Tag: sister

Dear Readers

My plants are dying, and I think they may be reacting to my mood, though my sister says it’s lack of sunlight. But then what does my gardening, green-thumbed sister know? These are my plants after all, not some other person’s who might actually remember to water them on a schedule. I’m raising them in my own neglectful fashion – apparently without sunlight – and if anything is causing them harm, I’m guessing it’s my forlorn, woebegone gazes that are doing them in.

Because I miss the sun as desperately as they do. And I miss my family. And I miss sundresses and flip flops and skin that isn’t pasty hi-I’m-a-Cullen white. [Insert me shaking my fist at the Fog.] I also miss café mochas and Starbucks because I frickin’ heart Starbucks, but every mocha costs like a bazillion points on my new diet, and quite frankly, I am a hater of math, except when I can show off my mad formula skills in Excel. So to sum things up, I’m black-thumbed, pale, and cranky.

I bet you want to come to my house for a LONG visit, don’t you?

Lucky for you, I’m actually a very cheery person when you meet me. I even show teeth when I smile. And it’s easy to know I like you because the slightest laughing fit can induce asthmatic wheezing much like the penguin in Toy Story, and that’s difficult to hide.

Keep your fingers crossed that my plants survive my mochalessness. (That’s a word, right?) Things may get dicey with my landlord if I’m forced to have a flushing funeral for my oregano, and the toilet gets backed up. Again. Oh, Rosemary, I have not forgotten you. Also, wear flip flops for me if you are in warmer weather and wiggle your toes a little while you think of me because that’s not weird at all.

Love,

Me

A Peek at the Future

Certain readers have the ability to crush your ability to type another word. In the past, my sister has been that reader. This is why she didn’t get to read Touched until months after it was complete. See that story here. See, she is my best friend. A beta reader tells me this character needs some work, and I take it with a grain of salt and get down to the business of editing. My sister tells me this, and I’m ready to kill off the character completely.

Now I’m working on Interior of a Heart, and I believe this novel has something. Most days. And my sister asked to read it, and I immediately began whipping out excuses to explain why it wasn’t ready, and she said, “Oh, we’re going to go through that again?” and I thought “Maybe, soul-crusher” because I hate to get called on my crap. And then I felt guilty because she has been extremely supportive.

So I caved and sent the first part of the manuscript to her last week. I made her swear in blood and spit to only offer praise or questions, but no criticisms because this is a first draft and what kind of sister criticizes a first draft – I’ll tell you, a monster, that’s who.

Then, on Friday my sister and her husband drove from LA to San Francisco to visit me for the weekend. On the way, she read my wip out loud to my brother-in-law. When they arrived here, we spent two hours discussing my book. Mostly, I just sat back and listened to them debate the themes and the way the story would end. They passionately discussed my characters as if they were real people, ones who my family had a vested interest in. How amazing it was to see something I created – characters I pulled out of my head – talked about like this! To hear certain lines repeated because they loved them and were touched by them.

They gave me a wonderful gift – the gift of a peek into the future when readers will buy my book and perhaps discuss it in the same way. Man, that future is exciting and scary and wonderful. I can’t wait for it to get here!

Dinner with the Fam in 20 Stages

1. Plan trip to LA for SCBWI conference. Believe I will have loads of time to see family. Ask Sister and Brother #1 in separate conversations to meet for dinner.
2. Panic when realizing I only have one night free. What to do? Well, I guess we could have dinner together. That wouldn’t be weird, right?
3. Brother #1 and Sister are on board. Sounds like fun. Yay!
4. Whoops! You can’t NOT invite Brother #2. His feelings would be hurt if he hears about all the fun had by the rest of us. Immediately call Brother #2 to rectify mistake. He lives three hours away and will not come, but it’s the thought that counts.
5. Brother #2 shocks you by immediately agreeing. Ok, wow. The four of us are going to dinner. No spouses. No kids.
6. Day before Dinner: Sister and Brother #2 are at baby shower with the Mother Figure. Her feelings are hurt a wee bit that we didn’t invite her. (Geez, Mom, we’re flying by the seat of our pants here. Besides, you don’t like driving to LA. Or visiting.)
7. Crisis avoided when Sister and Brother #2 tell Mother Figure she wasn’t invited because we are deciding what home to put her in. She is bitter but resigned. Tells Brother #2 she hopes we all get diarrhea. Nice, Mom.
8. Day of Dinner: Brother #1 drives three hours  to meet up at Sister’s house. Everyone is shockingly pleasant.
9. Mother Figure calls Sister and hangs up.
10. Mother Figure calls Brother #2. He warns her the quality of the home we put her in is going down. She hangs up.
11. Siblings eye each other. *snickers*
12. Brother #1 finally arrives after three hours in traffic. Pile into Sister’s SUV to go to dinner at the Elephant Bar.
13. While waiting for a table, Mother Figure calls Brother #1. He is confused by her snarky comments, but bravely listens when we tell him to hang up on her.
14. More *snickers*
15. Brother #1 calls Mother Figure and asks if she’s ready to “act like an adult.” She tells him she’s not going to a home and we’re not taking her driver’s license either. Hangs up.
16. Seriously, my stomach hurts from laughing. *puffs on asthma inhaler*
17. Finally get a table and our food. Never a dull moment in the conversation. Funny enough, the boys dominate the conversations. When did they turn into such talkers who bare their souls to their sisters? *warm fuzzies*
18. Brother #1  looks around table and asks, “When was the last time that just the four of us went out together?”
19. Pause. Sad to realize the answer is NEVER. Promises all around to make a better effort.
20. Mother Figure sends text with this picture.  First response: shock she knows how to text a picture. Second response: *snickers*. Third response: Smiles when we realize Mother Figure managed to invite herself to dinner anyway.

I guess by now you’ve figured out that my family shows love with sarcasm and hang ups. What others consider mean, we consider a valentine. Honestly, this was the most fun we’ve all had together in pretty much…ever.

When Things Aren’t What You Expect

Sunday was my first Fourth of July in San Francisco. I was pretty damned sure the fireworks were going to be SPECTACULAR. I felt that excitement, like when you’re a kid and you know Independence Day is the one day of the year when your parents suddenly let you play with fire. (Was that just my family?) One of my favorite things to do in the city is escape to this lookout in the Presidio, and I knew that had to be THE spot to watch the fireworks show.

The Presidio is a former military base that has been converted into a little forest oasis with hiking trails and hidden delights around every corner. My first month living in SF I discovered Inspiration Point, a lookout offering an amazing view of the Alcatraz and the Bay. Most days when I go to Starbucks to write, I spend a few minutes at this point first, clearing my mind of the day’s tasks so I can write.

So the eve of the SPECTACULAR fireworks show, I drove up there armed with a blanket – because for some insane reason, it’s cold here in July. I had a prime spot, and for the next couple of hours, I watched cars roll in. I called my sister and my friend, Dawn, bragging about my front row seat for the show. And then I huddled with a load of perfect strangers in the brisk wind – including the prerequisite drunk guys singing God Bless America – and we watched the SPECTACULAR show.

Okay, that’s a huge lie. SPECTACULARLY DISAPPOINTING might be more fitting. The show sucked ass. Seriously. The fireworks shot straight up into the fog, and lit the clouds up like we were in a war zone. After 20 minutes of watching this…

Me: Is it always like this?

Stranger: Yes

Me: It’s kind of anticlimactic.

Stranger: (chuckling) Welcome to 4^th of July in San Francisco!

My cotton-candy dreams had been crushed. I called my sister back to report what a scam the SPECTACULAR show was. She didn’t answer because she was off enjoying a real fireworks show. Jerk.

My writing career so far has been a lot like that. Like a lot of naïve writers, I was sure I would be get an agent and become a SPECTACULAR success in less than five minutes. Now, I want to pat myself on the head and murmur, “Oh, you sweet, dear, stupid thing…” For most writers, getting published is not going to happen like fireworks, or at all. And if you spend too much time congratulating yourself on your front row seat to success, you are setting yourself up for disappointment. Cold, bitter, haggard, hungover disappointment.

I’m not saying to skip out on dreaming for big things. Who doesn’t love a great fireworks show? Don’t hang all your emotions on that dream, though, because you may get lost in the fog. It’s too easy to disappear into all the emotionalism that comes with this dream. Too many would-be writers give up their craft in anger. If you come to this dark place, the best thing you can do is write. Get a rejection? Write. Get an agent? Write. Get a hangnail? Clip it, and then write.

And remember, if you are feeling let down, there are a bunch of other writers huddling in the dark with you.

When Someone Reads You, I Mean, Your Novel

So, if you’re a writer or a child of six who just learned how to draw a clown, then you know the gut-wrenching horror of standing under a hangman’s noose AKA lying to a jury about double-parking so you could steal buy a candy bar AKA showing yourself work to someone and waiting for them to judge you it. I love myself work, so if you don’t love me it as well, you obviously kick puppies and crush joy everywhere by lying about how Santa isn’t real. Of course Santa’s real. Duh.

Imagine my terror when I showed my sister the first 100 pages of a fiction novel that I stressed was loosely based on our family, but not really. More it bore a slight resemblance like how boxer briefs look like boxers and briefs but aren’t either. They’re just underwear, original non-boxer, non-brief underwear. Keeping this undie dichotomy in mind, she reads me my story. I mentally bite my nails, and she finally looks up and says, “The brother in this is nothing like our brother,” and I’m thinking, “What part of loose don’t you get?” and she’s all “The part where you loosely resemble a writer,” and I’m all, “You never support me,” and she’s all, “What are you talking about? I changed your diapers. That’s love.” And the argument in my head ends because you can’t argue with someone who changed your diapers.

Fast forward a few years in which I never showed her my writing. You can see why. I mean, how much harsher could she get than, “The brother in this is nothing like our brother.” It’s like she tore me my story apart with a paper shredder and a spatula. Then, I write a novella for my Master’s project, and I’m really proud of it and the students and teachers are praising me and my sister’s like, “When do I get to read it?” and I’m thinking, “Uh, never. My ego story can’t take it” and she’s all “I’m really proud of you” which of course I interpret as thinly veiled censure. But then she actually comes to my project defense and beams with pride and cries (you’re not fooling anyone, sis, with your Machiavellian ways) and I’m emotionally blackmailed into giving her a copy of my project. Which sits on her shelf for two years. Unread. Luckily, I can interpret SILENCE, and I know she thinks me my work is crap, and I think, “You suck,” and she’s all “I feel like I’m eavesdropping because you ripped your soul out to write this” and I’m all, “Just wipe the blood off the pages and it’s like new. Legible even” and she puts it back on the shelf, and I say, “You told the kids that Santa doesn’t exist, didn’t you?” and she’s all, “Huh?”

Fast forward another couple years, and I write a novel. I tell her, “Look, I wrote a masterpiece!” and she reaches for the pages, and I gasp, “You don’t read it!” And she’s like, “Are you going to make me buy it in the store?” and I’m thinking, “That’s not a bad idea. Let’s run with that. I’ll write a really great dedication that would make you EVIL if you said anything negative like, you know, with your SILENCE.” And then I post Teaser Tuesdays on my blog, and she stealthily clicks on the link I emailed her and reads them and she’s all “You better give me a copy.” And I’m thinking, “No way in hell,” and she’s all, “Remember who changed your diapers. And gave you nieces and nephews. And it’s my pre-birthday” and I’m all “Damn it. I hate pre-birthdays.” So I give her a copy all nonchalant like because, as you know, I don’t care what she thinks. And I prepare myself for her criticism of me my work and wonder how many puppies she kicks every day. Probably seven. Maybe ten if they stray in her yard. Then this email arrives.

Subject: stoop!!

I have gotten lost in your book my time at the gym was not long enough and I will have to take more pages tomorrow 35 was not enough I can’t wait to get back to it!!  You are a lovely writer I am so proud of you!!!
kisses
Me

At first I admire her fervent stand against punctuation and radical use of exclamation points. Then I sigh in relief, which of course, irritates me because how could she not love me my writing. Of course, I am indignant as any sane writer would be. Really, she owes me an apology. For her deafening SILENCES. And for kicking puppies.

UPDATE: My sister snuck in like a ninja and read this. She confirmed that she will continue to avert her eyes to punctuation AND capitalization. How can you be mad at someone with such off-their-rocker ideals?