Tapper and Company

Is that camera on?

2013-05-21T15:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I let the girls miss a couple of hours of school, but it was for a fun reason.
I had my first live television interview and since the Cowgirl is obsessed with the idea of being famous on TV, I thought she should see what television is really like:
People running around, tripping over cords, panicking when the internet goes out, fretting over microphone wires and talking to a mostly empty room.
I was hoping to cure her by showing her the wizard behind the curtain.

My segment got moved at the last minute so I was sitting in the wings when people started waving at me to run and I was hurdling over extension cords in my heels and hoping that I didn't sit up there and pass out and drool all over the host's shoes. I barely made it to my seat in time.
And I was terrified to look at the camera, (which so adds ten pounds! That's my story and I'm sticking to it...) because they told me not to and it is really hard not to when it is in your face!
Throughout the entire interview the Dancer was doing this:

because she thought I could see her.
And then it was all over (They could have asked me my opinion on American Alligators being shipped to Uzbekistan to fight insurgents and I think I would have come up with some sort of answer. My brain was in a do or die mode.)
And the girls got to chum up with the beautiful girl on TV and eat the strawberries that the man from the farmer's market brought for his spot and have their pictures taken and I was thinking maybe my "TV-isn't-so-great-plan" had backfired.

I explained to the Cowgirl that television is a lot of work and worry and being famous is silly and unimportant and we got up to the leave the studio.
And then the weather man came in.
And did his thing in front of the green screen.
And I was thinking, "Oh my goodness, I know you. Can I have your autograph?"

It just doesn't happen

2013-05-03T11:03:00.000-07:00

There are those things in life that are not supposed to happen.

Pigs don't fly.
Hell doesn't freeze over.
You won't win the lottery.
You won't get a package in the mail one day from one of the biggest publishers in the world with your name on the front.
It won't snow in May when the day before was 80 degrees.

Oh, wait.

I forgot that life doesn't follow its own rules.

Yesterday on the way home from school we rolled down our windows to catch the monstrous white flakes falling wet and heavy from the white sky. We pulled over and jumped outside into the wind and put our hands out and faces up and stuck out our tongues and did the snow dance.
In May.
When Wednesday was 80 degrees and it felt too hot to mow the grass.

And then, just to prove that the universe will never run out surprises to throw at us, a package was dropped on my snowy porch on this fine May morning.

Sometimes it snows in May. And only when it breaks all the rules and wasn't supposed to happen, do the snowflakes taste like miracles.

Just don't sound like an idiot...

2013-05-01T12:56:00.003-07:00

I had my first public speaking engagement as an official author.

I was the keynote speaker at the Olathe Friends of the Library fundraiser and I got to stand up in front of 200 people for over half an hour and tell them why libraries are amazing and authors are a little crazy.
Because we are.
It's not a normal existence.
Expose my innermost thoughts?
Face years of relentless rejection?
Sit alone at a table in a bookstore trying not to make people feel awkward for ignoring me?
Get paid in peanuts and pennies.
Yeah, don't everyone rush at once.
But still... still... it has a ring to it. I'm an author.
My sister came into town and my family showed up and the room was packed and I had three thoughts in my head- Don't stutter. Don't say "Ummm." Don't sound like an idiot.
It all passed in a blur, but the response was great.
You know how the Artist is always cool as a cucumber? He was almost giddy.
You know my in-laws who modeled the cool as a cucumber thing- they got me this whopping bouquet after the event ended!

And yesterday while I was grabbing books at the library a librarian pulled me over to her desk and said, "I want you to see something."
It was the holds list. 30 days before my book hits the shelves dozens of people are lined up to check it out and read it.
Is it appropriate to hug a librarian? Would anyone understand if I cried right in front of the travel tourism shelf?
Don't worry. I had my mantra.
Cool as a cucumber.
Don't sound like an idiot.
"That's great," I said with a smile. "I hope they like it."
Which translated into Tapper speak is roughly, "Well, punch a duck and break the sound barrier, that is bloomin' awesome!"
Or something thereabouts. Tapper speak is a really hard language to interpret...

p.s. I do not actually advocate punching ducks. Stay cool and love the birds, people.

Paint me a Picture

2013-04-16T07:21:00.002-07:00

I deal in words.
That's my hobby, my interest, my business.
But I love art in all its forms.
I love paintings and drawings (maybe because my talent ends at stick figures and one kind of flower that I am kind of good at. But honestly- only one)
Since a picture can say a thousand words, and because I've been up to my neck researching art for my next novel... (you can tell when I'm starting a book- my blog suffers. You can tell when I've got writer's block on my book- my blog thrives!)

These are about 1/3 of the books I'm using right now!

...my girls have had a renewed interest in all things art. For our family activity this week I raided Hobby Lobby and bought real brushes (fan, angled, straight...you name it) and grown up watercolors from a tube (the girls were ecstatic) and we all watched Bob Ross make happy little trees.
And then we sat down as a family and tried it out- different brushes, different techniques, different strokes. (I just said Different Strokes and you just started singing the song, didn't you?)

After an hour of hard work we had a handful of fun memories, a few tears when our "happy little trees" didn't look as "happy" as Bob Ross's, and a couple pictures.

Pictures don't really need to say a thousand words. This one only says twelve:

I am little. and I got to paint. Therefore I am happy.

No children were harmed in the making of this blog...

2013-04-15T06:43:00.004-07:00

We had a really big week over here. It was all about the baby of the family.
She had a full team of rowdy cheerleaders as she learned to do this:

And then this happened!

I am very relieved to report that the two pictures are in no way related except they star the same little cutie. But don't think cute equals small and helpless.

She is now strong enough to escape punishment if she causes mischief. There's no way to reach her once she starts climbing. If anyone is looking for a girl to camp out in a tree as a protest- I might have your gal.

Expansion and Contraction

2013-02-26T13:10:00.001-08:00

Not talking about my jean size.
Or the cracks in my driveway.
I'm talking about the patterns of life that become more apparent the longer you live.
I find myself in constant periods of expansion and contraction.
Expansion is when my world gets bigger, more complicated, more exciting.
It is the months of success and trading business cards and meeting friends and feeling my sphere of influence in the world is.... well, expanding.
And then there is contraction.
The friend who moves away. The person who gets upset with you. The sickness or the deadlines or the snowstorms or the deaths that shrink your world, one person, or friendship, or contact or freedom at a time.
And I have discovered one fundamental truth in the last two years as I've swung wildly between great expansions and frightening contractions. The very center of my life, of me, is my husband and children.
That is about as small as my bubble gets.
When the world shrinks and closes in on me, they are the ones whose arms are so tight around me that they will not let the pressures or worries crush me. They are the net around me that doesn't buckle or bend.
I've had to learn that almost everything beyond them is a sort of mirage, the parts of life that are not definite or determined. Whatever I gain can be lost, whatever I achieve can be forgotten, whatever I strive for can end in failure, beyond that tiny, incredible circle of family. They are indestructible.
I should have named the Dancer Atlas because one of her smiles can lift an entire world of despair from my shoulders. Does she have any idea she is a Colossus?
So I've learned not to be as frightened by the days or months or even years when the world starts shrinking, the walls start closing in, because no matter how small and confined I feel in those moments, I know it will not crush me.
My husband stretches out his arms of steel and just like Samson, holds up our walls while everything crumbles down around us.
I can't stop the forces of nature. I can't stop the pattern of expansion and contraction.
I can't fit into my pre-children jeans.
But I get to live with super-heroes.

So all things considered, I think it's pretty good.

Put the Book Down and No One Gets Hurts

2013-02-08T09:34:00.000-08:00

Today I have the treat of having a guest blogger. One of my favorite writers, Jaima Fixsen, just released her first full-length novel, Fairchild, and when I could force myself to put it down and stop laughing (her characters are hilarious) I asked her if she would please introduce herself to my readers.
I am giving away her ebook to three lucky readers, and a print copy to one grand winner. Just say hello in the comments or like her amazon page to be entered.
But for now, just enjoy her true story of why books get torn in half in her home...

There is a kind of book stealing more terrible than any other--picking up a book that someone is halfway finished reading. We have a word for this in my family. We call it Tai-Pan-ing.

Let me explain. Long ago, before I was born, my parents took a train holiday west through the Rocky Mountains all the way to Vancouver. My mother, being the type of person who prepares, brought along a book, James Clavell’s Tai-Pan. You can guess what happened.

In a moment of idleness, my father picked up her book (so foolish of her to lay it down!) and he was hooked. My mother spent the rest of the holiday viewing the scenery and holding one-sided conversations with my father, who mumbled random replies from behind her book. Tai-Pan might have remained an amusing story, instead of becoming an often used verb, if our clan didn’t have such thieving tendencies.

I remember one summer at a family reunion (multiply the number of culprits by five), my father brought a book--one of the Star Wars sequels by Timothy Zahn. I started reading it when he was driving, knowing his guard was down. Once you start reading, you don’t want to stop, even to return the book to its’ rightful owner. You tuck that book behind your back and sneak it out of sight and hide away in the laundry room of the cottage, reading as fast as you can.

My dad, determined to have his book back, solved the problem by tearing it in half. We could both read at the same time. It worked great, until my mother and my cousin started reading. The book ended up in four pieces, and even that wasn’t enough when my uncle joined in. I will never forget the prods--hurry up! I need section three!--or the accusations that flew, when two pages went missing.

Unless you are reading a manual on Freudian dream analysis, and sometimes even then, it isn’t safe to bring a new book if you are spending time with us. And no one can pick up a resting book, even to read the back cover, without someone calling anxiously, “No Tai-Pan-ing! That’s mine!”

We went skiing together over Christmas, and my sister brought a book I had read years before, Georgette Heyer’s Venetia. It had been long enough that I couldn’t remember all the details, only that I particularly liked them. When I saw the book alone on the side table, I picked it up. With only the best intentions, I promise.

Venetia remained intact, but my sister had to strenuously assert her rights. I was slotted in the number two spot on the reading schedule.

Have you ever been a victim of Tai-Pan-ing? Or been the thief?

Truth or dare?
Good English families all have a house in the country with a deer park, a trout stream, and an army of gardeners. They should have a son and if it can be managed, he should be handsome. Cleverness isn’t important. Daughters in limited quantities are fine so long as they are pretty. Bastards are inconvenient and best ignored. It's not a big problem, unless you are one.
Unfortunately, Sophy is.
Sick of her outcast role, she escapes her father’s house, only to fall from her horse during a spring storm. Injured, soaked, and shivering, she stumbles to a stranger’s door—Tom, a blunt edged merchant from a family of vulgar upstarts. Mistaking Sophy for the genuine article, he takes her in.
Sophy can’t resist twisting the truth. Soon she’s caught in her own snare—and it might just be a noose.

Laughy Taffy

2013-02-06T06:43:00.002-08:00

I am having an affair with another blog today. I was honored to be asked to do a guest post at Taffy's Writing.

It's filled with angst, jealousy and
ice cream.

Let us never forget the ice cream.

Just click anywhere on this post to be redirected and while there- browse. It is a really fun site for readers.

When cheaper and faster is better...

2013-02-04T06:49:00.000-08:00

I found out some big news four days ago and I haven't told anyone because I wasn't sure how to say it.

Even now I am mostly just staring at a blinking cursor.

First, I had to believe it myself. And after it sank it, I had to think of some way to say it so my friends and readers would know exactly how I feel.
Thankful.
And lucky.
And maybe, deep down, undeserving.

Maybe that is the problem. I don't really know why all these little miracles are happening to me. I don't want to sound exultant over something is the result of all the right people at all the right moments combining to equal a huge blessing. Because I know that's what it is.

So I will just say it and hope that you know how humbled and grateful I feel.

Due to unanticipated enthusiasm, Penguin has taken the rare step of changing the release date for On Little Wings from August 15th to May 30th.

Also, the price has dropped once again. It is a big enough run (they are printing enough copies) that readers will be able to get a gorgeous hardcover copy for eleven dollars and change.

That means so much to me because I am a penny pincher and I want my book to be as small a financial burden to my readers as possible. I know that dollars and cents matter.

My thanks to the team at Viking who tackled this news with gusto since it meant almost impossible deadlines and long hours of work. They could have said it can't be done, but they jumped on board and sacrificed time and energy to make it happen.

If you pre-ordered a copy please accept my sincere thanks. My friends and readers have done it again.
And again.
And again.

Thank you.

To find out more about On Little Wings, or to order a copy please visit www.reginasirois.com

Magic at the dinner table

2013-02-02T07:46:00.003-08:00

No recipe here.
I'm not talking about the food.
I just happened to take a bite of my Polynesian barbecue chicken and rice yesterday and looked up and I realized: This isn't normal.

Most parents don't ask how school was and have their children say,
"Real school or Hogwarts?"

And I wanted to say thank-you to J.K. Rowling. Thank you for showing the world that books change everything; even how we dress for dinner in a corner of Kansas on a random day in February.

You made our lives a little more magical.
And a lot more fun.

The Lost Years

2013-01-31T09:27:00.001-08:00

I have several (and I mean several- there must be romance in the air) friends who are pregnant or rejoicing over brand new babies right now. There is the whiff of baby powder, the sound of squeals, the ever-constant sway that all women adopt as soon as a baby is in their arms. (We probably look like we just landed on shore after a treacherous crossing and haven't gotten our land legs yet.) And all these bundled blessings got me thinking of something- my lost years.
The years I might as well sailed straight over the side of the earth for all the good I was to anyone.
Writing? I'm laughing just writing that. I was making people! If I remembered to pull on a shirt in the morning I was doing great. Babies shrink our worlds. All those things we wanted to do- yeah, I'm laughing again.
Just like a caterpillar we stop exploring the leaves of life and curl up into ourselves.
And then it gets dark.
We wonder if we are really there at all because all of a sudden our college degrees and the books we've read and our clever witticisms are reduced to burp rags and baby lotion.
We used to command a room and now we are at the beck and call of a tiny tyrant who doesn't care if we sleep or are sick or need an adult conversation.
We almost disappear, glued to one spot, hidden in the shadows.
(I know- you just really want to have another baby now, right?)
But I'm not finished.
Just like that caterpillar who gave up everything to spin that tiny little home, we give up everything to make a home for our new family.
And just when we think we will never return to our former life, we see that we are right. There's no going back.
Because when we stretch out and reach for light and life and conversation again, we find these fragile wings unfurling.

And all those lost years- the ones where I cried because I knew I would never be a real person again- I shouldn't have been so frightened.
I wasn't dying. I wasn't hiding. I wasn't lost.
I was growing wings.
I was raising my best friends.
I was getting ready to fly.

My child puked on a dead sheep..

2013-01-24T10:06:00.000-08:00

I'm not being funny. Or symbolic. Or metaphysical.
But how I wish I was.
The Dancer got sick yesterday and spiked a high fever. At bedtime she was still lounging on the couch listless when she realized she had to throw up.
There was a nice big bowl waiting for her. But when you're sick you're a little off- including your aim.All the yuck landed on our beautiful, snowy white sheepskin rug.

As if it isn't insulting enough to have people trounce around all over your hide after you're dead, now the poor dead sheep has be puked on, as well.
I think I heard it give an indignant bleet from sheep heaven. (I hear the grass is lovely there)

So how does one clean a sheepskin rug?
Yeah, great question. You mostly don't.
I had to borrow a friend's very nice washing machine and do the best I could.
The rug came out clean, but matted and sad looking. (Imagine a sheep in a rain storm)

So yesterday I had to plunk down money for a steel dog brush (anyone need a dog brush?) and spent hours carding wool.
Can't remember the last time I felt so domestic.
Or stupid.

The rug, however, is delightfully fluffy and and I got to say that my child puked on a dead sheep which just doesn't happen every day.
Sometimes you take what you can get...

That kind of perfect

2013-01-22T09:25:00.000-08:00

Don't expect too much from yourself.

Set realistic goals.

Know when you've hit your limits.

Words of wisdom that I frequently blow through at a hundred miles an hour, appearing just long enough for me to see them in my rear view mirror and wave goodbye.

Because what I really want is to be perfect.
Not to have people think I'm perfect. That's something else entirely. I think I frequently show that I'm not scared for people to see me just as I am.
But I wish what I was was perfect. Ish. I'd settle for perfect-ish because I do, in fact, know that the role for one perfect person was taken long ago and there are no other openings.
But you can't tell me that I can't be perfect-ish because I see people doing it all the time with my own eyes.

I want to be that kind of perfect that my friend is when she gives her whole patient self to her six children and never loses her temper. (Like never. I'm not kidding)

I want to be the kind of perfect that I see when I walk into a house that is riddled with pandemonium and littered with toys and chaos and my friend breezes around with a smile and is like, "peace out, my friends."

I want to be the kind of perfect that I see when I look at my friend whose only two children are autistic and she uses up every ounce of her being to make the world a friendlier place for her daughters. While she runs a dance studio in her basement. While she volunteers for every committee and remembers half birthdays. (Seriously, I didn't know there were half birthdays...)

I want to be the kind of perfect like that person who hugs anyone and anything (strangers included) and doesn't give them a chance to feel embarrassed about it because life is just too short to waste on handshakes.

I want to be the kind of perfect that I see in people who who have full-time jobs and families and are busy but you call them and they say, "Oh, a piano? I love moving pianos! Let's do this thing!" Or the single moms I love who never think of themselves because there isn't time to wonder if they want to do something or not. They just give.

I want to be the sort of perfect that I see when someone stands up for what they believe in no matter the consequence of social outrage or ostracism. (Like admitting you still like watching old re-runs of Full House)

I want to be the kind of perfect like my husband who can put in a sixteen hour day and never once, never, ever, (freakishly never) say he is tired or worn out. (I, on the other hand, fold a towel and stretch and groan and say how exhausted I am)

I want to be the kind of perfect where I could go outside and do this:

I am surrounded by the kind of perfect I want to be every day. And I might wear myself down and out trying to imitate some little scraps of perfection, but I'd rather be worn through, short of my goal by a thousand miles, and a little better than be comfortable, practical and realistic and just the same old me.

So if you ever wonder why I am trying so hard to make the beds, while simultaneously wishing I didn't care about the state of my beds...
Or watch me try to play memory with my five year old when I really don't care where the other roller skate is...
Or see me trying a recipe with capers in it when I don't even know what they are (are they like peppers made out of fish?)...
Just smile and let me go.
I'm really busy completely failing at being perfect.

I will never get my trophy back

2013-01-18T04:50:00.002-08:00

There is a locket that the Cowgirl got two years ago.
For two years she's pulled it out of her jewelry box or off her lamp or out of the pocket of her dirty jeans and worn it when the mood struck her.
But this week she realized something about her little locket.
Holy lock of hair, Batman, this thing is empty!
And she suddenly decided that it was very important for her locket to have pictures in it.
I was sitting surrounded with four hundred pages of manuscript, editing like mad, after a long day of babysitting for sick friends and delivering meals and doing laundry when she came up to me and showed me her empty locket.
"Can we take pictures of Berry and Rebecca and print them off and cut them out and glue them in my locket?" she asked me.
I heard "Blah, blah, blah, extra work, extra trip to store, blah, blah, work."
I don't know how I managed it, but I laughed and said no at the same time, not even losing my place as I ruminated over to comma or not to comma.

And if someone wants to know why I shot down her dream so fast I have three reasons.
1. Sometimes I stink as a mom
2. I really just heard, "Blah, blah, work."
3. Berry and Rebecca are not relatives or friends. They are our rats.

Like all good folks of the frontier, however, my Cowgirl is resourceful. She went to the man with the plan. She asked the Artist.
And before I knew it, there was a full photo shoot. (I kid not) And then he put his work aside (please don't show this to his clients) and spent an hour designing little rat portraits in the shape of hearts (because her locket is heart shaped and he wanted it to fit perfectly).

That night we went to Walgreens and picked up his glossy portraits.
Yesterday my Cowgirl went to school proudly displaying her love for her rats around her neck.

And the artist gave me a wave from the victor's platform where he was standing with the "Coolest Parent Ever" trophy.

Oh Crappola. Now I have to buy a pony....

How did we all get Radium kids?

2013-01-11T14:33:00.003-08:00

My children aren't phosphorescent.
If I turn out the light they don't glow like the dials of a watch.
They aren't radioactive.
Active- yes!
Radioactive- no.
So please explain why it is when you fill up a room with the most incredible, wonderful children- hundreds and hundreds of them- my child is the one who is
glowing.

Light-up-my-life, mushy-musical-montage, bad-eighties-special-effects kind of glow.
I think they are the most brilliant, blinding little things I've ever seen.
And I get it- when you look at them they have a crooked tooth and messy hair and they look pretty much like the fifty kids on their left and the fifty kids on their right.

Unless they are standing next to your kid.

And then they kind of light up because they are standing next to a kid who
glows.

I totally get it.

The cowgirl dead center in her school musical

33 going on 103

2013-01-09T08:11:00.000-08:00

You know how I kind of have an old soul?
I used to look longingly at the teacher's lounge door, feeling bored with the third grade cliques and the tedium of recess. I would have taken a fascinating adult conversation over four square any day.
Well my freakishly too old spirit is influencing my body.

Exibit A:

Bruise of massive proportions.
Now go ahead- ask me how I got that monster.
It's a great story.
I. Sat. Down.
At Noodles and Company I was casually taking a seat, bumped my leg on the corner of the booth as I slid in and wa-la!
Whole new meaning to thin-skinned.
And yes, that was Noodles and Company. If they want to avoid the bad press they are welcome to send me a year's supply of Japanese Pan Noodles. I think that will alleviate the pain and suffering.

Exhibit B:
My mysterious illness last week.
I went to sleep and woke up with what looked like a third degree burn on my neck. After a three hour hunt tearing my room apart looking for a bed bug or spider (actually cut open my box spring because I hate bugs that much) I found nothing. I determined it was a freak allergic reactions and left it alone. Three days later I was in so much pain I finally gave in to the Artist who had been looking at me for seventy two hours saying, "Seriously, you're not going to go to the doctor?"
After four seconds in the exam room the doctor told me I had shingles.
You know- the retired old man disease.
Lovely.

And the Artist is laughing his oh-so-young and cute head off because I am the one who runs from sugar and white bread and all things over processed, thinking that will keep me young.

I am a great admirer of maturity. I respect my elders. I would just like to get there gradually. I am asking my body to hold it together a little longer because I am having too much fun to bleed spontaneously and sprout goiters and.... hold on.
I just realized I am talking about my aches and pains. That has got to add fifty years to my age right there.

Here's to youth for the brief moment when it is ours.

Curiosity

2013-01-08T11:48:00.001-08:00

I have been getting some emails lately. ABNA (Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award) is about to open for 2013 and inquiring minds want to know what my journey was really like.
Were there secret meetings?
Who was in the black town car with tinted windows?
What about the money and contracts?
At least, that is what the writers with visions of NYT bestseller lists in their heads want to know.
My other friends, the majority of the people I love, don't write and if they want to know anything, they just want me to expose what the life of a writer is really like.
Then I tell them, they make a very disappointed face, yawn, and let me go back to my laundry.
I will not be posting my publishing story here because some of you just come to see what current mess I've gotten myself into and don't really care about books or agents.
I will simply let you know that I set up a new page.
That's right, slide your eyes up and to the right. See it?
It says ABNA.
I will be updating it and giving details. And just so you know if it interests you or not, I am pasting my first entry below. If it makes you curious, just pop in sometimes and get the scoop and join the conversations.
I won't know what questions are burning in your hearts until you ask them. As promised, my first installment of "A Year Ago Today."

Welcome to my ABNA (Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award) page.
There is a plethora of curiosity about this contest and I want to give my fellow writers the low down.
I don't think I have ever said "low down" before. That made me laugh.
Anyway, I am contacted often with questions about the contest. I know what fellow writers want- they want the gritty details and most all, they want some numbers. I know what readers want- they want to know what happens behind the curtain before they pick up a book and read it. Time to fork over the answers.

I'm going to call this "A year ago today" and walk my readers through the emotions and practical steps I took to get my book off the ground. I will just start highlighting points of my journey to publication until I reach the big climax- winning ABNA, and in August I'll tell you all about releasing a book through a big house publisher.

So, for my first installment let me take you back exactly one year to January 8th, 2012. My book had been available for exactly four days on Amazon and I had never heard of ABNA.
After trying to get an agent and publisher and failing big time, I gave up on the idea of publishing books. I decided to make my first, and I thought, only, book available to my friends and family through Amazon KDP (kindle direct publishing). That way they could have it for free and if felt good to finally share the fruits of my labor.
After four days my book had been downloaded by far more than my family and my three friends. Okay, I might have more than three friends, but I certainly don't have thousands. Of course, none of that had any monetary value (I didn't make a cent because I didn't charge a cent) but since I never expected to make a cent, that didn't really matter. I was reeling from the fact that thousands of people owned a book I wrote. That was good enough for me. And scary enough for me. I had meant to put my toe in and found myself falling off the high dive into the deep end. There was an indescribable fear as I waited to see if I would belly-flop and anticipated the pain of horrible reviews. It made for some sleepless nights.

You can see my blog entry from exactly a year ago today

I made one last effort to query and sent out my KDP stats along with my first reviews that came in. (I was shocked to see reviews in twenty four hours!) I never expected anyone to read that fast! But read they did, review they did, and I sent it all out to ten more agents, wondering if maybe life had a few surprises for me yet.

A year ago today, I was glued to my computer, clicking refresh to see how many new people downloaded my book, wondering if any agents would write back, with no idea how my life was about to change...

The gift of a question

2013-01-02T19:42:00.000-08:00

I celebrated my birthday and the New Year with the Artist. We ran away from home, booked a room for the night

view from our room New Year's morning

and spent the evening at restaurants, theaters and finally, eating blackberries in our hotel room while we lounged and talked about the year past and the year approaching.
I scratched his head while I thought aloud of the unexpected gifts this year has brought. I thought of how I trembled a year ago when I announced to the world that I had written a story. I thought of how he had been there, so certain of my success that he laughed at my terrors.
And then, because it has been weeks since I've been away from my little girls and able to say all the grown up thoughts in my head, I started to rattle on and on about my current work in progress.
I told him where my characters were, what they were saying, what they just finished doing, what they didn't know they were about to do. I followed all this with an apology because I knew I was talking too much and being boring.
He opened his eyes and told me not to stop. He smiled up at me and said he loved my stories, could listen to me talk about them all day.
Just as I was processing the delighted surprise that those words gave me, he said, "What happened next?"
And I realized that my birthday gift was not a hotel room overlooking an avenue of lit trees and bundled shoppers.
It was not a gourmet meal where my shoe pressed up to his under a white table.
It was not the stack of eight new history books that all look so delicious I can hardly stand to start one because it will mean putting the others aside for another week.
It was two brown eyes looking up at me, seeing more in me than I've ever seen in myself, intrigued with the thoughts of my mind and the feelings of my soul, and asking the question, "What happened next?"
It was the wonderful moment when I let my head sink into the down comforter while the sound of rolling suitcases clattered down the hall and I said, "well, next she goes up the stairs...."

The question isn't, "What was my birthday gift?"
The truth is my birthday gift was the question.

breakfast with the Artist

Christmas at Tapper's House

2012-12-28T11:50:00.001-08:00

You know me.
I love to wrap presents.
I love to shop for them.
I hate keeping them.
When I see piles of plush and battery-required toys piled around my home and think of the thousands of times I will traipse them upstairs and put them into the correct containers I give a Scrooge-worthy groan.
This year Santa finally heard my pleas for simplicity and thought of a brilliant, awesome solution.
So how do you convince your children they don't want lots and lots of shiny, noisy, new toys?
You distract them with this:

We don't have a name for it. So far I've heard it called the house, the clubhouse, the fort, the dungeon, the castle and the tower.
It has been Gryffindor's common room, an orphanage, a tree house, a log cabin and a mansion. They've decorated it, lowered buckets from the windows, hung lanterns and left secret messages. I don't think they even noticed that they actually own less toys after Christmas than before. I cleared out every toy and piece of furniture in the toy room to make space for it. No one really noticed.
This is just a universal win/win for everyone in the house.
And speaking of wins, the Artist scored major points by driving eight hours to pick up a Christmas present he knew would dear to my heart. He left at four in the morning last weekend, never giving me a hint why or where he was going. On Christmas morning I woke to find this:

A solid wood, antique card catalog for my kitchen. I can't even describe why it is so magical to me. The idea of how many fingers have fumbled through those drawers, on a search for knowledge or distraction or entertainment. It is the smell of old books and the worn brass of used handles. I almost cried when I saw it. I keep running my hands over it, loving every scratch chip. I walk through my kitchen just to stare.
And what did the Artist get since his girls cleaned up?
A few nice tools.
Oh yeah- and three girls who think that having him around is better than Christmas every day.
I hope your day was merry and bright!

Who needs boys?

2012-12-18T07:41:00.000-08:00

I was shopping for Christmas gifts yesterday and thumbing through a rack of clothes for the Dancer when I saw a sparkly shirt with the words "Who needs boys?" in glitter across the front.
And I paused between the hurried shoppers and stared at that shirt.
You know I teach my girls to reject the world's definition of beauty and any pressure they would ever feel to fulfill some boy's lust.
But never, in all my life, have I thought boys were expendable or accessories to our lives.
When I think of the phrase "who needs boys?" I think of the man who grew up to be my daughters' father.

The one who strums our girls to sleep with the quiet notes of a guitar.

The one who takes them to bowling alleys when their mother complains that bowling alleys smell weird

The one who tells his little girls they don't look nerdy in glasses when they don't believe their mother

The one who can turn a death trap into a fun adventure

The one who teaches us that bugs aren't scary...

And engines aren't either.

The one who sees the world differently than I do and lets me peek through his eyes and discover things I never imagined.

So... who needs boys?

The girl who wants to marry a man who is smart and funny and strong,

The child whose first hero is his or her dad,

The granddaughter who feels safe when grandpa hugs her close,

The girl who wants someone to admire the frogs she pulls up from muddy ponds,

The children who know that a good tickle fight is one of the finest pleasures in life.

As we empower little girls to be strong and brave and confident, let's not do it by belittling the boys who also need to feel powerful and valuable.
I know that there are dads who are MIA. I know that many families don't have the ideal father or husband. And I know that they can overcome that through their own strength and intelligence and perseverance. But because we do not always have them, does not mean there is no need for them.
To the question, "Who needs boys?"
I answer firmly, "Every single one of us."

Though it goes without saying, I didn't buy the shirt...

On a day that defies words

2012-12-15T08:56:00.001-08:00

It is hard to speak today, difficult to orient myself in this world that feels like a new place I do not recognize.
I have one very brief thought.
Yesterday one man defied every law- social and eternal- and took the lives of innocent children and those who defended them.
And today I woke up and was tempted to feel like I live in a world of terror, suffering and violence
But then I realized that where I really live is a world where when one person chooses evil, millions stand up in outrage and despair. I live in a world where we cannot comprehend such acts. Where servicemen, policemen (like my brother), and humans in general will give their hearts, their time, their very lives to defend what is good and right.
This isn't just a moment of unspeakable wickedness, it is a moment to see how many loving hearts outnumber the hateful ones.
And that is why I still believe in us.

Elf on a Shelf

2012-12-11T11:51:00.001-08:00

I never did drop the twenty dollars to get a cute little elf to sit on a shelf.
But apparently if you rack up a $100K hospital bill trying to have a second child,
they throw one in for free, complete with fuzzy boots and extra mischief.
Nice little perk.

Is there a book inside you? ABNA 2013

2012-12-06T06:39:00.003-08:00

The contest that launched my book into the publishing world, Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award, or ABNA for short, has just announced the rules and prizes for 2013!
Get your manuscripts out of your drawers, dust them off and polish them up because the prizes are bigger than ever!
This year there will be Five Winners who receive the $15,000 first prize and one Grand Prize winner who will take home $50,000!
Amazon will also be publishing the winners which means fabulous promotions and publicity!
There's some great incentives to write your little hearts out!
The five categories are:

General Fiction

Romance

Mystery/Thriller

Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Horror

Young Adult

I know it's a contest. I know 10,000 people enter. I know it's all about luck and who reads your entry. I know no one ever wins those things. I know it's a waste of your time.
That's what I told the Artist every time he told me to enter. And I meant it!
And if you need a reminder of why you should throw your hat in the ring and try anyway just remember THIS.

Work in Progress

2012-12-04T12:05:00.003-08:00

I've been hard at work on my current WIP (that is top-secret author code for work in progress. Don't tell anyone I'm peddling secrets). While I've been typing away I got the first advanced copy of my book in the mail. Like a little pinch- I guess it wasn't all a dream.

But my family members have each been up to their own, wonderful accomplishments.

Working on our skills. (I said that in my gangsta voice, just so you read it the right way)

The Cowgirl is climbing our walls.
Literally.

and training for- okay I don't know what purpose this has, but she's working on it-

The Dancer is perfecting her culinary skills and now has the scars to prove it. She got her first stove-top burn this week

Big, fat tears on that one!

The Artist is staying in touch with his artistic roots, as well. On Wednesday I took the Dancer to piano lessons and came home to Harry, Curly and Urg, care of my husband.

I asked him how in the world he came up with the idea to turn marshmallows, cheerios and fruit roll ups into martians and he said that he asked the Dancer what she learned about in school. When she said aliens he got a flash of inspiration.
Then half-way through painting marshmallows with food coloring, she said, "Oh yeah, now I remember. It wasn't aliens! We talked about apples!"
Forehead, meet palm.
We are all little works in progress with a few face plants along the way.

It wasn't such a black Friday for us...

2012-11-28T12:27:00.002-08:00

Last weekend while people were arm-wrestling and bending over backwards in Walmart over Sally Sadbottom Dolls and Voltar 73 inch televisions made in Armenia, we decided to avoid the crowds on Black Friday.

The Cowgirl demonstrating "bending over backwards"

The only problem was that meant avoiding civilization.
We couldn't think of a public place that would bearable.
So we gave up on public places.

We took the girls to the nature center and started out on nice wide paths

Then meandered to slightly more worn paths

Until we were tromping around in underbrush so thick there was absolutely no path. I was having too much fun to take a picture of that one. But we did see two deer. Our daughters gave them a spirited chase straight into the heart of the forest.
I also made the mistake of telling the Cowgirl that if you're ever in a real bind you can eat pine needles. Two seconds later she was chewing.
"You're right," she said. "They're not bad."

Apparently, a "real bind" is the difficult period between brunch and lunch for a nine year old girl.
One trail climbed a hill until it gave us a view of a shallow river and deep ravine. The Cowgirl put her hand in mine and said, "It is so pretty here."
And I was looking at her hair shining in the sun and her cheeks red with the cold and her lips still sappy from gnawing on pine needles and I couldn't help but agree. "It is beautiful."

Happy Thanksgiving to all. I hope your eyes are open to your incredible blessings.