Jennifer Wilck's Blog, page 42
April 18, 2016
Passover Is Coming
Passover starts Friday evening. It lasts for eight days. So far, I’ve been to the grocery store four times to stock up on supplies, and the only things I’ve bought are non-perishables. As of this very moment, I have enough food (or ingredients to make food) for at least 14 days. And I could probably feed a group of 27. Once I buy the meats and the vegetables and the fruits (lots of fruits), those numbers will increase significantly.
Part of the problem is definitely me. I was raised in a family where you could be forgiven for murder, but if you didn’t serve enough food, you were banished from the family. Fear is a powerful motivator, and so I always cook more than enough.
Part of the problem is economics and the law of supply and demand. Passover food is needed for exactly one week a year. The groceries stores that stock items use whatever formulas they have to make sure they have supplies for that week. But unlike the rest of the food they carry, they don’t replenish Passover products if they run out. But I can’t serve non-Passover food during Passover, so I need to make sure I have more than enough to cover everyone’s needs.
And the rest of the problem is the Passover manufacturers. I don’t need a huge box of something I’m only going to use once. But the foods don’t come in a variety of sizes. They come in one-size-fits-all and that size is usually large enough to produce food for a month. No one wants to eat Passover food for a single minute more than they have to. No one is going to keep matzo meal to substitute for flour later in the year. Even our local food banks request we don’t donate it!
My usual method of food planning—making a list of all quantities I think I need, giving that list to my husband, having him cut all my amounts in at least half, and buying what turns out to be the right amount—doesn’t work. As a result, I have a guest room filled with more dry Passover ingredients than I’ll ever need.
But at least none of us will go hungry!
Part of the problem is definitely me. I was raised in a family where you could be forgiven for murder, but if you didn’t serve enough food, you were banished from the family. Fear is a powerful motivator, and so I always cook more than enough.
Part of the problem is economics and the law of supply and demand. Passover food is needed for exactly one week a year. The groceries stores that stock items use whatever formulas they have to make sure they have supplies for that week. But unlike the rest of the food they carry, they don’t replenish Passover products if they run out. But I can’t serve non-Passover food during Passover, so I need to make sure I have more than enough to cover everyone’s needs.
And the rest of the problem is the Passover manufacturers. I don’t need a huge box of something I’m only going to use once. But the foods don’t come in a variety of sizes. They come in one-size-fits-all and that size is usually large enough to produce food for a month. No one wants to eat Passover food for a single minute more than they have to. No one is going to keep matzo meal to substitute for flour later in the year. Even our local food banks request we don’t donate it!
My usual method of food planning—making a list of all quantities I think I need, giving that list to my husband, having him cut all my amounts in at least half, and buying what turns out to be the right amount—doesn’t work. As a result, I have a guest room filled with more dry Passover ingredients than I’ll ever need.
But at least none of us will go hungry!
April 11, 2016
Miriam's Surrender
On sale this month for $0.99 in honor of Passover!
Amazon
Buy Link: Amazon
Excerpt:
Josh Lowenstein is a successful architect, hired to redesign the alumni club of a posh, private school in New York. He is strong, capable and knows the best way to do everything. Except let another woman in.
Miriam Goldberg is the Assistant Director of Outreach, and is Josh’s day-to-day contact for the redesign. She’s taken care of everyone around her, and forgotten how to let someone else take care of her.
With a tumultuous history, neither one is prepared to work together. As they get to know each other, the animosity disappears, but Josh is hiding something from Miriam and its discovery has the possibility of destroying their relationship. Only when they are both able to let the other in, and release some of the control they exert over everything, will they be able to see if their love can survive.
This story centers on the Jewish holiday of Passover and is the story of two people who need to discover the freedom of letting go in order to let love into their lives.
First Chapter:
CHAPTER ONEThe line from Casablanca flitted through Josh’s head. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...” He fisted his hands at his side and closed his eyes. This morning, he’d hurried to work for a meeting with a new client. He’d worked on the presentation for weeks—a redesign of an Alumni Club for a local private school. It was different from most of the projects he had worked on before, and it sparked his creativity. They’d been awarded the contract and this morning’s purpose was to meet the client’s daily contact, the person Josh would work with throughout the span of the project.He’d walked into the red and black conference room of his architectural firm and froze. Sleek, black, flawless coiffed hair. No way. Ramrod straight posture. It couldn’t be. And as she turned and approached him, she’d glided. Oh crap. Miriam.His blood pressure rose and his head throbbed. She’d stuck out her hand and met his gaze, the picture of calm—confident, assured, as if she were in charge—while he had all he could do to keep it together. He’d swept his gaze from her perfectly straight part in her hair, past sparkling amber eyes, over flawless pale skin. He had lingered a moment at the v-neck of her sweater. Its deep gold made her skin glow.After a moment, he’d met her eyes. They were unreadable. Her features expressionless, like a marble statue, she nodded and deferred to her boss.He’d welcomed the diversion and focused on her boss, Tom, a stout, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and a nervous habit of blinking, as if he couldn’t focus on what was in front of him. But based on Josh’s previous encounters with the man, he was sharp as a tack.“Josh, this is Miriam Goldberg. She’ll be your liaison for the Alumni Club redesign. Miriam, Josh Lowenstein is the lead architect on the project.”She gave no hint they knew each other, and his response that they were well acquainted remained unsaid. He wanted to know why she kept it a secret, but he never had a chance to ask. The meeting was short, filled with lots of information about the project, and there wasn’t time for any small talk. She’d taken charge, asked questions, offered suggestions, all of which led Josh to think she was lead project manager. Regardless of her intelligence and the validity of her suggestions, he burned with irritation.He stomped back to his office and threw his pen across the room. It sailed in an arc over the two sleek black chairs on the other side of his black marble desk, banged against the dove grey wall and landed behind the steel and black credenza. A splotch of ink, resembling a Rorschach pattern, marred the once perfect wall. He swore to himself and ran his hand down his face. Of all the ridiculous, unbelievable, annoying coincidences, this one was the worst. He swung around in his chair and stared out the window of his Manhattan office. Marvels of steel and concrete filled his view, and as an architect, he often found solace, inspiration and satisfaction from looking at them. A little pride, when he identified ones he’d helped to design. But today, he didn’t see them. He saw her face and he clenched his jaw in aggravation.The last time he’d seen her, he’d watched her sashay out of his office, as if on wheels. Her sleek, black hair had whispered across her shoulders, somehow moving without getting a hair out of place. Her wool jacket had not hidden the shape of her backside, or the trim size of her waist. He’d stared, infuriated, aroused and intrigued.She’d stopped by to defend her sister, whom she thought he’d wronged.
“Have you apologized to my sister yet?”He remembered how her question had first annoyed him, and afterwards, angered him. His argument with Samara wasn’t her business. But she was like a pit bull and wouldn’t give up. She’d just repeated, “You need to say you’re sorry.” The phrase echoed in his mind. As did the image of her smooth, glossy hair swinging back and forth like a curtain of silk. Despite his anger at the time, he’d wanted to run his fingers through it. He’d tried to distract himself with a glance at her lips, but they had been lush and red and such a contrast to the irritating words pouring out of them. Her voice had grated in his ears. She’d been assured in her duty, confident she was right and he was wrong. His blood pressure rose as he remembered their argument, and how she’d glided out of his office before he’d had a chance to respond. That was a year ago.It was stupid to still be angry with her. After this long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about their argument. He was no longer in love with her sister; in point of fact, he’d never been in love with the woman in the first place. He had accepted and eventually approved of Samara’s relationship with Nathaniel. What’s more, Miriam had been right, he had needed to apologize.He was tired of her bossing him around. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on, and he didn’t like how he felt off-kilter at their meeting. If she thought he would put up with it, she was mistaken. He was a respected architect; clients begged for him to take on their projects. He controlled what went on around him. He led the projects. He knew what clients wanted often before they did. He didn’t need her meddling in his vision. One word to her boss and she would be thrown off the project.He brushed his hand against the computer mouse and his calendar popped on screen. Their next meeting was Thursday. He would be prepared. He would take charge. And she would never know what hit her.***“So, you and Nathaniel are coming here for the first night of Passover seder, right?” As she spoke to Samara on the phone, Miriam grabbed a pen and marked off days on her calendar, moving backward from Passover to the current day. She had seven and a half weeks. Seven and a half weeks to invite her guests, plan her menu, find all of her ritual items, shop for ingredients, clean her apartment for the holiday and cook. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t.“Miriam, it’s not even Purim yet and already you’re thinking of Passover? I know you’re super-organized, but this sounds crazy even for you.”Miriam gripped the phone harder in her hand and shook her head. Of course Samara thought she was crazy; Samara wasn’t as organized as she was and didn’t have as many responsibilities for this holiday as Purim. As the choir director, Samara ran the Purim play, or spiel, but she was always a guest at Miriam’s seders.“I know you’re busy with the spiel, Sam, and I hate to bother you, but I just want you to get it on your calendar.”“Okay, fine. Yes, we’ll be there for first night, and don’t forget Zoe.”Miriam looked around her pristine apartment and swallowed. Her apartment wasn’t what one would call child friendly. She glanced into her living room—white furniture, white carpet, glass tables. If it could survive her klutzy sister, it could survive an eight-year-old girl. Besides, how much damage could one child do? As long as she wasn’t like Samara...“That’s right, Zoe. Of course she’s invited too.”“Great, I appreciate it, as does Nathaniel. You’ll let me know what we can bring?”Miriam reviewed the rough draft of her menu in her mind. Tri-color matzah ball soup, homemade gefilte fish, a chicken dish, a lamb dish, matzah salad, spinach salad and flourless chocolate cake. Not to mention the symbolic food needed for the seder plate—roasted egg, roasted lamb shank bone, haroset, bitter herbs, parsley, celery and an orange. What could she trust her sister with and guarantee it would turn out to her exact specifications? “What about the haroset? Do you have a recipe for it?”“A recipe? Miriam, it’s apples, cinnamon, red wine and nuts mixed together. You don’t need a recipe for it.”“But Samara, what kind of nuts will you use? I prefer almonds and you need sweet red wine, not dry and how fine will you chop everything...”“Miriam, don’t worry. I know how you like it and I’ll take care of it. And I’ll also bring a dessert; I’ve got a great recipe for an orange-almond flan I’ve been dying to try.”“Try? You mean you’ve never made it before? Samara, there will be other guests so I need to be able to count on your food. I can’t serve it if it doesn’t taste good.”“Mir, relax! I promise it will live up to your standards. Trust me.”Miriam took a deep breath. “All right, but maybe you could have Nathaniel try it ahead of time, just to make sure.”Her sister laughed. “Trust me, Miriam, it will all work out.”Miriam said goodbye and hung up the phone. Seven and a half weeks. In theory, there should be plenty of time to prepare and if it were any other holiday, she wouldn’t start to worry for at least another month. But the preparation required for Passover filled her with exhaustion and her bones ached thinking about it. Add in her new project at work and the pressure weighed her down as if it were a physical object.She sat at her computer and alternated between recipe websites, her calendar, a to-do list and her guest list. Like any get together, the chemistry between the guests needed to work or there would be awkward silences and people would be uncomfortable. Including her, there would be nine people. For some reason, the odd number bothered her. She thought about other friends she could invite. Almost everyone else she knew spent the holiday with family. These friends were the ones who were often alone, which is why they came to her. She ticked names off on her fingers. Ben, David, Nathaniel, Zoe, Samara, Kate, Howie and Alexis. Josh...She jerked and rested her hands on the keyboard. Where did that thought come from? She inhaled, closed her eyes and pictured a blank sheet of paper. Empty, pure, clean. Josh’s image supplanted the paper image and jarred out of her relaxation technique, she popped open her eyes. She rubbed her head as the threads of a headache formed. He was annoying. It was bad enough she was forced to work with him on the Alumni Club project; the last thing she wanted to do was spend her free time occupied with thoughts of him.She glanced out the window and massaged her temples. The wet March day was dreary; although spring had arrived according to the calendar, the wind swirled outside, causing rain-soaked black tree branches, beginning to bud, to shake. Water droplets splashed the window of her second-floor apartment. In a few weeks, the buds would bloom into leaves and flowers. It was a lovely thought, but did not distract her from Josh.Josh Lowenstein was an overbearing perfectionist who thought he was the only person who could do anything right. About eighteen months ago, Josh started paying attention to Samara, who was the choir director at their synagogue. He always tried to help her, even when Samara didn’t appear to want help. Sure, her sister was a klutz and complete disaster when it came to organization, but it worked for her. Josh had no business trying to fix her sister. Her sister was her job. Samara was capable of taking care of herself, with a few helpful nudges from Miriam on occasion. What made things worse was Josh started to fall for Samara. Everyone else could see she wasn’t interested in him, but he hadn’t seen it. Things came to a head at a Shabbat dinner when she’d announced she and Nathaniel, a guy she’d fallen head over heels in love with, were a couple. Josh had attacked Nathaniel’s character and created a scene and Nathaniel walked out.Miriam had wanted to comfort her sister, but Josh was still angry, and still at the table. She’d risen and walked around to Josh’s chair, leaned down and whispered in his ear. “If you think you have any hope of preserving whatever relationship you had with my sister before tonight, the best thing you can do right now is leave with me.”
He’d nodded and risen from his chair.
Thinking about that night, she shook at the hurt he’d put her sister through. She flipped her calendar back to the current week. Thursday. They needed to work together if the Alumni Club was to be the beautiful place she intended it to be. She had three days to get past her anger and her distaste for him.***She woke the next morning to the buzz of her cellphone, rather than the music of her alarm clock. With a groan, she turned and opened one eye. 5:47. Really? They couldn’t wait an extra 13 minutes for her alarm to go off first? She stretched her arm across the nightstand and brushed her fingers along the surface until she found her phone. Fluffing her pillows, she sat up and checked it. A text from her boss. Don’t forget to discuss the Library with the architect.She shook her head as she tossed the phone on the bed, turned off her alarm and headed into the bathroom. There was no point in going to sleep for ten minutes. Tom drove her nuts sometimes. He was detail oriented, like her, but less organized, with a tendency to micromanage when he got stressed. She knew well his desires for the Library and she planned to discuss them with Josh on Thursday. There was no need for him to text her now, except to ease his own anxiety. As she turned on the hot water and let the warm jets pelt her back, she vowed to someday get a job with a boss who could handle stress. Forty minutes later, she was dressed and ready for work. She stepped outside her Upper East Side apartment, waved to the doorman, and inhaled. The rain from the previous day had cleared and the pale March sun shone between the buildings. Although cold, it would be a beautiful spring day. The daffodils the condo board planted in front were about ready to bloom; around them, purple crocuses poked through the dirt between the iron bars of the miniature fence surrounding the bed. The rooftop gardens would be in full bloom in a couple of weeks, and the minute it was warm enough, Miriam would be out there too.She walked down the street and headed to her favorite coffee bar. Inside, the dark aroma filled her nostrils. Multicolored mugs lined the walls—everything from touristy “I Love NY” to extra-large sized French mugs—there was always a new one to look at while she waited in line to place her order. People on their way to work took small tables and chairs by the windows. In the back, upholstered chairs and free WiFi provided a break for people later in the day.“Hey, Miriam, how are you?”Miriam turned toward the voice.“Sarah!” They kissed each other’s cheeks and remained in line while they shmoozed.“I haven’t seen you in ages, Mir. What are you doing?”“I’m running a redesign of the Alumni Club right now. How about you?”“I’m opening a restaurant.”“Really? Where? What kind?”Sarah laughed. “Whoa! It’s opening in the Village and it will be a French bistro.”“That’s wonderful. You’ll have to let me know when it opens so I can come by.”The server behind the counter interrupted their conversation and pointed to her. “May I help you?”Miriam placed her order, waited for Sarah and accompanied her to a table by the window. “I have a few minutes if you have time to sit,” Miriam suggested.Sarah looked at her watch. “Sure. I have to meet with a restaurant equipment guy in a half hour, but he’s not far from here.”“So, tell me about your restaurant.” For the next ten minutes, Sarah described everything about her French bistro, except the name.“I’m still stuck on that one. Any ideas?”“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. So, what are your plans for Passover?”“You know, I haven’t given it any thought. I’ve been so busy with the restaurant, everything else has fallen by the wayside.”“Want to come to me? I’d love you to join us. A few friends, plus Samara and her boyfriend, Nathaniel, and his daughter.”“Samara has a boyfriend? Wow, that’s wonderful. I’d love to meet him, and to come for seder. What can I bring?”“How about something French?”They giggled and left the coffee bar together, and made plans to see each other again soon. By the time Miriam arrived at work, her bad mood had been erased. She spent the morning alternating between her own work, managing her boss and his stress and brainstorming ideas for Sarah’s restaurant name. During lunch, she emailed Sarah a list of suggestions.A movement by the door startled her and she looked up. Tom peered through the doorway. “Miriam, can I see you in my office, please?”“Sure, I’ll be right there.” She grabbed her iPad and headed into his office.“I just want to go over the plans for Thursday one more time. I’ll be away the rest of this week and I want to make sure everything is covered.”Miriam swallowed her annoyance and pulled out the redesign plans. “I’ve got everything right here. Color palette, room functions, budget plans, a copy of the architect’s drawings and suggested material list.”“Good. If you have any questions while I’m gone, text me.”“I will, Tom, but it will be fine. I’ve got it all under control.”He smiled. “I know you do. I just want to make sure the donors are happy. Without them, we’ve got nothing.”
“Don’t worry, I know.”
Buy Link: Amazon
AmazonBuy Link: Amazon
Excerpt:
Josh Lowenstein is a successful architect, hired to redesign the alumni club of a posh, private school in New York. He is strong, capable and knows the best way to do everything. Except let another woman in.
Miriam Goldberg is the Assistant Director of Outreach, and is Josh’s day-to-day contact for the redesign. She’s taken care of everyone around her, and forgotten how to let someone else take care of her.
With a tumultuous history, neither one is prepared to work together. As they get to know each other, the animosity disappears, but Josh is hiding something from Miriam and its discovery has the possibility of destroying their relationship. Only when they are both able to let the other in, and release some of the control they exert over everything, will they be able to see if their love can survive.
This story centers on the Jewish holiday of Passover and is the story of two people who need to discover the freedom of letting go in order to let love into their lives.
First Chapter:
CHAPTER ONEThe line from Casablanca flitted through Josh’s head. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world...” He fisted his hands at his side and closed his eyes. This morning, he’d hurried to work for a meeting with a new client. He’d worked on the presentation for weeks—a redesign of an Alumni Club for a local private school. It was different from most of the projects he had worked on before, and it sparked his creativity. They’d been awarded the contract and this morning’s purpose was to meet the client’s daily contact, the person Josh would work with throughout the span of the project.He’d walked into the red and black conference room of his architectural firm and froze. Sleek, black, flawless coiffed hair. No way. Ramrod straight posture. It couldn’t be. And as she turned and approached him, she’d glided. Oh crap. Miriam.His blood pressure rose and his head throbbed. She’d stuck out her hand and met his gaze, the picture of calm—confident, assured, as if she were in charge—while he had all he could do to keep it together. He’d swept his gaze from her perfectly straight part in her hair, past sparkling amber eyes, over flawless pale skin. He had lingered a moment at the v-neck of her sweater. Its deep gold made her skin glow.After a moment, he’d met her eyes. They were unreadable. Her features expressionless, like a marble statue, she nodded and deferred to her boss.He’d welcomed the diversion and focused on her boss, Tom, a stout, middle-aged man with thinning blond hair and a nervous habit of blinking, as if he couldn’t focus on what was in front of him. But based on Josh’s previous encounters with the man, he was sharp as a tack.“Josh, this is Miriam Goldberg. She’ll be your liaison for the Alumni Club redesign. Miriam, Josh Lowenstein is the lead architect on the project.”She gave no hint they knew each other, and his response that they were well acquainted remained unsaid. He wanted to know why she kept it a secret, but he never had a chance to ask. The meeting was short, filled with lots of information about the project, and there wasn’t time for any small talk. She’d taken charge, asked questions, offered suggestions, all of which led Josh to think she was lead project manager. Regardless of her intelligence and the validity of her suggestions, he burned with irritation.He stomped back to his office and threw his pen across the room. It sailed in an arc over the two sleek black chairs on the other side of his black marble desk, banged against the dove grey wall and landed behind the steel and black credenza. A splotch of ink, resembling a Rorschach pattern, marred the once perfect wall. He swore to himself and ran his hand down his face. Of all the ridiculous, unbelievable, annoying coincidences, this one was the worst. He swung around in his chair and stared out the window of his Manhattan office. Marvels of steel and concrete filled his view, and as an architect, he often found solace, inspiration and satisfaction from looking at them. A little pride, when he identified ones he’d helped to design. But today, he didn’t see them. He saw her face and he clenched his jaw in aggravation.The last time he’d seen her, he’d watched her sashay out of his office, as if on wheels. Her sleek, black hair had whispered across her shoulders, somehow moving without getting a hair out of place. Her wool jacket had not hidden the shape of her backside, or the trim size of her waist. He’d stared, infuriated, aroused and intrigued.She’d stopped by to defend her sister, whom she thought he’d wronged.
“Have you apologized to my sister yet?”He remembered how her question had first annoyed him, and afterwards, angered him. His argument with Samara wasn’t her business. But she was like a pit bull and wouldn’t give up. She’d just repeated, “You need to say you’re sorry.” The phrase echoed in his mind. As did the image of her smooth, glossy hair swinging back and forth like a curtain of silk. Despite his anger at the time, he’d wanted to run his fingers through it. He’d tried to distract himself with a glance at her lips, but they had been lush and red and such a contrast to the irritating words pouring out of them. Her voice had grated in his ears. She’d been assured in her duty, confident she was right and he was wrong. His blood pressure rose as he remembered their argument, and how she’d glided out of his office before he’d had a chance to respond. That was a year ago.It was stupid to still be angry with her. After this long, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thought about their argument. He was no longer in love with her sister; in point of fact, he’d never been in love with the woman in the first place. He had accepted and eventually approved of Samara’s relationship with Nathaniel. What’s more, Miriam had been right, he had needed to apologize.He was tired of her bossing him around. He didn’t like not knowing what was going on, and he didn’t like how he felt off-kilter at their meeting. If she thought he would put up with it, she was mistaken. He was a respected architect; clients begged for him to take on their projects. He controlled what went on around him. He led the projects. He knew what clients wanted often before they did. He didn’t need her meddling in his vision. One word to her boss and she would be thrown off the project.He brushed his hand against the computer mouse and his calendar popped on screen. Their next meeting was Thursday. He would be prepared. He would take charge. And she would never know what hit her.***“So, you and Nathaniel are coming here for the first night of Passover seder, right?” As she spoke to Samara on the phone, Miriam grabbed a pen and marked off days on her calendar, moving backward from Passover to the current day. She had seven and a half weeks. Seven and a half weeks to invite her guests, plan her menu, find all of her ritual items, shop for ingredients, clean her apartment for the holiday and cook. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t.“Miriam, it’s not even Purim yet and already you’re thinking of Passover? I know you’re super-organized, but this sounds crazy even for you.”Miriam gripped the phone harder in her hand and shook her head. Of course Samara thought she was crazy; Samara wasn’t as organized as she was and didn’t have as many responsibilities for this holiday as Purim. As the choir director, Samara ran the Purim play, or spiel, but she was always a guest at Miriam’s seders.“I know you’re busy with the spiel, Sam, and I hate to bother you, but I just want you to get it on your calendar.”“Okay, fine. Yes, we’ll be there for first night, and don’t forget Zoe.”Miriam looked around her pristine apartment and swallowed. Her apartment wasn’t what one would call child friendly. She glanced into her living room—white furniture, white carpet, glass tables. If it could survive her klutzy sister, it could survive an eight-year-old girl. Besides, how much damage could one child do? As long as she wasn’t like Samara...“That’s right, Zoe. Of course she’s invited too.”“Great, I appreciate it, as does Nathaniel. You’ll let me know what we can bring?”Miriam reviewed the rough draft of her menu in her mind. Tri-color matzah ball soup, homemade gefilte fish, a chicken dish, a lamb dish, matzah salad, spinach salad and flourless chocolate cake. Not to mention the symbolic food needed for the seder plate—roasted egg, roasted lamb shank bone, haroset, bitter herbs, parsley, celery and an orange. What could she trust her sister with and guarantee it would turn out to her exact specifications? “What about the haroset? Do you have a recipe for it?”“A recipe? Miriam, it’s apples, cinnamon, red wine and nuts mixed together. You don’t need a recipe for it.”“But Samara, what kind of nuts will you use? I prefer almonds and you need sweet red wine, not dry and how fine will you chop everything...”“Miriam, don’t worry. I know how you like it and I’ll take care of it. And I’ll also bring a dessert; I’ve got a great recipe for an orange-almond flan I’ve been dying to try.”“Try? You mean you’ve never made it before? Samara, there will be other guests so I need to be able to count on your food. I can’t serve it if it doesn’t taste good.”“Mir, relax! I promise it will live up to your standards. Trust me.”Miriam took a deep breath. “All right, but maybe you could have Nathaniel try it ahead of time, just to make sure.”Her sister laughed. “Trust me, Miriam, it will all work out.”Miriam said goodbye and hung up the phone. Seven and a half weeks. In theory, there should be plenty of time to prepare and if it were any other holiday, she wouldn’t start to worry for at least another month. But the preparation required for Passover filled her with exhaustion and her bones ached thinking about it. Add in her new project at work and the pressure weighed her down as if it were a physical object.She sat at her computer and alternated between recipe websites, her calendar, a to-do list and her guest list. Like any get together, the chemistry between the guests needed to work or there would be awkward silences and people would be uncomfortable. Including her, there would be nine people. For some reason, the odd number bothered her. She thought about other friends she could invite. Almost everyone else she knew spent the holiday with family. These friends were the ones who were often alone, which is why they came to her. She ticked names off on her fingers. Ben, David, Nathaniel, Zoe, Samara, Kate, Howie and Alexis. Josh...She jerked and rested her hands on the keyboard. Where did that thought come from? She inhaled, closed her eyes and pictured a blank sheet of paper. Empty, pure, clean. Josh’s image supplanted the paper image and jarred out of her relaxation technique, she popped open her eyes. She rubbed her head as the threads of a headache formed. He was annoying. It was bad enough she was forced to work with him on the Alumni Club project; the last thing she wanted to do was spend her free time occupied with thoughts of him.She glanced out the window and massaged her temples. The wet March day was dreary; although spring had arrived according to the calendar, the wind swirled outside, causing rain-soaked black tree branches, beginning to bud, to shake. Water droplets splashed the window of her second-floor apartment. In a few weeks, the buds would bloom into leaves and flowers. It was a lovely thought, but did not distract her from Josh.Josh Lowenstein was an overbearing perfectionist who thought he was the only person who could do anything right. About eighteen months ago, Josh started paying attention to Samara, who was the choir director at their synagogue. He always tried to help her, even when Samara didn’t appear to want help. Sure, her sister was a klutz and complete disaster when it came to organization, but it worked for her. Josh had no business trying to fix her sister. Her sister was her job. Samara was capable of taking care of herself, with a few helpful nudges from Miriam on occasion. What made things worse was Josh started to fall for Samara. Everyone else could see she wasn’t interested in him, but he hadn’t seen it. Things came to a head at a Shabbat dinner when she’d announced she and Nathaniel, a guy she’d fallen head over heels in love with, were a couple. Josh had attacked Nathaniel’s character and created a scene and Nathaniel walked out.Miriam had wanted to comfort her sister, but Josh was still angry, and still at the table. She’d risen and walked around to Josh’s chair, leaned down and whispered in his ear. “If you think you have any hope of preserving whatever relationship you had with my sister before tonight, the best thing you can do right now is leave with me.”
He’d nodded and risen from his chair.
Thinking about that night, she shook at the hurt he’d put her sister through. She flipped her calendar back to the current week. Thursday. They needed to work together if the Alumni Club was to be the beautiful place she intended it to be. She had three days to get past her anger and her distaste for him.***She woke the next morning to the buzz of her cellphone, rather than the music of her alarm clock. With a groan, she turned and opened one eye. 5:47. Really? They couldn’t wait an extra 13 minutes for her alarm to go off first? She stretched her arm across the nightstand and brushed her fingers along the surface until she found her phone. Fluffing her pillows, she sat up and checked it. A text from her boss. Don’t forget to discuss the Library with the architect.She shook her head as she tossed the phone on the bed, turned off her alarm and headed into the bathroom. There was no point in going to sleep for ten minutes. Tom drove her nuts sometimes. He was detail oriented, like her, but less organized, with a tendency to micromanage when he got stressed. She knew well his desires for the Library and she planned to discuss them with Josh on Thursday. There was no need for him to text her now, except to ease his own anxiety. As she turned on the hot water and let the warm jets pelt her back, she vowed to someday get a job with a boss who could handle stress. Forty minutes later, she was dressed and ready for work. She stepped outside her Upper East Side apartment, waved to the doorman, and inhaled. The rain from the previous day had cleared and the pale March sun shone between the buildings. Although cold, it would be a beautiful spring day. The daffodils the condo board planted in front were about ready to bloom; around them, purple crocuses poked through the dirt between the iron bars of the miniature fence surrounding the bed. The rooftop gardens would be in full bloom in a couple of weeks, and the minute it was warm enough, Miriam would be out there too.She walked down the street and headed to her favorite coffee bar. Inside, the dark aroma filled her nostrils. Multicolored mugs lined the walls—everything from touristy “I Love NY” to extra-large sized French mugs—there was always a new one to look at while she waited in line to place her order. People on their way to work took small tables and chairs by the windows. In the back, upholstered chairs and free WiFi provided a break for people later in the day.“Hey, Miriam, how are you?”Miriam turned toward the voice.“Sarah!” They kissed each other’s cheeks and remained in line while they shmoozed.“I haven’t seen you in ages, Mir. What are you doing?”“I’m running a redesign of the Alumni Club right now. How about you?”“I’m opening a restaurant.”“Really? Where? What kind?”Sarah laughed. “Whoa! It’s opening in the Village and it will be a French bistro.”“That’s wonderful. You’ll have to let me know when it opens so I can come by.”The server behind the counter interrupted their conversation and pointed to her. “May I help you?”Miriam placed her order, waited for Sarah and accompanied her to a table by the window. “I have a few minutes if you have time to sit,” Miriam suggested.Sarah looked at her watch. “Sure. I have to meet with a restaurant equipment guy in a half hour, but he’s not far from here.”“So, tell me about your restaurant.” For the next ten minutes, Sarah described everything about her French bistro, except the name.“I’m still stuck on that one. Any ideas?”“Not off the top of my head, but I’ll let you know if I come up with anything. So, what are your plans for Passover?”“You know, I haven’t given it any thought. I’ve been so busy with the restaurant, everything else has fallen by the wayside.”“Want to come to me? I’d love you to join us. A few friends, plus Samara and her boyfriend, Nathaniel, and his daughter.”“Samara has a boyfriend? Wow, that’s wonderful. I’d love to meet him, and to come for seder. What can I bring?”“How about something French?”They giggled and left the coffee bar together, and made plans to see each other again soon. By the time Miriam arrived at work, her bad mood had been erased. She spent the morning alternating between her own work, managing her boss and his stress and brainstorming ideas for Sarah’s restaurant name. During lunch, she emailed Sarah a list of suggestions.A movement by the door startled her and she looked up. Tom peered through the doorway. “Miriam, can I see you in my office, please?”“Sure, I’ll be right there.” She grabbed her iPad and headed into his office.“I just want to go over the plans for Thursday one more time. I’ll be away the rest of this week and I want to make sure everything is covered.”Miriam swallowed her annoyance and pulled out the redesign plans. “I’ve got everything right here. Color palette, room functions, budget plans, a copy of the architect’s drawings and suggested material list.”“Good. If you have any questions while I’m gone, text me.”“I will, Tom, but it will be fine. I’ve got it all under control.”He smiled. “I know you do. I just want to make sure the donors are happy. Without them, we’ve got nothing.”
“Don’t worry, I know.”
Buy Link: Amazon
April 4, 2016
Spring Break
It’s spring break, so we’re visiting colleges. Driving out to the Midwest and flying back home. After the week I’ve had, I’m tempted to just keep on driving, but I came across this quote that I love. I can’t guarantee it was actually said by Elizabeth Taylor, and she’s never been a role model of mine, but I do like the quote, regardless of the author:
The four of us are visiting colleges over spring break—The General is the one actually looking, but Banana Girl can benefit and if it saves us a trip (or a few) later on, then all the better. And we’re visiting my husband’s and my alma mater, which is going to be great! Of course, we’re adding in some visits with friends along the way, as well as good food, so it should be a fun trip.
I really enjoy the college visits, except I always come away feeling like I’ve wasted so much of my life doing very little. When I see all of the options available to college students, all the chances they have to do things, and then I look at my life, I feel a little incomplete. I’d love to go back and take advantage of all the things I was too young to realize the benefits of back when I was actually in school. But then I look at the two humans I’ve made, and they’re pretty great, and somehow, creating them is going to have to be enough.
And hey, when I get stuck, there’s always the quote to remind me to keep on going.
The four of us are visiting colleges over spring break—The General is the one actually looking, but Banana Girl can benefit and if it saves us a trip (or a few) later on, then all the better. And we’re visiting my husband’s and my alma mater, which is going to be great! Of course, we’re adding in some visits with friends along the way, as well as good food, so it should be a fun trip.
I really enjoy the college visits, except I always come away feeling like I’ve wasted so much of my life doing very little. When I see all of the options available to college students, all the chances they have to do things, and then I look at my life, I feel a little incomplete. I’d love to go back and take advantage of all the things I was too young to realize the benefits of back when I was actually in school. But then I look at the two humans I’ve made, and they’re pretty great, and somehow, creating them is going to have to be enough.
And hey, when I get stuck, there’s always the quote to remind me to keep on going.
March 21, 2016
Insomnia
The General woke me up this morning at one thirty because she couldn’t sleep. So, of course, that means I’m up for the rest of the night. I’d like to yell at her and tell her to deal with her own insomnia, except that wouldn’t be very parental of me. She rarely comes to get me at night regardless of what’s going on, so I don’t want to give her any additional reasons to avoid me. But that means no sleep for me.
As I lay in bed trying unsuccessfully to fall back asleep, my mind started whirling in a million different directions. First I tried thinking of any of the manuscripts I’m currently writing or editing—for some weird reason, that often puts me to sleep Hopefully the published books don’t have that effect on readers, unless I want to advertise them as a cure for insomnia, which I don’t. But thinking about all of them made me realize I’m working on a lot of manuscripts at once. And for those that wonder, counting manuscripts is NOT like counting sheep.
Then I noticed how loudly my husband breathes.
Since thinking about what I was already writing wasn’t working, I tried plotting out a charity novella I’m going to be working on for my publisher. I might have actually come up with a plot, except it never fully formed—kind of like that dream you can’t remember after you awaken. And all it did was stress me out over making my deadline.
Then I noticed how loudly my husband breathes.
Stress made me think of all the things I have to do, and all the things I have to remind my kids to do. And that led me downstairs, so that I didn’t wake my husband. Because his loud breathing indicates he’s sleeping. And one of us (him) should get a good night’s sleep so that they (he) can deal with the other one (me) who’s going to be really, really cranky.
As I lay in bed trying unsuccessfully to fall back asleep, my mind started whirling in a million different directions. First I tried thinking of any of the manuscripts I’m currently writing or editing—for some weird reason, that often puts me to sleep Hopefully the published books don’t have that effect on readers, unless I want to advertise them as a cure for insomnia, which I don’t. But thinking about all of them made me realize I’m working on a lot of manuscripts at once. And for those that wonder, counting manuscripts is NOT like counting sheep.
Then I noticed how loudly my husband breathes.
Since thinking about what I was already writing wasn’t working, I tried plotting out a charity novella I’m going to be working on for my publisher. I might have actually come up with a plot, except it never fully formed—kind of like that dream you can’t remember after you awaken. And all it did was stress me out over making my deadline.
Then I noticed how loudly my husband breathes.
Stress made me think of all the things I have to do, and all the things I have to remind my kids to do. And that led me downstairs, so that I didn’t wake my husband. Because his loud breathing indicates he’s sleeping. And one of us (him) should get a good night’s sleep so that they (he) can deal with the other one (me) who’s going to be really, really cranky.
March 14, 2016
By The Numbers
The other night I shrieked, startling my husband and the dog (nothing startles the teens). My book, The Seduction of Esther, had hit #157 on Amazon in Jewish books. Usually, my books are in the thousands, so this number was exciting for me. It has since fluctuated, dipping into the two- and three-hundreds before rising again and is now at #67.*
Amazon
My husband wanted to know what those numbers mean, and to be honest, I’m not completely sure. Basically, they’re sales numbers, divided into categories. So in essence, my book is selling well. However, those numbers are also dependent on categories, and the categories are determined by publishers.
While my numbers right now are awesome in Jewish books, they are much less awesome in romance. But I’ll take what I can get, especially since right now, my book is supposedly selling better than one by Elie Wiesel and Leon Uris, which is kind of cool (not that I want to disparage any writer ever!).
Honestly, I’m not usually a numbers person. I’ve become jaded by hearing how the New York Times bestseller numbers are configured (it’s no longer by popularity—you actually have to pay to get on their list, I believe), and I’m not writing books so I can appear on a list. I’m writing because when I don’t write, I’m miserable.
But the numbers are still fun to watch!
*If you’ve recently bought the book, thanks for helping me out! If you haven’t, but are thinking about it, it’s currently on sale.
AmazonMy husband wanted to know what those numbers mean, and to be honest, I’m not completely sure. Basically, they’re sales numbers, divided into categories. So in essence, my book is selling well. However, those numbers are also dependent on categories, and the categories are determined by publishers.
While my numbers right now are awesome in Jewish books, they are much less awesome in romance. But I’ll take what I can get, especially since right now, my book is supposedly selling better than one by Elie Wiesel and Leon Uris, which is kind of cool (not that I want to disparage any writer ever!).
Honestly, I’m not usually a numbers person. I’ve become jaded by hearing how the New York Times bestseller numbers are configured (it’s no longer by popularity—you actually have to pay to get on their list, I believe), and I’m not writing books so I can appear on a list. I’m writing because when I don’t write, I’m miserable.
But the numbers are still fun to watch!
*If you’ve recently bought the book, thanks for helping me out! If you haven’t, but are thinking about it, it’s currently on sale.
March 7, 2016
The Struggle is Real
Every writer struggles with insecurity from time to time and thinking that their writing is awful. We question everything we’ve ever written. When we read our work over, it’s as if someone has highlighted in bright yellow all the poor word choices, sappy prose and just plain old bad writing, and that’s all we see. With every rejection letter, we wonder why we’re bothering to do this and are convinced we’ll never get published again. With every criticism from our critique partner, we cringe, consumed with knowing that not only are we bad writers, but we must have obviously gotten worse.Writing is where we pour our hearts out onto the page and then give random strangers permission to chop our hearts into pieces. And we believe them when they say what we’ve written is crap. We take it personally even when we promise ourselves we won’t. We vow we’re never going to write again, even though when we’re not writing, we’re not able to take deep breaths.We’re judged and ripped apart and ridiculed and ignored and criticized until there’s nothing left of us and of what we’ve created. And somehow, we have to shake it off, push through and confront that blank page again. Create again, edit, rewrite, edit. We have to convince ourselves that our dream is worthwhile. We have to selectively and wisely choose the criticism to believe and shut out all the rest. We have to protect the kernel of hope that whispers, “This time will be different or better.”
And we have to keep writing.
And we have to keep writing.
February 29, 2016
Another Monday
Another Monday, another early morning sitting in the car dealer, trying to figure out why my car is ticking. At least the service guys behind the counter didn’t look at me like they thought there was a bomb in it, unlike the service lady I spoke to on the phone who did not sound pleased. Once again, the radio is playing just loud enough to annoy me and someone is talking on their phones in the waiting room, although at least this time, the man is speaking in a low voice out of respect for the rest of us. And I, as usual, am sitting on the remote control to prevent the TV from being turned on. I considered stealing the other remote too, but that controls the TV in another area, and I decided that wouldn’t be fair. This time. I’m starting to think of this waiting room as my office. Some writers take pictures of their beautiful views—Jill Shalvis’ Tahoe views make me jealous. Some writers take pictures of their desks—never trust a writer with a neat desk. Mine is going to be here:
Another Monday, and The General is home sick. I forced her to go to Urgent Care yesterday, after feeling lousy since Friday. The amount of complaining, questions about what treatments she’s had or not, which facility to go to and just general ickiness yesterday made me convinced that she was going to be responsible for the world ending that very moment. But when I returned home, having left all that loveliness to my long-suffering and ever-patient husband, she was almost back to her normal self. I was convinced she was on the mend. Until last night, or actually super early this morning, when I couldn’t sleep and she joined me downstairs, claiming she couldn’t either. Waking up for school today was less than successful, so she’s home and I’m waiting to see if her yuckiness is due to exhaustion or to still being sick. Regardless, she has the SAT this Saturday, so whatever bug she has needs to leave.
Another Monday, which is usually my favorite day of the week, but this week is crazy busy and something feels off. Maybe it’s because I’m waiting to hear about a bunch of things. Maybe it’s just me. Either way, it’s Monday.
Happy Leap Year!
Another Monday, and The General is home sick. I forced her to go to Urgent Care yesterday, after feeling lousy since Friday. The amount of complaining, questions about what treatments she’s had or not, which facility to go to and just general ickiness yesterday made me convinced that she was going to be responsible for the world ending that very moment. But when I returned home, having left all that loveliness to my long-suffering and ever-patient husband, she was almost back to her normal self. I was convinced she was on the mend. Until last night, or actually super early this morning, when I couldn’t sleep and she joined me downstairs, claiming she couldn’t either. Waking up for school today was less than successful, so she’s home and I’m waiting to see if her yuckiness is due to exhaustion or to still being sick. Regardless, she has the SAT this Saturday, so whatever bug she has needs to leave.
Another Monday, which is usually my favorite day of the week, but this week is crazy busy and something feels off. Maybe it’s because I’m waiting to hear about a bunch of things. Maybe it’s just me. Either way, it’s Monday.
Happy Leap Year!
February 24, 2016
Freeloading
Time to rant…you’ve been warned.
I have a small circle of friends and family for whom I’d truly do anything, no questions asked. If I had to guess, I think they know it too, and they reciprocate. We are more than willing to bend over backward for each other. It’s not “tit-for-tat,” nor do I want it to be. Despite this rant, I hate when people feel obligated to me, or when I need to feel the same toward them. If I show up with coffee for someone, I don’t want them to feel obligated to buy me a cup next time—that’s not why I did it. I work within the premise that eventually, at the end of it all, things will work out fairly, or fairly enough that no one will feel as if they’ve been taken advantage of.
Lately, however, there have been a number of people outside that circle who are under the mistaken impression that my generosity extends to them, and extends to them automatically, without prior discussion with me first. Are they nice people? Yes. Do I consider them my friends? On some level. Will I be nice to them? Sure. But I don’t look at them in the same way as I do my close circle, and unless there are extenuating circumstances, I’m not putting myself out for them, especially when in all the years I’ve known them, they’ve never done so for me. Not once.
Does that make me bitchy? Probably. And I wish it didn’t. I no more want to be known as a bitch than I want to be known as a doormat. I would like to think I’m known as a good friend, wife, daughter, etc. But that doesn’t mean I will let others take advantage of me, since I work incredibly hard not to take advantage of anyone else.
But I’m now in the position where I have to consciously think about whether or not I want to do something for these people who ask me “for a favor.” Saying no makes me feel bad, saying yes annoys me. Either way makes me the bad guy, for doing something grudgingly for someone else is worse than not doing it at all.
My solution for the moment is going to be to focus on my inner circle. It’s not exclusive; you’re welcome to join. But if you want to enter, be prepared for the expectations associated with it. Freeloaders need not apply.
I have a small circle of friends and family for whom I’d truly do anything, no questions asked. If I had to guess, I think they know it too, and they reciprocate. We are more than willing to bend over backward for each other. It’s not “tit-for-tat,” nor do I want it to be. Despite this rant, I hate when people feel obligated to me, or when I need to feel the same toward them. If I show up with coffee for someone, I don’t want them to feel obligated to buy me a cup next time—that’s not why I did it. I work within the premise that eventually, at the end of it all, things will work out fairly, or fairly enough that no one will feel as if they’ve been taken advantage of.
Lately, however, there have been a number of people outside that circle who are under the mistaken impression that my generosity extends to them, and extends to them automatically, without prior discussion with me first. Are they nice people? Yes. Do I consider them my friends? On some level. Will I be nice to them? Sure. But I don’t look at them in the same way as I do my close circle, and unless there are extenuating circumstances, I’m not putting myself out for them, especially when in all the years I’ve known them, they’ve never done so for me. Not once.
Does that make me bitchy? Probably. And I wish it didn’t. I no more want to be known as a bitch than I want to be known as a doormat. I would like to think I’m known as a good friend, wife, daughter, etc. But that doesn’t mean I will let others take advantage of me, since I work incredibly hard not to take advantage of anyone else.
But I’m now in the position where I have to consciously think about whether or not I want to do something for these people who ask me “for a favor.” Saying no makes me feel bad, saying yes annoys me. Either way makes me the bad guy, for doing something grudgingly for someone else is worse than not doing it at all.
My solution for the moment is going to be to focus on my inner circle. It’s not exclusive; you’re welcome to join. But if you want to enter, be prepared for the expectations associated with it. Freeloaders need not apply.
February 15, 2016
It's All About The Cookie
We had an abbreviated set of college tours this past weekend. The General and I drove down south with the intention of looking at three schools. In between, we had plans to see my college friends, our family friends and her camp friends.
There were lots of positives:
She loved the big state school.She enjoyed the car ride more than she would have (her words) because we drove one of her local camp friends down with us.She got to stay overnight at her camp friend’s house.I got to visit some great college friends spur of the moment.The hotel we stayed in was in a beautiful area (the last hotel we stayed in required we park in an abandoned lot next to a 24-hour car wash that I’m pretty sure wasn’t washing cars 24 hours a day).We had a terrific dinner with family friends the next day.
There were a few negatives:
The camp friend’s parent who we drove down south tried to weasel me into driving her home.She didn’t like the city school.We had to cancel our visit to the third school, plus our dinner with my other college friends, due to an impending snowstorm.She didn’t get to see her camp friend who was going to tour the third school with us.
But by far, the BEST thing that happened, as far as I’m concerned, is that she ate an Oreo.
Now, this is the child who hates Oreos, unless they’re fried. But we were at dinner with family friends and they have two children, a nine-year-old and a four-year-old. She was sitting next to the four-year-old, who had a backpack filled with activities to keep him entertained during dinner. It also had snacks, because, well, he’s four, and on parent in their right mind goes anywhere without snacks for their four-year-old! As the General and the Four-Year-Old were talking and playing with stuff, he pulled out a package of his Oreos and gave her one. She thanked him and ate it, despite the fact that she hates Oreos.
Because, as she said to me (and to his mom who tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary), you don’t say no to a four-year-old when they offer you something.
There were lots of positives:
She loved the big state school.She enjoyed the car ride more than she would have (her words) because we drove one of her local camp friends down with us.She got to stay overnight at her camp friend’s house.I got to visit some great college friends spur of the moment.The hotel we stayed in was in a beautiful area (the last hotel we stayed in required we park in an abandoned lot next to a 24-hour car wash that I’m pretty sure wasn’t washing cars 24 hours a day).We had a terrific dinner with family friends the next day.
There were a few negatives:
The camp friend’s parent who we drove down south tried to weasel me into driving her home.She didn’t like the city school.We had to cancel our visit to the third school, plus our dinner with my other college friends, due to an impending snowstorm.She didn’t get to see her camp friend who was going to tour the third school with us.
But by far, the BEST thing that happened, as far as I’m concerned, is that she ate an Oreo.
Now, this is the child who hates Oreos, unless they’re fried. But we were at dinner with family friends and they have two children, a nine-year-old and a four-year-old. She was sitting next to the four-year-old, who had a backpack filled with activities to keep him entertained during dinner. It also had snacks, because, well, he’s four, and on parent in their right mind goes anywhere without snacks for their four-year-old! As the General and the Four-Year-Old were talking and playing with stuff, he pulled out a package of his Oreos and gave her one. She thanked him and ate it, despite the fact that she hates Oreos.
Because, as she said to me (and to his mom who tried to tell her it wasn’t necessary), you don’t say no to a four-year-old when they offer you something.
February 8, 2016
It's JeRoWriMo Time!
I’m participating in my local writing chapter’s version of NaNoWriMo this month. NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, is held in November each year and participants write 50K words in a month. It’s a huge undertaking and I’ve never done it before.However, my local writing chapter has adapted it to JeRoWriMo—Jersey Romance Writers Month. Every February, we write 30K words. Still a huge undertaking, but doable, even if the month is shorter. Basically, it boils down to a little more than 1,000 words per day.
I love participating in the challenge because it gives me a clear goal every day that I have to hit. We email our word counts to our head cheerleader (who also happens to be one of my critique partners) and at the end of the month, everyone who has successfully completed the challenge wins chocolate.
Seriously—public deadlines, head cheerleader whom I know and chocolate at the end? It’s perfect for me.
This time around, my goal is to finish a manuscript I’ve been working on. It was at approximately 50K when I started, so it will be complete by the end of the month. Not sure exactly why I’m bothering, as absolutely nothing is happening right now with my writing, but hey, I can always store it somewhere and know it’s complete.
Writing during the week is pretty easy, as no one is home to distract me. On the weekends? That’s another story. This weekend, I hid, and I was able to complete each day’s goal, despite not being allowed to count the words in the multiple texts with my husband who was at the grocery store. Next weekend I’ll be gone, so I’m trying to write extra words before I leave. And by the time I come back, half the month will be over!
Forcing myself to write and to turn off my internal editor is a challenge, as it is for all the participants. I’ll have to go back in March and significantly edit what I’ve written, but I’ll be a lot further along than I was when I started. And working on this manuscript regularly allowed me to plot the ending, something I wasn’t sure of when I started.
So if you need me, I’ll be writing!
