Please visit me at Pentales throughout the summer as Ron, Michele, and I group blog. I'll be back blogging here in the Fall (when the kids go back to school and I have more TIME).

Head over to Pentales today to read about the Fantasy Novel in Verse and join the discussion!

Head on over to PENTALES and read about the struggle for balance: IN OUR OWN HEADS (or) PLEASE DON'T CALL FOR THE STRAIGHT JACKET YET.

I have several types of wild birds in my life and each serve a different purpose. This is a good thing, because there is a bird / flight underlying theme in my novel in verse.

The first type of bird lives here with me, on our property. We have a pair of mated hawks that have a nest in one of our Cottonwoods. They raise babies every year and have always been very upfront with us that they think our hens look very tasty. They've been trying to figure out how to get those big, juicy ladies in their mouths for a long long time. In order to keep peace, they have so far foregone their desires and we all seem to live fairly peaceably. The big dog keeps a close eye on them and when they're out soaring, she runs beneath and let's them know whose property this really is.

The hawks are austere birds, dark souls, focused, contemplative They remind me a lot of my female protagonists—they just take everything so seriously.

I have a heron I see most mornings on the way into school. She visits the ditch just across from the cattle stalls, stands on one leg, and as the car passes she takes flight and soars somewhat awkwardly right at window level as we pass. I don't know where she goes after that, but when we do see her, I know she is a harbinger of good tidings.

I get this feeling, this sense, that whatever is eating at me just can't compete with the beauty of a heron flying beside my car. It's a battle between good and evil everyday and when the heron is aloft, good wins.

We have a huge flock of Snow Geese that visit the wet open fields near our home. They are so large and regal, their feet and beaks black. What I love about the geese is that when they are on the ground, standing tall or sitting, they look quite reasonable and attractive, but to see them fly is to laugh. Their necks stick out too far, and their bodies are so large and heavy, and then of course, from such a spectacular bird comes the sound: honk, honk, honk.

Most importantly, have an owl. And the thing about the owl is that the experience of her coo in the night is deeply intertwined

Love Poem for Future Grief

When death forces a shroud on your shoulders
will you submit with ease and rest low in down or
find a way to linger beneath the choke cherry tree

Will you be underwater while voices muffle above you
island fog like your breath on hot glass
When death forces a shroud on your shoulders

Can you hide in the back of your closet, beneath winter clothes
slip the small space between bed board and wall
find a way to linger beneath the choke cherry tree

Which muscles will you use to rise, will you feel
the absolute stillness between gusts of wind
When death forces a shroud on your shoulders

Will the world be still water, opaque glass at the bottom of a jar,
can you rise to the surface in a bubble of air
find a way to linger beneath the choke cherry tree

Who might drive the car and will you watch the clouds contract
and release, choose to stay, become the first crocus bloom
under my spring boot, please
When death forces a shroud on your shoulders
find a way to linger beneath the choke cherry tree

Still Reading: The Help by, Kathryn Stockett
On the Farm: Balance boards made from 2x4's and logs
Thinking About: Why I never got around to trimming goat hooves this weekend

I've been out of the blogosphere for awhile, haven't logged onto Facebook in months and my Twitter account has been sorely neglected. I thought maybe I'd take a look at my old links and blogroll and see who is still around and who has vanished.

There are a handful of bloggers that I used to read (all Kidlit) and I've noticed they haven't posted in maybe six months? a year? And it got me wondering whether these people have dropped out of the blog world so they can really focus on their writing (as I like to do in my cyclical way) or if they've stopped writing all together?

And that thought brought me back round to the question everyone likes to ask: would you keep writing even if you knew you'd never be published? Now obviously, that's a tricky set-up because never is a very very long time. But say for instance you've been trying to land an agent for a decade and there just aren't any agents left. Do you quit trying to get an agent or do you just quit?

The reality is, only a handful of YA writers make it. Some make it huge on their first try, some have lengthy, steady careers, some get one book off and never see another in print, some stay solidly mid list and others hit the New York Time's Best Seller's list every go.

What if someone told you you'd need to put in another six years until agents A-Z would have a chance to slim down their slush piles and get to your manuscript? Do you pin all your hopes on one novel or do you keep writing?

The question that plagues me in all of this, is when you set aside every what if and each possible scenario, DO YOU KEEP WRITING?

Authors love to say that writing is in their blood and yet, as I scan my very old blogroll, I'm seeing that there really are a handful of people out there, a certain percentage, that have just given up.

Does that mean that writing is not in their blood? No. It seems to me that it means that the business of writing is not in their blood and that maybe they're a little more realistic than the rest of us.

And so that pesky question again, in expanded form: Why do you write? Where does this need come from? Can you satisfy it some other way? Would you keep writing just for yourself and your honey? Is getting published everything? Would you keep writing no matter what?

Here's a little inspiration: The Glee cast singing Keep Holding On

Reading: The Help by, Kathryn Stockett
On the Farm: Trimming goat hooves this weekend
Thinking About: A Fresh Start

A Fresh Start

Seems about time for a fresh start around here. I'm a little slow on the uptake and obviously, the New Year kicked in awhile ago, but I figure better late than never.

I've got an exciting new project going on—a novel in verse and will be posting a new poem once a week (but don't hold me to that since the NOVEL always comes first). I won't be sharing poems from the book itself but both new and old ones on other subjects.

I'll also be sharing some more rural living gems, thoughts on craft, and links to other blogs that are insightful and informative.

We'll kick off this fresh start with: A Rural Gem

Donkey Basketball!

I hear this is a rural thing and city folk have no idea what all it entails. Ours was sponsored by the FFA (Future Farmers of America) and there were several games where local teachers, fire fighters, FFA Alumni, and current FFA teens, battled out a game of basketball, on a full sized indoor court, while riding donkeys.

We were very proud of our school principal for staying on her donkey the whole time (despite the look of terror on her face).

My kids new favorite song, blasted until my ears nearly popped, is called International Harvester (thanks FFA!). You, too, should go ahead and enjoy this song . . . and remember to be patient as you're waiting behind those tractors!

Reading: Leviathan by, Scott Westerfeld
On the Farm: Morning dogs on patrol
Thinking About: The motorcade for one of our small town fallen in Afghanistan, Spc. Aaron Aamot, 1st Battalion, 17th Infantry Regiment, 5th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division killed November 5.

Returning to my previous post about visual art as stimulation for the writing mind, I took one tiny step toward a project I have been planning and thinking about for five years.

When my twins were babies and eldest was a toddler, I found it impossible to get them down for their morning nap. Eldest was needy, the house was too loud, no one could settle down. And so I took off from my old Victorian home in the city and began driving the north country, those two lane, winding roads I had never seen before. And as eldest and I sipped our coffee and hot cocoa and she looked through her pile of books I was struck by a recurring theme.

Barns.

The barns I saw were magnificent structures—enormous sky scrapers of wood. But the thing about them that really astounded me was that they were all falling down. Each one leaned precariously, windows long broken out, boards warped and bent from the rain, foundations cracked, and a sense of abandonment on their faces. I’d had a romantic vision of the countryside - I imagined white picket fences, perfectly painted red barns, cute old farm houses. But the real face of rural America is often something far less glamorous.

I fell in love with these barns and dreamed of photographing then in their decay and even returning years later to see how much further they were leaning, whether anyone decided to replace the roofs or drag away the rusted tractors.

I never felt I could stop to take these pictures because I had three babies in the car and the thrum of the engine is what kept those babies sleeping, and what helped me keep a tenuous hold on my sanity.

But I’ve never forgotten them. And when I moved to the countryside and saw more barns each time I went to the store or drove the kids to school, the itch to capture them became stronger.

I have a love story with photography and that’s part of the tale of the camera and barns. When I was seventeen, I moved to a new state, started my senior year at a new high school, my mother had cancer and I was desperately unhappy. Someone handed me a camera, a Cannon AE1 and a bag full of lenses (I think these had been my fat

Come on over to Pentales today and read my new post about Writer's That Like to Panic.

Reading: Leviathan by, Scott Westerfeld
On the Farm: My poor dead hen and my poor terrified hen that has not come out of her hutch
Thinking About: NaNoWriMo

I got back last night from a really fantastic retreat with Cheryl Klein and Ruta Rimas, and organized by the fabulous Jolie Stekly. The Western Washington SCBWI is an outstanding chapter and the retreat was invaluable (can't wait until next year!).

There's a lot to process and my mind is anxious to get onto the application of all these new lessons and ways of writing and revising—and I was lucky to have a very lengthy drive home and a bit of time to process last night.

It occurred to me that my writing, pretty much all of it, even down to my poetry and back-up to my novels, share a common thematic element. The revelation of this is really helping me hone in on what drives my characters and voice.

There are so many ways to analyze writing—you can look at it thematically, at the sentence level, at the image level, as a whole work, and on and on. But to step back and look at the common thread throughout a collection of writing offers a different kind of perspective and it's this common thread that speaks a great deal to a writers life experience and where and how it appears through plot and characterization.

Now that I see this theme I can write to it more deliberately. I understand my characters struggles, what they are trying to accomplish is a broad sense and where their areas of growth are. Both editors spoke about the evolution of a character and how necessary it was to have this growth to complete the emotional arc in a novel. Being able to see my theme (for lack of a better word) in neon lights, means that now I can underatnd where my characters are beginning their journey, where they wish to be and what must be reconciled to get there.

And oh! am I so excited to get back to work.

*image courtesy of Alderbrook Resort http://www.alderbrookresort.com

Reading: Everafter by, Amy Huntley
On the Farm: How to manage a 90 pound puppy that likes to climb in bed
Thinking About: Steampunk



Go check out Pentales today. We're talking about werewolves, zombies and classic literature!

It's time to NaNoWriMo! Well, actually, it was time to start on Sunday. I was able to sneak away for a bit and get off to a good start.

NaNo is a weird one for me, as I've blogged about before, because I'm an obsessive editor—I find it excruciating to move forward (chapter to chapter) until I have something highly readable and not the least bit embarrassing. The very nature of NaNo makes such a thing laborious and time consuming (although admittedly, it might be laborious under any circumstances). Just like last year, I'm willing to give it a shot anyway and see if its all drivel in the end.

My hope is that by challenging myself to write in a different way I might open up some new neural pathways and zing a few more creative thoughts around in my head.

In preparation, I also created a playlist and printed off a few dozen visual images related to my plot (again, another technique to try and access some little corners of my creative mind that may have been dormant since childhood). I'd show you a panorama of my very cool web images, but then I'd have to kill you, because they are so cool you'd probably be able to figure out my whole plot just from the pics alone, write the book faster than me and have it off to editors before I can sneeze.

Never mind . . . you wouldn't do something like that. Only trolls steal good novel ideas. Jealous little trolls.

Here's a website for any fantasy writers out there that would like a little visual stimulation. I stumbled across this artist recently and was struck by the similarities between visual art and plot—this guy has clearly created a story with his paintings and various worlds that are similar but unlike our own. Check out the piece called Millennium Watchman.

Come on over and friend me at elisemurphybooks. Happy NaNo!

Reading: The Flood by, Margaret Atwood (Still)
On the Farm: Asian Pears
Thinking About: My broken car

I am often torn when it comes time to sit down and write for the day. I love to just dig in with both hands, dirty myself up to my elbows and write like the keys are on fire. I edit. I write. I edit some more. I write some more. I have a cherry flavored Coca Cola Zero. I write.

I find it much more difficult to back away from the keyboard for a few days and just think about my world. However, the more experienced I become as a writer, the more I am learning the absolute necessity of the space between the words.

World building is an incredibly creative time in the writing process, but it is wholly different from the writing itself. For me, it requires millions of notes—both hand written and typed. I make maps, and diagrams of plot arc. I make lists of character traits, world rules, common interests, differences between my characters, arc of emotional growth, rules and edicts.

This can be somewhat tedious—it has none of the joyful abandon of just writing without looking back. It engages a different part of my brain, a more logical side and I often find that logic and creativity are uncomfortable bed fellows.

My internal dialog often goes like this, "I'll just come back and figure out later why character X said that about character Y. I can just fix that later when I understand it better myself." And then myself will argue back, "No! Understand it now before you decide to go off on some other tangent. Figure out if X said that because of her jealousy of Y or if it's because she secretly loves Y or because she has a terminal case of parasitic disease that makes her say the opposite of what she believes."

As I'm working on a new project, I'm trying really hard to avoid all of this internal chit chat. I am working hard on knowing my characters, their histories, the names and places of their births, the political system they live in, their hopes and dreams, what makes them uncomfortable and how they cope with stress.

World building applies to all novels. The term gets used most often in relation to Speculative Fiction and Fantasy, but anyone that writes fiction, creates a fictional time and place, must build their world from scratch. Yes, you can assume all modern conveniences are available to your MC in a contemporary YA, but which ones does she have? Do her parents love her? Did his dog just die? It's all world building.

Several years ago, at the SCBWI WA State conference, I attended a fantasy workshop led by Laini Taylor. My favorite tidbit that I took away from her talk was the list of 100 things. When you're stuck, or when you're stretching for details about your characters or world, write down 100 things about that person or place.

I've been doing this exercise religiously—from character to character, city to city, plot point to plot point. Go try it.

You'll generate sensory details, smells, motivations, histories. Treat it as a free write. A time to let your mind wander and a time to engage all of your senses.

Taking the time to let the words sit is an excellent way to learn what's meant to fit between all those words. What exists in your world that isn't being said? What is the subtext of your plot? Unless you sit quietly occasionally, in between the marathon writing sessions, you'll never find the mental space to learn your world and your characters inside and out.

I try to remind myself that very often what isn't said is as important to meaning as what is said. Imagine you're writing your novel long hand, and skipping lines as you go (like in first grade). Then imagine that the writing on those blank lines is extra description and explanation but it's all in invisible ink. No one will ever see it.

Can't you imagine how important those empty lines are?

Reading: The Flood by, Margaret Atwood (WOW)
On the Farm: just mud
Thinking About: Morality and Compassion

It's been awhile since we visited Life on the Farm. Over the last few days, I've been thinking about why, and it's occurred to me that I lost touch with farm life over the summer.

Summer is the time where anyone can experience farm life. It's easy to drive out to the berry farms, or visit the vegetable stands, tour vineyards and gardens, pick peaches, visit a petting zoo. The weather is mild, the rewards are great and it makes for memorable summer adventures.

We did spend our summer this way. We watched the goats in the pasture, tipped our heads back and let our eyes circle along with the hawks in the sky, ate fresh vegetables, traded eggs and squash for the neighbor's tractor, hoed the garden when it cooled down in the evening. We experienced all things pure and simple in farm life.

Now Autumn has descended with a vengeance. In the space of a day the temperature dropped thirty degrees and the rain came. Biblical rain. It hasn't stopped yet this week. Mud is everywhere and I can't collect the eggs without full rain gear and muck boots. The goats need some grain and hay because they hate to get their hoofs wet and will stay inside all day if they feel it's too soggy. The dogs have to be toweled down and we're trying to teach the pup how to guard her flock from the covered front porch when it's raining so hard you can't see through it. The hens have decided that perhaps they'd like to slow down on the laying and the only animals that seem truly ecstatic are the ducks. Water + duck = happiness.

Now this is what farm living is about for me! It's easy to pretend in the summer months, to engage with the land when the weather is mild and the days are long. It's another thing altogether to be forced out into the elements everyday to deal with livestock.

And what I've realized about this Autumn, Winter, and Spring living is that I've missed it. I like the hard work, the stumbling around in the dark, the chill, and most of all the necessity of me, a hobby farmer, in the lives of the animals.

Autumn has always been my most creative time and that extends to home life as well as my writing. Darkness is descending, it's time to pull the shutters and crank closed the windows, a time to cook hearty foods, process the apples, talk to the animals and check their hooves and feathers, stand in the rain in the moonlight and breathe in air so fresh and clear that it fills the head with a cool breeze, feel a shuddering chill and then the warm flush on your cheeks when you step in front of the fire, dry your boots by the stove, scrape the mud from your cuffs, and allow your mind to wander to all those places that only come in the low light and quiet of the cooling weather.

When is your most creative time?

I've found that there are times when an idea sneaks up on me, maybe circles my legs a few times, purrs a little, and then I find myself spending weeks or even months trying to coax it up into my lap.

These book ideas are often very dependable, solid, really a good companion—like an old love. Maybe a little passionless but so familiar that you can't ignore them.

And then there are the **EPIPHANIES**

Book ideas come in all shapes and sizes and are inspired in countless ways. Survey a hundred different writers on what gave them them idea for their current WIP and you'll get a hundred different answers.

And for me? No two experiences are the same.

My former mistress (I mean manuscript), the one in the capable hands of my agent, came to me in a single shining word in the shower one day. That was it. Just a word.

And the word was obscure enough that I had to go look it up. I had a vague idea what I was thinking about, the basic roots, but the more expansive definition was not even a part of my conscious mind.

Then I had another idea. And another. One more. And a sequel idea. I have, of course, written them all down and filed them away. I've made a few Scrivener files, added a little research and then wandered away.

Then ANOTHER idea came to me. Driving. Straight into the bluest sky I had seen in ages, with the most perfect, expansive, WHITE clouds. Not a touch of grey, not even a streak of plane exhaust in the sky. It was like driving right into the atmosphere, into such a joyous light that it just felt like someone should be enjoying with me. Someone named Isadora (although I didn't know her name at the time). All I knew was that someone had to see what I was seeing.

And **poof** a new book landed in my brain, exploded behind my eyelids, blinded me like a flash bulb, left a trail of smoke, broke me in two . . .

How do your ideas come to you?

Reading: Alas, Babylon by Pat Frank
On the Farm: tomatoes, tomatoes and more tomatoes
Thinking About: The Apocalypse

Lev Grossman has a wonderful article on plot in today's WSJ.

I love this article for so many reason, not the least of which is because I have been thinking about just this thing for days and wondering how to turn it into a coherent conversation.

The first thought that occurred to me is to think of our own writing in terms of reviews. What if you could have the best possible review of your book, the kind that said everything you hoped your novel was, a simply glowing account of your own talents, even a surprise to you that the reviewer got everything you were striving for?

Imagine it.

What does it say?

Is your novel:

laugh out loud funny with quirky characters reminiscent of classic Tom Robbins.

deeply moving with characters so real you felt you knew them. I laughed at their tragedies and celebrated their triumphs

the best mystery I've read in a decade. Complicated, intricate, well paced with an astonishing shock of an ending

with a lyrical voice like sweet syrup, I'd let this author tell me any story just for the pleasure of her language

non stop action with unexpected twists at every turn. I was on the edge of my seat, flipping pages so fast I have a dozen paper cuts this morning

the best love story I've ever read. Such real and deeply moving characters.

the perfect blend of literary voice and an exciting plot. This author knows how to write AND keep you turning pages at the same time.

gore, fear, terror and redemption all in one perfect plot. Move over Stephen King.

Which book is yours? How many other authors can you think of that might garner the same kind of review? Are you really writing to the standard of this review?

Lev Grossman's article argues that plot is on the upswing, that readers desire entertainment, accessibility, and a book they can easily understand.

I find this particularly compelling because I want my someday reviews to call my writing literary fantasy.

Luckily, YA has always done an excellent job of crossing genres in a way that adult fiction has frowned upon. As YA writers we can much more easily write a literary fantasy and find it within the larger YA section, rather than relegated to a back, shameful corner of the bookstore under the heading FANTASY and a box of disguises nearby so no one will recognize you browsing there.

I love adult authors that have made the crossover: Lev Grossman himself with The Magicians, Michael Chabon, Audrey Niffenegger, and particularly Kate Atkinson. Mr. Grossman points to these same authors and many others in his article. They are technically "cross genre," the lucky few in the adult world that are both literary mainstream and genre based (fantasy, mystery).

Mr. Grossman sights some compelling sales evidence for his theory that the modern reader is looking for more plot in their books.

All I have to say to that is yeah! That's just I what I want to hear. Why can't we be literary and funny? Literary and packed with adventure and intrigue?

The Enchanted Inkpot is running a great TOTW right now entitled Over Their Heads: Children's Books and Difficult Matters. A great discussion about writing up or down to kids, how challenging our language can and should be, how mature our topics.

I prefer that we as authors first write to our strengths and promise to never, ever, dumb down our meaning or language for our youthful audience.

It's fine to be literary and accessible.

Lev Grossman even says so.

Reading: Alas, Babylon by, Pat Frank
On The Farm: Mourning the loss of a lovely Barred Rock Hen, drying giant sun flower heads
Thinking About: Gothic Style

Once upon a time, before becoming a "real" writer, I believed that I would write the great novel once I had the right space to write it in. I needed the walls painted red, deep red, and I needed a dark wood desk, a cork board with pithy quotes and funny pictures, a collection of something quirky that other people would say, "what a unique collection of 'x'", an extremely comfortable, retro leather desk chair, an old fashioned metal fan, and on and on . . .

Then I got an agent and started taking my writing seriously and thinking of it as my job—during the day, when the kids are at school, I write. The timing was impeccable. Thing One and Thing Two were just entering kindergarten and suddenly the days opened up, a wonderful, yawning chasm of time. And I had the most perfect thing to fill it with—a novel.

There just wasn't time to think about the right space, or begin some kind of remodeling job, or remove the dresser from the bedroom to insert a desk. I just had to start writing wherever I could. And I was amazed to find that it was easy. Coffee shops worked fine, the couch was comfortable enough, the kitchen table worked, the backless bench at gymnastics and even the soccer field were passable. Any space. Any time. My motto was "bring it on, I can write anywhere."

Since then, I've found a lovely little desk, in a dark corner of Mr. Encyclopedia Man's office. He did a fabulous green remodel on a 1920's building replete with period lighting and a luscious mellow lemon color for the walls. He's in design and marketing so the whole place has a good, artsy vibe to it.

And my corner is like a cave—a little used back desk with dark green walls, a single light, and an old 1950's metal desk. Perfect. Headphones, laptop, and all the trappings of a real office like shared fax machine, lots of paperclips, a high speed printer. I live a charmed writing life.

The last few days though, I 've been thinking about that ideal writer's space again. A little game of "what if you could have it the way you want it?"

This line of thinking was spurred on it part by a book I bought Mr. Encyclopedia Man for his birthday. It was totally, completely for him, except for the fact that I was drawn to the cover and I really want to read it when he's done. But not until he's done. I swear.

Michael Pollan needed a space for his daydreams and slowly, over a long period of time, he built himself a little cabin in the woods.

Do you see those bookcases? And the icicles? And the little loft at the top? The big picture window? He must have a desk built in just below that window.

And a very small, but usable sleeping space in the loft, a good tea pot (cast iron), a comfy old leather chair, a straight, ladder back chair for guests (just uncomfortable enough that they won't stay long). Oh, wait. That must be my fantasy. He probably has totally different furnishings.

Speaking of the charmed writing life, I actually have room to build myself a little cabin, a tiny retreat meant for pen and paper. There's a perfect spot in the north pasture, in fact. During the spring, summer, and fall it looks out toward rolling green grass and a line of cherry trees. There's a little creek running to the north and an orchard of apple and asian pear trees to the south. It's darker over there on the north side but only a short walk down the gravel road to the main house.

My mind has run away with me.

I don't really know construction well although I can be a helpful assistant. And Mr. Encyclopedia Man has about thirty other farm projects that have to be done before winter (like a door for the goats—hint hint).

But I can't quite let go of the fantasy. I want the YA and MG sections of my library out there—I'll leave reference and general fiction inside with the exception of Storey's Basic Country Skills, and The Encyclopedia of Country Living. I'd also like a handful of local road maps. I might also want my comprehensive guide to canning because I don't think Mr. Encyclopedia Man will be searching around for that anyway.

I'd like the antique chinese lunch box.

And the crumbling wood and gold lacquer candlestick holders. All four of them. You know, the ones on the staircase ledge.

And most of all, I want it to have a cave like feel. It needs to be small, really small, and tight so that guests don't really feel comfortable because it's a space for one.

I'm feeling gothic, too. A dark, ominous knocker on the door. A strange, slightly leaning shingled facade. A black metal roof. A huge picture window that looks across the pasture.

Dark art—midnight blues, black undertones in crimson, heavy layers of oil paint, but small paintings. Because the room is mostly made of bookcases—ceiling to floor and the necessary cubby for an antique brass and wood step stool.

These crazy bat and serpent light fixtures.

If you're also a writer or an artist, I'll let you stay there when you come to visit. I'll even deliver hot tea, biscuits and strawberry freezer jam to you in the evenings before bed. But mostly I'll let you just sit, and think, and write a few words in that old leather journal you've been wanting to buy forever but didn't want to spend the money on until you realized you'd be spending a few days in a gothic cabin in the woods. All alone.

Reading: The Hunger Games by, Suzanne Collins
On the Farm: 4 eggs, all white puppy covered in mud
Thinking About: Snow tires


Can you be the fastest?

Can you tweet it quicker than the writer next to you? Can you speed dial? How fast is your texting? Do you even read whole articles anymore or just skip to the good stuff? Is the fast food line too slow for you anymore? Do you speed date? How fast can you run? For fun? When chased? How many queries can you drop in a day?

And the big question?

Can you do 100 math problems in 6 minutes? Could you do it in 4th grade?

Eldest (who is a major over achiever, type A, obsessive student) came home devastated over some timed math tests. She got them all right . . . but not in enough time.

At first I was incensed. Timed? Really? And a state mandated timed test?

I, of course, calmed down once I talked to the much wiser and calmer Encyclopedia Man and the Bestest Ever Friend. They reminded me that rote learning was what it was all about when we were kids and math is way more exciting now. And that learning your multiplication tables like they're your own name is actually valuable. If you want to succeed at higher math then you need to get that pesky memorization stuff out of the way and JUST KNOW IT.

Okay.

So fine.

I've calmed down about the test.

And after two days of practice, eldest can now do 117 multiplication problems in six minutes because she's been staying up until 11 o'clock doing it every night (obsessively).

But the FAST thing has stuck to me. It's like a little demon on my back. Fast has such high value in our society. Refer to this back and forth on Cheryl Klein's blog for an interesting example of how she sees it affecting the writing world.

This is not new information I realize. Twitter, Facebook, fast food, instant messaging, cell phones, email, are all about how fast you can get your information to someone and how fast they can respond.

You've got to admit it, because we all do it. You send out a query by email and then sit at your computer checking for messages. If you have to go out, you take your iphone and check email while you're away. If you're sending something to your agent, you remind him or her of your cell phone number, your home number, your email address, your blog address, the color of your house and say CALL ANYTIME.

And when this kind of urgency bleeds over into creative writing it becomes corrosive. The feeling that we must speed along, we've got to ride the vampire trend, or get in on the ground floor of pigeons, or make sure our totally original book about talking chairs makes it into the hands of the best agent / editor FIRST.

I spent an interesting summer revising. Just revising. For months.

First I let the book sit for several weeks.

Then I read it.

Then I gave it to Mr. Encyclopedia Man to read.

I bought note cards one day. And paper clips and highlighters the next.

I sat in a little tiny cubby, at a nice desk, with too much candy, and went page by page. I clipped note cards to every single sheet.

I told myself that it wasn't brilliant. It was okay and needed work.

I created a leaning tower of paper clipped pages.

I took pictures of them.

I checked out more books from the library and just looked at art associated with my subject.

I ate too much.

Then I went page by page and made my edits.

Then I wrote four new chapters, added another character and changed a major plot point (or two).

I shared it around to some more readers (like my lovely, wonderful, super-smart critique partners over at Pentales) .

I made the corrections they suggested.

Finally, I made it pretty.

And that my friends, felt to me like the slow approach to food. It felt like it took forever. Like I was swimming in jello. Like my cell phone had become rotary dial and my email into overseas snail mail.

As I was trapped in the murky lime colored depths of my manuscript, I started to see a little light above. And then a little more.

I felt tranquil.

And the Tranquility of Creativity can't be overrated when I'm getting texts, and new Twitter followers, and a blog post due over at Pentales, and cell phone messages, and . . . and . . . and . . .

Image Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Currently Reading: The Magician by, Lev Grossman
On the Farm: Three fresh eggs, 2 dozen cherry tomatoes, red and gold potatoes

I spent a glorious summer doing all those summery things that one is meant to do. I had a wonderful adventure, planted and harvested a delicious assortment of vegetables, canned enough green beans and made enough jam to last through the winter, picked blueberries, drank sangria on the back deck, spent lazy time with friends, ate off the BBQ nearly every night, got the first few eggs from our new hens, learned to trim chicken feathers, began training a puppy, survived a Pacific Northwest heat wave, bought a pig at the Northwest Washington Fair, provided all the lovely country-living-props for the play Oklahoma!, rarely went to the grocery store, watched my baby goat grow big, looked out over the red tipped pastures, and found time to be still.

During the very last gasp of summer vacation we had friends come visit. Chaos ensued. And then in a rare hushed moment, the phrase Magical Thinking floated through the room. Obviously this is not a new concept—Freud may have been the first one to coin it, and Magical Thinking is also very much the basis of Magical Realism.

But the concept as applied to LIFE is what struck me. The idea that we can decide to believe and make that belief a reality. We've all done it at times, taken a deep look at ourselves and decided that something has to change, some quirk, or annoyance, or self pity needs to be exorcised. You imagine it. You practice it. And then you become it.

Some might prefer to call this Neural Linguistic Programing. And that would be fine. But I'm a writer and I prefer to think of it as Magical Thinking.

Magical Thinking goes hand in hand with some of those other odd feelings that strike us at times—a sense of deja vu, or feeling that things happen for a reason.

And for me, good fiction is all about Magical Thinking. Not magic in the strictly Harry Potter sense, but magic as a way of thinking, an approach to seeing the world and describing it in prose.

I've always been one of those readers that fall in love with language and can linger over a book for endless hours awash in delicious metaphors and turns of phrase that are either so true or so wholly new that they make my heart expand.

A good plot drives me forward, and gets me from one point to the next. Well developed characters, that you believe would narrate in this kind of lyrical voice, bring a well written novel to the next level. And then a case of Magical Thinking brings it all home.

It takes a certain amount of bravery to allow your mind to wander to far off corners, to places where no one has walked before, to be the first to leave footprints in the white snow.

We can argue over there being no original plots, and I'd probably agree with you. But voice. Oh, voice! That's where an acute case of Magical Thinking causes a raging, hot fever and makes your heart pound.

This is you very own ground where no person has trod before. And where good writing becomes brilliant.

Image: Icelandic Magical Stave courtesy of Wikimedia Common

In no particular order, and on a 1-10 scale (10 being most likely to achieve).

1. A full time housekeeper that does everything but cook and puts fresh sheets on my bed everyday. - 0
2. Cows. At least one dairy cow and a few nice meat cows. - 8
3. Three extra hours in each day where I can either work or spend more time with my kids improving their reading and math skills. - 0
4. More decaf Starbucks coffee beans - 5 (will I make it to the store today? Outlook uncertain)
5. Time to watch The Breakfast Club - 5
6. Banishment of all Brady Bunch DVD's from my home. - 1
7. Freya Puppy to stop eating the cat food because the cats are becoming lethargic and angry. - 7
8. Clean bedrooms that are free of little tiny bits of paper, beads, dolls, itsy bitsy shoes, etc. - 0
9. Another cinnamon roll - 0 (will power is strong today).
10. A date with Mr. Encyclopedia Man - 10 (whoo-hoo for babysitters returning from lengthy S. American backpacking trips)