Big News!

Cue the trumpets! Pop the champagne! Toss the confetti!

I have signed a publication deal with City Owl Press for my debut novel, FINDING KATE, a historical romance based on Shakespeare’s “The Taming of the Shrew.”

Let me say that again.

I have a deal. My debut novel is coming out next year.

I am going to be a published author.

*falls over*

As I described in a post way back when I first started this blog, I wrote this novel because I was inspired by a Colorado Shakespeare Festival production of the play. I wrote the first draft in three months, faster than I’d ever written a complete novel (that was before I did NaNoWriMo). Unhampered by my usual concerns about what-comes-next, moved by characters who were so vivid to me, I wrote with a confidence I’d never experienced before.

I knew this was something special. I believed in this story, and most of all, I believed in Kate herself. I knew the world was waiting for her to tell her side of the story.

They say nothing worth having ever comes easily. In reply, I would point out that I sent out queries for my last novel — the one that almost got published — the week before my daughter was born and now she’s about to start college, and therefore “easy” isn’t a word I’d use to describe this journey. But there were lessons to be learned along the way, and precious friendships made as well, so I am not complaining. Not at all.

I made it. I found City Owl Press and they found me.

I’m going to have a published book in my hands next year.

Somebody pinch me.

(Oh, and before you go, you can head back up to the top of the page and “like” my author page on Facebook. Because I have an author page on Facebook now.🙂 )







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Invisible Mothers

Nineteen years ago on this day, I became a mother without a child.

I don’t talk much about it, mainly because it feels improper somehow, like I’m inflicting myself on others, making them uncomfortable.

I’m sorry if this post makes you uncomfortable. You should read it anyway. Because you should know about us.  The invisible mothers. The women who have lost a child before it even lived.

You should read it, and I am finally writing it, because it’s something we as a society don’t talk about enough. We pretend it doesn’t happen. When it does happen, we keep quiet about it so no one else has to hear, no one else has to share that pain.

Everyone understands miscarriages. Something like 1 in 10 pregnancies end in miscarriage during the first trimester, and people account for this by not sharing the news of their pregnancy until they’ve made it through those first twelve weeks. Then you feel safe. After that, you’ve shared your joy, you’re wearing maternity clothes, and you’re making plans. Still, according to the CDC, 1% of pregnancies in the US end in stillbirth, which is ten times the number of babies who die of SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome), but I bet you know all about SIDS and nothing about stillbirth.

One thing I have discovered over the years of talking to other women is that the pain you feel when it happens to you is magnified because you feel like you are the only one. In fact, the comfort you get from knowing that there are other women who have been where you are, that they have suffered and grieved and survived, is immeasurable. That’s a big reason for my writing this.

No one should be alone with such a thing.


First of all, you are mothers. You need to remember that and acknowledge that and celebrate that in yourselves, even if no one else does. You are part of the vast chain of motherhood that stretches back to the dawn of humanity and nothing — no matter what else happens in your life — can ever take that experience of motherhood away from you.

Second, it is not your fault. Though the weight of guilt and the feeling of failure can be nearly unbearable at times, you have to repeat this over and over until it sinks in. Make a sign to hang on your bathroom mirror, if you can bear to look in the mirror (I couldn’t). IT IS NOT YOUR FAULT. You did not bring this on yourself. You did not fail. Your body did not betray your baby; it did not let you down. You did not fail at the single most important thing you ever asked of yourself.

Moreover, it wasn’t anything you did or didn’t do. It wasn’t that sip of wine you had to celebrate your husband’s promotion (or God forbid, to toast finally getting pregnant!). It wasn’t that bite of fish or brie or hot dog. It wasn’t because you did pregnancy yoga, or because you didn’t do pregnancy yoga; it wasn’t because you forgot your prenatal vitamins that one time, or because you didn’t take them for a month because you were so nauseous from morning sickness you just couldn’t choke them down.

It was not your fault.

My pregnancy ended with premature rupture of the amniotic sac, something they call PROM — yeah, gives a whole new meaning to that high school ritual. I literally rolled over in bed one night and felt like I had peed in the bed. I was mortified.

To this day, I don’t know why it happened. There was nothing wrong. There was nothing my doctor could do. There was nothing anyone could do.

We are sometimes powerless in the face of nature.


Acknowledge that you don’t know what to say. You don’t. There’s really nothing you can say. Try this:  “I’m so sorry.” Or: “I can’t imagine how you are feeling right now.” Or, probably the best:  “What can I do to help you?” Or some combination of all three.

My sister-in-law brought me fancy chocolate covered pretzels and sat on the couch with me while I ate them, helping me not to feel guilty even though that was not going to help the pregnancy weight go away. Favorite foods and quiet love are a good option.

Here’s what not to say: “It was God’s will (or “fate” or “meant to be”).” Unless you want to hear something ripped from the depths of a woman’s shredded soul that sounds like this: “What kind of ‘plan’ would kill my child and make me suffer like this?” Women in the depths of this grief do not want to have a philosophical discussion about God’s mysterious ways. They are not convinced — no matter the depths of their personal faith — that there even IS a God any more. So you should lay off the standard platitude that it’s all part of some master plan.

Another thing not to say: “You’ll feel better once you have another baby.” As though babies are just interchangeable building blocks in a family. As though this one wasn’t as unique and precious an individual before birth as it would have been at one day or one month or one year old. As if I, her mother, hadn’t already envisioned her first steps and dreamed of which college she might want to attend.

All of that, gone. In a brutal, agonizing transition of labor with the certainty of death at the end.

It took me years — probably ten — to feel able to watch fireworks with any sense of enjoyment. This is a bittersweet day for me, nineteen years later. And while I would not trade the two children I do have for anything in this world, I still wonder about the child I lost. How can I not? Who might she have been if she had had a chance?

Moms, you will make it. You will stop hating your body for its apparent betrayal. You will stop thinking that your grief shows itself like a gaping, bleeding wound for all to see. You will stop hating other women when they stroll by with their healthy, living babies. You will stop punishing yourself by walking into the room that would have been the baby’s room and noticing the absence.

You will. And maybe you’ll have another child. And another. And they’ll call you Mommy and you’ll be undone by how much you love them.

But you’ll never forget the baby who made you a mother.






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Hi! It’s me again… and there’s a thing happening…

Hey! How’s it going? It’s been a while, huh? I’m really sorry about that. I have just been so crazy-busy, haven’t you? I know, excuses excuses…

My second semester teaching at CU ended on the last day or so of April and then I had about seven days to grade 50-something papers. At the same time, I got the flu and was struggling just to stay awake for more than three hours at a time so it was challenging to get everything finished with the kind of precision that I require of myself. The flu left me a present too, combining with allergy season to give me a cough that lasted nearly all of the month of May and cracked one of my ribs. Ouch!

I’m not teaching any classes this summer. I wanted to enjoy the break and spend time revising my classes so that they’ll be even better next year (and they will be; I’ve got some ideas!). Plus, I’m attacking all of the chores that have been sitting on the “To Do” list since last August when I got this job, such as cleaning the bathrooms (kidding, I’m kidding… mostly). I’ll be staining the deck railings, touching up paint around the house, getting the broken window shades fixed, trimming bushes and trees, pulling weeds; you know, all the fun stuff that comes with home ownership.

And, oh yeah, I’m still trying to get that novel published.

One of the biggest issues that a writer has is getting seen. There are so many people trying to get their work in front of agents that agents can get dozens of query emails a day. Top agents will receive hundreds of queries a week. How are you supposed to get noticed, much less stand out, in a crowd like that?

Over the years, writers, agents, and editors have organized competitions using social media to cut through some of that oppressive overabundance. Twitter, in particular, has proven to be an easy and popular forum for agents and writers to find each other through “Twitter pitch” contests like #PitMad (Pitch Madness). Because of its limited format (140 characters total), a writer must be succinct and clever and an agent only has to commit a limited amount of time. I’ve had some success with Pitch Madness, so I’m always keeping an eye out for other competitions like that.

This week, I’m competing in something called Query Kombat (#QueryKombat) which is a competition that occurs annually on a series of blogs. Over the years that it has run, it has given many writers exposure to lots of agents and editors, including those who officially judge the competition and those who just stop by to check it out because they know it’s going on.

Query Kombat takes place across three blogs: those of writers Michelle Hauck, Michael Anthony, and  Laura Heffernan. They set up a competition in the style of a college basketball bracket with 64 queries going up against each other. About a week ago, they put out a call for submissions: a query and first 250 words of a completed novel, plus a clever nickname by which your work will move through the bracket. I saw that the competition was open and said, “Why not?”, never thinking I’d make it. In all, about 350 people submitted to the competition, so my chances were something like 18%. Not great.

But I made it! I got in! My novel’s nickname is “If the Shrew Fits” and I’m up against another historical with the nickname “Irish In America” set in 1880’s Arizona. You can read both queries on Michelle’s blog here.

The round of 64 has begun. The judges are judging. Round 1 goes until Saturday, June 4, at 8 pm EDT. Feel free to leave any constructive comments you’d like. Including “I’d buy a thousand copies of this ‘Shrew’ book if only someone would publish it.” (No. Don’t do that.)

I’m losing 2-1 so far. But there’s still a couple of days to go.

The fact is, even if I lose, I will have had tremendous exposure from the competition and great feedback from the commenters. I’ve already started tweaking my query and as someone who is tremendously paranoid about her opening pages, hearing such great responses to my first 250 words is INCREDIBLY reassuring.


Welcome to summer. I plan on being around more. Let’s have some fun.



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“Hamilton: An American Musical”


“What’s your name, man?”

To borrow a phrase from the show’s author, words fail.

Three weeks ago, I became one of the lucky few who got the chance to see “Hamilton” on Broadway.

Three months ago, I had never heard of “Hamilton.”

Back before Thanksgiving, my daughter starting saying that there was something she wanted me to listen to. I waved her off for a while: I was really busy, and it wasn’t just a pop song or two, it was an entire soundtrack! And the way she explained it, it sounded like the most ridiculous thing I’d had ever heard of:  a musical about Alexander Hamilton. Sung mostly in hip hop. By a non-white cast…even though all the characters they were playing were famously white, and many of them were famously slave owners.

There was no way it could possibly work.

And then we finally had a quiet evening, and she played it for me.

Damned if it wasn’t brilliant.

It makes complete and total sense. The birth of our fledgling nation was a time of incredible energy and excitement and, yes, violence and pain; it was an uprising of people who had had enough; and it required thoughts to be expressed that had never been spoken in quite that way before. The rhythmic exuberance and youthful power of hip hop is so surprisingly perfect as the expression of this energy, this passion, that it seems completely obvious from the opening note.

(Here‘s creator Lin-Manuel Miranda on CBS Sunday morning addressing this: “We take it as a given that hip-hop music is the music of the revolution.” (at 1:47).)

This show is a phenomenon. It is sold out through the summer. In January.

The people lined up in front of the theater were singing the songs.


Selfie with the Schuyler Sisters (that’s my daughter, the reason for my obsession)

When the first actor came on stage to open the show, he couldn’t get through his first line. He sang, “How does…” and the whole place erupted like a rock concert: screams and shouts, hooting and cheering like a beloved icon had just strutted out to sing a 60s rock anthem. They had to stop the music for a good two or three seconds to let the cheering die down before he could continue.

And he wasn’t even the star of the show; that wasn’t even Hamilton’s entrance. (He had a rock star moment of his own.)

It was unbelievable. Electricity shot through the place, from the audience to the actors, from the actors to the audience.

Every element of the show works together to create magic:  light and sound, main actors and ensemble, song and spoken word (there are a few). The ensemble sometimes represent a crowd of onlookers — dancers at a party, or rebels in the street, or patriots in the rebel army — and sometimes they are objects in the environment, forming a table or enacting the flight of a bullet, and sometimes they express the emotions of a moment with their bodies; in each case enhancing the performances of the main actors with powerful and energetic motion that I can’t really describe. They functioned almost in the way that water buoys a ship: swelling and swirling around the other actors and then receding, supporting and carrying, obvious but at the same time invisible.

I can’t remember ever having this kind of emotional experience at a play. As the final number began, my throat was tight and I had tears on my face, and as I surged to my feet with everyone else in the theater for the actors’ bows, I couldn’t cheer. I was so overcome.

One of the amazing things about this play is that each and every one of these actors is so uniquely talented. Leslie Odom, Jr., the actor who plays Hamilton’s lifelong nemesis, Aaron Burr, is so riveting that you can feel the entire theater lean in towards him whenever he is alone on stage. His most emotional number, “Wait For It,” renders the theater breathlessly silent (and I know my daughter and I were not the only ones crying). Daveed Diggs, who plays both Lafayette and Jefferson, is like lightning trapped in human form: unstoppable, fast-moving, electrifying. Phillipa Soo, who plays Hamilton’s devoted wife Eliza, tears your heart with her passion.

And none of these brilliant people is the star of the show.

That honor falls to the show’s creator, Lin-Manuel Miranda.

The first act song “Non-Stop” could as easily, I think, have been written about Miranda. The ensemble questions Hamilton’s drive:  “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?/Write day and night like you’re running out of time?” Miranda spent six years writing and developing this play — book and music — after reading Ron Chernow’s 800 page biography of Hamilton; worked with the director, choreographer, orchestra director, light and sound and set designers to achieve his vision; and stars in it seven shows a week (he gets Sundays off). He is active on social media, engaging with fans. He is the definition of non-stop.

Seeing the play live is a completely different experience from listening to the soundtrack (which I do almost daily, and believe me, even when you’re not listening to it, these songs are living inside of you). For one thing, these performers are not just exceptional singers but excellent actors; particularly Miranda, whose performance was much more subtle and nuanced than I expected. In addition, I was struck by the fact that Miranda is not afraid to surround himself with greatness even if it means that he is occasionally eclipsed. How many superstars would have decided that they MUST be the center of attention at all times, that no Lafayette rapping at the speed of sound nor heart-wrenching Burr should ever take the audience’s eyes off of the STAR, the creative force, the all-powerful-awesomeness-that-is-LMM. Instead, Miranda not only reached out to pull these people into orbit around him, he wrote these parts for them. He wanted them to shine, knowing what they could do.

It’s that kind of play, and he’s that kind of person.

I know I said “words fail” at the top, but the truth is that I could talk about it endlessly. I can’t say enough (“non-stop”), but at the same time, I can’t find the right words to express what it felt like to be there or to describe what it was like. All I can say is, if you get the chance, GO.


The stage, before it begins…


(posted with apologies; there is really no excuse for how long it’s taken me to get this thing written)

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NT Live: Hamlet Starring Benedict Cumberbatch

A friend of mine gently reminded me that I haven’t blogged in about two months since I announced that I was about to start working full time teaching writing at a nearby university. And he’s right, it has been a long time, and I do have a lot to say. Teaching has been an amazing experience:  fulfilling, exhilarating, draining, and completely enjoyable despite the doubts and nerves I have suffered along the way.

But for this brief return to blogging, I’d much rather talk about the experience of viewing Benedict Cumberbatch as “Hamlet.” Because, Shakespeare!

I joined some 225,000 people in theaters around the world to watch the live, concurrent broadcast of a prerecorded performance of the play, breaking the record for attendance at such broadcasts. It was undeniably exciting to know that at that moment, all around the world, other theater-goers were settling into their seats to share the same experience as I was about to — not just my friends Chris, Tara, and Kimberly, or my fellow CU professor and Shakespeare acting class graduate Teresa whom I ran into at intermission; not just the dozens of people in the two movie theaters in Boulder; but thousands, and apparently hundreds of thousands, of people from Moscow to Madagascar, who were all ready and waiting to see “Hamlet” at that very moment.

Cumberbatch made a wonderful Hamlet:  childlike and honest, tormented by his father’s death, utterly believable. He was also believable as a recent and voracious student, which most productions leave out as an element of the character; in Cumberbatch, there is intelligence dancing in his eyes and in every expression of his face.

Ciaran Hinds was a surprisingly good Claudius. His first moment on stage was a bit rushed and all of us agreed that we were concerned because that is supposed to set the tone for his character, but he grew more confident and more imposing — almost physically larger — as the play progressed. His Claudius was a corrupt manipulator who seemed only sorry to have been caught.

Ophelia, usually so difficult to portray well, was marvelous. The decision was made to have Ophelia be emotionally fragile from the very beginning so that her mental fragmentation and madness was more believable. I felt that this made her less appealing as the object of Hamlet’s affection, but my daughter (who did not attend the showing but is reading the play with her high school class) did point out that powerful men commonly prey upon fragile women. Touche. The play was edited in such a way that Hamlet was more cruel than loving to Ophelia in their interactions, and in fact, she fled the scene of the play within the play (where most productions have Hamlet sprawled across her physically, making her uncomfortable and embarrassed). The only time you sensed any emotion from him towards her was, of course, after her death. This Hamlet seemed to have real trouble displaying any genuine emotion towards the people in his life.

Horatio was entirely miscast and badly portrayed.  He was the worst wrong note in the entire production (and there were a few missteps) with his backpack and his tattoos and hipster attitude. I never believed his close friendship with Hamlet and he — both the actor and the character as edited — was too slight to carry the weight demanded of the role.

I have read many reviews that complain about the ash that covered Elsinore in the second half of the play. I thought it was a brilliant manifestation of the corruption that had become so thick, so deep, and so commonplace that the residents of the palace didn’t even notice it anymore. It was a dramatic and, I think, appropriate touch that arrived just before the Intermission, when Claudius sent Hamlet away to be slaughtered by the King of England. A set that had sparkled with twinkling lights and white flowers at Claudius’ coronation and wedding was now adorned with ankle-deep dust and ominous, bone-like branches.

It is an interesting feeling, watching a play on a movie screen, because you suddenly realize that with a movie, you hand over all of those decisions about where to focus your attention to the film’s director and editor, but with a play, you make those choices for yourself. In this amalgam of theater being filmed, you suddenly become aware that you want to make those choices for yourself but are constrained by the camera acting for you. For the most part, I felt that the camera made the choices that I would have made watching it in the theater in terms of who I wanted to focus on in a particular moment. (I’ll admit it. Most of the time, you wanted to look at Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s riveting.)

Did you see Hamlet that night or on one of the encore nights since? What did you think?

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Next week, I will step back into the world of full time employment for the first time since my daughter was born. That was nearly seventeen years ago.

I had all kinds of plans to go back sooner, but there was always a good reason not to. First, there was my daughter. Then, less than two years later, my son. If you’ve ever been in the “two under two” club, you know it’s a time of tremendous joy mixed with mountains of diapers and absolutely no sleep. I don’t think I was truly coherent for about four years or so.

But I was going to go back to work once they were both in school full time, and in New Jersey, that meant Kindergarten. Now, as a reminder, I had been a family law attorney before I had children, and when I say to you that I cannot imagine a more soul-sucking employment than family law attorney, I am being completely honest. Evil overlord, maybe? But evil overlords always seem to be having so much fun. There’s really nothing fun about watching people tear their lives apart and worse, having to help them do it, even when you know what they want to do is a truly bad idea. I can count on one hand the times when I felt uplifted and energized by my work as an attorney, times when I felt like I had truly done the right thing, a good thing — and I can tell you that I didn’t make a single penny on those cases. I always say that in family law, you see good people at their worst. It’s depressing, and it’s exhausting.

So. Yeah. I wasn’t looking forward to going back to that, even on a part time basis.

But then an amazing thing happened. My husband and I, after years of being unhappy in the northeast and after agonizing months of debate and consideration, decided to move to Colorado. I spent months preparing the house to be sold:  emptying closets, donating, selling, dumping, cleaning, staging, packing, packing, packing… And then we moved, and at the other end, there was cleaning, unpacking, painting, organizing, unpacking, shifting things around, shopping, restocking, unpacking… This is all without even mentioning all the work of getting settled in a new place:  learning our way around, meeting new people, making friends, finding doctors, getting to know teachers, establishing roots.

The years flew by.

I volunteered at the kids’ schools a lot. There was always something I could offer. A lesson on poetry, or Old English, or writing, or how the legal system works. I dug in deeper with a middle school classroom and worked over the course of a month with a middle school class on creative writing — that one became a regular part of my life, once a year for four years, even after my son left the school. You can read about some of those adventures here on this blog.

All the while I was working on novels and trying to get published. Perhaps not as diligently as I could have, but still. Working. Moving forward.

I felt like I wanted to work but I didn’t want to be a lawyer. Besides, to be a lawyer in Colorado, I would have had to take the bar exam here. Thanks, but no thanks. Once in my life was plenty. I kept hoping that the right work would find me, that the universe would bring something to me if I was open to it.

Totally naïve and ridiculous. But it worked.

And so, as of only a few days from now, I will begin teaching writing to college freshmen. Get that? I am teaching at a college! A big, nationally known, high quality, state university. I can’t even tell you how excited I am. And while I am also (understandably) nervous, I am feeling confident. I know that I’ll be good at this. I know I have a lot to offer. Unlike lots of other jobs I could have gotten, with this one, I know I’m going to be good.

There are going to be changes. My kids are going to have to pitch in more with dinner and laundry, and I think that’s a good thing for them. I will have a lot more to do, but I know I’m one of those people who is more effective when she is busy. I’ll get the important things done. However, I’ve never been terribly consistent with this blog and I’m afraid I will be more erratic than ever.

You’ll forgive me, won’t you?

Because it’s totally going to be worth it.

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YA Book Review: Invisible Monsters (Talker 25 Book 2) by Joshua McCune

In his debut novel Talker 25, Joshua McCune asked us, “What are your limits? How far would you go to protect the ones you love?” In the sequel to that heartbreaking, intense novel, he pushes us even further: “Once you have decided what you will do, what does that do to you? Who do you become in the pursuit of your goals — whether righteousness or revenge — and can you live with yourself?”

Invisible Monsters by Joshua McCune

Invisible Monsters by Joshua McCune

These are searing, difficult questions, and McCune does not quail in asking them, nor does he permit us to shrink before them. I will tell you honestly that it took me a long time to read this book, not just because I wanted to do it justice in a review, but because I had to pause sometimes when it got too difficult emotionally. I warned in my review of Talker 25, and I repeat here, that these books are hard: they are violent, emotionally wrenching, and frighteningly real. They are not for the faint of heart or the timid. My friend Becky has a perfect term for books that are lightweight, fun reads: popcorn books. I love popcorn books almost as much as I love popcorn. Salty, crunchy, buttery popcorn gets all over your fingers and makes your mouth come awake. But you can’t survive on popcorn; sooner or later, you have to eat something substantial.

There’s a place for popcorn books, and there’s a place for difficult books. Books that make us think about who we are as individuals, as societies, and as a species.

My favorite serious books aren’t the heavy, dull tomes of “literature” that they make you read in school. I prefer my social critiques to take the form of sci-fi and fantasy. With characters like Stu Redman and Nick Andros or Rodrigo Belmonte and Ammar ibn Khairan.* Or people with dragons.

The emotional response I had to this book involved a lot of what our culture has defined as negative emotions: discomfort, anger, despair, frustration, even disgust. But I think these are the things I’m supposed to be feeling. I think this is exactly what the author wanted. Salon Magazine interviewed a cognitive psychologist about the new Pixar movie “Inside Out” and the upshot of it was that we are too focused on happiness as a society and we discount the power and importance of emotions like sadness and frustration. I agree, and I think this book is a reflection of that. Yes, there is a place for fun reads and light reads and joyous reads, but there is also a place for books that make you delve into dark places, books that make you question the borders between right and wrong, books that force you to look at the worst in humanity.

Joshua McCune is adept enough as a writer to make me want to continue to travel that path with him, as painful and arduous as it is. He captivates with language like “an aurora borealis of war” (p. 76), or, quite possibly my favorite line in the series so far:  “…he scoops me up as if I’m nothing, pulls me to him as if I’m everything” (p. 195). As difficult as the plot may be to bear, you can’t look away, transfixed both by the first person present tense narrative (a device I usually dislike but in this case I find completely justified) and by the exacting precision of the prose.

There are several scenes in this book, actually, that are both beautifully written and terribly meaningful. It wouldn’t do justice to the story or to the author for me to describe or summarize them here; you should read the book. You’ll know the scenes when you get there.

I can only imagine what fresh hell Joshua McCune will unleash upon us when the third and final book of this series launches next year. I shudder in equal parts anticipation and dread at the thought of finding out.

*P.S. If you don’t recognize the characters I mentioned here, look them up or comment here/message me on Twitter (@mfantaliswrites). One set of characters is from a fantastic book I devoured over and over as a teenager, and the other is from one of the many amazing novels by my favorite fantasy writer (and no, it is not in fact J.R.R. Tolkien).

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Mid Year Review

Back in January, I wrote a post that was not at all about New Year’s Resolutions because I don’t make New Year’s Resolutions. Except that I called it “Resolutions.” Dammit.

And now that we have made it through half of the year — I know, already! — I thought I should take a look back at those ideas I had in January and see how I’m doing.

First, the NaNoWriMo momentum.


I completely lost it. I’ve lost that sense of urgency and speed and “I can do anything.”

I have all kinds of excuses, and mostly they’re good ones, but in the end, they’re excuses.

To remedy this, I have signed up for Camp NaNoWriMo which runs through July. Sure, just like November NaNo, there’s a long holiday weekend and I’m hosting a party, and sure, the kids are home, not just for most days but for ALL OF THEM, but I don’t care. NaNoWriMo gave me discipline and a purpose. It forced me to make use of every spare moment, and to think about my day in actual increments of time:  ten minutes for this, an hour for that… I am one of those people who is more efficient when she is busy, and so this is a good thing for me.

I’ve already busted the curve for my cabin because I’m using it to finish my WIP, so I’m starting out with over 18,000 words under my belt which puts our cabin average words per day at well over 12,000. *snortle* Yeah, try to beat that, other cabins. I don’t actually know why the website doesn’t let you put in a starting point and ending point that accounts for stuff like this.

Second, read the books in my house before bringing in more.

I knew this would be a tough one, because the library is just FILLED with amazing books and PEOPLE WILL NOT STOP WRITING! And many of these people are my friends, dammit. Right now, in fact, I’m trying to write a review of “Invisible Monsters,” the sequel to Joshua McCune’s “brutal” (his word, not mine) debut novel “Talker 25.” (Read my review here). It’s hard, because the sequel is even more brutal than the first, if that’s possible (I still love you, Josh). So I’m also reading an update of Jane Austen’s “Emma” and just starting a non-fiction book called “Make It Stick” about the science of learning, because not only do I have kids who are students but a big part of what I do is teaching. Only one of those books — the McCune — actually belongs to me, and it was not in my house on January 1st.

Not keeping the resolution very well. I apologize profusely to Becky, Trudy, Cedric, Melissa, and all others whose books are sitting in my TBR pile.

Next up, donate books.

Oh, I’m doing really well on this one!

Well, not ME exactly. But the kids are doing great, or, rather, I’m doing really well on their behalf.

Within the past month, I have taken three giant boxes of books to the library.

*high fives all around*

Really, all this means is that the books that are currently in baskets or in piles on the floor will soon achieve the honor of shelf space. But we’re not going to talk about that. We’re going to talk about victory!

That, and the really cool fact that our books may replace some of the tattered copies in the library’s collection. The librarian told us that yesterday.

That’s even better than going straight to the fundraiser shelves.

OK, moving on to the next item, which is read a classic.

That is not even on the horizon at the moment, although I had pegged it for the summer. At the moment, although I am proceeding at a pretty fair clip through my summer “to do” list, said list is two pages long and seems to grow faster than I can shorten it.

“Middlemarch” may have to wait. At this point, I can’t even see us getting away on a vacation until August, and all we want to do is take a road trip to Santa Fe. Which is a six hour drive. Seriously.

Last item on the list:  buy new makeup.

Yay! I did that, way back in January, as you can see if you look at my comment in response to @ravingreader. That doesn’t mean that I’ve had much occasion to wear it, though.

As it always seems to be, you win some, you lose some. I’m losing some of the big ones, though, and I’m counting on July’s Camp NaNoWriMo to get me back on track. What about you? Now that we’re halfway through the year, how are you feeling? Is it flying by or dragging along? Are you accomplishing your goals or lagging? Are you where you expected to be or not? I’m definitely not where I expected to be, but now — this June and July — I am pushing hard to get back to where I want to be. Let’s go!

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MG Must Read: The Stars of Summer (Gladys Gatsby 2) by Tara Dairman

Poor Gladys. She had no idea what she was in for when she became friends with rich, popular Charissa Bentley.

For her twelfth birthday, not only does Gladys get a super dinner out in New York City — naturally, at the place her restaurant critic alter-ego “G. Gatsby” has been tasked with reviewing — but she gets the “funnest” gift ever:  free admission for the summer at Charissa’s family’s day camp, Camp Bentley. A whole summer of swimming, and crafts, and sports… Gladys can’t imagine anything worse. But Charissa has another surprise in store:  as a CIT (counselor in training), Gladys will spend her mornings working, and with Gladys’ talents as a cook, where else should she be assigned but the camp’s kitchen?

Mrs. Spinelli rules the camp kitchen like a nasty school lunch lady out of every kid’s nightmare. “Salty meat on white bread and nothing too fancy, that’s what the kids go for,” she says (p. 71). In Mrs. Spinelli’s kitchen, the apples are all mushy Red Delicious, the lettuce is wilted Iceberg, and the cheese is only American. Gladys despairs.

To make matters worse, Camp Bentley has a celebrity guest that summer:  teen superstar Hamilton Herbertson, whose recent best-selling novel Zombieland USA has given him a rather enlarged ego.

As a writer working towards getting published, I personally hate Hamilton Herbertson more than anyone should ever hate a character in a children’s book.

This kid… ugh. I can’t even.


Adding complications to complexity, Gladys is assigned a Herculean — perhaps impossible — restaurant review assignment: she has to find the best hot dog in New York, a city known for its umbrella’d hot dog carts on every corner.

I won’t spoil any of the many delights there are to be found as the book unfolds with Gladys adjusting to life at summer camp, creatively fulfilling the challenge of her hot dog assignment (did you know just how many different ways there are to make and top a hot dog?) and dealing with both jealous coworkers and the pangs of twelve year old friendships.

Even more than the first Gladys novel “All Four Stars,” “The Stars of Summer” is about relationships and how complicated they can be. How you can love your friends but feel uncomfortable with how they behave. How your parents can be a frustrating and comforting at the very same time. How you can like someone but not “like” like him. Or maybe you do but you can’t admit it because of how your friends might react. Gladys takes very real, very believable steps into these deeper waters of middle school emotion without losing a scrap of her smart, funny self.

One of the great things about these books is that the author imbues them with a touch of humor for the adults who may be reading along or reading aloud with younger readers. Rory Graham, the brash host of “Purgatory Pantry,” resembles a female Gordon Ramsey of “Hell’s Kitchen” with long green-polished nails. At a critical juncture in the book, her guest chef on the show is Christoph von Schnitz, the Sausage King of Dusseldorf. The tagline of his trendy new hot dog restaurant? “The Best Wurst in New York!” (Full disclosure:  I almost snorted breakfast cereal out of my nose when I read that). Not that kids won’t get it — some of them will — but it adds to the pleasure in a book when there are layers of meaning. (The saga of Hamilton’s writing career, and his big ego, are definitely meaningful to anyone who has ever struggled and striven to get a book published. Thank you, Tara.)

Another thing I love about these books, and about Gladys, is how masterfully the author avoids the pitfalls of writing a “strong female character.” Too many authors have decided that in order to be “strong,” a female character has to be, well, a boy. She has to be tough, unemotional, and rigid, and of course, she has to wield some kind of weapon. For too long, strength has been defined in children’s literature as masculinity. No. Women have their own strength, and Gladys has that in spades. She knows her own mind. She comes to grips with her fears and faces them. She relies on her friends and finds commonality with those who seem to be completely unlike herself. She won’t let anyone or anything stop her from getting what she wants. That’s a strong female character. That’s a role model for our girls.

Plus, this book made me laugh out loud, and it made me cry a little. Can’t beat that.


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Rain and Transitions

On Sunday night, I went with my family and some friends to Denver City Park to see an outdoor jazz concert. We brought a picnic dinner and snacks, and were having a lovely time.

Here’s a picture of our spot, looking across the lake towards the Denver Museum of Nature and Science:

Denver city park 1

In true Colorado form, a storm began to gather on the horizon, and after the month we’ve had — Rain. Every. Single. Day. — we were wary but in the manner of people set up for an evening outside, we willed it away. “Oh, but there’s blue sky all around us.” “It won’t make it here.” “The wind is blowing the other way.”

It didn’t take long for the same view to look like this:

Denver city park 3

Undeterred, we partied on. Even those first flashes of lightning couldn’t dampen our spirits. There was wine. The band did their sound check and we ate our dinner.

And then the first raindrops fell.

Then there were more. And more.

We got out the jackets and the umbrellas. We stowed the food and got out the blankets. We laughed at how cold the rain was.

Some people dashed for the main house behind us, but we mocked them. Wimps. What was a little rain?

It rained harder, the drops bigger.

My husband and son started singing  “We all live in a yellow submarine…” and the group sitting next to us chimed in. It was kind of funny.

The rain got harder and colder. We huddled under our umbrellas.

My husband and daughter were sitting on low chairs right in front of me, so their umbrella was basically in my lap. The water drained down the umbrella and onto my right thigh, running down my leg and into my shoe. There was a wall behind me, so I couldn’t move back, and people on both sides of me, so I couldn’t shift aside. Meanwhile, the water from MY umbrella was rolling down the back of my pants.

I sipped my wine and laughed as thunder rolled overhead.

Tiny pieces of ice fell into my wine cup. Oh great. Hail.

At one point, I looked around and we were pretty much the only group still left on the lawn. My friend Cedric was sitting in a puddle about two inches deep.

I was hysterical with laughter. I literally could not stop laughing. I was shaking with it — that and the cold. I mean, how stupid was this? How ridiculous?

Finally, my husband and daughter and I made a run for it to the big house. Inside, it was crowded but upbeat. Lots of dogs and kids. Some people had set up their picnics on the concrete floor and we thought, “Oh, that’s what we should have done!” One group had internet and was streaming the NBA finals. My sneakers were so full of water, they oozed and bubbled when I moved.

I should probably tell you now that there are two things I really, really hate. One is being wet, and the other is being cold.


After about 45 minutes of this, they cancelled the show. We gathered our courage, went back out into the rain, and dragged our sopping selves back to the cars. The rest of our night was much better, with tea and a fireplace and dry clothes.

The thing is, as a writer, this was great. This happened on Sunday. Monday was my birthday. Water is metaphorical — change, transition, cleansing, all that good stuff. If I were writing a novel about someone’s life and they were facing a birthday, I’d love to drench ’em in a rainstorm. I’d fill the pages with great language about washing away the past and facing the future with renewed purpose and it would be so Jodi-Picoult-and-Nicholas-Sparks meaningful…

But that doesn’t happen in real life. It was just a coincidence. An intriguing one, but a coincidence.

Nevertheless, I hope that when I’m a fantastically famous author — which, coincidentally, is going to begin THIS YEAR — my biographer makes something of out of this.

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