Monday, May 12, 2014

Lily and Mette: On Happiness

I was reading this post by Mette Harrison (author of, among other things, one of my favorite books from my dissertation sample, The Princess and the Hound).

She pretty much outlined everything that people don’t want to think is true about publishing their books. (And she’s pretty much right about all of it!) Publishing a book isn’t going to automatically fix our problems and make us suddenly more confident and/or emotionally stable. The people who will be happy after publishing a book are the ones who were happy when their book was unpublished. The miserable will find a way to stay miserable and the goal-chasers will discover that achieving the goal of publication only leads to the sudden appearance (and importance) of newer, bigger, more urgent goals. It’s not the achievement of our ambitions that makes us happy. It’s not really any single event that brings happiness to us. We are happy people, or we’re not. Maybe we can choose to be happy. But it’s never going to come from outside. Happiness is internal, not external.

I’ve known that. I’ve read people who argued the same and I’ve seen studies confirming the argument and I believed it before and I believe it now. (Most of the time.)

But Lily hasn’t. And Lily doesn’t.

And the timing of Mette’s post (well, the timing of my reading of the post)… it made me laugh!

See, just yesterday, Lily was having this epic meltdown.

This, in and of itself, isn’t terribly surprising. My beauty of a daughter has a meltdown every.single.night at exactly 8:30pm (or, yunno, pretty close to then;). She has done this every night for the last eight years. (aka, her entire life.)

We call it “The Eight O’Clock Blues.”

But even though it happens every.single.night, even though I take pictures of her crying every night and post them in a “eight o’clock blues” journal next to a picture of the clock and her explanation-of-the-day-for-said-tears-that-is-absolutely-not-and-never-will-ever-be-just-because-she’s-tired, she will NOT believe there is a pattern at work. She says,  “Mommy, I’m crying because I had a fight with so-and-so” or because “I miss grandma,” or “I just can’t get over how much it bothers me that even though I want a puppy so much Daddy keeps being so mean and lame and saying no just because he’s allergic and afraid his throat will close!” or she says she's crying “Because, Mommy! You always take my picture when I cry!" (okay... I’ll give her that one!) or “Because, Mommy, YOU WON’T BELIEVE ME THAT I’M NOT TIRED!”

Basically, she’s sad for a million reasons as long as they’re NOT about the clock on the wall. (Or the “T” word.)

So, yesterday she’s having this epic meltdown and it’s escalating and devolving rapidly into full on tantrum/F-5-level-destruction mode.

I said to her, “Honey, just take a breath and close your eyes. If you just trust me, I promise you will be totally asleep in 2 seconds and it will fix all of THIS!”

She did not appreciate this advice.

She said, “Mommy, you just don’t understand! If Daddy had just listened to me and put a swing in my bedroom today like I wanted him to, I wouldn’t be sad at ALL!”

I said, “Honey, I promise you: you still would.”

Her face got that purple hue of that kids faces get when screaming at the top of their decibel range. “I WOULD NOT!!! IF HE HAD JUST LISTENED TO ME IT WOULD HAVE FIXED EVERYTHING!!! I WOULD BE COMPLETELY HAPPY AND I WOULD NOT BE CRYING AT ALL!!!"

I stopped trying to reason with her.

wanted to tell her about all those happiness studies. About how external events don’t really have control over your long term happiness. About how the experience of happiness is a chemical one and how her brain would be miserable at 8:30p even if every single one of her wishes came true and every person on earth listened to her demands and readily agreed to them.

But I would be wasting my breath.

Because none of us really want to believe that. (Let alone tired 8 year olds.) We all want to think that something can fall out of the sky and make us permanently happy forEVER. That the “fix” for our problems can and might and will probably occur without our work or thought or input. It will just happen and everything will be better.

Actually, yeah. That sounds really great. Maybe I’ll change my vote on the issue...

So. What would make you happy?


Friday, April 11, 2014

Lily: On Doctors and Mommy

me: “You know what Lil? You should be a doctor when you grow up. You’d be great at it.”

Lily: “OMG NOOO! I will NEVER EVER do that!!”

me: “Why? You’re driven, smart, you work hard…”

Lil: [interrupting  me] “MOM! Doctors are HORRIBLE PEOPLE.”

me: “Horrible? They’re healers!”

Lil: “They’re sickos!!! They stab people with needles, they use knives and they cut you open! Sometimes, they cut stuff OFF. And I know they do it to kids.They’re the worst kind of people possible. I will never, ever, ever be a doctor.”

me: [confused]

Lil: [pauses, cocks her head a bit and says…] “You could, though!"

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Lily: On why Santa Should Bring Some Pepto

Lily was walking around the house looking stricken yesterday evening.

me: “Lil, you OK? You look really stressed.”

Lily: “I am. I am stressed.”

me: “Why?”

Lily: “My stomach hurts.”

me: “Oh, no. What from?”

Lily: “Nervous. It’s from me being nervous.”

me: “Honey, why are you nervous?”

Lily: [looks at me like I’m crazy] “Christmas, Mom. It’s, like, tomorrow. I can’t take the pressure. It’s just stressing me out. Elves are watching and there’s going to be presents and I have to be good and I don’t want to be good. I’m supposed to, like, go to sleep. Well, what if I don’t want to go to sleep?" [pauses, takes a breath and shakes her head] "Nervous. I’m just... nervous.”

me: “But you got a video. You’re on the ‘nice’ list. You don’t need to be nervous.”

Lily: “Tell that to my stomach.”

me: “I’m so sorry, honey.”

Lily: “Me, too. This whole thing is making me feel all gassy.”



(There’s really no good response to that, is there.)

Merry Christmas!

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

The Wind that Feeds the Fire; OR, why it is a very good thing I studied all those "rare words" so hard for the ACT

Firestrom

English: Firestrom
French: Tempête de feu
Spanish: Tormenta de fuego
Portuguese: Tempestade de Fogo
Italian: Tempesta di fuoco
Greek: Πύρινη Λαίλαπα (Καταιγίδα)
Definition (EN): 
Strong inrush of wind at the base of a large fire induced by the buoyancy generated upflow above the fire.
Definition (ES): 
Fuertes vientos interiores en la base de un gran incendio inducidos por la flotabilidad generada corriente arriba por encima del fuego.



Too bad this word isn't in a lot of dictionaries, right? It ROX.

Why we don't remember being a baby: Cuz it SUX!

This obviously-written-while-feverish-and-drugged gem of a piece I wrote on July 24 this summer. If memory serves, that was after my first surgery (which TOTALLY failed) when I didn't yet know I was in the initial stages of a massively life-threatening MRSA infection which, after a week or so, was to land me in the ICU for a month and mandate two more surgeries. Awesome. 

I remember starting out to write a (funny?) list of reasons that being a baby sucked. (Because I felt about as helpless as a baby at the time.) Then in the middle it... morphs... into this biological clock thing. And then it delves into my childhood. And somehow ends with a plea for parents everywhere to give their babies some slack.

It's fascinating.

And, yeah, while normally I wouldn't post it (there's a reason it sat in the draft box for all these months), I think there's a tantalizing hindsight thing to looking at it from my (mostly-healed)(okay, okay, my partly-healed-and-at-least-not-feverish-or-stoned) perspective now.

So, without further hedging:

Why Being A Baby SUX
A little something to read the next time your little buddy has led you to a point wherein you find yourself ripping out your own hair from your own skull. 
(And possibly other people's too.)

Here are only some of the ways:

1. They have no control over how loud they fart. They haven't built those specialized American-Retentive muscles that allow more developed release of gas. They can't hold it in during a prayer, or when the doctor is looking right at their butt. Heck! They can't even do the squeezy thing we all do to slow the fart down and keep it quiet! Now, imagine that this was happening and you were a 33 y/o grownup. Awful, right?

2. Nobody loves diaper changing. But imagine that you're the one who has to splay your legs (so dignified!) so Daddy can make sure he got all the accidental spillage. Not pretty, folks.

3. Worse, though? It's when your abdominal muscles aren't strong enuf to keep you from peeing all over the carpet. Gosh it is just so gratifying to need your mom to scrub the carpet when it was your fault. Not. Shame inducing is what it is.

 4. When you're a brand new baby, you can't even roll over. So the only things you can touch are the things arm's length away. An arm's length away from you as you are pinned by your non-existent muscular development means what you can reach while you are flat on your back. This is? Not much. So you try to be OK with it. But being in a darkened room by yourself gets so boring. So you call out to Ma and Pa (aka you cry rull loud cuz you're not sure where they are.) When they come and figure out that all you wanted was that &^;@€£! Elephant, you can tell they're not happy to have been yanked out of the shower. But you didn't know about the shower, just that you rully wanted to grab something. You would have done it on your own, but you weren't physically capable! Being a baby = absolutely no independence = asking people to do everything for you = they have to drop whatever they're doing to help you = they get bummed when it turns out it was something stupid = you feel crazy bad about being so needy.  Which SUX.

5. The independence thing is huge, actually. Imagine that you couldn't walk on your own, roll over in bed on your own, get your own food when you're hungry. Forget being able to drive yourself anywhere, you can't even get in the car or get your own seatbelt on! And your dearth of physical capacity means even when you DO go somewhere, it is almost never somewhere you want to go. And let's just forget the whole peeing, dressing, showering, issues. Too humiliating to talk about again.

 6. Last of all (for now) let's talk about sleep. When you're a baby, you sleep ALL THE TIME. And it's not like you want to. It just happens to you. And when you fight it? Oh the crankies that result! So, you either miss EVerything interesting going on, or you stress the whole house out so bad, there isn't anything interesting anyway! (Except maybe that throbbing vein on Dad's forehead.) But the irony of it all? So many of your best "awake" hours are when everyone else is sleeping. And it's dark. And lonely. Does anyone love you? Why are you alone? So, the crying. And Mommy reappears! Yay! But... But... She doesn't seem happy to see me... [Ends with everyone crying.]

So, people yak and yak about this "biological clock" thing. Seems like possible hooey. Until, of course, yours starts ticking. Then it's this insane force of nature. Now, my oncologist has forbid me from having any more children. And I am totally OK with that. My two kids already kick my trash. Sometimes literally. (Kids don't usually have super developed senses of hygiene.)

Nevertheless, I am 33, so there is ticking. And it has played out pretty lovely so far. I am deeply in love with babies (I wasn't always that way. A prize to the first person to post the link to the "I hate babies" post from the archives!)

Now, although the love is as deep and pure as any biologically foreordained brain-chemical-palooza, I know I don't want to have my own new baby. For one, half of the joyful surge of dopamine comes from me knowing that soon enough, the baby I borrowed for cuddling goes back and DOESN'T come home with me.

Second, it's the babies who blind me with the oozy primordial lovey love. But when you have your OWN baby, they only stay that way for, like, 45 seconds. Then you have KIDS (who, incidentally, I happen to like better than babies) but your biological clock doesn't care about that, it's all babiesbabiesbabiesbabiesbabiesbabies!!! And you want more. You're never satisfied. The hunger goes on and on and on.

My solution to baby hunger: Baby Snacking. If you snack on other people's babies to sate your hunger, there's an ever-replenishing supply (I live in Utah) and you can just keep on snacking, staying (mostly) satisfied all the way to menopause. Not literal snacking, I'm not a cannibal. I mean, like, borrowing people's babies to love on. Other mommies like the break, I like the cure-to-the-hungries.

My point?

I heart babies. And want the best for them.

And after my surgery, I have had a most unique experience! Having (temporarily) lost the use of my abdominals (they call them your core for a reason; losing them is seriously paraplegic) and also the use of a leg [side note added later than this was written: by the end of the ordeal, it was TWO legs], I have gone back in time a bit.

All those things up there? (Plus a plethora more!) Kinda exactly what has happened to me. (Minus the "kinda" part.)

There has been one difference, though. My parents have been so friggin wonderful to me! Much more wonderful than I'd imagine they were when I was an actual baby. (At least... much more wonderful than *I* was when I had babies.) When I wake them up at 3a, they don't whimper (as is the normal, human, response). They smile at me and say, "how can I help, honey?" When various body fluids are spilled, there's no parental panic. There's just this sweetness and tenderness and devotion. Heck, my dad literally BROKE HIS FOOT taking care of me. But did that stop him? No. He was just as devoted and sweet and tender as ever.

Now, from what I recall about my own babyhood (I actually do recall some, buy, yeah, not tons) and from the babyhoods of my siblings (cuz I was older and I could watch), my parents' angelic aura as they have been taking care of me this summer is a bit... more glowing... than when we were actual babies.

And dude. I get it. I get it SO MUCH. Maybe I didn't realize how friggin awesome my parents were until the haze of parenthood hit me in the face so hard I saw stars for four years, but they were awesome and they loved us and helped us and were generally amazing parents.

They were human, though.

If I peed all over them, they'd make sounds of protest. If I woke them up at 3a, they'd be groggy and maybe even cranky (who wouldn't?). And I'm guessing that it wasn't fun to lose their independence because they were responsible for someone so... dependent.

So what's the difference between my parents (who were great parents) when I was a baby and with my supernaturally angelic wonders of human kindness parents now?

What I can come up with (post-surgical haze is like moving neurons through nano pools of molasses) is Understanding.

They get it. The get me. They know what's hard for me and what sux. And their empathy and parentally fierce love takes over. They had that parentally fierce love when I was a baby, but they didn't totally know me yet. (I was surprised when I had my own babies how I could be holding and loving these creatures who I knew absolutely. nothing. about.) I couldn't tell them what I was thinking/feeling/intending/etc. If they thought they understood me, well, maybe they were right, but maybe they were just guessing.

So this is my offering on today's celebration of our foremothers and fathers [Remember, this was written on Pioneer Day]: an inter-generational understanding of how much being a baby SUX. (In hopes that such understanding promotes empathy and stuff.)

Sounds all grand, right? I swear when I started this post I was going for funny, mixed with gross, mixed with over-share. But you can't trust those pills they send you home with. They take away pain (and your brain's filters), so u can't stop yourself from goin on and on and on. And as it gets harder to type? It just gets worse!) but when the pain is gone, you feel so damn....wise or something!

 So let's end with a recap: being a baby sux.

I know this WAY too well for someone in her 30's cuz surgery and cancery crappy crap SUX. And my bio-clock makes me want to love on babies.

So mothers and fathers be good to those adorably edible tiny round humans. They can't thank you right now, but there is a reason they adore you. (And they DO adore you. Even when they don't know how to let you know.)

Yeah, I'm alive (barely). Someday I'll tell you about it, but for now, here's a pitch.

I'm not sure how many of my friends may be expecting (or are planning on it), but for any of you who are, here's a shout out for banking your baby's cord blood.

I banked my daughter Lily's, never thinking that ANYTHING could POSSIBLY happen where I might need it. I remember thinking it was more money than I wanted to spend on a gamble, but then again, Steve was in grad school--meaning that it must not have been TOO much money, especially considering how sure I was that I'd never, ever need it. Things might go wrong for other people, but they always seemed to work out for me. Right?

Heh.

This is what I have learned since then: SH*T ALWAYS HAPPENS.

Life is long and families have a lot of people in them. Tons of the time, stuff is boring and happy and free from problems. But inevitably, stuff goes wrong. And it doesn't matter who you are or how smoothly your life has gone thus far, stuff still happens.

So, yeah. I am really grateful I made the decision to bank Lil's blood even though I was super naive at the time. (I was 25 and thought I was totally mature and wise and crap. Hahahaha!)

In case you're wondering what on earth you can do with cord blood: Blood from a neonate's umbilical cord is rich with stem cells. Stem cell therapies are already in use for cancer (which, for some strange reason, I happen to care a lot about... hmm...), blood diseases, auto-immune diseases, and certain genetic diseases. Future research may find therapies for diseases like Parkinson's (another one that hits close to home), Alzheimer's, MS, and many others.

Umbilical blood also has the added plus of letting you avoid the firestrom (not a typo) of controversy that goes with embryonic stem cell extraction. Or to use an equation since I haven't done that forever:

UCB = (all the benefit) - (that particular stress)

If you'd like more information, here's a link.
Or you can call 1-800-747-3319. Mention code MJL8 and either you or I will get some kind of reward. (They weren't entirely clear about that.)

You may never need the blood (here's to hoping you DON'T!) but it's really comforting to have it just in case. I think of it as part of my "emergency preparedness" because, turns out, cataclysmic disasters come in all kinds of forms. Some extremely personal.

You can message me if you have any questions or reservations or whatever. I'm not an expert, but I'll tell you whatever I know!

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Going in for (another!) massive surgery tomorrow

and all of our little gang of Spencers is scared shitless.

apologies to everyone who doesn't like swearing.  I don't particularly like swearing either.  sometimes, there's just not a better word though. (and I have a PhD in English.  I know a LOT of words.)

I probably won't update for awhile--but that's not unusual lately, right?  Steve might update his Facebook status with details, though. (I don't expect to be terribly conscious for a month at least, and certainly not on Facebook; although, you never do know what shenanigans those post-surgery drugs effect, right?) 

prayers, of course, are welcomed.  from whatever god/goddess/deity you happen to ascribe.

we are not picky.

Wednesday, May 30, 2012

My New Retirement Plan

So, me and my kids are at Sam’s Club.  The kids are out of school for the day, Daddy is at work at his new job, and we’re filling the house up with a million little snacks that we put off buying when we were unemployed.

The cart is dang heavy, the kids tell me.

You’re the one who thought it would be a good idea to take turn pushing it, I tell them.  Consequences, I say.  Learn about them.

In response, they throw themselves down on the couches.  Not, like, the display couches.  But couches on the shelves.  When you think about it, Sam’s Club has weirdly big shelves.

I decide to sit down, too.

No one says anything for awhile.  It’s getting late and we’ve wasted all our energy on shopping and haven’t left any for checking out, loading the car, or getting home.  So I just relax—close my eyes and marvel at the fact that I have gotten to the point where my children are so grown up that they will sit in a recliner silently for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes.  Amazing.

You never think that they’ll stop being toddlers.  Stop screaming, or pooping on you, or hitting you on the head with a television.  (I think I’m exaggerating about the television, but honestly, it has a ring of truth to it.)  But they do grow up.  They grow up.  They have thoughts.

Thoughts like this:

Sam:  [head still leaned back relaxing, eyes closed]  “It’s been getting really hot,” he says.  “Not in here... Outside.”

“Yup,” I say.  Not because I really want to engage in a conversation about the weather, but because I’m the Mom.  I should encourage mental development in my children, acknowledge their observations.  Especially the true ones.

But then, something odd happens.

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” Sam says.  “People get thirsty when it’s hot outside.  Joggers get especially thirsty.  And, you know, there are a lot of joggers by our house.”

True enough.  We live at the mouth of Memory Grove.  But what’s he getting at?

Sam:  “What did that flat of water cost, Mom?  $3.00? 24 bottles for $3.00?”

I nod.  It's really $3.50, but why quibble.

Sam:  “But when you’re hot, and thirsty, and jogging, what would you pay for water?”

I think I stare at him, though it’s possible that I never open my eyes.  Maybe his question was rhetorical?  I don’t really want to push it.  The couches on the shelf are really comfortable.

He turns to Lily.  “We’ve got work to do,” he says.  “I’ll pay you the normal rate?"

In hindsight, this should have been a clue.

That afternoon, Lily sets up a shop on the grass—right at the point when three roads converge into a single, inescapable, entryway to Memory Grove.  I’m informed that of the three sites they toured, it was the one they thought would net the most profit with the least trouble.

“And I can keep an eye on you because it’s by our house,” I say.  She nods, but there’s this look in her eyes, like she’s placating my infantile need to pretend I have control over things.  When I push it further and set up a blanket nearby so I can sit with a book and protect her from any creepers, she just ignores me.

Soon enough, she’s used her red wagon to transport to transport the sundries of her operation, and her shop is up and running.  She has a blue umbrella, driven into the ground. (It keeps the sun away, and its bright color draws attention, she says.) She has a cooler of iced water.  She’s got some insect spray, because even the best real estate sometimes comes with a few mosquitos.  And she has a sign.  On it: a marker-drawn flower and a price.  Water Bottles: $1, it says.  

She smiles at joggers that pass.

She waves like a beauty queen.  (Well, since she is a beauty queen, I guess I should just say she waves, since the rest is implied.)

She watches as people come close, keeping eye-contact right up until she’s able to call out to them, “I have water for sale!”  She uses her cutest, sweetest, most innocent smile. I’m pretty sure there’s at least a little eyelash-batting.

No one but me seems to know it’s a put on.

People are too busy thinking she's cute.  Even cuter when she tries to upsell them.  “A banana would go really well with that water,” she sas.  “Don’t you think? It’s just another dollar.”

They hand her money.  Leave her tips.  (Tips!)

Eventually Sam—not having calculated the effect tipping might have on the ultimate profit-sharing—comes out, looking for his own share of the tipping.  He holds signs and waves—not quite like a beauty queen, but competently.  People stop to compliment him about his smile.

They do this two days in a row before the weather turns cold again.  In those two days, they work one hour a day.

They net $40.

Or, another way to look at it.  They spent $10 on supply (and you bet your bum I made them pay), they took that and grossed 500% better.

IN TWO HOURS.

As soon as the heat returns, they plan to be back out there.

Later on, when they are in their rooms, putting away their money and getting ready for bed, I think about it all.  I think about how I thought we were relaxing at Sam’s Club with our eyes closed.  But what was really happening was this: supply chain calculation, strategic pricing, strategic real estate setup, market-needs analysis, profit-loss estimation, division of labor, managerial supervision, salesmanship planing, marketing.  Some of it was spoken.  Some of it had gone on behind the scenes.  (They had a pre-arranged salary  for goodness sakes.)

And I realize:  these babies of mine... they are not cute little lemonade-stand babies.  They are not normal little buddies who are content to slosh around some crystal light for $0.05 a paper cup.  No.

They are friggin future moguls.  


And then, this thought leads me to another realization—a more somber one, in some ways.  That is: somewhere, sometime, as I was busy thinking my thoughts about how happy I was that no one pooped on me anymore...

Their quest to take over the world had begun.

I am their mother.  And I completely underestimated them.

So.

Wal-Mart?
Bill Gates?
Hugo Chavez?

Take notice.

Cuz otherwise, y’all won’t even see it coming.








Tuesday, May 22, 2012

On the Sudden Appearance of Stripes

I've never been the hugest fan of our Iris's aesthetics. They're not quite white, not quite purple usually. But they were planted by Steve's grandmother decades ago, so they're sentimental.  Especially since I never got to meet his grandmother.

Still.  Not quite white, but not quite purple?  Blah.

But this year, something strange happened.  I dunno if it's because of cross-pollination or because they were thinned recently, but one got stripes!

And I guess, in the end, it doesn't really matter how it happened. Something bland and blah and old that I thought would never change became super cool without any notice.

I totally approve.

Wednesday, May 02, 2012

In Honor of her Sixth Year of Life(!), I Bring you this Snippit from the Lily archives

From November: 2009.  Lily: three years old. 

Scene: We're at Burger King, watching President Obama pardon the turkey. Neither of my children are wearing shoes and the smell of boiling fat permeates the air. BTW, Burger King is where we go for all of our sociopolitical enrichment. We're classy that way.

Me: "Do you guys see those girls behind the president? Those are his daughters. Wouldn't it be weird if your dad was president?"

Sam: "Um, the way it would *really* go, Mommy, is that *you'd* be the president and I'd have to call you 'Mommy President' and we'd live in the White House."

Me: "You make a very good point."

Sam: "But can girls even be president?"

Me: "Not that it's apparent historically speaking, but absolutely girls can be the president."

Sam: "Huh. Lily, do you want to be the president?"

Lily: [thinks for a moment.] "What I want is to be a giant and then to tower SO HIGH that I'm a voice in the sky. And I'll BOOM. I'll say 'PEOPLE! LISTEN!' And then I'll mush them."



[Six years in and her plans for world domination are still going strong.  As the back yard neighbor said last night, "That kid is something.  Either she's going to save the world, or blow it up.  I'm not entirely sure which yet." Sentiment: prettymuch right on. Happy Birthday, kid. You awe everyone around you.]

Wednesday, April 04, 2012

This Little Buddy is Getting Baptized this Saturday! (Easter Eve!)

If you're in the SLC area, we'd love to have you come. Send me an email for time/place. KerrySpencer At BYU Dot EDU.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Today is the last day to vote for my essay!

Here are the instructions. Note that you have to send an email, not post a comment. (But thanks to y'all who commented!) Also, if your vote doesn't have a "top 5" it won't be counted, so you have to read at least five pieces. But they are (by definition of the contest!) super duper short. They take all of 30 seconds to read.

In case you want some suggestions, I liked Sandra Tayler's and Emily Adams.' I'm also a fan of my friends Kathy Soper and Deja. And my SIL knows Jonathon Penny, so she'd love it if you read his!

(Mine is the best, of course. :)

Remember how I said my brain was back?

And how I was really happy about it?

Well, turns out it's only back sometimes. The rest of the time I'm in a fog of staring at the wall and not being able to think (or do) anything. Good times.

So it may be a week or two before I get to the "resonance" principles. (And actually, I really don't know when the fog will lift!)

If you can't wait, here are a few super-summed-up basics about resonance:

[First, a caveat. Marketing was the #1, hugest, biggest predictor of sales. Magnitudes more important than any other trait. And the things that will get you more marketing are sometimes in direct opposition to some of these. Following *only* principles of resonance and not considering marketing will end up in a more resonant book, sure. But it won't get you more sales. At *best* you'll sell slightly higher than they expected you to. But no author in our study who didn't have good marketing--no matter how resonant their book was--had a "breakout" book. No one. Zero. Not, like, 0.01%. Zero. Which is why I was sort of surprised y'all wanted to know about resonance first. But all authors are a little deluded, I guess. That's how we got into this profession in the first place!]

1. 80% of the YA market is female. Write for them. Don't try to write something that appeals to both girls and boys, write to girls. Leave the 20% of the YA market of boys to the 30% of YA authors who are men. (And if you do write to the 20%, expect to have 80% fewer sales.)

2. I know some of you are freaking out about #1 because you think it might say something about boys and literacy and OMG why aren't boys reading?! It doesn't. Boys are extremely literate by the time they go to college--as literate or more literate than the girls are. When they're younger, they do tend to lag behind the girls, but it's likely that's just a developmental thing. Teen boys are literate in many, many genres of writing. They just don't seem to like the novel so much. Now, before puberty, they love a novel as much as any girl does. (Harry Potter, for example. Coincidence that Harry was 11 at the beginning? Not so much.) After puberty, they start leaning toward more "visual" genres. Comic books, magazines, non-fiction with graphics, how-to manuals, the internet, etc. There have already been a bazillion attempts to write novels that appeal to teen boys. They never seem to work. There's a (strong) possibility, that the novel is, itself, a more "female" way of telling a story. Whether that's culture or nature, well, you'd have to ask the neuroscientists. Probably 20 years from now.

3. Emotion. Emotion on every single page. Every single paragraph. Teens--hell, who are we kidding--all of humanity lives off this stuff.

4. Relateability. Teens want to see characters that are like them. 99% of them do NOT have a million dollars and go to super-exclusive schools and buy outfits that cost $2000. More strikingly, 44% of the under-18 population in the US is of a non-white race. However, we only found non-white protagonists in 5% of our sample. Teens want to be able to put themselves right into the role of the protagonist. (Maybe explains why the 1st person was weirdly more effective than any other.)

4. Write about normal teens doing extraordinary things. Not about extraordinary teens doing normal things. Or extraordinary teens doing extraordinary things. Normal teens. With amazing potential.

5. Ask Big Questions. (This was the biggest predictor of resonance. The only relationship that scored higher was that of marketing to sales. That should tell you something.) Teens aren't much different from most of us. They want their lives to matter. They care about morality--right and wrong, good and evil. They don't like nuance so much, though they're OK with ambiguity (because so much of morality, when you really think about it, becomes ambiguous). The point is, they're not shallow. They care deeply about things that are deeply important. Self centered? Sure. But not shallow and not amoral.

6. Give them imagery of the female divine. That maybe sounds preachy and/or like something a Wiccan would say. But it's important. YA readers (mostly girls) have this deep... yearning is the best word for it. (In fact, the word "yearning" as a descriptor was correlated to increased resonance.) They want to see themselves in the eye of God. They want to know that they have divine potential. They DON'T want you to preach to them or get all "teachy." (They will throw your book in the trash and spit on it if you start preaching or overtly teaching.) But they do want to know that their existence matters... cosmically. Again, they want to see themselves in the image of God. (Maybe that's why it sounds Wiccan. Wicca has tons of goddess imagery. Christianity, for all its goods, typically fills its heavens--even its scriptures--with divine men. Girls aren't as satisfied by this as we'd think they would be.)

There are a million other little things. Estrangement from parents, atonement with father figures, plot structure, pacing, polyvalent story lines, sex talk (but no swearing), romance, relationships, descent into the underworld (figuratively), and ton more.

But those are the basics. For now. Let's all hope my brain comes back soon. I miss it.

Thursday, March 01, 2012

Vote for me!

The Lit Blitz voting has commenced. Instructions are here.

Is it just me or is asking people to vote for you kind of embarrassing? I don't think I could ever run for office. I would feel all shameful and stuff.

But vote for me anyway?

The voting closes March 15. They say you have to choose your "top five," which is a not-so-veiled-attempt to get you to read all 13 entries. Also a way to fight the "the winner is the one who has the most Facebook friends," thing, I guess. And that is good. I don't even really know how to use Facebook that well.

I promise I haven't forgotten that I said I was going to write about "Resonance"

Thingz are crazy here.

But I remember. And I will totally get it done.

BTW, does anyone know how to post excel tables on blogger? That's one thing I kinda need to figure out. I mean, I can tell you what the data says, but isn't it usually better to be able to see it for yourself, too?

Saturday, February 25, 2012

My Super Short, Super Creepy, Essay, “The Gloaming,” Is Now Posted!

It’s a finalist in Mormon Artist’s Lit Blitz, remember. The winner is chosen by vote, which means, really, whoever can get the most people to read it.

So read it! Post it on your blogs! Post it on Facebook! I will send you love and devotion!

The voting won’t be until all the essays are posted, which is in a few days. I’ll let you know when that is.

In the meantime, here is the link to the essay: http://mormonartist.net/2012/02/day-kerry-spencer/

It’s best read when you’re alone, in the dark, preferably when you’re going to the hospital to have a colonoscopy the next day. (Going to get a big mole removed counts too :)

Thursday, February 16, 2012

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The Mormon Lit Blitz Has Begun!




That's the poster. Looks like you'll have to click on it to see the whole thing. I can't get it to shrink. [Oh, geez. I will not make a "she said" joke... I will not make a "she said" joke...]

My (super-short, super-creepy) essay, "The Gloaming," will be posted February 25. Which is also my brother's birthday, so happy thirties, buddy.

Not sure when the voting will be, but have no fear, I will tell you. Over and over and over and over.

Monday, February 13, 2012

There are two things particularly fascinating about this quote my Mom sent me:

I was called to act in the office of a Teacher and with my companion had a district assigned us, and Brother Heber C. Kimball and Joseph Smith were in our district. We hesitated to visit such prominent men, as we well knew we were not capable of teaching them, yet we could not find any excuse to pass by their houses, so we ventured. The Presiding Bishop, Newel K. Whitney, gave us a routine of questions to ask everyone in our district. Among the questions was, "do you keep the word of wisdom?" We found that Brother Joseph Smith was the most submissive of any in our district. After he had answered our questions, he called his wife Emma to answer also. I then asked him the meaning and purport of the word of wisdom, as at that time there was a great diversity of opinion concerning it. He answered and said, "I understand the Word of Wisdom to mean that we must get in wisdom all things. If I think a glass of Brandy will do one good or a cup of Coffee or to smoke a cigar I will use these things." Thus in short he gave us the meaning of the Word of Wisdom.

Fascinating thing one: Brother Joseph (the prophet) gives his wife equal time! (Can you imagine the drama at General Conference if Tommy called up Sister Monson to finish his talk?)

Fascinating thing two: A cigar? really? I mean, coffee and brandy I can see... :)

(Argh! I published this without a source citation first time and for an English Professor that is just NOT OKAY! It's from a book called “Remembering Joseph” by Mark L. McConkie. Dunno the page number, Mom didn't send it. Not to throw Mom under the bus. But she doesn't have to care as much as I do, so it's OK.)

Also, I see that y'all want to talk about audience resonance. Which is also fascinating. Because didn't I just spend however many kilobytes saying that the research shows it doesn't even matter?

(But tomorrow I'll try to tackle it anyway. Cuz I'm nice like that.)