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It's  been a while since I've done one of these posts. Not that I haven't thought about what it means to be a writer every second of every minute of every day. It's an occupational hazard. However, this most recent revelation is just too defining to writerdom not to share.

You might be a writer if...you still carry a security blanket.

Don't get me wrong. We're not that obvious about it. We're writers. We've given them much better names, such as Mac, Notebook Pro, Laptop, or the classic, best disguise, Computer.

As if, you sneer. It's my computer. That's all.


I see. Let's run a little checklist, shall we?

1) Is "your computer" one of the last things you look at before you go to bed? And one of the first when you get up?
2) Do you lovingly clean its parts?
3) Do you start to feel nervous when you haven't spent time with "your computer"?
4) So do you take it with you everywhere you go?
5) Take it out of the car when it's cold or hot, just like a child?
6) Is it your ONE carry on, regardless?
7) Does your heart skip a beat when, say, your husband/child/insert name of person who clearly does not get how IMPORTANT this "computer" is accidentally unplugs your "computer" and the battery runs down and it won't fire up right away?
8) Do you plot revenge? 
9) When there's a tornado, earthquake (we've had our share here in Oklahoma this fine fall) or other possible natural disaster, do you have an exit strategy that includes all essentials, such as your children, your husband, the pets, and your "computer"?
10) Most importantly, does it feel like an organic extension of you?

If you've answered yes to three or more of these questions, you may want to sit down. I have news. Your computer isn't just a computer. It's a security blanket.

That's not a bag thing. I mean, our livelihoods depend on these computers, don't they? We find creative expression - and, if we're really lucky, a paycheck - through its magical electrical circuits (Is that a good story idea?) It's no wonder we carry them with us wherever we go.

What was telling for me is that I didn't always feel this way about my computer. The joined-at-the-hip feeling started somewhere in the middle of my dissertation, i.e. my first official written creation. When I was six months pregnant with my first child (actual, human child), I was knee deep in the dissertation. I had six of eight chapters almost complete. I got up, went through my usual morning routine, then sat down at my computer. I opened the dissertation file, which I had backed up on two different external drives, and in individual chapters just to make sure I didn't lose anything. Stories of other grads who'd lost whole dissertations due to lazy back up methods were more than urban myths in grad schools. They were nightmares.

One that became real for me. None of the files would open.

Panic. Major, major panic. The kind that was so intense my daughter didn't move for six hours.

To make a long, painful story somewhat less painful for those of you who can imagine what it's like to lose 40,000 well-crafted words, complete with illustrations, I ended up at the computer lab at UVA. Many techs later, I was at the IT guru's desk, the last resort, the nuclear option of technical difficulties. He tried everything. Nothing worked. Then he made a call. A friend of a friend had an experimental version of the latest Word program. There were no promises but...

In that moment, I understood Faust only too well.
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Has your son or daughter ever followed you around the house repeating every single word, gesture, expression of yours? Or have you seen your children do it to each other with the secret desire of driving each other nuts, and, of course, succeeding?

Imitation is the best form of flattery, they say. But what about when it's involuntary?

You might be a writer if...you're a better parrot than your kids.

Most writers will admit pretty quickly that inspiration for their characters sometimes comes from quirky aspects of their own personalities, emotions they've been through, even kids they knew when they were growing up, or know now. We writers do pilfer on occasion, which I disclaimed on a while back. But what about when it boomerangs back on us and we start imitating our own characters?

When I'm revising heavy sections of a work (this happened with Dragon Wishes), I sometimes go through a low myself, carrying the emotional weight of my characters around with me after I turn off the computer. It's not so fun, perhaps necessary to make good writing into unforgettable writing (or at least decent writing), but not one of my more favorite forms of imitation.

It's not the only form, though. Oh, no. Not even close.

I'm working on a YA set in late 19th century New Zealand, and have been for the last 13 months. I've eaten, slept, drank, read, written and pretty much been in 19th century New Zealand for over a year. I even went to the modern day version for real in November 2008. I really did my research. Really went to live in the moment. It was well beyond 'imitation.' It bordered on total immersion. The imitation came later.

I started saying, "eh" at the end of my sentences. I have to say, it is a Canadian thing. Only, I'm not from Canadian, so I wasn't exactly sure why I was suddenly doing it. And I couldn't stop. My husband teased me about it. My daughers laughed. But it was my seven year old who got to the heart of the matter in perfect, no-nonsense kid fashion.

"I like how you talk like Charlie now," she said one afternoon after my umpteenth "eh" that day.

Charlie?

Who? What was she talking about?

Then it hit me. Charlie Mueller, the salty lighthouse keeper in my novel (Like any slightly obsessed writer, I've read my novel to my kids). Charlie's got this great "ye aren't the fastest ship in the harbor, are ye, laddie" kind of brogue accent. I really love writing his dialogue. I guess I love it so much, I started imitating it.

So what does all of this mean? Imitation is an occupational hazard?

I bet my kids would love to use that on me. "I have to imitate you, Mama. That's what kids do. It's an occupational hazard of being a kid."

How many moms would by that one? I know I wouldn't. Parroting really gets old after a while.

Uh-oh.

Does this mean my kids can threaten to send me to my room if I don't stop parroting Charlie right now?

I'm in trouble.

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Ooh, after the week I've had with babysitter woes, I have really been looking forward to my Friday post where I get to let my hair down, sit back, and ponder the inane, quirky habits of that ecelectic species, writer.

This week's spotlight gelled for me in a dream last night. I haven't had the best luck with working things out in the subconscious before, but man, last night, the stars must have aligned because when I woke up, what I dreamt actually made sense.

You might be a writer if...you swoon for writers like they were rock stars.

I mean the Leif Garrett/David Cassidy kind of swooning, where your heart gets up to some crazy erratic pace and your head feels so hot, you think you might lift off the ground or explode. Yep, that's what great writing does for writers.

Sound melodramatic?

Okay, maybe just a little, but what writer hasn't had that moment when a turn of phrase in a piece stopped them dead in their tracks. Where they sat there, saying it out loud, letting the words roll and bump across their lips as they savored the flavor of great writing.

And then became insanely curious to learn about the person who wrote that. So much so you, say, maybe googled them? Checked out their wikipedia page? Looked for interviews. Driven by the haunting memory of that amazing combination of letters and sounds that became greater than the sum of its parts.

I know. I'm swooning again.

I didn't used to swoon so for writers, not before I became one. I always read a lot, tons, but honestly, I wasn't all that into remembering author names. It was all about book titles, or even more simply, the story itself.

Now that I am a writer, now that I'm constantly working to improve my craft, I've become a closetcase fan of other writers. Then again, it may only be me who thinks my curiosity and interest is secret. I've seen my friends give me that funny look when I start going on and on and on about how I'd love to have Markus Zusak and his family over for a grill party. Kids would be playing on the swing set (I have no idea if he has kids. I do.) Spouses would get along great. And we'd talk about whatever. Not necessarily books, but life. I mean, who wouldn't want to kibbutz a little with the person who wrote:

As it turned out, Ilsa Hermann not only gave Liesel Meminger a book that day. She also gave her a reason to spend time in the basement - her favorite place, first with Papa, then Max. She gave her a reason to write her own words, to see that words had also brought her to life.
"Don't punish yourself," she heard her say again, but there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness too. That was writing.

Do you have a lighter lit and are waving it in the air like me? I mean, gees, that's just one line. The whole rest of the book is just as strong.

Zusak is just one example on my ever growing list of authors I'd love to meet and talk with. I don't mean interview talk. I mean Paris, early 20th century, Picasso taking on Modigliani talk. I mean, Hemingway vs. Fitzgerald. You know, arguing and debating, chewing and reforming and rewriting what makes good art in a seedy bar with a good French wine. They argued. They debated. They drank. They lived. They created. They changed the world.

God, what a time that must have been. An unending concert of ideas matching pitch and being reworked into something new and brilliant.

I'm swooning just thinking about it.

*****On a very little side note to rising fame and writer fortune, my book, Dragon Wishes, was an Honorable Mention in the San Francisco Book Festival this week. I feel like a rocker who's finally playing decent venues. Hopefully, one day, it'll be the Met.

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Do people come up to you and ask you to tell their story? Do you walk away from school visits with loads of new story ideas that kids give you like sticks of gum? Do adults drop hints about stories you could work on?

What about your family? Are they the worst of all?

You might be a writer if...you hear "you should write this" A LOT.

"You should write this" comes out of all corners. For a while, when I was still a newbie to writing, I didn't hear it at all. It's like being the new kid on the block. People around you can't figure out if you're in the writing gig for good, or you're goofing off.

Then that first book or article comes out, and whoa, ideas suddenly come flying toward you.

I didn't know what to do with them at first. Listen and nod politely? File them away? Write them out? Where is the advice on this in the writer operating instructions booklet?

What people want me to do, I've learned through trial and error, varies greatly. Okay, they all hope I write the ideas into something, but how those ideas should turn out is what varies so much.

Kids are the best. At school visits, I get all kinds of ideas tossed at me, like so many colorful balls. I try to volley them back because, you know, I might actually be talking to the next William Faulkner or Stephen King. You never know. Maybe all they need is a little push. I've seen some amazing stuff from kids nobody would ever expect had so much writing talent. So, each time a child tells me "you should write this" I say, "what if you did?" (And then there are a few ideas, I admittedly stick in my pocket. I did mention last week we authors like to pilfer.)

Adults are a little trickier. They sort of expect you to write out an idea if they take the time to tell you about it. Some of them are pretty good. A friend of mine met me and my family at our most favorite donut shop on Saturday before soccer. My family and I LOVE this donut shop. Family run. The donut maker is a real artist. He makes donuts into shapes and then colors them. I've never seen anything like it anywhere. And they taste fantabulous. It's worth traveling to Tulsa just to try them. Believe me. So it's probably not all that surprising that my friend suggested (as I was on my 3rd donut) I do an article on the origins of donuts. Now that happened to be a very good idea. Because I'm just itching to get back in the kitchen and interview this donut master, if he'll let me in. Plus, it turns out, the Dutch came up with donuts. So I'm altering my trip to Europe this summer to make a pass through Amsterdam so I can photograph some Dutch donuts. That was an amazing idea. No strings attached.

The tricky part comes when it's family. My immediate family is one thing. They live with me and they've learned that I pilfer, change up, and turn into something new. If they share an idea with me, who knows what it might turn into or where. And if it's my kids, I try to put the idea right back in their hands and challenge them to write something. I don't always succeed. Case in point. My daughter was at the opera this week. Her first time. She came home with three tickets.

Daughter: (Holds out tickets with huge smile on face) "I've got something for your blog."
Me: "Thanks, sweetie. That's really nice, but why don't you write about your trip?"
Daughter: (Face falls. Hand lowers.) "But I got them for you. I collected them off the floor so you'd have more than one. Can't you use them, please???"
Me: (Guilt-ridden and seriously impressed that her journalistic skills are kicking in so early.) "Okay."
Here they are:

When it comes to my extended family, grandparents, aunts, uncles, things get really tricky. I am my family's memory keeper. Not their story teller because that would mean I could pilfer and pillage history with abandon and then turn it into anything I want. Not when it's family. I'm the historian. The biographer. The living tape recorder (if such things still exist). When my family gives me an idea, they want it transferred to paper exactly as it happened. If I don't, well, there have been some sticky moments. And disppointment. Pencil thin lips and shaking heads. Sigh. Family events mean double duty. First record then take said events back to my secret writing lab and tinker with until I infuse them with new life Buahahahahhaha. (evil mad scientist laugh)

"You should write this". We get it a lot. It's often pretty helpful. Many of us use it. But what to do about the expectations that are attached to it? Maybe we should follow the movie industry, issue a disclaimer: The characters and events depicted in this piece are purely fictional. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Can I write with abandon now?

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Where do you get those ideas? Wide-eyed, mouths open, kids ask me this at least five times a day at a school visit. Let's face it, so do my friends. Until they read my books. My friends, that is.

The answer I give? Ideas are all around us. You just have to listen and choose the ones that speak to you.

The truth?
You might be a writer if, well, if...you pilfer.

I'm not talking about stealing. That's called plagiarism. Okay, some authors steal, but then they also get caught and, say, outed on national television to such burning shame that they slink away never to be heard of again...or go off and write an even better, non-stolen book under a pen name. It's a toss up.

But what's all this pilfering about, you ask?

Ideas. Characters. Quirky personality traits. Settings. Mannerisms. Colloquialisms. Everything.

We authors are the worst. Like a magpie or a pack rat, we'll nick just about anything that catches our eye. My office cubbies are stuffed full of them. They flow out in reams across the floor of my study. These shiny baubles mesmerize me. I must have them, and once I do, I don't like to part with them. Ever. Until I need them in a book. And then, whoa Nellie. Get me some glue and a bedazzler. I'm going to work to add the sparkle.

Let me give you a few examples I have filched over the years.

Goofy way that third cousin of mine looks, the one I can't believe I'm related to = the way I describe the oddball member of either the squid, shark or dolphin family when I'm presenting at schools on my aquatically themed picture books. Believe me, we all have that goofy cousin, even squid, if you can imagine that.

My kids trying to kill each other with pointy pencils? Okay, first I removed pencils and made sure all eyeballs were still in functioning order, scolded for at least five minutes on how they shouldn't try to kill each other with pencils, and then guiltily snuck away to my office to write that idea down and used it in my latest middle grade novel which has twins who are major rivals.

Kid in daughter's class who has normal, everyday name, but insists the world call him Boo!? Oh yeah, totally appropriated for future use.

The list goes on and on and on and on.

Reactions from friends and family that find parts of their lives, their mannerisms, their pet dogs in my work?

Varied. Mostly, though, it's pretty positive. That's because we authors don't just use these things as is. We change it up. The baubles are hunks of coal waiting to be crunched, smashed, chiseled, shaped, molded, turned inside out, upside down and formed into something entirely new, alluring and very sparkly.

Which is why it's pilfering, not stealing.

I think.

Although I have to say my brother's been giving a wee bit of cheek lately. He is with the military and travels all over the world for work. He generously brings me back presents from said corners of the world. Lately, I've started hitting him up for contacts in all those corners because these things he brings me are such sparkly pretties they've given me ideas for children's magazine articles. But my brother's not returning my emails. Hmmmm.......yet another way to drive my brother crazy.

Oh yeah. Filing that tidbit away immediately!

So there you have it, authors pilfer. Pilfer, filch, appropriate, snag, purloin, pluck, borrow, cop, crib, liberate (personal favorite in the taking without permission verb list), requisition, walk away with, snatch, snare and moonlight from the lives of those around us.

Be careful friends and family. The worst part isn't that we pilfer. We're also notorious recidivists. Can you love us anyway?

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This week the weather has been all over the spectrum in Oklahoma. We've gone from low 20s to high 80s all in one week. And all while I'm in the middle of a work in progress. I wouldn't have noticed the weather swings if it hadn't been for the fact that they've made me think about what I'm wearing. Don't I usually at least think about what to put on each day anyway, you wonder?

Well...

You might be an author if...clothing is not high on your list of things to obsess about.

It seems like each profession has its "uniform" of sorts. Businesspeople, lawyers, anyone in corporate America generally wears a suit. Teachers wear more comfortable clothing, kid friendly. Mechanics wear something that can get dirty.

But authors?

We spend all of our time by ourselves in an imaginary world. My imaginary friends don't care what I wear, just so long as whatever I'm wearing doesn't keep me from focusing all my energies on them. Granted, there are moments when authors have to at least act as though they care about personal appearance, like, when we have to talk to large groups of non-authors, who might not understand the baggy sweatpants, oversized shirt, disheveled hair, coffee mug permanently attached to one hand, three pens in your hair secret author uniform, if you can call it that.

When I'm up to my eyes deep in a manuscript, even that can be a high functioning look. I just don't care how I look. It's awful! I'll wear the same clothes for a couple of days on end. Granted I change to sleep and run, but then it's right back into the comfy jeans or sweatpants and baggy shirt, and thick socks. Whatever. Whatever it was I picked out when I was still thinking about clothes.

When I was writing my dissertation, it really got bad. I wore the same pair of loose, ultra comfy sweatpants every day for a year. Okay, okay, I washed them! I changed out of them if I had to leave my writing cocoon and go into the real world - the library was an exception. I didn't change for that. Which probably explains why those pants became my dissertation. I couldn't write without them. I wore them all the time when I was writing, even when I was nine months pregnant.

Yeah, that was a little scary. I retired the dissertation pants when I graduated, but they still call to me (because I couldn't throw them away or recycle them). So far, I've resisted. But only barely. They are the most comfortable pair of pants I own, even if they knees are patched up and the color is fading big time.

Why, why, why are we writers like this? It's almost like keeping the clothing the same, keeps my mood the same, which means I can dive back into the manuscript a little more easily. If I change from one thing to the next, it changes my mood. Bright and cheerful to somber and dark, or heavy to light really affects my mood. And that affects my writing.

Nonetheless, I'm not ensconced in the ivory tower of graduate school anymore. I've got kids. I live in suburbia America. I have to change it up a bit; otherwise what will the neighbors think? Still, I do "secret" stuff like wear the same necklace every single day for a piece until it's done. It helps, but man do I miss those dissertation pants. Miss them...

Honestly, it's no wonder so many writers burrow away from the real world into almost hermit-like isolation. How else can we wear the writer's true uniform that enables one to write that heartbreaking work of staggering genius???

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