Right?

Just a few days ago, in a moment of pride and astonishment, I  realized it’s almost February, and other than a few weeks of gloominess back in November, I seem to have escaped my annual Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Now here’s where you might be tempted to say, “Jan, that’s because you’ve been misdiagnosed. That golden, life-affirming fluorescent light which hangs over your head, its beams hitting the back of your retina so that it can reprogram and regulate your biochemistry — that light is unnecessary. You might have Annual Effective Disorder, or Hourly Affective Disorder, but you don’t have SAD.”

But you won’t, because you are kind. And in any case, if you did, I would reply — with a twinkle in my eye, you understand — but firmly nonetheless, “Who’s the doctor in this relationship? And aren’t you supposed to be affirming me, not questioning my authority?”

(This is how we handle conflict in my family, but I digress again, because in this thoughtful essay, I’m not supposed to be modeling conflict-resolution but asking for help.)

My theory about why I’ve done better this winter is the weather. It’s been unusually mild and dry. I’ve had no difficulty in getting out for walks most days of the week. Driving’s been a cinch.

I’ve also seldom been alone. Between one kid or another, the ToolMaster taking holidays, or motoring down to help family, I’ve had people around most of the time. Oh, I’ve had plenty of solitude, which I crave, but no week-long spaces where it’s just me and the animals.

All that’s about to change. The second semester’s about to begin and it promises to be more rigorous. My family is dispersing. Molly’s next nursing assignment is at a hospital a good hour away. She’ll need a vehicle.

At my instigation, thinking of finances and the Earth, rather than expediency, I suggested we try to manage without purchasing another car. In effect, from o’alarm-clock to o’dinnertime, I won’t have a vehicle.  I can still walk, bus, drop the ToolMaster at work on the odd day I need transportation, but I’m wheel-less, peeps. Of my own volition.

Why does this feel different? Why does it give me a pang?

On a practical basis,  it’s doable. It won’t change 97% of my week. But the very air seems to carry different potential. The wind whispers, “All licensed-up and no way to go.” I feel thwarted. When I dig in my purse, my car keys reproach me.

So my questions for you: Have you ever been car-less for long? Did you grow to love it or acclimate? If an empty parking spot cries in the garage, and no one’s around to hear it, will it still be there by nightfall? Talk to me about suburbia and what it does for community.

In other words, I’ve been AWOL for a loved-one’s health crisis. But that person is making a speedy recovery, so now it’s time to look at the week’s take-away lessons.

1. That I no more enjoy sleeping in ICU-affiliated lounges now than I did a decade ago.

2. That some hospital staff are condescending and rude and label family members as “anxious” — code for “troublesome” — until they learn there’s a doctor in the crowd. Then they bend over backwards, become nervous and self-conscious.

3. That this saddens and frustrates me, but not enough to refrain from using it to protect a loved one.

4. That the phenomenon of nutritional illiteracy is not confined to the pizza-for-a-vegetable movement in the States, because a person can still be hooked up to a heart monitor in a $10,000 dollar a night bed, but be offered $0.75 worth of cheese and trans-fat laden peanut butter — the foods that put them there in the first place.

5. That I’m raising a remarkable young man in that he has the capacity for selflessness in the time of a family member’s illness.

6. That this means he has more maturity than at least three adults of my acquaintance.

7. That I shouldn’t be surprised by interpersonal dynamics, since a health crisis often amplifies faults, flaws, and troubled relationships.

8. That though I aim to be empathic and compassionate, believe in the Golden Rule, and generally do not have to shoehorn myself into this mentality, a she-dragon lurks below this mild, Canadian exterior. In the right circumstances I  will call security and say very. Rude. Things.

9. That it felt awesome to drop the social mask and I have yet to experience a pang of remorse.

10. That in the midst of crisis you can be overwhelmed with gratitude. For:

• family that cares
• the kindness of perfect strangers
• the competence and professionalism of certain staff
• groundbreaking doctors who live 3000 miles away, who haven’t been seen for years but who are instantly reachable and willing to provide advice, for free, because they are just that committed. (Yes, I’m looking at you, Dr. John McDougall. Thank you! Again.)

11. That I’m glad to be home. Glad to see the ToolMaster, Molly, and my pets. That it’s wonderful to see my desk and write again, because everything makes sense when committed to paper.

12. That this person’s crisis will not have been in vain, for we all will use it to guide and entrench lifestyle choices in the extended family and community.

Speaking of which, have you made different health decisions because of a loved-one’s personal crisis? If so, what changes did you make and did they stick?

Anyway, if you have time, please join me for Promopalooza: Tie-Ins, Swag, and Merchandising Opps for the Streetwise Writer

I will be back with a Tartitude post later this week.

What have I been doing while this blog sprouted weeds and crickets chirped? I’ve been getting the kids settled back at school and launched a self-improvement kick. If the fact I now own a tickler file doesn’t just thrill you the way it thrills me, well then you’re some kind of twisted person, aren’t you?

His Dream:

While studying scientific papers on the structure of nuclear reactors, he noticed a recurrent error. If Radium 135 was processed with Nitrogen, he posited, it could produce an unlimited supply of energy. The waste products would so safe you could eat them without fear of developing a third testicle or a hairy spleen.

Because he couldn’t get anyone to believe him, he visited Saskatchewan and bought 100 pounds of raw Uranium from a miner. The excuse he used? He wanted a souvenir.

He built a miniature reactor in our basement. (Apparently I was biddable, ignorant, or on drugs in this portion of the dream.)

It worked. He patented the process.

He approached the head of his company with a deal. He’d get 10% of all profits but they’d have the exclusive right to develop it. When they tried to argue they owned all his inventions, did he hire an intellectual property lawyer? Oh no, he did not. He argued his case with skill and merit, then–

This is where I interrupted. I said that if I wrote his dream, he would be conveniently disappeared under the Canadian laws which are equivalent to the Patriot Act, though because we are Canadian, you’ll understand the detention isn’t carried out in a tent city in Cuba, but rather a regular prison in the East. (Sorry. I can provide no insight into the cultural differences with respect to water-boarding except to suppose we might use a maple plank whereas you might use ash.)

His knowledge would be conveeeeniently misplaced for about 30 years, or until oil prices had been milked to the max and his patent had expired. Then, voilà! He would be released from prison, a pale, doddering creature. When they named the university’s new science wing after him and referenced Uranium in the dedication ceremony, a much-publicized photo would show him peering at his bottom with a confused expression.

“Not so!” the ToolMaster said. “Not so.” See, he’d taken precautions. Before he’d gone into the meeting, he’d mass-mailed his results to the scientific community. If something happened to us, the world wouldn’t suffer. The knowledge wouldn’t die. This was a critical point for me to understand.

Then he wanted to know my dream, and since he’d been somewhat displeased and defensive about my suggested alterations to his dream, and since he now seemed to challenging my storytelling chops, I’ll admit I  beefed up my conflict.  But only a tad, you understand, because more would breach the implied spousal contract.

Her Dream:

My scalp had been itchy for days. I thought it was from chemical irritation because I’d had my hair colored, but as long as I didn’t die from anaphylaxis, I couldn’t regret my choice. I had an upcoming TV interview and needed to look my best.

When I was in the Green Room waiting to be called to the set, I looked in the mirror and saw black insects climbing up and through my hair, using it like a  jungle gym. Several hopped, giving my outline a vague, Linus-like quality. Just as I’d grasped I had head lice, an assistant appeared and waved me forward. I had to go. That instant. There was no time to fake an illness. No time to do anything but hope and pray I wouldn’t be subject to a close-up.

As I stood poised on the studio’s threshold, heart pounding, my eyes lit on the beret the assistant was wearing. I snatched it off her head and jammed it on mine. The hat was pink.

My outfit was red. 

See? Soulmates.

Do you dream much, peeps? Do your dreams tend to be dystopian, deep, or disturbing?

Low expectations are often a self-fulfilling prophecy. We insulate ourselves from failure, don’t try as hard, brace for the worst and often get it.

High expectations, on the other hand, will inevitably lead to disappointment. Keep raising what you expect and sooner or later (probably sooner) it’s not going to happen. And we know that a good outcome that’s less than the great one we hoped for actually feels like failure.

Perhaps it’s worth considering no expectations. Intense effort followed by an acceptance of what you get in return. It doesn’t make good TV, but it’s a discipline that can turn you into a professional.

If I were to focus on my fiction word count this year — and trust me, there are weeks where this can feel like the only measure that matters to me — I’ve failed dismally. But because I’m trying to follow my nose and allow myself time to discover my purpose and voice, it’s been a fun year, peeps. I’m so grateful for what I’ve learned. I’m also a little boggled at what I did accomplish without a left-brained plan. Here are a few of the things I tracked:

Blogging:

• 21 Writer Unboxed posts
• 79 Tartitude posts
• My first guest post on Christi Craig’s blog
• Hosted my first guest blogger, Victoria Mixon
• Hosted the Mary Stewart challenge with Sophie Masson stepping in as judge
• Conducted 9 author interviews
  

  Writer Unboxed breakfast in New York. From left to right: Jael McHenry, Juliet Marillier, Therese Walsh, Donald Maass, Barbara O'Neal, Kathleen Bolton

Critique:

• Beta read for 6 writers (that I recall)
• Joined a critique group and was an active participant
• Bid on and sent a critique from a NY publisher (results awaited)

Education:

• Completed 119 books, including a fair number of craft books
• Discarded 29 partially-read books. (As an interesting anecdote, 19 of these were self-published and free.)
• Attended 3 writing conferences, one of which was in New York and led to a Writer Unboxed breakfast, where I became a tongue-tied stammerer, but totally survived.
• Took two online courses — one on writing, the other on time-management

My Quit List:

It’s as important to know what to leave as to know what to take on, both for tending the spirit and managing a daytimer. Without allowing ourselves the option to quit, it’s impossible to have an experimental or playful mindset.  As I look at the above list, so many of my accomplishments began as a “wouldn’t-it-be-cool-if.”

• Quit watching my stats, including leaving Klout altogether. I’m very proud of this. I didn’t simply adopt this as a philosophical position, but I let go of the cycle of exhilaration and angst that comes with an other-orientation.
• Decreased my blogging frequency to once weekly or when I have something to say.
• Decreased my online time, partly through willpower, partly through employing Freedom and a timer.
• Left a moderatorship because it wasn’t a good fit for my time and personality.

Other:

• Ran weekly writing sprints
• Kept a daily gratitude list
• Made a list of items that nag at me and have been systematically working on them. (eg. Saw a financial advisor and have been implementing changes as advised.)

Yes, all in all, 2011 was a good year for me, peeps, and I have my momentum going in some personal projects that are important to me. Can’t wait to see what opportunities 2012 brings and what I can create with an attitude of hopeful expectation and a willingness to work.

How about you? Have you tracked your progress, and if so, how do you feel about your year?

5-Minute Fudge

2 Tbsp. butter (or margarine)

2/3 c. evaporated milk (can use plain, though it’s less creamy)

1-2/3 c. sugar

1/2 tsp. salt

2 c. miniature marshmallows

1-1/2 c. semi-sweet chocolate chips

1 tsp. vanilla

Directions:

1. Mix butter, milk, sugar and salt in a saucepan over medium heat. Bring to a boil. Cook 5 minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.
2. Stir in marshmallows, chocolate chips, vanilla and optional substances.
3. Stir until marshmallows melt. Pour into buttered 8″-square pan. Cool.

Variations: 

Peppermint: in lieu of vanilla, add peppermint extract. I like to switch the chocolate chips to white, then top with crushed candy canes at Christmas.

Dark chocolate cherry: use dark chocolate chips, add about 1/2 tsp. orange extract (optional) when you add the vanilla, add 1/2 c. chopped, dried cherries.

Dark chocolate ginger: use dark chocolate chips, vanilla extract, and 1/2. cup diced candied ginger

My triumph was slightly tarnished when, within one hour of my appointment, I developed a minor cold. Stress does it to me every time. Anyway, I went to buy Kleenex with lotion because, as Molly puts it so delicately, “The time to be cheap isn’t when you’re sick, Mom.”

But I one-upped her because I found these and they made me ridiculously happy:

I know Vicks Vaporub can be dangerous (or was) if consumed in significant quantities, but as my sister mostly recovered from that unfortunate episode when I was babysitting her, it has good associations for me.  As a kid, that menthol scent signaled upcoming parental indulgence: entire days spent reading or watching TV. No homework. No chores, not that I ever had it too bad.

With my Puffs I blow and hack, but I surreptitiously sniff my tissues and bestow a beatific smile on anyone who notices. Frank thinks I’ve finally lost my marbles, which pleases me. A teenager should always wonder if danger and chaos are but moments away. Don’t you agree?

Finally, today I’m at Writer Unboxed with a family story of near-tragedy and woe. I Prefer My Rubber to Meet the Road. Hope you can join me there.

Today’s subject: How Introvertus Interruptus Taught Me Four Simple Writing Lessons

Hope you can join us.

A First World problem, right? Because for most people, because beyond the financial issues, that’s not big news or a permanent threat.

But I’m a tooth-challenged wimp, I admit it. I earned my dental-phobia in childhood with a family dentist who was beefy, old, unkind, and I suspect wasn’t particularly competent, even for the time. (For instance, though my parents assure me it wasn’t real, I recall him entering the room wearing a blood-stained smock.)

Anyway, last Thursday when I thought I was done with oral professionals for six months, I left their office in a positively giddy mood. I had coffee with a fellow writer. My mouth felt normal, which is to say I’d stopped noticing its existence with every bite and swallow. Within a day, I was getting on top of the chores I’d let slide and my writing goals seemed achievable again.

Then I had the unmitigated gall to bite into a piece of toast on Saturday morning — whole wheat, peanut-buttered — and *crunch-grind-grit-wince*

Who knew that a chunk of porcelain would be so vulnerable?

Back I must go, peeps, and I’m not particularly happy about it. This is where you come in. I know I’m not alone in my childhood or dental fear, or of overcoming it as an adult. If you’re so inclined, please soothe me with your stories of how you endured a bazillion root canals thanks to the miracle of modern dentistry. Tell me how you conquered the dental chair. I am ready to become a believer.

And since it’s been so long since we chatted, what’s new with you lately? Are you getting ready for the holidays? Maybe a good thing about this dental stuff is that for the first time in years, I’m actually feeling Christmas-y.

Let me begin it by thanking Victoria Mixon, who made a wonderful first guest blogger.

Likewise, thank you to Jane Friedman who kindly laid to rest a long-term concern of mine. For the past year I’ve worried about using O’Hara as my writing name due to the apostrophe, which codes differently according to the platforms I’m using. My questions meant I had to hold off certain decisions, like claiming my personalized Facebook profile. Happily, in Jane’s post, and then a reference by one of her commenters, Caleb J. Ross, I was reassured and given strategies.

Lastly, I hope you’ll join me today on Writer Unboxed for my monthly post, entitled 14 Subtle Signs Your OBGYN Might Not Make a Good Critique Partner

You might know Victoria from elsewhere. She’s a frequent contributor  to Writer Unboxed, a writer, and an independent editor with over thirty years’ experience.  Today’s post is an excerpt from The Art & Craft of Story: 2nd Practitioner’s Manual, a companion to the successful The Art & Craft of Fiction: A Practitioner’s Manual. It was specifically chosen to help the plot- or pacing-challenged in the crowd, which at this point probably includes anyone doing NaNoWriMo. Enjoy!

—————-

Using Character to Fuel Momentum

Every day, in every way, I am always telling aspiring writers, “Whatever you do, never interfere with the forward motion of your plot.” Life is short, and stories are legion. We haven’t got that kind of time.

But even better than simply not interfering, we need to know how to increase that forward motion.

Momentum: from snowball to avalanche.

We’ve been talking about how to use character to create plot, how our protagonist’s two conflicting needs create the nightmare collision that is their inevitable Climax. But, while we’re exploring this plot, how do we go beyond the admonishment not to interfere with our plot’s momentum and actually increase the momentum, exaggerate, fuel it? Through character?

By taking every opportunity to conflict those two needs. And, at carefully timed intervals, increase them.

This technique is rooted in the character’s freedom of choice. Because every time we set up a decision for them—A or B—whatever they choose leads to C, which we must arrange to be even worse than whatever they didn’t choose.

Say a man needs to be safely on the right side of the law, even to believe in justice, or at least not make things any worse for himself. He’s in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and he has a health problem the prison environment is exacerbating badly. Staying and sticking out his term keeps him safe from further prosecution. But he also needs to survive.

He needs:

1) to be safe from the law (which he knows now he won’t necessarily be even if he avoids breaking it)

2) to live

 His choices are:

A: obediently stick out his term and hope prison doesn’t kill him, or

B: break out of prison and safeguard his health

He chooses a need, and he breaks out of San Quentin.

Now, the movie version of David Goodis’ noir classic, Dark Passage, made film history for the most inadvertently hilarious introductory scenes ever: the camera acting as the eyes of the protagonist, Humphrey Bogart, who must, upon his escape from prison, have plastic surgery to make his face unrecognizable. (They pulled this camera stunt so they wouldn’t have to either use another actor or attempt to alter beyond recognition Bogey  himself. It apparently did not occur to anyone that if we were going to have plastic surgery, we might question making ourselves look like Humphrey Bogart. Charming, yes. Powerful, yes. Charisma preceding him by five miles in all directions, yes. But that mug?)

Anyway, as soon as Vincent Parry breaks out of San Quentin, he’s in trouble. What has he done? He has chosen A over B and wound up with C. Now he has to avoid getting caught, which would not only endanger his life but also lengthen his prison sentence.

His choices are:

C: stick around where he is, or

D: get the heck out of there

So he starts getting the heck out of there. He gets an offer of a ride. Should he take it?

E: take the ride and risk being identified, or

F: keep walking and make slower progress

He decides yes. He’s taking E. He hops in, and in short order it turns out this driver is quite a Nosy Parker and is about to identify him according to police reports now being broadcast over the car radio.

He must choose to:

E: keep riding and take whatever comes of being identified, or

G: get the heck out of that ride

He decides on G, to get the heck out of the ride, but when he asks the driver to pull over, the man makes it clear he knows Parry’s the recent escapee and, what’s more, will turn him in.

He can:

E: keep riding, or

H: hurt the driver to get the heck out of that ride

He hurts the driver. (As well as being a necessary education on the mistake he made back with E and F—ratcheting the tension on his next choice—this is also a fuse laid waiting to flare up again later when he can least afford it. One event playing more than one role in the story: that’s layering.) Then he’s back on the road, this time disguised in the driver’s clothes. He gets another offer of a ride. Should he take it?

The most important thing about making mistakes is the opportunity we have to learn from them. Has Parry learned from the last mistake? Does he now know better than to take a ride? Yes, he does. But does he also now know the police are announcing his break-out on the radio and asking local drivers to report him if they see him on the road? Yes, indeed.

What’s he going to choose?

I: refuse the ride and take his chances on the road, or

J: accept this second ride

He’s in a really bad bind now. This is worse than just sitting around waiting to die in prison! Making an impossible choice is so agonizing to the human animal we often choose not to choose, even if that means staying put and suffering the torments of hell.

Then the second character throws a twist into it—she not only insists he get in, she calls him by name.

His option paralysis has been too great, and when she tips the scales for him, he accepts her decision. He dives in.

And here Goodis gives him a little break. She’s nice! She tells him how to hide in the back of her car—very convenient, that tarp back there—and she smuggles him past the police guarding the entrance to San Francisco at the Golden Gate Bridge. She even takes him home with her, slips him into her building, and loans him her shower. She’s like his guardian angel.

So now he has another choice to make:

K: Take her at face value, or

L: find out what’s going on—who is this woman, why is she treating him this way?

Remember that characters always have powerful motivation for the things they do. They can’t just be nice to our protagonists because we want to be nice to them. Our characters are not us.

Parry chooses L and asks her, and lo-&-behold she’s got a clipping of a letter to the editor in his own defense, written at the time of his trial. It’s signed Irene Janney. She says she’s Irene Janney. Irene likes Vincent, and apparently she has liked him for a long time without his knowledge. But why?

Again: every character in fiction has enormous, overpowering reasons for doing the things they do. None of this is coincidence.

So he has another choice to make:

M: believe whatever she tells him, or

N: find out for himself

He chooses N. After he showers, he searches her room, and—what do you know?—there’s a whole scrapbook of clippings of the news reports of his arrest, trial, and imprisonment.

What’s going on here?

And so it goes.

We have two essential points to learn from Goodis:

1) Everything our protagonist does causes the next effect. That’s right—even in fueling momentum, it’s always cause-&-effect. While Parry doesn’t know it, he not only caused Janney to stop for him on the road, but he even caused her to be out on that road at the same time as him in the first place, conveniently beladen with a tarp under which a man could hide. How did he cause that? Oooh, that’s the Backstory! And it’s coming up next. It turns out she has extremely powerful reasons for being interested in his welfare, reasons rooted, it so happens, in her very natural love for her own father.

2) The more difficult we make our protagonist’s choices, the more complex the reasoning they must navigate in order to make the right choice, and the bigger the sword we hang over their head, the more intensely the reader is invested in reading all the way to the end to find out how our protagonist finally rids themself of this excruciating sequence of cause-&-effect.

As soon as Vincent Parry learns why Irene Janney is helping him, he realizes he has to find out who framed him, because that involves not only protecting himself from the law but also vindicating his guardian angel’s father. He’s basically honorable, and he has a need to believe in the justice behind laws, even more now for this woman who’s done so much for him.

Increase his need.

Also now that he’s spent some time with this adoring babe, he and Janney have begun falling in love, so he no longer just wants to live he wants to live for love.

Again—increase his need.

But he can’t find out who framed him so long as his face is on Wanted posters all over San Francisco. Unless, perhaps, he can choose to lose his face.

And the next thing we know, our protagonist is walking around San Francisco looking like Humphrey Bogart!

Jan again: You can find Victoria on Google+ ,  Twitter, or her own site, A. Victoria Mixon, Editor, voted one of WritetoDone’s Top 10 Blogs for Writers. Thank you for being here, me Zesties, and I hope you’ll find this useful in your writing.

Anyway, the title of this feature is “Jan is a Bad Mother Because______”

The “_______” will be the part I’ll add to gain your pity, laughter, and permit you a supercilious sneer, because it’s a true-fact that supercilious sneers are the best way to clear your respiratory system, and we’re all about the health on Tartitude. (When we’re not about the cool memes, which I still have to check on and rename. How does “Jan eschews leprosy as a ________” sound? I think that could be a winner.)

This week’s contribution comes courtesy of Frank. It is entitled “Jan is a Bad Mother Because She Remembers Some Medicine.” Apologies to those who’ve heard the story elsewhere:

This weekend I took the kids shopping and we stopped at Starbucks for a bite on the way. Frank, who is quickly compensating for his sister’s teenaged placidity, began to scratch his face and his neck. I said to him, “Are you feeling any shortness of breath? Is your throat closing in? Tell me if that happens.”

He mocked my over-protectiveness.

I told him he was about to break out in hives.

He told me he’s not allergic to anything.

I reminded him he was allergic to everything when he was a baby, but it doesn’t matter, not all hives come from allergies.

He told me I’m insane.

About thirty seconds later he broke out in HUGE hives everywhere, but the ones I mostly cared about were the ones on his face and neck because they confirmed my motherly omnipotence. Of course Molly and I laughed, which only made him more annoyed and flushed, and the hives even bigger.

The good news would be: I didn’t have to locate an Epi-pen or demonstrate my competence in more dramatic ways. The bad news? Starbucks is freaking expensive. Next time I will be a bad mother in Tim Horton’s, which is easily half the cost for the same quantity of trans fats and mockery.

How was your relationship with your mother when you were fifteen? And what do you think of the coffee at Starbucks? (I’m thinking “burnt dregs” would be applicable, but then, I’m still in a good mood from the weekend.)

O'Hara in happier times

“I just wanted to stay abreast of industry trends. Now look at me.”

As I push a consent form towards her, these defeated words are spoken by the unlikeliest of criminals:  Canadian, her once-trim waist thickening from middle age, an aspiring romance writer, Jan O’Hara buries her face in her hands and displays her shackled wrists. Combined with the pallor of her complexion against the orange jumpsuit, the look is not a good one for her. O’Hara knows this, which is why she’s agreed to speak to me.

“Tell them all. Tell everyone. Let my story serve as a cautionary tale.”

A year ago, O’Hara was just another romance-writing wannabe, dutifully composing novels by day and studying publishing trends by night. Though a fan of print books, a series of blog posts on the internet convinced her that a digital tsunami was about to sweep the publishing world. In O’Hara’s words, when that wave came, she was “determined to be a floater.”

She purchased her first eReader, downloaded several books, then talked about her ambivalence on her blog.

“My readership was encouraging,” she recalls. “When I didn’t instantly love my Kindle, they said I would adapt. They offered tips.”

In a moment that proved fateful, one commenter, Glinda Harrison of The eBook Evangelist, mentioned the eReader covers sold by Oberon Design. O’Hara looked at their website and was instantly hooked.

An example of a product the Obes coveted

Oberon is a custom leather and pewter goods company based out of California with a reputation for solid workmanship and delivery. O’Hara is clear she doesn’t hold them responsible for her downward spiral. “It’s not their fault that their products are my crack,” O’Hara says. “Plenty of people can purchase a journal or iPad cover without resorting to criminal activity. That’s obviously not true for me.”

To say O’Hara was obsessed seems an understatement. She purchased one product, then another. She juggled the household finances so her husband wouldn’t notice the strain on their accounts. At night, rather than sleep or write fiction, she’d dream of new designs and sketch them out. She sent so many suggestions to the Oberon Designs company, they took the unprecedented step of blocking her IP address.

O’Hara’s response? She moved to the public library.

Another Obe, Suzanne Stengl

Then she attended a local writing group and found others who shared her delight. What followed was a local crime spree that baffled authorities for months. Petty theft, extortion, prostitution – “The Obes,” as they dubbed themselves, used the inventiveness and creativity once reserved for the page as a means to fund their habit.

O’Hara won’t discuss her partners further, as their cases are now before the courts, but she will say they fed off one another’s zeal.

“When I could resist the dragonfly journal cover in sky blue, another in our crew couldn’t.” She shrugs, but I detect a hint of pride in her voice. “We were so gone.”

O’Hara doesn’t know if she can or would have stopped on her own, but local officials had caught a break. One Obe, Suzanne Stengl, was pulled over for speeding. The ticketing officer noticed her car held an inordinate amount of stationery. Stengl confessed during questioning, an elaborate sting operation was put into place, and only a few weeks later, O’Hara would lead law enforcement in a dramatic pursuit.

“I was driving my open-topped Jeep towards Head-Smashed-in Buffalo Jump.”  Behind her, police cruisers kept pace. Overhead, a police helicopter repeatedly broadcast instructions to stop.  In the seat beside her, whooping encouragement, was fellow writer Vivi Anna.

“We were going to pull the Canadian version of a Thelma and Louise,” O’Hara says. “I was so ashamed. What would my husband and kids say when they found out what I’d done for Kindle covers? And Vivi said there were no laptops in jail.”

Vivi Anna in her pre-Obe days

But O’Hara didn’t make the final commitment. She stopped inches just short of the ledge. When I ask what changed her mind, she laughs softly. “They put a French-Canadian on the bullhorn in the ‘copter. He said” – her eyes grow soft in reminiscence—“‘Madame, please pull over now. There is no need for such… drrramatiques.’” She blinks and seems to recall where she is. “Only, his accent was much better, of course. He could really roll his Rs.” She sighs. “I love it when they roll their Rs.”

O’Hara laughs these days at the irony of a print- and digital-monkey being seduced by the spoken word. “All along I thought that it was digital that would be the end of my career. In a way, I was right, but not for the reasons I’d anticipated.” She winks. “How can one prepare for a French accent?”

She signs the contract permitting me to release this article, pushes it across the metal table, but I can see she has something more to say.

She holds out her hands. Her palms hold the fountain pen which was given to me by my grandmother when I graduated from university. That pen’s been with me to every reporting gig I’ve taken, and I’m dismayed I almost left it behind.

O’Hara bounces it in a gentle motion, as if weighing it. “What brand did you say this was?” she asks, though the subject hadn’t come up before now. She glances up and in the pause I swear her pupils have dilated. “It seems to have perfect balance…”

~~~~~~~

Yes, peeps, this is a satire. I have never owned nor operated an Oberon product. I have never visited Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, though it is a world heritage site and reasonably close. 

What is true?

1. All the people named in this article consented to their involvement.
2. French accents are da bomb.
3. I possess a rebellious streak that might push me to such extreme measures, someday.

What have you done for awesome stationery and writing supplies? What will you do? Tell me a story in the comment section.

And if you are Canadian and celebrating Thanksgiving, may your day be peaceful and filled with gratitude.

Of late I’ve been working on a few time-sensitive writing projects that have kept me on the Internet less. It’s good to feel productive again, to trust there’s more than intent behind my goals, but this is the side effect: a brain that won’t shut off.

It reminds me of coping with a toddler. You put them down, thinking, “This will be the night I’ll catch up on my sleep.” Maybe you even get in a few hours. Then your mom-ESP wakes you with a start and sure enough, the scuffling, thumps and light emanating from behind your kid’s door confirms they’ve gone rogue.

What do you find behind your adorable, winsome kid? Well, the precise damage may vary, but in this household it’s been headless dolls, Magic Marker wall art, and most disturbing of all, shredded books.

On the shredded book side of this scenario:

1. All day long I’ll feel jangled and nervous, and I’ll probably look like a few former patients of mine — the ones who drank 2-3 pots of coffee and who smoked 50 cigarettes a day.

By the way, in case you wondered, if I smoked, I would not look like those ad execs on Mad Men, who’ve singlehandedly made cigarettes cool and sexy again and undone the graphic images, education, and anti-smoking advocacy of the last 30 years or so. (Not that I’ve noticed at all.) I’d be more like Walt in Breaking Bad, whose forehead could be used by geometry teachers to demonstrate parallel, perpendicular, and converging lines.)

2. I’ll think I’m being witty and wise, but for the next 24 hours, a transcript of my dialogue will contain a ton of “…” and “–”.

3. Teenagers are not so tolerant of “…” and “–”.

4. Light-bulb moment here, peeps, and probably the only teachable moment in this otherwise rambling post: Teenagers are not so tolerant of anything, so screw ‘em.

On the adorable toddler side of the equation:

1. There’s something rebellious and sneaky about an early awakening. In fact, if I had a moustache, I’d be twirling it at this moment, because I stole three hours for myself. And like the icicle used to commit murder in that long-ago Encyclopedia Brown book — remember? — by the time anyone’s around to notice my crime, the evidence has already melted.

2. I get to watch the dawn pinken the trees outside my office window. Since there are maybe 15 leaf-empinkening days left in the next…195, that feels important. (See? What did I do there? A “…”  and two “–” already and it’s only 5:59.)

How about you guys? (And I’ve missed you.) Are you sound sleepers, like the presently snoozing ToolMaster? And if not, what do you do with your wee-hour time? How do you feel about the dawn? Most importantly, if you had a moustache, would you shave it or twirl?

2. That I shouldn’t promise I’ll be back with a new Tartitude post in the week I’ll unnecessarily complicate a task, because I like the challenge, though I promised myself I wouldn’t do it last time because of my clear priorities, which were re-established only two weeks ago.

3. That I’m obviously missing my childhood nursery rhymes, because I’m channeling The House that Jack Built.

4. That a man shouldn’t say he’s only going to consider purchasing a snowblower he’ll use once a winter, then spend 3 hours in research online .

5. That a man shouldn’t enter the Honda store “just to look” when alone and in possession of a credit card.

6. That a woman shouldn’t take offense when it’s stated she’s lucky he doesn’t have much worse habits, like chasing other women.

7. That a man can run verrah fast from a wife with a broom and a full head of steam — not a Honda head of steam, you’ll notice, because that would require long-term financing.

8. That I’ll definitely, positively, most certainly have a Tartitude post later this week, but not today. Because today I’m at Writer Unboxed and I hope you can join me. There won’t be snow shovels, drama, or near-divorces, but there will be virtual cupcakes.

But What about the Quiet Ones?, in which I talk about the necessity of quiet books and authors, and announce my firm and abiding love for Yannick Murphy’s THE CALL.

Back later this week with a new Tarty post. 

~~~~~~~~

My dearest Molly:

On this, the auspicious beginning of the rest of your life, I thought to distill all I know about higher education. Some of this I heard from your grandparents, who in turn passed on the wisdom from their parents. In other words, if you eff college up, you have two generations to blame.

1. The reference to “higher” was not veiled permission to toke-up.

2. Education is never a waste, especially if it gets you seated next to the cute, smart boys.

3. A mind once stretched by a new idea never regains its old dimensions. Nor will your jeans, if you make a habit of buying a double-double each morning.

4. Be grateful for all you will learn. Be respectful of what you already know. (For you, my darling, are one of the most intuitively wise people I have met.) Be on time for dinner at least once a week, lest I take over your bedroom for writing.

5. Don’t sweat the petty stuff, and if you’re going to pet the sweaty stuff, there’s a 10-page health questionnaire for him to fill out in advance.

6. Know your dad, bro and I have your back; your grandparents, aunts and uncles, your arms and legs. And if you manage to fail despite all that support — though I can’t imagine this happening — know the Subway down the street is hiring for $9.50 an hour.

Your mom, who you have made humbled and proud every day of your life

Thanks for indulging me, peeps. I have no idea how many of you are sending your children off into the vast unknown this fall, but what would be your best advice to them now? Have you told them? And do you have anything you’d like to add to my daughter’s letter?

Hope some of you can come.

Otherwise, what’s up with me?

The kids are back in school.

Frank eagerly awaits retirement, in another 50 years.

And Therese Walsh, one of the Writer Unboxed co-founders, is near the site of that terrible flooding. If you have a chance and are inclined, pop by her Facebook page or Twitter and send her a cyberhug.

INTERVIEW: Erin Morgenstern – Part I