Mother's Day Mayhem

Contrary to what the title implies, I had a great mother's day. My husband and kids made me a very tasty breakfast in bed. I received flowers and cards with promises to vacuum the house and do five chores worth $20 (I think my 8-year-old has an inflated sense of his helpfulness).

For supper, my husband made beef stew, home-baked bread, and spice cake - all were delicious, by the way. He bought an expensive cut of meat, which he thought was called Agnes beef (say Angus, honey, An-gus). Really, I'd hate to think my pleasure was at the expense of a little old lady.

In short, my husband and kids did exactly what they were supposed to do for mother's day - they made me feel special. Unfortunately, I'm so used to doing everything myself, I had to force myself to walk away when my husband started making the cake using terribly inefficient techniques. I did help him out at supper time because honestly I couldn't walk away. I have issues, I admit it.

But the kicker was the dishwasher episode. Setting: Me lying in bed, relaxed, reading a House Beautiful magazine after eating my delicious breakfast. My husband has just headed into the kitchen when I hear, "OOOhhhh..." in this mournful, oh crud, kind of voice. Sensing trouble, I leaped out of bed (seriously, I did) and dashed into the kitchen. For some reason, I just knew it was the dishwasher. Maybe it wasn't making the same noise I'm accustomed to. I don't know. All I knew was that I was needed to save the day.

And then I saw the bubbles.

That dishwasher was frothing at the mouth like a rabid raccoon. My husband, thinking I'd bought a new sort of dishwasher detergent, put dish soap into the little cup (something they vehemently warn you not to do). Let me tell you, there were a lot bubbles to clean up and scoop out and wash down the sink. A lot. I'm thinking that when I start up the dishwasher again, there'll be more bubbles.

When it was all over, I told my husband he was a writer's dream, and then I somehow managed to laugh and give him a hug. What can I say? Mothers need to be needed.

Seeing all those bubbles just made my day.

The Pitch: Five Minutes to Sell Yourself

This weekend I attended the New Hampshire Writers Project Writers' Day. I met lots of great people, listened to Nicholson Baker speak and read from one of his works (look him up - he's a funny guy), learned about social media and how the latest great way to market yourself changes almost daily, and most importantly, I PITCHED to an agent. No, I did not throw something at her.

Here's the deal: You get five minutes to sell yourself to a perfect stranger (I've heard that at ThrillerFest you get one minute - apparently a miasma of depression and desperation fills the room that day). Personally, I dreaded the moment. I'm not the most extroverted of people and the spoken word is not my forte. Having stopped wearing a watch, and unable to find the one I usually bring for such events, I stayed too long after lunch chatting to a new found friend and had to hurry over to the right building. Of course I was the first to do my pitch, so I had no time to go to the bathroom beforehand. And of course I had food in my teeth (luckily, I discovered this afterward, and luckily it wasn't noticeable - I hope). Basically, I was freaking out, and I had to go.

Luckily for me, my agent was great and helpful and didn't bite me once. But let me let you in on a little secret. If the workshop coordinators tell you not to bring a manuscript, don't listen to them. Bring it (or at least the first 3 chapters). You may never do anything with it (and don't force it on the agent), but at the very least, you can hold your query letter in front of you for comfort, and consult it if you forget where you are, who you are, and what the heck you're doing here in this scary place.

I learned this little trick by reading The Mysterious Benedict Society (great book for kids, BTW). The children are told to bring only one pencil to take a test, but one character, Constance Contraire, brings 37. Borrowing a book from Constance's page, I brought along the first 3 chapters, a synopsis and a query letter. What did I have to lose? Nothing! The agent asked for a sample of my writing and lo and behold, I had one! Most times I'm a rule follower, but sometimes, you've got to take the initiative, break some rules, stir things up. Who knows what will come out of this? Maybe nothing. But as Elvis always says, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

In sum, when doing a pitch, be prepared for any contingency. Keep a copy of a writing sample (preferably the first three chapters and a query letter) in your bag, just in case. Bring a watch and leave yourself time to go to the bathroom to do your business.

Oh, and note to self: Next time, avoid eating baked beans for lunch.

The Little Red Building on the Corner

For several months now I have been intrigued by the little red building on the corner. Day after day, I've seen workers coming and going, and vans and utility trucks driving in and out, busy as bees. The building is quiet now, yet I can tell work still continues inside, and I wonder is it ever going to be finished? And when it is, What's my little red building going to be?

My imagination hasn't exactly run amok with mad ideas, but it has conjured up a few scenarios:

*A cozy cafe/bakery where I can eat lunch or drink a pot of tea and write down delicious story ideas full of quirky sparks and warm bonhomie. On weekend evenings they will offer live entertainment and my husband and I can sit and enjoy a bit of adult, quiet time without having to drive a half hour to get there.

*A new and used bookstore where I will find secret books full of magic and wondrous adventures. Where they have open mike night and I can read my terrible poetry. Where I will meet the eccentric owner and discuss Camus.

*A unique boutique full of wonderful, imaginative clothes just my size.

*All three combined.

Just about every day I drive past the little building and the wait to see what it's going to be has me feeling both frustrated and wonderful, as though I were on an adventure. I want the journey to end, yet I don't. I'd like to get going on acting out my fantasies, you see. But then again, what if I ask and I find out my mystery building is merely going to be someone's house? That would be a very sad day indeed - well, for me, anyway. I'm sure the owners wouldn't agree. Or maybe the building is a
business that sells snow blowers. From the beginning, an orange snow blower has lurked on the porch like an ugly gnome. Are the owners already advertising? Egad, I hope not. I cannot eat pastries on a snow blower.

My little town is great and living here feels like an honor. But I would love to see a special place where people can gather and watch other people going about their lives, where they can talk and eat good food, where they can laugh and cry and sing kumbaya, all in a magical atmosphere that brings you back again and again.

What will the little red building on the corner be? What's your guess?
And please...nothing to do with machines.
A girl's got to dream.