Chop, Chop, Chop

No I’m not talking about cooking. I’m talking about writing.

I’m a lazy writer, just like I’m a lazy artist, a lazy mom, a lazy housekeeper (and the list could go on). I want to exert the very least amount of energy possible. That’s the reason you’ll find my kids pawing through the dryer on any given morning looking for a clean pair of pants. True, there’s usually a clean pair, but if I wasn’t so lazy those pants would have been folded and put away by now.

I’m the same way when it comes to writing. I like to hope that things are “good enough”, that my readers won’t mind doing a little rummaging through the dryer. Too bad that deep down I know “good enough” isn’t really good enough.

In many ways writing is like doing the laundry: it’s a dirty job that no one else is willing to do for you and the moment you think it’s done there always seems to be more. But unlike the laundry, writing is something that I’d ultimately like to share with the world. I can’t just keep shoving it in the wash. At some point it needs to stay clean.

For a few months I’ve thought my manuscript was done. Of course there are always things that jump out, asking to be fixed (I don’t know that I can ever be truly satisfied). But I thought it was good… Good enough.

Luckily, a new friend of mine pointed out to me that this manuscript had the potential of not just being good, but being great. And so I was left with two choices: leave it like it is, a good story, or face the fact that with some hard work the story could really take off.

Normally I’m satisfied with pretty good, but not when it comes to this. So today I sat down and plotted out a whole new middle, five chapters that need to be completely rewritten. But I’m not dreading it. In fact, I’m itching to get going.

Chop, chop, chop.

Books, Books, and More Books

The bookshelves are overflowing.


There just isn’t any more room in our house for more books. And even though I have a bit of an obsession with owning hard copies of the ones I read (after all, isn’t it nice to be able to look at your shelves and remember all those stories), I’m pretty grateful for the Kindle I received this Christmas.


I didn’t think I’d ever be able to give up holding a real book in my hands, feeling the pages between my fingers, but I’m in love with my little electronic reader. Imagine, being able to have all those books with you at once.


You’d think I would have stopped buying hard copies after I got my Kindle, but I can’t get over my addiction. This month alone the stack by the side of my bed has grown by four. The stack has grown so high in fact, that I’ve had to start scouting the house for new surface on which to stack.

Who Wants to be FAMOUS?

For years, one of the only bones of contention in my marriage has been ambition. Well, more accurately, my husband’s lack of it. As someone who has a constant desire to KNOW more, DO more, BE… MORE, it has always baffled me that my husband feels none of this drive. At 34 he still isn’t sure what he wants to be “when he grows up”.

A few years ago this lack of ambition really bothered me. I wanted to change him, make him more like me. Didn’t he want to be looked up to? Didn’t he want esteem and notoriety? Didn’t he want people to think highly of him? In essence, didn’t he want to be FAMOUS?

Nope. It’s as plain as that. He didn’t want any of those things and he wasn’t about to pretend that he did.

How can you NOT respect someone for being so free of ego? But I’m embarrassed to say that it took me almost fifteen years to really respect my husband’s lack of hubris. Maybe it took so long because I saw it as just that…a lack of something. What was he missing that made him not care about being more?

But he wasn’t (isn’t) missing anything. Where I have a desire for ambition, my husband has contentment. What a lucky man.

The funny thing is, that even though I realize that contentment is the place I want to end up, the continent I want to live on, the destination I want to come home to…I still can’t stop myself from craving fame.

I don’t doubt that there are more Americans that are like me than like my husband. A little peak at nighttime TV and it’s easy to see that there are throngs of people who believe that they’re special, talented, one of a kind. I’m starting to wonder if the truly special ones are the few who aren’t yelling for someone to pay attention to them.

I’m pretty sure my desire for fame started in my childhood, although sometimes I wonder if it’s just something you’re born wanting. Growing up, I was constantly reminded of my Dad’s minor fame. I was a kid right at the height of his celebrity. My dad’s artificial heart was first successfully transplanted in a Barney Clark when I was only five. Barney Clark survived for 112 days, but the lasting impression of my dad’s accomplishment has followed me ever since.

I got a tiny sip of what it would be like to have people recognize my name and I liked the way it tasted. And even though it’s painful to admit, I know that part of me wants to prove to him that I’m worth something too. It’s been over twenty years since I’ve talked to my dad, but sometimes I think, if I was only famous enough he’d want to have me back. He’d realize what he was missing out on.

15th Street Gallery

My latest show was at the beautiful 15th Street Gallery. I have a special fondness for this gallery because my husband and I met while working in the bagel shop across the street from it while we were still in high school.

When we first met I actually thought that he was two different people: one named Bryan and one named Birch. Apparently I wasn't paying much attention to him or I would have figured out sooner that the boys with the shoulder length redish blond hair were actually one in the same, the singular Bryan Birch. But I had eyes for another boy that worked with us, the dark haired Tony (who luckily was not at all interested in me). 

The Love List

In honor of Valentine’s Day here is a list of things I love, not the normal things like my kids and my husband (of course I love them, that’s a given). These are some of the “other” things that make my life a little richer.


• Gigantic drops of rain.
• The way ice cream gets crystallized in a root beer float.
• Putting on dry clothes after a day at the pool.
• The smell of a clean pillow.
• Fresh lemonade.
• The whistle of a chickadee.
• A really sharp pencil.
• The reddish color of bare winter trees.
• The sound of a rushing river through an open window at night.
• New socks.
• Conversations with strangers in the grocery store.
• The color of a summer sky right before night falls.
• A huge sigh after finishing an amazing book.
• The smell of dirt and grass on a warm day.
• Sour candies.
• A really cold glass of water.
• Blank paper.
• Blue shadows on white buildings.
• Puppy breath.
• Driving with the top down on a warm night.
• Coming home.
• Rolling hills and fields of wild grass.
• A new plant that I haven’t forgotten to water.
• New: tubes of toothpaste, bottles of shampoo and bars of soap.
• Crossing items off a list.
• Lists
• The pale turquoise of really clear water.
• The slant of the sun in the morning.
• A perfectly cooked egg.
• Bolts of fabric
• Thinly ruled paper and a felt pen.

And the Winner is...

This morning the winner of the "Come Follow Me Contest" was drawn at random from my new favorite app called "The Hat".


And now...drumroll please...


The winner is...


araceli


Congratulations! Please email me at kebirch (at) hotmail (dot) com. Leave me a note with your favorite kind of bird and your address and your new original painting will be yours soon.

Relishing Rejection

Well maybe I don’t relish rejection, maybe I just like the word because it brings to mind condiments, which are such friendly and non-intimidating forms of food, and rejection can most definitely be INTIMIDATING. Over the years I’ve certainly gotten better at taking it, rejection that is (of course I love condiments too, my favorite being mustard).

If you’re an artist of any kind it can be difficult to put your work “out there”, whether it’s a painting, a poem, a photograph, a story. We open up and expose the tender parts of ourselves and it can hurt when those tender parts are handled roughly. The good news is that it gets easier. Maybe that soft underbelly starts to form a little callus. Maybe our self esteem learns not to rupture so easily.

This past week I got a rejection that was a little bit painful. I just started querying agents for the YA book that I finished writing at the end of last year and I was so excited when an agent that I really liked asked to see the first fifty pages of my manuscript. She seemed really excited about the book and told me that she’d get back to me in the next few weeks. Of course this meant that I immediately started checking my email every fifteen minutes to see if she’d responded and began dreaming of what it would feel like to have my book out in print (Yes, I realize that I was jumping the gun a bit. This is my forte).

Well, on Sunday night I received the agent’s reply saying that she was passing on the project. She had some very nice things to say about my writing and some good suggestions to make my book stronger. Although I was disappointed, I didn’t experience the hit to the gut that I’ve felt before with rejection. I was sad, yes, but encouraged nevertheless. I’ve only just begun the querying process. It was naïve to think that I’d snatch up an agent on my first try. So it’s back to the drawing board, maybe a little revision to my query letter, a closer look at my story and then I’m back out there again.

Bring on the relish.