Thursday, November 28, 2013

Give thanks and pass the turkey!


These turkeys are grateful for being alive! Looks like they're hittin' the road.

Today is Thanksgiving here in the States, and that means it's a good time for me to sit back and take stock of all the things I'm grateful for. At times I tend to focus on what is missing from my life, things I can't seem to change or find success with. Slowly I'm learning that there will always be an object on the horizon to fixate on, but it's what I have right now that matters. I've been reading a lot about gratitude, and how it not only makes you appreciate what is already in your life, but draws toward you that which you still need. It's simple really: set aside a moment every day to take stock of what you are grateful for. You don't do it just one day of the year, you do it every day of the year. The effect is that you are happier, and being happier means you open the doors to even more happiness. I'm down with that!

I have much to be grateful for. My children, my home, my life, my health, my writing, my music, my car, my computer, all the books I own (they're all over this house), the earth and sun and nature (they ain't mine, so I can't claim them), and everyone and everything who has ever graced my life with light and love. I'm grateful for you and for all of this. Thank you, my friends!

With this long winter ahead of us, I think it will be good to take stock of our lives on a daily basis. Or just say a simple "Yes" to the universe every now and then. If you do this, the blizzards, the below freezing temps, the dreary days that go on and on, won't ruin the real sunlight that exists inside of you—and me.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! What are you grateful for?

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

About Henry . . .

My walk with Henry today was oh so cold, and I think this entire winter is going to be a challenge. Could be time to invest in a pair of thermal underwear—what do you think? The problem with Henry is he stops every few feet to sniff at something, and yes I get annoyed and tug on his leash and say, come on, hurry it up. But he's very stubborn when it come to our walks. He knows it's his only time to do what he wants to do. The rest of the day he slumps around looking bored.


This is what Henry really likes to do:

 Roll
 and roll
 sniff the air
and roll.

He also has to deal with these alien life forms:

 Opera
And Coco, the magnificent.

Alright, that's enough cuteness for today. Have a good one!

Tuesday, November 12, 2013

It keeps coming . . .

Today it's sunny, but super cold—like January cold. This isn't fair. The kids were late for school today because it took me so long to scrape the frost off the windshield of my car. I hate frost!! And where's November?! Grrrr . . .

On the bright side of things, my publisher put together a press release for my second book and posted it on their website. http://widopublishing.com/sequel-to-amy-saias-the-soul-seekers-in-the-works/. So excited!

I have a lot of work to do. But I kind of live for that sort of thing, so it's okay. If only the holidays weren't so close. I'll just say that this is going to be an interesting few months for me.

How are things in your neck of the woods?

Sunday, November 10, 2013

Forgiveness


I’ve often wondered what compels me to write. Is it to live out a kind of fantasy through the character’s lives, to reach out to others, to create, or is my subconscious trying to work through issues in my life that I otherwise haven’t had the ability to mend on my own? In Bye, Joni Weaver, a manuscript I’m currently revising, I found myself writing a father/daughter dynamic, which is weird, because I know nothing about father/daughter relationships. At the age of three my father shoved me off his lap and curtly asked my mother to keep me from climbing up there again. Something inside of me was so very hurt. Strange that I climbed up there anyway, as my father very clearly was not the type you’d want to snuggle up to. But some unknown childish urge had made me do it anyway, and then suffered the consequences for said urge. 

Let me tell you about my father. He was tall. He had dark hair and ice blue eyes. He was very religious and would use the bible as his excuse and reason for most judgements and punishments—and there were many. Almost every day we were lined up on the hall stairs and interrogated for little crimes such as getting fingerprints on his bible or scratching a favorite record. If we didn’t admit to the crime, he’d punish us as a unit. Upstairs, we draped ourselves over the edge of a mattress, while he gave us a very thorough spanking with a leather belt. I remember thinking how unfair it was, because I hadn’t done the crime—none of us had. But, of course, you wouldn’t say that to a man with a belt in his hands. You said nothing; you didn’t even cry.

One time when my sister and I were sick from the flu or the chicken pox, I can’t remember which, he showed up after years of not visiting, and crept into our room. He was there to annoint us. Sick, I lay in that bed in that dark room, and watched this man that I no longer knew—perhaps never knew—and felt fear at his approach. He bent down to rub oil on my forhead, mumbling prayers—the kind of prayers that were never a comfort. Not in his voice; with his intonation. I grew mad. My father was afraid we’d die, and he had to bless us first. My father. The man who called me a devil because I sometimes danced in circles.

When he died a few years ago, I couldn’t go to his funeral. My siblings went to his house to clean all of his things but I, the youngest, couldn’t do it. I was terrified. Seeing my father’s things was the most horrible, terrifying thought in the world, and I couldn’t do it. I’ve felt guilty over that decision, but never really sorry. Somehow I knew what I was capable of, and saved myself from something that might undue me in ways that weren’t fixable.

So now, back to writing. It’s kind of funny how our subconscious works, but much of what I write involves some sort of family problem. There’s the mother/daughter dynamic. And the father/daughter dynamic. I realized after a completing scene in Bye, Joni Weaver, that I was working out my problems through writing. That I had found a way to have a father—in the only way I’d ever have a father. Through fiction.

Today, as I’ve pondered over this, I spoke to my father through my thoughts, and I told him that I forgave him for what was done. It isn’t fair to hold him to this earth with my unresolved issues. He needs to be happy up there, you know? I want him to be at peace. We all deserve that after a long, difficult life. Who knows why he did what he did, but it’s over now, and I forgive him. I also told him that I will continue to work out all issues through my writing.

And that’s it. This is the post I was going to write today, but I ended up with the one below which is much more positive, but rather shallow in comparison. And I’m telling you all of this because you too can forgive and let go, and find ways to heal through your art—wahtever it may be.

Peace

Big But

You know the two sayings: When it rains, it pours and Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it? I'm finding out exactly what those both mean. First it was the wonderful book acceptance from my publisher, and now I've received a revise and resubmit from an agent for another book altogether. That means I need to work on two books at the same time. It's looking like a good time to get myself cloned . . .

Friday afternoon I sat down to check email. Oh, another rejection, I thought, scanning quickly through the paragraphs of: while this was initially exciting . . . I really liked the voice . . . great concept . . . But then there was a but. And for those of you who send out queries, you know there's never a but. There's always an I'm sorry or We've decided to pass this time or I just don't feel passionate enough about this. 

But, it said, if you work on the points I've mentioned, I'd be happy to read this again, should you decide to resubmit in the future. Uh, let me think about it. Heck yeah, I'm going to revise and resubmit this bad boy! The only bummer in this scenario is that I won't get to work on my NaNoWriMo project. I wish I hadn't filled out the stupid book info because now there's this empty chart on my page, while everyone else is pumping out words like monkeys on speed with their fingers super-glued to typewriters.

But then again, I'm not too sad.



Saturday, November 9, 2013

Dead green tomatoes

Let's just say I have fallen behind on my tomato duty. This summer I ate them off the vine, chopped them up for salsa, sliced them for sandwiches, gave them away, saved them, watched them rot. But now I've given up. Too many tomatoes!!

This is after a frost. The plant is dying, but the fruit still clings.

So close. You guys want to pick some for me?

And here's what's left of the leaves so far on a backyard tree. Won't be long before the rest fall down. 


Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Happy Announcement Day

Today it is brisk and dark and Miss Julia went to school with her cool new coat, but nothing on her head. I'm fretting over this and also that it's class picture day. Liam's new shirt had a mysterious rip in it that he would only smile about but not explain. Julia's bangs are still growing out from the botched haircut she gave herself a few months ago. I slapped some hair gel on the bangs and stuck a sparkly purple hair bow in there somewhere for distraction. I exchanged Liam's shirt for a pullover with black stripes. If there's a rip, I don't want to know.

Oh, and . . .

Guess I never told you that I sent in a revised partial of The Time Seekers to WiDo a while back. They asked for a full and have now offered me a contract to publish the book.

I know, I know . . . all that fuss I made last spring. Honestly, I think I have grown a lot since then, as a human and as a writer. I've written here, I've written there, I've written everywhere. That doesn't mean my manuscript is perfect. There are a few points WiDo would like me to work on through edits, and I have promised to do my hardest to make it the best darn book possible. So grateful for them taking me on again! But isn't that exiting? I really missed my characters and am so happy I get to fiddle around in their lives again. Thank you, WiDo. I'm thrilled!

Months ago I was taking my usual morning walk with Henry at a nearby park, a time I use for positive contemplation for the day ahead, and it struck me that whatever I write isn't really mine. I mean, it is. But it isn't. It's for you guys. My job is to work as hard as I can and hopefully entertain the masses. First drafts: me. Fun. All subsequent drafts: readers.

I also was dealing with my identity as a writer this past year. There's three in here unfortunately--all me, but different angles of me. One can be more genre-ish with a hint of romance. One's kind of slipstream. And one is very literary. I was trying to decide which one I wanted to be and was very confused the entire time. When I took that walk, I realized that I was all three and not one was better than the other. They're all important, they all make me happy, and they all have value. And then throw in being a musician as well . . . confusing.

But anyway, that's my announcement. Thanks for reading and I wish you a wonderful day today!

A Millennial romp through Jane Austen

  A few years back I wrote this story about a fifteen-year-old girl named Frankie drudging through a very complicated life in a fictional sm...