Katy McDermott

Before he died many years ago, my father told me, “Count your blessings, young lady!” I can’t claim he meant it as any sort of deep and lasting legacy-ish statement. I was about 6, and he was probably trying to get me to eat my vegetables by reminding me how many unlucky children had no Brussels sprouts at all. (I don’t think that line of reasoning swayed me much…)

Now that I’m an adult, though, I find that phrase comes in handy a lot, despite my firmly agnostic worldview.

“Count your blessings, young lady.”

To me, it means simply, “if you change how you look at things, you’ll appreciate them more.”

Take grocery shopping. We do it every week, and it’s about as mundane a chore as you can find. Milk? Check. Cereal? Check. Cat litter? Check. Stuff for dinners? Snacks for work? Check and check.

However – and this is the important part – pretend you’re a newly arrived immigrant from a country with a restrictive, totalitarian regime. Years ago, I saw stories on the news about citizens in what was then the Soviet Union waiting in line for hours for a stick of butter and some bootlaces. And while I’m sure the butter-and-bootlace situation has greatly improved, I still use the image.

The average American grocery store contains thousands of colorful choices from apricot jam to Ziploc bags and everything in between. Butter? Try five different brands. And then of course there’s light butter, heart-healthy butter, unsalted butter, and whipped butter (and let’s not even talk about all the other dairy products – there must be 50 different kinds of yogurt alone!) As for bootlaces, just check out the “shoe care” section of the laundry aisle – what color would you like?

See? Imagine that’s your perspective, and what used to be a chore will seem like a miracle.

“Count your blessings, young lady.”

Think about purging and reorganizing the dreaded junk drawer. Could anything be more boring? Is it any wonder we put it off?

My junk drawer at the moment contains (among other things) a pair of scissors that frequently takes itself out on excursions, several half-used rolls of tape, a couple of train schedules, a bunch of take-out menus, a random candy cane, a battered package of airsickness pills purchased at the Dublin airport four years ago, and a spare house key.

Or, as I can choose to think of it, a memory book.

How many presents have I used those scissors and tape to wrap? We brought each one to a party, a time we got together with friends and family for laughter, food, embarrassing stories… Those train schedules call to mind all the homecoming hugs I’ve received from my out-of-state brother and nephew. I only see them once or twice a year, so those visits are extra-special… The take-out menus make me think of all the lovely Friday nights my family and I have enjoyed – the work week over, no desire to cook, how about some Chinese food and what DVD should we watch tonight?… That rogue candy cane must have made a stealthy escape – its compatriots decorated our Christmas tree, our stockings, and half our presents last year. That rogue candy cane, all by itself, makes me remember a truly magical day just this past December: we trimmed our tree, watched heartwarming holiday specials (is there anyone who doesn’t tear up at the Grinch’s ice-cold feet in the snow, incongruously sweet dog, and singing-inspired change of heart?), baked cookies, and listened to Christmas carols like “Chipmunks Roasting on an Open Fire” (okay, okay – I can only do so much of the Norman Rockwell stuff)… The airsickness pills remind me of a glorious vacation in Ireland, complete with unimaginably gorgeous countryside, lots of Guinness, and an unexpected upgrade to a penthouse suite… And the house key? Simply another reminder of how lucky we are to be homeowners, especially in these precarious economic times.

A reminder, in fact, to “Count your blessings, young lady.”

This past week, we had two snowstorms here in Philadelphia. Our development has no garages, and we watched through frost-encased windows as our cars gradually became individual, indistinguishable igloos. Finally, this past Wednesday night, the snow slackened for an hour or two, and a lot of us residents began the long process of digging out…

Normally, we’d just nod grimly and try not to dump snow on our neighbors’ slowly-emerging vehicles. The conditions on Wednesday, however, were extreme even by blizzard standards. People carried their dogs instead of walking them, shoveling small spaces for the animals to “go.” Neighbors lent each other shovels, passed around snow-melt and salt, exchanged tales of unplowed roads, and a few hardy college kids even brought out snowboards to try on the local hills. Perhaps it was the late hour, perhaps the unexpected camaraderie, but somehow it turned into a party. People chilled beers in snowbanks that are gardens in the spring, and by the end of it, we wound up with a group of folks at the bar in our basement. We made tentative plans to hold a poker game – plans that something tells me will become definite.

New friends.

Another blessing for me to count.

I know you were just trying to get me to eat Brussels sprouts… but thanks, Dad.

The Winter Olympics are fast approaching, and that made me think of this essay. I wrote it a few years back for the Summer Olympics – but I think the sentiments are the same…

For my money, the greatest moments of any Olympics happen before the first shot has been put, the first dive drilled, or the first dismount stuck. I’m talking, of course, about the Opening Ceremonies – and specifically, the Parade of Nations. For about two hours (although it seems a lot longer to those who carp about it every four years), colorfully clad representatives of every nation on earth march together into one stadium, and are greeted by the roar of untold thousand voices simply because they exist, and they are together.

It’s a fantasy – we all know it. There are athletes standing next to each other in that stadium from countries sworn to destroy each other. As soon as the Games begin, nationalism, ignorance, and prejudice will shoulder themselves to the front of the line as they always do. When the Games begin, accusations will be hurled and festering hatreds will boil unchecked. 

But not tonight. Not this night.

As an American, I find the Parade of Nations both poignant and curiously humbling.  Watching it from my comfortable, gadget-saturated house in the most advanced country on earth is almost embarrassing. Burundi, for example, gets to me. It’s great to see Americans win medals – joy is joy, and infectious in any language. But all the same, I know our athletes are well-fed, well-funded, and often bolstered by legions of everything from nutritionists to sports psychologists to massage therapists. Do the Burundian (Burundese?) athletes have massage therapists? I’m guessing not, which makes their one Olympic medal (in Atlanta, 1996) all the more impressive.

Every four years, I realize anew how ignorant I am of global expansion. When I was in college 20-odd years ago, I took a class in World Geography from a notoriously crusty and much-loved professor. By the end of that course, by God, I could name every country on earth and its capital (including my all-time favorite, Ouagadougou – look it up).  Today, I realize, I wouldn’t make it past the mid-term.

What is Barbuda, and when did Antigua adopt it? Comoros? Never heard of it. Kiribati? Not ringing a bell. São Tomé and Principe? I think someone just made that one up. And when did Guinea start procreating? Now we’ve got plain old Guinea, Papua New Guinea, Equatorial Guinea and Guinea-Brissau. We make so much of the birth of our nation here in America, yet there is a veritable nursery full of nations that have been born in recent decades, and somehow I never heard a word. 

Of all the young and unsung nations I encountered during this year’s Parade of Nations, however, none affected me as much as Nauru. Here was the proud Nauruan (Nauruese?) delegation – all three of them, I think – striding into the Olympic stadium behind their beloved Nauru flag, their one athlete surely as excited and overwhelmed as our own poster boy Michael Phelps, and I didn’t even know what continent the country was in.  When I looked it up, I found myself wishing with all my heart that Nauru had a ringer – a come-from-behind, who-is-this-guy upstart who would win the 100-meter dash and show our coddled American darlings what was what. 

Nauru is the smallest independent republic in the world. You could fit its total population into your average football stadium in the States and probably have room left over for São Tomé and Principe. Nauru’s main source of revenue is bird guano – and they’re running out of that. It’s the only nation on earth that doesn’t even have a capital city. God, I want them to win something.

When we talk about the Olympic spirit, we usually mean it in an individual context – Kerri Strug vaulting on an injured ankle, Jesse Owens and Ludwig “Luz” Long forging an unlikely friendship in Berlin, Al Oerter winning gold in 4 consecutive Olympics and continuing to compete far beyond that. But to me, the Olympic spirit is best embodied by the Parade of Nations – that one magic night when the biggest cheers are reserved for the smallest nations, the understudies on the world stage, the ones who work hard, show up, and hope for a miracle. Will they win medals, these under-funded, unknown underdogs?  For most of them, the answer is probably not (although in the case of Nauru, I have high hopes – any nation that can found itself on guano is a force to be reckoned with.)

So okay, most of the lesser-known players will go home without hardware. But on Parade of Nations night, they’re there. 

They’re there together, and I’m glad.

Apologies to my devoted-yet-miniscule readership. I haven’t been updating this blog for the simple reason that I haven’t been writing. Why, you ask? See if you can guess:

1. I broke both arms in a freak fencing accident.

2. I won the lottery and have only just returned from a round-the-world cruise.

3. I quit smoking and have been too much of a depressed loon to take on a big new endeavor.

If you guessed “3,” you’re right! Ding, ding, ding! Johnny, tell the lady what she’s won!

Incidentally, in addition to being a depressed loon, I’m also extremely vulnerable to “trigger” situations – and writing is the biggest for me. Pen in one hand, cigarette in the other – that’s always been my modus operandi. I’m like Pavlov’s dog - now I just need to reprogram my brain to do something other than smoke (or eat!) when I start to write…

I’ve gotten a new “writing chair,” de-smokified my office, steam cleaned the carpet and laundered the curtains, but I’m not quite feeling strong enough yet. (Last time I quit, I went back to smoking after 5 days because I tried to write and couldn’t). I’m getting there, though – today is Day 47, and I’m starting to really miss writing. So I’ll probably get back into it soon…

In the meantime, there’s lots of research to be done. In non-smoking environs, thankfully!

(Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I haven’t heard a word about Meeting Darkness yet. I don’t want to be a pest, so I’m not going to follow up with the agent for another month. I suppose all this enforced patience is good for my soul or something…)

Well, Meeting Darkness is done. Written, typed, proofread, edited (several times), and finalized.

And I just sent the full manuscript off to an agent (who’d read the first two chapters and said he’d be willing to look at the whole thing.) Now, it’s time for me to fret in earnest… What if he doesn’t like it? What if I never hear back from him? And so on…

I wrote in my last post that I was already starting to make notes for my third book, and so I am.

But I’m taking the day off tomorrow (and not setting the alarm for a change). And tonight, I’m planning to catch up on all the mindless reality TV my writing/typing/editing schedule hasn’t allowed for lately. Vegging on the couch, a cat in my lap, a glass of good wine on the coffee table, my husband in his big comfy chair…

I’ll start writing again soon, but for now, that sounds like absolute heaven.

Cheers!

So what have I been up to lately? Why have I forsaken all 3 of my regular blog readers?

Well, there are two reasons, actually.

Reason #1: I’ve been typing like mad to key in the finished manuscript of my second book, Meeting Darkness (did I mention that I’d settled on a title? And I like it!). There’s an agent who’s willing to look at the full manuscript, and I don’t want to keep him waiting. Unfortunately, I write longhand, so nothing’s been typed in yet – hence the long absence from posting to my blog.  (The upcoming holiday weekend looks to be a typing fest – carpal tunnel, here I come!) It may prove to be fruitless – but at least I’ll have a typewritten manuscript at the end of it.

Two: I’ve started making notes for my third book, believe it or not (and sometimes even I don’t). I want to read in the evening, but I find my hand keeps straying to my notebook. Who’s the killer, who’s the victim, what are the clues, what’s the motive… I can see the birth of a new obsession even now.

My third book, God help me. And I haven’t even finished typing my second…

According to Stephen King, “the road to hell is paved with adverbs.” Ernest Hemingway used almost no adverbs. In fact, scores of English professors have noted that adverbs are a sure sign of lazy writing.

Oops.

I use them, I admit. Use them too much, probably. I often find there’s no better way to inject a bit of color into a character’s action than to add a nice juicy adverb. The writing guides (as well as Mr. King and those English professors) advise against it, of course. They suggest that a writer should always substitute a stronger verb for a weaker-verb-plus-adverb combo.

But I have to ask: is “So-and-so simpered” always better than “So-and-so said sweetly”? I think the answer is simple: sometimes yes, sometimes no. When I reach the editing phase of my book, I plan to look at every single adverb and see if I can replace it with a stronger verb. But in some cases, I’ll leave things as they are.

To me, adverbs are like the directions screenwriters must put in their scripts to tell actors how to say a certain line. I tend to write like I’m talking, and I want my readers to feel like they’re eavedropping on people’s conversations. And so, I believe, adverbs have their place.

After all, JK Rowling uses loads of adverbs in her Harry Potter books – and she’s the richest woman in England.

Seriously.

I’m not finished my first draft yet (still writing it – yes, in longhand – feel free to chortle at will), but I just reached the 2/3 mark. I know the time is fast approaching when I’ll need to key everything into Word, which begs the question: what will I do about those pesky grammar questions?

For example: sometimes I write “two o’clock in the afternoon,” sometimes “2:00pm,” and sometimes “2pm.” Which is correct? “Toward” vs “towards” gives me fits, as does “into” vs “in to.” And punctuation within a phrase (when a character thinks something to him- or herself)? Don’t get me started.

It’s all quite humbling. I pride myself on good grammar and excellent spelling. (It makes me crazy when I see “affect” and “effect” confused in a presentation at work.) But with a 300-page manuscript, there are ample opportunities for mistakes. Mistakes that could make my final book look unprofessional at best and downright sloppy at worst.

But I won’t be doing it alone, that’s one comfort. Thank God for my eagle-eyed copy editor!

Recently, I visited the 5th and 6th grade classes at the school where my mother-in-law teaches. The purpose? For me to talk to the kids about writing – specifically, the importance of revision. The result? A lesson for me about the importance of persistence.

It started innocuously enough. The 5th grade class dutifully raised their hands (ah, Catholic school – plaid uniforms and knee socks – it all came rushing back!) and asked me questions about Meeting Murder. Why had I chosen to write a mystery? Where did I get my ideas? How did I think up names for the characters?

As I answered, I was afraid a silence would fall – how could I engage a roomful of tweens on the subject of writing, of all things? As it turns out, very easily. All I needed to do was ask who had read the Harry Potter series (all of them) and who had read the Twilight series (all of the girls).

After a brief detour to discuss the relative hotness of Robert Pattinson and Daniel Radcliffe, I told the kids why I think JK Rowling is the far superior writer – excellent dialogue, fully realized characters, intricate plots, and terrific pacing.

Eventually, the conversation turned back to Meeting Murder. I passed around one of my notebooks containing part of a handwritten early draft, which I hoped would make an impression on the students. (Shout-out to my husband Jack for the idea – thanks Jack!)

Well, I know it made an impression on at least one boy. He flipped through the many pages of crossed-out, arrow-filled, insert-laden handwriting, and announced in a horrified voice that there were “too many words!”

(That was one of my favorite comments of the day. My absolute favorite, though, came from another boy who asked me “Are you famous?” To which I optimistically replied “Not yet.”)

Then the kids started asking me questions about my current book. Do I work on it all the time? Well, most nights, I answered – not being famous yet, I still have to go to my regular job every day. How long will it take? It should be done before Christmas, I said. I’m shooting for a completed first draft by the third week of July, then allowing another few months for rewrites, then several more weeks for a final polish.

Which is where my lesson comes in.  Why am I doing this? My first book isn’t exactly a bestseller (yet!) In fact, my latest royalty report shows that I sold exactly 6 copies in February.

And yet, I keep going. Stubbornness and refusal to face reality? Perhaps… but I prefer the reasoning I offered to one of the 6th graders: once you know what you love to do, you’ve got to keep doing it.

I’ve always been an eat-your-vegetables kind of girl (well, perhaps not vegetables – hate them, and I rebelled against them even as a child – but you know what I mean.) That’s how I’ve been as I write this book – I’m writing it linearly, as the reader will experience the story, trusting the end will work itself out.

Problem is: I’m not quite sure how the book will end myself.

Now that I’m halfway through, it’s time to start plotting my end-game. Which has meant departing from my usual routine of trying to write at least two scenes during the week and focusing instead on the big picture – all the way up to the ending. I’m making lots of notes, but not writing any scenes per se.

I’ve known where the story needs to go for a while now, but as I said, I just haven’t known exactly how to get there. Giving myself the week “off” from writing has proven to be incredibly freeing – and instructive. What if this person does that? What if that person says this? The developments have been a bit surprising, to be honest – the story has taken at least one turn that I never planned on – but the changes all make sense.

And hopefully, make a better book…

It’s enough to make me want to buy a Tastykake Chocolate Junior from the vending machine at work and skip my spinach salad lunch entirely.

Remember those kits we had as children? A box of watercolors or crayons or even magic markers (belated apologies to my mother on that last one), a black and white drawing of a princess or a field of horses… all we had to do was follow the diagram, and soon there would be a four-color masterpiece. (Well, it seemed masterful to me at age 6, anyway…)

I miss them sometimes, those kits. And I find myself applying a similar principle to my writing: drawing = outline, painting = book. I’ve learned to do most of my outlining on the weekends, when what time I have is  little less structured. Since I try to write almost every day, and most weeknights I can only fiind an hour or so to do it, it helps to have a template.

What I do is make a super-short list of the scenes I need to write for my next chapter, then try to outline the first few scenes over the weekend. Often, by the time Wednesday night rolls around and I’ve written all the scenes I’ve outlined, I’m “into” the book to keep going – flying without a net, you might say. And, of course, I never need to outline the scenes with my main characters, Laurie and Tim. I know then pretty well by now.

But I’ll admit – as much as I appreciate the model, I hope my fnished product is just a little more professional than a paint-by-nunbers picture!