Farewell, Hello
As I say farewell to 2017, I dwell on that word. Farewell. For me it has always seemed so forlorn. Tearful. Like you’re saying goodbye forever. Yet, Webster’s Dictionary describes it as words of good wishes spoken at parting. Roget’s Thesaurus lists it as a departing gift, a send-off, a gold watch. There is still a finality to the term but hope is also implied, a promise of good things in the air.
That’s better. It’s how I feel about this passing year. I’m not sad that it’s gone, never to return. Instead, there is a sense of fellowship, of a warm handshake between friends, of an affable parting.
2017 was a roller coaster year. Many ups and downs in my health, finances, spiritual journey and life as an author. But overall I came out of it stronger, more content and filled with anticipation for what’s to come. I grew closer to family. To friends. To strangers. To God. I wake each day filled with gratitude and hope. I count my many blessings rather than dwelling on what I don’t have. It’s amazing at how much easier life is when I embrace this attitude.
One of the positive things I did this past year was dig out an old pastime to add to my daily life. I transformed a corner of my living room into a tiny studio and completed my first painting after a thirty year hiatus. I’m not totally pleased with the results but I am delighted that I kept at it until I had a finished work. I have other ideas of paintings I want to do, so the studio stays! I know it takes time away from my writing but it also taps into my creative mind, challenges my abilities and bestows a sense of total calm as I lose myself in the act of creation. I enter a zone where I lose track of time, of worries, of pain.
As for my life as an author, I have to admit that I haven’t written anything of value for about three months. Between doctor appointments, end-of-the-year desk work and the holidays I’ve let my writing slip to the bottom of my priority pile. And now it’s hard to get back to it. I’m drained of any ideas for new stories. Additionally, returning to my current work in progress—my mystery novel starring detective Mason LaPlant—seems filled with hurdles too demanding to surmount. When I’m in the twilight of sleep or the calm zone of painting or taking a walk, ideas run through my mind, sometimes solving a minor problem or showing me where I need more description or more action or less narrative. But lately the thoughts indicate I need to make two major changes in events I’ve already written. This would mean tearing my story apart to remove major portions and replace them with the new ideas. If I do that I lose a witness, clues and episodes important to the relationships between major characters. Altering the events means changing everything that flows from them. That’s the burden weighing me down.
I sat at my desk a few days ago, hands on the keyboard, ready to start making those changes. But I hesitated. I haven’t finished my first draft of the novel yet. I think it would be wise to go ahead and do that before I proceed to a major rewrite. I need to know my ending. It’s in my head but has been evasive when I try to put it on paper. That has to be my next step. Then I can see if the major changes my mind is insisting on will enhance the novel or if the events as presently written are better left alone. I leaned away from the keyboard and took a deep breath. Okay, I would delve back into LaPlant’s story, finish the rough draft, smooth out the ending and read the entire manuscript before making any rash changes. I was relieved to finally come to a decision and began typing where I’d left off. Then the phone rang.
Medical tests had come back. I needed to make an appointment with such-and-such a doctor to discuss the situation. By the time I made the appointment and lined up transportation, an hour had passed. The mood to write was gone. Once again, the novel went to the bottom of the pile. I can’t let it stay there.
So, as I say farewell to 2017, I know that 2018 is wide open with promise. It’s time to make LaPlant my top priority. After the rough draft is completed, I’ll reward myself by taking the time to paint a new picture. I can do this. I know I can. Writing is my passion and I can overcome its difficulties if I simply keep at it. That’s what I’m going to do in 2018—buckle down and restart my engines.
Farewell, 2017. Thank you for making me a stronger person.
Hello, 2018. Thank you for your welcome and the opportunities that await me.
This is the front cover of the anthology Speed City
Sisters in Crime just published. My story is "A Piece
of Pie." There are fifteen stories, and if you purchase it through https://www.createspace.com/5443267 our chapter
makes our best royalties. Thanks.
The book contains our stories, an author's note about the story
or the process of writing it, and a biography in the back.
August 8, 2015, from 2:00-5:00 we'll be having our official launch
party. We'll have more readings and more signings. And pizza
throughout the day. It will be at Bookmamas in Irvington, at
9 South Johnson, Indianapolis, IN.
Sisters in Crime just published. My story is "A Piece
of Pie." There are fifteen stories, and if you purchase it through https://www.createspace.com/5443267 our chapter
makes our best royalties. Thanks.
The book contains our stories, an author's note about the story
or the process of writing it, and a biography in the back.
August 8, 2015, from 2:00-5:00 we'll be having our official launch
party. We'll have more readings and more signings. And pizza
throughout the day. It will be at Bookmamas in Irvington, at
9 South Johnson, Indianapolis, IN.
YIPPEE!!!!
I wrote several months ago that I would re-open my web page when I had something published, something to brag about. Well, the time has come! I have a short story in the new anthology published by Speed City Sisters in Crime which just came out. It is entitled "Decades of Dirt, Murder, Mystery and Mayhem from the Crossroads of Crime." Whew. Long title. We just call it DoD, or "Decades of Dirt." There are fifteen short stories in the anthology. Mine is entitled "A Piece of Pie."
When the opportunity came to submit a short story for this anthology, the fourth one published by SinC, I was intrigued. I write long novels. I thought it would be a challenge to write something within the word confines of a short story. And, indeed, it was. It was also a great learning experience. I wrote and wrote. And cut and cut and cut. Then wrote. Then cut and cut. You get the idea. I had to learn to write in as few words as possible. And I finally completed a story within the word limitations. And it was accepted!
The most interesting thing to me was that the story ended up being a western. I've written no other western themed works. That wasn't planned. But a sheriff and horses, dust and cactus, were the things that spoke to me. And that's how "A Piece of Pie" was born. The anthology is available on CreateSpace. The link to purchase is https://www.createspace.com/5443267 and if you purchase this work, I hope you enjoy all the stories within. All are set in the past. All contain crime. Thus the title, "Decades of Dirt."
When the opportunity came to submit a short story for this anthology, the fourth one published by SinC, I was intrigued. I write long novels. I thought it would be a challenge to write something within the word confines of a short story. And, indeed, it was. It was also a great learning experience. I wrote and wrote. And cut and cut and cut. Then wrote. Then cut and cut. You get the idea. I had to learn to write in as few words as possible. And I finally completed a story within the word limitations. And it was accepted!
The most interesting thing to me was that the story ended up being a western. I've written no other western themed works. That wasn't planned. But a sheriff and horses, dust and cactus, were the things that spoke to me. And that's how "A Piece of Pie" was born. The anthology is available on CreateSpace. The link to purchase is https://www.createspace.com/5443267 and if you purchase this work, I hope you enjoy all the stories within. All are set in the past. All contain crime. Thus the title, "Decades of Dirt."
This was taken at our book signing at Barnes & Noble in Indianapolis on Sunday, July 26, 2015. It was my first public reading of my work and my first book signing. What a fun day we all had, interacting with our readers and fellow writers. I repeat -- YIPPEE!
I have decided to let my website go stagnant. In other words, I'll no longer be doing a monthly 'musings' due to the fact that I really have no followers. I'm told I need to start a blog if I want people to read me. But I don't have any idea how to do a blog. And I'm not sure I want to spend the time necessary to keep one going. So, it's goodbye for now. Should I get published, I may write an exuberant 'yippee' and let whoever may look at this site know the good news. For now, I'll just leave you with a final quote from one of my favorite authors, W. Somerset Maugham.
He said "There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."
He said "There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are."
Chapter 15: Uh Oh
Uh oh. I’ve been so busy working on a murder mystery that I forgot to write something for my web page for September. It’s late now, so I’ll be short.
I’ve been taking classes from a dynamic instructor on writing more vividly using figurative language. You know – similes, metaphors, personification, hyperbole. All those literary devices we learned in school and a great number of us used for class then promptly forgot. At age seventy-three I couldn’t even remember what the terms meant anymore, so class was a trip down memory lane – a bad memory, a lane filled with potholes.
So, I pulled out a simpler manuscript than the mystery and began rewriting. I tried using a variety of these figures of speech to enliven my writing. I had fun. It was challenging to find the right place for the perfect literary device. I felt I’d added a great deal more color to my text. It felt good.
Then I stopped and read out loud the several chapters I’d completed. Much to my dismay, they read as though bombs had been dropped into my paragraphs. I stumbled through the reading. All the new descriptions I’d so playfully inserted were just that – insertions. The writing no longer flowed. It read smoothly until I reached one of my new phrases, at which point there was a jolting to my system. Then as I read on it smoothed out again until I met my next newly written part.
I guess what I learned is that I can’t take one kind of writing and just punch in vivid phrases. I need to learn to write vividly as I go – not as an afterthought – not as an appendage. These devices must be part of the writing.
Now, with heart beating like a drummer doing a frenetic riff, I will try again. And it will take practice. I’ll type new material over and over until my fingers fall off. I’ll work on my manuscript until she shines like the reflection of a full moon in a still pond. Until my words roar with power and soothe with a velveteen caress. I won’t assume this will be a breeze. Colorful collections of carefully chosen catchphrases can cause catharsis or complete craziness. Just as a manipulated manuscript may move one to malevolent migraines.
Got it? I believe I mutilated most of what I learned. I imagine by now no one is lending me his or her ears, or eyes. Or money, for that matter. Ta ta.
Uh oh. I’ve been so busy working on a murder mystery that I forgot to write something for my web page for September. It’s late now, so I’ll be short.
I’ve been taking classes from a dynamic instructor on writing more vividly using figurative language. You know – similes, metaphors, personification, hyperbole. All those literary devices we learned in school and a great number of us used for class then promptly forgot. At age seventy-three I couldn’t even remember what the terms meant anymore, so class was a trip down memory lane – a bad memory, a lane filled with potholes.
So, I pulled out a simpler manuscript than the mystery and began rewriting. I tried using a variety of these figures of speech to enliven my writing. I had fun. It was challenging to find the right place for the perfect literary device. I felt I’d added a great deal more color to my text. It felt good.
Then I stopped and read out loud the several chapters I’d completed. Much to my dismay, they read as though bombs had been dropped into my paragraphs. I stumbled through the reading. All the new descriptions I’d so playfully inserted were just that – insertions. The writing no longer flowed. It read smoothly until I reached one of my new phrases, at which point there was a jolting to my system. Then as I read on it smoothed out again until I met my next newly written part.
I guess what I learned is that I can’t take one kind of writing and just punch in vivid phrases. I need to learn to write vividly as I go – not as an afterthought – not as an appendage. These devices must be part of the writing.
Now, with heart beating like a drummer doing a frenetic riff, I will try again. And it will take practice. I’ll type new material over and over until my fingers fall off. I’ll work on my manuscript until she shines like the reflection of a full moon in a still pond. Until my words roar with power and soothe with a velveteen caress. I won’t assume this will be a breeze. Colorful collections of carefully chosen catchphrases can cause catharsis or complete craziness. Just as a manipulated manuscript may move one to malevolent migraines.
Got it? I believe I mutilated most of what I learned. I imagine by now no one is lending me his or her ears, or eyes. Or money, for that matter. Ta ta.
Chapter Thirteen: Joy
It’s been a joyful time for me lately. Nothing big. Just the little things in life that fill my soul with satisfaction.
Like the smile on the face and the sparkle in the eyes of someone dear to me preparing to take a trip to a place long dreamed of. The smile I felt building as I saw the fatigue and contentment of another dear one returning from spending the day with friends at a theme park. The excitement I heard in the voices of schoolmates working together downstairs on a school project carried me back to earlier times in my life.
Ahhh. Then there’s the spicy smell of garlic and onions emanating from the kitchen as supper’s in the making. I’m hungry, and the smell lifts my spirits as I anticipate sharing the meal with family. The satisfaction I had today cutting up a melon and snitching bites. Just testing to make sure it was good enough to serve, of course.
I felt great pleasure receiving an email from a relative who lives far away. Getting to touch his life a little made him feel closer.
Seeing the exuberance of the dog when she and I walked out to the mailbox this afternoon. She’s like a puppy again when someone goes outside with her. She forgets she’s a bit elderly and bounces around as if she has springs in her legs. She dashes after the squirrels with great vigor. If she ever caught one, she’d be so surprised. I’m sure she never will, though. She’s fast, but the squirrels move like racecars. Just a blur of movement.
The birds outside the window thrill me. Especially the cardinals with their flashy red feathers. I love, too, the mourning doves, which walk quietly across the lawn. They’re so serene.
I spent some time sitting in my comfy chair reading today. The house was so quiet. I enjoyed getting into an interesting story and letting my imagination follow fictional characters and their lives. Forgetting my own problems and sharing theirs instead. It was an enjoyable break.
And that chair. It’s not just for reading. It reclines, and when I was finished participating in those characters’ lives, I relaxed back in it and fell asleep. It was a lovely nap in a comfy chair with a soft blanket over me.
I’m thankful for the joy that surrounds me. For the fact that I’m able to see it and recognize that it’s a part of my life. That’s a joy in itself.
Like the smile on the face and the sparkle in the eyes of someone dear to me preparing to take a trip to a place long dreamed of. The smile I felt building as I saw the fatigue and contentment of another dear one returning from spending the day with friends at a theme park. The excitement I heard in the voices of schoolmates working together downstairs on a school project carried me back to earlier times in my life.
Ahhh. Then there’s the spicy smell of garlic and onions emanating from the kitchen as supper’s in the making. I’m hungry, and the smell lifts my spirits as I anticipate sharing the meal with family. The satisfaction I had today cutting up a melon and snitching bites. Just testing to make sure it was good enough to serve, of course.
I felt great pleasure receiving an email from a relative who lives far away. Getting to touch his life a little made him feel closer.
Seeing the exuberance of the dog when she and I walked out to the mailbox this afternoon. She’s like a puppy again when someone goes outside with her. She forgets she’s a bit elderly and bounces around as if she has springs in her legs. She dashes after the squirrels with great vigor. If she ever caught one, she’d be so surprised. I’m sure she never will, though. She’s fast, but the squirrels move like racecars. Just a blur of movement.
The birds outside the window thrill me. Especially the cardinals with their flashy red feathers. I love, too, the mourning doves, which walk quietly across the lawn. They’re so serene.
I spent some time sitting in my comfy chair reading today. The house was so quiet. I enjoyed getting into an interesting story and letting my imagination follow fictional characters and their lives. Forgetting my own problems and sharing theirs instead. It was an enjoyable break.
And that chair. It’s not just for reading. It reclines, and when I was finished participating in those characters’ lives, I relaxed back in it and fell asleep. It was a lovely nap in a comfy chair with a soft blanket over me.
I’m thankful for the joy that surrounds me. For the fact that I’m able to see it and recognize that it’s a part of my life. That’s a joy in itself.
Chapter Thirteen: Rules
I just recently finished reading a novel by a famous author, one that I personally love to read. However, in my opinion, this novel was not up to his usual standards. It took me 200 pages to get interested. Then he caught my curiosity and I read to the end – another 180 pages. He tied up all the loose ends nicely. That part pleased me. However, I never did grow very fond of any of the characters in the book. I didn’t care if they got caught or succeeded with their scheme. I was simply curious to know what they were up to and just how they would go about their strategies. If I had picked this book up in the store and glanced at the first fifty pages, I wouldn’t have bought it. I bought it blindly. The only reason I did is that it was picked as our read of the month by a group I belong to.
What bothered me was that this author did all the things I am told editors won’t accept today. He changed point of view whenever it fit his mood. I’m told this is a big no no. He did this with multiple characters, in the middle of scenes, without buildup or warning. No smooth transitions.
In addition to that he broke another cardinal rule. He told rather than showed. Pages and pages of narrative. This didn’t bother me personally too much as it’s the way I write. I’m good at narrative, but when the editors return my submissions, they always caution me to ‘show, don’t tell.’ They want the action, not the telling about the action. That’s good advice. It’s hard for me, though. So I go back through my manuscript and try to change my narratives into active, in the moment passages. It’s difficult and I haven’t mastered it yet. But I promise myself I will.
Thirdly, there was a lack of dialogue. Too often the author told what someone said rather than having the character actually say it. i.e. “We talked often about such and such and came to such and such conclusions.” A dialogue between two or more people about the ‘such and such’ would have been more dynamic.
This author can get away with writing against the present day rules because he’s a best-seller. Once you make a name for yourself, it seems you can pretty well write the way you want, without restriction. Your name will sell the book. But for us poor, unpublished writers, the rules must be followed in order to get our manuscripts off the editors’ slush piles.
I think this is probably a good thing. The rules make us better writers. The restrictions keep us from going off the subject on long-winded tangents that may excite us but will put our readers to sleep. And so I’ll keep practicing writing within the restrictions of the present day. And, hopefully, will become better at my craft because of it.
What bothered me was that this author did all the things I am told editors won’t accept today. He changed point of view whenever it fit his mood. I’m told this is a big no no. He did this with multiple characters, in the middle of scenes, without buildup or warning. No smooth transitions.
In addition to that he broke another cardinal rule. He told rather than showed. Pages and pages of narrative. This didn’t bother me personally too much as it’s the way I write. I’m good at narrative, but when the editors return my submissions, they always caution me to ‘show, don’t tell.’ They want the action, not the telling about the action. That’s good advice. It’s hard for me, though. So I go back through my manuscript and try to change my narratives into active, in the moment passages. It’s difficult and I haven’t mastered it yet. But I promise myself I will.
Thirdly, there was a lack of dialogue. Too often the author told what someone said rather than having the character actually say it. i.e. “We talked often about such and such and came to such and such conclusions.” A dialogue between two or more people about the ‘such and such’ would have been more dynamic.
This author can get away with writing against the present day rules because he’s a best-seller. Once you make a name for yourself, it seems you can pretty well write the way you want, without restriction. Your name will sell the book. But for us poor, unpublished writers, the rules must be followed in order to get our manuscripts off the editors’ slush piles.
I think this is probably a good thing. The rules make us better writers. The restrictions keep us from going off the subject on long-winded tangents that may excite us but will put our readers to sleep. And so I’ll keep practicing writing within the restrictions of the present day. And, hopefully, will become better at my craft because of it.
Chapter Twelve: Woe Is Me
I’m in a predicament. I wrote in an earlier musing that I don’t mind editing. I find it challenging and a chance to create new scenes, characters and dialogue. That’s all true, but I’m in a situation now where the manuscript doesn’t just need tweaks and rewrites in a few places. The whole thing needs to be rewritten!
A very kindly editor returned my romantic suspense novel with a generous letter explaining ways in which I could improve it before resubmitting it to him. Yes. He asked for a resubmission. That gave me an ego boost. However, he also suggested rewriting the whole thing. Not just a passage here and there. The entire novel. You see, it’s a romance/suspense. I developed the romance then brought in the crime. I sprinkled little hints foreshadowing of the danger to come. I thought this would keep my reader engaged enough in the upcoming suspense.
The editor feels I need to hook my reader with the suspense right off and use flashbacks to develop the characters, their romance and the events leading up to the crime. I’ve seen this done many times in movies and TV shows. However, as I try to do it I have two problems.
One: I want the reader to think the character has run off and watch as the protagonist suffers this fact. Then, later, to discover this is a kidnapping. But starting the book with a character leaving her love isn’t that suspenseful. It’s not the hook the editor is looking for. He’s looking for the kidnapping. So what do I do? Have double flashbacks? Have the kidnapping then the protagonist remembering how he thought she had left him? Then have the next set of flashbacks showing the development of the romance? Eeeek.
Two: I can’t do flashbacks! I’ve been trying for several months now and the writing comes out like a patchwork quilt. Disparate pieces of information stitched together. With a quilt you end up with a work of art. With my manuscript I end up with an erratic compilation that doesn’t read smoothly.
Phew. Well, I hope I got that out of my system. Now I’ll get back to that manuscript. I’ll try to remember how much I usually enjoy rewriting. The chance to create new scenes and twists. Yep. I can do this. I just have to work at it. That’s the dual nature of writing: hard work and the pure enjoyment of letting words flow onto paper.
Chapter Eleven: A Visit with Lorrie and Roy
I’m back from a wonderful five weeks in New Mexico with my daughter, Lorrie, and Roy. Well, four marvelous weeks and one week sick enough to end up in the hospital. Not much fun, but after I was out and recuperating, Lorrie and Roy kept me entertained and hugged and loved me back to health. The ridiculous part of it all was Lorrie had just had ankle surgery and I was expecting to cater to her and here she was hobbling around taking care of me!
I certainly ate well while in New Mexico. We had healthy suppers of rice and steamed veggies with fish. We offset those with sinfully decadent rhubarb barbs and peach cobbler. Roy cooked delicious chicken quesadillas, rib-eye steaks and biscuits and gravy. Lorrie made a homemade pizza that excelled any other pizza I’ve ever eaten. Kudos to the chefs.
On the 14th Lorrie and I stayed up and watched the lunar eclipse which also included a blood moon. It was glorious. The meteor shower later in the month was a bust. I saw one meteor during a week of supposed activity. And the peak night, we had clouds. But the eclipse made up for it. At my age, it was special to see my first total eclipse.
Lorrie and I had fun shopping together. The three of us enjoyed a dinner at Red Lobster in Aztec, New Mexico, and another at Fiesta Mexicana in Durango, Colorado. Superb food at both. Lorrie and I spent an afternoon in the tranquility of the Chaco Canyon Anasazi Indian ruins. What an amazingly spiritual place!
Best of all, though, were the two fishing trips we took to Capote Lake in Colorado. What could be more relaxing than a day spent on the calm water of a small lake in the sunshine with the intriguing Chimney Rock rising amidst the piñons and junipers and enticing hits on your line resulting in fine catches of trout and bass?
On Easter we had a fine meal of ham and yams and much more. Even some Cadbury cream eggs. Lorrie and I managed to fit in a movie while I was there. We enjoyed it thoroughly. “50 to 1” was the title.
Most of all, though, I enjoyed simply being with Lorrie and Roy and visiting, watching shows together, sharing our meals, walking the dogs, and laughing a lot. We sure had fun. Thanks, y’all, for a wonderful visit.
I’m changing my website musings a little early this month. That’s because I’m leaving on the 26th of March to spend the entire month of April in New Mexico with my daughter, Lorrie, and my son-in-law, Roy. We’re going to do some fishing. I’m really looking forward to that. I love to fish. Mainly, I like to fish from shore. I’m a bit scared of boats, but Roy has promised not to go too fast if we use the boat. I’m borrowing my grandson’s Notebook so I can continue my writing while there. I have some revisions that need to be done. Perhaps I’ll work on them when we’re not visiting or fishing or taking a trip to Chaco Canyon. Whatever writing I do while I’m there, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it. Writing is like breathing for me. I can’t live without it.
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Chapter Ten: The Joy of Writing
Writers always hope to be published. Isn’t that why we write? I don’t think so. Obviously, that is the ultimate desire, but it’s not why we write. We put words down on paper because we can’t not do it. We are pushed by something inside us. And so we write.
Henry Miller said “Writing is its own reward.” What a simple yet profound statement. And how true. Writing gives me so much pleasure. Of course, I hit snags. Invariably I find myself lost. But always I enjoy the process of finding my way out.
I write in my sleep. I’m constantly hitting the keys, blocking passages for deletion, sitting back then suddenly typing again, writing while in a state of oblivion. Then when day breaks, I can’t remember what I wrote the previous night. That’s frustrating for I’m sure I’ve done some of my best work while asleep. Oh well. I get to spend eight to ten hours typing throughout the day, creating all day long. What more pleasurable pastime could there possibly be?
However, I have to admit, I dream of being published. Yes, I write with that goal in mind. It is the icing on the cake. The pat on the back. The acknowledgement that you are interesting to someone other than yourself.
But is that why I write? No. I write because I find it impossible not to. Somehow words press from the inside and want to be let out. I am their conduit to the outside. And I love it. Yes, Henry Miller was right. “Writing is its own reward.”
Henry Miller said “Writing is its own reward.” What a simple yet profound statement. And how true. Writing gives me so much pleasure. Of course, I hit snags. Invariably I find myself lost. But always I enjoy the process of finding my way out.
I write in my sleep. I’m constantly hitting the keys, blocking passages for deletion, sitting back then suddenly typing again, writing while in a state of oblivion. Then when day breaks, I can’t remember what I wrote the previous night. That’s frustrating for I’m sure I’ve done some of my best work while asleep. Oh well. I get to spend eight to ten hours typing throughout the day, creating all day long. What more pleasurable pastime could there possibly be?
However, I have to admit, I dream of being published. Yes, I write with that goal in mind. It is the icing on the cake. The pat on the back. The acknowledgement that you are interesting to someone other than yourself.
But is that why I write? No. I write because I find it impossible not to. Somehow words press from the inside and want to be let out. I am their conduit to the outside. And I love it. Yes, Henry Miller was right. “Writing is its own reward.”
Chapter Nine:Rejections and Rewriting
Recently a friend gave me a long list of well-known writers and the stories of how many rejections each of them had received before being accepted by a publisher. It was astounding, with many of them sending out a manuscript twenty, fifty, even a hundred times. Such perseverance. Such hope.
For myself, I have a number of rejections. I can't say how many without actually sitting down and counting them all. I can just say there are heaps of them. I no longer dwell on the rejections. Oh, I'm not saying that when I receive one it doesn't hurt. I get discouraged and feel sorry for myself. I allow myself a little time for self-pity but then I take the manuscript that has been rejected and begin rewriting it. Sometimes, along with the rejection, the editor is kind enough to include comments on what would improve the work. These I love. They are more critique than rejection. They give direction to my editing.
Rewriting is something I never mind doing. I find it almost as rewarding as writing a new manuscript. I add descriptive passages, work my characters so they are more well-rounded, add more dialogue. I'm not saying rewriting is easy. It's not. It's hard work. Adding these descriptive passages and dialogue are difficult. That's because I'm a teller, not a shower. I'm inclined to narrate passages rather than write a descriptive scene that shows what my character is doing. Or tell my characters' feelings rather than introduce dialogue that shows these feelings through interaction with other characters. But trying to do all this is a challenge. Rewriting is a chance to create fresh scenes or introduce new characters. It's almost like writing an original manuscript.
Sometimes when I'm rewriting, my manuscript suddenly takes off in a new direction. A character changes and no longer fits the scenes I've written for him. This necessitates modifying scenes. Then it becomes necessary to rewrite a fresh section to incorporate those scenes. The character may grow in importance or just the opposite. Whatever, this alters the entire composition. The manuscript grows in a different way. It heads into the dark unknown and I must follow it on this diverse journey. Often, after I've followed for a while, I find I no longer like the new composition and I discard the revised scenes and characters and twists and turns. Then I go back to the original and must decide whether to keep the old character or scene or discard them completely. It's difficult and sometimes downright frustrating. But always, it's a challenge.
So receiving a rejection can be rejuvenating as well as discouraging. It can open the door to better characters, more interesting scenes, improved writing. It can be a blessing in disguise.
Chapter Eight: In Memoriam
Ron Pfeiffer
On January 23, 2014, I lost my brother-in-law, Ron Pfeiffer, to cancer. He valiantly fought this insidious disease for several years. His last years were not easy, filled as they were with pain and slow decline. His wife, Donna, was by his side through it all. It has not been an easy last few years for the family. I ask God to be with Ron now in his repose, and to be with Donna and the rest of Ron’s family, bringing them solace in their loss.
Ron was a vibrant person. Never living life gently, he jumped in with both feet. He was a veteran of the U.S. Navy. A passionate father of five, he loved his son and four daughters with a fierce loyalty and deep tenderness. Grandchildren and a great-grandchild brought him much pride and delight. He knew the deep sorrow that comes from loss of a child and lived with that terrible pain for many years. Ron felt deeply, lived fully and died courageously.
I remember him sitting eagerly forward on his chair as he joined in conversations with family members. A man of opinions, he never failed to have something to say on a subject. He was fervent on subjects dear to him, fighting his causes with enthusiasm and humor. For he had a keen sense of humor. He put his all into everything he did, his home life, his work and his play.
He loved a good game of golf and all the fun side-bets that went with it. Longest drive, closest to the pin, everything he and his partners could think of to bet on. Just small bets. Something fun to liven the game. I believe he was most competitive with his brothers.
He cared deeply for his church and believed in helping his fellow man monetarily, personally and prayerfully. All aspects of his life were touched by his religion on a daily basis.
So, it’s ‘farewell’ to a vibrant, tender and dear brother-in-law. I’ll miss you, Ron. May God bless you and keep you in the palm of His hand.
Ron was a vibrant person. Never living life gently, he jumped in with both feet. He was a veteran of the U.S. Navy. A passionate father of five, he loved his son and four daughters with a fierce loyalty and deep tenderness. Grandchildren and a great-grandchild brought him much pride and delight. He knew the deep sorrow that comes from loss of a child and lived with that terrible pain for many years. Ron felt deeply, lived fully and died courageously.
I remember him sitting eagerly forward on his chair as he joined in conversations with family members. A man of opinions, he never failed to have something to say on a subject. He was fervent on subjects dear to him, fighting his causes with enthusiasm and humor. For he had a keen sense of humor. He put his all into everything he did, his home life, his work and his play.
He loved a good game of golf and all the fun side-bets that went with it. Longest drive, closest to the pin, everything he and his partners could think of to bet on. Just small bets. Something fun to liven the game. I believe he was most competitive with his brothers.
He cared deeply for his church and believed in helping his fellow man monetarily, personally and prayerfully. All aspects of his life were touched by his religion on a daily basis.
So, it’s ‘farewell’ to a vibrant, tender and dear brother-in-law. I’ll miss you, Ron. May God bless you and keep you in the palm of His hand.
CHAPTER SEVEN: HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
This is the time of year for resolutions and my first one should be to not be late in posting to my website. I apologize and will make no excuses for missing my deadline this month. I simply forgot.
Resolutions. Don’t we get tired of that word? Yet just about every one of us continues to make them year after year. We dread them. We fail at them. We have a tendency to make the same ones over and over. Yet, we also look forward to them. Look forward to the day we can begin getting some part of our life in order again.
We all know what resolutions are. They are those little rules we set out for ourselves to help us accomplish something we desire. The most common are diet and exercise. The lessening of the diet and the increasing of the exercise. Both of these are difficult. In this day and age of shopping online, visiting friends on Facebook, seeing movies streamed through our computer we simply don’t get out as much as we used to. We don’t physically move as much. Everything is there at our fingertips. We used to have to get off our rumps and go out to do these things. Wander the mall to shop. Visit friends at their homes or in coffee shops or at parks. Go to the multiplex to see our movies. We used to have to move to accomplish those things. And further back that than, we had to split our own wood to keep warm, haul our own water for drinking and bathing, plow our own land in order to eat. Life made us move. We didn’t need the gyms and exercise equipment to keep our hearts accelerated, our joints bending, our limbs stretching. Now it takes discipline not necessity to make us exercise.
That’s difficult because discipline is a state of mind. We have to determine to do something. We have to resolve to make this change in our life. And resolved, we have to do it. Yes, do it! It’s easy to make resolutions. In fact, it’s rather fun. To take a clean tablet and a pencil and make a list of the things we would like to change in ourselves. Exercise daily. Eat right. Stop smoking. Visit or write to our parents more often. Put that box of photos into albums. The list is easy, and once made, it gives us a sense of purpose and a feeling of virtue.
But sticking to that list sometimes doesn’t last very long. Sometimes not even a month. Our old life gets in the way. The comfort we feel in our old habits settles around us and making a change becomes too great an effort. That diet that enthused us when we began was born more of virtue than anything else. We felt good about making a resolution to eat better. And we knew it was important to our health. It was born out of ‘ought’ rather than ‘want to.’ And ‘ought’ is a difficult concept. It carries connotations of punishment. Ought means to be compelled by duty or obligation.
And so we reach that time of year when tradition tells us to make resolutions. Whether we make new ones each year, make the same ones over and over, or make none, it is a tradition of long standing. According to Wikipedia, the ancient Babylonians promised to their gods at the start of each year that they would return borrowed objects and pay their debts. The Romans made promises to their god Janus, for whom January is named. And so it went through the ages. Knights recommitting themselves to chivalry. Religious factions reflecting on their wrongdoings and seeking forgiveness, and offering it as well. Down to our present day when we make promises to improve ourselves in some way.
I suppose this tradition will continue for many more ages. Perhaps because it is a good thing worthy of endurance. I wish you all well in your resolutions, in the making of them and in the keeping. I doubt I will stick to mine, if my personal history is any indication. I wonder if resolving to keep my resolutions will help in any way. Perhaps. Probably not.
But regardless of the resolution challenge facing most of us, I wish each and every one of you a blessed New Year and may you enjoy life, resolutions fulfilled or not.
This is the time of year for resolutions and my first one should be to not be late in posting to my website. I apologize and will make no excuses for missing my deadline this month. I simply forgot.
Resolutions. Don’t we get tired of that word? Yet just about every one of us continues to make them year after year. We dread them. We fail at them. We have a tendency to make the same ones over and over. Yet, we also look forward to them. Look forward to the day we can begin getting some part of our life in order again.
We all know what resolutions are. They are those little rules we set out for ourselves to help us accomplish something we desire. The most common are diet and exercise. The lessening of the diet and the increasing of the exercise. Both of these are difficult. In this day and age of shopping online, visiting friends on Facebook, seeing movies streamed through our computer we simply don’t get out as much as we used to. We don’t physically move as much. Everything is there at our fingertips. We used to have to get off our rumps and go out to do these things. Wander the mall to shop. Visit friends at their homes or in coffee shops or at parks. Go to the multiplex to see our movies. We used to have to move to accomplish those things. And further back that than, we had to split our own wood to keep warm, haul our own water for drinking and bathing, plow our own land in order to eat. Life made us move. We didn’t need the gyms and exercise equipment to keep our hearts accelerated, our joints bending, our limbs stretching. Now it takes discipline not necessity to make us exercise.
That’s difficult because discipline is a state of mind. We have to determine to do something. We have to resolve to make this change in our life. And resolved, we have to do it. Yes, do it! It’s easy to make resolutions. In fact, it’s rather fun. To take a clean tablet and a pencil and make a list of the things we would like to change in ourselves. Exercise daily. Eat right. Stop smoking. Visit or write to our parents more often. Put that box of photos into albums. The list is easy, and once made, it gives us a sense of purpose and a feeling of virtue.
But sticking to that list sometimes doesn’t last very long. Sometimes not even a month. Our old life gets in the way. The comfort we feel in our old habits settles around us and making a change becomes too great an effort. That diet that enthused us when we began was born more of virtue than anything else. We felt good about making a resolution to eat better. And we knew it was important to our health. It was born out of ‘ought’ rather than ‘want to.’ And ‘ought’ is a difficult concept. It carries connotations of punishment. Ought means to be compelled by duty or obligation.
And so we reach that time of year when tradition tells us to make resolutions. Whether we make new ones each year, make the same ones over and over, or make none, it is a tradition of long standing. According to Wikipedia, the ancient Babylonians promised to their gods at the start of each year that they would return borrowed objects and pay their debts. The Romans made promises to their god Janus, for whom January is named. And so it went through the ages. Knights recommitting themselves to chivalry. Religious factions reflecting on their wrongdoings and seeking forgiveness, and offering it as well. Down to our present day when we make promises to improve ourselves in some way.
I suppose this tradition will continue for many more ages. Perhaps because it is a good thing worthy of endurance. I wish you all well in your resolutions, in the making of them and in the keeping. I doubt I will stick to mine, if my personal history is any indication. I wonder if resolving to keep my resolutions will help in any way. Perhaps. Probably not.
But regardless of the resolution challenge facing most of us, I wish each and every one of you a blessed New Year and may you enjoy life, resolutions fulfilled or not.
CHAPTER SIX: HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!
I want to wish all of you happy times this holiday season. Listen to the gayety of the passing crowds, to the squeals of children as they look at displays in stores and the laughter that fills the air around you. It’s the season of love. A time of sharing. A time of giving, both of gifts and time to one another.
From soup kitchens to grandiose mansions, the love is the same. It is for others, not just ourselves. It’s the time of year we find it easiest to meet strangers and feel a connection to them. The time to clasp our families closer, to be thankful for each of them with all their eccentricities. It is the differences in people that make them beautiful.
Give thanks this happy time of year. Raise your voices in songs of the season, gay family songs and silly songs of childhood. It is the time for music. The time for sharing in uplifted voices. Voices of every kind. Angelic sopranos, harmonizing altos and deep baritones. Voices that blend and those that are off key. They all carry the same enthusiasm and enjoyment. And that’s what this holiday season is all about.
Take deep breaths of roasting turkey, of candied yams, of baking pies and salty hams. Toss in the fragrance of evergreen trees and glowing candles. If not in reality, then in your thoughts and dreams.
But mainly, be happy. Share with others. Give the gift of yourself. For that is the finest gift of all.
Merry Christmas and Happy Happy New Year.
I want to wish all of you happy times this holiday season. Listen to the gayety of the passing crowds, to the squeals of children as they look at displays in stores and the laughter that fills the air around you. It’s the season of love. A time of sharing. A time of giving, both of gifts and time to one another.
From soup kitchens to grandiose mansions, the love is the same. It is for others, not just ourselves. It’s the time of year we find it easiest to meet strangers and feel a connection to them. The time to clasp our families closer, to be thankful for each of them with all their eccentricities. It is the differences in people that make them beautiful.
Give thanks this happy time of year. Raise your voices in songs of the season, gay family songs and silly songs of childhood. It is the time for music. The time for sharing in uplifted voices. Voices of every kind. Angelic sopranos, harmonizing altos and deep baritones. Voices that blend and those that are off key. They all carry the same enthusiasm and enjoyment. And that’s what this holiday season is all about.
Take deep breaths of roasting turkey, of candied yams, of baking pies and salty hams. Toss in the fragrance of evergreen trees and glowing candles. If not in reality, then in your thoughts and dreams.
But mainly, be happy. Share with others. Give the gift of yourself. For that is the finest gift of all.
Merry Christmas and Happy Happy New Year.
Chapter Five: The Writer As Editor
I’ve recently been struggling through the process of editing one of my works before submitting it to a publisher. I say struggling because whenever I get involved in that task, I end up writing so much new material. I just get involved in the story again and want to be part of the writing process, not the editing game.
It’s common to hear that authors loathe the editing part of writing. Checking grammar, punctuation, spelling – all that is tedious and repetitive. That’s true. And amazingly, no matter how many times I read over a manuscript, I always find another small error. A missing period. A word that should be capitalized. A missing quotation mark, usually the final one in a quote. As soon as I correct that mistake, another will miraculously pop up somewhere else for my next reading. I can finish rereading my story, certain that now the copy is clean. But after I wait a bit and read it again, I find some little mistake I missed the first three times I checked it out. I believe there is a gremlin that lives in all manuscripts and waits for the author to be completely satisfied with his work, then springs into action scattering minor mistakes here and there.
When I proofread one of my works, part of my editing job is to flesh out my characters. As I write, I can see my characters clearly but often fail to describe them sufficiently to my readers. I have to emphasize their emotions, describe their physical characteristics and watch their language to make sure it is appropriate to that character. All things I need to learn to do first time around and just tweak when editing.
But I still enjoy the editing process because I get to write some more. And when I’m writing, I’m a happy individual. Writing is what I do. It’s what I love. Even if it’s editing.
It’s common to hear that authors loathe the editing part of writing. Checking grammar, punctuation, spelling – all that is tedious and repetitive. That’s true. And amazingly, no matter how many times I read over a manuscript, I always find another small error. A missing period. A word that should be capitalized. A missing quotation mark, usually the final one in a quote. As soon as I correct that mistake, another will miraculously pop up somewhere else for my next reading. I can finish rereading my story, certain that now the copy is clean. But after I wait a bit and read it again, I find some little mistake I missed the first three times I checked it out. I believe there is a gremlin that lives in all manuscripts and waits for the author to be completely satisfied with his work, then springs into action scattering minor mistakes here and there.
When I proofread one of my works, part of my editing job is to flesh out my characters. As I write, I can see my characters clearly but often fail to describe them sufficiently to my readers. I have to emphasize their emotions, describe their physical characteristics and watch their language to make sure it is appropriate to that character. All things I need to learn to do first time around and just tweak when editing.
But I still enjoy the editing process because I get to write some more. And when I’m writing, I’m a happy individual. Writing is what I do. It’s what I love. Even if it’s editing.
Chapter Four: To Kill A Mockingbird
The mockingbird is a grand mimic, being able to copy the sounds of other birds, insects and amphibians. In the urban population, the birds often copy mechanical sounds such as car alarms. Their scientific name means “many-tongued mimic.” The males and females look alike, although the male is slightly larger. Only the males, however, sing. The birds are generally monogamous, choosing one mate for life. They are recognized as intelligent birds, able to recognize individual humans, especially those who have threatened their nests.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” the characters Atticus Fince and Miss Maudie tell the children it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because “they don’t do one thing for us but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing bur sing their hearts out for us.” They sound like gentle souls to me, good role models for us all.
In “To Kill A Mockingbird,” the characters Atticus Fince and Miss Maudie tell the children it is a sin to kill a mockingbird because “they don’t do one thing for us but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing bur sing their hearts out for us.” They sound like gentle souls to me, good role models for us all.
I have recently finished rereading To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. I remember reading this book when it first came out in 1960. I recall liking it at the time but thinking it was a very small book in scope for winning the Pulitzer Prize. However after reading it now with a lifetime of experience on my shoulders I realize what a gem of a book this is. Once again while I was reading the novel, its full effect didn’t awaken this sentiment in me. It was only as the days passed after the reading was complete that the characters continued to talk to me. This author created an entire community in a small space. And not just a society, but their ancestors as well. And not just a community but their likes and dislikes. Their treatment and mistreatment of one another. They coming together to protect their own when necessary. Harper Lee was true to their accents, their learning and their leanings, their clothing and their customs. A full and real community with real backgrounds that affected their present time attitudes and performances. How impressive and how truly difficult to accomplish.
Often referred to as a humorous book, To Kill A Mockingbird made positive use of satire and irony to allow the relating of adult subjects with a juvenile protagonist. For me this satire showed how people aren’t always what they seem to be, often having redeeming qualities to offset their negative traits. It presented the warmth and humor of the characters as well as their prejudice and discord. What a grand way to present the story. Instead of telling these attributes, showing them through satire insured they have a more lasting effect on me.
Perhaps more commendable than first meets the eye, here is a book worthy of the Pulitzer Prize. Since its publication, To Kill A Mockingbird has never been out of print. Kudos to Harper Lee. Kudos for winning this prize. Kudos for writing such a well-rounded and fascinating book. May she be a muse for us all.
Often referred to as a humorous book, To Kill A Mockingbird made positive use of satire and irony to allow the relating of adult subjects with a juvenile protagonist. For me this satire showed how people aren’t always what they seem to be, often having redeeming qualities to offset their negative traits. It presented the warmth and humor of the characters as well as their prejudice and discord. What a grand way to present the story. Instead of telling these attributes, showing them through satire insured they have a more lasting effect on me.
Perhaps more commendable than first meets the eye, here is a book worthy of the Pulitzer Prize. Since its publication, To Kill A Mockingbird has never been out of print. Kudos to Harper Lee. Kudos for winning this prize. Kudos for writing such a well-rounded and fascinating book. May she be a muse for us all.
Chapter Three: Jack and Louise Schaefer
Chapter Two: In Memoriam
Sharon and Alice
In June I lost two dear family members. My wonderful sister, Sharon Truske, and my special step-mother, Alice Deans.
I am the third of three girls. Sharon was the oldest. We were born in 1939, 1940 and 1941, in June, July and August. A neat pattern. I often wondered if there had been more children, would the pattern have continued. I remember growing up in awe of Sharon. She was beautiful. Thick, naturally curly brunette hair and big brown eyes that were always filled with kindness. Sharon was musically talented. She played the piano and the classical guitar beautifully. We lived in different parts of the country, she in New Mexico and my family in South Dakota, so we weren’t close physically. But I always felt close in heart to Sharon. Like my husband, my sister died of cancer. She was a delightful person to be around and a very loving sister. She had a heart as big as the world, never feeling herself superior to another, always giving of herself. I will miss her greatly.
I am the third of three girls. Sharon was the oldest. We were born in 1939, 1940 and 1941, in June, July and August. A neat pattern. I often wondered if there had been more children, would the pattern have continued. I remember growing up in awe of Sharon. She was beautiful. Thick, naturally curly brunette hair and big brown eyes that were always filled with kindness. Sharon was musically talented. She played the piano and the classical guitar beautifully. We lived in different parts of the country, she in New Mexico and my family in South Dakota, so we weren’t close physically. But I always felt close in heart to Sharon. Like my husband, my sister died of cancer. She was a delightful person to be around and a very loving sister. She had a heart as big as the world, never feeling herself superior to another, always giving of herself. I will miss her greatly.
As for my other recent loss, Alice Deans was my step-mother. She was married to my father, James. Again, they lived in a different part of the states from me so we were physically separated. My sisters and I lived with our mother and step-father in New Mexico. Alice and Daddy lived in Virginia. Alice wrote long, newsy letters and kept us informed of their life. She held the Deans part of my family together and I will always love her for that. In addition, she brought into the family two delightful step-sisters.
Alice didn’t mind when my girls called her Grandma even though she wasn’t old enough to be saddled with that name just yet. From the first time that we visited her and Daddy and my step-sisters at their home she was Grandma Deans and remained so to my grandchildren as well. She shared abundant love with us all and brought us much joy over the years. And the years were many. She was 91 when she left us. And every year beautiful. We’ll all miss you, Grandma.
As I light a candle for Sharon and Alice and send forth prayers that their souls have found respite, I realize that I do this as much for me as for them. This practice fulfills a need in me. A need to express my love for these special people. When I weep because of my loss or press my hands against the pain, I sometimes bring myself relief. At least for the moment. I know if I turned to others, they might be able to help ease my grief but it is difficult to share my loss for fear of placing a burden on another. And yet here I am, sharing my loss with you. Thank you for listening.
I have learned to be thankful for memories. They flow over me with great sweetness. My memories of Sharon are more of emotions than actions. I remember her laughter the most. She had a cute giggle and a wonderful generous laugh. And she laughed with her eyes. They crinkled at the corners when she chuckled and flashed when she laughed. I recall, too, the way she listened to music, her eyes closed, her hands moving gently in rhythm, her whole being absorbed. Watching her made me feel she became the music.
I remember walking the beach at the River House with Alice looking for ancient shark’s teeth. She was quick of eye and spotted them well in advance of anyone else. I recall her gentleness with my father. Her gentleness and patience with everyone, actually. Sitting in low chaises in the white sand by the ocean while we watched the kids dashing in and out of the waves with their father and grandfather, we talked about many things. She shared stories of her youth and I felt the warmth of her love when she talked of her family and mine. She was a joy to know and easy to love.
John Steinbeck said of sorrow: “It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
And I feel that darkness. And pain. And I will for some time to come. But the memories will bless me with joy and eventually the joy will overcome the pain. My pain is further eased by the knowledge that others love Sharon and Alice as I do. So, my dear sister and step-mother, I say goodbye, and in my thoughts I turn to others who have suffered losses and through that sharing I find solace.
I have learned to be thankful for memories. They flow over me with great sweetness. My memories of Sharon are more of emotions than actions. I remember her laughter the most. She had a cute giggle and a wonderful generous laugh. And she laughed with her eyes. They crinkled at the corners when she chuckled and flashed when she laughed. I recall, too, the way she listened to music, her eyes closed, her hands moving gently in rhythm, her whole being absorbed. Watching her made me feel she became the music.
I remember walking the beach at the River House with Alice looking for ancient shark’s teeth. She was quick of eye and spotted them well in advance of anyone else. I recall her gentleness with my father. Her gentleness and patience with everyone, actually. Sitting in low chaises in the white sand by the ocean while we watched the kids dashing in and out of the waves with their father and grandfather, we talked about many things. She shared stories of her youth and I felt the warmth of her love when she talked of her family and mine. She was a joy to know and easy to love.
John Steinbeck said of sorrow: “It’s so much darker when a light goes out than it would have been if it had never shone.”
And I feel that darkness. And pain. And I will for some time to come. But the memories will bless me with joy and eventually the joy will overcome the pain. My pain is further eased by the knowledge that others love Sharon and Alice as I do. So, my dear sister and step-mother, I say goodbye, and in my thoughts I turn to others who have suffered losses and through that sharing I find solace.
Chapter One: I Am An Author
I am an author. One of those people who sits at a computer for eight to ten hours a day and night putting word after word down in a more or less organized manner. The hope is that these words will form a story that is interesting to readers. That will somehow grasp their imagination, tickle their interest, bring tears to their eyes, joy to their hearts or just simple pleasure in the reading. Sometimes the words just leap off the pages and the writer grabs them and pastes them down with finger jabs at a keyboard. Other times they hide within the page waiting to be excavated by the writer and brought to the surface to be seen. That’s what I do all day and usually at night. I grab at words, dig for them, hope to put them into a pleasing sequence. It is work. A lot of work. But work I love. Work I am incapable of not doing. When I am not writing, I become irritable. I get an itch that forces me back to the keyboard. Carl Van Doren said “It’s hard to write, but it’s harder not to.” I agree.
Although published as a child and a teen, I am as yet unpublished as an adult. I receive rejection slips with regularity. Isaac Asimov said “Rejection slips, or form letters, however tactfully phrased, are lacerations of the soul, if not quite inventions of the devil—but there is no way around them.” So we cram the rejection letters into files or perhaps ceremoniously burn them in some voodoo-like ceremony.
I am Claudia Britt Pfeiffer. I am the widow of a wonderful man named Bill who brought joy and contentment to my life for 49 years before succumbing to a brain tumor in 2009. I have two daughters and a son, four grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. Lorrie splits her time between Belgrade, Montana, and Aztec, New Mexico. Her two grown sons, Jesse and Jonah, live in Montana as well. Sabrina and her husband, Dan, live in Indianapolis, Indiana, with their daughter Annie, who is a sophomore in college, and their son Nick, a high school sophomore . I also live with Sabrina’s family in Indy. My son, James, lives in Aberdeen, South Dakota, with a handful of cats who rule his life. My great-granddaughter, Hannah, lives in Belle Plaine, Minnesota. I adore cats and dogs. I love scrapbooking. I stand in awe of my church and its teachings. And I truly believe that if you treat your fellow man with love and respect, he will receive a dose of happiness and so will you. And that is who I am. But mostly I am the writer I described above. The one who eschews exercise for sitting hour after hour at the keyboard creating mysteries, romance novels and literary fiction. Lately unpublished? Yes. But fulfilled to the utmost.
Although published as a child and a teen, I am as yet unpublished as an adult. I receive rejection slips with regularity. Isaac Asimov said “Rejection slips, or form letters, however tactfully phrased, are lacerations of the soul, if not quite inventions of the devil—but there is no way around them.” So we cram the rejection letters into files or perhaps ceremoniously burn them in some voodoo-like ceremony.
I am Claudia Britt Pfeiffer. I am the widow of a wonderful man named Bill who brought joy and contentment to my life for 49 years before succumbing to a brain tumor in 2009. I have two daughters and a son, four grandchildren and one great-granddaughter. Lorrie splits her time between Belgrade, Montana, and Aztec, New Mexico. Her two grown sons, Jesse and Jonah, live in Montana as well. Sabrina and her husband, Dan, live in Indianapolis, Indiana, with their daughter Annie, who is a sophomore in college, and their son Nick, a high school sophomore . I also live with Sabrina’s family in Indy. My son, James, lives in Aberdeen, South Dakota, with a handful of cats who rule his life. My great-granddaughter, Hannah, lives in Belle Plaine, Minnesota. I adore cats and dogs. I love scrapbooking. I stand in awe of my church and its teachings. And I truly believe that if you treat your fellow man with love and respect, he will receive a dose of happiness and so will you. And that is who I am. But mostly I am the writer I described above. The one who eschews exercise for sitting hour after hour at the keyboard creating mysteries, romance novels and literary fiction. Lately unpublished? Yes. But fulfilled to the utmost.