In April I spoke at my favorite writers conference, then a couple of days later hubs and I were off on a two-week vacation to Washington DC and Virginia where our son is stationed and my brother and his family live. Unfortunately, the day I got home from the conference, we found out my father-in-law had suddenly passed away. After conferring with the family, it was decided we should go along with our original vacation plans and then, after a day at home, hop a plane to Los Angeles for the funeral and to attend to details.

As you can imagine, these three trips were all quite disparate but they had a common theme.

Food.

The Pikes Peak Writers Conference is a big event with banquet food often shared with a table full of strangers. You only need to have attended one banquet in your entire life to conjure up the memory of variations of bland chicken, fish, beef and pasta dishes. Despite that, I look forward to the meals every year, certainly not for the cuisine, but for the company. Every year at every meal I hang out with fascinating writers creating all kinds of delicious stories. Some folks I’ve just met, some I’ve known for several years. They’re from every spectrum of the journey — those just tasting the possibilities of a career spent writing, all the way up to the well-seasoned pros. I love chatting with all of them during informal bleary-eyed breakfasts and at the lavish banquet dinners.

Vacation food is different. You get to indulge your palate in regional delicacies. In our case we got a lot of seafood and southern cooking, 4-star restaurants and neighborhood dives, all yummy and delightful.

We ate more than once at the Zagat-rated Mitsitam Cafe at the Smithsonian’s Museum of the American Indian which specializes in native cuisine. We played Guess the Spice — Coriander? Anise? Saffron? — which tested our knowledge of geography, history, and ethnicity. Cedar Planked Wild Salmon with Grilled Corn and Cherry Tapenade … Labrador Tea Marinated Grilled Bison Loin with Bing Cherry Infused Pinenut Butter … Sautéed Chard and Spring Onions … Roasted Sunchoke and Nettles … New Potato and Fiddlehead Fern Salad with Green Tomato Vinaigrette … Hominy and Grilled Asparagus Salad … Mesquite Pinon Cookies … Pinenut and Rosemary Tart.  Elegant, award-winning, intriguing food.

But we also ate a couple of times at an intriguing hole-in-the-wall diner. We walked by it twice, deciding both times that perhaps we should come back after we confirmed our vaccinations were up-to-date. The third time we went in for breakfast and I was immediately sorry we didn’t go there every morning. It was run by a large and happy extended family. Most customers were greeted by name and others like long-lost cousins. They did a brisk carry-out business but we sat at an old-fashioned counter, sticky with maple syrup, faded and buffed by countless plates. It turned corners at every third or fourth seat, snaking geometrically around the diner. Each time we were there the conversations were public, everyone welcome to join in. We were asked about our travels and recommendations were offered as to what DC attractions were not to be missed. We were included in the wise-cracking between three manual laborers. The skinny guy didn’t believe that the big guy would eat everything in his overly hearty breakfast. I knew he could. Bets were made and accepted. It’s not a Zagat-rated restaurant, but probably only because Zagat never tasted their waffles and scrapple.

Like the conference, food was necessary but not the actual or complete experience. Vacation dining also allowed my husband and I to reconnect. Yes, we were tired and hungry after sightseeing all day so we needed to sit and eat. But we also got to talk. Despite the fact we are empty-nesters, we rarely make time at home to have a cocktail and a long, relaxing meal full of interesting conversation. Perhaps it’s because we don’t do or see as many interesting things in our normal lives. I mean, really, how often can you describe what you ‘did’ today? Yawn. Vacation dining allows deeper thought and discussion.

After vacation we had time to stop at home, do a couple loads of laundry and pay some bills before heading to Los Angeles to deal with Dean’s death. He lived eight decades, a life full of curiosity and adventure, many of them in the Congo in Africa. He died exactly as he wished, quick and mostly painless. He cooked himself Sunday breakfast in his own home, admired his vegetable garden, and by late afternoon he was gone.

Those of us left behind are consoled by the image of Dean eating his last breakfast at the same kitchen table he’d eaten at for 35 years. We gathered there too, without him. We shared food and drink and told funny stories about him. Again, the food nourished us, but it was more than that. It was comforting and ritualistic. It was no surprise to me that so many people wanted to take away kitchen utensils as tangible reminders of Dean and his wife Sarah, who we lost a dozen years earlier. The rolling pin. That set of bowls. The two-pronged fork. The tablecloth.

I guess these last few weeks have made me realize how much more there can be — should be — to the food we eat. We have a joke at our house when I make something with unusual spices. I ask, “Do you know what the secret ingredient is?” Inevitably someone will answer, “Is it love?”

Of course it is. But sometimes it’s also coriander.

May your meals provide nourishment, comfort, and as much adventure as you can handle.

My nephew told me he was helping out in his daughter’s class while they were practicing writing the letter “i”. When they finished the row, their reward was getting to color the igloo at the bottom of the page.

Wait for it ……. the kids all had to color it white because the school demands “realistic depictions” and the only proper color for an igloo is white.

Also, the school doesn’t allow coloring with black crayons because then they can’t see if the budding automatons have colored outside the lines.

As one who has colored my share of purple igloos, this makes me feel a bit hopeless. Why do we think we’re helping our kids when we’re afraid to let them play, quash their individuality, and destroy any crumb of creativity clinging to them?

Here’s something funny. Or sad. Or both.

My daughter’s flight comes in around 5pm tonight and I’m going to pick her up, so late last night I scribbled myself a note that said “tape convention tomorrow” because I didn’t want to miss Michelle Obama or any part of the Democratic National Convention. When I got up this morning, I stared at it for about 20 seconds wondering where was this Tape Convention I’m going to today, and why couldn’t I remember signing up for it.

In my defense, it was before I had my coffee.

I wonder what kind of workshops they have at the Tape Convention.
Motivational …. “Stick to It!”
Educational …. “Masking and Scotch — the Difference is Clear!”
How-To …. “Sticky Side Down, Except When Dealing with VHS”

What seminars or workshops would YOU like to see at a Tape Convention?

First, if you have a hankering to publish a book, do it. Do it, do it, DO IT! There’s nothing quite like the joy of seeing something you created right there in your hand.

I know what you’re thinking. “But Becky, what about kids? You can hold newborn babies in your hands too.”

True. But you can’t hold ‘em forever, you can’t give them away, and you certainly can’t sell them. At least nobody ever wanted to buy mine, no matter how much I lowered the price.

I joke, of course, but honestly? It’s a similar feeling. And frankly, a book is more of an achievement. I mean, any dope can birth a baby, but not everyone can write a book. Getting pregnant takes ten merry minutes — twenty if you’re lucky — but a book takes real effort!

Over the last 20 years or so, I’ve published lots of articles, six digital non-fiction books, three or four large-format ‘How To’ manuals, and a fiction paperback for kids. You’d think it would be less exciting to get this paperback in my hand. But it’s not.

It never gets old.

It’s a wild and giddy thrill to see tangible proof of all your hard work. You hold in your hands not just your words and ideas, but the white-hot optimism that complete strangers will appreciate what you’ve done, and the absolute conviction they won’t.

Pretty powerful stuff for 247 pages and a glossy cover.

I guess that’s what publishing a book gives you … power. Not brawn, not skill or mastery, but energy. Courage. A way to steam ahead, full of peppy faith in yourself.

I mean, if you can publish a book, who knows what else you can do? But you’ll never know until you try. So get busy … quit playing in BeckyLand. Get outta here and seize some power for yourself!

Here’s a little bit, even though I’m sure you never do this …

Okay, I’ve gotta get back to work. Just as soon as I get the band back together.

What’s your favorite way to procrastinate?

Turns out, this adorable little guy can hatch early if he thinks a snake is sneaking up on him. Mommy red-eyed tree frogs lay eggs on leaves arching over bodies of water, giving her babies extra chances at life.

It made me think two things.

First, that I’m very smart if I’m reading about phenotypic plasticity.

Second, that I’m much like a red-eyed tree frog.

I, too, am responsive to my environment and show flexibility in my actions. While I don’t hatch early from my egg and drop into a pond if I feel vibrations from an approaching snake, I can suddenly pivot toward a different metaphorical path. (Know that I would in fact take a different literal path if I thought a snake was approaching, but I’m a full-grown human-type person and not developing in an egg sac. Just to clarify both my state of mind and the awesome biology of the red-eyed tree frog.)

Phenotypic plasticity ponders the age-old question: nature or nurture?

Turns out, it’s both, which anyone who has a kid or has ever been a kid always suspected.

For instance, my nature has always been one of organization and compartmentalizing. If I can label a box and throw stuff in it, all is right with the world.

But sometimes I can’t.

When I write fiction, my nature and my nurture — everything I’ve been taught over the years — tells me to take a linear path. This happened, which led to this, which led to that, and finally to the ending.

The more I do it, the more I realize I like to take detours. Like that almost-tadpole, I’m startled by approaching dangers. For me, though, it’s not a snake. It’s most often a new idea, or character, or unforeseen perfect plot point.

Just like the red-eyed tree frog hatchling that drops into the pond to take its chances there, I take my chances with the vibrations from a demanding character who grabs me by the collar and shakes me until I listen to her story.

Like froggy, I might be swimming into dangerous water with repercussions I can’t yet know. But the water’s not that cold, I didn’t get eaten by a snake, and the thrill of adventure is liberating.

I’ll swim as fast as I can with my new character into a new scene or a new story line, trying to keep my head above metaphorical water.

I wonder if there’s room in my next book for a red-eyed tree frog?

Like smartphone apps that tell you where the nearest restroom is. If you’ve ever been to Manhattan, you probably know all about the Enjoy The Go ‘store’ that Charmin set up. (They have my undying gratitude, btw.) But what if you’re in Denver or Des Moines or Dallas, or anywhere that doesn’t start with a D?

That’s where the free app WhereToWee.com comes in.

Number 1 [giggle] … it works anywhere in the world, and Number 2 [gigglegiggle] … users rate the cleanliness of each restroom. You can’t tell me that’s not a godsend.

The other incredibly useful wee app I’m reminding you about is one I mentioned a few years back. RunPee.com tells you when to run to the restroom during a movie.

Here’s what the website says:

The app is simple even though spelling is a challenge. Here’s an example from the movie Cloud Atlas, which is almost 3 hours long.

“Peetimes.” Such a great, useful word.

If you ever find yourself at peetime needing a restroom, I hope you’re near one of these finalists in the Best Public Restroom competitions. You can check out the top contestants going (see what I did there?) all the way back to 2002.

It’s a simple thing, but gosh, so important. Incredibly useful, am I right? You’re welcome!

Are you one of those annoying people who can’t sit through an entire movie? Yeah, me too. Netflix understands me, though.

I didn’t see a single if or and. Only these …

I always thought alligator boots were called that because of what they were made of, not because they were shaped like alligators. I also never knew alligators came in such dazzling colors. I learn new things every day. I’m like a sponge.

I saw the ugliest baby in the world. Sadly, he was abandoned.

Some people are too literal for their own good.

“Mom, the lamp ran away again. And it’s shedding.”

Favorite? Which would you like in your house?

Here I am at Loch Ness in Scotland in front of the eerily gorgeous Urquhart Castle.

I became enamored with a lot of things while in the UK … tea with fresh cream delivered in the wee hours if you left 20-pence on the stoop, a hearty pint at the pub, pubs, fish-and-chips wrapped in paper to eat on the go, train travel, £10 theatre tickets, bed-and-breakfast inns, and so much more.

But gargoyles fascinated me. I took photos of every one I stumbled upon. And there were many.

This one in Norwich at the top of the downspout …

These at the top of Notre Dame in Paris …

Oops. Those are the girlgoyles I lived with.

This one isn’t technically a gargoyle, but it’s one of my favorite pictures. I love the marriage of old and new here in Salisbury …

I was reminded recently of my love of gargoyles when picking up my son at the airport in Denver. Next time you’re there, take some time to investigate the nooks and crannies of this gorgeous airport. This guy keeps an eye on baggage claim …

But he won’t listen to you complain.

Do you like gargoyles? Where’s your favorite?

Pol·ly·an·na (pä-lē-ˈa-nə) noun a person characterized by irrepressible optimism and a tendency to find good in everything

What can I say? I’m perky!

I love that blank calendar, so hopeful and filled with sparkling possibility. I sit down when it’s quiet and glance back through the year, remembering good times and perhaps bad ones, now with the mottled patina that only comes with time and distance.

Then I take a blank piece of paper and start writing down the things I’d like to see on next year’s calendar. Most of them relate in some way to my writing and publishing work, but there are also trips to plan, people to see, parties to host.

I humbly suggest that if you find yourself singing the blues this week instead of a joyful noise, try this little exercise.

Take a peek at your calendar. Where’d you go this year? Who’d you see? Meet anyone new and fascinating? What inspired you? What did you learn? What did you write? What did you sell? What did you promote? What were your challenges? What were your successes?

Now, grab a blank piece of paper and look forward to the coming year. Where do you want to go? Who do you want to see? What opportunities do you want to pounce on? What will you learn? What will you write? What will you sell? What will you promote? How will you grow?

Now make a plan. Take your pristine calendar and add the things you know you want to do. Use a pencil because this is a working document. Do you want to go to the Pikes Peak Writers Conference in April? Then block out that time. If you have to save up your pennies then make a plan for that, too.

How many words will you write? How many books will you read? How often will you get together with your friends? How many times will you go skiing/dancing/to the theatre/out to eat/ice skating/to the beach? What will you learn next year? What will you teach? Who will inspire you? Who will you inspire?

Make a plan. Write it on your calendar.

A plan without action is simply wishful thinking. Make a plan.

If a year is too overwhelming, focus on the first quarter of the year. Or a month. But focus. And plan to revisit your calendar before the second quarter or the next month. Dream big. Wish. Plan. Revise as necessary. Add your Big Plan to your weekly to-do list.

Revel in your successes and learn from your mistakes.

Here’s hoping your successes are infinite and your challenges surmountable. I won’t wish you smooth sailing with no challenges because mistakes and challenges help you grow into the person you’re destined to become. Besides, no problems would be boring!

Okay, if that’s too perky and irrepressibly optimistic for you, then I will allow some staring into the abyss. But only for a minute.

Hey … I think I see cookies down there!