Book Nostalgia

I read a blog entry  recently about the changes in the publishing industry, and it started me thinking about why I resist the change. There are so many reasons to embrace the e-book, yet I cling to my ink and paper friends, and I mourn for the empty bookstores. I wonder how much it has to do with the book industry and how much of it is simple nostalgia.

When I was young, my brother built  a platform for me  in a tree in our back yard. I called it a tree house then, but as I recall, it had only enough room for me to sit with a book in my hands and a bag of sunflower seeds between my knees. It was perfect. I sat there on summer mornings that year reading Swiss Family Robinson until the heat (and my salty tongue) drove me inside. I don’t think I would have it in me to read that book any other way now. A coffee shop with an iPad just wouldn’t be the same. I need the feel of those crinkly pages between my fingers. I need to turn a page, as silly as that may be.

I’m sure my children won’t mind the change. And their children will likely laugh at a paperback the way they laugh at VHS tapes. But for those of us who grew up in the days when a book was a book, I can’t be the only one who hopes that someone somewhere will still be printing the old fashioned way twenty years from now. I hope I’m not.

Morgan’s Wonderland

We did the last thing we would normally do and went on a Memorial Day weekend trip. We don’t love crowds, and that’s putting it the polite way. Back when we were a solid homeschooling family that wasn’t a problem. But with public school comes responsibility, and giving up our off-day trips is the only downside we’ve seen to putting Gabe in school. It’s a price we’re mostly willing to pay.

Sea World in San Antonio was the first stop, and it’s one I’d take back if I could. I’m not a hater of the park, but (and yes, I expected it, but STILL!!) the place was so packed we could hardly walk. Long lines for everything, and the shows went, well…not flawlessly…at all. Only my husband managed not to complain that day, so he wins the good sport award. I really have nothing positive to say about that part of the trip, so I’ll leave it there.

Day two was all I could have hoped for and more. Morgan’s Wonderland is a wonderland indeed. If you have a family member with special needs you have to go there. That’s an order. But let me tell you why.

When you step inside, they give each member of your group a bracelet that keeps track of your location. Worries about becoming separated, or even worse, your precious child leaving the park alone, disappear. You scan your bracelet at locations around the park, and it will tell you where your group is. The bracelet is also your key to some unique fun. The attractions greet you by name and then send you emails when you create something. Here’s the car Gabe designed. (His name is Christian. I didn’t know how this would work, so I put in his full name when I bought our tickets. I recommend just putting in the name your child uses.)

The park is never crowded. We literally never waited in a line for anything all day long. Gabe rode the carousel three times in a row because he didn’t want to get off. I’m told they do have busier days than what we experienced, but they don’t allow the park to get full. For this reason, I also recommend buying tickets ahead of time, and so do they. We started on the carousel, and we couldn’t have been luckier. It had an elephant! This elephant got more than one kiss from my little angel.

They had special places for wheelchairs on the carousel as well. And I should point out that the rides cost no additional money. The price for the day was ridiculously low. Next we drove the cars. Well, Gabe drove, and the rest of us cheered him on. These are wheelchair accessible, too.

The train takes you around the pond. You can also walk around the pond, which is worth doing. The trail features rest areas designed as different countries. I’ll show those later. I recommend riding the train early, because you get a good view of other things to do.

Sensory Village!!

Inside the Sensory Village, which is air conditioned, there are a few rooms where you can try out different activities. In one room you can design your car (as shown at the top) or drive in a simulator. Dad and Gabe checked that out…

Gabe’s favorite room had screens with shadow and light play. The staff at Morgan’s Wonderland is always around to help you figure out what to do, and in this room it really came in handy. Here’s Gabe using his shadow to catch drops the way they showed him.

There are two other screens as well, but I won’t spoil it for you! He also loved the floor mat, which reacted to the way he walked on it.

There’s a grocery store where children can shop, weigh produce, scan items and run the register. Gabe put the mustard in the register, which I thought was strange until his father came in later and did the exact same thing. Great minds think alike?

There’s a weather room where you can see yourself on tv and take pictures, which will be emailed to you, and there’s a room with horses to sit on. Sensory Village was one of our favorite features.

I was surprised by the price of food. It was reasonable, with plenty of options. We got our Sierra Mist Naturals for $1.50 from the machine. I don’t think I’ve seen them that low at any other amusement park.

The gym is a great place for older kids to hang out, especially if they need a break. And let’s face it. Siblings to special needs children do sometimes need a break. Noah had a good time playing basketball and getting away for a while.

Then Noah and I took a walk around the pond. What we saw…

The first rest stop…Mariposa.

Shanira, where Gabe and Dad joined us.

Kojima

My personal favorite.

The water play area was a hit for the whole family…

While Dad fished, the boys fired water canons…

And Gabe gave Pirate Cove a thumbs up!

On top of all this, there are several playgrounds and concession stands. There’s plenty to do to keep the family entertained for hours, and the environment is completely stress free. You can play in the sand pit or play instruments and even some things that we never tried. We’ll be back, maybe every year. Maybe more often than that. Please spread the word to all your friends with special needs. This place needs to be shared!

Are we there yet?

Ever tried to stop drinking caffeine? Not slowly, just BAM! No more. That’s what taking a break from my book feels like. I still think it’s good advice; distance makes so many new things possible. But it hurts! I’ve messed around with a few other book ideas, revisited some of my other projects and tried to find new outlets, but I’m winding down now. And it’s only been four weeks!

Revision can go one of two ways. There may be more than two, actually, but if there are, I haven’t experienced them. The first, which is more likely if you plunge into it immediately after finishing the first draft, is torture. Those things you said a month ago that made you want to pat yourself on the back sound trite and stupid. Typos slide right by, because you’re so familiar with the manuscript you simply read what you think you wrote. Your story feels dry and empty. Blah.

The second, the one I’m doing now, is bliss. You finish the book and push it aside. You ignore it completely for six whole weeks—or whatever your personal goal is—never opening the file. It’s like getting married and moving into separate houses for a while. It’s torture in its own way, but it’s the end result that matters. The coming home. The moment when you open the file and let the relationship begin fresh.

Some of the things you wrote impress you. They’re the lines you would wish you had thought of if you read them in someone else’s book. But they’re yours! Ahh…pleasantness. But of course, it can’t be that simple. It wouldn’t be revision if everything was clever and pretty. You’ll find a few adverbs in there. Ew! And maybe some passive verbs. Even more ew! And where did that comma come from?!! There will be some loose ends, characters left hanging and plotlines that just need to be tossed. Work, work, work.

But it will be like the first Dr. Pepper after your fast from caffeine. That headache you had forgotten you had will lift, and your mind will clear. Your story will sparkle in a way you had also forgotten. You will be sucked in. And that is the best way to write. How can you write what you love if you’ve forgotten how to love what you write? So, take a break. Find something, anything, to take your mind off that story you’ve beaten to death, and give yourself time to miss it.

In the meantime

This week I’m taking two bits of advice from the King. The first is distancing myself from my book. I want to open it, search for errors, extra words, etc., but I won’t do it. I promise. The second is reading The Elements of Style. It’s the seventh book on writing that I’ve tackled in the last three weeks, and it is referenced in most of the others, for good reason.

In King’s memoir I learned to express myself fully, and I also picked up some helpful hints about common mistakes beginning writers make. Some I had already rooted out myself, but a few needed to be applied to Sam and Millie. From Strunk I’m learning that I’ve come a long way. I’m only halfway through it, so I may be coming up on a dose of “don’t get ahead of yourself,” though.

On the subject of Sam and Millie, I am currently waiting on the last few beta readers to give me their input before beginning the querying process. I’ve started four new books and another re-write of Carousel since I wrapped it up—my brain doesn’t want to stop writing.

I’m still open to new beta readers, especially those familiar with Autism, so let me know if you’re interested.

If I Were Fiction

There are moments when I realize I’ve gone too far into the land of my imagination. The symptoms have been creeping up for days, but they all congeal at once. The first symptom, which I usually overlook, is a tendency to narrate everything in my mind, no matter how dull. Here’s what I might be thinking as I do the laundry:

She pulls the pants from the dryer and glares at them. “I hate hanging slacks,” she mutters under her breath for the millionth time. Always the same, they never want to crease where they’re supposed to. She wrestles them into place and slides them onto the proper hanger…

Not interesting at all, but since I keep it inside my head where it belongs, it’s not really hurting anyone.

The next symptom is the inability to focus on anything I read, watch or hear. Suddenly Phill is the one who can tell that I’m not listening. I answer every question with “Um.” This one can cause some real trouble, especially when I answer “yes” to whatever Gabe just asked me. That can go horribly wrong. Once I reach this stage, I’m trying to reverse the damage.

The final stage is the one that concerns me most. It’s when fiction meets reality.

Today I was late getting out the door with Gabe. Guess what I was doing? Yeah, I was writing, and I got sucked in. We rushed out the door and sped off to school. This had to be the morning that someone would jump out in front of me, of course. I would say that 99.9% of the time I will let someone in front of me. But I can’t stand when someone shoves their way in.

I was back on schedule by this time, and Gabe was saying something cute, so I just let it go and drifted back into my mind. Plots were forming, electrical stuff was happening. It was good. Then the rude driver did something that pushed me into fiction mode. She rolled down her window and threw a piece of trash on the ground.

Snap!

My teeth pull back from my lips, my eyes squeeze tight, and I make a sound that Gabe calls a bear noise. I really don’t like litter bugs. Really. Really. Don’t.

And as quick as that, I’m imagining what one of my characters would do in that situation. Or maybe what I would do if I were fiction. We all do this, I suppose, imagine what we “should have said.” But I was considering actually doing it.

 

Rachel gets out of her car, picks up the litter, and heads for the shiny black Mountaineer. She knocks softly on the window, and the floopy woman in the driver’s seat rolls it down.

“I only felt safe in approaching your vehicle because of your Christian sticker on the back,” Rachel says, smiling too sweetly. “I figured you didn’t have a gun, hee hee. Anyone with a sticker like that, showing someone who can even get their horse to pray with them, must be safe.” Rachel’s eyes are wide and innocent, but there are horns trying to tear through her scalp. The woman looks blankly at her. Rachel smiles, but a closed lip smile. Wouldn’t want anyone to see the fangs.

“Is there something I can do for you?” the woman asks. She smacks her gum, another unforgiveable sin.

Rachel holds up the trash. “You dropped this,” she says kindly. “I just knew you’d be horrified if you knew it, so I picked it up for you.”

I actually tried to open my door. Thankfully, it locks automatically, and the door’s refusal to let me out was enough to kill my plans. And since I don’t have horns and fangs anyway, I settled for glaring at the back of the Mountaineer. But if I were fiction…

 

Just in case you’re wondering, I don’t have a problem with Christian stickers, even ones with horses in them. I don’t have one for a couple reasons.

1. I believe my behavior should be the example of my faith.

2. Hubby hates stickers on cars.

 

But if you put a sticker on your car that you believe makes you a representative of something you care about, Christianity or anything else, remember that people are watching. Same goes for your tee-shirts and your fishy jewelry. (I do have some of those.) Rudeness and disregard for rules—like not littering—won’t make people want to be like you. Also, you should remember that you can never tell when a looney-gooney fiction writer may be in the car behind you.

Hark vs Herc

You know you’ve hit on a touchy subject when you get few responses to your blog ON your blog, but you get a lot of Facebook personal messages about it. My previous entry, Thank You, Mister King, was one such. No complaints, thankfully. Only a bunch of people who wanted to share something but didn’t want it displayed for the world to see. I enjoyed reading every one of them. I always appreciate the feedback!

I was wondering, however, why childhood insecurity was a subject that drew so many adults to reply. Surely we’re far enough removed from those days that we aren’t still moved by them? I guess not. More than one person who actually knew me in school expressed surprise that I ever felt so insecure. By the time I hit junior high, I was getting past it. I even did cheerleading for part of my seventh grade year. And in high school I was only teased once that I can recall. I’ll tell that story, not because I need to. It will lead me off track, actually, but I kinda like the story. I’ll put some little asterisks before and after so you can skip it if you want to.

***********

When I entered high school, I looked like I should have still been in elementary. Not just tiny, but baby faced as well. It’s still an issue, though now it’s a good one. I was walking down the hall on day one when I passed a senior boy who was sitting with a few pals against the wall. I don’t recall his name. We’ll call him Hark. I like that name for him because it makes me think of hacking up phlegm.

“What are you doing here, little girl? Kindergarten is that way,” Hark says. (I know. He was crazy clever, huh?) He points toward the KG building.

I was small but already mean, which he had no way of knowing. I walked over to him and leaned down and stuck my lips out, curved my eyes downward and said sadly, “Oh, poor wittle baby. Do you need me to take you over there?” I held out my hand and scrunched my nose at him.

I think he considered punching me. His friends laughed at him and told him I had burned him, which was more praise than I deserved, really. I wasn’t clever either, but what I had accomplished was letting him know that I wasn’t going to squeak and run when he teased me. And he remembered it. Hark was a bully, which I learned later that year when he found me alone in the hall.

I don’t remember what he was saying to me, but it was dirty. He backed me up against the lockers. Don’t freak out or anything. It was during school, so I doubt he had much thought of causing genuine harm. But it was scary, and for a reason I can’t imagine, I didn’t scream. So close to a teacher’s door, but I allowed him to pin me to the wall.

Then came the surprise. There was a huge guy who went to our school, and he was also in the hall that day. He turned the corner and happened upon us. He saw my face. Now, I should tell you that I didn’t immediately assume that I had been saved. My hero was a guy who inspired fear at first glance—not the clean cut jock that you may be picturing. But first impressions are often incorrect, and mine certainly was on that day.

I do remember his name, but I won’t share it. We’ll just call him Herc. Hercules, baby. Not phlegmy at all.

Herc grabbed Hark and backed him up against the lockers right where Hark had been holding me. I’d love to remember what he said so that I could tell you. I’ll paraphrase, because I do remember the meaning of it.

“If I ever see you touch this girl again, I’ll kill you.”

Then he turned to me and introduced himself. “Herc’s the name, and killing bullies is my game.”

Just kidding. He didn’t say that. He told me his real name, and then he said, “If he bothers you again, let me know, and I’ll take care of it.”

Hark never even looked at me again.

********

I’d like to say that I can write with some accuracy what it feels like to be bullied and tortured in high school, but I simply can’t. Apart from my one experience I saw very little evidence that bullying was even an issue at my school. My husband tells me that it was and that I just happened to be in places where it didn’t show its ugly head. I gave it some thought and realized that I was actually a part of a whole different world of bullying. Our class picked on teachers.

There’s a whole other blog entry in that statement, and maybe even a book. I won’t share it today, though.

I just wanted to let those of you who expressed concern for me know that while my scared schoolgirl former self does still whisper in my ear from time to time, she lacks the power now to persuade me. I admit that I’d probably still be afraid of Hark if he ever found me alone again, but I think I could find Herc if I needed to. I bet the offer still stands.

Thank you, Mister King.

I’m a third of the way through Stephen King’s memoir, and I’m already a new person. I’ve read a lot of books on writing, especially lately, but this one is teaching me the most important lesson that exists for me. No rules, no tips, no advice on writing the perfect query (so far). He just tells his experience in a way that slams one relentless message into my brain.

Be vulnerable!

EEK!

I said not too long ago on Facebook that I’m afraid of opinions. Boy did I pick the right career, huh? And not just writing. I’m a photographer, a singer…I majored in theatre, for crying out loud! You would think that someone like me, practically a calculator, would have a career in accounting. It seemed obvious to my guidance counselor, but did I take her advice and change my major? Nope. Not me. I’m trying to get out of my safe zone, face my fears.

I was thinking as I devoured Mr. King’s book that what I was learning could be applied to any endeavor, not just writing, and a friend confirmed that thought today. If you truly want something, you have to be willing to work for it, and that means being willing to offer a part of yourself up to a world that may just eat you alive. This post, written by a peer of mine, illustrates just how cruel the world can be. And I want to subject myself to that? Yes. I do. But why?

I want to be more than I am. And then more again. I remember the exact day I first realized I wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I was in elementary school, and I had a problem.

I was so sheltered at home that I was rendered clueless about trends in music and pretty much everything else. I knew it, too, so I kept my head down as much as possible. One day I heard a song on the playground that I didn’t understand but knew instinctively was describing sex. A group of my schoolmates stood in a circle passing around a pair of headphones and singing along. They motioned me over and passed me the headphones. It was the perfect opportunity for me to show my ignorance, and I took it. It turned out not to be a difficult song to learn. Two words, over and over, and a bunch of breathy moaning. It was stupid, but I didn’t say so. I bobbed my head the way the other kids did, an unknown alien among them.

I had made a mistake before, and I had no intention of repeating it. On a day prior to this incident I had overheard a popular girl singing a song that I actually knew. My mother listened to it in our minivan. I was stunned to hear the pretty blond singing it. Before I could control myself I asked her if she had also heard another song similar to it. Picture me: the tiny, over-enthusiastic girl, latching onto anything that I thought I had in common with miss popular. I’ll never forget the look she gave me. It named me a bug that needed to be squashed.

“I don’t listen to oldies, Rachel,” she said. “This is the Dirty Dancing soundtrack.”

Pure horror. I had done the thing I had so expertly avoided for so long. I had shown the people I most wanted to impress that I was a dork. Not by choice, maybe, but a dork nonetheless. It felt like the biggest problem in the world, piled onto shoulders much too small to bear the weight. Sitting here almost thirty years later, I can still feel the nausea. From that day on, I never let anyone know what songs I listened to, even after I started getting to make the decision myself. A part of me died. I lost a battle on that day that would hinder me artistically for years to come.

Since then I have learned to be vulnerable, but probably not to the extent that true success requires. Every time I hesitate to write my true voice into my books, I run the risk of losing that battle. If I play it safe, I won’t shock anyone, right? And that, I think, is the problem. Mediocrity shocks no one, and it fails to sell itself.

Sam and Millie is the first book I’ve written with no regard for the whispered warnings of that scared little girl on the playground. No turning the music down on this one. No mediocrity.

Whatever your art is, do it all the way. Sing the way you sing when you’re alone. Does anyone besides you really know what you’re capable of? If not, show someone! Dance like no one can see you. Be fearless, and be who you are. Share that photograph you took that you’ve been hiding because you think no one else will get it. Compose the music that no one else can hear, and write your stories from the places that shock you the most. And when the world tries to eat you alive, stick in their throats.

Now to finish the memoir. I have  a feeling that the actual instruction part is coming. I considered finishing the book before I posted my thoughts on it, but I was afraid I would forget my initial reaction.