September, in sticky notes

So, this is pretty much what I’m up to:

Manuscript of next book. Needs work. Hence the note.

The kids. Don’t forget about the kids. Fixing my manuscript is not an excuse for ordering pizza every single night. Every other night, yes. But not every single one. Time to set the bar a little higher.

Right, pack that suitcase. Also, get it down from the top of the closet. Also, stop taking blurry pictures with the phone.

So, I’m leaving in less than a week for a pre-publication tour to Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Chicago for Fracture. I like to pretend I’m this awesome packer. Last year, I bragged to my friends about how I packed for myself and the two kids for a 10-day trip to the west coast (including a wedding) in one suitcase. I am EFFICIENT, dammit!

But what I typically neglect to mention is that I occasionally (okay, usually) forget something major. Like tickets. Or pants.

So this time, I’m planning in advance. Just as soon as someone taller than me gets the suitcase down.

See you in October!

Room for Improvement

Having kids is weird. It’s weird because there are these little people in my house all the time and they kind of look like me, and they expect me to do things like get them food and brush their teeth and stuff. And they talk. They talk a lot. The only silence in the house is when they are sleeping, and even that’s not a guarantee because Kid #2 talks in his sleep.

They talk about absolutely everything and nothing and anything in between. They talk about things that are real and things that are not real, and they talk about me:

Sometimes it’s kind of a power trip because I’ll overhear things like, “Mommy said don’t eat the marbles.”

And I think, Yeah, that’s right, I’m in charge.

And then sometimes I’ll overhear things like this:

Kid #2: “I love my mommy.”

Kid #1: “Yeah, but Daddy’s more fun.”

(BURN)

Oh, and I’m sitting right there. It’s not like she doesn’t want me to hear. It’s more like she’s making sure I know that, in her mind, I’ve got some room for improvement.

So then I’ll do something like stick my tongue out at Kid #1, which makes me feel better, at least, but probably isn’t doing anything to change her mind.

NOT that it’s a competition. *ahem*

Anyway, I’m getting sidetracked. I meant to talk about revisions, and how I’m finally done. But I’m only done for this stage of the process. Because I’ll hear back in a little while about how I can improve it some more, and then I’ll start working again.

But for now I’m going to work on stealing the #1 parent spot back.

What do you think it’ll take? I’m putting my money on ice cream. I’m pretty sure that’s what The Husband has been using to sway Kid #1 to his team. And if that fails, there’s always the amusement park. (Please, please don’t make me pull out the amusement park card)

NOT that it’s a competition.*

Not at all.

*(but I still want to win)

Existential Writing Questions

These are the questions that keep me up at night:

Does a draft count as a draft if only three characters, two paragraphs, and one idea survive?

If the above happens twice, should that count as two first drafts or two rewrites?

So then is this thing that I’m working on now a fourth draft or is this the second draft of the third version?

And should I refer to those first two versions as drafts -1 and 0? (I think I should. Just so I can say things like, “In the negative first draft, that character was originally called Lauren. But in draft zero, her name became Danielle.”)

When calculating the time it took me to write this book, should I subtract out the month when I did nothing but stare at the ceiling fan? Or the periods of time when I was working on FRACTURE edits? Or the number of hours I spent trying to calculate how long this was actually taking me?

And what is my obsession with assigning everything a number, anyway?

Does my critique partner think it’s weird when I email her about what I ate for lunch? (I guess this is not so much an existential question as it is a rhetorical question.)

Does my other critique partner think I’ve crossed the line when I invite her over to talk shop but then ask her to kill a giant spider instead? (also rhetorical) (ALSO she was a spider-stomping hero)

I ask these things because I’m about to finish this draft, or manuscript, or whatever it’s called when it’s still a document on the computer and only your critique partners have seen it but you’re pretty sure it’s done.

Except for that small list you’re keeping in your notebook of things you need to fix.

Wait, so what would this next step be called? The second pass of the second draft of the third version?

Yeah. That. I’m about to do that.

Just a Typical Saturday...

So our grocery store gives out balloons. Score. I tie them to the cart for each kid. But I never let the kids take them home. I tell them we have to leave the balloons for the next kids.

This is a lie.

I’m sure the next people to use the cart either don’t want balloons or don’t want balloons that have been slobbered on. I’m just guessing.

But I won’t bring the balloons home.

Because, inevitably, this happens:

Why yes, those ARE two balloons stuck at the top of a 2-story room

And when that happens, there are tears. I have a very low tolerance for tears. This is problematic since I have a 3 and 4 year old. But anyway, I try to minimize situations where there might be tears.

The husband doesn’t necessarily follow protocol, though. Which is how the above happened. Actually, it went like this:

Husband takes kids to the grocery store. Kids come home with balloons. I say, “Don’t let them go. And definitely don’t bring them into the living room.” Which, in kid speak, means bring them into the living room, let them go, and cry.

Anyway.

We had to get them down. So the husband and I came up with a plan. It involved a toy helicopter:

Do you see it there? Hovering under the green balloon?

Our plan involved getting the string caught up in the rotor. It didn’t work. So then we added a paperclip to the front, but that screwed up the balance. So then we added one to the back as counterbalance. Which kind of worked, but the battery power couldn’t really sustain the excess weight.

At this point, a good hour had passed. And Kid #1 was yelling, “Hey! I have a better plan!” (Her plan involved a ladder. BORING.) (But then another unsuccessful hour passed and we used a ladder.) (It wasn’t fun anymore.) (But anyway.)

I am writing. Well, I am revising. And by revising I mean kind of re-writing, kind of re-structuring, kind of re-logic-ing. I am sure there is a simpler way to do this than the way I’m going about it. But my way is kind of fun. It involves multi-colored pens and an assortment of sticky notes and allows me to yell at my computer screen while simultaneously punching at the delete key.

I’d imagine if Kid #1 were to look over my shoulder, she’d start yelling, “I have a better plan!” and suggest something very logical and practical and effective that would probably suck the joy out of revising.

Because revising is fun.

Seriously.

Try the hot pink. Just don’t look at my delete key.

Living With The Grammar Police

No, it’s not time for copyedits again. Instead it’s time to take a peek into my daily life with the 4-year-old:

FRIDAY

Kid #1: What are you doing?

Me: Uh, sending an email.

Kid #1: What was that sound you made?

Me: What sound?

Kid #1: It sounded like this: uhhh

Me: Sorry, I was thinking.

Kid #1: So why did you say it?

END SCENE

Lest you think this is a one-time occurrence, here’s another example:

Kid #1: Where are we going?

Me: To the park.

Kid #1: Did you say par? Because it sounded like you said par and par is not a word.

Me: Yes it is so a word. But that’s not what I said.

Kid #1: Well that’s what it sounded like.

END SCENE

She calls me out on stuff like this All The Time. Now, I don’t want to be mean or anything, but this is coming from a person who says catched and sometimes uses with instead of if. Glass houses and all that, you know? Just saying.

And she is very picky.

Kid #1: We’re out of milk.

Me: I’m going to the supermarket tomorrow.

Kid #1: The supermarket? I think you mean grocery store.

Me: They mean the same thing.

Kid #1: Well last time you said grocery store.

(also, I believe she has a real future in copyedits)

But here’s the thing. She’s totally right. I’m about to start doing some revising/rewriting/banging-my-head-against-the-wall, and I do keep an eye out for that stuff. If I call something a grocery store once, I should probably call it that again. Am I using unnecessary words? Am I using the right word?

Of course, I’ll never tell her this. No, I’ll keep rolling my eyes, because that’s the kind of mom I am.

Because it’s not just grammar. She’s also the Unnecessary Movement Police (why did you move your head like that, Mommy?) And the I-Hope-You’re-Not-Buying-Those-Shorts-Because-They’re-Way-Too-Short-On-You-Police.

Although I called her out on the latter when we were at Disney a few weeks ago. Because while it’s known that Disney is the Happiest Place on Earth (and also the Place You Decide You’re Definitely 100% Done Having Kids), this year I discovered that Disney is also The Land Of The Impossibly Short Shorts.

I looked at Kid #1 and was like, see? And she gave me this look back that was like, yeah, see?

Touché, Kid #1. Touché.