A Day in the Life of...

I have an issue on my heart today, which is posted on my personal blog: www.betsy-ann.blogspot.com

Because of that, I'm unable to think of anything at the moment to inspire you here, so, I thought I'd offer a quick peek into the day of a life of a stay-at-home/write-at-home young mother. =) (PS - this is a typical day when my husband goes to work, which isn't every day as he's a fireman)

6:00 a.m. - Hubby, almost late as usual, finally makes it out the door to work, pausing to give me a quick kiss on the forehead.

6:01 a.m. - I grunt and roll over and beg God to let the door shut quietly so as not to wake Little Miss.

7:15 a.m. -Hear Little Miss stir through monitor, think I should probably get up, but hey, five more minutes won't kill her, right?

7:25 a.m. - Brush teeth, splash water on face, and immediately am energized to face the day. Seriously. I'm a morning person after that splash. Go and get Little Miss's breakfast bar and juice ready.

7:30-8:00 a.m. - Snuggle Little Miss in chair while she eats breakfast and enjoys her cartoons and snuggle time with Mama. Start brainstorming what I need to accomplish for the day.

8:00 a.m. - 9:00 a.m. - Think I should probably exercise, don't wanna get "writer's spread" but then realize that eating Lucky Charms and keeping my feet propped up while we enjoy Dora is much more tempting. I cave, and figure that avoiding the second bowl of Lucky Charms cancels out the need to exercise.

9:00 a.m. - 9:35 a.m. - Get my booty out of the chair, and enlist Little Miss's help in house work. We do dishes and laundry, making all of it a game, and giggle a lot. She loves peek a boo, so I randomly jump out from behind doors and tickle her, and she's quite content.

9:40 a.m. - Elmo on tube while I get dressed. Little Miss is stoked, and enjoys some furry red puppets with her snack of choice.

10:15ish a.m. - 11:30 a.m. - Play, watch more cartoons, go outside to get the mail, finish more laundry and dishes, make some phone calls (Little Miss thinks everything she touches can be a phone, and now walks around holding random objects, such as a child's New Testament or my sock to her ear, jabbering.)

11:30 a.m. - Little Miss in bed for nap. Blows kisses bye bye, reminds me how blessed I am to have such a sweetheart. I run for my Bible and do my quiet time before settling down to write.

12:00 noonish - 1:30ish p.m. - Sit with laptop and a Diet Coke and blog, catch up on emails, and eventually, write. This is when time flies and I rarely notice what time it is until once again, Little Miss stirs from down the hall. Usually she wakes up happy, and I can let her talk and play while I finish my scene or thought. Rarely, she wakes up a little grumpy and cries, which means laptop off NOW.

1:31 p.m. - Eat lunch with Little Miss, which turns into an exhausting array of back bends, squats, lunges, and stretches as I attempt to clean the floor of her discarded food. (see, I exercise! lol) We're still working on the "food stays on your tray" concept.

2:30 p.m. - Lunch finished, Little Miss hosed down and dressed, floor somewhat clean, high chair tray scrubbed, and she's now looking at me like "what's next Mom?" This is when I usually load us up on in the car to visit Nana, do some errands, hit Sonic happy hour, visit Hubby at the station, etc. If we have no excuse to leave the house and justify the gas from driving into town from the boonies, I let her play outside for awhile, or pick a random activity. (Like the other day she, with zero prompting, ran into the washroom, grabbed the swiffer wet mop, and proceeded to push it around the house. I was tempted to stick a wet rag on the end of it but figured that'd be bad for the carpets.)

4:00 p.m. - Tired from playing all afternoon, we sit down to snuggle in chair and eat a snack and watch Gilmore Girls - she loves the theme song. I usually am at this point filled with thoughts on how I wish I could write as witty dialogue as the writers for this show did

5:00 p.m. - I realize I need to make dinner, and hemm and haw between hamburger helper or mac n cheese. (though last night I made chicken enchiladas from scratch, no recipe, and they were quite tasty! woohoo!)

6:00 p.m. - Eat dinner, clean up from dinner, hose Little Miss off, and let her run around and digest before taking her bath. (I'd much rather the inevitable dirty diaper BEFORE the bath, not after, and definitely not during.. Hear hear, fellow moms???)

7:45 p.m. - Sitting down to snuggle with my freshly bathed, sweet Little Miss again while she takes her tiny bedtime bottle (almost off formula, not completely yet!) When she's done, I get a goodnight kiss, then ask "Wanna say your prayers?" which is met with an exuberant "YEAAA!!!" (she says "Yeah!" now when you ask questions about what she wants) and pray her nighttime blessing over her.

8:00 p.m. - Little Miss in her bed with mobile on, I literally run across the house for more caffeine and my laptop before hopping in my own bed, trusty gameshows on the tube, and write another chapter or two in between networking and catching up with more emails.

9:30 p.m. - Wish I had the energy to write another chapter.

10:00 p.m. - Wish I had the energy to stay awake through Deal or No Deal.

10:30 p.m. - Click TV off, thinking I'd have made much better case choices on Deal or No Deal.

10:31 p.m. - Drift into dreamland.

Curing Writers' Block

One of my friends recently told me that Charles Schultz, the creator of the famous Peanuts cartoon strip, claimed that his hardest work of the day was when he stared out the window.

"Wouldn't that be fabulous?" my friend scoffed. "I wish I had the life of an artist."

Then my friend glared at me.

I knew what my friend was talking about. After all, anyone (like me) who has time to stare out a window must live the life of luxury.

I don't stare out windows anymore. I used to, as a kid. That's when I developed my best story ideas – in those quiet hours. Then people started to worry about me. They convinced me that I was either:

a) Mentally ill

b) Vitamin D deficient

c) Going to jail some day because I was a freeloader who refused to do actual work

So in an effort to prove that I was stable, healthy, and independent, I decided there would be no more staring out windows. I would multitask. I would do household chores while I thought.

This was all great in theory, except for the time I accidentally cleaned my mom's rug with bleach instead of carpet cleaner. Or the time I accidentally washed my sister's pants with the ballpoint pen. Or the time I (accidentally?) fed the dog refried beans instead of dog food (hey – they smelled the same, but the results were definitely different).

Unfortunately, this pattern has continued into my adult life. I can no longer think while staring out a window. I have to have some sort of fabric-altering, household goods-damaging chemical in my hands.

Last week I was proud of myself. I will not clean with any chemicals while I think about writing, I thought. I will just wash the couch cushion covers.

With the bleach safely out of reach, I poured the mild detergent into the washer and watched the cushion covers spin.

Perfect. My story came together wonderfully in my mind while the machine worked.

An hour later I pulled the cushion covers out of the dryer. Oops, I realized. My niece was in need of some new couch cushions. She was in luck, too, because the ones I just dried on hot would fit her Barbie couch perfectly now.

My husband was calm about the whole ordeal. We could use the cushions as cup coasters, he suggested. Or hang them on tiny wires and make earrings out of them.

I rejected his ideas. After all, I would be afraid of losing such an expensive piece of jewelry.

It's been a week, and I feel another bout of writers' block coming on. Last I checked, though, my husband had hidden all the harsh chemicals and disconnected the dryer unit.

If I keep up with this writing business, I may never have to work again.

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editor-est.

National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo)

This year marks the 10th anniversary of Nanowrimo. Don't ask me how it's pronounced, but it stands for National Novel Writing Month. Some of you are probably already in the throes of writing your 50,000 words rough drafts, but for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about ...

During the month of November thousands of aspiring writers band together to write 50,000 words in 30 days. The goal is to just get a draft down. No one's expecting it to be a masterpiece. Then once the draft is done, you'll finally have something to work with.

But don't let the fact that we're already 7 days into the month deter you. Any month can be your Nanowrimo!

I attempted my own personal Nanowrimo a couple years ago when I was writing my second novel. I purposed to write 60,000 words in 6 weeks. I figured if I wrote 1500 words a day, five days a week, that would work. I ended up taking more like 8 weeks, but I did it. It was hard, I'll admit. But I was very glad I made the commitment.

But here's the thing that made it work for me. I did not allow myself to go back and re-read what I wrote the day before. I know. Sounds impossible, right? It wasn't as hard as I might've thought. Sure, I had some plot threads that got dropped midway. A character or two disappeared (with some others show up unexpectedly). But I found out I had more of the story in my head than I thought.

Have you been laboring over the first three chapters of your book for the past three months (ask me how I know what this feels like!)? Do you desperately want to finish that book you started years ago but put in a drawer? Why not give the Nanowrimo technique a try? You don't have to not read what you wrote the day before, but I guarantee it'll help you turn off that internal editor that hounds your every writing hour. :)

And now in honor of this year's Nanowrimo participants, I give you this video:

From the Diary of Christa A. Banister

Even though there wasn't anything particularly noteworthy about my life, I started keeping a diary when I was only nine years old...

It wasn't all that different from the one in this picture...it was fire-engine red with a cheap gold lock so my Mom couldn't read it. Mostly, I was afraid she'd see how many times I dreamed about running away to somewhere infinitely more exciting and exotic than my hometown of Ladysmith, Wisconsin.

I had this whole gypsy life planned for myself, and I didn't want her to steal my thunder with practical questions like how I'd pay for my travels, what I'd do for work, etc.

I even remember carefully hiding the diary key in my dresser drawer with my Wonder Woman underoos (remember those?) like I had all these secrets that I desperately wanted no one else to read. But somehow, that air of mystery of writing something that no one else was privy to was simply exhilarating. I couldn't get enough of it, and I quickly filled pages and pages with my random thoughts and juvenile ruminations.

And many times when I'm sitting in front of my laptop these days, I'm still trying to find that youthful exuberance about writing. Sometimes I'll find any excuse (an episode of Rachael Ray's "30 Minute Meals" I must watch, laundry that has to be folded, M&Ms that will self-destruct if they're not snacked on) to put off the inevitable deadlines. And it's not because I don't love what I'm doing, (I do) but that it's become a job and something I have to do, rather than something I get the privilege of doing.

But as I'm really diving in to my third novel, I'm trying to write with the non-judgmental spirit I used to have when I was nine. I'm writing more stream-of-consciousness style and leaving the editing for later. (On a side note, this is not how I usually roll. I'm usually not content to move on to a new paragraph until what's proceeding it is my idea of perfection—or at least perfection that particular day). Now I'm writing like no one else is reading. And I have to say that it's really, truly freeing to approach my prose as if it were just a diary entry about this girl named Sydney and her wacky cast of pals.

I guess I'm telling you all of this because maybe you feel the same. You're in a rut, and you don't know why because you absolutely, positively love what you do. Truth be told, it's good to switch things up from time to time, you know embrace your nine-year-old self and see what happens. I'm personally hoping for great things (and it's nice not to have to lock the contents once I'm finished for the day).

Authors or writers?

Have you ever stared at the blinking cursor on your blank computer monitor, fingers curled in defense, head pounding with all the things you want to say but can't figure out how, eyes glazed, stomach growling in bitter protest of all the chocolate and caffeine you consumed in desperation, and ask yourself "WHY? WHY? WHY?"

Why do you write?

Why do I write?

What's in it for us? Money? HAHAHAHAHAHA. No, seriously. Unless you're Nicholas Sparks and land a million dollar contract on your first novel, or you're JK Rowling and hit it big with a random wizard you concocted during your day job, it's not for the money. We might, after much practice and a few decent sales figures, bring in something resembling a small paycheck, but that's it. Hardly the key motivation.

Is it fame? No. Again, unless you're one of the few, lucky, random big time names, it isn't going to happen. You might build a decent fan base on Facebook or through your blog, you might have women look forward to your books and email you fan letters, but seriously, the odds of any of us going on Oprah and The Today Show promoting our book is pretty darn slim. (and PS - no matter how famous any of us might get, I have the feeling our husbands are still going to expect to have the toilets clean and dinner cooked!)

Is it your sense of self worth? Hmm. I had to think on this one. Sometimes, I do feel like writing is all I can do - I'm not really good at much else. Never had genius grades in school. I have no musical talent, no artististic or crafty skills like knitting or crocheting or painting or sculpting or even scrapbooking...I can't sing great or cook great or even clean the house great...so in a way, writing is my identity in my family and among my friends and church members. But then I remember immediately that it's not me. My writing is very much God through me, and that just brings me to my knees in gratitude that the King of the Universe would see fit to use me, a tired, broken, sinful vessel, to speak words of grace and hope into the world. Wow. What an honor.

I think I know why we write, and its best summed up in my favorite quote, the one on my website and blog and attached to my email signature.

"I write for the same reason I breathe - because if I didn't, I would die." - Sir Issac Asimov.

It's true, isn't it? I think there's a difference between authors and writers. Authors are writers of pieces. They have written things and had them published or appreciated in some form. Authors can be writers. But writers are more than authors. Writers have to write. Words are in their blood, in their genes, in their soul - in every fiber of being, begging for release. Words that must come out and splash onto a page regardless of the money, fame, or sense of worth. Regardless of what they get back, writers must write.

What do you think?

Moving up from the Kiddie Table

Every time I look at my legs, I marvel at the fact they can walk. It's not that there's anything wrong with them –- it's just that I didn't use them until I was 12 years old, and that was because I finally told my sister to stop carrying me around.

Hello, my name is B.J., and I have a disease called "The Baby." Statistics show that 100% of families with children have one like me. These kids may learn to walk, talk, and think by themselves -- but their families will never acknowledge it.

I tried the denial thing. I went to college. I got a job. I got married. I acted like an adult. My family even cheered me on. Until I wrecked my car, forgot to feed my husband, left the laundry in the washer for 16 days, and –- well –- generally acted like The Baby.

Recently I decided to have my family over for an intervention. I would prove that I wanted to be an adult. I would serve them lunch, show them my well-kept house, and have adult-like conversation. Maybe they would even let me move over from the Kiddie Table.

About an hour into the family meeting, I was proud of how things were going. Our adult conversation ranged from how lovely my house was, to how nice the weather was, to how pregnant my aunt felt.

"You don't happen to have a pregnancy test?" she asked.

I couldn't believe it. This was the most important day of my life. My aunt was asking me for a pregnancy test. She was acknowledging that I was an adult.

"Why yes," I said. "I do. I also have a little cup for you to pee in. I use it all the time for my pregnancy tests."

I opened the cabinet but the cup wasn't there.

"That's strange," I said. "It was right…"

I turned just in time to see it. My sister was holding the pregnancy test cup, sipping root beer from it.

In the words of Dave Barry, "I am not making this up."

I couldn't speak. There was only one thing I could do: laugh.

I laughed so hard I cried. My aunt laughed so hard she cried. My mom laughed so hard she cried.

My sister just cried. And yelled.

"WHAT were you thinking?" she shouted. "WHO would keep a pregnancy test cup with her drinking cups?"

And silently but truly, we all knew the answer: The Baby would.

****
3 Application questions for writers:

1. Does your place in the birth order affect your writings? (I.E.: I'm the youngest child; I'm the entertainer in the family. Therefore the comedy genre.)

2. What qualities can you add to your characters based on their birth-order?

3. Do you believe any of this birth-order junk?

****

B.J. Hamrick is a journalist, humorist, and Real Teen Faith Editor-est.

The Best and Worst Things In Life

Here's something that everyone reading this will admit to (and if they don't, I'm thinking we'll need some form of a Writers Anonymous group to fix that):

Writers are weird.

We make characters do horrible things and enjoy it. Fictional or not, these people die, suffer, are scared, beaten, bruised and fallen and we thrive on the emotion of it. Or, we force these characters into the most embarrassing situations ever known to man just for a laugh and what do we do? We revel in it.

We are a strange bunch.

We cry over these fictional characters. We ache for these people who, whether we'll admit it or not, sometimes seem more real to us than they probably should. We know their likes, their dislikes, their biographical histories. We know more about them than we probably know about some of our closest friends.

And when someone reads our work and cries or laughs as well?

Well. That is the jackpot, my friends. Who cares if they buy the book, we want our readers to be gripped by those emotions that we poured into that story!

Some of the sweetest times in my life - like when my husband proposed - I turned and wrote all those wonderful feelings into a scene. Some of the hardest times in my life - like when my sister was hospitalized and later when my grandfather died - I sat down and poured those heartbroken emotions into a scene.

Writers feel.

So, embrace the weirdness, my fellow writing friends. God has given you a unique perspective on life. Don't take it for granted, but instead use it to glorify God in your writing. Have you been struggling through an illness or someone you love is sick? Write through it and pray that maybe someone else will be comforted in knowing that they are not alone. Have you had the best week of your life? Scribble it down - someone else out there needs a pick-me-up and you making them laugh might just be a God-send.

Copy this verse and paste it above your writing desk: "My purpose in writing is to encourage you and assure you that the grace of God is with you no matter what happens." - 1 Peter 5:12b NLT

So, let's be weird with a purpose. Who's with me? :)