Halloooowwweeeeen!

by,

Kathie Shoop

Well, it’s here. Do you love it? I was never a fan. Not as a kid or an adult. As a kid I always felt pressure to have a better costume than I did. I know, woe is me.

Anyone who grew up in the seventies or before has suffered at the hands of parents who didn’t give a damn what the cool costume was a given year. And I know, that means we were forced into situations where creativeness could develop, etc. etc. But sometimes it was just pure embarrassment when for some reason your creativity did not show itself.

As an adult, I never understood the appeal of grown-ups dressing up in costume. I know, I know, boring. I am, that’s true. My husband and I did our best to devise non-costumes when we were invited to parties. Our favorite was to go as Pitt fans as many a party fell on football Saturday.
But, I have to say, now that I have kids, I’m seeing the spooky holiday through a different lens.
I’ve not poisoned my children with my negative attitude toward the creepy, dark fun of Halloween.

They’ve coaxed, no pushed me into decorating inside and out, and it’s been fun to see them plan costumes. My favorite they’ve worn so far were good old fashioned ghosts, fashioned from sheets. As I watch them traipse down the sidewalk, out into the street tonight, dressed as a black cat and a combination skeleton/vampire who boasts a Clone Wars firearm, I’ll wonder how they’ll remember Halloween, whether someday they’ll dread it. And, I sincerely hope they always think it’s fun, that they always find fun in everything they do.

How about you? What are your best/worst Halloween memories?

Seeking Wisdom, Finding Nothing

by,
Kathie Shoop

I'm not a politician nor am I a religious theologian. But I am interested in both and I'm equally disgusted by both. I might be easily confused compared to the rest of the world, but I don't see how trying to keep up on the issues means that you actually derive any sort of wisdom that might inform my life decisions.

Who do you believe? There isn't a person in the world, scholar, religious leader, or hack who can withstand the scrutiny of newscasters/critics/Joe Blow. What are we doing here, making every single person who has an opinion on one thing or another out to be a complete moron? It's possible, I'm convinced, to take the most intelligent person on the planet look like he/she's just graduating from kindergarten. Likewise, no one is without bias, we need to understand the perspectives of people who are experts and have influence on the world stage and make decisions accordingly.

Now, the fact that the political arena is a mess and in my opinion, much of religion is just steps behind in its messiness is no excuse for me to throw my hands up and stop trying to figure things out, to opt out of the pursuit to understand. But, I have to admit, there's a part of me that doesn't want to care about anything outside of my own circle of life. Wouldn't things be easier to just tune out all the news, watch a little Nick with the kids, write my novels, and just wait for things to happen?

Perhaps the rest of the world isn't so confused...happy election year, everyone!

Looking To The New Year

by
Kathie Shoop

I almost like the week between Christmas and New Years as much as everything that leads up to the 25th. I love that the excitement of Christmas is dialed back during the week following, but it’s still not a normal week. For those seven days I’m insulated from heavy Pittsburgh grayness, dashed expectations, rejections from publishers, and the rush of everyday life. I just relax and take advantage of the slowness.

I often use this week to think about life and what is missing and I write resolutions. The bigger picture --make the world a better place, be one with the universe, etc--gets lost in my list these days. I realized that my resolutions are really a long-term to-do list. I'm not sure there's anything wrong with that, but I do know at one time, my goals were loftier than they are now.

For instance, I wrote that I will:

• finish my WIP
• send it to my agent with fingers crossed
• start new book
• publish articles/essays
• write with my kids at least twice a week
• be a better housekeeper (gag)
• get organized
• lose weight
• eat healthier, not to lose weight but to be healthier
• get back to running—not just walking
* yoga
• THERE ARE SO MANY MORE, I’M EMBARRASSED TO GO ON…

Guess which ones are no brainers for me.

Yes, anything related to writing. Really, that’s just my work, but at one time, the writing was a dream. The things related to writing are more like a to-do list at this point than they are lofty resolutions. Seeing that is huge for me and leaves me feeling at peace—that I’ve made the right career decision in the face of chronic illness and life with small children. At one time, the healthy, skinny body was reality--easy to achieve. Life got in the way and the areas of writing and “healthy bodyness” have completely replaced one another in their achievability.

I’m partly stunned because these two areas of being don’t encapsulate who I am, yet they show up consistently as resolutions making me seem very one dimensional. Maybe they define me more than I think. The other thing that stops me is that the list was easily drawn out to include thirty items—without stopping, I listed dozens of things that need improvement or simply need to be done in my life. And, sitting here the week after Christmas in my holiday haze, thirty-five things actually seems reasonable. That makes me crazy and irritating, but remember I'll be sympathetic as I don't succeed in ticking off every item on my list (see weight loss and Yoga).

The making of resolutions can be useless in many ways, but it can be a gauge of how things are going. Perhaps padding it with enough achievable items prevents me from screaming” I’ll never make another list of stinking resolutions as long as I live!” How are your lists looking so far?

Happy New Year to my fellow Working Stiffs and I hope to see you all at least five times (at various meetings) in the coming year as is in detailed in number thirteen of 2008’s resolutions.

Cheers to you all and thank you for your endless stores of support and enthusiasm—I appreciate it very much!

Kathie

Kindly Submit Your Décor Plans with your Tax Return

by,

Kathie Shoop

Since Congress doesn’t seem able to make headway in the weighty issues of the day, I’ve decided they should get the following law on the books post-haste:

“Each person purchasing a home over two million dollars with the means to sink another two mil into their décor must submit a plan detailing the type of décor, the reason for liking it and why they’re choosing to include the items they’ve selected if they can’t actually identify their decorating style.”

So what inspired me to take to my self-righteous, home décor bully-pulpit? I watched Posh Beckham’s show which is called something like Coming to America. It profiles her arrival with her soccer playing husband. Part of the show covered her as she’s introduced to fellow richies in Beverly Hills and the cameras follow Posh as she looks at homes she may or may not purchase.

I found myself thinking the ultra-wealthy simply can’t be trusted to decorate their own homes.

I’ve known for a long time that wealth doesn’t guarantee taste and I realize that the very people I denigrate would enter my home and be repulsed in the same way I was while watching their homes flash upon my TV.

However, my decorating has been handicapped by so many variables that listing them here would just depress the readers, but I can promise that the most prohibitive factor in creating an upscale yet warm environment is in fact, money.

So what the hell happens to all these people when they’ve finally lined their pockets with enough cash to splurge on the home of their dreams? Could velvet wall-paper, silky curtains so shiny you can see your reflection in them and lacquered black surfaces covering 9/10ths of the table-tops really be the stuff fantasies are made of?

And while my claws are out I would be remiss if I didn’t suggest that the décor law be extended to those ultra-richies who cannot stop at just five plastic surgeries. Seriously. One should not alter the landscape of their person (for purely recreational purposes) more than five times without written consent from Christy Brinkley’s personal shopper/beauty consultant.

Watching Posh throw back whiskey shots with women who have turned themselves into cartoons was just too much. Don’t get me wrong. My biggest fear about getting plastic surgery (besides being in the percentage of people who get a staph infection) is that I couldn’t stop at just one surgery. Like redecorating the home, once you paint the living room, there’s the couch to deal with, the flooring, accessories. Where would I begin? Where would I stop? I am the person who would most need the law I’ve proposed. But at least I realize my weakness which allows me to reenter the world of self-righteousness, right?

Yes, I realize the control is in my hands. I don’t have to watch reality TV. I have the power to just say no, to turn off the TV or change the channel—the history channel is readily available for viewing, but in life there are so few times to feel truly superior and tonight, watching that freak show, I felt damn ordinary and damn glad that I am.

Wasting Time while Learning Something, Too

By Kathie Shoop

The other night I was searching for a way to avoid revisions. This wasn’t hard to do with the internet at my fingertips. Through some convoluted path I can’t recall, I ended up reading Amazon.com reviews for some of my favorite books.

There are two books I like so much that every word I read makes me want to toss my computer into the Allegheny and if possible, rip any inclination to put words to paper from my brain or heart, or wherever the drive to write comes from because why should I bother writing if these two authors have already written my story and better than I ever will?

A lot of the reviews mirrored my thoughts and feelings toward the books. But I was shocked to read a good number of reviews were not only negative, they were scathing. Nearly word for word the negative reviews were the polar opposite of the positive ones. And mean, those things were mean.

Putting the tone of the angry, searing ones aside—what makes people say such incredibly rude things on a public forum deserves its own post—I learned a lot about the process of getting published.

What I learned was nothing new. I’d heard it before, but this time it became tangible—the notion that reading is subjective and the world rarely agrees that the same books are great.

I’m well aware everyone has their favorite authors and categories of literature and I know humor plays different to different ears, but when I started reading those reviews I never in a million years suspected people could think these great writers, are crap (not my word). But there it was.

I felt a surge of relief. Maybe the people who rejected me are wrong. It is just their opinion.

It’s not that reading the reviews let me off the hook for preparing the best manuscript possible (I did eventually get back to my revisions), but it was comforting to see even the published ones aren’t categorically praised by the everyday reader. These two authors, well respected, widely and well sold were told they can’t write for anything—that their work was unreadable, unworthy, the result of nepotism.

There will always be people who think I can’t write, that my stories aren’t well-done, that I single-handedly forced the earth’s temp to rise a degree from wasting trees on my book. But there will be the others who enjoy my work, find meaning in it, who smile while reading it.

Mostly, I learned that avoiding my future Amazon reviews will be top priority. No good can come from reading those bad-boys.

Boundaries and Very Happy People

by,

Kathie Shoop

Are people who cross boundaries, physically and verbally, happier?

Maybe? Yesterday, sitting in Panera Bread, enjoying coffee while toiling away on my current novel, my attention shifted to two elderly (meaning mid-80’s) women and a young man (60ish) who approached them.

He boomed his hello to both ladies then squatted next to the one he was less familiar with, put his arm around her shoulder, made constant and hard eye-contact with her, and hung on every word she said. He spoke periodically, injecting words conveying admiration for the woman’s gumption, get-up-and-go and vigorous life. How does he know all this after just meeting her sixty-five seconds before?

Maybe he listened in on them for a while before approaching—-who would do that, be so rude and profoundly boundary-adverse?

I stared, waiting for a patronizing word, expression or eye-roll on the part of the man. Nothing. The guy was spellbound, absorbed in this woman’s words. For real. His eyes crinkled in laughter, he grinned and responded as though he’d waited his entire life to squat next to this woman and hear her theory on the merits of Groundhog Phil’s latest prediction.

Squatty-man made me think of another fella my husband Bill and I met years ago. We frequented—though often separately—the Brueggers in Shady Side. We compared notes on the new manager, Tom—his mega-watt smile, questions about our dog, the fact he remembered we had a dog and figured out Bill and I were married based on the dog’s description, the way our orders were ready upon arrival, but mostly his grin—his obvious joy at being alive.

“What do you make of that manager, Tom?” I asked.
“Got me,” Bill said.
“Got you, what? You think he’s actually that happy, that nice?” I said.
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Probably, my ass. Something’s up with that guy.” I said.

Turned out Tom was that nice. Too nice. He got fired for giving his favorite customers freebies (which turns out Bill and I weren’t on the list of favorite customers as he’d never even tried to force extra napkins on us, never mind the seven layer cookie by the cash register). But when Tom turned up at a competing bagel chain in North Oakland, he was just as happy, not a trace of bitterness that his overly solicitous nature had bitten him in the ass. Just more of the nice guy stuff.

These types of people never fail to make me smile and then I immediately, mentally drown them in suspicious thoughts. I wonder what came first—their open, joy at living then their push past the boundaries most of us observe out of politeness, laziness or unconcern? Or are these people boundary jumpers by nature and in the end their risks result in a richer happier existence even with occasional negative consequences?

PS
Since Working Stiffs is the Mystery/Thriller Writer blog of choice, I must offer this brainstorm I had on the turnpike yesterday—I looked up at the man taking my money and the image of him as serial killer popped into my mind—I don’t know why. But, what if he started writing down license plate numbers, stalking people??? Just an idea. Maybe it’s been done, but if not, feel free to use it!

Worst Blog Post in History...

by,
Kathie Shoop
Housewifecafe.com

Brace yourself, because this will be it. The worst post ever. I foraged around my life for the past few days, searching for something cute to blog about, but came up empty.

So, I'm left to present what's foremost on my writing mind--my WIP. I'm totally reworking a novel I started last year but abandoned when I began the rewrites for the novel that didn't sell.

But as I'm writing, from scratch, I find I'm not in love with the story as I seemed to have been with all previous novels. I've asked around a bit and gotten mixed responses: Some people think it's fine not to have every sentence invoke emotion in the writer. Others think I should let it go and move onto something else.

My trusty readers like the story and don't sense my disconnectedness in the novel.

I think I'll end up finishing it--I can have the first draft (of the new version) done in six weeks. I don't want to start leaving a trail of writing remnants behind me. I'm thinking this is when writing moves from purely an artistic phase to one of work--the job I want to do. Overall, the process is exactly what I want to be engaged in, it's just this one feels a bit different and I'm simply unsure of how to view it.

What do you guys think? Have you gone through this?

BTW, insomnia got me tonight and if anyone needs a late night flick, try "In the Bedroom" (Sissy Spacek, Marisa Tomei) on IFC and PS (Laura Linney) on Encore.

Sorry for the glum post...

DRUGSTORE FUN 1/7/07

By,
Kathie Shoop


The last four months have brought substantial sickness to my home—at least three spells of strep per person to give you an idea. The last bout came a week ago and because the drugstore was backed up, I had the opportunity to take a close look around the new Walgreens in Oakmont.

Many of my writer friends have a thing for office supply stores. They rarely make it out of Staples without spending at least $100—not including the cost of manuscript copies.

For some reason my heart doesn’t beat a little faster when I’m in a Staples, but boy, set me loose in a drug store and I can’t whip my MAC card out fast enough.

First, I ambled down the baby aisle, feeling the urge for a third baby, marveling at how fast baby-care products change. Just two years ago I bought regular old diapers and sippy cups. Now, apparently, those same items do things like call your name when your child is wet or out of juice.

Next, I wandered into the skin care aisle. This one sported an unprecedented variety of body lotions, sprays, powders, and soaps with matching candles and air fresheners. Most interesting was a line of products called “Bodman.”

One fragrance in the Bodman line was “Really Ripped Abs.” Really? I thought only women were silly enough to think spraying one’s body with frangranced liquid could change, at the cellular level, flab to anything other than mushy lard. Another scent was called Black—licorice, maybe? And another, Fresh Blue Musk—well, who knows, but suffice it say I was surprised men had jumped so fully into the ocean of ridiculous body products.

I perused the make-up aisle and almost spent $110 dollars on liquid foundation, sponges to apply foundation, a new shade of lip-liner, eye-shadow, and foundation that is actually a powder. Juggling these products, a line of seventeen people gave me the time to realize I couldn’t imagine, not even in my writer’s mind, four successive days when I’d manage to apply one type of foundation, let alone two.

Empty-handed and back near the pharmacy section of the store, I checked out the plethora of home tests available. Drug tests for marijuana, cocaine, prescription drugs and others I can’t now remember. Other kits checked for HIV, yeast infections, and even ear infections.

New pregnancy tests allow prospective parents to discern conception during intercourse and ovulation can be mapped out and charted with just one urine-drenched stick—yes, the stick actually fills out the chart for you.

Who needs an HMO with all this stuff available to the public? If only we could write and fill our own prescriptions then turn around and combine just the right ingredients to formulate a body spray called “You’ll look like Julia Roberts, You Dumb Ass,” we’d be in business.

The Art of Blogging and the Wisdom of Broccoli

December 3, 2006

Kathleen Shoop


For me, blogging isn't an artform although I realize it is for some. When I do a post, there's no flow, or an intense need to get my thoughts into the blogosphere. I don't stare wistfully at my creation, marveling at some unknown source that birthed the illuminating content. I know how it was formed and finished because I forced every word onto the page, almost like giving birth to an infant. Both events require work. More than I wish was necessary.

I understand the importance of seeding a web-presence which will eventually help sell stacks of my books, right? But really, the more I blog, the more fun it gets. I love to visit other sites and converse with people I’d never have otherwise met. The network of writers is inspirational and sometimes I do wonder how such relationships came to be so vital so fast and from afar.

The most important event in my blogging life occurred this week. I was contacted and temporarily booked to star on the Montel Williams Show! Okay, so maybe not STAR on the show, but I was invited to sit on a panel as the token “average” housewife and discuss politics. I was stunned that a production assistant found my website by googling a few key terms. I thought it was a joke and hesitantly emailed back waiting for someone to jump from behind the couch yelling “You’re a fool, Kathie dear!”

The email and the person behind it was legit and although the producer changed the format of the show and didn't need me, it taught me a lesson. A web-presence is important and has an impact on platform and hopefully someday, sales. The idea that I can build something from nothing and not have to “know somebody” to be asked onto a national talk show is shocking and gives me hope that I wield a modicum of control over my writing destiny.

This brings me to Broccoli and Anne Lamott. As far as I can see, the writing life Lamott prescribes—patience, intuition, wisdom--is the exact opposite of the demanding blogging life—just get something down, now! Anything, damn it!

Lamott uses an example in her book, Bird by Bird, that tells me to listen to my broccoli, that it will tell me how to eat it (Lamott borrowed the broccoli thing from a Mel Brooks routine). Lamott suggests sitting with writing dilemmas, allowing characters to guide me to the next solution, action, word. Forcing thoughts and demanding a character perform as I thought she should instead of how she wants to will result in less thrilling prose than could have been. If I'd only listened.

Lamott also states that great writers “keep writing about the cold dark place within…” Digging to those icy depths requires deliberate awareness and action in the midst of quiet. This combination should reveal the chilly place where great characters are born.

I suppose the trick is to create a fertile space that nurtures wonderful characters while simultaneously courting the product-oriented blogosphere in hopes its lush landscape will reward me in the end.

That's not so hard, right?

Happy Holidays, everyone!