I did it!

Kim Watters here. Well, I did it. Something I thought I'd never do. I climbed out on the clear platform of the Willis (Sears) Tower on the 103rd floor during our recent vacation to Chicago. Okay, so I was practically hyperventilating....and freaked out but I couldn't let my kids get the best of me. Unfortunately I don't have a picture that I can post to prove it because my camera died. I did shell out $32 for the pictures they took but I don't have a scanner so you'll have to use your imagination.

Here's a photo courtesy of the Willis Tower website though to give you an idea. It's giving me the shivers just looking at it.

How did I do it?

I prayed....and didn't look down!

But I did it. So next time you're in Chicago, you've got to try it. If you dare. Trust me. If this chicken can do it, so can you. Closing your eyes also works as well.

New additions to my family

Kim Watters here. Today I wanted to introduce the newest members of my family. Yes, folks, we rescued not one, not two, but three sibling kitties from the pound. Aren't they cute? And cuddily. And very energetic. I get tired just looking their antics, but they do keep me on my toes and laughing. It's a distraction to my writing, but hey, one of these days, I'll be able to work them into one of my stories.

I forgot what kittens were like though. Just like babies, they are into everything. We also discovered my daughter is allergic to them. Now being of sound mind and body, what did we do? No, we did not get rid of them. I did some internet research. I love the internet, (couldn't write half my books without it) and discovered they make a cat shampoo that will eliminate the allergy. It's not just the dander folks, its also the saliva when they bathe. And it worked.

So drumroll please.....

Figaro, the black cat is mine.

Mayley, the siamese mix is my daughter's,

and Lego, the orange tabby is my son's.

So whenever you need a kitten fix, just give me a hollar. And look for some of their antics coming to book near you soon.

My life in boxes

Kim Watters here. Well. I'm all moved in. Or at least as much as I can be at this point. The furniture is in and the kitchen is set up. I have some clothes in the closet and I know where all the boxes are that contain my bathroom stuff. If only I could find the hand lotion...Anyway, if I could find my camera, I'd have taken a picture so you could see what a mess my garage is. My life in boxes. I wonder how I'm going to get it all to fit inside my new house. I will though, because I'm determined. One box here, another box there. Soon, I'll have a spot to park my car. (Good thing the homeowner's association allows me to park in the driveway. )

Unpacking kind of reminds me of writing. On a whole, thinking about writing that manuscript is a daunting task. But if you break it down into smaller segments, like a scene or chapter, it's more manageable. If I tried to unpack everything at once, I'd have a much bigger mess inside and total chaos in my brain. If I tried to write the entire book in one sitting, the reaction would be the same. Plus it would be impossible. There just isn't enough hours in the day.

Besides, the longer it takes, the more fun I'll have unearthing the possessions I packed up months ago. Taking more time to write the manuscript allows me to discover more about my characters and add more depth to the story. At least that's what I've convinced myself of anyway. Until next time.....

Mothering Instincts

Kim Watters here. I found a baby bird the other day. Poor thing barely had any feathers and was definitely too young to be out of his nest. It had been windy earlier, which was probably why Junior was on the ground. Doves are not the smartest of bird species and make their flimsy nests just about anywhere.

Now let me tell you, I’m not fond of birds. Don’t like them, and when they get too near, I freak out. I had a really bad experience when I was about 4. Anyway, I digress. This poor little thing is cowering on the ground, barely able to move. So what do I do? I go back inside and grab a box.
It has to be the mothering instinct in me. No matter what species, (okay no spiders, scorpions, or other creepy crawlies) I will rescue them. So I scoop Junior up and take him to the local bird lady, who will raise him until he can fly.

So what would you do in a similar situation? In my newest release, Home Sweet Home, Abby Bancroft takes in a stray cat. Okay cats and wild birds are two separate things, but I think the decision to help another one of God’s creatures in real life and in fiction is universal.

Groundhog Day History and the Writer Take Two

Kim Watters on Groundhog Day-Take Two.

Isn't Punxsutawney Phil cute?

Because of our wonderful Valentine's story, my blog was postponed for a month. Being the type of writer who hates to delete things, I'm revising it and reposting. Gee, the story of a writer's life.

Well, it's been a month now, has Spring sprung yet? I don't believe Phil saw his shadow so what's with the weather? We had snow in North Phoenix over the weekend!

For those of you who don't know, the following is a bit of history of how the day began.

(Adapted from "Groundhog Day: 1886 to 1992" by Bill Anderson) Credit given to The Official Punxsutawney Groundhog Club

European Roots

Groundhog Day, February 2nd, is a popular tradition in the United States. It is also a legend that traverses centuries, its origins clouded in the mists of time with ethnic cultures and animals awakening on specific dates. Myths such as this tie our present to the distant past when nature did, indeed, influence our lives. It is the day that the Groundhog comes out of his hole after a long winter sleep to look for his shadow.

If he sees it, he regards it as an omen of six more weeks of bad weather and returns to his hole.

If the day is cloudy and, hence, shadowless, he takes it as a sign of spring and stays above ground.

The groundhog tradition stems from similar beliefs associated with Candlemas Day and the days of early Christians in Europe, and for centuries the custom was to have the clergy bless candles and distribute them to the people. Even then, it marked a milestone in the winter and the weather that day was important.

As a writer I can relate to poor Phil.

We hibernate as we write our manuscripts, venturing out only when we have to to eat or do laundry or other tasks that keep the household running. We slave away in our dark, little caves, churning out page after page of wonderful prose destined to meet with editorial and reader approval.

And then comes the revision letter.

If it's an easy one, (no shadow), we can emerge from our caves and enjoy life a bit more as the winter season has passed.

If it's a complicated one, (shadow), we scurry back into our caves for a few more weeks of a writing frenzy until we can emerge again and enjoy the spring.

As for this writer, I just emerged from my cave for a bit, waiting for my editor's reply.

Paid Forward

Kim Watters here. Last summer, I found a wallet in the street. Being a Christian and I’d like to think, a very nice person, I tracked down the owner through a business card in his wallet and gave it back to him because that’s what we do. The early twenty-something was very grateful and tried to pay me. I didn’t accept. I figured he needed the eleven dollars in his wallet more than I did. I simply requested he pay it forward sometime and that in turn, I would have it paid forward for me.

Fast forward to December 26th. Yep, you got it. The day after Christmas sales and the day my kids wanted to trade in all their gift cards and cash because they just didn’t get enough games for their Nintendos. My ten-year-old son carries his own wallet. Hey, I’m trying to teach responsibility. Well, you guessed it. He took it out in the toy section to count his loot and put it on a shelf when he picked up a toy.

When we got home—because my seven-year-old forgot her envelope in the rush to run out the door—my son asked where his wallet was. After a few heart-stopping moments, we jumped back in the car and raced back to Target. Along the way I said a prayer to God that the wallet would still be there--believe me, I knew the chances were slim on such a busy day—but I prayed anyway. I asked him to pray as well.

“No.” My son is having issues with his belief and somehow feels God hates him-especially now that his wallet is gone. “God hates me.”

“No He doesn’t, Honey. God has bigger things to worry about than picking on you.”

“Nope. He hates me.”

“Okay Lord, I need some help here. Really need some help.” I tried again. “God loves you. Sometimes he just has a unique way of showing it. There’s got to be a gift or message in this for you from Him.”

Mentally I’m trying to count how much money was in that wallet and knew it was going to cost me at least a hundred on top of what I’d already spent for Christmas, because I refused to let the lost wallet dash his Christmas spirit. Okay, I know there’s tough love and a responsibility factor, but there’s also being a parent and protecting our children from the harsh realities of life as long as we can. It’s a scary world out there and he’ll spend more time in it than in the dreamy state of childhood.

It turns out I didn’t need to worry. My prayers worked. Rushing up to the customer service counter while my kids scrounged around the toy section, I asked if a wallet had been found.

“A black child’s wallet with no ID?” The young lady asked?

“Yes. It’s got a few Target gift cards, a Borders card and some twenties inside.”

“Yes. Tiffany has it. Some man found it in the toy section and gave it to her.”

I almost cried. I’d like to hug the man who found the wallet and realized he held a child’s Christmas inside. It would have been so easy for him to pocket it and use it himself, except he understood the contents were more than just pieces of plastic and money and it didn't belong to him.

He truly was a messenger, and my son learned that God does love him. So whoever my good Samaritan was. Thank you and God Bless You.

Pulling the Plug

Kim Watters here. Now that I’ve got your attention, it’s not quite the dire situation the title reflects. Well, for my kids yes, but in the big scheme of things—no.

Earlier this month we cut the satellite TV. Yes, you read that correctly. We pulled the plug on over 300+ channels, most of which we never watched anyway, because our family spent way too much time in front of the boob tube. So now we have public channels only, just as we had when I was a kid. Cruel I know but in a cost cutting economy, we had to make some choices. DirecTV was one of them. I want to encourage my kids to be more active and use their minds creatively instead of vegetating out in front of the TV. Of course, they can still see some of their favorite episodes on the computer, but we’ve limited their time there as well.

Has it worked? I think so, but only time will tell. Without the myriad of choices of some somewhat inappropriate shows that don’t exactly mirror the values I’m trying to instill in my kids, they are finding other things to do. Reading, which makes my heart beat faster since I’m a writer, is one of them. Dusting off the old toys sitting in the closet is another. They’re even more helpful around the house, though I suspect it’s more from boredom or them hoping by being underfoot, we’ll change our minds and bring the satellite back. Not going to happen anytime soon, but I do like getting the dishes done faster.

As for myself, I miss Monday Night Football and the Discovery Channel, and the Cooking and the History channel. It’s funny how you miss things when they’re gone, but not for long. I survived my childhood, I can survive this. My TBR pile is growing smaller and the money saved will buy a lot more books to add to my dwindling pile.

That said, what have you done without lately? How has it hurt or helped you? Curious minds want to know.

*Photo by Salvatore Vuono www.freedigitalphotos.net

This Girl Can't Dance

Kim Watters here. Okay so last month I told you about my experience with the YMCA. This month I have to admit that I did attend the Zumba class offered. Going in I knew that I didn’t really know how to dance. I just didn’t know how bad I really didn’t know how to dance meant.
The Sunday afternoon class is packed with people. Great. I can get lost in the crowd. At least my friend, Debbie, that I convinced to take the class with me is in the same shoes. We hide in the back row, hoping to go unnoticed. Er-my friend is almost 6’ tall. No way that’s going to happen. In comes the instructor, who zeroes in on us first thing.

“Welcome class. If this is your first time, just follow along and do your best. Don’t over do yourselves and there are no wrong moves.”

“Good.” I whisper to Debbie. “That instills a lot of confidence in me. What have we gotten ourselves in to?”

Debbie laughs and nods, wearing a horrified expression.

The music starts and we’re off. Egads.

“Come, ladies, let’s go. Get that heart rate up. We’ve got to move it, move it.”

What is the instructor doing? Where’s the ease into the workout? I’m breaking into a sweat and it isn’t from exertion yet. I stumble to the right and then the left, all my klutziness there for all to see in the full-length mirrors on two sides of the room. My friend isn’t faring much better. At least at this point we’re still laughing. Somewhat. Forward, back, to the right, to the left. Add the arms or weapons as the other women in the class must be thinking about now. My body has taken on a life of it’s own. And I’m still at least one beat behind everyone else in the class. Just when I think I’ve got the move down, we change to something else.

Judging from the warm-up, the instructor can dance. I’ve never felt inadequate before until I realize that my hips just don’t go in that direction. The class goes left, Debbie and I go right. We jiggle this way, the class jiggles the other way. The salsa? Really? One , two, three, now switch. Maybe I should be looking for a class that works out to the Polka. Being of German and Polish decent, I may find that a little more my style. Nonetheless, we stick it out and make it to the end with only a few bruises.

Despite the fact I can’t dance, I had fun and went again. And keep going although my hips still don’t go the same direction as the instructor’s. I finally get the hang of the dances and now the instructor has changed things up. The moves are even harder. I’ve given up trying to learn them and just bounce around to the music in a mad attempt to look like I know what I’m doing, but I’m still having fun.

The same goes for writing. Go beyond your comfort zone and explore options that seem difficult. Change things up to add variety. Change a genre. Try a new profession for your characters that requires a bit of research. Something in your book not working? Try something else. But most of all have fun. See you in Zumba later.

Spin Cycle

Kim Watters here. So, last year we joined the YMCA. For the kids of course. They have a swimming pool, a climbing wall, racquetball courts, a teen center and joy of joy, summer camp. The kids have enjoyed every minute of it. I, of course, enjoyed every minute the kids were there.

Since it’s a family membership, the kids soon got smart. “Hey mom, why don’t you ever come to the Y?”

“Er, because I’m allergic to working out?”

“Really?” Miss Priss gave me a skeptical look.

“Chicken.” Mr. Sarcastic piped in. “Look here, it’s a list of classes they teach. How hard can it be?”

Okay, I’ve been bested by my kids. “You’re right. How hard can it be?”

I glanced at the sheet. Boxing. No way. Body Pump? Sounded exhausting. Body Flow? Hmm. Sounds better but I’ve never done Pilates. Zumba? Can’t dance. Not going there. Ever. Cycling? Sounded good. I used to bike as a kid, no problem. While my son enjoyed the teen center, “gasp” they have daycare for the “mini me”. Drat! I had no excuse now.

So the next time we went to the Y I got dolled up in my cute coordinated work out outfit and signed up for the class. I remembered to bring in a towel and water bottle even though I suspected I wouldn’t be needing it. I stepped inside and my heart dropped to my stomach and breathing became a chore. Sounds like a romance novel, right? Wrong. Those metal contraptions with wheels do not look like the exercise bikes of the past.

Fast forward to the pert, in shape instructor who has legs I can only dream about. “Okay, class, are you ready?”

I nod my head, trying to conserve energy. I have a feeling I was going to need it.

The class kicks me in the rear end. I huff, and I puff, and my backside goes numb. My thighs are worse than overcooked spaghetti noodles trying to hold up a meatball. And that’s in the first fifteen minutes.

Panting, I hang my head in shame. Spinning is much harder than it looks. So is writing.

I grimace each time I hear someone say they can write a book. Okay, so do it. Sit down in that chair and spill your characters guts and emotion. Sweat from places you never knew you could sweat from. Feel the pain and agony of a blank page or another rejection or another level in the bike. Learn and keep learning.

Will I let that class keep me from doing it again? No. The next week I’ll be back in the saddle again and will do much better the next time around. Did I let the last rejection keep me from writing? No. I put the e-mail behind me and started working on a different story that sold.

Because learning to ride a bike is a lot like writing. You start of with training wheels, go slowly and even fall a few times. Then you gain more confidence and you’re off and riding and writing. Maybe at the end, you’ll have a great set off legs and a polished manuscript ready for the editor’s desk. That’s my goal, so take it for what it’s worth.

Dancing in the Hallway or Empty Nest Syndrome

Kim Watters here. Okay. I admit it. I’m one of those parents the teachers hate so much. Why? Because I’m the one dancing in the hallways on the first day of school. Yes! Arms pumping into the air here. I’m the one singing school’s back in session…school’s back forever… (Sung to the beat of that old Alice Cooper song with a little air guitar thrown in for full effect). Well, it may not be for ever, but close enough. No more TV, no more play dates, no more you promised we’d go there dirty looks…school’s back in session!

Last Monday was the big day for us. Back to school. (Arizona is weird.) My kids’ lower lips began to tremble as we pulled into the school parking lot. The flurry of activity around us heightened the tension in the eerily silent vehicle. Buses, trucks and cars jockeyed into position to unload the unwilling occupants. Strung out teachers and administrators attempted to direct the sea of metal and the long faces on the returning students (and school hasn’t even officially begun yet) into some semblance of order. Then of course there’s me and several other happy parents clogging the main artery in and out of school.

And yes, we danced.

You could see the giddiness, hear the laughter, and feel the excitement as we kissed our offspring goodbye before we waved them off in the direction of the classrooms. Okay, I admit, there were a few parents with long expressions, too. Obviously, they haven’t quite obtained the sense of freedom yet of packing little Billy or Susie off on their personal journey through life. But as a parent, and an author, you have to let them go.

So, you ask, what does this have to do with writing? Consider this. When you send that finished manuscript off to an agent, editor, or even your critique group, are you happy or sad? Do you feel the first blush of excitement as you hand over that envelope to the postal employee? Or is your head filled with doubts and you want to hold onto those pages forever, never letting them out of your sight? Are you dancing in the hallway? Or feeling that empty nest syndrome when the characters you’ve spend countless hours, days, or even years with have flown the proverbial coop?

For me, it’s a little of both. I’m happy to strike those six enormous characters at the end of every book. In fact, I jsut finished my second book for Steeple Hill this morning. I’m also terrified of the emptiness surrounding me because all those voices in my head are suddenly quiet, like the silence in that short car ride home from school. Where do I go from there? How do I fill the void? While my child or my novel adjusts to life on its own, so must I. How? By taking pleasure in the few moments of freedom. Bask in the relaxing sensation of reading a book for the sheer enjoyment of it. Take a hike or cruise the mall and let the mind wander from the realities of every day life. Get caught up on all the little projects that piled up over the summer.

Or better yet, dance with me. Because sooner rather than later, you’ll hear another tiny voice knocking inside your brain begging to get out. And it sure as heck won’t be sporting a Spongebob back pack and a brand new pair of sneakers.

The Perfect Shell

My daughter’s favorite activity during our recent vacation was collecting seashells along the shore. A true beachcomber like her mom, she was up at the crack of dawn because that’s when the best shells are available. Also like her mom, she also doesn’t realize that vacations are meant for sleeping in, hanging out by the sea or pool and not doing much of anything.

Another perfect morning dawned as the tide ebbed in and the sun’s rays stretched across horizon, staining the sky a bright blue. We had the beach pretty much to ourselves, except for the lone jogger playing tag with the sea. Strolling through the rocks and sand, we found all kinds of fascinating shells. Some whole, most not because of years of the pounding surf. Some still had creatures inside that we had to take back and toss into the sea when they stuck their black legs out and took a stroll along our condo balcony. My personal favorites were the corkscrew shells, but most of them were still occupied and had to be left behind. My daughter’s favorite was pretty much all of them.

“Look, Mommy. I found one.” My daughter holds up half a clamshell covered with some sort of black growth.

“No, Emily. That shell is broken. Let’s throw it back.”

“But I like it. I want to keep it.” Into the bucket it goes.

“Really, darling, we can’t keep all of them. See? It’s broken and not very pretty.” I pick up a shell, shake my head and for affect, look it over, show her the flaw and throw it back into the tide pool.

“Why not? We found them.”

Good point. Score one for the seven year old.

“Because its not perfect. We need to pick and chose the best ones.”

Good point, Score one for mom.

“I don’t care. I like them all.” She picks it back up and drops it into the bucket.

Okay, maybe I’ll find a use for it after all.

This conversation with my daughter got me to thinking about the perfect shell—and the perfect word. How many times have I struggled to find the right word? Said could be written as growled, or whispered, or muttered. It all depends on what feeling I’m trying to convey. I toss around a few more options and throw the ones back that don’t seem to fit, just like the shells that don’t fit my criteria for going into the bucket.

Picking the perfect word is as important as making sure I don’t find an unexpected guest on my patio later. I have to look inside and all around, hold the shell up to the light and run my fingers around the edges. In my manuscript I have to test out the word, and see how it flows in the context of the sentence. Does it convey what I really want to say? Is it pretty? Is it the perfect word to compliment my manuscript or the perfect shell to grace my bucket?

My daughter wants to be a writer when she grows up. I sincerely hope she figures out some day that there are differences in words and shells and that not all of them are as perfect as we sometimes think they are. Sometimes it might take a few tries to get it right, but in the end we will find the perfect word and the perfect shell.

What will I do with all the shells we collected? I plan on gluing them to a picture frame and putting a family photo from our vacation inside. What will I do with all the words that simply can’t be used? Throw them back for now and let the sea of sand and time mold them into something that can be used at a later date.

Save the Octopus

Kim Watters here. We’re on vacation at the beach a few weeks ago, in Rocky Point, Mexico. That in itself is another story, and not for the feint of heart. So, my daughter and I are out early in the morning hunting for seashells, minding our own business when we hear a scream.

Being curious souls and realizing there is no one else on the beach except us and two other ladies, my young daughter and I go to investigate what the ladies are pointing at on the sand. At first we didn’t see the two gelatinous globs of brown speckled things with eight arms until we were almost on top of them. I immediately conjured up images of fried calamari and had a hard time reconciling the two. Not that I for a minute thought about the possibilities of dinner that night.

Anyway, these poor creatures got washed up with the rough tide the night before and were at least twenty yards from sea. Hmmm. We can’t just leave them there, so one the other ladies took her hat off and was trying to douse them with water. Each time she did, their heads would enlarge and the blow hole would go off. Really creepy.

So now there are four of us standing around pointing at these octopuses trying to figure out how to get them back into water. I certainly wasn’t going to touch the squishy, filmy, slimy things. The hat wasn’t really working at holding much water so I *gasp* sacrificed my coffee so we’d have a cup and a much better way to keep them hydrated while we put our heads together. Finally I realized I was holding a bucket full of shells.

Tada. I dumped my shells into my daughter’s bucket and scooped up the poor fellow and ran with him to the sea. I waded into the surf, put the bucket in the water and turned it over.

I’m sure by now you’re shaking your heads. That’s right. Everything but the octopus spilled out of the bucket. Our hapless friend has suctioned himself to the bottom. Great. I already broke a glass the night before, now I’m going to have to e-mail the condo owner that his bright, red bucket has been sacrificed to Poseidon to save the sea life. (Of course we still have the other one to deal with, too.)

Fast forward to the security guard at the resort. I’m sure the last thing he wanted to do before he got off his shift was get his shoes wet prying an octopus loose, but Luis was a real “hero” about it. He finally managed to convince our friend that he was safer in the tide pool than with a big stick poking him in the head.

Number two went without a much suction at all.

So what does this have to do with writing? Aside from a story scene? Desperate conservationist and hungry, hunky security guard? Double hmmm.

How many of you have felt like our poor octopuses, trapped in unfamiliar territory and in limbo? You can see the ocean or the publishing contract, you just can’t figure out how to get there. How many of you have felt paralyzed with fear about submitting or finishing the book, or even decided to start writing, and suctioned yourself to the bottom of a bucket? You’re safe for now, but outside it’s a big people eat octopus world.

Relax, there are always people willing to help you along the way, be it us beach combers or God, or your writing friends, critique partners, family, agents or editors. We’re all in this sea of life together. We’re all God’s children, whether we have two legs or eight. So what are you waiting for? Get out of the bucket and live. What’s the worse that could happen?

Learning to fly

Kim Watters here. As I walked into my office the other day, I noticed a baby bird on the patio. Even though I don't particularly like birds--a childhood nightmare that would take too long to explain here--this poor thing was kind of cute. I sure hope Mama was around to teach Junior how to fly because the snakes have come out of hybernation and are on the slither.

A few hours later as I'm sitting at my desk, I see Mama bird has decided to show up to take care of Junior. In between processing our daily accounting functions, I see Mama flapping her wings and hopping away. Junior is trying to mimic her. It's so cute to see the struggle and how many times Junior spread his wings. It reminds me of being a writer.

In the beginning we struggled to learn the craft. Each passing day or moment, we honed it, like Junior was trying to do with his wings. A little hop--a paragraph, a bigger jump--a chapter. Then hopefully flight--or a book. And each time, we had our own cheering section in our family, friends or critique group--or in Junior's case--Mama bird.

Flash forward to the next day. Junior is still on the ground, having survived the night, but he's not looking very good. He hasn't learned to fly yet and Mama bird is gone. Not knowing anything about how to take care of him, it's time to call in some help.

I believe at every point in our career, we all need some sort of reinforcement, whether its in the form of a class, workshop or editorial/agent input. Occasionally, I take classes to refresh or improve my knowledge. I also have a critique group, two final readers and a wonderful editor to help me along.

Junior has the local Bird Lady. She swoops down (drives up) and takes Junior home in the hopes of saving him. Is she successful? I don't know. I couldn't bring myself to call and find out since I'd become attached to poor Junior.

As I sit here at my desk again a few days later, I hear a bird chirp. I'd like to think it's Junior, but even if it's not, I know that whichever bird made that sound had his own struggles while he learned to fly. You will, too. The path of a writer isn't easy.
How do you now if you'll be successful? First of all, learn to fly--or finish the book. Don't be afraid to spread your wings and learn new things because the reward is well worth the struggle it took to get there.