Do the planets align or do we make our own luck?

I talked last week about how blessed I am in life: my life’s partner, my fur babies, my friends and my plethora of career choices. The question I have pondered this week, since I do have time to ponder…oodles of time—a discomforting state for me, if truth be told…is Have I worked to invite such amazing gifts into my life or is it sheer luck?

For certain, the circumstance of my birth is pure providence. It is the foundation upon which all other things have been constructed. Did I build the tower of my life or is it all about fate, a big game of Ker Plunk and I am just pulling out the right sticks through happenstance? I don’t know for certain, of course, lacking the surety of a preacher or a prophet, but I do believe there is an element of both at play.

Born in a country of opportunity, I have had access to good health care, free education and (when I did mine) affordable post secondary education. Times were not always easy and money not always ready, but I found that if I worked hard, kept my eyes on the goal, the pay off was worth it. I built a career. I built a life. No stranger to sacrifice and hard work, I built me…from the ground floor up. And, I’m darn proud of it.

Yet, I know so many others who can claim the same thing. They have had goals and have worked hard their whole lives in the same bountiful country as me. Despite that, their lives are filled with setbacks, heartaches and loss. They have done everything right but too many things go wrong. How do I account for that?

“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” a quote oft attributed to Samuel Goldwyn, sums up my general philosophy in life. I have applied it with great success. However, a little voice niggles in the back of my mind, always. Others work just as hard. Work harder. Why you? Why do your stars align? I have no answer. None.

But, Universe, know that I am ever so grateful.

O Canada

I often think about my blessed life. I'm in good health. I live with a man I admire, respect and love. I cuddle each day with sweet little pups. I am surrounded by kind and generous friends. I have enjoyed a successful career and can indulge in exploring yet another one. I am also graced with the cognitive ability to accomplish things on an academic level and have the fortitude to face the unknown and to see tasks through.

On the heels of Canada Day, I am contemplating the full bounty of the gift that is my life. Through luck or destiny, I was born in a country that allows these blessings. Access to good health care and education is an incredible luxury. The freedom to choose who I love and spend my time with, and the right to choose my path and expect respect as a woman, are not things to be taken lightly.

I have always recognized that I live in a wonderful country, but our journey across its vast expanse has made me appreciate it even more. Canada, the land, is as varied as its people. It is spectacular, breathtaking, awe-inspiring. O Canada, with glowing heart, I have seen thee rise…and you are beautiful. Thank you Fate, for the gift of my home. May it forever be, strong and free.

 

Anyone?

If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?

Blogging always makes me think of that question. As a blogger you fell your words and wonder if anyone sees them lying there. I suppose blogging is no different from being a radio or television announcer. You present to a theoretical audience and you have to hope that in the void of silence that you face, someone is listening, something is resonating with someone.

Recently, I have had a lot of email in response to posts. It is gratifying to know that friends and strangers are checking in regularly. As I prepare to leave my life here and move across the country, it is comforting to know that the blog will remain a constant, a mobile connection to the world that can relocate with me.

Having said that, I am not sure what the next few weeks hold. I do know that I face busy days, heartfelt goodbyes and, no doubt, adventure. So, please forgive me if I skip a week or two of posting. When I am safely ensconced in the land of great forests, I will once again start making noise and wait breathlessly to see if you are still listening.

 

The Measure of a Man

I once read that the measure of a man is his children. I have searched for its author. Many attribute the phrase to Sidney Poitier but he, in fact, said that his father taught his sons that 'The measure of a man is how well he provides for his children.” While that certainly is an important element of being a good parent, I think my misrepresentation of the quote is a more accurate statement.

We had a wonderful visit yesterday with a dear friend. This friend is at a critical juncture in his life. He is questioning the choices he has made, wondering what to do next, unsure as to whether any of what he has done in life has been good enough. In essence, he is doubting his own worth. While it is not unusual for us to do that when we hit certain landmarks in our lives, it is an overwhelming feeling and often we cannot move beyond it to see in ourselves what others see.

This is what I saw yesterday. I saw a man who is a collector. Yes, he collects things, but he also collects people, he collects memories. There are pictures pinned throughout his workshop, marking the importance of those friends and those memories. I saw a man who is incredibly skilled and talented. He creates, he problem solves and he turns the battered and plain into the beautiful. He has done it in my home and he is doing it in his home. I saw a man connected to the land, a man who honours nature, and who is proud of the traditions and history he shares with it. But most importantly, I saw a man who values his family above all else. How do I know this? Well, because of his son.

His son joined us for the afternoon. Of an age where he should have no interest in spending time with his parents and their friends, he toured the property with us, his pride and pleasure equal to his father’s. He laughed at his father’s jokes, he listened attentively when his mother spoke and he contributed meaningfully to discussions that ranged from renovations to the state of society today. His sense of humour and his innate goodness were evident and it was an absolute pleasure to look beyond the child I knew and see the man he has become.

So, my friend, as you read this I hope you see that, while you have some hard decisions to make, you should never doubt your worth. And, if you ever do, look into the eyes of your son. There lies your measure.

Today is a good day to have a good day.

Life is filled with highs and lows. If we’re lucky they flow in and out of our lives equally. If we’re incredibly fortunate, our tides rise high for a good length of time and our lows ebb quickly. While I am not without my woes, I count myself firmly in the latter group. Am I a glass half-full person, or is life truly beneficent when it comes to me? I think there is a bit of both at play, but it is also about the choices I make. I’m not talking about the big decisions in life, but the every day little things and how I choose to react to them.

Lately, it seems, many people I care about are falling apart. I had dinner with a group of colleagues (well, ex-colleagues, but I just can’t think of them as ex-anything). Their workplace is filled with strife, further stressed by the political climate surrounding their jobs. They are trying hard to stay afloat but are feeling thoroughly discouraged.

 

My writer peeps are struggling. Rejections from agents are piling up and they are fighting defeat. Many are getting form letters and the impersonal response makes them feel like their writing is not even worthy of comment. When an agent kindly provides feedback, they revise, they cut and they work to implement all suggestions. And, they are getting dizzy from it, worried about losing their stories, worried about losing their voices, worried that they will never find an agent, never be published.

My writing is simmering on a backburner. Maybe tomorrow I will take it off and continue to stir and add ingredients. It is what I say at the end of each day when I find that, yet again, I failed to add a single word. I stress about it for a few minutes, and then forgive myself. We are in the middle of packing up 30+ years of living and getting ready to move across the country. Loved pieces have been sold and other treasures are going into boxes and into storage, to be shipped out to us who knows when. We don’t have a home to go to yet.

 

Yes, life is filled with highs and lows. We cannot change that. The only thing we can do is choose how we react to it. As my world here slowly disappears into cardboard boxes, I choose to embrace the rush of excitement rather than dwell on the overwhelming feeling of getting it done on time, saying goodbye and wondering what the future holds. I haven’t flown by the seat of my pants like this since I was a teen. What a thrill to be young and courageous once again.

 

In my career, I had the luxury of regularly addressing around two hundred people, young and old. I always encouraged them to be proactive rather than reactive and reminded them that they held the power of choice. Each and every day I had the opportunity to reinforce that with a simple message. I give it to you now my colleagues, my writer peeps and my dear readers near and far:  Make it a good day!

 

The Universality of Love and Loss

Last week’s post prompted an unprecedented number of emails from friends and strangers. People shared stories of favourite pets and the heart-wrenching moments of saying goodbye. It was not my intention to focus on that event, but on the lesson learned through the experience. However, it resonated with so many readers and it is that response that has lingered with me this week.

It seems all of us have a story of loss wrapped in love. It is unavoidable. It is part and parcel of this cycle we call life. I was discussing this with a friend of mine who still struggles with frightening memories of her children’s life-threatening illnesses. I am in awe of those folks who take on the task of raising the little beings of our future, and told her I could never do so. I mean, look at the mess I still am over my dog. Her wise observation gave me pause. The minute you love someone is the minute you open yourself up to heartache.

Yet, it is love that keeps us human, that helps us rise above the ugliness in the world and be a better person on a small scale and, for some, on a larger scale. When we give it freely, unconditionally, we are strengthened by it. When we must say goodbye, we are devastated, never to be quite the same again. In this we are all united. In this we are all the same.

I believe it is why so many people connected with last week’s post and why they felt compelled to share their own moments of despair. Although each of us writes our own life’s story through our decisions and chance, each tale is woven with the common threads of love and loss. Thank you my friends, old and new, for sharing.

Realize deeply that the present moment is all you have. Make the NOW the primary focus of your life. –Eckhart Tolle

This week one of my little dogs has been demanding my attention. Each morning when I sit at the computer, she has moved in closer and closer. She now rests her head upon my laptop as I type. She wants to be near, she wants to connect, she wants me to know she exists. And, I do. I allow her to rest there, work around her and reach over frequently to pet her head or rub her belly.

I had another Lhasa years ago. She was brilliant, entertaining and loving. I valued her in my life but I was younger, busier and had much to accomplish. She always accepted it with grace and joyfully received my attention when I deigned to give it.

One week I was working in our spare room, turning it into my personal space. I had chosen lemon chiffon, a nice light airy colour. I had been painting for hours with the door closed over, not wanting the smell of it to permeate the house. My Lhasa decided it had been long enough and came in to tell me so, gently nudging open the door and wandering in. I panicked as her tentative tail thwacked against the fresh paint, and I yelled at her. Her tail went down and she dutifully left the room.

The next day, we realized she was not well. She was only twelve, not old for a small dog, and it was unusual for her not to eat. The vet did not think that he could do anything for her but, at our insistence, took her into surgery. I was standing in that freshly painted room when the call came. She was riddled with cancer and he could not, in good conscience, let her live a few more painful weeks. He did not bring her out of the anesthesia.

I stood in that room and cried, looking around and seeing only ugly yellow. All she wanted was to connect with me, and I had yelled at her. I crushed her spirit, a spirit infused with love. I did it for a room. A stinking room. I hated that room; it was too sad. I eventually had to repaint and move out of it. It is ten years this month since I said goodbye to her and I still cry, feel the loss and the overwhelming sense of guilt.

Life is packed with drama, big and small. It gets busy. That’s unavoidable. But, whether you are working at an insular job, such as writing, working in a hectic high-stress environment, or have days packed with to-do lists, you only get to live this day once. With each moment’s arrival, another has passed, never to be experienced again. The next time your child, your partner, or your fur friend asks for your attention, stop, if only for a minute. Grab ahold of the here and now. In seconds it will be gone.

Hooked on Sequels

As I delve into the continuation of Ana and Brandan’s journey, I have been pondering the wisdom of putting my time and energy into a sequel. The publishing industry is a shifty beast, metamorphosing, it seems, daily. Is there an interest in sagas anymore? Successes like Outlander, Twilight and Game of Thrones would indicate there is, yet the industry professionals do not seem to be clamouring for them.

Love Denied is, without doubt, a historical romance. Catherine and Nicholas play out their story and leave us with a satisfying happily ever after. There are characters within their tale that demand their own stories and I have given it to two of them in novellas. Two more have so much to say that they will be getting their own novels. But, none of them are dependent upon Love Denied, nor is Love Denied dependent on them. However, readers of the next novels and the novellas will enjoy getting a glimpse of Catherine and Nicholas again and, if they are anything like me, will be pleased to know that their happy ever after continues.

Raven’s Path has been more difficult to classify. History is not just a backdrop; it is a co-pilot, assisting in driving the plot. There is a satisfying ending, but there is so much more to tell, so much more to that era and Brandan and Ana’s lives within it. I feel compelled to continue to explore it. And, the question I have been asking myself is why?

I think it goes back to my reading preferences, developed at a young age. I read every Nancy Drew book, not just for the mystery but because I got to see Nancy and crew again and again. After that I was hooked on Anne of Green Gables. Following her life was such a thrill. Mary Stewart’s Merlin series is another joyful reading memory from my early teen years. Later, as an adult promoting the joy of books to children, I fell in love with the Harry Potter series and was as disappointed as any child when it ended.

Why do I like these series and hold them fondly in my heart? When a story is good, when I fall in love with the characters, I don’t want to say goodbye. They become real in some corner of my mind and I want to know what happens in their lives. Like good friends I have not seen in a while, when I pick up the latest in a series it is as though we’ve never been apart.

I don’t think I am alone in my penchant for sagas. The longevity of Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series and its recent leap to fame on the small screen, is testimony to that. I await, alongside millions, to see what will happen next with Jamie and Claire.

It seems it is no different for me when I am writing. I want to know what happens next to the characters in Raven’s Path. What are the events of 1750 that impact their lives? How do they respond to them? Where will they go next? Whom will they meet? I am as anxious for the answers to these questions as a writer as I am as a reader. It seems publishing trends are irrelevant to this author. I must follow my heart. And, it leads me back down Raven’s Path.

Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. ― E.L. Doctorow

I am taking a break from fretting about finished work and, instead, I am diving back into the sequel to Raven’s Path, tentatively titled Crossroads. I started it back in October, doing extensive research before putting word to paper. I also had a general sense of where I wanted the first segment to go. It was fairly easy to pick up where I left off and follow that path. But then, coincidentally, I hit a crossroad.
 

Panic struck. There are multiple directions and I was overwhelmed by choice. I dipped back into the research, hoping it would provide clues. But, while research is foundational to the series, it is the characters who are directing this drama, not historical events. Still, I felt pressured by the need to know exactly where it was heading before I could continue. Frustrated, I took a break and began Anne Lamott’s book, Bird by Bird, where I found the quote for this week’s post.

 

I am not really a panster but neither am I a pedigree plotter. I do need to see my final destination, to have a general sense of the overall arc of the novel. Yet, I long ago recognized that I enjoy not knowing all of it. It is fun to deviate from the prospective path and travel to unexpected places. So, despite the overwhelming fear of selecting the wrong route, I sat at the computer and listened carefully. Ana and Brandan began to speak. And, they chose a direction. I don't know where it will lead, but I’m breathing easier. I am driving slowly in the fog—that’s okay because I know I am once again heading somewhere and, eventually, I will get there.

...and repeat.

Love Denied has been complete for some time. It has undergone multiple revisions and even more edits. Yet, I pulled it out again and have just finished another round of line editing. I enjoyed the process, happy to catch the odd little typo (an is for an it kind of thing) or spot the odd pleonasm. I feel good about it but have once again shelved it. Why?

I have been pondering that why. “When is a story done? Truly finished?” There are multiple stages to writing for most authors. The first draft, then the second—maybe more. Beta readers and critique partners read your story and it’s back to the table to sort through their feedback for those nuggets that will strengthen the story, tighten the plot or add fluidity to the prose. When the story is finalized, it is on to editing, where you are specifically looking for those technical pitfalls and follies.

However, the journey does not end there. If one is lucky, an agent appreciates all of the work and sees potential in your novel. They may ask for more revisions and edits. When they find the perfect editor, that person may again ask for changes. Then, prior to publishing, the galleys provide yet another opportunity to find nits and fix them. It is not until after this stage that authors actually let go of their novels, at least physically. I’m guessing they continue to fret about them.

So, why have I shelved Love Denied rather than submit? One writer peep accused me of being afraid to submit. I quickly corrected her. No fear of submission, only of rejection. J And, perhaps there is some truth in that. Or, maybe I just need to let it sit for a while and come at it one more time. After all, it is what a writer does. Create, revise, edit...and repeat.

You can do anything as long as you have the passion, the drive, the focus, and the support. —Sabrina Bryan

Writing is an insular and solitary activity. It is just you and your laptop and your words. Day in and day out, you lose yourself in a world of your making, converse with characters you create and live vicariously through events you orchestrate. In thinking about all of this aloneness, I realized I am not remotely lonely. Nor am I truly isolated. I am blessed with a plethora of support.

My friends are enthusiastic and encouraging. They celebrate landmark moments in my writing and give gifts that honour and support the process. They look forward to my first published book. And, they do this despite the fact that I have not let a single one of them read a word of what I have written.

While I have hugged my writing close to my breast, I have not been foolish enough not to seek feedback. I merely wanted it from folks who have no vested interest in liking what I wrote. My beta readers live in opposite corners of the world. From Germany to the United States, these strangers have taken the time, not just to read my work but also to provide valuable feedback. It’s hard work to beta read, yet they do it despite the fact that they have never met me and probably never will.

I have writer peeps, too, who offer feedback, encouragement and laughter every day. We share on a writers’ forum and we chat regularly on Twitter. I have learned so much through their courage to share and critique, as well as through their willingness to reach out across the cyber distance and hold my hand when I need it held or tell it like it is when I need to grow.

When I wanted to leave my career and focus on writing, DH supported me unconditionally. He believes in my writing. He believes in me. When I am filled with self-doubt, he rallies me with his faith.

Yes, writing is an insular and solitary activity, but it sure doesn't have to be lonely. Thank you, my friends, near and far.

 

Change: to make the form, nature, content, future course, etc., of (something) different from what it is or from what it would be if left alone

As a teen and young adult, I was restless. I moved a lot, I switched jobs often and I changed up friends as frequently as my wardrobe. Somewhere along the way, things shifted. I chose a career path, I settled down and I became the model of a grown up. I thought it was due to the stabilizing influence of my life’s partner and, perhaps, part and parcel of maturing. Until the past few years.

A restlessness began to whisper quietly in the recesses of my mind. I was enjoying a fulfilling career, still performing with my theatre gang and the love of my life remained firmly by my side. Writing chased the voices away, but stolen moments in a busy life were not enough to keep the growing agitation at bay. To top it off, there were reminders everywhere that life is finite—too many warning signs not to put important experiences off for a tomorrow that may never come.

So, I shook up my world. With DH’s hand in mine, I said goodbye to the career I loved. It has been nine months and I have enjoyed spending more time together, escaping winter for warmer climes and making writing a part of every day. A dream come true. Yet, the voice has not finished challenging me to take hold of life. And, it seems, the restlessness stirs within DH too.

He announced his desire to move. Well, not just move but to make a dramatic change by leaving central Canada and heading west. The whispers stopped and the voice shouted in glee. My young self resurfaced, thrilled to let go of the staid and predictable and reach out to adventure. We have daringly sold our home without having found a new one yet. The adrenalin is high and it is exciting not to know. It is as simple as that. It is exciting not to know what lies ahead.

Sometimes you just have to take hold of your world, turn it upside down, give it a shake and see what falls out.

Spring is Query Season

Spring is busting out all over…and so are queries. It seems I am not alone in my quest to create the perfect query. Many of my writerly friends are working diligently on refining their letters to agents. It is important to read a variety of approaches, check out a good selection of agent preferences and then go at it, applying the sage advice and maintaining your own voice. No small task.

In an effort to support those on a similar journey, I have compiled a list of sites that I have read, or continue to follow, that contain support for the query writer. I hope it is helpful.

Happy spring. Don’t forget to stop and feel the season as you journey toward your own sun.

• Must-Read Posts at BookEnds Literary Agency (Besides the archived posts, the ongoing blog is very helpful.)
• Pub Rants at Nelson Literary Agency (The search feature is fantastic.)
• Janet Reid, Literary Agent (Contains a plethora of advice and examples. It is also entertaining.)
• Query Shark (Learn from others or be brave and send in your own.)
• Nathan Bransford (Good overview on how to write a query letter.)
• AgentQuery.com (Advice and as well examples are provided.)
• Writer’s Digest (This is a good compilation site.)
• Miss Snark (Here, you will find archived gems.)
• Rachelle Gardner at Books and Such Literary Agency (Archived advice and the blog at the agency is helpful too.)
• Jane Freidman (This site has another good overview.)

 And, if that is not enough, get lost in The Write Life’s links to The 100 Best Websites for Writers in 2015.

 

Raven's Path--a query in progress

Many of you who read my blog are not writers. For those of you not familiar with the steps taken toward that magical land of publishing, one of the first ones you take (if not self-publishing) is to seek an agent. To this end, one must write a brief letter that entices the agent to request the manuscript.

Amazing beta readers gave thumbs up to the story accompanied by insightful and helpful comments. I dove back in, tearing it apart, rewriting, editing and revising. It is now time to go forth once again, stop dabbling in the query process and, instead, approach it systematically and thoughtfully. Of course, that begins with a good query.

Below is the body of my letter. What do you think? Does it entice you enough to want to read more? Many of you email me personally, and that is fine, but feel free to post your honest opinions in the comment box below. Other writers may learn and grow from it too. Thanks, in advance, to all who take the time to respond.

Their paths should never have crossed, yet rescuing her from a Mohawk raiding party changes everything for Brandan “Raven” Murray and Ana McGregor. Leaving abuse and Scotland behind, Ana has fled to the colonies and is searching for her father—a man she’s unlikely to find, but is unwilling to forget. Brandan is determined to secure peace for his Wendat people. The uneasy truce between England and France is a powder keg ready for a spark and, though he is as mixed in blood as he is in allegiance, Brandan will do anything to keep the Indian nations out of the crossfire.

His mission is perilous enough without the complication of being saddled with a woman. As they travel through the vast wilderness of the Ohio Valley, Brandan soon realizes that rescuing Ana was the easy part. Letting her go may prove impossible. When they are betrayed by the very tribes he is trying to protect, he discovers he may have no choice.

Set in 1750 Colonial America, Raven’s Path is a historical romance complete at 114,000. While it stands alone, it has series potential.

As We Celebrate 30 Years Together...

There are no happy endings and yet I want one, dammit! I have read so many novels in my life, too many to even begin to tally. DH and I went through an Oprah book club period until I screamed “Uncle!” I was tired of reading about the ugly in human nature and viewing the world through such a dark lens.

 

I want happy endings. I want to believe in happily-ever-after.

 

A dear friend of mine emailed when I shared on the blog the slump that followed retirement. She is the sweetest person I know, a person who lives the Christian spirit in a true and honest way, in a way that makes sense and makes me want to be a better person. Love you, SB.

 

“Mom has bouts of it every few months -- the same thing over and over. Just in one now actually, as she again is trying to figure out her purpose, life-plan, future, whatever you want to call it, without my dad. One shoe in the past, one shoe in the present.”

 

Forgive me SB’s mom, because this will seem inconsequential and trivial in comparison to your endless ache. But know that I share it with heartfelt sincerity. We had the most amazing dogs. We loved them and when they died it broke our hearts. Never again would we open ourselves to the pain.

 

Our house was empty and lonely without them, each of us delaying our return home at the end of a workday because we did not want to face the lifeless rooms alone. Fate intervened, a snowstorm, time on my hands, breeders willing to forsake their choice of one little pup to allow two little fur-sisters to stay together.

 

They turned eight in January and if the winds of fate continue to blow gently in our direction, we will have another seven years with them. And, when they die, so will a part of us. Would we trade the years of joy and pleasure to avoid the pain? Not a chance. Our lives are richer, we are kinder, and more understanding of life in general, because of them. I will hurt, I will cry, I will feel. And I will bless the years that we shared.

 

I cannot imagine what it will feel like for either one of us when the other is gone. My mind cannot fathom not waking up to DH’s gentle kiss, his wonderful smile each morning and the laughter that lights every day. What I am sure of is that my heart will know the truth. I would not trade a single moment of our years together to avoid the pain. Not a single moment.

 

Happy Anniversary, DH. I love you.

 

There's No Place Like Home

The journey home was fraught with excitement and abominable weather. On our final day, we hit freezing rain and snow. A twelve-hour drive turned into sixteen. We counted nine cars and trucks in the ditches or meridian, including one police cruiser. You know you shouldn’t be on the road when you see that. Yet, what to do when you are theoretically five hours from home and you crave a bed you haven’t lain in for over two months? You persevere. Besides, we’re Canadian. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night—wait, that’s the postal service. Well, we’re a damn hardy bunch, that’s just all there is to it.

Despite freezing temperatures, it feels terrific to be in our home. Now, don’t get me wrong, we relished our two months in warmer climes. In particular, the home in Austin, the city itself, and the friends who joined us entwined to create a thoroughly enjoyable and unforgettable month. We would do it again in a heartbeat. But there is something to be said about being surrounded by one’s own stuff, to be able to reach without hesitation for something because you know exactly where it is, to have more than a handful of outfits to wear.

As I catalogue and put away the new used books I discovered in Austin, I gently stroke my extensive research collection, thrilled to be back in its company. I glide Bird by Bird in with my writing books, slip Early American Inns and Taverns neatly in the American Colonies section and smile in pleasure as I add Bathing Houses and Plunge Pools to my Regency shelves. Oh, I have plans for that little gem in my next novel, a companion story to Love Denied.

Yes, it’s good to be home, safe and sound. It’s particularly delicious to once again be surrounded by the things that support and nurture my love of writing. Now, if we can just do something about these disgusting temperatures…

What's Trending

#Pitchmadness has been my trend for the week. With plenty of moral support from the gang at B & W, I jumped into the madness of an online pitching contest. Despite the fact that there is a large representation of middle grade and young adult authors, I thought the lineup of final agents was fantastic. I have discovered that the entire group of organizers and submission pile readers are outstanding.

New to Twitter, this has proven to be a crash course in how to get your name and your writing out there in 140 characters or less. I have learned to favourite, follow, retweet, respond to notifications and initiate a conversation strand. I have inserted pictures and links.

More importantly, I have connected with like-minded people. In a few sentences, I catch glimpses of vulnerability and insecurity. I also see perseverance, dedication and passion. It has proven to be a warm and accepting environment, one that celebrates the stories and nourishes the creators.

It is a universe that I have hesitated to enter, thinking it vast and impersonal. I have found it entirely the opposite. Thank you, Pitchmadness, for giving me this opportunity to learn how to tweet freely and comfortably to the world. 

If you really want to make a friend, go to someone’s house and eat with him… the people who give you their food give you their heart. ~ César Chávez

We have driven up and down César Chávez Street many times since our arrival in Austin. I must confess my ignorance and admit that it was just the name of a street to me. This week I wanted to talk of breaking bread with friends, so I went searching for the appropriate quote. I find César Chávez’s statement profound and appropriate as I reflect on this month’s sharing of conversation over the dinner table.

Delving into César Chávez’s life story, I discovered that he was born in Arizona and that he and his family were migrant farm workers. I have personally known only one other person who grew up in a migrant working family. We met Santiago and his wife Ellen in the late eighties in Europe. We were doing the traditional year of backpacking. They were travelling in a Volkswagen Westphalia, searching for peace after a devastating tragedy that had happened back in the States.

We crossed paths in Seville, Spain and they opened up their humble home on wheels to us. We travelled together for five weeks, sharing stories, new experiences and lots of food. We have not seen them since, but have sporadically touched base through the years and have recently laid the groundwork for a get-together in the not-too-distant future. They and their story touched our hearts. We look forward to seeing this unforgettable couple again.

César Chávez worked hard throughout his life, overcoming his own limitations and taking up the cause of others, fighting for their right to a decent life. Our hostess, the owner of this beautiful home in the hills of Austin, encompasses his story. She too came from poverty, worked incredibly hard to overcome obstacles, and has always supported those less fortunate. She continues to take a stand in the name of civil liberty and rights. We have laughed with her. We have cried. And, we have shared wonderful food.

Friends from British Columbia flew in to enjoy a short vacation with us. Throughout their lives, they have advocated for the underdog. More, they walked the talk, opening their doors to many people over the years with no strings attached—only a guarantee that there would be a sympathetic ear, a cheerleader and, always, plenty of food. It has been a great joy for us to share this time with them.

Tomorrow, we have company coming over. Yes, two displaced Canadians actually have friends coming to dine. We met our Austin friends in Cozumel four years ago and have remained in touch. They graciously treated us to dinner last week and, now, it is our pleasure to host them. These new friends will meet our old ones. And, you know what will happen. We will share some wine, some laughs and some good food.

César Chávez was an impressive man on a national scale. Equally important, he was an insightful human being who recognized simple gifts. We too are blessed to be surrounded by such generous people who share their bounty unconditionally. They make sharing our food, and our hearts, one of life’s true pleasures.

 

 

Spring is in the Air #hashtaghellotwitterville

Birdsong fills the air each day as I sit looking out at the hills of Austin, lost in thought, wrapped in dreams. Chickadees chirp and finches flit while a cardinal dominates the treescape. He is bold, flaunting his strength, his prowess and, the wee blighter knows it, his beauty. Spring is in the air, the game of mating has launched and the careful construction of nests has begun.

I too have started to gather random bits to build a nest of sorts of my own. I flew into the vast blue skies of Twitter this week. It is an immense universe, filled with so many voices that I am overwhelmed by the cacophony. I have panicked, fluttering frantically, a hummingbird trying to stay airborne in the updraft of sound. That was when I knew I needed a safe place and the comfort of familiar murmurs of support. I turned to my cyber friends.

While I still do not understand hashtag (It sounds like a stoner’s game from the 70’s), how to find the writing connections I am seeking or why the Twitter trend suggestions think I could possibly be interested in Justin Bieber’s love life, my friends have said hello, they have followed me and they have favourited my two sad little peeps. And, they wait in the wings, ready to give advice when I am done playing and am ready to truly soar.

In the same vein as it takes a village to raise a child, I am discovering it takes a community to build a nest. Thank you to all of my writer friends and friends of writers for lending a helping hand. I will continue to collect and weave in the odds and ends, until I have a solid, comfy nest where I will sit and transpose the discord into symphony and tweet my own sweet sounds to the world.

(Singing from the treetops @roserambles1)

A Room With A View

At home, I have a view while I write. I tuck myself into our sitting room, affectionately called “the nook," content with glances out the wall of French doors to the world beyond. I have always loved that, but I did not fully realize its impact on me.

For many reasons, my writing stalled last month. Over this past week, I have come to see that environment was also a contributing factor to stagnation. The home we rented was lovely, but the view when sitting to write was the tops of palm trees. Exciting, perhaps, to a Canadian in the midst of a January freeze, but those palms swayed, battered by the cold driving rain, and the vista was a tad dismal. And, so was my writing.



My New Nook

The home we are currently renting is nestled in the hills of Austin, overlooking a lush canyon. I know it is a rich landscape because the house is framed with floor to ceiling windows and I get to gaze out at it from almost every room. It is an unusual home, adobe in design, it curves Mediterranean style, the ceilings reflecting the architecture of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The owner has an artistic flair and everywhere you look, you find something to admire, to think about, to dream on. Yet, she has also made it accessible and comfortable. I feel at home.

A Room With A View

I have done more work on Raven’s Path in one week than I did the entire month on South Padre Island. I curl up on my very own couch each morning while DH heads off to another nook. I write. I revise. I pull at my hair in frustration when a phrase does not fall into place. And, I look up. Trees blow in the wind, squirrels run across the stonework and I wonder about the lives of the people across the valley. I smile and get back to work.



When I write, it seems I need to see the world that waits for me. Or, perhaps, I need to be reminded that I am but one small part of it and to not take myself too seriously. Either way, I have discovered something very important. I need a room with a view. Preferably, a spectacular one. J

The Story of our Lives

I often say when we sit on a bench watching people go by, when we look at people at stop lights, when we see houses fly by as we drive through a community, that everyone has a tale to tell. Each person in every vehicle, every home, or walking along the road, has a life filled with hopes and dreams and woes and heartbreak.

This week the sun grew stronger and we went back to Pier 19 Restaurant. The three-dollar margaritas bought me a delicious buzz and a small sideshow of dolphins. While we sipped, soaking in the warmth and water, many people strolled to the end of the pier where we sat and began a conversation. And, it struck me—not only does everyone have a story, they are also anxious to tell it.

En route, we stayed in Indianapolis. I went down for breakfast and the young man spooning out eggs was talkative. It was his first day back to work and he was happy to have had the time off because his brother came home with his first baby. A boy. Cute as a button and, wow, his brother had a baby. He’d never been an uncle before and he wanted the world to know about it.

The next morning we were in Arkansas. The weather forecast was dismal, predicting mass flooding and potential tornadoes. I scooped the eggs onto my plate as the cook told  me about another flood when she had to decide whether to try and walk home or not. The water was high and she had small children waiting for her. “Well, I figured if Jesus could do it, so could I.” And, she did, though I’m not sure she actually had to walk on water to accomplish it.

The other day we stopped at the local beach bar, the Wanna Wanna. We met a retired couple. They had taught together throughout their careers and had stayed in the peripheral of each other’s lives. Her husband died eight years ago, and she kept meaning to reconnect with her colleague. She didn’t until he had a stroke and could not return home without care. She took up the challenge and they are now incredibly happy together.

These folks learned very little about me. Not because I'm not willing to talk but because they didn’t care to find out. They wanted to share their lives, their stories. As well they should. They were rich and meaningful. And, I listened. Because that’s my job. To mark the stories of our lives. Not just my life. Our lives.

Life is made of ever so many partings welded together. ― Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Newly arrived in our vacation home, ready for our first snowbird experience, we plummeted into the dark abyss of depression for a few days. The weather was lousy, the house unfamiliar and motivation to do anything was lacking. Two cats in separate corners, we slowly, suspiciously licked our paws, wondering where the enemy hid. Why? Where was it coming from? If we complained, were we not doing an incredible disservice to our colleagues still at the helm, to every person who was fighting something far greater than our…our what?

We do not tend to wallow, especially simultaneously, yet even knowing we had no right, we dipped into a melancholy neither of us understood. But, I think, it has been revealed. This week, the sun shone. We uncurled and moved toward its warmth. We also unravelled this strange emotional turmoil, batted it around and saw it clearly for what it was.

 

The marble in the graveyard of our careers was clean and pristine, a reflection of our innate personalities—planned and organized. It had stood there since June, isolated, alone and unacknowledged. We had not mourned the loss of professions that meant so much to us, peer groups that are irreplaceable, the piece of us that will never find a home again. It is the loss of youth, of years of hard work and dreams, of infinite aspirations.

 

This week, we inscribed that marker with our stories and said goodbye. And, we got resoundingly drunk as we re-shared those tales that, woven together, are the tapestry of our working lives. Thank you to each of you who has contributed a strand.

Unleashed Joy

Like many others, we have long anticipated out first year of retirement. Dirty little secret—we got to do it at a ridiculously young age and feel like we have stolen the crown jewel. And, truly, we did. It just hasn’t felt like it the past few weeks.

If you don’t know why we are in South Padre Island, Texas, scroll back a few blog entries. For those of you who are loyal followers, (Hi Cathy, Zan Marie, Spesh, Nicole, Suzanne, Connie, Ro), you know that we are here with the best of nostalgic and romantic intentions. Well, we can sing all of the reminiscent Whorehouse lyrics we want, but it doesn’t soothe a snowbird’s desire to escape the cold.

I have done little writing this week. I have floundered beneath the weight of six degrees of rain and self-pity. I keep trying to rewrite the opening of Raven’s Path but it falls as flat as I feel. I look around our lovely South Padre home, the rain pelting, the windows rattling with each chilling blast, and it is frustrating to know that I would have accomplished more at home in minus twenty temperatures.

Yet, if I look for it, there is gold in the dullest of hills. We took the girls to the beach the other evening. Another gale was blowing and it was stinking cold. A lone couple passed us on the pristine 34-mile beach, their dog off the leash. After they passed we thought, why not? We unleashed the girls.

They romped and played. They chased seagulls and waves and challenged the relentless wind. For half an hour, they knew true, unadulterated freedom for the first time in their eight years on this planet. DH and I laughed with joy at their joy. 

When we let the girls go, they experienced a newfound sense of liberty in a fresh setting. We gave them an emotional “knowing” they have never experienced. When they cry or yip in their sleep, I pray it is because their dreams now have an exciting new context and that they feel time and again the joy of their first real unleash.

(As I post this, the sun is shining and the temperature rising. Perhaps a little good karma for seeing the silver lining?)

This Moment Is All There Is—Lenny Kravitz

Many of the sites I follow have focussed on the tradition of goal setting for a new year. I think it is wise to do that, to have some sense of where you are heading. There is truth in the old adage, “If you don’t know where you are going, how will you know when you get there?” That sense of destination can be a great motivator. However, there are caveats. If you keep your eyes solely on that goal, and it remains out of reach, it can undo your enthusiasm and defeat you. Or, if you do get there through singular focus, what did you miss along the way?

I want to be a published author. That is not in sight yet, but I am certain it is around the bend. Yesterday, I read several chapters on plot and structure. I wrote a little…very little. I visited all of my writing sites. I took a long walk with DH and the girls. We cooked dinner together and cuddled afterward as the wind picked up and the evening grew cold. Those were my benchmarks for success for Friday, January 9, 2015. Each one important to my end goal, each one rewarding in the here and now.

Remember to honour the touchstones. It is as important to acknowledge each professional and personal step you take along the path to your destination as it is to set your sight on a final target. Work to recognize all of the small daily objectives you accomplish. Not only do these pave the way to your grander ambitions, if you celebrate them, they keep you in the moment. And, those moments add up to your life. Don’t let them slide by because you are too busy peering down the road.

 

Road Trip! Are We There Yet????

Are we there yet?

Yes, we are. Finally. And we are safe. Actually, beyond safe. We are snug and secure and, possibly, just a wee bit inebriated in our relief. Travelling has turned bags under eyes into hound dog replicas. I keep telling myself that that is okay. I am getting older and it shows. And that is just fine. Perhaps the R & R will soften the caverns but, really, I am alive, well, and happy.

 

Four days on the road; no snow but a threat of flash flooding and tornadoes, and we are comfortably ensconced near the most amazing beach I believe I have ever seen.  And, it is a three minute walk from our house!  More than that, we sat in the sun by our little pool in the backyard and celebrated the 8th birthday of these two little fur-beings who bring nothing but laughter and love into our lives. It is not as warm as I would like, but it doesn't matter. It does not get any better. Happy birthday Ginger and Spice!