Erika Mitchell's Blog, page 19

The Best Book Review Ever Written

Just one of many gems from her review. Image courtesy of Patents Patented.

When you’re an author, you toe a fine line between telling everyone your book is out and being that annoying person who is only capable of talking about her book and asking you whether you’ve had time to read it. No one likes that person.

When Blood Money came out last year, I asked a friend of mine from high school if she’d review it. She writes a hilarious, raunchy blog populated by homemade Microsoft Paint illustrations and I thought it’d be fun to see what she came up with.

Then, I left her alone. Because we’re busy people and I figured she’d get around to it when she was darn good and ready.

Today was that day. And oh my gosh, I need to have her review every single one of my books for now until forever because I laughed so hard I cried a little.

Seriously, this is not hyperbole, you need to stop whatever you’re doing and read this review. Right now. Don’t pay that bill, or answer that call, or have that baby, or whatever it is you’re doing right now. Just read this review.

You can find it here. My friend’s name is Jamie, and she’ll totally review your book too. Though for you she might charge money.

Seriously. Go read it. Read it and laugh forever.

I Was Captured by The Heist

I was stuck in traffic for an hour last night so I decided to try exploring some Macklemore, an artist most people have already heard of. You’ll have to pardon me for being so very far behind the curve here, I have very few opportunities to listen to music away from tiny, impressionable ears and there is less than nothing appropriate for little kids on a Macklemore album.

I’ll admit, I was stunned. Both by his frank honesty and the way his songs tell a story. It was fascinating and made the traffic fade away as I listened carefully to what he was saying. I didn’t love everything I heard, but the ones I liked I very much enjoyed. He seems to pull no punches when it comes to be being honest with his struggles, and I find that impressive. It takes a lot of guts to be that honest, especially when so many people are paying attention.

It’s commendable, and also a little convicting. It reminds me of what a friend said to me the other day: The people who seem to have their lives the most together are usually the ones closest to falling apart.

Macklemore wears his dysfunction on his sleeve, and not proudly, either. He speaks openly on one of his songs (Starting Over) about relapsing in his sobriety, and having a fan come tell him right afterward she looks up to him as inspiration for her own sobriety. The shame and anger he feels at himself sears through the speakers and makes you feel like an emotional voyeur.

I find that convicting, though I’m very curious to know how he copes with critics and naysayers. I can’t imagine being that honest about my struggles and then having someone use it to more effectively hurt me.

This suburban stay at home mom (and published author yadda yadda) gives the album two surprised thumbs up, because I was not expecting to like it so much. It’s well worth checking out, so long as as lots and lots of profanity doesn’t ruffle your feathers.

My WiFi Addiction

I’m writing this while sitting at a Panera. It’s 8 AM on a sunny Saturday morning, and my husband shooed me out of the house to go get an early start to my haircut-followed-by-sanity-time day.

Why am I at Panera? The whole sleepy world is my oyster, I could go anywhere. So why am I sitting in a Panera? One, I like their food. More importantly, however, is the fact that they offer free WiFi at Panera.

If you’re the kind of person who frequently enters establishments laptop in tow, you quickly come to appreciate the gift of free WiFi that connects without a fuss and works the way it’s supposed to.

Have you ever sat down at a cafe with your laptop and opened it up only to realize there’s no WiFi? You feel like you paddled out to the middle of the lake but then lost your oars.

Or, you go somewhere that offers free WiFi but then it doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to. You’re sitting there with your hot coffee and your pastry, at the complete mercy of a router that has, for unfathomable reasons, decided to flip you the bird.

You could make the argument that a writer doesn’t need an Internet connection in order to write. I have writing friends who make a compelling argument for increased focus and productivity in the purposeful absence of an Internet connection.

I suppose it just depends on your style. I rarely know where a book is going to take me, and I love doing research at the moment. If I’m going to write a scene about an explosion, for example, I want to look up the different kinds of explosives and their ignition points while I’m in the middle of the scene. I feel like it informs me on the circumstances, which then means I can figure out how my characters will react.

But that’s just me. Many authors are capable of doing their research beforehand and actually plotting out their stories before they start. Others don’t need to do so much research because they are already subject matter experts in the fields in which they write.

As for me? Give me WiFi or give me, um, frustration I guess?

I feel like this post is all the proof you’d ever need to establish that I have, indeed, become one of those people who panics if they don’t have WiFi. I’m sure when SkyNet inevitably becomes sentient and we all have to answer to our computer overlords, I’ll be one of many who asks, “Okay, but will we still have WiFi?”

Word Sweatshop Shutdown

The more books I write, the better I feel like I get to know myself as an author. I’m trying out a new approach at the moment that is, so far, working out well. In a different way than my previous approach worked out well. Let me explain.

My brain cells during a 3,000 word-a-day writing session.

In the past, I’ve jumped headfirst into new projects and immersed myself to exclusion of all else. The minute my kids were down for naps, I’d sprint to my computer and force out as many words as possible. I’d end up with some spectacular word counts at the end of those days, upward of 3,000 words a day on many days, and be done with my first drafts in about a month and a half.

Pretty great, right? Lots of momentum, continuity, and focus, and no languishing over drafts for months at a time.

The down side to this sweatshop approach, however, was that my kids and husband would have to deal with an exhausted, distracted, stressed-out me every day during writing season. I was productive, but not at my best for my family.

I’ve come to the realization that if I’m going to be a writer, I should just be a writer. That sounds weird, so I’ll elaborate. Writing should be something I just do, not something that shuts my whole life down for a few months at a time. I’m a mother, I can’t afford to shortchange my kids for weeks on end every time I’m working on something new.

Just being a writer is a much slower way of doing things, but I (and my family) like it a lot better. My daily word counts are piddly (I’m lucky if I break 1,000 words a day unless it’s a Saturday) but I’m a lot happier and, to my surprise, the work is of better quality (in my humble opinion). Go figure.

I think this is the benefit of being a relatively unknown author at the moment. I have liberty to experiment with who I am as an author before the pressure of being anything bigger has a chance to set in. I may never make it as a big time author, but I’m grateful for the journey.

Peeping Protagonists

It’s funny how often people who read my books will pick up on things before I do. I asked a friend of mine to read through the first twenty eight pages of “Bai Tide” for me and while we were discussing it afterward he said, “Well, Bai is you.” As though this was plain as day, a given, something obvious.

And yet, it didn’t seem obvious to me at the time. I was actually pretty surprised by it. Can you blame me? Bai is Chinese, a man, athletic, a runner, a spy, and terrifically smart. Sure, I’d like to see some of myself in Bai, but he’s me if I could reimagine myself into a completely different person, if that makes any sense. It’s spectacular fun being Bai. I wouldn’t have made it through 2 1/4 books with him at the helm if it weren’t fun.

Still, I never saw myself in him. Just parts of who I would love to be given the ability to try on a different life like a pair of shoes.

It wasn’t until I was talking to a friend of mine last night (a different one than the friend I mentioned above) who is wired much like I am that I realized that there really is quite a bit of me in Bai. His naive optimism, his drive to do the best he possibly can, his ability to focus on his goals to the exclusion of all else, the way parts of him seem poured in concrete, immutable and solid.

Well, and he’s a sarcastic goofball. But that was never a mystery to me. I always knew he got that from me.

I suppose it’s proof positive of the old trope about how you can see the fingerprints of every writer all over their own work. For better or worse, I suppose. It makes me wonder about authors like Thomas Harris, who created the incredible antihero Hannibal Lechter. What part of himself did he tap into to give birth to that monster, and how on Earth did that monster wind up becoming so beloved?

This explains why I feel so naked when I let someone read something for the first time. That’s why the first person to read a new work is usually Wes, for obvious reasons.

In other news, Wes and I just watched “Ender’s Game” for the first time last night. I loved LOVED that protagonist. Land sakes, what a fascinating person. I don’t normally read sci fi but I might just have to make an exception to read the book. Amazing.

Shut Up and Hold On

Maybe I’m a new idea machine. Or maybe I’m just so stressed out waiting for what’s going to happen next that I’m distracting myself with work. Either way, the people who like my books win?

I’m not sure how it is for other writers, but waiting to write out a new story idea feels like holding back a sneeze to me. I came up with an idea a couple weeks ago, and it kept growing and changing and taking shape and, try as I might, it just wouldn’t leave me alone.

The trouble is, a new book wasn’t in the plan. I was supposed to write a new book in January and February, take a break, and then spend the rest of my time crafting a pitch that’s going to wow and amaze when I start pitching this series in the summer.

There’s nothing wrong with this plan. It’s a nice, sensible, considerate plan. It takes into account family events, my own personal capabilities, and my husband’s preference that I not be a walking, distracted stress-ball all the time.

And yet, there’s this story idea. A story idea I can totally see through to the end. You know what’s not nice, sensible, and considerate? This story idea.

So I guess that’s what I’ll be working on for awhile. I’ll just have to work on my pitch while I’m flying to New York. That could work, right? And I’ll spend the rest of the year revising the manuscript I just wrote and the one I’m starting now.

That might work. Either way, it doesn’t seem like I have much choice in the matter. Whatever part of my brain handles the conjuring of ideas has spoken. I suppose it behooves me to just shut up and hold on.

My Crystal Ball is Broken

Wes and I, like I imagine many couples do, often dream about living abroad. My favorite place to imagine living in is Paris. I can picture the quaint little bakeries I’d visit to buy baguettes every day, chasing my kids down broad, tree-lined avenues on our way to the green grocer to buy our produce. Even though my son detests the sound of the French language (and has ever since he was a baby. Weird, huh?) I think he’d pick it up in no time.

Wes, on the other hand, has professed interest in living in a bunch of different places. Uruguay, New Zealand, Ukraine (before the riots).

The thing is, though, that we’ve never lived anywhere other than our current city as a couple. He moved here when he was six, and I’ve been living here-ish for over half my life at this point. It’s a great city. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s everything you could ever ask for in a safe family-friendly suburb.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that a change is on the horizon. Our lease is up in July, which means we’ll be free to move…somewhere. Wes’s job is up in the air, as is our son’s schooling for next year, and now our lease is up. Every time I pray about it, I get a feeling that I should wait. So I do.

I wait to find out what, if anything, will happen with Wes’s company. I wait to figure out where to send my son for school next year. I wait to see whether our landlord will sell our house.

The more I think about moving, the more excited I feel about the prospect. Not overseas, though. Not yet. Maybe just to a different city. Maybe even to Seattle if Wes ends up working there. Living in Seattle would be a huge difference for us, and perhaps a suitable trial run for an eventual move to a fabulous European city (if and when we happen upon buckets and buckets of disposable income).

Who knows? Certainly not me. I feel like I have no idea what’s going to happen. If ever I had a reasonable grasp of what the future would look like, it’s gone now. It’s been replaced by some hybrid mixture of dreams and apprehension. As you can imagine, it’s an invigorating, if somewhat unstable, mixture of emotions.

At the very least, if we move to Seattle you can count on at least a few posts wherein the perpetual suburbanite overreacts to normal big city things. Should be a hoot?

Weight Loss Progress: Nil

Me at the end of December. Not much has changed since then.

Because I know you’ve all been frothing at the mouth for a typing progress report, I’ll sum the process up as such: It’s a long, laborious process, but I’m getting better every day. Impatient all the time, but better.

In other news, I haven’t posted anything about weight loss lately and that’s because there hasn’t been any since I re-tore my meniscus in December. I’ve managed to maintain my weight somewhat (give or take a few pounds) but no weight loss.

I’m still tracking my calories, and I walk for at least twenty minutes every day, but my weight isn’t budging. I suppose I should be happy I’m maintaining my weight, but it’s meager comfort. I’m happy with how I look and feel, but still technically overweight. Also, I miss working out. I really do.

I mean, yes, theoretically I could still go to the gym to do weight training for my arms and abs, but without cardio to balance it out I’ll never keep that regimen up. I loved the endorphine rush from a good session on the treadmill or elliptical, and I miss it all the time.

My only hope is to someday have access to a swimming pool that’s close by and affordable. I’ve tried swimming a few times and my knee seems to put up with it ok, but the pool is murder on my hair color.

Wes is optimistic that medical technology will advance to the point someday that a doctor will be able to inject stem cells into my knee and those stem cells will regenerate my meniscus. I’d be so happy. I’d be able to wear high heels again, play tennis, dance, and go up and down the stairs without pain or mortal fear of another injury.

Until then, I’ll just have to keep munching down on carrot sticks, walking, writing characters who run so I can still pretend to be a runner, and trying like crazy to avoid all the junk foods that instantly start their siren calls again as soon as I stop exercising.

Learning in the Slow Lane

Those of you who know me well know I type fast but use the hunt-and-peck method rather than proper typing technique. Wes has been saying for years that I should learn how to type properly, but my impatience has always made that an unappealing option.

A friend chimed in over the weekend and echoed Wes’s advice, so now I’m trying to type properly. I’m so slow, a goldfish could type faster. A concussed goldfish.

It took me ten minutes to type this. I may lose my mind.

Don’t Rush to Cover Them Up

Photo credit Humans of New York.

I came across this on Reddit a couple weeks back and it’s been rattling around in my head ever since. It’s from Humans of New York, a blog that tells stories about random people in New York based on little snippets of conversations with them.

They’re all pretty neat, but this one was so convicting I feel compelled to share it. The photo is on the left, and here’s the caption that came with it:

“If you could give one piece of advice to a large group of people, what would it be?”

“Try your best to deal with life without medicating yourself.”

“You mean drugs?”

“I mean drugs, food, shopping, money, whatever. I ain’t judging anybody, either. I was hooked on heroin for years. But now I’ve learned that every feeling will pass if you give it time. And if you learn to deal with your feelings, they’ll pass by faster each time. So don’t rush to cover them up, or you’re never gonna learn.”

Am I crazy, or is this profound? I feel like I’ve spent much of my life trying to fix or avoid negative feelings, when many of those cures (smoking, cutting myself, eating, etc.) have been self abusive in nature. There’s something so incredible to me about recognizing that feelings don’t last. Negative feelings will eventually change, and there’s no sense beating myself up to avoid them.

Amazing.