Powerless

That's what my house was for 75 hours this weekend.  Without power. Lacking electricity.  And yet, life went on.  Pretty much as normal.  A few more dirty clothes accumulating than usual.  No whir of the air conditioner.  A wet pony tail for me rather than blown dry locks.  And yet, by hour 62, we were all a little less vibrant, bored with each other, bored with ourselves, frustrated by our inability to make things work the way they usually do.  There was plenty to do and plenty that could be done and yet, nothing we wanted to do except that which was impossible without power.  Why did we feel so unplugged?  Creatures of habit, slaves to life's conveniences...maybe?  I'm not really sure.  I am only sure of something I have suspected my whole life.  I would have made a lousy pioneer woman.

Wanna go for a ride?

Yesterday Conor passed the first hurdle toward his ultimate goal of getting his license - the practical driving test.  He's actually a good driver so it took, as he foretold, about 15 whole minutes to prove it to the instructor who then stamped his permit, gave him a thumbs up and sent him on his way to merrily hurl his breakable body along in 5,000 pounds of steel at speeds far too fast to make sense to anyone but the delighted 16-year-old boy behind the wheel.  Ain't life grand?  Tomorrow, he'll take the written test and it will be official.  He'll have a lousy picture of himself (smiling but showing no teeth as required in Indiana) on a laminated piece of cardboard that will say to the world, "I have arrived.  I have been tested and found capable."

I guess that's a little bit like it must be once you can say you are published.  You can hold up your publishing credential for the editor/agent and say, "I have been tested and found capable.  Wanna go for a ride?"

What makes a story a story?

This weeks submission to the critique group was another revision of my very first book idea: Mrs. K and her Little Red Wagon.  I wrote it initially as a tribute to my mom after she died almost 7 years ago.  It's still a tribute to her, but I have tried to make it more universal and make her more of a character (although anyone who knew her would say she was quite a character).  I mean, of course, more of a character in the literary sense.  Still, I am struggling with the fact that it isn't really a story in the truest sense of the word.  Oh sure, there is a main character: Mrs. K.  There is a setting: the beautiful lakes of the north woods (Wisconsin though I don't say so).  There is action: boating, tubing and skiing.  There is a beginning where we are introduced to Mrs. K, a long middle where all the action happens and Mrs. K proves repeatedly that she is generous, fun and patient and an end in which the children and Mrs. K recap the days events in their own way.  But it's not so much a story with a real plot and conflict as it is a 'day in the life'.  It's a series of vignettes and could probably be retitled Scenes on a Lake (which would ensure that no one will ever buy it).  So the question is: Is that enough? 

It is, of course, written in rhyme, but if I wrote it in prose it would go like this:  The neighborhood kids ask the bare-footed lady next door to take them out in her boat.  She agrees and they scramble to get ready.  She drives really fast and they love it, except for the no wake zone.  Then they go tubing, which is wild.  Then they go skiing and she is really patient for kids who can't ski very well.  Then she puts the boat back into the hoist and goes inside to play scrabble with her friend, while the kids roast marshmallows and brag about their adventures.  Well, now it's clear as mud.

I think before our meeting our Thursday, I will do a little searching of current titles at B&N with this question in mind.  I seem to remember reading lots of books to Conor when he was little that fit this structure, but I need the reassurance of finding and reading them again now.  

(So much about this publishing process would be easier if my memory wasn't shot to hell!  Kevin Kline played a character named  Otto in A Fish Called Wanda that is oft-quoted at our house.  He'd be given a series of instructions and at some point he'd always say "What was the middle thing again?")

Does this count as published?

I just emailed my niece's birthday invitation rhyme to my sister.  She's turning 10 this week and we started this tradition on her 6th birthday.  Back then the theme was bugs; this year she's having a softball party (after school gets out so I'm delivering it right under the wire).  Here's a snippet:

Swing for the fences in the batting cage,
Then we'll have some wiffle ball fun.
Whistle a fast ball across home plate, 
Then score the winning home run!

My sister will print it up on some cute paper and send it out to Regan's friends and their moms will all RSVP with gushing comments about how cute and clever the invites were.  I'll demur with "oh that, I whipped that up in 15 minutes..." but the reality is that I will eat it up with a spoon.  Brian says I'm a little bit of a praise whore (and that is truer than I like to admit), but now that I'm caught up in an industry where there is often so much rejection and negative feedback, it's doubly important to find outlets that help buoy your spirits and inspire you to keep creating.  And these invites, which I also do for her younger sister, are really how I got my start in writing.  Conor's birthday invitations were some of my best work.  My favorite was his fourth birthday where I seamlessly melded a dinosaur theme with a gymnastics party.  It was genius ... and really wowed the other four year olds :-).

My nieces, though, are among my biggest fans and since they live far too far away, I love that we have this special connection once a year.  They understand that I go to all this trouble on their invitations just because I love them.  With the rest of my projects, I need to remember that I go to all this trouble just because I love writing.  Anything else (praise, publishing, etc) is just gravy!