This is an email from my inbox this morning. I get similar emails ALL THE TIME. Actually, about every two or three weeks. And sometimes the list of books is much, much longer.

Gale, Suzanne L

Dolphins Erik D. Stoops, Jeffrey L. Martin & Debbie Lynne Stone.
Barcode: 33005004106795 Due Date: Thursday, 21 October 2010

Dolphins / Seymour Simon.
Barcode: 33005006761449 Due Date: Thursday, 21 October 2010

There must be something about the false sense of security that the convenient 24-hour drop box gives me that makes it nearly impossible for me to get the stupid things returned on time. I’m pretty sure we’ve given the Orem Public Library enough money to build a new wing dedicated in our name. I wonder if I can request what genre of books I’d like to have in my own library wing.

The Gale Family Sci-Fi Wing… Only Faeries and Borg Past This Point!

But yes, this time you will notice that they’re all Zoe’s books. Dolphin books. We could have purchased our own pet dolphin by now. Unfortunately we’re too broke from overdue fines to build a pool to keep it in.

Life is one big ironic punch in the face.

So I’ve decided to help at the kids’ school one day a week, in the classrooms. There are several reasons I like doing it… and these are in no real particular order:

*I like to feel like I’m helping, even if teachers have to invent tasks for me to do.
*It’s a nice distraction from the piles of laundry that have magically accumulated in the laundry room… or perhaps not so magically. I’ve learned that if you dress your children in clothes every day, dirty clothes will show up in piles in the laundry room. Has anyone else found this strange cycle? I’m looking into letting my kids run naked. Or perhaps I need to invent disposable clothing.
*I get to spy on my children.

So today I showed up first in Zoe’s 3rd grade class, where I was handed a young boy who had been instructed to read to me. We sat in two chairs in the hallway, and he read to me. Kind of. In between asking me strange questions, he spouted off an array of random words that were not written in the book that he was holding. It’s these strange questions that I’d like to focus on for a moment. In the space of 30 minutes, he said/asked me all of these things:

Verbal Exchange #1

Boy: “Are you Tongan?”
Me: “Um, no.”
Boy: “Are you speaking Tongan?”
Me: “Um, no.”
Boy: “What country are you from?”
Me: “This country.”
Boy: “America?”
Me: “Yes, America.”
Boy: “What is America?”
Me: “The whole, huge place where we live.”
Boy: “Oh.”
Me: “Okay, so can you read me this page?”
Boy: “I like dinosaurs.”

Verbal Exchange #2

Boy: “How old are you? 57?”
Me: “Nope.”
Boy: “20?”
Me: “Nope.”
Boy: “So how old are you?”
Me: “Between 20 and 57.”
Boy: “So, like, 60?”

Verbal Exchange #3

Boy: “Why does Zoe like dolphins so much?”
Me: “I don’t know… they’re just her very favorite thing.”
Boy: “But why?”
Me: “I don’t know. Maybe because they’re cute.”
Boy: “I like to kill dolphins. I killed a baby one yesterday.”
Me: “Wow. Really? Where?”
Boy: “At the ocean. At the beach.”
Me: “Wow, the beach? You went to the beach yesterday?”
Boy: “And deer. I like to kill deer. And baby deer.”
Me: …
Boy: “So wait, how old are you?”

Helping. I’m helping, people. Helping to mold and guide the leaders and baby dolphin killers of tomorrow.

Good times.

So you know how I was all excited about finishing the first draft of my first novel?

I was all “Yay! I’m awesome! Blah blah, more awesome! And also, awesome!”

And then I let it sit to marinate for a little while, moving on to other ideas. Then I went back to revise. And guess what I learned while revising?

Holy crap, my story sucks. Big time.

I got half way through revisions and realized that it wasn’t really getting any better with revision. Kind of like if you’re working with a stew with a puke base, it won’t matter how much you season it, or add fresh herbs or tender meats, or reduce it, thicken it with corn starch or thin it with chicken broth…

It’s still made of puke, dude.

So I put it away and moved on. While I won’t say that I’ve completely thrown my first novel under the bus, I will say that I’ve taped it to the front of the bus and told the bus driver not to worry about driving too carefully. If it gets ruined in the rain, or gets blood stains from smashed pedestrians, or runs head first into a cement barrier… well, I won’t cry over it. In fact, I wouldn’t cry even if I ended up taping it to the front of that speeding bus that Sandra Bullock steered while Keanu Reeves shouted things at her and Dennis Hopper said that there was a bomb on it and Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was a wimpy passenger.

I wouldn’t even give a care if it was that bus.

Because we’re moving on, people. I’m 5 or 6 chapters into a new novel… completely different, and hopefully less sucky. This one does not take place in a parallel world, nor does it have flesh-eating creatures or elven people who speak in ridiculous dialog. Nope. This one is different… though not completely “realistic”, because regular lives are realistic and — yawn — that’s boring.

This novel is — among other things — a ghost story. A story of unrequited love, mysterious deaths, creepy unwanted inheritances, and redemption.

Sounds better, right? That’s because I’m pretty sure it is. I’m really hoping that this one doesn’t end up taped to the front of a bus that can’t slow down.

But we’ll see. I’m coming up with goofy metaphors just in case…