Writers Plot

Please Put the Christmas Commercials Away And No One Will Get Hurt

posted by Leann Sweeney

I am one of those people who get the Christmas blues every single year. But for once I am beginning to understand part of the reason. It's those darn commercials that begin in early November and continue on for more than two months--because they keep on selling stuff at bargain prices long past New Years. Not really bargains, but they sure want you to think so.

Okay, longest running least favorite Christmas commercial? "Every kiss begins with Kay." If that's true, then how did I give birth to two children without ever receiving anything from that jewelry store? Because, I must admit,  kissing was involved in creating those children. So Kay is lying about EVERY kiss. And I am so disappointed in them for perpetuating that fairy tale year after year.

Next, the Hershey's kisses pretending to be bells. Annoying as all get out and yes, part of that annoyance is because I am allergic to chocolate. Do not keep reminding me, Hershey's. I'm depressed, remember?

People singing on mountain tops and trying to make us believe that Coke will make us all smile and hold hands and love one another. Coke is connected to dental visits, lap band surgery and Jenny Craig. Oh, and New Years Resolutions that will be forgotten by the time the Super Bowl rolls around.

Target convincing the gullible public that they can give their families everything they ever wanted and not overspend. No one ever bought one item at Target. Not in the history of the universe. On average, if people are like me, they walk out of Target having spent about twenty times more than they decided they would spend when they came in the door.

Toys 'R Us telling me over and over and over that I can shop at 3AM. Even when my kids were small, you wouldn't find me shopping in a toy store at that hour. So quit telling me to do this. I don't like your tactics or your commercials, Toys 'R Us.

Big bows on luxury cars. Raise your hand if you ever got a $50,000 car for Christmas. Have I made my point?

Trailers for Christmas movies. By the time I have watched each trailer 500 times on TV, I have had all I can take. Why go to a movie if you know the whole plot or heard all the best jokes?

But there are a series of commercials that air at the holidays every year that I actually look forward to. And watch with a smile on my face. The Clydesdales. Yup. They could run those commercials all year long and I'd never tire of them. 

I'm not completely bah-humbugged if I can enjoy one or two commercials, right?

Holiday Expectations

posted by Leann Sweeney

It's that time of year again, and in the past I have felt an overwhelming amount of pressure at the holidays. Make things, decorate things, shop for things, clean-up things, bake things, plan things, send things. It's just too many things, isn't it? No wonder I bordered on being declared mentally incompetent by January 2nd. Then you have to recover from all those things and I've decided that recovery period lasts until the following Thanksgiving.

The burning question? Why? Why do we do this to ourselves? It's all about expectations. Your grandma did it, or your mother did it, so you must do it, too. And notice I'm speaking about women, because let's be honest, for my generation, putting up outside lights and cutting a turkey were about all we could expect from those who do not deal in holiday "things" until about December 24th.

Good example. I've made a huge Thanksgiving dinner every year for about thirty years. All by myself. And I was always proud when everything got on the table at once and it was hot if it needed to be hot and cold if it was Jell-o or cranberry sauce. Everyone smiled and thanked me. I did appreciate that very much, but why the hell was I working alone all those years? We went to my son's home this year for Thanksgiving and since my son was off and since his mother (um, that would be me) TAUGHT HIM HOW TO COOK, and he was off work for the week, he did the dinner. And guess who helped him for two straight days with these preparations? My husband. But that's not the best part.

My husband wanted his grandmother's style of cranberry sauce made with sugar, oranges and cranberries all ground together. I found him a recipe I thought would be close. He made the cranberry sauce all by himself. And then he came to the unhappy realization that our son is ALLERGIC TO ORANGES and he could not eat this concoction. And when my husband told me he simply forgot until it was dinner time and our son passed on the cranberry sauce because of this, he felt awful. I would have sympathized except that I, too, am allergic to oranges and have been since I was about five-years-old. We have been married 38 years and he's just realizing this?

This is why many men are not in charge of all these THINGS. That might require some long-term planning and lots of lists--and of course THOSE things are only done for the paying job. Who'd be dumb enough to do all that work and not get paid? (Um, that would be me, honey.)

For some reason, I just don't feel the pressure this year. Presents are being sent from websites with the cursory $6 "gift wrap" option. Gift cards are so handy, aren't they? And an e-mail Christmas card works quite nicely, thank you very much. But the best part of this is that not only do I not feel the pressure, I don't feel guilty either. If the people in my family don't know I love them unless I slave for 5 days in a kitchen, wear myself completely out and make sure they have awesome, beautifully wrapped packages, then too bad, so sad. I won't be tired this Christmas.

Thank God I finally came to my senses.

Standing Next to Genius--The Original Christmas Carol

posted by Leann Sweeney

While I was in New York City last year, I had a wonderful museum experience. We went to the Pierpont Morgan Library. Pierpont Morgan collected first edtions and there was so much to explore in what was once the Morgan family home. Like a handwritten original copy, one of only four in the world, of Milton's Paradise Lost. One bedroom size room was taken up with this display.

But I kept returning to one small spot in the original library with its floor-to-ceiling book shelves: a small glass display case holding the original draft of Dickens A Christmas Carol. I saw his very readable handwriting and the leather journal where he wrote one of the most socially significant books ever written. I saw his line edits, line edits not different at all from what I have done on my drafts. Oh how I wished I could take that book and hold it in my hand for just one second.

He wrote the book after a falling out with his publisher, whom he believed had cheated him out of profits from his previous book. He chose to publish A Christmas Carol on his own, staying in control of every aspect of its production. Not so different than the route some writers are taking today, and have taken for as long as books have been written. Contrary to what many believe, the book was an instant bestseller. He sold 6,000 copies the first week. But it was not enough to offset the costs he incurred in publishing the book himself. I'll bet that sounds familiar, too.

Every year, part of the minimal decorating I do for the holidays is to take out my copy of A Christmas Carol and place it where I can see it. What better way to decorate a house than with a book? And what a book it is. A ghost story, a mystery and a tale that some say created our modern Christmas. One wonderful day of celebration with good food and loving family. By the time Dickens wrote the story, he was celebrating Christmas with a happy family. But, as I shared a few weeks ago about my own unhappy early years, Dickens had a miserable childhood. When he wrote about how the Industrial Revolution harmed children, he was speaking from experience. He had been placed in a home while his father served out a term in debtor's prison.

Miserable childhoods are nothing new, either. But Dickens made a difference for me as a  little girl. I related to that book the first time I read it ... no devoured it. What Dickens taught me is that a book with a real plot, with a beginning, a middle and an end, can shine a bright light on how our society works or doesn't work, as was the case in England in 1843. He wrote that masterpiece in six weeks. Six weeks. And I got a chance to stand next to it and examine his writing word by precious word.

I felt the ghost of a genius standing over my shoulder--and he was smiling.

Where's Leann? (And a contest!)

Nope, this isn't a Writers Plot version of Where's Waldo -- but Leann is definitely among the missing today--on Black Friday.  Why?  She's out shopping for the perfect Christmas gift for granddaughter Maddie.

Maddie's now two years old--yes, the TERRIBLE but oh-so-fun TWOs (and Leann can give Maddie back to her parents at the end of the day).  This year, Maddie knows all about Santa and presents under the tree.  Leann wants to give her a great Christmas. But what should she get for Maddie?

That's where you come in.  Suggest the perfect Christmas gift for Maddie and you could win a copy of The Cat, The Quilt and the Corpse--or another book by one of the Writers Plot authors!  Just drop us a line at contest.writersplot@gmail.com, and include your name and address. 

Leann will announce the winner on December 5th.

Go on!  Enter now!!!

It Was The Worst Of Times, Now It's The Best of Times

posted by Leann Sweeney

Holiday season is upon us, a time of year I have had plenty of difficulty with. Ever since my children moved away and married, I seem to have dwelled on the the worst that holidays brought me when I was growing up, thanks to my very alcoholic mother and all the drama she brought to each and every day between November through the end of January. January was when she usually sobered up.

As I raised my own family, I made sure that every Thanksgiving (and Christmas) was exactly as I wanted it to be--filled with food, laughter and love. And when the first Thanksgiving came that we weren't all together, I wasn't "all together" either. I cried a lot. I remembered too much about the past. I felt very sorry for myself.

Way back when I was a kid, we didn't get a huge Thanksgiving break--just Thursday through Sunday. And I remember getting off the school bus on that Wednesday before Thanksgiving hoping I'd find a sober mom. And I usually did because she was preparing food that day, although sometimes she started drinking Wednesday night. And then Thursday morning her coffee was pretty heavily spiked. By dinner time she was wasted and  embarrassing all us kids with her slurred speech, inappropriate jokes and unsteady gait. Oh. And usually something she'd prepared was left to burn in the oven. We could always count on that. Yup, holidays were the worst and I know there's a lot of folks out there who can relate, who know all about "holidays" and what they meant to children of alcoholics. It's called hell.

But now that my father has passed, now that he and my mother's generation are all gone, now that I have a granddaughter, I find myself remembering that despite the chaos, uncertainty and shame I felt during those holidays, there were some very fun times, too. My father's side of the family always did have a wicked sense of humor and my cousins offered up a lot of laughs. While the adults were getting drunk, we were playing cards. We knew every kind of card game you can imagine. And if there was snow and ice, we'd be out ice skating on the rink my mother always managed to make in the front lawn no matter how drunk she was. Guess making layers of ice doesn't require your reflexes to be all that good.

And the food. Now if there was one thing my mother was really good at, it was cooking. My grandfather was a chef and she learned at the hand of the master. Everyone wanted her cooking at Thanksgiving and that's one thing I brought to my own family. I cook a mean, massive, and scrumptious Thanksgiving. I guess that's why I didn't want to give up having the family always come here to Texas so I could be in control of the kitchen. And even when we did go elsewhere, I always did a big part of the cooking. Until we went to my father and stepmother's one year. We ate at the country club they belonged to. For me, that was blasphemous. I hated it.

But last year and this, I seem to recalling many more of the pleasant memories--the spicy and rich smells, the Jell-o my grandmother always had to make, even if we had five different pies--and more importantly that real whipped cream she made to go with the lime Jell-o. The excitement of visiting my aunt's house where everything was so absolutely NON-chaotic.

Today, I have given up the control. My brother-in-law cooked Thanksgiving last year and it was awesome. I didn't have to lift a finger, even to do the dishes. And this year my son and daughter-in-law are doing the cooking. And it will be fantastic. The reasons I had to do absolutely everything aren't important anymore. What's important is to let go of the control adult children of alcoholics so desperately cling to. Two years in row for me now! Yahoo. Maybe I should be counting and marking the anniversary just like alcoholics who get sober do. I've found there's so much more power in my new attitude: I can cook, and it will be delicious. Or someone else can work their butt off and it will be delicious. And that feels so right.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Thanks for the Memories ... Of Really Old Stuff

posted by Leann Sweeney

My grandfather used to have stories, so many neat stories about his life, and as kid I always thought that was great. The good memory gene pool was on my side. But I was operating under a serious misconception. The misconception of youth. And these days, when I can't remember where my phone is or if I took my thyroid medicine, I understand that nature is a trickster. Yesterday's news just doesn't get stored, but twenty-year-old news is right there to grab and enjoy ... or dislike, depending on the memory.

Lately, I've been thinking about the early days in my nurse's training career. Why? I have no idea. Maybe because some of what I lived through back then was so darn funny. Not all of it. Working in hospitals isn't really all that fun but I do remember my stint in the psych hospital outside NYC. Now that was an eye-opening experience.

This was years ago, and about the time the government made the decision to "set them free." The psych patients. Just let them go. It's not pleasant how that turned out. The city streets have become home to the types of people I worked with at that hospital. But I don't want to go there right now. I'm remembering many of my favorite friends and don't want to spoil it with too many bad thoughts.

The first problem we confronted when we arrived at this Catholic psychiatric hospital (picture old scary six story brick building) was the news that a patient had escaped--but  inside the building. That patient? A nun with a serious case of schizophrenia. Yeah, they get it, too. As nursing students, we were given her description and told to be on the look out, but without real knowledge of the building, we weren't much help. She'd been missing a week and I guess I should have wondered why no one was all that concerned. They found her the next day exactly where you'd expect to find a nun--in the sanctuary. Only she was living in the rafters. Had a real nice set-up, too. Later I found out this woman had "escaped" more than twenty times and no one really looked too hard for the first week. She needed her "time off" from being crazy in front of people.

Many of the patients had been in the hospital for years, some as long as forty years. One huge, old woman--and by huge, I mean broad shouldered and big boned-- had been committed there as a young girl after she tried to push her rich parents off a boat they were paddling around in on some lake. Anger issues. Nothing new, right? Only she got put away for her whole life.

Anyway, nursing students are an optimistic bunch, and we decided that these patients needed a "fun day." We set up a fair on the hospital grounds, with games and food and extra visiting hours. Nice huh? And I brought huge old woman out in her wheelchair to enjoy the sunshine. There was a bean bag game--the kind where you toss a bean bag toward a hole in a wooden board and if you make it through, you win a prize. Like a cute little stuffed bunny. So I demonstrated for huge old woman and then handed her a bean bag. Let me tell you, murderous rage cannot be contained in the sunshine. Huge old woman heaved that bean bag so hard she could have toppled the Leaning Tower. She shut down that bean bag game with one throw. Um, we went back to the hospital for a little more Thorazine. No cute little bunny for her.

And speaking of Thorazine, it was the drug of choice at St. Blankety-Blank Hospital. What I didn't know, however, is HOW it was administered. Each evening, before the patients went to bed, they had a little "social gathering" in the corridor. (Picture big wide corridors.) Cookies and punch. Sweet huh? I sure thought so. Until we'd put the patients to bed on my first evening shift and started my charting. And realized I could hardly keep my eyes open. When I commented to the charge nurse that I was so, so tired, she smiled this knowing smile and said, "You didn't drink the punch, did you?" You can guess what was in that punch and you can also guess that it was not an accident that no one told the student nurse that was ME about said punch. Someone had to help me back to the dorm and I was groggy for three days.

I can smile now. Yes, I think as we age, our mind reminds us to smile by resurrecting these memories. I got a million of these. Stay tuned in the future!

What Did I Ever Do Without The Discovery I.D. Channel?

posted by Leann Sweeney

I can't tell you how many times I've heard myself--and other writers--say, "If I wrote that in a novel no one would believe it." But that's what Discovery ID is all about. Delving into the unbelievable crimes that people commit. And giving me more motive material than I could ever come up with in a million years.

Lately I've been watching lots of old episodes of Dateline and 48 Hours. These shows rarely focus on anything a thriller writer would be interested in. But OMG, they are a cozy writer's gold mine. Most of these episodes deal with crimes in small town America and involve infidelity, white collar crime and almost always murder. Don't get me wrong. They have profiled some of the more recent serial killer cases, like BTK, but even that case is a fascinating psychological study of a guy who would never make a great villain in a serial killer book. Too ordinary. He hid in plain sight. Like the killer does in a cozy. Oh, I forgot the taunting part about BTK. The taunting did do him in and that doesn't happen in a cozy.

Most recently I watched a two hour saga about a woman in Ohio who had two boyfriends, seven children--oh, and a husband. She is a former beauty queen--rich and beautiful. And had been messing around for a long time. Even one of her kids belonged to a boyfriend, not her husband. One of said boyfriends killed the other. And she was tried for conspiracy. She was found guilty, had her verdict reversed on appeal and she is now a free woman. Too much drama for a cozy, I guess. But it's good to know that the stuff I think up isn't "way out there" or at the very least a stretch. When it comes to humans, I don't think there is a "stretch."

There's plenty more I love about the ID channel. "Forensics: You Decide" is great for plotting. As a mystery writer, I have to be able to spin the possibilities of how and why a crime occurs. That's where the clues and red herrings come in when crafting a mystery. Misdirection by defense lawyers or misinterpretation of the evidence is fascinating to watch. And it happens enough to create a TV show about it. I like "Solved" because it follows a case in a very linear fashion from beginning to end. For me, writing in first person, linear is important. The heroine in my story as well as the reader get to see the evidence as it unfolds. And all the directions it can lead. Yup. Love "Solved."

I haven't watched all the shows on ID--yet. But I'm about to check out the show about evil women. Every crime writer should brush up on their evil women. But I'm not so sure about the series they broadcast that deal with ghosts and psychics. I don't think I will be writing any stories like that. But I do enjoy a good autopsy program--even though I leave the gore out of my books. To know the reality of crime, the reality of violent death may not show up on the page, but to write an authentic story, to make it seem real, I need to see and hear and feel the pain some of those victims and families feel.

So thank you Discovery I.D. You are a wonderful resource.

The Mystery of the Plot or the Plot of a Mystery--Take Your Pick

posted by Leann Sweeney

With pressure from my editor to turn in a new book much sooner than I ever have before, I have been plotting in the last week as I await the latest verdict on my rewritten manuscript. I have been distracted by my cat Agatha's battle with illness, but now that we have reasons for her failure to bounce back from infection--she has heart disease--I am saddened but a little more focused.

I once had the feeling that no one came up with a story the way that I did, that other writers are better organized or smarter or just good at it. But as I began to attend writer's conferences in the '90s, I learned of the great debate among writers: to outline or not to outline. And I believe that every time I have spoken for groups or on panels, that question comes up. Do you have an outline? For me, the answer is yes. But that wasn't the case with my first book. I always call that the book that wrote itself. It seemed so easy back then.

If I thought about a plot, I honestly have to say, I could come up with maybe two sentences at most. That's usually my "What if...?" question. For example, with the first cat book, that question was "What if a cat was allergic to a person and not vice versa?" But I draw a blank if I try to think much past the first mystery questions. There's nothing there. But I have found that if I begin to write, that suddenly the ideas begin to flow. This isn't the type of outline that you learn in grade school with Roman numerals. It's a narration of a story that comes from ... well, I have no idea. Okay, I have one idea. Human beings are storytellers. I just happen to be able to tell a story better if I write it down rather than if I just spit it out.

When I took a class from Elizabeth George in the late '90s, I was amazed when she talked about her plotting method, which as it turns out, is exactly like mine. I write a very long narrative synopsis that often has events out of order and doesn't make much sense to anyone but me, and then I begin to write the book itself. After about fifty pages I return to that synopsis and begin to revise it according to what I have learned about the characters and the story in those first fifty or hundred pages. It works for me and apparently it works for E. George. And I'm willing to bet this is how plenty of writers work.

The best part about this method is that I have a road map. When I get in trouble, I always go back to my original synopsis and re-read it. The answers are always there. The original ideas are so sound that it truly amazes me. Characters--especially new ones--do want to take a writer to places they shouldn't go. There's some fun in that, and it probably does help me develop that particular character better, but for the most part, it's a waste of time. When that happens, I always end up writing myself into a corner. 

Plotting isn't difficult for me, but what always comes up in the plotting is that piece of the story that I know absolutely nothing about. I usually research when I get to that part of the manuscript, but this, too, is time consuming. So for my new idea that will require a quick turnaround, the book I am plotting now, I am doing the research upfront. Or trying to. That doesn't mean I won't come to a screeching halt during the writing and say, "Expletive deleted! I don't know squat about that! Yikes!" But I am hoping that this particular mystery plot will be much better detailed ahead of time than any I have done before. I do not have the luxury of thinking through plot points before I go to sleep or when I'm in the shower or as I am driving to appointments--all the things I take a lot of time doing. Nope. This book  requires speed writing, something I am not familiar with. Ah, another challenge. It is about the journey, isn't it?

My Agatha is Sick

posted by Leann Sweeney

I write about cats and even before I wrote a cat series, my other series had a great cat named Diva. I have loved animals all my life and was always bringing home strays when I was a kid. I even brought home a newborn litter of possums after nearly falling on them in the woods. we had birds and dogs and rabbits and once we even had a cat. But the cat didn't last. Why, I wasn't sure. But my grandparents had a cat named Inky and I used to chase him all over their house--and get bitten and scratched regularly. Inky wasn't a fan of grabby children.

The first week my husband and I got married we went out and adopted two kittens: Fanny and Ralph. What a crazy pair they were. But when they passed on, we went for indoor dogs and outdoor cats. I even raised Shelties for several years. My daughter also begged for a Bichon and I didn't have to be convinced. My daughter was a preteen then and I didn't think ahead. I got to keep the darling but less than brilliant dog when she went off to college.

But when my daughter left me the Bichon, it didn't keep me from feeling as if I had a very empty nest,and I decided to fill it with cats. First came Indigo, the Himalayan. No papers, just a beautiful kitten who needed a home. I didn't stop there. Next came Agatha, whom I bought at a cat show because I couldn't bear to leave her there as a show cat. She was scared to death and who knows what would have happened to her. She's a tiny cat, and has never weighed more than seven pounds. Then I found Archie at the grocery store where he was scrounging for food. Home he came and all my husband could do was roll his eyes and give in. I did manage to give the next rescue, a Persian, to my daughter and her husband and they adore him. Three cats are enough for us.

When we went away on our recent trip to NYC, I hired a petsitter as I always do. I warned her about little Agatha, how the other two cats tend to bully her, that she can be very shy and hide. I made one call home while we were gone and the petsitter said everything seemed fine. And I thought so, too ... at first.

I noticed right away that I had to hunt Agatha down when we came home. She usually comes out of her hiding place as soon as she hears my voice. And then I got busy with rewrites, but I wasn't too distracted to notice that Agatha didn't join me in bed two nights in a row. Now that's not right. So I made sure the other two kitties didn't bite her or jump on her and that she stayed safely by my side. And I was still busy with those damn rewrites. Too busy. Agatha, I suddenly realized, was sleeping way too much.

Finally the idiot writer calls the vet and by this time, Agatha can hardly stand up. I blew it. Big time. When they tested her blood, her white cell count was through the roof and she was very anemic. And, she had a fever and only weighed five pounds. Five pounds. I have never felt so guilty in my life. They kept her because they couldn't get a urine sample but the vet wasn't just talking about an infection, she was talking about cancer. I cried all the way home and waited for the call.

Turned out she did have a urinary tract infection, a very bad one, but they still could not rule out the cancer possibility. She got an IV and an antibiotic shot, and that first evening I thought I'd caught it in time. But the IVs fooled both Agatha and me. Pretty soon she was going downhill again. So for the last ten days, I have been waking her up to make sure she eats, offering her tuna water and kitten milk to drink and giving her that soft spot next to me every night. She's hungry, but she doesn't wake up on her own to eat. So I've been doing this every two hours in the daytime. I thought she'd bounce back, but I was wrong.

Finally today, she drank plain water on her own for the first time in ten days. I'm taking that as a sign she's rallying. I have to. She's is the sweetest, most gentle cat I've ever owned. And if you were to ask me which of my three aging cats--they're 12, 13 and 14--would live the longest, I would have said Agatha. She's the one who loves to play the most. Maybe that's why I was in complete denial that anything serious could be wrong. She goes back to the vet next week for another antibiotic shot and will have to have another one after that. Then they will look for a possible hidden cancer. This is not the kind of research I ever wanted to do for a book. But I have learned that when cats crash, they crash hard and fast.

And now that the rewrites are done and off to my editor, I can spend as much time as possible making sure she eats and gets a little exercise. But she is sleeping all the time. I miss my funny Aggie, so think good thoughts for her and I will never, ever let this happen again. I promise, Agatha.

Rewrites Used to Be Fun

posted by Leann Sweeney

For the first time in seven books, I met face-to-face with my editor to go over her take on my latest cat mystery--the first draft I'd sent to her two weeks before. I've met with her in person, once at a conference and once just for a nice lunch and visit. I adore her and love meeting with her. She seemed nervous. I was not. My writing group is tough, I've grown alligator skin and I figured I knew what she was going to say anyway. For the most part, I was correct. She's got a good sense for the overall "feel" of a book and she found this one reflected a little too much on the author's problems. The author is me, of course. And yes, it's been another rough year, health-wise. I keep waking up and thinking the fibro and the Lyme and the fatigue will suddenly disappear. It just never does.

"Make your heroine nicer. Make the book funnier. And I'd love to see what the characters are wearing and what they look like," she told me. None of this is any different than what I'd heard before and is usually pretty easy to fix. So I began rewrites as soon as I returned from my trip to NYC. But I was unprepared for the comments on the page. Many, many, many comments. And for the first time they stung. I felt as if I'd written a piece of junk even though she'd told me the plot was very solid, very clear and that she had no problems with it. But the voice talking to me through those little "comment balloons" seemed so critical. I felt awful. What used to be the best part of writing had suddenly turned into a bashing that hurt.

But this was much more about me than anything she said straight to me or on the page. I've noticed that I've become hyper-sensitive lately. All my husband has to do is look at me a certain way, and I start crying. My granddaughter's birthday was this past weekend and not being there in person made me cry, too,even though we Skyped in to watch her open her gifts. But I wasn't completely aware of how affected I was until I had writer's group and brought a revised chapter with my nicer heroine who just isn't as funny as she should be. "Make this funnier" is not a good suggestion. At least for me, that means it will be less funny than ever before. Anyway, my group tore that particular chapter apart. If I had been unaware of a crisis of confidence before, it all came out on Tuesday night. Five times while I was receiving criticism, I almost cried. I never cry at writer's group. I love it. But not this week.

But as Yogi Berra would say, this was deja vous all over again. It made me think of all the rejections I used to get. I'd cry when I got one--no, weep is a better word--and the next day, I would wake up mad as hell. And determined. I spent all day Wednesday determined to make that chapter the best one in the book. Then I sent it to one of my critique partners. She loved the rewrite. Thought I'd fixed every problem and done an excellent job. Whew.

I guess why I'm writing about this because those early experiences--no matter what they were about, be it writing, or mothering or learning how to quilt--have value that I sometimes forget or take for granted. I needed to be reminded what hard work writing is, that perhaps these crying spells are related to stress and insecurity. And that I have no reason to be insecure. Oops, sorry. I do have a reason.

I'm a writer.