Judging this book by its cover paid off

So how do you choose what you'll read next? Now, I'm not talking about the sure thing - a favorite author you've been reading for years, or that bestseller you've been waiting for weeks to open. That's too easy.

I'm talking about those days when you're a bit at loose ends, and you find yourself either at the library or the bookstore, trying to decide what next to place on your nightstand. Maybe you've finished all your favorites; maybe you're just in the mood to try something new. How do you decide?

I have to admit - the other day, I most definitely judged a book by its cover. Most of the time, I'm probably like you. I have my favorite authors, my favorite topics, and I tend to get a little set in my ways. But this past weekend, I was trolling the aisles at the local bookstore, and ... I just couldn't decide. I knew I wanted a mystery, but I really wasn't in the mood for anything in particular. But I wasn't not in the mood for anything in particular, if that makes sense.

So I just walked slowly, taking my time, studying all the titles. One book was a little askew, and the sky-blue spine caught my eye. I picked it up. The title was "A Timely Vision," and the authors were Joyce and Jim Lavene. Hmmm. I'd never read anything by them before. But the book cover was so ...beguiling. In the forefront were the reeds of a sandy bluff, and in the background, atop a hill, was a Victorian mansion. In the distance was a deep blue ocean, touching a nearly cloudless sky. And down by the authors' names, in front, nearly buried in the sand, was a woman's diamond watch.

I couldn't stop looking at it. Maybe because it looked so cool and comfortable, and it was a steamy, sticky 89 degrees outside the bookstore doors. Or maybe it's because I've always loved Victorians. Or heck, maybe it was just a pretty watch.

Whatever the reason, I read the first page. Then the second. By the third, I knew I'd buy the book, and by the end of the first chapter I knew I'd be looking to find out a little more about the authors. (You can, too, at www.joyceandjimlavene.com).

I know, not very scientific, right? But in this case, it paid off. I love finding new authors, and it was a great read. Sometimes, you just have to go by instinct.

Is writer a title we should have to earn?

Are great writers born or made? And is there such a thing as a "true" writer?

I started thinking about these questions recently after I read a heartfelt essay in a literary magazine from a woman bemoaning the fact there were so many so-called writers around today. Just writing, she countered, simply stringing words together, doesn't necessarily make you a writer.

You only deserve the title if you truly understand the craft.

True writers had great passion, she said, a desire that shone through in their work. They loved words; they harnessed the power of language. They couldn't not write. In fact, she went so far to say that true writers (and I'm presuming she was talking about herself in this instance) actually felt pain when they were kept from writing.

I wasn't so sure about that last bit, but the rest of her words gave me pause.

I wonder about the inherent skills needed to become a writer. Do you have to be born with them, or can your desire to succeed overcome any obstacles you might encounter? And at what point can you bestow the title of "writer" upon yourself?

I once worked with a reporter who went through such agony every time he put together a story, I wondered why in the world he did it. Writing was truly work - physically and mentally. He'd squirm and sweat, mutter and swear. Ironically, he was a great reporter and an excellent interviewer. But when it came time to putting those words together and telling a story, he just didn't have that rhythm, that understanding, that lyrical cadence inside to make his stories sing.

He tried, but his end results didn't deliver. The words were there, but not the writing.

But he was a writer, was he not? He had the passion and drive - did his end results matter? Does a lack of skill negate the title? Is writer a title we should have to earn?

The quest of finding childhood favorites

Years ago, I began trying to find my all-time favorite childhood books.

I'm such a hoarder, I'm surprised they ever got away from me in the first place. But somehow, over the years, they did. I guess I just stopped reading them. Maybe they ended up in one of those dreaded basement boxes. Maybe I gave them away. Somehow... they just disappeared.

A few years ago, I decided to find them. There was no real reason for my quest. My kids weren't particularly interested. I just wanted them. For comfort, maybe. Nostalgia, perhaps. Or maybe I just needed a good challenge.

Some of them were easy. Those "Misty of Chincoteague" books by Marguerite Henry? Piece of cake.

"Ghosts Who Went to School," by Judith Spearing? Well, my sister found that for me online. She tried to find a few others, like "The Nine Lives of Opalina," by Peggy Bacon, one of my favorite tales, about a ghost cat, and she succeeded - but it cost $250. "I wouldn't pay that for a real ghost cat," she informed me. "Sorry." So for that, we're still looking.

On other obscure favorites, we were lucky. "Go to the Room of the Eyes," by Betty K. Erwin? That was a toughie. But I found it, just lying on the floor of the bookstore section in my hometown library. I practically jumped up and down. The cashier was hardly as excited as I was - and I was never so happy to fork over 50 cents.

But one of my very favorite books comes with one of my favorite stories. The book is called "Mine for Keeps," by Jean Little, and I loved, loved, loved it when I was growing up. My obsession with it drove my family crazy. It was about a little girl who was handicapped who bravely made her way through a regular school. Something about that book just caught my imagination - I was that little girl. I made up imaginary games about her with me in the starring role. One time, I even took off with my grandmother's crutches for about an hour, completely forgetting she, um, really did need them. Mom lectured me. Grandma forgave me. But I still loved that story.

But the book was out of print - not even the libraries had it.

So when I was a reporter, a few years ago, I was doing a story on the expansion of a homeless shelter. I was waiting for my contact to meet me, and I was just nosing around the shelter's main area, a children's play area and social room. Naturally drawn to the bookshelves, I started reading the titles. And there it was, right in front of me: "Mine for Keeps." Oh, my goodness. What to do?? Offer to buy it?? And take a book from a homeless shelter? Um, no way. So I just stood there, holding it, lost in memories. The director walked up behind me and looked at me questioningly.

"This was my favorite book growing up," I said, my face turning red. I put it back on the shelf.

He took it out and looked at it. "Take it," he said. I stared at him, horrified.

"Um, I really couldn't," I said, and I meant it. He just laughed.

"It's pretty old," he said. "I don't think any of the kids here read it. They prefer 'Clifford' and 'Blues Clues' and 'Pokemon.'"

So we made a deal. I left my beloved book - and bought a few more modern favorites. I came back, and then we traded. Now "Mine for Keeps" is just that.

But I haven't made off with anyone's crutches lately, I swear.

So, do you write like a famous author?

I couldn't resist. In fact, as soon as I heard about the Web site, I knew I'd have to try it out.

The site is called I Write Like, and it will analyze your writing style to determine (supposedly) which famous author your writing style most resembles. It's only been up a few days, and it already has analyzed 1.5 million pieces of text, so apparently I'm not the only curious one. It's easy. You visit the site, paste in a paragraph or two of your writing, press a button, and ta da! The comparison is made.

But don't take it too seriously. It was developed by Russian software developer Dmitry Chestnykh, who already told news outlets he's not particularly qualified to analyze literature - the site is really just a learning experiment for him.

Maybe that's why when CNN pasted in Kim Kardashian's blog entries, they were said to resemble the writings of James Joyce. Or maybe they do. I don't know; I'm not familiar with the blog, so who am I to judge?

But who cares, right? It still sounded fun. So I went to the site, www.iwl.me and cut and pasted a paragraph of text from this blog. I hit the "Analyze" button. Guess who?

Stephenie Meyer. Yep. Of Twilight fame. Now I really need to get around to finishing that book.

Because I'm greedy, I decided to try again. I cut and pasted a paragraph from a news story I'd written years ago about a center that helped children deal with grief. I always liked how that story turned out. I pressed "Analyze."

Chuck Palahniuk - the author of Fight Club.

Wow. Those are pretty different. Really, really different.

All right then. Well, I'm nothing if not flexible.

Would time travel change your career?

I've been thinking a lot about the movie Hot Tub Time Machine. No, I haven't gone over the edge - I haven't even seen the flick, although I hear it's pretty funny. What I've been thinking about, specifically, is the aspect of time travel.

I think the whole thing started earlier this week when my former employee, the Gannett Corp., announced in a fairly bloodless memo that it would be creating regional hubs to take on their papers' design work. It's efficient, they say. It's necessary. And it's going to eliminate about 500 more jobs in an industry - an industry I still think of mine - that's reeling from uncertainty and job loss.

Gannett's been slicing and dicing for years, but I guess this move, more than any other, solidified the notion for me that journalism isn't really my industry anymore. I left. I can't go back. Now, would I ever really want to? I mean, c'mon - low pay, bad hours, crazy editors - it's not exactly a glamour industry. Any overworked reporter or editor will tell you that.

Who knows? But I never felt the door slam so hard in my face as it did this past week. There's no going home again, as they say. And that's where my time travel thoughts wandered in - spurred, of course, by the comedy advertised on cable.

If I could go back in time and talk to my college self (I'm sure I could find her in a campus tavern) and tell her that the industry she'd chosen - one that she would eventually allow to practically define her - would hit such hard times by the time she hit (ahem) nearly middle age, would she listen? Would she care? Would it make a difference?

Would I have given up all that I got out of newspapers if I'd known that one day, just when I was comfortable with all that I knew and learned, I'd have to leave and start over again on another career path? Would it be worth it?

Or would I change course, take another route entirely, save myself some time?

It's hard to say, of course. Revisionist history steps in. Today's work is hard, yesterday's work was fabulous. Then I remember the nutty editors, the newsroom job shuffle, the time I was forced to call a woman who's daughter was just mauled by a bear, for God's sake.

But I'm proud of what I did while I was there. And I'm learning, step by step, the rules of the new career I'm in now. Would I have changed the past if I knew the future? Hard to say. Would you?

Do you have the time to be a writer?

For the longest time, I had a great list of excuses why I didn't have time to write. Well, okay - they weren't really excuses, per se, because they were all true. So I guess you could call them reasons.

I had a full-time job. I just had a baby. I had a toddler. My computer was slow. My computer was broken. I was a volunteer. I had to cook dinner. I was exhausted. I just ...couldn't. Not today.

Whenever I heard about an author doing particularly well, I would immediately read his or her biography. "Well, sure," I'd tell myself. "I could write a masterpiece if I didn't have to (fill in the blank) or if I had a (fill in the blank)."

I would be envious. And unhappy. Because no one's life was as hard as mine. I just couldn't manage to find the time to write. Could I?

Then I realized something. I don't think it came to me with a bolt of lightning or in any impressive Oprah-like 'Ah-ha!' style. But suddenly, it was there.

I could make all the excuses I wanted. I could find every valid reason in the world not to write. They could be true. They could be worthy. But in the end, it didn't matter. Time would pass, and my stories still wouldn't be written. And no one would care but me.

In the end, only I could know whether I had the passion and drive to be a writer.

I decided I did - that maybe my life wasn't the hardest after all. And suddenly, those success stories I found myself reading proved me out.

Stephen King was a schoolteacher when he wrote Christine - he wrote in a tiny closet he revamped into a writing area. Debbie Macomber wrote her first stories on a rented typewriter, dyslexic and the mother of four young children, typing up manuscripts that were rejected for five years. Scott Turow wrote his blockbuster Presumed Innocent on the train on the way to work, in longhand, starting in his daughter's Strawberry Shortcake notebook - the only one he could find.

And way back in the day, Louisa May Alcott knew that if she didn't sell her short stories - never mind Little Women - her family would be destitute. So she wrote. And wrote. And wrote.

Are there tricks and tips that can help you find time to write? Sure. Google the phrase and dozens of articles come up. But deep down, I think it comes down to more than any tip or trick - it's a question: Do you have the time to be a writer?

Introducing the Freelancer from Hell

I've been hearing a lot about freelancing lately - it's getting more and more popular as staffs are cut but copy is still needed. It makes sense. I freelance. You probably freelance, too.

But I hear a lot of authors offer advice to newbie freelancers. Be tenacious, they say. Don't give up. Don't give in.

Solid advice to a point, I believe, but I have to wonder if any of these authors have ever worked the other side of the fence - you know, as editors. I have. And I have a few freelancers who still appear in my nightmares occasionally. I doubt anyone would duplicate their behavior, but I swear I'm not making these stories up.

So let me introduce you to one of my favorite Freelancers From Hell. I'll call her "The Diamond in the Rough."

This freelancer was tenacious. She called me every single day, usually with story ideas that were borderline interesting. She sent in story samples that were not that great, and when I told her, politely, that she didn't really seem to know a lot about journalism and AP style, she informed me she was a "diamond in the rough" and that she was hoping I could help her improve.

Yeah. About that. Not to be mean, but I kind of had my own staffers to worry about. I really didn't have time for stone polishing. But she kept calling. And I gave in. She wrote a few small stories. They weren't that great. But frankly, I needed the copy.

Eventually, I let her do one of her own stories - a simple human interest piece about a woman who had an extensive herb garden.

She turned it in. It was okay. Not great, but okay. The woman had 220 herbs in her garden, according to the story. That seemed like a hell of an herb garden, so I read it back to her.

The garden was amazing, she told me. So we printed the story. Two days later, the herb lady herself called. She had 22 types of herbs in her garden. So I called the freelancer. "How could that happen?" I asked her. "Did you not notice the difference in the size of garden?" She was defensive, and swore that was what the subject told her. But then she hemmed and hawed. "Well, I didn't actually see it," she eventually told me. "I just talked to her by phone. I guess I could have misheard."

So annoying. She hadn't lied to me, per se, but I still felt like I'd been had. That was that, I thought. Bye bye, freelancer.

But she kept calling. She was very sorry, she said. She'd do better. Writing was her life. Would I please give her another chance? Please? Please? She called about art exhibits. About Branson shows. Finally, after weeks of daily torture, I gave in.

I know - stupid, stupid me. Editors today probably know better. But I was a sucker.

One more chance, I told her. That's it. She told me she would be interviewing this Branson entertainer after his show, to do a little human interest piece on him. So when the phone rang soon after, I assumed it would be her. It wasn't. It was the entertainer's assistant. She was very worried. It seems the entertainer didn't have time to talk to my freelancer, and the freelancer lost it. Just lost it.

My freelancer allegedly said that if the entertainer didn't talk to her, then the paper was going to essentially run a hatchet piece on the show. The assistant was very upset. Was this true? It was just that he was very tired - he would be happy to reschedule.

I was speechless. I was horrified. As a matter of fact, I was in disbelief. I had the woman describe my freelancer, to make sure it wasn't somebody pretending to be her. But it was her. So I assured the assistant that no hatchet piece was planned, and that was not the way we did business.

Then I politely called said freelancer and made an appointment for her to come into my office. I put a stickie note on my computer reminding myself not to kill her.

When she came in, I didn't mince words. "I heard you threatened (so and so) in Branson with a negative article if he wouldn't talk to you," I said evenly. "Can you tell me what happened there?"

She burst into tears. "I'm so sorry," she said. Stupidly, I thought the apology was directed at me. But she continued. "I'm so sorry, Jesus," she said, and she dropped to her knees.

Um, what?

Then she looked at me. "I know this isn't the way Jesus wants me to act. I know he's not proud of me now." I didn't know if that was directed to me or not. I really didn't want to be accused of talking for Jesus. I just wanted out of of that office, and out of this freelance relationship pretty much more than anything in the world.

Eventually, I got out. I didn't kill her. I hope I didn't speak for Jesus. I did sever our relationship. And I did have my assistant answer the phone for the next two weeks - you know, just in case.