I remember being very afraid of Edgar A. Poe when I was a young teenager.  I loved his poetry very much.  Which must have meant that there was something seriously wrong with me.  The depression and even suicide rate for poets and authors seems unfavorably unbalanced.  That may be a perceived statistic, but perceived or not, it has been factual in my mind most of my life.

I've always known I was a writer.  Never with ambitions to publish or for any kind of gain.  Just expression.  It calms me down.  Gives me an outlet.  Clarifies my thinking.  Helps me understand what my convictions really are.  It has only been recently that I have felt the desire to master it.  To give my voice - a voice. 

And I must admit, it is a hard thing to balance.  It can draw you deep within yourself.  The inspiration, and excitement and passion can blur the living, breathing world all around you.  I've devoted more time to my writing lately.  Which I don't think is a bad thing.  I want to finish and my time is relatively productive and positive.

But I forget.  I forget how quickly your own life can pass when you are writing about someone else's.  I forget that the expression of the hardships of your characters doesn't ease the suffering that is currently taking place around you.  With neighbors, friends, and family.  It hasn't been all-consuming.  I do live a life.  But I could do better.

I forget to apply the laws of truth, light, and intelligence to myself.  To remember that the principal of losing your life to save it applies to innumerable aspects of our daily lives.  That putting others first, that using not just my words, but my physical body to lift and comfort and give all that I am to those around me will result in finding what I really seek to put on paper. 

How I end up doing things so completely backwards is a little embarassing.

But writing without life is not writing at all.

Writing, that is.  It has it's opposite emotions, just like most anything.

Getting to the middle of the novel is like driving through a collapsing tunnel.

When starting out, any road is possible.  You're free, you're creative.  You're brilliant.

But then you find there are consequences for every word you've previously written.  The story
narrows and narrows.  It's leading to a climax.  It has to narrow.

But it's suffocating.  Choking. 

It's like stringing up a cast of marionettes.  Each string being a different color.  And then making
sure all of those strings coordinate, they work, they build.  And you remember them all.

So every step into the dark is scarier, it's questioned, it's unsure.  Second guessing
becomes a sadistic wheel.  Round and round.

Do I recognize the story?  Is the character who started the story, the one that's with me now?

I know what to do.  Push on.  Push on.  Put your shoulder to the wheel and push along.

Revision is a much better experience.  Remember that.  Don't forget you can revise.  You can make it better.

Just stay in your chair, even when the push to run is overhwelming.  Write anything, like a post.  Keep the fingers moving, the creation flowing.  It will get better.  It will.  It will.  You don't completely suck.  That voice in your head that says you're a wannabe hack with no real talent is wrong.  It's not just about talent.  It's about work.  And it's lunchpale time.

Get it done.  Get it done so you can start again.  So you can feel the freedom, the beginning of another book.  Cuz you know it's in there.  Just waiting.

Thought #1
There's been a discussion on the site ThrowingUpWords.  The subject is "Preachy".  The consensus is that Preachy is bad.  Such terms as "Keep it for Sunday" or "Save it for the Pulpit" were used.  I'm sorry, but I can't help it.  I MUST be an antagonist.  I must.  So I may have made a few sarcastic remarks.  Then I felt bad.  Because the internet is forever.  So, I wanted all of the co-author world who frequents this great site to know that I have forsaken my ways.

Infact, just today, I gave this homeless guy 5 bucks.  Do you know what he said?  He said, "God bless you."  Well I pointed my finger right at him and said, "Save it for the Pulpit, Dude!"  Trying to push his religion on me.  Preachy homeless guy.

Thought #2
I just thought it was bad enough that he considered me an "Infidel".  The guy was blowing up buildings and wreaking carnage.  But now, NOW.  I'm not green enough.  Yes, Osama Bin Laden has gone all "Greener Than Thou" on me.  After I read that he hates us for causing climate change, I had to look myself in the mirror and admit that I, Lucinda, am a polluting infidel.  It doesn't get much worse folks.

I love Russell from Disney/Pixar's movie UP.  Because, "When we get to the falls, you're going to feel SOO assisted."

Now for the real reason I'm writing this post.

I've been moving faster than I ever have on the current novel I'm working on.  It's pouring out of me.  Not perfectly mind you, but it is coming.  Which I believe is 95% of the battle.  And did you know that 78% of statistics are made up on the spot?

It's been a privilege to get to know my character.  To understand what she's going through, and to help her find a way to some sort of resolution.  But at the resolution, I am not.  I'm smack dab in the heart of it.  Feeling the pain.  Seeing in my mind every little thing that happens to her. 

I can smell it.  I can taste it.  And earlier today I had to stop writing it.  For a little while.  It's hard stuff right now. 
I try to push through it.  To close my eyes and let my fingers speed through some of the hardest moments.  I find myself holding my breath.  Feeling panic.  Anxiety.  And sorrow.  So much sadness.  Because what is coming from my fingers really does happen. 

Maybe that's the hardest part.  Knowing there are children who live this life.  I find myself in parts of it.  Take away the flesh and many people will see a familiarity of their own childhood gone terribly wrong. 

I don't think there has been a time in my life previous to this where I would have felt strong enough to write this.  I have many loved ones that I can thank for much of my own healing.  And two specifically who have guided me to this point.

Writing can be every kind of emotion. 

Today it was pain.

I don't know what's going to happen until I'm there.  I think I've fallen in love with Contemporary YA.  I always knew there was something to be written, but was afraid to go there.  And really, writing hard things has been very liberating. 
So I've been immersed in character, in situation, in a hard world.  And I find myself just as excited to know what's coming next as I do when I read others writing. 

It also helps to have a lot of encouragement.  I cherish both the compliments and the critiques. 

I don't know what will happen with this new project. But for right now, I'm writing and I'm loving it.

Writing thought for the day:
Writing exercises are worth it.

P.S. I love dating my husband. 

Was January ever a month to look forward to?
Christmas is over.
The New Years hangover has run it's course. (From lack of sleep of course)
The evil mailman delivers the credit card hammer.
Reckoning day.
Every magazine in Wal-mart mocks your soggy middle.
But don't worry, dieting books leach the shelves.  Parasites that are soon betrayed by their hosts come mid-February.
The love of fudge turns into loathing as you pull your newly tight pants on.
Treadmill sales rake in the black.
Fists of cash are thrown down on the gym membership roulette table.  Odds of getting your moneys worth?
Gray.
Cold.  Bitter cold.
I'm going to do better.
I'm going to be better.
Lose weight.
Eat right.
Lose weight.
Bets are placed on the horse named Resolution.
31 days.

There's always Martin Luther King Day, the island of winter sanity.

Why is it the very month of hopes and dreams, a mark of succes, of making it through another year, is the least loved?  Maybe we should ban mirrors for January.  The ones that tell us there are consequences for holiday glutony.  consequences for making it another year.  The lessons learned clearly lined on our faces.  

Is it January's fault?  Maybe all the other months got to choose their places and January was the last one drawn out of the hat.  And everyone said, hey, it's not so bad, you're the new year, you're the flag bearer.  But he knew, if it wasn't so bad, someone like march would've taken it.

Poor January keeps getting told he's too fat and he's nothing like festive December.  He tries to be hopeful, but the sun doesn't cooperate, and the irs doesn't either.  They keep sending out statements and balances with letter and number combinations.  Reminding everyone the piper gots to get paid. 

January does have a few redemptive qualities.  Hot chocolate.  Books and blankets.  Snuggly, fuzzy socks.  Early dinners.  Soups and homemade breads.  Snowmen and sledding.  Routine.  Board games and family time.  Making bubble blankets over the heater vent.  Movies and snuggling. 

But for me, the best part of January was the birth of my son Nathan.  We both fought, we both lived.  The nurses couldn't wedge his fat body from my arms.  I remember laughing when they told me I couldn't lift anything over 8 pounds.  Nathan weighed 9 pounds 7 ounces at birth. 

He was my last miracle baby.  Healthy, strong, and so warm against my chest.  5 years ago I hated December.  Every day was a thousand.  But January, oh how I loved January.  Finally, finally, my gorgeous perfect little boy was in my arms.  And today, we made cupcakes, and played with monster trucks.  He sat on my lap and wrapped his arms around my neck.  We had a kissing war.  And I watched him blow out 5 candles. 

So January, there are a lot of things about your time slot that could bring you down.  But no other month can claim that they gave me Nathan.

Happy Birthday son.

I have to admit I've never read your books.  Not because I thought they were evil, just, well, I'll have my therapist send over a copy of session #487 and then you'll understand why.

It's been a long time since I've seen my son choose to spend his before school time reading.  He thinks it's work, even though he's one of those genius kids who scored higher on reading tests than high school kids, in 2nd grade. 

Occasionaly he'd force himself through The Box Car Children.  He did read C.S. Lewis's Chronicles series.  But anyway, what I'm saying is, he's a capable kid who drives me crazy with his reading attitude.

That is, until I introduced him to your books.  He loves them.  He voluntarily reads them.  (Could you write a book about brushing teeth?)

Obviously, you have a huge following.  And even though I'm not going to dress up as Dumbledorf and sit outside the theater for two days before the debut of your next movie, because of my son, I'm a fan.

And p.s. Don't let yourself get down about being adverb happy.  What we forget sometimes is, a great story, and a great voice are all that's needed.  Plus, you can laugh at the critics all the way to the bank.  I don't see any bobble-heads of writing critiques anywhere.

Thanks,

A mom.

To be a writer, you must write, but you must also read.  Which, because of the latter, puts me way behind the curve. 
I think with pregnancies, babies, toddlers, diapers, and being a wife and a mom in general, I've felt it very selfish to read - for pleasure. (I know that wasn't right, but it's what it was.) 
And I think when I was younger, the choose your own adventure books, ruined me.  No patience.  I cheated on them.  And yes, I peeked at my Christmas presents.  But Brendan stopped that bad present peeking habit of mine.  I am completely cured.  Except I'm still impatient with books.
So, I've never been a member of a book club.  I've never paid attention to people's recommendations.  Not even Oprahs. (I don't watch her show.)
Yes, I'm a complete book snob.  I've spent more time the past few years reading repair manuals.  Wait, I do frequently visit the likes of Louisa May Alcott, and C.S. Lewis.  And also Barbara Park.  Cuz that Junie B. is hilarious.  We would be friends I think.
Only in the last 6 months have I really picked up reading.  Ones I couldn't put down were written by Ann Cannon, Carol Lynch Williams, and Ann Dee Ellis.  There are others I liked very much, but these, I feasted on.
Lately, I've been on a little bit of a dry spell with books.  None that have held me.
UNTIL........................ dah dah dah DAH!

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. 
Are you kidding me?  This is an excellent book.  I didn't put it down.  Ask my forlorned husband, he will confirm this.
It was a literary feast.  The characters were excellent.  I could picture every part of the book.  The protagonist was brilliant.  The subject matter was strangely believable. 
Some of it I have to say was predictable.  And some difficult decisions were evaded, I thought. 
But not so offensive to cause me to put it down.  And I would have no reservations recommending this book to teenagers.  Which is a stark contrast to one I picked up from the library that burned my eyes with language and sexual content.  It might've made Eminem blush.

So this is what I had to say.  I read the hunger games in a matter of hours, and I would do it again.  So if you're looking for book endorsements from picky snobby readers, look no further.

Can't wait to read the next one. 

Have you seen Pocahontas? 
The end.
Have you seen Fern Gully?
The end.

This is how clueless I am.  I had no idea that an Avatar really exists.  That people who live in the virtual reality world decide they would be a better creator than the one we have and make themselves 6 foot 7 with outrageous muscles.
I don't do Zooville, or Yoville, or Farmville, or Simville, or Liveadoublelifeville.
So already, you can see that when the protagonist in the movie says things like, "Everything blurs together and I don't know which world is a dream and which is real." I gag and roll my eyes.  Did we not see the Matrix?  Did Keanu die for nothing?

Yes, the colors of the wind were amazing, and the imagination as well.  But seriously, was one of the producers named Al Gore?  This was the Copenhagen Convention on crack.

Once again,
man = ruthless militant killers who will destroy anything to make a buck
or man = vigilante who must turn on his own kind because the other kind is always forest friendly and loving, and innocent, and oh my goodness we should all have their babies, wonderful.

The entertainment value would have increased if the movie wasn't saturated with Al Gore's cheap cologne.  Can you tell he's not on my BFF list?  

I will give it one thumb up.  The imagination itself was worth it.  Just ignore the people at the exit who want you to sign a petition for Al Gore to go back in time and demand another recount in Florida. 

I discovered that as much as my arms yearn for another baby, life is brilliant when everyone can use the bathroom themselves. (Mostly)

The key to a happy marriage is to marry Brendan J. Felix.  Holding hands, dancing in the kitchen, and kissing until your 12 year old daughter runs in grossed out horror helps too.  It's also beneficial to have him love me so much he'll make his very own, Team Lucinda t-shirt.  He's my best friend, and biggest supporter.

Having a daughter old enough to swap clothes with is funner than I thought it would be.  We'll see what happens when I start running around in pink polyester jogging suits.  With embroidered flowers of course.  And maybe even a kitty.

Talking about writing with friends isn't the most loserest thing on the planet.  I know it sounds like geek squad, but seriously, writers are slightly messed up and hilarious.  I found my home.

I think the term BFF rightly belongs to more than one person.  I've had some forever, I've had some I just met, and others that have been found again.  I'm constantly and pleasantly surprised at how the heart can love so many so completely.

I never knew why people wasted so much money on anti-wrinkle products.  Hello people, there's no stopping it.  That is, until I started noticing how many I have.  Ugh.  Really?  Do I have to have them?  People are going to stop saying I look way too young to have four kids.  Oh, and, Andrea who sat next to me on the flight to Washington, thanks for telling me I didn't look any older than 23.  (The lights were dim, but I'll take it.)

You can still learn after the college years.  I'd have to say that's probably one of my most favorite things about being a stay at home mom.  I have the freedom to focus on what I want.  And also get lots of hugs and kisses from my Nathan.  Playing with legos is also cool.

I like my thirties.  It's funny how your view of "old" changes as you age.  I've learned a few things.  I don't worry about a lot of things I used to.  I don't ever want to be famous.  I don't need 15 minutes of glory.  I just want to talk about books with my daughter, go on dates with my husband, watch my kids play sports and do well in school, and do my best to be faithful to my beliefs, my family, and my friends. 

So I guess I have to tell myself the wrinkles are okay.  I don't need people to tell me they think I'm 23, because I wouldn't really want to go back there anyway.  Even though I did have two cute and fat babies then.

I'm just saying, looking at all that has happened, I'm happy.