Blogging My Novel: Didn't You Used to Write?

A year ago I sent out 17 queries for my middle-grade novel in hope of agency representation. Seven were rejected on sight, seven disappeared into query oblivion, but three had the desired effect: a request to read part or all of my pride and joy. It took over nine months for the final rejections to trickle in, but arrive they did. I'm apparently a "writer with real talent" and my story is "well crafted" with "many possibilities," but given the current "economic climate" they have had to make a decision that they "may regret." Not to appear ungracious but @#$&!

Starting my BSc in Elementary Education put my planned revision of Gone on hold. Swamped by sixteen hours of class for two semesters in a row, I slept less, ate more and drank way too much caffeine. Needless to say, I finished the year with honors and withdrawal.

Days after my final exam I was asked by one of my professors to help her write a textbook of case studies.  Over the ensuing two months I wrote ten cases, including six to nine study questions each.  Again, Gone was put aside.  Stalling am I? Maybe...

With only 3½ weeks to go before the start of school, I'm running out of time. Should I submit Gone to publishers as is? My gut reaction is no. I know it would benefit from more depth. So its off to the revision chair tonight. I'll be posting a tally of my hours. I'd like to put in five before Friday.  The scary thing about this is that I'll be writing new stuff to add, not revising the old. I always find that a tad intimidating and I don't have my Birks to steer me straight. Ach! So can I do it? Revise and submit before the start of term? 

We'll see... 

The Trouble With Having Friends Who Write Well...

...is that they're so damn good they can make you cry in twenty words or less.  

In honour of my imminent departure, my writing friends wrote me a book. In it they speak about the books that influenced them as they grew up, books that shaped their view of the world and themselves. They also mention some pretty nice things about Yours Truly. I'm slowly making my way through it, though it's taking a lot of tissues.  These people are pros and mercy is not in the cards.

It just goes to show that writers will do almost anything to see their names in print. 

Thanks a million everyone. 

Sniff!

Blogging My Novel: Now What?

Just when you think you have enough to worry about, life has a way of spicing things up. Placing my novel has been ratcheted down the priority ladder, what with needing to find a home in a new country.  I'd like to think my work is more marketable where I'm going than where I've been these past five years. Isn't the U.S. the mecca of the children's book industry? 

What scares 'the author' in me most is leaving behind the incredible writers that have helped shape my work into something worth reading. The Birkenstocks, the Geneva Writers' Group, the D.L. Nelson retreats in Argeles, my family... For five years, I've had an unfailing network of support.  Thank goodness for technology is all I have to say. These days out of sight doesn't necessarily mean out of mind.

As for the Long Wait: 26 days, 14 hours, 16 minutes and counting.

I plan to follow up at the end of the week, but I don't believe I've been forgotten. The publishing industry is exceptionally slow and I doubt the current economic climate is doing much to improve matters. Will I mention the pending move? Hmm... I'm not sure. 

What do you think?

The Grinch in the style of Mighty Mom

Every Scrib down in Scrib-ville

Liked writing a lot…

But the Grinch

Who lived just north of Scrib-ville

Did NOT!

The Grinch hated writing! In fact, reading, as well.

Now, please don’t ask why, for he never will tell.

It could be his prescription wasn’t measured quite right.

Some might argue he still gripped pencil too tight.

But, whatever the reason,

His eyes or his grip,

The Grinch stood on Christmas Eve, hating the Scribs.

For he knew every Scrib down in Scrib-ville below

Was revising their stories and making them glow.

“And they’re penning their poems—their Christmas cards, too.

I can just hear them now, ‘Season’s Greetings to you!’”

Yes, he’d had quite enough. But what could a Grinch do?

Then he got an idea!

An awful idea!

The Grinch got a wonderful, awful idea!

“I’ll dress up like Santa and go into town

At night when the Scribs will for sure not be found.

And I’ll take all their paper, their pencils and pens,

Their books and computers, their useless book ends.

With nothing to write with and nothing to read

Not a word would be heard—quite a Grinch-y good deed.”

That very same night,

With old Max and his sleigh,

He slid into to Scrib-ville, his plan underway.

In no time at all he had filled all his sacks

With laptops and journals and pens in their caps.

He was at the last house when a little voice cried,

“Santa, why are you taking my story books? Why?”

He turned around fast, and what did he see?

Little Susie-Lou Scrib who was no more than three.

But you know that old Grinch was so smart and so slick

He thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.

“They’re missing two commas and some onomatopoeia.

I’ll fix them at home, then I’ll bring them back here.”

And as Susie-Lou Scrib went to bed with her cup,

The Grinch went to the chimney and stuffed the books up.

It was quarter past dawn…

All the Scribs still asleep

When he packed up his sleigh and away he did creep.

He had every last word

Not a one had he missed:

The phone books, the flyers,

the last grocery list.

Three-thousand feet up! Up the side of Mt. Crumpit,

He road with his load to the tiptop to dump it.

Once there, the Grinch paused,

For wouldn’t you know,

He wanted to hear the Scribs waking below

“Their mouths will hang open a minute or two

and, with no word to be heard, they will all cry BOO-HOO!”

So the Grinch put a hand to his Grinchy green ear

And stood listening hard for what he wanted to hear

But then over the crest of the new fallen snow

He heard a soft sound and it started to grow.

All the Scribs down in Scrib-ville

The tall and the small

Were sharing their words with no paper at all

“How could this be so?”

The Grinch said in a rage.

Words lived on in Scrib hearts and not on the page.

And what happened then?

Well, in Scrib-ville, they say.

That the Grinch’s tight grip grew three sizes that day.

He whizzed back into Scrib-ville, replete with his load.

Returning every last item, or so it’s been told.

And where’s the Grinch now?

Well, with his Grinchy-ish diction

He’s taking a class in

Creative non-fiction.

Why

I'm tucking Emma the Brave into bed when she asks, "Why do you have a writers' group, Mommy?"

The Birkenstocks, my every other Friday night writers' group are expected to arrive at any moment.

I sit down on the edge of her bed. "Because it's hard work to write something down the way you feel it inside. It takes lots of practice. It's a bit like school, I guess. I check that their writing makes sense and they check mine."

Emma pulls the covers up to her chin and nods. She understands completely.

The Full Scoop

Last Friday morning found me in the back seat of a Kangoo, my feet straddling the hump, on my way to the south of France. I was about to participate in a weekend workshop on character development and lacked the one essential ingredient -- a character. My mind was not a blank, but rather an indiscernable mix of expectations, responsibilities and laryngitis. I tried to tell myself that it wouldn't matter if I came home empty handed. The food would be good and the company, outstanding. What more could I ask for? A novel?

We arrived in Argeles by late afternoon, checked into our hotel, then set out to explore the village and maybe even steal a glimpse of the sea. We trawled the narrow streets of the old town, pointing out our favourite buildings, the old men congregated on park benches, and the places we'd shopped the year before. We tried to find the sea, but failed. At seven o'clock, we headed to the studio--our creative space for the next two days-- and shared an aperitif on the rooftop terrace before heading out for dinner. Our workshop was officially underway.

At 8 a.m. Saturday morning, the group, now six, headed back to the studio where a beautiful spread of breads, pastries, ham, cheese, and fruit awaited us. My mind had begun to clear despite not having found the sea. Perhaps it was the gambas? In any case, when we set down to work, a character sat down with me and dared me to write him down.

So I did.

Over the next two days, D-L Nelson guided us through ten different exercises to better understand our characters. We role played, wrote dialogue, staged artificial scenes, and even killed our characters off, all in the name of good fiction. It was a weekend that exceeded all expectations: the food was amazing, the company, fantastic. And the sea? A bit cool but who's complaining. As for a second novel? It's too soon to tell.

Maybe...

We worked hard... honest!

My sincerest thanks to everyone for a truly memorable experience.
Until next year!

It's Mighty Mom's First Blog-iversary

A year ago I started this blog with the sole intent of getting "my sorry butt back in the chair." It had been a long, hot summer of nearly full-time parenting. Complete sentences were a vague memory, fragmented into near oblivion by the incessant responsibilities, interruptions and joys of normal, every day motherhood. Emma the Brave was back at school, only this time with Mighty Mouse in tow. Suddenly I had time to write and seemingly nothing to say. My own faulty logic led me to Blogger and the rest, as they say, is in the archive.

I honestly believed no one would read what I wrote. I was 4,490 visitors wrong. The single most popular post is the one of me sexing the hamster pups. (I can't help but wonder what people are expecting to see when their Google search leads them here.) The next most popular entries are my book reviews, particularly the non-fiction titles on dyslexia. But what is most surprising is the number of people who just keep reading regardless of what I'm babbling on about. To all of you, I want to say thanks. With print publication so elusive, this writer appreciates every last page load.

So what new adventures will the coming year bring? I haven't a clue. I can assure you there will be no more hamster havoc. As much as I came to love Peanut, it is my definitive opinion that hamsters were never meant to be pets. Friendly wild creatures, yes. Our apple seed days have ended, too, with the last seedling going to the great orchard in the sky this week. As for Life à la Suisse, it will continue, though I fear our fondue days are numbered. And where will the great corporate merry-go-round take us next? Good question. One thing for certain is that life will keep dishing out more blog fodder than I know what to do with and I'll be serving it up here, one post at a time.

Wishing you all a blog-worthy day,

Melissa Miller
aka Mighty Mom

Seeking 007

It's no secret that I've spent the last two weeks agent hunting. It has been both an enlightening and frustrating process. It takes an inordinate amount of time to learn about an individual agent, amassing such details as their literary preferences, their needs and expectations, and the working relationship they have with their authors. You can therefore imagine how bloody discouraging it is to reach the conclusion that one's work and said agent are not a good fit. Tick that one off the list and it's back to square one.

The truth is this: it's simply no good for anyone to spew manuscripts aimlessly into the world. Agents and publishers end up with unwieldy slush piles and authors end up with carbon copy rejections that inevitably dent their self-esteem. At the very least, I hope my current process yields some constructive criticism. Just to share, here is my current check list for agent suitability:

1. What genres do they represent and what are their current needs? If the answer to this question isn't clear from the agent's blog or website, I send a brief email to inquire. I don't send a query because they take too long to write well. Agents can smell form letters like my dog can smell horse dung.
   
2. What books inspire them? Did they grow up reading the same books I loved? What are their current favourites? Who do they currently represent? If they grew up hiding comic books in their math book and despised Blubber, there's a good chance they won't like my book.
3. How do they write? In the past year I've come to love a good blog. Because of the more casual nature of blogs, you can get a real sense of a person. Are they respectful? Do they have a sense of humour? How do they negotiate on behalf of their clients? What is their involvement in the revision process? I've come to respect the advice of many agents whose blogs I follow though may never submit to.
   

So how do you get the ball rolling and get to know an agent? The best way I've found is by attending writing conferences where agents are on the faculty. Short of that, here are a few sites that can also help:

Agent Query
Publishers Marketplace
The Association of Authors' Representatives
The Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators

I've also discovered Cynsations, a wonderful blog by fellow SCBWI member, Cynthia Leitich Smith who has interviewed countless agents and authors in the children's book industry. Great work, Cynthia!

So that's it, my advice, for what it's worth. Care to share any of your own?

Book Review: Double Lives edited by Shannon Cowan et al.

Double Lives is an anthology of essays on writing and motherhood published this year by McGill-Queen's University Press. It is not Chicken Soup for the Writer-Mother's Soul, nor is it solely a lament on the mental thicket that is motherhood. Double Lives lies somewhere in between. The contributing authors are all highly successful and include wed, unwed, and divorced mothers, lesbian mothers, adoptive mothers, and mothers of children with special needs. All, save one, were writers before motherhood. I suppose I was, too, if you count what I wrote in high school--but I don't.

It was interesting for me to read about the universal impact children have on a creative life that requires so much unencumbered internal reflection. Before I had children, I didn't write. Or rather, I wrote like this:

Dear Dr. Bones,
Thank you for referring Mr. Lumbago to our clinic for assessment of his chronic low back pain.
On subjective exam, Mr. Lumbago reported....

You get the idea.

It never occurred to me to write for pleasure. As I said, I wrote in high school--required writing, and not a word more. My English teachers did their utmost to encourage me, but I was hell bent on becoming a doctor which, as far as I could tell, required little literary prowess. On that point alone, I was correct.

It was motherhood and my own turbulent beginnings in the role that led me back to the page and as such, I've never known what it is to write and not mother. The two have only ever co-existed and, truth be told, without motherhood I might still be writing to Dr. Bones. If anything, Double Lives bolstered my hope that one day it will get easier, that one day the mental freedom I once had (and wasted on advance physics) will return--but by then I'll be missing my girls.

Big Steps, Little Steps

A few days ago I went to the McGill University bookstore, venturing down into the bowels where the textbooks are stacked in unimaginative towers by course number and professor. Slowly, I perused the labyrinth in search of the Faculty of Education. While I'm still a few years away from being able to do my Masters in Education I thought I'd buy a little pre-reading. When I finally got to the appropriate stacks I was promptly overwhelmed. Where to begin? It's a feeling I've come to know all too well. I had it back at age 18 when I started physiotherapy school, and again a decade or so later when Emma the Brave came on to the scene. It's amazing--despite all I've been able to accomplish in my life I can still experience a feeling akin to jumping into an Ontario lake in January at the mere thought of personal challenge. It's nearly paralytic. I left the stacks empty handed and somewhat defeated. Was I up to this?

It's been a few days now and I'm feeling better. I'm considering going back and buying a book on classroom management. Maybe. Part of me feels it's too soon, that I should keep my focus on writing and not dilute my efforts. Finding a publisher for the novel will be a monumental task in itself. And when else will I have time to market Gone and write something new like I will this coming year? Certainly not during graduate school. Ah, the petty stresses of an otherwise peaceful and blessed life. The things we do to ourselves...

As we're coming to the end of our 'home leave' in Canada, the draw of our real home is getting perceptibly stronger. I miss my dog, my friends,my stuff--even the bloody hamster. I love Canada, but Switzerland is where we belong right now. A few more Montreal-style bagels and I'll be good for another year of pain de campagne. It's a sacrifice, I know, but one I'll make gladly.

Blogging My Novel: The Six Month Check-up

So how goes the great Canadian children's novel--this century's answer to Anne of Green Gables, where, Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret meets CSI Edmonton?

Uh...Let's just say, we're on a break--the good kind.

Breaks are essential to the creative process. Just because I whipped off two drafts of my novel in the space of four months, doesn't mean such a pace is required, nor remotely effective. By the end of Draft 4 I'd lost both my concentration and objectivity. I didn't like the way the last third of the manuscript read, but I hadn't the mental energy to figure out why. That was my signal to give it a rest. I've continued to read it chapter-by-chapter with the Birkenstocks, but I'm otherwise letting it be, keeping their comments for the big day when I print it in full and read it, cover to cover. And when will that be? Tuesday, June 3rd. I've ordered my coffee already.

So what am I doing with all this free time? I'm submitting queries and stories to children's magazines, researching biogas and crime scene investigation, proof-reading a friend's novel, critiquing another's, and teaching Madelaine to read. I'm also filing health claims and, if I stop blogging now, I might even clean my desk. Thank goodness June 3rd is just around the corner!

Blogging My Novel: Week 21

When we packed up the car Wednesday afternoon, I was wound up tighter than a trussed turkey.

Backpack? Check.
Suitcases? Check, check.
Family? Check, check, and--miraculously home early--check.
Brain capable of forming a complete sentence? I think it left without me. Twenty-one weeks of anticipation had taken its toll.

We were headed for the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Conference in Bologna--or at least I was. Kirk and the girls were on a quest to find Italy's best gelato. A small part of me wanted to play hooky and join them; the rest of me knew better--I was about to have an incredible learning experience not to be missed.

Saturday morning found me traveling south on the 28 bus praying I was, indeed, headed for the Bologna fair grounds in the far north-east corner of the city. The conference schedule was packed with lectures and workshops running from 8:30AM until well into the evening. And then there was Sunday morning's manuscript review with a mystery faculty member and the agents' First Pages/First Impressions session that afternoon. Gulp! My knees were bouncing under my backpack and my breakfast cappuccino wasn't to blame. A few stops later, a pair of English-speakers boarded, both writers, also headed for to the conference. If I was about to get lost, at least I was in good company--one of them was among the faculty.

Thankfully, we all made it to and across the labyrinthine fair grounds in time to hear illustrator-and-sometimes-author Paul Zelinsky's kick off session on the making of a picture book. The time and effort involved in the creation of something that will undoubtedly be torn, coloured or drooled on is staggering. I had wrongly assumed that, with the advent of computers, the work of making picture books had been greatly reduced. Making a picture book is, indeed, a labour of love and it pains me to admit that the writing is the easy part.

The second speaker was journalist, children's writer, and website designer, Candy Gourlay. She spoke about the inextricable role of the internet in the lives of our target audience. "The internet is a requirement for writers," she says, "because our audience takes it for granted." She highly advocates blogging to give readers a chance to interact and to feel as though they are contributing to the creative process. She does warn, however, that one shouldn't put the cart before the horse. "Write the book before the blog," she said.

Gotcha, Candy! Now, what was I saying?

Jana Novonty Hunter, a picture book writer and editor, closed off the morning by talking about the relationship between image and text in picture books. She presented innumerable classic tales to illustrate her points, reading excerpts and discussing the subtle skill behind the magic of their success. As far as I'm concerned, all any half-decent picture book needs is for Ms. Hunter to read it aloud. What a voice! She can read me to sleep anytime.

Young-adult novelist, Susan Fletcher, launched the afternoon with her workshop on writing fantasy and historical fiction. I adore reading historical fiction but the thought of writing something so labour-intensive is daunting. Where to begin? Susan's exercises confirmed my suspicion that the writing is within my reach. Now, if I can just get over my aversion to research... That may take a while. The afternoon closed with discussion regarding the resurgence of the graphic novel and comic books. When we finally left the fair grounds it was just past 7pm and was already dark.

I made sure to set my watch ahead on the way back to the hotel. I wasn't going to risk missing my manuscript review on account of Daylight Savings Time. I set my alarm, too, slightly earlier than I had risen that morning as the buses ran less frequently on Sundays. True to form, I woke up every hour on the hour all night. Stress management is not my forte.

I was showered, dressed, and out the door by 7AM, at the coffee shop by 7:05 and pacing at the bus stop five minutes later. The posted schedule promised the bus would arrive at 7:25, but I wasn't taking any chances. As luck would have it, the bus was on time, even by Swiss standards. I smiled at the driver as he approached, then broke eye contact to take out my ticket. As I quickly pawed through my wallet, the bus, which had been slowing down, sped up again and began to pull away.

"No! No! No!"

I sprinted after it, gaining enough ground to pound on the back door with my fist. Then, suddenly, the ground went out from under me and I was sprawled in the gutter. The sidewalk had ended. Oh, joy. The upside? The bus had stopped. I hobbled on board and took the first available seat. A little old lady across from me said something in Italian that sounded like, "That must have hurt." I smiled and nodded, showing her my black and bleeding palm. She frowned and shook her head at the driver, mumbling something that sounded like, "Putz."

I couldn't agree more.

My mystery faculty member was waiting for me when I arrived: Kathleen Duey, 2007 National Book Award nominee for children's literature. I was nervous, bleeding, bruised, and my ankle was beginning to swell. As she fished my manuscript out from her bag, I smothered a wince with what I hoped was a receptive smile. Here goes...

Her primary concern was formatting. I had not indented my paragraphs, instead leaving double returns between them. Apparently a mistake like this screams, 'numskull'--my words, not hers. She assured me, however, that the writing was very strong, as was my synopsis. Did I have any other questions?

I was stunned. I know I asked her something, quite a few things, in fact, but for the life of me I can't remember what. It was good! It was strong! Even the !@#$ synopsis! Yippee! My independent review was swiftly followed by Ms. Duey's large group session entitled, The Wordsmith's Secrets. It's a good thing I took copious notes as I'm a little sketchy on it, as well.

One hurdle was over. Only one to go. First Pages, First Impressions would begin after lunch.

Months ago, all participants were invited to submit the first page of a current work-in-progress. The page would then be read aloud and a panel of six agents would give their first impression, the key question being, 'Would they want to read on?' It was unlikely that all the pages submitted would be reviewed, but they would cover as many as possible in the time alloted.

One by one, the pages were read. Few met general approval; most garnered a mixed response. About half way through they came to Gone. I held my breath as the first agent reached for her mike.

"See, this one is short--only three lines, but it's great. I would definitely want to read more."

The agent beside her took the mike from her hand. "And when she was done, I'd want it." The rest of the panelists nodded in agreement. Gone had made a good first impression across the board--one of only a few!

The day rounded out with the second half of Susan Fletcher's workshop, after which I headed to the bus stop where Kirk and the girls were waiting.

So, what does all this great feedback mean? Is publication around the corner?

Let's not get ahead of ourselves. The only person who has read the whole manuscript is Debi, my conference informal critiquing partner and, as she would agree, work remains to be done. Let's just say I'm highly motivated to persevere.

For now, that's more than enough.

Blogging My Novel: Week 20

Check list for the SCBWI Conference in Bologna:

1. Name Tag
   
2. Copies of published work (5)
   
3. Favourite pens (2)
4. Favourite notebook
5. Copy of all works in progress (3)
6. Business Cards (24)
   
7. Critiquing partner's novel.
8. Personal copy of all submitted materials.
9. Expository material for Sunday workshop.
10. Site map, schedule, and faculty bios.

I woke up before six this morning composing this list. Excited, am I?

While I've participated in almost two dozen writing workshops over the last three-and-a-half years, not one has focused on writing for children. I'm particularly nervous about my manuscript review by one of the faculty members on Sunday morning. I've imagined both the best and worst case scenarios: in the former, I'm told my novel is distinctly salable and am invited to submit the complete manuscript for consideration; in the latter, I'm told to save trees and stick to blogging. Regardless, expect a full account of this little life drama when I get back. Until then--

Arrive'derci!

Blogging My Novel: Week 18

13 March - Draft 4 Complete!
12 March - I think I can! I think I can!
11 March - It's time to stop counting.
10 March - 17,277 Words
6 March - 17,235
5 March - 15, 415
4 March - 14,717
3 March -13, 214
25 Feb - 12, 514
22 Feb - 12,577
21 Feb - 12, 251
20 Feb - 12,000
18 Feb - 11, 530
11 Feb - 11,207
8 Feb - 10, 891
7 Feb - 10, 701
5 Feb - 10,123
4 Feb - 9765
25 Jan - 3 Feb Ski Week
25 Jan - synopsis and Ch 1 to Bologna!
15 -24 Jan - synopsis and sick kids
15 Jan- 9235 Words + synopsis
14 Jan - first draft synopsis
10 Jan - 8764
8 Jan - 8156
7 Jan - 7845
21 Dec - 6 January - Christmas Break
20 Dec - 7075
19 Dec - 6585
18 Dec - 6314
17 Dec - 5699
13 Dec - 5139
11 Dec - 4730
10 Dec - 4422
7 Dec - 4228
5 Dec - Draft 4 begins - 3567 Words
4 Dec - 0

Blogging My Novel: Week 17 1/3

1. The end is near.
2. There's light at the end of the tunnel.
3. Time is of the essence.
   
4. Friday I will call it quits,
5. pull the plug,
   
6. ring down the curtain,
   
7. and wrap it up,
8. this labour of love.
   
9. Oh, and dare I forget, "This, too, shall pass."
   

(If I can keep the novel's cliché count lower than this it will be a miracle!)

Blogging My Novel: Week 16 1/3

Okay, here's the deal: it was a busy week.

In case you haven't been following , Mighty Mouse celebrated her fifth birthday last Tuesday. The party was Wednesday afternoon, the day Swiss kids have no school. It was nothing outrageous. There was no clown, no juggler, no magician, and no multi-storey bouncy castle. It was just the birthday girl, her sister, and six of her closest friends eating copious amounts of pizza, chips, and cupcakes along with a few carrot sticks, tomatoes, and grapes thrown in for good measure. The kids made their own party favours, painting terracotta pots which we later filled with the live primrose of their choice. It was a raging success...exhausting, too. Add to that two full days at the school, house guests, a dinner party, and general fatigue and this writer cried Uncle!

Did I write at all last week? Um, sort of. I scrapped an entire scene and rewrote it. The new one is slightly shorter than the first, hence the temporary drop in word count. On the upside, at least this new one makes sense. I admit the setback contributed to my feelings of fatigue. I don't much like going backward, no matter how justified it is. Truth be told, I'm ready for this draft to be over. I'm gaining unwelcome perspective having worked on it this long. If you've ever stared at yourself in the mirror too closely then you know what I mean. This puppy needs to be stuffed in a drawer somewhere and soon.

So now it's crunch time. March 15th, the day I must send a copy to my critiquing partner, is uncomfortably close. It's a good thing my guests brought me some Belgian chocolates. I'm going to need them.

Blogging My Novel: Week 15

If there is one thing I've come to know about myself it's that, like a fly to a lightbulb, I am drawn to drama. Just when I've finally gained more time to myself than I've ever wanted or needed, I've gone and given a huge chunk of it away. This past week I started volunteering at a private English school not far from here, spending two full days surrounded by five- to seven-year-olds.

Do not interpret this gesture on my part as an act of martyrdom or self-flagellation. I have a purely selfish reason for this burst of melodrama: I want to know, for once and for all, if a career in teaching would be right for me. When I applied to physiotherapy school, I had to include a second choice on my application. It was teaching. As fortune would have it, I got into physiotherapy school on the first round so my fall back choice wasn't necessary, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Oh, there's no doubt that children are benefiting from this mostly introspective experiment. In only two days on the job, I've spent hours listening to children read in what, for some, is their third or fourth language. But, truthfully, it's already been enlightening. Even if I never pursue my teaching certification, I've discovered that helping children learn to read is immensely rewarding.

And what about writing, you ask? The novel? Michelle? Clarissa? What about them?

Well, I've had to switch gears, writing at night after the girls are in bed. Historically speaking, this is not my best time of day, but I am determined to plug on. I've arranged to exchange manuscripts with another children's writer on March 15th and I'd like to be as close to finished as possible. With the new time crunch, I've had to become more organized, taking time to plan in advance what I want to write before I actually sit down to do it. So far, so good. I'm 1000 words further than I was last week, which is better than nothing.

Back when I was revising The Odd Chicken Out, I asked a good writing friend how to best tackle the task. She said, "Take it one bird at a time." I did and it worked. Here's hoping I can do it again!

Blogging My Novel: Week 14

It's vacance de février here in Geneva. Most everyone has gone to the mountains. Not us, of course. We got that out of our systems a few weeks ago. Instead, it's been me and the girls from the moment they've woken to the moment I pass out after tucking them in. Don't get me wrong--it's been wonderful. We made apple crisp one night, and chocolate fondue for Valentine's Day. I taught them to play Crazy Eights. They let me win the first hand but have been merciless ever since. We've swum, gone scootering, and tomorrow we'll ski. It's been a fabulous week.

But what, you ask, does any of this have to do with writing a novel?

Not a blessed thing. Too tired to novel. Can......barely........type......blog.

So, without further ado, my first chapter.

Read while I weep.

Blogging My Novel: Week 12

They're gone and there's nothing I can do about it: my first chapter and synopsis are in Bologna awaiting the critical eye of an children's book industry professional. It's back to the work of Draft 4, only this time with the benefit of a synopsis to focus my efforts.

If a synopsis is so useful, why didn't I do it sooner? My excuse is this: I was trying to find both a compelling story and the voice of my main character. For this I needed the freedom to let the story flow.

So how does one write a proper synopsis? "Start out by trying to tell your story in 50 words," a good writing mentor told me.

Uh...yeah... I'll get right on that.

My first draft, at just under 400 words, was a kind of myopic summary. It touched on all the salient points of the story but it lacked the cohesive thread that would give them their relevance. Then I took my mentor's advice and tried again. Wouldn't you know, it worked! The synopsis I sent off last night has more of a birds-eye feel--at least I think it does.

If I hadn't had Bologna to prepare for, I doubt I would have had the tenacity to persist in the uncomfortable task of boiling 20,000 words to a page. But I did it and now it's back to the novel itself.

What a relief.