The Belle of the Ball

My daughter's grandfather-in-law passed away the day after Christmas. When I went to the funeral home to pay my respects, my three-year old granddaughter, Mina, grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the coffin.

"He died," she said, then pointed to a cross in her great-grandfather's hands, "That means he's in heaven."
"That's a good place to be," I said.
"Why is he wearing glasses?" Mina asked.
"Because people are used to seeing him that way."
"How does he go potty?"
"He doesn't have to any more."
"What's that?" she asked pointing to the coffin.
"A coffin."
"Oh. Watch this." Mina demonstrated her ability to stand on one leg. After that she led me to couch to sit with her.

"Tell me a story," I said.
She sat up straight and said in a solemn voice, "He got very, very sick and then he died and they put him in a coffee pot."

Then she jumped off the couch and hustled over to shake hands with some new arrivals and introduce herself. She totally cracks me up!

Squirrel Songs Rock!

Christmas is the time for sharing. So, I've decided to share my brother's annual Christmas song with you. Click on the link and you'll be transported to a magical world where squirrels rule! Yes, my brother is a squirrel nut, and he'd better watch out lest his furry friends decide he'd make a delectable treat.

Hear the song for 2007 by clicking on the link below, then clicking on the acorn. Or, scroll lower and listen to the songs from yesteryear. May your days be filled with joy, happiness, and squirrel songs!



The Fur Tree

You Can Call Me LiZa

When I was young I was the only person in the world with the name Liza, well, except for Liza Minelli. It has now become a fairly common name. There are several published authors named Liza, some literary agents, an editor at a publishing house, there's even an attorney in Canada named Liza Martz.

So, why do people who respond to my letters and emails address me as Lisa?

This is not a criticism, merely a curiosity; Lisa and Liza are not the same name. Don't get me wrong, I answer to Lisa; at Panera when my order comes up, in workshops, at parties. I don't bother to correct the mistake when I'll never see these people again.

But people are sensitive about their names. Read interviews with literary agents and editors about common mistakes writers make when querying them. Misspelling their name is frequently at the top of their list. Submission guidelines often warn, "Spell my name right." Needless to say, I double check their name before I send my letter to them.

And, this is what crackes me up...nine times out of ten when they respond it's to Dear Lisa Martz. I wonder if that's why J.K. Rowling went with her initials, Jo must be another toughy.

What Else Could I Do?

I'm sitting at the far end of an empty strip mall parking lot waiting to meet my parents. A woman in an old beater of a van pulls up alongside of me and honks. I look over, an infant carrier is perched on the seat next to her with a small, grubby baby facing my way. As I roll down my window, I know what's coming.

Her: "Can you give me gas money to get to a shelter?"
Me: "Sounds like you're trying to scam me."
Her: "I'm not. I'm trying to get to the [Name of Shelter for Battered Women]."

I take a moment to ponder the situation. I can tell by looking at her she's not from the immediate area. She's also nowhere near the city the shelter is in. I'm 99% sure she's a scammer. But what if she isn't and she really is trying to get to a shelter? What the hell.
Me: "I'm giving you five dollars, and if you're scamming me I'll let it be on your conscience. If you're not I wish you luck."
As I hand her the money she breaks eye contact and looks down. At that moment, I know I've been taken.

I don't feel bad about it. She probably isn't familiar with the word, "conscience," and I can afford the five bucks. And there is still the eensiest chance she really was trying to get to a shelter. I'd make the same decision next time.

A Classic Case of Between a Rock and a Hard Place

I love rocks. I have them in my garden, on my windowsills, sometimes in my pockets.

My daughter, Amy, shares this passion. She recently acquired a stunning, heart-shaped specimen that she proudly displays on the window sill over her sink. I have coveted that rock from the moment I laid eyes on it but realize it would be bad form, not to mention futile, to demand that she give it to me.

Imagine my surprise when I went to her house yesterday and saw a smaller heart-shaped rock nestled against the large one.

"We got it for you," Amy said handing it to me.
"Yep," said Mina, my three-year old granddaughter.

I was delighted with the gift and set the rock on a bench near my jacket. We had lunch, shot the breeze and had a lovely day. When it came time for me to leave, I couldn't find the rock.

"Mina?" Amy asked in a stern voice.

Mina trudged into her bedroom and emerged with one arm behind her back.

Mina: "This is my special, special rock. It looks so nice with the other one."
Amy: "Give it to Grammie. We got it for her."
Mina reluctantly handed it over.
"Thanks," I said.
Mina: "I want to keep it."
Me: "But it's mine."
Mina: "No it's not."
Me: "Yes it is."
"WAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" Mina raced into the kitchen, "It looks SO-NICE-HERE!"

I looked at Amy. She shook her head. Was I really fighting with a three-year old over a rock? Yes.

I stored the rock in my pocket, made up with the still-sobbing Mina, and went home feeling like a louse. I got a phone call first thing this morning.

Mina: "That really is my special, special rock."
Me: "I know. And I know you want to keep it but you and your mom got it for me."
Mina: "But it looks so nice here."
Me: "It looks nice here, too."
Mina: "Maybe we can share it."
Me: "Hey, that's a great idea."
Mina: "And when I come over, I can take it home."
Me: "No you can't."
Mina: "But we're sharing."
Me: "We'll share it here."
Mina: "That's not sharing."
Me: "Yes it is. Just like we share Frannie [my dog]."
Mina: "Here's my mom."

She is not getting that rock. Now I must go check my birth certificate. Is it possible I was born in 2004?

It's Not an Addiction, It's a Habit

Years ago, while cruising an antique store, I came across a small pamphlet from the 1800's extolling the virtues of an elixir that was guaranteed to help one break free from the chains of "the solitary habit."

The pamphlet was comprised of anonymous testimonials from people who used the elixir and, much to their surprise, no longer felt the need to indulge. As an added benefit, their acne cleared up, some went back to school, others were finally able to hold down a job, and their lives were restored to happiness and balance.

At the time, I thought the solitary habit was, uh, well...you know. But I was oh-so-wrong! I have recently fallen victim to that very habit and realize they were referring to reading the entertainment news on the Internet.

It's terrible. My life is out of control. I no longer write, I haven't got time. Most of my day is spent hunched in front of my computer poring over pictures of Britany at her skankiest, reading about Dog's fall from grace, wondering if Paris will ever go to Rwanda, hoping Foxy Brown will get the model-prisoner-award she's working so hard to receive.

It's terrible. If only I hadn't cast that pamphlet aside with a superior sneer, I would have rememberd the name of the elixir, ordered some today, and gotten my life back on track. Instead it looks like I'll be searching for a twelve-step program. If I'm lucky, we'll meet at an Internet cafe.

Rites of Passage

The other day I drove past an elementary school and noticed the bicycles chained higgelty piggelty to the bike rack in front. That one little glance sent me hurdling back in time to my neighborhood parochial school.

There were no school busses. We got to school by walking or getting a ride from our parents. That is until we reached the seventh grade, when a third option presented itself, the bicycle.

It was no small matter because only the seventh and eighth graders were permitted to bicycle to school.I was bursting with pride when I hopped onto my blue Schwinn racer, slung the chain and lock across my chest like a bandalero, and zipped down the street past all the "kids" who had to walk.

It was the same year I went from wearing a white blouse, green jumper, and matching beanie to wearing a white blouse, green plaid skirt and a plaid tam (fancy name for dorky beret!) I mean, does it ever get better than that?

All of this remembering, took me further backwards in time, to the day my second grade class went to the library, and eack kid got a library card. It was a cold, rainy day; the building was like a cathedral of huge limestone blocks with a slate roof. Golden light glowed behind floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows; inviting us to come in and get warm.

The floors inside were shiny wood. The library smelled like lemon furniture polish and BOOKS! Thousands of books, all waiting to be checked out by me using my very own library card. It never occured to me then that someone had written those books. They were simply there, waiting for me to choose which ones I'd take home.

And here I am, many years later, writing books, with high hopes they'll someday make it to those same library shelves. I am sure the seven-year old me would have been astounded if she could have seen where that library card was going to take us.

Maybe you had to be there...

This morning I was talking to my favorite three-year old on the phone, and she told me a joke she made up:

Question: How does a witch blow her nose?

Answer: Wicked hard!

Okay, so maybe I'm biased, but I thought it was pretty funny.

Favorite Q&A of the Week

Me: What's Carol's last name?

Maggie: Carol who?

Hey Babe, What's Your Sign?

It's February and I'm walking in a park in Michigan. Trudging is a better word. The path is treacherous. The packed snow must be two feet deep, uneven with lacerations from cross country skis, and covered with a thick layer of ice. My dog tugs on the leash, I know any minute I'm going to slip. This is not fun. I pray I make it back to my car without breaking any bones.

A dark figure approaches in the distance. It's a man. He seems to be struggling even more than I am, and flings himself onto a bench.

"Tough walking," I say.
"You're not kidding," he says, "Especially since I'm an amputee."
Conversation screeches to a halt.
"Uh, yes," I finally say, "I bet that makes it even tougher."
"Yep," he says, "My ankle doesn't bend."
"Darn," I reply.
"See?" He hikes up his pant leg to reveal a leg made of steel rods with a shoe screwed into the bottom.

He whacks the shoe a few times with his knuckles, sure enough, the ankle doesn't bend. I don't mean to sound unsympathetic but this is way more than I ever want to know about this guy.

I edge away. "Enjoy your walk," I say, and beat feet.

I bumped into him again recently, same thing. He announced he was an amputee, showed me his prosthesis and gave me the ankle demo. I have an uneasy sense he's trying to pick me up. He really needs to work on his opening line.

Isn't Life Strange?

This morning I was thinking how important my writing buddies, Loree Burns and Eric Luper, are to me. Then I thought about how random it is that I know them at all.

I must first state I never intended to become a writer. It happened accidentally after the world, as I knew it, blew away, taking my identity with it. I started going for long walks in the woods, trying to figure out who I was. When I finally accepted I didn't know, the walks became meditative.

One day, a children's story appeared on the movie screen in my mind. I liked it so much, I wrote it down. Another story came along, then another. I decided to take a crack at getting published, only I didn't know how. A friend of a friend suggested I join SCBWI. So I did.

I met Loree and Eric through the SCBWI message board and, in 2003, we formed a critique group. Over the years, our relationship has evolved into a very special friendship. With their support, and a great deal of trial and error, I have completed two novels. At some point along the way I picked up a new identity, I'm a writer.

We met because each of us took specific steps at precise moments in time. Three little meteorites traveling through the vast universe collided and a friendship was formed. It's too random; I can't think about it anymore.

Mirror, mirror....

I divide my time between two houses, one in Michigan, the other in Tennessee. In both of them I have mirrors hanging everywhere, not just bathrooms and bedrooms but the living room, dining room, kitchen, basement. It's not because I'm vain, I like to look at rooms backwards.

First I admire the general appearance. Without fail, each room appears more spacious. I cannot figure out why. I marvel at the still life quality, the colors in the furnishings, the angle of a chair, the views out the windows. It's like I'm looking at a different house.

When I'm done with that, I move onto the main attraction; I try to see what's going on in the spaces that are outside my range of vision. I twist, and turn, stand on my tip toes, lean in, lean out. Since I have so many mirrors, I can spend countless whiles moving about the room, seeing it from different angles.

I know the concept is not new. Alice did this very thing in her "Adventures in Wonderland." But I didn't get the idea from her. I started this practice as soon as I was able to climb up on a chair and look in a mirror.

It's great fun and I suggest you give it a try.

Oh Dear

I just finished the book I've been working on for the past year and a half. My days will no longer be spent in the dysfunctional little world I created.

I'm not happy, I'm sad. Worse, I'm bereft. I feel like I just got a divorce. Like my dog ran away.

I stand alone watching the train pull out of the station, and all the characters from my book are on board. They have each other. I have no one. This is too hard. I am never writing another book again. Ever!

The Essentials for Writing a Book

Let me just launch into this. My writing behavior is inconsistent because I suffer from multiple-writing-personalities-disorder. Here's how it works:

#1: I don't write anything at all and don't feel guilty.

#2: I beat myself up for not writing but I don't have anything to say.

#3: I am on fire! My fingers race to keep up with my mind. Nothing can stop me. I forget to eat, sleep, turn on lights, bathe.

#4: I'm done. I submit my manuscript to my writing group. I can't type and gnaw my fingernails simultaneously, so I wait. And fret. I realize there was a plot twist I left out. A witticism I neglected to include. A loose end I forgot to tie. Too many dialogue tags. Not enough tension.

#5: My writing group sends their critiques. Every word reads: THIS SUCKS!

#6: After I pull myself out of the fetal position, I slam my computer shut, and go back to personality #1.

#7: I am being eaten alive by guilt. I have got to finish that manuscript. I square my shoulders and sit down at the computer. I take off my shoes. Blow my nose. Go floss my teeth. Come back. Read my email. Send my brother a chatty note about myself. Read people's blogs. Eat a bag of Starlight Mints. Write something in my own blog. Go brush my teeth. Come back. File my nails. See what's happening on Rugman.com.

When I am finished with these warm-up exercises, I re-read the critiques. They aren't so bad after all. In fact, they're downright encouraging. Hey, these are some fabulous suggestions! My mind sparks, it ignites, I'm on fire!

It's All in the Presentation

Here I go again, commenting on signs. The name on this one has been changed to protect the innocent (me.)

It's spray painted on a warped piece of wood that's staked into the lawn of a house on the side of a highway:

Jane Doe Attorney at Law

The mind boggles.

Let's Hear It For The Roses!

My roses are in bloom. Amazing.

I'd always thought roses were little sissies that had to be coddled and coaxed into growing. Not these guys. They hang tough in my survival-of-the-fittest garden.

They're planted in soil made up of clay and rocks. The rain here comes four inches at a time, if it comes at all, and the clumpy dirt retains no moisture. It's not a problem.

Every May these roses strut their stuff like a troupe of Las Vegas showgirls. Sadly, by July they are nothing but bare stalks.

I think I shall go outside and enjoy my roses before the deer do.

A Few Short Words on Verbosity

Verbosity is my middle name, so I'll make this long. Just kidding.

For years I have blithely claimed to be verbose. Today I decided to look up some synonyms for that wonderful trait.

Windiness, long-winded, redundancy. Yikes!

That's what I've been telling everyone? What're the antonyms?

Conciseness, laconic.

I like those better. From now on I'll be laconic, short-winded, admired by one and all for my succinct, pithy...damn! I'm doing it again.

Communicating Clearly

Okay, I know I tend to go on about this, but I saw a hand-lettered sign posted in the window of a storefront church. It said: What if it true?

What if what true?

The Martians have landed? The fork ran away with the spoon?

Next time I'm near that church I'm going to knock on the door and demand an explanation.

Bad, Badder, Baddest

My writing group of two, Loree Burns and Eric Luper, have finished critiquing my novel. They have offered their usual wonderful insights and suggestions which I intend to incorporate into the next draft.

I had hoped the novel would fall into the young adult category. It does not. It's kind of liberating. I can now fully unharness my dark side, dust off some choice swear words (joke - they don't need dusting) and get some of my characters off their passive butts and into really hot water.

I simply must spice things up. No, it won't be heaving bosoms or throbbing manhood. It'll be something much better than that - violence. Just a tad.

I also need to add a new element of surprise. Dr. Luper was not impressed with my who-dunnit angle, so I'm going to twist it around so that even he, great sleuth and guesser-of-endings will be caught off guard.

Now, how to make a surly, snarky individual into someone Dr. Burns will like from the get-go. Groan. Sigh. That is my biggest challenge.

Writing bad guys is so much easier than writing good guys.

And the Answer Is...

When I get to heaven I have three questions I'm going to ask:

1. What happened to Amelia Earhart?

2. Who was behind the grassy knoll when President Kennedy got shot?

3. What does this slogan, posted in the window of a beauty salon, mean?

"Yesterdays hair is tomorrows trend"

A Little Whine, Please

I have an idea for a new novel. I have a good premise and some interesting characters but I'm not sure which one is the protagonist. I know I'll find out when I start writing the book, only I don't start. I feel overwhelmed by the immensity of the project, like I'm an ancient Egyptian laborer who just received orders to build a new pyramid.

I'm Puzzled

The other day I saw a group of men on motorcycles. They and their passengers wore black leather vests with the following inscription, "Undisputed Ryders." I assume it's the name of their club. And I'm sure they spent a great deal of time deciding on it. But I can't figure out what it means and it's been bugging me.

It's That Time Again

I am about to start a new novel. This will be my fourth if we count my very first attempt which was written in ten days using the stream-of-consciousness technique. Whooo-eee, that was a beaut!

I have written two novels since then. The first first draft of the second one, a middle grade light fantasy, was another one of my ten-day wonders. It amazed me how fast the words sprang from my fingers. And, looking back, how random and unfocused they were. Three cheers for my writing group, Loree Burns nd Eric Luper who read both of these pitiful manuscripts and critiqued them. They even managed to encourage me, and this stuff was B-A-D!

Two pretty darn good novels later (she said modestly), I've realized my problem in revising first drafts is I've tried to keep them as is. Not a good idea for a free-range writer. If I consider the first draft to be a 300 page outline, maybe the first first draft of this next book will shine. Maybe.

Four Firsts and an Answer

I just got back from the Rising River retreat in New Hampshire. Hooray for me! I went to my first ever writer's retreat, and I met Eric Luper and Loree Burns(my online critique group). Two firsts with one stone.

I was a bundle of nerves about going. When the Big Day arrived I dragged myself out of my hermit cave, shoved my feet into my big-girl shoes, and booted my butt onto the plane.

The weirdest thing about meeting Eric and Loree was, it didn't feel weird at all. It felt like we already knew each other. I guess we did. Isn't that funny how you can make friends just by typing on the Internet?

The place we stayed was really neat. It's called the Gibson House, here's the URL - www.gibsonhousebb.com

Check out the rooms. I was in Le Petite Chateau, Loree was in the Rialto, and Eric was in the Taj North, which was only fitting for the only male amongst nine women.

The writing part of the retreat was the hardest for me. That's because I didn't have anything to write. I'd just finished my novel and wanted to put it away for awhile but that left me with nothing to do. So, I hauled it out and read it through. Yikes! My protagonist starts out as one of those people you couldn't warm up to if you were cremated together. She gets more likeable as the book goes on but I'm afraid she'd scare the readers off long before they got to that point.

I spoke about it with Jackie Davies who hosted the retreat; she made some excellent suggestions. Then I had a group critique with some of the other writers. (The one-on-one, and group critiques were both maiden voyages for me - pat on the back for bravery!) I got a lot of helpful feedback but I still couldn't figure out what to do with my nasty little main character. Until...

We were at dinner on Saturday night (marinated flank steak, roasted potatoes, and Swiss chard...YUM!) Eric was talking about a woman who had trouble writing a synopsis. I was giving him my full attention when, for no apparent reason I exclaimed, "I started my book in the wrong place."

The people at the table looked puzzled.

"The story really begins in chapter six," I said, "and that's when my protagonist lightens up. Ha!" I realized how rude I'd been and added sheepishly, "Sorry, Eric."

Here's the URL for Rising River retreat - www.risingriverretreat.com

If you click on the images of Winter 2007 session, you'll see your's truly along with the other attendees. I'm the one with the light bulb glowing over her head. It was a very cool experience.