"I'm sure you'll make friends. You're outgoing, friendly, and fun. Just be yourself."
Sabra gave me the look I recognized so well. I had to accept she was not going to go with me. I had to give it one more try.
"But Sabra, I'm nervous. I want to belong. I want the others to like me."
"Mom, I'm not going with you!"
She looked pretty fierce for a teenager. I wondered if she had learned that look from me?
"You'll have to do this on your own." was her parting comment.
I gave up. I had to admit her advice sounded pretty familiar. I believe I had given her the same speech on her first day of school. Was it really that long ago?
Of course I got to running late, probably from dragging my feet about going. I had started reading women’s literature about three years ago as an escape. Ok call it what it is. The little books with happy endings called ROMANCE!
The cliff notes on that chapter of my life read.
A. House destroyed by hurricane Frances and Jean.
B. Diagnosed with breast cancer.
C. Destroyed house stolen by con artist.
D. Marriage of 18 years crumbling around me from.....well I've really not completely figured that one out yet!
E. Welcome to being a single mom of three.
Suffice it to say I needed the happy place I found in romance books, the affirmation of life, love, laughter. I have always been an avid reader. Zane Grey was my 'friend' through my teenage years. Anne McCaffrey saw me through my young adulthood as I explored fantasy science fiction.
It wasn't long before characters started whispering their story to me and I began to write. I anxied to bring to life in words their unique lives, struggles, and triumphs, things I saw so clearly in my mind. They needed the happy ending that continued to elude me. If I could “become enough” to adequately record it for them.
Three years later I’ve found a measure of contentment. I’ve survived beyond taking one day at a time. The cancer is in remission for two years. Once in a while I can even bring myself to look at the massive scar where a breast used to be. There are longer and longer stretches of time without feeling the crushing emotional brokenness that engulfed me with the realization that my soul mate no longer loved me. The financial pinch of my revised lifestyle set me on an internet search. Would anyone want to read my stories? How would I go about getting someone to publish it? Is there some way to tell if it’s even good enough to submit? I’m thinking yes, because I’m trying to figure out how to do it.
Three cheers for google. I sat stunned looking at the web page for American Romance Writers Association. I felt stupid for never considering that there was an organization of romance authors and aspiring writers. Well Duha~! My scanning eyeballs froze on the local chapter’s link. “What?” A couple of clicks later I’m connected with the info on a chapter twenty minutes away advertising monthly educational workshops. ‘Yee Haw!’
Now I just have to make it in the door, sit down in back and hope to be noticed or hope to be not noticed depending on which way my skitzoid self esteem gate is swinging. I’m only 10 to 15 minutes late. ‘Breathe don’t hypervenilate. In – Out – Woo’sa- I can do this.’ The guest speaker is just being introduced. I know her name! I’ve read a couple of her books! OMG!!@! I am so not going to be a groupie!!! I tried to absorb everything she is saying about gender dialoging. Do your men sound like men? Do women sound like women in their dialogue? By the end I am smiling a big old smile. She has related stories that help me understand men I’m working with better. The smile might be looking a little snarkey when I realize I have 90,000 words to edit through for dialogue consistency. Did my masculine Alpha male character say mauve on page 212? Boy! I’m not ready to send my manuscript off. I’ve got so much to learn!
So I begin the Hokey Pokey dance, author’s version. It’s good enough to publish. It’s not good enough to publish. I’ll send it off to see if it gets accepted. I won’t send it of…. Well you get the picture.’
After the workshop several people came up and introduced themselves. This is good! I’m not invisible. They are friendly. The first one to ask ‘what do you write?’ caused me to punch another hole in my idiot ticket when I answered without too much confidence, and with a voice that might have sounded a little feeble and with a hint of a question mark hanging on the end, ‘Romance?’
I did quickly rally and figured out this was the adult version of, ‘What’s your major?’ Ok. So, one book I’m working on is a ‘paranormal fantasy futuristic out in space kinda thing.’ But I’m starting to believe the plot may be just a little over the edge. Right! Chalk it up to inexperience. Maybe art is speaking louder than craft. A whole lot louder. What if the next question is what is your story about? I don’t even want to go there this early in the game. By now I’m sure my emotions have paraded right across my face and the nice friendly lady asking what I write thinks I’m a ‘paranormal, fantasy, futuristic, out in space kinda thing.’
My other two starts on books are about a team of forestry firefighters. Since there really are no new stories think Suzanne Brockman’s seals but out in the woods with trees and fires. The next horrifying thought hits me that put that way the plot line sounds pretty passive aggressive. I manage to stammer out a safe answer ‘contemporary romance’ as my idiot ticket is beginning to look a little full. A few of the women took pity on me at this point and invited me to lunch with them. It was so refreshing to hear them talk about their journeys thought writing toward being published and beyond. Several of them had books published. I realized two beautiful concepts. The journey is cyclic, not flat and one dimensional and also, I could be safe with these women. They had their share of successes and failures, joys and rejections. I wasn’t going through the hokey pokey alone. It was shaping up to be a line dance. I’ve got to love the hot wings bunch. They made me welcome like I fit right in. I know you’re wondering so NO! I did not ask for autographs. I also deny any allegations of my space and face book stalking.
The days between workshops each month crawl by. I counted them twice. There’s only 30 days. Why does it take so long? Each workshop is loaded with revelations that send me scurrying through my stories for glaring errors announcing my rookie status: back loading; corny words; too many words ending in ly; packing; point of view POV; telling not showing the story; too many clichés. I wouldn’t know a cliché if it hit me upside the head. I’ll have to make a list. I’ll start with a list.
OH NO! Characters don’t walk in books??? They swagger. They glide and mince (Mince?) but never, no not ever, do they just walk because that’s a snoozer! Boring. “I promise I will never flip my tresses angrily over my shoulder lifting my chin in defiance as I walk out of a room.”
I may never get published but I sure am having a good time. I used to wonder if I had forgotten how to have fun. But I’m having a great time in the club, getting and hopefully giving good vibes. I’m laughing more. There are lots of ‘you had to be there’ memories. I still want to know the rest of the axe handle story!
“Did you have a good time mom?”
“Oh Yes, I got invited to go to lunch. I think I’m making friends.”
“That’s great mom, see if I had gone with you they might not have invited you out.”
“Umhummmm.”
“Are you editing again?”
“Umhummm.”
“Don’t state up too late, mom.”
“Umhumm, love you baby, saunter off to bed now.”
I snuck a peak over my shoulder in time to see her cock one eyebrow,
“Do what?”
I giggled, or maybe I snickered or chuckled.
“You just had to be there sweetie.” I’m glad I was.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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