Spreading the Blog Love

Note: I’ve moved, so if you’re reading this through an RSS feed or at http://booklady.wordpress.com, then please change your links. The new RSS feed address is http://feeds.feedburner.com/booklady, and the new website is http://www.caryncaldwell.com/blog. Thanks!

As anyone who’s ever tagged me for a meme knows, if I don’t answer right away then I never do. And to be honest, I never answer right away, usually because I can’t think of what to write. By the time the words would have come to me, I’ve usually forgotten the assignment. (Incidentally, this is not very different from my middle school years, when I procrastinated on my homework until long past the expiration date. Of course, back then I could blame it on friends, lack of motivation, and an unhealthy interest in a certain few boys who, in turn, had no interest in me whatsoever.)

But when my friend Robin Bielman awarded my blog — and six others — the lovely badge to the left, I knew I couldn’t ignore it. Sheer terror had much to do with my dutiful response, since Robin knows where I live, she could totally take me in a fight, she knows several of my more potent secrets, and she critiques my writing. There was more to it than lack of courage, however. I loved the spirit of this award, which was designed to acknowledge bloggers who tirelessly entertain near-strangers with regular, good-quality content — and all for free.

It’s deciding which worthy bloggers deserved the honor next that gave me the most difficulty, of course. How is it possible to narrow down my favorite blogs to just seven, even when accounting for those who had already received the badge from someone else? And how could I do that without hurting the feelings of those who were left? After all, I think everyone on my blogroll is deserving of recognition. And so I grabbed all of the eligible names from my sorely outdated list of links, shuffled them in a high-tech fashion, and chose the top seven. If you have the opportunity, please take a few moments to check out the following blogs, as well as the ones from my blogroll that ended up later in the randomized list and so didn’t get chosen this time around. I bet you’ll find some fun new reads that way.

And now, without further fanfare, I hereby present the I Love Your Blog badge of honor to:

  • Katie from Cactus Kate for her gorgeous photographs and awe-inspiring gardening abilities
  • Courtney from Five-Second Dance Party for her unflinching honesty and warm-heartedness
  • Sandi Kahn Shelton for writing posts that never fail to make me laugh and, on some occasions, tear up
  • Alyson Noel from Tales from the Real OC (Really!) for her fun updates, insights into the life of an author, and many cool website recommendations
  • Chemical Billy for writing drop dead gorgeous prose that makes the world around her come alive for her readers
  • Eileen Cook from Just My Type for finding the most random, bizarre, and entertaining links to pass on to the rest of us. I don’t know how she does it!
  • Emily from The Sassy Lime for being such a sweetie, and for her cheerfulness in the face of near-constant pain

Thank you, ladies, for your inspiring, entertaining, and always-interesting posts! Please pass on the blog love by putting the badge of honor on your sites and awarding it to seven other deserving bloggers.

41 Ways to Conquer Writer’s Block

For the past several years I have volunteered at the local high school, advising a number of very talented students in the creative writing club. This year I mentioned NaNoWriMo to several of them. Word spread, and now we have a large group of students who are all determined to write an entire novel this month. Only problem? Some of them had no idea where to start. Since I’ve dealt with this same issue, I made up the following list for them. Since many of you write — books, term papers, blog entries, thank-you notes — I figured I’d share the list with you as well. Have favorite ways to jump start your writing? Please share!

  1. Go back to when everything last worked and to see if you went off-track.
  2. Skip ahead to what you do know and write that. Sometimes you’ll find that the scene you agonized over really doesn’t need to be there, or in the meantime you – or your subconscious – could think of a good way to fix it.
  3. Think of ways to make your characters’ lives worse, then implement them. It’s hard to have a book if you don’t have conflict.
  4. Make a list of all the scenes that have to happen in your book. Good. Now you know where you’re going, and you have a goal. Start figuring out how to get from your current scene to the next one.
  5. Read what you’ve already written to get back into the groove. Danger: Don’t let this lead you to edit too much; it’s possible to spend all your time polishing the first three chapters and never get anything else written. You’ll have a great beginning, but you won’t have a book.
  6. Write with someone else. This can often be inspiring; when others around you are being creative and productive, it’s hard to keep your own pen off the page.
  7. Writer’s block is often caused by fear. It may be fear of writing something imperfect, fear of what others will think, fear of rejection, or even fear of success. What are you afraid of? Sometimes just knowing will help you conquer it.
  8. Remind yourself that this is only a first draft. Most books go through many, many revisions, so if it’s not perfect the first time around that’s normal. You don’t have to show anyone until you’re ready.
  9. Perhaps you’ve lost sight of your characters’ goals, motivations, and conflicts. What would your character would do next in order to reach his/her goal? Now prevent him/her from it.
  10. Watch a movie or read a book for inspiration. Sometimes the creative well just plain runs dry.
  11. Brainstorm with someone.
  12. Or, the reverse could be an issue: Perhaps you’ve talked about your book too much and now it doesn’t seem fresh or fun anymore. If that’s the case, try going in a new direction to freshen it up a bit, and keep it all to yourself for now.
  13. 90% of all people who begin a novel never finish it. 85% of all those who began NaNoWriMo last year never finished. Beat the odds no matter what, even if means writing utter crap. You can always revise later.
  14. Reexamine why you’re doing this in the first place. Write your motivation(s) on a sticky note and post it next to your monitor.
  15. Sometimes having too many options can cause a block. For example, should the character be an architect or a plumber? Should his/her parents be divorced or still together? It’s difficult, but make a choice and stick with it. If you still can’t decide, write each choice on a piece of paper, fold up the pieces, throw them in a hat or bowl and draw one.
  16. Set a timer and tell yourself you’ll write for this amount of time, no matter what – but that you’re allowed to stop after that if you want to. Anyone can write for 15, 30, or 60 minutes if they put their minds to it. Take a break to eat or do something fun, then set that timer again.
  17. Develop a writing routine – light a candle, write at the same time each day, choose a special writing chair, etc. Just going through those motions can tell your brain that it’s time to write.
  18. Shake up your writing routine. Write at a different time or place.
  19. Allow yourself some awful first sentences each time you begin a new writing session. After all, quite often the hardest part is just getting started. Once you’ve warmed up, it usually becomes much easier.
  20. Next time you write, try stopping in the middle of a sentence, paragraph, or scene. This way you’ll know where to begin when you come back to it.
  21. Write daily. Make it a habit. Often the longer you go between writing sessions, the harder it can be to get back into it, and the more time you’ll have to psych yourself out.
  22. Tell everyone your goal so that you are held accountable. Then you have no choice but to get something down.
  23. Start with success: Do something important but easy, such as finding a good last name for your character or doing some simple research. This gets you back into your story, and the success is often motivating.
  24. Sometimes you just have to get yourself out of your own way. Take a shower, do the dishes, knit a scarf, take a long drive, play a computer game, hike, run, swim…Do something that keeps your hands and body occupied but your mind free. Then assign your brain the task of thinking about what to write next.
  25. Disconnect your internet, so if you’re ever tempted to conduct another email check you have to get up and walk over to the modem to plug it back in. Quite often your willpower will return before you set aside your laptop or notebook.
  26. Think of what you could be doing that you want to do even less – homework, cleaning house, writing that thank-you note to your Great Aunt Pearl, whatever.
  27. Give yourself silly goals such as finding random words in the dictionary and having to use them, or starting the first sentence with the letter A, the next with B, the following with C, etc. The challenge can help get your mind off your fear and spark your creativity.
  28. Open a new document or turn to a clean page in your notebook. Anything goes when you’re starting fresh. If you like what you come up with, you can always add it in later. Sounds silly, but it’s actually one of my favorite — and most effective — methods.
  29. Type with your eyes closed. This can remove inhibitions.
  30. Begin a free-write with, “I don’t know what to write,” and go from there, writing whatever comes to mind but slowly working your way into examining your book and then, perhaps, starting to write it again.
  31. Interview your main character, or write a monologue from his/her P.O.V.
  32. Keep a notebook by your bedside, in your car, in the bathroom – wherever you’re likely to get an idea. When one comes to you, take a moment to (safely!) write it down. Next time you’re stuck with your writing, look through your notebook for ideas.
  33. Maybe you’ve gone the obvious route with your writing, and you’ve ended up boring yourself. Throw something big into the works to change things radically: someone new (dead or alive) turns up, your character finds out a devastating secret or is suddenly faced with what s/he most fears, the hero fails at an important task.
  34. Make a list of 20 things that could happen next. Cross out the first 10-15 since those are often the more obvious choices, then consider implementing the last few.
  35. Let your subconscious do the work. Long before you sit down to write, give yourself a problem that needs to be solved, anywhere from “What should I write next?” to “How should my protagonist react when s/he finds the dead body?” Think about it from time to time. By the time you write, a solution will often present itself with minimal effort.
  36. Eat, go to the bathroom, and do any urgent business before writing. That way you have no reason to get up from the keyboard once you start. Just make sure you don’t put writing dead last, or you may never get to it.
  37. Whatever you do, don’t delete! If you really don’t think it’s worthwhile, cut it from the manuscript and paste it in a new one so you can put it back in or use it in something else. Sometimes all you need is a little perspective, and that can take time and distance. If you’re stuck, go through your file of deleted scenes for inspiration.
  38. What do you like about certain books/movies? How can you incorporate that into your own work in a creative way? What do you hate about particular books/movies? How can you write it better, and with your own creative twist?
  39. Work on something else for a while. Ever have several books going at a time, reading whichever one interests you right then? The same can work with writing.
  40. Remember that writing is hard. Just because it doesn’t always flow, it doesn’t mean you’re blocked. So realize that it might not be easy, and work through it. After all, things that are worth it rarely come easily.
  41. Examine your attitude before you go into it. Are you expecting to have a fun, productive writing session, or are you expecting pain and blockage? Your brain often delivers what you expect.

The Revisionist’s Curse

It seems I am in A Phase. Over the weekend I waved a cheerful goodbye to two unfinished novels, then dropped them off my nightstand. The week before that, I got twenty-three pages into another before dumping it onto my library donations pile without so much as an apology. This morning I broke up with a fourth, a best-seller with reviews that swore there was no way I would not love this book. After forty-eight pages I gave up and searched my pile of unread books for yet another victim.

Most of the time I go through books the way I would eat chocolates if my hips allowed it. I finish one and delve immediately into the next, savoring the characters, the plot, the clever turns of phrase. Each time I exercise or clean house or push a squeaky-wheeled cart up and down the grocery store aisles, I plug into an audio book, letting stories wash over me. When hubs and I take our canvas chairs to a nearby overlook to watch the sun set over the desert, we often tote along something to read aloud to one another.

But I cannot, no matter how much I try, completely lose myself in reading while I am in the middle of revisions. Once I spend hours analyzing each sentence of my own work, the picky part of my brain is turned on. From then on, every bit of writing I encounter, whether it is mine or someone else’s, is routed through my editing filter.

That is happening now. The obligatory six weeks have passed between the draft I wrote this summer and the edits required to start submitting it. Now, after several days spent performing major surgery on my novel at every opportunity, my brain has once again turned into an Equal Opportunity Editor, and I’ve gone from eager-to-read to impossible-to-please. The quality of my reading does not matter. If I am spending hours each day examining my own writing, then by habit I will analyze every other sentence to waltz my way as well. Only blogs, it seems, are exempt, perhaps because the style is so different.

My inability to switch off the ruthless reviser inside me is exhausting and inevitable, and totally unfair to the author of whatever pleasure reading I attempt. Worse, my inability to relax with a good book feels unnatural and somehow very wrong. Reading, after all, is what led me into writing, and now writing is preventing me from enjoying reading.

I’ve gone through this before, and I know that it will end. Within days of finishing edits, I will be able to see an adverb without feeling the impulse to ink it out. I will once again have the patience to read backstory — it is, after all, sometimes necessary. I will not automatically pause after I read each line of dialogue, wondering if it should be reworded to make it sound more authentic. I will, in short, be able to lose myself in a book again, which is the best possible incentive for finishing revisions. I’m already saving several books I know I will love for after edits, as a reward.

The second best incentive, for the record, is getting to begin a new story. My next book has already begun to evolve in my mind, and I cannot think of it without a little zing of excitement. But first, revisions.

Thou Shalt Not Swim on Sundays

Last Sunday morning as my bare feet slapped across the scorching pavement between the ladies’ locker room and the edge of the community pool, I spotted just one empty lane. I moved toward it quickly, claiming it as mine, then slid into the chilly water, shivered in anticipation, and dunked my head. The moment I rose I wiped the water from my face, strapped on my goggles, and took off toward the deep end -– to be swamped within seconds by the swim-capped middle-aged women on either side of me as they splashed past in unison.

Their wake left me floundering in a choppy sea, and by the end of lap one I had small craft warnings going off in my brain. Seizing any excuse for a break, I slogged  back to the shallows and grabbed my water bottle, then watched in dread as my neighbors, clearly friends who had decided to work out together, executed time trials in tandem, arms and legs cutting through the water with perfect precision, churning up the water around them.

Drink over, I spent the next several minutes flailing between them, my velocity in the storm-tossed water approaching that of a half-squashed beetle. Meanwhile, the ladies pushed out lap after lap of Butterfly. If you’re not familiar with this awkward stroke, let me give you a little history: Despite what the link above claims, it was actually invented in the sixteenth century as a form of torture, and is now employed by swimming snobs and fully appreciated only by those who have mastered it. (For the record, the latter also applies to complex guitar solos and making pastry from scratch.)

The situation deteriorated around the eighth lap, when I helped myself to a flimsy kickboard for a few rounds. How is it possible to grab a sturdy, self-respecting kickboard actually capable of keeping my front half afloat any day except the very one when my ego -– and my ability to keep from asphyxiating on chlorine and water -– are most on the line? Even without the continuous shower from the ladies in the next lanes, the kicking would not have lasted long. At least with freestyle and breaststroke, I could spend most of my time with my head in the water, hiding my shame.

Around the fourteenth lap I began to take on water, and soon had a puddle the size of a baby pool sloshing inside my goggles. My arms, which have no respect for authority, began to tire despite my threats, and when I had thrashed once more to the deep end of the lane I clung to the wall and turned to decipher the clock on the side of the pool house through the foggy lenses. I nearly cheered. Three minutes to go.

Which is when the Wonder Twins decided they’d had enough of swimming and headed for the locker room. Now, if only I’d gotten everything else in line — the goggles, the kickboard, my arms — I would have had a very nice 180 seconds of swimming ahead of me.

Plums Aplenty, and Tomatoes Too

Five evenings in a row I have waded through our yard in bare feet, stopped before one of our two overburdened fruit trees, and plucked plumped-up plums or peaches from the branches. I eat as if standing over a sink, bent at the waist and legs spread, letting the sun-warmed juice pour out of the wounds I make in the fruit’s flesh and drip into the summer-thick grass. A peach stain on a T-shirt can mark it for life, but in this desert the grass is greedy for moisture.

While the plum tree has been in business since long before we bought our house, the peach is a new addition, tucked into the ground just three years ago. The woman at the garden center instructed us to nip off all infant fruits for several years so the tree could settle. I would not have obeyed, but the decision was made for us. Until this summer it withheld its treasures from us, choosing instead to grow and spread. And this year, like a gift, it is heavy with peaches, small and sweet and beautiful.

We have more, though, than our twin trees, all flourishing in turn, overlapping their seasons so we always have something fresh and delicious from last frost to first snow. The sugar snaps this spring grew fat on their vines as the tomato plants rooted and flowered. And when the peas withered and died in the summer heat, the tomatoes took over, the plants filling with engorged red orbs.

In July the tiny green globes on our neighbor’s apricot tree, which graciously spans into our backyard, swelled into sweet orange fruits, just waiting for my hands to pluck and eat, one after the other. And eat I did, pulling the fruits from the sun-dappled branches overhead, closing my eyes as the flavor burst on my tongue.

The apricots have long since ceased production and the last of the peaches went to my parents last night. Soon our plum tree will be free of fruit, the bounty shared with friends and family and neighbors, but the first of our cucumbers is now begging to be picked. This evening we will have salads in celebration.

Some people own stoic mansions hidden behind sweeping gates; swimming pools brimming with cool, blue water; low, shiny sports cars that hug the curves in the road at any speed. But a garden and fruit trees are, to me, the greatest of luxuries.

In Which I Use too Many Parentheses (and Can’t Remember the Rules of Capitalization for Titles)

It is a coincidence that I contracted the flu yesterday, just hours after a library copy of Breaking Dawn — the fourth and final book of Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight series — fell into my hands. The fact that it is also a weekend (which means I don’t have to feel the guilt associated with staying in bed for two days in a row, sucking down grape juice, popping pills and reading the 754-page tome) is just one more bonus but, yes, it is still a coincidence. If my weekend were a recipe it would require the following ingredients: one part restlessness, two parts reading machine, and four parts cat bed, since the three felines have apparently decided either that sleeping on The Couch of Death is passé or that I am more generously padded than said couch. (And, let’s face it, the latter is probably true.) The past two days have also been comprised of stoic suffering and an attempt to be a pillar of strength in the face of adversity. (How am I doing so far?) Also, I’ve been watching way too many Vlogbrothers videos.

This means difficult times are ahead for our house. Remember that vacation I just took? The California one that not only necessitated camping supplies, beachwear and winter clothes (since, hello, San Francisco is really cold in the summer) but also a full conference wardrobe and makeup? Well, since Thursday was a catch-up day (which mysteriously did not include unpacking) and Friday was a work day, my bags have spent the past several days sitting in my bedroom, conveniently located at an angle guaranteed to make hubs trip if he should get up in the middle of the night. And since moving makes my skin hurt when I’m sick, unpacking isn’t going to happen this weekend, either.

The good news is that I can’t procrastinate forever because my work wardrobe is severely limited while most of my favorite clothes are wrinkling inside a garment bag. So what’s the holdup, other than my schedule, my symptoms, and too many meds? Laundry. Because all those suitcased clothes are destined for a good washing. It is ridiculous to hate doing laundry. I have it so easy compared to anybody else in the history of the universe. For one thing, I have machines to do it. For another, said machines are located in my kitchen, which is just down the hall from a closet that houses a large stash of empty hangers. Also, long ago I made it a policy to never buy anything that requires an iron. And, finally, it’s a weekend, so I can stick around to change over loads. See? Not a big deal. Except it kind of is somehow. So while I feel like an over-entitled gen-X middle-class American whiner for saying that I hate to do laundry, well, there it is.

As for writing about the trip itself, well, I stink at trip reports. I usually find them boring to write, and if I’m bored, you definitely will be. The good news is that you have lots of options if you want to know what hubs and I were up to. For one thing, I’ve already processed many of the 950+ photos from our trip and uploaded them to my phlog. (Phlog = photoblog.) So as a bonus not only do you get visuals, but I also have inane little paragraphs captioning them. The first picture is, predictably enough, of the Golden Gate Bridge. The next one, which is much cuter and lacking both the color orange and any sign of motor vehicles, will be up on Monday. Until then, this link probably won’t work. New photos up every Monday, Wednesday and Friday from now until my photos, the internet, or I end.

And if your nosiness concerns the conference I attended in San Francisco, you could revisit the links given in the previous post or the blogs belonging to the lovely and talented Alyson Noel, the vivacious and scarily elusive Melissa Blue, and the super-sweet Melina Kantor, all of whom I also had the pleasure of meeting at RWA and with whom I wish I’d had the chance to spend a lot more time. By now some of them have probably addressed the conference more thoroughly than I. Either way, their blogs are still worth the visit.

Disappointed by my reticence? Fine. If you have a specific question about our vacation, put it in the comments and I might answer it. Unless, you know, you want me to just write about the whole thing, in which case I earn a free pass to ignore you. And if there are no questions then I’m off the hook, so yippee.

In the Meantime

Wow! Look at the thick layer of dust on this here blog! Sorry about that. The conference ended this weekend, and now we’re off to Yosemite and the long drive home. Will post again later this week. In the meantime, here are a few of the many bloggers I met while in San Francisco. If you get a chance, cruise around their blogs for a while, or at least stop by to say hello. They are all talented writers and incredibly fun to talk to in person. A few of them are slow to return to the blogosphere, too, but that’s just because we had so much fun. If I left your name out, worry not — I’ll get you later…

Robin Bielman
Pam Writes Romance
Jess Riley
Joanne Rendell
Marilyn Brant
Eileen Cook

The Song that Never Ends

So I’m strolling down the hotel hall* in my new black flipflops, and as I round a corner it occurs to me that I’m humming “It’s a Hard Knock Life” from the musical Annie (which, by the way, I haven’t seen since elementary school). Suddenly I’m searching the area for a crowbar, a jackhammer, a radio – anything that will pry, pound, or flush the bubbly tune from my cranium. Nothing. I’m stuck. Only hurrying with my ice refill, slapping back down the hall, and throwing myself at my exhausted iPod or the hotel room’s tiny clock radio will do the trick. Until I find out my husband has Phil Collins’ “One More Night” in his head. Goodbye, show tune. Hello sweet, sappy ’80s ballad.

Most of the time it seems like my life is accompanied by a soundtrack not of my own choosing. In college, I once underwent three months in Mexico singing either “Celito Lindo” or the original version of “Macarena” in my off hours. A couple years ago, I spent a weekend rafting on the San Juan River doing everything in time with the decidedly uncatchy “Amie” by Pure Prairie League. Infectious melodies regularly add to my insomniac misery as I sigh through hours of wakefulness with songs ranging from Jack Johnson’s “Good People” to Beck’s “Hell Yes” running an endless loop in the background. And I can never think of the musical West Side Story without suffering a deluge of show tunes, most especially “America”. It’s amazing how often that Romeo and Juliet adaptation comes to mind simply because I try to resist all thoughts of it.

My brother recently proved to me that the best way to lodge a song in someone’s head is to sing only part of it, stopping midway through – preferably in the middle of a word. This way the person’s brain is forced to continue the melody, starting over and over, until it finds a satisfactory ending. Like Sisyphus and the rock, a satisfying climax never occurs. No wonder it’s death to my peaceful mind when I switch stations partway through “The Milkshake Song”. I assure you, however, that I haven’t listened to “It’s a Hard Knock Life”, either in whole or in part, since a friend last subjected me to her cheerful off-key rendition months ago. So what brought it up?

I’m sick of my usual “ear worms” as they’ve come to be called, and am hereby suggesting a trade. I tell you what I have in my head, and you tell me what you’re singing. (Chances are, it’s now one of the songs I’ve mentioned above. I’m so sorry. Truly.) Or are you one of those lucky people who isn’t subjected to fourteen straight hours of “It’s a Small World After All” just because a coworker finishes a story of running into an old classmate in the deli section of her grocery store with a cheerful, “It really is a small world, isn’t it?” If so, not only are you part of the lucky 2%, but you’re really missing out. I mean, you actually have to turn on a radio to hear a little music. Really, I feel so much pity for you.

*Yes, we’re already on vacation, and have been for a while, which is why I haven’t been haunting the blogosphere as much as usual. Expect more of the same over the next several weeks. Not that blogging’s been totally off my mind, of course. Hubs and I already stayed several nights with the delightful, talented Robin, and I’ll meet up with a few others at the RWA conference next week. If you’re going, too, maybe I’ll see you there! (In the meantime, though, be sure to check out Pam’s posts on preparing for Nationals.) So, really, you are far from forgotten, even when I myself am far from a good network connection.

How to Look Like a Local in Six Easy Steps

I live in a tourist town, which means that in certain seasons we are overrun by camera-toting sightseers intent on packing in as much adventure as their credit cards and cranky kids will allow. From early spring to late fall work hours increase as many businesses close later, grocery stores morph into scary places filled with clots of vacationers and their cockeyed carts, and our favorite restaurants are inundated by sun-stunned visitors escaping the heat. Shortly thereafter I begin to have nightmares in which our house is taken over by unwelcome tourists who feel that we are unreasonable for not letting them wash their Hummers in our backyard.

Whenever possible during these crazy months, hubs and I escape our personal half-acre of paradise to take pictures of other wonders and spend time with someone else’s tourists for a while. Although the scenery’s different, many of the tourists look exactly the same, as we’ve discovered by traveling widely. This year it will be California. Last year it was South Carolina. In August. In record heat.

After growing up in a Midwestern city that attracted many businesses and college students but nary a tourist, living in a place like this has been an experience. When your daily life is someone else’s vacation, you learn a lot. For example, I’ve learned when to visit the grocery store, which streets and restaurants to avoid and, most importantly, how to dress like a local. The last skill has netted me requests for directions in several neighboring states, Philadelphia, Boston, and Madrid. It may not be handy if you don’t know your way around the town you’re visiting, but it can help you avoid getting scammed by people who take advantage of clueless travelers, and it can net you better service in restaurants, bars, and grocery stores.

Giving the appearance that you’re at home isn’t that difficult. The number one rule is: Avoid wearing fanny packs. Locals and attentive tourists alike have beheld the horrors of such adornments in large concentrations, and so they do not use them. This is not to say that fanny packs don’t have their perks; if your butt is too flat, for example, they provide the illusion of bulk. Since I’ll never have that problem, I eschew them altogether. Rule number two: Be nice to wait staff and other service people. Also, drive like you have at least a passing familiarity with traffic laws. Walk with confidence, even if you don’t know where you’re going, and learn to look but not gawk. And finally, for the love of God, do not take video footage of buildings, mountains, trees, or other unmoving objects.

See? It’s not too tough. For bonus points, don’t use a local’s garden hose to wash your car without their permission. They don’t like that sort of thing.

A Good Model Is Hard to Find

Last time around I promised a few updates, and I’m here to deliver. But first, I’d like to welcome those who never unsubscribed from my earlier blog, Novelist in Training, and have now found themselves mysteriously transported here. This weekend, after six months at my new blog home, I finally figured out how to change my old feed so that it would pick up these posts. If you showed up here after all this time and are still feeling lost, take a stroll around the archives for a bit with a special detour at this post, which describes what befell my last blog.

Now for the promised updates, along with piles of gratuitous cat photos for no additional charge. (You’re welcome.) I hereby vow not to turn this into a blog about photography — especially since I already have one — but my new camera arrived on Monday, and boy is it scary. Um, pretty. That’s what I actually meant to write. It’s pretty. Shiny and black and covered in buttons and dials that do God-knows-what, but I’m finding out, and by this time next decade I’ll be an expert.

Our friendly local UPS guy dropped off my new toy on Monday afternoon. Hubs and I both happened to be home, and he’s still laughing at how quickly I sprang from the couch, bounded over two cats, dodged the dining room table, and sprinted to the front door on the off-chance that the delivery guy would give up waiting for me to sign for it and take off, camera still in tow.

Opening the box revealed the usual camera essentials, along with one industrial strength instruction manual (weighing in at just under 200 pages, all in English), a quick-start guide, and two instructional DVDs. Since I’m a good, rule-abiding citizen I waited the requisite 90 minutes for the battery to charge, sifting through the directions and viewing one of the DVDs while I waited. I then loaded the Nikon, turned it on, swallowed the terror that the display screen induced, removed the lens cap, and searched for a subject. I didn’t have to go far: The Basil was lounging on his side only a few feet from me. I aimed, focused, and caught him as he spontaneously decided to lick himself. Yes, the very first shot with my new camera caught my cat licking his crotch. My life is so glamorous.

It was about a thousand degrees outside, so a trip around the block was not an option. Hubs had left to run errands, so my cats were the obvious choice for models. Since it did not involve petting or food, however, they found the attention boring and much yawning ensued.

I’ll spare you the illustrious first photograph, as well as the next several, which were of the back of Echo’s head (being a cat, he refused to look my way simply because I wanted him to do so) and give you Rosie. Click on the picture for a larger photo, in case you need a little more tongue action or just want to see what sort of resolution my camera gets. Clearly this cat is not meant to model, since I focused on her eyes and she promptly yawned, baring her none-too-impressive fangs and pushing the top of her head entirely out of the picture.

And, since one cat photo is never enough, here’s The Basil, post crotch-lick. He’s one hick kitty, is he not?

When hubs came back from his errands, we got out of the house for a while and went on a hike. Here’s a picture of the sunset. Other than cropping and a few minor adjustments, it’s pretty much straight out of the camera. Like the photos above, click on this one for an enlargement.

And, finally, for the other update I promised, a recap of Friday night’s birthday celebration. Despite a history of hazardous birthdays, my father and I both survived my mother’s surprise with no more harm than a lack of sleep due to a later-than-usual bedtime. The activity? A trip to watch our local theater company perform Steel Magnolias. Since the movie version always makes me cry, I haven’t seen it lately, so I’d forgotten how many good lines there were. It was very well-done, and we watched avidly, laughing and, yes, crying in all the right places.

All in all, it was a good birthday.

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