Worst Cold Ever

I've been laid low for what seems like forever with the worst cold. I can't even read. Or think. Or focus on anything interesting. That's the real bummer. I just lay around with my eyes closed--breathing like a surfacing dolphin--while listening to the drone of the television. Where is my immune system when I need it?

Luckily, a local editor is working on my story even if I am not. Thank you, Angela!

Hope you're well and happy, blogging friends. Are you busy being industrious or enjoying a little R&R?

Whatever you do, stay clear of the dreaded summer cold.

You Can't Go Home Again . . .

Remember that age-old axiom, "you can't go home again"? Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd. Of course you can. I did. And it taught me something, too.

I was born in Portland, Oregon, during the halcyon days of spring in 196... Well, let's just say I'm an Oregonian and leave it at that. For me, growing up in the Pacific Northwest was a dream. Rain was my favorite season. (Let's face it, when the sun did make an appearance our joints creaked more than the Tin Man in The Wizard Of Oz.)

A few summers ago, our family took a road trip back to my hometown, and I was the human equivalent of that dog we've all seen. You know, the one with the canine grin who blissfully sticks its head out of the car window as the wind whips its face. So great was my joy at seeing the Columbia River Gorge, I felt tears gathering at the corners of my eyes—from unrestrained emotion, not the wind. We stopped at Multnomah Falls, took the kids on a short hike, and then drove into the city.

We had no more crossed the Willamette than an angry motorist flipped us the bird. That put a momentary damper on my nostalgia. The weather was also chillier than I remembered. I'm not kidding, the Portlanders at the zoo wore woolly Peruvian sweaters and thick socks under their Birkenstock sandals.

In August.

Yes, that's the month we, in Utah, call The Hot Time or The Big Heat. (Okay. Maybe I'm the only one in Utah who calls it that. But we all think it, right?)

The Oregon beach was absolutely gorgeous. However, I am not the daredevil I used to be. After trying to body surf with my older children, I realized I couldn't tolerate the water temperature as I did before. Honestly, this water was freezing. My children ran in and then away from it.

How cold was it, you ask? Cold enough that you'd prefer to go skinny dipping in the North Sea in January than test it with your toe, cold enough that you wouldn't be surprised to see a polar bear doing the back stroke in the nearest tidal pool, cold enough that even the migrating whales wear wet suits when they pass through those waters. Alright. Maybe I'm exaggerating. Slightly.

Obviously, everything changes. Portland and I both look different after all these years. Truth be told, I've discovered that I prefer warm weather since living in the desert. I will always be a Portland girl. But maybe, I'm also a Wasatch Front, Utah county girl as well.

Revisiting the past is worthwhile. It illuminates the present. It helps us realize how good things were and often, how much better they are now. Home is a relative term, after all. When we're with the people we love, our roots settle, and we're there. I'm home each time my husband and kids walk through the door.

And yet, a bit of my heart will always belong to that beautiful City Of Roses.

Can't go home again? Hah. The next thing you know, they'll be saying you can't change a leopard's spots. Silly. Ridiculous. Absurd.

Do you have any vacation plans for this summer?

Possession

The first time I met Elana Johnson was in a ladies bathroom.

No, really, it's true. We were both in Provo attending the 2010 Life, the Universe, and Everything writing conference. Seeing Elana there, I knew it was destiny. A few days earlier, my chapter of The League of Utah Writers had just been discussing her over lunch at Paradise Bakery. We wanted Elana to speak at the LUW Spring Workshop in the worst way, and there she was, just a few feet away from me!

Yes, I know it's tacky to talk business while in the loo, but I overlooked this common protocol and seized the moment. As Elana dried her hands on a brown paper towel at the sink, I asked her if she would speak to our group. Hmm. Maybe she felt cornered or stalked by a crazed fan--I know I would have in her position. Still, she was a good sport, and agreed to join us at the workshop. Her presentation on query letters was excellent, one of the very best I've seen. Elana's awesome talent is no surprise to those of us who follow her blog. (That's over 2,000 people, by the way)

Which brings me to my review of Possession.

I finished this book in an afternoon and then gave it to my teenage daughter to read. I was drawn in from page one, and let me just say, I'm pretty picky where openings are concerned. I really enjoyed the humor, and the wry, likable heroine, Violet. She lives in a world where Goodies and Baddies are mutually exclusive and free choice isn't free at all. Or even allowed. But Vi's certainly up to the challenge of bucking the system.

The plot is solid and interesting, moving along quickly, and the dialogue is great. But let's talk about this guy Jag. Whoa. Love at first read. He has it all. Good hair, bad boy attitude, heart, a sexy voice . . . We LIKES him, preciousss.

I have to admit, I was a little bummed when I finished Possession. You know you've read something worthwhile when it makes you laugh and breaks your heart a little as well. Last night, I went to Goodreads and learned this book wasn't a stand alone novel. It's Possession (Possession #1)! As in, there will be a #2 and hopefully, a #3.

Thank you, Elana.

Be Like That

All I ever wanted was to be an opera singer. Between the ages of 10 thru 25, I was consumed with this desire. I took bel canto lessons and practiced for hours each day. During high school, I earned honor credits with the musical training I received off campus and I went to college, on scholarship, in hopes of earning a vocal performance degree.

As an adolescent, I would shut myself in our family room, crank up the stereo, turn off the lights, sit on the naugahyde sofa, close my eyes, and listen. Just imagine the allegro con brio from Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Or Chopin's Heroic Polonaise in A flat major. I heard passion, hope, sorrow, and triumph. I wanted to sing like that.

Dreams don't always mesh with reality, however. I wasn't Beethoven or Chopin. In short, the future I had hoped for during the first half of my life changed. In my junior year of college, I switched my major to English Literature. Why? Because I loved books! The Romantics, Victorians and Transcendentalists especially. Here began my second life.

Today, I still sing. For my mother, husband, and children. Sometimes in church. Writing now fulfills the need for self-expression that I thrived on as a vocalist. Even better, I can write and no one has to look at me out on a stage. At last I've found my niche! But old habits die hard. After finishing a writing exercise this morning, I clicked on my iTunes music library, turned up the volume on my computer, laid my head down on the smooth surface of my desk, closed my eyes, and listened. Jessye Norman's Amazing Grace. Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma. Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Masterpieces all. In them, there is longing, joy, genius. I thought to myself. How do I write that? Be like that?

Have you ever heard a piece of music or seen a painting or photograph and then wanted to capture it in a story? What were your dreams growing up? Besides writing, what are your other talents?

Allyson Condie Appreciation Day

It would be creepy if someone as old as me liked YA literature, right? Of course right. That's common knowledge. (wink, wink, nod, nod)

Matched by Ally Condie is YA, and I loved it. This book is well-written, fast-paced and lyrical. It had me at Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight. The Dylan Thomas favorite figures prominently in the plot of Condie's dystopian story. I crave dark, passionate poems. They call to me as sirens would a sailor. I wasn't disappointed with the Thomas tie-in. His masterpiece fit into the plot, calling the characters to rebellion. I admire any writer who can do that.

Another plus! The next installment comes out in the fall. I have all summer to anticipate Crossed (Matched #2.)

My philosophical post script . . .

To quote Dylan Thomas:

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

This poem challenges us to resist death. In all its forms. The death of body, soul, dreams, love. It urges us to fight the good fight, and never surrender. What a beautiful sentiment. So perfect for struggling writers.

Do not go gentle into that good night, my friends. Be bold. Think up something new, and write it down. Fall back into love with a troubled manuscript . . . even if you and your muse aren't speaking and rejections are camping out on your front step.

Keep reading, creating, and revising. You'll make your own light as you do.

Look Away, Anna. Look Away.

After sifting through the contents of my closet the other day, a thought struck me like a pointy-toed stiletto. I hoard useless fashion. I am an ugly-clothing sentimentalist. It's a sickness, I know, but in my fashion time capsule, I have dresses sewn before the invention of microwave ovens, personal computers, and VHS video players.

Obviously, if you’ve chosen to store away your wedding gown or your child's heirloom blessing ensemble, it’s understandable. I have those, of course, and that sort of memento is normal. Saving the peach suit I wore before my wedding is okay, too. Keeping the formal gowns from my vocal recitals in college pushes the boundaries a bit. But why, oh why, have I retained the Victorian drop-waist pinstripe number with matching bowler hat from my high school days? Steampunk may be in style again, but my daughters wouldn’t even consider wearing it.

Remember Ralph Lauren stirrup pants? Circa 1991? Check! Got 'em.

The shameful list goes on and on. Sweatshirts with the neck cut out, shoulder-padded—and I mean padded—power suits, acid-wash peg-leg jeans, lace Madonna gloves. Beaded and bedazzled sweaters, broom handle skirts, business ties for women, and gypsy patchwork sundresses. Opaque leggings, Donna Karan onesie blouses, Barbara Bush pearls. And I’m skipping over the whole Durran Durran, Miami Vice, and paisley-everything era.

This post is just one embarrassing confession after another. I'm sure I'll erase it tomorrow. But the question begs to be asked. Why do I waste valuable shelf-space on these terrible things?

I think I’ve figured that out. I was happy when I wore those clothes. I liked who I was back then, and I take out my textile scrapbook, and say to myself, “See? This is who you used to be.” Before adulthood, before mortgage payments, children, and wrinkles, when the future was scary and uncertain and full of possibilities and promise.

I love my life now. I’m living what that girl from long ago dreamed of doing. Even so, I don’t want to forget her entirely. I may release my hold on the past and donate my relics to charity one day. But not yet.

Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue magazine, would have an aneurism, a cardiac infarction, a grand mal seizure, hives, and a nervous tic simultaneously if she laid eyes on this collection.

Look away, Anna. Look away.

Why I Write . . .

Today is my birthday, and I'm pretty stoked about it. I plan on making the most of the next 24 hours. Partay, people! Three years ago, it looked doubtful that I would have another birthday, but I'm still here. Definite cause for celebration, if you ask me.

Backstory on my near-miss with the grim reaper:

After being sick for several months, I went to the emergency room at a local hospital, and a skilled, Harvard-educated surgeon admitted me. He arranged for a few tests and then, with the help of two other doctors, performed an eight hour surgery which saved my life. At one point, these gifted men held some of my organs in their hands, cleaning them of infection. (Ewww, I know.) My doctor said that he had never performed a more difficult procedure and had no idea why I was still alive.

Thankfully, I woke up from the anesthesia and Nurse Hatchett-- or rather, her meaner, more cantankerous older sister-- made me get out of my bed and walk. And so I did, with great effort. But I wasn't alone, I had my trusty, stylish IV pole with me and at least five or six bags of mysterious fluids. I walked all around the hospital floor like this every few hours, day and night. When it was light outside, I'd watch people through the large windows as they went about their lives and wish I was them. Fervently. I wanted to be anyone else right then.

There was a water-stain on the ceiling tile above me (yes, just like Madeline), and one night, I thought of how nice it would be if I could just climb up into that black space and disappear. The pity party eventually grew old. I grabbed my unwieldy IV-pole dance partner and began my journey around the dimly lit halls. It was here that I learned something. Other patients had it far worse than I did. As I walked by those rooms, I had a brief glimpse into another's suffering, and for a moment, I put myself into their situation.

Of course I wrote before I got sick, but I believe I'm a better writer now. I'd like to think I have more resources to offer the fictitious characters I create. Writing makes use of my experiences-- the good, the bad, and the medical. It helps life make sense somehow.

I write because I have to, because my brain is so filled with ideas and feelings, it won't let me not write. I love the freedom to be and create anything I like. I love to tell a good story, and let's face it, few things compare with sudden inspiration flowing from you to the page. These are some of the reasons I keep trying to learn the craft.

Now, more importantly, what makes you write?

Enjoy this beautiful Spring day, blogging buddies. It's good to be alive.