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Middle School

first day 20131The first day of school. Khakis and school t-shirts. Coco’s hair in a chignon, courtesy of her sister. Nerd glasses. Converse sneakers.first day 20133Pride sucks out all my brain cells on days like this. No words describe the love I feel. No superlative is enough. Thank God for photographs. They capture the moment in spite of the fact that my heart is floating above my head, and I have to yank it back down to keep from embarrassing myself. first day 20134

“Mom, let’s go. Enough with the camera already.”

So, I get in the car, drive the few blocks, and watch my daughters walk in to the building. There’s a peace about it that I haven’t felt other years. I can’t say why. I’m back to the regular school day routine. I make the bed, put dinner in the crock pot, clothes in the washer. An hour later, I’m walking the dog when I get a text from Cherry.

“I have theatre arts instead of health. Don’t text back!”

Don’t text back means she’s texting surreptitiously. It’s illegal of course. And it’s also tied to taking health over theatre arts. I convinced her to take health for high school credit by adding unlimited texting to our mobile phone plan. Cherry’s won the round by default.

The dog pulls on the lead, and I capitulate.

. . . I don’t hate the idea of theatre class. It was my life before writing.

. . . Texting is this generation’s rite of passage.

. . . You’ve got to break a few rules to find out which ones are worth following.first day 20132

Paraphrasing Steinbeck

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San Antonio averages 300 days of sunshine a year. Last Friday wasn’t one of them. The white patch in the chair is ice. My patio is somewhere under the lake. The scene begs for cliché. When hail hell freezes over. When all hail hell breaks loose. Or to paraphrase Steinbeck, “I’ve lived in good climate, it bores the hail hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.”

This isn’t the first time I’ve disagreed with Steinbeck.

The Seasons Change and So Do I

Target had mittens on sale today. The high was ninety. Granted, ninety is an ice storm compared to a line of never-ending days over a hundred. But mittens? The sales department in Minnesota should take a road trip.

I started to title this post, How I Spent My Summer Vacation. But when you write full-time, you are never on vacation. You write. All the time. Which brings me to the point.

I finished the book.

That’s scary. I’ll say it again.

I finished the book.

Typing those words is like getting off the roller coaster and getting back in line. Seriously. I sent it to my Beta readers, and while I tap my fingers in anticipation of their comments out of habit from pounding the keyboard, I’m  lost. Between worlds.

I’ve never been good at transitions. I’m a full-out kind of girl. I’ve written a query. I’m stumbling through the synopsis. But it feels a little like watching the out-takes from the end of a Mary-Kate and Ashley video. I know there’s something better to do, but I haven’t gotten off the couch to find the remote.

I’ve been so immersed. I’ve developed a social anxiety about blogging. That thing where I avoid something so long, I’m intimidated–afraid of over-sharing. I have two choices:  A.Quit  B.Write every day. I’m going with B for a while, but I’m turning off the comments for the time being. I’m crazy enough to keep checking back to see if you’re reading. And, I can’t handle waiting on the Betas AND the blog readers.

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