True Love

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“Well, Sundance, at least we have enough ammo to hold off the Bolivian Army.”

This is what I was planning to say to David when I came back into the house after organizing the garage. I had the words all picked out, amused myself terribly as I worked, but then I couldn’t quite tease him about it.

Contrary to some opinion, I do hold my tongue now and then.

However, I did tell David that I thought he was the worst packer on the face of the Earth. This is after I suggested throwing his old suitcase into the BB/BS donation pile for tomorrow morning, and he said there was stuff in it and I said, no, I checked and PUT AWAY the collection of BULLETS, CARTRIDGES, NAILS and SCREWS.

I kid you not. The suitcase was full of this stuff.

He says, “I had no choice about that.”

Which makes me laugh, because he totally means it. He means that, faced with drawers of random hardware condiments and ammunition, on a short timeline — and, oh my god, our timeline was short — that throwing a chunk of it into his broken old suitcase would seem inevitable.

In a month, we’ll have been together for 19 years. So, this is all stuff I know about him. One of my first published essays was called “Bullets,” and was about dating a man who had shotgun cartridges rolling around in his truck.

Of course, even though he doesn’t hunt anymore, we have plenty of ammo.

Which I packed away, in my organized fashion, into the plastic bin labelled “hunting supplies.” If/when he asks me where it all is, I can tell him. Because, you know, he will ask. Though I must grant that he remembered which broken suitcase he’d stowed it in. And I’m pretty sure that was late on the last Thursday, just before we closed the truck and left the house forever. Right after I asked him if he’d packed the stuff in his drawers in the basement. An ingenuous question on my part, because I knew perfectly well he hadn’t.

Which is why he had no choice and why I shouldn’t be surprised to find it.

All I can say is, if we move to Bolivia?

We’re taking nothing and starting fresh.

A Salute to Healthy Living!

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I made chocolate-chip cookies tonight.

Which is totally out of character.

Were I a character in a novel, some reader would tag me immediately and say, no, she’s into into low-fat diet, exercise and healthy living — it’s totally unrealistic for her to suddenly bake chocolate-chip cookies. Even if it was just a half-recipe, from the one her friend read her over the phone in 9th grade, because they liked the Nestle recipe best and she didn’t have Nestle-brand chips.

They’d put it down to sloppy writing. Bad characterization.

Because, in many ways, characters in books are trimmed down to a few facets. So there’s no room for change that’s not relevant to the plot. My 9th-grade sweet-tooth self can’t play into healthy-living modern-day character. Not without complex layers.

Including layers of fat.

Which is why I no longer do things like baking cookies. But, one friend, who shall remain nameless but who David has named an evil influence, baked chocolate-chip cookies last night and I’ve been jonesing for them ever since. I’ma slave to peer pressure. Except most of the time. More of those layers.

So I set out the butter to soften, just in case. Sometimes it helps, to see the stick of butter and imagine that much more on my ass. Which is a direct proportion for the over-40 woman, if you didn’t know.

(As an aside, I recently learned that the woman in her 40s should have an orgasm at least every 16 days to be healthy and the 6os woman every 30 days — I don’t know about you, but I have that aspect of healthy living So, SO handled!)

I digress. To continue the story, David spotted the butter, I used to bake all the time, he knows what it means. I say I was thinking of making… but we don’t need … and he interrupts me with the mmmmmm noise.

Made it a done deal.

After all, who loves living with Healthy Living Woman? (Except for the orgasm part, natch.)

So, it’s cold tonight. There’s a fire in the fireplace and wine in my glass.

And warm chocolate-chip cookies.

Moonset at Sunrise

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The moon has been so bright the last few nights that it shines in our west-facing bedroom like a spotlight.

Every night, the moon rises one hour later. So the time the moon shines in our window has gotten progressively later. The last few nights, we’ve awakened when the moon hit the window at just after midnight, then 1:30 and so on. Last night I woke up at 3:45 and got up to pee, which is fairly usual for me. When I came back to bed, David was sitting on the side of the bed, which is very unusual. He gave me a bright-eyed look and said “time to get up?”

Um no, I told him. I realized the room was so bright from the moon it could look like sunrise. It’s not even four o’clock yet.

Oh good, he says, lays down and promptly goes back to sleep. If he was ever really awake at all.

I was awake for a while, watching the mooon shine in. I inherited the family gene for fretting in the middle of the night. Fortunately I don’t do it often, or for very long.

Having the moon there comforted me.

When we got up to the alarm call at six, the moon still hung there, just setting as the sun rose.

Soon it was gone and the day belonged entirely to the sun.

Pearls Before Swine

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So. The news from the agent isn’t good.

It’s sad. Not so terrible. But heartfelt and sad.

Dear Jeffe,

Well, this is an unpleasant letter to write. I really do feel that OBSIDIAN is hugely improved with your revisions. You’ve done an enormous amount of work, and I felt that, especially with the ending, the changes were dramatically clear. However, I still have significant reservations about the manuscript, and I honestly don’t know if they can be addressed in yet another edit. Some of this just has to do with your natural way of telling a story, the way that it feels right for you to be telling it. The prose problems that I had in the draft of last spring have persisted. It’s your writing style, and though I know you worked hard on nailing down the nuanced edits I had suggested, you ultimately need to be the writer that you ARE. And who am I to change that in you? Unfortunately, agents tend to have that effect and it’s not always a good thing, certainly isn’t a fair thing. The fact is that we’re just not connecting as reader and writer, you and I, and it’s not something you can change any further from here, I think. Objectively, I can tell you that the manuscript is 200% better now with your revisions– you haven’t wasted time, and I think you can agree with me there. Do you feel that it’s greatly improved? I do believe that. But I’m sorry, I don’t feel confident enough to offer you representation. I don’t personally connect to it enough to think I could sell it effectively. I need that deep passion before I take something on. I do hope that you find it in another agent, and I hope that if and when our paths cross in the future, I will be able to congratulate you on landing a terrific agent
elsewhere.

Yeah, I wept a few tears. And I think I’m over it. She’s right: I believe the book is MUCH better and that I likely can’t change my prose style, even if I wanted to.

There it is.

So, Allison is all about me switching to the sci fi/fantasy agents instead of the romancey ones. The great irony will be that she’s signed (pretty much) with a quintessential paranormal romance agent and she doesn’t really read romance. She digs that my book is full-on fantasy (with big dollops of sex). At least she says so, because she’s sweet to me. 😉

I threw Pearl on here, in tribute to that side of me. That I was the sci fi/fantasy girl from way back. The girl who read Dragonflight long before she read Indigo Nights.

Can I help it that I long for Indigo Dragon Nights?

Pearl, for those who don’t know (which is a lot of people) is my first pubbed speculative fiction story. From Aeon Magazine, Spring 2008. I loved the image they came up with for the story. I like her wistfulness, the hope for something more than her world currently holds. It’s very her.

And yes, it’s very sci fi — with great dollops of sex.

December 1. Never a lucky day for me, the first of the month. Or rather, it’s a day of change.

Which also means opportunity, right?

Such a Lonely Word

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People talk a lot about honesty and wanting it.

I’m persuaded to think that they’re lying about this.

Perhaps they lie only to themselves and, since that’s as human as pretending that alcohol has no calories, it’s commonplace. Oh wait. That’s the same thing.

At any rate, a friend of mine from long ago posted on Facebook that a girl he liked who said she “wasn’t dating” turned out just not to be dating him. He lamented that he hadn’t learned this line in 40 years. I attempted to defend my gender saying that we don’t want to hurt a guy’s feelings with the honest answer, which could be “ick.” Another commenter said he’d want the honest “ick” so he could learn what to improve on.

The thing is, I think he got the honest “ick” to begin with and didn’t want to hear it.

There’s “ick” on many levels in life, from the color of a shirt, to the taste of avocados, to your best friend’s new boyfriend. And often there’s absolutely no reason for it. Maybe you got sick on bad avocadoes once, maybe it’s just a texture thing. Maybe you secretly think it makes you interesting not to eat avocadoes, gallantly passing on the tableside guacamole with a wry smile.

I’m not sure there really is an honest reason for rejection.

Writers lament that agents and editors don’t give good reasons for rejections. There’s the nearly universal “full client list,” which is really not far off the “I’m not dating right now” response. If the perfect manuscript came along, of course there would be room. More often you get the “not for me,” which is the nicest way they’ve found for saying “ick.” Just I don’t like avocadoes ick, not I wouldn’t rep you if you were the last author on the planet ick.

One hopes, anyway.

That’s the beauty of a little fudging, a gentle dishonesty: you don’t have to elucidate the level of ick. Believe me, I’ve been rejected, too, both as a writer and as a female. The honesty of some of those male rejections left me bruised for years. I didn’t need to know how deep the ick ran.

Because, in the end, it didn’t matter. “Not for me” is really the most honest explanation there is.

(And no, I haven’t heard back from the agent yet. Here I am, sitting by the phone, hoping she meant it when she said she’d call…)

Thanks for All the Fish

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I had this vague Idea that I would write a Thanksgiving post.

I mean, I didn’t do the whole Facebook thing of daily posting what I was thankful for, because, hey I have a blog and would write all about that. In my own time.

Which turns out to be days later.

I did post that I was considering just reverting to childhood at my mother’s house, which would consist of lying about reading and generally being a parasite.

The beauty of the adult version of this is, you get to drink beer, too!

So, yes, this is what happened to my Thanksgiving post. I was sitting in the sun on the patio, drinking beer that my wonderful Stepfather Dave stocked in his special Corona cooler, reading and being a parasite. Here is my list of thankfuls for that:

To my mom, for making sure I got to relax;
To Dave, for being a great host and for putting up with HER side of the family;
To David, my love, for being the kind of guy who loves to sit and read on the patio with me;
To the sun, for shining.

I wasn’t a complete loser, but I came quite close. Somewhere around the Monday of Thanksgiving week, between emails and phone calls, it occurred to me that my mother hadn’t even mentioned the dinner menu, much less asked me for input.

This is what’s known in the business as a Bad Sign.

When I asked my mom about the plans for the holiday meal, she replied that Thanksgiving is a slam dunk, she and Hope had it handled. So, while I did make my cranberry/pear chutney on Thanksgiving Day, it was an afterthought. Here’s me, in my desultory cooking, laptop at the ready. And no, my mother’s kitchen is never that cluttered. That’s my fault, too. Thus I am thankful:

To Hope, best stepsister anyone could ask for, for stepping up when I didn’t;
To my mom, who never once bugged me about the dinner menu and who just wanted me to relax.

So, while I managed to make chutney, consult on the stuffing and set the table — yes, I was totally 13 again — I was worthless this Thanksgiving. Even for giving thanks.

In the end? Hands-down winner: I’m thankful for my mom. Who promises that I get to make it all up by hosting Christmas. And she won’t do anything, especially not scrubbing my stove top in the middle of the night.

I love you Mom!

Girl Stuff

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So, we were kind of dorks yesterday.

Which Hope says is okay, because the guys already know we’re dorks.

What happened was, my mom, Hope and I indulged in the great American tradition of shopping. We had fun and all was reasonably predictable, until we hit Ann Taylor.

Where we pretty much lost our minds.

So, yes, we all bought the same shirt in a slightly different shade, and all wore them out for Mexican food last night. Mexican food is the Beck family tradition for the Friday after Thanksgiving.

Brett, Hope and Galan’s older son, decided that the girls wearing the same shirts should also be part of the tradition now, which might be kind of difficult to sustain in the long run.

That, and tales of Xerodeupopods.

My mom’s camera was accidentally set to video for the photo of the boys, so you get the full photo-taking experience here, complete with Mariachi music in the background.

I know. Doesn’t get better than this.

Girl Stuff

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So, we were kind of dorks yesterday.

Which Hope says is okay, because the guys already know we’re dorks.

What happened was, my mom, Hope and I indulged in the great American tradition of shopping. We had fun and all was reasonably predictable, until we hit Ann Taylor.

Where we pretty much lost our minds.

So, yes, we all bought the same shirt in a slightly different shade, and all wore them out for Mexican food last night. Mexican food is the Beck family tradition for the Friday after Thanksgiving.

Brett, Hope and Galan’s older son, decided that the girls wearing the same shirts should also be part of the tradition now, which might be kind of difficult to sustain in the long run.

That, and tales of Xerodeupopods.

My mom’s camera was accidentally set to video for the photo of the boys, so you get the full photo-taking experience here, complete with Mariachi music in the background.

I know. Doesn’t get better than this.

If I’m a Prick, Do I Not Still Bleed?

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David is studying acupuncture and oriental medicine, as some of you may or may not know.

The upshot of this is, there’s all these diagrams around the house for identifying various characteristics or the location of acupuncture points and meridians, etc. What’s funny is they all have this look that I find particularly creepy. It’s kind of like attack of the zombie patients.

I think it’s because the drawings are meant to represent people realistically, but without ethnic characteristics or any kind of emotional color.

Which, of course, isn’t realistic at all.

So you get this curious combination of something meant to look human, that isn’t human at all.

People have been sending me notes, concerned that my blog posts show that I’m under pressure or overloaded. And I start to think about how can I edit them so as not to put that so much on display. I suppose that’s my first instinct — to try to gloss that over. Then I wonder why I feel like no one knows when I need support. Therefore, I’m making a concerted effort not to gloss and to ask for support when I need it.

After all, it’s the human thing to do.

(Today is the official last day for the label “Ruthless Revision” — it is DONE! I’m lousy at keeping secrets.)

An Ounce of Prevention Is Worth a Pound of Flesh

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So, the last few days turned out to be crazy.

Par for the course in my life, you say? Yeah yeah yeah.

There’s this idea that the more something is worth doing, the more difficult it is. That the universe makes you pay for what you want, in sweat and pain. The old idea of blood sacrifice: if you truly want something you have to sacrifice your life blood to it. Sacrifice, of course, derived partially from the word for blood, for you word whores out there.

The idea is that if you are trying to do something, the universe will throw obstacles in your path, to see if you can be distracted.

If you can be? Alas, you are unworthy.

I’m not sure I believe this. But I’m so close to finishing the Ruthless Revision. Within ten pages, I think. And every time I think I’m there something happens to stop me.

So Jeffe, you ask, why are you writing this blog post instead of those ten pages?

Because I’ve got to be at full power to wind everything up in the elegant way I envision and the meter is running low today.

After a few days in New Jersey and another day downtown working with new clients, I thought I was in striking distance of finishing. And then a big DC muckety-muck had to call a state muckety-muck and I had to be called in. All very exciting and now people are sending glowing emails about how admirable I am.

It’s great to have the career validation. It truly is. And I’m not just saying that because I know my boss reads this blog.

The invidious thing is, nobody asks if I’ve finished the book yet. At least, not because they need it and are anxiously waiting for me to deliver it.

I’m really the only one who cares that I haven’t.

I’ve talked about this before, haven’t I?

At any rate, Allison has had a crazy few days also, with an offer of a book contract and four agents now circling her juicy self. It’s a great problem to have, no doubt, but she’s overwhelmed, sorting details and doing her best to make the best decision, not just for now, but for her foreseeable career.

Which brings me back to something I’ve also said before, that the most rewarding part of writing really occurs between you and your work. That’s the most uncomplicated thrill. It’s intimate and lovely.

Maybe I’ll finish tomorrow and keep it a secret.