I lost my love for reading.  Not now, but years ago.  After so many years of reading what people told me to read I started to get a little jaded.  I was sick of talking rabbits and men who took potions that made them crazy, and it seemed that all the contemporary books I got for Christmas were fun, but the magic didn't last. So, sadly, I read only what I was required.

And then, one day, I sat at the Harold B. Lee Library at a little desk against a window.  I was too tired to study my zoology anymore and I definitely didn't want to work on my geology paper, so I threw everything aside and took a chance.  I was in the general fiction area and I randomly chose a Steinbeck novel, purely because the "S's" were so close to me.  The book I selected was Cannery Row (probably because it was short).  I laughed aloud for the first time in ages.  I read it quickly and chose another of his works, then as I finished that, I chose another, then another, before long I had read just about everything Steinbeck had written.  From there I moved on to other authors and actually changed my major from biology to journalism because I realized I couldn't get along without reading or writing about my world.

I owe just about everything I love to John Steinbeck.  In fact, I think I married my husband just because he's from Steinbeck country.

The Desire to Communicate

The other day I took my one year old daughter, Rosie, with me to run errands.  The black top steamed and the Texas air was thick with humidity.  Rosie cried and squirmed in my arms.

"Settle down, Rose Pose," I said, "We're almost ready to go home.  Just one more store and then we're through."


She yelled bloody murder.  


"Calm down," I said.


She scrunched her nose and frowned.  Then she blew-as if she was blowing out her birthday candle-onto my cheek.  Or as if I was blowing onto her hot bowl of oatmeal at breakfast.  ("Hot! Hot!" Blow.  Blow.  Is how it usually goes.)  Finally it dawned on me, poor little Rosie was hot.  

"Oh, you're hot?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Me, too, baby girl," I said and kissed her cheeks.  I reached into my purse and pulled out her sippy cup.

"Mmm," she said, kicking her chubby little feet and letting me know that water was just what she needed to cool down (and the ice cold air-conditioning in Target helped, too. I'm sure.)

Just like a baby struggling to tell me she is hot. I struggle to communicate through my stories.  Questions go through my mind as I rewrite, "What was I really trying to say here?"  and sometimes I just say, "Huh?!"  Especially when I find a half written paragraph to nowhere.  But each time I rewrite I get closer to what I really want to say.

From our first cries that say "LEAVE ME ALONE!" to our final words as we die, everybody desires to communicate.  Everybody wants to be understood.

I'm rewriting now, so don't talk to me.  Leave me alone.  I'm trying to communicate. :)

I just finished my third, and almost final, draft of my new novel.  It feels good.

Rules of Living #30981

You're feeling a little put out, so you want to get a little snippy in an email--just to show 'em.  Put him in his place, so to speak.

Don't do it.  I repeat.  Don't do it!!!!  You will spend the night worrying and wondering how you were going to approach the correspondent.  You will lose precious hours of sleep and wake with large bags under your eyes.  You will have to apologize.  This means admitting you were wrong.  This is difficult, especially when you are never wrong, so don't have much practice in the area.

So don't do it!  Just be kind.  Always.

That's all I have to say on the subject.