Ok, I get it: Visit the tree.

         When something keeps popping into my mind for no apparent reason, eventually I’m forced to give in and pay attention.  This has been happening with the Angel Oak recently.  Situated on John’s Island, about a 20-minute ride from my house, sits one of the oldest things- living or man-made - east of the Rockies.  It is a live oak that some estimate to be about 1,500 years old.  The circumference of its trunk is over 25 feet and its widespread branches shade over 1,700 square feet.

            Though I’ve lived in Charleston for a combined 10 years, it took me almost 9 to make it out to the Angel Oak for the first time.  Afterwards, I probably visited it 10 or twelve times in a six month period.  Then I didn’t return for a year.  But over the weekend, something in the back of my mind kept telling me to go.  And while biking with a friend yesterday morning, the tree came up again.

            So today after dropping the kids off at school, I headed straight for the tree.  There wasn’t a soul in sight as I pulled up to the gate.  (The perimeter is fenced off for the tree’s protection and it doesn’t open until 9).  Instead of getting frustrated that I had to wait half an hour, or sitting in my car Facebooking, I grabbed my bike off the rack and set out on the long dirt road that extends in either direction from the tree. 

Usually, I would throw in my earbuds and get lost in the music, but the sound of birds chirping, bugs buzzing, and a strong breeze rustling the leaves, was simply too enticing to drown out on a perfect Lowcountry morning like today.  A half hour later, shoes full of sand and a thick layer of dust from my knees to my ankles, I made my way back to the tree and found a sunny spot to lay down.

Nothing utterly magical happened.  There were no signs.  Not a singular life-changing event.  But there were definitely a few moments of clarity and insight.  I think what I like most about being under that tree is that it reminds me how tiny I am.  Not physically, though I do feel miniscule beneath its branches.  But that worrying about things is fairly inconsequential.  I really believe everything happens for a reason.  And if my brain kept nudging me to go there, then there was probably a greater reason for it.  After all, a connection between me and trees just keeps cropping up.  But that’s for another blog…

That time I drove a car in one side of a building and out the other.

           There are a million ways to make the front page of the paper in Central Florida.  Most of the time, it has something to do with shooting someone or being the person with no teeth who is interviewed after witnessing the shooting.  But if you are me, you make the front page of the paper because you are driving down the road, minding your own business, and have a seizure.  At least they think that’s what happened.  We never got a straight answer. 

            In January 2004, I was in grad school and leaving work.  I had just administered an hours-long gifted assessment to a tween-aged girl and I was on my way home to eat before running a therapy group that evening.  I clearly remember sitting at the stoplight, waiting to make a right hand turn.  At the time I had a silver Lexus RX300 and when the light turned green…well, I don’t remember anything after that.  Apparently, I successfully made the turn and drove a few hundred feet before banking toward the right, hitting a curb, and launching my SUV at least five feet high into the bay windows of a store.  The car went all the way through the building and exited through the opposite wall.

            Here’s how it looked.

            When I regained consciousness, I was on a backboard being lifted over my backseat and out the trunk of my car.  I had no idea what had happened.  I didn’t even know where I was.  All I knew was that I couldn’t move.  I was terrified.  And there seemed to be sirens and people talking from every direction. 

I couldn’t focus on the EMT’s face, but he just kept telling me that it was amazing: There wasn’t a scratch or bruise on me anywhere and my car was firmly lodged inside of a building.  I had no idea what he was talking about.  As they lifted me into the ambulance, I got a glimpse of the destruction.  And when they asked me who they should contact, I remembered that my parents were across the country and my husband was out of town.

The following hours are hazy.  They were filled with an extensive battery of tests, an endless amount of blood work, and relentless questioning.  And when I was released a day or so later with no visible injuries, I was told that I must have had a seizure.  I spent months on seizure medications which made me feel completely insane.  I didn’t drive for over 60 days.  And my memory was completely shot (A not-so-pleasant side effect of the unnecessary meds).  It was probably the most helpless I’ve ever felt in my life and thank goodness, I had such great friends (Even one who lived with Colin and I!), family, and faculty mentors for support.

It was a very long road toward recovery for something that couldn’t even be identified as a specific event.  I even spent time at the Cleveland Clinic in South Florida searching for a diagnosis.  I wanted an answer no one could give me.  Ultimately, my specialist told me to move on.  He said the likelihood of something like that happening again (based on all of the testing and my history) was exponentially low.  He said it would have to be the “perfect storm” of events.  He believed it was a combination of my extreme caffeine intake and ridiculous level of stress.

I still count my blessings that I somehow managed to unconsciously navigate my car into a window.  (A quote from a witness stated, “Hollywood would’ve had trouble setting up a stunt like that.  She was lucky she didn’t hit a wall.”)  I couldn’t agree more.  I’m sure that hitting a wall would have been much worse.  And apparently, my car was really my saving grace.  It held up beautifully. 

I haven’t had a single issue since that day and I don’t think I ever will.  There’s just a balance there that didn’t exist 7 years ago.  And I need to remember that every day when I worry about the little things.

I want to go back to Bora Bora.

            If I could choose what the afterlife would be like, it would have to be set in Bora Bora.  It’s been almost 8 years since I stepped off the plane in LA.  Then Tahiti.  Then Papeete.  Then took the crazy little boat ride over to the island of Bora Bora.  It was an incredibly long journey.  But since then, I’ve been to France, Spain, the Netherlands…Nothing compares to the simple beauty of this tiny little island in French Polynesia.

When I was little, I remember there was a commercial for Bora Bora that played every Saturday morning.  Oddly, I’m pretty sure the voiceover was done by a guy from Jamaica; but ever since seeing those images as a kid, I’d fantasized about those beautiful beaches, and I desperately wanted to go.  It was always number one on my list.

There are many times in life when expectations cannot possibly be met.  Something simply can’t be as perfect as you imagine.  But this was not one of them.  Pictures and videos cannot demonstrate how clear the water is.  You can’t imagine how far you can see.  Clouds are whiter there.  Fish are brighter.  Coconuts and bananas picked off the trees and handed to you taste better than anything I’ve ever had.

Even better, our resort only guaranteed phone service on certain days.  There was no TV.  No internet.   Our bungalow sat right on the beach, the water lapping only feet from our back door.  Drinks flowed freely.  Delicious food was devoured constantly.  And it was Christmas time.   I had no idea if Christmas would be celebrated there and honestly, it didn’t matter.  But as it turns out, they throw one heck of a Christmas party in French Polynesia, including maple syrup infused vodka shots at breakfast. 

 We stayed in Bora Bora for nine days.  It was the most enchanting nine days I’ve ever spent.  I wish I was lazing around on that catamaran right now thinking about absolutely nothing.  At least Hurricane Irene is gone and we have beautiful blue skies here today.  But sorry Charleston, you just don’t compare.

Whip It, in real life.

A little over a year ago, I was sitting on Folly Beach with the boys when Teague darted off toward a little girl I’d never seen.  She was playing in the sand with her mom and little sister, and I soon found out that she went to school with Teague, though they weren’t in the same class.  I sat down with them and quickly realized that this little girl’s mom was hilariously one-of-a-kind.  And after about 10 minutes of talking to her, she revealed she was thinking about trying out for the Roller Derby team.

I didn’t know much about Roller Derby back then.  I kind of thought it was a fictional sport.  Then, I saw the movie Whip It starring Ellen Page.  I don’t think it did well in theaters and most people only knew about it because it was Drew Barrymore’s directorial debut.  But I thought it was a great story and as a sport, it fascinated me. 

A month or so later when the kids went back to school, Teague and Ella ended up being in the same class.  After discussing why we never hung out (we live about 3 streets apart), Heather told me she had, in fact, tried out for the team and made it.  I was blown away.  This is a full-contact, dangerous activity.  These women don’t hold back.  And considering that I’d taken Teague roller skating a few weeks earlier and had him trip me (while I may or may not have been roller dancing) and I had a bruise the size of a baseball on my butt, I couldn’t imagine going facedown onto those hard floors.  I had to see this in person.

The first bout we attended was surreal.  I had no idea what the rules were.  The derby-names the girls use demanded most of my attention.  There were a bunch of strange hand gestures which, to me, had no meaning.  And the glow-in-the-dark hula hooping girls at half-time had me mesmerized. 

Then I located a rule book.  Learned the terms.  And finally figured out how you score points.  By that time, the bout was over. 

Since then, we have been to almost every home bout.  It’s a great activity for the whole family or even just for a date night.  There’s so much energy in McAlister Field House when the team skates in, and the Lowcountry genuinely adores its Highrollers.  If you’re in Chucktown tomorrow night, there is a Bout at 5:00.  The doors open at 4:00.  We’ll be there.  And thanks Jay and Heather for always hooking us up with the VIP tickets!

The great outdoors.

           With a love of reading and a distaste for exercise, it’s no wonder I’ve never been a fan of the outdoors.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love the beach.  I adore boating.  I think there is absolutely nothing like being out on the water.  But sitting outside, exploring, or even writing outdoors has never piqued my interest.  Until lately.

            Maybe it’s because of the writer’s conference I went to.  Everyone there kept encouraging me to try writing in a different setting.  I mean, even Libba Bray said her friends sometimes have to push her out the door because she refuses to crawl out of her writing hole.  But this is different.  I don’t just want to write outside.  I want to be outside all the time.

            In the past, hanging out in the driveway while my kids rode scooters or climbed trees was painful for me.  I like air conditioning.  And big comfy couches.  Sweating is not my friend.  And bugs seem to love me more than anyone else in a three mile radius.  Being outside has always felt like punishment.

            These days, it feels more like a reward.  I want to lace up my sneakers and walk as far as I can.  I want to sit under huge trees and think about all the things they’ve seen.  I want to explore streets and alleys I’ve never noticed, and find new places to take my boys.  I think I’ll use the mornings that they’re both in school to do these things.  If anyone wants to join me, let me know.

Lists and playlists.

            I’ve always loved to make lists.  There is something incredibly satisfying about writing things down and crossing them off as they get accomplished.  I’m also a fan of bulleting my favorite things and taking note of what I like.  I suppose I’m just always writing something.

            But recently, my favorite kind of list is a playlist.  I love having a different soundtrack for each aspect of my life.  There’s my Sunday Funday playlist which I think everyone else is getting pretty sick of after a summer of Sunday Fundays (It’s chock full of Justin Bieber, Sean Kingston, and anything ever sung on Glee).  There’s my angsty, I’m-writing-a break-up-scene in a teen book playlist (This includes a lot of Taylor Swift, Bon Iver and St. Vincent, and Lykke Li).  Then there’s my playlist for when I’m in the car and excited about where I’m going.  Right now, this one includes the entire Suckerpunch soundtrack, and the Warbler’s versions of  Misery, Animal, Raise your Glass, and When I get you alone. 

My cooking-dinner fave is currently anything by Ray Lamontagne.  When I really need to laugh, I listen to The Lonely Island’s Incredibad (I’m on a Boat and Natalie Portman’s Rap never get old.)  My kids are really into Young and Divine, Death Cab, Timbaland, Big Time Rush, and apparently, Reggae. This is a mix of my tastes, my husband’s, and my friends Amanda and Kate.

Since I’ve decided to give working out a shot this week, I’m going to need some serious motivation music.  I’m taking suggestions.  What gets you going and pushes you to work your butt off?

Is it possible to be an exercise convert?

           Working out has never been a part of my life.  There were a few weeks back in 1999 when my roommate drug me to the gym, and another brief stint in 2000 when I lived in San Francisco and gave it a shot.  But for the most part, I’ve never exercised.  People always talk about how good they feel when they get to the gym and how energized they are when they leave.  I, on the other hand, don’t like it any more once I arrive and usually feel on the verge of death as I exit.

            Over the last year, health issues have run rampant in my family.  High blood pressure, strokes, heart attacks, you name it and someone in my family has experienced it.  I’ll admit it has me scared.  Not scared enough to join a gym.  But it’s unsettling enough to make me think about doing something.  I know, it’s a very small step.

I think the biggest problem is that I get bored easily.  I know there are a multitude of machines and classes I could try, but it all amounts to an activity I simply do not enjoy.  So, is it possible to become someone who does enjoy the routine?  I suppose the only way to find out is to make a genuine effort.  Maybe I can convince myself I’m doing it for my kids.  Perhaps I can view it as an opportunity to see more of my friends.  There are at least five people who have been pushing for me to give Barre, Spinning, and Pilates a chance for years.  It really couldn’t hurt.  Actually, it could.  And as my friend told me last night, sometimes you just have to try something different.

Things to do when you have your first afternoon to yourself in a week.

1)      Eat homemade pralines.

2)      Facebook excessively.

3)      Try to figure out where you’re meeting your friends for dinner.

4)      Read People.com

5)      Stare at your cat in the neighbor’s yard and think about how you never wanted a cat and still don’t.

6)      Listen to music with explicit lyrics.

7)      Text.

8)      Return the stare of the 6-foot cardboard cutout of Edward Cullen you received for your birthday that stands next to your desk.

9)      Wish you had a cupcake to go with the pralines.

10)  Realize it’s been two hours and nothing has been accomplished.

The proof is in the pictures...uh, videos.

            My friend Corie has been asking for months when I’m going to write about college.  In honor of my night out with her and another college-days friend tonight, I thought I would oblige.

            Discussing college is dangerous.  There are so many stories and so many people involved who don’t want their stories told.  Unfortunately, for a lot of them, I have pictures and a plethora of videos documenting our shenanigans.  But they are under lock and key and only come out every few years when I need to remember how ridiculous I was.  And I won’t share anyone else’s secrets here.  Just mine.

Starting with freshman year, Corie and I became sort of obsessed with chronicling our adventures.  We took an endless number of pictures and this was long before we had a digital camera.  I can’t imagine how much money we spent in 96’, 97’, and 98’ developing rolls of film and making collages.  My two favorites are poster-sized collections we made over 14 years ago.  She still has one.  This is mine.

            There were 7 of us in our dorm suite freshman year.  We were an insane assortment of misfits.  Actually, when we arrived, most of us were pretty docile.  We didn’t become totally impractical until weeks later.  The first month of school, I did many things that didn’t last.  I showered before class.  I rushed and pledged a sorority.  I didn’t have a fake ID.  And I did my own laundry.  By spring, I never showered until it was time to go out.  My sorority and I had reached a mutual understanding that my facial piercings and I had taken a different path.  I had some girl’s New Jersey license that couldn’t have looked more unlike me.  And I found a great Laundromat that washed and folded my clothes, though sometimes I just bought new ones instead.  Oh, and did I mention I spent an inordinate amount of time wearing a purple Dr. Seuss-style hat and the thickest hemp choker on the planet?  Yep.  Both can be spotted above.

            Anyway, along with the pictures, Corie and I started compiling a Master List of all the things we did.  We would bust out her laptop and add to it at least once a week.  I remember that laptop well.  It weighed like fifty pounds and was the only computer we had that could make a dial-up connection.  I never imagined “The List” would survive that machine.  Then, a few years ago, Corie emailed it to me.  Honestly, most of it was a blur.  There were certain things--- like the way we used a Nintendo 64 box to smuggle beer into the dorm, and how I dropped my ring through the deck slats at Backstage on Cup Night---that I remember clearly.  But so much of it was a mystery until Corie and her steel-trap mind started elaborating.  I pity the fool who thinks she has ever forgotten anything. 

            Then, as if photos, lists, and Corie’s brain weren’t enough, there are the videos.  Sophomore year, I received a video camera for Christmas.  A first-generation, Handycam-type device that seemed to roll more hours of the day than not.  We filmed everything.  Street fights.  Sunday dinner.  A spring break trip to Jamaica.  Hours of singing along to bands like Chumbawumba.  We even have footage of someone talking to an ice cream scoop for forty-five minutes.   When I moved in with my next roommate, Tracy, we continued the filming tradition.  Between our trip to Cancun, my 21^st birthday, and the purchase of a tripod, they only get funnier.  And way more embarrassing.  We simultaneously cringed and laughed until we cried the last time we watched them.

Though incriminating, I’m glad I have pictures, lists, friends, and videos to remember those times.  It’s fun to reminisce about the carefree days when our biggest dilemma was which bar to meet in or where the cutest boys hung out.  But it’s much nicer to be on the other side with those who shared it with me.  Now, I just need to make sure my kids never ever see the evidence of our debauchery.  Or listen to Corie’s (AKA Aunt Coco’s) funny stories.

Whit and Corie Fall 1996

Summer's almost gone.

As summer winds down and I find today’s 89 degrees much more tolerable than the 102 of weeks past, I can’t believe how much things have changed in a few short months.  And for the most part, things have changed for the better.

Blogging has brought a level of introspection and insight I never expected.  It’s also made me more accountable.  After putting all my dirt out there for everyone to see, it’s nice when I--- and my friends---hold myself to what I post.  The gentle reminders of others to be thankful, not spaz out on my kids, and of course to keep up my bikini line laser treatments, has kept me incredibly motivated.

I’ve also pushed myself to try things I thought I would never do.  Like attending writer’s groups, going to Blogger socials, and wearing heels.  I hate heels.  They may look amazing, but I don’t suffer for fashion often.  I do, however, have to agree that I feel sexier as soon as I slip them on.  So I might stick it out.

I’ve welcomed a lot more people into my life and have made unprecedented efforts to keep them there.  The days of unreturned calls, emails, and texts are gone, though I won’t lie and say it’s been easy.  It’s a daily struggle, but one that has proven well worth the time.  There doesn’t seem to be enough minutes in the day to catch up with everyone lately.  Or enough evenings in the week to see the faces I miss.

My kids are growing like crazy and becoming more inquisitive by the day.  It’s fascinating to watch a five-year-old change over the course of a year.  It’s exhilarating to watch how quickly a two year old’s speech advances in a week.

I turned 33, which, let’s face it, pretty much sucks.  But oddly, I don’t remember ever feeling more comfortable in my own skin.  I always thought people who said that this happened after 30 was a load, but maybe they aren’t as insane as originally anticipated.  Or perhaps I’ve lost it and don’t know.

And I couldn’t be more thrilled about the books I’m working on.

I’m excited for fall and what it might bring.  Summer will be missed.  But I’m ready for pool days to evolve into football-filled weekends.  I am not excited about losing my tan, but it’s only a temporary change.  And that’s what I love most about life: the possibilities.

Our very last first day of preschool.

            I remember my oldest’s first day of preschool like it was yesterday.  He was so excited about the Lightning McQueen backpack he picked out at Target and his little matching two-pocket folder.  This was before he realized he was about to be left somewhere for the very first time.  Typical toddler crying ensued, and for the entire four-week summer session, he cried almost all day every day.

            Fast-forward to the start of his first, actual school year when he was almost three, and it seemed to only get worse.  I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a single morning for three months they didn’t have to peel him out of his carseat in the carpool line.  As they drug him away each day, little arms outstretched, I thought I might vomit.  Of course, I was also six weeks pregnant, so that might have bolstered the need to spew.

            By Christmas, he still got teary-eyed on the way to school, but only cried sporadically.  Then the drama kind of started again after the long Christmas break and being home with me every day.  At the end of year one, crying ceased completely.  This is why I am feeling quite uneasy about my youngest starting preschool tomorrow.

            Technically, his program started on Monday.  But since I was in LA and this was only the second time I’d ever left the boys, I decided it might be a bit much for him to start school with me gone.  He could have gone Wednesday.  But I hadn’t seen him in five days and really needed the snuggle time.  Now, it’s Thursday evening and I have to send him tomorrow or he might lose his spot.

            I know he needs to go.  He needs to make his own friends and interact with other two-year-olds.  Right now, he plays like a five-year-old and bowls over kids his age.  I’m the one who’s not ready.  This is the last time I can consider him a baby.  Tomorrow, he will be a preschooler.  And though not tangible, it is still different.

            By 8:45 I will have dropped Crews off.  By 9, Teague will be at camp.  It’s the very last first day of preschool for our family.  But I keep telling myself I still have a lot of other firsts to look forward to.  Good and bad.

I got crabs in LA. The Dungeness variety.

Sunday night, I found Heaven on earth in the form of a restaurant called Crustacean.  My mom had told me about this magical place with a glass-covered koi river running through it,

and the best garlic crab and noodles on the planet.  But until you enter this corner restaurant in Beverly Hills,and smell the seafood-garlic deliciousness, there is absolutely no way to imagine how good it really is.

Upon being seated at this table,

I was first told about the “Secret Kitchen.”  According to the waiter (and this menu),

there is a secret walled kitchen within the kitchen at Crustacean.  It is small.  Only the head chef and the cooks who have been with the establishment over 10 years are allowed inside.  The mix of garlic and spices they use has been a family secret for over 30 years, and honestly, after all of the hype, I believed there was no way the food could live up to the legend.

Then, my food arrived.  Not only did it look like this…

But at first bite, I thought I might slap my mama.  Seriously, she was sitting right there.  I almost slapped her.  It was that good.

I thought my favorite food in LA was enchiladas at The Ivy.  But if I could have any food from the entire state of California make its way to Charleston, it would be the Dungeness crab and garlic noodles from Crustacean.  I wish I could fill up my suitcase and bring them home.  I want to fly them in by the pound. 

I will miss you Crustacean.  I will think of you often and fondly.  And until we meet again, I hope you show up in my dreams paired with that delicious Cabernet.

Stop and listen.

            The past few days have been incredibly inspiring.  I think it’s because I’ve done significantly more listening and absolutely less talking.  It’s amazing what you hear when there are no distractions, no demands, just you listening to the voice of another.  People say truly astounding and funny things. 

Here are some fantastic words I’ve heard:

“Three-year-olds are like Alzheimer’s patients on acid.”

“A book always begins on the day something different happened.”

“Read everything.  Then read some more.  Then read what you’re told not to read.”

“Moose are mean bastards.  They are the meanest animals on the planet.”

“Lawyers should be hunted.  Each family should be allowed to take down three per year.”

“If you’re writing a sex scene, and you’re not turned on, then it sucks.  It is not sexy.”

“If you need to write it, chances are, there a lot of people out there who need to read it.”

“Any civilization is built on empathy.”

“‘Perfect’ wants to vote you off the island.  ‘Better’ wants to make an alliance.”

“Never throw anything you’ve written away.”

“Stop scaring yourself into not doing what you love.”

“Beaver meat is the healthiest meat you can eat.  Rabbit is second.  Buffalo is not any healthier than beef though they’re always trying to convince you it is.”

“When I was little, my six brothers and I invented a game called ‘Slaughterball.”  You threw a ball up in the air, and whoever caught it got slaughtered.”

“Being chosen to speak in front of 1,400 people totally makes up for not getting asked to Senior prom.”

“Let me introduce you to my agent.”

And of course, Jay Asher’s quote, “Everything affects everything.”

There’s a lot to think about.  I’m thankful I have these few, quiet, focused days to ponder what I’m hearing.  But I sure do miss my boys and their noise.

So last night I met Henry Winkler and he gave me amazing advice.

What’s it like to be surrounded by almost 1,400 people who do, or desperately want to do, the same you thing as you?  Exciting!  And totally overwhelming.

Sitting amongst both first-time writers and some of the most famous ever (Hello, Judy Blume), I realized just how large this industry is.  I mean, I knew how big it was, but sitting in a room with pretty much everyone who makes the world of Young Adult and children’s writing go around was staggering. 

Everyone who isn’t an agent or an editor is here for the same reason: To sell a book.  Or maybe two or three.  But we all agree that just one would do.  And oddly, the most common piece of advice I keep hearing is “Finish the manuscript.”  So, I’m feeling really good about having attained that goal.

Beyond that, I’m in total information overload.  I have at least twenty pages of notes. I listened to over ten speakers yesterday.  And I had lunch with an amazing group of women from the Carolinas who run the regional chapter of our society (SCBWI).

I also keep running into Jay Asher, which is totally overwhelming.  His book, Thirteen Reasons Why, is one of my all-time favorites and I have at least thirteen questions I would like to ask him about it.  I’m trying to keep it together.

And on a strange note, I was approached by Henry Winkler last night at the bar.  He is hands down one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.  He asked me an endless number of questions about my books (ALL of them).  He wanted to know how I got into writing.  How confident I was in my stories.  My educational history.  My character’s names.  How I came up with the title of my series.  And then he asked me what dystopian literature is.  It was surreal.

But the most amazing part of our conversation was the advice he gave me.  He told me that before I answered his questions, I always said, “I think” before I launched into my response.  He told me to remove the words, “I think” from my repertoire when it comes to talking about my writing.  He told me to be confident, and simply reply, “Yes.”  Or start with, “I know.”

After about twenty minutes of writing talk with Henry Winkler (Yes, he is also a writer), he encouraged me once more, confirmed my name, and said he would be on the lookout for my breakout book.  Then, the Fonz was gone.

It’s funny how things happen.  Of all the people I thought I might meet here, and all the tips I anticipated from others in the industry, I never imagined Henry Winkler would be the one to boost my confidence and drown out the noise of a very long day.  Happy Days, indeed.

I want to be this excited about every single day.

             You know the feeling when you just can’t sleep and don’t even mind waking up at 4 in the morning because something exciting awaits you?  Well, that’s exactly how I feel today.  Like it’s Christmas, a spa day, and a big trip all rolled into one.  I’m that excited about being surrounded by writers for the next four days.

            This morning, my alarm was set for 5:15, but at 4 o’clock on the dot, my eyes popped open and I hopped out of bed.  I made coffee, skipped to the shower, emailed, Facebooked, and did a whole list of other things before 4:45.  By 5:45 I was on my way to the airport, singing (loudly) along with old-school No Doubt, Destiny’s Child, and Nirvana (I was listening to LA’s KIIS FM on satellite) and I felt like I’d had three or four cups of coffee instead of only one.

            After landing in Atlanta, we sat on the runway for an hour.  And though I had to run my butt off to make my connection, it was probably a good thing.  I had a ridiculous amount of energy for it to be so early and only running on 6 hours of sleep.  Then I wrote like a fiend for the duration of the flight, and I haven’t crashed yet.

I know every day of life can’t be so exciting.  There are simply a lot of things that need to be done that aren’t so fun.  But I would like to focus on one thing every single day that excites me, or that I’m really looking forward to.  The next four days are already taken care of: I will be spending hours upon hours learning more about what I love to do.  On Tuesday, the highlight of my day will be getting home to my boys and kissing their sleeping little faces.  After that, I have no idea what I’ll be looking forward to, but I guarantee it will be something good. 

Can you tell I’m feeling inspired?  Bring it, LA.

Oh sugar, sugar.

            I often joke that someone has slipped my boys crack when they’re acting crazy.  Lately, they’ve been crazier more times than not.  And I’ve been absolutely drowning in what I have now dubbed “The Summer of Misbehavior.”  It’s kind of like the Island of Misfit Toys, only inside my house and not nearly as fun.

I’ve never been sensitive to the effects of caffeine or sugar, not that my kids have ever had caffeine in any form other than chocolate.  But when my mom visited last week and watched my kids’ behavior spiral downward over the course of an afternoon, she mentioned her own sensitivity to it and how it makes her buzz.  It never occurred to me that I was the one providing the “crack.”  I was my kids’ sugar dealer.  Therefore, the following day, we made sugar completely off limits.  And a miracle happened.

Well, miracle might be a bit strong; the boys were in no way perfect.  But they were much more manageable than any other day in recent history.  There was significantly less hitting, throwing, playroom demolition, and early evening Thunderdome activity.

When I started adding up all of the poolside popsicles, trips to Cupcake (Ok, a lot of these trips were made because of my obsession with cupcakes), outings to YOBE/Yogurt Mountain/32 Degrees, and Kate’s wonderful baking skills, I realized we are a family of sugar addicts.  And detox is not very fun.

After leaving the Children’s Museum yesterday afternoon, the kids and I automatically started walking toward Cupcake.  It’s how we always round out our museum trips.  But a block away from cake-devouring Heaven, I realized the mistake, and stopped them short.  I had to decide if it was worth the fight to tell them no and listen to the complaints all the way home, or let them have the sugar then deal with the fallout for the next three hours.  Ultimately, I opted to drag them screaming back to the parking garage without the sugar.

It’s not that I will never allow them to have sugar again, but I will definitely be more judicious about its distribution.  If it’s a rainy day and we’re going to be trapped inside for hours on end, there will definitely be no sugar.  If we’re having Sunday Funday or heading to Charles Towne Landing for a long walk, it’s probably ok.  I know there are sugar-free alternatives and we might give some of those a try too.  But in general, the daily treats of summer are a thing of the past.  At least for the kids…

Ode to distraction.

             Some days, I literally find myself staring at the computer screen for hours on end.  I swear I knew what I wanted to write early in the morning, but somehow, by the time childcare falls into place and errands have been run, it’s hard to find my focus.  It’s difficult to write on a schedule.

            Being creative on the clock is a relatively new challenge for me.  Primarily, because I’ve never really considered myself that creative.  I’ve always loved to learn.  I get a kick out of studying (Yes, I’m a nerd).  But crafty and artsy I am not.  So when I started feeling an overwhelming desire to write books, create worlds that previously didn’t exist, and fully conceptualize individuals who aren’t real, I was a tiny bit surprised. 

            I’d written before in high school and college, primarily poetry, but I wasn’t sure I had it in me to complete an entire book.  Then somehow, over the course of six or seven months, I managed to write an entire 368 page Young Adult novel.  And only weeks after completing it, I had a crazy dream which was the impetus for a three book series.  Once the first was completed (and a handful of chapters in the second), I started another totally unrelated title.  And then, seemingly out of nowhere, two more followed.  Now I’m sitting on a pile of manuscripts and wondering if anything will ever come out of all this effort.

            Thursday, I leave for a conference in LA.  My first in this field.  I’ve attended many in the Psych realm, but this is uncharted territory.  I’m putting my words out there and there’s a very good chance I’ll be told that they suck.  But isn’t the whole point of writing a book to get other people to read it?  I keep reminding myself that it is.  It’s a scary, slippery slope, but one I’m ready to scale and possibly tumble down.

So if you find me in a heap next Wednesday, you’ll know why.  And if you find that I’m still Facebooking and blogging, you’ll know I survived the criticism.  But for now, just know that I’m staring blindly at a computer screen wondering what comes next.  Because if writing books has taught me anything, you just never know.