Category: writing

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Pay It Forward Interview: Susan Adrian

Hello on day 2 of Pay it Forward interview week! Hopefully you’ve taken some time to visit some of the other writers’ blogs (links below), and let yourself be inspired and encouraged by their publication journeys. There are more than 70(!) writers participating, so clear some time for blog-reading.

And *cough* MY *cough* interview is going up today at: http://leahclifford.livejournal.com/ . Go check it out. There’s a Mia– haiku involved…

Susan Adrian aka the inspiration behind all those Twitter “tiara days” is a champion cheerleader and beacon of positivity. With all the good karma she’s spread, she’s due for heaps in return. Watch out for her name in the upcoming years, you’ll be seeing it.

1. Tell us about your book.

SALVAGED is the book I’m working on now, and I’m SO excited about it. Here’s the basic blurb (I always do one of these while I’m writing the first draft):

Sixteen-year-old Annika (Annie) has never used a computer or a cell phone. She’s never watched TV, slept in a real bed, or kissed anyone but Xander. Until now.

Annie’s always lived in The Community, an ultra-environmental commune tucked in the canyons of San Diego, led by her idealistic, maybe-crackpot dad. What they can’t grow or raise they salvage from the wasteful people of “the wild”. You’d be amazed what you can find back of a restaurant. But Xander runs away with Annie’s sister Zilla, and Dad sends her to drag them back.

To find them Annie has to venture into the wild by herself, into an alien culture of excess. When she crashes a company picnic she meets Bryan, a cute, rich boy who thinks she’s homeless. She lets him think it, lets him help. All she needs is a couple days to get Zilla and Xander.

But once she finds them, Annie’s not so sure she wants to return, much less force her happy-go-lucky, impulsive sister back under the strict Community rules. The wild is much more complex and captivating than she imagined. And there’s Bryan, who’s also just a tiny bit captivating. But if she doesn’t bring them home soon, Dad will come after them himself. And the last time he brought a runaway home…that’s the one thing Annie won’t let herself think about.

Can Annie be salvaged? Does she want to be?

It’s a real challenge to get the point-of-view right–a girl who has none of the cultural knowledge most teenagers are drenched in. Of course that challenge is what makes it fun.

2. Can you tell us a little bit about your road to publication (finding an agent)?

Like most other writers, my road has been–and continues to be–decidedly unsmooth. My first book was a historical, set in Chaucer’s England, with a 16-year-old protagonist (always the YA!). I got some strong agent interest, but no takers. So I wrote a straight-up contemporary YA, a juicy mix of all my favorite stuff, all my passions. I could tell the difference, between writing what I thought I should write and what I *loved*. Fortunately my agent, the fabulous and sharkly Janet Reid, loved it too. Even though that book didn’t sell right out of the box the way we wanted it to, I’m SO glad I wrote it, and that it led me to Janet.

3. Was there ever a time you felt like giving up? Why didn’t you?

Of course! I think every writer has those crippling moments where the possibility enters your mind–where the rejections and the doubt monsters get so loud and hurtful you consider just Not Doing It Anymore. You can’t face the battery of rejection that is this business without that feeling. The trick is to let yourself feel that way…for about 10 minutes. Then go talk to some of your writer friends and get support. Let their encouragement soak in. And then realize, if you’re meant to be doing this–if you’ve got writing in you–you’ll keep doing it anyway. It’ll pop out somewhere. You don’t HAVE to keep trying to get published, but I have a feeling you probably will. Just like I will. I want others, especially teens, to read and enjoy the stories I have to tell.

4. I wouldn’t have survived querying/revisions/submissions without ___?

My writer friends. They are there for me every single day. I don’t see how I could do any of this without them.

Now that you’ve enjoyed Suze’s interview, click here for more inspiration: Lisa and Laura Roecker, Beth Revis, Leah Clifford, Victoria Schwab, Kirsten Hubbard, Susan Adrian, Dawn Metcalf, Kim Harrington, Carrie Harris, Amy Holder, Kathy McCullough, Suzette Saxton and Bethany Wiggins, and Elana Johnson.

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Pay it Forward Interview Week

We’ve all had those Little Engine That Could moments, where we’re telling ourselves, “I think I can. I think I can,” even though the Doubt Monster is desperately trying to add an “n’t” to the end of that mantra.

This week, YA writer blogs across the net are being sprayed with Doubt Monster repellant in the form of the Pay It Forward Interviews. The brain child of Elana Johnson and Lisa and Laura Roecker this blog interview chain/web focuses on stories of writers at different places on the publication path: from the newly agented to those anxiously counting down the days till their first novel releases.

On my blog, you’ll be able to hear stories of five wonderful writers:

3/29 Monday: Linda Grimes

3/30 Tuesday: Susan Adrian

3/31 Wednesday: Trish Doller

4/1 Thursday: Chelsea Campbell

4/2 Friday: Heidi Kling

I hope you stop by each day to see what these talented women had to say. I’m sure you’ll find their journeys as inspirational as I do.

And you can find my interview on the fabulous Leah Clifford’s blog on Tuesday – she made me write a synopsis in haiku form. I’m not sure I’ve forgiven her yet.

Wherever you are on your path to publication, I hope you find encouragement in all the interviews this week and apply the collective wisdom to your courageous journey.

Next time that Doubt Monster attacks, remember: patience and perseverance.

I think you can. I think you can.

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Revisionland

Confession: I love revising. Love it.

Don’t get me wrong, I love drafting too – the suspense of becoming acquainted with new characters and the surprise of figuring out what they’ll say and how they’ll react. ª

I get the whole Girl Scouts’ song “Make new friends…” but I’ve never had a problem with “but keep the old.”

Revisions *contented sigh* are like going home to my friends-since-elementary-school, sitting on a porch and drinking apple cider while we chat and chat.

It’s familiar. It’s comfortable. And it’s engaging. Uncovering new layers, ambitions, motivation. Tightening and interweaving. Discovering threads of nuance I’d already included that need to be enhanced.

Give me colored pens, a large bag of Revision Skittles, and a quiet place to work and I’ll stay happily sequestered until St. Matt or the puggles demand some attention or life intervenes. Emerging for bathroom breaks and refills of my mug and Revision Skittles, pausing for Inspiration Walks, Inspiration Workouts and Inspiration Bubble-baths, my mind is full of beloved characters and trouble spots in the manuscript.

And even when I’m away – 26 sixth graders demand a lot of my attention and energy for much of the week – there are scenes and scenarios bubbling away on the back burner of my brain.

So when I’m lacking on Twitter, slacking on my blog and being a delinquent about returning phone calls, don’t worry. I haven’t been kidnapped by pirates, gotten lost in the woods or come down with an incurable strain of porcine flu.

I’m just ensconced in my revision-cave, sugar-fortified, ink-stained fingers, scribbled-across pages and a smile.

Be back soon.

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Falls and Marks

I fell during my run today. One stride I was rushing forward, chattering to St. Matt about an amazing book I’d read yesterday and admiring the foliage; then I was launched into sideways Superman dive, grating over leaves, roots and twigs. I’m sure it was very graceful.

I popped up, shook my limbs, shrugged at a suddenly pale St. Matt, and resumed my run and the conversation: “And it was so consuming; I couldn’t turn pages–

He interrupted to point out that I’d given him yet another heart attack and to repeat: “Don’t look at your leg. No. Don’t. I said DON’T look at it.”

I have a weensy issue with blood. Okay, it’s a major issue. Bruises, however, inspire macabre fascination. My new hobby is watching my legs turn purple.

But it isn’t painful; it isn’t even unexpected. I fall A LOT, especially on a trail run – and trail runs in the autumn are their own brand of treachery: tree roots and holes stay hidden under a layer of leaves, just waiting for their opportunity to send me sprawling.

Yet, despite four (is it five?) sprained ankles, countless scrapes, and bruises from indigo to lilac, there’s no keeping me off the trails.

A straight out, straight back road run? One where I’ll know each step that takes me away and brings me back to the start? Boring.

I prefer runs just like how I prefer my books: full of the unexpected. They’ll have a start, they’ll have a conclusion, but the moments in between should be an adventure.

I want my heroine to dare to turn left at the fallen log, just to see if it is a real path. I want her to start running up a hill whose peak is hidden by trees – not knowing if she’ll have the stamina to reach the top, or even how far away it is. I want split second decisions: stay by the stream or turn toward the covered bridge. And challenges: fording puddles, striding through mud, sliding up a rain-slick hill. She should stop short to avoid spider webs that appear inches from her face, pause to pat the occasional dog sharing her path, and be willing to get her feet wet and her legs muddy. Scratches from that pricker-bush incident should be worn with pride.

It’s these books that stay with me; the ones where I can’t predict what the hero or heroine will do next. The ones whose characters take risks, do the unexpected, but never forget to notice the beauty along the way. They fall, get back up, continue their adventures.

These books fill my head with questions and what-if’s. They linger in my mind and are book-bullied into others’ hands. These are the books that leave marks on me long after The End.

But unlike trail runs… the marks don’t require band-aids.

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Twitter-cation Comes with Umbrella-Drinks, Right?

It feels weird not to check Twitter before bed.

This the tweet I almost posted last night – before I remembered that in order to do so, I’d have to log-in to Twitter.

Immediately afterward I debated whether I was allowed to read e-mail notifications of DM’s. (Can I?)

This could be a long week.

When I saw Nova Ren Suma discussing a Twitter-cation last week, I thought, how sad! I’ll miss her and Tiffany Trent’s commentary. Then others climbed aboard and I thought, how brave.

Last night Tye and Victoria asked me if I was in, and, demonstrating my absolute inability to resist peer-pressure, I caved.

It feels weird.

My mind automatically forms sub-140 character soundbites:

Who was the idiot who decided orange and cranberry belong in the same muffin?

Confession: I have officially eaten more Revision Skittles than we distributed to trick-or-treaters.

Has anyone read GIRL IN THE ARENA? I like the story, but am struggling with the lack of “”marks.

How will I share my excitement about the new Jesse McCartney song “Body Language”? Or confess my St. Matt-mocked crush on him? Or share how I caught St. Matt humming the tune after I played it on repeat for an hour. *gigglefit*

The worst part, however, will be not knowing what’s going on with everyone else. So if you could all e-mail me regular updates of your day, that’d be great. I won’t even limit you to 140 characters.

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Show me the Marshmallows!

In class last week, I showed the kiddos this video*.

When it was over and the giggles subsided, I asked them why they thought I’d shown it. (Sometimes I’ll show them something with no real motivation in mind, except to see what they’ll guess, but this was not one of those times).

“To show that if you wait, things get better?”
“Yeah, patience is important.”
“Nope.”
“It’s like in writing, you need to keep working when you’re stuck.”
“Nope.”
“You’re gonna give us marshmallows?”
“Nice try.”

Since it was snack time, the kiddos’ eyes shot towards the baggies of Cheez-its and containers of carrots waiting on their desks. “Can we have a hint?”
“How many words were spoken in video clip?”
“16?”
“Not a lot.“
“So did we know what those kids were thinking and feeling?”
“Oh yeah!” Nods of agreement, animated recounting of favorite parts.
“How?”
“The way they acted. Like the kid who sniffed his marshmallow.”
“And the one that licked it.”
“I like the kid who won’t even look at it… but he’s still holding it to make sure it doesn’t go anywhere.”

“So, even without saying: I am impatient, you could tell how they were feeling?”
Nods and my-teacher-is-a-moron eye rolls.
“And in real life, do you need your friends to tell you that they’re annoyed or scared or surprised?”
“No.”
“Because you can tell from their actions and body language, right? Let’s try something. Show me what you look like when you’re angry.”
Grimaces and giggles.
“What about surprised?”
Gasps and louder giggles.
“Hmmm, because in your narratives I’m seeing lots of I was so mad and Mom looked sad. How could you show me that instead of telling me?”

As the pieces clicked in their heads, they reached for their notebooks with eager fingers and waited for their cue to head off and write.

Before I could give it, a hand shot up: “Mrs. Schmidt, is this how you can always tell when someone needs help in class – even before they ask?”

“Exactly! You show me you’re confused with your expressions and actions. And because teachers are psychic…”

We all need this reminder sometimes; it’s easier to tell than show. That night I went home and checked my own new WIP for places I’d taken telling-shortcuts. And of course I found some. We all do. I found myself trying to rationalize: how many ways can there really be to show fear? Sorrow? Anticipation?

Then I thought back to the video I’d shown my class: There are 11 kids who face the marshmallow test. They each express their frustration and impatience in a unique way. Why would the characters in my story be any different?

When I eliminated the excuses and shortcuts, I found myself doing a lot more reflecting -–how would each character show his/her emotions? The more time I spend thinking this way, the more I learn about my characters.

… And soon, just like with the kiddos in my class, there’s no need for the characters to raise their hands and tell me how their feeling, because I know exactly what they’ll say or do when faced with a surprise, a challenge, an obstacle.

Now, excuse me while I go make Indoor S’mores.**


*Thank you, Julie Weathers, for posting the link on Twitter
**I dare you to try watching that video 8 times in a row to count the number of kids and not come away craving marshmallows.

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blurred boundaries and book thoughts

My ability to differentiate between reality and imaginary has always been questionable. My childhood was a test of my parents’ patience and endurance, peppered with invisible friends, the She-ra incident*, and a fantasy life so vivid people never knew when I was telling the truth or my truth.

I haven’t really ever outgrown this, though now I write my invisible friends’ stories on paper and try not to flinch when I have to refer to it as fiction.

Sometimes the boundary line blurs a bit.

Last night was comprised of NOsleep and THUNDERstorms. The first can be blamed on finishing my first revision pass on my WIP. I’d done a little I-love-this-book dance, E-mailed it to my first reader, then panicked. I wanted it back. What if it wasn’t loved? What if I wanted to change something? But mostly I missed it.

I trudged up to bed feeling achy, not just because of the ear-infection-that-won’t-end, but because I’d sent my story out and it didn’t feel as much mine anymore. I couldn’t protect it.

That’s when the THUNDERstorms began.

I tried to ignore them. Three hours later I was still trying to ignore them, but now the corners of the room looked ominous and the slumbering-puggle-breath on my calf was making me twitchy.

I surrendered to 4:30 AM and decided to start my day with elliptical-hour and a new book.

Sleep-deprivation smears that real/imaginary boundary. I don’t think the ear-infection vertigo or the new antibiotics help either. And the book**…

It clung in my head all day, wisps of plot/characters floating up as I set about going through the motions of pretending to be rested and mentally present.

I came home and dove on it – spending the after work hours intermittently dozing and reading; finishing my nap and the book as the sky began to darken.

But I didn’t feel like I could completely wake or disengage. I was disoriented – the world was settling down as I was getting up and St. Matt wanted my attention while I wanted to retreat and contemplate.

“Too bad it’s dark and raining, I could use a run.”
“Tiffany, it’s not raining.”
“What?” I wandered out on the porch. He was right. It wasn’t raining. It hadn’t rained. Nothing was wet. Disorientation increased exponentially.

I took a reflection-walk in the non-rain. The book swirling in big arcs through my head, its themes mirroring my sense of disconnection. How much of our reality is imposed versus how much is created? Is one version right and another wrong? Who controls what we see, believe, perceive? And if we’re all experiencing things differently and in so many ways, is it possible to ever understand someone else? Yet we pass judgement on others’ realities all-the-time.

The woman approaching on the sidewalk startled me. I’d been absorbed in my envisioned vs. encountered debate about reality and hadn’t heard her– despite the fact that she was juggling two panting doggies and their corresponding *ahem* baggies.

“Hi,” I nodded and smiled and she mirrored my actions, passing by with a tug on the leashes.

If it weren’t for the slight twist of her head and the side of amused grin, I might have remained oblivious, but I caught her second glance and looked down.

I’m wearing pajamas. More specifically, bright blue pajama pants decorated with palm-sized cartoon reindeer.

Awareness rushed back in with a flood of blood to my cheeks. And riding on the tide of embarrassment came clarity too.

Reality is both envisioned AND encountered. Maybe in my case, the imaginary paints with a more dominant stroke, but I’m okay with it. As long as I keep a tangential grasp on the facts – i.e. we no longer set a place at the dinner table for Harvey – I’m okay with believing my world is how I create it. Believing that people are good, that happily ever after is achievable, and that miracles happen. I’m okay with ignoring the times that these beliefs have been proven wrong and believing that what lies ahead is as wondrous as the stories within my head.

And wearing pajamas for a stroll around the neighborhood? I’m okay with that too. Even if they’re Christmas ones and even if it’s June.

*This deserves a blog post of its own someday
** No, I’m not telling which book. But I hope you’re lucky enough to experience it someday soon.

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A long and sordid tale of Pickles

We have a pickle tray in my family. I’m not sure if this is a normal thing or just a wacky my-family thing, but we do. It’s glass or crystal, I’m not sure which because I’ve never examined it too closely. My mother had learned the hard way to keep me away from breakables. While she scurried about cooking and cleaning for holiday parties, the task of filling this tray inevitably fell to five-year-old me. Possibly because the task took me an absurdly long time and kept me from being underfoot or in backyard mud puddles.

The pickle tray has sections: one for black olives, one for green olives, one for gherkins – which I believed were the shrunken warty fingers of witches, and the last section for dill pickle spears.
I would fill it using a method I mastered in the pick-your-own strawberry patch: one olive in the tray, one dill pickle in my tummy. One nasty gherkin in the tray, one dill pickle in my tummy. This method may take a little longer and may require two jars of dill pickles, but I never complained.

Until a half-hour later — usually right around the time the first guests showed up — I would get sick.

My mother would frantically shepherd me to the upstairs bathroom while gathering coats, accepting appetizer trays, and dispensing hugs. I’d boot, rally, and run downstairs to be admired by aunts and uncles and scamper off with my cousins.

Then came THE DAY. The day when my mom informed me that I couldn’t do the pickle tray. “I don’t want you touching it.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Because you’re allergic to pickles,” she answered. “Go set the table – fold the napkins into animals if you want.”

So the Thanksgiving table featured an assortment of origami napkins and the pickle tray was filled by my sister and kept out of my reach.

Thus began a saga of pickle-avoidance: Is there relish in that tuna? I can’t eat it. I need my hamburger without pickles, please. At restaurants I’d push the pickle spear off my plate with my sister’s fork and tear off any part of a sandwich role that’d been touched by the juices.

I was allergic. That’s what allergic people do, right?

This continued for years: No relish on my hotdog, please. I’ll pass on the deviled eggs…

Until one day I was at a deli with my family. By this point I was in high school and had the drill down: “No pickles on my plate, please.”

Yet when my cucumber sandwich was delivered, there was an electric green spear right beside it. “Man! They messed up my order, does anyone want my pickle?” I began my ritual of tearing off the pickle-juiced portions of the bread.

“You really do hate pickles, don’t you?” My mother said with a shake of her head. “That’s so funny, you used to love them.”

I put the roll down, “What are you talking about? I’m allergic to pickles.”

My mom’s mouth twitched in the way it does when she’s trying not to laugh because even though she thinks she’s about to be funny, she knows her audience won’t feel the same way. “Um, Tiff….”

“Yeeeesss?”

“You’re not actually allergic to pickles.”

“WHAT?”

“You’re not actually allergic to pickles. That was just something I told you when you were little because you’d eat them until you got sick.” She shrugged. “So go ahead and enjoy.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this?” I was flabbergasted – all those pickle-free years and burgers.

“I guess I forgot. Oops.”

Oops? Oops? Was there any other part of my medical history she’d forgotten to tell me? I scowled like only a teenager can, ate my pickle, her pickle, and both my little brothers’ pickles. There was more than a ten-year pickle deficit in my diet, and I wanted to start fixing that immediately.

It is possible that I got sick afterward.

I still get like this. No, I don’t still gorge myself on pickles until I ralph. (Occasionally I overindulge in Swedish Fish and coffee, but that’s another story). I do, however, fixate on one task, item, whatever, until I’ve overdone it. With running this can result in over-training injuries. With reading I earn raccoon-like circles from too many late nights with books under the covers. With Twitter it becomes St. Matt threatening to hide Petunia. While writing I spend so much time IMH, that the line with reality becomes blurred.

And this April, it was BEDA. This post completes it; I’ve officially blogged each day this month. BEDA could not have come at a more chaotic time: there were roadtrips, crisis’s, parent-teacher conferences, and TBALMCSAP revisions, but not even the Easter bunny prevented me from posting.

I’m glad that April doesn’t have 31 days, and I’m glad BEDA’s over. It was fun and I’ve loved daily comments, but I’m starting to feel that ut-oh-I’ve-over-done-it feeling. It’s time to slowly back away from my blog and leave it be for a few days.

Except, back when I was a tiny-Tiffany, right after I booted, rallied, ran downstairs, and greeted the grown-ups, before I headed to the backyard to rumpus with my cousins– I’d make a stop at the pickle table to grab another spear or two.

In other words: I’ll see you soon.

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Poets, yes. Spies, no.

Sixth graders are not stealthy. This isn’t news to me, but it was brought to my attention today –yet again – in a quite adorable way.

April is National Poetry Month. April is National Poetry Month and my kiddos have been writing poems. April is National Poetry Month, my kiddos have been writing poems, and one of this year’s dads was Poet Laureate of our town. I invited him in to talk to the class. Today.
This is where the not-so-stealthy part comes in.

Mr. Kiddo is in front of the class doing an excellent job of speaking about his writing process. He’s sharing some truly beautiful poems. I’m trying not to tear-up as he reads a poem about when his 12-year-old Buckaroo was just a baby. I glance around the classroom and notice something…

Most of the kiddos are entranced, chins in hands, leaning forward with rapt attention. But two… no, make that three. No, actually it’s four. Wait! FIVE! Five kiddos are futzing in their desks, or have put their head down, or are scribbling something in notebooks on their laps. WHAT? This is unacceptable. We are respectful in room 202!

I attempt some stealth of my own, trying to walk quietly across the room while my heels clack on the tile. One looks up with a sheepish grin as I approach. A second startles and slides what he’s writing into his desk. A third stays face down; her forehead pressed against the edge of the desk. I tap her shoulder, she jumps. I crouch and whisper: “Sweetpea, what are you doing? That’s not very polite.”

And then – I get it. I see the notebook in her lap and I get it. I peer across the table and spy another kiddo doing the same thing. I get it.

They’re writing.

They’ve been inspired by Mr. Kiddo, his talk, and his poems: they’re writing.

“Sorry, Mrs. Schmidt,” whispers the pink-cheeked Sweetpea.

I wink. “Promise I’ll give you writing time after,” I whisper before patting her shoulder, standing, and not-so-stealthily clacking back across the room with a proud smile stretched ear to ear.

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Fierce Wonderings

What was the headstone company thinking when they posted a sign reading: “Drive Safe. We Can Wait”? I obsess over this each time we drive past.

This would be an example of a FIERCE WONDERING. Something that puzzles you and sticks with you long after it should linger. It’s a Ralph Fletcher term and one I use in my classroom while encouraging the kiddos to record their own Fierce Wonderings in their writers’ notebooks.

I have Fierce Wonderings all the time. The book The Mysteries of Harris Burdick by Chris Van Allsburg is a gigantic fierce wondering for me. I read to my class each year hoping that one of them will know the stories behind the illustrations – or that I finally find closure. Nope, but the kiddos do write great more stories that lead to more Fierce Wonderings.

Other Wonderings of the Fierce variety I’m plucking from my notebook:

Graffiti on a local building (I changed the names): Melanie Smith, I will love you forever. No matter what happens. Love, C. I find it odd that good old ‘C’ had no qualms about using his love’s first AND last name, but stuck with his own initial. So she can get in trouble for his vandalism, but he’s off the hook? Also, what does he expect to happen? Does ‘what happens’ matter to Melanie? Curious…

When I was in the local bookstore about a month ago, a 3-4 year old was wondering from his father to his older sister, to random customers repeating over and over, “I just want to find something to make mommy happy. I just want to get something that will make mommy happy. Can we find something to make mommy happy?” His dad was ignoring him, his sister brushed him off, and I wanted to scoop him up and hug him. What had happened to make him feel, at 4 years old, that his mother’s happiness was his responsibility? His words and desperate tone have echoed in my ears for weeks.

There’s an author I’m not quite sure actually exists. I like her first book a lot, so I googled her to find out if there’d be more. The only place I could find her online was listings on Amazon – where I discovered there’d be a sequel. Even the publisher’s website doesn’t have any more details than were listed in the bookflap bio. When the sequel came out I read it, didn’t like it as much, and went to the web address listed in the bookflap bio (this was the only change from the first bio). The website doesn’t exist. It’s now been six months since I read the book and the website still doesn’t exist. How is it possible for this author to have next to no presence online? I find this fascinating and the conspiracy theory part of me believes she’s not real.

I heard part of a tsunami-story during the media glut in December of 2004 where an American tourist mother was talking about being stuck in a hotel stairwell with her two children. The water was rising rapidly and she couldn’t hold on to both her infant and toddler and keep herself afloat. She chose to let go of the toddler because he had a chance of being able to swim, whereas the baby did not. Something interrupted the news and I never heard the end of the story. In my cupcakes-&-unicorns mind they all survived, but…

This is me – I’m a Fierce Wonderer. I’ll ask St.Matt’s opinion on something (like the tsunami story above) hours, days, weeks, years after it occurs. His response: “Tiffany, you’ve to let things go.”

Let things go? Has he MET me? I can no more let things go than I can stop eating jellybeans, reading, drinking coffee, or writing.

And I don’t really want to. I like fiercely wondering. It’s part of what makes me a writer – I wonder what happened to that mother, both in the stairwell and since then. There’s a story in that. I wonder what motivates a toddler to obsess over buying something to ‘fix’ this mother – and how his father could ignore him. There’s a story in that. The graffiti & missing author? Each could be a story.

And it’s not just sad things that keep me wondering. We just got home from ice cream and the muddy kneed pigtailed nine-year old in front of me in line was squealing, “Today’s the best day ever!” Normally I’d attribute this to winning a soccer game or just the beautiful weather, but her mother had a slightly dazed expression as she leaned down to her daughter and whispered, “Shhh, I know, but don’t tell anyone. Not yet- soon!”

I wonder…