Wander on by and see what you think. http://kaholt.posterous.com

I would come home, grab a snack, go upstairs and boot up my dad’s IBM clone. I’d stick in my giant floppy disk and I would write. I would go crazy, sometimes. Pages and pages about my feelings and the world and the boys I just met and my friends and what college would be like and blah blah blah blah blah. I would write essays and plays and stream of consciousness and poetry. I would save it all to my floppy and then go to my room. Once there, I’d often grab a spiral notebook and keep writing.

When I got to college I had the luxury (?) of a long-distance boyfriend, so I was able to agonize over long, tortured letters. Pages and pages of baring my soul. I didn’t need a journal, I didn’t need floppy disks, because my boyfriend was my journal. Then when we finally moved in together, I agonized over my spiral notebooks and my Goodwill typewriter. I borrowed a friend’s computer for my papers, but it felt so foreign to me. I hated it. (Both the keyboard, and the structure of the papers.)

After college, in my first real job, I wrote advertising copy. Most of it was written longhand in legal notepads, then typed on my iMac (a blue one). My deadlines were short and weird, so I had a lot of time to myself – and my own office. This meant I filled even more legal notepads with stories and ideas for stories and the first twenty pages of plays and novels. I wrote anything and everything that came to mind. I brought the notepads home, ripped out the pages, and saved them in giant three ring binders.

Then, life started happening. I got married. I got pregnant. I quit my job. I got a new job. I got pregnant again. Etc. Suddenly, I didn’t have access to a quiet corner office and as many legal notepads as I could get my hands on. I still wrote for a living, but by the time I made it home at night, I was exhausted and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in front of a computer.

I stopped writing.

Until one day I started again. As spontaneously as I had stopped, I started again. I realized that the emails I sent everyday, the haiku I made up for friends, they could be the same as the notepads and the letters and the typewriters.

Suddenly, I had written a book. Two books. Three books. I had been blogging for five years. Tweeting. Writing annoying statuses on Facebook.

And then I realized something else. Even being surrounded by writing like this, I haven’t written in a long time. I haven’t sat down with a pen and paper and just gone stream of consciousness crazy like I used to do every night. I have somehow stopped writing because of my writing.

It’s something I’d like to get back to. I miss it. It’s funny, because, when you think of chasing three kids, stumbling through life, keeping things in order – it makes sense that there wouldn’t be a lot of time for writing. But the real reason, I think, is because writing for me has been shortened to headlines, quips. Sometimes there are real stories, but it seems like in the freedom to write anything, anytime, I’ve lost the freedom to be completely free with my words. There is always an audience now. Not a bad thing, but it also doesn’t need to be a 100% of the time thing.

Maybe a trip to the office supply store is in order. Maybe I need some coffee and floppy disks.

Sometimes when I read really great speculative fiction, it hurts me – physically pains me – that the world I’m reading about isn’t real. I know some 9 and 10-year-old boys who feel this way about Rick Riordan’s world of demigods. I feel it with Harry Potter (as probably does everyone else). I’m so glad that the Harry Potter books didn’t come out when I was a child because I think it might have destroyed me knowing they were works of fiction. I’m only half-way joking about that!

I relish secret worlds-within-our-world, especially. I have to believe that hidden alternate worlds exist within our own. I have to. Otherwise… how boring. Right?

I’m trying to think if there have been any books or series of books that have made me truly yearn for the world they’ve created, other than the good ol’ HP books. I’ve been reading a lot of dystopia lately, though, so I have to say, while those worlds can be pretty cool, I don’t want to live in them.

What are some fictional worlds you long for? What world would you sell your arm, sell your sister and sell your favorite jeans to visit?

And while we’re talking about yearning… what spec fic mainstay would you fall to your knees and joyfully weep for upon discovery in our world? Vampires, zombies, faeries, aliens, wizards, half-bloods, space cowboys? I have to say, if intelligent alien life is ever discovered, I might actually and for real wet my pants.

KA Holt hasn’t actually and for real wet her pants in a very, very long time.

All great questions, and none of them have black and white answers. I mean, it all kind of depends on who you are as a writer, right? Sometimes you start a blog, not with a goal of self-promotion, but just as a way to clear your head. This doesn’t mean you can’t use your blog to promote your work, but it just serves a wider purpose.

I don’t think there’s a wrong way to do it (other than the way I’ve been doing it lately – which is not at all). That’s the great thing about having a blog. You can mold it to your personality and use it for whatever you need.

This is all the long way of me saying that I don’t know what this blog is for me. It’s separate from my other blog, where I talk about being a mom and I use bad language and I discuss the ills of the world and things like that. But the more I think about it, the harder it is to differentiate between myself as a writer and myself as everything else. Being a writer is who I am. And yet, this blog still doesn’t seem the place to talk about what I made for dinner and what I yelled at the guy who cut me off on my way to Target earlier this afternoon.

On the other hand, it feels like some things in my life have such great bearing on my daily goings-on, that keeping them from this blog is nearing impossible. Just like in my other blog I often talk about my books or about writing, I’m finding that in this blog there are going to be times when the various parts of my life intersect and I need to talk about them here.

One of the reasons it’s been such a long time since I’ve posted on this blog is because it’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to sit down and write. My youngest son is medically fragile. He is 15-months old and has a tracheostomy. He’s an amazing kid, and he is the light of all our lives – mine, my husband’s, my oldest son’s and my daughter’s (though she may not realize it yet!). Lately, though, I have been thinking that if you have a medically fragile kiddo who qualifies for Medicaid, you should also qualify for an executive assistant to help you manage all of the Medicaid stuff. Mounds of paperwork, phone calls, doctor visits, blah blah. I am finding that even with a full-time nurse at out house, much of my day is spent managing the care of my son. It is not something I resent, it is not something I hate, it’s something I do for him out of love and respect and admiration and longing that the things I do and arrange and discuss are things that will help him get better.

This is all probably too personal for a writer blog. It’s not about middle grade sci-fi, it’s not about marketing or anything like that, but I feel that my readers should have a little background if I ever discuss my day and our nurse comes into the conversation. Or if there’s a reference to spending a week in the hospital, or something like that.

It’s not something I plan to blog about here, I’ll save it for my other blog. But because it is impossible to separate one’s writing life from one’s life life I just thought I would warn you.

This guy’s a pretty big deal around here, and he finds his way into just about every conversation. Even when they’re about space ships and zombies and time machine.

Two reasons.

1) On my computer right now, I have Scrivener open with three projects running. My WIP, notes for a potential WIP, and the tutorial. Tweetdeck is open and blinking updates in the corner of my screen. Firefox is open with tabs for my gmail, a short story contest, an article about how it’s OK to write a crappy first draft, the TLA conference site (I have to figure out how to get my butt to TLA this year), Facebook, an Instructables page on creating a desalinator out of a dirty rag and a 2 liter bottle (oldest boychild has a science project coming up), Amazon, and WordPress.

Obviously, I should shut all that mess down, turn off the wifi and work. I know this, you know this, we all know this. This one is an easy fix… HOWEVER…

[dissonant woodwinds play in the distance]

2) I seem to write best in creative bursts. It’s been over a year that I’ve been working on a new novel, but during that time I wrote an entirely different novel in just a few months. The inspiration hit, I sat in a spot on the couch, and I wrote non-stop until I was done. I wrote two entirely different drafts of that novel in just a few months. BAM BAM BAM. Done. Sent to agent. Sold. Waiting for publication. Of course it’s a non-traditional novel – more of a graphic novel, really, depending on how my editor sees it, but still. Idea, story, writing, editing, everything – the process was incredibly fast. So it’s frustrating that something like that can happen in the midst of something else going so slowly.I want everything to come as quickly!

I think it must all come down to inspiration, excitement, that fluttery feeling you have with a new crush. I am such a happier person when I’m writing, and yet, if I force myself to do it when I’m not ready, it doesn’t make me that happy. I have a desire – a need really – for a way to sustain excitement in my projects. My life doesn’t often allow me to work at a frantic pace when inspiration hits, so sometimes the glow fades quickly as it gets lost in the doctor’s appointments and the diapers and the juice refills.

The other night I was talking about how I seem to have developed adult-onset ADD. There is always so much going on I am afraid to sit and concentrate on one thing because I’m either forgetting or ignoring or missing some other thing.

Having time to write is one thing, but finding and maintaining the thrill and the patience is another.

Do I ask for too much? Maybe I should embrace writing prompts and rely more on my brain than my muse. I don’t know.

I think there must be a more productive way to go at this, though. I just haven’t figured it out yet.

So I hope you don’t think I’m a quitter if I, um, quit. I promise I will still be writing thousands of words a day, and coming up with new characters and ideas, I will just be doing it in a book I’m half-way finished writing instead of in weird stories on my blog.

I’ll also be writing everyday in blog posts. And I’ll be writing down research for a book I want to write after the WIP is finished. I’ll be writing notes to myself (“you’re good enough, you’re smart enough and doggone it, people like you” “don’t forget to TiVo the Amazing Race”), and I’ll be writing grocery lists and random run-on sentences, and I’ll be writing down how many ounces of milk and yogurt my youngest son has eaten in a day.

I will be writing lots of things. Maybe even short stories. But I don’t think I can do the short stories everyday. I really need the next two weeks to focus on my WIP.

Please, when I post again in a few days about how I’m starting back with the short stories because I can’t get anywhere with my WIP, give me a friendly virtual kick in the butt. I’m just warning you now… steel-toed Doc Martins may be in order.

*note: I pronounce “vestigial” with three syllables, not four. Just like Agent Scully. So there.

She wondered what he was thinking during those days in the incubator, so tiny, covered in wires and tubes. She wondered if he had a chance to think anything at all. Maybe he just got flashes of voices and light and noises. Maybe he spent the whole time dreaming of the womb he was no longer swimming in.

She found herself rubbing her belly a lot, mystified that there was nothing in there kicking her anymore. How could that be? How could her body betray her like that? And not only did it betray her, it betrayed him, too. It tried to devastate them, to ruin them.

Somehow, though, even as her body turned on her, her mind fought to stay on her side. It was an epic battle. Fighting to stay pregnant, fighting off infection, fighting to grow tiny tiny lungs as fast as possible, fighting to stave off contractions, fighting to be brave, compartmentalizing fear so that she could be strong enough and stubborn enough to not let happen what seemed inevitable.

And through the whole battle – through the phalanx of drugs and hormones and steroids and fear – there was a tiny little man responding to his mama’s commands. He listened as she wept for him and he listened as she begged him and bossed him around. He tolerated it when she played the Rocky theme song through her mp3 player, onto her belly at full volume. He grew and developed – even with hardly any fluid to swim in. He saluted the doctors with his tiny middle finger when they said he would never make it… especially not to Thanksgiving.

Then, all of a sudden, he was on the outside instead of the inside. Two pounds, 12 inches, and a little bit see-through. He had no nipples, but tons of hair. Everywhere. Like a teeny tiny see-through nipple-less monkey baby.

He was born.

The doctors and nurses whisked him off to Dagobah, trying to recreate the world he needed for survival. Synthetic chemicals replaced natural ones. Assisted breathing replaced oxygenated fluid. Their advanced technology was outpaced by the complexity of the human body, but would it do in a pinch? They were in a pinch.

She wondered if the alarms bothered him, when they went off as his heart rate slowed or his breathing became shallow. She wondered if his sleep was peaceful or tormented. She wondered when they would let her hold him. She was his mother. She could fix everything. She needed a chance.

She had not considered that when her epic battle was over and seemingly won, his epic battle would be just beginning. It didn’t seem fair to fight for so long and so hard, only to transfer the battle to someone so new and tiny. She wanted to fight for him, to swallow him up Greek-myth-style and settle him back inside her body. She wished she could have fought longer and harder so that his turn leading the charge would have been easier. But he didn’t seem to mind. He fought like he’d been taught. He took no prisoners, defied all odds.

She was finally allowed to hold him. Stuffing him into her shirt, all two and a half pounds of him – with his additional two and half pounds of wires and tubes – she nestled him against her bare flesh and tried to recreate the home he’d been evicted from. The nurses called it “kangarooing” which was appropriate because of how she was able to cocoon him, and how she fervently desired to kick anyone who came near her.

He slept on her, skin-to-skin, mouth open, his miniature diaper slipping off his microscopic bottom. They rocked for hours, listening to the beeps of the machines, keeping Dagobah close by in case it was all too much. She held the syringe that fed him through a tube in his nose. It was a very poor substitute for suckling, but at least she got to feed him (she was secretly disgruntled and jealous of the tube, though).

Dagobah treated him well. He began to grow. His nipples appeared. His eyes opened. He traded the tube in his nose for a bottle – and sometimes a breast – in his mouth. Weeks went by. Doctors came and went. Nurses silenced alarms, checked vitals, fell in love.

And she wondered, does he know? Does he see the army he’s created? She thought probably he did know. He could see them. He reacted to their touch, to their voices. But even as he knew them, he knew her better. He knew, out of all the people who took care of him in a day, which one was his mother. He smelled her, he turned towards her voice, he gripped her finger, he nuzzled for milk.

She played the Rocky theme song for him, over and over as they kangarooed. Over and over as the months passed. Over and over and over.

He would always be her Thanksgiving baby. Even if he was born in August.

See, having a name like Shenandoah Jones also kind of relies on you being a big dude, with mournful eyes and big muscles and a smile that lights up the world. When you are, in fact, short, scrawny, four-eyed, brace-faced, and scowly, having the name that Shen is cursed with is kind of like finding a way to unironically mock yourself in front of everyone you know, everyday, forever.

We zoom in on Shen, riding his bike home from school, skipping choir practice because of a stomach ache. He is plagued with stomach aches, by the way, because he is in love with Macy Anderson. She’s the prettiest girl in school, the meanest girl in school, and the epitome of every stereotype you’ve ever seen on TV.

From the look in Shen’s eye, it’s pretty obvious he’s dreaming of Macy Anderson, or he’s dreaming of something, because he doesn’t see the station wagon coming up on the stop sign with no hint of stopping.

It only takes a split second and Shen is airborne, his bike having t-boned the front of the wagon. He flies over the hood of the car and lands with a very unpleasant sliding squish onto the pavement a good ten yards away. For a moment everything is silent except for the radio blasting from the windows of the car. Journey, if you want to know. But you probably didn’t. And now that I’ve said it, it’s made things worse, hasn’t it? Sorry.

Shen lays there on the road, bleeding, but alive, and suddenly Shenedoah Jones is the name of the kid on the glass jars in sandwich shops, asking for donations to pay medical bills.

The siren’s wail is getting louder and people have come running form their houses to see what the commotion is all about. Kids who previously had kicked Shen’s ass earlier in the day are helping to tie tourniquets on his appendages, even as he squeals and cries for them to stop.

Then the ambulance is there, and the paramedics pop out of the doors like they’ve been shot out by James Bond ejector seats. They split up – one run-walks to the car and the other run-walks to Shen. After a few minutes of triage, he is tied to a board and loaded onto the ambulance. The police have arrived and ticketed the station wagon driver, Macy Anderson, who seems to be fine physically, though emotionally may be having a hard time of it as she contemplates not what she’s done to Shen, but how long she’ll be grounded and how she probably won’t have the car for Friday’s party at Jack’s house.

The ambulance wails its way down the street and Shenedoah Jones is now the name of a boy who survived being run over by the most popular girl in school. They are inextricably linked now, whether they want to be or not, and the Fates open up a new door for the future.

I can see this door opening from my vantage point up here and I wonder if Shen knows what he’s in for. Benefits, weeping – the whole Ferris Bueller work up. All for a kid everyone enjoyed picking at and beating on and generally terrorizing every minute of every day of every year.

Shenedoah Jones is now the name of the kid who gets the news story written about him. It’s the name of a guy who is on TV all the way in Dallas because of the community support surrounding him and his family. It’s the name of a guy, who, on the way to the hospital, had a stroke and fell unconscious and hasn’t woken up even though it’s three weeks later now.

I sit up here and I can still see the red smear on the road. I am not sure if it’s from his face or what. It’s still there, though, and it proves that sometimes your destiny isn’t planned for you. Sometimes gaps open into the ether just like the surprise doors in Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. You’re torn, herky-jerky from the path you were on, and you take the fork in the road whether you want to or not.

Shenandoah Jones had always agonized over not living up to his name. But maybe he should have agonized more about not living.

That’s not a very nice thing to say about a bullied kid in a coma, is it? It doesn’t matter. I’m a tenured angel so no one can say shit. What does matter is that I’m getting ready to wake up this poor SOB, and he is not going to know what hit him. So to speak.

You tell me, is it worse to be bullied everyday, or is it worse to be Ferris Bueller-ized by the kids that still hate you but have now latched onto you for attention and fame?

Shenedoah Jones is the name of a guy who is going to wake from a coma and then wish he was still asleep.

It’s the name of a guy who will sue the ever living shit out of Macy Anderson’s family and tear the town in two.

It’s the name of the guy who is sitting in the car in front of you on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.

Buckle up.

Charlie winces.

Hello? Yes, this is she.

Charlie tries to tip-toe out of the room.

I’m sorry to hear that.

A hand catches Charlie’s shirtsleeve.

Actually, she’s right here with me.

Charlie struggles.

No, she didn’t say anything about that.

Without thinking, Charlie peels the fingers off her shirtsleeve.

I don’t mind speaking with him at all.

A slap at Charlie’s hand, and then the fingers tighten on her shirt.

Hello, Mr. Blard. Yes, I can hear you. I can hear Mrs. Smith as well.

Charlie unbuttons her shirt, planning to leave it behind and run.

Yes, sir. Mrs. Smith was just filling me in on….

Charlie is pushed into a chair, a finger pointing at her menacingly.

Believe me, this will not go unpuni—-

Charlie tries to speak, but one look – that look – keeps her quiet.

I agree, she’s old enough to—-

What was that? Maybe, possibly, a note of irritation? Charlie’s hopes rise.

Well, sir, with all due respect—-

Definitely a note of irritation now. Charlie dares to meet her mother’s eyes.

Certainly provocation is no excuse, however—-

Eyes batting like a chagrined puppy, Charlie takes advantage of this window.

If you would please stop interrup—-

Charlie’s head cocks to the side as she tries to hear the other end of the conversation.

I am not sure that is at all a proper punishment. No I’m not—-

Charlie stands and tentatively places her hands on her hips.

Yes, Mrs. Smith. I see Mr. Blard’s point, but remember—-

Charlie screws up her face to show her feelings about the situation.

Sir! Ma’am! My daughter is 10 years old. She is not—-

Charlie dances in a small circle as her mother’s voice is raised.

No I do NOT think that is appropriate. No I do NOT think you should—-

Back in her seat again, Charlie feels her heart race.

Listen to me. A 10 year old girl should not be subjected to—-

Maybe it’s not a good idea for your mom to scream at the principal.

That is unacceptable! I am happy to take this to the school board to see what they—-

Maybe it’s not a good idea for your mom to scream at your teacher.

To be frank, Mrs. Smith, I think Mr. Bland is coming from left field here.

Charlie’s hand covers her eyes.

Yes, sir, well I’m sorry you feel that way.

Charlie sees her mother’s jaw clench.

I think an apology from both parties is in order.

Charlie gasps. Mr. Blard apologize to her?

I don’t think there is an age requirement when it comes to respect, and—-

A smile, a nod. Charlie feels the fingers release her shirt.

At least I’m not a book burner, you Nazi cow.

Charlie’s eyes widen.

It’s from a movie. Yes. Field of Dreams. Yes that’s a REAL movie.

Charlie and her mother roll their eyes together.

There are worse movies to quote from, believe me.

A giggle.

I agree she should respect her teacher. But he should respect her, too.

A thumbs up.

I will decide what books are appropriate for my daughter, thank you.

Charlie grabs her backpack.

Well then we agree to disagree.

A pen. Paper. Charlie scratches out a note.

Well. I will have to get back to you.

The phone beeps off. Charlie holds up the paper:

“I’m sorry you made me call you a book burning Nazi cow.”

Men can’t be cows, Charlie.

A pause. Charlie looks at her mother.

Bt they can be cowed.

Charlie doesn’t know what that means.

Go get ready for dinner.