(Er, I got better.)*

Today's post request comes from the operatic and Southern-living Painted Maypole. The Maypole is worth her weight in gold for her lovely posts about New Orleans alone, but her blog has much, much more to offer than that. Visit her, and you'll see what I mean.

The Maypole clearly harbors a touch of hostility when it comes to NaBloPoMo, and at this point in the month (thank heaven, halfway through at last), I don't blame her. From the comment she left when I announced the Scavenger Hunt, I gather that she suspects that NaBloPoMo is a Device of Evil. Which of course is why I quoted the witch trial scene from Monty Python's The Holy Grail for this post's title.†








* See the second paragraph.
† Do you get it now?

Deb of Missives from Suburbia is hilarious. Plus, she's famous: she was recently on The Today Show. So you probably do want to be her friend, or at least one of her stalkers (keep it virtual; she has many large dogs). Deb contributed today's Scavenger Hunt request: What is your favorite cliché, and why?

A cliché is "a trite or overused expression," according to The Free Dictionary. My very most favorite cliché is "beyond a shadow of a doubt," for reasons that probably only long-time Mormons would understand. So I'll go with my second favorite: "Well, it's better than a sharp stick in the eye."

Why am I fond of this one? Because it's true; just about anything is better than a sharp stick in the eye. Except a plastic sword in the eye, as Christian accidentally found out yesterday, courtesy of Sir Daniel the Intrepid.

Other clichés often heard at the Perkins Corrall:

You don't have to like it; you just have to eat it.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Bring it on, Grandpa!
Santa, you're scaring me.
You can do hard things.
Dude, talk to the hand.
What the heck?
Did you want to heat/cool the whole neighborhood?
You said 'pie!'
Your shoe/book/ponytail holder didn't just fall into a wormhole; keep looking until you find it.

What, some of those aren't familiar to you? I can't imagine why not. They are all very useful shorthand for whole conversations; by all means adopt some as your own, if you like.

Jen of A2eatwrite is another one of these great bloggers who has dramatically improved the quality of my life. She's a talented writer with a wise and funny perspective on life; I am so glad to know her. Cross your fingers that you'll be able to find her YA paranormal novel in bookstores soon, because it's a treat!





Next was a reading by Dave Duncan. Oh, how I love this man. His writing is brilliant, and he sounds like a tenor version of Sean Connery. His reading was utterly charming.

After hearing Dave, we hit the bookseller's room, where we met Bruce Coville, a lovely human being who deserves every bit of his considerable success. We bought a book of his for James and one for Hope; he graciously signed them both.

Then we went next door to the art gallery. Many prominent sf/fantasy illustrators had booths featuring both original work and prints; Christian bought a cool signed print by Bob Eggleton, who happened to be right there at the time.

We went to dinner at a surprisingly authentic Mexican restaurant owned by a former jockey from Oaxaca. There's really nothing better than simple, straightforward Mexican food; yum.

Back we went to the Conference Center for the Autograph Party. WFC is mainly for authors and editors; the admission is capped very low, so the author-to-fan ratio is quite high. At the party, we could walk right up to fantasy greats like George R.R. Martin (with whom I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Go home this instant and finish that long-overdue book") or Lois McMaster Bujold and chat for a bit.

Saturday morning's first panel was a winner: "Tolkien as a Horror Writer," with panelists like Jeanne Cavelos, Ysabeau Wilce, and Douglas Anderson. Next was another great one: "Robert Aickman and the Aesthetics of Ambiguity," with that rock star Peter Straub and Guest of Honor Lisa Tuttle. We were loving life.

After lunch came an hour-long reading with Guy Gavriel Kay. Fantastico. Then we heard a terrific panel of all Australian writers talking about ghosts Down Under, and Christian got some books signed by one of his (and my) favorites, Garth Nix. Very satisfying.

We went back to our hotel room to rest for a few hours, because the evening's program was going to run late. We watched a movie, ate some pizza, and hung out: good Mom-son time was had.

That evening, we went to "A Pleasing Terror," Alan Dean Foster's performance of two English ghost stories written by M.R. James. Foster was amazing; Jim Dale couldn't have done it better. The event was held by candlelight, and with just a few minor props, Foster had us spellbound. If you're going to be in London over the holidays, seek him out. Next was a great panel on Shirley Jackson featuring Kathryn Cramer and that slipstream goddess Kelly Link.

The next morning we enjoyed Christian's favorite panel, "The Ghosts of New York State," with historian Mason Winfield and fantasy icon Betty Ballantine, among others. Unfortunately, the next panel was rather a dud, which was a huge disappointment, as it was on Urban Fantasy. After that, we heard John Crowley, one of my favorite fantasy writers, read from his latest work-in-progress.

At that point, the only thing left was the World Fantasy Awards banquet. The food was horrid and our table company was questionable, but Guy Gavriel Kay gave a brilliant speech as Master of Ceremonies, and seeing the awards presented was very cool. Think "Oscars for geeks," and you'll have a pretty good picture of what went on. That darling legend Gene Wolfe won Best Novel; he'd celebrated his 51st wedding anniversary the day before, so he was a pretty happy guy. Love it.

After that, we hopped in the car and drove home. As conventions go, Readercon remains my favorite by far, but we won't soon forget our time at this year's WFC.

Anjmae of Makaimama, who happens to be my superwoman of a younger sister, asked me to find out where the expression 'the whole nine yards' came from. Annette Lyon was kind enough to open up that vast warehouse of information that is her brain and give us the answer in a comment (which is, as I have confirmed independently, that there IS NO credibly documented answer).

So my job here is basically done.

But here's a funny (at least, to me) Daniel story, just so you don't feel totally ripped off today. We pass over the Croton Reservoir on our way to and from church every Sunday. For a while now, Daniel and I have had a friendly argument as we drive across the bridge. It goes like this:

Daniel: There's the river!

Me: It's the reservoir.

Daniel: No, it's the river!

Me: Actually, it's the reservoir.

So a couple of Sundays ago, Daniel got a little frustrated after our normal exchange. Here's how it went:

Daniel: There's the river!

Me: It's the reservoir.

Daniel: No, it's the river!

Me: Actually, it's the reservoir.

Daniel: Mom, do you see all that blue water down there?

Me: Yes.

Daniel (with more disdain than a three-year-old should be able to muster): It's called 'a river.'

Well, I won't say 'absolutely nothing,' as I would if I were correctly paraphrasing the song, but it's not good for much, in my opinion.

Kimberly at Temporary?Insanity (brilliant, funny, and gorgeous: she's a regular trifecta) suggested that I write about guilt in relation to being a wife, mother, and woman. It's late; I've had a vey full Sunday, and Patrick is dying for us to turn out the light, so I'll be quick. And I won't feel bad about it, either. Why? Because I can only do what I can do.

If feelings of remorse cause you to make amends for something bad you did, great. But if you're feeling guilty about something you're not willing to change, why? 'Remove the layer of self-criticism,' a wise friend once counseled me.

So you're not the best laundress, or you don't bake from scratch, or you're not willing to give up MnMs. You don't change your own oil, or you pay someone else to mow your lawn, or you don't know HTML. Get fine with it and save the energy you are spending on guilt and use it in a positive way for something you really care about. Beating yourself up gets you nowhere but down.

I'm not saying we shouldn't constantly be striving for self-improvement. I am saying that guilt is a poor motivator. So if it doesn't work, ditch it and walk away smiling.

I know: easier written than done. But all we can do is try every day, right?

For today’s Scavenger Hunt topic, three separate commenters asked for a list of my favorite books: Pezmama, Dedee, and the prodigiously talented Jen at A2eatwrite. A list of my Top 100 would have been easier. But top ten is what was requested, so top ten is what I give you, along with a few comments.

But first, a caveat: of course the scriptures are my favorite reading material. But I put them outside the bounds of this list, the way I put chocolate outside of the bounds of candy.

Also, I didn’t rank these. That would be just too hard, and somewhat pointless besides. So just pretend they're all tied for first place.

Soldier of the Great War, by Mark Helprin
Mark Helprin is the most gifted living American writer (his photo graces this post). This book, told as an old Italian man’s memoir of his experiences in World War I, is lyrical, funny, spellbinding, and uplifting. The writing is breathtaking (and I don't mean that in the Seinfeldian sense).

The Name of the Rose, by Umberto Eco
Eco is the most gifted living European writer. I love all of his writing, fiction and non-fiction, but The Name of the Rose is my favorite. It’s so brilliant; just thinking of it makes me want to re-read it. Again.

The Diamond in the Window, by Jane Langton
This is my favorite kids’ book of all time, bar none. I first checked it out at the Woodland Public Library when I was ten. We moved roughly once every two years after that, and I judged every new library by whether they had a copy of this book or not. I’ve bought countless copies and lent or given them away, because I believe every ten-year-old should read it. Jane Langton writes funny mysteries and has published many other children's books, but none comes close to the genius of this one.

Gone With the Wind, by Margaret Mitchell
I’ve written elsewhere about my deep love for this book. I’ve read it probably 20 times. For a long time when I was single, I’d just pick up this trusty novel when I was pining for a little vicarious romance.

The Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien
I have been a serious Tolkien geek from age ten onwards. We’re talking: teaching myself to write Cirthish runes and speak Elvish. That level of geekdom. I went to a panel discussion on Tolkien at the World Fantasy Convention last weekend and felt entirely validated in my lifelong devotion. High adventure, vivid characters both good and evil, timeless themes of the struggle for agency and the power of love and friendship: it just doesn’t get any better than Tolkien.

The Pilgrim’s Progress, by John Bunyan
I love a good allegory, and this is one of the original great ones. It tells the story of Christian, an everyman character, who travels from his home in the City of Destruction to the Celestial City, having many harrowing adventures along the way. It is no accident that our first boy and our first girl are named after characters in the book.

To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee
Somehow I wasn’t required to read this in high school, so I didn’t pick it up for the first time until I was nearly 30. I’ve made up for lost time; this is another favorite re-read. There is no better father in all of literature than Atticus Finch.

Winter’s Tale, by Mark Helprin
Yes, Helprin is that good: he has two books in my Top Ten. This book made me fall in love with New York City long before I ever moved there. It reads like a historical novel (except for the fabulous magic). So gorgeous.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke
Published in 2004, this is the most recently written book on my list. Clarke evokes a unique and heady atmosphere in its pages, the perfect mix of English gothic and alternate history fantasy. The amazing footnotes are not to be missed.

Crossing to Safety, by Wallace Stegner
I love all the Stegner I’ve ever read, but this is my favorite for very personal reasons. It’s just lovely.

So there it is! How many of them have you read?

And stay tuned until later in the month, when I reveal my ten least favorite books of all time.

The other day, my kind and very accomplished (yet non-blogging) friend Melissa wrote in a comment (and I cut and paste), "Luisa, is there any topic about which you cannot write? You, like Isaac Asimov, could have a blog in every section of the Dewey Decimal system."

Well, that is high praise indeed, and of course I let it go straight to my head for a bit. However, it is with great relief that today I step down from that lofty and precarious pedestal. You see, today's Scavenger Hunt question, posed by Dedee (who really should chat with the aforementioned Melissa, as they are both talented violinists), concerns the Veggie Tales.

Dedee fired off three Veggie Tale questions in quick succession:

"Which Veggie Tales is the best to date?"
"On a related note, which Silly Song is the best?"
"Have you heard of Veggie Tales?"

She then kindly let me off the hook, allowing me to combine the three if need be.

I can only answer the third question with any authority; I know virtually nothing about the Veggie Tales. My kids are familiar with them, as we have close friends who are ardent fans, but I've never seen an episode or heard a Silly Song.

It's a good thing I don't have more to write for today. Tomorrow's post topic (put forth by three separate commenters) requires much thought and deliberation. Plus, you know, there's that novel I'm writing. Forward, pressing forward....

Today's NaBloPoMo Scavenger Hunt topic comes from the ever-gracious Anne Bradshaw. What is it, she wonders, that makes a book a best-seller?

Is it content, or is it marketing?

Ahh, grasshoppers. The answer to the (literally) million-dollar question is: Yes.

The other answer is: Sometimes, one or the other.

But you knew that, right?

This morning I emailed a close friend of mine who works in Big Publishing to get her take on the question; she absolutely confirmed my instincts, nearly word for word.

Sometimes we see a book on the best-seller list, and we wonder, Why? How?

I think it is important to ask those questions thoughtfully and not disdainfully. Here's what my friend wrote in her answer this morning: "Lots of times when a book is a huge hit and I don't get it, I think to myself, clearly there is something about this--writing, premise, information, voice, characters--something that is speaking to people. Even if I can't figure out what it is."

Amen. A best-seller sells well because the writer has somehow made a connection with a large group of the population. Don't begrudge it.

I believe it is very bad writing karma to disrespect the best-sellers, and I'll tell you why. Those books are revenue generators for the publishers, and without those big names selling books in every airport and Wal-Mart from here to Timbuktu, there would be. No. Cash. To finance more modest projects, like those you and I hope to have published someday. So next time you feel tempted to sneer at Danielle Steele or Robert Jordan or Jack Canfield, remember that discretion is the better part of valor. And also: what goes around, comes around.

That said, here are the Ten Steps you need to follow if you'd like to have your own best-seller:

1) Write a mind-blowingly good book.

2) I mean it. Write the very best book you can. Take a course, or join a critique group, if that kind of thing works for you. And see the story through to the end. Trust me: five brilliant chapters do not a finished product make.

3) If you are not adept at line editing (and even if you are), hire a Grammar Fascista™ or Fascisto™. You need at least one more pair of eyes to go over your stuff to make sure that your form is as perfect as your content. Trust me: agents and editors care about spelling and grammar--more than you'll ever know. They are the gatekeepers to the Holy Land of Publishing; if you don't get past them, you'll be forever on the outside.

4) Do meticulous research to find five agents who will be such a great fit for you and your work that they will weep with joy upon reading your query/synopsis/manuscript, then call you immediately afterward with a fat contract in hand.

5) Write a synopsis that highlights the brilliance of your book and a query letter that shows what an interesting, hard-working, affable, sane, and easy-to-get-along-with person you are.

6) Send the appropriate packages (you'll know EXACTLY what they want, since you've done the meticulous research required in step 4) to all five. In this case, five is NOT 'right out.'

7) In the many months you will wait to hear back from any of those fine, but beleaguered souls, repeat steps 1 through 6. Several times, if possible.

8) When the perfect agent calls, telling you that s/he's already shopped your manuscript around and has competing offers from a couple of different publishing houses, make sure to call your lawyer to ensure you get the very best deal you can. If you don't have one, you may use mine. He's spendy, but worth every penny. Drop those lawyer prejudices. Lawyers exist to promote and defend the rights of their clients. In this case, that means you.

9) Be willing to do your part in marketing your book. Visit your cousins in Kansas or your aunt in New Hampshire and set up signings and/or readings at the local bookstores there. Set up a professional-looking website and a cre8Buzz page so that your fans can have access to more of you. Make sure that you display to your agent the requisite enthusiasm for these chores; it will go a long way towards helping him/her convince the editor (who must then convince the publishing house's sales force) that you mean business. If you're on board, they'll be on board. Then get out there and work it, baby, work it. And hopefully the sales force will, too.

10) Be gracious in your success; be as kind and as generous as you can to fans, other writers, publishing staff, and reviewers (even if they trash your work). Acknowledge the help and support of family, friends, editors, agents, and anyone else who has helped you along the way. Do what you can to give back to the wonderful community that has gotten you this far. And savor the moment; you have earned it!

Back to NaNoWriMo I go, in search of my own best-seller....

The lovely and talented Dedee suggested that I write about global warming today. Another lighthearted and uplifting post written by the woman who ruined chocolate for you--say "Hallelujah," friends! You're in for a treat.

A better term for the phenomenon popularly called 'global warming' is 'global climate change,' since climatic effects are expected to grow more extreme (meaning that some places might get colder).

I am ill-equipped to address this topic properly; I'm tired, and I have a novel to write. (I don't mean to sound whiny, Dedee. This is a subject near and dear to my heart, and I was grateful that you asked. Really: thank you.)

I will tell you this, though. I believe, after much research over many years, that 1) global climate change IS a real problem; 2) that it HAS been caused in large part by people living in industrialized countries; and 3) that we DO have power--at least for a very short time RIGHT NOW--to do something to reverse the situation before more disaster strikes.

I also believe that I'm not going to change anyone's mind about this issue. But you should know that even President Bush's head science advisor and director of the Office of Science and Technology Policy, John Marburger, stated in a recent interview with the BBC that global warming is a very real threat.

The Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC), co-winner of this year's Nobel Peace Prize, is a great resource for those wanting to educate themselves. RealClimate.org is another thoughtful site putting good science out in readable fashion.

I have to say, I don't understand why taking care of the earth is not a higher priority for people of my faith; I don't understand why the majority of LDS Americans still support a president who has undermined environmental policy at every turn.

I believe that God has given us everything we have, asking that we show our love for Him by valuing His gifts and taking good care of them. We're not doing that.

"In the name of 'progress' and 'growth,' we have plundered our planet and despoiled our environment....Many of our environmental problems arise from the fact that our society has become obsessed with materialism...this reflects a misinterpretation by conventional Judeo-Christian philosophers of God's injunction to Adam about subduing the earth....The reason we are in trouble ecologically is because of our inability to see ourselves as a part of nature. We have not seen ourselves for what we are: part of the web of life and part of the biological community; a portion of an incredibly complex ecological system; and intimately a part of the total environment. The serious ecological problems which face us have as their basis a disordered spirituality." --A. B. Morrison, "Our Deteriorating Environment," Ensign, Aug. 1971, 64

I've read two books in recent months written by Christians very concerned about ecology: Pollution and the Death of Man, by Francis Schaeffer, and Serve God, Save the Planet, by J. Matthew Sleeth. These two men show very plainly that taking care of the earth is clearly outlined in the Bible as the responsibility of humankind.

People of other faiths agree:

"The earth we inherit is in danger; the skies and the seas, the forests and the rivers, the soil and the air, are in peril. And with them humankind itself is threatened. As earth's fullness has been our blessing, so its pollution now becomes our curse. As the wonder of nature's integrity has been our delight, so the horror of nature's disintegration now becomes our sorrow."--Rabbi Alexander Schindler, President, Union of American Hebrew Congregations

"In the Koran, God said that He created nature in a balance or mizam, and that it is mankind's responsibility to maintain this fragile equilibrium," says Richmond-based Islamic leader Dr. Imad Damaj. "We cannot maintain it by blaming each other, but must do so by working together." (quote from the Chesapeake Climate Action Network)

"Despite significant variations among the different Buddhist traditions that have evolved over its 2,500 year journey throughout Asia and now in the West, Buddhists see the world as conjoined on four levels: existentially, morally, cosmologically, and ontologically....Although the Buddhist doctrines of karma and rebirth link together all forms of sentient existence in a moral continuum, Buddhist ethics focus on human agency and its consequences. The inclusion of plants and animals in Buddhist soteriological schemes may be important philosophically because it attributes inherent value to nonhuman forms of life. Nonetheless, humans have been the primary agents in creating the present ecological crisis and will bear the major responsibility in solving it." --"Buddhism and Ecology: Challenge and Promise," Donald K. Swearer, Harvard University

"Hinduism and Jainism offer unique resources for the creation of an earth ethic. The variegated theologies of Hinduism suggest that the earth can be seen as a manifestation of the goddess (Devi) and that she must be treated with respect; that the five elements hold great power; that simple living might serve as a model for the development of sustainable economies; and that the concept of Dharma can be reinterpreted from an earth-friendly perspective. The biocosmology of Jainism presents a worldview that stresses the interrelatedness of life-forms. Its attendant nonviolent ethic might easily be extended to embrace an earth ethics. Both traditions include a strong emphasis on asceticism that might discourage some adherents from placing too much value on earthly concerns, but, as we have seen, Hinduism and Jainism both contain concepts that can lead to the enhancement of core human-earth relations." --"Hinduism, Jainism, and Ecology," Christopher Key Chapple, Loyola Marymount University

There's so much more to write; this topic is overwhelmingly huge. I could spend months on it alone and not exhaust the nuances of the issue: aspects of the problem; evidence from all over the planet; ethics; solutions both societal and individual. But I have the proverbial miles to go before I sleep, so I'll quit now. Thanks for your patience.

I'm really not kidding. I won't be offended if you leave right now and move to the next blog on your "Favorites" list. You may be really, really sorry if you continue reading. Kids under 18, I really want you to go away now; I don't want your parents harassing me later.

Still here? Okay. But I warned you. Don't give me any grief in a comment once you're done here.

According to my Scavenger Hunt spreadsheet, Pezmama gets a rest for a while starting tomorrow. Today, though, her burning question is this: why have both an Almond Joy and a Mounds candy bar? Why not combine the two?

It's something I have often wondered myself. I've come to the conclusion that there are some people who have strong preferences regarding dark and milk chocolate. The decision to have the almond paired with the milk chocolate version seems to somewhat arbitrary, but no doubt the Peter Paul company did some sort of market research into the situation.

I enjoy both milk and dark chocolate, so I find both delicious. If he hasn't heeded my warning and is still reading, poor Patrick is now shuddering. He loathes and despises coconut, but I LOVE it. I prefer Almond Joy to Mounds, since the almond adds that toasty, nutty crunch to the experience, but I have never had a problem eating a Mounds if that's all there was left in the Halloween bag.

Until now.

I don't know if I'll ever eat an Almond Joy again. Or a Snickers or MnMs or a genuine Toll House cookie. I recently read some shocking news on Bitsy Parker's excellent blog (links will come when I get home). Hoping what she'd written wasn't true, I did a bunch of independent research, and I can now confirm her report.

Have you ever wondered why chocolate is so cheap? Why you can dash into a 7-11 and buy a chunk of cocoa-filled goodness for less than a dollar? Maybe you haven't; maybe you've just taken inexpensive deliciousness for granted as a basic human right.

But speaking of human rights, it turns out that virtually all mainstream chocolate--that produced by the Big Four: Mars, Inc., The Hershey Company, Cadbury Schweppes, and Nestle--is made at least in part with cocoa beans grown, harvested, and processed by slaves in West Africa. A little more research revealed that my beloved See's is also a buyer of slave-produced cocoa.

Worse, many of the slaves are children, children who have been sold by their parents to the plantation owners for a few dollars. Or they've been lured off the streets with promises of bicycles and high wages, but once they reach the cacao farms, these children are horribly abused and malnourished and live short, horrifying lives of backbreaking work and despair.

Reports by UNICEF and the International Labor Organization confirm this. The BBC did a documentary on the problem in 2000, and the next year The Philadelphia Inquirer put out a series of articles on the horrors of slave chocolate as well.

After some limited public outcry, the Big Four agreed to a four-year plan called the Harkin-Elgin Protocol to eliminate child slave labor from the cacao industry. But according to many human rights groups, that deadline has come and gone, with the big chocolate doing little, if anything, to keep their agreements. Crocodile tears have been shed, but not much has changed.

What are we chocolate lovers to do? The only way to be sure that your chocolate hasn't come to you at the expense of slave labor is to make sure it says "Fair Trade" on the packaging. Fair Trade cocoa has been produced by workers paid a living wage and who are housed decently.

Believe me: I know this news is depressing. When I first read about it, I wanted my ignorance back, because knowledge brings accountability. It's tempting to make a disconnect, to try and forget about the tragic reality so that I can satisfy my base desire for sensual gratification in the form of an Almond Joy.

Then I think about the cotton plantation owners in this country 150 years ago, living with the evils of slavery but unwilling to make changes to their lifestyles because they didn't want to sacrifice their comfortable way of life. We look back at those slaveowners with horror and disgust, but are we any better when we support the slave industry one step removed? In a way, it's worse to be the disconnected consumer, because we then add hypocrisy to our list of sins in the matter. Most of us would never beat a child or force him to sleep on a wooden plank in a padlocked shack with a tin can for a urinal. But how many of us will continue to turn a blind eye when a craving hits us?

Again, l'll post all the links to the reports I've read once I'm home. Until then, do an internet search of your own, if you feel up to further shock. It's not pretty, and you may never be able to look an MnM in the eye again--at least not until drastic change comes to the chocolate industry. Which will not happen until you and I stand up and vote with our dollars.

Pezmama's post request for the day was for me to compare living in the West with living in the East. It's an interesting topic, but one I don't feel qualified to address.

For the first 21 years of my life, I lived in the West; I'd never been east of the Rocky Mountains. I lived mostly in California, but we also spent time in Nevada, Utah, and Arizona.

I moved to New Jersey in February of 1988 and met my BFF Patrick a few months later. We got married in 1990 after my church mission to Montreal, Canada; I've been here in the East ever since. We lived in Manhattan for 11 years and have been in the Hudson Highlands for the past 6 years.

So. All my time in the West was as a young single person; all my time in the East has been as an ever-aging married person. I'm so different from the eager, shy, confused girl who grew up in the West that I almost don't recognize myself. It doesn't seem like a very apples-to-apples situation to me.

What do I miss about the West? One on-ramp for every off-ramp. The smell of manzanita bushes in the hot summer sun. Mother's Circus Animal cookies. Henry Chung's Hunan Restaurant in San Francisco. In-and-Out Burger. The Pacific Ocean (SO much better than the Atlantic). Highway 1. Road trips through Nevada from California to Utah. Joshua trees. The green Livermore foothills in February, windmills and all. A relative lack of humidity. But most of all, proximity to my family of origin.

What do I treasure about the East? The ubiquitous green; miraculously, there are trees everywhere. The changing seasons. The sunsets that always look like a Frederick Church painting. The mysterious, inimitable smell that comes up from the subway grates. Ready access to local, organic everything. The Metropolitan Museum; everything about Manhattan. Being near the roots of our American heritage. The comparative lack of urban sprawl. But most of all, the history that I've built here with my husband and children.

I love to visit the West, but I don't know if I could ever leave the East. How's that for a non-answer?

Well, not really; that would mean that I'd be getting paid right now. Unfortunately, I'm not.

I'm blogging remotely from the World Fantasy Convention in Saratoga Springs, NY this weekend. Christian and I will be here through Sunday hearing from favorite writers like Jane Yolen, Peter Straub, Dave Duncan, Guy Gavriel Kay, and Garth Nix, among many others. And I tell you: if Stephen King shows up for the awards banquet on Sunday, I'll just die.

I love my MacBook, but I do not love Blogger's lame Mac version. Since I refuse to learn HTML, I'll have to come back to these weekend posts and put in links and images when I get home. But NaBloPoMo must go on!

Pezmama requested that I post about PEZ today. Though she owns over 80 PEZ dispensers, I don't recall that Pezmama has ever posted about the origins of this fine candy. I've loved PEZ since I was very little, so I was happy to comply with her request.

Ahh, the wonders of Google. Everything I'm about to tell you is information that you could have obtained yourself within a matter of seconds; I am no expert.

PEZ was invented in Austria in 1927. The first flavor was peppermint; in fact, the name PEZ is taken from the German word for peppermint: PfeffErminZ. The candy was first sold in tins, as Altoids are today; later the inventor invented a dispenser shaped like a cigarette holder and marketed the mints and their dispenser as an alternative to smoking.

The PEZ dispenser as we know it was developed in 1955. Santa Claus and Mickey Mouse were two of the original dispensers and remain among the most popular today. The dispensers are highly collectible, but the rumor that eBay was founded for the trading of PEZ dispensers is false (though eBay founder Pierre Omidyar's wife is an avid PEZ collector).

The PEZ company has had a general rule against making PEZ heads of living people. The Teutul family of Orange County Chopper fame is a notable exception (I know: RANDOM).

PEZ the candy has come in many flavors over the years, with the most popular being the classic lemon/strawberry/orange/grape variety pack. (See? No lime! PEZ is perfect.) I'm intrigued by the new SourZ flavors; gotta find me some of that.

PEZ has been featured on Seinfeld and in a Nickelback song. It also apparently played key roles in the TV series The Pretender and the movie Stand By Me.

My favorite PEZ dispenser of all time was Chewbacca. You probably have one or two lying around the house; what's your favorite?

Today is the first day of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo for complicated). My readers have kindly pitched in to help me get through this with a modicum of grace, and have furnished me with a topic per day for the next 30 days.

First on the scene responding to my call for help was the ever inspirational Pezmama. You'll be seeing her name here frequently in the next few days, as she came up with several great post topics for me. Before I address her question for the day, though, let me tell you a bit about her.

Pezmama's Rattling Around was the second blog I read with any regularity (Jane Brocket's Yarnstorm being the first). I first encountered it at a Five Minutes for Mom blog carnival last March; I spent spare minutes for the next few days reading through all her archives. She's fantastic: funny, honest, thoughtful, and generous. Pezmama is no longer an active blogger, but she had a tremendous influence on me when I was finding my own voice in this strange new medium. She has a great mind and a huge heart; because of these sterling characteristics, I have not let the fact that she doesn't like to read fiction tarnish my great admiration for her.

Pezmama's question of the day is as follows: "What kinds of writing exercises do you do (or prompts, maybe) that help you get your ideas on paper?"

For me, different kinds of writing demand different approaches. Here are the kinds of writing I do in ascending order of regularity: lyric writing, personal essays, blogging, and fiction (almost exclusively fantasy; my realistic YA novel Shannon's Mirror was an anomaly).

When I write lyrics, I usually start with a single image that grabs my imagination; with "New Birth," I used that of a candle burning in the darkness as my jumping-off point. I like parallelism in lyrics, so once I had the initial trope worked out for that song, the others followed quickly: a lily blooming in the snow; a fountain flowing in the desert.

Out of all the kinds of writing I do, the personal essay challenges me the most. When I read the work of a great essayist--E.B. White, Annie Dillard, Wendell Berry, Anne Lamott, or Adam Gopnik, among others--I'm in awe. It's like reading a well-plotted mystery: I enjoy reading it immensely, but it is difficult for me to puzzle out how it's actually done. As far as I can tell, a successful personal essay is constructed in sonata form: Introduction; Exposition; Development; Recapitulation; and Coda. This is the structure I used for my very first "book": a Mother's Day gift booklet called Legacy of Self: A Celebration of Motherhood; it's also the form I tried to follow in the two essays published in the collection Silent Notes Taken.

So with a personal essay, I'll take a powerful memory and see if I can explore its meaning in my life through sonata form. Arduous? Yes. Satisfying when done to the best of my abilities? Yes. Essays are the Crossfit workouts of writing for me.

I use no prompts when it comes to blogging--until now. NaBloPoMo will certainly be a boot camp of sorts, because in the past, if I haven't awakened with an idea for a post, I simply haven't bothered. Looking back at my archives, I see that I write between 12 and 22 posts per month; putting out 30 this November, even with all your help, will be a stretch.

Fiction: speculative fiction: fantasy. This is pretty much where my inner writer lives, plays, and takes joy. I have so many ideas for books that I doubt I'll ever get them all written, and I get new ideas all the time. Many of my favorite ideas come from dreams: often just a single, vivid image, the mystery and sheer coolness of which captures my attention and compels my imagination. I keep an Idea Journal on my computer; when I have a great dream, I try to write it down as quickly as possible while it's still fresh in my mind.

When I'm ready to start writing a new story, I pull out the Idea Journal and read through it. Often two or three images or ideas will attract themselves to one another in some sort of sympathetic harmony. I'll illustrate how this happens by using the example of a partially written novel of mine called Septentrion. For this story, three different components came together.

First was the discovery of the word 'septentrion' itself. I found it by chance in a French-English dictionary when I was looking up something else entirely. It has several related meanings in the OED: "1. The constellation of the Great Bear...; 2. The north; the northern region(s) of the earth or the heavens...; 3. A northerner...." The word instantly sparked my imagination, speaking to me of unexplored regions, mysterious and remote.

Around the time I discovered this intriguing word, I read the following verse in the book of Zechariah in the Old Testament (KJV): "Ho, ho, come forth, and flee from the land of the north, saith the Lord."

This scripture is unusual in its metrical symmetry and rhyme structure, giving it the flavor of an incantation. It triggered for me an extensive topical search on the Lost Ten Tribes of Israel. This theme has been a matter of great speculation among both Jews and Gentiles (and later, Mormons) almost from the time of the tribes' disappearance. After reading many opinions on the subject--all very pragmatic--I began to toy with my own more fanciful theories regarding their dispersal and eventual regathering.

The third component of the beginning of Septentrion was an anonymous Inuit poem called "Magic Words":

In the very earliest time,
when both people and animals lived on the earth,
a person could become an animal if he wanted to
and an animal could become a human being.
Sometimes they were people
and sometimes animals
and there was no difference.
All spoke the same language.
That was the time when words were like magic.
The human mind had mysterious powers.
A word spoken by chance
might have strange consequences.
It would suddenly come alive
and what people wanted to happen could happen--
all you had to do was say it.
Nobody could explain this:
That's the way it was.

These three things combined in my mind into the seed of the book: a post-apocalyptic urban fantasy set in Manhattan, upstate New York, and the Canadian territory of Nunavut. I started playing with the idea, using the only prompt I ever use when writing fiction: "What if?"

What if the Lost Ten Tribes became somehow absorbed into Inuit culture? What if a shape-changing polar bear came to Manhattan in search of a girl who could save his people? From there, the story grew almost effortlessly, until I killed the joy of discovering the story by synopsizing it. But for me, it is such a compelling idea that I know I will eventually return to it and finish it.

A bit of Luisa trivia: as I first envisioned it, Septentrion would have had two sequels: Noctober and Novembrance. When I was searching for a domain name for my email address years ago, the first two titles in the trilogy were taken. Thus the genesis of Novembrance-the-Blog.

ZF-360 started with other "what if" questions: "What if the story of Mozart's opera The Magic Flute could be told so that it made sense? What if Irish Travellers kept themselves out of mainstream American culture to hide their magic from the world?

The Holly Place came from applying "what if" to several different arresting nightmares I am very grateful to have had: What if a person taught himself astral projection, but came home one night and couldn't get back into his body? What if there were a haven, mostly lost to the world, where a person could find healing if certain conditions were right?

I envision my answers to "what if" in the form of scenes. Characters seem to present themselves to me, inviting me to get to know them. As I learn who they are, I find out what they'll do in certain situations. Then I write what I see and hear and feel, with as much precision and clarity as I can muster.

If I'm ever blocked, it's as if the movie in my head is paused. Sometimes it takes some fiddling to get it going again; often it's a random sentence I write that gives me the next turn of the screw. "Cathy heard Mae crying in her bedroom." Oh, but Mae's sound asleep; who is really crying? Or did Cathy imagine it? A whole new plot point then unfolds and take shape.

Going back to the Inuit poem, "a word spoken by chance": that's all it takes to spark imagination when you're really listening. For me, ideas are all around, like a garden full of perfect, ripe fruit that needs only to be picked and eaten. And turning the ideas into stories is a matter of focusing energy and setting aside time for them, nothing more.

Which I need to go do right now, seeing as how National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) also starts today! 50,000 words in 30 days: I'd better get started.

Thalia's Child has written some really great Soap Opera Sunday entries lately about people in her own family. She inspired me to tell this story. (If you are new to the SOS scene, you should know that it is the brainchild of Brillig and Kate; see their fab sites for links to all sorts of great tales of love, grief, and drama.)

Here are a few bits of exposition to help you make sense of the following story. I am an active member of the LDS church, colloquially known as the Mormons.

Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and
dreadful day of the LORD:
And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the
children, and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite
the earth with a curse.

"The game is afoot!"

(Have you ever seen the movie Young Sherlock Holmes? How I love that film.)

Oh, and my post title? That's my Rowlingesque, fake Latin translation of 'Scavenger Hunt.' (For the real Latin, try Jenna.)

Since I have made the insane decision to participate both in National Blog Posting Month (Nablopomo) and in National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo) in the month that includes my birthday, that of our eldest child, and Thanksgiving (which I host for between 16 and 20 people each year), I figured I'd need some help.

Enter RaJ the Great and Terrible and his genius idea for a framework for Nablopomo: that of a scavenger hunt. For Nablopomo, I need to post once a day for the 30 days of November. I know; not onerous on the face of it, right? Except for the fact that there are MANY days when I wake up thinking that there's nothing very blogworthy going on. Ergo, I am silent.



**UPDATED**We're there! Thank you; I have the very best readers in all of Planet Blog.

Though this story is not terribly soapy, I am nonetheless officially calling it part of Soap Opera Sunday, that weekly blogventure concocted by Brillig and Kate, guaranteed to make you laugh, gasp, and maybe even mist up a bit.

If you read the post just below this one, you'll remember that I spent most of my spare time Senior year with a certain Paul: swimmer, water polo player, co-AP-class-taker. Despite the fact that we had tons in common, our relationship really was like two worlds colliding. Picture a Venn diagram where the two circles barely touch: that was us.

Paul was a jock from the side of town that had trees (in California's Central Valley, that means you are from a well-established neighborhood). His mother was the golf pro at the local country club. He grew up in our cowtown, and so knew 'everybody.' It didn't hurt that his grandfather had founded a world-famous non-profit corporation that was based in our town and employed a ton of folks.

I, on the other hand, lived on downtrodden Main Street right next door to a mortuary. My mom worked long, hard hours trying to support my siblings and me. We'd moved to town right before my Junior year, so I was an interloper on long-established circles of friends. I had very short, multi-colored hair; Paul's friends preferred hanging out with people who had that chlorine-platinum thing going on.

My few friends liked Paul, but they were way too busy to pay much attention to him. Adele, Traci, Janice, and I were the entire yearbook staff that year; our advisor had quit, and in the vacuum, we four co-editors ran the show. In the days before computer layouts, we spent tons of unsupervised time with those big, blue-lined sheets putting together a yearbook for a high school of 2,000 students. We took almost all of the candid shots (many we staged), developed them ourselves in the darkroom, and wrote every bit of the copy. I don't know how we had keys to that yearbook room, or how the school let us do all this on our own, but we did, and we pulled many an all-nighter making those publication deadlines all by our teenaged selves.

So I was either working on the yearbook or hanging out with Paul all year long. Paul and I talked about books, Carl Sagan, and music. I'd sit next to him while he played Bach's Two-Part Inventions on his mother's little spinet piano. He taught me how to drive, first in a golf cart, and then in his ancient station wagon. We golfed straight through the winter (he could play for free). We watched the entire eight hours of the BBC's production of Nicholas Nickleby with Roger Rees on PBS, completely riveted. Paul was the best.

Prom time came around; though outwardly a rebel, I was enough of a romantic to know that I had to get to Prom at least once in my life. I searched high and low for an atypical dress that I could afford, not wanting any pastel taffeta or satin touching my person. I finally found a Grecian-style white dress with a cool beaded clasp at the shoulder--very different, and very flattering. I put it on layaway. A few housecleanings and babysitting jobs later, it was mine.

Paul had no money to rent evening clothes. He was too busy with sports to have a job, and his parents weren't the type to hand out cash to him, like, ever. So he ended up wearing his only suit: a horrible denim-colored polyester number with Western detailing. But he was handsome and hilarious; I didn't mind.

Limo? Oh, no. But we didn't have to go in Paul's station wagon, with the vinyl seats so weathered they had petrified and cracked, exposing yellowed, crumbling foam. No, for Prom, Paul's mom graciously loaned him her K-Car--a nice, Reliant automobile, with burgundy velour interior. We were stylin,' folks.

Paul did scrounge up money for a gorgeous corsage: gardenias, my favorite flower in all the world. They looked perfect with my long, white dress.

May in the San Joaquin valley is about the worst time and place for someone with allergy-triggered asthma. I woke up Prom morning barely able to breathe. The jasmine was blooming enthusiastically, as if Spring had conspired to murder me. My mother took me to the doctor and to the chiropractor, but neither helped much. I fainted while Mom was curling my hair, but there was no way I was missing out on my big night.

I don't remember whether we went out to dinner. I do know we weren't planning on doing anything with groups; Traci went to Prom with this hot, long-haired guy we barely knew from the stoner crowd; Janice and Adele were boycotting Prom (probably becaused no one had asked them out). The swim crowd barely tolerated me, and truthfully? I was happy to have Paul all to myself.

We got to the dance, stood in line for photos, and danced a few slow dances. At that point, I'd had enough. I was exhausted from trying to breathe; I asked Paul to take me home. On the K-Car's radio on the way, we heard the new single by our favorite band for the very first time: "Every Breath You Take," by The Police. High irony, people.

I must have fainted again; the next thing I knew, I was in the ER. Apparently Paul had run into my house and right into my mom's room, scared her awake, and then sped to the hospital with me unconscious all the way.

The doctor gave me a shot of adrenaline, and almost immediately, I had blessed relief. Anyone who has never had asthma has no idea what it feels like to suffocate slowly no matter how hard you try to get air into your lungs. Gorgeous, perfect air: there's nothing better.

An extremely kind, huge male nurse took the very best care of me. My mom and I still call him 'The Gentle Giant.' He pinned my gardenia corsage to my hospital gown and got me fresh hot blankets straight out of the autoclave: bliss. I spent the rest of the night in a curtained-off area, Mom on one side of the hospital bed, Paul holding my hand on the other.

I haven't had an asthma attack since; I have no idea why. My asthma pretty much disappeared after that night.

Paul and I dated the whole summer after graduation, but then we broke up when he went off to UC Berkeley. It broke my heart, but he was excited to explore college life to the fullest extent allowed by law, and we both knew a long-distance relationship wouldn't work. We stayed in contact for a year or two, but after I moved to Utah to go to BYU, we lost touch entirely.

Patrick and I saw Paul a few years ago at my 20-year high school reunion. The three of us went to breakfast together. The two men were like Ps in a pod (pun very much intended); they got along great.

Paul has never been married; he's never even dated someone for as long as we went out (almost exactly a year). I asked him why over breakfast; he's handsome, in great shape, smart, employed, etc. It seemed to me he'd have women crawling all over him. He laughed and said he always ends up correcting his dates' grammar, something that's always a romance killer. Patrick said wryly, "Clearly that was never a problem with Luisa." Poor Paul: I hope he finds his own Grammar Fascista someday.

I had this great boyfriend named Paul my entire senior year of high school. He played on the water polo team and was a fantastic swimmer; at one time he ranked ninth in the entire nation in the butterfly stroke for his age group. I'm reasonably confident that you'll be reading more about Paul on Soap Opera Sunday, when I give you the highly entertaining and dramatic details of Prom Night 1983.

I had never been particularly athletic myself (outside of dance), so I learned much from Paul about training for competitive sports. One concept he introduced to me was that of tapering down.

When preparing for a big competition, athletes will train intensively for a period of time, then follow a very light regime in the days or weeks immediately preceding the event. This allows the body to recover fully from the hard training it has done, ensuring that it will be capable of peak performance during the competition.

"Why the nostalgic lecture?" I hear you ask in a gentle yet quizzical tone. I answer: merely to explain my recent bloggy reticence. I'm training for both NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo, demanding events that occur simultaneously during the month of November. I have to gather my strength and summon my creative (eagle) powers; Heaven knows, I need to conserve what little I have in both respects.

It is because I am tapering down that I have lately chosen not to inflict upon you posts on such scintillating topics as:

1) The fact that the three black hairs growing from my chin have become my own personal hydra;
2) How amazingly neat and clean our basement is after my tornadic frenzy last weekend;
3) What a better yarn Malabrigo is than Manos del Uruguay;
4) Hilarious things Daniel has said in days past (one tidbit "Red Zeppelin");
5) The success of our story basket in the den;
6) The manner in which my novel-in-eternal-progress, ZF-360, is morphing yet again;
7) My consternation over the as-yet-unripe African jelly melons in a large basket in our kitchen;
8) The current dearth of appealing movies at our local theaters;
9) How excited I am that Al Gore won the Nobel Peace Prize; and
10) My rant about the evil ninja deer and the havoc they are wreaking in our yard.

See? Don't you feel better about how quiet it's been around here? Brace yourselves; November is right around the corner.

And to answer the question of a cre8buzzer who asked whether we'll be celebrating Novembrance (i.e. me) all month long once Halloween is over:

Yes. Absolutely. Bring on the party, my friends.

Until then, I must focus on my training. Yeah, yeah; that's the ticket.