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.

I met Rose Cooper 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.

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:

If there's anything going on at Middlebrooke Middle School, Sofia has it all right here, in her super-secret notebook... 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?

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.

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.

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.

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.
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.

Hope you are all productive, too!

At the cabin, after the barbeque. Kids want to chill and Handsome One (my husband) and I are up for a walk.

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.

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.

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 CO2, recycling them back to us as life breath.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

We only got to enjoy one year of it. Husband and I agree that it would have been much easier if she had left shortly 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.

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.

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.

The first in an on-going series . . .

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).

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.

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 O oui! myself from time to time. But this chemical, vaguely floral, smell is a sinus assassin.

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.

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.

Curse you T.O.O.! My butt will forever be saggy because of your old lady scent.

At least that's the excuse I like to use.

Junior High sucked.

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.

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.

I hated it.

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.

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.

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.

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.

My favorite kid thing to do is color, especially in Barbie fashion coloring books - 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.

How about you, what is your favorite thing to do that could be considered "childish"? Watch Spongebob? Swing? Eat Fun Dip? Tell me I'm not the only one who does stuff like this.

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.

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.

In actuality, Mom was 5'4".

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.

A few months ago Wee One was waiting for the computer as I finished checking email.

"Oh Mom," she observed with tender pity, "you have a folder called 'Rejections'."

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.

And don't get me started on going from complaining about toys strewn around the house to cherishing the sight of them.

It's all about perspective. Things can be perceived so differently depending on time, distance and attitude.

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.

And wadda-ya-know, the view is so much clearer from the vantage point of an open mind.

I don't want all my posts to be strictly writing-related, but this one is definitely directed at fellow writers who blog.

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.

Here are the things I look for (this post will focus on general blog presentation, not blogging content):

Your name. 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.

A way to contact you. 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.

Info about yourself. 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.

A picture of yourself. This is a personal preference, but I like to put a face with a name; I remember you better that way.

Other places to find you. Website? Twitter? Facebook? Give me links in case I want to connect with you in other ways.

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.

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?

A quick post on receiving criticism:

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.