When you need someone to pull you away

This one time I was playing outside being the happy, well-adjusted five year old I was when my seven-year-old brother and my three-year-old brother came yelling that I had to see the spider they caught. I followed them to a five-gallon bucket filled with sticks, grass, and a few rocks.

They told me that there was a BLACK WIDOW inside. I knew a little about black widows, but even if I hadn't, I would've known it meant danger by the urgent yet fascinated voices they used. Personally, I hadn't seen a dangerous spider before, and I was more than a little curious.

So, I looked in the bucket. The black widow was hiding, as they are wont to do. I circled around the bucket, trying to get a better view of the little spindly-legged, swollen-abdomened walking vial of poison, but I couldn't see it.

"It's down there! Behind that twig!" I don't even remember which brother said it. Probably both. Repeatedly. With much excitement.

But I still couldn't see it. So I stuck my head in the bucket to get a better look.

My older brother grabbed hold of my shoulders and yanked me away, and with the most scared voice I had ever heard from him, yelled, "Black Widows are poisonous! And it was RIGHT by your head! YOU COULD'VE DIED!"

I'm pretty sure my debilitating fear of spiders can be traced back to that exact moment in time. After all, I ALMOST DIED.

You know, sometimes it's really hard to pull yourself away. Sometimes it takes someone with their hands on your shoulder to pull you back.

Sometimes it's revising that's drawn your head inside the metaphorical bucket. You revise. then send it to CPs. Then revise. Then send it to beta readers. Then revise. Then realize you've learned a ton, and you want the book to reflect everything you now know, so you revise. And you just don't know when to stop.

Sometimes it's the story that has pulled you in, and you need someone to pull you out of what's going on inside your head because there's a lot going on outside your head!

Sometimes it might even be a storyline that just isn't quite working. And deep down, you know it's not working, but there's this one thing about it that you love, so you keep trying to force it. Sometimes it takes someone to pull you away, at least for a bit, to get some perspective on it to see WHY it isn't working.

And sometimes it's your loved ones, pulling you away from the computer because hey! They haven't seen you in forever!

So what is it for you? Do you tend to have something that you need pulled away from? Who is it that usually saves you from ALMOST DYING! whatever you're pulled into?

Dirty Hands Logic

Every year for as long as I can remember, my extended family and I go camping for our family reunion. Two summers ago, I got to be present for this conversation between my five year old niece and my sister, right after breakfast on the second day. You know... that day when you are really feeling the willies that come from living in the wild without showering for two days.

My niece: "Ooo! Can I do your hair?"

My sister: "Oh. Um... no. Sorry-- my hair is really dirty."

My niece: "That's okay! My hands are really dirty!"

Photo credit

Okay, seriously. How can you argue with that kind of logic?

Choosing who to have do your hair is kind of like choosing critique partners. Instead of finding someone whose hands are the same amount dirty as your hair, you've got to find someone whose skill level is close to your skill level to make the partnership really work. To be able to bring each other up to a higher level. If you partner with someone who is well above your skill level, the things they suggest can be overwhelming or even be something you can't pull off. If you partner with someone well below your skill level, you won't benefit as much from critiques.

Ahh. But when you find a critique partner or a critique group whose skills fit well together, magic happens. You rise together. And if you stick together long enough, you'll rise to the level you've been shooting for, and get to find out what lies beyond that.

Finding critique partners that fit with who and where you are pretty much rocks. I highly recommend it.

Rotten eggs: one of the reasons to have a toolbox

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Tonight I am headed off to the Heart of the West Writer's Conference in Park City, Utah. (Wait... What? Isn't that a romance writers' conference, Peggy? I thought you didn't write kissy scenes! Yes, yes it is. And you're right-- I don't. Just one of the many reasons why I should go.) Anyone else going?
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When my little brother turned six, my grandma gave him a present. All kinds of excited, he opened it right in front of her to find a gift set of soap and talcum powder, with a cowboys and Indians scene playing around the bottle.

My brother looked at it with a what-the-Sam-Hill-do-you-use-talcum-powder-for? look on his face. I knew the look, because I wore it myself. (Actually, typing this, I'm still wearing that look. What IS talcum powder for?) Judging by the look on my brother's face when he smelled it, it was pretty heavily scented, too. Which was funny, since it was for boys.... Maybe it was anti-boy smell.

To my brother's and my mom's credit, he still managed to be gracious to my grandma, then shoved it into a drawer after she left.

A few months later, we were playing outside with neighbor kids and found an abandoned bird egg on the ground. Some of the boys decided that they better open the egg. You know-- in case there was still a baby bird inside that needed to get out.

There wasn't.

Instead, it contained THE FOULEST SMELL I have  smelled in my entire life. To date. And it spread fast. As everyone pulled their shirts over their noses amid choking and gagging, I saw inspiration light up my brother's face. He ran away, and returned a couple minutes later with the carton of talcum powder in his hand and a look of victory on his face. He had finally figured out what it was for!

Writing is all about solving problems. From ones dealing with sentence structure to plot to characters to setting to organization to pacing to figuring out how to get your characters back out of the tree. One of my favorite writing teachers always said that you need to put lots of things into your writing toolbox, because as a writer you will have to fix LOTS of problems. The more things you have in your writing toolbox, the better equipped you'll be to deal with those problems.

We read things that help us become better writers ALL THE TIME, right? The next time you read something and get that What-the-Sam-Hill-will-I-ever-use-this-for? look on your face, don't dismiss the idea. Graciously place it in your toolbox. Someday you just might run into the problem that it is the perfect fix for.

Stick Wars Castle Defense

First of all, I'd like to thank Lynn(e) from The Submission Process for the Blog on Fire award. Thank you, Lynn(e)!

Secondly, I loved, loved, LOVED reading everyone's comments on yesterday's post about what genre and age group you write for! Make sure you check out the updated graphics. I think you'll find it very un-scientifically interesting. If you didn't a chance to leave your genre and age group yesterday, I'll update the graphics for a few more days. For some reason, colorful puff balls make me happy. :o)

Okay. I live in a family of gamers. As the only person in my family who didn't get any of my husband's genes, all the talk about what race, class, and spec a new character should have, getting exp, picking up armor.... above and beyond me. I couldn't play an mmorpg (massive multiplayer online role playing games, for those of you not familiar to the lingo) any more easily than I could dance in a ballet.

One day, I was in a creative slump. I hadn't written in days, and I wasn't sure I could even pull myself out of it enough to try. My son came up to me and said, "Mom, want to play a game with me?"

I groaned inside. Mostly because I hate long games. "What kind of game?"

"Stick wars. We each draw a castle, then draw things to defend it with."

Immediately I thought about Paladins, Druids, Shamans, Mages, Warlocks, Hunters, Elves, Dwarves, Undead.... and the talk about having one character that's a healer, one that's a tank, one that's a damage doer.... It took about a second and a half of imagining this game before my head wanted to explode. "Uh.... I'm not good at that kind of stuff."

"No-- it'll be fun! We each only have five minutes to draw, and you can defend your castle with anything that will scare off the enemy."

"Anything? And it's all about speed?" Okay, that game I can play.

So here is our game in all it's awesomeness. The instigator of the game didn't want his posted on the Internet, but my other son let me, as long as he could remain anonymous. :)

Now, I'll admit: he nearly had me with all those archers, spear men, snakes, spiders, bramble fence, thorn moat, fog, elven warriors, and impenetrable castle walls.

I think may have him beat, though. It was the confined spaces that turned the tide my direction. That, and having those butterflies drop the science fair project on the unsuspecting hordes. Those are scary things indeed.

And when we were done, guess what? Not only did I have a fabulous time with my sons, I realized it had kicked me out of my creative slump IN FIVE MINUTES FLAT.

Moral of the story: Sometimes stepping out of your comfort zone and doing something out of the ordinary can reward you in ways you never expected.

Dropping Fire

**DISCLAIMER: This is totally and completely a "Don't try this at home" story.**

My parents built our house themselves. Literally. (They used ropes and pulleys when erecting the walls to make up for the lack of hands.) It took a full two years to get finished enough that we could move in. Okay, maybe it wasn't entirely by themselves. I remember seeing a lot of pictures of the four-year-old me, and my two-year-old and six-year-old brothers helping to nail down plywood on the floors, pick up scraps, sweep, and give other INVALUABLE help.

It took a few years to get the house finished once we moved in, and because it was such a huge lot, it took a few more years to get the yard finished. By the time we got to the back yard, the weeds had grown pretty high. One Saturday, we all worked to gather the dried weeds and dead branches to a huge fire in the middle of the yard. Of course, we were drawn to the fire like... well, like kids to a fire. (Which might have had something to do with genes-- my mom will never admit it, but we think she's a fire bug.)

We each stuck a big stick into the fire and lit them. Then my older brother discovered that if you put a plastic milk jug on the end of your stick, hold it over the fire and turn it at just the right moments, it catches on fire and melts to the stick. The best part? The plastic would fall in drips, like liquid fire falling to the ground. (And contaminating it for many years to come. Although I swear we didn't know about that part.)

Lots of dried weeds grew along the barbed wire fence at the back of the lot, so my brother and I took our Dripping Flame on a Stick along the back fence, and dropped liquid fire along the strip of weeds. (I think my parents let us because we were such responsible kids. Not ecologically responsible, mind you.) So we set little fires all along the way, close enough that one would eventually reach the next, leading up to the bonfire growing in the middle of the yard.

Plotting a book is a lot like dropping liquid fire into dry weeds. You need that fire-- or the conflict-- happening often enough that it will pull the reader to the next flame of conflict. If you place each of the flames carefully, then the fire will propel its way along and lead your reader all the way up to the bonfire-- the climax-- at the end.

Because the bonfire at the end is what it's really all about.



P.S. I've been interviewed by Chantele at My Writing Bug. You should go check it out, if for no other reason than to sit and stare at how darn pretty her blog is. Seriously. It takes me a good minute of staring before I even start reading her posts, which are every bit as great as her layout.

I could finally SEE

[You guys KILLED me yesterday in the comments! You're all freakin hilarious! (Yes, I'm especially looking at you, Michael Offutt.) Seriously, I LOVED reading everyone's comments. It's amazing to see all the ways we are similar and all the ways we're different. I love you guys! Now onto the post:]

Like a million other people, without glasses or contacts, I am legally blind (that basically means you can't see the big E on eye charts).

UNlike millions of people, I was the only one in my family of eight with bad eyesight. I actually didn't even know I had bad eyesight until I was in the third grade and someone told me! (Unlike my son who told me his eyes were "broken" when he was three.)

My teacher led us down to the lunchroom at the beginning of the year for the annual vision screening. I was bored waiting in line because, like everyone else in the lines, we'd passed this test so many times before. When it was my turn, I stepped up to the line with all the confidence of someone taking a test where all they had to do was point three of their fingers in the direction the letter E was turned. (I know! By third grade, you'd think they'd have let us graduate to the eye charts that showed actual letters.)

I wasn't worried at all. I could see just fine. Everything I needed to see was RIGHT THERE. Sure, I might have to be close to things, but didn't everyone?

I stared at the chart, dumbfounded. I couldn't make out any of the letters on the line she pointed at! After a moment of silence, she pointed to the line above it, and asked if I could read that line. I tried my best. I guessed at the answers. I must not have guessed very well, because she moved up a line. After I finished with that one, she asked me to come with her, and put me by myself in front of the stage. My whole class stared at me, knowing I had failed my test. They left to go back to the class, the school nurse re-tested me, then informed me that I need to let my mom know I needed glasses.

I was so blindsided by it, I took a detour to the bathroom on my way back to my classroom and cried.

But THEN, a couple weeks later, I got my new glasses. On the car drive home, I stared at my surroundings in amazement. I could see the rocks in the asphalt! I could see trees on the mountains! I could read the signs on the street! And when I got to school the next day, I could see the chalkboard FROM ANYWHERE IN THE ROOM.

It seemed laughable that I'd been reduced to tears weeks earlier when I'd found out. Because now, I COULD SEE! I could finally see!

I think it's the same way with writing. Sometimes you're so close to your story, you don't realize there are problems from a distance. Sometimes you need to take a break from it and walk far away. And then when you're ready to turn back around and take a look at it, you can see if there's a problem with how clear things are. Things you didn't notice when you were so close to it.

So when things just don't feel quite right, don't go into the bathroom and cry. Walk away for a while! When you come back, you'll finally be able to SEE.

The Circus Tent

First off, make sure you check out the current standings for Word Processor Wars (the post below this one). And if you haven't thrown in your vote yet for which word processor you use, get on down there! (Especially if your vote is for WordPerfect. I'm just sayin'.) Everyone's comments were killing me. You guys are hilarious!

Secondly, sometime today, my blog will get a new look! And an ACTUAL NAME. No, really. (Up until the time it goes live, I'll take guesses on the name. :)) I've been waiting in line for my turn for a few months, and I'm so excited I'll get to show you soon!

Okay, now on to the actual post.

Every single year, my sixth grade teacher hung hundreds and hundreds of really long strips of crepe paper from the ceiling in the exact center of our classroom. He then took each strip and attached it to the wall, only a couple inches from the previous, letting it hang down a bit in the middle. The end result made it look like we were inside a circus tent.

I can't even imagine the time it took. And he re-did it every year, choosing different colors.


So, what did it accomplish? Well, school had to happen. We had to go learn about integers and symbiosis and homonyms and lost civilizations. Those things were inevitable. You couldn't progress to the seventh grade without them. Even with a fabulous teacher, learning all that stuff could very well have been mind-numbingly boring. But let me tell you-- those things are SO much funner to learn when you feel like you are learning them in a circus tent! When you can just imagine that you are in the center of fun things going on, it truly made a difference.

When we write, there are dialogue scenes that have to happen. They're inevitable. Things couldn't progress in the plot if these scenes didn't happen when they need to happen. But they have the potential to be boring. Even with really great dialogue!

And that's where the circus tent comes in. When your dialogue scenes happen in interesting locations with interesting things going on, it truly makes a difference. If the dialogue happens while racing through back alleys, or crouched hiding in a dank cave, or in the middle of a blinding snowstorm, or backstage in a play as the characters wait their turn to go on, or floating in the middle of the ocean with fish nibbling at your characters' toes, it makes it more fun.

Not only does it add excitement, but it adds another layer to the conversation. Extra stressors. Extra distractions. Extra difficulties. And that can turn a boring scene into one of your favorites in the entire manuscript!

So what kind of cool locations have you used in dialogue? Or what locations have you WANTED to use?
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Just Jump

Have I mentioned before that my brothers were crazy daredevils?

So on Friday nights when my parents went on dates, we'd party down. Because that's what you're supposed to do when you're parents are gone, right? We lived in a split-level house. (If you're unfamiliar with a split-level, you walk in the front door and are immediately faced with a half-flight of stairs leading up, and a half-flight of stairs leading down.) One of our favorite things to do was to gather every couch cushion and pillow from the whole house (with eight of us, it amassed to a decent amount), and pile them at the bottom of the lower flight of stairs.

We didn't have a railing between the upper flight of stairs and the lower--- instead, we had a half-height wall. And lemme tell you, that wall was way easier to climb on top of than any railing would've been. (I think my parents might've planned on our eventual antics when they designed the house. That's as good as permission, isn't it?)

So, with an easy to climb half-wall, we had no choice. We had to climb on it. And we had to jump ten feet down to the huge pile of pillows.

Just because we grew up in a family of daredevils didn't make that first jump each week easy, though. Every single time it was scary. It was SO HIGH. And it was hard to tell if we had fluffed and stacked and prepared the pillows well enough. And there was the possibility of not landing on our feet and getting hurt. (And actually, there was the possibility that if we sat crouched on the wall long enough, contemplating the jump, someone would "help" us make the decision to jump.) And there was the heart-clenching fear when we free-fell to the bottom.

And yes, there was the exhilaration of it all.

Because do you know what? Our ordinary life was just ordinary. Sure, things happened all the time like they do to everyone, but our Friday night jumps were something WE controlled. A craziness to our life that we chose (except in instances where we were "helped" to choose).

Jumping off that wall is kind of like jumping into a huge story line. Jumping into that larger-than-life, huge conflict / consequences story is scary every single time. You prepare by practicing and reading all about plotting, but you never know if you prepared enough until you jump in. Sometimes you may not want the huge story line, but your characters themselves will "help" you make the decision to jump. After all, they like to be in control of the jump! There will be heart-clenching fear. And there's a possibility that you'll not land on your feet. You might get hurt.

But do you know what? Without that hugeness to your plot, your story is just ordinary.

And along with the huge story line comes the exhilaration of it all. For you and your readers.

And that's what it's really all about.

I'll admit. Of all the things that require bravery that I mentioned on Monday, this one might be my hardest. I have to amp up my conflict with each round of revisions, because it is never huge enough at the beginning. Do you ever have that problem? If you don't, how do you push beyond the limits to come up with a huge storyline from the beginning?
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Early Warning

My parents made us go to bed WAY too early.

Not that I blame them. There were six of us, and the brother just older than me and the one just younger than me were certifiable geniuses / mischievous / full of ideas and energy. I can’t think of many more exhausting-to-parent combinations.

Or one more interesting and fun! Because lemme tell you– my childhood was nothing if not interesting and fun.

So my parents sent us all to bed on weeknights at 8:00. Of course we couldn’t go to SLEEP then. We snuck outside in the snow barefooted to dance in the light of the dining room light where my parents sat working on their own projects, unable to see us through the mirror the window became. Or we snuck into each other’s rooms and created gadgets, or painted things, or played games. All in silence so we wouldn’t get caught. I mean we were GOOD.

But my parents would randomly check on us. When I was in fourth grade and my brother was in sixth, he created an “Early Warning System.” He ran electrical wire along the ceiling the full length of the long hall that lead to all of our rooms, and wired two lights above each of our doors, one red and one green. My brother’s room was right next to the stairs, so he was the first to know if my parents were coming. He'd flip the switch that changed the lights from green to red, and we’d all scramble to our own rooms and fake asleep. (We were good at that, too.) Sometimes he’d hear a creak at the top of the stairs and switch the lights to red and we’d scramble, but it turned out to be nothing— my parents weren’t actually coming. Most of the time, though, there weren’t false alarms.

As writers, we have our own early warning system! We usually call them critique groups or critique partners. When there are things that are going to get us in trouble, they’re the ones who are going to warn us. Sure, there can be false alarms! Especially if we submit to them chapter by chapter, with very much time in between submitting. But for the most part, a great group / partners will let us know that if we continue doing what we’re doing, it’s going to land us into trouble before the end.

My critique group? I consider them lifesavers. There are lots of ways groups can work. We submit a chapter a week and meet together, because that’s what works for us. There are so many times their comments on one chapter tell me I need to tweak the next chapter before I even send it to them.

I think critique groups are invaluable. Irreplaceable. Worth their weight in gold.

How do you feel about critiques? Do you welcome them? Fear them? Have a great group or partners? Wish you had different partners? But more importantly, how do you feel about mischievous geniuses?
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Wasn’t that the bell?

Kind of like this boy. Although I wasn't a boy. I'm still not a boy.

Normally I loved school. But one day I sat in my fifth grade classroom with my mind a million miles away, thoroughly unable to concentrate. Maybe I had spring fever. Or ants in my pants. Or just sick-of-school-itis. Whatever it was, I didn't think I could stay in my seat for another second, and that's when the bell finally rang.

Ahh. I had made it! I ran to the coat racks, yanked my backpack off the hook, and nearly ran outside. (Except I didn't run because running is against the rules!) On the way out, my friend Amber said, “Hey, do you want to play a game of four square?”

I thought two things. First, No way! I am so done with this day! I’m outta here! Second, How is she going to have time to play? She rides the bus home! I muttered a “No, thanks,” and headed to the nearest door outside, which was also the door to the playground.

What I saw when I pushed the door open baffled me. I stood and stared as not only my class, but the entire fifth and sixth grade was playing! Why weren’t they going home?! Was there some kind of planned after school event that I had somehow missed hearing about? Was it just THAT nice of a day that everyone felt like they just HAD to stay and play longer?
 

It took a minute to realize that the bell I thought meant school was out was really just the bell to go to recess. I thought I’d finally finished, but I STILL HAD MORE SCHOOL DAY AHEAD OF ME. As I stood there holding my backpack, ready to bolt for the exit, I wasn’t sure I could handle walking back into school when recess was over.

Tell me you've done that before. Us confused recess kids have to stick together! What? Some of you haven't had to explain why you took your backpack out to recess? Oh. Did you do like I did and just hid your backpack in an alcove and waited until school was actually over to retrieve it? Good thinking.

I thought I was done with my last book. Completely ready to query and send off to any agent who asked for it. I mean I had gone through nine full revisions! It had been beta read by so many great people! I felt like it really rocked! Then a few things happened at nearly the same time, involving a really tough critique, several “how did I not realize that before!” suggestions, and me finally figuring out how to incorporate those first few chapter descriptions more effectively.

I realized that for my book the bell hadn’t rung to go home! I still had work to do! My book was really good.... but it wasn’t great yet. And if I want the absolute best chances of getting published, I have to go for great, even if it means heading back in again.

Heading back into school in fifth grade didn’t exactly KILL me, even if I thought it might. I mean I actually made it through the rest of the day unscathed! I know. It surprised me, too. So I guess if that didn't kill me, then this won't, either.

So what do you do when you need to talk yourself into facing work you thought was already done?
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The bane that is the girly-girl dress

I have never been a girly-girl. Despite that, my mom took me shopping for a dress as a Christmas present one year, and I fell head-over-heels in love with a girly-girl dress with lots of fluffy layers. The kind that was gathered so much at the waist that when you spun in circles, IT WENT STRAIGHT OUT.

Not long after Christmas, my sixth grade teacher announced that we were going on a field trip to watch the symphony, and that we’d all have to wear our Sunday best. Yes!! Everyone would get to see my fabulous dress!

We went to the symphony and I felt like a princess. It felt weird and not entirely like me, but kinda nice, too.

Then we came back for a regular last-half of the school day. I sat down at my desk, and the the blasted layers grabbed hold of the top of the chair and stayed there! Unbeknownst to me, as I sat down, my unders showed through the cutout in the back of the chair. A little window to display things not meant to be displayed.

To make matters worse, the kid behind me passed around a note.

The note made it through three rows of kids before my bff wadded it up and left her seat without permission to come tell me I had exposed myself to the class.

In high school, I didn’t write. I was too afraid of being exposed to the world. Afraid that someone would read it, think that I was really writing about myself, and judge ME accordingly. Just like with the unders, I worried that even when I didn’t mean to, I’d expose things about myself I didn’t want exposed.

I don’t know when that changed for me. Maybe after reading enough books, especially different books by the same author, and saw how different the characters were from each other. Or maybe I realized that writers write main characters they LOVE, but not necessarily ones they ARE or ones they are dying to BE. Or maybe I just got more comfortable with who I am.

Either way, the I'm going to be exposed! feeling isn't there anymore. Sure, whatever I write will show my tastes, and the good characters will have traits that I love in people, but I guess those just aren’t underwear exposing kinds of things to me.

So what about you? Does being scared hold you back from things? (I mean being scared of the figurative "being exposed," not the literal. I totally understand about the literal.) Has it ever? Or how did you get over it?
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Scared and Looking For Bad Guys

My parents have always been huge believers in going on a date every Friday night. Which pretty much meant that as kids, we got to be wild and crazy and watch TV even after bedtime.

Maybe we were slow to learn, because more often than not, we'd be in the family room when we realized it was eerily dark.

And none of us were certain we'd locked the doors.

And we were pretty sure we heard a noise from somewhere in the house.

And we were convinced it was a robber.

So my older brother (we'll call him Genius Brother, to protect the not-so-innocent) grabbed the poker from the fireplace tools with the intention of poking the bad guy in the stomach. When the robber was bent over from the stomach poke, I would hit him on the head with the fireplace shovel. Then my younger brother (we'll call him Convincing Brother) would use the fireplace broom to hit him on the back, then Organized Sister would spray him in the eyes with spray starch (which, for some strange reason, was always on the fireplace), and Happy Sister, who was a toddler, would be protected by anyone not currently using their weapon on the bad guy.

Then, with Genius Brother leading, we'd delve into the deep, dark unknown to search for the Big Scary, even though we were all too afraid to leave the room. But it was even scarier to stay in the room and wait for the bad guy to come to us! We walked in a shaky line, weapons at the ready, as we searched upstairs and downstairs, turning on every light and locking every door as we went.

And do you know what? Once we got all the way through the house, made sure it was free of any robbers, and completely secured and brightened, WE FELT GOOD. Like really good. Go-shout-and-dance-like-your-parents-aren't-home good.

When you've finished the first draft (or even the second or third or fourth draft) of your manuscript, sometimes you get an inkling that a certain part isn't quite right. You shy away from the thought, because to figure it out, you have to delve into the deep, dark, SCARY unknown. What if when you delve, you actually find something really bad? Something you uncover might require you to use every weapon at your disposal to fix it. Heck, it might take weapons you don't even own yet. And that's what's scariest of all.

Scary and hard. You might even need to take back-up support along with you. But when the Big Scary is routed and your manuscript is left all bright and shiny, it'll feel GOOD. Real good. Sing-and-dance-in-the-streets good.

And if you ask me, that's so much better than sitting in the room, cowering at the thought of the Big Scary's presence.
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Ugly Pants

I write for 3rd - 7th grade kiddos, so this is the section where I write about a [possibly embarrassing] thing that happened at that age, and relate it to writing. And chalk it all up to a lessons [hopefully] learned.

One evening as fifth grader, I realized that my last pair of clean pants were on me, so I put in a load of laundry. Thinking I could be uber-prepared, I also changed into pajamas so I could add the pair of pants I wore to the mix.

Then, like the kid that I was, I didn’t think about them again. At least not until I woke up the next morning and went to put on a pair of pants and realized I had none! After a frantic search of my drawers, I found a "Saturday" pair of pants. You know the kind-- only meant to be worn when outside doing yardwork, or helping my dad clean the garage-- NEVER meant for public viewing. The other problem? They'd already been downgraded to Saturday pants a good two years before. They were red corduroy with different colored flowers, both knees had holes, and they weren’t pretty even when they were brand new. And oh, yeah. They were also about a foot too short. Not having any other options at the moment, I pulled them on TEMPORARILY, along with a way cute purple patterned shirt, ran to the washroom, and put my load of pants into the dryer.

Just like the night before, I DIDN’T THINK ABOUT THEM AGAIN! I got ready for school, then left. In the disaster pants! Apparently, I didn’t think about clothes much after I put them on, because it wasn’t until the teacher called us all to the back of the room to sit in a circle on the carpet and I spied Perfect Dresser Debbie staring at my clashing self with a look of disturbed fascination on her face, that I’d realized what I had done. Then, one by one, everyone else’s attention was drawn to the flowery, motor oil and grass stained, short-enough-to-be-called-capris-except-there-wasn’t-such-a-thing-yet, holey-kneed (except the holes were now closer to my thighs than knees), pants. And by then, my face was the same color as my pants and it was way too late to do anything about changing them.

My pants? They were kind of like a rough draft. I needed someone to point out that areas should’ve been longer. Or that there were [plot] holes. Or that red really doesn’t go well with multi-colored flowers. Or that stains really distracted from the state it could be in. Or that the theme of my shirt really didn’t go with the concept of my pants.

I NEEDED SOMEONE TO TELL ME. And that’s why it’s so important to have good, honest critique partners that will look at everything! Sure, it’s nice to have people that tell you that you [or your manuscript] look GRRRREAT! It helps with the morale and the self-esteem and the freaking out moments when you feel like your manuscript sucks beyond the telling of it. But unless you want cringe-worthy elements in your manuscript when it’s too late to do anything about it, you also need people who are willing to say the writing equivalent to “Are you really going to wear that?”