I Wrote a Book With Two Kids At Home by Amber Dusick (from Crappy Pictures!)

I wrote a book with two little kids at home and I survived. Barely.

This is how I did it.

Late at night, fueled by pints of ice cream. The kids were asleep so the only distraction I had was Crappy Cat stepping on my keyboard. He loves the delete key and is super skilled at pressing it.

Of course since the kids were asleep it technically meant that I was supposed to be asleep too. Which I wasn’t. Which meant I was tired. Always.

I did learn a few very important things along the way though.

1. Backing up a manuscript isn’t a good idea. It isn’t a great idea. It isn’t an idea at all. It is a requirement. It must be done. It should be #1 in “book writing 101″ classes. (Maybe it already is. I don’t know, I never took that class. Is there a class?) Anyway, I lost a handful of pages before I learned this lesson. Those pages that I lost were the best, most funniest thing I have ever written and had I backed them up I’d be rich and famous and living in a mansion with a hot tub in every room. Instead, I don’t have a mansion or even a single hot tub. See? Not backing up will ruin your life.

2. Haagen-Dazs® chocolate ice cream is too darn hard. It doesn’t ever seem to melt. You have to leave that one out for a good 20 minutes before digging in. Which is basically impossible to do so I stopped buying it. Ben & Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough and half baked are also way too distracting to eat while writing. You spend too much time digging for the little dough or brownie nuggets. Stick with the simple flavors like chocolate, strawberry and mint chip. Those are writing-friendly flavors. I told you these were important things. You’re welcome.

3. Did I say I learned “a few” things? I should change that to “a couple” things. Whatever. You know what I mean.

Honestly, I can’t remember much.

I do remember telling myself that “I will never, ever, ever do this again” but I can’t for the life of me remember why I would feel that way. It wasn’t so bad. Was it?

I should probably try it again just to make sure.

Or maybe this is just an excuse to eat ice cream.

Amber Dusick’s novel Parenting: Illustrated with Crappy Pictures is available for pre-order now and will be on sale March 26!
Want a copy? One person who comments today will win a copy, courtesy of the PBKMoms!

You can find Amber Dusick blogging at Parenting. Illustrated with Crappy Pictures.

Guest Mom Natalie D. Richards on Motherhood and Writing

I’m so thrilled to introduce you to Golden Heart double-finalist Natalie Richards! She’s a true inspiration to moms of young children who think they have to wait to pursue their dreams–Natalie’s proof you don’t have to wait. You can start today….

I wrote the first book I ever sold without sitting down.

Okay, that’s a lie, but I did crank out more of its pages on my feet than I ever did on my rear end. I even wrote some of it in the midst of a grueling kidney stone attack. Sounds pretty intense, right? Like maybe my story was one of those life-changing journeys, one of those books that could not wait to be put to the page.

If only I could claim such greatness. Truth be told, I wrote standing up because I typically had a two-year-old crawling onto my lap and over the keys if I sat down. And I didn’t write with kidney stones because I’m the John Wayne of the writing world. I whined and griped through every minute of that ordeal, but I had a Golden Heart® contest deadline looming, and I refused to miss it.

My methods were weird, because my life demanded weird methods.

See, like a lot of people probably reading this blog, I picked the worst imaginable time to get serious about my writing. With two toddlers at home, and my thirtieth birthday looming, I thought it was high time to recommit to my dream. I focused on my craft, joined a local writer’s group and approximately fifteen minutes later, found myself pregnant with baby number three.

Writing was…hard.

Children come in many varieties. Some are shy, gentle creatures who take pleasure in long hours coloring quietly or reading in solitude. I don’t have any of those children, but I’m sure they exist.

My kids are rocket-talking, wall-bouncing bringers of stickiness and noise. They are amazing and inspiring and so exhausting that it sometimes takes everything I have to wrangle these little energy cannons through a day.

It would have been easier to put writing on hold. I mean, realistically, how was I going to manage the house, three children and a part-time job, and pump out a novel or two?

Well, I wasn’t about to let silly little things like logic and reality stop me.

So, I wrote. Wrote standing up, wrote in the car, wrote at hockey rinks and in the bathroom while my kids splashed in the tub. I wrote at the kitchen counter while dinner cooked and in the corner of the play room alongside Lego masterpieces and puppet shows . On a particularly rough night with a stomach bug running through the house, I wrote on the laundry room floor, waiting for sheets to dry.

I didn’t start with the intention of this writing Bedlam I exist in now. My original plan included a tidy house, organic, homemade dinners, and a strict writing schedule that I’d carry out at the small desk in my bedroom. My plan went off without a hitch for at least seven hours. That’s about the time I found myself with a clingy baby on nap-strike, a sink overflowing with dishes, and a pile of laundry I needed climbing gear to scale. As for my desk? It was still there. Somewhere under that sea of unpaid bills, half-finished kid-art projects and odd socks. Reality had done slapped my dream upside its head.

THE DREAM

THE REALITY


See, when motherhood hits, she takes no prisoners. You can either give up or dig in your heels and fight.

The truth is, it might be easier to wait until your kids are older to venture into the writing world. But if you’re reading this blog, you’re not willing to wait.

Good for you.

Keep your eye on the prize. Be flexible. Be opportunistic. And most importantly, be relentless. No one can really take your writing away from you, but no one will do it for you, either. So, let go of your expectations and tighten your fist on your goals. Carve out every slice of time you can and before you know it, it will become second nature.

Maybe you, too, will write a book standing up. Or maybe you’ll be better at this gig than me, and you’ll find a way to do it sitting down. Regardless of how you do it, get those words on the page. Much like motherhood, as brutally difficult as it can be, you’ll never, ever regret it.

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At seven, Natalie D. Richards wrote about Barbara Frances Bizzlefishes (who wouldn’t dare do the dishes.) Now she writes about awesome girls, broody boys, and all things dark and creepy. Natalie lives in Ohio (Go Bucks!) with her husband, kids, and a giant dust-mop who swears he’s the family dog. Her first book with Sourcebooks Fire, Six Months Later, is a young adult psychological thriller scheduled for release in October 2013. Contact her at natdrichards@gmail.com or follow her @NatDRichards.

Guest Mom: Kim Gruenenfelder on Thanksgiving Traditions & Writing

Welcome to a truly funny author and lovely person! I met Kim at the Romance Writers of America conference in Anaheim, CA, this past summer, and in the brief time I spent with her at the St. Martin’s Press party and in her car back to the hotel, I thought, “I like this chick. A lot!” She was just so breezy and fun, a natural comedienne and good sport.  I’d never read her books, so as soon as I got home, I dove into There’s Cake in My Future and totally fell in love with the story and the characters. I’m so glad Kim’s here to share with us her own take on life, writing, and crazy holiday moments. Thank you, Kim, for reminding us to live in the moment, to laugh, and to love the people we’re with!

Happy Thanksgiving week fellow writer/Moms! We are about to embark on the most glorious day of the year – the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Of course, we’re all overwhelmed, getting ready for the traditional “Wednesday before Thanksgiving Christmas tree trimming”. What with pulling out all the lights, unwrapping the ornaments, getting out the Christmas china for the traditional Wednesday pizza, pulling out the Christmas wine charms to pour champagne and mulled wine for the grownups, baking the Christmas cupcakes….

Wait. What’s that? Some of you are actually defrosting a Turkey on Wednesday? You have yams on your grocery list instead of cupcakes? You’re peeling… potatoes? Huh. Weird.

My favorite day of the year is the Wednesday before Thanksgiving because it is the official beginning of the most magical time of the year. You’ve just had an early day at school or work, you have four days off in front of you, there’s nothing but the magic of the holidays and family to look forward to, then the promise of a bright New Year – it’s all about potential. I just don’t really care about that next day (Thanksgiving) all that much. Why? First off – I grew up surrounded by A) Irish Catholics and B) Actors and various other artists in the entertainment community. So let’s just say Thanksgivings were loud. Big. Filled with drama. Someone was always fighting with someone. Some years, everyone was fighting with everyone. It could be about politics, religion, schools, books, affairs people had had that year, why someone hadn’t called someone else after said affair, instead just sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night…

Oh, the years I longed to be an “orphan” and go to an “Orphan’s Thanksgiving.” The food always sounded bad (For example, one friend called the Butterball line after not realizing there was a plastic bag of gizzards inside the cavity that had melted in once the oven had been turned on, and the smell was scaring her dog.) But everyone just seemed calmer.

On the plus side of our family holiday, we all always dressed up, and that’s fun for a girl of any age. The food was always gourmet, the menu perfectly planned out and executed to perfection. The wine was the expensive kind you only got to drink once or twice a year. The table? Exquisite: sparkly antique china, gleaming sterling silver, ironed linen tablecloths and matching linen napkins. It was perfect.

Until the sniping started – sometimes the second you walked into the living room.

And sometimes fights started ramping up in September to crescendo to a big finale at Thanksgiving.

Once we had our son, we stopped going to my family’s Thanksgiving. It wasn’t fun, and fuck it, I was a grown up, I could do whatever I wanted that day. (I do see my parents, but not until Saturday. That’s now our tradition.) Which brings me to my in-laws. That is now part one of our Thanksgiving Day.

My in-laws have no drama at the table. Seriously – none. They don’t talk about politics, religion, or current events. Everyone seems to agree on sports, and since no one in the room except my husband and myself finished college, not a lot of talk about books. (To their credit, they frequently compliment me on mine.) There isn’t even drama when major announcements are made. My nephew came out one year to his parents (who were not accepting at first) and we were told in advance not to talk about it. Apparently on the Thanksgiving before I met them, my husband showed up to announce he was getting a divorce. Other than a quiet walk with his Dad after dinner, no one wanted to pry, so it didn’t come up. I mean, I had always heard that Protestants were quieter, but it’s ridiculous.

So why don’t I love my drama free environment with all its peace and quiet?

I don’t fit in. My husband, son and I dress up, because I think it’s important to dress up on special occasions, and theoretically Thanksgiving is a special occasion.

One year, my nieces and nephews showed up in – wait for it! – pajamas. Would you show up in pajamas for a wedding or bar mitzvah? Okay, in LA you might, but that’s because we’re weird.

No one drinks, so there’s no fabulous wine with dinner. There’s no wine with dinner at all. My husband has pointed out a zillion times that I can bring a bottle, but the one time I tried his mother just looked confused by the gesture. So I don’t bring one anymore. I do bring my own butter – they are a margarine family. They also call Cool Whip “whipped cream”. I don’t quite know why there’s a war on dairy in that family, but after knowing them almost twenty years, I’m still afraid to ask.

Lovely people all, but it just never quite feels like home to me.

However, it very much feels like home to my son, and that’s what’s really important. So we go.

Afterwards, we go to dinner #2, which is held at my son’s godfathers’ home.

I hope you’re not homophobic (if you are, I’ll assume you’ve never read me before) and I hope you are pro-gay marriage. But even if I offend some readers, I’m going on record to say this anyway: I defy you not to feel welcome in a gay man’s home. Can’t be done! We are supposed to come for dessert. We never want dinner, as we’ve already eaten, but Jeff always makes us plates full of amazing recipes from this year’s Food Network or Gourmet magazine or whatever it is gay men find to make their food and décor perfect. And his partner Brian always has a glass of something wonderful waiting for me and my husband the moment we walk through the door, and way too much dessert for my son to consume. Neither Jeff nor Brian are blood related, so I guess it’s technically an orphan’s Thanksgiving. However, Jeff shared a bottle of champagne with my husband and me the night we got engaged, he was one of the first people to ever hold my son at the hospital, and he is the person who would raise our son if anything ever happened to us. So, as far as my son is concerned, he is family. (As far as I am concerned too.)

But I’m the first to admit, the combination of the day is not particularly traditional.

Okay – back to tradition and writing. (I’m going somewhere with this – I promise). So, on Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve, I never used to have anything to do that night. No one would let me cook, I didn’t need to clean as we never had guests coming over, and there was never anything fun on TV that night. So, 10 years ago, when my son was a baby, I decided to lug out our fake Christmas tree, and get the decorating started. And life was good. A few years after that, we invited over our son’s best friend from preschool and her parents, and while everyone else was travelling and cleaning and cooking and stressing about tomorrow, we put on Christmas music, had pizza, drank wine, and decorated our tree.

It made me so happy, I invited them to come back the following year, and the one after that, and the one after that, etc.

Last year, my son invited another of his friends to “our traditional Wednesday before Thanksgiving tree trimming.” And I realized that, because he’s been doing this since he was a baby – for him it is a tradition. Just like it is a tradition to go to his grandma’s and watch people arrive in pajamas, and to go to his gay godfathers’ house to fall into a comfy chair, attack the leftovers and have dessert!

So what does all this have in common with writing? Throughout my entire life, I always had an idea of what Thanksgiving was supposed to look like: and it never turned out that way. So over the years, I have experimented, tried new plans, kept what I liked, threw away what I didn’t, and kept moving. I no longer have any idea of what it’s supposed to look like. I do have some wonderful memories of what it’s looked like so far. And who knows? In ten or fifteen years, our son might announce to us that he and his girlfriend are throwing Thanksgiving in their living room in New Zealand or Idaho. And my husband and I will be on a plane to New Zealand or Idaho. (Please don’t let it be Idaho. Nothing against Idaho, but I hear they have this ice in the sky that falls on the ground there. As a Californian, it all sounds very strange and cold.)

So the next time you sit down in front of your computer with an idea of how a story should look, I challenge you to just start writing – let the characters go the wrong way. Hit a dead end or two. Experiment! Throw things out, keep what you like, and move on! In the end, you’ll have your story – you just might travel a very crooked road to get there.

Happy Thanksgiving Eve and Happy Holidays!

Kim Gruenenfelder

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Kim Gruenenfelder lives in Los Angeles with her husband and son, and continues to avoid anything even remotely resembling a real job. Her acclaimed debut novel, A Total Waste of Makeup, has been published in six languages and eight international editions to date. In addition to her three published novels, A Total Waste of Makeup, Misery Loves Cabernet and There’s Cake In My Future, she has written feature films, episodic teleplays and two stage plays. Kim loves her fans and readers, who can contact her here, as well as follow her through her Facebook and Twitter.

in which Robyn tries to whet your appetite….

Normally I don’t do (perhaps none of us do) a ton of blog focus over here at the PBMoms regarding our actual books. But I am deep in deadline mode right now and so cheating today and instead of sharing some story about my kiddos, I’m going to share an excerpt from my upcoming release, A LITTLE BIT WICKED (Entangled Scandalous, 12/12). I hope you enjoy!

*from chapter one*

He eyed his aunt who had, for all intents and purposes, just laid him out. “Who is this person, the one who can solve this problem?”

“Vivian March. The Paragon.”

The name had sounded vaguely familiar, but Marcus couldn’t place it. Vivian March. Well, she would be here soon enough and he could meet her then. His aunt had assured him that this woman, whom evidently was referred to as the Paragon, would be able to divert attention away from the scandal, effectively making it disappear before it did much damage. But in order for that to happen, she would have to agree to align herself with them, which would require a certain amount of decorum from him.

Marcus had never been particularly good at playing Society’s games. It was one of the reasons he’d left London to begin with. He much preferred the wilds of Africa and India and the like to the well-polished pretentious behavior he found here. At least in the wild, animals acted out of survival. People did not adhere to such courtesies.

But he’d agreed, for this evening, to mind his manners, and to meet with this woman to see if she could assist his sister and her debacle. So it was that he and Clarissa and their Aunt Maureen sat silently waiting for this Paragon to appear. At precisely seven, the butler opened the door and introduced her.

“Miss Vivian March,” he said.

The woman entered the room covered in a burgundy velvet cloak. She withdrew the hood and then slid out of the contraption, allowing the butler to remove it from her. She wasn’t overly tall and had generous curves that filled her pale pink satin ball gown nicely without being too revealing. Chocolate brown curls were expertly piled on her head in an intricate coiffure. Long black satin gloves covered her hands and slid all the way up to just passed her elbows. She was the picture of English modesty.

“Thank you so much for coming, Miss March,” Aunt Maureen said, coming forward to greet the woman.

Vivian March tilted her head and he finally saw her entire face and his gut knotted as a jolt of recognition struck him. Now he knew why he name sounded familiar. He knew her. Or at least he had known her, had met her. Briefly. He stepped forward to make his own greeting, her eyes met his. She didn’t even flinch, in fact she showed no sign at all she recognized him. But he knew one thing for certain about Miss Vivian March, she was no paragon.

“My Lord, it is my understanding you have recently returned from traveling abroad,” she said. Her voice was rich and sultry, full of seductive promise.

“I have,” he said. “And it would seem my family is in a bit of turmoil. I was told you might be of some assistance.”

She inclined her head, then turned to Maureen before she spoke. “Perhaps we should sit and you can tell me more about the situation.”

“Yes, of course,” Aunt Maureen said. She rang for the tea tray with cakes and they all sat in the parlor. “Please do sit, Miss March and thank you again for coming on such short notice.”

Miss March sat in a high-backed chair, but if it was possible sat even straighter than the wood back. Her gloved hands rested on her lap and a pleasant smile played at her lips.

Clarissa had yet to utter a word, instead she sat staring at her hands as they knotted the fabric of her skirt. Perhaps she was still angry with him for earlier today.

Marcus leaned against the hearth and watched the women sugar and stir their tea. How could Miss March not recognize him? He knew for certain it was she, though now ten years older. Womanhood had softened and rounded her figure to a voluptuousness he could scarcely look away from.

After she had taken a sip of her tea, she glanced first at Aunt Maureen, then at Clarissa. “Now what seems to be the problem?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Clarissa said. She set her teacup down and offered a feigned smile. “I had a conversation with a gentleman. That is all that happened. It is unclear to me why this has to be such an ordeal.”

“Yes, well what actually happens and what might have happened are not always perceived differently,” Miss March said. “So you had a conversation with a gentleman. Is he truly a gentleman or is that simply his species? Also, was this conversation had in private or in a public location?”

He half expected the woman to withdraw a notebook and begin making notes, but she simply waited for Clarissa to answer. When there was a long pause, Miss March spoke again, this time she looked directly at him. “Perhaps she would feel more comfortable if she and I spoke alone.”

He had lost count as to how many times he’d been dismissed today by the women in this house. Perhaps he wasn’t as prepared to handle this sort of situation the way Charles would have been, but damnation he’d only just returned to London. They might not want him to be the head of the family and they might not believe him to be competent, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Marcus shoved off the hearth and walked toward Miss March. “This is a family affair. And whether or not the women in my family approve or not, I am part of this family. You were called here to help us. If my sister refuses to cooperate, then I’ll tell you what happened. The chit was seen talking to the owner of a gaming establishment.”

Miss March nodded and while she looked at him while he spoke, her body was still pointed toward where Maureen and Clarissa sat.

He turned to his sister. “Were you sitting in the carriage, or standing on the street?”

“On the street,” she said, her eyes locked on tea tray in front of her.

Miss March patted Clarissa’s knee. She was quiet for a few moments, then took another sip of her tea. “Yes, well, I can see why we have a potential problem. Do you know, perhaps, who saw you? That is, who brought this matter to your attention?” she asked Clarissa.

“Lady Jessup informed me at a card party yesterday,” Aunt Maureen said.

“Well, I can only guess it was her husband who saw you then, Clarissa. Lord Jessup is a horrific gambler and an even worse gossip. Chances are that other people know now. So it would seem that you definitely have a potentially damaging situation on your hands.” She came to her feet.

Aunt Maureen stood as well. “Will you help us?”

“I shall consider it this evening and will be in touch tomorrow morning,” Miss March said. She straightened her gloves and patted her hair.

“Is that all?” Marcus asked not quite certain what he’d been expecting but a woman who came, sipped tea, confirmed that yes indeed they were in trouble, then fled, was not precisely the big solution he’d been waiting for.

“I must consider the situation,” she said.

“I’ll walk you out,” he said.

“That truly won’t be necessary.” Miss March made her way to the door.

Marcus followed her regardless of her dismissive tone. He took her cloak from the butler. “I’m offended that you would pretend not to remember me,” he said. He held the cloak away from her, forcing her to turn and look in his direction.

She looked up at him; her warm brown eyes met his gaze. “I beg your pardon,” she said, her voice full of innocence.

So it was a game she intended to play. Well, a game he would give her. He draped the cloak over her shoulders, then bent to her ear. “Just remember that I know the truth. I know you are not the paragon people seem to believe you to be.” There was a sharp intake of her breath. “Until tomorrow, Miss March.”

Mothers in Fiction

There is no more dangerous place for a mother than in a novel. There, a writer can vilify and eviscerate all under the guise of fiction. Think of famous fictional mothers — Mrs. Bennett from Pride and Prejudice, Gertrude Morel from Sons and Lovers, Queen Gertrude from Hamlet. These are some of fictions’ most horrid mothers.

But I find, more often, mothers in fiction are absent. I see this in my own novels. In most of my novels, the heroine’s mother is either a pest or deceased. The heroine must avoid the mother or find her own way in life.

I’ve noticed this pattern in my novels before, and I’ve tried to figure out the reasons behind it. I love my mom and rely on her advice. And that’s why I have to get rid of fictional mothers or make them useless. If I want my characters to have to deal with conflict the mother must either be part of the conflict or out of the way, so the heroine is all but alone.

In my most recent release, When You Give a Duke a Diamond, the heroine’s mother perpetrated the unpardonable sin of not taking her daughter’s side. When Juliette’s father dies and Juliette makes a poor decision, Juliette’s brother refuses to come to her aid. Her mother does not contradict the brother and leaves Juliette to fend for herself. This is not entirely true. Juliette’s mother arranges a meeting with a woman who will become Juliette’s mentor, but it is the very least she can do, and it is pure happenstance that this other woman steps in and saves Juliette from what is certain to become a life on the streets.

Have there been any mothers in fiction—movies, TV, or books—that have struck a chord with you? I always liked Marmee from Little Women and Ma from Little House on the Prairie.

One person who comments will be randomly selected to win a copy of When You Give a Duke a Diamond.

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Shana Galen, Multitasker Mama
I’m Shana Galen, AKA Multitasker Mama (and aren’t we all?). I’m a wife, mom to a two-year-old daughter I call Baby Galen. My parenting motto is, “Keep moving. Don’t pass out. Don’t throw up.” Or maybe that’s my fitness motto? www.shanagalen.com

Books Aren’t At All Like Babies, Except When They Are

Welcome guest blogger, writer, and mom Kris Kennedy!

There’s a phrase that goes something like, “Books are like babies,” or “An author’s books are like her/his babies.”

It’s cute and all, but deep-down, I’ve always disagreed with that sentiment. The “books are like babies” thesis runs close to suggesting we treat an author’s words or ideas as if they’re precious, and shouldn’t have to endure being bruised by harsh opinions. The implication being, I guess, that my precious ideas cannot handle the rigours of being read, being examined, experienced, being . . . handled.

The thing is, my stories can handle being handled. They are hardy souls, like wildflowers. Or weeds. (Excepting personal attacks on me, the gardener, of course.)

Because of this, I’ve always been wary of the claim “stories are like babies,” despite an awareness that a writer’s relationship with her story IS one of nurturance, devotion, sacrifice, much like a parental one. But, really, stories are different from babies. Books don’t poop. Full stop. Must we go on? Okay, fine.

Stories do not:

~ Howl with earaches you can’t heal at 2am;
~ Need shoes;
~ Grow out of said (and expensive) shoes the following month;
~ Crawl out into the street or behind the rack of women’s gowns the one single second that you turn your back, to sneeze for Heaven’s sake;
~ Break their arms or their legs or your heart. (we writers say writing can break your heart, but that’s poetic license, because if you have kids, or pets, or a parent, or a friend, you know very well the pain a story can inflict is nothing like what a loving a person will do to you);
~ Also, importantly, books don’t get diaper rash.

So, really, I figured, we’re done here. Books are NOT like babies. End of story.

But then . . . that thing about the poopy diapers? That caught my attention. (Enough out there, in the Peanut Gallery). And the more I thought, the more I realized, hey, wait a second. There are ways babies and stories are very much alike, important ways.

Both books and babies both:

~ Wake you up in the middle of the night, demanding attention;

~ Prompt you to redecorate an entire, perfectly functional room to get you out of the line of traffic in the household foster their growth;

~ Are ungrateful. Sure, I know stories are inanimate and therefore incapable of gratitude, still it remains: they are ungrateful. You pour hours and months and sometimes years of work and attention into them. You devote some of your finest AWAKE hours to them, you become the bottomless well, and some days you fear it’ll never be enough;

~ They have a life of their own. I lose the heart of the story when I over-impose my will, when I insist on being right about what’s supposed to happen next. I want my heroine to be such-and-so, and she keeps being who-and-what. I want my son to enjoy reading, and he likes making shooting nerf darts at me while I cook. I am learning: Let them be.

~Listening is generally the best approach. When I’m having troubles with my child, when I feel like we’re miles apart, generally it’s me who’s missing the crucial ‘ah-ha’ moment of connection. I’m talking and insisting too much. I need to step back and listen more, and stop worrying about my tidy little plotline. Or my dinner plans.

~ They will do things we NEVER expected, if we just loosen up a little bit and give them space.

~ They are magic. Transformational. They change us. They change everything.

~ But mostly, we don’t have to fix them because they aren’t broken. We just have to get better at loving them. Thank-you God.
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Kris writes hot, adventure-filled historical romances set in England and Ireland. Her current release, DECEPTION received 4 1/2 stars from RT Book Reviews and is available now! Visit her website to sign-up for the newsletter, read exclusive excerpts, or just drop Kris a line saying Hi!

Fun (or Not!) with Poison Ivy (+ Giveaway!)

This past week, my oldest (10) came down with the most hellacious case of poison ivy the clinic has seen all year (Yeah, we were at the clinic, because it happened–as all visits do in my family–on a holiday and the regular doctor had no office hours). ON HIS FACE.

Several doses of behind-the-counter overpriced cream, topical steroid cream, and oral suspension steroids later, he can finally open his eyes again. For someone almost as tall as his mom, and who insists he’s “almost a grown-up,” he needed a lot of hugs the past few days. His entire world was upended by a little plant that he doesn’t even remember brushing up against (or rolling in, because honestly, it was everywhere. Our best theory is that it was a towel that got dragged through a patch, then used to dry off from swimming).

But while we were in the thick of things, there was no room in my Little Lion Man’s head for anything besides his misery–it consumed him, and by extension, it consumed me. During that time, I did a lot of thinking about how our lives and our focus can change in a few heartbeats.

I realized the characters in my current WIP were always rolling off on tangents for more than just the reason I thought they did (they’re a group of friends who’ve been with each other for twenty years, and half their conversations devolve into movie quotes and “your mom” jokes). Their conversations derail not because that’s the way of longtime friends, but because I never gave them poison ivy.

When Little Lion Man weathered the worst of it, every waking moment (and the sleeping ones, too) was spent trying desperately to not scratch, soothe the itch, or make the itch stop itching. He didn’t have time to play video games, or energy to spend singing new Minecraft parodies of pop songs. It was Him versus The Itch and nothing else.

When you write romantic comedies (or really, anything that’s more lighthearted in nature), it can be hard to intensify your conflict because let’s face it, the Sturm Und Drang of Life-Threatening Menace(TM) is pretty much self-explanatory. When you bring the funny, you have to be more subtle. You can’t bring the pain…but maybe you can bring The Itch.

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I’d love to hear about you! Have you ever learned anything about writing from your kids? What’s your favorite way to give “poison ivy” to your characters so they can focus on their big problems? Got a good remedy for real poison ivy or just a war story from Endless Summer Fun with the kids? Let me know in the comments below. One lucky random commenter will receive a nice break from reality with a complimentary electronic copy of Forever Material (open internationally, winner to be announced Sunday)! Thank you for joining me today!

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Hi, I’m Athena. I’m a geek mom with two kids (Little Lion Man is 10 and Volcano Girl is 7). The most important thing I want my kids to learn is not to forget that the world is bigger than their worldview. Stories–in whatever form they take, whether it’s books, video games, movies, or some other as-yet-undiscovered delivery system–shape and drive so much of us as beings, that my greatest achievements would be to instill in my kids that same sense of awe at discovering truths in a good story. My padawans are bright, clever, and perceptive, which makes my inner Jedi master swell with pride most times. I work hard at keeping those other times–when Darth Mom makes an appearance–in check. I’m also an author of my own stories–romantic stories about quirky, unique people who are more than they appear, finding their own way to their own happily ever afters. Visit me at http://www.athenagrayson.com .

A Lesson In You Can’t Do It All – My Last Post Here

Photo by Greg Knapp (click pic for link)

I think it was Oprah who said that the universe teaches us lessons and that if we don’t get the lesson the first time, the universe will amplify the message and hit you with it again. And again. Until you get it. Well, apparently the lesson I need to learn is balance and how to say “no”. Not just to other people, but to myself.  All my life, I’ve been the “yes” girl. If someone asks me to do something, I go out of my way to get it done even if I don’t have time or have three thousand other things to do. I want to be helpful. I don’t want to miss any opportunities. I want to do it all!

But, here’s the thing: you can’t. Well, at least I can’t. I never realized how busy this job of being a writer is. I’m freaking amazed at those who can do it and hold down a full time job. I get 4-5 hours a day with my kidlet at school where I can work and I know that’s more than many get, but still I find myself harried. And part of this craziness and always being behind is because I say yes to too many things–yes, I’ll do a guest post; yes, I’ll write an extra novella in addition to two novels a year; yes, I’ll teach that class; yes, I’ll blog 5 days a week on my own site AND do a group blog. I say yes to those things because I love all of  them, but it can just pile on and pile on until I’m drowning.

Part of this is my own scattered brain. I’m going to blame it on being a creative type (hey, I gotta use that excuse somewhere, right?). When I’m focused on a project, like writing a book, I have trouble paying attention to other things. My brain is wrapped up in another world. I’ll put a pot of water on to boil for tea and then not remember it until I hear the dry pot sizzling on the stove with all the water evaporated. Or my husband will ask me a question and even though I’m looking straight at him, I have no idea what he said. I call it writer brain.

And one of the weaknesses and strengths of my writer brain is that singular focus. It’s like the opposite of ADD–like obsession, but friendlier. It helps me write books and  keeps me from  giving up 20k into a 100k novel. But it also means that when I’m in writing mode, small things become big stressors. When I know I have this many blog posts due and this many emails to return and oh the group (for a blog like this) needs to decide on something and I need to prepare stuff for a conference–it starts to feel like I’m in the middle of Times Square and trying to look at everything at once. I can’t concentrate…on anything.

So, I’m learning that I have to streamline and not spread myself too thin. I am a wife and mother first, a writer second, and an everything else after that. If I keep piling on stuff from that third category, I won’t get anything done at all. Which is why I’m stepping down as a member of this blog. I LOVE this blog and the ladies here. And I learn something from every post. But I’m better suited to be a fan of it at this point than a regular contributor. I have to learn to tell myself no sometimes. And this is the start.

Maybe this will be the beginning of me finally learning this lesson.

I’ll still be blogging at my own site, so if you want to stop by, I’d love to see you.

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I’m Roni Loren, or as I’m called ‘round these parts, No Drama Mama. I’ve been married for ten years and have a four-year old son, who has recently been diagnosed with high-functioning autism. My days are spent writing very sexy romances (my PC way of saying erotic),avoiding all things housework, and hanging out with a kidlet who I suspect is vastly smarter than I am. I secretly dream of having a life that looks like the pages of Real Simple magazine, but would settle for Sorta Decent if could get there. My daily goal is to keep the drama on the pages of my books and out of my life–I’m successful at least twenty percent of the time. www.roniloren.com

Bananas in Bed (A Special Fathers’ Day Post)

It’s my great pleasure to host my husband, Mr. Rome (aka Lukas Holmes) for a special guest Fathers’ Day post today. Take it away, Mr. Rome! =)

I woke up with a peeled banana next to my pillow the other day. For a minute I couldn’t place what it was. I leaned in close, gave it a sleepy sniff, then a sleepy poke of my finger, then realized that obviously one of our two girls (I hope) had brought in a snack the day before and left it in our bed.

Glad to have solved the mystery, I rolled over and went back to sleep.

This is the level of acceptance you grow to have as a parent. Finding strange food in your bed once upon a time would have been a cause for alarm. Now, depending on the level of smell and your level of exhaustion, it isn’t even enough to get you to grab it and chuck it in the trash.

Because, after all, at least it wasn’t poop you found on the pillow next to you.

While these little moments can be a great indication of how much we have changed since becoming parents, I would argue the biggest change I have encountered since becoming a father is in direct relation to my writing.

Here is a typical day:

5am Kids wake up. Wander through the house with them as they scream for breakfast. Hand them coffee in a cereal bowl while I attempt to drink cereal from a coffee mug.

Spend five minutes working out character development.

5:08am Kids finish breakfast, begin begging for a trip to the park. Even though it is still dark out, they are still in pajamas, and I am fairly certain that the world at large isn’t open yet.

Spend ten minutes trying to remember which story I’m working on.

6:30am Realize that the kids drank all of my coffee. Hide the evidence from their mother. Frantically look up ramifications of letting children drink coffee. Get distracted by Goodreads.

6:58am Hear crying and look up to see one child standing over the other holding a foam sword, about to deliver the killing blow. Laugh for a moment then cringe when they do it over and over again while staring up at me with maniacal glee. Cringe further when they drag said sword across their own throat then point at me. Never sleep again.

Spend three minutes writing down bones of short story related to murderous pirate children.

7:35am Let them play in the backyard and marvel at just how good they are at finding and ingesting bugs.

Spend one minute writing a monster that eats bugs.

8:00am Read to them. Normally something I am writing. Smile when they enjoy it, quietly plan a lifetime of passive aggressive revenge when they don’t.

8:35am Throw things at them. Soft things. Unless they really didn’t like what I read. Then throw them at each other.

9am Look up how much it costs to hire a reputable,  high-end au pair.

9:05am Discover that one of them has buried the other in the sandbox.

9:10am Look up how much it costs to hire less reputable, middle of the road au pairs.

10am Stop them from choking the dog by her collar because they don’t understand life and death.

10:05am Wonder how much the crazy looking man with the strange accent across the street that spends all day sharpening things on his porch would charge for a few hours of child care.

Spend half an hour quietly editing latest work while the children crawl on my back and pluck loose hairs from neck, back of my head, top of my head and face.

11am-NAPTIME!!!!

Of course I kid. My daughters have not only opened my eyes to a world of love…and smells…they have improved my dedication to the craft of writing immeasurably.  Not only do I find myself forced to stay home more (something about child abandonment), I find that viewing the world through their eyes gives me a fresh take on almost every topic I could ever think of. These two little living creatures, made up of my wife’s DNA and my unfortunate genetics (hope you girls like acne), inspire me to new heights every day. They see magic in every inch of this world that makes me fall in love with it, and them, again and again.

Additionally, I like to think of my writing as my legacy to them. A love letter to their childhoods and to the world we love so much. I wouldn’t trade a minute of our time together for anything and I can say, honestly, on this Fathers’ Day, nothing makes me work harder, love more, smile wider, and laugh louder than those two little girls.

But if anyone knows a good babysitter…

Lukas Holmes has had a lifelong love affair with adventure through the arts and literature. He grew up enjoying the forgotten art of radio dramas and cut his teeth on reading comic books, Charles Dickens, and Sherlock Holmes. He lives in Colorado with his wife, two daughters, and dog.

His first book in the Perilous Journeys of Wilona Bumbridge series, THIS WORLD OR THE NEXT, was released in February 2012. His next book in the series, THIS DARKER NOW, is due out Summer 2012.

LUKAS HOLMES LINKS

www.LukasHolmes.com

www.facebook.com/LukasHolmes

www.twitter.com/thelukasholmes

Guest Mom: Eloisa James

–Congratulations to Sharlene W., who won a copy of Eloisa’s book, WHEN BEAUTY TAMED THE BEAST. Thank you to all our commenters, and we hope we’ll see you back at Peanut Butter on the Keyboard!–

We’re so happy to have guest mom and New York Times bestselling author Eloisa James here today! Thanks, Eloisa, for sharing some thoughts on motherhood with the PBOK family! 

The End of School Debris

One of the complexities of being a writing mother, for me, lies in a passionate wish to catch my children’s lives, for good or bad.  For example, when Anna was diagnosed with Lyme’s Disease for the third time, I wrote Duchess by Night, which includes a child infected by rat bite fever.  (I also moved out of New Jersey, but that’s another story.)

Similarly—and more obviously—I wrote the memoir Paris in Love because I wanted to capture the year my family and I lived in France, rather than allow it to slide away in the easy, dreamy way by which happy years disappear.  I wanted to remember for myself, but I also wanted Anna and Luca to remember details they might otherwise have forgotten.

Which this leads to one of the trickiest motherhood questions of all: what do you do with the boatloads of debris that accrue during childhood?  Are they precious memories, to be frozen in amber, or candidates for the recycling bin?  Yesterday Anna brought home multiple versions of a print made from a school bus gouged out of linoleum.  It’s a nice school bus.  Really.  Great headlights.

Still, with a 13-year-old’s wisdom, she detected lack of enthusiasm in my face and cried: You never like anything I create!  You think I’m a terrible artist!  Leaving artistic judgments aside (Picasso would have trouble with a linoleum school bus too), what about all the art I’ve got framed and pinned all over this house?  The lopsided purple candle-holder/monkey, who is carefully propped up in my bookshelf? The factory made out of cardboard and cotton balls that my husband refuses to throw away?  The glittery, purple paper maché turtle in the dining room?

Anna’s turtle

It’s hard to give up those memories, both for her sake and mine.  But we live in an apartment in New York City!  We can’t keep everything.  Anyone have any great advice about what to keep or not to keep?  Not as important as to be or not to be, but still weighty!

Peanutbutteronthekeyboard.  Summer 2012

Thanks again for being a guest mom, Eloisa, and for giving away a copy of your Rita-nominated Regency romance novel, When Beauty Tamed the Beast, to one lucky commenter!