Missed Opportunity: George Clooney

Hey, remember when I was in a movie?  I just like to refer to it now and then.  I found an article the other day about the film student who directed the short I was in (Brantley Ping, in the hat in this photo), and there is a photo referring to me as "actor Serenity Bohon."  You know I bookmarked that baby.  After all, according to my 9-year-old (a couple posts earlier), it is one of the things for which I might eventually be famous. (You can see the article HERE, because I know you care.)

All of this brings me to today's small regret.  I could have been in a film with George Clooney, but I turned it down.  (Keep reading for the realistic version of that statement that was SO FUN to write).

Mom has this awesome knack for passing along information for opportunities that probably sound like torture to her but which she knows one or the other of us would love.  Enter a little ad she saw for extras in a George Clooney flick which would be filming at the St. Louis airport less than 4 hours from me.  

I read all about it - you get paid, I don't remember, eleven dollars a day or something.  And the days are hours and hours and hours beyond a normal work day (Okay, like 11 or 12).  But you're in a film with George Clooney.  (You see?  That logic alone would have gotten me in this film.  I AM their target audience.)  And, listen, I had a whole other reason that was pretty good too.  Research.

I'm writing a novel, and let's just say knowing what it actually feels like on the set of a major film, or at least what it feels like to be within several yards of an actor you've previously only seen up close in your movie cabinet at home, would be priceless firsthand information.  Unfortunately, I could have driven all the way to the audition only to find out I didn't get to take part.  OR, I could have driven all the way to the audition only to have to come back a second day.  This is hotel and gas money I didn't really have, what with the economy crashing around our heads, on the off-chance that I would actually be chosen.  I was practical, People.  And nobody ever got into a George Clooney movie BY BEING PRACTICAL.

So, I don't know if regret is the right word.  Those were some precious hours with my actual life that I don't really wish I'd given up.  Still, in a couple of years, George Clooney should appear in a film called Up in the Air (with Jason Bateman too - I've loved you in everything you've done, Mr. Bateman) in which he is a "corporate downsizer obsessed with collecting frequent flyer miles at the expense of having a life".  I'm thinking comedy more than dark drama.  But I'm pretty sure, I'll be the girl in the second to last row, crying.

This might be the most fun I've had on blogger yet

A few things you should know about my mom:

First, this is a picture of her with my younger sister Charity, who really doesn't get pictured enough on my blog - so there you have it.  And here are some more things:

I get my love for writing from her.  I started writing books in the preteen years.  I always had the main character's home intricately mapped out, all of the family members named - first, middle, and poetic meaning - the back story outlined, then one quarter of the first chapter - usually with a cute teenage girl, a twerpy little brother (sorry, Joe, but that really reflects more on me than on you), and a mom in the home office clacking away on her typewriter.

She is the oldest - I mean - most mature woman I know with an actual crush on the man she's been married to longer than she was single.  Actual crush.  As in, "Isn't he cute?" and "I thought you should know this wonderful thing your father did today."

She is genuinely baffled that none of her children are famous yet - if not for a specific talent, than for sheer awesomeness.

She likes Diet Coke, chocolate, the Little Women soundtrack, sentimental gifts (this woman likes to cry, People), curling up with a magazine or a happy movie, her grandchildren, Christmas, and Dad (did I already mention him?).

She has a serious gift for the silver lining.  If she can't find one, she will MAKE ONE UP.  She believes in God's perfect timing, God's unfathomable mercy, and his perfect timing.  (It's one of the silver linings - it comes in handy a lot, believing in that one).

And, finally, SHE. HAS. A. BLOG.  This is her premier right here on my own blog!  Consider it graced with a red carpet and flashing with camera lights, and me wearing Oscar de la Renta.  She's actually quite the magazine writer aficionado, but she took a slight reprieve back in the day to rear us soon-t0-be famous people.  (That's right before she taught us that, yes, children are reared, not raised.  And that's because of her odd enjoyment for appropriate grammar.)  But you'll soon see more of her articles as she's re-dipping her toes into the world of freelance and, of course, taking it by storm.  

You can find her right here on blogger by clicking these pretty words: Kathy Nickerson.

writerly advice . . . that I should take

I want to thank Lindsey Leavitt for this week's advice I've heard a million times but this time I think it actually sank in.  Since I started blogging, I've discovered the bottomless pit that is the writing community online.  It's seriously huge.  Although, it's also seriously small.  (Just like the world).  I'm always finding connections between people that I previously only knew un-connected.  And, anyway, while reading about writing and attending a couple of writing conferences, I've heard a few things more than once.  The reason they get said more than once is because they are true, and because we don't listen.  For instance, at the first conference I ever attended, a lovely children's book author said, "You have to write because you love it."  Not for any other reason - like, say, getting rich.  An agent the next year said, "Write what you love."  Or in another agent's words (heck, a million other agents' words), "Don't follow trends."  

This is all super helpful, right?  I'm sitting there all stressed out about whether or not the publishing industry is ever going to notice me, and all these people are putting the stars back in my eyes by reminding me that the joy has to come from the writing itself.  Or you'll always be very, very dissatisfied.  It worked every time, but still somehow my husband and I end up in conversations in which I'm trying to decide how to write about vampires since it appears that they sell well.  (I just hope my agent isn't reading this and thinking,  Dude, I wish you would give me something with vampires.  Because that would kind of step all over this highly insightful post.)  

So we have the conversation about vampires or witchcraft or sad, literary endings and then, inevitably, I'm re-focused by some great author or agent or editor who knows how to chill and enjoy the ride.  Now, usually their journey has sort of landed on a shelf somewhere at some point, but still - I have to assume they know, I'm convinced they're right, and it works every time.  This week's benefactress, as I said:  Lindsey Leavitt.

You can click on her name to visit an interview with her.  She's - well - simply delightful, and she has a book coming out about a substitute princess (a girl who steps in for princesses around the world), and she had this advice for writers.  "Write your heart out."  She said we get so caught up in the pursuit of publication that we forget to just write, write, write.  And unless you do that, there won't be anything to publish.  

NOW, if people would just stop telling me that we're not supposed to quit the day job, I would find it so much easier to put Lindsey's awesome advice into practice.  

live every day on purpose

So you know I recently discovered yoga.  Our family doctor recently re-

commended it to my parents, and I considered that the final confirmation I needed that it's definitely enriching my life.  I love to see new faces in the class I take.  I feel so happy for them that they're about to discover the magic.  

And then, the other day I wrote about hot tea, which I don't do every day - but I was so not kidding about how sold I've become on its healing powers.  And I can't wait to try all the flavors you recommended! (Are they flavors or brands? I think I'll figure it out . . .)

I noticed at some point around the start of this blog that writing at least one little piece of something before I go to sleep at night can make that whole day seem fully lived.  A director from one of my favorite DVD commentaries (I love those things) said that his parents taught him to "do something creative every day."  I love that guy's parents.  And I totally agree with them.

I hope you have things like that - things that you find when you do them you're not just getting through life but actually living it.  There aren't very many of these things I manage to do every single day without fail, but if I hit on one or two of them, it brings the whole day out of its forgettable state.  And this post is about another good every-day activity: Dancing.

I learned about it from Kris Carr.  She stars in the documentary, Crazy Sexy Cancer, about her determination to find natural ways to prolong her life despite a terminal diagnosis of untreatable cancer.  One thing I remember her saying in the documentary is that she dances every day.  She turns on music in her kitchen, living room - wherever she is - and she just moves to it.  You can imagine, in light of this post, how much immediate sense that made to me.

Of course, I don't do it every day.  But when I do - I feel way better.  It's easy to find music in this house worth moving to.  If it's not on my iTunes, then it's playing behind the credits of the last movie we watched.  Or if I'm really lucky, it's playing IN the movie - and we can "Brazzle Dazzle Day" our way to health with Nora and Pete on Pete's Dragon.  (Jake's love for this movie is easily one of my favorite things about him.  That movie is like a little cup of sunshine.)  And, I gotta say, although I can learn a dance without too much stress, I can't remember them later.  So it's not like I have a repertoire of awesome moves in my internal soul library.  So when I say "dance", I mean move happily to the beat.  Or not even to the beat.  Just move.  It is so liberating.  I like to do it in the kitchen while I'm cooking or unloading the dishwasher, in front of a movie (as mentioned) with Jake, or all alone in front of the bathroom mirror with the chaos of motherhood locked on the other side.  I like swaying to a slow one, kicking it with a happy one - it all works.  And convinces me every time how right that woman was.   

Every day: Do something creative and just move it.  What's on your list?  Which part of the day makes you feel most alive?

I'm not all that resolute, so I'll call them New Year's Considerations

Well, it turns out that the Wii isn't quite enough to make me stop wishing that every post could be labeled "Road to Publication", that new years are scarier than they used to be, and yoga is awesome.

The first is self-explanatory.  I'm a teensy bit obsessed, but I no longer care.  You don't get what you want without caring about it very much.  So I'm just going to keep caring.  TTYR.

I adore the New Year holiday.  First of all, because I need a buffer between Christmas and reality.  Christmas is like a fairy tale.  January, especially in Missouri, is cold, hard reality.  The New Year eases me in with an extra day off work, warm happy thoughts, and lots of snacks and stuff.  I like that.  Plus, I totally buy in to all that this-is-our-year! stuff.  Because you never know when it just might be.  But then, this year, after thinking all those rosy, dreamy thoughts, I got scared.  Because I was probably all rosy back in January of 2005 too, and that's the year I had cancer.  Which despite giving me the premise for a book to finally actually finish and a new lease on life and a bigger laugh and stuff, also scared the living daylights out of me.  (I wanted to say crap - that it scared the crap out of me, but I don't really like to jar my mom that much, and she'd be really jarred if I said that on my blog - even though it felt more like crap than daylights - because I don't even know what those are.)  

I have a friend who used to look forward on New Year's Eve and actually pray with her husband and try to find out just what the new year held.  Even pre-cancer I knew I wanted none of that.  I hoped I could face anything that came, but I didn't want to know it ahead of time.  And this year, sure enough, I stopped short when I clinked my sparkling raspberry grape juice cup with the boys (turns out, the raspberry is not better than plain old grape), because I realized how little any of us know what the year might hold.  

Fortunately we don't know the good stuff either, and there might be plenty.  But all the same, I'm afraid I don't look ahead with the same naivety as before.  I think this is what people mean by one day at a time.  

Which brings me to yoga.  I didn't make New Year's resolutions.  I never really do, although I do kind of believe in them.  I mean, hey, if there's something you need to change it's worth a shot.  But I do really hope to be more fit this year, to put a little more effort into my well-being.  And I hope to be more grateful.  Every day.  Yoga helps with both.  I look forward to that hour, because it's energizing and relaxing all at once.  But then, throughout the day, I find myself whooshed to that yoga place now and then just when I was headed to perhaps a more stressful one.  It's very centering and peaceful.  Very serenity now.  I don't know if it's yoga specifically or just activity in general, because I took a walk with the boys today and felt awesome after that as well.  I can't do the walk barefoot, which is something I love about yoga.  But I can't hold Jake's hand during yoga either, which is something I loved about the walk.  

So here's hoping I care enough about my writing career to help it happen but not so much that I obsess, that I can face the year with gratitude for all the good and bravery for the rest, and that I remember what it does for a body - Just.  To.  Move it.

  

why I blog at all

I've been wanting to do a post like this for a while, ever since a friend raised the question of my intent here, wondering if I expect input or perhaps don't enjoy it, whether I'm entertaining you or just perhaps myself.  Another friend thinking of starting a blog herself also asked me why I do it, and thinking about all the reasons why was just too fun.  So I thought I'd write them out here and see what other bloggers would add.  

Earlier this week, Drew turned around at the table where he was doing homework and said, "Hey, Mo-om.  Guess what one of my spelling words is this week?  WRITER!"  You can't imagine how it thrilled me to know that he had any comprehension at all that I would care about that.  He must actually consider me one of those, despite the fact that he's 7, so he doesn't exactly browse the blogging community, and there isn't a single book in Barnes and Noble with my name on it.  

And that is the first reason I blog.  Because I wanted to write.  A good friend said of me when I was in high school that I wrote well but hadn't yet found my voice.  "How the heck do you find that?" I asked my mom.  And she said, "You find it in your grocery list.  And all kinds of other common things you can write every day.  Keep doing them, and eventually you find your voice."  I thought a blog would be even better than a grocery list. 

Also, I wanted to write for people.  When I was just writing for myself, it was too easy to skip it.  I heard on the radio the other day, "We judge ourselves by what we are capable of, but others judge us by what we have already done."  Another thing my mom always said was to "discipline your art".  Too many people out there "should" or "would" or "probably could", and not enough do.  You have to put some work into it if you want to produce anything of worth.  I thought having readers would be a good way to make myself keep writing, even when it seemed easier to quit.

Blogging is hugely, hugely, ginormously self-indulgent.  I'm well aware of that.  The other day Drew was telling John about a girl he likes.  The only thing I know of her is that she has freckles.  And this is what he said, "I hope I recognize her my whole life."  Having a blog gives me permission to write down things like that.  And you kind people read it.  Me?  Self-indulged.

But my hope, and another reason I keep doing it, is that it will also entertain or move you.  That at some point at least someone will say, "I totally get that."  A part of me has this crazy need to find the common denominators in humanity.  I want to discover and record the way I feel about things with the delusion that at least some of them will make all of humanity nod its head, "Ah, yes.  We totally get it too."  There have to be some things like that.  The thrill and the ache of being a parent, the need for love, dreaming big.  I keep writing and writing and writing - just hoping something I say will get that big universal nod.  Indulge much?  Yes, I already told you that.  But if I get a nod here and there, then I figure I have given as well as received.

So that's why I  blog.  I started it for me.  I keep it up for you . . . and me.

How about the rest of you bloggers?  Or maybe those of you considering it.  What are your thoughts?

it just seems frivolous when we have two other gaming systems

I thought this would be a good time for another post on my road to publication. And what I have to report is a whole lot of nothing. And I'm so glad. I mean, I would rather be posting about an awesome book deal. But there has been a nice space here without any rejections, and that has become a thrill in and of itself. You know why? Well, not just because rejections h-u-r-t, nor because I just wasn't in the market for the toilet paper that some companies will make from your rejection letters - because, you know, ew. But also because from now on I can at least assume that my manuscript was carefully considered - that it took more than one quick read to come to the conclusion that they just couldn't take it on at this time.

It's very possible that the rejections I haven't gotten yet are simply because the manuscript is still sitting untouched on a busy editor's desk. But I don't have to know that. Getting published will be such a thrill and an honor. It doesn't stress me out to get a few no's along the way. But when the no comes too quickly, I'm left to wonder if they sat amazed that I even had the audacity to present my work to them as it was clearly not ready for the big time. (That, of course, is a terrible, terrible discredit to my agent, who obviously did think it was ready and has proven herself as a very good judge). But when the rejection comes after a length of time, I can fantasize away about the financial meetings in which the editors sat around and cried that they loved my book so very much but simply couldn't take a risk on a new author at this time, etc., etc., etc. It will be much easier to press on after that.

Speaking of my agent, her name is Holly Root at the Waxman Literary Agency, and they recently started a blog! An agent blog is indispensable for those who want to be published. I've learned a lot for instance from Nathan Bransford, a literary agent in San Francisco. His posts have more than once directly answered a question I had been wondering.

So this chapter in my road to publication is a lot of waiting, but I've been thrilled and surprised to discover that I get ideas as well. I'm working on a different book as so many people have advised, and I'm slightly obsessed with the idea for another one. Of course, I'm not fooling myself, or you, or my husband who has to hear Holly's name way too many times in a day as I talk about writing and TTYR and my hopes and my new ideas and how much I want to see NYC's area code on my phone one day with good news. But after all, I wasn't trying to fool myself - I was just trying to avoid the expense of a Wii.

Journey Stuff

In book news, my agent is submitting my manuscript under the title, The Thank You Room. Don't get attached, as editors sometimes change these things as well. But that's the best news - some more editors will be looking at it soon.

She sent me a note today about some of the editors who will be considering it, and she referred to it by its initials. TTYR. This is my new mantra. I figure I'll say it over now and then like a prayer, willing this book into publication existence. TTYR. While performing the sign of the cross. I know this is wrong. And I know it actually crosses the border of sacrilege. And I know that I should be praying for His will and not my own. But I just have one thing to say to that. T-T-Y-R.

Thankfully I'm off to Omaha this weekend for my younger sister's baby shower. That will be the perfect distraction. After that, my agent says I should invest in a Wii.

Did I mention the list? She sent me an actual list of the editors who will be looking it over. Rejections have to be, like, what - ten times as tragic at this level? I'm sure I'll be able to get back to you on that.

In the meantime, I'm going to revel in the journey, right? And also read the memoir by Lynne Spears, mother of Britney and Jamie Lynn. Awesome Thomas Nelson sent me a copy to review. The offer was open to anyone. I figured since three of my top labels are motherhood, Hollywood, and faith - it was kind of in my genre. If I like it I'll put it next to the ones by Tammy Trent and Brooke Shields - a celebrity memoir I really loved - and I'll tell you all about how refreshing and thoughtful it is. If I don't like it, I'll put it next to Sydney Poitier's, which disappointed me.

So that's my Friday post. Kind of a hodge podge. Sort of like Jake's new bedtime routine. He suddenly graduated from getting out of bed and lying on the floor. Now he stays in the bed but he wants the door open and he calls me into the room at least three times for various things - the dog, the blanket - get the cat off my dresser - stuff like that. Then the last time he calls me in, he asks me to close the door. I do. And then I don't hear from him again until morning. Since he finally eased out of that last routine, I think I'll just enjoy this new one. It's kind of fun really. And that's my new thing - enjoying the ride.

TTYR.

update on the book (and its ominous subject)

After my pink umbrella post, I am no longer satisfied with any picture that is not predominantly pink and splattered with rain. Have you heard of Rosie O'Donnell's yellow? She calls all things good and lovely, pure, full of light - she calls this "yellow". I think pink might be my yellow.

The book received its first rejection. I won't be posting every little update about that, because what if a publisher who loved my manuscript stopped by my blog before accepting it and saw a post titled "Rejection Number 15 - and counting"? Said editor would probably decide not only to reject it after all but quite possibly to get out of the business. The book will head out on another round of possible publishers before too long, and I will hold my breath and hope against hope and not email my agent at all and try to pretend getting published is barely even on my to-do list. I was wondering tonight if I should stop blogging so that I can focus on the next book instead. Some people don't get published at all until they have written more than one book. That makes me feel anxious to get the next one done. But I can't give up the blog. It's the writing that people are actually reading. A few of you anyway.

I go for a check-up on Friday. One of those checkups. The cancer ones. It's been about six months I think. I barely think about cancer at all between checkups. Then when I hit that familiar waiting room it all comes rushing back like breakfast when I'm pregnant. I fidget and think about old people and how I'll probably never be one. I start counting the million rays of radiation that will have been shot into my body by the time I'm forty and how many other cancers are so much more common than the one I had and are therefore probably just waiting their turn to surprise me.

Usually after seeing my surgeon, I'm all better. He's very "yellow". He always makes me feel that I really am cancer-free and that even if I wasn't he could totally handle anything cancer can dish out. So I'm looking forward to Friday after 1 p.m. When it comes, I'm going to feel very, very pink.

It happened in a book I read

I'm reading Chocolat.  I was sort of trying to cut back on sweets before I started that book.  But now I feel that any day that goes by without a petit four is a complete waste of existence.  I haven't finished the book, so I can't decide if I will love it until the end.  But for now, it's a pretty little literary treat I get to open in all my free time.  I love the way it feels like a fairy tale even though she uses words like television.  And I love the different points of view.  And the imaginary rabbit.  I don't remember the movie, so I can't possibly have seen it.  

One of my favorite Anne books talks about a Dickens novel.   A character in the Anne book says when she reads the Dickens one she always gets ravenously hungry because the people in it always seem to be eating good things.  Kind of like the fact that every time I think of Heidi I get a craving for cheese and milk.

Do you know what I mean by Anne book?  That's what I call the eight-part series by L.M. Montgomery that begins with the children's classic Anne of Green Gables.  It could really be bad for my literary future that I love those books so much.  I'll never think I've written a lovable  character unless she has red hair.  And a book will never be good enough unless I think my reader will want seven more in the series.  

But I'll push past those feelings.  Just like I pushed past the feeling that life wasn't worth living unless it was the late 1800s again.  Just like I pushed past the craving for the petit four.  I'll just write about regular old dishwater blonds and dull brunettes.  And then I'll go eat those chocolate donuts in the refrigerator.  Pre-processed, factory-packaged donuts.  It won't look or smell like it came from a chocolaterie, but my taste buds aren't nearly as picky as my soul.  

the next thing

Not long ago I wrote about how children sometimes grow and change in such a way that you notice it suddenly as if you're a distant relative just seeing them at the annual reunion. "Look how you've grown!" you think. Even though you've seen them every moment for the last twelve months and hadn't noticed anything different. Well, it turns out that can also happen when you suddenly find yourself with just one of your three children.

I take the older boys to school. See last year's back to school post for how I do with that emotional milestone. It's just Jake and I during the day now, and it's kind of like seeing him after a long absence. I keep thinking things like, "You tickle people's feet now?" and "When did you start singing every few minutes?" and, "You get jokes?"

Everything seems new for me in the fall. It's totally my New Year, autumn. (Although, I love the New Year too). I get the urge to clean out closets and things this time of year more than spring. This year I'm going to put Jake in a certain school of his own. There's only one lesson: The Toilet.

I have a project too. I need to get busy on the next book. My agent has started sending my first manuscript to editors. That means all of my angst has shifted from her to them. But she told me from the beginning that once that happened I needed to pour all my energy into the next thing. So that's what I'm going to do.

The thing is, it's really hard to find time to write for myself when I write all day for others. And did I mention the new little person running around who shares jokes? Keith Urban's greatest hits CD is called 19 Kids. I've heard artists say that - that their movies, sculptures, books, paintings, or songs are their children. They are that proud of them. It took as much work as raising a child. It matters that much if someone criticizes them. I get that. But when I watch Jake making up completely inarticulate songs and laughing almost nonstop all day long at literally everything, and I weigh that against writing books, I can't help but think, Dude, he's so my greatest hit.

what to do while I'm waiting

So, I told you I have the end-of-
a-book blues. I haven't been able to shake them yet and move on to the next one. I glanced at Sense and Sensibility in its display corner today, though, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ah yes, I thought, the old favorites. That will get me through this.

"This" of course is not just the end-of-a-book blues but the pre-publication impatience. As I said in an earlier post, for all I know Jesus will return before my memoir is ever actually published. But knowing this and resolving to be patient have not actually made me so. I wish I could be in that Sesame Street documentary about how crayons are made. I loved watching that wax roll around in the big old vats and eventually get wrapped into paper and put into that wonderful smell-good box. I wish I could watch every step of my book that way. Starting now and without any other responsibilities until its finished.

Mom says the thing to do once one book is out of your hands is move on to the next. That's what she is doing while her first is being edited. I know she's right. But I haven't done it yet. I feel too uncertain of who I want to be as a writer. It's not like I've found my niche with memoir - there's only so many of those in one person.

I think there is only one thing I know for sure. I'd like to write books that give people the feeling I had when I glanced at Sense and Sensibility today. The feeling that they can trust me to make them feel better. That would be a lovely accomplishment.

Work from Home Fact and Fiction . . . Continued From All the Other Times I Wrote About It

Fact:  The toddler will take advantage of your hours in front of the computer to sift through your jewelry box and/or drop eggs on the kitchen floor.

Fiction: He'll only do this once, and then you'll develop the ears of a fox for jewelry boxes and refrigerator doors.  (Evidently it takes way more times than that).

Fact: You will never take for granted how stress-free the summers are, as well as fevers and teachers in-service and obscure holidays your employer won't observe, because you don't have to worry about childcare.

Fiction: (Often poeticized as fact on this very blog) You'll never look forward to school starting again.

Fact: This is a picture of my life. Boys waiting impatiently for me to return from a public restroom.

Fiction: This picture has anything to do with this post. (I just thought you would like it).

Fact: I think you actually work more minutes at home than in the office. You wouldn't clock out in the office if a coworker chats to you about their personal life, but if changing a diaper turns into bath time at home - yea, you'll be making up those thirty minutes later.

Fiction: You'll wish you could trade the coworker for the toddler. (Of course not! . . . Not every day anyway.)

Fact: Writing about travel is way more fun than medical transcription. But I still wish sometimes that I could watch the movie with Jake instead of writing or give the older boys more attention than, "Yes, you can have an apple" and, "Don't leave your shoes there." Tomorrow they are putting up the first Serenity Live video online. I always wanted to be in the entertainment industry, and this feels kind of like that, which is cool. Plus, I'm getting paid to write, which is a dream. I truly believe everyone in the world should try and find a way to do something for a living that they actually enjoy. But I don't really believe it's possible, and I know I'm lucky to be even close.

Fiction: I no longer care if my agent calls with good news that my book has sold, and I no longer wish I could do just that.

Fact: Life is ups and downs.

Show Me That Smile Again

Um, Felic? Kirk Cameron wrote a BOOK. Yay! Remember when you told me I couldn't share him with you? He was your crush and thereby could not be mine as well. You helped me find someone for myself in one of those teen magazines. (And I still love you, C.D. Barnes. I thought you were great as the voice of Prince Erik in The Little Mermaid).

I discovered Cameron's book because I you-tubed him tonight (that's a verb now, right?) looking for a certain clip from Growing Pains. I thought of it when we were watching The Truman Show again tonight. See my profound adoration for The Truman Show here. And I had this thought, "I wonder how the idea for this movie began?" It could just be way ahead of its time. I mean, maybe the creator of it thought, someday . . . Reality T.V. How did they know? But then I wondered if it was this: What would happen, they may have thought, if a person reached the age in which you discover the world does not revolve around you, only to discover that the world DOES REVOLVE AROUND YOU? I also think this would be a fun game - watch a movie and try and decide what brilliant what if was asked that eventually led to the movie. But anyway -

This brilliant train of thought - if you're even remotely still with me -reminded me of Mike on Growing Pains. Remember, Felic? When he stayed home sick from school, and Gilligan's Island was on, and he was totally and completely thrown. "Gilligan's Island is on television while I'm at school?!" And, thus, the realization that the world did not actually revolve around him. Something about that episode just rang true in my teenage mind.

There is a great recent video of Cameron on You Tube about his new book. You gotta admit, he's a pleasant guy. And I love stories like this in which a person just says - "God, if you're real, then make me know it." And then He does.

Incidentally, Michael, I love you way more than C.D. Barnes. Although I do know that his full name is Christopher Daniel, and I can still sing the theme song to Day By Day.

I miss them already

It's graduation season.  Prepare for a ridiculous amount of sentiment on serenity now, because I saw my children at senior graduation from the moment I dropped them at the door to kindergarten that first day.  You can tell me again that it goes all too quickly if you'd like, but you're talking to a girl who knows.

Mom tells me that every season of life is enjoyable.  But last night I heard something that made me question everything she has ever told me.  I had to wonder - in a shocked and conspiratorial sort of whisper - Maybe Mom is LYING.

It happened while I was otherwise ignoring a sitcom on t.v.  I don't even know if it was a graduation episode, although I'm thinking so.  Because I suddenly heard the mother give a tearful, melodramatic speech about children growing up.  It was one of the moments when I remember that behind every show - comedic, dramatic, action - there lies at least one true writer - the kind of person trying to capture the whole wide world with their words.  The mother listed off the things we teach our children - I only remember one, and I'll make up the rest for you here:  We teach them to use a fork, she said.  And to spell their own name and to look both ways before they cross the street.

 

"And then we realize," (and this is the part that made me sit straight up and choke from the truth of it), "All along, we were really just teaching them to leave."

I dream big but I enjoy the Band-Aids

Funny true story about me - when I was in high school, my hope chest slammed shut on my head.  My head, and it busted my lip.  I've wondered if that would make a good book title - you know, for a teen angst kind of memoir.  My hope chest is this huge gorgeous handmade chest that Grandpa gave me when I turned 16.  Back then I mostly kept memories in it instead of hope.  Scrapbooks, old journals, stuff like that.  It's weird how long it took me to actually look ahead.  The sequel to that imaginary teen memoir, which will also be literal, is There's a Spiderman Band-Aid Stuck to My Hopechest.  It's about the days when I looked around at the little boys and the chaos, thinking, "Is this what I was hoping for all that time?"  

A friend once gave me a beautiful song by Carolyn Arends about how we're always reaching for the future and the past and, "No matter what we have, we reach for more/We are desperate to discover what is just beyond our grasp/Maybe that's what heaven is for."  I love the song.  It's so true.  

I've written here before about how much I love to look forward to things, to have a long term to-do list, a short term wish list.  I don't feel I'm really living unless I'm looking ahead at least a little.  And I think it's lovely to imagine that was put in us as part of our understanding that we're only passing through here.  But the other thing I get from the song is the reminder that the longing won't ever truly be reached.  The message of that to me is that all day, while thinking about my writing career and jobs and such, the thing that mattered most was still just the Spiderman Band-Aids.  The bare feet in my header and the boys that belong to them.  You know . . . the life I've found.

Rilla-My-Rilla

At the moment, I am non-fictioning myself to death.  I'm loving every word - how to help your kids thrive in public school, (Going Public, by David and Kelli Pritchard), a Christian's perspective on filmmaking (Outside Hollywood by Isaac Botkin), and You Can Market Your Book by Carmen Leal.  They're all relevant, and I'm enjoying them.  In between these I also read both of Rosie O'Donnell's memoirs, and it was at some point after that when I started wondering just which wonderful story I'm going to pick up next.  I can't wait to get lost in a good piece of fiction again.  

While thinking of where I will turn first in choosing my next great read, I can't help but think about the Anne of Green Gables series, my previously mentioned favorite fiction series of all time.  When I found this picture online and discovered I could own these books for the small price of 55.70 per book, I practically ran to Michael with the news.  He informed me that our closets and shelves are already overrun by my many copies of the series.  The fact that these are HARD BACK fell completely on deaf ears.

So remember how I want to get a book published some day and wish I could be in a movie - at least ONCE - and hopefully go to the premiere?  Well, here's another one:  Book 8 in this series?  SHOULD BE A MOVIE.  And I want to write the screenplay.  I don't care what you think of the flowery sunsets or flights of imagination in the first several books, you can't possibly hate the last one.  It's based during WWI.  It has courage, sacrifice, comedy, romance, horrible sorrow, childish thrills.  It's completely awesome.  As I told my dad once - there's a scene with a dog.  Dude.  You will never get over it.  And it belongs on the screen.  I haven't even begun to summon the nerve to make the call to find out who owns the movie rights to this book, but I'm convinced when I find them I will in very few words be able to convince them that I am the perfect person to pen its screenplay.  No one could adore it more.  No one could be better versed in all the wonderfulness that led to this finale.  I want the job.  

At the very least, don't let the same person write it who did Anne of Avonlea (The Kevin Sullivan version).  I have yet to forgive them for squishing three books together that way and leaving out some of the best characters ever.  It was so uncool.  Mr. Harrison and Philippa Gordon deserved to be heard.  I want vindication, and I want an Oscar for it.

Hold on - that's a different dream.  

not just a tattoo artist anymore

So, remember the original poetry Drew was reciting in the car that sent John into a frenzy of grimacing and ear
plugging? I happen to have some of it here for you. Ahem:

The Color Rap
Green, green, Ding dong ding
Red, red, Happy head
Yellow, yellow, Lemon Pillow
Black, black, Looking back
- Andrew, copyright 2008

I think it's practically perfect. In every way. (Just like Mary Poppins). And you know it thrills my little heart to see his creative juices flowing. It's so amazing being a part of the miracle of bringing a child into the world, and so rewarding when they enter it and start bringing yet more wonderfulness with them - poetry, inventions, questions that you got too old and smart to ask.

In the case of this rap, though, I'm afraid there is further proof of my influence in Drew's life besides the creative urge. His pronunciation of "pillow". I'm afraid I say it wrong. Michael has been trying to tell me so for years, and I was all - who cares? So I say "pellow", it's not like "supposebly" or something. Most people won't even notice the E in my pillow. I only feel a little badly about this now, because after all he is in the formative years of pronunciation. Teach them wrong at this age, and they'll say basghetti their whole lives. (I love that one. And it took forever, but they finally say leaves instead of fleaves.)

So anyway - Drew writes a poem, and I realize how intensely he's been hanging on my every word. Gotta love that. And besides - yellow, yellow, lemon pillow - I think Seuss would approve.

you should be sitting for this

Well. Perhaps I was due. Because I just got a huge dose of happy. I've signed with a literary agent who believes in my memoir and wants to try and find a publisher for it! I told Mom I wasn't going to blab about it on the blog, because I don't want to seem unprofessional. But the way life happened today - well, I just changed my mind.

She called yesterday at around - um - 2:25 and 45 seconds? And from that moment, I lost all sanity. My poor brother called seconds later and felt concerned that I would hyperventilate. I almost forgot my children at school, and that's when the sanity really took a turn for the dark side. I got them home safely but continued to ignore them while I called people and let out all the squeals that I had promised my family I would contain while actually speaking on the phone with the agent.

By evening I started to notice something. John wasn't himself. Usually easy-going, he had suddenly developed a very short fuse with his younger brothers. When I invited Drew along on the trip to McDonalds that was supposed to have just been John and I, John grimaced and held his fingers in his ears the whole way there (Drew was reciting original poetry).

I decided to watch and listen for a while before I talked to him about the sudden attitude. But in my head, it had already begun. The inevitable tailspin of our lives because I put my career above the care of my family. I had acquired a New York literary agent! And with it, the end of life as we knew it. We were going to be like the lottery winners who end up bankrupt with broken families. Yes. All of this because John held his fingers in his ears while Drew recited poetry. If you're shocked at my dramatic reaction to the events of my day, I have to ask - you have read this blog, right?

So here's the happy ending. I made banana bread. I'm not kidding. That's how everything became right again. It was this morning. We were out of milk, and I reached for a banana bread mix that John asked me to buy weeks and weeks ago but I had yet to whip up. Today, I baked it. The house smelled like Little House on the Prairie, and everything started turning. I went to take a shower while John devoured his breakfast, and eventually I heard a knock on the door.

"Yes, Baby?"

"Thank you for making banana bread, Mama. It was delicious! So thank you."

"You're welcome, John!"

And he's been himself all day. Goodbye Dateline sob story. Hello mother of the year.

Cheesecake Factory and the Holiday Inn

It's Kansas City time again. It's been about four months this time, and this week I go back to the big city for my cancer check-up. In the memoir I write this about my first trip there:

As we neared the city I flinched at the sight of every brick building on either side of me, certain that was probably the one. The terrible cancer building that was full of sick and dying people and the machines and needles and the shelves of medicine that would try to keep us alive. I wanted to turn the car around. I wanted to run. Whatever answers they had for me could not be better than not knowing. And not knowing was by itself awfully bad.

The trips there did not get much easier. In my journal later I wrote this:

Every trip to and from Kansas City to doctors we drive by Worlds of Fun, and I always so wish we were just going there. Life right now is such an unpredictable thing. I'm up, I'm down, I'm brave, I'm terrified. This doctor comforts me, that one scares me to pieces . . . . I do feel less scared of chemo now. But more scared of death. I don't want this. I want to live. And I want this baby. I want to live to see all my babies grow up. Please let that be my story. I promise to be grateful.

It's been close to three years since I wrote those. This weekend the boys are on spring break, and they are so excited about our weekend trip to Kansas City they can hardly sit through supper each night without squealing. My work day went smoothly on Sunday, and I called out to Michael, "It went fast today, I wonder what's different." Drew, though, is the one who answered from his perch on the couch in the living room, "It's probably because we're going to Kansas City this weekend, and you're so excited!" They are so ecstatic that I began to worry they had bigger plans for the trip than we did. So I asked them what it was they were expecting. "Well," John answered, "Swimming in the hotel pool . . . and don't they have some good restaurants there?"

So I think we're good. They don't yet know what the big water tower means with the Worlds of Fun logo on it. Just give 'em a hotel swimming pool and a meal or two.

I think the 2005 Serenity would be really happy if she could see this week.