Deadlines

Do you work well under the pressure of a deadline? I do. If I have all the time in the world, I put things off. (Just ask my husband. I drive him crazy.) When I have a deadline—even a self-imposed one—I do so much better and accomplish so much more.

Some people are very organized. They plan ahead, parse out what needs to be done when and seem very relaxed when the deadline arrives. Like my sister who packs a whole week before leaving on vacation. Me? I’m still washing the clothes I want to take the night before leaving. Or how about the hostess who has the table set before the guests arrive—even family. I’m working on that. When we had several family members over to celebrate my husband’s birthday, I didn’t wait for my four-year-old granddaughter to “help Nana” set the table—maybe because we were using my good china. Not really. I had decided I wanted to enjoy the company instead of doing tasks that could be done ahead of time. That was so not my normal routine.

My daughter puts me to shame with how organized she is. Once we were talking about an invitation to a wedding and she said she always puts the respond card in the mail the day after it comes. Holy cow! I’m usually trying to find the card right before it’s due. That got me thinking about how I deal with mail. Organizers say to touch a piece of mail once—toss it, pay it, file it. Yeah, right. I am getting better about tossing junk mail. Deciding between what’s junk and what needs to be paid is the easy part. It's the "I might want to do something with” mail that's the hard part. Of course, I’d rather “junk” the bills, too, but credit card and utility companies frown on that.

I try. I’m trying harder to be organized. But I think I’m missing a relay in my brain. You know, the one that triggers an immediate reaction to a task. On second thought, I do have a reaction. My brain says “you’ve got plenty of time, you don’t need to get started yet.” Then, I always underestimate the amount of time a task will take. If I’m supposed to leave at a certain time, I try to do one too many things before then race around at the last minute.

Now here’s the weird thing. I procrastinate terribly in my personal life only. It’s different with my work. At every job I had, I could see what needed to be done, worked up a schedule and completed the task ahead of time. I do the same with my writing. Instead of my boss telling when a task needs completion, I set my own deadlines. When you self-publish, you don’t have an editor (or agent) setting deadlines for you. Posting this blog each Monday is a self-imposed task which (so far) I’ve been able to accomplish. I’m amazed at how much I can accomplish when I have a deadline. Now, if I could only parlay this into my everyday life.

How about you? Are you organized or a procrastinator?

Reading Your Own Obit

Have you ever “Googled” yourself? I used to, periodically, to see if there were any reviews of Switched or if someone was selling bootleg copies of my book. But, I would get busy and forget to check so I set up an alert that sends emails any time my name or the name of my book comes up on the Internet. I know my name is fairly common, but I didn't expect to read that I died—five times in the past couple of weeks. That’s a little freaky.

I feel like Mark Twain protesting that “reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” Apparently, five people named Diane Burton have recently passed away. Naturally, I checked the obits. Wrong middle names, wrong maiden names. Whew! They weren’t me.

Several years ago, I was at a conference in Chicago and the big to-do that weekend was how Romantic Times reported an author (who was attending) had died. No mistaken identity, either. She was such a good sport and had a good laugh over it. Three fellow authors who frequently performed musical parodies at conferences wrote one about her. It was an amusing finale to the conference.

I’m not making light of death. Having lost three close relatives within eighteen months of each other, I know how devastating it can be. Maybe joking about death makes it less fearful. Wasn’t there a comedian who said she read the obituaries each day and if her name wasn’t there she knew it was going to be a good day?

Anyway, I’m still here. And it’s a good day.

Cupid or Scrooge?

Some people think Valentine’s Day was invented by Hallmark and Hershey’s. Is that the equivalent of “bah, humbug” in February? It could be just a bright break in an otherwise gray month. Or, is Valentine’s Day a time to celebrate love? I think it’s a little of all three. God knows, we need a little brightness in February where the monthly amount of sunshine is measured in minutes. If you don’t live near the Great Lakes, consider yourself lucky that you actually see the sun, and see it often, this month. Without being too cynical, Valentine’s Day is a boon to the flower, candy and restaurant industries—not to mention greeting card and jewelry stores. That’s not to say I would turn down a bouquet, some Lindor truffles, or an invitation to dinner.

As a romance author (what? you thought I only write space adventures?) I’m fond of any celebration of love. Romantic love, filial love, platonic love. There’s not enough of it in the world. Experiencing love, of course, is the best. Coming in second is reading about love. In a time when the news shrieks of war, strife, murder and mayhem, isn’t it great to lose oneself for a few hours in a story with a happy-ever-after-ending?

Some say romance stories are unrealistic, that life isn’t happy ever after. I agree, to a point. In all good fiction, there has to be conflict. The story would be pretty boring otherwise. Real life has conflict, too. Relationships have their ups and downs, trials and sufferings. But relationships also have times of happiness, joy and contentment. And that’s what Valentine’s Day celebrates.

At this time of year, many blogs are devoted to stories of romantic love. One author, Michele Stegman, offers up stories each day in February of how lovers met. Interestingly, many of the stories include how long the couple has been together. At a time when one out of two marriages end in divorce, how refreshing it is to read about people who are still together after twenty-five, forty, or more years. Those people have found not just something special, they found someone special. Michele’s blog is at http://michelestegman.com/thoughts  If you haven’t already read it, my story was posted on February 9^th. I told part of that story back in November when Nancy Gideon interviewed me for her blog. Both times, it was fun reminiscing about a pivotal moment in my life. I wouldn’t be the person I am today without the love of my life. So, Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie.

Winter

I have a love-hate relationship with winter. Maybe hate is too strong. How do I intensely dislike winter? Let me count the ways. Winter is:

            bone-chilling cold that cuts right through clothes, making joints ache

            ugly piles of snow filled with debris dug up by the plows
            clearing the driveway only to have the aforementioned snowplow bury the end
            white-knuckle driving in a blizzard where you follow the taillights of a truck and hope it doesn't go into a ditch because you will, too
            walking through slush that seeps into boots, leaving frozen toes
            gloomy, gray Michigan skies filled with thick, dark clouds
            dreaded utility bills that skyrocket in January and February

So, why do I love winter? I must be crazy. Winter is:

            waking up the day after a blizzard to a pristine landscape when the sun affirms all is well again

            the beauty of snow covering all the ugly brown, dead grass
            the sun glistening off ice-covered branches
            Mom attaching a garden hose to flood a low area in our backyard so my sister and I could ice skate; doing pirouettes and pretending to be Sonja Henie or Carol Heiss
            cross-country skiing with my husband and kids, striding through freshly-fallen snow where the only sound is the swish of the skies followed by "Mo-om, I'm cold. Can we go in yet?"
            seeing my husband and friend ice fishing in a tent where if you open the side flap it looks like a two-seater outhouse
            the power and majesty of Lake Michigan waves churning and dashing against the beach
            enjoying the warmth of Florida, at least for a week

Winters are different now from when I was younger. I gave my skates to my daughter years ago and sold the unused cross-country skies at a garage sale. Being retired, I don't have to drive in blizzards. Now, my favorite winter activity is hunkering down like my pioneer ancestors. Of course, they didn't have the conveniences of central heating and electricity. We have six more weeks of winter, more or less, depending on whether you pay attention to Punxsutawney Phil, Staten Island Chuck, or Howell Woody. It's been a very mild winter here in mid-Michigan. Will it continue? Or are we in for blizzards in April?

Wrapped up in soft fleece with a good book and a cup of chai latte is my idea of a fun way to wait out a blizzard. Or, better yet, writing. An afghan around my legs, the computer on my lap, my feet up in the recliner, and my head on a starship or a planet far-far-away. That's how I enjoy winter.

What do you love or hate about winter?

Compelling Books

What makes a compelling book? You know the kind. The one you can't put down, that you read until three in the morning even though you have to get up for work at five. A book that so captures your imagination you want to stay in that world after the book ends to find out what comes next. The book you immediately reread to see what you missed first time around. The book you wished you'd written.

A few years ago, I considered writing Young Adult fiction. I had an idea for a story that started as the early years in one of my character's life—how she got to be the adult she is in one of my not-yet-published books. The story took on a life of its own and is nothing like my original concept. Before writing, I knew I needed to do market research. What did today's eleven-to-fourteen year olds read? I was sure it was a lot different from what I read when I was that age. I needed to read what was being published today. So, I asked my daughter who had been teaching middle school language arts for several years and whose master's degree is in children's literature. If anyone was up on what today's kids read, it would be her. She gave me a list. What a list! She loaned me several and I started working my way through the list. I found several fascinating books and authors whose other books I would try.

But something held me back from reading one book. I don't like reading about violence—especially, violence to children. Even when the third book in the series came out, I didn't understand all the hoop-la about it on writers' loops. Now, I do.

Never mind all the books in my TBR pile, at Christmas I borrowed all three books from my daughter. Last week, I finally started the first book. I couldn't put it down. The book carried me away making me ignore my own work in progress, laundry, even meals. Thank goodness for an understanding husband who threw in the wash and made dinner. I read until my eyes became gritty. Double thank goodness, I had the next two books. In three days, I read them all. I was stunned by how compelling the series was.

Now that I've tweaked your interest, you probably want to know which series it was. The Hunger Games. Those of you who've read the books are most likely rolling your eyes. Well, of course the books are compelling. What took you so long to see what everyone else has?

My original question still stands. What makes a book compelling? Is it the topic? In this case, children fighting children to the death is still not compelling to me. Triumph over adversity? Well, yes. But not enough. Is it the writing? When I find a great book, I try to dissect it, to figure out what made it so good. Inevitably, I'll start reading with intent to analyze and get so caught up in a story I've read two, three, six times I forget I'm supposed to be analyzing how the writer did it. Granted, I don't really like to analyze stories. I like to be entertained. I can usually tell you why a book isn't very good or, rather, why it didn't appeal to me. But, to analyze character, plot, narrative, dialogue? It doesn't come easy for me. It should if I want to be a better writer. With Suzanne Collins' books, I was blown away. I didn't want to know how she did it. It's like watching a magic show. When you know how the magician does it, something is lost. The magic, if you will. Maybe I don't really want to know how Collins wrote such compelling books. Maybe I just want to be entertained.

In the early days of my writing career, I read some books and thought I could write better than this. Pretty arrogant, right? Those books were published, mine weren't. I've read fabulous books and thought if I try hard enough I can do this. I have never read a book or series and thought I could never write anything this good. Until now. That's rather humbling.

What book(s) have you read that captivated you?

The Eyes Have It

A comment Lucy Kubash made to last week's post really got to me. In fact, I mused on it most of last week. She mentioned that a disease robbed her mother and sister of their sight. I was so sorry to hear that. But she triggered my worse fear. Being blind.

Okay, there are worse fears. Nuclear attack, earthquakes, tornados, alien invasion. I know that people who are blind can live normal, fulfilled lives. People cope with disasters and loss. Not sure how I'd handle aliens unless they looked like the hero in Switched. (He could abduct me any day.)

Somehow, loss of sight frightens me more than anything. Being totally in the dark. Does anyone remember the movie Wait Until Dark where a blind Audrey Hepburn is terrorized? I take a nightlight with me on vacation . . . so I can find the hotel bathroom at night. (That's my story and I'm sticking with it.)

Fear made me put off having a 15-minute operation until I absolutely had to. Consequently, I put up with ever-thickening cataracts for way too long. My well-meaning family and friends thought they were helping with comforting words like: "I had it and it was a piece of cake." Or, "my mother/husband/ grandmother had it, yada, yada." Hah. It was my eyes. The only comforting thing anyone said was "aren't you kind of young to have cataracts? My mother was way older." What a sweetheart.

Three years ago, I dutifully went to a specialist. He was very reassuring. I had to watch a video where the doctor explained the procedure. That wasn't too bad—at least, there were no pictures. At the end of the video was the disclosure of risk listing eighteen things that can go wrong. Eighteen, including blindness and death. And to make sure I understood all the risks, a voice-over read them. Old Murphy was jumping up and down waving his "if anything can go wrong, it will" banner. Blindness and death?

I freaked. Silently, of course. Doctors frown on patients who run screaming from their office. Bad for business. Rather, I politely said, "No, thank you. My eyesight isn't that bad."

Last fall, I knew my close-up vision was deteriorating. I had to ask my dear hubby to read things on the TV. I'm sure he got tired of me asking "what did that say?" but he was very patient. One of the things I've always loved about him is he never says "I told you so." He probably thinks it, though. Then, there was reading small print on over-the-counter medicine bottles. (Where did I leave that magnifying glass?) What put me over the edge was when the clues on Jeopardy were blurry. No Jeopardy? I don't think so.

I finally went to the optometrist's office for a check-up. Whoa. Did I get a slap upside the head. You know the test where they make you cover one eye, show you three lines of letters on the wall, and ask you to read the lowest one? I kept saying none and the lines moved up. I didn't realize the last three lines were the bars of the big E. Holy cow. I thought it was just another three lines. Mind you, this was with my glasses.

When I told my kids, they freaked. Sort of. My son felt bad because he thought I didn't see any of the marvelous Arizona and Utah scenery he and his girlfriend shared with hubby and me back in October. My daughter was worse. "I let you drive my children and you can't see!"

Hey, it wasn't that bad. Distance was never a problem. Everything was sharp and clear unless it required reading. And, the other eye was doing the heavy lifting. Besides, her dad did all the driving when we were with the grandkids. Still, I asked the optometrist what would happen if I still didn't do anything. I'd go blind.

My dad had an expression—damned if you do, damned if you don't.

It was time to go back to the specialist. I had to watch that video again. More fear. I told the doctor how squeamish I am about my eyes. Without a hint of sarcasm, he said he'd heard that before. (Gee, you mean I'm not the only scaredy-cat?) So, we set the appointment for the operation on each eye, two weeks apart. Yeah, both eyes. The one doing most of the work had a cataract, too. I figured if I didn't do them close together, I might wimp out and then where would I be?

You can't imagine what happened when I got to the surgery center the morning of the first surgery. My operation was cancelled. I'd finally gotten my nerves as quieted as they were going to get (without Xanax), steeled myself for this and it was cancelled? I didn't know whether to be angry or relieved. The explanation made sense. They didn't have a second lens and the doctor wouldn't operate without a backup. That didn't inspire a lot of confidence in the surgery center. Did nobody count the supplies?

I had a week's reprieve. I steeled myself again (why, oh, why didn't I ask for that Xanax prescription) and . . . it was a piece of cake. I was on my way home less than an hour after the surgery was scheduled. I think it took me longer to get my shoes on than the actual operation. Then, holy cow, I could read street signs before being on top of them. Without glasses. After the checkup the following day, I was told I was legal to drive. Without glasses. I could read the guide on the TV. Without glasses. (I picked up a pair of "readers" from the drugstore for close-up reading until my eyes settled down enough to get prescription lenses.) I could do everyday things, including reading the computer, without glasses. A week later, after the second eye was done, it was even better. No glasses.

Now, those of you who didn't need glasses until your forties (or later) probably can't understand my amazement. I have worn glasses since I was three years old. I never lost glasses because they were always on my face. I put them on first thing in the morning and took them off the last thing at night. I always wore glasses. Contacts? In my twenties, I tried them. Only hard contacts for far-sightedness then. Uncomfortable and too much bother. And now I don't need glasses anymore!

To be totally honest, I do need them to read. Another disclaimer: I was given the option to have a special lens that would also correct my astigmatism (lopsided eyeball—not a technical term but how I understand it). At my family's encouragement, I agreed, even though the pricey difference wasn't covered by insurance. The special lenses made such a difference.

Now that it's all over, I realize my fear was for naught. I let it blind me (pun intended) to doing what I should have done a lot sooner. I can't believe how long I allowed that fear to rule my life.

One thing I promised myself afterward. I wouldn't be one of those people who make light of what has become such a common-place surgery. Sure, it was a breeze—for me. Everything went well, beyond my expectations, actually. But, I still remember the fear, the anxiety that something would go wrong. I vowed to be sympathetic and listen to another's worries.

But, I would be thinking "hey, it's a piece of cake."   

Reading is Fun

I'm picking up a thread from last week's post. While writing about my obsession with books, I started to go off on a tangent about non-readers. No, no, I told myself, stay on topic. So, I saved that thought to muse on today. I'm always surprised when I hear people say they don't have time to read. Like everything else, we make time for the things we enjoy. I'm more saddened when people say they don't like to read. And I wonder how they got that way.

Did no one tell them that reading is fun? Hang on. As writers, we're forever cautioned to show not tell. So, let me rephrase that. Did no ever show them how much fun it is to read? Did no one read to them as children? Did they never see their parents reading for enjoyment? Oh, sure, you say. Blame it on the parents.

I don't remember my parents reading to me. I'm sure Mom must have when I was little, but by the time my memory kicks in I only remember Mom being too busy with the younger kids (I'm the oldest of seven) to read to me. And Dad was always working. (It wasn't until much later that I remember him reading, history mostly. Mom didn't start reading for pleasure until I introduced her to romance novels back in the '80s.) We didn't have many books at home when I was young. My grandmother always gave each of us a book for Christmas and birthday. Money was tight for everyone then. We lived in a rural area where the nearest public library was a distance and the bookmobile only visited the school once a month and we were limited on how many books we could check out. How I ever became an avid reader is beyond me.

Still, I do believe that's where the enjoyment of reading starts—parents reading to children. Children seeing their parents reading. I read to my children when they were babies, before they could understand language. It didn't matter what I read out loud, it was the sound that was important. That's how they learn language—by hearing it. My son-in-law read medical textbooks to his babies. My daughter read out loud whatever book she was reading for enjoyment. We also read kiddie books to the babies. Think about it. A baby being cuddled, Mom or Dad's heart under their ear, hearing the sound of the parent's voice. Pure pleasure. What a great association. Even my almost-two year old grandson who has two speeds, fast and faster, will sit still for a book. Of course, their Nana and Papa love it when the little ones crawl up into our laps with a book so the enjoyment goes both ways.

Babies are sponges. They take in everything about their world. They are curious, eager to learn. How do we kill that? By making reading a chore. "You have to read for a half hour every day." Throw in the words "have to" and you destroy whatever benefit daily reading was supposed to instill. There were times when I was so overloaded with all the obligations of life that I would have given anything to have a half hour to read. That isn't really the point, is it?

So, what happens when those eager little sponges go off to school? Is reading still fun? It's a subject to learn—like math and spelling and state capitals. To make it easier to handle, the teacher divides the kids by reading ability into groups. (At least, that's what we did when I taught elementary school—back in the Dark Ages. Do they still do this?) No matter how we sugar-coated reality by giving the groups cutesy names (remember Bluebirds?) every kid quickly knew which group was which. And kids in the group with least ability were stigmatized. Who wouldn't give up?

Oh, wait, it gets worse. Kids are told not to read certain things, like comic books or Harry Potter. I've always maintained that any reading is great. Look at the phenomenon that the Potter series has wrought. Kids devouring books. Did you ever see kids waiting in line at the show reading (rather, rereading) the book on which the movie is based before? I never did. And when they had to wait for each book, they discovered other series books like Percy Jackson, I Am Number Four, or The Hunger Games. Like they couldn't get enough adventure.

As a fifth grader, I was told to put that book away and stop wasting my time reading. Never mind it was while I was supposed to be doing math. Never mind the teacher didn't ask if I was finished with said math. To this day, I remember being told not to waste time reading. Can you imagine?

Sounds like I'm blaming teachers, right? There has to be a better way of helping children learn to read. With huge classes (I had forty-two first graders in my first year teaching), how is one person supposed to reach each child individually?

Okay, I'm going off on a tangent and turning "musing" into a rant over education. I do want to add that good teachers try very hard to reach all students. They encourage reading. They show that reading can be fun and not a chore. I wasn't always successful as a teacher, but I read out loud to my students. To the younger ones, I read Charlotte's Web and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, among others. To the older ones, A Wrinkle in Time and The Hobbit. Even the sixth graders listened eagerly to Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang, which was nothing like the saccharine Disney movie rendering. The best part about reading out loud for fifteen minutes after lunch was when the kids begged me not to stop. No, the best part was when a student came in the next day with the same book and said s/he couldn't wait for me to finish the story and had to find out how it ended.

Reading is so important in our lives. Remember the PSA ad "Reading is FUNdamental"? Emphasis on "fun" but also how essential it is. Kids who learn that reading is fun will find it easier to read things that are necessary—like computer software manuals (which I have to say I only read after I get stuck) or in-depth news reports on candidates for elected office or business reports for their jobs.

To earn a college degree, I had to read a lot—history, literature, sociology, philosophy, science. Some I enjoyed. Others? Well, let's just say I slogged through a lot of words. Still, college wasn't overwhelming because I could read well. I could read well because I read a lot. The adage "practice makes perfect" certainly applies here. But, after I read all the things necessary for my education and subsequent jobs, I relaxed by reading what I wanted to—for fun.

People who find reading difficult or say they do not like to read miss so much. They miss the wonder of other worlds—and I'm not just talking about alien universes, like what I write. They miss the wonder of other times, other places, people whose life circumstances are different from the reader's. They miss the fun.

I'm preaching to the choir, right?

On my FaceBook author page, I shared the latest book I read. I hope others will also share. I'm always looking for a good book.