Closet Door Pics

I once mentioned the closet door technique as a method for plotting. Well, since then I've discovered a very neat accessory--Post-It notes sized and lined like index cards. Up to now, I've been attaching my colored index cards to the closet door with poster tape. I know that some writers routinely use Post-It notes, but I've never liked the size of the little square ones. Plus, I like the lines on index cards. With all of the preferred attributes combined, moving scenes around on my closet door has just gotten easier. No more index cards sticking to the poster tape and having peel-off problems when I need to move them around.

The Closet Door system:



And the Pevensie kids had to discover their magical world inside the wardrobe!

Did I call it, or what?

One of the Moxie just recently sent me this link to an article about the current trend in fantasy publishing. As it happens, several months ago, I wrote this blog entry relating to the same issue. Did I call it, or did I call it?

My fiendish plan is ticking along perfectly. It's only a matter of time....

My latest fiendish plot is going well, too. I've actually finished the first chapter of the new book, which for now we are calling "Shifts of Perception," or "Shifts" for short. Got the thumbs up on it from the Moxie this evening at our meeting. Val says that by the end of the first chapter, the characters already have so many problems that she wonders how I'm ever going to get them out of it. Heh.

Return to Bliss and Torture

I never realize just how much I need my writing until I've been away from it for a while. When I first come back to it after a break, it's like a reunion with an old lover. How could I have gone four months without it? And yet, I'm glad I did, because I think the occasional break keeps me from burnout. Toward the end of the second book of this trilogy, I was beginning to think I'd implode if I had to rewrite the darned thing one more time! But at the same time, I wanted to do whatever it took--wanted to get it right. From beginning to end and through all the revisions, Shadows of Memory actually took about two years. And a tough two years they were. They were years that saw the death of my grandmother and several other rough milestones in my personal life. They saw lots of hard work and lots of frustration. But it's worth all that time and effort just to hear my agent say the magic words, "I love the rewrite." He loves the rewrite. Thank the gods! Now we have two books for him to market, and only one more for me to write to finish this trilogy.

I'm into it now, gang! In fact, I'm four sections into it, and already I'm hooked. I'm delighted to be with my beloved characters again, and more than ready to start torturing them some more. This book gets a magical serial killer dumped right into the midst of some other huge issues the characters must face. The name of everyone's major issue? Family.

Such a nice little word, family, and yet it pushes so many people's buttons. No one else can disappoint us in quite the same way as a family member. No one else has quite the same dirt on us, or quite the same hold. I intend to probe deeply into these issues in book three. While a killer roams the halls of Gondrevin Palace, my heroes must explore questions such as: What is family? Is a family the group you're born into, or the one you choose? Do we place too many expectations on our family members--perhaps more and harsher expectations than we would dream of placing on anyone else? And when someone we love lets us down, how does that change the relationship? If we get through such a breach, are we then stronger because of it, or will we retain scars that never fully heal? In other words, those poor characters are in for a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. Which means I'll be with them on that rollercoaster, hanging on white-knuckled to the end.

Dare I whoop with delight?

Back in the Saddle

Ok, I started the third book of my trilogy. Finally. I didn't get too far yet, but what I have looks pretty good.

The family has been contemplating a possible move, and that's been stressful in the extreme. Certain circumstances have developed that might cause it to be necessary, but none of us really wants to do it. I've always known I would not be here in Idaho forever, but I wasn't quite...done with it yet. Or maybe I'm just more resistant to change than any mutable fire sign has a right to be. After a couple of stressful weeks, we are at the stage of possibly not having to move, but things are still up in the air. Urk!

That's about it for today--short and sweet. But I'll post more as this new book begins to develop. In the meantime (and in case I don't get back here as soon as I'd like,) Happy Thanksgiving and all that jazz!

Things heard at Moxie meetings

Here are a few of the stray comments fellow coffee shop customers have heard when a Moxie writers' meeting was in session. Could have earned a few funny looks if taken out of context...

“We don’t have to be afraid of the thing in the dark alley; it owes Stef a favor.”

“Excuse me, I have to go call Singapore.”

“Ooh, shiny!”

“She’d transgressed; she’d called the sacred…cheeseburger?”

“Siobhan stays dead, b**ch!”

“He was getting on my nerves, so I had to kill him.”

“Which island was it--Mirabad, or Miragood?”

A Long Wait

I haven't posted for a long while, I know. I've been doing the homeschool mom bit, trying to get my kids' school year going and keep us caught up on the assignments we have to send in to their official teacher every so often. We've also been through a round of 'flu and house cleaning--nothing too fascinating to relate.

I'm still waiting for word from my agent as to how the first two books of the trilogy are doing--I need to catch up with him as soon as possible. And I have a new order to fill for my mini book business, Pookatales. Same old routine. I promise I'll post something more interesting soon. For a non-published writer, the waiting game is the most gut-wrenching game to play, but play it we must. I used to think that all I had to do was write a great book and everything else would automatically fall into place. Not so. I'm still here, waiting for a contract....

If I had a beard, I'd look like Rip van Winkle right now.

Condolences to New Orleans

Just the other day, my kids and I were watching a National Geographic video featuring hurricanes. We'd had this video for a few years and for whatever reason just hadn't sat down to watch it before. The eerie part was when the video showed footage of Hurricane Andrew and commented about how it had fortuitously missed New Orleans. The video warned that such a disaster could not be far off--an unsettling pronostication of things to come. My heart goes out to those who have lost loved ones, homes, jobs...here's a wish for much brighter days in the future. May the universe grant you the strength and the means to hold on until then.

I haven't blogged in a terribly long time--much longer than I intended. I've been on a little hiatus following that last book revision. I'm trying to get my household back under control, working on painting a kid's room, starting our new correspondence school year, and trying to reclaim some parts of my life I'd put on hold while revising. But soon I need to start the third book of the trilogy, and I've been giving some thought to a couple of possibilities for YA fantasies to write in the near future. Even if I only managed to get 10,000 words a month on one of them, I'd have a book before a year was up. How hard can that be?

The Wild Ride

Remember how I said I'd named my new car Phouka? Well, apparently it was more than just a whim. Here's the story of my journey to the Willamette Writers Conference two weekends ago.

On Thursday morning I'm sitting at the Ford place, my bags all packed and the car loaded, crossing my fingers that the correct replacement mirror will actually show up sometime before 2pm. The part arrives, they get my car right in and install it, I only end up paying $39.00 for the labor, and I'm on the road for Portland by noon. Great so far, right?

Well, then I get to Baker City, Oregon, fill up with gas at the local Chevron and head for the Taco Time to grab a quick lunch, which I eat quickly in the car while it's idling in the parking lot. Then a light in my dashboard Message Center starts flashing, toggling back and forth between the messages "check engine" and "check transmission." Oh, wonderful! Since the car's still running and functional, I head straight back to the Chevron station, beside which is a small repair shop called "Grumpy's Repair." They obligingly put their brand new diagnostic computer on my car and get an invalid code reading which the computer can't decipher. Then suddenly everything checks out fine. They take a glance at my transmission fluid and oil and can't find any problem with that, either. So apparently everything's fine and Phouka's simply been playing some odd little trick on me. And of course, there's nothing anyone can do about it unless it happens again. Just lovely. Oh, and I now owe Grumpy's Repair $50 for that computer diagnostic. YeeeHaaaw!

So I get back on the road, and when I reach Pendleton, I pull into the parking lot of the Burger King to grab more food, and I drive over one of those concrete bar things that are supposed to mark where your front wheels go. Only my undercarriage is so low that it scrapes right over the darned thing and the only way to get off it is to back up. This partially rips off the plastic air dam under my front end and it is now hanging down behind my right front tire. So I go to the trunk and get the roll of duct tape that for SOME reason I put in there the night before and tape the hanging plastic piece to the underside of the front bumper so it's not dragging on the ground. And I go on. Muttering to myself, shying at every new noise or rattle from the car. Trying not to think about THAT problem, and THAT problem, and THAT problem, and what could possibly happen next. I'm doing some pretty good mental compartmentalizing by this time. Fortunately I have a book on tape, which helps take my mind off all the bad travel Car-Ma.

Then I get to the Multnomah area and I hear a sharp CRACK, which is apparently a rock hitting my windshield, thrown up at me by the truck & trailer rig just in front of me. I'm still waiting for the dreaded crack to appear, and hoping that it won't. I can find no damage, but that could still show up at any time.

By the time I get to the hotel, I'm shaky, hot and bothered, and not in a good way. But I'm at the conference--finally. Oddly enough, the rest of the weekend went without a hitch and the trip home was completely uneventful. It even turned out that rather than me having to replace the air dam (which would have cost $95 plus labor) the nice guy in the parts department was able to re-bolt the thing up for me for free, and the only consequence of the mishap is a small tear in the right side of the air dam, which for the time being is not going to hurt anything. If it ever finishes ripping itself apart, I'll have it replaced, but in the meantime I have no desire to see my credit card go up in flames.

Upon hearing this story, one guy at the conference actually thought this was a pitch for a comedy screenplay. Eh? Any takers? We could call it..."Phoukatrails". Or maybe "Driving Miss Crazy." You want to write it up and sell it, be my guest.

Warning, Apathy on the Loose!

I called the Ford place today to make sure the part had been ordered and that they expected it in by Thursday morning, because if it doesn't come in on time, I may have to whip out the plastic and pay for an unwanted and very expensive plane ticket or rental car for the weekend. Excuse me, but I like to make contingency plans ahead of time, if possible. The people in the local Ford service department have informed me that there is no way they can secure a loaner car for me or even give me a free or discounted rental if for some reason my car's belated mirror doesn't come in with tomorrow's freight. In other words, if they screw up again, tough luck for me. They are unwilling to do any more than they have already done (a 10% discount on the labor, which amounts to...what...about $6?) to make things right with me even though it was one of their employees who made the original ordering mistake that caused this nerve-wracking delay. If the guy had just double-checked his order numbers, the part would be here and the car fixed already. That $6 doesn't even cover all the gas I've wasted driving back and forth to Ford to try and get the mirror fixed since last Friday. But they don't care. After all, it isn't their time and money at stake.

I have made every effort to remain calm and reasonable (a condition which much resembles a doormat) but if for any reason the part doesn't come in with tomorrow's freight, my whole conference weekend is screwed. And I've already paid for the conference--well over $450. And here's the part that really burns my bacon: the freight truck gets in any time between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. So I might be sitting there in Ford's waiting room until 2 p.m. and still not have the part to fix the car. And why the heck did they give me a 9:30 appointment if the freight truck isn't expected to get in until 10:00? Huh? Riddle me that!

I better not try to write on the new book today. I'd probably have to kill something.

A Careless Moment

Hectic schedules take their toll. As is probably obvious by the date of my last blog, I haven't seen much of my computer for the last week and a half due to kid-related responsibilities. But I am supposed to be going out of town this weekend to the Willamette Writers' Conference in Portland. I'm leaving on Thursday--provided I get my car back in time.

Yes, it's in the shop again--or it will be. This time it's my fault. I banged the driver's side rear-view on the side of the garage as I was backing out on Friday, and now it's taking forever to get the replacement part in. Apparently, the guy in the Parts department ordered the wrong part on Monday, so I get there this afternoon to drop off the car for its appointment to get the mirror replaced, and ta-dah! No part. So I may or I may not be able to get the car fixed in time to drive to Portland. It depends on whether they ordered the right part this time and whether it arrives here on Thursday morning as it's supposed to. If it doesn't, it's going to mess up my entire weekend. One careless moment, and I've managed to give myself no end of grief. Hopefully this is one mistake I won't make again. It was expensive, too. And here's the kicker--the part they ordered is coming from...wait for it...Portland. Grr.

On a brighter note and in honor of my daughter's moon-watching the other night, I've added a "current moon phase" feature to this blog. So if you're too busy to go out and look at the moon, just scroll down a ways and presto--instant moon watching. Have a great weekend, enjoy your summer, and check your mirrors often when backing out of the garage.

Modern Girl vs the Earth Goddess

I've been thinking a lot lately about the environment and the dichotomy between all our wonderful new "advances" and the more traditional values with which I was brought up. A little-known fact about me is that I was raised on a small farm which used to be an old homestead, and in conditions that my friends considered very "primitive." When we moved to that property I was about five, and I still remember the ruts going through the woods from the old wagon road that was there and the toppling-down remnants of two old log cabins--or perhaps one cabin and one barn. We ate apples and plums from trees left behind by the original settlers and drank from an actual spring on the property. I remember washing clothes with an old wash frame, galvanized tubs, and a washboard until we found out where the local laundromat was and started going to wash there. While I was a teenager I ironed my clothes with a sadiron heated on the gas range, and long after I'd grown up and moved away, my grandmother washed her clothes with an old wringer-type washer which she never taught me to use because she was convinced I'd get my fingers stuck in the wringer.

I've watched episodes of reality shows where modern city dwellers had to go out to a semi-wilderness area and live in pioneer-style log cabins in much the same way and with the same technology the settlers did. What fascinated and horrified me was that so many of us nowadays are completely unprepared to cope with those sorts of conditions, and when you take the city-dweller out of the city and tell them to fend for themselves under "primitive" conditions, they have trouble--big trouble. But remembering my childhood in Montana, I realize that while I've come to love my modern conveniences perhaps a little too much, I would be fine if they were to put me in that log cabin and tell me to cope. A part of me misses the long weeding sessions in the garden and the endless bean and pea harvests, the pea shelling, the washing, the carrying and stacking of wood. And sewing for yourself--wow. I still own the same Singer machine my folks bought for me when I was in college, but it's buried under who knows what in the room my kids use for their homeschool. How I envy Tamera with her quilts! I used to be an avid herbalist, and when my kids were small, we grew a vegetable garden every year in our back yard. Now my days are ruled by a daily planner, without which I cannot cope. Where do I have to take which kid when, and what is my next scheduled responsibility?

I have become, by necessity and even by choice, a (small) city girl. I love going to big cities but I hate to drive in them, and while I'm there, my car of choice is a limo. (This isn't because I have delusions of granduer--although that may be true--but because I have a theory that all the best drivers tend to work for the limo companies and I've never feared for my life while riding in one. A taxi, on the other hand, is almost as stressful as driving myself through a big city.) I love the convenience of having a cell phone, my laser printer is one of my favorite possessions, and I adore my computers. I've even hacked on html code, which for me is quite an accomplishment. Word for Windows is far different from the manual typewriters I learned querty on, and I wouldn't trade my ergo keyboard for anything but a newer model. I like restaurants, movies, and Estee' Lauder products. I bought the new Ford 500 car because of its side-curtain airbags and built-in safety features. I adore the in-dash CD player and the volume controls right there on the steering wheel. Our digital cameras are so wonderful and convenient that I'm thinking about getting a digital camcorder as well.

But on the other hand, I've had the urge lately to find a way to meet my past halfway. Use a few herbal shampoos and cosmetics, make a few things from scratch, teach my kids what a washboard and sadiron are for, and make sure they know how to cope with a few "primitive" technologies. When Y2K came I was almost hoping for something to happen, and when there wasn't even so much as a power blip I sighed in a combination of relief and resignation. It doesn't surprise me in the least that a lot of the "new" amazing cures for this or that ailment being touted on infomercials now are derived from simple herbal remedies that most of the drug companies would like people to forget exist. Women go under the knife to get bigger breasts when all they need are a few simple herbs. People put so many chemicals into their mouths and onto their skin that it's truly scary. But what if we could make a world where all our wonderful modern advances marched hand in hand beside a reverence for nature and a respect for our envronment? What if we could find a balance between our hectic lives and our need for relief from the stress we've created?

The other night, I was in front of the computer doing something that seemed very important at the time. My nine-year-old came to me and said, "Mama, the moon is full and it's rising and it's really yellow and beautiful! Would you come and watch it with me?" For just a second, I hesitated--but only for a second. How could I sit there and let such a request--such a moment--pass? I took her out on the balcony off the master bedroom and pretty soon the whole family ended up there, taking just five or maybe ten minutes to sit still and gaze at the moon. It woke me up to how much I'm missing by letting my life be completely ruled by that dang planner. I need some quilting. I need some home-baked something-or-other. I need a few minutes to look at the moon. And I need to remember that when I was sixteen, I sat on the hearth for hours during a very cold Christmas vacation and wrote my very first novel, longhand, into a spiral notebook.

The Secret of the Closet Door

Everybody's got a technique for plotting and brainstorming, or even a combination of techniques. With this upcoming third book of my trilogy, I'm going to be doing some pretty extensive outlining and prep work. Now, I know that pretty soon my writing addiction will kick in and I won't be able to keep my paws out of the work any longer, but before I jump into the first chapter, I'm going to use my Closet Door technique to figure out plot arcs for the characters in this book.

What I do is pick a different color 5 x 7 index card to represent each main character. In the case of this trilogy, Prince Xander gets the yellow cards, my heroine, Raena, is green, my seer, Dria, is purple, and my mer, Aurelia, is blue. (If you knew the plots for these books, you'd have a laugh at that last statement!) White cards represent my other minor characters except for the villain du jour, who is always the virulent pink color. On each card, I write out a brief scene blurb on the color card that represents the character whose point of view (POV) the scene will be in. Then as I plot out the story, I stick the cards up on the closet doors with poster tape. As scenes get removed or added or shuffled around, the cards get moved accordingly, and at a glance I can always tell who has which scene where in the story. That way if I haven't heard from someone in a while or I'm using one POV way too much, I'll know. I've tried other ways, and this is my favorite. It saved my bacon when I was writing Shadows of Memory. Trouble is, I can't really take this system with me on trips, and then I have to rely on a written outline in the laptop. I know there is at least one computer program out there that uses scene cards, but I feel the same way about the cards as I do about books: I don't want to read it on a computer screen. I want to hold it in my hand, write on it, crumple it up or throw it in the trash if I choose. And I don't want to have to access a computer file to get to it.

Any day now, out come the colored index cards, and the closet door will be stripped of the old cards and plastered with the new. I know I can't hold out much longer, even if my daughter's room still isn't painted.

Speaking of closet doors, the munchkins and I are very much looking forward to The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, coming out later this year. It was always my favorite C.S. Lewis book, with The Horse and His Boy running a close second.

The Wanderer Returns

I had a good trip up to Seattle and back, but the weekend just seemed entirely too short. I wish I'd gone up on Thursday afternoon instead of Friday morning because not only did I miss one keynote dinner, but I also missed part of a class I wanted to go to. The conference was good, and it was PNWA's 50th year, so I'm glad I went. Three out of four of the published authors I've met there in the past still remember me, so I'm doing all right. The sad part was, the one who didn't was the only fantasy author out of the four. Oh, well. No particular reason why he should remember me, since I'm still unpublished.

Shut up, Eeyore.

I'm starting to look forward to writing the third book of this trilogy. I still love the story, love the characters, and want to finish telling their story--once I figure out the exact details of what that is. But I need to take a couple of weeks where if I write something, great, and if I don't, I don't go on any guilt trips. I'm still trying to help my kids get their correspondance school year finished up. We'd gotten behind, and we're very close to being caught up now, but we still have a few things to do. At least we should have the month of August off before we have to hit it again. I have another conference coming up, we're going on a family vacation, and I still need to finish painting my younger daughter's room--a project which has been put off for far too long. She wants a fantasy forest in her room, so it's design-on-a-dime time. 'Bout time I got my house back under control and made good on a few promises before I plunge back into what my family and I call the "book fog."

To All the Citizens of the U K

My prayers and thoughts are with you. May whatever deity you worship grant you strength and peace and above all, hope.

I will never stop wondering at the sick, hateful, twisted thinking of some people. I will never stop hoping that some day we humans as one race, one species, can rise above all this and Just Get Along.

Dreams

I just ran across an interesting link on Patrick and Teresa Nielsen Hayden's weblog. The link goes to an article about dreams, particularly women's dreams in ancient Greece. Apparently most of the dreams recorded were of a sexual nature or related in some sense to childbearing, but it was interesting reading nonetheless. It's also not surprising that sexual dreams would tend to be recorded more than non-sexual ones, especially those coming from women in a male-dominated society. The link to that article is here.

The entire subject of dreams is interesting. Dreams are powerful and a very important part of our lives. If we didn't dream, we would all be walking around acting like raving lunatics, since dreams occur during REM sleep. That's why having your sleep interrupted too often makes you feel so exhausted--it's often not that you didn't get enough sleep in cumulative hours, but that you kept being awakened during the REM cycle. You can have 8+ hours of sleep and still be sleep deprived--and dream deprived. Even when you don't remember the dreams, they occur. I personally believe it's part of how a healthy mind and psyche helps us to work on and deal with problems. It's no wonder, then, that dreams are full of archetypes and symbolism.

Plenty of the writers out there have heard the injunction against using dream sequences in fiction. Some people think they're a weak crutch, while others think they're great if done right. I sort of have a foot in both camps. I like them if they're done right, but I hate to read them when they're a writer's quick way out of a problem that should have been solved differently. Anybody want to comment?

Happy Dance in the Endzone

I finished the edits to Shadows of Memory! Four chapters edited in two days--as I suspected, all it took was getting some time where I didn't have to play mommy or cater to anyone's needs. The Moxie were here and proofread the whole manuscript, line edits and all, and I've already sorted out which pages need fixing. Looks like the word count is going to end up at approximately 127,000 words, which is 22,000 words fewer than when I started this latest edit. I think I've done what Bob asked me to do, and my crit partners like it, so I think I'm ready to ship it this week.

On Thursday I need to take off for Seattle for the PNWA conference, and I want this mailed out by then. Now, that seems entirely possible--as opposed to how it seemed only a couple of days ago. Thank goodness for retreat weekends.

I'm going to be very anxious to read what the Moxie gets done by our next meeting. Stef is getting close to the end of her book, and Val has started a book that has me so hooked I'm going to hate the wait for the next installment. She can't possibly write the darned thing fast enough, and she's the fastest writer in the group.

So we've gone out to dinner and the ladies have gone home. I now have time to input the last of my edits and make sure the manuscript is all formatted correctly, and maybe even spend some time in front of the TV for a change. The best part is, I can do anything I want to because I'm alone in my own home for the first time in a year. That, and I'm sort of doing the little happy dance in the endzone because the edits are finally, finally done and I really love the way the book has turned out. Now maybe I'll stop dreaming that I'm pregnant and in stalled labor.

Cheers! Time to party.

Retreat

The Moxie and I are having a writers' retreat weekend at my house. Meanwhile, my family is off camping. I stayed up late last night to clean the house to get ready for the Moxie after my family trashed the house getting ready to go camping so that the Moxie and I could have the house to ourselves. And no, this is not the house that Jack built.

But I am getting my edits done. Three chapters more and I'm through with Shadows--at least until either Bob or a publisher tells me differently.

Deluge

I wouldn't blog about the weather if it weren't such a good metaphor for what's going on in my life this week. As I type this, I'm hunkered down behind my computer monitor because the evening sun is coming in at a bad angle through the arch in my window, and it's hard to see the screen. And this is after an incredible deluge of rain about an hour ago--rain so thick that almost all I could see ahead was the tail lights of the car in front of me. They say if you don't like the weather in Idaho, wait five minutes. It'll change. That's not usually the case in the summer, but this year has been exceptional for rain. I love it--except when it's trying hard to cause traffic accidents.

I got the car back today, and sure enough, it was the battery. One new battery and the car's ready to rumble again, thank goodness. You never know when I might get the urge to take a road trip.

In fact, I've decided to go to PNWA after all. I hadn't been planning to go, but then I read their list of classes and panels and decided that there are several things not to be missed. Plus, it gives me one more vacation to myself. That's what a trip away for work means to this full-time mom. I have to drive or fly hundreds of miles just to be without the family for three days and focus on my career? I have to dress up every day, laugh, smile and make lunch conversation with strangers? I have to sit in uncomfortable chairs for an hour and a half at a time and listen to authors, editors, agents and publicists drone on about how tough it's going to be to make it in the fiction market and how the odds are already stacked against me? Yeah, baby! Let's hit the road.

This is going to be a great conference. Check it out at the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association website.

Even before I go and do that, three members of the Moxie 4 are going to have our own private writers' retreat here at my house the weekend before 4th of July--yikes, that'd be this weekend, wouldn't it? At least two straight days of writing, brainstorming, eating and puzzle working in the company of two other people who are focused on the same goals I am. Sounds like synergy, ladies and gentlemen! And all without family underfoot to trip over. The Huz and kids are taking off for the weekend, leaving me alone, so of course I'm throwing my own brand of house party--just without the booze. Well, without much booze. It's not the alcohol you have to limit with the Moxie. It's the chocolate.

Getting the Jump On Things

My new car played some tricks on me yesterday. When I went to drive it somewhere, it refused to start, and wierd things were happening. It told me to check my traction control when we were still sitting in the garage, the radio kept popping on all by itself, and it kept playing around with its CD changer even when the key was turned off. You could hear it spinning and whirring and trying to rearrange tracks. It lost all the radio settings and the time setting, but kept the milage and trip odometer stuff. Then it started, but as soon as I'd driven it somewhere and turned it off, it refused to start again. Of course it did, you silly chick, its battery was dead! Right? Yeah, I'll admit at first I thought the problem was with the computer, not the battery, but after the Huz mentioned it when he came to get me I realized that he was probably right. And so thought the service guy at Ford today when we dropped it off to them for repair. It spent last night in a public parking lot, but fortunately it was under a street light, so it was about as safe as it could be given the circumstances. But I was not happy. Not happy at all.

It pretty much has to be the battery. When the engine is running, everything behaves normally--runs like a dream. But getting it started...nope. Not happening. This nice guy in the parking lot came over and asked me whether he'd just heard my car not start, said he had cables in his truck, and offered to give me a jump. I told him thanks, but that my husband was on his way, and that he'd jump me instead.

Yeah, you're probably thinking what I'm thinking. Probably. By the way, did you know that on jumper cables there's a positive and negative clamp and that if you put the wrong clamp on the wrong part of the battery (and sometimes if you jump it with the host vehicle's engine running) you can actually blow up your battery or wreck your car's charger? The Huz explained that he was glad the other guy hadn't given me a jump because he might have done it wrong. Heh.

The Thoughtful Spot

My younger daughter and I are reading Winnie-the-Pooh as we finish up our correspondance school year. Remember Pooh's Thoughtful Spot? It was the place where he went to do his serious thinking. Now, being a "bear of very little brain," Pooh didn't do any writing, but plenty of writers have had a very special spot where they do their best work. It's their garret, their attic, their personal writing sanctuary. For me, that special place is usually my office, because it's a room devoted to my computers and my writing, and...well...me. But sometimes I have to escape my escape, when the blank white screen remains too blank and too white, and the words just aren't flowing or there are too many interruptions. Sometimes I need a change of scene in order to get out of my own way and just get the job done. Tonight, my Thoughtful Spot was a local pub, where I ordered steak and iced tea and proceeded to let all the noise around me fade into the background as I worked on paper edits for Shadows. I've done it before, and it works well enough because even though there is noise, I don't have to respond to it. The only one who can command my attention is the wait staff, and they are there to cater to my needs, not demand that I respond to theirs. I love my home and my office, but sometimes the Throughtful Spot is just the place I need to be to shake things loose.

J.K. Rowling wrote the first Harry Potter books in a cafe in Scotland. I've seen writers at Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, and the public library. I know one writer who loves to go and sit outside with a laptop. So where's your Thoughtful Spot and what about it makes the wheels start turning?