Write From the Heart

New Books, Inspiration and Stephen King

2011-12-13T06:53:00.000-08:00

Since my last blog post, I have been immersed in getting WISH I COULD HAVE SAID GOODBYE out into the world, and a brand new novel is well on its way, slated to be done by fall of 2012. ALL THE WORLD'S A STAGE, my second novel, deals with powerful life changes and first love, but does so with a humorous slant. I have to thank my awesome classmates and instructors at the University of Chicago for helping me become a better writer, and here's a brief look at what's been happening.

First, I am thrilled to announce WISH I COULD HAVE SAID GOODBYE was awarded third place in the Kansas City Romance Writers of America, Show Me the Spark contest. I have to give a big shout out to the all Romance Writers of America chapters who host contests all across the country all year long. And while writers may not always win or place, the feedback from fellow authors and editors is invaluable. I highly recommend to any writer to enter. Thanks to Stephanie Smith, all contests are all listed at www.stephaniesmith.com.

As a new debut author, while preparing WISH I COULD HAVE SAID GOODBYE for publication is exciting, the best part of my job is writing. One of the books I recently read is Stephen King's Memoir, ON WRITING. He's my newest idol and while I was reading it, I could be found with his book in my hand, running around the house saying, "He is so right, I knew I wasn't nuts, I can't believe he does that too."

I was also overwhelmed by how early Stephen King started writing and how writing became the art form he needed to help him recover from life-threatening injuries in 1999. I am always glad to see art get credit for making our lives better. Here's one quote from him that I now have pasted in my office: "Life isn't a support-system for art. It's the other way around."

And speaking of art supporting life, I also have to mention a book by a fellow author. I met Harriet Claire Wadeson at one of my writer's groups and was shocked when she told us she was recovering from cancer at one of our meetings. Harriet is an Art Therapist who has won numerous awards for being a pioneer in the field. She's also a gifted artist and author. Her book, JOURNALING CANCER IN WORDS AND IMAGES is available on Amazon and I highly recommend it to anyone. It will make you laugh and it will make you cry.

While I'm gawking at Stephen King and admiring Harriet's book, I want to congratulate another friend on her new non-fiction book soon to be released in January called MASTER THE MATRIX: 7 Essentials for Getting Things Done in Complex Organizations. You can read the first chapter and get tips and tools on how to maximize work relationships at www.LeadershipMutt.com.

Finally, as the last post of 2011, I'd like to leave you with the top five things I've learned this year as a writer:

5) Listen to your gut.

4) Every writer writes a crappy first draft.

3) The art of writing cannot be taken lightly, otherwise it's just writing.

2) Roald Dahl has been known to re-write the beginning of a story hundreds of times.

1) Never let go of your voice.

Happy Holidays!

Frankenstein

2011-05-04T06:35:00.000-07:00

I have to share a revelation that has changed me as a writer. Novel writing is a very individual process. Not one writer has the same system or method, which is why it is one of the most difficult forms of creative expression. Writers learn from other writers. And each writer must figure out what works for them. Some writers outline, some do not. Some writers start with plot, some start with character. You get the idea.

I have always known that character is vital to me as a writer. I have always started with character. The stories I have lined up to write all are character driven, and the novel I am currently revising, is character-driven. I am most passionate about what goes on inside a character's head and how they deal with relationships.

But where I went wrong is I did not analyze my characters enough. I didn't analyze them beyond the story and that's where I got into trouble. So, the last few months I have been doing a psychoanalysis of all my characters way beyond the scope of the story, using a variety of methods, including Martha Engber's Growing Characters From the Ground Up book.

As I reworked my characters and put them on the page, my writing instructors and fellow classmates at University of Chicago really honed in on what was working in the revision and what wasn't. Not only has the story line gotten stronger, but my characters are more alive. I've learned the characters must tell me the story, not the other way around.

So as I walked away from my day of writing yesterday, I felt like Mary Shelley. I totally get how Shelley created her Frankenstein. As a character-driven writer, that's what I have to do. Each time I tell a story, I must make a Frankenstein.

If you're interested in learning more about how to delve into character, read Martha Engber's book Growing Characters From the Ground Up. She has a website marthaengber.com where you can find out about her book and classes.

My advice to kids who are writing any kind of fictional story is this: Think about all the things a character likes and doesn't like. Know your character's parents and siblings and how they fit into the family. Also very important: Give your character something weird or unusual. It could be a habit, a pet, a hobby, anything that would make them realistic, yet very different.

Need a Jolt of Inspiration?

2011-02-17T09:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, so now I'm officially an ice skating fanatic. I've always loved the sport, but since my daughter has been on a synchronized skating team, I've become so passionate about the sport that I am moved to tears at every competition. And, I'm not always crying because my daughter's out there. No sir-ee. I am not sob-specific. Sure, I cry for my daughter and her teammates, but it doesn't end there. I cry for other teams, other skaters, anyone on the ice...

So tonight, the movie Rise premiers in theatres nationwide and if you are not familiar, it is a one night tribute to the 1961 U.S. World Figure Skating Team that perished with their coaches, family and friends on their way to the World Championships in Prague in 1961. The movie is based on the book written by Patricia Shelley Bushman, who herself was a former competitive figure skater. She recounts the months leading up to the competition, illustrating the drive, determination and passion that those skaters have, that all ice skaters share. Only the 1961 team never got the opportunity to compete.

The ultimate tragedy is that to this day, they don't know why the plane crashed. But the inspiration that I promised you at the beginning of this post? It lies within the surviors and the ice skating community. The crash took out so many key figures that the sport had to rebuild itself and did so with the same determination, strength, passion and committment that is evidenced at every level of ice skating today.

In reading about the movie last night in my daughter's Ice Skating magazine, I was moved to tears, unable to keep reading. My daughter is used to my sobs in the stands of an ice rink, but this confused her (I don't cry about everything, you know) as she handed me a tissue she had a puzzeled look on her face. "Wha..why are you...?"

"I can feel it. I can feel what it's like to love something so much. To sacrafice for something that is so powerful inside of you that you don't know why you do it, day in and day out, except that you love it. You love it more than life itself. And then, to never get the chance to shine, to get that moment in your life where your passion and drive and work pays off... it's just tragic."

So in the wake of tradgedy lies inspiration to carry on with whatever it is that you live for. There is hope. There is tomorrow. There is time.

Why I'd Rather Be a Dog When It's Snowing

2011-01-09T10:33:00.000-08:00

While throwing a tennis ball to my dog last week in a snow storm, I came up with a list of reasons why I'd rather be a dog than a human when it snows:

1. Dogs don't ever have to shovel.

2. You can play in the snow for a really long time and never get cold.

3. Dogs don't have to put up with people who don't know how to drive in the snow, stopping on a dime, so you have to swerve into a ditch to avoid rear-ending them.

4. You can sit and stare out the window at the snow falling for hours and no one thinks you should be doing something or that you've lost your mind.

5. Snow on your head will not give you a bad hair day.

6. You don't have to spend an extra ten minutes putting on ski socks, boots, a hat, gloves, a scarf, a face mask just to take a walk. All you need is a human and a leash.

7. If the roof of the house caves in from the weight of the snow, it doesn't affect your life - at all.

8. You love it when the kids have a snow day.

9. You love it when snow sand-blasts your face at 90 miles an hour from the snowblower.

10. If you had to eat yellow snow to survive, it really wouldn't be a problem.

How I Got My Nickname Toots

2011-01-02T06:53:00.000-08:00

On my first day of Kindergarten, at Our Lady of Perpetual Hope Catholic School, Sister Irene called out, “Shari.”

I didn’t respond. Shari is my mother’s name. She didn't come to Kindergarten with me, did she?

Sister Irene called out my mother’s name again. I turned around and looked past the ginormous red apples made out of construction paper hanging down from the ceiling, everyone’s name printed neatly on each one, to see if she was standing in the back of the classroom, next to the bookcases, or in front of the crayon bins piled high with so many crayons I could smell the wax from where I was sitting criss-cross applesauce on the rug. Nope.

Sister Irene called out Shari for a third time, adding my last name now. So I raised my hand. I figured I should help her out. She must be confused.

Sister Irene replied with a smile, “Good morning Shari.”

I said, “No. My name isn’t Shari. That’s my mother’s name. My name is Toni.” I thought she looked a little old and possibly very hard of hearing, so I spelled it out for her. “T.O.N.I. Toni. That’s my name.”

Sister Irene planted herself in front of me, pushed her fists into her hips, and with her crucifix blinding me, she grimaced down at me.

I gulped.

When I got home, my mother showed me my birth certificate. She explained to me that my real name was Shari. Toni was just a nickname because my parents couldn’t agree on what to name me when I was born so they decided to name me Shari, after her. But my father was determined to name me Antoinette, so he called me Toni, and it stuck. She told me Toni could not be my name anymore, and from this day forward my name would be Shari.

I was devastated. Seriously? I had to drop the fun, easy to write name and replace it with my mother’s name? It's got an S in it. You know how hard it is to make an S? Yick. My career as a student was getting off to a really rough start. As if the stark realization that you had to wear the same hunter green and navy blue plaid jumper to school every day for the rest of your life wasn't bad enough, I was getting my name ripped away from me too. So much for identity.

I quickly figured out how to write my new name and moved past losing Toni, and although my father complied, he was still determined not to call me Shari. So he started calling me Toots. Everyone around me (except for my mother) began calling me Toots as well. I am still referred to Toots in my family and have even more nicknames, listed in no particular order: Roger, Shar, Shariberry, ShariAnne, Shari Junior.

Although Kindergarten meant complete identity crisis for me, little did I know that my life was pretty darn good at the time. Looking back on it, I wish I could have savored those first few years of school a little more than I did, because fourth grade was coming my way and life was going to get even more difficult for me.

Who Needs Dear Abby When I Got a Big Brother?

2010-12-08T06:15:00.000-08:00

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I went into a rant. Not about the turkey being too dry, or the fact that it took me hours to locate and dispose of all the hair balls from Betty Queen Elizabeth, so my guests wouldn't find black hair floating in their gravy. I went on a rant about my life as an artist.

My older brother, who lives in San Francisco and is a car designer by trade, was home for the holiday and I desperately needed to vent to someone who I knew would understand where I was coming from. I needed some reassurance that I wasn't the only artist who gets impatient with not getting paid for your hours of hard work, putting your whole heart and soul on the line every day, just so people can tell you to go back and start over - the story isn't powerful enough to be published yet.

What's great about having a brother who is older, wiser and a male, is that he can encapsulate my reeling emotions into a few sentences and make me feel great. Not just good, but great.

With this particular rant I was on, he was totally in his element. I didn't even need to get more than a few sentences out. Apparently, his many years of art school, car design training and on the job experience, added up to a whole lot of advice for me.

He said, "Being an artist means ripping your heart out of your chest, nailing it to the wall, and watch while people throw darts at it. Your heart and soul, your blood, your sweat, your tears, must be in every piece of art you do, and sometimes it will be great, and sometimes it will be shit. And art, unlike 1+1=2, is subjective. That's your life. End of story."

My lamenting turned quickly into laughing. It wasn't that he said something I didn't already know, but watching him pretend to rip his heart out of his chest and throw darts at it in the middle of the kitchen, made me realize that all of us as artists feel exactly the same way at some point. In fact, isn't anyone looking for success going to feel this way? I realized it's not just the life of the artist, but the life of someone who is striving for greatness, striving to better themselves, to challenge the masses, to get somewhere. It's all about risk.

My daughter is a synchronized ice skater, and as I watch the skaters on her team who rang in age from 7 to 12 compete, I see them do the same thing. They go out there, give it everything they got. Sometimes they place high, sometimes they don't. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that they keep going. They keep striving. They keep willing to go out there, rip their hearts out of their chests and let the judges throw darts.

So big brother comes through again. Every day, I push ahead, asking myself if the writing I'm finished with for the day has my blood on it. Did I commit? Did I reveal? Did I take the risk? If not, it's a rewrite. And I will rewrite my stories and I will let the darts be thrown, and I will keep going. End of story.

How I Really Feel About Batman and Robin

2010-10-20T13:09:00.000-07:00

Last week I was tagged by a friend/fellow blogger with the following questions. The first question deals with superpowers and so I immediately thought of my favorite superheroes Batman and Robin (60's TV show).

I'm not really a big superhero/superpower fan but I loved watching Batman when I was a kid and not because of their superhero-ness. In all honesty, I watched the show because I thought the guys were cute. Especially Robin. I loved him. I had a crush on him. He was everything any eight-year old looks for in a man: 1)Cute...check. 2)Funny...check 3)Seems to be kinda on your level...like never the boss...check. So you can see where my interests lie when it comes to superheroes and superpowers. Now that I've admitted my crush on Robin, here's what I have to say about the rest of the questions:

1. If you could have any superpower, what would you have?

I'm a bit of a mystic girl. I believe in psychics, astrology (although some argue that is a science), ghosts, you know, all kinds of things that can't be explained with pure logic. So, I'd opt for mythic healing powers. I'd love to have the ability to wipe out illness, sadness, suffering and really bad attitudes. Peace baby. All the way.

2. Who is your style icon?

I have a few, depending on my mood:

Audry Hepburn, Princess Diana and Roseanne Rosannadanna.

3. What is your favorite quote?

I have two:

"In the face of difficulty lies opportunity." - Albert Einstein.

"The best things in life are always a little bit gross." - My brother.

4. What's the best compliment you ever received?

A successful writer told me I have a mind like a writer.

5. What's on your iPod/CD player right now?

Double Fantasy and Milk and Honey - John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

6. Are you a night owl or morning person?

Morning. Always. My best childhood memories are of my dad and I being the only ones up on vacation and going for breakfast at the Howard Johnson's hotel restaurant, just the two of us.

7. Do you prefer cats or dogs?

I'm an animal lover. I don't have a cat because my son and husband have asthma and you know what that means...

8. What's the meaning behind your blog name?

Artichokes aren't a passive food. Life is like an artichoke. Like an artichoke, you can't be passive about life. You have to keep at it, peeling away the layers to get to the heart of it. People are like artichokes too. And the Aristotle part? I'm a writer and lover of philosophy. Say no more.

Thanks for visiting, and now check out a few of my favorite blogs on writing:

Liminalesque

Patricia J Murphy

Georgia Mc Bride

City Girl

2010-09-28T12:23:00.000-07:00

I'm very excited to have been accepted into the Certificate of Creative Writing program at the University of Chicago. Once a week I hop into my car and head into the city to indulge myself in the study of creative writing.

It's exhilarating to go into Chicago once a week. I spent most of my adult life living there (ages 19-35) and loved every minute of it. But there came a time when having kids meant moving out to sprawling suburbia. And as I drive myself back and forth every week, I know that although the truth might hurt, I'm not a city girl anymore. I would have lived in denial, thinking that once a city girl always a city girl, but a year after moving out of the city, I had an encounter with a Marshall Field's saleswoman that clarified my standing as a suburbanite.

Two months after my son was born, my parents babysat for us so hubby and I could go into the city for the day. At this time, Marshall Fields was still around and we decided to do some shopping there, a little reminiscing. I had found a cute purse that I wanted and went up to the cash register to pay for it. Hubby decided to get some air outside while I paid for my cute little purse. As the lady behind the counter folded up the bag that she had carefully placed my new purse into, she looked at me with a big warm smile, "You must be one of the people from the PEORIA bus."

WHAT??

I started to shake. My eyeballs felt swollen. I couldn't breath. I couldn't even speak. I shook my head in protest. "No. No. No, no NO. I'm not from PEORIA. I just moved out to the suburbs a year ago. REALLY!"

Clutching my hunter green Marshall Field's bag I spun around and raced out the revolving door, almost knocking everyone over in my path, including two small children. I ran up to hubby, on the verge of tears. I could barely speak. "I...I...she...the lady...thought...I..."

Hubby grabs my arm, a look of panic taking over his face. "Oh my God. What happened? Did you get mugged? You're shaking."

Still nodding, I somehow found the strength to get the words out. And as I said them, postpartum hormonal floodgates opened up. "The lady behind the counter thought I was from PEORIA!" I screamed.

Now hubby thinks I've gone nuts and this whole 'having kids' thing has really taken it's toll.

"So?"

"SO? SO? ME? FROM PEORIA? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS?" My arms are flailing, the green bag flapping, people shielding their faces from me while walking down State Street.

Hubby tries his best to get a grip on what happened and where his wife went to. "Apparently, I don't...because you seem to be pretty upset and I have no idea why."

"Of course you don't know why. You're from ROCKFORD!" I start pacing around, sweating, rubbing my forehead, trying to figure out how to reverse this curse.

Hubby grabs me by the shoulder and directs me to the window. Standing under the awning he tries to understand (bless his heart). "You're gonna need to explain. Is this a new mother thing? Do we need to go home?"

"No! We don't need to go home. I just need a minute."

"Okay..."

After a few minutes, I was able to calm myself down using the Lamaze method that I DIDN'T use during childbirth. I explained to him what it means to a 'city girl' like myself, to have been mistaken for someone from PEORIA.

My arms outstretched, shifting my feet, I revealed the secret code to him. "It means that I've slipped. I've gone backwards, not only in the world of fashion, but this is a CHARACTER issue. Going backwards in fashion implies that I'm backwards in my thinking, in my life. That I'm not up to par mentally. I've regressed in every way possible. This isn't about the fact that I LOOK like I'm from PEORIA. This is crisis! This is my wake up call. If I continue on this path I'll be old and grey and in a rocker in six months flat and there's no way I'll ever be able to catch up. I'm doomed!"

Hubby says. "Let's go for a drink."

So we left Marshall Field's and hubby took me straight to the nearest bar. Three drinks later we were both laughing about the whole thing - but for completely different reasons. And when I got home, my entire outfit, belt and all went into the Goodwill pile. Even my underwear.

But as I discarded that outfit, the truth was, I couldn't discard the reality of my life. I had been a city person and now I wasn't. It wasn't part of my character anymore. The Marshall Field's lady confirmed my status as a non-city dweller. And that hurt.

The hard thing about life is that it always changes. The good part about life is that it always changes. As I visit the city once a week, I'm reminded that it's still there. It's still going, and there's always a chance I can go back to living there and being a city girl once again.

Summer-Through the Eyes of a Dog

2010-08-26T08:33:00.000-07:00

The start of a new school year always means exciting new beginnings and back to work for our household. But for our family dog, Betty Queen Elizabeth, the start of a new school year means a big let down. As the kids ran out to the bus stop last week, Betty's head hung low, while her sad eyes followed each step they took. Her summer entertainment was going, going...gone. They were once again, whisked away by the ginormous, loud, orange monster we call a school bus.

After the school bus pulled away, Betty Queen Elizabeth turned around and plopped onto the foyer rug. A long drawn out sigh bellowed out of her, as she slowly inched her head closer to the floor, getting ready do some serious nap time and a whole lotta nothin'.

Watching her obvious discontentment with the situation, I bent down, and sat next to her. I stroked the top of her head, and thought about how Betty Queen Elizabeth might sum up all the reasons why she loves summer so much. Here's how I think it might go if I interviewed her:

Betty, why do you love summer so much?

B.Q.E. (short for Betty Queen Elizabeth): I love summer because there's constantly something going on. Take a simple thing like the front door, for example. In the summer months, it stays open from sun-up to sun-down, a perfect place to park yourself and watch everything going on outside through the glass storm door. I can spot every dog that prances by the house and they can see me. I love to practice my vicious bark at them. My vocal chords get a good work out while I hone my guard-dog skills.

Author/Interviewer note:

Unfortunately, Betty doesn't really have any guard-dog skills, so we still pay for an alarm on our house. Betty doesn't know that wagging her tail and licking someone are NOT GUARD DOG SKILLS and and they do NOT act as deterrents. Vicious barking and showing of the teeth would be guard dog skills, but oh well. We don't want to hurt her self-esteem so we let it go.

So, Betty. How do you feel about the house being bombarded by children all day long?

B.Q.E.: I LOVE it. During the summer, kids are always around and they come in every shape and size. Kids are fun to have around for three reasons. One: they ALWAYS feed you. Two: they're ALWAYS running (huge chase-me-I chase-them factor). And three: Some kids come smaller, at eye-level, which is THE perfect size for face licking (usually with a bonus flavor like cherry, lemonade, or ice-cream on them).

Tell us the truth. How do you feel about being taken for rides in the car constantly in the summer?

B.Q.E.: More rides in the car means more times I can stick my head out and feel the wind flap my ears and rush up my nose. I love it. In the summer, I'm guaranteed At LEAST one ride a day. Shoot. There were times this summer that I felt like I was in the car ALL DAY! Also, more rides means - you guessed it, more kids in the car. And kids pet me a lot and call me the cutest dog ever, so what's not to LOVE?

How about all the parties that seem to go on at your house? How do you feel about that?

B.Q.E.: Summer parties mean one thing to me: Food. AND that grill thing-a-majig is used whenever there's a party, which works out perfectly for me. A party of any sort means humans are distracted (by other humans) so I can get to the drippings under the grill before it gets covered. YUM.

Speaking of parties, I heard there was a couple of wild parties at your house this summer, one of them involved dancing in the living room, another one involved BISON meat being served while humans wore white bed sheets or Togas. Is this true? And if so, how did you handle that craziness?

B.Q.E.: I cannot tell a lie. It's all true. I didn't mind the dancing. It was fun to watch and bark to the music. And the humans wearing sheets didn't bother me either. The sheets made the humans look more like a soft comfy bed to me, which is where I like to spend all my free time in the winter. But I had a real issue with the Bison meat.

You did? Why is that, B.Q?

B.Q.E.: Well...that night...when they were carving the Bison meat...in their Togas, I managed to confiscate a huge chunk of it. A delicious chunk with bones buried inside of it and everything. I was in the corner, enjoying it, finding my roots, reliving my heritage when, BAM! Just like that, my mother snatched it away from me. I don't think I'll ever be the same. I think she might have ruined all my future relationships with meat.

Sorry to hear that, B.Q.E. Let's move on. Do you chase a lot of bunnies and squirrels in the summer?

B.Q.E.: Squirrel????

B.Q.E.? Get back here! Oh well. Guess we're done.

Here's to another summer ending and a new school year beginning...

Top 10 Reasons Why You Should Shop for a Bathing Suit With Your 10 Year-Old Daughter

2010-07-09T05:39:00.000-07:00

10. She'll steer you away from suits that are "way too young" for you.

9. She'll keep you from trying on/going near any suits that could possibly embarrass HER if she's seen with you.

8. She knows whether tank-ini's are in or out this season.

7. You can be the first to explain to her WHY they put that sticky thing in the crotch of the suit, and WHY you don't dare remove it.

6. You'll also be the first to explain to her why/when/how there comes a time when serious padding and underwires are not optional.

5. She'll laugh hysterically at you when you can't get the size 10 bathing suit past your knees.

4. You'll both almost pee in your pants when you explain to her that you thought it said size 10...it was really a size 01!

3. She'll tell you honestly which parts of your body to cover up and which are still appropriate for public viewing.

2. She'll tell you with a straight face that you should "seriously get that suit" because it matches the color of your varicose veins.

And the number one reason why you should shop for a bathing suit with your 10 year old daughter...

1. On the way home from the mall, you can both sing "Don't Stop Believin'... " as loud as you can, just like you used to do with your college friends.

Self-Parenting

2010-06-05T09:27:00.001-07:00

Last night my son decided he didn't want to be an artist anymore. I've been encouraging him to take an art class for several years, but he resisted, choosing to work on his art in private, in a bubble, without anyone telling him how to draw and without having to compare his work to others. But a month ago, he decided he was ready. Ready to learn, ready to get out there and explore his creativity with others.

Something happens when you leave your bubble. Leaving your bubble and venturing out of the safety of your basement, or office, or kitchen table means setting yourself up for facing the truth of who you are as an artist (and deep down as a person). In the company of others, we as human beings are programmed to compare ourselves to someone who is better than us. That's just how we roll. But when you're eleven, and have your first epiphany that there are people out there better than you and they're like, NINE? That can be a tough nugget to swallow.

So when my son said he wanted to quit because there were kids that were better than him in his art class, I asked him a question. I said, "What if Mom came to you and said, 'There's this writer I know. She can write a better novel than me. I think I'm going to quit.' What would you tell me? Would you say, "You're right Mom. You should just hang it up and quit writing."

"No!" He sat up straight. "No way. Why would you say that?" He looked at me like I was an alien or something.

I looked back at him. "Well, if I shouldn't quit, why should you?"

He nodded. Then he said. "I got it. Are we done now?"

I said, "No. So are you going to quit or not?"

"Not." He said.

"Good." I said. "But I've got a few more things to say."

He groans. "Do we have to keep talking?"

"Yep." I said.

So I went on to give him the 'life of an artist' pep talk. And as I was pumping him up, I realized I was pumping myself up too. I stopped mid sentence when I was explaining how there was always going to be someone better than you, always someone who you wish you could be like, but these people are gifts to you. They are your carrot. They are put in front of you by a higher power that's saying to you, "Look. Look at them. This is what I want you to become."

As I query agents and keep pushing forward with two other manuscripts (one YA and one MG) there are days when I wonder if I'll be as good as I want to be, if I'm gonna be as good as Pat Conroy, or Sherman Alexie, or Sara Zarr, or Jandy Nelson (who I just discovered, thanks to agent Elana Roth)...I could go on and on, but you get the idea.

But last night, as I convinced my son that he could do whatever he put his mind to, I convinced myself that of course, I could be as good as I wanted to be. Funny how this parenting thing works: In parenting your kids, it's possible to accidentally parent yourself.

Hmphf.

To Believe

2010-04-30T07:44:00.000-07:00

The world of the supernatural fascinates me and I love to pursue it in my stories. In pursuing this passion, last week I went with a good friend to see a psychic. I felt compelled to consult with a psychic for a while, especially one that is a medium, so I could try to feel what Carmella feels when she speaks with Francesca. And since my next book involves my main character falling in love with a ghost, I wanted to explore the possible physical and mental effects one could go through when encountering a spirit. (I also have an obvious interest in communicating with spirits, so what the heck.)

After my reading, I came home with four pages of notes on what my deceased relatives had to say to me. Of course, I had to tell my husband all about it. "So and so said hi. My aunt was talking really loudly, she was really excited to talk to me. My sister is really happy. My uncle told me to say hi to my aunt for him."

My husband's response was, "Ha!" (Well really ha, ha, ha....you get the idea) He is what you call a non-believer.

So I started thinking about this believer, non-believer thing. Lots of people don't believe in anything psychic. No astrology, no tarot cards, no palm readings, nothing. I, however, am a firm believer. I believe in God and I also believe that some people are gifted and can make predictions, or communicate with spirits. Now, don't get me wrong. I also believe that there are lots of fakes out there. (Maybe more phonies than real?)

But my point is, as human beings, no matter what we believe in, I think we have to believe in something. We have to believe in ourselves, in each other, in God, in Buddha, in things beyond the scope of logic. If we didn't believe in things beyond the scope of logic, how would huge technological/scientific/medical advances take place?

Talking logic now, I thought, what if I could find some logic to prove psychic abilities? What if we could gather logical explanations that prove psychic abilities are real? And in searching for just a little logic, a little science behind the psychic phenomenon, I had to send an e-mail to Jonah Lehrer. He hasn't studied this aspect of the brain and I thought who better to delve into this than Mr. Lehrer?

I'm still waiting to hear from him.

I'll keep waiting, and hoping that Mr. Lehrer assists me attempting to explain the unexplainable, but after all is said and done, it won't matter to me as a writer, as a believer of sorts. I will always believe that there are gifted people who can make predictions and talk to spirits. (Two past Presidents consulted with psychics). I will always believe in things illogical because that's who I am and I don't see how I could be a writer without being this way.

Yesterday, I read an interview with Anne Lamott in Writers Digest magazine. As usual, she made a profound comment about the life of a writer.

She said, "I really believe people are called to a literary life like others are called to a theological life or a religious life, but publishing is a business that is really hard. Hard on your heart. Hard on your soul. Hard on your everything."

So to be a writer and to put up with a hard life, does it all come down to belief? Do writers do it every day, day in and day out, because deep down, they believe? A belief so strong they believe in themselves even when no one else does?

I'm going with a yes. But that's no surprise.

What Do Our Dreams Mean?

2010-03-24T11:33:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was in the midst of writing my second novel, which I haven't titled yet. (Like when you first find out you're pregnant and you're not ready to check out Baby Name books at the library). I had a very restless night after a day of delving into the plot and the male love-interest character, who just happens to be a ghost (what can I say? I love using ghosts in my stories).

All night long, I kept waking up, feeling like this ghost was in my bedroom. He wasn't scaring me, just creeping me out a little bit. Needless to say, it was a very restless night and I woke up tired, but with a feeling like I knew my character better. When I sat down to write that day, although I was a little tired, I knew the character better, and the book is coming along at quite a clip.

Thinking about dreams and what they mean, I decided to see if my buddy Jonah Lehrer had anything to say about the topic. I first heard about Jonah when his second book, How We Decide came out and I've been visiting his blog ever since. It seems whenever I'm pondering a topic concerning our brain, I can go to his blog The Frontal Cortex and he's written something about it.

Last weekend, Jonah had an essay in the New York Times, entitled Why We Dream and in the essay he cites numerous research done on this topic, dating all the way back to Freud. The most recent research he discusses is from a paper published in 2004 by Sara Mednick, a neuroscientist at University of California. In her study, she points to the importance of dreams and specifically, the R.E.M. state and how there's a direct correlation between R.E.M., long term memory and creativity. Ah ha!

Researchers have discovered that when we dream, our minds are filing information away, deciding what things to leave in our memory and what things to throw away. As silly as dreams sound when we retell them (and people roar with laughter at us) believe it or not, all the information contained in our dreams is based on our life and what's happening in it. While we sleep, our mind does Administrative Assistant duties for us.

This brings me my own completely unscientific conclusion about dreams. I think I've cracked the code as to why we can't seem to remember a lot of stuff as we get older: We forget a lot because in the middle of the night, when our administrative assistant is supposed to be organizing and filing, it's slacking off. So when we go to retrieve information from our brains, we can't. The memory has been either misfiled or got thrown away without our consent. The solution? Fire and replace.

One last note: Jonah Lehrer points out at the end of his essay that although much has been proven to explain our dreams, there is still a ginormous amount of information we don't know concerning our dream-state-of-mind.

In A Flash

2010-03-04T06:51:00.000-08:00

I dialed 911 for the first time in my life. Picking up the phone to do it, I thought to myself, I'm dialing 911. I'm scared. Is my life going to change forever in the next five minutes?

It was my dad. He's 80. He's 80, in really good shape, but tripped on a step outside our front door and took a header. He seemed fine. Just a scraped hand. But then he turned white as snow and said he wasn't feeling well. He sat down. He started sweating. I spoke to him, his head hanging down but he didn't respond.

"Are you okay?" I asked him.

He shook his head no. That's when I went for the phone.

The paramedics came. He was okay. My life didn't change. His life didn't change. The paramedics said he went into shock after the fall on the cement.

But the image of my dad, laying face down on our sidewalk is burned into my DNA forever. That night, after the kids went to bed, when I finally relaxed and stopped pretending that nothing happened that morning, it hit me. Life can totally change in a second.

Life changing in a second isn't new to me. I've experienced the real deal. I lost my sister unexpectedly eighteen years ago. My life changed forever with a one minute phone call. I'm not ready for another change. I never will be.

Unfortunately, we don't get to decide what will happen in our life. But we can make decisions on how to live it.

That's when I got to thinking about how we can either decide to be positive or decide to be negative. Does being positive take more energy or less? Is it harder to be positive these days because we seem to live in a society where there's so much more negative in it? Or is that just my perception?

Anyhow, it's my opinion that we need more positive in our world. We need more stories that make us laugh. We need more good-news reports about good things happening. We need more happiness, which by the way there is a Happiness Institute in Australia. I know what you're thinking. I thought the same thing: If you're living in Australia, isn't it automatic that you'd be happy?

So I'm on a quest to go find only good news. Cheery stuff. Funny stuff. Shiny, happy people stuff.

Because as hubby always tells me, "Life is short but it's really, really wide!"

What Are the Odds of Winning at the Olympics?

2010-02-17T07:24:00.000-08:00

Let's just be brutally honest here. I'm so uncoordinated that I've fallen down cross-country skiing. I've been known to trip over myself just walking down the street. So I never thought I'd be able to say I can relate to an athlete, let alone an olympic athlete. But for the first time in my life, I see that I'm not much different than they are (I'm talking philosophically here).

Athletics aside (obvious?) I'm totally on the same path. As I listen to the athletes' stories of training, sacrifice, failures and successes, I see myself - my life - as parallel to theirs. I've been training for years. I've written a novel, but not before having written thousands of pages, that now sit on my computer's hard drive, only after throwing the "hard copies" (pounds and pounds, reams upon reams of paper) into the recycling bin with a few choice words attached (sometimes louder and more...ahem...profound than at other times).

So I thought to myself, hmmm....what are the odds of getting published? Are they less than winning a medal? Or are my chances greater than the athletes competing in the Olympics?

You can probably guess what I did next. Right. Of course, I turned to everybody's BFF these days: Google.

What I found out was yes. My chances of getting published are greater than winning an Olympic medal. How much you ask? Well, I must be honest. I didn't go hog-wild and research this to the nth degree. I've got another novel to keep plugging away at and letters to keep writing and Target "fire-drill" runs to make and...you get my drift.

So here's what I found out: The odds of winning the olympics are 662,000 to 1. The odds of getting published are 3 out of approximately 10,000.

No problem. (I'm in confidence-booster mode now)

After thinking about that statistic, I realized the 662,000 athletes are the ones that have actually made it to the Olympics. What about all the other athletes that started out with their sights set on the Olympics that aren't even in that 662,000? In actuality, the number is even greater. Talk about passion, drive, and determination...I have a newfound respect for all the athletes out there...

All I have to do is beat out 9,997 other writers...Piece of cake, huh?

Truth

2010-02-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

Recently, the notion of truth has been on my mind. Living your life truthfully gets thrown around all the time, but when you think about it, sometimes it's not so easy to be completely truthful to yourself. Living true to yourself, true to your life is to be constantly facing everything head-on. No hiding. No using crutches. No avoiding.

So how much truth do we need? Is it critical to be completely honest with ourselves? More importantly, how do we know we're being completely honest and truthful with ourselves? How do we know that we're living a truthful life?

And if we hide from the truth, stuff things into the subconscious where no one will find it, how do we get it back when we're ready? It's like when you hide a gift from your family, kids, or roommate and then can't find it for the life of you. Is that what happens when we stuff the truth away? Sometimes we can't find it when we go back?

If we do hide from the truth of our lives, is it a one-for-one proposition? Let's say we hide from the truth for say, ten years. Does it take exactly ten years to reveal the truth to ourselves when we're ready for it? Or is finding the truth all about how painful the truth is? Realizing you look like death warmed over (my mother's phrase) as a blonde certainly isn't even in the same ballpark as realizing you're truly unhappy with your life and have to change careers, husbands and find new friends! Yikes!

And, does hiding from the truth always have to be a negative? Do we stuff only bad truths way up in the attic? Are we ever guilty of hiding from the good truths of our lives? Now that's a ridiculous notion: "Yeah, my life's going really great, but I just can't face it..." WAH? Is that where "self-sabotage" (my phrase) comes in? Okay, that's another topic altogether...

Finally, is truth a slippery slope? Let's say we just hide from the truth of our lives just a little bit. Is it like when I had the talk about lying to my kids? Once you start, it can snowball and you don't know when to stop? So you start hiding from the truth a little bit and...bam! You're living in na na land, totally removed from every reality of your life. Dishonest to yourself and everyone around you...

Okay, so just a few things to ponder. It's winter, it's cold, it's snowing, and that my friends is the truth!

To Friendship

2010-01-13T07:09:00.000-08:00

My daughter came home last night from play practice sprinting for the phone. "I have to call her. It will only take one second. I have to tell her!" She pleaded with me.

I told her no, she needs to go to bed. Then I looked at her and she had the look. It was like denying her Tylenol for a fever. She needed five minutes to tell her friend something. I remembered for that split second who the friend was that I had to talk to every night.

He was my locker-mate senior year. Double Fantasy just came out. I don't remember why we shared a locker. I suspect it was to insure that we saw each other every second we could.

I stopped in the hallway last night staring at my house, my life now, and remembering all those nights on the phone. Remembering how my heart would stop when my mother would inform me that I had a message. Remembering how just seeing his name scribbled on a piece of torn off white paper lying on the kitchen counter made my heart skip a beat. It took a grave effort for me not break out in a giggle over it.

We were like best friends. We never dated. When I think back on it now I'm not sure what happened, why we didn't date, but I suspect it was my fault. No, I know it was my fault. I remember vividly (like it was last week) literally running away from his advances. Running away from his kiss. Running away from getting hurt. Running away from the possibility (or reality in my mind) that he would love me and then leave me.

I was too scared. Scared that somehow if our relationship went to the next level that I could get hurt. Really hurt. I was so afraid of being hurt that I pushed him away. And I pushed hard.

He was the only thing I remember that was good about high school for me. We shared every thought, every dream, every angst that went on in our lives. We loved John Lennon and what he stood for. He told me to never change. Stay who I was. He was right.

Unfortunately, I did change. And not for the best. The next few years after high school were the worst in my life, filled with enough tragedy to write books about. ?REALLY?

It was though he knew me so well he could see it coming.

As I write my letters to prospective agents I tell them that I believe books can change people's lives. Not only do I believe that, I experience it every time I read a book. I finished Wally Lamb's book She's Come Undone recently. Through the tragic life of his characters, I was able to see more clearly the mistakes, the misfortunes and most importantly, the blessings and the things I have done absolutely right in my life. I saw my life more clearly than I ever have.

I heard Marketa Irglova (Once, 2006) say in an interview that she feels every friend she's had in her life, good or bad, has made her who she is and she's grateful for that. I thought that was really profound. And as I look back on my high school years, I feel really lucky to have had a friend that loved me enough to tell me not to change. To be so insightful at eighteen. To be such a good friend.

So to my good friend, wherever he is now: I'm sorry.

PS I still have my yearbook with your drawing in it. You were right: I haven't forgotten about the John Lennon memorial service in Grant Park...But you know you never finished what you were writing to me...something about not being a conformist and the revolution...

I remember the wink at our graduation ceremony.

Thanks for our friendship and I hope you haven't changed either!

The End...

2009-12-08T11:26:00.000-08:00

The ending of Secrets Between Sisters has been quite challenging for me, and that's no secret. The book's been done for months. It has six endings. Each time I write the ending, I've come back to the story, reading it, re-reading it, unsatisfied...

One thing I knew for sure about the ending was that Carmella and Howie had to stay together (thank God). Face it, I'm a hopeless romantic. Carmella and Howie had to "live happily ever-after". But what troubled me was the decision Carmella had to make about the secret. Should she reveal it? Should she not? It's such a moral issue and it became very personal to me, as though I was giving one of my children moral advice. So every day, I sat down and wrote it. Then the next day, I'd sit down and re-write it.

Finally, last night I was trying to fall asleep, going over and over in my head what Carmella should do and why the heck I couldn't find it in me to write the ending that I felt happy with. Then, it dawned on me what my problem was. It wasn't the ending that was bothering me it was....the end... that was troubling me.

By ending this book, I have to say good-bye to these characters. As nuts as it sounds, these people feel real to me. They're my....well...co-workers. They've been a part of my life for years. So, I sat up and decided that I don't have to necessarily say good-bye. I just have to finish telling this one story. This one aspect of their life. Just as it is in real life, sometimes it's easier to hide from the truth and believe that this is not good-bye forever. It's just "so long, see you next time" type of thing.

So today, I wrote the last words. It was satisfying. It made me feel good. And it made me a little sad. And isn't it ironic, that I write a book about hiding from the truth, when in fact I have to hide from the truth to truly end it? Whoa.

To Critique or Not Critique, That Is the Question....

2009-11-04T09:41:00.000-08:00

I recently attended a workshop that revolved around writing and finishing a novel. We had the option of signing up for a critique group during this weekend. Much to my surprise it was a great experience. Invaluable, in fact. But even still, the topic of critiquing leaves me feeling like I want to rant.

Luckily, the people that I was in the critique group were all fantastic. They gave criticism, but constructive to the point that I find some of their opinions have really helped my work. In fact, they were nice enough NOT to say right out loud, to my face, "That's a stupid secret!" When I unveiled the secret surrounding my story. Instead, they gently offered their opinion that maybe I find something more....well...secretive...exciting...um...even interesting?? This feedback lead me to go back to the hotel, have a stiff drink and realize they were dead on right. My secret sucked. Big time!

In the car the next morning, while hubby was driving me to my workshop, I told him about the secret, about how the group politely said it sucked. His response: When did you write that???? That's REALLY stupid!! You can think of something better than that! (Did I mention that he's always brutally honest with me?)

Luckily, the secret is something that even I haven't known the truth of up until this point, so changing it only requires the rewrite of the last few chapters (drop in the bucket at this point).

So I went home and got to thinking up a brand new one. I went up to my bedroom and decided I was going to lie there, like a person on a psychiatrist couch and think of something really good!

It took me all day Sunday, but I did it.

(By the way, I ran it by hubby....he loved it.)

Now, don't get me wrong, this critique experience was not a walk in the park (I'm using a cliche..If I ran this blog posting by a critique group, they'd hang me by my toenails). There were some suggestions that I flat out refuse to even entertain. Nope. I know it in my heart. I change that, I change my character, I change the story, and I'm not doing it. Let's be honest, comments like that as easy as they are to throw out of your mind, can irritate the living crap out of you.

What's not easy to throw out of your mind (and still irritate) are the comments/suggestions that you're not really sure about. Those were and will be tough to deal with. These are the decisions that require a writer to dig deep and totally make a decision based on gut, inner voice.

So of course with all this, I got to thinking philosophically about it. What does it say about a person who is able to pour their deepest, innermost intimate thoughts and feelings out on paper and then be....criticized?

I guess that's the nature of artists...

Or is it the nature of human beings?

Maybe being critiqued is the only way we know how to learn? School is like one big critique session, isn't it? And then we graduate and get a job. And what happens in our jobs: We work hard, put forth a great amount of effort just to have a "boss" give us a review, telling us what we do well and what we need to improve. Sounds like a critique to me...

So maybe my rant isn't worth raving about. Maybe I've just been feeling too sensitive, too impatient, too possessive of my work.

Okay, I can live with that...

All On A Plane Ride

2009-09-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

There's no question that I'm not alone in having to face the fear of flying. I've recently returned from a trip out to northern California to visit my brother and pay a brief visit to my cousin who just moved there.

I was fortunate to have an extremely smooth flight (not always my case, but that's another story altogether) coming back to Chicago and it was during that time I began to dig deep into the final chapters of my novel. The final chapters that will rock poor Carmella to the core and force her to finally facer her life head-on and make some life-changing decisions. While pondering all this I came to a conclusion:

You have to let go of who you are in order to discover who you can become.

Not a small task.....

Especially not small for Carmalla, who is suddenly faced with an identity crisis. What if everything you thought you were turned out to be false? Everyone who was close to you wasn't really who you thought they were, and in the end, they emotionally deserted you, leaving you completely and utterly alone. What would you do? Carmella will discover a family secret that will change how she sees everyone in her family and most importantly, how she sees herself.

If she chooses to allow herself to change into who she wants to be, it will mean starting over with no one in her corner, and she'll have to find the strength and the guts to forge ahead - alone. This won't be easy for Carmella, as one of her big fears in life is loneliness and isolation.

And aren't we all a victim of our own fears in some way? How many times do we make a decision based on fear of rejection or isolation? And what about other fears, such as flying? Do we face it and get our sorry self on that airplane? Or run away from it, denying ourselves whatever lies ahead for us on the other end of that runway? How many times does a fear of something or someone render us paralyzed?

I'm glad I faced my fear of flying and in doing so felt as vulnerable as Carmella. Facing the fear wasn't so great, but during the quiet moments where fear bubbled beneath me, I dug deep, hoping to find some questions, some answers and some insights into ever-perplexing notion of the human condition.

Cross Training

2009-09-04T10:16:00.000-07:00

So my hubby is about five weeks away from running the Chicago Marathon. Big, huge challenge to say the least. As he's been training for his huge challenge, I continue on with my own challenge of writing the greatest YA novel of all times (NO PRESSURE IN OUR HOUSE).

He spoke a few times about his "cross training" that he does, and it occurred to me a few days ago how important that concept might be in terms of being a good (okay fabulously great) writer. Athletes cross-train all the time, and although I practice writing in various genres, I didn't really think about how vital it may be to get out there and do some other forms of art like painting or drawing, or dancing or music...you catch my drift.

I turned to one of my favorite experts on creativity, Julie Cameron who touches on this in one of the first chapters of her book, Artist's Way by suggesting that creatives have an "artist date", wherein you would block out some time once a week and do something to nurture your "inner artist" or "creative child". In other words, go out and have some fun. Then she goes on to explain how the artist brain "is the sensory brain: sight and sound, smell, taste and touch." I must admit, after baking a few pies from scratch and decorating sixteen batches of Christmas cookies, I tend to feel creatively rejuvenated.

This past week, although I didn't paint, draw, dance or sculpt anything, I did block off time on my calendar to walk the dog. Depriving myself of this daily ritual over the summer (due to the kid factor) I've missed that routine, and realize how beneficial it is to my writing. Walking the dog helps me reflect on the day's writing and see changes or what needs to come next in the story. I've also added a tip this week from novelist, Les Edgerton to listen to music that fits into my novel's story and characters while I walk.

This weekend, I've decided to block out some time and paint some antique milk jugs that I've been meaning to get at for about oh, nine or ten years. If I don't get to that, for sure I'm going to the local Irish fest to soak up some good Irish music, dancing and fun. What are some things you do to creatively cross-train?

An Unoccupied Life

2009-08-20T13:56:00.000-07:00

As summer winds down and my kids get ready to embark on a new year in school, new classes, new adventures and new growing and learning experiences, it brings me to examining my own life and what I'd like to do to renew and rejuvenate it. And with that, I came upon the topic of purpose.

I think life can be really tough when we've either lost - or are looking for - or even given up on finding some meaningful purpose in our lives. I'm grateful that my (our) generation of parents understand how important it is for kids to have something outside of school to do that they're passionate about so in essence, they feel like they have a purpose in life. (My 16 year-old character Carmella deals with finding a purpose in her life).

So what if we don't have a life of purpose and meaning? What happens then? Is our life considered unoccupied? And how many people go through life without realizing they didn't have a purpose at all? Or what if someone thinks they've found their purpose and then realizes when it's too late that the purpose they found isn't really a true purpose at all?

And then there's the question of happiness? Does having a purpose guarantee happiness? Is happiness solely dependent on feeling like you have a purpose in life? Or does true happiness lie in a love of self? (Going back to the love topic which I have yet to figure out) And does love of self help give someone a positive attitude? Maybe everything boils down to one thing: attitude.

There are several books out there on all of this, and I think back to my early twenties when I discovered Norman Vincent Peale. I wasn't all looking to find God or anything,but I liked his theory about constantly talking positively to yourself. From what I understand, his whole theory on positive thinking stemmed from a desire to change is own attitude about himself and his life. If you're familiar with him you'll remember his P.M.A. (Positive Mental Attitude) theory. Here's a quote from him:

"Any fact facing us is not as important as our attitude toward it, for that determines our success or failure."

And on the topic of attitude, we can't forget to look towards President Lincoln:

"Every man over 40 is responsible for his face. Who you are and how you think can be read in your face."

Love

2009-07-21T10:50:00.000-07:00

The other day I was in the midst of digging deep into the minds of my characters, and with that, dug deeper into my own mind, my own soul. Love was the topic at hand one mid morning, mid-way into one of my scenes. I stopped for a second to reflect on such a common, simple subject and in doing so, realized how uncommon and complex it could be.

In creating the love connection between Carmella and Jeremy, I want to portray a really strong connection, a truly passionate real-life love story. But, in knowing my characters and where they've evolved from, I wondered about the nature and nurture thing. Can I have a character that hasn't really experienced love in her life be able to turn around and express it to another human being? And what about Jeremy? Well, he's experienced a higher quality of life so far and his father is supposed to be a psychiatrist, so I'm comfortable giving him the ability to love. But Carmella? She's had some bad luck in her short sixteen years on earth.

Anyhow, I got to thinking....what if we're born with an small innate ability to love and the rest is learned? Or is it all learned? What if one is raised with a sense of love that may seem real to the parties involved but in effect, it's all just a bunch of hot air? Does that person go through life unable to truly love or be loved? And of course the question arises, what if a person doesn't love themselves? Some theories suggest (The late, great Leo Buscaglia devotes a whole chapter on this) without a love of self, you cannot possible love another.

We've all heard the Corinthians' take on love: "Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous, or conceited, or proud.....love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable...." That haunts me when I'm having a bad day and I certainly have been ill-mannered and selfish and irritable. Does that mean that for those moments, love has left the building??

Or how about the movie Love Story where Ryan O'Neil says, "Love means never having to say your sorry." Really? Is that true?

Anyhow, at the very least, Mr. Buscaglia set my mind at ease by confirming my suspicions that love is not a simple subject AT ALL. Quite the contrary. Apparently, it's even so out there in terms of trying to explain, that most psychologist and sociologists avoid the subject completely. Trying to explain it in relation to human behavior they say is impossible. Good. I'm off the hook.

True love. When do we know we have it? Is there true love and false love and something in between? Is true love about being lucky enough to find it? Does luck have anything to do with love? Is there true love and then settling? Is it possible to pass up a chance of experiencing true love? How are we supposed to be logical about our emotions? Could we find the answer to these questions by polling couples married for a hundred years? Is the answer buried in their lives, their experience?

Where is the answer?

Stay tuned, Batman...

(FYI - I'm skipping over the love scene until I get this one straight in my head).

Sometimes We've Got to Face It

2009-06-16T06:47:00.001-07:00

There's a fine line between what we want to do and what we have to do. As a writer, I've unconsciously been trying to avoid writing about a death in our family, and in turn, unable to come to the keyboard to work on my book or to post in this blog. I made a promise to myself and my readers that this blog was to be a place where raw honesty and personal/professional growth was to take place. So, last night as I dozed off, I realized that if my blog was to continue, if I was to continue as a writer, I had no choice. I have to write about what's on my mind. This is not what I want to do, but what I have to do.

It was not a shocking unexpected loss, but tragic. Cancer was the cause. Suffering was the effect. And it was the suffering that everyone who loved this person can't seem to comes to terms with because the magnitude of it was so great. The experience rattled us all to the core, questioning our beliefs in a higher power, our beliefs in modern medicine, and our beliefs in ourselves and our very purpose on this earth.

It's within our human condition that we expect severe torturous suffering only reserved for the evil on this earth. And when this is not the case, we can't help but constantly try to rationalize it. Why? All day long, it rings in the ear.

As we witnessed the suffering, we also witnessed an example of undeniable strength of character. In the face of death, in the face of suffering, in facing the worst possible last days that anyone could imagine, my uncle did it with grace and courage. So much, that in between bouts of excruciating pain, he insisted that my husband take his business suits that he certainly won't be needing anymore.

One of the last conversations I had with my uncle was on Easter Sunday when he told be the truth about the dogs on the highway. He kidded me about being "too damn sensitive". He's right. I am too sensitive.

My heightened sense of sensitivity has fueled my emotional fires and in the past few weeks I've been completely consumed with feelings of loss, regret, grief, remembering other family members that have gone and that I miss on a daily basis.

My routine, my sense of self, my life has been shattered to the point that my daughter commented on the fact that I was shopping. (I hate shopping). "What's up with that?" She asked me. "I don't know. I can't write. So I'm shopping." was my reply with a shrug of my shoulders.

Sick of shopping, of avoiding myself and my thoughts, I've come back to the keyboard and as I feel a sense of normality returning, I know that what was normal a few months ago is gone. A new normal is emerging, and it's time to face it.

It's not what I want to do but what I have to do.

Optimism vs. Realism

2009-05-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to be an optimist and realist at the same time? If you're too optimistic, does that mean that you've got your head in the clouds and your a dreamer? Where does optimism stop and "dreamer state" start?

On the other side of the coin, can someone be too realistic? Does that mean you can't possibly accept anything without any cold hard facts to support it? And if that's the case, then where does love fit into all of this? Isn't falling in love completely optimistic? Even die-hard realists fall sometimes...

If you look up optimism in the Thesaurus, it says to be hopeful, Pollyannaish, positive, upbeat.

The dictionary defines optimism as a tendency to expect favorable outcome, to believe that good must ultimately prevail over evil.

The Thesaurus says other words for realistic are practical, pragmatic, rational, down-to-earth, businesslike, levelheaded, sober. The definition of realism is to regard things in their true nature, to deal with things as they are. A policy of dealing with life based on facts, not ideals.

Being creative, living a creative life and moving forward on a creative career path, I struggle with these two concepts every day. On one hand, I need to be stupidly optimistic (or a dreamer). On the other hand, my life demands more realism now than it ever has. And let's face it: I'm a dreamer. Always have been. I believe that people need to dream. Without dreams, there's no hope.

My son came home the other day (dreamer that he is). He told me that he saw a poster at school and it said, "A dream is just a dream without action."

So maybe the answer is:

First you dream,

Then you act,

Stay optimistic,

While remaining realistic?

Hmmm.

"There's a Fine Line..."

2009-04-10T05:45:00.000-07:00

Last week proved to be quite dramatic in our house, one marked by a constant reminder of how thin a line it is that we walk in all aspects of our lives. The most obvious drama we experienced was one revolving around Holy week and one in which the Christian calendar and Jewish calendar overlapped. That became our first ultimate symbol of how fine a line there is between cultures and people, and after further examination of the two traditions, it became evident how truly similar we are.

Another fine line we witnessed was the one pertaining to truth. Although truth is what we always strive for, an explanation became necessary in order concerning the "little white lie" and how sometimes we tell "white lies" to spare someone's feelings.

So then the fine line between "white lies" and the topic of holiday characters and are they real or not appeared. "Is there really a tooth fairy? Is there really an Easter bunny? But Santa is real, right?" Me and two sets of eyes staring at me. In my head, I'm thinking, "There's a fine line.." So of course, I did what every parent does when confronted with the truth about holiday characters: I told the truth.

Then ironically on Easter Sunday, I had to face a bit of truth from my own childhood. My grandparents had two dogs that ran out of the yard and never returned. As a child, I was told that they must have been picked up by someone. The truth came out to me that they were both hit by cars and killed. I had suspected the truth, but never heard it. My family knew I was too sensitive, too emotional, and protected me from the truth because they knew I'd be devastated by it. (They were right. I was a kid that couldn't watch Lassie without being emotionally traumatized for weeks afterwards).

And that's when I realized in my own moment of truth how fine a line there is between childhood and parenthood.

Epiphanies

2009-03-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I ran across my son's infant cap hat that he wore home from the hospital. I stood there in front of the closet, staring at this tiny thing in the palm of my hand and took a deep breath. It's all gone so fast. It feels like a week ago when we brought him home and we became parents.

I brushed my hand across the cap, thinking about the day my son and daughter were born. I may have brought my children into this world, but they brought life into me. Through teaching them and nurturing them, I accidently nurtured myself. I discovered who I was and what I needed, because of them. I still remember the day at the park when my son was afraid to walk over the bridge.

"Go on, it's okay. Don't be afraid. You can do it." Over and over again I encouraged him to walk to the other side. He looked up at me, trusting me. I looked into his eyes and realized if I was going to be the best mother I could be, I better start walking towards my fears. I better stop running.

After I put him down for his nap, I dug through my file cabinet and pulled out all the writing I had done since I was eight years old. Spirals, legal pads, plain white sheets of paper torn in half. Cocktail napkins. It was time I stopped being scared. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a writer so badly that I was terrified of it. I could handle failing at being an administrative assistant, or dental assistant, or waitress or Mary Kay consultant. But what if I failed at doing what means the most to me? What if I failed at doing what God put me on the earth to do? What then? And the biggest question of all hit me in the gut: What will happen to me if I never try? I would never want my kids to live a life not even trying at what they're passionate about.

My kids don't know it, but every day I thank them as they walk onto the school bus and I head towards my desk, without fear, with only hope and determination to be the best I can be. I write for me, for my future readers, for the audience I've been writing to since I was eight. Someday I will tell my kids how they helped me find a part of myself that I buried at some point along the way. Someday I will explain to them how their needing me, challenging me, and forcing me to be the best I can be, they brought me to where I am today, and where I'll go tomorrow.

What's Up with the Artichoke?

2009-03-13T08:46:00.000-07:00

Since I've had several people (okay, just about everyone) ask me for the meaning behind the Artichoke reference in the title of the blog, I shall explain:

In my opinion, everything in life can be explained in terms of an artichoke. In the case of my title, the artichoke is referencing family (the Aristotle is painfully obvious, right?). The way I see it, family is like an artichoke. There's the heart of the artichoke (parents) and the leaves (kids). Now, you can separate the heart from the leaves. Sure, artichoke hearts are everywhere. But who eats the leaves without the heart? In order for an artichoke to truly be an artichoke at its best, it must be all connected.

Life in general is like an artichoke too. When you're a kid, you're hesitant at first, slowly plucking off the leaves as you go, figuring it out. Then you get more confident and anxious and start really going at the leaves, searching for the heart. Then, life gets more complicated and you tend to be more cautious with your life, avoiding the prickly parts. And then there's the point in your life when you're just about at the heart and you know what you're doing. (God knows I'm not there --some days I feel about as smart as my eight year old). You're done figuring this whole thing out and just savoring the good part.

And then there's the obvious cliche' type one: People are like artichokes...

Finally, being raised primarily Italian, artichokes were more than simply a food in my family, but an event in our house. (If you've ever sat down with a stuffed artichoke, you know what I mean!). I can still see my sister and I sitting around the Formica table, eating stuffed artichokes, plucking off the leaves, talking, plucking, talking.

Can't resist posting my Italian Grandmother's recipe for Stuffed Arichokes:

Stuffed Artichokes
1. Remove tiny low leaves.
2. Cut off stems.
3. Put the artichokes in a large pan, cover with salt water for 20-30 min.
4. Drain upside down.
5. Mix together:
1 cup bread crumbs
1/2 cup Parmesan cheese
1 Tbs. chopped parsley
1/4 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/4 tsp. pepper
Olive oil

6. After draining, spread leaves apart and sprinkle mixture into leaves, then on top.
7. Place artichokes in a roasting pan, upright.
8. Put enough water on bottom to cover 1"
9. Drizzle with olive oil.
10. Cover and bake at 375 for one hour.

Artichokes anyone?

Go With Your Gut

2009-03-04T09:42:00.000-08:00

On Monday, Lego Boy's (our son) eye specialist confirmed that his vision disorder is now successfully corrected. This made me feel the need to reprint an article I wrote for Chicago Parent in November of '07 (names are changed to protect the innocent) in order to spread the word about vision disorders. Through our experience, I've found out they are more common than people think. Also, I must add that the journey is not in any way over for us or most importantly, Lego Boy, but at least now we know what journey we're on. I asked him if he minded me talking about all this and he said confidently, no. He hopes other kids will be helped by his story. So, pass it on...

Misdiagnosis of ADHD

As a parent, our job is to fix whatever is broken in our kids and comfort them with answers and advice. I couldn’t do that for our son. I couldn’t tell him things would be OK because I didn’t know what was wrong.

When Lego Boy started struggling in kindergarten, we were surprised. By second grade, that surprise turned to horror as we watched him academically shut down in the classroom and emotionally shut down at home.

As I looked into his eyes, which were filled with anger, frustration and sadness, I made him a promise. I promised to find answers—answers to why he wasn’t able to keep up with the work at school like his friends and why he wasn’t able to focus in the classroom and reap any rewards from his efforts.

We decided to consult with a private neuropsychologist along with the school specialists. The amount of help and caring given to Lego Boy, my husband and me overwhelmed us. Everyone in Lego Boy's school banded together to help him, from his classroom aide and teacher all the way up to the principal. I was amazed at how much effort a school could put into helping one child.

After 15 hours of testing by the neuropsychologist and three hours of testing at school, the diagnosis came back. "Lego Boy has ADHD."

Lego Boy has ADHD? My gut told me no. My son, my artist, my inventor, my "Leonardo Da Vinci" as I call him, has ADHD? And I need to medicate him? Make a quiet introspective boy even quieter? What will that do to him?

The medication made Lego Boy sick and stole his personality. Each medication we tried seemed to turn a calm, focused boy into a hyper, withdrawn, angry one. I felt like my heart was getting ripped out of my chest each time I gave him a pill. I knew I was going to make him sick for the day and unable to enjoy anything, especially the one thing he always loved, playing with his friends.

So we stopped.

Back at square one.

But none of us gave up.

One Saturday morning, Lego Boy saw a commercial on TV for Sylvan Learning Centers and came running up to me, grabbing my arm, "Mommy! Mommy! Can I go there? Can I? Please? They say they can help me do better in school!"

I reassured him with a hug.

As I continued a new quest for answers, I heard about developmental optometrists from a friend. My neighbor recommended two doctors in Arlington Heights, IL who are supposed to be the best in their field, specializing in treating children like our son who are having difficulties in school and no one knows why.

In August of '07, Lego Boy underwent extensive testing of his eyes.

One of the tests is a 3-D puzzle. He couldn’t do it. I bit my lip and put my hand over my mouth, trying hard to hold back tears as I watched my son struggle to fit in a giant puzzle piece—something that should come automatically to an 8 year old.

Then came his diagnosis: Occular Motor Dysfunction and Saccadic Dysfunction, two visual disorders silently plaguing Lego Boy with blurred vision, lack of depth perception, eyestrain and headaches.

The doctor said Lego Boy's vision problems could very well inhibit him from functioning normally at school, in sports and in life. These types of vision problems can make reading and doing math virtually impossible because kids with eye disorders can’t learn by sight. And because Lego Boy doesn’t have any depth perception, he can’t judge where a ball is in relationship to him, which would explain his frustration with any kind of sports involving a ball.

Children with eye disorders can’t see normally, no matter how hard they try to focus. They have 20/20 vision, but things are blurry and they use an enormous amount of energy trying to keep their eyes from hopping and jumping around while they read. Their head aches. Their eyes hurt.

So instead of learning concepts all day in school, Lego Boy has been trying hard to just focus. The doctor told me many children with vision disorders exhibit behaviors that mimic ADHD and very often get misdiagnosed.

Who wouldn’t fidget in their seat and sharpen their pencil for 20 minutes instead of doing work that requires the use of their eyes?

The doctor explained Lego Boy's treatment plan for the next year or so that he would oversee. It consisted of visits at his office with a therapist along with at-home exercises 20 minutes a day, four days a week. He would be monitored after treatment indefinitely. As I listened I felt like I finally got my solution, my answers, my hope.

And then the skeptic in me took over. "So, after a year of doing all this, what percent chance does he have of seeing results, no pun intended?"

The doctor smiled and said 100 percent—depending on Lego Boy. He could guarantee that when Lego Boy's done with therapy, his frustration level will diminish and he will see direct results from his academic efforts.

One thing the doctor said he can’t fix completely is Lego Boy's handwriting.

"That’s OK," I told him. "So he’ll have handwriting like a doctor."

Is it a vision problem?
One in four kids in a classroom has vision problems and 60 percent of "problem learners" have undetected vision problems.

The College of Optometrists in Vision Development in Aurora, Ohio, has developed a list of signs to watch for in your child:

Physical symptoms
• Frequent headaches or eye strain
• Blurring of distance or near vision, particularly after reading or other close work
• Avoidance of close work or other visually demanding tasks
• Poor judgment of depth
• Turning of an eye in or out, up or down
• Tendency to cover or close one eye or favor the vision in one eye
• Double vision
• Poor hand-eye coordination
• Difficulty following a moving target
• Dizziness or motion sickness

Performance problems
• Poor reading comprehension
• Difficulty copying from one place to another
• Loss of place, repetition and/or omission of words while reading
• Difficulty changing focus from distance to near and back
• Poor posture when reading or writing
• Poor handwriting
• Can respond orally but can’t get the same information down on paper
• Letter and word reversals
• Difficulty judging sizes and shapes

For more information, go to www.covd.org.

I'll Have a Shot of Confidence, Please!

2009-02-27T08:00:00.000-08:00

Launching my blog in February is significant to me, as I made a decision in February a few years ago to write a teen novel. (I'm using the term "few" loosely. The honest term is SEVERAL, since this marks year FOUR.)

This week, I realized something about myself and my book project that could be grounds to go back to the shrink for. (Yes, I said GO BACK. I'm a writer. I'm supposed to be tortured, right?)

As my hubby would say, in sales you always want to "sandwich" the conversation. Start with the positive, put the negative in the middle and end on a positive note. Okay, here goes: On the positive side, I have finished one and a half drafts of my novel, 80,000 words each. That's the positive. Perseverance has always been my strength. If I want something, I will not quit until I get it. End of story (pun intended).

Here's the negative (It's a bigger part of the sandwich). I have been agonizing since November over the realization that something has been missing from my book. I have taken the story and rewritten it three times over. Correction: four times over. Change the plot. Change the characters. Reverse the order. The sister dying comes first. NO, it comes last. NO, it comes in the middle. The climax is the best place for it, no maybe the beginning is. Maybe I should take it out altogether. URGH!

In a desperate moment, when recovering from Pneumonia,I shot an e-mail off to Sara Zarr. I have read and re-read her teen novel, STORY OF A GIRL, twice. What is it that makes her book so moving, so clear, so clean, so precise, such a work of art? I asked her about training. How did she know how to write so well? How did she figure it out? She replied the next day with simple words of encouragement to me: Keep writing and get qualified immediate feedback. Join a critique group.

I have not had immediate feedback. I have chosen the difficult path to figuring out how to write a novel (is there an easy path, maybe?). This isn't surprising for me to choose the most difficult path, as I have chosen the most difficult path throughout my entire life. (Why change now?) I have now realized what's missing in my 179,000 pages (I added a few more because...I can). One word. One thing. One critical element that I THOUGHT was on every page but wasn't: Emotion.

So, these years of writing my novel, I've been reporting, commenting on a story. I've spent two drafts "reporting" my story when I thought I was putting my heart and soul onto the page. (Here's another positive: I think I'm a really good reporter-or do I?). But, if I'm writing a novel for God's sake, I haven't done my job. I'm not supposed to report, I'm supposed to tell a story! In fact, I just completed a yearly performance review on myself (once you've worked in the corporate world, you never EVER get it out of your DNA) and I realize I have to fire myself and rehire myself only on the condition that this time lady, give us some emotion. Stop doing a half-ass job. Get to the meat of your problem and yourself and write something that people can feel, that moves them that makes them laugh and makes them cry. BUT, don't tell the reader how they're supposed to feel. You have to use words that "provoke" emotion. Put yourself on the page, but don't write a story about yourself. Dig deep into the demons of your soul and put that on the page, but don't write about you. WHAT???

So, I know now, it's a character issue (regressing back to corporate lingo). It's about confidence. Is having confidence nature or nurture? What do you do when you either have either lost all your confidence or never had any to begin with?

All my life it's been a confidence issue with me. And now, here I am, faced with the reality that my writing, the thing that makes me feel alive, the thing that I know I'm put on this earth to do, the thing that keeps me sane and able to face whatever life hands me, is dependent on it. My writing will only be good and meaningful if I get over my lack of confidence and put the raw emotions on the page. Do they have confidence pills? They have pills for everything else: get rid of your anxiety, be more focused, stop your feet from falling asleep. Do they have one now to stop dating toxic men? I wouldn't know, because-you guessed it-I had to figure that one out the HARD way. I wish I could belly up to the bar and ask for a shot of confidence, straight up! Well, I used to before kids, but that's another story, which always leads to the toxic dating thing...

So, today I start confident, emotional writing and it starts here. As the title suggests (or doesn't), my life is about family and writing. My hope and plan is to provoke emotion in the readers who come here, and by revealing my raw honesty, somehow that will help others deal with their dilemmas, demons and most of all, desires. Happiness is the ultimate goal.