Lousy Terrorist Cell Phones!



One of the "good" spots for cell coverage--for those without a terrorist cell phone.

My son-in-law always tells me I have a terrorist cell phone: one of those untraceable, pay-by-the-minute, no-contract phones used for nefarious plots and then tossed.

If so, terrorists need better phones.

I just spent a week at a writing workshop up in God’s country, just off the breathtaking Blue Ridge Highway. Remote, secluded, difficult to get to even with directions. (Or maybe that’s just me.) We spent the week hatching plots and intrigues, scheming and devising—kind of like a terrorist group, except with nightly patio dancing and wine. Or who knows? Maybe terrorists like boogying and boxed wine.

The entire time I was up there my cell phone never worked. While others found sure-thing spots—in the parking lot under an umbrella, near the gazebo under an umbrella, leaning off the second-floor balcony under an umbrella (it rained a lot)—my cell showed only an old-school-style phone receiver with a red X through it. In fact, I was forty miles closer to home when I finally got a clear signal and was able to contact my husband and warn him it was time to clear out the hookers and drugs ‘cause I was coming home.

So I think:
1. Either terrorists need better phones, or
2. Anti-terrorists designed my phone to tick off terrorists.

Now that I’m home in the flatlands my cheap terrorist phone works fine again—no umbrella needed. I’ll continue to hatch plots and write my stories—and scheme ways to convince my husband to dance with me on the patio. Maybe with a box of wine…

World Enough and Time

I never thought I would say this, but there’s too freakin’ much out there to read! And not nearly enough time.



For Christmas, I was the thrilled recipient of a Kindle e-reader, and promptly loaded it up with books. I also received several bookstore gift certificates, and a 26-volume set of Time-Life “The Old West” books, which I love, and am on the second volume. I can’t read just one book at a time, so I’m reading a nonfiction book on writing and a novel set in Georgia in the 1960s, too. When I’m walking (okay, I’ll get back to it soon, I promise), cooking, or sewing, I listen to a novel or memoir on an MP3 player from the library—currently, Ape House, by the author of Water for Elephants.


I am on a lot of email lists: cooking, writing, health, church committees, and several people’s “forward” lists. (Gotta admit, one person’s mass forwards get almost automatically deleted. Bless her heart.) Occasionally, I get an actual personal email. For my writing’s sake, I follow many agents on Twitter, and when they’re not tweeting about the weather/kids/pets/sushi, they’re linking to articles on writing and publishing. Which I feel compelled to read.


And somewhere in all that reading, I’m supposed to write, volunteer, do laundry, clean house, shop for groceries, cook, be a good wife, mom, and grandmother, floss my teeth, and, oh yeah, search for a part time job.


I know of some people who actually look for things to do. Things seem to find me. Okay, I admit, I volunteer for some. But others appear on my doorstep like orphans, with arms reaching out and “Please help me!” scrawled across their little buntings. And I love to help—I am kind of a do-bee. I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t factor in down time, time to write, read, plan, and ponder, I will turn into someone else, someone I don’t like. The not-happy Valerie.

I’ve never yet found the perfect balance. How do you balance your life? Do you leave enough time for you to be you? Are you in a phase of your life that simply doesn’t allow much time for that? What can you do about it?

Lousy First Drafts

Several years back I wrote 45,000 words of a novel and then tossed the white flag in the air. I’d written myself into a ditch and had no idea of how to fix it. So I put the manuscript away and worked on easier ones until life calmed down.

A year ago I had lots of time and an entire house to myself all day long, so I hauled out the pages. I made piles, shuffled pages, made new piles, discarded some scenes and characters, and then made an outline. Well, not an outline, more a summary of each finished chapter, and notes for future ones. I’m more of a seat-of-the-pants than a plotting writer. Fits with my life; I know what I’m fixing for dinner tonight, but I have no idea of what’s coming up next week, even if it’s my anniversary. Which now that I think about it…

So I finished that manuscript, and pulled another one from the cupboard. Another 45,000 words written two years ago in longhand on notebook paper, waiting to be keyboarded and finished. It doesn’t have the huge cast of characters the other book has, and I was sure my first-draft writing had improved over the years so I would have an easier time with this one.

But what did I find? Two different opening scenes. Many spots where I’d left a blank for a word that escaped me. Notes: Could this door rattle on its hinges? Were hinges even in use then?

Apparently first drafts don’t get easier. Good thing I love to write.