You Might Be a Writer If...

A week of skiing has given me a whole new perspective on the idiosyncracies of writers, at least this one. It's amazing where stories show up, and, honestly, what a writer will do for a story.

You might be a writer if, in the face of imminent doom and personal destruction, you'll do anything to find a story.

This week, I've faced the perils of skiing and lived to tell about it. I've skiied in near white-out conditions when I could only see a few feet in front of me, down slopes that were more ice than snow and against wind that wanted to literally blow me uphill. And in all that, while self preservation was way high up on my list of things to do, I still had an eye out for the story. If I couldn't be comfortably ensconced behind my desk at home in my office with my mind thousands of miles and a century away in New Zealand, well, then I had to find something to inspire me, to write about. There had to be a story here somewhere.

And I found it.

Carved into the mountain.

I know it's hard to see in the picture to the right, but that big spot of white is actually a shamrock. It was carved into the mountains more than a century before by Irish immigrants on the trail of that illustrious metal that brought so many out West, gold.

I had to think about the story behind that shamrock for a while. It's at least the size of a football field, if not bigger, and it was made by felling all the trees on the side of the mountain until they resembled a shamrock. The Irish did it to mark their territory. There is a cross to the left of it, and a few other, now no longer recognizable symbols hewn into the forests by immigrants marking their land and their claims. What strength that must have taken, first to work in the mines all day searching for that shiny gold that sparkled like the sun, tears of the gods, I think the incas called it, and then hew out trees after to mark your claim.

And to top it off, to my knowledge, there was no great gold rush in Keystone, CO, but the Irish left their mark nonetheless. For generations to come, anyone who visits Keystone will see that they were here, seeking out their fortunes, following hope, looking for a better life, and leaving their mark. (The local security system that runs surveillance for the area is called Shamrock Security).

That's the story that found me this week. I'm glad to be able to pass it on and give voice to the many who were here so long ago. Next time you're out this way, keep an eye out for the shamrock. It is insanely green!

Hot on the Trail

You can take the story away from the girl, but you can't take the girl away from the story.

But I have to admit, all this snow has changed the story. I am now hot on the trail of Keystone, Colorado's own very cool story, which I plan to post on Friday...if I live that long.

Let me say that this going skiing thing is the perfect way to get my mind off of edits and revisions, mostly because I'm trying to stay alive in frigid weather while shooting down the side of a mountain on a pair of slippery toboggans attached to my feet.

Some people call it fun.

Did I mention its really really cold?

And snowing?

No joke. And the wind is blowing so hard, I actually have to lean into when going downhill, which is really counterintuitive because it means leaning into the scary steep hill and begging to go screaming down it if the wind should let up, which it inevitably does when I'm least expecting it.

It's all in good fun, though. I think. I don't think my family is out to get me, but they've definitely gotten my mind off of my WIP.

Just not off of writing. Along the way down the scary steep hills and mountains in between ragged pauses when my lungs search for oxygen, I've kept my eye out for the story here, and I think I've found it. I've got some more researching to do, a few more pics to take, but by Friday, provided neither of my arms suddenly finds its way into a cast, I plan on revealing.

Stay tuned!

You Might Be a Writer If...

Ooooh, it's my favorite day of the week, the day I get to talk about all of the
strange habits that life as a writer has brought upon my lowly existence.

Since revising has not only taken over my life but pretty much defines it throughout wake and sleep, I've noticed lately that I've developed yet another writerly tick. I have to admit, I had this one when I was working on my dissertation all those years ago. I think it's impossible writing projects that bring out the real dysfunction in me. It's not an eye tick. It's not biting the side of my mouth thing. It's far worse.

You might be a writer if...you consider finishing a book a surefire way to lose weight.

Let me clarify. By finish, I mean, that's it, basta, finite, the end is the end, there are no more revisions. None. Walk away form the keyboard and don't ever come back (until you start the next project, of course).

Why would this be a guaranteed way to lose weight?

I think it has to do with all the imaginary calories I burn each day as I revise. Take my present book. It's set in 19th century New Zealand on a sheep farm. During these last three weeks of intense revisions, I've rebuilt a boat, mustered sheep, rowed out to French Pass from the coast so many times I've lost count, milked cows, collected eggs, sheared sheep, chased a girl (my character is a boy), been thrown overboard, swum with dolphins, and saved a ship from sinking.

It's been a busy few weeks...at least in my head. Writing and revising all of that imaginary activity has worked up my appetite. I've taken to nibbling...for the whole cast. Peanut butter, caramels, nuts, and a whole lot of radishes.

Why radishes, you ask? I got tired of carrots. And gum just doesn't do it. I've tried.

I'm getting tired of radishes, though. Which might explain why I've begun buying up chocolate like famine is imminent. It's sitting in my pantry, calling to me. Waiting for me. Promising to help.

Did they eat chocolate in 19th century New Zealand? Would it hurt to snag just a little?? Will my hips ever forgive me???

I swear as soon as I finish this work, I am going to go on a month long hike, just so my muscles remember what it's like to move in real life, not just in my head. And my brain gets a chance to flatline for a few days. Oh, the joys of flat-lining.

And I lose those five...ten...or so pounds that have layered themselves over me like the ungodly number of pages and words I've cut or rewritten.

Somebody needs to come up with a new diet for this Revision Syndrome...one I can do from the confort of my desk, with my imaginary characters playing along and that doesn't require me to give up chocolate (only radishes).

Ideas, suggestions...am I doomed...oh hell, where's the chocolate???

The Book Review Club - The White Giraffe

It’s my very first book review!! Kudos to Barrie Summy who organized this group of authors turned part-time reviewers. I’m honored to be a part of the group. We will each post a review the first Wednesday of the month. To read through them, just click on the neat icon to the right (The Book Review Club). Here’s my first swing at a modern classic, Lauren St. John's, The White Giraffe.

St. John’s adventurous tale begins the night of Martine Allen’s eleventh birthday when a fire destroys their house and leaves Martine an orphan. “You have to trust, Martine. Everything happens for a reason.” These are the last words her father leaves her with before the unfolding of these tragic events.

Martine soon discovers that she has a living grandparent, something she’d not known before her parents’ death. And it is her grandmother, Gwyn Thomas, who her parents named as Martine’s legal guardian. Martine travels to South Africa to live with her grandmother on a wild preserve, Sawubona, where one mystery after the next unfolds concering Martine's past, her future, and the legendary white giraffe, with whom Martine is mysteriously linked.

Fate soon brings them together. She and the giraffe, whom she names Jemmy, quickly become friends, and Martine learns that she has a special talent to both understand and heal animals, although how far this talent goes remains unclear. She also learns that she isn't the only one interested in the white giraffe. Bounty hunters are after him, and by accident, Martine’s leads them straight to him.

Martine fights a race against time to save Jemmy before he is lost to Africa, and her, forever.

The White Giraffe is a fascinating read, especially because it exposes the reader to one of the many colorful, rich, and mysterious sides of Africa, the savannah. Martine is a character that I easily felt sympathetic too, without feeling too sorry for, given all she faces and has to tackle.

What is even more intriguing and makes this story all the more interesting for me is that white giraffes really exist. Rumors of one began in 1993, but it wasn’t until 2005 that it was caught on film. To read more, click here for the article in National Geographic. And good news for readers who really enjoyed this story, the movie version is due out in the near future. Click here for more information.

I enthusiastically recommend this book to Daring Girls and Adventurous Boys who enjoy danger, wild animals, and a waltz on the wild side of Africa!

Shout out to Punxsutawney Phil, Bringer of Spring

It's...........FEBRUARY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I LOVE February, mostly because it means the end of January. January has always been a long, dark, boring month to me, despite all my tries to spice it up, find the good in each day, you name it. I still breathe a huge sigh of relief when February rolls around.

And to top it off, today, February 2, is Groundhog Day. Down in Oklahoma, where it doesn't get quite as dark or as cold as up north, Groundhog Day sort of gets shuffled under, but it holds a spot near and dear to my heart. I grew up in Indianapolis, where we longed for the passage of winter into spring.

I must have passed this dormant excitement about Groundhog Day on to my children. They insisted on dressing up for it this morning. My youngest, however, informed me that she was pulling for the groundhog to see his shadow. She wants more winter, more snow (That's what happens when you live far enough south). She'll not be disappointed. I've already been on the official Punxsutawney website. Phil's seen his shadow again.

Oh wait....Not familiar with Punxsutawney Phil? I wasn't until Bill Murray made that awesome movie, Groundhog Day, which centered around Punxsutawney Phil, the illustrious groundhog who lives in Punxsutawney, Philadelphia, where they have been celebrating Groundhog Day since 1886! That's a long time. Although, according to Groundhog Day history, the idea of celebrating a day predicting the oncoming of Spring goes way back to the Romans. I'm serious. You can read all about it on the Punxsutawney Groundhog Day website.

Phil's been quite the character throughout history. Why, during Prohibition, he went so far as to threaten the world with 60 additional weeks of winter if he couldn't get a drink. He traveled to D.C. to meet President Reagan. And, of course, he's been on the Oprah Winfrey show.

Reading all of this has left me with a hankering to join the tens of thousands who make their pilgrimmage each year to Phil's stump to listen to the furry seer. For those who yearn to see green buds, it sounds like it's worth a trip. Here's a shout out to Punxsutawney Phil, one of American's oldest, dearest and furriest seers who brings hope the beginning of each dreary February that longer, warmer days are just round the corner.

You Might be an Writer If...

I can't believe another week has gone rushing by. Blimey. (Can you tell I'm still in 19th century New Zealand?)

After last Friday's post, I came up with all kinds of...well, let's say "quirky" things we writers do. Here is another of my favorites:

You might be a writer if...you try out scene or plot scenarios on innocent, unsuspecting children.

I hang my head in admission. I do this to my children all the time. They are seven and nine and haven't caught on yet. God help me when they do. But until then, they are my real live guinea pigs.

I am ashamed to admit that I don't just stop there. If there is a kid in my car during carpool time, and I'm mulling over a plot issue, story idea, you name it, they may be asked for their opinion. Of course, the results are never what I'd expect. Never.

For instance, I was working on a pretty spunky character a while back, and I was trying to come up with a spunky reply to the classic parent question we all harass our kids with: "What they want to be when they grow up?" So, come carpool one morning, an SUV full of unsuspecting kids ranging from 2 to 7, I popped the question.

Most of the kids gave answers parents would more or less expect: photojournalist (7 year old boy), artist (my 6 year old daughter), I don't know (5 year old girl - today at 9, she still doesn't know. Probably grow up to be an insanely rich computer mogul), and then from my 3 year old daughter....silence. Nothing. Nada. Not even a peep.

Me: Honey, come on, what do you want to be?

Daughter: I don't know.

Me: Oh, you can come up with something.

Daughter: HUGE sigh. I wanna be a hot dog.

Hot dog????

Peels of laughter from all other kids in car.

Stunned silence on my part. I'd now completely forgotten the whole experiment thing I was doing because my kid wants to be a hot dog. A hot dog! She doesn't want to be the kid who sings the Oscar Mayer song. She doesn't even want to drive the funky hot dog car that tours the U.S. No, no. She wants to be the hot dog itself.

Me: Honey, you can't be a hot dog. (Yes, yes, I know, evil mother dashing her child's dreams and imagination at an early age, but, come on, she said she wanted to be a hot dog. I wasn't going for nuclear physicist at this point but at least something animate.) You have to be something alive.

Daughter: (HUGE sigh, not the I-don't-know-what-I-want-to-be sigh but the why-doesn't-my-mother-leave-me-alone sigh you'd expect from a teenage daughter, which made me wonder at that moment very much about what those upcoming years will be like for us.)
Oh, all right. I'll be an owl.

Me: (Stifled sigh. An owl? Well, at least it's a living thing.) Nothing else?

Daughter: (Adamantly). I want to be an owl!

I should disclose at this point that we were speaking in German, my husband's native language, and my youngest was having a hard time at that point understanding all of the German. What do you want to be? and What do you want to eat? are pretty similar, and maybe she mixed them up (which makes me worry for the owl).

Since then, I have learned from my all-too-honest carpool crew that I had the name completely wrong for my first picture book (it was changed before going to press), that if you are doing battle in the middle of the woods, your wand should shoot out a few squid for good effect. And that, when pressed to choose, my kids would rather a parent be killed off in a story than a dog. They expressed regret at this decision, but stayed firm. Not even bribes of chocolate could change their minds.

You'd think I'd have learned after that last doozy of a response. I haven't. I still ask them all sorts of things, but I do make sure the dog and I are no where close when it comes to issues of life or death. I'm only a parent after all.

Shout Out to the Little Guy

It's official. We're in a recession. Ugh. After watching all the lists and lists of big corporations laying off thousands and thousands of workers today, my mood hit the dumps, somewhere near where our economy is wallowing. But it wasn't because Home Depot or Target is going to have a flat year. I feel for them, and all the workers losing their jobs. It's the pits. But even more, I wonder, how can the little guy survive when the giants are stumbling?

By little guy, I mean, mom and pop shops.

I'm partial to them because I grew up in a household where my dad owned his own company. I learned all about profit and loss statements, cinching your belt, not just pleasing the customer but getting to know them, care about them, help them out, and most of all, hoping to hold your head above water while the economy is in the gutter.

I love little businesses. I love hole in the wall restaurants, small boutiques with quirky gifts, tiny jewelers with artisans who make the jewelry they sell right there, micro-vineyards, the local hardware stores, you name it. I love small businesses.

We went to a small, locally owned restaurant for lunch yesterday, Bali Fusion. My oldest daughter's find. She needled us until we finally gave in and made it our family lunch outing. On the door, the owners had written in improvised paint: "Welcome Friends." The restaurant was very cozy. The food, Indonesian, was awesome. The wait staff amazing. The atmosphere, family-run friendly. The price, more than reasonable. But there weren't many people there.

How can they survive, I wondered.

And without them, what does that do to Tulsa?

When my family moved here in the early 80s, the city wasn't very diverse at all, not much in the way of varying cuisine, people, art, you name it. Tulsa has come a long way. America has, for that matter. And it's mom and pop shops that help us get there. The independent souls who take that chance and put their ideas out there. They are the heart of the American dream.

I worry about the mom and pop shops like that in this economy. If slumps are tough on the big firms, they're a veritable h*** for the little guys. So here's my shout out to the little guy. Support one if you get a chance. The could use it.