A Man of His Word

What I’m Not Doing

There are many things I’m not doing today. Today, I’m not:

1. Meeting and greeting 2,000 other authors, editors, and agents and trying not to fawn over the stars.
2. Running all over parts of whatever Disney compound is down in Florida (I am incapable of keeping them straight).
3. Worrying about my hair, makeup, outfit, or whether it’s too hot to pull of cowboy boots in the middle of summer in the ol’ Sunshine State.
4. Hanging out with fellow authors around a pool, sipping delightful adult beverages even though it’s only lunchtime.
5. Attending invaluable presentations on craft, marketing, and surviving the publishing business.
6. Getting truckloads of free books.
7. Offering words of advice and comfort to pre-published authors who are new to all this.
8. Seeking words of advice and comfort from published authors who have been there and done that.
9. Cheering for Heather Snow at the Golden Heart Awards.
10. Overpaying for tea, and really overpaying for wine.
11. Eating banquet food.
12. Having a hell of a good time.
13. Wondering how tomorrow could possibly be better.

No, instead, what I’m doing today is this:
1. Wondering if I should shower now, or if The Kid will just throw up on me again in fifteen minutes.
2. Laundry. Again.
3. Scrubbing carpets.
4. Scrubbing floors.
5. Scrubbing everything else.
6. Wondering how a child who has consumed nothing more than three sips of water can produce so much liquid.
7. Wondering if it makes me a bad mother if I think about paragraph transitions while The Kid throws up. Again.
8. Wondering if there is such a thing as human/canine stomach bug transmission–and then scrubbing the carpet. Again.
9. Counting the hours until my husband comes home.
10. Watching movies all day long–not the ones I want to, but still. Movies.
11. Rationing crackers.
12. Not getting paid because I didn’t go to work.
13. Praying that tomorrow will be better.

So for all you authors living it up down there at the Romance Writers of America National Conference in Orlando, Florida, please–I’m begging you–have a little fun for me!

WIP

Which is not the same as R.I.P. from last week’s obituary (and thanks again for all your well wishes!). No, WIP means Work In Progress for all you non-author types out there. In my case, it usually means Works In Progress.

Case in point: I haven’t even handed The Indian Princess off to my agent yet, and I’ve already got 15,000 words done on another book, tentatively titled The Wannabe Cowboy, and I’ve got 7,000 words done on the follow-up to The Mystic Cowboy (A reoccurring ‘Cowboy’ title theme? Know your target audience!), called The Man Called Nobody. (Yes, it’s a shout out to one of my all time fav-rave cowboys, Clint, but my character’s name actually is Nobody.)

Plus, (I can hear you saying out loud, plus??) I’m mentally churning through the follow-up to The Wannabe Cowboy, (really) tentatively called The Wannabe Indian. There may be a third Wannabe book out there, but it has not yet chosen to fully reveal itself to me as of yet. And I have another book waiting to be written, too–a complete reboot of an earlier book I wrote that is currently gathering dust on a shelf. Basically, the names and the characters’ occupations would be the same. Just about everything else would be different.

Yes. I’m an anomaly. I’m comfortable with who I am. 
So that’s two WIP, and two more in the chute. Toss in some freelance jobs and my grandmother Goldie’s WIP, Eleanore Gray, and that should keep me off the streets until there’s a lot of snow on the ground.
So, in advance, I’d like thank/apologize to my mother (Hi, Mom!), the Lovely Mary (Grammar Goddess), and Laurel Levy (beta reader extraordinaire) for all their hard work/tolerance of this onslaught of cowboy-based literature. 
Ladies, I’m going to make the next cowboy extra-hunky, just for you.

A Medium Revision

About a year ago, I was working on a book I called No Man’s Land. Here’s the back cover blurb:

 Bull riding is a man’s world, but June Spotted Elk is determined to make it her own. She’s not about to let anyone tell her that girls don’t ride bulls – especially not seasoned pro Travis Younkin. Sure, he claims he just wants to keep her safe by keeping her off the bulls, but June knows that he’s more worried about her messing up his big comeback season than anything else. But what June doesn’t know is how deep Travis’s scars run, or how far he’ll go to make sure no one else winds up on No Man’s Land.




Good stuff, right? June had an introductory bit part in the novel that my agent actually signed me over (which I refer to as the Noseless Cowboy book), so there were a few reoccurring characters when she got her own book, including Kip.

Kip is . . . a unique figment of my imagination. She’s a Lakota Indian, but a Holy Woman to the tribe. In other words, she’s a psychic. A powerful one. But she’s still a young woman in most of the books, with all the personality quirks a young woman has. In other words, she’s not always in control of her power. Not only that, she’s an albino. I liked Kip a whole lot, so she showed up in about five books I wrote. She was June’s best friend.

My agent liked Kip, along with the Noseless Cowboy. After all, she signed me over their book. 

But here’s the cold, hard truth for all you pre-published authors out there: Just because an agent likes something doesn’t mean it’s going to sell.

The Noseless Cowboy didn’t even get out of the starting gates because of that whole noseless thing. And Kip? Kip is too . . . unique for publisher to take a chance on for an unpublished author. 

Four of the five books that feature Kip are on a shelf. June’s book was the only one where she still popped up. No Man’s Land has been out with editors for about seven months. I’ve gotten four rejections, and it’s stuck in the slush pile a few other places. In other words, not much is happening. Blame the economy, the timing, the unpublishedness of the author (me) or . . .

Blame Kip.

My agent emailed me last Wednesday, asking me if I would be willing to try cutting Kip–and if I was, could I do it in two weeks, before her co-agents made a selling trip to NYC? My agent LOVES this book–she believes in No Man’s Land and she believes in me. She really, truly believes that the perfect editor for this book–and me–is out there, but it might be easier to find said editor if there was no albino psychic Lakota Indian Holy Women in the mix.

So we spent a few days going back and for about what level of rewrite this would be. Cut the mysticism entirely? No, we decided. An element of the supernatural is too important to the book–and all my books. Kip just needed to be scaled back and toned down–and not albino. She needs to not be a busybody, but more hesitant, more reserved. Oh, and just in case we ever do sell the Noseless Cowboy book, she needs to have a different name. 

So, the next week and a half won’t be a major rewrite. Just a medium.

Pun intended.



Spring Fling Saturday Play-by-Play

When we last left off, Friday night at the Chicago-North RWA Spring Fling had ended with my agent using the word ‘anomaly’ five times in five separate sentences to describe me, Marta Bliese had to budget for buying my agent a Diet Coke during her pitch session, and Cherry Adair had promised not to abuse anyone until Saturday.

And Action!

8:00: Pick up Hannah and head down for breakfast. Sit with Carrie Lofty, Christine Segina, and Christy Longmire. Fail to realize I’m already facebook friends with Christine. Later feel like a dolt.


9:00: “Rejection Bootcamp” with Joelle Charbonneau. I try to take a picture of Joelle during her presentation. I fail. But she gives me a solid pep talk about on a rejection I got and doesn’t even seem to hold it against me when I have to leave early to go to . . .


10:00: Moderating Pitch Sessions. I’m the timekeeper for Amanda Bergeron from Avon. Moderating Pitch Sessions is a nice way to make friends with an Editor. Unfortunately, I do not write historicals, so I decide not to pester the woman, above and beyond interrupting each and every one of her sessions to tell her she’s got two minutes left.


10:30: Several women show up about forty minutes early for their pitches. I scare the snot out of Heather Snow by enthusiastically introducing myself to her. After she’s good and terrified that I’m a crazy lady, I tell her I judged her entry in the Fire and Ice contest, in which she is a finalist. She immediately (and I mean milliseconds) apologizes profusely for not writing me a thank you note–several times, in fact. I decide this makes us friends.


11:00: Sneak into Allie Pleiter’s “Wrangling Your Muse” late. Crib Hannah’s notes to figure out what’s going on. Discover that I write ‘big chunks’ (see ‘anomaly’ from earlier). This comes as a surprise to no one.


12:00: LUNCH! Hannah and Andrea Dickinson have to be told to keep it down (by me) because the lunch room is just a tad loud. It gets quiet when Julia Quinn gives her speech. She reminds us that romance writers make people happy, and that is important–and never to let a single person tell you it isn’t. Decide Julia Quinn is my new favorite person. 


1:30: “Author’s Brand Image” with Blythe Gifford. She asks me to stand and model while the rest of the attendees try to guess what I write based on my appearance. Ever thankful I’m in cowboy boots–and everyone guesses correctly. Voila! I’m an Author Brand!



2:30: My agent waves vigorously at me from the doorway, so I sneak out. She’s got an earlier flight on standby, so is heading out. Tells me I really, really don’t have to finish the current book in a hurry–after all, she just finished reading the LAST book a week and a half ago. (I am afraid to tell her I only have about 4,000 words left on it. EEK!)


3:00: Take Hannah to “Editing for Voice” with Courtney Milan. I’m thrilled to be at a presentation aimed at a higher level. Plus, she gives me her novella This Wicked Gift for talking! 


4:30: Interrupt The Husband’s nap. We go down to the bar for a glass of wine on an empty stomach. I wind up babbling to Mary Trimmer and eating two bowls of bar snacks. I immediately regret this course of action.


5:00: Book signing!


5:30: Find Marta Bliese again. Ask how her pitch went. She said that my agent asked for three chapters, but she’s not sure if that’s good or bad. I assure her that is AWESOME, because my agent normally asks for the first ten pages. Marta starts to get really excited, and revealed she’d actually brought my agent TWO Diet Cokes. High fives all the way around.

6:00: Really regretting wine and bar snacks on an empty stomach.

6:10: Go put on my pretty dress for dinner. Meet back up with Hannah, and we are stopped by Nancy Plummer of Fine Threads, who tells us that we are doing everything right. We decide we like Nancy a whole bunch.

7:00: Dinner, finally. Sit with a librarian who turns out to be a sparkling personality. I learn LOTS, and my stomach finally settles down.

8:00: Cherry Adair takes our pictures clapping. Her husband immediately texts to ask what the dessert in the tiny cups was.

8:15: Heather Snow wins first in her category! I scare the librarian by whooping. Later, Heather apologizes for the thank-you note issue again.

9:00: Begin to assist with the Silent Auction, benefiting Literature for All of Us. Mostly I assist by using my foghorn-like voice to announce how much time is left in the Auction to everyone in the lobby, hotel, and surrounding square mile. Silent, my fanny!

10:00: Silent Auction ends. I didn’t win any baskets, darn it.

11:00: Finish helping with the Silent Auction. Realize I have been in heels, not cowboy boots, for almost four hours. Hope a glass of wine remedies the situation.

11:30: It doesn’t, so I go to bed. Spring Fling is officially over for me!

And Scene!

All in all, I had a great time, and I’m so glad I dragged Hannah along with me. My agent thought it was a great conference, and I hope to hear positive things from Heather, Andrea, Marta, and more in the near future!

Spring Fling Play-by-Play




So here’s how it went down.

4:30 a.m. Friday morning: Wake up with a start, heart racing, stomach churning. In other words, normal pre-conference stuff for me.

7:00: Donuts for The Kid. And the Husband.

7:10: Dogs deposited. We are officially on the road!

10:00: Arrive at Beloved In-Laws. The Kid deposited. I picked up my sister Hannah, and her husband Mr. Steve picked up the Husband. Eat snacks.

10:45: Finish snacks. Officially back on the road!

11:05: Realize The Kid’s car seat is still in my car. Double back to Beloved In-Laws to deposit car seat.

11:25: Officially on the road again!

1:45: Realize there is no way in holy heck I can make the 1 p.m. meeting with my agent. Begin panicking.

2:25: Rediscover the joy of Chicago gridlock with over an hour of travel time left. Begin panicking in earnest.

3:45: Arrive in the hotel without getting lost. Victory!

3:50: Apply fastest coat of make-up and cowboy boots EVER.

4:15: Listen to the Headliners Panel, and immediately worship Julia Quinn for endorsing full-time daycare. Cherry Adair informs us that she’s not supposed to abuse us on the first day.

5:30: Find my agent! Victory!

5:35: Adjourn for dinner. Sit at a table with Hannah, my agent, and a variety of women who are really excited about sitting at a table with an agent.

5:50: First dinner companion pitches my agent.

5:59: Second dinner companion pitches my agent.

6:07: Awkward silence descends over dinner table. Agent leans over and whispers “They all hate me now.” I assure her that Hannah and I will still talk to her. 

7:00: Move to the Agent/Editor panel. Listen to the one editor say that sometimes, she just needs a book. Watch as four agents waver between lunging at her and throwing their cards at her. 

8:30: Now is officially the time for chocolate. We pick up A.J. Brower, a lovely woman named Marta Bliese, some wine, and chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

8:34: The following conversation (the first of many) occurs: “Hey! Sarah! It’s so great to see you! Is this your agent?” Introductions follow.

8:43: My agent uses the word “anomaly” to describe me in a sentence. 

8:50: “Anomaly” again.

9:10 Photo!
Cast, in order of appearance: Laurie McLean, Andrea Dickinson, Sarah M. Anderson, Marta Bliese, A.J. Brower. Photo by Hannah Clampitt

9:20: Three firefighters, two EMTs, and two police officers roll in to assist someone in need. Everyone was okay, and we engaged in witty banter with men wearing sidearms. 

9:30: Three ‘anomalies’ later, my agent goes to bed. 

9:40: Marta reveals she’s pitching my agent in the morning. We spend another glass of wine and half an hour workshopping her pitch. A key feature of her pitch is bringing my agent a Diet Coke. 

10:15: Hannah and I realize we’ve been awake since four something. Have another glass of wine, just to be sure.

11:45: Mr. Steve and the Husband return from Milwaukee, flush with a Cubs Victory.

And Scene. How did Marta’s pitch go? Was I an example of author branding? Did my agent describe me as an ‘anomaly’ again? Tune in next Tuesday for the exciting Play-By-Play for the Saturday conclusion of Spring Fling!


Write or Rewrite?

To Write, or to Rewrite? That is the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind’s eye to revisit the slings and arrows of outrageous criticism . . .


Nope, the metaphor just died there. Sorry. The criticism isn’t that outrageous. It’s pretty spot-on, actually. 


I’ve noticed a trend in constructive criticism of my westerns. The short list is:


1. Heroines that are too vulnerable (read: weak); or 
2. Heroines that are too strong (read: angry) (for some unknown reason, the middle ground is unreasonably difficult for me);
3. Waaaaay too much backstory up front (backstory is exactly what it sounds like–the background story of a character. You know, stuff like where they went to college, when they first got drunk, when they first kissed a boy–all stuff I think about, but most of which bores the socks off readers when presented in one whole chapter while the rest of the world is waiting to meet the hunky hero on horseback);
and
4. Overbearing mothers (which, I’m sure, has absolutely nothing to do with that whole ‘write what you know’ cliche) (Hi, Mom!).


Right now, I have a book–Mystic Cowboy–that isn’t on a shelf, but it’s near one unless I get off my fanny and do some rewriting. Rebel and Madeline are anxious to get away from any and all shelves and start making the editorial rounds.


But, at the same time, I’m working on that category, Indian Princess. Dan and Rosebud don’t want me to ditch them for Rebel and Madeline. They want to get to the good parts right now. 


Dan and Rosebud are winning. I tell myself it’s because I’m getting some ‘distance’ from Mystic Cowboy, so that my eyes will be fresher when I go back to it. Also, I have some beta readers who are going to rip it to shreds for me next week–I should wait to hear what they say before I rip it to shreds myself.


But those are just excuses. The fact of the matter is that writing a book is always a better time than rewriting a book. Writing a book is all about exciting new characters doing exciting new things–some of which are surprises until the words hit the page. It is, well, exciting. (Yes, I have two degrees in English literature. That’s the vocab you get on a Tuesday morning.) 


Rewriting means admitting that your stuff wasn’t as awesome as you thought it was. I’m a typical oldest child. Ask my sisters, and they’ll tell you, I like to think I’m always right. I hate to feel like I screwed something up, especially something I like to think I’m good at. I know I’m not supposed to take it personally, but try telling that to my ego. 


I know a lot of other pre-published authors struggle with this. Should I go back and fix, or just move forward?


Here’s why you have to rewrite. The only great piece of writing that was ever produced without any editing whatsoever was Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan,” which he never finished because he was proving an opium-based philosophical point. Everything else in this world has had an editor, and everything else in this world has had rewrites. (Insert your own joke about the Ten Commandments here.)


For pre-published writers, rewriting is a chance to get elbow-deep in the process of learning from your mistakes (wear gloves, because it’s going to be messy). That first book I wrote almost three years ago is still God-awful, but the nine months it took to revise and rewrite that thing taught me more than any class ever could. To write or to rewrite is really a trick question, because rewriting IS writing. Don’t fall into the false dichotomy trap! (There, that was a five dollar word. Happy?)


The trick is to know take what you learned on the last book and carry it over to the next book (hence no more overbearing mothers!), with the ultimate goal of having to do fewer rewrites. With any writing, you’ve got to take the good, leave the bad, and walk on. 


Happy Rewrites!







Category Romance

Programming Note: All you Midwestern folks, don’t forget to come to the Quincy Writers Guild’s Annual Conference, Wordstock, this Saturday, March 20, from 9 to 1, at Great Debates Bookstore in Downtown Quincy, Illinois. I’ll be making my presentation, “Marketing Yourself to an Agent,” at the 10:45 session, so come on down!

Okay! Back to Category Romance!

Which is what, now? Yeah, I heard you there, in the back.

What is a Category Romance? It goes by many names: Category romance, a.k.a. Series romance, a.k.a. churn and burns. These are the short romances, just over half what I usually write. They are usually published by Harlequin or Silhouette, usually with a label like ‘Special Edition’ or a part of a series. They come out once a month, every month. Libraries buy in bulk, as do book club members. They sell well, but they are only on the shelves for one month. Then they are gone. Sometimes, they reappear in a collective reissue, but their shelf life–literally–is short.

I hate to say it, but when a lot of people think of trashy romances with bodice-ripper covers, they are really thinking of category. In other words, category don’t get no respect.

And some of that is well earned. I’ve been reading a lot category recently, and the greatness is occasionally . . . lacking. Because they are so short, some times character development is a tad too underdone for my tastes. The plots are simpler, with far fewer supporting characters. I’ve read a few really good ones, but it’s hard to cram everything I value about a story into 50,000 words.

And now I’m going to write one.

My agent thinks I should. Because the publishing schedule for category is so much faster, and they publish so many more of them, it’s easier to get one published than going straight for single title (which is the regular romance).

Why am I doing this? Because of the lousy economy these days, publishers aren’t risking any money on someone who they aren’t positive isn’t going to make that money back–i.e. someone without a proven sales record. I am not published. I have no sales record. It’s like applying for an entry-level job and being told you have no job experience so you can’t have the job. You need the job to get experience. You need experience to get the job.

So I’m going to write me some experience.

The working title for this is going to be The Indian Princess, mostly because I totally suck at titles, but also because that’s what the hero thinks when he first sees the heroine. Here’s the back-cover blurb:

Dan Armstrong can’t tell if the figure in the trees is a ghost, an Indian princess, or a hallucination—until she takes a shot at him and disappears without a trace. With only the bullet hole in his hat as proof, he starts looking around for a beautiful woman with a grudge. Rosebud Donnelly fits the bill. She’s beautiful, she’s an Indian, and she’s the tribal lawyer suing his family over water rights. But does she really want him dead? There’s only one way to find out. As he gets closer to Rosebud, Dan can’t tell which is in more danger—his head or his heart.

What do you think? I have no idea if it’s going to work or not. I usually consider 50,000 words to be around about ‘halfway done.’  But, on the bright side, if I fail, I’ll have another single title book, which isn’t all bad. I’m going to write the best book I can, regardless of length. If it works, I hope it’ll pry open a few more doors for me. Either way, I win!

So stay tuned for Category Updates!

Work

This blog is dedicated to My Gram, God love the woman. She’s 94, and the highlight of her social life these days is me (and my kid) coming down to go out for lunch, where she hopes she will run into people she knows so she can prove that her grand (and great-grand) kids love her more. Seriously, you can almost see her going, “Neener, neener!” Of course, this gets harder every day–she’s outlived just about everyone who would care.

But, back to the point, which is Work. In a completely undisguised attempt to guilt-trip me into coming down, Gram has taken to saying, “I know you’re busy with (enter list of things she thinks we think are more important than she is), but maybe one day when you’re not working, you can come down for lunch.”

And my response? “Gram, I’m always working.” She didn’t believe me–I only go to an office outside my home three days a week. Plenty of time to come down for lunch! So, recently, I’ve been spelling it out a little more for her.

I have two and one half jobs. That’s 2 1/2 for the word-challenged. Let’s review:

1. Writer, Editor, and Phone Answer-er: Also known as the Day Job these days, I edit, re-write, graphically design and place art in supplemental educational workbooks for grades three through eight, three days a week. And when I’m there, I also answer the phone, take messages, etc. It’s a family business, run by a father and his two sons, and they’re a little, um, concerned with the business image, so I’ll omit the company name here. Nice guys, though. The main (just about only) benefit I get from this job is The Lovely Mary, who is technically my managing boss, super good friend, Grammar Goddess, and all around Idea Sounding Board. Even if I become rich and famous (or at least rich), I will still have to go to work so that I can talk to The Lovely Mary. Plot development does not happen without her. Often, whole novels do not happen without her. No Man’s Land, aka the bull riding book, was entirely her inspiration.

2. Instructor, English as a Second Language: Also known as the Night Job these days, I am into week four now of teaching ESL at our local community college. I won’t lie, it’s been a challenge. It’s at night on Mondays and Wednesdays, after I’ve already put in seven hours at the Day Job. This was not a good idea. Next semester it will be on Tuesday/Thursday so that I can space out all my talking. Really. I only have so much talking in me in any given day. Ask my husband. Still, I like it, challenging students and all. I taught ESL for five years in Chicago when we lived there. It’s nice to get back to it.

Those are the two careers I have. Editor and teacher. Both perfectly respectable jobs for a woman with two degrees in English and a four-year-old son.

But then there’s the half. The Authorial part of being the Authorial Mom. Writing romance novels. New Western romance novels, to boot. As soon as I sell a book, I will upgrade that ‘half’ to a ‘whole’ career. Getting an agent moved it from ‘hobby’ to ‘half’ career. Major progress, in technically less than two years.

Really, I know you knew that. But here’s the update on the half. As you may (or may not) recall, my agent got four editors to look at the Noseless Cowboy book, AKA (currently) Even Good Guys Wear Masks (subject to change). Well, the Major Editor, the Top Dog of that small pile, passed on the book because of, well, the noseless part.

Which leads directly to an Authorial Existential Crisis. If I give Jacob a nose, does that sell a book at the cost of Authorial Integrity? If I never sell a noseless cowboy, have I put a price tag on Authorial Integrity? If I give him a nose and still don’t sell, what does that say about Authorial Integrity to begin with? How much is Authorial Integrity worth these days, anyway?

Heavy thinking. The kind that comes with late nights and red wine. Forgive me.

Back to the topic, which was, if I recall correctly, Work. So, on Labor Day, I will get the day off from my Day Job. I will get the night off from my Night Job. But I will get no break from the half. The vegetarian book–somewhat officially known as Vegetarians Have More Fun–is almost done. The next book, roughly titled Redeeming Vicky, is itching to get on the page.

And, of course, let’s not forget the other aspect of my professional life: Mom and Chief Home Remodeller. That will be most of my weekend. What do you think?


(The name of that color is “Princess of Windsor Pink.” Is it just me, or did that come out a lot more orange?)


(Pretend with me that three years have passed. Betcha we can’t see that hearse anymore!)

Yeah, me too. Bring on the wallpaper border, furniture, and mulch!

Going to be a fun weekend.

Happy Labor Day!

The First Kiss

Ah, the first kiss.

If you read enough fiction, you know that this electric moment when lips meet is the most important moment in the whole story. The first kiss is when the electricity starts to crackle, the blood begins to surge, and these two people realize there’s something deeper going on. Sure, they might not know each other, or maybe they don’t even like each other, or the set-up for the kiss is forced and contrived (“Oh no! My old boy/girl friend is coming! I can’t let them think I’m available! You! KISS ME!”), but it’s that moment that boils down to a physical love at first touch upon which the whole rest of the book is based. And frequently, girls who grow up and find their true love still fondly remember their first love, their very first kiss. It’s a moment that lasts a lifetime.

It’s a damn shame it doesn’t work like that in real life.

My son is three and a half, and I know he’s had at least four serious girlfriends. The first was High Maintenance Girl, but she moved to Arkansas. Then The Girl Next Door, but he moved into an older class and met The Tomboy (my favorite one so far – takes one to like one), so The Girl went on the back burner. Then The Tomboy’s mom decided to stay home, so the next best available choice was The Princess. The toddler and the Princess were real tight for a while, but The Girl Next Door recently graduated up to his class, so he’s back in a love triangle of epic toddler proportions. Tuesday on the playground, The Princess seemed quite miffed at him. It may be over. Or not. All may be forgotten by next week.

And I can’t help but wonder, how many of these girls has he kissed? I know I’ll never find out, because he won’t remember.

I certainly will never remember my first kiss. The only reason I know it took place is because my mother has photographic proof. The story has far outlived the experience.

Here’s what happened. I was two – towhead, quiet, and fond of exploring the forest we lived in. Timmy was two, too. He had reddish hair that curled. My parents were good friends with his parents – our fathers taught at the same school. His parents may have even been my godparents there for a while, but I’m not sure about that. In any respect, our families were close. And I just know that our mothers were hopeful that the family bond would only grow with time, much as I thought it would be nice if The Tomboy, whose dad raised horses, would be a nice addition on a permanent basis to the family. (And yes, I’m embarrassed to admit I see weddings for kids who are two and three. I’m a mother. So sue me.)

So one bright, warm day, Timmy’s family came over to hang out. There was probably a barbecue going, and beer around, but that’s not what concerned Timmy and I. No, what had our attention were the sandy dunes exposed on the hills behind my house. See, these sandy dunes were a popular night spot with the local frog population looking for love, and frogs aren’t too focused on birth control, if you get my drift. So there were easily hundreds of little froglets – no more than half an inch long, if that – hopping all around in the moist sand, testing out those new legs and lungs they’d just grown.

See? See how I’m not a normal girl? I was back there with Timmy, grubbing around in the sand for slimy frogs, for crying out loud! The Princess and High Maintenance Girl would have run screaming! (The Tomboy would have been fine. Not sure about The Girl Next Door.)

Well, I wasn’t having any froggy luck. I couldn’t catch those squirmy little guys for the life of me (another future indicator – not graceful or smart enough to outwit amphibians with a brain the size of a pinhead). And then, according to my mother, the magic began.

That’s right. Timmy gave me one of his frogs.

These days, I expect something more along the lines of diamonds, or at the very least chocolate, but I was two, and Timmy had me at “cchirrrrrrp!”

So I kissed him. And my mother had a camera.

And the story has never faded from anyone’s memory. Anyone’s, that is, but mine. I don’t think Timmy remembers it either, but in the few times we met at social events as we grew up and our lives went in drastically different ways, he always looked just as uncomfortable around me as I felt around him. I always got the impression that before my family showed up anywhere his family was, his mother rehashed the tender, touching frog scene for him. Each and every time. I’ve heard it so many times that, as you can tell, I can tell it like I do remember it, but this whole thing is my mother’s story.

And can you imagine? Having to learn about your first kiss from your MOTHER? Luckily, mortification is a pretty natural state for me. Like breathing air.

There were other first kisses. Playing house at daycare lead to a lot of kisses, not just for me, but for just about every kid there at some point. It’s true there was a really long drought between about first grade when I discovered boys had cooties and maybe ninth when I realized they didn’t and my father unchained the lock on my room and let me out. (TOTALLY KIDDING. Dad’s Great! And he survived raising three daughters, God bless him!) There were a few boyfriends in high school, and The High School Sweetheart. Maybe three boyfriends in college, none in grad school, and then I met my hubby.

Frankly, his first kiss is the only one that matters anymore. The rest just wash away into the absent-minded stream of my brain, never to be seen again.

Except for the one my mother keeps framed on a desk.

The first kiss. For a frog.