Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Rachelle Gardner at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Soul Train
- Live Out Your Dream And Discard The Box
- Tears In A Bottle
- From The Young Mom I Once Was, To You
- I Can’t Help Falling
- What A Difference Ten Years Makes
- The Next Best Thing To Robert Redford
- The Memory Keeper’s Daughter
- Where Have All The Years Gone
- Fun With Kiki Cullen
- Stuck On Mom
- Ten Years Later, Our Girls From Northern Ireland Remembered
- The Thrift of Grief
- Job Security
- The Party’s Over
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
Four And A Half Months
It’s been a while since I updated you on the frugality efforts of the Raymonds, and on my personal weightloss efforts. I didn’t quite realize that both of these lifestyle we’ll-just-call-them adjustments happened within the same week or so, at the beginning of June.
As you’ll recall, since that time the decision was made for our youngest son, Kevin, to finish a degree program in Switzerland. He did his first two years at junior college, for almost no financial outlay. This current program crams two years of college into one ten-month period, and costs what you would expect two years of private college to cost. Which is to say, it ain’t cheap.
Besides his tuition, we’ve got a wedding to bankroll! So far, we’ve only plunked down money for the reception hall, but we have a pretty good idea of how much stuff costs and a very good idea of how much we’re willing to fork over.
Because we’ve cut other expenses (our cell phone bill, our car insurance bill, eating out, much-but-not-quite-all-Starbucks, Sam’s Club nights out, and more!!), we’ve thrown real money at this stuff and didn’t have to go into hock. In the past month, we also had no choice but to pay $1600 for roof repairs and $400 for a new hot water heater.
But it’s all good! I did our net worth statement this morning (something I do once per month for a reality check), and the bottom line showed a 3% increase over 30 days ago. If I could annualize that rate of increase, I’d be one happy mama.
OK, I’m happy anyway. And why not? We’ve plugged some serious leaks, eliminated some worthless habits, freed up money for important causes, and generally had the satisfaction of more….satisfaction.
Or, maybe I’m just happy because I’ve lost 25 pounds? All in all, a nice four and a half months, indeed.
A Win Situation
We have a winner! Congratulations to Bridget James of Warrensburg, Missouri, whose name was just three seconds ago randomly drawn from a fistful of names to win a book by fallible guest Nancy Moser.
It’s a good thing I did the drawing in front of my sleeping husband, who opened one eye to make sure I was on the up and up, since the winner is none other than my baby sister.
Bridget, Nancy will be signing a copy of either Mozart’s Sister or The Good Nearby—your choice—and popping it in the mail.
Thanks again to Nancy for the fun interview, and to everyone who engaged her in further discussion. I know I learned a lot!
To The Nines
From the time I sat down in Starbucks and took in the sight of the group of women, I had one of them pegged.
Nine of them were dressed to the nines, all in skirts and heels and jewels. But the tenth? She was dressed to the tens. Her nails bore none of those tell-tale gaps between the cuticles and the acryllic, the funky, not-found-in-nature spaces that speak of several neglectful days of missed manicures. Her coif would not have moved even if she’d thrown her head back and guffawed, which I instantly realized would not happen with this woman in this crowd—ever.
The ten ladies, five of whom appeared old enough to be the mothers of the other five, circled around a small table as if it was a campfire. There they told their stories, which I could not hear. It didn’t matter, of course. I could read them like a book, and did for two long hours.
The Tenth had the kind of Mona Lisa smile I find infuriating. After all, she didn’t outclass the others by that much, but she sure acted like she did. The two ladies to her left whispered to each other and she stared straight ahead. I caught a glimpse of the ladies across the table, wondering if she might be completely absorbed in their conversation, but they also talked among themselves.
The high and mighty one failed to turn her head to the left or to the right, in case she might be called upon to actually interact with one of the lowly Nines.
I wondered why they’d even invited her, since they didn’t seem to know her very well, and she plainly didn’t care.
An hour into their party (for a celebratory atmosphere did eventually set in), I couldn’t help but notice that the Tenth let her left arm dangle over the arm of the upholstered chair upon which she’d enthroned herself. Her other hand remained in her lap, and her expression never changed, but her fingernails began systematically digging into the corded trim of the unfortunate chair.
Up and down slid her bony hand, gnawing at the brown velvet, punishing it for crimes unspoken, relentlessly slitting the chair’s narrow throat with each slice of her sharpened fingers.
Once, her lips moved. Her head even turned, though her hair somehow failed to follow. It was then I saw that a single long-stemmed pink rose had been laid in the center of the table. Within a moment, a woman on the far side of the group opened a little gift book—the kind Hallmark produces for occasions like this—and read it aloud.
I couldn’t hear the words, but each member of the group paid rapt attention. I saw one turn to another with tears running down her face, and that’s when I knew the event must have been in her honor. Ah, yes. The stillettos should have given it away from moment one. These women—pharmaceutical sales reps all—gathered to celebrate the recent promotion of one in their ranks to Regional Sales Manager.
So that was it, eh? The Tenth’s jealousy drove her to distraction.
The party wound down, the coffee dregs completely drained, and one by one the women trickled from the shop. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five.
The rose remained, untouched, thorns and all. I could not leave until I saw the new Sales Manager pick up her rose, until I knew for certain.
Four, three, two. Two. Would the Tenth congratulate the party girl, or not? A phone rang out, and suddenly I realized that my ears had been opened.
The unblinking woman halted her attack on the upholstery, reached into her purse, and pulled out the intrusive object. She looked at the number displayed on the screen and acted as if she’d ignore the caller, too.
“I’d better go,” said the other woman. She hugged the Tenth and walked out the door, leaving the rose on the table.
The last woman sitting answered the phone. “Come get me, will you, honey?”
As I watched, she picked up the pink rose and wept into its open bloom.
“Yes, the doctor called, right before the party started. The girls have been so good to me, honey. And they’ve all been through so much, you know. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them, but I have to tell you…”
A few seconds passed, and then an entire lifetime.
“Six weeks.”
Author, Author!
I’ve got a fun treat for you folks today.
It’s been my joy to be friends with author Nancy Moser since the moment we met at a writers group in Kansas City, I don’t know—maybe twelve years ago. If you don’t know about Nancy and her wonderful books, you’re missing out. I want better for you!
I hope you’ll feel a part of my conversation with Nancy so much that you’ll leave a comment on this post. (Hey, ask her a question! She can deal!) From the commenters, I’ll choose one fortunate fallible reader who’ll receive a free copy of either Mozart’s Sister or The Good Nearby—your choice. Even if you won a book here just last week, you still qualify. That’s the kind of fallible blogger I am!
Katy: Nancy, tell us a bit about how you got into writing. You have a degree in architecture, right? How did you get from there to here?
Nancy: I’ve always loved to write, but life got in the way. I’m sure many writers can relate to that one. My husband also graduated in architecture, and there were few jobs in that market, so I let him go that route and I took other jobs. Then we had three kids and started a subcontracting business, where I learned accounting by just doing it!
Katy: Eeeeeewwww. I keep accounts for our corporation, too. But somehow I still don’t think I’ve learned accounting. Hmmm….I digress, huh?
Nancy: Indeed. Anyway, I still wrote on the side. I started out trying to write children’s books (thinking that would be easy) but got no where. I’m way too wordy! Then I wrote short humor essays that did get published in various magazines.
Katy: If I remember right, the night we met you’d just had a humor article published in Good Housekeeping. I thought that was amazing—heck, I still think so.
Nancy: Eventually, lots of those published articles were compiled into three books of inspirational humor (“Save Me, I Fell in the Carpool” is one.) But during all this noodling, I was also writing novels.
Katy: Is there such a thing as low-carb noodling? Maybe this is where I’m going wrong…
Nancy: I noodled my way through five novels for the secular market, basically learning how to write as I wrote. And rewrote. And rewrote. I can’t number the rejections I received! But in 1995 I had a God-moment that led me closer to Him, and changed the direction of my writing. Since then, I’ve had 15 inspirational novels published. So I guess that proves that once you get on the road He has for you, things start happening. In retrospect, I’m so thankful for all those initial rejections. Without them, I would never have found the right road.
Katy: A writer’s habits seem to hold endless fascination for us. A lot of readers and wannabe writers picture an attic garret, albeit one with central air in the summer, but still. Do you keep a set schedule? Are you what they call a seat-of-the-pants writer, or do you have everything plotted out and outlined before you start? What about writing tools? PC or Mac? Ballpoint or fountain? Palm Pilot or Alphasmart?
Nancy: Since I now have deadlines (which is a good thing), I have become very organized. My novels are generally 95,000-105,000 words. So when I get a contract and a deadline, I print up calendar pages from the present to the due date, and with a highlighter mark the weekdays available for writing (taking out vacations, weekends, known busy days, etc.) That gives me a true idea of how much time I have to write the book. Then I keep out a week at the end to reread everything, add up the days, divide them into 95,000, and find a daily word count number as my goal.
Katy: I’m getting dizzy. That’s a lot of math. Or accounting. Or one of those other skills I haven’t learned.
Nancy: For my current book on Jane Austen, I’m writing 1400 words per day. But with “Mozart’s Sister” it was only 750. I get up early (about 5), do my email and other computer junk, and make myself start writing at 8 (if not before.) I sit in the chair (except for coffee and potty breaks) until I’ve got my quota.
Katy: You take potty breaks? Just kidding.
Nancy: Ah. I generally write 500-600 words an hour, though that can obviously vary greatly. So you see, I only write mornings. I’m usually done by 11:30. I write weekend mornings, too, but those are bonuses. And in the afternoons and evenings I am free to live the rest of my life. Yet I admit I’m always thinking about writing. It never truly leaves me.
Katy: Favorite tools of the trade?
Nancy: I use a PC, and an Alphasmart (I love this thing!) I have an office in the basement with a lovely view (I have come to adore “views”) and sit with the keyboard in my lap, and my feet up on a milk-stool. And yes, I admit to being a seat-of-the-pants writer for my contemporary novels. Though as the novels progress, I do get clues about where they are going and certainly write those ideas down, which I suppose is a form of outlining. Just not up front.
Katy: Until recently, you’ve written all contemporary women’s fiction, right? And now….what?
Nancy: Historicals…a whole new ball game. I’m fictionalizing the life of a real person, which involves a ton of research. I do a lot of prep work for those books, and generally find one biographer I really love and read the book clear through, making copious notes in the margins, and marking possible “scenes.” Then I transcribe the notes to my computer, put the “scenes” in chronological order, and begin. The writing is the easy part!
Katy: Spoken like a true pro.
Nancy: While I’m writing, I have 3-4 reference books open at all times, getting many takes on a particular moment in the subject’s life. I also footnote my manuscript for the use of myself and my editor (it’s important to remember where I’ve found a piece of information.) When I can use the subject’s own words (usually taken from letters), I do. I love that. And of course the footnotes are removed in the final manuscript.
Katy: If you could give aspiring writers one piece of advice besides the obvious BOC (butt on chair), what would it be? Or is the obvious obvious for an obvious reason? :)
Nancy: BOC is essential. Even if it’s only for 30 minutes a day. That adds up. When I had three kids I used to try to write with them running around me, being . . . kids. I started to resent them; they were keeping me from achieving my dream. Not a good thing. That’s what got me started getting up so early. I needed to find a time when no one else was up! Now, with my first grandchild on the way (I just found out!) I’m still getting up early. Seven days a week.
Katy: You’re the youngest looking grandma I’ve seen in a while. Congrats!
Nancy: Thanks! The other piece of advice is to read good books and figure out why you like them. And on the flip side, don’t waste your time reading bad books (though perhaps figuring out why they are bad could be useful too.) If a book doesn’t grab me in 25 pages, I put it down. Keep that in mind with your own writing…
Katy: No offense, but when you say “keep that in mind with your own writing,” are you, like, referring to MY OWN WRITING?
Nancy: No offense taken. Yes.
Katy:Mozart’s Sister is a new writing venture for you, isn’t it? Can you tell us how the idea ever occurred to you? And isn’t it unusual to attempt historical fiction in first person, from the point-of-view of a known historical character?
Nancy: My old mantra was “I don’t do research. I hate research.” I never planned on writing historicals. But two years ago I was standing in Mozart’s house in Salzburg, Austria, and heard the tour guide say, “Some people don’t know this, but Mozart’s sister was just as talented as he was, but because she was a woman, she didn’t receive the same opportunities to use her talent.” I found this interesting and when I got home, I put it in the proposal for a contemporary novel I was putting together. I created a modern author who was writing a book called “Mozart’s Sister.”
Katy: Sounds like a winner to me….
Nancy: I thought so, too. My agent sent the proposal out, and within a few days, I got a call from Dave Horton at Bethany House Publishers. “I don’t want the contemporary novel, I want Mozart’s Sister.” I told him, “But I don’t write historicals.” “I want Mozart’s Sister. First person. Her point of view.” “But I write third person, big cast novels.” “I want Mozart’s Sister.” “But I don’t do research.” It was like that.
Katy: Yikes!
Nancy: Because of Dave’s persistence and vision, I wrote “Mozart’s Sister” and found it the most satisfying and personally exciting book I’ve ever written. To give a woman-of-history a voice…I take the responsibility very seriously and try my hardest to do their lives justice. I am currently writing a fictionalized biography of Jane Austen’s life. I will say capturing Jane’s “voice” is a real challenge.
Katy: The research you did for Mozart’s Sister must have been extensive, because the sense of factual accuracy enhances the story line all the way through. Explain to us what kind of documents you used in researching to ground the story in reality. Was it difficult to find the documents you needed to create an accurate timeline of events, for instance?
Nancy: It was very difficult to find information about Nannerl Mozart, because all the books are about her brother, Wolfgang. When she is mentioned it is a part of his story. But luckily, the Mozarts were avid letter writers, and the father Leopold insisted that the letters were kept (he must have had some inkling how important they would be for future generations.) Those letters were invaluable, and often I was able to use quotes. I also found Nannerl’s diary—in German—and bought it, planning to have it translated. But then I found reference to it in other books, and they said it was disappointing because it offered no insight into her feelings, but was simply a “I went walking in the garden” type of diary. The timeline was not that difficult because of the letters. But there were stretches of time when events are unknown—especially when all the family was together in one place. No letters. No information. I did my best to fit the pieces together.
Katy: For some reason, I always imagine people in previous generations to be more compliant with the dictates of the society they lived in than we are today. Yet you portray a girl who is clearly not pleased with her “place,” which is always somehow secondary to her younger brother, Wolfgang. How common do you think it was in those days for a woman to yearn to use her God-given talents outside the sphere of her own home?
Nancy: I think women felt the urge to be all they could be, yet not to the same extent that we do now. It’s like a person who’s never tasted chocolate. They don’t yearn for chocolate because they don’t know how wonderful it is.
Katy: O taste and see that the chocolate is good…
Nancy: I know! Women of history had little freedom and few choices. That is the life they knew. I believe they had inklings of other life possibilities, but didn’t know how to make it happen, or even realize how good it might be. In fact, this phenomenon is one reason why it’s difficult for me to find subjects to write about. Generally, those few women who bucked the system to get what they wanted, did so with gusto. They were often scandalous women who had illegitimate children, affairs, and generally got in big trouble according to the eyes of society. Although their lives are certainly interesting, I choose to write about women who inspire and who achieved within the system. If any readers have ideas for another woman-of-history that might make a good subject, I’d love to hear from them: Visit my site or email me!
Katy: You know what? It would be just like fallible readers to come up with some great suggestions! Any other titles coming out soon?
Nancy: I have a book coming out at the end of October, “The Good Nearby.” It’s a contemporary novel about people searching for meaning and a girl who has the number 96 appear in her life over and over (what does it mean?) It involves being the “good nearby” in other people’s lives, seeing “the good nearby” in your own life, and knowing that God is “the good nearby” in all our lives.
Katy: Nancy, I gotta say it: You’ve personally been the Good Nearby to me in so many ways, for so many years. Thanks for your friendship, and for sharing your time with us here!
Mother Of The Fried
We make quite a pair, my only daughter and me.
The poor thing moved back in with her old mom and dad at the end of July. She hadn’t lived with us—or in Kansas City—for six years. The day we drove over to Columbia, Missouri to haul her stuff home, her boyfriend Marc sneaked in a little aside, one of those asides a Mom remembers forever.
“I need a chance to talk to you,” he whispered to Doug and me while the girl was sticking a lamp in the truck. “I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Doug didn’t waste many words. “She’s more than a hand, Marc. She’s a handful.”
Since then, Carrie’s gotten engaged, started a Master’s degree program, and begun teaching handicapped kids in a Kansas City, Missouri, inner city school. She’s exhausted and exhiliarated, over and over again, each day. A couple of her students are in wheelchairs, a couple more use walkers. Several have cerebral palsy and some wear diapers. Not all of them speak, but the classroom brims with the kind of communication a loving teacher encourages.
All I know is, if I were one of the seven little girls in my daughter’s class, I would be thrilled to spend my days with Miss Carrie.
Now, of course, on top of a move, an engagement, the pursuit of a Master’s degree, and a new career, she’s planning a wedding.
I think this is where I come in—kind of. It’s not easy being Mother of the Fried. Emotions and hormones run high and some days, hot—and that’s just me.
Yesterday was one of those days. But finally, after weeks of online research, a frenzy of phone calls, and visits to a dozen wedding and reception venues, we’re signing a contract today. Carrie and Marc are getting married on June 30, in the beautiful columned space called Kirk Hall in the downtown KC Public Library. The reception will be on the top floor of the 1906 building (originally the First National Bank, where my father worked until I was eight years old), where we’ll use a lovely room indoors and the entire rooftop as well.
If you’ve never planned a wedding, let me just say dates go fast. Sometimes, they’re yanked right out from under you before you can pull the cap off your pen to—as my father used to say—sign your life away.
But now that a place has been secured, I think we can relax, at least for the moment.
Then again, I’ve heard photographers book way ahead.
Sticker Shock!
OK, I may be a bit behind the times, but I know all about The Patch.
Patches come in tons of varieties these days: the nicotine patch, the birth control patch, the pain med patch—you name it. Since I’m arriving so late to the party, I seriously doubt I’ll ever be able to boast of wearing The Patch, but I’m still intrigued.
In 1990, a hysterectomy beat me to the general public’s use of the birth-control patch. I don’t need the nicotine patch because I’ve never smoked, to speak of. Notice I didn’t say I’ve never smoked, only that I don’t speak of it.
I exaggerate, people. I don’t LIE.
As for pain meds, my pains are sharp and to the point, and that’s the way I like my medications, too. None of this slow and steady delivery system for me. What a snoozer! I don’t have that many good years left.
Since I am completely patch-free, imagine my surprise when last night I laid my hand on my jammie-covered abdomen and felt something scratchy under the fabric, adhered to my skin. It didn’t jump, crawl, bite, or sting as scratchy things in the country are often wont to do, so that was good.
But, still, what could it be? I raised my top and ventured a few fingers that direction. I peeled that sucker from the space above my belly button and held it up to the lamp.
$17.99, folks. Apparently, that’s the price that’s stuck itself to my particular so-called life. I can live with that, I guess.
Especially since the rest of my identifying info clearly reads “Size 7.”
And The Winners Are….(Denise Hunter, We Need A Drum Roll!)
It’s 8:30 am in Kansas City, and the contest is closed. What contest? you may be asking.
Funny, that. Here’s the deal: On the writers loop I’m a part of, we are allowed to promote our blogs once and once only. I’ve been a member two years, and have never used my one-time opportunity—until yesterday.
I decided to run a little comment contest over here, which explains all the new names in the comment section. I declared on the loop that four names would be chosen out of one of my many hats, and that each of the four would receive the CBA (Christian Booksellers Association) novel of his choice.
I should have actually blogged about the contest in a separate entry, so that my regular readers would have known what was happening, but I TOTALLY SPACED IT OUT. Now, if that’s not out of character for me, I don’t know what is! Sigh.
However, the names have been duly drawn, and fine names they are!
Lori Chally, Suzan Robertson, Michael Snyder, and Cheryl Wyatt.
I’m off to email the fortunate commenters now. Later, I may post the names of the books they’d most like to read, just for fun.
Thanks to all of you who entered! Hope you keep reading here at fallible. In the next couple of weeks, I’ll be chatting with two great authors, Nancy Moser and Lisa Samson, about their latest books. Should be a great time!
Overwhelmed, But In A Really, Really Good Way…
Right off the bat, you can probably picture me sprawled out on the bed in my jammies, worn to within a wrinkle of my life by Writers Conference Overload.
You think I’ve gotten a sinus infection from the unrelenting Texas humidity and now have three prescriptions ready to pick up at Osco, if I can only drag my pathetic self to the car and hit-up the all-night pharmacy.
You think it’ll take me a week to recover from the excitement because, well…I’m kind of an old chick as young chicks go, but you know what? It’s Doug who’s exhausted. That’s right. Doug.
Since we got home from the American Christian Writers Conference five hours ago, I have not ceased to regale the man with fantastic stories of the people I met, the friends with whom I reunited, the editors and agents I pitched and thoroughly enjoyed, the authors who gave of their talents and time so generously, and the stratospheric quality of the down comforter and pillows at the Dallas Marriott.
After an hour, he got a few words in edge-wise. “I’m so glad you had a great time…”
“Oh, baby, you don’t know the tenth of it.”
He didn’t smile too broadly, and I wondered why.
“Let me tell you about…” My mouth off and ran for the next full hour, no inhalation needed, thank you VERY much.
“Hon, that’s great. And you liked the Early Bird session, too—” It was more of a statement than a question, a technicality I didn’t pick up on at the moment.
“Are you KIDDING? It was the highlight of my LIFE!” Of course, I didn’t mean my whole life, but at least the couple days’ worth of my life I’d just condensed into two hyperactive hours. “Colleen Coble and Deb Raney did an amazing job, and the girl with the black hair and the black framed glasses who looked EXCELLENT in the periwinkle silk jacket had a supurb blurb about her romantic suspense and Colleen said she—”
“How was the dinner for the Faith in Fiction crowd? The ones who comment on that Bethany House editor’s blog?”
“You mean Dave Long? How sweet of you to remember! Suzan Robertson—you know the girl I mean, right? the one with the Bronx accent and the naturally curly black hair I’d die (and dye) for? here, let me show you her picture on her blog—well, she organized it and reserved a space forever ago and man, oh, man, were there ever some fun people there. I heard a bunch of them went out afterwards until some hour that could only be described by me as ‘wee’ and did whatever faithy fiction folks do…”
His eyes sparkled, but not for long before the first fruits of terminal glaze set in.
“Are you going to give me a blow-by-blow of every single hour of the entire five days, including the ‘wees’?”
“What, babe? You can’t keep up?”
“It’s not that,” he said, but I had to wonder. “Although, I did lose track when you started describing the Formal Banquet Entree Exchange Program. Did you really trade Lisa Samson’s chicken for your salmon? Scraped it off her china right there in the ballroom, with the crystal chandeliers and the swan-folded napkins and the four forks each?”
It’s not MY fault that he had the poor judgment to ask a question at this stage of the game, knowing that I would have no problem keeping this conversation going well nigh unto forever.
“You know very WELL Lisa is a vegan!” I said, feeling suddenly defensive to think he couldn’t appreciate the finer points of my buddies’ dietary persuasions. I also reminded myself to go to dictionary.com and get the scoop on veganism once and for all. “The polenta went to my right, the rolls and butter made the full circle without stopping twice except at Michael Snyder’s plate, and my cheesecake landed in the middle of the table, up for grabs.”
That was all it took. His eyes coated over faster than hot glaze poured on a Krispy Kreme. Five full hours of chatting him up, and here’s his final whimper of an answer:
“How soon can I sign you up for next year?”
Five Days, Four Nights, And No Harrison Ford In Sight
By the end of this post, you’ll be wondering why I mentioned Harrison Ford in the title, so I might as well tell you now. It’s because we just watched that movie with him and Anne Heche, the one where the two of them crash his plane on a deserted island (Man! I almost spelled out “desserted” island, which sounds SO much better!). It’s called Six Days, Seven Nights, or Seven Days, Six Nights, or something like that.
There’s also a second very valid reason why I included Mr. Ford’s name in my title: Because I Can.
My good buddy Kath and I will leave my driveway at approximately 6 am Wednesday morning, along with Chauffeur Doug, who will drop us at the airport for our flight to Dallas. I am as ready as I can be for the American Christian Writers Conference, except that—contrary to popular advice—I have NOT memorized any elevator pitches for my novel.
I’m more of a wing-it type of chick, which could explain my current lack of published book credits. Hmmm….I’ll give that some more thought, but for now it’s time to pack.
I thought I’d let my readers—especially the men—see something of the quandary we women face when we set our faces like flint to fill the suitcase. I’ve set out eight pairs of shoes, one evening bag, one purse, and four computer bags for possible inclusion in my packables. A wheeled computer bag is absolutely going, but it’s mostly for the airport. I would feel goofy wheeling it around at the conference, so one of the smaller shoulder computer bags will also be making the trip.
The question is: Which one?
As for the shoes, they’re all going. If you have to ask why, you’re most likely one of those fellows I’ve been thinking of.
I realized when pulling all these bags out of the closet that I’d given my luggage tags to Kevin when he left for Switzerland 16 days ago. (He’s doing great, by the way, but BOO-HOO! I miss him…) I finally found one attached to a duffel of Doug’s, with his business card stuck into the hard plastic enclosure. On the back of his card, he’d written “San Juan,” and while that should have taken me back, it took me no where.
Has he—or have we—ever been in San Juan? I need to take better notes!
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Anyway, I removed the tag from his bag and replaced his business card with my own. Then I looked at the rubber-band type thingie meant to fasten the tag to the bag. I poked one end of the rubber band through the little slot on the tag and looped the other end around the handle of the bag, but then what?
A total dead end. Unless of course I proceeded to make a jumbled knot out of the flexible rubber, hoping against hope that eventually an unnatural attachment would take place between the independent-behaving tag and the aloof bag.
Fifteen minutes, people. That’s how long I attempted to do the math of this particular puzzle before hauling the bag and my sorry behind in to Doug, the resident genius. Even he managed to be completely perplexed for sixty seconds, but with him—unlike with me—the solution made itself apparent.
Instead of merely poking the end of the rubber band through the slot in the tag and calling it done, he finished that transaction by looping the tag all the way through the waiting band. Then he advanced to Part Two of the whole messy operation, which involved the same technique of looping around and through the suitcase handle.
Have I made myself perfectly clear? Because by now, it should be plainly evident to any intelligent reader that this post should have been called “How Not To Pack.”
But I sure wasn’t mistaken when I called myself “fallible,” huh?
Faking It
If you’ve read here for any length of time, you know I’m not normally the nervous type.
In fact, you probably frequent fallible precisely for the sense of calm that automatically descends upon your agitated psyche the second you click over and see that sedate Victorian chick, pensive though she may be.
It pains me to have to admit this to you, but I am often the unwitting (and unwilling) victim of fits of high anxiety, the likes of which you’ve likely never experienced unless you, too, have encountered cobwebs connecting your crystal chandelier to your dining room chairs. Trust me, when this happens in September—with all of spidery October still ahead—even I, a paragon of semi-comatose peace, become a bundle of bristling B-12 deficient nerves.
It’s not just the cobwebs on the chandelier, though. It’s the cobwebs in my mind. Suddenly I’m picturing next week’s 15-minute appointments with agents and editors and my stomach’s twittering. There’s a tempting zit I’d love to take a poke at right about now, but what if the agent I’m hoping to attract thinks I’m the product of spousal abuse, or maybe that those pesky spiders freed themselves from the brass and glass and had their way with me?
The 15-minute pitches are wracking enough, but it’s the table-for-eight pitches—wherein an editor or agent hosts a table and the conference attendees RUN (think the opening of Macy’s on the day after Thanksgiving…) to sit with their notables of choice.
At a round table, I can hear exactly one person—the one on my left. There will be 400 people in that banquet room, and every lunch and dinner is a new but not improved chance for me to pitch my novel, to receive from the table’s host that all-coveted invitation to “Yes, please send me your proposal! Here’s my contact info.”
What do you think my chances are that Mr Agent or Ms. Editor will ever sit on my left?
I dread dinners out with family and friends, because they more often than not catch me faking it. I’ll say something that I think provides kind of a catch-all response to whatever might have just been said by someone else—my way of trying to stay in the take-a-chance-and-make-up-a-non-word Scrabble game of life.
“Mom,” one of the kids invariably pipes up, “What did you THINK I said?”
Maybe unilateral deafness isn’t something to get too worked up about, I don’t know. If I say something stupid like “I love you,” (hat tip to Frank and Nancy Sinatra), the old one-ear-is-stone-deaf-please-accept-my-apologies line could come in handy.
Deaf or no deaf, one thing’s for sure. Thinking about selling myself makes me nervous, and next week I’ll be doing a whole lot of faking it.
Suspicious Mind
OK, it’s like this: I did the dishes a couple of hours ago. There are only two of us in the house, and we haven’t eaten since the kitchen was last cleaned.
So I hear Doug in the kitchen banging around. It sure sounds like he’s doing dishes. There’s that signature move he does wherein the washee gets knocked precipitously against the faucet a couple of times for good measure. (We’ve actually got a few glasses that have survived being washed by Doug. More power to them, I say.)
Doug knows I’m in a grouchy (read: progesterone imbalanced) mood. He knows that the last thing I dreamed before awakening this morning was that MY ENTIRE HEAD of hair turned grey overnight, the Excellence of L’Oreal notwithstanding.
But surely he wouldn’t try to suck up by washing ONE SOLITARY dish, would he? Because that would make me really, really…...you don’t want to know.
I walk to the bedroom door, where I’ve got a good view of him with his hands immersed in the sink. Steam rises, and not just from the water. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing,” he says—and you’ll have to trust me when I say this is not my favorite answer. It had better not be his final one.
“Nothing?”
He turns and looks at me, and uses an even more nonchalant voice than usual. “Just washing a cup.”
“A cup,” I say in a deadpan tone. “Why?”
“Um….because I used it in the bathroom.”
What? He’s pregnant and needs to produce a urine sample? Impossible. He’s 54. I don’t say a word. I just stand there staring and wait until he decides to finish the story.
Finally, the whole truth. “I used it to catch a frog.”
Nice save.
Novel Approach
Two weeks from today, I’ll be sitting with thirty others in the Early Bird Session (think I’ll catch any worms?) of the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference in Dallas.
In the session, authors Deb Raney and Colleen Coble—who will have been perusing our manuscripts since September 1—will offer personalized tips for improving our stories. Besides their valuable critiques, time will be allowed for each novelist’s work to be brainstormed by the others in the group.
I’ve been party to a few critique groups, but never a brainstorming session. I hear you can come away from a good brainstorming time with more ideas for your book than you know what to do with. I hope I can be a viable contributor to the others, since some days I feel that my storm is more like a mild sprinkle. :)
This whole crazy novel-writing thing started nearly five years ago, when I challenged myself to do National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) in November of 2001. I completed 50,000 truly horrible words that month, words I’ve never shown anyone because they are more dreadful than even I can bear. But, hey, it was a start.
I abandoned that ill-begotten story and moved to the next. I worked on Novel Number Two for a year or so before giving it the heave-ho, too. Before I trashed it, I actually took the beginnings of that novel to the Calvin College Festival of Faith and Writing in 2002, and several editors asked me to send them the proposal and three chapters. What? You mean I’ve got to finish THREE WHOLE CHAPTERS? And what on earth, I wondered, is a proposal?
They say the third book’s the charm, don’t they? Man, I hope they’re right!
I’ll go to Dallas with my third novel actually finished, except for the kind of tweaking that writers always do, even to novels long published. I learned how to write a proposal, and even how to get past writing the first few chapters over and over again, ad infinitum.
Every scene in a book should move the story forward, and it’ll be fun to see if every book in my life moves me forward. I can’t wait to meet the editors and agents in the line-up at ACFW, plus all my wonderful writer friends in the group.
And who knows? One of these days, I may be blogging about getting a contract to publish my very third book.
Whoa. The idea of it sends me right back to the tweaking board.
Time
Not much is going on with the Raymond family these days, but I thought I’d fill you in on a few tidbits.
You may remember that our daughter moved back home on July 31. She hadn’t lived with us for six years. That very day, her boyfriend Marc asked us for her hand in marriage. Doug told him, “She’s more than a hand. She’s a handful.” Since then, of course, he’s proposed. On Sunday, we did the Meet the Parents dinner at Outback (what a lovely family…). Yesterday, Carrie started her new job teaching severely handicapped first-graders in the inner city here in KC. She’s going through so many changes, so fast…and so are we. Even though she’s right here with us, she’s moving on, and I miss her.
Ten days ago, after we had the blow-out party for my youngest son, Kevin, he also moved home. He’d only been gone one year, but still. He’ll be here until Friday morning, when he’s moving to Switzerland for ten months to complete a degree program. We may fly him home once during that time, if Carrie and Marc settle on a wedding date inside of ten months. He asked me to hem his three new pairs of pants yesterday. Something about him asking broke my heart. I’ll miss him so much.
Our oldest son, Scott, who’s married to Brooke, hasn’t moved back home. However, he’s on a September 1 deadline with O’Reilly Books. He’s under contract with them to write his first manuscript, a manual on Ruby on Rails, a computer language in which he’s considered an expert. Look for it in better bookstores in December! If you go to Amazon and key in Scott Raymond, you can read all about it now! I haven’t wanted to bother him for the past month or so, because I know he’s feeling the stress, but I miss him.
On Thursday, I’ll be with my baby sister Bridget at the hospital all day. She’s having surgery to repair two herniated discs in her neck. Say a prayer for her, please! She’s nervous, and understandably so. I told my mother not to worry, that I would be her baby’s Mama for the day, but even as I reassured her, I realized how much I miss being the child, and my mother being the mom.
I’m kidding when I say not much is going on. You caught that, right? I am trying to finish editing my novel before I go to the American Christian Fiction Writers conference next month and Doug is trying to keep all his business plates spinning. Often, if we try to speak one complete sentence to each other these days, we’re interrupted by the phone or a slamming door or an excited kid filling us in on the latest details. All amazing life interruptions, but I miss my tender husband.
So this morning, somehow I found myself at a site called “Alarm Clocks Online.” I love clocks, as long as they’re not electric. Battery operated clocks are OK, but my personal lifelong favorite is the wind-up alarm clock.
I should have known what would happen when I clicked on the page called “Wind-Up Alarms.” There they were, lined up in all their 1950s-style glory, taking me back to the edge of my parents’ bed. And there sat my father, winding his clock, silently assuring me that even though the Cubans had missiles pointing at our very house, the sun would come up again tomorrow.
It had no choice. My Father had wound the clock. How I miss him.
I cried this morning over wind-up alarm clocks, let my tears fall as if my father sat right beside me, the steadfast clock in his hands. He never said much, but this morning I just needed to picture him there, needed to remember that no matter what tomorrow might bring, life’s clock must every night be wound.
Cheap Dates
I’ve always been a cheap date. In fact, expensive dates make me really nervous. If my hubby takes me out for steak, I don’t want to dollar cost average each tiny bite. Kind of sucks the fun right out of a rib-eye, doesn’t it?
Sure, ambiance is nice, and there are restaurants in Kansas City with plenty of it and price tags to match. I’ve been in quite a few of them—once. To me, they’re like limousines. You’re only meant to experience them once in a lifetime and if you do it more often than that, you dilute the effect.
So, while Doug and I have always prided ourselves on our cheap dates, we’ve lowered the ante. Exactly how cheap have we gotten?
These days, we’re pretty much insisting that the date pays us. For example, we received notice in the mail of a new Caribou Coffee joint going in not far from us. The first 100 people through the doors at the Grand Opening were promised coupons for free drinks.
We made sure we were in that 100, folks. We got free coffee on the spot, 5 oz. of ground decaf to brew at home, gourmet cookies, two Caribou t-shirts, and two gift cards for $4 each. We had the pleasure of an outing which cost us zero, zip, nada, plus we scored some goodies. Yesterday, we popped in to use one of our gift cards. Since we ordered decaf, they gave us another free bag of ground decaf for our home stash!
You’re probably admiring us right about now. You’re probably thinking you should even model your (most likely expensive) dating life after us. I don’t blame you one bit.
But before you attempt to keep down with the Raymonds, I’ll go ahead and confess where we went for free on Saturday morning.
The University of Kansas Medical Center was sponsoring—for FREE!—a Community Preparedness Bird Flu Conference! Free breakfast, people! All the free coffee we could drink! Free coffee mugs with the KU logo to add to our collection of coffee mugs we end up giving to the thrift store!
And laughing out loud at our exorbitant cheapness all the way home? Priceless.
Hot
After six years relatively symptom-free, I’m having hot flashes from hello.
Do you remember when you were a little kid and you had a fever, complete with chills and then sweats? How you’d have seven blankets piled on top of you and tucked in by your Mommy, who said she needed to help you “break the fever,” and then you’d wake up an hour later drenched all the way through your I Dream of Jeannie pajamas?
It’s like that, without the fever. But hey, who needs a thermometer when you can bodily experience the temperatures both in the steamy tropics and in the frozen tundra all in the space of ten minutes flat?
I’m not bitter, really. But I’m not happy, either. People, I’ll soon be 53 years old! I’m far too mature to have to be reduced to someone so…immature.
Having the sweats overtake me makes me say crazy things, things I don’t mean. I said a few of those things to my beloved husband this morning. He looked aghast for a moment but then answered me like the saint he is.
“Well, I’m never going to leave you, if that’s what you’re afraid of…”
Afraid? Is he nuts? The only thing I’m afraid of is that he might look at me cross-eyed one more time, putting himself in serious danger.
As soon as I let him know my views about my supposed fears, we had to pile in the car for an appointment. The hot flash had not let up and honestly, I was frantic. When I’m frantic, I…um, say stuff.
So I said a bunch of stuff I didn’t mean, and do you know what he had the NERVE to do? Instead of putting a few conciliatory words out there so that I could say even MORE stuff, he reached up to the car’s dashboard and pointed EVERY SINGLE air conditioning vent at my FACE.
Have you EVER?
