*Warning* Whine fest ahead

I don't want to write. 

I can't explain how epic that sentence is for me. How devastating. Writing has always been hard. Like weaving something from nothing hard--but it was also an addiction--a high I craved every day. But for the past year, it has been work--comparable to cleaning the toilet (which I hate). 

Part of this is because of the stage of life that I'm in. My daughter is my little shadow. She's constantly climbing on my lap and asking me questions. I've found that I tend to be the most productive when I can have four hours of uninterrupted time. Getting her to watch a movie for even a couple hours so I can get a few words in is nigh impossible. 

I used to write at night, but honestly, I'm so tired I can't focus on much except what's on TV (which is in the same room). Long story short: I need an office. 

I also need some motivation. I want my desire back, but I don't know where it went. 

I need to get it back if I'm going to get Witch Fall out in October. 

Riding Horses in a Lightning Storm

Our fireworks this Fourth of July carried a little more punch than your average roman candle. We had to cut out seven pairs of cows and their calves at a time and then chase them into a corral and up a chute to be loaded into trailers and hauled into the mountains for the summer.

Unfortunately, we were caught in a downpour. It was raining so hard I couldn't see, and I was as soaked as if I stepped into a shower fully clothed. Not to mention the lightning slamming into the ground. We finally gave up and headed for the barn. I pushed my horse into a gallop. He immediately humped his back and started crow hopping (not quite bucking, but seriously considering it).

Of course, I'd borrowed my Dad's cowboy hat and it ended up in the dirt. Not wanting to end up on the ground, I slowed him to a trot and we kept moving.

Maybe I'm crazy, but that was the most fun I've had in a while. :D

Why I Only shaved One Leg Today

I come out from hiding under the covers. The first thing I notice is that 18 MO is fussing from her crib. But sad to say, that's not what forced my brain to kick on. Strange, metallic clangs are coming from the kitchen. Baby on my hip, I trudged down the stairs, still half asleep (it'd been a long night). Mid-yawn, I step into the kitchen to see burned toast crumbs spilling from the counter onto the tile floor (which I'd just swept the night before) all around my 8 yro's bare feet. He looks up from where he's shoving a butter knife into the toaster.

"What're you--"

He cuts me off before my lecture has even begun, "Someone put batteries in the toaster, Mom."

Still befuddled with sleep, I step closer. Sure enough four rechargeable batteries. All toasted a nice crispy black . . . kinda smells like my sister-in-law's idea of the perfect bacon.

"Who did that?" I demand.

8 yro shrugs. "I don't know. Not me."

I take a deep breath, pull out a rag, the broom, and dustpan and get to work.

After I'd finally finished feeding everyone breakfast, I picked my 18 month old up from her high chair. Of course, she'd figured out how to unscrew her sippy cup a few days before. And of course she dropped it. All. Over. Me. Soaking wet, I clean her off and penguin walk toward the bathroom.

Before I've made it up the second step, my 8 yro comes bursts  back into the house. "I forgot to have you sign something." Winter wind whips in from the open door, freezing my milk soaked pajamas to my legs. Shaking, I sign it and hope against hope his teacher doesn't think he forged my handwriting.

At this point, I know there won't be time to clean up the kitchen if I'm going to make it aerobics. I jump in the shower, just to rinse off my bottom half. Then I fight to get the kids out the door, find shoes, and convince the 5 yro that the little kids WILL NOT chase him anymore.

When I get home, I jump in the shower for the second time. Just as I'm starting to shave my second leg, 5 yro bursts into the bathroom, his voice high and panicked, " . . it ing . . . off . . . waw."

Wiping soap out of my eyes, I move the shower curtain back. "Huh?"

He's dancing from one foot to the next. "it . . . fell down . . . waws."

He's spinning in circled and miming something falling. "Do you need to go potty?"

"No!" he shouts in exasperation.

"Is your sister okay?"

He takes a deep breath, as if finally understanding I'm not going to get it unless he speaks very slowly. "The ite ting fell off the waw."

At this point, I've decided it's time to rinse off. "What white thing fell off the wall?"

"You know," he points to the ceiling. "The white ting above the tabwe."

It suddenly clicks in my head. Shutting off the water, I run downstairs, dripping water all over the carpet as I go. In the kitchen, the mess that awaits me has reached epic proportions. The ceiling light has indeed fallen from the "waw". It's now teetering serenely on a box of Multigrain Cheerios. Another box of cereal has been knocked down, spilling Life (how perfect is that metaphor?) all over the table, chair, and floor.

At least nothing is on fire. Yet, I think. And no one needs to visit the emergency room. All in all, not as bad as it could've been.

And then I realize something profound. I'm standing, perfectly naked in my kitchen. And all the blinds are up.

With a little squeal, I rush back up the stairs to dress (at this point, toweling off seems unnecessary). Of course, when I finally pick up the box of Life cereal, milk has practically dissolved the cardboard. The sack would have prevented the cereal from flying everywhere, except when my 18 mo had spilled it the day before, she'd ruined said sack. And with the cereal in nothing but the box, I know have SOGGY cereal all over me.

Of course, the phone would have to ring at this point. As I screw the light fixture back into the ceiling, phone propped on my ear, I remember the flyer my church handed out recently. About training for disaster response.

Disaster Training, ha! I'm already an expert.

And that, my friends, is why only one of my legs has been shaved today.

Taking a Break

I've come to a point in my life where some things have to change. There simply isn't enough Amber to go around (metaphorically speaking; literally speaking, there's plenty of Amber ;) ). Between my three very young children, my husband, my occasional job, and the regular gamut of things that need to be done, I don't have time to write. And writing has to come before blogging.

So I'm stepping away from the blogging thing for a while. I might post things occasionally. In the interim, know that I send you all blessings.

Thanks,
Amber

Where's Amber?

Anybody know what happened to Amber? Well, let me tell you. Her seven month daughter is sick and she's up with her all night every night (ergo, she is referring to herself in the third person and using words like 'ergo').

In an intricate plot to swindle cookies from their zombie like mother, her three children have also made dang sure she's not able to take a nap.

She's also in the last throes of wresting edits out of her newest MS until it cries, "Uncle."

On top of all this, she is very frustrated with the publishing industry as a whole. She would like to formally berate said industry for failing to answer her submissions in over a year. She would berate said industry professionals (and she uses 'professionals' in the loosest possible terms), but will refrain as it is considered unprofessional, and as this post so succinctly shows, she is nothing but professional.

As a parting shot, to all publishers who still have her MS (and it's abundantly clear you have no idea who you are), she would like to invite you to kiss her big toe.

NOT THAT BIG TOE, IDIOT, THE OTHER FOOT!

Ah, now anyone feel better?

Check Out This Link

I found this blog while scanning through some agent ones. It has a lot of information of on the last Writer's Digest Conference.

Check it out!

Also, funny thing happened to me yesterday. A neighbor of mine commented on how pretty I looked on my facebook page. "Absolutely gorgeous," she said. "You looked so stunning."

I smiled, genuinely pleased. "Thank you."

Studying me, she shook her head in disbelief. "It really looks nothing like you."

My eyebrows flew up and I had to suppress a snort. "Uh . . . I guess I clean up well?"

I love it when people offer you insults wrapped in praise. lol

This Video Cracked Me Up

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oS1NOXWVWgo

I'll Always be a Cowgirl

This past weekend, I went home for the county fair. Now, for those of you not familiar with small town life in the West, the county fair surpasses many an American holiday. I'd rather miss Thanksgiving than the fair.

With my all of my immediate family members, I moved toward the stands covered in peeling white paint--paint I had helped put there years ago. I smile as I remember my 4-H friends and I slapping each other with white, laughing when we realized the paint was oil based. The smell of gasoline as we worked it from our skin.

I sat down to more memories--memories as familiar to me as the smells of my children and as distant as my first romance. The smell of horse sweat. Dust in my mouth. The feeling of 1,000 pounds of muscle tensed and ready to run beneath me. The pride I have for my horse; a horse that I'd trained myself.

I remember the heartache of losses, the thrill of the win. Chasing cowboys wearing tight wranglers, callouses on their hands.

And now it's all gone for me. Sometimes, like when I go to the fair, I miss it so much my chest aches and tears sting my eyes. And I'm beginning to realize that I may never have it back. It may be gone forever. And I may miss it forever.

And I'm beginning to realize rodeo will not be the only passing passion I have in my life. I still love the textured feel of a basketball in my hand, the snap of the hoop when the ball fits perfectly. But my body will not always willingly run the court.

The feel of my baby daughter in my arms, so tiny that she seems made to fit in the contours of my body. Her breath against my neck as she sighs her sleeping baby sighs.

So now I'm determined to enjoy my stage of life now. The kids running around, begging me to play swords with them and read them a story. My husband, singing off key to Don't Worry, Be Happy as he cooks in the kitchen. My friends and I playing ball on Saturday mornings.

I will write. But I will not give up NOW. I will not miss these memories. Because I'm beginning to understand that I will never get them back.

In case you have any doubts, yes, that's me during my Junior year of high school. I was one of the top Cowgirls in my state. I have over 30 belt buckles to prove it.

How to Find the Perfect Critique Partners

Don't have one?

Get one.

Or two or three. Seriously, every good writer needs other writers to look over their work.

So, how do you get critique partners? Their are writing groups open to any new members. This is a great way to start. However, eventually, your going to outgrow an open crit group. When that happens, you can start your own "invite only" group, or hope you are invited to one.

At this point, it might be important to distinguish the difference between critique partners and critique groups. A critique partner will usually look at larger amounts of your work at their homes, while you bring a small amount to read out loud at groups. With my partners, we will either swipe an entire book, or a selected amount of pages, say 25. I've learned from past experience, that when trying out a new partner, start small. That way you don't end up with something you can't edit, whether because of taste or writing level issues.

Good partnerships work well when both partners are:

1. On a similar writing level. If their is a wide dichotomy, one person will feel like they don't get what they give. That's great, however, for the less experienced writer.

2. Have similar outputs. It's frustrating when you write 25 pages every week, and your partner takes 6 months.

3. Enjoy each other's writing. I added this after a comment from Stephanie (poor girl). Seriously, if you can't stand a person's writing, you probably shouldn't be editing it--if that person is in your critique group . . . well, I agree with Thumper, "if you can't say somethin' nice, don't say nothin' at all."

I'm lucky in writing partners. I work with published authors: Marion Jensen w/a Mathew Buckley, Janet Jensen, journalist JoLynne Lyon, and Cami Checketts.

Speaking of Cami, she and I worked on her book, Sister Pact, together. So, here's a shameless plug for my friend:

After a tragic fall leaves her sister in a coma, Savannah becomes the prime suspect in the investigation. Desperately hoping to prove her innocence, she convinces detective Noah Shumway to stay by her side at all times. But the close quarters prove too much for them to handle. Can Savannah find the proof she needs to show Noah she's not a monster? And how can she rely on her faith and keep her family safe when it seems all hope is lost? The Sister Pact is a thrilling story of action, suspense, and love. Full of unexpected twists, this book will keep you guessing until the very last page.

Buy her book!

One Phrase you never Want to Hear From You Seven-year old

In case you're wondering what I've been up to lately . . .

But seriously, I'm cutting back my posts to once a week.

If my baby isn't enough, perhaps the following story will convince you.

It was a phrase every mother dreads hearing. Unfortunately, it was delivered in an unusual way.

Dancing from one foot to the next, my seven-year old wrings his hands. "Um, Mom. I think maybe there's been a fire."

"What!" I roar. "Where!"

"In my room."

Silently cursing our multilevel house, I rush down three flights of stairs. In his room, I find black soot dripping from the walls--evidence of an obvious clean up. The outlet is smeared black.

I let out a silent sigh of relief and round on said seven-year old. "What did you do?"

The dancing and hand twisting began again. "Um, I was, like, playing with my dog-tag chain, and it, um, flew through the air and landed on the metal thingies that go in their." He points at the outlet, where a prongs stuck halfway out like a petulant child sticking out it's tongue.

"And the chain just happened to land on the prongs that just happened to be sticking out?"

We played this back and forth game a few more times before he finally told me the truth. With a big sigh, he began, "You know when R2D2 breaks the chain with his shock thingy, I wanted to see if I could break my chain with the electricity from the house."

George Lucas, sometimes I'd like to strangle you! Suppressing an eye roll, I proceeded to ground my son from everything Star Wars for a week.

So you see, unless I want my house burned down, I better be more vigilant.

Favorite Villains

What makes the best villains?

The answer will vary a bit depending on what draws you. So pick your favorite villain. Mine is the Phantom in The Phantom of the Opera. Here's the top things that draw me to him:

1. Conflicting emotions. I'm actually attracted to the Phantom, and at the same time, repulsed. At points, I want him to win the girl. At others, I don't. But always, I have sympathy for why he does the things he does.

2. A sense of mystery. A good villain keeps me guessing at the beginning. I'm not sure if the Phantom is a good guy or a bad guy. At the end, I'm still not sure.

3. A sense of understanding. I feel sorry for the Phantom. He's had a hard life, but he's made the most of it. Then he falls in love. And wouldn't you know it, his love falls for the rich, popular boy.

My second favorite villain is one of my own creation. His name is Zacar. He's the 3rd wheel in a love triangle with my main character. What I crave about him is how hard he's trying to break away from his past, and especially his evil father, but it seems no matter how hard he tries, he can never break free.

You root for him. You have sympathy for him. You ache for him.

So, who's your favorite villain. Why?

Write it anyway

Anyway by Martina McBride (my favorite country singer) always inspires me when I think I may never be published. I've changed some of the lyrics to fit a writer's situation.

You can spend your whole life writin'
Somethin' from nothin'
One virus can come and blow it all away
Write it anyway

You can chase a dream
That seems so out of reach
And you know it might not ever come your way
Dream it anyway

(Chorus)
God is great, but sometimes life ain't good
When I pray it doesn't always turn out like I think it should
But I do it anyway
I do it anyway

This world's gone crazy and it's hard to believe
That tomorrow will be better than today
Believe it anyway

You can love someone with all your heart
For all the right reasons
And in a moment they can choose to walk away
Love 'em anyway

(Repeat Chorus)

You can pour your soul out writin'
A story you believe in
That tomorrow they'll forget you ever wrote
Write it anyway
Yeah write it anyway

I write
I dream
I love
Anyway

That pretty much sums it up. I accept that my books may never be published, and after waiting for publishers for nine months, that may be the case. I will write anyway.

What inspires you?

Review for the Brotherhood-cause it makes me happy!

I sent a draft of The Brotherhood to one of my beta readers. She wrote me this email back (if only publishers were this enthusiastic!).

Ok. I started the book today. I could not stop. It is your best work to date. This one should be have not trouble getting published. Move forward with this as fast as possible. It had it all romance, danger, and mystery. I loved it.

I'm just a little miffed that you killed (retracted) off. It fit perfectly with the story but I'm a hopeless romantic. I just can't stop saying how much I loved it. There was a few times the peoples names were off and you even called James Joshen once. I think there was only one line I didn't quite understand. Other than that I thought it was brilliant, just brilliant.

I have read other books along the same lines as this and I think yours is above and beyond better. Send me more. Not that I have any sway but I would write a letter to whoever and tell them they would be missing out if they didn't publish this one. Get this on to your agent Now!! I know Becky would love it. I don't think any of the sex parts are bad if anything it could have been more for me. Just great!! Need I say more.

Rachelle

After all the rejections and all the "nos" it feels good to have a letter like this.

Posted chapters of Witch and Priestess

Hey all. I've posted the first chapter of The Last Witch and The Priestess Prophecy on my new blogs. You can click on them on the left hand side under the headings: Current Project and Out to Publishers.

I'm infected.

My computer bought the farm. I opened a link from a friend on facebook. It infected my computer. When we have the money to fix it, I'll be back. Until then, I'll only be on when I can use my friend's computer--and she's moving.

Stupid computer geek with too much time on his/her hands. I have a name for you. But I'm not going to use it. I'm better than that. If, however, I ever meet you, know that I grew up on a ranch. I have intimate knowledge on how to castrate you.

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

I just can't help myself

Instead of working on my blog, I'll work on my daugher and my blog at the same time! It's a Mom/multitasking thing.

It pays to have a neighbor that's also a photographer. Shauna always does such a fantastic job. It doesn't hurt to have a subject as beautiful as my daughter.

Houston, we have a problem.

I've really tried for some semblance of order in my life. But my daughter has to come first. She's had a really hard time--poor thing. She lost a bunch of weight and then went on a 16 hour hunger strike. The doctor said if she wasn't doing better by morning, we would need to hospitalize her.

Long story short, we found out she needed prevacid for acid reflux and nutramigen for an inability to digest proteins.

She's regaining a little weight, and she's stopped screaming for 2-3 hour blocks. Hopefully this will fix it and things can start settling down. If not, can anyone recommend a good psychiatric unit?

Quick note

It's now 1:57 pm and I've yet to take a shower (can you smell me through the computer? So sorry). Anyway, I just wanted everyone to know that things went . . . okay. My spinal block wasn't complete, so things were a little painful. Good stuff to use one my next book. I'm thinking "sliced a line of fire through her perfect skin." Gives you the chills, right?

Anyway, baby is fine. Though I usually don't post pics of my kids, I think one newborn shot is okay. I'll take it down in a few days. She's not eating well, so we have to go in for a weight check on Fri. I hurt in places that should be illegal. Pain meds are making me loopy, so I refuse to be held accountable for the content (or spelling) in this post.
Other than that, I'm fine. She's a doll.

And she's crying.

But she's sooooo worth it.

;)

I'm going on Sabbatical!

I've always wanted to say that. It sounds so important.

But seriously, I'm going to be in the hospital from Tuesday until Friday or Saturday and I've got a long recovery ahead. I'm not sure when I'll get back in the swing of things (though it might be fun to post some things while I'm on pain meds ;) ).

I wish I had some kind of update to give you, but I haven't heard anything from my agent in a couple of weeks. Soooooo . . . .

I'm going to post two possible beginnings for my novel, The Last Witch. You get to vote on which one is your favorite. The winner will go to my agent!

Version 1:

The sun scorched Brusenna’s straw-colored hair and the street's dust clung to her feet as if begging her to take it away from this stifling place. She knew exactly how the dust felt. Every part of her wanted to whirl and run as she waited for the merchant. But she and her mother needed the supplies.

“Twelve upice,” Bommer said sourly as he finished wrapping the spools of thread in crinkling brown paper.

A ridiculous price. If she were anyone else, she could have bartered it down to half that. But she was not anyone else. She was a witch. She held out the upice. The man’s gruff paw swallowed the dull coins in mounds of fat. She wondered what marvelous things he ate to flesh out his skin that way. Things like the honey sweetened cakes she could still smell in her clothes even after she'd left the marketplace.

As Bommer counted his money, Brusenna gathered the packages tightly to her chest and turned to go. She hadn’t gone five steps when a meaty hand clamped down on her arm. With a wince, she craned her neck to see the merchant looming over her.
“You tryin’ to cheat me, chanter?”

Version 2:

Brusenna sat up in bed, blinking and listening for the sounds that had woken her. The stairs creaked. A moment later, the kitchen door groaned and then slapped softly against the frame. Shaking off the remnants of sleep, she padded softly to her window.

Her mother trailed through the waist high corn as if she waded through water—her palms skimming across the plants. Wafts of witch song drifted with moonlight that cast everything in silver and shadow. Brusenna watched until her mother disappeared into the dense forest. Biting her lip, she snatched her wrap from its hook and flung it over her thin shoulders before she could change her mind.

As she approached the kitchen door, Bruke pricked his ears hopefully. “No, you stay.”
He groaned in displeasure before laying his head back between his paws. She felt a pang of guilt, but she knew he would obey.

Brusenna scanned for her mother before bursting free of the house. Darting from one shadow to the next, she searched for signs of her passing. She halted suddenly at the sound of her mother’s song. Pure, beautiful, enchanting. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the words that only a witch born could have understood, for they were sung in the Creator’s language—the language of authority, with the correct melding of harmony and pitch—by a witch.

The way I have it now, Version 1 is the beginning of chapter 1. Version 2 is the beginning of Chapter 2. You can vote to leave it how it is, pick one over the other, or neither. Have fun voting!
*sings* I'm leavin' on a jet plane (morphine), I don't know when I'll be back again . . .

Warning: don't tick off pregnant women.

Especially when they're 36 weeks pregnant.

My husband and I dropped off our kids with my mother and got in our car to drive the six hour round trip to Rexburg Idaho to pick up our Quest SE (their top of the line) minivan from Smith Ford Mercury. The salesman, Micah Ellis, independently confirmed that the ad was accurate.

He lied. It was not a Quest SE, but a Quest S (It goes: base, S, SL, and SE). The car did not have the promised leather seats, 2 8 way power seats, sunroof, premium sound system, side airbags, sunroof, moonroof, and alloy wheels. These aren't things you "miss" when you walk out to the car and confirm that it does indeed have those features (how do you miss leather seats and a sunroof when you claim to be sitting in the car?).

We even asked superspecific questions (please check all the stitching in the leather seats--we've heard that they tend to come loose).

Amber fell victim to a "bait and switch" technique. Meaning that the seller promises one thing and gives you another.

I was so #@*!. I even let loose a few words my Dad taught me when he was shoeing horses. We asked to talk to the manager. He told us that it was our fault for not looking closer at the posted pictures. He then offered to take a reciprocating saw to the roof so we could have our sunroof.

The salesman claimed that he just posted the information he was given. When asked about his "checking the ad" for accuracy, he simply said that isn't the way he normally does business.

As I walked out of the dealership, I stopped by a very nice looking older couple and said, "Don't buy a car from these people. They WILL lie to you." I filled out every review I could on the internet and with the BBB.

I have also changed the name of a villain in my novel to Micah.

This dealership has learned two very important lessons today:

1. Don't mess with a pregnant woman.

2. Don't mess with a writer.