Take My Advice. Seriously.

You know how it goes: You’re out somewhere public with your offspring, minding your own business, when someone approaches you and says, “If that were my child …” and rambles off some unsolicited advice. Yes, the person who feels that, within several seconds of observing you, they have your life all figured out AND they can manage it better than you can. I totally think positive thoughts to these people, smile a polite “thank you,” and go about my business. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I like to assume that they are really, really working from a place of concern in their hearts. But deep down I’m probably rolling my eyes at their interference.

Flip it around: Someone wants advice—and they’ve asked you. (Which, in polite society, is known as the only time one should ever offer any type of advice.) What if, more specifically, you’ve been asked to beta read an author’s newest, or even first, work? Then, my friend, you are going to have to reach for your steel-toed ballet slippers: You are about to pirouette across someone’s soul. Why a pair of dance shoes? Because you will need grace and balance in order to mark the author’s manuscript. The steel toes come in handy for kicking yourself into gear, making sure that you are blatantly honest while still being kind. The steel reinforcements might also be necessary for getting the author to realize that, yes, some of the words must go. Like ten percent of them. Or more.

The thing is, every word in that document has bled out through the fingertips of the author. They are little word babies that the author has nursed into full-fledged sentences and nurtured into (hopefully) a cohesive world of alternate reality. Giving up word babies can be hard. But, as a beta reader, you owe it to the author to pick out the redundancies, the unnecessaries, the faults. Authors need to know when your eyes glaze and your brain drifts; they need to know when you’re confused or if you have stumbled into a hole that will blow apart their entire manuscript. That balance thing I mentioned? It’s really nice to use it now, in how you phrase your comments to the author. You want some good things marked, too—parts that you loved or made you feel something due to the author’s word choices and thought process. It is important to be thorough and specific. A book that is not properly beta-read (coinciding greatly with having proper editing) is not going to reach its full potential of amazingness.

In all of this, the author holds responsibility as well. The feedback you receive from your beta readers reflects your audience’s response. If something is a true sticking point or an actual error, it needs to be fixed. If you ask for help and then get defensive about a reader’s suggestions, your opportunity for growth as a writer instantly shrinks. Plus, you will lose the insights that can only come from someone outside of your head. Of course, you have the right to protect your word babies. If you get feedback that does not suit you and is not an actual error, you can smile your polite “thank you,” and go about your business. Beta reading is an opinionated thing; you might have to don a suit of armor to shield yourself from unnecessary steel-toe attacks. But, if more than one beta reader points something out, you should take the advice under consideration. Seriously. Even if, deep down, you’re rolling your eyes or feeling your heart wilt a little, this is not unsolicited interference; this is you on your journey to the Best Novel Ever. You’ve got this, and your steel-toed ballerinas have your back. I know this because I know some of the best betas out there, and they really, really are working from a place of concern in their hearts.

The Times They Are a Changing

I remember being a kid at school. Teachers assigned homework and, after complaining about how homework should be banned, I did it. When they assigned projects, I did them. I may not have liked it, but I did it. I remember all of the work it took to earn a good grade.

What I don't remember is my parents helping me with any of it.

Back then, parents didn't hover over us making sure we completed all of our work. They didn't call our teachers to complain about a bad grade. They simply went on with their daily lives while we were left to fend for ourselves. It's not that they didn't care about us. Quite the opposite. They just felt that school was our responsibility, not theirs.

If we couldn't figure something out, we were told to look it up (in books at the library, not by asking Siri). If we failed a test, we were punished and, depending on our parent's punishment of choice, we learned pretty quickly that failure was unacceptable.

Things seem so different now.  Parents are involved in everything their child does, from play dates to homework to sports teams. They do so much for their children that the kids are at risk of never learning about something as simple as accomplishing a goal. 

But, unlike many of the opinions I've heard on the matter, I don't entirely blame the parents.

I remember when my daughter was in the third grade. One of her assignments was to write down every combination of coins possible to make one dollar. Now, think about that for a moment. Every combination of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. There is no way her teacher thought that this was an appropriate task for eight year olds. 

In fifth grade, one of my son's assignments was to make a Powerpoint presentation for some geography project. Did that teacher really think a ten year old could find his way around software like that?

Let's be realistic for a moment. I could have spent hours teaching my son how to use Powerpoint, or emptied a piggy bank full of coins and put together hundreds of combinations totaling one dollar while my daughter wrote each down. Or, I could spend fifteen minutes doing it for them, and then get back to what I was doing before. I chose the latter. Not because I don't love my children, but because those assignments were ridiculous and virtually impossible for a child to accomplish. In short, they were what I call "Parent Homework." If a teacher is going to assign Parent Homework, they better darn well understand when the parents are the ones doing it.

Yes, some parents shelter their children from far too much and while trying to help them end up hurting them more. I do believe that parents need to take a step back and allow their children to succeed or fail on their own. But, I also think that schools need to make that possible.

Writer Shame

Recently, I had a conversation with a dear friend who is possibly one of the most intelligent and word-gifted people I know, not to mention completely lovely. I’d been noticing for a while how exquisitely she writes. Her Facebook posts are gritty and real and she finds beautiful words to describe hard feelings. I really admire her talent, and I decided it was time to tell her—with real words, instead of the ambiguous Facebook “like” or comment.

And then, with just about the same amount of nervous embarrassment as one admitting to an addiction to chewing previously enjoyed sidewalk gum, she admitted that she writes every day. Secretly. I wasn’t surprised; she’s got the gift and she should be writing. But her reaction really struck me. Because I remember that shame, that embarrassed nervousness, that stuttery feeling when someone asks what you do for a living. It’s hard to forget, because most days I still feel it.

It’s so hard to admit you’re a writer. Because out there in the “real” world, non-writers immediately ask, “What have you written?” or “Can I find your books at Barnes & Noble?” or “How much do you earn?” (Yes! Really!) or “What do you do for a day job?” (I swear!). My personal favorite is THE LOOK. The one that tells you, in no uncertain terms, that you’re a bum wasting your time on a pipe dream instead of supporting your family like a bloody GROWNUP.

It sucks. I wish we could own what we do, be proud of the words we write, even without the validation of agents and publishers and scores of raving reader-fans. So this is what I’d like to tell all those closet writers, including myself:

•  If, with some regularity, you sit down and bleed your soul onto paper or screen, then guess what? You’re a writer. Own it.      If you spend valuable parts of your day imagining the inner workings of some story you haven’t put words to yet, you’re almost a writer. Keep going. Then own it.
•  If you haven’t earned one red cent for your writing, and every agent and publisher in the universe has rejected your work, you still wrote something. So keep working on your craft. And own it.
• If what you’ve written sucks harder than a Dyson, congratulations! It means you’ve got a first draft, and there’s work to be done. A lot of it. So pat yourself on the back, and then get to it.
•  If you feel a sneaky sort of shame because you self-published your work, instead recognize how awesome you are for going it on your own. You followed a huge learning curve from writing to editing to book cover design to promo text to marketing, and you did it on your own. You’re not just a writer; you’re a superhero of the book world. Put on that cape and own it.
• If you’ve traditionally published your first book and are now learning how sucky having no control over the marketing (or lack thereof) of your book is, and wondering every single day if those sales numbers are good or horrid, and you’re doubting anyone will ever want to publish another of your books, ever—recognize what you’ve already accomplished. The only thing you can control is the work you produce. So let that book baby go and focus on the next one.
•  If you’re a New York Times Bestselling author (and if you are you’re probably too busy counting those royalty checks to read this measly little blog) and you’re wondering if the next book will lead to an “oh, how the mighty have fallen” plunge into the pits of writerly hell, with booze and self-loathing as your new BFFs—well, you’re a New York Times bestselling author. Do you get a trophy for that? If not, have one made. A monstrously huge, flashy, gold-plated one. And then suck it up, because you made it to the top of a very large mountain. You’re a one-percenter, and yes, the rest of us kinda-sorta hate you. A little.

The point is, wherever you are on this journey, have some pride in what you do. Be genuine about it. Own it. Cracking a book is like opening the pages to an entire universe, a universe where the mind and heart can be touched in new and beautiful ways. So what you’re doing matters.

Saying Goodbyes

Saying goodbye is always hard. From the small ones to the big ones. They are never easy. Even as a child, I struggled with goodbyes. When I was a little girl, I would throw a tantrum whenever it was time to leave my grandparents’ house. My mom would plead, my dad’s voice would start to rise, my grandma would try to convince me to be good (and my grandfather, bless him, would say I could always stay the night). But no matter what was said, the tears would fall and the stubbornness would kick in. I never wanted to say goodbye.

As an adult, I have the same problem. I am amazingly talented at being able to ignore any upcoming goodbye. Instead, I try to focus on the present, the moment of ‘now,’ instead of the growing dread in my stomach and the ache in my heart. Maybe it’s the stubborn refusal to admit a parting is coming that always makes them so hard.

I had to say goodbye again very recently. Luckily, it’s not a permanent one, but it still hurt and the tears still fell. Then we all had to say goodbye. First, David Bowie. While he may not have played a huge role in my life, whenever I hear of someone dying of cancer, it opens that old wound on my heart. Then it was Alan Rickman, deadpan delivery extraordinaire with the lovely voice. Another life lost to cancer and one that had a little more impact on my life.

And it got me thinking about goodbyes and why they are so hard. Is it because they signal an end to things? Whether temporary or permanent, they can represent a closing door.

Unless you think of them differently. No matter how difficulty a goodbye, it can’t change what has come before. As long as you don’t let it. It is so easy to focus on the ending that we forget to remember the journey. Sometimes we don’t even let ourselves enjoy the moment while it lasts, because we are too focused on how it will end.

I think I need to take away one old thing I used to know, and one thing I’m realizing now.

1) Don’t focus on the goodbye. Enjoy the journey. Live each moment to the fullest and don’t be afraid of how it will end. Instead, celebrate each second that you have. Enjoy each moment playing at grandma and grandpa’s like it will never end.

But then:

2) Don’t be afraid of the goodbyes when they happen. Don’t try to ignore the hurt they can cause, but don’t let them sour what came before. Maybe a goodbye isn’t so much a closing door, but instead just a mile post on the journey you’ve been on so far. A way to remember the amazing moments that came before. A time to reflect on what has already happened.

That’s my new goal. To treasure the moments I have, but to try and accept the goodbyes that I have to make. While trying to hold on to the faith that there will be something just as great on the horizon, something to experience and enjoy as the person all those past goodbyes have helped me become. So I will do my best. After all, it may be a little after the fact, but it’s never too late for a new year’s resolution.

It’s just Research – Honestly!

Happy New Year everyone. 
All too late, I realise I should probably have made a resolution (apart from my normal “detox for the rest of January as soon as the food’s all gone”). It's hard when the date on the Brandy cream is mid Jan and no-one else likes Christmas cake or pudding. Pretty sure I'm man enough for the task, though.

Trouble is, until the last decoration is down, I can’t get out of all the bad habits I picked up over Christmas. Like having a tiny glass of Bailey’s Irish Cream with my last cup of coffee (which is just before I go to bed) – for some reason, I’m immune to caffeine. Probably because I only have half a teaspoon – it’s little more than hot milk. But as well as the chocolate or cookie (just to stave of night-time rumbly-tummy), I’m now having rich fruit cake with a slice of cheese and brandy cream with it. Like ten minutes before I hit the sack. Does it get any worse, figure-wise? Yep, that half-stone (7lbs) I packed on since September is rapidly growing. If the January detox doesn’t shift it, we then have Lent – 40 days of giving up stuff (booze, snacks and not exercising). That should sort it. 

But this pales into insignificance compared to the very worst habit of all. Binge-watching. I never even knew it was a thing til Bri got the new TV. One of those mega-huge curved things the rest of the world’s been watching for half a decade. And then he really stuffed me good. He put Netflix on it. Ai Caramba.

So on Sunday, my son and I watched two Castle episodes before lunch. Then Bri gave him a lift down to Horsham and I was looking forward to 7 hours solitary writing. The best laid plans. What did I do? A couple of thousand words for the 3rd book in the Hostage series? Nope. My daughter and I watched 6 episodes of Orange is the New Black. Back-to-back with a couple of pee-breaks and incessant replenishing of the wine glasses and snack bowls as the credits ran. Aarrgghh.

I’m trying to analyse how I’ve gone from a girl who only watched one soap and one series a week to someone who can do eight 1-hour shows in a day. Let’s back-pedal to when my kids were young. My guilty sin is Coronation Street – a British TV soap where many excellent screen/TV writers cut their teeth. I watch it because unlike most soaps, it really doesn’t take itself seriously. The humour, pathos and fantastic (in the true meaning) characters/situations make it a fabulous half-hour.

I would also watch any kind of Star Trek and Dr Who, and this progressed to Space 1999, Babyon 5 and more recently Firefly (what’s not to like about Joss Whedon’s writing?). But back then, you had to wait around until it came up in its once-weekly slot and each season ran for a few months then there was a big gap. It was a pleasure made more intense by anticipation and moderation.

Then came dozens of TV channels and huge rafts of US imports. We built up our couch potato muscles slowly with a steady diet of sit-coms and intense dramas. And then there were the re-runs and the ability to record series that showed in the wee small hours so if you only caught a show on season 3, you could go back and catch up. Still I managed to keep it down to less than 10 hours a week (not counting Saturday movie night).

All those addictive reality shows? I never watched more than 10 minutes of Big Brother. I managed to keep up with most of a series of the jungle one; never managed a whole episode of X-factor, but religiously watched every minute of Strictly Come Dancing (the UK’s Dancing With The Stars).

Then came the buying of the DVD sets. So whenever my son comes home, we will watch a couple of episodes of something – he has similar Sci-fi oriented tastes and we both like a good murder mystery.

None of this prepared me for the total lack of self-control which happens on Netflix. At least a DVD only holds four episodes and there is always a bit of fun while you try and remember exactly where you got up to last time. Netflix denies you any pretence of autonomy as it and removes the need for even a remote control. ‘It’s alright love, you just sit there and I’ll remember where you were and start the next one with just enough time to grab another beer/empty out the last one.’ Is this what plugging into the Matrix feels like?

At 2am last night, rolling over to the 4th Orange/Black in a row, we decided that it was completely legitimate research. We were doing this to get a handle on what makes a series so compelling. As soon as we figure it out, we’ll let you know.
Maybe I have got an addictive personality after all.

Gifted

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away … I was a child. It was Christmas, and I thought I’d just received the best gift ever. EVER. I was now the proud owner of my very own big ol’ box of sausages, cheeses, petit fours, crackers, jams, and other treats. And a stack of new books. I grabbed a blanket and some pillows, crawled under the kid's art table in the living room, and disappeared for the better part of the day. Nothing could top this, I thought. EVER.

I was wrong.

I grew up, got married, had kids. Had all the happy I wanted, right inside of me and all around me in the sweet little faces of my children. My husband and I had two healthy kiddos, a girl named Ellie and a boy named Michael. And I’d just given birth to Clinton, our third child. Clinton, with his heart issues. Clinton, with his strength and determination. Clinton, who died ten days before Christmas in a state six-hundred miles away from home.

It was while we were at the hospital that I realized I’d actually, this time, received the greatest gift ever. EVER. 

It stemmed from our infant son, and it changed me. Because of the little dark haired fellow, I began to understand the true value of human contact. Human touch. I’d never been much of a touchy-feely person—apart from babies and kiddos, anyway. My immediate family, sure, I could hug and kiss them just fine. But anyone beyond them … meh. It just wasn’t my thing.

Enter Clinton. He was an open-chest patient. They’d done various surgeries on his heart to fix his Transposition of the Great Vessels diagnosis. After so many times under the knife, and as he got sicker, his skin became too fragile to seal up. Instead, they sewed a little patch onto him, covering the open incision. We could watch the beating of his heart against the surface. Because of Clinton’s open-chest status, we could not hold him (with one exception when a nurse felt it had been too long for mommy and son to have gone without a cuddle). 

Clinton had a feeding tube down his throat, and therefore could not make vocal sounds. Loaded with intense medications to alleviate pain and keep him from moving too much, his motions were drowsy and slow. As a newborn, he didn’t have tears when he cried; it takes many weeks for the tear ducts to produce that moisture. Watching his sweet baby face was the main way for us to tell if he was crying and needed something. He’d pucker up, furrow his brow, and push out that lower lip. My mama heart would lurch, and his daddy and I would comfort him however we could. 

Forehead to forehead, I’d touch him, leaning over the side of his plastic bassinet hospital bed. Rub his arms and legs with my fingers, kiss his cheeks. Breathe him in. Hold his tiny hands. 

This touching was normal, easy—natural for me. But it became extended to others. A nurse. A Child Life Specialist. Visitors in the hallway. Other parents with young ones in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. Friends of friends who came to visit. The list grew. I couldn’t tell if I was hugging for my insides to feel better or hugging to help the other people feel stronger. Pretty soon, it didn’t even matter to me what the reason might be. There was something precious and profound in each hug. A recognition of humanity. Of a shared moment in a side-by-side life story. A reminder that none of us was alone. The validation that what we faced in our individual days was tough and scary. Heart wrenching. But that we were stronger than our worst fears. That love was stronger than anything. EVER. That, through touch, we could hold tight and hold up … or simply let go.

When we left that hospital, my husband driving, two of our sweet children in the back seat, one precious baby in our hearts, and a small white box of ashes on my lap, I was a changed person. I craved touch and hugs. From anyone. 

Which brings us to the present-day. There’s this woman at my gym—a local YMCA—and I’ll call her Fran. Because I think that’s her name. Let me just put it out there: I want to be Fran when I grow up. She comes for a senior strengthening class, and she always arrives early. And she passes out hugs. To everyone. Sweaty, smelly, gym-using bodies get folded into her soft, strong arms. Pulled tight against her fresh clothes, surrounded by a welcoming soul-to-soul recognition of “You’re here today, and I’m glad to see you.” She wishes everyone a good day, passes to the next person. I watched the other day as five people waited their turn: men, women, old and young. Nothing fazes her as she walks across the gym floor. She waits until a person recognizes the opportunity, and then she’ll open her arms and smile. 

Without my experience with Clinton, I’d have missed this amazing connection. I’d have shied away from a stranger wanting to get so close to me. I am forever thankful that he put me in a place in my life where I could grow. 

I think all people should receive such a gift, the understanding of the importance of touch. To be seen, to be held. To be given the knowledge that they are not alone, that what they have inside of them holds value. It would help our broken humanity if we had ties to each other like this. Fewer tragedies might take place throughout the world. Hugs are easy to give, nice to receive, and have the potential to save humanity. What a great gift; indeed, they are the best. EVER.