For you

Courtesy of tamurello.

My gift to you is this small story about a miracle. I wish you a joyful Christmas spent with those you love. The Slow-Cooked Sentence will return January 11th.

-Rachael

I originally created this story during my summer children's writing workshop, Let's Write! I used it to challenge the kids to write a tiny tale and turn it into a book.

Christmas, past and present

From top: Sam and Max, 2.

Christmas, 2003

I discover my 2-year-old twin boys unscrewing bulbs from the string of lights, "sawing" at the wires with a butter knife and drowning ornaments in the Christmas tree basin. What else is there to do but un-decorate the tree?

In the weeks that followed, the bare tree gained new ornaments -- Christmas cards, paper chains and those Styrofoam packing peanuts adorned with glitter and paint -- simple, safe, sane. I loved that tree.

My favorite ornament.

Six years later, my twins (and their sidekick) are busy mastering a new set of tools, this time in the kitchen. Recently, Max made Chewy Chocolate Cookies for his dad. The whir of the mixer drew one brother and the scent of chocolate the other, until they were all crowded around the Kitchen Aid enjoying its speed, power and ability to make flour fly!

From left: Sam, Max and Ivan.

Baking with boys is punctuated with exclamation points (Yes! Cool!) and feats of physical prowess (eggs shells are slam-dunked into the garbage can, the refrigerator door is closed with a karate chop). By the end I'm exhausted, but, man, can my bakers whip up a mean batch of death-by-chocolate cookies.

Chewy Chocolate Cookies (per Mindi's request)
Adapted from Cook's Illustrated, January-February 2009

Makes 16 cookies (we doubled it, of course)

1/3 cup granulated sugar, plus 1/2 cup for coating
1 1/2 cups white flour
3/4 cup Dutch-processed cocoa powder (we used regular cocoa powder)
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon plus 1/8 teaspoon table salt
1/2 cup dark corn syrup (we used light)
1 large egg white
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1/3 cup packed dark brown sugar
4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, chopped into 1/2 inch pieces (we used Ghirardelli chocolate chips)

Heat oven to 375 degrees.

Whisk flour, cocoa, powder, baking soda and salt together. Whisk corn syrup, egg white and vanilla in another bowl.

Beat butter, brow sugar and 1/3 cup granulated sugar at medium-high speed until light and fluffy, about 2 minutes. Reduce speed to medium low, add corn syrup mixture, and beat until fully incorporated, about 20 seconds. With mixer running at low speed, add flour misture and chopped chocolate; mix until just incorporated, about 30 seconds.

Chill dough 30 minutes to firm slightly, but no longer than that.

Divide dough into 16 equal portions, roll between hands into balls about 1 1/2 inches in diameter. Working in batches, drop 8 dough balls into baking dish with sugar and toss to coast. Set dough balls on prepared baking sheet, spacing about 2 inches apart; repeat with second bath of 8. Bake, reversing position of the baking sheets halfway through, until cookies are puffed and cracked and edges have begun to set but centers are still soft, 10 to 11 minutes. (Cookies will look raw between cracks and seem underdone.) Do not overbake.

Cool cookies on baking sheet for 5 minutes, then transfer to wire rack.

A cookie to die for.

Cookies 'til we collapsed

I spent a sweet day with my mom and sister Cheyenne. For six hours we scooped, rolled, dipped and pressed dough, ending up with 336 cookies, minus those eaten for quality control!

Happiness by the spoonful

A school lesson.

More than a week of snow, bitter temperatures, ankle-deep slush and freezing fog forced a new routine on my family: At 8:30 a.m., the six of us pile into our one car and I make a giant loop -- kids at school, husband at work, milk or eggs at the grocery store and home again.

One morning we passed a boy that left me feeling punched in the stomach.

He was running to school wrapped in a fleece Spiderman blanket, which loosely covered his T-shirt and backpack and flapped about his ankles. He looked about 10.

Is this a kid who rejects a jacket on the grounds of style? Is this a parent practicing tough-love and natural consequences? Is this poverty?

My children's friends come over to play in the snow and have no boots, jackets or mittens. They're fingers are bright pink, their shoes soaked when I invite them inside for hot chocolate.

The school hands out jackets, backpacks, some children regularly receive bags of groceries, and weekly all students get a healthy snack thanks to the federal Fresh Fruit and Vegetable Program.

"Why do they give you that?" my son asked his friend, peeking inside the bag at the juice boxes, cereal and cans of soup.

"Because my family's poor."

It's not always easy to tell, but I know some of my neighbors struggle to survive because I've been mistaken for being in their shoes. Twice cars have stopped me as my children and I walked down the street. The first driver handed me a flier about a church event involving food. (We'll have hot dogs, lots of them and they're free!) The second driver wanted to give me groceries.

"No, no. I'm good, thank you. Take them to the food bank," I said.

And I walked on feeling humble and grateful for our steady income, warm clothes and food. Gifts, indeed.

In the bowl:

White bean chili with salsa verde

White bean chili with salsa verde
Recipe by my friend Heather at Yo Mama en Espana

Serves 6 to 8

1 teaspoon lemon pepper (I used black)
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
4 chicken breast, halved and skinned
olive oil, non-stick cooking spray or 1 teaspoon oil
1 clove garlic, minced
1 onion, chopped
2 (9 oz.) packages frozen corn
2 (4 oz.) cans diced green chilies, undrained
1 teaspoon ground cumin
2 to 3 tablespoons lime juice
2 (15 oz.) cans great Northern beans, undrained
2/3 cup crushed tortilla chips
2/3 cup shredded Monterey Jack cheese

In a large saucepan, combine 2 1/2 cups water, pepper and cumin. Boil. Add chicken. Reduce heat to low and simmer 2o to 30 minutes or until chicken is fork tender and juices run clear. Remove chicken from bones, cut into 1 inch pieces. Return chicken to saucepan.

Spray skillet with oil. Over medium heat onion and cook until tender. Add garlic and cook one minute. Add cooked onions, corn, chilies, cumin and lime juice to chicken mixture. Bring to boil. Add beans. Cook until thoroughly heated.

To serve, place tortilla chips and cheese in bottom of the bowl. Ladle chili over top and serve with salsa verde. (In my case, I only had fresh jalapenos.)

Mad dash for a menorah

Courtesy of bcostin.

Do you ever plan something and then its execution turns into fiasco, leaving you to wonder if you're trying too hard or whether the fates are intent on foiling you?

This is how it's been this week as my family tries out a new tradition. (I kind of view traditions like shoes: If they feel good, keep 'em. If not, kick 'em off and move on.) Anyway, I anticipated moments of awkwardness as we ate latkes and lit our first menorah, but never did I think Hanukkah would involve a run-in with police nor a table fire that set off the smoke alarm.

Religion is a complicated, and in my family it's no different. I'm a lukewarm Catholic, my husband is a baptized atheist, and -- with the last name of Levy -- we're often mistaken for Jews, which is why we're tangled up in these eight special nights.

I don't want someone else to define the part of my children which is Jewish. Rather, I'd like my kids to understand and experience first-hand what it means to (kinda) live a Jewish life so they're able to counter stereotypes like the one that occurred at their school, where most kids receive free lunch, have brown skin and don't know any Jews.

"But I'm Jewish," my daughter countered.

"You are? But you look normal," one classmate replied.

When Hanukkah was first discussed around the dinner table, the kids' eyes lit up with the prospect of more presents in December. My husband and I laughed. Nope, I replied, not a present more unless you want to give up those under the tree on Christmas morning. Gifts don't have to be wrapped, I said, they can be intangible: help freely given, a note tucked into a pocket, an offer of a back rub after a hard day. And so we all agreed to give Hanukkah a spin.

Playing with the dreidel.

When we pulled into the synagogue's parking lot, my 2-year-old was protesting his time in the car and my nose was protesting his fragrant diaper. Belts were loosened, air cleared, and then we went to see if the gift shop was selling menorahs. I opened the door and inside all was dark and quiet.

"Hello?" I poked my head in.

No response except for a beeping, so I closed the door and it locked. A second alarm rang, louder than the first. I was thinking, fast, while I steered my toddler back to the car. Should I leave? What if a camera took a picture of me in the doorway? I dialed 9-1-1.

"Do you need fire, ambulance or police?"

"Police, please."

"What's your address?"

"I don't know. I'm at the corner of Manzanita and Lakeside at the synagogue. I wanted to buy a menorah and accidentally set off the alarm."

"Okay. We'll send a police car."

My son climbed into the front seat where he flipped switches and played with the steering wheel. I looked at the backseat and -- just in case the cop wanted to search me and the car -- I did a quick and dirty clean-up. The police car pulled up, the window rolled down, a few questions and I was free to go.

Without a menorah. And it was too late to order one online.

So my daughter and I rigged up one using whiskey glasses and tea lights. Each night, the lighting has been a painful process of wait and watch -- waiting as a child wears out three or four matches before successfully striking one -- watching as candles are lit and quickly dropped back into the glasses. But the menorah looks pretty on our table and the conversations have been good.

Then the fourth night arrived and another five minutes of waiting and watching. Just as we began to eat one of the tea lights flared up.

"Blow it out," my husband said from his end of the table.

Four children leaned forward and blew. Flames flickered. The inferno in the whiskey glass was four inches high and growing. My husband stood and blew.

Hard.

At the same moment:

A ball of flame billowed out of the glass.

Hot wax splattered across the table.

Chairs were shoved back.

And the menorah was extinguished, as our laughter drowned the beep of the smoke alarm.

It's mishap that creates memory and lays the foundation for traditions, don't you think?

For a second time, my toddler and I set out on a mission to obtain a menorah. We went to Cost Plus World Market where we bought rainbow candles at half-off (since Hanukkah is half over). Then to Ben Franklin's for clay. That night the menorah was safely lit, I let go of the idea of the ritual and embraced the reality, and my smallest son sang the only candle song he knew -- Happy Birthday.

A tradition was born.

A conversation between dataheads

Sunday evening.

Dad: What's today's date?

Max: December slash thirteen slash two thousand nine.

In the silence

Frozen blossoms fall on the bare arms of the neighbor's tree, reminding me to be grateful for its summer plums that became jelly earlier this week.

All this snow makes me want to curl up in a blanket with tea and toast, but my toddler's napping and there's so much to do.

Someone needs to tell Muhammad

... a mountain can be moved.

Chaja balances Max on the mountain's peak.

The phone rang with a message that school was canceled, a text arrived that work was canceled, and email announced the evening's commitments to Cub Scouts and 4-H were canceled. And so the house awakened under a blanket of snow.

How did we spend this serendipitous day? Putting on hats, scarves, mittens, gloves, boots, jackets and snow pants, then pulling off frozen, wet ones.

Kids played, I shoveled snow, my husband discovered we had the wrong size snow chains, but ran his errands anyway, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids fought, I shoveled snow on top of kids to shock them into shutting up, my husband made lunch, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids watched Looney Tunes, I turned the house into a sauna by boiling a bubbling brew of plum jelly, my husband shoveled snow, and the dryer ran all day long.

Kids ate jelly on crackers, I drank 'nog while knitting and nursing the littlest grub, my husband read part of "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever," and the dryer ran all day long.

The house slept under a blanket of snow, and the dryer ran all night long.

Courtesy of An Optional Holiday.

December is heavy with tradition, much of it passed down by family or steeped in religion. I enjoy the annual outing to cut the tree, the hanging of the Advent calendar, the nights gambling for nuts or M&Ms with the dreidel, but I cherish the traditions that are uniquely our own. These traditions, I think, are serendipitous creations -- like snow days. We do something one time, the kids latch onto it, and the next time around we hear the words ... but we've always done it this way. The annual part of reading the "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" was like that.

The family gathers in the living room on most December evenings to listen to my husband read Barbara Robinson's story's about a bunch of bad kids who lied, stole, smoked cigars (even the girls), talked dirty, hit little kids, cussed their teacher and took the name of the Lord in vain, but decided to crash a church's Christmas play.

Illustration by Judith Gwyn Brown from "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever."

"I've got the baby here," Imogene barked at the Wise Men. Don't touch him! I named him Jesus."

"No, no, no." Mother came flying up the aisle. "Now Imogene, you know you're not supposed to say anything. Nobody says anything in our pageant, except the Angel of the Lord and the choir singing carols. Mary and Joseph and the Wise Men make a lovely picture for us to look at while we think about Christmas and what it means."

"I think I ought to tell them what his name is," Imogene said.

"No. Besides, you remember it wasn't Mary who named the baby."

"I told you!" Ralph whacked Imogene on the back. "I named him."
"Joseph didn't name the baby either, " Mother said. "God sent an angel to tell Mary what his name should be."

Imogene sniffed. "I would have named him Bill."


It's all that good. I promise. If my husband's not careful to hide the book after reading it, one of our kids will secret it away and read ahead.

I'm curious. Do you have a tradition that's unique to your family?

Gallimaufry

gal-uh-maw-free
noun

From the top: Max and Sam sing, Chaja walks and the Big I enjoys his chocolate.
All photos by Dance in the Kitchen.

The weekend was a gallimaufry of holiday happenings that included caroling, a parade and chocolate letters from Sinterklaas. I, for one, am happy for Monday!

1. A hodgepodge, jumble, a confused medley.

Road blocks

Courtesy of Scott Roberts.

The excuses to avoid church were easy to find: Summer was too beautiful to spend indoors, then the soccer schedule tested our sanity, and last month I just needed to sleep after waking at 4 a.m. all week to write, but this past Sunday I realized we'd been gone for too long.

"What are we going to do today?" my eight-year-old son Max asked as he bounced onto our bed and woke me.

"I thought we'd go to church."

"You know what I like best about church?"

"What?"

"The bread samples."

Courtesy of Loci Lenar.

Obviously, we've strayed too long from the flock.

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.