The writer's daughters: Dating dangerously

My children think I'm weird.

That's no surprise to any parent, really, we all know our kids think we're anything but cool with our references to Duran Duran and finding the odd scrunchie in our hair but I hadn't thought about how my writing may influence my five daughters' dating lives until now.

R: Boy, meet my mother, Mrs. Graham.

Boy: Pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Graham; I mistook you for R's sister. [In reality, I think I'd be closer with a "S'up" lift of the chin while I search for his eyes under a Beiber haircut]

R: Mom writes dating advice for the Undead. Then for kicks, she hangs out in dark attics and hopes a mouse doesn't climb into her hair while she's looking for dead people. She's currently writing Jane Austen fanfiction, and a short story about a lady Bigfoot named Clementine.

Boy: Er... My mom has a real job.

R: Really? I've heard of those "real jobs" but my Mom can't stay out of fistfights when working with other people so they've locked her away at home and called her a writer. We like to think of her medications as a public service.

Boy: Mom is a foot doctor; I don't know if she'd like me hanging out with anyone whose mother is a complete nutjob.

R: How lovely for her. I have someone else I'd like you to meet...  [shoves boy into basement with the zombies]

My younger daughters will have a bit more time to come up with a game plan to introduce me to their boyfriends but I expect similar results. I may be weird but my daughters know which side their zombies are buttered on.

Breaking and Entering

I often dream about houses in which I've lived. These houses, scattered across the United States, and Scotland for a time, have the annoying habit of adding hidden rooms I'd never discovered while actually occupying the place. I access the rooms and secret gardens by crawling through windows covered by large ugly oil paintings or crawling over a fence and dropping into forgotten orchards. Once there I kick into Scooby Doo mode and examine the place, mostly finding rooms untouched since the 1930-1940s according to the magazines and style of furniture. There is never anyone there but not a speck of dust mars the surface of the furniture, eighty years later.

At first I was annoyed by the dreams but now feel like I'm on a quest. I have no clue as to why the rooms were abandoned nor my compulsion to climb through small openings to get in. I don't take anything or leave a note...

Next time I'm raiding the refrigerator.  ;)

For my next short story, I'm going to use one of the houses as a base for the protagonist to get herself into trouble. I've been in this one quite a few times so going over the steps to break into my subconscious should be a snap. Now all that's left to do is discover who she'll meet on the other side of that painting.

So what's your take on the reoccurring dream? Past life? OCD and dusting? Pure escapism via fences and hidden windows?

Vyolette and the Cone of Silence

My resolution was simple. Get more writing done while still being Mother Extraordinaire to Daughter #5. She's the last one home and when she boards that giant Twinkie of a school bus next August I'll have books to write and blogs to pen. But until then, I need a little help, thus The Cone of Silence. I've upgraded since the last pair but the concept is the same: a visual signal to my offspring that when the Cone of Silence headphones are on my head -- no pleas for juice, telling me that the dog has once again rolled in raccoon poo, or that while picking their nose they've poked their brain. It can wait until I finished a chapter. Unless it's the raccoon poo.

Vyolette Stella has different ideas about my resolution. When she sees the Cone of Silence headphones on and me seated at my desk, it's her signal that I'm suddenly working a drive-thru and desperately needs her order.

:: Grabbing mic ::

"Hello! I would like to order a pizza. A pizza with pineapples, and two cakes, a seahorse, and Justin Beiber. And a Diet Coke."

"Beiber? Vyo, I need to work on this. Can we play later?"

"PFffffffffffffffffffSHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"What was that?"

"I can't hear you. You need to talk into the speaker thing."

"A mic." I adjust the mic to be near my mouth and not inside hers. "Vy, how about you work on a puzzle until I'm done with this one page?"

"HONEY! I need that pizza quick! I'm dyiiiiiiiiiiing here." She clutches her stomach and rolls on the floor, only to be licked by the dog. "Send help. Fading fast."

"Vyolette..." Grabbing the headphones off my head, she wandered the room.

"Hello. We need a chicken order... Hey Mom, this isn't plugged in.... And some salmon and a Christmas tree so we can blast off. We need a CHICKEN!"

So the writing part of the resolution is taking a little more effort on my part but the headphones work – at least until she finds that Christmas tree.

Vyolette has a rabid fanbase at facebook where I seriously think my friends just tolerate me for more stories of ice pickles. This column was originally posted at An Army of Ermas.

The Jane Austen Twitter Project #A4T

And so my quest to educate myself in the manner of Janeites continues. I've joined the Austen-inspired twitter novel via the Jane Austen Twitter Project! Over forty authors are contributing to the continuation of a storyline in fifteen minute increments on Twitter, each developing the richness of the central plot - a ball at Pemberley - with characters familiar from Austen's novels.

Every Sunday, the chapter will be posted at Austen Authors so you can catch up and look forward to the next installment. Or visit every Tuesday on Twitter to see our progress by doing a search for the hashtag: #A4T. If you would like to join us, please visit The Jane Austen Twitter Project sign up for a time slot and more information. I'm having an excellent time so far seeing how we weave each others plots together, I can't wait to see the final product in a few months time.

My contribution for today:

Willoughby strode through the main hall of Allenham, his riding boots clicking against the fine marble floor. Returning from a hard ride in the bucolic countryside, his mind raced with possibilities of the upcoming ball at Pemberley. Pushing aside the unpleasantness of former attachments, he focused instead on the merriment to accompany the evening. His old friend, Henry Tilney, would be there with his lovely sister, Eleanor. Their troubled past fodder for the gossips, Willoughby knew the scandal of their mother's death would overshadow his own discretions... at least for a while.

"Sir, you've received a letter from Miss Tilney." His valet, Albert, appeared at his side bearing the folder paper sealed with red wax. Willoughby recognized the fluent script of its sender, though not why she had sought him after their brief flirtation. Was she, perhaps, interested still? His heart bruised but not broken from their parting, he smiled.

Stress, denial, and cupcakes

Stress is life. Okay, I get it. I know that finances, dealing with the public and some husbands are all a part of the package but I'm learning to deal with my stress by taking baby steps. Tiny, measured movements that resist the impulses to play Barry Manilow on loop until I stop gritting my teeth over an issue. Unfortunately, for me, those baby steps usually involve making knitting a full-body contact sport and building a deck instead of a birdhouse.

Go big or go home.

Instead, I've decided to focus on something I enjoy immensely but usually keep away from due to waist issues: baking. Nothing makes me happier than a golden brown crust of bread or the light spring of a finger on a cupcake top fresh from the oven. This is about as domestic as I get so the family appreciates when I get stressed and take it out on the oven. You can tell when I've gone around the bend and deliver cookies, pies and granola to the neighbors. In the next state.

My husband can immediately tell when I'm in denial of a huge issue - the house is spotless, baked goods crowd the kitchen counters and I'm wearing an apron.

"Oh god. What did I do," he'd ask.

"Nothing." I can't smile without you--

"I'm sorry. No, really, I mean it this time."

"I have no idea what you're talking about but put down the wine and walk away. Slowly." I can't laugh and I can't sing, I'm finding it hard to do anything--

"I don't know either but I'm going to make a bed in the garage. And take the cupcakes." He moves quickly for a big man.

I'll tell him later that my mother is thinking about moving in. But first that wine...