The end (of the beginning)

Courtesy of Gilles Chirolou.

At 5:30 a.m. Sunday, I crossed the 50,000-word finish line.

There were fireworks, cheers, mimosas, and at the winner's table I picked up:

My novel.
All ninety-nine (unfinished) pages.

Five extra pounds.
Thanks to the copious amounts of chocolate I consumed, and the elimination of all exercise that couldn't occur at my desk.

A copy of the First Law of Exuberant Imperfection
"The quickest, easiest way to produce something beautiful and lasting is to risk making something horribly crappy," wrote Chris Baty, founder of National Novel Writing Month, and author of "No Plot? No Problem!"

Grit
To continue.

Bleach
To attack the mold that's set up house in the bathroom, which hasn't seen a scrub brush in the past thirty days.

Thank you for your support during this (ongoing) adventure!

Returnee

ri-tur-nee, -tur-nee
noun

Thanksgiving. Courtesy of the Chivers family.

My sister Molly greets her husband, a returnee from Afghanistan. Welcome home, Luke!

1. a person who has returned, as from travels or a long absence.
2. a person returning from overseas duty in the armed forces.

Origin: Americanism, 1940-45.

Rituals

Over the hills and through the desert to grandparents' house we go ... Today's guest post by my ma, Linda, gives you a peek into how my children will spend Thanksgiving day. How do rituals work into your Turkey Day celebrations? Happy feasting, everyone!

Courtesy of unfoldedorigami.

The minivan pulls into the circular dirt driveway, stopping as a cloud of dust covers the car. Doors fly open and four eager grandchildren run to our front door, thrilled to begin their visit at Nana and Opa’s.

First they check out the chickens. Running to the backyard and opening the door to the hen house, they search for the prized egg. Over the years the number of chickens decreased until we now have one lonely hen. I think she anticipates their visits too so she can show off her hard work to exclamations of delight.

Then they move on to Bailey, our dog, who lives in a pen east of our front door and is always eager for a walk. With the purple leash in hand, the tug-of-war begins, all signs of control lost in the struggle.

Moving into the house, they pour over the children’s book shelves, searching for their favorite books, many of which their mother discovered when she was little. Recently, we packed away most of our books to do a home-improvement project, and when they came to visit they couldn’t find their favorite titles and felt concerned that I donated them to the thrift store. Not to worry! The books are now back on the shelves waiting for their next visit. These shabby books barely survived our six children and now our grandchildren are leaving their fingerprints on the well-worn pages.

Fur family. Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

Chaja has a collection of wooden dolls -- similar to paper dolls -- which she keeps in a metal tin in my office. She also cherishes a spiral basket made in Mexico which holds a couple families of little animals with tiny pants, shirts and dresses. Even though she doesn’t always play with them, she never forgets to check on them, making sure they are where they belong.

Max and Sam are eager to try out the games, which we house on a shelf in the hallway above the washer and dryer. They climb up on the machines and pull out a game of Battleship. They stage war on our high bed, towering above Ivan’s grabby little hands. For days after, I find tokens of their battle -- little white pegs hiding in various places throughout the house.

As time passes, they plea for their favorite adventure -- driving the Volkswagen. Sitting on Opa’s lap with hands clutching the steering wheel, Max careens about the alkali flat, leaving a plume of dust in his wake. Mario Andretti has nothing on this race car driver!

Sam and Opa on top of the world. Courtesy of Linda Conlin.

Once, when they had solo visits to our home, they got to climb the windmill tower with their Opa. Sitting side-by-side on top of the world, they had a bird’s-eye view of the valley below. It reminded me of my own kids -- challenging one another to climb the tower and sit on the platform as the earth continued spinning far below.

After we wash and put away the dinner dishes, daylight eases into dusk and they put on their pajamas. That’s when the search begins -- shoes, sweaters, hats, books, toys -- all must be tracked down and all must be packed up. After hugs and kisses goodbye, they line up and climb back into their van, tired from a day of playing and exploring. The van pulls away and we sink into the couch, breathing in the solace of a home, quiet once again, and the sweet memories of a day with our grandchildren.

Linda Conlin blogs at The Nevada Piecemaker and is a contributor to The Quilting Bees and River Wranglers.

Transformation

Photo courtesy of margolove.

It's been three weeks of intensive writing, of getting up most mornings at 4:30 a.m. and sitting down at the computer with nothing but a cup of coffee and my sleepy imagination. By the time I approach the second hour my head's spinning, whether it's from plot confusion or a caffeine buzz or the thumping of Sagebrush Blues in my headphones it's hard to tell. But something magical is happening to this thick, foggy alphabet soup I've been simmering. Words, once sitting flat on the page, are getting up and shaping themselves into a mountain here, an alkali flat there, a dirt road leads to a shack and an old man walks out of it. I'm loving it!

In the process of writing a 50,000-word novel in one month, I'm learning what kind of writer I am, the how of writing, of what my brain does when it's cooking up a story on the spot. The Wall Street Journal interviews a bunch of top writers on this topic in this fascinating article.

Unmasked

When I learned I would be breastfeeding a fourth (and final) child, I wanted just one shirt emblazoned with these words: I make milk. What's your superpower? Today's guest post by my wonderful friend Kyndale is a one-two punch for multitasking moms. Come on, ladies, let me hear you roar!

Courtesy of bbaltimore.

I am a superhero and I have super powers.

I can jump over and ignore piles of laundry in a single bound. WHOOSH!! I can heal real and imaginary wounds with just a kiss and a hug. ZAP!! I can whip up a meal plan and grocery list in mere seconds. POW!! I can read the same book 100 times in a row without getting dry throat. BOOM!!

Flash back 11 years ago, before kids. I was just a mortal. A pupa of a human being waiting to undergo my metamorphosis. How can anyone know what their life will become after children? It's a door that cannot be opened before it appears.

Eleven years has passed so quickly, as if I've been in a time warp. I have given birth to three children, breastfed for more than 9 years, and cleaned up more spilled _______ than humanly possible. I can live for days, weeks, months and years without proper sleep and still operate a toaster oven or drive a car while maintaining my lane. It even amazes my superhero self.

I am dumbfounded and bewildered that the love for my children is boundless even in the face of unthinkable sassiness, rambunctiousness and mischievous behavior. I attribute my ability to get past these and other daily doings to my super powers. How can it be explained otherwise?

I have accepted my super powers as a gift -- privilege -- and choose to live in obscurity, blending in to society under the disguise of stay-at-home mom. At times, someone will slip kryptonite into my smoothie. That's when self-doubt creeps in and my super powers fade. I have learned to breathe again, pick myself up and put my uni-tard back on.

Just the other day, I was laying in bed watching my littlest sleep, breathing in his sweet and tangy boy smell (with my super smelling powers of course), a delightful smell that only I can appreciate. As he woke , he smiled and said, “I love you Mommy.” Seriously, that was the first thing that came out of his little lips! It's moments like these that my purpose is clear.

Yes, I am a superhero!

About the writer: Kyndale aka Supermom is a stay-at-home mom of three super kids. She enjoys knitting, sewing, gardening, and crafts. She writes about her adventures as a Supermom on her blog, Earthy Crunchy. She lives in Sparks, Nevada.

Diverted

Courtesy of obo-bobolina.

A niggle of worry has rooted itself in my brain and sprouted out of my ears. Tendrils of doubt wrap themselves around shoulders, snake down arms and twist around fingers, my oh-so-very important writing fingers.

I'm half-way to my goal of 50,000 words -- and my fingers, which couldn't keep pace with the words that were tripping over each other in their eagerness to appear on the page, are slowing, stiffening. Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click. ... Cli... ck. The fingers complain about these worrisome vines, the shade they're now working under, how it's making them turn cold and stiff. I flex them, rub them, cup them and breathe warm air on them.

I know just what I need.

Gloves!

Fingerless gloves to wrap around these hardworking fingers that are chipping away at my half-written, poorly planned novel. And because I think knitting is nice, I hop onto Raverly and find many, many pairs of gloves. Too many. I'm overwhelmed and decide to search for hats instead, because really, it isn't the fingers but the old noggin' that's sprouted this doubt. I need a new hat to replace my old chili pepper one, a new hat as orange as the leaves, the pumpkins, the flames in our fireplace, something that will burn away the vines of doubt and worry and hesitation that have wrapped around this half-baked novel of mine.

Courtesy of striatic.

I wander deeper and deeper into the Internet, drooling over balls of wool and silk and start tossing them into a shopping basket. I am minutes away from buying more than $70 worth of yarn before I remember that I own mittens, blue fingerless mittens. I sigh, close one, two, three windows. I shut down email, turn off the Internet and pull the old gloves on. My hands are warm and I kiss the tips of my fingers and return to my story.

Cli... ck ...Click. Pause. Delete. Click. Click.... Click ...

A bus exchange

The Slow-Cooked Sentence kicks off this month's group of guest posts with one from my sister Kyna, who writes about geting a second shot at vanquishing a childhood ghost that's returned to haunt her small son. Enjoy!

"illusion" courtesy of Lauren Marek.

The woman sitting across from us on the bus is old, so when she leans forward and shouts, "Is that your boy?" I raise my voice to answer, too. "Yes." I nod and smile.

"Well, he sure is a SKINNY one!"

My smile quickly turns to a grimace and I pull my son into my lap, looking to see if he's following this conversation.

"He's got the BONIEST little KNEES..."

I look at her for a long moment and say nothing. She leans forward and points a finger at his legs.

"I said, he's got the BONIEST -"

"You know, he can understand you," I interrupt.

My face feels hot. It seems the whole bus is listening (and no wonder, this is exactly the kind of exchange I love to watch).

"WHAT?" she shouts.

I know she's just looking to have a conversation, but my irritation grows. I'm thinking of all the hurtful things people said to me growing up. Toothpick. Bird legs. Stick girl. How much worse will it be for my son, since he's a boy?

"You are being very rude."

"Oh! Well..."

She rearranges her belongings and purses her lips. Thankfully the next stop is mine. Once we're on the sidewalk Dagan asks, "Who's that lady?"

"I don't know. I just don't think she was being very nice."

"Why?" Dagan asks.

I stop and look at him. He's watching me carefully. If he's upset, it's only because I am.

"What did that lady say, Dagan?"

He stretches his arms to the sky.

"She said I have looooong legs."

We laugh a little and set off down the street.

About the writer: Kyna Conlin Moser works at Literacy Source, a nonprofit center in Seattle. She's supporting her family while her husband attends Bastyr University to become a naturopathic doctor. She's pregnant with their second child. She blogs at Our Seattle and Blue Sky Sketches.

Predawn

Courtesy of John Steven Fernandez.

4:30 a.m.

I'm at my desk with a mug of something hot ... tea, hot cocoa, coffee, chai. The furnace hasn't kicked on so I'm wearing a bathrobe, wool slipper-socks and a fleece snow hat with chili peppers. The hat's band squeezes my head softly, and my brain needs that hug, that massage, early in the morning to get the juices flowing. I write until 6 a.m.

Things I'm learning in the dark hours before dawn: That I can wake and write with sleep in the corner of my eyes, because my head is warm and my brain is yawning and stretching with that first cup of caffeine and forcing stiff fingers to write down what it's thinking, remembering, imagining. So, there's not a lot of good writing going on, and much of it's stiff and awkward or is written in fragments, just fits and bursts of stream of consciousness. But participating in National Novel Writing Month has allowed me to accept that my first draft will be crap, that it should be, and to not worry about it, to not go back and read it, but to just keep shoveling out more and more words knowing that if I do so this month, then I can spend the next 11 months turning all of that raw stuff into a great story.

"The best way to have a good idea is to have lots of ideas. ”
-- Linus Pauling

"round and 'round" courtesy of Darwin Bell.

What am I writing about so early in the morning? Many of the ideas come from memory, from dry deserts and star-studded skies. I chase after tumbleweeds of tangled story threads, unraveling, recording, and trying not to worry about the thorns being planted because there's no plot or central character out there, just me wandering blindly and happily across the blank page.

Courtesy of Pensiero.

Failure or Alas, I cannot get published

"The blossoming of your words" by psyberartist.

Rejection excerpts:

Thanks so much, but we weren’t able to include this in the November issue. -- Skirt!

Thank you for sending "Creation" to us. Unfortunately, we won't be able to use this piece for Literary Mama. Please know that we receive a tremendous number of submissions, and can only take a small percentage of the fine stories that are submitted. But we are thankful for your readership, thankful that you thought of us and value us enough to submit your work. -- Literary Mama

I was really touched by your piece, and I think a lot of mothers would be helped by it. I don't think it would be retained by the Mothering editorial staff but I do think you should send it to Brain, Child. It reminds me of a lot of pieces they have published, although not on the same topic. -- Mothering

I enjoyed reading your essay and admired your smooth prose. However, I must report that we’ve decided to give it a pass. Please note that this doesn’t necessarily reflect on the quality of your work (we receive about 750 submissions for every seven we publish). I wish you the best of luck placing this piece elsewhere. -- Brain, Child

"La tristeza del silencio: Tears" by lord cнernoвιll.

I received five rejection letters last month, three in the final week. I read the last letter at 10 p.m., then I switched off the lights and walked head-on into a wall. Bam! Nose and ego both smarting, I crawled into bed, pulled the covers over my head and cried.

This is (generally) what happens when I receive a rejection letter:

I shut down. Hope closes, curls, crumples inside of me until it's nothing more than a small, hard fist that punches me in the stomach. Pow! Oomph!

I cry. Lip trembles, tears spill while my small son looks on. The toddling mime tries to mimic his mama, but uncertain whether she is laughing or crying, emotions flit across his face like clouds in a windy sky.

I remember. The clenched fist inside me finds scars left by editors who were too harsh, who cut too deep. Pow! Oomph! More bruises, this time self-inflicted.

I search. I open cupboards, find chocolate and eat the equivalent of two candy bars. I drink two cups of scalding tea.

I play a song. "Failure" off Laura Marling's album Alas I Cannot Swim. I pledge to play it every time my writing is rejected.

I read. The rejected piece of writing. Other pieces. Tinker. Email something to a new editor.

I stand. In sunshine, melting like butter.

The fist opens. Hope unfurls.

"Her Hands" by Slaff.

"A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it. Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight. By using words well they strengthen their souls. Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well. And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper."

-- Ursula K. Le Guin: A Few Words to a Young Writer

I spent this weekend thinking about why and what and where I write, and decided that I need to shake things up a bit. So The Slow-Cooked Sentence won't be publishing three times a week during November. I'm going to be busy writing a novel.

"What?!" you ask.

Yep. I've signed up and am participating in National Novel Writing Month, a "fun, seat-of-your-pants approach (that values) enthusiasm and perseverance over painstaking craft." The goal: To write 50,000 words in 30 days, which works out to 1,667 words a day.

The Slow-Cooked Sentence will publish (hopefully) on Mondays and Wednesdays in November. There will be a guest column or two and the occasional update on how the novel writing's going. So keep dropping in. Meanwhile, the gun's been fired, the race begun. I'm off and writing!

Ghostly goulies

Photos courtesy of heymarcel.