Thank goodness, her Aunt Heidi had the brilliant idea to buy (years ago when all was new) a BUB.  Back Up Bunny.  So, out comes the twin and Morgan eyes him with a mix of gratitude and suspicion.  ”This is not my bunny,” she tells me.  I nod.  No lying.  I explain that he is in fact a BUB but that he loves her all the same and is very sorry to see her sad.  I say that BUB just wants to snuggle and try to make her feel better.

And then I hold my breath.

At last, she nods and kisses BUB on his pristine soft fur (unweathered by all the kisses yet to come) and sighs.  ”Okay.  I’ll borrow him, mama.  But when you find Grey Bunny, then you can sleep with BUB, okay?”

Okay.

Thank God for Aunt Heidi and the wisdom of my two year old.

The power of that word is knee rattling for me.  It’s so potent and overwhelming I’ve been known to cry when I finally get to type the words “fin” at the end of a manuscript.  There is a rush of adrenalin, fear, excitement and then….fear.  A dash of exhilaration and a sense of accomplishment and did I mention the fear?

What if it’s crap?  I mean, this isn’t bad poetry I get to tuck in a journal somewhere and hide until it’s drum circle time….this is a BOOK.  1) People are going to read this. (If the publishing gods are kind.)  2) Critics are going to review this and rate this puppy.  (For people to see and decide whether or not to read it. (See point 1.)  3) My husband is going to give me ‘that look’ that says “Okay, honey…can we get off welfare yet?” and 4) I’m going to have to sit behind this thing at book signings and pray that somebody picks one up and does more than ask me where the restrooms are located.  (See point 1 again.)

This is the best and worst part of being a writer.  Now, I hit send and the wheels of publishing turn.  Edits are made and we’re rolling.  Oh, man.  Hear that?  That’s the sound of a roller coaster moving up the track to that unavoidable peak where you can see all the possibilities…just before it plummets into a heart-stopping ride.

Complaining?  No way!  I wouldn’t trade this feeling for anything in the world.  Bring it on!  Because I know the secret that only my innermost soul let’s me whisper in the dark.  I haven’t written my best book.  Not by a long shot.  So every book is one more step toward getting it right.

So maybe that’s the consolation.  I’ll never be finished.

Not really. 

BUT I’m one more manuscript closer!! (whoooohoooo!)

Can I get an amen?

No, really.  Unless you’re a night person, not a lot of laughs in general when something wakes you up at 3am.

Unless it’s your two year old.  In tears.  Miserable.  Because she cannot find “Capuchin!”  (her capuchin monkey toy…aptly named Capuchin.)

Capuchin!  Capuchin!

I groggily get up, try to whisper words of comfort, make the search in the semi-darkness, locate Capuchin and his best friend, Grey Bunny, whom we CANNOT sleep without because of the laws of the physical universe/magic/bedtime principles of belief.  The boys are located, she is comforted to know that they were simply hiding in the covers and in Capuchin’s case, made an escape to the floor.

All is well.  I am a superhero.  And on the way back to bed, I get the giggles.

Because it’s a funny word.  Because two year olds shouldn’t know about the species name of their stuffed animals.  Because my life is as unique as I never imagined it.  Because it’s all really funny when you think about it.

Even at 3am.   Capuchin!!!!!

Oh, yes.  I’m on top of things!

In two weeks, I’m Chicago bound for the event that anchors my year.  I get to meet readers and booksellers and hang out with friends and ATTEMPT to professionally network (translate that into me usually blowing those magic moments by one of the following scenarios: being introduced to someone with cake icing on my nose, dropping a box of promo on publishing VP’s shoes accidentally and the classic dance-floor tragedy known by many as “The Nipple Dance Incident”.)  I’m a networking genius.  Sigh.

Every year, I give myself a pep talk before this industry convention.  It starts with a general “you can do it” themed opening, shifts over to the “we’ll wear our nicest clothes and dress up and make a good impression”, and wraps up with a “whatever you do, DON’T embarrass yourself!”  It’s a long speech.  It’s an important ritual.  So far, it hasn’t ever worked.  On my best behavior, sober as a nun, if an elevator is going to get stuck with a cast of characters out of my worst nightmares (cover models and that critic that HATES me) and there’s a chance for me to be wearing a unicorn suit–I’m doomed.  It will happen.

It’s fun to watch Lucille Ball but it’s not always fun to Be Lucy.  Good thing I have a sense of humor.

And a new fondness for chocolate martinis.

So, THIS RT, no pep talk, no speech, no post it notes on the mirror of the bathroom begging the Fates to let me look like a grown up…  This year, I’m just going to take a deep breath and roll.  I’m going to just be myself.  Even if that’s the lady with toilet paper trailing off of one shoe or glow sticks in her purse to help her find her keys.  I’m going to miss the friends that aren’t there, cry for Leslie and Judi, laugh with friends new and old, try to introduce myself to some booksellers and see if the Australians will let me into their country next year…  (fingers crossed!)

Life is too short.  This year is the year I just let go.

Wish me luck!!!!!!

Who are we saving daylight for?  Where is it stored?  What farmers?  Can’t farmers figure it out without toying with the rest of us????  Are we the only ones that do this?  Does England do this?  Does China bother with this?  Does the world laugh into its leisurely cup of Sunday morning coffee while we spend a day zombie-like and grumpy???  Can we just stop?  Would the world end if we just picked a time and stuck with it??????  Could we try that for a few years and see what happens?  Or do all the “lost” hours of daylight accumulate somewhere like nuclear waste and make us wish we hadn’t listened to the insane ramblings of one very sleep-deprived romance writer….

wow.

I feel better.  Not all the way since every clock in the house is now mysteriously “wrong”.  But I’m getting there.

sigh.

That sounds funny, doesn’t it?  Like she’s misplaced or under the bed or wandering around a state park somewhere with a giant purse and a flashlight wondering how she got talked into going for a walk in the great outdoors in the middle of February.  Except it’s hard to laugh today.  Judi McCoy passed away due to complications from diabetes and… it’s hard to laugh today.

I’m running out of tissue.  I’m weeping like a fool…except when I’m not.  Except when I’m remembering the bathtub incident at RT in New York that year when she and I roomed together.  Except when I remember that voice, like nails and glass in a metal coffee can sometimes…that accent that could cut through wire…but oh, god, she was so sincere and so funny.  She was so generous to everyone.  She could drive you crazy one minute and then make you thank every angel in heaven that you had her close at hand.  She’d argue that she was “nobody” in the industry and that no one knew/cared who she was until you wanted to throttle her.  Then she’d just laugh at you and bask in all the compliments and praise… and she deserved every word of it.

I’m remembering the beginning writers she invited up to our room, an impromptu extension of the class that she just didn’t want to turn away…she was so amazing to all of them, so patient and so blazingly blunt with her advice and critiques…they fell in love with her, I think.  I know I did.  I already had, but seeing her in action–I knew she was one-of-a-kind.

When Rudy died, we cried and cried together.  She practically ruined an entire weekend event, The Chocolate Affaire, in Arizona as an entire booth of romance authors sobbed through a two day book signing because every dog that walked by set Judi off and then we’d cry because she was crying and… well, you get the picture.  We cried until it was funny that we were crying.  We cried until it was safe to tease her a little about it and then she was laughing and crying…and then it was okay.  I remember that it was okay and saying something impossible like, “Come on, Judi! He’s not gone! He’s right there, curled up at your feet and so excited about your new series coming out and so thrilled for you!  He’s there, you just can’t see him.  And he still loves you and he’s probably wondering what in the world you’re fussing about.  You made him immortal, Judi.  He’ll never be gone.  He’s not leaving you.”

So, now I’m just going to cry.  I’m going to cry until I laugh.  I’m going to cry until it’s safe to tell myself, “Come on, Renee! She’s not gone!  She’s right there with Rudy and she’s cheering you on with the books and the new series.  You just can’t see her, but she’s immortal on those pages and she’ll never be gone.  And she’d kick you under the desk if she caught you crying… or she’d make a joke about the Chocolate Affaire and turn the tables…”

I’m out of tissue.  Still crying.  But I’ll get there.  Judi wouldn’t want to be remembered in a weep-fest.  She’d want me to wrap it up with one last joke about how I seem to be the only person on the planet who ever accused her of snoring.  Swear to God, she could peel the paint off the walls…  (See, Judi?  That one was for you.  We can argue about it later.)

I love you, Judi.

A couple of days ago the girls decided to get into the cat nip and needless to say, there was a little bit of a party.  Otter and Blue were wide-eyed with happiness at the generosity of my five year old as she filled a bowl and set it out “just for them.”  And by the time I found our older cat (nineteen years old!!) Bonkers in the living room, he was covered head to toe with the green herb of pure cat joy.  The two year old was sitting next to him, petting him and talking in her sing-song way and the animal that usually avoids toddlers/children like the plague was purring like a champ and “hanging out”.

On closer inspection, I realized he’d fallen asleep with his face in a pile of the stuff.

I asked all my FB friends if an overdose was something to worry about, but no alarms sounded.

What can I say?  They are fed and brushed.  Their “bathroom” gets cleaned a lot more regularly than my own (I’m a writer = terrible housekeeper) and their every meow is interpreted and responded to.  They sleep on MY BED during the day taking endless fantastical naps and have more toys to ignore than is moral.  And on top of all of that, they apparently get to legally and without judgement enjoy recreational drugs.

I’m rethinking how I want my afterlife to go.  I’m wondering if I should put in an application for “Reincarnation as House Cat”.

I’m wondering how amazingly saint-like I’ll have to be to earn a shot…hmmmm….

Too ambitious?  Should I put in for dog instead?

Okay, taking a break to vent because there’s a law against driving out into the national forest and leaving your DH out there with a water bottle, a sleeping bag and a flashlight.  There shouldn’t be, but I looked it up.  There’s a law.

Wow, that felt good.

Okay, back to the book.

So when he said “goats”, I’ll admit it.  I just nodded and said, “Yes, dear.  Goats are nice.”

Ummm.  So it appears that the goats arrive in the next few days.  And I have learned a valuable lesson about turning my back on the ocean.

So, now when he advised me that the chicken coop is next, I swear I sat up and started paying close attention.

Watch out, world.  I’m about to become a pioneer woman.

Hmmm, I wonder if I can redirect him to that cold fusion concept…

I never imagined having my small daughters sporting their “ink” and showing off for friends…like little mini-bikers on their plastic push cars….but here we are.

My secret goal is to make it “no big deal” so we don’t have a battle when they’re teenagers and asking for the real thing.  I can give them “the look” that says, “umm, isn’t that stuff for two year olds??”

I didn’t say it was a brilliant plan.