A Change of Mind and Other Stories by Nick Wilford

A Change of Mind and Other Stories consists of a novella, four short stories, and one flash fiction piece. This collection puts the extremes of human behaviour under the microscope with the help of lashings of dark humour, and includes four pieces previously published in Writer’s Muse magazine.

In A Change of Mind, Reuben is an office worker so meek and mild he puts up with daily bullying from his boorish male colleagues as if it’s just a normal part of his day. But when a stranger points him in the direction of a surgeon offering a revolutionary new procedure, he can’t pass up the chance to turn his life around.

But this isn’t your average surgeon. For a start, he operates alone in a small room above a mechanic’s. And he promises to alter his patients’ personality so they can be anything they want to be…

In Marissa, a man who is determined to find evidence of his girlfriend’s infidelity ends up wondering if he should have left well alone.

The Dog God finds a chink in the armour of a man with a megalomaniacal desire to take over the world.

In The Insomniac, a man who leads an obsessively regimented lifestyle on one hour’s sleep a night finds a disruption to his routine doesn’t work for him.

Hole In One sees a dedicated golfer achieving a lifelong ambition.

The Loner ends the collection on a note of hope as two family members try to rebuild their lives after they are torn apart by jealousy.

Bio

Nick Wilford is a writer and stay-at-home dad. Once a journalist, he now makes use of those rare times when the house is quiet to explore the realms of fiction, with a little freelance editing and formatting thrown in. When not working, he can usually be found spending time with his family or cleaning something. Nick is also the editor of Overcoming Adversity: An Anthology for Andrew. You can find him hanging out on his blog or on Goodreads or Twitter.

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Title:  A Change of Mind and Other Stories

Author:  Nick Wilford

Genre:  Contemporary speculative fiction

Cover Design:  Rebekah Romani
Release Date:  May 25^th 2015

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A Note from Nancy

It's been a very long time since I posted here. The writing life has utterly consumed me, and I find time for little else these days. (I'm working on my third novel, another thriller, but hot, hot HOT in the romance department! Seems once you publish, you have to keep churning stories out so your readers don't forget you.  And they have short memories and voracious appetites, so my beloved blog has suffered for it.  

I miss all my blogger friends dearly. I wish I had time to make the rounds and see what everyone is up to.  Many of you are on Facebook, so I see you often.  Others are not, and therefore, I miss what they're up to.  I worked hard to build up a following here, and I don't want to give my blog up completely.  

So, if any of you would like to ever post here, please contact me via email at acadia1997@msn.com and use the subject line: MAY I BORROW YOUR BLOG?  Then send me whatever you want and I'll schedule a post at your direction. 

Blogging vs. Writing vs. Life

            I’ve been noticing a trend of late.  Quite a few of my Blogger friends, and others I follow, have cut back in their blogging.  Some were prolific bloggers who just couldn’t (or didn’t want to) keep up with posting every day.  Others were being forced into the meat grinder of nasty email replies and mean-spirited comments thus diminishing their spirit and prior enthusiasm for blogging.  A couple had book deals and deadlines that loomed overhead and so blogging was the furthest thing from their mind.  And still others were so absorbed into posting, and more importantly, commenting on their follower’s blogs that it left them little time to write themselves.  I fall into this last category.

            I’ve said quite a few times that I often find blogging tiresome.  It’s hard for me to find a unique topic that hasn’t been covered a thousand times in other writer blogs, and I’m pretty inexperienced so I don’t imagine that I would have enough to say of an educated nature when it came to writing or publishing.

It’s been nearly a year since I started my blog and in that time I’ve usually written about my own experiences and opinions about writing, querying, and trying to get published.  I’ve chosen not to write about my personal life or family unless it somehow related directly to my writing or blogging.  This makes the material I want to write about limited.  I’ve cut down my posting to once a week, but even that seems difficult at times.  And all during the week, I worry about what I should post about next.  It’s sucking the life and enjoyment I experience when writing.    

            Right now, I’m in the process of starting my next project, my new novel.  When I wrote my first novel, The Mistaken, I had no distractions whatsoever.  I wasn’t writing to get published.  I didn’t know I even wanted to write an entire novel, let alone try to get published.  I just knew I had this story that wanted to get out.  So I wrote.  Everyday.  For three months.  First on my outline then the story itself.  It was intensely pleasurable.  And when I was done, I was excited to take the next step.  That’s when I read that writers need to have a platform.

I wasn’t even sure what that meant, but I started my blog as a means of creating a presence, but it immediately started to feel like a popularity contest.  I felt like I was back in my all-girls Catholic high school filled with rich kids who drove BMWs and Mercedes while I tooled around in my mother’s thirteen-year-old faux-wood-paneled station wagon. 

I kept at it though and I made some great friends and even garnered a few followers of my own.  That felt good.  But part of having a presence, building a platform, is assembling an army of followers who are both interested in what you have to say and might even buy your book someday if you ever manage to get an agent who can sell it to a publisher. 

This army building takes time.  A lot of time.  And a lot effort.  You have to troll through all the blogs and make friends and leave comments.  I do this sporadically and when I do, I tend to gain a few followers here and there.  I love that, seeing my follower count blip upward.  I love reading all the interesting things my friends have to say, and they say it all so much more eloquently than I.  But all this worrying and reading and commenting has taken away time from what I really want to do:  write another novel. 

I want to go back to the days when I couldn’t wait to get up in the morning and sit at my computer and type.  I want to allow myself time to focus on my idea, to transform my premise into a plot with struggle and conflict.  Most all of my Blogger friends have regular day jobs and families to care for.  I don’t how they do it, work all day, come home and take care of the family then find time to develop an idea and write about it. 

Now, I have my own design company, but because of the economy, work has been limited.  Lately, however, I have had a near-constant stream of work to see to, deadlines to meet, clients to make happy.  I also have a sixteen-year-old son who is preparing for his last SAT this Saturday, which is also the day when all the college applications open up for Fall admission.  Yes, I know this is something that he should be doing on his own, but I will help him in every way possible. 

Trying to fit in time to write on my new project has fallen victim to all of this:  to querying agents, to keeping up with my friend’s blogs, to helping my son with his college preparation, to work.  It’s a difficult distraction and I’m frustrated that I can’t find the time to do it all, especially write my novel. 

Though I do understand how important it is to build a platform, I think it’s even more important to focus on the work, the writing.  If, by some miracle, I do land an agent, I want to show that I have more than one book in me, that I’m serious about this new career.  If that agent happens to get a publisher’s interest, I want to show that I’m worthy of a two-book deal or better.  And I don’t want to worry about that second book.  I want to know that it’s well developed and coming along before I have to focus back on revising the first book. 

Most importantly, though I love my first book and think (and hope) it’s good enough to publish, it seems that most writers don’t publish their first novel.  They chalk it up to time well spent learning the craft and gaining experience.  So I have to have another in the pipeline.  I can’t imagine ever being so in love with any other characters as I am with those in my first novel, but I am hoping to have a similar experience with this second one, so who knows, maybe it will be better and I will fall even more in love with them. 

I think most of the writers I’ve come to love have only gotten better as they’ve written more.  I certainly know all the rules now, whereas I didn’t the first time around.  But I know my limitations, and in order for me to write the best story possible, I need to focus.  This might mean I don’t come around as often to comment.  It certainly means I might not be posting as often.  And I know I won’t likely be recruiting any new followers. 

Something’s gotta give.  It can’t be my son, and I need the money so it won’t be the occasional work.  But what am I gonna do?  I gotta write.

So I ask you, how do you mange to write your WIP, work your day job, take care of the family, and still have the time, energy, and commitment to blog?                             

Mid-life: Crisis or Celebration?

            While watching the Today Show this morning, I saw a story about mid-life crisis.  My attention was instantly glued to the tube because I have unexpectedly been suffering from such a malady.  Before a few months ago, I never really understood what that was all about.  I had this vague idea that it was something men went through in their late 40’s or so.  They would often dump their high-school sweetheart wife for a newer, younger version.  Or they would trade in their practical sedan for a brand new Corvette or Porsche.  I believed it was about their fear of stagnation.  Had they accomplished what they thought they would by that age?  If not, well then they would shake up their lives in an effort to feel better about themselves.    

            I never really worried about aging too much myself.  I never saw anything wrong or unattractive about a man going bald or a few wrinkles around a woman’s eyes or mouth.  I thought it created more character in a person.  I know a lot of folks are obsessed with their looks and how age is progressing across their face and bodies.  I guess I don’t worry about it too much because I have pretty good genes and have aged rather well, at least on my face.  No wrinkles yet though I am forty-seven years old.  Most people cannot believe how old I really am.  I can mostly thank my parents for that.  And while I think I have more than my fair share of age spots on my face, it doesn’t bother me too much.  I’d love to be thin again, of course, but I enjoy life too much on a day to day basis to put too much effort into losing weight when it is a battle waged against a chronic metabolic disorder.  It’s futile war I will likely never win.  So why try too hard.  I’m healthy regardless.

            So it came as a great surprise a few months ago when I started to have these feelings of inadequacy.  Now, like a lot of people these days, my job has been greatly affected by the terrible economy.  I work in the new home building industry, and in California no less.  I consider my industry to be the canary in the coal mine.  The first indicator of a downturn is often felt in new home construction.  So it’s been a great setback for me since not many new homes have been built in California over the last 3+ years.  I suppose my lack of work has considerably chipped away at my sense of usefulness and self-esteem.  But a year ago, I decided to try something new, something I’ve never done before.  I decided to write a novel. 

            I love writing in general and I loved writing that novel in particular.  It was so exciting to live vicariously through my characters, experience their heartaches and loss, their joys and triumphs.  And when it was complete, I felt a great sense of accomplishment.  Not a lot of people can say they’ve written a book.  But then came the hard part, trying to find an agent for my novel.  When I started researching for this stage, I found I was competing with mostly young people, people in their mid to late twenties.  The older folks had already had years of experience and several published books beneath their belts.  I was a newcomer at forty-seven, with no experience, and no other product but the one I had just finished.  I felt like a mother who had spent the last twenty years at home with the kids and was now trying to re-enter the work force.  Who is going to consider me when there are so many bright, young, fresh faces out there, faces with creative writing degrees behind them, not a twenty-some year old design degree?  That’s been a rather cold, wet slap in the face, a sour dose of reality I had not foreseen.  How do I compete?

            Apparently, only ten to twenty percent of the population experiences a mid-life crisis.  They often try to spice up their lives by doing something they’ve never done before, like climbing a mountain or, as one woman in the Today Show piece said, write a book.  Funny that she would turn her crisis around by writing a book while it’s been writing my book that has turned my life into a crisis.  So even while residing in the minority, that ten to twenty percent, I’m still in an even greater minority, someone whose mid-life crisis is caused by spicing up my life.  Great.  Perfect.  How typical of me. 

            I must admit, I have been asking myself those questions so many other mid-life crisis sufferers ask:  Who am I?  What am I besides a wife?  A mother?  It was that “ah-ha moment” of profound discovery that led me into crisis instead of out of it.  So what to do, what to do?  Most of the time, that “ah-ha moment” is one in which we wonder how much time we have left and what we are going to do with that time.  How do I adjust my life to make my remaining years more fulfilling?  I can only come up with one answer since, apparently, I have been going about this all backwards:  keep trying.  Keep moving forward.  Keep reaching for that dream no matter how far out of reach it may seem.  I think the longer I have to wait and the harder I work to attain that dream, the sweeter the payoff will be.  The more rewarding it will feel. 

            As we get older, our dreams and aspirations change.  They evolve.  When we are young, we want to get into the best college so we can get the best job.  When we get that job, we aspire to meet the love of our life and have the perfect family.  We hope our children will reach their full potential, providing proof that we were successful at the most difficult job on earth:  parenting.  Then we send them off on their own path of dreams.  But who are we at that point?  With all the big dreams behind us, what new dreams will we reach for?  I suppose it doesn’t really matter exactly what those dreams are, as long as we know what direction we want to go in.  Having a dream pushes us forward, keeps us motivated to get out of bed each day.  The road to our dream is often difficult and full of potholes and roadblocks, but if it was smooth and clear all the time, perhaps we would not find as much fulfillment in the accomplishment. 

            So I know when I finally reach my goal of being published, whether it’s with my current book or the next one I will write or the one thereafter, I can look back and say it was all worth it.  I will get over that hump of mid-life crisis and the downhill ride will be fun rather than anticlimactic because the battle to make it over the crest was hard won.  And the pot of gold at the end very shiny.  

A Great Opportunity

           As many of you already know by my near-constant complaining about how demoralizing I find the road to publication to be (sorry about that, by the way), I have been on a roller coaster ride for the last few months—or more accurately, for the last year.  Last spring, I had this crazy idea to write a novel and I completed that task and rejoiced at the accomplishment because, let’s face it, not many people accomplish such a thing, at least none that I know.  Of course, that was just the beginning.  I found out that the original draft was nowhere near ready for the next step, which was querying for a literary agent.  So I worked with an assortment of critique partners—other writers in the same boat as I was—and polished my manuscript to a crisp spit shine.  Another major accomplishment, considering how much the narrative changed, and another rise on the roller coaster ride.

            I started querying in earnest—which I see as on the down slope because I hate it doing it—and received several requests for fulls and partials.  Yay!  Big ride up on that roller coaster.  Then came the ride down, for not only was I receiving near daily rejections to my query, I also received rejections for all but one of those requests, too.  I’m almost too afraid to contact the last agent to find out what he thinks.  I realize that if he liked it, he would have contacted me again to request more pages.  So down, down, down I go on the big, scary roller coaster. 

But I did have to take a break when I received a request for an exclusive read and while she ultimately turned me down, I found that break refreshing.  It was the flat part of the ride, the part where you get your bearings and take a breath in anticipation of the next hill or dip.  And while I have not been querying at all during this flat part of the ride, I have continued to read and comment on writer and agent blogs.  And, again as many of you know by past posts, one of my absolute favorite bloggers is the incomparable Anne Mini .   

            Her blog is very different from most bloggers out there.  She freely offers advice—a lot of advice—to writers pursuing their dream of becoming published authors.  As Anne admits, many find her blog posts a tad long-winded, and while she does generate an inordinate amount of words per post, I consider each one a gold nugget to be snatched away and horded with greedy pleasure.  You just cannot pass up that kind of advice and disregard it.  She is, after all, a published author with a boatload of awards and degrees and accolades, not to mention that she makes her living editing books for publication.  Why would anybody want her to be brief when sharing her hard earned information?  In fact, I find she raises questions in me that require I comment in order to alleviate my concern or confusion.  Yeah, I probably comment too much.  I often wonder if she cringes whenever she sees my name pop up at the bottom of her posts.  But if she does, she doesn’t show it and she always answers my questions or comments on my opinion.  

            Last week, she continued her series on pet peeves in material submitted to literary agencies.  She expressed how important it is for a writer who wants their story to be read in full by the agent to construct a first page with conflict while introducing the main character and telling the reader what the book is all about.  The way I read her post, I determined that she was advising us to start our novel off with a big bang, a blockbuster explosion, so to speak, to grab the attention of a tired, over-worked, bleary-eyed literary agent’s assistant—Anne refers to them as Millicents—who is the first obstacle a writer encounters on their way to the ultimate gatekeeper, the agent herself. 

This advice kind of took me aback and I commented to Anne:  “It seems like we should be tailoring our early content for the sole benefit of an over-worked, bleary-eyed, impatient Millicent so that she doesn’t hurl our beloved pages into the trash. It doesn’t seem right to fashion our stories in this manner. It feels much like pandering to me. I’d like to believe that Millicent doesn’t need the blockbuster explosions in line five of chapter one just to pull her into the story. Surely she is more sophisticated than that.” 

Anne advised me that that is just the way it is.  So I briefly explained the content of my first chapter—which actually reads more like a prologue, but prologues are out of fashion these days, so chapter one it is.  And my chapter one is only two-thirds of a page long, introduces the main character and delves into exactly what the story is about:  Can a good man who has been affected by outside forces to do an unspeakably bad thing, redeem himself and find the man he once was?  This leads into chapter two which does, in fact, have conflict, or so Anne judged by my description. 

            But a funny thing happened in our discourse over this issue.  She wrote me a personal email explaining that she was “intensely curious” about how I had structured my novel.  Since it would be difficult for her to give me further advice without actually seeing the pages, she had a proposition for me.  She wrote:  “Would you be willing to allow me to use the first two chapters as an example on the blog?  That way, I could give you specific feedback on a structure that does sound as though it might give some Millicents pause, and it might provoke some interesting discussion…It would involve a certain amount of bravery, but my gut feeling is that a professional reader might respond quite differently to these pages than a room full of writers.”

            Well, uh…hell yeah!  Of course I would love to provide my first two chapters to someone I admire and respect who, in turn, would evaluate its content, therefore making it better.  That was my first reaction.  Then I focused in on her words about it taking a certain amount of bravery on my part because, as she states, her “blog has a surprisingly large readership amongst Millicents and in publishing houses.”   Ooooh, scary!!  No really.  Scary!  But these are the exact people I want to read my pages.  These are the folks who determine what is read, what is voted on, who is contracted and what gets published in America today.  Yes, they just might ream me out, tear me a new you-know-what, embarrass me, humiliate me, ground me into the cold, hard earth, turn me into dust, a quivering mass of tears and nerves.  But they also might just make my content better which could, at some point, lead to another agent reading my material in full.  I would be insane NOT to want that. 

            Yes, I am afraid.  Very afraid.  When people have the chance to critique without being seen, they can be, and often are, fairly brutal.  They don’t hold back.  And since I have suffered a bit at the end of the rather large stick of rejection lately, I am concerned about just how hard I might take their criticism, but in the end, it’s all about making the book better, about getting read.  And Anne added that “It's never a bad idea to have those people know one's name!” 

            So here I go.  I’ve already submitted my first two chapters—about four pages total—to Anne.  She says it will be a few weeks since she is under a deadline to get a current client’s book edited for editor number three at Random House.  (God, how I envy that author who has Anne Mini editing her words!)  I don’t know what will happen.  At the very least, I pray that I receive advice that will turn my first pages into something that will eventually catch Millicent’s eye, that she will want to tell her agent boss about it, who will then be so intrigued as to request more pages.  So I consider this a big ride up on that roller coaster.  And while I do worry about the part where I come down, I know that part down can be a lot of fun if I look at it in the right way. 

My skin is getting thicker with each rejection, especially after the personal ones, the ones where the agent read my full manuscript only to turn me down without any real advice on how to make it better.  I guess I wouldn’t mind the rejections if they came with some constructive criticism.  But that’s not the way it works any more.  The agents and Millicents are simply too busy.  So this step with Anne, however big and scary, is one way in which I might actually receive some constructive criticism—constructive being the operative word here.  So, am I crazy to go through with this?  Perhaps, but I’m just telling myself to check my sanity at the door and enjoy the ride.         

      

Everyone Needs a Champion

Let's face it, I'm lost.  I don't even know how to get started finding my way back home.  For some reason, I decided to take a path with no roadmap.  And when I started, I didn't know anyone else in my life who had ever taken that road before.  So there I was, blindly barreling down an unmarked, uncharted road with no idea where it ended or the places I would travel through along the way.  I can tell you one thing.  It's a lonely road.  Sparsely traveled.  

I don't know what it is I'm searching for while I travel this road.  Some kind of fulfillment.  Another soul, perhaps, to ease the loneliness.  It's seems counterintuitive, choosing a lonely road in order to find someone to ease my loneliness.  And I can tell you, I am afraid.  Some days I wish I could just die already.  Because it would be so much easier to give up, to let God hold my hand and pull me along.  It seems so much easier than paddling against the current of my life.   

That road I'm traveling feels a lot like the edge of knife and I'm trying to find something to help me balance myself so I don't fall off.  And I feel compelled to rush along that edge instead of taking each step slowly and finding my balance before I take another step.  I mean, have you ever seen someone on a tightrope or a narrow tree that has fallen across a raging river?  The person crossing always seems to practically run across the bridge.  Running seems easier, doesn’t it?  That they are less likely to fall off?  Well, I think that’s my ignorance rushing me along.  My ignorance is my greatest enemy.  It’s like a road sign turned around the wrong way.  Or better yet, it’s like that person on the side of the road you ask for directions, only they don’t have a clue though they point and speak anyway, sending you on a wild goose chase.

I hate being lost.  I feel so out of control.  Lost and lonely.  Is there anything worse?  Probably not, but I have found a few things out along the way.  Though they are not right beside me on the road, I have a few champions who often help me out, shouting out directions or calling me up so that I have a familiar voice to coax me along, urging me to not give up.  It’s too easy to just plop down where I am and hang my head in my hands.  But when those voices call out to me, I sigh and pull myself back up.  It’s still not easy.  It takes a lot more effort to pull myself back up than it would have if I never stopped to begin with.  And I’m still a bit lonely, but knowing I have a few champions in my corner really helps motivate me, keeps me moving along, to find the end of the road and learn from the mistakes I’ve made along the way.  

I have my friends here in town who pat me on the back and reassure me that there are other agents to query, who might be interested in reading my full manuscript even though two have already taken a pass.  Yes, that’s right.  Super Agent X, the one I spoke of here, turned me down.  She was very pleasant, made a few complimentary remarks about strong elements to the narrative and had nothing bad to say except that she didn’t think she could market it as effectively as I would like.  At first, I thought, well I knew that was coming.  I thought I was prepared.  Boy, was I wrong. 

This second rejection on my full manuscript hurt much worse than the first since I had garnered it without any help from anyone along the way.  It was a crushing blow and it devastated me.  So much so that for the first time in my life—and that’s a not so short span of years—I was driven to drink, to drown my sorrows.  For the first time in my life, I took shots of hard alcohol.  Almost as if I was following in the footsteps of my poor misguided protagonist.  How ironic is that?  Funnier still, even though I drank at least half of that bottle of Silver Patron myself, I barely even caught a buzz.  There must be some lesson in there somewhere, right?  Maybe it’s that I should not allow myself to be thrown from the course, even if I am lost.  So here I am, picking myself back up, brushing myself off and craning my ear for those voices, the champions who occasionally shove me from the shoulder back onto the road. 

My husband is one of those champions, though he’s had his faltering moments, as well.  He tries to be stoic and support me even though he’s quite tired of seeing me cry.  He’s the one I have at home whom I see everyday, who gives me a smile and says, “Well, fuck her.  She’s not the only agent out there.”  I know it’s not easy for him either because he cannot be there beside me on the road.  He cheers me on from a distance, unable to steer me the right way because he has no clue which way that is.  But still, he is there. 

My true GPS is my friend, Lisa.  I have spoken of her many, many times.  She is my compass, my true north.  As I’ve said before, I would be completely lost without her, without any hope of finding my way.  She is the only one who also travels this road.  And while she does not stand beside me for the simple reason she is further down the road than I am, she does leave me breadcrumbs along the way. 

She’s been lost on the road many times and for a very long time, but she recently acquired a map in the form of an agent.  So she knows the roadblocks I am experiencing, the stalls and flat tires that slow me down.  She’s experienced them all.  And she cautions me, too.  She’s the big yellow sign that says watch for falling rocks ahead.  Sometimes I’m too busy keeping my head down to take notice and when I fall, Lisa is always, always there to pick me back up, brush me off, turn me back in the right direction and shove me along.  She is my truest champion and has never faltered even once. 

I know it is because she has been there and done that.  But it’s more than just a shove she offers.  Lisa is my one-man cheering squad.  She keeps telling me my book is great and could easily be on a bookseller’s shelf, that it has no problems to speak of.  She says it’s just a matter of finding that one agent who will become my next champion.  That I just need to persevere.  Keep on the road even though that road is long and winding, full of hazards and roadblocks that will slow me down.  She’s always saying she knows I will get published, that I am talented.  And coming from her, man, is that ever a compliment.  So Lisa is the reason that I hoist my big ass from the side of the road.  She’s the reason I keep putting one foot in front of the other, blisters, sprains, broken bones, and all.  She is my champion and I could not find my way down this long, lonely, winding without her. 

           God bless you, Lisa Regan!  

I Have a Dream...Too

            For as long as I can remember, I’ve led a charmed life.  Not in any tangible way.  I’m not wealthy.  I’m not famous.  I’m not even popular.  But I have always had all those things in life that truly matter.  That make a person fulfilled and happy.  Growing up, I had two parents that loved me and put their children before all else.  I had two brothers who were always kind to me—well mostly anyway—one of whom treated me like a best friend for many years.  I had the best education in wonderful schools, mostly private Catholic institutions that instilled a feeling of belonging and spirituality.  I got to travel and I lived in many interesting locations, exposing me to different people and cultures. 

            When I was barely an adult, I met the most incredible loving man in the world who gave me the most precious gift another person could ever give:  a child—two, in fact.  I’ve had the great fortune of raising one of those amazing children and he is so smart and articulate, kind and generous, loving and supportive.  And my husband is what every woman in the world wants in a man.  I hit the jackpot.  There’s no other way to put it.  And while there are, of course, many other things I want, I do, in fact, have everything I need.  So I am happy.  Content.

            Lately, I’ve been watching the American Idol judges whittle their list of hundreds of aspiring singers down to the top twenty-four.  I watched as the last forty or so walked that long, lonely course up to the final judging platform.  It was inspiring to see the faces of those who made the cut, but it was the faces of those who did not that struck me most.  It affected me more this time than any other because I finally realize what it’s like to have a dream.  A really big dream.  One that seems nearly unattainable.  One that means so much, my entire identity is wrapped up into it.  So when those who were cut stood from their seats and took that long, even lonelier walk back, their faces wet with tears and their hearts crushed with loss, I understood and I cried along with them.

            Because I have a dream, too.  It is a modest dream when compared to Martin Luther King’s or John Kennedy’s.  I don’t aspire to unite the world or solve a lifelong dilemma.  I’m not trying to cure what ails us as a species, make buttloads of cash, or become well-known.  I just have this little dream of becoming a published writer.  But that dream starts with a smaller dream—or rather two smaller dreams.  The first, I’ve already accomplished.  I wrote a novel.  My first in what I hope is a long line of them.  When people hear for the first time that I completed a book, they smile and say, “Wow!  That’s amazing!”  It was quite an accomplishment for me and making it the best it can be has been even more so.  But while I once told myself if nothing ever comes of it, I will still always be proud, it really doesn’t ring true any more. 

I want the whole dream.  So the next step is finding a literary agent who loves my book and wants to represent me.  I did not know about this when I started writing.  I did not once during all those months even think about the next step.  I just wrote.  And when I was finished, I jumped on the Internet and researched the next step.  Boy, was that ever disheartening.  There are so many stores out there of aspiring writers who have been crushed by the system, their dreams destroyed and their hopes dashed.  Reading all that felt like a glass of water was being thrown in my face.  Or maybe more like a five gallon bucket of ice water.  But I’ve tried to keep in mind that I really don’t have anything to lose.  I have the product, my book.  No one can ever take that away from me.  Now, I just need to be persistent.  To not give up.  To not let the process beat me down with every rejection I receive. 

I can tell you, that is a difficult feat unto itself, not letting the rejections beat me down, I mean.  To be perfectly honest, when I finished my first draft and made my first round of revisions, I did what countless other aspiring writers have done:  I started to query for an agent.  I did this before I even had my first round with a critique partner.  I didn’t query many agents, mind you.  Just a small handful.  And it was more about feeling out the process than anything else.  But I did get a few rejection letters.  Four or five, I think.  And it did hurt.  I won’t lie.  But I learned quickly the proper way to go about it all. I worked with several critique partners and polished my little novel to a spit shine.  Then I wrote my synopses—four of them, I think.  And lastly, I wrote my query, summing up 85,000 words into roughly 260 in order to ignite some spark of interest in as many agents as I could. 

Just over three weeks ago, I began sending out those query letters.  Mostly in limited batches of five to seven.  I researched each agent to make sure I was querying only those with an interest in my genre, the thriller.  I found out what each agent wants to see in their query package, be that a letter only, sample chapters or even a synopsis.  On the second day of querying, I received a request for a full manuscript.  This was actually my second request for a full, but the first was kind of cheating as my friend asked if her agent would look at mine and she did as a favor, but it was not to her liking and she passed.  The second request hit me like a ton of bricks—albeit, really nice bricks.  I thought, cool, my query letter is good then.  Well, this is a subjective business as so many agents are willing to tell me.  And they tell me in the form of…you got it…rejection letters.

To date, I’ve received about 14, total.  They kind of slide off my back now, but each and every one of them serves as a lost opportunity, a burned bridge, if you will, because I can never go back to them.  They are forever beyond my reach now.  So I do sink a little lower every time I receive a rejection letter.  That pool of possibilities grows that much shallower.  And now I am beginning to question that query letter I thought at first was pretty good.  Maybe I will have to revise that, too.  Maybe it is too vague.  I did get my first request for a partial.  The first fifty pages.  The tiniest of smiles pulled up on my lips when I read that request yesterday.  That’s a big shift from the five minute long screaming happy dance I performed when I got that request for a full three weeks ago.  I think I am becoming jaded.  My head is slipping into that place all those aspiring writers have before me, believing that the chance of ever finding representation is so miniscule, so impossible as to be laughable. 

But then I read this blog yesterday.  It was written by aspiring writer, Claire Legrand, and expresses her joy, which feels palpable through her words, at finally acquiring an agent.  And it was not an easy or pretty experience for her.  She went through hell, but she never gave up.  She found her agent while querying for her second novel.  And now she might even have a chance at selling her first as her agent is standing behind her.  I cannot tell you what it meant to read her reaction to landing an agent.  It felt like that tiny speck of hope inside me suddenly puffed up like a kernel of popcorn in the microwave.  In her last post on Monday, Claire explained just how difficult the process had been for her.  Her final message was one that my friend, Lisa has been telling me all along:  “Don’t give up.”

And so, no matter how many rejections are piled up on my shoulders, I vow to not give up until I have worked my way through a very long list of agents who rep my genre of fiction.  And by then, enough time will have gone by that I can start all over again because no one will likely even remember me.  Lisa did that and she landed her agent.  So what the hell.  I want that moment like those finalists on American Idol.  I want to scream and cry and jump up and down knowing I have come a little closer.  Because I have a dream, too.                     

Why I Blog: Following My Journey

           Last week, I wrote a post on blogs I love to read.  This week, I want to touch on why I blog myself.  To be honest, I never really had much interest in reading blogs or writing one either.  When I finished writing the first draft of my novel, The Mistaken, last summer, I started researching how to get published.  I found websites and blogs that shared all kinds of interesting information on writing, finding an agent and getting published.  The best blogs were those maintained by literary agents like Nathan Bransford and Query Shark’s Janet Reid, and writers like Anne Mini and Natalie Whipple.  Many of them mentioned how important it was to have an Internet presence such as a blog where agents or editors could check you out.  I thought, what the hell.  I can do that.  But I really didn’t know what in the world I should talk about.  And who would ever want to hear what I had to say anyway?    

I began checking out other writer blogs, people like me who were considered aspiring writers, yet unpublished.  (By the way, I hate that term “aspiring writer.”  I don’t aspire to write.  I do write.  I aspire to be published.  Big difference in my mind.)  A lot of them seemed to be simply daily journals, log accounts of their days, their lives, their families.  And while they might have been well written, they didn’t really interest me much.  I didn’t care about their “chipmunks,” their “rugrats” or “ninjas” or whatever they referred to as their children.  I wanted to read about their writing experience, their journey to become published authors. 

So I thought, that’s what I will focus on, detailing my trials and tribulations, my joys and heartaches, my quest to become a published writer.  And since it has been a rather emotional journey thus far, I found it easy to dig within myself and write about things that have affected me along the way.  It’s been a surreal experience, so I blogged about how I first got started on this wonderful trip and why I decided to take it in the first place, what I have discovered about myself along the way and who has influenced me.  I discovered my book’s theme, how music influenced my writing and having faith in the process.  Months later, when I was finally done with the revisions, I blogged about querying for an agent (a work in progress) and how much I missed living inside my story every day.  I even, ashamedly, blogged about my jealousy at the ease of which some celebrities find success in publishing.  (Sorry about that one!) 

I don’t know who reads my blog or if they are interested in those things, but I found when I read about similar accounts by other writers, I was buoyed by their tenacity, their unfailing faith that they would make it even though it is a painfully long and disheartening process.  Sometimes, though, just reading about how difficult it is for them makes me believe it will never happen for me, getting published, I mean.  But I won’t give up.  A part of that “not giving up” is continuing to blog every week or so.  Sometimes I just don’t know what to write.  I do keep a log on my phone when a blog idea pops into my.  I will roll the idea over in my mind, especially at night, even when I’m sleeping.  That’s a habit with me, dreaming about I should write about, be it my book, my revisions or my blog. 

A few of the writer blogs I read have a great many followers, folks who have signed up to follow their progress, read their writing and ramblings.  I think it’s cool that Natalie Whipple has 1300 followers even though she is not yet published.  1300—wow!  And Adam Heine’s Author’s Echo blog has about 150 followers.  (He’s amazing, by the way.  Very knowledgeable.)  Now, they have been blogging for five and four years respectively while I have only been doing so since last October—five months to date.  I do have four followers though, four generous people who I don’t know and, for whatever reason, have chosen to follow me—a nobody, a complete unknown.  And I am most grateful for those folks.  (I thank you from the bottom of my heart, really.)   

I don’t know how to cultivate more followers.  I am more or less a complete technical idiot and don’t know how to make my blog appear like I want it to.  I don’t know what gadgets are or how to insert photos and manipulate them.  I just picked a basic (and free since I’m a poor, struggling “aspiring” writer) template and added a bit of content—posts and pages.  I joined Networked Blogs through Facebook upon the advice of one of my followers, Laina Turner.  That has brought me quite a bit of traffic.  At least I think so, since I am a complete unknown.  And hey, I even got my first comment from someone I don’t know personally (no offense to my wonderful friend, Lisa Regan, who sometimes offers me encouraging feedback.)  That was exciting for me.  Silly, I know.  But hey, I am a complete unknown, a nobody.  I love getting comments no matter who they are from. 

I’ll keep working on this blogging thing, especially since I am now querying for a literary agent.  When I send out batches of queries—I’ve sent out about 28 so far—I tend to get a bit more traffic.  I think, wow, someone with power and influence might have just read words that I wrote!  And then I kind of panic and think, wow, someone with power and influence might have just read words that I wrote!  Oh no!  What was I thinking?

           This whole writing kick is such an unknown monster to me.  I am enjoying though.  I’m not technically proficient at it, my education was focused on architecture and design, not creative writing, but hey, I like to think of it as being intuitive for me, like playing the piano.  I’ve never taken a lesson, nor can I read music (at least not easily or well), but I can play some rather difficult pieces by Chopin, Mozart and Beethoven.  I have an ear.  I can pick a song out on the keyboard just by listening to it and sounding it out.  Hopefully, I will find an agent who feels the same way about my writing.  In the mean time, I will keep blogging and hoping that others will like what I have to say or at least get something from it.  And maybe a few more will follow me along the way.  It would be nice to have a few more companions because I think my journey will be a long one and I could really use the company! 

Going All the Way

            First, an update:  Last December, I had a referral from my friend to her literary agent.  Respectfully obliging her client, the agent, who received my query through my friend, requested I send her my full manuscript.  After having it for nearly a month, however, she politely declined.  I was hoping for some feedback, but I understand she is a very busy agent and most likely could not afford the time.  I am still very grateful for the read and opportunity.

            Yesterday, I began the long process of querying for an agent in earnest.  I sent out 11 queries (10 email and 1 snail mail.)  I was a nervous wreck the entire time, checking and rechecking the addresses and the salutations to make sure they matched, confirming I had the proper materials within the body of the email or attached them as requested, and just generally making sure each email was professional and touched on the reason I sent it to that particular agent.  Each time I hit that send button, my gut twisted into knots.  But I made a good start for my first week and I felt good about it, no matter my nerves.

            I walked out of my office and got cleaned up to go to the post office so I could mail my standard query.  When I was leaving, literally walking out the door, my phone chimed, announcing I had a new email.  As was usual for me, I opened the email, which was sent to my Gmail account, the same one I use to send out queries since my Hotmail account screws with the formatting. I saw that it was from one of the agents I had just queried.  I opened it, expecting to see either a confirmation of receipt or, more likely, a rejection, though since it was only an hour after I had sent it, even that would be unusual.

But low and behold, it was a request.  For a full manuscript, no less.  Well, my first reaction was to scream and jump about the room like a complete lunatic.  My seventeen-year-old son thought I was being murdered or something.  I know it seems silly to react so, but it was a request for a full after only one hour when this agent’s website noted to expect replies in 6-8 weeks.  So I was a little happy.  Go figure.   

            Now, I respect this agent more than you could know.  That’s why she was included in my first batch of queries.  And while I realize this is an astronomical long shot, it felt really good to have a response to my query.  It told me that it was a decent query, one that sparked the interest of a very important agent.  I can only hope and dream that there will be others who respond likewise.  Honestly, it was quite a shock to have a response at all, especially from someone who has been so influential in the business.  I am quite humbled by it.  Especially, again, since it came only an hour or so after I sent it. 

I can’t help but wonder what it means.  Was it the query itself?  Did she read my synopsis or included chapters?  What piqued her interest exactly?  I don’t know.  I wish I did.  But I am just grateful to have another set of eyes on my manuscript.  I’m trying to keep my feet on the ground, knowing that it is not at all likely that she would ever choose me, but an aspiring writer can dream.  

Now I have to keep plugging along and prepare my list for the next batch of agents to query.  Every time I hear that chime, I will wonder if it is someone sending me a rejection, which, from what I hear, is the most likely response.  I know from reading all the writer blogs and talking at length with my friend and writing soul mate extraordinaire, Lisa Regan, that I will likely receive hundreds of rejections and perhaps a few requests for partials thrown in.  I’ve been trying to prepare myself mentally for this long, arduous and challenging process.  I can’t wait to see what the coming weeks and months will bring, but at the same time, I am terrified because this is the biggest dream I have ever held for myself.  This is not about making money; writing novels does not lend itself to this purpose.  I just want someone to read my book, to enjoy and remember it.  Just having written it is an accomplishment and I am proud of it, but I want more.  I want to go all the way!

My New Happy Place

            Before I get into my next post, I should say that I have spent the last four days deliberating whether or not I should remove my last post, “Jealous Much?”  That’s not to say that I don’t still hold that opinion, because I do, but I question my own wisdom at having posted such blatant animosity in such a public forum.  Not that I believe that there are too many folks reading my blog, but I’m averaging about ninety a month or 3 a day.  Not too shabby for a complete unknown.  What worries me most are the literary agents who might poke their head in to take a look after they’ve received my query.  So why don’t I remove that post?  Well, I guess that’s because that post shows a part of who I am.  Happily, that is not a part I show very often, but it is there nonetheless, so the post remains, however shameful I now find it.  Now…getting down to business…

            I have spent the last week preparing query letters to be sent off beginning February 1st.  I am selecting those prime agents I most admire for whatever reason and writing queries tailored especially for each one.  I’m happy most of them accept email queries.  A few still do it the old fashion way so I find myself visiting print shops where I have my query, synopsis and sample chapters printed then stuffing large envelopes with my treasure and a self-addressed stamped envelope for their reply, hoping and praying that they actually will reply.  Emailing queries is easier, of course.  All I have to do is make copies of the files and queue them up to copy and paste into the email.  I’ve even found a few who actually want attachments which is a big surprise as most just want everything in the body of the email.  Sometimes they want fifty pages of my manuscript in the body of the email.  Boy, let me tell you, that’s one long email! 

            And that brings me to a problem I’ve been struggling with lately:  retaining proper formatting within the body of the email.  Every writer knows how utterly important proper formatting is, including me.  So I prepared a sample query, complete with copied and pasted chapters and synopsis, and sent it to myself to see what the email looked like when I opened it.  Boy, was I surprised by how messed up the formatting appeared.  Wonky, Anne Mini called it.  (She promised me she would address this issue in a forthcoming formatting blog next week.  Thank you, Anne!)  There were huge gaps between the paragraphs and the font, which I purposely set to 12-point Times New Roman, the industry standard, reset itself back to Tahoma 10 point. 

Well, I was aghast.  I certainly do not want the agents I query to think I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.  They likely won’t even look at my query, let alone my chapters or request a partial or full manuscript to read if they believe I’m not versed in industry standards.  I tried everything I could think of, but in the end, I discovered that the problem lies within the programming at Hotmail, Microsoft’s email service.  So what’s a writer to do?  Dump Hotmail, that’s what!  So now I have a Google Gmail account that I will use to send all queries.  When I tested it and sent an email to myself at both my Hotmail and Gmail accounts, the Hotmail email was distorted while the Gmail was not.  So Gmail it is!  Problem solved.  Unless my recipient agent uses Hotmail…yikes!

But I’ve been wringing my hands for other reasons, as well this week.  For three weeks, actually.  The whole reason I’m querying is because I believe my manuscript is ready, that it is as highly polished as it can be without feedback from a professional within the publishing industry.  I sent out my first query on December 28^th.  It was a referral from an agented writer friend, the very talented Lisa Regan.  Her agent received my query and requested a full (because Lisa said she loved it and her agent trusts her), which I happily obliged her with. 

Unfortunately, when I started reading through a PDF version of my manuscript, I found a few errors.  Nothing too major, one misspelling, an errant quote mark, a missing word.  Not too big of a deal, but enough that I became worried.  What’s worse is that I was always in conflict about my Jillian chapters, those three chapters (6-8) written in Jillian’s voice.  I was never satisfied with them, but since I couldn’t figure out how to fix them, I just accepted that they were okay and I moved along.  It wasn’t until I sent off my manuscript to Lisa’s agent that my stomach started doing back flips over the issue.  How could I have sent it to her when those chapters were not ready?  I’m such an idiot, but there’s no going back now.

Since then, I’ve worked with Lisa to make those three Jillian chapters sing.  They say exactly what I want them to, exactly how I want them to say it.  For the first time since completing my manuscript, I am happy.  Totally, thoroughly, 100% satisfied.  I’ve read it through one more time and cannot find anything that I would change.  But my greatest chance at landing an agent, one to whom I’ve been referred, the most common method agents use to find talent, has been tarnished.  I’m not saying blown at this point because she said she wouldn’t get back to me until February, unless she just didn’t like it, then it would be sooner.  Well, it’s January 21^st and I still haven’t heard from her so I think that’s a good sign, at this point anyway.  That is, if she’s even started reading it.  And what if she hasn’t?  God, if I could only get my final version to her.  But it’s a moot point, I’m afraid.  It is done. 

Lisa reassures me that she should have the ability to look past all that and I hope she does, that she would at least give me the opportunity to show her my revisions, but I know, above all else, that this is a lesson learned.  Don’t ever send out your manuscript until you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it is ready.  You don’t want to have those feelings of regret or lose that golden opportunity that awaits you.  This process is hard enough without sabotaging yourself.

Having said all that, I am, at the very least, happy …with my book, that is.  I’ve found another happy place, my first being behind the wheel of my sporty little convertible with the top down on a warm, sunny Puget Sound day.  This is a great place to be—my new happy place.  I am ready to start querying in earnest without worrying that I messed up. 

I love my new happy place.  

Missing My Made-up World

            I’ve always been pretty even-keeled, emotionally speaking.  I rarely have mood swings and I’m generally always happy.  I was, and still am, a very optimistic person, always looking on the bright side of things.  But things have changed in the last six months and for some reason, I always feel like I’m walking on a knife’s edge, fearing that any minute I will fall into an abyss I cannot even see.  Nothing much has changed in the last year except for one thing:  I’ve written a novel—a highly charged, emotionally provocative novel.  And I’ve been living in the world I’ve created for my characters all day, everyday for the last nine months. 

            So in essence, I’ve lost my parents and young sister in a tragic accident caused by my brother who I now worry has become addicted to drugs while he wrestles with gun-toting thugs in San Francisco’s Russian mafia.  I’ve suffered the loss of my wife after she became entangled in the aftermath of a criminal case of fraud brought on by the heartless disdain of a greedy woman.  I’ve spiraled into extreme alcoholism dealing with her loss and have subsequently thrown myself on a reckless course of retribution, drunkenly mistaking an innocent woman and ruining her life.  And then I had to go on the run in order to protect her from the gangsters who seek to enslave her while also trying to negotiate my brother’s freedom from the Russian’s who are using him as leverage in order to get their hands on the woman whose life I’ve ruined. 

            So tell me, is it any wonder I’ve been feeling a bit blue lately? 

Living in their world is exciting, allowing me to escape from the mundane day to day life of a stay-at-home mom whose child is more of an adult and whose business has nearly dried up in the aftermath of the economic meltdown.  My characters have become real to me and though they are each flawed—two dangerously so—I have come to love them with all my heart.  I might even go so far as to say I am in love with one of them.  (Crazy, I know.)  This is my life.  Everyday.  And I sometimes think I’m going freaking insane. 

            But what I’ve come to understand is that this is not unusual.  It seems to be a real pitfall of being a writer.  Sometimes I’m not so sure I like this life of a writer.  It is way too emotional, way too unbalanced, and way too scary.  I wish I could be ignorantly happy again, the way I used to be when all I did was sit at my computer and design fabulous interior spaces, chatting on the phone with clients and colleagues.  Or even after that when my business started to dry up, when I used to spend my days cooking and baking in order to satisfy that basic need inside me to create something special out of something ordinary. 

But now that I’ve written this book, I fear that I can never go back to who I used to be.  I’m still that woman.  She’s still in there.  I still do design work, especially now that the economy is perking up a bit.  But for some reason, it is just not at all satisfying any longer.  I crave the excitement of that crazy, dangerous world I’ve created.  But since I’ve pretty much wrapped up my novel and am seeking representation, I don’t get to spend any time with my characters any more.  And I can’t tell you how sad that makes me.  How lonely I am for them. 

But having said all that, I could not imagine not writing.  Even with all the turmoil, I crave nothing more than to spend my day at my keyboard creating exciting adventures and dangerous complications for my seriously damaged characters.  I want to send them into danger and see if they can fight their way out.  I want to experience their joy of lying in the arms of their loved ones and I want to feel their triumph when they overcome the insurmountable odds I’ve placed against them.  I have some understanding now why so many famous writers have slipped over the edge.  It is a tumultuous condition to live in, but I’ve experienced the highest highs and lowest lows and I feel that I’m living the life I really want to live. 

           Now if I could only make a living at it. 

E-Books vs. the Real Thing

Last week, Nathan Bransford asked a question on his blog:  Will you ever buy mostly e-books?  And for the first time in the four years since he first asked this question, the yeas outnumber the nays, 32% to 30%.  I was not surprised since e-readers are the gift of the season this year and many of my friends and family now use them, but when I put the questions to myself, a woman who loves electronic gadgets of all sorts, I answered with a resounding NO!

There are several reasons why, most of them having to do with the nostalgia of holding a book in my hand.  There is something about the way a real book feels that is sensual in so many ways.  It’s almost like holding and caressing a lover in its sensuality.  First, I love the smell of the ink and the paper on a new book, especially a hardback.  I love to run my fingers over the pages from front to back and let the scent of the fanned air caress my face and fill my nostrils.  It smells almost as good as freshly baked break or newly ground coffee. 

And then there’s the feel of the book, its heft and breadth, the substantial bulk, that makes me happy.  And I love a really long, big, fat book because that means I get to be absorbed in a story and the lives of its characters for a very long time. I can fall in love with them and hug them as I pull the thick volume close to my chest before I put it down for the night.  I also love the way it feels when I rest an open book above my upper lip and below my nose as I gaze over the top edge at the TV or a loved one when they interrupt my reading.

When I read a real book, I place my thumbs along the open pages and slip the middle finger of my right hand into the as yet unread pages on the right, gauging how many pages I have left, how much more time I have remaining with my new love.  And when something I’ve just read confuses me, I love to fan back through those pages I’ve already read to find the previously read passage that will straighten me out.  When I do, I often note the few places where the corner of a page became dog-eared or where I spilled some food or drink, creating a small speck on the once clean paper, because I never, and I mean never, sit at the table and eat without a book opened in front of me.

My favorite passages often sit open at attention because I’ve run my hand over the binding so many times.  And when the book falls off the table or chair where I’m sitting, it automatically opens to that exact passage and I picture that scene in my mind all over again.  I even love the way I can see the texture of the paper beneath the contrasting ink.  And I love the cover art, which, if I’ve left the dust jacket on, I will see every single time I pick up my book, noting the placement of the bookmark and my progress through another magnificent story.  I love the way the title and author’s name are raised, pressed from below on the jacket so I can feel it every time I hold it in my hand.

Reading a book is so much more than just the story within.  That’s why publishers put so much time, money and effort into it.  I agree that e-readers are convenient, allowing you to carry every book you’ve ever known and purchased no matter where you’re going.  But I’ve spent a lot of money designing and building floor to ceiling library shelves to hold my most cherished collection:  my books.  They sit like pieces of fine art, deliberately displayed (without their dust jackets) and artfully arranged by author, size, color and topic.  They’re my trophies and I am very proud of them.  I feel like I have a piece of the author residing with me.  I often run my fingers over the spines of my growing library and smile as I remember each story, where I lived, or what I was doing when I read it for the first time.  They are like memories of my own life and I want to be constantly reminded of them every time I stand before the tall shelves.  And I can loan them to my friends, too.    

You just don’t have any of that with an e-reader and an e-book. 

Having Faith

As some of you might already know, I’ve been having trouble of late, and by that I mean in the last four or five months.  I’ve been edgy and moody, unlike my usual self which is chipper and forever optimistic.  I’m not really sure of the reason why, but I suspect it has something to do with writing.  Now I’ve read about how moody and introspective many writers are and I’ve just been chalking this all up to that, but how can an errant desire to write, something I’ve never experienced before, all of the sudden throw me into an emotional tailspin?  It seems a bit of a stretch to me, but there haven’t really been any other changes in my life this year besides the writing so what else could it be? 

When I get into a serious funk, which seems to happen every few weeks or so, I bear down and keep reality in mind, after all, there’s nothing really wrong with me, just my flaky brain trying to pull one over on me.  I’m healthy, as is my family, including my dogs.  I have a roof over my head, a lovely one, too, which is not in danger of being lost in the mess that is the US economy and has, in fact, retained a strong value.  I have a running car, a really nice one, in fact.  My husband is gainfully employed and earns enough that I don’t have to work, though I wish I did.  My last client, however, just closed up shop this week, putting a final nail in the coffin that is my design company of the last fourteen years.  But I haven’t really worked much in the last three years anyway, so why should that make much of a difference?  

Even still, I have a difficult time holding onto that reality sometimes.  So what I’ve come to rely on more than anything else is faith.  Now I don’t mean spiritual faith.  That’s a given.  I have such a strong, unyielding faith in God.  It never wavers.  And I mean never.  If I let it waver even for even a moment, I would be crushed.

The faith I’m talking about is the one I have in myself.  I suppose that faith has wavered a great deal of late.  I had a strong, thriving business and earned a good reputation.  Now that it’s more or less gone, I’m not sure how to identify or define myself.  And I don’t really know what to do with myself.  My husband told me last night that I don’t have to work.  How generous is that?  He worries about money constantly, but he tells me not to sweat it.  What a fabulous guy, my greatest blessing.  So without the work and business to keep me going, I’ve turned to my writing, but what does that mean if nobody reads it?

I’m a hair’s breadth away from putting the very final finishing touches on my novel and start the querying process in earnest.  THAT scares the hell out of me!   Why?  Well for a couple of reasons.  First, what am I going to do everyday if I’m not working on my novel?  I do have a cool idea for a new one, but the thought of starting from scratch scares me.  I don’t think the second time around will be the same as the first.  When I got the idea for my first novel, The Mistaken, I just poured out of me in some weird, surreal experience I cannot even describe.  It was like I was possessed by someone else.  All the plot twists and characters just worked themselves out in one endless stream of thought.  I don’t know where in the hell it even came from.  Could I ever expect that to happen again?  I doubt it, but I do know how to write well this time, from the very start.

Second and most importantly, from everything I’ve ever heard or read, the querying process is an endless road of waiting and rejection.  The thought of it makes me want to puke.  From what I can tell, most writers never find an agent and therefore never get published.  You can’t imagine how discouraging that is when I haven’t even really started yet.  To make it all worse, so many literary agents are dropping out of the race because the publishing business is so demoralizing.  With book sales doing so poorly, publishers only seem to want to sign well known celebrities who have experienced their tantalizing fifteen minutes so that they can cash in on it.  But what about the storytellers?  And fresh ones, at that?  Are the e-readers destroying one of the oldest businesses on earth?  Although I would like to make some money being a writer, it’s more about having people read and enjoy my work than anything else.  

I can’t help but think this experience of writing my first novel means something, like someone else, some being greater than me, uh, that would be God, is somehow pulling the strings and has sent me on this path for a reason.  I’m trying to have faith in that and let it unfold as it was meant to.  Why else would something like this have happened to me?  I mean, I’ve always been a spiritual person, but it is ridiculous how out of body and surreal this has all been.  All can do is have faith that this is meant to happen, that I was meant to write this book, that I was meant to struggle with my demons and push forth and not give up until I find an agent, and hopefully a publisher, too.  It has to have meant something.  This must be the new way in which I define myself.


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How I Was Saved

            So I often find it difficult to keep plugging along in my quest to get published.  The task of finding an agent who will fall in love with my book seems daunting, especially when I read all the blog comments from fellow writers who have yet to find their own.  I tend to think of every writer as a great writer, though I know this is not the case, but who am I to think I am so much better?  Why should I think I can find an agent if they cannot?  My step falters and my confidence sags. 

            I get so down that I don’t want to continue for fear of failure.  My husband notices that I have once again fallen into the doldrums, the smile that’s usually plastered on my face gone, my brow furrowed in worry.  He tries to pick me up, telling me to remain persistent.  But it doesn’t work.  There’s really no reason for that except to say that he doesn’t really know what I’m going through, where I am, how difficult this business really is.  I need someone who gets me, who gets the heartache of writing, of putting your body and soul into a story and fearing that no one will ever read it.

            There is one person in my life who gets that.  Her name is Lisa Regan and she is my mentor and co-conspirator, my sounding board, my lifeline to sanity.  I refer to her as a drug I cannot go without.  I emailed her, telling her that I needed my “Lisa fix” and she understood. 

This is a woman who has put four tortuous years into a work of literature that is so powerfully profound that I have no words good enough to describe fully how masterful it really is.  She has slaved over her novel, writing and rewriting until is glistens like gold.  She’s also been through the querying process.  She told me she’s received hundreds of rejections, but many of those have been constructively critical which in turn led her to rewrite yet again.  And now she has this intense, beautiful, scary story that I know will be published.  How can I give up if she has remained so stoic? 

I often pray to God for the benefit of my loved ones, rarely asking for anything on my own behalf.  Last night though, I was down and I asked for some sign that I should go on, move ahead, not give up.  The way I saw it, He had provided me with so many other signs along the way, He wouldn’t mind giving me another when I needed it the most.  I told Him I was listening, that my eyes were open wide and waiting.  I knew not to expect anything grand or obvious.  I also knew I probably wouldn’t get anything at all.  But I had faith. Faith that He put me on this path, that He means for me to continue.  And you know what?  I got that sign!  Again, it came in the form of Lisa Regan. 

She emailed me, offering me words of encouragement.  I heard my phone ding with the new message so I picked it up, hoping it might be her.  And while I read her message, a song played over the airwaves in Starbucks where I waited for my son to get out of class.  The song, one I’ve never heard before, was called “You Make Me Smile” at least that’s what the words of the chorus sang over and over.  And I started to cry.  I had my sign.  I knew I was meant to continue.  Her email pumped me up like no other words ever could.  She’s my angel, my savior.  Once I told her I wished I could bottle her, like an anti-depressant that I could take daily.  I think God sent her to me.  And I will do my best everyday to live up to both of them.  Thank you God.  Thank you Lisa.