Alexa Jacobs's Blog, page 3

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Recently I was invited by some friends of mine to attend one of their book signings. This particular one just happened to be at Turn the Page Bookstore Cafe in Boonsboro, Maryland. If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s owned and operated by Bruce Wilder. Now, while I’ve never met Mr. Wilder, I’d imagine he’s a pretty good guy. He owns a bookstore on Main Street in a pre-Civil War Townhouse. He sells unique trinkets, has a selection of good coffees, and offers a variety of his own photography on the walls. As soon as I stepped foot inside, I thought – Yeah, I could hang out here all day.

He also just so happens to be the husband to one Nora Roberts.

Her family has quite the stamp in Boonsboro, owning not only the bookstore, but an Inn and the local pizza parlor across the road.

I was so excited for my friends who had been invited to be part of the local authors signing with Nora that day. It was a thrill to no end to see their books, the books I’ve only heard about in developmental stages, lined across the table for readers to discover.

I arrived early with two more writers I know, with the intention of checking out the lay of the land and gabbing a bite to eat before the big hour. Our timing could not have been more perfect as it seemed the local pub was the go to place for everyone. Before entrees were served, we were pushing tables together and having wild conversations about not only the excitement of the day, but our own individual happenings in the writer world.

When the big hour happened, we wished our friends good luck as they took their places at the signing table. We took the time we had to browse through the vast selection of books the store had to offer. One of the staff members gave us a small tour, explaining how they organize everything. She introduced us to the Nora Room, which was an entire room full of Nora’s works.

An entire room.

As writers still early in our careers, none of us can imagine the day when we could fill a room with our books. Nora really meant it in the documentary Between The Sheets when she said to put your ass in the chair and write.

As we looked, my one friend admitted she had never read one of Nora’s books. She asked me which one I would recommend. I looked at the room full of selections and asked her what kind of books she liked. Nora has one for everybody. She asked me which ones, of all of them, have I read. I looked at one wall, then another, and another. I picked out four books, all published within the last year or so, and said–

These are the ones I haven’t read. Yet.

My friend looked at me, confused. She asked me if I meant to say that I have read every other book in that room?

Yes, Yes I have. I honestly don’t know how many she has but it’s well over the 200 mark.

She smiled, and said, “So you meeting Nora today…it’s a big deal.”

Yeah. It’s a big deal. There is no other writer in the world that I have read more books of. No other stories that I have loved more than I love hers. No other experience I’ve had reading a book to solidify that the Romance genre is where I want to be.

As I giggled with my friends and got them to autograph my copies of their books, I got in line to have Nora autograph a book for me. Now, I own many of her books and I could have taken the opportunity to buy a new book and have her sign it. But I didn’t do that. I combed through the books for sale and found Montana Sky, a book I have owned for over two decades.

This book was the first book I ever read written by her. I was in the middle of high school and a friend of mine gave it to me to fill an afternoon of boredom. I remember getting sucked into this book, into the story, into the characters. And I remember when I read the last word on the last page, I didn’t say that I wanted to read more of her works. I said THIS is what I want to do. I want to tell stories like this woman has, to make people want to be part of the story like this woman has.

This book woke up my brain to the idea that my heart already knew; I wanted to be a writer.

As I waited my turn, I watched Nora smile and chat with people. I watched her sign and pose for pictures. As I got closer and closer, I could start to feel my heartbeat in my face. Nervous was an understatement. I had a whole thing planned, what to say to Nora Roberts if I was ever in her company. What do you say to your career hero? I already knew.

What I had planned:

You know, I’ve been a fan of yours my whole adult life. I love your books, and I love the variety that you exercise in your writing. This book (Montana Sky) is the first book I ever read from you, and it changed my world. When I closed the book, I realized I had spent a week on a ranch I had never seen before in Montana, a State I have never been to. But somehow in these pages, with these words, this place was my home. These characters were my sisters. They were me. I walked away thinking I needed more jeans in my closet and cowboy boots for my feet. I was convinced that I could  run a ranch successfully now, and boy did I want to. But that’s not why I wanted you to sign this book. I wanted you to sign this book because it was the book that introduced me to what being a writer could mean. I’ve always looked to words to help me express myself, I write letters to people. I write letters, pages and pages long, laying my feelings out for them to see, and I never send them. Just the act itself is cathartic for me. Words have always been important.

After I read this book, I realized that I want to read more. I had never been a reader before because I had never found a story (with the grand exception of Anne of Green Gables) that I wanted to be a part of. I’ve never closed a book and was sad that I would not be spending more time with the characters. And they were people. Real people. After I read your book, I realized that I wrote letters to people because part of me has always wanted to paint my world with words.

In the years since, I have read almost all of your books. I have enjoyed every adventure right along with you. I have loved, and hated, and cried, and cheered. While I have never met you, your words wrap around me with the comfort of an old friend.

Watching you in this new light, as a learning writer myself, I enjoy what you have to offer on the craft. I love your blogs that celebrate new ideas, and taking chances on a different kind of story. I love when you admit that you get crabby, and that you just want to write the words and let the business people do the business things. I love that you want people to fall in love with your books, but you know that they won’t fall in love with all of them, and that’s okay. I love that you follow an idea to see what magic it has waiting. I even love it when you’re a bit snarky with the peanut gallery.

I value you. As a reader myself, and as a writer who is still finding her way. I value how much you’ve given to me, personally, without ever having even known me.

It is an honor to have met you today. I hope that one day, we will find ourselves in the same room again. Perhaps I’ll find you within the group at my dinner table. Celebrating what was, and what is yet to come.

___

 

What I actually said,–

Hi.

___

 

So here it is, one more letter for my collection of never sent. Thank you Nora, for all the words. Yours, mine, and all of them in between.

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In a Sentimental Mood

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I’ve mentioned once or twice that my husband will never find himself as a main love interest in one of my stories. I don’t know about my readers out there, but I know for a fact my friends and family always try to connect dots between fiction and reality.

And the truth is, it can be a very fine line. In my first book, the dedication page says, “To the Real Life Elle…” As I wrote the manuscript, the character of Elle took on the personality of a person whom I have valued and treasured for a very long time. Something inside of me wanted to grab my dear friend’s hand and take her on an adventure. So I did.

I won’t deny I’ve borrowed personality traits from my inner circle. I have a whole world to create full of siblings, friends, neighbors, and coworkers. The natural assumption of a lot of people is that the leading man is my man. To be honest with you, I think my husband was a bit disappointed to not be able to find a character walking around my fictional world that acted, talked, and well….ya know, like he does.

But as I’ve said before, my husband is the good in every book.

A friend of mine who beta reads my books and who has read my yet to be published Waiting for Autumn asked me what it was about men who built things that I liked so much. Dean was a furniture maker, Max was an Architect, and Nick (who you will love) spends his time building a fortress of solitude deep in the woods. I don’t think I realized that I constantly put tools in my men’s hands, but when he pointed it out as a pattern I knew exactly why.

My husband builds things. He’s a very busy guy so projects are few and far between, but I love that he can. When we bought our first house, it was nothing short of a crack den. Without proper training, or any practice, my husband went to the library and checked out every how-to book they had. He gutted our house down to the studs, and built me a happy little home to bring our new baby to. Still to this day, though we no longer live there, when I look at pictures, I feel the pride I had in him. In the years since there have been dozens of little things my children and I have asked him to fix or build. Knowing that he can, and watching him work is one of my favorite things about him.

One of my first public appearances was at a book club that had graciously decided to read my book and welcome me as a guest. One of the members mentioned how what surprised her the most about the male characters was how each of them were different, but they were all traditional in their own way. It was very clear to her that each man in Rising Ridge had a deep set of core values.

If I had to pick a favorite thing about my husband, it would be this.

When we met, we were very young. He had long hair, drove a motorcycle, and had a ridiculously wild personality. He was that guy at the party. But what I discovered as I spent more and then all of my time with him, is that how the wildest guy I’ve ever known is the most traditional guy I’ve ever known. Whenever we’d go out on a date, he opened doors for me. To this day, he still does. He waited until he had a college degree in hand, a roof to put over my head, and a job to support me before he asked me to marry him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married all that time, it was that he wanted to make sure he could give me the life I dreamed of. He didn’t want me to regret my choices. He’s financially supported me since the day we got married, and though it means the world to me, I think it means so much more to him to be a provider. He is a very active, hands-on father and he drives the value of education and honesty into our children’s little minds. He believes in being a valuable member of society, and spends the bulk of his free time in a volunteer capacity for one of our town organizations. He’s a patriot, through and through. He believes in the value of being not only an American, but making yourself of value to the cause. While his uniform only includes a suit and tie, I will leave you with this: One time, that man kissed me and our child and left us standing in safety as he ran back into a burning building.

If it’s the right thing to do, he does it. No short cuts, no taking advantage of situations.

 

Character development in a story is a big thing. At the beginning of the story you’ve got a girl who, whether she knows it or not, hasn’t come into her own just yet. There’s always a voice of reason. A song of encouragement. A reminder to step back, and breathe. In Rising Ridge, my sweet Rohan was as sexy and as chill as they came. Rather than direct Olivia down a path that would only serve selfish wants, he reminded her to find her own way. To stop asking why, and start asking why not?

My husband always reminds me the importance of why not…

In The Dreamer, Claire idolized the love that her grandfather had for her grandmother. She wanted that for herself. Her grandfather was super silly and still kissed his wife of fifty years on the cheek and told her he wished for fifty more.

When I was little, there was an episode of The Cosby Show that defined what I wanted to find in a marriage. A simple little moment set to the tune of In a Sentimental Mood.

My husband has twelve other place he could sit or lay in our house. But he will pass an empty couch to lay with me while I’m reading a book. I hope that never changes.

He has given me a life time of moments set to the tune of In a Sentimental Mood.

In my latest book, my main character is hell bent on doing things for herself. Except nobody can take on the world alone. If you’re very lucky, you have a person or two who hold you up. A person who knows what you need, and makes it happen. A person, who when the world turns its back, has always been on your side. And a person who moves heaven and earth to fix the unfixable.

For more than half my life, my husband has been the fixer of the unfixable.

 

One single character could never hold the value of this man.

 

Happy 15th Anniversary, my love.

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Latest Blog

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I’ve mentioned once or twice that my husband will never find himself as a main love interest in one of my stories. I don’t know about my readers out there, but I know for a fact my friends and family always try to connect dots between fiction and reality.

And the truth is, it can be a very fine line. In my first book, the dedication page says, “To the Real Life Elle…” As I wrote the manuscript, the character of Elle took on the personality of a person whom I have valued and treasured for a very long time. Something inside of me wanted to grab my dear friend’s hand and take her on an adventure. So I did.

I won’t deny I’ve borrowed personality traits from my inner circle. I have a whole world to create full of siblings, friends, neighbors, and coworkers. The natural assumption of a lot of people is that the leading man is my man. To be honest with you, I think my husband was a bit disappointed to not be able to find a character walking around my fictional world that acted, talked, and well….ya know, like he does.

But as I’ve said before, my husband is the good in every book.

A friend of mine who beta reads my books and who has read my yet to be published Waiting for Autumn asked me what it was about men who built things that I liked so much. Dean was a furniture maker, Max was an Architect, and Nick (who you will love) spends his time building a fortress of solitude deep in the woods. I don’t think I realized that I constantly put tools in my men’s hands, but when he pointed it out as a pattern I knew exactly why.

My husband builds things. He’s a very busy guy so projects are few and far between, but I love that he can. When we bought our first house, it was nothing short of a crack den. Without proper training, or any practice, my husband went to the library and checked out every how-to book they had. He gutted our house down to the studs, and built me a happy little home to bring our new baby to. Still to this day, though we no longer live there, when I look at pictures, I feel the pride I had in him. In the years since there have been dozens of little things my children and I have asked him to fix or build. Knowing that he can, and watching him work is one of my favorite things about him.

One of my first public appearances was at a book club that had graciously decided to read my book and welcome me as a guest. One of the members mentioned how what surprised her the most about the male characters was how each of them were different, but they were all traditional in their own way. It was very clear to her that each man in Rising Ridge had a deep set of core values.

If I had to pick a favorite thing about my husband, it would be this.

When we met, we were very young. He had long hair, drove a motorcycle, and had a ridiculously wild personality. He was that guy at the party. But what I discovered as I spent more and then all of my time with him, is that how the wildest guy I’ve ever known is the most traditional guy I’ve ever known. Whenever we’d go out on a date, he opened doors for me. To this day, he still does. He waited until he had a college degree in hand, a roof to put over my head, and a job to support me before he asked me to marry him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get married all that time, it was that he wanted to make sure he could give me the life I dreamed of. He didn’t want me to regret my choices. He’s financially supported me since the day we got married, and though it means the world to me, I think it means so much more to him to be a provider. He is a very active, hands-on father and he drives the value of education and honesty into our children’s little minds. He believes in being a valuable member of society, and spends the bulk of his free time in a volunteer capacity for one of our town organizations. He’s a patriot, through and through. He believes in the value of being not only an American, but making yourself of value to the cause. While his uniform only includes a suit and tie, I will leave you with this: One time, that man kissed me and our child and left us standing in safety as he ran back into a burning building.

If it’s the right thing to do, he does it. No short cuts, no taking advantage of situations.

 

Character development in a story is a big thing. At the beginning of the story you’ve got a girl who, whether she knows it or not, hasn’t come into her own just yet. There’s always a voice of reason. A song of encouragement. A reminder to step back, and breathe. In Rising Ridge, my sweet Rohan was as sexy and as chill as they came. Rather than direct Olivia down a path that would only serve selfish wants, he reminded her to find her own way. To stop asking why, and start asking why not?

My husband always reminds me the importance of why not…

In The Dreamer, Claire idolized the love that her grandfather had for her grandmother. She wanted that for herself. Her grandfather was super silly and still kissed his wife of fifty years on the cheek and told her he wished for fifty more.

When I was little, there was an episode of The Cosby Show that defined what I wanted to find in a marriage. A simple little moment set to the tune of In a Sentimental Mood.

My husband has twelve other place he could sit or lay in our house. But he will pass an empty couch to lay with me while I’m reading a book. I hope that never changes.

He has given me a life time of moments set to the tune of In a Sentimental Mood.

In my latest book, my main character is hell bent on doing things for herself. Except nobody can take on the world alone. If you’re very lucky, you have a person or two who hold you up. A person who knows what you need, and makes it happen. A person, who when the world turns its back, has always been on your side. And a person who moves heaven and earth to fix the unfixable.

For more than half my life, my husband has been the fixer of the unfixable.

 

One single character could never hold the value of this man.

 

Happy 15th Anniversary, my love.

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State of Grace

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According to Oprah Winfrey, God’s gift to humankind is given to us on our 40th birthday. On that day, we wake up and we are the person that we are going to be for the rest of our lives. Whatever little quirks we still have laying around are ours to keep, and if we are very lucky, we will be the best outcomes of all the life lessons we have learned along the way.

Okay, so that means I have a year to really get my shit together, right? Yeah, Oprah said so. Good enough for me!

I have to share with you that I am actually pleased with myself this morning. In preparation for this blog, I looked back at my birthday blog from last year. Aptly titled Fly Away, what was on my mind most was my desire to figure out the balance between this writer life and real life of mine.

I smile because the first thing I noted in not-quite-getting-it all right was the fact that I neglected to pack my son something to sleep on for a weekend camping trip. As it so happens, from the time of this writing, I’ll be packing him up for that same annual trip this very evening. I literally just wrote SLEEPING BAG!! In big bold letters on a Post-it note and stuck it to my computer.

I also complained about how much I had to do that day, and how we didn’t have any food because I hadn’t gotten to the store. To-do lists longer than they should be and no milk for the tea. One year later, I still have a lot to do today, but nothing I can’t handle. I giggle because I squeezed a quick trip to the store in yesterday so the staples would not run out. The to-do list is ever growing and never ending, but I’m not behind on it. And as I sit here typing my words I do so with a fresh pot of tea and all the milk I need.

Soccer pictures are also the same evening this year. Only today, I will not be driving across town to get socks. I have them. The uniform is clean, ready, and waiting.

Seems like in the last 365, I found the balance I was looking for. It’s still not perfect. I sit here, looking at the clock that’s about to strike one and feel the chances of me getting everything done slipping through my fingers. I also still have no plan for a child’s birthday…two days from now. I repeat the same sentiment from last year’s blog – Mom of the year, right here!

Somehow, I know it will all work out. It always does.

And that’s kind of what I’ve been thinking about today as I wonder what I’ll be looking for in my journey of the next 365. Last year I hoped for balance. This year, I think maybe a little grace would be good.

While my teens and 20s were the decades of grabbing on and holding onto everything with such eager willingness, my 30s has been the decade of letting go.

I’m not perfect at it, but like I said, I’ve got a whole year to figure out it.

What I do know, is that with all of these things around me, as I decide what stays and what goes, I hope that I will be able to navigate it with a little grace mixed in.

I could give you a list, right now, without even thinking about it of all the stuff that still bugs me about me. I have a teenager. Trust me when I say no matter how far you think you’ve come, those pesky features that are still kind of hanging around will show up on your teenage child and you will see just how far you still have to go. The worst thing about my child is that he is the unrefined version of me. I see it, and I want to smack myself for it. Genetics are a bitch.

I could also give you a list of things I have overcome in this last decade. Lessons I have learned. Easy ones, and hard ones. The benefit to that unrefined version of you walking around in the color of the next generation is that you do get to see how far you’ve actually come. Thank God.

I see things on the horizon that I don’t like. Things I will have to finally admit, I have to let go of. Things that I love, and don’t think I can breathe without. What I know in my heart is that they aren’t mine. They were mine, for a beautiful and lovely chapter of my life, and as I lay these last few pages down I know they will not follow me into the next. What I need to learn in this next year is how to let go, and mourn, with grace. I’m not there yet because my instincts are screaming for me to hold on even when I know I can’t. It’s going to hurt. Well more than I am prepared for now.

There are things that I will say goodbye to that aren’t as hard. In fact, I could give you a list of all things I will be happy to part ways with. Like I said, my 30s have been about letting go. There have been moments where I have thrown habits, relationships, fears, doubts, prejudgments, and stupidity out the proverbial window in a giant and ceremonious confetti bomb. I am free from this.

With the bad, there has been so much good. My 30s has been the decade that I experienced the family life that I was only building the foundation for in my 20s. I am smack dab in the middle of my minivan years. My calendar would make your head hurt. There are sports, and scouting, and church, and cookouts, and family gatherings…more events than I have empty calendar boxes. Not to mention this little writing thing I’ve got going on.  I could not be more grateful for the chaos.

While I spent my 20s dreaming of the one days and some days, my 30s have been full of them. As far as to-do lists go, I just about nailed it.

Just about.

I stand here, on my precipice, knowing these are the last 365 days of a decade that will most likely be the last one to hold the big, earth-shattering changes of my life. While that excites me to know that I’m almost done becoming ME, it kind of freaks me out a little too. I hope I do it well, and I hope I do it with grace.

I am still learning…

Save

State o Grace

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According to Oprah Winfrey, God’s gift to humankind is given to us on our 40th birthday. On that day, we wake up and we are the person that we are going to be for the rest of our lives. Whatever little quirks we still have laying around are ours to keep, and if we are very lucky, we will be the best outcomes of all the life lessons we have learned along the way.

Okay, so that means I have a year to really get my shit together, right? Yeah, Oprah said so. Good enough for me!

I have to share with you that I am actually pleased with myself this morning. In preparation for this blog, I looked back at my birthday blog from last year. Aptly titled Fly Away, what was on my mind most was my desire to figure out the balance between this writer life and real life of mine.

I smile because the first thing I noted in not-quite-getting-it all right was the fact that I neglected to pack my son something to sleep on for a weekend camping trip. As it so happens, from the time of this writing, I’ll be packing him up for that same annual trip this very evening. I literally just wrote SLEEPING BAG!! In big bold letters on a Post-it note and stuck it to my computer.

I also complained about how much I had to do that day, and how we didn’t have any food because I hadn’t gotten to the store. To-do lists longer than they should be and no milk for the tea. One year later, I still have a lot to do today, but nothing I can’t handle. I giggle because I squeezed a quick trip to the store in yesterday so the staples would not run out. The to-do list is ever growing and never ending, but I’m not behind on it. And as I sit here typing my words I do so with a fresh pot of tea and all the milk I need.

Soccer pictures are also the same evening this year. Only today, I will not be driving across town to get socks. I have them. The uniform is clean, ready, and waiting.

Seems like in the last 365, I found the balance I was looking for. It’s still not perfect. I sit here, looking at the clock that’s about to strike one and feel the chances of me getting everything done slipping through my fingers. I also still have no plan for a child’s birthday…two days from now. I repeat the same sentiment from last year’s blog – Mom of the year, right here!

Somehow, I know it will all work out. It always does.

And that’s kind of what I’ve been thinking about today as I wonder what I’ll be looking for in my journey of the next 365. Last year I hoped for balance. This year, I think maybe a little grace would be good.

While my teens and 20s were the decades of grabbing on and holding onto everything with such eager willingness, my 30s has been the decade of letting go.

I’m not perfect at it, but like I said, I’ve got a whole year to figure out it.

What I do know, is that with all of these things around me, as I decide what stays and what goes, I hope that I will be able to navigate it with a little grace mixed in.

I could give you a list, right now, without even thinking about it of all the stuff that still bugs me about me. I have a teenager. Trust me when I say no matter how far you think you’ve come, those pesky features that are still kind of hanging around will show up on your teenage child and you will see just how far you still have to go. The worst thing about my child is that he is the unrefined version of me. I see it, and I want to smack myself for it. Genetics are a bitch.

I could also give you a list of things I have overcome in this last decade. Lessons I have learned. Easy ones, and hard ones. The benefit to that unrefined version of you walking around in the color of the next generation is that you do get to see how far you’ve actually come. Thank God.

I see things on the horizon that I don’t like. Things I will have to finally admit, I have to let go of. Things that I love, and don’t think I can breathe without. What I know in my heart is that they aren’t mine. They were mine, for a beautiful and lovely chapter of my life, and as I lay these last few pages down I know they will not follow me into the next. What I need to learn in this next year is how to let go, and mourn, with grace. I’m not there yet because my instincts are screaming for me to hold on even when I know I can’t. It’s going to hurt. Well more than I am prepared for now.

There are things that I will say goodbye to that aren’t as hard. In fact, I could give you a list of all things I will be happy to part ways with. Like I said, my 30s have been about letting go. There have been moments where I have thrown habits, relationships, fears, doubts, prejudgments, and stupidity out the proverbial window in a giant and ceremonious confetti bomb. I am free from this.

With the bad, there has been so much good. My 30s has been the decade that I experienced the family life that I was only building the foundation for in my 20s. I am smack dab in the middle of my minivan years. My calendar would make your head hurt. There are sports, and scouting, and church, and cookouts, and family gatherings…more events than I have empty calendar boxes. Not to mention this little writing thing I’ve got going on.  I could not be more grateful for the chaos.

While I spent my 20s dreaming of the one days and some days, my 30s have been full of them. As far as to-do lists go, I just about nailed it.

Just about.

I stand here, on my precipice, knowing these are the last 365 days of a decade that will most likely be the last one to hold the big, earth-shattering changes of my life. While that excites me to know that I’m almost done becoming ME, it kind of freaks me out a little too. I hope I do it well, and I hope I do it with grace.

I am still learning…

Save

Alexa’s Latest Blog

[image error]

According to Oprah Winfrey, God’s gift to humankind is given to us on our 40th birthday. On that day, we wake up and we are the person that we are going to be for the rest of our lives. Whatever little quirks we still have laying around are ours to keep, and if we are very lucky, we will be the best outcomes of all the life lessons we have learned along the way.

Okay, so that means I have a year to really get my shit together, right? Yeah, Oprah said so. Good enough for me!

I have to share with you that I am actually pleased with myself this morning. In preparation for this blog, I looked back at my birthday blog from last year. Aptly titled Fly Away, what was on my mind most was my desire to figure out the balance between this writer life and real life of mine.

I smile because the first thing I noted in not-quite-getting-it all right was the fact that I neglected to pack my son something to sleep on for a weekend camping trip. As it so happens, from the time of this writing, I’ll be packing him up for that same annual trip this very evening. I literally just wrote SLEEPING BAG!! In big bold letters on a Post-it note and stuck it to my computer.

I also complained about how much I had to do that day, and how we didn’t have any food because I hadn’t gotten to the store. To-do lists longer than they should be and no milk for the tea. One year later, I still have a lot to do today, but nothing I can’t handle. I giggle because I squeezed a quick trip to the store in yesterday so the staples would not run out. The to-do list is ever growing and never ending, but I’m not behind on it. And as I sit here typing my words I do so with a fresh pot of tea and all the milk I need.

Soccer pictures are also the same evening this year. Only today, I will not be driving across town to get socks. I have them. The uniform is clean, ready, and waiting.

Seems like in the last 365, I found the balance I was looking for. It’s still not perfect. I sit here, looking at the clock that’s about to strike one and feel the chances of me getting everything done slipping through my fingers. I also still have no plan for a child’s birthday…two days from now. I repeat the same sentiment from last year’s blog – Mom of the year, right here!

Somehow, I know it will all work out. It always does.

And that’s kind of what I’ve been thinking about today as I wonder what I’ll be looking for in my journey of the next 365. Last year I hoped for balance. This year, I think maybe a little grace would be good.

While my teens and 20s were the decades of grabbing on and holding onto everything with such eager willingness, my 30s has been the decade of letting go.

I’m not perfect at it, but like I said, I’ve got a whole year to figure out it.

What I do know, is that with all of these things around me, as I decide what stays and what goes, I hope that I will be able to navigate it with a little grace mixed in.

I could give you a list, right now, without even thinking about it of all the stuff that still bugs me about me. I have a teenager. Trust me when I say no matter how far you think you’ve come, those pesky features that are still kind of hanging around will show up on your teenage child and you will see just how far you still have to go. The worst thing about my child is that he is the unrefined version of me. I see it, and I want to smack myself for it. Genetics are a bitch.

I could also give you a list of things I have overcome in this last decade. Lessons I have learned. Easy ones, and hard ones. The benefit to that unrefined version of you walking around in the color of the next generation is that you do get to see how far you’ve actually come. Thank God.

I see things on the horizon that I don’t like. Things I will have to finally admit, I have to let go of. Things that I love, and don’t think I can breathe without. What I know in my heart is that they aren’t mine. They were mine, for a beautiful and lovely chapter of my life, and as I lay these last few pages down I know they will not follow me into the next. What I need to learn in this next year is how to let go, and mourn, with grace. I’m not there yet because my instincts are screaming for me to hold on even when I know I can’t. It’s going to hurt. Well more than I am prepared for now.

There are things that I will say goodbye to that aren’t as hard. In fact, I could give you a list of all things I will be happy to part ways with. Like I said, my 30s have been about letting go. There have been moments where I have thrown habits, relationships, fears, doubts, prejudgments, and stupidity out the proverbial window in a giant and ceremonious confetti bomb. I am free from this.

With the bad, there has been so much good. My 30s has been the decade that I experienced the family life that I was only building the foundation for in my 20s. I am smack dab in the middle of my minivan years. My calendar would make your head hurt. There are sports, and scouting, and church, and cookouts, and family gatherings…more events than I have empty calendar boxes. Not to mention this little writing thing I’ve got going on.  I could not be more grateful for the chaos.

While I spent my 20s dreaming of the one days and some days, my 30s have been full of them. As far as to-do lists go, I just about nailed it.

Just about.

I stand here, on my precipice, knowing these are the last 365 days of a decade that will most likely be the last one to hold the big, earth-shattering changes of my life. While that excites me to know that I’m almost done becoming ME, it kind of freaks me out a little too. I hope I do it well, and I hope I do it with grace.

I am still learning…

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What Are You Waiting For?

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Okay, so at some point in January I screamed to the Facebook rafters that I was D-O-N-E my latest project, Waiting for Autumn. Naturally, my friends and family have all been bugging me about when it’s going to come out. Seems like I’ve been sitting here for months on end doing what? Nobody knows.

I promise, I’ve been one busy little bee!

It’s fun to talk to folks and it’s exciting to me how they are interested in the process of what it takes to write and make a book. Where do writers come up with the ideas? How long does it take to write? When will you publish it? How will you publish it?

Ladies and gents, please turn your attention to the lady behind the curtain.

My favorite question is always where did I come up with the idea for a certain book. It depends on the book. Rising Ridge was born from a trope idea I had. Being in love with the boy next door who was WAY too old for you then, but not so much now. The dreamer? Well, my husband asked me to tell him what an incoming text on his phone said. It wasn’t what the text said, it was the 5 seconds it took between picking up his phone and reading the message to him. That five seconds planted a seed. And that’s all book ideas really are, seeds planted. The best part of it is, you never know when that process begins. I’m constantly taking moments and plucking them out of my timeline, rearranging them in my head, and going off on a wild goose chase… I even made a fun chart to show you how it works. This would be the evolution of how we got from the seeds being planted to a book being written. We’ll use Waiting for Autumn since it’s fresh in my mind.

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Yup, that’s how waiting for Autumn was born. I heard a song, it was beautiful. It made me think of all the loves that never were, and how it would be great if I could give them their love stories. Oh, wait a minute, I’m a writer. I totally can.

And thus began my workflow. You’d think writing the story would be the hard part. Nope. I was done that way back in January, remember? So what gives? Where’s the book? The actual story is such a small part of the picture. If you’ve ever wondered how the making of a book works, or more specifically how the making of a book works for me then wonder no more, my friends. Check out how my ideas become a book.

[image error] [image error]

Every writer has a different method, this is mine. For Now. I have a young family, and they come first, so I cram all of that stuff up there into two glorious days a week. Right now I’m playing the waiting game with Waiting for Autumn. Publishers can take up to 90 days to return submissions, and even then they’ve only looked at your first so many pages. A glimpse really, where your big goal is to get an invite to send the entire manuscript and wait up to 90 more days.

I’m a lucky duck with this project, seems I did come out swinging! I sent a sample out to my *hopeful* new publisher and did get a very kind email inviting me to send the entire manuscript back. I eagerly await the reply that they could take all of April to send. They could love it, or they could love it enough to have their editors go to town on it. Or they could laugh my manuscript right into the slush pile. I don’t fear the slush pile. You know what kind of work is there? Gone with The Wind, The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank), Peter Rabbit, Little Women, A Wrinkle in Time, and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. All of these books, and so many more were passed up by at least one publisher.

While I’m giving the floor to and waiting to hear back from one particular, I love this book so much that I’m happy to send it to a dozen more publishers and agents if need be. That’s about how many times Harry Potter was passed up if you were wondering.

So, like you, I’m Waiting for Autumn.

Guys, seriously, I am so excited about this book. I can’t wait for you to fall in love with the cast of characters who live in this world. I look forward to keeping you posted on all exciting news. Until then, the fun and games of setting up the next book have begun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to return a phone call to a wilderness survivalist in Maine.

Much love,

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Alexa’s Latest Blog

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Okay, so at some point in January I screamed to the Facebook rafters that I was D-O-N-E my latest project, Waiting for Autumn. Naturally, my friends and family have all been bugging me about when it’s going to come out. Seems like I’ve been sitting here for months on end doing what? Nobody knows.

I promise, I’ve been one busy little bee!

It’s fun to talk to folks and it’s exciting to me how they are interested in the process of what it takes to write and make a book. Where do writers come up with the ideas? How long does it take to write? When will you publish it? How will you publish it?

Ladies and gents, please turn your attention to the lady behind the curtain.

My favorite question is always where did I come up with the idea for a certain book. It depends on the book. Rising Ridge was born from a trope idea I had. Being in love with the boy next door who was WAY too old for you then, but not so much now. The dreamer? Well, my husband asked me to tell him what an incoming text on his phone said. It wasn’t what the text said, it was the 5 seconds it took between picking up his phone and reading the message to him. That five seconds planted a seed. And that’s all book ideas really are, seeds planted. The best part of it is, you never know when that process begins. I’m constantly taking moments and plucking them out of my timeline, rearranging them in my head, and going off on a wild goose chase… I even made a fun chart to show you how it works. This would be the evolution of how we got from the seeds being planted to a book being written. We’ll use Waiting for Autumn since it’s fresh in my mind.

[image error]

Yup, that’s how waiting for Autumn was born. I heard a song, it was beautiful. It made me think of all the loves that never were, and how it would be great if I could give them their love stories. Oh, wait a minute, I’m a writer. I totally can.

And thus began my workflow. You’d think writing the story would be the hard part. Nope. I was done that way back in January, remember? So what gives? Where’s the book? The actual story is such a small part of the picture. If you’ve ever wondered how the making of a book works, or more specifically how the making of a book works for me then wonder no more, my friends. Check out how my ideas become a book.

[image error] [image error]

Every writer has a different method, this is mine. For Now. I have a young family, and they come first, so I cram all of that stuff up there into two glorious days a week. Right now I’m playing the waiting game with Waiting for Autumn. Publishers can take up to 90 days to return submissions, and even then they’ve only looked at your first so many pages. A glimpse really, where your big goal is to get an invite to send the entire manuscript and wait up to 90 more days.

I’m a lucky duck with this project, seems I did come out swinging! I sent a sample out to my *hopeful* new publisher and did get a very kind email inviting me to send the entire manuscript back. I eagerly await the reply that they could take all of April to send. They could love it, or they could love it enough to have their editors go to town on it. Or they could laugh my manuscript right into the slush pile. I don’t fear the slush pile. You know what kind of work is there? Gone with The Wind, The Diary of a Young Girl (Anne Frank), Peter Rabbit, Little Women, A Wrinkle in Time, and Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. All of these books, and so many more were passed up by at least one publisher.

While I’m giving the floor to and waiting to hear back from one particular, I love this book so much that I’m happy to send it to a dozen more publishers and agents if need be. That’s about how many times Harry Potter was passed up if you were wondering.

So, like you, I’m Waiting for Autumn.

Guys, seriously, I am so excited about this book. I can’t wait for you to fall in love with the cast of characters who live in this world. I look forward to keeping you posted on all exciting news. Until then, the fun and games of setting up the next book have begun.

Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to return a phone call to a wilderness survivalist in Maine.

Much love,

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She’s leaving Home

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February was a weird month. It was the kind of month where I stood on the edge of the world and took stock of life as I know it.

Last year marked a pretty significant anniversary of a lot of things. Every time I turned around, there was some iconic symbol of my youth being trotted out from the darkness and celebrated with renewed spirit for it’s 20th or sometimes 25th anniversary. It was a whole year of, “Can you believe we’re this old?”

Reminder after reminder after reminder, happy anniversary to what was the best of my 90s youth.

I was prepared for more of the same this year, another pretty significant anniversary of a lot of things will happen. What I was not prepared for was to spend the better part of this month, in one way or another on the edge of 17.

My childhood home is being cleaned out as I type these words. I’m one of those odd ducks that grew up in the same house, spending all of my formative years in one place. While I moved out decades ago, and the room that was mine has been turned into the catch-all room, I can’t help but feel a little uprooted. Two weeks from now there will be a for sale sign on the lawn and my entire existence and every single important and monumental milestone in that house will be erased. Once it’s sold, I will have little to no reason to return to my hometown. I will have zero reason to drive down my street. I will not know if and when the new owners will make what I had their own, or if they might even tear it down completely and build new. There is a very high probability that the three bedroom, 1000 square foot rancher that was the setting of so much of my life won’t even exist in a month.

I don’t know how I feel about that. Part of me wants to drive by in the days and weeks to come and see what fate has in store. But the other part of me needs it to remain as it is, untouched in my head, my heart, and my memories.

In the process of taking the last of me from this place, a friend of mine mentioned they would like to pop by to say goodbye. At first, I thought this was such a sweet offer, and we would hold hands and close our eyes and take in the last moments of this place together. Cue the sappy music to the last episode of every show in the history of ever where the family ends the series with a moment of silence before they turn out the lights of an empty room.

But then I got a little sad. Do I want the last of us to be standing together in an empty room? Or do I want us both to keep what once was in our hearts? There are places I will never go because I do not want to see what I once had erased with time and change. Ultimately, I said goodbye to my home alone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want anyone with me, it was that I wanted what we shared to be the last thing they remember of this place.

At some point in my youth, I came to own a butterfly sticker. I don’t know why I bought it, or what about it was so special. I remember it being the first thing I didn’t ask permission to have. I just wanted it, bought it, and stuck it on the mirror on my closet door. I didn’t know it at the time, but this butterfly would be the transitional item. The very last thing I bought for my childhood room, and the very first thing I bought for myself without consultation with the powers that be. I kept passing by this sticker, still on the mirror more than two decades later, and thinking how this would be the one thing I would wonder about. The one thing that if I ever did find myself in my hometown, driving down my street and passing by, I would wonder if it was still there. I know it wouldn’t be, but in my heart, I would pretend it still was. Now I know why every kid in every movie took their doorknob when their parents decide to sell their childhood home. Stupid silly little things.

Just as I was turning out lights and double checking to make sure I got everything I might still want, I turned to the mirror. I picked at the corner edges of the sticker and very carefully pulled the butterfly from its home.

My butterfly, perfectly preserved, in my hands. Seems twenty years later, it will remain my transitional item. The very last of my old life, sitting silently smack dab in the middle of my brand new one. When I look at it now, I feel the girl I used to be. There is much still to be done before keys exchange hands, and my parents will go back I’m sure a dozen times more. But I won’t. My chapter there is over.

This whole huge thing in my world also coincided with the loss of two friends. Two people who traveled in two very different versions of my circle of friends died within days of each other. One person I knew for almost all of my life. Every memory of school from kindergarten to graduation had him involved in some way or another. While we lost touch in adulthood, we were never far. We talked a few times, sent notes over the years. We wholeheartedly wished each other well. Not that long ago we were in the same place at the same time, and we got together for lunch. I was so excited to see my old friend. But the man I had lunch with was not him. As it turned out, though I said my final goodbye to him just last week, I lost him a long time ago. In the years of absence, he had become an addict. Jaded with life in general and bitter with anyone who ever loved him, I knew my sweet friend must have gotten lost along the way. As I gathered with people I hadn’t seen in so long, they echoed my words. We lost him a long time ago. And while there were stories of the jaded bitterness of his life, we did talk about how ridiculously fun he was. How this quiet boy sometimes shocked the world with color and flair. How he adored his mother and did everything he could to take care of her. How we were all friends with each other because we were friends with him. He was friends with everybody.

We found the butterfly, the piece of him that we will carry with us.

The other friend I didn’t know for as long, or as well. He was part of the core group that defined high school for me. It was kind of funny, I knew him through other people. He was a friend of my boyfriend’s, a friend of my friend. He was such a great guy, everyone said so. And then one year, his focus found me. I’d be at his house, part of the crowd, but at some point I’d wander into his room and find him. We talked. I’m a good listener. I’m a fantastic secret keeper. I adore the fact that he found trust in me, and would tell me what was on his mind. And this became our friendship. I’d walk down the halls with him, or find a quiet corner, and he’d tell me things. We never hung out on our own or went anywhere together. But he’d find me in a crowd. He used to visit me at work because it was on his way to where ever it was he was going. He didn’t have to stop by and spend a casual half hour checking in with me, but he did. He always did, for years. I adored him more than he would ever know. Actually, I told him that once, that I adored him. He got all silly on me, it was very sweet.

When my son was born and we were thinking up names, this guy’s name came up in the list of likable names. My heart smiled on it because of this guy. Without hesitation, I said yes and we gave him the same name. It carries nothing but goodness in my mind.

It’s been forever, but when I learned he left us, I knew I had to go home. I had to go home to say goodbye to the boy I adored. He was exactly where I had left him last. Adored by everyone. Going out of his way to check in with people. It was a true celebration of life, and I think his family honored him so well by gathering everyone home. At one point, his brother who was sitting next to me looked around. He said he felt like he was 16 again and time had stopped. I felt the same way. There was a guy there I had not seen in forever, and I thought for sure he would not remember me. He scooped me up in a big hug, and it felt like home. He whispered in my ear, “I remember you.”

For a night, we were all 16 again. We found the pieces of ourselves that defined us at our core, we found the best of home.

I think this is what has been on my mind all month. Finding the things we can’t, or don’t want to let go of. The things that define us at our core. The things that make it easier to let go of what doesn’t matter because we hold onto what does. For every person, it may be different. For some, it’s old letters stashed away in a box that you know will follow you into all of your different tomorrows. For others, it might be as silly as a butterfly sticker on the bedroom mirror.

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I remember the courageous spirit of one.

I carry with me the trust of the other.

I take the last piece of my childhood with me.

I choose not to see what time and change has in mind. I hold onto what matters and I move forward.

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