My daughter was reading a novel by a popular mystery writer. Quoting to me from a certain page, she said, "The main character says, 'I left the keys in the ignition.'" She paged ahead a bit. By now, the MC was tangling with the villain, had ended up flat on the ground, and was casting about for any sort of tool. My daughter went on, "But here, she says, 'I felt a lump in my pocket and realized it was the car keys.'" My daughter put the book down. "I hate stuff like that!"

I do, too. At best, blatant inconsistencies take you out of the story. At worst, they kill the story and you shut the book for good. No matter how exciting the action or heightened the emotions in a scene, that all goes poof if you the reader are yelling, "You do not have the car keys in your pocket! You left them in the ignition!"

The thing is -- and I told my daughter this -- I get why these mistakes happen. They happen because of revision.

Revision is supposed to fix what's wrong, what's weak, what's not there yet. And, overwhelmingly, it does. I love revision, much more than I love writing the first draft. But the most difficult aspect of revision isn't making yourself change things. The most difficult aspect is performing the microsurgery that's involved in removing all traces of whatever you're taking out, altering all the spots that need to be changed because of something you've added, and then stitching the book back together so seamlessly that the reader never knows you once had story parts lying all over the place.

And why am I thinking of all this now? Because I'm revising, and I got to p. 8, and there's a big, fat inconsistency sitting there. Yes, only EIGHT pages in, and I've already found a "car keys" moment. But why is that mistake there? That inconsistency did not exist in the first, second, or third drafts of the chapter. It's here in the fourth (thereabouts) because I cut something out a few pages earlier, and along with that cut passage went whoops the piece of information that we need in order to not go "Huh?" on p. 8.

Part of the nature of revising anything is that, besides tackling old errors, we can introduce new ones, and we have to get rid of those, too. Now I'm wondering if I should go show this chapter to my daughter. :)  

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Generations of Porters have been fixing cars in Stony Gap, Virginia, "ever since cars were born," as Red Porter's dad told him. His family's street is even called Porter's Shop Road. Red is twelve, but he's been changing oil on his own since he was nine, and Porter's Shop is everything Red loves: oil, gas, paint, brake pads, hoses, filters, Lava soap, old rags, "and a sink with a faucet you could turn on with just your elbow." Barely three pages into the book, I was completely invested in Red's being able to stay in that shop, on this land. Doing so will turn out to be almost impossible, of course, as Red's dad died of a heart attack just weeks earlier, there's no one to run the shop -- and at least part of the land might not even belong to the Porters.

Set in 1972, this rich, layered novel portrays a world in which civil rights and women's rights have barely awakened, and the Vietnam War fills the nightly news. The characters, major and minor, present and face difficult situations like child abuse, racial discrimination, and developmental disabilities. The pastor is a hypocrite. Red's early-childhood friendship with a black boy crumbles because of the pressures they face. Red is temporarily ensnared in a youth version of the KKK. His teacher, who is far from a hippie yet is teaching his class to "think," gets fired for not doing things the way they've always been done. Red, his younger brother, and his mom seem separated and scattered because they grieve in different ways. Worst of all, Red uncovers evidence that his great-great-great grandfather Porter, whose exact name he bears, shot a black man -- ancestor of an elderly woman he deeply admires -- in the back and stole his land. Red has always been proud of the Porter name. Now, he is not so sure.

There's enough plot here to keep the pages turning, and definitely enough impact and literary quality to make this an award contender, I think. This is a novel about small, gradual changes, and small, right choices, adding up to significant progress. While it may not be for the younger or sensitive reader (besides the other difficult subjects, the real-life lynching of Emmett Till is described in some detail), I otherwise highly recommend this.

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Really, I should phrase that "letting the well fill." Part of the process is the letting, not the controlling, or worse, the forcing.

I've decided that letting the well fill isn't all about getting a new book idea. Because I have one of those. Sometimes it's about just shifting gears. Taking a vacation of the mind or spirit. Sometimes it's about being something besides a writer. Laying it all down -- which is quite distinct from kicking it to the curb.

Sometimes letting the well fill involves reading. Who am I kidding: centers on reading. But I'm going to be selective and persnickety about that rather than going on a binge or a feast. If I were a runner, I'd run, but since this is me, I'll walk. And contemplate, and...and nothing, because this is letting the well fill. And it's trying on for size the idea of needing to be nothing except God's daughter.

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I know -- I usually post on Thursdays, and it's only Tuesday. But this is a time-sensitive post by guest-blogger DL Hammons, who is going to tell you all about WRiTE CLUB -- an annual writing contest whose final round is judged by published writers and industry pros! Submissions are open until this coming Saturday, May 31. So, take it away, DL!

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Random things I've noticed about reading:

• There are piles of books I love, and other piles I return to the library unfinished. When I was a kid, I read pretty much everything I picked up. No longer being able to do this is something of an occupational hazard of writing. 
• Plots that hinge on failure to communicate need big-time, compelling, convincing motivation for that failure.
• Presently, I'm really tired of contemporary novels with dysfunctional moms.
• I'm in a plot phase. I want something happening that keeps me turning pages.
• If I reach a point where I can't remember why I'm reading a particular book, it makes me feel like the characters and author are self-indulgent.
• I love beautiful language and quotable lines.
• I love compelling emotion and motivations I believe in my very bones.
• I love an overarching and at least somewhat concrete goal that the MC must accomplish by story's end. When I'm a third or halfway through the book and have lost sight of this, I get antsy.
• I love a lot of books, but I'm not blown away by many. The last MG novel that blew me away was Splendors and Glooms.

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Twelve-year-old Little John feels responsible for his younger sister's death. They'd been climbing trees one day, and he jumped down, so she did too -- and was killed. Now, his depressed mother is losing her hold on reality, sometimes thinking her daughter is still alive. His father drinks too much. Money is so scarce that all luxuries (gaming system, cable TV) have been sold or dropped, and even making the rent is in question. Dad owns a tree removal service, and this summer LJ must work for him so that they can tackle a large job for the Emperor, so called because he is the rich owner of a string of dollar stores. LJ is only too happy to do so, because he feels that "every last murderous tree" in the world should be cut down. The first day on the job, though, he meets another little girl, about his sister's age at the time she died, who wants nothing more than to live in a tree and seems strangely able to do just that.

The book's first sentence sums up the story to a great degree: "When I first heard Gayle, I couldn't tell if she was a bird or a girl." Indeed, in this tale of magical realism, we are never sure. Her hair is soft as down, she "perches" and "hops like a wren," she's so light that possibly her bones are hollow. But the central story is Little John's, as he tries to dig himself out of a mountain of regret only to compound it. And when he faces a choice between betraying Gayle (as he, in a sense, betrayed his sister) or helping what's left of his family survive, he's facing a truly wrenching dilemma.

Based on Hans Christian Anderson's "The Nightingale," this is an emotionally affecting book with gorgeous writing, complex characters, a strong theme of forgiveness, and more richness than I can convey here. I would not be at all surprised if this novel becomes an award contender. While some readers may struggle with the sadness in the book, I never found it overwhelmingly gloomy, and it is balanced by the magic, and the ending. Highly recommended.

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The other day, something hit me. Now, this is not news, really. Not at all. But the impact of this realization was stronger than it's been in maybe forever: I live in a dream world. Like, all the time.

I can stare out the passenger window of a car (passenger window; I drive quite attentively, really I do) and be a million miles away. (When my husband's driving. If it's anybody else I feel less freedom and thus more duty to make conversation.) This dreaming goes way back, of course. When I was in sixth grade, and the in thing to do was play dodge ball every day at lunch recess, I always played, if by "played" you mean pranced around my side of the court and, on such rare occasions as I'd catch the ball, lobbed it with no particular aim at the opposing team. But that wasn't the real game, as far as I was concerned. Because, the whole time, I was observing the kids as characters and noticing how they threw the ball. One girl -- tall, skinny, tough -- cocked her arm straight back at waist level and threw bullets. Another, a "cute little thing," used both arms to swing the ball to her left and shot high, graceful arcs. During the game, I mind-wrote descriptions of  the kids and how they handled the ball. Everyone did it differently. Everyone had their signature throw. I couldn't just play dodge ball. I couldn't even mostly play dodge ball. It wasn't that I consciously thought there wasn't enough fun in an earthbound game. It's that I mostly don't know how to do something in the concrete, physical realm only. (And maybe that's why I'm always the one who can't work contraptions.)

The real world, so concrete, so full of things and tasks and jabber, has just never had much hold on me. Rather, the events of the real world have been doors into the games I really want to play, the scenes I really want to live -- and happily do, through imagination, and sometimes, I think, through spiritual, if not physical, reality.

Oh, and the the tall boy who didn't play dodge ball much, but the day he did, hit me "right in the numbers" with an overhand hardball that my surprised arms flew up and caught, causing my friend to scream, "Marcia? You caught that?" and causing me to zing, for once, fully into the moment? Him? He appears elsewhere in this story. Can you find him?

As for that recent event that caused me to realize how fully I live in a dream world? I can't remember what it was. The dream is ever so much more enticing.

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I know, I know -- it's May. Winter was long enough! But I just have to squeeze this one in.

Fourteen-year-old Victoria is one of Alaska's top junior mushers. She takes after her father, an award-winning musher who taught her everything she knows and who tragically died in a wilderness accident the previous year. Her mother, on the other hand, doesn't understand the love for dogsled racing.

So when Vicky qualifies for a big race, considers a new lead dog for her team, wants to look at the dogs her neighbor has for sale, and Mom turns thumbs down, Vicky hitches up six of her dogs and goes anyway. It's only thirty-five miles, and she'll be back by afternoon. Except she's hit by an unexpected blizzard. That, and she finds an injured boy about her age who has crashed his snowmobile. The extra passenger weighs her sled down,  knows zero about the wilderness (having just moved from a big city), and is unwanted company in any case, but in trying to bring him home she gets hopelessly lost. The rest of the plot follows the humans and dogs as they fight to survive the all-but-unsurvivable.

The emotional story progresses, too, as Vicky slowly discovers that a greenhorn city-slicker might have some value as a human being after all, comes face to face with the way her father died, connects with her dog team in an even deeper way than before, and begins to imagine and have compassion for what her mother is going through now that she, too, is missing in the Alaskan wilderness during a terrible storm. Victoria is a prickly, snarky character whom I didn't always like, but found fully believable. Definitely recommended, especially for readers who love action but prefer some depth along with it.

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I'm taking a break this week only, for family visiting. See you all on May 1!

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...and for the first time in a long time I didn't have a post ready to go up bright and early. My bad. Except, of course, it's not "bad."

I've been very busy writing, and just finished a big revision. Not big as in sweeping changes throughout the manuscript, but big in significance. So I am in that glow of "having written," which is one of the special moments we get as writers. And it feels especially good to be clearing my plate, as it were, for Easter weekend, setting daily life aside to focus on what, on Who, is most important to me.

Happy Passover/Easter, everyone.

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Set during the Great Depression -- an era we are often told is overdone in historical fiction -- this wonderful MG novel follows ten-year-old Esther from Chicago to a Wisconsin farm after her father loses his job in the city. From the beginning, it's filled with specific details that surround Esther and her sister as they make their way to a movie theater for a Rin Tin Tin matinee -- streetcars, a bread line, childhood games of the 1930s. But no details are as vivid to Esther as the signs her mother notices: a ring around the moon, dropping a spoon at supper, seeing a spider before breakfast, putting shoes on a table. All of these, and many more, foretell the good or bad luck that will befall their family, and Esther is proud that her mother learned so many important things back in Russia. Now, if only her mother would hug and kiss her. But Ma is a serious, even stern woman, and seems even more so toward Esther than her siblings. Wondering why she isn't loved as much as the others, Esther makes it her objective to please her mother so much that she'll win the affection she longs for.

It's this affecting goal that forms the through line of the story that follows Esther's adjustment from city to farm life. There are ups and downs, hard work and fun, until the day Ma "reads" a sign that Esther knows must be wrong. If she defies Ma she'll never gain her love, but can she be cruel to a new friend on Ma's say-so?

I loved the mother/daughter aspect of this story, the love of the family members that shows through despite the lesser physical affection true to the era, and the fact that Ma, as well as Esther, has to learn the hard way that not everything she thinks she knows is accurate. Heartwarming and beautifully written. Highly recommended.

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• I love to revise.
• Since revision often means writing new scenes, maybe a little more love will bleed over into drafting, too. You'd think, right?
• When two books mash up against each other, I find that in the revision stage it's not terribly hard to switch from one to the other. I'm trying to think if I ever drafted two books at the same time while writing series on deadline. I don't think so. When it became clear that the order of two books was going to change, I set the one aside to write the other first. Either that or I have willfully blanked out the experience. 
• Extended time in the revision cave has either turned me into more of a night owl or reawakened the night owlish-ness of my youth. My college roommate, a true morning person, got up at 6:45am seven days a week and was in bed every night before 10:30 with almost no ceremony. By which I mean she pretty much announced "I'm getting ready for bed" and immediately dove under her covers straight from her desk chair. I, on the other hand, often got up on weekends just in time to make it to lunch. This changed when I had kids (a shock, I know) -- but I was happily a morning person for a long time afterwards. And I've never been the die-hard night owl my two older children are. Guess I'm a hybrid. Anyway, I find the switch interesting, and I'm enjoying the quiet of late night to write. And for whatever reason, the temptation to waste time online is less then. 

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This novel set in Australia has a wonderful beginning sentence: "The day that I was born, they drowned my town." The cover, first line, and premise form an almost irresistible triple hook. Twelve years ago, on the day of Cassie's premature birth, the mayor of her hometown, Old Lower Grange, flipped a lever and buried the town under 200 feet of water. The citizens celebrated the formation of this man-made lake from inside the borders of their new town, New Lower Grange, amid balloons and barbecue and a brass band. Except Cassie's parents, and their perfect two-child family, couldn't go. Because Cassie's parents were rushing to the hospital to have the baby who was doubly unexpected: Not only had they never intended a third child, but she was surprising them by coming way too soon.

Cassie's lungs were underdeveloped at birth, and her doctor requires her to swim six laps a day, every day, to exercise them. But the pool is always overcrowded, and Cassie is tired of people doing cannonballs on top of her when she's just trying to swim her laps. So one day she goes to the man-made lake. Not only is it fascinating because it's Lower Grange's own personal Atlantis, but because her family history lies there, a history that her parents and adult siblings made together that she, a late intruder into their lives, cannot share. Day after day, Cassie begins to swim in the lake, soon joined by Liam, a boy just enough older than she to have been born in Old Lower Grange, and whose family suffered a tragedy there. It doesn't take long before the kids realize the water level is sinking; the top of the fire lookout tree is now several feet above the surface. And then they start diving, and the mayor catches them, and gets way, way too upset. The rest of the plot is concerned with dredging up what the mayor's been trying to keep submerged.

I loved the language and writing style, especially since just prior to this book I'd tried to read another one that was so "loud and chatty" I had to put it down. Also, the midpoint of the plot is absolutely riveting. I had some quibble with the pacing though; I found it a bit slow to get underway and at the same time too rushed in the end. There was some symbolism that just kind of came and went. It's a short read, which in a sense I liked, but in another sense I'd like to have seen way, way more done with this material and these characters. All in all, I enjoyed it. Recommended.

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What a nice place to retire to in the evening.

My nightstand is actually not as overburdened with books as it once was. I've found that if the pile is high enough to teeter, I tend to give each book less chance before I give up on it. What that means, I've realized, is that a tall TBR pile, at least these days, represents pressure to me. Well, perish the thought! It's taken discipline, but I've decided to have fewer books here at any one time. All the better to savor each one. But what's on the pile? Let's get closer.
That's CS Lewis's Mere Christianity, the Thompson Chain Reference Bible, another Bible with a pretty cover and a compact size that's easy to carry, and my journal. While Mere Christianity isn't always there, the other three are constants on the nightstand. And on the other stack:
Which means I can try some spine poetry:

What the Moon Said
Ghosts at Tupelo Landing
Below
Ice Dogs

What's on your TBR pile?

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Along with a writing friend, I spent Monday afternoon through Wednesday morning here, at the Audubon Inn, in Mayville, WI.

Yes, it is that gorgeous. And due to get even gorgeous-er, since they are updating the decor and making great new plans for the restaurant. All the rooms and suites are named after birds, and I stayed in The Falcon.


Yes, that's a falcon picture above the writing desk. And while I'm partial to the lace and flowers, I spent a lot of great time at THE DESK making good headway on my WIP. In the evenings, we visited over dinner (Chinese the first night, Italian the second), then repaired again to our respective rooms where, for me and I suspect also for her, there was more writing sandwiched between whirlpool sessions spent reading other people's fiction. We may have to make this an annual event!

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I am swamped! In a good way. There's lots of revision, and processing beta comments, and thinking about my story six ways from Sunday, and family phone calls, and planning my strategy for an upcoming writing retreat, and a manuscript to reread, and time to pray and dig into the Bible, and -- Must. Exercise. Must. Move. More! What's great is that walking, my exercise of choice, is great for both prayer and story-mulling.

What's also great is that DH (what's fun about calling him that is these are his initials) is perfectly content, nay eager, to be our main contact with the outside world. By which I mean he runs All The Errands. I tease him that the library ladies, who've taken to calling him "Mr. Marcia," would be disappointed if I showed up myself to check out the stream of books I normally keep on hold. Not all men would do this -- and with such a completely willing heart on top of it. Some men would bristle at the "Mr. Marcia" joke. Some people, frankly, would hear that phrase and suspect our family is "out of order." But he receives it in the good humor with which it's meant, and brightens others' days as he runs here and stops there. That's the man with whom I have been blessed.

So -- I am swamped, but in a good way. Do stay tuned, though, because next week I'll post about a friend's and my writing retreat at a B&B. Can't wait!

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Do writers and quotes just naturally go together? I don't mean are all writers eminently quotable; I mean do writers just need quotes in some way? To help us jell a theme, characterization, concept, or key moment in a plot or character arc? Do they help us get at the essence of truth? I think they do; at any rate, I know that when somebody nails a good statement it's as if I admire the idea, the verbal acuity, and feel that I've gotten a gift and made a connection, all at once.

Here are some quotes from CS Lewis, whom I'd definitely nominate for membership in Most Quotable Club, that have done one or more of these things for me:

"Friendship is born at that moment when one says to another: "What! You too? I thought that no one but myself..." Who can't recall moments like this? Aren't they golden? Wouldn't they make a great "moment when I knew so-and-so was my friend" in a story?

"Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give it to now one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness." Ouch. How true is that?

"A children's story that can only be enjoyed by children is not a good children's story in the slightest." Has friendship been born, or what? :) (See the first quote.) The honest truth? I'd like to tell this to a few people on Goodreads.

"Atheism turns out to be too simple. If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning..." I have nothing to add.

"The homemaker has the ultimate career. All other careers exist for one purpose only -- and that is to support the ultimate career." This is a Lewis quote that I never saw before until a week ago. We have to remember that the man died in 1963, back when you could say this. But this is exactly what I thought when I was a kid growing up. On an endless string of winter mornings I'd wake up to the radio my dad already had playing softly as he got ready for his day, and it would sing: "It's Cream of Wheat weather, we repeat; so guard your family with hot Cream of Wheat." And I'd think, "Oh, no, it's morning already, and it's Cream of Wheat weather on top of it!" I had to get up and get ready for school. My sister had to get up and get ready for school. My dad was already up getting ready for school. And we all had to leave the house with our snowpants and our mufflers and even our bag lunches if it was so bad we couldn't go home for lunch (which most kids did, but we did not walk uphill both ways, I promise, and I should add that my dad got to drive). My mom got up, too, and saw us off, made sure we had everything we needed, and got her own day started. But she didn't have to leave the house, and she was her own boss. Maybe it takes an introverted writer to really get off on this, but I knew which one of us four had the best deal. Mom the homemaker, I was completely convinced, had the ultimate career. And how I would love, love, love to believe that the other careers that exist are still in support of the homemaker, and the sacrifices s/he makes, and the very real financial risks s/he takes.

And all this helps answer my questions about quotes, I think, because when I began this post I had no idea I was going to write the above.  Good quotes are the pickaxes we need to tap into a fiction writer's ultimate goldmine: our emotional truth.

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Oh, my bloggy friends, you are all so dear that I wish I could send the ARC to all of you!

So I turned to my impartial friend, random.org, and R.O says the ARC of Steering Toward Normal is steering toward... FAITH!!!!!!!!!

Which is not a bad book title either, is it? :) Next stop, Connecticut!

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Now for the continued fun: the ARC needs to go to a new reader. Because state fairs figure prominently in the story, it would be great if the ARC could visit as many states (especially ones that have state fairs!) as possible. Here's all you have to do to get your chance to be next in line:
1. Comment below, using either the word "STEERING" or "NORMAL" in your comment.
2. You need to live in the US for this one (sorry).
3. Live in a state OTHER THAN: North Carolina, Ohio, and Wisconsin, seeing as how the ARC has already pranked toured these states.

That's all there is to it. So, comment away! Winner will be announced TUESDAY, February 18.

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I have to admit, when I first heard this was a book about a doll made out of the bones of a murdered girl, I wasn't interested. I believe I shuddered, actually. But curiosity, the fact that this is done for a MG audience, and Newbery buzz combined to make me pick it up. And I'm glad I did.

Zach, Poppy, and Alice have been friends forever, and even though they are now twelve, they continue to role-play with action figures to the point that their fantasy storyline has gotten very elaborate and absorbing. They are not just misfit kids who have no other friends, though. Zach, the POV character, is also an up-and-coming basketball player, growing up into a handsome kid (though he doesn't see this himself), and loves the sense of belonging he gets from his teammates. Zach's dad, who is suffering hurts of his own, decides that the time has come for Zach to put away childish things, and since Zach isn't inclined, he'll do it for him: He throws out all Zach's action figures. Zach, angry, embarrassed, and suspecting maybe he should be ashamed, refuses to tell the girls what happened. Instead, he turns his anger on them and tells them he can't play anymore. That's it. The end. Finis. It's when Poppy gets The Queen -- her mother's antique doll made of bone china -- out of its glass case in a dramatic attempt to get Zach to change his mind that ghostly things begin to happen. In short, the doll convinces the kids, particularly the loud and dramatic Poppy, that she is the bones and ash of a murdered girl, and unless they take her to her grave, where the rest of her remains are buried, she will make their lives miserable.

From there, they go on a road trip in an effort to accomplish the quest. I'm not going to detail the plot much more, to avoid spoilers, but this book is at heart a friendship story. Where the novel really shines is in its delineation of the relationships between all three kids and how each one is changing and fears change in the others. The adventurous plot is a wonderful vehicle for this exploration, and there are some great quotes such as the one by Zach's dad when they reconcile: "I thought you needed to be tougher. But I've been thinking that protecting somebody by hurting them before someone else gets the chance isn't the kind of protecting that anybody wants." I'm also fascinated by the history of bone china, which is touched on and may or may not have been the impetus for this story.

I had a couple of minor quibbles with the book. It absolutely turns on the fact that Zach wouldn't explain to his friends why he wouldn't play the game anymore, and I wasn't fully convinced he would keep that secret for as long as he did. And, for me, the quest portion bogged down a bit until it suddenly got irresistibly exciting. In fact, I came this close to putting the book down, but I'm really glad I didn't. A very good novel, worthy of its Newbery Honor.

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My goodness, I haven't ranted in a while. Let me rectify this oversight! :)

I have seen the following question asked in a couple of different places. It goes something like this: "I'm working on a novel, and (a) it's in a genre everybody  knows is overcrowded but I love this idea, or (b) I just found out that two books very much like it are coming out next year. Should I write it anyway, or should I shelve this book even though I love it?"

It probably comes as no surprise that the usual, very passionate, advice is "Write what you love!"

And I couldn't agree more! What troubles me, though, is the implied corollary: "If you love it, you must write it. If you love it, that's justification enough." I dunno. I wonder if it wouldn't be more accurate to say "Love what you write!" As in, yes, I will commit to a project only if I love it. Only if I think it's "mine" to write. Only if it really taps into my heart. But does it follow that if I feel this way about a project, I must write it, even if there are reasons to consider not doing so?

No. In the first place, most writers are already in a position where they will never write all the ideas they love: There are too many for one lifetime. So while love is necessary, it's not enough to assure that any particular idea moves from the "great ideas" file to the "finished manuscripts" file. To wax mathematical for a moment, love for an idea or story is a necessary but not sufficient condition.

Unless you know you are writing a practice novel, I don't see how "Never mind the market and just go for it!" is the best advice. In days of yore, after selling a MG series written in third person, I started a mystery series in first person. The MC decided she was going to speak for herself, thank you very much. "No," my editor on the first series said. "We don't do first person." Period. Even if I loved the project, or had done it well, it still wasn't marketable to that house. Fortunately, I was able to sell it elsewhere, but that doesn't change the fact that love doesn't conquer all. It's a necessary, but not sufficient, condition.

More recently, I caught "the last train out of the station" with a certain genre. I wasn't thinking about what was popular or unpopular in the market. I'd just found a great idea and dove into passionate work on it. I was about 3/4 done with the book when I started hearing that this genre was saturated. What's more, I found out that two other books on my specific subject within that genre were scheduled to come out within the following year to year-and-a-half. No, those agents were not going to take on what was essentially a competing book, nor were those publishers. My book's competition was too direct, and there wasn't room for another, especially since it was a latecomer. My love for the project could not change that.

Many would encourage the writer to stick with a project by saying, "Your book will be completely different from the other book because you are a different writer!" Well, maybe it will and maybe it won't. No one can blithely promise you that your book will be completely different. There can be uncanny resemblances between your work and somebody else's. And some topics in themselves are too specific to stand much competition.

I think "Write what you love/write what will sell" is a false dichotomy. I insist that the twain shall meet. I want to write salable work, and I'm willing to tweak both the love and the market aspects so that I'm writing something I love and that isn't market-handicapped. It just seems to me that since I love a lot of different books, there's always a new idea to love, and in the end I can have my story and (hopefully) sell it, too.

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Too busy writing to cook? Need sustenance during your writing retreat that you can "just grab" and that's also healthy? Try my Writer Marathon Soup. Amounts here are approximate, and you can make any substitutions or omissions you like. On the eve of a two- or three-day "writer immersion" event, spend about 40 minutes putting this soup together, and it can feed two or three people for the duration.

Writer Marathon Soup
4 boneless, skinless chicken breasts
1-2 cartons chicken broth
1 can kidney beans
1 can white beans
1 can black beans
1 can green beans
1 can petite diced tomatoes
1-2 chopped onions
1/2 lb. baby carrots, cut if desired
2-3 ribs chopped celery
1/2 bag frozen veggies such as peas, corn, or green beans
water
basil
garlic powder
lemon pepper
Italian seasoning

1. Place chicken breasts in microwave-safe casserole. Cover and microwave 20 minutes on high for frozen. Fresh will be somewhat less.
2. Meanwhile, plug in or set on stovetop a large Dutch oven. Add to it the broth and canned items. Set heat to medium or medium low.
3. Prepare the onions, carrots, and celery, and put them plus any frozen veggies you're using in a microwave-safe casserole or bowl big enough to accommodate them. Add a little water.
4. When your chicken is done, take it out of the microwave and put the dish of veggies in. Cover the veggies and microwave on high till done, about 7-8 minutes or done to your liking. While the veggies are cooking, cube chicken and add to Dutch oven. Using a colander or strainer, you may want to add any chicken broth from the casserole to the pot as well.
5. When the veggies are done, add them plus the water from their cooking dish to the soup pot.
6. Add enough water to make your pot as full as practicable.
7. Add your seasonings in any amounts you wish.

You can now heat this soup through and serve, or refrigerate for later. I also do the dishes as I go, so by the time the pot's in the fridge, or within minutes after, they're all stacked in the dish drainer. You can vary this basic recipe and method so freely that the soup can be different each time you make it. Perfect for these cold winter days! :)

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Cally's mother died in a car accident a year ago, and her father and older brother are dealing with their grief by packing away all the reminders and not speaking of their wife/mom. At school, Cally's mouth seems to always be open when it shouldn't be. Her best friend dumps her. When Cally begins to see visions of her mom in a red raincoat, accompanied by a large wolfhound who is not ghostly but real, she speaks up and says so. Dad gets angry and tells her he doesn't want to hear it; her aunt, more gently, tells her she's mistaken. Furthermore, Dad is putting their house on the market and moving the family to an apartment, and no amount of "please don't do this" makes any difference.

Then, at school, comes a charity fundraiser that involves volunteering to remain silent for 24 hours. When her ex-friend and other classmates jeer that Cally couldn't possibly keep her mouth shut, she volunteers. She completes the challenge with ease, and then, when the principal announces that the volunteers may speak again -- Callie doesn't. She realizes that she sees no reason. No one listens to her, anyway.

In the new apartment, Callie makes friends with a boy in the other flat who is blind, nearly deaf, and may have cerebral palsy or a similar condition. Though she doesn't speak, and in any event can speak to Sam only by spelling into his hand, the two grow into close companions. What the story seems to be saying here is that it's willing, listening hearts that really forge communication, not merely, or necessarily, the ability to speak.

Cally continues to see her mother's ghostly image, and the very real dog, which, while connected to her mother, is also being looked after by a homeless man, Jed. While everyone around Cally's family comes to believe that the dog belongs with them, to the point of telling her father so, he angrily insists they cannot take care of a dog.

We know that in the end they will, and that Cally will speak again, too. It's the emotional journey that's prominent here. I found myself rooting for Cally to not speak again until she was good and ready, and in that way this book tapped into powerful childhood emotions for me -- always a sign that I'll find that book a winner. Lovely and heartwarming. Recommended for anyone who would like a realistic story with overtones of magical realism.

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...and joined Facebook. Yeah, I know, what's so "plunge-y" about that? I mean, I got on Twitter without any angst, and my initial reaction to Twitter was, "Are you kidding? Who wants to TEXT the entire internet? And what for?" But I saw some advantages to Twitter. For me, at least, it's not a time suck. I can "get in and get out." And I've found that having to express something in only 140 characters results in a lot of "right between the eyes" quotes and uproarious lines appearing in my feed. In other words, it's not hard to find good food for thought or your laugh for the day, in only a few minutes. I like the challenge of saying something so concisely. I've found some great writing links. I've connected with people. And I know who I am on Twitter: I'm a writer.

With Facebook, most of this is murkier. I've only been on for two days -- and granted, the first evening it took some time to set up my account -- but the time-suck temptation is already stronger. You become Facebook friends with Cousin Hattie, and then you see that she's friends with Long Lost Mary, and whatever did become of good ol' Mary anyway...? I am absolutely firm that I will not get sucked in to excess, but I do get that you can suddenly look up at the clock and two hours have passed. And because the posts can be longer, they are, which means they (a) lack the punch of tweets, and (b) take longer to read. There's not the nice little challenge of boiling something down to 140 characters. And I'm not that sure who I am on Facebook. The mix of personal and professional has always made me a little skittish, and since we hear about people's FB accounts being used against them by prospective or actual employers, why shouldn't it?

I'm sure it'll all be okay. Despite the fact that I've friended mostly writers, while at the same time I'll enjoy keeping up with some cousins and other extended family that I don't see much. Because, truth to tell, what finally made me break down and join was missing out on an important piece of info once too often. As another writer said just recently, Facebook (among other, newer social media sites) is where the conversation is going on. With this mix of professional and personal, I guess that on FB I'll just have to be a person. :)

By the way, if you're on and I haven't sent you a friend request, feel free to send me one.

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In mid-December, my husband's work took him away for three days. He's not gone overnight often, but when he is, I have but one response, and it's immediate: Declare a writer's retreat!

At such times, nobody is here but the cats and me. And the more completely I can achieve the following goals, the happier and more successful I feel:

• Throw away the clock. I sleep when I'm tired and eat when I'm hungry (or sometimes when I'm not, heh heh).
• Divide awake time among three activities: exercise, prayer, and writing, with the greatest number of hours spent on the writing. There might be a little minor web-surfing as a break. I might write an email to a friend. But that's it. The retreat is basically a writing marathon. I will take care of the cats, wash the few dishes I use, and throw in a load of laundry if necessary. No other housework. Oh, and I shower too. In case you wondered.
• Turn off the landline. I respond to important contacts by email or cellphone. But I don't want anything else ringing at me. Even the answering machine is too intrusive.
• Don't go outside. Yeah, I know. I'm a recluse-in-training. I *might* break this rule during seasons that don't involve piling on the winter gear and wondering where the ice patches are under that new coating of snow.  
• A byproduct of the above, more than a point in its own right: Don't talk. My husband called me on the phone during those three days, but I think that's the only time I actually spoke.
• Dig into that novel wherever it's at and (for me) think in terms of completed scenes rather than word count. I couldn't figure out why the middle seemed to be moving so sluggishly, even though I knew what had to happen next. Except...I didn't know. When I finally threw out what I thought would be the midpoint, put something else there, and rearranged a few other scenes, I unblocked the thing. New scenes flowed onto the screen. And I wrote more than 5K words in those three days. For me, that's a lot.

The retreat was a resounding success. I loved those three days. And while I know all of life can't be spent this way, nor would I want it to be, I'm really going to experiment to see if I can live like this a little more often. Except that DH can live at home. Really, he can. :)

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