tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9117974261089150852024-02-19T06:43:22.568-08:00A Beaker's ReflectionScientist with Theories. Will Write for Wine.Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-64898889436930246812015-06-19T12:57:00.000-07:002015-06-19T12:57:43.342-07:00Weird Kid Genetics<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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As adults, we are conditioned to pursue self-improvement.
Eat healthier, lower your cholesterol, lose weight, quit smoking, quit
drinking, be more organized, be less organized, have more fun, have less fun?,
exercise more. There’s a self-help book for every obsession, affliction,
personality quirk and nuance, and ten minutes with Oprah or Dr. Phil will make
you painfully self-aware of every flaw. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And you might pick something – for me its
patience – to work on. And if you’re like me, you’ll make the effort daily and
most likely you’ll fail, daily. But it’s okay, or at least you’ll tell yourself
this as you fall asleep, because there’s always tomorrow. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Today was just a crazy day.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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But then one day, you see yourself in your kids. </div>
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<br /></div>
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L is 4, a frustrating age anyway. Then again are there
non-frustrating ages? I don’t know…yet. I’m hoping. But no matter the task, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she doesn’t need any help</i>. She knows
everything. Just ask her, she’ll tell you. And I smile through clenched teeth
because she is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just like me.</i> Down to
the face she makes when she’s mad, her independence, her inclination for
solitude, her wandering. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s a relentless challenge to battle L’s unyielding
stubbornness with give. To show her patience, not just tell her about it. These
are real teaching moments – there are actual lessons in there, for both of us. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what about accepting, even loving, all the
other imperfections? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ones that make
her, her…even if they also make me, me.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This weekend, we went to a birthday party. When all the kids
were outside, playing in the sprinkler, L was inside playing at the kitchen set
by herself. When all the kids came inside for cake, she went out to the picnic
table to color. Mr. Beaker leaned over and whispered to me: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I think our kid is the weird kid.</i> And we
laughed because yeah, she totally is. I whispered back: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your wife was, too.</i></div>
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<i> </i> </div>
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I think it’s a hard lesson to learn that you can’t self-help
your way into fixing your kids. I hope that I’m learning that when she’s four,
not fourteen or twenty-four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s both
exhilarating and terrifying to watch your children and see yourself, like
looking into an eerie crystal ball. Knowing the hardships they’ll face because
they have your foibles and fallacies, and the successes they’ll have because
they have your strengths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Will she be bullied in school because she is different, more
imaginative? It’s possible. Can I do anything about it? More importantly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> I do anything about it? Can I, or
should I, teach her how to fit in? Encourage her to play with the other kids at
the party, even if what she really wants is to play alone? I honestly don’t
know. I didn’t. Truth be told, I sort of enjoyed watching her. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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Doesn’t that imply some sort of self-acceptance? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, take that, Oprah.</div>
Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-69699816159851358082015-03-27T13:49:00.001-07:002015-03-27T14:05:23.106-07:00Words Matter, Says the Writer<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of the things I’m doing right now is research for my fourth book. I love this stage, brainstorming, researching, learning about a world I know nothing about letting the story take me where it will. One of the places it’s taken me is Autism. <br /><br />Autism is a scary place, you guys. I don’t know the right vocabulary. I don’t know the right questions to ask or the right words to say and ASD moms are amazing (and judging by the comments sections of articles on the internet, they are also passionate and fearless) and I’m SCARED to ask people. But silence breeds ignorance and that's not right either. It's complicated. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My kids are not on the spectrum. I can’t possibly understand. Can I?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />I mean, to some extent, we’re all parents. Doing the best we can.<br /><br />I want to write books with a lot of different kinds of people in them. I don’t even need these people to be the main character (not always or not yet, I should say), I just want them to be in the story. #Diversebooks and all. I think it’s kind of important to write about people who are not me: middle-class, heterosexual, white, neuro-typical. The more books and shows and movies that include minorities, women, people of color, people with disabilities, people on that giant spectrum, it can only be a good thing, right? So, the only way to do that is to ask questions. There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s scary, though. What if I say the wrong thing? Use the wrong words? What matters more -- the words or the intent? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://sincerelybecca.com/" target="_blank">Sincerely Becca</a> is a mom who blogs on ASD and other mom things (and sometimes eHarmony) and she says there are no bad questions, which is why I really, really like her. A lot. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://sincerelybecca.com/2014/06/29/my-what-not-to-say-list-is-really-really-short/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://sincerelybecca.files.wordpress.com/2014/06/screen-shot-2014-06-29-at-1-44-56-pm.png?w=760&h=517" height="216" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Go visit her because she's amazing. Click on the picture. I mean right now, go there. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the thing is, if I'm writing words that people will read, then <i>both words and intent</i> matter very, <i>very</i> much. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Research is important, as a writer, sure. But to me, this isn't about "craft". It's less cerebral than that. It's about stepping out of my little box and being able to capture someone else's life, a life that is completely different than my own, with its own challenges and hardships. I can't do that without recognizing my own privilege: the idea that don't have to think about any of this <i>unless I choose to.</i> I <i>do</i> choose to because to continually write about people who have had life experiences only similar to my own is both 1. ignorant and 2. boring. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve spent hours on the phone with special needs moms (and more hours than I care to count reading blogs**). They’re amazing. They’ve answered all my silly questions and helped me hash out stereotypes and learn about the messy realities of autism spectrum disorder. They’ve told me their stories so that I can tell their stories to people who aren’t like them in a way that isn’t preachy or soap-boxish. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They don’t know they’ve made me cry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t even pinpoint the reasons, except that I’m new at this. They’re not. They’re hardened and matter-of-fact and cavalier and I can’t lie: It’s hard to listen to. I’ve been so sheltered.<br /><br />I don’t cry because I feel fortunate. I cry for them, literally years after they’re done crying for themselves. They’re used to this, it’s old hat (except when people are mean to them in public, which is like, constantly. So, please settle down with that, mmkay?). Their kids are their kids and they’re doing their thing*. To be honest, my vulnerability is embarrassing, but then again, I’ve cried at Hallmark commercials, so I don't know if it's just me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's not just me. Being a mom is hard. Being a special needs mom is harder.<br /><br />And that’s the crux of it, I think. I don’t live with autism. It’s a new, shiny thing to me but I can’t let it become a novelty. I worry about that. To these parents, it’s real life and it’s not trendy or cool, or neat or charming or buzzwordy, and the kids it affects are not token kids. I have to be careful. Can I make a character that fully embodies a little boy on the spectrum, and accurately portray the challenges and triumphs this family faces while not exploiting it? Will it mean more or less coming from me, a person with zero personal experience with ASD?<br /><br />It’s a big responsibility. My words matter.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQR1vNsOWvtarXYnM5r6gXNFws5_nUwIwZATwki8-GmrM-npPqHj790S1fMQgVll6CEDTEg1nknlH2ffSqKAOSuUWYwxMuRgqZh9y-qsLFz3Y9EM8CjvAPy9lpb83GWNqGiz043_u2mlD6/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQR1vNsOWvtarXYnM5r6gXNFws5_nUwIwZATwki8-GmrM-npPqHj790S1fMQgVll6CEDTEg1nknlH2ffSqKAOSuUWYwxMuRgqZh9y-qsLFz3Y9EM8CjvAPy9lpb83GWNqGiz043_u2mlD6/s1600/IMG_0437.JPG" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">*This sentence was a crazy grammar exercise and I have no idea if I got it right.</span></div>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">** H/t to autism blogs that are amazing: <a href="http://sincerelybecca.com/" target="_blank">Sincerely Becca,</a> <a href="http://www.goteamkate.com/" target="_blank">Go Team Kate, </a><a href="http://autisminourhouse.com/" target="_blank">Autism in Our House</a>, <a href="https://mixingtheautismcocktail.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Mixing the Autism Cocktail</a>. Some of them have no idea that I've read their blogs which is either going to be awesome or creepy for them if they find out. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-58135105352077768362015-02-11T14:19:00.000-08:002015-06-19T12:55:36.478-07:00Life is Too Short for Matching Mittens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
This morning was like most mornings.<br />
<br />
Hectic. Yelling. Scarfing down frozen pancakes and trying to throw blueberries on their plates so I can non-hypocritically ask them to make "healthy choices" today.<br />
<br />
L says, "Mommy, can you make sure I take a blanket and books to school this week because last time you forgot and I was the only kid in school without a blanket and books?" (Can your heart break while you roll your eyes?)<br />
<br />
A says, "Can I take a lollipop to school for snack time?"<br />
<br />
L says, "Mommy, why do I always have to borrow pencils from other kids and I don't have my own?"<br />
<br />
I say (FINALLY): Hey, YOU. Do YOU think lollipops are a wise snack choice? AND YOU, I don't know when you run out of pencils, so I might have forgotten to send in a blanket THAT ONE TIME but some things have got to be your responsibility. TELL ME when you run out of pencils. How else would I know? BESIDES, where exactly do all your pencils go?<br />
<br />
And then the bus pulls up and L is halfway down the driveway before I realize her toothbrush sits on the counter, untouched. And A is climbing into the car when she says, "Mommy, why don't I have gloves?"<br />
<br />
YOU DO HAVE GLOVES. YOU DO! I'm failing at this mom thing. I mean, it's thirty degrees out and NO ONE HAS GLOVES ON and L is gone and it's too late to worry about her hands (or her teeth) (or her choices) (or her pencils).<br />
<br />
I run back inside and dig through the glove bin only to find this:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6wVKvoqFD_p2-Iklk8l-46YXtIJf642TYxnN-avMA9__RcjKgWe_rWqqHZ9MPd6I0BYnpS8jfURx7449qfPmc_XwdTb4h6i4nq4xASFmMPi5fwcyy20wVAAST78fhyphenhyphenNy_uvyIA35t6Za/s1600/10959669_10203929440099990_70828342066736304_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl6wVKvoqFD_p2-Iklk8l-46YXtIJf642TYxnN-avMA9__RcjKgWe_rWqqHZ9MPd6I0BYnpS8jfURx7449qfPmc_XwdTb4h6i4nq4xASFmMPi5fwcyy20wVAAST78fhyphenhyphenNy_uvyIA35t6Za/s320/10959669_10203929440099990_70828342066736304_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">None of these things is just like the other.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
I almost cried because what kind of mother sends her kid to school with two different gloves on?<br />
<br />
But, I don't cry. Instead, I take this picture. This ridiculous, funny, hopefully relatable picture. I wonder where all the one-socks, one-gloves and one-flip-flops go to party? All together?<br />
<br />
Also, how lucky are we that we once owned NINE PAIRS OF GLOVES. That's four and a half pairs of gloves per kid. I mean, arguably, this is horrendously wasteful and gratuitous. There are people in this world who don't own gloves and if they do, they hold onto their one pair as though their life depends on it. Sometimes it does.<br />
<br />
I have two choices: scour the house for matching gloves, cranky and hot OR go with the...ahem, hand I've been dealt. I take the whole pile to A and say, PICK TWO! <br />
<br />
Tomorrow, I might make a different choice. It might matter to me, tomorrow, that my kids look socially acceptable, wearing clothes that match. I know that I can't rate my motherhood based on what I'm <i>not </i>doing anymore. I will not be defined by my failings.<br />
<br />
I look in the rear view mirror and A has her arms waving out in front of her and she is LAUGHING. She laughs all the way to school.<br />
<br />
Gratitude hides in small moments and sometimes, very small hands.<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-83813397497799516742014-09-30T19:34:00.000-07:002014-10-01T06:50:35.740-07:00The Most Annoying Day in the History of All Annoying Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Unlike <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Alexander-Terrible-Horrible-Classic-Board-ebook/dp/B007OVCG14/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1412130795&sr=8-1&keywords=alexander+and+the+terrible+horrible+no+good+very+bad+day" target="_blank">Alexander</a>, I can’t say that I’ve had a <i>bad </i>day. Everyone is alive, healthy, I drove to<i> my job, </i>in my car and came home to a
beautiful house that <i>I own (</i>or I will
in, like, thirty years). But have you ever had a day where everything you
touched just fell to shit? Almost through no fault of your own? Well, friends,
today was that day. So I blogged it. Why do I think you’ll care about this? I’m
not sure, except sometimes I use this blog as a journal. Which is convenient
because no one really reads it. </div>
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Apropros of everything, A. (3yo) threw up on Saturday for
completely unknown reasons. Because kids throw up for no reason (she later
theorized that it was because she ate “something weird off the ground”.) But
this means that for the last three nights, she “can’t sleep.” Keep this in mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Without further ado, here is my day:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1:35 AM, A: (<i>whispers
one inch from my face) </i>MOMMY. THERE IS A SPIDER IN MY ROOM.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me (with eyes closed): You don’t know that because it’s
dark.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A: Can you come kill it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Spoiler alert, there was no spider. But I did read that
late stage alcoholism results in spider hallucinations so we should consider
moving the liquor.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2: 47 AM, L (who is 6): MOMMYMOMMYMOMMYMOMMY!IHADANIGHTMAREABOUTSCARYMENWITHGUNS!
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Wait, guns? What? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spent 40 minutes laying in bed talking about why people kill
people and evil things and what the meaning of life is. This part was more sad
than annoying. But, honestly, it’s still 3 AM. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:15 AM, A: (<i>whispers
one inch from my face) </i>Mommy, I dropped my Elmo.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: Did you step over it to get here?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A: Yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:30AM, wake up, barely shower (skip hair and wash the
important parts), run out the door because I’m late. Forget my coffee. FORGET
MY FREAKING COFFEE. The gas light is on.
And so is the oil light. And the tire light. But honestly, I think those last
two have been on for a while now, so I’m sure it’s fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stop and get gas. My debit card won’t work. Because a week
ago, (A) decided to “be me” and “pay for everything” (in her playroom) with <i>her</i> <i>credit
card (</i>not her credit card) and that apparently involved attacking it with
knives and now the magnetic strip looks like it has been, well,…attacked with
knives. Make a mental note to call the bank. (Crap, just realized I never
called the bank.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
TRAFFIC. Par for the course.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:30 AM: arrive at work, late for an 8:30 meeting.
Immediately reschedule and cite a “conflict."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:40 AM: Guy from 8:30 meeting walks past my desk, I make
some lame excuse that makes no sense. I might say words “period” or “diarrhea”.
I’m mired in lies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I bring in cupcakes that no one eats. Okay, like one person
eats them and it was maybe me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:45 AM: another meeting. Everyone else spends most of it talking about
cats.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
9-11 AM: read email (code for play on Facebook. NO, I’M KIDDING.
Read and respond to email.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
11 AM: Try to print something. Printer jam. Have NO IDEA WHO
TO CONTACT. I’m like an ant who has lost the ant in front of me. Print to the
printer on the other side of the building, by the time I get there, someone has
taken it by accident. Run back to my desk, print to printer in another zip
code, and again, someone else has picked it up. Consider calling my coworker on
his cell phone and asking him to print while I stand here and guard. Decide to
give up instead. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12 PM: Need to start the lab thing. Go in, forget
everything, come back out. Need to print something for the lab. Repeat 11 AM
printer fiasco.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
12:30 PM: Conference call, passive, THANK GOD. Play on Twitter
and get SO EXCITED for friends who have had awesome news. Someone on the call
hangs up early, everyone says bye and because I’m not entirely paying
attention, I hang up too. Takes me 5 minutes to realize that the call wasn’t
over. I have to call back and claim to have been disconnected. They all see
through me, I think someone sneezes <i>bullshit.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2 PM. I FORGOT TO EAT LUNCH. Spend five minutes celebrating this
then realize the cafeteria is closed so now I have to eat from the vending
machine. Scourge out the darkest corners of my purse and desk. Dime, dime,
dime, nickel, Sacajawea coin, dime, dime, quarters, three-thousand two hundred
seventeen pennies. Come up with EXACTLY $2.50. Run to the breakroom. They’ve
upped the price of a Diet Coke to $1.60. HIGHWAY ROBBERY. I’M OUTRAGED. IT’S
NOT EVEN AN EVEN NUMBER IN QUARTERS. They’ve also upped the price of the
vending machine snacks from eight-five cents to a dollar. My $2.50 lunch is now
$2.60. But wait, they take debit card because they hate health and want to kill
you. Oh, crap, my debit card has been attacked by knives. Ask random man who
comes into the breakroom if he has a dime. SCORE, HE DOES. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9p0-Ubldd9eBNOsfk87Ai4MhYArLCz7o2jRmw_p-0NSp9WAEiQoB6ypPAbW2Gemdaw4FN0KfYIqjVYIZ0VWVo7Ptxxdfnym7-LbInJVdLeXRJzNQDfbMHIFkN7hnmIXQRbQe6xfNFjk5/s1600/20140930_154619.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9p0-Ubldd9eBNOsfk87Ai4MhYArLCz7o2jRmw_p-0NSp9WAEiQoB6ypPAbW2Gemdaw4FN0KfYIqjVYIZ0VWVo7Ptxxdfnym7-LbInJVdLeXRJzNQDfbMHIFkN7hnmIXQRbQe6xfNFjk5/s1600/20140930_154619.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Everything is terrible</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3 PM. Take my sad Diet Coke to a meeting. Starve. Try to
focus.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3:30 PM: have to print labels for IMPORTANT SAMPLES before I
leave. System is locked out. Email admin #1, out of office, refers me to admin
#2 who is out of office and refers me to admin #1. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4 PM: Run out to my car, drive home. TRAFFIC. Red, blinking,
very helpful and informative light on dash says there is a PROBLEM with a
terrifying triangle and an abnormally large exclamation point. I get home somehow without spontaneous combustion, park the car
in the garage and promptly forget all about “Problem.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:30 PM: Help (L) with homework. NEW MATH. I’m an idiot. I
cannot add or subtract because it is all different and weird. I tell my kids that I am a scientist and they seem wholly unimpressed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6 PM: Decide to take kids to Applebee’s for Kids Night. THEY
HAVE CHARACTERS. The creepiest as fuck characters you ever saw. Once, we saw a Hello
Kitty with giant diamonds for eyes, I shit you not. We get to Applebee’s and
THEY NO LONGER DO CHARACTERS.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-Cz8toWo4qfIlk26BofDw_PBtt9xntXshntlYddNsHcME-fzmWdOcyN28wGnKD5VDfHg-1jNa9qiJqwAevAgdCZp4xhOI24yw7zgYQ0rZXNJla8i1Bp1j3f93ycA-YPQQDWqmCa9AMjS/s1600/20140930_175549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR-Cz8toWo4qfIlk26BofDw_PBtt9xntXshntlYddNsHcME-fzmWdOcyN28wGnKD5VDfHg-1jNa9qiJqwAevAgdCZp4xhOI24yw7zgYQ0rZXNJla8i1Bp1j3f93ycA-YPQQDWqmCa9AMjS/s1600/20140930_175549.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The heartbreak is real.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:15 PM: Let’s go to McD’s! YAY! I’m a hero! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Side note: The dash lights are gone. One for the win column.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:25 PM: I’m at McDisasters. Why am I here? Sweet, it’s kids
night! <i>Everyone on earth is here.</i> $1.99 Happy Meals. I order Happy Meals. Total
$16.45. Wait, what? Oh, it’s not $1.99 for 6 nuggets only 4? Fine, here take my
debit card. Crap, knives, I forgot. Take my credit card. It’s expired. Do you
take a check? (FYI: McDonalds WILL TAKE A CHECK) Kids are running all around the
food area and inexplicably disrobing. People hate me. I get to the table only
to discover they have given me 4 nuggets (ea) (not for $1.99) and <b>3 orders of fries</b> in each Happy Meal.
Wait. Did I pay for this?! And who in the name of Abraham Lincoln would give their kids three orders of fries? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:27 PM: Lament about the state of health in America. Remember that I tried to eat Smart Pop for lunch. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
6:28 PM: Go to counter, fight with new girl. She literally
HANDS ME FOUR NUGGETS. Okay, fine. Weird. But fine. Also, she forgot the
apples. Go back to counter. We eat for approximately zero-point-two seconds and
stop to go to the bathroom. Complete meltdown over hand dryer (“it is too whooshy”).
Carry (A) sack-of-potatoes-style back to the table. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:10 PM: Kids play. Everything is calm. By calm I mean
ear-shattering loud. There is a lady standing well within my personal space
zone, YELLING up to the top of the play gym: SIMON SIMON SIMON. GO INTO THE
BUBBLE. SIMON SIMON SIMON. GO INTO THE BUBBLE. SIMON SIMON SIMON. GO INTO THE
BUBBLE. SIMON SIMON SIMON. This goes on for a while. I’m not entirely sure what
it means. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7:30 PM: It’s the Time to Leave Fight. Enough said, right?
No one wants to wear shoes and I’ve given up. It’s October and I completely let
them walk to the car in their socks (to be fair, I rarely judge anyone else’s
parenting). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
8:00 PM: Watch TV, snuggle, tuck them into bed. It’s easier
than usual. Kiss on the forehead and then: <i>you’re
the best mom ever.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just like that, the bad day is over. <o:p></o:p></div>
Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-57562576738369845572014-06-16T08:24:00.002-07:002014-06-16T08:49:39.413-07:00Twelve Things I Learned From My DadI'm a mom. I know the drill. Moms get the shaft a lot. But here's the thing: what I've learned from my mom could never fit in a top ten (er, twelve) list. <i>Because, everything</i>. I've learned how to be a person, a friend, a mom, a daughter. My mom celebrates my successes with appropriate enthusiasm, and my failures with lip-service justifications (as she should).<br />
<br />
That being said, there are some things in life that could only come from a dad. Whether it's baiting a hook or how to build a fire, how to hunt for night crawlers or shoot a basket. Or maybe its the little life lessons that as a teen made me stomp out of the house, slamming the door behind me. As an adult, I find them invaluable.<br />
<br />
1. If someone asks you to do something, don't just do it. Do it with a smile.<br />
2. Leave everything a little better than you found it.<br />
3. The best parts of life are outside. And they're free.<br />
4. Do a good job. Always.<br />
5. Absolutely everything around you is science.<br />
6. You can golf for free if you don't get caught*.<br />
7. Be adaptable.<br />
8. If you catch a fish, throw it back.<br />
9. If you don't catch a fish, but you spent the day in the water, then it doesn't matter.<br />
10. There are three golf balls on the moon.<br />
11. Play fair. But don't expect everyone else to.<br />
12. One of the most important things in life is properly set table.<br />
<br />
I watch my husband with my girls, instilling in them his own brand of wisdom. How to swing a bat, catch a ball, plant a flower. Lessons that his own father, my kind and generous father-in-law, has taught him. There will be bigger, more meaningful, messages that come later. <i>Measure twice, cut once.</i> <i>Spend less than you can afford. </i>I can't wait to see what they take with them to adulthood.<br />
<br />
On this Father's Day weekend, I remain ever grateful to the dads in my life.<br />
<i><br /></i>
*Passed down wisdom from the late, great, much-quoted Charlie "Pop-pop" Vlossak, who only stole rounds of golf on Christmas Day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnj1Dg4M3CDHhhyphenhyphenbBgzOn0nNEtZ8FdIj_kGGsq4PlGCcPOgqIXtsKBST9tmFbk1bMch1CX5IimioDY-3RW_4dB_0jBARqDVZV1_P646DEOFlzTGFC1_ZjJCB_v10GFyVQEljhbQ6bF1BL/s1600/dad+daughter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKnj1Dg4M3CDHhhyphenhyphenbBgzOn0nNEtZ8FdIj_kGGsq4PlGCcPOgqIXtsKBST9tmFbk1bMch1CX5IimioDY-3RW_4dB_0jBARqDVZV1_P646DEOFlzTGFC1_ZjJCB_v10GFyVQEljhbQ6bF1BL/s1600/dad+daughter.jpg" height="320" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The best advice I ever got? Stay little. I didn't follow it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-87155178975502140352014-05-30T08:42:00.002-07:002014-05-30T09:53:52.613-07:00Yes, More #YesAllWomen<div class="MsoNormal">
So everyone knows <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/US/understanding-santa-barbara-killings/story?id=23881172" target="_blank">the horrible thing that happened lastweekend</a>. It makes me sick, the whole thing makes me sick and sad and weepy and
mama-bear-want-to-hug-my-kids. It’s awful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something kind of amazing is happening because of it,
though. I’ve been obsessed with the #YesAllWomen hashtag. I watch the feed
grow, ten posts a second with stories, some personal, some funny, some raw,
touching, far-reaching, political, and poignant. The crazy part is, until
recently I think I’ve been fairly ignorant of exactly how deep the sexist fault
that runs under our culture really is. To be honest, I work in a pharmaceutical
industry. I’ve never felt demeaned or belittled at work. I’m often respected.
Many of my colleagues are women. Does that mean I’m denying it exists? No, not
at all. I do think everyday sexism is a thing, it just never hit home like it
has recently. I tend to ignore people who offend me, or alternatively, not get
offended by it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I started seeing replies to #YesAllWomen, and not just from
men. Angry, counterproductive hashtags.
I saw one that said something like “I never heard a catcall in my life, yet a
million women on twitter claim to hear it all the time. Y’all must think you’re
really beautiful.” (As if that’s even the POINT). And then there was about twenty
responses to that, women included, basically saying: Hear, Hear! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I’m finally offended. Here’s why: <i>I’m part of the problem.</i> I
think to many people feminism means you don’t shave your armpits and get mad
when someone uses the word “chick”. I’ve always been more laid back, <i>people it’s a joke. </i>But you know what? I
need to be fucking offended once in a while. Honest to God, what kind of people-pleasing asshole shrugs and
smiles when people say truly terrible things about my friends, my gender, ME? Words
like c*nt, and hoe because they get rejected. Who turns a blind eye, shrugs,
and moves on with their day? Oh yeah. Me. I do that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here’s a crazy story. I traveled in college. I backpacked
some of Europe and had a blast and spent more money than I should and got bit
by bed bugs and it was AMAZING. DO THIS. Anyway, we were out drinking one
night. Afterward, I was in line to get ice-cream at some stand and these four
Swedish guys got in line and started talking to me, bumping into me, what have
you. I was tired. I wanted ice-cream. Whatever, it doesn’t matter, the answer
was a polite “Go away”. I was done talking to people. Before I knew it, they
surrounded me and grabbed at my chest and my butt and called me things like “Snotty
American bitch.” I left. I did not get ice-cream. Here’s the craziest part: I freaking forgot
that whole thing happened. Until this week. Until #YesAllWomen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s another story: I was in Miami pumping gas (in a tank
top. I was clearly asking for this, right?) and two men working on the roof of
the convenience store started catcalling me. At first I ignored them. Then they
started making “Suck it” gestures. I made a face. Then they started getting
nasty, called me a c*nt and whatnot. I gave them the finger. Then they proceeded
to throw stones at me. FROM A ROOF. I was literally stoned for not being
flattered by “Suck it bitch.” WTF? Also a fact, I forgot about this, too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was I pushing all this out of my mind because it was so
painful? No. I really don’t think so. The fact is, this kind of behavior is so
expected, so freaking <i>normal</i> that it
hardly registers. I know I thought about it for a few days afterward, but that might
be it. Do I think all men are like this? GOOD GOD, NO. Let me be clear: No. No.
No.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But let’s all stop
accepting this shit as normal. It’s not. Men, women, whatever. Stand up, say
this actually is harassment and it’s not allowed. It’s not “boys will be boys”
and “whatcha gonna do.” That’s as insulting to men as it is to women, by the
way, to assume that all men think like this, act like this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what things like #YesAllWomen does is open up a
dialogue. It exposes this prevalent attitude to people like me, who have never
been raped or truly abused (because there is a difference, my friends, between
what I experienced and what others go through). It’s <i>helpful</i>
because it can make men, who have never stoned a woman for giving him the
finger say, <i>whoa. That’s messed up.</i>
Then, maybe those men, will have sons and open <i>this</i> dialogue with them. Teach them a way to not only <i>not </i>objectify women, but how to stand up
to those doing so. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t think feminism is a new concept. Every trend that
comes along, like #everydaysexism and #yesallwomen and #consentculture, brings
us all one step closer to understanding our own dangerous attitudes. Maybe the
guys who appreciate a beautiful woman aren’t necessarily objectifying them, but
the next guy who takes it a step too far and makes inappropriate comment is. And
another step is thinking you can somehow “own” a pretty girl. Or be awarded a
woman. And then you’re mad because you don’t get what society has taught you
that “you deserve”. Where exactly is
that line? How far is too far?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be honest, I’m not always sure, because we blur it a lot.
But a worldwide conversation about it couldn’t hurt. In fact, let’s have a
bunch of them, #together.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsiB8yUA0qxrfkBZJ6NjwXsm2X0Pzgfv4NBb1El7I7qj4kmSwlPV4b6a6t_IJGhg2BE-ORjeD31URgg1d_1rcv8Jtz0u6MOToDnKbzyLIX9D9V-5hoZ-Mkb1nQ3UkJFa03pI_uzF_A-df/s1600/safe_image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitsiB8yUA0qxrfkBZJ6NjwXsm2X0Pzgfv4NBb1El7I7qj4kmSwlPV4b6a6t_IJGhg2BE-ORjeD31URgg1d_1rcv8Jtz0u6MOToDnKbzyLIX9D9V-5hoZ-Mkb1nQ3UkJFa03pI_uzF_A-df/s1600/safe_image.jpg" height="167" width="320" /></a></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-20522692840842692292014-04-18T07:34:00.003-07:002014-04-18T07:34:57.698-07:00I Teach My Daughter Things I Don't Believe - My Messy, Beautiful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey Mamas! Today I am a Messy, Beautiful Warrior. Do you guys know Glennon Melton? Because you should. You <i>really, really</i> should. Glennon runs the blog Momastary, and wrote <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2012/01/04/2011-lesson-2-dont-carpe-diem/">this post</a> about how you're not a jerk if you don't love every minute of being a parent, no matter how many old ladies tell you that you should. She stole my heart. She also wrote a kick-ass parenting, marriage, life book called <a href="http://momastery.com/carry-on-warrior/">Carry On, Warrior</a>. She's my Oprah y'all.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Glennon is running a project called <a href="http://momastery.com/messy-beautiful-warrior-friends/">Messy, Beautiful</a>, where you blog about the things in your life that are beautiful in spite of their imperfections. No, scratch that: <b>because of their imperfections.</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here's mine.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A week ago, we were going to my parent’s house for dinner. My family is all women – my sister and I, my mom and my aunt, my two female cousins, my two daughters. It’s like a genetic sorority. I mean, the men are there but really, it’s all about the girls. Dinner at Mom’s is a glorified fashion show. <i>Did you lose weight? I love your hair! Are those new highlights? Where’d you get THAT shirt? Can I borrow it?</i> We are, without a doubt, gender normative. Until I wrote it down, <i>this instant</i>, I never realized how it sounds. Eventually the topic moves on, we’re not actually shallow people, but initially, there’s a good once-over when you come in the door.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I get ready, my subconscious is prepared for this somehow. I must feel pressure I don't know about, or at least have never acknowledged. Also, I’ve gained weight: about fifteen pounds in the last six months. I’m working on it (see, even now I feel like I need to make excuses, to justify this to you, my blog reader, and that is <i>insane</i>). So I dressed in jeans and a cardigan and decided I looked dowdy, and I changed again (jeans, because they’re the only ones that fit) into a nicer, more fitted shirt, a pretty pink that I always thought looked good with my skin. But when I looked in the mirror it emphasized the tire around my middle. So I changed again into a larger, flowing sweater and honestly by this point I was kind of hot and red-faced and avoided pink so the sweater was kind of drab and gray.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Then the horn beeped and I yelled, “Why do I get FIVE MINUTES to get ready when everyone else gets an hour?” because I hadn’t even taken a shower and my hair looked like a wild pricker bush (I don’t know what those bushes are actually called. Sticky bush? Thorn bush?). So I put it up in a ponytail and hated it and took it down and tried to wet it and hated it, so I put it back up in a crazy (Messy, Beautiful, but honestly, just plain messy) bun. And I was so <i>frustrated </i>that I cried a little.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About what I would wear to my mom’s.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Which is stupid, because she loves me no matter what. My sister loves me no matter what. I love them if they wore a bag (but they never, ever would). If I showed up in sweats with my hair in a ponytail, no one would flinch. The pressure is self-inflicted, which is the most ridiculous part. The worst part is, this little exercise is not confined to going to my parents house. I'm not trying to impress <i>them </i>because that would be crazy. Whenever we go out to dinner, to a party, to a friend's house, I change my clothes, fix my hair, try on different earrings. Why? These are all people I love and who love me, just the way I am because I am Messy, Beautiful.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So I got in the car and I looked like I had cried a little. And my outfit was different, and my hair was sort of a mess. My daughter, who is five said, “Mommy why did you change? Are you crying?” Because GOD FORBID this child miss one single thing. I love that about her, I swear I do.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I said, “Oh, I just changed because I wanted to. I didn’t like that other shirt, that’s all.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She said, “Mommy it doesn’t matter what you wear. You’re so beautiful.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have to admit that there, in the passenger’s seat trying to apply mascara (because I get to put on my make-up <i>in the car, aren’t I lucky</i>?), I cried again, only for real this time, with a snotty nose and ugly lip. Because it’s amazing and messy and beautiful that my daughter, who is five, gets the message that I try to send her every day, flying in the face of television and the internet and her little friends at school. Counteracting the Princess culture and Barbies and everything that tells her she must be skinny and blond and perfect with peach-cream skin and a little waist. I’ve been successful, however temporarily. She gets my message.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now. When will I?</span><br />
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-17739397476026233772014-03-24T14:38:00.001-07:002014-03-24T14:38:51.818-07:00In Which I Theorize on Marketing<div class="MsoNormal">
Marketing is an odd bird. In the course of two years
marketing the same dang book, I’ve learned a few things. One, (the most
obvious), you need another dang book. I’m working on it. Two, I’ve stopped
counting my “sales”. I barely check my rank anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
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When I get to talking to another author, who is inevitably
trying to hock their book (like me), the topic always comes back to marketing.
What works, what doesn’t, our own theories and ideas on what will be the “breakthrough”.
I’m by no means an expert on the subject. My one book (soon to be two) hovers
between 100K and 300K on a good day. In its heyday, it hung out at 20K for
months, and even hit the top 1000 for a few weeks. Ah, the glory days. Other
authors understand this speak: I’m talking Amazon rank, of course. The ever
elusive little orange “Bestseller” tag (<i>hurry!
Get a screenshot!)</i>, what books it’s sandwiched between, what authors you
can rub virtual elbows with, those elite NYT Bestsellers that are firmly seated
among those ranks daily and probably never even look. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Whenever we chat about marketing, and I say, Oh, I’m on
Goodreads or Twitter or Facebook or a member of WFWA or Sisters in Crime or <i>whatever</i>, the other author will
eventually, <i>inevitably, </i>ask the
question that makes me cringe now (it didn’t always): <i>Does it help your sales? </i>“It” being whatever network is currently
on the table. We want that direct link, that easy answer. “Oh, yes! That’s it!
I’m not on Goodreads, <i>that’s</i> why I
haven’t sold my first million. OF COURSE!” Big sigh of relief, let’s all have a
beer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That’s not how it works, guys. I’m sorry. I wish it was. We’ve
all heard it before, I think we just refuse to believe it. Behind every
overnight sensation is YEARS of baby steps marketing efforts. Hours of watching
page views (blog or Facebook), sending Friend Requests, building a Twitter
following, attending book signings, donating paperbacks to libraries, used
bookstores, gift shops, and if you’re like me, small press published, then tracking
all this information on consignment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I think book marketing is a marathon. There is no “breakthrough”
moment. I try every day to make one new connection. One new person that I didn’t
know in my writing world before. Whether it be a new friend who doesn’t really
know I’m a writer until I invite them to “Like” my author page, or reaching out
and genuinely commenting on someone’s blog that I found interesting/touching. What
I don’t do, anymore, is worry about if the action I’m taking today will result
in a <i>sale</i> tomorrow. The answer is
probably, no, not directly.<o:p></o:p></div>
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In my experience, sales are organic. Maybe you comment on
Suzy’s blog and you guys have a nice little chat back and forth, but Suzy doesn’t
rush right out and buy a copy of your book. Why would she? She probably has her
own book to sell. What she might do is check you out, see what you’re about.
Maybe she’ll like your cover or your blurb and add you to her Goodreads shelf.
Maybe Suzy’s cousin Sally will see this, and maybe she’ll be the one that
actually buys your book. Maybe even a month later. My point is, there is virtually no way to
know where every individual sale comes from. Stop trying. If you can attribute
each connection you make to a sale then, in my opinion, you’re not doing
enough.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead, I strive for connection first. After that, I
concern myself with exposure. How many different ways can I flash the book cover
around (and not be annoying about it)? Blogs (my own and others) are good.
Twitter is good, ask for retweets but give back and pay it forward. Facebook
events, bookmarks that I leave around public places like doctor’s offices and
my accountant’s office (anywhere with a waiting room), and even the local
newspaper.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Share the love. Share sales and giveaways of other authors, <i>especially</i> in your genre. Give back to
your readers, tell them about a $0.99 Kindle deal in a genre they would probably
like (aka similar to yours), and while you’re at it, tag that author. Maybe
they’ll pay it back one day, maybe not. Don’t worry about that. Reign in your
expectations and stop tracking those who “hit it big” after two months, six
months, a year. Put away the measuring stick. Marketing your book is like a
healthy diet: It’s a lifestyle change. There are no easy answers. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I have no proof that this works. It’s just a theory, like
all the other ramblings on this blog. But it can’t possibly hurt. Learning to
market my book has been this incredible growth experience over the past year. I’ve
connected with people from all over the globe and people can’t resist
authenticity.</div>
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For new authors that have asked me for marketing advice here
it is: Connection first, then exposure. Be your real, authentic self. Be
vulnerable. Ask for help. Show gratitude. Pay it forward and back. Say thank
you. If you’re lucky enough to get real fans that aren’t your mom, take care of
them. Forget the destination, it doesn’t exist. Enjoy the journey, it’s half
the fun. The other half is… well, writing. Oh yeah, back to that.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This thing, right here? Repeat after me: It's all gravy.</td></tr>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-39463028316973798282014-03-19T09:11:00.000-07:002014-03-19T09:11:40.877-07:00Booky Things: Giveaways and Releases and Parties, Oh My!I usually reserve my blog for ranting on parenting, sometimes writing stuff, and sometimes, well, truthfully, nothing at all. I'm kind of a terrible blogger. Don't get me wrong, I love doing it, when I actually <i>do it.</i><br />
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But, so many fun things are happening in my writerly world. First, Binds That Tie is coming out March 31st! I'm so excited for its book birthday! See details on my <a href="http://www.katemoretti.com/" target="_blank">website</a>.<br />
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Then, <a href="http://www.redadeptpublishing.com/" target="_blank">Red Adept Publishing</a> decided to do a <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/85911-binds-that-tie" target="_blank">Goodreads Giveaway</a>! I'm beyond thrilled at this, because I love these. I enter them all the time. In fact, I just won Under A Silent Moon by Elizabeth Haynes and I can't wait to get my hands on it.<br />
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Last, but never least, I have scheduled a Facebook party to ring in the second book in style. **<a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/306278232853918/" target="_blank">CLICK HERE</a>** to join! No invite required! Why would you join an online party, you ask? <i>Because FREE THINGS. </i> Every 3-4 (ish) hours on March 31st, I'll be giving something away! A signed book, gift cards, swag, the kitchen sink....tell your friends! I just want to show appreciation for all my fans and friends who are relentlessly supportive. I'm pretty sure you're all going to get sick of me one day. I'm not above <strike>buying your love</strike> saying THANK YOU!<br />
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Here's the truth, though: I'm <b>super </b>nervous about this book. I have Second Book Syndrome. This is a real thing, y'all. <a href="http://katemoretti.com/thought-i-knew-you-2/" target="_blank">Thought I Knew You</a> was pretty well received -- mostly 4-5 stars, people seemed to like it. I loved the plot, simple as it was. I loved the characters, as flawed as they were. To me, they were very real, and the whole scenario was so <i>possible.</i><br />
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<a href="http://katemoretti.com/binds-that-tie/" target="_blank">Binds That Tie</a> is a different animal. Its different than TIKY in weird and wonderful ways -- the characters are more complicated, the choices are internally driven. I'm proud of my growth as a writer. Binds was fun to write -- I love the darker side of human nature, what we all could do if pushed to certain limits. Would we all stay loyal? Selfless? Doubtful. I also liked the idea that everything you do in your life changes who you are in some small way, and you can't go back. You can't return to who you were before, no matter how much you'd like to.<br />
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I have no idea if this will translate to readers. I can't wait to find out. In the meantime, my nails are bitten to the quick and I can't stop downing Girl Scout Cookies and Irish Soda bread. And wine. Always, always wine.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This has nothing really to do with the post, except it made me laugh. YOUR WELCOME.</td></tr>
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<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-7880935849214260732014-02-18T09:16:00.000-08:002014-02-19T11:52:36.274-08:00"Why Do I Write" Blog-Hop!<h2>
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Welcome to the "Why Do I Write" Blog-Hop! A Blog-hop is a fun way for a bunch of writers to get together and all blog about a set topic. I was invited to this one by <a href="http://thewritersdreamworld.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Diana Rose</a>, a romance writer I know from social media. Today's topic involves craft and process, which is always fun to talk about!</span></span></h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly a stock photo. Note the lack of children.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1) What am I working on?</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">I'm currently working on my third fiction novel, all stand alone. It doesn't have a title so I call it Book #3, or sometimes "WIP". It's about a woman in Witness Protection who longs for roots, so she tries to find her birth mother. As she closes in on her search, it becomes obvious that someone will stop at nothing to keep her from the truth. It's a bit more thriller than my previous books, Thought I Knew You and Binds That Tie.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">2) How does my work differ from others of its genre?</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">I feel as though all my work is fairly genre bending. My first novel, Thought I Knew You, fit pretty squarely in the women's fiction category, although there was an underlying mystery. My second novel is a weird combination of thriller, courtroom drama, but still retains some women's fiction elements: character arc, introspection, romance as well as complicated sister and mother relationships. It's hard to speculate about my third novel because it's early drafting stages yet. I suspect it will be more firmly planted in the thriller genre. But I enjoy blending genres, both in my writing and reading.</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">3) Why do I write what I do?</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">I write what I like to read. I like complicated, flawed characters. I like plots with twists and turns and not-so-happy endings. I like justice, but even the bad guy can be good and the good guy can be bad, so to me, justice isn't black and white. I like forgiving the terrible traits in some of my characters. I like turning the idea of clearly drawn "evil" on its head. </span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">4) How does my writing process work?</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">It works? Just kidding. I feel like I start fresh every time. I'm a systems person by nature, so I keep evolving my "process" to refine it for me. For Thought I Knew You, I <a href="http://www.autocrit.com/editing/library/plotter-or-pantser-the-best-of-both-worlds/" target="_blank">pantsed </a>the whole thing. Every time I sat down to write, I started with a blank page and no idea what would happen next. That was fun. Stressful and kind of exhausting but fun in its own way. For Binds That Tie, I outlined most of it, and in place of the actual ending outline I wrote "Insert something brilliant here". And I waited for something brilliant to hit me. Again, kind of fun, but mostly terrifying. For my WIP, I have a very detailed outline, including an ending. This is my most complicated, fun book to write so far. I'm in love with it. I think about it constantly, ways to turn up the heat, ways to torture poor Zoe. I can't wait to get it out of me!</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Thanks Diana for the invite. I'm a day late with this blog, due to being sick and the snow, and also being sick of the snow. </span></span></h2>
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<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsrxMGSfrTUnF1VoNqK1nCJQX75Ztyqq3qQxn3QQyLbbdh_B6zQ-BzFtcMoG-_706mBgnQ17x4EoOVdXfuO_X8My0gqgAt2ttZtVLM-9H3VMZCiOPX2f7HQrNNekPpeIeLulRdI4a-YrIA/s1600/DSCN0189.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">About Diana:</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><span style="line-height: 24.533334732055664px; text-align: justify;">Diana Rose is a Russian native who lives in New York. </span><span style="line-height: 24.533334732055664px; text-align: justify;">Her stories transport readers to the fantasy filled worlds where she brings royalty and magical beings to life, with colorful romantic scenes and characters that her imagination creates. She fuels her creativity while reading romantic novel. When Diana is not writing, she enjoys spending her time with her family and friends. You can find her on her blog: <a href="http://thewritersdreamworld.wordpress.com/" rel="nofollow" shape="rect" style="color: #1155cc;" target="_blank">http://thewritersdreamworld.<wbr></wbr>wordpress.com/</a></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who's up next on the hop?</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.ericaluckedean.com/" target="_blank">Erica Lucke Dean</a></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Erica Lucke Dean is the author of <a href="http://ericaluckedean.com/to-katie-with-love/" target="_blank">To Katie With Love</a> and <a href="http://ericaluckedean.com/suddenly-sorceress/" target="_blank">Suddenly Sorceress</a>, both from Red Adept Publishing. </span></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After walking away from her career as a business banker to pursue writing full-time, Erica moved from the hustle and bustle of the big city to a small tourist town in the North Georgia Mountains where she lives in a 90-year-old haunted farmhouse with her workaholic husband, her 180lb lap dog, and at least one ghost.</span></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When she’s not busy writing or tending to her collection of crazy chickens, diabolical ducks, and a quintet of piglets, hell bent on having <em style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">her </em>for dinner, she’s either reading bad fan fiction or singing karaoke in the local pub. Much like the characters in her books, Erica is a magnet for disaster, and has been known to trip on air while walking across flat surfaces.</span></span><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How she’s managed to survive this long is one of life’s great mysteries.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Erica can be found hanging out, writing about her farm and fluffy romance on <a href="http://www.ericaluckedean.com/" target="_blank">her blog.</a></span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Stephen Kozeniewski</a></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Stephen Kozeniewski is the author of <a href="http://redadeptpublishing.com/braineater-jones-by-stephen-kozeniewski/" target="_blank">Braineater Jones</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/GHOUL-ARCHIPELAGO-Zombie-Novel-ebook/dp/B00FTP5URO/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1392838369&sr=1-1&keywords=the+ghoul+archipelago" target="_blank">The Ghoul Archipelago</a>.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">Stephen lives with his wife and two cats in Pennsylvania, the birthplace of the modern zombie. He was born to the soothing strains of "Boogie With Stu" even though The Who are far superior to Zep, for reasons that he doesn't even really want to get into right now.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">During his time as a Field Artillery officer, he served for three years in Oklahoma and one in Iraq, where due to what he assumes was a clerical error, he was awarded the Bronze Star. The depiction of addiction in his fiction is strongly informed by the three years he spent working at a substance abuse clinic, an experience which also ensures that he employs strict moderation when enjoying the occasional highball of Old Crow.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">He is also a classically trained linguist, which sounds much more impressive than saying his bachelor's degree is in German.</span></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;">He can be found critiquing the world's major works of literature on <a href="http://manuscriptsburn.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Manuscripts Burn.</a></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></h2>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-58223551378987223332013-12-31T07:33:00.001-08:002013-12-31T07:33:49.996-08:00New Year, Same Me... And That's Okay.<span style="background-color: white;">I used to have a thing for New Year’s Resolutions. To me, it was a
time to sit down, reflect on the year and make a list. It was a fresh start, a
new beginning, the page was blank. Who would I be this year? What could I
accomplish? What could I change? There’s a freedom in that, to allow yourself
to believe that all the things you’re unhappy with can change in a year, like
gulping down pure oxygen. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<br />
At the end of 2012, I made thirteen resolutions. THIRTEEN. I go
big or go home. I figured, the law of averages, right? If you do something
enough times, it will work out at least once. Some were shallow and easy (learn
how to apply eyeliner) and some were lofty (be a size eight), and even others
seemed insurmountable at the time (stop yelling at my kids). In some way, they
all revolved around self-improvement. <i>Be a better (fill in the blank).</i> Be
more romantic with my husband (be a better wife). Catch up on backlogged
paperwork (be a better employee). Write 2-3K a week (be a better writer). Give
more money to charity (Be a better human). The overall message from 2012 Me to
2013 Me: <i>You are not good enough.</i><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
I didn’t even realize it until almost November, when I went back
and reviewed the list. I laughed a little at myself, but at the same time, deep
down, I felt like a failure. I had accomplished <i>maybe</i> three of
the items on the list (which upped to four when I quickly found an eyeliner
tutorial on Youtube).<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I tried explaining all this to my husband, who has always insisted
that I am ridiculously hard on myself. I have always countered with:
self-improvement can never be bad. We can all afford to be better people. To
me, it’s always been arrogance to assume you’re perfectly fine the way you are
– that you </span>couldn't<span style="font-size: small;"> improve your parenting, or maybe be a better friend to
someone, maybe say you’re sorry to someone you should have apologized to years
ago? I dismissed him as too self-satisfied. I was clearly the enlightened one.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
A few weeks ago, I went to my daughter’s kindergarten classroom
for National Education Week. I watched her sit, straight-backed, at the Star
table listening to instructions, and then cut out turkey feathers in perfect
shapes. I watched her collect all her scraps and throw them away and put away
her scissors and pencil in her pencil case and then refold her “quiet hands”
and wait patiently for the next instruction. I watched her scan the classroom
to make sure she was the first one done. I watched her run a small index finger
along the edge of the turkey feather to make sure it was a flawless, clean cut.
I watched her get frustrated because the glue on her page was slightly smeared.
I watched her write and erase the “L” in her first name probably fifteen times,
until I thought the paper would rip. Later that night, I said to my husband,
“What kind of five year old demands that level of perfection? Where would she
get that from?” He quipped back, “Maybe there’s a thirteen New Year’s
resolutions gene.”<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I was frustrated. I've never pushed her – her drawings were always
hung proudly on the refrigerator, she dresses herself in whatever she wants,
and even does her own hair. I don’t fix her crooked ponytails. I don’t tell her
that pink </span>doesn't<span style="font-size: small;"> always match pink. I stress that “doing your best” is all I
ever ask. I’m conscious of letting her find her own way. How could I have done
that to her? I clearly needed to do something different, something </span><i>better.</i><span style="font-size: small;"> But
what? I started Googling things, </span><i>how to tame a perfectionist child, how
to calm an anxious kindergartner. </i><span style="font-size: small;"> I watched her do her homework
and erase letter after letter, and I said to my husband, “What did I do wrong?
What can I do differently?” And his answer was simple. “You are too hard on
yourself.”</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">With that simple phrase, one he’d said a hundred times in our
marriage, I realized he was right. For the first time, I understood what he
meant. I </span>wasn't<span style="font-size: small;"> hard on my daughter. I was hard on </span><i>me.</i><span style="font-size: small;"> I was
loving and forgiving and encouraging to my daughter. To myself, I was critical,
unkind, harsh. And it was possible, maybe even likely, that whatever
perfectionist trait my daughter had inherited had been nurtured in herself by
watching me.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">I thought back to every Pinterest project we’d ever tackled, every
picture we’d ever colored together, every date night she’d watched me get
dressed, trying on outfit after outfit, probably sighing. I </span>wasn't<span style="font-size: small;"> a
perfectionist, necessarily. In fact, in the moment I can be frequently very
lazy. Only later do I fret, worry, feel guilt, think about what I should have
said, or should have done, over-apologize, or stress about how I come off to
others. She’d spent her whole life watching me critique myself, and come up
short in my own eyes. She wasn't trying to make her “L’s” perfect for me—she
knew my love was unconditional. But I had inadvertently taught her that
self-love was something to be worked for, to be earned.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
This year, I’m making one resolution. It’s one word, and it’s
mildly cheesy. <i>Accept. </i>Accept that I will yell. Try again tomorrow.
Accept my size 14. Eat healthy choices. Accept my work day ends at 4. Accept
that I might disappoint someone someday. Whether it be my husband or my best
friend, my boss, my mother or my sister. Accept that giving what I give to charity is
better than nothing and maybe just give a little bit more.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> We are teaching our children how to be people. Not just with
House Rules charts and Rewards Jars, but with our actions. Not just how we
treat our kids, but how we treat others, how we treat ourselves. Some of the
greatest lessons </span>aren't<span style="font-size: small;"> sound bites (</span><i>Hands
are not for hitting! Kind words, kind tone!</i><span style="font-size: small;">), but choices we make every
day, reflected by how we view the world. Maybe if we want our kids to be happy,
we should be happy. Maybe if we want our kids to be kind, we should be kind.</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
Maybe if we want our kids to love themselves, it’s not enough that
we simply love them. We must also love ourselves.<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; margin-bottom: 8pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://scontent-b-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/1538674_10100167632315633_986926468_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://scontent-b-lga.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-frc3/1538674_10100167632315633_986926468_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> I never said I'd quit drinking</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-72548535870474118832013-03-15T19:05:00.001-07:002013-03-15T19:05:54.703-07:00Giveaway Winner!!Thank you to everyone who entered the THOUGHT I KNEW YOU Book Club giveaway!! The winner has been chosen, and congratulations to <b>Katie </b>and her book club! I can't wait to Skype or call into your meeting!<br />
<br />
We had a fantastic turnout - over 600 entries and to celebrate, we've lowered the kindle price of THOUGHT I KNEW YOU to $1.99 for the weekend (click <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Thought-I-Knew-You-ebook/dp/B009BBD08I/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1363397107&sr=8-2&keywords=thought+i+knew+you" target="_blank">here</a> to download)!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjz1dISM8VoOUgOF65sT1Nd4oDn_0xJAc5ZAMOe9Uff0ivExd6zig6SvAs6aSgio1tPF1KRv7EhmdW9Xcb6LEDYnra925KUSleEW9Nulp8CQCrnz8ymNKqzPEP_4LUgJZh-mkEaCa0IgT/s1600/book+celebration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVjz1dISM8VoOUgOF65sT1Nd4oDn_0xJAc5ZAMOe9Uff0ivExd6zig6SvAs6aSgio1tPF1KRv7EhmdW9Xcb6LEDYnra925KUSleEW9Nulp8CQCrnz8ymNKqzPEP_4LUgJZh-mkEaCa0IgT/s320/book+celebration.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>
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<br />
Want to enter another giveaway? My publisher is turning a year old, and they're giving away hundreds of dollars in Amazon gift cards, books, and prizes! <a href="http://redadeptpublishing.com/red-adept-publishing-anniversary-celebration/" target="_blank">Check it out!</a>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-33417504253776296632013-02-02T13:01:00.002-08:002013-02-02T14:39:55.322-08:00My So-Called Writerly Life<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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One of my New Year’s Resolutions was to blog more
frequently. I guess, technically, a resolution can’t be a failure until you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">start</i> it, right? Okay, so here goes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my first “writing” post. Mostly, I’ve blogged about
my weird kids, or observations of family life, but I’ve strategically avoided
writing about…well, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">writing.</i> I don’t
know why – can something be unknown and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">strategic?</i>
Not sure, but there it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought I’d give my five blog readers (waves at Mom, Aunt
Mary Jo, Becky and Molly, maybe Megan) a little insight into my writing life.
Sometimes my friends and family will ask questions, but always seem a little unsure of
what to do with the answer. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Did they know
that? Are they supposed to understand what that means? </i>Generally, I change
the subject back to mom things with a collective sigh of relief – messy houses
and screaming kids are solid ground. But my writerly life is usually met with a
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s cool, I guess? </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t write every day. I work every day – I commute an
hour to a job that I mostly like, but don’t feel passionate about. In that way,
writing has ruined my life. The rest of you are just along for the ride. At
night, after I get home, and the kids are in bed, instead of folding laundry or
cleaning the kitchen like I should be doing, I email bloggers, check my twitter
and my facebook, check my Amazon rank, reply to fan mail (that’s a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">joke.</i> Unless one of you e-mails me)…oh,
and try to be a decent wife by paying a little attention to my husband. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you all start thinking I’m martyring myself, here’s
my secret: It’s so much fun. I love it way more than I thought I
would. Or, at least its more fun than folding five loads of kids clothes (oh, cute,
you thought I was exaggerating). But this means my kids are mismatched, permission slips are always lost, my
dishes are overflowing and my husband is over-houseworked (I’m trying to make up for
this by giving him props everywhere. Oh wait, he doesn’t read my blog either. Just...tell him I said so, k?)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the weekends, while the kids nap (luck, luck, luck, and
sheer will play a huge part in having a four-year-old who still takes a nap), I
write. This means that if I’m lucky, I write a chapter a week. There are about
thirty to forty chapters in my new book. Talk about slow goings. I thought
dieting was thankless.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a few weeks ago, something totally awesome happened.
Unexpectedly, I finished the first draft of my second book. Why unexpectedly?
Oh, I don’t know, I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I never know if
I’ll abandon something or finish it until I write <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The End. </i>I spent two weeks smoothing out the issues I knew about,
but at sixty-five thousand words, I knew there were more problems. It simply
wasn’t long enough to be <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i>, in my
mind (*SIGH* disclaimer: there are very good books at that length. I could tell
that mine was not one of them). It needed….something. But what? (Side note: the
average novel is about eighty-thousand words, roughly.) Enter, beta readers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Um, what?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A beta reader is an early draft reader. Everyone has
different definitions or uses for these readers but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to me, </i>they must be the following:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Tough but fair</li>
<li>A big reader – I’m talking reads a few books a
month</li>
<li>A decent communicator</li>
<li>Not afraid to tell me the truth</li>
<li>Not extraordinarily busy</li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: 39.35pt; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.35pt;">
Beta reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sounds</i> like fun. It’s not. If you’re a beta reader, you’re reading a
novel with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">problems. </i>You’re helping
the author identify these problems. You can’t kick up your feet and unwind
after a long day, pour a glass of wine, get lost in your kindle. No, you have to pay attention, take notes, answer questions on
characterization, consistency, plot holes. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">work!</i> I appreciate every little note I get back from them, because
I know that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at least once</i> when they
were writing up those notes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they didn’t
want to be doing it</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.35pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.35pt;">
I found six beta readers. I’m
still waiting for four of them (patiently, no rush, really…. This isn’t an implied
prod. I promise). The notes from the first two overwhelm me. I open them, open
my manuscript, stare, stare, stare, close everything, check Twitter, check
Facebook. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I get all my beta reads back, I’ll incorporate as much
as I agree with (which will not be everything I should, I can assure you that)
and begin my own personal line editing. Getting rid of words like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">just </i>and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about, then, that, had, </i>and eliminating clichés. Hopefully, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hopefully, </i>by sometime in March, I’ll be
ready to submit my new manuscript to my publisher. If I’m lucky, they’ll like
it. Then they’ll edit the heck out of it (tell me that I have to get rid of all
the things my beta readers told me to get rid of and I ignored), I’ll repeat
all my editing steps from above but with more crying, and I’ll publish it in late 2013. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If I’m incredibly lucky! </i>We’ll see. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So, uh, what’s your
second book about again? Is it a sequel?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No, I think Claire’s journey is told. My second book is a
tiny bit darker, but still involves a troubled marriage. Only this time, the
couple accidentally kill a man. Instead of calling the police, they bury the
body. The novel is about what that secret does to them, as individuals and as a
couple.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you want to write
for a living?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the one question I get asked the most by my family
and friends whenever the topic of conversation goes to my new weird life. And
the answer is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">of course.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would love, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love, love</i>, to write for a living. But let me break it down for
you, in broad strokes. This year has truly been an eye-opener for me. I sell
anywhere between one and five books a day, depending on the day. (As a side
note, for a debut nobody, those are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">great</i>
sales!) Hopefully, that number increases? But to make “a living”, let’s just
say <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">half</i> my current salary (here’s
where I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really </i>hope my husband
doesn’t read my blog), I’d have to sell close to seventy copies a day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seventy.</i> That’s not even close to New
York Times Bestseller list stuff. I should just buy a lottery ticket – same
odds. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So there it is. My writing status, how writing (barely) fits
into my life, what I give up to do it and why, and what I’ll never get out of
it. Good thing I love it. Somehow, unexpectedly, I’ve become passionate about
it. At almost thirty-five, with a house, two young kids, and a hectic life, I’ve
learned that feeling passionately about something outside of those things is
important. It keeps me happy, sane, grounded, reasonable. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, mostly reasonable. I’m still sort of a writer, you
know?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyND8lH1ITATa3sr8ebPmXnsVYe6gqXQQR_44z68aID3if9Kd79MYddXUrQAbqxne-BGmHtpRKDH9bLPNh7owOZlsmszTGTLZKkYzKFbTAoJY8c0jP6oLc2swrag5ojuIJkx-GrQq0HZC4/s1600/13052981005Y30H9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyND8lH1ITATa3sr8ebPmXnsVYe6gqXQQR_44z68aID3if9Kd79MYddXUrQAbqxne-BGmHtpRKDH9bLPNh7owOZlsmszTGTLZKkYzKFbTAoJY8c0jP6oLc2swrag5ojuIJkx-GrQq0HZC4/s320/13052981005Y30H9.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She has better hair than me, but you get the idea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<!--EndFragment-->Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-43606368552402718992012-12-03T19:04:00.001-08:002012-12-03T19:04:20.935-08:00Great Expectations<br />
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<o:p> </o:p>It’s that time of year – the lights, the carols, the
shopping, the drinking….</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I have an image of Christmas in my head. Norman Rockwell
painted it and Bing Crosy gave it a soundtrack. It’s been boiled down to a
single hazy, childhood memory – a composite of all my young Christmases and it
smells like pine, tastes like ham, and sounds like off-key singing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This weekend was my favorite weekend of the entire year –
the one where we get the tree. We hike through the snow, holding hands and
singing. No one cries. No one poops. No one yells. We pick out the perfect tree
that is effortlessly sawed down, and easily transported home, where it
practically uprights itself. Cut to carols and hot cocoa and hanging ornaments
and kissing under mistletoe.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The reality is a bit louder. L, 4,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hides in between the trees giving everyone a
ten minute heart attack. A, 2, squats and poops so that we must now fast
forward the tree hunt because we’re in a race against diaper rash. Both kids
cry and I yell. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Just get that one, I
don’t even care anymore, I’m sure it’s fine.</i> Mr. Beaker grumbles: the saw
is too dull, the tree is really heavy this year for some reason, why are we
here on the coldest day of the year? We’ve somehow managed to hike about a
quarter of a mile from the drop-off point and the hayride looks like a small
speck in the distance. I stomp off because…well, because this is supposed to be
fun and it’s not and of course that means it’s Mr. B’s fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We haul the behemoth home and it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doesn’t fit in the house.</i> It’s Christmas Vacation come to life.
When I said I wanted picture perfect Christmas, I wasn’t thinking of Clark
Griswold. Literally, we can’t stand it up – we’re off by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feet</i>, not inches. It also doesn’t fit in the tree stand. Mr. B. has
reached a breaking point and both the kids are crying. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Christmas is ruined forever!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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I am fed up: this was not the image in my head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This is not how it’s supposed to be. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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And right there, that’s the crux of it. I’ve just given
Christmas a “D” – failed to meet expectations. In my fuming drive to Home Depot
(to purchase a chainsaw and an extra large tree stand), I have some kind of
cheesy ephiphany. Like my own self-contained ABC Family holiday special. The
problem isn’t the reality. Reality is what it is, I have very little control
over it. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The problem</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is the expectation.</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I find the tree stand and a fantastic tool called a Sawzall
(hey, it saws all! Well, that seems kind of fun, actually), which we needed
anyway. Suddenly, things don’t seem <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
bad. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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By the time I get home, I’m the Grinch whose heart grew
three sizes that day. My family is sitting on the couch, watching Mickey’s
Christmas Carol, and as I peek through the doorway, they are laughing. They’ve
been PJ’d and their teeth are brushed and they’re snuggled under a snowflake
blanket. The lights are off, and the tree is laying in the middle of the living
room, taking up all available space but in my absence, they’ve all somehow
become the Hallmark card I’ve been trying to force them into all day.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I think that sometimes, the easiest way to be happy is to
let go of your anticipation. To quit forcing everyone to conform to the script
in your head. To enjoy the imperfect moments for what they are: real.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uGyEuVVrEFOHRkVwmboVNJFyjbFRRj7PZcE3vsfdvQRB_FH6h6n4xy7DTxyAWbbbIqjVQLHrfXQOuvskzHq-JBiJsdgLi09hkm_qF7EWg936f9PGPwrHVnm29edEn5epyqFgzW5nWjoA/s1600/IMG_1225.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uGyEuVVrEFOHRkVwmboVNJFyjbFRRj7PZcE3vsfdvQRB_FH6h6n4xy7DTxyAWbbbIqjVQLHrfXQOuvskzHq-JBiJsdgLi09hkm_qF7EWg936f9PGPwrHVnm29edEn5epyqFgzW5nWjoA/s320/IMG_1225.JPG" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Scale: Husband is over six feet tall. What were we thinking?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-29017522599508022222012-10-12T21:48:00.001-07:002012-10-12T21:48:29.917-07:00Tiny Pushes<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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It is Bullying Prevention Month and yesterday was the anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard.
I’m not even sure if “anniversary” is the right word. I remember when this
happened. I was two years out of high school and practically a kid myself. I
remember thinking “how horrible” and “those poor parents”. But I went on with
my day, I felt sad for them but I didn’t actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feel sad. </i>My reaction to these types of horrors has changed
dramatically and most notably, in the last five years. As they say, having a
baby changes everything. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I read some of the articles published today on Matthew
Shepard and found myself a bit teary eyed. Think Progress had an semi-uplifting
take on all that has changed in the last 14 years (<a href="http://thinkprogress.org/lgbt/issue/">http://thinkprogress.org/lgbt/issue/</a>)
and how things are improving. In 1998, 53% of the United States believed that
gay marriage was wrong, and now it’s down to 42%. So, that’s better, right? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Right?</i> Forty-two… still seems like a big
number to me, that’s all. Sigh. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I can’t help but think of the world my kids will live in.
Thanks to the tireless efforts of a lot of people, like the Laramie project,
the death of Matthew Shepard will not be in vain. With enough time and
awareness, we can chip away at bigotry and hate. But is it enough? My fear, as
a mother, is that it’s not.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I look at L, my oldest, with her weird little idiosyncrasies
that I alternately love and loathe and think: Could she be a bullying target?
And of course, the answer is yes. Truthfully, I’m not sure you can forcast hate;
it’s an unpredictable tide. That’s the terrifying part. That’s the part that
will keep me up at night, and that’s the part of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> that wants to chain my children in their rooms until they’re
well into their twenties. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I can’t protect them from the haters. I can’t make a whole
class of kids not turn on my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my </i>kid
because maybe she’s different (<a href="http://katemoretti.blogspot.com/2012/07/weird-kid-genetics.html" target="_blank">don’t believe me</a>?). Reading these articles today
and feeling powerless, it finally dawned on me that while I couldn’t control
everyone else, I could make damn sure that my kid wasn’t one of the bullies. I
can, to the best of my ability, make sure that my kids are part of the 58% that
believe there’s nothing wrong with love irrespective of gender, race, sexual
orientation. Maybe, then, they’ll pass those lessons onto their kids and the
42% from above becomes 32%. I can, and do, teach them kindness and tolerance
and to appreciate the differences in all human beings. It was such a lightbulb
moment – to go from feeling this overwhelming helplessness to realizing that I
was thinking about it all wrong. It's not worth worrying, <i>right now</i>, about how others might treat them in the future. I have no control over that. It <i>is</i> worth thinking about how they will treat others - in some small measure, I can shape that. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Changing the mentality of a society isn’t done overnight.
It’s hard not to be disouraged by what feels sometimes like stagnation. But
it’s an empowering position – being a parent. I have the opportunity to
directly influence the opinions of two little girls, who will become two grown
women, and in a small way hopefully contribute to the <i>good</i> in society. I just need to let them out of their rooms first.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-no-proof: no;">The world is moved along, not only by
the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the aggregate of tiny pushes of
each honest worker. – Helen Keller</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-fareast-language: JA; mso-no-proof: no;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-1024133879723630452012-09-05T19:22:00.002-07:002012-09-05T19:22:44.054-07:00If I Were King of the Forest<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I belong to an online writing community (<a href="http://www.authonomy.com/">www.authonomy.com</a>) and in my “spare time”
I peruse the forums. There’s plenty of discussions – some are silly, some are
political, and sometimes there’s even some about writing. The other day someone
started a thread called “The three things a writer needs.” There were a lot of
opinions – craft, voice, point of view, an original idea, a fresh take on an
old idea. It was a fun thread to read. Then someone posted “Courage”. I had an
epiphany. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In two weeks, I’ll release my first book (Hopefully not my
last, but topic for another post). I’m psyched. I’m excited. I’m positively
terrified. You might be wondering – what’s so terrifying? Fear of failure? Fear
of success? The reviews? No, it’s more basic than that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In two weeks, <i>most people I know</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> will be reading something I wrote. Sure, it’s been
edited. They probably won’t find many (any?) typos. But the characterizations,
the plot, the relationships, the interactions are borne from my mind for all my
friends and family to question, judge, assign meaning to. Yeah, you need
courage to do this. To bring your insides out, and put them on paper forever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the naked in class dream, realized.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here’s the thing: I didn’t write anything shocking. I
have one semi-glazed over sex scene that gives me hives when I think about it.
But I think about truly brave authors: Wally Lamb, Augusten Burroughs, even
Gillian Flynn, who write with a boiled down raw emotion that is painful to
read, and would be unimaginable to write. I think of <i>She’s Come Undone </i><span style="font-style: normal;">or </span><i>I Know This Much is True</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and you can’t read either of these books without
feeling like your heart has been ripped out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are parts of both </span><i>Running with Scissors </i><span style="font-style: normal;">and </span><i>A Wolf at the Table</i></span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> that I read with one hand over my eyes. They are burned
into my memory. There’s an audacity there I just do not have (yet).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even Jennifer Weiner, who is widely
regarded as a chick-lit writer, has written scenes that I’ve had to pause to
finish another time, possibly another day.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When, and if, you read Thought I Knew You, don’t worry. You won’t cringe at any scene,
or read it with one hand over your eyes. You won’t need to stop and take an
emotional breather. I hope I entertain you, I really do. Maybe you'll shed a tear (email me and let me know, okay?) And maybe, if I'm lucky, you’ll take
something away from the book. I’m already thinking about the next one -- how can I be bolder? Maybe push the envelope a little bit more, put a bigger piece of my inner self out there for the world to see. </span><!--EndFragment--><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: Times;"><i></i></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times;"><i></i></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtwlaIUGHqrJnP7_RPh_DrDE9EccLAVTd9kH9NSHSySTHkxjlabBBbKg6I8v_4TLbuoB-9zJqZczelNnIA8kJXbJI_9aycDNx_aQdQ6cE_poTDGPLeABvWY82ZfwdsbSzP2w9UWM9t1c5/s1600/the_wizard_of_oz-cowardly_lion-courage-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJtwlaIUGHqrJnP7_RPh_DrDE9EccLAVTd9kH9NSHSySTHkxjlabBBbKg6I8v_4TLbuoB-9zJqZczelNnIA8kJXbJI_9aycDNx_aQdQ6cE_poTDGPLeABvWY82ZfwdsbSzP2w9UWM9t1c5/s320/the_wizard_of_oz-cowardly_lion-courage-001.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>As for you, my fine friend, you're a victim of disorganized thinking. You are under the unfortunate delusion that simply because you run away from danger you have no courage. You're confusing courage with wisdom. --The Wizard of Oz</i></span></span>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-1032004133810523242012-08-19T09:28:00.001-07:002012-08-19T09:28:22.639-07:00Summer Reading<br />
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My new writerly life has me reading a lot of unpublished
stuff. Works in progress of my author friends, some unpublished manuscripts,
that kind of thing. And it’s a lot of fun, for sure. But in the past few
months, I found myself drifting away from the one thing that spurred me to
write in the first place: Reading. Real books. I missed it. So I made it a
point this summer to get back to it. I think I did okay. Here’s what I read and
what I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just in case you
give a hoot. <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span></span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Gone-Girl-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B006LSZECO/ref=dp_kinw_strp_1" target="_blank">Gone Girl</a></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">, by
Gillian Flynn. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: A man’s wife goes missing on the day of their five
year anniversary. Between Nick’s (the husband) search for Amy (his wife) told
in alternating chapters with Amy’s past diary entries, you get an inside look
into their marriage, which is not as happy as everyone thinks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I loved this book. I loved everything about it, even the
ending which is getting not so great reviews. There is a thread of evil woven
so intricately throughout the plot that by the time you realize it, you are
very attached to the people you <i>thought </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Nick
and Amy were. This left me unsettled and a little creeped out for days. It’s
true that the end is a tad over the top. I didn’t care at all. It’s up there
with one of my favorites, for sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wolf-Table-Memoir-Father-ebook/dp/B0011UGLH4/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393207&sr=1-1&keywords=a+wolf+at+the+table" target="_blank">A Wolf at the Table</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Augusten Burroughs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: Another Burroughs memoir. This one is different, it
predates <i>Running with Scissors</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and
largely centers around his intensely abusive father. The part that stuck with
me the most: Burroughs has a “memory” of helping his father bury a body, but
has no idea if it really happened or if it was a dream. At one point in the
story, he finally asks his father and the resulting conversation is positively
creepy. He is obviously haunted by this vision his entire life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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This is my least favorite Burroughs book. That’s saying a
lot because I generally love everything he writes, pretty sure I’ve read it
all. This has none of his usual wit and humor (well, very little) that is so
shocking that you laugh out loud. It’s very dark. And it’s <i>incredibly sad.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> But in true Burroughs fashion, it’s ridiculously
honest. I probably won’t read it again, but kudos for Burroughs for penning
what was clearly a horribly difficult book to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Upright-Piano-Player-ebook/dp/B004CFAWTS/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393246&sr=1-2&keywords=the+upright+piano+player" target="_blank">The Upright Piano Player</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by David Abbott<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: Henry Cage once had everything and lost it all, due in
part to his own thoughtless actions, reflects on his life. Determined to become
a better man, no matter how late in life, he reconnects with his ailing ex-wife
and pursues a relationship with his son and grandson. Two distinct tragedies
derail his attempts. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This was a very slow, literary read. Which is okay, but it
took me a while to get through it. And the beginning is misleading—it opens
with the tragic death of Henry Cage’s grandson, for which he blames himself.
But this incident happens five years after the conclusion of the book and isn’t
really rooted in anything except to reinforce the books continuing theme, which
questions whether the life you lead is a result of your actions and attitude,
or is instead entirely random. The problem is, the book doesn’t really pick a
side, so at the end, I sort of felt a bit cheated. I enjoyed the literary
quality of the narrative, Abbott is a wonderful writer. His descriptions are
beautiful and the whole book evoked a very lonely, isolated mood. This is the
kind of book I will keep around and read to improve my writing. Lit fic fans
might enjoy it, but if you like a plottier book to keep you turning the pages,
you might want to skip it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Monsoon-Season-ebook/dp/B0070TREUS/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393288&sr=1-1&keywords=monsoon+season" target="_blank">Monsoon Season</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Katie O’Rourke<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: Riley is running away from an abusive relationship,
back to her parent’s house, halfway across the country. The crux of the book is
the relationships. Riley and her boyfriend, Ben’s, Riley and her parent’s, even
some flashbacks from Riley’s mother’s point-of-view regarding her father. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I enjoy multiple point of view stories, so I liked the
bouncing around. The main plot centers around Riley and Ben’s relationship,
it’s evolution and destruction. I found myself wishing for a different ending.
I’m never one to advocate <i>staying</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> in an
abusive relationship, of course, but the author painted Ben with such humanity,
I almost rooted for him. I wanted him to seek help, better himself. I almost
wished she had asked the taboo questions: Are abusers ruined people? Can they
recover? But this wasn’t the book O’Rourke wrote. In the end, Riley fell out of
love, did not succumb to the trap that so many women do, and overall, that’s a </span><i>good
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">thing. I enjoyed the characterizations of
this story the most, parts of the narrative are practically poetic, and would
definitely read more from this author. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/As-Close-My-Eyes-ebook/dp/B008G0IZ9O/ref=dp_kinw_strp_1" target="_blank">As I Close My Eyes</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Sarah DiCello<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: Danielle Grayson has visions of a previous life after
a boating accident, and starts to recognize all the people in her past life as
those in her present life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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DiCello paints a very strong main character, Danielle
reminded me of me at that age. Her setting descriptions were so pretty and
vivid, I felt like I was there. The plot in this book was very cool, and the
juxtaposition of present day against the Victorian era sections made for an
interesting read. I liked the ending, but it didn’t resolve itself, there’s
clearly a sequel coming. It’s a light easy read, which was nice because I read
it after <i>Wolf.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> The love story developed
a little quickly for me, but overall, it didn’t matter. It was still a perfect
beach read. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<h1>
<u><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Indie Section</span><o:p></o:p></u></h1>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Bottomed-Girls-ebook/dp/B005YM36YQ/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393414&sr=1-1&keywords=fat+bottomed+girls" target="_blank">Fat-Bottomed Girls</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Clair Gibson<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: Two forty-something roommates win a lottery – not
enough to change their lives but with their winnings, they decide to take a trip
around the world and follow a Queen tribute band. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought this book was great fun. It’s not deep. It won’t
make you reflect on your life. It’s pure chick lit. It’ll make you call your
best girlfriend and make the date you’ve been meaning to make for a while.
There’s a pretty good steamy scene in the middle, too, for all of you missing
your 50 Shades. ;)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Counterpointe-ebook/dp/B008GNDX16/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393467&sr=1-1&keywords=counterpointe" target="_blank">Counterpointe</a>, </b><span style="font-weight: normal;">by
Ann Warner<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Plot: A ballerina and a scientist fall in love and marry.
They face a crisis of faith in each other when the ballerina suffers a career
ending injury. Each runs away, one to the jungles of Peru, the other mere miles
from where she started.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can they
find their way back to each other?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I enjoyed the read--Warner has a way with words and her
writing is very pretty, simple, and clear. At it’s heart, it’s a romance but
not in the bodice ripper way. Rob and Clare have a sparking chemistry, if not a
bit understated. The descriptions of the Peruvian jungle and the life there
were fascinating and made me wonder if Warner had actually been there. Warner
has three other novels on Amazon, and I plan on reading more from this author!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Next up: <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sister-A-Novel-ebook/dp/B004J4WLPU/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1345393495&sr=1-1&keywords=sister" target="_blank">Sister</a></b><span style="font-weight: normal;">, by
Rosamund Lupton<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-24851997290242550142012-07-27T18:29:00.002-07:002012-07-27T20:21:36.327-07:00First in Commando<br />
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Parenting is one long lesson in picking your battles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t hit. Don’t yell at your sister. Say Thank You. Say
Please. Wash Your Hands. Pens are for Paper. These are the basics. As a mom, I
spend so much of my time drilling in the basics, with the occasional crazy-I-can’t-believe-you-don’t-already-know
this lesson (for example: please do not cut off your sister’s toes with safety
scissors. Even if they are wrinkled from the tub and Mommy made a joke <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one time</i> that you still remember <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a year later. Just…don’t).</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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Which is why, frequently, as often as possible, I let go of
the small stuff. The stuff that’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not
quite right</i>, but whatever. They’ll figure it out, eventually. I mean, no
one ever got to be a senior in high school before they said “Wait a minute. The
tag’s supposed to go on the inside?”</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i>, the
day before we left for vacation I ended up in the supermarket with a
four-year-old who was <b>clearly wearing lingerie</b>. Sheer, sexy sleeves. Marabou feathers.
Crushed velvet. Glitter accents. I mean, it was a hot little number. Let
me explain…</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mr. Beaker and I parent by relay. We slap hands on the
highway (him going to work, me coming home) and hopefully, most of the time,
our kids aren’t left home alone. That’s the goal. I’m sure there are millions
of families just like ours with two working parents, bleary-eyed and exhausted
and a both bit tired of doing the shift alone. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This just meant that the day before vacation was a blur. I
had to pack our whole trip in one day, with the kids at home, while Mr. B
worked. Four and two make that tough, they’re a needy bunch. So, at seven o’clock
when I realized that I still needed stamps and new crayons and I looked out the
window and it was positively teeming, I said: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Everyone! We are going to the grocery store in our jammies!</i> Simply in an effort to get them to the store and back without a meltdown. And
shockingly enough, everyone said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">YAY!</i><br />
<br />
L ran upstairs to
get changed and returned wearing a discarded Halloween
costume I completely forgot she ever had : a <strike>sexy teddy</strike> witch’s costume. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Except…if she took off the pointy hat, she looked a little
bit like a teeny, tiny prostitute. I picked a battle that day.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">FINE. But you MUST
wear the hat. It’s not an option. Okay?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nevermind why. It’s
the hat or nothing. Up to you. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can I wear my princess
shoes [read: high heels. OMG, are you kidding?]</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">NO. WITHOUT A DOUBT,
NO.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we went. Me and A. and L., a four-year-old Pretty Woman.
But we were all in the car. Happy. Singing, I think. And I was feeling pretty
good. I packed for vacation. There were only minutes, not hours, of tears that
day. And I was having a moment of joy
over finally, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for once, </i>having my
shit together. Of being <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that mom.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then Lily said:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Uh-oh, Mommy. I forgot to put my undies back on!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw8zafuy5OUkYPXKr1V6eZXgMYJikNFQWugocyjQ1Gs8CDKryp5oiKLu5P69Ndz_cOVXtILoChD7W202v6Jpama4Cft4OalOhb4MlNLR7zXZX7lW88WwAog7B0yPEnD4HcFvfUM2aOVTx/s1600/Lilgrocerystore.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw8zafuy5OUkYPXKr1V6eZXgMYJikNFQWugocyjQ1Gs8CDKryp5oiKLu5P69Ndz_cOVXtILoChD7W202v6Jpama4Cft4OalOhb4MlNLR7zXZX7lW88WwAog7B0yPEnD4HcFvfUM2aOVTx/s320/Lilgrocerystore.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going Commando</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-77816306929728921962012-05-28T12:35:00.000-07:002012-05-28T12:35:06.183-07:00A Rose by any Other NameFirst, I'd like to announce RedAdept Publishing as my publisher. RedAdept started as a book review blog, and the owner Lynn O'Dell (now McNamee) built up a very respectable reputation. She has recently taken on publishing and independent editing clients. Lynn has been professional, and the editorial staff has been impressively thorough. Which means I've got a lot of work to do. That's good news! This means that what you all finally read (and you will read. Or at least you'll lie convincingly about it) will be polished to a shine.<br />
<br />
Click to see information on <a href="http://www.redadeptpublishing.com/">RedAdept</a>.<br />
<br />
What's more exciting, RA has announced me as their newest addition - I'm thrilled to death to be on their front page. Check it out! <br />
<br />
And now, in my book news:<br />
<br />
The title "My Husband's Memory" has been officially replaced. (*sniff sniff* I sort of liked it. Even though it did have a Lifetime Original feel to it.... I should be so lucky, I think)<br />
<br />
Thought I Knew You will be released sometime in late Summer 2012. Below is the release blurb (although possibly not the back of the book blurb):<br />
<h1 style="color: #741b47; text-align: center;">
<i>Thought I Knew You</i></h1>
<br />
<b>Claire Barnes is shattered when her husband, Greg, goes on a business trip and never returns.</b><br />
<br />
<b>When the authorities can’t help, Claire conducts her own investigation. Looking for answers, she finds only troubling questions.</b><br />
<br />
<b>When she reconnects with Drew, her childhood friend, she discovers more about herself and her marriage.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Just when Claire is beginning to adjust to her new life, shocking news turns everything upside down again.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
I think that's all the news for now. To keep current with updates, either subscribe to this blog via email or like my facebook page by clicking <a href="http://www.facebook.com/katemorettiwriter">Here</a> and clicking "Like".<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><br />
<br />
<br />Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-13530510002605055202012-05-11T19:38:00.001-07:002012-07-27T16:34:14.494-07:00Just a quick update...Today, I signed the contract! Woo hoo! I'm now a
contracted-almost-published author. Well, that actually doesn't sound
all that impressive. Hmmmph.<br />
<br />
Anyway, WOOOOOOOOOO
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! That's better. Weeks from now, I expect to be
drowning in re-writes. Life is good :-)<br />
<br />
Oh, also, they asked me to take my book off of Authonomy. So, now you'll all just have to buy it to read it. HA!Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-911797426108915085.post-48482324501955736312012-04-30T12:48:00.000-07:002012-05-03T06:57:00.431-07:00So, I have a blog now...Today, I was told I would need a blog.
I went to a writer's conference. Because, have I mentioned this? I'm a writer now. (See sidebar for my book. When I figure out how to insert sidebar.) So I went to this writer's conference - it was my first. And I learned three things - to be honest, I learned so many things I thought my head would explode but there were three REALLY invaluable things.<br />
<br />
One, I will NEVER make money being a writer. I might as well have decided that I was going to paint watercolor still lifes for budget hotel chains. I will have to write five books to break even when you factor in all the publicity, conferences, association fees, and publishing costs (if I choose to self-publish. HA! Choose, that's a nice word. Like I don't need you Random House, I choose to self-publish). FIVE BOOKS? One was a stretch. I might be the walking embodiment of the adage "Everyone has one good book in them." Do I have more than one? We'll see..<br />
<br />
Two, I learned that all writers are completely bat-shit crazy. I've never felt so out of place in my life - I was the normal one in the room and I'm NEVER the normal one in the room.<br />
<br />
And finally, (big sigh) THREE, I want to be just like them. When I'm seventy, I want to be the eccentric one in the neighborhood who goes to the supermarket in bedroom slippers and has a name for all the birds in her yard. So, between my two professions (ok, one profession, one obsession), which frankly, both have reputations for being for those of us who are a little (how shall we say), um, off, I think I'm well on my way.<br />
<br />
So, TA-DA! This is my blog. I'm still figuring this out and who knows, maybe I'll never do it again. I can't promise anything. But for now, my intention is that this will be a little bit about my life, some stuff about my kids (only the funny things, I swear), probably quite a bit more about writing and my new endeavor into being a published author, and some plugs for some of my favorite indie books as I find them.
I'll be writing a post about my book soon - the big reveal, what's it about, where you can take a peek. I know you're all on the edge of your seats...Katehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17532780750550663093noreply@blogger.com1