Sally Hepworth

What do you sleep with?

2012-01-09T23:46:00.002-08:00

While making my son’s bed this morning I took a moment to marvel at all the stuff he sleeps with. Holy Moly! At the risk of being cliché, I’m surprised he can actually fit in there. There are the standard pillows, of course (he insists on three). There is the giant dinosaur pillow. A small square blanket. The toys – both the cuddly and non-cuddly variety. A bottle. A sipper cup. Two books. And a tennis ball.

Now, as far as I know, it is standard for toddlers to fill their beds with things. But it got me thinking, what about adults?

I, for one, have a list of items I take to bed with me that is not particularly short. It starts with the husband, obviously, unless he’s in the dog house. Then there are the standard pillows. The cushions. A wheat pack. A book. A glass of water. Some Gaviscon. And I am on the hunt for a maternity pillow to shoulder the weight of my growing abdomen.

But my list is not stagnant. It grows and changes with the stages of my life (and the size of my belly). When I was younger and my parents went away for the weekend, I used to sleep with a bottle of Windex beside the bed, intended for spraying any potential intruders in the face. (Digression: I reasoned that a cricket bat or knife could be used against me, but what intruder would think of using windex as a weapon? Genius, right?). In the early part of my first pregnancy, I used to take dry crackers and ginger ale to bed ready to eat in the morning to stave off morning sickness (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work). When my son was a newborn, I used to sleep with (don’t judge) a can of diet coke on the bedside table that I would swig upon waking in the wee hours of the night before running to my crying child. During the same period I used to take a small hand- towel for (warning: almost certainly TMI) drying my leaky breast-milk during the night.

But, without giving away too many peoples secrets, I know I am not alone in my strange bedfellows. A good friend of mine takes a hot water bottle to bed every night no matter the weather, a habit that (when intoxicated) has subjected her to two, very painful leg burns with permanent scarring.

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to wear a mouth-guard to bed to stop him grinding his teeth.

My husband takes earplugs, an i-pod, and a pad of paper, for writing things down that he remembers during the night.

My Mum takes an eerie ability to wake up immediately at the slightest noise, or answer the phone on the first ring (yet, strangely she will often miss her ringing phone during the daylight hours).

My Dad takes the responsibility of being the grumpy person in the household, a task he takes very seriously.

And lets not even get started on some of the things new couples or singles take to bed with them…

So, as it turns out, perhaps my toddler isn’t as unusual as I thought? Perhaps he is just preparing himself for all the strange habits he is sure to develop as he grows? Perhaps, sleeping with a giant, plastic dinosaur head (with actual, sharp teeth), isn’t crazy when you compare it to sleeping with windex and a hand-towel?

What do you think? Do you take odd things to bed?

What do you sleep with?

2012-01-09T23:46:00.000-08:00

Now, as far as I know, it is standard for toddlers to fill their beds with things. But it got me thinking, what about adults?

But my list is not stagnant. It grows and changes with the stages of my life (and the size of my belly). When I was younger and my parents went away for the weekend, I used to sleep with a bottle of Windex beside the bed, intended for spraying any potential intruders in the face. (Digression: I reasoned that a cricket bat or knife could be used against me, but what intruder would think of using windex as a weapon? Genius, right?). In the early part of my first pregnancy, I used to take dry crackers and ginger ale to bed ready to eat in the morning to stave off morning sickness (Spoiler alert: it didn’t work). When my son was a newborn, I used to sleep with (don’t judge) a can of diet coke on the bedside table that I would swig upon waking in the week hours of the night before running to my crying child. During the same period I used to take a small hand- towel for (warning: almost certainly TMI) drying my leaky breast-milk during the night.

An ex-boyfriend of mine used to wear a mouth-guard to bed to stop him grinding his teeth.

My husband takes earplugs, an i-pod, and a pad of paper, for writing things down that he remembers during the night.

My Mum takes an eerie ability to wake up immediately at the slightest noise, or answer the phone on the first ring (yet, strangely she will often miss her ringing phone during the daylight hours).

My Dad takes the responsibility of being the grumpy person in the household, a task he takes very seriously.

And lets not even get started on some of the things new couples or singles take to bed with them…

What do you think? Do you take odd things to bed?

Would you rather be a toddler or a parent?

2011-12-08T22:41:00.000-08:00

Me and the Ox-man

Almost every day as I lead my 2yo son through his pampered little life - smoothing every bump along his path before he reaches it, feeding him before he feels a pang of hunger, setting up an activity before he can get bored (ok, in theory, I could be doing all these things) - I wonder what it must be like to be him. Pretty good, I'd say. Never having to worry about where his next meal is coming from (strike that, knowing the kind of cook his mother is, he probably does worry about that), never being cold or wet or uncomfortable, never having to worry about bills or house prices and never having to plan for the future. Sounds like paradise, doesn't it? But is being a toddler better than being a parent?

The obvious answer, of course, is a huge, flaming "YES."

A toddler's full time job is playing, for crying out loud. Toddlers are wheeled about in weatherproof buggies, carried when their feet are sore and they can go to sleep whenever they're tired. They don't (really) have to clean up after themselves. And after a long day they are fed (in some houses) bathed and put into fresh clothes before being tucked into bed. Toddlers get 12 hours sleep every night (if they want it) plus another two hours nap every day. And let's not forget my personal favourite, toddlers don't have to get up during the night to urinate. Pretty compelling arguments for being a toddler wouldn't you say (particularly the last one, since I am 6 months pregnant)?

But let's explore the other side before we make up our minds. Because, let's face it, parents have some darn good perks too. For starters, we can eat as many sweets as we like. We don't have to worry about someone watering down our juice when we're not looking (although, my Mum does try and switch drinks with me if she thinks I'm tipsy). Parents can buy all the "toys" they want, without having to wait for birthdays and Christmas. Parents can choose their own friends, they don't have to eat their greens and they can fight with their siblings to their heart's content (hang on, strike that. Mum still cracks it when I fight with my brothers on Christmas Day). Parents don't have to worry (at least in my social circles) about their friends punching them in the face or pulling their hair for no apparent reason (but if there's good reason, look out!), parents don't have to share their stuff, and parents can choose to cut friends out of our lives, regardless of whether our mother's are best friends. Last, but not least, parents don't have to go to daycare / kindergarten / school.

The verdict? I don't know. Actually, after having written this, both roles seem pretty crappy. I'm going to go with ... grandparent. And that's kinda sad.

So ... what do you think? Toddler or parent? And what perks haven't I thought of?

Giving up the dream

2011-11-27T19:18:00.000-08:00

I am a HUGE fan of 80s music. Jessie’s girl, Funky town, You Spin me right round baby right round … they all make me crank up the volume and do some pretty serious chair dancing. But chair dancing is about as serious as it gets for me. Because my next admission is the real reason for today’s blog...

I’m not a good dancer.

Let me quantify this statement. I’m not a terrible dancer or anything. Nothing like Elaine from Seinfeld in the “Stella” incident. If I was that bad, people would point and smile and laugh at least. It would be something. But I’m not like Elaine. What I am is much, much worse.

I am a shuffler.

That's right. I stand around on the edge of dancing groups, moving from foot to foot, awkwardly singing along to the lyrics. I smile a lot and hope no one looks at my feet. I look at what the person next to me is doing and try to copy it without making it too obvious. You might be a shuffler too. I know I'm not alone. Us shufflers notice each other. We nod at each other from the periphery of our circles, a nod that says, “Hang in there, friend. You may never be the one in the centre, but you’re part of society. At least you’re not like drunken uncle over there doing the sprinkler, or the guys at the bar who refuse to move anything but their beer-swilling hand.”

So why do I care enough to even write this blog? I’ll tell you.

I’ve always wanted to be a great dancer. I grew up watching Flashdance, Girls Just want to have Fun, Footloose. I dreamed of being like Janey and Jeff, doing the “routine” across the stage in front of millions of people while my family watched from side stage cheering me on. And for a long time, deep in my soul, I truly believed that one day I would have my moment. For example, in preparation for my wedding, my husband and I took 29 dance lessons. Twenty-nine. That’s a lot of time. A lot of money. I pictured a lift (Dirty Dancing style) several spins, maybe a little “No one puts Sally in a corner”. What I got was a frustrated dance teacher, a very basic liturgical dance and a huge bill from Arthur Murray. And on the day, no one got out of their seats. No one cheered. People clapped and smiled kindly at us, the way they do when the bride and groom (who, while they have other qualities, are not great dancers) do their thing.

My point? I think the dream is over. I am a 31 year old pregnant mother-of-one. And maybe – despite what Oprah says – some dreams are not meant to be realized. Sometimes, no matter how bad you want it, your dreams - and perhaps you - will be relegated to being a wallflower at the prom.

What do you think? Is anything possible if you just keep trying? Or are some dreams best kept in front of a mirror with a hairbrush? And what have you always wanted to do that you have absolutely no talent for?

Is it the thought that counts? Or the effort?

2011-10-25T02:36:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret that I’m no Martha Stewart. If I was lying on a therapist’s couch right now, I’d probably attribute this to my mother working when I was little. But like most therapist's couch revelations, that would be a cop out because even while working Mum still managed to put a meal (albeit, a dodgy one) on the table each night. More than I can say. Anyway, I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Martha Stewart. I'm going to tell you a story. Bear with me, the Martha Stewart transition will become apparent soon. And if not, I got to use the therapist’s couch analogy. I've been wanting to use that one for ages.

About a year ago, a very good friend of mine was hospitalized (spoiler alert: she’s fine now). Upon her release, another good friend of mine organized a roster for “the girls” (FYI: by “the girls” I mean my group of girlfriends, not my boobs), to send meals to my recovering friend’s house every night for a couple of weeks. My friends are good like that. When times are tough, we know how to rally around, to bandy together, to do what needs to be done. I digress again.

Anyway, on this particular occasion, I am a little ashamed to admit (now), that I didn't, not even for a millisecond, consider cooking. Instead, when it was my scheduled night to provide a meal, I nipped into the gourmet deli down the street and picked up a delicious meal (home-made by someone, I presume) and dropped it on my friend's doorstep. I got a text message later that night that my friend (and her husband) loved the green curry. Job done.

I didn't give it a second thought until a few weeks later, when I mentioned (with a little pride) to a third friend what I had done, and her jaw dropped.

Horrified friend: “You didn't cook?”

Me: Laughed, then realized the question was genuine. “Um, have we met? Of course I didn’t cook.”

Horrified friend: “Oh.”

Me (confused): “What?”

Horrified friend: “It’s just… it might have been nice to put in a little effort.”

My horrified friend wasn't trying to be hurtful or preachy. She was simply coming from an angle that I hadn't considered. Our mutual friend was ill, and for horrified friend, showing her support meant time in the kitchen, fixing that perfect homely meal with a dash of love here, a pinch of care there. I, on the other hand, thought support meant providing a meal on my scheduled night. I mean, my friend needed food, right? And I provided a meal (more to the point, I provided an edible meal, something I couldn't have guaranteed if I had cooked myself). Still, I wondered if perhaps I'd missed the point. After all, my recently-out of-hospital friend could have ordered take-away all on her own.

A year later, I'm still flummoxed. Was this a test of my friendship, of the lengths I was willing to go to so my friend could eat something made by the loving hands of her friends? Or was it simply about providing her with some grub?

What do you think? Should I have provided a (possibly inedible) home cooked meal with an extra dollop of love? Or is the ends more important than the means?

Why are you here?

2011-10-10T18:31:00.000-07:00

I didn’t always know I wanted to be a writer. But somewhere, down in the depths of my soul, I actually did. Right now, for example, as I sit here writing this blog, I feel happy. At school, whenever my English teacher asked the class to do a creative writing assignment, I felt excited. And when my work – formerly as a nanny, as an event planner and now, as an HR consultant – requires me to write something, I feel at the top of my game. Still, it took me a long time to figure it out and get where I am (which by the way, is still a long way from where I want to be: a published author.)

Why am I getting all philosophical? Ok, I’ve been watching Steve Jobs Stanford commencement address and I admit, I’m feeling a little sniffy. The way I felt when I watched Oprah’s last episode. The way I feel when I see anyone living their dream. Not ‘the’ dream. Their dream.

So, what I am wondering is ... does everyone have something they were ‘meant’ to do? I don't know for sure, of course, but I’m going to go out on a limb and say yes. Maybe it is to be a writer. Maybe it is to be Oprah. Or Steve Jobs. Maybe it is to be someone’s Mum or Dad or someone's best friend.

It's the thing you can't stop doing, even when it gets hard. The thing that makes you feel really good, and really bad. The thing that lights you up from the inside and makes you a better person. The thing that you want to leave behind when you're gone. Still don't know what it is? Don't worry - you will. And when you figure it out, it won’t be a matter of whether or not you want to do it, you’ll have no choice. Because that was what you were ‘meant’ to do.

I didn’t always know I wanted to be a writer. But somewhere, down in the depths of my soul, I actually did.

What about you? What were you meant to do? Do you even believe that everyone is meant to do something?

Is it ok to slap a 3 year old ? On the face? When it's not your kid?

2011-10-07T02:17:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows the answer to this is a huge flaming NO. Yet, after watching the first episode of The Slap last night, I find myself less convinced than I thought I’d be.

For you non-Australians, The Slap is a hugely popular Australian novel which has recently been made into a TV series. The story is about a back yard suburban bbq, where a guest (a 30-something male) slaps a three year old child in the face. Hard. The child is not his own.

I know. Horrendous right? And to be honest, it was hard to watch. Yet somehow, my feelings on the matter aren’t black and white. Maybe they should be, but they aren’t.

Here’s the background. The first episode of The Slap is told from the perspective of Hector, a philandering (yet, somehow likeable) man celebrating his 40^th birthday. The youngest attendee at the bbq is three year old Hugo, a spoiled little turd who, incidentally (or, some say, not so incidentally) is still breastfed. I will admit it was a little confronting to see a pre-schooler demanding “Boobie,” but if the National Health Organisation doesn’t have a problem with it, neither do I. BUT, during the course of the bbq, this precocious little brat Hugo terrorizes the other kids at the party (who are told they can’t reciprocate, because they are older), breaks a Nintendo wii, smashes up a pile of CDs and pulls out plants from the garden by the root. Hugo’s parents respond to this behavior by cuddling him, ask the older children to be more understanding, and ahem, giving him Boobie time.

Eventually Hector (the host) organizes a cricket game for the kids, which seems to keep Hugo happy and out of trouble for a while. UNTIL birthday boy Hector and his cousin (can’t remember his name) hear some commotion from the kids and find Hugo, who has been bowled out, swinging the bat at the other children, trying to hit them. Hector’s cousin grabs the bat from Hugo and Hugo retaliates with a painful kick in the shins. That’s when it happens. A slap. Across the face. Really hard.

The episode concludes with the news that the parents of the child are pressing charges.

I’m surprised to say, I felt bad for the cousin a.k.a. The Slapper. After all, didn’t that little brat get what he deserved? Yes, according to one of my twitter friends, Nick Seemore, who said:

"Even knowing the whole time the kid was gonna be slapped, the only shocking thing about it was that he wasn't decked much earlier"

Nick has a point. Then again, I suspect it was the producers intention that people feel bad for the slapper. We probably shouldn't. He was the grown up, after all. Not to mention the fact that I have a toddler, who on occasion, has been known to be a brat. And what would I do if a strange man laid a hand on my child? I’d yell. I'd scream. And yes, I'd probably press charges.

The bottom line is, the producers did a good job. Australia’s divided. Everyone has an opinion. And I – the mother of an occasionally badly behaved toddler – took the side of The Slapper (at least temporarily). Now I don’t know what I think. And for someone who likes to have an opinion, that really freaks me out.

What do you think? Have you read the book? Watched the show? And even if you haven’t, can you imagine any circumstances that would cause you to side with a grown man who hit a child?

Opinions on "full-term" breastfeeding or smacking in general are also welcome.

Vegetables, Israelis and are we destroying our children's lives?

2011-10-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, while standing behind two (impossibly manicured) ladies at the supermarket, I couldn't help but overhear them talking about what they were cooking for their toddlers tonight.

The conversation went like this:

Prue: I think we might just have vegetables for dinner tonight. My Hector just LOVES brussel sprouts. He'd eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner if he could...

Trude: Oh, same goes for my Penelope. When they were out of season I just didn't know what to feed her! **

I looked down at my basket of chicken nuggets, pasta and cheese slices and felt a familiar wave of shame. Because my toddler doesn't eat vegetables. Or fruit. None. Nil. Nothing.

There I said it. It's not like I feel good about it. I know I've failed as a woman, a mother, a human being. I regularly suspect my son has scurvy. I regularly have dreams that his hair will fall out and his eyes will turn yellow. But frankly, I'm out of ideas. And I'm out of energy.

Before you say anything, yes, I've tried covering broccoli in butter and salt and pepper. I've tried pureeing fruit in yoghurt. I've tried cutting up carrots in microscopic pieces for pasta sauces and casseroles. I've tried sprinkling banana on ice-cream, burying peas under tasty cheese and tying sweet potatoes to helium balloons (ok, I haven't tried that). I've tried serving nothing but vegetables over a 48 hour period (the result? a 2 day food strike). And, if you still don't think I've done enough, what about this? Even my MUM has given up on giving Oscar vegetables. And you know how grandmothers love their vegies.

My instinct is to give up for a while. Let him eat other stuff. After all, I know lots of successful people who weren't perfect children (terrible sleepers, late potty-trainers, horrible tantrums). But one thing is stopping me. Ya-ear.

You see, my friend Rachel and I once travelled around Vietnam with an Israeli backpacker namde Ya-ear (I swear, this will become relevant soon. Bear with me). Ya-ear was handsome, well travelled, intelligent. And Rachel and I fancied the pants of him. But just before we went to blows over who was to be the lucky girl to bag the hot Israeli guy, we made an interesting discovery about Ya-ear. He didn't eat vegetables.

Who cares? I hear you say. Well that's what I thought too. At first. But then, it started to get old. Every time we went out for a meal -three times a day, when you're backpacking in a country where a meal is 25 cents - the first half of the meal was spent listening to Ya-ear cross examining the waiter on the menu and demanding a vegetable free meal be provided, and the second half was spent answering questions from new people who had joined us. The Q & A session went (exactly) like this. Every time:

New person: You really don't eat vegetables?

Ya-ear: I do not

New person: Not even potatoes?

Ya-ear: No vegetables

New person: What about fries?

Ya-ear: No vegetables

New person: Crisps?

Rachel and I: NO VEGETABLES!

We parted ways with Ya-ear fairly soon after that. And as you probably guessed, things never got hot and heavy, and my friendship with Rachel remains intact. But this does leave me in somewhat of a predicament when it comes to my toddler's diet. So, what's the answer?

a) Let him end up like Ya-ear. Gorgeous, intelligent and completely unappealing as anything other than a non vegetable eating side-show

b) Force the issue - and the brussel sprout - down his throat

Question time: Do you know anyone who didn't eat vegetables as a child? How did they turn out? And do they eat them now?

** Of course, I realize Prue and Trude were lying about the brussel sprouts. No one likes brussel sprouts. And don't bother chiming in if you or your child likes brussel sprouts. Unless you want to be publicly heralded a liar.

Are you a shover or an accountant?

2011-09-18T15:47:00.000-07:00

On the weekend, I suggested that my husband and I clean the house. It was starting to become an unhappy place to be. There was stuff from floor to ceiling and it was making me consistently late for work when I could never find any knickers.

But when I saw Christian's face light up, and I realized I'd made a grave, grave error.
You see, when I say "cleaning", I am not suggesting hands and knees over the bathtub type of cleaning. Nor am I suggesting a little light spray and wiping in the kitchen. I am not, in fact, even talking about tidying. No, I am talking about finding all the rogue toys, laundry items and dishes and shoving them into their spots (or if they don't have spots, shoving them into the nearest drawer and quickly slamming it shut.)

There, I said it. I am a shover. I come from a long line of shovers, and deep down in my soul, I believe shoving is cleaning. Out of sight out of mind, right? Unfortunately, my husband is an accountant. And by that, I mean, he is thorough. "Cleaning" means getting all of the shoved items out of the their places, washing and ironing them, and then finding appropriate places for them. It means labelling those places with a Dymo label maker. And it means writing the new places on the white board so I will remember where to put things. The word "cleaning" is up there with beer in his list of favourite things. The word "shove" does not feature on this list. Hence my grave, grave error.

As soon as I said it, I started to panic. A bead of sweat trickled down my back and I stood, waiting for him to get out plastic rubbish bags and labelling them "charity shop," "put away for next winter," and "rubbish". I didn't have to wait very long. Less than half and hour after my innocent suggestion, every item in my wardrobe was on the floor and he was standing over me with a long stick, forcing me to make a decision about the fate of each item. (Kidding about the stick. The rest is true.)

It was ghastly. and worst of all, it was "my idea". But as I sit here now, writing this blog, I can't help but feel a lot lighter. I even feel a little grateful that I married an accountant. Because there was no search for underwear this morning. I simply went to my drawers and looked in the Dymo labelled section "undergarments" (yes, it was labelled). And I have to admit, it was a good feeling. And an even better feeling? I probably have about 3 months until the next "cleaning" episode.

Are you a shover, or an accountant? What about your spouse?

Don't you HATE it when...

2011-09-13T02:28:00.000-07:00

People say “we” when they mean you? For example: How are we going with those CVs?

People make inverted commas in the air with their fingers?

People ask for a bite of your food or a sip of your drink then leave their goobies all over it?

People stand behind you at work when you're on facebook, when you have been working really hard the whole day?

You wear the wrong knickers and wind up with four buttocks?

You wear the wrong bra and wind up with four boobs (incidentally, four more than you usually have)?

Your favourite TV show goes on a 9 month hiatus between seasons?

Someone asks you out for lunch when you’ve been looking forward to your leftover Thai food all morning?

You suffer in silence through an ordinary massage because your mother raised you not to be a complainer?

And don't you really HATE it when all these things happen to you in one day ...

But I love it when my tragic life inspires a blog!!!

Five easy ways to make your manuscript sparkle

2011-07-28T03:34:00.000-07:00

I'm in the throes of self-editing right now, and those of you who know about this process will know that it's more an exercise in self-loathing than self-editing. But, since I've been bingeing on writing craft books of late, I've decided to share some of the better tips I've learned about making your writing look better... without much effort. You'll still have to do all those hideous, complicated little edits (sorry) but at least I can offer you five simple little things to do when you need to disengage your brain for a while.

1) As and -ing sentences

If you're like me, you use heaps of these in your first drafts. Take a sentence I just plucked out of my recent WIP The Good Guys for example.

As I stood in front of Si, I tried not to look nervous.

Sure there's nothing wrong with this sentence. It's clear and grammatically correct. The problem is that this construction has been so overused that it can make your writing look amateurish. Same goes for -ing words. Let's look at the same sentence as an -ing sentence.

Standing in front of Si, I tried not to look nervous.

The sentence above is also fine. But do you want your writing to be fine? Why not say instead:

I stood in front of Si and tried not to look nervous.

See what I mean? A more powerful sentence without even trying. All you have to do is do a search for 'ing' and 'as,' and reconstruct your sentences a little. Your writing will look more sophisticated in seconds.

2) Adverbs and Adjectives

I know, I know. You’ve heard it before. But Stephen King was right. “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.” I don’t want to flog a dead horse, but there’s nothing like an adverb or adjective to kill a strong sentence. Let’s look at another example from The Good Guys.

“How did your Mum die?” Robbie asks quietly.

"She OD’d.”

He winces. “Sorry. When?”

I shrug indifferently. “Two years ago.”

“And you stayed in that house?” He seems genuinely surprised. “With Si and those guys?
Why?”

It's his third question, but I let it go. It’s easier to tell him the whole story than have him extract it piece by piece. “Because Nan and Papa were in the retirement village, Papa had dementia and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What about your Dad?”

I glance at him warily. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Now, look at the same paragraph with the –ly words removed.

“How did your Mum die?”

“She OD’d.”

He winces. “When?”

I shrug. “Two years ago.”

“And you stayed in that house? With Si and those guys? Why?”

It’s his third question, but I let it go. It’s easier to tell him the whole story than have him extract it piece by piece. “Because Nan and Papa were in the retirement village, Papa had dementia and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What about your Dad?”

I glance at him. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

See the difference? '-ly words weaken otherwise strong dialogue (or narrative). Note that I left uncomfortably. Even Stephen king leaves a few adverbs / adjectives.

3) Break up short sentences into longer sentences with commas.

I love a short sentence. It’s punchy. Dramatic. Exciting. But sometimes a longer sentence, particularly between short sentences, adds to the drama even more.

Lets look at the two paragraphs below, again from The Good Guys (sorry).

1) Nan is waiting for us in the driveway. She looks like she’s dressed for church. Her hair is wound into a tight grey bun. She wears it pressed forward with pins to create a wave effect above her forehead. I love her hair like this. She wears a crisp white shirt and a honey coloured cardigan. Her plumpy legs are covered in a tweed skirt. On her feet she wears her bone-coloured shoes. Always the bone coloured shoes. The sight of her threatens to undo me completely. But I force myself to stay focused as I pull into the driveway.

Now, let’s look at paragraph 2.

2) Nan is waiting for us in the driveway; she looks like she’s dressed for church. Her hair is wound into a tight grey bun, pressed forward with pins to create a wave effect above her forehead. I love her hair like this. She wears a crisp white shirt, a honey coloured cardigan, a tweed skirt and bone-coloured shoes. She always wears those bone coloured shoes. The sight of her threatens to undo me completely, but I force myself to stay focused as I pull into the driveway.

The differences are subtle, but do you see them?

4) Banish ALL italics and exclamation points!!!

One of the books I read suggests that after you finish draft 1, you should select your entire document, and remove all italics. Then, do a search for exclamation points and remove every one. Every. single. one.

What?! I cried when I read this. But what if I really need to emphasize my point??!!

This book acknowledges that while there are some legitimate reasons to use italics and exclamation points, there aren't many. In fact, one book said no more than five exclamation points and five italics in any book. I know, I thought the same thing. But then, when I tried it, I had to agree. Exclamation points and italics look amateurish. Just look at the following.

“Listen! My Dad did some time a few years ago—”

My jaw sags. “Your Dad was in jail? What for?”

“Corporate Fraud.”

My interest level diminishes. I don’t know what corporate fraud is, but I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of boring, upper class crime.

“He did six months,”Robbie continues. “It was the worst time of his life. He said he used to pray for death - that’s how bad things got. You don’t know,” Robbie’s hands start to shake. “You don’t know what they do to rich people in prison!” He makes inverted commas with his fingers as he says rich.

“I'll bet. But you should have thought of that before you killed your Dad!” I take a deep breath. “Well, as interesting as all this is, Robbie, I'd better to get going. I have a psychopath after me. So, I wish you luck, but—”

Robbie grips the top of the car door. “Take me with you!”

And now, look at this …

“Listen. My Dad did some time a few years ago—”

My jaw sags. “Your Dad was in jail? What for?”

“Corporate Fraud.”

My interest level diminishes. I don’t know what corporate fraud is, but I’m pretty sure it’s some kind of boring, upper class crime.

“He did six months,”Robbie continues. “It was the worst time of his life. He said he used to pray for death, that’s how bad things got. You don’t know,” Robbie’s hands start to shake. “You don’t know what they do to rich people in prison.” He makes inverted commas with his fingers as he says the word ‘rich’.

“I'll bet. But you should have thought of that before you killed your Dad.” I take a deep breath. “Well, as interesting as all this is, Robbie, I'd better to get going. I have a psychopath after me. So, I wish you luck, but—”

Robbie grips the top of the car door. “Take me with you.”

Much more professional looking, don't you think? And all I had to do was get rid of italics and delete a few exclamation points. Doesn’t get much easier than that.

5) Profanity –less is more

My Mum will be so glad to see this post. She washes out my mouth every time she sees a swear word in my writing. But Mum, I argue, it’s the character swearing, not me.

Just to be clear, I think it's very important that your characters are realistic. And since The Good Guys is about drug dealing gangsters, it wouldn’t be realistic to have no swearing at all. Gangsters don’t say drat, bother or blast.However, a well-timed swear can go a long way. So, if it is necessary for your ms. to include swearing, consider cutting the swear words in half. You probably won't even notice. See example below (warning, profanities ahead).

I should’ve let the cops arrest me. After all, it was just a small-time drug deal in a neighbourhood park. A much smaller crime than taking a hostage at gun-point. But it was a stressful situation, and in the heat of the moment, I panicked. Now, Si is pissed.

Are you a fucking retard? I told you to get the money, hand over the stuff, return. How the fuck did you manage to come back with no money, no drugs and this son-of-a-bitch?”

His fist strikes my jaw and I fly backward into the wall of the shed. I try not to scream, but a dull moan comes out before I can stop it. I hope I don’t pay too dearly for it. Si likes people to take their beatings ‘like men.’

Before I hit the floor he grabs my by the front of my jumper and pulls me back to my feet. Then he appears in my face, so close I can smell the sausage on his breath.

"Say it.”

My ears are buzzing so loud, I have to lip-read. “Saywhat?”

“Say: I’m a fucking retard.”

“I’m a fucking retard.” I speak slowly and clearly, holding his gaze.

He smiles. “Good.”

In the below version, I’ve deleted three of the five swear words. And I don’t think it loses anything in authenticity.

I should’ve let the cops arrest me. After all, it was just a small-time drug deal in a neighbourhood park. A much smaller crime than taking a hostage at gun-point. But it was a stressful situation, and in the heat of the moment, I panicked. Now, Si is pissed.

“Are you a retard? I told you to get the money, hand over the stuff, return. How the fuck did you manage to come back with no money, no drugs and this son-of-a-bitch?”

His fist strikes my jaw and I fly backward into the wall of the shed. I try not to scream, but a dull moan comes out before I can stop it. I hope I don’t pay too dearly for it. Si likes people to take their beatings ‘like men.’

Before I hit the floor he grabs my by the front of my jumper and pulls me back to my feet. Then he appears in my face, so close I can smell sausage on his breath.

“Say it.”

My ears are buzzing so loud, I have to lip-read. “Say what?”

“Say: I’m a retard.”

“I’m a retard.” I speak slowly and clearly, holding his gaze.

He smiles. “Good.”

Well there it is. Five easy tips to make your manuscript sparkle. Now it’s your time to share. What are your tips for sophisticated writing?

Is anyone out there?

2011-07-18T19:41:00.000-07:00

Are you a phantom reader of my blog? If so, I don't blame you. I read dozens of blogs, and until recently, I never made myself known. I was a lurker, a hoverer, the proverbial wall-flower of the commenting world. In fact, it wasn't until I read this post by Jody Hedlund, that I realized how important comments are to a blog. Comments are what give a blog life. Not only do they show a blogger that you're listening, they give clues as to which posts are being well received, whether you agree or disagree with the blogger's opinions, whether you 'get' the post. And most important (I think), comments add that wonderful third dimension to a blog ... interaction.

I love getting comments. Not only do they reassure me that people are there reading my blog, I also find them very entertaining. They help me direct the content of my blog, help me connect with readers and (ok) they make me feel special. So today, I'm shouting out. Are you a reader who has never commented? If so, say hello! I'd love to check out your blog (if you have one) and I'd love to hear what you think.

Oh, and don't worry, I'm not going to send you away with just a preachy blog. While you're here, I'd also give you some fun facts I bet you didn't know...

Banging your head against a wall uses 150 calories an hour.
The ant can lift 50 times its own weight, can pull 30 times its own weight and always falls over on its right side when intoxicated.
Butterflies taste with their feet.
An ostrich’s eye is bigger than its brain.
Starfish don’t have brains.
Turtles can breathe through their butts.

So, are you out there? Nice to meet you!

What if?

2011-07-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

What if you were to meet the man of your dreams, after years and years of searching. He's tall, handsome, speaks French (in bed) and earns enough money to give you a comfortable life. He cares about the environment, he's smart but not arrogant, polite but not dull, assertive but not agressive, kind but not a push-over. He loves kids, and animals. He's a great cook. Oh, and he likes you a lot.

What if you met this man, only to find out his name was ... Bernard.

What? It could happen.

No matter what you do... I only wanna be with you!

2011-07-13T01:32:00.000-07:00

Hi readers!

You’ve (hopefully) been wondering where I’ve been. Maybe you've theorized about my absence ... Has Sally been on vacation? In hospital? Trapped under a rock? Actually no, no and no. But I have been somewhere. Somewhere a long way away. One of my very favourite places.

Writing my book. (Ok, not really a place, but you get the idea.)

Ooh, I love it there. I can control everyone. I can make the man say exactly what he’s supposed to. I can get people out of their financial hardship in three pages and I can make sure the bad guys get their comeuppance. If only real life was so nice.

So what’s the problem? I hear you ask. You’re a writer! You should be committed. Well, yes, and thank you for pointing that out. The problem is, everything else in my life that needs doing. Blogging. Housework. Parenting. Wifing. Working. Every minute I'm doing any of things, I'm watching the clock until I can dive head-first back into my fanstasy land. And not only does that make me a terrible mother, wife and employee, it also makes for a bad writer.

You see, during those blissful hours when I’m neck-deep in a love story about a runaway drug-dealer and her hostage (don't ask), I’m not living. And if I don’t live ... who’ll want to read my stories? Hmm .... Memoir of an Australian recluse, whose family left her for abandoning them emotionally... I can't see it becoming a bestseller.

So tonight, I've made a decision. Before my child gets scurvy, before my house disappears under a pile of dishes, and before my husband has an affair (if I’m not too late!) I'm going to take the night off. To cook. Clean. Watch Offspring Cuddle my toddler. Love my husband. Then tomorrow, I’ll write about it.

Hey you! Reader. You take the night off too.

Do you believe in magic?

2011-06-22T05:17:00.000-07:00

My husband is a scientist. Not the white coat wearing, Bunsen burner type of scientist (although he did wear very thick glasses before he had laser eye surgery). The type of scientist who studied science at university. Now, he is an accountant (just as nerdy) but he blames his science background for the fact that he is a non-believer.

By non-believer I’m not talking about God. At least, not only God. Christian (I know, an ironic name, huh?) is a non-believer in everything that isn’t scientific. He once famously (at least in my family) told my Mum (a history teacher) that he didn’t believe in history. He has since retracted that statement.

I, on the other hand, am a true believer. In the same way as Christian is a believer in nothing, I am a believer in everything. God. Magic. Vampires. The power of one. I believe that the latest product I purchased from an info-mercial (the Slap Chop) is actually going to revolutionise the way I chop vegetables. I believe that good things happen to those who wait. I believe that one day I will be a published author. Unlike Christian, I don’t need proof to think something is what it is. I just need to think something is possible.

So when I heard about The Secret I thought it was the best thing since Zumba. And I don't do things by halves. I made a vision board, I visualised every night, I made a list of goals, I got a gratitude rock (I still carry it). Christian turned up his nose, of course, but at least he did it quietly. Respectfully. He left my posters up, he watched a little of the movie (and only with a faint groan), he even made a vision board (after I begged him to give it a go). After a while, I thought perhaps he was softening his non-believing policy. Particularly since The Secret was working for me. I’d finally finished my book, got an agent. I’d reached my fitness goals. Several other personal things were working out for me. Maybe he was changing his non-believer spots? Or stripes. Or whatever.

“So?” I said to him one day, unable to keep the smug grin off my face. “Are you a believer now?”
“Phwar.” (The sound of him scoffing at the ridiculousness of the idea).
“Pishhhhh.” (The sound of me deflating). “But... but you haven’t scorned me. Or torn down my posters. Or pointed out the scientific flaws in The Secret.”
“No." He sighed. "But not because I believe in The Secret. Because I think believing is good for you. It makes you work so much harder for what you want.”

I was about to call him a condescending son-of-a ... when I realized two things. One, it was sweet of him (and probably very difficult for him) to refrain from scorning when something made so little sense to him. Two, my sceptical husband was right about one thing.

It doesn’t actually matter what you believe in, and as long as you don’t ONLY believe. It is the actions we take because of our beliefs that creates the magic. And I believe in magic. Even if Christian doesn’t.

What do you believe in? Has it made your dreams come true?

The Write Race

2011-06-17T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today I have a guest post featured over at Between Fact and Fiction (Natalie Whipple's blog) about the joys of rejection.

If you're a writer and you aren't already following Natalie's blog, I suggest you get over there. She is a wealth of information and a really great gal.

Thanks for reading, readers!

Sally

What does parenting mean to you?

2011-06-15T01:23:00.000-07:00

Ok, ok, I know. Two blogs about parenting in a row? Bad. But I had to get this out. I was driving to work this morning when a talk back segment came on the radio entitled: What parenting means to you.

I turned it up, ready for some laughs. But I was bitterly disappointed. I actually had to hold my weak stomach as one caller after the next rang up to spout touchy-feely crap about how “parenting was the meaning of life,” and “parenting meant self-love and acceptance.”

Pukesville, right? And I’m a Mum! I know what it’s like to love your child, but have a sense of humour, people! In fact, if my phone hadn’t been dead – because my 2yo pulled it out of the charger before he went to bed and I didn’t notice – I would’ve called up and given them some home truths. But it was dead. So I’m giving them to you.

Parenting is:
• Going to work with a Dora sticker stuck to your ass

• Appreciating the wonder of dinosaur shaped chicken

• Being asked if you are sick when you’ve actually just forgotten to put make-up on

• Feeling dressed-up in jeans

• Getting annoyed when people call after 8pm

• Thinking its ok to wear slippers to the supermarket

• Giving and receiving (colds and other germs)

• Choosing your vacation destination by the availability of the kids club (note I said availability, not quality)

• Eating dinner at 5pm (and going to bed at 7pm)

• Fighting with your partner over who gets to carry them in from the car (instead of the shopping).

• Complaining that the neighbours “play their television soooo loud.”

• Thinking a little bit of vomit / breakfast / snot / faeces on your jeans is no big deal (ok, not faeces)

• Smelling something bad and praying it’s a fart

• Having a dead battery when you have something to say.

What does parenting mean to you?

The Ten Stupidest things I did in my first year of Motherhood

2011-06-14T01:36:00.000-07:00

1. Believe my child would continue to eat vegetables
At some point between 1 – 3 they all wise-up and decide chicken nuggets and ice-cream are much tastier. And you can't really blame 'em.

2. Brag about my child being a good sleeper
At 2, he’s about as sleepy as a hungry puppy. At feeding time.

3. Multi-task
I once dropped my son down back of the couch when I was watching Oprah (he got wedged between the wall and the couch and I had to pluck him out by his feet.

4. Cry when I dropped him off to a babysitter, then hurry back!
These days I punch the sky after dropping my child in anyone else’s care. And I’ll wait in the car having a car sing-a-long to 80s ballads until the last possible minute to retrieve him.

5. Read parenting books
While they have some value – and I’m actually finding them quite helpful with dealing with the above mentioned vegetable problem - as a new mother then they did nothing but remind me what a crap job I was doing. And I had enough reminders of that when I looked at the bruise on my son's head (see item 3).

6. Want my child to do stuff faster (walk etc)
The more stuff they can do, the more hassle they become. These days I yearn for the days of sitting on a blanket at the park while my baby lies kicking on a blanket. Now when my friends and I “catch up” at the playground, one of us is typically over by the swings while the other is perched on the see-saw. In fact, last weekend I spent half an hour chatting to another Mum friend at the playground ... on the phone! True story. (We thought it was ingenious actually). We couldn’t get close enough to chat, so we just plugged into our iphones from opposite ends of the park.

7. Forget to strap his car seat to the base when we went out in a friends car.
One minute my friend and I were chatting happily, the next the car seat was rolling across the back-seat and getting wedged in the foot area. Thankfully no one was hurt, except the ego of the man who got out of his car in an orange vest to stand guard while strapped the car seat back into the car. (We deemed his services thoughtful, but unnecessary.)

8. Not do more stuff
Did you know they have movies for Mum’s and bubs? What better to do than sit in a darkened room with your new baby? I should've gone more often. Oh, to see a movie. Why the bejeezers didn’t I do that more?

9. Stay up late and look at my baby
I know, I know, a school girl error. But look how cute he was (below, planning for world domination).

10. Pass judgement
Oh judgement, dear, sweet judgement. Because of you I’ve eaten many a humble pie. In fact, pretty much every time I whisper behind my hand about another mother’s parenting, I find myself doing something similar, and usually worse, very shortly afterward. Like the time I ran (yep, ran) home to tell my husband that Ms X. gave her children – dum da da dum – McDonalds for dinner! I know, I couldn’t believe it either. In fact, I still can’t believe it. (By that I mean, I can’t believe I didn’t do it sooner. Convenience plus a toy? Win Win, friends.)

In summary
The biggest thing I learned from my first year of mothering is that no one knows it all when it comes to parenting.

Mothers, what stupid things did you do?

A Little Spit n Polish

2011-06-08T02:36:00.000-07:00

I'm very happy to have my second guest post today. Work smarter not harder, that's what I always say ;)

Sue Owen (aka Pink Phoenix) has written this post for Indie writers, but I think there is a message for all writers here. You'll find that message under the subheading (you guessed it) The Message.

Stay tuned for my tomorrow's post entitled: The ten stupidest things I did in my first year of Motherhood.

Over to Sue...

HOW ITS ALWAYS BEEN DONE
It used to be you write a book and then you go on the hunt for an agent. It could take years before you find an agent that feels the same way about your book that you do. If you manage to get representation the fun really begins. They go through your book to polish it up, find the errors and plot holes, then give you ideas for rewriting that strengthens the plot and gives it tweaks to make it more marketable. Then they go on the hunt for a publisher, who will then hit you with rewrites to strengthen the plot and head it the direction they feel would be marketable. And what did you end up with? A marketable novel that looked nothing like the one you started out with and is just one company’s idea of sellable.

Enter Indie Authors....
Indie authors rock. When customers purchase an indie book they know they are getting a unique product that has not been processed by many hands just to be made into someone’s version of marketable. So it’s more than just a carbon copy of all the other books in that genre, it is uniquely your own product and readers know this.

Revolution
e-Readers have revolutionized the reading marketplace. Readers no longer have to haul around heavy books to enjoy escaping into another’s imagination. Now, they can download hundreds of titles right onto a small e-reader and carry it in a bag or purse. This opens the door to a new revolution: Indie writers. It is now possible to write a book, publish it and have someone reading it in the space of a few minutes. With that revolution comes great responsibility.

Possible defeat
Indie writers have got to understand and maintain the same high standards that publishing houses have over the years and that readers expect. We are on the threshold of discovering a whole new world by giving readers the opportunity to never open a physical book again. We have the technology in our hands to preserve forever our history in the books that are written. But this will never happen if the next generation of writers does not step up and bring their ‘A’ game.

More and more often I’m seeing Indie writers slap together a book just to get it out to the public hoping to make a few dollars. They don’t even take the time to read their own works, not caring that their sloppiness is a reflection on not only themselves but the industry they represent. I have seen some amazing works done by Indie writers that are spoiled due to misspellings and bad grammar. It is those few that will set back this revolution. I charge Indie writers to write and produce professional manuscripts that are well edited and presented proudly.

The Message
Please. Take the time to polish your work or work with professionals to present a product you can be proud of.

Although her first book (The Sword's Journey (Chasing History Series)) is just out, Sue has been editing and doing rewrites for several authors for a number of years and continues in that capacity for her co-owned Pink Phoenix Press. Sue’s own works include various articles in technical journals as well as three unpublished manuscripts and two children’s books. With the Indie publishing of her first book, she reached a milestone so had a choice … continue to write or try something new. She is working now on the 2nd and 3rd books in the Chasing History series so look for more works by Sue. She lives in Oregon, USA with her cat Izabelle.

Catch Sue here : pinkphoenixrr.blogspot.com and bysueowen.blogspot.com

The Old "not not."

2011-06-05T01:41:00.000-07:00

Several of my friends and acquaintances are in their ‘baby making years’ at the moment. Almost every week there is a pregnancy announced or baby born to someone I know. It's a very special and exciting time.

Lately though, I’ve noticed a perplexing trend. It's to do with how people announce their pregnancies. It goes a little something like this:

Friend: I’m pregnant!

Me (and others): Congratulations! That’s wonderful!

Launch into obligatory questions about due date, morning sickness and whether or not they’ll find out the gender of their child. Then ...

Friend: It was a bit of a surprise.

Me (and others): Oh? You weren’t trying?

Friend: God no! (short pause). Well, we were not not trying.

Me: I’m sorry?

Friend: I went off birth control a few months ago to see what would happen, and two months later, lo and behold, I’m pregnant!

Me (struggling to keep up): So you were trying?

Friend: No. We weren’t actively trying. We just weren’t NOT trying.

Me (feeling the beginnings of a migraine coming on): You went off birth control and continued to have sex?

Friend: Yeeeeesss.

Me: In the hopes of conceiving a baby?

Friend: Well, um—

Hmmm. I don't know what's prompting this trend. Has it become shameful to admit you are trying for a baby? Are we so nervous about taking the plunge into parenthood that we can't even admit it to ourselves? Or are people trying to make it clear how easy they found it to conceive - they didn’t even have to try, they just had to “not not” try? I’m not sure.

One thing I am sure of is that “not not trying,” is TRYING. Call it passively trying, call it fooling around, call it russian roulette ... as long as you know the truth.

If you’re knowingly and willingly having unprotected intercourse, you’re trying.

Right. Where is my ladder? I need to get down off my soapbox.

Donna Galanti on becoming a better writer

2011-06-03T02:45:00.000-07:00

I am delighted to have my very first guest post on my blog today! Yahoo!

On that note: If you're interested in doing a guest post, please email me on hepworth(dot)sally(at)gmail.com

Today we have the pleasure of hearing from wonderful and talented writer, Donna Galanti. Donna is a freelance writer for an advertising agency, the former owner of a resume services company and has a background in marketing. She earned a degree in English and Journalism after a stint as a Navy photographer stationed in Pearl Harbor. She has completed two books, (shopping one now!) and is writing a third. She is actively seeking an agent.

If you don't already subscribe to Donna's blog, please head on over to her blog and sign up. You'll be glad you did. Now, over to Donna...

WHAT MAKES ME A BETTER WRITER

Well Sally, you made me “thunk a lot” to answer your question on what makes me a better writer.

When trying to get my 8 year old to do something that needs to get done I often say “Come on!” His response is usually, “I’m come-on-ing!” So how does this fit in with how I have become a better writer? (and able to keep calling myself a writer?)

COME-ON-ING

First, by come-on-ing – Or finding the discipline to just keep writing. Writing isn’t a fair weather friend so don’t treat it as such. I had to keep writing even if it meant getting up at 4:30AM – 6:00AM to write. I wrote my first book this way. (Yes, I know it was bad but I finished it!). Now on days off I hit the library early for three solid hours. My biggest word crunch time happens there. No distractions. And I don’t take advantage of their online access. Writing is a job. I focus on this one task and none other.

FINISHING
Speaking of finishing my first book – Yes, that awful project that stays hidden away. While it may never creep out again to see the light of day, I DID finish it. This motivated me to write another and another…

STOP EDITING
Once I made the decision to stop editing while writing I was able to finish my first book. This had been my stumbling block for years. I stripped it away and stomped on it with delicious force. Kind of like that mouse that ran out of our newly-cut Christmas Tree one year into the living room. A good feeling. A bit of blood but then you clean it up.

RESOURCES
Relying on resources – Once I came out of my nook and stuck my head out I saw a shiny world open up. One that held supportive writers, workshops, master authors, professional editors and books on writing. I am currently writing a novel now through a class and it’s a valuable, new experience. I have used a developmental editor. They can be expensive but well worth it. I used one for my query, synopsis and first few pages. She did an amazing job and showed me how to look at my MS in a new light to edit the rest. I am excited about querying my novel again! I belong to a wonderful regional writing group – The Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group. So, hook up with your peers.

CRITICISM
Being open to constructive criticism – I love what I write but I also have very little ego when it comes to criticism. Give it to me and don’t make it drippy and sweet. Make my mouth pucker with ooooh! I thirst for new ways, new ideas, new processes to make my words sing with WOW. TIP: first, know the right people who can do this for you that most benefits your writing. Trust your instincts when advice is not valuable and move on. Also, if you think your writing is “great” and doesn’t need much work – you aren’t ready to take your writing to the next level and you won’t improve. And you won’t get published.

FREE WRITING
I find writing prompts and set a timer for 1 hour and just write. See what transpires. I have gotten fresh ideas this way for my novels. I have also written flash fiction this way.

CHALLENGES
I love to write suspense, oozing with gruesome, tragic scenes. Yet, recently I had the opportunity to become a student of Writing a YA Novel in 9 Months led by NY Times Best Selling author Jonathan Maberry and YA Author Marie Lamba. I had no idea how to write in a 12 year old voice and first person POV – but I wanted the experience. I wanted to learn from some masters. I am having so much fun writing something new.

SUPPORT
Supportive hubby – Writer + No Alone Time = Crabby Wife and Mom. My smart husband knows this. He creates time alone for me to write, providing me with forced writing time. I use it or lose it.

READ
I know, it’s way down on this list here but finding time to leisurely read as a writer is hard. Why read when you can write? I keep several books across genres by my bedside now to read at night. Suspense, memoir, children’s, horror. I want to see how the successful ones are doing it. And when stuck on a scene I read similar scenes by authors in my genre to see how they master it.

EDITING
A love of editing – Once my brain spew reaches THE END then I giggle and run back to the beginning to gleefully edit. It’s a sickness, I know. I love to find overused words in my MS (dark, glow, soft, hard, etc) and replace them with interesting ones. I love to do search and replace on –ly, -ing, words and replace weak verbs like were, was with higher impact verbs. I look at my work with a critical eye and goal to CUT-TIGHTEN-TRIM. I play games with myself on how much more I can cut. And then do it again, and again. Once is never enough. Or twice. Or six times.

GET OUT THERE
I put myself out there – I finally got on Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, GoodReads and now take advantage of my peers’ knowledge and resources. I take writing workshops (highly recommend Writing The BreakOut Novel by Donald Maass). I overcame my fear and went to my first Writer Conference. I found serious writers on all levels go to them: novice, unpublished, published. We are all trying to achieve the same thing.

Knowing I have the right (write) to be here – I am a writer amongst writers of all levels. I belong, just as they do. And you do. We are all in it together. And can learn from one another.

NEVER GIVE UP
Writers must have the highest rate of NOT quitting their jobs. If they did they would never get published. For me, I simply must write. And write a good book. Then a better book. And someday a great book. You too!

My daily reference books; Writing the Breakout Novel (and Workbook) and Fire in Fiction by Donald Maass, On Writing Well by William Zinsser, On Writing by Stephen King, my 3 different thesauruses (thesaurusi?) and Barron’s Essentials of English.

Thanks so much Sally! (I know I had to do some come-on-ing to get this article done!)

Hope to see you here:
http://www.donnagalanti.com/
Twitter@DonnaGalanti
Facebook@DonnaBeckleyGalanti
LinkedIn@DonnaGalanti

Why the Urgency?

2011-05-27T20:12:00.000-07:00

This morning, I was hurrying my two year old into bed for his lunchtime nap (an hour ahead of schedule, but he can’t tell the time, right?) so I could get started on my manuscript revisions, when I had a profound thought:

Why the, um ... bejeezers ... am I rushing?

The way I carry on, you’d think I had a gun to my head (or any sort of deadline for that matter). But I don’t. I don’t have a publisher breathing down my neck for my next book. I have just gone back to work part-time (after two years mat-leave) so I don't have the financial pressure to produce something fast (not that I couldn't use some more money, but the situation isn't dire). I do have an agent who would probably like to see something from me in the foreseeable future, but no one is more encouraging than she is when it comes to taking the time I need to produce a high quality novel.

So, why do I do it to myself? Well, there are a few reasons. Sometimes it's because I have an idea that I want to get onto paper before I ‘lose’ it. Sometimes it’s because I want to get my revisions done while they are fresh in my mind. Sometimes it's because I want to do anything but play ‘horsey’ with my toddler and telling my husband I have ‘work’ to do gets me out of it.

But in most cases, the reason I do it is because (WARNING: touchy-feely sentiment ahead) in Oprah’s words - I want to be heard. I want validation. I want to know I'm not wasting my life behind a computer screen. I want someone to read my book and tell me they liked it (or even, that they liked some of it). And I guess, I want that to happen soon.

There, I said it. That's why the urgency. Childish, huh? But I suspect I'm not the only one.

Over to you: Do you write with urgency? Why?

Note: I’ve learned nothing from this blog. I am typing this at the speed of light so I can post it and get back to my manuscript revisions.

Q & A - ask me anything!

2011-05-26T04:32:00.000-07:00

I've never done a Q & A before. But I've noticed a few bloggers do it and they get some great questions. So... the floor is open. Want to know about parenting? Writing? Life? Love? I know nothing about any of these things of course, it would be entertainment value only. But if you're up for it, so am I.

Whaddyawannano?

Why Brain Power is like ... Ovum

2011-05-17T17:30:00.000-07:00

You've probably noticed the blogs have been a little skinny lately. The truth is, I've been working hard on revising my second novel, THE GOOD GUYS, and I haven't had any spare brain power for blogs.

Which is annoying. I wish I could just produce more brain power when I need it. Or keep some aside when I don't use it all. Or, for that matter, stop exhausting it on one outlet and start spreading it around. But I can't. I don't know why. But I've got a theory.

Brain power is like ... ovum.

Humour me! The theory goes that humans are born with all the brain power they'll have in their lifetime. It's released a bit at a time. Like with ovum, some people are born with more brain power, some with less. Some run out earlier than others. Some brain power is of high quality and some ... not so much. You can't store it. It's use or lose. And once it's gone, it's gone.

Hey, don't blame me! Just 'cause I made the theory, doesn't mean I like it! I'd much prefer that brain power was like sperm, which replenishes itself continually. The more you need, the more you get. Then, even when your brain was no good any more, it would continue to spit something out, and if you didn't look too close, you may not be able to tell.

Alas, it is not the way it is. So unfortuanately, I find myself out of brain power, and writing a sperm and ovum related post. To prevent such an occurance from happening again, I need ideas. Do you have any questions for me? Would you like to see more posts on parenting? writing? current affairs? planking? Or maybe more sperm and ovum analogies?

I'm out of brain power. You tell me.

Why writing a novel is like ... pork

2011-05-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

I like pork. Pretty much any way it comes. I like it with apple sauce. I like bacon butties. I like pork sausages. If there is pork on the menu, I invariably go for it, because, well, pork is delicious. In fact only last week I ordered pork off the menu at my local eatery, secure in the knowledge that pork, like pizza, is good even when it’s bad.

Twenty minutes later, my pork arrived. My slow-roasted, herb-infused Tuscan pork. It was pork squared. Cubed. Pork on acid. You get the idea. It was all the things I love about pork were there, plus a bunch of things I didn’t know I loved.

That’s what a good novel should be like. It should provide all the things a reader is expecting, with a few things they weren’t. Your genre is the main ingredient, but not the entire dish. So when you cook it up, don’t be afraid to try something new. Something exotic. Don't be the bacon butty. Be the Slow-Roasted Tuscan pork.

Did that only make sense to me?