Word Count

I wish there was some easily-managed really cool way to keep visual track of how many words I've written and how many are still to go -- you know, something like an old hourglass, where you start out with 75,000 words or whatever and each one you write slips from one side to the other. I've seen some counters online -- Jaci Burton has one on her website -- but it shows a percentage and I want something more visual. Maybe a huge glass jar with M&Ms . . . but then I'd eat 'em and I'd forget where I am/where I need to be. I'd start eating M&Ms that haven't been written yet, and then I'd really be in trouble.

I usually only keep track of pages written each day, but for some reason on this book, I've started counting words. On a good day, when I'm just chugging along, I do about 2500 words. But my deadline's racing toward me like a freakin' freight train, so I need some super-high-speed-jetliner days in the next week. Today, so far, so good. I'm about two hours ahead of yesterday. But it's nap time, and I don't know if I'm gonna be able to write through it or not. I do love my naps. Rachel1:07 PM

Brrrr

Okay, so last week I'm in Louisiana, waiting for the grand-kiddo to pop out, and the day he's born, it's 87 degrees. Hot, muggy, sweaty -- and I'm driving the kiddo's car (because his has a base sticker and ours doesn't, so it kept me from having to check in at the visitor center every day for a pass) and the air conditioning stops working. In 87-frickin'-degree weather.

I bitch -- of course! -- and try to wheedle my way into possession of the keys to the kiddo's brand-new '08 Toyota Tundra, but don't get far with that. I'm not even trying to get the keys to DIL's car that cost more than our first ten cars combined. I just go along and sweat. And bitch.

Then we come back home. I get up yesterday, and it's 50 degrees, windy and raining. My dogs won't even stick their noses off the porch. This morning, it's like 49 degrees. C-c-cold. I'm in jeans, shoes, socks, long-sleeve shirt, sweat jacket, and still sh-h-h-ivering. So I think, "I'll turn on the heat." Aha! Bright idea. Shouldn't have taken so long to occur to me, but it's been a long time since we needed heat.

Wouldn't you know, the heat in my office is being cantankerous. It comes on, runs a few minutes, then blows the breaker. I wait a few minutes for the breaker to cool down or whatever, flip it back on, and then we repeat the process. Once I get this building up to 72, it's not going any lower until next spring when it's time to crank up the AC.

In case you can't tell it from my whine, I like winter. I love winter clothes and shoes and foods and smells. I just hate being cold. Can't abide it. And since I spent most of the summer being frozen to popsicle-consistency by other people's AC, you can imagine how cold I am in winter. But I'm pulling out the sweaters, the long-sleeved shirts, the thermal undershirts, the cowboy-boot-houseshoes, the thick wool socks, and tonight I'm making a huge pot of pasta fagiole, and I'll snuggle up under a comforter while I eat and will be happy as our newborn grand-kiddo when he's cuddling with his mama.

If I can just keep this damn heat running long enough to avoid freezing before nightfall. Rachel10:14 AM

Catch Up

It's been a pretty busy couple weeks -- our local writers' group's unpublished contest wrapping up (I'm on the committee), their third weekend-long conference (I'm on the committee), the grand-kiddo coming along (I'm on the -- whoops, the kiddo and DIL did that one all on their own).

Yep, the grand-kiddo is here at last! And he's totally adorable, and the prettiest baby ever, of course.

Mom and I drove down to Louisiana after DIL went into labor. It's about an 8 1/2 hour drive, and I didn't think we'd make it in time, since the contractions started Monday night and we didn't leave until Wednesday a.m. (Seven o'clock a.m. I didn't know there WAS a 7 a.m.)

Anyway, poor DIL was still having contractions and waiting to be admitted when we got there Wednesday evening. They finally admitted her to labor and delivery late that night and the grand-kiddo was born the next morning. Cute as a bug, and not the least bit stressed out over Mom's long labor.

In between bouts of holding the baby and telling him how gorgeous he was, and catching up with the kiddo on life in general, Mom and I learned our way around the Army post and the town -- not hard at all. It was ungodly hot -- 87 degrees the day the baby was born -- and there wasn't a whole lot to do. We talked a lot, and watched some TV (and worked not at all).

Of all the books I have in my TBR pile, I took only one with me. It was a historical that won lots of awards, and people I knew who had read it absolutely loved it, so I trusted it would be enough to fill what little reading time I had.

No freakin' way. All I could think as I began reading was, "It won a jillion awards. It's got to get better than this."

Then I began counting all the cliches, the repetition, and the examples of bad writing and started wondering, "Where the hell was her editor?"

Then I became convinced that none of the judges who awarded this book the scores that won its awards could possibly have read it. There just aren't that many stupid people judging contests.

I'm two-thirds through the book -- though I admit to skimming lots of those pages. The hero and heroine have long, meandering conversations that go nowhere, don't advance the plot and do nothing but make my eyes glaze over. She's deceiving him and bemoans that fact every time she thinks about doing something -- and I mean every time. (She didn't like this dress, but he liked it and she was lying to him. She should deal with the servants, but, oh, she felt like such a fraud because she was lying to him. She should go to bed, but if she did, he would come and seduce her and she would enjoy it, and that was so wrong when she was lying to him.)

I know, reading is subjective. People have told me that. Hell, as an apparently permanent member of our writers' group's contest committee, I tell other people that. What appeals to me may not do anything for you or, worse, might annoy the hell out of you.

But good writing ISN'T subjective. For every proper sentence in this book, there's another that's run-on or incomplete. Now, granted, incomplete sentences can be used to add impact. (There's no good reason I can think of at the moment to ever have a run-on sentence except occasionally in dialogue.) But when every page and damn near every paragraph have incomplete sentences, there's no impact except to piss me off.

And this book has seriously pissed me off. (Bad sentence structure is only one in a long list of problems.) Through contests and critiques, I see a lot of really good books written by unpublished authors who haven't had any luck so far in selling to New York, and yet this drivel was published by a major NY publisher. (And unedited to boot. Insult to injury.) About the only good thing I can say about it is that I didn't spend money on it. (It was given to me.)

But there went a few wasted hours that I'll never get back again. Rachel10:01 PM

Welcoming myself back

Jeez, it's been so long since I've stopped by here that I wasn't sure I remembered my user name or my password. I hope you all haven't given up on me ever opening my mouth here again.

The elbow's much better -- the dog who broke it isn't. He's as unrepentant as they come. So he knocked me down. Big deal. I shouldn't have been in his way. If I do it again, he fully intends to knock me down again. He knows it, and I know it. I've been warned.

I'm so glad cooler weather is here! I hate being cold, but I love cold-weather clothes and cold-weather foods. Let me put on a thermal shirt, a sweater and my orange coolest-cowboy-boot/houseshoes-in-the-world, give me a book and put a pot of beef stew on the stove, and I'm in heaven.

The grandson is due in another ten or twelve days. My mother and I are heading south as soon as we hear that DIL has gone into labor. I can't wait to see and hold the baby-kiddo. Of course, the good thing is when he needs feeding or changing or just wants to exercise his lungs, I can give him back to his parents and walk away smiling.

I do like little kids more than I used to. I went to my cousin Colton's third-birthday party the other day. He's a cool kid -- has faced some really tough times in his short life -- but he's always smiling. His five-year-old sister gave everyone a good laugh . . . at my expense.

After years of wearing really short hair, in the last couple years, I've been letting it grow. It's halfway to my waist, thick and has just enough natural curl to look as if I'd stuck my finger in an electrical outlet, so I always wear it up. Always. It's just too quick and easy -- a ponytail, a braid, or twist it and clip it.

But this was a lazy Sunday, and for whatever reason, after showering that morning, I just combed my hair and left it to do what it wanted, which, of course, was to frizz. Mega-frizz. I didn't realize it was the first time Caitlin (or anyone else there) had seen me with it down, until she stood and stared at me through her little Coke-bottle-lensed glasses and, in her sweet, little-girl voice, asked, "Rachel, what did you do to your hair?"

Okay, so it looked like an explosion in a wig factory. ("Oh, my God, it was horrible!! There was frizzy red hair everywhere!! Split ends, natural roots -- oh, the inhumanity!")

One of my sisters actually asked, "Is all that yours?"

Yeah, there's a huge market for long, frizzy red hair pieces.

I have to admit, as much as I like the ease of putting it up long, I find myself eyeing the scissors sometimes. Mind you, I can't even cut my bangs straight. I'd look I'd barely escaped some slasher movie. Or maybe I should just go straight to the razor. The shorter it is, the less there is to frizz. And less frizz is a good thing, right? Rachel10:55 AM