Finding the gold

I know I said I was through blogging. nevertheless, I find myself wanting to share occasionally, and this is one of those times.

I belong to a group called Lectio Poetica. We read a poem and mine it for nuggets that help us grow spiritually. Wednesday, we read the poem “That Journeys Are Good” by Rumi. I chose the line “By a journey of that sort earth becomes a place where you find gold.” At first I hesitated. How can I find gold when my heart is breaking? When my oldest son’s ashes are yet to be buried?

Here is what I wrote in the class:

Where do I find gold?

In a book that tells a story that is true and changes how I think about things, making me see as if I have been blind.

In the closeness of women friends who love unconditionally and keep your confidences and dry your tears.

In family: the joy of watching my grandchildren become young adults, strong and confident and loving; my sons, so caring and careful of me and always there. I try not to lean on them too much but gold is knowing that when I have to, I can.

In travel, seeing different countries and marveling at the architecture, tasting the food, and admiring the vistas, yet in meeting the people realizing how much we are alike and all part of the family of God.

In nature, as I walk in the early morning and wonder at the sunrise, the clouds pink and lavender against a blue, blue, sky, and the rabbits that eye me without fear as I pass, and the deer that wait until the last minute to fade into the woods, and the birds that serenade the fresh, new day.

I realized that as I wrote, that sorrow can be tempered by joy, and loss is not all there is, and God is good.

All good things

Readers may have notices my posts have been getting farther apart. I forget to write one, or I can’t think of a topic. And so I choose to stop before I am arrested for boring people to death.

I have accomplished all I set out to do. I have published not one, but 12 books, some self-published, but about half through a publisher–the now defunct Draumr Publishing and through Cleanreads, formerly Astrea Publishing. My heartfelt thanks to the publishers who took a chance on a newcomer.

My last book, a novella, is in the hands of beta readers.

My goal from here on is to finish recording audio versions of the books I have already written, and to concentrate on the family history I have been slowly compiling.

My creative spark has been dimmed if not entirely gone. I am tired, and my heart has been broken too many times. First, the loss of my husband and now the loss of my oldest son. No, not COVID, but a heart attack at too young an age. He was my rock, my go-to guy for computer issues, my cheerleader and protector. I love my sons with all my heart, but losing one has created a void that I don’t think will ever be filled.

I appreciate all of you who read my meanderings, who made a comment, or just tapped “Like”.

I hope all of you achieve your dreams and find success. Writing is hard. Publishing is hard. But it can be done.

I know, because I persevered. And you will, too.

For a list of my books, please visit www.sandrazbruney.com

Plodding along

July 31, 2021

I have spent most of the day at the computer. I spent the morning recording and editing a chapter of Morven.

It takes about an hour to read 25-30 pages, what with having to stop every so often to make a correction. Sometimes I have to re-record an entire chapter because I forgot to turn the freezer off. That hum doesn’t disturb me, but it comes out loud and clear on the recording.

Then it takes another 3 hours to edit. I absolutely hate editing, which is fussy, time-consuming, and oh, so necessary.

After that was done, I ate lunch and ironed. Yes, I still iron clothes. I don’t know why, they are wrinkled again as soon as I stuff them in a drawer or closet.

In the afternoon I scanned legal documents. All went well until the very last one, which refused to allow itself to be converted to a .pdf. I tried three times, and now have given up until tomorrow.

At which time I may record another chapter, or work on my mystery novella. It all depends on my mood. Our church is having an ice cream social in the afternoon, and that sound infinitely more entertaining than any of the tasks I have set myself.

So until next week, I’ll be plodding along and hopefully closer to my goals. Sometimes they seem like the vanishing point, always ahead of you and never reached.

But as they say, it’s the journey, not the destination, right?

Wrong! In regards to writing, it’s all about the destination.

The things the Olympics taught me

July 23

As I was watching the opening ceremonies of the Olympics this morning, I was struck by how joyous the athletes appeared. So many smiling faces — and why not? They had all achieved a personal dream. I couldn’t help but be happy for them. What a great start to the day, smiles all around.

I remember the first time I held a book in my hands that had my name on it. Tears of joy came to my eyes. It had been a long road and hard work, but a publisher saw something in my work that she liked enough to take a chance on it.

Everyone has a dream. The difference between just dreaming and actualizing that dream is not luck or who you know or anything like that. It is hard work. Those athletes trained for years to perfect their skill. They weren’t born with the ability to perform on a balance beam, or throw a ball, or do a triple spin while diving from a height that would make me faint. They practiced and practiced for long hours each day, and gave up things you and I take for granted.

Every craftsperson had to start from scratch. You are not born knowing how to paint a masterpiece, design an architectural jewel, carve a statue, or write a book. First efforts are clumsy and sometimes laughable. And that’s when many people give up on their dream. It’s just too hard, it requires too much sacrifice.

Very few writers hit the New York Times Best Seller List with their first book. If they did, you can be sure there were many years of studying the craft, taking courses, attending workshops and lectures, and writing a lot of trash before they submitted their best effort.

I am driving to the beach to see my daughter-in-law preach her first sermon at her first appointment. She is not a young woman just out of seminary. She has grown children. But a few years ago, she had a call — what I refer to as a dream. She wanted to reach people who have been knocked down by life, by bad choices, by addiction, or by circumstances beyond their control such as illness or loss of a spouse, child, friend. It would be her ministry.

The path she chose was difficult. She went back to college and earned her degree. She worked as a volunteer, and eventually got the approval of the board to apply for and be ordained as a Local Licensed Pastor. She campaigned for a church of her own. And she got it. Because she worked hard and persevered.

So if you have written a book and it didn’t become an immediate best seller, you can still congratulate yourself that you wrote a book, and you will write another and it will be better.

If you don’t give up.

Circle of Friends

July 17

This has been quite a week. I woke up Tuesday morning with my right eye swollen and itchy. I immediately thought of poison ivy, but how could I have gotten it? I hadn’t been doing much yard work — too hot– but I had picked blueberries Monday.

Wednesday my eye was swollen shut. Like the idiot I am, I carried on my normal routine. Three friends and I were going out for lunch to celebrate our birthdays. We usually treat the birthday honoree on her birthday, but the pandemic stopped that last year, so June, Kaye, Beverley and I decided to celebrate all our 2021 birthdays with Free Pie Day at O’Charley’s.

I still wasn’t too worried. I figured it would run its course. But Thursday morning, my entire face was swollen, even my lips. Time to call the doctor. I called my eye doctor first. She was out of the office. Next, I called my PCP (primary care physician). Actually my ‘doctor’ is a FNP (family nurse practitioner). She was out of the office.

So I asked if any else could see me. The cheerful woman on the other end said to send a photo of my face to the nurse. I did, but after not hearing anything for four hours, I called back. Turned out she hadn’t received the photo. I sent it again.

“That looks awful!” she said. Not news to me. By now my face would scare small children and puppies. She told me to call my eye doctor. I told her I had.

“We’ll get you an appointment somewhere.” she vowed. Sure enough, she called back and told me she had found an eye doctor who said for me to come right in. The doctor was in Rockingham, 18 miles away. And I couldn’t see to drive.

I had a dilemma. I’d promised to take another friend to her doctor appointment, but now I couldn’t see to do it. And I had promised to drop off some books to Kaye. June said she would take care of everything.

Kaye offered to take me to the doctor. Bless her heart, no one without an appointment was allowed to wait in the office waiting room, so she had to sit in her car for over an hour. Luckily, she had a book with her. Incidentally, books are the tie that binds us together. We are all avid readers.

The first thing the doctor asked was why I hadn’t gone to my PCP. I explained, and he agreed it was indeed poison ivy. He tried to pry my eye open and managed to get a look at my eyeball, which luckily was not affected. He gave me a prescription for Prednisone. I’m sure I was the strangest patient he’d seen that day.

It was too late to fill the prescription, so we went home. Friday morning, Beverley drove me to Rockingham to pick up my meds. Yes, the closest pharmacy in my insurance plan is Walgreen’s, which is also in Rockingham. I got the Prednisone, but the clerk said the eyedrops weren’t in yet. She assured us they would be on the delivery truck at 2:00 p.m. and we should come back at 2:30. Beverley was willing to make a second trip to pick up some cat food, as our local Food Lion was inexplicably out.

At 2:30, we were told the drops weren’t on the truck, but they would come by FedEx and I could get them Monday. I told her to forget it. (Sometimes I have a short temper, and the general difficulty getting the eye drops set it off.)

But the point of the story is: What would we do without our friends? These women were willing to give up their time to help me out, and I am forever grateful to them. We are truly sisters by choice.

So here’s a shout out to friends, books, and Free Pie Day. (I had the cherry.)

July 4

Today is such a beautiful day — lower humidity and lower temperaatures. I’m going to sit back and enjoy it.

Have a safe and happy Fourth of July, however you plan to celebrate.

A day in the life

I fully intended to sit my behind in a chair in front of my computer and work today after my morning walk. I got sidetracked when I took some flowers to the church to decorate the fellowship hall for our retiring pastor’s farewell luncheon. I didn’t have to stay and help, but it was more fun to visit with friends as we arranged the flowers. (They arranged. I carried the vases to the tables.)

That done, I came home ready to work. But I walked out on the deck and saw that my butterfly bush was ailing. Obviously, it had outgrown the planter and was withering for want of space and soil. I decided to move it to the yard where it would have room to grow. I got out the shovel and dug a creditable hole. Fortunately, the earth was soft. I had a harder time removing the bush from the planter and lugging it down the deck stairs. But I got it safely situated in its new home.

Then it was time for lunch.

I did sit down after finishing both my sandwich and the book I have been reading — a mystery set in Tudor England. I had to find out how it ended.

I am happy to say I finished the first draft of my WIP, writing the final six or seven pages. Right now it looks to be more of a novella than a novel unless I can expand it. That will take some thinking. I find I spend more time thinking about my work than writing. I call it planning.

Instead of congratulating myself and calling it a day, I recorded the first chapter of my second audio book. The I replayed and edited it.

About the time I finished that, the cats let me know it was time to feed them.

This is a blog about the writing life. I’m sure other authors spend their time more efficiently, but I’m being truthful here, and this is how I work.

Something like the butterflies flitting from flower to flower on the butterfly bush.

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Lazy summer days are upon us, and I would love to be somewhere sitting on the beach and watching the sandpipers scurry among the wavelets. I have to admit, though, it is almost as much fun sitting on my deck and watching the purple finches nibble at nyjer seed, or the humming birds argue over their territory.

I especially enjoy the view when my back yard is freshly mowed and smooth, and the trees along the creekbank so effectively hide the neighboring houses from view that I can imagine I am gazing into a dark, mysterious forest.

Not that I spend a lot of time idling. In the past two weeks I’ve added several new plants, including a ring of Millenium Allium around the persimmon tree out back. I also added a ‘Karley Rose’ Chinese fountain grass clump and a pink Knockout Rose to the pink hydrangeas and Brown-Eyed Susans along the front ramp and deck.

My Mom was the gardener in the family, and her roses and iris were widely admired. Her peonies were show-stoppers. I thought of getting some peonies, but was told at the garden center that they are hard to come by. It seems they don’t like being transplanted and promptly die when brought home from the nursery.

I never cared much for gardening, but in the past few years I have come to love seeing things grow and bloom. This drought has all but guaranteed the zinnias and bachelor button seeds I planted will not thrive, but I water them and hope.

It just proves that we, too, are capable of growth. I’ve found a new hobby that not only improves the look of my yard, front and back, but keeps me outside and exercising. I’ve learned what insecticides and weed killers work best, and what areas of the yard are best suited to different plants. I’ve been choosing flowers such as the mellenium allium (a fancy name for flowering onions), lavender, and butterfly bush to attract bees and butterflies. I even left patches of lawn in clover this spring for the bees, although I have since cut it back.

I am tanned, bug-bitten, poison-ivy itchy, and happy. If you’d asked me six years ago if any of this would be my life now, I’d have laughed. The yard was Jim’s domain, and I stayed out of it. But after he died, the yard became my responsibility and I took it seriously.

To end on a humorous note, yesterday I went to start up my tractor to mow the “back 40” and when I turned the key, nothing happened. I called the shop that does my maintenance and they promised to send someone to look at it. A few hours later, two men showed up. One of them eyed the tractor, sat in the seat, and turned the key. It started right up.

I asked what had happened.

“Ma’am, last time you mowed your forgot to take the blades up before you turned it off.”

Yep, all I had to do was push one lever and I would have been on my way.

I said that I felt very stupid.

He shook his head. “Ma’am, God don’t make stupid people.”

I hope you are enjoying your summer. And, for the men out there, Happy Father’s Day!

Persistence redux

A while back, I wrote a post called “Persistence.” This is one time I took my own advice.

It started a year ago when I checked my royalties (I get excited when Amazon drops 85 cents in my bank account). My publisher had sent an email that the quarterly earnings were in, so I checked my Paypal account.

To explain, Amazon, Cleanreads, and Smashwords all deposit their royalties differently. The amount deposited by my publisher, Cleanreads, wasn’t a fortune, but considerably more than the few dollars my books typically earn. I decided it must be a typo and contacted the publisher. No, it wasn’t a mistake. The money earned was from my audio books.

Something clicked in my brain. Obviously, audio books were money-makers. I should get the rest of my books in audio form.

I shared my opinion with my oldest son, Rob, who has recorded his own music for years. He told me what equipment I needed to get, and then gifted me with a mic and audio interface setup for an early birthday present.

The mic worked fine, but the system didn’t. For a couple months Rob worked with me (by phone, email, and facetime) until I gave up and sent it back to him. He tried it out and found the equipment was defective. I did a happy dance when I found out the problems weren’t my fault.

I tried recording with Garage Band for a time, but the sound wasn’t that great. Rob sent me another interface called m-audio. This one worked better. After trial and error, I found the correct settings — what Rob called the “sweet spot” — and began recording the book.

All of this took several months.

I read each chapter as a separate file, edited it for errors (I made plenty), and converted it from .wav format to .mp4. When all chapters were as complete as I could make them, I uploaded them to ACX, which publishes audio books on Amazon, Audible, and iTunes. The book passed the technical hurdle, but not the subjective review. Too many hums and clicks. too many peaks and valleys.

I sat down and tried again. I think I read some chapters as many as 5 or 6 times before it sounded right to me. I read a lot of blogs and learned some tricks I could use to make my admittedly soft voice louder without distortion, and remove odd background sounds, like my refrigerator running.

I made a “studio” by shielding my equipment with quilts to block outside noise.

All this took a full year to accomplish, but I finally completed all the reading. It was tedious and frustrating, particularly when my voice gave out and I had to quit. With trepidation, I submitted the finished files.

I thought it would take 30 days to get the technical approval, as with my earlier effort, and the same length of time to get the subjective approval. To my amazement, both steps were cleared in about 2 weeks. When I got the notice that the book was actually already for sale, my doubting self had to check Audible to see if it was true.

It was. Riverbend is now listed on all three sites.

I am beyond relieved that persistence paid off. Now the next step is promotion, which if you read my blogs, you know I hate. I feel like a little kid saying, “Look at me! Look at me!” before turning a somersault. But it must be done.

I can’t wait for the first review to be posted. I only hope whoever posts it is kind.

Still learning

This will be short as I worked in the yard all day and am ready to sit on the deck with my book, whichever of the cats that deign to join me, and a glass of something cold. Did I mention that I received a chainsaw for Mother’s Day? I have been having fun clearing dead trees from my back yard.

But what I want to say is that I took a lesson meant for those who are over their heads in debt and applied it to myself, a person over her head in half-finished projects. The idea is to start with the biggest debt and pay all you can afford on it and pay only the minimum plus interest on the others. When that debt is paid off, you go to the next debt and pay it down, etc., until your finances are once more stable.

I had been working sporadically on three major projects and not getting very far with any of them. So I sat down, did a kind of triage, and picked one project to complete while the others wait.

I am happy to report I did finish the first project and, while waiting for feedback, will move on to completing my half-finished novel. This has given me a sense of accomplishment which is much better than feeling frazzled and guilty. Concentrating on one thing at a time is much more doable than trying to do a dozen things at once.

I wish I had realized this years ago, but it is never too late to learn.

Or to figure out how to use a chainsaw.

Apocalypse Now

My life is finely tuned to current events. Both are in a state of disarray.

I returned last week from a month in Pennsylvania, a drive that took over 11 hours counting the delays for construction. Luckily, I had downloaded an audio book to my phone, so I was able to pass the time without resorting to profanity.

When I walked in the door, ready to relax with a glass of wine, I realized what a mess four cats can make when left alone. Yes, I had someone to come and feed them and clean their litter boxes, but fur, tracked litter, barf bedazzled my floors and rugs. Plus, I had minutes to type up, websites to update, bills to pay, correspondence to attend to …

I think I can be forgiven for imagining myself in an apocalypse as I stumbled from one urgent chore to another.

The month I was away also saw the Chauvin trial and verdict, riots, shootings, and various inane and idiotic utterances from people in positions of power who ought to know better. Apocalypse?

No. This past week I learned that an apocalypse is not a time of destruction and turmoil to end all that we know. The word means, literally, unveiling. Old things are swept away to prepare for the new.

Sometimes the action of unveiling is tough. I think of a city destroyed by earthquake, only to rise again, more beautiful than before. When staring at a destroyed home, it is difficult in the moment to believe that the turmoil and pain will end and a lovely new thing will come from it. Think of a mother in labor, enduring unimaginable (to men) pain only to hold her child in her arms.

A new life. A new beginning.

When events cause us pain and despair, we need to remember that change is constant. Nothing goes on forever, there is continual breaking down and building up. We need to teach our children this early on so that they are not startled or dismayed when change happens. Yes, something is lost. But yes, something new will come from it.

I was devastated after my divorce. I had thought the marriage would be until death did us part, not until someone else came along. I experienced all the emotions: Grief, fear, doubt, loss of self-esteem. It was my own, private “end of the world as I knew it.”

Only after the storm had passed did I realize my marriage had been stifling me, holding me back from becoming the person I was supposed to be. I can see the divorce now as a time of turmoil that led to a new beginning and a new way of seeing.

A time of new birth.

So my life right now is a mess. It is not an apocalypse, it is a chance to prioritize, to see things clearly and realize that some changes need to be made.

But I do think that this world, in the midst of a pandemic with over three million lives lost, and our country, dealing with police brutality, natural disasters, mass shootings, and political stalemate, is undergoing a kind of cleansing storm. I believe the result, once we emerge from the storm, will be a better world.

We have learned how to rapidly identify a virus, find a vaccine, and get people immunized. My hope and prayer is that the vaccines soon reach all the world’s population and eliminate the funeral pyres in India and the mass graves in Brazil.

I hope and pray the verdict in the Chauvin trial leads to reform and a respect between the police and the people they are sworn to protect.

I hope and pray that natural disasters lead to real efforts toward addressing climate change around the world, each country cooperating instead of competing.

I hope and pray that our government will sit up and take gun control seriously and stop preaching the Second Amendment which, seriously. only addressed guns that had to be loaded one bullet at a time.

I hope and pray our elected leaders will listen to their constituents and become a government for and by the people. That means listening to what the people want and stop protecting their own interests.

I know l reacted to my divorce out of fear for the future. And I believe that same fear is holding back our representatives, a fear of losing what they have gained — money and power. The world is changing, the propertied white male is in danger of losing his status. But maybe, just maybe, if they let go, they will find out that money and power won’t give them the satisfaction they will find in a new world that rewards service and charity.

There is no need to fear the storm. Change is natural and inevitable. We only need to trust in a better future after the winds die down and the sun comes out again.

As it will.

Spring redux

Two weeks ago I left home and traveled 600 miles north. The trip took 10 hours and two months.

I say that, because at home spring had already come. The daffodils were fading, the forsythia had turned from yellow to green, and the birds were nesting.

As I drove, the trees lost their pale green foliage and once again were bare limbs reaching for the sky. The air was chilly and I was glad I had thought to toss a sweater in the car before I left.

I had watched spring’s arrival in North Carolina and now I was privileged to see it again in Pennsylvania, as if the first time had been a preview. Over the span of days Nature’s palette of pale yellow and green, pink and white, and the blue sky over it all gradually lightened winter’s landscape. I watched the daffodils once again push through the earth and don their bright yellow bonnets. Wild plum and cherry added their accents to the greening of the trees.

I hope that wherever you are, the promise of spring lightens your heart. It is a time of hope and affirmation. This past week in my study class we were musing over the teachings of Julian of Norwich, who said, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”

I believe all will be well. Get your vaccination, keep wearing your masks, and let the light overtake the darkness.

About Critiques

Back in college, many moons ago, I studied ceramic art. This not only included forming pots on a wheel, but a lot of chemistry as we devised our own clay mixtures and glazes. I was not particularly good at it, and only recently took my pots out of storage and displayed them in my home. The action brought back many memories, one of which was critique day.

I still have nightmares about critique day. In my dreams, I have skipped class all semester and have nothing to show. I go to the studio hoping to throw and fire some pots before the dreaded day, but no clay is available, the kiln is full of other students’ work, and everything points to my having to repeat the semester.

I think everyone has similar dreams, such as forgetting your locker combination or going to gym class in your underwear. High School is stressful, and that stress is not forgotten by our subconscious minds.

Somehow, the professors were willing to accept my pots and I did graduate. Have I done anything with that degree? No. But I had a double major, so education became my field.

Then I started writing, and critique day became a reality once again. It isn’t a requirement, but every writer wants someone with a clear eye to look over their work and point out any flaws. We hope they point them out kindly, but this doesn’t always happen. There are some people who find satisfaction is pointing out every teeny, tiny error, until you feel the manuscript should be burned on a pyre with appropriate songs of mourning.

Others balance their (probably fair) comments about errors in grammar or characterization or plot flow with suggestions for improvement, or by pointing out things that do work.

Once a pot is thrown, dried, bisque fired, glozed, and fired again., there is no fixing any flaws. Writers have the opportunity to go back and correct errors before submitting to an editor or publisher, who may also critique your story before rejecting or accepting it.

I have always tried to look objectively at any comments, especially if I invited them, and put aside my personal feelings.

And when asked to critique, I try to be truthful, but kind, applying constructive criticism rather than tearing down everything I disagree with. I’ve been on both sides, and while I want to be helpful, I don’t want to be the reason someone gave up on their dream.

After all, we want our work, whether it be pottery, poetry, or any other creative endeavor, to be the best we can make it.

;

One step forward

You know the old saying — “One step forward, two steps back.”

That’s how I’ve felt this week. I’ve been so scattered I even forgot to write last week’s blog. I apologize. Can I say the cats ate it?

I realized that I have two many irons in the fire, so I decided to concentrate on completing one project, then going to the next, in the same way you pay down credit card debt. First goal: Finish the audio book.

Another cliché: Easier said than done

I have spent entire days in my little makeshift studio, reading, reading, reading, until my voice was too hoarse to continue.

Editing the first two chapters went well. No background hum, clicks easily removed. The test clips passed the review.

Chapter three, not so good. My first listen-through revealed a loud “pop” every time I said the letter P. One of my main character’s name is Pope. You can imagine the result. Also, there were clicks in the middle of the spoken sections that could not be removed, as they can be in the pauses between sentences.

I have re-read that chapter more than I should have had to. I think I could recite it blindfolded at this point. The last attempt failed the test audio. I have to re-do it. Again.

I was so frustrated I went outside and mowed the front lawn. My go-to for stress is to do something physical.

When (and not if) I get chapter three ready to submit, I have to tackle chapter five. That chapter has a loud hum in the background. Did I forget to shut the door to the kitchen and I’m hearing the refrigerator? Or is it some other insidious intruder? No matter what I did, I couldn’t get rid of it. So, I have to re-read that chapter also.

I’m almost afraid of what lies ahead.

But and this is crucial, I am determined to learn how to do this and to get this book where it needs to be to get published. I have talked before about persistence. It isn’t just in writing, but in the editing process, which is far more difficult and time-consuming, all without the joy of creating a story. The story has been written. My goal now is to get the written word into the spoken word.

Because that is where the audience is.

The quilts that surround my workplace are intended to block outside noise. They also block the light. I feel like I’m in a cave.

Persistence

I am not sure how old this plant is. It was there when Jim and I married and moved ourselves and my three boys into a farm house in rural Pennsylvania. It stretched along a window bench in the kitchen. The owner of the house asked that we not throw it out because it had been his mother’s and had always been there.

So I took on the responsibility of keeping the plant alive. We moved the North Carolina some years later and we brought the plant with us. Not the whole zillion yards of it, but the considerably trimmed original.

Since then I have taken many cuttings from the original. This is one. And yes, the original still hang outs in my office.

The point is, this plant has tenacity. It has persistence. It has the will to do what it was meant to do, which is grow.

If your will is to write a book, persistence is the most valuable tool in your writer’s kit. You can read craft books, attend workshops and conferences join a critique group, but without persistence, you will never get that book published. Why? Because you stopped writing after the first well-meaning but disappointing critique, or you stopped sending queries after the second or third or fifth rejection. Or the twentieth.

Viet Than Nguyen is a recipient of the Pulitzer Prize, the Andrew Carnegie for Medal for Excellence in Fiction, an Edgar Award, and the Dayton Literary Peace Prize. Yet it took him twenty years to get his first book published. And no, it wasn’t the book that won all the awards. It was his second book.

He didn’t give up after twenty years of trying to get published. He wrote another book. And a third.

When asked what his advice was for beginning writers, he said one word: Persist.

Of course, being a writer, he added a few more words to his answer, but they just said the same thing with more detail.

Of his success, he wrote, “…I did it simply through sheer persistence. And that is what turns people into writers. That doesn’t mean you’ll be a great writer at the end. You should at least be a competent writer at the end. It doesn’t mean you’ll be a published writer at the end of that, but you can write something that you yourself will respect. And in the end, that’s what it boils down to.”

Maybe you won’t heed advice from an over-achieving plant that survives through sheer persistence, but I hope you take this advice from Nguyen. Because honestly, it is the best advice on writing you will ever get.

WD Interview with Viet Than Nguyen, Writer’s Digest, January/February 2021.

Write a little, read a lot

So I was going over my WIP (work in progress) as I do before I start my writing for the day. I usually begin from the top of the last chapter, editing a little as I go, to get myself primed for continuing the story.

I stopped halfway, stunned by simultaneous realizations.

One, I had two story lines going on. One was the mystery, the other a sorta romance. What I was writing was not a novel with an intertwined story line, but two separate story lines that needed to be untangled and sent their separate ways. This happened to me once before, and ended up in years of frustration when I couldn’t make the story “work.” I finally ended up with two books instead of one.

Two, the romance was silly. I studied what I had written and decided that any reader would have thrown up her hands and screamed (expletive deleted). I mean, the female character should have figured out the male character about two pages paragraphs into the story, not at the end. I blush now when I think that at first I thought the premise was “cute.” It isn’t.

I am going back from page one and slicing out any reference to romance and sticking to the mystery line. I haven’t written a mystery before, so this may be a big flop. But then, I gave myself permission to experiment and see where it takes me long ago. Women’s fiction, fantasy, historical, and now another genre. (If you are curious about my books, here’s a link to my website

Yep, I’m a genre slut. I never heeded the advice to find one genre and stick with it. I get bored too easily, I guess, which explains why I had so many careers — art teacher, bank teller, administrative assistant, and co-owning a media business. Oh, and wife, mother, and writer.

Last up for today, Smashwords is promoting Read an E-book Week March 7-13. Smashwords has thousands of titles in all genres (including some of mine) and for that week, books will be offered from 75% off to free. This is a good time to load up your e-reader in preparation for summer reads. Or winter reads, since we are all confined to our homes anyway.

Shake it off

A friend told me last night that she was having work done on her deck — actually replacing it all except the support posts. “When it’s done, I am going to have a cookout or picnic,” she said. I’m not sure if she meant the deck or the pandemic. Either way, I admire her optimism.

We all want it to be over and done. But the conversation did remind me of a problem I had when I started my current WIP. Should I place the story in the midst of the pandemic in order to reflect “real life?” I played with the idea for awhile, even writing the first chapter with people wearing masks and social distancing.

I ditched the chapter and started over, for two reasons. One, maybe when this is over, no one will want to read about it. If they are like me, they’ll want to put it behind them as quickly as possible and resume where they left off over a year ago. Secondly, I quickly realized it would take a better writer than I am to bring all the characters together, which they need to be for crucial scenes.

I stole this from Facebook so can’t give credit. But it is so darn cute I had to share.

As for my second project, it is slow going. The audio file needs to be as near perfect as possible before submitting it. I have read the same chapter four or five times and still find something wrong — an inflection that doesn’t fit, changing the “voice” of a character midstream, or hearing a click or some other noise that doesn’t belong. Beware of wetting your lips while reading, it makes a sound you don’t want in your finished file! Also, chairs that squeak, your stomach rumbling, and that truck that has lost its muffler and goes by my house several times a day.

I am determined the finish both projects, the Lord willing. Because I am stubborn and because I have invested too much time in it to give up now. (I don’t mean you shouldn’t give up if something is going wrong and can’t be fixed, but these things can be corrected.)

One thing I learned is that what everyone says, read your work aloud before publishing, is true. As I read my PDF, I see so many typos that I blush to think I thought the ms. was as polished as it could be. It reminds me of the author who visited the libraries in every town he visited to covertly amend a final paragraph in his book.

I wouldn’t go that far, but I need to edit and reload the book before some well-meaning reader points out all its flaws.

On a final note, I held a tiny sparrow in my hand for about five minutes this morning. It had knocked itself silly against the deck door. I talked to it and stroked, telling it is was all right (I could see no damage to either wings or legs). Finally the tiny bird shook itself and flew off. A good omen, I think, that we will soon be able to shake ourselves off , resume our lives, and invite our friends to that cookout or picnic.

A little of this, a little of that

Yes, I have been A.W.O.L these past weeks. But I have been busy! so very busy!

So busy, in fact, that I have to wonder what, exactly, have I accomplished?

The truth is, I have jumped from activity to activity, somewhat like a water bug, landing nowhere for very long.

I have been writing and can say I passed the 100-page mark. The mystery is progressing,, but not as fast as I’d like because …

I am also working on the narration for an audible version of one of my books. I don’t have to tell you how often I have to stop and re-record because I sneeze or the phone rings or the cat is using her litter box. And no, I can’t put her out of the room while I record because she would just scratch at the door, demanding to be let in.

I have been meeting via Zoom for various church, community organizations, and clubs. I skipped one session this week because of Zoom fatigue (is that a thing?) and skipped another because the group preferred to meet via telephone. I tried it last time and couldn’t tell who was talking. Not for me.

Then there are the crafts. My x-stitch project is going so slowly I wonder if I will have the tenacity — and eyesight — to complete it. And my little pine needle basket is half done and looks to stay that way.

Not quite in the same category was painting the guest bedroom. That, at least, is finished and I have hung up the new pictures after a morning spent in measuring and measuring and still not getting them even.

Let’s not mention the long telephone calls to catch up with friends, the books to be read (I have become Kindle’s best customer) and the TV shows to watch: Netflix, Prime, Britbox, Disney, and a new venue gifted to me by my middle son, a firestick. So much to choose from.

I have spent hours on genealogy, fascinated with my ancestors and their stories. Thankfully, no ax-murderers — yet.

Now Amazon wants me to start promoting my books and telling me the many ways I can do this. Is it worth spending even more time pursuing this?

I realize I need to prioritize. I need to make a list of the most important projects and stick to it. But in these uncertain and unprecedented times (are you as sick of hearing those words as I am?), I find that I, along with many of my friends, remain unfocused.

Now that our country is gearing up to attack its problems in an orderly and focused manner, I hope I can do the same.

A little of this and a little of that leads to a whole lot of nothing at all.

Have a good week and above all, stay safe!

A picture of Daisy lying on my in-progress cross-stich project. Of course, she is lying on the completed part.

The False Calm

It’s a strange world we live in now, as I wrote the title to this post autocorrect changed ‘calm’ to ‘clam’ and I liked it. Mostly, I feel calm inside -that the nation will get back on its feet and Democracy will survive. I’ve limited my news to the news. And getting back to writing and painting, with the sole exception of the sub stack of Heather Cox.

Today’s read sent chills up my spine. The online chatrooms, the bravado of virtual threats and violence that preceded the insurrection on our capital. I kept thinking of the bullies in high school. How they would target people; how the football team and cheerleaders targeted mostly girls on the fringe. How the world revolved around a few privileged boys who played football, baseball, basketball or hockey -how supporting them became fanatical and cult like. In the 80s, there were so many movies like the Breakfast Club, these ‘jocks’ and their cheerleaders became a trope. There was always a happy ending, they released their hidden insecurities and everyone saw they were all more alike than them vs. us.

I was one of those on the fringe and couldn’t wait for it to be over. Along the way, I was told by art teachers and other well-meaning adults that it was all only temporary. Once I was 18, I was in charge of my life. I saw art school as my salvation -even if I had to do a tour in the Marines to get there. I never took the bullying to be a permanent place. I remember the song “Glory Days” and wondered what happened to these kids. I honestly assumed they’d grown up, raised kids, went to church and became the lawyers, dentists and doctors. I like to think most kids were like me, some lucky enough not to be targets but on the sidelines. I like to think we all grew up and forged our way.

I know it was a delusion and I was living in my own trope. PollyAnna with an edge. I joined the Marines, not really a place to wave your freak flag but I loved it. Every minute of every day I knew where I should be and what I should be doing. I still painted in the evening and dreamed of art school. I saw the occasional football hero and cheerleader in the Corps but they were as out of their element as everyone.

In art school, later college and afterwards in life, I saw that they still existed, the cliques, the clubs, the ‘those who won’t accept others’ groups. The difference was they no longer had any power over me. I put my head down and did my job, whatever it was at the time -caregiver to a dying husband, lame-ass step mom to adorable kids, clueless frigging widow in her 30s and now an old new Mom to a Tigger. They have always been here. The neighbors who are Southern Baptists and hate Catholics or TeaParty leaders who can’t figure out where to put me until they realize I can be ignored, that I have no interest in their club. I have some really good friends, one is my husband, some have slipped away but still a text away, others are only online but they are my anchors.

I don’t think I am that different from most people. I like to think there are a lot of us who are absolutely terrified of the dawning realization that the high school bullies have been simmering on the back burner. How stunning that people who spew hate online can actually realize their violent fantasies when they meet in ‘real’ life. I guess I always thought they would meet and laugh, see how silly they were.

Our world is sobering and they baby is crying for a morning clean diaper – me too if a clean diaper were a metaphor.

Lessons learned in elementary school

This morning I was thinking about the class elections we held in school, particularly elementary school. They didn’t mean much as far as any “governing,” but were frankly a popularity contest.

We took them seriously until they were over, and then we went back to arguing who held the title for the most jacks scooped up while bouncing a small rubber ball during recess.

We had rules for our elections. They weren’t written on the chalkboard, but we knew what they were.

First of all, you never, ever voted for yourself. I have no idea how this came about, but it was firm. The worst thing you could say about a winner was that she voted for herself.

I realize now that this is ridiculous. If you believe you’re the best candidate, of course you would vote for yourself. But we were kids, and this seemed to us the height of conceit. A leader should be modest and open to the idea that someone else might be just as good as we were.

The second rule was that once the votes were in, that was that. If you were disappointed, you kept it to yourself. If you grumbled about it not being “fair” you were called a sore loser. Not something anyone wanted to have tagged to their name.

The third rule was to remember that that there was always a next time. You could run again, maybe for another class office or an afterschool club. There were always opportunities to test your leadership,, particularly as we grew older and went to junior and senior high. We began to realize it wasn’t a popularity contest, and voted for the person we thought most capable. And yes, if that person was us, we cast our vote accordingly.

And if we lost, we shrugged it off and volunteered to help on committees.

I think we have forgotten the lessons we learned in school, and I’m not just talking about classes in government or civics, although I think those should be mandatory for every student starting at about the fourth grade with grave emphasis on the Constitution and what it means.

And perhaps it should be a mandatory sentence for those caught up in the sore loser mindset as well.

Good Intentions Meet Baby!

Well, I certainly chose the ^perfect^ year to have a baby. 2020… Moving to new house, Covid, surrogate adventures, selling house, driving back and forth to Florida, having a baby in a pandemic hotspot… and then everything that goes with a baby! I had such hopes to write, paint, organize new house, and dance like a fairy on a pin point.

this little, tiny human takes up a lot of office space!

I could easily write a book on any of the above adventures, if I had the time; but, wow, a baby! My friends have literally ROFL’d any mention of baby-brain, exhaustion, or lack of sleep, amid the covid fears. I’ve been told it eases up after 6 months, others say a year. On the 23rd of January, the Tigger is 6 months old and an absolute joyful, mysterious little human, so it’s comforting just knowing for now, things will eventually settle into a new manageable normal. Sleep is getting better for all three of us; and due to the pandemic, a zoom visit is the new normal with grandmother. Although, I might have to wait for hell to freeze over before I figure out the logistics of juggling formulas, diapers and laundry. Basically, our little human thinks footie pajamas are a uniform and my husband has taken to cutting off the feet if he accidentally tries to put on one she’s out-grown. Fancy dresses and endearing outfits are never worn because she grows so fast and there doesn’t seem to be a fancy dress event in this house. No going out, no. one coming in – visits to the doctor for shots are a big adventure.

It’s hard to fight baby brain – the snuggle is so addictive!

I wake in the middle of the night with an idea or plot solution for one of my WIPs but it just goes into the notes app on my phone. Several art projects are prepped and ready to start but they can wait. It’s not an agonizing decision, it doesn’t weigh too heavily on me, as her welfare and care is without question our new mission in life. It’s almost like a magical spell cast on our lives.

That said, she now naps in her room twice a day for at least 90 minutes and she is adjacent to my office, so I can actually do something. For the next six months, she still sleeps in our room, husband thinks it’ll be less time -we seem to bother her more than she bothers us. Another break is she really enjoys watching Teletubbies as I writer draw. Sitting at my computer and having time to actually do something feels so new – I find myself wandering the Internet, reading emails or erasing a ton of spam and it’s a treat. Discipline is elusive, when the little human is master of my time and interrupting me mid word for a bottle or clean diaper is one thing but changing clothes due to spit up is a new twist.

There is also the overwhelming temptation to take a nap when she does…