They're back......

Kim Watters here. They're back. These ugly, bird dropping, leaf eating thugs are here again and have multiplied big time. My kids and pulled off about a dozen of these things off my lemon tree this year. Commonly known as orange dog caterpillars, they love eating citrus leaves. My citrus leaves. So, like last year, being the educational minded parent, we placed 6 of them in an aquarium so my kids can watch their metamorphosis.  Within a few days, they all formed their cocoons, and now we're waiting for the Giant Swallowtail butterflies to emerge.Last year only one emerged. We're hoping for at least two this year.


So what about you? What type of things do you do for your kids? What kind of every day happenings do you make into an educational experience? And for you writers, how many real life incidents make their way into your books? Inquiring minds want to know.

Imagine....

On our vacation travels this summer, my kids and I discovered this really interesting Starbucks. Looking for some way to cool off from the unseasonably hot temperatures of Pennsylvania, (of course it wasn't too bad since we're from Phoenix but for the locals....) we wandered into the store. Okay, so nothing unusual there. What made me stand up and take notice was the place was built in 1758. That's right. It's older than our country. We just had to take a look inside.

As we sat at our table admiring the fireplaces, the floor, and just about every other detail, my writer's mind started percolating. I thought about the similarities between the centuries. William Doyle (the founder of Doylestown) built it as a tavern back in 1758. In 2013 we were sitting enjoying another kind of beverage. Of course, the clothing, the speech patterns, and topics of discussion, were different, but the tavern was built as a gathering place for locals and travelers alike.

Imagine the what it was like back then. What did the people see when they looked out the same window we did? What did they hear? What did they think about? Did William Doyle ever think his building would still be standing and remain a gathering place?

Now imagine 250 years from now. Hard, isn't it? Especially when I have trouble keeping dates straight on the calendar, but still.....What does the future hold?

As a writer, I can control the outcome and future in my books. But as people, we play a key in controlling what we do to our planet for our future generations. I don't know about you, but in 2263, I think it would be really neat for another writer to sit inside the old tavern, staring at the hovercrafts driving by, thinking about the past and the future as they create their next story.

Overcoming Fear or Water Park, here we come!

Kim Watters here. Fear is something we all have, some just hide it better than others. Me, I don't hide it very well. But with life, as well as writing, there are some things you just have to do if you want to have fun. So back in March I bought season passes to Wet 'N Wild here in Phoenix. At the time I thought it a great idea. Kids and water in the summer. Me? I'd be in the Wave Pool or floating down the Lazy River. Right. We went on the hottest day of the year with the temps topping out at 119. Lazy River out unless I wanted to fry. Okay, so I'll go on a few rides. Tame rides. Unfortunately, my kids had other ideas. So what's a mom to do? Allow her kids to think she's a chicken? So, I let me talk them into the roller coaster ride. Yes, it is just like it sounds. My heart was pounding, mouth dry, hands clenched as the operator pushed the button that released the raft into the tube. Up, down, all around several times before the last drop into the end. Guess what? It was a blast. I did it again. We then did the Tornado. I called it the toilet bowl, same idea. We dropped down from the tube and slid up the other side, back and forth until dropping into the bottom. Another fun ride. (see the picture) So I conquered my fear of some (but not all) of the rides at the park and can't wait until next time.

The same applies for writing. Are you just going to sit and write and never submit to contests or publishing house? Guess what? You'll never sell that way. So get out of your comfort zone, write, revise and submit. Take a chance. You'll never know how much fun it is until you try it.

The Bird Whisperer

Kim Watter here, the other day I was riding my bike, a real bike, not the stationary one that doubles as a purse and belt holder, enjoying the morning before the summer heat set in in Phoenix. As the slight breeze with a hint of refreshing coolness danced across my skin, and the enjoyable scent of night still lingered, I noticed a movement out of the corner of my eye--a baby quail running along the curb trying to jump the concrete barrier to join his family.


Poor thing. Now keep in mind that I don’t particularly like birds—long story that stems from a childhood incident…but if I didn’t intervene, Junior was going to exhaust himself, get hit by a car, or eaten. None of his options looked good. I scanned the area looking for his family, but they were long gone. This is the reason quail have so many eggs at a time. Most of them don’t survive until adulthood. But they are so cute and fluffy as they form a line and trail between momma and papa bird.

So I had a choice to make. Intervene, catch the little bugger, and take him to the local bird lady to raise, or leave him where he was. Actually, there wasn’t a choice adn I told him so. Let me tell you though, for such a small thing, this guy was quick despitemy words, but determination finally won over exhaustion. Of course getting home on my bike riding one handed, worrying if the little guy or gal was going to peck at my hand, or escape, was a challenge.

So how does this relate to writing?

A lot. Well for one, I like to use real life stories in my writing, so don’t be surprised if this incident appears in an upcoming book. For another, it demonstrates overcoming fear.

A necessary thing if an author is going to make in the publishing world today. I was not going to let the baby quail die, so I had to overcome my fear of birds for a moment. I’d say this fear is similar to how I felt when I sent out my first manuscript to an editor. I eventually got over it, just as I got through the ride back to my house carrying the baby quail in my hand. He survived and so did I.

Vive LasVegas Part 2-The Name Game

Kim Watters here. I took my kids to Las Vegas over Spring Break. Yes, I know, a great place for kids. Actually it can be, if you look at it as a learning experience, first by telling them to ignore all the little postcards on the ground, and then by talking to your kids about the reason why Vegas is there in the first place. And it’s not about all the free shows, lights, and the action.

My son learned first hand at the Midway inside Circus Circus. Yes, folks, Vegas is in the business of making money, not giving it out. A hard lesson for my preteen son who dropped his entire 20 dollars on one game and left empty-handed. I fared a little better by whacking a rubber chicken into the empty pot. Okay, I couldn’t resist. First time I’ve ever won anything at a carnival. And I have to admit—it was fun!

I digress though and what this blog is really about. Actually, I’m still trying to figure that one out but here’s a funny story that, unlike the “What happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas”…….I couldn’t help but share.
So let me set the scene. I haven’t been to Vegas in over a decade and I’m not familiar with the roads. It’s cloudy and windy and ready to rain any minute. I’m also trying to listen to my GPS to tell me what road to exit, so I’m not looking at the billboards, only the reflection from my white knuckles gleaming on the wheel.

My son’s voice pops up from the back seat. “Wow, it costs a dollar to take a crap in this town?”

I grab the wheel a little tighter, and try to control my laughter. I honestly have no idea what he’s talking about because I’m concentrating on driving. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?” I say in my most dignified voice.

“That billboard over there. It says dollar craps.”

Okay, I couldn’t stop help myself. I burst out laughing when I realized what he was talking about. I guess we were going to have that talk a little earlier than planned.

So what’s with the name? I googled it and found several different versions for how it could be. English crabs, crab apples. Crapaud? Interesting. I guess there could be worse names but seriously, they could have picked a better one. But then again, all those years ago, the word probably didn't have the same meaning it does today. So when you're deciding character names, or what to call your children, be careful and mindful of the future.

Kim Watters here. The other day I was helping my son with an assignment. Yes, I know, but hey, he was on a deadline and I type much faster than he does. But being that kind of mom, I wouldn't do the assignment for him, just prompt him to do his own thinking. Anyway, the conversation went something like this:

"So, what's it called when you work for someone for free?"

"Slavery."

Okay. So not the answer I was looking for but he had a point. After I finished laughing and trying to clear the ater that I'd been drinking from my nose, I rephrased the question.

"Okay then. What's it called when you work for someone to learn something?"

"An apprentice."

You can tell he's into mystical things. "Okay, better. How about intern?"

This conversation got me to thinking about two things.

1) How important it is to ask the right questions.

2) How important each word we use is.

Because let's face it. The wrong questions can lead us and our characters down the wrong path, and we won't realize it until it's too late. How many times have you come up against a wall, that had you known which questions to ask or delved deeper into the character, you may have been able to avoid? Or had you rephrased it, may have gotten acompletely different answer?

Using the right word to convey a mood or feeling is intregral to the story. How may times have you been pulled out of a story because the author didn't use the right word or convey the right meaning? Or how many times you've used your favorite word or words until it's overdone?

I'm guilty of all of the above, which is why I never turn out a final manuscript the first time or even the second time around. One of these days, I hope to take my own advice.

So ask and choose wisely or you may be the one snorting water when you hear the answer.

I did it.

Kim Watters here. Well, I did it. Something I thought I'd never do. I climbed out on the clear platform of the Willis (Sears) Tower on the 103rd floor during our recent vacation to Chicago. Okay, so I was practically hyperventilating....and freaked out but I couldn't let my kids get the best of me. Unfortunately I don't have a picture that I can post to prove it because my camera died. I did shell out $32 for the pictures they took but I don't have a scanner so you'll have to use your imagination.

Here's a photo courtesy of the Willis Tower website though to give you an idea. It's giving me the shivers just looking at it.

How did I do it?

I didn't look down!

But I did it. So next time you're in Chicago, you've got to try it. If you dare. Trust me. If this chicken can do it, so can you. Closing your eyes also works as well.

Death, Taxes and the Writer

Kim Watters here. Today I wanted to talk about death and taxes. Yes. That’s right.

“In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes."

Thanks, Benjamin Franklin. True today as it was two centuries ago.

So how does this relate to writing? Interesting question. Well, sit back and grab a cup of coffee see if you can agree with me.

My daughter’s robo dwarf hamster died a few weeks ago. Tragic, I know, but not completely unexpected for the two year old hamster. I knew by how Twister was acting a few days before that something wasn’t quite right and had tried as best I could to prepare my daughter. So on that fateful day when I went to feed Twister, I knew the inevitable had happened. Now I had to tell my daughter.

I cried as I held her trembling body, but this is a fact of life. We are born, live and die. I hate to tell you folks it’s inevitable. Some of us just hang around a bit longer than others and some species are just blessed with longer life spans. Between my two children, we’ve gone through 4 hamsters already; each one receiving a proper burial befitting their family status.

I think she recovered quicker than I did and is already talking about her next ‘best friend’. This time we adopted a cat. Two actually. Of course my son’s still alive and kicking hamster is throwing fits about that. Hmmmm. I wonder why?

Anyway, I must admit I kind of feel like a death has occurred when I finish a manuscript. I’ve spent so much time with the characters that once I’ve finished their story and have to say goodbye, it feels so final. I know it’s coming and I can only prolong it for so long. Deadlines, you know? But each time I type ‘The End’ a part of me has died; the relationship ended. The funeral takes place as I ship the package off to my editor. As authors, how do you feel? For you readers, what do you feel when you finish a book?

The other certainty in life is taxes. While that part isn’t quite so traumatic, it does leave my checkbook lighter. Because we’re considered self-employed, writers have to pay their own taxes, and Uncle Sam really likes it when we send in quarterly estimates to avoid penalties and interest come tax day.

So there you have it. Death and taxes from this writer’s perspective. Anyone else care to elaborate?

The Past Revisited

Kim Watters here. My past has caught up with me. In the midst of sorting through old boxes of stuff from my youth, I came across an aptitude test that I’d taken in high school a few decades ago. Okay, I guess now is the time to admit I hate throwing anything away. My name should be Kim Packrat Watters.

I don’t know why it is so difficult to let go. Maybe it’s because each and every scrap of paper, or tiny glass figurine has meaning to me. Do I really need all the things that I’ve kept throughout the years? No. Can I live without them? Obviously yes, since they’ve been hidden in boxes. But parting with them is like throwing a piece of myself away. I have to force myself to do it because I’m moving. I don’t need every single note my girlfriends passed to me in high school. Past letters from boyfriends are simply taking up space because we’ve all moved on in our lives.

My Girl Scout sash stays and so do the articles I wrote for my high school paper. They represent a lifetime ago and I’ll enjoy sharing them with my kids. But do I really need my SAT scores? I graduated college a few decades ago. Hmmm. Maybe. Not telling you those, though.

Back to my aptitude scores. I’d vaguely remembered this test and always wondered where I’d put the piece of paper. It would be interesting to see what the scores were as an adult firmly planted in the real world. See? Being a packrat helps. As a kid, I hadn’t paid much attention to them. Maybe I was too busy thinking about boys? College? What to wear to the next basketball game and not some black type written words on a piece of paper? Hard to say, but when you’re a hormonal teen, it could have been any number of reasons. The real reason was that I had sights on being a foreign correspondent or work for a large international corporation.

Imagine my surprise when I found that piece of paper a few weeks ago and saw that I scored very high in the creative field. It said I had to ability to be a writer. Wow. Really? And all these years I’ve been an accountant. I never did work in the international field. Maybe one of my characters will one day.

I guess these tests really do have some truth to them. Fast forward a few decades later. Guess what? I am a writer. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think back then when I slipped that paper into a box that I would actually unknowingly fulfill that destiny. Interesting, isn’t it?

Groundhog Day History and the Writer

Kim Watters on Groundhog Day.

(Adapted from "Groundhog Day: 1886 to 1992" by Bill Anderson) Credit given to The Official Punxsutawney Groundhog Club

Punxsutawney Phil

European Roots

Groundhog Day, February 2nd, is a popular tradition in the United States. It is also a legend that traverses centuries, its origins clouded in the mists of time with ethnic cultures and animals awakening on specific dates. Myths such as this tie our present to the distant past when nature did, indeed, influence our lives. It is the day that the Groundhog comes out of his hole after a long winter sleep to look for his shadow.

If he sees it, he regards it as an omen of six more weeks of bad weather and returns to his hole.

If the day is cloudy and, hence, shadowless, he takes it as a sign of spring and stays above ground.

The groundhog tradition stems from similar beliefs associated with Candlemas Day and the days of early Christians in Europe, and for centuries the custom was to have the clergy bless candles and distribute them to the people. Even then, it marked a milestone in the winter and the weather that day was important.

As a writer I can relate to poor Phil.

We hibernate as we write our manuscripts, venturing out only when we have to to eat or do laundry or other tasks that keep the household running. We slave away in our dark, little caves, churning out page after page of wonderful prose destined to meet with editorial and reader approval.

And then comes the revision letter.

If it's an easy one, (no shadow), we can emerge from our caves and enjoy life a bit more as the winter season has passed.

If it's a complicated one, (shadow), we scurry back into our caves for a few more weeks of a writing frenzy until we can emerge again and enjoy the Spring.

As for this writer, I just emerged from my cave for a bit, waiting for my editor's reply.

Happy Groundhog Day everyone. And for those in the East, I certainly hope for a cloudy day.

Paid Forward

Last summer, I found a wallet in the street. Being a Christian and I’d like to think, a very nice person, I tracked down the owner through a business card in his wallet and gave it back to him because that’s what we do. The early twenty-something was very grateful and tried to pay me. I didn’t accept. I figured he needed the eleven dollars in his wallet more than I did. I simply requested he pay it forward sometime and that in turn, I would have it paid forward for me.

Fast forward to December 26th. Yep, you got it. The day after Christmas sales and the day my kids wanted to trade in all their gift cards and cash because they just didn’t get enough games for their Nintendos. My ten-year-old son carries his own wallet. Hey, I’m trying to teach responsibility. Well, you guessed it. He took it out in the toy section to count his loot and put it on a shelf when he picked up a toy.

When we got home—because my seven-year-old forgot her envelope in the rush to run out the door—my son asked where his wallet was. After a few heart-stopping moments, we jumped back in the car and raced back to Target. Along the way I said a prayer to God that the wallet would still be there--believe me, I knew the chances were slim on such a busy day—but I prayed anyway. I asked him to pray as well.

“No.” My son is having issues with his belief and somehow feels God hates him-especially now that his wallet is gone. “God hates me.”

“No He doesn’t, Honey. God has bigger things to worry about than picking on you.”

“Nope. He hates me.”

“Okay Lord, I need some help here. Really need some help.” I tried again. “God loves you. Sometimes he just has a unique way of showing it. There’s got to be a gift or message in this for you from Him.”

Mentally I’m trying to count how much money was in that wallet and knew it was going to cost me at least a hundred on top of what I’d already spent for Christmas, because I refused to let the lost wallet dash his Christmas spirit. Okay, I know there’s tough love and a responsibility factor, but there’s also being a parent and protecting our children from the harsh realities of life as long as we can. It’s a scary world out there and he’ll spend more time in it than in the dreamy state of childhood.

It turns out I didn’t need to worry. My prayers worked. Rushing up to the customer service counter while my kids scrounged around the toy section, I asked if a wallet had been found.

“A black child’s wallet with no ID?” The young lady asked?

“Yes. It’s got a few Target gift cards, a Borders card and some twenties inside.”

“Yes. Tiffany has it. Some man found it in the toy section and gave it to her.”

I almost cried. I’d like to hug the man who found the wallet and realized he held a child’s Christmas inside. It would have been so easy for him to pocket it and use it himself, except he understood the contents were more than just pieces of plastic and money.

He truly was a messenger, and my son learned that God does love him. So whoever my good Samaritan was. Thank you and God Bless You.

Kim Watters here. So, last year we joined the YMCA. For the kids of course. They have a swimming pool, a climbing wall, racquetball courts, a teen center and joy of joy, summer camp. The kids have enjoyed every minute of it. I, of course, enjoyed every minute the kids were there.

Since it’s a family membership, the kids soon got smart. “Hey mom, why don’t you ever come to the Y?”

“Er, because I’m allergic to working out?”

“Really?” Miss Priss gave me a skeptical look.

“Chicken.” Mr. Sarcastic piped in. “Look here, it’s a list of classes they teach. How hard can it be?”

Okay, I’ve been bested by my kids. “You’re right. How hard can it be?”

I glanced at the sheet. Boxing. No way. Body Pump? Sounded exhausting. Body Flow? Hmm. Sounds better but I’ve never done Pilates. Zumba? Can’t dance. Not going there. Ever. Cycling? Sounded good. I used to bike as a kid, no problem. While my son enjoyed the teen center, “gasp” they have daycare for the “mini me”. Drat! I had no excuse now.

So the next time we went to the Y I got dolled up in my cute coordinated work out outfit and signed up for the class. I remembered to bring in a towel and water bottle even though I suspected I wouldn’t be needing it. I stepped inside and my heart dropped to my stomach and breathing became a chore. Sounds like a romance novel, right? Wrong. Those metal contraptions with wheels do not look like the exercise bikes of the past.

Fast forward to the pert, in shape instructor who has legs I can only dream about. “Okay, class, are you ready?”

I nod my head, trying to conserve energy. I have a feeling I was going to need it.
The class kicks me in the rear end. I huff, and I puff, and my backside goes numb. My thighs are worse than overcooked spaghetti noodles trying to hold up a meatball. And that’s in the first fifteen minutes.

Panting, I hang my head in shame. Spinning is much harder than it looks. So is writing.
I grimace each time I hear someone say they can write a book. Okay, so do it. Sit down in that chair and spill your characters guts and emotion. Sweat from places you never knew you could sweat from. Feel the pain and agony of a blank page or another rejection or another level in the bike. Learn and keep learning.

Will I let that class keep me from doing it again? No. The next week I’ll be back in the saddle again and will do much better the next time around. Did I let the last rejection keep me from writing? No. I put the e-mail behind me and started working on a different story that sold.

Because learning to ride a bike is a lot like writing. You start of with training wheels, go slowly and even fall a few times. Then you gain more confidence and you’re off and riding and writing. Maybe at the end, you’ll have a great set off legs and a polished manuscript ready for the editor’s desk. That’s my goal, so take it for what it’s worth.

The Perfect Shell

My daughter’s favorite activity during our recent vacation was collecting seashells along the shore. A true beachcomber like her mom, she was up at the crack of dawn because that’s when the best shells are available. Also like her mom, she also doesn’t realize that vacations are meant for sleeping in, hanging out by the sea or pool and not doing much of anything.

Another perfect morning dawned as the tide ebbed in and the sun’s rays stretched across horizon, staining the sky a bright blue. We had the beach pretty much to ourselves, except for the lone jogger playing tag with the sea. Strolling through the rocks and sand, we found all kinds of fascinating shells. Some whole, most not because of years of the pounding surf. Some still had creatures inside that we had to take back and toss into the sea when they stuck their black legs out and took a stroll along our condo balcony. My personal favorites were the corkscrew shells, but most of them were still occupied and had to be left behind. My daughter’s favorite was pretty much all of them.

“Look, Mommy. I found one.” My daughter holds up half a clamshell covered with some sort of black growth.

“No, Emily. That shell is broken. Let’s throw it back.”

“But I like it. I want to keep it.” Into the bucket it goes.

“Really, darling, we can’t keep all of them. See? It’s broken and not very pretty.” I pick up a shell, shake my head and for affect, look it over, show her the flaw and throw it back into the tide pool.

“Why not? We found them.”

Good point. Score one for the seven year old.

“Because its not perfect. We need to pick and chose the best ones.”

Good point, Score one for mom.

“I don’t care. I like them all.” She picks it back up and drops it into the bucket.

Okay, maybe I’ll find a use for it after all.

This conversation with my daughter got me to thinking about the perfect shell—and the perfect word. How many times have I struggled to find the right word? Said could be written as growled, or whispered, or muttered. It all depends on what feeling I’m trying to convey. I toss around a few more options and throw the ones back that don’t seem to fit, just like the shells that don’t fit my criteria for going into the bucket.

Picking the perfect word is as important as making sure I don’t find an unexpected guest on my patio later. I have to look inside and all around, hold the shell up to the light and run my fingers around the edges. In my manuscript I have to test out the word, and see how it flows in the context of the sentence. Does it convey what I really want to say? Is it pretty? Is it the perfect word to compliment my manuscript or the perfect shell to grace my bucket?

My daughter wants to be a writer when she grows up. I sincerely hope she figures out some day that there are differences in words and shells and that not all of them are as perfect as we sometimes think they are. Sometimes it might take a few tries to get it right, but in the end we will find the perfect word and the perfect shell.

What will I do with all the shells we collected? I plan on gluing them to a picture frame and putting a family photo from our vacation inside. What will I do with all the words that simply can’t be used? Throw them back for now and let the sea of sand and time mold them into something that can be used at a later date.

Save The Octopus

Kim Watters here. We're on vacation at the beach a few weeks ago, in Rocky Point, Mexico. That in itself is another story, and not for the feint of heart. So, my daughter and I are out early in the morning hunting for seashells, minding our own business when we hear a scream.

Being curious souls and realizing there is no one else on the beach except us and two other ladies, my young daughter and I go to investigate what the ladies are pointing at on the sand. At first we didn’t see the two gelatinous globs of brown speckled things with eight arms until we were almost on top of them. I immediately conjured up images of fried calamari and had a hard time reconciling the two. Not that I for a minute thought about the possibilities of dinner that night.

Anyway, these poor creatures got washed up with the rough tide the night before and were at least twenty yards from sea. Hmmm. We can’t just leave them there, so one the other ladies took her hat off and was trying to douse them with water. Each time she did, their heads would enlarge and the blow hole would go off. Really creepy.

So now there are four of us standing around pointing at these octopuses trying to figure out how to get them back into water. I certainly wasn’t going to touch the squishy, filmy, slimy things. The hat wasn’t really working at holding much water so I *gasp* sacrificed my coffee so we’d have a cup and a much better way to keep them hydrated while we put our heads together. Finally I realized I was holding a bucket full of shells.

Tada. I dumped my shells into my daughter’s bucket and scooped up the poor fellow and ran with him to the sea. I waded into the surf, put the bucket in the water and turned it over.

I’m sure by now you’re shaking your heads. That’s right. Everything but the octopus spilled out of the bucket. Our hapless friend has suctioned himself to the bottom. Great. I already broke a glass the night before, now I’m going to have to e-mail the condo owner that his bright, red bucket has been sacrificed to Poseidon to save the sea life. (Of course we still have the other one to deal with, too.)

Fast forward to the security guard at the resort. I’m sure the last thing he wanted to do before he got off his shift was get his shoes wet prying an octopus loose, but Luis was a real “hero” about it. He finally managed to convince our friend that he was safer in the tide pool than with a big stick poking him in the head.

Number two went without a much of a fight at all.

So what does this have to do with writing? Aside from a story scene? Double hmmm.

How many of you have felt like our poor octopuses, trapped in unfamiliar territory and in limbo? You can see the ocean or the publishing contract, you just can’t figure out how to get there. How many of you have felt paralyzed with fear about submitting or finishing the book, or even decided to start writing, and suctioned yourself to the bottom of a bucket? You’re safe for now, but outside it’s a big people eat octopus world.

Relax, there are always people willing to help you along the way, be it us beach combers or God, or your writing friends, critique partners, family, agents or editors. We’re all in this sea of life together. We’re all God’s children, whether we have two legs or eight. So what are you waiting for? Get out of the bucket and live. What’s the worse that could happen?

Learning to fly

As I walked into my office the other day, I noticed a baby bird on the patio. Even though I don't particularly like birds--a childhood nightmare that would take too long to explain here--this poor thing was kind of cute. I sure hope Mama was around to teach Junior how to fly because the snakes have come out of hybernation and are on the slither.

A few hours later as I'm sitting at my desk, I see Mama bird has decided to show up to take care of Junior. In between processing our daily accounting functions, I see Mama flapping her wings and hopping away. Junior is trying to mimic her. It's so cute to see the struggle and how many times Junior spread his wings. It reminds me of being a writer.

In the beginning we struggled to learn the craft. Each passing day or moment, we honed it, like Junior was trying to do with his wings. A little hop--a paragraph, a bigger jump--a chapter. Then hopefully flight--or a book. And each time, we had our own cheering section in our family, friends or critique group--or in Junior's case--Mama bird.

Flash forward to the next day. Junior is still on the ground, having survived the night, but he's not looking very good. He hasn't learned to fly yet and Mama bird is gone. Not knowing anything about how to take care of him, it's time to call in some help.

I believe at every point in our career, we all need some sort of reinforcement, whether its in the form of a class, workshop or editorial/agent input. Occasionally, I take classes to refresh or improve my knowledge. I also have a critique group, two final readers and a wonderful editor to help me along.

Junior has the local Bird Lady. She swoops down (drives up) and takes Junior home in the hopes of saving him. Is she successful? I don't know. I couldn't bring myself to call and find out since I'd become attached to poor Junior.

As I sit here at my desk again a few days later, I hear a bird chirp. I'd like to think it's Junior, but even if it's not, I know that whichever bird made that sound had his own struggles while he learned to fly. You will, too. The path of a writer isn't easy.
How do you now if you'll be successful? First of all, learn to fly--or finish the book. Don't be afraid to spread your wings and learn new things because the reward is well worth the struggle it took to get there.

What's in a Name?

By Kim Watters

A few weekends ago, my young daughter’s hamster died. Okay, being the loving mom that I am, I immediately agreed to get her another one because there’s nothing cuter than a furry fluff ball of a rodent that can do acrobats on the sides of the wire cage and spin for hours on her wheel. So the other night was the big night. All the way down to the big box pet store we discussed new names.

Keep in mind that I loved the deceased hamster’s name Mousla. It suited the somewhat lazy, okay if it will amuse you I’ll spin on my wheel for you Russian Dwarf hamster, which spent a lot of time eating and sleeping.

Well, my darling daughter decided this new hamster was going to be named Twister. I should have stopped the car right then and there and turned around. No way should I have allowed my precocious child to walk through those big, glass double doors. No way should I have allowed that darling of mine to even look at a cage filled with ROBO dwarf hamsters. The name alone should have sent shivers down my spine. ROBO. I’ve got images of the Terminator flitting through my consciousness even as I write this. A super-stud hamster on a mission to take out everything in its path.

“But they’re so cute, Mama. Paleeze?”

“Oh, honey, let’s go see what the other big box store has.”

“But they’re so cute and you promised.” Foot stomping on ground now. “I want one.”

Okay, so now it’s images of the spoilt brat from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

“I know I promised sweetie. How about one of those docile, sleeping ones in this cage?”

“Boring.” My son pipes in. “How about a rat? We can name him Remy, like in the movie Ratatouille.”

“Er, no honey, your dad doesn’t like rats.”

Neither does your mom because they do not look as cute as Hollywood portrays them.

“May I help you?” An unsuspecting Michael approaches with a key.

NO! “May we see one of those cute, little hamsters over there, please?”

“Can I have two?”

“One.” She tricked me. I was in over my head now.

My first clue to my future nightmare should have been when it took Michael a few minutes to capture our new pet. The pet house went belly up. The wheel tipped over. Wood chips went flying as if struck by a tornado-er-Twister.

After we got our fluff ball home, I realized she could jump. Close to twelve inches straight up in the air. And if she got away would be almost impossible to catch. We have dogs that chase anything. Not a good combination, people.

So after some quick internet research, I discovered she might be able to escape through the metal bars of her cage. Not a good thing to figure out AFTER she’s home. Being the kind mom that I am and not wanting to have to attend another pet funeral so quickly, I switched cages with my son’s hamster that lived in an aquarium. Fortunately, the switch-off went without a glitch. So now we can see all the acrobatics, and dervishes this hamster on speed creates.

Or a Twister.

What’s in a name? Isn’t that a loaded question? As a writer, a lot. As a mom, well….lets just say I should have put my writer’s cap on instead of wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Aside from the usual naming books that give me the meaning and the background of a name, my other favorite research guide is Pierre Le Rouzic’s The Name Book. This book contains incredible information on the personality and characteristics of a name.

For instance, in my latest contracted book, the heroine’s name is Ruth. Her highly tuned emotions and high moral code are perfect for the caring and nurturing medical profession she works in, as opposed to say an Andrea or Erica, who would be better suited for a career elsewhere. Or my hero, Noah, a pilot who needs adventure but tends to be on the stubborn side and won’t let go of his son’s death.

A lot goes into naming a character, or a child, or a pet. Somehow Twister didn’t quite make it into Pierre’s book, but I can see the entry if there was one. Highly active, able to climb walls in a single bound, super speed energy without the benefit of caffeine. Kind of like a child I know. And last but not least, a cute, furry fluff ball that will worm its way into the hearts of unsuspecting humans.

Letting Go

Letting Go
By Donna Delgrosso

The other day, we finally gave my son’s hockey equipment away. The puck, hockey sticks and goal went to a neighbor’s son. When he came to the door, he was grinning from ear to ear and he was so excited that he practically jumped out of his shoes. I watched his blond hair bounce up and down under his red baseball cap as he and my husband carried everything across the street to a new home.

It was a bittersweet moment. Even though I was ready to let it go and am happy to see a friend take them over, I was still a little choked up. Another small part of my son’s childhood was gone. I loved playing street hockey with him. And the memories I have of the time I spent running after the puck on flat feet or on roller blades will never fade.

Those feelings are happening a lot lately as layer by layer he sheds his little boy ways and grows up.

On that same day, a friend remarked that she’d finished a manuscript. I know she’s happy that it’s completed but she also gave me the idea that she was a little sad to see it go. After all, she’d spent several months getting to know the characters and now, they were gone. I began to think again about the parallels between my writing and life.

I think every writer I know, talks about their characters as if they were living, breathing beings. Let’s face it… they are! They wake us in the middle of the night with a problem so big that we have to write it down. Or- they just won’t let us get out of something unless we do it their way. We spend hours, days even months getting to know them. We’ll talk them down from a conflict and sit patiently at the computer so they can do the same for us.

I have to confess- I don’t know that feeling of selling a manuscript yet. I’m still writing my first novel and have been at it a while. But I’m trying not to let it bother me- I’m having too much fun! It’s so cool to see a story develop in front of my eyes and to watch characters that I created change for the better. Conflicts erupt in front of my eyes and I have to choose to resolve them or make them even worse. Then I have to figure how to get out of the mess.

I’m now thinking of my manuscript as my hockey goal. I want to see it in a new home- on a shelf in a bookstore- and I want to see someone get excited because they’re holding it in their hands. Just like my neighbor’s son was about his new stuff.

I know I can do it. When I began writing this article, I asked some of my friends their feelings after they had sent their manuscript away. I was so surprised by their answers that the article took on a life of its own. So I decided to write another about them. I’ll include them next month.