Thursday, July 24, 2014

Why You Should Always Get Dental X-Rays

This post is going to be more personal than previous. Proceed if you wish.

At first I thought that this was ironic. But, upon further study of the word, I decided that what is happening is a coincidence.

However, the most recent chapter I wrote in the sequel to Songs Eight Six—before I knew that any of this was happening—was about how one of the central characters of book two doesn’t believe in coincidence.

Is that ironic?

When I wrote Songs Eight Six, there were many pieces of the story that required some research. One such area was Micah’s injuries. I knew little about broken jaws at the time, and so I had to spend many hours on Web MD and Google Images (I do not recommend this) to figure out the hows/whats of injuries to the mandible.

This is knowledge that, in light of my recent diagnosis, I can’t decide if I’m glad I possess.

Earlier this year during a routine dental X-ray, my dentist discovered an area of concern behind my bottom lower left molar where my wisdom tooth used to be. When I had those suckers removed seventeen years ago, I remembered that there were cysts/tumors growing on them, but being I was young and was never told that I had to worry about them after they were removed—I didn’t. My dentist thought it best to pass along the X-ray to an oral surgeon who confirmed that there was problem, and that the problem was to be solved with hopefully oral surgery.

"chipmunk" phase after first surgery
I opted to remain awake for the surgery (because I’m a little bad-a and more so because I ABSOLUTELY HATE ANY SORT OF SEDATION/PAIN MEDICATION). Afterwards, the doctor showed me the tumor (gross) and said that he thought he’d gotten all of it out (I’d kept my eyes closed for the procedure, but I pictured that he’d extracted it with a mini-ice cream scoop). He then informed me that pathology would categorize the tumor in one of three ways. Two of them meant I was in the clear. The third option was bad, not Cancer bad, but bad enough that he mentioned words like “bone graft.” We both decided that we didn’t want to talk any further about door number three unless we had to, so we didn’t.

I left the surgery feeling really confident that everything was over. The surgery had been an experience that I’d survived. I was going to look like a chipmunk for the days following, but then life would return to normal.

Today was my post-op. I was suspicious when the office called to see if I could come in earlier than my scheduled time so that I would have “more time to talk with the doctor.” You should probably always be suspicious if this happens, because while a lot of doctors are personable people and some can even be a little chatty, few of them have the time to chew the fat with patients during work hours about non-scary health issues. And, as it turned out, I was right to be suspicious.

The doctor wasted no time not-sugar coating everything he had to say. At the time, and even in retrospect, I’m glad for this. If he would have seemed sympathetic or sorry, I would have cried. But, as it was, he gave it to me straight and answered my questions, and I sat there shocked for a few minutes, and then went on with my day.

My tumor was the dreaded third option. While not cancerous (thank God), it’s still aggressive. It’s called ameloblastoma (you probably shouldn’t Google Image search it), and left untreated very unpleasant things could happen to me (I’m warning you, don’t Google Image search it). There will be surgery in my future (one at least, possibly more), and (very likely) a bone graft (the-hip-bone’s-connected-to-the-(pause)-jawbone!). The was talk of long hospital stays, long recovery time, facial scars, loss of teeth, and permanent loss of feeling in my mouth/face.

My book research hadn’t included all of this. I hadn’t needed to know any of how Micah’s body was going to heal, because Micah’s injuries were healed by a miracle (spoiler alert… sorry, but really if you are reading this blog, you SHOULD have already read my book, unless you’re a really bad friend or strange stalker). So far, that is not the direction the author of my life has taken my story (though, I’d be grateful for it if it happens… hint, hint).

As the doctor was describing this future for me, I was just sort of…shocked. I mean, the tumor had been detected incidentally through routine X-rays. It has never caused me pain (except when it was cut out of me). And now, in its absence, it was going to be changing drastically the next season of my life. Of all mouth tumors, only 1% of them are ameloblastoma. They aren’t hereditary. They aren’t caused by anything I did or didn’t do (though if I like and said flossing prevents them, would you do it?). They are just, as the doctor put it, “bad luck.”

post-surgery (artist's rendering)
My bad luck, or irony, or coincidence is going to shape the next chapter of life for my family and me. I’m already pre-grateful for all the love and support that I know my great friends and family will selflessly heap upon us while we figure everything out. I’m also expecting (and kinda excited) about potentially being called “Trap-Jaw” (any He-Man fans?) the rest of my life. But as someone who doesn’t feel she handles many things in life with grace or poise or really anything other than panic, I’m hoping that this journey will give me an opportunity for new levels of faith in God as my father, my healer, and my comforter. I know I’m going to need him in new ways, and I know he’s going to show me he’s there in ways I’ve never known before.

Throughout this season, I will be marching ever forward in writing the sequel to Song Eight Six. The story is not over, and Cosette’s journey is not nearly complete. However, perhaps I’ll try to refrain from writing about bodily injury (and mute characters… did I mention I won’t be able to talk for awhile? Avalon would make really good company…) since my life imitates my art.

Maybe I should just change book two to be all about Cosette meeting Benedict Cumberbatch…

Over the course of the next few months as all this unfolds, I will update here (it just seems more personal than a Facebook post). I’ll also try to update more with other things (since I won’t be much for talking ;)).


Saturday, April 5, 2014

Book Drunk Confessions: Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld

**Let the record show that I really haven't slept in about two nights, and this is probably slightly more like a blog I've accidentally drunk-dialed than anything of coherent thought**

I am incredibly poorly read. On all those meme lists of the hundreds of books everyone is supposed to read, I’ve usually only read about five percent of them, and of that five percent, ninety percent of that list are books I was forced to read under the duress of a grade.

I wish this wasn’t true. Part of me has always aspired to be an academic, or at least be respected as one. I mean, I do have an English degree and I was a high school literature teacher (which I realize that in light of the confession in the first paragraph of this blog, makes me seem like a hack), so I am at least good at existing on the periphery of academia even though I’ll likely not ever have residence there.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy reading—I absolutely do. And when I find a book I’m interested in, I binge read, forsaking food, sleep, and hygiene to free up  the time it requires to devour an entire story in one sitting. Since having children, this has become a problem since there are now little people who require me to not have my nose in a book so that I can provide for them the food, sleep, and hygiene they need to survive, so I’m even further behind on that list of must-reads than I was before babies.

Earlier this week I was in need of a book to kill the endless hours of free-reading time I was promised that jury duty would turn out to be (see my previous post), when it suddenly occurred to me that I don’t really own any books anymore. I’m an anti-clutter freak, and I get rid of everything all the time. If it’s possible, I think I get high from the sight of a cleared-off table or organized closet, and I’m equally excited by a book shelf with room to spare.  So all the books I used to have, unless they are attached with some nostalgia I can’t convince myself is ridiculous, have long since been donated to Goodwill and are likely sitting on some a shelf belonging to another struggling writer who just happens to have a little less self-control about hoarding than I do.

One exception that I was happy to discover while frantically pulling books from the basement’s inconspicuous and well-organized bookshelf was Curtis Sittenfeld’s Prep. I remembered reading this book a few weeks before becoming pregnant for the first time (thus ending my leisure reading and beginning my study of the required textbook for moms-to-be, What to Expect When You’re Expecting), and feeling both blown away and paranoid by it. Typically, I’ve got a fairly accurate photographic memory. Occasionally though I’ve noticed that my mind will Photoshop  certain things I see so that I remember them better than they actually looked (like, for instance, my senior prom photo and James Van Der Beek’s hair in Season 1 of Dawson’s Creek). It would be extremely rare that I wouldn’t remember anything at all about something I’d spent any real amount of time looking at or studying (with the exception of all math passed the geometry level), especially—ESPECIALLY—a book.  This is why I never read things twice, I rarely watch movies more than once, and if I’m repeating a Netflix binge of a tv show, I need to wait at least a few years in-between ending the series and beginning it again (except for Sherlock; Benedict Cumberbatch is always the exception to every rule). But since because I’m not currently pregnant, I had nothing in the house to read except for Prep, I decided that I would pick it up again, just skip what was too familiar and reminisce the second time through about how much I enjoyed reading it the first time.

Because jury duty was not the vacation it appeared to be in the brochure, I didn’t much time to read while I was serving, but after an almost five hour bender ending at 3:00 this morning, I have now finished Prep for the second time… though it felt like the first.

I’m not sure if it’s because the book is not action-packed that I didn’t remember it (the book is 10% stuff that happens, 90% the neurosis of a high school girl interpreting the 10% that happened), but it was all new to me. Well, everything felt new except the last chapter because there’s something about Cross Sugarman and the surprising and very graphic sex scenes (I’ll admit it, I’m completely a prude when it comes to sex in books and I blush continuously and shift if my seat while reading them. I more at ease when the scene cuts away, or everything is implied, but that’s probably way more indicative of me as a person than anything else, which suddenly makes me feel naked) that tends to leave an impression eight years away from the story did not erase. That’s not a judgment about that section of writing—it was so painstakingly honest that it made me uncomfortable, and by that account was actually a very GOOD section. It’s just that I have different convictions about the inclusion of that topic in my own personal writing that… Well, I’m getting off topic, and I’m also blushing and shifting, so I digress….

This book was amazing, and it was even more amazing because it amazed me the second time through it. I’m not sure there has ever been a character I have related to more—including any of my own creation—than Lee Fiora, the narrator of Prep. This book is her coming-of-age story—a girl from small town (actually, MY small town) Indiana who gets a scholarship to attend a boarding school in New England for high school. Now, I didn’t go to boarding school (otherwise, I’d probably be better read), but apart from that difference, Lee’s perspectives, her neurosis, her constant over-analyzing of everyone and everything is exactly me—both at fifteen years old, and still, somewhat today.

There were moments when I was reading where Lee’s words were so familiar to me—her confessions living on the periphery of existence—that they felt almost extracted from me. Like my identity had been stolen and decoded tangibly into words and sentences and paragraphs and their subsequent emotions.

It was a bit jarring to discover this again. But it was also very freeing to feel like somewhere out there, there was an author who understood Lee well enough to write her (either because she identified with her herself or because she intimately observed someone like her). And strangely, this became comforting to me, because it meant that there was someone out there—though I’ll never meet her or know her personally—who understood me. Who had written me, fictionally. Lee is only complex because, I think, she chooses to be. And she’s not completely likable. I don’t even completely like her, and I feel like we’re the same person. But I think most people are able to recognize their flaws when they’re explained to them through stories. Like parables.

In light of all this, I’ve begun to wonder if anyone who has read Songs has felt this way—about any of the characters. Like, maybe there’s a Cosette out there or a Micah (they are the two more self-aware in the fictional cast of the book). I wonder who knows a Bronwyn or a Westley, and if the story has changed any relationships…

Those are my dreams as a writer. As much as I’d like to compose “the next big thing”, I would receive more satisfaction knowing that what I have written has meant something. That it’s bridged a connection between two unknown points on the planet. That somehow, my story has helped to solve for x, like Prep has done for me. 

Jury Duty

This week was one of those unexpected time-sucks that you don’t prepare for when you loftily plan a writing spree.

I knew that I was summoned for jury duty for—what could be more appropriate?—April 1st. This was a first for me since the only other time I’d been called was sometime shortly after my first daughter was born, and I was graciously not forced to go. From the time the letter arrived in the mail, whenever I mentioned casually to people that I had been summoned, I received many of the same responses: You’ll spend half-a-day in a room and never get called up. Bring a book! or If you get called into the courtroom they’ll never take you because 1.) you work in ministry 2.) you father/uncle/aunt/cousin is/was on the police force. or If you end up on a case,  it will probably be something ridiculous like some homeowner suing a contractor for shoddy workmanship. I received so much of this encouragement, that I was SURE I wouldn’t even have to show up at the courthouse, or at worst, I’d go and be sent home a few hours later, the better part of the day left to sip a non-fat Butter Bear Latte at Biggby and march Cosette ever forward through the sequel (which by the way, I think, has a title… to be continued).

What I did not expect was to be called up after 10 minutes of waiting into a courtroom where someone would hand me a sheet of paper with the word MURDER written at the top and a list of charges beneath it that filled the entire page. I also did not expect to start crying in the jury box when I learned that because of the nature of the case, the accepted jurors would be subjected to graphic photographs of the MURDER victim. And I definitely did not expect a judge to have mercy on my squeamishness, and excuse me from the case.

I should clarify here that I did not cry to get out of jury duty. That was not my intention. Had I thought it was a viable option, perhaps it would have crossed my mind (as did such excuses as “I’m prejudiced against all religions” and “I think that all people that police officers arrest are guilty”). My tears—as are my hands-over-the-eyes and finger-in-the-ears reactions to blood/death/violence/suspenseful music on television/movies/real-life—were legitimate. I’m not sure why or how it happened, but at some point near the time I became a parent, my sensitivity button was reset, and my tolerance to such things became non-existent.

As I exited the courtroom, I knew that my service was not finished for the day. I would have to report back to the juror room with all the others rejected during the voir dire portion of selection to await reassignment. And, I also knew somehow, that I was not going to leave that day without being assigned to another trial. I’m not sure how I knew this, but I did. The next time I was called up into a courtroom, I wasn’t going to get excused.

And I didn’t.

Perhaps it was because I was schlepping  a To Kill a Mockingbird tote bag (Okay, seriously, WHAT was I thinking?) or perhaps it was because I was carrying a purse made from a hardcover collection of Sherlock Holmes stories (Maybe I should have just worn a giant neon sign that said PICK ME!) but for whatever reason, after asking for my profession and answering “I work in the ministry field and as a writer”, no one asked for further verification that I was fit to serve as a juror on this new, non-murder, criminal case.

Jury duty is a pretty unique concept for a lot of reasons, but one of the most intriguing to me is that it’s the only situation I can think of where I might find myself in a room with people with whom I have no common ground. Think about it—people don’t put themselves in situations with strangers very naturally. We might find ourselves sitting next to people we don’t know at a baseball game or a concert, but then if you’re forced to talk, you at least already have something built-in to chat about: “So, do you think the Tigers are gonna make it until October this year?” “This is my fourth Dave show in two years, what about you?” But, with jury duty, the only things you’re guaranteed to have in common with everyone in the room are 1.) the county you live in 2.) that you have a driver’s license and 3.) you have been inconvenienced by being called to jury duty.

In normal situations of awkward people-juxtapositioning, like a bus ride or standing in line for the bathroom (which only really happens to women, let’s be real… I mean, c’mon, this isn’t a new problem; just build the ladies rooms twice the size of the men’s and let’s be done with it), most of the population find is not only socially acceptable but almost a REQUIREMENT that these moments are spent with all parties eyes’ fixed upon a smartphone or other electronic device and not in the throes of idle chit-chat about weather or how long the wait is. Jury duty, however, removes this crutch of the introvert by banning such devices from the premises of a court house thereby leaving very large groups of people alone in very strange silences or on their own to remember what it took back in kindergarten to make a friend.

“Hi—my name is Lisabeth. What’s yours?”

But, I actually did make a friend. She was walking around the parking lot waving her jury summons and searching for someone to show her the place we were to report. Having made my husband drive with me the 20 miles to the courthouse the previous Sunday for practice in the slight chance I would actually have to serve my summons, I already knew the answer this her question, and I decided that I would share this knowledge with her.

She was pretty and older than me, but she absolutely looked way too young to have been fifty—which, over the course of the two hours we spent together in between being rejected by our respective juries and waiting to be called to another courtroom, she confided to me was her age (you really wouldn’t have believed her either, trust me).

Her name wasn’t Marie, but to you—that’s what I’m calling her.

I instantly liked Marie, and perhaps it was because she felt I had saved her from the anxiety of not-knowing-where-the-heck-to-go, but she instantly liked me, too. I feel like most people don’t instantly like me often because I’m not overly-friendly to people over the age of eight (it’s insecurity more than anything, but I think that I come across as snobbish sometimes—I blame my ski-jump nose and lack of knowledge on how to appropriately shape my eyebrows), so I had my own reason to feel grateful to Marie.

For awhile, Marie and I were the only ones in the entire jury room (there were well over 150 of us there) who were speaking. In the quiet, it almost felt like we were breaking the rules of study hall, but then I remembered that I was a grown-up (I have to actually remind myself of this a lot, in many different situations ) and the jury room had no posted signs of etiquette requiring our silence. People around us had to have thought we knew each other—that maybe we were co-workers or neighbors, and it was a coincidence that we both had been called for the same day of jury service. Because surely, no two complete strangers could have hit it off so well to be talking like old friends in the time it takes to walk in from the parking lot.

But, we had. And I think that such an opportunity for something as unique as meeting Marie is my favorite thing about jury duty.

I’d forgotten about the beauty of the stranger. That there are people and stories and life experiences out there beyond what I have and better than I can create in my mind when scripting a character. Writing can become redundant when you reuse the same recipes to concoct interesting fictional people. And it’s not like Marie had climbed Mount Kilimanjaro or was related to Benedict Cumberbatch or anything… she was just new. Sometimes the way someone is new—the way you would describe them differently than you could have anyone else (Marie was motherly and youthful, hip and concerting, with very white teeth and the wit and smile of a middle-school teacher)—compose an authenticity you can’t just invent. If I were to place a character modeled after Marie in my next novel, she would be effortlessly believable.

An hour after the lunch break, Marie and I were both called up to the same courtroom, and I was immediately (as I had predicted) been called into the penalty box (I’m pretty sure that’s not what it’s called, but it is what it felt like).  Thanks to Atticus Finch and Dr. Watson, that’s where I remained while both the prosecutor and the defense were satisfied with our 13 member jury without Marie on it. She remained in the gallery, never to be called up to be interviewed. Instead, when the jury was named, she and I exchanged glances—mine to her saying, “Luck you” and hers to me sincerely saying, “Sorry about your luck.”

As far as criminal cases go, the one I sat on turned out to be pretty open-and-shut. Eleven of my fellow citizens (we lost one who was excused as an alternate right before we went into deliberation so that we would only have 12 deciding guilt or innocence—he waited in the courtroom until we’d reached our verdict rather than taking off because after having spent the past four days engrossed in the judicial system, he didn’t want to not see the case conclude) came to a unanimous decision within ten minutes. Though it was a clear decision, it wasn’t an easy one. After all, we were chosen to decide someone’s fate, and that’s heavy weight no matter the consequence. I appreciated the decorum and patience and respect all of us—a very diverse group of strangers—gave to each other as we discussed our reasons for our position. I imagine the same 12 of us together at the Secretary of State or waiting for our numbers to be called at the deli might not have been so cooperative, but there’s something about the duty part of jury service that made us all act like professionals. And I think that’s why I felt a little sad when we were released from our jury-bondage to one another. We’d been teammates for a little while. Crime fighters. Super heroes, in a way. We were important together, if only for a few days, and then we were saying goodbye before we’d known one another long enough to remember names. I’m sure they all think I’m Elizabeth, or maybe something equally generic as Jennifer or Caroline.

It sort of seemed a waste of our collective potential, to tell you the truth. Though I was as outwardly excited to have finished the trial before the weekend as everyone else, I wanted to linger together as a group. I longed for a few more hours of downtime to learn about these people. To listen to their stories, observe the unspoken, and tuck them away in mind. To write new recipe cards.

I’m aware that this is a strange re-introduction into my “author blog” after I’ve been silent here since—November? Really?—but it was either take the time to write all this down now, or spend the next few weeks with it fighting its way into the lives of Cosette and Micah and the garden.  And who knows? Maybe Marie will make it in there, or maybe one of the other lessons I learned this week, but sometimes it’s better to just listen to what your mind is telling you when it’s talking.

I promise that I won’t ignore your sequel for much longer. I’m still making progress.

Monday, November 4, 2013


It's November, which in the writing world means it's NaNoWriMo.

Unless you're me, and then it's WahNoWriteMuch month.

Even if my life depended on it, I could not write a novel in a month. I am not that kind of writer. I admire those writers for their refusal to hit backspace, their dedication to writing thousands of words a day, and their ability to only look forward in the story. But I absolutely cannot do what they do.

I don't even know how to describe what sort of writer I am, actually. Is there a word for someone who spends four hours writing one paragraph, is consistently surprised by what's happening in her own story even though she is the one creating it, and only knows where the story begins and ends and doesn't have a clue how everything will unfold until she writes it?

Crazy. That's probably the best word I can come up with.  I am a crazy writer.

When I was writing Songs Eight Six, it was like I was two people. I was the Writer, and separately, I was the Rational-Thinking Bystander who was trying to figure out the best way to appease the Writer. Rational-Thinking me wanted to figure out the Writer's process so that I could improve it. I wanted to understand that beast so that I could tame her and ultimately find better balance in my life for writing the sequel than I maintained while writing the first book.

The Writer's biggest struggle was the word "progress." She would record how many words a day she would write, and then when that count inevitably went down due to editing or rethinking, the Writer would rage and lament at the loss of that number.

Eventually, Rational-Thinking Bystander understood that this is all part of the writing process. That exploring where a story could go, and then taking it somewhere else instead, is still progress. It's trial-and-error, process of elimination, loooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong and sometimes discouraging--but it's still progress.And though it's not how I prefer my brain works... that's the kind of writer I am.

Explaining this to the Writer was much harder than it should have been because the Writer was very stubborn. She was so stubborn, in fact, that she was rushing to finish SES for the sake of being done with it back in June of 2012. She knew something in the story wasn't working, but she just kept forcing it for the sake of progress. And she no sooner celebrated her achievement of 100,000 words that Rational-Thinking Bystander had to break it to her that 50,000 of those words needed to go.

Half. Of. The. Book.


Eleven months later, the Writer finished writing a much better story.

Rational-Thinking Bystander me has been put in charge of the sequel, and Writer me is very concerned about how long it's going to take to finish it with her at the helm. But, I feel much calmer this way, and I hope that without the pressure I felt with the Writer in charge, I'll be able to enjoy progress more.

To illustrate my battle between frustration and progress, allow me to show you all the book cover designs my ever-so-patient artist mocked up (according to my "vision") from start to finish.

I was absolutely sure I wanted a tree and flames as part of the cover. No question in my mind.
And I was deadset on this font. Didn't even want to consider any other one. 
Okay, so then I decided  font could look cooler...
And the flames weren't working.

 Okay, then I was digging different fonts, but something wasn't right.
It couldn't have been the tree though. I had to have a tree on the cover.
Okay, so no tree was better. I loved this idea. Much more conceptual...
The blue/green colors dancing...yes! This is the exact cover I wanted.

Okay, so the guy who owns the photograph didn't want share it with us for the cover.
Fine. Be that way. I'll take my own picture and replicate it.
Only,  I couldn't.
So I scrapped the food coloring in water and tried milk, food coloring, and soap.
Then I started having second thoughts about the font again.

Okay- yes. The artist was right. This font worked better.
And zooming on the bubble - genius.
We were almost there. 

Nailed it.

All of this to say:

For those of you who have asked and are patiently waiting for a sequel - I picked a place to start, and I'm making progress.

Sunday, September 29, 2013


The Metro Detroit book launch for Songs Eight Six was amazing.

Like, ranks right up there with my wedding day and the birth of my daughters amazing (though different in some very significant ways).

Thank you so all who participated, contributed, and supported--there are too many of you to name, but I know each one of you and will be expressing my thanks for all you did for years to come.

This story has now taken flight, and I'm so excited to hear what becomes of it as it enters new minds.

I'll keep you posted on my part of this journey.

Stay tuned.

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Feeling Naked and Mike Birbiglia

So, it's been over a week since the e-release of Songs Eight Six. 

It's been over ONE CRAZY week, I should add.

With the print release probably happening in just a few days  scheduled for this week, I can imagine life is going to get a lot crazier.

Crazy is a relative term, or at least that's the defense I'm going to use when I am being committed for the insanity that this whole dream of mine is bound to cause me. Some crazy is bad. This crazy, I'm pretty sure, is good. (<---That's going to be my closing argument. And then I'll wink at the judge for good measure.)

People have been asking me how it feels to have the book "out there" finally after keeping it so close for so long. I've answered this a dozen diferent ways, all to varying degrees of honesty, but I think that the most precise word that I could use to describe all-encompassingly what it feels like to release a novel into the world of lovers and h8ters (writing it that way always makes me think of Avril's "Sk8ter Boi",and I smile) is this one:


Naked, like crazy, can have many connotations, so I'll be more descript.

I feel soul-naked.

In degrees of metaphorical nudity, I think I would rank this kind--the one I've been feeling all week--as the most scary kind of naked.

Over the course of the last two years, I've often referred to the writing process of this novel as a gestation period. Almost daily, I would imagine myself a fat, round preggo with feet in stirrups birthing this massive book. (And now you're imagining it. Sorry about that.) I definitely felt the labor pains throughout the process of penning chapters one-100, and like with my two real, non-book, human children--I love the little creature that I birthed.

But, unlike with my human children, I have publically exposed this little creation to THE ENTIRE WORLD (or the small percentage of the world with access to a Kindle or Nook) and am now awaiting its approval and disapproval.

Both I will get. Neither am I ready for.

When my children were newborns, they both looked like aliens. I'm just being real. They don't look like aliens now, unless we're talking about the cute kind of alien, and then... maybe. But, no one told me this. No one comes to the hospital and tells a mother that her child looks like some creature from a distant planet. Even if it's true. There are social rules against it.

That will not be the case with this book-child. And though it isn't a flesh-and-blood baby, I'm still its mother, and I'm sure it's still going to hurt when I feel it's being mistreated and judged unfairly.

That's all part of parenthood though, right? The bad with the good.

But still. It's an uncomfortable naked.

However, when I think about the people in this world I admire most, the list is comprised of many people who I feel I've seen in this exposed way. Guard down. Cards on the table.

Since you don't know many of the people on this list, or maybe you do because as one of the six people who read my blog, I probably am an admirer of all of you, I'll use an example from the public sector--a celebrity.

I'll use, Mike Birbiglia.

For real, he's famous. Google him.

Anyway, I've been a long time fan of Birbigs' comedy and storytelling. Some of his bits I've heard dozens of times, and he has this way of always captivating me with his delivery and punchline no matter how familiar his story has become.

I've heard him tell the tale of throwing up on the Scrambler close to twenty times if we're counting movies, stand-up radio, television, his biography Sleepwalk with Me, and LIVE at the Royal Oak Music Theatre. And I still laugh. Every time.

I recently watched his latest stand-up special, My Girlfriend's Boyfriend, and as he began the Scrambler-vomit story for what was, to me, the 21st time, I found myself smiling. I knew what was coming, and I couldn't wait to hear it.

Why? Because I know him. We're friends. And friends listen to one another tell the same story over and over again. And they reminicse and laugh about it together.

Or, at least he has me convinced we're friends. Because that's what a good storyteller does--they connect with you. They make you feel like YOU are the one they are talking to, that their story is for YOU.

And they do that by being naked.

I've seen Mike Birbiglia naked, and that's why I laugh at him.

Wait... I'm not sure that came out right. But you know what I mean?

My novel is a fictional one, but there is so much nudity in it. Soul-nudity. Me exposing who I am, my fears and insecurities, my hopes and my imagination...

And I wrote it because I do want to connect with you.


Because, as aforementioned...

I'm crazy.

So, when this next week passes and a larger percentage of the world has seen me naked, I hope to do what good ol' Birbigs does. I'll take the applause and the boos with their respective grains of salt and keep chugging away at book two.

Because I am a story-teller. And there's no better way to tell a story than by being naked in it.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

The blurb is the word...

It took me upwards of 150,000 words to write Song Eight Six. 

Here is my attempt to explain everything that happens in those 500+ pages in the amount of text it takes to fill the back of my book cover:

What if a world beyond all you’ve ever imagined really existed?
And what if choosing it only cost you everything you’ve ever loved?

Cosette Miller had all she ever wanted—Westley Greene. But when the love of her life is caught up in the riptide of a hometown tragedy, Cosette finds herself mourning the loss of the “normal” she’s always clung to and begins to ask what she’s never had to wonder before: 

What more could there be to life than Westley?

Cosette’s journey for an answer to leads her to Micah, a familiar stranger who shows her a world beyond her own where she discovers the super behind all that is natural, and a life of meaning and purpose that she’s never allowed herself to dream of. Once Cosette’s eyes have been opened – she can’t force them shut again.

To know is to face a choice, and no matter her decision—there will be a price to pay. 

I can't wait for you to read this.