Love

Isn’t love a fascinating word? We overuse it, I think. I am no exception: I love this, I love that, people, places, things, activities. But perhaps it isn’t the word so much as is the occasion and intonation. I love you whispered in a lover’s ear is very different from hell yes I love these chips and dip. :-)

At this time of year I think more about romantic love. Interesting, isn’t it, that the idea of marrying for romance, attraction, and passion are relatively new concepts. In days of yore couples were assigned via their parents, or they married for purely practical reasons. Falling in love as a reason for marriage was foreign.

Romance as we know it was born around the time of the middle ages and courtly love; a young noble woman clutching the handkerchief of a great knight is etched in our universal memory. Of course, the woman was not married to the knight. Sometimes we forget that part. Our modern concept of romantic love has changed to mean having that twitterpated feeling towards our mate. Marrying without love today seems rather cold and calculating, at least in the western world.

Valentine customs reflect our obsession with falling in love. And while cards and gifts today are wonderful, often we get carried away with expense and over the top celebrations. If you are ever in an antique store, check out the Valentine’s Day cards and postcards. Their simple sentiments were often the only gift given by sweethearts. Here is a story I wrote a few years ago about vintage postcards. I won a prize with it in a Christmas contest, but I think it applies even better for Valentine’s Day.

*******************************************************************************

Season’s Greetings

Carolyn accepted the invitation to go antiquing, but her heart really wasn’t in it. It felt like a mercy invite. And she felt bad about the thought immediately.

Her friends Jane and Jerry had been nothing but supportive and helpful during her recent divorce, but that didn’t help Carolyn from feeling like a third wheel whenever the three of them were together. She assesed hew new apartment with a hardened gaze; there wasn’t space enough for anything else, even if she did find something wonderful.

She had purposely downsized when she’d left her married home, vowing to live uncluttered for once in her life. Even so, she’d come away with more than enough furniture and knickknacks to supply the apartment.

She pulled her coat close as she walked to her car; the cold wind was an unwanted reminder that the holidays were near. Just thinking about it was depressing. She sighed as she passed a window full of flashing lights. At least Jane hadn’t suggested a holiday outing.

The car started without a problem and Carolyn was grateful for that, as mechanical chores had always been her husband’s domain. She arrived at her friend’s home and pulled into the driveway. She sat there for a moment. The house shown warmly with multicolored lights, both inside and out. Carolyn hadn’t decorated and wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

She walked slowly up the sidewalk and was about to knock when Jane flung the door open. The scent of freshly baked cookies met Carolyn as she entered, and Jane gave her a big hug.

“I’m so glad you could come.”

Jerry appeared behind his wife. Carolyn felt a knot in her throat when he put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “Me, too…glad to have you along,” he said, somewhat awkwardly.

Carolyn pasted a smile on her face.

Jane, blessedly, was the chatty sort. On the way to the antique mall, she related what she and Jerry were looking for…antique ornaments, perhaps a set of glasses for their annual Yule party, and maybe a rocking chair if they could find one. Carolyn listened halfheartedly. Ornaments, parties, and rocking chairs seemed so domestic.

“What are you looking for?”

Carolyn almost jumped. “Um…what?”

Jane laughed. “What are you looking for at the mall…anything special?”

Carolyn suddenly felt peevish. She wanted to say she had no room for anything, she didn’t have much money, and why would she want to look for holiday items at a time like this, but she knew her friend meant well.

“I…I’m not sure. Anything that catches my eye, I guess.”

Jane nodded, seemingly pleased with her answer. Carolyn listened as Jane talked more about the party, even now constructing a plausible excuse for not coming. He would be there, and he wouldn’t be alone.

Tears almost sprang to her eyes thinking of her ex-husband, but she willed them away. It was done and over with. She sneaked a look at Jane, who was eyeing her suspiciously. Carolyn forced a smile, tired of feeling like a social leaper.

They spent the next few hours wandering through the mall, sometimes together, but most of the time Carolyn let Jane and Jerry get ahead of her. She caught them kissing under a faded wreath and wished fervently she’d stayed home. She grabbed the first thing she could find on a nearby desk, pretending she hadn’t seen them.

She was about to discard the stack of what she had thought were old photographs, when a bright bit of glitter caught her eye. She held one up and realized they were old postcards, not photos. She almost smiled at a skating scene, complete with Victorian couples drifting across the ice and gilt letters proclaiming “Joyous Christmas.” She rubbed her fingers across the surface and was surprised to find the glitter still intact.

“Whatcha got?”

She was still smiling when she looked up at Jane. “Oh, nothing…just an old postcard.”

She handed it to Jane, who studied it carefully. “You know, vintage postcards are really pretty. People collect them, you know. Especially the Christmas ones.”

Carolyn took it back. Postcards were small. They wouldn’t take up much room. She put it to the side and sorted through the others, but there were no more holiday specimens. In fact, there were no other holiday themed postcards anywhere else in the mall. Carolyn was somewhat disappointed, but still happy she had found something to collect.

Jane and Jerry paid for the box of old ornaments they’d found, and Carolyn gave exactly one dollar for her postcard. Jane invited her in for cookies and hot chocolate when they returned to the house, but Carolyn politely declined. A glass of wine sounded much better.

Home at last, she poured herself a generous serving and sat down at her kitchen table. She examined the postcard again. It truly was an exquisite piece of artwork. The skaters were delicately done, and upon exanimation she discovered even more details. Trees rimmed the frozen pond, and there was a fire burning merrily at the edge of the ice. A bench was set close to the flames, presumably there to warm the skaters. She looked closer. There was no one sitting at the bench. That was odd, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t someone be enjoying the fire?

Carolyn shook her head, almost laughing. It wasn’t a real scene. It was just a drawing. She went looking for an old photo album to house her new find. She knew it was empty, having dumped every picture out of it before moving.

But it wasn’t completely blank; one photo fell out as she opened the album. Tears streamed down her face as she gazed upon a seemingly happy couple in front of a heavily decorated tree. It had to be a holiday photo, she thought darkly.

Carolyn tore it to shreds, lighted her fireplace, and threw it in. She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a wish to find someone new, someone who would treasure her forever. She heard the fire pop and crackle. The wind whooshed down the chimney, throwing bright embers into the room.

She jumped back, then laughed at her silliness. It was just the wind, after all. Carolyn spent the next hour on eBay looking for vintage holiday postcards, but she couldn’t find any she liked. When her eyes grew heavy she closed down her computer, deciding she would visit another antique mall in the morning.

But she looked at the postcard once more and sucked in her breath: there was someone sitting on the bench beside the fire.

She shook her head. She was sure there hadn’t been anyone there, but then, it had been a long day. Perhaps she hadn’t looked closely enough the first time. Carolyn turned the card over. It was postmarked December fifteenth, 1918. The aristocratic script said simply, “Holiday wishes do come true.” It seemed an unusual message to send via a postcard. She flipped it over again, half expecting to see that something or someone had moved, but it was exactly the same; couples gliding across the smooth surface, and one lone figure at the fire.

Carolyn smiled at her apparently over-active imagination and went to bed, happier than she’d been in a long time. She awoke to a real anticipation at looking for more postcards. She knew it was probably silly to get this excited over a hobby, but glad of the feeling. It had been a long time.

She ate a quick breakfast and drove to the mall across town. The proprietor asked what she was looking for, and pointed towards the back of the mall when she told him. Carolyn found a huge box of old postcards, and spent the next hour happily sorting through them. She found a laughing Santa, a charming Victorian girl in an ermine-trimmed coat, and a gentleman standing in the doorway of an evergreen festooned house. The long ago sentiments echoing sweetly over time cheered her: “Be seeing you soon,” “My love to my dear granddaughter,” “Carolyn, I miss you so”…

Carolyn dropped the cards, a chill radiating through her body. What had that last card said? She picked it up carefully. It was the one with the man in front of the large house. Her hands shook as she read the words again, and turned it over. The man smiled back at her.

She laughed out loud. What exactly, had she expected? For the man to tip his hat? Invite her in? Carolyn looked through the rest of postcards, finally deciding on the one that had so amused her. She was still grinning when she paid for it. The proprietor reached under the desk and gave her a box of postcards he had forgotten about, commenting on her beautiful smile and happy outlook.

Carolyn thought it funny that anyone would think her happy, but did believe the postcards would be a good hobby. They made her smile and had somehow evoked her creative side. Her ex-husband had discouraged any kind of fanciful thinking, and she supposed her imagination, now let out of its cage, was running wild and free.

Upon her return she carefully placed both cards into her album, and poured a glass of wine. She started a fire and decided to spend the evening looking through the box of cards that had been given to her. Most were of the mundane variety…pastoral scenes, travel interest, and the like. Her hand touched something rough at the bottom of the box, and hoped what she was feeling was glitter.

And it was. In fact, there was so much of it the carpet sparkled as if covered in a light dusting of snow. She examined the card closely. A man sat next to decorated tree, a glass of wine held out as if toasting someone. Carolyn swallowed hard. Her heart beating rapidly, she opened the album, and shakily pulled out the card with the man in front of the house.

It was the same person.

She shut her eyes, and willed her heart to slow. It couldn’t be, she thought, my imagination truly is getting the better of me, maybe Jack was right…

Carolyn slammed the album shut. No. She wasn’t too fanciful. She wasn’t a space case. And she wasn’t stupid.

She picked up the card with the holiday tree again and turned it over, half expecting to see her name on this one too. But there was only a curious verse, which she read to herself:

Yuletide wishes do come true
Love can be ignited new
The flame that burns away the past
Can find the one to make love last

Carolyn carefully read the backs of the cards once more: Holiday wishes do come true, Carolyn, I miss you so, and read the strange verse again. She compared the second and third cards; it was the same man. She shivered and hugged herself. It was all a coincidence, she decided. Nothing more.

Carolyn, I miss you so…

She jumped and put her glass down, panicked. Someone was in the house. She checked the door and windows. She even looked in the closet, but no one was there. She poured the remainder of her wine down the drain. Fanciful thinking was one thing. Hearing voices boarded on crazy.

She heard distant singing and thought for a moment she was imagining that too, but realized it was only holiday carolers. She went to the window. It was snowing. Tears sprang to her eyes unbidden; a walk in the snow listening to carols would have been so romantic.

Carolyn walked to the fireplace and sank down in front of the fire, sobbing. A wind whistled down the fireplace, swirling the embers as it had when she had thrown in the last picture of her ex.
She grabbed the card with verse:

The flame that burns away the past…

She knew it was silly. Maybe even crazy. And perhaps destructive of her new hobby, but she felt compelled nonetheless. She threw the card into the flames. The glittering surface flashed brightly before it disappeared. Another card quickly joined the first. Carolyn hesitated for a moment before throwing in the last postcard; the scene of the skaters was her favorite. Finally she took a deep breath and threw it in. It hovered over the flames, then alighted gently on the hearth.

But there was no one there to see it.

***

Jane coughed as she dusted off the countertops in Carolyn’s apartment. She sniffed a little, vowing not to cry. It had been a year since her friend had disappeared. The authorities had finally proclaimed Carolyn missing, presumed dead.

She had been somewhat surprised when Carolyn’s lawyer told her she was the beneficiary of the estate, but then, her friend had no family to speak of. At least, none that she would leave anything to.

Jane finished her dusting and decided to light a fire to relax. Deciding what to keep and what to dispose of was both arduous and painful. She sank down by the fire and found an old postcard lying next to the hearth. She smiled, remembering how excited Carolyn had been starting her new collection. She picked it up, and realized it was the one her friend had bought the day they had all gone antiquing. Tears rolled down her face as she studied the quaint imagines of couples skating across the frozen pond, one couple warming their hands by a nearby fire. She flipped over the card on an impulse, and her heart stopped when she read the words:

Dear Jane, I’m happy. Love, Carolyn.

She sat there as if frozen until a wind whistled down the chimney, sweeping the card away from her and into the flame. It sparkled red and green before turning to ash.

She shook her head. It couldn’t be. It was just the stress of cleaning out the apartment. She stood up and started dusting furiously. There had been something else too, something Jane had seen just before the card had blown out of her hand. She shivered, even though the room was warm.

The fire by the edge of the frozen pond had been flickering.

And the man and woman sitting on the bench were waving.

More Favorite Things

No, this is not another rant about agents. These favorite things are mine and mine alone, although all writers have them. I’m talking about over used words, phrases, and constructions. Everyone is guilty.

I’m back into editing that last novel. It’s not my fault. See, there were all those holidays. I started another book. And I had some other money making work to do. All big fat juicy excuses. So now here I am again.

In a nutshell here is my editing process. I first read it over for big hunks: obvious mistakes, errors in continuity, dumb conversations, unneeded paragraphs, additions that perhaps were in my head but never made it to the page. Then I read it again for grammar, spelling (no, spell check doesn’t get them all), and punctuation.

Then comes my absolute favorite part, searching for overuse. I begin with what every author should look for, such as “to be” verbs. Sometimes was is just a was as Freud would say, but often you could use a more interesting verb. But you can’t go too crazy, especially with conversations or if you are writing in first person. No one says “I ambled to the grocery store.” Another look-see for any writer is too many descriptors. For example, sometimes “slightly” is needed, such as “she turned her head slightly and at that moment I knew a gun was in her pocket,” but most times you can safely eliminate those sorts of adjectives.

So I do that. Then I come to my personal favorites. Because I use first person a lot, I’m especially fond of human action words instead of conversations: smiled, nodded, frowned, bit her lip, shrugged, crossed arms, and the like are all overused by yours truly. A sprinkling of them, fine, but when my characters are constantly head bobbing and crossing and uncrossing their arms it can be distracting, not to mention messy from all those bitten lips. So I search for those. Sometimes a nod conveys so much; too embarrassed or overcome to speak, or simply the natural flow of conversation. We humans use lots of non verbal communication. However…I’ve noticed that sometimes a nod is a lazy way out when a conversation would have worked much better.

And after all of that I get to look for my favorite punctuations and sentence constructions, because I have them too. Sigh. It’s hard work, but very necessary. Favorite words and sentences take your readers out of the story.

And so contemplating the above paragraphs, your heroine bit her lip, slightly stretched, and got back to work. She frowned. Editing was not fun. But necessary. She smiled and nodded to herself. Soon the book would be finished...

Being Human

Unlike me, my husband has always been a writer; whether it was fanciful role playing, high school projects, or short stories, Gary has always woven words into compelling charters and beautiful prose.

He’s also always wanted to publish a novel.

Imagine then, how he felt when his wife just decided one day she also wanted to write. The first book she ever wrote was published. And the next. And the next. Along with many short stories. Sure, she had setbacks. Disappointments. But while he toiled away on his first book, his wife seemingly zoomed ahead. Publishing more and more. Collecting quarterly checks. Continuing to write books.

Saying that, Gary has never been anything but supportive and happy for me. He’s rejoiced when I’ve published. Taken me out to dinner. Listen to me blather on. But there was a note of sadness there too. Not jealousy or envy; those words denote wanting to take something someone has. He was never that. What I perceived was wistfulness. I understood. But understanding is not quite like experiencing it yourself.

Remember in a post or so ago I said how much I wanted an upfront payment for a book? How that would allow me to feel as if I had really made it? Gary received that this week. It’s not the money. I’m fine with royalties. It’s what it represents. And the universe took that longing and spoke through someone (who shall remain nameless) saying: “wow, Gary did with his first book what you’ve never done.” Ouch.

So now I understand. I’m so happy for him I could burst. But I’m also…wistful.

Writers can live on the edge of joy and sadness depending on many factors; a sale, representation, rejection, kind words, cruel statements. It sometimes feels as if my soul is at the whim of the wind, blowing his way and that, happiness dependent on someone who has all the power.

But that is false. And psychically dangerous. When you place your soul in someone else’s hands it is inevitable at some point a knife will enter. An important lesson for everyone, but perhaps more so for writers. Being published hangs on so many things. Skill of course, but also relevance and dare I say, luck. If you want to be a published author and keep your sanity, you must continue to believe in yourself no matter how many setbacks you have or how long you have to wait.

And let's talk about something else. Writers usually know other writers. Sometimes we even marry one. :-) Being published feels wonderful. But it is fleeting. Because even if you are Stephen King, you are only as good as your last book as far as society goes. Friends, family, and your mate will love you no matter how many books you have published. Or not published. This is especially important if a writer shares his or her life with another writer.

You will never have identical success. There will always be wistfulness when the other achieves a milestone you want. You might even have an evening of self doubt like I did when Gary told me his good news.

But he understood, perhaps in a way only another writer can understand. I gave myself a day of wallowing. Then I packed up my latest novel and sent it off.

When he gets home we will celebrate like there’s no tomorrow. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because he’d do it for me. Because I’m proud of him.

But mostly because I love him.

Creativity

I have found that most creative people have more than one outlet. (And I would argue that everyone has a creative talent, although that is for another post.) For example, I write, but I also draw, play a couple of instruments, and dance.

My niece Ruthie also writes, she sings, plays an instrument, and participates in the theatre. I say "participate" because she doesn't just act, she directs, does the lighting, and helps with the sets.

At this point you may be waiting for my usual reason for the post. Am I encouraging writers to have different creative outlets? Am I supporting multiple creative endeavours? Yeah. Let's say that.

Or as a good friend often says, who am I kidding? I'm proud of my niece. Here she is. (Bottom, second from right.) Visit the website. See the play if you're in the area. It's a great little playhouse, and of course, Ruthie is star quality.

I'm NOT biased. Well, maybe a little. But she IS fab. Go. You'll see.

http://www.buckcreekplayers.com/

My Favorite Things

Feel free to sing along:

Me in my pjs awaiting an answer
Could it be I have word smithing cancer
Waiting around for a note from afar
Maybe I should be alone in a bar…
When “dear author” comes
Or “not right for them”
When I’m feeling bad,
I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feeeeeel…so bad.

Sigh. Did I say getting an agent was hard? So here’s how it goes. You first get a quick slew of heartfelt notes titled “Dear Author.” The good part is it’s obvious no one read the query, so at least you know they don't think your story sucks. The bad part is… no one read the query. Then you get some “this sounds cool but not right for me.” Maybe they are lying about the cool part, but at least a human read it. But still, no agent.

Then you sit patiently for a couple of weeks before sending out another batch. That’s what I’m doing, in the hopes someone will want to read chapters. Most agents don’t write back if they don’t want it. So I’m waiting. But I don’t like it.

But back to my favorite things. Tomorrow is my birthday. I love my special day, which hasn’t diminished over the years. If anything I’m worse now than I ever was, claiming the entire month to myself. I call it Kelly’s Birthday Season.

So even though finding an agent is depressing, I still love my life. I have many things I look forward too, even though I’m at that age I imagined was near death as a kid.

I think a happy attitude is good for everyone, maybe especially for writers. It’s hard. It’s frustrating. But you can’t put your life on hold just because an agent has put your book on hold.

Yeha!!! I can’t wait for tomorrow!!!

And to anyone who's not yet gotten me a gift, a boat trip would be nice. I want the swans though.

To Agent Or Not To Agent

And that most certainly is the question most writers face at some point in their careers. There are many benefits to having an agent: access to publishers who only allow agented submissions, marketing of your work, inside knowledge of the publishing world, helpful improvement advice, and of course if you’re lucky, a sale somewhere that actually gives authors upfront cash. Something I’ve never had, sigh. Not that I’m complaining. I’m grateful for my checks every quarter. Very grateful.

But somehow an upfront wad o’ cash means I’ve really made it…a publisher is giving me money based on what he or she thinks my book could produce. Heady stuff. Not to mention helpful in bill paying.

But back to the agent question before my pitcher of milk becomes spilt and curdled. Is there a down side to having an agent? Well, agents do have to make a living just like writers. They will take a percentage of your earnings, but only AFTER they have made a sale. This is an important point. Any agent who offers representation in exchange for cash, RUN. They will and rightly should pass along some expenses incurred while they were marketing your work such as long distance phone calls, postage, etcetera, but no agent worth his or her salt should bill you BEFORE a sale.

Taking a percentage of your sale is not a bad thing. Consider this: if someone is going to make money off a sale of your book, that person is going to work really really hard to sell it. And that leads to the second bad thing about obtaining an agent…it’s hard.

I like to think of it as the old Star Trek episode, Mudd’s Women. Remember poor Norman? Mr. Spock caught him in a logic loop so heinous Norman, an android, exploded. That’s sorta like getting an agent. Most times they won’t take you unless you have a proven track record, yet without an agent it’s hard to get that long list of publishing credits.

I tried to get an agent with my very first book. After hundreds of rejections which are just as painful as publisher ones I might add, a kind soul told me that he only represented (in his literary speak not my words) really famous people. He also added that I wrote well, “now go get some experience and creds.” He meant go get myself published.

So I did. I’ve learned what is popular. I’ve improved my writing technically. My skin is hard and callused from all the rejections, ha ha. Now I’m ready to try again.

The internet makes it harder and easier to find an agent. Harder because unscrupulous agencies thrive behind slick looking sites. Easier because you can usually submit electronically.
The Writer’s Market, who I have posted about before, has lists of agents. This is a great place to start, but they do charge a fee. Editors and Predators is a fabulous free site. Many agents…and publishers…do not like this site because they have, gasp, the audacity to state Bad Things about bad people and agencies. They are rather like the You Tube of the literary world, displaying rude and dishonest behavior for the world to see. So I started there and found a useful site they recommended called Agent Query.

http://www.agentquery.com/

I’m going to start at the top and work my way down. Usually with agents you can simultaneously query, but once you send in a manuscript it’s just like a publisher…they have exclusive rights while they decide if they want it or not. That sucks for writers, but looking at it from their viewpoint I do understand. They are taking precious resources and time to read…your stuff.

Saying that, even though you may simultaneously query is NOT a good idea to write a blanket letter, cc everyone, and push send. Why? First, what kind of impression will you make if you do not even use the person’s name? People, even agents, want to feel special. Like you picked their agency over all the hundreds of others. We all know writers look at multiple agents just like agents look at multiple writers, but at least keep the semblance of politeness. Second, make sure the agency represents what you are selling. Don’t send a romance to someone who only represents mysteries. Third, every agency, like each publisher, has specific submission guidelines. Follow them. They get thousands of queries. If yours doesn’t look like what they stated, they won’t even read it. You can start with a draft and then tailor to fit.

Here I go.

Wish me luck.