How Not to Revise

This monsoon season has been a tease. The clouds loom, promising rain, and then evaporate. I watch it on the weather radar - the greens condensing, flashing orange and red - and then it dissolves away again.

As I mentioned yesterday, I've been in revision mode, refining The Body Gift. Actually, now that I think about it, I've been in revising/editing mode for quite some time now. Between revising Obsidian for a revise & resubmit, working on developmental,, line and copy edits for Sapphire and Feeding the Vampire, and now adding to TBG to send to this agent, I haven't done any real drafting since March.

Sure, some of this has involved adding new words, but really, working on a story that's already *there* is a different process.

You know how sculptors (it might be a specific one, but I forget who and I'm feeling too lazy to try to find it) say that sculpting is carving away the extra stone, to find the shape that already exists within? (Maybe it was Michelangelo?) I've always loved this idea. This is how writing and revising often works for me.

Once a draft is complete and the story is pretty much *there* (this is a technical word I've used twice now. feel free to borrow, but use carefully - it's a powerful term), it's like a block of marble. Maybe it's like a rough outline. Or like the horrible, globulous beings that are what remains of people when the transporter malfunctions. Kind of shaped like something, but not really discernible. Not alive, for sure.

I think it works this way for me because I don't really plan my stories. It's more like I download big chunks from elsewhere. Unlike A.S. Byatt, however, I don't get mine in perfect dictation. So there I am, with my amorphous thing, that has some really lovely bits and some pretty damn icky ones. That's when I begin carving.

Revision is an acquired skill, I believe. It takes care and judgment. You have to be brave enough to knock off big pieces that must go, but also patient enough to do the detail work. Over and over, you have to step back and see how you're doing. It takes objectivity and precision.

And, oh yes, you can ruin it. I truly believe that.

There comes a point where, instead of refining and polishing, you're hacking it to bits. Sure, with writing, you can always add it back in. This is the advantage the writer has over a sculptor who accidentally whacks off the nose. The story, however, that brilliantly alive creature, can slowly suffocate, wither away and die if pummeled too much. You're left with a corpse. Maybe a pretty corpse, but a dead body nonetheless.

I know no one wants to hear this. We all want to believe that, with enough crit, enough time and dedication, we can make the book PERFECT. Maybe a truly practiced writer can. But, just as with sculpting, it takes skill and experience.

This is what I'm learning about revising: it's important to keep the final image in mind.

We all start with a seminal image or idea. That changes as we go along. But, at some point in the process, (yes, yes, I know you pre-plotters claim you know it before you even start writing) you have to decide on what you want it to look like when you're done. All revising should be directed to that idea. Don't get halfway through polishing your Running Dog sculpture and then think, hey! a Running Cat would be way cool! Write down the Running Cat idea and go back to working on the DOG.

Having editorial notes helps with this, because you can keep going back to the line where your editor says "do this." I've started keeping a list of what I'm revising towards. To remind myself of that final image.

I imagine that few sculptors create a perfect sculpture on their first try. This is why most writers I know have at least one novel under the bed, maybe several. Those are the corpses.

Like clouds promising rain, sometimes they don't produce.

May they rest in peace.

Drop Me a Line Sometime

David asked me to stop at the grocery store after the gym this morning.

This is easy to do, because the gym is just up the road and the grocery store is right across the street. On my weight-lifting days, David usually stays home and does his own work-out. Apparently shapely thighs are not a high-priority for him.

Go figure.

Oh! And many of you have asked why there haven't been Crazy Gym Lady stories lately. At first I stopped telling them, because I thought it wasn't healthy to take notes on how much she irritated me, just so I could regale you on the blog. Then she got fired. Yes, she did! There has been much rejoicing in Mudville ever since. Incredible difference for us. We go to the gym, work out, nobody bugs us, we leave. Ah, blessed peace.

At any rate, this morning I paid my dues to the Gods of Shapely Thighs, then stopped at the grocery store. This woman was walking in who looked very familiar. This is our local store and we've been here two years, so a lot of people are looking familiar now. I knew she was out of context, wearing a shapely black skirt and jacket. But she's very tall with tousled curly hair that's quite distinctive. So I'm studying her as she walks in, trying to place her. She stops, just inside the door, at the greeting card carousel and starts flipping through them, frowning.

In trying to place her, I'm thinking she usually looks relaxed and happy. This morning, she was anxious, stressed. It was a bit after 7 and she looked like she would be heading into town, but had to stop to buy a card first. As I did my shopping, I thought about who the card might be for and how pleased they would be to get it. Or she was dressed to attend a funeral and the card would be for sympathy and would likely make the person weepy to read it.

Regardless, whoever gets that card likely never will think about the effort it took for my familiar lady to stop, pick one out and buy it on the way into town. A matter of minutes, but it cost her a bit of stress.

People in our lives do so many things for us, large and small, daily and annually. Some we expect. Some we don't. But they all feed into the vast blood supply that supports and nurtures us.

I'm giving a bit of thought to that today.

Wild Kingdom

Not the moon, but the sun, seen through the smoke haze at about 7pm.

Today we have some video treats from the wildlife camera. It's not lions, tigers and bears, but these are some of our daily visitors.



This is a Towhee. They're very friendly, happy birds. They love to get inside of things. If you open the garage door, they fly right in. They get inside the Jeep when we have the bikini top on it. Funny little birds.

The rock squirrel is what David really wanted to get on film. They're difficult to photograph because they're fast and suspicious. You can see this one watching the camera. We think they have babies because it looks like this one is filling up its jowls with water, to take back to the nest.

This looks like just a bit of Towhee, but if you wait for the 5 second mark and watch the upper right quadrant, you'll see a lizard go by *really* fast.
Leezard!

Dreading the Banal Finale

The first blossoms of spring!

So, never mind about devastating earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan, let me tell you about my fingernail. Fair warning, this is frivolous and silly.

From the Department of Banal Details About My Life, here is Exhibit A:

Okay, it's the only exhibit. But see how my social finger has that big white mark? It's harder to see the bruise around it. Hey - it's really hard to take a photograph of your own right hand when you're right-handed. Anyhoo, that white stuff is my fingernail splintering apart due to the damaged nail bed around it.

Back around Christmas I injured that finger. I thought about making up a story here, about how I was snatching an orphan, or perhaps a kitten, from the path of an oncoming train. But I couldn't tweak the plot enough where I ended up with only a pinched finger instead of a severed limb.

So, okay, maybe I was luxuriating on my mom and Dave's fab patio in Tucson and reached back to adjust my lounge chair and caught my finger in the mechanism. I didn't spill my drink, but it *really* hurt.

Look - I told you this wasn't on the scale of 88,000 people missing in Japan.

The blood blister and bruising at the base of the nail healed in a few days, but I've watched this fault in my nail move bit by bit towards the tip of my finger over the last two months. I know when it reaches near where the nail bed ends, my nail will break, probably well below the quick.

I've been keeping nail polish on it, to fortify the strength of the nail. Now, I am not the kind of gal who keeps her nails polished. Special occasions, sure. In college, I used to go around saying "Show me a woman with a perfect manicure and I'll show you a woman with a lot of time on her hands."

Yeah, I didn't have a lot of friends.

I put polish on again last night, after I took this pic - which is why I didn't retake it for better focus. All you'd see is pink. But I can feel the instability on that side of the nail.

It's like this slow-motion mini-disaster. The tension builds over two months, reaching back to the moment of that initial injury, foreshadowing the ultimate breakdown. Now, finally, after following this story for weeks, I'm reaching the end and I'm dreading the finale. The blood, the shredded nail. How I'll have to walk around with my social finger sticking out so that it won't catch on things.

Maybe that part will be kind of fun.

Ducklings

This morning we hit -20F. Our little adobe house isn't meant for these temperatures, but we've gotten by just fine.

I find myself worrying about the birds and the wild animals.

It's silly, I know. I should worry about the homeless people. About the poor living in poorly heated places and the kids going to school with too-thin jackets. But I have this thing where I fret about the animals. I wonder how the birds make it through the night and I'm relieved to see them in the morning, puffed up with indignation against the cold, clustering around the feeder. They know how to make it through the night.

It's not like I can do anything to save them anyway.

Another feature of the Las Vegas strip are the rows of people handing out the little cards advertising the hookers. They have this technique where they pop the cards against each other, making loud clicks that draw your attention and they hand you the card. You have to get good at tuning out the sound - and the row of dour-faced men offering the cards - or you never get anywhere.

They mostly tried to hand them to David, though they'd give 'em to me, too, if I let them. As we walked down by the Mirage, enjoying the warm sunshine, I asked David what was on the cards. I'd so carefully not looked at them, that I then wondered. Pictures of girls, he told me.

We stopped by the fountains at the Mirage to admire the many kinds of palm trees in their landscaping. What? We like palm trees. Paddling around in the water was a duck and two very new ducklings. David was surprised they'd hatched in January. Some tourist guys tossed bread at the ducks, laughing as the little things tried to gobble the stuff down.

I confess I fretted about them. Did they hide when Mirage does its volcano effects? Would some idiot feed them something poisonous or try to play with them? I blew out my breath and let it go. The ducklings lived before I knew about them and I can't sweep in and save them anyway.

As we got near our hotel, David started accepting the girlie cards. Like a wave, the grim-faces turned to smiles and the guys happily handed him cards. Within seconds he had a handful. I asked why he started taking them and he said "I thought you wanted to see them."

So, we drank wine in our pretty hotel room, watched the sunset and flipped through the nearly 50 cards he'd acquired in the course of crossing the street. We talked about which girls were pretty and which poses looked sexy and which not. Then one card caught my eye. Kari, thin, red-head pale and with a glassy-eyed, lost look on her face.

"She looks way too young to me," I commented.

David took the card from me. "She looks strung out on drugs, is what she looks like."

She probably is. And she might be legal and she might not. I wondered where in all that tumult of noise and lights she might be. And I realized I fretted about her like I worried about the ducklings. There's something about the small, the young and the weak dealing with a frequently harsh world that tears a little piece from my heart.

I meant to save Kari's card. David threw them all away and I formed the idea that I should write about this and go dig the little card out of the trash. I could scan in her picture and tell this story. I fantasized that someone would recognize her, save her, perhaps. Then we checked out before dawn and I forgot in the flurry.

In the end, I suppose, as for all of us, it will be up to her to save herself. As it's up to the birds to survive the cold snap and the ducklings to enjoy their bit of tropical paradise and avoid the dangers.

Still I remember Kari's face and send hopeful thoughts her way.

Everybody Has One

I thought about posting snow pictures, but with an arctic storm covering 2/3 of the country, I figure we pretty much know what snow looks like by now. It's a very chilly -6 in Santa Fe this morning. Very cold for us!

The other day on Twitter, an aspiring writer mentioned that she finally saw Avatar. She noted that the plot was weak, but the special effects were good.

This irritated me.

Avatar may be many things that one wouldn't like in a movie. The 3-D thing gives a lot of people headaches. You could say the plot is a recapitulation of many other stories. You could be a biologist like me, and pick apart whether the whole "plug-into-each-other" neurophysiology is at all feasible.

Yeah - biologists can geek out, too.

But don't go around saying the plot is weak. The plot of Avatar is classic. It runs like clockwork in the movie. It hits every emotional note perfectly and plays into a number of classic themes. Sure it feels cliché in places. You know the saying that things become cliché because they're true? Exactly.

It's really the perfect plot.

Now, I understand if a writer's aspirations are not to write a story with a classic plot line. Stars above know I'm terrible at sticking to a classic plot line. But it would be foolish of me not to recognize a strong plot when I see one. That's part of knowing my craft. If I were to pick apart the craft in writing the Avatar screenplay, I'd likely go for characterization. The characters are arguably not complex or well-rounded. They have simple, strong motivations. They are there to drive the plot, not to reveal the subtle nuances of human nature.

This reminds me of my brief stint teaching writing at a local community college. I should say straight out that I don't think I'm a very good teacher. Patience has never been my forte. I like teaching writing workshops just fine, because everyone is there to learn. I'm really quite terrible at convincing someone to learn when they don't want to.

Thus only one semester.

At any rate, I was given a syllabus and pre-determined reading list, which consisted mainly of Best American Short Stories from several years before. Now, we all recognize that the "best" is a matter of opinion. They're stories culled by mainly academic literary magazines from thousands of submissions, then nominated from a year's worth of issues by the editorial staff, whittled down by a group of newly graduated interns, usually from MFA programs, and finally chosen by a "celebrity" judge, Famous Writer Person. A lot of opinions in play there, with a very particular set of filters.

One of my students was terribly upset by one of the stories. No, I don't remember which one offhand and I don't think it matters. She pronounced the story garbage and said she could write something better. I pointed out that her strong emotional reaction indicated that the story had accomplished something powerful, even if she didn't enjoy reading it. She insisted that, no, it made her angry because it was so badly written. I tried to explain how many people had assessed this story. It might be many things, but badly written was not one of them. She finished with "that's my opinion and you have to respect that."

Well, okay.

Sure, everyone gets to have an opinion. We live in the age of easily shared opinions. For better or worse. What I did not say to her was, while I recognized her take on this story, that I didn't have to respect it. I didn't particularly enjoy the story either, but it wasn't valid to say it was garbage. An opinion based on nothing more than emotion is, well, just spewing.

I walked out of Avatar wishing I'd written that movie.

Not just because of the money, which would be lovely, but because of the reaction of the people around me. The movie had been out for months by the time I saw it and the theater was packed. We streamed out in a mob with people in tears, shouting, exclaiming, waving their hand. Rarely have I seen an audience so moved.

It's easy to disdain the successes. To cry pandering, to make snarky comments about the sparkly vampires or silly blue people. More difficult is to see what they did and how. To recognize why they touch people instead of complaining that people shouldn't have liked it.

That's my opinion, anyway.

Long Night Moon

Last night was the solstice moon, the Long Night Moon. And you also likely knew, unless you live under a rock, that there was a full lunar eclipse also.

No, I didn't get any photos of the eclipse. We had a fair amount of cloud cover last night. I got up at 12:45 to see, but to no avail. It's funny here - the clouds will lay low and flat over the top of us, but the horizons will be more or less clear.

So I caught the moon here, rising full on the longest night of the year.

And here she is again, over fourteen hours later, after a long, leisurely stroll across the sky and through the earth's shadow, to set into the pink of sunrise.

The long night is over. Now we turn our eyes to the east, and the first day in our steps towards summer again.

Looks pretty glorious to me.

Tao of Kitty

Bougainvillea from Thanksgiving in Tucson. No need for autumnal tradition there.

Every day my cat Isabel waits for her chance to go outside. It's her very favorite part of the day. She loves to stalk the birds, roll in the dirt sit in the sun. With these short days, she has to wait longer and longer to go out, because I won't let her until the sun is high enough that there are unlikely to be coyotes hiding in the shadows.

Fifteen minutes ago, just after 7, three coyotes trotted by. Well after sunrise, but the shadows are still long. Isabel wanders into my office, mewing with charm, coaxing me to let her out.

Not yet.

Because it's colder now, and sometimes blustery, she doesn't stay out long. She's spoilt with me working at home. Ten minutes after I let her out, she's outside my office window, asking to come in. I don't mind - it gets me out of my chair, after all. I've threatened to tweet every time I let her in and out, with cheerful encouragement to bring it on.

And they say Twitter has no real substance.

Every morning, though, Isabel seems to head out with supreme confidence and joy. Sometimes a cold gust will hit her and she'll crouch down, flattening her ears. Other mornings are still and she'll venture out with tail high, but come in sooner to warm up.

I wonder what she understands of the seasons. Does she have a sense that we're just heading into winter and that there will be a long cycle of cold before her hot summer days return? Perhaps every day is new and immediate for her. She could be expecting to walk into flowers and heat any day now.

It's likely more that she has no expectations. If animals live in the moment, then things are what they are. Yet, I know she misses us when we're gone and she remembers good hunting spots. I watch her making the rounds of places she's caught mice and gophers in the past. From the moment the alarm goes off, she's prancing around, excited to start her day. I believe she understands past and future.

Some people say you should never let cats outside at all. That if you never do, they can't miss what they've never experienced. I'm not sure I believe this. The world is the natural habitat for all of us. We retreat to shelter, for warmth, for safety, but that's not where any of us belongs, cloistered for our entire lives.

So, I wait for the sun to get bright enough - not yet, and it's almost eight now - and I watch her go embrace the world for what it is.

I try to do the same.

Sister Sally and Brother Chuck

A very chilly 8 degrees frozen solid here today. Unusual for us. But then, even Tucson got a hard freeze.

Arctic air, paying us a visit. Just a little reminder that it can.

Besides, it's sunny and clear. Already the solar energy is warming the house.

I'm an only child, if you didn't know. My mom didn't really plan it that way. In fact, I'm sure she would have loved to have more children. But it took five years of trying for her to get pregnant with me and then my dad died when I was three. She was a widow for four years and, when she remarried, my stepfather didn't want more children.

(In many ways, he didn't really want even me, but he loved my mother and we were a package deal. Don't be sad - things got much better once I was an adult.)

At any rate, as a wildly imaginative kid who often played by herself, I enjoyed the company of many imaginary friends. One was a ghost I called Casper, along with a little girl in a red dress named Jill. I remember seeing them quite clearly. They were vividly present to me. Sometimes I wonder if imaginary friends aren't some kind of non-physical entities that small children have the non-busyness to talk to. Of course, there was also a magazine rack shaped like a cat that I remember told me stories when we lived at my grandparents after my dad died.

Fine lines, I suppose.

I never felt the lack of siblings, except that people were forever asking me if I minded not having them. People being grown-ups, of course. Other kids never asked me if I minded. In fact, they always said how lucky I was, usually when an older brother was tormenting them or a younger sib was being a pest. As I got older, nothing I saw in my friends' families made me think I was really missing out on the sibling experience.

Except that people kept on about it. People even sometimes hinted that I might have psychological problems because of it.

So, at one point, I invented a little sister. I couldn't see her as clearly, but she was short, bouncy, and had blond ringlets. I named her Sally. She was an ideal little sister because she was available to play or gaze at me in adoration, and also conveniently disappeared when I lost interest. She didn't last very long, but I do think of her, from time to time.

I thought of her a little while back, when my mom's friend, Jan, was dealing with her aging mother and all those awful decisions about nursing homes, etc. Jan, also an only child, said to my mom over drinks: "I keep wondering - where the hell is Chuck?" When my mom looked blank, Jan explained that Chuck was the brother she never had, the one who should be there to help her make those decisions.

My mom just got a new kitten. This sounds like not a big deal, but it is. Since her last cat died, over a year ago, she's gone without. For pretty much the first time in her adult life, she hasn't had a feline companion. So about a month ago, she finally went and got a rescue Main coon kitten.

And named her Sally.

It's significant, I suppose, because my mom had to take into account that it's possible Sally will outlive her. She asked me if I'd take her in, if it came to that. I said of course I would, though I don't like to think about that.

Sally is a bit skittish yet, from her traumatic start, but we played with her all of Thanksgiving. She became the main entertainment. By the end of our four-day visit, she'd let me rub her ears. But David won her heart by teaching her that couch pillows make great tunnels.

So, now I do have a little sister named Sally. One who lives in the immediacy of the moment, who forgets her fears in the spirit of play.

A lovely addition to our little family.

Hunters Moon

Our weather has finally turned. Gone are the hot, dry baking days.

The last week has been cool. All night long the rain pounds on our flat roof, a soothing sound that makes me want to tuck deeper into the warm covers.

I thought I might not catch the rising Hunters Moon, but then it crested the cloud banks over Tonto National Forest, in all its radiant glory.

We lead fortunate lives, that we don't worry about hunting for the winter. We may fret about paying the credit card bill or defaulting on the mortgage, but we aren't watching the descending long nights with trepidation, wondering if we've put enough food by to last all the way though deep winter and spring blizzards. We don't look at our children and wonder which won't be around for the next summer.

Perhaps worry is worry and the subject doesn't matter.

It's human nature, I suppose, to take the blessings for granted and focus on what we don't have. We angst about what people might think of us, whether we can win the lottery and get that million dollars, if that agent will request a full manuscript. It's not that these concerns aren't important. If they weren't meaningful to us, they wouldn't occupy our attention.

But we're not counting on the full moon to give us a little more light to hunt by either. Instead, it's just a beautiful orb, illuminating the night.

r-Factor

Yes, I know, what you've been thinking. That what this blog needs is more baby quail pictures!

Fortunately a quail family stopped by just in time yesterday afternoon to help us out. Mom and dad escorted something in the neighborhood of a dozen chicks to pick under the bird feeder. It's really impossible to count them, the way the little puffballs swirl and scatter. They really blend, too.

All gambits to increase survival for these little snack-sized portions.

The sheer number of chicks is, of course, one way that the quail ensure a few survive. Though the parents are also diligent in their care. In population biology, this is referred to as the r-factor. At one end of the spectrum is the capital R, with humans being the most extreme example. Very few young are produced, they are in a helpless state for a long time and require intensive parental investment to survive. On the other end are animals like insects, that birth thousands of offspring that are nearly mature at birth and receive no parental care at all. They're on their own.

The quail made me think of this, but the discussions on bullying have, too.

A friend I met on the first day of first grade, and who I knew through all of high school and now talk to on the interwebs, posted a letter to several of us on Facebook, thanking us for standing by her while she was bullied all those years. The thing is, I never knew she'd felt bullied. I understand from these stories that people are stepping forward to tell, that often the friends don't know, that the bullies attack when the victim is alone. And the victims of bullying rarely tell their friends or family how bad things are.

Now, I did know she was kind of a social outcast, but then, so was I. Neither of us were in with the popular girls. I had a particular pack of popular girls who liked to pick on me, but I was arrogant enough to be certain I was smarter than they were and I didn't hesitate to let them know it when they got going on me. My brand of self-defense. Also my way of protecting my self-confidence.

We don't like to think of ourselves in terms of population dynamics, but bullying really is the animal condition in action. All animals attack the weak or different. Albinos are expelled from the herd. Males that lose dominance battles become "losers." There are fascinating behavioral studies showing that, once an animal becomes a "loser" it can't win a dominance battle even against a smaller opponent. Only unless two "losers" compete against each other can one become a "winner." Interestingly, that "winner" can then go on to defeat opponents that defeated it before.

Of course, humans bring emotion and psychology into the mix. Thus the bullies are usually those who have been wounded themselves. And those they pick on aren't necessarily those whose presence weakens the herd, but those who are vulnerable to attack.

We feel like adults in those high school years, but we aren't. We're still maturing, under the care of our parents, though these are situations they can't protect us from.

I know there's not a clear answer. I like to think if I had known what my friend was going through, I would have stood up for her. Maybe it was enough that we were the friends that we were and that gave her some strength.

Sometimes I think it comes down to surviving until you're stronger. Hide from the hawks, the coyotes and bobcats until you're not quite such an enticing snack.

It does get better.

Catch a Falling Star and Put It in Your Pocket

We sit up on a hill, with Galisteo Basin and the densest part of Santa Fe below us. The dramatic reverse of heavy rain after weeks of baking sun, leads to fog the following morning. It flowed in rose-tinted waves at sunrise, up and out, back into the vast sky that brought it.

Apparently I'm in a poetic mood this morning.

I get that way sometimes, where I feel an upwelling of something inside, something sweet and bubbly, and I want to send it out into the world. It can take an odd form, depending on where I'm at.

I remember when I was young - maybe 8 or 9? - and we were on a field trip for school. This makes me think I was 8, because in 3rd grade I was in this experimental class where we spent a whole bunch of time traveling around Colorado learning history. I think it was intended to give us hands on stimulation. That was a strange time for me, because there were only two other 3rd graders in this class, a few 4th graders and a whole slew of 5th & 6th graders. We'd all been flagged as gifted or talented or perhaps just oddball. On bus trips, our teachers would have long division contests and kids who got the right answers received prizes. I always put up my hand and guessed answers, even though I had yet to learn multiplication tables, much less division. I always figured I had a shot of getting it right which, of course, I never did. This practice had the additional bonus of annoying the other kids, making me more of a social outcast than ever. In an odd way, though I knew this, it didn't really bother me.

But that's all beside the point.

On this particular trip, the teacher announced that this particular girl - older, pretty, very popular - was moving away. Tomorrow would be her last day at the school and we should all be sure to say good-bye and wish her well. She was one of those people who are inexplicably liked by everyone, as if she carried a bit of sunshine with her and people just liked to bask in it. She was likely 11 or 12, but to my 8, she looks like Bo Derek or Farrah Fawcett in my memory.

I went home from school, put Perry Como on my 8-track player (which would cycle endlessly) and set up my little folding table. I made clay animals for this girl whose name I can't remember. I made probably a dozen of them. Into each one, I poured my admiration for this girl everyone liked so much.

I dried them in the oven, painted them and put them in a little box to take to school the next day. When my mom asked who they were for and I told her, she said she'd never heard this girl's name before and didn't know she was my friend.

My mother clearly didn't understand that a young goddess like this wouldn't be my actual friend.

You can imagine the scene. I marched up to her at school and gave her this fairly extravagant gift of a box full of little clay animals. I was reasonably good at it and she was surprised that I'd made them. That I'd made them for her. I still remember the surprise and confusion on her face. The discomfort, because what I'd done was clearly weird. But she was a nice person and thanked me.

Still, I understood that this had been over the line.

Looking back, I think what I was giving her was more of a tribute. Perhaps I hoped for some of her charm to rain on me. Frankly, I hadn't really noticed her much until I saw everyone gathered around her to say how sad they were to see her go. I wanted that in a way I hadn't known to before.

I still admire those with the gift of popularity. I can see how their natural charm, their sunny attractiveness draw people to them. Sometimes I try to emulate it. But I still have enough of that weird kid in me, the one who can listen to the same favorite soundtrack twenty times in a row, that I can't quite get there.

(A boyfriend once cited the same tape loop in my car as one of the reasons for break-up - I'm not kidding. I mean, I would have changed it if he'd asked. It just happened to be my favorite album at the time and I wasn't done obsessing over it and, well, yeah...)

Ultimately it comes back to that I'm still the one who will put up her hand and ask the uncomfortable question. Sometimes I impulsively give gifts that are too much. too out of the blue. I'm very bad about saying things I shouldn't. Every once in a while, I envy those with the crowds of admirers. I think it must be pretty neat.

I remember that embarrassed girl, with her box of clay animals. I'm still her.

And that's okay.

Corn Moon

I know a lot of people are calling this the Super Harvest Moon, but it's traditionally the Corn Moon in September.

This full moon coincided with the autumn equinox, with the moon rising as the sun set - thus the "super" part. I'm not sure who coined that term. It smacks a bit of "super-size-me," and I kind of doubt the Native Americans of North America, who coined the full-moon names had the concept of "super," but I could be wrong.

"Ho, Little Elk, did the Great Spirit reward your hunting?"

"Yes, Red Eagle, the Great Spirit sent me a Super-buck deer. We shall eat well tonight."

See what I mean?

At any rate, this photo of the corn moon is not from last night, but from the night before. We were reliably forecast for rain to come in yesterday, to the tune of 80%. The forecasting types could apparently see this one coming from a long ways off - a long chain of heavy-bellied clouds working like a conveyor belt to bring gulf moisture up to us.

So I took the photo the night before, just in case. Which was a good thing because we had pouring rain all afternoon and night. We never saw the sun, much less the set and the moonrise.

Which was perfectly fine because we hadn't had any moisture for weeks and weeks. Everything had become dusty, cracking dry.

The calendar shows the full moon on one day, but really it's full for about three days. Depending on how far off of full, you might see it slightly gibbous, with a slight shaving off of one side. It's not always easy to pinpoint, that exact moment of perfect fullness, when the waxing stops and the waning starts. We're back to my pendulum now.

I take comfort in that concept, that nothing in nature is ever a fixed point. Instead, our universe is a dynamic system, in constant change.

What appears to be still is simply a snapshot.

Scaredy Cat

Something frightened Isabel last night.

It was one of those nights anyway, when all the animals are on the move, inexplicably to humans. I could hazard guesses why. We had a good rain the night before, for the first time in quite a while. The rain brought welcome relief, dampening the dust and refreshing all the grasses and shrubs that had been curing for days and days in the relentless dry breezes. Not unlike a convection oven. Makes for pleasant weather for people, not so great for the natural world. Also, we're at the new moon, so the night was dark and cool.

We noticed the animal activity in the evening. On our walk, we saw a young bull snake lying in the road, soaking up the heat. We gently chased it off the road, so it wouldn't get run over by the people zooming home from work. Then, walking back up a different road, on the other side of the greenbelt, we saw an identical bull snake, also lying in the road. When a nest of snakes hatches, the young tend to radiate out in all directions, scattering to maximize survival of at least a few. We coaxed that one off the road also. Finally, we saw a Jerusalem cricket on the blacktop path. If you've never seen one, they're seriously funky. I didn't have my camera, but here's a pic from bugguide.net. That's about the size of my palm, by the way.

Bizarre creature, no?

The evening passed without further incident, until I woke sometime around three in the morning to an odd scrabbling sound. I thought the kitties had brought a mouse in from the garage, via the cat door. It was a lot of loud scrabbling and I realized Teddy was curled up next to me on the bed, so I finally got up to investigate. But no, Isabel was sound asleep on the back of the chair in the living room. Following the sounds, I discovered that the dog, Zip, had trapped himself in my shower, where he goes when he's frightened. By "trapped" I mean that he was behind the shower curtain, circling in an endless frenzy. Fortunately I had the power to sweep aside the silk curtain and free him.

Not always the brightest dog.

I get back in bed and may have fallen asleep. David and I both heard coyotes howling, which isn't unusual. Then Isabel leapt on the bed, which isn't unusual either, except that she wouldn't lay down and vibrated with tension. She leapt off again. I heard her throwing up and figured her for hairballs. She jumped on the bed again, acting frantic and had some moisture on her, then dashed off again.

Half asleep - by now it's four in the morning - I get visions of Isabel being ill and puking up blood. I finally get up again and search the house for her. I find where she threw up a bunch of water. No hairballs in sight. I finally find her in my bathroom (clearly the place to be last night), standing on her hind legs on my sink counter with her head under the little half-curtain that screens the window. When she looks at me, her pupils are so dilated the black swallows up all the color in her eyes.

I've never seen anything like it.

So I sat on the floor and she crawled onto my lap finally, curled up and purring. She settled somewhat, though the nictating membrane was covering her eyes to protect them from the bathroom light, since her pupils were still so dilated.

My best guess is she saw a pack of coyotes. She's seen one at a time before. We know because we've taken photos of them on the porch. I love the one on top because I think it captures him throwing his head back to howl. And it reminds me of that scene from Jacob's Ladder (which I know is a really old movie now, but it freaked me out at the time). Here's a more clear shot of him.

Isabel finally settled down. We all went back to sleep, though David and I are a bit groggy this morning. I'm actually contemplating driving into town for a Starbucks Pumpkin Spiced Latte. Probably a 45-minute round-trip. How desperate am I? Hmm...

Frankly, though I hated to see her so frightened, I'm not sorry that Isabel got a scare. She needs to be afraid of the predators. She tends to think she is a predator and forgets she can be prey, too.

Sometimes a little fear can be educational.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

Our neighbors down the valley had a party Saturday night.

You can see the lights, here, glowing in the deepening evening, backed by the sunset. It was perfect weather - warm and still. Ideal for sitting outside, which David and I did. We sat on our patio for hours. The way sound carries here, we could hear the party like we could see the lights, glowing in the distance, a happy tumble of voices. Then someone played guitar and sang, his lovely tenor voice carrying up to us. Our own personal concert.

Sunday morning, our other neighbors made themselves heard and not in such a pleasant way. They're new, renting the house closest to us that didn't sell after over a year on the market. Of course, the owner won't drop the price, so he moved away and left it to renters instead. They haven't moved in a lot of furniture and these houses all have adobe walls and tile floors, which makes for good acoustics.

I don't know exactly what the fight was about, but I have a good idea. He didn't like how she'd behaved the night before. Really didn't like it. "What did you do?!?" was a frequent refrain. Shouted at the top of his lungs. At first I wasn't sure if he was yelling at a woman or a child, until I heard bits of her protests. The loudest part was when he shouted, over and over, "Do you want to be in my life or not?"

We haven't met them yet. Now I'm not dying to.

I'm not much for fighting. I'm especially not for yelling. When I hear those angry voices, something in me cringes. I feel injured and attacked, even as a bystander. I couldn't be that person, standing so close to the yelling, having it hurled at me.

I wanted to tell her that the answer should be "No." Don't be in that angry man's life.

It's not my business. There was no reason to think the abuse escalated to physical. I've only ever called the cops on a domestic disturbance once before and I'm not sure it was the right thing. It didn't change anything and they knew it was me who called. They didn't thank me for it, as you can imagine. I know I can't save the world.

So I went to the back patio and sat under the grape arbor. Their fight ended and they were quiet the rest of the weekend.

I said my prayer of thanks, for a peaceful and happy life.

Ben/Ben//Matt/Matt

Another in the "Isabel gets to sleep wherever she wants to" series. She spent several hours napping in the folds of the convertible hood.

No, I'm a softie - I didn't make her move. If she thinks it's a good spot, then fine.

It also gives her a good vantage point for mouse-hunting, which is always on the approved activities list.

I was thinking the other day how I've long had this tendency to mix things up. For example, there was my whole Ben Affleck/Ben Stiller, Matt Damon/Matt Dillon mix-up.

Yeah, my friends made fun of me no end for that one - you don't need to chime in.

But see, let me explain. First, my brain apparently indexes by first name. No, I don't know why. In my skull space, Damon and Dillon are really similar words, too. It's a cadence thing. This was back when Good Will Hunting and Something About Mary came out. Both got lots of buzz and I read articles about the Ben Affleck/Matt Damon screenwriting team and how clever they were. Ben Stiller was just really starting to impinge on our consciousness as a comedian and Matt Dillon got nice write-ups for his performance in Something About Mary.

So, at some point I decided that Ben Affleck and Ben Stiller were the same person. I don't know, maybe "Affleck" was too hard to remember. So I had him as the same guy in both movies. They kind of look alike don't you think? If you put the difference down to make-up? No?

Well, *I* thought so. I was confused, okay?

But where I got really messed up was that Matt Damon and Matt Dillon arguably look absolutely NOTHING alike. I kept looking for Matt Damon in Something About Mary and not seeing him. People said, oh, he's the private eye and I would study him thinking, whoa! that's some seriously good make-up.

Yeah, okay, point and laugh.

I finally got it sorted out and it's even more laughable now, given how all of their acting careers and public scandals (or lack thereof) have since diverged.

It came to mind when I did it again the other day, mixing up authors Jennifer Weiner and Jennifer Crusie. (See? It's the first name indexing again.) That's not quite so terrible, since they write books in similar veins.

It occurred to me though, that this silly flaw of mine, this tendency to mix things up, is parallel to how I draw disparate ideas together and tie them up in essays and stories. Readers often comment they like that about my work, how I bring things together they hadn't thought of before.

Shakespeare used that theme a lot - how the hero's strength (yes, it was always the hero and female characters were mainly foils, alas) also contained his fatal flaw. And the fatal flaw is what would bring the hero down in a tragedy. It's interesting that, in a life, our flaws can contain the seeds of what makes us special.

Maybe that's part of what being true to yourself is all about.

Watermark

We've passed a watermark in our lives: we've been in the Santa Fe house for one year now.

I know. Time seriously flies, right?

So today I'm officially retiring the "Big Move" and "Big Switch" labels. It seems right. That part of our lives is over now. We switched; we moved. We're here now. One year ago on August 14, we pulled our U-Haul truck into this driveway, moved stuff out of the Jeep and into the front seat of the truck. David climbed in and he, Zip and I drove into town to close on the house, just a hair before the 4:30 courthouse cut-off. With house keys in hand, which we pretty much had to wrest out of our dim-witted realtor's hand - it's a long story - we returned to the house, having made only a quick stop for a frozen pizza and beer. We unpacked the bed and ate the pizza watching the sunset.

In commemoration, I took this photo. I spent the evening reading on the patio anyway. I'm so blessed to have this kind of view.

(Um, no - this is still the old point and shoot camera. I'm working on it, okay? I did have this idea that I'd take an anniversary family photo with the new camera on the tripod, but I had significant learning curve still to overcome and David was scruffy and studying and it was hot out and the the animals wouldn't have liked it and, and, and...)

David and I spent a lot of the weekend talking about how our lives have changed in this last year. It's good to have watermarks like this, to measure the high and low tides of our lives. By the end of this week, he will have completed the first of three years of schooling. Completed with flying colors, I should add.

It's another watermark that I have the new camera. Moving here really got me going on photography. I've been throwing all my Santa Fe photos into a "Santa Fe" subfolder under "House" - which is an artifact of moving in. Most of them are named by date. Like a careless banking programmer, however, they're labeled with month and day. Now that I've wrapped the year, I need to sort them into year groupings, to avoid duplication. Fortunately it appears I didn't get it together (read: I spent all my time unpacking) to start taking pictures by date until 9_17.

Gives me a bit of breathing room.

Now we commence the second year, of school, of the new place. I know what to expect from the plants and the weather. We have a pattern to follow now, a high tide line.

That was just the first year of the rest of our lives.

Most Depressing Person on Facebook

There's this gal I know on Twitter, Keri Stevens, who's been posting over the last week or so about this stray cat they took in. A cat that almost immediately produced three kittens. Bemused, she began suggesting kittens as Halloween gifts.

Then the story turned.

Keri doesn't blog regularly, so the story has unfolded all in Facebook posts and 140-character tweets. But it turned into this kind of horrible, I-can't-bear-to-look tale. She'd hoped to show her boys the miracle of life and instead they witnessed the blunt cruelty of nature. One of the kittens, Runty, was too small to nurse. Keri suspended all family plans over last weekend to stay home and nurse the kitten hourly.

The kitten died anyway.

Soon followed by another of its siblings. Keri grew increasingly despondent as the days passed and she reported the last kitten was growing weak and momma had moved it to a corner behind the desk. The vet thought that perhaps a kitten had remained in the cat's womb, turning it septic.

Keri said that we should probably vote her Most Depressing Person on Facebook.

Of course, everyone offered her advice. And it was clear she felt crushed by the responsibility and by her failure to save the kittens.

Yesterday, after the third kitten died, Keri took her "free" cat, which in the end cost her nearly $1,000 to the vet to be spayed, to hopefully save her from the potentially septic womb.

Guess what?

The vet found two more kittens! Alive, healthy and thriving.

No, really.

The vet has never seen anything like it and thinks they may have been in another horn of the womb. These kittens, born a week after the first three, are much larger and healthier, which makes me think the first three were premature. This time, the vet is keeping the kittens for next seven weeks, to nurse them there and ensure they make it. A responsibility my friend gladly relinquished.

I told Keri she needs to use this story in a novel. When readers complain something like that could never really happen, she can say oh, no! It did! It did happen!

It seems we so rarely get the happy ending in real life. Part of it is the nature of storytelling. What will Keri post now? Kittens are doing great! Kittens are getting bigger! Kittens still doing great!

But now they have a special existence as the miracle kittens. No longer is this about a stray's get that will have to be distributed around Halloween. The three kittens who didn't make it are now just the darkness before the dawn.

After the dawn, the glory of that moment, we segue into the long day.

But maybe the sun is just a bit brighter.

Waiting for the Rain to Fall

I love living in a place where I can watch the rainstorms arriving.

This is how a lot of our weather hits - a train of thunderclouds rolling up the valley from the Sandias. Clearly you have to be in the exact right path to get the rain. Fortunately, it's a slightly different path every day, so everyone gets the rain at some point.

Much is made of being in the right place at the right time with publishing. It's true of all endeavors. Serendipity, synchronicity, just plain luck - all factor into whether something hits the right person at the right moment. In publishing, I think it's particularly easy to observe, because the business is so terribly subjective. Reading is for pleasure and what gives people pleasure is something that's constantly changing.

You have to hit the right agent at the right moment, who hits the right editor at the right moment, who hits her administrators and marketers at the right moment, who do their best to stack the deck and manipulate the market, but in the end, you have to hit the right readers at the right moment.

Small wonder full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

(No - that's not me. It's Thomas Gray. Just in case you were inclined to give me more credit than I'm due.)

But the flip side is, if you patiently persist in waiting, one day the rain will fall on you. Maybe on many days. I'm quite sure, however, that if I spent my days dashing about the valley, trying to get under the rain, I might hit it more often, but I'd exhaust myself in the process. Besides, it's hard to move a whole garden around.

Some days, the rain dries up before it reaches us. Or it takes an abrupt turn. What looks like a sure thing can evaporate in moments. Other days, the rain sneaks up from another direction, slipping over my shoulder from the north with an abrupt drenching.

It's not something I can control.

The people who are reading my novel read at their own pace. I won't know what they think until they tell me. In their own time, according to their own busy calendars.

Until then I wait. Enjoying both the sunshine while I pray for rain.

I Need a Heroine

We've fallen into our pattern of afternoon monsoons here in the high desert of New Mexico.

Our mornings are bright and clear for the most part. Mid- to late-afternoon brings the storm clouds. Black bottomed, they lumber up the valley from the Sandias and drop rain in great washes of benediction.

The dog cowers in terror at the storms, sleeping as nearly under my chair as he can manage, while the cats snooze in the cool damp air.

Sunset blazes into glory, illuminating the scattered storms, turning the clouds into pink and cold fantasies. Sometimes the rain comes in again, rising and falling through the night.

Apropos of nothing, I know. But it sets the pattern of our days.

I haven't liked the last couple of books I've picked up. I thought maybe it was me and my mucus-addled, over-tired brain, so I kept trying. One, though, I've given up on. I just couldn't like the heroine. She's a succubus and a victim. She staggers from one sexual encounter to another, as she has for centuries. The sexual acts are unrelentingly graphic and, worse, repetitive. I know this might sound funny coming from me, but I get bored of it. Worse, I feel soiled. I know that she must get her act together at some point, become strong and triumph over all. In my heart I don't believe it. She's not real to me and I'm halfway through. I couldn't bear it any more. I finally put it down.

The book I picked up is by a totally different premise, by a Famous Author, who I hadn't read before. This heroine is sweet, nobly wanting to save everyone. She is also a victim, passed over at work, unlucky in love for unclear reasons. I'm wanting to like her and I'm having a hard time. I don't quite understand why the author is so highly regarded. The insidious thought creeps in, even as I'm talking to editors and agents about my own beloved novel, will I become one of these authors who resents the bestsellers?

I've never been that sort of person.

But the market is funny now. There's gluts of certain kinds of books, publishers hopeful of tagging along with a trend. Everyone is searching for the new permutation of the kick-ass heroine. Maybe the drug-addicted, the abused and overlooked are the natural starting points. Maybe it's just me.

I find what I'm missing is really good characterization. I mentioned the other day that Susan Elizabeth Phillips advised that you should write characters the reader can't bear to be parted from. Her heroines are not always admirable to begin with. In Ain't She Sweet, the heroine was a stuck-up, nasty girl in high school who treated people badly. She returns to her hometown, where everyone hates her, broken and defeated by life. By the end of the book, you just love her and how she overcomes it all.

Susan is right - when I think of the books I love most, I think of the characters. They're like real people to me. I miss them and sometimes go back to re-read, just to spend a little time with them again.

That's the magic.