A Jordan thing to do

A few things that are going on over here:

Last Saturday we went with Husband to his church softball game. I was on the team last season. If you want to read about my antics, you can find them here. But this year, I decided to leave it to the guys. We pulled up to the field and got the kids out of the car. I was busy getting things situated while Husband headed off to find his team.

When I finally got over to the field I started looking around. There wasn't much going on--people warming up, chatting, getting a tan. But I did notice a guy off to my left. I hate to admit it but my first thought was, "Wow. He's hot."

You need to know this doesn't happen to me very often. I am happy with the one I am married to, and don't go looking around even just to see what's out there. So the thought threw me off. I knew I should feel a little guilty for thinking this. I am not that kind of girl. So what did I do? I kept oogling. I couldn't stop myself. He had dark hair, and a nice tan, with sunglasses on. And then he smiled. Dimples. Sigh. It was a very nice visual.

Finally, my logic kicked and I realized.

That's my husband.

I'm married to the hottie with the chicklet smile. My heart went pitter pat.

We had a lesson in YW's on Sunday about eternal marriage. And I assured them to be careful in picking their future spouse. Friendship is a key ingredient, but having a moment like mine is some nice, pink, fluffy frosting on top.

Next thing.

Look up to your right. I put up a running word count for my work in progress. Melanie J. does this on her blog and I love watching her progress. It motivates me.  So I asked, and she was happy to show me how. Currently, my count is a little deceiving. I started my story, realized I need to rip one of the main characters out and started again. I have not deleted the word count from that, but I've just about made up the difference. Keep checking to see my progress. And feel free to tell me if you think I'm slacking. It's good accountability.

Thirdly.

I woke up at 5 am on the dot with some great thoughts for my story. If you've been writing long you know that the worst thing you could do is try to stick it in your long term and fish it out in the morning. It's goner than gone by then, baby! Happens every single time. You might remember some of it, but it's not as powerful. You must jot down those things you're thinking as you come out of a nice rest. Don't believe me? Just ask Stephanie Meyer. So I rolled Husband over, flipped open my MacBook air that boots in .7 seconds, faster than a Porsche can go from 0 to 60, and typed my ideas into the bottom of the manuscript. Then I laid back down.

And laid and laid and laid.

Ten minutes later I realized I should just get up. This guy at the writer's conference swears your bio-rhythms are at their peak early in the morning. I was going to take him for his word.

His word is right, people!

I pounded out two thousand words before I made a single bed, combed a strand of hair or kissed a cheek good morning.

When Husband came downstairs all showered and clean smelling, I was smiling.

He said, "What's up? What are you doing down here?"

"Writing," I said, and then I sighed. "I love my story."

I love my story. I'd forgotten what that feels like. I'm back to my happy place.

"And," I told him. "I came up with the most kick butt title."

I did too.

Ugly Duckling on South Field.

It paints a certain image but when you get into the book you'll realize it means something completely different than what you thought, yet it's perfect. I'm excited about it, and I've never been excited for a title before.

Lastly. See my title up there about Jordan?

Well, it's a new saying in our house. "That's a Jordan thing to do."

Remember when I told you about how Dos shot out the back of the bus window? And how foolish that was? Well, there's a kid in O.S's grade whose always doing stupid stuff like that. He's a sweet kid. I actually feel a little sorry for him. I think he does these desperate things to get attention. And he gets attention. The wrong kind. A few weeks back he brought those little popper fireworks to school. The ones that the you throw against he ground and they explode into a tiny puff of dust.

He thought he'd impress his friends.

He got majorly suspended.

O.S. pulled out his slingshot this morning to shoot a bouncy ball across the room. I took one look at that and told him it was a Jordan thing to do. Nothing else needed to be said. He slid the slingshot back into the drawer.

Have a great day.

And don't be a Jordan.

Three things

I'm so busy lately I don't have time to sit down and pound out some really thoughtful, or hilarious post. Sorry. So today you're getting the random unconnected thoughts that are floating up in my brain.

1. Why can't we have it all?

I mean you can live in, as my dad would say, the greatest nation that ever existed, or you can have lovely coins jingling in your purse. But you can't have both. Husband spent three weeks in Mexico last year, and when he came back we were oohing and aahing over the exquisiteness of the coinage he brought back.

I just removed a load of laundry in the washer to find that Youngest Son had filled his pockets with some of those coins. It's been a year and a half and he's still in awe, stuffing them in his pockets so he can pull them out at any odd moment. Do you think there are any kids in Mexico oogling over our quarters?

Doubtful.

And yet, I would never want to live in Mexico.

2. Proof that the Book of Mormon is true.

As many of you know, I met my husband when he was serving a two year mission in Virginia. (And if you don't know that story you can find it here. I know. Shameless plug. *shrugs*) At the time I was a cashier for Deseret Book's outlet store. Which meant I got good deals on things that were seconds, or they had too much of. Anyway. At some point in this courtship pen-pallery (yes, I just made that up) I sent him a journal with his name on it.

And guess what?

It is completely untouched. To this very day. Completely void of any words. That was over thirteen years ago.

Back to the truthfulness of the B o M.

How in the world Heavenly Father got all those men to record, on metal plates no less, the important happenings of their day, I have no idea. Men hate to write. Shoot--they hate to talk. Anytime I tell Husband we need to talk he shrivels up in the corner and starts shaking like a leaf. I think he'd rather change a poopy diaper than actually talk. So putting words on a paper, words that they have to write...

Like I said.  Miracle. No other explanation.

3. At the Storymakers conference some big, swanky New York agent told us we should not only have a blog but we should also have an author page attached to our blog. So guess what I'll be doing very soon?

You got it.

Calling Tres to make me an author page.

HAHAHA. Just kidding. He'll only sit by my side and talk me through every single step. But, and here's the fun part, I will have a link to some things that I've written. I found out, also at Storymakers, from another author who, in an effort to protect the innocent, will not be named, that my Like Rachel short story is NOT EVER going to be published. I won't get into how I feel about all of that, because it wouldn't do any good. But. I love that story so much, and I have to thank LDS Publisher anyway because I truly enjoyed writing it. And because of that experience I am going to write other similar short stories from the scriptures, written from a teenage girls point of view. I'm hoping that when I'm done, you will all direct your Young Women toward this so they can be uplifted and edified. Because that's what I do.

I am the uplifter.

But I am also a writer. Which means I gotta go write real words that will be printed in a real book some day.

Adios, amigos!

Thoughts on Storymakers '11

Last year I walked away stumped, wondering why I'd paid so money to attend. It was so mediocre that I wasn't planning on attending this go round. But being the daughter of a former VA State PTA Vice President, I sent in my comments. I'm a change the world kind of girl. It's just in my blood.

Lo and behold, when I saw the class list for this year's conference I noticed someone took note of my suggestions. There were actual 'advanced' classes. It wasn't all for beginners. 

Most of you have been rolling your eyes at me from all across the country . It's okay. You can admit it. I know you have. And I deserve it. I've sunk down into the depths of 'clueless writer syndrome.' See, when I wrote Putting Up Stars, it just kinda flowed out of me. And I'm not just saying that. Even with both of my rejections on this book, the comment was made that it was such a well written story and that I was a talented writer, and yadda, yadda, yadda. The book just wasn't right for them. 

So then, you're asking, 'what the heck has happened to you?' 

That is a very good question. Up until last weekend, I'm not sure I could have given you an answer.  I was...well...clueless. I would sit down in front of the computer, start a story and wait for the muse to kick in. And then when it didn't, I'd scrap the story and start over again. I have about fifty beginnings taking up memory space on three different computers, and no finished novel to show for all my hours of writing this year. 

I told myself about month or so ago, to chill. I was trying too hard and that if I relaxed and went to Storymakers it would magically solve all my problems. 

And guess what?

I was right! I'm all better now. Cured. Unblocked. It's all good. 

But it's not really magic. It's logic. I just needed more knowledge on how to craft a story. 

First up was Clint Johnson's class on Conflict and Mechanism. I was bummed when I realized I'd signed up for this. I mean, please! Look at the title. Of course, boring title=boring class. Right? RIGHT? But M.H., swore up it would be worth it. He was her boot camp instructor last year and she said he was amazing. I still doubted. 

Can I admit something here? 

M.H. and I promised each other that this year we were going to walk out of bad classes. We didn't do it last time, and ended up sitting through some horrible classes simply not to offend the presenter. And we left the conference disappointed. That was not happening this year. 

So, like I said, my behind was placed lightly in the seat, feet turned toward the aisle, ready to run out of this class.  Well, let me tell you the first thing I learned. 

The more boring the title, the better that class will be.  

This class was DA BOMB! If every single other class at the conference had sucked rotten eggs, this one class alone would have been worth the price because it fixed me. I came out clicking my heels and dancing down the hall. 

He taught us that happiness is a writer's enemy. The minute your story is happy, it's over. Conflict drives a story and once you've fixed it all, you're done. You have to have conflict in every chapter, so that the reader keeps turning and turning and turning. And before they know it, it's 2 in the morning and their spouse is tearing the book out of their hands. 

I knew my last story was good. But I didn't totally understand why, and now I do. It's all about the conflict. 

Other things I learned. I have an issue. If someone writes fantasy I worry that we won't click. Which is ridiculous since M.H. writes fantasy and we totally get each other. So I was worried that even though I felt like I should attend Lisa Mangum's class on what makes a good first page, that I wouldn't really connect with her.

Wrong!

That's what I get for judging a book by it's cover. A cover with a big fat hourglass on the front of it.

Again, I was on the aisle, ready to bolt. 

And then she started. There was a power point, and Snoopy cartoons, and jokes and examples to support each point. She was charming, and engaging, and confident, and witty, and funny and smart. And no, I'm not sucking up. She was truly awesome. Her class was organized and cram packed. Something, for which, I am truly thankful. 

Oh, and she's a fan of prologues. My story has a prologue, which makes me a fan of hers. 

The end. On that. 

Not every class was stellar though. I feel I would be giving a lopsided review if I didn't name a few things I was less than impressed with.

If I come to a writer's conference you can guarantee that I had to sacrifice to get there. I had to give up time with my family, money for leisure or clothes or bills, and my husband's vacation time because he has to take time off work to watch the kids. So you had better make sure if I choose to come to your class that you don't waste my time. Please be on time to teach your class, and please be organized. I found myself almost walking out of someone's class because they wasted 1/4 of the class trying to figure out where we were and what she wanted to talk about next. It was like she was making it up as she went.

Next gripe. 

Also, most people who attend a writer's conference already know the very basics on writing. Maybe this is just my opinion but I truly believe that. So if I go to a class that is labeled 'basic' I still feel like I should get more than fifth grade info out of it. But maybe that's just me. 

Things I realized that stretched over both conferences: If you're an author and you are really nice to me, I will tell people for the rest of my life how awesome you are. I will buy your book even though it's really not my favorite genre, and my friends will do that same. If you're an author and you don't have the time for me or you act like you have way better things to do then answer me when I ask a question, I won't buy your book even though it is my genre, and I won't go to your class because I think you're a jerk, no matter how engaging people say you are. Last year, M.H. went to a class and the author was fifteen minutes late and then told everyone one to basically get over it, it's just the way she rolled. Guess who won't be buying or promoting her work. Ever again. And no, it's not M.H.

I'm tucking all this info into the back of my mind for when I'm big and famous. 'Be nice to the little guys. You were once a little guy too.'

I'm mixed on the first chapter contest. One of my friend's did amazing and won the Special Recognition award (and a kindle nook. Oh, la la). I am so happy for her. It was well deserved. But my other friend had the most mixed review. It's exactly what happened to me last year.  What good does it do when the reviewers totally contradict themselves? How is that helpful? I wish there was a better way.

Things that didn't matter: It didn't matter if there was a power point or not. Clint Johnson had no media/techonolgy. Lisa Mangum did. Both classes were fantastic. What matters is that you try to teach in a way that you are enlightening everyone in the room. Try to hand us material and knowledge we couldn't have gotten elsewhere. And pack every minute full of as much info possible. Don't just try to get through it. Enjoy it, and we will enjoy it in return. If I took at least one thing out of your class that I didn't already know, or hadn't thought about then I considered it a success. And almost all the classes I attended fit into this catergory. 

So here's the thing I learned. Last years Storymakers was probably a lot better than I gave it credit for, I think I just choose the wrong classes. I went for the lectures with snappy, catchy titles, and for the most part they were all wrong for me. Maybe they were right for someone else, just not for me.

Next year I'll be sure to pick the ones that sound like they might confuse me, because no doubt, I'll come out of those classes learning the most.

I'm signing off now, because goll-darn it, I have a book to write!

One monster down.

O.S. was just asking me last week about why those nut jobs ran their planes into the Twin Towers.

He was only one and half when it happened, but he's heard us talk about it many times. It came up because someone at school mentioned the plane that crashed in Pennsylvania. So I told him all about the Americans on the plane who would always be heros to me.

And then he asked who the person was that was in charge of the whole terrorist scheme to run the planes into all the buildings. I told him, Osama Bin Laden. And I told him that's why our country was at war right now--to get that sucker and to try to eradicate terrorism.

And then he asked me where Bin Laden was? And I was sad to tell him that I had no idea, and that we'd been looking for him for a long time. And that I didn't know if we would ever catch him, because I truly believe he is best friend's with the Devil.

On a nightly basis my boys call out from their dark bedrooms that they are scared. Y.S. swears a monster is going to get him. I am fully aware that when I tell him there are no such things as monsters that I am lying. Monsters definitely exist. Just not in the way he thinks.

So I just got on our family forum a few minutes ago, and Dos (who remember works for the CIA) confirmed that Bin Laden is dead. That Obama sent in six Seals to do the job, instead of bombing the building. He risked those mens lives to make sure there was no doubt that we got him. Then they took his body back to a boat, ran DNA testing, took some photos and buried him at sea. There will be no shrine made of this lunatic's grave.

I am feeling many things right now: patriotic, spiteful, humbled. But mostly, grateful.

Thank you to all those who fight for our freedom, risking their lives. And thank you to all the those behind the scenes who never get to tell anyone they were a part of it. And thank you to a president for finally giving me a reason to be proud of you.

Today when I pick my boy up from school, I can tell him that the world is a whole lot safer today.

And maybe when my boys cry out for me tonight, and I soothe them by telling my lie, I will feel a little less guilty.