#50 Stroll through Lincoln Memorial Garden

I had my notebook with me. See it right there in my hand? Guess how much writing I got done? If you said "next to none" you are correct. Lincoln Memorial Garden is this gorgeous "living memorial" to Abraham Lincoln (a description which, come to think of it, accurately decribes the entire city of Springfield, Illinois, minus the gorgeous part). The garden is open daily from sunrise to sunset, free of cost, and is about a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Yet I haven't been there since Evelyn's preschool class took a field trip there four years ago. I was even right next door to it this summer, when I stayed at Villa Maria for the SCBWI-IL Words in the Woods conference.

The garden includes a series of trails (about six miles, I think) and is meant to recreate the prairie landscape Abraham Lincoln would have been familiar with in early 19th century Illinois.

Sometimes when Nathan has a day off during the week, we like to take a "creative" day. We go someplace where he can take pictures and I can write. Yesterday, we hit the garden about ten a.m. and were rained on thoroughly for about the first hour.

Then, just as we came out in a clearing with four deer, the rain stopped, the sun came out, and we were the only people around for miles. (Or so it seemed. A lunatic might have been hiding in this prairie grass, and I would have never known. Thankfully, if said lunatic existed, he or she remained unperturbed and Nathan and I escaped with our lives.)

Nathan did spot a buck that could have easily taken us out....

But again, we went on our merry way. I did exactly ten minutes of writing in my soggy notebook. But then, how is one to write when there is nature's bounty to absorb, cheeseburgers to be savored for lunch, milkshakes to be imbibed, and the inevitable afternoon nap to be taken?

A writer's life cannot be all about writing...which is basically the point of this whole blog. Some of it must involve the appreciation of beauty and nourishing of the spirit (and milkshakes and naps).

All photos taken by Nathan Laatsch. More can be seen on his blog.

#50 Stroll through Lincoln Memorial Gardens

I have my notebook with me. See it right there in my hand? Guess how much writing I got done? If you said "next to none" you are correct. Lincoln Memorial Garden is this gorgeous "living memorial" to Abraham Lincoln (a description which, come to think of it, accurately decribes the entire city of Springfield, Illinois, minus the gorgeous part). The garden is open daily from sunrise to sunset, free of cost, and is about a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Yet, I haven't been there since Evelyn's preschool class took a field trip there four years ago. (I was even right next door to it this summer, when I stayed at Villa Maria for the SCBWI-IL Words in the Woods conference.

The garden is basically a series of trails (about six miles, I think) meant to recreate the prairie landscape Abraham Lincoln would have been familiar with in early 19th century Illinois, complete with praire grass restoration...

#50 Stroll through Lincoln Memorial Gardens

#49 Blow off work, ignore family, basically devour Mockingjay in about 7 hours.

Don’t worry, I won’t give away what happens in the finale of The Hunger Games Trilogy. Suffice it to say that if you’ve read the first two books, the third is a fitting conclusion. Violent. Heartbreaking. With, I must say, a somewhat surprising turn of events in the end. Anyway…I’ll let you judge for yourself, if you happen to be a fan of the books.

I wasn’t a fan, as a matter of fact, for a long time. I resisted reading them because the subject matter just didn’t appeal to me. Future, dystopian settings where children are forced to fight to the death in arena-style games…it’s just not the type of book I pick up.

Yet, I fully admit that my resistance is weak when it comes to popular culture, especially of the literary type. If everyone is reading a popular book or series of books, you can bet I’m going to read it. In a way, it is only because I like to gauge my own interests against the rest of the reading world, but mostly I just love books so much, I can’t resist one, especially when everyone else is talking about it. (Case in point: I even plodded through all four of those inane Twilight books.)

So yes, I suppose this is somewhat of a confession. I am a person who, at times, has spent over half of her waking hours reading a book. And yesterday, I did just that, foregoing my own writing in order to enjoy the work of another author.

This morning, I wrote a review of the book at Associated Content.

And now I return to my own writing—inspired, and more than a bit humbled. The perfect mind-set for a writer.

#48 Fight off constant urge to vomit.

I may as well confess, I am a complete whimp when it comes to being sick. Even if it's just a little cold, at the first sign that I'm not 100%, my instinct is to change into even more comfortable sweatpants (as opposed to my "good" sweatpants for daily wear in the event of possible contact with other human beings), curl up in a dark room, and read until I feel normal again. I shun most attempts by my family to take care of me when I'm sick, really preferring to just be alone and unwilling to let anyone see me in my hideousness.

And the last thing I want to do is sit in front of a computer, making up stories. Not much writing (i.e., none at all) gets done when I'm sick.

Thankfully, I don't get sick all that often. Not so thankfully, I've felt like complete crud for the last three of four weeks. We're expecting a new Laatsch in the family, and even though I was never once, for one single moment, sick to my stomach when I had my first baby (ahem...nine years ago), this time around has been a completely different experience.

Commence sweatpants, curling up in a ball, sticking nose in a book--except that this gets really old after a few days. So I drag myself through a semblance of my normal routine, even propping myself up in front of the computer and writing a few incoherent words.

Because I will not be so easily defeated. I shall persist, using every means of resourcefulness known to me, including sniffing ginger (which I'm doing now as I type this), eating crackers, whining a whole helluva lot (see every word theretofore), and repeating to myself "this will not last forever."

For now, though, my production is not at its greatest. ("This will not last forever. This will not last forever. This will not last forever...")

Photo credit: Melchoir, Wikimedia Commons

#47 Drive Almost Two Hours Round-Trip Every Day for Two Weeks to Take Daughter to Swimming Lessons, Because You Are a Good Mother and also a Glutton for Punishment.

I’m not sure if it is apparent from my bloggings so far, but I am a person who happens to live in the middle of nowhere. Actually, worse. I live in the middle of Illinois. Why is that worse?

In a word, Chicago.

When you tell someone you live in Illinois, the first response is, “Oh, Chicago?” And then you try to explain that no, you're from the middle part, around the capital—Springfield—and that you’ve only been to Chicago a handful of times in your life….and then you usually end up trailing off around there as you watch the interest quite visibly drain from the person’s face.

As a lifetime resident of Not Chicago, I thought I was used to driving long-distance for such basic necessities as decent wages, movie theaters, and pizza not purchased from the same place where I fuel up my car. Yet, I seem to have myself settled in a nice little groove here in my small town, hooked on to Springfield, which is maybe not the vibrant cultural destination I wish it to be, but it at least has a grocery store within five minutes of my house.

Without going into a lot of boring detail as to WHY I chose to drive my daughter to the next county for swimming lessons, suffice it to say it didn’t seem like that long of a drive to me. I used to drive 45 minutes to my job EVERY DAY. I thought I was used to commuting.

Now that I’m committed to several hours of writing every morning, I see how such a commute really kills any motivation to write. Or do housework. Or socialize extensively. Or—really—to do anything at all, because driving—just sitting in a car, mind you—really wipes me out.

I’ve hardly written at all for the past two weeks. Thank goodness swimming lessons are over. My daughter is swimming like a fish. She’ll be starting school in just over a week. And I can get back to my routine, which involves sitting at my computer, living in my imagination and not in my car.

#46 Read Anything But Typical, end up crying into your Saturday-morning coffee.

I mean crying in a good way. Not in a heartbreaking-ending way or even a sappy, sentimental way, but in a tearing-up, bleary-eyed, that’s exactly how I feel way. I love those kinds of endings. I won’t ruin it for you, but I highly recommend you read the middle-grade novel, Anything But Typical by Nora Raleigh Baskin.

I’m not usually drawn to “problem” novels, by which I mean those with a main character who is dealing with some life-altering (you guessed it) problem: an eating disorder, abusive parents, fatal illness, bullies, what have you. Not that there aren’t excellent novels with these themes—in fact many of the best and award-winning novels contain just this type of subject matter—but these types of novels aren’t my first-choice reading material. Give me a good classic adventure, mystery, history, or literary fiction any day over something I think might possibly make me cry. (And if there is the slightest chance a dog might die in it, I will not touch it with a ten-foot pole. I learned that lesson many, many years ago with Where the Red Fern Grows.)

However, as any well-read person should, I sometimes take a chance (and read a great review) and choose books I wouldn’t otherwise read.  The reviews of Anything But Typical told me that the novel was amazing, but also something I wouldn’t ordinarily choose.

IndieBound.com’s description:

Jason Blake is an autistic 12-year-old living in a neurotypical world. Most days it's just a matter of time before something goes wrong. But Jason finds a glimmer of understanding when he comes across PhoenixBird, who posts stories to the same online site as he does.


Jason can be himself when he writes and he thinks that PhoneixBird--her name is Rebecca--could be his first real friend. But as desperate as Jason is to met her, he's terrified that if they do meet, Rebecca will only see his autism and not who Jason really is. By acclaimed writer Nora Raleigh Baskin, this is the breathtaking depiction of an autistic boy's struggles--and a story for anyone who has ever worried about fitting in.

Eh. Not my usual choice, but I’m always looking for great YA and middle-grade fiction, and the description reminded me of one of my other, most-favorite books in the whole wide world, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, by Mark Haddon, which is also told by a first-person narrator with autism. So, early Saturday morning, before my daughter was awake, when the house was still quiet and the day still laid out before me full of possibilities, I picked it up with the intention of reading a few pages while I sipped my coffee...

…and I finished it a few hours later, just before lunch. It was fantastic, of course, as most of the reviews said it would be, though I think my reaction was heavily influenced by large amounts of caffeine and the fact that the main character is an aspiring writer.

If you are a writer, or if you have middle-school children (or, lucky for you, you have middle-school children who want to be writers) you will love this book, especially the ending, which I promised I wouldn’t ruin for you.

Whether you know anyone with autism or not, or are even interested in learning about it, you probably will love this book. The perspective of the first-person autistic narrator, just as in Curious Incident, is a fantastic, mind-opening description of how we all think, act, and behave in different ways, and how those thoughts, actions, and behaviors are judged to be normal or not.


More fantastic books (though they didn't make me cry) that I’ve recently read and highly recommend:


Erik Larsen’s Thunderstruck, Simon Winchester’s The Professor and the Madman, Roland Smith’s Elephant Run, and Shaun Tan’s Tales from Outer Suburbia.


P.S. Anything But Typical is available anywhere, including most likely at your library, but all my links are to IndieBound…just ‘cuz. Also, I used their pic of the book cover.

ETA: Italics to the book titles and several spelling corrections, because despite an advanced degree in English, I apparently can't seem to remember to proof read before I post.

#45 Celebrate minor milestone with glass of port and dark chocolate ('cuz that's how the writerly people do it, don't they?).

Last week, I finished a draft of the novel I've been working on for over a year.

Wait, let that statement sink in for a moment. Finished. Like, with a beginning, middle, and end. And, more importantly, I did not want to immediately shove it to the bottom of my sock drawer in embarrassment. This is a big deal, people.

Therefore, I am allowing myself a few days' worth of well-deserved, congratulatory back-patting/alcohol drinking. Nathan and I have had a bottle of ruby port wine in our pantry for the past couple months, which we have for the simple reason that we thought we were super-cool buying it. (I should have called this blog 1,001 Ways to be a Big Dork but I would have exceeded that number in a matter of weeks. Really, we bought it because it tasted good when we had some at The Corkscrew, my new favorite place on Earth.)

Because we're not a wealthy British family on hunting holiday at our country estate, no occasion seemed right for drinking port...until that fateful Tuesday morn when I typed the 55,720th word on my rambling, messy, probably-never-going-to-be-read-by-anyone-not-related-to-me work in progress and scrambled to find some way to mark the occasion.

Open the port wine! my heart cried. So we did, and it was delicious. The dark chocolate accompaniment came by recommendation of an employee at The Corkscrew who, let me just say, really knows what she's talking about.

Next up: revision. That is, now I have to turn this convoluted draft into something that people might actually want to read. Yeah, I'll let you know how that goes.

P.S. I'd like to take credit for that beautiful picture of port wine, but it came from Wikimedia Commons and was taken by Jon Sullivan.

#44 Synopsize your novel-in-progress, but first look up “synopsize” to make sure it’s really a word.

Last June, I joined the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) and recently decided to apply for a work-in-progress grant from that esteemed organization. The application must be received by March 15, which means I need to send it out soon, hopefully before the U.S. Postal Service collapses.

The WIP grant requires applicants to submit 1) an official application form, 2) a writing sample of no more than 2500 words from the work for which the grant will be used, and 3) a synopsis of that work not to exceed 750 words.

Application Form: No problem. A one page, standard, name-address-phone-why-do-you-want-this-money form.

Writing Sample: Also no problem. Happily, my prologue and first chapter add up to 2454 words.

Synopsis: Hmmm. Slight problem in that I have never written one. In fact, I dread the inevitable question, “What’s your novel about?” because I have no answer that does not make me seem slightly deranged. Start spouting descriptions involving “alternate realities” and “skeletons of a non-human creatures” and certain people of polite society begin to look at you as though you are wearing Spock ears and sweatpants covered in Cheetos dust. (I am, in fact, guilty of sporting one of those fashion-statements at this very moment. Guess which one.)

My solution to this problem has so far consisted of spending most of the morning reading about how to write a synopsis and then attempting to write my very own, which only resulted in the conclusion that writing a synopsis is just like writing anything else: i.e., it’s hard work.

Thankfully, Chuck Sambuchino of Guide to Literary Agents has collected excellent advice and examples on synopsis writing. If I ever successfully complete this synopsis, I mostly have Chuck to thank.

And then, of course, when I’m done writing the synopsis and submitting my application for the grant, then I still have to actually write the novel. I haven’t forgotten that. Just still trying my best to avoid it.

#43 Sort through 1100+ vacation photos.

Remember the days of film? When you had, like, 36 pictures to a roll and you were maybe a bit more selective with your photo opportunities? Maybe that was just me. In any case, my family upgraded to a digital camera only a few years ago, and since that time, we have seen an exponential growth in the number of photos we take. Over the years, Nathan has made photography his main hobby, which means he spends an increasing amount of time going over intricate details of capturing photos.

Thus, we have not only a photograph of every aspect of our daily family life, but also many copies of these photos with subtle differences in shading, lighting, position, framing…well, I don’t know the vernacular, but you get the idea.

This means our computer is already bogged down with snapshots of our life at home; for example, at least seventeen photos of our Thanksgiving turkey, those with flash, without flash, from above, behind, below, turkey-eye view, on the counter, in the oven, on the table, uncarved, then carved…

You can imagine what happens when we travel.

Digital camera

+ amateur photographer husband

+ scenic location

= too many vacation photos than any reasonable person needs:

I’m guilty, too. I borrowed my mother-in-law’s camera and snapped hundreds of photos myself, so not only do we have multiple copies on Nathan’s camera, we have copies of the same photos from my camera.

Besides taking pictures and drinking pina coladas, I actually did a little writing on vacation, but not much. And now that I’m back home and back to a normal schedule, I’m anxious to get back to work…right after I revisit every moment of my vacation as captured digitally.

#42 Endure root canal, have over-the-top epiphany on life.

I had a big day of writing planned for yesterday. Thursday morning, no yoga class, no appointments, Evelyn at school, nothing stopping me from sitting down and writing some major new ideas I had for my novel. I’ve felt blocked lately, writing and revising the same first two chapters; enthusiasm has been low. It’s January. The month that I would happily strike from existence, had I the power to do so. But things were looking up: the end of January was in sight, Hawaiian vacation is next week, and I’d just had some new, exciting ideas for the novel that I was beginning to fear was dying a slow creative death.

Then, about 1:30 a.m. Thursday morning, I woke up with something I’ve never before experienced: extreme tooth pain. I’ve never had any major problems with my teeth: no cavities, no braces, a couple small fillings, nothing major. This was sudden, scary, and excruciating, bad enough that I first went to the emergency room (which was a waste of time), and then called my dentist at 5:30 a.m. By 10:00 a.m., I was at a different dentist in a different town, (gratefully) having a root canal, a process which wasn’t cheap or pleasurable, but by that time I was so exhausted and numb that I paid the bill they put in front of me and then stumbled out of the building, like a drunk from a bar, just wanting to go home and collapse.

Now the epiphany.

It’s the next day, and I can’t believe how good I feel. Oh the tooth is still a little sensitive, my jaw still sore from the three different shots of anesthetic. But last night, slipping into a pain-free sleep on my soft, king-sized mattress felt like the ultimate luxury. Sipping hot coffee this morning was a miracle. Never have I felt so blessed in my cozy little house, gazing out at the snow-covered January landscape, hugging my daughter goodbye before she skipped down to the school bus, excited in the way that only kids can be about a field trip to the museum today. And I’m sure that you have felt this same way, after some small tribulation through which you have persevered, everything seems shiny and bright and new, much better than you remembered. The world has not changed; you have changed. Your perspective has been washed in gratitude.

I mean, what if I were living one hundred years ago, or even fifty years ago, without modern dental care? What if this had happened one week later, when I was on vacation, far from home? What if I were in Haiti, for heaven’s sake?? What if I were that Haitian woman I just saw on the news yesterday (as I lay on the couch waiting for the anesthetic to wear off) who had a leg amputated after a building fell on her during the earthquake, unable to take large amounts of pain medication because she was also six months pregnant? That’s the kind of stuff that makes you think, Jeez, Stacey. Quit being such a baby.

It can always be worse. And it can always be better. I also saw, in that same news report, children in Haiti playing in the tent cities, making toys from empty water bottles and sticks and plastic and wire hangers.

Isn’t the universe (i.e., God. I use the two terms interchangeably) sublimely perfect in that it places these tragedies, from a stubbed toe to a root canal to a loved one’s death to a massive earthquake into our human lives so that we can wake up and realize when we have fallen back into the mistaken idea that life is easy and boring and tedious and ordinary. I know that I easily become accustom to my everyday comfort. In fact, I am addicted to the point that I would do anything to get that comfort and not let it go. If I go to the same tedious job everyday, and drive the same routes, and see the same people, and sit in front of my television every night, I know that there is a much diminished chance that I will experience any discomfort. But then, there is the tiny but persistent voice of my soul crying out that I’m not really living.

Perhaps I could even dip my toe into the possibility that I myself created this “problem,” this occurrence of my toothache, in order to wake myself up, because I create my own reality, as opposed to some random, detached power out there throwing these obstacles at me. I attract all events, people, places, things, into my own perception of the world.

Of course, that’s about as far as I’m willing to go before I get weirded out and get back to my TV and my cheese popcorn, which I can now enjoy only by chewing on the left side until I have a crown placed on my little renegade tooth. One can only have so much epiphany in one day, and it’s time to get back to writing. Tomorrow. Unless the universe has other plans.