I've been waiting a long time to be able to write this blog post, and now that it's here, I can't think of anything clever to say. So without further ado, here is my big news...
I received a book deal for my YA paranormal romance trilogy, the Eternal Trilogy, from Pendrell Publishing!!! The first book, Eternal Starling, will be published in late 2011.
I was so excited that when I got the email, I had to read it 20 times to convince myself it was real, then Pippin, our Pomeranian, and I danced around the house laughing and screaming, much to the befuddlement of the contractor who was working on our basement at the time. Of course, as soon as I got the email, I immediately called my husband, Dan. Then he couldn't talk, so I had to wait to give him the news. At that point, I called my best friend and beta editor, Amazing Ashley, she didn't answer the phone either. So I tried my mom. Yeah, no answer there. Then my dad, you guessed it, no answer.
The most exciting news of my life and no one was answering their dumb phone!!! I finally got a hold of everyone and my mom was screaming so much that I couldn't understand a word she said for at least 5 minutes. My incredible husband brought me 2 dozen roses and made dinner reservations for us to celebrate. It was truly one of the best days of my life and I'm so excited for the next steps in the process! I couldn't ask for a more fabulous publisher.
So, details!
Eternal Starling will be released in hardcover and as an ebook in late 2011. When I know more details, I'll post about them here, and on The Eternal Trilogy Facebook page.
If you're a book reviewer, you can read about Pendrell's ARC policy here. I'm VERY excited and can't wait to hold my book in my hands! Thanks so much to all my fans and everyone who has been so supportive and stuck with me through this long process! Also, a huge thank you to the reader at Pendrell who liked Eternal Starling so much, and to my incredible publisher, Kamilla Quast, for this opportunity!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Well-Meaning People...
When I tell people I'm a writer, the conversation often goes something like this:
Well-meaning acquaintance: "You're a writer? Where can I get your books?"
Me: "You can't yet. I'm in the querying process and still looking for a literary agent."
Well-meaning acquaintance wrinkles their nose: "An agent? What in the sam hill do you need one of those for?"
Me: "Agents make sure I get actual money in exchange for my book instead of, say, a chinchilla."
Well-meaning acquaintance, who looks surprised that I would be displeased with a chinchilla payment: "So once you get an agent, your book will be in stores?"
Me: "Not quite. After the agent decides to represent me, we have to go through the submission process all over again, only this time, it's with editors at publishing houses."
Well-meaning acquaintance: "Huh, that seems like a lot of work..." And because some people think they're book experts just because their high school English teacher made them read The Grapes of Wrath, what inevitably follows is a suggestion so insane that I file it away to pull up every time I need a good laugh and The Daily Show isn't on.
This blog post is dedicated to the well-meaning people who have NO idea how the publishing industry works, but endeavor to advise my career anyway. And, of course, I've added commentary.
"Why don't you just call Stephenie Meyer? She's sold a lot of books. I bet she could help you out."
Yes, because like Edward and Bella, Stephenie and I have a bond...one the transcends the fact that we've never met. I keep her number in my address book right next to Obama's and Angelina Jolie's.
"Hey! Know what you should write? Something with a wizard, vampire, and fairy...and they could search for the Holy Grail." *Pause* "Oh, and the vampire and wizard should be in love with the fairy. Love sells."
OMG!!! It's the next bestseller! Why hasn't anyone else thought of this? Agents and editors will cause a riot trying to get their hands on it...to burn in the fiery pits of hell, the only place worthy of such a masterpiece. Then said agents and editors will find you and stab you repeatedly with sporks.
"You have a love triangle in your book! I told you love triangles sell! Does that mean I get credit for the idea? Do you need to know how to spell my name to list me as the co-author?"
Yes, please. Because mentioning one ambiguous aspect of a story I'd already come up with means that you helped write the book. No need to mention the fact that I'm the one who sat my butt down for countless hours writing and revising, came up with the entire plot, argued with fictional characters, and spent wee hours of the morning pacing the room and discussing plot points with my dog. You should probably contact Stephenie while you're at it and tell her she owes you royalty money for Edward and Jacob fighting over Bella. Hold on, I have her number.
"Why are you writing other books? Authors just have to write one to be rich."
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
*breathe*
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
"Getting an agent can't be that hard. There are lots of crappy books out. Yours has to be better than those. Just find an agent who represents crap."
Thanks for the encouragement. I will continue my quest to get my writing up to "crap" standards. Then I'll be sure to mention the "crappy books" the agent represents in my query. Brilliant.
"How about Oprah? Man! If you got on there, you'd sell, like, TONS of books! And you better do it fast because her show ends soon."
Oprah's number is in my address book right next to Stephenie's.
"You're a writer? No, I mean, what's your real job?"
I do have another job besides writing, but this question always makes me want to give a snarky comment along the lines of: "Oh, so you're in management? Gosh, a job where you only work 40 hours a week instead of being on the clock day and night, constantly carrying notepads, and having characters jump out at you wanting something at the least opportune times--like when you're talking to someone about what you do for a living and it reminds you about the character you need to kill. You know, the one who's so stupid he gets pecked to death by an ostrich he thought was dead and the only part of him still identifiable is his yeti-like hairy back, covered in muddy ostrich footprints. Also, it looks suspiciously like he might have been stabbed with sporks.
I know I'm not the only one who gets this kind of advice. I'd love to hear some of the gems you've been told. Please post in the comments if you have some of your own. :)
Well-meaning acquaintance: "You're a writer? Where can I get your books?"
Me: "You can't yet. I'm in the querying process and still looking for a literary agent."
Well-meaning acquaintance wrinkles their nose: "An agent? What in the sam hill do you need one of those for?"
Me: "Agents make sure I get actual money in exchange for my book instead of, say, a chinchilla."
Well-meaning acquaintance, who looks surprised that I would be displeased with a chinchilla payment: "So once you get an agent, your book will be in stores?"
Me: "Not quite. After the agent decides to represent me, we have to go through the submission process all over again, only this time, it's with editors at publishing houses."
Well-meaning acquaintance: "Huh, that seems like a lot of work..." And because some people think they're book experts just because their high school English teacher made them read The Grapes of Wrath, what inevitably follows is a suggestion so insane that I file it away to pull up every time I need a good laugh and The Daily Show isn't on.
This blog post is dedicated to the well-meaning people who have NO idea how the publishing industry works, but endeavor to advise my career anyway. And, of course, I've added commentary.
"Why don't you just call Stephenie Meyer? She's sold a lot of books. I bet she could help you out."
Yes, because like Edward and Bella, Stephenie and I have a bond...one the transcends the fact that we've never met. I keep her number in my address book right next to Obama's and Angelina Jolie's.
"Hey! Know what you should write? Something with a wizard, vampire, and fairy...and they could search for the Holy Grail." *Pause* "Oh, and the vampire and wizard should be in love with the fairy. Love sells."
OMG!!! It's the next bestseller! Why hasn't anyone else thought of this? Agents and editors will cause a riot trying to get their hands on it...to burn in the fiery pits of hell, the only place worthy of such a masterpiece. Then said agents and editors will find you and stab you repeatedly with sporks.
"You have a love triangle in your book! I told you love triangles sell! Does that mean I get credit for the idea? Do you need to know how to spell my name to list me as the co-author?"
Yes, please. Because mentioning one ambiguous aspect of a story I'd already come up with means that you helped write the book. No need to mention the fact that I'm the one who sat my butt down for countless hours writing and revising, came up with the entire plot, argued with fictional characters, and spent wee hours of the morning pacing the room and discussing plot points with my dog. You should probably contact Stephenie while you're at it and tell her she owes you royalty money for Edward and Jacob fighting over Bella. Hold on, I have her number.
"Why are you writing other books? Authors just have to write one to be rich."
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
*breathe*
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
"Getting an agent can't be that hard. There are lots of crappy books out. Yours has to be better than those. Just find an agent who represents crap."
Thanks for the encouragement. I will continue my quest to get my writing up to "crap" standards. Then I'll be sure to mention the "crappy books" the agent represents in my query. Brilliant.
"How about Oprah? Man! If you got on there, you'd sell, like, TONS of books! And you better do it fast because her show ends soon."
Oprah's number is in my address book right next to Stephenie's.
"You're a writer? No, I mean, what's your real job?"
I do have another job besides writing, but this question always makes me want to give a snarky comment along the lines of: "Oh, so you're in management? Gosh, a job where you only work 40 hours a week instead of being on the clock day and night, constantly carrying notepads, and having characters jump out at you wanting something at the least opportune times--like when you're talking to someone about what you do for a living and it reminds you about the character you need to kill. You know, the one who's so stupid he gets pecked to death by an ostrich he thought was dead and the only part of him still identifiable is his yeti-like hairy back, covered in muddy ostrich footprints. Also, it looks suspiciously like he might have been stabbed with sporks.
I know I'm not the only one who gets this kind of advice. I'd love to hear some of the gems you've been told. Please post in the comments if you have some of your own. :)
Friday, December 24, 2010
A Vegetarian at Honeybaked Ham
When I was tasked with getting a Honeybaked Ham for Christmas dinner, I thought, why not? How hard could it be? I'll just go to the store and grab a hunk of meat.
It turns out that getting dropped in the middle of an angry group of warlords and their rhinoceros bodyguards would be less intimidating. Keep in mind that I became a vegetarian at age 5 after a traumatic experience with my babysitter involving a rather vivid visual of Betsy the big brown-eyed cow no longer roaming the grassy fields because she was now on my hamburger bun. When I discovered that Wilbur the pig, Chicken Little, and the cute Thanksgiving turkey were also being killed in the name of dinner, I conducted research via my farm animals pop-up book and gave my parents an itemized list of cute animals I would no longer be eating.
My parents thought this was just a phase, but after a few weeks, they realized what a stubborn little girl they'd birthed, and resorted to guerilla tactics--like hiding meat in my food...which I found. This then forced me to go through a lengthy food inspection at each meal and before long, I'd invoked a hunger strike. Eventually, and with some trepidation, my parents shook their heads and gave up, slightly terrified of my will and worried what that force of nature would turn into during my teenage years.
I still feel the same about little animals, and have been a vegetarian for 25 years. I won't prepare meat or cook it myself, but it doesn't bother me when other people eat it, which is why I agreed to the Honeybaked Ham trip. I arrived at the store, thinking I'd park, grab a ham, and get back to my coffee in the car. As I walked up to the door, I saw a line. And not just any line, this line stretched out the door, and wound its way into a neighboring store, complete with poles and tape as a guide to get people through the maze. This feat of people herding put the airport security line to shame.
I looked around, wondering if there was some sort of Justin Bieber concert--I mean, that would be the only logical explanation for a line long enough to last through Valentine's Day. But Bieber was no where to be found and after sidling up to a few people in the line herd, I surmised that this was, in fact, the ham exodus. I bided my time Twittering and Facebooking about my experience, then decided to play Duck Hunt on my phone. Here's a tip: Turn off the sound if you're playing a game where you shoot guns while in a very crowded ham line.
After 45 minutes, I finally got to the front of the line--which felt a lot like being in a concert mosh pit at a Neil Diamond concert--and it was there that I was confronted with a rather uncomfortable situation: the order. Here's the thing...sending a vegetarian into the Honeybaked Ham store is a lot like telling one of the orcs from the Lord Of the Rings that they are about to be the lead in The Nutcracker Ballet. Like a lumbering dancing orc, I was completely clueless, and out of my comfort zone.
I muddled through the order, not sure what exactly I was buying, or how to prepare it. The nice clerk helping me took the time to unwrap the ham and show me my purchase. When she asked if it looked okay, I noted the pinkness of it and gave a slight nod, then looked at her with a disconcerted expression and said, "I'm a vegetarian," cue the gasps from the people surrounding me. Worried about the angry patrons and not wanting my obituary to read that I was bludgeoned to death by a Honeybaked Ham, I continued in a quieter voice, "I really don't know what it's supposed to look like. Does it look all right to you?"
She nodded and gave me a concerned smile as she glanced behind me, clearly worried about the crowd. Then she handed me the ham with no warning that I needed to prepare my arm for a chunk of meat heavier than Hercules' bowling ball. I made it to the check out stand as I put my shoulder back into its socket, paid for my ham, and sat in my car taking a few cleansing deep breaths. Then I turned the key in the ignition and started to drive away when my car began beeping at me, clearly unhappy with the meat passenger I'd mistakenly plopped in the front seat. Apparently my car's weight sensor thought my ham-child needed to be buckled in.
When I got home, I put the ham in the fridge and breathed a sigh of relief that my Honeybaked adventure was over. Next Christmas, my carnivore husband can go to the store.
Happy Holidays!
It turns out that getting dropped in the middle of an angry group of warlords and their rhinoceros bodyguards would be less intimidating. Keep in mind that I became a vegetarian at age 5 after a traumatic experience with my babysitter involving a rather vivid visual of Betsy the big brown-eyed cow no longer roaming the grassy fields because she was now on my hamburger bun. When I discovered that Wilbur the pig, Chicken Little, and the cute Thanksgiving turkey were also being killed in the name of dinner, I conducted research via my farm animals pop-up book and gave my parents an itemized list of cute animals I would no longer be eating.
My parents thought this was just a phase, but after a few weeks, they realized what a stubborn little girl they'd birthed, and resorted to guerilla tactics--like hiding meat in my food...which I found. This then forced me to go through a lengthy food inspection at each meal and before long, I'd invoked a hunger strike. Eventually, and with some trepidation, my parents shook their heads and gave up, slightly terrified of my will and worried what that force of nature would turn into during my teenage years.
I still feel the same about little animals, and have been a vegetarian for 25 years. I won't prepare meat or cook it myself, but it doesn't bother me when other people eat it, which is why I agreed to the Honeybaked Ham trip. I arrived at the store, thinking I'd park, grab a ham, and get back to my coffee in the car. As I walked up to the door, I saw a line. And not just any line, this line stretched out the door, and wound its way into a neighboring store, complete with poles and tape as a guide to get people through the maze. This feat of people herding put the airport security line to shame.
I looked around, wondering if there was some sort of Justin Bieber concert--I mean, that would be the only logical explanation for a line long enough to last through Valentine's Day. But Bieber was no where to be found and after sidling up to a few people in the line herd, I surmised that this was, in fact, the ham exodus. I bided my time Twittering and Facebooking about my experience, then decided to play Duck Hunt on my phone. Here's a tip: Turn off the sound if you're playing a game where you shoot guns while in a very crowded ham line.
After 45 minutes, I finally got to the front of the line--which felt a lot like being in a concert mosh pit at a Neil Diamond concert--and it was there that I was confronted with a rather uncomfortable situation: the order. Here's the thing...sending a vegetarian into the Honeybaked Ham store is a lot like telling one of the orcs from the Lord Of the Rings that they are about to be the lead in The Nutcracker Ballet. Like a lumbering dancing orc, I was completely clueless, and out of my comfort zone.
I muddled through the order, not sure what exactly I was buying, or how to prepare it. The nice clerk helping me took the time to unwrap the ham and show me my purchase. When she asked if it looked okay, I noted the pinkness of it and gave a slight nod, then looked at her with a disconcerted expression and said, "I'm a vegetarian," cue the gasps from the people surrounding me. Worried about the angry patrons and not wanting my obituary to read that I was bludgeoned to death by a Honeybaked Ham, I continued in a quieter voice, "I really don't know what it's supposed to look like. Does it look all right to you?"
She nodded and gave me a concerned smile as she glanced behind me, clearly worried about the crowd. Then she handed me the ham with no warning that I needed to prepare my arm for a chunk of meat heavier than Hercules' bowling ball. I made it to the check out stand as I put my shoulder back into its socket, paid for my ham, and sat in my car taking a few cleansing deep breaths. Then I turned the key in the ignition and started to drive away when my car began beeping at me, clearly unhappy with the meat passenger I'd mistakenly plopped in the front seat. Apparently my car's weight sensor thought my ham-child needed to be buckled in.
When I got home, I put the ham in the fridge and breathed a sigh of relief that my Honeybaked adventure was over. Next Christmas, my carnivore husband can go to the store.
Happy Holidays!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Droids and Other Disasters
You know how sometimes your grandma calls and says something interesting like: "My computer is sick and the pictures on the screen keep jumping around like bunnies." So you go to her house only to find an industrial grade magnet the size of your thigh stuck to the motherboard side of her desktop computer. You take the magnet off, explain that magnets are to computers what the iceberg was to the Titanic, and you all have a laugh about technological shenanigans at family gatherings for years to come. (And yes, that really did happen). Well, that's a bit like how I feel about my new Motorola Droid 2 smart phone.
If you follow me on Twitter, you already know the confusion that occurred. Aside from needing (and lacking) an instruction manual the size of an unabridged dictionary, I immediately had technical difficulties. After turning the phone off Wednesday night, I decided I might need to make some calls on Thursday, or be otherwise connected to the rest of the world. In my opinion, that was not an unreasonable request.
Soon after turning the phone on, I started getting text messages from friends saying that 5 days worth of previous text messages had just been resent. The Droid did this all by itself, thus making me question how smart my phone actually was. I decided there was a good possibility it was inhabited by the Prince of Darkness himself. Friends, especially those who were displeased with the duplicate messages, received another message that I may or may not have had something to do with saying something like: "Since you were one of the lucky recipients of a duplicate text message, congratulations, you have been chosen. Hellfire and Brimstone wishes, from the Prince of Darkness. Future owner of your sooouuuul." (And yes, the Prince of Darkness does sound a little like the Dread Pirate Roberts).
My Droid's evil tendencies prompted me to name it Megatron, but then I remembered I've already cristened a car and other complicated things that piss me off with that name. So, I decided on MM (Mini Megatron) instead. I took MM back to the store and exchanged it. So far the new phone isn't showing signs of possession, but with my genetics (see Mom story below, and Grandma story above), I never rule anything out.
Technology related disasters are not an isolated event in my family. My mom (AKA: The Destroyer) manages to crash her hard drive at least once every 3 months. Soon, Best Buy is going to stop allowing her to buy their product protection plans. I can't begin to fathom the amount of money they're losing. Recently, The Destroyer was asked to teach a Computer Basics class to the good Spanish speaking folk of her little Florida town. Problem number 1: She is The Destroyer. Problem number 2: The Destroyer doesn't speak Spanish. I call bad judgment on the part of the class organizers. Really. Bad. Judgment.
I didn't attend the class since The Destroyer and Grandma were already there, and two generations of catastrophe-causing family members in one location with a bunch of computers seemed like enough of a recipe for the apocolypse. But I hear The Destroyer taught the Spanish people several words they weren't even aware existed. Most of these words ended in the letter "o" (ie. mouseo, keyboardo, Windowso). Next, they'll have her teaching a class on the Droid. Hijinks, hilarity and the possibility of the homeland security threat level sprinting to red will ensue.
For me, I've figured out the basics. Turning the phone on and off is a breeze, and after a brief breakdown and screaming that might have resulted in the neighbors calling animal control, I was able to figure out how to unlock the phone to answer my phone call. And don't even get me started on all the apps! This is information overload I tell you! I can't help but question why one might need Twitter access while, say, taking a bathroom break. I find myself wondering if I really want to be this connected.
My extremely intelligent software architect husband doesn't have this problem. In fact, he's in love. In the last three days, it has become blindingly clear that if he could take his Droid Incredible as a second wife, he would. Perhaps there's even a succubus living inside his phone planting these thoughts in his head. Considering the possession abilities already demonstrated in my Droid, one should definitely not rule this possibility out. Husband spent 6 hours with his phone on Wednesday, another 7 hours last night, and tonight he asked me to use the Droid to map the closest Post Office even though we've lived in this neighborhood and used its Post Office for 5 years.
Despite the possession, my husband's obsession, and a family with anti-technological genetics capable of taking down a small country, I really do think the Droid is handy. Everything is so much more convenient now and I can keep in touch and get my work done without sitting in front of a computer 24 hours a day. If I can pass the learning curve and the Prince of Darkness doesn't make a reappearance, I see a bright future for MM and me.
If you follow me on Twitter, you already know the confusion that occurred. Aside from needing (and lacking) an instruction manual the size of an unabridged dictionary, I immediately had technical difficulties. After turning the phone off Wednesday night, I decided I might need to make some calls on Thursday, or be otherwise connected to the rest of the world. In my opinion, that was not an unreasonable request.
Soon after turning the phone on, I started getting text messages from friends saying that 5 days worth of previous text messages had just been resent. The Droid did this all by itself, thus making me question how smart my phone actually was. I decided there was a good possibility it was inhabited by the Prince of Darkness himself. Friends, especially those who were displeased with the duplicate messages, received another message that I may or may not have had something to do with saying something like: "Since you were one of the lucky recipients of a duplicate text message, congratulations, you have been chosen. Hellfire and Brimstone wishes, from the Prince of Darkness. Future owner of your sooouuuul." (And yes, the Prince of Darkness does sound a little like the Dread Pirate Roberts).
My Droid's evil tendencies prompted me to name it Megatron, but then I remembered I've already cristened a car and other complicated things that piss me off with that name. So, I decided on MM (Mini Megatron) instead. I took MM back to the store and exchanged it. So far the new phone isn't showing signs of possession, but with my genetics (see Mom story below, and Grandma story above), I never rule anything out.
Technology related disasters are not an isolated event in my family. My mom (AKA: The Destroyer) manages to crash her hard drive at least once every 3 months. Soon, Best Buy is going to stop allowing her to buy their product protection plans. I can't begin to fathom the amount of money they're losing. Recently, The Destroyer was asked to teach a Computer Basics class to the good Spanish speaking folk of her little Florida town. Problem number 1: She is The Destroyer. Problem number 2: The Destroyer doesn't speak Spanish. I call bad judgment on the part of the class organizers. Really. Bad. Judgment.
I didn't attend the class since The Destroyer and Grandma were already there, and two generations of catastrophe-causing family members in one location with a bunch of computers seemed like enough of a recipe for the apocolypse. But I hear The Destroyer taught the Spanish people several words they weren't even aware existed. Most of these words ended in the letter "o" (ie. mouseo, keyboardo, Windowso). Next, they'll have her teaching a class on the Droid. Hijinks, hilarity and the possibility of the homeland security threat level sprinting to red will ensue.
For me, I've figured out the basics. Turning the phone on and off is a breeze, and after a brief breakdown and screaming that might have resulted in the neighbors calling animal control, I was able to figure out how to unlock the phone to answer my phone call. And don't even get me started on all the apps! This is information overload I tell you! I can't help but question why one might need Twitter access while, say, taking a bathroom break. I find myself wondering if I really want to be this connected.
My extremely intelligent software architect husband doesn't have this problem. In fact, he's in love. In the last three days, it has become blindingly clear that if he could take his Droid Incredible as a second wife, he would. Perhaps there's even a succubus living inside his phone planting these thoughts in his head. Considering the possession abilities already demonstrated in my Droid, one should definitely not rule this possibility out. Husband spent 6 hours with his phone on Wednesday, another 7 hours last night, and tonight he asked me to use the Droid to map the closest Post Office even though we've lived in this neighborhood and used its Post Office for 5 years.
Despite the possession, my husband's obsession, and a family with anti-technological genetics capable of taking down a small country, I really do think the Droid is handy. Everything is so much more convenient now and I can keep in touch and get my work done without sitting in front of a computer 24 hours a day. If I can pass the learning curve and the Prince of Darkness doesn't make a reappearance, I see a bright future for MM and me.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Halloween!!!!
I woke up today to three inches of snow outside. After some colorful language, I felt better and decided it was okay since this is Utah where there are days you have to use both your heater and your air conditioner. I'm so not ready for summer to be over, but I am excited because...
It's Halloween!!! My favorite month, my favorite season (Autumn is BEAUTIFUL in Utah when it doesn't snow!!) And my favorite holiday! I usually spend the whole month watching scary movies, reading scary books, and trying to scare the pants off myself.
I live in the Utah suburbs which means I'm surrounded by children. There are over 70 kids on my street alone...and my street only has 18 houses. As you can imagine, Halloween is C-R-A-Z-Y here!!! We usually get between 200-500 trick-or-treaters, though numbers have been dwindling lately since my Dad started visiting on Halloween to terrorize the children. He dresses up as a scary monster wearing stilts. I imagine he resembles what a ringwraith from The Lord of the Rings would look like if they took their hoods off.
He's about 9 feet tall with the stilts on and usually leans against the house looking like a decoration until the older kids come by and then he slowly moves away and starts following them. They try to run, but with the stilts, he can cover about 4 feet per step. Being chased by a 9 foot tall ringwraith and the embodiment of nightmares has to be pretty traumatizing. My dad's been using this tactic since I was about 8 years old and once threatened to greet all my dates that way. Luckily he didn't follow through.
The candy is ready to go, the DVR is set to record Ghost Hunters Live, Dad is sanding his stilts, and the pumpkins are carved (see pics below). It's going to be a great!
So...what are you doing for Halloween?
This is our dog, Pippin's, pumpkin.
This is Pippin.
My 30 year old husband's pumpkin. I think he loves Nintendo more now than he did in 1990.
And I'm obsessed with the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Mercy can shift into a coyote, hence the coyote paw. :)
It's Halloween!!! My favorite month, my favorite season (Autumn is BEAUTIFUL in Utah when it doesn't snow!!) And my favorite holiday! I usually spend the whole month watching scary movies, reading scary books, and trying to scare the pants off myself.
I live in the Utah suburbs which means I'm surrounded by children. There are over 70 kids on my street alone...and my street only has 18 houses. As you can imagine, Halloween is C-R-A-Z-Y here!!! We usually get between 200-500 trick-or-treaters, though numbers have been dwindling lately since my Dad started visiting on Halloween to terrorize the children. He dresses up as a scary monster wearing stilts. I imagine he resembles what a ringwraith from The Lord of the Rings would look like if they took their hoods off.
He's about 9 feet tall with the stilts on and usually leans against the house looking like a decoration until the older kids come by and then he slowly moves away and starts following them. They try to run, but with the stilts, he can cover about 4 feet per step. Being chased by a 9 foot tall ringwraith and the embodiment of nightmares has to be pretty traumatizing. My dad's been using this tactic since I was about 8 years old and once threatened to greet all my dates that way. Luckily he didn't follow through.
The candy is ready to go, the DVR is set to record Ghost Hunters Live, Dad is sanding his stilts, and the pumpkins are carved (see pics below). It's going to be a great!
So...what are you doing for Halloween?
This is our dog, Pippin's, pumpkin.
This is Pippin.
My 30 year old husband's pumpkin. I think he loves Nintendo more now than he did in 1990.
And I'm obsessed with the Mercy Thompson novels by Patricia Briggs. Mercy can shift into a coyote, hence the coyote paw. :)Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Want A Prize?
Heather, one of my amazing writer friends, is having a giveaway on her blog! There are a lot of cool prizes like books, bookmarks, original artwork and a $30 Amazon or Barnes and Noble gift card.
Check it out if you like awesome prizes. And sign up to follow Heather's blog because she's such an awesome, talented gal! :)
Heather's Blog, Lost in the View
Check it out if you like awesome prizes. And sign up to follow Heather's blog because she's such an awesome, talented gal! :)
Heather's Blog, Lost in the View
Friday, August 20, 2010
Blind in the Friendly Skies
When two legally blind kids are left alone in an international airport with a train that looks a lot like a ride at Disney World, will they make their flight, or wander around Atlanta International surviving on Cinnabon?
No, no, it's not a story I made up, it's my life.
My younger brother and sister were both born with Peter's Anomaly Plus Syndrome. It's so rare that my brother was one of the first in the world to be diagnosed with it. People with Peter's Anomaly are born blind, without pupils. There are a host of other problems that often go along with it including dwarfism, hearing problems, and speech problems. As babies, my bro and sis's doctors were able to figure out a way to give them pupils, and eyesight; they now have limited vision, though they're legally blind. When their eyesight started getting worse because of the dry Utah weather, their doctors said they had to move to humid Florida.
They've been in Florida for two years now, but because Peter's Anomaly Plus is so rare, the only doctor who can treat them is the doctor who pioneered the sight saving surgeries for them...and he's in Utah. What this means is that two or three times a year, my mostly blind bro and sis have to get on a plane and fly all the way across the country on their own. My family learned a long time ago that having my bro and sis around would be the catalyst for many interesting situations, but we were never, NEVER I tell you, prepared for the adventure that is Delta's round-trip airline flight with connections.
The good people at Delta have a handy feature that allows me, the reservation maker, to note on the ticket that the person flying is visually impaired. Great! I thought, as I clicked the "Visually Impaired" button. Someone will help my bro and sis get to the plane so they don't accidentally wind up in a bathroom stall waiting for the toilet to take off. Unfortunately, the visually impaired check box comes with a catch...you have to ride in a wheelchair in order for a Delta representative to help you...something my bro and sis--who are perfectly capable of walking--kind of resent.
When presented with the option of wheelchair or no help at all, they took no help and wandered around the airport like a modern-day Moses, trying to find the way to their gate, which they couldn't see because the gate signs were too small for them to read. After searching forever (okay, it was really only an hour but felt like more to me, their angst ridden sister who was awaiting a text that they were safely on the plane) they found their gate and the nice flight attendants helped them to their seats--apparently wheelchairs aren't required for seat assistance.
One hurdle down, one iceberg-sized hurdle to go...the connection in Atlanta (only one of the biggest airports in the U.S.). Before Delta decided to marry Northwest and adopt a fleet of smaller airline babies, getting my bro and sis on their connection wasn't nearly as difficult because their connecting flight was usually in the same terminal as the flight they just deplaned. No more my friends.
After asking for help finding their connecting flight, they were pointed down a hall and told to take the escalators and turn left, which they did, and it took them to a train. Keep in mind that my bro and sis grew up in Utah. The only trains my bro and sis have experience with were once fueled by coal.
So my bro and sis shrug as they're pushed on the train and then take a moment to wonder if they're on their way to Hogwarts. Bro is a little concerned when he can't find Harry Potter and starts looking around for help when he spots them! No, not Hermione and Harry, it's even better! An airline employee pushing a guy in a wheelchair. Bro grabs my sis, a plan clear in his mind. Obviously that guy wasn't upset about being hauled around in a wheelchair and since he's in a wheelchair, he's probably going to the same place as them! Finding their gate is as simple as following wheelchair guy!
The train stops, flight attendant and wheelchair guy get off, and bro and sis follow like tiny stalkers, though I imagine most stalkers have better sight and can keep a longer distance. By some miracle, wheelchair guy happens to be in the same terminal as bro and sis, and not only the same terminal, but on the same flight!!! That's right, out of all the flights in Atlanta, the guy my bro and sis followed to find their flight was actually on their flight. If that's not evidence of guardian angels, or at least fairies, I'm not sure what is.
Of course, I didn't get this whole story until by some miracle, they managed to land in Salt Lake.
*shakes head*
I can't wait to see what happens next week when they have to fly back. At least my life is never boring.
No, no, it's not a story I made up, it's my life.
My younger brother and sister were both born with Peter's Anomaly Plus Syndrome. It's so rare that my brother was one of the first in the world to be diagnosed with it. People with Peter's Anomaly are born blind, without pupils. There are a host of other problems that often go along with it including dwarfism, hearing problems, and speech problems. As babies, my bro and sis's doctors were able to figure out a way to give them pupils, and eyesight; they now have limited vision, though they're legally blind. When their eyesight started getting worse because of the dry Utah weather, their doctors said they had to move to humid Florida.
They've been in Florida for two years now, but because Peter's Anomaly Plus is so rare, the only doctor who can treat them is the doctor who pioneered the sight saving surgeries for them...and he's in Utah. What this means is that two or three times a year, my mostly blind bro and sis have to get on a plane and fly all the way across the country on their own. My family learned a long time ago that having my bro and sis around would be the catalyst for many interesting situations, but we were never, NEVER I tell you, prepared for the adventure that is Delta's round-trip airline flight with connections.
The good people at Delta have a handy feature that allows me, the reservation maker, to note on the ticket that the person flying is visually impaired. Great! I thought, as I clicked the "Visually Impaired" button. Someone will help my bro and sis get to the plane so they don't accidentally wind up in a bathroom stall waiting for the toilet to take off. Unfortunately, the visually impaired check box comes with a catch...you have to ride in a wheelchair in order for a Delta representative to help you...something my bro and sis--who are perfectly capable of walking--kind of resent.
When presented with the option of wheelchair or no help at all, they took no help and wandered around the airport like a modern-day Moses, trying to find the way to their gate, which they couldn't see because the gate signs were too small for them to read. After searching forever (okay, it was really only an hour but felt like more to me, their angst ridden sister who was awaiting a text that they were safely on the plane) they found their gate and the nice flight attendants helped them to their seats--apparently wheelchairs aren't required for seat assistance.
One hurdle down, one iceberg-sized hurdle to go...the connection in Atlanta (only one of the biggest airports in the U.S.). Before Delta decided to marry Northwest and adopt a fleet of smaller airline babies, getting my bro and sis on their connection wasn't nearly as difficult because their connecting flight was usually in the same terminal as the flight they just deplaned. No more my friends.
After asking for help finding their connecting flight, they were pointed down a hall and told to take the escalators and turn left, which they did, and it took them to a train. Keep in mind that my bro and sis grew up in Utah. The only trains my bro and sis have experience with were once fueled by coal.
So my bro and sis shrug as they're pushed on the train and then take a moment to wonder if they're on their way to Hogwarts. Bro is a little concerned when he can't find Harry Potter and starts looking around for help when he spots them! No, not Hermione and Harry, it's even better! An airline employee pushing a guy in a wheelchair. Bro grabs my sis, a plan clear in his mind. Obviously that guy wasn't upset about being hauled around in a wheelchair and since he's in a wheelchair, he's probably going to the same place as them! Finding their gate is as simple as following wheelchair guy!
The train stops, flight attendant and wheelchair guy get off, and bro and sis follow like tiny stalkers, though I imagine most stalkers have better sight and can keep a longer distance. By some miracle, wheelchair guy happens to be in the same terminal as bro and sis, and not only the same terminal, but on the same flight!!! That's right, out of all the flights in Atlanta, the guy my bro and sis followed to find their flight was actually on their flight. If that's not evidence of guardian angels, or at least fairies, I'm not sure what is.
Of course, I didn't get this whole story until by some miracle, they managed to land in Salt Lake.
*shakes head*
I can't wait to see what happens next week when they have to fly back. At least my life is never boring.
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