Author X & Goldilocks

This time it was an emergency telephone call. When I answered I heard her panting. Thought at first it was my favorite obscene caller. But it was Author X. Desperately seeking sanity. Dangling on the edge.

"This time I swear I'm gonna do it," she told me.

"You're not."

"Yes, I am. Really. I'm about to hit delete. The entire manuscript is going to go up in technological smoke."

She's made this threat before. Happens every time she hits a dry spell. No agent interest. No writing inspiration.

"Think of all the hours you've invested in this project. Do you really want to give that all up?"

She blew her nose and the tears began. So did the song and dance - set to a blues beat. Woe is us - the chosen bunch who dare to think we can PUBLISH. Why, we must be mad, bonkers, complete and utterly loony.

That.

Thing is, what else can you do when you simply have to write?

I let her cry for a while then I reminded her. That gun to your head is in your own hands.

You can pull the trigger or you can set it down and stop with all the pressure.

"But I'm like Goldilocks," she whined. "One agent says my book is too short, one says its too long. I can't seem to find one who thinks its just right. It's beyond frustrating."

"Listen. You're missing it. The very fact that an agent is looking and responding at all is porridge, kid."

So in the end she did not destroy the fruit of her labor. We hung up with her agreeing it might be time for a short mental health break. And maybe a fairy tale or two.

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wrote a little story...

Very truly yours, Miley

After all this time, I finally managed to sneak Mommy's laptop away from her. You probably know me, from the bottom corner of this page. I'm Miley, the wonder-dog. To be honest, I'm the only one who actually calls me that. But I keep hoping one day the humans will think of it on their own. They can be adorably dense sometimes.

Mommy's been busy reading some book written by this mutt named Enzo. I've heard her say it's called "The Art of Racing in the Rain." She seems real impressed by the fact that this canine can write. Shoot, if I thought she'd get so excited over such a thing I'd have snatched this baby a long time ago and jotted down a line or a paragraph. I mean, maybe I don't have an entire novel in me, but I'm only 2 and a half. I hear stuff like that comes with age.

It's not like I don't have my stories to tell. There's a ton of material flying around this house.

At the risk of being a tattle-tail, I can tell you that when Mommy writes sometimes she says bad words. Strings of them. Once she snapped a pencil in two. Once I heard her say that writing is for the birds, which is odd since I had no clue that birds could read. Imagine that.

I know these people love me. They say so every day. Then there's the food and water supply which just magically gets replenished by the same invisible fairy that changes the toilet paper roll. At least that's what Mom tells the kids. If the humans could only get on board with the whole outdoors = potty idea I believe their lives would be a lot easier. Poor ignorant dears.

It's time for me to dash. I hope Mommy doesn't mind the tiny drops of drool on her keyboard. There's a chicken roasting in the oven and if I'm especially cute I just know I'll charm a little of it off their plates.

PS - When Mommy's book comes out, please buy it. She looks much better when she smiles.

Very truly yours, Miley

Januweary

Far be it for me to be the one to rain on any parades. A good lot of folks are still reveling. Happy New Years are still flying around the phrase circles in places like the grocery store and the dry cleaners. It seems some people are reluctant to let go of the holidays as they were, and the neighborly spirit as it comes around this time. I wish to respectfully suggest:

Drop that celebration and step away from the cheer.

Christmas is said and done and we've made it safely from one month to the next. Some hail it as a minor miracle. Some carry on as if there were a chance this may NOT have taken place.

And yet, odd as it might be, every 365 days another year presents itself. Presto.

So? Okay I DO get it.

It's a chance to start over - a proverbial clean slate. If 2010 were particularly troubling; if nothing went the way you'd hoped, dreamed or planned for - then perhaps the changing of the Calender Guard was in order. Maybe a sense of hope lay hidden among the last of October's leaves buried helplessly beneath the latest helping of snow.

Be that as it may, I, for one, am Janu-weary.

I suppose I'm a slow starter. Still need to shake off the trappings of the season. Once I catch my breath and recover there's no telling what enthusiastic sentiment awaits.

Until then, I remain true - a wee bit worn, slightly shell-shocked, and ever the eternal optimist that after a few dozen really good naps I'll be good as new. But, for now, the sign dangles from the door handle:

Do Not Disturb

We Made It - No Blinking

And another 365 days have sprouted wings and left us. Here I am, already having visions of creamy sand beaches and wet toes, hearing the sound of the waves rushing at the shore. If I blink, I just know I'll be there again; at the ocean, welcoming a warm summer day. As quick as quick can ever be. For now, if only for a moment. Maybe I won't blink. Happy New Year, all.