OAR Pre-Red Rocks

Frank and I are going to Red Rocks on September 11 to see OAR. It'll be the fifth time in four years that we've seen them at this venue. It's our thing. He's promised me that once he's away at college, he'll fly home to see them with me, no matter the month, or the day of the week. We're sitting side stage for the show. It's a big deal. But then, it's Frank's senior year; he's chosen music business/production as his intended major/minor; and someday, when he plays his first show at Red Rocks, he'll remember the night he was on the side of the stage, watching a band who influenced him as much or more than any other. 

I've written about OAR before. Several times in fact. We've met them a couple times, pre-show photo op stuff. All nice guys. Polite. Authentically appreciative of their fans. Professional. Great music-biz role models. They probably have a lot to do with Frank pursuing music business over production as his major. 

I asked Frank after he told his dad and me that he wanted to pursue music in college, whether all the concerts we've attended in the last five years (so many we lost count long ago, but definitely in the triple digits), had any influence on his intended career choice. Obviously was the word I think he used. While there are a few bands we've seen more than once, even twice, we haven't seen another as many times as we've seen these guys.

I'd love to tell them the influence they've had on him the night of the show, but there probably won't be time, or the opportunity. And if I did, Frank would probably be embarrassed. Maybe he'll tell them himself. That would mean the most. And maybe someday he'll have an opportunity to work with them. And tell them then. 

He's at music lessons right now. Voice, music theory, and piano. He's too busy with school and work during the week, so he scheduled it all on Sunday. Earlier today I heard him practicing guitar. I don't hear him as often in the new house, the acoustics are different. He also practices at school. He isn't in band at Palmer Ridge, but asked the music teacher if he could practice in the band room during lunch. He agreed to let him. I so admire his tenacity, commitment and determination. At the end of September the two online classes he's taking at Berklee start. I just hope he remembers to have FUN this year . . . 

Writing this afternoon and listening to OAR's latest album, XX. I just added Follow You, Follow Me to the WIP Inspiration Board for the third book in the LINGER series. It's perfect really. Doesn't matter how many books I write, there will always be a soundtrack by the time I reach the end. I think this is the first OAR song to make the cut for one of my books. Surprising really, that it's the first. Not likely it'll be the last.

One friend who has three boys already in college told me to invest in kleenex this year. Senior sunrise almost did me in. Afterwards, I cried the whole way home. When I walked in the house I cried again. When Doug asked me what was wrong, I cried again. Frank called to ask if he could participate in senior ditch day, and I cried again. When I called the attendance secretary to say he wouldn't be at school, I cried again. 

A few minutes later I heard the back door open. Frank walked in and hugged me. "As much as you don't want me to go is as much as I don't want to," he told me. Part of life, I told him. A necessary one. If we did our job as parents well, he'll go off to college, graduate, have a career, make a life. A happy, independent life. Because that's what our job was, to prepare him for all of that.

He asked then if I wanted pancakes, because a few of his friends were on their way to the house, to make pancakes. I made the pancakes, and listened as they excitedly shared sunrise photos. I listened as they talked about how far behind they were in figuring out colleges to visit, or how bad their score on the ACT was, and when they were retaking it. I listened as they talked about friends I've known since they were in second grade, and friends I haven't yet met. I listened as they talked about how their parents embarrassed them at their baseball games, and lacrosse, and track. And while the subject was how they were embarrassed, what I heard in their voices was pride. 

Sometimes it's okay to embarrass them, because it illustrates exactly how much we love them. We love them enough to lose ourselves cheering for them, or bragging about them, or crying because we're just so damn proud of them, and we're going to miss them so much, it almost hurts to breathe. 

OAR. September 11. Another last. The last time we'll see them before he graduates from high school. The next time we see them, it'll be a first. The first time we see them after he goes to college. Maybe it should be in Boston. (And then again in Colorado.)

Canning Notes for Next Year

After my first attempt at canning in forty years, I have some notes that I hope I'll remember to look at before I get started next year.

Overall

1. Put lids and rings in the small saucepan and simmer. 
2. Get the jars in the canner and start the boiling process FIRST thing. That's what you're ALWAYS waiting on. 
3. Put paper towels under everything. You'll ruin regular towels and there is a ocean of water in the fruits and vegetables you're canning.
4. Don't fill the canning pot with as much water when you're processing quarts.
5. Buy whatever canning stuff you need as soon as you see it, because by the time you need it, it is sold out.

Beets
Make sure the beets are ripe. Start cooking them about an hour before you set everything else up. That's what you'll be waiting on. Don't forget to wear rubber gloves. Try pickling them next year for some variety.

Chili Sauce
Don't chop all the veggies. Use a food processor. Make sure the tomatoes are ripe. Dice the tomatoes after they're peeled. Don't tie spices in cheesecloth. Okay to tie whole cloves and cinnamon stick; put other spices directly in with veggies. Use half-pint jars rather than whole pints.

Sriracha Brussel Sprouts
You probably won't have to wait until next year to make more. So next year, make more.

Pickles
Make three times as much pickling stuff as you think you need. And if you think you need three, make four. Try bread and butter pickles and maybe mustard pickles next year.

Peaches
For ten quarts of peaches, you'll need a triple batch of honey-syrup. Use Plan Bee honey again because it's the best ever. Make sure the peaches are ripe. If they're ripe, the skin DOES fall off like your grandmother told you. If they aren't ripe, they're a PITA. You were waiting on the honey-syrup to boil.

Oh, and by the way, you really love doing this. Even if it seems like a ton of work, as long as you decide what you're going to try to do in a given day, it all goes fine. If you try to do too much in a day, it sucks.

Sriracha Brussel Sprouts, Chili Sauce and Feeding the Birds

This is my six-hundredth blog post. And in its honor, its subject is one that makes me very happy. Anyone who has read LINGER knows my grandparents were very important people in my life. Not just LINGER, if you read this blog you know too. 

The property on which my grandfather built our family home was spectacular. At the time you couldn't see any other houses from it. It's very different now, sadly. The house was built on the eastern side of the multi-acre property. To the west there was a big hill, known as Slade's Hill in the neighborhood, my grandparents called it Heather's Hill. Again sadly, there is a house built into that hill now. It breaks my heart whenever I go home and drive by it. Last year I was saddened that there were now houses where the woods behind our house used to be, along with houses on Baker's corn field.

But this is a happy blog post. 

My grandfather installed a bird feeder right outside the bay windows of the dining room. There was another built into a tree on the eastern side of the driveway, and on the western side, above the rock garden, there were two more affixed to the big old trees that also held a rope swing. He would nail suet into the tree as well. Every season would bring different birds, squirrels and chipmunks. He greased the metal pole that held the bird feeder that was closest to the dining room table, to prevent the squirrels from invading the feeder. 

I have wanted a bird feeder outside our front window not only in this house, but every other house we've lived in. We haven't had one until now. Yesterday, Charlotte and I found one we liked, bought it, and Doug hung it. Doug often reminds me of my grandfather. More and more the older he gets. 

A couple weeks ago, he reorganized the garage, moved garden tools and other things he liked to have handy, in order to put up racks for Frank's two paddle boards. He hung shelves with hooks so Frank could easily hang his wetsuit, booties, etc. When he was doing it, I thought back to how my grandfather rearranged things in the garage for me, and everywhere else in the house. He saw I needed a place to hang necklaces and he made me a necklace hanger in the shape of two hearts with pegs coming out of it. I don't know what happened to it, but it was the kind of thing he'd do. It's the kind of thing Doug would do too. 

Doug had me come outside yesterday before he tied everything off on the bird feeder. He wanted to be sure I could reach the clip to disconnect it from its spring-loaded wire. If I couldn't, he would've lowered it. He doesn't want me to have to climb up on anything in order to get it down to fill it. Just like my grandfather. 

This morning a blue jay was enjoying the new feeder when we let Ballou out for his morning break. The jay flew away, but we could hear him alerting the birds in the neighborhood either about the bird feeder, or the dog, or both.

Every year I am determined to make my grandfather's old-fashioned chili sauce. It involves canning, something I haven't done since I was a pre-teen. Every year I miss getting fresh tomatoes, bell peppers, chili peppers and onions from the farmers' market, and making it from grocery store produce just never appealed to me.

It was an excuse, like so many other things I just wasn't ready to do. Similar to writing. When you're ready, you'll do it. So this year, I was ready.

My first attempt at canning was beets, sweet riesling beets. It took me most of Friday afternoon to cook the beets and prepare the canning jars, bands and lids. For my efforts, I yielded five half-pints of beets. It was a good warmup exercise.

Yesterday, I made the chili sauce. It was a mess, but I learned a lot. Five out of six cans processed correctly, so the other we have to eat now. The good news is that it tastes right. It doesn't look exactly like his used to look, but I think I figured out why. The other thing is, after I was finished, it dawned on me that he did half-pints, I did pints. Next time I'll do half-pints. 

Today I made sriracha brussel sprouts and kosher dill pickles. It sounds as though the three pints of brussels sprouts processed correctly since two of the three have already popped. The dill pickles are processing now. I learned a lot today too, particularly about the pickles. 

In the next few days I'll be canning peaches, another project that I anticipate being very messy. I told myself that I'm going to stop there, but unless the peaches do me in, I may continue and do some tomatoes and tomato sauce. 

This morning Doug asked me what other "lost arts," I was going to undertake. Quilting? Uh, no. No sewing either, although Doug did ask me yesterday if I was going to start making him some clothes (again, no, thankfully he was joking). Knitting, possibly, but unlikely. It just seems too complicated. Although that's what I said about canning. I could crochet. My grandmother and I made a couple afghans together, by taking turns doing several rows at a time. When it was her turn she'd "fix" my rows by getting the correct number of stitches and evening it back out. Without her help, I'm not sure I'll crochet either. But maybe. 

I posted photos on Facebook yesterday, one of the bird feeder, one of the canned chili sauce. In the post I wrote that between the two, I feel as though I'm home. The land around our house, which aren't really yards, are looking more and more beautiful with each passing day. We decided at the beginning of spring, that we'd only tackle the front area this year. The plants are growing, looking healthy, and flowers are blooming. My garden has yielded cherry tomatoes, tomatoes, cucumber, peas, onions and lots of herbs. Zucchini will be ready soon. Because of the toads (yes, toads), my lettuce and spinach were devoured almost immediately. I now have three pots of lettuce up on the deck, to see if that will work better. If it does, I'll just go that route next year.

I'm thankful we found this house, that reminds me so much of home. And that it has inspired me to practice the lost arts of my grandparents, which fills me with such a sense of love and peace.

First First and Last First

There were a lot of firsts for Beckett today. First day he got up on his own using an alarm clock (yeah I know, but he's a REALLY sound sleeper), first day of school, first day of middle school, first time to ride the bus, and later he'll have his first official day of football practice. He's embarking on a new chapter of his life, while Frank is closing one out.

Today is Frank's last first day of high school. It's likely to be the last first day of school that he'll wake up in this house, and I'll coerce him into letting me take his photo. As much as I'd like to be there and take his photo on his first day of college, that might be pushing it more than a little.*

I'm grateful that Beck has five more years before he starts his senior year of high school. It gives me more time to prepare for the next last first day.

Everyone says it, but where does the time go? How can it be my babies are this old? While in Boston I spent time with a friend whose daughter I will always think of as being six years old. She's thirty. How can this be? It seems as though realizing how old our friends' kids are makes us feel older. When it's our own, it doesn't really seem to age us, it just ages them. Right?

Doug and I used to talk about what I'd do when I retired. We joked that I'd last about fifteen minutes, and then I'd find something else to do. I'm not really retired, but I sort of am. I still do marketing work, I still do freelance work writing grants (which will start up again tomorrow), and I still write books. But day-to-day scheduled work, not so much. There isn't any way I could with all the things that need to be done here. Although, everyone says this after they retire, when did I ever have time to work?

New chapters everywhere we look. With us, our kids, our friends. It'll be okay . . . at least I hope it will. A friend wrote on Facebook this morning, "someone tell me it's all going to be okay." It's easier to tell her it will be than it is to tell myself.

*Frank just came in and we talked about the "last first day photo," and how it's likely to be the last one I take. He said, "maybe." Then he told me I could take his photo on the day we drop him at college, and count that as the first first-day-of-college picture. He's so sweet, thinkin' of his mama like that.

What year is it?

I didn't write at all yesterday. I intended to, but then found myself struggling with timeline issues. I looked through my working files and discovered I'd never done a timeline for the LINGER series. I hadn't remembered doing one, but I still looked with hope. I thought, optimistically, that it would take me an hour or so to complete it. By seven last night I was just finishing up. 

Different writers have different styles, from start to finish. I don't outline my books. I have a basic idea of where the story is going to go, usually HEA (happily ever after), but other than that, and the "big ideas," of the story, I let it take me where it wants to go. I find it so much more FUN to write that way. I don't necessarily know what is going to happen when I sit down to write, and I LOVE that.

I try to get into the heads and hearts of my characters. I know what they look like, I know who they are, I know what drives them. I don't write it down anywhere, I just know. Sometimes I forget to tell my readers what they look like, because in my head I see them so clearly. At one point I attempted going back and doing character outlines for the Crested Butte Cowboy series. There are so many heroes and heroines across that book series, and they reappear throughout, I thought it might help. I did one, maybe two. For me it was a waste of time. I don't need to document how I see them or who they are . . . I just know.

Timelines are harder. When I am in the midst of writing a particular book, I don't need a timeline because I am there, present, in the story. It's when there are subsequent books in the series that the timeline becomes more important. I have one beta reader who is GREAT at noticing timeline issues. Particularly as it relates to weather. I love that about her.

Anyway, as I worked on the timeline yesterday, I realized I was in better shape than I thought. I had very, very little to change because of timing. I started to think that maybe I'd wasted an entire day doing something I didn't really need to do, but then I read through book three. I've written 14,080 words, which is a little over fifty pages in book form. Instead of being confused about timing, I just looked back at the timeline. I have a better sense of where we are in the trilogy, and in the long run I believe it will save me an enormous amount of time.

I won't be able to write much today either. I have two appointments that will take up most of my day. After I get back I doubt I'll feel like jumping into it. But maybe I will. 

I used to sit at my desk, in the bedroom, and write. If I needed quiet, I'd close the door. It was okay, but I didn't get up as often as I should, and then I'd be stiff . . . anyone who works at a desk knows what I'm talking about. When I started working on this book, I transferred everything to my laptop. I can write anywhere. I've posted photos of what I call my "summer office" which is out on our deck, complete with a fabulous view of Pikes Peak and the front range, all the way down to Cheyenne Mountain. I still write in the bedroom sometimes, but I sit in more comfortable chairs, or on the bed. It's freeing. I can pick up my computer and go wherever I want. As long as the weather is nice, I'll write outside as often as I can. 

I guess my point is I'll do the things I need to do to write. And I won't waste my time on things I don't need. At a meeting of the first book club I visited after they read AND THEN YOU FALL, we had a conversation about characters. Most everyone at the table complimented me on the characters in that book. Not that the characters didn't drive them crazy from time to time, but hello, that's kind of the point. Anyway, I talked about receiving emails from Writers' Digest primarily offering online workshops for everything from opening paragraphs to writing queries. I told them that sometimes I thought perhaps I was missing something . . . perhaps I should take one of those online classes. The biggest compliment the group gave me that day was telling me not to. They told me not to change anything in the way I write. If it isn't broken, don't fix it. 

Timeline done. As soon as I can I'll be writing again . . . 

Nostalgic Regret

I was looking through some of the "Forgotten" sites I follow on Facebook this morning. You know, Forgotten Buffalo, Vintage LA, You Know You're from East Aurora When . . . 

Whenever I scroll through posts like these I am filled with nostalgic regret. I find myself wishing things were the way they used to be. I wish Crystal Beach was still open, and still as idyllic as it is in my memory. Same way with Sherman's on Caroga Lake, open air markets, bustling downtowns full of department stores with exciting window displays and crowds of shoppers, the way banks used to be (when all the tellers greeted you by name) . . . and on and on and on. So often I find myself wishing it was still the way I remember. 

And then something struck me. So many people have told me how much they miss our wine bar. But I don't. Sure there are things I miss about it, mainly the customers and how much I enjoyed getting to know them . . . but the truth is, that business didn't work. It didn't work from a business model standpoint (maybe it would've somewhere other than Monument), and it certainly didn't work for our family. 

If something isn't working, it needs to change. As nostalgic as I get, there were reasons these businesses or amusement parks, or whole towns, changed. I am as guilty as anyone of shopping online, particularly when I'm busy, or I've looked for something in a brick and mortar and can't find it. It's likely the brick and mortar stopped carrying whatever it was because there wasn't enough demand for it. 

There are lots of "Shop Local," "Shop Small," campaigns. A particularly successful one is Shop Small Saturday, on the Saturday following Black Friday. I have seen so many marketing statistics about how spending $50 (or whatever) once a week (or whatever) means that 500 people stay employed (or whatever). I don't know how accurate or realistic any of those stated statistics are, but it doesn't matter. The bottom line is if you want a store to stay in business, shop there. Great case in point, Vidler's on Main Street in the East Aurora. Or Charlie's Diner, also on Main Street. Both have changed somewhat, but they're still there. 

Working on the LINGER series drives these points home (pun intended). Since I'm spending time "at home," I am particularly homesick, and nostalgic, and find myself wishing I could go back in time to the way things used to be. Would I really given the chance? Only to see the people I love and miss I suppose.

The Challenge of Little Time

I've had two back-to-back great writing days. Today's challenge is how I'll handle all the other things I have to do, but manage to write too. I have places I have to be this morning, things I have to do, which means I might not be back until after noon. Once I am back, I have to leave again at 3:30, and will likely not return until after 5:00. Tough to fit writing in given that schedule.

So what will I do? Take the whole day off? Probably not wise. Finish this blog post and write until 9:45 when I have to leave? Probably a better idea.

Between Monday and Tuesday I've written over 11,000 words . . . a huge accomplishment given I haven't written in over a year. 

I didn't really pay attention to the date, but given I started writing again on Monday means I'll be tracking from August 1. Being a full-time writer means doing it every day, at least five days a week, as any other full-time job. So what would I do if it was any other job? I'd probably make up the time, especially if I was on a deadline . . . self-imposed or otherwise.

Time to LINGER . . . book three . . . I'm writing.

Be Ready

I am reminded both when I sit down to write and it doesn't work, and when I sit down to write and it does, that if I'm not ready to write, I can't. How many times in the last four years have I said it, acknowledged it, felt it?

There are times that I just can't get into a story. I want to, but I can't. I long for the feeling of having the words flow out of me, of being "in" the story with the characters. It's magic. And you can't rush magic. You can't force it. You can't will it to be when it just isn't. 

The good news? I'm in it. Fully. I am surrounded by the magic of a story when it clicks. I love these two main characters. They were introduced in the first and second books in the LINGER series, but getting to write them more completely, build their story while I finish the story that is driving the trilogy is . . . overwhelmingly wonderful. 

In the same way I don't want a book I love to end when I'm reading it, I don't want this series to end. Now that I am FINALLY finishing this book, I don't want to. Don't panic if you've been waiting for LINGER THREE. I will finish it, probably very soon. I just don't want it to end. To assuage my sadness, I've told myself I can simply write another book in this series. The ongoing cliffhanger will END with this book, I promise. 

But what about after? Are there more characters that I can bring in so we can spend more time with Kate and Michael, Gabbi and Scotty, and all the rest? For now I'll tell myself there are. Even if it doesn't ultimately come to pass.

In the meantime . . . I LOVE this feeling. Love it. So much.

Back to the Beginning

Sometimes you have to start over. If what you're doing isn't working, you can change it, or go all the way back and begin again. I'm opting for the latter. I came to that decision this morning, and now, sitting on the deck, what I consider my summer office, I feel it's the right one.


Four years ago, on August 20 of 2012, I started writing my first novel. I'd written before, non-fiction, but fiction wasn't something I'd considered until then. The impetus was a trip home, to East Aurora, a gift I gave myself for my fiftieth birthday. As far as celebrations go, it wasn't the best I'd experienced. Even in hindsight I cannot really say whether that weekend was serendipitously bad, or good. I lost something that weekend, something I never really had, and that was a relationship with my half-sister. Relationships that are forced, or feel that way, rarely work. And this one didn't. I believe she was looking for someone I wasn't. And I had no idea what I was looking for. Until she initially contacted me, a couple years prior to that ill-fated weekend, I believed I knew who I was, where I came from, who I belonged to . . . what my life meant. After seeing my father through her eyes, her life, what I believed began to erode. 

And thus, the main character of my first book was born. She's a lot like me, and nothing whatsoever like me. Her life is partly based on mine, but very little of it. It's a different story than mine, a different set of circumstances, with a tiny bit of reality mixed in. Her grandparents are my grandparents. Her parents are not. Many others she's close to are not based on anyone in my life at her age. Her home is like the one I grew up in, and nothing whatsoever like the it.

The biggest similarity is that she knows who she is, and so do I. Maybe for the first time in my life. Writing that initial book, that turned into two books, and now three, was cathartic. When I got off the plane in Denver, I told Doug I was going to write a book. And I did. Since, I've rewritten that first book countless times, written the second in what would become a trilogy, and written five books in a completely different series.

Today I am starting over on the third book. It's been a long time coming. I initially promised this book would release at the beginning of this year. It may now be the beginning of next year, but I'm not making promises this time. Instead, I'm simply going to write it. 

My struggle is based primarily on the fact that I took stuff out of the second book, and plopped it into the third. When I began I wasn't writing that book, I was editing what I'd written before thinking it would turn into a book I was already part way through. Re-working, re-writing, deleting, adding . . . it's a nightmare. I won't throw away what I've got; I'll put it in another file, called outtakes, and then I'll start over. At the beginning. The way it should be.

I've written several posts along this same line over the course of the last year. I beat myself up regularly for not writing. I give excuses, and sometimes I fear that everything I was supposed to write I already have, and I'm forcing something that isn't going to work. 

What I must do, is push through that fear, and see if there is something in me that still needs to be said. I have ideas jotted down about so many other books. I even have two other series I want to delve into. But can I find that spark? Can I find that passion, that need to write that is so overwhelming I cannot ignore it? I don't know. 

Four years ago I didn't know whether I could write a book. I thought I could, but I was so afraid I wouldn't finish it. I was afraid that I wouldn't get past those first few pages, that I wouldn't have a whole story to write. I discovered I did. And several others. 

I'm terrified as I write this, that I don't have another story in me. What if I can't get past those first few pages? What if I can't get past where I am right now? What if I can't finish? Do all writers feel this way when they sit down to pour a story out of their heart that their fingers can't type fast enough? 

I didn't go home this summer, but I got close. I went to Boston. I was hoping for inspiration. I can't say yet whether I got any. We'll see if it turns up in the next thing I write. Maybe it'll be a book about three very strong women, and where life took them. But then again, maybe that's the story I'm already writing.