I’m Going Squirrelly

Squirrel-on-roofVirginia Woolf said, ‘a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.’

No argument there. But with all due respect, Virginia, you missed something. Along with money and space, a squirrel-free zone helps too.

We have squirrels in our attic. Or at least we did. It’s been quiet the last few days, though that’s no guarantee. They’ve tricked us out before. We noticed them first this summer. They’d run through the yard taunting Team Sheltie. One took to sleeping on our fence where the sun hit in the middle of the day. I thought it was sweet. We had a house squirrel, I told myself. A totem protector.   How cute is that?

I am so naïve.  So. Naïve.

We no longer have a house squirrel. We have an army of squirrels. They’ve captured the attic and are defending their territory with a vicious determination that makes ISIS look like a group of kindergarteners. Given that Mr. Petrol Head is protective of his family, not to mention the fact that he’d like to keep our roof, our insulation and our wiring intact, he declared war.  He would eradicate the mighty army himself. Just call him the original squirrel slayer.

Just to clarify – our attic isn’t a traditional space where you store clothes and steamer trunks and kids go to play on a snow day. Our attic isn’t accessible, at least not by anybody taller than eight inches.  It’s a narrow space just below the roof where the insulation lives. It is accessed by vents. Vents in squirreldom are known as front doors. And ours apparently have a great big flashing WELCOME sign visible only to squirrels.

After some on line research, the Original Squirrel Slayer got to work. He tried moth balls which squirrels apparently hate. Maybe they do somewhere. Not where we live.  He screened off the vent. The squirrels laughed and chewed through it. He made a ‘foolproof’ one way door out of all sorts of heavy, squirrel proof material and snapped it over the vent.  Squirrelgate he called it. The squirrels thumbed their noses. They pulled a break, enter and repeat. Squirrelgate was breached.

I’d had enough. Call in the experts, I said. Let me try something else said the Original Squirrel Slayer, who was spending more and more time on our roof determined that the rats-with-tails wouldn’t get the best of him.

A new and improved Squirrelgate was created and installed. Things got quiet. We were hopeful. We were sure the army had been conquered.  We were sure we’d won the war.

Then came Saturday.  I woke up to find the Squirrel Commander-in-Chief chewing his way through the screen on our open skylight.  The army was on the move. The attic was no longer enough. The capture of new territory – in the form of our TV room – was the goal.

The Original Squirrel Slayer conceded defeat.  Refusing to accept his new moniker, he picked up the phone, dialed the Squirrel Whisperer and went back to being Mr. Petrol Head.  Some things, like marauding squirrels, are better left to the experts. squirrelgate

Giving Thanks

thankful 2 It’ll be Canadian Thanksgiving in a few days and my thoughts are turning, as they usually do in the fall, to the things I’m most thankful for. This time last year, I blogged about why I’m thankful to be a writer. And many of those same things (the joy of playing with words; the ability to ask endless questions; regular and mandatory reading; wearing yoga pants and slippers to work) still apply.

But I’m feeling more serious this year and it occurs to me that even though I work alone, I don’t work in a vacuum. In fact, I couldn’t do what I do without a pile of people in my corner. And for that, I’m profoundly, extremely grateful.

My long suffering partner, Mr. Petrol Head (possibly to be rechristened My Squirrel Slayer – watch for an upcoming blog) has had my back, along with the rest of me, since I started this gig way back when. Not once has he questioned my sanity, my ROI or my need to bounce endless (and I mean endless) questions off of him.  He cooks, he designs my business cards, he listens to me rant, and he laughs. I love him for all of it. Mostly I just love him.

My kids – Uptown Girl and Teen Freud (the latter needs a rename since he’s left teen hood behind forever; sob) – have made me the writer I am. They’ve helped me become more patient (they may not agree with that), more disciplined and more creative. They’re bright, funny and truly the best kids a mother could ask for. I love them more than life. Even if they weren’t mine, I’d want to spend time with them. Yes, they are that cool. Mr. Petrol Head pointed out the other day that my career has, to a large extent, followed the trajectory of their growing up years. When they were young, I started writing picture books. As they grew, I segued into middle grade fiction. And now I write for teens and adults.

My web guy keeps my site up to date. Thank you Miles Barr for achieving the seemingly unachievable . . .  for returning my panicked emails . . .  and for reassuring me that glitches can be fixed even when they seem unfixable.

My fellow authors who follow the publishing road.  No one else gets it the way you do. I’d be a whole lot crazier if I didn’t have friends like you with me on my path.

The editors I’ve been blessed to know. I’ve been hugely lucky in the editorial department over the years and it shows in all my books. You might want to thank those editors, too. Trust me.

My readers.  A reader was the impetus for this blog. Not a reader of my books, but a medical technician who reads science fiction and fantasy. I was in for a test recently and when he found out I was a writer, he spent about ten minutes talking books with me. Not in the ‘how do I get published? sense’ but the ‘have you read this author?’ and ‘what do you think of this author?’ sense.  His passion was a sharp reminder of why I do what I do and for whom I write (it was also a good distraction from the task at hand but that’s a whole other story).

And last but not least – Team Sheltie.  They sometimes drive me nuts with interruptions and they bark waaaaay too much, but they get me out of the house for several walks a day, they always make me smile and they’re my soft place to land when I walk away from the keyboard at the end of the day.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!     dogswindow.jgp

Kindness Can Be a Kick in the Butt

8466047321_231fced129_zI generally start each day with a few minutes of random reading. I have a number of books I find particularly inspirational all within grabbing distance of my closet. At some point after I get dressed but before I head downstairs to write, I pick one up, open it, and read whatever paragraph I happen to see.

It’s either my message for the day or my kick in the butt, depending on my mood.

The other morning I picked up Entering the Castle by Caroline Myss and I read a passage about kindness. Her point was that it’s easy to be kind when people are pleasant or fun to be with, but it’s more difficult and actually more meaningful to be kind to those who most try our patience.

That morning I happened to be going to the lab for blood work after fasting the night before. No breakfast, no coffee. Just a quick shower, a few minutes with the book and I left. It used to be that you showed up at the lab and waited until your number came up.  Things have changed in the last year and now you can make appointments on line. I’d scheduled my appointment several weeks earlier and was happy to know I’d be in, out, and home to coffee and scrambled eggs within fifteen minutes.

Other than the two employees behind the desk, the lab was empty when I arrived. I had a number of requisitions from two different doctors, and one required some explanation. I spent a few minutes going over things, and sat down to wait. After a minute, I saw the sign: Please inform us at check in if you have an appointment.  It was taped midway down the side of the counter where a preschooler (or someone sitting down) could see it. Since it was out of my line of sight when I’d walked in the door, and since I was preoccupied with my requisitions at the time, I’d missed it.

I quickly informed the fellow behind the counter that I had an appointment.

Well. Apparently my failure to inform him of this two minutes earlier created a serious problem for him as well as a horrendously difficult situation for this still-empty lab. I offered a sincere apology, and then defaulted to humor. That made things worse. Much, much worse.  He berated me with a particular viciousness that left me feeling like the preschooler for which the sign was placed.

I shut my mouth, mutely followed him into the cubicle, let him poke me with his nasty needle and I got out of there as soon as I could.

Irritation isn’t good on an empty stomach. It feeds on itself. By the time I got home ten minutes later, I was indignant (read royally pissed off).  As I poured a cup of coffee, I went back over the conversation (that old he said/I said/I should have said loop), told myself the guy was power tripping and way out of line.  I told Mr. Petrol Head that I was going to write a letter and file a formal complaint.

Then I remembered what I’d read only half an hour earlier.  That passage about kindness had been my message for the day.  Now it was my kick in the butt.

I decided to let the whole thing go. All of it. But the next time I go to the lab, I think I’ll try another location. And I’ll tell them I have an appointment the minute I walk through the door.

Character Motivation: What Were You Thinking?

you-did-what- I’ve been stunned lately over the actions of some people I know. They’ve done things and made decisions that were dumb less than inspired.  More than once I’ve turned to Mr. Petrol Head and asked, “What was she thinking?”  In the time it takes him to shrug, I’ve mentally crafted up a list of possible motivations because, for me, trying to figure out why people act the way they do is as natural as breathing.

In fact, we don’t usually know what motivates friends and family. We don’t always understand our own motives either. But when it comes to creating characters in our books, we’d better know the why of their actions.

Dwight Swain, in his terrific book Creating Characters, says the thing we all seek, at our core, is happiness.  Once our physical needs are satisfied, he believes happiness comes from a sense of self-worth or self-importance. To that I would add a sense of safety, and for some people that means maintaining the status quo and avoiding change at any cost. So figure out what makes your character happy, what gives their life meaning, what’s important to them. Then introduce a threat to their sense of self or their life circumstances, or dangle something they want in front of them.  Give them a reason – a motive – for wanting to either seize the opportunity or avoid the threat. Make that motive deeply personal and unique to them. Add in conflict (something to prevent them from reaching their goal) and you have a page turner.

Easy right?

Well, it sounds easy but it’s actually a brain bender that can take days to figure out. For me, the gold standard in working through these issues is outlined in Debra Dixon’s book Goal, Motivation, and Conflict.  Tightly focusing on what a character wants, why they want it, and what’s preventing them from having it, gives any story shape, form and urgency. And those are all things we need in fiction.

One last suggestion – if you’re looking to real life for inspiration, be warned. Yes, people do crazy things and make bad decisions.  Often those actions seem unmotivated. Or the motives are so deeply hidden you’d need an excavator to uncover them.  But when it comes to fiction, make sure you understand why your characters are taking (or not taking) action, even if they remain blind to their own motives. And make sure your reader understands too.

Because fiction needs to make sense. Even if life doesn’t.

Staying Alive While Walking My Way to ‘The End’

deskandtreadDriving home with the treadmill in the back of the SUV, I began to worry that I’d been overly optimistic about my ability to walk, write (and ideally think) at the same time. What if I couldn’t adjust to the thing? What if we’d gone to all this time and trouble and money and the treadmill ended up being a giant dust collector in the corner of my office?

My worries were unfounded. I adjusted very quickly. It took me a couple of days to get over my nervousness that I’d fall, and to feel comfortable walking and typing (and thinking) at the same time.  Before long, however, I found the 1 mph speed too slow; I routinely walk now at 1.5 to 2 mph. I also incline the tread a couple of notches as this gives me a more natural feeling step.

My goal is to use the treadmill four or maybe even five hours a day. Currently I’m up to three hours a day, alternating each hour with my sit down desk. After several months of this, I can honestly say I’m more productive on the treadmill than when I sit down. I’m less inclined to surf or check email. I’m more focused on what I’m writing.  There’s something about moving the body that makes my mind move too (It seems to me there have been studies backing that up).

walkingI like the treadmill best when I’m doing fresh writing or when I don’t have to look through books or papers for information.  If I’m writing an article with lots of sources or if I’m on the phone or searching through books, it’s easier to sit with material spread out beside me. But when I’m writing manuscripts or blogs (like this one), walking seems to help the process. I even did a substantial revision for The Art of Getting Stared At while walking and that worked well.

I couldn’t have set this up on my own. Mr. Petrol Head did the hard stuff and made it work. Here are some tips:

Make sure the floor is level before you get the treadmill. If it’s not, level it out.

To make the adjustment easy on my eyes, we set the treadmill monitor the same distance away as it is at my sit-down desk.  This is less of an issue if you’re only using a treadmill desk but because I move from one station to another and I wear glasses when I work, this was important.  We could have wall mounted the monitor but we had brackets and shelving on hand so we used them.

We used the same method (examining my position at my sit down desk) to determine the correct keyboard height. Because I hold a lot of tension in my shoulders, I was worried that typing standing up would be unnatural and cause me shoulder pain.  I also wanted the option of having my mouse even lower. Mr. Petrol Head built two shelves just below the treadmill arms and attached them to the treadmill frame. He temporarily clamped them in place so I could try out the height for a few weeks. When I was sure the height was right, he drilled through the frame of the treadmill (being careful not to cut through any wires) and bolted the shelves into place. Now that I’m used to things I keep my mouse on the same shelf as my keyboard and use the lower shelf for books and papers.

I run two monitors from one desk top computer. I plug and unplug each one as needed. I use the same keyboard and mouse, and simply move both when I move.

Lighting and functionality. I have a combination of recessed pot lights and spot lights in my office and none were well-positioned to light the treadmill keyboard. I got around this with a gooseneck desk lamp that I clamped to a nearby shelf.  Those nearby shelves have also aided significantly in functionality. I can leave my water bottle within easy reach, or the phone if I’m expecting a call. In a pinch I can put papers on them too.

One last suggestion – wear decent shoes.  I had sore feet after the second week so I invested in a good pair of walking runners that live in my office and are dedicated for the treadmill. I also remember to stay hydrated (which might be another reason my focus has improved).

feet-on-treadmill

Walking My Way to ‘The End’

feet-on-treadmillI’ve wanted a treadmill desk for years. Writing books requires a lot of sitting, and though I go to the gym regularly, do yoga, and walk Team Sheltie daily, that sitting wasn’t doing me any good. I could feel it in stiff hips at the end of the day. I could see it as my pants got tight. With a family history of heart disease, obesity and diabetes (both my mother and my grandmother) getting off my butt was a priority.  Each passing birthday seemed to underscore my slowing metabolism and my need to increase my activity level. Yet I needed – wanted – to keep writing.

I tried standing up to work for a while. It was incredibly fatiguing and my low back didn’t like it. A treadmill desk seemed a wise solution. Since I read on both the elliptical and stationary bike at the gym, I didn’t think I’d have trouble adjusting to moving and typing.

I started looking at manufactured treadmill desks, but my budget was low and they were expensive so that option was out. Unfortunately the budget wasn’t the only thing that was low.  I also have a low ceiling.

My office is in the basement.  It’s a lovely L-shaped room with charming nooks, a little bay window with an upholstered window seat overlooking my herb garden. But it’s a small space with a ceiling clearance of about six feet.   Treadmills have a base anywhere from five to eight inches off the ground before you step onto the walking surface and I’m 5’4”.  That meant finding a low height treadmill with a reasonably compact set up.   I needed it to fit into my office in such a way that my existing desk remained. I wasn’t sure how I’d adapt and given that I work for about seven hours a day, I wanted the option of toggling back and forth between two work stations. That also meant two monitors, possibly two keyboards as well. As the potential costs and complications ratcheted up, my enthusiasm and determination plummeted.

Enter Mr. Petrol Head AKA The Man I Married who not only loves cars but also loves a challenge. And he yields a mean hammer. He built my window seat and he took it upon himself to figure out a way we could make a treadmill desk work.

He measured and mulled, finally concluding that we could squeak one in if I would move my existing sit-down desk closer to the window seat, if I was willing to buy a low height treadmill, and if I could find one with arms that were short, straight and wouldn’t get in the way of a keyboard (not as easy as you might think).

After a lot of on line research and in person looking at new and used models (and passing on several too-big Nordic Tracks which I seriously coveted), we decided on a mid-range Tempo model from Canadian Tire. The bottom-of-line line model seemed too flimsy and the high end version had bells and whistles I didn’t need. I began saving my pennies and went to work relocating my sit-down desk. At the same time, a good friend switched from a PC to a MAC and she sold me (for a ridiculously low price) her (nearly new) monitor, keyboard and mouse. Thank you, Lea Tassie.    My long-held dream was close.

imgtreadmilldeskstandaloneA few weeks before we were going to purchase the new treadmill, the same model showed up on Used Victoria. It was a year old and had been used maybe a dozen times (funny, that nearly new trend was rampant in virtually all the used treadmills we looked at). We hustled out to take a look.  It was just what I wanted. Same model and in beautiful shape.  I was ecstatic. “We’ll take it,” I told the seller though a niggle of doubt crept into my mind. It looked a LOT bigger by itself than it did in the store beside all the other behemoths.

“Get on,” the seller urged.

So I did. I stepped onto it, raised my arms like I was typing, and I stared straight ahead at a monitor position. They turned it on. And I almost fell off.    “Slow it down.” I grabbed the arms and steadied myself. “I need it on the lowest possible speed if I’m going to be able to work on this thing.”

The seller looked at Mr. Petrol Head. Mr. Petrol Head looked at me. “It’s on the lowest possible setting,” he said. “It doesn’t get any lower than this.”

I didn’t believe him. (Mr. Petrol Head lies). He wasn’t lying then.  It was on the lowest setting.  It was also destined to be ours.  We brought it home that afternoon.

Next week: how we set it up and how it’s working.

 

Weekly Eavesdropping

140474989Overheard on a sunny patio on the first day of summer:

“Gambling is bad news.”

“It’s only bad news if you lose.”

Teen Freud turned nineteen last week. For those of you who don’t live in Canada, that’s a milestone birthday. Nineteen (eighteen in some places) means you’re an adult and legally allowed to do things like buy alcohol, get married without parental permission, or enter licensed clubs like casinos.

Shortly after I heard that exchange between Teen Freud and his buddy, the two guys tromped inside and informed us they were off to the casino to see what it was all about.  When I repeated the admonition that gambling was bad news, Teen Freud laughed and shrugged it off.

I headed out to buy groceries. The boys (they may be nineteen but they’re still boys to me) headed to the casino. When I came home, Mr. Petrol Head was in the kitchen. He looked worried. “Teen Freud called,” he said. “It was the worst possible outcome for his first visit to a casino.”

My stomach sank like a dead turtle. My thoughts immediately went to a worst case place: a fight, a shooting, a fire. The boys had only taken seventy dollars between them. Losing that wasn’t what I’d call a worst possible outcome. It was a most likely outcome. “What happened?”

Mr. Petrol Head looked grave.  “He won.”

I should have known. Teen Freud wasn’t just born under a lucky star. He was born on a bed of them, with a star blanket the size of Texas covering him. The kid is lucky. Lucky with a capital L.

“How much?” I asked.

Before he could answer, Teen Freud and his bemused buddy burst through the door.  He’d won $430 on a twenty dollar investment. But, he informed us, he didn’t stick around because he was putting $400 of it in the bank. Plus, he was shaking so hard he couldn’t hit the buttons on the slots after that.

Pleased that he was showing some level of responsibility, we went back to putting away the groceries. As the boys headed to the TV room, I heard broke buddy suggest they spend the remaining money on pizza.

“No way,” said Teen Freud. “That money’s going into my vice fund. I’m going back next week.”