Christmas Fiction

This month I will post a short piece of fiction in honor of the season. It’s written in first person, but it is fiction. Mostly.

I Let the Kids Help
by Amanda Hamm

We started our Christmas season by decorating the house. I had visions of a picturesque front porch when I got out the lights, good enough to miniaturize and put inside a snow globe. I let the kids help decorate. In fact, they eagerly did most of the work. When it was dark enough to appreciate our efforts, the scene didn’t look like a scene from a snow globe so much as some sort of lopsided explosion. The kids had swapped out flashers in every string and left a clump of lights where they’d gotten tangled in the bushes. I shrugged off the gaudiness because I figured the neighbors saw how much the kids helped.

I love Christmas cookies. I use the same recipe that three generations of our family have used. I let the kids help with the cookies, too. They fought over which color to add to the frosting and ended up with an ugly shade of brown. Of course, it was barely visible under the coating of sprinkles. Those cookies were crunchier than dry Corn Flakes. My sister-in-law nearly dislocated an eyebrow when we unveiled them. I made sure she knew how much the kids helped, but the knowledge did nothing to restore her eyebrows.

Then it was time to wrap the gifts. Again, I let the kids help. When I used to do this all by myself, the gifts were like snowflakes with no two alike. Each one had a unique combination of pretty paper, curled ribbon and neat tags. Now they were still like snowflakes, the paper kind that leave a disaster of tiny scraps in their wake. There were torn corners, patched wrapping paper, tape over everything and so much ribbon. I could already imagine my dad whipping out a pocket knife to get his open.

There was a tree at church covered in gift requests from families in need. I told the kids they could help me pick out one or two tags. They’re all really good at math so I can’t explain how they were unable to count to “one or two.” They brought me eight tags. I was too embarrassed to put some back so I went shopping for eight more gifts. The kids helped. They knew exactly what everyone would want and were unconcerned with cost. Our bank account would feel a pinch.

Christmas finally arrived and we looked at the options for squeezing church into the schedule. There was a Christmas Eve mass at 7 PM, perfect for an early dinner and getting everyone to bed more or less on time. Or one late on Christmas morning with no need to rush breakfast. The kids wanted the least convenient option. They wanted midnight. My husband didn’t want to drag himself out of the house in the middle of the night any more than I did. But we couldn’t remember the last time the kids were so excited about going to church so we let them help with the schedule.

It was around 12:20 AM when I was listening to a gospel reading about the birth of Jesus with heavy eyelids. The lights in the church were dimmed and the candles shone brightly. The calm reading, the semidarkness, the arm of my husband on which I leaned… these things wanted me to close my eyes. My mind began to replay our preparations for the holiday. I saw colorful flashing lights and ugly but still delicious cookies. I saw my kids with big smiles holding presents that were not for them. I saw the stockings they’d tried to use as a behavior ranking system and the Christmas cards they insisted on signing with code names.

I realized that my daydreaming was in danger of turning into real dreaming. I would not allow myself to sleep through the very event we’d been preparing for. I sat up straighter and forced my eyes open just as the reading finished. It was followed by a moment of silence, a moment so quiet and still that I felt God’s presence more clearly than I had in years. It was a moment I would have missed at a more convenient time, a time when I wasn’t trying so hard to pay attention. The kids brought joy and enthusiasm to everything we did that season. And they brought me to that moment of peace. I’d never been happier that I let them help.

Never the Wrong Time of Year

I am grateful for all my readers. I am especially grateful when any of those readers takes the time to write a review of my work, maybe even one that includes words like “loved” and “best ever.” No, I’m not hinting at anything. That just seems like the most obvious place to start a list of thanksgiving. Good reviews make me overflow with gratitude.

I can find gratitude in less obvious places though. I was recently celebrating the completion of a first draft. I celebrated partly because that draft felt as though it took forever to write. Mixed in with the gratitude that it was finally finished was more gratitude that I have the luxury of spending “forever” on a book. One of the reasons it took so long was that I chose to put it aside when my kids were out of school. I am certainly grateful for that freedom.

But I’m also grateful that Book 2 of this series is unlikely to take as long. Its first draft is already about three quarters written. I was working on it so intently that I ended up writing about half a page in the dark.* Then I was grateful I was able to read those words. It was not easy though. I had to be a little grateful for all the practice I have at reading my own lousy handwriting, which probably makes everyone grateful the final draft will be typed.

I’m grateful that I’ve settled on a title for Book 1 and that, wonder of wonders, I even have a title in mind for Book 2. Despite a lot of time and frustration, the series itself still does not have a title.  Still does not have a title. Where in that is the opportunity for gratitude? I’m not sure yet, but I'm sure I will come up with something just as soon as I come up with a title.





* The story there is that I took my notebook with me to write while I was waiting to pick up one of my kids. I underestimated the effect the time change would have on the situation.

Progress Report

I finished the first draft of a book this week. I love to be able to say that. Finishing the first draft is my favorite part. It’s a big step toward the next book and gives me a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m totally stuck on names. Again. Naming characters is getting harder because now in addition to all the other considerations I feel as though I can’t reuse names I’ve already used. At least not for main characters. Let’s talk about some of those considerations.

Names need to fit the characters. Most of the time, a name is one of the first things we learn about someone. Then as we come to know that person, their character traits become associated with that name. Characters are the reverse. First I imagine what the person is like and how he or she acts. Then when I try to assign a name, I can’t help but call to mind all the real people I’ve known with that name and how they are nothing like the character. I rule out that name because it doesn’t fit. And the next one. And the next one. Then I think of one I like and rule it out when I remember I already used it. (Except when I named someone John after I already had a Jon. Still not sure how I convinced myself that was okay.)

Age is also a factor. If I’m writing about a bunch of people in their 20s, I can give one or two of them an old-fashioned or unusual name. Not everyone names their kids from the top ten list. But if they all get names that were popular thirty years before they were born, something will feel off. I do have the social security baby name lists bookmarked.

The names need to be realistic but not too realistic. Truth is allowed more leeway than fiction. My Jr. High gym teacher’s name was Jim Schwartz. Really. I could never get away with putting that in a book. I have in real life known married couples named Chris and Chris and Daniel and Danielle. But when I named a couple Jack and Jill, more than one person criticized me for being too cutesy. Those are not terribly uncommon names. I didn’t think it was that far-fetched that they might find each other.

What about last names? There’s a balance between common and uncommon here, too. I can’t give them all names like Smith and Wilson. But they can’t all be Tecczyt or Dofsteadder either. I have read a phone book hunting first and last names. Many times. There are few things more boring than reading a phone book. Though scrolling ancestry records is close.

Now let’s talk about why there are so many characters to name this time. In my previous two series – Stories From Hartford and Coffee and Donuts – the main characters were unique to each book. The stories were tied together by the settings and a few familiar minor characters. The protagonists rarely appeared in each other’s stories and were usually unnamed when they did. This new series will be more traditional in the sense that minor characters in the first book will become main characters later in the series. That means I need to put more thought into those characters’ names than I might if they were only ever going to appear in one scene.

This is why I’m a little stuck. I need to know who is going to reappear. I need to make sure I like those names before I can edit the first book. I’m not sure I like the names. And this thing I’m referring to as the first book… I’m not trying to be secretive. I can’t call it by name because it doesn’t have one. I haven’t named the series either. There’s not even anything boring I can read for ideas.

How is writing like Four Square?

I know what you’re thinking. Not how is writing like Four Square but why is that even the topic? It’s the topic because, as usual, I ran out of ideas.

I asked my kids what I should put in a blog post this month. The one who is never out of ideas immediately said I could write about how writing a book is like Four Square. Her analogy was that the squares represent the stages. The dungeon is when you have an idea that you’re thinking about turning into a book. The jack is writing the rough draft. You’ve made it to queen when you are editing. King is finally holding a published book in your hand.

She even pointed out how sometimes it takes a long time to advance through the steps and while you can’t skip any, you can be knocked back to the beginning at any point. I was impressed by this insight. I also felt challenged by it. Given this thoroughly random topic, could I come up with something to write about? It sounds like an exercise for a creative writing class, and I could always use more exercise.

First, I made a list of what I know about Four Square. Then I tried really hard to make connections. It turns out that writing a book and playing Four Square have a lot in common, if you use your imagination.

1) Some people are better at it than others. Yeah, this is true of almost everything. But writing and Four Square are included. I get credit for finding this similarity.

2) It’s been around a long time. Four Square was a popular playground game when I was in school. My parents played it before me. Now my kids like to play. Writing has of course been around a whole lot longer. Still, neither is new.

3) You can play in different locations and with different balls. I’ve seen it played indoors and outdoors, with volleyballs, basketballs and most anything that will bounce. I think this could be described as the genres of Four Square. When the word genre is used, anything can sound like it relates to books.

4) There is a lot of arguing. In Four Square, the king gets to start each round by calling out the rules everyone has to follow. This is a little like what writers do. We invent characters and sometimes worlds and decide what happens next. In Four Square, after the king starts the round, everyone complains about the rules he or she has picked and whether or not they are being followed correctly. There are critics everywhere.

5) Story time. One of the craziest new rules I’ve seen is when the king yells, “Story time,” and all the kids gather in a circle to listen to the story. When the king says the secret word, the last kid to touch the ball is out. It may be short and completely nonsensical, but it is a story. And another check in the similarity column.

6) Sometimes I have no idea what’s happening. When the kids play Four Square at my house, the king calls out things like Pac-Man or Heartbeat or King’s Vacation and I have no idea what they’re talking about. Then the game starts, and the game I thought I knew looks like chaos. I’ve read books like that. I bet we all have.

7) It’s a long journey from the dungeon to the king square. Ask a kid who has played Four Square at recess every day for three weeks and never made it past jack if the king space is attainable. Now ask a struggling writer if the book will ever be finished. After all my brainstorming, my daughter’s initial observation is still the strongest argument that writing a book and playing Four Square are practically the same thing.

Life Imitating Art

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.  My characters are not me.  I have definitely had main characters who said things I disagreed with and did things I would never do.  Recently, however, I experienced an uncanny parallel with one of my characters.  

In the book I’m currently writing, two people named Gabriel and Ruth are working together to lead a group at their church.  The group is supposed to discuss a different saint each week.  After Gabriel insists that it is Ruth’s turn to choose a saint, I wrote the following.

That was going to be difficult.  Whenever Ruth looked through the saints in these books, they all sounded interesting.  But only a little interesting.  She couldn’t seem to muster the desire to dig deeper on any of them.

Gabriel leaned back in his chair.  “We have a long time before we need to start on dinner.”

He’d obviously picked up on her reluctance to name a topic.  His patience was unfortunate.  She opened one of the books and began to read a random page.  Then she turned to another page.  It seemed that everyone she read about was born, prayed a lot, then martyred.  She was wondering where that wonderful variety was that someone had mentioned at their first meeting.  Plus, Ruth was very aware of Gabriel sitting nearby, watching and waiting for her to be inspired with an idea.  The pressure wasn’t helping.

She kept reading, skipping to more random pages.  Then she read one line that flooded her brain with too many thoughts to process.  “Oh, wow,” she said.

I had to stop there because when I wrote that part, I didn’t have the foggiest idea where I was going with it.  Oh, wow, what?  I didn’t know what Ruth’s idea was.  Ruth needed to have an idea.  That much I did know.  It’s not a secret that Gabriel is the love interest – that will be apparent in the blurb I haven’t written yet – and the hero needs desirable qualities, like an interest in the heroine’s ideas.  Therefore, the heroine needs ideas.  I was so stuck.

Like Ruth, I had some books on saints because I’d been doing research for this book.  I opened one and started reading.  If Ruth could get inspiration from something she read, maybe I could as well.  My concentration wasn’t great though.  I was skimming.  I was thinking of putting the whole project aside for a while.  Then I found something, one line, that sparked enough inspiration to finish the chapter.  I wrote out the rest of their conversation in no time.  While my own experiences do occasionally slip into my books - both intentionally and otherwise - this is the first time I remember writing something before it happened.

I might as well be older than paper.

One of my kids recently asked to see a necklace that used to belong to my grandmother.  The necklace is tucked away in my chest of really old things.  The chest is something my dad made for me when I was a kid and is itself an old thing.  I opened it up to find the necklace.  To no one’s surprise, we got rather sidetracked by all the things that hadn’t seen the light of day in at least several years.  I showed off the letters and trophies I earned in high school and the rosary I received at my First Communion.  We flipped through a yearbook before we found that necklace.  I also discovered something that my kids found incredibly interesting.   It was the first book I ever wrote.

I wrote the book in 4^th grade so let me clarify right off that the book itself is not all that interesting.  It was the story behind and around the book that fascinated the current 4^th graders in my household.  I told them how I wrote the book as part of a writing club that met in our brand new computer lab.

Your school didn’t have a computer lab until you were in 4^th grade?

It was the first computer lab EVER!?

Not quite.  While I was fortunate to attend a well-funded school which was likely one of the first in the area to have a dedicated computer lab, I highly doubt it was the first one ever.  I don’t like how old that makes me sound.  I explained how we had to line up the paper in the printer and clip it to the little feeders.  And how the story printed on a continuous sheet that had to be separated afterwards and the perforated edges removed.

Cool.

I wish we still had that kind of paper.

I told them how we had no clip art, no scanner and no Paint.  That was why we had to print the pages and illustrate them by hand.  And there were only a few font choices.

What!?

Your drawings aren’t too bad.

Thanks.  Actually, I think my drawings aren’t too bad either.  Until I consider that I probably couldn’t do much better today.  I have spent countless hours working to improve my writing since that grade school book and approximately zero hours refining my art skills.  Fortunately, a computer can do for me now things it couldn’t back then.  I have been getting better at faking art skills. 

Is anyone wondering what that first book was about?  It was told from the point of view of an eraser through being purchased, handling lots of erasing during a school year, and then “retiring” with a brand new friend.  The two erasers are drawn on the last page with a heart between them.  My husband finds this amusing.

You were writing love stories from the very beginning.

Apparently so.

What did she say?

If that title sounds familiar, thank you.  It means you may have read the post I did about two years ago with the same title.  I figure two years is long enough for a rerun.  If you missed that post or (which I’m sure is more likely) you simply don’t remember that far back, I gave a brainstorming example.  Sometimes when I’m stuck on a conversation between characters, I’ll start writing whatever pops into my head until something actually sounds good. 

In the book I’m currently working on, two characters named Gabriel and Ruth are reminiscing about a silly dance they used to do when they were kids.  Gabriel asks why they stopped doing the dance.  These are some of the responses I imagined from Ruth.

“It stopped being about mocking your parents pretty quickly.”

“Was it ever?” Gabriel asked.  “I mean, we were just having fun.”

“How many times did we do that when your parents weren’t even in the room?”

“Too many times to count.”

“I’m sure we looked even more ridiculous than your parents.”

“No, I think they looked sillier because they were old and we were fourteen.”

“That dance was always stupid.”

“Stupid fun is the best kind.”

“I still don’t know if they did that just to be mocked or if it was the way they really danced.”

“I don’t think it was either.  I think it was a spur of the moment thing.  They didn’t care if they got mocked by a couple of kids.” 

Which of these responses did I choose?  None of the above.  I only start listing a bunch of possible lines when I’m really stuck.  And sometimes I’m still stuck when I’ve exhausted the list.  But... this is only the first draft.  There is still hope for better inspiration when I’m editing the scene.  It’s early enough that I could even delete this troublesome conversation altogether.  I’m hoping for inspiration.

A Day in the Life

I don’t like the term Writers’ Block.  And I really don’t like the reason I don’t like the term.  Writers’ Block sounds external, like something that happens to make writing difficult and leaves the writer little control over when it strikes.

This has not been my experience.  My experience of slow or stalled progress is that it is usually my own darn fault.  I’d love to get to the end of an unproductive day and chalk it up to Writers’ Block, but I know I can’t.  My prime writing time is weekdays from 9 to 2 because that’s when my kids are in school and my house is quiet.  This is how I recently spent those hours. 

8:50 am   I’m sitting down with my notebook a bit early and am excited about this ambitious start to my day.

8:51 am   I pick up a book someone left on the couch near me, just to read the description on the back.

9:22 am   This is when I realize I have spent a half hour reading the description as well as the first few chapters.  The worst part... it’s a book I’ve already read.  I put it aside to focus on writing.

9:30 am   There’s a box of wooden train track pieces in the room.  Because they’re there, I keep envisioning a layout for them.  I’m not going to actually build a train track when no one is home to play with it.  Why can’t I stop myself from looking at the pieces?

9:47 am   I am completely disgusted with myself because I’m still thinking about train tracks.  I haven’t written anything, and I’m not even thinking about my characters.  I’m thinking about train tracks and how it probably would have taken less time to just build a track than I’ve spent thinking about NOT building one.  I decide to take a break for lunch.  I am aware that it isn’t even 10 am.  There is logic in this decision though.  If I eat now – when I’m already not getting anything done – then I won’t have to interrupt all the work I’ll be doing later to eat.

11:18 am   Turn off the TV.  I got sucked into something I was only going to watch for a few minutes while I ate.  What has happened to my morning?  I stare at the clock as though it has betrayed me.

11:19 am   Time to get serious.  I could still write an entire chapter before 2 o’clock.  That wouldn’t be too shabby.

11:20 am   I have written a sentence.  I’m still annoyed because I’m patting myself on the back as though a sentence is some sort of accomplishment.

11:53 am   That one sentence is still the only thing I’ve written, and I’m no longer congratulating myself.  In fact, I’m not sure I even like that sentence anymore.

11:57 am   I have crossed out and rewritten part of that sentence.  I’m trying to convince myself that I didn’t go backwards.  Perhaps it will save me editing time in the future.

1:08 pm   Now that I believe reviewing counts as getting work done, I’ve spent an hour reading some of the chapters I’ve already written.  I didn’t change more than a word or two, but at least I’m thinking about my book now.  Having the last events of the story fresh in my head should help me write the next part.

1:32 pm   My eyes keep getting drawn to a fleck of something on the carpet while I’m thinking about what to write.  I feel a sudden urge to vacuum.

1:41 pm   I will be able to concentrate much better now that the room is tidier.

2:05 pm   I hate that sentence.  Not because it’s the only thing I’ve written all day and not because it’s a bad sentence.  I hate it because I’ve now read it at least a hundred times trying to get it to spur the next thought.  All for naught.  I put the notebook down and wish I had someone or something other than myself to blame for having only one sentence to show for the day.  I wish Writers’ Block didn’t just sound like an excuse. 

Square One

Sometimes I feel as though I’m always at square one.  I am always starting over.  This is a problem with writing books.  I don’t get a lot of time to enjoy a finished project because I’m too busy starting another one.  There’s always another book to write.

My next book is almost done.  This will be the third book in my children’s fantasy series.  It’s going to be called Brelin and Wisherton and will release near the end of May.  Almost done means the book is getting some final proofreading.  This is the stage where I get help, which means I’m not actively working on the book.  I have to work on something so I’m planning out what’s next.

What is next?

I’m glad you asked.  I’m planning to do another series.  These books will be set in another fictional small town, more like Hartford than Thompsonville.  Yes, they will be love stories.  Yes, I’m having trouble naming the characters.  No, I don’t have any ideas on a title either.  This all feels very familiar.

I’ve been at square one before.  I’ve been at square one many times before.  The cycle keeps repeating.  When that Wisherton book releases, I’ll be looking at a few scribbled pages and a ton of work.  This won’t give me much time for celebrating the previous accomplishment.  It sounds kind of demoralizing, doesn’t it?

It’s not.  There are certainly times when having to start over is no fun, but writing a new book is not one of them.  Square one lets me entertain ideas too ridiculous to actually use.  Nothing has to make sense until I start making decisions.  I get to daydream until I’m picturing what will eventually become my favorite scenes in the book.  I like square one.  I may have a whole lot of work in front of me, but I haven’t started it yet.

Interview Time

I decided to spend many more hours than usual on this month's post so I made a video interview.  There is a transcript below.

Let’s begin with... Do you have a favorite author?

There are some names that come to mind, but I’m not going to say any of them because I’m afraid that would invite comparisons.  Either I would come out on the wrong end of that comparison or... just because I enjoy someone’s work doesn’t mean I’m trying to write the same sort of thing, and I wouldn’t want to raise incorrect expectations.

Have you ever based a character on a real person?

I think I’ve answered this question before.

You have.  You said, “No.”

Well, it’s a good thing it’s come up again because I have a different answer.  In They See a Family, there is a character named Michael, a very minor character, who is mentally disabled.  I thought the safest way to avoid accidentally veering into stereotypes as I wrote him would be to have a particular person in mind.  I was definitely thinking of my uncle as I wrote him.  Michael is still a fictional character though.  He is not intended to be my uncle.  It was more like... how do I think he would act in this situation, not what has my uncle done in the past that I could put into a book.

Many of your books are Christian fiction.  Just how preachy are they?

First, I just want to say I think it’s too bad that preachy has become kind of negative.  And I know that I have been guilty of using it to describe other books in a negative way.  But preachy isn’t always a bad thing.  I think, like a lot of things, there’s... there’s a time and a place.  And with fiction... it can work.  It has to fit into the story.  I’ve read a lot of books where it felt like the author was kind of taking a break from the story in order to start evangelizing.  And that is a turn-off, even for myself as a Christian.  As far as how preachy my books are... I think the level of preachiness varies in my books.  I am first and foremost telling a story.  But all of my main characters are Christian.  Sometimes they mention saying a prayer or they mention going to church.  But I think in most of my books the characters don’t really sit down and have deep, meaningful discussions about their faith.

Can you rank your books on preachiness for us?

Oh, that would be really hard.  I think I would have to go back and read all my books with like a preachiness journal rank them and I... I’ve never done that.

How about a few examples?

Said and Unsaid was the only book where my main character was a convert, and it’s just been my personal experience that converts tend to be a little more excited.  Since the faith is new, they want to talk about it a little bit more.  I don’t remember exactly how detailed any of those conversations were.  I hope it was more about her experience and never sounded like she was trying to convince the reader of anything.

I don’t remember a lot of preaching in Collecting Zebras.  I feel like that was one of my more lighthearted ones.  I don’t think there were any big catalysts for discussion in that book that I can remember.

There may have been a little preachiness in A Perfectly Good Man.  The main character in that one had a bit of a... not really a crisis exactly...  but at one point she did kind of realize that she’d become a little lukewarm in her faith so there was a little discussion.

Let’s talk about your covers.

Oh, boy.

You’ve mentioned repeatedly being bad at covers.

Repeatedly?  Have I talked about being bad at covers too much?

Depends who you ask.  Some people might say yes.  Most of us think it’s great that you are humble about your limitations and have a sense of humor about it.

Humble and funny?  Now that is a positive spin on a lack of artistic ability.  I guess I’d like to say though that I have not been complaining and doing nothing.  I’ve tried to make up for some of what I lack in natural talent by reading and... there are some things you can learn about design.  Hopefully, I have made some improvements over the years.

Unfortunately, the process is still largely trial and error.  I can look at a cover and see that it’s not working.  I see that it’s maybe unbalanced or maybe the colors are wrong.  I know it’s bad, and I don’t know how to fix it so I usually end up making lots of covers until something... Trial and Error is kind of a frustrating way to do anything.

What else is frustrating?

Sometimes just typing my books can be frustrating because I can’t read my own handwriting.  I write everything out first and my handwriting had not gotten better.  You would think that with context I could figure out all the words... that’s not always the case.

Your bio mentions pen names.  Are you willing to talk about those?

Well, I’ll talk about one.  This was an experiment.  I prefer contemporary romance, both to read and to write, but historical romances seem very popular, particularly there seems to be something about mail order bride stories that people enjoy.  I wrote a four novella series using the name Charlotte Thorpe.  My goal for those stories was to try to capture some of the things that people enjoy about mail order bride stories without actually having a mail order bride in any of them.  Those books have been some of my most popular works and that is... interesting.  When you are outsold by your own alter ego, is that success?  I don’t know.

Thanks for taking the time to do this interview.  Do you have any final thoughts?

I guess my final word would just be thank you.  If anyone has read any of my books, thank you.

Looking Back and Looking at the Pages

I’m going to risk sounding arrogant and admit that rereading my own books is fun. I don’t mean reading a book I’m currently working on. I don’t mean editing or proofreading. I do enjoy that – I wouldn’t be a writer if I didn’t enjoy it – but I wouldn’t call it fun. I mean going back to reread something that is published, released and done. Why do I do that? It’s not because I pick up one of my own books whenever I’m looking for something to read. If I was that arrogant, I wouldn’t admit it. Probably.

Most of my books have a story. Not the story within the pages. Since I write fiction, that story is a given. I hope. I mean most of my books have a specific struggle that comes to mind when I remember writing them.

The story of Said and Unsaid is me yelling at myself as I tried to type it. That one had the roughest rough draft. The notebook was littered with arrows pointing forward and backward through the pages, paragraphs crossed off so many times I wasn’t sure if maybe I was trying to uncross them, and writing so scrunched up in the margins that I had to guess what half the words were. At one point, I was trying to follow symbols that I invented to help myself. I was so confused it wasn’t helping.

The story of Jealousy & Yams is the looooong list of titles I rejected trying to name it. They See a Family has a sad story. A minor character is loosely based on my uncle, who passed away while I was writing it. Andrew’s Key changed the most from my original concept. Berries, though only a tiny part of the book, are central to the story of Beyond Wisherton. The kids eat wild berries in the story. There are yellow and green ones on the bushes and because they are foreign, the kids don’t know which are ripe. In the end, (teeny tiny spoiler) the berries they’ve been complaining about tasted yucky because they ate the wrong color. I screwed that up in the first draft. The ripe color changed halfway through the book. I went back and fixed it, including at least one mention that was already right. Then I had to fix it again. I couldn’t seem to keep those berries straight for anything. The last thing I did before I released the book was find every mention of yellow and green to make sure it stayed consistent.

Writing a book is work. It’s work that I love, but it is work. I remember the work. I don’t remember everything. That’s why I sometimes have to reread my books, especially if I’m working on a series. I wrote Hearts on the Window about a year and a half after I’d finished the other Hartford books so when Seth Anderson showed up in the story, I couldn’t remember what color hair I gave him. I had to find him in Collecting Zebras, then because I’m a little paranoid I had to make sure he had the same color hair in the next book. I’ve had to remind myself the day of the week something happened, a last name, the number of siblings and so on. I usually have to read a little to find these things. That’s where I find some unexpected fun.

Mixed in with sentences I could recite without looking are occasionally things I don’t remember writing. It’s fun to be surprised by that. I get to read conversations that make me smile. I find enjoyment in the writing and perhaps confirmation that all those struggles actually produced something worthwhile. And if taking a little pride in my work makes me sound arrogant, then let’s just pretend I didn’t admit it.

How I Ruined My Books

Until recently, I could say that I’d never signed one of my books. This was partly because no one ever asked. It seemed incredibly arrogant to offer my signature as though it would add value to a book. After all, I’ve never sought signed copies of the books I read, not even my favorites.

The other reason I never signed books was more personal and more deep-seated. It was also more ridiculous. I couldn’t do it because I was brainwashed against writing in books as a child.

The textbooks at my school – like most schools – were used for several years before new ones were purchased. Each child wrote his or her name inside the cover at the start of the year and nothing else was allowed to be written in that book the rest of the year. Nothing else. Period. Every single non-erasable mark found at the end of the year was worth a fifty cent fine. And each child had to stand in front of the teacher’s desk while she flipped through it checking for compliance. Being a rule-follower, I wouldn’t have considered writing in a book even without the hefty fine. Writing in books became a huge no-no. I carried this mentality to all my books.

I once found a mark maybe two inches long in a school book. It looked as though someone had carelessly turned a page while holding a pen. My 10-year-old self freaked out. I wondered if there was a list somewhere. Was there a record that someone had already been fined for the ink on page such-and-such of the book in my possession? Or would I be held responsible for what I knew I hadn’t done? I took that book home and tried to erase the line. I knew ink did not erase. Of course I knew that. Nothing erases ink! It was a crisis. The best I could do was use a white crayon to make the line fainter. And I felt seriously guilty using that crayon in a book. I was doing exactly what I was trying not to get in trouble for not doing. Panic and logic do not go together.

I ended up escaping a fine that year. I felt very lucky. What I could not escape was the lingering feeling that writing in a book is always wrong. Always. It doesn’t matter who owns it. I don’t even write in my own proof copies. I’ll have a book that I know isn’t finished, that I know will be recycled after I mark the revisions, and I still cannot bring myself to write directly in the book. I use bookmarks crammed with notes. Somehow, that feels more normal.

I show up for my study group with spare paper for notes. That’s what we’re supposed to do. It’s what I was trained to do. I cringe as others write in their books and kind of want to scream at them for doing something so wrong. My in-laws have the habit of writing in every single book they give to my kids. It’s usually something short like “Merry Christmas 2012.” It’s great that they give the kids books because books are, in general, awesome. But I always wonder why they had to ruin the book before they gave it to us.

I know.

I know I’m the one who’s weird here. Inscription is a word. Lots of people write in their books. Lots of people think it’s actually a good thing. That’s why when I was finally asked to sign copies of one of my books, I did not say, “Are you insane? I can’t ruin the books before we pass them out.” I acted as though it was no big deal. You want me to scribble in the books first? Sure. I’ll ruin them if that’s what you want. I am not willing to sacrifice my principles to gain more readers, but I will gladly sacrifice an odd hang-up. Well, maybe not gladly. Maybe there was cringing.