I'm having a contest!

Just to get the word out- I have decided to self-publish. There are a lot of reasons for this, but the main ones go something like this: I hate querying. I don't think it is one of my stronger talents. (Querying is where you write a short blurp about your story and send it to agents. Think of the paragraph or two you read on the back that gives you the jest of the story) Second, I don't like the idea of losing control. I like input, but I hate, hate, hate being told what I can or can't do. It is a paralyzing feeling, like getting laughing gas at the dentist or being tickled. Don't like either one of those, either.

So three years and nearly five stories later, I have to ask myself, "Self, what are you writing for?" I write to entertain. One of the main reasons I read. I like to learn something too, but mostly I want to escape to a more interesting world for a few days. Call it giving back, but this time I want to do the entertaining. Here I go, jumping off into a pool of liquid that may be warm or may be very, very cold and murky. It is so scary.

Now here's the fun part. I'm having a contest for a book cover. My first book,"The Sand Bar" is based out of my hometown. I'm thinking, sand, river, a man,a woman, and maybe even a small child's feet, but no face. Or, a photo of a very fancy (expensive) shoe, with a broken heel stuck in a crack or something. Or a mysterious woman far off in the distance with a colorful Fuschia scarf wrapped around her neck, or waist, or whatever. She must have short bleached blonde hair. And the tinier the better. There is time travel, lost love and mysterious deaths in the book. The cover should capture that. But remember, successful covers have one shot. One image. Keep it simple.

Now my second book, "Escaping
Bubble Land" is all about hay fields, summer time, tractors, and love...oh yeah, and the girl is overcoming an alcohol addiction and dealing with the guilt she feels for her little brother's death, so it can be a little more on the serious side too. I will give fifty dollars for any photo I end up using for the book cover. If you're game, so am I!

Halloween Candy

We bought over two hundred pieces of candy. That is a ton in my book, but guess what? It wasn't quite enough. I'm sure it didn't help that I opened the bag two days before Halloween and snuck a candy bar or two. I know I shouldn't have, but those snickers were calling to me, and well, I caved. It also didn't help that my son had a party here Halloween night. He was left to "man" the door while we took our youngest out. I have a feeling he "manned" the candy too. Anyway, we ran out around eight o'clock, and we weren't sure what to do. Stop answering the door? That is impossible for me. I just can't ignore someone when I know I am totally available. I wish I could. Without that option I sent Dan to the store to buy more candy. He took a long time. The doorbell continued to ring. I started pulling from my little ones candy sacks. Something about robbing Peter to pay Paul kept echoing in my mind. I hated doing that. But I couldn't stop myself. Plus our five year old kept opening the door even when I had convinced myself that I would NOT open the door if it rang again.

My daughter decided she wanted to sit outside and wait for the trick or treaters. Our next door neighbors saw her and offered her the rest of their candy. They were going in and would NOT be answering their door for the rest of the night. Their tootsie rolls saved our bacon. By the time hubby came home the doorbell had long since ceased.

Now I have two new bags of butterfingers and an enormous bag of suckers to add to our stash that I must hide/eat/giveaway/be tempted with every single day until they are all gone or go bad.

It's not a good place for me as I am weak in things involving sugar and chocolate. I am beyond weak. I am hopeless. And it's not even Christmas yet.

What do you do when you run out of candy? I need ideas for next year.

Picking your battles is an art form

You know how sometimes people will say "I wish I didn't do this or that?" but you know perfectly well they have no intention of ever "doing" anything about it?

Well, this is not one of those posts. I really do want to learn how to Pick my Battles better. And I'm not just talking about with my kids or husband. Yes, I could do better on that front too, but I'm talking about picking battles with other people, and usually over things that have no long term baring on my life, like what football team everyone should be cheering for, (BYU) or which Pirates movie Johnny Depp was the drunkest in or why everyone should watch Parenthood on Tuesday nights on NBC and Psych on Wednesdays on USA...or how weird I think it is that some people don't even watch TV...ever! It shouldn't matter right? But to me everything matters and I can't keep my opinions to myself, especially if I disagree with you.

Here's an example: One day a young man gave what I thought was a very good talk in church. I was on the edge of my seat, though I can't remember what it was about now. But what I do remember was later discussing it with someone who stated that the talk was the most "boring, waste of time talk she'd ever heard."

Boring? Waste of time? Anything but! Was she in the same meeting as I had been? I did the right thing in the beginning. I quickly left the room, because I could feel my temperature rising. Why? I don't know. I disagreed completely with her? I felt that she was making a very extreme and exaggerated statement about something I didn't think she had even listened to. I went to the next room to cool down. I decided to let it go. I did okay for about twenty minutes, but the topic came up again, and I went for her juggler like a cat after a lame footed mouse. After all, wasn't it my duty to explain how she'd completely missed the mark? I was too defensive. She was surprised and then quickly pulled up her own fortress. It got much bigger than it should have and soon after it died down I wished I had never said anything.

The other day it reared its ugly head again. Someone made a remark about Nicholas Sparks writing "simple books". Hot sparks flared from my chest. I made a snide remark like "Well, I guess I like 'simple' books because I like Nicholas Sparks." It's true. I have enjoyed at least half a dozen of his books and at least that many movies. I like him as a person too. He has five kids just like me. He hasn't forgotten his religious roots and values. He loves his wife (as far as I know) and besides that, I think he's a darn good writer.

I know everyone is entitled to their opinion. You don't have to like Twilight to be my friend. I have several who couldn't get into it. That's fine. There are hundreds of other books to discuss, but if you say it is horribly written, I am going to come to the books defense. There are over 100 million copies out there in circulation. And the numbers do not lie. There is something about her writing that one, I can't put down and two, I find myself immersed in this imaginary world so well described that I ache to belong to it, and when it is finished, I mope about with a heavy heart knowing those people I came to love are not even real. Anyone that makes writing look this "simple and effortless" has done it by carefully fine tuning their craft like a musician fine tunes their instrument. Except writers have to first build that instrument and then fine tune it, rearranging words over and over again until there isn't one word out of place. It takes hours and hours, weeks upon weeks of skull cracking, soul searching work to craft such simplicity.

Now let's go back to the beginning. Why was I so quick to defend a total stranger over my sister-in-law, yes, sister-in-law. Why did I become so defensive about someone I didn't even know? Why was I willing to talk snarky with my mother-in-law. Yes, mother-in-law, over a novelist I have never met? Do I have issues? I don't know. You are welcome to analyze and prescribe, but be aware that I hold nothing back, especially if we are friends. If I don't know you I will probably remain silent and let it be. I have it all backwards. This being me business is not easy and I'd encourage anyone that can be me any better to step forward and take the wheel. Over and out.





To be simple, I've decided, takes great restraint and exactness.

And, in my opinion, writing with restraint is not simple.

I know my real age. Do you know yours?

What's Your Real Age?

I ask this because I have a little thing called denial concerning my age. I see someone I think is around my age and then later find out they are at least five years younger.

Here's an example: The other day I am at my son's football game. I see a man holding one of the markers and think, "Wow, he looks familiar." This happens a lot. It comes from growing up in a small town where you know everyone. I still think I am in that same small town and that if I just look hard enough I will find someone I know.

As not to make a fool of myself I don't jump to conclusions. I wait... I watch ... I measure him up: he's about the right height, possibly similar weight (hard to say since I haven't seen this person since high school) so I keep watching. I then lean over and confidently tell my husband that, "I think I know that guy." He informs me that he met him last week. Tells me the guy is a huge Boise State fan. Ah ha! I think to myself. For sure this is the same guy because everyone from my small Idaho town is a huge Boise State fan. Now with that piece of information I grow more confident. The game ends. I purposefully pass by him, making a last chance size up. I decide to go for it. I interrupt him and ask if his name is "such and such"

"No. It's Billy Bob" he informs me. (It wasn't really Billy Bob, but you get the picture) My face reddens. His wife looks at me as if I am trying to pick up on her husband. Why do I feel so stupid? Why do I want to hide in my camp chair cover? I ramble on about how much he looks like someone I used to know. I'm a blithering idiot. I can see the wife is about to take me down. I apologize and run like a *Patas Monkey to my car. (* Patas Monkeys can run up to 30 miles an hour. No I can't really run that fast, but that's a pretty good piece of useless information, don't you think? See, this blog is good for something.)

Now you may ask why this is a big deal? Well, it's not I suppose, except that I do it all the time and the person is NEVER who I think they should be. But the worst part is what happened next. I went home. Looked old classmate up on Facebook. Realized that the man I saw at the football game looks NOTHING like said classmate does now. Classmate is old. Classmate is fat Classmate has a shiny cueball for a head. (Now don't get all huffy.There is NOTHING wrong with having a cueball for a head. I like them. They are smooth and magical. This guy just had changed a whole lot.) I looked in the mirror. I'm not that old! Am I? I used to believe I was about 28. Now I've graduated to...say...maybe 32? Yeah, I'd go for 32. But 37? NO! Not the 37 I see around me. Not that guy they showed on the news tonight wanted for armed robbery. I saw his mug shot and thought, "What an old dude." Then I heard his age, 35. 35? NO!!! He's fat, and hairy, and mean looking. And he's younger than me!!!It's a frightening thought.

So tonight before bed I scrubbed my face thoroughly. Lathered on the wrinkle reduction, skin tightening, sun spot remover, put on the mask, and swore on my mother's uncle's, cousin's grave that I wouldn't sleep on my stomach tonight. But I know in the end the laugh lines, sun spots, sagging eyelids,and wrinkles on my neck are still going to seep through, and no matter how hard I try to sleep on my back I will still end up on my stomach, with my face smushed against my pillow, dreaming that I am 25, 110 pounds, and dancing barefoot in a meadow of dark chocolate covered clovers. Ahhh...see? Life is still pretty good. I can still dream.

Sweet dreams everyone.

Our little Lady

I made the dreaded vet call yesterday.

Some of you may know that our dog Lady has had a chronic case of emphysema. I don’t remember how long it’s been since she’s had it. It probably came on so slowly that I didn’t recognize it at first. I thought she was just hacking on a bone, or something. This last year her sickness progressed quickly. Struggling to breathe, she’d throw up, so we had to keep her in the garage, where she choked and gagged most of the night and kept me awake. Every day we’d have some sort of pile to clean up. Some wondered why we hadn’t put her down already. I really had no answer for that until yesterday when I truly understood what it means to take another’s life into your own hands. I wanted to be sure. Really sure. That it was the right thing to do.

Our little cocker-terrier, who came into our lives eight years ago as a gift from my brother, has given our family immeasurable joy mixed with frustration as only dogs can. She has been loyal from day one, loving us, comforting us, and being our best friend. Lady used to follow me everywhere I went. Sometimes she was the annoying friend in high school that never let you out of her sight, following you even into the bathroom. Bumping into you cause she didn’t want to get too far away. Up the stairs to check on crying babies, down the stairs to lick wounded knees. Patient and kind she was always there under your feet, causing you to trip from her extreme loyalty. And she loved Dan. Had a crush on him actually. When I wasn’t looking she’d jump onto the couch and take my place next to Dan. Then she’d turn and look at me with her big brown eyes and seem to say. “Oh, did you want to sit here next to this hunky man? Well, maybe next time.”

This last week she took a serious turn for the worse. I could hear the water in her lungs slush
about as she tried to breathe. Sunday, Dan found her laying out in the grass in a place she rarely went. When he called for her she did not come, something highly unusual for her as she loved Dan almost as much as I do. He brought out her bowl of water and she took a few drinks before lying flat out on the grass, struggling for air. It was time. It didn’t seem right to let her suffer any longer. I kept my head up, my lip firm as I made the appointment. I was even fine as I brushed her beautiful auburn mane one last time and drove her to the vet. It wasn’t even until we took her into the small examination room that it hit me like a speeding bullet smashing right into my gut. I loved this little dog. And in spite of all the pain, frustration, annoying little messes she created, I was going to miss her. The pain was fierce; the tears flowed like a leaking faucet. I bawled over this little dog that sometimes aggravated me more than my own children. Soon my daughter joined me. The vet was compassionate and gave us more time, which only made it more real and worse. We said our goodbyes.

Today the house is quiet. There is no hacking dog. No mess to clean up, no water bowl to fill. There is also no little fury friend to meet me at the door. No wagging tail, no smiling brown eyes that could rival the famous animated Lady. We will wait a while. Have a break from the work and responsibilities of an animal. I don’t know how long we will last. I don’t know how long I will last. I do know one thing. No dog will ever replace Lady. She was her own being. There will be others and we will love them too, but they will not be Lady and I guess that is okay too. One thing about it, Lady is breathing easier now, chasing heavenly squirrels and if there were such a thing, heavenly cars as well. And she will be waiting for us, tail wagging, tongue hanging. I just hope that in heaven she has a stronger bladder than she did here.

Love you little dog. RIP