So another week, another post-op trip to the surgeon. Not much has changed… my progress is impressive and more than was expected. I was allowed to change the eyedrop schedule. (THIS is living large, folks.)

But healing is expected to be super slow. For one, I’m a slow healer, as my sports med guru will tell you. For another, there’s a layer of trauma on top of an already slow-to-heal surgical repair. The trauma adds healing time.

In other words: I’m still spending most of my time around the house, on the couch. And at my desk, although sitting more than standing (Oh, my aching back). I like being at my desk because my water glass is handy, so I’m finally feeling properly hydrated and like myself again. Getting off the altitude sickness medicine helps with that, too, and the doctor apologized for putting me on it (except, he said, it works so well. Which is true), but I told him I had no issues with it. While I was sleeping 12+ hours a day, I was getting some good healing time in, and I’ll take the healing.

Of course, it’s hard to work when you’re sleeping that much. And I am working, so if you’ve been holding off on contacting me about your new book, get over that because you’re last to get the memo. That may mean you’re last to get the dates you want, too. And yes, I am still a bit on the slow side. But that’s improving, too.

But… my other restrictions remain. No lifting heavy things. I can cook and do dishes. And I’ve been sneaking out to the grocery once or twice a week. Nothing major, but enough to remind me that there’s an outside world.

The girl took me for a walk the other day. I made it four houses down the street. At this rate, I’ll be back on my bike and riding centuries next week!

One downer, though: sometimes, after trauma, the eye gets frozen and remains dilated. Again, time and healing will tell, but on the flip side, my eyes are so dark, you may never notice if this happens to me. Then again, you might. I don’t know. Unless there are mirrors around, I only get to look out through my eyes, not at them.

Last night, though, the kids were helping lead the Friday night Shabbat service at temple, and the girl in particular wanted me to be there. I think she’s tired of people asking how I am, and I was certainly greeted with enough warm hugs and friendly faces to make me believe that. The kids — mine and their classmates — led a fabulous service, although I hope no one bought the boy’s bluster there at the end. He knew damn well about that assignment. We’d discussed it; that’s where my “no harm, no bovine” joke came from and no, it’s not funny when that’s all you hear, but it’s elicited really satisfying groans from everyone else who’s heard the whole thing. Next time you see me, ask me about it.

Interestingly, my friends at the temple asked the same set of questions, and in the same order:
1. How ARE you?
2. When can you drive?
3. What exactly happened?

And yes, those who heard the whole story gave me quite satisfying slack jaws. My cousin posited that I need to take my bike in for an exorcism. Another friend suggested I’m the victim of a voodoo attack (think about it: you need a sharp set of eyes to edit, and a writer needs vision to tell her stories properly. I can believe this one!). Let’s face it: people fall off their bikes all the time. But taking out an eye in the fall? Very rare, indeed. So rare, it freaked out the good-looking resident who helped with the first surgery. (He’s the one who raved about my handwriting and what a shame that wasn’t a pickup line. I’m still sad about that. And what do you mean, why am I thinking about good-looking residents and pickup lines when I’m possibly concussed and about to be wheeled into emergency surgery to save my eye? You mean you don’t?)

It was a good night last night. I’ve got weeks ahead of me yet to sit and heal, so it’s back to the couch (or desk chair and stop it. I am NOT standing at my standing desk. Nope. Not me. My back is just happy because it’s happy.). The boy has a couple of Ultimate tournaments coming up this spring and his coach has asked me to come along for the trips. The girl has an anime con, and she wants me to come. And I’m waiting on word about a pending promotional appearance that I doubt I’ll make the cut for (because I’ve had a pretty long string of good luck at this point and if I have to choose, I choose my eye) but cross your fingers because it combines my favorite things in life and has a scary echo to the past five weeks of my life.

Yeah. Not getting out so much yet. This can still go wrong, no matter how good — okay, tired from my night out — I feel today. (Still not standing at the standing desk!) But it’s progress and it’s encouraging and the only person not surprised by how well I’m healing is my sports med guy, who’s seen me rehab around injuries that would take out 95% of the population.

I got this. As soon as I hit the levers on my desk and sit back down.

Five weeks down since I fell. At least five more to go. I got this.

I am trying to keep my computing time to work time, so from now on, whenever these questions pop into my inbox, I’m sending you the link to this post. Because do you really think I won’t update here and on Facebook when things change? Really?

No, I mean that. REALLY?????

Sigh. You did, didn’t you?

So. Here we go:

How’s the eye?
Well, it’s still in my head. It’s still got a gas bubble in it, so it’s like looking through a prism. That, in turn, is worse than being both seasick and drunk at the same time and no, at least in terms of my eye, those two things don’t cancel each other out. So there’s a lot of people out there thinking I’m winking at them when really, I’m just keeping the injured eye closed. Trust me: the world at large is not this good looking that I’m doing this much winking.

How do you feel?
I didn’t realize how sick the altitude sickness medicine made me until I stopped taking it. That’s when I stopped sleeping twelve hours or more a day, too. Which was kinda sad. I mean, you do a lot of healing when you’re sleeping that much. Of course, I don’t miss the huge number of crackers I had to eat to keep my stomach calm. Now that I’ve kicked the meds and the crackers out of my diet again, I feel overall better. Just lazy and a bit slow. And that part? I’m kind of enjoying. How often do YOU get ordered to sit on the couch and pretend you’re a woman of leisure hanging out in Bora Bora? Although, cripes, I hope the furniture in Bora Bora is more ergonomically perfect for a woman of my lack of height.

How can you be such a good sport about this?
Well, what choice do I have? Dude. I’m a single mom. I own a microbusiness. Before this happened, I hadn’t chosen an easy path through this thing called life, but one thing I have learned is that if you can’t laugh, it ain’t worth enduring. So I am making the choice to make jokes. My favorite was to a friend who was happy she could roller skate after a layoff of like twenty years. “Just like riding a bike,” I said on Facebook. “Wait. We all know what happened the last time I rode a bike. Nevermind.”

That may be my crowning moment, but I’m always looking to top it.

Besides, you all are having a lot more fun following along when I’m leading the charge into the field of funny. And don’t forget, my eye is full of LAUGHING GAS. It kinda goes with the healing.

What do the doctors say?
My surgeon, who I like a lot, says very little. So there is no prognosis, either short-term or long-term. Just sit back and enjoy the ride. See above about having fun with it.

Any verdict about a concussion?
Nope, and no one seems to care about it. My massage therapist earned his keep again last week (and not just because neither of us could remember when we last shaved our legs) when he discovered I’ve got a lovely case of whiplash. So this one, we’re just not going to know about. But I still have headaches and I still have other symptoms, but they could all be explained away by the eye, so… maybe? Probably?

It’s the not knowing that is making me nuts. In fact, it’s easier to accept we won’t know anything about the eye than it is to accept that we’ll never know for certain how this impacted my poor brain.

However, I have been told that this little escapade of mine has made me funny. Or funnier, depending on who you ask.

When can you drive again?
Well, think about it. Do you really WANT someone driving when her eye is full of laughing gas? Just beyond the risk that presents to my vision if I do something dumb, and just beyond the fact that I have to keep my eye closed so I don’t have the acid trip-drunk-seasick thing happening…

I know driving me and my kids around is a pain in the rear. I get that. Trust me. I used to do it on a daily basis. I can’t wait to do it again. But right now, we all have to wait. And be it in six more weeks or a year from now, I promise to either pay it back or pay it forward. This does not mean I’m going to go drive for Uber, btw.

If I had a shot for every time I’ve been asked about driving, I bet I’d stop complaining about that weird acid-seasick-drunk effect my healing eye gives me. And not just because I’d be too pickled to care.

Can I bring you dinner?
This is a dicey one. For one, I’m independent as hell and the kids and I love to cook.

But here’s the bigger problem: people have shown up on my doorstep with food. Which is super nice, except… I have other health issues. And most people have shown up with some variant of red sauce, pasta, and/or beef, pork, or lamb. All of these foods (except for maybe the tomato sauce, but the jury’s out about me and nightshades) promote inflammation, and I have an inflammation issue already. So these good-hearted gestures are really doing a lot of damage, and at a time when I can’t exercise to offset some of the effects.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. I do. But… my favorite foodie care package came from Dawn, who took the time to ask what I was craving. She came up short on a quart from Bruster’s (not that I blame her), but she delivered trail mix from Aldi, who makes the best trail mix ever, and my most favorite food item yet: a bag of baby carrots!

It sounds kinda crazy, but the snack foods — and healthy, anti-inflammatory foods, at that — have been the biggest blessing. That’s because I eat more than one meal a day. And I am a snacker, so a handful of trail mix, a handful of carrots… Oh, every day, I say a silent thank you to Dawn for her ingenuity.

I did also ask for super ripe cantaloupe at room temperature, perfectly crisp and chilled watermelon that’s been cut into cubes and snaps when you bite into it and then turns into juice on your tongue, and blueberries. The blueberries were delivered, thanks to a friend who was running to the grocery for me anyway. The rest, I think we’ll have to wait to summer for.

So what DO you need?
Honestly? Company. Pick up dinner (oh, how I could go for my local Chinese takeout) and bring it over and hang out with me while we eat. Together. Or lunch. Lunch is good. Come get me and let’s go out for a quick meal – but it’s got to be quick, and it’s got to be somewhere I can show up in my sweats. Because, dude, I’m allowed to be lazy, so I’m milking this. And it’s got to be quick because I swear the whole world is staring at me and yes, I’m the rare and beautiful Cyclops right now, but… like I said, there just ain’t that many good-looking people in the world who are worth winking at. Besides, I do get tired easily. After all, I’m busy healing! (I hope)

Which brings me to the final question:
Why did you get over the hot young thing?
I didn’t.

It’s the off-season.

Drooling, lusting, sighing, and off-color jokes will resume closer to my birthday. However, any of you who encounter him (and I’m looking at my nineteen-year-old pro athlete here) are free to tell him to quit wasting his time on my Twitter feed and friend me on Facebook instead. Because as most of you know: we’re having a good time over there. Think what he’s missing out on!

We all struggle with finding balance in our lives. That’s normal.

It’s just extra hard when one day, you feel really good so you sit and work and make lofty goals for the week, and the next day, you crash back to earth and can barely tolerate looking at a screen as stuff piles up.

I’ve been cleared to lay on my right side and my stomach, which I still can’t do because of the ongoing orthopedic issues. Tuesday night was the first night in I don’t know how long that I didn’t get up during the night and come sleep on the couch, on my back but propped up as the doctor ordered.

And don’t tell the kids, but I am allowed to cook, wash light dishes (the surgeon clearly doesn’t know I use All-Clad, picked up at seconds sales for all you who wonder how I can afford All-Clad on my budget. That’s how. My kids won’t need to buy cookware, and maybe my grandkids won’t either, unless there are more grandkids than there are pots), and do the laundry.

So there’s progress, and it’s welcome and moving about feels good.

Maybe that’s the problem. Editing isn’t exactly the most physical of jobs. That’s why a week post-surgery, the doctor cleared me to return to it. But… I do need it, or I feel like I’m sliding into a morass of laziness.

Not to mention that my wounded eye still picks up and reflects screen light back at me for hours after I’ve walked away.

So… balance. Clients who are waiting on stuff, I’m moving along. Slowly, but I am. Clients afraid to send me stuff, get over that. I’m a bit slower, so know that and adjust your schedules accordingly. And clients who still haven’t figured out you should be reading my blog, well… I don’t know how to help you at this second. See above about screens and lights. No offense, but I’d rather tackle the work waiting for me. I’d rather you add to the pile.

Don’t hold back. I’m good at what I do, and that means I’m good at reaching the balance I need.

Okay, maybe I’m not so good at maintaining my balance when on a bike and presented with a set of circumstances that’ll probably never be replicated or known, but really? You gonna hold one little spill off a road bike against me?

For the record, I can still close my eyes – yes, both of them – and see pink handlebar tape coming at me. Even though the pink handlebar tape has long been dumped in a landfill by this point. It may never leave me.

It’s a good reminder of the need for balance. On the bike. In life. And yes, in your writing.

You really think I wouldn’t be able to stop talking about writing forever? Really? And here I thought you knew me…

Yeah. You thought blowing a hole in your eye was all gore and gross?

You are SO RIGHT.

I mean, think about it. The whole point of going for that bike ride on January 2 was to stretch out my back. I have back problems; this isn’t new. It’s a something like nine months older than my oldest. Go figure! If you ever wondered what would happen if Gumby had kids, I invite you to meet my back.

Yesterday, I woke up at three — in the morning — with some pretty excruciating back pain. At first, I thought the nausea was from the medicine, but as the morning progressed, I realized that nope, it’s the back. How’d I figure this out?

Easy. Since the second surgery, I have been instructed to lay either on my stomach (see note about bad back) or left side only. Absolutely, under no circumstances, am I allowed on my back. So… all night long, I’m on my left side. I wake up like six and seven times and have to get up and stretch because I can’t roll over. And all day, I sit canted off to the left, which is the normal way I have of sitting on the couch. I brought a bed pillow down and get all good and comfy and usually fall asleep.

It’s not nearly as luxurious as it sounds. And falling asleep in front of Jeopardy every night? Sexy, baby. Sexy.

So. How’d I figure out this is my back and not the nausea-inducing medicine? Easy. I laid on my back on the cold bathroom floor and felt the spasm ease. As the spasm eased, so did the nausea.

Why the bathroom floor? Dude, this is the sexy edition.

I’m still feeling pretty crummy as I write this, and I’m waiting for word from the doctor as to whether or not I can spend some time on my back and hopefully ease the situation — which is that I’ve got a pretty major dislocation going, between the lack of exercise and the lack of support as I lay on my left side. It seemed like the perfect time to share with you some of the other truly sexy moments of recovery.

There’s the plastic eye shield they want me to wear at night, although I’m not sure why. It’s not like I can move at all, stuck on my left side as I create an orthopedic nightmare (and remember: I was on my bike to AVOID this particular nightmare. How’s that for karma?). But… wear the eye shield.

Let me tell you about it. It’s clear plastic. It has holes in it so air can presumably flow, but I continue to wake up with my lashes crusted shut. Sexy, baby. Sexy.

The shield itself, as I’ve said to many of my real-life friends, looks like a cross between the drain in the bottom of a urinal and the plastic part of a jock strap.

(At this revelation, most of my friends pause, either to try to envision this or to figure out how it is that I know what those two things look like.)

I have never been more glad to be single in my life.

But we’re not done yet! Nope. I have the singular privilege of wearing a lime-green plastic band around my right wrist that announces to the world that my eye is full of laughing gas and in the unlikely event that something happens to me, this needs to be a known fact so that in potentially saving my life, no one makes me go blind along the way.

Yes, it’s a lime green, plastic, sexy-as-hell MedicAlert bracelet. I’m grateful it’s only temporary.

And then there’s my sexy swollen eyelid, my sexy closed eye, the sexy concept of having a blind spot that people can sit in and take advantage of…

I’m not sure that any injury is ever sexy, but at least the boob job gave me a sexier outcome than this will. And the recovery was a heck of a lot shorter. We still have weeks to go, my friends. Weeks and weeks and weeks… if my poor back doesn’t eat me alive first.

Recovering is hard work.

Spin that, twist it, turn it however you like. But the simple fact is that recovering is hard work. It may not seem like it — even I am now a pro with drops, and I’m not doing much more than hanging out on the couch with a cat who’s decided he’s my therapy cat — because, really, how hard is it to sit on the couch all day?

You’d be surprised. It’s hard, and not just because if you’ve followed me for the past year, you’ve seen me happily and gloriously transition to a standing desk.

My teenagers have been phenomenal, helping with laundry and dishes and the boy has taken over the litter pans as his own project, no resentment that his sister isn’t helping with them (she’s getting pretty much the full brunt of the laundry, and they are splitting dishes). It’s working.

We have a hodgepodge of friends helping out with the driving. A few strangers. And last year’s captain of the boy’s ultimate team thrown in for good measure. And food still shows up every now and then, although with less frequency. That’s a good thing. My freezer is full of red sauce and meatballs!

And yet… and yet… snags happen. One happened yesterday: the pressure in my eye is still too high. We have to get it down. No options. We HAVE to get it down. Two pharmacies, two new eye drops and an oral something-or-other, and a lot of crossed fingers, toes, arms, and legs. I’d cross my eyes, too, but … yeah. Maybe not right now.

This would be a good time for more prayers.

But there’s a lot to be grateful for. Kids who bravely face this with me. The cat who’s decided he’s my therapy cat and rarely leaves my side. Health insurance that’s saving me from bankruptcy and letting me keep my house.

And, of course, a sense of humor. Some of the bad jokes are slowing as this progresses from a shocking incident to become a new way of life. Doesn’t mean I’m not seizing opportunities. It just means I’m not searching them out, trying to use levity to keep my cool.

Except… right now, I’m kinda scared. This was a hurdle I knew we had to jump over, but when I’m standing in front of it, it’s a pretty tall one, although the surgeon is concerned but not terribly alarmed. Keep the good vibes coming.

And work! Work is rolling in and I was going to turn yesterday into my first work day, but wound up spending first most of the day at the doctor’s and then a couple hours trying to find the medicines I need. (And in the middle of that, my father had the misfortunate of Face Timing me and I think I scared him more than I needed to, but my transportation was on a strict timeframe, so chatting wasn’t the best idea.)

Overall, it’s a mixed bag. I’m looking forward to working today, on the couch. Sitting on my butt, per the doctor’s orders. Taking my medicines and eye drops and hanging out. And healing. Thursday, I go back to see how things are progressing. And I’m scared of what the answer will be.

Recovery is hard work. But you gotta do the hard work to get the payout. Vision. Standing desks. And clients who write amazing fiction and keep me on my toes.

As one of my favorite clients says, Excelsior.

But keep those prayers coming. I’ll keep doing the hard work.

Monday dawned the way Mondays do: full of promise of the week ahead, if only you’d get yourself out of bed and in gear so you can discover it all.

I got the kids up and moving and together, we waited for our ride to the hospital. The kids had said they’d be too nervous to focus in school all day, so I’d told them that instead of staying home, where they’d still be nervous, to come to the hospital with me and my friend. They’d be able to watch the process and that ought to help. It wouldn’t be a panacea, of course. For years now, I’ve been the rock for these kids. They were understandably scared.

Hell, so was I.

The week before, I had cleared it with the schools that the kids would be out so they could be with me, and we fed the foster kitty and I encouraged the kids to use their nervous energy to straighten stuff up. They, of course, retreated into their phones. Kids.

My friend and her husband picked us up and we piled in and he drove and then we were at the hospital and in the waiting room and man, it was hot in there. And I was dressed to recover at home, in fleece. I keep the house on the cool side, so by the time I finally got to go back to pre-op, I was getting sick from the warmth.

Nothing a flimsy hospital gown can’t cure, though, and once I started feeling better, my nurse showed up. “Get ready,” she warned me. I was going to have three series of a lot of drops — “five or six,” she assured me.

Now, before all this happened, if you asked me to lay my head back so someone — you know, like my eye doctor — could give me drops, I’d have a panic attack. Just the act of leaning back while someone stood at my head… and there are people reading this who know me really well. They can’t believe it. SUSAN, having a PANIC attack?

Well, that’s how it USED to be. Amazing the fears you conquer when you blow a hole in your eyeball.

Once the drops were in, she asked why I was watching Cops: Las Vegas or whatever it was. “You don’t have to,” she said, handing me the paddle to change the channel. That’s when we discovered the privacy curtain was covering the sensor, so I said to her, “I’ll just flip it one channel. Anything’s bound to be better than this.”

I laughed at my bad luck. This is the time for bad luck, and yep, there’s a picture of Jesus on the cross and … well, I didn’t stick around. This ain’t no channel for a good Jewish girl.

But Amy the nurse needed to get to other patients, so I said, “I’m going to flip to … here. And this is what it’ll be.”

It was a commercial. I was rolling the dice again. But I couldn’t keep the nurse standing there, holding the privacy curtain away from a TV I didn’t particularly want to be watching.

Turns out, it’s action month on AMC, and that meant the end of the Karate Kid.

Amy went to bring my friend and my kids back to sit with me. And there might have been a second set of drops in there, too. There were only two chairs and three visitors, so the girl hopped up on my bed near my feet. She kept complaining she couldn’t see the TV; it had glare on it, she said. I offered to move so she could sit somewhere else on the narrow hospital gurney. She said no. She’s a considerate kid. Or maybe she was worried I’d flash her brother, which was a distinct possibility.

Now, I have awesome friends. Like attracts like after all, right? My kids are funny, when they’re not nervous out of their minds. So we chatted through the end of the Karate Kid and we got the boy to laugh a few times. Amy the nurse might have brought more drops. I know the kids were there for one set because we talked about how much better I’ve gotten about the whole thing.

Didn’t stop the boy from turning a new shade of white, though. Each step of the process, I worried, was going to be too much for him. This is the kid, after all, who passed out during School Career Day when the classroom was hot and the doctor describing his job had pictures of maggot-infested flesh on the screen.

Medicine is not in my son’s future.

Karate Kid ended and we’re still in pre-op. Amy the nurse reports that the surgeon is working on the case before us. The surgeon had told me that he does the sickest patients first, and I seemed to be smack in the middle of his day. Not dire, but not a breeze, either. I guess I was okay with that.

And then it happened. The movie ended and the next one came on. Dudes, it was a doozy of a film. A sequel, even.

Tremors 2.

And I had the volume down low. Which of course means it wasn’t long before the four of us were writing our own scripts and talking about MST3K and … well, party on, Wayne! We were loud. We were laughing. And I kept looking at the people across from me and watching that poor woman’s feet wave with her nervousness while her companion slept and I wanted to go to her and tell her it was okay. I wanted to invite her into our stress-free zone so she could relax and have fun and be in a better place, mentally.

But by the time I would have done this, my IV had been placed. Let me tell you, I’ve had bad IVs before, but these recent two have been amazing. This doctor said, “A little pinch” and I waited for it… and waited for it… and then said, “You mean it’s in? Wow, you’re good.”

I appreciate that sort of care. But it also does a really good job of illustrating how awesome everyone I’ve encountered has been.

We kept this crazy talk going up until the teenage boy needed to be refueled. Not only is he a teenage boy, he’s an athlete these days, Mr. Ultimate Frisbee. He doesn’t have a lot of lean body mass or fat to begin with, so keeping that kid topped off can be a challenge. I sent the three to find the cafeteria and put my stuff in a locker.

That’s when the exhaustion hit. Exhaustion from… all of it. I’ve barely been alone since I fell off my bike. People have been around, and while they’ve been helpful beyond all compare, they are still company in MY home. It’s strange and it’s stressful. And I’m hurt and I’m scared and I’m the one who’s the rock around here and the kids need that to continue and… it was a struggle to stay awake. I actually asked if they’d put more in my IV than saline, but they said no. The nurse anesthetist who was there to check on me patted my shoulder and said it was good that I could relax.

I may have appreciated the contact more than the words.

But then the kids and my friend reappeared and Tremors 2 was still on and I had a new nurse and the fun recommenced and the new nurse came to do more drops… and for the first time, she stood on my left to do them. And for the first time, I didn’t tell her I had bad eye anxiety. And guess what? It was all okay.

By the time the dad from Family Ties was out of the bulldozer and the weird creatures had run into the barn and were happily munching away and we’d thoroughly made fun of all that, things started to happen. The final set of eye drops. The heart monitors put in place (Me to the boy: “Did you just see more of your mother than you ever wanted to, or was [the medical person] in the way?” Boy to me, “Huh? What?” Girl to me, “She’s in the way.”).

My surgeon stopped by. We chatted. He put his initials over my right eye. It felt like he drew a smiley face, but nope. Just the letter E.

I remember the sedative to “relax” me. I think I remember the family standing up. I know I remember handing my glasses over to the girl. And I think I remember the team starting to wheel me out.

The party was over. It had lasted hours. It was good, it kept me calm.

But damn if I didn’t ask, on the drive home, how Tremors 2 ended. Just so I don’t ever have to watch it again to see if I do, indeed, remember.

Dudes, that was one bad movie. And it was so deliciously perfect for the moment, I can’t begin to tell you.

It’s Monday. Ten days since I fell off my bicycle and yes, I will tell you guys the story of what exactly happened because it’s too funny not to. But not right now.

Today’s the day we take the next steps to recovery. The first retinal repair surgery. And I say first because no one knows if today will fix it entirely or there’s more surgery in my future. I’ve been told that until they start talking about the cataract surgery, we’re not anywhere near the end of the road. (Yes, cataracts and no, I am not THAT old, thankyouverymuch. But if they’re going to do it now, maybe I’ll get fifty or more years before they have to do it again. It’s better longevity than if I needed a new hip tomorrow.)

Your prayers and thoughts and comments and texts and Facebook messages have been keeping me going all week, so please keep them coming. I keep my personal Facebook page pretty closed to people I don’t interact with on a regular basis, so you’ve missed such fun as me posting an actual picture of myself. No surprise that of all the FB posts since this began, it’s gotten the fewest number of likes. And my eye doesn’t look that bad. I’ve seen it more swollen after a good cry. But… it’s a picture of me, and cameras have known to break when pointed at me, so I get the lack of love.

There was the night when I went to put my drops in — there is no better way to cure your massive eye anxiety than to injure your eye — and I held up the bottle of drops, only to stop myself. “Dodo,” I said because, yes, I call myself things like Dodo, “take OFF your glasses first.”

That turned into a pithy Facebook status. As well it should have.

Spirits are high and I’m trying really hard not to think about the bills, both monthly and medical, that are piling up. Every time I write a check, I take a big gulp and remind myself to breathe, that it’ll be okay somehow. I’ve had a million and five adventures up to now and after every single one, I’ve come out better than before. I am like my cats: I have a habit of landing on my feet. Maybe I’ll play the Powerball, although if I have to choose between vision and cash, I’ll take the vision. It’ll help me see the cash I’m going to come across down the road.

More when I know it. Keep the good vibes, the prayers, and the thoughts coming. Next steps are always terrifying before you lift your foot to take them, but it’s good to know you guys are at my back.

This blog will be 10 in April, and for almost all of those ten years, it’s been the blog of a writer and editor. If you’ve gotten used to the sage writing and editorial words of wisdom I’ve been doling out of late and you can’t figure out how the recording of my recovery from a very serious eye injury ties into writing, well… maybe you’re not ready for Writing Wisdom According to Susan.

I’m writing this on Friday. It’s funny because I’ve been able to tolerate the light emanating from my phone – in small doses — but the laptop has been harder. And the desktop is still the most uncomfortable. This is because I can’t see the buttons to turn down the brightness. Naturally, now that 24-7 help has gone (for the time being), I remember to try. But the desktop is in its own room and despite the pleas of Lucy Cat, who misses going to work with me, I haven’t been in there much.

Anyway, I have a million thoughts and a million stories to tell. This is good.

Let’s flash back to last Monday, my first morning out of the hospital. I had to get up and get the kids off to school and maybe it was when my daughter was eating, and maybe it was after she’d left. Time… I’ve been very time challenged through this. (I asked in the first ER if I could possibly have a concussion and they shrugged and kept doing what they were doing. You know it’s bad when no one cares about your brain.)

So. Monday morning. I decided that I needed to eat something because, as I said to my Scouting buddy Will, “I ate more at Order of the Arrow ordeal than I have up to now.” If you don’t get the joke, ask an OA member.

And dude! I could make TOAST. I was feeling very proud of myself, ready to crow, “Hey, I can COOK!” when I blinked and …

This is it.

This is the moment in which I realized I missed my calling.

Guys, I should have gone into rocket science. I really should have been a rocket scientist.

Because I paused and looked at my toast and realized I couldn’t see it very clearly. “WHAT is up with that?” I asked myself, possibly out loud but who knows. “It’s my right eye that’s messed up. I should be able to see out of the left.”

Shoulda been a rocket scientist. I’m telling you this right here, right now.

I squinted. I tried to widen my eye (not as easy as you’d think when the other one is swollen shut). “What the HECK?”

Jet Propulsion Laboratory is sorry they never got their hooks in me.

Because no matter what, if you are nearsighted and you don’t have ANY sort of correction happening, YOU CANNOT SEE WELL.

Yeah… that explained a lot.

So I went upstairs and put in my left contact and all of a sudden, things were clear. It was a miracle!

Cripes.

As Vonnegut said so famously, “And so it goes.”

More later…

January 2, 2016. It’s the date we don’t think about much. We are busy settling into the new year, busy putting our resolutions to work. Life chnaged yesterday, a day and a half ago, with the new year. It’s not changing on the second.

Except, of course, when it does.

Even though it was Saturday, my plan for the day was to grab a bike ride, throw some laundry in, get some work done. I was supposed to volunteer at the boy’s archery tournament, and he’d be shooting later that evening. A nice, easy day.

So I got on my bike. I wanted to stretch out my back, and being hunched over a bike does that for me so nicely. And it did.

Until it didn’t and I was falling to my left, to my bad side, the side that is under threat of some pretty major surgeries, one of which gives me a 50% chance of being able to walk.

Of course, that’s not how this story goes. Maybe it’s the way I fell or maybe it’s something in the anxiety of the fall, but … my leg is okay. The obnoxious thing doesn’t even have a scratch, for all that I fell on it. It’s my right eye that bore the brunt of it.

I was close enough to be able to rip off my shoes — yes, I was clipped in; someone did ask along the way — and bellow for the kids. My best friend arrived in short order and we took a tour of hospitals until we found ourselves at UPMC Presbyterian, where we were informed that the state’s best eye surgeon had been called in. I sent my best friend home to take care of his wife and kids and …

Now, a year ago, UPMC, which is Pittsburgh’s mega-hospital from hell, and Highmark Blue Cross/Blue Shield got divorced. I know ugly divorces. This is one of them. Most of us in the region had to pick between one of the most trusted names in insurers (BC/BS) and the UPMC system. For me, there wasn’t much of a choice: all of my doctors except my physical therapist are UPMC folk. And their insurance premiums are cheaper. I have yet to have a bad UPMC doctor. I can’t say the same for Allegheny Health Network, the Highmark partner.

The people I encountered at almost every step were better than super. They kept me calm, they remained (mostly) low-key, they hinted at the severity of what I am facing but they did not let on how dire it really is. They told me they ride their bikes, too, and sympathized with what happened. They told me jokes. They helped me confront some of my biggest fears.

The first surgery was somewhere between five and seven hours long. I have vision in my right eye, but they still need to fix a retinal tear and detachment. There are no promises of anything at this point.

And that’s what you all need to know.

I am a freelance editor. You guys know that. My income comes when I work. And I’m not sure I can work. I’m a single mom and certain things, like driving my kids to their activities, are now (at least temporarily) impossible. Family, friends, and neighbors have chipped in to help out. I hope they will be able to stick with me through this long haul, because it’s going to be a long haul.

So. This means I need YOUR help, too. Bear with me as I work my way through this. I can look at my screens, so I’m going to try to work. My desktop screen is huge; so long as my injured eye can handle the light the screen emits, I’m good to go, and I finally, two months ago, bought an amazing laptop that I can work on, as well. At least for right now, I’m here and I’m open for business.

Prayer is a powerful thing. So is laughter, and so is touch, and I am seeking all three things from everyone around me at this time. Go and email me funny stories. If we regularly correspond, shoot me a text. My phone is on vibrate all the time, so if I don’t want to be disturbed, you won’t disturb me and I’ll answer the text later. Text so far is proving to be better than e-mail, but that surprises no one who e-mails with me regularly. Twitter, Facebook… all good ways to reach me. Your good humor right now will help me heal.

Finances. Yeah, this is the scary one. I expect I’ll need to hire someone to drive me and the kids around. I’m going to call the insurance company later today to see how much of this I’m going to be on the hook for. I pray it’s not too bad. Anyone who feels the need to set up a Go Fund Me page will be a hero in my book, and I’m pledging right now that if you guys rally to my cause, any leftovers will go to help other people with medical emergencies. Maybe my much dreamed-of West of Mars Foundation will be born, although with a different focus than I’d originally envisioned. Who knows?

I stand here facing a brand-new life. I don’t know what comes next, except lots of surgeries and healing and prayer that this is going to somehow be okay in the end. So far in my life, it’s always been okay. My sister calls me a Phoenix because of this bad habit of mine, of always landing on my feet. But I hope you’ll all accompany me on this journey, that you’ll hold my hand either in real life or virtually, and that you all think about wearing a pair of safety glasses whenever you get on your bike. As soon as I’m up and riding again, I’m going to.

For now, though, it’s back to the couch until I get the kids off to school.

Welcome to 2016.

Okay, quick grammar check here.

Hanger — the thing you put a coat or clothes on before jamming them into your closet.

Hangar — where airplanes live.

Go check your manuscripts, folks. Hanger/hangar. One of the more common errors I see.

Maybe it’s the time of year. End of the old, getting ready to bring in the new… It’s a time of transitions, of resolutions, of looking ahead and shedding the old.

Lots of that happening in my world, that’s for sure. It seems to have turned into one of those periods where major upheaval is, if not imminent, then already in progress.

I can tie a lot of that into writing, but let’s be more mechanical today. Transitions within paragraphs.

Here’s an example:
Mack searched the empty bleachers of the Hydra stadium in vain. The place wasn’t fancy. If anything, it was run down, the gleam gone from the silver bleachers until they faded into the boring, dull grey of the concrete steps and supports. Really, the whole place was blah. It was hard to believe that in a few days, there’d be three hundred people trying to fill that middle section, people cheering and yelling and talking and having fun. Just Tess wasn’t there, like she’d promised she would be. He’d counted on her, her smile, her hands clenched together under her chin, even for something as stupid as a practice. She’d said she’d be there, even if she was the only one in the whole place watching, cheering him on, rooting for him. He wanted to scream. All his wheedling, all his love, all his need for her — and hers for him — had been for nothing.

So. Mack’s looking at the stadium. He’s projecting into the future and then, wham! We get to what’s really bugging the poor guy. His girlfriend (and yes, he calls her Just Tess and you’ll have to read the book to find out why) isn’t there to watch him practice.

Without that transition, it’s hard to realize at first if Tess is supposed to be in the bleachers at that exact moment, or if Mack is projecting her absence along with the fans. You have to keep reading, and it’s jarring.

Sure, you could make a paragraph break, and the trend these days certainly is for shorter paragraphs, perhaps due to the prevalence of e-books and how they appear on a small screen. But what if you don’t want to? Because, after all, the focus of the paragraph is whether or not Mack’s search — which we’re told up front is going to be in vain — will pay off. You want it all in one paragraph.

That means you have to tie everything together.

Mack had come out before the rest of the team so he could look for her. She had promised to be up there, in the bleachers, making a run-down old stadium look bright and cheery simply with her presence. He’d been waiting all day to see her there, colorful against the silver bleachers that had dulled so much over the years that they now blended into the boring, dull grey concrete of the steps and supports. But all he saw was an uninterrupted field of dull greys and silvers. No Tess, despite her promises. He’d counted on her, her smile, her hands clenched together under her chin, even for something as stupid as a practice. Just Tess had said she’d be there, and Just Tess never made promises she didn’t keep. But she wasn’t there, the only one in the whole place who was watching, cheering him on, rooting for him, and that made him want to scream. All his wheedling, all his love, all his need for her — and hers for him — had been for nothing.

Keep an eye out for these things. You want the reader to flow from one thought to another, to move with you. Don’t wrench them out of the story and drop them back in somewhere else. Make it smooth. Remember: the best writing is the writing you don’t notice.

If someone can explain this phenomenon to me, I’m all ears. You take one day off, but need three to catch up.

Last week, I got hit by The Cold. It’s been making the rounds, and after years of not being sick enough to avoid work, it finally happened. I wound up taking two days off. (Discovered that the people at Rite Aid who didn’t want to take my money were actually doing me a favor, too, but that’s a story for my buddy the Green Grandma.)

Now, the good part of all this is that I haven’t been slammed with post-NaNo requests for edits. In years past, I’ve had authors lining up with their NaNo winners, eager and thinking they’re ready for my red ink to decorate their pages. “Have you revised until you’re as far as you can go?” I often ask. “Have you used beta readers?”

The answer is usually no. So I encourage them to go through that and come back.

It’s probably not coincidence that dates for January and beyond are starting to fill up, is it?

I think the timing’s pretty fortunate. I can only take one more project this year (wow), and having been sick for two whole days… wow. Two days. Sounds like nothing, doesn’t it? And even though I’m still fighting whatever I did to my neck while I was sick, I’m also still fighting my inbox and the other business-type things I need to do.

That means I’m oddly grateful for the quiet. It hopefully means I’ll catch up on all this stuff. And yes, I’m still writing. I wrote both days I was sick, although my word count wasn’t great. You’re going to like the new stuff, I promise, so get ready. Total switch in what I’ve written up to this point; you may not even recognize it as coming from the same author.

For you: Keep writing, too. I aim for 1100-1400 words on this manuscript; it seems to be what it demands from me. Find your own manuscript’s demands and meet them. Revise. Use your betas. And remember to get on my calendar before it fills and you have to wait longer than you’d like.

Last week, I wrote up an “I’m reading” post. I’m sorta bummed none of you chimed in with your own reads of the moment; it’s always a good way to get exposed to new stuff. (oh, and I never picked up that Nora Roberts book from the library… just couldn’t get there, with the holiday disrupting my usual library routine.)

And… there’s always one, isn’t there? One idiot. One person who throws the idea of professionalism out the window and takes a dive after it.

I got a tweet answering the question of what people were reading.

And I took a second, then a third look at it. Yep, the person was reading his own book. So I asked why.

Now, this could have gone really really well. This is a great opportunity to talk up your book! “I like to revisit my old writings from time to time because these were great characters.” or “I wanted to confirm a detail that’s been bugging me.” or “I keep telling myself it’s a great story and wanted to see if reality matched up. Yahoo! It does!” or “I’m working on the sequel so I’m refreshing my memory.” or even “I’m working on a set of book club questions.”

I’m sure there are a million other reasons. All of them good, all of them positive, all of them designed to catch a potential reader’s eye. Even if that book club is only meeting in your mind, sometimes, the illusion of success breeds success.

But… nope. I’m not that lucky. I’m NEVER that lucky.

Maybe it’s that the assholes bother me more than they should. Or maybe it’s that I’m an asshole magnet. That’s always possible.

Regardless, the responding Tweet wasn’t exactly professional. I won’t quote it, but it went along the lines of “I think there are problems with the book I’ve been selling to people.”

Umm… The editor in me cringed. The published author in me cringed. And the fighter in me, the part of me that has zero tolerance for idiots, asked why a book with problems was for sale.

The response was even more unhinged. One of those, “Oh, I’m mentally disturbed. Ha ha. Ho ho. Hee hee.”

Dude.

And then he backtracked. “Actually, I was hoping for a RT.”

Yeah. Right.

Know what he got instead? The promise that I won’t read his book. A reminder to make a big, wide detour around this guy if I ever encounter him again. A silent promise to myself that if he ever shows up wanting to do a Featured New Book Spotlight, the e-mail will conveniently get lost. Anyone familiar with my inbox knows I’m at best a slow correspondent. Things get lost on a daily basis (Google keeps telling me I get 9,000 emails a month. Which explains how things get lost and why I’m so slow).

There’s always one.

Please don’t be the one. You may think you’re funny but the truth is that you’re only hurting yourself.

Last weekend, I took the boy and three of his teammates to southern Virginia for an Ultimate Frisbee tournament. I came away with an awful lot to write about, both in my fiction and right here, as The Editor.

Today, let’s talk about teens. Teenage boys, in particular because even though I wandered over to see the girls and even though they came and watched most of our first game on Sunday, I didn’t get to observe the girls nearly enough. (They are, however, quite cool.)

Often in fiction, kids appear in one of two roles: the comic relief or the brooding, troubled kid.

Reality isn’t so easy, is it? I had four kids in my charge this weekend: three high school sophomores and a high school junior. Not one filled those roles in the typical sense, although they were each comic relief in their own ways. Each had moments of brooding. In their own ways.

We were standing in Subway on the way home and one of them — we’ll call him Tom — looked at me and said, “Mrs. G, know what I’ve noticed? You and [your kid] both like to have a lot of space around you.”

And I realized… he was right. Dead-on correct. The boy and I need that buffer space (although I was sort of curious about that when the boy leaned over from the backseat and started massaging Tom’s face and yes, it was really strange and utterly hysterical at the same time … like I said, lots of food for future fiction.). We’ve been through some pretty big traumas, me and my kids. And every now and then, someone with a high level of perception or empathy comes along and sees it. Tom, at age sixteen, was one of them.

So what’s this got to do with writing? Well, haven’t you figured it out yet? Kids and teens are too often cast into stereotypic roles in fiction. Would any of us — myself included — expect to hear something like that from a kid’s mouth?

Well, sure. There’s that third stereotype: the too-wise-for-his-years kid.

But Tom? Like I said. He got a face massage from my kid (and purred). He whined about being attacked by a thumbtack yet only complained twice about the finger he sprained and how swollen it was. He informed us that Krispy Kreme was the reason he was fat as a kid (think about that one). He spent two hours doing his homework with the quiet kid.

Definitely a character in his own right. And definitely not a stereotype.

So… let’s bring this to you, shall we? If you’re going to include kids in your books, spend time with them. Volunteer somewhere, even if it means getting your child abuse clearances and oh, no! Spending money on travel costs and crummy hotel rooms (that’s a story for another time) and food and yes, Krispy Kremes for the drive home.

Get to know these kids. Figure out who they are and what makes ’em tick. Know the stereotype about kids being absorbed in their phones? Not this crew. Four kids. They talked in my car. They played games. They engaged in a science experiment with Kool-Aid. They did homework. They slept. And yes, they watched videos… for about an hour. Of sixteen in the car.

Again, they’re not fitting the stereotypes.

As writers, it’s on us to get it right. Yeah, you may be the writer who uses those broad generalities to make a larger point about human nature. But… do you really need to?

What would happen if you break out of those molds and formulas and stereotypes and portray kids as the complex, perceptive, funny people they truly are? Wouldn’t fiction — YOUR fiction — be better for it?

I suspect it would. Go for it.

So, yeah. Not only did I get to meet a cool new blogger for the Best of the Burghosphere fun, I got to meet another one.

Bold Pittsburgh, who takes a BOLD look at life here in Da Burgh.

He/She/They — they have a big staff — gave me a pretty serious award. “The blog with the Behind the Scenes look at an Author and Editor” — that’s pretty cool. Yeah, I’d been hoping for something more fun, especially since my friend Hana, the Green Grandma herself, got the award for “Blogger Most Likely to Keep You From Poisoning Yourself While She Simultaneously Gives You Birthing Tips” — but it was my buddy JJ came up with that.

You mystery lovers, go check out JJ’s books.

Okay, shameless plug for a buddy aside, I’m super glad to be on the radar of the cool folk over at Bold Pittsburgh. I’d love to be a contributor, even, in my copious spare time (yeah, like 30 of my favorite clients just groaned and sent their inboxes death glares ’cause they’d really like to continue our conversation than see I’m continuing to lollygag when it comes to e-mail). So we’ll see what’s going to happen. Probably nothing, but a girl can hope.

Speaking of hoping, I’ve committed to going to the Best of the Burghosphere Friday night (adults only) party. Hana and JJ have been tasked with making sure I don’t weasel out, and my kids are ready to throw me out the door even though the party’s not for a few weeks yet. I don’t suppose anyone’s got some hot male eye candy who’d be glad to adorn my arm for the evening? And those of you who know of my preferences in that department*, I’ll let you raid my chocolate freezer if you make it happen.

Like I said, a girl can hope.

*before you go cluttering up my comments here or on FB, please remember that I do have a stalker issue and the less we say publicly, the safer I am and the safer my kids are and the safer the eye candy is. You wanna talk about my hot man? Use e-mail ’cause if the stalker’s in my mail and I find proof of that, I’m pressing charges this time. Period. End of discussion.

Train wreck.

That’s the only explanation I can give this poor romance, and it’s certainly the only reason I can give for continuing to read. Heck, I sat in the car outside the library while my kid was inside. I read. She was looking for new books. She was the smart one.

I mentioned the stubble/beard problem in my last post. Won’t go there again.

But it’s been downhill, in terms of the writing, since then.

There’s a “Shit!” he swore moment.

Seriously? In today’s fiction marketplace, you, Big Five Publisher, are putting THAT amateur writing out? Seriously? Like the reader is too freaking stupid to know that shit or whatever the word actually was is what someone says when they swear?

As I say to my clients, “Why tell what you’ve already shown?”

Waste. of. words.

(Waste of reader brain cells, too.)

But then it got better. It did! How does it get better than something I have been making fun of since the 1990s?

He tasted her with his mouth.

Well, thanks for that clarification there, folks. Personally, I taste with my left elbow, so knowing that someone uses their mouth to taste… wow. Consider my mind blown.

Honestly, I’m not sure which is worse: that a real person (presumably) put her name on this drek, that some editor let it be published, or that the publisher is actually charging $7.99 for it. Maybe the absolute worst is that readers and libraries (where my copy came from) actually spent money on it.

My clients turn out better books on a daily basis. They come up with creative plots — and notice how I haven’t started on the plot of this one, which is cliched perfunctory leaning toward kitchen sinking — and characters who are real. And they work on the craft of writing. They rise above amateur hour. They push boundaries. They expect excellence from themselves.

And you, big publishing, are putting THIS out?

And people wonder what’s wrong with publishing.

This post needed my logo. But it needs another one, too:

That’s because although I’m a proud Pittsburgher, I’ve lived below the radar for too long. Time to change that. And one way was to join the Best of the Burghosphere 2015 celebration, in conjunction with Most Wanted Fine Art and Sue Kerr, who I’ve known via social media for a long time now.

Here’s a bit about the project:

Most Wanted Fine Art is pleased to team up with Pittsburgh Bloggers to acknowledge and honor the contributions of bloggers through Pittsburgh’s blogosphere (aka “Burghosphere”) with an awards ceremony that also pays tribute to our love for all lists Top Ten.

Whether blogging is an art, craft or off-shoot of journalism, it is a labor of love and creativity that infuses our lives with new ideas and an unparalled opportunity to engage (and sometimes, outrage) our community. To be a blogger is to be among the best. There is no ranking, no competition and no criteria. The act of blogging is all that is required.

Now, come on. How can your favorite heavy metal editor not join in this sort of fun? It’s right up my alley!

And I’m glad I did.

I got to investigate LJSkool, which is an incredibly energetic, upbeat blog about parenting and homeschooling. Truth? It made me sad homeschooling wasn’t an option for me and my kids ’cause the way this family learns? Would have been perfect for the gang I’ve got. Of course, it would leave me next to zero time to work, but on the other hand, I’d be out living life and not hiding behind a computer all day. We’d be having adventures, challenging both myself and the kids, learning the way learning was probably meant to be done, through experience and direct contact, not blackboards and bell schedules and backpacks that are allowed in some classes and not in others.

Anyway, in the end, I’m jealous as anything. To have the freedom to teach, to explore this magnificent city of ours, to use it as a backdrop for learning… Definitely jealous.

So it’s my privilege and delight to award LJSkool the Best, Most Upbeat Homeschooling and Parenting Blog in the entire City of Pittsburgh.

I was sitting at the field with a book the other day. Not an unusual thing for me, even as autumn chills creep into the West of Mars landscape. The players add a layer. I either retreat to my car during practice or add a layer and a blanket.

But what I encountered in the book wasn’t so easy to deal with.

It’s a contemporary sports romance (and I’m looking for more recommendations, if you’ve got any) and it was credited to a big-name editor at a big-name publisher.

And I can’t say it’s badly written. But it’s not well-written.

(Shades of grey… you guys know I’m all about ’em.)

So what’s the difference between not badly written and not well-written?

Well, shades of grey, of course. I just said that. In this case, as the author’s describing the hero, in one paragraph he has stubble. It’s sexy stubble, of course, but it’s stubble.

In the very next paragraph, or maybe it’s two paragraphs later, he’s got the beginnings of a beard.

Hello? Which is it? Stubble, or the beginnings of a beard? They are different. Very different. Stubble is short. It’s a couple hours or maybe a day after shaving. It’s brush burn on tender skin. You can’t even feel past it to caress the skin underneath. It’s sandpaper.

But the beginnings of a beard… it’s when the hair is longer. Softer. When you can put your hand on your man’s face and feel the contours of his jawline again. Sometimes, it tickles.

Makes sense to me… but am I the only one who sees this difference?

So I put the question to my panel of experts, otherwise known as teenagers, over a meal of Korean barbecue. Because what else does a family discuss over a meal of Korean barbecue?

And they agreed. Stubble is stubble. The beginnings of a beard… well, my oldest said, it’s more than stubble. Longer. It’s what his coach is currently sporting (and I maintain it’s a good look on him, too).

An example! Good child. I have trained you well.

And then, of course, the conversation spiraled. If the character goes from stubble to the beginning of a beard within two paragraphs, what does he look like at the end of the day? Dredlocked beard? Dumbledore? How often does the guy have to shave? Does he walk around with an electric razor and where other characters rub their faces contemplatively, does he flip on the razor and rub it over his cheeks and throat?

I have a creative family, even though we didn’t discuss how the differences between stubble and the beginnings of a beard affect the mental picture a reader draws.

But the point, of course, is that instead of focusing on the storyline (which is rather cliched, to be honest, and one we see all the time in Rock Fiction), we’re making fun of this book because of imprecise language. And the kids, of course, know that if this manuscript had crossed my desk, I’d have said exactly this to the author. Stubble is stubble and the beginnings of a beard are the beginnings of a beard, and they paint very different pictures in a reader’s mind. Pick one, I would say to Steve or Stevie. But only one, at least right here.

Stubble is stubble. The beginnings of a beard are the beginnings of a beard.

Know the difference, all you Steves and Stevies. Know the difference.

Last weekend, don’t ask why, I sat on a band practice field at Penn State and tried to stay warm and dry. And my thoughts went like this:

Jan is dating Peter.
Peter is dating Jan.
Peter and Jan are dating.

Anyone else see the subtle difference, the way these statements shift the power between Peter and Jan, depending on how they are worded?

Just something to think about. Here, there, and especially during revisions.

Every word matters.

Guts. Cojones. Nervy. Courage. Daring. Moxie. Chutzpah. Intestinal Fortitude. Balls. Fearlessness. Gallantry. Valor. Nerve. Gumption.

Lots of names to describe shades of the same thing, no?

But yes, today, we’re talking about that which drives us to do things we maybe ordinarily wouldn’t. The shy man who swallows hard and asks a woman out. The character who picks up a gun for the first time and shoots the bad guy (oy, me and guns). The family who invites themselves to a life cycle event even though they can’t bring themselves to be polite to the hostess. The abused who finds her voice and speaks out against her abuser. The young child who knows he doesn’t fit in the world around him, so he runs away and finds out that he’s actually a prince in another dimension.

And on and on. (and yes, a couple of those are drawn from real life and no, I’m not a prince in another dimension.)

It’s the power of our guts, our courage, our whatever-word-and-shade-of-meaning-you-assign-your-characters that give fiction its fun. When a character acts in a surprising way, when they find their inner strength, their … well, fill in the blank from the list above (and, of course, there’s no way it’s comprehensive) — that’s when a fictional character becomes fascinating. It’s often these moments that let a reader make that emotional attachment to a character that lets the character come alive in the reader’s mind.

If you are struggling because your critique partners and beta readers (and you use them, right? Especially those of you who are working on your first couple of books?) tells you your characters are flat, this is the first place to look, and it’s that emotional tug on the reader that you want to focus on.

It doesn’t take a lot to show a character acting with guts. Anyone can reach for that gun. Commit the entire family for a life cycle event whose hostess you don’t particularly like, even though only your kid was invited. Open your mouth and let the words, “Want to grab dinner?” come out of your mouth.

It’s the wording you use that makes that emotional tie. It’s the blocking, the physical movements (for you non-theater types).

He opened his mouth. Like he’d expected, the words were stuck. He closed his lips, hung his head just long enough to take a breath, and tried again. As he lifted his head, he dropped his shoulders and caught her eye. She had a small smile playing at her lips, and that was enough to make all this easier. “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s grab dinner. I’m buying.”

(He upped the stakes! He offered to buy! You go, fictional dude I just made up on the fly!)

But that’s it, isn’t it? Because you see what he’s going through, his discomfort and his attempt to swallow his fear — and the way in which the girl makes it easier for him — that grabs you. He found his guts.

And now, this story about a young man who’s afraid to live his life takes on more interest. He’s taken a risk. Shown some guts. And we want to know how it ends.

We have lots of names to describe this state of affairs. Take a step back and look at how often around you people show these traits. Someone cuts you off on the highway? “Dude. That took serious balls.”

Your kid cuts school? “Dude. You got some serious chutzpah going on. Why don’t you spend the next three years in your room thinking it over?”

Your best friend goes dress shopping without you. “Dude. You did what?”

Showing your intestinal fortitude’s all around us (right now, your favorite metalhead is listening to country music. Why? I’m not quite sure. Daring, baby. I’m living on the edge.). People do it daily.

Make sure your characters do, too.

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Oh, and if you come across any alternate dimensions looking for their princess or (God help me, but I’m old enough now) their rightful queen, send ’em my way, will ya?