Amanda Cook's Blog, page 4

I Sold A Story!

Me on July 1, 2021, sharing the news about my first ever short story sale.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve updated the blog, but not much has happened since the last time I was here. I’ve written a few more stories and poems and attended a couple of virtual writing conferences. I’ve still been momming during a pandemic. Luckily, three of the four people in my immediate family are fully vaccinated. We can’t wait until our younger kid can get his shots when they become available for children 12 and under.

The reason I’m here today, though, is that I have BIG NEWS: I FINALLY SOLD A STORY!

While checking my stats on the Submission Grinder (which is a great website for writers to keep tabs on our acceptances, rejections, and open submission calls), I discovered that I’ve been submitting short prose and poetry–26 pieces, so far–since 2018. In that time, I have earned 180 rejections. On May 29, 2021, I submitted one of my little stories (one I wasn’t sure would fit anywhere, honestly) to a market I thought might give it a chance. On June 30, 2021, I received an email from the lovely executive editor of Page & Spine, N.K. Wagner, stating they would pay to publish my story on their website. And today, July 2, 2021, “Ruby’s Delivery” is out in the world! (Turnaround time in publishing usually isn’t this fast. I got really lucky for my first acceptance.)

Dear Readers, I am absolutely delighted to be able to share one of my stories with you in a venue like Page & Spine. “Ruby’s Delivery” is a fairy tale mashup of Red Riding Hood and Snow White, which is pretty on brand for me. It’s also a story about friends helping friends, and it’s probably the sweetest thing I’ve ever written. If you’re so inclined, please feel free to give it a read, and many thanks if you do.

I had to take a screenshot of the beginning of my story along with my bio. I’ll probably print it and frame it for posterity.

On the same day I received my FIRST STORY ACCEPTANCE EVER, I also received word from another market that they are holding a story I submitted to them for further consideration. I probably won’t hear back about it for months, but that’s quite all right. A hold notice from a market is a great thing, just one more step towards another possible acceptance. *fingers crossed*

In the meantime, my family and I are trying to enjoy a very wet summer here in Indiana. We’re actually going on vacation soon to the actual ocean, and I could not be happier. I need some sun and sea and salt air in my life. Maybe I’ll be inspired to write more poetry. I’m finding the most joy in poems these days and am planning on submitting them soon to various poetry markets.

That’s all I have for now. Thank you, my friends, for all your love and support over the years. I feel honored to be able to share my words with you, no matter the venue.

And, as always, thank you for reading.

A. Cook

Spring, Interrupted (April 21, 2021)

It’s still National Poetry Month, which means it’s still April. Yet, it snowed last night.

I awoke to a world of lightness and heaviness. As I walked our dog, a poem tugged at my brain.

Spring, Interrupted (April 21, 2021)

by Amanda Cook

The morning after

The still air stings with no

Sense of direction

The dogwood blossoms,

Blood spots tipping their cream petals,

Shimmer like ripe, plump pearls

The redbuds’ tourmalines pink out

From clumps of white crystal

Leafing shrubs

Their diminutive weeping

Willow branches revering

The earth

The tiny butterweed flowers

With yellow eyes downcast

Discovering their roots

And our dear silver beech

Her imperious expression shawled by

Curls dusted in white

They hold their breath,

Caught warm in yesterday’s sunlight.

Mourning birds gossip

Among burdened branches

In the distance, commuters barrel

Through their lives

Obscured by masks as thin as

Late April snow

Shoulders bowed

Holding their breath

Waiting

By noon,

Hope emerges

Green.

copyright (c) Amanda Cook, 2021

By noon, most of the snow had fallen away, and the plants were mostly upright again.

It’s supposed to freeze overnight again, and then warmer weather is on its way. Again.

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook

A Poem for World Poetry Day

The Many Faces of Me

It’s been a year of pandemic life. My family is still quarantining, masking, social distancing, virtual learning. Today is the last day of our Spring Break, and we’re exactly where we were this time last year.

But I get to make an appointment for a vaccine tomorrow morning, so maybe things are starting to look up!

In the meantime, today is World Poetry Day, so here’s a poem I just wrote.

I Play, Cos

slip into the wig, the clothes, a new soul

play pretend and life takes on a

new trajectory

no longer me on the outside (but those

who know best see underneath the layers of satin

and sarcasm)

for a day, an hour, a minute become

the onscreen powerhouse

love interest

antagonist

hero

who would I have been if I had always been this

character

strip off the clothes

strip off the soul

real life stakes its claim

a piece still clings, though

it was always me from the start

Copyright (c) Amanda Cook 2021

Happy World Poetry Day, and thanks for reading!

A. Cook

The Year that Wasn’t

Me on November 4, 2020, the day after Election Day. I spent countless hours over the course of a month or two monitoring for and reporting voting and election disinformation on social media. It took a bit of a toll.

Content Warning: 2020

Here we are. It’s December 23rd, two days until Christmas and closing in on the end of the century that was 2020. As you can see in my selfie, I haven’t smiled much these days. If you’re an American — or really anyone living on planet Earth right now — you know exactly why.

And yet, I continue to persist, as I have been doing for years. None have compared to the utter dumpster fire that has been 2020, but there have been some that have come close for various reasons. Like I said in my April post (I didn’t even remember writing that post until I sat down to write this one), I’m still scared. Now that a few promising vaccines are starting to make their rounds among health care workers, the anxiety is slowly ebbing.

Mostly, I’m just still really fucking angry.

Oh, I might swear a bit. I don’t normally swear, but this has been one hell of a year.

So, what has happened April? Well, not much in my household. As a physician, my spouse has worked during the entirety of the pandemic. We even have a little heart shaped sign at the bottom of our driveway thanking him for being a hero during this terrible time. We appreciate the sentiment, of course, but that money could have been spent on PPE.

Meanwhile, my sons have left the house a total of three times since March. We enrolled them in distance learning through their respective schools, and for the most part, they’ve been doing fine. I’ve been dealing with the guilt of them not getting the socialization they might need, but their online learning has been one of the few ways we can keep our community safe from us. We can never truly quarantine due to my husband’s work, and since I stay at home, the boys can stay at home too. That gives the schools more space for families who need their kids physically in school and keeps us from possibly shutting down classrooms and forcing people to isolate. I know how privileged we are to be able to do this. And our boys get plenty of opportunities to play online with their friends.

Speaking of isolating from others: I’m fairly certain I had COVID-19 back in April. We don’t really know if it was the coronavirus, because at the time, only healthcare workers and people needing hospitalization were getting tested. It was a horrible two weeks for me, though. My fever was low grade, never topping over 100.9, but it felt like my head was on fire all the time. And my chest was so tight and my cough was so dry. Yet, I was fortunate enough to completely recover, unlike the 320,000 or so dead Americans as of this writing and the millions of others who are dealing with long term effects from the virus.

Since then, I’ve spent my days at home writing, reading, attending the occasional virtual convention, hanging with my friends over Zoom and Slack, and basically trying to do my part to keep people outside my tiny bubble safe. I’ve had to mask up and run errands for food and supplies or to pick up school materials for the kids, but those have been the extent of my trips away from the house. Our younger son’s school had a fun scavenger hunt in the fall that involved families solving puzzles leading to various outdoor locations around town, taking pictures when we got there, and uploading them to Facebook. It was a great way to spend time with our boys outside in masks and social distancing. But besides that, our home and the surrounding woods have been our sanctuary.

There have been several bright spots to the year. One of my best friends and I have kept regular writing dates over Zoom, the virtual Nebulas Conference was fun, and I learned how to hand embroider during Gen Con Online. For the most part, though, I’ve been absolutely frustrated about how this pandemic has been handled by our government and how so many people, even those who think they’re being safe, continue to indulge in risky behavior in order to bring back some sort of normal to their lives. Millions of people are sick and dying because others have to have their vacations or have to gather in large groups to celebrate because TRADITION or simply refuse to wear a fucking piece of cloth over their faces because THEIR FREEDOMS.

I am grateful for those who share the same values as my spouse and I and who share the same low risk tolerance. Without them, I would be feeling much more guilt about the decisions we’ve made to refrain from gathering even in tiny groups with people outside our household. We’ve put up strict boundaries to keep our bubble intact, and I know there are some who are frustrated by that. But I also know many who are doing the exact same thing based on their own life circumstances, which makes me hopeful that eventually we’ll find ourselves on the other side of this thing.

If there’s one silver lining to 2020, it’s been discovering who people truly are. Through their words and actions, they’ve shown me how much they care for my and my family’s well-being. And hopefully through my own words and actions, I’ve shown them the same.

By the way, I’m still writing and submitting short stories and poetry to speculative fiction markets. I managed to surpass 100 submissions and 100 rejections at some point this year. (I haven’t written 100 stories, I’m just submitting the same stories numerous times to different magazines.) I keep hoping for an acceptance, and maybe in the new year, it will happen. That would be one way to make 2021 fantastic.

Thank you for reading. I hope you and yours stay safe and healthy during this troubling time. And have a safe, masked, socially distant New Year!

A. Cook

And Those Who Survived Will Remember

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I started off scared, and I’m still scared. My husband is a physician. My sister is a nurse. I’m scared for their health and safety as well as that of other family and friends. I’m scared for my children as we continue to social distance and stay home. I’m scared for everyone dealing with the coronavirus and COVID-19.

But I’m also angry, angrier than I’ve been in a long time. I’m angry about the sheer ineptitude of and lack of guidance and support from our federal government. There are good people trying to do good work, and it seems almost daily, a higher-up has to step in and thwart that good work with their lies and ego.

Anyway.

I’ve been using our exercise bike, playing loads of Animal Crossing: New Horizons, sitting on our back deck when the weather is nice, and making homemade masks to cope with my anger. This morning, though, I awoke with a poem lodged squarely in my brain. An angry poem that I had to write down. Because it’s just one more way I can appropriately cope with gestures at the world.

Did I say it was an angry poem? You’ve been warned.

Also, Content Warnings for mentions of death, illness, and rapists. I do not mince words.

#

And Those Who Survived Will Remember

Copyright (c) by Amanda Cook, 2020

The despot king—

Who did not gain his throne

By right,

But through blustering from his podium

With his serpent’s tongue

Coiling venom into

The hearts of the desperate and oblivious,

His cries of “Her emails!”

And “The caravans are coming, full of rapists

And murderers!”

And “I will make the kingdom great again!”

Echoing across the land—

This despot king

Smiled from his podium throne

As his loyal trolls,

In their stockpiled arsenals and basement lairs,

And his faithful heralds—

Those greedy to have his ear—

Scattered his vitriol across the land,

Shouting down those

Who would rebel against their hatred,

Those with the fewest rights

The fewest

Freedoms.

His trolls and his heralds,

With the despot king’s

indulgent protection,

Shouted, “You should shut up and

Let the king do his job.”

They spread the despot king’s pronouncements

Throughout the land,

That whosoever denounced the despot king

Deserved to be jailed

Or worse.

Their freedoms lost.

Their life,

Liberty,

And pursuit of happiness

Stolen,

For thinking such ill will

Toward their “Great Leader.”

#

And lo,

It came to pass

That a plague fell upon the land,

A silent plague

That snaked through the kingdom.

An invisible dragon,

Slipping its smoky breath

Around throats

And into lungs,

Leaving the despot king’s people

Gasping

For air.

For life.

For justice.

The kingdom’s bravest healers

And knights

Rushed into battle

With too few weapons between them

To vanquish the mysterious,

Unforeseen threat.

And the kingdom’s mayors

And truth tellers

Rushed to the despot king for guidance

As his sycophantic advisers

Stood behind him

With their grim smiles.

And the people pleaded to him,

“Do something!

Anything!”

To stop the spread of the plague.

And, at first,

The despot king did

Nothing.

“It’s a hoax, perpetrated by those who despise me.”

And then,

When he could not ignore

The insidiousness

Of the plague:

“It will be over in a month.”

And then,

When he could not ignore

The rising infection rate and

Death toll,

The mayors and the truth tellers confronted him

Again

And

Again.

They asked the most trusted

Of the kingdom’s healers

His thoughts on

An unproven miracle cure,

Touted by the despot king himself.

The despot king leapt to his

Podium of lies once more

Before the healer

Could speak.

“He already answered that question, didn’t he?

Like fifteen times.”

And the most trusted of healers in the land

Was made silent.

And the mayors and truth tellers

Were bullied

And mocked by the despot king.

And the plague ravaged on

Until a suitable treatment was discovered.

#

When the healers

And knights had finished

Sacrificing their lives—

Those who survived

Left battle scarred

And weeping—

And the grave diggers

Had dug the last of

The trenches into which

The bodies

Of the fallen

Were dumped

With no burial rites to speak of

And the people were left numb and shaking,

Starving from malnutrition

And grief

And the lack of empathy they so deserved,

The despot king,

From his palm tree lined palace

With his sycophants stood around him,

Looked down upon his

Ruin of a kingdom

And grinned to himself

And said,

“What a terrific job I did.

No one could have done a better job than

Me.”

#

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook

Art in the Time of COVID-19

[image error]Two white dots in the sky. The tiny one is the International Space Station flying over my city. The larger one, hazy from cloud cover, is the moon. Image via my Pixel 3XL.

This morning, I waved at the International Space Station as its orbit passed over my hometown. As it zoomed by, I realized the three astronauts onboard are probably the only humans who will not be directly or indirectly affected by COVID-19, the novel coronavirus attempting to make its way through all the human bodies it can find on Earth.

And then I thought, “But what if the people working at NASA all get sick and have to self-isolate? What will happen to the astronauts then? Will they be stuck up there without any contact with the rest of humanity until the virus blows over?”

And THEN, I remembered I had already written this scenario in When We Were Forgotten. Sort of. Except my version involved a crew of three humans getting stuck on an orbiting space station because the rest of civilization was crumbling under the weight of massive climate change and an authoritarian government.

Um. WAIT.

Anyway, my point is: as the world slowly shuts down due to the spread of COVID-19 and plays and sports events are canceled and schools are closed indefinitely and people lock themselves away with weeks’ worth of toilet paper and Clorox products, I want us all to remember the artists and creators who continue to make our lives a little bit better, a little bit brighter, who bring us strength and healing during a difficult moment — or year — in history.

Without artists, we wouldn’t have the variety of 20 second songs or phrases to hum or recite as we wash our hands.

Image via Shakespeare on the Sound’s Facebook page



Image via joeydevilla.com; the “Litany Against Fear” from Frank Herbert’s sci-fi novel, Dune



[image error]Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”: image via washyourlyrics.com

Without artists, we wouldn’t have the massive number of television series and movies and books and games and videos to fill our non-working hours as we wait for the all clear to return to normal life. Or whatever life will look like after this is over.

Without artists, we wouldn’t have photographs and paintings of beautiful places to dream about visiting some day.

“A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” by Georges Seurat, image via The Art Institute of Chicago



“Starry Night” by Vincent Van Gogh, image via nybooks.com



“Montagne Sainte-Victoire with Large Pine” by Paul Cezanne, image via The Courtauld Institute of Art

(My family canceled a cruise through the Caribbean due to set sail this Saturday. We would rather spend any quarantine we might be under at home instead of in a tiny room on a boat.)

Some people believe artists don’t do “real work,” but actually, artists are vital to human existence. They keep us calm and positive in times of panic. They give us hope in times of fear and doubt. They show us what life could be when we’re not really sure what life is supposed to be.

Artists are our past, our present, and our future. Their creations sustain us through times both joyful and grief-stricken.

I know you’re scared. I am, too.

But let’s try to remember:

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Take some time for your favorite self care routines if you can.

Wash your hands. With soap.

Try not to touch your face.

Social distance as much as possible.

And, if you have the means, toss a coin or three to your fellow artists. Trust me. They’ll thank you for it.

As always, thanks for reading.

A. Cook

A Love Story, Of Sorts

[image error]My Yogi Tea bags are very philosophical.

I’ve been around the Internet since the last time I posted here, but mostly at my Patreon. I’ve added a few new stories there, including a love story, of sorts, for Valentine’s Day. It’s a prequel short story I wrote detailing some of the events that happened prior to When We Were Forgotten takes place. Feel free to take a gander over at my Patreon here.

If you like what you see over there, maybe think about supporting my writing habit by becoming a Patron or sharing with your friends. I’m hoping to help out my fellow writing community via the Patreon, so every little bit will help.

Thanks, as always, for reading.

A. Cook

A New Story on Patreon!

[image error]I was on a boat.

Hey, all!

May was super busy for me and my family, but things are finally slowing down for the summer. I feel like I can breathe a little and get back to more fun things, like this blog and my new Patreon.

Speaking of Patreon, I just published a short story over there if you want to take a look. It’s a story I wrote recently that I decided to “trunk”, meaning I’ve decided to stop submitting it to markets to try to get it published. It just wasn’t gaining any traction, which is okay. That happens quite often. I like the story, though, and wanted it to have a home somewhere. It has connections to my favorite book, Little Women, with a bit of magic thrown in. If you’re interested, you can go read it here.

Also, next week (June 13 – June 16), I’ll be in the Minneapolis, Minnesota, area for a convention entirely devoted to writers, readers, and lovers of the fantasy genre, called 4th Street Fantasy. It’s oodles of fun, filled with panels of smart and interesting people discussing all things fantasy (with some science fiction and other speculative genres thrown in for good measure). Every day ends with bar conning or hanging out with other attendees to continue the discussions begun in the panels. If you’ll be there this year and see me, don’t hesitate to say hi!

That’s it for now. I continue to submit short stories left and right, hoping to get accepted somewhere. If one of my stories sells, I’ll let you know and point you to it.

Have a lovely June, dear readers!

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook

I Have a Patreon!

I probably should announce here that I just launched my very own Patreon. It took me a while, because I honestly didn’t know if I should. I am in the very privileged place of being able to write for the pleasure of writing and not needing to worry about trying to make ends meet with my craft.

Don’t get me wrong. I would love to get paid for my writing. It carries with it a certain feeling of success. (It shouldn’t, but it does.) And every once in a while, I do get paid when someone happens to buy one of my books.

However, I want this Patreon to be different. I have decided to offer a single tier option for my supporters – $1 a month – and every dollar I receive from my Patreon will be used to support other writers in my community. Because frankly, they all need it more than I do right now. (I haven’t figured out who or where the money will go to yet, but that will come in due time.) I plan on sharing some of my trunked short stories and poetry and pictures of my dog. I might even throw out some pearls of wisdom on writing in general. But, mostly, there will be pictures of my dog and short fiction.

So, if you want to become a supporter of my Patreon and help me support other writers in my community, go to patreon.com/AmandaCookWrites and click on “Become a Patron”. And spread the word, if you can.

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook

I Can’t Make You Happy

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Content Warning: I dive into mental health here, mainly my own.

Dear Fellow Struggling Human Being,

I’m calling us both out, because I see you struggling as much as I am. We all are. Everyone has their struggles, and they’re all valid. You, my friend, are seen. What you’re feeling right now is valid.

(What you’re thinking and feeling is valid, but those thoughts and feelings might not be true. Because our brains and emotions are good at lying to us sometimes.)

The thing is . . .

The thing is.

I can’t make you happy.

No, really. No matter what I do, no matter what I say, I can’t make you happy.

Oh, how I’ve tried. It is in my very nature to want to keep everyone happy. I am the epitome of a “people pleaser”. I will say yes to so many things, because I’m afraid I might hurt someone if I say no. I will stress clean my house when there’s a conflict in my life, when I feel I’ve done something wrong or made someone mad; it’s the best way I know how to use up all that anxious, negative energy. I will pile my plate high with yeses until I’ve left almost zero time and brain space for my own needs and desires. For my own happiness.

And, you know what? I’m tired.

The last couple of years, we’ve gone from building a new house to multiple family illnesses and a couple of deaths to traveling with kids to moving into the new house. This week, we put the old house on the market after weeks of renovations. And on top of all that, I continue to volunteer at my kids’ school while taking care of them and my husband and making sure all of their various needs are met.

I. Am. Tired.

Earlier this week, an online friend shared a Twitter thread about us “people-pleasers” that really hit home. You can read it from the beginning here. The couple of lines that stuck out to me the most were these:

“But relationships involve putting ourselves in harm’s way sometimes. What they shouldn’t involve, though, is self-harm — and ultimately, that’s what “fawning” does. We’re harming ourselves. We’re making ourselves smaller, we’re self-silencing, and we’re punishing ourselves.”

@samdylanlynch, Twitter, March 30, 2019

I have come to realize that I am harming myself when I try to keep everyone around me happy. I’m overly tired and my digestive system is messed up and my nerves are on edge because I’m putting everyone else first. I mean, I’m a mom. That’s what I do. But I’m also a “people-pleaser”, so I do it to the extreme.

I see you all struggling, and I think, “I should help. I should say yes to whatever needs doing.” And I do. Or I see something wrong, something I think (or know) needs fixing, but I don’t say anything at all, because I don’t want to make someone mad. Or I do say something, and then I feel guilty, because I probably did make someone mad. I hate disappointing people. And in the meantime, I wear myself out trying to be the person I think everyone wants me to be.

And the truth is . . .

The truth is.

I have absolutely no control over anything – NOTHING – in this world, except my own reactions to it.

I have a wonderful therapist, and over the past several months, she’s been helping me work on disconnecting myself – the real me – from the me I think others want me to be. I am not the Amanda in other people’s heads. At least, I don’t think I am. I don’t know. That’s where my stress and anxiety lie.

I shouldn’t worry about it, even though I do. Your perceptions of me are colored by your life experiences just as my perceptions of you are colored by my life experiences. All those experiences are real and valid. That doesn’t exactly mean our perceptions of each other true. (See? Our brains are the lying-ist liars in the grand history of liars.)

The point is I can’t control how you see me or how you feel about me, no matter what I say or do. I can’t control how you’ll react if I say no to you. BUT, I can control when I say no, especially if saying yes might lead to self-harm. (Ironically, I have no qualms saying no if something involves my sons getting hurt. The Mama Bear in me is tough as nails.)

Just this week, I didn’t sign up to bake something for an upcoming bake sale. I’m already organizing another school event at the same time we’re trying to sell our older home, which needs more work than we had originally thought. The “no” to the bake sale was a small one, but it felt good. I can let other people do the work and spend some of the time I would have spent baking taking care of myself and my family instead.

So, my fellow struggling human being: How are you doing? I see you grieving. I see you hurting. I wish I could help, but I have to say no right now, because I need a break. However, there are people who are willing to help you. They’ll listen and give you the support you need. If you’re feeling hopeless, please seek help. The National Suicide Hotline is there for you at 1-800-273-8255, and they even have an online chat.

Take care of you, my friend. And remember: I can’t make you happy, but maybe you can.

Thanks for reading.

A. Cook