Flash Fiction: Welcome Home

Continuing with the back-to-school theme, please enjoy the following piece of flash fiction:

WELCOME HOME

The slow drip in the kitchen sink went ting for the thousandth time.  She sat by the window, waiting for her boy.  Snapshots of summer flashed in her memory:  riding in the car with the windows down, throwing a ball in the back yard, running on the beach, and falling asleep together to the crickets’ song.  She closed her eyes for a moment and just missed him.

At the sound of the school bus, her white, long-haired tail thumped the floor rhythmically.  Then came the boy’s footsteps on the gravel outside.  She stood up and danced, her claws clacking on the floorboards.  

Master Bedroom

Andrew  Wyeth

Buy This at Allposters.com

Truth: Memories of my breakfast with John Updike

Tortoise sees ...
Mort  Gerberg
Buy This at Allposters.com


It was about this time of year, twenty-two years ago, when I had breakfast with John Updike.  I was a freshman at Agnes Scott College, and he was visiting the campus.

There were a couple of public opportunities over a two day period to hear him read from his works and speak, and I enjoyed at least one of them.  But a Junior who was a fellow English Lit major encouraged me to show up for the early morning breakfast in the dining hall.  She said it might be a small group.  Any student could have joined, but few had expressed interest in getting up so early.

So I rolled out of bed, threw on a matching skirt and blouse (but no makeup) and headed over to the dining hall.  It was a bad hair day, but I felt sure John Updike wouldn't care.  I got my tray, looked around and sat down at a table in the middle.  I was a tad early.  Then he came, along with the Junior who had invited me, and maybe two or three other students.  Small, intimate group.  He sat down next to me, on my left.  I'm sitting next to John Updike and having breakfast, I thought.  He's talking to me.  I was a little starstruck.  In fact, I still have a hard time believing it.

John Updike was a very pleasant and affable gentleman, though.  His presence was not daunting or haughty, despite his enormous career and accolades.  He had a magnetic smile and wild, white, unruly eyebrows.  I mostly listened as he chatted with the other three or four students and entertained their questions.  But I did ask him one question.

In my 18-year-old exuberance and foolishness, I had begun writing a few stories which were more snapshots or scenes than stories, as I had no idea where they would go.  I had been told by more than one advisor that I needed to know how it was going to end before I started.  Phooey, I had said.  Let the story take a life of its own, I thought, and bend with the wind, or else it's all a mathematical equation.  This was the 18-year-old's know-it-all theory.

So I asked the two-time Pulitzer Prize winner himself.  "Do you always know how the novel is going to end before you begin?"

"Oh, yes," he answered me.  Then he told me that there were bound to be surprises and twists along the way.  He said he was open to things that would pop up and change here and there.  But he confirmed that he always had the end in sight before he even wrote the first word.

Then, and only then, did I believe that that is how it must be done.  This concept is so simple, so basic.  And yet, with my hard head, it took a world-renowned master to tell me before I believed it.  I could have asked him anything, and there are so many more complex things I would ask him, if I had that same opportunity today.  My question was so elementary, that it embarrasses me now.

An artist doesn't put the brush to his canvas without knowing what he will paint.  He doesn't just start dotting and swiping, hoping that it becomes something.  Nor can a writer craft a story without projecting what it will be at the end.

So I do bend with the wind, and sometimes my characters surprise me.  But I make sure my roots are firmly planted before I bend.  Posthumous gratitude to John Updike for sharing breakfast and wisdom with a whippersnapper like me.

Wending My Way Through the Internet and Avoiding Krakens

Have you ever been driving somewhere and suddenly turned off of your track on purpose?

As writer, I frequently find myself going "down the rabbit hole," as a friend put it last week.  At the time she said it, I was researching for a new short story.  I got on YouTube (fatal mistake) looking for videos of sharks beaching themselves.  As I kept getting distracted by the exciting titles of other videos that turned out to be *nothing,* I clicked my way right into an hour of "kraken sightings."

I had to laugh at myself.  Ultimately, I'm sure a kraken will show up in one of my stories as a result.

But today was different!  As I was driving around on the internet highway, I saw a great big souvenir shop with the words "FAMILY HISTORY!" in neon lights.  I jerked the car onto the next exit ramp intentionally.  Want to ride with me?  Here's how it happened:

1.  I was checking a link on a government website, because it was included in an article I wrote in January.  When you write articles for the internet, it's a really good idea to update them and make sure your links are still good from time to time.  But instead of this one being about National Hot Tea Month, the page was now some announcement related to hydroelectricity.  Instead of simply updating the link and moving on, I listened to that voice in my head that said, "Oooh!  Something shiny!  Pull over; pull over!"

2.  I thought of my great-grandfather, an engineer, who built the first hydroelectric plant in North America (Canada, specifically), or so I thought.  But right there in black and white, it said that Thomas Edison had built the first such plant in the world, and it was in Appleton, WI around 1880.  That is definitely in North America, too.  And it's definitely 40 years or more before my great-grandfather's project.  All right, I said to myself.  Gotta get my facts straight.  Right now.  Al Gore did not invent the internet, and my great-grandfather didn't build the first hydroelectricity plant in North America.

2.  I Googled my great-grandfather.  I clicked on an article on file in a SC library where a historian had synopsized letters between my great-grandfather and a couple of his brothers.  I learned that one of my grandfather's first cousins was institutionalized in various Sanitariums.  I learned that while my great-grandfather and family lived in Charlotte, the farm house back in SC was rented to a man who had to be turned out.  Reason?  96 broken window panes.  I'm guessing that the man was shooting up the house.  That's just the "fun" stuff.

3.  I decided I needed to send this link, by email, to my cousins.  Their grandfather was quoted in the article, too.

Now I was faced with a decision, though . . . continue meandering and proceed to Ancestry.com, or get back to work?  Work, it was.  (Here's the part where I impress myself.) I actually clicked back through every stop I had made along the way, and without getting lost.  What's more, I accomplished my business at each stop.  And, here at the end of the work day, I have actually posted a new article online and managed to get some work done, despite rabbit hole diving!  No kraken sightings today.

So, I found out that what my grandfather's father built was most likely the first hydroelectric plant in Canada, not North America.  (I probably could have just asked my dad, but then it would have been over with in 60 seconds or fewer.)  I learned more intriguing family history.  I made contact with some dear family members.  I proofed old articles and updated them.  I wrote and posted a new article on the internet, and am working on the next one already.  And now, friends, I have also blogged.  It's a good day in this writer's world.

Where is her happy ending?

Many readers have communicated to me that the story “Get Your Own” from my recent collection The Ballad of the Shirley T and Other Stories stayed with them long after they put the book down.  This is a wonderful compliment for a writer to receive, of course.  While I’m happy to hear it, I can’t take credit.  And not only can I not take credit, but these compliments also serve as a reminder for me.  They are a reminder of something which I know I have to do.  I have to write the next part of the story.

Why is the story haunting?  So far, everyone has given the same reason.  Galya.  Is she okay?  What happened to her?  And here is my personal favorite among the comments:  Please write a sequel.  Yes, yes, I know.  I know you’ve only heard part of the story.  Her story was far bigger than I expected it to be, and there is much more to it.  It was very difficult for me to write, and the sequel is difficult, as well.

When God gave me inspiration for that story, I prayed over it before I began to write.  I asked God what story HE wanted to tell.  I asked Him to give me part of His heart.  I wanted the story to flow directly from the heart of God into my own, and from mine into the reader’s.  I continued to pray this as I wrote, day by day.

I knew then, and still know, that no human can ever conceive of the contents or capacity of God’s heart.  I am no dummy.  I would only receive a molecule of a fraction, a microscopic drop of an infinite source of love in order to write this story, but that tiny drop is more than enough.

Many times, I have felt the lightning strike and been able to sit down and “bang out” a short story in a few hours or a few days.  That was never the case with Galya’s story.  It came slowly.  It hurt.  I took extra precautions and felt especially burdened for her character.  I felt especially burdened to be delicate and truthful with what I was given.  From the very first sentence, Galya was my child.  I held her and loved her.  Day after day, I labored over it.

Once it was in the editor’s hands, I was told that the story had “too tidy” of an ending.  I knew it was true, and I cut the very end.  There was too much else to tell - in between where it ends now and where I knew it would ultimately end.

So, if you’re wondering, I’ll leave you with a clue.  Remember when Galya sat breathless, bleeding, and terrified behind the counter in the fabric store?  She was calling for help, but she hung up the phone and left.  She hung up too soon.  Help was on its way.  Where she went next, she could also find help.  But the real help that she wanted was already being dispatched, dear readers.

What challenges will she face next, and will her mother come looking for her?  Coming soon . . . Get Your Own, Part II.

Leave a comment and let me know – would you like it in print format or e-book format?  If e-book, do you have a Kindle or a Nook?

If you haven't read the first part of the story, click here (Paperback or e-book) to find it.

A Teacher's Hands

I love writing flash fiction.  It keeps my muscles warm when I reach writer's block on another project.  Below is one of my flash fiction projects.  I hope you enjoy it.
Photo credit


A Teacher's Hands

I knew exactly what I would get for Mrs. Carter for Christmas.  My mother walked me into McCall’s Pharmacy downtown, and my brown, leather shoes thumped quickly across the wood floor.  My knee socks started to slide down.  “Slow down, Virginia,” my mother admonished.

I sighed heavily and heel-toed my way to the cosmetics section.  A shelf displayed large bottles of scented hand lotions.  The palette was overwhelming, but all pastel.  For every fruit, flower, tree, or nut, there was a different color of lotion, and a different picture on the bottle.  I stood before the pinks and chose the one with a rose on the label.

“That’s what you want to get her?” my mother questioned.  I nodded.  Her curly red hair was unruly that day, and she tucked it behind her ear.  Checking the price, she added, “Well, all right,” then handing it back, “Why this one?”  I knew why, but I wasn’t sure how to articulate it.

Mrs. Carter’s hands were always wrinkled and dry.  It was probably from all the chalk dust.  She would tappity-tap-tap down that blackboard with little white crumbs flying in every direction.  The eraser would make a soft pop, then swish the dust back and forth at the front of the room.

Loose skin hung from Mrs. Carter’s “old lady” fingers, as I thought of them, giving them a soft look, like milky velvet.  But a white-knuckled grip forced the obstinate, swollen, old windows in the classroom open on pleasant days and told of the unbreakable strength in the bones underneath.  With a red pen, she graded our papers using perfect flourishes, angles and loops typical of old-fashioned cursive.  The words she wrote had all the propriety and politeness of an invitation to tea with the mayor’s wife.  

Mrs. Carter’s fingernails were always manicured and neat, but never too long.  Great length would not have been practical for a teacher charged with educating twenty-two fourth-graders.  After all, those hands had to pat shoulders under falling tears.  They had to sew buttons back onto a dress after a tree-climbing accident at recess.  They had to steer dirty, sweaty necks to the principal’s office.  They had to shuffle papers, carry books, slap a yardstick on a desk to get attention, move thumbtacks on a bulletin board.  Those hands baked cupcakes and brought them to school once a month to celebrate birthdays.  They dialed a parent’s phone number when a child seemed troubled or had slipping grades.  They clapped at the conclusion of oral book reports.  They dug in the dirt and captured small creatures in the name of science.  Those were busy hands.

On her left hand through it all was Mrs. Carter’s thin, tight wedding band.  She had told us during the first month of school that she never took it off, nor did her husband remove his.  I thought that was wildly romantic and sweet, for a couple to be so deeply connected as to never remove their wedding bands.  When we were practicing our long division one day in October, a delivery boy brought a magnificent bouquet of pink roses into the classroom.  It was an anniversary gift from Mr. Carter.  Pink roses were Mrs. Carter’s favorite.  She told us she thought they were soft and ladylike, but with a strong stem not easily broken or bent.

So I tried to condense it all and answer my mother’s question, “Why this one?”  before we got to the cash register.  I finally looked up at her as we got in line.

“Because,” I said simply, “she has beautiful hands.”

Time for Some Oxygen

A few months ago, I was working on my novel when things came to a screeching halt.  Sure, you can call it Writer’s Block, but it was much more serious than that to me.  Here I was, about 50,000 words into it, and the whole thing just kind of shut down on me.  Like a machine that stops working.  And then I realized that maybe this machine had a faulty design from the start.  I put it down.

Simultaneously, my parents asked me if I would be willing to do some painting in their house.  For various reasons, they just didn’t want to have someone they barely knew working in their house for an extended period of time.  I really love to paint, normally.  I find it therapeutic, and love seeing the physical progress of my hard work.  It was just what the doctor ordered.

I sang all the way through the first couple of days.  But things started to deviate from the original plan a little.  A color was wrong, and the entire room had to be re-done.  In another room, the semi-gloss betrayed brush strokes in a most offensive manner.  Redone, of course.  Trim and doors were not part of the original contract, but were added.  Due to my inability to just go over there for eight hours per day for days on end, this project was taking an eternity.  The joy of painting had become drudgery.  I made mistakes and had to clean them up, over and over.

Yesterday, as I put the last bit of marshmallow latex on a door frame, I said, “I just can’t handle it anymore.  I’m so sick of painting.”  I had been pushing myself along, almost through tears, thinking, This is not the talent that God blessed me with.  This is not what He created me to do.  Writing is.  I can’t breathe.

So this morning, I knew I would be getting back to my real occupation, my life’s work, my passion.  As I made breakfast, I realized I was literally dancing and singing around the kitchen.  Just the thought of doing what I love gave me a new boost of energy.  The oxygen had already returned to my brain.  As I have spent the day where I belong (in front of the computer, tapping away), I have remembered who I am.  I am me again.  I feel good in my own skin.  And it doesn’t have any paint smudges on it.

What activity is like oxygen for you?

Chalk Streets

One of my son's favorite activites is drawing "chalk streets" on his little portable blackboard.  He creates intersections, lines down the middle of the streets, trees, and buildings.  He then asks me to label the buildings (since he's only in 3K and can't spell all the words yet).  Fire and police stations are first, of course, because he's a boy.  We fill in the rest of the blanks with things like stores, banks, gas stations, churches, and schools.  We draw little houses, too.

It's so much fun to imagine and build a little town!  The point of it all, of course, is that he puts Matchbox cars down on the streets and drives them hither and yon.  "This one has to go to the bank," he will say, and add "bbbbbbrrrrrrrooooommmmm" as he drives the car over to the bank.  "The fire truck has to get to this house, because it's on fire!" is heard almost every time.  Traffic jams sometimes ensue, with honking, beeping or shouting about being in a hurry.  There's an occasional crash.

As grown-ups, we have to map out our courses every day, don't we?  At least we should.  When I realized it had been nearly a month since I last blogged, I knew that was the result of a lack of mapping.  Sure, I see the big dot on the opposite coast where I would like to go, but I have to see what roads are in front of me first.  Whether I turn right or left may affect how long it takes me to get to that big dot, and I don't want the wind to just blow me any old way it pleases.  Lately, I have been doing lots of spring cleaning and taking care of all the "other stuff" that comes up.  But in buckling back down on writing, I have to draw some chalk streets of my own.  Where will I be able to stop for fuel?  How far will I make it today?  I need an alternate route in case I hit a traffic jam.

I'm going to start setting some new weekly goals and boundaries for how much time I spend doing various tasks, like marketing, working on my novel, blogging, yoga, laundry, mopping, etc.  Don't get me wrong . . . I'm glad I did all that spring cleaning, and I'm not even finished with it yet.  But life marches on, right?

Since organization and time management have never been my forte, I'm open to any and all suggestions and advice.  What do your chalk streets look like?

Big Things are Happening!



The time has come!  My internet makeover has begun.  While I will continue to post on this blog every now and then (mostly more personal stories and anecdotes; much the same type of thing I have already been posting here), pleasepleaseplease follow me over to my new professional blog . . . drumroll, please . . .

http://perrincothranconrad.authorsxpress.com/

Please click the link above and follow my new page, as well!!!  As I continue to build my platform as an author, I will need your continued support.  The more followers I have on the new blog, the better it will look for me in terms of future publishing projects.

It was built for me by my publisher, iUniverse, and of course promotes my book, The Ballad of the Shirley T.  They also built pages for me on sites like Shelfari, Goodreads, LibraryThing . . . the list goes on.  And in the coming days and weeks, I will be working on polishing up those pages and making them my own.

A great big THANK YOU to all of you who already follow me!!!  Y'all are my "inner circle."  Please follow my new page, as well, and tell your friends and family!

Okay, if you haven't clicked the link to follow my new blog, here it is again:

http://perrincothranconrad.authorsxpress.com/

Thanks and love to you all!!

A New Year's Non-Resolution

I usually make one or two.  And a few have even been kept and accomplished.  So it's not that I have anything against New Year's Resolutions.  On the contrary, I think they can be extremely helpful in getting people to stop and assess where they are, where they would like to be, and what needs to be done to get there.  Goal-setting is an essential element to successful living.

But I am not making any resolutions that are specifically tied to the new year.  I currently have a different approach.  My idea is that I need to constantly be in a state of self-assessment.  Goal-setting, steps toward accomplishment, and celebration of milestones should be daily (as appropriate) without regard for the calendar.  Of course a new year is a great time to make fresh starts, mentally.  But every day can be a fresh start, no matter the date.  This can apply to relationships, work, self improvement, or anything else.  For me, it specifically relates to writing and business goals.  Days of rest are essential, too, but that doesn't mean you can't take your day of rest to reflect on where you are going.

Happy New Year, and may you find that every day is a new day for dreaming, contemplating, planning, working, celebrating.  "May he give you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.  We will shout for joy when you are victorious and will lift up our banners in the name of our God.  May the Lord grant all your requests."  Psalm 20:4-5 NIV

Technological Upgrade for this Author

I am NOT, I repeat, NOT a computer nerd.  I have great respect for computer nerds, and despite the use of the sometimes-pejorative word "nerd," I am in complete awe of them.  I can turn a computer on, figure out how to post to my blog (obviously), update facebook, just barely manage to update my website, and stuff like that.  But when it comes to promoting myself as an author online, I am way out of the loop.

So when I see these other blogs with the RSS feed symbol (I don't even really know what that is), I feel very intimidated.  I know that being an author is 10% writing a book and 90% marketing.  Nowadays, that means internet marketing.  Sure, having a blog is important and helpful.  But the hundreds and hundreds of hits I have on my blog every month are not indicated in the fewer followers I actually have.  And I do wish I could set up one of those little buttons where people could share my blog posts on Facebook or Twitter, but that is so confusing to me.  I know I need help.  I am not afraid to ask for it.

So that's why I have enlisted the help of my publisher.  In the coming weeks, you will see some exciting new things for the technology portion of my writing career . . . and I will announce them right here.  Stay tuned!!

Staying Competitive

I resolved a while back to start submitting stories to writing contests on a regular basis.  I thought maybe it would keep me writing new stuff.  I also hoped I might actually win one. . . long shot, I know, considering how many entries they get and that lots of the folks submitting are MFA students who are daily receiving counsel from their professors.  That's one advantage I don't have.

But here's the upside:  there are writing contests everywhere out there . . . a dime a dozen.  I get an email about once a month naming just SOME of the contests out there, and the list is normally about 20-30 contests long.  The trick, of course, is to find one that is looking for the right genre (sorry, I don't write science fiction).  I usually have a few from which to choose in that regard.  Then I must choose the ones that I can afford to enter . . . entry fees on these things are frequently $20 and under, luckily.  Not usually a problem there.

But they all want fresh material that hasn't already been published.  Ha!  The nerve!  I have lots of short stories and part of a novel saved on thumb drives and such, but very little of it is, in my estimation, worth sharing yet.  So that leaves me working to produce fresh material.  Not a bad thing, considering that was one of my goals in the first place.

Ok.  So I sent a new short story to a contest yesterday.  Thus it begins.  No one had read it, other than me.  I know, I know, that's a big mistake.  I didn't even have anyone proof it.  I'm not overly optimistic about winning or anything, but at least I have entered my first contest.  Now that my feet are wet, it is no longer some mysterious process where I imagine I will need to light a candle and turn around three times while wearing a green hat and blue goggles.

I'll keep you all posted on my contest-entering progress!  Here's hoping it will keep me churning out a good crop of fiction.

The Ballad of the Shirley T is here!!

It's finally here, y'all!  My book, The Ballad of the Shirley T and Other Stories, is available for purchase on iUniverse's online bookstore:  http://bookstore.iuniverse.com/Products/SKU-000489917/The-Ballad-of-the-Shirley-T-and-Other-Stories.aspx

It is also available on amazon.com:  http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Perrin+Cothran+Conrad&x=12&y=18

And Barnes & Noble:  http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Perrin-Cothran-Conrad?keyword=Perrin+Cothran+Conrad&store=book

It's a collection of short stories, some of which I wrote under the tutelage of the late Dr. Bo Ball at Agnes Scott, who was an award-winning author himself.  Others were written more recently.  A few have a definitive Charleston/Lowcountry flavor.

It makes a great Christmas present!  And if you're local, I will be pleased as punch to sign it for you.

Don't write a book unless you are very, very brave. (This one is serious, so don't read it if you need a laugh.)

It's an emotional process, getting a book published.  From start to finish, you are on a roller coaster.  Oh, the excitement when you begin to write!  But then you're like a raw nerve.  As you write, there are times when you feel like your heart is spilling out onto the paper (or the computer screen, as the case may be).  You become emotionally attached to the characters.  You're surprised when inspiration hits and the story takes a slightly different route from the one you planned.  You wait and wait while people proofread, and brace yourself for the ugly truth (which is never quite as ugly as you imagine).  An editor chops it up and tells you what you need to change (also never quite as bad as you imagine).  Then you wait expectantly for the release of your finished work.  You're elated!  But also nervous.  Will people like it?  Will people buy it?  Ultimately, you are surprised at some who buy it.  And you are surprised at some who don't.

It's a consuming process.  You have a story sitting on your brain.  You have to write and write and write until you get it out.  You wrestle with it.  You sweat and pray over it.  Then the editing and proofing takes longer than the actual writing.  Just when you think you are "finished," you realize that the publisher is going to take however long they take to get the book printed.  People ask you daily, "When is your book coming out?"

It's like having a child.  Simply carrying a child for 9 months isn't enough.  You eat well, get enough rest, try to do all the right things.  But even after the child is born, your job is not over.  It has just begun!  Now you must raise the child.  Same with a book.  Now you must raise your book, too, in the form of marketing.  This, like childrearing, is the hardest part.  Tom Petty had it wrong . . . the waiting is NOT the hardest part!  It's the marketing.

To be a writer, you have to be one of two things:  incredibly strong or somewhat sick in the head.  Maybe both.  You are going to experience rejection and pain.  And you have to know how to keep on keeping on.  Being a writer is not for the faint of heart.

So . . . in a few weeks, my new book will be ready to purchase, and I look forward to announcing it here!  Stay tuned.

Dusting off the Cobwebs

Excuse me while I blow the dust off my blog here . . . I have not blogged much lately.  That is mostly because I am on the brink of releasing my next book:  The Ballad of the Shirley T and Other Stories.  It is a book of six short stories, mostly Southern, and several with distinct Lowcountry flavor.  Paperback will be $.8.95 and e-book less than that (yet to be determined).  Check perrincothranconrad.com or http://www.iuniverse.com/ in the next few weeks!

Getting a book out is hard work and leaves little time for . . . well, writing.  There are proofs and polishing, followed by proofs and more proofs.  And with every round, you never trust yourself completely, so you wait around while someone else's eyes scan and tell you that you forgot to dot an i . . . or that your cover needs an overhaul.

The second reason that I have not blogged much lately is that I have a 3 year old son at home.  Sure, he goes to preschool 3 mornings per week, but when he's home, he requires lots of attention.  If I am not actively engaged with him, I must watch him like a hawk.  Anyone who has ever had a 3 year old boy will understand this.  Just try to go to the bathroom, take a shower, run the vacuum in the next room.  Go ahead.  And when you come back, you will find your son on top of the refrigerator.  Or perhaps he is very proud of himself for having outsmarted the childproof drawer latches and wants to show you the cool icepick he found.

Constant heartattacks.  That's motherhood.  Oh, and the 3 year old tantrums . . . they will leave you questioning everything you ever knew to be true in life and thinking you have gone terribly wrong as a mother.  If you stay at home, you will become convinced that you have ruined him with your bad mothering skills and he would have been better off in daycare.  If you work outside the home, you will wail and beat your chest, thinking your work schedule has caused him emotional problems, and if only you had stayed home . . . but none of these things are true.  All of it is a phase.  Or so I am told.  "The good news is that they all turn four!"  That's what I keep hearing.  Of course, my son is wonderful . . . and so much fun.  But every day is an adventure.  Forget Halloween.  NOTHING scares ME anymore.

So, just try having a 3 year old boy at home with you and trying to get your latest book out at the same time . . . you, too, will be wearing your spouse's sweats because you haven't done your own laundry in so long.  You, too, will be coughing from the dust on your nightstand.

But I wouldn't trade my life for the world.

Moderation

Moderation. I never seem to grasp it all that well when it comes to my work. There are some days where I sit at my computer, and nothing comes. I'm sad, or I'm tired, or I'm distracted. I keep flipping away from that blinking cursor to my Facebook page, to Twitter, to the Talbot's sale, and Oh wait, I was going to google search recipes for stir fry for the next supper club . . . You name it, I'll find it when the creative wave is not washing over me.





But sometimes, like today, I just can't get it all out of my head! I can't type fast enough, and I can't put the computer down. I'm revising old pieces. I'm jotting down outlines for new stories. I'm writing a couple of chapters in my novel. I'm almost afraid to turn off my laptop and go to bed, because I don't want to stop the flow. Because I know that tomorrow may be another one of those other days. I wish I could bottle up some of that creativity on the overload days and save it for those uninspired days. If any of you creative types out there know how to do that, please let me know.