A Fond Farewell

Since late October 2013, I’ve posted only once on this blog and that’s because my hopes—plans for it—have gone awry.

          When I began this writing blog back in September 2012, I had high hopes of sharing with you my adventures with publishing. I’d seek an agent for the novel I was writing and explore that search with you.

         The agent would find a publisher/editor and I’d let you know about today’s contracts and negotiations.

         The manuscript would go through the publishing process and I’d have a title and cover that you and I could ooh and ah over. Then would come publication and together we’d climb aboard our luge and zoom down the slope of sells and reviews, of readings and signings, of working with social media and the publisher’s marketing department.

         Only one part of that has happened—the agent search last September, October, and November. I’ve e-queried many agents but found no one interested in a historical novel about Palestine in the first-century of the CE.

         Wanting to be published again, I thought perhaps that a memoir might have a better chance of interesting agents and editors. And so I set out in January to collate all my convent stories from my on-line memoir blog Coming Home to Myself. I realized I had many more stories to tell about those nine years, and I hoped to do so this year.

         Because life happens, I haven’t done any collating or writing since the new year began. Moreover, I find myself loath to begin. The project just seems boring to me. And my best writing has always come from the wellspring of my own passion and curiosity.                                                    

What I’m both passionate and curious about right now—and what has held my interest since sixth grade when we studied ancient history at St. Mary’s Grade School—is Bronze Age Greece. Last summer I worked on a first draft for a novel that takes place there in around 1250 BCE.  It may be the first book in a trilogy or I may just continue writing and tell the whole story in a longer book.

         I know, deep down, that the writing itself is the bread, the sustenance. And that getting published is the slathering on of creamy butter. The first is more important than the second. And yet, I do so love butter!

         However, getting publishing—if that ever happens again—is in the distant future. So that leaves little to write about here. And that was what I wanted to share with you.

         Thus, I’ve decided to cease writing on this blog. Anything I have to say about my writing life will go on the other blog, which is, of course, the story of my life. Writing has been a big part of that story. So there is some serendipity here.

         One of the new adventures in my life is memorizing poetry again as I did when I was in my teens. The poem I’m memorizing right now is “Ulysses” by Alfred Lord Tennyson. It ends with these lines:

 Though much is taken, much abides; and though

     We are not now that strength which in old days         

     Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

     One equal temper of heroic hearts.

     Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

     To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield

Those words speak to me and convey what motivates me to continue writing. I have stories to tell—on my memoir blog and in manuscripts. I trust that the blog postings will be read. And I trust also that if my writing is for the good of the Universe, it will be published. But I have no control over that. I have control only over what I do and how I respond to the vicissitudes of life.

What I will do is write when I have the time and health and inclination. I will strive, seek, find. There is no yielding when one’s desire to do something leads them to great happiness in the very doing. As to the uncertainty of life—I’m in for the long haul!

         Thank you for following this blog through the past year and a half. Let’s hold each other’s heartwishes in our visualizations, prayers, and thoughts. May all we do be for the good of the Universe. Peace.

Photographs from Wikipedia.

Free at Last!

Last week I bemoaned my inability to decide if the manuscript for The Reluctant Spy was ready for publication despite the email from a friend who’d read the story and found it “fascinating.”

         This week, while tracing the arc of my writing life, I’ve pondered that word. In 7^th grade I won first place in the Kansas City diocesan essay contest. I can remember Mom’s broad smile as I returned from the podium with my prize—a prayer book.

         In college I was one of twenty finalists in the prestigious 1958 Atlantic Monthly essay contest. At the time, my writing mentor, Sister Scholastica, tried to impress on me that in this nationwide contest I’d excelled among thousands of entries. But I, preparing to enter the convent, had little time for such foolishness.

         During the next twenty-seven years I became a nun, taught, and found a new life after leaving the monastery. Then, in 1985, I became a freelance editor, copyeditor, and curriculum developer. Suddenly writing became important again.  

         Four years later, the cat I’d loved for nearly two decades died. Dulcy immediately began to channel through me the story of our life together.

         Late that summer, I told a friend about this strange phenomenon. “Well, it’ll all be trash,” she said with surety. “You’ll just have to throw it away.” Her words stunned me.

         A few weeks later another friend, a published writer, read the first draft of Dulcy’s story. “Put this in a safety deposit box,” he recommended, “and don’t look at it for five years. Then maybe you’ll find something worth keeping.”

         His wife’s take on the book? “Bor-ing! Bor-ing!”

         When I expressed doubts about my writing ability to an acquaintance, she said, “Well, Dee, maybe you can’t write. Maybe you just don’t have the gift.”

         With that, my thoughts jelled: I wasn’t a writer. I couldn’t write well. I was a hack. Dulcy’s book being published made no difference. After all, she wrote the book; I simply edited it.

         I knew two things: I could edit; I couldn’t write.

         The years passed with me crafting sentences, seeking to find the cadence of words. Because no agent was interested in representing my writing, the belief that I was a word-dabbler rooted deeper and deeper into my psyche.

         Then in 2011, I began to blog. Several readers commented that my writing was good and so I’ve come to believe that I can write a 600-word story. Yet that realization hasn’t expunged my belief that I’m a rank amateur with regard to writing longer stories that demand well-drawn characters and extended suspense.  

         Recently a psychic told me that in this life I was meant “to let go.” Not of specific things—like the convent or a dysfunctional relationship with a couple who’d been friends for years or a home in Stillwater. No. She meant the mega things—those beliefs that arc my life from beginning to now. During this past week I’ve examined the belief that I’m a charlatan.  

       

         Now here we are today. I’ve mulled the past, recognized the belief, and read that wonderful word fascinating. It has broken through the bars of my conviction that I can’t write a novel.

         Fran’s word has, literally, freed me from a way of thinking about myself that has shackled me for years. Today I want to thank her for helping me let go of that old belief about myself and my writing. I can write. I can write a novel that will, perhaps, be published. But whatever happens, I will be grateful to this friend for freeing me.

         Peace. And Hallelujah!

When's a Manuscript Ready to Publish?

In early June, I posted that Judy Healey—a friend and published author of historical fiction—was reading “The Reluctant Spy,” a novel I’ve written that takes place in first-century Palestine. Judy suggested that I explain unfamiliar words, such as jasper ring and tamarisk, and clarify the difference between the Pharisees and the Sadducees. Responding to these suggestions will take little time or effort.

         Her bigger concern—one demanding a restructuring of the first third of the novel—was the dynamic between two of its characters: Ephraim and Daniel. She wanted to know the background of their dissension much earlier than I provided in the novel. I had presented their past in several scenes sprinkled throughout the first third of the manuscript. I hoped this would intensify tension and suspense. That didn’t work for Judy.

         While in Minnesota recently, I enjoyed a working lunch with her. Having read only the first third of the novel, Judy believes its main thrust is the story between Daniel and Ephraim.

         For me, as the author, that thrust is between Ephraim and Yeshua. That’s why I began the novel with a scene between the two of them. However, Yeshua does not appear again with Ephraim until nearly a third of the way through the book, when Part II begins in the Galilee. Then the story line becomes theirs. In the latter part of the manuscript, Daniel re-emerges several times. He’s the catalyst of the ongoing need for Ephraim to attach himself to Yeshua, a man for whom he has only contempt.

Orchards in the Upper Galilee.

         Back in January an editor read the manuscript and made suggestions that led to the deletion of 9,000 words. She thought the novel was ready for publication. So after returning from Minnesota, I was left with a conundrum: to publish the novel as is per the editor’s counsel or to change the first third per Judy’s recommendation.

         Unable to untie this Gordian knot, I asked a friend, who’s a prolific reader although not of historical novels, if she would read the manuscript. I gave her a series of questions to consider in her reading. She’s now gotten back to me. Here’s her e-mail response:

I just finished "The Reluctant Spy" and found it fascinating! I don't usually (almost never) read historical novels because I generally find them to be slow.  I tend to skim through the descriptive parts and to read only the narratives thoroughly.  I determined to read every word of your book and I'm glad I did. Yours required a lot of description in the beginning, but the pace picked up at about page 20 and stayed strong throughout.  

         There are quite a few instances of incorrect punctuation and random typos and spaces that need to be corrected.  

         I loved Ephraim’s conversations with God/Hashem.  

         I felt I got a true understanding on why the characters, especially Ephraim and Yeshua, acted as they did.  

         The only suggestion I can make is to make sure you get it published!

Model of Herod’s Temple at the Israel Museum.

While my friend’s response delights me, I’m still perplexed.  Judy is a published author so her opinion sways me. And yet I know that any reading of a third of a novel over a three-month period needs to be taken with a grain of salt. We seldom hold the intricacies of a book in our heads for three months when we do sporadic reading.

         On the other hand, a friend often cannot be objective even when trying hard to be. Still, this friend has been honest with me before when something I wrote didn’t work for her. Perhaps only those first twenty pages of the novel need recasting.

         Given these three responses, I’m befuddled, wondering if I need to hire another professional editor—Judy gave me the names of two who have helped her—or if I need simply to go for publication.

         As you read this posting—in the United States or Great Britain or Australia or wherever you are—please send me your best thoughts about this manuscript. The truth is I’m confused, wondering if I need to continue to fish or if I should cut bait!

Synopsis of One Writer's Life

Warning: This is a long posting. You may want to bypass it until you have a cup of tea and a scone in hand for leisurely reading!!!

         After leaving the convent on Christmas Eve 1966 at age 30, I collapsed in my parents’ home and simply stared into space. The next year, because of a friend’s graciousness, I was offered work as an editor at a Dayton, Ohio, publishing house that produced Catholic weekly readers called “messengers.” I worked as the religion editor for My Little Messenger, a publication for first and second graders.         

         For the next seventeen years I taught briefly in Dayton and in Claremont, New Hampshire, and studied for a master’s degree. The rest of the time I worked as an editor and writer, first for Pflaum in Dayton and then for Winston Press in Minneapolis.

         Beginning in 1973, I worked myself up from editor, to co-director of the Winston trade department, to director of its curriculum department. By 1984, I was working fourteen hour days: eight at the office and six each evening at home. Exhaustion finally took its toll, and in mid-July of 1984, I resigned from my position to become a freelance line editor, copy editor, and curriculum developer.

         I freelanced until my retirement in 2001. During those seventeen years, I completed projects for a number of Catholic publishers as well as small presses throughout the United States. I also began teaching professional editing in evening and Saturday classes at the University of Minnesota, the College of St. Catherine in St. Paul, and Metropolitan University.

         During those seventeen freelance years, I set an hour aside each morning for my own creative writing. I’d begun writing, as all of us probably do, in grade school. The Sisters of Mercy taught me the basics and I became enamored of words and their power to paint pictures.

         In college, my mentor became Sister Scholastica—a Benedictine. She encouraged me to let my imagination soar, and I wrote short stories, fantasies, essays, and poetry before entering the convent in June 1958. However, for the next eight and a half years, the convent offered no time for writing and I lost any interest I had in expressing myself with words.

         That continued until I became a freelancer in 1984—so for twenty-six years I did no writing of my own stories. Then, when I became a freelancer, I suddenly got the idea for a romance. As I’ve posted before, I wrote two romances and they were “duds.” But when Dulcy, the cat with whom I’d lived for seventeen and a half years, died in 1989, she gave me the story of our life together and I began to write again. 

Dulcy and me. 

         For the past twenty-nine years, I began one thing after another, but that demon of perfectionism has kept me from completing much of anything—the words just never seemed to be anything more than mundane.

         And yet, as I sit here today I realize that I have finished a few things and I’m eager to work on others. Here’s what I’ve complete in final draft—edited and polished. The first three listings have been published.

·      A Cat’s Life (Dulcy’s memoir)

·      A Cat’s Legacy (Dulcy’s gift of twelve habits of highly successful cats)

·      Twenty children’s books for Capstone Press under the name Dee Ready and the pseudonym Anna O’Mara.

·      The Gift of Bastet Net (Book 1 of the Great God of Cats fantasy series)

·      The Reluctant Spy (a novel that takes place in first-century Palestine)

·      A Multitude of Angels (the text for a series of photographs by Judy King who did the art for Dulcy’s memoir and who is doing the art for The Gift of Bastet Net)

One of the sketches for The Gift of Bastet Net.

And here is the additional writing I’ve done, but not completed, during the past twenty-four years:

·      A first draft for the novel Winter Tapestry, about four ex-nuns.

·      A first draft of Three Roads Diverged. This is Book 1 of a trilogy I plan that takes place in Bronze-Age Greece.

·      Half of Book 2 of the Great God of Cats fantasy series—Warriors of Bastet-Net.

·      Half of Book 3 of the Great God of Cats fantasy series—Prayers to Bastet-Net.

·      Drafts for two picture books for children.

·      Several chapters for a memoir by the four cats with whom I lived after Dulcy died.

·      Two romances.

·      More than 200 postings that will become part of a single memoir or of a trilogy of memoires: early life, convent, post convent.

         So, on this day, when I woke up and felt a little down. A little blue. A little annoyed with myself for being so lazy and for getting so little done. On this day . . . I’m realizing that I have been true to the longing I have to write. Thank you for all the encouragement you’ve given me through the past months. No one could ask for better and more helpful support. Peace.

PS: Mount Saint Scholastica, the convent I joined, is celebrating its sesquicentennial this year. The nuns there have invited all of us who left the convent to come back for a celebration this coming weekend. I’m eager to go and to meet friends I haven’t seen in 47 years. Given this, I won’t be posting here next Sunday.

         

Two Axioms about Writing Bestsellers

When interviewed, successful novelists often say that the best thing beginning writers can do to enhance their craft is to read the classics, other good literature, and the genre for which the aspiring author wants to write.

         It’s only by doing the latter that a writer knows how that genre is being written today and what appeals to modern-day readers.

         Many nineteenth-century writings are now considered classics. But when contemporary readers try to read the long descriptions and philosophical musings in these novels, they close the books—unread. Today, many busy readers have neither the time nor the patience for that type of writing.

George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans), author of Middlemarsh,

which some critics consider the finest novel in the English language.

         So many aspiring writers read more contemporary novels to find out how to be successful today. For example, the prolific James Patterson, a best-selling author of thrillers, writes in short chapters. A number of successful novelists now emulate him in their writing style.

         I’ve read that readers today want shorter books and shorter chapters because they often have time to read only a few pages before having to do some other task. So Patterson and other writers who want to copy his success insist that aspiring mystery authors keep their chapters short, shift from scene to scene, and keep the action moving relentlessly.

James Patterson who’s written innumerable bestselling novels since the 1970s.

 Some readers have the notion that all published novelists become wealthy. These readers peruse articles that mention the advance a novelist got and the number of books a writer sells and believe that they, too, can become a multimillionaire by writing a bestseller. And that’s true. They can.

 But writing that bestseller, finding an agent, and getting a contract isn’t easy. And the truth is that few novels win the interest of enough readers to become bestsellers. Bestselling is always iffy.

Frustrated, these aspiring novelists do more homework and discover what type of fiction is being written today and is most often bought by readers. Their axiom becomes: Write what’s bringing in the big bucks! According to an article in the ProActive Writer Blog,

. . . of the people who buy at least one book at year, 8 out of 10 buy a fiction book . . . [but] out of the same group of people, 8 out of 10 will also buy a non-fiction book . . . Of the people buying at least one fiction book a year, just under half (48%) buy what is classed as Mystery, Thriller and Crime. . . . The second most popular book genre was Science Fiction with 26% of readers buying Sci Fi books, ‘Literature’ was close on its heels with 24% and Romance is worthy of a mention with 21% of the market.

         Now why am I writing about this today? I’d like to share with you my own first attempts at writing and getting published. When I became a freelance editor and curriculum developer in 1984, I spent the first hour of each day writing. At that time, romances were among the biggest sellers.

Nora Roberts' career began with romances.

After becoming a bestselling novelist,

she has gone on to writing women’s fiction and mysteries.

         For ten years, while in a deep depression, I’d read Harlequin romances because they ended happily with no concerns about the social issues that so worried me. These romances put me to sleep at night. In a way they kept me from throwing in the towel on life.

         So when I finally yielded to my lifelong desire to write, I bought into the axiom to write what’s bringing in the money: I picked romances as my genre. I thought I could establish a reputation with romances and then move on to historical fiction.

         I wrote two manuscripts; sent them, one by one, to Harlequin; and received two rejection letters. And why wouldn’t those stories be rejected?  I was forty-eight years old, had seldom dated, had never been in love (although I loved many people), and what I knew about sex could be etched on the edge of the left wingtip of an unemployed bee.  

         I’d read romances, but I knew nothing about the subject matter. In my craving to be published, I’d picked a popular genre to which I could bring no life experience. I finally did get published, but only when Dulcy, the cat with whom I lived for seventeen and a half years gave me our story. The one we had lived together.

         So for me another axiom proved true: Write what you know, not what’s popular. I’ll share more about all this with you in future postings.

Peace.

PS: The article quoted above is quite short and worth reading for all of you who have some interest in writers and what they write.

The three photographs/drawings of novelists are from Wikipedia.

The Word Today Is Alleluia!

Today Christians around the world celebrate Easter, a word derived from aurora, the Latin word for “dawn,” and from an Old English word for “east,” from which the dawn arises. Easter celebrates a new way of wrapping our lives in hope. It is the dawn of hope.

         Christians celebrate Easter at the same time all of us celebrate the return of spring, when darkness folds into light. Within the dark earth, hopeful seeds break forth from their dry husks and stretch upward, willy-nilly, to light. To a new way of being.

         For those in the Southern Hemisphere, the season that begins on March 21 reaffirms that the waning of light and the entrance into darkness is part of each human’s journey to wholeness.

         This past spring week, Jews observed their Passover, which commemorates the passing over of the Hebrew people from the prison of slavery in Egypt to the possibilities of new life beyond that land of desert and drought. For Christians, Easter commemorates Jesus’ Passover from one way of being to another.

         Passover and Easter are inextricably linked. According to the Christian scriptures, Yeshua—Jesus’ Hebrew name—ate a final meal with his disciples. A Passover meal. He died on the day before the Sabbath. In his death he discovered the Fullness of Life—Oneness. God graced him with that new life on the first day of the Jewish week. A day of new beginnings.

         Woven through all these seasons, traditions, and feasts is the idea of newness. The idea that we can pass from hatred of our human condition—with its loss and death, flaws and foibles, despair and sorrow—to a newness of spirit in which we embrace who we are.

         And what do we embrace? Our messiness. The very thing that so many of us resist. Yet Easter proclaims that we can hope in the possibilities of ourselves. My 77^th birthday is tomorrow. And still I’m in the trenches with the messiness of myself. I still have a hard time believing I am lovable. And yet out of that messiness comes, for me, an ability to show others how lovable they are. That messiness is me living with hope that one day I will embrace this loving and lovable me. And in that embrace will come the gift of peace. I will then be the Alleluia that Oneness proclaims.

         What else do we embrace when we accept this gift of Easter? Passover? Spring? The answer is clear: we embrace our Oneness with every person who has ever lived. With Yeshua and with the serial killer and the homeless woman with her shopping cart, and the child with his Easter basket, and the widow with her grief.  

         All of us are “in” life together. We are united in our flawed humanity. By embracing the darkness and doubt within ourselves, we become the cherished human we long to be. And we begin to treasure the being of others.

         Today then, I wish all of you growth in the human spirit whether as Christian or Jew or Muslim or as a nonbeliever whose belief lies in the hope of spring. I wish you wholeness as you strive to become fully human.

         For myself, I believe that Yeshua was a human being who fully realized humanity within himself. He embraced the darkness and death that lies within each of us and passed over to an acceptance of the possibilities within himself. He donned Life.

         Yeshua became compassion. He became graciousness. He became hope. He became life-giving. He became the poet of possibility. He became the one who saw Oneness every where, every time, every now, every here.

         And that is what this season offers all of us.

         So on this day of spring, this Easter for my Christian friends, this first day of the week for my Jewish brethren, this Sunday for you who celebrate each new dawning, I pray that life will spring forth within you and that you, filled with hope, will enter the Mystery that is the Holy Oneness of All Creation of which you and I and the cats who lie here on my computer desk are a part. Peace.

All the photographs are from Wikipedia.