tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77515210316231586472024-02-19T23:48:45.624-08:00Stephanie BomanStephanie Boman YA writerStephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-24259888873911352852011-09-17T11:35:00.000-07:002011-09-17T22:28:25.804-07:00rant<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttiDYIf_cRgS-FJ_PWminSAz5kW_XPy3tbLGBf-1Lher76pnwxxs7ZWQWFOsSxeGRjqbr8R88b3eZVuDr9Jep5wenY2W25rHJuJAsIssf-ew5_G7bBBX9xOX3ftSHGXhxPI4oGqp5RcJf/s1600/il_fullxfull.234724506.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjttiDYIf_cRgS-FJ_PWminSAz5kW_XPy3tbLGBf-1Lher76pnwxxs7ZWQWFOsSxeGRjqbr8R88b3eZVuDr9Jep5wenY2W25rHJuJAsIssf-ew5_G7bBBX9xOX3ftSHGXhxPI4oGqp5RcJf/s400/il_fullxfull.234724506.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653406223146026066" border="0" /></a>Recently I've been reading a lot of pretty good books. And then I get to the ending, which is, more often than not now, left open for an obvious sequel.<br /><br />I HATE this!<br /><br />Plot lines aren't finished. Relationships unresolved. Strings untied.<br /><br />It is such a let down to read these kind of books that have good stuff going for them (but not enough to warrant a sequel) and not be able to have completion. I'm never so bowled over that I would plan to read another book in the series, so I am left unsatisfied and a book that was good is now, meh.<br /><br />Why can't stories be told in one book anymore?<br /><br />When I look for books to download in the library catalog all I find are "book 3 in the blah blah series" "part of the such-and-such trilogy". Literally, over 75% of the books listed are part of a series.<br /><br />I don't have anything against series (hello, Harry Potter), but I feel like so many stories stretched out into series should really only be one book. What I really hate is reading a book that doesn't say it's "book 1" of some series only to find in the end that things have been left hanging for the possibility of another book. This has happened to me SO often lately.<br /><br />The obvious reason why this is happening is money. There have been several successful series, trilogies, etc., and every publisher wants to cash in. Personally, the obvious money grubbing makes me sick and turns me off from reading certain YA genres (angels, vampires, weres, dystopian, etc.) where this seems to be prominant. I'd rather read the literary middle grade books that leave you feeling good and satiated at the end.<br /><br />I have not been hovering over writer sites lately, so maybe this has already been discussed to death, but I had to vent.<br /><br />What's your experience/feelings on this?Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-13154793264480197442011-05-15T22:36:00.001-07:002011-05-15T22:38:16.784-07:00so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye!If my tweenager goes through any more milestones on the road to becoming a woman in the next few months, I'm going to keel over. I swear it didn't all happen at once like this with Darling Daughter. But as soon as I let Tweeny (I can't call her Wee One anymore, for sure!) sit in the front seat, it went bam bam bam bam! A whiplash launch into womanhood.<br /><br />There have been so many changes since she started seventh grade. I have to say, she's been handling the welcome-to-a-woman's-world thing pretty well; taking the bewildering, awkward rites of passage in stride. Having a sister who's seven years older to emulate certainly hasn't hurt. And thank heavens DD is there to fill in the gaps Mom misses.<br /><br />And while she's left it behind with hardly a second thought, it's hard for me to say goodbye to her childhood. All moms feel this, I know, dreading the day when the baby dolls are moved out to make room for the trappings of a teenager. I didn't notice it so much last time because the picture books and Easy-Bake Oven were just transferred from Darling Daughter to her little sister, but now the next stop for the toys will be Goodwill. No more Polly Pockets. No more dress up (at least not the kind that involves fairy wings and tutus), no more tea parties, and no more Happy Meal trinkets . . . on second thought, I won't miss those so much.<br /><br />I guess it's best to look forward to the experiences ahead rather than mourn the ones gone by. But don't blame me if I keep a Barbie or two.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaInQn4gLhsSsliGY7ugilxfNmC1Gqzg9iXnkO4J0Rb-jpW9dJJe6PS-p3STR5UtWPEXd67WLGsSinC2RKuKVKiZjPoxQokXSNCWVrdKgZ1Gh5wQ9LrN3nDtGDmuuEQ6c4IW608xAReCM/s1600/DSCF9993.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 364px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaInQn4gLhsSsliGY7ugilxfNmC1Gqzg9iXnkO4J0Rb-jpW9dJJe6PS-p3STR5UtWPEXd67WLGsSinC2RKuKVKiZjPoxQokXSNCWVrdKgZ1Gh5wQ9LrN3nDtGDmuuEQ6c4IW608xAReCM/s400/DSCF9993.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607171659945569938" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-53278171047631617642011-03-19T12:53:00.000-07:002011-03-19T12:55:13.602-07:00that old sew and sew<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGWqbl6NvIFCSjcgkTOek5-V6zbT7ucwHc5rPaDSo2kI-VyhjGNQOUiCxtk54DmdVtMJ_hbMITxeZsAaGX5hyphenhyphenyHtUPmsKVLxeR3HlgmMVly_4N7kVgNjcl48yjX2k6zlHYZhSC0yWeVGt/s1600/ad+buy+American.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoGWqbl6NvIFCSjcgkTOek5-V6zbT7ucwHc5rPaDSo2kI-VyhjGNQOUiCxtk54DmdVtMJ_hbMITxeZsAaGX5hyphenhyphenyHtUPmsKVLxeR3HlgmMVly_4N7kVgNjcl48yjX2k6zlHYZhSC0yWeVGt/s400/ad+buy+American.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585881975580430306" border="0" /></a>How do I love this vintage ad? Let me count the ways. I love the wife's pin curls and her apron, I love the little girl's romper and how she's clutching her baby doll, I love the traditional lunch box, and how dapper dad is. Most of all, I like how simple the message is: buy a car and give someone work. How refreshingly straight forward.<br /><br />And in the vein of aprons and simplicity, here's a vintage pattern I bought off etsy. Yes, I am teaching myself how to sew.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgkMWxkxHWaqKNPVj1JpgaVrbToJ1YEiO0KzgkNR6zZF7j0iGnpjxciZ6nwLAVJeP3JN6m53ZLv5U_8kb0tb_b2WxSNhRWeEVRwM7nubtFX1Gsy0HdgRnKTosaosQpR_YV0_KLRPPR6w/s1600/il_570xN.221134128.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 147px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgkMWxkxHWaqKNPVj1JpgaVrbToJ1YEiO0KzgkNR6zZF7j0iGnpjxciZ6nwLAVJeP3JN6m53ZLv5U_8kb0tb_b2WxSNhRWeEVRwM7nubtFX1Gsy0HdgRnKTosaosQpR_YV0_KLRPPR6w/s200/il_570xN.221134128.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585880947319507282" border="0" /></a>My mother used to sew for me when I was young - she used an old singer treadle machine. She made me my sixth grade graduation dance dress - a jumper with small polka dots and a lacy white shirt - that I wore excitedly, only to be crushed when no one asked me to dance. But no one was asking others to dance. We were in sixth grade, for cryin' out loud - why were we even having dances? But I digress.<br /><br />I picked up a little sewing - I knew how to thread a machine and make a hem - but I never did much with it.<br /><br />For some reason I recently had a desire to start sewing. Maybe it was looking at vintage dresses and wishing for that style of clothes for myself. So I bought a child's sundress pattern and made something wearable with it. I'm learning lots: like what bias tape is for, and that the pattern piece for half of the front is meant to be used with fabric doubled over to make a whole, that machines nowadays can do hundreds of stitches with a touch of a button, and can even thread themselves.<br /><br />I guess what this is all about is learning something new. I'm nigh on forty and only recently realizing my potential. I figure if I can plan and take a trip to England with my daughter on my own, write a publishable book, start a small business, and most surprisingly, <span style="font-style: italic;">start running</span>, then there is no limit to what I can do. Why not make my own clothes?<br /><br />How about you? Have any of you stepped out of your comfort zone lately? Tried something new?Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-89891310238864936032011-03-18T09:32:00.000-07:002011-03-18T10:01:24.515-07:00Jane says"Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRH8RHCSE7LXDWzPFx1coLPrusOnD-r7DPe-GuEd2SbxbWteMRKw0Py8i1uwW2ywXbExdG30mw7gLJQkEUEoUVWvC2vM-BMaYDZMb1mBOTk2N24AtpN4vKRKBkbri2EdSom6q1GePdnuT/s1600/IMG_7802.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRH8RHCSE7LXDWzPFx1coLPrusOnD-r7DPe-GuEd2SbxbWteMRKw0Py8i1uwW2ywXbExdG30mw7gLJQkEUEoUVWvC2vM-BMaYDZMb1mBOTk2N24AtpN4vKRKBkbri2EdSom6q1GePdnuT/s320/IMG_7802.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585460797373358594" border="0" /></a><br />The quote from Emma is too true. How often do we lay our souls completely bare? Even in writing, I've known myself to hold back what would be true to a situation or a character. In blogging, even more so. It is too easy to portray yourself the way you want to be perceived. And for that reason I am resolving to show all of who I am.<br /><br />This is why I like Jane Austen's writing so much - it is honest; brutally and hilariously honest. She calls everything as she sees it, and writes about it in such a superb satirical style.<br /><br />I'll leave you with another pearl of wisdom from Jane:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKQ2QX16LjBfiSfwqkx9R50841j7U1y-8wiYNO2xWYm2EgWjd9dRku8uqydm19iEixMWaeMH8JQOGhu81_0a62tn17Dnf3JZCIrBBVPWCNK7Z0jfEGCcA2-NPzUXje-7PraW6hyKGqwcD/s1600/IMG_8115.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKKQ2QX16LjBfiSfwqkx9R50841j7U1y-8wiYNO2xWYm2EgWjd9dRku8uqydm19iEixMWaeMH8JQOGhu81_0a62tn17Dnf3JZCIrBBVPWCNK7Z0jfEGCcA2-NPzUXje-7PraW6hyKGqwcD/s320/IMG_8115.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585459357313075954" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="body">"What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken!</span>"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesYRRQXG9Mw_1nvIYJjhZ6OydEoEMSTDEug8SYdnsbfXeYr8yc1hxLY603gkg_tDy90pWm9AD-gsG_qXa7r5NOEaR6i-9Y8cJ24W1F5B6Roauj5inDKHhe2FKu8xIbm3gDFPjrfmOUxXD/s1600/IMG_8116.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhesYRRQXG9Mw_1nvIYJjhZ6OydEoEMSTDEug8SYdnsbfXeYr8yc1hxLY603gkg_tDy90pWm9AD-gsG_qXa7r5NOEaR6i-9Y8cJ24W1F5B6Roauj5inDKHhe2FKu8xIbm3gDFPjrfmOUxXD/s320/IMG_8116.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585458960656263106" border="0" /></a><br />Here's to honesty, clarity, and a disposal of rose-tinted glasses. Have a great weekend, all!Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-76456087134298734312011-03-14T08:28:00.000-07:002011-03-14T09:01:28.001-07:00identity crisis<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSICpV42MtbxfhoITsimustC1N7V7IlwYw0sGCqKfy41gR03JUp-V44O-PdOrR5rPgYN25zBomCeWh_Q9AIPL9KSyz32PVT33KfLzPBlSBD5vNMJ-ZUv6p11-lO_KtjjLovqTR56ves0LJ/s1600/hats.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 351px; height: 264px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSICpV42MtbxfhoITsimustC1N7V7IlwYw0sGCqKfy41gR03JUp-V44O-PdOrR5rPgYN25zBomCeWh_Q9AIPL9KSyz32PVT33KfLzPBlSBD5vNMJ-ZUv6p11-lO_KtjjLovqTR56ves0LJ/s400/hats.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583964777912696610" border="0" /></a>I continually struggle with who I am. Not in a mental way (thank heavens!), but in a how-I-portray-myself-to-the-world-way.<br /><br />I recently dipped into twitterland again and I noticed that many of the people I follow have something in common. Their little bios invariably start with "I am a writer . . . ".<br /><br />When I start an introduction with that phrase I frequently stop and think, "but that's not the only way I identify myself!" When I think of "me" I don't automatically think of writer. Writing is something I do, not who I am.<br /><br />Is that wrong? Does that mean I'm less of a writer for not automatically identifying myself that way? Am I not as committed to being an authoress?<br /><br />I know that I am in this publishing thing for the long haul, and that I have more writing in me beyond this book. So I don't think it's a question of commitment to the art of the written word.<br /><br />I have many "titles" that I wear proudly: mom, artist, wife, writer, business owner. I have different blogs and websites for several of those roles. Why can't I merge them as one, figuratively <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> literally?<br /><br />I think part of the reason is that the audiences to my various endeavors are not all the same, and what one group is interested in, another won't be. Not everyone has as many schizophrenic interests as I do. Perhaps if I was charismatic enough I could make all sides of me interesting to everyone. But until that happens . . .<br /><br />How about you? I think the followers of this blog are without exception all "writers". I'd like to hear about how you identify yourself in everyday life. If "writer" comes to mind first I'd like to hear about that, too. Did it happen gradually? Is it automatic? Do you consistently introduce yourself that way?Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-28260470357543122792011-02-18T19:27:00.000-08:002011-02-18T19:51:16.585-08:00buh-ERRR!!!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBWBFJ5hah7n0bNtIpow3NmshQ1gpu9XuVS9HbXtrD6dfL5_cagNkQ0FMEyi70CMzYpO81hzN5at_QRWMHBarkfDCOmwPZUkwtnvY9NVUJAAdKOF4tv7NJ_3UCfPI1TbPsu3huUp11ero/s1600/12c16.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 340px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheBWBFJ5hah7n0bNtIpow3NmshQ1gpu9XuVS9HbXtrD6dfL5_cagNkQ0FMEyi70CMzYpO81hzN5at_QRWMHBarkfDCOmwPZUkwtnvY9NVUJAAdKOF4tv7NJ_3UCfPI1TbPsu3huUp11ero/s400/12c16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575242493596080098" border="0" /></a>It's raining and pouring in Sacramento. that means snow in the mountains. So husband decides we need to go to the cabin. However, he did not make the idea sound attractive. The reasons:<br /><br />1. We'd be driving in the dark and even if the roads are plowed there's always ice . . .<br /><br />2. The electricity had been out (could be on by the time we got there, but who knows, could be out the whole weekend).<br /><br />3. The cabin is always freakin cold when we first arrive, so we'd have to build the raging-est fire ever to make up for the baseboard heaters not helping to warm the place up.<br /><br />4. The clencher: the cleaning lady's mom is sick and she hasn't been able to clean since the last renters.<br /><br />So let's review: my husband wants us to risk life and limb to drive on icy roads to get to a house that could have no electricity. We would have to clean as soon as we got there - in the dark, when we're tired and cold. Building a fire takes time so there wouldn't be immediate relief from the cold. And until there was electricity we would have to spend the weekend within a few feet of the wood stove for light and heat.<br /><br />Sounds great.<br /><br />Oh, and this is counting on the snow plow guy having got to our driveway. If he didn't, we'd be shoveling snow before trying to warm and clean the house. In the dark. At ten at night.<br /><br />Why does this not sound appealing to me? Men!Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-74860047334551577482011-02-01T08:41:00.000-08:002011-02-12T13:16:07.816-08:00to my writer friends . . .<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFplQRflZn3fJQvSB-DsmDhgRPuih7KJM9Dds4S0O6jZkOhYNCHYAvBdXXHuCvmuR-pIQxmgHe8qCwl9RhbYkgasGccmDo1EZKXuRUIEPtlsXqlfPFCD2hrKNmTY3xZbPS2CFG2EsxSVC/s1600/thinkingman_rodin.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcFplQRflZn3fJQvSB-DsmDhgRPuih7KJM9Dds4S0O6jZkOhYNCHYAvBdXXHuCvmuR-pIQxmgHe8qCwl9RhbYkgasGccmDo1EZKXuRUIEPtlsXqlfPFCD2hrKNmTY3xZbPS2CFG2EsxSVC/s200/thinkingman_rodin.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5568768731538770770" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">Do you think Michealangelo ever looked at the Sistine Chapel and in retrospect thought, "I should have put that finger over there a little more"?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Do you think Mozart ever listened to one of his concertos and said, "man, I wish I'd made that a b flat at the start of the second movement"?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">How about Rodin, did he ever look at one of his bronze pieces and think "that calf muscle could look more realistic"?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Do you think Michael Jackson ever watched a video of Thriller and said, "that really should have been step, step, thrust instead of step, step, kick"?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Seriously, are there any artists worse than writers in knowing when they're work is "done", that worry whether there isn't something more to change or make better?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">How do </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">you</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> know when you're done?</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-91340141054442800282011-01-25T14:04:00.000-08:002011-01-27T12:39:56.953-08:00tofu time<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://ny-image3.etsy.com/il_fullxfull.164334139.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 235px; height: 176px;" src="http://ny-image3.etsy.com/il_fullxfull.164334139.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Sorry if you've come across my blog while it's being revamped. The construction work is pretty much done and hopefully my new, clean, streamlined layout will give me the clarity of mind I'm always wishing I had. Well, it's a start . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So the fam (down to husband, me and Wee One at home) is talking big about going vegetarian. Mostly it's husband and Wee One doing the talking. We don't eat much meat in the first place and many of our meals are already vegetarian. But I find it funny when they say they'll start, "as soon as this Canadian bacon's gone" or "when I'm done with the package of beef jerky" or some such thing. I don't know if they have it in them when faced with temptation.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was vegetarian for a couple of years in my late teens. Then I met my husband and even as in love as he was, pastaroni and canned pears weren't going to cut it (I was yet to discover my inner gourmet). Needless to say it's difficult to cook meals that would satisfy both.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But the talk has been going on for some time now and Wee One really wants to do it. Even if it means giving up her shrimp-flavored cup-o-noodles (sometimes the inner gourmet takes a break). Lettuce see what happens : )</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">P.S. Pop over to my friend Megan's relaunching of her fun and informative blog </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://www.orangepeanut.com/">Orange Peanut</a><span style="font-family:arial;">. You might just see someone you know . . .</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-17014590772005427902011-01-18T13:38:00.000-08:002011-01-25T10:59:14.787-08:00dancing queen, young and sweet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTJF9wPzNRdofolxSsbJfpkYxanTCnQNdnxgUIoOLZBavsZbitu5nGueBt6hheEVeAGqdSfXzfedDXdJMB_Bcs2_OdvDxRLD7SoT4hfo5DkCmypjw7rt0Mzz9r5mB8L7rz_N4ah6nkKtK/s1600/IMG_6411.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilTJF9wPzNRdofolxSsbJfpkYxanTCnQNdnxgUIoOLZBavsZbitu5nGueBt6hheEVeAGqdSfXzfedDXdJMB_Bcs2_OdvDxRLD7SoT4hfo5DkCmypjw7rt0Mzz9r5mB8L7rz_N4ah6nkKtK/s320/IMG_6411.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563654043197592882" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">I wouldn't say my daughter is taking ballet lessons so much as joining a culture. I had no idea that was going to happen when we signed her up at age six, all the way back when it was still okay to wear unds under your baby-blue leotard. No, the assimilation slowly crept up on me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Beyond increasingly bigger parts in performances, taking more classes, going en point and being asked to join the company, there is a lifestyle that sucks the dancer into the ballet culture. It's one of buns and hair pins, toe shoes and leotards, sweat and sore feet, and car rides . . . lots and lots of car rides. I think Wee One loves life at the studio off the floor as much as on. I see her giggle with her friends, fix the newest bow in her hair and survey what the others have brought for snack. They appraise new skirts or tops and share tips on wearing hair nets, all while in the splits, bonding as only ballerinas can.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As the years go by, everything increases: the costs, the time commitment, the responsibility ("did you wash my tights?"). I know we're no different than other families who get wrapped up in soccer or swimming or the such. If I had to choose, I'd rather watch Wee One twirl in the family room while humming the Dance of the Sugarplum than have shin guards laying around the house or endure the constant smell of chlorine. For an obsession, at least it's a lovely one.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-22092039960344482762011-01-12T12:43:00.000-08:002011-01-25T11:11:24.108-08:00The Almighty carries his own groceries<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmS_eaKraJLyOT296kllocZU_E6nI2f6CZUN7kDPxUfSeVjzjUfgUlogWoyX9PTbhJvDbWenP0ABeTa6xdqvwFHoBbP7oCUc5LyocbZv2cyiZG0RoplgvmyfQwCmYTObbF92Uix7SsN2DS/s1600/groceries4.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 10pt 10px 10px 10pt; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 177px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmS_eaKraJLyOT296kllocZU_E6nI2f6CZUN7kDPxUfSeVjzjUfgUlogWoyX9PTbhJvDbWenP0ABeTa6xdqvwFHoBbP7oCUc5LyocbZv2cyiZG0RoplgvmyfQwCmYTObbF92Uix7SsN2DS/s320/groceries4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561406669656576578" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">At the grocery store yesterday the bagger asked if I needed help out to my car. I meant to say, "No, I'm good." Instead, what came out was,</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"No, I'm God."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And of course, if God can create heaven and earth, he can handle pushing a cart into the parking lot. But thanks for asking.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-48969385738583565752011-01-10T08:24:00.000-08:002011-01-25T11:11:54.376-08:00Pursenickety<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qOOSEtC-bXiyUv6AizMst57jAnYqvJeaYLMAp4BLwh6Z3a9NA6Kt-4_DX3q7JK_K5yVuEq_3EsPERS5s_SjA3R111KIUE6mhsv040CbOd0FmGxYbivJ-BkBicxD40YLxbG6cUvYGysZh/s1600/IMG_1698.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 10pt 10pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 207px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1qOOSEtC-bXiyUv6AizMst57jAnYqvJeaYLMAp4BLwh6Z3a9NA6Kt-4_DX3q7JK_K5yVuEq_3EsPERS5s_SjA3R111KIUE6mhsv040CbOd0FmGxYbivJ-BkBicxD40YLxbG6cUvYGysZh/s320/IMG_1698.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560606833799259442" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">In the past week I've bought two new purses and a wallet. Yes, purses are my weakness, as shoes are my husband's. And when Darling Daughter reads this I know I'm going to hear about it. Let me just say now, they were all good deals.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I search endlessly for the bag that will have the right number and size of zippered sections for all my stuff; be not too deep, not too shallow, not too floppy, not too rigid, lightweight and comfortable, with pockets that allow for easy access of phone and chapstick . . . and be cute to boot.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">My obsession with the perfect handbag goes beyond fashion, though. Don't mistake me, I love admiring the shapes, materials and adornments of new clutches and hobo bags. But beyond that, I've always had this sense that finding the perfect purse will somehow make everything in my life fall into place. I guess it has something to do with my quest to be organized. I periodically start new systems, buy new gadgets, in an attempt to manage my time and keep life running smoothly.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />As a writer, and a muddled person in general, I have frequent brain lapses. I am always preoccupied; more so as the years go on. It's to the point where I don't even listen to the radio in the car anymore - I just have too much whizzing around in my brain.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">I once dropped my daughter off at a friend's house all day, only to learn it was a different Rebekah who had called and invited her over. There were lots of reasons I should have caught that, the mom looking totally baffled as I breezily thanked her for having Wee One over being one of them. That's when I seriously began worrying that I wasn't allowing enough brain space to think clearly.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />And what helps me think clearly? Organization. Clearing out the clutter and unnecessary distractions. Hence a need for notebooks, calendars, PDAs and sticky notes always within reach.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;">And something to keep them all in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So there's a little thrill I get when I transfer stuff from my old purse to my new one, compartmentalizing every little thing, noting how perfect this or that aspect of my new handbag is, ignoring the things that aren't. With every spot I slip my sunglasses or keys in, every card I slide into place in my new wallet, I gain a sense of control of my destiny, ready to take on the world with my new animal print bag, enjoying the confidence I suddenly have in my ability to conquer all that comes my way . . . and life is good - until all that comes my way begins collecting in the depths of my prized purse, tumbling around with mints, pens and old receipts, and the search begins again.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-23922588514612103162011-01-01T20:05:00.000-08:002011-09-17T12:07:33.272-07:00Jane again<span style="font-family:arial;">In the past couple of months I have read this:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKAaBWXzueUk03RfRLefFuwDbRHdkgpbGiNpZZLCRjyc4K4XwtMID-v3SD_HDW4kOU56kAEYmacEeN4B_J5UHYkXlrcQooG2zS6lHyZOrWbNi4jzRp43dlL-fKj-p1ndTWlWd8IIx6CMj/s1600/Emma.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 201px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidKAaBWXzueUk03RfRLefFuwDbRHdkgpbGiNpZZLCRjyc4K4XwtMID-v3SD_HDW4kOU56kAEYmacEeN4B_J5UHYkXlrcQooG2zS6lHyZOrWbNi4jzRp43dlL-fKj-p1ndTWlWd8IIx6CMj/s320/Emma.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565599151744308370" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and this (different annotations):</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UsRmTYX6TV6_d5s2K85Gt02eVUqKBYdfO9WiensdhS-2nrg4Yzl6q-5bjOUZ8WolVyWA1py6rkmCz6gIxbo8bCxTfFGYolu-7LATPgUZFlaRr32XhbuVf2FR3SOqxDrRibKYxa2_lB0c/s1600/824371.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7UsRmTYX6TV6_d5s2K85Gt02eVUqKBYdfO9WiensdhS-2nrg4Yzl6q-5bjOUZ8WolVyWA1py6rkmCz6gIxbo8bCxTfFGYolu-7LATPgUZFlaRr32XhbuVf2FR3SOqxDrRibKYxa2_lB0c/s320/824371.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565599085193237794" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and saw this in San Diego on opening night:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7mWofgA_1fFZVVUf4wcxDoujmTd_uLtb7U1gwZfhL9cRXuHxZKtypuNq5WHZh1f9MRUCfdChEgX5Z_N1Twno1UTFEyQMlGvyVOT9-iswq2T1K7IIzRA8pL4AVGqkoHcdfceh9HZS1umm/s1600/Emma_Program.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG7mWofgA_1fFZVVUf4wcxDoujmTd_uLtb7U1gwZfhL9cRXuHxZKtypuNq5WHZh1f9MRUCfdChEgX5Z_N1Twno1UTFEyQMlGvyVOT9-iswq2T1K7IIzRA8pL4AVGqkoHcdfceh9HZS1umm/s320/Emma_Program.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565599006380277554" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">watched this twice:</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2NMeRIYDo1UZuxpk8vQnx1-IYx8ERQIbESnRHZ_FR6P6grdAdp3CpVwbMumVgyndN_zsIUnAe-w8n6QE_91BYSVaWvi3uLUBrEkWWiRXywUiHGn2oEgSETydbMPcw-FFWeNVd4J3-2BD/s1600/jane-austen-emma-1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 311px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2NMeRIYDo1UZuxpk8vQnx1-IYx8ERQIbESnRHZ_FR6P6grdAdp3CpVwbMumVgyndN_zsIUnAe-w8n6QE_91BYSVaWvi3uLUBrEkWWiRXywUiHGn2oEgSETydbMPcw-FFWeNVd4J3-2BD/s320/jane-austen-emma-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565598837102229746" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">and I've lost count how many times I've watched this:</span><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGnUtiEL4LiDqgT4xVPtNJD9QpM8n1s7mBBkasRCmc-50xZw_9xtGC301TsWLZ_drjNKPGU50UxywU20KyaAyc4ZdGQPbFINpSUQo0Qgh1J9AAXY_N92c9ogu6ezM1bDuURZ6jWUydNO3/s1600/03_16_36MB.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGnUtiEL4LiDqgT4xVPtNJD9QpM8n1s7mBBkasRCmc-50xZw_9xtGC301TsWLZ_drjNKPGU50UxywU20KyaAyc4ZdGQPbFINpSUQo0Qgh1J9AAXY_N92c9ogu6ezM1bDuURZ6jWUydNO3/s320/03_16_36MB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565598912281712434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Next up - Mansfield Park.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-18221952456424351872010-12-17T07:55:00.000-08:002010-12-20T16:12:05.073-08:00Introducing Rose Cooper<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdn-6seAdu7bg30y6is3wwBy3B6uOu8LC39khmv8PraRETNuED6oCKb7r5UgML4JjnoL6nzWmHplkLs5QlYv7lf0643NbEUPsSJmQ6e_23QKFtLreufSydJN7o3AgBJmKz2_jTvlf0BKe7/s1600/sofiaclick.PNG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 179px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdn-6seAdu7bg30y6is3wwBy3B6uOu8LC39khmv8PraRETNuED6oCKb7r5UgML4JjnoL6nzWmHplkLs5QlYv7lf0643NbEUPsSJmQ6e_23QKFtLreufSydJN7o3AgBJmKz2_jTvlf0BKe7/s320/sofiaclick.PNG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5551690303718319730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Today I want to tell you about a wonderful writer, a few months new to me and in a few short more weeks, new to publishingdom.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I met </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://rose-cooper.com/">Rose Cooper</a><span style="font-family:arial;"> in the most bizarre way. Two clean cut nineteen-year-old boys made the connection for us. When I was told she was a writer, I was like, right, aren't most people? But then I stalked her online and found out that not only was she represented by the most successful YA/MG agent in the business, but that her debut book was ready to be pre-ordered on Amazon. She was a bona-fide writer traveling the same path as me, albeit several steps ahead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Rose Cooper lives two miles from me and being able to connect with another flesh and blood YA/MG writer has been an amazing experience. Not only have I had the joy of writerly commiseration, I've gotten a sneak peek at her book, Gossip From the Girls' Room. And it is hilarious. Here's the blurb:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >If there's anything going on at Middlebrooke Middle School, Sofia has it all right here, in her super-secret notebook...</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" > Sofia Becker "accidentally" overhears gossip in the girls' room. She jots down all the juicy gossip in her notebook so her brain won't forget any super single important detail. Filled with text and hilarious sketches, follow Sofia on her dramatic journey to finding gossipy goodness for her blog while surviving 6th grade, gaining the attention of her crush, taking down the Popular Pretties and staying true to her BFF. Whew, what's next--taking on the world?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What I loved about Sophia was the false bravado she uses to get her through one of the most hellacious times in anyone's life. She's not as brazen as she pretends to be, but darn it if she's going to let anyone find that out. Wee One, who's in seventh grade this year, devoured the book and quotes it still months later. She can't wait for the next one to come out. She perfectly identifies with the ridiculously accurate picture Rose paints of middle school.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Rose is a gem, and I'm so excited to watch as her writing career takes off. I highly recommend picking up Gossip From the Girls' Room for the middle-grader in your life - or even for yourself if you're looking for a trip down middle school memory lane, punctuated with laugh-out-loud drawings.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-42141252060748977152010-11-15T10:49:00.000-08:002010-11-15T10:59:30.638-08:00I am so blessed<span style="font-family: arial;">I haven't been around because of life lately. But I'm so excited, I had to pop in and share this. My writer peeps will appreciate just how awesome this is. My early Christmas present from my husband: our shed converted into a writing studio for me.</span><br /><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF27IFkQok2r3Sh1CxSQAGHDQj3Oxx7oMSZZxa4aVbpOb3Jl31vfXs167HyNoH_nPpH86JTVtcvk00f9WSQaUQ5NiJv7cCclYWPsQ1Et-Z3EVVm2waIUTtKgd3zrF8cuqR5SJ0uxPpPr0p/s1600/IMG_5628.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF27IFkQok2r3Sh1CxSQAGHDQj3Oxx7oMSZZxa4aVbpOb3Jl31vfXs167HyNoH_nPpH86JTVtcvk00f9WSQaUQ5NiJv7cCclYWPsQ1Et-Z3EVVm2waIUTtKgd3zrF8cuqR5SJ0uxPpPr0p/s320/IMG_5628.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539850674375906946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">I'm so thrilled and keep pinching myself. I'd only dreamed of ever having a "room of my own". And now I do! I am very humbled and thankful that I'm able to have such a wonderful thing.</span><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGiQMrBJp-G-i5pQPNWO4kvhWsJPCyWunsf2NYszKbKJLMDniONOiQU94qzQj3nhv5U_4toJK1nkeBNer0cDS1dcdNT6zuGvtZfp1AQFH5bVVNJOwOHHL-htO8Tx4OhJ4E1K8nbgJOsPe/s1600/IMG_5631.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGiQMrBJp-G-i5pQPNWO4kvhWsJPCyWunsf2NYszKbKJLMDniONOiQU94qzQj3nhv5U_4toJK1nkeBNer0cDS1dcdNT6zuGvtZfp1AQFH5bVVNJOwOHHL-htO8Tx4OhJ4E1K8nbgJOsPe/s320/IMG_5631.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5539850800897329106" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">And it's amazing how much easier it is to focus in here. With no distractions I am becoming very productive! It's just 6' x 8', perfect size for my needs. I call it my woman cave.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Hope you are all productive, too!</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-25664719603959977322010-09-09T09:01:00.000-07:002010-09-10T20:54:57.896-07:00Connection<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRbqPzvevQNNFvtWTgOv1mI-PQetBcSHHQUV-gp6SQpmITFL9bD1TCcjDM8adeNcVCwCuXePtHJh-OB9hchLXGftJM02vJCAy-gYt1CmVhbhrzzEbjL8ArPWC4OkUXW8UEuBXOXoYT7r7/s1600/holding_hands.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 100px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRbqPzvevQNNFvtWTgOv1mI-PQetBcSHHQUV-gp6SQpmITFL9bD1TCcjDM8adeNcVCwCuXePtHJh-OB9hchLXGftJM02vJCAy-gYt1CmVhbhrzzEbjL8ArPWC4OkUXW8UEuBXOXoYT7r7/s200/holding_hands.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514953788304004386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">At the cabin, after the barbeque. Kids want to chill and Handsome One (my husband) and I are up for a walk.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />It's dark out. Pine trees disappear into the night. Yellow squares of light peek out of houses tucked away from the road. We walk down the slope, around the curves, keeping to the left like good pedestrians.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Our lungs inhale clean air that the lake seems to purify somehow. There are no sounds but our voices and the crunching of the gravel beneath our feet. I walk quickly to warm my body in the cool night air. At 6'4", Handsome One just increases his stride slightly to keep pace. </span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />We talk about life, family the future. We murmur our hopes and fears, words drifting away in the higher elevation. Juniper and ponderosa absorb our spoken thoughts along with the CO<span style="font-size:78%;">2</span>, recycling them back to us as life breath.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Our thoughts, opinions, and ideas are in sync more often than not and I relax into the comfortable feeling of easiness. Eighteen years will bend any couple toward each other, if they let it. I am at peace and I am thankful.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Cars come around the bend now and then, bright lights cutting through the night like knives. I close my eyes and reach for his hand, trusting he will keep me safe until I open them again.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-48147893814736592852010-09-02T09:52:00.000-07:002010-09-02T10:33:08.194-07:00Darling Daughter's Departure<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSQQ4eYeRitOkbNPyRprCj9h2NeGQwlvCCTeACc-hbdyqvwnBUrq7XPkHkbHcchS5MOAtVZllVMcgOloQddO7vOQHn6_RCwVg9_PP37LCVhMWT5HJdj_Q_gyW5aPdZnkvW8iswVAheFUm/s1600/3006_1134498007121_1367441178_349298_1073548_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 130px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWSQQ4eYeRitOkbNPyRprCj9h2NeGQwlvCCTeACc-hbdyqvwnBUrq7XPkHkbHcchS5MOAtVZllVMcgOloQddO7vOQHn6_RCwVg9_PP37LCVhMWT5HJdj_Q_gyW5aPdZnkvW8iswVAheFUm/s200/3006_1134498007121_1367441178_349298_1073548_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512366283357098434" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">When I pass her room and see the boxes piled up my heart hurts. When I step into her empty closet my gut wrenches. When I lay on her bed and smell her scent I lose it. Darling Daughter is leaving for Oregon on Labor day. The enormity and finality of it is washing over me like a tidal wave and threatening to sweep me out into oblivion. Why didn't I paint toenails with her more often, take her to lunch, shop when she wanted to? I always thought there'd be more time for that, but my heart hammers as I realize time's up.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I am not a helicopter parent. I do not hover. I am excited for my daughter to be independent and well-adjusted. I just love her so much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">She was a freshman at community college this past year and we saw so many changes. She was beginning to emerge from the teenage egocentricity (emerge, mind you, not free of). She learned to take responsibility for herself, especially with her schooling and finances. The enormous relief to a parent that comes from the end of nagging is indescribable. We were able to start a new chapter in life. One where she became a dear sister to Wee One, a friend to me and a source of pride to her dad.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We only got to enjoy one year of it. Husband and I agree that it would have been much easier if she had left shor</span><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0B34Zh6KxGRwUUNEqTNP2eJd0Xfzy93Pb9uakWWocmr0W3EKU9Kpk5ioj6LieZpJMTw8xs-lbJiQT0HdicW9C7y0j3fQ4JxB_-YhvkmCgc2_Ic2FvW4W3AaG4YiyHcYrhq94DznU3n50/s1600/3006_1134492846992_1367441178_349265_5856289_n.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF0B34Zh6KxGRwUUNEqTNP2eJd0Xfzy93Pb9uakWWocmr0W3EKU9Kpk5ioj6LieZpJMTw8xs-lbJiQT0HdicW9C7y0j3fQ4JxB_-YhvkmCgc2_Ic2FvW4W3AaG4YiyHcYrhq94DznU3n50/s200/3006_1134492846992_1367441178_349265_5856289_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512366359536216498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">tly after high school. Mother nature produces those strains through the adolescent years for a reason. It's a way to begin the eventual separation. We were always close, but the drama was really hard to endure. Tensions were high, but they've disappeared significantly since then.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I could list a thousand little things I will miss with her gone. But I'm trying not to be selfish and concerned only with what I'm losing. I'm trying to be excited for her new adventure. I haven't cried in front of her yet, I don't want her to feel more homesick. I already made husband cry, though. It will be tough for all of us.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm making a herculean effort to hold it together. I know all of our good times together are not over. We can still paint toenails, go out to lunch and shop when we visit. I'm going to enjoy watching her spread her wings and start this new phase of life, and treasure the parts I get to yet share with her.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-54241996466604613072010-08-25T20:29:00.000-07:002010-08-25T21:36:59.400-07:00Confessions of an anal-retentive exerciser<span style="font-family:arial;">The first in an on-going series . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The fact that I even exercise is amazing. This feat is accomplished only because I joined a women's circuit fitness club which has set up the workout for me so that I have to do zero thinking. All the effort I have to put into it is to drive there and get my sorry saggy butt in the door (which is a challenge in itself).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This nation-wide chain is popular with the older set, and my club is no exception. Perhaps you have heard me rant about being stuck in the circuit behind the senior with the walker. I have many tales to tell about my escapades with the exercising elderly. Today's involved The Odiferous One.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoLkx-szsnMSgdn3KMjTRcpwjgx21cTn85kUzj499AHmiZBSZjNDtZrlUVrv5quwhajU3xnjpqNHbfYdwDyzJnbMVBMvm9H8pVkJYcmLedwoDIN03XGZASlp3apzFy75y4U72_VWsqjnj/s1600/Little_Girls.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsoLkx-szsnMSgdn3KMjTRcpwjgx21cTn85kUzj499AHmiZBSZjNDtZrlUVrv5quwhajU3xnjpqNHbfYdwDyzJnbMVBMvm9H8pVkJYcmLedwoDIN03XGZASlp3apzFy75y4U72_VWsqjnj/s320/Little_Girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5509572611628256146" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The Odiferous One (T.O.O.) must be pushing eighty, though her hair is still as red as it was when she was twenty. Grandma cannot seem to come to the gym without a dousing of old lady perfume, despite the many signs posted about the place asking the women to refrain from wearing scents to the club. I'm not normally sensitive to smells; I wear a spritz of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >O oui!</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> myself from time to time. But this chemical, vaguely floral, smell is a sinus assassin.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"> T.O.O. has an uncanny knack for showing up whenever I choose to workout. I've tried to vary my workout times in vain. But today I thought I pulled a fast one on granny. I'm on the last leg, thinking, "oh, yeah, olfactory freedom at last!" As if that were her cue, she pops in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">T.O.O. starts about seven spots ahead of me in the circuit. I'm on my last round, I figure I can tough it out. The problem is, T.O.O. is so slow she moves one station for every two the rest of us do. It isn't long before I'm slammed up against her on the circuit - and my head is about to explode with every inhale. So I skip the last few machines.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Curse you T.O.O.! My butt will forever be saggy because of your old lady scent.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">At least that's the excuse I like to use.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-52501547396533392292010-08-19T22:11:00.000-07:002010-08-19T23:28:16.872-07:00The awkward years<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwABgRpWQfZYA1LqEBmJB1FOUNxcG_263skK6A7ne0wsYrfrywz6k2ar-erg_zRKnPywpm3VuAAvedAKPvfkbZBD_Fk1IAxyadqgjxy3qv2JWEBsFjd2Rvqpc4pQj8fipYPdZCiaRkSzg7/s1600/Black+rhino+-+photoby+Dvur+Kralove-m.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwABgRpWQfZYA1LqEBmJB1FOUNxcG_263skK6A7ne0wsYrfrywz6k2ar-erg_zRKnPywpm3VuAAvedAKPvfkbZBD_Fk1IAxyadqgjxy3qv2JWEBsFjd2Rvqpc4pQj8fipYPdZCiaRkSzg7/s320/Black+rhino+-+photoby+Dvur+Kralove-m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507370002340709138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Junior High sucked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That's what I remember about seventh and eighth grades. Kids from several different elementary schools converging to be educated in six separate periods a day, with dress down P.E., combination locks and no outdoor recess to speak of, was way too overwhelming for me. Just the concepts of a before and after school snack stand and dances were hard for my twelve-year-old brain to get around.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">There was too much information coming at me from too many sources. Combine that with the onset of puberty and you've got pre-teen John Hughes movie material.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I hated it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Okay, there are a couple of good memories: Mr. Franzen praising my science report presentations as the most entertaining and informative he ever heard (I can tell you some interesting facts about black rhinos), getting to know girls who would become lifelong friends, and being introduced to real literature.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But the scale tipped far towards humiliation more than anything good. I have disturbing memories of face-planting in the gym while chasing a boy (do not ask me why I was chasing a boy, I still have no idea what possessed me to do such a foolish thing when it held so much potential for embarrassment), a fear of not having something to do during lunch break (i.e.; a group to walk around with and belong to), having my new pair of swishy sweatpants borrowed and ruined in P.E., losing my temper and storming out of a classroom after having enough teasing and being labeled (deservedly so) as emotionally fragile forever on, square dancing (holding random boys' hands? Seriously?), joining the basketball team without having a clue as to how the game was played, and a P.E./dance teacher obsessed with Steve Perry (Oh Sherrie, indeed) and Chaka Khan. The horrors.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So Wee One starts middle school on Monday. I have high hopes for her. I know it will still be an awkward time, but she has a large group of good friends and more confidence than I did at the age. I'm pretty sure the biggest anxiety will be learning to shave. But we'll get through that together.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">That may be the biggest difference: parents who are able to be involved. My single mom did what she could just to provide for us physically. Wee One is blessed with a great dad and a mom who doesn't have to work to support her family. I plan on taking advantage of that to help navigate her through the beginning of adolescence as gently as possible.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-89008207561223523012010-08-08T19:45:00.000-07:002010-08-08T19:59:26.454-07:00Guilty pleasures<span style="font-family: arial;">M</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURF5D7P71a1YrJs6x6ap14vRNgIACzK7xGlIUUOZ6VqagvvywbleU4MHAiGWjFRVILYUakeENndqWdWmlqJ2qloYGtChQeDVYBb-SjSTXwJTqorfQtpTZrGrKvQO6olo4EI0XiD105em9/s1600/IMG_1333.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhURF5D7P71a1YrJs6x6ap14vRNgIACzK7xGlIUUOZ6VqagvvywbleU4MHAiGWjFRVILYUakeENndqWdWmlqJ2qloYGtChQeDVYBb-SjSTXwJTqorfQtpTZrGrKvQO6olo4EI0XiD105em9/s200/IMG_1333.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503236204207240450" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: arial;">y favorite kid thing to do is color, </span><span style="font-family: arial;">especially in Barbie fashion coloring books </span><span style="font-family: arial;">- even though I'm thirty-nine. Coloring is very relaxing. I love the feel of the wax gliding across the paper. It's a zen thing for me. Unless I mess up and color her arm blond because I thought it was part of her hair. Happens.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">How about you, what is your favorite thing to do that could be considered "childish"? Watch Spongebob? Swing? Eat Fun Dip?</span> <span style="font-family: arial;">Tell me I'm not the only one who does stuff like this.</span><br /><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6waljfPKqclLJwN108iE3YZ4ZsbPoWE-a1Lzsvf98P1yOf2c4jUL59eKew7yot_DZUhwkgGMKT_ZsLzf_2MvZHezVpqjOXTlwae8C7m-9PJm_RCkGI8KBQYzixIdjW4VK5a3TX0lbvWL/s1600/IMG_1335.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6waljfPKqclLJwN108iE3YZ4ZsbPoWE-a1Lzsvf98P1yOf2c4jUL59eKew7yot_DZUhwkgGMKT_ZsLzf_2MvZHezVpqjOXTlwae8C7m-9PJm_RCkGI8KBQYzixIdjW4VK5a3TX0lbvWL/s200/IMG_1335.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503236372864312594" border="0" /></a><a style="font-family: arial;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9bYyrS389LlZOgKNuHn003qa7P2vd-L3yFjIoB0VD38pUhqOSEHvoMGy80SQLaoAFivLCh6vBD6xBHgJog_tpOZ8wdFmogcFNOASvJ-xYnn3L7KN3TwTP3pXWpTlETTZ0_v4SgSMe_PD/s1600/IMG_1336.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 143px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr9bYyrS389LlZOgKNuHn003qa7P2vd-L3yFjIoB0VD38pUhqOSEHvoMGy80SQLaoAFivLCh6vBD6xBHgJog_tpOZ8wdFmogcFNOASvJ-xYnn3L7KN3TwTP3pXWpTlETTZ0_v4SgSMe_PD/s200/IMG_1336.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503236593197356402" border="0" /></a>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-76092105665411923592010-07-31T20:39:00.001-07:002010-07-31T22:41:06.713-07:00The view from here<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKSz3O-8lQH3dQZbN2DFY0ICWGjV6hw8qWwJ_ikCHYnbgFFKRB6lEMtu5QUjxThjn9byk7NmElo6094VxFO7ZgtJUN0ApkD6rsngN294E3s6p_JYT7rEuOv7o2SQboX520Cx-Vmrpxcim/s1600/collage.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsKSz3O-8lQH3dQZbN2DFY0ICWGjV6hw8qWwJ_ikCHYnbgFFKRB6lEMtu5QUjxThjn9byk7NmElo6094VxFO7ZgtJUN0ApkD6rsngN294E3s6p_JYT7rEuOv7o2SQboX520Cx-Vmrpxcim/s320/collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500299911817915954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Besides writing, I occasionally play with collage art for a creative outlet. This scene is actually a composition of six different pictures. One of the things I'm drawn to in doing this kind of art is making an entirely new landscape out of images from several different sources and playing with perspective.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Growing up I thought my mom was so tall. Like stilt-walker tall. I don't have many specific early memories, but I keenly remember staring up at my ginormous mom towering over me, her legs rising over me like redwoods, sure that she must be one of the tallest women in the world.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In actuality, Mom was 5'4".</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One time I heard our elderly neighbor's landscapers and later noticed the leaves in our yard gathered into piles. I couldn't believe the nerve he had to send us a message by having his landscapers blow our leaves. Husband knocked on his door to straighten him out. As soon as he mentioned the leaves, the old guy, who had a bad heart and a false eye, said he was sorry he couldn't pick the leaves up, but he was just too exhausted after raking them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A few months ago Wee One was waiting for the computer as I finished checking email.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Oh Mom," she observed with tender pity, "you have a folder called 'Rejections'."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A few months earlier I would have looked at her with chagrin. How nice it was to be able to laugh and explain that I didn't use it anymore.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And don't get me started on going from complaining about toys strewn around the house to cherishing the sight of them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's all about perspective. Things can be perceived so differently depending on time, distance and attitude.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As one daughter leaves for college and another enters middle school, as I come to a startling realization of how old I'm getting when I find out Lance Armstrong is a year younger than me (I don't know why, but that one blew me away), as I heed advice and revise a manuscript or read books with exceptional writing, as I accept that things aren't always neat and tidy and life still goes on, I'm gaining perspective.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And wadda-ya-know, the view is so much clearer from the vantage point of an open mind.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-87196481146479808712010-07-06T20:43:00.000-07:002010-07-09T12:48:29.472-07:00Who are you?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2pMDBn_CdAGKjC95o3hYodGLo6zyAHUjtPl4xRKlrU4u7dzxjD5iPrK9jpY3jWZ4kL_ah-VzAypqMLuurisToK3Pt3Z3ooP2uS1bYKCKBIMTbWDUOotjtsH07GYQLvn-tg9loHMx3oU/s400/blog.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy2pMDBn_CdAGKjC95o3hYodGLo6zyAHUjtPl4xRKlrU4u7dzxjD5iPrK9jpY3jWZ4kL_ah-VzAypqMLuurisToK3Pt3Z3ooP2uS1bYKCKBIMTbWDUOotjtsH07GYQLvn-tg9loHMx3oU/s400/blog.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">I don't want all my posts to be strictly writing-related, but this one is definitely directed at fellow writers who blog.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Is your blog working? I don't mean functioning, I mean, is it representing you the way you want to be? There have been many times when I've gone to check an author's blog and had a hard time finding anything out about them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Here are the things I look for (this post will focus on general blog presentation, not blogging content):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Your name.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Believe it or not, some people forget to display their real name. This of course depends on whether you want to be blogging incognito or not. But if you are a writer trying to network, make sure your name is easy to find, especially if it isn't in your url.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >A way to contact you. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I don't know how many times I've wanted to contact someone and have had to leave a message in a post comment to do so because there is no info on how to contact the writer otherwise.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Info about yourself.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> This doesn't have to be extensive or overly personal, but I like to know where you are in the writing journey and/or what your goals are. Are you published, agented, or just writing for fun? Genre is also helpful. Give us some background to know where you're coming from.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >A picture of yourself.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> This is a personal preference, but I like to put a face with a name; I remember you better that way.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Other places to find you.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Website? Twitter? Facebook? Give me links in case I want to connect with you in other ways.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As far as appearance, your blog doesn't have to be souped up to stand out. An attractive, simple template works fine. Whatever design you choose, make sure your blog is easy to navigate. Keep it clean. Your sidebar shouldn't be cluttered with awards and quotes and pictures that people have to scroll through to find your "about me" section. Keep it, and your "follow me", near the top. Make it easy for people to subscribe.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">These are the basics. I've only got fifty lovely followers, so I don't profess to be an expert. These are my own personal thoughts on the topic. What else do you think is important in a blog appearance?</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-5585907769776971032010-06-28T08:43:00.001-07:002010-07-09T12:49:23.656-07:00IMHO<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.maryschwalm.com/blog/falling1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 359px; height: 257px;" src="http://www.maryschwalm.com/blog/falling1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">A quick post on receiving criticism:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I first started sharing my writing online (because I couldn't find any real life writers in my area) I begged for feedback. And I got it. But it was all over the board. I remember printing out those first responses, reading and rereading them, and trying to incorporate every single change they suggested in my manuscript.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Yes, imagine that. Among a myriad of smaller suggestions, there were issues with POV and tense. You can imagine how I edited myself silly in those days.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I was so new to the critique thing that I assumed if a reader suggested it, it must be so. I was letting the wind blow me any way it wanted to. I ended up with a messy pile of words and a discouraged heart. Needless to say, that first manuscript is still on life support in some dusty corner; a cautionary tale in how not to receive criticisms.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I LOVE hard critiques. Lay it on me, baby, it's the only way my writing will get better. It's one reason my family doesn't critique for me. After my early days trolling for feedback in forums, I have since found a community of people who offer helpful, trusted feedback. Here is what I've learned over the years:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">First of all, after reading the critique once, set it aside for a day or so, let it settle, then reread it. You'll find different parts jump out at you for your consideration. Read it several times (though not obsessively) to make sure you're getting everything out of it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Read between the lines. Even if you ask for a hard critique, some people have a hard time giving them, or give them in a roundabout manner. Try to determine what their real meaning is. Don't be afraid to ask for clarification.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Don't make every change that's suggested. Duh. I don't know how I didn't get that in the early days. Not every suggestion is helpful. Especially minor things that don't ring true to you. Have your salt shaker nearby and take a grain or two with everything you read.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">DO listen for things you hear over and over again. Critiquers will not all say it the same way, though. One may say your MC needs more depth, another may say they don't connect with her, and still another may say she's pathetic. This will all be woven in with critiques of different aspects of your novel. Pick them out. Taken all together you should get the gist that your MC needs some work. Sometimes the pattern shows up over the course of a few years of revisions. Always keep your ears perked up for criticisms that you've heard before: they're telling you something.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To sum it up, you will receive criticism all over the board (some directly contradicting others), so in the end you have to go with your gut instincts. But look for a pattern in the critiques; what themes are recurring in the majority of them? Be open to suggestions you hear over and over again.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Above all, be thankful for and hold dear those readers who offer honest feedback. Untainted impressions are worth more than gold to me. They are tools to help you make your manuscript better - and that's utterly invaluable.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-70836632100171920702010-06-21T04:48:00.000-07:002010-07-09T14:12:27.363-07:00Bare nekkid<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.nationalphotoawards.com/i//CopyrightKenMcKibben.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 180px;" src="http://www.nationalphotoawards.com/i//CopyrightKenMcKibben.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">I've made a big decision. I have unlocked some previously friends-only posts on my LJ blog in the interest of showing the ugly truths on my road to publishing (much of which still stretches before me). Knowing how much I benefited from reading the good, bad and ugly of other writer's journeys, I have decided to lay it all out there in the hope that someone may recognize moments of discouragement similar to their own and decide not to give up. . . after all, though it's been somewhat gruesome at times (or at least my display of emotions have been), I'm still making progress toward my dream. Not sure I'd call it inspirational, but I know </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >my</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> misery appreciated company over the years.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Read it </span><a style="font-family: arial;" href="http://sboman.livejournal.com/">here</a><span style="font-family:arial;">. Search for the entries tagged "the journey". And try not to cringe.</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-1191527444421504782010-06-18T22:00:00.000-07:002010-07-09T14:05:22.970-07:00Name calling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdtwNbfJn3kTauSC1f7dZo0PFvIw5hSk4LJTevWCwLP54t7fxeiV1Buej4cYdxha2z7OR120WgWKjMaQPzrE8PuJJUoBy0wh_-I8FzatFIjrCzZLabtmNPOgwMrpUGkaVJeBtzYcOpiF6/s1600/rose.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEdtwNbfJn3kTauSC1f7dZo0PFvIw5hSk4LJTevWCwLP54t7fxeiV1Buej4cYdxha2z7OR120WgWKjMaQPzrE8PuJJUoBy0wh_-I8FzatFIjrCzZLabtmNPOgwMrpUGkaVJeBtzYcOpiF6/s320/rose.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484341446090691714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">When I was in England last year my passport was stolen. While applying for an emergency passport at the U.S. embassy an agent asked, "Have you ever used any other last names?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Just my maiden name, Morlan."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Are you sure?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Uh, yes," I said, my brain frantically searching an index of my life and any details I might be overlooking. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >My last name was Morlan growing up, and then I got married and it became Boman...is there something in between I'm forgetting?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"You've never used another last name?" she asks again, looking at me importantly, like a contestant on Password trying to coax the answer out of their teammate.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I start panicking. Is this some sort of test? Am I supposed to read between the lines? What does she really want me to say?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"No," I answer, sweating.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Not something that starts with an "R"?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >An R??</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Uh, noooo . . ."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">"Fine," she huffs in frustration. "Have a seat."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I did eventually get my passport and the "R" word never came up again. It wasn't until weeks later that it hit me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I grew up Stephanie Elena Morlan, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >but I was born</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Elena Stephanie Rajcic, which is the name on my birth certificate, and which, as far as I know of, is the only place it has been used. Why? Well, my mother had divorced my older sister's father and was still legally using his last name when I was born. My "father", Edward Morlan, didn't marry my mom until she was pregnant with my little brother two years later. Yeah, great guy. Being traditional, my mom took the last name of the man she married, so at that point, she, my brother and I became Morlans.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I knew my name on my birth certificate was different from the one I used growing up, but I never thought much of it. My family called me Steffie, not Elena, when I was little for reasons I'm not completely clear on, and the only last name I ever knew to use was Morlan.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So yes, there </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >was</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> an "R" name in my past, and it had completely slipped my mind. The agent must have okayed my passport, thinking my given name must be some family secret I hadn't discovered yet. She must have feared instigating a life-altering identity crisis would cut into her afternoon tea.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I go back and forth on legal documents, sometimes using Stephanie Elena, other times Elena Stephanie...it can get a little sticky at times.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm thinking about names because when I was younger I hated the last name Morlan, and decided when I was an author I would be Elena Dahl (Dahl was my mother's maiden name). I loved the sound of it, it had special meaning to me, and I'd be shelved right next to one of my favorite authors!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When I started blogging I used my current name, Stephanie Boman, and registered it as a domain name. I developed a website and contributed to forums where everyone knows me by that name.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Recently, while fantasizing about getting a book published, I imagined my name on the cover, and remembered my desired nom de plume, realizing too late that I can't use Elena Dahl when all my networking has been under Stephanie Boman! Not that I don't like the name Boman, which, apart from the fact that 99% of people insist on inserting a "w" in it, is a perfectly nice name. But the name Stephanie Boman doesn't roll trippingly on the tongue as does, say, Melissa Marr, Holly Black, Judy Blume, Cassandra Clare, Libba Bray etc., etc. . . .</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But even if I got over the awkward rhythm of it (Stephanie Boman has the same number of syllables as Stephenie Meyer after all) there's the whole other issue of identity. What name do I most identify with? My signature is S Boman. I like the sound of S.E. Boman, but of all my names, Stephanie is probably the one I identify with the most, so I don't really want to hide it as an initial on a book cover. For many years I was "Steffie" (which became "Stephi" when I entered high school and wanted a more "mature" spelling), but as an adult most people who know me call me Stephanie.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">What about you - have you given much thought to your author name? Happy with the one you use already? Are there any author names you particularly like?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I guess in the end, a rose by any other name . . .</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7751521031623158647.post-12580212843811321732010-06-02T09:23:00.000-07:002010-06-02T09:31:31.100-07:00TOO MUCH TO DO!<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">I need to work on this:</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC7cr0jKFBe3KlDUf09H3QY686WuB4wnbpc-oAeJSj8SVaBBgvSMYEVi5p8FwJ95-hvH8hzxKcXpQ8mrlaCAgcJT7GOO5V4haNZ2A3uRLTqefBzrfEf6WRVx6l6_jhQexIrW2Of_gB6QS/s1600/IMG_1238.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRC7cr0jKFBe3KlDUf09H3QY686WuB4wnbpc-oAeJSj8SVaBBgvSMYEVi5p8FwJ95-hvH8hzxKcXpQ8mrlaCAgcJT7GOO5V4haNZ2A3uRLTqefBzrfEf6WRVx6l6_jhQexIrW2Of_gB6QS/s320/IMG_1238.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478213334210010914" /></a><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">These are craft supplies. I'm in charge of a week's worth of crafts for ninety girls at the end of June. Final planning and purchasing needs to be done.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And there's this:</span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcn4iyD1piD8OWd4lZlPAViRqnxTooDc4KwFNiZWr1ZyzZPqKbcKIxi2Fl4f8ATgRZIRQ0kuM6Vvi_5AiWg_rWUmZKsSSdnMwvFgXWQU3z_rznAyAdS02BXQHbX-w2w-6YfBw2fIx4_68/s1600/IMG_1239.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOcn4iyD1piD8OWd4lZlPAViRqnxTooDc4KwFNiZWr1ZyzZPqKbcKIxi2Fl4f8ATgRZIRQ0kuM6Vvi_5AiWg_rWUmZKsSSdnMwvFgXWQU3z_rznAyAdS02BXQHbX-w2w-6YfBw2fIx4_68/s320/IMG_1239.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478213164169943202" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">These are new-to-us chairs that need to be recushioned before they are taken to the cabin this weekend.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">And unfortunately neither last nor least:<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4HyPDVBKvN0y85qUUlxqZ2dX0URZjXp5E57By1oLIuMi6HRY-jhp431_IXMQiEo_z03AKB8HlJksBjhU63zHcd7eJQ8jg9qqZtOOxaCWBf2DkKirMGTd16v0z31fTKRpKlpcCOX8k04S/s1600/IMG_1237.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge4HyPDVBKvN0y85qUUlxqZ2dX0URZjXp5E57By1oLIuMi6HRY-jhp431_IXMQiEo_z03AKB8HlJksBjhU63zHcd7eJQ8jg9qqZtOOxaCWBf2DkKirMGTd16v0z31fTKRpKlpcCOX8k04S/s320/IMG_1237.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478213020111155746" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;">Mega laundry loads. A lot of this is due to camping at Santa Cruz. Campfire smell, mmmm. Aren't I brave to show you my messy laundry room?</span></div>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01979695022396934207noreply@blogger.com7