PANCAKE DAY!

This was the first message I received from my husband this morning. Sitting in a classroom, 400 miles away from home on his birthday, he thought of pancakes.

Years have passed since our first Pancake Day. Every Sunday morning we pull out the griddle, the Bisquick, the bowls, spoons and measuring cups. I measure, my daughter pours and everyone inhales the cozy aroma of pancakes. Occasionally we substitute cinnamon rolls or biscuits, but it is still called Pancake Day. I love this tradition.

I don't remember any traditions from my childhood. Lord bless my parents if they tried, but we were so scattered, separated, moving here and there - I truly don't believe they could. Maybe that is why it was so important to me to create new traditions for my family to enjoy. My kids won't let me forget Pancake Day. They remind me of the little things set in place at holidays and scold me if I try to change. As frustrating as it may seem at the time, I still smile, happy that they will remember these small moments, the stolen wishes of a Mom that hopes her children live happily ever after.

Even as I type, my daughter confesses new traditions in the making. She wants to write stories (like Mom), and maybe she wants to be a teacher when she grows up (like Dad). Curled up sideways in a wing chair, she scribbles the lines of her first great story, called Mystery Space (It was a foggy day in Finkletown, WA where six friends gathered at a club house.), complete with illustrations!

I am so glad that she sees how important writing is to me, and proud that she feels the same. Do you hear the clang! clang! clang!? Another link in our chain of family traditions has been forged.

Happy birthday, Terry! Happy Pancake Day! Miss you.

Why are there knife marks stabbed into the butter?

First and foremost, know that I love my children. I often write of inspirations, and my children must be at the top of that list. But winter months, trapped indoors and bundled against the freedom of SPACE, have caused me to wrinkle my brow at an exceptional number of huh's.

Although my novel should not be considered autobiographic, my protagonist and I have a lot in common. We are both mothers to one son and one daughter, we are both married to strong-willed men, and we both use a sense of humor to manage the aforementioned similarities. With this in mind, I have found myself making notes of those moments that cause me to wonder how to avoid checking myself in to the loony bin. These notes will likely become scenes, back stories or one-liners somewhere along the line of my story.

Here's a few teasers of the situations that may find a place within the 94,000+/- words of my novel:

• Who dropped all these potato chip crumbs in the bathroom?
• Is Bailey in the bathtub, because there's water dripping from the ceiling again?
• Tell me again why you set your shoes on fire.
• What has happened to all the silverware?
• After it rained I found your socks/underwear in the front yard.
• Why is there a doll frozen in a block of ice in my freezer?

I can't, of course, share all of my gems with you, but be assured the list goes on and on.

Issues

Yes, I am having issues with blogging, today. And I don't mean a subscription. I could very well be focusing my attention toward actually accomplishing something, but instead I continue to search for meaningful information in a pile of poo the size of Arizona.

I get distracted so easily and it makes me . . . I don't know . . . agitated! I don't know who's idea it was to put a Next Blog button at the top of the page, but he should be barbecued with sliced pineapple and and brown sugar and served with a side of Why? ! Each time I hit Next Blog I get sucked further and further into the catacombs of boredom, only to keep delving deeper.

Who cares about your rabbit farm (which, sadly, only houses three rabbits)?
Next Blog
Oh, a cute family photo with Mom and Dad making out on the beach while little Billy watches.
Next Blog
Baby Pics (need I say more?)
Next Blog
Hmm, nice view of an Italian winery? This one has promise . . . wait, here's the music . . .
Next Blog

I don't even know the purpose of my own blog. Sort of like contemplating my navel, today. Well, here's my pitch for this post - I am writing a book, should be finished soon, gonna start the query process as soon as I can figure out that beast, y'all, please try and keep me motivated, tell all your friends to buy it when it comes out. Thanks.

Inspired by the Git 'N Go Marquee

"A number two pencil and a dream can take you anywhere."

I am sure that these few words, seen scrawled across a series of marquees parked in front of the Git 'N Go gas stations around town, mean something different to each passer-by. To a mother missing her son away at college, to a girlfriend who's new love has shipped off to Afghanistan, to a fifth grader trying to improve her grades . . . these words inspire!

For me, an aspiring writer? These words are what I live by! Why else would I toil at my computer every day off or every lunch break at work? Why else would I spend years - yes, years - BLEEDING over a never ending edit? Why else would I even care, if it weren't for the dream?

My number two pencil is a Toshiba laptop, bedecked with shiny, silver flowers and swirly medallions . . . and, although I cannot tuck it in my pocket or behind my ear, I take it wherever I go. Why wouldn't I? It carries my dream.

As for the source of my dream, I find inspiration everywhere - in a name, in a conversation, even in a meal. I call them my signs, maps that lead me forward and tell me that I am making the right decision to pursue my dream. I just had no idea that I'd find inspiration in the same place my husband finds his favorite chili dog.

Writing makes my back-side grow like an 80's hairdo

I can't help it, I get fidgety, sitting in one place all day. I think I can't do this anymore! and begin to pace around the kitchen. But I so want to finish! Maybe I will find the perfect synonym for walk if I take a walk (or a stroll, or a saunter, or a shuffle . . .). But wait, what is this? Perhaps if I eat these delicious and inspiring M&M's . . .

So, a pound of candy-coated chocolate gets me through editing another chapter. Left with the sickening realization that the bag is empty, not to mention a super-sweet, post-M&M after taste coating my tongue, I fidget some more, ultimately deciding that popcorn would make an ideal digestif.

Nice - a few more pages out of the way. Hey look! It's time for lunch! Rummaging through the fridge, I find leftovers! Jackpot! Half a bowl of chili, hmm, some crumbly cornbread (scrape off the fuzzy crust and it is fine, I promise), ooh - a rigid slice pizza. That should be plenty, but no one else in this house will bother with this chicken and macaroni . . . eh, might as well. Wash it all down with a tall glass of water (because too much soda isn't good for you), then I can get back to work!

I sit down in front of my computer, ready to move forward. Ugheeow. Sit up straight, unbutton pants, now I can move forward.

By now I've decided that, if my book ever does get published, my jacket photo will look hideous. With visions of Jello Jigglers and over-filled water balloons, I decide to get a little exercise (i.e. play on the Wii). Just as I pick up the 7-10 split in bowling, my kids burst through the door. School is out. Writing time is over. It is time to be a Mom.

I wonder what they'd like for a snack . . .

Why am I here?

Someone close to me asked if I had a blog, and in my mind flashed that dog-ate-my-homework answer which I am clearly too old for. Did I even have an excuse? No time? copout. Don't know how? and admit my lack of tech savvy - phbbbt. Don't need one? That one I could believe, until now.

In my recent attempt to finish my first manuscript - a mystery novel - I have to admit, I have taken advantage of many others' blogs for advice on writing, queries, the publishing business. I have also completely ignored all of the signs guiding me toward blogism. I have focused so much of my attention to forging ahead, to accomplishing this mission, that I have trained the mantra "I'll cross that bridge when I get to it" to surface at the first sign of distraction. Now, less than 25 pages away from my final (fingers crossed) edit, I wonder if I missed the bridge.

So, here I sit, fingers poised over the keys waiting for the perfect quip, the eloquent phrase, the timely post that will encourage someone . . . anyone . . . to support my cause.

My name is Krista Lawlor, and I am a writer.