Delilah S. Dawson's Blog, page 52

33 is the new 13

Pretty cool, huh?
That's right. I had my quarterly circus class again last night.
And I'm proud as hell, seeing that picture.
I always thought that after I left my 20s behind, fun was past.
Hell, no.
I'm having more adventures now than ever before.
And I'm in better shape than I was in high school or college.


33 is kind of cool.
But did you know it's
ALMOST MY BIRTHDAY??
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the letter why

Before I had kids, I would dream of magical afternoons spent in sunbeams, counting piggies and answering questions.
Mama, why is the sky blue? Where do unicorns come from? Can I go to the moon?
I was anxious to answer these questions. I couldn't wait to tell my children about narwhals and bats and elephants who are reunited with their friends after twenty years. I couldn't wait for the WHY stage, as they call it.
Joke's on me, right?
Because they don't ask reasonable, magical, practical questions. They spend two excruciating hours asking in different ways why you have to paint the house.
Here are just a tiny fraction of the questions shouted at me today:
1. Mommy, why is THAT GUY?
2. Why did somebody fall off the roof?
3. Where did that tree go?
4. Where did this (a minute piece of trash) come from?
5. Why is outside?
6. If my teacher isn't married anymore, why did she tell me to give her a present?
7. If a bad guy comes in the house, can I kick him?
8. Why can't you make more batteries?
9. If that girl can have candy, does her mommy love her more than you love me?

Seriously. I'm going insane.
But it makes sense. Childhood isn't linear. It's confusing. Kids are trying to make sense of a huge world that we adults can barely comprehend. So why would the questions be easy? At least they're asking questions, and I'm doing my best to answer them.
And at least no one has yet asked me where babies come from.
*
Disclaimer: For the love of all that's holy, DON'T BE THAT PERSON who tells me:
a) how brief childhood is, and to enjoy every moment,b) that answering questions/caring for kids is my job as a mother, orc) that I was probably just as curious at that age and am now being repaid by karma.
I KNOW, okay? We're good. I'm just venting.

it be almost pirate day, mateys!

Yarr, me hearties!
Talk Like a Pirate Day is Monday, which means on Saturday,we celebrated with...

Pirate Day makes me ridiculously happy, even if it's not a cake-centric holiday. I mean, Halloween used to be our only adults can dress up like pirates and swagger around day, but now we have TWO of those days, and that's why 2011 is fabulous.
Last year, we were rocked by D's Hurricanes.
This year, something went wrong with the Hurricanes. Half of them tasted like the bottom of a Sonic cherry limeade, and the other half were like sipping cherry cough syrup. We renamed them Tropical Depressions and cleansed our palates with hot beer cheese and Rice Krispy Treat boats, because that is what pirates do.
We also watched the movie Your Highness, which is like Dude, Where's My Car for the medieval set. It's pretty clear that Natalie Portman and James Franco sold their souls to the devil at some point, and the devil called it in for this movie, because one of them gets 95% nekkid and the other one gets molested by an elderly alien, and I'm not saying which was which. Let's just say it wasn't 127 Hours of Oscar-worthy Black Swan.
In conclusion:
1. It's really hard tucking in a poet's blouse.2. Grog tastes better out of a skull mug.3. I only like beer if it's in my cheese.4. I need to see the end of Your Highness.5. Pirate Day is AWESOME because my friends are AWESOME.6. Is it Halloween yet?
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write from your... kidney.

You know how they tell you to, "Write from the heart?"
Hogwash.
It's better to find a less conflicted organ and write from there. Like your kidney, which would be helpful as a filter. Or possibly your tonsils, since they're somewhat mysterious and vestigial. Or, as House would argue, a sphincter
See, I recently wrote a YA book that was... far too close to home. It was twisty and deep and drew on the best and the worst of my teenage life.
I bled for it. I cried for it. I was proud of it. I was in love with it.
Aaaaaand that's where the problem started.
Sometimes, when you write from the heart, as when you're a doctor treating a friend or relative, you get too close to be objective. If you want to be published, you can't just go into labor, push and squeeze for a while, and then toss a moist and heaving pile of papers on the table and call it done. Finishing the book is the easy part. It's the revisions that are the hard part. And revisions mean looking critically at your own work and inviting others to rip it to shreds.
If the book is too close to your own heart, it's very difficult to do that.
They say, "This isn't realistic," and you shout, "BUT IT HAPPENED!"
They say, "Move it around; massage it," and you shout, "BUT THAT'S NOT HOW I ENVISIONED IT. THAT'S NOT THIS BOOK!"
They say, "The main character is too conflicted and wishy-washy," and you say, "YES, BUT THAT'S EXACTLY HOW I FELT AT THE TIME!"
In short, they bring up perfectly reasonable points... for a book.
And you defend... your life.*
And you know what that doesn't produce?
A good book.
If you want a book to survive, you must be willing to put it on the operating table and cut it wide open. It will stop breathing for a while. You will think it is dead. You will use those outrageously horrible rib-spreader things to open it up and expose the hideous disease within.
And then you'll shock it back to life and set about fixing the mess.
It's a lot like watching House, actually. Accept that your book is not a special snowflake. It's messed up, and it lies, and it's going to freaking DIE if you can't figure out what's wrong with it.
The good news is: IT'S NOT LUPUS.
The bad news is: It's got to crash at least once before you can figure out the problem.
But if you can rise above it, you can save it.
That's your job as a writer: To rise above the personal and keep the book alive, no matter the cost. And if you have to play catch with a tennis ball or break into someone's house or get hooked on valium to do it... well, I wouldn't do that. I would stick with coffee and cupcakes.
And next time, do yourself a favor. Write from the sphincter.
Or just write up your last dream about vampires.
It worked for me and Stephenie Meyer.

***
* Kind of like that Albert Brooks and Meryl Streep movie with the angel togas-- Defending Your Life. I hated that movie.

the future is now, and it is indeed bright

This week, I've been especially impressed with the futuristic aspects of 2011.
For example:
1. I bought DVD-Rs instead of CD-Rs, mainly because they had a pretty pattern on them. I lost the receipt. But I simply gave the girl at Target my credit card and the DVD-Rs, and she scanned them with a magic gun. POOF. $8 back in my account. LIKE MAGIC.
2. I got a letter from the gas company saying that if I didn't make plans in the next 30 days, my rate would double. I went online to a different company, got an even lower rate than the original, and googled for a coupon code that offers $75 in rebates. Then I switched gas companies online. I NEVER HAD TO TALK TO A SINGLE HUMAN BEING.
3. Yesterday, as you may have noticed, my editor gave me permission to post my book cover. Which I did. A lot. Someone on Twitter retweeted the link, and a book blogger I had never heard of found it and mentioned it on her blog in the nicest way ever. I thanked her, followed her blog and on Twitter, and added her to my "please review my book one day because you are awesome" list.
4. In just one day, thanks to the brilliance of the internet and some very kind people, I've got 76 likes on my Facebook author page and am meeting lovely people all over the world. And the book doesn't even exist yet!
That's some kind of magic.
I will now consent to wait for my jetpack just a leeeetle longer.
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THE COVER REVEAL!

Ladies and gentlemen, step right up.
It's time to meet Criminy Stain.
* * *



Coming next spring from Pocket/Simon & Schuster.
Hot guys. Top hats. Steampunk. Carnivals. Vampires. Corsets. Krakens. Dirigibles. Freaks. Villains. Bloodthirsty rabbits.
All that and more.
Won't you join me in the marvelous world of Sang?

* * *

your quote here

Sometimes, especially on Facebook, I think,
I WISH THERE WAS A QUOTE TO PERFECTLY SUM UP HOW I FEEL.
Then I remember that we can make up our own quotes.
Seriously, at any given moment, we can just invent a quote. We don't need Google or a pocket-sized gift book from the rack by the front counter of a bookstore. There are no laws about quotes. There's no quote police. There's no "You must be this tall/witty/famous to make a quote" rule.
We are totally free to make up our own quotes.
So here are some made up quotes. Please, make up some of your own.
ON JOY:There is no deeper joy than being exactly where you're supposed to be, except being there and eating a cupcake.
ON CAREERS:Whatever you like to do best, someone is getting paid to do it, so you just need to figure out how to make that work, unless it's being a man-whore. Then you should do what you like to do second best.
ON TATTOOS AND PIERCINGS:This is not a dress rehearsal, so you might as well enjoy your body and make it as interesting as possible, so long as you don't get a crazy face tattoo or stretch out your earlobes long enough to jump rope with.
ON HAVING CHILDREN:Anyone who tells you it's easy just wants to smell your baby's head and play with her toes before handing her back to you and running out the door, laughing.
ON COFFEE:I didn't know how much I loved it until I needed it, and I didn't know how much I needed it until I became a writer.
ON PLAYING:Never stop playing, because when you stop playing, part of you dies inside, and that part smells and starts to make all the other parts wonder what died, and then they force you to buy smelly old lady perfume and you are officially OLD.
ON HAVING GOOD TASTE:Having good taste is overrated. Just like what you like without shame. Enthusiasm goes a long way when you're dressed as the devil from Legend, and you'll probably get a free latte at Starbucks just for being interesting and getting your horns caught in the door.
ON HALLOWEEN:Who cares if you're the only one dressed up? You're probably the only one smiling and making memories. Being boring sucks even more on the one day a year everyone gets a pass to be interesting.
ON SOCKS:Life's too short to wear matching socks.
ON PRETTY THINGS:Pretty things are good for the soul. Choosing things that speak to you further defines who you are. Never underestimate the moxie of a good hat. All the boys should grow out their hair and wear vests.
ON EMOTION:It doesn't matter if you're happy or sad, just make use of it. Make it mean something.
ON CUPCAKES:Cupcakes: The only way to not eat the whole cake.
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Anyone else want to pen a quote today?

um.

So I just turned in my first revisions to my editor. According to my usual cycle, I would be gearing up for some big blog humor, or at least cogitating the seed for another book.
But you know what?
I got nothing.
I need to do some maintenance. The house needs cleaning, of course. The laundry needs washing. I should probably buy a new vacuum cleaner. And that doesn't even include all the writing tasks put to the side while I rushed to hit my first deadline way early.
But you know what?
HONEY BADGER DON'T CARE.
It's Fall.
Fallish.
It's time for skinny jeans and high boots. It's time to crunch leaves and drink hot coffee and break out my pumpkin perfume oils. It's time to wear copper-colored eyeshadow and shop for cute jackets. It's time to sit outside and just breathe, hoping for some wind-inspired goosebumps. It's time to start planning Halloween costumes. It's time to spend the evenings barreling through the second season of Community, a TV show that pretty much represents my brain in sitcom form. It's time to lay in bed in the morning before the alarm rings, wiggling my toes back and forth and trying to remember dreams.
It's time to roll through the Krispy Kreme drive-thru just to ask when the pumpkin donuts will be available and then thank the guy very kindly when he gives me a hot donut to take away the pain of waiting another month.
It's Fall.
It's my favorite time of year.
Please expect me to be in a metaphysical hammock for a little while, listening to music you can't hear and waiting for the air to smell like smoke.
Pity me not, for I'm a victim of my own contentment.
*

we holla for hula

Two years ago, it was fairies, princesses, and ballerinas. Hence FARBIE.

Last year, it was Star Wars. Hence YODA.

This year, it was hula dancing, coconuts, and leis. Hence...





Here's how it happened.

Step 1: Bake a chocolate-pumpkin bundt cake. Stick an old Barbie in it. Glue her in with gooey, hot brownies. Eat as much brownie batter as possible.





Mmm. Chocobarbie.

Step 2. Mix up some green buttercream and start piping it on. Realize it looks like slime and do the grass skirt texturizing with a fork. Lick the fork.A lot.



Step 3. Realize that the skirt is a little lumpy, but no one will notice because it's so freaking YUM.

Spackle it with glittery green sugar crystals, just for funsies.

Step 4. Add candles, sing, serve, eat.

And eat.

And eat.





See the other cake in back?

It occurred to me at the last minute that there might not be enough cake to go around.

And even worse, there might not be leftovers. So we picked up another one at Target. It was pretty, went with the theme, and tasted excellent, although not as good as Hularbie.





Step 5. Put the last slice of Hularbie in the freezer in case of emergency.

In short, it was an excellent party.

8 big girls in hula skirts and leis, tearing up the house.

Hula heaven.



My little biscuit is growing up.

5 whole years of biscuit.

Sniffle.

Hula.

Sniffle.

DBF

So this morning I swallowed my fear and drove to Decatur, aka THE NEXUS OF EVIL to meet my Twitter friend Harley and rub elbows with authors at the Decatur Book Festival.

For example, here is me with Myra McEntire, author of the fantastic YA book HOURGLASS.





I learned several things today.



1. Signed books are prettier.

2. No one can spell DELILAH on the first try.

3. The Brick Store is the coolest restaurant ever and made me feel like I was in The Hobbit, but with skateboards and pierogies.

4. Pierogies? THEY ROCK.

5. When going to a festival, wear comfortable shoes, and by comfortable, I mean NOT YOUR CUTE NEW HEELS, MORON. My blisters have blisters.



6. Meeting your writing friends in real life and talking about writing is the most writingly writersome thing ever, and now I understand why people go to conferences to talk about their jobs.

7. Eric Wight is a very cool guy, and I need to read his books about Frankie Pickle.

8. Grown women can be reduced to quivering fangirls by meeting their writing heroes. AND I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE, PEOPLE.

9. You can't get into a panel five minutes late at the Decatur Library or the door guard will say nasty things about you and send you away. But you can take off your shoes, eat a granola bar, or let your hoobies flop out of your shirt, and the security guard won't care. (I only did 2 of those 3 things, for the record.)

10. I should get out of my comfort zone more often. I met lovely people and had a wonderful time. I ate a wonderful Cornish game hen. I bought wonderful books. I wore a wonderful wrap dress. And I didn't have a single freakout attack. OLD DOGS REALLY CAN LEARN NEW, WONDERFUL TRICKS.

Next year: Dragon*Con, baby.

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