Shifting into Low Gear


A new semester is getting ready to begin.  In fact, for many, it’s already begun.   But where I work, the first day of classes is next Thursday, September 5, and since all of my classes this fall meet  Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, the semester will begin for me on Friday.

It might seem odd, starting a semester at the end of the week, but I actually like it.  It gives me a chance to get all of the introductory material done and out of the way on that first day, let everyone enjoy the weekend, and then hit the ground running the following Monday.

That’s my plan.  Hit the ground running.  And we’ll run, more or less nonstop, until the semester ends on December 20.

You may be wondering, what does this mean for the blog?

It means that starting next week, it’ll be shifting into low gear, and I’ll be posting once a week instead of three times a week.  Tuesday will be Blog Day, and the monthly schedule will look like this:

1st Tuesday of the month (starting Sept 3):  WIP

2nd Tuesday:  GUMP/College Writing

3rd Tuesday:  Pot Luck

4th Tuesday:  Bookshelf.  (Ooh, a new category!)

5th Tuesday:  Not sure yet.  There are only three 5th Tuesdays coming up in the next few months (October 29, December 31, and April 29), so I’ll try to make them worth looking forward to.

Hope you enjoy the last few days of summer!

Are you happy to see summer end, or are you dreading it?

WIP: Why I’m Writing this Book


Someone asked me why I’m writing this book, and whether it’s a biography of my family.

There’s an easy answer to the second half:  No.

But it’s actually more complicated than that.  It’s true that I was inspired, and the book is inspired, by my mom’s family.  But it’s not a biography, nor is it a memoir.

I started with what my mom’s family started with:  Two young Polish immigrants coming to America in 1907.  The young woman comes in July; the young man, in November.  They’re both from the same part of Poland (the Russian partition), but from different towns; they don’t meet until after they arrive in America.  They marry in June of 1909 in New Jersey, where he works as a boilermaker for the railroad, and they have a couple of children.  Within a few years, he’s transferred to Jackson, Michigan; they live in a small bungalow in town and have several more children, and then in 1926, they move to a farm on the outskirts of town.

This much is all historically accurate.  My maternal grandparents did all of these things, and in these time frames.

But from that starting point, nearly everything in Eighteen Crossroads is entirely fictional.  Josef and Aniela don’t have the same number of children as my grandparents, nor the same configurations of children (x-many boys, x-many girls, born in x-years).  None of the second- or third-generation characters in the book are real people, and even where some version of some of the events in these stories did actually take place, those events have been fictionalized.  In most cases, they didn’t really happen, and in cases where they did happen, they didn’t happen to these people in these places.

For instance, one of my uncles did serve in Patton’s Third Army during WW2, and I’ve been told he fought at the Battle of the Bulge (a time and place in which one of my stories is set), but I know no more about my uncle’s service (or his life) than that.  I’m sure none of the events in the story in which the main character finds himself in those basic circumstances are remotely similar to the actual events of my uncle’s life.  It would be an incredible (and unlikely) coincidence if they were.

Similarly, I know my grandfather was conscripted into the Russian army, and that he was injured in battle due to a fall from a horse—but I don’t know when or where, or even in what conflict, he fought.  He did die as a result of his refusal to allow the amputation of his leg due to gangrene, and he did say that he came into this world with two legs and he was jolly well going to go out with two legs (actually I think the “jolly well” was probably tacked on by my mom), and my character Josef in the novel does all of these things.  But the fictional character isn’t my grandfather, and the story is not my grandfather’s story.  The fictional Josef is a different Josef altogether.

The point is, this novel is a work of fiction, and the characters who populate it are also fictional.

I am not writing it to tell my own Polish immigrant family’s story.  But I am writing it to tell a Polish immigrant family’s story.

Which leads me to the other half of my friend’s question:  Why am I writing this book?

My purpose is to explore issues of both human identity (removed from national identity and/or language and custom) and the formation of American identity as it develops over several generations.  I’m fascinated by the well-known “generation gaps” that seem so inevitable between parents, their children, and their grandchildren, even as the human condition–that is, the general experiences involved in simply being human–remain unchanging from one generation to the next and also across races, creeds, and cultures.  Why is it so hard for most of us to imagine our parents as eighteen-year-olds, or as children?  What defines family, other than genetics?

In the book, Aniela struggles with the difference between the American “Melting Pot” and what Poles referred to as “Russification” in the 19th and early 20th centuries, which was enforced by law.  There’s also a marked contrast between Poland and America, both politically and socially, as America was a country in need of people and in search of an identity, while Poland at that time (or more accurately, Polonia) was comprised of millions of people in the diaspora who identified as Poles but had no country to call home.

And finally, two or three or four generations removed from the immigrants themselves, do the American descendants of those immigrants have any connection at all to their ancestors’ roots?  — and should they?

The exploration of these questions, and others, is the reason I’m writing this novel.

And also . . well . . it’s fun.

Why do you write what you write?  What inspires you?

Pot Luck: Gimme a Head with Hair


I tried a new hair conditioner a week and a half ago that promised to leave my hair smooth and sleek, soft and shiny.

It didn’t.

It left my hair looking like I’d rubbed a couple tablespoons of Crisco into it and left it there.  It took me eight days and five kinds of shampoo, plus a sad little session with a bar of Irish Spring, to get it out.

My hair hasn’t been smooth and sleek in a long time.  It used to be, but with age, alas, comes a coarser, wirier texture that rarely even looks brushed, much less soft and shiny.  Nobody warns you about this, by the way.  They warn you about all kinds of things that come with age, but not that one.

So I’m perpetually in search of a product that will give me the hair I used to have.  The kind of hair that prompted people to tell me I should be doing hair product commercials on TV.  The kind of hair that strangers in the grocery store would reach out and touch.

That hair is long gone.  And it seems like the older I get, the more badly I want it back.

Come to think of it, I’d like the body back, too, and the face as well.  I don’t feel any different on the inside from the person I was when I was twenty-one, so why should the outside look different?  It’s a fresh shock every time I look in a mirror.  And photographs are even worse.  It was a couple of years ago that I saw a picture of a woman in my house and thought—Who is that lady?  I literally had no idea who she was.  And then I realized it was me.

That really happened.  Terrible picture.  And no, you don’t get to see it.

I looked at that picture and thought, Oh crap, I’m old!  When did that happen?

(I suspect if you’re older than I am, you’re laughing at me.  “Old” is always twenty years older than you currently are.  But I know you’ve worn these shoes.  You know exactly what I’m talking about here.)

Many of us spend a lot of time lamenting the passing of our “best years” and wishing we still looked like we used to.

But wait.

I am not the person I was when I was twenty-one.  My sense of self is no different, which is why I don’t feel any different—but I’m not the same person.

At twenty-one, I hadn’t been to college yet.  I certainly hadn’t started teaching yet.  I hadn’t even had any kids yet.  I was still living in the same house my mother bought when I was six, and I had no idea in the world that I would one day wind up living in Wisconsin or that I’d be so happily married to the man who shares my life today.

I had not, in fact, done or said or thought or seen any of the things I’ve done and said and thought and seen in the past thirty-plus years.  I’ve done a lot of living in those years.  A lot of laughing, and a lot of crying, too.  That’s three-fifths of my life.  And I want to erase them?

I had young hair, a young face, and a young body, yes, but also a young heart and a young mind and a young soul.  And I don’t mean those last ones in a good way.  I mean immature, inexperienced, untested, and at times, downright foolish.

Youth, as they say, is wasted on the young.

And you know what?  I don’t want to erase those years.  I don’t want to be that person again.  So why would I want to look like her?

I don’t.  Not really.  To try to recapture the girl I was thirty-some years ago would be to try to turn back time.  Stop the clock.  And if you stop the clock, you don’t move forward—you stand still.

And meanwhile, everyone else is still moving forward, and you’re going to be left behind.

I don’t want to be left behind.  I just want to find a good conditioner.

Because even though I now realize that these are the best years, and even though I don’t want to be that girl again, I do still want her hair.

WIP: (Re) Defining Progress

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I apologize for missing Monday’s WIP post.  The reason for my failure is pretty simple:  WIP stands for Work in Progress, and I was feeling as if I had made so little progress over the course of the week that I just didn’t know what to write.

But really, in looking back at the week, I realize that once again, I was relying on a poorly-conceived definition of progress.  If progress is defined only by word count, then it’s true that I made little progress this week.  I did get a few new words here  and there, but nothing like I’d been hoping to get, so it felt like very little progress.

However, if progress is defined simply as moving forward, then I think I should actually be pretty pleased with myself.

First, I spent some time reconsidering the novel’s arrangement.  I’ve decided to go back to my original plan, which was to open with Aniela’s story and close with Josef’s, and in between, present the second- and third-generation stories in birth order.  I spent much of this morning moving all of them (in a saved-as document, not an overwrite) and creating a new TOC.  This led to some reconceptualizing, which led to a decision to include an additional chapter I hadn’t originally planned.

Then I rewrote the Foreword.  I’m not sure at this point whether or not it will appear in the final draft of the novel, but for now, it’s there, and I like it, so for now, it’s staying.

And then I wrote a sort of prequel to Aniela’s story, based on an idea that came unexpectedly out of nowhere.  Again, I’m not sure whether or not it will appear in the final version of the book, but it provides me with some interesting options.

I also spent time this week exploring the novel’s themes and making sure each of the stories is sufficiently focused on them.   I’m hoping that this mid-course evaluation will put me in a position to write the remaining stories in a way that ties up any loose ends left by the others.

This “new” draft is almost ready to print out as a hard copy.  I already know it will be one-sided, three-hole punched, and “bound” in a three-ring binder—no difficult decisions ahead of me this time.

It’s all coming together.  I’m getting excited.

But I realize this isn’t the most enlightening of posts, so in an attempt to make up for my own failure, I’m sharing a link to the “For Writers” page on Ronlyn Domingue’s website.  (Domingue is the author of The Mapmaker’s War and The Mercy of Thin Air.  I haven’t read either one, but I did check out the reviews of Mercy.  Wow.)

Anyway I hope you’ll find the “For Writers” page as valuable—that is, as informative and as inspiring—as I do.

Here’s to a great coming week with lots of progress, no matter how you define it!

Pot Luck: Moderating the Hummingbird Wars

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I’m given to making the occasional unplanned purchase.  You know how it is—you’re walking innocently along, pushing your shopping cart, when some end-cap display catches your eye and you think, “Hey, that’s just what I need!”

This happened to me last summer.  It was a display of hummingbird feeders, on sale for five bucks.  Such a deal.

So I bought one, along with a big bottle of bright-red specially-formulated commercially-produced hummingbird nectar (five more bucks).

Went home, took the feeder apart, washed it according to the manufacturer’s directions, filled it with the red stuff, hung it on a shepherd’s hook in the front yard, and went in the house to watch the birds flock to the new feeder.

Nobody came.  Not one bird.  A few days later, my husband found a dead one in the driveway.

I have no idea what happened, but I surmised that perhaps hummingbirds are better off avoiding bright-red specially-formulated commercially-produced hummingbird nectar.   I poured it out, discarded the rest of the red stuff, washed the feeder, and found a recipe online for homemade hummingbird nectar.

It’s not hard.  Four parts water, one part plain old regular granulated table sugar.  Bring to a boil, cool, pour into feeder.  No dye necessary.

The birds loved it.  I don’t know what variety of hummingbirds they were (one of you can probably tell me based on the picture below), but for the rest of the summer, there were always two or three or even four of them hovering and fluttering around the feeder, politely waiting their turns.  I could almost hear them:

“No, really!  You go first!”

“After you, Fred.”

“My pleasure, old chap.”

“Pardon me, do you have any Grey Poupon?”

OK, I made up that last part.  Oh, wait, I mean, I made it all up.

But seriously, they were polite.  They all got along just fine, and there was plenty to go around.

Hummingbirds, Summer '12

Alas, but that was last summer.

Things were going OK this summer, too, until a few weeks ago when a new hummingbird moved into the neighborhood.  At first, I was really pleased—this one is a ruby-throated hummingbird (the only kind I can identify), and he’s breathtakingly beautiful.

Unfortunately, he’s also a selfish, boorish party-pooper, like the kind of neighbor who never bothers calling the cops when you have a party because he’s a vigilante who takes the law into his own hands and scares away all your friends.

Yep.  This beautiful, much-revered ruby-throated hummingbird, his greens shining in rainbows like oil on water, sits on a twig near the feeder when he’s not even hungry and chases all the other hummingbirds away.

You can hear him buzzing at them.  “MINE,” he’s saying, like the seagulls in Finding Nemo (“Mine!  Mine!  Mine!”), except they’re funny, and he’s not.

The polite hummingbirds never challenge him, even though they were here first.  They just wait and come back when it looks like he’s not around.  But even when he’s not sitting guard on his twig, he’s always somewhere nearby.  They never get closer than about three feet from the feeder before the ruby-throated vigilante comes swooping in from who-knows-where like an insane dive bomber.

It became apparent that drastic action was necessary, but I didn’t know what to do.  You can’t just put a feeder outside and then go running out there yelling, “SHOO!” every time you see the wrong bird.  And I didn’t want to just take it down.  When a selfish person is hogging all the goods, you don’t remove the goods so nobody else can get any either.  You have to have a plan.

So I went out yesterday and bought a second feeder.  Set it up clear across the yard from the first one.

I’m waiting to see what’s going to happen.  Will the polite birds organize, maybe send a decoy to one feeder while the others feed at the other?  Will the vigilante exhaust himself trying to guard both?

I don’t know.  Whatever happens, it won’t be long before all the hummingbirds start heading south, and both feeders will go back in the cabinet until next spring.  I just hope the polite birds get enough to eat before it’s time for them to leave.


UPDATE:  I did a little checking this morning–and guess what?  It looks like they’re ALL ruby-throated hummingbirds.  The polite ones are female, and the vigilante is a male.  If this is the case, I can’t help wondering–What is this dude thinking?  That is so not the way to catch women!

Take a look here and see what you think!

GUMP: Demystifying the Semicolon


Ah, the mysterious semicolon.  I rarely see them in student papers at all, and when I do, alas, they’re rarely used correctly.  Students tell me they avoid them because they don’t know how to use them.

So today I’m going to face the mystery head-on.

First, the basics:   You need to be able to identify independent and dependent clauses.  These are the basic building blocks of all sentences.

What is an independent clause?  It’s a group of words that constitute, and can stand alone as, a complete sentence.  An independent clause has a subject and a verb, but no internal punctuation.  For example:

I like cats.

He is extremely handsome.

The most important thing to remember about being in a relationship is that you have to be friends.

As you can see, the length of the independent clause is irrelevant.  (<– This sentence is not an independent clause.  Why?  Because it contains a comma.  As I just said, independent clauses do not contain any internal punctuation.)

OK, then what’s a dependent clause?  As you might have guessed, dependent clauses are dependent.  Because they lack either a subject or a verb, or both, they are thus known as sentence fragments, and you should generally avoid using them as stand-alone sentences.  (There are stylistic exceptions to this rule, but you have to know the rule before you can break it.  I break it quite frequently myself.  The first sentence of this blog post is a fragment, but that doesn’t mean all fragments work well as sentences.)

Here are some dependent clauses:

In the rain.

Although I wanted to.

The shirt.

Running really fast.

Each of these is missing either a subject or a verb, so none of them is a complete sentence—that is, none of them is independent.  Fragments work fine in day-to-day conversation, but in written English, they’re generally regarded as one of the Three Grievous Errors and should therefore be avoided.

OK.  As I said above, independent clauses and dependent clauses are the building blocks from which sentences are built.  If you can identify what’s dependent and what’s independent, you’ve got the basics of the whole written world at your fingertips.

So into the whole written world we go.

There are four basic types of sentences.  Yep, that’s right—only four.  Every single grammatically-correct declarative sentence you have ever seen is one of these four basic types.

Here they are:

  1. IC.                           Simple sentence: one independent clause standing alone; no internal punctuation
  2. IC; IC.                    Compound sentence: independent clauses separated by semicolons; no dependent clauses, no commas
  3. DC, IC.                   Complex sentence: any number of dependent clause(s) in any combination with ONE independent clause; uses at least one comma, but no semicolons
  4. IC; DC, IC.            Compound-complex sentence: any number and any combination of BOTH dependent and independent clauses, using BOTH comma(s) and semicolon(s)

You will note that although there are only FOUR basic sentence types, TWO of them use semicolons.  This means that if you don’t use semicolons, you’re limiting your use of language by roughly 50%.

But if you can identify dependent and independent clauses, then based on this little list, you now know everything you need to know to use semicolons correctly, and you can expand your range to 100%.

You can make any sentence in the world using a combination of ICs and DCs.  All you have to remember is a couple of very simple rules:

  1. All grammatically correct sentences must contain at least one IC.
  2. If you have two or more ICs in a sentence, you need to put semicolons in between them.

You can tell me right now whether or not the following sentences are grammatically correct:

IC, IC, DC.  Correct?  Or not?  (Not.  I’ve put two ICs together without a semicolon.  This is a comma splice, sometimes called a fused sentence, and it’s the second of the Three Grievous Errors.  This is never OK.)

DC, DC, IC, DC; DC, IC, DC; IC, DC, DC.  Correct?  Or not?  (Yes!  The sentence contains three ICs, but each is separated from the others by semicolons.  Semicolons are awesome.)

IC IC.  Correct?  No.  This is a run-on sentence, the third of the Three Grievous Errors, and like the comma splice, it should also always be avoided.  In real time, this would read something like this:

I love cats they are so funny.

IC, IC.   Correct?  No.  Two ICs can’t live in the same sentence without a semicolon.  What I’ve given you here is another comma splice.  In real life, it looks like this:

I love cats, they are so funny.

Here’s a little practice for you.  See what you can make with these models:

  1. IC.                                           (Simple)
  2. IC, DC.                                   (Complex)
  3. DC, DC, DC, IC.                   (Complex)
  4. IC; IC.                                    (Compound)
  5. IC; DC, IC.                            (Compound-complex)

Here are mine:

  1. IC.                           My cats make me laugh.
  2. IC, DC.                   Dogs are great companions, but I can’t live without a cat in the house.
  3. DC, DC, DC, IC.  Even when I’m grumpy, sick, or overworked, my cats can always cheer me up.
  4. IC; IC.                    I’ve had cats all my life; I could never name a favorite.
  5. IC; DC, IC.            Every cat has its own personality; contrary to popular opinion, most of them are not remotely aloof.

I should mention that there are other uses of the semicolon as well; for instance, they’re necessary in lists, where commas exist within the list.  One super-simple example of such usage would be a sentence like this:  “I went to Chicago, Illinois; Los Angeles, California; and Tampa, Florida.”

So now you’ve got all the basics of semicolon use.  Aren’t you dying to show off your skills?  Go ahead.  Give those models a shot.  I’d love to see some of your responses in the comments!

WIP: Out of My Mind(s)

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I had a professor in college who was amazed that it was possible for Wallace Stevens, arguably one of the best American poets of the twentieth century, to have worked for an insurance company by day.  “An insurance company!  Probably the most unimaginative, un-poetic career on the planet!”

(We can split hairs here if we choose, since Stevens was actually an attorney who eventually wound up as vice president of The Hartford, but the point is well taken.  No offense meant to anyone who actually works for an insurance company, though, since I know firsthand that such jobs can be fascinating.)


Regardless of what he did for a living, Wallace Stevens the poet was fascinated with the workings of the imagination.  In “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” he writes,

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.  (lines 4-6)

I’m not going to get into an analysis of the poem, but I thought of those lines tonight as I was pondering the differences between academic writing and creative writing, and the two minds that produce them.  A fellow writer, to whom I had jotted a note saying her work ethic and word-count successes had inspired me, wrote back and said, “You’re a writing teacher!  I bow to you!”

I got a giggle out of that.  Please . . please . . don’t bow to me.  I don’t deserve it.

I’m not sure what Stevens was actually referring to with his “three minds” –and I’m not going to get into Freudian theory or Taoist possibilities here—but I am going to guess, simply because he was a writer, that I know what two of them were, because writers in general are of two minds:  the “Me” and the “Muse.”

That is to say, the mind of the conscious writer (aka one’s “Me,” the Left Brain, the logical side, driven by one’s Inner Editor) and the mind of the subconscious writer (aka one’s Muse, the Right Brain, the creative side, driven—one hopes, anyway—by one’s imagination).

Stevens may have been an insurance agent (or a lawyer or a vice president or whatever) during his working hours, but outside of work, he was a poet.  And his fascination with the imagination—where ideas come from—is something that turns up in a lot of his work.

In “Study of Two Pears,” he was frustrated because no matter how he tried to metaphorize them, they stubbornly remained pears:

     They are not viols,

     Nudes or bottles.

     They resemble nothing else.  (lines 1-3)

I would argue that when he wrote that poem, his Me was in control.  But when he wrote (the much later) “Someone Puts a Pineapple Together,” his Muse could barely be contained:

     These lozenges are nailed-up lattices.

     The owl sits humped.  It has a hundred eyes.

The title tells the story:  He didn’t even know who was writing it.  That’s how the Muse works.

I understand that.

My “Me” is a well-organized sort of person, at least where her work ethic is concerned.  For instance, she likes to have all her ducks neatly in a row before the semester begins.  I could tell you, right this second, precisely what my classes will be doing on any random day you pick during the coming fall semester.  November 6th?  Yep, it’s already planned.

But that’s work.  And it works fine for academic writing as well, where one must be linear and methodical.

In contrast, as a creative writer, I’m a pantser, which means I tend to write by the seat of my pants, i.e. with a minimum of planning.  This is because my creative writing—my fiction—is driven by, and on good days is mostly written by, my Muse, and my Muse does.  Not.  Like.  Planning.


When I go back and read material I wrote yesterday, I’ll be able to tell you, with no trouble at all, whether my Muse was at work, or my Me.  My Me tends to be pedantic and detail-oriented.  My Me insists on explaining things, and she’s also overly fond of Telling, rather than Showing.  She Tells every single boring detail she can think of.  A character pours a cup of coffee, puts the pot back where it belongs, walks to the door, turns the knob, opens it, steps outside, closes it . . . You get the idea.


My Muse, on the other hand, leaps all over the place like a dragonfly or a hummingbird.  Zip, zip, zip.  When she’s off and running, it’s all my fingers can do to keep up.  Stories go in directions I’d never thought of before, much less planned.  Characters take on lives of their own.

Trouble is, she isn’t all that reliable at showing up for work.

One of my toughest jobs as a writer is to learn to get in contact with my Muse, to convince her that when I place my fingers on the keyboard, that’s a cue for her to show up and get down to business.  But this week, for instance, she’s been off zipping around somewhere else and has barely stopped by even to say hello.

I’ve been told that it’s only after you get the first draft down that you should let your Me step in and do any editing.  I’m just now beginning to understand the reasoning behind that rule.  There are two very different minds at work.  The Muse gets the draft down.  It’s spotty and flawed and it makes my Inner Editor cringe.  But she’ll get her turn too.


Assuming I don’t lose my mind.

Pot Luck: Stargazing


The luckiest kids get to go to a summer camp they love.

I was a lucky kid.  My camp?  Skyline Ranch Day Camp, in Topanga, CA.

The kids were divided into groups by gender and age, with a counselor for each.  Every morning, our counselor would receive the day’s schedule—it changed every day—and we’d be running off to whatever our first activity would be.  There was plenty to do:  trampoline, archery, BB guns, swimming, horseback riding, arts and crafts, hiking.  We’d throw ourselves into each activity for half an hour, then run at top speed to the next one.

Sometimes horseback riding or swimming would go for a full hour.  Calloo, callay!

Sometimes there were field trips: Busch Gardens, Disneyland, ice skating, fossil hunts, the beach.

Camp was never boring.  Ever.

And once a month, there’d be a weekend overnight event.  Bud, the camp’s owner and head honcho, would break out the barbecue (a massive homemade affair fashioned from half a fifty gallon drum with half an acre of diamond-shaped steel mesh grill surface), and cook hamburgers and hot dogs for everyone—everyone consisting of what seemed like a hundred assorted kids and counselors.  No idea what else we ate, but man, those burgers were good.  The big kids got to sleep on the flat roof of the Arts and Crafts building.  You had to be ten, as I recall, to be considered a Big Kid.

The year I was eleven is the one I remember best.

Two of my girlfriends and I, and two boys, twin brothers whose names I don’t recall, arranged our sleeping bags in a circle and lay there on the asphalt shingle looking at the sky.  Talked about our lives, where we lived, what our dreams were.  And then—

“Look!” said one.  “A falling star!”



The sky was alive with meteors.  It seemed like hundreds.  None of us had ever seen anything like it.  Some of us were sure it was the magical quality of that particular night; others thought every summer night was like this, and we had just never noticed before.

It was neither.  It was the Perseid meteor shower, an annual event courtesy of the Earth’s passage through the trail of the comet Swift-Tuttle.  But we didn’t know any of that.  We just knew it was cool.  I wish now that our counselors had known, that they had advertised it as a night of stargazing, had grasped a fabulous teaching and learning opportunity.  But maybe they just didn’t know.

It was many years before I ever heard the phrase “Perseid meteor shower,” and even more before I connected it to that magical night when I was eleven, when the world was still so wondrous and new.

This weekend is the anniversary of that magical night more than forty years ago, and tonight is the peak viewing night.  You can expect in the neighborhood of seventy meteors an hour, all over the sky, best viewed between midnight and dawn.

Honestly, you should go out and take a look.  Go someplace dark, away from the lights of the city, and take a sleeping bag.   Take people you love to talk to, or go alone.

Talk about your life and your dreams.

If you wish on a falling star, your wish just might come true.

You can click here for more on the Perseids and other meteor showers to watch for this year.



I did EFFECT vs. AFFECT last week, thinking someone had requested it.  I’m sure someone did, though I can’t seem to find any evidence of it.  But a reader definitely did ask me to do LAY vs. LIE, so I thought I’d take a shot today at minimizing the confusion about that one.

(Minimize, not eliminate.)

The thing with LAY vs. LIE, as with several of the other “mix-ups” I’ve addressed in the past couple of weeks, is that a great many English speakers don’t have a built-in “that doesn’t feel right” sensor for it, and even those who do often don’t know which one to use.  The result is that a whole lot of people just sort of use whichever one pops into their heads.

Don’t do that.  You need a system.

As I pointed out last week, the primary source of the confusion with EFFECT and AFFECT is that both words can be used both as nouns and as verbs.  So I’ll start with good news:  Although LAY and LIE are also used both as nouns and as verbs, the problem exists ONLY in their verb form.

LIE can be a noun, as in, “You’re not telling the truth!  That’s a LIE!”

And LAY can be a noun as well, as in, “I’m trying to figure out the LAY of the land.”

Nobody confuses these.  Nobody.  The problem isn’t with the noun versions.  It’s the verbs.

LAY is a transitive verb.  What does that mean?  It means it takes a direct object.  What does that mean?  It means you can’t just LAY DOWN when you have a headache.  If you do, you’ve chosen the wrong word.

You have to LAY SOMETHING.  That is, LAY is a verb you have to do TO something.

(You can snicker all you want, but by definition, a mnemonic is something that helps you remember things.  If you can remember that you need to LAY something, it’s working.)

If you have a headache, you can LAY your head on a nice, soft, down pillow, but you can’t just LAY down.

Hey, I didn’t make the rules . . I’m just trying to explain them.  Nobody said English was easy.

OK, so that’s LAY.

In contrast, LIE is an intransitive verb, which by definition CANNOT take a direct object.

Example:  My dog loves to LIE in the sun.  (Not LAY in the sun.)

I like to LIE in the sun myself, when it’s warm enough.  People in California are probably LYING in the sun even as I write this.  Me, I’m wearing a nice, thick sweatshirt right now.

When it warms up and I go out to LIE in the sun, I will probably LAY a towel on the ground first.

Note the direct object after LAY (the towel).

If you’re thinking you have a pretty good handle on the difference, pat yourself on the back.  But don’t get too smug, because I’m not done yet.


Because that’s all in the present tense.  And the past tense of LIE . . is LAY.

Sorry.  You can roll your eyes if you want to.  I’ll wait.


The past tense of LIE is LAY, and the past tense of LAY is LAID.

The good news is that the direct object rule still holds.

After I went swimming yesterday, I LAID my towel on the ground and LAY down on it to soak up a little sun.

If you can keep your eye on the direct object, it will all come together.

No lie.

WIP: Working at a Snail’s Pace


This week’s been a bit of a struggle, WIP-wise.  I guess that’s what I get for being so smug about last week’s accomplishments.

My deal with myself is supposed to be that I will write every day—write new material without getting lost in revision and without scooting off into Google-land every time I have a question.  The deal is supposed to be “No research, no planning, no revision, just writing.”

But I didn’t do so well on that this week.  I did a lot of revision.  I did a lot of planning.  And I spent a heck of a lot of time in Google-land.  But actual writing of new material, not so much.  Only four days of actual writing for a total of less than 2500 words for the whole week.  I console myself with the knowledge that I did work on a different story every day, and that most of that work was actually pretty useful.

Writing-wise, the first draft of Eddie’s story is now finished, and I’m truly happy with it.  It was for this story that I spent all that time in Google-land (it’s set in Belgium during WW2), but the time spent was well worth it.  The story wound up taking a couple of twists I wasn’t expecting (don’t you love when that happens?), and they set up some great potential for Chatón’s (his daughter’s) story, which up until this week I had barely even begun to think about.  Now I can’t wait for her name to come up!

Planning:  I did scene cards (a Holly Lisle tactic that my Muse usually balks at) for Emma’s story.  Emma’s and Chatón’s stories are the only two I haven’t even begun drafting yet, and this is the second time Emma’s has come up in the past couple of weeks.  Last time, I did a lot of character and story development, and now, with the scene cards, I think I’ve reached a point where the next time it comes up, I should be able to pound out a good couple thousand words on it–or maybe even get the whole draft done, who knows?  I’m really excited about this one, too.

I also got some revising done on Amelia’s and Tanna’s stories this week, but not as much as I would have liked.  Amelia’s in particular needs some serious cutting.  So now that my Muse has decided she’s willing to do the scene card thing, I think I’ll go back and re-plot Amelia’s story and see what can come out and what just needs tightening.

And finally, John’s story underwent some serious re-conceptualizing this week based on another of Holly’s methods, the Shadow Room, which provided me with a couple of surprising conflicts I hadn’t originally planned on.  Those are going to be fun to write, too.

So all in all, it looks like I’m still on track to have the novel’s entire first draft completed by September 15, as planned.  I may be working at a snail’s pace, but slow and steady wins the race.

Looks like it’s been a pretty productive week after all!

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