I know from personal experience just how powerful an influence an older sister can be. In fact, my being a writer is essentially because of mine.

Mel is about four years my senior, and while I’ve heard her scoff at the idea that she should be held on a pedestal, for most of my childhood, she not only was on one, but I buffed said pedestal daily.

If asked which flavor of ice cream I wanted, I’d have to think, Hmm. What flavor would Mel want? If she was present, I’d take a peek. Pralines and Caramel? Make that two, please.

She was so grown up, and I wanted to be just like her. She took advantage of this.

Such as when, in third grade, she learned the multiplication table and cursive. Ever the vigilant devotee and/or apprentice, I wanted to know what she knew. She enjoyed playing school and recognized an opportunity presenting itself. She took the worksheets her teachers had already corrected, erased her marks, and made me do them.

Keep in mind here: I wasn’t even in kindergarten yet.

Yet Mel was giving me timed tests on the multiplication tables as I curled up with a pencil on the kitchen floor. Then, tongue sticking out of my mouth, I painstakingly tried to write my name in cursive—even though I could barely PRINT it.

But I was learning to be like Mel!

Enjoying our teacher/pupil relationship, Mel moved our “school” to other subjects. She gave me hands-on projects. I remember (and no, I’m not making this up) being assigned the task of creating a shadow box model of the solar system.

Once she pulled a volume of the encyclopedia off the basement bookshelf at random. It fell open to the anatomical drawings of a horse. She promptly informed me that I was to memorize all the muscles.

I did. And I LIKED it.

When I went into my kindergarten pretesting and Mrs. McKay said, “Can you write your name?” I happily complied—in cursive. “Alrighty then,” she said, looking a bit puzzled. “Let’s try that again . . .”

We think my horrendous handwriting is due to the fact that I learned cursive before my motor skills were ready for it. To this day, Mel willingly bears the blame. I’m happy to give it to her instead of, oh, taking responsibility for being too lazy to write cleanly.

But I can thank Mel for getting me into writing because when she was in sixth grade, she had these brown notebooks that she’d scribble stories in. And of course, I thought that was an intensely cool thing to do, so I had to do it too. I wrote stories and had her read them for “feedback.” At the time, I didn’t actually want criticism. I wanted my icon to rave about my wit.

But being as we already had a teacher/pupil relationship, she wanted to mold my writing into Pulitzer material. After all, she WAS in sixth grade. When she told me my story about a sniffing cat wasn’t brilliant (it had too much smelling in it; it wasn’t funny), I was devastated. But I was bound to make her proud and try again.

A couple of years later, she took a hardbound blank book and started writing about personal beauty and makeup. (She was a mature teenager of fourteen at this point and knew about womanly stuff.)

Naturally, I trotted in her footsteps. I purchased a hardbound blank book and wrote what I knew about—big kid stuff. She never finished hers, but I did finish mine. It was called, "Helpful Hints for Kids."

So in some ways, I can thank Mel for setting my feet on the path of writing. What started out as a little more than copy-catting has become a life-long journey and passion for me.

I’m a big sister too, but my little sister Michelle and I are only two years apart. I attempted to play teacher/pupil, and she rebelled, since instead of seeing me on a pedestal, we were more like peers. We ended up playing bank/post office/grocery store, having eraser wars across our beds, and staying up late at night behind our parents’ backs talking on our purple toy phones that really worked. But that’s for another post.

After, “What are you calling it?” one of the most-asked questions I get about my writing is, “So, have you started anything new since your last book?”

Often the answer shocks a lot of people, because it’s not that I’ve started anything; I’ve finished something, turned it in, and I'm working on something ELSE.

My fifth novel, Spires of Stone, was released September 2007. When I'd get this question around that time, I'd get the reaction, “But didn't your last book just come out?!”

Well, yes. But I didn't finish WRITING it in September. Trust me on this one; I’m not some Super Woman who whips out a book in three months flat (HA!!!! It’s hysterical to even think that, especially when you factor in the research involved in a historical novel.)

So to set the record straight, here’s the scoop on how this publishing time line thing works:

In a nutshell, it takes a whole lot longer to get anything through the pipeline than most people realize. The LDS market is much quicker than the national market, but even here it simply takes time.

Here’s what a typical manuscript goes through for me: First I draft the book. Then I revise it several times, giving it to my critique group and revising again. When I think it’s polished enough, I submit it to my editor. From drafting to submission This process can take a year. A little less, if I'm lucky.

Then it goes out to three different readers who fill out a huge evaluation form with something like a dozen pages or more. This process generally takes two or three months. For a new writer trying to break in, the process can take much longer, since current authors with my publisher get priority in getting their stuff out to the readers.

If the evaluations are favorable and the editor feels the manuscript is strong enough, it’ll be brought to the committee. (If not, it might need some revisions first). Committee is where the final publication decisions are made. Once a book is officially accepted, four months or so may have passed since submission. In my rejection days, instead of four months, it could be nine months or longer before I'd get an answer.

Then comes the fun of edits: a content edit and likely at least two line edits as the manuscript ping pongs between me and my editor. This can last weeks or months. (In the meantime, I'm trying to research and draft the next book.)

After that are the proofs. Again, several of them, some done by me, others by hired proofers. By the time the book is sent to be typeset into the final galleys (so it’s formatted and printed on the page just how it’ll look in the final book), I’m ready to burn the thing. I can practically recite the book in my head, I’m certain that it’s awful, and if I ever read another word of it again, it’ll be too soon.

Generally I'm somewhere around a third of the way done drafting my NEXT book when I enter the proofing stage with the one that's been accepted. Proofing can be a couple of weeks or an entire month or more.

Once the book is finally ready, it’s sent off to the press. Getting the final copies printed and warehoused takes a couple of months, and then shipping them to stores takes more time.

The upshot is that if the entire publishing process takes less than ten months, you’re very lucky. So you submit one book and get to work on the next.

To give you an idea: My fourth book, At the Journey’s End, was submitted December of 2005. The very next month I began working on what would become Spires of Stone. At the Journey's End came out that September (2006), and I submitted Spires of Stone that December. Spires came out the the next fall, 2007.

With book #6, the waiting game will be even longer. The book been accepted (check my gallery for the photo taken of the Manti temple, the setting for the book. The new title is "Tower of Strength."

I began it more than a year ago, submitted it back in December of 2007, and it won't hit shelves until spring 2009.

We'll probably start the editing process in a month or two. So in the meantime, I'm (of course) drafting my next book. (A contemporary novel this time, about five wives whose husbands are deployed. I'm having fun with it.)

The delay feels a little weird at times—here I am promoting and talking about one book that written at least a year ago, when I’ve been living and breathing (and very excited about) a different book that I've been drafting during the same time.

But for readers, of course, it feels immediate. They don’t know when you wrote the thing, submitted it, or, most likely, how long the editorial/publication process took.

But know you do.

And so it goes . . .

Parents live in a world where their children sit in the center of the universe. No child is better, smarter, cuter, or as miraculous as their own. I've heard parents as honest as fishermen when describing their children's accomplishments, but lately I've been struck less by the intensity and more by the subject matter of parents' pride.

Take, for instance, red hair. Until I got my own carrot top, I never knew how many parents yearn for red-haired children—-or how many parents live in a fantasy world pretending their children actually have it. My daughter had bright red hair from day one, to the point of rivaling Ronald McDonald. Since her father, an uncle, and an aunt all had bright red hair as children, having another redhead in the family didn't exactly shock anyone.

But where the family lacked in response, the neighbors filled in. Suddenly they began pretending their children had red hair, as if they had been left out of an exclusive club.

"Oh, look, dear," one mother said to her daughter on seeing mine, "She has red hair just like you." The daughter's hair color resembled Marilyn Monroe's.

A few months before my daughter's birth, two other girls were born in the neighborhood. The first had red hair. The mother of the second baby cooed at Samantha.

"Wow. There's a lot of redheads in the neighborhood," she said. "The Smiths' baby, mine, and now yours." I hadn't remembered her daughter being a redhead, so I glanced over. Blonde. Maybe a hint of strawberry if you squinted in dim light.

"It's all right to admit your daughter is blonde. It's not as if red hair is an indication of intelligence, for crying out loud." That's what I thought. But aloud I said, "Three of them. Wow. There must be something in the water."

My experience associated with red hair has only ballooned. When my second daughter was born, the nurses oohed and aaahed over her red hair. But hers was darker than her older sister's, and I vowed that if it went brown, I wouldn't pretend it hadn't changed. A third daughter has now joined what our doctor calls our "Red-haired brigade."

As a result of watching twisted pride in offspring hair color, I've observed with interest other bizarre issues that parents cling to in desperate attempts to impress others. As one mother fed her eleven-month-old baby from a Gerber jar, another mother with a baby all of a month younger declared, "Tommy has been off of baby food for two months now." Apparently, the earlier a baby can choke down a t-bone steak, the better.

I've seen other brag moments about equally irrelevant issues. Consider two aunts with sons born within months of each other. They reminisce about when their boys first met, at age three and one months old. Upon meeting, the older of the two, Richie, had grabbed Mikie's hand and shoved it into his mouth. At the memory, the mothers chuckle. Then pride begins to bubble like an underwater creature surfacing.

"So how many teeth does Richie have now?" Mikie's mother asks innocently.

Unsure what brought the topic on, Richie's mother responds that her son has six teeth.

Mikie's mother snorts. "Well, Mikie has eight, so if the tables were turned now, Mikie could do more damage."

Since when did biting your cousin—-and being capable of causing more damage than the victim-—become a point of pride? Unless, of course, Mikie's parents hope their son will be the next Mike Tyson, in which case those extra teeth might prove useful.

Anyone who has ever been a parent has seen these things and can probably add endlessly to the list of brag topics: first words, first steps, first encyclopedia read. Such stories used to really irritate me, but after hearing parents spin yarns about their children for several years now, I am beyond that. Now I simply smile and nod.

After all, they're just proud of their kidlets, even if their logic is flawed. There's no reason to be defensive at comparisons or even roll my eyes at their stories. Because my kids are smarter than theirs anyway.

And three of them have red hair.

That about sums it up. I’ll surely post more later (especially some photos), but for now, I had to just express some overall feelings from the experience.

The conference has come and gone. Jeff Savage (or J. Scott Savage, depending on which of his books you’re talking about; you'll find him on the Buzz with that name) is officially crowned as the next conference chair—and is our first conference "king" instead of "queen."

The attendees were enthusiastic, the instructors fantastic, the food yummy, and everything else just great. Meeting editor Tim Travaglini and literary agent Jaime Chilton—and chatting around a table with them late into the evening—was definitely a highlight for me.

I’m so grateful to all the many, many people who helped us put the conference together. It took a small army of dedicated people to do it all.

When the conference wrapped up Saturday, the hard part was over for me, but the Whitney Gala was still ahead. My husband, awesome man that he is, showed up with a dozen roses for me. (How cool is HE?!)

We got to sit at the same table with Whitney Award winners Josi Kilpack, New York Time best-seller Brandon Mull, and Jessica Day George. (The last two make me officially cool in my daughter’s book.)

I had the opportunity to announce the winner of the Best Romance/Women’s Fiction award alongside Lisa Mangum of Deseret Book. To my absolute delight, my good friend, Michele Paige Holmes took the award. I was supposed to remain neutral, but I’m sure the thrill I felt was plainly obvious in my voice and on my face when I read her name.

I can honestly say that winning an award myself wouldn’t have been any more joyful for me in that moment. I’ve been friends with Michele for many years, and I’ve seen the long, hard road she’s traveled to get where she is. I was so happy for her that I sat back down and promptly began crying.

Tears continued to be a large part of the night for me. Josi’s winning speech got me all choked up too, as did several others. While I’m sure part of my weepiness stemmed from a serious lack of sleep for three days, each and every tear that night was a happy one. Some people came up to me concerned that I was sad over not winning a Whitney myself. Truly, I didn’t expect to win, so I wasn’t disappointed when I didn’t. (I just hoped I’d lose to my other good friend, HB Moore. And I did!)

But the tears were more than just happiness for good friends. Our table was dead center at the back of the room. As a result, I had a great view of the large crowd that had gathered for the awards. A lot of amazing people were inside those four walls. Some I’d go so far as to call legends.

As the evening wore on, I felt a surging sense of awe and privilege. That night represented the beginning of something very big. And I got to be a small part of it. I even got to be involved a tiny bit in its creation. I was sitting in the middle of a piece of history. The thought was overwhelming. I felt so honored to be in the company of those around me, to bear witness to the birth of something so much bigger than myself, something meaningful, something that I believe Orson F. Whitney himself smiled down upon.

After the 2007 conference, I drove home a bit sad because it was all over for a year.

This time, I drove away feeling uplifted, honored, and overcome. I cried for nearly half an hour as I drove, unable to believe that I . . . little ol' me . . . the gal who scribbled stories about mice in second grade . . . I was there. I am part of this amazing community that began as a simple e-mail support group and has morphed into a powerful force, where some of my dearest friends on the planet belong.

How did I get so lucky?

Like I said, I’ll post more about the conference and the Whitneys later. I’m still trying to finish the "re-entry" process with the family and (with any luck) catch up on some sleep.

And oh yeah—then I have a couple of deadlines to meet, because I get to write and publish books for readers of my faith.

Did I mention that man, I’m one lucky woman?!

(Oops. There go those tears again . . .)

The other day, my husband turned on a show he thought I might enjoy: Fiddler on the Roof.

He was right; ever since I performed in a community theater version of the play in my teens, I’ve loved that show. The fact that I grew up with a mother fascinated by all things Jewish probably helped.

Watching the film again brought back a flood of memories and emotions connected to the production I was in, the vast majority positive (the touching Sabbath scene, the practical jokes the cast pulled on each other, the fatherly friendship that our Tevye brought to the youth in the cast), and a few negative things as well.

I remembered the audition process, and the never-ending call backs in particular. In the end, several of my close friends were cast in leading roles. I was cast as a towns woman, one of the mamas. I became the choreographer’s assistant and helped teach some of the dance numbers.

I also used my dancing skills during the particularly poignant "Chavala" scene, where I danced in silhouette as Chava while Tevye sang the sad and somewhat tragic "Little Bird" number. I think that was one of my favorite parts of the entire show. I loved to dance, and such an emotional moment on stage allowed me to connect to the audience. Dancing was my element.

Aside from that, my role was limited. I had a total of one line. I was assigned two sweet little kids to be my children, and I found myself growing attached to them in a maternal way even though I was only eighteen at the time.

Likely the most memorable moment for me came when, prior to the opening of the show, both of sets of the double-cast daughters were supposed to perform the "Matchmaker" song at a city festival to advertise the upcoming run.

One of the Hodels didn’t show, and even though I didn’t know the dance number, the director asked me to step in last minute for the performance.

Nervous wouldn’t begin to describe how I felt. My voice was shaky, and I was unsure what I was doing, but muddled through, trying to remember what I had seen in rehearsals.

As we left the stage, the director came over and put her arm around me. She was an extremely talented lady, and well-meaning, I’m sure. I doubt she intended to wound me when she said, "When I was your age, I was just like you. I could act, and I could dance, but I just couldn’t sing."

Stunned, I just stood there, floored. I didn’t know what to say. I don’t know if I said anything at all.

What I do remember was trying my best to hold back tears until I got home.

I knew that my friends—those insanely musical people I’ve talked about in previous posts—had more ability than I did. Okay, a lot more ability than I had. They were musical freaks of nature. But to have someone tell me flat out that I simply couldn’t sing? At all?

Okay, then. Thank you for your support . . .

Halfway through the run, one of the Hodels started showing up late and otherwise causing the director grief, and I heard the director admit that she wished she had cast me in the role. Which of course made no sense, because I couldn’t sing. But I was punctual.

When Fiddler ended, rumors surfaced that the director’s next play would be Into the Woods, which is essentially an operetta: almost the entire show is sung. I remember sitting in a car heading home after hearing the news, determined that I would show our director and make it into the cast. I beefed up my efforts with my voice teacher, practicing harder than ever before.

Auditions arrived the following summer, and I made it to call backs. At one point, the director went to the back of the room and asked an assistant to point to each of the actresses randomly to sing the melody that Rapunzel does frequently during the show—a tune that begins at a high b-flat.

Since Rapunzel sings as often offstage as on—and the first time you are introduced to her is by her voice when she’s offstage—it’s safe to say that her voice is important. The director didn’t want to be swayed by what she saw; she wanted to judge solely on the sound.

She covered her eyes and listened as one by one, each of us sang the part. Then she consulted with her assistant as to which ones she liked best and who they were.

I was cast as Rapunzel.

If you know the play, you’re surely aware that Rapunzel isn’t a big role. She’s not even almost a lead. But she has to be able to sing, and sing high.

I almost cackled with glee at the irony.

Oh, so I can’t sing? I thought.

My joy was increased when some of those friends who were born with an instrument one hand a score in the other (and arrived singing) came to see the show. One friend who came with them reported that when they first heard me from off stage, their jaws dropped. "That’s Annette?!"

Tee hee.

So it was with a bit of pain—and a bit of triumph—that I watched Fiddler yesterday. The cut that director made to my heart still stings a bit.

But there’s also the stubborn side of me that always comes back with, "Oh, yeah? Watch me."

It’s that part of me that is largely responsible for my success in publishing. I’d get yet another rejection, file it away, and think, "Oh, yeah? Watch me."

I made it into Rapunzel’s tower, and, eventually, I made it into print.

I got a little revenge with my first book, Lost without You; I used Into the Woods for part of the story and described the audition scene, including the part with Rapunzel’s tune and how difficult it was. I made sure my poor heroine, as much as I loved her, couldn’t hit the high b-flat.

I can’t hit it anymore, either.

But I did, once upon a time, when I proved to the director that she couldn’t write me off.