Here's what I like about going to Wyoming with my mother

We'll see cousin Ava who's 91 but still interested enough to read books with shirtless guys on the covers. AWESOME. Maybe we'll eat lunch with her at the Senior Citizen's Center where she'll talk circles around people half her age. I'll ask if she has another trip to Wendover planned any time soon.

Ava makes turning 90 look fun.

As per Lisa B's suggestions

I will give a goal update. Today I did, in fact, work on the picture book AND the mystery. A little bit anyway. Then I had to write a talk which I delivered this evening. Hopefully I'll get to the YA thing tomorrow.

Also tomorrow! My mom (aka "the Rodeo Queen") and I are driving to Wyoming to see her people in Big Piney. Then we'll stay overnight in an awesome cabinette in Pinedale and drive home on Wednesday. Looking forward to the conversation.

For your consideration--a few goals for the month of July

1. Write one picture book rough draft every week.
2. Write at least 250 words daily on the mystery M-F.
3. Free-write (bad) poetry as a way to access possible YA mystery M-F. (Sounds weird, but I do have a plan here.)
4. Write a query letter for a magazine article.
5. Write the column once a week.

Okay. We'll see where that takes us.

And btw it's such a pleasure to read your responses. You inspire me.

Thinking about Radagast's question yesterday

Which was, if you'll recall, why do I want to write.

And here's the deal. I had to think about it. Which surprises me. It seems like I should have a ready answer for that.

WARNING: LONG POST TO FOLLOW. FEEL FREE TO SHUT THIS DOWN NOW AND TURN ON THE 10:00 NEWS.

If you were to ask my mother why I write, she'd say, "Because my daughter has to." I love it when she says that, because it's kind of cinematic. Like, I could be in a Gene Kelly movie shouting GOTTA SING! GOTTA DANCE! ALSO, GOTTA WRITE WHILE I'M AT IT! (One of the things I love best about my mother, incidentally, is her flair for the dramatic.)

But really I don't feel that way about myself. After spending hours (and hours) (and more hours) writing a piece about Emma Lou Thayne for the Trib, I feel like she's one of those people. Pen and paper are always nearby for her. She really HAS to write in the same way she has to breathe or eat. Me, on the other hand? I can easily go for weeks w/o writing. But not eating. As we all know.

I always make my way back to the writing thing, though. I feel . . . obligated to do it somehow.

In the end, I think I write because when I write I understand how I experience the world. I also write because I like to connect with an audience. And finally I like the feel of words and how you can make something out of them the same way you turn yarn into socks.

BTW Radagast is an awesome poet. I thought I should just tell you.

Whatcha whatcha whatcha want?

I (and the Beastie Boys) have been busy asking myself that question lately. Hey, thanks for your interest, Beastie Boys! You guys are awesome!

Anyway. I've especially asked this question in regards to my writing life lately, and of course there are some things that immediately jump to mind. A lovely three-book contract with lots of money involved and also a movie deal on the side. NOT TOO SHABBY.

But that's just dreaming. And the truth is all that might not make me as happy as I think it would, although I would love to buy a new dress for opening night. So what do I really want? That I have actual control over?

The writing part, probably. I can do that. I think I'll use the next few days to set some goals, and that will feel fine.

Letdown City

Well, we're back from it all. SF. The beach. The Fourth. And I'm trying to battle the inevitable letdown that happens after holidays. What's the solution? Banning holidays? Right now I'm almost tempted. NO MORE FUN, PEOPLE. Because when the fun stops, it's just not . . . fun.

Sorry. Give me an hour or two, a Dr. Pepper or two, and I'll snap out of it.

Rogue Waves

It's our last full day on the beach, so I woke up in a melancholy mood. This can't go on. I probably wouldn't like it if it did. But somehow I still want it to.

I've been thinking a lot of my grandmother this morning. She used to sit on the deck here wearing her floppy yellow hat and watch the waves. "They say the seventh wave is the dangerous wave," she'd say. I'd roll my eyes because my grandmother was given to odd pronouncements at times. "If you eat beets, you'll have rosy cheeks like Jackie Kennedy," for example. Or "If you put vinegar on your food, it'll melt the calories." So of course when she'd start up with the rogue wave thing, I'd always say, "Yes, but how do you know when to start counting . . . "

Still, this morning as I took my solitary stroll on the shoreline, watching the brown pelicans dive bomb into the water, I found myself looking for that seventh wave. And for the shades of our old selves left behind here.