books

It’s hard to chart your progress if you don’t know where you’re aiming

At the beginning of the year in a Nancy Stohlman class, I dreamed a few dreams and wrote them out as 10-year goals. Those were divided into smaller ones, which were divvied up further so I now have a printed out list of what needs to be done by quarter, with a monthly checklist of things to do in each. I’m happy to report it is going well despite my occasional forays into freak-outs when there are any curve balls thrown my way. For whatever reason, I respond well to lists. This new structure has also freed me of some of my worry, but not my anxiety. To ease that between acupuncture appointments, I’ve made the upper greenhouse whiter with paint and returned a few of the plants early from their usual summer hang out on the patio. Opening any window lets in the babble of the creek. Sometimes there’s a breeze. In the morning, the light is even more dazzling than this.

As with the past few summers, getting back to the labyrinth hasn’t happened as often as I would have preferred, so this space serves as a calming spot where I drink tea, eat apples, and lately, edit. I didn’t think this was where I’d be, but I embrace it. Having the year-end accomplishment list I made was a heavy lift because I aimed for acceptances with print. As of now, I have had work appear in two that I can already hold in my hand in June. Trust me, it’s extra thrilling because both include work from fellow writers I love and respect. Again and again and again, thank you Kim Chinquee for inclusion in Elm Leaves Journal’s Eclipse Issue and thank you to The Drevlow for accepting my piece for Issue 11 of Bull. (Look at those covers. I’d buy them even if I weren’t in them.) The year isn’t over, but with that spectacular success crossed off, I’m on to the next ones.

The book edit I did earlier this spring sat for weeks. I returned and have been correcting it at a line edit/add a red herring here/downplay this, but mention it hard enough to be memorable stage of editing. (And by the way, may I offer apologies to all my poor beta readers who read even part of this mess. Especially Chel! I am so sorry I didn’t know how to make it better in an earlier draft!) I did think this read through would have me patting myself on the back for the clever bits, and there were a few, but in this draft, it’s apparent it needs more fine-tuning and craft. (I read, learn more, and then take scissor blades to phrases I’ve refused to cut in previous drafts. Killing your darlings can be gruesome and brutal – especially when you set the cuttings on fire to warm your soul with their flame…but maybe that’s just me and my editing style.)

Anyway, the problem is that I have perfectionist tendencies and could spend the next thirty years on two sentences if I wanted to, but if I want to reach the goals on my list, I can’t. So while I’m not going fast, I’m striving for this version to be the good enough draft which will aid me in the next step, but I also want it to be over already. Last night I ran into another area I wanted to cut and paste into a better flow, but allowed myself to rest instead of delving into that messy spot when it was nearly midnight. Today, refreshed, I’m going to tackle other things. The weather of western New York decides the flow of which work is tackled and when. Besides writing, there is wood. I’ve been putting up what I split and stacked last year. As another row in the shed gets filled, I am happily in awe. All the time spent last year working on splitting is paying off and for that, I’m grateful. Though I itch to finish the book, I visit the white room and calmly remind myself there will be other days where I’ll want to stay in from the heat or days when it’s too rainy, and move on to the next task with less worry. A change in perspective helps, and sometimes you see chipmunks hanging upside down, too.

Besides the enormous help I feel I received from Nancy’s course, goals aren’t met without hard choices being made. There’s a meme without attribution I saw somewhere and I liked it so much I wrote it down to remind myself of its truth: Marriage is hard. Divorce is hard. Choose your hard. Obesity is hard. Being fit is hard. Choose your hard. Being in debt is hard. Being financially disciplined is hard. Choose your hard. Communicating is hard. Not communicating is hard. Choose your hard. Life will never be easy. It will be always be hard, but we can choose our hard. Pick wisely. ~Proper accreditation to be placed here if I ever find it.

Early on in our relationship, Husband and I decided to follow the cliché of saving for a rainy day which helped when the roof was damaged, and now, for this.

Of course the calculated time saved on working on the broken tractor has been transferred to wagon problems, but I’m focusing on the good parts, here. He can now mow the lawn and leave me out of that chore altogether so I have more time to edit and notice the beautiful surprises like a mountain laurel in bloom. I didn’t plant it, but I happily share this unexpected delight from Mother Nature. Isn’t it pretty?

I’m also happy to report Bertie graduated her first round of obedience course. Here’s our happy grad, just before eating her mortise board.

So yes, there is slow, steady, sloggy progress going on here. We’re making choices and enjoying the side benefits. After I post this, I’m going to pick fresh, ripe and sun warmed blackberries from bushes I transplanted last year to a more convenient spot, where happily, they took.

May all your goals be possible to reach and all your roots grow deep. Thank you for stopping by and for the read!

Calamities with Bertie, not Jane

When do you pull the plug? How many no’s can you take? How many animals and their disasters does it take to break a fragile person? These, and other mysteries, were being pondered here as I wrote on a Friday. The aversion therapy/consequences of favorite blankie taken away were not a success. The dog didn’t learn the lesson and got in the creek again. I could not stand the smell and I gave her a bath. By myself. In the bathtub I had cleaned the day before.

While I had the bathroom door shut, the cats chased each other and knocked an entire 32 oz tumbler of chilled water on my chair – and the shawl I was wearing and took off to wash the dog. I crated one cat, toweled up some of the water, told the dog it’d be best if she went into her cage – and she did. With two of the three pets locked up, I left. I walked, I pulled weeds and cried and tried to suck it up but ended up saying, Jesus Christ Good Lord and if you’re a Savior, please, can that be enough for today at least? I’m already weary, I’m already tired. I’m grappling with things my mom said to me that wouldn’t have come up if I hadn’t spoken with my stepmother recently.

Eventually, I calmed down. I extended the walk to the road and picked some milkweed pods a little early, but their shrinking appearance means it’s seeded up inside. I set those on a shelf, walked the garden, picked some tomatoes, assured myself it was ok, things were all sorts of wonk this year with those earlier fumes from Canada.

Inside, I uncaged the brats. I used my hair dryer to help dry the chair. I went outside to retrieve the drenched cushion I threw at some point and by the time – seconds – that took, the dog had gotten a drink of water, came to the chair and wiped its mouth twice, so two more deep wet spots were added to the ocean of wet before I can sit there again.

All of this occurred before I could start the one thing I was going to do which was write a “fan girl” blog post. Now, it’s Saturday evening and I’m editing my rendition of a woman at the end of her rope thinking about her mother.

It’s just that I am trying so damn hard already to keep all these plates that are mine spinning and then there’s another nine plates and I can stop two safely only to find three more popped up – no make that four. Did I mention I was already tired? When I’m not writing, the weight of my thoughts grows until I’m pregnant with a book – sometimes unwanted, lately the too-sickly-to survive kind, but like a real child, crossing my legs won’t work to stop its birth.

I had started Friday by reading Melissa Llanes Brownlee’s post about social anxiety. I was going to write a companion paragraph response about how being alone with one’s self is essential – but that was pre dog bath. She writes of how she’d come to recognize her previous social self was a front. Me, too, I wanted to say, but the opposite. I learned early on how I was supposed to act which was quiet, pretty, unobtrusive – be not me. It maddened me how my mother made light of everything, joked with everyone outside our home, but inside she was often dark. Now my social mask resembles hers and it unnerves me.

Congrats, too, Melissa -on swamp pink!

I’m on Bluesky now, though urged to whats app, which sounds too risqué somehow. Bluesky feels supportive, my Bestie is there now, plus, I watched a literary zine about crabs get born there so what’s not to love about that kind of social site where writers gather?

I’d like to give a shout out to Laurie Marshall, Hillary Leftwich, Margaret Elysia Garcia and Roberto Carlos Garcia. The second installment of Essentially Poetic Reading Series, a FlowerSong Press program for community building through poetry was a great event. I saw Laurie’s post on FB and wanted to support her – also Hillary, she and I have been soc friends/mutual follower forever it seems. They were fantastic, then I fell in love with the sharpness of Margaret’s poetry and the beauty in Robert’s. He said something about how the writing community is a small world, that we’re all in it. Thank god for that. It’s the writing community that holds me to earth.

Cheryl Pappas had a post about a workshop in January. I was lucky enough to land a spot so now I have something to look forward to in the darkest winter. It’s text based, too, which is a bonus.

Many thanks to star Kim Chinquee for her commitment to write a flash-a-day starting in October. I’m joining her in the challenge. One thing about her room is how 5 words can appear in radically different ways in other writer’s pieces. Cigars are not always cigars, sometimes they are cigarillos.

Nicole Hebdon is the new literary director in town and Melissa Goode has a book coming out soon. The richness continues with the prolific MaryJean Zajac restarting the Hamburg Writer’s group and Matt Boyle invited me to a participate in a play workshop. I missed the Comfort Zone’s latest monthly read-in, but hope to get back to it. Oh, there was a workshop with Ben Brindise and Jared J.B. Stone. Thanks guys! I hope to submit to Variety Pack soon. And I think it was through them that (don’t ask the click sequence) that I found The Failing Writers Podcast which led to my writing a complete flash – the first in I don’t know how long.

Without things like these – bright spots along an unsure way – I don’t know where I’d be, so please support other artists when you can. Spread their word; add your own.

I guess that’s more than enough for now. Thank you for stopping by, for the read, and to the texter who tried to help earlier. Cheers!

There Be A Dragon’s Watchful Eye

I’ve been in the garden early this year. Today, the 29^thof April as I write, Husband was able to fix the push mower’s cable and start it up. He mowed the small triangle patch near the road. The milkweed grows on one end. We checked; it hasn’t come up as of yet. When it does, we’ll fence it off.

The corner neighbors are on at least their second mow; we’re trying the “tickle method” of gardening this year. I have found great satisfaction in using the new claw tool to pull out roots that measure two feet or more. If they were deeper, I might resort to a pickax and use it as a Moby Dick metaphor in an essay, but I start those, let them peter out, stop writing my truth by starting to consider an audience. So how are you? Have you pulled weeds recently? Gotten dirt under your fingernails?

Another reason my essays wait to be written is because things come up – or in this instance, down. I went shopping on Friday with goals: Barnes and Noble to buy Alice Hoffman’s “Practical Magic” and cancel my “new and improved” membership before it began. Wegman’s for food, to check certain garden centers for flowers and Roma tomato plants, stop in at the leather shop. I did those things and came home to this:

It’s 7 feet 8 inches around to the left, 5 ft. 10 near the eye.

The way it came down was miraculous. The damage was limited. Since it happened when we were not here, we wonder if Whitney – a woodworker even in another realm – guided it down. We thank all the friends, relatives, spirits and deities involved in this predicament which isn’t exactly the greatest news, but also not the worst.

Reality has jarringly changed though. There’s a dragon eye staring at me as I prepare food in the kitchen. It distracts every time I see it. I sometimes thought spider webs would be reminders to get back to work on the Lettie novel. Before I left that afternoon, I was thinking of giving up on the current thing I’ve been working on. A reptilian tree knot stares at me in repudiation or encouragement – I can’t decide which and it never blinks as a tell, so I flounder for an answer.

What difference does what – or if – I write matter? At the end of the world or one’s life, is it more important to have read and learned, or produced? Are a million flashes the equivalent of one novel or three? If a poem by a no-name goes viral, does it cheapen an MFA degree? At what point do you write to the New Yorker inquiring about a story you sent in at the end of November? Yes, the auto-response says declare it dead after 90 days, but according to Duotrope it has taken longer. What is the point of the dream of being a writer if you don’t kid yourself into thinking fairy tales can come true and sometimes its in the form of how cottonwoods fall down with the maple tree working in tandem with the other smaller trees and roots to soften the blow to the roof which is a real life happily ever after story and that happened, so why not my story appearing in The New Yorker?

I blinked, losing the staring contest, but not the argument. So say I.

I’m on the cusp of having a print publication being launched soon and I am thrilled to be a part of The Jarnal. (Go to this link to listen to me read “The Thinnest of Veneers” which appeared in Milk Candy Review. MANY thanks to Jim Tuttle for doing an amazing job with the audio!)) And surprise of all surprises – I have an acceptance for a poem – during poetry month, which is quite cool. Thank you to Donnie Secreast & Adam Gnuse at Artemis Journal for accepting “The Rushed Meditation”

~ It’s a drizzly Sunday here and the roof isn’t leaking. The tree services have arrived and given us quotes. We’re off to the world of dealing with an insurance company and contractors. I should write a story where the experience is quick and painless and people smile the whole time work is being done on a house. It’d be fiction, of course. I haven’t read many people being happy about renovations and it’ll be years before it will be funny, or maybe that’s just my way of avoiding another novel being written in vain, one where butterflies turn into whales and burn up while sailing into the sun.

Cheers and Salute. Thanks for stopping by and for the read

The Door’s the Thing

Last month I was keeping something a secret. It was that we were doing some bathroom alterations. Now that we’ve had company, here are some pictures.

He regrouted the tile floor. We got a replacement window – I mean mirror. The awful globe lights are gone, replaced with a cool looking arched LED. And things were rewired so the switches are different and we have another outlet. All the walls are orange, brown trim. Updated photos in the frames. Pretty fish dot the shower curtain and now, if I wanted to, I could take a bathroom selfie because the door no longer looks so unfinished.

The company consisted of Niece from Boston, Nephew from Portland, and for breakfast, their mom.

We met Nephew and Niece at a restaurant for dinner. Afterwards, home and a fire on the beach.

Old chair cushions topping 5 gallon buckets turned upside down for seats.

A nearly full moon. Talk. We didn’t get to the part about me feeling like I’m drowning, but the time was brief.

I know writing is hard, and rejections are like a badge, but strings of no’s hurt. I’m grateful for friends I can reach out to – I know you’re there. Probably. I’m in a cocoon. I can go out, but suffer from anxiety sometimes. A wave of, ”I need to wear my mask, rush in, rush out” or guilt from sitting at a table and wanting this to be okay again, but it’s changed and that’s weird. I’ve had coffee with Nina Fosati at two places now. Lovely times, both. I’m grateful for her help in everything. Without her, I don’t know if I would have made it through all this. ❤

Things were scattered during the bathroom update and now that the furniture is back to normal, there are things to file. And I’m miserable about the idea of writing – especially a new book. I’m glaring at you Camp NaNo, all starting tomorrow and since I still haven’t heard about “real” camp in August, I might spend time with you. Enter a deeper part of the cocoon. But there is so much I want to do outside, like take wood out of the wood shed so I have a way out when I take the wood in the back and transport it to the first row. Plus there is always mowing and trimming and weeding. Don’t mind me, I’m usually not quite so glum but there is a lot of tasks to complete and since I have written some good shit which hasn’t found a home and I’m still without an agent, why do I even bother?

Does every crisis of faith reduce down to “Why are we/Why am I here?”

Perhaps…

I do want to thank Janice Leandra and everyone at Janus Literary. I’m grateful they chose my micro, Panache for this issue and there is some other cool writing in here. And what a fitting place to end, with the idea of looking both ways.

Thanks for stopping by and for the read!

Still around…

I am thrilled and honored that Barren Magazine has published “The Shots Fired, The Shots Called” in their gorgeous 5^th issue and OMG! Cathy Ulrich tweeted about it while I was off-line in my funk. Remington Review published “Anniversary Plans” on page 5 and I’m thrilled with the outcome. I’ve liked that story a long time and it found the best home. Thank you to everyone at Barren Magazine and Remington Review for believing in my pieces and publishing them.

Yesterday, I had a lovely chat with Nina Fosati about stamina, direction, and purpose in regards to writing. I told her it’s the first time since I don’t remember when “a book” or a “goal” wasn’t foremost on my mind and how this made me feel…adrift.

Personally, I find it to be a sucky feeling and hope it turns into something freeing or worthwhile. Maybe it’s the weather. Or the anniversary of my mother’s death. Or some other “thing” causing this ennui, but I hope it resolves soon. In the meantime, I’m reading, tidying, cleaning, and trying to figure out the next step.

Regardless, I am grateful you stopped by for a bit. Thank you for the read and may your day be stunning!

Cheers!

Another Thursday, Another Blog

It’s getting to be that time of year again when the furniture gets changed around so we have a wall of firewood inside and can use the wood stove. If an antenna wire is installed, we might have the stereo in the living room this season. This bit of change is stressful since I start thinking I should get rid of things, but I rarely do since I have an attachment issue.

If that were the only issue I had…

My kindle’s battery was empty. That’s never happened before. I just figured out the new way to get stories from Submittable sent to it. All right, I didn’t figure it out, I had to ask for help after reading the FAQs. I’d like to add that the staff at Submittable are incredibly helpful and prompt. Thank you!

The book revision took over my life and I was frustrated since I didn’t feel I was getting anywhere and I wanted it to be done by Labor Day. Husband suggested I go in the library. I didn’t think it would work, but we went on an errand, which led to a trip to the Savage winery. We returned home, I went to work, and boom! That night I was finished…as finished as a 89,675 word novel gets. I’m doing a final read through and cutting a word here and there, but otherwise, I think that’s it.

At the novel critique group on Tuesday, there was a lively discussion on our respective pages and part of the conversation turned to agents. I was so dispirited. Two of the women are on their third agents. I’m weary of starting up the search again for my first.

I think I’ll start the new book instead.

*Sigh*

*These are just my Creekside Reflections. Your experiences may vary.

Draft #whatever is done, on to other things

Chyo has my book on her Kindle and she’s killing me by either not reading it or waiting to tell me what she thinks. Regardless, I’m not sending it to XO Man until I hear from her. That book has wrecked me, but I feel it’s over–at least for now so I’m off to write other things–including this blog post which is a week late–mia culpa. I was in an editing/polishing zone and I really couldn’t break free until just the other day.

Everything was left to slide, including the garden. Yesterday, I spent most of the day out there and was pleasantly surprised that the minor love I’ve been giving it is paying off–the weeds aren’t out of control and the slugs haven’t devoured my pepper plants as of yet. I hate those slugs. They have an entire yard to graze upon but year after year they hunger for my poor peppers.

The irises have come and gone, but today, two of the peonies were in bloom. Here’s one:

The baby pines either thrived or died. I don’t know, it was bad timing when those saplings arrived. I’m grateful my brother-in-law was here that weekend to help with the planting. This one is the best looker of the remaining bunch:

And the wisteria is beginning to bloom:

Otherwise, it’s a hot sticky day and the last of the plants in the greenhouse were taken outside so I’ll probably clean that room, maybe finish Gina Miani’s Avalon, get further into Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch. Hell, I might even start a story for The Molotov Cocktail Monster Flash contest. Maybe I’ll even paint.

Thanks for checking in!

(*These are my Creekside Reflections. Your experiences may vary.)

A nice start to the New Year

And what to my grateful eyes did I find in my inbox on New Year’s Day? A note from a publisher who is planning another anthology and offered the previous authors a crack at the new one. That is definitely a much better start to a year than a rejection. By that token, I’ve held off on sending rejections (sorry if you get one!) to several submitters. I really do try to treat submitters to r.kv.r.y. Quarterly Literary Journal the way I’d like to be treated and I know I didn’t want to get a rejection on New Year’s Eve or New Year’s Day.

So, I’m concussed. How are you? Seriously, it was such a stupid thing. I took mail out and on the way back, I fell on the icy driveway and smacked my head. And do you know what you can do to help a concussion? Nothing but watch for signs. Modern medicine is come so far…Yes, I’m grateful that it wasn’t worse, like a broken leg or arm or wrist.

I don’t make resolutions since the year many, many years ago to not make resolutions. That one I knew I could keep, and I have. Even when I quit smoking, I quit on 1/7, not the first. However, I’ve been toying with the idea of going a year without drinking. Since New Year’s Eve is a big drinking night, and I shouldn’t be drinking with a brain injury anyway, I decided that I’d start on the first so I’d remember when I began. There are a few caveats. I’m allowed to drink on my birthday, if I sell a book, Husband’s birthday, Thanksgiving and one freebie, but only one. So, this will be my year of not drinking.

Otherwise, nothing has changed much. I’m working on new pieces and enjoying going through the latest book twenty pages at a time with Mary Akers and Gina. I’m so glad to have been asked to joining that novel critiquing group! After the 14^th, I’ll be touching up the query letter, getting ready to send Ellie’s Elephant’s to another group of agents I’ve researched. I’m preparing applications for Breadloaf and NYFA. Same old, same old, but good.

(*These are my creek side reflections. Your experiences may vary.)