My New Chapter

Well . . . the day I never thought would happen has arrived. The child formerly known as Demon Baby has started kindergarten.

My entire writing career, I have written in chaos. I have four children, and it always seemed my novels (all 22+ of them) were written in coffee-fueled bursts in between carpooling, cleaning, laundry, carpooling (did I say that already? It's because it always feels like that's what I do), laundry (ditto), visits to the pediatrician, domino-effect episodes of strep for the kids, enough bouts of the stomach flu to fill a horror movie, and assorted other scenarios of motherhood. I traveled to meet editors and do signings, anxiously feeling my phone vibrating in my purse, "Mom . . . where's my . . . .?!?!" And then there were the three hurricanes we lived through, a move from Florida to Virginia . . . and my own ongoing battle against Crohn's disease. I've written with my mother and father filling this house to EIGHT people for a couple of months, with my dad sitting ten feet from my writing desk and saying, "When you have a minute, could you . . . ?" And that was the thing. I never had a minute. Not one.

And through it all, I had this miraculous change-of-life, PLANNED pregnancy resulting in the most amazing, extraordinary, and naughty boy on the face of the planet. He was the Universe's way of saying, "You're an idiot. You THOUGHT you had that mothering thing down. Guess what? NO ONE ever has it down. And now, we'll prove that to you." He exasperated me until I would lock myself in the bathroom and cry. And then he'd knock on the door, "Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM! Are you ever coming out?" Sometimes, I wanted to say no. I threatened him with military school at age 4. Maybe it was the worms on my pillow. Or the Raisin Bran fed to the corgi with irritable bowel. When I thought, as a novelist, I had imagination . . . this child LIVED it. He thought of ways to destroy this house that still defy the bounds of the human mind, including making "waterfalls" through the heating ducts upstairs and shorting out and flooding the ceiling fan downstairs and the kitchen.

I used to count the days until kindergarten. I used to count the months, days, hours, and minutes. And then a funny thing happened. That kid and I started to get each other. We started to have this life together that was so incredibly close and symbiotic. I GOT him, and damn, if that Little Man didn't get me. We could read each other, and grin at each other. We had our morning cuddles and our inside jokes. Almost to the exclusion of the rest of the world. And kindergarten began to loom as this entity I both knew was necessary--and dreaded.

And today . . . he set off for his adventure. And I sit here worrying. Will they "get" him? Will they get him the way I do? Will they understand that if he takes the screws out of the chair to build a robot, that it's all because he dreams big dreams? Will they get that he is smarter than almost anyone I know, that he is clever. That sometimes he talks about samurai battles and blowing things up, but he will patiently minister to our cat, removing any speck of dirt from its eyes.

And as for me . . . I have written in chaos for longer than a woman should. For over fifteen years now, I have written with noise, through pregnancies, through illness, through flooded bathrooms and worms on my pillow. And now . . . now I have a new life of sorts. I have all this quiet and whole days to myself. And I'm not a hundred percent sure what I'm going to do with it.

Today? I'm mostly thinking about him . . . and hoping he has a great day. Tomorrow? I have this novel I'm working on . . . .

Kindergarten . . .5 Days to Go

No blog today. Little Man and I went to kindergarten orientation, and though I've done this three other times, this time, especially, it felt as if my insides were breaking, my heart shattering just a bit. Of course, then we came home, and he opened the door to the bathroom, and said, "I need to go into my laboratory right now. If you need me, you knew where to find me." This is how he goes to pee. So you know, it's no wonder I'll miss him more than I can express, and it's no wonder I have a whole LOT more gray hair than when he arrived. So today, I am posting the letter that the principal read [as an aside, no it was not written by Abraham Lincoln, and it has be ascribed to numerous authors, so I can't honestly tell you who wrote it . . . i see it most ascribed to Dan Valentine and dated 20 years ago]. And yes, I wept through it.

My young son starts to school today...It's going to be sort of strange and new to him for awhile, and I wish you would sort of treat him gently. You see, up to now he's been king of the roost...He's been boss of the backyard...His mother has always been near to soothe his wounds and repair his feelings.


But now things are going to be different.


This morning he's going to walk down the front steps, wave his hand, and start out on the great adventure...It is and adventure that might take him across continents, across oceans...It's an adventure that will probably include wars and tragedy and sorrow...To live his life in the world he will have to live in, will require faith and love and courage.


So, World, I wish you would sort of look after him...Take him by the hand and teach him things he will have to know.

But do it gently, if you can.

He will have to learn, I know, that all men are not just, that all men are not true.
But teach him also that for every scoundrel there is a hero...that for every crooked politician there is a great and dedicated leader...Teach him that for every enemy, there is a friend.
Steer him away from envy, if you can...and teach him the secret of quiet laughter.


In school, World, teach him it is far more honorable to fail that to cheat...Teach him to have faith in his own idea, even if everyone says they are wrong...Teach him to be gentle with gentle people and tough with tough people.


Try to give my son the strength not to follow the crowd when everyone is getting on the bandwagon...Teach him to listen to all men - but teach him also to filter all he hears on a screen of truth and take just the good that siphons through.

Teach him, if you can, how to laugh when he's sad...Teach him there is no shame in tears...Teach him there can be glory in failure and despair in success.

Treat him gently, World, if you can, but don't coddle him...Because only the test of fire makes fine steel...Let him have the courage to be impatient...Let him have the patience to be brave.
Let him be no other man's man...Teach him always to have sublime faith in himself.
Because then he will always have sublime faith in mankind.


This is quite an order, World, but see what you can do...He's such a nice little fellow, my son!

The Anti-Hero

If you are my Facebook friend, you may have followed yesterday's comments. Dynamo Boy, the child formerly known as Demon Baby, was registered for kindergarten this spring. In true incompetent fashion, the schools around here make ALL children register the same day, so my little DB had to wait in a noisy gym for--wait for it--four hours. Four hours, for a guy like him . . . ain't happening. By the time they came to take him for testing, he did the childhood equivalent of telling them to go screw themselves. He wrestled himself away from a 70-year-old test lady, and ran sobbing to me. Because he was not tested, they suggested Kindergarten Boot Camp (that's not what they call it), for kids needs "a little extra help" before the fall. If you are a regular reader, you can mop up the coffee you just spit out.

So yesterday, off he went. And the following conversation occurred, and yes the vocabulary is accurate.

"How was your first day of Magic Camp [the ACTUAL name of Boot Camp]?"

"All right."

"Do you have any papers to show me?"

"Nah, I didn't do any projects today."

[I know my kid, so yes, this is the first question out of my mouth] "Did NO one do any projects or just YOU?"

"Just me."

"WHY didn't you do the project?"

"I told my teacher I did not have the proper supplies."

"What are the proper supplies?"

"Everything you gave me in that pencil pouch."

"Why did you tell the teacher that?"

"I tricked her. That's how I roll."

"Tricking isn't nice."

"But it kept me from doing dumb projects."

Yes . . . he is five.

If you are a long-time reader of this blog . . . then you know I'm not wrapped that tight. Or at least you know I don't "roll" in any normal fashion. I am not a soccer mom. I am a goth soccer mom, perhaps. But I'm not a "typical" mom. The discussions around this house are pretty high level for kids . . . and so it's not SHOCKING he is a little subversive. But HOW subversive . . . that's how he was born, I think. He is an Anti-hero.

Now . . . mothering a kid who sees the world this way is a challenge. And I get weary of know-it-alls who want me to squash his spirit. Who tell me this won't be "cute" when he's 12. No, it won't be. But . . . he is who he is. He sees the world in an anti-hero fashion. He will obey . . . just "enough" to get by. But no more, no less. And I, for one, just hope to be able to afford him a good lawyer when he's marching on Washington or changing the world someday.

I started thinking about heroes. Some are written--particularly in thrillers--as ordinary men pulled into extraordinary circumstances. I like those sort of tales. And some are written as wise asses and anti-heroes who get pulled into those same circumstances by the company they keep. I rather like those tales even better. Mike Lawson's fixer seems to fit that bill. There's always Hans Solo. :-)

So what's your favorite kind of hero? Why? And who's your favorite anti-hero?

Extremes

My Real Life

Today was SUPPOSED to be a writing day. All day. But I was up all night (!!)--ALL NIGHT--with a croupy Dynamo Boy. (Still sick, poor little guy.) Right now, I look like death warmed over. Add to that . . . I was "starting" to actually feel like I turned the corner with Crohn's. Yesterday I pushed so much fluids (beats going to the hospital for I.V.'s) that I thought . . . "I'm doing better." But no sleep (did I mention NO sleep???) and . . . today . . . not so much.

My Fake Life

MONDAY, I leave to do a big signing at the ALA conference in Washington, D.C. Glam life and all that. I meet two old friends for drinks and dinner. I'm planning on touring the National Gallery (yet again!). I'm lunching with one of my beta readers. I'm strolling near the monuments. I'm signing books and meeting tons o' people.

Anyone else feel like life pulls them in extremes? Do you have a Real Life and a Fake Life?

Writing Lessons from My Favorite Little Man

Today is Demon Baby's birthday . . . Hereafter, just to be referred to as "DB" (as he has graduated to Dynamo-Boy). Last night, I hugged him and said, "Five years ago, I was hugely preggers and waiting to meet you. You were in my belly." To which, he replied (I swear), "I was never in your belly." To which I replied, "You were. Even though it's hard to believe." I thought to myself, Is it time to go through the 'talk,' again? But no, he simply said, "I was on Demon Island. I was waiting to be chosen by a mom. You were it."

As a f/t writer, and a f/t mom of four . . . I learn life lessons every day. I also learn writing lessons. So in honor of my beloved, challenging, brilliant, frustrating, mischievous, sweet, hard-rock/punk loving, pirate of the high seas and king of my heart, I give you my favorite writing lessons learned from mothering a very special child.




1. Sometimes, you have to seek a little serenity, get lost in your art, and find a quiet place and quiet companion, in order to write. This isn't easy for me since DB ALWAYS finds me. But I'm working on carving out some peaceful time.

2. Sometimes, when the writing isn't going so well, it's good to go run around the yard and scream for a bit. The day this photo was taken, it was 40 degrees out and DB was barefoot and refused to put on shoes. This I would NOT recommend, but go ahead and howl at the moon if you need to.
3. When creating a villain, go ahead and be clever about it. Have him fool the world with his sweet looks and charming nature, but then . . . when your back is turned . . . let him have a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

4. Sometimes, you can try all you want to wrangle a character. But sometimes, they are going to do their own thing. As a pacifist, I brought DB with me to the Washington Mall to protest war. We marched. I gave him a sign. We chanted. I thought I was raising a peace-loving little man, destined to be a hippie, or maybe another classical musician in the family. Instead, he quickly showed an affinity for Rage Against the Machine, the Ramones, the Clash, and Lou Reed. Now, I can't fault his music taste, but he also has an obsession with Ninjas, swordfighting, dragons, and pirates. If it's untamed? He loves it. Characters are a lot like that. They have their own minds and forcing them to be anything but who they are is usually futile.

***********************************************************************

So have a pirate-filled, dragon-breathing sort of day today. And please share . . . what writing lessons have you learned from . . . life

Audience

Yesterday, Demon Baby created multiple paintings with watercolors, and I created an art gallery for him to show his work. Each painting has a name, which he never had to even pause to think about. They were all pretty unusual names for a four-year-old's art (not that this surprises me). The one in the photo is the Chinese Dragon of True Love. Other paintings were The Origins of World Peace, The Mystical Arts of Peace and Love, and The Dragon of Fates.

I worked very hard to maintain my level of enthusiasm for each masterpiece. By the tenth one--because I was not allowed to look at them sitting down, but had to leap up and view them from a certain angle--I was hoping Picasso might take a break.

"I want to make one for Miss Marybeth," he said. (Our most favoritest neighbor.) So he painted one for her.

Next he wanted to paint for all our neighbors. The thing is . . . other than two of our neighbors, we aren't particularly friendly with any of them. I don't want to get caught up in gossip and the mom-clucking that goes on when it seems like you get a few of the women around here together. So I keep to myself.

"But . . . we can't just randomly knock on doors giving away your paintings. They're too valuable."

That seemed to appease him, but I could see the disappointment on his face. You paint to share.

You write to share.

I wonder, as people struggle for contracts, or stuggle for their first contract, what part is wanting approval ("You're a real, live writer because you've been PAID!"), what part is dream (name on a cover), what part is fantasy ("A seven-figure deal at auction!"), and what part is wanting to share your work with others.

I tend to think of audience last, since I have many ideas that will never see the light of day, but that doesn't mean I won't play with them. But I do enjoy sharing with my critique group and my beta reader. I like to see if they got my meaning, or where I succeeded in stirring the emotion I intended.

But I don't know. Being published, in some ways, is like knocking on random doors. They don't know me. They buy my book--it's out there somewhere. Communicating. Sharing.

How about you? Where does the audience come into play?

Smile

Yesterday, Demon Baby decided to depict me in sidewalk chalk. We were outside drawing on the driveway, when he began assembling me. I say "assemble" since he was rather like Picasso. My legs were sideways and pieces of me were everywhere. But what amazed me was how he wanted me to hold still so he could capture me. "Wait . . . just like that, I need to study your arm. Your neck. Your smile."

He spent five full minutes on my smile. In Demon Baby time, for a kid who never stops moving, that's like a full hour.

Now, to be totally clear . . . the smile I got was a smiley-face smile. That is how four-year-olds draw. So whether he studied my smile or not, I was getting a U-shaped line. But the fact that he studied me--in fact insisted that I move into shadows so the sun didn't blind him so much--and painstakingly re-created what he thought was my smile in the middle of my face--with my two legs sideways next to it--said a lot about writing.

Because really, we all have a unique smile. We have a unique everything. And Demon Baby gets that. He spent five minutes because U-shaped line or not--in his mind, my smile wasn't like anyone else's smile.

That's how we have to write. Not only so our writing is unique, but that we pluck the precise descriptions that will set apart our characters from another writer's.

I got a sneak peak at my cover for Magickeepers II. I adore that they added the scattering of freckles on Isabella's face . . . to me, they are like a constellation of stars. And that's how I see her uniqueness. Her own constellation.

What detail have you recently written that you like because it captures something special in your mind?

Have a great weekend! Smile!

Need a Laugh?

If you really do . . . if you hate Mondays, if you need a laugh . . . you MUST visit the Demon Baby Blog today . . . and be SURE to read through the first link to the end of the comments . . . and then see the second link.

Enough said.


Enjoy your laugh.


http://demonbabyandme.blogspot.com/2009/06/dear-erie.html

Happy Monday.

Top Ten Things I Learned About Being a Writer--Courtesy of Demon Baby

1. You may THINK you need peace, quiet, candles, and a nice sonata on your iPod, but you can write with oatmeal on your shirt, a naked kid doing a breakdance in your office, and the Clash on the stereo.

2. When all else fails, a break to blow soap bubbles will cure what ails you.

3. Be thankful for the little things . . . like the birds in the nest outside your window and the worms in your garden that are now on your desk courtesy of a naked kid. It keeps life in perspective. Writers need perspective.

4. Make-believe is a rockin' way to go through life.

5. Embrace life. Gulp it in. That way you'll have lots to write about.

6. Work hard. Play harder.

7. When you've had a lousy day writing, get naked. [Aside. . . sometimes it does help.]

8. Naps are for wimps.

9. Save your work. Often.

10. Never let a Demon Baby with a peanut butter sandwich close to your CPU. Same for a Demon Baby, a glass of OJ, and your keyboard.


Thoughts? What has someone ELSE taught you about being a writer?

Shake It Loose, Part II

When all else fails, do like Demon Baby (and make sure you stay to the VERY end).

Shake it, Gang.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcoAZacGWsI&feature=email

Demons

I spend a lot of time thinking about demons. First, I have been writing about them, in Freudian Slip. My new work in progress toys with Death . . . so demons and angels cross my mind. But most of all, I spend a lot of time thinking about demons because of Demon Baby.

If you have ever, for a moment, wondered what I am up against, you must go here today. The pictures are worth a thousand words on this blog. But I think in a way, I am lucky. You see, I know what I am up against.

My demon is external. Demon Baby, more than anything, is an external force of mayhem that bears down on my Time (capital T because it is the Battle of Time) and my energy. From 7:00 a.m. until well past 8:00 at night, he moves at the speed of light, causing exhaustion in all those around him. He also brings me incredible joy and the tradeoff is well worth it. But my page count daily suffers immeasurably. But at least I know that's my battle.

Some writers have incredible internal demons. Let's not talk about this guy. Or they battle insecurity or procrastination. Doubt and angst. They battle the bottle or they battle those voices that say they'll never make it. They battle cynicism and they battle a loss of hope. They battle whatever their personal inner demon is. I have twin demons of Procastination and Disorganization. They are a mighty pair. The blessed thing is when you figure it out. Only when you can NAME your demon can you fight it.

My demon--my main one--is asleep right now. He is stark naked (of course--everyone around here knows he is on Naked Strike, week 15--it extends to sleep time). He is sleeping angelically, but soon he will rise and the Battle for Time will be waged. He is a formidable opponent, but at least I know who he is. Heck, I gave birth to him.

But what's YOUR demon?

Everything I Needed to Know About Being a Writer . . . I Learned From Demon Baby

Demon Baby breakdances now. For real. He's actually wildly talented at it. Which is amusing since no one in the family breakdances. He's like some hip-hop god in a 32-pounds-when-soaking-wet package. As I watched him do this for a HALF-HOUR last night (without stopping to rest once), I contemplated the lessons he has taught me about being a writer:

1. Be fearless. Demon Baby doesn't know fear. Whether he is trying to climb out the window, or fearlessly throwing syrup from the second-story landing, whether he charging full-speed at a wall just because, or breakdancing when no one's taught him . . . he is fearless. So I remember when I come to a point in my work in progress when I just don't know if I am writer enough to pull it off and I am afraid . . . BE FEARLESS.
2. Ignore your critics. For Demon Baby, most of what I say comes out like the parents in the Peanuts episodes. "MWAH, MWAH-MWAH-MWAH-MWAH" and he goes about doing what he's doing anyway. Sometimes we need to ignore our critics--especially that inner one.
3. When life hands you rejection, ask for a peanut butter sandwich. We all have bad days. When Demon Baby has a bad day, he wants half a peanut-butter sandwich (CREAMY, not crunchy). As an addendum to that, he wants the crusts cut off. When we face rejection, we should be kind to ourselves. And if there is someone special in our life, we should ask them to cut the crusts off so we feel extra loved.
4. Don't give up. This is a big one. Demon Baby has been trying to accomplish numerous missions. He wants the dogs to have total free rein in the house and be allowed to eat--like yesterday--the good cookies I bought for company. He has been trying to defeat the squirrels that raid his bird feeder by swinging his plastic light-up Star Wars Jedi light saber. But the squirrels return each day. He has been trying to bark and have conversations WITH the dogs. In their language. Despite the fact that he has not accomplished each of these things (with the exception of the last one--I think they are starting to listen to him and talk back), the next day he gets up COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS to the failure of the day before, and he tries again.
5. Dream big dreams. Most kids want to be an astronaut. Demon Baby wants to grow up to BE the moon. Not GO to the moon, but BE the moon. Enough said.
6. Fight the dragons of doubt. Demon Baby is under the impression that dragons live under the stairs. The entrance to their lair is through the air conditioning intake. He tries, almost daily, to take that apart so he can go and fight the dragons. I think of the dragons under the stairs as the dragons of doubt. It's good to leave them locked under the stairs, and if they come back, use your light saber to chase them back where they belong.
7. Free your imagination. If you read over on my Demon Baby blog . . . Demon decided he has a new name--Kirby. He also has a Hong Kong name--Tun-Link. He only answers to those names. Just in case you wondered . . . they are NOT his real name. Demon Baby has a rich inner life full of imagination. He sees things mere mortals do not. It is unfettered imagination, not tied in any way to the reality of the rest of the world. Writers need that kind of imagination.
8. Crayons are fun. We have crayons and marker pretty much everywhere. On furniture. On walls. On the carpet. I look at this as . . . not being afraid of the red pen. Edit away!

So there you go. Turns out I know everything there is to know about being a writer--from Demon Baby.

Any lessons you learned about being a writer from your kids or dogs or cats . . . that you care to share?