Enough.

So, we had a bit of a whirlwind week. On Tuesday I drove my daughter to Williamsburg, VA, to have a look at William & Mary. It should be about a 6 hour drive, but it got progressively longer as the exit ramps we needed were closed for construction. I've never seen so many highway closures. Yikes.

Wednesday was a lovely day to tour a lovely campus. We got to have lunch with an old good friend, which was a special treat. Then we drove home in time for a late dinner with Dad.

Thursday was an oh-crap day. As in, oh, crap, it's Thursday! I said that at 9:06--the garbage usually needs to be on the curb before 9. My daughter, just stumbling downstairs, said, "We'll both do it," and grabbed her car keys (our driveway is really long, and we have to pick up trash from the barn, too). We got the trash down. Then I realized a whole bunch of other things I'd forgotten--that book I was supposed to review--oh, crap, I hadn't even read it yet--the van needed new tires before we drove it to Indiana that night. I ended up reading my review book at the tire store, while bribing my daughter and her friends with pizza to go get our showjumps from the barn where the pony club show had been held, and fill the truck with diesel while they were at it, and take the dog to the kennel....it was a little stressful there, especially when the guy at the tire place wanted to know where I kept the key to my lug nuts. My lug nuts have a key? News to me.

I got the review written--I do not miss deadlines--and everything essential accomplished before my husband came home from work and we hit the road again. We needed to get somewhere near Kenyon College, which is somewhere near Columbus--this involved driving back up the same highway I'd traversed on both Tuesday and Wednesday. I'm sure I could have been more efficient there. Anyway, we stayed in a Microtel in the middle of nowhere, woke early, and ended up at Kenyon on time despite a complete freak-out by our GPS, which seems to be growing ever more untrustworthy.

Kenyon was lovely. All the colleges are lovely. It was cool, crisp fall, a perfect day for imagining yourself a college student.

At 3 pm, we got back in the car. Destination: Notre Dame. And while our daughter did attend an admissions information session there, our real reason for that college was to see our son and watch the Fighting Irish tromp USC. Unfortunately there was a bit of road construction and a traffic-snarling accident on the way--the four-hour trip took five--eventually we found South Bend and an Italian restaurant and our son and his friends, and it was all good.

Saturday I logged 22,450 steps on my phone's pedometer, all on campus. This doesn't count all the jumping around I did in the upper reaches of the stadium, in an attempt to keep warm during the  night football game. Sunday, driving home to TN with our beloved son--it's his fall break--I logged 450 steps. Mostly those were from the car to a gas station restroom, and back.

It's all good. It's great. It's awesome. Some of my son's friends are doing fancy stuff with their break. They're clearing trails in state parks or helping the homeless or, in the case of the ND golf team, playing the best courses in Ireland. Our son is hanging out with his family. He's sleeping in. He's helping his Dad coach middle-school basketball and going out to lunch with me. He's curled up in his favorite afghan with the dog. He's had a big semester so far; he's worked hard. Next semester will be even bigger, since he's spending it abroad.

When my husband was a medical resident, he could have moonlighted in the local emergency rooms for lots of extra cash (compared to his paltry resident salary). I believe all the other ophthalmology residents did this, even though, like us, they had small children and working spouses. My husband didn't. We had enough money to meet our needs; he valued time spent with us more than the extra stuff more money would buy. I loved and applauded this choice. I like my son's choice now. Sometimes you fill every moment, but sometimes, like now, you very deliberately don't. Sometimes you just need to rest at home.

Write the book.

There's a phrase that crops up in at least two of Elizabeth Wein's novels, Code Name Verity and White Raven, Black Dove. (It may also be in Rose Under Fire but I can't absolutely remember.) Wein writes about teenagers who fly airplanes in times of war, and at particularly nerve-wracking moments either someone shouts to the pilot, or the pilot says to herself, Fly the plane.

I'm guessing (Elizabeth? Want to chime in? And what name do you go by--Beth, Betsy, Liza, Liz?) anyhow, guessing that fly the plane is something pilots say, along the lines of riders saying shut up and ride. (I have a small chronic tendency to overanalyze. My instructors tell me this a lot.)

Today I'm adding another phrase, courtesy of the fact that I completely missed my yoga class this morning.

I didn't mean to. I've been going to 8:30 yoga nearly every day for a year. I love my Tuesday class, and was especially eager for it since I had to miss yesterday due to a doctor's appointment. (I'm super, thanks. My asthma is the best-controlled it has ever been.) I got up thinking happy grateful yoga thoughts and I put on my favorite yoga top and some excellent pants. After breakfast I took my last cup of coffee to the computer. This is when I usually write my blog, but I still had my current work open on my desktop and I started with that instead.

And then it was past 8:30, and I'd missed yoga class.

I thought about that. I won't get a chance at another today, because they're in the afternoon and I'm leaving to drive my daughter to William and Mary. My body misses yoga. My brain, on the other hand, is really feeling happy--because I got so involved in my work I lost track of time. It's sort of crunch time on this novel. It's due November 13. I'm going to be gone for nine days during the rest of October, in situations where it won't be possible for me to write, and I need to do the work even it it means putting yoga on hold for a few weeks. So here's my phrase: write the book.

Write the book.
Write the book.
Write the book.

That's all I've got today.

An Ode to My Amazing Son

"Mom, your blog sucks," my son said last week. "You don't mention me for three weeks, and then when you do it's just to correct Dad about Quidditch. Sheesh."

Yeah, yeah. This from the kid who groans loudly whenever I retell my favorite stories about him. Who's tired of hearing the one about the tantrum he threw at age 2 when he was told that no, we were just dropping Daddy off, he was NOT going to be playing a round at one of the finest golf courses in California. (I manhandled him back to the car while he kicked and flailed and screamed I WANNA PLAY SPYGLASS!!! at the top of his lungs.)

My son is smart, funny, genuine. He's studying business but his real passion is sports.

He knows the rules to every game ever invented, including a 9th-century Viking board game called Nefatafl.

When I rode in my first dressage test, back when my son was six, I told him how I'd done a transition at the wrong letter and then said, "Oh, shoot!"

"Mom," he said, "You're not allowed to talk during a dressage test."

"I know," I said. "They took two points off."

"Of course they did," he said. "Next time read the rules."

Next time--when he was seven--he watched my test in person. When I came out of the ring he studied me with his hands on his hips. "So," he said, "What happened with that second canter transition?"

"Oh, hush," I said.

We are at a pub in a tiny town in Ireland having lunch. My son is ten. A line of grizzled Irishmen sits at the bar, watching Irish football, a sport that seems to have no rules at all. Onscreen something happens "AAAHHH!" shouts all the Irishmen, and my son. One of the Irishmen salutes him.

We're on a plane home from Costa Rica and he's discussing Costa Rica's chances in the World Cup with the man sitting next to him. We're watching an English premier league football game and he and the man beside him are discussing the career of one of the more obscure players, in depth. We're watching Notre Dame in last year's bowl game and he's calling the plays ahead of time, trying to get me to watch which players go which direction, trying (and failing) to get me to understand.

He's five, and furious with his t-ball team because they don't know how to turn a double play. He's ten, sliding into first base in practice just for the joy of getting dirty. He's thirteen, leading a triumphant rush onto the floor as his middle-school basketball team wins their first game in two years. He's seventeen, starting a travel agency that specializes in golf trips to the Ireland and Great Britain.

He's twenty, talking to his mother on the phone, saying that he's going to watch his hall (dorm) football team play. "Why aren't you playing?" I ask.

"This is hall football, not section football," he says. "Hall football is full contact with pads. They have try-outs for hall football. I play section football." He plays section football, section basketball, bookstore basketball, golf. Watches his friends on varsity golf, soccer, rugby, lacrosse, hockey, and of course football and basketball. He's a sports-obsessed student at a sports-obsessed school, which means he's at the right place, which makes me very happy even if I don't say so all that often.

A Heartbreaking Tale of Thwarted Desire

Yesterday morning when I woke my very first thought was, "October 8th! The new Robert Galbraith novel comes out today!"

Robert Galbraith is, of course, J.K. Rowling's mystery-writing pseudonym. I can not tell you how much I revere J.K. Rowling. I would like to feel a jolt of professional jealousy toward her, that she can be both that good and that prolific, but really I just want her to write faster. Harry Potter changed the face of children's publishing, changed childhood--you would not believe how many colleges now have Quidditch teams--and The Casual Vacancy is a work of literary genius. The Robert Galbraith books are as addictive as meth. (Not that I would know.)

[As a total aside, my son wrecked my barn broom playing high school Quidditch. Also, when he heard about the game, my husband asked the rules. My son started to explain the modifications they were using. My husband wanted to know why they didn't just play under the original rules. After a moment of dead silence at the dinner table, my son said gently, "Dad. Because our brooms don't actually fly." But I digress.]

All morning I envisioned a blissful evening engrossed in a new RG story. I knew I'd have some time after the farrier left, when my daughter would go to tennis practice and my husband would be coaching basketball. I thought I'd curl up on the sun-soaked porch with the book and a glass of wine. Utter bliss.

When I walked back to the house from the barn, midday, for lunch, I checked the porch for the Amazon package, but it wasn't there. I wasn't surprised. Our mail usually gets delivered around 2:30 and UPS can be expected anytime between 1 and 5. My daughter brought the mail up to the barn when she got home from school, and the book wasn't part of that--but again, I wasn't surprised. Sometimes Amazon ships through the post office, but in my experience, when they're dealing with massively popular pre-orders, they usually use UPS.

I finished at the barn and came back to the house. Still no package. Showered, checked email, kissed daughter good-bye. No package. Played a few games of computer Boggle. Still no package.

Finally, fretfully, I looked up the order on Amazon. What if I'd forgotten to preorder? Seemed unlikely, but I supposed it was possible. I'd have to download the book for my Kindle. Not as satisfying, but acceptable.

I found the order. Stared at the page, stunned. Evening wrecked. Anticipation destroyed.

The new Robert Galbraith novel comes out October 20th.

Twelve days to go.

It's Mountain Day!

Mountain Day: the best tradition at my alma mater, Smith College.

On a random beautiful fall day, the college bells ring at 7 am. Classes are cancelled: students are urged to get outside and enjoy--perhaps by hiking in the nearby Berkshire mountains.

One Mountain Day I went trail riding at King Oak Farm, with my friend Carole Davidson. I remember ogling their cross-country jumps, wanting so badly to try them.  One Mountain Day I went to Hancock Shaker Village with Anna-Liese and Darcy. We'd meant to go to Plimouth Plantation, but got onto the Mass Pike going the wrong direction, and there wasn't another exit for 56 miles. When we could finally turn around we saw the sign for HSV and went there instead. Darcy's family owned an apple orchard and she brought a big bag of apples for the trip so the taste of apples is part of my memories of that day.

My friend Alecia's daughter Julianna goes to Smith now, and so does my friend Kelsey. Today is Mountain Day. I hope they have a marvelous time.

October is The Shortest Month

For most of the years of our marriage, at minimum the last 15, my husband has given me each Christmas a Dilbert-A-Day calendar: 365 Dilbert cartoons. Today Dilbert tells me that it is October 6th, and though I'm pretty sure this seems implausible I can't find evidence for my side.

This is what the rest of October contains:

--the pony club horse show, of which I am in charge for something like the 12th year in a row. We have most of our ducks in a row for it, but I'm sure on Friday night I'll figure out something big I missed, like eggs for the egg & spoon class. Or entry sheets. Or ribbons. Or something. (Relax, Holston--I have the ribbons.)

--all the rest of my daughter's college visits: to William & Mary, Kenyon, and Brown. (You will notice that none of these schools are anywhere near the others.) She's already narrowed an initial list of 24 schools down to between 5 and 8, so I think we're good here.

--a visit to Notre Dame to see my son and watch a football game. We are driving there and back (catching Kenyon on the way) so I've got to have a load of knitting sorted for the trip. "Sort knitting" is on my list.

--a week of my son being home for fall break. I'm not sure he'll be here for the whole week, but I'll want to enjoy all the moments with him that I can.

--a week of book tour, which seems to require talks and visual presentations I haven't yet created.

--my sister's move to from Wisconsin to Charlotte (I'm hoping to help), a farrier visit (takes all day), a surprising number of other required appointments, and of course my usual Wednesday at Faith in Action

This is what October also contains, that some part of the above is forcing me to miss:

--the opening meet of the Tennessee Valley Hunt. Tragic! Any day that starts with a sip of port while you sit atop a gleaming and gorgeous horse, includes a couple of headlong gallops, and ends with a rousing chorus of "Drink, Puppy, Drink" is one to savor, and I'd be there if I possibly could.

--a costumed Halloween party. I'm kind of bummed about this one because I really wanted to dress my husband and myself up. I had awesome plans, and I'm really good at making costumes. Maybe next year.

This is what October no longer contains (thank goodness!):

--a book deadline. It did, but a few weeks ago reason bopped me upside the head, and I plead for a two-week extension.

This is what October doesn't contain, that I wish it did:

--an extra week.

Own Your Own Words

So. Yesterday, if you missed it, I wrote part one of this blog, in which I confessed my biggest failure as a writer to date. Go ahead and read it. I was very nearly very racist, stopped only by the thoughtful intervention of a person who probably wasn't thrilled to have to do it.

What started me on these posts was something I stumbled across on the internet last week. You may have read my previous post about disability in children's literature. You may or may not be familiar with the term "inspiration porn," that sort of literature mean to inspire able-bodied readers with how plucky and courageous disabled people are, as they go about their daily activities. They get out of bed! They go to work! They go to school!

Pro tip: people with disabilities hate serving as your inspiration. Trust me on this. Or, hell, go look it up.

Anyhow, I was reading about how people with disabilities feel about books written about people with disabilities, and I came across a blog post from 2013 about the book Wonder. I didn't remember this from reading the book, but there's a line on page 188 in which Auggie, the craniofacially-disfigured plucky protagonist, shouts at his mother, "I'm not a retard!"

Retard. A slur against disabled people in a book about kindness toward people with disabilities.

This upset one particular 10-year-old reader, whose older sister is developmentally disabled. His mom emailed the author, R.J. Palacio, and asked her to explain. It's Palacio's reply that wound me up:



1. Never start an apology with "if." I apologize if seeing that word in my book has marred your son's enjoyment. She already knew it had. There's no room for if. How about, I apologize that I used a hurtful unnecessary word.

2. "Creating characters that feel real to my readers requires my portraying them realistically.." seems to say that the only way Auggie could come across as a real boy is if he used a slur. And as a writer she is required to do so? No. No, she is not. In Jefferson's Sons, the word n----r would have been both realistic and accurate. Was I required to use it? No. And I did not.

3. "The word was not 'thrown around' without careful deliberation." Wow. In other words, she didn't make a mistake, she intended to use it.

4. That whole last paragraph. Poor Auggie, not aware enough to use the phrase "developmentally delayed." Here's the thing: Auggie is fiction. Auggie does not exist. Auggie is wholly the creation of R.J. Palacio, and for her to hide behind the excuse that her fiction character would just do things on his own is ludicrous and also contemptible.

Because this isn't a hard one to fix. Change the word "retard" to "stupid." "I'm not stupid!" The truth is, that small of a change you could make in the book right now. I've seen more than one novel modified late in the game. Changing one word--particularly when you've been at the top of the best-seller list--would be easy to talk your publisher into doing.

It bothers me enormously that the author of Wonder doesn't own her own words. As writers, we have to. All of us, all the time.