Writing Group Goes to the River!

Country Boy

My baby, Rees, will be nine on Sunday.

Rees claims he drove a tractor out of my belly, it's how he was born, and that might be true.

When he was one, he went crazy over a country station we accidentally had on the radio. At the time, his favorite outfit was a too-big pair of cowboy boots, and a "goggy," (a leather vest) over a diaper.

When Rees was three, we took him to Disneyland, where he cried in line for the rockets, because he thought we were going to my aunt's ranch in central Oregon.

This ranch is Rees' Utopia. Since he could walk, he's been collecting eggs, climbing hay, and riding quads. Once, a wire gate fell on him, pinning him onto a patch of strawberries, face-up and all splayed out, with his light-up Bugs Life shoes flashing.

Rees knows the difference between combines and Kubotas. He's a John Deere man, particularly. And he's never been without a pair of knee-high rubber boots.

I think Reesie loves the quiet of the country. He's drawn to the openness, the tomato plants, the rolly pollies. It's a perfect match. He's respectful of nature: trees, sticks, snakes. His idea of a good time is laying irrigation pipe.

Only thing is, since I'm all city, and Dave's no ranch hand, we have no idea where Rees came from. Oh, right: from my belly! On a tractor.

My New Agent Is

the talented, bright, kind, hardworking
Holly Root
from the Scott Waxman Agency!

I'm super excited to work with Holly;
we're already quite a team. The
suggestions she gave my first draft
of Drain made it
sing!

Whee! This is fun! And I'm so so so so
grateful!

Journey

This was my wake-up today, from Shannon at Book Dreaming, who has to be the kindest, most hardworking mom/wife/teacher/writer around,
and who makes me want to be a better (cyber)person!

And hey, everybody, don't stop believin'!

From A Place Of...

...Suffering.

That's where Drain began last winter.

My daughter Daney, almost ten years old, was stuck in a cluster of grand mal seizures. She was tired. She was sore. She missed a lot of school.

It was terrible, watching this kind, bright, lovely girl suffer.

I worried how she'd get through it. I worried how I'd get through it.

Of course, I had stopped going to writing group. I had stopped writing.

Until Christy (who knows I'll try anything she tells me) challenged me to come up with a few new pages. Which, somehow, I did: a story I thought had nothing to do with anything. A story that ended up having everything to do with something--of seeing suffering, without being able to stop it.

That first draft, it was rough. I was writing it on two hours of sleep, between ambulance rides and hospital visits and EEGs. I was was writing it with Daney tucked into bed beside me.

The voice came out hollow, realistic but cautious, sad, and slow.

Exactly the way I felt during those dark winter months.

I. Have. An. Agent!

It was the kind of call I'd been hoping and hoping for. She thought the revision was "amazing," the voice, "beautiful," the writing, "rich and deep."

I had to work for it. A few months ago, this agent had given me three big suggestions: make the story seem like it could or could not have actually happened, flush out the male characters and their subplots, make another stab at the overall metaphor. Then see if a new conclusion wrote itself.

And while she was suggesting, (and I was scribbling down every word,) I agreed with everything. The ideas were already flowing.

"Did she tell you to write a new introduction?" my husband asked sceptically.

"No," I told him.

But once I unravelled the whole end, I had to do the beginning over. (I know you know exactly what I mean.)

It was a lot of work. A lot. Hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. While my students' research papers on terrorism were pouring in. While my boys had Fifth Disease. While Daney went on field trips.

I cried to my writing partner, Anjie. "I'm not living," I told her. "This story, it's all I can think about. I'm not a good mom."

"Stay with it," she told me. "Stay in the zone. If you feel the story, you have to go where it takes you."

My kids were understanding. And after a couple months, I was back in Starbucks with my incredible writing group, sharing the last five pages.


I love this agent. I love her. She knew this revision took hours and hours and hours and hours over days and days and days. I confessed that I was able to do it because my unbelievably supportive husband fed me. And shoved me out into the rain to take walks. And started the shower for me when I came back sopping wet and frozen, but ready to write some more.

I love this agent because she gets us writers. Because she says she loves my work. Because she was so right about all those suggestions. Because on top of all that awesomeness, she's a good person.

So there is That Call. From New York City. At six AM.

And it takes everything I'd ever heard it does. Tenacity. Revision. Hard work. Querying.

And patience.

It takes a lot of patience.

But I promise, That Call is so worth every speck of waiting.

How I Know For Sure It's Summer

Because my kids are going a thousand miles an hour in a thousand different directions.

Because there are kids I've never seen before eating pizza and Popsicles in my kitchen.

Because the grocery bill has doubled.

Because the water bill has doubled.

Because there are paint ball splats all over the front lawn.

Because Reesie is barefoot -- even in the bank.

Because I'm blogging about every five days.


How about you? How do you know for sure that it's summer?