Pamela Morsi's Blog, page 2

Getting Respect as a Writer

 

 

Getting Respect as a Writer

(originally posted by RWA-WF. Read the article on RWA-WF)

One of the things that always strikes me when talking to writers groups is the Rodney Dangerfield-ism of “I don’t get no respect.”  The unpublished feel dissed by the published.  E-writers feel dissed by print.  Those in the romance genre think they’re looked down on by women’s fiction.  Mystery authors argue they get eclipsed by romance.  YA complain they’re not taken seriously.  And picture book creators whine that some people act like they aren’t writers at all.  Non-fiction yeomen and literary geniuses both rail against the masses who prefer to spend their book dollars on lesser lights.  Even screenwriters, with their high pay and glamorous life, sigh that people see them less, because what they do is not a book. 

The writer, laboring in obscurity and disrespect, is almost a cultural stereotype.  And all of us, at least on a bad day or two, have wallowed in it. 

I consider myself an extremely lucky person.  I grew up in fairly straightened working class circumstances, but I had an advantage that money can’t buy.  I had a father who believed in me.  He thought that I was brilliant and funny, hardworking and cute.  I recall childhood afternoons sitting with him on the front steps.  He would still be dressed in his grease-covered khakis, his hardhat “airing out” on the grass.  He’d ask my opinion on politics, religion, history, hunting dogs or the neighbors.  And he listened to my answers with the same attention and respect the he would have afforded any other human on the planet. 

Of course, school and life quickly taught me that I was not particularly brilliant, funny, hardworking or cute.  And the other folks on this planet occasionally treat me with a general lack of respect based on who I am, what I do, where I live or how much money I make. 

This truth does not make me sigh at the unrealistic expectations that my father instilled in me.  Because this lesson was not meant as an introduction to the big world.  It was his method of teaching me how to respect myself, to have confidence in my own thoughts and abilities and to inoculate me from the habit of measuring my accomplishments with other people’s yardsticks.

            Authorship is a very competitive vocation.  We have contests upon contests, trophies, medals, pendants and certificates.  Every reader in the world is urged to publically judge us, one to five stars.  And those don’t even touch the financial market realities of ever increasing reading options chasing limited book buying dollars. 

Like most of entertainment, you’re only as good as your last work.  And the term “good” isn’t limited to the quality of the writing.  Bad cover, bad reviews, bad luck and bad weather can all contribute to the lackluster performance of a novel.  Any hiccup in an upward trajectory and a hundred talented people are scrambling to step into place.  Even those at the very top have no place to go but down. 

Is it any wonder that we are insecure?

The quote from Eleanor Roosevelt that “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent” is a true one.  But sometimes it’s hard for us to get our heads around it.  We write something and immediately we ask someone nearby to read it. 

“What do you think?”

There is, inherently, in the nature of criticism the task to find fault.  It shows that the reader is paying attention, has discriminate tastes and is not afraid to tell you to your face that they don’t like something. 

I really hate that. 

But I digress from my point which is, Does it really matter what someone else thinks? 

I believe in the snowflake theory.  Every writer comes to his or her work with a specific set of skills and strengths.  They also bring their own unique perspective and life experience.  For these reasons, it is rare that two writers will produce the same work, even if they are trying. 

This fact was aptly demonstrated last year in a small historical anthology called It Happened One Season.  Veteran authors, Balogh, Laurens, D’Alessandro and Hern were given exactly the same characters and premise for a novella.  Without any coordination, each tale was different in tone, style, storyline and theme. 

I mention this because I think it is vitally important to all of us to remember that our work, what we write, cannot now, nor ever, be written by somebody else.  Our vision cannot be duplicated.   

But what if our vision is one that no one has an interest in reading?  What if my story sits on the self or in the cloud, only stirring the meager interest of a few supportive family members?

Ah yes, there is the rub. 

We all want to be loved.  To paraphrase Harry Truman, ‘then get a dog.” 

And we all want to make a living, which has never been easy.  I do believe that there is more opportunity in publishing venues, as least on some level, than there has been for a long while. 

Adoring fans are wonderful.  And the gleam of bright lights makes us feel even more fascinating than we are.  However, making big money, small money or any money  changes nothing when it comes to respect.  If you’re expecting commercial success to increase anything but your financial worth, you will be disappointed.  People love to hate writers who make money.  Just the fact that you’re making it, runs counter to the sufferer stereotype, guarantees that your work will be dismissed as unworthy and you will be almost universally proclaimed as a talentless hack.

Can’t you just give me my happily-ever-after?   

Being a writer is such an unlikely privilege, that whether we’re doing it in a Paris garret, a mini-mansion or a mobile home, we should be incredibly proud.  So many people want to be us.  Even WE want to be us. 

The buying and selling and bestselling, that’s all craziness that we can’t control.  What we do have some say in, is the quality of our own work and our own respect for the task that we do. 

Or as my daddy once said in cautioning about the local hometown swains, “If you don’t respect yourself, none of those numbskulls are going to do it for you.”

 

        

Getting Respect as a Writer

 (originally posted by RWA-WF)

 

 

One of the things that always strikes me when talking to writers groups is the Rodney Dangerfield-ism of “I don’t get no respect.”  The unpublished feel dissed by the published.  E-writers feel dissed by print.  Those in the romance genre think they’re looked down on by women’s fiction.  Mystery authors argue they get eclipsed by romance.  YA complain they’re not taken seriously.  And picture book creators whine that some people act like they aren’t writers at all.  Non-fiction yeomen and literary geniuses both rail against the masses who prefer to spend their book dollars on lesser lights.  Even screenwriters, with their high pay and glamorous life, sigh that people see them less, because what they do is not a book. 

The writer, laboring in obscurity and disrespect, is almost a cultural stereotype.  And all of us, at least on a bad day or two, have wallowed in it. 

I consider myself an extremely lucky person.  I grew up in fairly straightened working class circumstances, but I had an advantage that money can’t buy.  I had a father who believed in me.  He thought that I was brilliant and funny, hardworking and cute.  I recall childhood afternoons sitting with him on the front steps.  He would still be dressed in his grease-covered khakis, his hardhat “airing out” on the grass.  He’d ask my opinion on politics, religion, history, hunting dogs or the neighbors.  And he listened to my answers with the same attention and respect the he would have afforded any other human on the planet. 

Of course, school and life quickly taught me that I was not particularly brilliant, funny, hardworking or cute.  And the other folks on this planet occasionally treat me with a general lack of respect based on who I am, what I do, where I live or how much money I make. 

This truth does not make me sigh at the unrealistic expectations that my father instilled in me.  Because this lesson was not meant as an introduction to the big world.  It was his method of teaching me how to respect myself, to have confidence in my own thoughts and abilities and to inoculate me from the habit of measuring my accomplishments with other people’s yardsticks.

        Authorship is a very competitive vocation.  We have contests upon contests, trophies, medals, pendants and certificates.  Every reader in the world is urged to publically judge us, one to five stars.  And those don’t even touch the financial market realities of ever increasing reading options chasing limited book buying dollars. 

Like most of entertainment, you’re only as good as your last work.  And the term “good” isn’t limited to the quality of the writing.  Bad cover, bad reviews, bad luck and bad weather can all contribute to the lackluster performance of a novel.  Any hiccup in an upward trajectory and a hundred talented people are scrambling to step into place.  Even those at the very top have no place to go but down. 

Is it any wonder that we are insecure?

The quote from Eleanor Roosevelt that “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent” is a true one.  But sometimes it’s hard for us to get our heads around it.  We write something and immediately we ask someone nearby to read it. 

“What do you think?”

There is, inherently, in the nature of criticism the task to find fault.  It shows that the reader is paying attention, has discriminate tastes and is not afraid to tell you to your face that they don’t like something. 

I really hate that. 

But I digress from my point which is, Does it really matter what someone else thinks? 

I believe in the snowflake theory.  Every writer comes to his or her work with a specific set of skills and strengths.  They also bring their own unique perspective and life experience.  For these reasons, it is rare that two writers will produce the same work, even if they are trying. 

This fact was aptly demonstrated last year in a small historical anthology called It Happened One Season.  Veteran authors, Balogh, Laurens, D’Alessandro and Hern were given exactly the same characters and premise for a novella.  Without any coordination, each tale was different in tone, style, storyline and theme. 

I mention this because I think it is vitally important to all of us to remember that our work, what we write, cannot now, nor ever, be written by somebody else.  Our vision cannot be duplicated.   

But what if our vision is one that no one has an interest in reading?  What if my story sits on the self or in the cloud, only stirring the meager interest of a few supportive family members?

Ah yes, there is the rub. 

We all want to be loved.  To paraphrase Harry Truman, ‘then get a dog.” 

And we all want to make a living, which has never been easy.  I do believe that there is more opportunity in publishing venues, as least on some level, than there has been for a long while. 

Adoring fans are wonderful.  And the gleam of bright lights makes us feel even more fascinating than we are.  However, making big money, small money or any money  changes nothing when it comes to respect.  If you’re expecting commercial success to increase anything but your financial worth, you will be disappointed.  People love to hate writers who make money.  Just the fact that you’re making it, runs counter to the sufferer stereotype, guarantees that your work will be dismissed as unworthy and you will be almost universally proclaimed as a talentless hack.

Can’t you just give me my happily-ever-after?   

Being a writer is such an unlikely privilege, that whether we’re doing it in a Paris garret, a mini-mansion or a mobile home, we should be incredibly proud.  So many people want to be us.  Even WE want to be us. 

The buying and selling and bestselling, that’s all craziness that we can’t control.  What we do have some say in, is the quality of our own work and our own respect for the task that we do. 

Or as my daddy once said in cautioning about the local hometown swains, “If you don’t respect yourself, none of those numbskulls are going to do it for you.”

 

        

Picking Your Project: Part II

 

Picking Your Project: Part II

With my next book completed and revisions done, I’m waiting on the line edits and pondering what to do next.   

One of the questions that interviewers typically ask writers is, “Where do you get your ideas?”  Maybe you’re like me, I get ideas EVERYWHERE.  The morning paper, family history, songs on my ipod, watching people at the grocery store, even weird foreign films can inspire a story. 

Women’s Fiction encompasses a vast universe.  There is no shortage of subjects and so many of them appeal in so many different ways.  How can a working writer ever make a good decision?

Last month I compared this process to the restoration of our sweet old house.  When we looked at all the potential and saw what could be done, our choices were almost overwhelming.  To help us, we came up with a few basic questions to ask ourselves when contemplating the next project. 

The same idea might be helpful in winnowing down the prospects for a next novel.  The answers may not change our decision, but at least they might insure that we’ve glimpsed the big picture.

Where am I in my journey? 

If you’re starting out, it can be a smart idea to show readers a good basic book.  The optimal framework for raw talent and evolving craft is not always something out of the box.  Gimmicks can, and do, change the market, they start the trends.  But they are risky.  And their staying power is tenuous. 

If you’re in a sophomore slump, don’t panic and throw away the gains you’ve made.  No trajectory goes straight up.  And, honestly there are no shortcuts to the top. 

A veteran writer has the luxury to weigh the balance of the career with her/his personal aspirations.  That said, it’s no time to stamp your feet and demand that it’s “my way or the highway”.  The highway can be very long and lonely.  And if you head in that direction, your readers will miss you. 

Speaking of highways, am I on a road I don’t want to travel?

         A writing career is not one book, it’s a lifetime of stories.  It can be a terrible mistake to write an “outlier”, a story that doesn’t fit in with the readership that you’ve established or that you’re hoping to draw to you.  If you’ve trained readers to associate your name with X, and your new story is totally Y, readers may feel confused, even cheated. 

The flipside of this, don’t create a readership for stories you don’t want to write.  All of us are quickly typecast into a certain kind of book.  If you don’t want to spend your life writing vampires in high school or rich people at the beach, then don’t jump into those trends no matter how hot and lucrative they seem to be. 

I’m not saying that all your stories need to be alike, far from it.  We grow and change and stretch our boundaries, and our readers do this with us.  But everything we write should build on the foundations we establish for ourselves.

Can You Welcome This To The Family?   

         Our storylines are not limited to our computers.  When you choose a setting, a theme, a plot and characters, they become a huge part of your thoughts and your perspective.  And writing “the end” doesn’t send them away.  For the rest of your life these fictional scenes, these places, these people become as much a part of your personal memory as any actual friends, locales and incidents.  Writing a book is a long period of intense concentration.  It can loom large in your mind the way four years of college seems so much longer than the four years you worked at the insurance company.  If you cannot live your life with murder plots on the back burner or images of the undead in your facial recognition, then don’t bring them home.

Will Anybody Want to Read This?

The publishing industry is very competitive.  Whether you are attempting to be snapped up by a traditional publisher, or hoping to attract attention in a sea of digital offerings, it is always hard to sell stuff that nobody wants to buy.     

Writing does not fulfill its potential if it is not read.  It’s like cooking a fabulous holiday meal that goes straight into the garbage disposal, a pure waste of time and talent.

Still, choosing your storyline based on hot trends or even “what readers want” seems to me like a terrible idea.  Do we really want to take the powerful, majestic waterfall that is our talent and constrain it into a fully-functioning kitchen faucet?

         Not as I live and breath…and blog!

         Bill and I began our bungalow restoration by leveling the house and shoring up the foundation.  Then we began doing the things that we knew how to do, learning new skills and honing our vision as we hoarded our pennies for the next big push.  Or as Anne Lamott might describe it, we did it room by room.  In little more than a decade, we’ve made a home that suits us, sturdy and safe, unique and beautiful, specific to our own preferences. 

         I think a writing career can be built just as solidly, by picking the projects that are perfect for us.    

        

Picking Your Project: Part I

 

I turned in my revisions a couple of weeks ago.  Now, as I wait on line edits to arrive, I’m beginning to think about what I might want to write next.  The possibilities are always exciting, but at the same time, they are overwhelming.  The way I see it, the really, really bad news about women’s fiction is that anything (and everything) is the gamut you’re meant to pick from.  The challenge is never about having nothing to write.  It seems always to be about, what is the best thing, smart thing, right thing for me to take on as the next novel.  What is it about options that becomes totally paralyzing?

When Bill and I bought our house, a 1921 Arts & Crafts bungalow, the place had been a rental property for over forty-years.  And like most aging rentals, we really had to look beneath the surface to see the beauty of it.  Apparently the landlord had only one paint color to choose from.  Beige.  Inside and out, every room, wall and ceilings: beige.  It did have nice hardwood floors in the living room and dining room.  However, for the rest of the house, there was apparently a carpet outlet next to the beige paint store.  Room after room of shag-ish vintage carpeting in a shade that I’m sure was probably called chocolate.  Actually it was the exact color of Texas cockroaches.  The cockroach theme was enhanced in the family room where one accent wall was papered in suede of the same hue. 

We wanted to restore the place ourselves, paying as we go along, one project at a time.  Looking around at all that we wanted to do, the dilemma was where to begin.  Should we start out small?  Start out big?  Tackle the worse problems?  Learn on the easier ones?  Make the inside more comfortable to live in?  Update the outside so it looks like somebody lives here?  

Picking a writing project is similarly riddled with questions of choice.  Advice on the subject basically falls into two camps.  There are those who tell us to study the market, understand what readers are buying and where we can find a niche for our work.  And there are those who tell us to write that story that only we can write, the one that tugs at our heart, haunts our dreams, fulfills our fantasies. 

I admit to typically being among the latter group.  I’m guilty of constantly suggesting to people that it is about the writing.  Our job is not selling books, not promoting books, not tweet trending books.  We may have to do all of those things.  But it’s writing books that we’ve selected as our life’s work, so our stories should be completely connected with who we are and what we love.  We must be telling, not those stories that experts say are popular, but the ones that only we have imagined to exist. 

That’s what I’ve thought.  That’s what I think. 

But I also think that I might be wrong. 

When I started pondering this, my sense was, “oh fortunate me.  I’ve had a charmed career where I’ve always been able to write the book of my heart.”  But the thought was barely complete in my brain when I realized how false it was.  I’ve had enough proposals turned down to paper the interstate between here and Topeka.  Most of them I’ve forgotten, but a few linger with me.  A handful of them are even attached to wistful thoughts of “someday, sometime, somehow”.  Those are bittersweet, almost melancholy ruminations.  But I need to be careful not to confuse them with the reality. 

For every book I did not get to write, I wrote another story.  A story that I love just as much and to which I became equally as connected and transformed by. 

Or to take Stephen Stills out of context, “If you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.” 

If you can write, then I believe you can write anything.  And every story you write is yours, if you make it so.  Every theme can be your theme, every setting one that you can breath inside.  You are a writer with a writer’s heart.  And you can find a place for that heart in any novel about anything. 

So get those paint rollers, rip up that carpet.  The next step is a new adventure and I can hardly wait. 

No Its Not an April Fool

Bare With Me: Writer Going Commando

Nothing succeeds like success. That axiom gets doled out through many disciplines. Once you become the CEO, the Oscar winner, the Olympic champion, the published writer, once you’ve made it, well you’ve got it made. 

This is not a bad thing to believe.  If you’re current life includes striving toward a goal, then imagining that achievement offers a comfortable settle upon one’s laurels is probably not a bad thing. But as most writers can tell you, the career is not over ‘til it’s over and not everybody goes out on top. 

We’ve all seen it. A nice piece of fiction comes out with great reviews or incredible work-of-mouth or both. That leads to impressive sales, a ride up the bestseller’s list and probably an opportunity to “thank all the little people”. 

Hopefully I do not give myself too much credit when I say, been there. Done that. Tee shirt getting a little frayed. 

So what happens after the awards are on the mantel and the money is in the bank? Well, if you’re Harper Lee or Margaret Mitchell you can slip away from the public eye and let that one great story stand as your contribution. But for most writers, you have another book to write. 

No big deal. You’ve done it before. Maybe several times before. It’s the same, right? So why does it not feel the same? 

Because the expectations are different.

The publisher takes on the new author in the anticipation of good solid sales. There may be some secret hope for a breakthrough hit. The publisher may believe the work deserves to be a breakthrough hit. They may even put money and momentum behind it to try to make it so. But good solid sales are not to be sneered at.  That is, unless you’ve had the sweet smell of a truly bankable success. Once you’ve broken through that barrier, anything less just stinks. 

Sophomore slump. 

Second book syndrome. 

Maybe she only had one good story in her. 

Publishers have been talking about this, trying to understand it for years. 

And it’s not simply second performance jitters. A career that’s been moving excitingly upward, selling better for book after book, can suddenly stall. 

Titles A,B&C sold great. 

D sold okay. 

E went unnoticed. 

F got the critics but not the readers.

I think sometimes we have to honestly admit to ourselves that the world is Newtonian. Yes, gravity is only a theory, but what goes up must come down.   

Of course, if a career were all up and down, writers could deal with it.  Worse than the bell curve is the yo-yo.  Things are going fine, until they are not.  And then when it looks as if all is lost, suddenly you’re hot. 

Where does this leave the writer?

My dear, departed mama apparently had great fear that I would think too well of myself. Confidence was not considered to be an attractive trait. The following is an actual conversation between us.

Pam:  I’ve sold my story to Bantam Books!

Mom:  The real Bantam Books or some outfit using the name. 

Pam:  The REAL Bantam Books. 

Mom:  Are they paying you?

Pam:  Yes!  The editor loves it.  She loves the way I write.

Mom:  (sighing) Honey, a lot of people get one book published.

Pam:   They’re giving me a two book contract.

Ah…that was a great moment in Pam and Mom history, at least for me. Maybe it was an Oklahoma thing or a reflection of her own upbringing, but although my mom loved me, she was very keen that I didn’t get above my raising.  A phrase she often used was “too big for your britches”. 

I’m beginning to see that as the essence of book success. Getting too big for one’s britches. Whether it’s the mere fact of getting published, a spate of rave reviews or a genuine mega-hit, success expands our image as an author. That seems like a positive development, but it has negative consequences as well. 

The thing is, as we get larger and larger, the elastic on our underwear begins to stretch out. You know that happens. It’s inevitable. Not a problem, of course, if you continue to get bigger and bigger. But once those sales figures start to level out, the panties begin to hang a little loosely. And as you go forward the fear sets in. What if they start slipping down? What if your drawers drop to your ankles? Everybody will see! Everybody will laugh. You’ll be the joke. The humiliation will be too much to bear. 

So, you stop taking chances. This is what you wrote before.  Readers bought that. Write it again. This is what the trend is. That’s what’s selling. Write the trend. This has the widest audience. This is the most popular format. This is the most prized demographic.   

STOP! 

You didn’t start writing to end up this way.  You got into writing to push some boundaries, to take some chances, to write the stories that only you can write.  You wanted to enlarge the reader’s vision by adding your perspective to her experience. That goal is in no way dependent upon numbers.

Trying to make your writing into something that it’s not, trying to force a career up to a ledge no longer in reach, is a useless preoccupation. A career measured in sales will always wax and wane. Every time you reach a pinnacle, there is no direction to go but down or out.

“Down” is perhaps by definition, lowering. 

But “out” simply does not work for me. 

I want to write. I want to write if only two people want to read it. I want to write even if my subject matter is not trending. Even if my audience is not the sought after demographic. Even if sales are shaky or solid or stellar.

I want to write.

I know when I’ve put together a good book. I know when I’ve stretched myself creatively. I know when I’ve accomplished the story I set out to do. That is how I want to define my success.

So how do I keep my falling-down panties from embarrassing me? I jerk the dang things off. I go commando. 

I write the stories that I want to write. Bare-arsed and with a spring in my step, I head toward my future. I encourage you to join me. And may no unkind wind fan up our skirts.       

  

The Politics of my Dad

The world seems full of politics these days, those of us from small towns have our issues, too. If you know me, knew my dad or have heard me talk about him, you will probably not be surprised by this blog.

Back in the days when he was a young father with a house full of kids, Dad was having trouble with water pressure. Living midway up the hill, water that was mostly being pumped by gravity, wasn’t necessarily available in the evening when he got home from work. A guy can get pretty dirty keeping those wells pumping in the oilpatch. When Dad got home, he needed a shower, So one Monday night he went down to the City Council to complain. Nervously he wrote out all his points and when it was time for citizens to be heard, he got up and made his little speech.

The result.

One of the sitting councilmen resigned on the spot and my father was appointed to fill the man’s seat. He came home, stunned. And my mom was not particularly happy. For the next thirty-something years he served his community either as a councilman or mayor. He taught himself governance and took on the responsibilities of the community leaders everywhere. Whether it was engineering modern sewers, or some old lady’s cat in the tree, our phone rang day and night and my father answered every call.

Dad never really ran for office. He didn’t like politicking for himself. He liked to tell a story about walking downtown and asking one of the old codgers on Main Street for his support. The man looked him over and reportedly said. “I’m intending to vote for you, but I don’t want you bothering me about it.”

Dad walked home and refused to campaign for himself again. He would stump for others and always kept his community on the front burner with state legislators, but he refused to push his own name and his own agenda. His opponents were equally circumspect and it was all very civilized.

After 27 years in office, getting out of office proved to be tricky. He resigned, only to see things go to hell in a hand-basket, got back in for another couple of terms and then was defeated at the polls by a guy who didn’t necessarily have the best interests of Dad’s “little burg” a heart.

Losing an election feels like crap, even when you are not that interested in winning. My father spent years sacrificing his free time and our family to serve a community that paid him $1 per year for the privilege. (He always donated his dollar back to the city coffers). And ultimately, the voters tossed him away like yesterday’s newspaper. Because that is the way politics is.

The voters, are busy with their own lives. And when they have time for politics, they are typically thinking about the world, the nation, the state. They can only rarely be bothered to even find out who is doing the hard, thankless work of managing the community that they live in. The families know, of course. The spouses and children see the hours of study, the deadly dry detail, the endless meetings, the irate neighbors. Ugh.

However, like lots of unpleasant experiences, service builds character.

My dad was quite a character. He knew nearly everybody in town by sight. And when he went mostly blind, he recognized most of them by the sound of their voice. He knew their jobs, their homes, their kids, their challenges. He watched the youngsters grow up and the parents grow old. And he continued to have as much interest in the former as the latter.

I don’t believe that he regretted a thing.

My father probably did more for the City of Oilton, Oklahoma than any other person in the whole history of the town. He does not have his name on any building, street or institution. But he didn’t need that. He didn’t do it for that. He served his community because it needed to be done. And a job well done is its own reward.

When I hear people say crappy things about “all politicians” I always think of my dad. People have no clue about how that small town crappy politician made their life, and their family’s lives, so much better. But he knew. And so do I.

So That's Settled

I was talking with a guy this week whose life is a mess.  Well, I wasn’t really talking, I was mostly listening because what is there to say.  He told me, “I’m almost 40.  I thought things would be so much more settled by now.” 

I could remember having similar thoughts about my own life.If you read books or watch movies, you get the distinct impression that after great upheavals of love or suspense or success, people settle into a predictable everyday routine.  That life proceeds in a relatively eventless forward, not worth commenting upon.In writing we even have an acronym for it.  HEA.  Happily-ever-after.There is something very static about that.  It almost makes bliss sound boring.

I recall a friend who once complained about his life being “mountains and tombs”.  Biblically, I knew what he was talking about.  But he was trying very hard to set a course for himself that would be more like a quiet sea. 

Hey, they call the quiet sea the doldrums for a reason.  And although it can certainly be welcome for a brief respite, the more time spent there, the less you like it.  

A few years ago I wrote a novel called SUBURBAN RENEWAL.  It was about a couple who’d been married 25 years and, in alternating chapters, each was revisiting the events of their life together.I love that book, just for what it is.  And a lot of readers did, too.  But there are always critics for anything I write.  And I hear them louder and their words stick with me longer than all the accolades.  Though I do try to roll with it. 

One complaint about SUBURBAN that comes to mind was an anonymous review by a person who said something like, “It’s incredulous to think that so many things could happen to one family.”

When I read that, I nearly choked on my coffee.Comparing real life events to fictional life events…the real life is always far more unexpected, complicated and crazy.Hence the phrase, “if I wrote this in a book, no one would believe it.”

Or the even more popular “truth is stranger than fiction.” 

I decided my critic must be very young.  Young enough to still imagine that at some point all the loose ends in her life will tie up and happily-ever-after begins.

Like maybe when you leave home

Or after you graduate

Or once you’ve found a good job

For sure once you’re married

After having kids

Or once they get a little bigger

When they’ve grown up and go out on their own

As soon as you can retire and do those things you’ve always wanted to do

Once your health improves

Okay!  I’ve got it.  Everything gets sorted out and settled…as soon as we’re dead. 

Until that time, we’re out here putting one foot in front of the other.  Doing, as my dad would say, the best we can with the tools we’ve got.

We have the expectation of some incredible joy in our futures.  And some heartbreak and sadness that we not sure we’ll be able to bear.  As well as every emotion in between. 

Because this is what life is.  Unsettled.  Full of detours.  False starts.  Misconnections.  Human error.  Small surprises.  Unexpected smiles.  The beauty of small things.  The bliss of larger ones. 

I’m not willing to settle for anything less. 

What’s the deal about the chickens?

As those who’ve been keeping up with me lately know, we hosted a promotional contest for THE LOVESICK CURE.  Entrants had an opportunity to win a free copy of the book and a flock of chickens. 
The flock of chickens as a prize was a real attention getter.  Fortunately, the winners didn’t have birds arriving at their apartment, house, igloo or mobile home.  Though the auspices of Heifer, International we were able to donate 5 flocks of chickens to needy farm families.  This is one of my favorite charities.  And I especially like the chickens and ducks program because birds don’t require grazing land or feed crops. The recipients, most often widowed or abandoned women in the Third World, are able to keep chickens who eat mainly bugs and weeds.  This provides food for her family’s table (one egg provides the daily nutritional requirements of a toddler) as well as a cash crop of baby chicks to take to market. 
But for your contest, why chickens? you ask.  Well, there are some chickens in the story, including a very territorial rooster named Arthur.  But the chickens were only bit players in the farm scenes.  No actual speaking parts, you might say.  However, the gorgeous cover design that the brilliant art department at Mira Books came up with featured a half dozen baby chicks.  Four on the front and one each on the title pages. 
Now, I happen to be a great fan of chickens.  In my semi-rural upbringing there were always chickens in the neighborhood.  Granted, some were the bright plumed fighting rooster variety, but mostly chickens were fluffy, squawking pets scratching around everywhere. 
And as luck would have it, my husband, Bill and I had been doing a lot of talking about chickens.  Our family eats a lot of eggs.  And we prefer “free range” because they simply taste more like the kind we grew up with.  As part of the push to eat local and cut down on expensive transportation costs of foods, San Antonio has had a number of community meetings on “Urban Homesteading”.  Representatives from Agricultural Extension as well as local group leaders have been made available to talk about community gardening, balcony gardens, beekeeping and backyard poultry.  Amazingly, our local laws allow residents to keep up to five chickens in a city yard! 
So we are talking, thinking imagining.  It’s a big project to take on.
I’ll keep you posted…especially if the rooster crows too early in the morning. 

AND THE WINNERS ARE....

I’ve just contacted the winners of my promotional contest for THE LOVESICK CURE.  I hope you were one of them.  If not, I know how you feel.  At my grocery store, if you bring your own bags they put your name in a hat for a $100 worth of groceries.  They do this drawing every month.  I go to the grocery store at least a couple of times a week.  Sometimes every day!  I’ve been bringing my own bags for at least two years and I have never, ever won.  Not even once.   
Still, I do get my shopping done.  And I don’t have a million plastic bags anymore that I have to recycle.  Also, I comfort myself that at least I DON’T NEED the $100 worth of groceries.  I’m sure there are plenty of families in this town that do. 
So, if you didn’t win the book, you can always buy it.  Or maybe borrow it from a friend or the library.  Or you can read the free excerpt here on my website, imagine what the rest of it is about, and make up your own story.  I don’t actually recommend the latter, but I’m okay with it. 
The contest winners were chosen randomly.  Each entrant was numbered as they signed up.  Then Leila selected the winning numbers from a bowl in our kitchen.  There was no way we could play favorites.  I had never seen the list of entrants.  And Leila doesn’t recognize numbers well enough to pick out any specific one. 
The results surprised me.  Two winners from North Texas, one from Irving, one from Arlington.  These Dallas suburbs are right next to each other.  And the winner from Arlington is actually somebody I know.   Sure I have a lot of readers in this state, but when I ask for random, I expect really, really random.  Fortunately, the other winners' locations were places I’ve never visited in California, New Mexico and Illinois.
Everybody sounded very pleased to win.  And lots of nice things were said about Heifer, International.  Which is even better. 
I know how lucky I am to get to do this.  I guess I say this all the time, but it bears repeating.  Making up stories is a dream job for me.  And I am aware how many struggling writers there are out there, many with twice my talent, who can’t get a break.  The only thing that keeps my publisher interested and these books coming out, is that my readers (you guys) keep buying them.  So thank you for your support. 
Also, another thing that I tell myself when I don’t win at the grocery store, “I’m saving my luck for something really big.”  May something really big come your way this week.       

Ah...Nature

The last couple of weeks have been the perfect time for sleeping in Alamo Heights. It got up to 90 degrees yesterday afternoon, but it cools nicely at night and we can sleep with the windows open. Fresh air, slight breeze, those things are so good. But there’s another aspect that really buoys me. I feel at one with nature.

Our neighborhood is about 100 years old. Reputed to have been the first suburb of San Antonio, it was at the end of the trolley line. These days one of the things it’s known for is its tree canopy. And although there are natives among us; anaqua, live oak and mesquite, most of the trees here were planted by somebody. They’ve grown tall and spread their branches until it’s almost as if they hold hands with each other across the fences or even the streets.

All this “urban forest” creates a tremendous habitat for wildlife. Which seems pretty surprising. We’re barely four miles from the center of the city, which has grown up beyond us for thirty miles. Our critters don’t know that they live in town and that they are not supposed to be here. They continue to go about their lives as if this were a park preserve and it’s right outside my window.

There are the coyotes, which worry the neighbors. They are rumored to make a midnight snack of wandering cats and tiny pooches left in backyards. Mostly you never see them, except when the drought gets so bad they come looking for water in broad daylight.

Likewise the armadillos are pretty cagey, but you see evidence of their digging adventures. Who would believe such little paws could move so much dirt?

There are the raccoons who aren’t afraid of anything and the possums that are afraid of everything. Skunks, keep your distance. The little babies are so cute, but cute is not everything. One year we had a family nest under the house near our front door. Every day one of those little guys made a stink about something.

We have more that our share of squirrels, of course. And they are annoying. They are not content with allowing us to garden our way. They must add an acorn or a pecan to every flower bed or potted plant. We have little trees coming up everywhere. Bill gets especially threatening towards them when they root in the orchards.

Birds are abundant. We have little houses everywhere for wrens and titmice and sparrows. We’re not as fond of the big ugly grackles. But the mockingbirds are very much a part of the family. We also have some very large owls. They are mostly night creatures roosting in the limbs of the huge red oak out back. On rare occasions they show themselves in daylight. I heard a grackle screeching to high heaven about something. I walked out on the front porch to investigate. A huge gray screech-owl was perched on my mailbox. I scared him, of course, and he spread his wings and flew down and up and over my neighbor’s house across the street. I felt like Harry Potter.

I watched a funny little movie last night called Radiant City. It was certainly no blockbuster, but it gave me a few new things to think about life in the suburbs.

One of the things described was people walking into their garage and climbing into the SUV. Then they drive to work, enclosed in their vehicle, pull into the underground parking of their office building and take the elevator up to their cubicle. At no point does that person interact with anything or anyone outside the little box that contains them.

It’s spring, my friends! Let us open the windows, step out of the front door, get our hands in the dirt, be in touch with our more natural self.

For my part, I’m going to go without bathing and see how long it takes to build up smelly bacteria on my body. April Fool!