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The planet Zafuu where writers are revered above all other life forms. Writing retreats with stunning views overlooking the pink sea of Tazzupan are still available. Buy your tickets now!

 

THE WRITING LIFE

This page is for anyone wanting a sneak peek into the writing life. Readers may be surprised to discover that many writers don’t work in quiet, pristine offices overlooking the sea. Fellow writers juggling the demands of work and family, will likely relate to the true story below. Over the years I’ve learned to write chapters at soccer games, in hospital waiting rooms, in the pharmacy line, and I've even jotted down bits of dialogue at stop lights. But most of my writing is done on my computer at home. Here's a taste of a typical day while I was working on Molly's Fire. Enjoy.

 

                A Perfect Writing Day 

       Ah, two hours to work on my novel. And if the kids play quietly, they'll be rewarded with an afternoon at the pool. This is our daily summer ritual. I write undisturbed until eleven thirty, stop to make a picnic lunch, then head out to Kid Paradise. How idyllic can things get?

    Today I plan to rough out an important scene in Molly’s Fire. Molly and Peter are on the edge of Keenan Cliff. She's about to share a secret with Peter. Okay, first I have to get inside her body and feel what she’s feeling—excited, afraid, a little cold (the wind is blowing up from the sea). I open the file, scroll to  Chapter Nine, and take a deep breath.   

   "Mom! Mom!"

   "Don't come in here."

   "Mom, it's an emergency!" Sean and Josh burst into the study. "Come quick! The goldfish are dying!"

   I type, "That German POW. He had something. Something of my dad's, I think."  I tell my kids, "The goldfish are fine." 

  "No they're not! The water's polluted. They can't breathe!"

  "They're all right. I'll clean out the bowl later."  

  "No! You've got to come now! Sparky and Firehead will die!" Sean, a natural thespian, is rolling his eyes and crouching with sympathy pains. His high drama has so convinced his little brother, Josh, that real tears are spilling down his cheeks.

  "All right I'll come take a look." I head for the living room, bend down and peer into the green gloom. Sparky and Firehead are swimming happily about in the murky depths. "They're fine," I announce. "Now why don't you guys find something fun to do. Remember, if you don't disturb me, I'll take you for a swim."

    Sean throws his hands in the air. "There's nothing to do!"

    "Yeah," agrees Josh.

    "Ping pong, checkers, chess, drawing, tag, basketball, tetherball ... " I continue this litany of indoor and outdoor activities until I'm safely back in the study with the door closed. There is silence on the other side.

    I sit down and slip into a daydream. Somewhere out there in interstellar space is a planet called Zafuu, where writers live in spacious, well-lit homes furnished with cozy studies and wall-to-wall books. On Zafuu, prose and poetry are more valued than gold and writers are revered above all other life forms. Writers with progeny are provided with nannies who love to play with kids and tidy up the house. When not cleaning goldfish bowls, these nannies like nothing better than to spend hours at the park, tossing balls and pushing junior on the tire swing.  
   
   I take a deep breath, open my eyes and dive back into Chapter Nine. At first hauling prose from my thick brain feels something like pulling taffy. I start by asking myself, how does Molly feel right now? Where is she keeping her tension? In her shoulders? Her back? After twenty minutes or so, the words begin to take on a momentum. The characters come alive. I relax and let the story tell me what to write. Yes, it's working. Yes!   

    Knock. Knock. "Bmom!"

    "No interruptions. You know the rules, Josh."

    "But bmom! It's an ebergency!" Josh pushes open the door. 

    My eyes remain glued to the screen. "What is it?"

    "I have bunny in by dose."

     I look at my eight-year-old son.

    "Money? You're kidding."

    "Dno." He tips his head back.

     I peer up his nostrils. "I don't see anything, Honey."

    "It's way up dere."

    I squint into the darkness and spot something which could be the edge of a coin. "Oh, my God. Stay right here!" I race upstairs and dump drawer after drawer onto the bathroom counter. Aren't the nostrils a direct tunnel to the brain?

     I frantically rake through hairpins, loose dental floss and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in a desperate search for tweezers. I race downstairs, only to see Sean sticking his index finger up his brother's nose.

   "No!" I shout, rushing forward and yanking his finger out.

   "I was only trying to help, Mom!"

    With utmost care, I slip the tweezers up Josh's nostril, clasp the coin, extract it and hold it up the light. A dime.  "How did this dime get up your nose?"

    "I was bored."

    "You were bored."

     We take a quick trip to the kitchen, where I stand in the middle of the room pointing, now left, now right, giving my "What Not To Do While Mom Is Writing" lecture.

    "Knives stay in the drawers. Do not touch the stove or toaster. No "what-will-happen-if" experiments with the blender. And absolutely no vinegar and baking soda volcanoes."    

     We segue to the family room. "No pillow wars, table walking, rug rides or furniture gymnastics."     

     My teenage son stumbles into the room mid-speech. He squints and rubs his eyes against the morning light.

    "Can you give me a ride to the bus stop, Mom? I need to get to the city today."

    "After I've written my scene, Aaron. We'll be heading out around twelve."

    "Twelve? I told Adrian I'd meet him for band practice at twelve thirty."

    "Call him and tell him it'll be more like one. Can't you see I'm writing?"

     He squints at me. "Obviously."

     I head back to the study. Okay, so I'm not writing right this minute, but I was writing. I ease back into my chair. Agatha Christie had a nanny and she had only one kid, a girl. She must have had a following on Zafuu.

     The phone rings. "Mom! It's for you!"

    "Tell them I'm busy."

    "It's Dad."

    "Okay, I'll take it." I tell Tom about the dime. He asks a few worried questions, and we end the conversation with a laugh. Back to my novel. Where was I? Oh, yeah, Molly just told Peter she thinks her dad is still alive.

   Molly shifted her weight, feeling the small, hard rocks scratch against her hipbones. Now that the story was out, she felt stupid. The whole thing sounded crazy. Her muscles tensed. She wanted to jump up and run from Peter. He'd probably use the story against her.    

    HAROOO! HAROOO! Either an elephant is giving birth upstairs, or Aaron is practicing the didgeridoo.

     I ignore the atonal bellows and write until ...

     Knock. Knock. "Mom, it's eleven thirty."

     The scene is nearly finished. If only I could keep going.   

    "Mom? Josh is starving to death!" warns Sean. Aaron opens the door. "Sorry, Mom but the bus leaves downtown in twenty minutes and you promised you'd ... "

    "Yeah, okay."

     I save my work and head for the kitchen where I funnel powdered lemonade into empty plastic containers. "Add some water to these bottles," I tell Sean as I poke my head into the fridge in search of cream cheese.

     I prepare the picnic, raid the laundry pile for swimsuits and pack a few books, a red pen and some chapters (ever hopeful that I’ll squeeze in some  revision time at the pool). Pretty soon we're off in a shroud of ancient VW van exhaust and elephant birth songs. HAROOO! HAROOO! 

     Another perfect writing day at the Carey house.