Tomorrow is a big day

     I'm having my first book signing of my first women's fiction book.  Up until this point, I've been a children's book author but decided several years ago to give this new genre a go.  "Giving it a go" really should be rephrased to "stop and go".  After numerous rewrites, and countless rejections by agents, my book was finally picked by a large publishing house (sans the agent route).  It's been a long haul, and I'm as excited as all get out - as they say here in the south.  There was another reason that this has been a "stop and go"  journey, other than rewrites and rejections, and that's because I couldn't even figure out what to write for a long time.  The drought finally broke though, and the creative juices flowed like a storm-fattened river.  However, I know all too well the frustrations when you feel creatively brain dead, and I blogged about it a couple of years ago.  Now, on the eve of my new book's debut, I'd like to re-share that blog.  I hope that it might give a little encouragement to those suffering from creative brain blockage.  The good news is that it will pass.  The bad news is that blockages return.  It's just part of the writing process.  And, yet, we writers wouldn't think of doing anything else, would we?  Somehow I feel that the letters S & M apply here.  So, without further adieu, here's my blog from that most frustrating writer's block time.  Happy reading, everyone.  And happy writing, too.

                   

  

That Not-So-Dry Spell

     I was thinking today about that 5-year period when nothing of mine was published.    It felt like such a dry spell.   I’d once read somewhere, “Just keep writing.”  So, I kept writing, even when it didn’t seem like it was amounting to much.   My agent at the time wasn’t able to get anything of mine picked up, which only confirmed that which I’d started to believe; my writing had hit the doldrums.   But, as painful as it was at times, and as monotonous as it had become, I kept going to my computer almost daily, working on those things which I’d started, or I started something all together new, and, still, nothing was published.  I honestly felt like none of my work had much color, brightness or substance to it anymore.
     As with everything in life, all things come to an end – both the good and the bad.  And after a 3-year go of it with my agent, it was time to part ways.  We did so amicably, and, I have to think, not without a little regret and sadness on both of our parts that maybe, in some way, we’d let each other down.  But, it was time, and I walked away with my tediously worked-on, sick-of-looking-at-you manuscripts, and tried to figure out where I should go from there. 
     Almost immediately, I was in touch with a wonderful publisher who wanted to see my work, and, needless to say, it was in her “In Box” that night.  She called me a week later and told me she’d like to publish 3 of my children’s stories, as well as my first adult manuscript.  Of course, I was elated.  After we hung up, I sat back and thought, “Wow!  Four books to come out in the next 2 years!”  And then it dawned on me:  From all of those endless days at the computer (when I felt like my writing was about as interesting as a manual for a new refrigerator), without even realizing it, I’d compiled quite a nice amount of work –  work that was good.  Good enough to be published.  And it seemed to come together without my even realizing it.
     Today, as my husband gave our 3 Basset Hounds a bath in our yard in sultry, 95-degree weather (yes, even in the Blue Ridge Mtns. of NC!), I noticed our wilting Hydrangea bushes.  We’re in the midst of not just a scorching heatwave, but a dry spell, too.   And then I saw it:  Nestled among some of the brownish-green, parched Hydrangea branches were some very brightly colored, fresh clusters of flowers, bringing great beauty to the bush – and my yard.  As a matter of fact, the more I looked, the more lovely ones I saw.  My bush was alive and well, and blooming quite nicely, indeed.  Standing too close to it, everything seemed to be dried up and fading.  But then I stood back, took a good look at the bush again with all of its many glorious blossoms, and realized that, all things considered, this dry spell of ours really wasn’t quite so dry after all … just like those 5 years of my work.

Many Muses

     In late July, in the town of Spruce Pine, NC, situated along the rambling Estatoe River, with 100 year-old active train tracks weaving along side in perfect harmony, was the Rotary Club’s first annual BBQ & Bluegrass Festival. My job, as a Rotarian, was to sell food tickets, so all day long I briefly chatted with scores of people who packed the tiny town’s main street.

     It’s an amazing world we live it. And the people we share this world with are an amazing lot. I met all kinds from everywhere: The quintessential nuclear family with mom, dad, and the 2.5 kids. (Yes, there really is a .5 child. You should have seen the teeny tiny ones being maneuvered through the crowds.) There were also plenty of elderly folks with walkers, canes or significant others whom they used as human canes, and I particularly admired them. Advanced age and physical limitations did not limit their presence or fun that day. There were a fair number of good ol’ boys and good ol’ girls, and the not-so-good-boys and the girls who love them. There were tourists with their tell-tale brand new stiff “I Climbed Mt. Mitchell” tee-shirts and mud-free hiking boots. There were people with wads of cash, and those who stood off to the side to count the change they could pool together to buy a ticket for one plate of BBQ to share. There were cloggers (mountain style jig dancing), and musicians on dulcimers, guitars, banjos and fiddles. And there were craft people hawking every kind of art imaginable; from flat work, ironwork and woodwork, to handmade quilts and “Welcome to our cabin!” signs and birdhouses. And, of course, there were the stars of the party; the BBQ cook teams and vendors. All of these many different and wonderful people, with their many different reasons for being at the event, bring me to the point of this blog: I was in the midst of enough material from which to glean a thousand stories.

     If a writer or artist of any medium is feeling very uninspired, or “flat-lined” as I refer to it, then just go to a festival or fair. There you will find an abundance of muses, for everyone has a story to tell if you just give them a spec of time to tell you a little bit about theirs. Not enough people do that – ask someone what their story is. We’re so self-absorbed. Or maybe we feel like if we ask a question or two, that’s asking one too many questions and we’ll be thought of as being nosey. I’ve rarely ever found that to be the case, though. When I ask someone about what they do, where they’re from, or how they ended up on the same street as I happen to be on that same day, I find that people are only too happy to tell me. Reason: People like to talk about themselves. They think their story is interesting, and the fact is that usually at least some part of it is.

     Perhaps we ought to spend less time looking inward for creative inspiration, and spend more time looking outward. All things considered, we live in a wonderfully rich world, full of the greatest inspirational resources: each other.

Color My World

     I love autumn. And it’s not just because of the changing colors or the first chill in the air. It’s all about the joy of settling down, becoming quiet, becoming still. It heralds in that special time – that time between September and February – when I give myself permission to not have to be out and about, doing a million things or be at a dozen different places in a day. It’s a time when my participation in “things” can begin to fade and drop down – just like autumn leaves.

     During the summer, I get very involved – too involved – with club activities, events, and people. Living in the mountains, we know that the “doing” season doesn’t last all that long, and so we cram as much in as is humanly possible before the “down” time between the months of March and September. Although March is a wishy-washy month. You just never know what it’s going to give you. And being a Capricorn, I prefer that you definitely know how you feel about things, what you’re planning on doing, and how you’re going to go about doing them. I’m not too fond of March’s attitude and behavior, if the truth be known.

     My husband loves to garden, so this time of year, although beautiful to him (not to mention we’re both glad that football season has started), also marks the beginning of the end of his growing season, “fun in the sun” season, and golf. That is the only fly in the ointment to me; the fact that my husband won’t be outside and out from under my feet as much. When the cold winds blow, he comes inside, just like the ladybugs. I’ve tried to get my husband involved in a hobby, namely pottery making, and though he had great potential, he just couldn’t stop thinking about next year’s garden and staring out the window. His mind wasn’t on pots but potatoes. Ah, well, you can lead a horse to water… The saving grace was the tractor I bought for him several years ago, complete with snow-blade. Now, when the white stuff accumulates, he gets out and clears the roads. Which gives us both a chance to clear our heads.

     When the smoke is curling from old cabins’ fireplaces, and the fog swirls and mingles with it in a beautiful early morning dance, I grab Mama’s old olive-green sweater and stand out on my deck appreciating it. I play a game of looking for new colored leaves that have changed overnight, and I listen as the squirrels squabble over chestnuts and walnuts in my thick woods. Before long, the leaves will intertwine with the smoke and fog, then they’ll fall gently to the ground and create a magnificent carpet of color. Ahhhh. Who doesn’t love that? All things considered, it was a good “doing” time. I got a lot accomplished. But now it’s that other time.

     Out on my deck, I sip the remainder of coffee in my oversized mug, and go inside to close out the world. Then I open another world all my own. A world in which I control the board like a chess match: I begin to write.

One Passover Night…

     There are many horrifically graphic and disturbing specials on TV right now as we mark the 70th anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz. As hard as these programs are to watch, we need to, otherwise we won’t learn our lessons from one of the darkest times in history. Instead of sitting comfortably in our warm homes watching the horrors, we may end up living the nightmare again. Let us not kid ourselves; persecution to the point of genocide is still happening far too frequently all around the world. We have yet to learn our lessons. Perhaps it’s because as we freely move through our days and nights, doing most anything we please, eating what we’d like, sleeping warmly in a bed that isn’t crowded with 7 other starving and ill people, it’s easy for us to sweep that unpleasant business of concentration camps and mass extermination right under the rug and out of our minds. I’m guilty of it, I’ll admit.


     Most days of the year, I don’t give the holocaust much thought, however, there are times when I do. It may be brought on by someone talking about a kosher dinner, or it may be brought to mind when I hear the name Lorraine, and then that Passover night so long ago, when I was just 11, comes to mind. I wrote a piece about it a few years ago, and it seems like the perfect time to add it to my blog. So, in memory of all of those souls who walked into the death camp and helped the place live up to its name, here is the article, Perls of Wisdom. And to Lorraine, and especially her mother, Mrs. Perl; thank you for sharing such a dark time with me, while sitting in the comforts of your modest home, as we shared your wonderful dinner. Your story has lived in my heart for 45 years, where it has been carefully and thoughtfully brought out and looked at from time to time. It touched me beyond words, but because of yours, I write children’s stories today of love, tolerance and respect for each other and each other’s differences. So, all things considered, 2 hours at your dinner table shaped a lifetime of trying to build bridges between people, and for the gift of your story, I shall always be thankful. And the greatest thing I can do to reciprocate is to never forget, and I pray that the article attached may help that be so for others, if only in a small, small way.

A Dog’s Life

     I lost my dog on Friday. I don’t mean we left the gate open and he wandered away. We lost him because we took him to the vet, held him and cried as the doctor sent him to a place I hope to go someday, too. It has left a hole in our hearts as big as his heart was.

     Bogart was a Basset Hound. The common characteristics of this wonderful breed are stubbornness, loyalty, kindness and deep, deep love of children, food and family. And this dog was not short on any of those traits. Many years ago, we had a flock of ducks that waited at our fence for their morning bread. One of the ducks was exceptionally tiny and the other ducks pecked and poked at that poor little thing, trying to keep her from having any of the bread. The little duck was a gutsy little thing, though, and would push its way through the flock to the front. Then it would push its way through the slats of the fence and actually come into our yard to eat her bread in peace. And Bogart let her. He didn’t let any of the others come through the fence except for that one tiny duck, who we named Little Bit. If any of the larger, bullying ducks tried coming through, Bogart barked them right back out. He seemed to understand Little Bit’s problem and took up the cause for her. They soon became bosom buddies. Little Bit would swim around in our pool as if it were her own little pond, and Bogart would sit on the pool’s edge and cock his head watching her. Then, after she’d had her morning swim, the two would laze under the palm trees, cooled by the South Florida breeze, and fall into a state of perpetual bliss. Side by side.

     Eventually, Little Bit became too big, (thanks to many slices of bread) to come through the slats, but that didn’t stop her from coming to our patio. She flew over the fence railing and landed in our pool as if she were a sea plane. Talk about Bogart cocking his head at that! It was quite a feat and he was quite impressed.

     After a couple of years, Little Bit came around a little bit less and less. Until finally she came no more. I told myself that she’d found her prince and that there were a lot of little little bits swimming around on the other side of the canal. And oddly enough, I noticed Bogart didn’t look for her. I wondered if he knew that she’d not be coming back. I wondered if animals have some universal language that they all understand, no matter the breed. And, if that was indeed the case, I wondered why we humans couldn’t have that same universal understanding of each other even when we do speak the same language. There was much to be learned through the relationship of that unlikely pair.

     I never saw Little Bit again, just as I’ll never see Bogart again – on this earthly plane, anyway. But, someday, I fully expect to see the two of them sitting together, enjoying a heavenly breeze beneath an exquisite palm tree. Then I’ll know I’ve made it to heaven. All things considered, I had a little bit of heaven with the two of them right here on earth. And all because of an angel named Bogart.