After.

Last year, because we were traveling over Christmas, I made a book tree out of all the books that have influenced me. It's here, in case you doubt me, of ye of little faith. I'm kind of ashamed to admit that because of the year I've had, the furious busy-ness, the illness, the sadness, and yes, the leftover laziness, that tree remained up until today. Seriously. So why not just keep it there right? No, this year, of all years, we need a real tree. A real tree because we're home, and I love them, and because I just finished a novel set on an evergreen farm. This year, we need to pay homage to the evergreen. Finally, today, I did what needed to be done. I put the books back on the shelves in the living room, in the cabinet in the den, in the curio on the landing, in the huge bedside tables. Yes, we have books in every room again. But instead of storing the lights, I put them up a little earlier. Still lazy, you see.

Happy Dance, Halloween Style.

It's the finished first draft of new novel Happy Dance. So glad it's not a thriller or anything.

Readers of women's fiction rock. And fetch. And play.

It's been a roooough 18 months. Cancer, rejection, rejection, cancer, cancer, death. (Yes, even the dog has cancer. More on that later.) We are doing fine, but I had trouble making decisions about my writing. Wrote a couple books that went astray. I feel like I'm on track now, almost finished with a great one. But in the midst of this, come three emails from readers, all saying the same thing: PLEASE KEEP WRITING. And one of them sent me a photo of her cat, toying with a feather, in honor of THE BIRD HOUSE.

Sometimes people say just the right thing at the right time. xoxoxo

Full week.

I rode my bike twice, took 3 walks, drank 2 green juices, danced, ate 3 meals with friends, bought a pair of jeans, saw a movie, sent 4 gifts, read a book, and made breakfast every morning for my girls. Usually at the end of a week I think about how many pages I've written, how many campaigns I presented, how many meetings I went to. But this time I decided to tally the joy. Sometimes being happy means doing a bit more, not a bit less.

Working From Home.

In the living room, I'm writing a scene in a novel. In the dining room, my daughter draws in charcoal. She doesn't know the scene I'm writing is about an artist in her studio, and that I am grateful for the ch-ch-ch sound effect she provides. Our cat, perched in the hallway between us, watches her, not me. Should I add a cat to the scene, and make this the most meta morning of my life? No. My characters are dog people, and I can't change them now. There's no going back.

Can you handle your own truth? A FREE book for one lucky writer.

Oh would-be writers of memoir, rejoice. Beth Kephart, National Book Award Finalist and U of Penn memoir professor has gathered all kinds of advice for you in her new book. Leave me a comment here and I might pick your name and mail it to you. (And leave a link to where you've reposted my blog entry and get special consideration.) Or just buy yourself a dang copy here. and get started pronto!

Gardening vs. Writing

We don't have a garden. Shame, shame, a yard and no garden. My vegetables are purchased and my flowers run wild along the stone wall, like dirty, colorful, unwatched toddlers. I tell myself this is because I write, because I staked my claim of how my time will be spent, how priorities are seized on free mornings and afternoons. But I also *bites fist* don't like to garden. I don't mind the dirt or the digging. (That's like writing.) It's the sunburnt wheelbarrow-y repetition. It's the dull tedium of the rows. (That's like sending out queries.) And it's the waiting. (Argh, like going out on submission!)