Though I had a cold, I was going strong on Monday. I did seven loads of laundry and accomplished a ton on my work to-do list. On Monday night, the little angel ended up in my bed coughing in my ear from 3-6 am. On Tuesday, her cold peaked, and I kept her home from school. On Tuesday night, I finished the second draft of PARKER CLEAVES despite the onset of a sinus headache. On Wednesday, I was sick but not too sick to go for a jog at lunchtime. I thought I might be able to ride out this cold like I have the last few.

On Wednesday night, I took a turn for the worse.

Yesterday was rotten. I worked from the couch. 

This morning, I got the little angel on the bus, emailed my co-workers, and went back to bed. 

My house is filthy. We didn't clean last weekend because of Thanksgiving travel, and then we put up the Christmas tree and scattered glitter and fake pine needles all over everything. Then Beloved went on a business trip on Monday and between being sick and being alone with a cat determined to knock everything off the counters and a kid trailing snotty kleenexes in her wake, I was in survival mode. 

Today, I'm having to admit defeat. I can't clean. I can't work out. I can barely function. I'm in my pajamas hammering away at my to-do list as best I can.

In the past, I might've forced myself to rally and do what I'd planned to do, anyway. That just keeps me sick longer, though. I really want to kick this cold and get on with my life. So I'm going to stay in my pajamas looking like death warmed over and move back to the couch and shut my eyes to the grime and the running shoes and the ironing piled on the dining room table. Sometimes taking care of yourself can be really hard to prioritize, but I'm really going to try, and then maybe next week I can take the world by storm.

Tomorrow the little angel has a ceremony to go to for school. She has been bugging me to iron the flounces of her skirt to make them stand out prettily, and of course I keep forgetting. This morning, she left me a note on my laptop. Mommy, please iron my skirt. I wrote it down on my work list: Iron skirt.  And I remembered! I ironed it.

I got to the second row of flounces before I started crying.

There I stood in my basement, holding an iron in my hand, thinking about how proud I am of my girl who tries so hard in school. I also thought about the worry list she wrote on her playroom whiteboard, how she's been counting down the days to know if her team won, how the combination of that looming childhood worry combined with a school spelling bee this week has her seriously spinning.

She will be fine, of course. Competition is healthy. She doesn't play sports, so this is her opportunity to learn to be a good winner or loser, to look forward to things, to be rewarded for a job well done, to celebrate or mourn with a team. Sports are great and all, but they aren't the only teams in schools. 

So I stood there, trying to get all the wrinkles out and knowing because of the way the flounces were gathered I would fail, trying to keep Kizzy from burning his little black paws on the steam he so desperately wanted to touch, thinking how fast it is going and it will be like a roller coaster that took forever and only thirty seconds between now and when I'm steaming her high school graduation gown. 

I'm doing all I can do. She was so wound up she had a lot of trouble getting to sleep last night. I know tonight will be worse. We've scheduled some worry time for after ballet (not sure I wrote about how she decided two weeks into September that she can't handle the step-up to two nights during the school week, she still hates ballet, quitting at the end of the semester, and I will be very happy not hear a daily litany of how much she hates ballet after that). I'll work on PARKER CLEAVES while she's in class so I won't be sitting there at bedtime thinking how every minute ticking by is a minute I'm not writing before the 11 pm mental shutdown. I'll be fresh. I'll remind her what a good coper she is. We'll breathe deeply. And tomorrow, win or lose, we'll celebrate, of course after the ceremony and school and my trip to the blonde fairy that has already been rescheduled twice. I'd like to clear my calendar for her, but Beloved is traveling till Thursday and, well, dammit, I need my hair cut.

I'm not writing this for you all, I'm writing this for me, you see that right? I just realized it myself.

I can do this. I can stand by her through this excitement and anxiety all by myself sandwiched between two ballet sessions she hates and amidst taking out the garbage and carpooling and scheduling things ahead for Thanksgiving at work and laundry and cooking and writing. I will not let my own anxiety about managing my job and my kid and the house alone affect my ability to teach her to cope, because the better I cope, the better she will cope. 

Fucking hell, being a good example is SO HARD. 

So yesterday I got up on my high horse and rode about not having word count goals. Today, I finally finished transcribing all the handwritten changes I did to THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES after my first round of beta feedback and thought I'd have buried the 40k mark I was at before.

Two hours ago, I exported to Word. 39,879, bitches.

WHAT THE HELL?

I cut a lot, but I added a lot, too. Well, now I have 39,879 better words, but I'm still about 20k short for new adult. Or maybe it's young adult. It's hard to say, because the protagonist is 18/19 and it's not all sexy-sex -- is there new adult non-romance? We'll see. The jury remains out on genre. 

Regardless, as it stands? It's a novella. I don't want a novella. I want to give my second round of beta readers a NOVEL. I want to get feedback on what is close to the end game, not a second version of a rough draft.

*silently raging*

It appears rather than adding Juliet balconies to the house I've created, I need to add a new wing. Perhaps a subplot. Perhaps fill in some plot holes I haven't really explored. Not sure. I'll tell you, though, I'm glad I didn't know how many words I was cutting and filling back in when I made these changes, because if I'd known, I would've cried.

The book is better now. It needs to be better -- and longer -- yet, but we'll get there, one scene at a time.

*breathes into paper bag*

*prints another draft*

*notes need more ink cartridges*

I'm nearing the end of my first major revision of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. This time, I gave the shitty rough draft to a group of trusted beta readers to get feedback on the general structure of the thing before I tried to make it any good. They  helped me see what I should add more than what I should take away. Cutting is so easy. Adding, for me, is harder.

I've found despite my Internet publishing job and my years working with software development, in the end, I still write best longhand. I sit in front of a screen all day long, and trying to write at night in front of another glowing screen is very difficult for me. It feels like work. Printing the manuscript out and editing it by hand, referencing different notebooks with extended scenes is just easier. I wish I'd known this while working on THE OBVIOUS GAME, but, well, it's like anything else -- you have to fuck it up a few times before you figure out what works for you.

One of my writing professors told me once revising fiction is like pulling it up from the bottom of a well. At first, you can just see there's something there, then gradually as you haul on the ropes, the details emerge, until at last the water pours off and the thing in its entirety is visible. I can't completely see THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES yet, but this past week I've been working on it hours every night, and I can finally feel its emotional compass. Knowing it's a story that ultimately will matter only to me doesn't feel as maddening as it did before. THE OBVIOUS GAME was a story I had to tell, because I thought it might help the people who email me, desperate to hear what helped me recover from my eating disorder. This novel is different -- it's a story. I'm trying to capture what it feels like to be nineteen and on the cusp of your life starting and not knowing where that will take you. The moment when you realize no one really knows what they are doing and the house of cards on which you hung all you know to be true wobbles. The day you choose whether that knowledge will turn you jaded or ambitious. 

As I transcribed my shaky handwriting from notebook to StoryMill tonight, I felt excited. I felt alive. 

I like remembering what it was like when I spent my days and nights asking myself the big questions, before I got caught up in making sure the leaves didn't kill the grass and whether I've volunteered enough for the PTA. I'm still that girl who corrected the grammar of the school behavior manual during suspension. I haven't forgotten the pain of realizing no one would ultimately look after me but me. I remember the day I realized I had to value myself enough to demand the respect of the men I dated, to not accept careless affection as love.

I wouldn't go back to being fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen for anything. God, it was so hard then. But do you remember how alive you felt when every emotion exploded like fireworks over the ocean? 

I do. I still do.

Tonight I'm throwing my laptop, my manuscript notes and a few audiobooks in the car and heading over to St. Louis for the Less Than Three Conference. It's a conference put on by young adult author Heather Brewer, whom I met at the young adult track at RT Booklovers back in May. All the panels are put on by young adult authors and discuss various aspects of bullying that they've written about in their books. I'm excited to meet some of the authors I admire but have not yet met and also say hi to those with whom I've had the pleasure to shake hands. And of all the panels, I'm most excited about the one on bullying yourself -- which is, of course, where THE OBVIOUS GAME fits in.

After a long quiet period, I've had two emails this week from family members frustrated with their anorexic sibling or daughter. It's a relief at this point to have something solid to point to, to be able to say, here, read this, tell me if it helps. I hope it helps. I hope you can talk to each other after.

Growing up is really hard, but so is being grown up. What no one tells you is that for some people, high school never ends. Some people stay bullies permanently, stymied in their growth at tenth grade. Adulthood in many ways is finding the inner strength to surround yourself with people who lift you up instead of tearing you down. Learning not to listen to those who feel better about themselves by telling other people they are utter shit.

There is always someone who will tell you that you are shit. You can look at that fact as depressing or empowering. 

Adulthood for me has been about learning to stop bullying myself. I don't remember being bullied nor being a bully, except with myself. When I bully myself, that anger turns outward, too. That's what I tried to tell the people who emailed me this week. Please read the book. I know their pain is probably presenting as anger to you. It's hard to love someone who is in such pain they become nasty like an injured animal. It's not fair you should have to be the bigger person to love someone who is in pain. 

So I'm interested to see what this conference will be like. I'm excited to meet teen readers and see what they say in the sessions. I hope to come away with lots of ideas for new novels and feel inspired to turn back to the problems Meg struggles with in THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. I'll let you know how it goes, but I'm feeling more invigorated again. There might be a point, after all. 

The leaves haven't even turned yet, but last night I found myself lying on my daughter's bed with a frowny face.

My husband walked in. "You look upset."

Me: "Yes."

Him: "Should we move out?"

Me: "No. I mean, maybe. But I think it's just me. You moving out might not help, so you should stay."

Him: "Gotcha."

I proceeded to try to explain that it's October and October means cold weather is coming, and I'm at the first revision stage of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES, which feels like getting all your syllabi on one day and wondering how the fuck you're going to get all that work done in one semester. And maybe I was having a There's No Point to Any of It day, the kind of day where you realize you're just going to have to make the bed again tomorrow and you can be a totally awesome worker and then you'll retire and three years later the entire department will have turned over and someone will ask who the hell made the decision for the border to be goddamn orange and if you do publish books, they'll eventually go out of print, even the ebooks will find a way to go out of print. One of those days.

I felt like when Louis CK tells Conan about that time when you're in traffic and you have the forever empty feeling because it's all for nothing and you're alone, and Conan looks at him like, I'm not sure I want to admit in public that I know exactly what you're talking about. Can someone please hand me a smartphone? I need to check Twitter.

Yeah. I had one of those days yesterday. I'm still trying to shake off that feeling that really nothing I do is important or worth doing and really, I'm pretty sure that's just my fear talking and I should just revise anyway, because that's what you do in order to occupy yourself until you die.

KIDDING.

Sort of. Because even if that's what it is, maybe that's still something worth doing. 

This week I'm finishing up my shitty rough draft of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES to send to my beta readers, and I'm pretty sure it sucks and they will think less of me for reading it. Yesterday, I tried to list THE OBVIOUS GAME on a discount site, but it wasn't accepted. I suspect it's a little heavy for their genre-heavy readership, which I totally get, but it was disappointing because I could use the boost in visibility on Amazon. This year I've watched other blogger anthologies rising to heights SLEEP IS FOR THE WEAK never saw when it came out. I realized a long time ago I don't have the personal following it takes to nudge my books over the echo chamber wall of who I know into the mainstream world of who I don't. It would take marketing dollars to get there, marketing dollars my publishers don't spend and I can't spend. I understand the business behind the business, but the art/business marriage keeps separate apartments. 

When I get low, Beloved always says, "But you got published." 

To which I retort, "But I didn't take off."

To which he responds with a frustrated stare, because he is never able to convince his ambitious and bullheaded wife that her goals are too lofty for her circumstance and abilities. Which is basically the premise of THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. It's something I have struggled with for years -- when my overgrown ambition does battle with my talent and financial support.

This week, BlogHer syndicated a post by Kyran Pittman, which discussed why creative people compare themselves to the superstars of their fields when accountants and bus drivers don't. She writes:

The actors who don’t get Oscar nominations, the authors whose books don’t make the bestseller lists, the songwriters who don’t go platinum, the cellists who aren’t Yo-Yo Ma -– they aren’t underachievers.

Oh, the metrics available in this world, how bone-crushing they can be. I've stopped looking at metrics more than once a week for anything -- my blog, my books, my weight. There are too many ways to measure yourself with indisputable numbers in 2013. I'm the type of person who prefers problems with no one answer. Am I a success? The numbers don't lie. But subjectively, am I a success? It depends on your perspective.

I fight every day to push away the feeling that everything I do artistically is the adult equivalent of chalk drawings on the driveway before a rainstorm. 

But Kyran's right. The point isn't to matter to everybody, it's to matter to somebody, and it's my job to beat back the emails telling me I'm not doing enough to market my work and the emails trumpeting who won this or that award or made this or that bestseller list. I can't really manufacture that any more than I can force a stock to go up or down on Wall Street. 

Who and how many notice the art can't be more important than the existence of art. The existence of the art has to be the point.

And so a new day starts, and I remind myself this again. 

I'm almost to the shitty rough draft stage with THE BIRTHRIGHT OF PARKER CLEAVES. It's about 10,000 words too short, but I don't know which 10,000 they should be. Also, I don't know the answers to certain questions myself, and those questions need to be answered in the draft. Finally, it's the clay and not the sculpture -- most of it totally sucks.

I spent about two weeks going through a printed-out version from StoryMill and trying to write connecting tissue because I'd written everything else just scene-by-scene and put it into the software. The export from StoryMill didn't look like a book. It looked like a bunch of scenes. So I ended up writing A on the paper and then handwriting out several pages of A in a notebook and so on until I got to Q. Then I went back in and typed all the handwritten stuff into the scenes in StoryMill and did another export.

Then I stopped. And I despaired a bit, I'll admit, because it just wasn't where I want it to be before I show it to my beta readers (God bless them). 

So I am taking this week to reread two books that have a bit of starlight to them, starlight I want to infuse into the characters of Helen and Parker in TBoPC. Perhaps if I wallow in the sentences of work I admire I'll get some inspriration by osmosis. Previous to this I've been reading a lot of dystopian stuff just for fun, but that's a totally different style than what I'm trying to achieve with TBoPC.

And so far, my sad little novel. Oh, it sucks. This part of the process is pretty frustrating. At least I've learned enough now to know I'm not done yet.

Today I wrote a post I've been mulling for weeks over at BlogHer. Here's a teaser -- click the link at the end for the full post!

A few weeks ago, I drove down to The Writers Place in Kansas City, Miss., (full disclosure: I serve on the board of directors) to talk to a group of around twenty upper middle-school kids about writing fiction. We ended up talking about race.

I didn't start there. I started with writing process. I talked aboout how I wrote my first novel in ever-lengthening Word documents saved by date and how the novel I'm working on now is coming together thanks to software called StoryMill. How this time I'm writing in scenes, not chapters, because it's totally easier for me that way. Their eyes glazed. I passed around my scene list and long outline for my new novel. They shuffled the paper around the room. I was losing them fast, and I still had the better part of an hour to go.

The group of kids was diverse. There were black kids and white kids and Asian kids and biracial kids. So I threw out a question that has been nagging at me ever since I learned that children's book publishing hasn't kept pace with census data regarding racial demographics. How did the kids feel about a white author writing nonwhite characters?

Read the rest on BlogHer!