Not-To-Do

by Rachel Brady

I can't remember where I read the idea of a Not-To-Do List, but it amused me enough to give it a try.

The idea wasn't to make a list of things you aren't going to do. Rather, the challenge was to stop living by our To-Do lists, which often unnecessarily perpetuate the busy-ness cycle that for many of us never seems to end.

The gist, as I recall, was that necessary things will get done whether we list them or not. We will remember to go to the grocery store. We will have clean underwear. We will pay our bills. We will clean the bathroom. We will pick up that birthday gift . . .

These things are probably going to happen on time whether we write them down or not. How likely are we to let necessities and responsibilities lapse? "Senior moment" and forgetfulness jokes aside, my guess is that for most of us, it's really not going to happen.

I think that habitual list people (like me) are actually using our lists to organize thoughts and feel productive. But, much as I like those things, my opinions on clutter are well documented, and lately I'm not so sure that the itemized tasks I've been putting on lists all these years are anything more than visual clutter -- reminders of things I "should" be doing. Nevermind that they will all be finished one way or the other, listed or not, because I'm not going to starve, wear dirty clothes, forget my mortgage payment, overlook that my bathroom is dirty, or fail to acknowledge someone's special day.

Like parsing through a closet during spring cleaning, I'm taking a long look at what I'm willing to put on a To-Do list now. Doing away with them entirely wouldn't work for me. But I've stopped putting low-to-moderate importance tasks on them because of reasons already mentioned. Why make the busy-ness appear any worse than it already is?

My lists are much shorter, my stress level diminished.

I read another thing a while ago that I loved, loved, loved: If it takes less than a minute, do it now.

Since reading that I've discovered (to my embarrassment) that many things I was listing -- either on paper or in my mind -- don't deserve to be on any list because they can be done in less than a minute. I kid you not: clean a toilet, organize my kids' shoes, refill a bird feeder, wipe counters, pay a bill, sort mail . . . I could go on but I don't really like lists anymore. :)

The inspiration for this blog came recently when I was feeling overwhelmed and decided to "organize some thoughts." My To-Do list was three items long, and judging from the noise in my mind, severely deficient at capturing all that was bugging me. I stared at the short, non-menacing list for a while, confused. Then I took a deep breath, felt grateful that I only had three important things to do, and was kind of happy for that perspective.

I'm smiling as I close this, wondering what your thoughts are on To-Do lists. Is their value real or artificial?

How to handle life (and what to avoid in the school cafeteria) as told by a 9-year-old

by Rachel Brady

It happens to every blogger at some point: Idea Freeze.

Fortunately, I have kids. So when I get blocked, I ask them stuff. This time, I had a conversation with my middle daughter.

RB: Thanks for sitting down with me to help me organize some thoughts. Do you ever suffer from unorganized thoughts?

LB: Sometimes. Mostly while I'm being distracted when I'm trying to work, like when funny things happen or a smoke alarm goes off.

RB: What things do you think grown-ups should do more often to clear their minds?

LB: Take a second to relax. Breathe very slowly.

RB: Do you know what a comfort food is?

LB: No.

RB: It's a favorite food some people eat when they're freaking out. Do you have a comfort food?

LB: No.

RB: What are your thoughts on sleeping in?

LB: I like to!

RB: Let's hear about the three situations that aggravate you the most and the ways that you handle them.

LB: One. When (my sister) is mean to me. I tell her to stop. Two. When I get hurt. I try to relax and heal it for a while. Three. When I got stung by the bee, I really wanted to smoosh it, but since it was already dead I just tried to relax and handle things normally.

RB: How do you feel about pets and about how animals make humans feel better?

LB: When I'm feeling bad and I pet them, they're so soft. I get all caught up in my pets and how cute and soft they are. They help me get through it.

RB: What would you most like to get out of fourth grade?

LB: To try to get smarter and have more knowledge about all the subjects. To learn more things that are new to me.

RB: What advice would you give to your grown-up self if you could meet her in the future?

LB: Um, I don't really understand this question?

RB: Let's try it a different way. What advice would you give to your kindergarten self if you could go back in time?

LB: I would tell her things I already know so maybe she'd learn even more in older grades.

RB: What three pieces of advice would you give to other parents like me who want to do the very best job they can for their kiddos?

LB: One. Stay in work so we can have money and survive. Two. Try to be your normal self because I like you. Three. It's really fun being a parent. I know that from you. Is it fun because you get to boss people around?

RB: That is one of the perks. What's your favorite food in the school cafeteria?

LB: Pancakes. And nachos.

RB: At the same time?

LB: No, on different days.

RB: What's the worst food?

LB: Um, are you showing this to my school?

RB: No.

LB: Then it's the steak fingers. They have a terrible aftertaste.

RB: What else should I ask you?

LB: I could ask you some!

RB: Okay, you're allowed three. Go.

LB: What is one of your favorite places?

RB: I love to go running on nature trails in the woods. Yours?

LB: At the YMCA playing soccer. Where would you like to be when you're alone and mad?

RB: Either lying down in my bed relaxing or out for a walk. You?

LB: Probably in my bed like you.

RB: What makes you that mad?

LB: When (my sister) calls me bad words.

RB: Ignore her.

LB: Yep. Do you like to shop?

RB: I hate shopping. I don't like to spend money! You?

LB: At the Dollar Tree, everything is a dollar. When I was little I got a purple horn there.

RB: How are you feeling about the first day of school tomorrow?

LB: Nervous and excited all at the same time.

RB: You'll do great. Goodnight, pal. Thanks for answering my questions.

LB: Love you, Mom.

Live Simply, Live Well.

by Rachel Brady

I did two significant things in July. I bought a house and I cancelled my Twitter account. Different scales of magnitude, but interesting parallels nonetheless.

First, the house. I'm something of a minimalist. Having a lot of "stuff" around me stresses me out. In it, I see things to clean, mend, put away, maintain, file, etc. Clutter severely impedes my ability to relax and when I'm around it I find myself powerless to live in the moment. Instead, I'll decide to relax after such-and-such is cleaned/mended/put away/filed/etc. So I try to keep "stuff" to a minimum.

Preparing for the move, I resolved to move only those things that I either 1) use or 2) love. I held firm to that and quickly discovered something. I'd been holding on to certain items because they were important to somebody else, but not important to me.

The main culprit was my father. For more than twenty years, I've moved (countless times) artifacts that once belonged to his mother, or to him in his earlier years, that were given to me because they were special to him. Not to seem callous (I'm not callous, I just don't like "things") but these items aren't special to me. I'm not sure when I became the family pack mule , but I handed that pack right back this month.

I think my predicament originated years ago, before I was wise to my dad's ways. I'm pretty sure now that it was directed at me in the spirit of: "I don't want these things anymore, but they are too special/noteworthy/expensive to give/throw away, so here, Rachel. A gift! For you!" I'll likely use this technique on my own children one day, so I'm not necessarily disapproving it. Just saying that I'm getting smarter. Slowly. My kids can figure it out when they're in their thirties, too. Fifties if I'm lucky.

In any case, my new home contains only those things that I use or love. Serenity.

Now, Twitter.

Twitter is not so different from my grandmother's old candle or my father's collection of 1970s airline silverware, which I'm not entirely certain he acquired via legitimate means. The reason Twitter is not so different is that I neither use Twitter nor love it, yet I've kept that stupid account for years because other people (writers, publishers, agents) say I should. But Twitter was my father's old end table. My grandmother's weathered jewelry box. It was a burden thrust upon me by someone else who said--rather compellingly--that it was very, very important for a writer to have and keep.

Like the PanAm silverware, Twitter held no value to me. So it's gone. If I never see another @, #, or RT, it'll be too soon. #goodriddance

My colleague Brian says it's fine for people to be weird as long as they know they're weird. I get that I'm over the top with my aversion to extraneous belongings and my diminishing patience for social media and the Internet in general. Those are my wacky, quirky design features. I'm okay with being a little strange.

And I'm curious too. What things are you holding onto in life--possessions, ideas, habits--that aren't helping you be your most fulfilled, most peaceful self? Are you in a place where you can identify them and finally drop them?

Life is Too Short to Eat Boring Rice

by Rachel Brady

I saw a billboard with this phrase today and thought to myself, “Yes. Life is too short to eat boring rice.” It is too short to do a lot of things.

Life is too short for me to wear clothes that don’t fit right just because I already own them. So what? I’ll give them away and then somebody else can own them. Problem solved.

It’s too short for painful shoes. Although, I will wear them to dress up.
Because life is also too short not to dress up sometimes.

Life is too short for me to bother with that little, almost-gone, flat and skinny yet not quite useless piece of soap that is left right before a bar disintegrates. I’m finished with that piece of soap.

Life’s too short to gut out reading a book that isn’t amazing. There are more incredible books in the world than I can read in my lifetime. I’m gonna stick with those.

Life is too short not to wear perfume even when it’s just me and the dishwasher.

Life is too short to say no to something today because of something that might happen tomorrow. That something also might not happen tomorrow. Where will that leave me? Wishing I’d done something different yesterday, that’s where.

Life’s too short to worry about what people think about me. Who am I to think they are thinking anything about me? That’s kind of narcissistic. Instead I’ll assume nobody is thinking anything about me. Then I can do whatever I want. I’ll have way more fun.

Life is too short to eat high-calorie but utterly boring food, like stale cookies from the supermarket. Yes to 400 calorie divine food, like the homemade, glorious brownies that my friend Wally brings to the office pot-luck lunches. No to 400 calorie boring food, like store bought birthday cake with waxy icing.

Unless I feel like eating it that day. Life is too short not to do what I feel like sometimes.

Life is too short for complaining. Fix or accept.

Too short for blame.

Also for grudges.

Too short for agonizing over decisions. I recently had to buy a clock. I went to Target and they didn’t have quite what I wanted. On the spot, I decided that I didn’t need the best clock on the planet. The best one at Target would suffice. So I picked one. The world didn’t end.

Life’s too short for second guessing the past. I made the best choices I could at the time, with the information I had at the time. Sure, I know more now. But, I didn’t then. Short of time travel, there’s no solution I see here other than moving forward. Life is One Way.

Life is too short to play my favorite music at a reasonable volume.

It’s too short to worry about grass stains.

And that billboard was right. It’s way to short to eat boring rice.

Why I Will Survive an Alien Attack

by Rachel Brady

I confessed a strange behavior to a friend this week, and rather than receive the mockery I expected, I was shocked to learn that my bizarre activity was not unique. This has inspired me to publicly embarrass myself so that I might poll the Stiletto Faithful. Maybe it's true. Maybe we are not alone...

Lately I've been tracking my spending and noticing that, rent and utilities aside, my biggest expenses are childcare and groceries, with fuel a close third.

Sometimes I try to see how many days in a row I can go without buying something. It makes me stop and reflect on whether what I'm buying is a want or a need. Most things are wants, and when I don't buy them I excel at my private game. Sometimes I can make it a whole week without buying so much as a stamp. (Not often.)

But groceries are needs.

Or are they?

Enter my other game, Alien Apocalypse. What if you were home right now and malevolent aliens landed in your town? You can't go out to Kroger's because they will either harm you or eat you or put you on the Mother Ship. You must subsist only on what is currently in your pantry, refigerator, and freezer. How long will you survive?

Trust this alien survivor. It's longer than you'd think.

Periodically I do this exercise to pare down my food inventory. Rather than buy fresh produce for the week, I'll eat through all my frozen veggies. You know the ones. Those bags in your freezer that you don't even see anymore because they have been there since 1994. When we run out of cereal, we eat through the eggs, toast, and oatmeal before I'll buy more breakfast foods. I look at meat in the freezer, rice in the pantry, and those two cans of tomato paste I bought when leg warmers were still in style and I start thinking about how to eat them as a meal. Shopping isn't allowed because it's not worth jeopardizing my safety by going outside. That only provokes them.

I don't mean to suggest that I'm on the steps of the poorhouse, so please no aid drops by helicopter. But I am something of a minimalist by choice and this approach of spending down my resources before bringing more into the house serves me well. It helps avoid clutter. Keeps things tidy. And it minimizes extraneous expenses.

So if any of those side effects appeal to you, before you head out to the store this weekend, see how many meals you can make first with the supplies you already have on hand.

If it comes down to you versus the neighbor in the Alien Apocalypse, you'll be all trained up. Bon appetite.

When this piece posts on Friday, I'll be schmoozing with aliens--I mean mystery writers--at the Malice Domestic Mystery Convention in Bethesda, Maryland. I'll check back to visit your comments as soon as I can. Enjoy your weekends!

Why My First Draft is Like a Poorly Planned Paint Job

by Rachel Brady

Interesting development here.

I was making decent progress on my new manuscript until I shared the first half of a first draft with my editors.

Quick question--have any of the writers here ever shared early pages with an editor and been told, "I love it! Keep going!" right off the bat? That has never happened to me. I get that it's not realistic. (If this actually has happened to you, please consider my question rhetorical and we can remain friends.) Still, a little bitty part of me always hopes . . .

But no. Probably the most acute form of momentum-stopping buzzkill comes when I hear (and agree) that there are major issues with my project.

Here's why.

It takes me a really long time to write a book. I jump over external obstacles (full time job, three children, fill in the usual excuses here) and internal obstacles (motivation, self-doubt, high propensity to procrastinate) to get those words down. Understanding that many will be re-worked, several times, feels like I imagine it would feel to cross a marathon's finish line and hear an official say, "We're sorry. No one saw you run the first ten miles of the course. We're gonna need you to run those ten again."

Recently, I used the analogy of painting a large room. You prime one wall and then paint it. The color is all wrong. Now there is a decision point.

Re-prime and repaint that wall and make sure you like the new color before going on? That's a lot of work. Or go on and prime the other three walls and then re-prime the one you just screwed up? If you do that, the whole time you work you must suffer in the knowledge that the first wall is still there, all wrong, waiting for you to make your way back around.

It kind of mocks you.

It's a weak analogy. Who primes just one wall? Normally we'd do the whole room, then go back and add the color.

So why is it so dang hard to finish a first draft after realizing that what I have so far will need to be re-worked? If I think too long about all the work I'll re-do, it is paralyzing. So nothing gets fixed in the draft. And nothing new gets added either.

Ultimately, I decided to prime the whole room. Now I have to walk past those early pages every time I come around with my paintbrush.

Moving on in a story without fixing its base is hard. I pretend that the early stuff is already fixed and that all is fine. All the while, I know that when I finally type THE END, it won't be. I still have a wall to go back and repaint.

And that's just to get a first draft!

All the "You missed a spot" and "You dripped over here" and "Don't forget the trim" and "Really? Cornflower blue?" remarks from the editors are still months away.

It would be so much easier to hire a good looking handyman for this job.

When you guys read this on Friday, I'll be away at Left Coast Crime and probably unable to chime in on any discussion that follows. But I will be with you in spirit, and so will this handyman.

Rachel Brady, Master Trickster

I’ve been reflecting on what motivates various people. This started about a week ago when I read a fitness-related article. Its premise was that some people are externally motivated to improve their health—lose weight for a wedding or reunion, win an office bet, etc.—while others are internally motivated. This second group simply likes healthy food and enjoys exercise. Our task (the article was written for instructors) is to try to encourage a shift, so that what begins as an externally motivated fitness prioritization will transform into an internally driven one, thereby resulting in a permanent lifestyle change and results that will stick.

All kinds of tips and advice exist to help with the initial change. I call these the “tricks.” Examples include:

• Eat well for six days. Splurge one day a week.
• Break up exercise into shorter sessions.
• Reward yourself . . .

You get the idea.

Thankfully, I enjoy healthy eating and look forward to exercise. Where fitness is concerned, I’m internally motivated.

Thing is, I’m an externally motivated writer, looking for my own “tricks” to change me into an internally motivated one. You may remember this idea that, like most tricks, worked for a little while and then lost my interest. I have other variations. They go something like this:

• Write for six days. Rest for one.
• Break up writing into shorter sessions.
• Reward myself.

Sound familiar?

I imagine that, for various reasons, almost all of us have played similar tricky mind games with ourselves at one point or another. It seems to me like it’s an attempt to identify an external motivation and practice it long enough that it becomes internal and habitual. Well. That is so much easier said than done.

Lots of writers say they love to write, can’t wait to sit down and get back into their story, and that their characters talk to them.

Not me. I want the story in my head to turn into a book by a means similar to a download. USB cable. Brain. Finished book.

Where is the button for this?!

In very special moments, I have experienced internal motivation to write and completed the task for the pure joy of it. Most of the time, I’m the “Mo-om, are we there yet?” kind of writer, but in those lucky writing sessions I’m the “It’s the journey, not the destination” writer. I’d love to be that person all the time.

I have a new trick this week. It’s very Franklin-Covey-esque and goes like this.

1. Make a list of all the tasks that compete for attention in my head.
2. Label them as important (long term goals) or urgent (short term requirements)
3. Spend an hour each day on the urgent stuff first.
4. Spend an hour each day on the important stuff second.

Why only an hour on each? Because the rest of the day is full of “life” and all that goes along with that.

Right now my list looks like this:

1. Finish a writing project I promised to an editor (urgent, due 2/1)
2. This post (urgent, due 1/28)
3. Work on the WIP (important)
4. Answer an email from a Blogger guy (important)
5. Read the panelists I’ll moderate at Left Coast Crime (important)
6. Send in my Malice Domestic Nomination form (urgent, due 2/7)
7. Make a call about my credit card (important)
8. Make a call to my bank (important)
9. Make some CDs for my Spinning classes (important)
10. Renew my driver’s license (important)

That is my head-noise, right there. When I list all my stuff out like this, I see that I only have a few urgent things and a lot of long-term stuff. Sometimes, the ratio goes the other way. My problem is that I can spend a whole night on one sort of task and never do the other. I put off writing the book because writing is hard and calling my bank is easy.

It’s just a trick. I keep looking for one that will flip the permanent external-to-internal motivation switch.

Anybody out there relating to this, or have I just revealed further evidence that I’m weird?

Rachel's Letter to Teen Me

by Rachel Brady

My friend, author Bekka Black, recently wrote a letter to her teen self, and I thought that looked like some fun, so I've jumped aboard.

Dear Teen Me,

I have more than twice your life experience now.

I considered telling you how much smarter you'll be in twenty years, but the truth is that you're already smart about all the important things. So instead I'll tip you off about some minor points that will really help you out.

Your dad is right. There is no movie star on late night television whose interview is more important than a full night's sleep. Please turn off Arsenio Hall and go to bed. You'll feel so much better in first period English tomorrow.

I'm sorry to report that your struggles with driving are not due to inexperience, as we thought, but are genetically encoded into you. Lower your insurance deductible now. In 2003, a moment will come when you are shopping for a minivan. You will decide that those little backup sensors in the rear bumper aren't worth the money. Please reconsider.

Lately you spend inordinate amounts of time worrying over whether to major in English or engineering. You'll end up going with engineering and you'll love your career. In about twelve years, you'll try your hand at writing and finish a book. (I know! Crazy!) The book will get published! Sorry to ruin that surprise, but I want you to understand that sometimes in life, huge choices are not necessarily mutually exclusive like they seem at the time. Have the cake. Eat it too. You just might have to wait to eat it.

Speaking of which, the answer to your question about whether there is any fish in the world that does not taste disgusting is Yes! Tilapia. You won't know that until you're in your thirties. For now, stick with chicken.

Keep running. That will turn into a lifelong thing for you. One day, your best friends will be people you met on the trails.

Stop poofing up your bangs until they stand up ten inches in the air. We have an ozone problem now.

Tell your grandfather how much you admire him. By the time you're mature enough to understand why that's important, you will have missed your chance.

The boy in study hall likes you too. You'll date for a couple of years, but he isn't the One. Actually, you're headed for a string of guys who aren't the one. There is something important to learn from all those relationships, though, so love fully and love hard because it's time well spent.

You will become a mother to three amazing kids! When you worry about whether you're parenting them well enough, try to remember: Make the best decisions you can with the information you have at the time. Yes, you will look back and wish you'd done better here or there. But if you can look back and know you did the best you could with what you knew at the time, it's a lot easier on your Mom Guilt.

In fact, let that be a guiding principle in all your choices.

Looking back at the choices you're making now and how they've influenced the me of today, you should know you've done just fine.

Oh, one last thing. Your Thermodynamics professor will screw you on the final exam. She's not going to grade on a curve like she says she will. Brush up on standard enthalpy.

Good luck. Grow out your bangs.

Rachel

Please Like Me Anyway

by Rachel Brady

Three things never get easier for me:

1. Small talk
2. Fundraising
3. Book promotion

I can't grow plants, carry a tune, or do plenty of other things either, but the things on this list seem to present the most handicaps for me in life.

Small talk is tiring. Expending energy to have non-conversations exhausts me. I prefer to save my enthusiasm for other exchanges that actually have a point, or at least some real, honest-to-goodness entertainment value.



Fundraising is an enigmatic blend of Love and Hate. I want to support all my causes and be a part of the solution, but how do I do that without annoying humankind? I don't like making shoppers avoid eye contact or causing homeowners to feign absenteeism when I ring their doorbells. ("Just give me your order forms, kids. I'll buy all the cookies myself.")


But the worst is book promotion. Don't tell my publisher, but I would rather stab myself in the eye with a pencil.

My first book was in print before I told anyone I knew that I liked to write. Admitting to trying to write a novel felt pompous somehow, so I did all my writing in secret. This was fine until it actually got published. Then I wanted everyone to know. But I didn't want to have to be the one to tell them. It is strange how something that was personally so rewarding also made me extremely self-conscious.

Letting the world know that a new book is out, for me, sounds something like this: "I wrote a book and I hope you will read and enjoy it but don't misunderstand me I'm not pressuring you to buy it oh nevermind forget I brought it up please like me anyway here's my card."

In publishing, they tell us that nobody will buy a book they don't know exists. Authors are encouraged to market ourselves, speak widely (I think this includes small talk), maintain a web presence, use Facebook, tweet like crazy people, place ads, schmooze, network, hob-nob, and wash cars on street corners in bikinis. Whatever it takes to get the word out.

It really suits some people. For me, everything about book promotion feels uncomfortable and awkward so I'm trying to think of creative ways to get other people to do it for me. I'm bartering books for banter over at my blog for the next week. And I would would really appreciate it if you guys would stop over and help me out.


I'll give away a book here today too. Leave a comment to enter. It shouldn't be a pep talk like, "Go get 'em! Be confident!" because that doesn't work on me. Rather, I think the signed copy will go to the commenter with the best "Foot in Mouth" story. Because, really. Who doesn't enjoy a good Foot in Mouth story?

One last thing. If you are a librarian or book club groupie, or if you know one, I always have a standing offer to send a signed copy of either of my titles to folks who introduce Emily Locke to their reading groups.

This concludes my awkward "I have a new book out" post. Please like me anyway.

Greater than the Sum of the Parts

by Rachel Brady

Disclaimer 1: The following opinions are entirely mine and do not necessarily represent those of NASA or its employees.

I work for a NASA life sciences contractor. This week, my company had an All-Hands meeting. Usually at these things, they entice attendance by offering us snacks and interesting guest speakers. At Johnson Space Center there is no shortage of remarkable people with fascinating stories to share. I always learn something.

This week’s guest speaker was NASA’s Director of Space Medicine, Dr. J.D. Polk. He spoke about his role in the rescue of the Chilean miners and geared his talk toward those of us in the room, all cogs in the wheel, really, to remind us that the whole is more than the sum of the parts... that our contributions at the lab level really do matter.

I’ll tell you some of the neat things he said, and then as usual I will offer my parallel about how yet another thing I’ve experienced appears to be a metaphor for Life.

Disclaimer 2: I didn’t take notes. Assume all these facts are wrong. It’s the gist that’s important.

The miners, he said, had been isolated for seventeen days before they were found. They were surviving on something like a tablespoon of tuna every two days, only fifty calories a day. They were starving, and for medical reasons I can’t remember, if you feed a starving person too quickly, you will kill him.

NASA had simmed this (our language for “simulated this”) for an old Hubble mission. Back then, the aim had been to prepare for a scenario in which crewmembers were stranded on orbit in a disabled vehicle. Weeks might pass before the next Shuttle could launch. How would we ration supplies? Our scientists had all the original data, including the spreadsheets and graphs that showed how much food to give a stranded crewmember in conditions like these. The folks on-site in Chile were able to bring the miners back to health successfully, thanks largely to the fact that NASA could so quickly produce the data they needed.

The next concern was what kind of health problems each may be suffering. The question was posed, “Which test do we do on-orbit that provides the most comprehensive information about a crewmember’s health?” It’s a urine test. Through urine tests, half of the miners were found to be in the early stages of kidney failure due to severe dehydration. Docs got to work on specific plans for each patient to turn this condition around.

Sometimes the NASA doctor and the NASA psychologist disagreed. It can be as important to care for a crewmember’s mind as it is to care for his or her body. The mental effects of long term isolation are ones I can hardly comprehend (most Space Station missions are six months long – the Russians have gone way longer). Anyway, at one particular juncture, the conversation was not about isolation but about smoking cigarettes. The miners wanted them. The doctor couldn’t abide. But the psychologist rallied on behalf of the miners. Polk said, halfway joking, that the argument was that otherwise they all would have killed each other. I thought this was an interesting example of professional compromise between two specialists focusing on different parts of the total Human.

Orthostatic intolerance is a cardiovascular effect commonly seen after spaceflight. My understanding of the condition is that, upon returning to earth, the cardiovascular system is now unaccustomed to pumping against gravity and can’t always do this effectively. Consequently, blood pools in the lower extremities and folks are prone to passing out. Usually, if a person passes out, they end up horizontal, and this works out fine because now the heart and brain are on the same level and the brain can get the oxygen it needs.

In the case of the miners, I believe Polk said they came up through a tube about 21” in diameter. No one was sure how long it would take to make the trip from the mine to the surface, and orthostatic intolerance was a huge concern. In this configuration, should a miner pass out, they would not go horizontal and the consequences could be devastating. Returning crewmembers are instructed to fluid load to counteract the effects of orthostatic intolerance. They also wear compression garments on the lower extremities to try to force body fluids to go upstairs. I was once a test subject and had an opportunity to wear these “compression garments.” Let me tell you. It is like squeezing your leg into industrial-strength pantyhose made for something the width of your wrist! Spanx can’t touch these things.

The flight docs were very familiar with the fluid loading and compression garment protocols and were able to share this information with the crew at the site. It was another example of how NASA’s experience with sustaining life in extraordinary conditions came into play in the rescue.

There was one other thing. Fuzzy memory here. Something in the body was depleted, I want to say it was some kind of vitamin or electrolyte, who knows… not important. But when this is depleted, and alcohol is consumed, again, death is assured. Just trust me and go along with it. Everyone knew that when these guys came up, there would be some serious partying. So the doctors went to great care to basically dose them up on whatever was required to save them from their sheer, unadulterated, partying joy. I kind of liked the thinking ahead part of the happy ending.

The intention of his talk was to encourage us. Each of us in our various labs contribute in ways that sometimes feel insignificant and he wanted to remind us that yes, the work matters.

Throughout the talk, he had one slide up in the background, and it wasn’t even a picture of the miners. It was a picture of a boy, about ten years old, with the most poignant blend of grief and relief on his face. Polk said, “Because we do what we do, this kid still has a dad.” I’m tearing up again just thinking about that.

Disclaimer 3: I heard nothing in his talk that tied the work of my particular lab (Neuroscience) to the Chilean rescue, but I cried like a girl anyway.

So I’ve been mulling over this speech for a few days and realizing that so much of life is this way. We see through our own lenses, and reach only our own small circles of influence. But when your circle of influence overlaps with mine, and mine overlaps with his, and his touches Oprah’s… well, you see what I mean.

We all have unique strengths, some of which may seem insignificant to us but are enormous to another person. The only way to optimize our gifts in life is to share ourselves.

Carpe diem, friends.

Bizzy Schmizzy

Rachel Brady

The busiest time of my life was the winter of 2006. There was my day job in the research lab at NASA. I taught three fitness classes each week in the evenings. I was on a home-cooking kick and spent inordinate amounts of time making up advance menus and shopping lists each week, plus making those meals. I had 5- and 3- year-old daughters, and a newborn son. I was a nursing mom. (Anyone who questions why that last part matters has never been the exclusive food source for another human being.) That year was my first triathlon season too. I did everything I could to participate in group workouts with my tri training team. And, I was finishing my first novel.

I'm tired just thinking about 2006.

The thing is, at the time it didn't occur to me that I was busy. In fact, I've been living more or less the same lifestyle since then, just with a different mix of "stuff," and I didn't figure out I was busy until earlier this year.

I began to understand it when, each time I went to my fridge to add something to the calendar, some other thing was already written there. These weren't always my events, either. My kids are 10, 8, and 4 now and have busier social lives than I do. Birthday parties, lessons, sports . . . you know the deal.

I decided to wipe my calendar. While I was at it, I wiped theirs too.

I dropped a few fitness classes. Vowed to take a one-year break from races. Didn't sign the kids up for sports or music lessons. (Still encouraged birthday parties, though. Those are fun.) I started saying no to requests to go to events I didn't want to attend. That was hard at first but got easier with practice.

My hiatus from Busy has fundamentally changed who I am. It afforded me an opportunity to really evaluate what is important to me. Strangely, my days are still full. Just with different things. Folks often say that if you haven't worn something in a year, you obviously don't miss it and should donate it. I think this is true for all our Busy Tasks too. Not doing some things I used to do, and not missing them, has made it pretty clear what I need in my life and what I don't.

Don't get me wrong. I still swim, bike, and run. I just don't pay $80 to do it on a specified Saturday morning with a number pinned to my shirt. And I still teach those fitness classes, just way less often. My kids are back in sports. Sometimes one or more of them decides to take a season off. That's fine.

The other day I asked myself what was most important to me. What things am I doing when I'm happiest? When I feel like the best person I can be? When I feel calm, or strong, or just when I feel like me?

It's a short list: Engage my kids. Read. Exercise.

So these are the things I do. I can't fit them all in, all the time, but you can bet I'll be doing any one of these things before I bog myself down with useless tasks that are only disguised as important.

I recently read an article on my favorite website, ZenHabits. Leo Babauta summed it up better than I ever could, and I hope you'll take a look.

My wish for the Stiletto Faithful is that we each determine what is most important to us and design a life centered on these joys.

Sneak Peek at Dead Lift

Hi, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the Stiletto Excerpts! Today I'm sharing a sneak peek at the first few pages of Dead Lift, coming on December 1st.

Claire Gaston’s amber hair rode flat against her head, giving the impression she’d just climbed out of bed. Any make-up had worn away too, yet she still looked closer to forty than her real age—which I knew from her file was fifty-three. In any case, Claire was twenty years my senior, had spent a day and a night in the clink, and still looked better than I did after a comfortable night of sleep and a shower.

We picked up telephone handsets on either side of an opaque window in the jail’s visitation room, and I tried to ascertain whether she regarded me with hope or just curiosity.

“I’m Emily Locke,” I said, “part of your defense team.” I smiled, trying to give the impression I withheld judgment, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. “Sorry about the circumstances.”

She leaned forward and rested her elbows on a countertop that extended away from the dividing window. Richard Cole, the private investigator I worked for, often said that it was a good practice to mirror a subject’s body language during interviews, so I did. My forearms ended up in something sticky.

“Are you the investigator my lawyer hired?”

“I’m that investigator’s lackey.”

She tipped her chin up but didn’t speak.

“Hope you don’t mind.” I pulled a folded paper from my purse. “I brought a list of things to clarify. My boss is painfully deficient with specifics.”

“What every woman looks for in an investigator.”

“Actually, he’s very good. We just work differently.”

Claire surveyed the tiny countertop on her side of the glass and brushed invisible debris onto the floor. “Ask away.”

“Let’s start with your kids.”

She inhaled and seemed to hold the breath. “They’re all I think about.”

“Who’s keeping them?”

“My parents.” Her gaze fell. “Even though they’re too old to be caring for kids.” She traced imaginary shapes on the countertop with neatly manicured fingers that reminded me of my best friend Jeannie’s hands. “You probably know I’m in the middle of a divorce.”

She glanced up long enough to see me nod.

“Daniel’s not their father. My second husband, Ruben, moved back to Argentina last year. Our custody fight was . . . I’m ashamed of it. And now with me here—” she looked around our tiny, divided cubicle— “he’ll come back and take them away, I know it. I didn’t kill Wendell Platt. You have to help me prove it before Ruben swoops in and disappears with the boys.”

“It would help me to understand what’s going on with Daniel.”

Claire leaned back and crossed her arms. Richard would have said I’d put her on the defensive.
“What does he have to do with this?”

I cupped my chin in my hands and watched her for a moment, trying to figure out if she was angry. “Police are reconstructing your day on Thursday, trying to figure out where you went and what you did before Dr. Platt’s murder. I hear you and Daniel had quite a fight.”

She straightened and opened her mouth to argue, but I raised a hand and continued. “We’ve all said things we didn’t mean, don’t worry. The trouble’s that the police want to interview Daniel but can’t find him. You were the last person to see him and witnesses say you were enraged. It doesn’t help to have extra suspicion directed at you.”

“No one can find Daniel?”

I shook my head. “Know where he might be?”

She shook her head in return.

“Why the divorce?”

Her shoulders relaxed, like she was resigned to surrender her privacy as well as her marriage.

“Neither of us could be faithful.”

My stomach flip-flopped, but I stayed quiet. Richard said sometimes people will volunteer extra information if you give them a chance.

This didn’t turn out to be true for Claire. After a few moments, I asked her to continue.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “For years we’ve talked about parting ways. Last month I finally filed.”
“What was your relationship with Platt?”

Claire shook her head, more to herself than to me, and screwed her face into a queer sort of smile that could only be described as sarcastic. I was considering how to re-phrase when she surged toward the glass and banged it with her fist, sending me back in my chair so violently its legs scraped the linoleum.

“I’ve never met Wendell Platt!”

All I could do was try to control my breathing.

“Never met him,” she said. “No one believes me.”

She settled back into her chair and I tried to convince myself the person in front of me was the same woman from thirty seconds ago.

“He was murdered in his home,” I said. “Your fingerprints were at the scene.”

“Worse, honey. They were on the weapon.”
________________________

Rachel Brady is the author of Final Approach and the upcoming mystery, Dead Lift. Rachel lives near Houston, Texas, where she's an engineer in a research lab at NASA's Johnson Space Center.

Dance (and write?) Like Nobody's Watching

Rachel Brady

Maybe it's just me, but publishing a book feels a little bit like getting a serious groove on when you think you're alone but people are watching. Dang. If I knew you were standing there during my unabashed booty-shake*, I'd have worked on my moves a little more.

When I wrote my first novel, I had no idea my friends and co-workers would read it one day. That is probably a good thing, because just like we should dance like nobody's watching, I also think we should write like nobody's reading . . .

. . . but only during the early drafts.

Later in the process, we have agents and editors to prevent us from embarrassing ourselves and help us shine.

Thing is, I don't like my agent or editor to see my early drafts. I don't like to publicly mess up. But in the life cycle of a book, this is required. So I have a few close writing friends who look over pages before I do the literary equivalent of busting a move on the dance floor with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

Their job is to tell me which parts are humming and which parts I should cut and delete off my hard drive so they can never be traced back to me.

Rules of engagement go something like this.

1. Must be frank.
Recently, I got a note in one scene that just said: Huh??
Enough said. Thank you, it's fixed now.

2. Must tell me when I use the wrong word.
You were right. A voice "crackles" on a speaker, it doesn't "cackle." Thank you for preventing me from being exposed as the imposter I am.

3. Must call Bullsh!t on me when I handwave around an ill-conceived plot point.
Perhaps I'm inherently lazy or just hopeful nobody will notice, but my friends always do. A good reader will tell you it doesn't make sense and spare you from hearing it from an editor, who I promise will always notice.

4. Must wield a pen like a machete.
There's a prevailing notion that getting copy back with a lot of red ink (or tracked changes) is a negative thing, but I love it. When this happens, a reader isn't trying to re-write your stuff so much as suggest an alternate way to present it. I usually like the new way better and almost always use it, sometimes shamelessly ripping off a line and passing it off as my own. Before you judge me, my friend David says there's no such thing as plagiarism between friends*. He calls it an homage, which sounds so, so much better.

My editor likes to see the first 100 pages of a new story before I get too far along with the book. It'll be a while before that happens, because right now my fave writing buds, Bill Tate and David Hansard, are off employing rules 1-4, helping me make sure I don't go out on the dance floor looking like Elaine.

Writing is solitary sometimes. Other times, it's a tremendous team effort. This post is a virtual hug to Bill and Dave, who are reading for me now, and to Laura Weber and Nikki Bonanni, who read for me earlier and helped me get this story off the ground.

Thanks to you all, maybe next year I'll be rockin'.


*Clips are more fun in foreign languages, don't you think?
**When employing the homage approach, it's good to have reader friends who won't sue you. Good luck.

Greatest Hits: My Kids' Best One-Liners

by Rachel Brady

Some of you know that I frequently use my Facebook status to share amusing things my kids say. A friend encouraged me to start saving those gems in a Word file too, and I was recently surprised to find that I’ve been at it now for a year. Here are their Greatest Hits of the last 12 months in reverse chronological order. From the mouths of babes . . .

June 2010

Jill and I were having a general discussion about kids and how they can be tough on furniture. She nodded toward her brother and sister. "That's why you should have stopped before you had those two."

While we were driving down the highway, Jill said, "See that place called Kids For Less? You think that's an adoption center?"

Me, to the kids: "Trust me guys. I'm old and wise." Lindsay (conciliatory): "Don't say that, Mom! You're not wide!"

May 2010

Sam unwittingly corroborated my impressions of last weekend’s slumber party: "Mom, where is that necklace that Lindsay got at her screaming girl party?"

Maybe I use my laptop too much. When asked to name a "D vegetable", Jill came up with a Dell pepper.

Me, to the slumber party: "Does anyone have to use the restroom before bed?" Visiting child, worried: "Why? Are you going to lock it up for the night?"

Sam: "Are you sorry?" Me: "For what?" Sam: "For not letting me have that piece of caramel this morning." Me: "No. I'm your mom. It's my job to make sure you have a real breakfast." Sam: "No, it's not. Your job is to push me on the swing."

Me (thinking I was alone): "Heeeeyy, good lookin'..." Sam, from the other room: "Whaaaatcha got cookin'?"

April 2010

Lullabye update. "Mom, sing that ten more times." Me: "Ten? That's too many." Sam: "How about four times because I'm four?"

My nine year old kid just "yada yada yada"d me.

Doing an art project with Jill, I got: "Looking pretty good, Mom. You should be an artist instead of a scientist or engineer or whatever you are."

Me to Jill: "Well, one reason I don't buy you more stuff is because I think it diminishes your appreciation for what you have." Her reply: "I do appreciate those things, Mom. I'm just saying I'd like to have more things to appreciate."

Sam wanted an explanation for "butt talk," and I was concerned he'd come home with some new language for rude behavior, but it turns out he'd only learned the word "buttock," pronounced Forrest Gump style.

I awoke at 3 a.m. to Jill prowling the house with her reading flashlight, searching for the Easter baskets. By 6:30 a.m. all three were in the back yard vying for the eggs. Red Bull, please.

March 2010

Fun clues I got from the girls playing Catch Phrase: "The hat of Texas" turned out to be Oklahoma, and "Those yellow people on TV" turned out to be The Simpsons.

Sam: "Mom, on your next birthday, wish to be a boy. Then you can pee standing up. Got it?"

Me: "You sure ask me some funny stuff." Jill: "We're kids. It's our job to crack up our moms."

February 2010

From Lindsay tonight, a note with MOTHER as an acronym: Mom, Outstanding, Terrific, Huggable, "Exelent," Radiant. What a great way to end my day.

Public service announcement from Sam: "If you get near a jelly fish, stay away from his tempicles."

Me: "What's so hard about being a kid?" Jill: "Having a sister." Me: "I never had one. I think that would be fun." Jill: "Well, maybe we can switch places sometime. Then you can feel my pain."

January 2010

Sam: "Is this how you spell your name? O-M-O?" Me: "Pretty close. M-O-M.":-)

Sam: "Can I have a piece of candy?" Me: "Who's the best mom ever?" Sam: "You." I gave the nod. Next it was Jill: "Can I have one? You."

I was making lasagna, radio playing, when my 4-year-old turned and quoted: "Just the two of us. We can make it if we try, Mom."

I recently asked Jill if she knew what oatmeal was good for. I was going for "your heart." Her reply: "Cookies."

Woke up snuggled next to Sam this morning, who opened his eyes and immediately said, "No singing in the shower, Mom. I want to sleep."

December 2009

Another round of Outburst with Jill. "Parts of the body that come in pairs"... Jill's answer: Butt cheeks.

Played Outburst with my girls. Jill's category was Pizza Toppings and I was trying to clue her into anchovies: "Do you know the name of those disgusting little fish some people put on their pizzas?" She snaps her fingers and her face lights up: "MINNOWS!"

Sam caught the garter tonight. Says he has to find a "yittle girl to get married with."

Sam put me on the Naughty list. No explanation was offered. The statement was: "I'm putting you on the Naughty list because you're naughty. How do you spell your name?"

Sam has been giving me stickers this morning. He just confided, "Mom, don't let Jill see these." I said, "Are these Jill's stickers you've been bringing me?" He said, "Yes, and if she finds out, it's gonna be BAD."

Me (singing): "Oh, Sammy, I love you so! Never never never gonna let you go!" Sam: "Why will you never never never let me go? Does this mean we'll be stuck here at basketball practice forever?"

Driving in the rain with Sam, a wiper blade came loose: "Uh-oh, Mom. Looks like we need a new car."

Jill: "Mom, who was the first person on the planet?" Me: "Not sure, I wasn't there." Jill: "Sure you were."

Lindsay: "I love you mom. I hope you never die." Me: "Love you too, baby. I'll do my best not to die." Lindsay: "Me too. I'll eat a lot of carrots."

Sam: "Why does the sky have to rain?" Me: "Because clouds are made of water. When they get too full of water, that's when it rains." Sam, after a thoughtful pause: "Mom? I don't know what you're talking about."

After seeing Lindsay kiss me under the mistletoe, Sam announced that "only one person has to do it," thereby absolving himself of any kissing-Mom duties. They learn to break hearts young.

November 2009

Jill, on our drive home from Target: "Mom, are there any famous singers besides Taylor Swift and Hannah Montana who aren't dead?" ...Maybe it's time for me to roll some contemporary artists into the mix.

Sam proclaimed a new allergy, this time to milk. Me: "You're not allergic to milk." Sam: "I am." Me: "Do you know what ice cream is made of?" Sam: "What?" Me: "Milk." Sam: "No. Ice." Me: "Afraid not. Milk." Sam: "Then why is it ice cream?" Me: "Cream is made from milk." Sam: "I know that mom." And I have these conversations why?

Lindsay on orbits: "It's like the sun is just sitting there, watching TV. Being lazy. The Earth wants some exercise, so it runs around the sun, around and around. And the moon wants in on it too, so it runs around the Earth."

Sam asks for the crust to be removed from his sandwich. Claims allergy to crust.

Crimebake writers' conference is having a costume banquet Saturday evening... anything from the late 1800s to mid-1900s. I asked Sam if he'd help me find a costume today, and he expressed strong feelings that I attend as a vampire.

Tough Mommy moment tonight. The note I found waiting at Jill's room: "Keep out! Don't touch! Don't donate! Stay out of our stuff! Stay out of our tareotory!" I don't think my efforts at clutter elimination were appreciated.

Watching Sam's soccer practice together, Jill was telling me about her friend's theories regarding gerbil heaven when she randomly smacked me in the side of the head: "Mosquito." And then right back to what she was saying.

October 2009

Jill's new career aspiration: "Mom, when I grow up I'm going to write commercials for food, but only for the foods I like. Oatmeal, candy, and cookie dough."

Jill and Lindsay's new way to mess with Sam: tell him he's "fired" as uncle to their pets. You would not believe how many times my shower was interrupted with complaints from a recently fired three-year-old.

Jill: "Mama, when you're a Grandma are you going to spoil our kids like Grandpa spoils us, or are you going to act to them the way you act to us?" Me: "I'll probably spoil them." Jill: (squinting at me and pointing a finger...) "Naughty."

Me: "Whose birthday is it today?" Sam: "Jill's." Me: "How old is she?" Sam: "Nine." Me: "How old is Lindsay?" Sam: "Seven." Me: "How old are you?" Sam: "Free and... a half." Me: "How old am I?" Sam: "Seventy."

All together now, to the tune of "She'll Be Coming 'Round the Mountain": Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. Water travels in a cycle, yes it does. It goes up as evaporation then comes down as precipitation, water travels in a cycle, yes it does.

Lindsay is singing "King of the Road" in the bathtub, but her lyric is slightly off: "Two hours of pushing broom buys an eighth or twelve four do soon."

Jill asked whether there were TVs when I was a kid. That one kind of made my stomach flutter.

I was just admonished by a three-year-old. My speaking while he played GameBoy apparently caused him to die.

September 2009

On the way home from school, Jill asked, "Mom, you know how you look right now? Is that as good as you can do, or can you look better?" I replied that I was sure I could do a lot better. "What prompted that?" I asked. She described a facial product on TV that makes women look younger and finished with her hands up defensively: "Not that you need it! I'm just sayin'."

Getting ready for my lunch with some big-wigs at work, I told Sam I was going to be having lunch with some scary people. He asked, “Are they Halloween people?” Jill’s advice was simply not to order the okra since, I guess, that’s the only thing that might really make a bad impression. Lately, all of Lindsay's make-believe characters are talking with British accents.

Sam: "Mommy, can I watch SpongeBob Squarepants?" Me: "You know mommy doesn't like SpongeBob." Sam: "Then don't yook at him."

Jill turns her attention to marketing. "If IHOP changed their name to *Incredible* House of Pancakes, I bet they'd get more business."

August 2009

When Sam goes swimming he requires a “babing suit and gobbles.”

I was getting out of the shower and Jill kept talking to me through the bathroom door so much that I felt like I was being stalked. I told her to go play. "I can't," she said. "I accidentally tied myself to the door knob."

Sam, reflecting on his soft pretzel today at the zoo: "Mm. This white stuff's super good." (the salt)

I must be getting predictable. I told Sam, "I think I'll put on some music." He said, "Patsy Cline, mom?" Which I thought was fun enough. So I told him yes. And he said, "She's *Crazy*."

Took the kids to see a movie at the local *Cinema 6*, but Sam was under the impression we were going out for "Cinnamon Sticks."

Another Jill classic: "If Johnny Cash were alive would you let him sign your guitar?" "Yes." "I wish I could sign your guitar." "If you ever do I'll kill you." "What? You love me more than Johnny Cash but he could sign it and I can't? Well, that's just weird."

Jill and Lindsay asked me why Nintendo doesn't make a Gamegirl.

Me: "Why is there a soccer goal in my bathroom?" Jill: "I just felt like it."

Lindsay smoked me at air hockey. While playing, she said, "Sorry to do this to you, Mom. I'm not even playing my best game." And she meant it sincerely.

Driving home from a date with Lindsay. "We are the Champions" came on the radio. She asked me who was singing. I said, "I'm not sure but I think this is Queen." She said that no, it wasn't. I asked if she knew who it was. She said, "It's the Champions."

I asked what the best part of the museum was. Jill said the dinosaur bones. Sam... the elevator. I called Lindsay my mini-me and she responded by calling me her huge-me, which somehow seemed less endearing.

July 2009

Jill, 8, announces career plans: "First I'm going to be an actress, maybe make a few movies, and then I'm going to buy Sea World."

Night 3 at the forts disappoints. Much chit chat, whispering, and lollygagging. Also questions I can't answer, such as, "Mom, how do fish drink water?" They taunt me.

Second night for the individual living room forts. Like yesterday, they all went right to sleep in an eerily compliant sort of way. You don't suppose they are storing up energy, preparing for The Great Coup of '09?

My kids are sleeping in individual living room forts. I find this adorable.

Sam asked for Bobby McGee as his lullaby. He calls it Bobby BaGee, otherwise known as "the train song." Knows most of the words! Tonight's twist? "Mommy, sing it sixty times." Got upset when I stopped after three.

* * * * *

These guys are my greatest joys. I can't begin to imagine what they'll come up with between now and next summer. What are your best kid and grandkid quotes?

Because I Feel Like It

Rachel Brady

Last week I took a shine to doing things just because I felt like it. It started with painting my toenails glittery orange. Then there was an impromptu trip to the beach with my little boy. Soon I reversed course and started skipping certain things I didn't feel like doing. I walked past the dishes in the sink and let the unfolded laundry wait for later. I deleted a few events from my calendar. Decided I'd rather do something else instead.

Gotta say, I liked where this was headed.

Some of you may wonder what the big deal is here. Aren't we all free-thinking folks with the ability to choose a course for ourselves? Sure. But something about my internal wiring has left me forever reluctant to hop on board the train to Changed My Mind. Seems like any time an activity has ever hit my To Do list, it has been cemented there.

Normally, I wouldn't have made that beach trip until all the other undesirable chores were finished first. Ditto for settling in at night to read a book or work on my manuscript. Those things feel too leisurely, as if surely some punishment must be completed first. All this stems from my responsibility gene, I've decided. The same one that has me attending social functions out of a sense of duty and obligation, even if I'd rather be somewhere else. I'm starting to change my mind about all kinds of things lately, and in most cases I don't even feel apologetic about it anymore.

It began with a comment from my friend Carrie last February. After asking me to go running with her on the upcoming Saturday, she told me it was okay to just say, "Maybe. If I feel like it." No yes or no required.

Strangely, this response would never have crossed my mind had she not put it out there. I'd have either said "yes," and honored that commitment, or I'd have said "no," and then felt obligated to offer up a really good explanation of why not. And I never would have been so rude as to remain non-committal like she was suggesting. But having her permission, I took her up on it. And I discovered that I liked leaving my calendar open to make last-minute decisions depending on whether or not I felt like doing something.

It started spilling over.

Carrie was the only person in my cast of friends to offer this carte blanche approach to planning, but I started using it with everyone else around me anyway. I said no to requests for volunteer work (don't judge me!), turned down invitations to do local races with friends, and even (yes... Mom Guilt here) set boundaries with my family.

I learned a few things. My young son can dress himself and brush his own teeth. My daughters can put away laundry and pour their brother's cereal in the morning. And somebody else around here has been feeding all the pets because I stopped doing it a long time ago and, as yet, none are dead.

What do I feel like doing instead? Writing.

For years, I waited until everyone in my family was asleep before I started to write. I made all their lunches, loaded the dishwasher, picked up toys, and did laundry--all after bedtime--and then turned on my laptop at nine or ten o'clock and wrote if I had anything left to give. I don't feel like doing it that way anymore.

I want to write a book this year. A whole book, not a few disjointed chapters spread out wide over the course of months and years. So, twice a week I've been leaving and going to my local library for about three hours at a time to write. Alone.

Do I feel guilty? You bet.

Is it stopping me? Nope.

Somewhere in here, there must be a balance. I'm still looking for it, just like everyone else. The day may not be far off that I'll decide my new M.O. is selfish and then revert to my old ways. I'm open to that possibility. But this year I'm serving others less and writing more.

Admittedly, I'm having a little rebellious streak right now. Still, I hope the Stiletto Faithful will also consider what you'd most like to do in life. Once in a while, I hope you'll pursue those things too, because you feel like it. No apologies required.

She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation

She Said/She Said: Sixteen Degrees of Separation by Maggie Barbieri and Rachel Brady

We’re doing this blog a little differently today because I had the pleasure of sharing a hotel room this past weekend with the lovely and talented Rachel Brady. The song asks “Who can turn the world on with her smile?” and insinuates that it’s Mary Richards, but I’m here to tell you that it’s Rachel Brady. A more positive and uplifting person you will never meet. Besides the whole getting up in the morning to exercise thing, I thought we would be completely compatible as roomies.

I was wrong.

I checked into the room around dinner time on Thursday night after a five hour drive to D.C. The air outside was thick and muggy, unseasonably warm for a night in late April. When I entered the room, I felt as if I had entered a cabana in Belize, moisture dripping from the humidity affixed to the plate glass window overlooking the street below. Surely, Rachel wouldn’t want to be melting in this incredible heat, not to mention having her already-curly and gorgeous hair grow in size from just two minutes in the room? Before even stopping in the restroom (something I do frequently, if only to wash my hands, as Rachel learned), I headed to the thermostat and promptly dropped the temperature from seventy-four degrees to fifty-eight degrees. In about fifteen minutes, the room had that lovely arctic chill that I have come to expect in all of my sleeping quarters. (And yes, my husband sleeps in sweatpants and sweatshirts most of the time so as not to succumb to hypothermia.)

I immediately got into bed with a bag of pretzels and a glass of wine and proceeded to watch television until Rachel showed up a little after nine o’clock. As I had predicted to her when we first spoke, I was almost asleep even though she was still full of energy and ready to head down to the bar.

She was kind enough not to mention that the temperature in the room was akin to that in a meat locker and hastily retreated to the lobby bar where drinks—and heat—were in abundance.

I fell asleep as soon as she left, peaceful under the down comforter, and clad in fleece pajama pants. Some time around two in the morning, I awoke in a pool of my own sweat, wondering how the temperature in the room could have shot up so dramatically in such a short period of time. Now, Rachel’s hot, but was she that hot?

The next morning, I checked the thermostat, set to seventy-four degrees. After some tense interrogation, Rachel admitted that she had nearly frozen to death in bed and got up, using her cell phone as a flashlight, and turned the temperature to seventy-four.

We were sixteen degrees apart in the comfort zone.

We negotiated. I cajoled. Rachel cried. I think I passed out at one point. How could we reach consensus? Finally, we decided that we would set the temperature at sixty-four, even though that was way too hot for me and way too cold for her.

Did I mention that Rachel’s an engineer by day? Did I mention that I can only fiddle with things, or fix them, if I have a butter knife? I’m not accusing her outright, but the temperature was set at seventy for the entire weekend and I couldn’t figure out how to lower it.

Coincidence? I will let you decide.

~ ~ ~

Hmmm. Rachel here. That is not exactly how I remember it. Except for the complimentary parts. Let's go with those. (Thanks, Maggie! )

This is what really happened.

I rolled in sometime after nine on Thursday and found Maggie cozied up in bed, watching TV in our room. We spent a few minutes catching up and talked about all sorts of stuff, but the only piece relevant here is her passing remark that she "could sleep with the window open when it is 35 degrees outside." She said it drove her husband nuts.

"You mean you leave it open a crack, for fresh air?"
"No," she said. "I pretty much leave it wide open. Then he closes it during the night and I wake up sweating."

Soon afterward, I went down to the bar to see which of my writer friends I could find. An hour or two later, I came back to the room. Maggie was sleeping.

And it was nippy.

My epiphany came on slowly. Under a thick comforter, in flannel pj pants and a cotton tee, and even wearing socks, at first I didn't know just how cold I was. Thought I could gut it out. Have you ever been so cold in your bed that you don't want to roll over because then you will have to warm up a new cold spot, and it's just too dang cold to suffer through that process again?

Most of me thought that the room temp was probably due to some glitch in the thermostat's auto timing feature. I didn't remember seeing my breath earlier when I'd brought up my bag.

But a small, kind of worried part of me feared that maybe Maggie hadn't been exaggerating about that 35 degree, open window remark.

What to do.

If it were an auto-timer glitch, I might shiver needlessly all night. If she'd done it on purpose and I switched it back, she would sweat all night instead.

Better her than me.

Maggie had a good sleep going. I decided to fix the temp and then just play dumb later if she brought it up. The room was pitch black, so by light of my open cell phone, I crept to the thermostat, aimed my phone at it, and was surprised and horrified to find it set at 64 degrees. Definitely, an auto timer glitch then.

I changed it to 74 and went back to bed. In the morning, I confessed all to Maggie. She said, "Oh that. I actually prefer 58 degrees but I thought I'd meet you in the middle."

?!

I did math. "That means you think 70 is room temperature to regular people. This is sixteen degrees of separation."

A long discussion ensued, mostly through tears of laughter. We knew we had Wednesday's blog covered.

Maybe living in Texas has made me soft. But I offer this evidence in my defense, Maggie. Just sayin'.

I should also add here that Maggie is unequivocally the more gracious and flexible of the two of us, meeting me far to the right of Middle, usually at 70 degrees.

Interesting paradox there. One of the coldest rooms I've ever encountered, but one of the warmest friends.

How Sexy Shoes Will Write This Book

Rachel Brady

I've just started my third novel. Historically, these things take a while for me to finish. Four years for the first, two for the second. It'd be really nice to do this one in a year like normal writers.

My friend Laura is at the beginning of a project too. Check out her blog, One More Thing to Feel Guilty About. The woman is hilarious, and unfortunately that becomes frightfully important when you see where this story is going. Anyway, we agreed to keep each other honest this year as we muddle through our first drafts. Over dinner, I told her I was contemplating the idea of paying her a fee if I didn't hit my word count goal each week. She favored the idea, but having already run it by my husband, I knew that he did not.

"Then I'm going to have to do something to humiliate myself if I miss the count," I said.

She said, with a touch too much enthusiasm, that she'd like to participate in choosing what that humiliating thing would be. I'm afraid of her. Which is exactly why I said that would be fine.

At one point during the meal, I had a better idea:

"Maybe if I miss my word count, I won't eat for a day."

"Like, a whole day?"

"Yes, I'll starve myself. I'm sure if I starved for a day I would never miss my word count again."

"I could do that too. We'd be looking pretty hot."

"The less we wrote, the better we'd look."

We decided that the use of fasting to incentivize writing could potentially be a conflict of interest.

Somewhere between my second and third enchilada, Laura asked me about the Stiletto Gang and wanted to know if I actually, in fact, owned a pair of stilettos. I couldn't just say yes or no, because the answer turns out to be quite involved. (Hang with me, it becomes important.)

Last April I attended the Malice Domestic Mystery Conference for the first time. On the evening of the Agatha Awards banquet, I changed clothes and joined everyone in the lounge area, where I found them all to be wearing full-up evening attire. I was in a casual dress. No big deal, I still had fun, but I did take note. Embarrassment leaves an impression, no?

Flash forward to my first Bouchercon World Mystery Convention last October. Now initiated, I shopped for some nice evening attire as soon as I sent in my registration check. This time, I'd fit right in. Got a cute LBD (little black dress) and some smokin' black stilettos. Packed them up for Bouchercon . . . where the banquet required a ticket that cost something like a mortgage. I did not attend, nor did my LBD or sexy shoes.

"So you see," I concluded, "I do own a pair, but I've actually never worn them."

None of that matters for now, but just store it in your short term memory for a sec.

Laura and I returned to the topic of how best to humiliate myself. I said, "Maybe I'll ask my blog followers and Facebook friends to suggest horrible things." Most of you reading this fall into one of those camps, so I'm sure you can imagine how colorful those suggestions would likely be. "Whoever chooses the winning punishment could name a character in the book they shamed me into writing."

This idea, we agreed, had merit.

But then after dinner, walking to our cars, Laura said, "What if you had to wear those stilettos to work?"

And we both kind of looked at each other like they do in the movies when the montage music gets cued.

"I didn't tell you the best part," I said. "They're strappy sequin stilettos!"

She burst out laughing. "People will think you have no taste."

Turns out, I actually don't have much, but it's easier to hide that when a girl wears business casual to work every day. Maybe it becomes more apparent when she adds sequin black stilettos to khakis and a polo.

"Of course," she added, "I would expect photos for proof."

"Can you imagine?" I said. "Stilettos and my NASA badge, in the same outfit?"

She feigned a pose. And so it was born. Either I'm getting a book out of this arrangement or you're getting pictures.

Fun starts May 1st.

In My Mind, I Run Like a Kenyan

Rachel Brady

Lee Child made what I thought was an interesting remark at Left Coast Crime earlier this month. Paraphrasing, it was that the fun part of writing is the daydreaming, and that the hard part is getting the words onto the page.

Ain’t that the blazing truth.

I’ve been thinking about that remark for weeks. Somehow I’ve had the notion all this time that getting words onto the page is easier for everyone else than it is for me. Given a choice, I’d rather visualize scenes hundreds of different ways than actually sit down and write one down. Why? Because the version I choose might not work, and then I’d have to cut all those pages.

I know: “Get over it.”

But still.

It takes a long time to put down thousands of words. Cutting them is hard. Why not decide first how I want the book to go, by daydreaming through dozens of plot lines, and then writing down the version I decide is best? For me, daydreaming is oodles more fun than typing words. Many writers say they have to write, that they are addicted to writing. Not me. I’m addicted to daydreaming.

A few years ago, David Morrell shared an interesting story about daydreaming that I’ll never forget. Coupled with this new statement by Lee Child, I grow hopeful now that my Writer Imposter Complex might possibly be unfounded.

The keyboard does not call me. I don’t get a charge out of putting down the words. My charge is always in the imagining.

In this regard, I fervently hope that my future as a writer will parallel my history as a runner. There was a time I did not enjoy running. The only thing I liked about it was how I felt afterward, and fortunately that feeling was good enough to keep me lacing up and coming back. Writing, the actual act, is a little like that for me now. Making a synopsis, staring at a blinking cursor, struggling for a word, or figuring out the best way to express an emotion is often frustrating. As with my running years ago, writing is frequently painful while I’m doing it. But, like the running, I feel an indescribable sense of accomplishment when it’s over. Huge. It’s the buzz that keeps me coming back.

Twenty years later, I’m still running. Now I actually love the run while I’m doing it. I feel disappointed when I miss a run and I’m always looking forward to the next one.

Today I’m daydreaming about a time when writing will feel like that.