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Category: Writing

Because I Have Nothing Better to Do, Clearly

Are you following my Facebook page? Yes? Then I’m sorry, friend, because I’m about to share this with you again. We have thirty people coming to our house for Cian’s baptism on Sunday. Yay, I think, all these wonderful people coming to celebrate our son on such a special day! Isn’t that wonderful?! And then I take a hard look around and wonder exactly when was the last time I vacuumed the dust off the ceiling fans. I was breastfeeding Cian in the back of the minivan yesterday morning (as you do) in between errands (to be exact, dropping Saoirse off at school, returning borrowed clothes to a friend’s house, Cian’s 4-month well check, a stop by the wine store, the bakery, then back to Saoirse’s school.  You know, the usual), and checked the news on my phone. I saw something about Kate Middleton readying the nursery in some palace or manor or what-have-you for her impending royal offspring, and didn’t think anything of it, mainly because Quinn was sprinkling pretzel Goldfish all over the floor of the car. But later…

This is Big

Note: My apologies in advance, you guys. Might want to get two cups of coffee for this one, because it’s really, really long. I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. I talk a lot when I get excited. Two years ago, I decided to take the challenge of National Novel Writing Month–NaNoWriMo–and write a 50,000 page book during the month of November. I was writing already, but I needed a focus, something that was so big of a challenge (a novel in a month? Why not?!) it seemed almost impossible. Quinn wasn’t yet six months old. I think she was sleeping through the night. All I remember is being really, really tired, sitting in front of the computer until about 11:30 every night, and the gigantic mound of laundry piled up on the couch beside me. The end result, which made me so happy to complete, was straight-up terrible. The book, I mean, not the laundry. The laundry’s always terrible. One year later, after stripping that glob of words down to its basic framework and building it back up to about 70,000…

You Can Probably Smell it from There

What screams “desperate housewife” more: a) baking chocolate chip cookies for the UPS delivery man, b) downing a bottle of wine on the couch during the afternoon soaps, or c) writing a novel feverishly while the children sleep, subsisting on chocolate and tepid water? Please say a or b.  Please. I’ve been wanting to tell you this for awhile, only because it’s like my dirty little secret I keep hidden in a dark corner of the closet (which means–if you’re familiar at all with a couple of our closets–it will survive a nuclear holocaust, because it’s that buried). I am. I admit it. I’m working on a book. Actually, I’ve written it. The rough draft was completed last fall, during a fit of focused determination that resulted in hours of me in front of the laptop, and a house that quickly bulged with its dirty laundry (literal, not figurative), a family that ate Cheerios and some applesauce for dinner night after night, and an indulging husband who sent me text messages to let me know he still existed and made sure the…