How do you fix a broken book? Two twelve packs of Coke and a good friend

It was day five. Or maybe six.

We were tired. Our bodies ached. Our minds were mush. And we had the evidence lined up on my kitchen counter.

"Did we really drink that much Coke?" my friend Jen asked.

I blinked and counted. Yes, indeed. We had finished off nearly 24 Cokes in the past few days of our mini "writing retreat." In the spirit of "what real friends are made of," Jen flew in from California last week so we could brainstorm, plot, critique and just hang out. A freelance journalist like myself, Jen is by far one of the most talented writers, reporters and editors I've ever met. I feel like the needy one in the relationship. Jen is patient with my whining, my crankiness, and my need for reassurance.

So to have Jen believe in my book is high praise, indeed. But not only does she believe in my book, she proved it by holding my hand for five days straight as I tore my book apart and -- with her help -- re-plotted it. She sat on the couch with her computer on her lap and did what a good editor does. She asked me the right questions so that I could find the answers on my own.

With her help, I got rid of the things that were weighing my book down, discovered that there's a lot of good stuff that can stay, and once again fell in love with my characters. She helped me get back to the core of my book. She helped me remember what kind of story I wanted to tell before it all got lost in the race to publish, the "you can't do that" rules of writing books and the snarky comments of contest judges that I could never forget.

And in the process, we discovered that we share similar plotting styles, renewed our passion for journalism after we both suffered burn out for a while, and we made plans to do this all again. And we drank enough pop to fuel a small car.

My brain has not shut off since she left. My book is better. My attitude is better. My ideas are better.

So here's a very big, very public THANK YOU!!!! Jen, you are the best. :)

What's in a word? How entertaining...

Accomplished today: Two workshop proposals, the beginnings of a new query, a long phone interview and web updates.

Music mood: Fighter, by Christina Aguilera

What's in a word?

Like many news junkies around the country, I've been watching and shaking my head at the recent revelations that New York Gov. Eliot Spitzer has been implicated as a customer of an elite prostitution ring. While no charges have been filed, Spitzer resigned today after apologizing for 'personal failings' that he failed to elaborate on.

I won't get into how disgusted I am over the whole thing. Instead, let me just comment on the funny and at times ridiculous lengths that journalists go to in order to describe prostitution, and how the women who are victimized by this crime have little -- if any -- voice in the story.

From the New York Times...
...on the night of Feb. 13, when, law enforcement officials say, Mr. Spitzer was entertained by a high-priced prostitute...

Entertained by? Makes it sound like she put on a Cabaret act for him and then went on her merry way. And whatever it is he paid her for, while he might have enjoyed it, I doubt she was entertained one bit.

From CNN.com
It was revealed Wednesday by sources familiar with the investigation that Spitzer allegedly began patronizing the prostitution outfit, known as the Emperors Club, eight months ago and had used its services on at least eight occasions.

Patronized? Used its SERVICES? I patronize Starbucks and use the services of Kinko's on a regular basis. Somehow those words don't quite measure up to what Spitzer was allegedly doing.

From the Washington Post:
"The people charging $50 an hour on Route 1 and those charging $300 are probably for the same acts," said Capt. Ron Lantz of the Fairfax County vice unit. "You're just getting charged more at Tysons [hotels] for women who consider themselves a higher quality."

That promise of quality often includes good looks, a clean bill of health and the ability to serve as a charming conversationalist and elegant companion at social functions.

This just makes me sad. It's a prostitution ring! Just because they got away with charging thousands of dollars an hour doesn't make them any better than the sleaze-ball pimp on the corner. And does anyone really believe that women who go into prostitution do it for the love of conversation? You ask me, the only people who believe that are the men who get caught with their pants down.

Taking Risks

Accomplished today: Major brainstorming, one informal query to an editor I've worked with before, some minor market research, organized my office.

Music mood: Pump it Up, by Elvis Costello

I'm having one of those reflective, life-is-good kind of days.

Maybe it's the fact that when I walked outside at 6 a.m. to let the dog out, I heard birds chirping -- which any Michigander knows is a sign that Spring really will get here eventually. Maybe it's because my daughter played so well on her own today that I was able to get some major brainstorming done. Or maybe it's because my last client paid me without even needing an invoice. All are reasons enough to put me in a good mood.

Anyway, one of the things I've been reflecting on today is the course of my career. How did I get here? How did I actually realize my dream of being a freelance writer? I started jotting notes and quickly discovered a theme.

Taking risks.

I have a bit of a split personality on this issue. On the one hand, I'm a total rule follower. I never speed. I never run in the far left lane at the gym track because that's for walkers. And I never try to sneak 11 items into the express lane at the grocery store.

Yet, when it comes to my career, I have always broken the rules.

In college, when conventional wisdom demanded that I work at the award-winning student newspaper, I instead chose to work at the local weekly paper. It paid off, because I was given major assignments that directly competed with the local daily paper. The local daily noticed and recruited me when I graduated.

People in the news business like to say that once you leave, you can never come back. But my decision to leave newspapers for a few years and work as a senior writer for a university has paid off ten-fold. It broadened my horizons, opened up new writing avenues and gave me time to work on my craft.

Anyway, my point is that I owe so much of my career to calculated risks. I did things people say you're not supposed to do.

Writers must always be willing to take risks. Create unpopular characters. Have the bad guy win in the end. Don't let anyone tell you that rules can never be broken.