Today is my first grandchild's first birthday. I'm torn between joy, and utter devastation.

You see, my son sent me a couple of videos this week, of my grandson walking. Last I saw my grand baby, he was still trying to find his center, stay balanced without the aid of furniture, someone's hand, or his wheeled push-toy. Now he's toddling the length of my son and DIL's home. Cue laughter. And tears.

My grandson's gone from Surprise, we're pregnant! to a fully actualized little person complete with a life-size personality.

When he's happy, he grins. When he sees something he wants, or that captivates him, he extends his hand, palm up, and "whoos". He loves trees; and anything with wheels, especially if he can push it. Blueberries, raspberries, yogurt, bath time, and the family dog also get high marks. He's less enthusiastic about bedtime and diaper changes. And when he's mad, well, he's mad. There is no doubt in my mind, he is his father's son.

My eldest, too, loved anything with wheels. He still does. His smile lights up a room. And his temper is equal only to... mine. And his father's. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Ask my  mom, who got it from her father. It's a family thing.

That is what devastates me. And buoys me.

I hope to be around to welcome my grandson's firstborn and give thanks for the opportunity to hold the future. There are no guarantees, of course, which is why I intend to make the most of what time I do have with my grandson, and all those I love, for as long as that may be. And when friends, school, sports, and building a life eventually dominates my grandson's time I'll be content to watch from the sidelines, safe in the knowledge that he is weaving new and colorful threads into the ever changing, slightly frayed, and always precious tapestry that is our family.

Happy 1st Birthday, Little One. Grandma loves you.

In youth we learn; in age we understand. ~Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach

Robins and Jays, Symbols of Hope

It's the last day of February and snow still dominates the landscape. This is not unusual in most parts of Canada, but in our West Coast region...

The snow started in early December and except for a couple of brief periods, it's hung around causing commuter chaos. Having spent the last twenty years in the Kootenays of BC, I'm used to it. As is my family. We have snow tires. And use them. So getting to and from, for us anyway, has not proven a problem. But, being accustomed to snow, ice, and slippery roads does not mean we--I--enjoy the white stuff. Far from it.

I have Lizard blood. I like it hot. The hotter, the better. Give me a patch of sand, sunglasses, a good book, cold drink, and 38C and I'm in Heaven. Shoveling snow and scraping ice from the windshield is the equivalent of Hell to me. Which is why I was so delighted to see my first Robin this morning!

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

Robins, to me, are a symbol of hope. Of Winter waning as Spring gathers strength. Add in a Stellar Jay--

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

and I am positively giddy.

The last few weeks have been challenging; I've found myself mired in lethargy, a distracted funk in which the weather played only a small part, the major player being illness, and a certain new President whose agenda, policies, and striking lack of empathy and respect for the people he claims to represent, are as foreign to me as the seemingly corrupt world he inhabits.

But this post isn't about him. It's about the weather. About how Robins and Jays herald the season's change, how dark, cold, and gloomy days eventually give way to warmer, sunnier, brighter ones that eventually extend to weeks, and months of brilliance and abundance. It's about the power of regeneration, the ability of the earth and its creatures to survive, and emerge triumphant from even the longest, harshest winters.

Yes, some creatures perish before spring, whether from old age, infirmity, or lack of sustenance. But the majority survive. Those that do, owe their survival to preparation, stamina, and cooperation...

Squirrels, bears, Jays and bees are just some of the critters that prepare for winter by stocking up. They store food--either externally or within layers of fat--in advance of winter's first snowfall, a reserve to sustain them through the lean months.

Elk, Moose, Cougar are some of the creatures that rely on brute strength and stamina to see them through the long winter months. It takes huge reserves of energy to plow and paw through crusted-snow for dormant grasses and twigs, and to stalk and wrestle to the ground beasts three and four-times one's weight.

Wolves, Deer, Seals, Orcas are some that find strength--sustainability--in numbers; many eyes are better than two when on the look out for predators. Multiple sets of legs, lungs, feet, fins and fangs increase the odds of cornering or running down dinner. And as it appears a long brutal winter is descending on the US, it behooves all of us, throughout the world, to look to our furred, feathered, and finned brethren for clues on how to get through alive:

Prepare for the worst. The black storm clouds on the horizon might prove a brief, wintry blast; it might herald a lengthy blizzard. Stock up, emotionally and financially; gather happy moments, activities, extra cash, and people to your breast and protect them the way a hamster stuffs its cheeks with seeds. Draw on them sparingly in times of need, restore yourself on the sustenance love, laughter, and new adventures provide beleaguered hearts.

Stamina. This is not a Quarter-Horse race. More a mouse's round-the-world marathon. It can't be done in a minute. Or even a day. It's going to--potentially--take years to muddle through, and like the mouse, one must be clever, and alert. Find safe places to curl up and rest, when not attempting to stealthily navigate open fields shadowed by Eagles, and swim swirling rivers churned bloody by spike-toothed carnivorous pike.

Cooperation. Gather like-minded individuals close, and have each other's backs. Always. It's easy to give in to fear, run bleating, or roll-over and play dead when the Eagle swoops, or the Wolves howl; it takes courage to rally with the herd, form a protective circle, each member backed into the other facing out at disaster, the weakest and smallest sheltered at the center. But it's how entire herds manage to defend against, and even scare off, wolf packs, and ravenous cougars. Resistance and persistence, equal existence.

I for one, intend to continue to stock up on my favorite form of sustenance: fun memories made with family and friends, good books, and writing. Always writing. And I'm going to rebuild stamina by getting back into a regular exercise routine. Six-point Elk don't earn their tines wallowing in a mud bath. As for cooperation, that circles back to preparation for me.

My family, and friends, are my herd. And I will face out and fight to death to protect them. Because without them, who am I?

  Holding my grandson for the first time.
Photo copyright Deborah Small 2016

Deborah

The greatest achievement of the human spirit is to live up to one's opportunities and make the most of one's resources. ~ Vauvenargues

And then there are grandmas.

There are grandmas. And then there are grandmas.

My maternal grandmother was of the latter variety. Soft in all the right places, gentle, quiet, she was the rock of the family. I loved her dearly.

To me, she was Mum-mum, my name for her from the time I was toddler and she used to look after me while my then single-mother worked. Before I was out of diapers, my mom and stepdad were living together, and mom became a stay-at-home mom. I no longer spent every day with grandma. But I always looked forward to visits with her.

I would plunge in through the carport door, kick off my shoes in the narrow entry that doubled as a coat and laundry room, and dash into the dining room knowing I would find Grandma in her chair at the end of the table, cigarette in hand or smoldering in the ashtray, cup of tea in front of her, her pet Chihuahuas on her lap, the TV tuned to one of her favorite shows. As soon as I raced in, she would stub out her cigarette, shoo the dogs off her lap and to their wicker basket by the door, and allow me to take their place.

I'd clamber up and twist to look at her, maybe earn a peck on the cheek. After a few minutes of patiently answering whatever nattering questions I had, she'd scoot me off her lap, and head into the kitchen to fix me toast. With ketchup. And a cup of tea. Always a cup of tea. When Grandpa came in from the shop for lunch, she'd give me a look and nod, my cue to disappear into the living room and read, or color, while Grandpa ate in peace. As I grew older—and heavier—grandma was more inclined to bend her cheek toward me for a kiss, than let me invade her lap. So I would settle in the chair next to hers, eat my toast and ketchup, sip my tea, and watch her watch her favorite show. But time is fickle. And so are teens.

School work, sports, horses, friends, boys, motorbikes and cars dominated my teen years. And I rarely went along when mom went to visit her parents. What fun was sitting around grandma's house watching TV when I could race my horse against my friends' horses, or cruise back roads with my boyfriend?

A good decade passed where I rarely saw my grandparents but for family events, like Christmas, Thanksgiving and family reunions. But they again became an integral part of my life when, in my early twenties, my then husband and I moved into the mobile home on their property they had installed a few years earlier for one of my aunts. When she moved out, another of my aunts moved in. And then it was my turn.

Three years we lived side-by-side with Grandma and Grandpa. Three years I cherish. Three years my two eldest children ruled Grandma's lap. And made Grandpa laugh. Three years where I was welcome to wander across the yard that separated my home from theirs, and enjoy a cup of tea with Grandma, or simply sit on the foot of her bed and watch her favorite TV programs with her.

We laughed at Aunt Bea and Opie's antics. Watched Vanna turn letters. Provided Alex Trebeck the Answer. Rolled along with Ironside, and Matlock, solving crimes. And sometimes I cried.

My tumultuous first marriage heaved its final breath on Grandma and Grandpa's property. Before it did, it was to her I would go for comfort. Mostly she would listen. Sometimes she would comment. Only once did she judge:

           "If you don't like what's going on, change it. If you can't or don't want to change it, deal with it. But whatever you do, stop complaining."

She shocked the hell out of me with that. And sobered me up. Dragged me out of my pity pool, with a good swift kick in the proverbial ass.

Grandma at my first wedding.
1986

Grandma's life had never been easy. Her younger brother died of an illness she had brought home from school, and survived. As far as I know she didn't know her father. And her stepfather was rumored to be not the kindest man. She never spoke about him. Or her mother. Or the sacrifices she made as a wife, and mother. Not once do I recall hearing her complain.

Grandma raised six children on a shoe-string budget. Kept the family together when Grandpa fell apart, and stopped working for over a year. She dealt with his alcohol abuse. Anger. Chased her daughters around the stairwell with a wooden spoon when they deserved it. Fixed them tea and handed them tissue when they needed it. Did her best to protect her only son from his father's contempt. 

She picked apples and made the sweetest-tart applesauce I've ever tasted. Turned cukes into tangy pickles, and raw salmon into canned delicacy. She doted on her dogs. Adored her grandchildren. And did whatever she could to make her children's lives easier. I miss her.

Today is the anniversary of her death. And it feels keener this year, than years past. Perhaps, because this year I am a grandma; my mortality no longer a distant echo, but a resounding boom, a persistent, rhythmic thump, like the tattoo of my grandson's heart beneath my hand when I cradle him on my chest. 

Grandma on her wedding day.
1942

It leaves its mark, becoming a grandparent. A raw bruise where your youth and longevity used to be. I only hope, whatever time I have left—a decade, or four—I leave as indelible and happy a mark on my grandchildren's lives, as Grandma did on mine.

Deborah

They never die, who have the future in them. ~Meridel Le Sueur

Thanktober

October is the first month of what I consider, The End. The end of Summer. The end of the current year. The end of long days and warm nights.

Some people love October. The gold and red hues heralding the change of seasons. Crisp air. Pumpkins. Turkey. Cozy sweaters and fluffy socks. I'm not some people.

My favorite month is May. It is, to me, the first month of Summer. The start of the growing season. The birth of new life for the majority of Earth's creatures. Hues of green and blue giving way to pops of yellow, blue, orange, and red. A living fireworks display. Flip-flops. Tank tops. Grilled chicken. And sunscreen. Still, I appreciate October.

October is our month, as Canadians, to collectively celebrate Thanksgiving. And we have much to be thankful for:

Universal health care

Freedom of speech

Freedom to travel freely and live anywhere within or out of Canada (provided we've not forfeited the right through illegal behavior) 

Acceptance to love—and marry—adult to adult, free of restrictive traditional expectations.
Clean air (and laws designed to protect it)                                 

Access to clean water (and laws designed to protect it)
Park land, forest, and animal protection 

Mandatory basic education, and unrestricted access to advanced education, for both genders

The right to vote regardless of gender/social status without fear of legal/physical reprisal

Collective compassion 

Trudeau (and not the other T guy)

This is not a comprehensive list of the privileges we enjoy as Canadians that citizens in other countries do not, but it is the one I think of each October.

Regardless of whatever personal strife I may be experiencing, or living vicariously through my love for other people in crisis, when the Maple's leaves turn red and gold, and twirl to the rain-dampened ground, I pause and give thanks to the agitators and proponents of political, legal, and environmental change throughout history, and those who supported them, for all I enjoy. As a woman. As a Canadian.

Deborah

When people shake their heads because we are living in a restless age, ask them how they would like to live in a stationary one, and do without change. ~George Bernard Shaw

Little Man

I held my firstborn grandchild for the first time this week. It was surreal. Looking into his face, I saw my firstborn son, and I was once more an over-joyed--and terrified--new mother.

Tiny fingers. Tiny toes. Tiny, but strong nose and chin hinting at the strong-willed, and capable man he would become. Silky smooth skin so delicate. Bright, intense stare. Little puckered brow. So serious, little man.

That was what I called him, my firstborn: Little Man. And it is what I overhear my son and daughter-in-law calling their son. Little Man. And he is exactly that. A little Man.

I was always keenly aware of my role. Even when my son was six-weeks old and I found myself sobbing, convinced I could not do another eighteen years of "this", a part of me understood that I was his mother, his caregiver, his guide. Not his owner. And he was then, as he is now, his own man. A little person entrusted to me to teach right from wrong and good from bad. To feed, to shelter, to love, and protect. To educate and discipline. And it overwhelmed. That was what "this" was.

This was the trauma of not knowing. Not knowing if what I was doing was right. Not knowing if he was hungry, or wet, or had gas, was too hot, too cold, or was simply lonely. Was it safe to let him sleep on his back? Front? Disposable or washable? Spatula-shaped soother? Nipple-shaped? None at all? What if I make a mistake and screw him up for life?

My grandson, Daxon.
Photo copyright 2016, Deborah Anderson

The fear was real, and questions racing around in my head as varied and numerous as the opinions proffered by those with experience.

Lay him on his belly. Prop him on his side. Don't pick him up when he cries. Pick him up and pack him around every chance you get. Keep him in your room. Put him in his own room. Night light. No night light. Nurse him in bed. Never take him into your bed...

No wonder I was wreck. But somehow, I muddled through. And learned to listen to my heart.

Over twenty-eight years later, as I watch my son and daughter-in-law manage their two-week-old son  with the calm efficiency I felt I lacked as a new parent, I cannot be more proud.

Yes, they're tired. Yes, they're uncertain about some things. But they are confident in ways with my grandson that I was not with his father, and it buoys my heart.

They are good parents. They will be good parents. And my grandson will one day be a good man, just like his father. And grandfathers.

Deborah

If you would have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly over them -- not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to go alone. ~ ANNE BRONTË, The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

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

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

 

 

U is for Unicorns

Wow. I can't believe I'm already at letter U in the A to Z Challenge. And I am so grateful to have made it thus far, especially given the last year (or two) (which I will not recap here, focused as I am on what I can make of the present, and future, rather than rehashing the past, but if you're unaware and are curious, you can learn more here). Now on to something delightful—and yes, easy and predictable given the letter—Unicorns! (Or pictures thereof).

(Has anyone really ever seen, let alone photographed an Unicorn? *wink*).

                                                    

 Deborah

It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them. ~George Eliot.

 

 

 

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