Louder We Can't Hear You

Reset Your Bookmarks and RSS

2007-10-09T15:25:00.000-07:00

I've finally redesigned my main page to include my blog. It will be a *little* different from this one, since all my photography clients go there. (Sigh, no more tequila bloggin'.) But I've moved about half the posts from this blog over to their new home and that is where updates will happen.

Come on over!

www.deannaroy.com

Direct to RSS feed

http://www.deannaroy.com/?feed=rss2

Kindergarten hoopla

2007-08-27T06:43:00.000-07:00

So, many of you know that a few weeks ago, after attending a rather chaotic camp for kindergartners, Elizabeth decided she did not want to start school.

It's been a rough month or so since that camp, each day Elizabeth asking if THIS was the day her horrid parents would send her off to the evil of public school (that she's loved for two years as part of their preschool program.)

She's cried. She's clung. She pouted even when shopping for school clothes, insisting she was NOT going. Meet the teacher day went pretty badly last Friday, both Elizabeth AND Mama bawling as the baby begged not to be sent away.

Fortunately, one of the on-top-of-things moms from the kindergarten class passed out invitations to a little party for the class held on Saturday. We went, of course, and while Elizabeth still didn't want to talk about kindergarten, she did meet more classmates and had great fun at the party.

Elizabeth woke up in a good mood this morning and happily dressed and arranged her backpack. When we arrived at the school, all the parents were funneled to the cafeteria, where the kids were arranged by grades. Emily had to be sent to the 3rd grade table, even though she was looking a little nervous herself, but immediately squeezed in between friends and was laughing.

Elizabeth watched Emily leave without Mama and Daddy and instantly performed her famous knee clutch. Her dad tickled her to get her loose and I stayed out of grabbing range.

Unlike the older kids, whose parents just sent them on their way, the kindergarten parents would not be thwarted by any "Let the children follow their teacher" business and got in line with their miniature progeny, cameras rolling. Elizabeth remained calm as we walked through the halls.

Once in the room, she looked a little more concerned, but then three miraculous things had happened:

Her seat, which had "faced the wrong way," (one of her newest reasons for not wanting to go to school) was facing the other direction.
The boy from camp that concerned her was sitting across the room and far away.
Her best friend Sophia was now right across from her.

God bless her teacher. Or God blessed us.

She sat down, started drawing, and looked like the Elizabeth I had expected all along. We hugged her; she pretty much ignored us.

And we left.

All my babies are in school.

NOW Mama can start crying.

I'm a lot less romantic than I thought

2007-08-19T13:53:00.001-07:00

So a dear friend of mine has the cutest web site called Psychic Tea Shoppe.

She has a number of fun elements--I Ching and Tarot. I took her Romance Quiz.

Man, I thought I was the most romantically inclined person I knew. But look how pitifully I scored. I must be getting old and jaded.

Romanticism Assessment
Your Score is 57 Percent

You appear to have a well-balanced romantic self. While you may get flutters in your stomach when you meet someone you are very attracted to, you do not let your romantic-self entirely dictate how you proceed. You will ask yourself if there is a chance this relationship will work before allowing yourself to fall in love.

Even if you feel a romantic connection is viable from a practical sense, you will not just allow yourself to be swept away. You do not have many illusions about love. While you may feel a very deep attachment to someone, you know love rarely conquers all. You know successful relationships take work and compromise and a desire by those involved to make their relationship work. Candlelight dinners and words of endless love may be nice, but they don't pay the bills or get the dishes washed.

The middle ground on the romanticism scale is neither entirely safe nor entirely lackluster. However it does not carry the weight of a romantic failure based upon being swooped off your feet. Nor is the middle ground so devoid of romanticism that you feel like you are living with a sibling. Also, there is quite a bit of evidence that with your outlook on romanticism your relationship has a very good chance of succeeding.

High School Musical Mania is HERE!

2007-07-25T13:58:00.001-07:00

Okay, I admit it. I'm in LOOOOOOVE.

Gabriella. Troy. Sharpay. Ryan. All of it!

Yes, I have "High School Musical 2 Premiere" written on my calendar (August. 17!)

And I preordered the sound track for the sequel. $10 on I-tunes, comes with bonus calendar and digital album of images. Whoop!

But best of all, last weekend I went to the theater version of High School Musical at Zach Scott.

The show was wonderful. It took about two scenes to adjust to the difference in characters and feel from the movie, but after that, the live musical cleared up a number of plot and character flubs from the movie (like the mildly creepy Sharpay and Ryan sibling relationship).

And the romance between Gabriella and Troy is considerably less Disney-fied. The basketball "Keep Your Head in the Game" scene is unbelievably choreographed and pulled off. The addition of the school broadcaster to help the audience understand the scene locations (the set itself changes very little) was brilliant.

If you are a fan of the movie and thought there was *some little something* missing--let me assure you, the Zach Scott version does not disappoint!

Overall, the theater version serves up a more cohesive story and a lot more comedy. Both Emily and Elizabeth loved it. But I think I enjoyed it the most, leaving the theater feeling very excited and upbeat!

So go see if it you can! And don't call me on Aug. 17 (unless you're coming over to watch HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL 2!)

With my kids!

I can't wait!

Unspeakable

2007-07-09T07:27:00.000-07:00

It's hard to imagine a creation system where it is natural for healthy babies to die in their sleep.

It makes you question each religion, every set of beliefs. Maybe the science types are right--it's all just dust and atoms, chaotic and non-linear.

But faith has its place, and we cling to it out of desire and need. Only through God do we dream of meeting our loved ones again, so loss becomes our salvation.

I tell this regularly to people dealing with unspeakable grief. We must strengthen our faith, not lose it. And Faith is key, especially right now.

My long-time friends' daughter Cordelia Faith lived for three months and three weeks. We will miss her, most especially her parents and twin sister, all our lives.

Rest well, sweet Corey.

Cordelia Faith

March 14-July 5, 2007

34th Parallel

2007-06-29T06:25:00.000-07:00

My latest published short story and an interview about me has just come out in 34th Parallel, a new lit mag started by a couple of very upbeat and ambitious folks who I've come to admire. I encourage writers, photogs, and artists to pick up a copy and see what they publish and submit their work.

My stuff isn't online, but ping me if you'd like to read it. My friends in my critique group have probably already seen the short story, The Nuvaring. The interview might surprise a few people. I surprised myself!

Otherwise I've been working on the latest draft of Helena the Muse and have found some amazing insightful new critique buddies who are helping me hone the manuscript.

The kids were in camp this week, so life was GOOD! Otherwise we are slogging through the long summer as best we can, without killing each other.

Lessons from Zoom and other unlikely sources

2007-06-06T10:32:00.000-07:00

Wiggly feet kicked against the back of seats. Popcorn cascaded from little hands to dust the carpeted floor. The movie was ten minutes late starting, and the house was packed.

Not because it was a great movie. Because it was free.

Every summer the girls and I partake of the Free Family Fun Movie Festivals. They occur at many theaters around town--we go to Westgate every Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday at 10 a.m. They show two movies each week, a G and a PG.

Today we saw Zoom. Despite a good cast (Chevy Case, Courtney Cox, Tim Allen) the movie was dismal. Poor plotting, hitching pace, dropped storylines, ridiculous characterizations. Wretched.

But girls like the big screen and it helps break up our long days together. Watching the movie as I work on the third draft of my novel, however, was a lesson in what not to do. Single story arcs don't work. People want complexity. Flat characters are not believeable. They must have dimension. If you have a surprise along the way, it must be clever so that if you watch the movie again, you see it was there all along.

Zoom did none of these, but watching it made me see where my novel also sagged or relied upon cliche.

I try to avoid bad examples as I write, throwing down any book that falters lest I accidentally mimic style or other errors. But wiling away a summer day in an air conditioned theater with two girls already sick of each other and mama, it was a nice lesson in how not to screw up my book.

Couldn't Resist

2007-05-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

Ever since I showed Elizabeth a YouTube clip of Shirley Temple performing "Good Ship Lollipop," which is her recital song for ballet class, Elizabeth has been star struck. We have gorged on Shirley Temple, and I find it amusing when my little diva starts imitating her.

I'll enjoy these days, because very soon it will be pop idols like Britney Spears she emulates.

This is her recital costume. They are only little such a short time!

Close call

2007-05-22T08:25:00.000-07:00

I can't tell you how my heart hammered as I encountered this poster outside five-year-old Elizabeth's preschool room.

They apparently had been talking politics and the teachers had each child sign a poster specifying their party affiliation.

I could have been raising a Republican.

Whew.

The Writing Life

2007-05-07T21:51:00.000-07:00

It's been an astonishing day for writing. I'd given it up for a bit, seeped myself in photographs, paid some bills, and now find myself longing for words, a desire that has built into an urgency.

I can thank Colette for her early morning inspiration in the form of her short story The Hollow Nut. It reminded me how beautiful language must be, always, and not to sacrifice detail for pacing.

Then came along the next phase of the interview for a lit mag. Martin's questions and my answers have followed the traditional route for good journalism--start with what's easy and lead up to in-depth. As we've traded emails, I've reminded myself why I write, and what, and how. It's made me focus again.

And nestled among my mail was a forgotten contest entry for the miscarriage novel Baby Dust, which I have currently abandoned. The first round judge gave me 49.9 points out of 50, stating he couldn't wait to read the whole thing after its certain publication. What was the .1? He preferred the word "synchronized" to my abbreviated and grammatically altered "synced."

Tonight I rewrote an old story, one of my best, and made it better. I was able to really close in on it, excise the excess, and add the ringing details that illuminate the message.

It's been a good day.

To the Good People of Plumbrook Avenue

2007-04-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

I am not a stalker. Not casing the street. Not off my meds, delirious or strung out.

I just got lost in the neighborhood I've lived in for eleven years, down a street that's been on my running circuit hundreds of times.

But I got distracted, deep in thoughts that ran counter to the vivid scenes around me. You see, today would be my 15th wedding anniversary. It's been an eerie day, here in the sun-bright afternoon of shiny happy familyville.

I know I went up and down the same couple blocks of your street three times before I figured out where I was. More than one curtain twitched behind French doors and bay windows. Thank you for not calling the police. They like giving me tickets and don't really need fresh ideas.

So sorry.

ADDENDUM: To the fair residents of Sedgebrook Drive.

All of the above. Well, plus the following.

I apologize for sitting on the curb at the corner by the fire hydrant. I hope no one got alarmed. I wasn't really tired despite my detour (see above). No fainting spells or collapsed lungs or heart palpitations. Okay, maybe a few of the latter.

You'll have to blame my I-pod. I downloaded a big wad of Faith Hill songs off I-tunes today, because she's one of my favorite artists, and really wasn't expecting this song. If you knew me, and actually a couple of you on this street do, you'll know why I had to sit down. I'd never heard this song before and didn't know it was in that folder. You'd sit down too, if you heard a song like that, on a day like this, if you were me.

Why I love Mary Karr

2007-04-23T18:51:00.000-07:00

I'm reading a book loaned to me by my dear friend John J, brilliant writer, painter extraordinaire, and paternal muse-figure, called This is my Best, an anthology of what various modern writers consider their best work. It runs the gamut from John Updike to Garry Trudeau--short stories and novel excerpts and poems and cartoons.

I entered a memoir phase around 1993 and wrote nothing but, taking courses on the form and eventually writing a nonfiction book about my first year teaching in inner city Houston, called First Lessons. I took it to the agents conference in 1998, hiding my pregnancy with Emily beneath a slenderizing shirt and unbuttoned slacks, and after a mere five rejections, landed an agent. We never sold it, but I had a wonderful time with the process and did not feel terribly disappointed. It still remains a favorite work of mine.

During this time I read and met two wonderful memoir/creative nonfiction writers: Mary Karr and Marion Winik. Both were inspirational in their own way. I'll never forget walking up to Mary at the Book Festival upon her publication of the sequel to The Liar's Club, a book aptly called Cherry, and she pointed to a more youthful portrait of herself on the older book's back cover and said, "I think I look more fabulous now!" I loved her upbeatness, her wit. She exuded fun. And she'd certainly endured plenty--her hometown blasted her after the publication of her first memoir. And still, she signed books, exuberant.

She used an excerpt from Cherry in this collection of shorts. In the introduction, however, she used a phrase that made me laugh out loud. It is just so Mary.

"A girl's ardor at age thirteen doesn't mean she wants to be boffed into guacamole, as it's been suggested that boys of that age wish to be."

What an image. Mary handles sex--especially underage sex--so well. The intro of her excerpt is beautifully done with the perfect adjectives to give just the right tone of pre-adolescent heart-throbbing.

"I've been sitting in the crotch of this itchy damn tree with my feet dangling down so long they both feel like concrete. I shinnied up here to find John Cleary in the park..."

I feel inspired. But not necessarily to write. I think I have to end this post now, to find my dearest one and pound some avocado.

It's a joke--really!

2007-04-19T16:42:00.000-07:00

Before you freak out, nope, not getting married.

I modeled for a photo shoot for my photography group, that's all.

And don't be spreading no rumors either!

Life's a little crazy, no time to blog!

Bluebonnet Mania

2007-03-29T17:14:00.000-07:00

I am always eager for the bluebonnets to arrive. Fields of flowers make any drive better, and since I am often on Loop 360, I get an eyeful every time I go anywhere.

Last night, though, after spending hours working on bluebonnet portraits, and dealing with several emails a day where clients are a little upset they didn't get to book a session with me before all my slots filled, I dreamed of lying in a field of them and they loomed, menacing, flying into my face.

I guess too much of any good thing can be traumatizing.

But I'll leave you with some images from my shoots. They are always so fun and lovely!

Birthday Blues

2007-03-19T23:49:00.000-07:00

I rarely have good birthdays anymore. I have always found them introspective--a survey of what I have and have not accomplished in yet another year. It's the one day I always journal, practically every year since I was eight you'll find an entry in diaries, notebooks, blogs on March 19. Being a "Type A," an ENFJ, a "green," I am a perfectionist, unrelenting in my personal goals and expectations. Most years I fall short.

This year, woefully so.

I didn't blog or talk about this most of the day because I really thought I'd dealt with all this the day before, on Sunday, a miserable unyielding jag of weeping and irritation at my lack of goal achievement. I figured by the real day, I'd be all right.

Not so. I spent the day with more minutiae, emails and random comments by people who neither knew nor likely cared that I was wide open and vulnerable. They didn't know this day was worse than others to express concerns about pictures, or tell me how poorly I am running a web site, or complain about something small, or forget.

By the time dinner came around, poor Kurt was left to deal with runny Deanna, crying pretty nonstop, and even Hula Hut, rum laden Hulalas, and creamy jalapeno dip couldn't fix it. But, as I well know, nothing external can. It all comes from living with myself and what I can or maybe can't accomplish. I'm only human, and like most humans, I frequently fail.

Poor Abandoned Blog

2007-03-15T21:13:00.000-07:00

Yes, this poor personal blog has been ignored. I sometimes have items to write about, but I've been so busy on other projects, this is the one that gets pushed aside.

But I've accomplished so much! Seven new images in the condom project!

Mastering WordPress by practicing on an old domain I purchased a couple years ago for a novel I was writing and have begun to toy with again.

Keeping up the miscarriage blog as I work to find an agent for Baby Dust.

My twice-yearly Zilker portrait special--this has been my biggest March special in many years.

And there's been birthday madness. I swear everyone I know is a Pisces--and my good friends Sean and Tessa should have had their little Pisces twins yesterday--still waiting to hear!

Maybe I'll get back to this blog. Maybe it'll suffer a bit more.

Getting Called

2007-03-02T12:49:00.000-08:00

I went on an I-tunes buying spree yesterday (although I did not get what I was really after--apparently no one electronically sells Paul McCartney and I'm dying for "This Never Happened Before" without getting the entire sound track to The Lake House.)

I was mainly surfing I-mixes using the term "love." I found a number of suitable ones and bought them based on the song snippets. Today as I went running, I listened to the new tunes on my Ipod and realized two of them were actually religious.

I have felt the tug to return more prominently to the fold a lot lately, naturally, with Lent arriving and the huge push to get the Easter Pageant underway. I'm smack in the middle of creating fliers and other press materials as well as attending rehearsals.

During my marriage I was the poster child of faith. I sang in a praise band, of all things. Our lives were well centered on church and Christian events. But in the separation, he took custody of the church. I never picked another one, and dating a persuasive and passionate atheist certainly played a part. I haven't actually dated a Christian since my ex-husband and only a handful of my current friends mention any sort of faith at all.

I'm fine with all that--I admire so many religions and find that leaving Christianity and then coming back to it makes it all the stronger. It isn't a blind faith, but a chosen one. I think the story of Jesus is wonderful and beautiful and I can revel in it. Many Christians behave abominably in actions both within and outside of their faith, but we are human, and all religions will have their flawed followers.

But today, listening to songs I chose for their ability to move me in 15 seconds, I'm delighted God worked His will in that way--to surprise me where I didn't expect Him--and get my act in gear. It's Easter season, after all, and time to work on His behalf.

New Math

2007-02-20T17:55:00.000-08:00

I have the girls an extra night each week now, one we added when Emily began crying a lot, saying she missed Mama. I worried, with her in school full time, that the three hours each day between when I picked her up and when her dad took over were not enough, with homework and snacking and all. We felt this would help.

Since the new night is a weeknight, that means I help her with homework, and it's the busiest night of the week for it for some reason. She has to alphabetize spelling words, read for half an hour, and do a math worksheet.

Tonight she had to solve two-digit subtraction problems. She did the first half of the worksheet fine, but when we got to the second half, she asked, "Do I have to regroup these?"

"What?" I asked.

"Regroup them," she asked again. "I know the answer, because everybody knows 51 minus 17 is 34. But do I have to regroup them?"

After puzzling over the problems for a moment, I realized "regrouping" is to subtraction what "carrying" is to addition. I don't remember calling it regrouping as a kid, but second grade is a bit back there. She has to "take" ten from the tens column and add it to the ones column. She does this in her head without thinking about it, but as we all remember lamenting in math, you have to "show your work." Even when the work is too easy for you. But Emily is nothing if not obedient, so if you tell her to do the regrouping, she will, even though she writes the answer first and then goes back to painstakingly add the extra numbers.

The extra night with me turned out to be immaterial to the crying. What Emily really wanted was to avoid sleeping alone. She's now situated herself in the extra bed in Elizabeth's room. So with or without the Mama time, the crying stopped.

I'm not unhappy with an unexpected bonus--an extra night of playing together and sleeping at "the little place," as they call it, compared to "the big house" that their father keeps. So even if I am already bewildered by her second grade homework (God help me when I get to revisit pre-calc), I can appreciate solving a problem by an indirect method. Even if it is new math.

OHHHH! I QUIT WRITING BOOKS!

2007-02-16T15:54:00.000-08:00

After the Helena the Muse debacle, I should have known! There is ALWAYS someone who beats you to the punch.

And today has not been a good day in general.

But this beats ALL!

I do two hours of research on agents at the Writer's League office. I find an agency with a really unusually good fit. I come home, type in their URL, and find they've just sold this book. It's due out this summer.

It's exactly what I said the market needed.

Ugghh.

Happy VD to me

2007-02-14T13:14:00.000-08:00

VD=Valentine's Day.

Today a random health site asked to use my miscarriage site as a link on theirs. I went to check it out. Saw a bit on cervical cancer and thought I'd read it.

I hope it's wrong.

Each year in the U.S.A. 14,500 new patients get invasive cervical cancer and 8,000 women die of it. Pre-cancerous changes in the cervix are much more common; they affect 59,000 American women per year and are shown by an abnormal Pap smear.

So, it seems to be saying that of the 59,000 women who get a bad pap smear in a year, 14,500 will get invasive cervical cancer (I doubt anyone who gets invasive cancer did NOT first have the bad pap.) I'm WAY beyond the bad pap--I've had three coloposcopies and three biopsies in the last year.

So that would be, roughly, 25% of bad paps translate into invasive cancer. I would assume they'd include the knowingly bad paps (like the ones they keep giving me--yep, still abnormal!) in the statistics.

And of those lucky 14,500, some 8,000, or slightly more than half, die.

I shouldn't read web sites on Valentine's Day 48 hours after a biopsy that STILL has me bleeding and all kinds of awful stuff. I don't feel very lovey mushy.

Like Mama, Like Baby

2007-02-13T21:38:00.000-08:00

So, as Elizabeth watched me add a purple streak to my hair, she asked for one herself.

I did not hesitate--the stuff washes right out. We took a little section of her wheat-blonde locks and ran the magenta mascara wand of "color highlight" right through it.

She was happy in the way that little girls are when they get to act big--to do what mamas do. She won't want to be like me for much longer. I have to take what I can get while she still idolizes me rather than feels abject embarrassment.

The results from my biopsy will be back Friday or so. I did fine yesterday, with Kurt bringing me lunch in bed (alas we couldn't make much use of THAT!) and Rebecca and Henry coming by for a pizza dinner where we watched Mean Girls as well as a host of music vidoes. We had a serious great time with our initial requirements for YouTube: 80s, eye candy, and hair bands. ZZ Top, David Lee Roth, Bon Jovi...ahhhhhh.

Today has been not-so-good, with much cramping and renewed bleeding. Back to bed I go. And not much chance for any gentle Valentine rule-breaking, either. Saddical.

Streaking

2007-02-07T13:44:00.000-08:00

It's been amusing how many people have texted or emailed me today asking if my hair is done yet! I hope you aren't disappointed!

I went back to my natural hair color, well, all except for one part, which I had dyed near white to take any rainbow hue I choose. I started with pink. It looks subtle in the image, but in real life, well, let's just say people in other cars were staring at me. I wore a hat to pick up my kids. Since the pink is temporary, tomorrow I'm going to tone it down to be more like it is shown here. As it is, it looks rather clownish.

It took three hours, again. Damn. I have a brutal headache from sitting in chemicals half the afternoon.

But it's here! New hair!

Carnaval!

2007-02-06T09:07:00.000-08:00

For our second year of Carnaval, we knew a bit more what to expect. No one gets there before 10:30 except the street-dressed onlookers, the drinks are $6 each so you better do your shots in the car before you go in, and the walk from the parking garage to the front door of Palmer is FREAKING COLD!

Last year we spent weeks on our costumes only to realize that unless you were out near the bars and doors where there was some light--no one could really see them. So this year we decided to be visible no matter where we were and bought 300 glow sticks online.

We only ended up using slightly less than half, as we sort of put off making our costumes until the end. Kurt painted his shirt and silks two days prior and we glued and stitched the glow stick holders on at 8:00 the night of Carnaval.

Our costumes, while less beautiful and elaborate than last year, were a hit. We never walked more than twenty feet without someone stopping us to comment or take our picture. Everyone referred to us as the "glow stick people."

Overall, the elaborate costumes seemed to be in decline and even the naked body paint jobs were fewer. More and more people came in some sort of bustier/underwear with beads or leis. Elvis was in attendance, as well as many of the traditional feather hats. But I was less impressed this year than last with the costuming. Maybe the new has just wore off.

We stayed to the end this year. The fun is definitely in the planning and execution of the costumes, though. Next year: REALLY big hats!

Horror Movie Marathon

2007-02-03T12:13:00.000-08:00

Ohhh, did we have fun at the movie fest I hosted last weekend.

I didn't really expect to get so fired up about it (Sam and Lisa definitely helped get the spirit going.)

We watched movies from 2 p.m. until 12:30! We had an enormous collection to choose from, but our final list included:

The Audition (Japanese torture horror)
Poltergeist (They're Here!)
The Devil's Backbone (Suspense/ghosts/war-torn Spain)
Gingersnaps 2 (Angsty teen girl werewolves)
The Hills Have Eyes (Genetic mutants preying on travelers)

We had an all-red food buffet. Favorites were Sam and Lisa's cut apples dyed red even on the inside, the "scab" cookies with white chocolate "bones" and the blood-red twinkies brought by Emily. I'm still not sure about that red ranch dip, though.

I never thought I'd make it through ten hours of horror movies, but I was ready for more! I'm ready for more marathons, for sure! The projector worked out very well, and I love parties!

Whole Lot of Nothing

2007-02-02T06:55:00.000-08:00

For a girl who, compared to the craziness of November and writing a novel while also photographing 80-some-odd families for Christmas cards, has nothing to do--I sure have a lot to do.

Sometimes I imagine it is like a tube of fabric paint, which is on my brain as Kurt and I are making our costumes for this year's Carnaval. At first you squeeze lightly and the color comes out smooth and easy in a nice, even stream. Then the first snag hits--some bit of sediment--and everything backs up behind it. You know it's crazy to squeeze too hard, but you have to get past that clog, then suddenly, SPLAT, you have paint everywhere and the design as you envisioned it suddenly has a big fat imperfection.

So perhaps I bottled up all these small things last holiday season, compressed away in the fury of trying to get out orders and work on the book. And now the splat of unimportant but time consuming tasks is drowning me.

I have not been helped this week by Smith-Victor and JTL, both studio lighting companies. I splurged last week and bought a new light and softbox on a boom. It took two days of fighting the softbox without instructions (then waiting on the email from Smith-Victor, which never came, then finally them faxing directions not exactly for the softbox I own) to get it assembled and up. Finally it's balanced and steady and ready to test. I pop on my other main lights to see how they all wok together and suddenly my JTL mainlight just goes out.

I walk over to investigate, turn it off and on again, and the plastic switch falls out in my hand along with two tension clips. Not good. The $400 Mobilight is rendered useless by a 10 cent plastic switch that has broken its 1 millimeter hinge.

We're trying to find someone to repair it or to replace the switch. Ex is helping (being a double major, one of which is electrical engineering.) He also bailed me out on the softbox thing. I feel grossly incompetent to run my own equipment at the moment, but even if we can fix it, I have an unknown number of people "dropping in" for my Valentine special tomorrow, so I have to come up with some ad hoc solution. Thank goodness for the new hairlight, which just got promoted to fill light.

And that's just one thing. There's taxes, and receipts, and defensive driving (yes, again) and tons of other minutiae. I haven't even loaded up the images from my friends Sean and Tessa's baby shower or my Horror Movie Marathon (that was some 10-plus hours of scary movie fun!)

But the race is on. I must find a lighting solution, finish my costume, deliver some photos, and prepare for the Valentine special--all before 3 when I pick up my kids. Why the hell am I blogging?

Flashbacks

2007-01-25T14:13:00.000-08:00

Today, having sent Baby Dust to be copied for a few readers to take a look at, I decided to focus on the rest of my to-do list and get my 2006 receipts entered for taxes.

On top was a pile of medical things, because as most of you know, I'm being carefully monitored for signs of cervical cancer these days (next biopsy--Feb. 12!)

I figured with everything going on, I'd better start a new folder for medical records, so I went to the file cabinet to see what already existed. Under medical, I found a packet rather unusually titled "old stuff."

I often name things something odd to hide what they really are. Letters from old boyfriends used to be in a box called "High school poetry." My naked maternity shots I never should have taken are on a CD entitled "Just for baby Elizabeth!"

So I pulled out this folder to see what might be inside.

A medical bill. So not too far off. Several, in fact. I scanned the list to see what they were for.

Prenatal 1-3
Antepartum Care
Mycoplasma Culture
Prolactin
TSH

Right about here I realized what I was looking at but read on, much as someone might rubber-neck a car accident.

Lupus Anticoagulant
Prothrombine time
Thromboplastin

I knew the date I would see. May 1998. These were the tests they ran to try and figure out why my baby had died. They didn't figure it out then; I'd be pregnant with Emily before we understood the reason. If there should ever be a reason for something like that.

Strange I would come across this bill the same day I set Baby Dust aside, the first draft done, a whole trove of stories just like mine contained within its pages. Maybe Casey needed me to remember that they were little people, not just graphic incidents, or maybe he wanted to remind me why I was qualified to write it at all. Or maybe he just wanted to drop in, to show me he knew it was a big day, and to sprinkle me with luck as I start to send it out to agents.

Doesn't matter. I can make it anything I want to be. And I choose to get dusted with hope.

Crazy Days of Winter

2007-01-24T13:05:00.000-08:00

So, thanks to the ice storm and the requisite stuck-in-the-house time, I finished Baby Dust. I ended up writing 15,000 words in six days. Nuts! The entire 70,000 word novel was completed in ten weeks, the same period that also encompasses my peak photography season. I must not have slept.

So now the next part begins--the agent search naturally being the hardest. Sometimes I walk around, though, and ponder the white space that seems to surround me. While I am still very busy with kids and life and photo projects, that sense that I always had something pressing to finish is gone. Compared to writing a novel, most life projects, other than raising children, seem very small and finishable.

Good Lord, I wrote a novel in 70 days! And what do I get for it? Another period of constant rejection. Oh boy!

Thanks to everyone who's been so supportive.

What I Did on My Winter Vacation

2007-01-16T23:35:00.000-08:00

I managed to escape the house and my exes at 4:00 on Day 2 of the ice storm. Ex actually scraped off my car, got it open, and loaded everything up. I will complain no more.

The drive back to my own place was both frightening and benign. While 360 was clear in the lanes, crossing to get on or turn off meant slipping lightly across ice with little traction. You had to sort of just steer and go.

So no getting up to Kurt. I came into my apartment and settled in again to work on the novel. If I was going to be iced into solitude, separated from him for yet another day and night, I'd have something to show for it.

The end result: 7200 words written.
And even better: Only 3 scenes to go and my first draft of Baby Dust is done.

Now that's progress.

Maybe I should give up sex more often.

Nah.

Snow Day!

2007-01-16T09:48:00.000-08:00

Well, at least if I am stuck in the land of exes (see post below), I am also with my kids.

Today they got snow! This is only the second time in Emily's life she's seen it, and Elizabeth was only a baby then.

We'll go out again later in the day as it accumulates. Elizabeth wore her "snowman" clothes in anticipation of building the big guy. Let's hope if we manage to get there, she doesn't think it will sing and dance and say "Happy Birthday!"

I may be stuck here another day or two even. Sigh.

I hope everyone else is having fun in the wintry weather.

Ice, Schmise

2007-01-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

Somehow, in the uncalled-for hysteria that grips this venerable capitol city with the merest threat of sleet, I got stuck staying at my old house with my ex husband and ex mother in law.

Let's look at the chain of events that lead to this debacle, me slogging rum and cokes to avoid splatting unpleasantries aloud, and hanging on to my computer and Yahoo IMs like driftwood near the Titanic.

1. Meteorologists in need of excitement. Let's take one tiny piece of ice on Burnet and call the city to a halt. Nevermind that it's four feet wide and in the shadow of a building. IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT!

2. Workers offended that they didn't get MLK day off. We'll just call it an ice day--because there IS ice on Burnet Road! And everyone takes Burnet Road! Whoo hoo, na na, we got the holiday anyway--ye bankers and state workers. (What will they do on Friday for Confederate Hero's Day, I wonder?)

3. College students squeezing one more day of Christmas break. Sweet! Let's get drunk one more night! They know we aren't going to show before noon--so they don't open until noon (subject to revision based on hangover status.)

4. Color-coded radar doppler. Yes, it's PINK! And WHITE! It must be sleet and ice! Okay, so it's not actually sleeting outside, even though the pink cloud of doom is supposedly overhead--but it could start at ANY TIME!

5. News 8 Austin. I will never believe another word these people say ever again. Because of them, I figured my children would never make it home from Louisiana (they were driving back today), I would spend my final days wearing black and ailing from bereavement, and the post traumatic stress would send me into seizures every time the ice maker dropped a load.

6. Lack of personal common sense. I drove to the house to await the terrible news of my children's fiery crash on I-10, fearing if I didn't leave IMMEDIATELY, I'd never see them again. Despite splashing through six-inch puddles of water that probably wouldn't freeze without 92 consecutive days of sub-zero temperatures, and my ex calling to say that he hadn't even seen any rain, much less sleet, I paced the house for hours, IMing and posting random fearful messages, kneeling before the Channel 44 like a graven image.

7. Slow reaction time. Okay, so if I'd blown out of here as soon as the kiddos arrived at 5 and established myself elsewhere, I might be instead spending my so-called "ice-in" before a roaring fire with a naked boyfriend. But I stayed, bowed to pressure from a travel-weary ex and his mom, and cooked dinner. By the time we ran out to check the roads, my car on the street was so iced over that I couldn't open the doors. Streets--DRY AS A BONE. Cute little brand new PT Cruiser--ICE BLOCK.

So here I am, sleeping on the oh-so-trendy-beautiful-expensive sofa that even Saddam would have deemed torture, drowning my sorrow in cheap rum (okay, it's good rum, I won't exaggerate), and wishing I were snuggled in flannel sheets against 77 inches of skin.

But at least I can blog.

Stalkers

2007-01-06T08:06:00.000-08:00

I've inspired a stalker or two in my life. In high school I had a veritable posse. They'd call late at night (boy, they should have known not to piss off my dad.) Or find me under the stands at half time during football games. Sometimes they waited by the bus at debate tournaments. I had been followed more than once, but few cars could out-pace my '70 Mustang fastback with a 302 racing small block engine or out-nerve my willingness to go zero to 120 in the back streets of my town.

I was almost never alone either. I knew I lived a public life--drum major of the band, newspaper editor, and performing in one-act plays. Probably, as a typical slightly low self esteemed teenager, I found it mildly flattering.

But today, at 36, with two small children, I don't find it amusing at all. I am often called at 3 a.m.--the time is very consistent--on the night I regularly keep my children and thus am not with my boyfriend. At first I thought this was a nasty coincidence--someone getting off work late and consistently mis-dialing a number similar to mine.

But last night, when I got called twice--at 3:25 and again at 3:46--I realized not only that this person was truly calling me, masking his number with "private," he followed my schedule well enough to know that a man would not answer.

I haven't yet decided what to do. I think he's mostly harmless, and likely drunk when he does it--I've spotted another pattern to the calls. But he wakes up my children, wakes up me, and it's unacceptable. It's high school behavior, and it bugs me, and warns me that he is even less of a healthy individual than I thought.

So I sit here, wondering if the best course is to call him on it, which he will deny but will probably stop the calls, or go ahead and report him to my cell phone company, who can block his number permanently.

I'll have to think on this.

Why today is not a good day

2007-01-03T13:47:00.000-08:00

1. I went running and a mile and a half away from home, the cold rain began. Lightening. Thunder. Misery.

2. I took my brand new car to dealership to see why back hatch wouldn't open. Needs new latch. Will take two days. No more new car during sleepover at service department.

3. Left car seat in above. Had to motor small child a la Britney Spears for 9/10 of a mile from school to home. Yeah she's four, so technically legal, but she's small.

4. Helena the Muse is officially no longer under consideration by anyone following rejection by last agent. I am no longer sending her out as I am working on Baby Dust.

5. Still two hours until girls' dad takes them and I can start drinking.

New Year, New Year

2007-01-02T13:42:00.000-08:00

In the vein of last year's blog post, I will write another verse (don't even try to call it poetry...)

A small white dotted cube spins and turns

End over end

Deciding fate on its whim

Sports

The room expands with a groan and laugh

Bungled again

Figures curl together

Clinging, happy

Drinking skin

Cards slap on the table

Victory declared

The air rushes in our faces

Cold on heat

The world expands to lights and people

Cars and hats and sparkles

Legs with goosebumps

Stumbling heels

Men in packs

Gaggles of girls

Hungry, drinking, false gaiety

An hour ticks down

A cry rises

A mouth

A kiss

Laughter

Another page turns

Christmas Highlights

2006-12-25T10:23:00.000-08:00

So, the last post hit the low points, here's a happier post about my favorite moments this holiday.

Trail of Lights.

Always a fun tradition, we had a cool but not cold night to run around and see the sights in Zilker park and spin under the tree. This is, of course, a good memory for Kurt and I also, as the Trail was our third date last Christmas (and first kiss under the tree!)

Santa Visit.

Emily tested our mettle this year by refusing to divulge any of her requests to the Big Man in Red. Of course, she also mailed her letter to the North Pole. And we made sure Santa got it. But when we saw the head gift guy himself at Barton Creek Mall, we got that picture perfect moment every parents dreams of--perfect behavior, the right clothes, and all parties involved still whole heartedly (even if cautiously testing it) believing in Santa Claus. It's probably our last year of innocence.

New Car.

Even though my friends mostly dissed the PT Cruiser, I bought one anyway. The kids love it--that's their little heads poking out the sunroof--and we've been dashing all over town in it since last Wednesday. It's the first car I bought completely on my own--no father or husband or other figure weighing in or making the purchase for me. It was stressful, but I'm having fun with it, especially with my new little Ipod Shuffle Kurt got for me that plugs right into the dash!

Iron Cactus.

This has been a favorite restaurant for Kurt and me since we discovered their fajita nachos when we stopped by on Sixth Street last summer. We now frequent the Arboretum location and on top of stellar freaking food, we take a tequila flight every time we go. We'll probably do some tequila blogging in the future as we are really getting experienced at it, but the Patron flight we tried before he left town was amazing in all three categories--a smooth sippable silver, a wonderful fragrant reposado, and and an anejo that dethroned Herradura as our favorite. Despite my crying half the dinner due to the music's turn to "Blue Christmas," we had a lovely dinner there before opening gifts together.

The girls are in toy heaven and I've spent a couple days working on the new novel and completing little projects left neglected since the Christmas portrait season started.

Merry Christmas to all of you--and see you when I'm back just in time for the New Year!

Death and Christmas

2006-12-23T18:56:00.000-08:00

I hate the cold. I shiver uncontrollably in misery. And normally I like the rain. It sings in my stove pipe and makes me want to curl up and read.

But cold and rain. It's just not Christmas to me.

Most likely I'm blathering on due to Kurt being gone and having just strung out my hormones with the renewed horror of the Nuvaring. I'm supposed to be working on Baby Dust, but the rain just pours and the cold seeps in, and even my flannel pajamas and flannel sheets and the continued cranking of my heater to 68, 69, 70, 71, are not helping.

I found out via a Christmas card (merry f'ing xmas to all) that the husband of a long-time friend of mine died this summer. How did I get that out of touch? What sort of ego-centric island have I lived on? I imagine her receiving her holiday card from me a few weeks ago, addressed to both her and her dead husband, and thinking--wow, she didn't keep up with us at all, did she?

I remember my first pregnancy, signing up in a giddy fervor at every maternity shop for their customer lists. As my belly grew, I loved getting the diaper samples, the powders, the baby catalogs.

But then, baby died. The mail became a mine field. My husband tried to shield me from it by throwing things out before I saw them, but still, the trash was stuffed--Pampers, Enfamil, Gerber.

Were my friend's cards like this for her? Every envelope addressed to both of them a reminder of what she lost this year, with a good kick from her so-called friends for good measure in their ignorance and lack of keeping touch?

I recall walking down the hallway of the high school where I taught that terrible year. I still felt fat--I didn't lose a lot of weight right away just because they took the dead baby out of my body. But one day, I felt a little slimmer so I wore an old dress, slightly fitted. As I passed a boy I had taught the previous semester he looked up and said, "Ms. Roy! You're too skinny! You better go feed that baby before he starves to death!"

I remember stumbling, falling into the wall. I did not acknowledge his comment, just kept going in my klutzy way--an acute lack of coordination is always my sign of distress.

He hadn't known. And I tried not to hold it against him. But today, nine years later, sitting here in the cold, listening to the rain, by myself, feeling rather full of self-pity, I remember his name, his posture, the desk, his red shirt, his haircut, and the tone of his voice.

And probably, my friend, my poor friend of 20 years, knows the color of the envelope, the font of the address, the way the label landed slightly askew. And it stabbed her. I stabbed her. She'll forgive me, but she won't forget.

Why Buying a Car is Like Dating

2006-12-19T07:04:00.000-08:00

1. A car walks into a bar. You stare, snapping to attention at the curves, the angles, the glint of its exterior sheen. You want to get closer, see if this attraction might lead to something, but you hesitate. You probably can't afford it. It's probably high maintenance. It might not even be available. You turn back to the bartender and order another Cosmopolitan.

2. The computer screen glows lightly on your face. Sure enough, bar walker, who one of your friends actually knows, is First in Its Class and the price is just too high. So you start to surf. It must be safer to search online, going through profiles, prequalifying the options. Then you know you're in your league. You go through item after item, reading, comparing, you narrow it down to The One. (Or Two.)

3. Test drive. You walk up at the pre-arranged meeting place. You're holding Car and Driver in your left hand, just as you'd been told to do. You sidle up, peer in close, and still think--hmm, not like the picture but it's okay. You settle in, start things up, and instantly you know--it's not going to happen. All that research, the checkmarks matching you two up, mean nothing when you sit there and wish you were simply somewhere else.

4. Next try. Your second choice seems to be working. You drive around town, and all goes smoothly. You part and you feel pretty good. You meet up with your friends and tell them you're thinking of hooking up.

5. "No way!" they say. "Not that one!" They all punch each other, laughing, unbelieving. They tell unflattering stories. The negative peer pressure is oppressive. Your optimism plummets. Suddenly you think, no, maybe it's the wrong time. Then you rally--no! I don't care what they think! But later, alone, you wonder. If they feel so strongly, maybe they are right.

6. Christmas approaches. You had boasted to your family that you'd be bringing something new home for them to see! You feel pressure. You remember the first option--maybe it wasn't so bad? Should you go see it again? Maybe it will have improved somehow? You tentatively call a couple of friends--what about this one? They, understanding now how they crushed your enthusiasm before, are all support. Even the other one, they now say, would be okay.

7. Somehow you wish it could all be different. That the perfect compliment to your need would just arrive, all the right options, an easy fit. But no, you start all over, watching the world around you for new models, more educated now, spotting the ones out of your range right away, and hope that maybe, with a little self improvement, you can trade up.

Love-Hate-Love-Hate-Arrgghh!

2006-12-12T06:52:00.000-08:00

Writing a novel is worse than a love affair.

With relationships you can get married, break up, have fights, or dive into make-up sex, but the other person is still a separate unique entity (well unless you go overboard with honey and peanut butter.)

I'm writing my second novel now and the pattern of addiction/revulsion returns with Baby Dust much like it did with Helena. Last night at Austin Java (where, yes, Henry kicked my butt two weeks in a row on the word count challenge) everything I wrote was complete and utter crap. You see my dilemma, as I can't even console my sorry losing streak with the fact that I was writing quality with my lack of quantity. It all sucked.

The trick to this novel-writing gig seems to be to muck through these bad spells. But unlike a love affair, where you have an emotionally invested partner to bring you back in, the novel just sits there, an ugly lump of bad exposition and overblown dialogue, unwilling to give you even an inch of assistance.

Maybe writing a novel should be like a fat day. You know you haven't really gained a pound, but your perception of yourself is altered that day, and everything you put on your body looks like spandex on a moose. Your posture collapses, the problem exponentiates. Nothing helps until you start a new day, a non-fat day, when everything you tossed in a heap at the bottom of your closet suddenly fits again.

Even though all those scenes and chapters looked so horrible last night, so worthless, enough that I ought to just up and quit and spend my Java time honing dirty comment skills with Aud, I should have some faith, that the fat isn't really there, I'm just PMSing, the book isn't worthless, and that even though it's not going to schmooze me with Kenny G and Merlot, it's still worth crawling into bed with.

And in a blink, it all turns around

2006-12-08T08:48:00.000-08:00

If you haven't read the post below this one, you'll have to do that to know what the HECK I'm talking about.

Due to a change in plans, 4:30 decided to come at noon instead and only do the two babies! So no late difficult shoot amongst craziness!

Now there's plenty of time to finish 2:00, time to open the box and deliver images to anxious client, and can get Emily home, dressed, and to her party before picking up Eliza, who will never know she is missing fab party and besides she, Kurt and I are going to the toy store to shop, which is way better anyway.

So bonus--get some shopping done. And now we add the Trail of Lights with all of us after the party.

And the day is suddenly so very very good!

Santa comes early, or God shines on me, or fate tilts a benevolent hat.

Happy!

It just keeps getting more fun

2006-12-08T06:45:00.000-08:00

Okay.

So. I have a shoot at 2. I have to pick up the girls from school at 3:15 (I insisted 2 was not good time, but client was certain her baby would be perfect and we'd be through.)

Then Emily has a birthday party for her best friend at 4:30. I also have a shoot at 4:30.

So,

3:00 Finish shoot.
3:15 Wait in car line to snag girls.
3:30 Dash home.
3:45 Get Emily dressed in "glamorous gown" for "red carpet" party.
4:10 Wait, wait, wait as long as possible to avoid being too early.
4:15 Run her over to party, just a smidgen before party starts. Thankfully in neighborhood.
4:20 Console crying Eliza who thinks she deserves to go to fancy dress party.
4:25 Skid to a stop before my own house. Pray clients not early.
4:30 Do second shoot, involving a bazillion small children (like seven...or eight.)

Wait.

This might be less stressful if I have Emily ride the bus home. Eliza can stay later.

Then I can have some room to finish shoot and not worry, Emily get off bus, pick up Eliza, get Emily dressed, drop Emily off at party, and do shoot.

No. Not enough time to get Emily dressed.

How about this.

Emily ride bus home. Get her dressed, pick up Eliza at 4. Drive over to party and drop off Emily a bit more early, more time to console upset Eliza, get back at 4:15 and hopefully clients not waiting.

Okay. So now I just have to call the school and notify both teachers I've changed the way they go home.

This is the sort of day I'm having.

Don't get me started about the weekend. It makes this schedule look very very tame.

Irma--so sorry I have to miss your party!
Sean and Tessa--so sorry I have to miss yours too!

It's not fair, all this stuff happening on top of each other!

Five Christmas parties.
Four shoots with families.
Three upset clients.
Two kid recitals.
One crazy mama.
And a big glass of red wine every day.

Great. Client calls wanting pictures RIGHT NOW as I said they'd be here Friday. Yes, they'll be here, but will come with today's Fed Ex shipment at...2:00.

Where will I work THAT in?

[Cries from stress.]

An hour in the life

2006-12-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

So, I am a photographer at Christmas. Not all photographers have big holiday rushes--those who focus more on weddings or commercial work or models have a big slowdown.

But I photograph kids. So the onslaught begins mid October and is unrelenting until the day I cut them off, which is this weekend.

Because I had such a rough Saturday (five shoots, almost all with multiple kids), I pretty much just walked out and left my work to be taken up again on Monday. I answered no emails, returned no calls, and didn't update anything.

So if you've ever wondered what the first hour of Monday morning during Christmas season might be like for a family photographer, here is mine:

8:30 -- Listen to five voicemail messages. Four from the same anxious client not sure when she might ever be able to pick up images. Could I mail them even though she hasn't paid?
8:35 -- Restart 22-hour print job of 250 watercolor cards. 10 hours to go.
8:37 -- Open Outlook to find 23 emails, five are new orders.
8:41 -- Get interrupted by phone call wanting to redesign cards we made Saturday. Agree to redo them.
8:44 -- Begin writing up orders from emails and replying.
8:59 -- Phone call from worried client saying husband doesn't like what they wore in picture, what to do? Promise to crop at shoulders.
9:05 -- Back to writing up orders, faster this time.
9:06 -- Realize printer silent. WTF! Try to figure out why not printing.
9:09 -- Printer pissed about canceling old job to go to freaking party Saturday. Where is work ethic, it asks. I tell it to print or I will toss it out on its ethic. Restart job.
9:11 -- Return to writing up orders--even FASTER.
9:14 -- Enter orders into Quickbooks.
9:16 -- Look over bungled shoot at end of day Saturday. Try to figure out what to send the lady since she insinuated my composite images were not believeable. Kids did not ever stand by each other. Wants card with both kids. Rapidly create new design featuring two separate images. Email it. Hope she approves or work wasted.
9:28 -- Suddenly remember I will not work tomorrow to prepare for photography party. Just promised five clients images will be here by Friday, but not possible unless do all the orders by 2:00 today. Printer senses another work ethic violation and paper jams.
9:30 -- Puts head on desk. Rethink whole photography career.

NaNoWriMo is done!

2006-11-30T18:08:00.001-08:00

And I did it!

I TOTALLY didn't predict this

2006-11-26T07:27:00.000-08:00

I finally saw Serenity on Thanksgiving with Kurt and Henry. This was long overdue. Kurt had introduced me to the Firefly series on DVD early in our relationship (it appeared to be a dealbreaker that I had to like it--fortunately I did!) and we watched an episode every Sunday morning over omelets or pancakes or other brunch feasts.

Now that I had finally seen the movie (I couldn't BELIEVE what they did to Wash!) I figured it was safe to take the personality quiz.

No one really thought I'd come out as Inara, even though that seemed surface-level logical. Kurt thought Kaylee or even the Shepherd. I personally figured Mal. None of those guesses were way off, however, the real me is apparently:

Your results:

You are Zoe Washburne (Second-in-command)

Zoe Washburne (Second-in-command)		90%
Malcolm Reynolds (Captain)		65%
Derrial Book (Shepherd)		30%
Inara Serra (Companion)		20%
Kaylee Frye (Ship Mechanic)		20%
River (Stowaway)		20%
Wash (Ship Pilot)		10%
Jayne Cobb (Mercenary)		0%
Dr. Simon Tam (Ship Medic)		0%
A Reaver (Cannibal)		0%
Alliance		0%

Dependable and trustworthy.
You love your significant other and
you are a tough cookie when in a conflict.

Click here to take the Serenity Firefly Personality Test

Thanksgiving Crash

2006-11-25T17:14:00.000-08:00

I had a good holiday. Two awesome days with Kurt. And while the turkey started out scary, it turned out edible enough. You can read about the turkey day at Kurt's blog.

I've been working a lot since then and feel rather exhausted. The lilt of those days, just me and the tall guy, doing whatever we wanted to do, visiting friends, going to parties, watching movies, cooking, and of course those other activities we cherish, led to the inevitable downer after I had to get back into photo shoots, endless orders and packaging, and some trouble on my miscarriage boards.

And then of course there is NaNoWriMo. My book is falling very short in overall word count and this worries me considerably. My projected 90K book is going to hit maybe 65K, which is too short for mainstream fiction. I'll have to revisit my outline after I'm done with the draft and see what went wrong.

I have the girls for two nights. We have a great day planned for tomorrow but right now I'm going to whine a bit--I miss Kurt! I'm a little old fashioned (I know, I know--sounds crazy) about his staying here when the kids are with me. I save that sort of stuff for marriage. So we're separated. He will decorate the tree with us tomorrow, though.

I'll try to be pithy and clever in a future post. If you really want to read something dramatic and visceral, try this scene from my book, which has a lot of people reacting rather drastically. I had no idea people would be so upset--cracking open their wounds.

Back to one serious sink of dishes.

Cutting Through the Crap to Get to Gratitude

2006-11-21T08:51:00.000-08:00

Elizabeth is on outfit number three for the day.

It's 10:52 a.m.

She's averaging about six a day right now. You'd think we'd cut her off, say, "Okay, little diva, one is enough." Or three, anyway.

But, you know, some battles aren't worth fighting. If her mood goes from red velvet to puppy dog blues to striped fantasia to fur collar, all in the span of thirty minutes--why the hell not? She can dress herself. So maybe all the clothes rummaging makes her drawers messy. And we can barely sort the truly dirty from the barely worn. These are not things that matter.

November is certainly the time I start to figure out what does, indeed, matter. I don't have time for uselessness, rudeness, anger, or petty fights. I don't even have time for mildly amusing or random. I have a novel to write, a business to run, and a family to hold together.

And this attitude, unique to this time of year, enables me to see very clearly where my priorities lie.

1. The girls. Nobody gets to schedule anything--shoots or writing or even dates--during their school projects, no matter how small (today Emily read three sentences in a Pilgrim play and damn straight I was there.)

2. Kurt. If you're going to do a relationship at all, might as well go full contact. I can't be casual about things like this, so yes, I make sure he's taken care of, we have plans, we see each other enough, and I'm never ever too tired.

3. The novel. Even if this is not the book I thought I'd do first, not the one that I've longed to write, it is a good thing, a work that can make a difference to a lot of people. And I know I'm the person to do it. It's painful, and emotional, and not for the average reader. But then moms--no longer how long they take on the role--are never average.

4. Work. I like what I do, and it gives me lots of flexibility. And no one can tell me what to do (not even the clients.) That's the way it has to be for someone like me! Fortunately, I seem to be able to pay my bills with it.

So I am grateful for these things, and they seem to be going well. Lots of stuff goes wrong in between, but certainly, as long as my priorities stay on true North, then all the rest sort of fades away.

Inbox and Outflows

2006-11-15T07:07:00.000-08:00

Today I found this uplifting quote in my inbox courtesy of dictionary.com:

But the idea of providence, whether the biblical version or the Enlightenment's or Marx's, is at bottom a tragic notion, for it implies that individual human choices count for nothing against the weight of an inexorable, overwhelming force, whether benign or cruel, whether known as God, History, Destiny, Progress or DNA.-- James Carrol, Laughing Our Way to Defeat", New York Times, February 16, 1986

Figures. I am in one of those tragic notion states myself where everyone around me is rife with symbolism. Five break up songs played in a row as I drive to Kurt and surely we have to have a meltdown when I get there. Self-fulfilled.

Yesterday I heard Daniel Powter's "Bad Day" four times. And oh, was it.

Then came a disaster on my miscarriage forums the likes of which I've never dealt with in eight years. I had to lock down an entire topic, deal with a private message every five minutes either apologizing or calling me Big Brother. I got attacked hard.

Work has its frustrations, although I remain caught up going into the bad week--the period right before Thanksgiving where the 30-some-odd families I have photographed but have not ordered yet will all avalanche my inbox and voice mail, trying to get their orders in before they leave town. It's already begun--two grand in orders awaiting me in my email this morning.

Really, the only thing going extremely well is the one thing that was going poorly a few days ago--before all they symbols kicked in--my novel.

Monday's amazing 5K day yielded several awesome new scenes (I've put one of them on my blog) and two new writing buddies who are cool as all get out.

So today I'm blowing off everything but the novel--and I'm very close to a title! I'll be at the write in tonight, and very focused, and staying up very very late.

Life and Light Passing

2006-11-08T07:26:00.000-08:00

My grandfather died last night. He's the guy standing on the right side of this picture in the flowered shirt. I took the image in March when we visited their nursing home in Wichita Falls.

He had been in a lot of pain, and just had surgery the week before. He hadn’t been able to eat in weeks. His passing gives him ease from all that.

Tomorrow I assume I will leave town, depending on the day of the funeral. It's a hard time of year for me--I have 10 holiday shoots booked this weekend plus NaNo, a write-in I was in charge of and a photography class. But these things happen when they do. We rearrange our lives in honor of the lives that passed before us.

I wish before my grandfather died I could have told him to pick up our little baby Casey–well, gosh, I guess he’d be 8 by now and embarrassed by that–so maybe pat him on the shoulder, ruffle his hair. I'm always anxious when someone passes from this world to the next. It's my chance to send along a message, my love, my missing my babies.

But because of all the good things in this world–love, support, care, empathy, understanding–I’m sure my grandfather already knows.

NaNoWriMo Progress

2006-11-07T06:47:00.000-08:00

Despite a foray at the Ren Fair this weekend and a killer photo schedule, I managed to get back on pace for my 50,000 words in November.

The book is going well although chapter two did falter for a while (I started over completely last night), and readership is high over at the novel blog. I feel blessed to be so supported by both the trove of women coming from my miscarriage site to follow the book's progress as well as all my writer friends. I managed to write almost 3K at Java besides the distractions of the waiter spilling wine in my lap, Brecca's distress over her rat purchase, and James' drinking two hefty shots of pancake syrup. Yeah, you can see the video.

My Thanksgiving just got sort of screwed up, so not sure what is going to happen or if I'll get to travel, but otherwise all is good.

Bad News in the School Cafeteria

2006-11-03T12:22:00.000-08:00

I eat lunch with Emily every Thursday. I sit on the undersized table benches and help kids open ketchup packets or tricky fruit bowls.

This is also my weekly check-in with Elias, who I wrote about in Running in the Halls.

Yesterday he wasn't there.

I walked around, fetching spoons and napkins and giving kids permission to get seconds. I stopped at the end of the table where Elias usually sits.

"Where's Elias?" I asked.

Jacob looked up and smeared a spoonful of chocolate pudding on his tongue. "He moved."

"Moved?"

"Yeah," a girl said. "To New York."

I felt my knees buckle a little. "When?"

"Last week," Jacob said. "You just missed him."

I felt way more upset than I should have over a little boy I really only scarcely knew. I swallowed hard, forced my mind to drift a moment so I would not cry in front of them. It wouldn't make sense to these guys, Emily's mom all upset over their strange and messy classmate. I remembered reading books to him, his relief when I stood near him at the art show, his pride in showing me his contributions to the economics fair.

It struck me that maybe I did need a little boy in my life, a quiet little sensitive boy who thought too much. My window of opportunity is closing as I approach my late 30s. Just when I decided I didn't really want or need another child, this emptiness seemed unbearable.

I stumbled more than walked back to where Emily sat. I couldn't do anything about what had happened. Elias was gone.

I just missed him.

Trick or Drinkin'

2006-11-01T12:15:00.000-08:00

This was, hands down, one of the best Halloweens I have had since I was a kid.

I spent much of the day preparing for NaNo, creating an outline and organizing my notecards. Then I picked up the girls and we got all costumed up and met other little Westlake kids to trick or treat in the neighborhood. I had not done this for several years, since I jetted out of the society group, and let the girls' dad take them. But this year he wanted me to do it, so I packed up my little Belle and Harry Potter's friend Hermione and headed over to the meeting place.

The moms were emptying a bottle of wine into plastic cups. "Here's yours!" they called merrily and outfitted me with a good 12 oz glass. "This should get us around the block then we'll call for reinforcements to run us out another bottle!"

We lined the kids up for a group picture then began walking the block. All the parents waited at the ends of the long walkways as the kids climbed endless steps in the hilly neighborhood. Everyone sported wine or beer or opaque cups with sippin' straws. One of the women who opened the door glanced up at us. "I see you all are trick or drinkin'!" she called. We toasted her with our white cups and rounded up the kids to push along to the next manicured lawn.

The streets were mobbed and kids called out to each other in every direction. Here everyone knew everyone else. I had forgotten the camaraderie--the genteel sheen glossing every conversation. We did have fun.

After the girls complained their loot had gotten too heavy, I whisked them back to their father and raced to meet up with Kurt, don our costumes, and head to Sixth Street. Kurt had never walked the circulating mob on the big day. We visited our favorite spot on the rooftop of Maggie Mae's--a must-do on every downtown excursion as it is a happy place for us--then elbowed our way past the giant scythe of the 10-foot grim reaper, a half dozen Rainbow Brights, and many a girl in short skirts and thigh highs. We met Henry at One 2 One where he'd been playing poker (thanks for the drinks, my friend!) and spoke briefly to Liz and Zabe before racing back through the crowds to get to my car and to Katz's for the kickoff for National Novel Writing Month.

I missed kick off by some three minutes, but settled down and spun out my first two thousand words of the miscarriage novel. I have posted them to the novel blog. I discovered some of the women in other time zones were actually counting down the minutes until I started writing the book! This will be way fun, even though the book will be an undeniably heavy read. It's only been 12 hours since I posted the first chapter, and 200 people have already surfed over to read it. I have SO got to sell this sucker! They are counting on me!

I worked at Katz's until 2:30 a.m. and then got my blog updated as well as other minutiae until 4 a.m.

A most extraordinary day! Good luck to all my fellow wrimo friends!

Proud Mama Blog

2006-11-01T11:21:00.000-08:00

I blog so often about little Elizabeth, as she is the diva and the attention grabber of my pair, but two weekends ago, seven-year-old Emily and I went on a mother-daughter camping trip.

Much of the activities were a bit scary even for a second grader--jumping off a huge dock onto a giant inflated raft called the "blob" about the size of an 18-wheeler, swinging off a 50-foot rope into the lake, and even the archery was a bit hard to manage for the girls.

But in one of the sports that sent almost all the girls into paroxysms of fear, Emily kicked some tail--rock climbing.

The camp had set up a rock wall that was a good two stories high. Most of the girls put on the harness and gave it a try, but few got beyond the reach of their mothers. I could see the difficulty, even with the harness you had to both cling to the rocks with your hands and push up on others with your feet while at an angle that felt like you were falling. Many tears were shed; many panicked kids begged to be brought down.

Emily was the third to the last to go. I was a little anxious, as only three girls out of the 15 had managed the climb even partway and only two had reached the buzzer. Emily watched her best friends come right down after going a mere three feet up, but she seemed loose and ready.

I shouldn't have worried. She no more had her legs in the harness when she began scaling the wall rapidly and methodically, looking up for the next handhold and never glancing at the ground until she pushed the buzzer. When it came time to slide down the rope, she shoved away from the wall and sped down the line so fast even I felt a flutter of panic.

But then she waited her turn and did it again.

That's my girl!

A Series of Fortunate Events

2006-10-25T15:36:00.000-07:00

The second happy event (after winning the novel contest Monday) is that I got hired by UT! I now teach digital photography in their Informal Classes program!

I'll keep everyone posted when I will have a course! Come take it! Really!

I wonder what glorious third event will round things out? I can't wait to find out (though I admit lunch with Kurt today was right up there!)

Sigh. Happiness.

I Have Been Phantomed!

2006-10-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, on the front porch of the house where my kids live, we discovered a white bag covered in Halloween stickers. Inside were Halloween toys, skull pens, Pez, candy, and a note that read:

You have been phantomed!

You must phantom 2 other families!

Here are the rules:

1. Make 2 copies of The Phantom and rules.
2. Hang The Phantom you received in your front window to display that you have been phantomed. Once you have been phantomed, you cannot be phantomed again.
3. Within 48 hours you must phantom 2 other families with a set of rules, a picture of phantom (ghost), and some treats (treats may be cookies, candy, or something that you think the family would like.)
4. Phantoming stops Halloween night!

Signed,
PHANTOM THE GHOST

Normally, I do not like chain letters. I especially hate the ones that warn of dire consequences if you break the chain.

But I like this. It's easy enough. Make two bags for Halloween and deliver them. No nastiness about breaking the chain. And it's finite--a clear end-date.

Yesterday Emily and Elizabeth and I picked out treats for the other families. We delivered them easily and ran around looking at windows but didn't find any others who had been phantomed. I have no idea who started it, or who picked us, but it's a great idea, and I encourage you to do it too. Emily and Elizabeth had a blast!

Unexpected Glee

2006-10-23T20:23:00.000-07:00

I realized earlier today that I should have heard the results of the Abilene Writer's Guild contest by now, so I surfed over to their page, assuming I had lost but seeing if any of my friends who had entered had won.

I was quite surprised to learn my novel Helena the Muse had won first place in her category!

You think they'd let a girl know such a thing!

Now if only an agent would love me half so much...

Jesus Camp

2006-10-20T07:06:00.000-07:00

A lot of my friends have been upset or disturbed by the trailer for Jesus Camp. I'm just going to say that while there are moments in the trailer that feel alarming, I do not see so much a widespread problem or a scary trend as much as heavy editing and the effects of an evocative soundtrack.

I think I could go to most any place where kids are doing their thing--putting on plays, crying over things kids cry about, hotly and loudly repeating ignorant ideas their parents have told them, and being pushed by overzealous adults--and come up with something alarmist if I add a narration that tells of doom with an underscore of chilling music.

I sense manipulation--clever manipulation surely, and manipulation that has seeds of truth in it for sure, as we know there are many Christian sects with more zealotry than sense--but manipulation just the same. These images might very well show kids training to be military style evangelists, but the power in it that leads to the conclusion that these kids are working toward some sort of political Christian takeover on par with war--the juxtaposition of painted faces, martial-arts-esque demonstrations, extremist adult comments, a hot-headed partially rat-tail headed boy, a girl crying in what seems to be religious fervor, are really, so far, just heavy handed edits with an agenda.

The Washington Post declares the film even-handed, and says it is even funny at times. You wouldn't get that from the dooms-day trailer, but then trailers are meant to get you into the theater. By whatever means possible.

Weathering

2006-10-19T06:22:00.000-07:00

That first bite of a cold front when it's truly autumn jets me through time better than anything in a sci fi movie. The brisk air on my face, pushing my hair up and out like a shriek, erases the present and moves me instantly into every nuance of events from my chilly past.

This morning, opening my front door after a long rainy night by myself (Kurt is traveling), I stepped back a year. October 2005. I had just given up on the relationship I had always dreamed of--a passionate love affair with another writer, a novel we were writing together, a torrid emotional explosion of two violent permutations of id trying to outmaneuver each other, be smarter, harder, crazier, clashing like cymbals. But I had to let it go. He had been lying to me; I had known this since summer, and as the air turned cold so did I, turning away from him and his empty promises and into anyone who would catch me. Early fall was a ribbon of misery, woven through with music of the guitar player's band. I was drunk more than sober, crying more than happy, and the only thing in my future that even had the possibility of helping was writing a new novel, proving I could do this on my own.

All this hit me in the dozen or so steps between my door and my car. As if the universe aligned with the weather and my reverie, my communion with my past, the stereo shifted to the next CD in the queue and the song that surrounded me was the one I had chosen last October to represent my despair, Faith Hill's Stronger (hear a clip if you like). I had to steel myself as I drove through the leaf-strewn streets, passing the library as I do every day to get my daughters, alternatively grief-stricken and angry that I still felt anything other than disdain for my past.

I take this melancholy into my day--to Elizabeth's dance class, where the little girls turn in their pastel tutus like a springtime dream--to my photo shoot with a senior girl, adjusting her long straight hair against her lovely youthful face--to Kurt again tonight, where I will try to shed my past, as we all do, to find hope for a future free of remorse.

Cervix Shmervix

2006-10-14T13:34:00.000-07:00

I appreciate those of you who were anxious, emailing or calling to see how I was after the latest biopsy. I did get the results a few days ago.

I am not improving. Not getting worse, but the abnormal cells are still there, and so my doctor recommended I go ahead and have a LEEP procedure, a type of laser surgery where they remove a few layers of my cervix.

I turned it down. When he says I HAVE to have it, I'll do it. Just a recommendation? No thanks. As much as I hate these biopsies (got an infection after this one AGAIN--it takes almost a month to recover from each one), I can't imagine how much worse it would be to actually go in and seriously mess with this rather tender body part. So back I go in late January to get snipped again. I have a feeling that next time, if nothing has changed, he might insist on the LEEP.

But I'm not dying. Not yet.

Lockdown Drill

2006-10-12T11:24:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, at my daughter's elementary school, the preschool teacher sidled up to me between the National Pledge of Allegiance and the Texas one and said, "You might want to hurry out the minute the Pledge is over. We're having a lockdown drill after the announcements."

I heeded her and dashed through the halls and out the front door while they were still conducting the "one minute of silence," a time period reserved for prayer, meditation, or primarily, to test the antsy kids' endurance. I slowed down once out on the sidewalk, however, curious to see if I could see or hear any evidence of what would happen during the drill. Speakers in the parking lot amplify any announcements. Although I waited for several minutes, the drill still didn't begin, so I drove on home.

I asked Emily later about the drill. She said they all had to sit on the floor by the door, which had been locked by their teacher, and face away from the windows, where the blinds had been closed. "I wasn't scared, though," she said. "It just took a long time."

School security is pretty paramount these days, with all the tragedies taking place the last few weeks. When I checked my email the same day as the first lockdown drill, the superintendent of schools had sent a message that included this paragraph:

Many years ago, schools simply conducted fire drills; now lockdown drills are planned so that students and staff are familiar with procedures that would be used in an emergency. EISD also has taken steps to maximize coordination with all emergency responders within the district boundaries. Communication with emergency responders is strong and representatives from multiple agencies have participated in drills at our schools.

I want my girls safe, but I also want them free. And while I guess I can't quibble with safety practices, I surely don't want to live in a paranoid state where any stranger in the halls could be a killer, or even any fellow student.

Blog Overload

2006-10-09T14:05:00.000-07:00

I have about 22.6 topics I need to blog about, but each thing that shoulders its way to the forefront of my attention knocks out the other and so I'm left with way too much to say, all screaming for attention.

I am organizing a boycott of a radio shock-jock in Chicago (I refuse to give his name or put up a link and give the ass any publicity) after he treated an author friend horribly on his show and made a statement about what causes pregnancy complications that pisses me off enough to take my 2-million-hits a month website and seriously dent his popularity. We'll do it silently, steathily--no one allowed to hit his site or turn on his show to help his ratings, and send snail mail and email to his producers only. I don't want him getting any publicity for being a moronic uneducated disgrace to radio.

The moon festival was very low key at Zilker this year. Construction in the Oriental Garden meant that all the events were clustered by the visitor's center rather than spread throughout the park. But we had fun running into Jimmie and tasting moon cakes, round bread with a dark sweet paste in the center.

I have the best photography friends ever. I had serious trouble with my camera this weekend with the Zilker shots. I sent out a panicked email to several local photographers and all of them jumped right in to examine my images and help figure it out. Best of all is Carrell, who has loaned me 4 grand worth of cameras and lenses to see me through the special and to test out what is going wrong with my own. It's amazing how we help each other with no sense of competition or pettiness.

The cervical biopsy was no fun, perhaps worse than usual, but this time the doctor said he didn't see the abnormal cells like last time. (Of course, he'd have to cut into me to be sure they weren't below the surface--OUCH!) The test will be back this week sometime, supposedly. But I'm managing better this time and NO CHEATING about when my "recovery" is over and I can resume "activities." Learned my lesson, truly, last time. The great news is that when I told my doctor about my miscarriage book, he was excited about it and offered to read it for medical information. Hooray! Next, we'll see if he'll write the preface!

My novel critique group read 30 pages of Helena the Muse yesterday and it did not fare well. The people whose judgment I trust the most were the harshest, telling me they were very disappointed and knew I could do better. I think I'd rather have my cervix cut again than this...but $2.50 mimosas at Austin Java helped afterward, especially since other writer friends paid for them.

I'm terribly overwhelmed with shoots and camera problems and recovery and all. Just hanging in there.

Straight Up and Dirty

2006-10-05T07:38:00.000-07:00

So last night we went to Stephanie Klein's book signing at BookPeople. Stephanie was funny and spirited, much as I expected. You could definitely see her "bump"--she's five months along with twins!

She talked about how when she started her blog, she never expected success to follow, and attributed the popularity and the book deals to her belief in following your passion. I think bloggers these days are probably more aware of the potential of their blogs, although with the blogosphere so inundated, it's hard to stand out.

She read three excerpts from her book Straight Up and Dirty and answered questions with humor and candor. About 100 people attended, and maybe half of them stood in line to have her sign books. Kurt and I are in the picture on her blog! I'm in red on the opposite side. She also posted the pictures I sent her.

I also got a book signed, of course, and she wrote her standard phrase "Follow your passion!" inside.

If only she knew how quickly we'd oblige...

Kurt got a new office yesterday--one all to himself again. I had picked him up to go to the book signing, as it was on my way, so we went back there afterward, so he could show me around...

Yes, things got nailed.

His diplomas, of course! He needed an opinion on how it should hang...

Tomorrow is the icky day at the doctor! Let's all hope it goes better this time! The only way it could be worse than the nightmare last time--torn cervix, infections, serious sickness--is...well, if it's actually progressing toward cancer.

We just won't let that happen.

New lens!

2006-10-03T13:44:00.000-07:00

My new lens for my Canon came in today. I got a very fast f1.8 standard 50mm because I wanted to play with low light work as well as narrow depth of field. My usual lens, the typical portrait workhorse--a 28-135mm zoom--is a little slow, with a max of f3.5 zoomed out and 5.6 zoomed in. While this is not a bad choice for family portraits as 1.8 risks not getting everyone in focus, I would like to be able to go to conferences and concerts and not use flash.

I checked out the depth of field outdoors in ideal light and was astonished how little is in focus. Elizabeth's closest eye is tack sharp, her further eye slightly off focus, and her shoulder is already quite fuzzy. Wow! But I loved how totally blurred the grass is behind her.

Indoors, in low light with window blinds slightly opened, I had no problem getting a fix on the exposure. The image was a little softer than I'd like, which was one of the reasons I got this lens, hoping to get additional sharpness since the camera wouldn't be reaching quite so hard for a decent exposure.

But mainly I love how my camera weighs now--so light! I forget how much the zoom lens adds to it. I'll just have to get used to framing the shot as is--I can't get a tighter shot with a twist of the lens anymore.

Ah, the joy of new toys. My Zilker shoots start this weekend! I still have room in my schedule for more families!

Running in the Halls

2006-09-29T21:40:00.000-07:00

This morning as I walked out of the elementary school after taking the girls to their classrooms, I spied little Elias dashing through the glass doors. The bell had just rung, and in two minutes, about the time it takes the principal to walk from his daily position in the middle halls to his office, he would start the Pledge and announcements, which was when students were counted tardy.

Elias was in Emily's class last year. He and I were quite smitten with each other--me in sympathy, and him in awe of a devoted mother figure. He always saved his "read for an adult" log square for when I was there, so that we could settle together on the floor and he would read to only me. Once we read a book about moms around the world and both ended up crying.

I never quite understood his situation but he seemed to be bounced between his single mother and his aunt. He was a kid you see pretty often--a little unkept, emotional, not quite belonging. I volunteered once a week for reading help, and I stayed until school was out, so I often knelt near his desk when the teacher announced who was going home via the bus or cars each day. If Elias rode the bus, he got to go home to mom. If he was a car rider, someone else was taking him. The bus was good. Cars usually meant he would cry. I held on to his arm on many a car day while his shoulders shook, clear blue eyes embarrassed and cast down to his desk.

I became a bit of a surrogate mom at school events when parents were present. At a school like this, moms overachieve, attending any parade, poetry reading, or art show even during school hours. So kids with two working parents, or parents who didn't participate, often stood alone by their desks while other moms or dads cooed over clay sculptures or clapped for demonstrations of various skills. Because my ex and I almost always both attended for Emily, she was well covered and I often ended up near Elias.

Even this year, with him in a different class, he always lights up when I come to the cafeteria for lunch, as if I have come just for him. I always stop by his table, and sometimes, I know, he "forgets" a napkin or a fork just so he can raise his hand and I will come see what he needs. I don't mind.

Today, he didn't ride the bus, but got dropped off by someone who was obviously running late. As he dashed by, he almost stopped to say something to me, but I hurried him on, saying, "Go Elias! Don't be late!"

As he rushed past, the principal came around the corner, ready to start announcements. "You have my permission to run in the halls!" he said and patted Elias on the back as they crossed each other. Elias tucked his white blonde head down low and took off in a sprint.

I thought about this as I headed to my car and back home to launch my newest endeavor, the miscarriage book I will do for National Novel Writing Month. Unexpected kindness is everywhere, and when you can take a moment to envelop another person in affection, it makes such a difference. Elias is watched over by me, by the principal, and myriad family members who undoubtedly do the best they can in a tough situation. And today, as I fanned out emails (yes, I spammed today--go me!) about my new book, I was touched by dozens of women who have found my site through the years and now want to give back, want to support me, want to be a part of this journey I will take in writing a book about them and me, their lost babies and mine.

Over the next month or two we will delve into dark moments of our histories and explore old corridors of pain. I know my life is full and busy already, but I couldn't help but think of what the principal said--I have permission to run in the halls--and I am relieved and grateful to have so many people standing near to keep patting my back and pushing me forward if I need it.

This chick's an island

2006-09-27T09:32:00.000-07:00

I find it ironic that this quote keeps coming to mind today:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

It's ironic because John Donne was mentioned to me yesterday, rather pompously, and I blew it off as intellectual showmanship rather than relevant. But also because I'm glad language is the way it was then--male-centric--because I can choose to ignore the implications of it and say:

I'm a woman, therefore I can be an island, entire of myself, and let the screwed-up men of this world piece themselves together on some other continent.

Sorry for the overt sexism. In truth, I should like to isolate myself from both sexes at the moment, just to cope. I have a lot to think about, a lot to fear, and I'm already overwhelmed enough with kids and work and manuscripts and problems.

Maybe I'll be better later, after next Friday's carving of my cervix, after the tests are back again, and when things go more smoothly in general.

What to scrap from the scrapbook

2006-09-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

Since my old scrapbooking club started meeting opposite Kurt's D20 game on Sundays, I've been attending every other week. And one of my best friends is holding a scrapbooking weekend at her lake house this weekend, and I'm going there too.

So, I've had the old albums out a lot.

Where I left off is 2002, when Elizabeth was a baby and I was still married and living in Westlake-land (as opposed to just renting a duplex in Westlake--which is VERY different.) Spending an evening with women from the old neighborhood and sorting pictures from my former life so that my kids will have a record of their childhood is difficult--heavy, introspective, sad.

I am nearing the end of the marriage now, that last Christmas as a family in 2003, days when I already knew something had to change, and pretty sure which direction I'd go. Already my camera is snapping differently--focus on the children, no shots of mom or dad, tightly framed kid joy, a bubble of innocence that we have worked hard to never fully burst.

As I move into albums that will be all about my new life, I find the road forks yet again. What do I include? David was a huge part of my life for almost two years, flying kites with my kids, all of us scaling rocks on a hike, library functions. Do I leave him out since it ended? Does only a marriage license get you in the book? What will I do with Kurt? Leave him out too, unless we get married, go back and shoehorn him in after the fact?

If the book is for me, I should include it all, as I dislike revisionist history. But if the book is for them, then maybe it should be more carefully crafted. The girls took it hard after David was gone; looking through the book would bring up their grief and certainly invite more questions as they get older.

I guess the only solution is really two books. One of the glossy smiles, the birthdays, holidays, and happy moments for them. And another just for me and my whole life. In some ways I've already done this--books for a relationship separate from the books of me as mommy. I suppose that makes the most sense.

I'll figure it out this weekend, I suppose, over margaritas and take-out, pictures sliding over coffee tables, resting in piles. Girlfriends will help. And judging by the way I already feel about it, I will cry... a lot.

Undercurrents

2006-09-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

I feel very on edge. I sense my life changing underneath the surface, forces working unseen, many of them I may have initiated myself months or years ago but now seem to be gathering strength.

As a believer in signs and symbols, or at least as someone who will twist events until they fit into a vision I hope for, I've been hit with a number of things pointing to rushing headlong off the cliff of the new novel which will heavily involve the miscarriage community I've built over the last eight years.

Last night I sat waiting in the library of the school where I teach a photography class for adults. No one had arrived, so I sat at one of the student tables and reached for the closest book. It was entitled "Mothers."

I flipped through pages, admiring the quotes about mothers and the paintings printed within. Then I found one expression that made me pause.

I begin to love this little creature and to anticipate his birth as a fresh twist to a knot which I do not wish to untie.
Mary Wollstonecraft
British Writer
1759-1797

While the quote is intended to mean a woman anticipating the healthy birth of a child, I saw its implications for women who lost their babies instead. I knew I had the opening quote for my novel. This seemed to tell me that I was ready. I should launch.

I have the blog set up and ready. I've redesigned my main miscarriage site to include links to it (tho not published it to the web yet), and I've even pre-written the first ten or so blog posts--all intended to get my community involved in the book I plan to write in November. And yet I hesitate. What about Helena? I haven't sold that novel--not sure I've given her a good running chance. If I let her go, focus on something else, then she might never see the light of day again.

So yesterday I emailed two more agents about the book. I figured--this is it. If no one shows any interest, then it's definitely time to move on.

Well, one of them has already written me back, asking me to send fifty pages.

So I'm all the MORE uncertain about launching the new book with an audience (I can NaNo in complete obscurity otherwise and write total crap, or work on a re-draft of Helena if I need.) Once I commit to the miscarriage book, get everyone involved, I hate to lose the momentum, the audience, the chance.

But then in my writing group, a member puts this up rather randomly on the forum:

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness.
Concerning all acts of initiative and creation there is one elementary truth, the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:
That the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred.
A whole stream of events issue from the decision, raising in one's favour all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance, which no man could have dreamed would have come his way.
Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it.
Boldness has genius, power and magic in it.
--Goethe's Faust

So here we go. Go for it ALL. Fifty pages of old novel to agent. Gather the emails to launch the new novel and have an audience for November.

Oh, yeah, and work. The holiday photo season, for me, begins Oct. 6 and lasts until Dec. 11.

Fool, I know you are feeling the exact same way about your Alaskan bike ride and all the things it can mean for your life. And Kurt, about the sudden explosion of work and being offered project leads. And Stephanie, about finding your way on your own.

There will be some undertow, some dragging down, moments of uncertainty, flashes of fear. But it's better than complacency. So let's just get started, while there's some genius left.

Austin City Limits Days 2 and 3

2006-09-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

Saturday we decided it was TOO DANG HOT to arrive early, so we got to ACL about 3:30 when the day became manageable. The crowds were obscene. You couldn't plow through any section of the park without weaving through a throng.

Los Lobos put on a decent show--a mix of old favorites with some of their new songs. We lay in the blanket in the sun, happy and pleased to be outside and listening. We had discovered Charlie Sexton via the Itunes ACL download giveaway and his live performance was also outstanding. Kurt liked Calexico; I was only lukewarm on the sound, which is sometimes described as alternative country, but I found to be sort of jazzy mariachi, at least in the sets they played Saturday.

We met up with Ivy at the South Austin Jug Band show, although she disliked the music and the lack of jugs. I love SAJB, so we were grooving within good sight of the band at the small stage. We made a brief stop by Explosions in the Sky before unanimously declaring their techno mix too painful to endure. James had joined us by then, and we immediately made our way to the bar tent to plunk down $4 for beer and $6 for wine.

We all started at Massive Attack, but Ivy and James couldn't handle them either, so they made off for Willie Nelson. Kurt and I managed a few more songs and took off ourselves, fired up for Day 3, since Day 2 had been so much more manageable.

Then came the rain. We arrived on Sunday at 4 p.m. to find Rebecca STILL in the line for KT Tunstall's autograph. (She later was threatened with arrest after failing to get an autograph for Muse and refusing to leave--go Becca!) The ground had dried up from the noon showers and the sky held most of the day. We saw a solid show from Matisyau and a surprise delight with the highly entertaining antics of White Ghost Shivers and their x-rated lyrics. Hooray for the Banana Song!

We all sat around listening to the Flaming Lips as we waited to split again--Rebecca, Ivy, and James to Muse and me and Kurt to the Bodeans. I have to say the Bodeans ROCKED! I remarked to Kurt a number of times that people around us during the festival didn't seem to be having fun. They were like, enduring, like they were just managing the crowds and heat and shuffled from one show to the other like zombies. But during the Bodeans, everyone laughed and danced, like a music festival should be! I so have to get one of their albums now. I think the tall one will agree that "Naked" is a new song for us. (Yeah, go figure.) But really, it's a beautiful tune, done better live than in any sample I could find online. I hope Itunes will sell that song--they recorded quite a few as live versions--but alas, I probably won't get that lucky.

Tom Petty was about what I expected--solid, low key, a mix of popular songs and things I didn't know. He talked and sang sort of softly, a subtlety you find in his music, and I found that this did not translate well to a huge open field with tens of thousands of people. Crowds around us kept shouting "turn it up!" but obviously it wasn't possible. People singing around us were drowning out the music from the stage, and one song we couldn't hear even when everyone got quiet. So as the rain began half an hour into the concert, about 2/3 of the crowd bailed. I caught a blurry rain-enhanced image of the night stage.

The good part of that was we got out our ponchos and moved up where we could hear him more clearly. Bad part: had to wait 45 minutes before he came on again.

So, looking back over the three days--Los Lonely Boys were definitely the best show. The Bodeans a close second (they SOOO deserved a bigger stage). I definitely plan to catch White Ghost Shivers locally some time as they were just so fun, and I'm never ever going to a day at ACL without my handy pool blanket that wicks water away and folds up into a tiny bundle. We didn't have it the first day and sitting in grass is icky--witness my 25 ant bites!

And...I did call the doctor about my tests. My condition is not improving, so back I go to get another chunk snipped out of me. I can only pray it goes better than last time, as I have a full load of shooting to do the day after--outdoors at Zilker no less. Surely it will go better. Surely.

Los Lonely Boys and ACL Day 1

2006-09-16T11:54:00.000-07:00

I never get tired of Los Lonely Boys. This ACL was my fourth time to see them live and I still love their guitar antics, their trading instruments, playing on their backs, and one handed. Kurt bought me their new album a week ago to prepare for the concert and all I can say is "Oye Mamacita!"

Gnarls Barkley was a surpisingly fun show. Everyone on stage wore white lab coats at the beginning but we all expected they'd shed them before long. He was mid-afternoon and the only time I actually thought I might faint from the heat was during his show. He teased the crowd, as if expecting few knew what he looked like, saying, "Gnarls Barkley couldn't make it but we're here to cover his songs!"

When we first arrived, as Asleep at the Wheel was playing, the park was empty. You could walk right up to the stages and be in the front row, weaving between people chillin' out in lawn chairs. By about 5, though, they place was packed as you'd expect, and the park was a human obstacle course.

They did have more grass, and the misting stations were awesome. We dropped by several other shows--Terri Hendrix, Mishka, Guster, and Stars. Itunes gave out cards with a pass for 30 songs from various artists at the festival. We downloaded them last night. Our favorite band name (although not their music) has been I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness.

On a rough note, I got a call from my doctor mid-festival about the results of my tests last Monday, a follow up to see if I've gotten better or worse since May. The nurse had told me if it was bad, they'd call me on Friday, and if it was good, I'd get a card in the mail on Monday. I guess we know what the call means. She left a message saying the doctor wanted to "discuss" them with me.

But I don't think about that now and focus on the festival. Perhaps the music saturates me more deeply, the sky more intense, the crowd more beautiful and diverse than before I got the message. I revel in that. Let Monday happen on Monday.

Ann Richards 1933-2006

2006-09-14T08:27:00.000-07:00

I remember the gubernatorial race between Ann Richards and Clayton Williams well. I worked at the Daily Texan, and my friend Janel got the glam job of covering her race while I had the ho-hum work of Phil Gramm's re-election bid. This was November 1990.

I had covered a lot of Clayton Williams' campaign, most notably the protests after his joke about rape, told to reporters on a hunting trip. For Halloween that year, we all wore Clayton masks cut from the newspaper, because nothing could get scarier than him being governor.

But still, he had money, he was a good ol' boy, and political correctness had not really hit Texas with a hard heel. He pretty much said what he wanted, acted how he pleased.

As the night wore on, my race ended early with a landslide for Gramm. I was able to finish quickly, but with the governor's race in a dead heat, we knew it would be a late night for everyone at the paper, so I wrote my story out in longhand in the passenger seat while Janel drove across town to Ann Richard's campaign headquarters. We knew we ought divide our time at Clayton's HQ in case he won, but we just couldn't bear it if he did, so we hoped heading to her camp would somehow tilt the scale.

The euphoria when Williams finally conceded the race is hard to describe. Paper flew; people cried. Janel and I, objective journalists that we were, screamed and hugged, then pushed forward to try and get close enough to ask a question. I finally let her go on through and held back, just smiling and watching everyone celebrate.

It didn't matter that it was 1 a.m. by the time we got back to the newsroom to file our stories. Everyone was down at the offices, jubilant and relieved. We stayed up all night, thrilled and excited that the clever witty brilliant woman had proven that "A woman's place is in the dome."

We'll miss you, Ann. If only you'd have beaten out W in your re-election bid for governor. Think where the world might be instead. You'd have made a mighty fine president.

The Hair's Plum Differnt!

2006-09-13T12:56:00.000-07:00

Yeah. I did it.

It took three hours, two coats of color gloss, and $160. My dearest hairdresser Jessica at Salon 505 did it for me.

It's designed to look almost black indoors and vivid purple in the sun. So at ACL I will be out in all my amethyst glory, but in the four classes I'm teaching over the next two weeks, I won't look like a mid-life crisis freak show.

Come and gawk this weekend at ACL if you're a'goin'! It's only going to last a few weeks before it fades and/or I recolor it something else!

Christmas in September

2006-09-10T11:28:00.000-07:00

Many people rant about Christmas trees going up in summer at craft stores, gift displays erected before Halloween, and general rumbling about department store holiday Muzak in November.

I beat everyone, always, as I have to prepare well in advance of Christmas for holiday portraits.

By mid-summer I'm already sweating the new holiday scene, watching for props, considering card designs. I won't actually put up the tree in the studio until Halloween night, hanging decorations while I wait for trick or treaters, but I have to shoot sample images to put on my mailouts and ads way ahead of that.

Yesterday I ran around town trying to find red pajamas. They did NOT have to be Christmas, mind you, just red.

I tried discount stores--Wal-Mart, Target. I tried department stores--Macy's, Nordstrom's, Dillards, JC Penney. Then I progressed to kid shops--Children's Place, Gap Kids, Gymboree. My sense of panic grew as the day wore on and nothing but pink, yellow, blue, pastels. Was red just taboo this year? Did they withhold it to make sure everyone bought it at Christmas?

Finally at a boutique shop, Bright Beginnings, I found little pink gowns with characters in red coats and muffs. Close enough! I had just about given up on using my dad, who was in town for the weekend, as Santa in the new scene, even though he loves doing it. I didn't have anything for the girls to wear!

But saved by the high-end kids clothing store. They tend to have leftovers from previous seasons, so I don't have to wait for new shipments. Thankfully that had sizes close enough to the girls to make do.

So here's the new design. I will be selling porcelain plates with images like these on it, perfect gift for grandma--a cookie plate with their grandkids giving cookies to Santa. The set is designed so that it will be very easy to splice in other kids with my dad, a clean seam down the middle.

Whew, one thing off my to do list! I also get scraped tomorrow (wahh!) and get my hair dyed purple Wednesday. Look at that list go!

Oh, and three, THREE people have read the book now! Whoo!

Wine-o Wine-o Wine-o WINE

2006-09-09T07:48:00.000-07:00

Hooray! Heard back from Mankas Hills Vineyard about their free wine for bloggers deal.

I told them I photographed wine. I plan to shoot theirs!

Deanna,

Thanks for taking us up on our offer. I'm a bit behind in answering all the e-mails coming in so I apologize for taking so long to reply.

We're batching up requests each week and should be sending this out sometime next week. I'll send you the UPS Tracking # once it has shipped.

I hope the bottle makes a good photographic subject (the label is kind of fun) and I hope you enjoy the wine,

Andrea

Get yours! If you have a blog at least three months old and at least one post in it, you're good! (Well, as long as you're of legal age!)

Crash

2006-09-08T11:34:00.000-07:00

Last night, when I crashed very early (something absurd like 9 p.m.--I've been doing too many NIA classes lately) Kurt finished reading Helena. That's TWO, TWO people who have read the whole thing. It is in the hands of two others, and I will give out two more copies when I get them in.

I put up some revision ideas I've been told by the readers on my Helena blog. It can be a place for others to comment if they like. I learned yesterday that some of my photography clients had been following my novel blog. I had no idea!

Today my parents are coming to visit for the weekend. I'll try to smuggle a copy of the book to my sister-in-law without them knowing what it is. While mom and dad insist they want to read it, I am quite sure they do not. We're very different, and I doubt they'd find much entertainment in reading about Japanese bondage or lesbians or even the rare vanilla sex acts in the book. When I was in college and working for the Daily Texan, my ex and I wrote an article about couples living together. Someone actually cut it out of the newspaper and mailed it to my parents, sparking an upset that exploded to the point that they wrote me a letter saying I was no longer their daughter.

Don't anybody be getting no ideas about this here blog. Thankfully my parents don't really do much Internet.

Yeah, I know. I'm 36. But not to them.

Keeping Dunvegan

2006-09-06T11:27:00.000-07:00

Last night my photography group met at Dunvegan Keep, one man's backyard turned architectural and landscaping mecca. The images in this post are from there--Kurt standing in the doorway of the Knight's retreat, all dragon windows and swords.

This amazing piece of land has been featured in national magazines and on Good Morning, America, which seemed like a good idea, since the owner rents it out for weddings and photo shoots. But this also caught the attention of the neighborhood association and the tax assessor, so he's dealt with unending battles with both. Lawyers have threatened to tear down his tower and send him the bill. It's not pretty.

But the grounds are gorgeous. He's done all the work himself--immense stone structures, carefully inlaid mosaics, doors and artwork brought from Africa.

It's funny and ironic and terrible that someone can create something so beautiful, so intricate, so well planned, only to find so much controversy. Life isn't about art, after all, it's about resell value.

Good restrictive covenants make good neighbors.

Drinking Like Teenage Fish

2006-09-04T17:47:00.000-07:00

So Henry here's listening to me regale him with tales of Labor Day weekend and my exploits with chick friends and Kurt. Mostly this involved alcohol.

"You know," Henry says, dropping his chin a bit so he can peer over his glasses, "we ain't 18 anymore."

Sigh. Don't I know it. The headache waited until late afternoon today, after three days of drinking and debauchery. Then the hangover took good hold, Advil, water, and caffeine only taking the edge off.

Saturday I spent with girlfriends, eating appetizers and drinking pineapple juice with coconut rum. Irma brought her boxes of Passion Party merchandise and we giggled over vibrators, fruity massage oils, decks of cards showing new positions, and nipple gels that heated up with skin contact. Yeah, I bought some stuff!

Yesterday we saw Snakes on a Plane. Gratuitous? Nah? Gore? Never! We did get some good laughs, and Sam-Jack did rock. The worst part was actually unintentional. We saw the movie at Alamo and apparently they found it amusing to have a loose wire running the length of the table where our feet rest. Any time anyone on the row kicked the wire, it moved, bumping against our feet. When watching a movie involving snakes crawling between rows of seats, this was NUTS! I jumped out of my seat several times, knowing darn well it was NOT a snake, but unable to stop the reaction. I drank sangria at Drafthouse but we really warmed up later, watching the Nightmare Before Christmas and making frozen drinks with rum and vodka.

Kurt won the tequila shootout by drinking five shots and still passing the sobriety tests that cops administer to drunk drivers. We went on after that to see how many he could handle, and he managed seven shots to my five before we gave up, stumbling around like kids who had raided the liquor cabinet.

We picked the tequila for the match after taste testing several via the amazing tequila flights you can take at Iron Cactus. They serve three half-shots of a brand of tequila--the silver, reposado and anejo versions or you can have three brands of the same category. We chose the Herradura Anejo, and the winner of our tequila match had to buy the $60 bottle.

The weather this Labor Day weekend was nicer than lately--90s rather than topping 100. The girls were gone camping with their dad.

We drank at Carlos and Charlies, taking in Lake Travis and Cherry Limeade with cherry vodka. We waded in Bull Creek in the afternoon.

A good weekend all around. Now I move toward my last free few weeks before the craziness of my photography Christmas season kicks off on Oct. 6. And, of course, this year's Nano.

But first I have to get over this hangover. I don't think I'll drink again for a bit...wait...Henry's telling me about a wine deal for bloggers.

A vineyard called Mankas Hills is giving a free bottle of wine to bloggers who have blogged at least one post in a blog that is at least three months old...

I'm so there.

And now I'm inspired--signing off to order a red wine and coke.

Signs and Symbols

2006-08-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

Yes, I got laid low after discovering the book Memoirs of a Muse in the library a few days ago. And yes, my Writer's League friends helped pull me out of it, made clear I should keep submitting my own muse story to agents. I rewrote the synopsis yesterday and have sent it to some writer friends for critique. I'll submit to four more agents on Monday.

But I've remained skeptical. To hedge my bets, diversify my portfolio, cover all bases, I've begun to rebuild my photo business, take on more clients, and bustle with work that actually helps support me. The notion of being a writer, not even full time, but just half of my work life, still seemed to grow more distant.

I've continued to read the novel. I'm about halfway through. The story has diverged sharply from where the book jacket seemed to suggest it might go, but I find as each chapter unfolds a darker, more unsettling pattern is aligning alongside my writing history.

The heroine has met her muse subject, a novelist. After two dates, she is digging amongst second-hand books and comes across the diary of Dostoevsky's muse. She knows this is fate and lists all the moments in her life, all the pointers that have brought her to this climax--her decision to pick this man she is seeing and serve as his muse.

I once had an identical conversation in my mind. Three years ago--bloody hell--three years ago today. It's a red-letter day in my history and mirrored in a book I am reading the same day, a book that sent me on a down spiral about writing and which direction my life should go.

When life hits you with too many symbols at once, you know you have to follow them. It's clear the book I abandoned last summer is coming back. Lara is showing me how and why. It's the book I have to write; it's the book that will define the writer I will become. Not the muse book I wrote last year. Not the miscarriage book I will NaNo this year. But Banquet of Two. Painful prose no doubt. A dark journey.

I plan to write Lara Vapnyar, the author of Memoirs of a Muse, when I'm done with her novel. A writer doesn't pen a page like the one I've just read unless it's actually happened. I know this. Anyone who reads something like that with understanding and familiarity knows it too. Some things you just can't fake, imagine, or invent. You write them down, in story after story, novel after novel, changing circumstances and details but not the feeling. You want to relive that hot flash of pleasure, as she described it, like a recurring dream, like sliding the little plastic disk onto the shaft of a record player to repeat an album again and again and again, requiring no action on your part. It's like lying lazily on the floor, the music resounding forever, a retreat to that moment when life made perfect sense and your path was bright and clear.

I'm here now. I'm listening. And I know where my life is going soon, not right away, not this November, not even this year, but in January. Janus. The beginning. And time for the book I was meant to write.

Pathetic Progress. Oh, and fake boobs.

2006-08-25T10:35:00.000-07:00

So, I've done a few things from the list. Purple hair appointment made. Stupid doctor checkup on my cervical status also scheduled.

Summaries read. Still haven't rewritten my synopsis. Got on Blogger instead. :)

This is boring. Maybe I'd rather talk about big boobs and trophy wives. Yes, lets.

I am surrounded by the BBTW here in Westlake. On average, she's gotten older, though, now 30s and not 20s, as the ridicule was apparently too much to bear for these men after marrying girls younger than their own offspring. The occasional 40-something BBTW, due to the miracle of chemical peels and liposuction, is also becoming more common out in these parts.

In my workout class, I have one of the latter. You think she's 20 until you see her up close. You're fooled by the blonde hair framing her tan face and falling halfway down her back--a shaggy mane. She's super skinny of course, long legged a bonus, and well--STACKED.

Many people with more first-hand experience than I have listed the ways of spotting a fake rack. You can take a test at OKCupid to see if you are knowledgeable on the subject. WARNING! Not work safe! You look at 20 sets and vote "real" or "fake." I scored a measly 50%.

As I conducted this all-important research, one hysterical find was a treatise on Brittany Spears' boobs. She did seem to vacillate somehow between an A cup and at least a C and not one to the other, but back and forth! Watch this funny little movie to see!

I guess all this study helped, as on this test of images of boobs (not work safe again!) I scored 75%!

Regardless, one thing I tend to know, is women with very large natural breasts have grown up self conscious of them, and tend to keep them well supported. Women with *new* big boobs like to flaunt them, and run around without bras or support.

In my class, it's quickly become apparent you should simply not *get too close.* She'll knock you sideways with those swingers.

Sigh. Enough snarking. It's all about not being able to afford any fake ones myself.

I have a synopsis to write.

Thank goodness for friends

2006-08-23T13:57:00.000-07:00

So everyone who's been around me since Monday knows I've been laid pretty low by the whole Memoirs of a Muse discovery.

Today I finally felt like I was coming out of it. I appreciate Henry and Ivy, who put up with me moping at Java all Monday night. And Kurt, of course, who dealt with me moping Monday AND Tuesday night (last night was about rock bottom.)

And I really want to thank all my writer friends who put this in perspective. Here's what some of them said.

[Here in Paris] is an English bookseller, just across the Seine from Notre Dame -- Shakespeare and Company, founded by George Whitman. Every Monday evening they have a reading of novels in progress and published novels. I've been here six weeks now and Deanna, I've heard nothing in the three readings I have attended that was any better than your writing. And all the novelists who read were published, one with three novels, another with over a dozen, another with two. So, keep faith and bon courage.

Deanna, I am so sorry that you're feeling kicked in the stomach. The same thing happened to me with my first novel. I had already finished the first draft and was editing it when *Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood* came out. I was knocked flat for over a week, and to this day when I tell anyone about my first novel, they ask if I got the idea from the Ya-Ya's, or say, "Oh, like the Ya-Ya's."
But I guess here's my point, and it's an encouraging one. Now that there are scads of books out about the camaraderie between a group of women, that group having a name (mine are called The Sinners, from their old family joke), I see how very DIFFERENT my novel is from the Ya-Ya's. I had apparently tapped into a trend before it happened, but now that it has, what a broad trend it has become.

That's a terrible story, Deanna. Lara Vapnyar's book "Memoirs of aMuse" was handled by my agent, David McCormick, a great, truly literary agent. Lara is an amazing writer. She's from Russia and only moved to the US in 1994. Her writings are mostly about Russian-Americans and Russian emigrees, so it's hard to imagine there's much in common between your books beyond the "Muse" theme. I would think you should hang in there with your book; just make sure it's as distinctive and particular as it can be. Maybe there's a twist or a subplot lurking within it, waiting to be developed more fully.

When my debut tweener novel, Rain Is Not My Indian Name was just released, I walked into BookPeople and prominently displayed was Carolina Autumn. The books both were told by girls in the first person point of view.They both dealt with healing from sudden death, and in both, each chapter opened with a journal entry. What's more, both covers featured a girl and a camera because, well, both protagonists were photographers and their photography was a venue for their healing and how they viewed their changing worlds.

What happened? Nobody noticed. Not reviewers. Not the attentive teacher-librarian community. Not young readers. Why? When I read her book, I was reading as a nervous author. All I could seewere the similarities. But many books have elements in common.

Readers who were farther removed from the books saw them for what they are. I'm not Carol and she's not me, and though our stories had similarities, they were their own stories. Keep in mind that you're coming from your own manuscript, comparing with that eye, but another reader may see them as both books she'd like but certainly different and important in their own right. I hope this helps and wish you the best of luck!

Okay, okay. So I'll get off my butt and send out more queries. Back to the to-do list...

Bile Blackened Bitterness

2006-08-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

As a child, I exalted the library as a veritable heaven of the imagination. Golden light blazed through small round windows and shafted onto stories by Laura Ingalls Wilder and Beverly Clearly, Judy Blume and EB White. My mom would only take me once every two weeks, when the books were due, as it was a 30 minute drive into town, so I maxed out my limit every time, pulling books off the shelves like a hungry teen in a convenient store snack aisle.

My love affair with libraries has been on again/off again, as you all well know, but today I trepidaciously stepped inside our local version of the book lender to find some audio books as well as the Shreve novel I've been looking for.

The colors danced off the glossy covers as they lay supine on the angled shelves of new fiction. I spotted the Shreve book right away, the only one checked in out of eight--what luck! I grasped the slender volume, slick with its plastic cover, then my eyes spotted this:

Memoirs of a Muse

Black clouds should have gathered, lightening striking at startling intervals, and the sky should have gone dark.

But these things didn't happen. Finding this book only mattered to me. Only my heart was pierced.

I sat in the car line to pick up the girls and read the first 15 pages--for of course I checked it out. As I waited the wind rattled through the treees like old bones.

I felt lukewarm about it. It unfolded slowly, a bit bitingly. According to Amazon, it came out five months ago, so it was written last year, well before I even conceived my almost identical story line.

I feel much like I did after completing First Lessons, my book about teaching, and realizing a wave had begun for a book called Dangerous Minds. By the time I landed an agent and we were submitting to actual publishers, the movie was coming, a TV series slated. My book seemed silly and flat compared to it. The agent believed in it, and the publishers liked the writing, but still, all no, no, no, no. Once a book has been shopped around, it is dead. You can't submit it any more lest you annoy them to the point of wrecking your reputation.

My life has proven rather ill timed again, like I'm dancing with a peg leg, falling just behind every beat, sliding clumsily before the audience I long to charm.

Her book is getting good reviews. She's been published in the New Yorker. Her previous short story collection is lauded as brilliant.

I don't want to play any more.

Killing Multiple Birds with Many Stones

2006-08-20T16:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I've refused to create a "to do" list. It's scares me. I picture a never-ending scroll, something akin to Santa's list of naughty and nice before he went digital. I feel overwhelmed about making the list. How could I possibly face down the actual list?

But then part of the list is bound to be blog goals. And probably something about keeping in touch with friends. And certainly writing practice. And suddenly--KAPOW! Yes, I can put my list on the blog. See how many check marks I can get for one activity.

But here goes.

Find cute scroll icon for this post.
Write post.
(Ha, feel good that I'm accomplishing things on my list!)

Okay, let's stop hedging. Maybe categories will help.

Personal

Choose costume for this year's Ren Fair
Make appointment to get hair dyed purple before ACL
Go get scraped again (blech). CALL YOUR DANG DOCTOR, CHICKEN!
Redecorate bathroom with all that cool African stuff you bought on impulse
Organize scrapbooking stuff so kids don't think you missed their childhood

The Novel (Deadline Aug. 26)

Read a bazillion book synopses to get the format well stuck in your head.
Write a new synopsis for Helena (those dang agents love your writing but your summary sucks.)
Send out three more agent letters with new synopsis.
Find at least three more people who will read the whole thing for you and point out inconsistencies

The New Novel (Deadline Oct. 20)

Complete www.pregnancyloss.info site redesign with spot for new novel blog for November and NaNoWriMo
Download WordPress to make baby blogs for practice
Create new novel blog in preparation for writing
Read two more ensemble novels to get ideas on new novel structure (Anita Shreve & Faulkner)
Create bios for ensemble characters for new novel
Come up with some sort of plot! Really!
Prepare ahead some agent letters on new novel so you can send them out during Nano

Christmas Prep (Deadline: Oct. 1)

Choose new Christmas set design and purchase pieces
Stock up on folders/bags/proofing supplies/envelopes/deckle edge cards/ink/order forms
Input all the addresses for mailout
Create mailout

Oops, I've been drinking vanilla rum and coke (try it--it's cool!) while I typed this and now I'm too sleepy to continue the list. Yes, it's mid evening. Whatever.

DNA Meme

2006-08-19T05:54:00.000-07:00

It's Saturday morning and the kids aren't up yet! What's a mother to do? Bake biscuits from scratch? Scrub the floor?

It's, um, the digital age. Screw that. Take online quizzes! (I don't even own an apron.)

No surprises here. High creativity. High emotionality. Low listening to authority. You should be able to mouse over the squares to see my traits.

Benevolent Creator

First Day of Freedom

2006-08-18T13:01:00.000-07:00

Ahhh.

Both girls are in school today, the first time they've both been gone at the same time.

It's been a long day. I feel like I should have accomplished a whole lot more.

But I did:

*Take my first NIA class. It did not really challenge me cardio-vascularly, which I expected, since I'm so used to hard-core running in the heat, but I liked the way I used more muscles. My arms will be sore, I think.

*Go shopping for NIA appropriate attire!

*Spend too much time reading blogs.

*Wrap a gift and otherwise prep for a birthday party tonight (Kurt gets to do his first "family-esque" gig tonight with me and girls.)

If I haven't already forced you to see the images of my darlings in the new photo set, which are part of the special I'm running right now, well, here they are!

Only a Fool will believe

2006-08-14T18:04:00.000-07:00

Well, one person on this planet has read my entire book.

One.

Fool.

It's possibly unexpected to even him. How can that be? Deanna is so supported, surrounded by writer friends, people who have taken this journey with her. She's in writing groups, for Pete's sake!

But yep. Just Fool.

Two other people have the full manuscript, and I will send it to my book-loving sis in law in a few weeks. So others will read it eventually, I s'pose.

I've had five rejections so far, of the seven queries I've sent out. Of those five rejections, only one was a form letter, and all I had sent her was the query letter. The others I gave the first five pages or more if they had asked.

These first pages are good, and the agents say so. But the story idea doesn't bowl them over, or else they lose interest shortly after that killer introductory scene.

Tonight I will try to work on this--that second scene. If you want to give me some input, pop over to the first chapter on the Helena blog and tell me what you think. Doesn't matter if you think you can edit or not, blind reading by regular book lovers is plenty enough. Send me what YOU think is wrong.

Damned if I know. It's nice to know four major agents in this world think I have talent for writing, but perhaps a novel is just too much for me.

Maybe I'm foolish to think anything else can happen.

Hopelessly in Happy

2006-08-09T10:08:00.000-07:00

Okay. So blogs tend to be bottom-heavy. We dump things in them. Snarky observations. Bad days. Laments. Link-shock.

Not today. I am going to take a few minutes to say--whoa, it's been a good day. Very good day. Yes, it's only noon. Things can take a dive at any moment--but all is well in Deanna-ville.

I had a happy start to morning. :) Though I ended up a touch late to take over the girls.

Babysat for my friend Stephanie and the girls had a blast with her (see image one in the ball pond.) Stephanie arrived back to collect the baby just before my photo appointment showed. The girls stayed quietly downstairs and played while I did the sitting.

The mom almost cried at the images. Her daughter had never smiled in a picture before. She asked just "how big" could she order one.

Now I'm free to chat with friends, play with girls, and learn new web site software. I have to put up a site from our scooter tour of Austin yesterday--which involved the Hike & Bike Trail, visiting Stevie's statue, the pedestrian bridge over town lake, City Hall, the Governor's Mansion, Whole Foods, and of course, Zilker park for snow cones and play. This mirrors our "red wagon" tour last year where we hit all the highlights of Austin in one day--Capitol, Congress, UT, Mount Bonnell. I want my girls to love their hometown. So far, they do.

Yep. It's all good.

Position # 30

2006-08-07T12:09:00.000-07:00

So, if you attended Aud's farewell party, you're sweating this blog title. Surely Deanna isn't going to talk about THAT!

Nah. This is a family blog. But thanks Nicole for bringing the book. I learned a lot. Kudos for furthering my education.

I have found myself in a number of awkward positions lately, # 30 notwithstanding. My relationship with the girls' father has shifted, and he no longer has the moral high ground in our separation. My parents think I'm nuts and back to my teenage rebellion days. I can practically hear mother's "Tsk tsk" all the way across Texas. Last night I scrapbooked with some of the Westlake set and found myself oddly comfortable there again.

I feel rather turned inside out.

Sometimes I visualize my world as a lighted peg board, with all my friends, loves, and even remote contacts in their places at various distances from me. Just when you think you have it all set, you know where you stand with everyone--how close you let them get, how far others drift--you realize that this display isn't static. It doesn't center around arbitrary you. Everyone else is moving also, some tightening in, others shifting out.

When I feel this unsettled, this anxious, and I can't pinpoint any particular element of my life that would cause it, usually it's this board. Aud is leaving. Friends are breaking up, divorcing, reuniting. Some want more of my time; others forget about me. I'm not sure who to chase after, who to let come to me.

I understand about hermits at times like this. Make a clean break, don't rely on nobody. But then, it might be pretty hard to achieve position # 30. And who'd have brought the book, or crowded around me as we read it, laughed or rolled their eyes as I showed the pictures to a roomful of friends and strangers, all of us jockeying for a view of each other, the action, life.

Popcorn Summer

2006-08-03T11:00:00.000-07:00

This has been the summer of the movie. The girls saw the requisite new releases, Over the Hedge and Cars. We also saw lots of kid film festival reruns--Wallace and Gromit, March of the Penguins, Shrek, Nanny McPhee, Jimmy Neutron, and many more. We took in at least one movie a week, sometimes two. Slipping out of the triple digit heat and into the air conditioned world of cinema has been our favorite retreat now that both girls are old enough to sit still.

This week definitely got off schedule. Our pick for Tuesday, Curious George, got filled up and we were sent to Cheaper by the Dozen 2. Five minutes from the end, the screen filled with an image of melting celluloid and the movie stopped. We didn't get to see the rest.

Today we headed out early to ensure a seat. Realizing the overwhelming popularity of the inquisitive monkey, Regal Westgate added a second screen. We found a seat easily and the girls laughed more than at any movie this summer. The little jungle ape was infectiously cute. As the credits came up, Elizabeth, the younger, slapped her hands against the red armrest and said, "Well that's it. Summer's last movie!" She hopped up and we followed her through the crowd out into the hall.

Cheaper by the Dozen 2 had not let out yet. "Should we sneak in and see the end?" I asked Emily. She nodded. We slipped into the theater and stood by the wall. The scenes splashing across the screen were only seconds before the point it had cut off on Tuesday.

Now, I'll admit, I'm a sap. I don't think we've watched a summer movie yet that didn't make me cry. But the end to Cheaper 2--Good Lord. I'm bawling. Steve Martin gets his first grandchild, the big speech about perfect parents not exisiting, but many greats ones. The last summer at Lake Winetka and the first baby. It's too much.

We walk out of the cold and into the hot sun. Both girls take a hand as we cross the busy parking lot, leaving behind the smell of popcorn for the hazy heat of asphalt crisscrossed with fading yellow stripes. I realize that so many of their firsts are behind them--first baths, first tooth, first steps, first day of school. We have more to go, surely, but at what point does the seesaw tip the other way, when you have more lasts than firsts? When does a parent look at a child and realize--they've grown up. They're leaving. They're leading their own lives.

We got to the car and Emily kept my hand even though little Elizabeth dropped hers and leaned against the car with an exhausted sigh. "Mama?" Emily said. "Didn't we get just a little more summer movie? We thought we were done but we got just a little bit more."

I held her still, hoping to imprint the way such a small hand feels in my bigger, not quite yet old one. "That's right, Emily. We did."

Emily whistled in her self conscious way, knowing she'd made some symbolic point--bonus for proving Elizabeth wrong. How often do we get one last little taste of something that is ending? It's like the son coming back out the airport tunnel for one more quick hug. Or the unexpected chance to stop back by your grandparents' house before it is sold, months after they leave it empty.

A movie isn't a death. A snippet of a story isn't the return of lost time. But sometimes little things remind you of big ones--that everything about our lives is finite, mommies only get so long to hold their children in their lap, and that popcorn summers all too quickly give way to school days, education, maturity, and the empty nest.

Territory

2006-08-02T06:32:00.000-07:00

This morning while de-cluttering rooms so the housekeeper could clean, I found a paper snowflake scrawled with the following message in blue ink:

Elizabeth do not toch!

Apparently Emily knew about Elizabeth's rather hamfisted treatment of the delicate cutouts. She seemed to forget her dear little sister could not read, so the message was likely just another interesting attribute of the snowflake to ponder as she tugged on it to examine the lacy patterns that form when you cut random snippets from paper folded into quarters.

As Shannon has so adroitly pointed out in the course of her YA sci fi novel, our reptilian brains, sluicing through millenium of evolution, always revert to territorialism. It comes first, before sex even, before food, before comfort. We must have those things that are only ours. Then we have a supply of food, a place for reproduction, home.

I didn't claim much territory when I took off a few years ago, shed a life that fit no better than a molted skin. I took a few clothes, some old blankets and comforters to pile up and sleep on. One unused lamp.

But my daughters. They are a entirely different matter. I don't believe that any person owns any other human. But when your children are small, that fierce protective drive is about as close as possession gets. Last night, after getting halfway through the movie American Beauty, the ensuing discussion of child predators led me to another flight. Until they are grown, until their developing minds have the endurance and complexity to absorb the awful things that inevitably happen to all of us--disappointment, loss, grief, pain, humiliation--yes, I will guard them from anything that might cause them harm. It's an essential thing to know about me--you'll find it in most any parent. This harm does not have to be news-worthy or atrocious. Just something a mother fears, usually based on the unique vulnerability of her children.

When Emily creates something, albeit a shaky tower of stacked cups, a printout from Kid Pix, or an intricate cut snowflake, she considers it a part of her. Most of us do. The only way she could really stop Elizabeth from harming these things, or Mama from taking them down or throwing them away, is to hide them from the world. She doesn't want to do that, so she scrawls a little note--a warning, a territorial marker.

I can't protect them from the world either, but I can show claws. I can make clear my position relative to them. And I can shed anything else in my life--my shelter, my income, my safety--but nothing will take them from me. Not until they fly away on their own. Until then, they are mine to shield.

Parking Karma

2006-07-28T21:17:00.000-07:00

I have good parking karma. When my mom was in town last weekend, still very sick and weak and unable to walk long distances, I got a front row spot, and I mean the very FRONT spot, at every single store we visited--four of them one afternoon.

Mom was aghast. "This is Austin," she said, gesturing to the SUVs circling the lot with malicious carnality. "How did you manage all these good spots?" She was relieved, no doubt. The temperature was over 100 and she lost energy fast, as she has since eight rounds of chemo and twenty rounds of radiation.

I explained. "I never ever, not once, cut someone off for a parking spot. If I am alone in the car, I never take a front spot, even when it's open. I leave it for someone who needs it--someone with little kids, or someone older, or just tired or in a hurry. I park near the back and walk."

We entered the craft store to a rush of air conditioning. "And so this gets you good spots when you need it."

"Almost always," I said. "That's why everyone else always makes me drive to Sixth Street!"

I wished this karma worked with more critical parts of my life. Since high school I have helped others with their writing--fixing term papers, editing newspaper stories. In college my friend Janel and I would escape to empty computer labs and pace the room, spouting lead sentences for our Daily Texan features to each other until they satisfied our critical ears.

In my novel group, I've critiqued endlessly, read entire newbie novels, rewritten query letters and reviewed synopses. Sometimes I've put in days or weeks of work to help someone else. The other day I did a bit of research to help a friend send a killer proposal to the very same agent I had also sent my book to. And her novel is superior to mine, a better fit even for the agency.

But the karma fails here. Others do read my stories and give me valid criticism when I ask, although I've found sometimes they feel they can't help me figure out what dissatisfies me about a particular work. And I have had stories published, which I suppose is more than some ever manage, so I should be grateful.

But the big payoff, the super proud moment of some national publication, some prestigious lit mag, or the Holy Grail--a novel contract--eludes me despite this being the third time in my life I have devoted all my energy to it.

Maybe some small parts of our social network, like parking, work into the weave of the universe's checks and balances easily, not unlike needlepoint on a tapestry, one long thread that helps create a larger more complex image.

But the big things--wealth, fame, approval, validation, reward--those are independent of how we act or live or help others. They are random, unprejudiced, rare. Not merit based or even considerate of need. Like the lottery. I know that in order to win, you have to buy the tickets. You have to get in the game. And I've done that, devoted years of creative energy and time, sometimes with great sacrifice, like spending all the grocery money on Quick Picks, just to take the chance. But fate isn't Karmic when it comes to this.

I remain the one everyone says they owe. But fail myself. No debts. But no bonus either.

Instead I revel in my little glory. A rainy day. Two pouty kids. A desperate need for Kraft Easy Mac--right NOW! And a car slides out of a spot by the grocery store door. So I take it.

ADDENDUM: Joy. Dear Kurt has posted a blog on writing, reminding me rather painfully that I am a harsh critic. So perhaps karma does work here. I made other writers suffer; therefore, I forever stay just out of reach of my goal. I wonder how much negativity I still have to balance out...

Mosquito Ring Tone--Ouch!

2006-07-25T07:57:00.000-07:00

I guess by now many of you have heard about the Mosquito tone--a sound that most people over the age of 30--or sometimes, 20, depending on the frequency--can no longer hear. In Britain, business owners who had a problem with teenagers loitering would play this annoying high pitched sound and keep the kids away. Adults were not bothered. Teens have now hijacked the sound and made it a ringtone on their cell phones so teachers and parents can't hear it.

I downloaded the ring tone and played it. When I crank the volume I can hear the buzz. At lower sound levels, I get a very uncomfortable vibration in my ears. I asked Emily and Elizabeth to come and listen. They did not seem to dislike the sound, but they could definitely hear it even at the lowest decibels. Emily said it sounded like a beep; Elizabeth called it a buzz.

Either way, they laughed at the sound but it made me want to protect my ears.

Maybe I'm stuck with some detritus of adolescence.

The F-Word and other Expletives

2006-07-22T17:39:00.000-07:00

I'm ordinarily all about cursing. My mother tells me that when I was small, newly reading, I saw an unfamiliar word scrawled on a brick wall and ran to her amidst a group of her friends, and asked, "Mom, what does f-u-c-k spell?"

And thus my obsession began. In high school, my term paper explored the origin of the most popular curse words--or at least all the ones I knew at the time. I wasn't totally interested in where the expressions came from, mainly I just wanted to see how many bad words I could fit in a 10-page paper. My footnotes were a thing of beauty.

On this blog I have not cursed so much, partly to avoid getting stuck behind firewalls at readers' workplaces, partly not to offend the faint of ears. I have read other blogs with amusement, including Stephanie Klein's (she's freaking having TWINS people!) where they place cute little symbols in place of letters for f*ck or else spell a word strangely like shite so that the censors won't block the page.

But today, I actually felt a niggle of offense. I know, I know. You think--impossible! This girl makes sailors blush and bikers raise their eyebrows! But yes, today I sat at Fuddruckers (oh, the possibilities with THAT name!) with my two daughters and in walks three college boys. One of their t-shirts read "I may not be Mr. Right but I'll f*ck you until he gets here."

Ordinarily I laugh at such a thing, but then I see Emily eyeing the boy, mouthing the words. I snag her attention in the nick of "but" and ask her if she wants ice cream.

I've been a parent for over seven years now. I taught middle school and high school. I've been in the church choir (okay the church rock band, but still.) I understand about the moral high road, and I've been off-roading ever since early on, when I held precious tiny fingers in my hand for the first time and said, "F*ck, that c-section was a b*tch."

I've been called on it. Bad example. Poor mom. Even the girls' father said so. I cursed selectively as a teacher, to show I knew when the rules ought to be bent or hurdled. In the dark room, it was generally known among the yearbook staff and even the Photography I students that in the pitch black of the closed room, if you dropped your tangle of undeveloped negatives on the floor while trying to load them on the reel to be processed, you had curse-word immunity. Some of them pretended to drop their film just so they could curse and see if this were true. Others took the moment and ran with it, letting loose a stream of expletives that might have made their parents swoon. I didn't care, and laughed even.

A few weeks ago, my niece ran into the room where I sat with a number of family members and said, "Emily is being a dick!" My brother dealt with her harshly, so harshly that she dug out the movie where she heard the expression and announced, "This is NOT for kids!" and trashed it.

Emily, arriving only in time to see the punishment, frightened that she might accidentally repeat the bad word, asked me what it was. I took her out on the front porch and told her. I explained that some people, like her aunt and uncle, like her grandparents, did not like those words at all. But Mama thinks they're kind of funny. So the main thing was to know your audience and only use those words either when you were around those who accepted them or else you needed to make a big loud point that you might get punished for.

Later that night, as we were getting ready for bed, Emily looked around, closed the door and said to me quietly, so her grandparents couldn't hear, "Actually, I think she meant to say that my sister was being a dick, not me."

I laughed so hard I almost peed. She'd learned the most important lessons: timing, audience, emphasis.

But today, that shirt was more than a swear word, it was profane. I couldn't laugh at it. Perhaps I can say, "This is bullsh*t" or "F*ck you" but I just can't mix curse words with bad relationships statements like that. It just isn't funny. Men dicking with women. Putting it on a shirt. Wearing it to a family restaurant. My kid reading it. Maybe, after all, I do draw the line somewhere.

Words are just words, four letters or otherwise. But attitudes like that--one that creates that expression, emblazons it on a shirt, puts it in a shop window, sells it to some badass boy, wears it for strangers--that is profanity beyond even my tolerance.

Back from Cali

2006-07-18T11:38:00.000-07:00

We're back! This image was taken on Torrey Pines State Beach in San Diego at 8:30 in the morning.

This would be BEFORE dear Kurt led us on our crazy spontaneous hike through a sea cliff canyon that involved scrabbling barefoot up sandy trails, taking carved steps straight up through boulders, and crossing a ravine on two-by-four plank.

My favorite moment was about an hour in, me lugging a heavy digital camera and holding my cute but not hike-worthy backless tennies, no water, after careening on the slippery edges of cliffs looking down on a sheer drop through the gorge leading to the ocean, and Kurt shielding his eyes with his hands, pointing to a thin winding trail up the next peak and saying, "Hmmm, if we go up that one, I THINK there's a path that goes back to the car!"

(Note: it WASN'T. Also note: trial and trail are anagrams.)

But, I survived the expedition. And he survived the night.

We had a delightful time at Disneyland, rode Space Mountain twice (hooray!), got stuck in the Pirates of the Carribbean ride when it broke down, and cursed the complicated rules of the Fast Pass, which allows you to get a ticket to ride the popular attractions later in the day without a wait.

Doesn't Kurt look totally at home in ToonTown? He blends in completely! Imagine that!

The parental meeting went well. A family who drinks together, confesses together! I can so totally fit in with any tribe that has a daily cocktail hour at 5:00 sharp.

We're back, a little sunburned, a lot tighter as a couple, and probably gettin' a little closer to the next step, whatever that is.

As long as it does not involve a hike.

Invisible Fences

2006-07-11T08:50:00.000-07:00

Most every day I run a 4 to 5-mile path through a neighborhood of houses worth a half million or more, with perfect lawns and fountains and sparkling vehicles on clean driveways.

The yards aren't terribly large, so few people have fences, but the city ordinance requires all dogs be kept restrained. Despite the lack of chainlink or wrought iron or wood planks, you never see any loose dogs roaming around, and this is mainly because everyone has an invisible fence.

While I appreciate that the animals aren't loose, it is still rather unnerving to turn a corner and have a gigantic snarling dog tear at you at breakneck speed, hell bent on throwing you to the ground, only to be stopped mere inches from the curb by an electronic pulse in its neck. My heart never fails to falter, wondering if this time, this one time, a blip in the system or the electronics or just a power failure will let one of the typically 80 or more pound animals blow right through the invisible barrier and land on me. Many of these dogs are clearly trained guard dogs. I do get scared.

But as always, I chug along the manicured streets, the thwarted animal running along the edges like a mime in a box. I wonder about these fences, and who all has them, wires running beneath the surface, keeping no one out, but so many locked in.

Grandmas and Ghosts

2006-07-08T06:11:00.000-07:00

The last several nights in a row, I have dreamed of my grandmother.

Memaw, I called her. She was, even now some seven years after her death, the one person among my family members who might have had a chance at understanding me, who I am internally, and not the social and well-adjusted woman who takes photographs and goes out with friends and raises two children.

I have written about her before, but not about this side of her, the part that was like I am. I didn't know until after she died that she and I shared essential traits, hard ones, destructive ones, but also a sense of ecstasy.

After my husband, baby Emily, and I raced to my hometown to be present when they switched off her life support, we drove to Memaw's dark house. She had not lived there for a year or maybe even two, ever since she had gotten too weak to get out of the bathtub and spent two days in one before my mom dropped by and discovered how much her health and strength had ebbed.

She spent her last months in rehabilitation, and not responding to that, in a nursing home. I saw her a couple of times there, and by all accounts she behaved very well when I came, and horribly every other time. My mom and her sister visited her daily, but she was mean to them, complaining and alternatively angry or whiny.

I had always been a favorite of hers, and only as I type this do I realize this connection. She knew. She recognized in me, early on, her nature. Even though she never revealed herself and kept up a subservient and gentle persona until the bitterness of her repression welled over in her final months, she kept me close to her, a reminder, perhaps, a renewal of spirit.

At her house, her death only hours old, we retrieved her battered address book to see if there were any friends we did not know about directly who should be told of her passing. Most of the numbers were outdated or the owners had died themselves. She had outlived all her siblings, being the youngest, and her friends had scattered or lost touch in all those wasted years as her husband lived in another state, cavorting with other women right up until his death some 10 years prior.

In the drive from Memaw's house back to my parents, my mom had fallen apart and left my dad to make the calls. We found one woman with a California address we didn't recognize.

"Should I call her?" he asked. Mom shrugged.

"I guess I can try." He dialed the number.

The woman answered. "She's an old childhood friend," my dad whispered, covering the end of the phone.

He listened for quite a while, then said, "Me too. Goodbye."

"What happened?" Mom asked.

"She talked about Memaw as a girl. Then she said something odd. How she'd had her spirit broken. How Johnny had done it."

Johnny was her husband, my grandfather.

No one had ever described my grandmother as spirited. She was quiet, uncomplaining, gentle. She walked stooped even before her back began to bow, laden, heavy.

Mom and I returned to her house the next day. We searched through her closets for clues to her youth. We found a bundle of letters from a young soldier, topped with the newspaper clipping of his death in WWII.

"I knew about him," Mom said. "I don't think he's what we're looking for, though. She didn't seemed distraught for the long term over this."

We glanced over the letters, and while they were friendly and lightly loving, they did not seem to suggest any great passion or great loss. They were not Johnny.

We found a long buried photo album. "I think I remember this," Mom said. "I wonder why she hid it. I haven't seen it since I was small."

"Since before the divorce?"

"Well, probably before that whole period. One of the best things Mother ever did was divorce my Father, and the stupidest was to remarry him."

We flipped open the album. Playbills. Reviews. Newspaper photos of Memaw and her friends, all dressed in elaborate costume.

"I didn't know she did theater," I said.

"Yes, and dances. She and Father were very active."

We flipped through more images.

And there it was.

Four couples filled a large 8x10 image in full color. All wore matching yellow dresses with bonnets trimmed in green. The four men knelt, each holding a woman perched on a knee. The first three men looked at the camera, smiling jaunty forced grins, and the women glanced coquettishly into the lens. The last couple was my grandparents. They smiled not at the photographer but at each other, his hand just beneath her breast, her fingers on his jaw, and eyed the other with unrestrained passion.

I recognized that look, that possessive hand, that lack of concern about appearances, an intensity for each other that made even an ordinary photo shoot something separate, something well below awareness when you were in proximity of each other, ardor eclipsing all else.

I sat hard on the floor, the photo in my hand, hot and shocked and suddenly filled with loss. Why couldn't she have told me while she was still here? Why did no one know why she stayed married to Johnny, despite him leaving her again, taking up with many other women, and residing so far away? She had hope. Even in all that, she had hope they could be like this again. She'd give up her life, her freedom, her desire for any other love for herself, just for a small part of that, another taste.

Years later, my lament intensified when I found myself in almost an identical situation, unable to extricate myself from my passion. I called to Memaw then, already four years gone, wishing for her wisdom, her experience, and could only put together what few images of her she left to me--a sad woman living alone in all the time I knew her, only rarely visited by her husband, struggling to pay her bills on social security checks, and showering me with her attention.

Now, suddenly, she is here, night after night, suffusing my dreams not with her youth, her pageantry, her flowing dresses, or her passion, but sequences showing her old age, her bitterness, her loss. In these dreams I follow her around, trying to catch her when she stumbles, cajole her into a smile, or at least placate her. I fail.

In my own life, I managed to throw off the mantle of my passionate but destructive relationship, reach out for something better, richer, more honest.

But then come the dreams, and I must put it together, what her message and my sub-conscious are transmitting, and hope I understand in time for me.

Star Spangled Innocence

2006-07-05T10:34:00.000-07:00

I grew up a die-hard patriot. Be true to the red, white and blue. Let freedom ring. Be all that you can be. God bless America!

I maintained a relatively untarnished view of our country through Carter, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton. Hostages. Inflation. Gulf War. Stain on a Dress.

September 11 found me riding the wave of refreshed national pride like most every other American. Bound by fear and anger and revulsion, United We Stood, singing Lee Greenwood's God Bless the USA.

Then came W. I'm embarrassed by my country now. I sometimes wish to do as my good friend from college has done and just leave, forever, living in other countries as a closet American claiming to be Canadian. The ultimate act of screw-this-hypocrisy.

But here I am, in W's own home state, raising two kids and not sure what to say to them exactly. I liked the optimistic buoyancy of my youthful patriotism, and it still seems best to infuse them with it. As we decorated scooters yesterday, I thought of this, but still, even as opportunities arose to explain about national pride and history, I let them slide by.

I need not have worried. Some things come with childhood--innocence, joy, believing in the good in things, and patriotism for patriotism's sake. Today Elizabeth found a forgotten flag under a chair and said, "Mama, this one fell off my scooter!"

I told her, "No, it's an extra. You can keep it."

She ran to the front door and struggled to unlock it.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I have to see if it still waves!"

"Waves?" I asked her, opening the door.

"Yes! Over the land of the free and the home of the brave!"

I watched her, standing framed by the entry and looking out in the street, holding up her flag to the blinding light of the noonday sun, the day after North Korea tested its long-range missiles, notably long enough to reach the US, on a national holiday, just to be provocative.

There seems always a place for that baseline of patriotism, even when the government runs amok, and informed thoughtful citizens can barely stand to read the newspaper to see what atrocity has been wrought under the guise of nationalism. She doesn't need to know that, not yet. Nor of her enemies, enemies of the state, who plan their terror or their futures as players in an international stage for power.

She just needs to know where she's from, that it can get better, and no matter the problem, we can (2004 notwithstanding) get rid of it in about four years because that is how democracy works. How America works.

The Great Parade Competition

2006-07-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

This Fourth of July, as we have since the girls were born, we gussied up some mode of kiddie transportation and traversed the route for the neighborhood holiday parade.

In some years, the competition between moms has been fierce for high-profile prizes such as Best Decorated Stroller, Most Colorful Bicycle, and Most Patriotic Wagon. Some years we have won (BDS 2003); others we've suffered the agony of defeat.

My best friend and nemesis, Stephanie, usually takes multiple prizes and this year was no exception. She snagged MCB and also the tricycle category, although we think a toddler with a bow-bedecked trike got robbed as Steph's daughter's "tricycle" was actually a bike with big training wheels. We would have demanded a recount, hanging chads and all. But it was clearly a liberal ballot.

During the parade this year, the girls rode scooters, an edgy category as the slender frame of this mode of transport does not provide much room for creativity. We did the best we could with flag and ribbon. I think the coup de grace, however, was Emily shedding her unflagging tomboyishness and donning a skirt my mom made for me in the 1976 Bi-centennial. The 30 year old outfit attracts attention with its red, white, and blue panels and trim.

Emily wanted to dash ahead and exploit the long smooth street leading up to the Country Club with daring speed. Elizabeth lagged behind with her dad about a quarter mile back. I lamented the loss of the duo, as I felt their matching scooter set was an asset sure to bring in the win, but girls will be girls.

We walked the grounds of the Club, moonjumping and water dunk boothing and eating cookies. We all grew edgy as the band finished their number and the neighborhood president took the mike to announce the winners. This was mainly, however, because Elizabeth demanded a flamingo balloon and we had picked the wrong twister. "Jelly Bean does those," the clown said, pointing to a woman across the field with a snaking line leading from her table.

"Just make it pink, and fast," I said. "She won't know." We had no time for flamingo hunting at a time like this!

And Elizabeth accepted her pink tangle without question.

We approached the stage and listened to categories. Emily was a bit tense, I noticed. She knew what was happening, and that she might win or lose. I wondered what would happen if one sister won and the other didn't. I closed my eyes, sweat dripping between my shoulder blades. Howling, no doubt, would be involved.

"And we have two sisters taking the scooter category!" the man said. "Emily and Elizabeth!"

What were the odds of that? They must have been chosen separately, and when the entry numbers compared to names, decided they should share the prize. The girls headed up to the bandstand without prodding and accepted their prizes.

There must have been a parent on that judging panel who understood sibling rivalry. Thank God for that.

Have a good holiday, everyone.

Still Lives

2006-06-30T19:58:00.000-07:00

Through some strange shimmer in the space-time that governs the internet, an old Wired Magazine article that I was quoted in is apparently coming up high in the search engines for "stillborn photo."

Women are emailing me suddenly, asking me to restore their images of babies, lifeless and dark, small errant angels out of place among the breathing grieving world of their parents, family, siblings, doctors, living beings.

I have not done this sort of work in years. When my miscarriage web site became too popular, averaging half a million hits a week, I had to take down the information about these services as I was too inundated with images. Every day, another ding of my inbox, another lost child's picture affixed to another disconsolate message. I'd hardened myself after years of running the site, stories that could break down other people were common to me, it took something extraordinary to bring my well-worn tears. But the pictures. I kept looking at them, looking for something that might give me another clue, another small detail of what my baby would have looked like, had I the courage at 28 to see him face to face, to wail and push and painfully bring him into the world for an instant, to look at his features before they took him away.

But I chose instead an easier route, a surgery, and recovered in less than a day. No tiny blanket bloodied by his umbilical cord. No child weighing mere ounces yet still completely formed. No searing memory preserved on delicate paper, colored crystals on a page.

I stopped accepting the images completely when I was pregnant with Elizabeth. I had lost her twin and the arrival of a stillborn image at the same gestational week as she was then sent me into a terror. I couldn't open my inbox. I couldn't load the picture. I remember stumbling through rooms of the house, holding my belly, sobbing to the point of throwing up. The sonograms of my first baby as well as Emily hung on the wall, and seeing them brought me to my knees, to my side, head on the carpet. They could not ask this of me anymore, to bring their babies on screen so that I might fix the color, repair the skin, take away the bruises. I could not do it anymore. Death was too close, between my heart and my belly, my oxygen and my blood. I found two other people who did restorations and sent everyone to them.

I shudder now when my inbox dings. I am not as hard as I once was, reading those stories every day. I have not looked at such images in a long time. And I'm afraid, once I do, it will all rush back, the crying, the fear, the memories of blood sliding across white tile, trying to catch it with my hands as if to stuff it back inside, make it stop, make it not happen.

But the internet has spoken, and I cannot control that. I look at these emails, both saying the same thing--they found the article about me, and would I please work on their baby's picture? What do I tell them now?

I remember that article well--the one where they said I used the word gruesome to describe these babies. I would sue them if I could. These babies are not that, not ever, and to say I used that word is to say that my baby, the one never photographed, never documented, never held, is also that. How dare they.

I will sit here, my two little girls sleeping in their tent, as space-time shifts, as other mothers cry over their losses, and think of other babies, other lives, and of the night, still and black, black and still.

Fancy Free for Now

2006-06-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

No kids, no kids, no k-i-d-s!

Ex's parents took the girls for a few days so that I could attend the Writers' League of Texas Agent Conference. I had a great time, meeting up with some of the writer buddies I otherwise only contact through emails, and bumping into the many local writers I know. I always have a happy bouncy weekend and feel very surrounded by others who understand our unique combination of love and fear as we put our little midnight scratchings before the judge and jury.

And of course, Mike won the Sci-Fi contest! Go Mike!

I have been sorting through the list of agents to see who might be a good fit for the novel. I am so touched by those of you who have read the synopsis or the first chapter on the Helena blog and left comments. I feel very supported as I head into this last dreadful phase of writing--the rejection.

Maybe everyone should sign up to "sponsor" a rejection letter. Kurt will handle a few rounds of pity party, but maybe additional tequila shootin' and beer tears can be scheduled on a first-come, first-serve basis.

I'll let everyone know how it goes!

The Deed is Done

2006-06-20T13:17:00.000-07:00

I finally got around to thanking everyone.

There were so many instrumental people who made it possible for me to finish the book.

Read 'em here.

Seneca Speaks

2006-06-19T12:12:00.001-07:00

The second draft of Helena the Muse is complete. I printed it out last night at Kinkos (after much anger and annoyance at the failure of their online printing upload to work--it said there was not a Kinkos within 100 miles of me when I could step outside my apartment and SPIT on one.)

Feel free to read Chapter One. Any of you who would like the whole manuscript, just ask!

The Agents Conference is this weekend. Maybe I'll meet the perfect person to sell my book; maybe I won't. But as you all know, I love symbols, and today, the Helena blog, which generates a quote of the day, told me this:

Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.
Seneca
Roman philosopher, mid-1st century AD

I've done the preparation. This weekend brings opportunity. Wish me luck.

The Price of Censorship

2006-06-13T07:28:00.000-07:00

Many of you may have read this morning that a high school art teacher is going through termination hearings after a friend photographer did some wonderful artful images of her, some of them partial nudes.

A student found the photographer's site, and apparently the images were shown to an entire class.

As a former teacher myself, one who also barely escaped getting fired multiple times for my journalism teaching, I can appreciate her dilemma. Those of us who actually believe in what we teach, who practice it, find ourselves out of sync with the strictures of a paranoid administration, when in fact, we are the very people who are giving the students lessons they can really learn, infusing them with a passion for the subject beyond textbooks and blackboards and into the fiery creative space of actual inspiration.

To do this, to be journalism teachers or art teachers or photography teachers, or even those in literature or history or biology, you can't just stop your own life, stop living within the fullness of your love of the subject outside the classroom. Yes, we know not everything we do in our adult world is best to bring into our lessons, but the way we continue to feed our knowledge and intensity of what we teach comes from what we do in those private hours away from class.

If this district really believes the children were harmed by what this teacher did on her own time, I certainly feel they should go after the student and teacher who allowed the images to be pulled up as well as the technology director who allowed such web sites to be viewable, and let's go as far as to say an adminstration who perpetuated a climate of "gotcha" as well as a comfort with showing a well-respected co-worker and teacher in a negative light for what is truly beautiful and engaging work.

If you want to get involved, go visit her at http://www.myspace.com/mshoover. While the school will probably fire her just to avoid any more press, we can certain apply enough pressure to avoid her losing her teaching certificate all together. Among the friends I have had who have actually gotten fired, the controversy often makes for rehiring with sympathetic administrations who actually see the merit in having teachers who aren't teaching because they can't do anything meaningful in the real world, but who back their lessons with true passion for what they want to impart to their students.

Read the Statesman article.

My Darling, My Dancer Babe

2006-06-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't done a mommy blog in a while, all caught up in the novel stuff.

In the meantime, my little one had a recital!

The girls all dressed in their feathery flapper duds and did a ballet number to "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile."

I have some behind the scenes footage as I was the "stage mom" and stayed backstage with the girls rather than actually see the performance.

Elizabeth did great! She sang loud and didn't get mad and push anybody over, which if I have forced you to watch some of the rehearsal videos I took, happened regularly!

And Emily is recovering well from her teeth incident. Lip swelling down. Tooth fairy did right by her.

Return

2006-06-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

As most of you know, I am back. I have two weeks until the agents conference and still quite a bit of work to do. Been mainly serving my primary function since I returned, the mommy part. Today was particularly rough--one sister fight, two teeth knocked out, three more loose, four bloody washcloths, and a fifth of vodka down the old hatch...I wish, actually. Cold sober for this one.

If you want to see how the book work went while I traveled with my puptent, check out the Helena blog (and comment, you wretches, so agents won't realize I AM a loser nobody reads) or else wait around for the article I'm penning for the Writer's League of Texas, to come out in August probably...

Damn. 11 p.m. and a kiddo is crying...her mouth hurts...