For the past week our neighborhood watch program has included a cluster of eight to ten turkey vultures in mid-migration. They hunch in the topmost branches of nearby cottonwood trees, surveying the streets and, I assume, tallying all the cats and small dogs in the area. Every hour or two they fling themselves from the still-bare branches, circle in the air for a time, and then choose another perch a block or two from the previous one, where they then rest, as still and studious as understudies for the role of gargoyle on a French cathedral.

I first saw them last week as I raked my garden patch before planting this year’s set of sugar snap peas. At the time they were circling ominously over the next block of houses, apparently waiting for something to die. Now they lie in wait in our next-to-next-door neighbor’s cottonwood, forty feet in the air, facing our house. If they didn’t portend death and destruction, I’d enjoy how seriously they take themselves, all the while looking like giants at a tea party, over-sized and out-of-place on the thin, bent branches on which they’ve chosen to balance.

Instead, I’m becoming nervous. You see, this has been quite the week, and a wake of buzzards* watching over my vicinity does not help. I’m certain that they know these last few days have weakened me and are just waiting for me to keel over and provide their next meal. Indeed, by Wednesday I felt as if I’d been hit by a truck and left for the predators. By Thursday I almost envied that fate. Late yesterday afternoon I slogged in the door, arms full of work I’d dragged home from the office, and immediately collapsed on the living room couch, hoping the vultures wouldn’t think I’d finally bought the farm and come for the celebratory feast. The first half of next week is looking like more of the same. I know they’re not killers and a human is some pretty big prey, but I’m afraid to sleep now, lest they misinterpret my actions as death and I become buzzard food.

In other news, a few days ago I did manage to stomp this spider in its first encore performance in over two months, so there is that. And, no, there’s no proof that this is the very same one that terrorized me lo these many months ago, but this is what I choose to believe, so speculation and actual facts are not necessary. This, by the way, is a different incident from the one in the previous post. (In addition to attracting vultures, tourists, and yippy dogs, our town is a haven for spiders of all stripes and sizes. It’s truly delightful — if you happen to be an entomologist.) No, in fact, my cats wouldn’t touch the one I killed, even after it was dead.

The vultures might, though. If things get really bad next week, maybe I’ll find the spider’s body in the trash and toss it outside to distract them while I limp away in the opposite direction. That may give me a little time to recover. Seeing as they know where I live, sticking around here may not be the best of plans.

*Yes, a flock of buzzards is really called a “wake”. I loves that oh, so very much.

Well, we are now nearly three full months into 2008, and guess which one of the following I still have not done? Go on, circle one:

a) Licked an envelope and received a paper cut on my tongue.

b) Roasted Peeps over an open campfire.

c) Started my diet yet again.

d) Stood under a dripping eave to photograph the snow covering my newly-hatched crocuses, just like a photojournalist in a war zone.

e) Used my cat’s paw to kill a spider when he wouldn’t get around to killing it himself.

If you guessed c you are, unfortunately, correct. And I did so well last year, losing twenty pounds, developing a rather scary craving for veggies, and upping my exercise tolerance by a factor of ten. Turns out such habits take maintenance — unlike a habit of scarfing chocolate and lounging on the couch, which comes naturally.

Oh, no. I just realized where this post is going. See, now, this is the problem with blogging. I start out with an innocent little quiz about my ever-increasing girth, and suddenly I realize that I now must promise to improve, since there’s little point to baseless whining. (Okay, there is — it makes me feel better — but I do try not to subject you to it. Which means I need a point.)

Fine, then. Here’s my vow: By the middle of July I will lose those seven stubborn pounds that sneaked back over the winter. And since I’m announcing it to these here internets and, more specifically, to you, that means I’ve got some accountability. Okay. That’s fine. I can take it. You now have permission to ask me at any time how my healthful lifestyle goal is going, and I promise to try to answer nicely. In the meantime, I’m slinking back to Sparkpeople to begin my diet and exercise regime again. Here’s hoping they’ll take me back.

We’re leaving for the weekend in an hour, and I’m in that post-packed, pre-leave limbo. My laptop’s open, and I have three options: touring the blogosphere, surfing the internet, and writing. Although blogs are tempting and mindless surfing has its merits, I am electing to be good and add a few pages to my book, since I probably won’t get to it at all tomorrow, and I’d like to see if this morning’s roll continues. But before I go behave myself, and then drive off to escape the madness that descends upon our tourist town every weekend throughout the spring, I will leave you with one more picture: 

I realize I’m flirting with cat obsession, but I suppose I’ll just have to live with that. I already have that reputation among my offline friends, anyway. And they, in turn dutifully ask after the cats each time we talk on the phone, address cards and e-mails to them, and sometimes even include a cat toy or two with Christmas presents. This is what happens when you are over thirty and don’t yet have kids; your friends begin to anthropomorphize your pets.

Okay! I’m off to work on my book. I won’t be able to respond to comments right away because we’ll be camping (and, yes, the forecast is calling for temps in the twenties), but I adore comments so please don’t let that stop you. Here’s an idea: If you were giving this photo a caption, what would it be? I promise to respond when I get back, probably by e-mail unless I find out you prefer otherwise. Have a great weekend! 

Sometimes it seems as if everybody wants to be a novelist. I’m sitting in my local coffee shop, where I retreated in order to — what else? — work on my own novel. The place is not crowded, but I count three others hiding behind their laptop screens. At the table beside mine, a man is explaining his screenplay’s entire backstory to a red-haired woman who cannot ask questions because of his rapid-fired explanations. He is in love with his flawed characters, his unique setting, his intricate plot. He pauses only to glance suspiciously over his shoulder at me as if afraid I will steal his ideas, despite the headphones firmly planted on my head.

I love to write in cafes, especially those, such as this one, that charge for internet access, thus removing the temptation to go online. (Which is why this entry will be posted after I am home — if I survive a return trip to my house. But more on that later.) Conveniently enough, relocating to a coffee shop also removes the temptation to clean house, talk on the phone, or admire my cats instead of work on my book — although I admit that it takes a special kind of writers’ block to encourage me to clean house instead of write.

Beyond those temptations, however, I have another reason for my change of venue: sheer terror. I’ve been sitting on the futon in my living room all morning, double-fisting mugs of tea and pretending to write, which means that I actually thought about my plot for a while and even wrote ninety-eight words. Then I updated my Facebook profile, read a few blogs, and played Jigsawdoku until my eyes glazed over. (I console myself with the knowledge that I’m really more of an afternoon writer, and I’m ahead of schedule anyway, but it doesn’t help much.)

And then around an hour ago I slipped into the kitchen to brew another cup of tea, and found the following sight waiting for me upon my return. Please pardon the fuzziness of the picture; there are limits to both my camera’s zoom lens and my willingness to risk my life for a clearer shot. As is wise, since shortly after I sneaked in a photograph, they lasered the UPS guy with their eyes. Then they ate him. I feared I may be next, so I grabbed a notebook and went into hiding. Another thing it turns out coffee shops are good for: covert operations. Just ask Mr. Movie Script, who still seems convinced I’m a spy.

Dear driver of the Honda Accord from Ohio:

The orange barrels are lovely to behold, that is true. They glisten in the sunlight as they line either side of the lane down which you meander. Our town is known for its natural beauty, but nothing can compare with the delight of two straight rows of fluorescence leading you toward your destination.

This is what I must assume you are thinking, since you are driving seven-and-a-half miles per hour down said lane.

Or perhaps you find construction fun, and are slowing down to relive the Tonka trucks of your youth.

My husband has suggested that drivers like you are daunted by the road work — by the cones and the barrels and the orange signs — and while I believe that that is generally true, I know that in your case this cannot be the holdup. You see, I grew up in your fine state, and I know for a fact that Ohio, too, undergoes construction projects. Big ones. Extraordinarily massive ones brought on by weighty snow, speeding semis, and ice-cracked asphalt.

So here is what I would like to know: How much moolah would it take to get you to pick it up a little? Just to, say, ten miles per hour instead of seven and a half? Because I wish to see my cats and my house and my husband again before the turn of the century, and I’m not sure ninety-two years is enough time.

Thank you.

Sincerely,
The driver in the car behind you

We have a guest today on The Book Lady. Young adult author Melissa Walker stopped by to discuss her newest book, Violet by Design, the sequel to Violet on the Runway, which came out last fall.

Hi, Melissa. Thanks for coming to talk to us. Could you please tell us a little about the Violet books?
Thanks for having me. Violet on the Runway is about a gawky wallflower from NC who gets scouted to come to NYC and enter the fashion world of runways and magazine shoots. She deals with a lot — from the jealousy of best friends at home to the drugs-and-eating-disorders world of modeling in the city. Ultimately, she’s not SURE she wants to continue.

But in Violet by Design, a chance to travel internationally lures Violet back into the fashion fray. She falls in love, gets criticized for gaining 5 pounds, speaks out to the press (much to the dismay of her agent) and has to decide once again if this shallow but beautiful world is right for her.

Other than the intriguing premise and fabulous reviews, why should people read the Violet series?
Well, lots of people have read some shallow fashion titles in the past. But I tried to make Violet about more than stacked heels and It bags (although those are always fun to throw in the mix). The fashion world has serious sides — the weight issue, the competition among girls, the sometimes over-the-top party scene — and I hope that watching Violet struggle with navigating those things will resonate with readers.

Like many of your characters, you’ve worked in the fashion industry. I assume much of your research, and even your inspiration, came from that background?
As an editor at ELLEgirl, I interviewed a lot of fashion types and up-and-coming models. Peeking into their world was fascinating, and the idea to put a real girl into that madness was too appealing to ignore! That’s also how I did my research — right in their model apartments.

I know everyone takes a different road to publishing. What was yours like?
I did things backwards. I’d been at ELLEgirl magazine writing and editing for a few years, so I put together my magazine clips and a one-page summary of what I imagined Violet on the Runway would be about. I sent that out to an editor, who asked to see the first two chapters, so I sat down to write those.

She came back with an offer! I was thrilled, but also scared, so I asked her to give me a week to find an agent. I asked friends and people I knew in publishing for advice on which agents I should talk to. I found a fantastic agent and we went from there… It was a fun process!

So now that you’re agented and editored (I’m reserving the right to make up words), what’s your writing scheduled like?
When I’m working on a book, I set it up this way: I eat breakfast, then write. I don’t allow myself to have lunch until I have 1000 words on the page. (I hope that doesn’t sound weird/food disordery!). They don’t have to be good words, but they have to be there. I do that five days a week, ideally; afternoons are spent working on magazine stories. Of course, some days I play hooky and watch Oprah — I have to let myself enjoy the perks of being freelance every once in a while! But in general, I am pretty consistent with the 1000-word rule.

Where do you write? In an office? A coffee shop? A comfy chair in your living room?
Comfy chair! It’s pink with little yellow flowers and it catches the sunlight really well.

I’m sure you spent plenty of time thinking about what life would be like when you were published in book form. How has it been similar to or different from what you had expected?
It’s a total dream that someone will actually pay me to write, so I just want to say that I feel completely grateful for my career! That said, when people ask me why I’m not on the bestseller lists yet, or where my big book tour will take me, I feel like I’m disappointing THEIR ideas of what “being published” is. It ain’t all first class and bon-bons… it’s more like working REALLY REALLY hard to find readers for your book, because you’re the one who cares the most.

Any advice for writers out there hoping to become published, too?
I wrote a quick guide for teens here, and I think it goes for adults too…

So what’s next? Another Violet book or something else?
Violet in Private is book three — it comes out in August! I’m trying to start work on a new idea, but I’m still at the “taking suggestions” stage. Anyone?

Well, Melissa, I’ve asked a ton of questions, but there must have been something left out. So, what should I have asked that I didn’t?
Um, maybe you should ask me what my favorite wig color is. It’s blue.

Have questions or comments? Melissa will stop by to respond throughout the next few days. And if you want even more info on Melissa and her books, be sure to stop by her website, or check out Violet by Design and Violet on the Runway on Amazon.com. And, of course, don’t forget to visit her blog for fun updates, insights into the fashion industry, some great contests and, of course, writing about…writing!

Well, it’s official. Despite all my vows to the contrary, yesterday afternoon I was forced to send a Dear John letter to my current work in progress. With the flourish of my imaginary pen, the manuscript I had promised to see through until the end became my former love. This is not without regret, and it probably isn’t permanent, but while I could ignore my yen to work on something different, I couldn’t ignore logic. And logic told me to go back to my earlier WIP, the one that reappeared last weekend, because that’s the one I really should sell first (assuming I do, in fact, sell it). So, there you go: Another good relationship done in by common sense and consumerism.

This means I’m back to plotting. This is one of my favorite parts of writing, and a step I generally take alone. But last night I was in the mood for a good brainstorming, and since I’m currently without a critique partner, I enlisted my husband. Plotting with hubs is often amusing and always interesting, because he and I have wildly different views on writing. (You may remember the Great Title Search of 2008.) To my everlasting amazement, however, it’s often productive. You see, as I try to find ways to gently explain why his suggestions won’t work, I often either come up with variations that will work or discover that he was right all along. As a bonus, I’m usually so pleased with the developments that I forget to be annoyed that he’s the one who gave me all the good ideas.

The best part of brainstorming with hubs, however, is not ironing out plot points, developing character motivations, or crafting the perfect title. No, I do it for the entertainment. You see, I write happy books, mostly romantic comedies. There are a lot of variations in plot, but the promise is there: the hero and heroine, while flawed, are decent (and usually sane) human beings, and although they find plenty of trouble along the way they will end up together in the end. But hubs, who reads Shakespeare for fun (he’s especially fond of the histories) did not get this memo. Which means that yesterday evening I actually got to point out that romance heroes do not:

• Decide they do not love the heroine after all.
• Ride their bicycles naked across the country — yes, even at night, when no one can see them.
• Aspire to “find a sugar mama and retire early”.
• Die at the end of the book.

Amazingly, besides plenty of laughter, some good stuff came out of our brainstorming, and I had a great day of writing today. Now, though, I can’t wait until hubs finally starts writing that book he sometimes talks about, so I can suggest some really wild things, like that his main characters actually find somebody to love. Somebody who loves them back and lives until long after the story ends. But he’ll probably reject those suggestions just like I often reject his. And that? Is the real spirit of brainstorming: Anything goes, even the truly crazy. And none of it is meant to be taken seriously — unless, that is, it actually works in the book.

Back by request, round two of Five on Friday, wherein I occasionally post five links on a certain theme. This week’s theme is recipe sites.

The sad fact is that I’m severely lacking in kitchen skills, which means that while I have collected many beautiful recipes from a variety of cookbooks and websites, I rarely have the time, talent, or courage to follow through. I’m an optimist, however, so if a recipe website exists, I’ve probably visited it. Even when I don’t collect any promising recipes, I can feel as if I’ve gotten something accomplished, merely by ruling out possibilities and thinking about cooking for a while.

My shiny array of kitchen appliances adds to this delusion. (Three cheers for wedding showers!) If I can’t cook it (and I probably can’t) it’s not for lack of machinery. Have waffles to iron? Food to process? Need to whip, blend, juice, chop, steam, or mix? I’m your gal — or, rather, my kitchen is; you’ll probably want to do the actual cooking yourself. And you can find the recipes to do so at the following sites. If you have an RSS reader, you can even stay up-to-date on new recipes, as many of them offer feeds.

1) Recipe*zaar gets top billing because it is my all-time favorite recipe site (although All Recipes, a similar site, deserves an honorable mention). Search their database of thousands of recipes by ingredient, course, required appliances, and almost any other criterion you can come up with. Compile an online cookbook, add your own recipes, and visit the forums to ask a pressing question or just browse the questions and answers already posed.

2) Sometimes directions alone just aren’t enough, which is where a site like Visual Recipes can be helpful. As the name implies, each step in the recipes is illustrated with a photograph.

3) For me, it’s never enough to know that something is a particular way. I want to know why. Which is why I so totally dig The Science of Cooking. For more information, watch the webcasts or visit their forums.

4) Cooking by Numbers is for those desperate moments when you’re down to a can of tomatoes, a bottle of vinegar, and three eggs. Fill in the ingredients you want to use, and it will spit out cooking suggestions.

5) Ahhh. Bread. One of my favorite things in all the world. I’ve long admired those who can make the perfect loaf of bread. I have yet to reach that point, but The Fresh Loaf, a site entirely dedicated to bread-making techniques, has given me some hope.

What about you? How are your cooking skills? Have any favorite recipe sites or cookbooks?

Calling me during inopportune times has become a bit of a trend lately, so for those who have not mastered the knack, let me give you a few pointers. Since I’m a compulsive phone-answerer*, these are almost always guaranteed to work.

First of all, if you make that call today, then six hours, twenty-eight minutes, and thirty-seven seconds from now would be the perfect time. At that moment, I should be just forking up my first bite of dinner. People usually phone while I’m chewing my second bite, so this way you’ll beat them to it.

When you call, it’s best if you launch into the most recent drama in your life without asking me if the timing is bad. Otherwise, I’ll ask to call you back, and that’s just inconvenient for both of us. As long as I don’t have a chance to speak, it’s the perfect opportunity for a little chat.

I promise to hold up my end of the bargain by not chewing in your ear, especially as our dinner has some crunch. Waiting should teach me an important lesson in self-discipline, and I will be a much better person for it.

You don’t mind, though, if I watch my dinner get cold while you chatter? It was so lovely and steamy when you called. But, no, waiting to eat until it’s cold would be no problem.

Really.

And, finally, if this is too short of notice, you should know that I have a shower planned for around eight tonight. If you call then, please interrogate me on what I was doing when you interrupted, because I so want you to picture me, shivering and dripping, shampoo sliding down my scalp toward my left ear. Me picturing you picturing me won’t ick me out at all. Truly. Hint: This works best if you’re a distant relative or my husband’s boss — someone I try to act sophisticated and grown-up around.

Afterward, I’d adore it if you had me take a message. Please leave a phone number, and then insist I read it back to you, in order to ensure I actually scrounged for something to write with — and something to write on.

Oh, and bed’s at ten.

Thank you. I knew I could count on you to work me into your schedule.

*For those of you who are not familiar with it, compulsive phone-answering is a serious disease brought about by an over-developed sense of curiosity coupled with the conviction that the person on the other end of the line has an emergency. Cell phones are not recommended for those suffering from this affliction. Leaving phone off the hook or unplugging it may temporarily alleviate symptoms.

My dearest work in progress,

I do not know how to tell you this, so I will be frank: This morning I cheated on you with another, older manuscript. I know that this is a shock, but let me explain.

We spent an entire summer together several years ago, and although our relationship died after 350 pages and several fruitless attempts at revision, I have thought of it with fondness ever since. It wasn’t the book, it was me; I just wasn’t ready. The timing was off.

Heartbroken and disillusioned, I tried to begin again, but my job kept interfering. And then, finally, my schedule slowed. Around that time I found you. You were perfect: fresh, funny, interesting. I loved you from the start, and it seemed as if you liked me, too. Even at my busiest, my crabbiest, you did not go away, but simply waited for me to return to you, begging for forgiveness.

We’ve been together for a while now, and although we’ve had our moments, things have been great. Really great. But you and I have been going through a difficult time. I’d begun to lose my faith in our future. I knew that if I stuck it out our relationship had potential, but another part of me yearned for something new. And then, this morning, it came back: the manuscript I had loved so long ago.

What had seemed tired and worn so long ago now appeared fresh and new. We’d both matured, learned so much, since we last met. I found myself excited again. I couldn’t wait to write. The characters began to chatter in my head, demanding my attention.

I couldn’t help it. Before I could make myself turn away, I had typed nearly a thousand words, examined the characters’ goals and motivations, and begun to rework the plot. Meanwhile, you languished away in my hard drive. I returned to you, yes. I even added 408 new words, but then I cast you aside once again.

I make no excuses. Shortly after you and I met, I vowed to stay true to you until the end, forsaking all other manuscripts. And so I have done, despite occasional temptation. But now that my former love has returned to my life, full of the potential only time and maturity can give it, I know that I cannot give it up again. The thing is, I love you both. You are so different, yet you each intrigue me, demand my attention and affection.

And so, with your blessing, I will continue seeing it, just on the side, and just on occasion. You, as always, will be of utmost importance in my life. And when you leave, as I know you must, this one will be here, waiting for me. Please say that you will agree to this arrangement, will not abandon me to my fickle ways. Please?

Love,
Your Writer