Oh what do you do in the Summertime?

This month has been hard.  Do you remember as a kid spending summer doing all sorts of vacation type things?  Going to the beach, reading books for hours, crafts, water fights, sleepovers.  

Maybe my expectations are high. Maybe I should try and remember I'm a mom now.  Relaxation will come once they're all out of the house.

Right?!?

It never even occurred to me, as a  Mom, in charge of making summer fun, it's not so fun for you.

I'm saying it.  Summer sucks.

Okay maybe not all summers, but this one does.  At least for me.

I haven't written a thing in two months.

TWO MONTHS.

My mind is going crazy with plot ideas waiting to spill over into sentences and exclamations and story structure.  

But I can't sit down and type.  I've got Summer camps, and swim meets, and dance practice, and doctors visits, and not to mention all the needs of my friends and family.

Did I mention the four weddings I'm in?

I was reading through Heidi's post from last month.  My flippant advice to survive and write when you can.  Then this last month hit like a hurricane.

Write when I can?  What if you can't?

What do you do?

And so I sit and type this blog post, and realize there are things of more import than my writing.

It's painful to write the truth sometimes.

It's learning to accept the choice to have clean laundry and happy children.

At least for this month.

-Laura

 

The Incredible Book Eating Boy!

 

   Don't you just love a title that makes you want to "dig" right into the book?

   I have a slight confession.  

   More like a slight obsession.  

   I am addicted to children's books. They overflow from bookshelves in my house, and I simply can't stop.  My husband and I both love to travel, and I can't travel without stopping in a local bookstore.  And I can't stop in a local bookstore without buying a *few* books.

   "The Incredible Book Eating Boy" by Oliver Jeffers, remains one of my most favorite children's book finds from when my husband and I were motoring about Ireland.  The first copy was literally chewed to pieces, because my daughters simply couldn't help themselves. Henry, the main character, finds he has a talent for eating books.  And the more books he eats, the smarter he gets.  It's funny, and brilliant, and magical in a reminiscent of Roald Dahl sort of way.  Don't let the eating of books dissuade you from picking this one up though, your children are I'm sure, much smarter than mine. We are on copy two, which makes frequent trips to school to be read to giggly kindergarten students who can't get enough of Oliver Jeffers. The last page alone has them all squealing with delight. 

  Another perk to buying books from other countries?  Explaining the different phrases to your children.  Biscuits as cookies, and petrol as gasoline.  You might even find yourself inserting a little Irish lilt into your speech. There is an accompanying read aloud cd, which has sound effects (!) and is sometimes (almost always) preferred to Mom's "embarrassing" recitations(see "Irish lilt" above).  

  

  I highly recommend this one, and after Jeffers has charmed the socks off you- pick up any one of his numerous books.  They're all quirky, sweet, and irresistible.

-Laura

They might be giants

   I have a child with Dyslexia.

   Her disability has other complications tempered by medication, but the Dyslexia is something that can not be medically "fixed." There is nothing in my own life more frustrating than seeing my child struggle with something (as a writer parent), I've taken for granted my entire life.  My words have always, since I was very young, flowed smoothly across the paper.  My mom likes to tell stories of how I would be sitting at the dining room table, ruler in hand, perfecting my script.  How I would search the dictionary for new words to copy.  How I won the fifth grade Spelling Bee.

   My daughter's accomplishments are so much less than these, but in my parental eyes so much more important.  At the end of every school year my husband and I start to have the "discussions."  We start to worry about her moving forward. Will she matriculate with the rest of her class?  Have the hours of homework every night been enough? Is there more we could have done to help her?  My prayers become more urgent as she moves through every day of testing.  

   She may never be able to spell "their" correctly without checking her word wall.  Even then it might still not transfer to paper correctly.  Writing is an agonizingly slow process for her, and one I fear she'll never initialize on her own. Every paragraph assignment takes at least an hour to finish, with much coaxing, eye rolling, and threatening.  Her writing is still years below her grade level, but her teacher informed us her standardized test results are back.

   She tested above average.

   Reaching my own goals makes me happy.  Editing a chapter, finishing a blog post, recognition from someone I admire.   Those are things I can smile and say I've done good for today. 

   But those small goals for my children.  The ones I am on my knees at night for.  Those goals that seem impossible to reach because they are out of my control.

   She will be moving forward another year with her class. 

   This image popped up in my motivational Monday this last week. My daughter may not reach every goal I have for her, however attainable they might seem.

   I'm still learning it's okay to fall down.

   I'm still learning it's not failure if she's tried her best.  

   Those goals she does accomplish though, the ones she really worked hard for.

   Those things seemingly so easy for others.

   Those things are great.

-Laura

Get yourself on Goodreads

We have some fun things a comin' here at Mommy Authors, and the first is our brand spankin' new Goodread's group.  We take Mommies and Writers in all shapes and sizes (metaphorically speaking)!

http://www.goodreads.com/group/invite/68881-mommy-authors?invite_key=ae3572637dcba854b1df5063d8db133f40b69e51&utm_medium=email&utm_source=copypastegroup

I firmly believe Mom's who write have the hardest part of it, so we at Mommy Authors wanted a place where we could buoy each other, and celebrate even the most mediocre of successes.  

Literal or otherwise.

It's also a place to chat books, vent about kids, and make new writing goals.

We'd love to have ya'!

Essential Advice

My issue of Essence magazine arrived today.

If you glance to the side -> you’ll notice I am not an African American woman, the target audience for this magazine.

I also live in an area where you’re much more likely to smell curry, and about half the store signs are not in English.

Let me explain.

I have incredibly dry skin, and a while back I made a purchase entitling me to a free subscription of Essence magazine.  I politely declined, but the issue showed up on my doorstep nonetheless.  This went on for about three months before I started having nagging feelings of guilt.  I wasn’t reading this magazine and in fact, it went straight to the recycling bin every month.  Throwing it away for the third time felt so wasteful. If it was my hard work, I would want each magazine to fall into the hands of someone who would gain something from it.  My thoughts turned from big business conglomerate, to the article writer hoping she’s making a difference somewhere.  

I decided to call subscription services to stop my “service.”  A very nice sounding Southern woman answered the phone.  We went back and forth for a few minutes.  Me, trying to explain the situation in the politest terms possible, her, insisting I continue my “free” subscription, and would I like another year for a discounted price?  I tried being firm, “I don’t need this magazine subscription when I already have so many I don’t read!”

“But it’s free!” she responded.  

“I’m not an African American woman!” I exclaimed in exasperation.  

“Darling, don’t you have a friend you might gift it to every month?”

“Maybe you don’t understand the area I live in?”  I wanted to say.  “It’s simply not the right kind of ethnic for Essence magazine.”

But I didn’t say that, because to admit I couldn’t think of a single African American woman to gift my magazine subscription to, sounded wrong.  I even took a moment to flip through the latest issue hoping there might be something for my Filipino neighbor, or the Mahjong group at the community center. 

No luck there.  I was out of excuses, and her southern lilt melted my firmness.  I thanked her for her time and resolved myself to another nine months of “Essence.”

When this issue arrived in the mail today, I gave a little laugh.  Lately I’ve been spending so much time thinking about this darn magazine, I couldn’t see the practical application to my writing life. 

Be careful about your audience.  This is especially true for you indie authors out there.  So often we spend time networking and talking to fellow authors, ignoring the people who we’re really writing books for.  It’s your time and money, make sure you’re not wasting it.

-Laura 

I am Mother, hear me roar

I have a friend, let’s call her Rachel (because that is her name).  Rachel is perfect.  She is a perfect mother, perfect housewife, and above all else, a perfect friend.  Like the kind of friend who will bring you Pepto at 5am because your kids are all throwing up.  Sometimes I get a little embarrassed around her (okay, a lot embarrassed) and just so you know, I don’t embarrass very easily.  Embarrassment comes because I am not perfect.  I am far, far, galaxy far away, from perfect.  She will walk into my cluttered home and start sorting, cleaning, and dusting.  Nonjudgemental tidying mind you, because as I said, she’s perfect.

So nothing shocked me more than when she posted “something” on her facebook.  Her posts are usually full of sunshine and rainbows.  She’s homeschooling six kids (out of necessity) and the posts are always filled with bits of homeschooling wisdom, and lovey dovey notes to a husband that works very long hours.  

Until last week. 
When she posted this:

“In case anyone wonders, I am NOT perfect. I had many frustrating moments today that pushed me to the point of wanting to run away. Lucky for my kids, I just ran away to my car, where I could regroup. Though I try to maintain a positive attitude MOST of the time, I DO have very challenging, very frustrating moments. Please don't think that because my posts are mostly positive, that my life is perfect or that it must be easy for me to raise 6 kids. We ALL have challenges. Life isn't about what happens to you, but about how you respond to what happens to you. Today, I didn't respond well. Tomorrow I'll do better.”

She later went on in comments to tell us “regrouping” meant screaming at the top of her lungs in frustration.  After I wrote her a little empathetic note, I started giggling a little.  She had just validated the feelings of every mother.  Picturing Rachel sitting in her car, screaming, made me giggle even more.  I had never thought to try screaming in my car.   

Of course Rachel had a better tomorrow as Anne Shirley would say, “tomorrow is fresh, with no mistakes in it.”

I’ve been thinking about this as I struggle with edits.  The second manuscript is so much tougher than the first, my beta readers are much more apt to scribble long angry paragraphs in the margins. There is much more red in the columns.  Instead of fueling me, the nice little notes of encouragement remind me of how much I’m not doing.  How I should be doing that much more.  There is an expectation, of me, of my characters.  The pressure to get it perfect.

Today has been a bad day. Today I have to let it go. Today I’m taking a page out of Rachel’s book.  I will scream my heart out.  I will remind myself that I am not perfect.  I will regroup. I will try and maintain a positive attitude.  

Tomorrow I will get through these edits.

Tomorrow will be better.

-Laura

It's my Birthday!

My birthday was this week, and as much as I love celebrating- the laundry waits for no woman. I have a ton of chores and not a lot of time for writing, so I've decided to rerun an oldie I did for my blog tour. As you can imagine, most of my birthday gifts were books. You can find the original article here.

It's two o'clock in the morning and I'm in hiding. 

Some girls might be in a club, sparkly and shining, pumping fist to a thumping rhythm. Some girls might be drunk, in the back of a police car, hunched over and groaning- mascara running lines down their face. Some girls are doing things they're going to regret in the morning, walking home with heels in hand.

Smart girls are asleep.

I am not a smart girl. I am not asleep. 

Remember when you were twelve and your mom would say, "shut the light off! Close the book! Go to sleep!" And you would ask, "just one more chapter, puh-lease?"


That was me for as long as I can remember; except now I'm all grown up.  There is no mom forcing me to close my book.

 
However, I am married. 
Hence the hiding.

 My husband doesn't understand the obsession. Book obsession. My drug of choice.


There used to be interventions now and then. He would find them under the bed, behind the couch, stuffed in a closet. He would box them up and insist I donate them to a new home.

"New home?" I would ask redundantly. 
"This is their home."

I remember having my first baby, her birth day. She spent most of the time sleeping or eating.

I spent most of the time nursing or reading. 

It was heavenly. I got through three books that day. 

My mother visited me in the hospital. My daughter was asleep in her crib and I was in the middle of rereading Matilda. 

"You know," she said, "you're not going to be able to read as much with children."


My husband looked relieved and I just scoffed at her. 

I have three children now, and I read as much as ever. 

It's the sleep I've had to give up.


It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm praying the light from my iPad doesn't give me away.

It's two o'clock in the morning, and I'm in hiding.

-Laura

Mental Health Day

"My tummy hurts."

These are the three words I dread as a mom.  Choose any other part of the body to hurt as a child, and it can probably be repaired with a kiss and a bandaid.  

Maybe a couple of tylenols.  

But the stomach?  Tummy means trouble.

Like dominoes we went down one by one.  My school age child brought it home and my husband held out as long as he could, but eventually we all succumbed.  Normally being a mom and being sick isn't exactly harmonious.  Can we really ever have a sick day?  Sick means I can’t really indulge in my own well being, I still have to take care of everybody else.  It is the very definition of being a mother- no sick days.  However, this time it was bad.  Broke my washing machine doing laundry, bad.  I had to call in the calvary (ie my own mother) for support.

When she agreed to come, I wasn’t really full on sick yet.  I entertained the brief thought of perhaps being able to take advantage of the opportunity of having my mother here.  I dreamt of getting whole chapters of my newest WIP revised in between bouts of sickness.  

I think that is in the mother’s DNA.  Even when we are at our worst, we can think of something that needs to be done.  The reality of the situation was much less pleasant, in which I spent most of my time sleeping with my head next to the bathroom toilet, or trying to sip a disgusting concoction called happy belly.

It took a few days before my belly could be anywhere near happy again.

When I was conscious and not concentrated on immediate physical needs, I would stare at the ceiling for long spaces of time.  My brain hurt too much to try and concentrate on revisions, but it didn’t keep the voices out.  I began to hear long streams of character dialog.  I had a delirious breakthrough in my plot line.  

Then I fell asleep.

When I woke again the ideas were still there, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, I jotted them in my notebook.  It was right around this time that I thought I should call out sick more often.  Being quarantined seems to spark creativity in me.  With the lack of distractions and pressures on my time, I could really hear my characters.  Obviously I knew this on a somewhat subconscious level, since my best writing comes when all my children are far, far away from me.  

“Our language has wisely sensed the two sides of being alone. It has created the word loneliness to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word solitude to express the glory of being alone.” Paul Tillich

It’s a fine line isn’t it?  I long for the day when my children will all be in school.  Fantasize about the long stretches of time I’ll have to write.  I feel I need a little bit more of the glorious side of solitude in my life.

For now I’ll settle for a sick day once in a while.

-Laura

I refuse to die (literally).

Monday afternoon my oldest daughter came home with a note from school. 

A project was due the next day.

A project she should have been working on for two weeks, yet I knew nothing about.

A project she would be presenting, from memory, to her class.

My daughter is seven.

I called the teacher immediately for details and sure enough, my daughter had failed to give me the initial FIVE page packet explaining said project, along with the additional TWO reminder notes sent home about said project.

I did not have time for a freak out. We plunged in head first, churning out notecards, internet pages, and everything we could find about Giraffes that could be rubber cemented to a poster board. She presented it yesterday and all went smoothly. 

I would even dare say, better than if we had all of the two weeks to prepare.

I work well on a deadline.

For those of you that may have missed me mentioning it in previous posts, I am a runner.

I am a runner that hates to run.

Running falls into the category of things I wish I could do asleep. Then running would just be a nightmare, instead of my dreaded reality three times a week. Because I absolutely hate to run and it’s really good for me, I schedule three or four races a year to keep me training.

There is absolutely nothing more motivating than an impending deadline, especially when you have a team of girls counting on you to be at the starting line with them.  

I feel this way about writing.  Half the time I wake up and write because I see the impending deadline in the future, the goal to finish my next book looming.

Sometimes I hate the writing process, especially when I feel myself tapping out words I know I will erase a week or two later.

I’ve been in a a bit of a slump recently, writing and erasing, writing and erasing.

Until I installed a new program into my computer to “encourage” my writing.

Write or Die. 

Have you heard of it?  It’s my newest obsession.  It combines the panic of finishing a school assignment the day before it’s due, with the pressure of training for a race.

There is nothing like the power you feel when finishing something that demands everything of yourself.

Use Write or Die in your next word war and prepare to be amazed at what you can accomplish.

-Laura

Good? Reads

I love goodreads.  I really do.  And before I became an author, goodreads was purely fun times for me.  It was somewhere to find new reads, get book recommendations, and have the occasional lively discussion.

Because I am not only a writer, I’m a reader.

A pretty voracious one at that.

But things have recently shifted, and goodreads isn’t always so fun for me anymore.

It’s work.

I try (really hard) to comment, and participate, and keep up with all of my favorite people and blogs.  Out of my 548 friends on goodreads, I know only a handful of them in real life, and I only trust about a half dozen more to give me recommendations that I might actually read.  

The rest are mostly blogs I follow, people who share a love of the same books I do, those who have friended me, and then. . .the indies.

(Cue evil entrance music)

Oh, I know, I am one.

And from the very people I should be embracing, comes the spam.

Some days, it’s downright overwhelming.  Like sifting through a mountain of garbage to find a few true gems.

I know we’re all looking for ways to market our book, and goodreads is all fan base,

But goodreads is not a dating website/singles bar/street corner.

Authors should not act like prostitutes.

Don’t try to friend me if the only book you have listed as "read". . .is your own.

Did you know it actually lists the name of the person who is sending me the book recommendation? So we can assume I’ve already checked out your profile, and if I wanted to read your book, I would have added it to my “to read.” Please stop “recommending” it to me.

Once I walked into a yogurt shop, threw up on the floor, and left.  When you join a group and drop your book on the bookshelf- but never participate in any discussions. . .it’s rude.  I was eleven.  What’s your excuse?  

Continuing to try and add me as a friend, after I’ve already ignored you (three times), is only going to make me want to report you to goodreads, and possibly flog you on the message boards.

Please don’t flatter me in my own comments, when you’ve never actually read my book.  I can view your bookshelf. 

I have a problem with male authors.  Call me sexist- my husband does it all the time.  I don’t read very many of them.  I don’t connect well with a male "voice," and don't usually enjoy the writing.  I’ve had thirty-three years to figure this out, so please stop trying to convince me your book will “rock my world.” (Actual message)

Now, I’m not a “reader” blogger- I’m an author- so I know some of you bloggers out there must have some of your own pet peeves. . .let ‘em rip.

-Laura

Under somewhat shady circumstances

Let’s open a can of worms.  

Last week on ebay I purchased an ARC (Advanced Review Copy) of a book I’m anxiously awaiting the release of.  I have purchased ARC’s before, since they pop up at used book sales once in while, but this is the first time I intentionally purchased one before the anticipated publication date.  Most people believe that purchasing an ARC at a book sale after the book’s release, and purchasing it before, are two completely different things.  That somehow selling a book that was received for free is okay, as long as it’s already been published for the general public. 

Some people believe that ARC’s shouldn’t be put up for sale at all, ever, because the publisher’s make no money on them, no money goes to the author, and they are only handed out in the understanding that the person who is receiving the ARC has enough klout to hype the release of the book prior to publishing.  

Some might make the argument that it takes bloggers a lot of work and effort to earn the klout needed for receiving ARC’s.  That they had to travel to book signings and conventions, or even win a contest, to “earn the right” to read the book first.  

Being able to purchase the book? Well that’s cheating the system! And some even feel it’s immoral of the person selling them, when it clearly says on the covers “sticker,” that the ARC is not “intended” for resale.  

Clearly those people selling them don’t care about the books!  They’re just trying to make an easy buck!

And after all, receiving ARC’s is a “privilege!”  Not a right!

Well, I’m sorry, but I simply don’t agree with that.  And this is what I think.

There are many of us who participate on goodreads, and in the blogging community that don’t have access to ARC’s.  We can’t travel or don’t live in area’s where they’re available.  Attending author’s signings may be impossible, and winning a contest for one among thousands is slim odds.  The person I purchased the ARC from, received the book unsolicited from the publishing agency.  She read it, didn’t like it, and decided to sell it.  Yes, she received it for free, and she is making money off of this.  But keep in mind the publisher’s took a risk in sending it to her.  She is under no contractual obligation not to sell the book.  I see no difference between selling the book on ebay and donating it to a used bookstore who would sell it anyway.  If she received the book before publication date, I see no reason for her not to be able to sell it to me before the publication date.  She made it very clear that it was an ARC copy that she received for free.  I am receiving the book in complete understanding that it is not a published copy.  Why is this so different from passing it along to someone else in a contest, or giveaway?  Because I have put a monetary value on what the ARC is worth to me?  In fact, by selling it she has almost guaranteed that it will go to someone who really wants to read it, and will definitely review it, and most likely create more hype about it.  Me.  Because I have forked over some hard earned cash for that book and I have more invested in it then someone who just won it in a giveaway, or received it from the publisher.  I will review it for of my friends on goodreads, facebook, tweet, and blog about it.  I am more excited for it’s release than ever.  I will still buy another copy, so I can analyze all the differences between the two versions.  Because I am an uber-fan and an uber-dork like that.  And there’s lot’s of people just like me out there.

I would also like to point out, ARC’s used to be provided mainly to bookstores to encourage them to purchase the book for their shelves.  So by virtue of this relationship as a blogger, by giving away your ARC in a giveaway- you are also being immoral.  The publisher is sending you an ARC so that you will encourage others to purchase the book through a review.  Not so you will receive more traffic to your site through advanced copy giveaways.  Not so you can pass it along to other blogger friends who you feel are deserving to read it first, even though the publisher didn't send them a copy.

Yes.  I went there.  

So don’t sit on your blogging pedestal and tell me it’s immoral to purchase an ARC of a book I know I will love.  Or that the person selling it is immoral because she wants to make some money off of a book she received for free, and doesn’t want sitting on her shelf taking up space.  Would the publishing company prefer her to throw it away?

Let's discuss.

Because we’re all living in glass houses people.

-Laura

Tale of a wimpy woman

This post has nothing to do with writing, but everything to do with being a mother.

Something happens as soon as a woman has a baby.  It doesn’t matter if you’re 14 or 41, as soon as the kid pops out of your engorged belly, every woman immediately becomes an expert on all things related to child birth.  You may not call yourself an expert.  In fact you’re probably laughing to yourself right now, thinking you know exactly what I’m talking about.  But you know in your deepest heart of hearts, if you’ve had a child, you’ve been guilty of stepping on a pedestal and giving another pregnant woman advice based on your own terrible, uplifting, wonderful, exhilarating, heartbreaking, scary, experience of pregnancy and subsequent delivery.  

A good friend of mine is about to have a baby.  It’s number one for her, so of course every day her facebook page is filled with all things pregnancy related.  Because that’s what we do as first time pregnant women, we focus all of our attention and energy on the growing miracle in our body.  Every facebook post is commented on by at least a dozen women with well meaning advice. Occasionally I’ll comment as well with a “congrats!,” or an “almost there,” or “pack some depends in your overnight bag!”  As her due date rapidly approaches, her posts and the subsequent comments, have become even more entertaining.  It may be printed right on the front of every pregnancy girl's guide to “Expect the Unexpected,” but somehow, as a woman, we think this will not happen to us.  We will follow the birth plan!  We are completely prepared!  Or as my friend recently posted, “After a long and careful consideration, weighing all our options, we’ve decided that the right thing for us and our unborn child, will be to have this baby naturally, without any drug intervention.”  

Last week she expressed nervousness for the approaching labor.  She lives far away from most of her friends and family. Not knowing many women around her who have recently had babies, she asked her facebook friends to send in some encouraging words.  It flashed me back to a time when I did the very same thing.  The birth of my very first child.  At the time I realized they called it labor for a reason.  I mean, the Hollywood version of screaming women and painful deliveries, had to have some basis in reality.  But as the time grew closer to have my own baby, I heard too many women say things like, “Oh sweetheart, it didn’t hurt at all,” and “it was over before I knew it, just focus on the baby and you’ll be fine.”  One of my sister’s (I have four) didn’t even have labor pains, she went to the hospital because her water broke, had an epidural before she felt a single contraction, and then popped that baby out before she even realized what hit her.  

True story.  

I naively entered my contractions expecting the same results.

Was I ever wrong.  

So when I saw this post from my friend, and I saw thirteen subsequent women post about how the labor wasn’t that bad, and all she needed was the support of a loving husband, even a “I had all seven of my children naturally and it was the best experience of my life,” I about had it.  I knew I had to intervene.

With my first baby I arrived in the worst pain of my life at 2 in the morning.  I was only dilated to a four.  I wanted to die.  I didn’t think it could get much worse.  This went on for what felt like days, but turned out to be only hours.  I was determined though, because “after a long and careful consideration, weighing all our options, we’ve decided that the right thing for us and our unborn child, will be to have this baby naturally, without any drug intervention.”  Then the real pain hit.  You know exactly what I'm talking about.  I didn’t just ask for the drugs.  No.  I begged for the drugs.  But there is something wrong with this body of mine.  Because the epidural didn’t take on my left side, and when the next contraction hit, I began to hyperventilate.  When I shredded the paper bag they gave me (paper bag?  REALLY?)  I was put on oxygen.  A doctor came and told me to start pushing.  The first push is when I started throwing up the medications they had given me to calm down.  In the middle of the second push, they realized my baby was blue and not breathing. The doctor hooked a finger around the cord and then subsequently yanked her out with forceps.  She started to cry.  That is when I really started to lose it.

I decided to make a comment on my friend's post that labor, for me, was downright awful and all three of my labors would be considered by any doctor as good and normal.  A good and normal hell maybe.  I said she should feel nervous and scared, because it’s not an easy thing to do.  And every woman is different, and every labor is different.  So just because it was easy for one person, doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy for another.  And don’t go in expecting it to be easy, or even enjoyable.  But do expect, no matter how your labor goes, to feel more empowered, and more love, then you ever expected.

The second time around I was determined to do it naturally.  I knew my body didn’t like the drugs, and the epidural wouldn’t take.  So I went all out.  Doula, midwife, breathing techniques, big yoga ball.  Ten hours start to finish, no drugs, no hyperventilating.  Lots of hot showers, and lots of really intense pain.  The first thing my baby heard entering the world was lots of screaming.  From me.  It may have been a perfect delivery, but it was still something I was determined, in that moment, never to do again.

Another woman commented below me, “don’t scare her!  You’re a wimp Laura- Labor is NOT THAT BAD. I had four naturally and it was the most WONDERFUL experience.”

The third time around I remember the exact moment I decided I REALLY didn’t want to have a third baby.  It was immediately after the first big contraction.  Because it all came rushing back in one tidal wave of emotion. I remembered that I had vowed not to do this again.  I began begging my husband not to leave for the hospital.  After all, if we didn’t go to the hospital, I couldn’t have a baby, right?!?!  I told him I was done.  I didn’t want a third child.  It was about that time he realized I was being serious and we probably should get to the hospital sooner, rather than later.  I think he was expecting another anxiety attack.  Instead what we got was my worse labor yet.  Everyone told me the third was going to be the easiest. My body would know what to do since it had done it all before.  That’s a crock of crap. I was so tired 20 hours in.  So very, very tired by that second day of labor pains. I broke down multiple times.  Got an epidural twice to try and sleep.  It didn’t take on the left side.  Either time.  The pitocin started pumping.  There was no sleep for me, just the same numbers over and over again as I counted down to the next contraction.  When it finally came time to push a full thirty some odd hours after I had begun, her head was so big she fractured my pelvis on the way out.  

You want to talk pain.

It’s called Delivery Amnesia.  I’m pretty sure it’s a medical term.  The ability to forget all the pain of labor and delivery once that baby is in your arms.  All those hormones kick in and you float blissfully along, forgetting how difficult all those hours really were.  I can embrace the title of wimp.  If wimpy is telling someone the truth of what they really can expect.  If wimpy is deciding I needed drugs to get through.  If wimpy means I won’t point fingers at the way other’s decide to birth their children.  Every labor is different, every woman is different.  I would never call another woman a wimp for the choices she makes.  If a woman feels that doing labor naturally makes her tougher, or somehow more badass than a woman who chooses the epidural- well I’m here to tell you honey.  It doesn’t.  I don’t think any woman should have to apologize to others, or herself, for decisions made under duress.  The woman that told you how easy it was, the woman who called me a wimp, she’s forgotten.  She has the amnesia.  And when the time comes, and things inevitably don’t go the way you planned them, try and remember a child just came out of your body.  A living, breathing human being.  You are incredible, and powerful, and you make miracles happen.  You don’t need to apologize for anything.

Mothers are made strong.  We have to be, because delivery is only the beginning.  Mother’s can handle knowing the truth of what labor will be.  Please stop with the sugar coating.  

Mizthang247 you can call me a wimp, but you better step off your pedestal.

And my pregger friend, know it’s going to be hard.  Go into labor knowing that things will most likely not go according to any birth plan you may have spent hours working on.  Go in with an open mind, and God bless, everything will be just fine.

-Laura

A few of my favorite things. . .

There are two traditions in our house that aren’t quite as fun as say, riding the Christmas light train, two days of candy making, or downtown's Christmas in the Park.

The first is our annual Long clean out (see the intended pun)- the weekend after Christmas, a date with a big dumpster, and two days of beginning the year on a clean slate.  I love going into the New Year fresh, organized, and energized but. . .

I hate New Year's resolutions.  This is my second annual tradition.  I do not do a “resolution list.”  Goals are fine, but writing down what I want to accomplish over the year can seem a bit overwhelming, and let’s not even mention how ridiculous most of my resolutions can sound on paper (Bungee jumping in Africa anyone?).  Instead I do something called “my New Year's reflections.”  I remember all of my tiny accomplishments throughout the year.  I flip through facebook, my journals, my writings, and soak it all in.  This years reflections began a little early as I sat down to write one of my last blog posts of the year.  It led me to how grateful I am for a number of other bloggers, people who inspire, uplift, and flat out make me laugh.   So I thought, because we’re so close to the holiday, I would steal a line from one of my favorite musicals, The Sound of Music, and give you a few of my favorite things (the blog edition). . .

My favorite. . .

Recipes Our Best Bites

Magazine (where I’m constantly finding new blogs to read) Barrel of Blogs

Voyeuristic addiction Venus/Mars

Vintage style Amy Morby

Book giveaways Inspired Kathy

Literary laughs Bookshelves of Doom

Snark The Bingham Diaries

Blog post video of the year (Tracy is no longer blogging, but this made me seriously, out loud, laugh) http://tracynjorgensen.blogspot.com/2011/07/episode-2-dagger-hair-cut.html

And quizzes Stacy's Books

Please feel free to add to my list in the comments below (your own blog or someone else's).  The only thing better than reading blogs is discovering new ones.

Happy Holidays ya'll!

-Laura

Never let them see you rant. . .

Did you miss me? 

Oh.  Didn’t notice I was gone huh.  Well I forgive you, Thanksgiving was hard on me.  Trying to exceed my own expectations for a perfect holiday and all that crap.  Was anyone else as annoyed as I was by all the thankfulness filling up the facebook walls?  I mean there’s only so much “I’m so grateful for my husband” one person can take.  I was feeling a bit bah humbug about the whole thing until I began compiling my own list.  It went a little something like this.

I'm grateful for Bowel Movements.  I am grateful for laxatives.  I am grateful all of my children can usually make it to the potty before they need to “go.”

I'm most grateful for disposable diapers.  And baby wipes.  And Clorox disinfectant  wipes.  

I'm grateful for Diet Coke and Tylenol.  My breakfast of champions.

I'm grateful for Netflix streaming, especially when my daughter wakes at 2am and WON’T GO BACK TO SLEEP.  

I'm grateful I can sleep through Yo Gabba Gabba.

I'm grateful my husband has class until really late Thursday nights.  Because sometimes (sometimes) I really enjoy having the house to myself after the kids have gone to bed.

I'm grateful my husband is a gearhead.  I don’t care about tripping over the alternator in the yard.  Or the brake parts on top of my washer.  The V-8 engine my husband insisted on buying, will allow me to cut in front of that stupid hybrid Prius driving 50 on the freeway (no offense Prius drivers).

I'm grateful for a giant, fast, intimidating cars.  Even if it does feel like a bus every once in a while.

I'm grateful for grumpy friends.  And sarcastic ones.  And snide comments made under their breath. I am grateful for how real they are with me.

I'm grateful for bad weather.  For the excuse to leave my kids in jammies all day and watch tv and eat cookies for breakfast.  

Most of all I am grateful to you, blog reader.  I am grateful you are still reading this little rant because I would have stopped after the word poop.

You are still reading, aren’t you?  I had to let this list out.  All this snark inside me was just aching to go on facebook.  I don’t know how many times I’ve logged on to see someone gush about how wonderful their husband is, or how grateful they are for a job, blah, blah, blah.   All the while I feel like I’m trying to (barely) hold on to some semblance of this holiday season spirit.

And yes, nothing like a little snark to make the holiday season that much more. . .genuine.

What are you truly grateful for this month?  Let it out here. . .I promise not to tell.

-Laura

A beat of my own

The first time I heard Lady Gaga, I was standing in the grocery store debating if I could substitute couscous for quinoa (you can), when Paparazzi came on over the speakers. I stood there humming the catchy beat when my husband came up behind me and grabbed a box of plain rice.

"Why can’t we just have this?" he asked.

Ignoring him, I asked if he knew who sang the song pumping over the loudspeakers.

"You mean Lady Gaga?" He asked in mild disbelief.

"Lady Gaga," I said, "I think I’ve heard of her."

"Of course you’ve heard of her, Laura! She’s ridiculously famous. She even has a muzac track," he said, pointing to the ceiling. He shook his head and laughed, before grabbing another box of rice.

Later I related this story to my friend Ju, letting her know how I discovered this really good “new” artist named Lady Gaga. Like my husband, she laughed at me, before informing me I was way out of the loop when it came to music. Even she had heard of Lady Gaga.

I give you this example of my own cultural stupidity, because a month ago I received a request from a blogger for my book Founder's, "soundtrack.”

"Soundtrack?" I thought, "What the heck is that?" It turns out most authors, what seems like every author, is inspired by music. They listen to music as they write, and their characters all have their own style of music.

Apparently this should have been an easy thing to do, but all l I could think was,

When did this become a thing?

I did more research. I read blog posts from other authors about their own soundtracks, and I began to feel more than a little overwhelmed.

I don’t think Laurie Berkner was going to cut it for this one (and let's be honest, Laurie Berkner rocks- my kids sing "We are the Dinosaurs" in their sleep). Could I get away with mixing The Bangles, AC/DC, and The Doors? The last album I purchased was the soundtrack to Tangled, which is what I still stand by as, a “new release.”

Even now while I’m typing this, the theme song is pumping from my children’s princess karaoke machine.

I’m simply not inspired by music. I sing (barely). I dance (when necessary). I listen to. . .nothing usually. I like the sound of silence. You really learn to appreciate quiet when you’ve grown up in a huge family and now live with three incredibly rambunctious kids. Don’t get me wrong, I have my favorite songs- I think music can be uplifting or enforce whatever mood I’m in. But I’m much more likely to be caught listening to an audiobook, then listening to some top forty hit.

I began feeling very alone in this feeling, so I called my friend Liz to discuss my problem.

My friend Liz, musical encyclopedia, equally horrified that I had never heard of Lady Gaga.

I handed over my iphone and she filled it with what I needed. Current music in every genre she thinks I would enjoy.

David Guetta, for the gym.

Grace Potter, for my car.

Adele, for my home.

For the next week I felt like I was surrounded in a music bubble, earpiece surgically connected to one ear as I concentrated on my characters and pieced it all together. My head throbbed with lyrics, my iPhone shuffling through different playlists. I visited the land of Pandora and had a brief relationship with Spotify. Then finally, finally I made something up and sent it off. Proud of myself for accomplishing the impossible.

Now I’m back to normal, and I wonder- Am I really so alone? I find the rhythm distracting when I write, especially when my characters need to have their own voices. I don’t understand why anyone would need a soundtrack to their book.

But. . .what do you think? Do you listen to music while you type?

And what do you listen to?

Weight of the word. . .umm, world. . .

Oh writers guilt. My WIP. Don’t you love those initials? A little too close to RIP, if you know what I mean. I haven’t touched mine in over two weeks. . . Okay, maybe three. The guilt is starting to nag, and normally I wouldn’t harbor any of it. But lately it’s starting to grow a little heavy on my shoulders.

While I was growing up my mother would receive letters from her mother. She called them her guilt letters. In my teenage years she began sharing them with me (once I could understand what sarcasm was). They were fIlled with the “you never visits,” and, “I never hear from you’s.” But not so obviously that you could spot them easily. They had to be read out loud with my Mom’s affected voice and little jabs. We would all laugh and then my mother would feel obligated to call my grandmother and force us on the phone to speak with her. You may think I’m being terrible, but my grandmother was not a nice lady, and these conversations were pure torture to us. Her letters might have been funny, but her conversation verged on down right mean.

We would get off the phone and my mom would have us discuss what we talked about. She would diffuse any ill feelings toward my grandmother with laughs, and manage to turn it all into a big joke for us. I look back on these conversations in amazement, my mom turned what should have been guilt, into something funny. She turned what should have been hurtful, into something we could laugh about. She taught me a valuable lesson with those letters. What we do, can be enough, and what we don’t do, can be enough too.

But sometimes it feels as if it’s never enough, what we do. Especially as Moms. Especially as Writers.

I’ve been thinking a lot about this as what Ranee affectionately calls NaNo Momo is approaching. I have never participated because I find the whole idea guilt inducing. I don’t write well under pressure. I set time aside when I can, to let the ideas form and flow organically. I can look at other writers and appreciate that they can do this. That they can participate in something so challenging. I will not feel guilty about not being able to join them. My first draft of my second WIP is almost done and then I begin the edits.

Maybe I can NaNo the edits.

Maybe not.

With my first book I remember the point where I had to decide to publish. My arrow hovered over the Amazon button. Excitement may have been at the forefront of my consciousness, but guilt colored the edges. At some point you have to look at a manuscript and say, “It’s enough. I’ve done enough.”

I studied fine art in college, and it’s the same in painting, there comes a certain point where you have to stop creating. If you continue to work on a painting after it should be complete, it crosses the line into bad. There’s no going back in art, so at least in writing you can backspace, you can “undo.” There was a manuscript I was asked to crit for a friend, which has never been published and is probably languishing under a bed somewhere. She is a very talented writer, but she had disguised the plot with too much. Too much description, too much language. I began writing strip all over the pages until I began feeling dirty. Part of your job as a writer is to allow your reader to imagine the situation for themselves. You give them just enough to put them there, so they can draw from their own experiences to finish the scene. I believe wholeheartedly in allowing a reader to use their imagination. It’s why movies never quite live up to our expectations. We’ve already interpreted the book with our own imaginations. My Harry Potter is different from your Harry Potter because his image is influenced by my own influences. So in balancing our life as writers and as mothers, it’s okay to do just enough. Sometimes too much is bad, sometimes the people and the writing in your life, need space. You don’t have to give 100% all the time. Release the guilt, allow others to pick up some of the slack. I have to remember that even if I’m giving 100% of my time to my children, I’m still not going to live up to the idea of what I think a perfect mother should be. So while I’m writing, I can give them my minimum- and they will be okay. And when I’m being a mommy, I can put my writing on the back-burner, and it will be okay too. I can say that it is enough, what I have done. Because I have to accept the things I can not change. I will accept the things I don’t want to change.

And I don’t have to feel guilty about it.

Good luck my Nano-momo gals, I look forward to the updates!

So you’re like famous, right?

I am in the middle of a full swing blog tour right now. Somehow, in the minds of all that know me, this equates to selling thousands of books. I almost titled this blog post misconceptions of the indie kind, because basically that’s what this is.

A funny thing happens when you put a book out there for the world to see.

Everyone suddenly believes that you are instantaneously, and without any effort, famous.

And of course if I’m famous, I’m obviously suddenly wealthy as well.

I’m an indie author, self published, but I have to believe this happens to anyone who has every published a book. Traditionally or otherwise. It can’t just be my friends and acquaintances, that are this misguided and silly.

Right?!?

Inevitably I respond to their question with a question of my own, “Well. . . have you read my book?

This is generally followed by stuttering, a sheepish look, and barely coherent muttering to the tune of, “I’ve been meaning to get to it. . . .”

“So if you haven't read my book, and you are my friend, what could possibly give you the impression that anyone else has read it?”

Mind you, this probably isn’t the nicest response to someone who honestly means well, and wishes me all the success in the world. But it makes me want to scream.

Every. Single. Time.

"I am not famous! I barely make enough each month to cover date nights with my husband! This is some gosh darn hard work!"

So please, bite your tongue next time you feel like asking me if I'm famous yet.

I’m pushing a giant boulder up a mighty big hill.

A mountain really, with a peak I can’t even see.

How do you really think it’s going?

I'm not famous, but I’m surviving, I’m pushing, I’m struggling, and I’m writing.

So I guess you could say it’s going well enough.

-Laura

(Shameless plug here, but if you'd like to follow my blog tour you can connect through my website at www.lmlong.net)

Embracing the Embarrassing

I was cleaning my bookshelf the other day and I found something.

Something embarrassing.

And you know you all have one.

A book that’s missing it’s cover and all of chapter nineteen.

Because you’ve read it so many times.

And it’s not War and Peace we’re talking about.

It’s the book that embarrasses you. That trashy novel sandwiched amongst the Jane Eyre’s, the tomes of Dostoevsky, the Herman Melville. You placed it there in the hopes of great literature elevating the commercialism of the tiny paperback squished in between them.

Okay, not really. It’s hidden there because not one person has touched that collection of Shakespeare since sophomore year of college.

So no one will notice it.

The embarrassing book.

I found mine last week and immediately sat on my rump and started reading. I thought this experience might be different. I thought I would have a different perspective. A more mature perspective. I’m so different from the person who once loved this book.

I read it in one sitting.

I can tell you it’s not long, and it really is missing all of chapter nineteen, but those are excuses for why I really couldn’t put it down. The real answer lies in what I did after I finished the last sentence. I closed the worn out paperback pages and sighed. It was every bit as good as I remembered. As trashy and fantastic and romantic, as I remembered. Then I wondered.

What does reading (and don’t forget enjoying) this book say about me?

I’m thirty plus years old now. I have three kids. I aspire to read better things. Enlightening, open my eyes to the world, make myself a better person, things.

I recently read a great article about reading what you write here.

Did you click the link? I never click the link, so instead I’ll sum it up for you. Basically Julie Cross makes the argument for reading the genre you’re writing for. It was great and I completely agree with her. I read a lot of Young Adult. Not simply because I write Young Adult, but because I LOVE Young Adult. My embarrassing book is a Young Adult novel. It transports me to a place in my life that was full of possibilities. I had so many adventures, and fresh eyes that greeted each day with excitement. The whole world was opening up to me with endless decisions, and angst, and ideas. When I read my embarrassing book, it’s like reclaiming a little bit of myself back. It’s remembering that the sometimes drudgery of being a mother is only temporary. It's remembering deep inside me there is this fun loving, every moment life living, person still existing. This isn’t saying I would want to go back to my late teens, or early twenties. I love being a mom, and I love how the experiences of my teens and twenties have influenced the person I am today. But I love writing the Young Adult genre. I love being reminded of who I once was, and what is still within me.

So I moved my embarrassing book to a place where it would feel more comfortable, nestled between the Ally Condie's and the Shannon Hale's. I won’t be embarrassed by it anymore, because I was that person. I am that person.

And I can own it.

-Laura

Celebrating Moments of Mediocrity

I’ve been pooped on a time or two.

My youngest daughter has now ventured into the world of potty training. I’ve psyched myself up for success! Something better than failure! I speak in lots of exclamation points!

Each time I think it’s going to get easier (if you’re wondering. . .it doesn’t). Kids will still have accidents. They will still shed their diaper in the middle of the hallway and cop a squat.

On purpose.

But every time she makes it to the bathroom,

and poops on the potty,

and manages to wipe herself properly,

and it ends up in the toilet bowl,

and then earns her potty sticker-

I do a little victory dance. Shuffle my feet, and wave my hands in the air. One step closer. One more tiny movement in the way to a successfully potty trained child. Pun intended.

I’ve been thinking about discouragement this last week. How we can allow our thoughts of inadequacy to overwhelm our overall purpose. How it’s important to celebrate our successes as we move forward- no matter how minor they may be.

I don’t have to sell a million copies of my book to feel successful.

I only have to write another thousand words. I only have to write my three emails for the day. I only have to sell one more copy of my book.

I am already successful for accomplishing that much.

Mommy writers make great writers, and I think it’s because we see the momentary setbacks in our writing process, aren’t a factor in our overall success. We don’t allow the occasional “crappy” day to damage our self worth as a parent, or as a writer.

So write today, and then do a little potty dance. I guarantee you’ll feel better.

-Laura

MBA

Not Master of Business Administration but rather, My Best Advice.

I was going to sugarcoat this post in analogies. I had this really great one about being a new mom and listening to all the well meaning advice of ladies that haven’t birthed a baby since. . .

Instead I’m going to be straight up today.

People always ask authors, “What’s the best advice you could give an aspiring writer?” The inevitable answer is “write every day,” or “write what you know.”

Fantastic answers.

You should be doing that.

But what is my best advice? Well you thought writing the book was the difficult part? Editing your books? I’m here to tell you that’s the tip of the sinking-of-the-titanic iceberg.

There is a book published every ten seconds. Ten. Seconds. How do you stand out in the crowd?

This is what I wish someone had told me, before I hit the publish button.

Start marketing yourself. Now. Your RSS feed should be your best friend. Facebook. Twitter. Goodreads. Don’t have a blog? Get one. Then start making connections, because those are the people who are going to buy your book. Face reality immediately and realize you are not going to be Stephenie Meyer. You will be lucky to even get a publishing contract. And that publishing contract will not come with a media frenzy. You will have to create it yourself. This is how you can begin.

Get a blog. Blogger and wordpress are the two best services for beginners. My website was done through wordpress.org, because I know how to write code. I love you all, but please don’t write me with wordpress questions. That is what google is for.

After you have a kicking blog, start finding other kicking blogs. Focus on book review sites. Start adding them to a feed reader, and making meaningful comments on posts. They love followers. I have approximately 1100 blogs in my feed reader. That is not a typo. Eleven hundred. They are split into all sorts of folders depending on the type of site they are. I try and spend an hour each day going through them quickly, and commenting on at least three of them. It’s easiest to do this if you have a smartphone and can read while the kids are at swim lessons, waiting in the carpool line, etc. Read the review policies and see if they allow guest posts. I have a spreadsheet of review sites that allow indie reviews.

Most sites will have a twitter button. Click on it to follow them on twitter. Then make it a point to write them a note about why you’re following them on twitter. Something like, “Just started following @abc’s reviews because they’re so insightful and you should totally follow too!” include a link to their site.

If they have a goodreads account, follow their reviews. Start posting your own reviews of books they’re reading, and start commenting. Goodreads is the single greatest social media site for authors. Take advantage of it now, before your book is published, and before you might be seen as having ulterior motives.

I don’t think I can stress the importance of this enough. Get networking, start building your name brand before you’re even finished with your first novel, it’s much harder to do once your book is out.

I’d love to hear from some of you- how do you network yourself?