Lara Zielin

Ever wonder if there are guidelines for texting? Well there are! I made them up just now.

I’m not sure I really have a point here, other than to say a.) this was fun and b.) sometimes texting is downright scary.

I’ll talk to you when you butt-dial me later, k?

I have a problem.

A carved, painted, chicken-shaped problem.

Exhibit A

See, I found this chair the other day at an antique store. And I sent it to Rob all like, “Bahahahaha! You see this chair?! Isn’t this the craziest chair evaaar?”

And Rob? He fell in love.

Hard. He freaked out. He texted, and I quote, that if I got this for him “I would never want anything ever again! I would walk [the dog] every day and you would never have to do it again! I would read the Bible every day! And make you plain bran muffins all the time!”

I love plain bran muffins.

But still. A chicken chair?

I tried to distract him with other things. I was like, holy crap, look at this seriously creepy painting! I mean, is that PUBIC HAIR?

*shudders*

“Tell the chicken I love him,” he wrote back.

Okay. Time to try again.

Look! A hilarious crab made out of license plates!

“Tell the chicken his home is with me.”

Except, that’s not even the half of it. Here’s the real problem. You see, in trying to dissuade Rob from the chair, I sort of told him it was  … $2,500. To be fair, I was in a really high-end antique store. And things were crazy pricey. But I have no actual idea if the chair is $2,500 or $250. And if it’s the latter … then I would sort of HAVE to buy it for him. I mean, he’s in LOVE.

But how can we own a chicken chair? And how can I tell him I just made up that price so that we wouldn’t have a chicken chair?

I mean, he’ll read this blog post. He’ll know. But still. I feel really badly.

EXCEPT NOT REALLY BECAUSE IT’S A CHICKEN CHAIR.

Arg.

I think we are going to own a chicken chair.

Sigh.

I discovered the more time I spent on my bike, the easier it was for me to run. And that got me thinking: What other areas in life benefit from cross-training?

After halting a lot of my regular exercise routine in a desperate attempt to finish novel number four (which I did, praise Baby Jesus), I got enough out of shape that it was a bit of a struggle to jump-start my workouts again. Running was always a challenge, but it had become absolutely grueling. I wondered if I’d ever get back to where I was.

And then something happened.

While vacationing in the Keys, Rob and I put major miles on our bikes. We pedaled long distances every day. And I discovered that the day after a long bike ride, if I tried to run, it was easier. A lot easier, actually.

It was cross-training. And it was totally working for me.

So that got me thinking, if biking makes running better, what other areas might cross-training apply? I could think of a few right away:

Reading always makes your writing better.

Trying new foods can make your cooking better.

Listening to music can enhance your ability to play an instrument.

Rob says skateboarding made him a better snowboarder, and that being an actor has made him a better filmmaker.

Showing vulnerability makes friendships better.

These were just a few I thought of off the top of my head. For me, it was a reminder that there isn’t always a straight path from A to B. Like, if you want to be a better writer, definitely practice writing — but also allow yourself to read, to watch movies, to put away the iPhone and just let your mind wander.

Anyone have cross-training thoughts, or ways in which one area in your life benefited from exploring something supposedly unrelated?

As 2011 draws to a close, I suppose I could do a wrap-up of the places I’ve visited, and the games of Words with Friends I’ve won, and whatever else kind of summary I usually do this time of year.

But, no. I am going to tell you the truth.

Which is that as 2011 wraps and I look to 2012, I have no idea what to do. And that notion is more than a little unsettling.

See, I’ve wanted to write books ever since I could hold a pencil. I’ve had lots of goals in my life, but publishing books was #1, top of the pile, the thing above all things that I simply had to do. And I did it.

I reached my goal. Four times, actually, with one of the best publishers in the world.

I’ve achieved the thing that I dreamed of since I was a little girl. And now, as I look at the space comprising my future, I’m starting to wonder, What’s Next? The truth is, I have no clue.

I mean, I could keep writing books. That’s totally an option, and I’m confident I will keep doing it to some degree. We writers have a hard time making due if we’re not … writing. But the motor driving me to publish books has lost some of its horsepower.

Okay, a lot of its horsepower.

And I’m just sitting here wondering — what do you do when you’ve achieved the thing you’ve dreamed of since you were little?

I don’t know how many childhood dreams a person ever gets to watch come true. And when they do come true, it’s both awesome and a little bit of a lonely place. Because it’s not like you can reach back into your past and conjure up another dream. I got what I wanted most. I don’t have another thing scratching at me, giving me purpose, driving me forward.

So then .. I just … AM?

I can’t imagine I’m the only person to have experienced this. Women who long for nothing but a family their whole lives — what do they do when the kids grow up and move away? How about career-minded people who put their whole lives into obtaining a job and once they secure it — what’s next?

Maybe some of you are reading this thinking, Sure, Lara, you reached your goal to a degree, but why not stop until you’re the next J.K. Rowling?

The truth is that being Ms. Rowling, or getting your book on Ellen, or even being a New York Times bestseller is such a far-off star. And I’m not sure I want to spend my time aiming for it. Frankly, it’s exhausting. There are so many wonderful, wonderful books that just sit on shelves and never get their due. The marketplace is packed. Jam packed, actually, at a time when people are reading less and less. With each book, I’ve constructed my wings and gotten as close to that “bestselling” sun as I can, but in the end, the wax melts for 95 percent of us, and we come crashing back down, sometimes never even earning out our advances.

But in the end, this isn’t about the industry. I love stories, and I’ll keep writing, no matter if I sell one book or one million books. I’m just trying to say that I feel a little lost simply because I have done it. List checked. Goal achieved. Thanks and come again.

So now I have to figure out how to a.) live without that publishing motor roaring inside me, spurring me forward and b.) dream bigger, and imagine what could be in store for me. I look at someone like Brad Meltzer, a writer who turned his books into a History Channel show, Decoded, and I think, awesome.

At the same time, I don’t want to just shove more goals onto my list. I think there’s value in living in the scary place, the quiet place, where it feels so … un-American, frankly, to not have a to-do list and a thing to conquer and a flag to plant.

Who are we when we turn off the phone, when we close the laptop, when we just STOP? More to the point, who am I if I’m not striving to complete another book?

That’s a crazy scary question. But in 2012, I think I’d like to answer it. Or, if not answer it, at least be brave enough to really, really look at it.

[Image source: ShatteredMermaid.blogspot.com]

Sometimes people ask me: How can I buy your book?

I get asked this so much, in fact, that I’ve started to wonder if people need advanced book-buying aids. Especially around the holiday season. So, I’ve crafted this handy-dandy book-buying guide. I hope it’s helpful.

This graphic was inspired, in part, by the recent article on Gawker.com about how Amazon is screwing local businesses and indies. So please, before you tell me I’m being waaaay harsh on Amazon, read the article. You’ll change your mind. Swearsies.

Caveat: I’m not a graphic designer. This is obvious, but still probably worth mentioning.

Here is the pumpkin I carved this year for Halloween.

I call it “dismayed.”

Dismayed pumpkin is all like, wtf? for a lot of reasons. Here are five.

1.) Best-selling author and Jersey Shore star Snookie told Jimmy Kimmel she does not know who J.K. Rowling or Maya Angelou are. *facepalm*

2.) Dude, these creepy hands for your cell phones? They’re real. —->>

3.) Writer Caitlin Curran lost her job after she attended an Occupy Wall Street protest, even though it was on her own time and she carried a super-smart sign. Dear Caitlin, I love you and you are my hero. I hire freelancers. Call me.

4.) Gaaaah, this otter and goat being best friends is so cute, dismayed pumpkin nearly punched himself.

5.) Did you guys even watch the Project Runway season finale? Well, dismayed pumpkin did. And let me tell you, that was the saddest lot of clothing and designers ever. I think they just should have cleared the runway, brought in Chris March, turned the cameras on, and just let him talk for an hour. Now that would have been awesome.

Why else do you suppose dismayed pumpkin is dismayed?

It’s Halloween time and you know what that means, kids. I want to hear all about your bestest bestest or worstest worstest Halloween costumes! And yes, I’ll be going first.

So. Picture it: Sixth grade and I decide to dress up as the coolest person I can think of. My choice of trick or treating garb should tell you a lot about how seriously uncool I was because I chose … Albert Einstein.

I might have been the only sixth-grade girl in America that year to dress up as a famous physicist, but there you go.

Well. You can imagine how well this went over with the sexy witches, sexy fairies, sexy princesses, and sexy kitties who were my classmates. In a word: not.

But dude, you guys, I was a totally believable Albert Einstein. I rocked my nerddom. I embraced my relativity and rode my space-time continuum to awesomeness. When I look back on this picture, all I can think is, “I am SO glad I wasn’t a scarecrow or a pirate.”

So. Now, I want to hear all about your memorable Halloween garb. And if you tell me about it in the comments, you’ll be eligible to win Carrie Harris’s totally Halloween-appropriate book, Bad Taste in Boys. There’s zombies! And kissing! It’s awesome. Also awesome? Is Carrie. She lives in Michigan too, and I heart her.

Please comment away, and may the best costume story win!*

*Which I will totally decide because my name’s on the blog but I promise to try and be super fair.

Oh, that?

That’s because I’d rather write.

Overdue library books. Entire shopping lists in three categories: kinds of carbs, kinds of wine, and kinds of chocolate. Dust bunnies under every bed.

That’s because I’d rather write.

Thirsty flowerbeds choked by weeds. White trash bags piled like bodies in the garage because I keep forgetting to take them to the curb on Tuesdays. The dog hamster-wheel-whining for a walk. Half-scribbled notes everywhere about plot points. A fridge that I’m not sure I want to open because, dear God what is that smell?

All because I’d rather write.

Closet clutter I should probably organize. Except I'm writing.

Grass so long the city is about to fine us. Bleary-eyed coffee-making in the morning. Bleary-eyed coffee-making at night. Cat litter so turd-packed it could be the surface of a meteor.

Yep. Writing.
Dirty car in need of an oil change? Check.

Crumb-laden keyboard because I take all my meals with Word open? Check.

Piles and piles of laundry in the basement? Check.

Still writing? Check check.

Neighbors have seen me in my jammies at 4:00 because I can’t be bothered to change clothes when I’m on a tear. They’ve seen me 24 hours later in the exact same attire, only now my hair is super greasy and I’m starting to smell. Because I’m writing.

The same CDs have been on rotation in my car for a year because a.) I’m not fancy and I don’t have satellite radio, and b.) every time I think, Gosh, I should totally bring some CDs from the house to the car, it’s totally blocked out in the next 3.2 seconds by a different thought. About writing.

If there was a 12-step program for writing, I would probably be encouraged to join it. But in the end, I wouldn’t. Because that bulb might need changing, and I might just have tuned out what you said while thinking about a plot point, but baby, if this is a disease, I do not want to be cured.

Hey kids! I would like to show you some of the sites around my neighborhood.

Ready for the tour? Here goes!

Just down the street are not one but TWO dinosaur sculptures! They are these massive steel structures that could be kind of intimidating, except, I think these dinos are way super friendly. Like, they get dressed up all the time! Christmas, back to school, Easter, you name it. Here they are dressed up for Halloween.

T-rex has a cauldron and a skull in his mouth. Super fierce! Happy Halloween, T-rex!

Then, there’s his friend, the kinder, gentler brachiosaurus. Disclaimer for the dino nerds, I don’t know if it’s actually a brachiosaurus. It might be an apatosaurus or something. Just, work with me here. It’s art.

Super sweet brachiosaurus is a witch for halloween! How big would that broom have to be? A Nimbus Eight Billion, I think.

One thing I know about the people who own these dinosaurs? They have a dog — named LARA. I love her.

Down the road there is a fairy door. Now, if you’re anything like me, you loved pretending you were a magical fairy when you were a kid. So much so that you taped two pieces of paper to your back so they’d flutter like wings. Only you didn’t have tape so you used Band-Aids. And sort of wound up taping the paper to your hair because it was extra fluttery that way. And then you couldn’t get the Band-Aids out because, hello, how sticky are those little suckers? So you grabbed a scissors and cut them out. Which got you in huge, major trouble with your mom, who, even though it was the 80s, did NOT want you to have a mullet. Which you kind of did.

Anyway. Fairy door. It’s a little busted here. I don’t know what happened. Maybe a goblin? But how cute are all the little offerings around it? This makes me smile every time I see it.

Yo, fairies. I know you're magical and all, but you might want to install an alarm to deter break-ins.

And down the road is one of my favorite examples of how much people care about Mother Nature around here. The women who live here help run the Ypsilanti farmers market. And they are always growing things. They let their yard be a place for butterflies to catch their breath on the way to/from Mexico.

The bees are all like, heck yeah. We totally hang here.

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into our fab hood. Now, I’ve gotta put on a cardigan, some sneakers, and catch a trolly somewhere. Bye!

Armfulls of cheese! Grade school teachers! Contrived prom poses! Leinenkugels!

You know a book tour is going to be awesome when it combines all of those things.

Last Thursday, Rob and I left Michigan bound for Minnesota and then Wisconsin — ostensibly to talk about Aggie Winchester with some folks.

Our first stop was to see my college roommate, Elena. She is awesome and is not afraid to share pictures of prom. Like this one:

Elena might have posted that picture because when I visited her book club to discuss Aggie, she asked people to bring prom photos. Excited, I totally brought an album of mine. (There may or may not have been cats on the album cover.)

Elena got about three pictures in and started laughing hysterically. I mean, really hard.

And I was all like, what? I didn’t have big hair on my prom night. My dress wasn’t obnoxious. My date was cute and not wearing a powder-blue tuxedo. So WHAT?

Turns out it was this.

Elena about died when she saw me propping up the china cabinet like that. It was worse than those senior picture photos with people leaning against trees. It was worse than the grade school photos with the crooked teeth. It was — well, I think she might have cried a little, she was laughing so hard. So, needless to say, it was sweet of her to share her own photos after she guffawed at mine. But that’s Elena. She rules that way.

Elena also shared (with her book club) pictures of when she and I and some other girls crashed a high school prom. When we were in college. That’s a whole different blog post, so I’ll just share a picture from that night here:

For our next stop, Rob and I headed to the Land of 10,000 Lakes — a.k.a. Minnesota — and we hung out at my friend Erica’s house. With another book club! This time filled with all kinds of awesome women from high school. Which, let me tell you, was both HILARIOUS and fabulous. Unfortunately, I don’t have pics from that event yet, so as a placeholder, here is a photo of me and Erica:

And then I went to my hometown of Eau Claire! Which is in Wisconsin, the very best state there is!

And you know who showed up at my book club there? LOTS of people! Including … brace for it … my fifth- and third-grade teachers! Here is me and Mrs. S., who I credit with helping me become a writer:

Words really can’t express how much this meant to me. There was also an English teacher from high school there, and lots of wonderful high school friends who showed up just because. It was amazing, and I’m so grateful for the chance to reconnect with so many of the people there. And during a Packer Game no less!

No trip to Wisconsin is complete without a visit to the Leinenkugel’s Brewery and without loading up on cheese. Which we did.

Okay, which I did.

Not long thereafter, my mom showed her her new gun. Which, if you know my mom, is both horrifying and completely out of character. She sort of shrugged it off and said, “Well, look how small it is.”

Weapons aside, I loved every minute of this trip.

I loved talking about Aggie with people who were excited about the book. And I loved the excuse to post more prom and cheese photos.

My bags aren’t unpacked yet. I think because part of me is hoping Rob and I will jump in the car and do it all over again.