Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri
Katy is represented by
Greg Johnson at
WordServe Literary
Read more Katy at
LateBoomer.net
Recent Posts
- Try
- Becoming Brenda Starr
- Off Beat
- Scattered
- That’s It
- So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What?
- The Spoon
- Sciatica
- Sweetheart
- A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose
- However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time
- After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices.
- As with everything in life, balance is key.
- Slow down, you move too fast…
- Yeah, I know. I have issues.
Syndicate
E me at katy @ ngenius.com
NaNoMomO? (#1014)
Doug’s mother’s world has come to a spinning halt.
So far, the best the docs can determine (she was admitted to the hospital Sunday afternoon) is that she has a inner ear imbalance. Basically, she can’t lift her head from the pillow without feeling like she’s going to toss.
Inner ear things are so freakin’ unpredictable. She could feel better next week or…not. One thing is clear: We can’t let her stay in bed in a (so-called) assisted living facility (risk of pneumonia, blood clots, etc), and she can’t ambulate without real help.
From the looks of the situation, Adele’s moving into a nursing home. We don’t know which one or if it’s temporary or not, only that some snappy decisions must be arrived at and a bunch of heavy lifting accomplished on her behalf.
That’s all for now. NaNoEdMo starts tomorrow. I think.
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As Several Spanish Speaking Panera’s Employees Are My Witnesses….. (#1013)
I know I SAID that Doug always witnesses me pulling a free book winner’s name out of the torn pieces of scrap paper in my fist, but I lied.
I totally forgot to do the drawing until just now (two hours late), when I’m at Panera’s!
The very extremely fortunate winner of Lisa Samson’s latest novel, Straight Up, is AMBER—who, by her own admission on fallible, just purchased her first ever Lisa novel yesterday!
Girl, email me with your mailing address, and I’ll get the book right out to you. Congrats!
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You Only Have Until Friday Morning, Eight Central Time! (#1012)
If you’d like a chance to win a free copy of Lisa Samson’s new release, Straight Up, read the post below this one and leave a comment! At eight tomorrow morning, I’ll draw a winner.
If you have never read a Lisa book, this may be your chance to get started on a literary habit you’ll never want to break.
I’m just sayin’.
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Let Me Give It To You Straight Up, OK? (#1011)
A while back—maybe five years ago now?—I sat eating lunch with my good buddy, Nancy Moser, an author in the Christian market whose books we chatted up a couple weeks ago.
At that time, I’d read all of Nancy’s books and all of George MacDonald’s—the wonderful Scottish preacher and novelist of the Victorian era whose stories have been edited for the modern reader by Michael Phillips. (Never mind that I grew up with a father from Scotland, and listened to an unedited version of his thick brogue every day.)
I’d also consumed everything by Brock and Bodie Thoene, whose historicals taught me more about WWII than I’d ever have learned otherwise. They even produced a lovely four-book Irish series, much to my delight.
“Who should I be reading?” I asked Nancy. “I’d like to write for this market, but I’m not finding authors whose books do it for me. Is there anyone writing anything…different?”
Nancy suggested a number of authors to me, but the one whose name stuck all the way until I got to the bookstore was Lisa Samson.
“You’ll love her,” Nancy said. “She’s funny and quirky and…just trust me, you’ll love her.”
Of course, little did I know that I would eventually be privileged to know Lisa in person. First we emailed, then we became blog buddies, then we met in Baltimore with our hubbys for a lovely night in Little Italy. Last month, we reunited at the American Christian Fiction Writers Conference in Dallas. Here’s the two of us, looking gorgeous.
I’ve read every Lisa book out there now (except the early romance novels because, well, I’m just not into romance novels) and last night I finished perhaps the most ambitious one of them all—Straight Up.
Do you remember that kid’s song from the eighties, wherein the children sing, “I am a great big bundle of po-ten-ti-al-ity”?
That describes Lisa’s main character, Georgia. Her parents were all that and she was seemingly destined to follow in their footsteps. She had musical talent to beat the band and attracted a husband second to none. But when not one but both of her parents died too young, Georgia pushed away love, risk, success, motivation, God—in fact, pretty much everything but booze.
To describe her as a late bloomer would be, well…an insult to late bloomers.
What happens in the end is guaranteed to keep you up all night, examining your own conscience for sins of omission—those pesky areas in which you’ve somehow failed to show up for your own life.
Whatever you do, don’t fail to read Straight Up, straight away. One of the commenters on this post will be chosen to receive a free copy of the book, too! So don’t be shy.
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It’s NaNoEdMo For Me! (#1010)
Five years ago right about now, I committed to my first National Novel Writing Month. I was also going to school full time that semester, and my mother had just begun her long-term downward trend.
Did I complete the writing of 50,000 words during the month of November, 2001? You bet I did!
Those words represented my very first stab at writing a novel. The next year, I made another stab with a sharper blade. (OK, never mind. I’m ditching the blood-drawing metaphor while I’m still ahead.) Totally different story in 2002, also now abandoned on the rain-slicked, dimly lit streets of Novelville and left to….oh, phooey. DIE. Left to die a lonely, grisly death!
NOW I’ll abandon the metaphor.
This November, I’m switching to National Novel Editing Month. I don’t know if there’s an official chapter for those of us who want to wind something up rather than start something new, but even if I must go there completely alone (and by there, I mean whichever coffee joint will keep topping it off at no extra charge for the most hours running…), by the end of the month, I’ll have this puppy ready to roll.
I may not blog much. I may even force myself to go on a wifi fast. I’m shuddering even as I type the words. I am SO addicted to wifi, people. But it is such a distraction, especially for O/C, mentally hyperactive folks like I am.
If you’ve got any words of encouragement for me, I could use them now. Tell me how you can go all day without checking your email or watching the funny guy in Minsk dance on youtube. Tell me that you believe I can fine-tune my novel to completion in a month, and then how you even have high hopes that I’ll turn right around and start the next one.
Really. Tell me.
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Cool (#1009)
I place a low premium on being cool.
I can honestly say I haven’t invested much time, money, or effort attempting to be cool in my entire 53 years of living. Maybe the freckles or the unsophisticated turned-up nose or the fact that I’m vertically-challenged squashed any latent hopes of coolness early on, I don’t know.
I will say this: in spite of my personal lack of coolness, I very much appreciate and admire coolness in other people. Especially—in fact, only—if it seems to have occurred spontaneously, without the cool person trying at all. If it’s an affected coolness, it’s just plain stuck up. And that’s NOT cool.
This is why I love Bono. The man exemplifies cool for me. I ran across this Bono quote today, and it made me love him even more.
“Coolness might help in your negotiation with people through the world, maybe, but it is impossible to meet God with sunglasses on.”
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For Your Monday Morning Entertainment (#1008)
Here’s a piece of fiction I’ve started. I’m posting it here just for fun. If you have any ideas about where the story might go from here, let me know. Hope you enjoy it!
Not every innocent Catholic girl gets shouldered with bearing the life-long cross of being named Dympna. I think I’ve finally figured out why.
Saints Online spills the theological beans in no uncertain terms: “St. Dympna—Patron Saint of the Mentally Ill.”
That’s right. They go to the trouble of capitalizing Mentally Ill like it’s a professional title or an academic distinction or something. Isn’t that Special?
On alternate websites devoted to the saints, she’s variously described as the patron of the Emotionally Disturbed, the Insane, and my hands-down favorite, the Lunatic.
So there you have it.
I’ve never known which one of them deserved the most blame, Mom or Dad. If naming babies is anything like dancing the tango, I figure it takes two. But that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re both sober.
When I finally figured out the finer points of the facts of life, I decided that Mom popped me out, took one look at my blotchy baby-acne, amniotic-fluid-logged wrinkles, forceps-induced cone-head, and confused expression, and didn’t waste a second brainstorming a name for the pathetic bundle in her arms.
Before Dr. Sinclair severed the umbilical cord and stitched her up, Mom gave a shout-out to Dad over the hospital’s public address system (fathers paced alone in waiting rooms back then), adding to my young life the psychological insult of a crummy name on top of the minor injuries of a traumatic birth.
“What do you think, Frank? We’ve always loved the names Rose and Teresa, and then there’s Angela…â€
“I don’t know, babe. I’ve been burning up the linoleum out here, trying to come up with the perfect—â€
“Frank, wait! It just came to me! It’s like heaven opened up and a bolt of lightening shot through my soul, and I know—I just know!â€
“Don’t tell me, Chrissie! Let me guess…â€
And then, as if they’d individually seen apparitions of the venerable saint herself in the textured covers of the sound system’s speakers, they shouted to each other in the ecstasy of one voice, like deep calls to deep, or—in their cases—like shallow calls to shallow.
“Dympna!â€
Upon hearing that single word, a whole hospital full of people who’d been listening in on this discussion burst into gales of uncontrolled laughter, but Mom and Dad simply thought that the angels in heaven had come to rejoice over their sweet baby girl.
Yeah, that’s the way I picture it happening when I’m feeling generous and forgiving which, you’ve probably guessed, isn’t often.
If St. Dympna’s claim to fame is shaky on the saintly websites, you should see how she rates on the name-your-baby sites.
“Dympna. Female. Irish. From the Irish name Damhnait, meaning fit or eligible.â€
Well, okay. First of all, there’s no getting around the fact that the Irish spelling (and pronunciation?) of the name looks, and probably sounds, suspiciously like a curse word. There’s a good reason for that, don’t you think?
Now, about the name’s supposed meaning: The only famous Dympna-of-old—my erstwhile namesake—was certainly eligible. I’ll give her that. She was so eligible, in fact, that her loony father, an Irish King, tried to take her for his wife because she reminded him so much, in his unabated grief, of her beautiful but recently deceased mother. Dympna fled to Belgium from her father’s insanity, which is how her fitness came in handy, but she still ended up getting martyred for resisting his advances.
Fit and eligible, indeed. In my limited experience, I’ve found that headless chicks—no matter how the baby-naming websites may lead you to imagine otherwise—are rarely as fit and eligible after the axe as they were before.
“Out of 5673 votes,†one site proclaims, “0% have this name themselves, 0% wish with all their souls that they’d been blessed enough to be given this name, and 0% chose this name for their own precious child.â€
Those stats are hard to believe, huh?
If Mom and Dad had a scant ounce of mercy between them, they would have added the name Mary in there somewhere, like other families did who chose off-beat names for their offspring. You know the drill: Mary Honoria, Mary Philomena, Mary Virginie.
When it came to naming little girls, Mary covered a multitude of sins.
If they’d only gone with that magnificent moniker, my childhood might have been normal, like Mary Beth’s and Mary Kathleen’s and Mary Alice’s. Even the twins who lived down the block, Mary Janice and Mary Jeanette, got off easy.
I, though, entered Miss Pendergast’s kindergarten class and became the immediate object of relentless name-related peer-review, tantamount to taunting.
“What’s a Dympna?†Dougie Aylward proposed marriage to me on the first day of school, armed with a fake diamond ring from the lid of his mama’s floor wax container. But our young love was fraught from the beginning with the misery of emotional abuse. “Do I dip my Lay’s potato chips in it? Bet you can’t eat just one!â€
Why, oh why, didn’t my parents give me the chance to ditch Dympna once and forevermore and go overboard for the Blessed Mother?
I would have done it, too. I would have proclaimed my devotion to Mary with my whole being and consecrated my entire future to her renown, if the old folks had only given me an out. But did my parents think their actions through to the likeliest outcome and do the right thing?
Not on my life.
No, for some reason known only to Mom, Dad, and the thousands of Patron Saints of the Mentally Stable they could have named me for, they lacked the type of common Catholic parenting sense necessary to baptize me Mary Dympna or even Dympna Mary.
Instead, they named me Dympna Shayne.
Shayne, you understand, isn’t a saint’s name, which means they might as well have spared themselves the effort it took to dream it up. It’s not like a nun back in the day would have disregarded the church’s naming traditions by actually calling me Shayne when I was a fledgling catechism student at St. Elizabeth’s Grade School.
In order to be baptized, either your first or middle name had to be a saint’s name. From infancy on, whenever you were on the premises of an institution operated by the church, you had better be prepared to be addressed by whichever of your names passed muster.
I’m pretty sure Sisters Cecilia Gertrude, Bernadette Paul, and Agnes Irene—themselves personally in cumulative possession of half the saints’ names in the known universe—could have been, for a much milder offense than calling me Shayne, put out to pasture at the Holy Family Home for Weary Sisters of the Order of St. Joseph.
So until I entered public high school, I was stuck with Dympna, a second or third-tier saint by even the most inclusive of Catholic standards, but a bona fide saint, nonetheless. That’s just the way it worked. It didn’t matter that by some accounts, her life’s story might be only a legend. It was of marginal and incidental interest that perhaps she’d never lived at all, much less had her Olympic sprinting career cut short for disagreeing to become her deranged father’s second wife.
It didn’t make an iota of difference that she was merely the patron saint of the mentally ill, or the patron saint of the merely mentally ill—only that she’d been duly canonized and remained, posthumously speaking, in consistent good standing with whomever it is who follows up on stuff like this.
And if Dympna’s a lousy name with which to punish a defenseless child, Shayne’s not much better.
Not only is Shayne not a saint’s name, it’s not a girl’s name, either. Or even much of a boy’s name, for that matter. I’ve searched a legion of sources, and I’ve accumulated all the variations of John-with-a-Celtic-twist in existence, whether male or female: Ian, Sean, Shannon, Shawn, Shane, Shawna, and maybe even Shania (like I’m lucky enough that Shania and I ever the Twain shall meet—ha!).
Rarely have I found a reference to the name Shayne, and never for a girl.
All I can think is that my parents went through a linguistic phase during which they became overly fond of the letter Y. And because of them, I’ve spent a lifetime being overly obsessed with the question why.
Weren’t three boys in the family—Patrick, Brendan, and James, with handsome saints’ names, one and all—enough for them? Mom and Dad weren’t sports-oriented enough to form a softball team and no ranch hands were needed to take over the family farm, since the homestead consisted of a duplex and a dog.
Why couldn’t they name me Bridget and be done with it?
And if one of my two names had to be in honor of a patron saint, why Dympna? I’ve asked my immigrant father any number of times for an explanation, and he just lowers his gaze, shakes his head, and gets all misty-eyed on me.
“You’ll understand someday, Dimps. I promise.â€
Understand the decision of a man who calls his own daughter Dimps? Sure, I will. About as much chance of me understanding an error of judgment like that as there would be if he called me Pimples or Thunder Thighs or Cellulite.
All I understand is that Dad must have been drunk if he’s the guilty party, if he’s the one who suggested the name to my long-laboring, anesthetized mother. Or, I don’t know, maybe smoking one of those “It’s A Girl!†pink-banded cheap cigars stunted his growth in the Compassionate Naming Department.
As a full-grown woman, I won’t allow a single soul besides my father to call me Dympna—or any of its many darling derivatives like Dimples and Dimwit. And you know what? I’ve got ongoing issues with Shayne, too.
Ongoing issues, and a lot of unanswered questions.
Legally, I’m Dympna Shayne, and that’s all there is to it. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that, at least as long as my parents are alive, I’ll never have any fewer Ys than I have right now.
But by the time this story’s told, as St. Dympna and Shania Twain are my witnesses, I intend to have far fewer whys.
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What Jeans May Come (#1007)
I’m stuck between a shock and a hard case.
It’s hard when you’re losing weight and you gave away a lot of your smallest clothes from the last time you lost weight before you started regaining and you’re the size in between the pair of jeans you used to wear when you weighed 25 pounds more than you do now and the ones you kept for nostalgia’s sake that are still a tad too small.
The shock comes in when you raise both arms in a public venue, in this case Panera’s, and your jeans very nearly fall to the floor in front of God and everybody.
It reminds me of when my mother-in-law started dropping weight like nobody’s business. She must not have realized how drastically her body had changed shape, because she did not seem to think she needed to buy smaller clothing. The phrase “dropping from a size 20 to a size 10,” though, has the word “dropping” in it for a reason.
One Sunday, she exuberantly raised her hands during the singing at her church and her pants slid all the way to the floor.
“What did you DO?” I asked, thinking that at her advanced age, she must have been SO embarassed.
“I just pulled them up and praised the Lord!”
Go therefore and do likewise.
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Scary (#1006)
I’ll go ahead and admit up front that I’m no great fan of Halloween.
I’m also, in principle, against the whole concept of saying stuff like, “What if just once we all agreed to ban (name your least favorite holiday or movie or fast food restaurant or coffee joint here) for one day? And then contributed all the money not spent foolishly to some worthy cause—say AIDS relief in Africa?”
We will never agree to do anything on one day, because each of us believes that other people’s vices should be easier for them to forego than ours are. So, it’s easy for me to think “Let’s all abandon Halloween JUST THIS ONCE and contribute the money we would have spent on candy and costumes and decorations to eradicate hunger in the world,” because, you see, I don’t love Halloween.
There’s my caveat. I know I’m prejudiced against Halloween. Now that you know, too, I’ve got to ask: How much do you think Americans will spend on everything related to Halloween this season? (If you read the answer in the papers or online recently, please don’t answer! I want genuine guesses, because I’m curious what you think.)
How much will the nation spend to celebrate the holiday? Ten million? Twenty million? Fifty million?
Bono launched his Red campaign on Oprah yesterday. A portion of everything (marked with the Red trademark) purchased from selected outlets will be used to keep AIDS victims in Africa alive. So far, the shops who’ve signed on are The Gap, Apple, Armani, and a couple others. I personally love everything Bono does and stands for and bet he’ll raise a gazillion bucks with this idea. More power to him for recognizing what it will take to motivate Americans to give.
Still, it makes me sad that all that’s required of the American consumer to make him feel like he’s “saving lives” is to purchase a Red Ipod at Apple, since good old Apple will contribute $10 to the campaign for every Red sold. Shopping now equals giving, and while consumption-based giving is better than nothing (a lot better), it feels…funny.
I think about the Scripture verse where King David says “I will not give a gift that costs me nothing,” and I wish I was willing to hurt a bit more than I do when I suggest that all of you Halloween lovers should cough up your candy money to make the world a better place.
Just in case my idea (which costs me nothing, by the way, since I spend nothing on Halloween) takes off, tell me: How much will Americans spend this October? Anything you’d rather see us spend it on than skeletons and witches and pirates?
Or would you keep Halloween and harvest the money saved by forgoing Starbucks for a day?
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Four And A Half Months (#1005)
It’s been a while since I updated you on the frugality efforts of the Raymonds, and on my personal weightloss efforts. I didn’t quite realize that both of these lifestyle we’ll-just-call-them adjustments happened within the same week or so, at the beginning of June.
As you’ll recall, since that time the decision was made for our youngest son, Kevin, to finish a degree program in Switzerland. He did his first two years at junior college, for almost no financial outlay. This current program crams two years of college into one ten-month period, and costs what you would expect two years of private college to cost. Which is to say, it ain’t cheap.
Besides his tuition, we’ve got a wedding to bankroll! So far, we’ve only plunked down money for the reception hall, but we have a pretty good idea of how much stuff costs and a very good idea of how much we’re willing to fork over.
Because we’ve cut other expenses (our cell phone bill, our car insurance bill, eating out, much-but-not-quite-all-Starbucks, Sam’s Club nights out, and more!!), we’ve thrown real money at this stuff and didn’t have to go into hock. In the past month, we also had no choice but to pay $1600 for roof repairs and $400 for a new hot water heater.
But it’s all good! I did our net worth statement this morning (something I do once per month for a reality check), and the bottom line showed a 3% increase over 30 days ago. If I could annualize that rate of increase, I’d be one happy mama.
OK, I’m happy anyway. And why not? We’ve plugged some serious leaks, eliminated some worthless habits, freed up money for important causes, and generally had the satisfaction of more….satisfaction.
Or, maybe I’m just happy because I’ve lost 25 pounds? All in all, a nice four and a half months, indeed.
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A Win Situation (#1004)
We have a winner! Congratulations to Bridget James of Warrensburg, Missouri, whose name was just three seconds ago randomly drawn from a fistful of names to win a book by fallible guest Nancy Moser.
It’s a good thing I did the drawing in front of my sleeping husband, who opened one eye to make sure I was on the up and up, since the winner is none other than my baby sister.
Bridget, Nancy will be signing a copy of either Mozart’s Sister or The Good Nearby—your choice—and popping it in the mail.
Thanks again to Nancy for the fun interview, and to everyone who engaged her in further discussion. I know I learned a lot!
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To The Nines (#1003)
From the time I sat down in Starbucks and took in the sight of the group of women, I had one of them pegged.
Nine of them were dressed to the nines, all in skirts and heels and jewels. But the tenth? She was dressed to the tens. Her nails bore none of those tell-tale gaps between the cuticles and the acryllic, the funky, not-found-in-nature spaces that speak of several neglectful days of missed manicures. Her coif would not have moved even if she’d thrown her head back and guffawed, which I instantly realized would not happen with this woman in this crowd—ever.
The ten ladies, five of whom appeared old enough to be the mothers of the other five, circled around a small table as if it was a campfire. There they told their stories, which I could not hear. It didn’t matter, of course. I could read them like a book, and did for two long hours.
The Tenth had the kind of Mona Lisa smile I find infuriating. After all, she didn’t outclass the others by that much, but she sure acted like she did. The two ladies to her left whispered to each other and she stared straight ahead. I caught a glimpse of the ladies across the table, wondering if she might be completely absorbed in their conversation, but they also talked among themselves.
The high and mighty one failed to turn her head to the left or to the right, in case she might be called upon to actually interact with one of the lowly Nines.
I wondered why they’d even invited her, since they didn’t seem to know her very well, and she plainly didn’t care.
An hour into their party (for a celebratory atmosphere did eventually set in), I couldn’t help but notice that the Tenth let her left arm dangle over the arm of the upholstered chair upon which she’d enthroned herself. Her other hand remained in her lap, and her expression never changed, but her fingernails began systematically digging into the corded trim of the unfortunate chair.
Up and down slid her bony hand, gnawing at the brown velvet, punishing it for crimes unspoken, relentlessly slitting the chair’s narrow throat with each slice of her sharpened fingers.
Once, her lips moved. Her head even turned, though her hair somehow failed to follow. It was then I saw that a single long-stemmed pink rose had been laid in the center of the table. Within a moment, a woman on the far side of the group opened a little gift book—the kind Hallmark produces for occasions like this—and read it aloud.
I couldn’t hear the words, but each member of the group paid rapt attention. I saw one turn to another with tears running down her face, and that’s when I knew the event must have been in her honor. Ah, yes. The stillettos should have given it away from moment one. These women—pharmaceutical sales reps all—gathered to celebrate the recent promotion of one in their ranks to Regional Sales Manager.
So that was it, eh? The Tenth’s jealousy drove her to distraction.
The party wound down, the coffee dregs completely drained, and one by one the women trickled from the shop. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five.
The rose remained, untouched, thorns and all. I could not leave until I saw the new Sales Manager pick up her rose, until I knew for certain.
Four, three, two. Two. Would the Tenth congratulate the party girl, or not? A phone rang out, and suddenly I realized that my ears had been opened.
The unblinking woman halted her attack on the upholstery, reached into her purse, and pulled out the intrusive object. She looked at the number displayed on the screen and acted as if she’d ignore the caller, too.
“I’d better go,” said the other woman. She hugged the Tenth and walked out the door, leaving the rose on the table.
The last woman sitting answered the phone. “Come get me, will you, honey?”
As I watched, she picked up the pink rose and wept into its open bloom.
“Yes, the doctor called, right before the party started. The girls have been so good to me, honey. And they’ve all been through so much, you know. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them, but I have to tell you…”
A few seconds passed, and then an entire lifetime.
“Six weeks.”
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Author, Author! (#1002)
I’ve got a fun treat for you folks today.
It’s been my joy to be friends with author Nancy Moser since the moment we met at a writers group in Kansas City, I don’t know—maybe twelve years ago. If you don’t know about Nancy and her wonderful books, you’re missing out. I want better for you!
I hope you’ll feel a part of my conversation with Nancy so much that you’ll leave a comment on this post. (Hey, ask her a question! She can deal!) From the commenters, I’ll choose one fortunate fallible reader who’ll receive a free copy of either Mozart’s Sister or The Good Nearby—your choice. Even if you won a book here just last week, you still qualify. That’s the kind of fallible blogger I am!
Katy: Nancy, tell us a bit about how you got into writing. You have a degree in architecture, right? How did you get from there to here?
Nancy: I’ve always loved to write, but life got in the way. I’m sure many writers can relate to that one. My husband also graduated in architecture, and there were few jobs in that market, so I let him go that route and I took other jobs. Then we had three kids and started a subcontracting business, where I learned accounting by just doing it!
Katy: Eeeeeewwww. I keep accounts for our corporation, too. But somehow I still don’t think I’ve learned accounting. Hmmm….I digress, huh?
Nancy: Indeed. Anyway, I still wrote on the side. I started out trying to write children’s books (thinking that would be easy) but got no where. I’m way too wordy! Then I wrote short humor essays that did get published in various magazines.
Katy: If I remember right, the night we met you’d just had a humor article published in Good Housekeeping. I thought that was amazing—heck, I still think so.
Nancy: Eventually, lots of those published articles were compiled into three books of inspirational humor (“Save Me, I Fell in the Carpool†is one.) But during all this noodling, I was also writing novels.
Katy: Is there such a thing as low-carb noodling? Maybe this is where I’m going wrong…
Nancy: I noodled my way through five novels for the secular market, basically learning how to write as I wrote. And rewrote. And rewrote. I can’t number the rejections I received! But in 1995 I had a God-moment that led me closer to Him, and changed the direction of my writing. Since then, I’ve had 15 inspirational novels published. So I guess that proves that once you get on the road He has for you, things start happening. In retrospect, I’m so thankful for all those initial rejections. Without them, I would never have found the right road.
Katy: A writer’s habits seem to hold endless fascination for us. A lot of readers and wannabe writers picture an attic garret, albeit one with central air in the summer, but still. Do you keep a set schedule? Are you what they call a seat-of-the-pants writer, or do you have everything plotted out and outlined before you start? What about writing tools? PC or Mac? Ballpoint or fountain? Palm Pilot or Alphasmart?
Nancy: Since I now have deadlines (which is a good thing), I have become very organized. My novels are generally 95,000-105,000 words. So when I get a contract and a deadline, I print up calendar pages from the present to the due date, and with a highlighter mark the weekdays available for writing (taking out vacations, weekends, known busy days, etc.) That gives me a true idea of how much time I have to write the book. Then I keep out a week at the end to reread everything, add up the days, divide them into 95,000, and find a daily word count number as my goal.
Katy: I’m getting dizzy. That’s a lot of math. Or accounting. Or one of those other skills I haven’t learned.
Nancy: For my current book on Jane Austen, I’m writing 1400 words per day. But with “Mozart’s Sister†it was only 750. I get up early (about 5), do my email and other computer junk, and make myself start writing at 8 (if not before.) I sit in the chair (except for coffee and potty breaks) until I’ve got my quota.
Katy: You take potty breaks? Just kidding.
Nancy: Ah. I generally write 500-600 words an hour, though that can obviously vary greatly. So you see, I only write mornings. I’m usually done by 11:30. I write weekend mornings, too, but those are bonuses. And in the afternoons and evenings I am free to live the rest of my life. Yet I admit I’m always thinking about writing. It never truly leaves me.
Katy: Favorite tools of the trade?
Nancy: I use a PC, and an Alphasmart (I love this thing!) I have an office in the basement with a lovely view (I have come to adore “viewsâ€) and sit with the keyboard in my lap, and my feet up on a milk-stool. And yes, I admit to being a seat-of-the-pants writer for my contemporary novels. Though as the novels progress, I do get clues about where they are going and certainly write those ideas down, which I suppose is a form of outlining. Just not up front.
Katy: Until recently, you’ve written all contemporary women’s fiction, right? And now….what?
Nancy: Historicals…a whole new ball game. I’m fictionalizing the life of a real person, which involves a ton of research. I do a lot of prep work for those books, and generally find one biographer I really love and read the book clear through, making copious notes in the margins, and marking possible “scenes.†Then I transcribe the notes to my computer, put the “scenes†in chronological order, and begin. The writing is the easy part!
Katy: Spoken like a true pro.
Nancy: While I’m writing, I have 3-4 reference books open at all times, getting many takes on a particular moment in the subject’s life. I also footnote my manuscript for the use of myself and my editor (it’s important to remember where I’ve found a piece of information.) When I can use the subject’s own words (usually taken from letters), I do. I love that. And of course the footnotes are removed in the final manuscript.
Katy: If you could give aspiring writers one piece of advice besides the obvious BOC (butt on chair), what would it be? Or is the obvious obvious for an obvious reason? :)
Nancy: BOC is essential. Even if it’s only for 30 minutes a day. That adds up. When I had three kids I used to try to write with them running around me, being . . . kids. I started to resent them; they were keeping me from achieving my dream. Not a good thing. That’s what got me started getting up so early. I needed to find a time when no one else was up! Now, with my first grandchild on the way (I just found out!) I’m still getting up early. Seven days a week.
Katy: You’re the youngest looking grandma I’ve seen in a while. Congrats!
Nancy: Thanks! The other piece of advice is to read good books and figure out why you like them. And on the flip side, don’t waste your time reading bad books (though perhaps figuring out why they are bad could be useful too.) If a book doesn’t grab me in 25 pages, I put it down. Keep that in mind with your own writing…
Katy: No offense, but when you say “keep that in mind with your own writing,” are you, like, referring to MY OWN WRITING?
Nancy: No offense taken. Yes.
Katy:Mozart’s Sister is a new writing venture for you, isn’t it? Can you tell us how the idea ever occurred to you? And isn’t it unusual to attempt historical fiction in first person, from the point-of-view of a known historical character?
Nancy: My old mantra was “I don’t do research. I hate research.†I never planned on writing historicals. But two years ago I was standing in Mozart’s house in Salzburg, Austria, and heard the tour guide say, “Some people don’t know this, but Mozart’s sister was just as talented as he was, but because she was a woman, she didn’t receive the same opportunities to use her talent.†I found this interesting and when I got home, I put it in the proposal for a contemporary novel I was putting together. I created a modern author who was writing a book called “Mozart’s Sister.â€
Katy: Sounds like a winner to me….
Nancy: I thought so, too. My agent sent the proposal out, and within a few days, I got a call from Dave Horton at Bethany House Publishers. “I don’t want the contemporary novel, I want Mozart’s Sister.†I told him, “But I don’t write historicals.†“I want Mozart’s Sister. First person. Her point of view.†“But I write third person, big cast novels.†“I want Mozart’s Sister.†“But I don’t do research.†It was like that.
Katy: Yikes!
Nancy: Because of Dave’s persistence and vision, I wrote “Mozart’s Sister†and found it the most satisfying and personally exciting book I’ve ever written. To give a woman-of-history a voice…I take the responsibility very seriously and try my hardest to do their lives justice. I am currently writing a fictionalized biography of Jane Austen’s life. I will say capturing Jane’s “voice†is a real challenge.
Katy: The research you did for Mozart’s Sister must have been extensive, because the sense of factual accuracy enhances the story line all the way through. Explain to us what kind of documents you used in researching to ground the story in reality. Was it difficult to find the documents you needed to create an accurate timeline of events, for instance?
Nancy: It was very difficult to find information about Nannerl Mozart, because all the books are about her brother, Wolfgang. When she is mentioned it is a part of his story. But luckily, the Mozarts were avid letter writers, and the father Leopold insisted that the letters were kept (he must have had some inkling how important they would be for future generations.) Those letters were invaluable, and often I was able to use quotes. I also found Nannerl’s diary—in German—and bought it, planning to have it translated. But then I found reference to it in other books, and they said it was disappointing because it offered no insight into her feelings, but was simply a “I went walking in the garden†type of diary. The timeline was not that difficult because of the letters. But there were stretches of time when events are unknown—especially when all the family was together in one place. No letters. No information. I did my best to fit the pieces together.
Katy: For some reason, I always imagine people in previous generations to be more compliant with the dictates of the society they lived in than we are today. Yet you portray a girl who is clearly not pleased with her “place,” which is always somehow secondary to her younger brother, Wolfgang. How common do you think it was in those days for a woman to yearn to use her God-given talents outside the sphere of her own home?
Nancy: I think women felt the urge to be all they could be, yet not to the same extent that we do now. It’s like a person who’s never tasted chocolate. They don’t yearn for chocolate because they don’t know how wonderful it is.
Katy: O taste and see that the chocolate is good…
Nancy: I know! Women of history had little freedom and few choices. That is the life they knew. I believe they had inklings of other life possibilities, but didn’t know how to make it happen, or even realize how good it might be. In fact, this phenomenon is one reason why it’s difficult for me to find subjects to write about. Generally, those few women who bucked the system to get what they wanted, did so with gusto. They were often scandalous women who had illegitimate children, affairs, and generally got in big trouble according to the eyes of society. Although their lives are certainly interesting, I choose to write about women who inspire and who achieved within the system. If any readers have ideas for another woman-of-history that might make a good subject, I’d love to hear from them: Visit my site or email me!
Katy: You know what? It would be just like fallible readers to come up with some great suggestions! Any other titles coming out soon?
Nancy: I have a book coming out at the end of October, “The Good Nearby.†It’s a contemporary novel about people searching for meaning and a girl who has the number 96 appear in her life over and over (what does it mean?) It involves being the “good nearby†in other people’s lives, seeing “the good nearby†in your own life, and knowing that God is “the good nearby†in all our lives.
Katy: Nancy, I gotta say it: You’ve personally been the Good Nearby to me in so many ways, for so many years. Thanks for your friendship, and for sharing your time with us here!
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Mother Of The Fried (#1001)
We make quite a pair, my only daughter and me.
The poor thing moved back in with her old mom and dad at the end of July. She hadn’t lived with us—or in Kansas City—for six years. The day we drove over to Columbia, Missouri to haul her stuff home, her boyfriend Marc sneaked in a little aside, one of those asides a Mom remembers forever.
“I need a chance to talk to you,” he whispered to Doug and me while the girl was sticking a lamp in the truck. “I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Doug didn’t waste many words. “She’s more than a hand, Marc. She’s a handful.”
Since then, Carrie’s gotten engaged, started a Master’s degree program, and begun teaching handicapped kids in a Kansas City, Missouri, inner city school. She’s exhausted and exhiliarated, over and over again, each day. A couple of her students are in wheelchairs, a couple more use walkers. Several have cerebral palsy and some wear diapers. Not all of them speak, but the classroom brims with the kind of communication a loving teacher encourages.
All I know is, if I were one of the seven little girls in my daughter’s class, I would be thrilled to spend my days with Miss Carrie.
Now, of course, on top of a move, an engagement, the pursuit of a Master’s degree, and a new career, she’s planning a wedding.
I think this is where I come in—kind of. It’s not easy being Mother of the Fried. Emotions and hormones run high and some days, hot—and that’s just me.
Yesterday was one of those days. But finally, after weeks of online research, a frenzy of phone calls, and visits to a dozen wedding and reception venues, we’re signing a contract today. Carrie and Marc are getting married on June 30, in the beautiful columned space called Kirk Hall in the downtown KC Public Library. The reception will be on the top floor of the 1906 building (originally the First National Bank, where my father worked until I was eight years old), where we’ll use a lovely room indoors and the entire rooftop as well.
If you’ve never planned a wedding, let me just say dates go fast. Sometimes, they’re yanked right out from under you before you can pull the cap off your pen to—as my father used to say—sign your life away.
But now that a place has been secured, I think we can relax, at least for the moment.
Then again, I’ve heard photographers book way ahead.
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Sticker Shock! (#1000)
OK, I may be a bit behind the times, but I know all about The Patch.
Patches come in tons of varieties these days: the nicotine patch, the birth control patch, the pain med patch—you name it. Since I’m arriving so late to the party, I seriously doubt I’ll ever be able to boast of wearing The Patch, but I’m still intrigued.
In 1990, a hysterectomy beat me to the general public’s use of the birth-control patch. I don’t need the nicotine patch because I’ve never smoked, to speak of. Notice I didn’t say I’ve never smoked, only that I don’t speak of it.
I exaggerate, people. I don’t LIE.
As for pain meds, my pains are sharp and to the point, and that’s the way I like my medications, too. None of this slow and steady delivery system for me. What a snoozer! I don’t have that many good years left.
Since I am completely patch-free, imagine my surprise when last night I laid my hand on my jammie-covered abdomen and felt something scratchy under the fabric, adhered to my skin. It didn’t jump, crawl, bite, or sting as scratchy things in the country are often wont to do, so that was good.
But, still, what could it be? I raised my top and ventured a few fingers that direction. I peeled that sucker from the space above my belly button and held it up to the lamp.
$17.99, folks. Apparently, that’s the price that’s stuck itself to my particular so-called life. I can live with that, I guess.
Especially since the rest of my identifying info clearly reads “Size 7.”
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