Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 19

Brand Name or Generic?

There are about ten things going on in my mind to blog about today, so bear with me as I ramble. I am so thankful for my busy days and stacks of to-do-stuff. Without those stacks I would become a bit worthless. Every pile of notes and printed out paper have some kind of valuable information inscribed on it. As I look around my workspace I can count six different mounds of information. Each with an identity of it's own. Do this, do that, call, email, fax… it is never ending. I must be the most fortunate person on the planet. But sometimes… Gigi (that's what my granddaughter calls me) likes to play!

Oh yes, I am a prehistoric party animal, now confined to the old age horror of becoming a hermit. I heard on an interview the other day that a book signing is one to the best things writers can do for themselves. Why? Not because they might sell a few books, but because the signings get them out of the house. Yes, writers are a rare breed. Some people isolate themselves because they are depressed. Others just stay in because they don't like people, or even themselves. Well, writers stay in because we have so much company that we can't get away. Our heads are full of so many people visiting that we can't socialize with them all, much less get out and find new friends.

Sometimes the visitors are not characters that we created ourselves, but creatures from distant planets fashioned by other writers. I have fallen in and out of love with many authors during my lifetime of reading. My first love was as I've stated many times before, "The Boxcar Children", by Gertrude Chandler Warner, which I read while in third grade. There have been many others along the way, and then in high school I found the classic love stories of Kathleen Woodwiss, "Ashes in the Wind", "A Rose in Winter", "Petals on the River", and "Shanna", I could go on and on. Then I sort of stuck with the current name brand authors, like Danielle Steele, Mary Higgins Clark, Sandra Brown, Nora Roberts, Fern Michaels, Luanne Rice, and Christian novelist, Leisha Kelly. I have read hundreds of books by these ladies. Forgive me, but I sometimes break the sisterhood pack and stray to male authors like, John Saul, John Gresham, Nicholas Evans, Paul Young, Richard Nance, and James Alexander Thom and of course… that rouge, Nicholas Sparks!

What wonderful authors all the above are, but the gist of this blog is not to focus on the above, most of whom are New York Best Sellers, but to tell you of some of the finest authors I've stumbled upon on my journey the past few years. Some of the best writers may not have even been discovered yet. I've recently read three books by first time authors, "The Help", by Kathryn Stockett, "Color Me Butterfly" by L.Y. Marlow, and "The Shack" by W. M. Paul Young, absolutely great reads. Somebody took a chance on these aspiring writers and look at the beautiful, and meaningful words these newcomers have composed.

Then there are those authors like me who have had their work published by a small press such as Lucky Press. What a blessing these small presses are. They reach out and take new authors under their wing. Mentoring, encouraging, and basically hand feeding us until we're ready to take flight, soaring out into the world with our first published novel in our hands, a dream come true. These presses may not be name brand, like Doubleday, Dorchester or Simon & Schuster but as in most other things, the generic version is often just as good, and sometimes even better than those name brands.

I have read the classics such as "The Poisonwood Bible" by Barbara Kingsolver, and John Stinbeck's "East of Eden". Great works! But… not to go un-noticed were the other great works I've come across. "Journey of the Chosen", and "The Secrets of the Sword" by Richard Nance, "Smoky Mountain Magic" by Horace Kephart, "Storming Heaven" and "The Unquiet Earth" by Denise Giardina.

Then from my own family of Lucky Press authors, "Max and Menna", a heart-wrenching story of children who are left to fend for themselves as their mother drowns herself in the bottle. The story of "Max and Menna", by Shauna Kelley will touch you to your very core. Then there is "There are no Words", by Mary Calhoun Brown. A story that takes you into the body and soul of an autistic little girl named Jaxon. This gripping, suspenseful tale of friendship, challenge and intrigue will stay in your heart for a long time. Did well-known authors write these two novels? No. Were they written by authors who have shown us their talent? Yes. Watch out Nora and Danielle, Shauna, and Mary is on the prowl. Two other new releases from Lucky Press, LLC are "Dappled Glory", by Diane Mechem Kinser, and "The Prophet of Sorrow", by Mark Van Aken Williams. Both are on my reading list.

I am also very excited about the release of several other new novels this year by Lucky Press. "Norah", by Cynthia Neale, "Leaving the Hall Light On", by Madeline Sharples, "My Beginning", by Melissa Kline, "String Bridge", by Jessica Bell and "Santa's Brother, Santa Claus: Paper Doll", by the founder of Lucky Press, our own Janice Phelps Williams. For a complete list of Lucky Press authors and their titles visit the Lucky Press website at www.LuckyPress.com.

I know I'll still wander back and pick up a brand name now and again, like Charles Frazier or Catherine Anderson, but my desire for quality and value will always make me take a look at the generics first.

Re-Charged and Ready to Go!

Reading the title of this blog you'd think I had just returned from a luxurious cruise to some remote island where the sun always shines, it's warmth radiating through me. Soaking those rays in, feeling the heat penetrate to my aching bones. Shining into my heart, warming and feeding my soul. Yes, you'd think I was back from a tropical paradise, where I'd been swimming with dolphins in the crystal clear water and sipping a cool drink with a funny little umbrella in it.

To be sure the above did not happen, not lately anyway. If anything, I am un-charged and not ready to go. I must admit I had trouble getting out of bed a few mornings ago. But I did. I picked myself right up by the coattail and hauled my big butt out of that warm, soft bed.

I need sunshine! Cabin fever… check. Vitamin D malnourished… check. The list goes on and on, it's been a long winter! Not to mention mentally bummed out as I watch a loved one suffer from a debilitating disease.

I can honestly say that I have never been bored, very seldom do I get down in the dumps, but right now I have a great need to get away, to jump into the old Ford Explorer and set out into the great un-known. To simple drive and end up wherever our hearts desire leads us. My husband is feeling this confinement also. He works too hard and longs for a few days or weeks away from the wheeling and dealing of being a busy junk man.

I love being at home, but sometimes the walls kind of close in on me. I long for warmer days when I can get outside and dig my fingers into the rich smelling earth. To walk the old path down to the springhouse where my great-grandmother planted Easter flowers a hundred years ago. To flip over a creek rock and find a crawfish, to see the world come alive, sprouting new growth and bringing flavor and color back to my life. I long to visit my little spot on The New River. To sit by the camp fire and watch the new moon rise over the flowing waters. I can close my eyes and see it now.

As February propels toward March, then March to April I'll continue to pull myself up and out of bed every morning and hop to it, "it" meaning life. No matter the hardships or the happiness that each day brings you, the choice to make the best of it is ours. The other morning as I lay there in bed I had to reach way down inside myself and conjure up good thoughts, to think of things that would make me happy that day. Guess what was first on my list? Yes, writing.

Some days I never know what I'll scribble about until I sit down at my computer. Then other times I have a story that can't wait to be spun.  By the time my coffee is brewing in the microwave a dozen stories are spinning in my head and the soft confines of my queen-sized bed are all but forgotten.

A long winter can really bring us down. Sickness, and lack of sunshine can shroud us in a dark cloak of despair. As we suffer through the long days and nights we can't help but feel the pain of others, the ones who cannot pick themselves up and get out of bed for the day. Sometimes it's easy to see nothing but the gray of a winter's day, but then there's that flash of color as a Red Bird flies in and perches on a tree branch, or a solitary Yellow Finch who is weathering the cold flutters by. Then there comes a feisty Blue Bird… watch out! My favorite kitty Nanner is crouching nearby. As I experience the unfolding of a new day, I know that I am truly blessed beyond measure. I feel the joys of my life rise up in me so high that I have to jump up and down to jiggle the blessings toward my feet, so as to make room for more.

Though the moments may seem long and our efforts tiresome, I think of this scripture:

In all labour there is profit… Proverbs 14:23

On dreary days when we are feeling pretty low, just remember that tomorrow is a new day. Our efforts for the day may go un-noticed and seem useless, but we never know what seed we are planting. Profit is not always earned in money. A kind word here or a written word there may touch or influence someone's life more than can be imagined. So no matter what you're going through… pick yourself up and get at it! Take a walk outside; look for those flashes of color. Even Jesus had to go off by himself at times, to get away and re-charge. Maybe you can't go to the mountaintop but there's a spot out there for all of us. You've just got to get up, and get out there and look for it. The mountain won't come to you!

Boo!

I grew up in a small community called Pleasant Ridge. There was a church and one country store, called The Corner Store. Our roads had numbers, not names back then. My road number was 2042. Down that three-mile dirt road were about ten houses, a bridge that took you over Big Elkin Creek, and a graveyard!

On hot summer nights after my sister and I went to bed, sweating, with our faces up against the window trying to catch a breeze, we'd listen as an angry old bobcat cried out down along the rock cliffs at Carter Falls. A bobcat sounds just like a baby crying out, loud and daunting. Then we'd glance a few hundred yards down the road to the old cemetery. No fancy granite monuments adorned that plot of land. No readable names were engraved in remembrance, just a couple of dates scratched into a propped up field rock.

One day my cousin Larry and I decided we'd just see exactly what was in one of those ancient graves. At ten or twelve years old we had visions of Indian chiefs who were buried with their treasures. While in reality the graves were probably the resting place for area slaves who labored in the near by fields. Borrowing one of my daddy's shovels we went to the graveyard fully intending to perform this awful transgression. Don't worry, neither of us had the nerve, thank goodness! I can't believe I would have even considered doing that.

Before my cousin and I thought about the excavation, strange things happened on that sacred ground. As my sister and I breathed in the scent of honeysuckle through the screen window, our eyes focused on the dancing of lights down at the cemetery. No eerie sounds, except for the bobcat, or maybe that noise came from the graveyard, just those lights. Some seemed faint, others bright, each one dancing in the breeze, climbing to the top of the Oak Tree, then falling back to earth, then six feet under.

These memories from childhood surfaced today as I sat with my aunt and uncle. As most of you know my Aunt Lafayette found out six months ago she has Lou Gehrig's disease, so I try to spend as much time with her as possible. Today my Uncle Bill was in a story telling mood, recollecting tales from the past. When he was in the army some fifty-nine years ago he was trained to pick up a limp, two hundred pound body and throw it over his shoulder and carry it to safety. He proudly announced, "And I could do it too." Then he said, "Now I have trouble getting Lafayette up off the floor when she so often falls." Aunt Lafayette looked at him and said, "Well we're not twenty anymore."

Then the storytelling changed to a different topic. To a house they had previously lived in. It was a beautiful old two-story structure with high ceilings and large rambling rooms. They lived there for over ten years and I never heard one word about the spirits that resided there with them, not until they moved. Several years after they left the house it burned. That's when they started to tell of the boarders who had shared the house with them.

When they would be downstairs, every night when darkness fell, the cavorting would begin. Right over their heads they would hear someone walking on the floor, or prancing around as if dancing a jig. When they would climb the stairs to check it out, of course they saw nothing.  Every night as soon as the lights were turned out, the spirits would start dancing in the room across the hall from their bedroom. Uncle Bill said it sounded like a kid who had put on her mama's high heels. Night after night these phantoms would prance around that one room. No music was ever heard, just the clicking of heels on the wooden floor.

I asked Uncle Bill, "How did you stand it?" He said, "Oh I got used to it real fast. I wasn't scared, they liked us." Aunt Lafayette confirmed that she wasn't scared either. Then she told this story… "In my bathroom upstairs I kept a box on the counter. In that box was a brush that I used to apply blush to my cheeks. So many times I'd reach for that brush and it would not be there. Then when I'd go back later, there it was. Every time I'd holler to Bill, 'my brush is gone.' Then he'd holler back at me, 'just come on downstairs and it will be back in a few minutes, and it always was.'"

Then they told that in the spare bedroom beside of where all the dancing went on they would often go in there and the indention of a body would be on the bed and the rosy glow of rubbed off blush would be on the white pillow sham… most people wouldn't even notice these things, but trust me, my Aunt Lafayette is a neat freak! Nothing gets passed her.

Long story short, years before they moved there, a car accident claimed the life of a teenage girl in front of the house. My uncle found a girl's watch nearby soon after they moved in, and took it into the house. Oops! Then an elderly couple lived there. The man was in his wheelchair sitting out in the yard under a huge hemlock tree. His wife was inside and came out onto the covered porch and asked her husband if he'd like a nice cool glass of lemonade. Answering he said, "Yes." He sipped the refreshing beverage, and within an hour he had slipped from his chair… dead. The wife came out on the porch and said, "Didn't think it would take that long."

Yes, this house had history. Was the spirit of the young girl inside that house borrowing my aunt's blush? Was the murdered man dancing because he was happy to have his legs back? Who knows? When the house burned my aunt and uncle went there to look at the damage. It was almost burned to the ground, but on one side of the house there was a washroom that housed a sink with a mirror over it. This is where my uncle would shave every morning. The mirror was still hanging on the partially collapsed wall. The mirror was black with smoke all except for the perfect image of a cross. Smoke had extinguished any hope of seeing a reflection, but there was no mistaking the cross.

Aunt Lafayette told Uncle Bill that she'd like to have the mirror. My uncle said, "No, if we take that mirror them haunts will come with it." Aunt Lafayette and Uncle Bill, said,  "The ghosts may have liked us, but we still don't want them around."  There was never an explanation as to why the house burned, but my aunt and uncle seemed to think the spirits didn't like the new owners… I just love stories that can't be explained!

(The first short story I ever wrote was called, "The Excavation of Amos Moses." That story has led me to where I am today. Thanks Amos!)  BOO!

Grandma's Rocking Chairs

I attended the funeral of my second cousin on Sunday. It brought back many memories of when he would visit my Grandpa Harvey's house. Frankie James Martin (Jan. 18, 1930 – Jan. 21, 2011) would often come visit his uncle on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon. It seemed there was always a crowd on grandma and grandpa's porch in the summer or in the living room in the winter, watching a heated wrestling match. Since I was thirty years younger than Frankie I didn't often sit around listening to the old men's storytelling, but I sure did like watching wrestling with my grandpa. I can just hear him whooping, hollering and letting an occasional bad word fly. Most of the time in the summer I was outside jumping over grandma's boxwood bushes and looking for four-leaf clovers in the yard.

It seemed grandma's four wooden rockers were always full of company, their children, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, grandchildren, and neighbors. There was always time for one another, not so now. Take Frankie for instance… yes he was a second cousin, and thirty years older than me, but is that any excuse for not really knowing him? He would call me every once in a while to ask if I knew about this or that one in the family. The last time he called was several months ago. He'd lost his first cousins phone number. I gave him the number and we chatted for a while. He spoke of the loss he'd had in his life.

He and his wife, Louise never had children, so there was emptiness there. Then in 2001 he had to have one of his legs amputated. That barely slowed Frankie down. He went about his business like a champion. Then in 2005 he lost his other leg. With that leg he forfeited most of his independence. He told of the pain he was constantly in.

My sister and I spoke of Frankie the other day and she asked, "Did he go to church? I just hope he was okay." Okay as in gone to heaven. Well Sunday at the funeral the preacher spoke of knowing Frankie for fifteen years. Frankie had told that preacher that he knew The Lord and was ready to get out of his suffering and go home. That was a tremendous comfort to me.

I never did much of anything for Frankie except talk to him on the phone. So as I pondered what to blog about this week I couldn't get my cousin out of my mind. I hope you will all bear with me while I give Frankie this final farewell. With no children to remember him, I just wanted to put his name in print. He was a simple, hard working, good man who loved to talk, tinker and fix things. He was an employee of Elmore's, in Elkin North Carolina for years. He didn't have fancy things or live in a mansion; shucks at the end he didn't even have any legs. Now when I think about him I can see him standing tall, or maybe sitting with his new toes dangling in the river of life. Then I see him mosey over to grandma and grandpa's mansion and pull up a rocker and visit with them for a while.

As the years build and turn to decades I realize just how precious each day in someone's life is. Whether it is a distant cousin or a new acquaintance. I know we are so busy with our own lives that we seldom have time to reach out to family in need, much less strangers. Wouldn't it be great if we would resolve ourselves to sit on the porch for ten or fifteen minutes every day doing nothing? Maybe a friend or neighbor might stop by and chat. Or we just might find those few minutes alone have settled our mind and fed our soul. I still see rocking chairs out on neighbor's porches, but they are empty. They sway in the wind, un-occupied. What good is a rocking chair without someone sitting in it?

I have all four of grandma's rocking chairs, they still sit on the same porch they always have. As they tilt to and fro in the breeze they long for the old days when they were appreciated, loved and used. They miss the small talk, the tales, the laughing and fussing. They beckon… come sit with me and I will give you peace. I'll introduce you to your neighbors, and cousins… I'll help you enjoy the minute… I'll bring you rest!

Every once in a while I'll look out the window and one of those old rockers will be just a rockin'. If I close my eyes I can see my Grandma Verlie, one foot tapping the ground as the rocker tilts forward and the other one on the bottom spindle… and if I listen real closely I might just hear her humming one of her favorite tunes, "She'll be comin' around the mountain when she comes. She'll be comin' around the mountain when she comes, she'll be comin' around the mountain, she'll be comin' around the mountain, she'll be comin' around the mountain when she comes. She'll be driving six white horses…"

Ecclesiastes 7:1

"A good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth."

It's Written, Now What?

I've found in the few short months since I became a published author that there are lots of un-published writers out there. I have been asked all kinds of questions about my journey from pen to press, one being, "How did you get published? My first response to that question would be, "By the grace of God." Then it goes something like this.

First thing you have to do is write something and complete it. You'd be surprised at the publishing companies who have to print in their submission guidelines, "Do not submit unless the manuscript is complete." I know how impatient we can become and jump the gun, but trust me; you really need to have a polished, finished product ready before you let the eyes of the world rest upon your work.

Once you've labored and strained over every word, then it's time to get a professional to edit your work. On my second novel, I thought, "Man this thing is almost perfect!" Guess what? When it came back from my editor it looked like it had been shot with a 410 shotgun loaded with red ink blots instead of lead. Other eyes see the flaws and mistakes that our own have come accustomed to. I have read a page ten times and on the eleventh, see that I've used lose, when I should have used loss or loose… know what I mean?

Okay, now months have passed and the editing is finished, what next? I purchased a (advice from my editor Jo Martin) "Writers Market" book, filled with information on where and how to sell what you write. 3500 listings for book publishers, consumer magazines, trade journals, literary agents and more!

I ordered the 2009 volume sometime in the fall of 2008. It was my first on line purchase, I know, I'm pitiful. That book became my best friend as I scanned and researched page after page. Going through each publishing companies merits, wants and needs. Trying to find the perfect fit. I made a list of publishers that I would send my novel to and went to work. Every publishing company has different guidelines so each query, synopsis and cover letter had to be critiqued to their specifications. Does it take a lot of time? Yes? Do you spend a lot of money on copies, ink and postage? Yes. Do you get a lot of rejections? Yes, yes, and yes! One good thing I'm finding out is that most of the publishing companies now are going green and you can send your manuscript/pitch to them via email. This saves loads of time and money.

What next? I've got 30 queries out there; do I stop and wait to see what happens? No. Send more! Very few publishing companies require exclusives anymore. The once un-thought of simultaneous submission is now acceptable. I certainly respect the fact that some publishers want to know if you've sent your work to other companies, and honor the ones who have realized what a competitive, rat race industry publishing has become and does not want to exclusively tie up a manuscript for months then reject it.

I hold those publishing companies who actually respond to you in the time frame they've set in their guidelines in my highest esteem. Even if that frame of time is 3,6 or 9 months. Yes, it takes that long to receive responses from some publishers. One company I recently heard back from was sent a query over a year ago. Their apology, and rejection was not needed, I'd already written them off myself.

That brings me to my last point. Self. During all of this you can lose you self-worth. You can be tricked into believing your work really stinks. As the rejections pile up they will either smother you or be consumed as fuel for your creative fire. Very few publishing companies take the time to send you a personal rejection. You simply receive, in a self-addressed, stamped envelope that you sent them, a form letter that says this or that, but bottom line it says, NO! Don't ever stop believing in yourself. Most of the publishing companies will not even let you send over three paragraphs or one or two chapters. How can you judge a story without the middle and the end?

"Luckily" one day I thought, "Maybe I'm going at this the wrong way. I'm sending my stuff to the big boys in New York, but who's to say New York is the only land of publishing companies, and who am I to think those big boys would notice little ole' me? Who's to say they are the authority, the lord and master over the publishing industry. Just because I long to be on the "New York Best Sellers List" that doesn't make them that special… well maybe!" Anyway that day I went back to my "Writers Market" book and opened it up and there was the section on small presses. This is where I found a company called, "Lucky Press", and on January 6th, 2010 I emailed a cover letter, synopsis, and the first three chapters of "Guardian Spirit." After a couple of weeks I received an email from Lucky Press asking me to send more chapters… I sent the entire thing! On February 8th I received another email from Lucky Press saying, " Thank you for submitting your manuscript, "Guardian Spirit", to Lucky Press. It is a lovely story. It is well written, captivating, has endearing characters, and an exciting conclusion. I really liked it very much"

And now for the rest of the story… "Guardian Spirit" was created by a simple, more than middle-aged woman who always held a dream of having one of her stories published. She worked hard, never gave up and closed her eyes to the rejections. For everything there is a season. Run the race, and prayerfully ask for guidance… and the right eyes to read your work, hopefully there is a Lucky Press out there waiting for you.