My Pilot is on Standby

Make everybody fall out of the plane first, and then explain who they were and why they were in the plane to begin with.  - Nancy Ann Dibble

Make everybody fall out of the plane first.  This, my readers, is exactly what I'm having a hard time doing.  I never thought the beginning would be the most difficult part. I know the story, I know what happens, I know how things are resolved.  But the plane - well my plane can't even get off the ground.  Forget about people boarding it.  The pilot isn't even remotely nearby... he's off taking a nap somewhere, or eating his lunch, or whatever it is pilots do while they're waiting for takeoff. 

I try to put myself there - at the scene - as an innocent bystander looking in at the situation.  I can see what is happening, feel what Hallie feels... but the words... they elude me.  They're just not good enough.

Is it writer's block?  I'm thinking not.  I know what needs to be said.  I know how I should say it.  I just can't... say it as well as I should. 

Take Me Back Tuesday - Installment #2

scat·ter·brain (skāt'ər-brān')  
n.  A person regarded as flighty, thoughtless, or disorganized.

***

I’m not one to keep track of things. The capability of putting something away (and then remembering where I put it later) has eluded me since I was a kid. Just this last weekend Lovemuffin asked what I'd done with a gift card I received at Christmas, and I had no idea where it was. It’s not for lack of trying. I just can’t keep track of where I stuff things. (Step one to addressing the problem - admitting I throw things in random places without thinking.)

I went through my dresser drawers, favorite hiding places ("Hey! An SD card! I've been looking for that!"), the office, my closet.

“Where did you put it?” he asked me. “You lost another one?”

“I didn’t lose it.” (My answer every time.) “It's in a safe place.”

That’s his new joke when I can't find something. “Did you put it where you put everything else? In a ‘safe’ place?”

Ha ha. More jokes. Hardy har har.

When I was a kid, the main things I forgot about had value. Now it's not so bad - a few dollars, the lighter Lovemuffin uses to light the barbeque (found it in my make-up drawer yesterday), candy. Back then, I didn’t misplace things exactly - I simply forgot about their existence for a short while. Forgot long enough that when I did remember where I'd put them, it was too late to do anything about it.

Example 1: I’m seven years old and my parents have just gotten married. My mom and dad give my step-sister and I each a gold ID bracelet with the date of the wedding on it (it probably said something personal on it too, but I can’t remember), to symbolize us all becoming one family. It was special. A special present marking a very special occasion. 

I loved that bracelet. I’d never had anything so nice, shiny and new before. I was told not to wear it anywhere. (Or maybe I just knew I wasn’t supposed to wear it anywhere. I can’t remember. Point being, I should NOT have worn it anywhere. )

There was a large area of asphalt in front of the main part of my school, and to the left of it was a huge ditch. (Huge to a seven year-old kid anyway.) A swing set and monkey bars was to the right of that ditch, and to the right of that was a big, fat-trunked palm tree with a water fountain underneath it. Kids were always finding new reasons to play in the ditch. (The only time I ever played went near it was to play Red Rover. “Red rover, red rover, send Jessica right over!” I didn't play well. Or get picked early in the game too often. But that’s a different story for a different day.)

My parents haven't been back long from their honeymoon when I decide to wear it to school. A friend and I go play in the ditch at recess, digging around in the dirt after a decent rain. The ground is the perfect consistency to work with - soft enough to dig in, but not so moist that it's muddy. We are making huge piles and having a great time.

I’ve gone back to class and then on home from school when I realize the bracelet is no longer on my wrist.

Example 2: I have no clue what grade I'm in - possibly high school . There's some sort of dress-up day, like spirit week - something along those lines. I'm dressed like a hippie (or maybe it was a nerd?), and have asked my mom if I can wear her old 70’s or early 80’s glasses. They're prescription glasses. Not cute ones, no – these are hideously ugly and not even remotely stylish. Kids are laughing at me because of how "true to character" my glasses really are. I'm quite proud of myself. (And doing my best not to admit they came from my own house. My mom still uses them for back-up when she waits for new ones, can’t find her own, ect. But again, not admitting that to anyone.)

Enter recess time. My friends and I decide to go hang out on the swings - a place we haven't hung out in forever. But, that day, someone has a bright idea to go over there, to the other side of campus and sit on the kiddy swings. I set the glasses down on the sand, right out of my swinging feet's reach. I scurry back to class when the bell rings a few minutes later .

Example 3: It's my thirteenth birthday. One of my (four) grandmothers lives in Maine. I don’t see her often - by the time my thirteenth birthday rolls around, I’ve seen her maybe five times. (Incidentally, she's my step-grandmother, not something that is usually relevant to me. You'll see why I pointed out the step-grandmother part very shortly.)

My grandma sends me a diamond ring for my thirteenth birthday. I am floored, even as young as I am. I can’t believe my grandma would give me something so expensive, so meaningful. To a girl technically not even her own grandchild. And she sent it in the mail, no less. From Maine, all the way to California. To add to the compliment, this ring is something she actually used to wear (it said so in the letter she wrote out and folded up to fit in the ring box). So it's is a hand-me-down of the best kind, something special. I am proud.

My parents ask if they should keep it or if they can trust me.

“Oh, you can trust me. Trust me!”

I wear it to school a few days later. This time, though, I realize my mistake, and decide I probably haven’t made the best decision. So I stick it in my backpack, and plan to take it out when I arrive home and put it back away.

I never found the bracelet. I begged everyone in the school office to ask anyone who entered those doors about my bracelet. Day after day I checked to see if someone had “dropped it off” at the lost and found. It wasn’t lost. It was taken. I know this. I ran back to the dirt after school that day and looked all through our piles. Someone found it after my recess and kept it (with the date May 2 and my name on it, no less). Guaranteed.

My mom's glasses were in pieces. One lens was missing, the frame beyond repair. Someone either came along after I went back to class and swung as high as their little legs could propel them into the air before landing on them, or, the possible (and most likely) other scenario is a kid just broke them... on purpose. I'll never know.

Tires and lawn equipment were not my friend. Grandma's ring fell out of my backpack sometime between me getting out of my friend’s car after school, and running into her house. By the time I realized it was missing from my backpack, someone had already driven over it (with a lawn mower or car), and my friend's dad had blown it into the grass with the leaf blower. The diamond was completely gone. Crushed into smithereens probably. We found the band intact but bent, with a worn off darker area where the diamond’s prong had previously been.  At least I still have that.  I've only taken it out of the box a few times in the past (almost)

 twenty years.

After reading those examples, you'd think I would have learned my lesson.  Then again, maybe I did.  Maybe that's why now I only misplace little things, trivial items my brain won't lock into memory for future reference.

I'm sure I'll find the gift card in the next month or so.  But if I don't, I can tell you where it isn't.  It's not in a pile of dirt, or underneath the swings. It didn't get chopped up by a lawn mower, either.   It's around here somewhere in this house, waiting in a safe place until I find it.  And I will find it, eventually.

Backronyms

Narrative Magazine has a Backronym competition going on, and though I'm not the most creative person with stuff like that, I thought it would be fun to have a little competition (minus the uh, competition part) of my own here on My Thoughts Exactly.

Here's an explanation of a Backronym, according to NM:

IN NOVEMBER 1983 Meredith G. Williams won theWashington Post’s monthly neologism contest with the word backronym. He defined his entry as “the same as an acronym except that the words were chosen to fit the letters.”

A backronym is a phrase created to transform an existing word into an acronym, where each letter stands for another word. Here are three examples of backronyms that have become common:

Cop: constable on patrol

Golf: gentleman only, ladies forbidden

Adidas: all day I dream about sports

So would anyone like to create one and share it?  Maybe something that has to do with your personality, your WiP's, or just something you consider funny?

Here's mine (and I'd like to remind you of the "I'm not good at stuff like that" comment I made earlier): 

Cat - canine antagonizing tyrant (ha!)

I tried to do one with the word "writer", but a three letter word was as far as I could go on my lack of sleep this weekend.  Feel free to share any if you have 'em!

Happy Monday!

Disregarding Henry

Last night a good friend and I were talking about the new movie Extraordinary Measures.  It didn't take long for Harrison Ford's name to come up, and I asked if she'd ever seen the movie Regarding Henry.  She said no.  I almost bought it the other day when I was out shopping with kids 2 & 3, because I remember how much I loved that movie when I first saw it.  If you haven't seen Regarding Henry, I highly recommend it.  (Check the five dollar DVD section at your local Wal-Mart.)  So anyway, after our conversation I decided to name my MacBook Henry.

I'm not one to name things. My car is "my car" (though it's actually a suburban).  My husband's work truck is "the truck".  The washing mashing is "the washing machine", the dryer (say it with me) "the dryer".  We don't name anything like I've heard many (creative) people do.  But for some reason, I had to name this Henry.

We're two peas in a pod, Henry and I.  Lovemuffin laughs at me on a daily basis, shaking his head at our strange kinship.   Henry goes almost everywhere I go in the house - sometimes I take him with me to Panera Monday nights when the girls are at church.  Henry is my connection to the outside world, to writers and bloggers, twitterers and tweets, information I need at a moment's notice, friends who are miles away.  I don't know what I'd do without him.  

If Henry's battery is going dead, I feel sad.  Guess it's time to do dishes or laundry.  I'll have to watch American Idol with the kids instead of listening to it while clicking away on Henry's keyboard.  Those things just don't compare to hanging with Henry.  When he and the Internet aren't getting along, it makes me mad.  How dare it not want to connect with him?  I want to yell at stupid Internet and tell him he's being rude. I mean, come on.  It's Henry.

I've tried to let Henry go, to go back to my main computer, and work in my office.  But the chemistry just isn't the same. For one thing, she's big.  And stuck in one spot - she never follows me around or stays by my side like my pal Henry does.  I've had her way longer than him and yet, I still have no idea what her name is.

In summation, I could never get rid of Henry.  He lets people know how I'm feeling throughout the day, tells them what's on mind, helps me share information and learn a lot from others.  We're a great match, me and Henry, Henry and me.  

Now I'm wondering if I should name my cell phone - we're pretty close, almost as close as me and Henry.  I'm thinking maybe Tabitha or Annabelle or Clarice. Imagine the awesome high-tech offspring they could have if the two of them got together.  But no matter how many more electronic devices come through this house, my heart will remain true.  I wouldn't dream of disregarding Henry.

Just Tell the Story

You write to communicate to the hearts and minds of others what's burning inside you.  And we edit to let the fire show through the smoke.  ~Arthur Polotnik

I've learned yet another lesson the past few days.  Just tell the story.  

Long bouts of editing drain me.  I find myself staring at the words, sick of them, wondering what I was thinking.  Why did I think that part was necessary?  What am I trying to say here? Does this even make sense?

Arthur Polotnik's quote speaks to me because months ago I felt the story burning inside of me, the need to share it with the hearts and minds of others.  The feeling is still there, but the fire isn't burning as strong - this editing is getting in the way.  Being concerned about too many do's and don'ts has begun to stifle my voice, Hallie's voice.  

It's time to take Mr. Polotnik's advice.  Time to remember the point of all this.  I'm going to stop analyzing things word for word and go back to the beginning - the part where I had one goal: telling the story.  

I will show what's burning inside of me.  I will edit to let fire show through the smoke.

Interpreting a Book Cover

If I fall into the "normal" writer category (and I'm pretending that I do, so please don't burst my clueless bubble here), then I won't be alone in saying we picture what our eventual cover will look like long before reach the point of publication.  (I will get there, eventually! Positive thinking!)  

Each book cover is different.  Some have a random object or objects (with a meaning that may or may not make sense once you've read the book), 

others have a picture of the main location of the story,

and some have pictures that make you curious as to what part the cover plays in the plot.

The picture I have in mind for mine (which may change as time goes on) is something in my story, but not something that would stand out as particularly important unless a person knew what I'll Love You Until was about.

I've imagined what it should look like for months now, and have spent TONS of time looking all over the internet for *just* the right one, but I've yet to find anything close to what I see in my head. 

Anyway, here it is... kinda... minus a few specific details of the swing and its surroundings (I realize it's horizontal - and am not fond of the heart cutout, either). 

It's so exciting to think about the possibility of a similar cover someday. =)

How do you see your cover?  Is it an illustration?  A photograph?  Does it connect to a specific event, or mean something only the reader would understand?  I'd love to hear your creative ideas!

(If you like to look at book covers for research, entertainment or both, check out The Book Design Review  for many diverse cover designs.  Though Joseph Sullivan has decided to no longer post, the blog is still up.)

Take Me Back Tuesday - Installment #1

Welcome to the first installment of "Take Me Back Tuesdays"!  Thought I'd share a little bit about the good ol' days once a week - you know, add a bit of weekly entertainment at my own expense. (I'm great at self-sacrifice.  Whatever it takes to get the job done, my readers.) This week I'll be sharing one of my handful of bad experiences I had while riding a bike.

I was driving the girls home the other day when we passed two boys tossing a football in their front yard.  Being the consistently talkative/reminiscent mother that I am, I immediately felt it necessary to tell the girls a story about the last time I watched boys toss a football in a front yard.  (By the way, my oldest would probably deny this, but I saw her look at them a little longer than usual.  Maybe she was trying to figure out if she knew the boys, but the fact remains that her head was held in their direction longer than my other two.)

So. I had a decent-sized crush on this guy.  Okay, I'm going to be truthful with you, my readers. It was a few guys.  But I was twelve - who was counting?  (Besides me and my boy-crazy friends, and our concerned parents, I mean.)  I'm not going to name names.  Nuh-uh.  I grew up in a very small town.  The process of elimination would take all of thirty seconds. But I will say this: most of us girls in town had a crush on this guy.    

I did have one thing working in my favor when it came to the boy-crazies.  I may have grown up in a small town, but I always went to school out of town.  Most of my peers had no clue who the heck I was, which sucked for the most part, but at times was pretty awesome, because it gave me free reign to ride my bike around town and check everyone out in their usual places.  I could then report even the most trivial information back to my BFFs.  ("He cut his HAIR!  His shirt was GREEN, like his EYES!  He was eating PIZZA!  Of course pepperoni!  What?  I don't know, he either said 'I'd like a Dr. Pepper' or 'Here comes the hot stepper.', I'm not sure." Yes.  We were that. Bad.)

My piano teacher lived about two blocks away from my house, so when the weather was nice I'd ride my bike to her home.  I had a little canvas bag the perfect size to hold three or four piano books, and would hang it on the right handlebar to and from my lesson.

One particularly warm day, as I was riding home from my lesson, my boy crush and another guy  were vigorously tossing a football back and forth in crush boy's front yard.  Shirtless.  Now, I wasn't old enough to fully appreciate their lack of clothing, but I knew that sort of juicy tidbit would make for a great story when I told my friends about it later at our "meeting".  

So there I was, riding my bike on the opposite side of the road, staring at the boys, oblivious to everything around me, when the right handlebar turned toward me suddenly and the corner of my canvas bag jammed into the spokes of the front bicycle tire.  

 My canvas bag fell to the ground, the bike on top of it, and as the truck's alarm rang out loud and clear, saying "Look at me!  Look at me!  I've been hit!  This girl's embarrassed!  Look at her too!" (in car alarm language - I'm convinced of this), both boys looked over at me immediately.  

I was mortified.   I didn't care about the pain in my shin, the dent in the side of some stranger's truck, I almost didn't even care about my bike (the only reason I did was because I had to ride it home - what's more mortifying than crashing your bike into a truck in front of two good looking boys?  Having to walk your bent-up bike home after crashing your bike in front of two good looking boys.)  All I cared about was the possibility that those two boys, who had no clue who I was, would forever see me around town and refer to me as the "weirdo who crashed into the truck across the street".

I finally looked at my leg when I got home.  There was minor damage, at most.  But my pride, oh man, my pride was a different story.  (I don't remember much about the status of my bike, but I know I rode it around for at least another year after that, so it must have survived the crash with minor scrapes and bruises.)  

It didn't take long for me to tell my mom what happened.  And do you know what she said?  She said I should go back down there and tell the truck owner that I was the one who'd crashed into his truck.  That I should apologize for putting a dent in it and taking off without telling them what happened. I mean really.  Did I go?  Heck no.  What if the boys were still out there in the front yard?  Can you imagine how embarrassing that would have been?  No.  I could not ride my bike back over there.

I didn't ride down that block again for months. Going an eensy bit out of my way was just fine by me, long as I didn't have to see either one of them again.  But I did tell that story at our next "meeting", in all it's mortifying glory.  And I told it to my kids (minus the not going back to the truck and apologizing part, of course) almost twenty years later.  The only difference was, my friends thought it was hilarious.  My kids thought I was a dork.