Shirlee McCoy's Blog, page 3
November 26, 2013
The Girl With Red Marker on Her Face
Sunday, I went to church. Migraine and all.
I don't go to a big fancy church. I go to a small church. Most of its members are in the over-fifty range. They are salt-of-the-earth types, and they know how to get things done.
They also know how to cook.
Which is great, because Southern Baptist churches are notorious for feeding the flock. :0)
We have at least one potluck a month, and when I can attend, I do. Not just for the food (all of it made with real butter and real cream and real veggies and real meat and.... Well, you get the point!). I go because I love the people. They have maintained a community mindset that is sometimes missing from my peers. They think of the group before they think of themselves. They are always ready with kind words, hot tea, meals. There is never a sense that their time is more important than someone elses. Nor do they look at any task as menial.
I think if we could shrink the wonderful group down to bee-size, they'd fit quite well into a hive. Bustling and buzzing and working for the good of all.
But, that wasn't what I came here to write about.
I came to write about the girl with red marker on her face.
She was in church Sunday.
She's been there before. A foster child who is sometimes in respite care with one of the older members of our church family, the girl has some challenges. She is probably my Sassy's age. She can barely write her name, though. She has a speech impediment and moves awkwardly. She has no social boundaries. No sense of other people's space. She is a little rough, a little rowdy. She moves a lot. From one seat to the next to the next.
She loves my Cheeky girl. But, who doesn't? Cheeky is the most accepting and loving child I have ever known. So, the girl sits by Cheeky when she is not wandering the sanctuary.
Sunday, I saw her from afar and thought she had terrible burns on her face. My stomach knotted up and my insides went icy cold. As I drew closer, I realized what I thought were burns were actually scribbles. Red scribbles. All over her face.
ALL.
OVER.
Her nose was bright red with it. Her cheeks were smeared. It looked like she'd taken a sharpie and scribbled everywhere. I heard one of the kids ask why she had marker on her face. Her response didn't make much sense. Something about trying to be a character from TV.
That was the last I heard about the marker.
This girl? She sat next to an older couple for a while. They talked to her before church began. When she moved to sit next to Cheeky, no one stared. She talked to someone who was sitting beside her, and I didn't even see the elderly woman blink at the red stuff spread all over the child's cheeks.
About halfway through the service, the kids went up to the front. The pastor always spends a couple minutes every week talking just to them. The girl with the red marker on her face plodded up to the front in shoes that were two sizes too large and about twenty years too old. They flopped off her feet, the use-to-be-shiny black leather scuffed and dull. Her socks were striped and her dress was checked. Like the shoes, it was several sizes too big.
The pastor gave his mini sermon, and the girl with the red marker on her face listened. When she was asked what she was thankful for, she said her family, and I wondered what family meant to her. Her bio family? Her foster family? Her respite family?
Here she was, this girl with the red marker on her face, with her too-big shoes, too-old clothes and her awkward ways. Here she was with red sharpie scribbled all over her face. Here she was with nothing that any of my kids have. Somehow, in the midst of all the things that were stacked against her, she was thankful.
She sat down next to Cheeky again, and she took one of the visitor cards. She scribbled on it for a few minutes but must have finally realized what it was. She leaned over Cheeky and grabbed my arm.
"I want a visit from the pastor," she said. "But that's already scribbled out on the card."
I looked at the card. She'd written her name in shaky letters at the top and written her respite care parent's name in the middle.
"See?" she said, jabbing at a typed line that should have read I would like to visit with the pastor. . "It's already scribbled out."
Sure enough. It had been. Scribbled so dark with black ink, the words could barely be seen.
I looked at the scribbles on the card and the scribbles on her face, and I wanted so badly to fix everything that was broken.
"Don't worry," I told her even though the pastor was preaching and people all around could probably hear every word we were saying. "I'll fix it for you."
I took her pen and wrote in big letters across the top - I want a visit from the pastor.
I handed it back to her, and she smiled and thanked me and tucked the note in the pocket of her dress.
I hope she gave it to the pastor.
And, I hope she gets a visit from him.
Because, I can't stop thinking about the girl with the red marker on her face. I can't stop wondering if there was something more that I could have done for her. Because, it seems that writing I want a visit from the pastor isn't nearly enough. Not when it comes to little girls with red marker on their faces and thanksgiving in their hearts. Not when it comes to any child.
I don't go to a big fancy church. I go to a small church. Most of its members are in the over-fifty range. They are salt-of-the-earth types, and they know how to get things done.
They also know how to cook.
Which is great, because Southern Baptist churches are notorious for feeding the flock. :0)
We have at least one potluck a month, and when I can attend, I do. Not just for the food (all of it made with real butter and real cream and real veggies and real meat and.... Well, you get the point!). I go because I love the people. They have maintained a community mindset that is sometimes missing from my peers. They think of the group before they think of themselves. They are always ready with kind words, hot tea, meals. There is never a sense that their time is more important than someone elses. Nor do they look at any task as menial.
I think if we could shrink the wonderful group down to bee-size, they'd fit quite well into a hive. Bustling and buzzing and working for the good of all.
But, that wasn't what I came here to write about.
I came to write about the girl with red marker on her face.
She was in church Sunday.
She's been there before. A foster child who is sometimes in respite care with one of the older members of our church family, the girl has some challenges. She is probably my Sassy's age. She can barely write her name, though. She has a speech impediment and moves awkwardly. She has no social boundaries. No sense of other people's space. She is a little rough, a little rowdy. She moves a lot. From one seat to the next to the next.
She loves my Cheeky girl. But, who doesn't? Cheeky is the most accepting and loving child I have ever known. So, the girl sits by Cheeky when she is not wandering the sanctuary.
Sunday, I saw her from afar and thought she had terrible burns on her face. My stomach knotted up and my insides went icy cold. As I drew closer, I realized what I thought were burns were actually scribbles. Red scribbles. All over her face.
ALL.
OVER.
Her nose was bright red with it. Her cheeks were smeared. It looked like she'd taken a sharpie and scribbled everywhere. I heard one of the kids ask why she had marker on her face. Her response didn't make much sense. Something about trying to be a character from TV.
That was the last I heard about the marker.
This girl? She sat next to an older couple for a while. They talked to her before church began. When she moved to sit next to Cheeky, no one stared. She talked to someone who was sitting beside her, and I didn't even see the elderly woman blink at the red stuff spread all over the child's cheeks.
About halfway through the service, the kids went up to the front. The pastor always spends a couple minutes every week talking just to them. The girl with the red marker on her face plodded up to the front in shoes that were two sizes too large and about twenty years too old. They flopped off her feet, the use-to-be-shiny black leather scuffed and dull. Her socks were striped and her dress was checked. Like the shoes, it was several sizes too big.
The pastor gave his mini sermon, and the girl with the red marker on her face listened. When she was asked what she was thankful for, she said her family, and I wondered what family meant to her. Her bio family? Her foster family? Her respite family?
Here she was, this girl with the red marker on her face, with her too-big shoes, too-old clothes and her awkward ways. Here she was with red sharpie scribbled all over her face. Here she was with nothing that any of my kids have. Somehow, in the midst of all the things that were stacked against her, she was thankful.
She sat down next to Cheeky again, and she took one of the visitor cards. She scribbled on it for a few minutes but must have finally realized what it was. She leaned over Cheeky and grabbed my arm.
"I want a visit from the pastor," she said. "But that's already scribbled out on the card."
I looked at the card. She'd written her name in shaky letters at the top and written her respite care parent's name in the middle.
"See?" she said, jabbing at a typed line that should have read I would like to visit with the pastor. . "It's already scribbled out."
Sure enough. It had been. Scribbled so dark with black ink, the words could barely be seen.
I looked at the scribbles on the card and the scribbles on her face, and I wanted so badly to fix everything that was broken.
"Don't worry," I told her even though the pastor was preaching and people all around could probably hear every word we were saying. "I'll fix it for you."
I took her pen and wrote in big letters across the top - I want a visit from the pastor.
I handed it back to her, and she smiled and thanked me and tucked the note in the pocket of her dress.
I hope she gave it to the pastor.
And, I hope she gets a visit from him.
Because, I can't stop thinking about the girl with the red marker on her face. I can't stop wondering if there was something more that I could have done for her. Because, it seems that writing I want a visit from the pastor isn't nearly enough. Not when it comes to little girls with red marker on their faces and thanksgiving in their hearts. Not when it comes to any child.
November 24, 2013
It's Sunday Morning
It's Sunday Morning.
A little after seven.
I've been up for a couple of hours with a raging migraine, so I've had a chance to watch the sun creep over the distant mountains.
This is my favorite time of day and my favorite moment of the week. Even when I don't have a migraine, I'm up early on Sunday morning. Earlier than The Man and the kids. Earlier than the birds, even.
On Sunday morning, I get to sit in silence. I don't have to work or, even, think about work. Sometimes I do, of course. But, mostly I just try to listen. There is something in the silence that can't be found anywhere else. Not in the chaos of my daily life. Not in the busy-ness of my evenings. Not on walks with friends or dinners out. Silence is where I hear my own prayers and where I hear God's answers.
Not in an audible voice. Just in a simple nudging. A sense of purpose. A feeling that I am not alone in the quiet. There is a thickness in solitude, as if the air itself is energized.
It is difficult to explain, but maybe I don't need to. Maybe you have felt it, too.
This morning, I sat in the quiet with my horrible migraine, and I thought about me and God and the great world around me. I thought about my friends and my family, about the sun slowly rising and the cold air seeping through the window pane. I thought, too, about a reader who questioned what was hidden in my heart. She'd read The House on Main Street and was offended by the colorful language (to quote another reader). She posted a review and said something along the lines of, "What happened to Shirlee McCoy to make her turn to this? Or maybe this is what she's been hiding all along?"
She's changed it since the original posting, but I had the pleasure of reading it.
So, I was thinking about me and the darkness hidden away in my soul.
Foul language is not one of the things I hide away. I am, as the reviewer said, very articulate, and I can think of much more effective ways to express myself.
But, I do have things hidden away - insecurities, struggles, days when I just want to throw in the towel, crawl into bed and cover my head with the blankets.
But, then, I figure the vast majority of human beings are the same.
They are the people I am writing.
So, I am sitting in the quiet, and I am thinking of my neighbors and my friends and my family. I am thinking of my church and the people I love. I am thinking about how some are sweet and kind and loving, and how some are virulent and crass. I am thinking that in Apple Valley, Washington, people are exactly like that - a microcosm of the world in general, a little peek into every village, town, city, metropolis on earth.
The House on Main Street in an editor's pick in the Christmas edition of FIRST for Women Magazine.
And, I think it is because the town is exactly the kind of town all of us would like to live in. At least for a little while. The people who live there are the kind of people most of us have in our lives. Good people. Crass people. Funny people. Grumpy people. Christians. Non-Christians. People who want what we all want - love and acceptance and the chance to find the one place that is and always will be home. Yeah. It's a cleaner version of the real world. No sex. No clothes ripped off. Nothing graphic or explicit. It is "a cup of hot cocoa" kind of book.
And in the quiet, with my migraine, I'm thinking that's fine.
A little after seven.
I've been up for a couple of hours with a raging migraine, so I've had a chance to watch the sun creep over the distant mountains.
This is my favorite time of day and my favorite moment of the week. Even when I don't have a migraine, I'm up early on Sunday morning. Earlier than The Man and the kids. Earlier than the birds, even.
On Sunday morning, I get to sit in silence. I don't have to work or, even, think about work. Sometimes I do, of course. But, mostly I just try to listen. There is something in the silence that can't be found anywhere else. Not in the chaos of my daily life. Not in the busy-ness of my evenings. Not on walks with friends or dinners out. Silence is where I hear my own prayers and where I hear God's answers.
Not in an audible voice. Just in a simple nudging. A sense of purpose. A feeling that I am not alone in the quiet. There is a thickness in solitude, as if the air itself is energized.
It is difficult to explain, but maybe I don't need to. Maybe you have felt it, too.
This morning, I sat in the quiet with my horrible migraine, and I thought about me and God and the great world around me. I thought about my friends and my family, about the sun slowly rising and the cold air seeping through the window pane. I thought, too, about a reader who questioned what was hidden in my heart. She'd read The House on Main Street and was offended by the colorful language (to quote another reader). She posted a review and said something along the lines of, "What happened to Shirlee McCoy to make her turn to this? Or maybe this is what she's been hiding all along?"
She's changed it since the original posting, but I had the pleasure of reading it.
So, I was thinking about me and the darkness hidden away in my soul.
Foul language is not one of the things I hide away. I am, as the reviewer said, very articulate, and I can think of much more effective ways to express myself.
But, I do have things hidden away - insecurities, struggles, days when I just want to throw in the towel, crawl into bed and cover my head with the blankets.
But, then, I figure the vast majority of human beings are the same.
They are the people I am writing.
So, I am sitting in the quiet, and I am thinking of my neighbors and my friends and my family. I am thinking of my church and the people I love. I am thinking about how some are sweet and kind and loving, and how some are virulent and crass. I am thinking that in Apple Valley, Washington, people are exactly like that - a microcosm of the world in general, a little peek into every village, town, city, metropolis on earth.
The House on Main Street in an editor's pick in the Christmas edition of FIRST for Women Magazine.
And, I think it is because the town is exactly the kind of town all of us would like to live in. At least for a little while. The people who live there are the kind of people most of us have in our lives. Good people. Crass people. Funny people. Grumpy people. Christians. Non-Christians. People who want what we all want - love and acceptance and the chance to find the one place that is and always will be home. Yeah. It's a cleaner version of the real world. No sex. No clothes ripped off. Nothing graphic or explicit. It is "a cup of hot cocoa" kind of book.
And in the quiet, with my migraine, I'm thinking that's fine.
November 3, 2013
This One's for You, Nana
This is Willetta Ruth Pothier AKA Nana.
Nana married young, just a few months shy of completing her nursing education. She'd met and fallen in love with a dashing older man. He'd been married before and had two children. I'm sure it was quite scandalous.
When I was a kid, Nana lived in Massachusetts and my family lived in Maryland. We'd visit once or twice a year. She always seemed rather high brow and exotic to me, her old house in a Boston suburb so much cooler and more interesting then the cookie cutter 1970s house I shared with my parents and four siblings. Even the story of her long absent father showing up on her doorstep enthralled me. Granddad had gone off to the Merchant Marines after his wife died. He'd left his two daughters with their grandmother. According to the stories, he reappeared in Nana's life many years later, and she took him in. He lived with Nana until he died.
When we'd visit, he'd either be sitting in an old leather recliner or on a bench under the grape arbor. He kept butterscotch candies in his pocket and offered them to us. He also chewed tobacco. Because of him, I know the exact function of a spittoon and can describe what it sounds like when a gob of tobacco lands in one. I will spare you that, though. Nana had secrets. For as long as I can remember, I knew that. Her husband died when her oldest son was sixteen. My father, the youngest of five, was eight and has no memories of his dad. There were pictures of William Pothier in Nana's photo albums. She'd let us look through the pictures, but she never said a word about the husband she'd lost. It didn't matter. I had a huge imagination, and I filled in the details that she wouldn't provide. In my mind, she and William had a love so deep and strong that Nana had barely survived losing him. I never put a word down on paper, but I created my first romance based on Willetta and William. Years later, I found out the truth. William hadn't been a very nice man. He was harsh and probably abusive. I would say that Nana was more relieved than heartbroken when he died, but I'll never know the truth, because she would never say. She kept her thoughts to herself and raised her kids without piling her baggage onto them. She was a great lady, my Nana. She was also a writer. Years before I was born, she sold a story to a magazine. I don't know what the story was or if anyone has a copy of it. I didn't even know she could write until I submitted STILL WATERS to Harlequin. My father, being the proud papa he is, told his family that I'd queried a publishing house and gotten a request for my book. Nana was thrilled. She'd already had a few mini strokes and her memory wasn't as good as it had once been, but she remembered my submission and asked every week if I had sold the book yet. When I finally did, Nana was thrilled. She couldn't wait to get her hands on a copy. As the years went by and her memory got worse and her health failed, Nana never ever forgot that I was a published author. Near the end, when her children could no longer care for her at home, she stayed in a nursing home. She brought copies of my books with her and told all the nurses that her granddaughter had written them. I've heard rumors that she even slept with them sometimes. Six years ago, Nana passed away. The morning of her death, my husband found a beautiful mourning dove in our yard. It didn't fly away when he bent to pick it up. He carried it into the house and put it in a box. My kids and I spent the day with the dove. It didn't seem sick, but it never flew out of the box. It didn't struggle when I picked it up, either. It had the softest feathers and the most beautiful eyes. If my Nana had been a bird, she would have been one just like that. That evening, my husband carried the box outside and the dove flew away. You can say it means nothing, and you will probably be right, but there was something magical about that day, something altogether unexplainable about that beautiful mourning dove. When I wrote The House on Main Street, I spent a lot of time thinking about family, about love, about the things that bind us together and the things that pull us apart. I thought of Nana and her husband and her old house and the porcelain pig that sat at the top of her stairs. I thought about her secrets and her dreams and the way that she loved her children...unconditionally and without reserve. I thought about how we can be so caught up in the daily grind, so steeped in the ordinary that we miss the extraordinary. And the extraordinary really is all around us. We just have to slow down long enough to see it. Nana never said as much, but I'm pretty sure she knew it. I wasn't asked to write a dedication for The House on Main Street, but if I had been, it would have read - This one is for you, Nana, because you have proven that an ordinary life can be an extraordinarily magical thing and because you understand the power of family and of love.
Nana married young, just a few months shy of completing her nursing education. She'd met and fallen in love with a dashing older man. He'd been married before and had two children. I'm sure it was quite scandalous. .jpg)
When I was a kid, Nana lived in Massachusetts and my family lived in Maryland. We'd visit once or twice a year. She always seemed rather high brow and exotic to me, her old house in a Boston suburb so much cooler and more interesting then the cookie cutter 1970s house I shared with my parents and four siblings. Even the story of her long absent father showing up on her doorstep enthralled me. Granddad had gone off to the Merchant Marines after his wife died. He'd left his two daughters with their grandmother. According to the stories, he reappeared in Nana's life many years later, and she took him in. He lived with Nana until he died. 
When we'd visit, he'd either be sitting in an old leather recliner or on a bench under the grape arbor. He kept butterscotch candies in his pocket and offered them to us. He also chewed tobacco. Because of him, I know the exact function of a spittoon and can describe what it sounds like when a gob of tobacco lands in one. I will spare you that, though. Nana had secrets. For as long as I can remember, I knew that. Her husband died when her oldest son was sixteen. My father, the youngest of five, was eight and has no memories of his dad. There were pictures of William Pothier in Nana's photo albums. She'd let us look through the pictures, but she never said a word about the husband she'd lost. It didn't matter. I had a huge imagination, and I filled in the details that she wouldn't provide. In my mind, she and William had a love so deep and strong that Nana had barely survived losing him. I never put a word down on paper, but I created my first romance based on Willetta and William. Years later, I found out the truth. William hadn't been a very nice man. He was harsh and probably abusive. I would say that Nana was more relieved than heartbroken when he died, but I'll never know the truth, because she would never say. She kept her thoughts to herself and raised her kids without piling her baggage onto them. She was a great lady, my Nana. She was also a writer. Years before I was born, she sold a story to a magazine. I don't know what the story was or if anyone has a copy of it. I didn't even know she could write until I submitted STILL WATERS to Harlequin. My father, being the proud papa he is, told his family that I'd queried a publishing house and gotten a request for my book. Nana was thrilled. She'd already had a few mini strokes and her memory wasn't as good as it had once been, but she remembered my submission and asked every week if I had sold the book yet. When I finally did, Nana was thrilled. She couldn't wait to get her hands on a copy. As the years went by and her memory got worse and her health failed, Nana never ever forgot that I was a published author. Near the end, when her children could no longer care for her at home, she stayed in a nursing home. She brought copies of my books with her and told all the nurses that her granddaughter had written them. I've heard rumors that she even slept with them sometimes. Six years ago, Nana passed away. The morning of her death, my husband found a beautiful mourning dove in our yard. It didn't fly away when he bent to pick it up. He carried it into the house and put it in a box. My kids and I spent the day with the dove. It didn't seem sick, but it never flew out of the box. It didn't struggle when I picked it up, either. It had the softest feathers and the most beautiful eyes. If my Nana had been a bird, she would have been one just like that. That evening, my husband carried the box outside and the dove flew away. You can say it means nothing, and you will probably be right, but there was something magical about that day, something altogether unexplainable about that beautiful mourning dove. When I wrote The House on Main Street, I spent a lot of time thinking about family, about love, about the things that bind us together and the things that pull us apart. I thought of Nana and her husband and her old house and the porcelain pig that sat at the top of her stairs. I thought about her secrets and her dreams and the way that she loved her children...unconditionally and without reserve. I thought about how we can be so caught up in the daily grind, so steeped in the ordinary that we miss the extraordinary. And the extraordinary really is all around us. We just have to slow down long enough to see it. Nana never said as much, but I'm pretty sure she knew it. I wasn't asked to write a dedication for The House on Main Street, but if I had been, it would have read - This one is for you, Nana, because you have proven that an ordinary life can be an extraordinarily magical thing and because you understand the power of family and of love. 
August 8, 2013
Gertrude...or...those sweet and salty characters
Well, here I am, a few days into August and nearly finished with my first Love Inspired HEART book.
Just a little rundown of the series -
Welcome to HEART (hostage extraction and rescue team), where lives are redeemed, families are restored and true love always prevails.
Hostage Extraction and Rescue Team was founded in 2008 by brothers Jackson and Chance Miller, both former Navy SEALs who’s older sister was taken hostage while on a missionary trip to Cambodia. She was never found. That loss drives the team’s mission - to rescue men, women and children from precarious situations and bring them safely home to their families. In the five years since its inception, HEART has earned a reputation for freeing hostages and rescuing people others have given up on. The members of the team are mostly ex-military or law enforcement personnel who have lost loved ones and who want to make sure that other families don’t suffer the pain they’ve experienced. I'm not sure when the first book will be out. Probably in the spring or summer of 2014. Whatever the case, the first book has been fun to write. And, good news! I included a sweet and salty character. I'm not sure how he found his way into the book, but suddenly...there he was...all tough and cantankerous and quirky. As I was writing a scene with this guy kind of stealing the show (so to speak), I thought about Gertrude. She's a prominent character in THE HOUSE ON MAIN STREET. Seventy-something and not afraid to shout it to the world. She's in a constant feud with her neighbor and has a penchant for dusty faded Santa hats. Blunt, a little rude and too willing to open her mouth when she should keep it shut, she has more than her share of character flaws. But, man, does she love her family and you couldn't ask for a better friend.If she sounds like someone I might know (0r, even, someone you might), it's probably because she is. I had the pleasure and blessing of knowing three of my great-grand parents. Grammy Goo is the one who just fills my memories. And, no. That is not a mistake. Grammy Goo. Her real name...or at least what we were supposed to call her...was Grammy Goodwin.AKA, Gertrude Goodwin. My mother's grandmother. She was salty and sweet. She smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, swore like a sailor and loved her family like there was no tomorrow. She played the organ...by ear. Never took a lesson in her life, but still somehow played at church on Sunday morning (Yes...I do, indeed, mean that she did all the aforementioned things). Perhaps she is the reason why there are so many older characters in my books, and why so many of them are quirky and sharp, witty and, sometimes, just a little wild. I loved Grammy Goo. For all her faults and foibles, because she always let me know that she loved and cared about me.In the long and short run, when all is said and done and our lives are played out, it is the love we had (or didn't) that will linger in the hearts of those who knew us. And, perhaps, if we are very fortunate, we will be immortalized in someones book or song or dance or painting, or...better yet...in the oral histories passed down through generations of our families. And, really, aside from the drinking, smoking and cussing like a sailor...I think the best kind of older person to be is one just exactly like my wonderful, witty and wild Grammy Goo!
Just a little rundown of the series -
Welcome to HEART (hostage extraction and rescue team), where lives are redeemed, families are restored and true love always prevails.
Hostage Extraction and Rescue Team was founded in 2008 by brothers Jackson and Chance Miller, both former Navy SEALs who’s older sister was taken hostage while on a missionary trip to Cambodia. She was never found. That loss drives the team’s mission - to rescue men, women and children from precarious situations and bring them safely home to their families. In the five years since its inception, HEART has earned a reputation for freeing hostages and rescuing people others have given up on. The members of the team are mostly ex-military or law enforcement personnel who have lost loved ones and who want to make sure that other families don’t suffer the pain they’ve experienced. I'm not sure when the first book will be out. Probably in the spring or summer of 2014. Whatever the case, the first book has been fun to write. And, good news! I included a sweet and salty character. I'm not sure how he found his way into the book, but suddenly...there he was...all tough and cantankerous and quirky. As I was writing a scene with this guy kind of stealing the show (so to speak), I thought about Gertrude. She's a prominent character in THE HOUSE ON MAIN STREET. Seventy-something and not afraid to shout it to the world. She's in a constant feud with her neighbor and has a penchant for dusty faded Santa hats. Blunt, a little rude and too willing to open her mouth when she should keep it shut, she has more than her share of character flaws. But, man, does she love her family and you couldn't ask for a better friend.If she sounds like someone I might know (0r, even, someone you might), it's probably because she is. I had the pleasure and blessing of knowing three of my great-grand parents. Grammy Goo is the one who just fills my memories. And, no. That is not a mistake. Grammy Goo. Her real name...or at least what we were supposed to call her...was Grammy Goodwin.AKA, Gertrude Goodwin. My mother's grandmother. She was salty and sweet. She smoked like a chimney, drank like a fish, swore like a sailor and loved her family like there was no tomorrow. She played the organ...by ear. Never took a lesson in her life, but still somehow played at church on Sunday morning (Yes...I do, indeed, mean that she did all the aforementioned things). Perhaps she is the reason why there are so many older characters in my books, and why so many of them are quirky and sharp, witty and, sometimes, just a little wild. I loved Grammy Goo. For all her faults and foibles, because she always let me know that she loved and cared about me.In the long and short run, when all is said and done and our lives are played out, it is the love we had (or didn't) that will linger in the hearts of those who knew us. And, perhaps, if we are very fortunate, we will be immortalized in someones book or song or dance or painting, or...better yet...in the oral histories passed down through generations of our families. And, really, aside from the drinking, smoking and cussing like a sailor...I think the best kind of older person to be is one just exactly like my wonderful, witty and wild Grammy Goo!
July 24, 2013
Writing Single Title Romance (Or Sweet Romance is on the Rise)
Well, I've had to put my other blog into hiding. Sadly, the creepy people who like to troll the Internet can't seem to stay away. For the safety of my daughter, I'm keeping it private. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I'll be blogging there again. Cheeky deserves her privacy. As much as I love to share my journey with those who are truly interested in adoption, I do NOT want to share it with voyeurs who think of her as some strange and exotic creature.
So, that is my story, and I am sticking to it.
I guess, though, that is part of life, right? Morphing into something different than what we once were? Taking steps into something new, developing that until it is time to step into something different?
I spent two and a half years focused on being the kind of mother Cheeky needed. I blogged about her and about us and about our family. At some point, though, she became completely us. Not at all seperate. Truly connected, her journey our journey. Yes, her past is always with us, but it is as much a part of our family story as the birth stories of our other children.
I suppose that there is a part of me that is tired of seperating Cheeky out, making her story somehow unique to us. She wants to feel the same as her siblings, and I want her to feel the same, and while we talk often about her life in China, her birth family, even a future where we might search for them, we are a family...complete without the use of words like adopted, biological, special need.
That is the way it should be.
And, so I am here, blogging about life in general. Everything from mothering, to faith, to being a wife and being a writer and washing the endless supply of dishes that are in the kitchen sink.
My life has changed drastically since the last time I posted here.
I was in a car accident that caused me chronic pain. I had moments where I thought that writing wasn't worth my time or effort. I almost gave up, tossed all the years of writing into a little drawer and left them there. But, I had contracts to fulfill, and I had to keep writing.
So, I did.
Write and write and write some more. In the deepest moments of depression and pain, I wrote.
It is very surreal when I think of it, now. I'm not sure how I did it. I prayed, but I wasn't even sure what to pray for. But, as Romans 8:26 says - In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans
In the midst of all this, I kept shooting toward my goals, because it was that or open the drawer and shove the writing life in it.
One of my goals has been to write both series romance and single title romance. I've had that goal from the day I sold STILL WATERS. Which was, btw, a single title. My second book was one of the launch books for Love Inspired Suspense. I've been happily and consistently writing for them for eight years, but I have never given up the goal of writing single title romance again.
I thought long and hard about where I wanted to sell a single title romance. The Christian market or the mainstream market? I wanted to write sweet romance but not necessarily Christian romance. I had heard a speaker at a local writing conference say, "The world needs sweet stories."
I wanted to write sweet stories.
The market was filled with erotica, paranormal, dark subjects that I don't and can't write.
And, then the pendulum swung. Mainstream publishers began to see a trend toward sweet romance, and they rushed to fill a hole in the market. It just so happened that I had written a proposal for a mainstream Christmas story, and it just so happened that it was sitting on my agent's desk and on my editor's desk. I had been waiting for over six months and figured the story was dead in the water. At the time, I didn't care. I was still in the midst of pain and depression from the car accident, and it was all I could do to keep writing.
One day, my agent sent me a short email. She said that Kensington press was looking for a sweet romance. An editor there had contacted her and asked if she had one, and she immediately thought of my Christmas story. Did I want to submit it?
It was a door, and I've always believed that God opens them when the time is right.
I said yes.
Two days later, John Scognamiglio called my agent and offered me a three book contract for a small town romance series.
My first book comes out in November.
It is a sweet story about a woman who finds that the one place she's never wanted to be is the only place she really belongs. It is about family, community, connections that tie us together...even when we don't want them to.
In many ways, it is like Still Waters:
Filled with quirky characters, centered around small town life and the wonderful people who live it.
There is no overt faith message, but the characters...like us...are searching for meaning and purpose in their lives. They are real people, living in a real world, facing troubles the best way they can.
It is the kind of book I love to read, and it seemed only natural to write one.
Sweet romance is finally on the rise again, people, and I couldn't be more thrilled to be part of that!
August 3, 2011
July 23, 2011
My Writing Companion
Everyone needs one, right?
July 22, 2011
Finally, Four!
Just two more months and the fourth book in the Heroes for Hires series will be out. I'm excited. It's been 7 months since the third book hit the shelves. In total, 9 months will have passed by the time the fourth book is released.
You may wonder why I'm shoving those numbers out there. The fact is, to be successful as a series romance author, you've got to be prolific and keep your name circulating. That's the only way to grow a readership. Every month, 4 Love Inspired Romantic suspense books are released. Every month, readers have a choice about whose book to pick up off the shelf. All things being equal, readers are more likely to choose a name they are familiar with than one they are not.
So, I'm happy that book #4 will be out in September. Happier still that book #5 will be out in November and that book #6 will follow in April.
Hopefully, it won't be too long between those and the next three!
You may wonder why I'm shoving those numbers out there. The fact is, to be successful as a series romance author, you've got to be prolific and keep your name circulating. That's the only way to grow a readership. Every month, 4 Love Inspired Romantic suspense books are released. Every month, readers have a choice about whose book to pick up off the shelf. All things being equal, readers are more likely to choose a name they are familiar with than one they are not.
So, I'm happy that book #4 will be out in September. Happier still that book #5 will be out in November and that book #6 will follow in April.
Hopefully, it won't be too long between those and the next three!
July 20, 2011
Oh Those Covers
Well, it was bound to happen. I just didn't think it would happen twice in one day. Two reader contacted me to let me know that the heroine's hair on my June cover did not match the description in the book.
I wish I could say they were wrong.
Alas, Susannah's hair really isn't described as it is pictured.
I lay the blame squarely on the feet of confusion.
See, when I originally wrote the book, the heroine was to have long, blond curly hair. Since the book is a continuity and that was the description given in the continuity bible, I went with it. I wrote the entire book with a heroine whose long blond hair reminded the hero of summer and sunshine.
And, then I was sent the cover. Which, in case you haven't see it, looks like this:
I immediately changed the manuscript to reflect the cover. I was absolutely convinced the heroine's hair was brown. The copy editor felt it was red. I think we eventually came to a compromise, but apparently not as good of one as we might have. Both the readers who contacted me want to know what color her hair really is. Let's call it auburn, shall we? And be content with that.
Happy writing!
I wish I could say they were wrong.
Alas, Susannah's hair really isn't described as it is pictured.
I lay the blame squarely on the feet of confusion.
See, when I originally wrote the book, the heroine was to have long, blond curly hair. Since the book is a continuity and that was the description given in the continuity bible, I went with it. I wrote the entire book with a heroine whose long blond hair reminded the hero of summer and sunshine.
And, then I was sent the cover. Which, in case you haven't see it, looks like this:
I immediately changed the manuscript to reflect the cover. I was absolutely convinced the heroine's hair was brown. The copy editor felt it was red. I think we eventually came to a compromise, but apparently not as good of one as we might have. Both the readers who contacted me want to know what color her hair really is. Let's call it auburn, shall we? And be content with that.Happy writing!
February 5, 2011
Where to Find Shirlee
If you happen upon this blog while looking for writing advice or information about my books, you may be wondering where I've gone. I'm still blogging, I'm just not doing it here! I've combined my family blog with my writing blog, because I can't keep up with both.
Well, I could. If I didn't care about keeping up with my writing schedule!
You're welcome to follow along on my journey through the writing world and life here: http://shirlee-mccoy.blogspot.com/. I love to answer writing related questions. Feel free to email me at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.
Well, I could. If I didn't care about keeping up with my writing schedule!
You're welcome to follow along on my journey through the writing world and life here: http://shirlee-mccoy.blogspot.com/. I love to answer writing related questions. Feel free to email me at shirlee@shirleemccoy.com.
