Hear that "Splat?"

That’s the sound of my head exploding. Let me bring you, dear reader, up to speed on the goings on around here.

In the past couple of weeks, D. and I have:
1. Hosted a big Obama Inauguration Dance Party (it was awesome!);
2. Starred occupied space in a TV spot that filmed over two nights (like midnight to 8 am), which screwed royally with my sleep/wake/work schedule;
3. Babysat a four year old for an evening (nearly three entire hours);
4. Continued on our balance-the-budget, no-wine-for-you, never-eat-in-a-restaurant-again lives.

The good news is I have been working a bunch:
1. Writing copy for a website;
2. Writing copy for a media kit;
3. Writing copy for a direct mailer;
4. Writing four blog posts a week (for a client, not me!);
5. Had a crash course in writing for SEO, Marketing for Social Media, Marketing for Social Networking;
6. And stayed on top of all the keywords and metatags, twittering, posting, templating, widgets, application development, viral video, Facebook, LinkedIn, Hulu, YouTube and MySpace activity that one person could possibly handle.

The bad news is, apparently copywriting has been outsourced overseas while I wasn't looking and nobody wants to pay anything. Blech. Such is the life of the American worker with a big mortgage.

I had a really great Super Bowl post in my head. Then it exploded and the moment has passed.

Maybe I’ll be more interesting next time.

Lose Weight, Exercise More, Blah, Blah, Blah

My 2009 resolutions are short and sweet. No major improvements needed? Hell, yes, there are. But I'm taking it easy on myself. Overreaching is overrated.

1. Make Money With My New Business
   This is a biggie. We sold our business last July, with a financial cushion to hold us over for about a year while we launched our new businesses. That cushion was based on the new owner of our business paying us a nice chunk of money (also known as "the mortgage") every month, beginning January 1. Now it looks like that monthly payment is everything but happening. Thus, earning income from my freelance copywriting business is ever more important.
   
   
2. Cut Back on Spending
   See above.
   
   
   
   
   
3. Lose The Damn Weight
   By eating more veggies and fruit.
   By eating less sugar and flour.
   By training for a half marathon in April.
   By getting outside for more adventures.
   By being accountable. And it starts here: 28 pounds, people. 28 pounds.
   It's a health issue. I'm not being my body's best friend. And who else will be?
   
   
   
   
   
4. Write, Write, Write
   My parents' life stories
   My blog
   My novel
   My clients' work

That'll do me.

Last Year's Resolutions--How'd We Do?

We, meaning me, of course. How you did is your own personal business and nobody else's. You need not expose your failures here. I'll do it for both of us.

2008’s list wasn’t a total washout. I really did okay. Having a major life change (I have them Almost. Every. Freakin. Year.) helped my resolutions along. For example, seven weeks of vacation made it much easier to keep the take care of myself promise. And I'm not apologizing for it, either. That's part of the growth, see. I've been working since I'm eight years old, and thirty-eight years later I should have some time off.

Digressing here. Guilty much?

And, it was easier to be kind to D. seeing how he had two surgeries in three weeks' time. The first was an emergency (are there any others?) appendectomy in Missoula, Montana, and then there was his double hernia repair when we got home. Poor baby! I was very kind and patient with my little patient. I had to carry all the grocery bags for weeks. And the 50-pound suitcase up the broken escalator at Sea-Tac airport. While the line behind us grew. And people glared at him for not helping me.

Again, I digress. Whiney much?

As for the rest of the list, here's an honest accounting, including my original resolution and self-imposed grade:

Resolution #1: Be more patient with my husband. As in, no rolling eyes when he asks if we have any butter. This is a tough one because it involves a DNA transplant. Might need help. I reserve the right to silently say, “Have you LOOKED in the refrigerator, by chance?????”
Grade: B+. I have tried, and it actually works. He’s sweet and deserves it.

Resolution #2: Scoop the cats’ litter boxes every day. This will be an easy one: if I do it each morning after I feed them, it will only take a minute, max. Maybe it will cure the phantom pooper, too. I don’t know any cats who get scooped every day, but I’m sure they’re happier than mine, who deserve a cleaner environment in which to poo.
Grade: B+. I've missed a few days, but all in all, I am the queen of scooping kitty poop. So proud.

Resolution #3: Be kinder. I am not completely unkind, mind you, and I will never be one of those annoying public-sweet-closet-bitchy women. I keep it real. But at times, that realness lands on others with a thud, or worse—with a smack. It’s not what I say, it’s how I say it, they say. I’ve heard it enough to know I need to work on it.
Grade: A. Helped along by selling a business that stressed me out to the max.

Resolution #4: Write. I have two novels in the works. I need to get back to them.
Grade: F. As in FFFFailing miserably. (Sidenote to Hay—here's your answer!!) This one goes to the top of 2009’s list. (Novels aside, I do write almost every day. Make excuses much?)

Resolution #5: Get organized. Since we moved into this house in April, I have never felt completely unpacked. There are still two unfinished rooms where boxes are shoved into corners, the closets are jammed full of crap, and nothing hangs on the walls—because we haven’t painted them yet. My mind is not at rest, and every time I walk into those rooms I feel stressed. I will pick out the paint and get started. Hang the pictures and clean out the closets. Breathe easier.
Grade: A. Wow. I didn’t realize this was so undone last year. We’re good now. Again, selling the biz made this achievable.

Resolution #6: Attend Boot Camp faithfully. I have done better than I expected—I have survived two 8-week sessions of Boot Camp, and I’m stronger, my clothes fit better, and I love the class. I’m signing up for round 3 (I need the discipline of a class structure) and I vow to not miss any classes unless I’m sick or out of town. Three hours per week is no big deal. I just have to make myself get dressed and leave the house.
Grade: C. I did complete Round 3 of Boot Camp. But then I stopped having fun. It seemed to be getting more competitive, and I don't do competitive any more. I didn’t lose any more weight, after the first 6 lbs (which came right back—the shock!), and it was a lot of work. At 6 a.m. So I didn't sign up for Round 4. Long hikes and light jogs work for me, and will appear on 2009’s list.

Resolution #7: Be this girl (come warmer weather, of course—I’m not going near the water now):

Grade: F. Didn’t. Paddle. Once. We sold the business, traveled a bit, then D.’s hernias appeared. That was it for strenuous activities for this summer.

And this girl:

Grade: A. I rode my bike a lot.

Bonus points: I was also this girl:

That was a big deal for me. I love the skiing. Not the knee twisting.

Resolution #8: Get myself on one of these:

purchased, rented, borrowed—whatever it takes. Because I had nearly forgotten the pure happiness I feel when I’m sailing. I don’t want to forget.
Grade: F. Didn’t do it. Stepped on a boat in a slip once. Does that count?

Resolution #9: Take good care of myself, however I define it, each day. Naps, massages, walks, bike rides. Be with people who are good for my soul. Simply put, do more of the stuff I want to do and less of the stuff I do not.
Grade: A+++++. I rocked this one.

Overall Grade: A-. I became a happier person in 2008. Don’t know how I could top that, but I think all things are possible . . . even getting rid of those 20 annoying pounds I need to lose again this year. Now I need to start that list. . .

Dusting the Cobwebs off My Blog

Do NOT adjust your screen. There is nothing wrong with your eyesight, either. This is a genuine actual blog post by Yours Truly. So where have I been, you ask? I’ve been Lucky. And Happy. And Healthy. And Honestly, life has been real good.

I’ve been right here, thinking that my little ‘ol life just isn’t that interesting right now. There has been Nothing To Write About. Election's over. No angst about that anymore. And since I don’t go to work “out there” any longer (although I have been very busy working right here from home thanks), and I don’t interact with dozens of people every day, I just don’t see much worth talking about. The view out my office window is of our curvy, hilly, nicely covered-in-snow street. It’s pretty. And quiet. And that’s it.

I don’t drive around town much these days, so I don’t see Bouncing Girls Fresh Off the Bus that I just have to write about. Even my family is disgustingly drama-free. D. is wonderful as mostly-always; mom and dad and my siblings are great. We’re all getting older and I worry about my 83- and 81-year-old parents, but they are quite the happy little octegenarian couple and for the most part, very healthy indeed.

See? I told you—my life is not interesting right now. And that’s just fine.

But the thing is, this blog was intended to be a place I can be creative on a regular basis—by writing, which means more to me than anything. Now I write for a living—a limited, sparse living so far, but hey, it’s a start. I write every day. And perhaps that little itch is being adequately scratched.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps I’ve just been lazy. Could it be? Uh, yeah, it so could. Maybe I need to stretch myself. Force myself to be creative. Find things to write about.

Well, let's get going, then.

The Fresh Air Interview with Claire B.

Ok, so we’re just pretending here. Terry Gross doesn't know I’m alive. But if she did. . .

Cue snappy music. . . bah de dum de dum!

Terry Gross: From WHYY in Philadelphia. . . This is Fresh Air. I’m Terry Gross. My guest today is Claire B., a sometimes-blogger from the Seattle area, who has surprised —and perhaps relieved—the blogging community by dropping out of the scene for the past five weeks. Welcome to Fresh Air. Thanks for being here.

Me: You’re welcome, Terry. And may I just say that I’ve noticed none of your guests seem to reply with a simple, “you’re welcome,” when you thank them?

TG: Huh. Why no, I haven’t noticed that. (Chuckle) It’s sort of intriguing that you have.

Me: Well, Terry, I can’t help it. I was taught the proper response to “thank you” is, of course, “you’re welcome.” Yet often the reply is, “thank you for having me,” which leads the original thanker in this case, you, to be in the prickly situation of answering “you’re welcome” back to the person you were originally trying to thank—or just sort of letting the second “thank you” hang out there in the air. It’s unsettling. To me. I can’t speak for anyone else.

TG: Interesting. Well, let’s move on to the interview before we run out of time. I’d first like to ask you, why haven’t you blogged in a over a month?

Me: Well, partly because I’ve been quite busy of late. You see, my husband. . .

TG: I believe you refer to him as “D.” on your blog?

Me: That’s right. You see, D. and I used to run a business together. We did that for five years of the six we’ve lived here in Bellingham. And we worked together for four and a half years before that.

TG: So, doing the math here, you’ve worked together for almost ten years, then? And you’ve only been married, for . . . what, eleven?

Me: Yes, correct. Oh what joy we have known. 24 hours a day, 7 days a week in each other’s company. Our very dissimilar communication and management styles only added that extra spice to our marriage that so many couples crave. One day we were “discussing” work and our relationship and the strain it sometimes, well to be honest, often brings to our lives—I believe D. was dodging the plates I was hurling toward his head at the time—and in between ducks he suggested that we maybe ought to think about not working together any more. We decided it would be beneficial to seek another lifestyle—one that fits our personal passions, our yearning to have more control over our time, and our desire to stay married.

TG: So rather than just get a divorce, you, what? Sold your business?

Me: Yes. In hindsight, the divorce might have been simpler. . . and of course, both processes involve lawyers and CPAs and financial planners and mediators. But in the end, we made the right decision after all. We’re very happy that we decided to sell the business.

TG: So you’re glad that’s over with. And now you can start something new. What’s on the horizon?

Me: Well, Terry, I’m going to be a freelance copywriter and also get back to work on my two novels.

TG: Ahhh, yes. The writer in you is coming out. How does that feel?

Me: It is thrilling beyond description.

TG: (Chuckle) Well, if you’re going to be a writer, you might want to work on coming up with one.

Me: Hmph, well, yes I suppose you’re right. Truth is, I used to be so envious of D. because he’s a very gifted and talented musician who has always known beyond a doubt that music is his passion. I have envied countless people who write and talk about their passions, wondering all along what the hell mine was and when it would present itself to me. Then I began writing classes and was soon writing all the time. Writing fiction, writing my blog, writing professionally for advertising. And do you know what, Terry?

TG: Um, no, what?

Me: Just thinking about being a writer full-time—just thinking about it—makes me feel funny inside like riding a roller coaster or falling in love or speaking in front of a large group. Without the nausea. That’s the thrill. And that’s my passion.

TG: Well, that’s great, then. Fabulous. One more thing: I noticed you have no photo on your blog.

Me: Yes, that’s true. You know, when I started blogging I was very naïve. I felt exposed to the whole world. I didn’t want anyone to know my innermost feelings and thoughts. I was embarrassed that I thought anyone could possibly be interested in what I had to say. This was before I decided I didn’t give a rat’s ass what anybody thought. And realized that only about four people on the planet look at my blog. And that they are among the finest human beings out there. They even say nice things about my writing. It took all that silly fear away.

TG: Yes. I see. What does that have to do with the photo? Or the lack thereof?

Me: Well the rest of it is, I was mostly afraid I would be recognized by my staff or a customer. I live in a very small town and being a very public business owner as well made me feel way too naked.

TG: So you felt naked? Can you descibe that?

Me: I was uncomfortable. I was worried someone would find my blog and see what I was saying about my personal life. Or them. Or D. No way did I want any proof that I was connected to that Claire B. person.

TG: Well you are Claire B., right? Or is that a nom de plume?

Me: I love it when you speak French, Terry.

TG: So, what is it?

Me: It’s a pen name, is what it is.

TG: You know, I didn’t think you looked like a Claire. Where did that name come from?

Me: Claire is what my parents almost named me. The B. is for Brennan, my great-grandmother’s maiden name.

TG: I’ll look for that name on the New York Times Best Seller List.

Me: Oh, you do go on! Seriously, though, you should keep your eyes peeled for that.

TG: Well I want to thank you very much for being here.

Me: You’re welcome.

TG: No “thank you for having me?”

Me: Um, no.

TG: So you think we look alike?

Me: Um, again, no.

Terry Gross and Guess Who?

My Stolen Food Story

Last month, I was lucky enough to attend a fantastic writers conference close to my home. One class, led by Deborah Madison, prolific cookbook author and promoter of the Slow Foods Movement, was about journaling life through the lens of food. We all shared how food shaped our childhoods, and how we associated food and our mothers and our fathers. Then Deborah asked us to write about the stolen food in our pasts. Stolen food? Puzzled looks crossed many faces as if to say, Moi? And then, delicious, mischievous expressions replaced the haughty ones as each writer put pen to page.

As it turned out, no one in the class had difficulty crafting an essay right away. One gentleman, about my dad’s age, wrote that he and his friends fed themselves during the Depression by stealing green apples off of trees, grapes from the vine, and watermelons from railcars. The lady who owned the grapevines always chased the boys from her field—while never picking any grapes herself. And since those long-ago days of his youth, the man won’t eat sweet apples—he longs for the tartness of the unripe fruit from his youth. They just never tasted as good as they did when were stolen.

Another writer shared her story of stealing a block of Vermont cheddar cheese from a Manhattan gourmet market—when she could well afford to buy it. She secreted the two-pound chunk within the folds of a voluminous coat and likewise kept her secret all these years, wrapped in layers of shame and need.

As for me, I had a hard time getting started—I couldn’t think of a time I had stolen food. I was the kid who NEVER stole penny candy because being raised Paranoid Roman Catholic, I knew beyond a doubt that stealing would ensure that, upon leaving the corner store with my precious stolen Boston Baked Beans or Devil Dogs, I would immediately be flattened by a passing delivery truck and go STRAIGHT TO HELL. I have never stolen any food, I thought. And then a thought bubble appeared over my head.

Ahhhh, yes. The cupcake.

This is my stolen food story.

Have you ever been inside a real Italian bakery? Have you witnessed the piles of chewy pignolis, flaky butter cookies, the gleaming tortes, the orgasmic cannoli? You know what I’m talkin’ about, eh? If not, fuggedaboudit, because readers reader, you have not lived. To taste authentic Italian pastries is to dance just outside the gates of heaven.

Unfortunately for me and my chubby thighs, I grew up right next to the Italian part of town, and my daily walk to elementary school took me past Rossi’s Bakery. (It also took me past a bowling alley, two bars, a pizza joint and a corner diner, but they were meaningless then and now.) The sweet smells wafting through the air set my mouth to watering as I peered through the plate glass window—my daily exercise in frustration and longing.

Once in a while my mom would let me accompany her while she picked up a loaf of Italian bread or some snowflake rolls. (Oooohhhhh, snowflake rolls! Your rich, buttery insides are exquisite beyond belief, outdone only by your soft, flour-dusted crusts!) On certain, perfect days when the birds were singing tra la la, the counter lady in her starched apron and white polyester uniform would grab a waxed paper square, pick out a chocolate chip cookie, and hand it over to me. “Say thank you,” my mom would say.

“But I’d rather have a cupcake,” I would think, gobbling the cookie anyway while I stared through the glass case. I had never seen cupcakes like these: each a perfect replica of the next. Each with exactly the same number of swirls in the frosting, the same pattern of multi colored sprinkles or even silver sparkles.

Oh, yes, I wanted one. And each time I asked my mom, the answer was the same: “NO.” Dammit, life was as unfair as it could possibly be.

But my luck was about to change. One day, mom called me to the kitchen. “Run to the store and get a loaf of bread, nothing else, and bring me my change. And hurry, dinner’s ready in twenty minutes.” Off to the corner market I went, bought the bread, wrapped one chubby hand around the tie wrap of the bread bag and the other around mom’s change, and walked back home.

Where the miracle occurred. Instead of putting out her own two hands—one for the bread, one for the change—mom only asked for the bread. I slyly slipped the change into my pocket—I think it was twenty-eight cents—and quickly left the room.

For days, I waited for her to ask me for the change. She never did. After a few weeks, I figured she had forgotten all about it. The coast was clear! My chance was upon me! Cupcakes filled every dream while I hatched my plan.

The morning of my heist, I walked past the bakery on my way to school, just like every other day. I peered past my reflection through the plate glass window, just like every other day. I spied my perfect cupcake waiting there for me, taunting me, just like every other day. But I knew that this day was not just like every other—this was one I had been waiting for.

At school, the hours shuffled by until at last the bell rang and I was free to claim my sweet prize. I anticipated the sugary frosting and dark chocolate cake as I flew out of the building and through the gate, down the street and around the corner. For the first time, I boldly entered the bakery knowing that finally, I would have what I wanted.

I faced the white starch lady and asked for a cupcake. She looked at me incredulously, but bent over and slid the mirrored door open on the case anyway. “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” she said. Smiling, I handed over the money that I had secreted away from my mother all those many days.

My eyes glowed with expectation as I left the bakery with my treasure. For a few blocks, I carried it in both hands, admiring its curves and swirls. Then slowly I peeled away part of the paper wrapper and took a bite. Nothing could have made me any happier. Down the street I walked, savoring my sweet, sweet cupcake in surprisingly small bites. Frosting coated my upper lip. I licked the paper, trying to make it last as long as possible, but knew I must finish it before I arrived home and raised the suspicion of my entire family.

In my sugary stupor I lowered my guard, forgetting that I was Up to Something, when suddenly I heard a shout: “Hey! Where did you get THAT??”

Jolted out of my bliss, I looked around in dismay to see who had ruined another of the relatively few good days of my early adolescence. It was my brother. My brother, who knew that I didn’t have money of my own to be spending on cupcakes. My brother, who knew that if our mother had given me money for a cupcake, he damn sure was going to get one, too. I was busted. I managed a lame “none of your beeswax” or something, and gobbled up the rest of my suddenly oversweet cake. It went down in a big lump.

I dreaded the confrontation that awaited me. Sure enough, when I reached home, brother John (taller, thinner, swifter) had already told mom what he saw. I knew this the moment I met her in the kitchen, and I knew that she knew where the money had come from. “That was my change, wasn’t it, Claire?”

“Yes,” I answered, feeling ashamed and full of regret.

I don’t remember my punishment, but I’ve never forgotten how it felt to get away with something (quite an accomplishment in a family of my size, when twelve sets of eyes were usually upon me), to have something I really wanted (of course it was food-related; many lifelong issues around that subject), and to be caught in the end, ensuring that my joy was short-lived and ultimately guilt-inducing.

While the joy was fleeting, the feelings around the incident shaped much of my young life. Who was I to have such pleasure? I didn’t deserve it. Silly me, enjoying a treat out in the open like that—it’s far better to be sneaky with food. Then, no one can harass you about needing to lose weight. The guilt and shame piled up, over and over, like so many layers on a cake, until I pushed it back down with a squeaky clean plate at the dinner table, a trip to the cookie jar, or a big piece of mom’s home baked blueberry pie. With ice cream, of course.

The Last Available Room on the Island (Whidbey, That Is)

Long, long ago—like at the end of February—I spent a GLORIOUS three days surrounded by authors, editors, agents, and publishers at the Whidbey Island Writers Conference. I learned a great deal about the business of writing and publishing while feeling the thrill of rubbing elbows with my personal celebrities—writers—such as Erik Larson , William Dietrich, Deborah Madison, Stephanie Kallos, Elizabeth George, Stephanie Elzondo Griest (wearer of extremely cool boots) and Randy Sue Coburn. At the end of each day, following the many seminars and speeches, writing exercises and recitations, my spirit was bolstered with the camaraderie that fellow (make that actually published) writers bring—while my head was packed to overflowing with ideas and inspiration.

Luckily, I was able to retreat to my homey B&B, with a quaint, peaceful bedchamber all to myself, where I luxuriated in:

Comfortable, fine bedding!

Fluffy towel(s)!



The finest literature!




Interesting antiques!

And De-luxe bath products!




My eyes rested upon the amazing water views!


Alas, my stay was only for two nights. But then, two nights with THIS nightmare-inducing toilet paper was enough:

For that fresh, clean, patriotic feeling--all day!

There’s nothing like it. At least, I’ve never seen anything like it. Fortunately, I didn’t have to SHARE THE BATHROOM with the other couple who was staying at the B&B; they decided to have a weekend in Vancouver instead. Whoever you are, nice couple, I thank you. Not that I would have minded sharing the toilet with your husband. But the star-studded TP? All mine! You woulda had to fight me for it.

Next year, I’m booking my room EARLY.

Today's Report from the Whidbey Island Writers Conference

Day 2. Today was filled with exciting opportunities to learn from folks who do the business of writing every day. First, I enjoyed a lively, at times hilarious, and often goosebump-inducing story performed by a real, live, indigenous Yu'pik Eskimo storyteller named Jack Dalton. Funny and dramatic at all the right moments, he entertained and inspired. Storytelling looks like it takes a lot of practice and enormous talent to do well, and he did. Jack made me feel like he was speaking straight to my heart; he made me feel like my writing talent has been given to me so that I can express my ideas to others, because who knows, maybe I, too, will actually save a life with my words, like he did. In his case, it was a six-foot-eight-inch Maori from New Zealand. I doubt that will be my experience--but who knows? Anything can happen.

Next, I took a seminar on incorporating screenplay writing tricks into fiction writing, given by Randy Sue Coburn. She is a kind, warm, smart, accomplished and way cool chick, who wrote the screenplay Mrs. Parker and the Vicious Circle, as well as the novel Owl Island, which I purchased and asked her to sign for me.

In the second of my series of dorky encounters with authors, I was chit-chatting with Randy Sue while she was signing my book, and when I said the word experience, it was unfortunately accompanied by a few droplets of my very own saliva, which landed on the table between she and me. I know she saw this and while I said oh! excuse me, she just kept smiling and signing.

I was two for two. I greatly feared the next author book-signing, but did not allow that fear (thank you Eleanor Roosevelt) to stop me from purchasing ten or twelve books and rallying myself to have them signed without making an ass of myself again.

I then participated in a writing seminar with the lovely and wonderful Deborah Madison, author of The Greens Cookbook, Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, (a recipe from which you have seen here), Local Flavors, Vegetarian Suppers, and about a hundred other cookbooks and magazine articles. We spent 90 minutes writing about our lives as seen through the lens of food, and it was fascinating! The topics:

Write about your mother's food. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about your father's food. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about food you have stolen. Ten minutes. Go!
Write about what you have when you are eating alone.

You might want to try these exercises yourself. They were incredibly insightful, and everyone's were interesting. Deborah Madison is someone I would like to have for a mother-in-law. She is awesome.

A woman in the class wrote very well. As she read her pieces, I thought, "wow, she is a really good writer." At the end of the class, I saw her name tag: Stephanie Kallos, author of last year's popular novel Broken For You.

She and I talked after the class and she was really, really, really nice and gracious and I managed to have an interaction with her completely devoid of dorkiness. Whew. She wrote a very nice inscription in my copy of her book.

My last session was with Michele Scott, who, after about 200 rejection letters, landed a three-book deal for wine-themed murder mysteries. I kid you not. Talk about a niche! She was really nice and full of information and told me to email her if I ever needed inspiration.

After a long day of writing classes and shmoozing with the authors, I was beat. And, as is often the case, I wanted a nice frosty beverage to make it all go away facilitate the creative process. I drove through this impossibly precious (nod to Melanie at BeanPaste) waterfront town we're in, to the imposing old tavern, complete with wooden swinging doors, a la Gunsmoke. I moseyed up to the bar, ordered a beer, and made an instant friend with the only other barfly, a woman from Montana who was also doing the writers conference. She invited me to tag along to dinner, where she was meeting another creative and fun, very cool (and beautiful) woman from Vancouver BC. The three of us had dinner, drank wine, and talked about writing. And that's all we talked about. I don't even know their last names. It was all about the writing.

And it was a perfect day.

Reporting LIVE! from the Whidbey Island Writers Conference

Each year the Whidbey Island Writers Association presents a writers conference. Read the list of agents, publishers, and authors who are presenting here and be amazed.

Here for the first time, I feel giddy with creative joy and excited like a little kid at Legoland. Two and a half days surrounded by real writers. Real editors. Real people who work in publishing and are looking for new ideas, new book topics, or the next James Frey J.K. Rowling.

Yesterday I met one of the keynote speakers, Erik Larson. (Met means I bought one of his books and asked him to sign it for D.) Erik is an author of non-fiction books about historical events and the people involved in them, who caused or tried to prevent them, or whose actions changed the course of our lives. I greatly admire his work and was looking forward to meeting him, if only for a moment. And in that 30-second exchange, I revealed that I am, clearly, one of the world’s biggest dorks.

Me: “Hi, I’m Claire.” I shake his extended hand, hand him the book to sign. “My husband read this in a couple of days, and raved about it for a couple of months. I’m reading Thunderstruck now. I’m learning so much. It makes me feel smart!”

Erik Larson: “I was hoping to stir your passion, not make you feel smart!”

Me, Dork: “Oh, well, I haven’t gotten to that part yet.” I smile my most clueless smile, turn, walk away, and know that inside, Erik Larson is regretting, just a little bit, that he agreed to do this conference. At least he sold some dork another book.

Reading, Not Writing

It was written by David James Duncan [not to be confused with all of the other David Duncans out there, like this one, who looks like a nice photographer guy, this one, who wore out the shredders at Arthur Anderson getting rid of Enron evidence., or this one, who was a prolific screenwriter (The Time Machine) and died in Everett, WA, just down the road a piece.]

It weighs 1.1 lbs (.4989 kilos for our metric friends).

It contains 656 pages of text. (No pictures! No illustrations!)

It has received 99 “5 star” ratings on Amazon.com.

It is my book group book—and we’re meeting one week from tonight.

I only got it from the library yesterday.

In order to participate in the discussion, I must read 94 pages per day. Yikes.

Who has time to write? (New Year's Resolution #4, is in danger, and it's only the 7th. (Note to self: I think book group has to go, as much as I enjoy it; I must write.)

Next time it's my turn to choose our book, we're reading this:

So easy! And so good!

Dearest Reader: Have you read The Brothers K? Do you remember? (It was published waaaaaay back in 1992.) What did you think?

Oh God, Not MORE New Year’s Resolutions?!!? Yup.

Monday night, we had a gathering of friends and family (will it EVER end??) at our house. It was lovely, my carpets are unscathed and nobody revealed any naked body parts, intentionally or not. At some point while I was still semi-coherent (the last guests left at about 2:30 am), we went around the table answering the venerable, quintessential New Year’s Eve question: “What are your New Year’s Resolutions?” One by one, we professed a goal or two. Until it was my cousin’s turn. His answer? “I never make resolutions.” His tone? And don’t ask me again next year. We moved on to the next guest.

I’ve been thinking about this—probably too much—but hey, there’s nothing of terrible importance going on right now (as in, no meals to plan). I just don’t get this hard line that folks like my cousin have against New Year’s Resolutions.

To me, the non-believers fall into one or more of three categories:

1. They believe they need no improvement (and that right there is a fat clue);

2. They know they won’t keep their resolutions, so they don’t bother to make them (have they given up on themselves?)

3. They think it’s a silly clichéd tradition, like wearing funny hats and blowing through noisemakers at midnight (awesome!).

Well yes, we all know that it’s cliché, that resolutions are as are easy to make as a bowl of cereal—and as hard to keep as a mammogram appointment. (Two bad similes in one sentence! How does she do it?) And how many of us remember—much less keep—our sincerely made resolutions by April when all we can think about are taxes, not diets or quitting smoking or going to the gym three times a week no matter what?

I love how bloggers are writing about their resolutions, and I’ve decided to join in the fun. My list will be lurking out there in black and white forever. How convenient for beating myself up referring back to when I need reminding of what the hell it was I said I would do in the bask of a golden champagne-induced personal breakdown holiday glow.

To me, there’s no harm in taking stock of myself, blowing through an entire box of Kleenex and bottle of good Syrah, then dealing realistically with my shortcomings (unlike my cousin, the rest of us have them), and vowing to do better.

So here we go. Here’s what I need to improve, and I solemnly vow that I resolve to do so:

1. Be more patient with my husband. As in, no rolling eyes when he asks if we have any butter. This is a tough one because it involves a DNA transplant. Might need help. I reserve the right to silently say, "Have you LOOKED in the refrigerator, by chance?????"
   
   
2. Scoop the cats’ litter boxes every day. This will be an easy one: if I do it each morning after I feed them, it will only take a minute, max. Maybe it will cure the phantom pooper, too. I don’t know any cats who get scooped every day, but I’m sure they’re happier than mine, who deserve a cleaner environment in which to poo.
   


3. Be kinder. I am not completely unkind, mind you, and I will never be one of those annoying public-sweet-closet-bitchy women. I keep it real. But at times, that realness lands on others with a thud, or worse—with a smack. It’s not what I say, it’s how I say it, they say. I’ve heard it enough to know I need to work on it.
   


4. Write. I have two novels in the works. I need to get back to them.
   


5. Get organized. Since we moved into this house in April, I have never felt completely unpacked. There are still two unfinished rooms where boxes are shoved into corners, the closets are jammed full of crap, and nothing hangs on the walls—because we haven’t painted them yet. My mind is not at rest, and every time I walk into those rooms I feel stressed. I will pick out the paint and get started. Hang the pictures and clean out the closets. Breathe easier.
   


6. Attend Boot Camp faithfully. I have done better than I expected—I have survived two 8-week sessions of Boot Camp, and I’m stronger, my clothes fit better, and I love the class. I’m signing up for round 3 (I need the discipline of a class structure) and I vow to not miss any classes unless I’m sick or out of town. Three hours per week is no big deal. I just have to make myself get dressed and leave the house.
   


7. Be this girl (come warmer weather, of course—I’m not going near the water now).
   


8. And this girl.
   


9. Get myself on one of these, purchased, rented, borrowed—whatever it takes. Because I had nearly forgotten the pure happiness I feel when I’m sailing. I don’t want to forget.
   



10. Take good care of myself, however I define it, each day. Naps, massages, walks, bike rides. Be with people who are good for my soul. Simply put, do more of the stuff I want to do and less of the stuff I do not.

Well, this ought to be enough to set me on the path to self-love, family harmony, and life balance. Who knew it could be SO EASY? Stay tuned.

NaNoWriMoNOT

I was so excited to be part of National Novel Writing Month! I came up with a story idea on November 1st. I started writing every day. 1700 words a day. I slacked off when it came close to the 8th, when we were getting ready to go to New York.

Working ten hours a day and trying to keep the rest of my life running (clean clothes are a must) was the most I could do on some days. Writing is for people who don't have to work for a living.

I made great progress on the plane coming home from NY. And that's the last bit I wrote. My total? 11,496 words. The goal was 50,000 words. I scored about twenty percent of the goal.

I'm not sure how I feel about this: while I didn't "win," I certainly don't feel like a loser; I feel a bit of real achievement. The program worked by just getting me writing; it was invigorating to be part of a worldwide effort by writers from all backgrounds and abilities, all working toward the same very personal goal. In that respect, it worked brilliantly--it got me writing a new story and I was writing every day just to get that story out, not for it to be perfect.

But writing every day in November? For me, there could hardly be a worse month. I really had no time to even read a newspaper, much less two hours a day to create a novel from nothing--no plot, no outline, no character development--nothing but a blank page. Writing is for people with the luxury of time.

I'm not disappointed in myself. It would be nice to have been able to write 50,000 words in November, but I just couldn't. It would have been possible only if I took that time away from my family and work obligations. How haughty and self-centered that would have been. Can't imagine it: "Sorry, Mom, I'd love to visit with you but I must write. See you in a couple of hours." Maybe that's how some writers do it, but that's not me.

So now what? I'm going to make January my own Novel Writing Month. There is so much less going on in my life in January (I think). Maybe I'll try on that haughty writer's persona, shut the door, and practice the following: No, I'm sorry, I can't. I have to write today.

My Favorite Poem by My Favorite Poet

THE PEDIGREE of honey
Does not concern the bee;
A clover, any time, to him
Is aristocracy.

Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
From Complete Poems, 1924

I feel like the PB&J

I feel like a sandwich. Not eating one, but being one. On one side of me are the self-induced pressures of writing a novel for NaNoWriMo at the clip of 1700 words a day, plus participating in NaBloPoMo, with the requirement to post every day to this blog (thank god I only have one). On the other side is Thanksgiving looming before me. I’m hosting, as usual, and there will be twelve people at my house.

On the writing: I was out of town for six days, over last weekend, and accomplished some—but not enough—writing. I got to know my characters better, and figured out some scenarios that could work for the Big Secret they share.

This is good, for when writing a novel from scratch, i.e., when you pop open the laptop and start Word and a blank page stares you down and you then begin writing a story with characters you do not know and a town you have not named and a plot that is yet uninteresting, you have a huge challenge before you—one that is the most inspiring freedom you can experience. I think that’s the Whole Idea behind NaNoWriMo—have fun, be inspired, be overwhelmed with possibility, be scared that you cannot do it, and do it anyway. How very cool.

As for Thanksgiving, I’m thankful that I don’t have to cook a turkey, which is going to happen about the same time I become a size 2 and give up beer and wine. I do let it into my house, however, but only because I don’t want to be the Thanksgiving Witch. I’d rather have a meatless day—it is my house, after all, but I want my friends and family to be happy, too.

I do have about one hundred and fifty other things on my list, from cleaning the house and shopping for groceries to finding the china and figuring out how to get twelve people around my table.

I’m feeling a little squished, but it will be fine. It will all work out. We’ll have plenty of good visiting and conversation and lots of food to eat. But not PB&Js.

Things That Spell Thirteen

T is for Travel, which I love and don't get to do often enough

H is for Hussy, which I have been described as and have no problem with

I is for Irish, which I am fortunate to be, thoroughly and completely: the sappy, emotional "I love mum" crying part as well as the happy "hey let's have another Guinness" part

R is for Righteous Babe, which I like to think of myself as, for sure

T is for Talent, which for me is writing and I'm finally embracing the concept without feeling like a bad, bragging girl

E is for Elizabeth, who is my grandmother, even though she's been gone for nine years--she's still my grandmother

E is for Elizabeth again, which is my middle name, after her

N is for Nice, which very few people have EVER accused me of being--which is fine by me

The Stupidist Thing I've Seen All Day!

Here it is, folks.

Gosh, thanks, Dr. Cliff Pickover (oh, I am so tempted), thank you SO much for teaching me the difference between men and women. I really needed it simplified and making it into this wacky dials-and-knobby-thingies graphic REALLY helped me.

I decided to Stumble and write about whatever came up.

Why did this come up?

What did I tell them about myself that generated this pathetic website?

I'm shuddering over here. I can't even write about it.

Bring it On!

If you read the blog lately, you may have determined that I'm a bit overscheduled at the moment.

I am not under the illusion that busy equals happy. I do not believe that doing more in a day makes me a better person or even a good person. I used to do more for others (people, organizations) than for myself (and my family). I thought I was doing good things, but I was not happy and my husband was not happy and my animals were not happy. Turns out all of us needed more of me, even if that meant I was *just* sitting on the couch with a book (provides ample lap area for two needy felines).

So, while I am currently juggling a few balls of various shapes, weights and materials, I'm feeling pretty, pretty, pretty good about it (props to Larry David on that one). Here are my haps:

NaBloPoMo: writing every day. What could be better?

NaNoWriMo: writing every day. Again . . . better? What?

Boot Camp, Round 2: Hey, I wore a skirt Saturday night that I couldn't fit my ass into last winter. Damn straight I'm signing up for another 8 weeks of this magic disguised as torture.

Starting a copywriting business on the side while running a business: getting paid to write. . . even better than just writing every day!

This is what is not happening in my life:

Making a big deal out of having twelve people for Thanksgiving: I'm over the "all must be perfect" stage of my life. I was driving myself and everyone around me nuts. We're just going to relax and enjoy, whether the house is immaculate or not.

Volunteering for anything: Sorry, community, I need a break!

Cleaning: The house is messier than it used to be. Get over it.

Everything I'm doing is for ME! Yay! For Me! I'm giggling over here.

I'm a NaBloPoMo ER Too

Am I seriously deranged? Do I not have enough going on in my life? I'm writing close to 1700 words a day in my *new* novel for NaNoWriMo, (uh, what happened to the one I started a year ago??) and now I've taken a vow to post to my blog every day in November. Oh, what the hell.

It's all about the writing. I want to write, don't I?

So what if I have a trip planned to NY for six days, and then family visiting for Thanksgiving for five days, a business to run and Boot Camp to attend (I signed up for another eight week session despite my back, which is currently attached to a heating pad and my knee, which I hit with a dumbbell on Friday), movies to watch, books to read, a business to run, dinners to cook, a dog to feed, a business to run. . . something is going to be neglected. It will be interesting to see who or what it is.

I hope it's the business, my least favorite activity of the lot.

Who wants to work for a living when one could be reading, writing, taking the dog for long walks and hikes, doing yoga, learning to sail, making fabulous meals, keeping the house clean, watching movies? Work sucks! Let's blog instead!

I have a list of things to blog about, something I didn't expect to need to do, but I can't remember shit, so writing the thoughts down as they arrive in the sad brain is helping.

So what the hell, why not? Let's write this beeeyotch!

Writing: My New Obsession

Remember those Calvin Klein Obsession commercials from the 80's? My new obsession has nothing to do with sex or bodies writhing on the page. It is the words that are moving around on the screen that is my page. Words connecting, overlapping, touching--like bodies, like sex. Creating new life. Making something real out of nothing.

I'm continuing on my novel writing project. It is Day Two and I'm creating characters, scenes, dialogue from nothing. I have vague ideas about who these women are, whom they love, what their lives look like. I think there is a secret that will be the undoing of one of them. I'm interested to see who that will be and what it will look like.

Maybe you'll see it someday, too.

I'm a NaNoWriMoER

At least that's what I think I'm called. I signed up for National Novel Writing Month, and for the unaware, all the info you could ever want is here.

And now I'm all written out since I just produced my daily 1665 word quota on a novel that I started, oh, a couple of hours ago. I have no outline, I have no plot. A few weeks back, in preparation for this craziness, I listed a few ideas that came to my naive mind. And today, the first day of the thirty-day blitz, after a rough day at work and a nice dinner and pint of single-hop ale with my hub and a friend, I came home, looked at the list, and picked a topic. And started writing. The idea is to write 50,000 words in thirty days. Quantity counts. Quality is quite secondary.

Who knows what crap will come out of these lightning fingers. Stay tuned. It should be an interesting experience. What am I, crazy?