My Original Nook

I had a nook when I was a kid.  And it wasn't electronic.

I found my nook the summer after I turned twelve. That summer was a tough one.

My dad had gotten himself in trouble, and with it came financial and legal issues. Our family was a mess. Mom had gone back to work. One big brother was in Italy, serving a mission for our church, and the other was as far from home as he could be as a teenager. My sister got married and moved. My younger brother managed to get into all kinds of trouble. Friends were no longer allowed to 'play with those kids'. And the house was cloaked in tension and sadness.

In an effort to help, I took on as much responsibility as I could. During the day I'd clean, do laundry, take care of my younger brother, and start dinner.

But evenings were all mine, and I had a bike. And a library card.

The local library wasn't very big, but it had a pretty good selection of books. I started with the entire Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle series, and worked my way up to and through every Ray Bradbury novel. I even learned to love Shakespeare that summer. And I'd stay, looking through the stacks for hours, finding my next adventure.

Then one day I found my nook.

It was at the edge of the library, nestled between two windows, hidden by the shelves of magazines. A small padded seat, deep enough to curl up and read, big enough for a couple of people. But it was mine alone that summer.

It was the launching pad of dreams, the gateway to imagination, and the best friend a bookworm could have.

I spent hours there, reading the books I loved, away from the stress and turmoil of  my home life. I'd try new authors, choose books I thought I might like and take a small taste before checking them out, and exist in wonderful worlds outside of my own. I consumed the books, and they consumed me.

I'd ride my bike home with several books each time, only to return for more within a few days.

The librarians would smile and wave when I walked in. They knew I'd be there for a while.

But the summer couldn't last forever, and school took priority over the nook. I'd still stop and get books on my way home from junior high school, but I couldn't stay. The early darkness of winter made it impossible.

I introduced some friends to the nook during those years. Had a few sweet kisses there. Studied there when I could.

And as life got easier at home, and I moved on to high school, I lost touch with my secret hide-away.

I didn't need the quiet and peace of the nook anymore.

But I've never forgotten the feeling of having a place of my own in the library. I've never lost the love of the books that carried me away from my troubled mind. I've never stopped enjoying the feel of the pages in my hands, the smell of the paper.

And now when I hear someone talk about reading on their Nook, I smile.

I had a nook long before they ever did.

The N-SLV

This is my entry in a short-short story writing contest (1500 words or less). Unfortunately, I didn't beat out the other 7000 entrants.  So, I'm sharing it here. Enjoy!  

I find her lying on the floor in her office.

Her skin is grey, her lips an alarming color of blue, her eyes glazed over and dull. The laptop she loves is open in her grip, her fingers wrapped around the bottom, unyielding as I tug. The screen is lit, and I hope this means I found her quickly enough.

The only indication she’s alive is the slight rise and fall of her chest and the faint beating of her heart as I press my ear over it.

She is cold to the touch.

Grabbing the phone, I dial 9-1-1, and take a deep breath to gather myself so I can speak to the operator, who answers with a glib, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

“My wife,” I say.  “She’s not responding to me. She’s grey.”

The woman gets serious, verifying who I am and where we are. Then she asks, “Is she breathing?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Can you see anything in the room that could have caused an injury?”

Frantic, I look around, noting that there is nothing in the vicinity except her office chair.

“She may have fallen,” I surmise.

“How far?”

“Just out of her chair. She was working. Writing. She’s a writer.”

Soon, a knock at the front door signals the arrival of the EMTs, and the operator allows me to hang up so I can answer their questions amidst the rush of activity.

They examine her, looking for trauma. There is none.

They listen to her heart, check her vitals, and try to remove the N-SLV laptop from her grasp.

She doesn’t let go.

The screen is still glowing.

Giving up, they load her on the gurney – laptop bouncing against her stomach as they move her - and I follow them to the back doors of their rig. They allow me to ride along, and I watch as they treat her.

She doesn’t look different as they attach oxygen below her nose and start an IV on top of her wrist. I wait for improvement.

Agonizing, I think over the last few weeks.

I knew this would happen. Her hours were too long, her incessant writing too much for her. The dark circles aren’t new. The pallor is normal. The weight loss expected.

But she swore she was writing another best-seller. The third in her series. So I bit my tongue. And she promised to take care of herself.

The ambulance stops with a jerk, and I nearly fall.

An EMT slaps my shoulder, steadying me.

“Let’s get her inside,” he says. “She’ll be in good hands here.”

I nod and move out of the way, following the gurney through the automatic doors.

A nurse points to the Trauma Room. “Dr. Belus will be right down. Fill us in on her vitals.”

One EMT explains the situation, using terms that are unfamiliar. The nurse nods, and makes notes on the chart.

Stepping into a corner, I notice the screen of the laptop. It’s dimmer. Fading.

Dr. Belus, I assume, walks in. He holds the chart, scanning top to bottom as he looks at my wife. I hear a hum and a tsk. Finally, he places the chart at the end of the gurney and examines her.

His expression gives nothing away.

He shines a light into her eyes, and the laptop dims further.  The heart monitor makes a shrill noise.

“She’s crashing,” he says, and the team jumps into action.

They pull the laptop from her grasp and the screen goes black. The monitor flat lines. An alarm is screaming.

I think I am, too.

They push me into the hall, and shove the N-SLV into my chest.

I’m in shock.  This can’t be happening.

Not to her.

She finally found the success she was working for with her writing. The Lost Soul series is everything she said it could be.

I look at the laptop in my hands, remembering.

“He said it will make my dreams come true,” she said, smiling. The salesman had promised. She believed.

It was just months after she bought it that she received an offer of representation. Eight months after that, her first book hit the shelves – an unheard of turnaround, according to her agent.

The second was written by then, and they offered big money and a contract for two more.

She’d never been happier.

And now, a doctor bounces over her body, doing chest compressions.

Time stills. It’s forever and no time at all.

My eyes do not shift, so I see when he steps away, shaking his head.

I shake mine in response.

He turns and sees me, and I watch as he says something to the nurse. She nods.

As he opens the door, he addresses me, “Mr. Ames?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

His fingers wrap around my elbow, and he directs me into a small waiting room. I sit, and he finds a chair directly in front of me, pulling it closer.

“I’m really sorry Mr. Ames, but your wife’s heart stopped, and we weren’t able to get it going again. I’m afraid she’s dead.”

I look down, staring at the laptop in my hands. I hate it.

He asks, “Did she have any health issues?”

“No,” I say.

“Has she been to a doctor lately?”

“No.”

He continues to question, and I mumble responses. I hear the words autopsy and investigation, and the tears start.

This can’t be real.

An officer steps into the room, and the questions begin again. Just to find out what happened, they assure me over and over.

“She was just tired,” I explain.

 He looks at me sadly and pats my hand.

“You should go home,” he says, and I agree.

As I stand, I realize I’m dizzy. My fingers are wrapped around the laptop. They’re numb.

So am I.

#

Two weeks after the funeral, I give in and pick up the phone when her agent calls.

“Have you checked to see if the book was complete?” she asks without greeting me.

I sigh. “No. I haven’t even opened her laptop. I don’t know if I can.”

I want to. It’s calling to me, the red letters that spell out N-SLV flashing each time I walk past.

“The publisher is anxious. They gave her an advance. I don’t want them to cause you trouble,” she says.

I know it’s more than that – she doesn’t want to lose her commission. The Lost Soul series had promised to make her wealthy and well-known.

“I’ll call you back,” I say, and hang up without waiting for an answer.

The laptop is right where I left it that day.

I approach it cautiously, lifting the lid. It can’t have any battery life. I watched it fade in the ER, and I can’t find the cord.

But when I hit the power button, the screen glows bright, and the story she was writing appears.

Scrolling to the beginning, I read. Hours pass, but I’m engrossed in the tale she was weaving.

I realize that she was near the end when she – when it happened - and I’m disappointed. I need to call her agent and tell her it’s not complete.

But as I move the computer back to her desk, I hit a key, and words start to form on the screen.

My fingers tingle as I stroke the keyboard. More words appear.  I type a few letters, and the page fills.

My heart stutters slightly.

“Morgan?” I call out. Is it her?

The computer pulls me in again, and I realize it isn’t.

I give a little as I type a word or two, and the N-SLV gives a lot, finishing the next page. I’m tired, but can’t stop.

It’s dark when the words ‘The End’ appear, and I’m drained.

Before I call her agent, I need to test something.  Her outlines are on the desk. I open a new file, type a few words, and Book Four appears at the top of the screen.

Her agent is thrilled to hear there are more books.

When I close the laptop, I flinch.

The large, red letters have changed.

It now says N-SLV2.

#

The host of the morning show asks me questions, and I answer. As her widower, I’m doing the book tour for Searching for Heaven.

“I hear this won’t be the last book,” he says.

“Morgan was a very prolific writer, and there are a few more books to be published,” I lie. “She gave everything to this series.” That part is true.

 I shudder, and he consoles me as we go to commercial.

Later, as I get into the car that will take me back to my hotel, I reach into my bag for the laptop. 

I don’t understand how it works, but I need to finish her series.

I’m strong enough.

My fingers touch the keys, and I give another piece of my soul to the story – and the N-SLV2.

A New Work In Progress

One of my new goals is to keep writing - even when I'm discouraged about the lack of interest in the dystopian genre and my completed novel.  It's time to write another novel, in another genre.

And I'm doing it. 

The novel I'm currently spending my time on is a 'Women's Fiction' novel.  It's about overcoming a seemingly insurmountable loss, rebuilding relationships that have been damaged, and becoming a stronger person.  

'In a Minute' is the tentative title.

And although I know these words can/will change, here's the opening of the novel as it currently stands:

“Hey, Hannah, grab your backpack,” I yelled as my daughter sped toward the front door, anxious for her first day of pre-school. Her golden ringlets bobbed on her back as she stopped suddenly and turned.

“I almost forgot.”  She giggled, running to the hook that held her new backpack - Dora the Explorer, of course. My daughter was nothing if not an explorer. The world held grand new adventures at every turn, and she was going to discover each and every one, much to my dismay.   

I shook my head as she headed to the door again. “We don’t have to leave yet.”

She contemplated that for just a moment, then pulled out the big guns, turning to look at me with her bottom lip pursed and jutting out, her big brown eyes round and nearly tear filled. “But Mommy, I want to be there early. My teacher doesn’t know me yet and I don’t know any of the other kids.”  Her pouty lip shuddered a little as she pretended to cry.

Not willing to be outdone, I pursed my lips and bent my knees to squat to her level. “I’m hurt. You’d rather be with your new teacher and friends than with me,” I said with a quivering voice.

Hannah immediately smiled and threw her arms around my neck. “I love you, Momma. My new class won’t be as special as you.”  She kissed my cheek and patted it with her tiny hand. “Now can we go?”

Master manipulator at the age of three. 

Any thoughts or input?  Feel free to comment.  ;)

Measuring Success

"To be successful, you must decide exactly what you want to accomplish, then resolve to pay the price to get it." -- Bunker Hunt


So, I'm sitting at work today, minding my own business, sulking (if I'm being honest), when I open a planner I was given and BAM! this quote.

And? 

First, I need to explain the sulking.

This week I participated in an online writing conference - WriteOnCon.  I'm still looking at all of the posts (work doesn't make it easy).  Anyway, I posted my query, my first 250 words, and my first 5 pages in the forum.  Got some amazing feedback from other writers.  But see, there were agents browsing.  Man oh man did I want a little feedback from one of them.  Anything.  Even 'this sucks'.  

Okay, not that.

But, much to my dismay, not only was I left without feedback, but my entire genre seemed to be skipped. 

GAH!

Apparently, I have really awful timing.  Dystopian just isn't the thing to try to sell right now.  *sob*

So I'm pouting, sulking, maybe a little depressed.  I've just spent a year (yes, A YEAR) writing, revising, editing, querying, contesting, and everything else I can think of to make this story what it needs to be.  And...nothing.  

This is where the quote comes in.  

Yes, I was feeling a little sorry for myself.  Yes, I was cursing the Ninja Agents a little.  Yes, I was having my own brand of hissy fit.  

And then I read these words: resolve to pay the price to get it.

Seriously?!

'Haven't I paid enough?' I ask myself.  'Isn't a year a lot?  A lot of time at the computer.  A lot of little notes everywhere.  A lot of time I didn't spend with my kids.'

Before you reach through your computer and slap me, let me say that after I took a deep breath and gave myself a stern talking-to, I got it.  Really got it.

One year is a lot, sure.   But obviously, it's not enough.  The price is higher.  

That begs the question - am I willing to pay the price to get what I want (published)?

The answer:  Yes.  

I realized today that it's going to come down to me.  I need to manage my time better.  I need to define my priorities.  I need to determine what I'm willing to give up and what I won't let go of.  

I'm going to continue to query - even though I know I'm going to see a lot of rejections.  That's just how it is.  *sigh* 

And I'm going to write.  I've got a women's fiction story I'm working on, a sci-fi story I've outlined, a historical fiction story that I'm dying to write (based on my grandfather's adventures as a teen), and a few other ideas I'm still chewing on.  Hell, I could even attack the non-fiction real crime book my brother wants to write with me.

I'm resolved.

And scared out of my mind.  :)






 

On How Baseball Relates to Writing

Yes, I have been watching a lot of baseball this summer.  A LOT.   (Braden is currently on two teams - the High School Automotive Team and the Babe Ruth All-Star Team. Some form of game or practice six days a week.)  It's given me a lot of time to think. 

And of course, I think about writing while I'm sitting in the hot sun, watching my son and his teammates play. What kind of writer would I be if I didn't think about writing all of the time? 

As I watched and thought about it, I realized that there are a lot of similarities between becoming a great baseball player and becoming a great writer.

When Braden started playing, he had thrown the ball with his dad.  He'd hit the ball with his dad.  Still, he'd never played on a team.  He was little and inexperienced.  Scared each time he came up to bat.  Dropped a few balls when they were hit to him.  But he did it.  Again and again.  And the beautiful thing is, he learned something every time he took the field, every time he stood in the batter's box.  Looking at him now, you'd never know that he was once afraid to try to hit the ball, that he once struggled to catch a fly ball.

He's got experience and training behind him now.  He's getting more every day.  He's confident.  And he's a GREAT player - with the potential to be a PHENOMENAL player.

So how does this relate to writing?

Well, those of us who write do something similar.  We come up to the plate time and again, scared that our writing will fail.  We strike out a few times.  We may even get hit by the ball or drop the fly that's hit to us.

But if we want to be GREAT writers, PHENOMENAL writers, we do it again and again, gaining experience and training each time. 

We practice a lot.  We play a lot of games by entering contests.  We accept coaching when we work with crit partners.  We stand at that plate with each query letter we send.

And guess what - we strike out.  A lot. 

But it's that one hit, you know the one, that grand slam that scores the winning run, that we're waiting for.

And if we're patient, it will happen.

You know, GREAT baseball players hit the ball only three of ten times at bat.  Those who hit it a few times more than that are PHENOMENAL players.  (I never thought of it that way until I watched the movie 'Martian Child', but it's true, look at the stats of most MLB players.)  And in order for those three hits to happen, they have to get up to bat ten times.

They have to put their hearts and pride on the line TEN times to get THREE hits.

How many times have I stepped into the batter's box?  Honestly, I haven't counted.  I will, later.

I haven't hit that GREAT level yet.  PHENOMENAL is still a dream.  But it's attainable.  With enough practice, coaching, and playing time, I may just hit that grand slam.

In the meantime, I need to get ready to take Braden to practice today.  And tomorrow, we're off to the All-Star State Tournament.  (Okay, I'm bragging.  They're District Champs.  That gives me the right as his mother.  Right?)

Who Am I?

Seems like a pretty simple question, doesn't it?

And on the surface, I guess it is.

I'm a woman who has been married for more than half of my life.  I'm a mother to four amazing individuals.  I work full time in a busy office.  I have friends who I join for dinner at least once a month.  I write as much and as frequently as I can.  I watch baseball, basketball, and dance competitions.  I work on fundraisers for my kids and their teams. I serve in my church. And I read when I can.

In my downtime (snicker - yeah, right) I dream of traveling and being published.  Maybe traveling to promote my book, even. 

But when I'm asked to include a biographical paragraph in a query, I freeze up.

All of the things I am, all of the things I do, well, they don't count in that particular paragraph. 

Agents are looking for information about prior publishing experience.  And well, I don't really have any that's relevant. 

Sure, I wrote for my high school paper for three years, I interned for a year at an all-news radio station writing stories to be read on the air, I wrote software documentation for clients, and thousands of letters to those same clients.  I've even written a successful grant - in less than 24 hours, and with very little to go on.

But I haven't been published.

No small articles in major sources, no books.  Nothing that I can add to that paragraph.  Yet.

Part of me winces when I get to that point.  Another part says 'skip it, just say thanks, and let it go'.  I try to listen to the second part of myself.

You see, I'm pretty happy with all of the things in my life that I can't include in that paragraph.  And really, when it comes down to it, those are the things that shape the way I write, the ideas I put into words.

My 'biography' may be unstated in my query letter, but it is ever-present in my work.

What's Next

May was full of excitement.  I was a contestant (thank you Brenda Drake!) in The Writer's Voice. 

What was the outcome of The Writer's Voice?

Eight agents looked over the queries and first 250 words of the 44 contestants' stories.  They 'voted' for the stories they wanted to look into further.

There were a lot of votes.  A lot of 'partials' and/or 'fulls' sent to agents.  And who knows, maybe a bunch of agented writers when the whole thing is said and done. (For those who are interested, in this contest a partial meant the first 50 pages of your book, a full the entire story.)

I received one 'vote', and sent a partial to an agent - Andrea Somberg at the Harvey Klinger Agency. 

While I have no idea what Ms. Somberg thinks of my story - yet, I do know that it was an amazing experience to send it.  To know that someone who represents books to publishers has part of my story is humbling, strange, and incredible.  No matter the outcome.

And more importantly, I was introduced to dozens of other writers.  I found the writing community to be supportive and helpful.  I had a coach who worked with me to improve my query and to polish my first chapter.  I gained confidence.  I told everyone on my Facebook and some friends at work that I write - something I had never done before. I came out of the contest excited to query my story, and with a plan to continue writing while I do.

So what's next for me?

Well, I have a list of agents who I will query.  I'll do that a little at a time.  I expect rejections, but who knows, maybe I'll get the 'yes' I'm looking for.

And in the meantime, I'm writing.  Camp NaNo is going on in June, and I plan to write 50,000 words this month.

With that said, I'd better get writing!