Oh Don't You See

A number of people have shared with me in recent weeks how they've struggled over the last few months to feel optimistic, energetic. I've been one of them. We all agreed that the prolonged rain and cold and lack of sun played a big part. But another large player in our overall mood this winter has been the ongoing chaos in the US following the Jan 20th election, chaos that this week appears to be escalating toward war with North Korea.

There isn't a lot many of us can do about that. Not with this administration that seems to have its ear to a completely different ground than the one most of us are living on...

Diversity? LGBT? Tolerance? Health care? World peace? Environment? It's like they all time-traveled here from the 1750s and have no concept of what any of those terms mean. Fortunately, there is a strong force of intelligent, wise, and compassionate people trying to educate them.

People are marching on the WH, and protesting through out the world. Lawyers, and Mayors, and Governors, and other concerned people are fighting irrational and divisive EOs. People are speaking out on Twitter and Facebook. Some are donating to the ACLU, Meals on Wheels, and National Parks, organizations either actively fighting, or in imminent threat from, orders fired down from on high. And don't even get me started on the Russia thing.

In short, this new administration has stirred up a whole world of ugly. And a whole world of amazing unity and strength of purpose dedicated to preserving and protecting not only USA's Rights And Freedoms, but the world's. Lately, in me, the continual barrage of negative news coming out of the WH has stirred up an ear worm: Oh Can't You See, by The Police, only in my mind I changed the opening lines.

Today, in the spirit of procrastination, and I Need To Make Myself Laugh Before I Cry, I rewrote and re-titled the song. Same tune. You're welcome to sing along...

Oh Don't You See

                                                         by Deborah

Every law you break

Every decision you make

Every FL trip you take

Every good thing you raze

We'll be watching you

Every EO you sign

Every single lie

Every tweet let fly

Environmental protection let die

We'll be watching you

Why can't you see

We're a democracy

How our poor hearts ache

With every misstep you make

Every false allegation you raise

Every Russian friend you've made

Every tear you fake

Every heart you break

We'll be watching you

Since you've been Prez, we've lost the faith

We miss 44 even more when we see your face

We plead for Reason, someone wise to take your place

This world's gone cold, needs a happy change

And oh, btw, we're not going away

Oh don't you see

You should be impeached

How our poor hearts ache

With every day you stay

Every missile strike

Every health care assault

Every travel ban

Every single fault

We'll be watching you

Every…

Great men undertake great things because they are great; fools, because they think them easy. ~Vauvenargues

I Want, I Will

My daughter and son-in-law are moving over 700 kms this coming weekend to start new jobs in a city much closer to family and friends. Changing jobs and moving is not particularly unusual, but the speed at which Daughter and SIL implemented change in their life, is.

They decided in late June they wanted to move closer to family. By mid July they had each interviewed for and accepted new jobs, resigned from old ones and gave notice to their landlord. The weekend after they accepted their new positions, their basement suite was devoid of their belongings save an air mattress and necessary clothing/hygiene items to sustain them until they find new lodgings, patched and painted (by SIL and his mother and father), and in the last couple of days they shampooed the carpets and cleaned the suite; tomorrow they depart. It took all of two weeks.

Two weeks from interview to gone, and only four weeks from the time they decided to make a monumental life-style change, to when they'll be living it. And that is the beauty of being young, childless, and mortgage-free. They have the ability to just pack up and go where the Want and Will take them. 

Want and Will, critical ingredients to making anything happen, whether it's a job change, house change, marital-status change, diet-exercise change, hair-style change. Without Want, there will be no Will, because Will will not flourish in lack of Want. But if you Want it...

Ever woke up on a Sunday morning to discover the coffee tin empty? Did you settle for sipping hot water while you flipped through the local hardware store flyer, or did you throw on a hat and sweatpants and drive as far as you needed to find A) an open coffee shop, or B) an open grocery store? (Guilty).

How about waiting in line, or redialing like mad, or taking a day off work just to grab tickets to your favorite concert artist? Ever pay more than face-value just so you could go? Beg, borrow, or moonlight to come up with the cash? Sacrificed lattes for a month, or girls' night to afford the price of admission? Yeah. Me too. Because Want gives you the Will to make it happen. But what if there's something you Want that just isn't happening, no matter how much Will you apply? 

You give up writing. 

Just joking!! (if you didn't snort or get the joke, you're not a writer, but that's okay).

Seriously, if you're not seeing results for something you Want despite pouring your Will into it, maybe it's time to step back and reassess. I've done that with my writing.

In 1997 I started writing a coming-of-age story set in 1912. In 1999 I finished it, all 1000+ pages of it, quite an accomplishment given I had four children aged newborn to nine at the time. I then spent the next year editing it down to 140,000 words. In 2001 I landed a literary agent who had me pare it down more. Though I wasn't happy about carving more out of my baby, and in some cases excising entire chapters and sub-plots, I did it. Satisfied with the 120,000 word result, said agent put the manuscript on submission. I wrote the sequel. Eleven editor rejections later, agent advised me the first manuscript hadn't sold, so to shelve the sequel and write something else. I did. Agent was not interested. Agent and I parted ways, and I started querying agents again. A few more rejections, and I shelved all three books. And wrote nothing else. That was 2005. (Four kids playing different competitive sports and a full time job kind of sucks the energy for anything but sleep in the down time).  

Fast-forward to 2010. Kids are older. Two have graduated. I revise and decide to start querying first book again, while I write something completely different. Different characters. Different setting. Different time period. It's almost finished when I develop a serious health-issue related to my full-time paid job. I step back, reassess, and decide to shelve all writing, and work, and focus on my health and family. Four years later, in a different home in a different city living a different life-style, the only thing that remains the same is my Want to write. So I am back in the query trench with book one, revising book two, and writing book five, again in a completely different setting and time period than either book one, two, or four (though they're all historical romances; the third is psychological thriller). Why?

Because when I stepped back and reassessed my writing goals, I came to the conclusion that I Want to write, but I am not as attached to a specific time period, setting, or genre, as I am to the craft itself, with the ultimate goal of being published. If that means I change genre, time-period, setting, my wardrobe, or the location of my desk in my office to make it happen, that's what will happen. 

Because I Want it, I will Will it. 

A day, a week, a year...what the hell, it's been 18 years, and the Want to write has not abandoned me. I will not abandon it. And it Will happen.

DA

He that would have fruit must climb the tree. ~Thomas Fuller

Angel Riding Shotgun

I make frequent trips to the Kootenays. When I lived in the Kootenays, I routinely traveled to the lower mainland. In the twenty-two years I've zipped between the two regions, I've never had car trouble. Until yesterday.

I took the long way home yesterday via Hwy 6 to Hwy 1, because I had to meet Hubs in Revelstoke to collect Youngest. The men of the family spent the weekend in Golden white-water river rafting for Eldest's stag, while the womenfolk partook in Daughter-in-Law-to-be's Bridal Shower. That was Saturday. Sunday I was on the road by 6:30 a.m. fully convinced I'd retrieve Youngest child before noon, and be home by 5 or 6. My Angel had other plans.

As I hurtled along the narrow winding highway, I alternated between local radio stations and one of two CDs in the car (don't laugh. I still have a Blackberry), sipping a Vanilla Soy Latte and singing along with Sugarland. Up and down steep grades, mountainous terrain on my right, drop off to Slocan Lake, and then Arrow Lake on my left, the occasional car going the opposite direction...it's a beautiful day for  a drive. I'm in the groove, belting out Why Don't You Stay, when all of a sudden---thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap-and weird vibration. I punch the stereo off and...the thwapping sound does not go away. Nor does the vibration. Crap.

I whip into a rest stop just meters away, hop out of the car, and sure enough, the rear tire on passenger side is FLAT. Check my phone. No cell service. Um...

Whew. A huge motor coach with an SUV hooked on behind is parked in the pull out, which I belatedly realize is a rest stop. And it's paved. Thank goodness. Much easier to jack up a car on level pavement than sloped gravel, which lines 99% of Hwy 6. But, my car-jacker-upper/tire changer is nowhere around. And I can't call him. And I'm wearing shorts. And flip flops. And I haven't changed a tire in...thirty-something years? Okay then.

Pop trunk, haul out suitcases, flip up spare tire cover, dismantle Styrofoam packed jack/tire iron ensemble, and  yank out dinky spare tire. Now what? Hmmm....well, lets get that little plastic cover off the tire and expose the lug nuts. Yep, slim angled end of iron works well for that. All right. Five nuts; one is a locking nut. Perfect. Um...okay. This socket here must be meant to unlock the locking nut. Fit it on, shove on the tire iron, and...it won't budge. I pull, I push...nothing. The friggin' nut won't budge. What is it, glued on? I look around.

It's kinda lonely out here. Quiet. Just me and the silent motor coach. But there's a little step stool on the ground out front the door, which means the occupants are probably elderly. Or short. Either way I suspect I can out run them. Even in flip flops. And maybe, just maybe, they'll be of a mind to help should I not figure out a way to get this $%^&* nut off. Okay. Deep breath...

I stand on the tire iron, use two hands to grip the car's back window flare, and HAUL on the car, while at the same time pressing down with my legs. Grrrrrrrrrrrr..............After what seems an eternity, but before I herniate, "squeeeeeeak" and the tire iron shifts, and I almost fall flat on the pavement. (See what I did there?) Ha. Ha. Any way, I regain my footing, and experience momentary joy. I loosened the first nut. Yay, me!

Now, remove the funky locking socket, and follow up same procedure with just the tire iron for the remaining lug nuts. Four more grimacing, grunting episodes with me perched on the tire iron like a penguin on a twig, and Voila! I have the nuts off. Go me. I set nuts and iron aside--nicely organized--and grip the tire. I pull. I heave. I shove. I jerk the $%^&* thing back and forth. Nothing. It will not budge. I crank the jack and lift the car higher. Maybe the tire's catching on the pavement. But no, there is daylight under the rubber. So, I push, pull, and wiggle again. Nothing. What the--

Tears threatening, I draw a breath and dart a look at the motor coach. Still motionless and silent. The road remains quiet. The cell phone is good only for taking pictures. And who knows when a bear will amble out of the trees, or a serial killer pull into the lot in his windowless van? #$%^&* tire! I kick it. And it pops off. Wheeee!

Ten minutes later, dinky tire cranked on and belongings returned to the trunk, I drive off. I'm still wobbly when I pull into Halcyon Hot Springs a few minutes later and ask to use the phone. I call Hubs, tell him I'll be late. Lady behind the counter eavesdrops on my conversation, expresses awe and admiration that I changed the tire myself. I'm too shaky to feel much more than glad to be rolling again.

Two hours later, I finally meet up with Hubs and Youngest. There is not a single tire store open in Revelstoke. Hubs heads south, Youngest and I turn west. Sicamous businesses are shut up too, but a very nice proprietor (Sicamous Auto Service) has his bay open to help a different couple who had hit something with their SUV; he agrees to look at my flat tire. It has a split sidewall. Not repairable, and he has nothing in his shop to fit my car. On to Salmon Arm, still toddling at max 80 km/hr as that is all the donut, as the dinky spare is called, is rated for. Hallelujah, good old Canadian Tire is open. But they don't have my size tires. Erg.

Tootle along to Kamloops. It's now 330 pm. I got the flat at 930 am. It takes me thirty minutes to determine that, as with all the other towns I've passed through, that on Sunday the tire shops are closed up tighter than Scrooge's wallet; only two locations that sell tires are open, Costco and Canadian Tire. Costco does not have my size tire. Canadian Tire is understaffed and over-worked and not taking walk-ins. I walk in.

Dan, Canadian Tire Service man, listens to my tale of woe. When he hears how long I've been driving on the donut and how far I've yet to go, he, very kindly, if reluctantly, fits me in; he sells me two new tires to replace the filleted one and tells me he'll have the car on the road ASAP. An hour later, donut safely in its proper hole, Youngest and I humbly thank Dan the Canadian Tire Service man and the technician that helped get us, safely, back on the road, and dash off to Starbucks for food. We get gas. We're ready to make up lost time. We hit the highway, and FULL STOP.

A major storm cell blew through a few hours earlier packing sheeting rain and hail and turned the highway to a skating rink. Three separate multi-vehicle accidents resulting in thirteen people being transported to hospital, one in critical condition, have the highway shut down. Youngest and I look at each other, the long, double line of motionless traffic ahead of us and the steady stream of vehicles filling up the hwy behind us, and shrug. We're there for the duration, whatever it may be, but we have a cooler of food, suitcases of clothes, cell service and the company of hundreds of other stranded motorists. We're good. And then it hits me.

If I my tire had not split a seam, or it had been a week day and I'd been able to repair/replace said tire sooner, Youngest and I would very likely have wound up smack in the middle of the vehicular mess that now has us parked and listening to a book. More, my tire went flat on one of the rare level stretches of Highway 6, just before a nicely paved rest stop where tired, and not early-riser tourists, had chosen to spend the night in their motor coach. And it was a rear tire that split, which is significant because you can't drive a front-wheel drive car with a regular tire and donut on the front. Had a front tire split, and I survived the sudden loss of steering unscathed, I would have had to move a rear tire to the front and put the donut on the back. I tell Youngest as much. He nods. "Lucky," he says.

Lucky?

I smile, glance up, and offer a silent, Thank You, because as with other times in my life when a major inconvenience turned out to be the best thing that could have happened, I don't think Luck played a hand. I believe it was my Angel, riding shotgun.

Traffic filling up behind us.
Photo: Deborah Anderson, 2015

When nothing is sure, everything is possible. ~Margaret Drabble

In Praise of Jimmy

I spoke to a former co-worker today when I called my former place of employment with a concern regarding a recent bill. She sounded so happy when she realized who I was, and stated she had been thinking of me of late, wishing I and a few others who also left the company still worked there, because then "I know we could get through this" (an exceptionally heavy workload, would be my guess). Her indirect praise, and the genuineness of her tone and expressed delight, gave me a much needed boost.

It is very easy when you spend your days at home, alone, without regular social feedback--good or bad--to lose sense of your abilities, good or bad. Working to break into publishing can compound the shaky-feeling. Today's chat with my former workmate reminded me of my abilities, and more importantly, how good it feels to receive positive feedback. I must remember this in my daily encounters and share with others what I appreciate about them. At the same time, I must remember that if the only person in the world that appreciates me, is me, then I have enough.

I am enough.

As are you.

Be the change you want to reflect, and love the person in the mirror; she's the only one that truly has your back.

And Jimmy, thank you. I miss you, too.

Deborah


It is no use saying "we are doing our best." You have got to succeed in doing what is necessary. ~Sir Winston Churchill

Stirred, Not Shaken

2013 was the year we were going to shake things up. A new job for hub's meant a 400 mile move for the family complete with a new lifestyle, new neighborhood, new school, new bank, new hairstylist, new gym, and…no. We did not move, despite the fact I packed boxes, investigated schools, researched rentals—we almost signed a lease on one (cancelled just two hours before we were to meet Landlord and sign off on paperwork)—and negotiated (okay, pleaded) to get youngest on to a sports team, and lo and behold, due to a series of events beyond our control, we slide into 2014 in the exact same place we started 2013. Oh, the irony.

And that is life.

You can plan, postulate, prophesize, and pray, but if it's not time, it's not time. God/the Universe/Fate/Murphy's Law, whatever you want to call the conductor of the Big Picture has a plan, and He/She does not always consult you, or even care about what you think you want or believe you should have.

I wanted long blonde hair when I was a kid. I got short, fine mousey-brown hair that my friends delighted in pulling out in tufts until puberty strengthened the strands—and me—enough to require effort (and stealth) to make a game of it. As it was not a fun game—someone (me) always got hurt—my tormentors finally lost interest (thank Dog). In my late teens, I decided one day I would own a red Ferrari. Not one of the ten-plus vehicles I've owned over the, um, many years since, was, or is, red. Or a Ferrari. Not that I let that stop me from driving like Tom Selleck on Magnum P.I. (yes, in ultra-short jean cut offs and a tank-top, with a big smile and mustache. Not). Anyway, if I have learned anything from all of this—okay, in the last six months—control is like smoke.

It's an amorphous by-product of energy and impossible to harness. You can "see" it, but you can't get a firm grip on it. You can try to grab hold, but you look like an idiot waving your arms and snapping your hands open and closed. At least that's how I feel I looked.

Like a child trying to catch snowflakes, I waved my arms, snapped my hands, and spun circles in a vain attempt to capture the intangible. I packed and unpacked summer clothes and shoes, Christmas dishes/ornaments and decorations. Twice. Just boxed them up for the third time, and though it is my fondest wish that the next time I peel off the packing tape it's in our new home in our new location, I no longer expect it.

2014 is the year of Acceptance. Like I do when I float the river, I will let the current carry me, but keep my wits about me to direct and redirect as necessary to avoid rocks and deadheads; otherwise, I plan to relax, focus on things within my power (like writing, education, fitness, prepping house and listing at market value, and spending quality time with family and friends), and if I end up stirring a back eddy for another six months—or year—I will smile and imagine Daniel Craig with a martini and Tom Selleck shirtless in his jean cut-offs turning lazy circles on inflatable-loungers right alongside me.

Deborah

Luck affects everything. Let your hook be always cast. In the stream where you least expect it, there will be a fish. ~Ovid

 

 

The End is only the Beginning...

This week's been about "finishing". Finishing All That Matters, the sequel to Everything That Matters. Finishing reviewing Beta Reader comments and typo/spelling error notes on ETM and tidying it up for submission. Finishing my "library". Oddly enough, it is the library I am--currently--most excited about.

Refuge...research area; a place to be, or be productive. How about you? Do you have a special place to read, or if you're a writer, write? If you're a writer, are you, like me, on the quest for publication, or busy juggling publishing demands? Please share in the comments!

Deborah

Every noble work is at first impossible. ~Thomas Carlyle

Live. Laugh. Love.

Live. Laugh. Love.

These three words crown the French doors leading to my deck. I put them there, in plain view of the living room sofa and recliner, to remind me what's important in life.

When things get tough, as they do at times, I only need to look up: Live, Laugh, Love.

And I do.

Deborah

All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. ~William Faulkner

Did it!

I finished the edits on Everything That Matters (working title). At least I believe so.

I still have to print off another hard copy and review, ensure I did not miss any nits found by my daughter, or miss--or double-up-on--chapter numbers, headings, etc., but as far as the heavy work goes (as in, rewriting the majority of the first two-thirds of the book) I'm done. And I owe it all to my daughter, and the A to Z Challenge.

My daughter--who is a tough critic, known for tossing novels with misspellings or implausible storylines--actually like this version. She's read other versions. She did not like those versions. But this one...this one she said dragged her in and held her, all the way to the end. That is a much bigger achievement than you might believe. My daughter is smart, well read, and not afraid of The Truth, which is why I asked her to read it. I knew she wouldn't blow daisies up my...

Daughter's "thumbs up", and tackling the challenge, gave me the confidence, impetus, and consistency I needed to work through distractions and insecurities to The End. I even forwent the Canucks game tonight--first game of the first round of playoffs--to finish the edits, not that I have anything to regret. The Canucks lost. And I won. *happy dance*

Of course, I have no idea what the future holds for my novel, or for me, and that's okay. All that matters is I keep moving forward, one hip-gyrating dance-step at a time!

How about you? What are you celebrating today, or this week? Who do you have in your corner, willing to toss darts, or confetti, as necessary? Please share. I have extra confetti, and the darts are safely stored away.




Deborah

Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much ~Helen Keller

V is for Valor

A to Z Challenge letter V today. And the theme, valor.

Valor. A quality of being that transcends physical strength, or mental prowess; a courageousness of spirit encompassing both pride and humility, honor and compassion, a willingness to do what is right at personal expense.

A soldier who takes a bullet to save a buddy, a policewoman who puts herself between an abusive drunk and his traumatized victim, a nine-year-old boy who submits to the strap after he admits to breaking the vase his two-year-old sister knocked over because he knows she's still bruised from the last beating. A grandmother who attracts the snarling pit bull's attention to give her grandchild time to get inside the house. Valor in action. Valor is action.

Size, gender, race, religion have no bearing on valor. It's a quality anyone can cultivate. A few do.

Today's blog is dedicated to those who do...

Firefighters, police, EMTs; teachers, mothers, fathers, soldiers; doctors, sisters, brothers, husbands, wives; pilots, nurses, veterinarians; birthmothers, daughters, sons; anyone and everyone who has sacrificed sleep, food, safety, limbs, lives; anyone who has put another's well-being ahead of their own, I salute you.

Valor does not require big action; it only requires action.

Deborah

To see what is right, and not do it, is want of courage. ~Confucius

R is for Rating Rejection

End of week three of the A to Z Challenge and we're on letter R, for Rating Rejection.

Because I'm traveling, and access to wi-fi spotty, I decided to reissue an old post, which adds to yesterday's discussion on reentering the query gauntlet...

There is such a thing as rejection excellence. Or an excellent rejection.

What makes a rejection excellent? Well, it's not the refusal, that's for sure. But when it comes to rejections, there is a hierarchy.

A non-response? Well, IMHO (In My Humble Opinion) that's just plain mean. A minus grade on the agent's report card. It takes like two heartbeats to fire off a form rejection. And that's at the bottom of the hierarchy. A zero. Gum on the bottom of the shoe. Get nothing but those, and you need to stop, peel away the crap, shine it up good, and resume querying. Don't know sidewalk gunk from penthouse polish? Janet Reid is tops in chewing up and spitting out query-doo. Even better, she explains why it belongs in the gutter. Okay, back to rejection hierarchy.

 Next up from a form rejection, is a personal rejection. 1-star. One directed to your name, not Dear Author, that (possibly) mentions your manuscript title, and says, interesting premise, but we're not currently accepting unpublished authors. Nothing wrong with this. The agent thought enough of you and your plot line to address you personally. You're moving up.

Third rung on the ladder or 2-star is a form rejection following a request for a partial, or full. This happens. And it does not mean your work sucks. It may not be what the agent envisioned from the query letter. Or the agent has another story too similar on her list. Or she accepted a new position on American Idol. Or, if the writing is truly awful (someone helped you write your query letter but not your novel), the agent is trying to send a message: needs work.

 Fourth rung and 3-stars is the personalized rejection letter after a partial/full request. This one is addressed to you, not Dear Author, probably mentions the manuscript title, and essentially says thanks, but not a good fit. This may well be true. Or, the manuscript needs work. You're getting there, but you have to figure out what changes are necessary to get you there.

Rung number five is so close to Yes, you can taste it. A 4-star rejection, it comes after a partial/full request, is personally addressed, mentions your manuscript title, and provides FEEDBACK on how the agent LOVED your writing and premise, and WHY the agent is, after careful consideration, declining. Maybe no specifics are mentioned, but if you have some experience, you can go back over the manuscript and find the problem areas and, if you're a professional and trust the agent is too, you FIX, and query on. With the improvements you made, you will hopefully advance the next rung on the ladder, the 5-star reply.
 
And of course a 5-star reply is not a rejection, at all.

It's an offer of representation.

D.

Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become. Your vision is the promise of what you shall at last unveil. ~John Ruskin
 

Q is for Queries and Queens

Q-day in the A to Z Challenge and today, the theme is Queries and Queens.

Yesterday I mentioned the complexities of human behavior and emotions, how motivation is different for different people, how different people cope with similar situations, how novelists strive to write engaging—saleable—books. Today I share how one woman helped me cope when I finished my first novel and started to query.

A query is a letter, a business letter, in which the author pitches his/her work to an editor/agent in hopes of garnering enough interest to prompt a request for a look at part, or all, of the novel. Simple, right?

No.

Not really.

It's an odd paradox, but often the same author that writes 400 pages of compelling, heart-warming or pulse-pounding storyline, is paralyzed by the thought of tapping out a 400-word, one-page letter that condenses not only the entire novel to a one or two-sentence prevue, but promotes the author's credentials. Say what?

For the multi-published photo-journalist who's authored a novel featuring a photo-journalist caught up in international intrigue, or the criminal defense attorney whose main character is a defense attorney framed for murder, well, selling the creds is not as big a stretch as for, say, the stay-at-home mom whose novel shares the trials and tribulations of a Regency-era heroine forced to marry her nemesis in order to prevent him bankrupting her father. Or is it?

In truth, the only credentials a fiction author needs are good grammar, great characters, proficient execution, distinct style, persistence, and most importantly, positive attitude, belief in one's self, good friends, and thick skin. Without the latter qualities, the former are moot.

If writing a novel is hard, and crafting query letters daunting, receiving rejections to said query letters is absolutely demoralizing. That is where the positive attitude, belief in one's self, good friends, and thick skin comes in.

For the most part, I have a positive attitude. I believe in myself, and my writing. And I'm developing a hide a rhinoceros would envy, in part, because of a good friend who anointed me Queen, Rejection Queen.

To ease the unease and torment of sending query letters and receiving rejections, a friend and fellow writer in the the throes of querying challenged me to a contest, the Rejection Queen contest.

Rejection letters were no longer symbols of failure, but evidence of success—we were putting ourselves out there, tallying up the proof that we were serious about, and dedicated to, our craft. And that simple twist turned what could have been a traumatic venture, into an extraordinary adventure.

That friend, kc dyer went on to publication, and I to the paid workforce where I temporarily—okay, for ten years—abandoned my publication quest. But as I haul out my novels, finished and conceived, and prepare to resume my quest, I find I am better armored, with experience, and the strength of good friends, one who would name me Queen.

 

The elusive, estimable, and intrepid kc dyer. Photo by Deborah

D.


The emotions are not always subject to reason...but they are always subject to action. When thoughts do not neutralize an undesirable emotion, action will. ~William James

N for New York

It's week 3 of the A to Z Challenge, and for those following along, today's letter is N, and the topic, another place on my must-see list: New York, New York.

I am sure you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone in the developed world that has not heard of New York. It is one of the largest, and most iconic cities, in the world. It is also the setting of two of my favorite TV dramas--Blue Bloods and CSI NY--and my favorite morning talk show, Live with Kelly and Michael. New York also plays a large role in my novel, Everything That Matters, as it is the port of entry to America for my heroine, Dianna, and the gritty urban landscape where she completes her transformation from exiled daughter, to self-sufficient woman.

Dianna disembarks the Carpathia at Pier 54 in New York on the night of April 18, 1912. She left Southampton in the care of a childless couple who offered her sanctuary in exchange for her unborn child; she lands on American soil destitute, and the self-appointed caregiver of her abruptly widowed and penniless benefactress who's a non-responsive after her husband and the entirety of their fortune went down with the Titanic. Below is a little excerpt sharing Dianna's arrival in New York...

Excerpt, Everything That Matters, 2013 copyrighted material...

 

Dianna shivered and brushed dribbles of water from her eyes.
 

            Her cloak and hood were soaked, heavy and clammy through her shirtwaist, and her face and gloved hands numb from the damp cold, but she, like the hundreds of others pressed to the ship's rail, was determined to brave the foul weather and watch the city emerge from the veil of darkness and rain.  

 

The Carpathia had toiled for hours, delicately navigating a treacherous web of icebergs to pluck her and the other half-frozen survivors that had found refuge in lifeboats--the finally tally at just over seven-hundred, and those mostly women and children--from the close to two-thousand on board the Titanic when it started to go down. The rescue ship's crew also brought aboard what few bodies they managed to find floating amidst the icy flotsam, and when there were no more people, living or dead, to be recovered, the rescue ship idled for a brief memorial, and then turned southwest. Two days later they were finally steaming into New York's busy port and Maggie had yet to utter a sensible word. Another tremor rocked Dianna.

She prayed the Carpathia's physician who had examined Maggie was right, and she was suffering temporary shock and would soon snap out of it. The alternative was…too complicated to consider.

Dianna turned her face skyward and let the rain pound her closed eyelids, imagined it washing away her fearful thoughts. She left England in the Stewarts' care, but now the roles were reversed, and she found herself Maggie's nursemaid and entirely unprepared for it.  Squaring her head on her shoulders, she opened her eyes, and surprisingly, her agitation abated. 

Land. Solid land, so close she could almost reach out and touch it. Even more reassuring, someone waited for her and Maggie, more than some survivors could claim. She frowned.

What if he was not there? What if he had already returned to Texas, or never came to New York in the first place? And how did she even know he was a he?

Heaven. She knew nothing of the cousin, not a name, not gender…fool. She was a fool.  So consumed with what lay behind her, she never bothered to request details of what lie ahead, foolishly trusting the Stewarts to manage everything for her. Her anxiety spiking once more, Dianna pushed on tiptoe to study the crowd gathered on shore.

Rain and darkness obscured the mass as a whole, but here and there light from the windows of surrounding buildings and the gas lamps lining the streets illuminated clusters of moving figures, so the entire assemblage seemed to move without changing location, like the heaving sides of a nocturnal beast crouched in the moon dappled shadows of a forest glade. The effect was exacerbated by the agitated hum of voices filtering from the group, indistinct, but clearly gaining momentum as the ship prepared to dock, escalation from a deep-chested warning growl to imminent attack. She inhaled a shaky breath.

Somewhere in that teeming mass of humanity turned out to receive the Carpathia's wounded and widowed was her opportunity to reclaim what belonged to her. But only if she walked through, her head up and eyes forward, to a destination of her choosing; she had to stop leaving it to others to decide her path for her. But first, she must see Maggie safe into the care of…someone.

*End Excerpt*


Author note: As I mentioned in an earlier post, my mother's true-life story was the inspiration for this fictional one; my mother was sent by ferry to Vancouver Island to work as a housekeeper until she was too ungainly to manage the required tasks. She was then returned to the mainland to a Home for Unwed Mothers where she remained until she gave birth. For the purposes of my story, I re-imagined my mother's initial journey on a more epic scale. *cough*

D.

The history of all times, and of today especially, teaches that...women will be forgotten if they forget to think about themselves. ~Louise Otto

K is for Kismet

K is today's A to Z Challenge letter, and today's theme: Kismet.

From Random House Webster's Unabridged Dictionary:

Kismet (kis´met, -met, kis´-), n, fate; destiny. Also, kismat (kiz´mət, kis´-), [1840-50; Turk, Pers qismat, Ar qismah division, portion, lot, fate, akin to qasama to divide].

Kismet, as a word, has existed since the mid-19^th century; I suspect kismet as a concept has existed much longer than that.

Fate. Destiny. Lot. Portion. A belief that coincidence and random exist only in that they fulfill a fated outcome. My novel is built on this premise, perhaps because I believe in the concept, having experienced a number of events I initially perceived as unfair, or tragic, that later proved to be, as Oprah might describe, "aha moments", or, as I refer to them: the slap-upside-the-head I needed to redirect my focus, and realign my life-trajectory in keeping with my purpose, and core-values.

I won't wax-long on the events that nudged—and in some cases head-butted—me in a different direction than I thought I wanted, or believed was the logical, loved-one-approved course; suffice it to say some of them hurt. A lot. Others were less immediate and injurious, external issues and internal inconsistencies too-long ignored, that eventually rose up to slap me down. And from the ground, you have a great, all-encompassing view of what's important—if you roll on your back, and look up.

That is the theme in my novel, Everything That Matters…love, born out of tragedy…because sometimes what at first blush appears a tragic happenstance, leads to something wonderful; a life reimagined, and better than might have been experienced had the tragedy not occurred.

Here is a moment when the heroine in my novel is offered a different perspective to her belief that she is a victim of circumstance:

Excerpt, Everything That Matters, copyrighted material...

Father Ramirez patted Dianna's hand, beamed up at her. "I'm glad he brought you here," he said.

"Mr. Douglas?"

Father Ramirez glanced skyward. Dianna arched her eyebrows, looked around the compound. Compared to her arrival, it was a portrait in serenity.

Chickens clucked as they clawed and pecked at the hard-packed earth, geese honked softly as they waddled to and fro like long-necked Centurions, their black beady eyes alert for intruders; the sow dozed in a hollow dug from the earth alongside the Hacienda, seemingly unfazed by the squirming pink mass of piglets crowded between her fore and hind legs.

Mr. Douglas emerged from a low-roofed barn leading Sonny, Mateo behind him with the saddled roan; a pair of small dogs, one white and one brindled, trotted behind them. The door of the Hacienda opened, and Luisa came out to stand in the shade of the porch, Lazaro hooked on one round hip. The rest of the children loitered near the gate, presumably waiting to say goodbye. Dianna looked back at the tiny cleric.

"You think God brought me here?" she asked.

He smiled.

She shook her head. "I am here," she said, "because of choices other people made." She looked at Mr. Douglas.

"There is always choice, hija," Father Ramirez said quietly. "Even if alternatives are painful or unsavory, they are within your power to choose."

She frowned, her gaze on Mr. Douglas.

Had she chosen him?

Kismet or coincidence? I know what I believe; what do you?

Please share in the comments.

D.

It is often hard to distinguish between the hard knocks in life and those of opportunity. ~Frederick Phillips

 

 

 

  

 

  

 

G is for Gratitude

A to Z Challenge day 7. Letter G.

I received a phone call today. The caller asked if everything was okay; I was behind two letters. And in that call, the essence of this post: Gratitude.

The A to Z Challenge allows for one day off--Sundays--so I am not a day behind, and today's letter is G, however, that call, the fact that _someone_ (okay, my mother) noticed I had not posted yesterday, filled me with the warm tingle of gratitude. If only one person reads my posts, I have reason to be grateful. I have an audience. Ask any busker: an audience of one, is better than none.

Sometimes gratitude is a hard emotion to summon. Last year when I languished on my sofa with severe rotator-cuff tendinitis, I struggled. I focused on what I couldn't do, rather than what I could, and it started to take its toll. So I forced myself to redirect.

Every day I celebrated small things, like being able to lift the kettle even if it took two hands, or wash my hair, even though I had to bend over to get my hands to my scalp. Eventually those little things snowballed into bigger things, and I could carry my purse, and finally drive myself to town. And then to the next town. And as I attained each new goal, I gave thanks. And each time I gave thanks, I felt better. As I felt better, I regained strength and enjoyed less pain.

I believe in the mind/body connection, and I believe persistent stress, and/or pervasive negative thinking poison a body, and in time, a soul. So, as I face new challenges this year, I am reminding myself to embrace gratitude, daily.

Today, I am grateful for many things, one of which, is you.

Thank you for reading. I really do appreciate it.

D.

I'm in a wonderful position; I'm unknown, I'm underrated, and there's nowhere to go but up. ~Pierre S. DuPont IV

Turbulence

Life is turbulent.
                                           
From the first crushing instant of our birth when we're squeezed squalling from the warm liquid cocoon of the womb into the glaring clamor of oneness, we are struggling to adapt.

Mothers, fathers, grandparents, breast milk, and lovers and friends when we're older—much older—offer guidance and support, but they do not adapt for us. They wrap us in flannel, pat our backs, jiggle us as they pace the floor; apply Band-Aids, pour cough syrup, plump pillows; chase boogie men from under the bed and Exes from our lives; they help us study, invite us to movies or pub nights, laugh, kvetch, and commiserate with us, but they don't stop crying, worrying, or hurting for us.

Each of us chooses to accept solace, medicine, love and/or friendship; embrace wisdom, welcome new, tweak technique to fit our needs, and adapt accordingly. Or not. Change happens regardless.

I know. I've lived it. So have you.

Remember when your first baby tooth wiggled under the pressure of your tongue? Or you completed your first wobbly solo on a two-wheeler? What about that training bra, first kiss—and broken heart? You changed. Adapted. Traded white t-shirts for under wires and plastic Scooby-Doo razors for the real thing. Kindergarten to graduation; pig-tails to page-boy; Sippy-cup to wine glass; you changed. And adapted; often loving what Change brought you—driver's license, High School Diploma, Victoria's Secret, admiring looks, independence, your own bank account, new love, old money—freedom, and as you adjusted to eye hooks and inflated gas prices, so did those around you. Some better than others.  

I tend to adapt well—once I make the decision to embrace Faith and Change. It's In-Between that gets me.

Limbo and I are not good buddies. And I don't get along well with Indecision, either. Too often when they're around, so is their ugly cousin, Turbulence. And my perfectly ordered life hangs over a gaping chasm called Unknown.

I am there now. Like Wile E. Coyote, front paws on one side of the chasm, back paws on the other, taut, trembling; unable to move one way or the other without help, or risking a serious fall.

Hubby accepted a promotion. It requires us to move 400 miles to a new city. For six months he's split his time between here and there. When our house sells we'll all go there. Away from family. To other family. Away from friends. To other friends. Away from home and lifestyle we know and love, to one hidden the shadows of Expectation and Intent, the path there lit only by Faith. Our only guarantee is our lifestyle will change; and our love for family and friends will not. Here or there, there or here; love and true friendship remains.

In the interim, we adapt; me to single-parenthood, him to evening solitude. Limbo and Indecision hold sway to help us prepare, collect the tools, knowledge, encouragement, advice, and skills necessary to make the transition. And Faith gentles Turbulence's tantrum.

When you're 40,000 feet up, the landing strip still a long way out and the ride rocky knocking the oxygen mask into your face, you can close your eyes and scream in terror--or you can adapt. Put on the mask, tighten your seatbelt, hold hands with those closest to you, and remember to breathe.

And pray.

There are no atheists on turbulent airplanes. ~Erica Jong

Deborah