I have a hard time taking things seriously. In fact, I often laugh at inappropriate times. This isn't necessarily my fault because some other members of my family don't have a solid grip on how to handle serious situations, either. Funerals are particularly troublesome. For instance, when I was a kid, a cousin of my mom's showed up at a funeral with a box of melting ice cream bars and tried to hand them out to the other mourners. Apparently he and his young son had wanted a snack en route to the funeral. They stopped at a grocery store, bought a whole box of ice cream bars, and tried to devour all of them before reaching the funeral home. They still had a couple left when their sticky, chocolate-smeared, sugared-up selves arrived. At another family funeral, a distant relation of mine showed up wearing – I swear – a prom dress. No, she wasn't going to or coming from prom. To the best of my knowledge she had not been previously diagnosed with a mental disorder.

In addition to funerals, I've found that illnesses and hospitals provide ample opportunities for hilarity. Have you seen those open-backed gowns? One time, my mother and I went to visit her aunt. When we arrived at the woman's apartment, we discovered that she was sick. The poor woman dashed into the bathroom every 5 minutes, and embarrassing noises carried all the way into the living room. Did we leave? Did we make chicken soup? Did we offer to call a soundproofing guy? No. We laughed like idiots every time she was in the bathroom. See what I mean? It's not my fault; I blame my family.

Anyway, I've learned that not everyone appreciates my "overzealous" sense of humor. There are a lot of people out there who take themselves, their jobs, their problems, and life in general very seriously. These people get annoyed when I'm not properly bunched up about their issues. I've had a few jobs where this was a problem. One former boss seemed to think that my customer service job at an insurance agency demanded both a high level of professionalism and uncomfortable shoes. She didn't think the term "personal lines underwriter" sounded dirty. I didn't work there very long.

Fortunately there are lots of people who join me in finding humor everywhere. One of my favorite such people is a guy I met in college many years ago. He works in a departmental office at a prestigious university, but he doesn't let the dignified halls of higher learning extinguish his warped, irreverent sense of humor. In fact, the graduate students in his department were so impressed with the emails he sends them that they established a blog for his rantings…er…departmental communications. 

For me, writing fiction turned into the perfect outlet for my goofy sense of humor and twisted way of looking at the world. It feels great to let my snarky comments flow freely on the page. I have time to come up with perfect comebacks. Plus, my characters can say things that would be too rude in real life.

Yes, it's true that I don't take a lot of things seriously. I laugh at inappropriate times. I find other people's insurance claims hilarious. But at least I've found a socially acceptable outlet for my "problem." On a good day I even feel like sharing my sense of humor helps to make the world a happier place. And if the stuff I write brings me a royalty check every now and then, well that's nothing to laugh at.

Peace and a good giggle,

I spent about 5 years trying to get a literary agent to represent my work. I read books about the author-agent relationship and went to conferences where agented authors gave advice about finding an agent. I sent out endless query letters and chapters of my work and my growing list of publishing credits, but to no avail. No one wanted me.

When I attended conferences, the authors who had agents always gave advice like, "You have to interview the agent before signing to make sure he/she is the right fit." They would say this was our right since the agent works for the author, not the other way around. They suggested keeping a list of interview-style questions next to the telephone to ask the legions of potential agents when they called. They insisted that having the "wrong" agent was way worse than having no agent at all.

I always shook my head and thought about how useless all that advice was. In the event that an agent was ever interested in me and actually called, I couldn't imagine going through a list of tough questions that might turn the agent off. As far as I was concerned, if the agent was breathing and had access to a Rolodex with publishers' names in it, that was all I needed. Those authors who already had agents could walk around with lofty ideas about the "right fit" and "interviews," but I had to be more practical.

Then one day last December, I finally got the dreamed-off phone call from an agent who wanted to represent me. I was thrilled! I was overjoyed! I couldn't think straight, and for a brief moment wished that I had a list of questions next to the phone so I could ask some of them. But I also knew that there was no way I could turn down this offer of representation, no matter what the agent said. It had been so long in coming, and it was entirely possible that no one would ever want me again. So I say "YES!" and signed the contract. I had an agent!

There were warning signs of trouble early on, even before the contract was signed. In act, we had some issues with the contract itself, but that didn't put me off. Did I mention I was thrilled? Things went fine for a few months, then the rejections started rolling in. That's when our differing views on my writing career and the publishing industry as a whole came into sharper focus. Within six months, I realized that I should have asked more questions. I should have insisted that my agent read more than just one of my manuscripts before agreeing to let her represent all of them. I should have negotiated the agency contract, even though that might have meant that I'd end up with no agent at all.

Within nine months, our relationship broke down completely, and my agent and I parted ways. We just didn't see eye-to-eye on important issues, and we frequently misunderstood each other. I blame myself for not asking more questions at the beginning, because if I had, we could have avoided months of problems.

So now, I'm footloose and agent-free all over again. Only this time, I think I’m wiser. Now I know how important it is to ask questions and make sure I'm working with the right person. Would I like a new agent? Of course! It's wonderful to have someone in your corner who knows the publishing industry and wants to help you succeed. But it has to be the right person, otherwise the friction will outweigh any benefits from the relationship. It's like wanting to have a "significant other" in your life. It's great to have a boyfriend or girlfriend or husband or wife, but if the two of you don’t get along, then you're way better off on your own. And who would marry another person without asking a few questions first? Well, from now on, not me!

Peace and positive relationships,

Kim

School just started for my son this week. He's a senior in high school, which means (ominous drum roll) he'll be going away to college next year. I've known this was coming ever since all 8 pounds, 5 ½ ounces of him arrived one chilly November afternoon 17 years ago. But it always seemed so far away. He'd be a kid forever, right? That's how I'd always known him, so that's how he'd have to stay.

Now the reality is starting to sink in. At this time next year, he'll be away living in a dorm, and my house will be empty. Well, maybe not exactly empty. I'll still be here, and my husband, and the cats, but that'll be it. There won't be any teenagers wandering in and out at odd hours. There won't be the sound of an electric guitar drifting from my son's room when I'm trying to watch a movie. Chances are no one's cell phone will ring during dinner. Boy, won't that be weird? No, I'm not ready.

My husband and I are bringing this heartbreak on ourselves. Since he was little, we've extolled the virtues of going away to college. From the time he was in kindergarten, our son has known that college would be the best 4 or 5 or 10 years (hello grad school!) of his life. Now I feel like we were practically pushing him out the door. We've even taken him on over a half dozen college visits in the past year. What were we thinking? Now he's downright excited about going away!

Gradually, during his years of middle school and junior high and high school, he's been home less and less. I guess that's nature's way of preparing me for what's to come next fall. As he's grown, he's become an autonomous person, instead of an extension of me or my husband. He relies less on me for…well, for everything. He makes his own social plans, drives himself wherever he's going, and has a job so he'll have money for guitar strings and other necessities. On the one hand, I'm gratified that he's growing into a competent, independent individual. On the other hand, how could I have let this happen?

So, next fall, I'll be that embarrassing, weepy mom (one of many, no doubt) when I drop him off at college. I'll go through boxes of tissues as I'm driving home without him in the car complaining about my choice of music. I'll entice him to come home for weekends with promises of home-baked cookies and Mom's laundry service. But until then, I've still got one more year of high school to get through. One more year when he has to come home at night, and I have an excuse to keep tabs on his whereabouts. And you better believe I'm going to enjoy every last second of it!

I hope you have a very happy, safe, and successful school year, whether you're a student, a parent, a teacher, or just someone who's happy you don't have to remember the quadratic equation anymore.

Kim Sullivan

I meant to write this blog yesterday.  I usually write them on the 4^th of every month.  That's easy for me to remember because my birthday is on the 4^th of October.  Unfortunately, yesterday's 4^th of July holiday festivities drove everything else out of my mind.  With the parade that, um...parades...past my house at 9 a.m. to the fireworks exploding overhead at night, not to mention the barbeques, beer, and bonfires in between, Independence Day is enough to distract anyone.

My original plan was to blog about the joys of summer this month.  I think that topic will be postponed until August, though, because instead I'd like to talk about break-up letters.  Oddly, the 4^th of July is my inspiration for this month's blog.  For those of you who are not American or who have never been in America during early July, let me explain this fantastic holiday.  It's the anniversary of the day that the American Founding Fathers finally decided they'd had enough of British colonial rule and officially declared that the United States of America was an independent nation.  The Founding Fathers, including such notable men as Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson, and John Adams, wrote and signed the Declaration of Independence, which listed their many complaints against King George III.

In essence, the Declaration of Independence is possibly the world's most famous break-up letter.  Have any of you ever written (or received) one of those letters to (or from) a former significant other that lists his/her (or your) faults in painful detail?  You might have written about he snores like a chainsaw, or how she picks her teeth at the dinner table, or how his back hair makes a gorilla look neatly groomed, or how it would be a service to humanity if she had her driver's license revoked.  Alternatively, you might have learned from an ex that your breath smells like tuna, or yes your butt does look fat in those pants, or his mother always said he could do better, or she hates your stupid little yappy dog.  Whatever the break-up letter says, the end result is the same.  The party writing the letter thinks the party receiving the letter sucks, and he/she needs to make a clean break in order to get on with life.

The American Founding Fathers wrote the political equivalent of a break-up letter in 1776 when they decided to make a clean break from Britain and get on with life as an independent nation.  They explained that King George had taxed the colonies without their consent.  They complained that the King's soldiers abused the colonists.  They pointed out that the King left his dirty socks and underwear on the bedroom floor.  You get the picture – it was a standard break-up letter.

So on the 4^th of July every year, Americans celebrate the bravery of our Founding Fathers by marching in parades, barbequing pieces of cow or chicken, sucking down beer, and watching fireworks light up the night sky.  Hopefully, they also remember how much we owe to the men who started our country.  If we had not won our Revolutionary War, every man whose name was signed to the Declaration of Independence would have been executed for treason against King George. 

When we write (or receive) break-up letters today, we might shed a few tears, or find ourselves wondering whether we'll ever find true love, or have to give back that comfy Chicago Bears t-shirt that had somehow made its way into our dresser drawer while we were dating the now-former significant other.  Usually modern break-up letters don't result in the letters' authors being drawn and quartered in the town square as an example to fellow traitors, however.  And that is yet another reason to be grateful this 4^th of July holiday.

Peace and enjoying your holidays,

This weekend was our school district's prom. We rented my son a tuxedo, bought flowers, and hosted an after-prom sleepover for seven boys. It was a blast. I probably had more fun than my son did because there was no pressure on me. I was able to sit back and relax and not worry about whether I was making the most of a memory that would follow me for the rest of my life. Prom can be fun, but there's huge pressure, too, because we have such high expectations for fun and excitement and a perfect evening. In some ways it's like our wedding day, only no one gives us little envelopes full of cash. And girls can wear lots of cool colors that they'd never get away with at a wedding.

There was a bit of a conspiracy surrounding this year's prom, and I didn't find out about it until the day before. Apparently, our high school invites parents to show up at the banquet hall at the very beginning of the dance so we can line the red carpet and take pictures of our kids going in. We never had anything like that 5000 years ago when I was in high school, so it never occurred to me to ask. The school had sent home fliers with the kids about the red carpet, but many kids must have been worried that their parents would go overboard and humiliate them (who me?), so those fliers mysteriously never reached many parents' hands. Anyway, many of us did eventually find out, thanks to some kids who either were honest or who wanted to get some photos taken on the red carpet.

On Saturday night, the hallway leading into prom was packed with parents clutching cameras, video cameras, camera phones, and anything else that might capture a rare image of their son or daughter with combed hair. The kids were like Hollywood stars on their way into the Academy Awards, and parents were the paparazzi. Only we didn't chase the kids' limos through the streets at high speeds after prom in order to get more photos. Or at least most of us didn't. There were a few overly enthusiastic parents whose actions I can't account for. Anyway, it was awesome, and I don't think the kids even minded too much that we were there. The fact that they were walking very slowly down the carpet while posing and smiling made me suspicious that they might be enjoying the attention.

I hope everyone has some good memories of their prom night. No, it might not be the perfect experience that we had dreamed about, but then what is? Whether you went with the love of your life and had a beautiful, romantic night or you skipped prom and sat around in sweats with your best friend, eating ice cream and talking about how the boys at your school didn't know what they were missing, I hope you enjoyed yourself. And I hope you indulged your family when they took so many pictures that you were still seeing spots when the Prom King and Queen had their first dance. Of course, it's entirely possible that your photo-snapping parents enjoyed your prom more than you did. They got all the joy without having to wear high heels or a tux. Sounds like a perfect night to me.

Peace and happy memories,

Kim

Unexpectedly, on March 6, I had emergency surgery. After about 30 hours of pain and two trips to the emergency room, I went under the knife and woke up in the Recovery Room with a big bandage on my lower abdomen. The first thing I thought was "Thank goodness the excruciating pain is gone!" Sure, I had some pain from the incision and from my doctor rooting around amongst my innards, but that was a cakewalk compared to what I'd endured for the previous day and a half. 

Friday marked 4 weeks since my surgery, and if I had to summarize the past month in one word it would be: GRATITUDE. Look, don't get me wrong. I'm not normally one of those "look on the sunny side" people. I'm far too anxious and critical to be like that. But I think this whole experience has done me some good. I had no choice but to let go and place my faith and safety in others' hands, which is not something I'm particularly good at. Remember what I said about being anxious and critical?

In this case, though, I had to trust that my doctor and the hospital team knew what they were doing both during surgery and afterward. I had to lean on my husband, both literally as he walked me around the hospital halls the day after my surgery, and figuratively as he handled everything around the house and drove me around for 2 weeks. And I had to accept the fact that I had no control over this sudden and unanticipated illness that knocked me flat on my back. In the end, it all worked out, and in looking back I find that I'm so grateful for everyone and everything that helped me this past month. It makes me feel good to think about all the things I have to feel grateful for during the past month:

I'm grateful that there was an ER close by that had painkillers when I needed them. I'm grateful that my doctor made time to see me on short notice, and that she quickly recognized that I needed surgery. I'm grateful for all the people who did their jobs in the operating room. I'm grateful that I stayed unconscious during the operation (isn't waking up everyone's nightmare?). I'm grateful for the nurses who took care of me in the hospital, especially the one who bravely took off my big bandage, because God knows I'd never have the guts to do it. I'm grateful for the hospital food – yes, I really am! I didn't have to cook it, I didn't have to clean up after it, and it tasted pretty darn good after a diet of I.V. fluids for a couple days. I'm grateful for my husband who handled everything – even on no sleep after sitting with me in an emergency room. I'm grateful to my son who took care of himself while my husband and I were at the hospital. He even made dinner for his dad and got himself off to school. I'm grateful that my husband stayed home from work with me when I got home from the hospital, and he cheerfully drove me around for 2 weeks. He even went out and got me a Shamrock Shake when I wanted one. I'm grateful to my friends and family who called and sent cards and offered to drive me around or come clean my house. My mother came down from Wisconsin, and she said she'd only come if I promised to do nothing to prepare for her visit. No problem there. I'm grateful for 3 of my aunts who wanted to call, but didn't want to wake me up or make me get up to answer the phone. They all waited what they felt was an appropriate amount of time before calling – and they all happened to call between 3 and 4 p.m. on the Wednesday after I got out of the hospital! I wasn't at home because my husband was taking me to the doctor to have my staples removed. I came home to 3 answering machine messages, for all of which I'm so grateful. I'm grateful that my body healed well. I'm grateful that my cats cuddled up around me when I was in bed or lounging on the couch. Have I mentioned that I'm sooooo grateful for the excellent painkillers? I'm grateful that I didn't really have that much pain (considering the 5-inch incision in my belly), and I was able to go off the drugs in less than a week. I'm grateful that I have a comfortable home with people I love where I was able to relax and recuperate. I'm grateful I had health insurance to cover most of the expenses. I'm grateful that I was able to write while I healed. I was able to write a lot, in fact, which was really cool. I'm grateful that even though I wrote that stuff while on painkillers, it still makes sense. Heck, I'm grateful that I came down with this illness while I was at home, as opposed to being on vacation. What would I have done if I were gripped by intense pain when I had just started a trans-Atlantic plane trip? No, if I'm going to need emergency surgery, the best possible scenario is for it to happen at home, near Chicago where the best medical care in the world is immediately available. I'm grateful that the weather was decent after I got home, so I was able to take walks in the fresh air (albeit short ones at first).

There are lots of other things I've been grateful for this past month, not the least of which is the fact that I'm filled with gratitude. I could be feeling anger that I had gotten sick. Or frustration that I had missed out on lots of things in the past month. Or regret that I'm going to be spending thousands of dollars on deductibles and co-pays for this surgery instead of spending the money on something fun like a vacation. Sure, I could have those negative feelings, but somehow I've managed to avoid those. And for that, I'm intensely grateful.

Two days ago I had my 4-week post-op visit to the doctor. She said I'm doing great and can start getting back to my usual activities. I walked out of the office feeling grateful. If I can keep up these feelings of gratitude for the good things in my life, even when everything doesn't go the way I planned, then that would mean I got a tremendous amount out of this unexpected detour in my life. Thank you for listening. I'm grateful for your time.

Peace and gratitude,

Kim

I strongly believe in the important role authors play in promoting their work.  When STONES OF ABRAXAS was released in 2006, I spent practically every weekend for six months doing signings at Chicagoland bookstores and libraries.  I set up a web site and a MySpace page where I started a blog.  I flew to the DragonCon fantasy and science fiction convention in Atlanta to speak on panels about writing for kids and getting a book published.  Even today, years later, I've still got a few promotional events lined up for that book. 

Promotion is fun, too.  I'm really looking forward to the upcoming re-release of my adult romance, and I'm going to the Romantic Times convention in April so I can do some promotion there.  The fact that I'll get to hang around with a lot of other writers and readers and watch the Mr. Romance competition is all icing on the cake.  The lesson?  Promotion is good!

But is it possible to get carried away?  You tell me:

Yesterday I had my annual check-up at the doctor.  That is an event that everyone dreads.  The best case scenario is that we get a clean bill of health, but even assuming we do, we must suffer pain and humiliation to get there.  Being stuffed, shivering, into a paper gown, only to be poked and prodded by a professional who's actually LOOKING for stuff that can kill you; it's just overall unpleasant.  Plus, it's a fashion faux pas to ever wear that paper gown with nothing but socks.  There's always a fear that the team from What Not to Wear might burst in with a film crew and start mocking my outfit.

Anyway, so I'm there on the exam table, trying to participate in a normal(ish) conversation with my doctor while ignoring where her hands are and why.  I was seeing a new doctor, so we eventually got around to talking about what I do for a living.  I explained about being a writer and told her about my books.

She said that my young adult fantasy novel sounded like just the sort of thing she loves.  So I replied that I had some copies in my trunk and would leave one at the front desk for her.  It seemed like a normal conversation at the time.  I've had a similar talk with many people in the past couple of years, and it kept me distracted from what was happening down below.

While thinking about it afterward, though, I kind of wondered.  I had just promoted my books while I was pretty much naked during a physical exam.  Is that normal?  Do other authors find themselves promoting their books at the most unexpected times?  Has any writer left a promotional bookmark on someone's windshield, along with insurance information after they banged into a stranger's car in a parking lot?  Do writers tell jail guards about their novels during fingerprinting or strip searches?  Do they tell funeral directors about their upcoming book while burying Aunt Marge?  I had surgery a few months ago and they used that cool twilight sleep for my anesthesia.  I have no idea what happened while that stuff was coursing through my veins, but now I'm wondering if I tried to talk up my books to the hospital staff while I was "under the influence."  Probably.  Actually, book promotion is no doubt way better than some of the things I could have said while my inhibitions were down.

I guess the lesson here is that promotion can happen anywhere, anytime.  Authors just have to be nimble on their …uh… feet so they can take opportunities when they present themselves.  What an exciting business this is!

Peace and happy promotions!

Kim Sullivan

Winter creeps up on me every year.  There I am, minding my own business, enjoying the warmth of summer, then school starts.  That's not too bad, though, because there's always something exciting about the beginning of a new school year.  Plus, it's still nice outside and being able to grade exams in the yard with a glass of iced tea makes the task downright pleasant. 

Then the weather starts getting cooler, but that's OK because the apple orchards open up for the season and I get to break out my Halloween decorations.  After Halloween's over, Thanksgiving's around the corner, and there are exciting football games to watch every weekend.  As I'm putting away turkey leftovers, I'm already planning what Christmas gifts I'll buy for friends and relatives.  The holiday lights twinkle brightly and dispel the darkness of mid-December.  Then Christmas is suddenly behind me, leaving a barren spot under the tree where presents used to be, but there's still New Year's Eve to look forward to.

On January 1, reality hits.  The flurry of holidays and celebrations is over.  The once-festive decorations look shabby.  Credit card bills are long, sometimes stretching for two pages.  And here in northern Illinois, we're staring down the barrel of at least two solid months of cold, dark mornings when ice is thick on windshields and sidewalks.  My family's boots are by the door in a damp heap.  My skin is dry and my hair is full of static.  It's winter, and there are no more pleasant diversions on the horizon to take the sting out of this depressing season.

At this time of year, I try to appreciate the little things – like how much more spacious my house seems without a large evergreen tree rising up in the middle of the living room.  I'm grateful for the warm, snuggly fleece top I got from my husband to help keep me warm during the upcoming months.  A few lit candles in the evening make the house smell nice. 

Still, these months are hard.  During January and February, I always feel like I'm holding my breath, just waiting for spring to come.  If I don't move around too much, maybe I won't feel the cold and the wind.  And I certainly don't want to plan any travel or arrange social commitments for fear of having to leave the house if there's a snow or ice storm.

So I've battened down the hatches, put in a large supply of wine and books, and slipped into my fleece top and thermal socks.  I keep telling myself that spring is coming.  It always does.  And in the meantime, if I can move my arms from under the pile of blankets, I'll use this hibernation time to get some writing done.  I'll come out again when the temperature rises to a level that's suitable for human life.  Or when the Romantic Times Convention happens in Orlando this coming April.  Whichever comes first.

Peace and a mild winter,

Kim