I’ll try to tie this into writing as much as I can, but mostly it’s just to make me feel better…if possible.

I often hear about writers who have cats who “help” them write. Mine aren’t that interested in writing, but I have put all three of them into the book I’m working on now, just for fun, and because I needed some cats in it (in case my agent is reading this, don’t worry, they don’t talk or anything).

Four years ago, when I moved down south from “way out west” (as my husband calls it), I took my cat, Coiffure (aka Mr. Fatboy, which is a reference to “the fatman” or Buddha, not a derogatory name because of his size). He was eleven years old at the time and had never been outside (except when he escaped a few times). He was very upset about having to fly and when I took him to the airport, I promised him that I would never move him again. I didn’t “tell” him, or “say” we’d never move…I promised him. I believed that one hundred percent at the time.

When I was in my twenties, I used to say things like, “Yeah, I promise I’ll do the dishes before bed.” and then not do them and a friend told me that when I said things like that, used “promise” lightly, it made it less valuable of a statement when I wanted to make a real promise. I realized the truth in that and since then I have tried very hard to only make promises I can keep. If I’m not sure, I say, “I promise to try and ….”. However, the promise I made to Mr. Fatboy was an out and out promise.

Mr. Fatboy LOVED Chez Gatos (our name for our house). He basked in the sun, stalked a squirrel once or twice, tried to get friendly with the goslings (before the mama goose chased him off), had a new brother cat and sister cat, and sat at my husband’s feet for hours and hours while Victor played the guitar (or banjo, or uke, or mandolin…even the fiddle). He was a happy kitty.

Well, as you readers know, we are in the process of moving…in fact, we’re back on the west coast after five days on the road. Two days before we were supposed to move, I noticed Mr. Fatboy was breathing heavily and rapidly. One day before the move, I took him to the vet, just to ease my mind and convince myself it was just anxiety about the move. He’d always been a bit anxious about change…well, you can probably see where this is going. Our lovely, fifteen year old, Mr. Fatboy was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. There was only one kindness I could give him and so I did even though it made our hearts ache with sadness. I had made a promise and he was holding me to it. He was not going to move.

In regards to writing…I think that maybe promises will be a theme someday in something I write.

Rest easy, Mr. Fatboy…you are still at Chez Gatos, a fat cat, baking in the sun, way down south, where you love to be.

When I wrote my article Red Hair Is Not As Uncommon As You Think - Twenty of the most overused things in YA I could’ve included moving except that I have a manuscript about a girl who moves and I didn’t want my words to come back to haunt me. Actually, it wasn’t that so much as that moving is a universal theme and writers don’t choose it to be unique, they choose it because it speaks to so many people. As long as your main character doesn’t bite her lip until it bleeds, her parents aren’t writers, and the entire family next door doesn’t have red hair, you’re in business.

Since I’m moving, it got me thinking about it in regards to the books I read growing up. My parents moved all the time as kids, so they put an end to that by moving once when I was seven and they still live in that same house. We only moved six blocks so I didn’t even have to change grade schools. I longed to move. I wanted to be the new kid. I think I thought I could do it so much better than the kids in the books I read about who moved. I wouldn’t wear the wrong thing or say something stupid, and if I made a mistake, I’d explain I didn’t realize that I was sitting in the popular girl’s seat and she’d love me for my honesty. I’d be more desirable, cuter, funnier, and miraculously have a better wardrobe than I currently had too. The teachers would love me, I’d excel in math somehow, and I’d make a best friend who spoke a foreign language and soon I’d be fluent too. And just as I was ruling the school, my parents would break the news that we were moving again. My friends would cry, throw parties, give me going away gifts of stationery and fancy pens. The boy I liked would admit he was secretly in love with me and would wait for my return. We would write long, heartfelt letters for at least a month. And in my new school, I’d do it all over again, but I’d tell my new best friend, “You’re my best friend now, but my real, best-best friend is Julie at my old school.” and she’d understand because being second best friend was better than not being my friend at all.

It never turns out like that in the books though. Generally the main character is totally humiliated and wants to crawl under a rock. I’m sure it would’ve turned out beautifully for me if I’d only had the chance. Just like if I’d gone to camp for the whole summer, I would’ve fallen romantically in love with the counselor and he would’ve gently told me I was desirable, but too young to give him my virginity, just like in Little Darlin’s.

Of course the reality of the move now, as a grown up, is that you really shouldn’t move unless you can afford to hire people to do it for you while you sip mint juleps and browse through home decorating magazines.

I liked this book. It didn’t really seem to be about anything other than a girl likes a boy and the ups and downs of that, but it was very funny and the main character has a very, very strong voice. All the characters do, really. I kept thinking to myself that there wasn’t much of a plot, but I kept wanting to know what happened and I read it quickly to find out. It’s a fun book. I can really see teens looking for a fun, light read enjoying this one. It kind of reminds me of when I was a loser teen (like Jan, the main character) and never had any dates on Saturday night. She watches Jenifer Aniston movies, I read YA romances (but not the icky Harlequin ones…I always got the ones published by Fireside). I can totally see me reading this on a Saturday night way back then and thinking, “Ah….there’s hope.” I’ll definitely look for Kantor’s other books.

Because I am on a short hiatus from writing so that I can pack/move, the story ideas are running rampant in my head. I have to admit that while I’m working on a project, I don’t really get many ideas for the next project. However, a combination of memories I’ve been sharing, and stories my husband’s parents’ friends have been telling us as we visit to say “see ya later” before we move, are taking root in my brain and some are nudging at me to incorporate them into some sort of writing.

I heard a great story yesterday from my husband’s father’s best friend. The setting was a filling station in rural Tennessee, the year was 1948. His summer job was to work the graveyard shift (he was sixteen) and across the street was a dive bar. Sometimes his stories are hard to follow (due to Southernisms I still can’t quite wrap my brain around) but the gist of it was that someone had run out of the bar and there were two men chasing him. He ran in the front door of the filling station and out the back, but just before he got through the back door, the men chasing him, got hold of his coat and he came right out of it. The pockets were full of change (which might be why they were chasing him…I’m not really clear on this point) and they swung the coat at him and whacked him hard with it and all the change in his pockets went scattering. I think he went down too. And they must’ve dragged him off, but whatever they did, the change was left everywhere. Our friend told us that he and his cousin got rich that night collecting coins from every crevice and corner of the station.

My first thought was how can I use that in a story. It’s very visual, right? But the problem is, you really have to set it in 1948 for them to get rich off the change. With inflation, they’d have to hit him with bricks of twenties and frankly, twenty dollar bills aren’t going to either bring him down, or give you the visual effect of that story. So that left me thinking about how I’d have to write something historical and I realized that it was just a nice story, but probably not one I can use. Maybe one of y’all who write historical fiction can steal it from me now. I won’t be using it.

Heard any good stories lately?

I can easily say that Autumn is my favorite season. I know…generally I think that every season, probably because I live in the moment, but if I do a thorough analysis of the seasons, Autumn wins, hands down.

Winter is cold…it’s cozy, which is nice, I get a fair amount of work done, and there are fires. It’s all good. But in the end, I don’t walk as often as I like to because it’s cold.

Spring is full of allergens. I like the looks of spring, but I can’t really breathe. It has promise though…nice weather and beautiful flowers. It’s good too, but there are drawbacks, like tornadoes.

Summer is hot. Basically, it’s the same as winter in that I don’t walk as much because it’s too hot way down South where we live. I think I’ll like it better in our new home. Oh, plus there are mosquitoes and I am an official mosquito magnet (aka Breakfast, Lunch & Supper buffet)

But Autumn…how lovely. The mornings are crisp, the sky is blue, the afternoons warm up, the mosquitoes are far and few between, I can ride my bike or walk in comfort, and there’s something about it, maybe the whole “back to school” element, that makes me want to write, write, write. And cook. And read. And enjoy the last of the baseball season…Fall is where it’s at for me. And just for a little added enjoyment, there is the whole changing of the leaves, the smoky yard debris fires, amazing slanted sunlight, the hot apple cider, pumpkins, and Halloween. Bring it on! I’m ready.

My fingers are itching to write, but I need to pack instead. Writing takes more than a fleeting moment in time for me, so I will make time to read, watch baseball and walk/ride instead.

What’s your favorite season?

I just finished this book, which I guess is probably middle grade, although the character is thirteen or fourteen, so it could be YA.

continued…

I don’t really know what day it is, so I guess it doesn’t matter what topic I post about. Probably all my readers have disappeared because I’ve been such a slacker lately anyway…so I guess it’s time to confess…the reason I have not been blogging is because we are moving. Yes…moving. Why anyone would voluntarily do this, is not as clear to me as it was a few months ago when we made this decision. On the plus side, we’re getting rid of a ton of things. That’s a good feeling. Here’s my list of the good/ugly of moving.

The Ugly:

Moving the cats (no one’s happy about this, least of all the furry ones).

Selling my Studebaker (yes, I’m leaving the pictures of me with it on the website as if I still own it because I’m in denial).

No time for writing.

Books I need are already packed.

Being charged $35 to disconnect my cable even though I have no contract or obligation…this is just one of their random charges.

Not having a TV when the Cubbies make it into the play offs (Don’t even start with that “The Cubs? They haven’t won the World Series since 1908!” I’m well aware of that. However, I’m a writer…I have dreams and patience…a perfect combination for a Cubs fan).

The Good:

The new house will be a clean slate (not because it’s a “new” house, but because it’s empty)

New friends

A new writing space.

A kitchen that actually has counter space.

I’m getting really, really strong from moving boxes of books.

Selling lots of stuff on ebay!

Meeting my new neighbors during the World Series at the local bar (because I probably still won’t have a TV by then) and finding out which ones are worth becoming friends with (the Cubs fans, obviously) .

And the best thing about moving is it’s an ADVENTURE! Grab life, right?

*If you’re wondering where we’re moving to…well, you’ll just have to wonder. I’m secretive that way!

**Regular blogging will commence once again in mid-October. Until then, I’ll do what I can.