How I'll Spend My Summer Staycation

Summer is coming to a fast close and I'm getting antsy. I've not taken any time for myself, and time for myself soon will become a commodity I have less of. My wife and I have kids on the way: two, our first. I won't go into much detail about them on this blog because this is not the place for it, but I am certain these little ones will change almost everything in my life.

As a quick aside, I'll say this: over the Labor Day weekend, I got a terrible case of poison oak. I thought I'd been careful, wearing jeans, keeping my gloves on whenever I pulled at anything as I cleared away a backyard full of brush, but it was warm. So I wore short sleeves.

Dealing with the scrapes and welts and yellow fluid were bad enough, but the itch was miserable. I tried Benadryl gel, which helped but was insufficient. I pinked my arms up with Calamine lotion, but it's not always convenient in a work environment. And then there was a funeral. Nothing is ever quite right when a funeral is involved.

After the torrential rain and wind of the past weekend, we finally made our way back home, and I treated my itch with more care. For the most part, I'm back in shape. Yet there is still a dull aching itch I need to scratch.

I'm taking next week off — my summer staycation — and I already have a full list of things I want to accomplish. It's a list I'll never fully complete and which will leave me frustrated at least till January, when my new list of resolutions kicks in. But a key point on that list is to scratch at my itch. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The novel is ready. I have begun to write flawed queries that will not see an envelope, but by the end of next week, the first will be off on its way. I've always needed to write, and I've found excuses not to; I suspect I'm like a lot of "aspiring novelists" in that regard. But I have a novel and I have a need — I don't mean the money, though with hungry pooping progeny on the way, that's not to be dismissed either; I simply don't expect much money to come of it. One must be realistic.

But if I have anything to give these children, it's to teach them that the world is full of potential. They could become many things, and some of their dreams will crumble like fallen eggs, but there will be aspirations that stay with them their entire life. Like writing has for me. I need to show them that it's not only good to pursue one's dreams, it's crucial for life itself. It's the only way to live comfortably when an itch just won't go away.

I've begun writing every day again.

Chris Moore Can Wait

At long last, I've printed out the latest iteration of my novel. Although I started reading Christopher Moore's Island of the Sequined Love Nun on Friday, I'm going to have to put that on hold for a little bit, as I want to reread my book again. I probably won't send any queries out this month, despite my initial plans to start by June 30, because I want to make sure that there's no stupid errors in there. The close of the month — indeed, the first half of the year — is fast coming upon us. But the deadline is self-directed. I will send queries when I've finished my homework.

Just as important is that I've not been able to adequately research agents and agencies. This takes time, and it's time well spent. I could write queries now — I'll probably map out some templates soon — but I want the queries to sing to an audience that will understand and appreciate the tune.

But this should be the most important quest of my life; I need to be prepared. When Shackleton was putting together a crew for his ship's trek to Antarctica, he placed an ad in the paper, saying in part: "Men needed for dangerous quest. ... Survival in doubt, but if successful, fame will follow." I'm almost certain I've got the quote wrong, but its spirit is accurate. The point is, I must prepare myself. I've got a product to sell and future products being planned: I need partners.

On another note, I've noticed some other good Web sites of young and/or aspiring novelists, and I may want to develop something for myself along those lines. But that's hardly of immediate importance. I like having this blog and my other site, and it's not always easy to keep these up to date with the constant crush of life in general.

So my reading returns to Hoboken. Then I'll venture back to the island of the sequined love nun!

Hello NaNo WriMo

As you can see from the yum-yum yellow banner on the left-hand side, I've ventured into NaNo WriMo Land. They only require 50,000 words -- not 90,000 -- so it's not quite as rigorous as I'd feared. (I should have known better; my 282-page novel clocks in at around 95,000 words. I guess this novella would clock in around 120-125 pages.)

To any of the writers from the competition coming by to visit (and anyone else for that matter), welcome! I hope we can develop a little conversation and dialogue here. Think of the Bookshelf as a place to rest your pint glass that doesn't require coasters. Scotch drinkers welcome too. Sorry, no smoking.

JoinMe for NaNo WriMo?

I'm thinking about doing it this year, writing a novel in a month. Since my first has taken several years, the prospect of writing one in a month amuses me. If I do it (and I'll decide today), it would be a more breezy, possibly humorous piece. Ninety thousand words? That's a good goal for a novel. But I don't think it's possible to actually write anything other than a first draft in that time. Perhaps we'll see. Anyone care to join me?

Fancy Nancy Grows Up

Any children's writer who can dabble in adult literature and joke about genitalia sounds ok to me. Jane O'Connor is the author of the "Fancy Nancy" books; I've never read them, but hopefully in about four or five years, I will. Her first adult novel, Dangerous Admissions, is in paperback and the New York Times' review says it's not too bad. Actually, Chelsea Cain said it started awkwardly but eventually gets rolling into a nice little murder mystery. But perhaps Cain is unable to resist a murder mystery in which grammar features as a clue to the killer's identity.

"Grammarians, rejoice. You finally have your own sleuth," she writes.

O'Connor's protagonist is a freelance copy editor named Rannie, who lost her job at Simon and Schuster because she omitted the "L" from the title of a Nancy Drew mystery: The Secret of the Old Clock. As an editor who has been mortified to discover the same omission from the word "public" (spell check doesn't save you from that embarassment, folks -- not that real editors use spell check), I can relate to the character immediately.

Cain's review, however, leaves the reader wondering what happens in the book. Apparently the SWAK killer is terrorizing the Upper West Side, but I have no clue why we should believe a copy-editor who volunteers as a tour guide at her son's private school is an able gumshoe. I like the idea of the character, but I'll need a bit more to go on than that to plunk down $14 for a paperback. I'll wait for the garage sale.

Second Novel of the Second Daughter

I seem to have forgotten that former Vice President Al Gore's daughter Kristin is a published novelist. She's just come out with her second novel, Sammy's House, which follows the young Ohio politico-kid from her first novel into a staff position at the White House, working for the vice president. The "review" in USA Today doesn't actually give you any sense of the story Gore tells, so I can't venture an opinion on whether it's any good or not, but anyone interested in finding out more can read this excerpt.

Preliminary Thoughts on An Unfinished Season by Ward Just

I've been reading a lot of crap and long-drawn-out epics lately, including at least one book that I enjoyed (though I wouldn't add "thoroughly"). I hope to find the time to describe them in more detail. But first I want to recognize a book that is making me happy to be a reader again. An Unfinished Season isn't something I'd normally pick up and read, because its characters are essentially wealthy people and I've never understood them. Set in post-war Chicago (that's World War II, for young readers -- post-war eras of wars we lose don't get such wistful nostalgia created around them), it's a tale about a family that is evolving. The mother is old money from the East, the father is new money, and the 19-year-old son is finding his place somewhere between the two. Enmeshed within Ward Just's well-crafted tale of a challenged marriage and a coming-of-age young man is the whole Cold War battle between capitalism and socialism; free thinking and free love vs. uncontemplative complacency and staid mores.

I'll have more to say about this book, but I'm not even 100 pages in yet. Regardless, I highly recommend it so far.