today in the land of fairies and elves...

...it's Sarcastic Wednesday! (AKA "the day when the boss brings us all the money and throws it at our feet.")Follow @nicole_mcinnes

wherein I get the tiniest glimpse of what Simon Cowell’s mother must have experienced

Yesterday a cool thing happened at church: My son let his voice be heard loud and clear among all the other voices during singing. This may not sound like a big deal, but we attend a very small church (record attendance is 61 if memory serves – there were about 20 of us yesterday), and the songs are always sung without piano or other accompaniment. In a group that small every voice stands out, so I thought it was pretty brave of him. In fact, not only did our boy sing, but he followed right along with the words and music in the hymnal, even mastering most of the tricky pauses in songs like “How Great Thou Art” and “I am Resolved.”

So, naturally, on the drive home, I told him that I thought his singing was fantabulous.

There was a pause. Then, from the back seat, I heard, “Really? You think so? I thought it was sort of pitchy and all over the place.”

This may be a stretch, but I think there exists the slightest possibility that I’ve been letting him watch too much American Idol.

In other news, THIS IS IT. The final week of my writerly blitzkrieg with which I hope to accomplish the completion of my latest manuscript (or at least a half-decent draft) by the time I turn 37. So, please, ESP those thoughts, prayers and vibes of endurance. I need all the edge I can get.

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critter-filled spring break

I suppose it's a given that when you live in the country you're going to see your share of animal behavior (and I'm not just referring to my children). My son's been on spring break from school this week, which essentially means that the house has been a wreck, I haven't gotten as much writing done as I meant to, and...we've had lots of fun. This was especially true today when we woke up to this on the prairie just outside the kitchen window at dawn:

My husband counted 16 in the elk herd - a bunch of cows and some adolescent males.

Later in the day we headed into town and paid a visit to the local pound. Both kids have missed having kitties around (my mom's ancient Himalayan died while we were living in California). So, Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you (drum roll, please...) Angel!

And Milo!

Honestly, it was an absolutely emotionally exhausting experience visiting the Humane Association, especially since we had to walk through the dog kennel to get to the cat room. Not to bring everyone down, but you'd have to be super-human (or maybe sub-human) not to feel your heart break at the sorrow-filled eyes of the old dogs and the hope-filled eyes of the puppies. This kind of suffering is one of the things I plan to bring up with the Big Guy when I hear the roll called up yonder someday. Until then, it feels good to know we could spring two of the inmates.

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can't talk. writing.

Okay, maybe I can talk for just a minute. I've morphed into a composing machine, still intent on finishing this draft of the new novel by my birthday. I have two weeks. I like to think this means I'm "borin' with a big auger," as the cowboys say, but it may mean that I'm just delusional.

And speaking of things completely unrelated, please tell me that Barbie doesn't have a new dog named Tanner that poops little Barbie pet-sized loaves. Please tell me I was hallucinating when I walked by the television and saw the ad this morning. I mean, just don't even get me started here. First of all...Tanner?? Who would name a dog something that makes you think of taxidermy?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

tough flowers

As Mr. Groundhog predicted last month, spring has sprung early here on the prairie. I planted these crocus bulbs several years ago, in a little patch of hard, rocky soil next to our pump house. But they're tough little blooms ready to herald the arrival of the Vernal Equinox next week, and each year they prove that they won't be deterred from doing their job, despite lack of pampering. I like that in a flower.

And speaking of things resilient and beautiful, yesterday I got to see some old playgroup friends I haven't seen since before we moved to the Bay Area for our year-long sabbatical. For the first few minutes of our brief reunion everyone just stood around marveling at how much all the kids had grown. One of these families has been a part of our life since our son was just a year old, the other since our daughter was younger than that. And there's something about forming friendships as a new parent that must provide extra glue; although I haven't seen these women in well over a year, it felt like we just picked up where we'd left off. It's nice to know those bonds transcend the temporary convenience of early childhood play dates because Lord knows we moms have all been to H-E-double-toothpicks and back in various ways since playgroup unofficially disbanded a couple of years ago. I may not live in a mansion, and I may not drive a Rolls, but these women remind me that I am rich with friends-for-life friends.

In other news, I'm still laboring daily at a draft the new book, which is finally deciding to cut me some slack. In this respect it's a far cry from my last novel, which seemed to spring to life almost fully formed, like Athena from the forehead of her daddy, Zeus. I was on fire with that last one, writing more often than not in what felt like a state of near-effortless inspiration. Little did I know how cushy I had it. But I'm excited by this new book, and it seems somehow fitting, given the gritty storyline and characters, that I should have to sweat over it a little. My dad commented the other day that I must be as busy as a one-armed paper-hanger, which is a figure of speech I like (and may use).

That's all from the Western Front for now. Time for me to don the helmet and flak jacket (i.e. sit at my keyboard and open up the draft file) again, 'cause "I'm goin' in."Follow @nicole_mcinnes

bad mare day

Uh oh.

It looks like Sparkle Wedding Pony and all her My Little Pony friends partied a little too hardy at Sparkle's bachelorette party:




The groom is NOT amused:



But wait! All Sparkle and her friends need is an aspirin or two, and some Cowboy Magic mane and tail detangler (not just for real horses anymore!)...

Hooray! The wedding's back on. The groom forgives Sparkle, and all the pony friends look fabulous once again!

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I try not to swear

in front of the children. I don't try hard enough, though, because they hear more language than they should, and I'm not proud of this. So, here's my attempt at weaseling out of full culpability: Swearing, for me, is usually a reflexive thing. I bang my head on the open door of a hanging cabinet (because I'm so nearsighted that I'm *this close* to being legally blind, and when I'm wearing my glasses instead of my contacts my peripheral vision is a great Gaussian blur surrounding two little windows of clarity). Or I slice my finger instead of the tomato. That sort of thing.

I remember well my first taste of willful cussing. I must have been about seven or eight, and we kids were hanging out on the front lawn - my brother, myself, the neighbor kids. And I don't know what got into me. Maybe it was frustration at reaching the age where I realized it was no longer appropriate to take my shirt off (like the neighbor boy did) and play in the big, fresh pile of landscaping dirt in front of his house. But I don't remember being frustrated.

I do remember wanting to show off. Looking back now, I think of Ralphie from the movie A Christmas Carol, whose father "wove a tapestry of profanity which to this day is still hovering somewhere over Lake Michigan." I doubt that my own swearing binge was very artful that day, but I do know that it was effective. As soon as I was done with my little teeny-bopper Tourette's rampage I noticed my brother, who was staring at me across the lawn like my hair had just turned into a nest of snakes. He tried to tell me too cut it out NOW, but that, of course, was only an excellent incentive to figure out more bad words to shout into the early spring air.

And that was all she wrote. Some people who have to cart oxygen tanks on wheels everywhere they go remember their first smoke back in the fifties (pompadour, poodle skirt, Frankie Valli playing on a jukebox somewhere, etc.). I remember my first cuss. I remember the heady cocktail of liberation and shame, the shock and awe those words coming out of my mouth seemed to cause in the other kids running around on our lawn that day. I don't remember liking the taste of that cocktail exactly, but it didn't matter. Like the first pinch of Copenhagen to a snuff queen, those words were an addictive substance that I now hope won't hook my own kids. Which is why I try not to swear in front of them.

Which brings us to this morning, and my report of half-victory. I didn't exactly swear in FRONT of my daughter, who was busy playing at the coffee table while I collapsed into the recliner and cracked open Billy Collins' "The Trouble with Poetry (and Other Poems)." Collins is the former Poet Laureate of the United States (2001-2003), and he's one of the featured authors at the Northern Arizona Book Festival this year. And it was his poem,"Statues in the Park," which caught me so off guard (so soon after taking that first sip of my addictive morning coffee) that I just barely managed to keep my mouth shut as the words "Holy sh*t" popped into my brain.

Do yourselves a favor and pick up a copy of this book.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

talk about a triple salchow

Got to go to an ice-skating birthday party this weekend for the sole girl in my son's class of ten. I know: That poor teacher. Our boy took skating lessons a couple of years ago, so he was basically Evil Knievel on ice. However, it was our girl's first time skating. And she was such a trouper. Every time she fell down (and there were many, many falls), she'd sit there for a second, splayed across the ice like a starfish in her purple snowsuit, before scrambling back up and saying, "It's no big deal."

Anyhoo, while the Flagstaff rink was extremely crowded, and the male half of the species was well-represented, I certainly don't recall seeing anything like this. And I really think I would have noticed. (Thanks, Dad, for the link. I also liked the accompanying email note, which read, "I'm forwarding this only to illustrate the kind of SHOCKING!! display that should surely be BANNED before it corrupts the morals of our women folk.")

Okay, okay. Gold lame' - I'm not so much into that. However, Evengi wears it well, and I do dig the fact that he looks a lot like a young, healthy, non-smoking Joe Elliott - my first rock star crush of the early 80's.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

beware the ides

This is a picture of our son's gelding yesterday - the last day of February - when I went out to feed the horses their dinner. Note the black, snowthunder sky before sundown.

While March didn't come roaring in as fiercely as it could have, I'm banking on that "out like a lamb" thing at the end of the month. 'Cause, Baby, it's COLD outside.

I probably won't be blogging as much as I'd like for the next few weeks, primarily because I've committed myself to finishing a working draft of the new novel before my early April birthday. I'm also swamped by my work-from-home work, which is a good thing.

Today I picked up some Luci Tapahonso books, both for research and enjoyment. She's a Navajo poet and fiction writer, more well-known now than she was over a decade ago when I first heard of her via my NAU office mate, who was basing her doctoral thesis on Ms. Tapahanso. So far, what I've read is lovely, and I wish I'd looked into her books sooner.

One thing that's keeping me plugging away at this draft is the carrot-on-a-stick thought that I'll be able to get back to reading for pure enjoyment when I'm done (as opposed to reading for enjoyment while simultaneously feeling guilty for not reading for research).

Another think keeping me going is the fact that, by the time April arrives, the geldings will have shed the majority of their woolly mammoth haircoats, and the days will be getting long enough to canter off across the prairie after my husband gets home from work to watch the kids.

Until then, though, I need to focus on wining and dining my muse as much as possible. Wish me luck in keeping that finicky gal happy until the the draft's wrapped up.

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bloodlines on the brain

My friend April and I headed down to the annual Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show last Friday morning. April's grandparents were well-known Arabian breeders in the Pacific Northwest, so she got to spend her summers on their ranch growing up. She also bought one of our horses last year, so this was a good chance for her to get to see some of his relatives. I haven't been this excited about going to Scottsdale since I showed my gelding Zzari there a decade ago. I was also kid-less back then, so I had no idea how rejuvenating a couple of days of solid "girl time" could be. I think I can speak for April when I say we had a blast.

We got to see a nice Prix St. George dressage performance that first evening. This boy's tempi changes and extended trot were lovely, though I couldn't quite figure out how to get my camera to behave in that night-time, fluorescent Equidome lighting.

On day two, this volunteer from a Phoenix wild animal sanctuary was there in one of the exhibitor tents with her friend:

The outside warm-up arena between the Equidome and Wendell were full of action. It's my favorite place to evaluate the horses and riders because they're not trying to put on a pretty performance for the judges. This stallion really caught my eye (and April's, too). When I asked about his bloodlines, the trainer told me he was Russian and Spanish. It figures. That explains both the substance and the pretty. April's gelding is the product of our *Nariadni daughter (now, sadly, deceased) bred to the great *Muscat son, Mussiah. My husband and I love those Howard Kale/Taylor Ranch Russian bloodlines. I've never owned or bred Spanish lines, but I've long admired them from afar. In my opinion, you can't top mares like Estopa for beauty, or stallions like Gual Kubesi for exotic masculinity. I'd like to get back into the horse-breeding game someday, but not yet.

As the sun was going down, this rider had the covered warm-up practically to himself.

Here's the Wendell in-gate at the start of one of the Western Pleasure semi-finals. You can see the judges standing in the middle, awaiting their victims.

And here's a happy Native Costume champion just after her victory pass.

Don't even get me started on the food at Scottsdale. I meant to have a falafel at some point, but never got around to it. Instead, I had some awesome, spicy Thai noodles with chicken; some Miss Karen's frozen yogurt in a waffle cone (that's a required tradition); and, at the Shada barn party, a reeeeeeaaaaaallllly yummy pork sandwich with Hollandaise sauce, plus sourdough/cream cheese and cucumber/shrimp appetizers. Yeah, I'll add some minutes on to my next prairie run.

Scottsdale is also a great place to find romance. Case in point:

Her name is Marissa, and she's not even a year old yet. She is sired by an up-and-coming *Nariadni son out of a *Muscat daughter. Bred by Taylor Ranch, of course.

Did I mention that I love her?

Now I just need to go dig around under the couch cushions to find that spare $20,000 in change that has no doubt collected there.

As the husband said when I told him about Marissa, "Hey, she costs a lot less than a new F-350 Powerstroke." Oh, had he been with us, he would have been a GONER, I tell ya. It would have taken him only one moment of scritching her behind the ears and seeing her big eyes go all half-closed and dreamy, and that would have been all she wrote. We'd have a new filly in the pasture this morning, and credit card bills out the yazoo. But can you just look at this face for a moment? What's crushing debt compared to something like this? Plus, there's filly breath to take into consideration, which everyone knows is priceless.

And speaking of nice things to look at, where there are cow butts...

...you'll also find these:


So, while I was capturing the scenery, April was snickering and capturing ME:

Its a good thing I have one of these at home. That's all I'm going to say about THAT.

My overall impressions of the show? It was first-class all the way. The exhibitors and horses seemed happier in general than I've noticed in years past, with very few exceptions. The vendors seemed happy, too, which doesn't surprise me, since the tents were quite packed both days we were down there.

Judging by the "for sale" fliers tacked up on every available wall and bulletin board, the Arabian market looks like it's in a fairly healthy place right now. Nice horses certainly aren't being given away, but you don't see exorbitant price tags on green horses of questionable quality, which has been the case in the not-too-distant past. April was bugged by the greasy shaved faces, especially on the halter horses, but that's been going on for decades now. Overuse of whips in the halter arena and spurs/rein-jerking in the performance arenas was practically non-existent as far as I could see, and that is a wonderful development.

The weather down in the valley was quite blustery the first day, but considering the fact that we drove through a near-blizzard to get down the mountain, it didn't seem that bad. Saturday's weather couldn't have been much more gorgeous, which is another reason it's such a treat for us high-altitude folks to head to Scottsdale in February. I missed having my man there with me, since some of our best times are Scottsdale/Arabian/horse-related, but let me tell ya: There's no WAY he would have wanted to stop and ogle the pretty jewelry and clothes on display the way April and I did. I'm hoping she'll post a comment with some of her impressions, too.

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going forth

A friend and I are headed to the land of beautiful horses and big-haired handlers this morning, so this is the last you'll hear from me until my full report on the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show.

Until then, here are the answers to Tuesday's quiz:

1. The Buggles big one-hit wonder song that gave them their 15 minutes of fame was "Video Killed the Radio Star," which was correctly answered by Heidi. Go, girl! This was also the first video ever aired on MTV.

2. Nobody guessed the origin of the "manservant" quote which, frankly, shocks me. It's from the BBC's phenomenal 80's t.v. show "Black Adder." This particular quote is spoken by a medieval doctor to Sir Edmund Blackadder, played by Rowan Atkinson. You can get the gist of the whole story here.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

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winged paul reveres of winter

God, I love it here.

And I don't type "God" in a taking-the-Lord's-name in vain sort of way, but in a "Dear God in Heaven, I really, really love it here" sort of way. I was getting stuff ready to make my morning coffee earlier, and happened to look out the kitchen window to see that a small group of antelope were back on the prairie. They're all so well-fed this year that even the bucks look pregnant.

So. Got some Folger's in my system, fired off some Orlando, Johnny and Kiera pics to Miss Hick Chic, and then went outside to feed the horses. I was throwing their hay when I heard the distinct sounds of honking geese. Oh, great, I thought. The neighbors have geese now. These are the neighbors who bought the 3-acre lot next to ours (a lot we actually made an offer on years ago, but we were outbid). They proceeded to build their big, tall, sticks-out-like-a-sore-thumb in this subdivision of modest homes mini-McMansion right smack dab in the middle of our view of the San Francisco Peaks. Lovely. Then, of course, they had to get some FARM ANIMALS! So, in went a llama. Then, a few months later, another llama (which I had to watch, from our front window, get repeatedly sodomized by the original llama, which apparently had some territorial issues (as in, "Dare to enter my pen and I will make you my bitch"). Have you ever heard a llama scream? It sounds like ET drowning in a shallow puddle.

Of course, it's not enough to have llamas, so chickens and roosters were next. No biggee. I don't even mind that the flock roams our property much of the time, since they keep the bug larvae down. But do you think the neighbors were going to stop at ruminants and fowl? Of course not! Not when there are dirt-cheap, off-the-track racehorses to be found! One of the cardinal, time-tested, mother-approved rules of horse-ownership is that a green horse and a green rider do not a match in Heaven make. It just can't end well. Sadly, newbies are often lured in all too easily by the "glamour" of an ex-racer (yeah, right) and a price that seems too good to pass up. Two other maxims spring to mind here: 1) You get what you pay for, and 2) Caveat emptor. Suffice it to say that my neighborly emtors didn't caveat nearly as much as they should have, considering the fact that they're now apparently too frightened of their horse to ride it.

I know this all sounds gratuitously mean-spirited, and the truth is that my neighbors are actually very nice people who probably have a long list of complaints about us, too. So, J and B, if you're reading this, please don't decide to retaliate by building an addition onto your house, thereby blocking the remaining 1/16th view of the peaks I'm able to enjoy, okay?

ANYWAY. I was feeding the horses when I heard geese, so naturally I assumed the worst. Geese and I do NOT get along. Come to think of it, I don't think geese get along with anybody. I looked across the pasture at the neighbors' henhouse, but didn't see anything. The geese almost sounded like they were out by the road, so I stood on tiptoe and tried to look over there, too. Nothing. Then they sounded really close. Uh-oh.

And then I realized that they were flying low over our house. They were wild geese (Canadian, maybe? I need to look up their migration patterns) headed straight as arrows toward the bird sanctuary/lake about half a mile west of us. And their honking wasn't threatening at all now. In fact, it was glorious. Those two lone arrivals were like the winged Paul Reveres of this long winter, delighted to be delivering their message: Spring is coming! Spring is coming!Follow @nicole_mcinnes

no deep thoughts, just my scattered day

1. Awesome music for running on the prairie: How cool is Franz Ferdinand (I know this isn't new news)? They've got this whole Dead or Alive-y/U2-y/Buggles-y thing going on. I love Take Me Out. (Quick: What song made The Buggles famous?)

2. What's the scariest thing that's ever happened to you? (via It's a Pug's Life (via Heidi's blog). Check 'em both out.

And finally...(drum roll, please)...

3. Whoever correctly identifies the speaker of the following line will be my new kindred spirit of the hour: "Well, don't be embarrassed. If you've got the Pox, just plop your, uh, manservant on the table and we'll take a look at it."Follow @nicole_mcinnes

This. Guy. Rocks.

I'm sorry to say I had never even heard of him until today. Click on the "Click here to play" link under his picture. I shall start DVR-ing his show tonight, since I generally find myself unable to stay up late enough to watch late-night t.v.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

time to call the audiologist

boy (out of school for Presidents' Day): "Mom, can I please watch Star Wars?"

me: "In a little bit."

boy: "A little bit?"

me: "IN a little bit."

boy: "A little bit, or IN a little bit?"

me: "IN a little bit."

boy: "In a little bit?"

me: "Do I need to get your ears checked?"

boy: "What?"Follow @nicole_mcinnes

getting this over with

I've been tagged by the Dysfunctional Housewife. Apparently, it's a big breach of blogging etiquette not to respond to these things, so I will do so (grumbling all the while). I will not pass it on, however (though anyone out there who wants to be tagged can let me know and I'll oblige). Here are the rules: Each player who gets tagged must write in their own blog ten weird things or habits or little known facts about him/herself. (Oh, joy.)

1. Clowns scare me.
2. If an enemy nation ever wanted to get national security secrets from me, all they'd have to do is send in a clown to the interrogation room.
3. As a two-year-old I fell into the deep end of a neighbor's pool and sank like a rock to the bottom. My dad retrieved me.
4. In grade school I owned a pair of Mork & Mindy blue jeans, complete with a cracked-egg logo on one of the rear pockets.
5. I loved those jeans so much that I wore them every day, even after they'd gotten marshmallow creme all over them, which of course attracted dirt, lint, pencil shavings, etc. Still, I didn't want to hand them over to be washed.
6. I wasn't the tidiest little kid.
7. Here are some of the nicknames my older brother gave me when we were growing up: Hippo (even though I wasn't fat); Nixon; BBs on a Breadboard (you can figure that last one out for yourself. Unfortunately, it still applies).
8. When I was almost 16 and taking driving lessons, my instructor once threatened to jump out of the car while it was still moving.
9. I've ridden a camel near the Egyptian pyramids.
10. I can wiggle my ears and flare my nostrils.

I feel so much better now. Don't you?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

home on the range

Lest y'all think I was exaggerating about the antelope outside our kitchen window yesterday. They returned in the afternoon - even closer to the house this time - so I grabbed the camera. (I'm jonesing for that 70-200 mm lens I've been eyeballing.) I wonder if we'll get to see any antelope babies soon...or maybe they give birth in the fall. I'm really not sure.







Here's another local photo op that presented itself yesterday in front of the feed store. I like the idea of fall encased in winter (onto which an early spring will hopefully soon open up a can of whupass).

In other news: If you haven't yet wandered over to the dysfunctional housewife's blog to read her harrowing installments of what it means to be a "lost girl" growing up, you're really missing out. How in the world was I to know that such literary talent lived just a stone's throw from my house?Follow @nicole_mcinnes

where no one can hear you scream

Back in December I started writing a series of "Miss Lists" - lists of things I was going to miss when we left California. Well, one of the many things NOT on those lists was the congestion, and I don't mean the nasal kind (Actually, I was plagued much less by sinus issues there than I am here. I'm sure it's humidity-related).

Here on the prairie we live about half a mile from a federally-protected bird sanctuary. We are surrounded by - oh, I don't know how many acres; thousands, I think - of US Forest Service land. Jackie would probably know. You have to drive over four miles of rugged cinder road to get to our house. This morning, my son looked out the kitchen window while eating his oatmeal and spotted a herd of antelope running across the prairie.

So, you would think we'd have a little privacy, no?

You would be wrong.

Last night there was a knock on the door. It was an elderly woman who told me she had enough cooked rice in her car to feed twenty-five people, and she'd gotten lost on her way to the party somewhere in the wilds of our subdivision. I looked outside to make sure that her serial killer accomplice wasn't hiding somewhere with an axe and then invited her in to use our phone. This morning I was on my way out to feed the horses in my pink cherry jammies and pink parka (I look like the Abominable Snowman after he's OD'd on Pepto Bismol in this getup, but it's comfortable). I had to jump back through the front door, however, when I realized that there was a pickup truck in our driveway, out of which had appeared two large, rugged-looking men. They were here from Norton Environmentals to deliver our trash/recycling can. Finally, they left, and I got done feeding. No sooner had I come back into the house and taken off my coat, hat and gloves, than I heard a "beep-beep" out front. It was the FedEx guy. I poked my head out the door as he approached with a promising-looking package. "I'm sorry I can't come out to meet you," I said, "but I'm still in my jammies." Turned out he also had the wrong address.

Last month my husband came home with the new Ruger Vaquero, which is pretty cool. Mama's back in the country and this time she's packin' heat. Unfortunately, all the strangers who show up at our door unannounced keep me way too busy to actually get to where we keep the gun, should one of those visitors turn out to be Freddy Kruger.

I see it's time to start another list of things I miss about California. Number one: the peace and quiet.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

a valentine breakthrough

May we all get plenty of chances to say this today and every day.Follow @nicole_mcinnes

clearing a path

Warning: Literary ramblings ahead.

I've finished Interpreter of Maladies, that Pulitzer-winning sensation that took the literary world by storm not too long ago. Well, I finished all but the last story. And while the stories I did read are good and the characters held my interest, my overall reaction is "meh" with a palms-up shrug. This is not sour-grapes jealousy, trust me. I think it rocks that Lahiri had such success with this book, and at such a young age. Clearly, she's poised for a long, illustrious career, and when one literary author makes her mark so boldly, I believe it bodes well for those of us still in the trenches. But I didn't come away from any of these stories changed. I didn't have to put the book down in the middle of a passage just to take a breath, or to look away from the story so that I could get my bearings, which are just two of the effects that the books I love have on me.

I think immediately of Charles Frazier's Cold Mountain, a book so completely out-of-line in it's brazen literary greatness that I'm not sure how my basic bodily systems continued to function while I was reading it. I don't think I breathed at all the whole time, and I'm pretty positive that I didn't eat or drink or move anything except for my page-turning arm until I reached the end. Marilynne Robinson's Gilead had a similar effect on me, though more because of the quiet gorgeousness of her prose than because of the blinding intensity, which is how Frazier got to me.

As a reader, being transported like this has something to do with journeying to the heart of a story and then journeying away from it again, having learned something about the world or yourself that you hadn't known before. As a writer, I don't think there's a formula for clearing a path to this heart (so that you can take your readers there, too) in the cleanest, clearest, most-efficient way. Or, if there is, I sure haven't found it yet. The first novel I ever finished writing(over a decade ago - my true "practice book") seems to lack a strong, steady, central heartbeat, which I think is why it just doesn't seem to "work" when I've gone back and taken a look at it. My second novel, though, the one currently making the rounds (thanks to my awesome literary agent), is different. The heart of that book - the event that drives the protagonist to make choices that almost bring her down - came to me in crystal-clear form while I was just sitting around one day doing not much of anything.

And the draft I'm in the thick of now is challenging me in ways that the other two didn't. It's making me work to find its heart, which I know is there and close, just beneath the underbrush. Today I was able to resolve in my head a key scene that has been eluding me, and doing so felt like finally staking down the corner of a big tarp flapping in the wind, driving me nuts.

On the reading front, two books have taken the place left on my nightstand by Interpreter of Maladies. They are Leaving Atlanta, by Tayari Jones (who has an excellent, hype-free blog) and Journal of a Novel, which is a transcription of the journal John Steinbeck kept (a series of letters to his editor and friend, Pascal Covici, actually) while he was writing East of Eden. I've had the latter since studying Steinbeck as an undergraduate, but I haven't taken a serious look at it in years. Now that I'm hot on the trail of my WIP's beating heart seems as good a time as any to re-read the words of yet another master.

I would love to know what books threaten to send you, Dear Readers, into organ failure with their greatness, regardless of genre. What books have stayed with you for years after reading them for the first time, and why?Follow @nicole_mcinnes