Liz Michalski's Blog, page 21

Where Did It Go?

It occurred to me this weekend that Christmas is the ultimate parenting analogy.  There's all the excitement, the bustling about and the anticipation.  And then the big day comes and no matter what you think, you're never quite prepared.  You wake up at an ungodly hour, you're tired, your hair is a mess, and there's a rush and a lot of noise and excitement and hustle bustle and then…

 

The stockings were hung...

 

 

the house is empty and quiet and you wonder how it all went by so fast.

This, That, and the Other

COOKIES!!!!

Hey there!  It's been a crazy few days — there was the making of the sugar cookies, followed promptly by the eating of the sugar cookies (see that sneaky little hand in the top of the photo?) followed by a fever pitched frenzy that I'm not sure we will survive.  I may need to find another cookie recipe, one with less…sugar.

The next few days promise to be just as exciting, so I may not post again for a bit.  But I promise to be back in January, with all kinds of exciting news and maybe even a contest or two.  In the meantime, a few of my favorite Christmas things for your pleasure:

I will be making these.  (Brilliant idea — replace sugar with … chocolate!) They are delicious, and I frequently hide the last few and eat them by myself.  (Shhhh.  Don't tell.  They're especially good for breakfast with tea.)

We watched this. Set during WWI, it's an unexpected Christmas story, based on true events.  (In the interest of full disclosure, it's subtitled, but worth it. And the trailer doesn't do it justice.)

And finally, my very favorite Christmas video.  It makes me smile every year:

Happy Holidays!

You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch

Editing, Actually

I have a set playlist for the holidays when it come to movies.  Every year, my husband and I kick off the season by watching Home for the Holidays the night before Thanksgiving.  (If you haven't seen it, watch it next year — it will make your holidays seem blissful by comparison.)  Then, in no particular order, we always watch Christmas in Connecticut, Elf, It's a Wonderful Life, Lethal Weapon 1, and Love, Actually. (I always manage to sneak Amends, Season 3, episode 10 of Buffy in there too — I'm a rebel like that.)

As much as I love all these holiday shows (and yes, Lethal Weapon counts) only one helped me make my book better.  Coincidentally, that's the one that has Hugh Grant dancing.  Amazing, isn't it?  I think we need a shot of Hugh dancing.  After all, any post with a picture of Hugh can't be that bad.

Gratuitous dancing shot

 

How, you ask, did this come to pass?  (The improvement to the book, not the picture.  That picture is not actually the picture I wanted to post.  The picture I wanted to post appeared a few years ago in Vanity Fair, and I believe showed Mr. Grant dancing in a loincloth during his Oxford days.  A copy of that picture would make it a Merry Christmas, indeed.)

Well, since I love the movie so much, my husband bought it for me a few years ago and sat through the 'extras' feature with me.  I know the movie didn't get fabulous reviews when it came out, but I personally think Richard Curtis is amazing, and in the extras he talks about the bits that didn't make it in, and why.  There's a whole subplot involving a family across the world that's suffering in a drought.  They had to film it, pay the actors for it, put it in the movie — and then they cut it out. It wasn't bad — there was nothing wrong with it — it just distracted from the action of the main story.

That, more than any fiction class I've taken, got the 'kill your darlings' message through to me.  It made me go back and look very hard at my manuscript, and make sure that Every. Single. Scene. advanced the plot in some way.  If it didn't, I gritted my teeth, hit the delete button, and cut it from the book.  (I did, however, make sure to save it in an 'extras' file, because you never know.)   It was painful, but it made my manuscript stronger.

So this holiday season, if you're a writer struggling with a book, rent Love, Actually. Enjoy the movie, then watch the extras, and then go kill some darlings of your own.

 

Temptation

So.  Last week I went to a book signing featuring Julia Glass.  She was lovely and funny and professional and I came home with a signed copy of The Widower's Tale. (That means I won't be lending it out.  Sorry.  No, don't look at me like that. Go get your own.)

Anyhow, the bookstore was packed.  I was early, but still the only seats available were pretty much front row, so that's where I sat for 15 minutes, nose to nose with all the books on display.  It was like being a sugar junkie in a candy store. (Oh, wait, that's me too!) I want them alllllll.  Instead, I'm going to give them as gifts. (Mostly.)  The ones tempting me the most are:

Life, by Keith Richards and James Fox (I know Keith doesn't actually need my money, so I may wait for the library copy for me, but I have a relative or two that would love this.)
Worth Dying For , by Lee Child
Boys and Girls Like You and Me: Stories , by Aryn Kyle
As Always, Julia: The Letters of Julia Child and Avis DeVoto , by Joan Reardon
The Way We Lived Then: Recollections of A Well-Known Namedropper by Dominick Dunne (this one came out a decade ago, but since Mr. Dunne died this past year, I'm feeling nostalgic)

I love giving books as gifts, and like to find one for every occasion.  (My uncle just got inducted into a local sports hall of fame, and wound up with Friday Night Lights by H.G. Bissinger.  I thought it was kind of perfect, him being a football coach and all.)  If you like giving books too, this link from MotherReader offers 105 creative ways to do just that.  Happy Gifting!  (And happy reading, too.)

Making a List…

Alex's Very Big List

There's a quiet hum of activity at my house.  I found my daughter cutting the legs off a pair of her jeans last night. ("To make presents with!") My son has been spinning about like a top, cajoling everyone he can into taking dictation for the list he started back in July.  The tree is up, the lights are hung, and tickets for the Nutcracker have been purchased.  The puppy is stealthily removing ornaments and (mostly) exchanging them for bites of cheese. So, without further ado, here's my own list of holiday wishes:

An extra week of  winter vacation — one that doesn't add on a week of school at the end of the year.

A snowstorm during said week, preferably immediately after a run to the grocery store, just large enough to make sure everyone has to stay home in pajamas.

A mysterious loss of power to the Wii station, and only to the Wii station, during that time.

Ten consecutive hours of sleep.

A new book under my Christmas tree, one that I've never read before but immediately love with the passion I reserve for Practical Magic, The Time Traveler's Wife, and Voyager.

News from a reliable source that Joss Whedon has decided to do at least two more seasons of Firefly. In addition to the 'lost' season recently discovered in the archives and put on sale just in time for Christmas.

A report from the government that mashed potato and stuffing sandwiches, followed by a Snickers bar, have amazing health properties and no calories. Particularly if eaten while lounging on the couch in pajamas.

Good health and happiness for everyone I know.

What's on your list?

All lit up

Isn't It Romantic?

A friend was visiting this weekend and we talked about her Kindle.  She swore she'd never buy another paper book again (with the exception of Evenfall, of course) — she likes her device that much.  She can read almost any book she wants, any time, and usually for less than the price of a regular book.  Plus, she said, (and was she really eyeing the books stacked in my living room?) there's no clutter — just a sleek black case that fits neatly away.

I have a Kindle too, and I find it very handy.  When I'm stuck at home and unable to run out to the bookstore, for example, I can download and read almost whatever I want within a matter of minutes. There's no need to pack a stack of books on vacation, either — I can take as many as I want without weighing the suitcase down and annoying my husband.  And for books that I know I'll only read once, it's nice not to have them taking up space on my shelves.

But secretly, I'm a romantic at heart.  And much as I love technology — you'll pry my iphone from my cold, dead body — electronic readers aren't romantic, at least not for me. Opening up the pages of a book isn't just about the book itself — it's about the person I was when I last read it, and about the people who have read it before me.

My daughter's hit a stage where she loves Nancy Drew.  My mom saved all of mine from when I was a child, so she's reading the same books, and there's something bittersweet about sitting with her and remembering the nine-year-old I was, lost in the shadows with Nancy and Bess and the gang, and watching her find her way through the same mysterious paths.

My great-aunt was an avid reader as well, and she read every Nancy Drew along with me.  In the corner of each book, in discrete cursive script, are her initials. Each time I see them, I smile, and there's something comforting about having those letters in my daughter's hands.

My son isn't reading on his own yet, and going through our stack of chapter and board books is an exercise in the future and the past at once – the future, because looking at Emma I can see how quickly this phase passes  – and the past because, as I read The Going To Bed Book for the 20 millionth time, I remember the first time I read it, to a sleepy baby nine years ago, and how as a new mom I thought nothing could ever be better than that moment.

Then there are the books I've 'borrowed' from friends or been given over the years.  The copy of A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy a friend's older sister gave me in high school.

My great-grandmother's book

Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night a college roommate left behind. The Gone With the Wind copy my great-aunt gave her mother back in 1936.

When I touch one of these books — or any number of others – the people connected to it can reach out through time and space and be a part of my life again, if only for an instant.  So I'll be keeping my clutter.  It's more romantic that way.

The Secret Word

I've spent a good portion of today manhandling the slobbering beast into his crate, and neither of us are best pleased.  Our neighbors are having work done on their yard, and Harley is convinced the contractors mean us harm.  Normally he's very docile, but there's something about strangers carrying heavy equipment that really makes him mad, particularly when they are doing it around me or the kids.

What big teeth you have, grandma

I kept wishing, as I wrestled him into the house, that there was a secret word to make him understand what was going on. He knows the command quiet, and stopped barking (mostly) when I told him to, but it was clear he was not happy about the situation.  Which I appreciate, but everyone would have had a better day if there was a way to help him differentiate between threatening foe who must be reminded not to trespass and uncoordinated contractor carrying fence posts.

And speaking of secret words, I've had three different people ask me about how to get published in the past week.  It's interesting, and I have to admit, kind of weird to be the person getting asked — I've spent so much time asking others along the way, I'm not sure I feel qualified to be dispensing advice.  However, three is some kind of a trend, so here goes, and I hope it helps:

Read, read, read, read.  Pull your favorite books apart to see how the authors handle characters, plot, pacing.  Then read them again.

Write. You don't have to do it every day, but do it regularly.  Compare what you write to what you read and see what the difference is.  Put what you've written away for a few days, then pull it out, reread it, and make it better.

Get helpful feedback. Join an online writer's community — there are a bunch out there — join the writer's group at your local library, take a class, or attend a conference.  Whatever you choose, find a place to get thoughtful feedback on your work.  When someone takes the time to critique your stuff, say "thank you."  Do  not get mad, do not tell them they don't get your writing, do not explain what you were trying to accomplish.  Listen, take notes, say thank you, and put your writing and your notes away.  In a few days, when the criticism isn't as fresh, pull everything out again, look it over, and you just might find they were right.  If not, fine, but make sure  you give it a chance.

Research.  There are lots of blogs out there written by professional agents and editors.  These blogs talk about how to revise your manuscript, research an agent, write a query letter.  Read them.  (Three of my favorites are listed at the bottom of my bio page on my website.)  Study them.  Listen to them.

Do this, and I can't promise you'll get published.  But I can promise you'll be a lot further along the path to getting published than you would be otherwise.  These four things are exactly what I did, and they are (unfortunately) the only 'secrets' that I know.

Uphill All The Way

It's been about a week since I've gone for a run, and even longer since I've had a chance to run outside.  I was slogging up a hill, breathing hard, and my body had the same reaction it always does — a very clear "Are you trying to kill me?" feeling.

I like to talk about running with my friends.  I like to plan my route, I like to look online at different races.  But the running itself? Not so much.  If I've taken even a few days off, I always forget how hard it is, and how much happier I am when it is over.

I know people who get up at 5:30 in the morning and put on headlamps to run.  The only time I tried that was in high school, when I wore glasses.  In my sleep-induced haze, I forgot to put them on, and ran directly into a tree within the first  mile.  I am not kidding.

I also know people who set aside a specific time each day just for running and guard it religiously.  They won't nap or return phone calls or run errands or anything else.  I admire that dedication.  My running time is squeezed in around everything else, and if there's too much going on – or too many other things I want to do — it gets cut out altogether.

But I've found that when too much time passes between runs, I'm not the same person.  I'm crankier, quicker to argue, more restless. I don't go to sleep as well and I'm more likely to wake up in the middle of the night. And then my husband pushes me out the door, or I use the hour I set aside for making dinner and do a quick loop, and when I get back I realize how much I've missed it.

I took a few months off from running when I was pregnant with my son, and then when he was born it was the middle of winter, with ice storm after ice storm.  When I finally made it outside, it was the longest I'd ever gone without running, and I couldn't make it a full block without stopping.  I thought I'd never run more than a mile again. But each time I ran, I went a tiny bit further — to the next driveway, then the next telephone poll — and by summer, I was back to my original distance.

It's the same with writing.  I spend a lot of time reading about writing, a lot of time thinking about writing, but not as much as I should — or would like — actually sitting down and doing it.   And every time I come back to my laptop after time away, it seems too hard, too impossible, to do again.  In the days I've taken off, my writing muscles have grown flabby. I have to remind myself to take it one word, one sentence, at a time, and then eventually I fall into the rhythm again.

And if I'm lucky, there comes a time with both running and reading when I forget what I'm doing, when the miles are going by so smoothly, the words coming so easily, that it's as if I'm flying.  It doesn't always happen, and it never lasts long enough, but it creates a memory that keeps me going. Until the next time.

Diving In

Every summer, we pack up the kids and the dog and whatever else we can stuff in the car and head to a tiny beach in Connecticut.  Let me preface this story by stating that I am not a beach person. My ancestors come from a place where damp is a season, and I spend most of my time slathering sunscreen on myself and anyone related to me who will hold still long enough.  But the beach in Connecticut is a tradition, going back generations on my husband's side, and I have come to accept that I will spend a good portion of my summer camped out under an umbrella, hiding from the sun's rays with a bunch of other pigmentally challenged individuals.

There are two reasons in particular that I am not fond of the beach: I have to wear a bathing suit and there are sharks. Let us address the more upsetting of these two reasons first.  The beach is tiny, as I mentioned, and as you step onto it for the first time that season it feels as if everyone turns around to say hello.  For years I agonized over finding the right piece of spandex-lycra combination that would make me look taller/thinner/more in shape, that would make people think "Whoa, she looks good," rather than "Um, hey, have you heard the beach shack started selling Skinny Cow pops this year?"

Then there are the sharks.  I read Jaws way too young, and the memory of it has stayed with me for life.  I am seriously convinced that when I step into the water, someone rings a dinner bell, and all the sharks out cruising in the ocean start hightailing it my way.  I usually manage to stay in the water for about five minutes before panic sets in and I have to retreat back to the umbrella.

This has gone on forever.  But then a few years ago, my son figured out how to walk, and the entire matrix changed.  Instead of trying to find a suit that made me look good, I needed to find one that would stay on as I hauled down the boardwalk at warp speed, intent on keeping someone who could not swim from throwing himself in the water. When people stopped me to say hello, I was too busy to wonder what they thought of how I looked — I just hoped all pertinent parts were still covered.

Last year he learned how to swim, and several times attempted to make it to Long Island. (I lost my cell phone to the Sound jumping in after him the first time.)  Now that he's in the water, I kind of have to be too.  And while I still spend a good portion of the time splashing the shallows and hollering at him to come back, I've found that sometimes you just have to dive in and swim, sharks be damned.

So, with that long-winded prologue, I'd like to introduce my website. I'm diving in and hoping I've got all pertinent bits covered.  Let me know what you think.