"The Help" has my vote for Book of the Decade

I just finished reading The Help by Kathryn Stockett and I was heartbroken to read the last sentence. Not because the last sentence was particularly sad, but because it was the LAST sentence. It’s not often I’ve been so sad to see a book end. Some books have practically elicited a “Hurrah! It’s over!” - like Atlas Shrugged - an interesting, incredibly long-winded book that I never want to read again. Or Henry James. Have you ever actually read Henry James? Take my word for it. Read Stephen King instead.

The Help was delightful from beginning to end. Stockett managed to give so much life to her characters that I could practically feel them standing next to me. Having grown up in Nashville and being a History major, I am always drawn to historical stories but many times the history takes over the story. Stockett manages to tell a small part of Civil Rights history in a way that feels like you are right there with Abilene, Skeeter and Minny. I was so thrilled to read a book that made me laugh, cry, chuckle, and fume. The story elicits the feel of the 1960’s and the changing times without being heavy-handed.

Mrs. Stockett, I applaud you. And I thank you.

I promptly gave the book to my fourteen year old daughter to read. I can barely wait for her to feel the sadness when she finishes it.

Indecision woes

So, I’m sitting here in my mix-matched pajamas and shearling house shoes my mother brought me yesterday that were too big for her (which are really cozy) and trying to decide what to work on first. Query letter? Editing my husband’s manuscript? Edit/polish my own manuscript? Work on my new book? Write a blog article? Research agents? Aaaaaaa! It’s so MUCH! Sometimes it paralyzes me in Nothingsville where my sweet kitty, Zoe lives most of her life. She's the Mayor of Nothingsville.

The path of least resistance was the blog – so here I am. Let me explain why it’s all so overwhelming. I’m stuck in this purgatory of my book -- being “finished” and rewritten at least three times now. I’ve edited it to death but I’m still at 116k words. Now, for an Urban Fantasy, I understand this is not a death sentence. But, is it edging me to that reject button for the number alone? I’ve read dozens and dozens of agent and writer blogs and articles about word count and I think the bottom line is the Query Letter. If the query is kick butt, and the word count isn’t outrageously out of whack, it’ll be okay. That’s what I’m going with.

Check! Mark that one off the list.

I am a bit of an edit-junkie. I can edit forever. A very vicious cycle. I need a deadline. How do we set our own deadlines and actually stick to them? I’m not going to fire myself if I don’t make it. Or even deny myself chocolate. So, how do I threaten myself with my own deadlines? I don’t know. I’m working on it. Maybe by Friday I’ll figure it out. Or Saturday.

Before my brain explodes, I’m going to do a quick workout and then work on the final polish of my manuscript. Research tomorrow!

As a sideline, I have to bless all the agents, editors, and writers that share their stories and advice on websites and blogs. I would be wandering the veritable desert without them. So, bless your hearts!

You Can Quote Me...

iGoogle: "The most remarkable thing about my mother is that for thirty years she served the family nothing but leftovers. The original meal has never been found.
- Calvin Trillin"

I don't know who Calvin Trillin is and I'm too lazy at this second to look him up, but I loved this quote. I'm a quote girl. I look them up. I post them around the house sometimes. I put them on my signature line on emails. There are so many what I call "official quotes" by famous or infamous people about every single subject under the sun but the search capability on most of the quote sites sucks. And they all seem to have the same quotes. So, when I come across one I like, I save it.

My daughter is also a quote girl. I'm not sure she actually got it from me but she posts them on Facebook, on her signature line and she writes her own "official quotes". Admittedly, sometimes she has to explain them to me.

Another favorite was from those happy bunny things that said "If life gives you lemons, squirt lemon juice in the eyes of your enemies."

One thing about writing, is you can be quoted at any time. Not that people stroll around quoting me (yet), but they could. It's in print. Published. On record.

For those that don't know, I'm writing a novel - an urban fantasy - and one thing I struggle with is feasibility. There are magical, supernatural beings in my book and I find myself trying to explain things that happen magically. Its a flaw of mine...I'm working on it. So, here's one of the hardest bits of advice for writing. Write free-flowing thoughts. Write drafts and don't try to correct yourself until you can't write anymore. Write, write, write. Sometimes, your thoughts take you exactly where you didn't know you wanted to go.

You can quote me on that.

Killing Time

The last three months are a blur. It is fairly amazing to me that time can pass at the same rate every millisecond, yet some moments zip by like a humming bird and others crawl by like a zombie who’s lost his legs. Since August, I was immersed in Student Teaching. Now, I have always known teachers have the hardest job in the world, but it is one thing to know it and another to have it proven to you. Daily. It is a delicate balance of being a Teacher, Mom, Dad, Coach, Therapist, and Wrangler.

I taught U.S. History to juniors. That is a group of fifteen and sixteen year olds who have to be told the same thing at least 723 times before they actually do it. They were fantastic. So, what did you learn, Mrs. Norton – you ask? I learned how to take slow, deep breaths to keep my patience. I learned that I can work from 6:00 am to 11:00 pm every single day and not actually die from exhaustion. And I learned that yes, I still want to teach. Enough insightful reflection… Student teaching is complete, I’m in my last week of grad school class and it’s time to take a breath. Oh, and I turn 40 today! Breathing is good!

Time passes – we’ve heard all the clichés –
‘in the blink of an eye…’
‘time flies when you’re having fun.’
‘where does the time go?’

Time is not the enemy, kids. But it sure feels that way sometimes, doesn’t it? Not today. Today, I’m taking a breath, humming Happy Birthday to Me and enjoying my life. You should do the same – throw in the humming – it will surprise you.

Cake and Cannelloni

Recently, my husband and I took our 12-year-old daughter out to Macaroni Grill to celebrate her straight-A report card. (Yes, she gets that from me.) When we climbed out of the car an Italian man was belting out lively Italian music from hidden speakers that immediately caused my head to bob back and forth. We skipped in snagging extra crayons so we could all draw on the table. It was not an earth-shattering dinner. My daughter dug the middle out of the rosemary bread, leaving a sad little hollow shell of crust. Our food was good. We even had dessert.
The final “reward” for good grades was a piece of obscene chocolate cake that was as big as a brick.
Yes, the food was good, the cake was rich and sweet, the bread was hot. Because we are extremely disciplined (ahem) we had a doggie bag.
We finally rolled our sleepy selves out and headed home. I pulled into the driveway and we hoisted our full bodies out of the car to which my smarty-pants daughter says, “Don’t forget the cake and the cannelloni!”

As if we could forget that…

Dying for a Revolution

If you didn’t watch Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution last week, you missed an entertaining hour of America at its best. Liberal, British chef meets stubborn, “you can’t make me” West Virginians. Jamie Oliver, (The Naked Chef), is in the small, Appalachian town of Huntington, WV - recently deemed the unhealthiest town in America. His first day, he is raked over the coals by the good ol’ boy radio show host at DAWG radio, then he is greeted with cynicism and flat out hostility of the elementary school cafeteria workers.

As a Southern girl, I was a bit appalled at the lack of hospitality offered to Jamie. He (at least on camera) maintained politeness in the face of outright rudeness. What is wrong with trying to make food for kids better? Healthier? How dare he! Who gave him, a Brit, the right to care about our kids’ health? The nerve!

Now, I can relate to the busy parents raising picky eaters. I raised my daughter, Carson, like many single moms – on Cheerios, Velveeta shells & cheese, and yes, chicken nuggets. She hated fruit and only liked one vegetable – green beans. I worked full-time and every day was a race to and from before and after-school care, and work. Grocery shopping, cooking, and meals were to be done as quickly as possible and preferably without tears - from me or from Carson. Somewhere around 2002, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and began reading about the dangers of all the processed foods we eat. I decided to eat more natural foods and cut out processed foods. Let me tell you, it was damn difficult to do! I love shells and cheese! Wendy’s burgers! Bugles! Their little cone shape, that crunch… Oh, sorry…

Now, let me assure you, none of my friends would call me a great cook behind my back. These days though, I buy fresh green beans, fresh salad, squash, peppers, fruit, whole grain pasta and whole wheat bread. I don't buy canned veggies other than green beans (because my daughter loves them). I don't buy boxed meals, frozen meals, or white pasta. I buy organic dairy and meats. Warning! It does take more preparation - like fifteen whole minutes more. So, it is not for the faint-hearted! When I first started this little meal plan in my house, there were outcries from the masses (that being my daughter).

The deal was, I cook and you eat. If you don’t like it, you don’t eat. Carson learned to like it. I’m not saying there weren’t tears ever, but today my 12 year old daughter requests steamed veggies and roast chicken. She knows fried foods don’t live in our house and cookies are contraband that my husband sneaks in with the potato chips. (Well, he’s Canadian so he’s used to sneaking things across the border.) Now, we’ll have burgers and fries but it’s maybe once every 4 months – not once a week or once a day!

Jamie Oliver is meeting tired, beaten down parents that want the best for their children, but don’t know what that is. They believe the marketing promises on food labels of cookies “fortified with calcium” and they trust the government to provide good food for kids in school. Maybe the USDA (who regulates the country’s school nutrition programs) should abide by my rules. If I can’t pronounce and define more than three ingredients, I don’t buy it.

I was frankly surprised at the extreme resistance Jamie Oliver met in the first episode. I know people are afraid of change, but he’s not suggesting we feed them bean sprouts and tofu! He’s suggesting we cook fresh foods for them – our children! Rather than filling them with carbs and sugar.

Off with his head! This is America! We’ll feed our kids crap ‘cause it’s our God-given right!

Open your eyes, people! You make choices for yourself and your kids everyday. It’s worth the battle to get kids into healthy foods – start young and they’ll live longer, healthier lives!

Sermon over. Please return to your regularly scheduled French fries.

Reinventing Childhood

I stretched my arms overhead, interlacing cramped fingers and groaned. Rain splattered the window in mad pelts, creating a dreary curtain over the cottage. The smell of oils and turpentine was sharp in the air as I scrutinized the half-finished painting in front of me. The forest trees were full, mature and protected the faint ring in the lush grass below. A Fairy Ring. There had been one at my home as a child. Many days I would lay in the middle of the ring, arms askew, the tickle of the occasional ant on my tanned bare leg.

“It’s a Fairy Ring,” my mom would say with a twinkle, “so you have to be careful.”

“Careful of what?” I’d ask.

“To not be carried away! The Fairies love children you know.”

Ah, if only! I longed to be carried away by the beautiful Fairies! The Fairy Ring had lately been haunting my dreams. I was wandering around, lost, almost frantic for something or to get somewhere. – you know the feeling of anxiety in your dream that something terrible is going to happen if you don’t get where you’re supposed to be going? Sometimes I was in town, sometimes just hurrying around my house. But I kept ending up at the Fairy Ring of my childhood. Why? I hadn’t thought of that place in years.

As I peered at the painting though, I remembered the joy of being barefoot in the grass. The thrill of riding my bike down the biggest hill in the neighborhood, the wind slapping me in the face. Playing German Spotlight in the neighborhood on a cool spring night, damp grass on our knees. Kickball in the streets and rounding third bass marked by the street drain. When was the last time I went barefoot in the grass? Ugh. What if I stepped in dog poop? And my bike? It was home to a happy clan of little house spiders in my garage. As for German Spotlight and Kickball…well, I think maybe Carter was president last time I yelled “You’re It!”

And, there in the grass, a tiny hand clasped the edge of a blade of grass. Unblinking eyes stare back at me from a face the size of a grain of rice, peeking out from its hiding place. I leaned closer to my own painting, frowning in concentration. I didn’t paint that. Was it a weird play of brush and oil? Like when people see Jesus in their toast? A trick of the light?

I stared and tried to bring the bewitching face more into focus, but it turned with a whoosh of the grass, and disappeared into the still wet mix of green paint.

And through the gentle patter of raindrops on the window, I swear I heard a faint call say, “You’re It!”