To that end, I’m launching a new feature at Missy Stevens Writes: Missy Stevens Reads. Eventually you’ll be able to find all of these posts neatly organized in one page on the blog. For now there’s only one post (hint: it’s this one, the one you’re reading right now), so if you need help finding it, we have bigger problems than I’m able to solve here.

The type-A, completist part of my personality is struggling. I want to go back and write a post about every book I’ve ever read in order to make this blog feature feel legit. The lazier, more dominant part of my personality is laughing. Nobody has time for that.

We will start where we are today, and build from here. I mentioned I love talking books, so I hope you’ll reach out to me with your thoughts, too. If you want to talk to me about any book, whether I mention it in this space or not, do it. You can reach me via email (slow response guaranteed), Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram (brand new account!) any time.

Let’s get to it. My bedside table can get scary, piled with the to-read-next books and my Kindle, where more to-reads are housed. All of the books at my bedside are on my Up Next list, and that complicates things. Here is roughly half of the Up Next pile:

The to-be-read pile. Not pictured: the book I ended up choosing.

There is no rhyme or reason to how I choose what to read. Mostly, it’s a feeling. As in, I feel like learning something, or I feel like losing myself in a story, or I feel like laughing. I regularly read more than one book at a time. Not simultaneously, exactly, as I’d need more hands and eyes and brains, but concurrently-ish. I switch back and forth, and it’s inefficient as hell, and I need to stop doing that.

In an effort to instill more focus in my life, this week I chose to read one book in its entirety before picking up another. I started with Everything, Everything, a book I was lucky enough to get signed by the author, Nicola Yoon, at the Mom 2.0 Summit earlier this month.

Yoon is a pro at sitting down and doing the work. She told me that she wrote this book by getting up at 4 a.m., (I submit that is the middle of the night, not early morning) and working until her infant daughter woke at 6 a.m. Now that her daughter is a little older, Yoon sleeps in and works from 5-7 a.m. She is an inspiration to this morning-challenged writer.

Yoon’s disciplined, butt-in-seat practice was useful at the conference, because she sat for hours, signing books for Mom 2.0 attendees. I was awed. She took the time to talk with every person in line, and I am thankful for her generous spirit. That kind of commitment embodies women supporting women.

Everything, Everything is a young adult novel about teenager, Madeline Whittier, who is allergic to the outside world. Madeline hasn’t been outside since she was an infant. Every aspect of her life is measured, charted, and 100% controlled, until a new family moves in next door. On that day, Madeline’s world begins to expand, changing everything.

In Everything, Everything the narrative is punctuated by instant messaging conversations, drawings (illustrated by the author’s husband, David Yoon), and diary entries. Madeline is the ideal teenager: kind, funny, and smart. I liked her instantly, and think you will, too.

The story speaks to every parent who ever looked at their child and thought, how do I keep you safe in this terrifying world? I suspect that includes, approximately, all parents. Setting our children free is a scary proposition, even when they – and we – are whole and healthy. Yoon explores what happens when the desire to control a child’s welfare results in extreme choices.

Reading this book forced me to think about my own loves and losses. I’ve never met a parent who hasn’t played the dangerous what if game, or questioned whether she’s making the right decisions for her child. And though it was a long, long time ago, I (sort of) remember being a teenager. The natural state of teenager-hood is questioning the constraints put in place by parents and other authority figures.

In Everything, Everything Madeline risks her life and her relationships to challenge the boundaries of her world. I couldn’t put down the book, and I’m eager to hear what other readers thought about it.

P.S. – Everything, Everything is now a movie, and is currently playing at a theater near you! I’m looking for a theater buddy, so if you’re local (or are in the habit of traveling out of town to see movies), let me know.

*Photo credit.

There’s a little thing going around called How I Write.

Normally when someone says there’s a little thing going around I run to the nearest hand washing station and scrub away. Then I drink a concoction of apple cider vinegar, cranberry juice, and lemon that feels like swallowing fire (I assume. I’ve never swallowed fire. I come from show people, but have never been in the circus myself.). Finally, I pray a fervent prayer of pleaseohplease Lord, don’t let me or the kids or heaven forbid, Mark, get sick, amen.

This time, however, I am glad to have caught the little thing from Leigh Ann. I’m also conflicted. Talking about writing feels pretentious and self-absorbed. Topping that off, a recent crisis of confidence (how artistic of me, right? barf) almost kept me from sharing. I wondered whether I should accept the baton from Leigh Ann, and then I smacked myself in the face with that baton. It was a metaphorical smack, but if you suspected I actually hit myself in the head, that’s okay. I do stuff like that all the time.

I realized that if like reading what other writers have to say about their process, perhaps you’ll like reading about mine. Confidence will be rattled now and then, but the writing must continue. The show must go on! (Remember, I’m descended from circus people and vaudevillians.)

And so. My answers to the How I Write questions:

1. What are you working on?

A novel. I know, sister, me and everyone else. The knowledge that 1 in 5 people (totally made up statistic) has a novel in their bottom desk drawer or drafts folder has stopped me dead before. What makes me any different?

I’ll tell you: Me. I make myself different. (Imagine I wrote that more eloquently and less grammatically clunky.)

This novel evolved from a need to tell a story of loss, recovery, and survival, and to tell it in my voice, with some humor. There are thousands upon thousands of tales of loss, but none have been told by me.

I started it a couple years ago and it was terrible, horrible, no good, very bad. I read over my first few “chapters” (and yes, the quotes are appropriate), and quit. It was rubbish, not even fit for the compost bin. The story was muddled, tone and voice all over the place. I knew why I wanted to tell it, but not how.

The story worked at me, quietly, for the next couple years until I said fine, I’ll try again. I have a clear vision for it now. That’s not to say I have the plot nailed down, but I do know the basics of where my character came from, where she is, and where she’ll end up.

That feels good.

I’m also working on personal essays for this blog and other publications. Writing personal essays is a lifelong dream that started with reading my mother’s Erma Bombeck books, and finding pure bliss in Dave Barry’s weekly column. I used to read parts of Dave’s columns aloud to my family. I was always laughing so hard that I couldn’t speak coherently, so mostly they heard my guffaws instead of the story. I’m sure my family loved those live, unintelligible readings.

2. How does your work differ from others in your genre?

Saying I have a genre feels writerly and smug. I want to talk about it my best Thurston Howell III voice. Lovey, dear, let’s discuss genre.

I’m not ready to talk about the novel in a lot of detail. It’s early yet. For this question, let’s stick to personal essays.

I don’t know that my work is vastly different from other work out there. There are a lot of us – a lot – telling the stories of our lives in 500-800 words a pop. In less than 32 seconds, I can think of a dozen warm, funny writers that I hope I don’t differ from too much, at least not in the feeling I want to leave with you when you read my essays.

I view life with a humorous slant. Above all, I see the funny. This has led to inappropriate laughter at all the most cliché times: funerals, hospital waiting rooms, parent-teacher conferences, and work functions.

Laughter aside, I’m also a huge pile of mush. Once I’m done snort-laughing as quietly as possible while my husband’s colleague holds the entire table hostage with tales of his rod (fishing, duh, but you see why I got the giggles), I can find the heart of the moment. Maybe it’s something endearing about the graceful way my husband handles these work shindigs, or maybe it’s a poignant thought about growing up and not chortling at the word rod.

3. Why do you write what you do?

See my earlier nods to Erma and Dave. See also all that stuff about wanting to tell a story in novel form.

I write because I have no other marketable skills. I write what I do because, simply, it makes me happy. I process things by writing them down. Not only does it bring me joy, but writing also centers me and helps me make sense of all the crap. Jeez, there is a lot of crap going on out there.

4. How does your writing process work?

First, I get a cup of herbal tea. Then, I sit at my desk and work away for five uninterrupted hours.

Hahahahahahahaha. Ha.

I have small children. I have no childcare outside of preschool and elementary school. I do not have a housekeeper, lawn service, or chef. I do have an incredibly supportive husband, thank goodness.

Because of the no childcare, no house-care thing, I write when I can. That means I break the cardinal rule of WRITE EVERY DAY. I’m always writing in my head, but I don’t get to the page/screen daily. Most days, yes. Every day, no.

When I have a deadline, I meet it. Usually there is crying and some bargaining with God, but I meet that deadline. When there is no deadline… My process is haphazard, at best.

There are scribbled notes that I never understand when I look at them days – or months – later. There are feverishly written drafts that seem like pure genius at the time of writing, and pure drivel upon a second reading.

The process evolves as my children do. We’re all growing together. I suspect that once they are both in elementary school, things will look differently than they do now. Let’s not even talk about writing during summer vacation.

And there you have it. I think I could talk about writing, or write about writing all day, every day. I’ll stop here, though, in case you cannot so much read about it all day.

I’m passing the torch/baton/whatever to Amanda, Carol, and Virginia, some of my favorite Austin-based writers. Talk about heart and humor, these ladies are masters.

Keep reading. I promise the monkey will make sense. Well, not the monkey herself, but the picture of the monkey.*

Last night I took my first improv class. Due to a jacked up combo of nerves, adrenaline, embarrassment, and allergies, I came home from class and did not sleep. At all. Okay, an hour or so, but that does not count. At all.

Thank goodness it worked out for Mark to drive me everywhere today, because Miss Daisy here is unsafe at any speed. Thank goodness it also worked out that Mark likes lunch as much as I do, because he drove me by the taco place. Unfortunately, my lack of sleep means I have a pastiness going on, along with dirty-ish hair, and now, thanks to the lunch stop, I smell like tacos.

For those of you having trouble following along at home, I survived my first improv class, but now I look awful and smell funny.

Improv, it turns out, is exactly as terrifying as you might expect. We were encouraged to be okay with failure, and taught to gleefully throw our arms over our heads, exclaiming, “I failed!” any time we screwed up. I think I tore a rotator cuff.

My apologies to the woman I had to link arms with during one exercise; I know my flop sweats did not remain contained to my own hands and arms. I can’t promise it will be the last time I sweat on you. I also know that I’m supposed to remember your name, woman I sweat upon, especially after we played the name game, complete with catchy signs to help us associate everyone’s name. All I remember is a moose-horn-like signal to go with your name, but I’m betting your mama did not name you Bullwinkle.

Lest you think it was all mortification, I did actually enjoy myself. I laughed a lot. In one game I died with such conviction that I hurt my knee, smashing it on the floor as I crumpled to my death. Why did I die? Because I couldn’t come up with the name of a board game, so the entire class was required to shout, “DIE!” at me. See, I told you it was fun!

For those of you still having trouble following along at home, I signed up for improv to work through some creative road blocks. My friend, Carol, an amazing story-teller, and I are on this journey together. We exchanged a few horrified glances last night, but we’re both committed to seeing this through. And we’re both committed to focusing on the fun, rather than the terror. Our instructor promises that the fun-to-terror ratio will swing in favor of fun very soon.

So, what you’re probably dying to know (just play along), is if, after this one class, I think signing up was the right move. And the answer… right after this break.

Just kidding. I don’t have any commercial sponsors.

The answer is yes. This is going to be good for my writing (something you’re probably extra thankful for, after this taco-fueled ramble). Improv is about getting out of your own way, and being spontaneous. It’s about flexibility of the mind (although based on all the arm-throwing, floor-diving-death, etc., some physicial flexibility helps).

Yesterday I read a great article that someone posted on Facebook. (I think Amy posted the link – I’m just too tired to dig through my FB feed to find out for sure.) I do still have the article bookmarked, though, so I’m able to at least share that with you: Drunk Monkeys Wrote My First Draft: The Art of Finishing a Book — A Guest post by author Jessica Brody on Swoon Reads.

I’ll let you read the whole thing, but wanted to share this passage:

You type a paragraph, maybe two. Then, with a hopeful smile you read back through and discover that it’s… it’s…

Absolutely horrendous.

Verified word vomit. The most dreadful thing you’ve ever read. Drunk monkeys could have written something more inspired.

Ms. Brody goes on to give fantastic advice for writers facing the blank page. My overall takeaway from the piece? Stop locking up the drunk monkeys. Let them out to do their thing, no matter how awful.

I struggle with this when write. I spend a lot of time – too much time – self-editing as I go along, and before I know it I’m exhausted from fighting a battle within my own head. Worse, I have little to show for all this battling, because I stop myself from simply getting the first draft on paper. I don’t let the drunk monkeys out to play.

The improv instructor told us it’s not unusual to see your reaction to life, or to work, in your reaction to the games and scenes we did in class. Sure enough, I quickly recognized the parallels in my writing and improv. I do a lot of hemming and hawing. I’m stuck, looking for the right sound to go with my imaginary sound ball (for real), instead of being spontaneous and sending that invisible ball zipping through the air with a ping-zwap!

I think it’s time for me to embrace my inner drunk monkeys. Wish us luck, me and the monkeys, won’t you?

*Photo credit

No, it’s not. This is Texas. Sweat is in the air. And on my upper lip.

But still, the first week of school. Mothers everywhere are rejoicing in a few kid-free hours each day. And other mothers everywhere are judging them for rejoicing. And the first set of mothers is muttering, “Ha. I just painted all 10 fingernails at one time, rather than over the course of nine hours like I have to do when I’m the snack supplier, sunscreen applier.”

Wait right there. This is not a parenting styles or school choices debate. You won’t find that kind of thing here, because it’s rotten when anyone is self-righteous about their choice or judgmental about someone else’s choice. We all know we’re the right one anyway, so why bother? (You could read that as a deep thought, as in: you’re always right because it’s your choice and nobody should make you feel wrong. Or you can read it sarcastically. Either way, you’re right.)

Whether you are in favor of home school, traditional school, or the school of hard knocks is none of my business. I’m not here to be self-righteous. I’m certainly not speaking out against home schooling. In fact, if you are doing it and your family is happy, then I think you’re amazing. My family – and by family, I mean me – would be in jail if we attempted it, so more power to you.

I’m also not speaking out in favor of traditional schooling. It’s our choice right now, and there are a lot of upsides (for us), but there are also things like ineffectual administrators that make me want to scream. I believe that’s another post for another day.

So. What am I speaking out in favor of here?

Nail polish, for one. I’ve been doing my own nails, trying to save a little cash. I was never much of a mani/pedi girl to begin with, so Mark argues that this sudden interest in my nails is actually costing us money. I saw him eyeing my new bottle of the perfect fall-ish pink polish. I don’t think it was a “That is going to look amazing on my beautiful wife” eye, either. Well, he can just deal with it, because now I have time to paint my nails and he can’t stop me with his side eye.

I didn’t say I was good at this.

What else am I in favor of?

Learning new things. By mid-November I’m going to be an improv comic. Now that, right there, is the best joke ever, isn’t it? Seriously, though, I’m taking an improv class with my friend, Carol. I don’t have my heart set on Second City. Don’t worry. I’m taking the class to develop my voice (creatively, not vocally), and work on character, story, timing.

I have a grand total of seven more hours each week than I had last fall and spring, thanks to some extra preschool days for the little dude. It’s not a ton of time, but I plan to spend those hours working at my craft (read that sentence with some oozing pretense, okay?). I realize, especially if you’re not in a creative field, that what I just told you sounds like bunk. That’s alright. It’s my bunk and I like it.

What else am I in favor of?

I’m in favor of quite a bit, actually. So much, in fact, that I often think, oooohhhh, I want to try that (or buy that or do that or be that). I hope my extra seven hours each week help me silence some of the noise. Maybe I’ll finally decide what it is I’m most in favor of doing, being, trying, buying.

So even though it doesn’t feel like fall yet, and likely never really will because this is the land of two seasons (hot and hotter, har har), I’m feeling good. Aside from the sweat, that is. I’m feeling good, looking forward to learning new stuff, to tackling the school year alongside my kids. And to painting my nails in peace.

Oh, gosh, just thought of one last thing I need to tell you today.

I’m in favor of saying goodbye to Wonder, Friend. You read that right, sister. I don’t have an exact date for you, but Wonder, Friend is going to the big archive in the sky – or Al Gore’s house or wherever it is the internet lives – and I’m moving my blog to a new site. It’s simply time to move on.

I’ll keep you posted (literally, as in I’ll write a post about it, not the new figurative literal. What is up with that?). When the time comes, I’ll do all those annoying blog-related things, like ask you to like my Facebook page, subscribe to the new blog, etc., etc. And then I’ll do all of that again in case you miss it the first time. I may even do it all a third time.

And with that, I’m in favor of ending this post. All that fall sweat in the air means that, whether I’m in favor of it or not, I have a lot of laundry to do right now. As soon as my nails dry.

That’s my boy in Lane 5. He’s all in, just like I need to be.

We’re on Day 13 of summer vacation. Weekdays, that is. With weekends, it’s Day, uh, 19? I’ve never been great with math.

I made a conscious decision (completely different from all those unconscious decisions I make, like eating half a key lime pie in my sleep) to spend one month being on vacation with my kids. I decided to put away work and focus completely on summer.

I haven’t so much as jotted down an idea. I even stopped reading in-depth news, blogs, and whatnot. My plan was to plow through the 10-book-high stack of novels on my bedside table, leaving all other reading for later this summer.

Thirteen days in, and I cracked. I didn’t know it, but I was starving myself. Figuratively starving, that is (See: key lime pie that I did not really eat in my sleep; no, I really ate it while wide awake and fully conscious of my terrible[ly delicious] decision).

Mild depression began settling in, making itself cozy not in the corners of my mind, but in the display window of my soul. What is wrong with me? It’s summertime and I’m having a blast.  Aren’t I? It’s all sunshine (oh, so much freaking sunshine here), swimming (the only way to survive the sunshine), and key lime pies. Why do I feel like screaming?

My creativity is starving, that’s why. If, that is, something can be starving while also stuffed.

My brain is hosting some overcrowded pool parties of its own, ideas swimming around but never getting out of the pool. The ideas, much like children left to their own devices, are becoming waterlogged and pruny. Now I understand: you must let the ideas out of the pool, even if you haven’t a clue how to entertain them for the rest of the summer.

So there I was, brimming with ideas that I refused to feed or engage. Just as I caved this morning and handed out one more oh-my-gosh-stop-begging-for-snacks graham cracker to the clamoring kids, I caved and started putting thoughts on paper again. I gorged on news and blog reading. I picked up the writing book at the bottom of the stack.

Admittedly, it’s easier, schedule-wise, to say forget it to work over the summer. I am the childcare in this joint. I am also the chauffeur, chef, and entertainment. All jobs for which I willingly – and joyfully – signed up. When my kids look back, I do not want their clearest summer memories to be of me bent over the keyboard while they played video games. They deserve summer while they can have it. Soon enough they’ll be working or in school or both, because mama’s not putting up with freeloaders forever.

That means my most creative effort this summer may be finding time to free ideas from the big pool of death in my mind. I can’t, as I imagined doing, let them swim around until school starts again. I also cannot casually splash around with my thoughts, as I planned to do after this month-long sabbatical was up. I have to be all in, wet hair and everything.

Writers who don’t write aren’t writers. They’re not creatives. No, they’re simultaneously hungry, overstuffed people. And hungry, overstuffed people can’t be decent writers or decent summertime moms.

I wonder…

:: What’s your summertime schedule? (Inspire me!)

I’m going to say this thing anyway: puppies are ridiculously hard work. And I am tired. Not I’m-not-getting-sleep tired, but is-it-necessary-to-pee-on-all-the-things tired.

You may remember that we decided to get a dog. If you follow me on Facebook or Twitter (shameless plug: please follow me, won’t you?), you may know that we did, in fact, recently adopt. She’s not so much a dog, though, as a puppy. We ended up with Piper, an adorable three-and-a-half month old of indeterminate parentage. Austin Dog Rescue named her, and told us we could change it as the puppy was unaware she had a name. My boys loved Piper, however, and it does suit her, so the name stuck.

The pink dragon is gonna get it.

Ah, Piper. She is cute and cuddly, liking nothing more than a warm lap to wallow in. Lies. She likes chewing on my rugs and new shirts more than she likes laps. Why must puppy teeth be prison yard shiv sharp? So… laps are second place.

We all love her, but we are all weary of living with a four-legged land mine. You never know when she’s going to explode. (This is a metaphor, people: what we’re afraid of is the pee – or worse – on the floor. As far as I know, dogs do not spontaneously combust. They don’t, do they? Because that would be just my luck.)

Last week I was a shell of a woman. Mark and I slept restlessly, always sure we heard Piper whining to go out. She usually wasn’t. We arranged our daily routines around potty breaks (for the dog; we didn’t have time to take our own breaks), always keeping one eye on the land mine. It’s better this week, mostly. I mean, she’s a puppy and therefore without manners or scruples. We’re still on wee-wee watch, but we’re settling in. Kind of. At least I’m stringing together a few complete, non-dog-related, sentences each day.

I would like to offer you a masterful blog post, but since I only get a few cohesive thoughts a day, it’s not happening. I do have things I want to tell you, though. So stick around for (quite) a few more paragraphs, please?

The Things…

A Book Recommendation

I’m considering doing some book reviews in this space. At the very least, I’m going to tell you what I’m reading and whether I think you, too, should read it. I want to write a glowing review for one recent read, and perhaps I will soon, but for now: read Rules of Civility, by Amor Towles. Just do it.

I picked up Rules at BlogHer Writers over a year ago, and it sat in the queue far too long. Once I got around to reading it, I was sad I didn’t start sooner. Then I finished the book, and was sad it was over. It’s set in New York City in the late 30’s, so if you like period fiction or New York City, you will love it. I’m going to gamble and say that even if you’re not a huge fan of period fiction or NYC, you’ll like the book. You’ll like it, because it embodies all that makes story telling beautiful: multi-dimensional characters in a setting that’s as much a character as the people.

I’ve read a couple books between Rules of Civility and what I’m reading now (Mr. Penumbra’s 24 Hour Bookstore – more on that one another time), and I still think about the story often. For me, that’s the mark of a good book, when it doesn’t release you once you read the last sentence.

A Stage Recommendation

Literature, now theater. So artsy today, right? Time is running out to submit for this year’s Listen to Your Mother Show in Austin. If you have a mother, are married to a mother, are a mother, know a mother, then you have a motherhood story. Please consider telling your story.

And please plan to attend the show. You will not be sorry, I personally ga-RON-tee it (Justin Wilson, anyone?). It’s not a money back ga-RON-tee or anything, but that won’t matter because you would never ask for such a thing because you are going to love the show. Thursday, May 9, AT&T Executive Education and Conference Center. Be there. If you’re not in Austin, check the Listen To Your Mother website for a show near you, since there are 23 other shows to choose from, all across this great country of ours.

A Race Recommendation

Oh, yes, I’m still training for the Zooma Texas Half Marathon in March. Man, has it been a bumpy road, but really, if I ever say I’m having an easy, pain-free season nobody will believe me. My IT band is acting up, and my problem foot still hurts frequently. I’m in love with compression socks, ART, and Trigger Point; they are my trifecta of pain relief, and I will gladly talk for many, many minutes about the benefits of each if you’re interested. Email me (wonderfriendblog @ gmail dot com) if you have nagging sports injuries and want my thoughtful thoughts on recovery.

Anyway, as for my training, some days I doubt myself, sure. Some days I feel like a beast. Most days it’s a combo, switching from beast to bumbling idiot and back every few steps. I know from past experience that it might hurt, and there are no ga-RON-tees on race day, but everyone who crosses that finish line will feel positively beastly, in the best sense of the word. So I beg you to join me on March 23 to run either a 5K or a half marathon. I’ve mentioned the wine and massages, haven’t I? You can register here and use my fancy, schmancy code while you’re at it: TXAMB6

That’s all, folks. For today anyway. The land mine is whining and the two-legged children are restless. I’m headed outside to watch the kids stuff rocks down each other’s pants while the puppy eats mulch.

I wonder…

:: Have any puppy-raising tips for me?

Yes, I know it’s already January 3, and yes, we’ve been seeing New Year-related posts on all the social media for days now. No need to point out that I’m not first (but maybe I’m last, so in a way I’m winning something).

I’m not ready to go back to regularly scheduled life, and posting anything here seems like such a regularly scheduled thing to do. I have loved being on break. Granted, the kids have made me banana-pants a few (thousand) times, and I’m getting a little tired of my husband’s face, but… it’s still be fantastic to be together and not have a schedule.

With each year, a little more melancholy seeps into the magic of the holidays. Not that I’m doing my best Debbie Downer impersonation or anything… it’s simply that I know. I know how fleeting it all is. While I don’t wallow in that thought, it is present. Along with all the fun, all the joy, I feel the passing of time almost physically. That knowledge rumbles around inside me, it whispers, Hold on to this, remember it, because things change. The older I get, the older my boys get, the more aware I am.

So, the melancholy. But just a tad. Enough that the end of our winter break will be met with a mixed up, grab bag of emotions. Much like the ending of one year, and the beginning of a new one. I’m not typically a resolution person; nor am I incredibly sentimental (Not withstanding the occasional mushiness. See above.). Yet, I kind of wanted to do a wrap-up post this year.

What follows are links to six seven of my favorite posts from 2012. I wanted to pick six, because I like an even number. In the end, though, I tacked on a post from last January since it’s about a big milestone. (The observant may notice an eighth link, but it’s only there to serve as reference).

Overall, I’m blogging less frequently these days, but with no less appreciation for the medium. I’m thankful to those still hanging around, reading my posts. I wish all of you a blessed 2013. And with that…

My Seven Favorites

A major milestone, Some Thoughts on Our 15 Years Together.

One of my favorite people this year was not a person, nor was he real. Meet Meemo, in You’re Not the Boss of My Imagination.

A wrap up of something that brought me immense joy this year, participating in Listen To Your Mother. Read about it in Nose Hairs and Words.

It’s true, I’m an old soul. And therefore, Early Bird Dinners Rock.

I felt a little ragged in the early summer, and wanted badly to have a total meltdown. Instead, I dreamed up The Risk-Free Quarter-to-Mid-Life Crisis.

This one just makes me smile. It’s good to laugh at yourself now and then (or every day, many times), which I did in Puzzling.

What started as a half sarcastic, half heartfelt look at embracing life with kids, became so much more to me. This one’s about Letting Go.

One final thank you for reading Wonder, Friend. Happy New Year to you all!

Me, either. Pencil required, friends. And it doesn’t hurt to have a few smart friends to go with that pencil. Or, better, the Crossword Puzzle Dictionary that belonged to my husband’s grandparents.

Confession: I don’t understand how to use a crossword puzzle dictionary. I get it, but I don’t get it. With me? My grandparents-in-law got it, got it. Take a look at this baby.

Inscription is dated Christmas, 1973.

Mary gave them the book in 1973 and they used the tar out of it. The last page of z’s is in particularly bad shape. By the way, a six-letter word for zymogen activating substance? Kinase. You’ll thank me the next time that clue appears on your People crossword. Like that’s ever going to happen.

That’s right. I called you out for doing the People crossword in lieu of the Times puzzle. But I can do you one better than People (Who came up with that ridiculous phrase, “do you one better,” anyway? What a stupid thing to say.). I, my friends, love the USA Today crosswords. I hoard them, and any time I’m feeling stuck when writing, I bust out a puzzle.

These USA Today puzzles? They make feel real smart, like. I do them on my iPad app, but if I were working one on paper I’m pretty sure I would only have to use my eraser three, maybe four, times. Probably.

Every once in a while, though, a clue will throw me. I sit there, the rage brewing, angry at the puzzle for mocking me. Ninety-five percent of the time, it turns out that I misread the clue. So for you today, I give you some of my favorite crossword puzzle misunderstandings.

Clue: Boots from power, 5 letters.
What I’m thinking: Like boots that come from a place of power? Zappos, for example, since they surely hold a huge percentage of the online shoe market, making them very powerful? Zappos is 6 letters, though, and also not a synonym for boots… I am stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck.
Actual answer: Ousts.

Clue: Haw partner, 3 letters.
What I’m thinking: Hee, of course. Classic television, right there. Minnie Pearl with those price tags on her hats!
Actual Answer: Hem.

Clue: Unstable star, 4 letters.
What I’m thinking: Diva. Nobody likes working with a diva, and everybody knows they’re unstable.
Actual answer: Nova.

I could go on, but I’m finished embarrassing myself for today. Or at least for the next few minutes.

***

While I have you here, though (I do still have you here, right?)…

Remember when I asked you to run away with me? Well now, ladies and gentlemen, we can run away at a discount. Once again, I’m doing you one better.

If you’re thinking about doing the ZOOMARun Texas in March – and let’s face it, you know you’re thinking about – you can use this handy, dandy discount code to get 10% off of your race registration fee for either the 5K or the half marathon. You can’t do them both, I’m sorry. You must pick one, you overachievers.

So here it is, the magic code:

TXAMB6

Type (or copy/paste if you’re fancy) that code into your registration form – don’t worry, you’ll know where to put the code, it’s not tricky – and you’ll save 10%.

And one last thing, while we’re talking ZOOMA. If you’re in or near Austin and want to kick off your training with me and the rest of the ambassadors, I have more good news for you: You can, you can! We’ll be kicking off our training season on Saturday, January 5 at 8 a.m. at Luke’s Locker in beautiful downtown Austin. More details coming in early December, but go ahead and pencil in – no, write it in pen – the date now.

That is all for now. Except for this:

I wonder…

:: This one’s a bit random, but I love (loooove) the smell of books. I keep a lot of books we inherited from our families in my dining room, in glass-paned cabinets. Every so often, I open one of the cabinets just to breathe in the book goodness. What’s a smell that warms your heart?

:: Back to crosswords. If you’re a puzzler, why? Does it relax you? Make you feel smart?

Cabinet of good smells. And almost-never-used china. I left the doors open so you could smell the goodness, too.

I laughed when I read these lines from San Diego Momma this week, and decided to borrow them for my post:

Well hello there. Where have you been? Especially since I’ve BEEN HERE THE WHOLE TIME!

That kind of counts as both lying and theft, since I have not been here at all. (Which is what makes it so funny. Here ends today’s lesson in funny.) I haven’t been here because, you know, summer. That’s all the explanation you get, though. Not that you don’t deserve more, but rather there really isn’t more. Summer, kids, pool, beach, short road trips, the end.

So I’m stealing that line up there from Debbie. And now I’m stealing an entire post idea from Erin Margolin (A post idea she lifted from Felice Azorsky; it’s a crime ring.).

I’m done linking for today. Promise. But if you have some free time, all of those links are worth checking out. Would I steer you wrong? Maybe. You’ll just have to trust me.

Now, on to my stolen post idea.

This seemed like a great way to ease back into things here on Wonder, Friend. I think we all have some voyeur in us. Admit it, you’ve peeked into drawers and cabinets that didn’t belong to you (a quick side note to Aunt Gladys: I am appalled. Appalled.).

I’m nosy, but I also work hard to be appropriate and respectful, as dull as that can be. Imagine my thrill at getting to see other people’s nightstands without having to explain what I’m doing in their bedrooms. Uh, I lost an earring… I think my cat ran in here… Have you seen my three year old?

So here’s my bedside table.

Crowded.

What I’m reading right now: several David Mamet plays; Rules of Civility by Amor Towles; A Year of Writing Dangerously by Barbara Abercrombie; and on the iPad that’s buried somewhere in that stack I have The Uninvited Guests by Sadie Jones; This Little Piggy Went to the Liquor Store by AK Turner; Erma Bombeck’s At Wit’s End; Parenting the Strong Willed Child; and Paris Without End by Giola Diliberto.

I never realized it before, but I may have ADD. This is how I always read: 70 (give or take) titles at once, in various stages of completion. It might be time to focus on focusing.

Also on that table:

* a Bible and a devotional book. After many months of giving God the metaphorical finger, I’m trying to find my way back to a faith that has always sustained me.

* My glasses. After many months of denying that old age is wreaking havoc on my eyesight, I’m trying accept that I need those glasses to read.

* A journal and a pen that appears to have been stolen from a Hilton (more theft). After many years of being a failed journal-er, I’m trying.

* A random pile of things sent to me by Runner’s World magazine. After many years of not running, I’m trying again. That training log is mocking me. Stop it, training log.

* A cup of coffee. After many years of parenting, I need that coffee.

* Clock, baby monitor, photos.

So I took that picture and thought, Dear Lord, what a mess. I cleaned up a bit and now it looks like this:

A little less crowded.

So what did I do with everything? I threw it all in my Bedside Table Overflow Basket, where it’s possible I’ll forget about it until I decide it’s time to clean out all the overflow baskets around my house.

Stashed.

I wonder…

:: (Obvious question alert.) What’s on your bedside table?

:: How many books do you read at a time?

I promised you feelings and bad words today. I considered simply posting a list of every bad word I could type in 60 seconds, but I’m not up for the resulting spam.

The thing is, I wrote this long, feeling-y post and it needs to be edited. It really, really needs to be edited. I wrote it and I don’t understand parts of it. Because you know what? Feelings are hard. They don’t make any sense, and that’s why I generally shy away from them these days. I shy away on the blog, that is. In real life I go beyond shy, and stuff those pesky feelings way down and don’t let them out. Ever.

When will somebody invent a sarcasm font?

Of course I have feelings and I try to acknowledge them. Except for when it might make someone else cry, because I am a sympathetic crier. You cry, I cry, we all cry in our ice cream. Or something like that.

So anyway… I do have this story to tell, and because I believe there is a point to the story I will tell it here on the blog. But not today, because I may have:

A) Been very busy for the last few days doing altruistic and productive things; or

B) Lost my original draft/let the dog eat it/had a really late practice and I’m sure coach will tell you that’s the truth/every homework excuse ever, so I didn’t have time to edit; or

C) Squandered my editing time today doing this…

Instead of feelings, I have excuses. Or do I have feelings about my excuses? Or should I ask you to excuse my lack of feelings?

I wonder…

:: Do you zone out while your kids watch TV? Mine were supposed to be getting their daily allotment of screen time while I got some work done, when many minutes and many ounces of coffee later I realized I was still sitting there. In my defense, my kids are super cuddly, and Phineas and Ferb is funny.