Flower Power

by Elizabeth

I'm not, as my daughter would say, "a super girly-girl." Oh, I like a pretty skirt just fine; I wear makeup most days; I even sometimes use various hair care gadgets. But my general style would best be described as practical and casual. I wear a lot of plain T-shirts, jeans that cost less than dinner for two at Chili's. My prime consideration when shoe shopping is comfort, and even most of my bras are good old serviceable nude.

But now and again, it's fun to get a little glam, step out of my plain Jane rut, and go fancy.

My mother-in-law isn't a girly-girl either, but she's definitely a woman who knows how to accessorize. I don't think I've once seen her nails bare--fingers or toes. I can't recall ever seeing her without a necklace. It's rare for even her ears to be unadorned.

Her accessories are always gorgeous, too. Her real jewels are stunning, and her costume pieces chunky and wonderful. I think everyone who knows her must have had the same moment I have many times over: seeing a bracelet or earrings at a shop or a festival and immediately knowing it should belong to her. My daughter has already had this happen, a lot. "That is so Grandma!" she'll say. "We should get it for her!" She's inevitably right, and if the price is too (a lot of the stuff that is "so Grandma" costs more than my annual mortgage), and a gift-giving event is imminent, we're set.

Said mother-in-law doesn't necessarily wait for a gift-giving occasion to treat me, however. The other day she invited my daughter and me to join her at the salon she frequents for manis and pedis all around. The ten-year-old worked herself into a flurry of anticipation, and I looked forward to it, too. It's summer, I thought. Maybe I'd go really crazy and go for something a bit bolder than the pale pink I usually brush on if I bother.

I got an elegant but still serviceable French on my hands. I did spring for--well, Nancy sprang for ("It's your inheritance and I'll spend it if I want!") the new I-don't-remember-what-it's-called super-durable insta-dry polish-stuff. I'm interested to see how long it lasts. My own usual on-clearance-at-Target polish has a pretty short life span, at least in the shine department.

But then came toe time. First, they talked me into a brilliant pink, like the color of some roses you have to stop and stare at. "Would you like flowers?" the manicurist asked. Flowers?! On my toes! What's next, music music wherever I go? My daughter was already getting fat daisies on all of her great digits, had planned them from the moment she heard about the outing, but me? Flowers?

What the hell!

It's not that I don't like a pretty skirt. It's not that I eschew makeup, or fail to appreciate a lovely necklace. It's not that I'm anti-girly, or even un-girly. It's just outside my box.

Not long ago agent Janet Reid linked her blog to a graphic flash fiction piece (that's the best way I can think to describe it) that made me nearly cry. It told the life story of an artist--and though it was an illustrator, it could have been a sculptor or a writer or anything--finding her vision over and over when she dared beyond the expected. Stepped outside of what she knew, of what she did. Got brave enough to be a little more--not more than she was, but beyond the rigidity of how and what she thought about herself.

So, I got flowers. And honestly? I love 'em.

Forgotten Names

by Joan

As writers we hope our work will remain on others’ shelves and minds long after we’re gone. We wish to connect with readers, touch hard-to-reach hearts or bring humor to those who crave it. We’d love our name to be familiar to someone other than our relatives. Especially after we die. Surely non-writers feel the same.

Last week on a trip home to Maryland, I visited friends and family, celebrated three more high school graduations, and took my niece to Solomon’s Island and St. Mary’s College in Southern Maryland where she’ll attend next fall. I also made my way to a cemetery I’ve long wanted to visit.

On a sunny, happy day, my son and I roamed through Mt. Olivet Cemetery in historic Frederick, Maryland. It was easily close to two miles long and probably half a mile wide. I expected he’d humor me and patiently wait while I wandered for a bit, maybe long enough to see Francis Scott Key’s monument and cross a field or two of aging tombstones.

But to my surprise and delight, he seemed just as fascinated as I was, enamored with stones and epitaphs and history. As we stepped over the past, we discussed life and death and legacy. Who will recognize our names?

Many names we spotted that day were unfamiliar and we wondered if they weren’t made up. There were plenty of duplicates, even some whose match lay clear on the opposite side of the cemetery. By the time we’d climbed through each section and were headed back to the car, we ventured there were thousands of graves there.

I wrote down some of the more unusual names we saw, as well as some I’d like to use for characters in a future book. One name was so steeped in history, I contemplated stepping out of my comfort zone and setting a book during the civil war. What do you think of Amos Thigpen?




We couldn’t help but wonder if we could figure out their professions:
Fearhake - Accountant
Gittinger - Bootlegger
Deterding - Jailer
Devilbliss - Mortician
Stonebraker - Architect
Kefayver - Locksmith
Haberkorn - Bootsmith
Kottmyer - Physician
Hamrick - Butcher
Peomroy – Dog groomer
Tobery - Teacher
Hahn Crum – German spy
Boleler - Musician
Dudrow - Cowboy
Petrotth - Scientist
Lebhertz – Telegraph operator
Wickless - Thief




And we came upon a tree, whose trunk formed the image of a woman about to give birth. I'd name her Bessie Brightwell. What are some of the most unusual names you've come across?

I Would Hate to Live with a Writer

By Kim

The last few weeks have been crazy in the Bullock household. Teacher conferences, field trips, dance recitals, business trips (for my husband), appliances breaking, one child bored and the other suffering from a combination sinus and ear infection – you name it! My manuscript took a back seat to my life and, while I often kept a smile on my face, there have been days my temper got the best of me. At times, I may have been a bit unpleasant to be around.

The more I connect with other writers, the more I realize that as a group we share certain traits. We play nicely with each other because we baffle our friends and families. I tried to imagine what it must be like for my husband and children, trapped in the house with a writer. I don’t envy them. Here’s why:

Writers are easily distracted

I used to say I had “Mommy Moments” but it’s not really fair to blame motherhood. I had to turn the car around a block from home to assure myself I closed the garage door long before I had kids. In the past week I’ve left my car keys on a counter, neglected to bring in the groceries, left the back door unlocked (though I did set the alarm), and burned a grilled cheese sandwich beyond recognition. My excuse? While my body is in 2011, my mind is in 1916.

Writers may forget to eat

They may also forget that they are in charge feeding everyone else until it is six in the evening and someone asks the inevitable question. “What’s for dinner?”

Writers are selfish

If we hope to get anything accomplished we must neglect something, be it our jobs, our housework, or our family. I’ve been guilty of playing a DVD for the kids so I can finish writing a scene. I’ve spent evenings with Carl and Madonna instead of my husband. I’ve put off errands, rescheduled doctor and dentist appointments, said “no” to volunteer opportunities with the PTA, and ignored the dishes piled in the sink. I’ve lamented my lack of a real office, though in all fairness it is pretty quiet around here during the work/school week.

Writers are poor

Very few of us will ever make a living wage from our writing. We must either work a day job and steal time from our families to write, or rely on our spouses to support us. Neither option is ideal.

Writers come with unpredictable muses

Those muses may remain silent during our regular writing time and wake us at 3:00 AM. They may speak to us in the middle of a meal, while waiting at a stoplight, or while listening to our children talk about their day. We can’t help it.

Writers are slightly nuts

We hear voices. Enough said.

Writers often appear to be daydreaming

No one but another writer understands that staring out the window is part of the job description. Zoning out in the middle of a conversation is an occupational hazard as well. Please don’t take it personally. It’s not you. It’s us.

Writers are anti-social

Most of us are hermits and loners. Some of us can be extroverts when the occasion calls for it, but we would likely much rather be left alone. If I don’t have a few hours of complete solitude several times a week I become anxious and irritable. That’s not always fun for those who share a house with me.

Writers are slobs/neat freaks

Okay, I don’t know if this is everyone, but it certainly applies to me. When my writing is going well, I live in sweats and a T-shirt and the house has no flat surface without clutter. Laundry baskets will be full, dishes will pile in the sink, and I don’t recommend that anyone venture into the master bathroom. When I’m stuck, I declare war on the dust bunnies, and my kitchen is sparkling. My poor kids never know if I will get after them to pick up their stuff.

Writers are always observing

No one is safe! We eavesdrop on conversations We store away images of fashion blunders. We ruthlessly steal cute lines from our kids or have our characters rehash an argument we had with our spouses. We scan other people’s bookshelves or music collections. We ask nosy questions. We read everything.


I’m very glad I don’t live with a writer! If you live with one, or are one, and I left something out, please clime in! How many of these fit you?

When setting is characters

By Julie

Yes, you read that right. It doesn't say what we've talked about before--setting as character. Nope, it says what you think it says.

You guys are getting the fallout of my revisions in my posts lately. I love exploring craft issues—and enjoy it even more when a post occurs to me as a natural result of what I'm doing.

You may know I'm revising a manuscript about two unlikely friends on a road trip to a funeral.

The settings vary, all the way from Texas to Kentucky, and while I'm very familiar with the Texas settings because I live here, the Kentucky/Ohio settings are a little tougher to write.

I was born in Kentucky and lived there off and on until I was in the third grade. My grandparents lived in Cincinnati, and my dad grew up in these areas, too, so I am somewhat familiar with them—mostly from my childhood memories, one or two trips back as an adult, and family photographs and lore.

I've worried. Will my setting notes for the parts of my manuscript that take place in Kentucky and Ohio ring true? I've picked my dad's brain again and again to be sure I remember things correctly. I've used Google Earth to view terrain, neighborhoods and architectural styles. I've searched for historical images of landmarks. In other words, I've tried to ensure my setting is accurate. However, I don't doubt that when my novel is published, some local reader will be able to point out the flaws in my Kentucky/Ohio scenes.

But I came across something interesting this week. Something that told me setting isn't necessarily about the terrain. It isn't always about the landmarks.

Sometimes, it's about the characters.

I just read Laura Moriarty's The Rest of Her Life. This is the second novel I've read by Moriarty (I reviewed The Center of Everything last year here), and I find her prose and dialogue to be painfully honest. I can relate to it on many levels. Like I often do with Elizabeth Berg, I wonder if Moriarty can read my mind. How else could she describe so precisely the way I feel—the often frustrating and confusing parts of being a mother or daughter?

The Rest of Her Life is about a family dealing with the death of another family's child caused by their daughter driving while distracted. It takes place in Danby, Kansas. I don't know if this is a real town. For all I know, it could be a town like the Kentucky one I've created in my novel—loosely based on my research and memories of several towns in the general area. (And yes, I could look Danby up to see if it's real. I might do that later, but for purposes of this post, it really doesn't matter.)

Moriarty didn't spend much time on physical description of the town or the surrounding area. I don't remember many, if any, references to landmarks or cultural reference points. Yet, this town is crystal clear in my mind. The reason is because of her characters.

Her characters are representative of the place. The clothes they wear. The way they talk. The things they do in their spare time. The houses they live in. How they raise their children.

All these things combine to make a detailed picture in my brain of what Danby, Kansas, "looks" like. It might not look like another reader's picture, but it works for me. Setting became an important character in spite of the lack of concrete details.

I hope I've done this in my manuscript, too, regardless of whether the small details I slipped in—maybe 100 percent accurate, maybe not—contribute.

I hope my characters say it as well as I could have.

(And that photo at the top of the post? I took it in Leadville, Colorado, last summer. Click on it to see it larger. What says more about the character of Leadville? The buildings a century or more old? The mountains in the distance? Or the guy in the cowboy hat and leather jacket riding a longboard down the middle of Main Street? Okay, maybe the slightly unsettling gas station signs, too ...)

Is my word count showing?

By Pamela

You know you should exercise daily—bathe, too. You should write thank you notes within a week of receiving a gift. You should rinse the plate before you put it in the dishwasher and separate reds from whites when doing laundry.

People notice when you don’t do these things.

People may not notice when you don’t write on your work-in-progress.

But, my people do.

Recently I’ve been reading the manuscripts of my fellow WhatWomenWriters. Julie and Joan just completed theirs and are gearing up for querying. Susan finished hers, too, and is about to send it to us—letting her family take the first pass—although I managed to wrangle an early draft from her. Kim is steadily plodding forward with her labor of love, and I get to see chapters as she goes.

Julie emailed me the other day: How is your manuscript coming along? Joan sent me a note: Feel free to send me some chapters. Susan said over lunch: So when was the last time you worked on your story?

Oh, I had excuses. Busy with work. Kids’ end-of-school-year activities. Mom here for a long visit. Finally, two Saturdays ago, Joan and I met for breakfast. I knew my explanations wouldn’t hold water with her. Joan knows my writing better than anyone; we co-wrote a manuscript together.

We talked about whether or not I still loved the story. I did. Or whether another story line was tugging at my heart. Not yet. “I just put everything else first,” I confessed.

That’s when this dear friend, who has a full-time job, a son who just graduated high school and a recently completed manuscript, told me her secret. “I got up an hour early every morning and wrote before I had to go to work,” Joan said. “Pick a time, every day, maybe from 10 to noon, and write it.”

And so I have. Not every day yet, but almost. I just passed the 30,000-word mark, so there’s no turning back. In fact, I got up the courage to send Joan two versions of one chapter I recently completed, as I am torn as to which version is more compelling. She wrote back: So glad you’ve picked this back up.

I’m so glad my people notice when I don't.

Keeping it Simple

By Susan

At 6:00am, the waters of the sound are quiet. I have my coffee and binoculars and I watch the ospreys as they glide above the water, searching for food, and then ascend to their nest and perch there together at the end of the pier, squeaking in a language too high-pitched for my father to hear.

"Hand 'em to me," he says, and I give him the binoculars and watch him, the cigar clenched between his teeth.
"You hear 'em?" I ask. He shakes his head. "I think they are arguing," I say. The two birds snap their wings open and closed, fluffing themselves as they screech.

Daddy is 69 years old now, and this is one of his favorite places on earth: this deck, this chair. "He must have stayed out all night," he says, smiling, as he holds the binoculars to his weathered face. "She's none too happy." He knows these birds, and their tumbling nest that spills over the peak of the roof to the small gazebo. He follows this family of birds the way housewives follow soap operas.

He's been coming to this house in Corolla for almost ten years, and each year he watches the birds. My parents come and go with the same regularity as the ospreys. My clan of four only comes every third year or so to join them. But my parents are steady, arriving and departing each May, planning the meals and the pick-up basketball games with my nephews, scheduling walks on the beach and bike rides along the paths near the sound.

We come and go. It's predictable, it's simple. There is no drama, and the only conflict is whether we should spend the day at the ocean, the pool, or in the sound, kayaking the fresh waters in a silent glide. My children are still sleeping and today is our last day.

"I haven't told them we are leaving tomorrow," I say to Daddy.

"Don't," he says, and I nod.

When I leave here, I know, my life will lose its simplicity. I will face the daily conflicts and challenges that come with raising children, writing late into the night, and spending my days working too much. But this week, I have been completely unplugged.

I lift the binoculars again, and the osprey turns her head. She's watching me too, I realize. She's watching me come and go and perch on this deck each morning with my father as he chews his cigar and I drink my coffee. Under her gaze I can see how alike we are, this mother-bird and myself. We come, we go. The conflict between the coming and going are our own affairs. There is no conflict here between me and mother-bird, only peace.

Tomorrow, I will fight my way through the airports to make my way back to Texas with my husband and daughters. From there, I'll return to work, juggling the summer schedule of children and career, and begin querying my manuscript while I struggle to find the hours to begin my next one.

On the hectic days to come, I will stop to think about my father watching the ospreys, and I'll hold that sliver of peace with me until the next time I make it to the coast. But today, I am living it. And so I sit back with my coffee and smile.

Mundane--or Magic?

by Elizabeth

So here are a few things that have happened to me in the past couple of weeks.

First up, my microwave died, the apparent victim of an underpowered and/or overloaded circuit. (Don't ask me to explain anything technical; my brain turns off.) The good news was the oven itself was okay; the bad news was that the dedicated circuit (or whatever) cost over twice what the new nuker would. Had to be done, though.

So I approve the work, write the check, wait around all afternoon while the electrician does his thing--only for him to discern, oops, it really was the microwave all along. This brings the grand total to an amount high enough I don't even know what president is on that bill.

The ordering of said new microwave from the home improvement store around the corner, a should-be five minute process, takes almost an hour. And then they get it wrong anyway, which I learn the night before when a machine calls to inform me of my delivery window. No changes allowed, so sorry, beep. Did I mention that one hundred percent of the reason we bought from that particular store was so I wouldn't have to hang around the house waiting for a truck? Now I'm stuck.

Fine, I can deal. The next morning, I dash through part of my to-do list and race home. I spend the first half hour of my delivery sentence politely chewing the manager at the local store a new depot. Then I putter around, waiting for the phone to ring. When it does, after an hour, and a mechanized voice announces the truck is thirty minutes out, I have a moment of celebration, realizing I might actually have time to run errands on the flip side. Sixty minutes later: no truck, no microwave. A second call to the store and I learn--it's been delivered there! Which is something the manager assured me they do not do. Now too late to leave the house, I gird myself for kids and carpool, and take a very considerate call announcing a new G.E. awaits me at the store. I very considerately do not use my George Carlins.

Next up: another electrical failure. I'm vacuuming up piles of black and white animal fur when smoke alerts me to another circuit snafu, the surge taking the life of the sweeper's motor like one of Voldemort's followers grabbing a muggle on his own way to oblivion. The vacuum, faithful as Hermione, at least leaves a parting gift: a hot melted stench that will no doubt scent my playroom all season long. Nothing says summer like the stink of scorched plastic.

We're not done yet. The next morning, I drive to my trusted auto shop for an oil change. A note on the door snarls that the manager has quit without notice, fired the staff, and left the charities the profits supported in the lurch. Not to mention me and my dirty oil.

This is all life, I know. As the writer of women's fiction, I guess I should just recast it as research, story fodder. And I do. But I wonder, too: what is truly interesting, life experiences other people can relate to and savor and guffaw over enough to justify inclusion in a story, and how much is just filler? Does anyone want to read the woes of my daily life injected into a fictional character's journey? At what point does alchemy transform the mundane into the magical?