Heptadecagon

The other night at dinner, after a long day of writing, I finally took my hair out of its clip. At this point, if my hair isn't curled, it reaches the middle of my back. I'm only 5'2", but tresses that extend down that far are still quite long, no matter how short my back might be. Which means, that's a lot of hair sitting atop my head and around my shoulders. But I don't wash it everyday, and the other day, being an at-home day, my shower in the morning did not include a shampoo. In between bites of guacamole, Talia looked up at me and said, "You should wear your hair down more often, Mom." "I do," I replied. "I haven't worn a ponytail for at least a couple of days." As many twelve-year-old girls are wont to do, she rolled her eyes. Because a couple of days is not what she meant. Clearly. And here I was forcing her to talk more. With words, not with non-verbal tween body language. "No," she said. "I mean o

In high school, I had a major crush on one person. My crush was so huge, so epic, that it lasted from the moment I first saw this boy to the summer beyond our senior year. Of course, this was a classic tale of unrequited love. He was too popular to even recognize my existence. He probably didn't even know my name. He never, not once, even spoke to me. Clearly, I survived. Intact, with few repercussions. While I held, at one time, onto the hope for something to happen (I mean, why couldn't my life be like a John Hughes film, right?), it didn't take long for my rational self to realize that our lives would never intersect in the way that I envisioned. Every once in a while after high school, though, I'd see him. I always said a polite hello, but I never knew if he had a clue who I was. And that was okay. We'd gone to a small school, and girls like to talk. He probably knew that I was one of so many other girls who had crushes on him. At least he wasn't the typ

I'm not a Twitter fiend, but I'm trying my best to get the hang of that form of social media. So when I read something I like, I consider tweeting it, or at least re-tweeting a tidbit that someone else has posted. Yesterday, I found (via Facebook) a link to The Good Men Project , as well as an article they had posted on their website entitled, " 50 Sufferers Describe Depression for People Who've Never Been Depressed ." In light of Robin Williams' passing on August 11, depression has been very much in the forefront of our minds. But one of the common themes I've heard is that many people had no idea Robin Williams was depressed. He'd taken his role of acting to the extreme, and did a very good job of covering up the fact that he had such a debilitating illness. That should be no surprise, really. Who wants to admit that they are depressed? If you haven't read the article, I encourage you to do so. It's a simple list of what depression feels li

Melina loves to read. She loves to have people read to her and she likes to pick up books and read them out loud, to herself, or to anyone who might listen. This probably isn't a surprise to any of you who know me or Tim. I clearly love to read, and while Tim is more of a non-fiction kind of guy, dragging him away from a book is a daily occurrence. It's a wonder anything gets done around here with as much reading as this family does. Back to my story. Yesterday afternoon, Melina was reading aloud to me. I can't remember which book it was, and it really doesn't matter what the title was. What does matter is that the book had to do with some mice and a nice lady. It talked about what the mice liked (cheese) and that the lady liked it, too. The woman was always doing something nice for her mice. (In my opinion, it was a little too easy for Melina, but she was practicing. I'm good with practicing.) The lady was so gentle (read that as boring), I got distracted by a le

Someone recently said to me, "Don't offer that if you don't mean it." I can't remember exactly what I offered, but my response was quick and easy. "Oh, I won't," I said. "I have too much to do that doesn't involve everyone else. If I don't mean it, I won't offer." I hold to that statement in my life. If I see a friend who looks harried, and I think I can help by watching her child, I'll offer to do just that. But if I can't do it, or I don't want to, I don't even bring up the subject. The same can be said for my volunteer time at school, or even catching up with a friend over coffee. If I don't feel that I can extend a genuine offer, than I just don't . Not everyone feels the same way, though, and while I cannot judge them (You know me, I really try not to do that.), I can at least say that casually tossing in an offer to do something when you don't really mean it sort of rubs me the wrong way.

He wasn't sure what to do about it. And by it, he meant her. After all this time, it was apparent to even him that something needed to be done. But what? How could he get around this mess? Who could he ask? And if he asked, would they even help him? He wasn't so sure. It had been so long since he--since they--had cultivated friendships. And friends were the ones you counted on at times like these. It was clear to him now, that friends mattered. They truly mattered. If only he'd realized that earlier... A cup of coffee and some Cheerios later, he knew what to do. He marveled at how the same breakfast routine could be so clarifying. The answer was simple: do nothing. He sat back in his chair, letting his gaze coast across the kitchen to the dog, who lay beneath the dining room table. Soft puffs of air punched the air in a rhythmic beat and caught his attention. "Let sleeping dogs lay," he said, and pushed his chair back away from the table. And in that instant,

For years, my car insurance company sent me a little card to put into my glove compartment. It was my proof of insurance, and they sent me a new one every six months. Despite the fact that it was little, I managed to get that card into its rightful spot every time, because it looked like something very official. Then, I changed insurance companies. And what they send is just another piece of paper in a large pile of papers. I have yet to manage to get the paper into the car without recycling it first. In fact, the last three times the paper arrived, I had to contact my insurance agent for another one, as I threw out, recycled, or re-purposed the other one. And then, it took me weeks to print it out. This year, I have yet to see if the paper gets into my car, and it should--the old policy expired on 8/4/2014. What's my point? I don't have any, really. I just thought that I'd sit and write about something silly and mundane, considering the last thing I posted here wrenche

I turned 41 yesterday. I'm keeping that sentence short because really, knowing that I've been on this earth for that long simply blows my mind. I had a chance yesterday to reflect on some of those years I've lived, and thankfully, my trip down memory lane produced mostly good thoughts, positive memories that reminded me how grateful I am to be alive. But on our birthday, of all days, we expect sunshine and happiness and flowers and smiles. Maybe it's how our society is structured. I mean, usually, it's not all about us, as individuals, but a birthday is different. A birthday is the one day that we're allowed to bask in ourselves, so I don't think it's too much to ask for a few hours of joy. So when I woke up to thunderstorms, I wondered how the day would go. And when I realized that my usual two requests for my birthday--to go for a run and to have someone else make dinner--would have to go unheeded, I really wondered how the day would go. (Just as a

Way back in 2012, I may have told you that I started a novel. (Or, more likely, I actually told you sometime in 2013 or 2014, but that really is a trivial point.) It began with a single encounter at the grocery store, something I noted on my computer, and then came back to, time and time again. As the story progressed, I realized that one of my characters suffered from a disease. I wasn't sure which one, but within a few months, it became apparent that the husband of my protagonist had been diagnosed with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis). After I'd finished writing the novel, and at the time I started working on my query letter, a reader of mine said, "Oh, don't call it ALS. People don't know what that is. Go with Lou Gehrig's disease instead. At least most people have heard of the baseball player." Well my scientific self wanted to stick with ALS, but I didn't. I could see the reader's point. I changed it in my query letter and moved forward,

The day started in a crappy fashion. The fan made me too cold, I'd slept too little, and despite the fact that I was tired, I couldn't get back to sleep. Once I made it downstairs, I realized that the girls hadn't made their lunches the night before, nor had they cleaned off the study table. I'd forgotten to give Melina a bath, and did I have enough bread for sandwiches? No amount of caffeine or sugar could fix my mood, because, oh yes, my period would arrive in two days. By the time I was ready to leave for work, I'd scratched myself and bled, yelled at the dog (Thanks, Toby. You can start learning to listen to me sometime soon, you know.), and forgotten to send an important email. Teaching was on the agenda, but my expectations for the lecture were few. Get through the presentation and head on to lab, where I would teach a very simple (and quick) microscope lesson. Had the universe been out for blood today, the microscope lab would have run long. Instead, th

I can always tell what sort of day it's going to be by what's happening on my computer. Today, I have three internet browser windows open (yes, three completely different windows) with at least six tabs up in each. None of those tabs are repeats. So when I sit down here, in front of my keyboard, I have a complete assault on my eyes from a mere 13-inch screen. And I don't like it. Those tabs serve as a to-do list, if you will. I need to check my college mail and get back with any students that might (if they're smart they will already have questions, one day in) have a question or concern. I'm in the middle of a search for literary agents who enjoy women's fiction and are looking for debut authors. The garage door needs fixing, the library volunteer list needs tweaking, and I must find out where Aaron's soccer practice is. Not because I need to take him there (Thanks, Tim, for offering to do that.) but because someday I will need to get him there. And why n

"Appreciation can make a day, even change a life. Your willingness to put it into words is all that is necessary." ~Margaret Cousins

"Holy mackerel," I heard myself say. And then I slapped my hand over my lips. When had I become so tame in my expletives? There had been a time, many moons ago, when I would have freely let slip a good, Holy shit , or Dammit , and here I was, uttering something that dates back to the early 1800s. As I moved around the kitchen, putting dishes away, I thought about what other words I use on a daily basis. I stood still in shock as the memories of my words assaulted my brain. My word! has come forth most recently, as in the last two years or so. Oh beans! and Shoop! and Rats! are commonly found in my repertoire. (In case you aren't clear what shoop is, it's my attempt to not say, Shoot! because that's too close to Shit !) I won't even go near What the... (and I don't like the kids to use it) because it's too close to What the hell? We all know that's what I would mean to say if I said it, so I just don't. The question is, why? Why do

This morning I received an email from the managing editor of Literary Mama . In short, it asked if I would have an interest in becoming the Fiction department copyeditor, in addition to keeping my current post as a Profiles department editor. For those of you who know me well, you're probably thinking I did a happy dance. And you're right. Although I've had no formal training besides what I learned in elementary and high school and then in college, I copyedit every day. It could be the articles in the newspaper, school newsletters, church bulletins, or emails I receive. Errors often jump from the page, and in some instances, that's not a good thing. A glaring mistake on the front page of a national newspaper? Who didn't do his/her job that morning? But back to my story. I read the email from the managing editor with great interest, and I thought briefly if I should take on the role. It would be good experience , I thought. I followed that up by, But I am so busy

The tears trickled down her face and her lip quivered as she looked up at me. "But I wanted to wear the tights," Melina said. "I wanted to wear the thin tights." I rolled my eyes and sighed. It has been almost two weeks since I've gone running. I've stopped in an attempt to let my body heal. In the process, though, my mind has suffered and my ability to keep my patience has waned. I had to walk away, or I'd likely yell at the sweet child before me. I grabbed her hand and tugged it lightly, pulling her into my bedroom and toward the master bathroom. Once my feet hit the cool tile floor, I said, "Use the potty. And get dressed." I won't lie, my sharp voice revealed my irritation, my exasperation. It held enough of both to cause Tim to notice. "What's wrong?" he said. And when I told him, I could have sworn that I heard his eyes roll. This battle we wage sometimes with our fourth child is trivial. I know that. I realize

Four lunch boxes stood on the kitchen counter, ready to be filled and carried out by the children. The food the kids would eat at noon was still in the refrigerator, placed neatly into containers that would fit snugly into the box. Their water bottles waited for them, too, lined up and ready to go. This is the first year that all four boxes were filled simultaneously, an action that holds a significance I'm not quite ready to face. Because all four little beasts are out and about at school, all day. It's just me, the dogs, and the cat. But as I sit here and key this in, I realize that the time had to come, eventually. That since 2002 I've had very few moments to myself and that this morning, on a day when the children leave and I don't have to get to work (I don't start until Monday), I will have at least five hours alone. (It would be six hours, but I have plans to help out the first-graders at lunch today, to make sure the buyers know where they go and that the

A friend drew my attention to a wonderful post by Glennon over at Momastery . Glennon has incredibly insightful and inspiring things to say most of the time, and this time, it was no different. She posted about her kitchen, the one that shows up from time to time in her pictures, the one that many people, apparently, have asked her to consider renovating. I have to admit I was drawn to the post simply by the title, Give me Gratitude or Give Me Debt . Such a descriptive title, really. You know where she's going to go, and if you know anything about her, you know she chose gratitude over debt. Her response to those who said she should renovate? Classic, Glennon, really. Over the course of her post, Glennon pointed out what she loved about her kitchen and that everything in it suited her needs and the needs of her family. All of the appliances and the floor, the space as it is, is sufficient and functional. And for a moment, because of her post, I second guessed myself. Because,

Today was so busy, I didn't have time to think, much less write. So you're stuck with a non-post. I guess I could have simply not posted at all, but somehow, the more my fingers dance over the keyboard, the more I feel like I'm contributing to my quest to fulfill a dream. The question that remains, though, is will that dream ever be fulfilled? The members of my writing group and I ask ourselves that all the time. And to be honest, I have no idea. I'd like to think that someday we'll have books on the library bookshelf. But no amount of hard work is going to guarantee that. But what can I guarantee? That my kids will ask me a bazillion questions once I get on the phone. That a blog post can sit waiting to be finished for weeks (I kid you not) because I'm not happy with the wording. That Toby will try (relentlessly) to get in Shadow's face. And that Aaron, who will be ten in November, will climb into bed with me sometime during the middle of the night. M

I'm in the middle of another revision for my YA book, Beyond the Trees . So far, I've sent out a total of 30 query letters (over the last year and a half), and no one (not one) has asked for even a partial manuscript. Which means that I need to revise something...the query letter, the first pages, maybe even the whole book. So yesterday, I looked at the first three chapters (the ones that most people will ask you to attach with your query letter) and realized that I'm not happy with the opening. I don't have a memorable first line, and while I do think the actual story is good, I need to make sure people want to read from the beginning. (I think I knew this before I started querying, but by golly, I want to get this book out there!) Hence, my quest to find a great first line, a wonderful opening chapter, and a means into the reader's heart. Of course, I have my own thoughts on what makes a great first line, but as I learned from a writing conference I attended

As you all know, my three Rs are reading, (w)riting, and running. I'm taking a hiatus from running right now, in an effort to let my pubic (there it is again, Nikki!) symphysis heal. But I'm not letting up on the (w)riting and reading. If I did, I'd probably--no certainly--go insane. And while my reading is mostly for pleasure, I glean information from everything I read, and tuck it away for possible future use. I see what works, and what doesn't, whose style I might want to emulate, and where I can go in a new, different direction. I also look for mistakes--from everything grammatical to repetitive exposition or dialogue to basic lack of research. Sadly, I ran into a book recently that, while lauded as a wonderful tale and the first in a trilogy of YA books (now that is something that's starting to sound very repetitive), is lacking in the research department. Woefully lacking, if you don't mind my use of an adverb. Case in point? The author's use of

August 8 is Happiness Happens Day . Actually, the entire month of August is Happiness Happens Month . Yeah, I didn't know this either, but according to the Secret Society of Happy People , it's true. (The society was founded in 1998...weren't people happy before that? And why on earth, does the society need to be secret? Plus are we any happier now, because we celebrate a happiness day, than we were before? Questions, all these questions, some of which I could find the answers for, if only it weren't 6:29 in the morning.) Apparently, when the society was founded, "the emphasis on how to get happy was more about understanding what was wrong than recognizing what was right." Um, okay? I guess that means you need to figure out what is off-kilter in your life, adjust it, and hope for the best? Isn't that the negative way to go? Or is it the easiest? Is it less work on a person's part to fix what's broken than to understand what's going well and a

I promised you something more literary for today, but I'm here to tell you that I lied. Flat-out lied. I've got nothing to say that is remotely inspiring for anyone, and I haven't done any real thinking about life, writing, teaching, or parenting. Which of course, makes you ask yourself why in the heck am I posting? Right? Because I must. Seriously. I need to at least write a little or else I don't scratch the itch. Plus, I have something to tell you. No, I didn't procure an agent or win the prize for best instructor. I don't have a story being published (although I will in the fall) nor did I manage to find another editing gig (I am enjoying the one I'm currently on). Nothing quite so profound and life-changing, unless you think that having another dog is a life-changing event. (And to some, I know that is true. For us, it remains to be seen.) I'll be quick: I looked on Craigslist for a suitable new friend, found one I thought might work, took Sha

At the breakfast table this morning:  Melina: Mom, if a man and a woman get divorced, and they have one child, who gets the child? Me: It depends... Melina: They do rock, paper, scissors, shoot, don't they? (Sorry for two posts about light-hearted conversations, but after writing Unfinished , I needed a mental break. Plus, I'm gonna miss having this child around all day. Moving on to possibly heavier -- and more literary -- fare tomorrow. Maybe .)

Around the dinner table this evening: Zoe: Melina, do you want to get married someday? Melina: I think so. Aaron: I want to. Talia: Me, too. Melina: Well Aaron, if you get married, you'll have to go shoe shopping with your wife... Aaron: My least favorite part. Melina: ...and buy her tampons! Funny thing is, Tim never goes shoe shopping with me. And while I know he'd purchase tampons for me if I asked him to, I'm not sure I ever have. Another funny thing? I think Aaron would rather stand mesmerized by the choices in the feminine hygiene aisle than step foot into a women's shoe store. Truthfully, I can't blame him.

The bookshelves stood against the wall, all three of them unfinished. "I'll get to them someday. Take a stain to them, once I've decided what color to go with," she said as she wiped her hands against the dark blue denim covering her legs. "Now what color to go with..." Her voice trailed off as she turned off the light, plunging the shelves into complete darkness. That was twenty-five years ago, and those shelves still stand, as pale as desert sand, the same color as the day they came through the door. There's been no time to find the right color of stain, nor the inclination to do so. There have been appointments to get to, weeds to pull, carpet to replace, and bills to pay. The busy-ness of life never allowed her to get to staining the bookshelves. At least, that's what she tells herself. For it isn't the chaos of the ordinary days that interrupted her quest to place some color on those shelves. It isn't the fact that you or I might h

Sometimes I like to take a break from the rush of words that comes out of my mind and fingers. Especially when other people can say it better...

According to me (and it should always be about me, no?), items in our home have their places. For example, we don't have end tables, so in order to always know where the remote controls for the television and Wii are, I place them on the TV table. On the corner. In plain view for everyone to know where they are. Amazingly, every morning, I find them elsewhere: perched on the coffee table, lounging on the computer table, or snoozing in between the cushions of the couch. It's no surprise then, when I hear someone mutter, "Where is the remote?" You know my answer. "If you'd have put it back where it belongs, you'd know where it is." We hear that often around here. Or maybe I just hear it in my head, because I find myself whispering that for much of the day. Just yesterday, Aaron asked me, "Where's the gold duct tape?" Mind you, this is the tape he'd been using for much of the day in his attempt to fashion a spear. (Which he did. It&#