I Fell Into The Loveliest Hole

and its name is Jonathan Maberry. It all started with Patient Zero. To be honest, I was done with the zombie craze before it started and I seriously doubted anyone could remake it into something I'd enjoy reading. At the behest of a trusted fellow reader, I dove in and got lost in the captivating and horrible world of Maberry. From Patient Zero I moved on to The Dragon Factory and then King of Plagues. It is more than a little frightening that one person can think of so many different ways to convincingly endanger the entire world. Let us hope Maberry is not overly tempted by cookies, because if he ever goes to the dark side, we are all doomed.

Maberry's biggest strength is his lead, a commando-type with military and law enforcement background named Joe Ledger. Far from the stereotype one would associate with this sort of character, Ledger is the type of hero that springs to life in the reader's mind. He is smart and funny, intimidated by no one and not afraid to question authority or the status quo. He's the sort of character you enjoy watching kick in a door, grab a beer with mates after work, or fall in love. Maberry's books have high stakes, explosions, witty dialogue, diabolical villains, and just enough love/romance in the B plot to keep things spicy.

Ledger finds himself pulled away from his impending induction into the FBI Academy for recruitment into an off-the-radar government agency know as the Department of Military Science, or DMS. This organization is staffed by the best of the best in science, politics, military sciences, and technology from all over the world, and it operates slightly outside the system, avoiding bureaucratic red tape and inter-agency politics that can hinder organizations like Homeland Security and the FBI. Of these superstars, Ledger emerges as the leader and is given his own team to lead into all manner of raids and battles to save the world from bioterrorism unleashed in a multitude of imaginative ways.

Maberry's villains are convincing because no matter what ideology they subscribe to, the bottom line for them and all their minions boils down to profit and material wealth. Religious zeal, revenge, and world domination are side interests, which makes them much more believable than the 2-dimensional killers that lurk in the shadows of many novels, licking blood off their fingers and giggling over the fingernails they've collected from their victims.

Luckily, Maberry is prolific and new fans won't run out of material for quite some time. Many of his novels tend toward the horror genre, and I--being a sissy--have thus far kept to the military suspense novels featuring Ledger. Cautious buyers will be glad to find Maberry offers several short e-books available for free or 99 cents that give an excellent sampling of his writing and of Joe Ledger for little or no investment.

Every one of the three novels I've completed score Five Stars in my book, and the reader that recommended the series said it well in describing Maberry as "the new standard" for excellent writing.

Bargain Book Discovery!

I buy a lot of bargain books. I read very few of them, as my readers know, because usually they're not very good. Every now and then I find a new-to-me author that way and get all giddy because one can never really have enough reading material, right? Reviews on those kinds of books get me all excited because - well, come on - is it really all that shocking that best-sellers get Five Stars? Don't we all kind of root for the underdog (Phooey on you, President Snow!), especially as writers, because that could be us someday.

This is that kind of review. I wasn't familiar with Ryne Douglas Pearson when I checked All for One out of the Kindle library, and I didn't set my hopes too high. But suddenly I noticed I was thinking about this book when I wasn't reading it. Hmmm. I was missing out on important conversations going on around me while I was reading it. And I could give anyone willing to listen an accurate and detailed plot summary on demand. Holy Cow, this is a good book! Alright!!

All for One is murder mystery, but no one is really mourning the victim. The book opens over the body of the school bully, in the midst of a conspiracy among his classmates to hide the identity of the murderer. There is nothing YA about this story filled with five school children and their beloved teacher. This is a suspenseful whodunnit that grapples with difficult issues like the true nature of justice and isn't afraid to ask what if the world is a better place without the victim? The protagonist is artfully portrayed as a burnt-out cop who has given too much of himself and wrecked his life On The Job - without fading into a cliche. The different school children involved in the cover-up are well-developed characters with distinguishable personalities and lives, and they are never silly or childish. It is no small feat for an adult to write believably from the point of view of a child.

The icing on the cake is that Pearson has seven more novels available on Amazon, each for less than $5 on Kindle. And I intend to make my way through them all. Nicely played, Smuck & Underwood, whoever you are. You've netted Pearson a new fan. 4.5 stars!

The Business Book Every Writer Should Read

As I got serious about my writing, I started taking on all the requisite writing rituals. Minimum daily word quotas, designated writing times, specific writing exercises, and 30-day novel competitions. And I fell out of love with writing. Hated it, in fact, and began avoiding it at all costs, going more than a year without writing a single thing other than my grocery list. Something that used to be a natural high suddenly filled me with dread and self-loathing. All the other writers I knew could write thousands of words per day, why couldn't I? Worse still, the stuff they produced wasn't irredeemable crap that wasn't even worthy of the back of a shampoo bottle. What was I doing wrong?

Then I read Drive by Dan Pink, and the upside-down pieces of my writing world flopped back into place. Pink examines the science of motivation and shows that so much of what we consider standard-issue Motivation 101 guidelines don't work. The standard rewards and punishment motivation systems are based on an unfounded view of human nature: that we don't want to work and must be forced to do what needs to be done through bribes or pain avoidance. Pink looks primarily at the standard 9-to-5 workplace and traces the roots of this ideology back through the industrial age, then shows how innovative workplaces are revolutionizing their work models based on what does motivate people.

How does this relate to writing? Word quotas, for one, are the snarky boss in Office Space saying, "Yeah, I'm gonna need you to come in on Saturday, too." Not meeting your quota feels like not putting the cover on the TPS reports--what kind of writer are you if you let yourself get away with that? Slacker. Shame is your punishment. If, however, you do write your entire novel-in-a-month, then hey - put a badge on your fb page! You win bragging rights!

Think about it--all this assumes that writing is something you must do, something you don't want to do, and therefore you must be forced, or force yourself to do it. Is that how your writing career started? Not mine. I fell in love with writing because I loved great stories, and I found the world disappeared in the same way--more, even--when I was writing a great story as when I was reading one.

It turns out that the standard rules for motivation (which Pink refers to as "Motivation 2.0") are particularly destructive to creative processes. I think that as an industry, we've fought so hard against the idea that writing is a magical process where pixies will come and guide your hands to write The Next Great American Novel that we've distorted the reality that there is magic in the writing process. Writing is hard. Yes. It's time-consuming and takes a lot of practice, time, and study. Don't expect to skip your way to the Pulitzer or a Newbery. But it's not all drudgery, either. And if it is, you're doing it wrong.

We write to satisfy that inner drive. The drive to create and to do it well. The drive to produce something that is completely our own that other people will want to read. We write for the fulfillment that comes from realizing the end result is something greater than ourselves. Pink writes that what really drives people are Autonomy, Mastery, and Purpose. That's exactly what writing is. The satisfaction of writing whatever you want, however you want, and doing it freakin' well. Not just well--Freakin' Well, baby. That's why I write. Screw word counts. I'm going for my daily dose of Kicking Literary Butt.

Get your hands on Catch Me - Five Stars

One of the two most delightful author discoveries I've made in the last five years has to be Lisa Gardner. Like most Good Reads, this one was recommended by a fellow Reader (with a capital R) - my good friend over at The Painted Turtle. Better yet, Gardner is prolific, with four different protagonists that each have their own series.

Catch Me, released last month, is a great place to jump in if you've never read Gardner. While the protagonist of the story is the new character Rosalind Carter, a police dispatch officer, all of Gardner's existing characters appears in some role. Sergeant Detective D.D. Warren plays the largest role, tasked with solving Rosalind's murder before it happens. Almost two years prior to the story opening, one of Rosalind's best friends was found murdered in her own home, with no signs of forced entry and not a mark on her body. Exactly one year later, Rosalind's other best friend was found murdered in the same way. As the date creeps nearer once again, Rosalind is convinced she's next. D.D. Warren is working to solve two very cold cases in order to prevent a third while juggling a very new and demanding position (further details omitted to avoid spoilers) and a not-entirely-welcome visit from her parents. Meanwhile, Rosalind is in training to win the fight of her life.

Gardner's trademark technique is to completely freak me out without ever resorting to graphic violence or gross-out details. She has a way of tapping into my deepest fears and weaving them into fantastical plots. She also hosts her annual Kill a Buddy, Maim a Friend contest, where you can enter a friend (or not) to be a character, and subsequently be killed off, in a future Gardner novel. Feel free to nominate me, friends; I nominated The Painted Turtle!

The Rhodaic Standard

A recent comment influenced me to delineate the standard to which I hold all all books, as a reader. As writers, we are taught to eschew all cliches, so I'll refer to this as The Rhodaic Standard, named for Rhodium, a precious metal more expensive than gold or platinum. At least according to wiki.answers, which has to be The Rhodaic Standard of research sources, right? Good.

Those who know me will not be surprised to learn that The Rhodaic Standard is anything written by Dean Koontz. Koontz has been publishing at least one novel every year for as long as I've been alive, most of them bestsellers. Having just finished his latest, 77 Shadow Street, I debated about writing a review. How does one critique Michelangelo? DaVinci? Ryan Reynolds? Since every good book deserves publicity, even if it is destined for best-sellerdom regardless, I shall now attempt to review 77 Shadow Street. *Spoiler alert* It gets 5 stars . . .

Once my beloved soul mate introduced me to Dean Koontz (not in the flesh, though that would be supremely awesome; unless I started jumping up and down and screaming and crying like some retro-hysterical Elvis fan, in which case it would be just humiliating) and I started searching for him in book stores, I was always puzzled when I found him in the Horror section. Being a big coward who cries big, fat tears when confronted with anything remotely horrorish (Stephen King books attempted: 4, finished: 1), I never found Koontz that horrific. Suspenseful, immensely so. Slightly science-fictionish, heavy on the science, with a liberal splash of the paranormal and trademark take on Good vs. Evil. There are certain things you can count on in a Koontz, but none of them fit very well into the Dewey Decimal System or onto a genre shelf. There is typically a dog of noble or even supernatural character, a child disabled or broken but wholly good and usually ultimately a savior in some way, and a hero that is essentially flawed but has the best of intentions. He almost never revisits a protagonist, Odd Thomas being the delightful exception to this rule.

Speaking of rules, 77 Shadow Street breaks a couple of them. First, it definitely fits into the Horror category. Perhaps hard-core King junkies will scoff at my reaction, but I was definitely creeped out by this book, especially when a fictional creepy-crawly squirmed across a window at the exact moment my real-life offspring absent-mindedly rapped one finger against a wall. She then apologized and coaxed me down off the ceiling. Second, while Koontz doesn't revisit a protagonist, per se, he revisits the scene in a unique way. The Moonlit Mind is a Kindle single that was released one month prior to 77 Shadow Street, and it features the Pendleton Manor - the setting for 77SS. The characters are different, and the timing relation isn't specified (for reasons that become clear in 77SS). Both tales are haunting and lip-smacking yummy. An additional plus (minus?) is that when the true villain was revealed in 77SS, I thought boy, it's a good thing Koontz made that up and it couldn't really happen, but then--knowing Koontz as I do--I took a quick side trip to Wikipedia and learned--yep--Fiction Based on Fact strikes again. *shudder*

As Koontz's go, Intensity had me chewing more fingernails, but 77 Shadow Street had me more intellectually involved with its higher stakes and more complex villains - and protagonists. I shan't include any real spoilers, but will ask you, my fellow writers, with this question: When is the last time your protagonist had to do something truly wrong in order to do what was right?

There are other artists on my list of Go-To's for Good Reads: Diana Gabaldon, Janet Evanovich, Sarah Graves, and Lisa Gardner, whose latest release, Catch Me, is up next.

One Second After by William R. Forstchen

Our local grade school has a fantastic 5th grade teacher who dedicates each month of the school year to one particular genre, i.e. biography, poetry, mystery, etc. Each month the kids choose a book from that month's genre and do some variation of a book report. Three of my four kids have been in her class so far, and every time there is one genre that leaves me scratching my head. Realistic Fiction. Somehow the things that happen in the books they read during this month just don't seem all that realistic to me. I suppose white rats could take over a classroom, and a group of children on a field trip to a farm may arrive to find the farmer murdered, but honestly - what are the odds?

One Second After, however, is All-Too-Realistic fiction. This would be a good book to read during "Things You're Not Worrying About But Should Be" month or "Ways In Which Our Government is Inept" month. If you're a believer in the Mayan calendar, you might choose to celebrate December 2012 by reading this book, but frankly, then it's probably too late and you'll just wish you'd read it during "Maybe There's Still Time to Prepare" month.

Forstchen's End of Days story doesn't include any of the stereotypical alien invasions, natural disasters, or World War III scenarios that Hollywood has reincarnated more times than the soul of a heathen Buddhist. Think it's hype from the over-active imagination of a doomsayer? The book's foreword is written by former House Speaker, Newt Gingrich, who stated, "Though this book is a work of fiction, it is also a work of fact, perhaps a 'future history,' . . . I know this from personal study, across decades, of the very real threat to American security that is posed by this particular weapon."

The weapon in question is know as "EMP" - short for electromagnetic pulse. By strategically detonating nuclear weapons above the atmosphere, it is possible to fry all electronic gadgets within a wide radius. Though none of the fallout would reach the surface, only a few detonations would cause planes, automobiles, phones, Kindles (the horror!) - everything remotely gadget-y across the country would cease to function immediately. One Second After shows how the silent moment when everything goes black could be more disastrous than any attack this country has ever seen, including 9/11 and Pearl Harbor.

Even better, this informed and intelligent novel is well-written. The hero is believable: at once noble and flawed, exhibiting a thoughtfulness and insight most of us would not have, but igniting into irrationality and unabashed self-centeredness when his child's life is on the line. Centuries of military and sociological history are beautifully woven into the plot, showing that what is to come can be predicted and prepared for by looking at what has come before. Clearly this knowledge also informed Forstchen as he wrote a plot that is so utterly believable it seems inevitable. Forstchen pulls no punches and the reader can shelve the idea that "everything will be ok; it's just a novel."

Lest readers be tempted to throw up their hands in despair and choose a sand face-plant rather than read an uncomfortable story, there are lessons offered by Forstchen in the course of the novel about preparing for disaster of any kind. Lessons learned by his characters that are not heavy-handed and don't overshadow the storyline, that is. Forstchen understands what Dean Koontz meant when he said, "First and foremost, I am an entertainer." Forstchen entertains, while also sounding an alarm that any voter, any parent, any person who likes to eat on a regular basis, and in particular--any decision-maker in a government position--should read, enjoy, and take heed.

Five Stars

Gridlock by Sean Black

Gridlock features bodyguard Ryan Lock and is the third in a series, though the first I've read from Sean Black. If Black and I were writing buds and met in a cafe for some Java and critique, this is what I would bring to the table:

What Works

Black does a fantastic job of making his leads two-dimensional and sympathetic. Lock is believable as a bodyguard who recognizes muscle mass as a liability (it slows movement) and describes bodyguarding as "organized running away." His female lead, who hires Lock for protection from a stalker, is a sympathetic character. This in and of itself is a testament to Black's ability. Raven Lane is stripper and porn star, which doesn't invite the average reader to invest much emotionally--present company included. By giving Raven a mentally-disabled brother for whom she is the self-sacrificial sole caregiver and painting her with a tough facade over a fragile interior, Raven becomes quite likable and the reader feels the tension when her life is threatened. Even Black's secondary characters have depth: Lock's playboy business partner who drives a "pimpmobile" strikes up a special friendship with Raven's Down's Syndrome brother, and Lock's fiancee pushes past her typical female reaction to her fiance guarding a porn star to declare "every woman has the right to feel safe in her own home," and stands behind it by offering Raven shelter in the beach home where Lock has set up their home base while on assignments. Like all good writers, Black pushes beyond stereotypes and that which is expected. His dialogue is also generally believable, a trick which is still quite elusive to me, but which I suspect stems from being a practiced student of human behavior.

What Needs Work

Around every story exists a gossamer veil known as Willing Suspension of Disbelief. It is a cloak we willing wrap around ourselves and the story we are about to partake--be it movie, campfire tale, or the written variety. Any matter of fantastical claims will be believed, so long as they make sense within the world the storyteller has created. This cloak, however, is much like a spider's web--it has incredible tensile strength but is thin and easily pierced. Anything that distracts the reader from the story pokes a hole in the veil and allows light from the real world to creep in. These holes are a writer's enemy, as the reader may well escape through them, damning our tale to an eternity collecting dust on the proverbial shelf. Black's word choices pierce the story like daggers, dragging attention away from his story and onto him, leaving him standing small and exposed behind the veil like the wizard of Dorothy's acquaintence.

First, I suspect that Black is British or of other European background, because of his curious word choices like "kerb," "Hallowe'en," and "torch"--rather than flashlight. The story is set in L.A. and the verbiage is jarring against that backdrop. If a story is set in a different location than the reader's world, then native word choices can strengthen the reader's experience. Tana French does this masterfully in her novels set in Ireland, like In the Woods. At times, though I suspect not in Black's case, a writer will use these word choices as part of their characterization. Lock is, after all, trained by the British military. This is a tricky technique and rarely done well. It only works if it is restricted to that character's speech and direct thoughts, not in the narration in general, unless the story is told in first person. Even with those restrictions, the technique must be applied with a light touch, or it becomes evident that the writer is cramming in as much authenticity as possible, leaving an effect as believable as the fishing nets decorating the walls of a seafood restaurant in Illinois. Writers should note Diana Gabaldon's The Outlandish Companion as a guide, which she points out is loaded with scads of historical research that never made it into her historical fiction novels because it didn't serve the story. Every word must justify its existence in terms of its ability to carry the story. Every word, no exceptions.

Which leads me to Black's other error in terms of word choice--a seductive error, but a lethal one nonetheless. Listen, I'm a shameless word-hussy, too, and no doubt my neighbor Colleen is still raising her eyebrow over my use of "gossamer" in the paragraphs above, but unusual words must be applied in the context of a story with great care. I don't get the sense Black is trying to appear smart and I'd bet he's just a big nerd like me that actually uses ridiculous words like "ebullient" in every day conversation. The only writer I've ever seen consistently pull this off in print in Dean Koontz, and since he's literally been publishing books for as long as I've been alive, the safest course of action is to save the fancy talk to deities who've populated the bestseller list for a few decades and not attempt it as mere mortals.

One Final Thought

I proceed with extreme caution to avoid any spoilers: another important aspect of the reader's relationship with the writer exists in the form of an unwritten, unspoken contract in which the writer promises all number of things, including consistencies in logic, not running the hero through with a blade on page 3 (George R. R. Martin notwithstanding), and tying up all loose ends. While it is important that writers push beyond the expected and make sure the plotline does not become overly predictable, there is a point where a line is crossed and the contract is breached in the name of novelty. It's arguable that Black may have crossed that line in this book, though each reader will have to decide for him/herself. Once the reader's trust is violated, it's virtually impossible to regain.

Gridlock is a bargain book at $3.99 for Kindle and is a good read. That Black has other novels available puts him in a key position to gain more readers from putting this book on special.

Power to the People or You Get What You Pay For?

Maybe it's because I'm a starving artist, but probably just because I'm cheap, the books I review will often be free Kindle books. I am one of those Kindle junkies that will pay 12.99 for one of my favorite authors--scandalous, according to some--but I stretch my book budget by subscribing to multiple freebie lists. The problem is, I only finish about 1 in 5 of the freebies I actually try. Most freebies are self-published novels. Its not that I'm against self-publishing, and I admit that self-pubs could potentially change the landscape of publishing. Especially if this article is true--though anonymous pontificators from "inside the publishing world" make me go hmm; the agents and publishers I've met were hardly shy about speaking their minds, regardless of the presence of any feathers to be ruffled. It's just that the current system exists for a reason, and most self-pubs actually prove the publishing world has yet to outlive its usefulness.

You see, not everyone that has A Great Book Idea--or even the raw talent to actually write well--has the patience, time, and grit to see it through. (Guilty. Cut me a break! It's hard, and I'm not into self-flagellation.) As a result, most e-pubs go to press far short of the standards readers expect. The Big Evil Agent/Publisher reads a few paragraphs and tells the writer, "Pass. It needs work." Starry I. D'Writer remains convinced that if the book could get to the public in spite of the publishing industry's gatekeepers, they'd just love it right up to the top of the Best Seller List--or, if we're being totally honest, just can't bear to spend another day on the same manuscript, but can't let it go. Thus, an e-pub is born, with typos, information dumps, and shifting P.O.V.s that only a writer's mother could love.

That's why I get really excited when I read a good self-pub. Why I take delight in giving that book props here. Because that writer put him/herself through the paces without the tough love an Agent would give or the gentle guidance an Editor with a publishing house could afford. And the others? Well, I won't mention them here. I'll just commiserate in silence. Because those who can, do. Those who can't critique.

Catching Fire and Mockingjay

The final two books in The Hunger Games deserve to be paid some respect here. A full review, however, would risk far too many spoilers. So here I offer just a few thoughts on the series as a whole:

As a writer, it strikes me what a fantastic embodiment of the writing process the Hunger Games themselves are. Plot starting to drag? The writer need only imagine him/herself as the Head Gamemaker and come up with some new and exciting way to torment the characters. Hunger, thirst, enemies masquerading as allies, genetically-mutated creatures programmed with a penchant for limb-ripping - these are plot devices. Exceptionally imaginative and effective, in this case, but devices nonetheless. At risk of beating the reader into retreat with relentless tension and unvarying pace? Float a silver parachute with a timely life-saving gift or a secluded cave in which to sleep hidden from the hunters who walk on two legs. When the fickle Muse finds better things to do than show up for work--again--channeling Plutarch Heavensbee is one more trick in the toolbox of the savvy Suspense writer.

Mockingjay, the third book in The Hunger Games trilogy, transcends its YA genre is more than just its appeal. The stakes are higher and the emotional range deeper than the reach of the average American teenager. Nothing is tied up in pretty bow, and the complicated nature of the plot mimics real life in a manner elusive to most mainstream fiction, let alone that written for the adolescent set. Parents need not worry this pushes the book beyond the realm of what's appropriate for young readers, however. Collins accomplishes this with a subtlety that ensures the stickier aspects of the story fly over the heads of readers not ready to process the gray areas that exist in love, life, and war.

The Hunger Games series is a must-read for all bibliophiles seeking to be kept up at night, and all writers seeking to rob their readers of sleep. Collins has easily earned a spot next to Rowlings and Meyer as YA authors that have changed the YA game forever.

The Hunger Games - Suzanne Collins

My daughter loved The Hunger Games, and since I shared her love of Twilight, I was more than ready to find another series we could enjoy together. The start of The Hunger Games smacked of Sci Fi, though, and I had a hard time getting into it. Usually a book starting out with other-worldly names and places loses me quickly, as I prefer that a book opens in this world and then lead me to another.

At Christmas, though, my sisters-in-law were raving about it and my hubby caught the bug, too. I started it again, but same result. On New Year's Eve, the same s-i-l's advised I needed to read it before the movie comes out if I want to tag along. (I use that line on my kids all the time, so it's only fair!) Since one of my all-time faves, Outlander, is considered a "slow starter" by some, I dove in once more. By the time The Reaping had arrived, I was hooked.

What works:

Like all great Young Adult novels, the reader quickly forgets this is a YA story. It is not simplistic or condescending, and the characters are believable within the world where they live. The stakes are high: life, limb, love, family. The pacing is excellent. There is enough tension to keep the reader worrying about what will happen next, but it's interspersed with a few scenes where the physical danger is lessened and emotional depth is introduced instead. This keeps the reader from throwing the book against the wall in frustration, because - hey - this is supposed to be entertaining, not nerve-wracking.

What shouldn't work, but does anyway:

Katniss Everdeen is not the most sympathetic lead. She is emotionally stunted to the point of being completely aggravating, but given that her entire life has been about staying alive and risking her life to keep her family alive, it's believable. Unlike clueless leading ladies that completely miss the signals being sent out by their male counterparts, Katniss actually considers taking things at face value, but rejects these explanations as not likely under the circumstances. A "torn-between-two-men" situation is so downplayed as to be almost a subplot, which keeps it from becoming cliche.

What makes it magic:

This is one of those books that makes closing the covers feel like emerging from a deep-sea dive. The ending is satisfying without being overly "neat." Katniss avoids falling into "tough chic" or "dumb bunny" stereotypes and emerges as a real person the reader will think about long after the story is done.

Five stars - save me a seat at the movie premiere, even though we all know the movie is never as good as the book.

I Never Look Back, Dahling

It's been a year since I've written. I've thought about writing. I've read about writing. I've tried to forget writing, but it exists like a persistent buzzing in the back of my brain. I have one follower left: my mother, I suspect. I've probed around the edges of this open hole where my muse once lived as one might bother the socket where a tooth once sat before it was ripped out by the surgeon, and I think I've begun to name the forces that left this crater. They are legion, but their tribe is called pressure. Word count became an ever-present layer of fog, and self-criticism surrounded by creative space with impenetrable coils of barbed wire.

Cliche as it is, a New Year is a new start and I have a few resolutions. None of them are self-improving in nature; have no fear about fighting me for the last elliptical or hiding your chocolate. Some of them are hobby-related: learn entrelac, try at least one felting project. The biggie, however, is to write. With no aim, no goal, no word count. Just to write for the simple fulfillment that it is. A lot of it will end up here, because screaming in a glass enclosure just hurts my ears. I'll do mostly book critiques, because when I read I'm often thinking about what I'd do differently and what I'd like to emulate. Some of my thoughts will inevitably creep in: my kids, my work, the hubs, the latest in yarn arts. The only rule is that - like the androgynous Edna Mole in The Incredibles - I never look back, dahling. At how hard I tried and failed (quit) to be a novelist. I'm a writer: by design or by compulsion, it's hard to tell the difference. In 2012 I'll be doing my best to just be.

Story Time: The Little Toilet That Couldn't

Sometimes I think I've been cast in a sit-com without being notified. We recently put in a new bathroom and selected a toilet with some sort of extra flushing power. When we picked it out, I remember thinking this was probably a good idea, since we have four kids. Unfortunately, it also has extra running power, as it has a tendency to run for days at a time. I don't know anything about plumbing, and since jiggling the handle didn't work, I was out of ideas.

Simultaneously, the pipes behind the washing machine froze. The washer and dryer are located on the back porch. It's an enclosed porch. Enclosed meaning it has walls and windows, but no insulation or heating/cooling. It's freezing in the winter and hot in the summer. Whoever installed this set-up probably didn't have an education beyond the third grade. I had a lot of laundry to do this weekend, and it took until Sunday afternoon to figure out the right configuration of two heaters in relation to the pipes to get things moving.

Sunday evening I was surrounded by piles of clean laundry (dwarfed only by the piles of dirty laundry waiting their turn on the porch) and feeling rather self-satisfied by my ingenuity in solving the problem. My eight-year-old comes dripping out of the shower in such a panic that he's having a hard time getting the words out of his mouth. Finally we piece together enough words to realize that the toilet is overflowing. This is a fairly regular occurrence at our house, so my husband headed in with a plunger and I went back to my book. (Plum Spooky by Janet Evanovich, because I needed some laughs this weekend.)

The first sign that something was up was when I took in towels to mop up the floor and my husband asked me to see if the toilet in our bathroom would flush. Hmmm. Nope. It filled and swirled lazily in the bowl, in no hurry to go anywhere. Now, in this instance I would have been stumped right there. Once the water leaves the house, I have no idea where it goes. Ok, I know there are pipes and water mains, etc., etc., but as far as I am concerned these things are like asteroids - ideally, our orbits do not intersect.

My husband, however, heads down the basement to investigate. This is where I stand in awe of the male species, because he doesn't know any more about plumbing than I do, but he charges into the face of the unknown without hesitation. I remained on the couch, enjoying Italian pastries and men with Stephanie Plum. Without warning, I hear a SPLOOSHHHHHHH from the basement that reminded me of the giant buckets full of water at the Dells that would sound a warning bell before dumping their contents on squealing children below. Since I heard neither a warning bell nor squeals of delight, I sat frozen on the couch for a moment. Surely I didn't hear what I just heard and it couldn't mean what I thought it meant.

I crept to the basement door and listened. No swearing, screaming, or jumping up and down, which is what I would be doing in his place. In fact, there was only eerie silence.

"Honey?" I said tremulously. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Was that . . . water?" I asked. "Um . . . poopy water?"

"Some of it," he said.

"Did it . . . get . . . on you?" I was afraid to ask.

"Yep," he said. "Can you bring me down the plunger?"

I wanted to go down to the basement right then only slightly more than I wanted to shave my head and streak through downtown in six degree weather. But, my man was down there being very stoic about the whole thing, so I squared my shoulders and started down the stairs. I was picturing a scene similar to the one in RV where Robin Williams creates a geyser of sewage while trying to empty the camper crapper, but the damage was, thankfully, not that dramatic.

One of our children - who will remain nameless - recently took on the chore of cleaning the bathroom fixtures every day with Clorox wipes. Said child apparently decided that the best way to dispose of said wipes was to flush them down the toilet. In case you've ever considered trying this, it's apparently a very bad idea. Our line is now clogged somewhere between the house and the street - Jupiter, by my map - and there is nothing more we can do other than wait for the "sewer guy" in the morning.

My thoughts are, we've done what we can, so we should wait for the sewer guy back on the couch where Stephanie Plum has just blown up a building instead of a car for a change, but my husband thinks it's necessary to organize the basement before the sewer guy comes. In my opinion, if our boxes and tubs of out-of-season clothing, family pictures, and Christmas decorations are offensive to the sewer guy, then he should probably rethink his career decisions. However, given that Dear Husband is having a very unpleasant evening and isn't remotely unhinged yet, I decided to keep my mouth shut and help shuffle boxes around before sacrificing my mop and providing a bucket of bleach water to mop up the mess.

By the time we made it back upstairs, I was more than ready to escape the comedy of my own life head back to Trenton, NJ for some virtual hilarity. For once, I was ready for Dear Husband to escape into his own world (of Warcraft - his current hobby), as I doubt that anything else could wipe off the gray mask of blech that had crawled onto his skull. Here's hoping that a few Dungeon raids will ease the pain of his Basement Shower of Ugg.

Wish I'd Said It

In the last five years, I've undergone a significant philosophical transition. I had reached the pinnacle of my career, only to find that I hated it and it was miserable. I walked away from my corporate management position to be a dream-chaser instead of a ladder-climber. More than a few people have watched this transition with confused expressions. In fact, I almost didn't get the job that I now love because my resume seemed so out-of-whack with the position I was seeking. Three-and-a-half years later, my boss sometimes still seems to think that I'm just waiting for something better to come along. Even though words are the brush strokes with which I paint my world, I've had a hard time explaining the whole lifestyle change in a way that people simultaneously understand and believe.

Until now. One of the simple pleasures my husband and I have enjoyed since I took a job closer to home is eating lunch together. (How many parents of four can say they enjoy a meal together without kids at least once a week?) Today we met at Jimmy Johns, and a sign on the wall had this story. It captures the heart and soul of my new outlook. I wish I'd written it, but I didn't. Some other enlightened soul beat me to it, and God bless him/her for it.

The American Tourist and Mexican Fisherman

A story similar in spirit to the philosophy of Chuang Tzu

Author Unknown

An American tourist was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked.

Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The tourist complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, "Only a little while."

The tourist then asked, "Why didn't you stay out longer and catch more fish?"

The Mexican said, "With this I have more than enough to support my family's needs."

The tourist then asked, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life."

The tourist scoffed, " I can help you. You should spend more time fishing; and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat: With the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats. Eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor; eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You could leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then Los Angeles and eventually New York where you could run your ever-expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"

The tourist replied, "15 to 20 years."

"But what then?" asked the Mexican.

The tourist laughed and said, "That's the best part. When the time is right you would sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions."

"Millions?...Then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

Dear X91G4200

Dear X91G4200,

I don't know your technical name, so I've assigned you one that I hope is acceptable in your micro-colony. Maybe your name is "Mike." If so, I apologize. It is not my intent to offend you.

I'm merely writing to suggest that you consider moving on. You've outstayed your welcome in my respiratory system. I want my voice back. I miss having oxygen whenever I want it. Nyquil is not my first choice for nightcap. No, really.

You amused the children at first. Long periods of Mom being rendered unable to remain vertical led to wanton snacking and unabated Wii sessions. My inability to yell without ascending into tones hearable only to the family dogs was a treat for them, too. However, they are yearning for hot meals and they are tired of fetching tissues of cough drops.

My employer would undoubtedly like to see me actually make it to work more than one day in a row. My students are beginning to wonder if I've moved and left no forwarding address.

To put it bluntly, it's time for you to leave. Take your snot and leave my mucous membranes. Take your hot and cold flashes, I don't need 'em. Take your aches and call it a season. Don't think of me. Don't think of me.

I'll just be swallowing without excruciating pain and inflating my lungs to their fullest capacity. Have a nice life cycle. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

The dog ate my power cord

In my entire two years of NaNo-ing, it's been my experience that there is a tipping point. I tend to move from WooHoo! I'm on fire, to Just a little behind, quickly followed by I can catch up if I just . . . Both times I've ended up at Uncle! Uncle!

This year, as I was approaching that precipice, my dog ate my power cord. I'm not sure which of the two pulled it off, but I have my suspicions. The feat took some doing, since the pups and the cord were separated by a baby gate, and the little darlings had to actually tease the cord through the little holes in the gate in order to get a good chew on. Frankly, I'm not sure I could do this were I sans opposable thumbs.

I elected not to take this a commentary on the quality of my novel. Precocious though my little canines may be, they are not literate and therefore do not get to make critiques. Besides, I hardly had any delusions about the quality of the work. I was, indeed, setting new records for "suckitude." (Many thanks to Chris Baty for all the colorful synonyms for really, really bad.)

In the end, I think it's still my inner editor that's doing me in on 30-day novel attempts. She's a sneaky broad. She doesn't attack when I'm in full writer mode, with my fingers on the keys. It's more a wordless whine in the pit of my stomach any time I think about opening that abhorrent document. I don't know what to write. It's all such crap. What do I do with it next? Can I stand another session of taking Blah to Worse?

I'm waving the white flag. Even if my pups hadn't served up an iron-clad separation from myself and my writing software, I probably wouldn't have made it to 50k this year. But, I did start the next novel that I probably wouldn't have started until the Spring without NaNo. I'm 17k ahead, in some ways. Which sounds a lot better than 33,000 short.

For my non-writing friends, if you've wondered why you've seen me step out into the light of day during the last week, now you know. It's been nice seeing you. I'm going back into my cave now. As soon as my power cord arrives - courtesy Ebay - my butt has a daily appointment with my chair. And while I'm not trying to NaNo anymore, I am pushing my limits every day. Because writing is not just a month or a quota. These are devices we use to keep ourselves psyched and sane at the same time. Writing is a way of life.

Congrats to my NaNo buddies who have already crossed the finish line or will be staying up late to finish strong. You rock!

Ohhhhhh. Now I get it.

**No Spoilers--I promise. I wouldn't do that to you**

Let's get one thing out of the way right now. Yes, I am a serious writer and a Stephenie Meyer fan. To those who say she is not a talented author, I say I only hope that one day I can suck as much as she does.

I have never been to a midnight premiere in my life. I have always been a bookworm and there has never been a movie that appealed to me enough to spend the wee hours of the morning in a movie theater. The book is always better than the movie, anyway. (That's still true; have no doubt that New Moon is way better if you're a Twi-hard who's read all the books.)

I've never wanted to go to a midnight premiere--until now. I like Harry Potter okay, but not enough to disrupt my life to see flick. I've never been into the cultish fads. I thought Rocky Horror Picture Show was bizarre and I've never liked Star Wars much. My sister is a Trekie, which mystifies me. Her feelings regarding my Twi-nerdom are mutual. So, midnight showings, I thought--why? Really? Is it worth it?

I used my eleven-year-old as an excuse to go to the midnight show, just like we all use our kids to go to waterslides and amusement parks without looking creepy and weird. I would say, "Oh, yes, I'm taking her to the premiere," and give a little eye roll as though to say I'm such an indulgent mother, I know. I would never admit out loud that I would totally go by myself. The rest of the adult women who populated most of the theater seemed completely comfortable embracing their Twi-love.

Somewhere in the middle of the movie, I began to understand the appeal of the midnight premiere. It's sitting in a theater with a whole group of people who share your same crazy little obsession. They gasp when you gasp, they laugh when you laugh, and they make tiny little comments under their breath that, instead of annoying you, make you want to turn to them and say, "I know! Right?" It was just like watching a movie with 100 of my closest friends who just happened to be complete strangers.

As for an actual review/opinion, the movie did not disappoint me. I loved the richer colors, and they turned up the raw emotion. Bella and Edward seemed less like a pair of awkward of High Schoolers crushing on each other, and more like soul mates. Bella's connection with Jacob was pretty believable, and it was almost easy to believe that she could love him. That conflict wasn't quite as strong for me in the movie as in the book, but hey, I'm Team Edward, so I'm probably biased. That's right, I said it.

Maybe you have to be a Twilight fan to really enjoy New Moon. I'm too invested in these characters to be able to render an objective opinion on that. (Therein lies the proof of Stephenie Meyers' talent, but maybe that's just me. And ten million other fans.) But, if you have any desire to ever see this movie, I urge you to go see it--and soon. I'm betting people will be talking about this movie, and sooner or later someone is going to ruin it for you. I shall not be the one. I might, however, sit next to you at theater. Because New Moon will probably also be the first movie that I will actually go to the theater to see a second time.

Muse as Cruel Goddess

You know you've hit rock bottom when you give yourself a cold headache by rushing through your pumpkin pie blizzard because you have an urgent napping appointment.

With nine days until Surrey, deadlines are skyscrapers in the landscape of my mind. It feels as though I'm leaving little pieces of myself scattered in my wake, and many of those who know me wonder if I'm crazy. Or even still alive at all, since my presence has become as rare as the Arctic cockatoo.

What is really happening is that the sacrifices at the altar of the Quest for the Next Great American Novel are cutting especially deep, and blood is flowing forth from the altar stone into the rest of my life.

Proper nutrition is one of the first things to go. After finding that I could barely fasten my fat pants, I went ahead and had raspberry Zingers for dinner - right between the editing meeting for the campus newspaper and my writing course with a local news editor.

Perhaps the fact that two - yes, two - black cats ran across the road in front of me today - the 13th, no less - should have alerted me that this would be the night the aforementioned editor would turn to me and say, "What did you think of that story, Candra?" I . . . uh, didn't actually read that particular story. Knowing I read the assigned material every other week of class didn't help. Every good and valid excuse I had would sound false, including, "I couldn't read about writing this week because I was, well . . . writing." Pride. There's another chunk left on the altar.

Normal sleeping hours were thwacked off long ago. My sleep patterns now represent the eating habits of a bulimic . . . binge and purge. Nap, tired, nap, tired, sleeeeeeeep. Repeat.

I think it goes without saying that the gym is out of the question, and that - all things considered - the effects of all this cumulative self-punishment on one's physique are predictable. It's my personal theory that this is why so many authors' dust jacket photos are headshots. Creating brilliance wreaks havoc on the body.

It's a race against time to produce a darn fine novel that everyone will want to read . . . before ninety percent of my arteries become totally clogged and I end up living so deeply in my mind that I can never find my way out again.

My muse is a cruel mistress that demands more and more of my flesh in payment for an uncertain cargo to carry into pitch sessions. In her defense, at least she's not yet rationing caffeine. That would be akin to making bricks without straw.

Dear Book

Dear Book,

I hate, loathe, and despise you. Spending quality time with you every night requires bodily dragging myself to the keyboard. If you existed physically separate from my beloved netbook, I would throw you at the wall. I've said all I want to say to you, and you're still not halfway done. I work and work on our relationship, and what have you given me? Blank stares. Blink. Blink.

It's my understanding that relationships go through seasons, and that it's completely normal for me to want to send you through a shredder at this point. For that reason, I'm not breaking it off with you . . . yet. If you don't shape up and start giving me something monumentally good before Surrey, we're through.

I can remember the early days, when minutes used to fly by while my fingers raced across the keyboard, trying to capture your magical words before they evaporated into thin air like mystical bits of literary pixie dust. We need to find a way to go back to that. Like, thirty thousand more words of that. I know you can do it.

And what is this crap you're handing me tonight about the protagonist escaping? How is that supposed to work? Where's she supposed to go, genius? And how will the hero know where to find her? Honestly, sometimes you make me so darn mad . . .

Make up your mind already. Are you in this or not? Because I am. Until we hit the best "we" that we can be, I'm in this. You better start giving me something I can work with, pal.

Willing myself to keep loving you,
Your Author

A Late-Summer Night's Scream

The kids wanted to go outside and play after dinner. Sunset wasn't too far away, but I gave them half an hour to go out and run off some energy. Summer was waning, and I could feel winter beginning to stalk us from the shadows. Long Illinois months full of kids stuck inside like marbles rolling around in a box.
"Go," I told them. "In half an hour you come in for baths and bed."
When they ran out, I sat back and found myself in the company of an old acquaintance, Silence. He's been dropping by more and more often lately, though I hadn't seen him for years before now. With my husband working second shift and the kids finally old enough to play outside without my constant vigilance, Silence and I have been rediscovering each other. Our visits are tragically brief.
When I heard the front door open, I took a deep breath to relay the ten-minute warning to the child coming in the door. Before I could get the words out, my middle son jumped in with his "I'm telling" voice.
"Mom," he complained. "Mark hit me in the head with a Nerf gun and now I'm bleeding."
Then he turned around, sending droplets of blood flinging off the back of his head. They splattered audibly across the floor, lending a dramatic soundtrack to the Jackson Pollock-esque design streaked all over his back. Wow, I thought. They are not kidding when they talk about how head wounds bleed.
"Ok," I said, calmly, for I am a mother of three boys, and I am not easily freaked. "Sit down, right where you are." I was slightly afraid that he might faint, though he is the least likely of my sons to do so. This is my tough guy. Note that he did not come in screaming and crying. His voice and expression betrayed no warning of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre scenery left in his wake. Like his father, pain does not slow this child down. It makes him mad. It was just that around the edges of the red flush of anger on his face, he looked a little paler than usual. We are extremely fair-skinned people, so the only way to tell that we've turned pale is when our rosy glow is exchanged for a flat white pall with a startling undertone of blue.
As I fetched a washcloth to press against the wound, I whipped out my cell phone and began making calls. My mother-in-law, the nurse, to come give me a second opinion on whether stitches were required. My husband, to let him know that an ER trip might be on the evening's agenda. My neighbor, to receive the other children, since the ER rarely appreciates a Brady-bunch style parade no matter how adorable and *ahem* well-behaved the children are. After all, one of these children just injured the other, and they might get the impression that my children aren't perfect. *gasp*
When my mother-in-law arrived, she looked at his head and said it would probably be a good idea to get it looked at, cleaned out, and maybe a stitch or two. Perhaps she was fooled for a moment by my son's nonchalant attitude. She may have been taken in by his convincing act that led one to believe he was more concerned with having been so unfairly attacked by his younger sibling. When he reacted by burying his head in her lap and crying, she responded like any good grandma. She hedged.
"Well," she said, "maybe we could just Dermabond it. We can just scrub it out and Dermabond it. That's all they would do at the ER, really."
I spent three seconds imagining myself holding this child down while I "scrubbed it out" and said, "No, we'll just go. Get in the car, bud."
"No," my son raged, as though I'd suggested outlawing puppies at Christmas. "Why can't we just let it bleed?"
This logic would make perfect sense to his father, his grandfather, and John Wayne, who shaped so much of their definition on Manhood. Grandma was not a fan of this plan. She pointed out that it was full of germs, it could get infected, and really, they probably wouldn't actually put a stitch in. She was almost sure they would just glue it.
Seeing that her best attempts at persuasion were not working and were in real danger of disintegrating into pleading, I took him by the arm and said, "Let's go. In the van. Now."
He grumbled at high volume all the way to the van, and Grandma followed behind, still trying to convince him that this would be fine. Really, not bad at all. My heart fluttered when I realized she saw his dad in him, too, and probably just wanted to hug him but knew it wouldn't fly when he was in full "Tough Guy" mode. She even called him by his dad's name when she helped him into the van, which endeared her to me all the more.
In the ER, he slumped in the seat at Patient Check-In and gave the receptionist the full force of his sullenness. No, he did not want a stuffed animal, and his voice implied that he was insulted that she'd asked. No, he did not want a coloring book, either. Each time one of the medical staff asked him what happened, I cringed.
"My brother hit me in the head with a gun," he'd say, his stern voice and body language communicating clearly what a great injustice this whole process was. These medical staff, all women, never batted an eye. They all gave him knowing looks and sympathetic comments about "brothers." The scourge of the nation, those pesky creatures.
My husband arrived, dressed for work in full uniform. He was on-shift for our Sheriff's Department, but was able to come by the ER to be with us. Astonishingly, once my husband showed up and began ribbing my son about the treatment he was receiving, his hard shell began to crack and he slowly started laughing at his father's jokes.
"We didn't have those wussy sponges when I was kid," my husband told him. "They used these brushes with hard plastic bristles and dug 'em in there like they were trying to open the wound. And this nasty brown stuff that smelled bad and stained your skin for days."
Must be a guy thing. This would have earned nothing but eye-rolling from me, but it amused my son and did the trick.
When the doctor came in, he saw my husband standing there in full police gear and hesitated. He was an international, and it appeared to me that he was trying to make sense of the scene before him based on his knowledge of the usual ER scene. A police officer standing next to the bed of an injured child is probably almost always a bad sign. However, we were all smiling and the tone was clearly light by this point, which is probably what gave him pause.
"What happened," he asked my son, donning latex gloves. I tensed, knowing what was coming next.
"My brother hit me in the head with a gun."
"Who hit you with what??" the doctor asked, incredulously.
"A toy gun. It was a toy. A Nerf gun. They were playing. It was an accident," my husband and I rushed in, talking over one another while trying to explain.
"Oh," the doctor said, nodding. Now he understood. Sigh of relief from both parents.
In the end, the doctor elected to use neither stitches nor Dermabond, but staples. To my ears, my son's conviction that their treatment choice would be based on what would cause the most pain possible had just been proven true. For my son, however, "staple" was an unfamiliar word in this context and it didn't sound that bad to him.
"Ok," he said, shrugging. "Let's get this over with." It helped that he clutched four dollars in one fist, a gift (bribe) Dad have given him to buy ice cream once the drama was over.
The sound those staples made going into his head, and the look on his face when they did, had me convinced that I would be a blubbering mess were I the one on the gurney. My son, however, was fully back in control of himself and he bore it with a slight wince and an action-hero-style whispered ow. No tears, no whining, no lashing out and wrenching the torture device from the doctor's hands. John Wayne would be so pround.
In the end, the treatment that worked the best was good, old-fashioned dad-time. But a medium Thin Mint blizzard with extra Thin Mint and a shot of chocolate helped the medicine go down, too.

Homemade Nine-Layer Nasty

Take original plank flooring and cover with quality hardwood flooring that has timeless beauty and will delight your descendants for generations to come.
Sprinkle liberally with termites and cover with cheap vinyl flooring.
Add a layer of mystery cardboard-like material and a thin skim coat of concrete.
Add another layer of cheap vinyl flooring.
Incorrectly install one leaky toilet.
Do not change the wax ring. Ever.
Let simmer for thirty years.
Remove with a crowbar only when crumbly. If it comes off in nice clean sheets, it's not ready yet.
Serve to all your friends who have ever remodeled an old home. Toast 100 years of former owners with a rousing chorus of "What Were These People Thinking?"