Letters Home: A Song for my Grandfather

My Grandfather's Harmonica

If you're stateside I don't have to tell you that today is Memorial Day.

If you're from a military family, I also don't have to tell you that the day is about more than beer and hot dogs.

I hate to admit that I wasn't raised with a proper appreciation for Memorial Day- because my family raised me in a faith that taught that it's perfectly proper to take advantage of religious freedom bought and paid for with the blood of others but a sin against God to fight for it yourself.

My own views on war and religion aside (and believe me, I am putting them aside here as I'd sooner discuss my sex life in public than either of those topics- and I don't discuss that) I have developed a greater appreciation for what Memorial Day is supposed to be about since the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan started and, waking up from the world I was raised in to the real one, I realized for the first time in my life just what sacrifice truly is.

Too many days I've seen the flags flying at half-staff and too many times I've realized that my very existence is a lucky coincidence- based purely upon the fact that when my Grandfather was serving during WWII there was an incident where his platoon was shipped out while he was on leave and all of his buddies were killed. If he'd been with them, he would have died too.

My Grandfather never spoke to me about the war.

He died when I was eleven, and we discussed a great many things in the years I was lucky enough to have him in my life but not the war. He was the father to me that mine could not be- as my Grandmother mothered me in ways my own mother simply was incapable of and still, to this day, is.

Given my youth it's no surprise to me that he didn't talk about it but the truth is that he never talked about it with anyone.

The most I remember hearing was that once in a great while, he'd hear a certain old song or see a certain old movie and he'd get tears in his eyes, but he never spoke about it.

He was drafted as a very young married man and left as a new father- my mother was only three weeks old when he left for basic training and he wouldn't see her until she was nearly four years old, except in pictures.

He wrote to my Grandmother faithfully.

Hundreds upon hundreds of letters, I'm told- none of which she saved after the war.

She wouldn't say why but if I had to guess I'd say it was because it was just too difficult to look back on the time apart. My Grandmother was a 'hold down the fort' sort of woman and an inspiration in her own right. She went to work in a factory as soon as my Grandfather left because the pay was better than the job she had managing a Sanders ice cream shop.

One day the factory manager came down onto the floor seeking someone who had secretarial skills- which she had in spades- but she told him she couldn't afford to take a pay cut by leaving the line. He took her quietly aside and promised her the same pay as she'd get on the line if she did the job well.

She did the job very well.

She got approved for a mortgage because her ethnic name was mistaken for a man's name on the application- and she moved her sister and her brother in law and their kids into that house with her and my mother (the brother in law was not physically fit to serve) and her sister cared for the children while my Grandmother worked to support them all.

She never complained.

So many miles away from the life he'd left behind, it quickly became evident that my Grandfather couldn't hit the broad side of a barn with a gun. He was, however, brilliant with numbers and could keep an accounting of anything- this led to him becoming the chief supply clerk at a busy hospital in what was then called British Guyana.

He saw a lot- but he never complained about it either.

How do I know this, you ask?

Because about seven years ago, in what would turn out to be the final year of my Grandmother's life, we got one hell of a surprise.

The family who had purchased my great-grandparent's home was renovating the attic, and under the floorboards they found a stack of letters.

Those letters were from my Grandfather to my Grandmother, and they were dated between late 1943 and early 1944. Someone (likely one of my Grandmother's many sisters and I have a good idea as to which one) hid them under there at some point, probably to stop my Grandmother from destroying them all.

The new owners tracked my Grandmother down through a neighbor and returned these letters to her.

At first, she didn't want to let anyone see them and I can understand why. She was a very private person, and not the sentimental type really but these whispers from the past, from a husband she had buried so young (he was only sixty when he died) almost two decades before had to be heartbreaking enough.

But she decided to let my mother see them, and knowing my lifelong love of letters in addition to my eternal love for my grandparents, she told me about them.

I begged, and I do mean pleaded, with my Grandmother to let me see those letters.

The paper was so fragile, the writing so faded you could barely make them out. I told her that I'd be happy to take them to Kinkos, if she trusted me with them, and that I'd darken the text and make copies she could handle and read without worrying about tearing them.

She debated for a long moment, then she made me promise I wouldn't let them out of my sight. She nervously watched as I left the house with them, and only seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when I returned with them hours later, copies in hand.

Then she did something I never expected. She said "You can keep a set of the copies."

I thanked her- I read them, and then I put them away. In some ways it was too difficult to read how the separation had been so difficult on them, in others it just made me miss him far too much to bear it.

The older I get though, the more I appreciate these few precious pages of the hundreds of letters he wrote that have long since vanished, for the true gift that they are.

My Mother told me that she would sometimes hear my Grandmother crying at night, right after those letters arrived, and that she'd see them out on the top of her dresser the next morning and know she'd been rereading them.

Today, on this storming Memorial Day, I took my copies out after not being able to see to read them for a very long time, and I read them again.

They are truly sweet, and romantic, and it's clearly evident how much he loved her. He stressed at the end of every single one that he remained true: and he was that for the remainder of his life as well, I have no doubt that he always was.

Never once in those letters did he complain about what he was going through or what he saw.

He tried to give her happy things to think about, reassuring her of his safety, begging her to take care of herself and the baby and telling her at almost the end of every single paragraph that he loved her.

He'd tell her what he had for breakfast, ask her how her parents were. He told her once to give her little brothers and sisters (and there were almost a dozen) some gum and Tell them it's from Steve's pocket as they were used to running to meet him as he'd whistle, walking up the long driveway and ask if he had any gum in his pockets. He always had something for them.

Mostly in those letters he promised, always, that he loved her, that they were going to do so much together when he came home, and that he was going to spoil her for all the work she'd had to do while he was gone.

Of course she never really did submit to that spoiling- she worked hard until the final days of her life. But they had many years of loving each other, and loving us by extension. Especially me.

They loved me so much I am only now at the age of nearly forty beginning to understand it.

Grandma has been gone for almost six years now and I miss her more every day but I know I was lucky to have her for as many years as I did.

She and I missed my Grandfather in a very unique way- and we shared that grief in a way that no one else in the world did. It did not alter with the years, our love for him never diminished with the passage of time.

Now, thinking of him I think so much about the families left behind when someone goes off to war. I think so much about the ones who never come home.

Today more than any other and for the first time, I feel it's appropriate to share with the world, in the words of my Grandfather, what a soldier might long for when he's so far from home.

I miss you terribly...I love you so much that I'll never be able to do enough to show it. No matter how much I do, you are worth 100 million times that. So when I come home I'm going to spoil you and baby you to make up for the time we have lost. I feel lost without you, especially when I go to the show. When I see pictures that we saw together is when it hurts the most. I just love you and baby more than anything in the world...

...Whenever you're out shopping and you see something cute in the way of household things buy it because I know it'll make you happy to have it and I want you to have them. Then when I come home we'll buy all the big things right away. We'll buy a refrigerator, electric sewing machine, carpet sweeper, living room set, POOL TABLE (note- this was also underlined. Eleven times) and all type of recreations and all the trimming that go with a house...oh yes you can have all type of Chinaware that you wish, anything your little heart may desire will be gotten too. That's a pretty big bill but we'll get them. We'll have a good time too.

There's more, he speaks of sending her his pay as soon as he gets it and signs it the same way he signed them all. I'll forever remain your faithful, true and clean husband.

When my Grandmother passed away, the entire family said that I should have the first look at her modest belongings to take what I wanted, as everyone knew of all the grandchildren she had we were closest.

I chose the things that no one else would've asked for, anyway. Things no one else could know the significance of.

I chose the hideous little green vinyl train case she took on all our vacations when I was a child.

Into it I put my favorite of her aprons, a few of her prickly plastic hair curlers and pins. An empty compact that still smelled of her makeup and a scarf that still smells of her perfume. I was amazed, when looking through the things she kept after she sold her house and moved into a small bedroom at my parents, that she'd kept so many pictures of me as a child.

My mother added some things to the lot- things of my Grandfather's knowing I'd want them if I'd knew they existed- among them, his Good Conduct Medal and letters of commendation from his commanding officers.

His wristwatch.

His wallet.

His Hohner harmonica.

My Grandfather loved to sing and did so frequently and happily but bless him, he couldn't carry a tune. But he loved his harmonica and I know he had a similar one, if not this one, during the war.

He used to play it for the local children when he could, they were fascinated by it. When I was little, he'd play Oh Susannah on it and tell me to sing louder, 'no, louder!' from the time I was very tiny.

The following are the lyrics to a song he used to sing to me, and I'll share with you on this Memorial Day, along with a few other selected lines of his letters and I hope, if she's watching somehow, Grandma won't mind too much.

I do so with great affection for them both- and with thoughts going out to everyone who is waiting for the one they love to come home to them.

Wherever my Grandparents may be now, I hope that they're together again. When there was some question among relatives where my Grandmother's ashes should be buried I said immediately "Where else, in Grandpa's grave." and so they were. The last thing you'll see on this post is one of those kisses he promised to give her, being given once he finally came home.

If I close my eyes, I can still hear them singing this song to me- sweetly, brightly, and just a little bit off key.

It was absolute perfection.

May all those fighting come home safely.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine...
you make me happy, when skies are grey

Your letters were really swell, honey. I'll be so glad when I come home to my queen and little princess.

You'll never know Dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

I got all the love you sent me, darling, and the kisses too. I love you more than anything in the world.

The other night dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamed I held you in my arms,
but when I woke Dear, I was mistaken
and I hung my head down and cried.

I miss you a million. Whenever I don't get any mail I feel blue. But tomorrow when I get all the mail I'll be so happy.

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine,
You make me happy when skies are grey:
You'll never know, Dear,
How much I love you-
Please don't take my sunshine away.

I love you...I just adore you...kiss baby a million times for me and here's a special kiss for you too. I love you. Your faithful husband, Stephen."

ACK! (Or, a Novel by Any Other Name...)

Okay so it's never happened to me before, but it has happened just now.

The title of my first manuscript is Fireworks Flowers and I love, love, love it (the title, I mean. The novel too but that's not the point). I'm putting my little pink February Grace flag into the ground on that one right now and hoping that nobody else has something already in the works I don't know about that uses it (the novel was written back in 08 and has been in revision since, only just recently started to query it).

My second manuscript has had the working title Hopeful Romantic since week one of writing until, oh, a week ago. You see I thought that it might work against me when people saw it (okay not all people but agenty type people in queries) instantly making them think it is in fact a Romance when it's Women's Fiction (okay so maybe it's Chick Lit heavy on romance with a lot of humor I think but then they say not to use that term anymore and gahhhhhhh!!!) so I thought- hmm, I know.

I'll change the title before the next round of queries- to the name of the fictional town that much of the book takes place in. A title I thought seemed more intriguing. That town is called Devastation Falls.

Then just now- like, seriously, five minutes ago ya'll, I discover there's a book that's completely different obviously but the title is so freaking close I don't see any way I can use mine (and no I haven't read it so I don't know if you'd like it or not- the reviews appear favorable). Dude. Fantastic title.

So, back to the original title, Hopeful Romantic. Unless I decide on another one that somebody else probably already has one that's close to, too.

I just have to give a shout out to this post by author Hannah Moskowitz that really made me want to stand up and sing some sort of solidarity anthem. This post rocks, as does Agenty God-type guy Nathan Bransford for once again linking the Best. Posts. Ever. to his blog on Fridays. Sigh. And come to find out in addition to loving Hitchhiker's he also loves Disneyland. What a guy.

I'm so sad I missed Towel Day last week while I've been so out of it.

I am still so out of it.

How can I claim to be a hoopy frood anymore even if I do indeed still know where my towel is at all times if I missed the actual day to prove it?

You can bet I won't miss it next year. When I saw Douglas interviewed on the amazing Doctor Who DVD City of Death I got for my birthday, I just cried. Gone way too soon.

-eyeing the Nitroglycerin again and thinking it may be time to take some more,

~bru

You said it, 'cha weirdo!

I can't help but be put in mind of the irony of the fact that for a very long time now most of my doctors have been telling me to avoid stress at all costs and yet tomorrow they will be chemically injecting me with stress.

Rather, they will fool my heart into thinking it's under stress and therefore spin it into a fit of stressiness and then take pretty pictures of it. Well, not so pretty pictures. I mean, have you ever seen the human heart? Functional yeah it may be and I dare say it's a lovely thing what it does for us, keeping our blood running and brains working and other parts of our body functioning that we'd frankly really rather kept operating.

But damn.

It's not as pretty as the so-called figurative heart that the poets and artists and all those wonderful talented type people write and sing (okay I accidentally typed 'swing' I suppose some of them did that too but that's none of my nevermind) about you'd think it'd be prettier to look at. Maybe some sort of shiny faceted thing, or maybe made of stained glass. Or it might look like the TARDIS. Or maybe just the time vortex.

Mine feels like the time vortex right now.

I wonder if that's why The Doctor has two? One and spare in case he gets a flat?

Manufacturing stress where there isn't enough to be sure it'd show on a test. Who'd a thought.

Why am I suddenly thinking of Mister Burns here?

"We'll make real men, out of snow."

Or in my case, they'll make real stress out of Dobutamine.

And I likely butchered the spelling on that but hell, it's been a long day.

I was laying there the other night, and I was thinking- and this may be sad or it may just show the way a writer's mind really works: but as I was laying there getting fire breathing chemicals shot into me for the ct scan I was thinking- damn, when I feel well enough to get back to polishing up on my manuscript I'm going to have a hell of a lot more material to work with.

Hope your day tomorrow is free of both real and manufactured stress.

To the people I love, tonight I can only say this: SHTV.

They know what it means.

And even without the meaning meaning being explained here let me tell you that I believe in something very strongly and have for ten years whether in times of health that are good, questionable, or suckier than a Hoover on steriods.

Leave nothing kind or loving unsaid.

If you feel it, say it today.

Tomorrow is never guaranteed.

I'll talk to you guys after my adventures in Synthetic Stressland are over.

Oh! and if you're looking for some agenty blog goodness head over to the ever amusing Nathan Bransford's. He's got a poll up asking how people feel about prologues and I found the varied comments interesting as always.

~bru

By now I must glow in the dark

I'm singing Ultraviolet Light by U2- or I would be if I could catch my breath.

Geez, I speaking of my beloved U2 I hope Bono will be singing again soon. Heard on the news he had to have emergency back surgery. Yikes. Will be keeping good thoughts for him.

Yes this is just a very brief and likely inadvisably painkiller influenced post to let folks know I'm only not blogging cause I'm sick and stuff.

14 hours in the ER last Friday night, a multitude of tests including being injected with stuff that I am certain could send you on a time jump for Temporal Investigations if you were put into a photon torpedo tube and I'm beat. Tests ruled out some but not all potential icky causes, I'm still feeling like the soccer ball at World Cup and the only reason I'm able to type this much after four days absence is because the pain meds and the nitro glycerine are still working.

Due for more tests Wednesday in which I'll be hepped up on something to make my heart stress while a cardiologist watches. Fun!

Best case scenario- a massively pinched nerve in my spine and some other stuff is responsible for this debacle.

I'm not going to talk about any other case scenario yet cause it's just too freakin' melodramatic and I save that stuff for my novels.

In the meantime I have had some interesting ideas in my head that I hope to blog later- among them, continuing on my twisted fairy tales thing from the Goldilocks story which people seemed to enjoy I plan to do Bru Grace in Writerland and also Little Pink Writing Hood.

So stay tuned for those.

Now, I better lay my head back down before I type something I'm sure to regret when I wake up from all this. Thanks to a scary post at the DGLM blog today (sorry, too dizzy to link) about Vampires and such taking over the work of classic authors (Little Vampire Women? AHHHH! NO!) has me afraid I'll have nightmares about Gilbert Blythe as a vampire or I mean what's next, My Fair Zombie? Please, no, for the love of Doug(las Adams) no...

Hope you're all having a good week.
bru

and so this is where I stop counting and...

...start adding 'with a year of experience' to my age. Lame, but so true.

Yes, today the year flips over and being that it's a miracle I'm here after the last year I'm not complaining, trust me.

But this is I think where the counting officially stops.

I was established in the same year as Walt Disney World (and my friends say that is eerily appropriate) and that's all I need to know.

For the writer-esque bits today, I'll tell you that I stumbled on a fun thing over at KT Literary this week- they posted three pictures and invited folks to write something based upon what the picture brought to mind. I've never done the whole 'write to a prompt on my agenty blog' kind of thing so of course, I ended up doing it wrong.

My post went up twice inciting me to thump my head into the keyboard as in head/piano a'la Don Music (the frustrated composer on Sesame Street).

"I'll never get it, never!!!"

Still it was a great bit of fun and really helped shake the cobwebs out of my head. So thanks to Daphne for that. I tried it for the third and final image which was two strawberry smoothie looking drinks sitting side by side on a table.

That helped, as did the vintage Doctor Who episode City of Death (edited and co-written by Douglas Adams! Squeeeeee! Bonus material contains an interview with Douglas on it! EXTREME SQUEEEEEE!!!) that someone very kind sent me for my birthday (from the other side of the world no less and only after having it sent to them first from the US and shipping it back again so that they could send it in a nice box and be sure it would play in my DVD player. That's the kind of thoughtfulness you just don't see much in this world anymore.

I was also very kindly treated earlier this week to a trip to the craft store where I was gently but persisistantly forced to select a bunch of gorgeous pearlized acrylic paints to play with and I do intend to play with them as soon as I can. Can't wait.

I found out about this paint weeks ago when I spoke to artist James Douglas Draper at the recent Great Lakes Art Expo. He's a brilliant painter of very pretty things- the colors are simply dazzling. If you like art and you like outer space, especially, you have to check him out.

So lots to be grateful for today. I'm a year older yes, but also truly a year wiser and I can see to read, write, and paint again even if the equipment needed to accomplish it can only be worn so many hours a day and makes me look like this:

Even tolerating the pain that I have in my eyes ever since the surgeries, being able to see my child's face makes it all so very worth it.

That alone makes it a much better birthday than last year even if the number was lower.

I'll leave you to the rest of your day with a bit more Muppet related lunacy, just because it makes me happy and I hope it will make you smile too.

Beaker's Ode to Joy

Absolutely brilliant.

If you're in a more mellow (or even more snarky) mood, try this one. The definitive commentary on feedback you get over the internet if such a thing exists. Art is truly subjective. Dust. Wind. Dude.

As for me, I'm off to party in the style of the 10th incarnation of the Doctor.

Sonic Screwdriver: Check. Showtunes: Check. Insane robots from another planet? Um...not so much.

Who am I kidding?

I'm just going to have another cup of coffee, maybe paint a picture, check my email and then get back to editing my second manuscript- if the eyes hold out for the afternoon.

Happy Wednesday.

bru

Putting it in Perspective

I'm listening to: Heartland by Celtic Thunder

The topic of the week around the agenty/writing blogs seems to be rejection.

Now while I'll admit I think that most writers deal with it better than this guy and thank Doug(las Adams) for that.

But I just want to say that I think that in addition to just not wanting to accept that it happens to everybody, it might be that people haven't had enough really big problems to deal with in their lives to this point to put getting a book rejected in perspective. Not that I wish that they do- I honestly hope that dealing with literary rejection (and hopefully on the way to acceptance for a lot of talented people I've seen) is the biggest issue they ever have to wrestle with.

When your book gets rejected it's a blow to pride (and yes, we all have it even if we don't want to admit to it) but it's not a tragedy. It hurts, but it's not going to kill you. Even if your (and by 'your' I mean my) books never get published it will not be a tragedy.

Tragedy is watching someone you love battle cancer.

Stress is you and your spouse each having a parent in critical condition in ICU at the same time.

In different states.

Going blind isn't a lot of fun either but when you are lucky enough to have world class surgeons and get some of your sight back it REALLY puts things in perspective.

So it's great that misery loves company and I truly do appreciate being reminded of all the big name writers who got rejected before they got published. That does not cause me however to delude myself into thinking I'm the 'next gazallion book selling author' a'la Harry Potter or Twilight.

But that doesn't mean that I'm ready to stop subjecting myself to rejection- not yet anyway.

I'll keep repeating Commandment Nine of Nathan Bransford's Ten Commandments for A Happy Writer and remember that any day that your life allows you the space and time and health to write is a pretty damned good day.

I hope you're having a good day today. Mine's going pretty well, thank you for asking.

Dreaming of my own personal "Susan Boyle" moment

Today's musical accompaniment: Just Say Yes by Snow Patrol

First of all, Happy Sunday.

I had a happy Saturday night because I sat down and started reading one of my novels again from the beginning and immediately the little Epcot Squishy Light bulb went off over my head and I realized what I have to do.

All my going on about how many edits before you stop loving the work, etc etc...yeah. Dude, I totally get it now.

I'm diving head first back into it, I know I can not only 'edit' in the sense of taking out all those unnecessary words and *gasp* pesky lingering adverbs (though I can't promise to eradicate every single one, every now and again you just HAVE to say something 'softly' and that's it) but I see what it really needs is polishing. Shiny, shiny polishing.

Not a wrecking ball as I feared by any means- just a rag and a can of Pledge. A Swiffer might do the trick. I can do that and I love the work even more.

Who knew.

Anyway- what I'm thinking about today is how grateful I truly am that I chose the agent that I did to send my first ever query letter to.

Now granted I am still a total newb at this querying thing. I've only queried (and ended up rejected by, yes) two agents so far and no I don't plan to keep a running tally so no worries there. But I do have to say that I absolutely chose the right person to fail with the first time out of the gate.

First of all, I aimed so high- so ridiculously, absolutely dreamingly (adverb! ack! and not even a real one!) high in choosing this agent to sub to. When I got a response I was floored.

When that response was a quick request for the full- I screamed.

Seriously, I think the cat will take years to recover.

My ridiculous and over-optimistic first ever query to someone existing at the seventh level of heaven agent-wise resulted in a request for the full. That I won't ever forget.

Even though I seem to be going backward. But more on that in a moment.

In the end it didn't work out and they passed, but still this agent said nice things, really nice things- and asked for more work and then even after that didn't make them fall in love (and it was my fault- I queried the second one before I had that Epcot Bulb moment and figured out what it really needed to jump off the page) though it didn't work out I will never forget what the agent said or how they said it. There are people out there who are hugely successful in this industry and still have a heart, at least that's what I think because of this person.

I will always remember this agent- and believe it, if I write my next novel before I find representation with someone else, I will definitely query them again, just for the heck of it.

I'll admit I'm a bit bewildered- I discovered that I'm actually devolving when it comes to the way that writers supposedly go through rejections before being offered representation
according to this fascinating blog post from Jessica Faust at Bookends LLC that was written two years ago (which I missed cause I wasn't reading a lot in 07- I was kind of going blind at the time).

I mean, when you start at step four then go to five then end up back at one...well I think I know how people voted off the later rounds of American Idol might feel. So close, and yet, then suddenly back at the beginning.

I read stories of people who have queried every agent out there with every project they've ever done and I marvel at their tenacity but I honestly don't see myself doing that.

I mean hell, the second agent I queried to (the form rejection one) was a ridiculously ginormous long shot too because I know I'm not really in their list of genres. Still, I figured that since their blog invited queries if anyone was in doubt it couldn't hurt. And again a lesson was learned.

It's all been a learning experience so far and the most amazing part is learning not just about the industry but about the agent's (and agencies) differing personalities as they blog.

There really is a vast array of folks doing the job and it's great to be able to get a sense of someone before you send them your work by reading things they've said on their blogs.

So I'm looking at it this way- my query is my chance to get their attention but first, their blog is their shot to get mine. I am not planning on applying to every agent on the web or in the book(s).

I am just not that desperate to get published.

I dream of being published, but I will write either way and that is the biggest lesson I learned from my first two rejections.

First of all I figure if I hear a certain amount of no's then the general consensus must rule and I better stick to blogging and writing my little sci-fi stuff on the side that I so love but that can't be marketed because it's a spin off of a famous franchise. Still, I love doing it so I will always do it and I honestly believe the writing I've done there is some of the best I've ever done anywhere.

I love writing too much- I love the art and feeling of it. I love the process and I want to be happy while I'm doing it (well as happy as writers ever get anyway) and if I also happen to keep honing and learning and querying those agents I'd love to be represented by, if someday I meet up with the Agent of My Dreams (why am I hearing Snow White in my head now?) I want to hear the music too even as they do- the love affair I believe has to be mutual or it's gonna be trouble from the get go for everybody just like doomed love affairs since the beginning of time.

I'd rather never be published and still have my passion- the inherent love of reading and writing I have had since I learned to read when I was barely three years old- than to lay down and die the alter of the query letter.

I dream of a Susan Boyle moment.

You know Susan Boyle. Everyone knows Susan Boyle now.

A couple years ago, only Susan Boyle's family knew Susan Boyle.

In case you still don't recognize the name, she's the chick that went on that huge talent show in the UK and everybody snickered when they saw her and pointed and I'm sure some in the audience whispered some not too nice remarks.

But then she took the stage, she took in a breath (somehow she remembered to breathe- I've got to hand it to her I mean Simon friggin' Cowell was glowering at her at the time) and she blew them all away.

She opened up her mouth and proved she had pipes. She had what no one could tell from the first glance- she has a gift. That gift is magic. Simon himself produced her album and the rest is legend.

Not that I expect to be the literary equivalent (though if you're going to dream, dream big...)

I just want the chance to get past the front door with the best manuscript I can write and find a nice agent at the right time and have them see something in my work even if everyone else in the room is snickering at the title. Because my books are way more than their titles.

Yeah.

I when I grow up, I want to be Susan Boyle.

And I can do a wicked rendition of I Dreamed a Dream too, believe it or not but that's another story.

After going blind, something like putting your work out there to be skimmed and then turned down before you get beyond page five shouldn't be such a big deal (and you have to save something for the middle of the book- yes hook them on the first page I understand but you also can't do it all before page ten and I hope that is somehow not lost on people in this day and age of 'faster, faster, now!' entertainment).

Everyone who has ever put their heart into their writing knows why it is, though.

It is because we love it- and I am determined to keep on loving it whether or not I ever get to fulfill that dream of being published.

When the day comes that I really stop loving the writing because the joy is lost to the quest- that is the day I will stop trying to find an agent.

I'm never, ever going to stop writing.

~bru

I just didn't fall in love with it...

There's been a lot of talk lately around all the agenty/writing blogs about agents saying they didn't 'fall in love' with a writer's work and the writers then, well, basically beating their heads against the wall wondering what didn't work. What was missing? Chemistry? Was it something they wrote, perhaps a sad and stubborn refusal to finally step away from the adverbs? What?

In the end, does it matter? "I didn't fall in love with it" is just that- it didn't fit that person's tastes or what they know they can sell right now. As anyone who has ever tried to make someone feel romantic interest and failed at it (and most of us have failed at it at least once in our misspent youth) Bonnie Raitt had it right when she sang, "I cannnnnn't maaaaaaake youuuu love meeeeee if you doooon't". Or something like that.

Wistfully wish them every happiness (and wish it for yourself too otherwise you have no chance of ever finding it) and then follow the advice of wise old Obi-Wan:

"Move along."

So as we keep looking for that person who will hopefully feel that spark and ignite into a flaming fireball of passion for our work (okay maybe not actual flames because that might singe their hairdo) can we find the balance between deciding when we've done all the edits we want to do before more querying or do we just dive back into the manuscript again and keep on tweaking?

Your answer will be different than mine, everyone's has to be because everybody's books are obviously different.

Time, patience, yes, yes, I am listening, I am learning. I'm working it all out.

The question I'm asking myself is, how many edits can you go through and stay in love with your work?

Last night I found a post that is a couple years old linked to a post to a post to a post and three blogs later I found out that my first novel might get rejected because it's a lean 49,000 words and that's 'novella'.

But, um, wait. I thought...'take out all the unnecessary words', 'kill your darlings', all that good stuff?

Are you nodding with me?

Okay.

So, I've done that. I've edited the ever living heck out of my first little Chick Lit romance and I think it's got its rhythm down cold. Yeah, I could sure sit down and plonk out another 20k words to pad it up with but it'd be worse than window dressing -it'd be big old metal blinds that block out the sun when you're trying to see to pluck your eyebrows.

I don't want to overpluck my larger novel or fluff up my little one too much. I love the stories as they are- I think they are where they need to be.

For the shorter one, it's not that there's not enough plot and that I can't write a longer novel (it originally had another 5k in it from the start but it didn't flow as well as I wanted it to, believe me I could go on) my second novel is 99k words and I was worried that was too long.

I'm suddenly put in mind of Goldilocks.

This little writer wrote a novel...then another. She read and researched and edited and then she saw a house up in the beckoning distance. She knew that there were people inside that house who could help her show her books to the world, and that was what she most wanted of all things she'd ever wanted before.

She went to the door and saw three slots with multiple genre listings over them in long, neat rows. She looked at the list, squinted, bit her lip blinked three times and then her eyes widened with apprehension.

"Oh no!" cried Goldi, as she read the lists. "This novel is too small! It's the literary equivalent of a Twinkie!"

"But don't people like Twinkies?" The little bear seated beside the door asked, as he set down his Kindle. "Some do. Some go the whole Ding Dong/Ho Ho route and I'm one of them but that's neither here nor there. "

"So what do I do now?"

"Damned if I know, I'm just a bear." The bear flipped his Kindle back on and returned to reading On Writing by Stephen King (and yes, this blog author LOVES that book).

Goldi sized up the slots, thought a minute and pulled out the manuscript of her second novel- a whopping 101k words with pretty prose and elaborate descriptions of soap opera divas and pink snowstorms (it works, trust me) a book she had pretty much had the time of her life writing- but then she read the footnote about shorter books being better first chances for a novelist to get an agent and wondered even as she internally debated the eternal question "Chick lit or Women's Fiction or WHAT?"

"Uh oh, is this novel too big?"

By this time she was talking to herself, because the Bear was listening to Lady Gaga on his iPhone while simultaneously updating his Facebook status and Tweeting: Clueless blonde broad at the door. Wish her the best of luck in finding representation.

Yes, I feel a little like Goldi, standing in front of the slotted door and wondering, will I find someone who thinks either novel is 'just right'? Can what I love to write still be recognizable to me as my own by the time I follow all the advice out there about what I should do with it to make it fit through the slots?

Being so new to the whole querying thing, I'm not complaining here, please don't get me wrong. I'm doing the work like everybody else is...

But my test readers have implored me after my first couple of no's; try a few more times to find the person who will fall in love with it at first sight as it is before you get out the blow torch, or worse, the Howitzer and take to that sucker again.

Love the work.

I still want to love the work.

And I'm still hopeful that somebody else, just the right somebody, will love it too. Before I have to resort to the woodchipper.

Get your arms up, yeah, hold them up high with me and say it loud:

"Once more into the slush!"

So every blog has to start somewhere...

...and I'm a bit rusty. It's been awhile since I blogged regularly other than to contribute to the small writer's group I participate in, so I think the best way to start is just to jump in.

Today, literary agent Nathan Bransford posted a fantastic blog post about writing one sentence, one paragraph, and two paragraph pitches for your book. I loved reading the pitches for his book JACOB WONDERBAR AND THE COSMIC SPACE KAPOW and truly appreciated that he was willing to share them. This is yet another reason why this gentleman's blog rocks.

Taking his advice that there is no time like the present I dove in, set down my eggroll (in my own defense, it was dinner time) and got to revising the paragraphs in progress I already had. I've been working on a query letter anyway, and I managed to come up with something that I think gives a pretty good idea of the feel of the novel- from the perspective of the main male character.

Trouble is, I'm not sure if it's best to pitch these things at the Women's Literature crowd by focusing on the female character or the male one instead. Trying to do a bit of both left me feeling like a three year old who rode their Sit 'n Spin too long (my grandfather refused to let me have one of those, said they were bad for your brain- and oh am I dating myself...) but I will give that another go very soon.

In the interim here you go- one sentence, one paragraph, and two paragraphs from the male and then female main character's perspective.

If you're reading this and querying- do you struggle with the idea of which character to focus on in the limited space to do it? How did you decide which one to go with?

Looking forward to comments (please play nice).

One Sentence Pitch for FIREWORKS FLOWERS by February Grace:

From the MMC perspective: A coffee house manager who aspires to write discovers he’s in love with one of his regulars…half an hour before the scheduled start of her wedding.

From the FMC perspective: Emily's wedding is about to begin; if only she can convince herself to put on the dress.

I happen to think of Aidan as the main character these days- but still there's so much more to the book than just the simple love story that these paragraphs convey and I'm not sure how to get all that in there. The story is told through the eyes of not just Emily and Aidan but friends, family, and an unwilling wedding guest. There's deceit, betrayal and secrets swirling around the family Emily is marrying into and the one she's already a part of and it all works together- but you just can't easily work all those characters into 250 words in a query letter.

Okay, one paragraph from Aidan's POV:

Aidan is ringmaster of chaos (Manager) at a low-priority franchise of Run Aground, a national chain of coffee houses. Between no-show employees and customers from Hell the only bright spot in his life is Emily- shy, sweet Emily who carries a copy of Hitchhiker's in her purse, takes an interest in his stories, and dances in her seat to one secret, specific song on her iPod when she doesn't think anyone is looking. Emily is absolutely perfect...with the exception of the fact that she is marrying the human equivalent of a wolf in sheep’s clothing in less than thirty minutes unless Aidan can find a way to stop her.

From Emily's:

The string quartet is tuning up, every last flower is in place. The nap-deprived flowergirl is demanding that somebody better find her lost teddy bear right now, even as the last of the guests take their seats and check their watches, wondering what is causing the hold up. Emily Mardi's wedding is about to begin...as soon as she can convince herself to go through with it.


Two Paragraphs: Aidan's POV:

Run Aground manager Aidan Flynn's day couldn't possibly get any worse. The fax machine is jammed again, his baristas seem to have lost the last of their tenuous grip on reality and everything in the world feels wrong. His life's gone to Hell for only one reason and it's entirely his own fault; his favorite regular is getting married today because he didn’t have the guts to say the only thing that might stop her.

Following a fateful conversation with a Salvation Army bell-ringer, Aidan realizes he has no alternative; he has to find a way into the fabled Halsey estate and crash the society wedding of the year. If he doesn’t speak now he’ll never be able to face himself tomorrow. Painfully aware of all he has to lose, he wonders how he’ll ever convince the girl who believes she’s nothing special that she deserves so much more than to live out her life in the withering darkness of another woman's inescapable shadow.

Emily's POV:

The string quartet is tuning up; every last flower is in place. Emily's wedding is about to begin, all she has to do now is finally put on the dress. As she stares at the silk and sequins pooling at her feet she asks herself why that simple act feels so impossible and realizes just how many reasons she has to question the wisdom of wearing it.

Her father's refusal to attend has amplified his warnings; words that echo in her ears along with the memory of all the times Bryce and his family have called her Chloe by mistake. Even more distressing is the fact that every time she touches the gown it's thoughts of Aidan, warm, brilliant Aidan, that freeze her where she stands. With her future mother-in-law at the door and the guests growing restless in their seats, Emily is running out of time to decide if the aisle will lead to her longed-for happy ending or a lifetime spent looking back.

So there it is. Almost sounds like two different books doesn't it?

That's the trouble when you write comedies with romance, or romantic comedies depending on how you want to word it. It's difficult to distill down a story into a couple of paragraphs and feel you've covered it all (I mean, you don't even get any sense of how important the Salvation Army bell-ringer is to the thing in either of these but no matter how I tried to work her in it just got too freakin' wordy).

So.

Now I just have to get my brain around writing the queries to go with these puppies, whichever variation I use, and get them out into the world. Maybe if they'd let me have the Sit 'n Spin when I was little, my brain would be better geared toward doing that.

How are you faring in writing your queries? Don't even get me started on synopses --that's next on the to-do list from Hell...

Happy Thursday everybody, even if it almost Friday.

~bru