Is What Happens When I Call My Mom

Me: Hi Mom, how was your weekend?

Mom: Oh good. We painted the den and set up the new desk. It's looking really nice. We haven't put up the drapes yet because the paint isn't completely dry but it's getting there.

Me: Maybe I can see it this Friday. Curt and I might stop at your house before heading to New York.

Mom: (Long, disapproving pause) You're going to New York!?!

Me: Yeah. It's Fish's birthday. We're finally going to visit him.

Mom: Jennifer. The swine flu has spread to New York. It's a pandemic.

Me: (unconcerned) Oh yeah, Melissa mentioned that to me.

Mom: The last time there was an epidemic like this it was in 1918 and it struck people in the 20-40 age bracket. Millions of people died.

Me: (joking) I might be in trouble then since I keep getting sick lately.

Mom: Millions of people could die.

Me: (thinks) That would make a great set up for a novel. Maybe I could work it into the post apocolyptic YA I've been outlining....IF I survive swine flu long enough to get published.
(says) Yeah but it's not that bad, is it?

Mom: It's spreading all over the world. People are dying. Where does Fish live?

Me: Queens.

Mom: (strangely triumphant) It's already in Queens!

Me: (thinks) Oh God! I'm going to die without ever publishing a book! I should just start gorging myself on Cadbury chocolate and Scotch right now while I still can. Maybe get back into writing poetry.

Mom: So your father and I are working on a family emergency plan.

Me: .....Huh?

Mom: Yes. We're going to give Beth your number and Melissa's so she can contact you in case anything happens to your father and me. She's just down the street so if anything happens she's close by.

Me: Ummm okay. Sure.

Long pause during which I wonder how my "just checking in" phone call turned into a dire warning of my imminent death. Also trying to figure out why my parents--definitely over 40 mind you--would need an emergency plan. I guess in case Connecticut becomes completely quarantined. Or if swine flu starts turning people into zombies, thus necesitating the quarantine. I bet Rhode Island would love that. They've been trying to get rid of Connecticut for years.

Mom: Jennifer. Do you really have to go to New York this weekend?

Me: (thinks) Christ. This is why I don't call you people anymore!!!!!

Mom: Well, don't forget to wash your hands a lot and force fluids.

Me: Yep. Thanks, Mom.

Mom: Okay, have a good night.

Me: (thinks) Oh, like I'll sleep now.
(says) You too. Good night.

The writer whines

Thanks to Easter and some other obligations, I've gotten a nice, big dose of family fun time lately. Alas, I'm beginning to dread these familial encounters. Why? Well, as shocking as this may be, making the decision to work part time so that you can work on your writing does not much impress Dad and Uncle Joe--unless you promptly follow this announcement with a published book in about four months time.

Apparently it should take no more than 4-6 months to write, revise, edit, sell, and publish a book--whether it's a children's picture book or a novel. If you fail in this endeavor (and you will fail--even Stephenie Meyer didn't quite make this dubious deadline), you will earn yourself some hearty questioning from curious relatives and sour looks from grandma. (Not to mention, if you share my misfortune of being a woman, the heavy silences which shout, "If you're working part time then why can't you make me some great grandchildren while you're at it?!?")

Take yesterday, for instance. One highlight was when my aunt asked my twin sis and I if we'd been working on a new picture book. I said, "Yes, but we really need to get back to it--it's been a few months."

She nodded and smiled and then asked, "Haven't you already published one book?"

(Pause so the reader can wipe the snot off his or her keyboard caused by a sudden outburst of hilarity)

Now, I know why she asked this. My sister and I were incredibly fortunate to have a healthy back and forth relationship with a kind, generous EA at Atheneum, who had some suggestions for how we might make our manuscript better. We learned a lot in the process but ultimately lost track of the heart of the story and the manuscript was turned down. But to have her ask this so innocently and blithely was enough to make my sister choke on her potatoes. Rest assured if she and I do get published we will organize some sort of parade with puppies and paper crowns and several--and I mean several--balloons so there will be no mistaking that we've accomplished this lofty lifetime goal.

And really, while she meant well, the question stung.

Yet another aunt cornered me in the kitchen, put her hands on her hips, and asked, "So are you still doing that whole working part time and writing thing?"

I assured her that yes, I was still doing that thing. Of course the inevitable follow up question was, "How's it coming along?" So I went into my well-polished bit about how I'm "revising the second draft and am stuck on the climax but expect to finish soon."

I could see her eyes glaze over as the corner of her mouth pinched disapprovingly. Perhaps she was counting the months in her head and realized I was about a year and a half behind schedule.

And I couldn't help but wonder if she'd heard this bit before. I did write the first draft, then started over from scratch and wrote the whole damn thing again. Of course it still needs to be revised, though no one seems to comprehend that. When they inevitably make the fatal mistake of asking me what happens next, well, they nearly forget to breath out of boredom as I, with a forcefully stiff yet cheerful grin, explain the query letter, agent, editor, publishing deal dance of death that is my future if I could only finish this God forsaken manuscript.

Best of all was the previous weekend when I, in very poor taste (I realize that now), made a joke about how maybe I should have taken my parents' advice and gone to law school after all. Their eyes lit up like Christmas trees. It seems the only kind of writer worth having around is the published kind. Perhaps until that happens I should avoid family all together.