tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-88774090010998170982024-03-21T18:38:46.909-06:00Spinning YarnsTYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-26668174477168389452016-04-12T21:06:00.001-06:002016-04-12T21:09:22.549-06:00On Wanting It AllHave you ever wanted to clone yourself just so you could do everything you want to do?<br />
<br />
To be able to live without sleep so you don't have to waste hours accomplishing nothing?<br />
<br />
To stay young for a hundred years in order to experience all the things on your bucket list?<br />
<br />
To don the cape of a super-hero and overcome all fear? <br />
<br />
I've often daydreamed of having the ability to do it all, to be everything to everyone, to accomplish all of the things on my life-goals list, and still have time to do more. With words like "smart", "hard-working", and "gifted" tacked onto my name from the time I was very young, how could I not succeed, right? Besides, Wonder Woman was my role model growing up: if she could do it, so could I (sans magic lasso and bullet-stopping bracelets).<br />
<br />
There have been times when I switched between four or five hats on any given day - from mom and wife, business owner, writer, PTA President, sports and dance parent (and fundraiser), community advocate, Scout leader, religious leader, and family bookkeeper, to chauffeur, counselor, and chief cook and bottle washer!! I've taken great big bites of life, and swallowed them whole. I've aimed for the moon, and worked to climb as high as I could. And (sadly) I've let a few important things fall by the wayside in the process.<br />
<br />
<br />
But lately I've come to realize there's a real danger in my innate desire to be larger than life and capable of anything. (Yes, it's taken me a lot of years to get to this point.) Too many times, when I'm dreaming of all the things I want(ed) to do, I start to feel bad about the things I have and haven't done. The things on my list that I may never do. The sacrifices made to accomplish the things I have done. Of letting down all those people who identified me as ultra-capable. <br />
<br />
When I start down that road of self-doubt, I devalue the things that I <i>have</i> accomplished, and I start to second-guess the things I'm doing now.<br />
<br />
But if the world has taught me anything recently, it's that life is too precious to allow myself to fall into that rut. And let's be honest, some of the things I <i>think</i> I want/need to accomplish aren't really all that important in the grand scheme of things.<br />
<br />
So, you ask, what meteor streaked through the heavens and hit my thick noggin hard enough to knock a little sense into me? <br />
<br />
<br />
Well, watching people I love as they deal with the reality of losing a loved one to cancer has been an eye-opener. Getting a peek at what it's like to know your days are numbered is a stunning wake-up call. They say things come in threes, and they aren't kidding. Three people in my life, in different situations, with different types of cancer. Three families coping with the word "terminal". Three people who won't have the chance to worry about checking off all of the items on their list of goals.<br />
<br />
Two families for whom tomorrow is a blessing and waking up to another day is a triumph, and one already dealing with the pain of loss at the end of a valiant battle. <br />
<br />
It really puts things in perspective when you realize what being human can entail, and that none of us are promised the time to do it all.<br />
<br />
The result?<br />
<br />
I'm not becoming fatalistic or giving up on the dreams I still want to make reality. I'm not slowing down (much). I'm not even reducing my list of life-goals or bucket list items.<br />
<br />
But I am taking more time to enjoy the little things. I'm soaking in the moments with my family, cherishing the time with my kids and my husband. I'm allowing myself to really feel my accomplishments as they occur, rather than immediately jumping to the next item on the list. I'm evaluating (and reevaluating) what matters most on my list, and setting better priorities. I'm celebrating the good things in my life more. I'm setting a goal to express gratitude more often. And I allow myself to fail (truth = usually it's the failure to work out). <br />
<br />
Of course, I still work full-time (getting paid to do a lot of writing and revising!!) and I'm still going to school full-time. I help with home improvements, housework, and yard work. And I'm determined to edit my latest novel in the next month (or so). <br />
<br />
The biggest thing I've learned through this time of self-evaluation is that although I haven't finished everything on my lifelong to-do list, I haven't seen everything I want to see or experienced everything I want to experience, I have no regrets. I truly like the adults my children are becoming. I still love my big bear of a husband. Every choice I've made, every experience I've had, has led me to the place I'm at today.<br />
<br />
And it's a pretty good place to be. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIz8bSl9cjFaMx2IqKj6RZpOPeR7S9pO08eHPInom3j8Uzr_sbuezqkN96tkuuYY6Wy2WKnBvXOjvnHo8aLMHAbToZGzLv82RLrWQb7GbXvFJ5NVzYnFWgs3YRqqURdN1-X_FID9ggWE/s1600/20151028_073941.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpIz8bSl9cjFaMx2IqKj6RZpOPeR7S9pO08eHPInom3j8Uzr_sbuezqkN96tkuuYY6Wy2WKnBvXOjvnHo8aLMHAbToZGzLv82RLrWQb7GbXvFJ5NVzYnFWgs3YRqqURdN1-X_FID9ggWE/s640/20151028_073941.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Embrace Every New Day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-28351347762108385132014-07-22T20:23:00.001-06:002014-07-22T20:27:19.208-06:00Lessons Learned at #tenqueriesOver the past four years, I've found a healthy, thriving community of writers on Twitter. In fact, it's a great place to find other authors - published or not - to share ideas with (and maybe some frustrations). There are also a lot of contests and writing challenges. And to make Twitter even more appealing, there are agents, editors, and publishers tweeting advice, helps, and tips. You might even trip over the wish list of an agent or twenty at #mswl (manuscript wish list).<br />
<br />
One of my favorite places to play is #tenqueries (followed closely by #askagent).<br />
<br />
So, what is #tenqueries?<br />
<br />
It's a peek inside the brain of an agent as they go through their inbox. It's an opportunity to see what agents are looking for, to learn the things that are likely to earn your query a 'no', and to see that moment when everything clicks for a 'request'.<br />
<br />
But lately I've seen a negative response by writers to the #tenqueries hashtag. While I understand that there is a lot of rejection in the timeline, I don't necessarily view that as a bad thing. This, my friends, is the reality of trying to be published. Although we may be burning with a deep need to write, the publishing world is a business, and we need to understand the business.<br />
<br />
#tenqueries has taught me a lot. Instead of seeing a pattern of rejection, I see a pattern of mistakes that writers (myself included) make.<br />
<br />
I'd like to share some important truths I've learned by watching the #tenqueries feed.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li><b>Research agents before you query.</b> There are countless passes in the feed with the explanation of 'I don't rep that genre'. That is an immediate 'no'. And really, do you want an agent who doesn't have a passion for the genre you write? I want an agent who gets it, who loves the genre, and who will be a fantastic representative of my work.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Personalize your query based on your research.</b> I can't tell you how many times I've seen the 'dear agent' get a pass. Studying an agent's website will give you a feel for their personality and likes. Choose agents who will represent your work well, and let them know you would like to work with them specifically. This means spending time on each and every query, but it's time well spent.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Follow the submission guidelines.</b> Every agent has them on their website. Most agents won't open attachments (can't blame them). Some want a synopsis, some don't. Some ask for one chapter, others want five pages. Give 'em what they ask for - usually pasted into the body of an email. Your words won't make it past the 'no' filter if you don't follow the guidelines.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Study the publishing world.</b> It's important that you have a good idea of how long a manuscript should be. This varies depending on the genre - for example, adult novels will typically be longer than young adult novels. It won't hurt if you have read a lot of books in the genre you write, either.</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Edit, edit, edit, edit.</b> Messy grammar, punctuation, etc. usually results in a quick trip to the pass lane. Your writing can't shine if the agent is distracted by mistakes. Who knows, you might be lucky enough to spark interest regardless, but do you want to chance it? </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Find critique partners you can trust to be honest.</b> This means sharing your work with another person, and a yes-man isn't going to benefit you. Agents can't be worried about hurting your feelings - they are in this business to publish books. If your crit partner can't constructively criticize your words to help you improve, they aren't helping you. </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><b>Don't give up.</b> If this means reworking a novel, starting a new novel, or researching other agents to query, do it! Learn from your mistakes and move forward. You will never succeed if you quit.</li>
</ul>
And now that I've made my list (OCD person here), I can get back to writing. I've shelved my last project and moved on to something new and better. I'm excited to apply this knowledge to the query process. <br />
<br />
My goal? To find an agent who is a great fit, and who will have deep belief in my project. TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-76184321321489674952014-04-28T21:35:00.001-06:002014-04-28T21:40:26.454-06:00Lessons of Comic ConI think it's pretty obvious from my blog that I write, and that one day I hope to be a published author.<br />
<br />
What many - okay most - of you don't know is that before I got serious about writing for a broad audience, I wrote a bit of fanfiction. (I won't divulge my penname here - it's not important, and outing myself as a fanfic author should suffice. Although, it IS important to state that I will never take the stories I wrote as fic and try to pass them off as 'original' fiction. It would be a disservice to myself and to my readers - giving them shallow, underdeveloped characters - and would feel unethical.) The reason I mention this here is because the fact that I'd written fic gave me an interesting opportunity this month. I was invited to sit on a panel at the Salt Lake Comic Con FanXperience to discuss the impact of fanfiction on the publishing world.<br />
<br />
At first, the idea of sitting at a table to discuss fanfiction was a little...unnerving. But it was an excellent opportunity to be a part of Comic Con, so I decided to do it. What I didn't realize at the time was that there were a lot of writing panels at Comic Con. A LOT! I was excited to attend as many as I could - and none of them were disappointing. <br />
<br />
I learned some pretty important truths during those three days, and I'd like to share them.<br />
<br />
1. There is nothing shameful about having written fanfiction. It was a great way to exercise writing muscles that I'd forgotten existed, provided an incredible kinship that resulted in talented crit partners, and offered a ready-made audience for someone who wanted to know if they could affect a reader with their words. (I could, and I did. It's an awesome feeling.)<br />
<br />
2. In meeting many other authors, some who were there to present their craft during panels or on the main vendor floor, I came to the conclusion that I AM an author. I CAN be published if I keep working, keep writing, keep the faith. Save me a spot at a future Comic Con, I'll be joining you. <br />
<br />
3. Commitment to my passion is key. I need to set aside time every day to write, to research, and to read. A completed, edited, query ready novel is my goal. I'm getting close with my latest manuscript, and I have two others on the shelf to query later.<br />
<br />
4. My excitement about writing is powerful, and when I share it with people I meet, it connects us. My quest is to turn that in-person excitement and energy into a query that exudes the same passion. There's an agent out there waiting for my story, I just need to find him/her and knock their socks off with my pitch. <br />
<br />
5. I have an amazing support system. My husband (who prefers sports to books) attended my panel, and is behind me 100%. He tells me, "You can do anything." A couple of my kids were there, too. They feel my distraction when I'm writing, and yet, they support me. The resolve that grows from their support is intense. I want to succeed for them, for the sacrifices they've made to allow me to chase my dream.<br />
<br />
6. If I quit, I'll never be published.<br />
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7. Fans/geeks/nerds are the best kind of people. Creativity thrives in their midst. <br />
<br />
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<br />
8. I want to sit on a panel for my own book one day. <br />
<br />
And on that note, I'm heading back to my writing cave. I have a chapter to finish.TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-26460295987583129562014-03-31T18:36:00.000-06:002014-03-31T18:36:03.818-06:00Thoughts on a Cold Day<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I encountered a homeless man on a cold, grey day in January,
sitting by the window of a convenience store.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His clothing was worn and dirty, his old yellow coat pulled
up against his neck, zipped to the top, a knitted red scarf tucked in around
the edges. His hands, in torn and ragged gloves, were wrapped around a cup of
coffee. Probably the warmest thing he would experience all day. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The small shopping cart that held his meager belongings was
pushed against the wall, a copy of a free local paper spread over the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiled as he turned the page, moving to
the next story.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Long white hair flowed down his back, a little greasy, but
combed. It was the same color as the beard and mustache that covered most of
his face. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He looked up as I passed. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I smiled and said hello.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">His weathered face crinkled into a large, friendly smile.
Deep blue eyes, surrounded by wrinkles of age and time, sparkled as he told me
good morning.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">He went back to reading, and I went inside for my morning
soda and a muffin. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Walking through the store, I couldn’t get his face out of my
mind. His serene nature, as he sat in the cold with a simple cup of coffee and
a newspaper, haunted me. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I couldn’t help but wonder when he’d last had warm food in
his belly, when he’d last slept somewhere heated.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">It wasn’t in my power to provide him with shelter, but I
knew I could at the very least provide him with a little sustenance.</span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> So I picked up a breakfast sandwich and made my way to the
register.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I’ll never forget the
feeling of handing the man a warm sandwich.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ll never forget the surprise that colored his expression, the smile
that spread across his worn features.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll
never forget the kindness in his eyes or his words of thanks.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Most importantly, I’ll never forget the feeling of rightness
from doing something small for another human being.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Are you wondering why I would share this experience? </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I’m not looking for an ‘atta girl’, or even expecting you to
understand. But I haven’t been able to get his face, his smile, his kind
expression, out of my thoughts.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">You see, when I pass homeless people on the street – and I
pass quite a few every day as I drive to and from my office downtown – there is
a deeply ingrained sense of ‘me’ and ‘them’. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Society has trained me to see them as different, as slackers,
as lazy, as people who made bad choices and ended up in a bad situation – their
travails their own fault - and I am blameless when I pass them with nary a
thought.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But on that cold January morning, I saw past the dirty,
ragged clothing. I saw past the misfortune and the lowly circumstances.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">That day, I saw gratitude and kindness in the eyes of another
human being. I saw a fellow child of God. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Yes, he’s a man whose path is different than my own, at
least at this point. His story is unknown to me. His joys, his pains, his
successes, his failures: a mystery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wonder if he was a soldier whose benefits have run out. Was he married for
fifty years, and upon the death of his spouse, lost all? Did a medical
emergency drain his resources? What happened to lead him to this place?</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I fail to truly understand his life, because I’ve never
walked in his shoes.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And yet, the truth is that we are more alike than different.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The more I ponder on the situation, the more I’m inundated
with memes on Facebook and other social media that scream about ‘the takers’,
the more political propaganda I see, the deeper my feelings over this occasion go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Reality for so many in our country is that we’re one payday,
one month, one medical crisis, from where this man sits. As we pass them on the
street we have no way of knowing their stories, no way of comprehending what
brought them to this place – and we can’t envision our lives turning to this
particular path.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We are ‘us’. He’s a ‘them’, receiving not our compassion,
but our scorn.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">As a society we do this a lot. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our religious sect vs. theirs.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Christians vs. Muslims.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rich vs. poor vs. middle class.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Citizen vs. immigrant.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Heterosexual vs. homosexual. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Republicans vs. Democrats vs. Independents vs. Libertarians.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Our country vs. the world.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Us. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Them.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We look for and cherish the differences instead of the
similarities, nurturing the distrust of those who aren't like us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">What it boils down to (in my eyes), is that the substance
which makes us human and decides who we are is mostly the same – whether we
have brown eyes or blue, brown skin or white, worship God or not, feel
attraction to the opposite sex or the same, have a lot of money or none, or
live in this country or another. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If you change that substance too much, life won’t happen. It
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t</i> happen.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And that is only the stuff of our physical nature.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, we are all born, our lives are lived in various
places and manners, but we all end up in the same place at the end of our
journey, as we breathe our last.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I believe the value of the time we spend on this Earth is measured in the
compassion we have for others, the love we have for our fellow beings, the
actions of our daily lives.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And I hope and pray that if I make an error in judgment in
my life, it is an error on the side of humanity, of compassion.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Because “There but for the Grace of God, go I” is more than
a saying.</span></div>
TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-51777218138889077952014-02-03T21:59:00.001-07:002014-02-03T21:59:54.379-07:00It's Gonna Be O.K.Last week I had one of those 'oh crap' moments, you know, the ones that drop a rock in the pit of your stomach and leave you feeling a little off-center.<br />
<br />
See, I had a mammogram the week before. My first. One that I procrastinated for months, then years. On Monday of last week I received the letter every woman dreads - and a phone message to follow up - "There are areas of your scan that need further evaluation."<br />
<br />
I told myself not to worry. This test was a baseline. This was my first. I'm healthy. My doctor didn't find anything suspicious at my checkup. <br />
<br />
But try as I might, I couldn't block the doubts and fears, the worries and the 'what if's'. It was a long week, waiting to do a follow-up visit.<br />
<br />
Finally, this morning I got up early and headed to the Breast Care Center for more scans.<br />
<br />
I entered the building with a smile on my face, masking the trepidation I was feeling. My chest felt heavy and my stomach twisted - I was thankful I hadn't eaten. The receptionist seemed to recognize me, and quickly handed me off to the other receptionist, the one who checks in follow-up visitors. And this time, I wasn't taken into the part of the building where they do yearly check-ups. This time I was taken to the other side. The side for returners.<br />
<br />
Sitting in the waiting room, legs crossed, foot bouncing, watching the women around me, all of them there for further evaluation or follow-up, like me, I started to think again of the 'what if' scenarios, each more worrisome than the last. My eyes wandered around the room, taking it all in, and I noticed a sign on the wall.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
My throat closed slightly, and I could feel myself tearing up. Because I wanted to hear that it would be okay, to KNOW that it would be okay.<br />
<br />
And I knew that for some of the women sitting near me in this room, things hadn't been okay previously. See, this is the room where women who were following up after surgery, who were getting their 6 month check-ups, who had been down a very difficult road, went - not just those of us who needed 'further evaluation'.<br />
<br />
Minutes felt like hours as I waited, even knowing that I would, at the very least, know what they had found before I left the building. <br />
<br />
The tech who came to get me was kind, cheerful, and helpful. We chatted as she adjusted my breasts and the machine, taking more pictures. Her attitude and her knowledge put me at ease. I knew I was in the right place, and in good hands. And when I was told I needed to undergo an ultrasound as well, I felt confident that things really would be okay.<br />
<br />
And they were.<br />
<br />
For me.<br />
<br />
I am lucky. The follow-up was necessary to see some areas that were difficult to scan - nothing more. My scans were clear, and there was nothing else I needed to worry about. I go back in a year.<br />
<br />
Huge sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
Now, you may be asking why I would write about this experience on my writing blog. I have two reasons.<br />
<br />
First, I was writing this blog in my head as I waited. It was a great distraction from the 'what if' scenarios I'd started to spin. (Being imaginative can be awfully scary at times). I knew that, whatever the outcome of my scans, I needed to put my feelings down on paper. I needed to let go of the worry, the anxiety, the stress of the prior week, and there is no better way to do that, for me, than words.<br />
<br />
More importantly, I wanted to be an example - to my daughters, my friends, to any other women who have procrastinated their care.<br />
<br />
Yes, there is a measure of discomfort in a mammogram. Yes, you may feel slightly awkward as a tech handles your breasts, moving and compressing them. Yes, you might just get a call or letter telling you to come back for more scans.<br />
<br />
But this can literally be a life or death situation.<br />
<br />
A little discomfort can be the difference between finding an anomaly early, when it's highly treatable, and finding out that you are in a critical situation that will require surgery, medications, and radiation.<br />
<br />
Please ladies, for the sake of yourself and your families, get a mammogram. Schedule it now.<br />
<br />
Then we can celebrate our good outcomes together.<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-10697696978100735152013-09-28T19:53:00.001-06:002013-09-28T20:08:00.223-06:00Why Do It?Do you ever sit down and analyze yourself?<br />
<br />
I do.<br />
<br />
Maybe not as frequently or as deeply as I should, but I do.<br />
<br />
Usually it takes a 'life event' to make me look more closely at my motives for doing things. But lately, I'm asking myself if the thing I like to do in my spare time - my hobby, my pasttime, my passion - is worth the time I spend. And I wonder if there is value in hiding away, typing like my life depends on it. Some days I struggle to get words on the page, mostly on the days when I feel less than positive or feel a great deal of stress from the other aspects of my life. I mean, let's be realistic here, I'm married, I have four kids - three of whom still live at home, I have a fairly demanding full-time job, kids' activities, a home to take care of, and on and on and on.<br />
<br />
And I end up asking myself, is it worth it? Am I any good at this? Am I neglecting other things in order to do it?<br />
<br />
Why am I doing this?<br />
<br />
So here's where I'm at right now.<br />
<br />
My life is 'safe'. I have a good job. I'm still head-over-heals for my husband of 25 years. My kids are becoming young adults, and are doing pretty well so far. There are daily struggles, sure, but overall, things are good. In fact, if you ask my mother, I'm 'the stable one' of her five children (a topic for which many blog posts could be written).<br />
<br />
My life is all earthtones. Like my living room.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Don't get me wrong. I love earth tones. I'm comfortable in earth tones. In some ways, I AM earth tones. (Terms like solid, dependable, detail-oriented come to mind - but I call myself OCD).<br />
<br />
I like to be safe. I like to feel secure. And I want my kids to feel safe and secure, something I lacked at times growing up.<br />
<br />
But there is a streak of bright crimson that runs through me, and I NEED to allow myself to let it out of my carefully protected self. I CRAVE the catharsis of writing words on a page, of telling a story, expressing my inner being in a way that I usually don't. I WANT other people to feel deep emotions when they read something I've written. I DESIRE a way to move others' souls.<br />
<br />
Truth is, I want to create an impact like those I experience when I watch a deeply meaningful dance routine, listen to a beautifully phrased song, or look at a painting that touches a chord in my heart.<br />
<br />
Singing is out of the question, and I gave up dancing a while back (other than for my own, or my family's amusement). John is the more artistic of the two of us, though he doesn't draw often.<br />
<br />
Words are my creative outlet.<br />
<br />
Writing is my release, my deep breath, if you will.<br />
<br />
And I'm at the point where I realize that I will continue to write, whether I'm writing for myself, for my family, or for a broader audience some day.<br />
<br />
I can't promise that I'll spend as much time each day as I have been. I've realized that in a few years my kids will be grown, they'll leave my carefully constructed nest. John and I will have much more time to ourselves, and I'm sure that I'll be able to write while he watches his favorite sports (which means I'll have a lot of time).<br />
<br />
I'll never stop putting pen to paper - or more accurately, fingers to keyboard.<br />
<br />
My season to pursue writing more furiously will come. In the meantime, I'll continue doing what I do - all of it, shifting focus to the adult market, rather than YA. It's more fitting for my voice, I know. (Teens aren't earth tones.)<br />
<br />
Because it's impossible for me to give up the feeling of visualizing something and striving to translate it into words. <br />
<br />
It would be folly to think I wouldn't burst if I never put another thought down on paper.<br />
<br />
Writing is a part of me. A part I'm unwilling to give up. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-7423379276405927402013-09-23T19:05:00.002-06:002013-09-23T22:32:18.951-06:00Is It Okay To Be Pretty When I Grow Up?I read a blog a couple of weeks ago that was linked to my friend's Facebook account, and I've been stewing ever since.<br />
<br />
See, in this blog a woman talked about how she helped her sons cull their Facebook friends - a process that was based on the 'seductive bra-less pajama pictures' young women posted (the harlots! - gasp). <br />
<br />
I won't even start to talk about the fact that her rather judgmental post was littered with pictures of her teenage sons, shirtless. I doubt she saw the hypocrisy of adding those 'family fun' pictures to this particular post.<br />
<br />
What I really want to address is the fact that she is extremely biased against young women, something that she learned from the culture around her.<br />
<br />
Let me back up for a minute here and tell you what I mean.<br />
<br />
My 17-year-old daughter dances on her high school drill team. They dress in costumes that, well, aren't always extremely modest. There are people who judge her for that - but that isn't where I'm going with this. Thankfully, she knows who she is, and their judgment, though unwarranted, will not harm her self-esteem (I hope).<br />
<br />
So last week the Excaliburs (her drill team) had a Mini-Excalibur Camp. They taught nearly 70 younger girls a dance over three days, which was performed at the halftime of the high school football game. And it was so much fun to watch.<br />
<br />
Baelee is a senior, and in the previous two years, she has worked with the youngest group of girls, three to six. This year, however, Baelee worked with the oldest group, those who were twelve to sixteen.<br />
<br />
She complained to me that it wasn't as much fun as the last two years.<br />
<br />
"Why?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Because the little girls are just there to have fun. They dance. They laugh. They don't care if they make a mistake. Every minute is joyful for them. The older girls are so worried about how they look, how other people will judge them, that they aren't enjoying themselves as much."<br />
<br />
And then she added, "Why can't we just be happy and enjoy what we do? Why does society take that away from us as we grow up?"<br />
<br />
What followed was a wonderful conversation with my daughter about how the way people treat us can lead to insecurities and fears, and the fact that self-esteem is too linked to what other people think. I'm glad she talked to me about this. And I truly wish every girl <i>could</i> talk to a parent about things like this.<br />
<br />
See moms and dads, our daughters are growing up in a culture that sends mixed messages at them. Constantly.<br />
<br />
You're lazy if you weigh too much. <br />
You're a diva if you're proud of your body.<br />
<br />
It's a bad thing to have acne or a uni-brow.<br />
You'll look easy if you wear too much make-up to cover up flaws or pluck too much.<br />
<br />
You're likely to 'get in trouble' if you date just one boy.<br />
You'll be considered a 'slut' if you date too many boys.<br />
<br />
You're an outcast if you wear the wrong type of clothing.<br />
You'll be raped (and deserve it) if you wear popular clothing that's more revealing.<br />
<br />
You're smart, you should be in college.<br />
You're supposed to be a mom, not a productive worker in society, so don't expect to make as much as your male counterparts.<br />
And if you're a mom and a worker outside the home, you can't do it well enough. Your kids will suffer.<br />
<br />
You're too fat. You're too thin. You're too young. You're too old. You're too smart. You aren't smart enough. You don't wear the right clothes. You don't hang with the right crowd. That color looks bad on you. Your hair isn't cut right. Your hair would look better straight/curly/short/long - whatever it isn't. How horrible that you're pierced or tattooed, or both. Get a life, you're a goody-two shoes.<br />
<br />
And I'll promise you that our girls HEAR these things. They REMEMBER these things.<br />
<br />
Negative, packed on negative, packed on negative. You just can't win.<br />
<br />
The compliments they get won't undo the sharp jabs that come at them from every side. (And we've trained them to shrug off compliments, anyway.)<br />
<br />
<br />
And then maybe, just maybe, your daughter goes to school one day and a friend approaches her.<br />
<br />
"Hey, didn't that Hall boy unfriend you on Facebook?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah. Why?"<br />
<br />
"Well, his mom wrote a blog about how she makes her boys unfollow trampy girls."<br />
<br />
"Oh."<br />
<br />
Some girls might spill an expletive. Some girls might cry. Some girls might not say anything, but will internalize the insult. Some might even ask themselves if they've ever acted in an inappropriate way around the Hall boy.<br />
<br />
Way to go Hall mom.<br />
<br />
You've just knocked a teenage girl's self-esteem down. You win.<br />
<br />
Or how about the girl who hits the 'like' button on a Facebook post. Something simple like 'hey, can't you respect your friend's house?', only to be attacked by a group of other girls on Twitter. <br />
<br />
"Who do you think you are?"<br />
"Why do you think you're better than us?"<br />
"You're just a (fill in the blank with the meanest word you can think of)."<br />
<br />
It's really easy to say hurtful things when you don't have to see the reaction. And we wonder why bullying is such a problem.<br />
<br />
Or worse, how about a young girl who makes a bad decision to drink at a party and is raped by the boys in attendance, only to be told by many people that she 'deserved it'? And to add insult to injury, people post pictures of the assault on social media?<br />
<br />
She ends up moving because the people in town are upset the football players got in trouble. After all, she's the 'sleazy' girl who got drunk and was wearing seductive clothing. The boys had absolutely no control over their own behavior, right?<br />
<br />
And if you don't think all the previous negatives and a post by a kinda well-meaning mom contribute to the problem of rape culture that we're facing, well, you need to think again.<br />
<br />
<br />
We are constantly telling girls that their bodies are sexual things, that boys will be boys - and if they aren't careful, boys will assault them. Then we tell them that sex is bad. That good girls wait. Good girls don't have feelings of sexual attraction. And all the while they are hitting puberty, hormones raging.<br />
<br />
And their self-esteem takes another hit.<br />
<br />
'I must be a bad person because I feel sexually attracted to someone.'<br />
'I'm bad because I'm curious about sex.'<br />
'I'm not a good girl because I like to see boys without their shirts on.'<br />
<br />
Is there some unwritten rule that says we can't teach our girls that attraction is normal and natural? Can't we teach them (and their male counterparts) that they have the ability to choose a course that is right and healthy
for themselves? That no boy has the right to choose for them? That waiting is healthy? That choosing not to wait is a decision best made when taking responsibility for safety? (Yes, I know that parents want their children to choose based on their moral guidelines, but shouldn't they be prepared for any situation?)<br />
<br />
<br />
Why do we do this to our girls? Our children?<br />
<br />
Why do grown women set an example of gossip and judgment for their kids?<br />
<br />
Why do we tell our daughters that whatever it is they are is not right?<br />
<br />
What do we have against being happy with ourselves?<br />
<br />
To my daughters and sons, I say, "You are amazing people. I love who you are becoming. Keep your chins up. You have great worth, no matter what you hear from the world." <br />
<br />
To the world I say, "To hell with 'dancing like noone can see you. Dance like the world is watching, and you're proud to be yourself."<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-3627591326375324902013-09-12T22:18:00.002-06:002013-09-12T22:40:04.706-06:00What Are You Afraid Of?What scares you?<br />
<br />
I mean really, really takes you down, makes your cheeks flush as an icy cold tremor runs down the length of your spine and your hands get sweaty, makes your muscles freeze up and your stomach clench with a sick feeling that immobilizes you, makes you have nightmares for a week. That kind of fear.<br />
<br />
When I was young, it was spiders. After a particularly high fever and hallucinations of spiders crawling up my favorite spotted blanket, I couldn't stand to look at them. I can remember a day when I screamed for my mom to come and save me from a black widow. It was on the driveway, and there was no way on Earth I was going to walk past it with bare feet. My mother rescued me, rolling her eyes. "It's just a spider. You should have killed it."<br />
<br />
I get that now. Moms can't afford to be afraid of spiders -- we're too busy saving our children from them. (Bring on my shining armor already.) I may shudder in revulsion after squashing one, but I do it anyway.<br />
<br />
Heights still paralyze me.<br />
<br />
Not that I've let it stop me from enjoying life (mostly - I'll never have the thrill of jumping from an airplane or throwing myself off a bridge at the mercy of a bungee cord). I've hiked through Arches National Park - and yes, I did crawl back from Delicate Arch to the trailhead, but I stood at the edge of the cliff and looked down from under the Arch, and it was glorious. Until I started to feel dizzy.<br />
<br />
I went to the top of the Stratosphere in Las Vegas and rode the Big Shot. Three times! And roller coasters, well just try and stop me from going on every one I can.<br />
<br />
But I still can't look when my husband climbs on the roof of our house. <br />
<br />
Most people say speaking in public is one of their greatest fears. I used to agree with them. That was before I had to speak in front of about a thousand people (yes, literally a thousand). And I survived. Intact, even.<br />
<br />
If you ever sit behind me when I speak to a large group, you'll see my feet shuffling, my ankles rolling from side to side, and possibly my knees knocking a little. At first. Once I get going, you'll be lucky to shut me up (I like to talk, I mean really, really like to talk).<br />
<br />
I will never be accused of being agoraphobic. Bring on the crowds.<br />
<br />
The greatest fear I have these days is for my children.<br />
<br />
I was in the waiting room of the dentist's office when the first
reports of Oklahoma City broke, and I sat with the receptionist, gaping at
the television, in disbelief that anyone would choose to cause such destruction.<br />
<br />
I watched as children were rushed out of Columbine High School, and I cried with a young man who was our neighbor. Neither of us could understand what would cause teens to do something like that.<br />
<br />
<br />
And I'll never forget watching planes fly into the World Trade Center,
and wondering what the world would be like as my children grew. The sick feeling from that event lasted for days as I watched people looking for their loved ones, posting picture after picture on the wall. I hugged my kids a lot during that time, grateful they were close to me.<br />
<br />
The news is full of the worst possible scenarios. Horrified, I watched reports of kidnapped young women and prayed for their safe return. And I was stunned to hear there was a man who held three young ladies captive in his home for a decade. Aghast that a teenager was shot by an adult while walking home from getting junk food. Car accidents caused by texting while driving. Alcohol poisoning on college campuses. Mothers and fathers who would never see their children grow up. The list of possible dangers is endless and could leave a parent unable to breathe.<br />
<br />
And those are the things I have no control over.<br />
<br />
I also fear that my kids aren't prepared for life. That I haven't done enough to teach them.<br />
<br />
Parenthood, right? sigh<br />
<br />
Sometimes I think my kids are fearless (except for spiders, which we've already established). But there are quiet evenings when they'll lie down next to me and tell me their worries, share their fears with me. I hurt for them, with them. And I do everything in my power to help them. I tell them they have no boundaries - they can be who they want to be, do what they want to do. And I encourage them, as every mother would.<br />
<br />
But all I can really say is to never let fear stop them from accomplishing the things they want to accomplish.<br />
<br />
It's great advice my mother gave me.<br />
<br />
I'm still working on getting it right.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-26917144442537893962013-08-25T19:45:00.004-06:002013-08-25T19:45:41.272-06:00I Am...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfZdfUtphr8YwnzeGhXgvizNezeFT6SHG61-z6deyiqc39NbvJusM5Dut0eWAAQPNmhabmQCeiJYF6GccvCr0F78B8m2n7MIygWxFCYepImRIWi7mv0Mv6lkVSKqKCIWkY9Mq7-ivMIQ/s1600/family+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBfZdfUtphr8YwnzeGhXgvizNezeFT6SHG61-z6deyiqc39NbvJusM5Dut0eWAAQPNmhabmQCeiJYF6GccvCr0F78B8m2n7MIygWxFCYepImRIWi7mv0Mv6lkVSKqKCIWkY9Mq7-ivMIQ/s1600/family+pic.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My family - June 2013. I'm the short one. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Lately, I've thought a lot about my writing, and what I hope to accomplish with it. I've listened to other writers, watched agents' twitter and blog accounts for a clue to what they want, and tried to pay attention to what is being published.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I'll be honest, there's a part of me that wants to write what 'they' want.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But that wouldn't be me, being true to myself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">At times I wonder, would some agents be more interested if I were a different person? You know, if I wrote extremely explicit sex scenes (which I don't), if I wrote cheesy romance (don't have it in me), or if I wrote contemporary YA fiction (not my thing). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reality is this, I'm a mom, and that definitely impacts what I write. Anything I put on paper should be something I would be proud to allow my children to read - if not today, then in the future. That doesn't mean I'll only write easy, feel-good, PG stories. In fact, I feel like my kids need to understand the 'real' world. I've never been one to hide reality from them or shelter them too much. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And maybe more than that, if I try to force myself to write things that aren't intrinsically 'me', they won't be well written. My voice needs to be my own. My stories need to be what I want to write - not an attempt to please people I've never even met.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Does this mean that I'll never find an agent I connect with who loves my work? I don't know the answer to that question. What I wouldn't give for a crystal ball right now! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I do know this - I carry a lot of experience into my writing. It may not be <i>your</i> experience, but isn't that what books are about, carrying us to places we don't typically go? I also know that I'll continue to write (and get more accomplished now that I'm determined to shake off my worries about everyone else), and I'll press forward in an effort to one day be published. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am a writer. I am a wife and mother. I work every day, outside my home and in it. I have amazing children, and my family is the most important thing in my world. I'm determined to keep doing what I love - all of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I AM Tina. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And I rock at being me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-27844005987860729302013-08-11T18:14:00.003-06:002013-08-11T18:14:40.207-06:00ImprobablesWhen I was nine, my friends and I saw a UFO.<br />
<br />
We were having a sleep out in my neighbor's back yard the first time we saw it. The night was dark, and we were whispering, trying to avoid being shushed by the parents inside. Jani spotted it, pointing it out to the rest of us with a 'wow, look at that'. Of course we doubted her at first - she tended to tease and was a huge practical joker.<br />
<br />
But when we looked to where she indicated, there it was, a round object floating over our neighborhood, lights flashing around the body as it moved - red, yellow, white, green, blue.<br />
<br />
Sleeping bags were tossed aside and all thoughts of being quiet forgotten, as we leapt to our feet and followed its progress in the sky. When our parents had finally calmed us down, we retreated back to the sleeping bags and stargazed for the rest of the night, waiting for it to return.<br />
<br />
We didn't see it again that night, but over the course of the summer, we'd spot it flying over our neighborhood at least once a week.<br />
<br />
And we were certain it was an alien spacecraft.<br />
<br />
Imagine our disappointment when the local news reported that it was merely a small airplane, preparing to land at the tiny municipal airport a few miles from where we lived. The pilot was a joker. He'd strung Christmas lights on wire around the body of his plane. He kept his plane at Airport #2, and would take off during daylight hours, returning with his 'spacecraft' after dark.<br />
<br />
I was devastated. I wanted it to be a UFO. I wanted to meet aliens, to watch a spaceship land in our street, to take off and explore another universe.<br />
<br />
That wasn't going to happen.<br />
<br />
But on the shelves in our house, there were books where it did.<br />
<br />
The improbable is possible in a book.<br />
<br />
Spaceships land. People travel through time or live on deserted islands. The good guy/girl always wins - and if they don't, there's a good reason why they didn't. The average girl gets the 'hot' guy. Cancer is cured. Wars are won. Governments overthrown. Children solve mysteries. Mermaids walk on the land.<br />
<br />
Anything is possible within the pages of a good book.<br />
<br />
And that, well that is why I write. To make the improbable my probable - if only for a little while. I live the story while I write. Eat it, breathe it, dream it.<br />
<br />
If I'm lucky - write the right thing at the right time, query the right agent, sell to the right publisher - maybe someday I can share my improbables with others and help them escape from reality for a little while.TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-29973134678670699022013-05-26T15:31:00.000-06:002013-05-26T15:31:02.452-06:00I Will Always Remember YouThis Memorial weekend we won't be visiting cemeteries. We'll be spending time at home, with our kids. So instead of buying bouquets for graves, I've decided to honor those who have passed with words and memories.<br />
<br />
** <br />
<br />
<i>Darren</i> left this world far too early. He was eight when he was riding a dirt bike with an older neighbor. They hit a fence that had been erected across a path they frequently used. Darren struck his head, and he never awoke. I was twelve at the time, my brother eight. I'll never forget the impact of losing someone we were close to - and I'll never forget the haunted look on the faces of the adults in our lives.<br />
<br />
See, Darren was a dark-haired, blue-eyed, dimpled ball of energy. He was the boy who climbed the pine tree in their back yard, intending to jump from the highest branches like Steve Austin, the Six-Million Dollar Man. But upon reaching the top (which was much higher than their home), he realized he was afraid of heights, and froze. My uncle, who was no less afraid of heights, climbed the tree and retrieved his son, guiding him safely back to the ground.<br />
<br />
Darren was loved by all who knew him. When we visited, he would wave at every neighbor as we walked to the park to play. His smile would grow and his dimples deepen when he talked about the next thing he planned to do. He was fun. He was full of life. He was lovely. Too lovely, apparently, for this world. <br />
<br />
At the time of his death, Darren had set himself and his older brother the task of raking the dry needles from beneath the huge pine tree to improve his 'fort' under the lower branches. He was building a large pile of needles and leaves, a pile he intended to burn like a volcano when he finished. He never got the chance. My uncle sobbed after the funeral as he lit the pyre and watched it burn. <br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
<i>Grandpa Mark and Grandma Nona</i> lived on a small dirt lane on the north end of Logan. Their neighbors were few and far between, and they had horses in their pasture. There was always a treat waiting when we visited. As the years moved on, the quiet neighborhood became crowded. A hospital was built across the street, asphalt replaced dirt, and stores, condos and homes intruded. <br />
<br />
Mark lived to 82, longer than the work horses that he loved, longer than many of his family members and friends. For years, his picture hung in the rest stop near Willard Bay, which thrilled him beyond words. There he was immortalized, leading his work horses around a field. It hung for a long time, but last time I looked, they had replaced it with newer pictures. He and his work horses were a relic from an age far gone.<br />
<br />
Nona outlived him physically, but her mind failed her long before Grandpa was gone. She was the grandparent that sent me 'Teeny Tiny Teena' for a birthday, and she never spelled my name with an 'i'. She walked everywhere, until the day she couldn't remember how to get home. At Grandpa Mark's funeral, she didn't remember me, she didn't remember him, and she was lost in a world where she was still a very young lady, but nobody around her looked familiar. <br />
<br />
When we visit Logan, I look for that lane, knowing I won't find it. I know where their house stood, and I still picture it in my mind as I look at the buildings that have replaced it.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
<i>Grandpa Yeates</i> was the first grandparent I lost. I was nineteen when he passed, in the hospital on a street that used to be a dirt lane. When I think of him, I can still hear his gravelly voice, "Hello, Tina". His presence was warm, his eyes distorted by the thick glasses he always wore, his thin lips spread in a smile. Grandpa owned a service station on the edge of Logan, and when we would stop to see him on our way out of town, he always had candy to give us. Black licorice - the better to make messy kids, he'd say.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget the last birthday party we had for him - 75 years old, a landmark. It was the last time I saw him conscious. He knew his heart was failing, and that he wouldn't be with us much longer, and he sat me by his side to impart a few words of wisdom. His last requests of me were things he wanted for me, for my benefit. I've done pretty well at keeping the promises I made that day, but I'm still working on a few things. I think he knows I've tried, and I continue to try to live like he wanted me to. <br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
<i>Grandma Yeates </i>was my last living grandparent. She'd tell anyone who would listen that she was too stubborn to die. It's true. She'd lasted through several bouts of cancer, fought disease and loss, and always emerged the victor. I believed her when she said she'd live to be 100. She gave up a little before then, telling us she was tired.<br />
<br />
Grandma was a hard lady to know, a scary and imposing figure when I was a child. The more I learned about her life, the more I understood her need to keep people at arms length. She lost her mother when she was eight, her father drifted in and out of their lives. She was raised by her grandparents, and it wasn't a pleasant environment - they had hated her father, and she paid the price for her mother's choice to marry him.<br />
<br />
Leona - that was her name - was a flapper in the 1920's. My favorite picture of her is from that era, her hair bobbed, her dress flashy. Her sister joined a traveling Vaudeville show. Leona stayed home and married my grandfather. But she sang at every opportunity - including more than 2000 funerals (even her own).<br />
<br />
I'm grateful that she spent the last few years of her life close to our home, that I had a chance to know her, to appreciate her. And I'll never forget standing in her room on her 97th birthday as she breathed her last, the feeling of calm and peace as she slipped from this life into the arms of her family waiting on the other side.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
<i>Grandpa Vene</i> was a favorite of the grandchildren. He had a loud, booming voice, and wasn't above telling scary stories at bedtime - full of owls hooting and wolves howling. We would taunt, and he would chase. As rough as he seemed, he loved us, and we always knew it.<br />
<br />
Grandpa had a big garden, I think about 1/4 of an acre. He'd move the hose and chase the water down the rows, hoe in hand to clear obstructions. He'd grumble at us to 'get out of the garden', but I believe he loved it when we helped him. The vegetables from his garden were some of the best I've eaten in my life, and I miss strolling through the rows with him as he'd show me what he was harvesting.<br />
<br />
One of Grandpa Euvene's (Vene for short) happiest moments was the day of his 80th birthday, when my first son was born. When we'd visit him in the hospital, he'd show Carson off, bragging about the grandson born on his birthday. We lost him not long after that. First to dementia, then to death.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Grandma Martha</i> was - and always will be - one of my favorite people in the world. She never earned a degree, she wasn't a scholar or the head of a company, but she was the best teacher of compassion I've ever met. She shared her wisdom in quiet ways, in private moments. At her elbow, I learned to make a white sauce, and listened as she told me how much she appreciated how I helped my mom. In her front yard, I learned to quilt, and heard her talk about making good choices and working hard. The summer days spent at her home were some of the best days of my childhood. Root beer floats at the drug store, softball games in the park, and the best homemade cookies and cinnamon rolls in the world. Best of all, she gave me my mom, and taught her everything she knew.<br />
<br />
When asked what item I would like from her home after she died, I requested her cookie jar. It sits on a cabinet in my kitchen, a constant reminder that there are people in this world who love me, and who always had time and a cookie for a little girl. <br />
<br />
Her passing was hard, but she visits me still - in my dreams, and in quiet moments when I need her advice, I feel her loving presence, and I know all things will work out.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
<i>Smitty</i> entered my life when I was fourteen - and angry. I didn't want my mother to remarry, especially not a man we barely knew, and who had issues from his past to tackle. But he did tackle them, and he was a good partner to my mother for 25 years.<br />
<br />
There were many times when my brain (and mouth) took issue with Smitty's ideas. He was a staunch Republican, and grew up in an era when discrimination was normal. We'd spar, arguing over the 'rightness' of an issue or the qualifications of a politician. And I like to believe we both learned from each other.<br />
<br />
He was far from perfect, but then, so am I. He loved us, and we learned to love him back. His family added a new element to ours, and though we never 'blended' perfectly, we are bound by our parents.<br />
<br />
When Smitty passed, my children lost an amazing grandfather. He was there for them from birth, bringing 'cold bread' (ice cream) when they were sick, teaching them guitar, and singing for them. We all miss those moments.<br />
<br />
**<br />
<br />
There are so many others who have touched my life, who I owe a debt of gratitude.<br />
<br />
<i>Bruce</i> - a favorite cousin. He struggled to be who he was, moved to another city, and died young. AIDS took him from us. I miss his smile.<br />
<br />
<i>Greg</i> - John's cousin. A concert pianist, he played all night at our wedding reception. He, too, was taken by the dreadful disease that many call a curse for 'choosing a lifestyle'. He was a beautiful person.<br />
<br />
<i>John, Jani, and Sheri Martin</i> - close friends and neighbors. Each lost in a separate time and manner, but each tied to the tragic moment when Sheri was taken from them.<br />
<br />
<i>Uncle Gary</i>, a victim of smoking and leaded gasoline in a time before garages were vented. His manner was gruff, but he tried to impart how important health was before he left us.<br />
<br />
<i> Aunt Dora</i>, her fingers forever playing the organ or a piano.<br />
<br />
<i> Uncle Clyde</i> and his big-bellied laugh.<br />
<br />
There are others, friends, children of friends and family members, acquaintances, neighbors, each of them leaving an imprint in my life. Their lives touched mine, and I was shaped by them, in part.<br />
<br />
Though they are gone, they will never be forgotten.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">{I invite any who read this to mention someone who touched their own life - in memory of them - in the comments.} </span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-46395961810177912202013-04-11T21:27:00.001-06:002013-04-12T07:06:25.846-06:00My Original NookI had a nook when I was a kid. And it wasn't electronic.<br />
<br />
I found my nook the summer after I turned twelve. That summer was a tough one.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But evenings were all mine, and I had a bike. And a library card.<br />
<br />
The local library wasn't very big, but it had a pretty good selection of books. I started with the entire <i>Mrs. Piggle-Wiggle</i> 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.<br />
<br />
Then one day I found my nook.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
It was the launching pad of dreams, the gateway to imagination, and the best friend a bookworm could have.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I'd ride my bike home with several books each time, only to return for more within a few days.<br />
<br />
The librarians would smile and wave when I walked in. They knew I'd be there for a while.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
I introduced some friends to the nook during those years. Had a few sweet kisses there. Studied there when I could.<br />
<br />
And as life got easier at home, and I moved on to high school, I lost touch with my secret hide-away.<br />
<br />
I didn't need the quiet and peace of the nook anymore.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And now when I hear someone talk about reading on their Nook, I smile.<br />
<br />
I had a nook long before they ever did.<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-68473345316226686132013-04-07T18:15:00.002-06:002013-04-07T19:22:18.416-06:00The N-SLV<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is my entry </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">in a short-short story writing contest (1500 words or less). Unfortunately, I didn't beat out the other 7000 entrants. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So, I'm sharing it here. Enjoy!</span> </span></span></i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I find her lying on the floor in her
office.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She is cold to the touch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“My wife,” I say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“She’s not responding to me. She’s grey.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The woman gets serious, verifying who
I am and where we are. Then she asks, “Is she breathing?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Yes,” I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Can you see anything in the room that
could have caused an injury?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Frantic, I look around, noting that
there is nothing in the vicinity except her office chair.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“She may have fallen,” I surmise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“How far?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Just out of her chair. She was
working. Writing. She’s a writer.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They examine her, looking for trauma.
There is none.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They listen to her heart, check her
vitals, and try to remove the N-SLV laptop from her grasp.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She doesn’t let go. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The screen is still glowing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Agonizing, I think over the last few
weeks.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The ambulance stops with a jerk, and I
nearly fall. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">An EMT slaps my shoulder, steadying
me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Let’s get her inside,” he says.
“She’ll be in good hands here.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I nod and move out of the way,
following the gurney through the automatic doors.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A nurse points to the Trauma Room. “Dr.
Belus will be right down. Fill us in on her vitals.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One EMT explains the situation, using
terms that are unfamiliar. The nurse nods, and makes notes on the chart.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Stepping into a corner, I notice the
screen of the laptop. It’s dimmer. Fading.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">His expression gives nothing away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He shines a light into her eyes, and
the laptop dims further.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heart
monitor makes a shrill noise.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“She’s crashing,” he says, and the
team jumps into action. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They pull the laptop from her grasp
and the screen goes black. The monitor flat lines. An alarm is screaming. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I think I am, too.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They push me into the hall, and shove
the N-SLV into my chest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’m in shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This can’t be happening. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not to her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She finally found the success she was
working for with her writing. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost
Soul</i> series is everything she said it could be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I look at the laptop in my hands,
remembering.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“He said it will make my dreams come
true,” she said, smiling. The salesman had promised. She believed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The second was written by then, and
they offered big money and a contract for two more.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She’d never been happier.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And now, a doctor bounces over her
body, doing chest compressions. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Time stills. It’s forever and no time
at all.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My eyes do not shift, so I see when he
steps away, shaking his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I shake mine in response.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He turns and sees me, and I watch as
he says something to the nurse. She nods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As he opens the door, he addresses me,
“Mr. Ames?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Yes,” I whisper.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“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.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I look down, staring at the laptop in
my hands. I hate it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He asks, “Did she have any health
issues?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“No,” I say.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Has she been to a doctor lately?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“No.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">He continues to question, and I mumble
responses. I hear the words autopsy and investigation, and the tears start.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This can’t be real.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">An officer steps into the room, and
the questions begin again. Just to find out what happened, they assure me over
and over.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“She was just tired,” I explain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks at me sadly and pats my hand.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“You should go home,” he says, and I
agree.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As I stand, I realize I’m dizzy. My
fingers are wrapped around the laptop. They’re numb.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So am I.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">#</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Two weeks after the funeral, I give in
and pick up the phone when her agent calls.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Have you checked to see if the book
was complete?” she asks without greeting me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I sigh. “No. I haven’t even opened her
laptop. I don’t know if I can.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I want to. It’s calling to me, the red
letters that spell out N-SLV flashing each time I walk past.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“The publisher is anxious. They gave
her an advance. I don’t want them to cause you trouble,” she says. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I know it’s more than that – she
doesn’t want to lose her commission. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lost
Soul</i> series had promised to make her wealthy and well-known.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I’ll call you back,” I say, and hang
up without waiting for an answer.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The laptop is right where I left it
that day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But when I hit the power button, the
screen glows bright, and the story she was writing appears.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Scrolling to the beginning, I read.
Hours pass, but I’m engrossed in the tale she was weaving.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But as I move the computer back to her
desk, I hit a key, and words start to form on the screen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My fingers tingle as I stroke the
keyboard. More words appear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I type a few
letters, and the page fills.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My heart stutters slightly. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Morgan?” I call out. Is it her? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The computer pulls me in again, and I
realize it isn’t. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">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. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s dark when the words ‘The End’
appear, and I’m drained. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Before I call her agent, I need to
test something. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Her agent is thrilled to hear there
are more books.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When I close the laptop, I flinch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The large, red letters have changed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It now says N-SLV2.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">#</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The
host of the morning show asks me questions, and I answer. As her widower, I’m
doing the book tour for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Searching for Heaven.</i>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I
hear this won’t be the last book,” he says.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“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.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> I shudder, and he consoles me as we go
to commercial.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Later, as I get into the car that will
take me back to my hotel, I reach into my bag for the laptop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I don’t understand how it works, but I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> to finish her series.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’m strong enough.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">My fingers touch the keys, and I give
another piece of my soul to the story – and the N-SLV2.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-47433084986520510692012-09-15T23:43:00.001-06:002012-09-15T23:43:34.749-06:00A New Work In Progress<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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.</div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
And I'm doing it. </div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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. </div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
'In a Minute' is the tentative title.</div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
And although I know these words can/will change, here's the opening of the novel as it currently stands:</div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
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<i>“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></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>“I almost forgot.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>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. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>I shook my head as she headed to the door again. “We don’t
have to leave yet.”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>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.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her pouty lip shuddered a little as she
pretended to cry.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>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.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>Hannah immediately smiled and threw her arms around my neck.
“I love you, Momma. My new class won’t be as special as you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kissed my cheek and patted it with her
tiny hand. “Now can we go?”</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<i>Master manipulator at the age of three. </i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Any thoughts or input? Feel free to comment. ;)<i> </i></div>
<br />
TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-3571818479676344242012-08-16T20:55:00.000-06:002012-08-16T20:55:55.488-06:00Measuring Success<i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"To be successful, you must decide exactly what you want to accomplish, then resolve to pay the price to get it." -- Bunker Hunt</span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">First, I need to explain the sulking.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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'. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Okay, not that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">But, much to my dismay, not only was I left without feedback, but my entire genre seemed to be skipped. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">GAH!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Apparently, I have really awful timing. Dystopian just isn't the thing to try to sell right now. *sob*</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is where the quote comes in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then I read these words: resolve to pay the price to get it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Seriously?!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">'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.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One year is a lot, sure. But obviously, it's not enough. The price is higher. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">That begs the question - am I willing to pay the price to get what I want (published)?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The answer: Yes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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* </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">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.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I'm resolved.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And scared out of my mind. :) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span></i>TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-34167148719448667542012-07-13T12:15:00.001-06:002012-07-13T12:15:15.512-06:00On How Baseball Relates to WritingYes, 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. <br />
<br />
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? <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So how does this relate to writing?<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
But if we want to be GREAT writers, PHENOMENAL writers, we do it again and again, gaining experience and training each time. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And guess what - we strike out. A lot. <br />
<br />
But it's that one hit, you know the one, that grand slam that scores the winning run, that we're waiting for.<br />
<br />
And if we're patient, it will happen.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
They have to put their hearts and pride on the line TEN times to get THREE hits.<br />
<br />
How many times have I stepped into the batter's box? Honestly, I haven't counted. I will, later.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-6383637409082278992012-07-01T22:19:00.001-06:002012-07-01T22:19:17.159-06:00Who Am I?Seems like a pretty simple question, doesn't it?<br />
<br />
And on the surface, I guess it is.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
In my downtime (snicker - yeah, right) I dream of traveling and being published. Maybe traveling to promote my book, even. <br />
<br />
But when I'm asked to include a biographical paragraph in a query, I freeze up.<br />
<br />
All of the things I am, all of the things I do, well, they don't count in that particular paragraph. <br />
<br />
Agents are looking for information about prior publishing experience. And well, I don't really have any that's relevant. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But I haven't been published.<br />
<br />
No small articles in major sources, no books. Nothing that I can add to that paragraph. Yet.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
My 'biography' may be unstated in my query letter, but it is ever-present in my work.TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-23728759935892435032012-06-03T20:34:00.003-06:002012-06-03T20:34:42.011-06:00What's NextMay was full of excitement. I was a contestant (thank you Brenda Drake!) in The Writer's Voice. <br />
<br />
What was the outcome of The Writer's Voice?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.) <br />
<br />
I received one 'vote', and sent a partial to an agent - Andrea Somberg at the Harvey Klinger Agency. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So what's next for me?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
And in the meantime, I'm writing. Camp NaNo is going on in June, and I plan to write 50,000 words this month.<br />
<br />
With that said, I'd better get writing! <br />
<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-30437150227104649402012-05-09T07:17:00.000-06:002012-05-09T07:17:59.406-06:00Yes, A Cheesecake Recipe on My Blog!I'm posting my cheesecake recipe<strike> as a bribe</strike> to fulfill a Twitter promise.<br />
<br />
First, you have to know that I vary my recipe depending on the type of cheesecake I feel like making. <br />
<br />
*See variations notes below. <br />
<br />
So, without further ado...<br />
<br />
<u>Basic Cheesecake Recipe:</u><br />
<br />
2 8-oz cream cheese (full strength, low fat doesn't bake as well)<br />
3 eggs<br />
1 cup sugar<br />
1 tsp. vanilla<br />
1 16 oz. container sour cream<br />
<br />
Create your crust. (1 pkg. graham crackers, crumbled, and about 1/2 c. butter makes a great, simple crust)<br />
<br />
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.<br />
<br />
In a glass bowl, warm the cream cheese in the microwave for 40 seconds.<br />
<br />
With a hand mixer, whip the cream cheese for one minute - til smooth.<br />
<br />
Add eggs - one at a time (yes, it does make a difference), mixing until smooth.<br />
<br />
Add sugar. Mix for two minutes. <br />
<br />
Add vanilla (*see variations notes) and sour cream. Blend until mixed - don't over mix at this point.<br />
<br />
Pour your cheesecake batter onto prepared crust. <br />
<br />
In a large roasting pan, crisscross two large pieces of foil. Place your springform pan on the foil, and 'nestle' it in the foil. Surround the springform pan with very hot water (about 1/2" deep). <br />
<br />
Bake for 50-55 minutes.<br />
<br />
Remove from oven, and from water bath. Place cheesecake in springform pan on stove to cool for 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
Refrigerate for at least 4 hours to set.<br />
<br />
Eat it up! <br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Variations:</u><br />
<br />
I play with this recipe a lot. For instance, if I want a Triple Chocolate Cheesecake, I use a brownie
mix and bake part of it as my crust. (You can swirl the remainder of the
mix into the cheesecake batter, or make more brownies.) Melt baking
chocolate and add it to the cheesecake batter in place of the vanilla, then toss in chocolate
chips. <br />
<br />
Or Oreos. Use your food processor to crumble 2/3 of a package of Oreo, mix with about 1/3 c. of melted butter for the crust. Chop the remaining Oreos and add them to the batter before you bake it. <br />
<br />
Okay, I could go on for days about the variations - but I
won't. I have to go to work today. ;)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-24822180794021165332012-05-04T12:00:00.000-06:002012-05-04T12:00:13.005-06:00The Writer's Voice ContestI am a very lucky girl today. I got a spot in The Writer’s Voice contest. It's a multi-blog, multi-agent contest hosted by Cupid of <a href="http://cupidslitconnection.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #0033cb;">Cupid’s Literary Connection</span></a>, Brenda Drake of <a href="http://brenleedrake.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #0033cb;">Brenda Drake Writes</span></a>, Monica B.W. of <a href="http://monibw.blogspot.com/"><span style="color: #0033cb;">Love YA</span></a>, and <a href="http://motherwrite.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: #aa0033;">Krista Van Dolzer ofMother. Write. (Repeat.)</span></a>. Huge thanks to all four ladies!<br />
I'm entry #194. :)<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Plugged In - Summary</u></strong>:<br />
<br /><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Misty was only looking for a doll when she stepped into her mother’s art room in the attic, so finding a hidden notebook was unexpected - and terrifying.<span> </span>Paper has been against the law since before she was born. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Angry that so much is out of her control, and that she is being forced to stay away from her best friend, Berek Mulholland, Misty breaks the rules and reads the notebook.<span> </span>As she digs, she finds clues to her mother’s disappearance, and more.<span> </span>Berek, who is training<span> </span>to become a Tech, gives her frightening new insight into their world.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Computers are self-aware. Techs govern everything. And people disappear frequently.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;">Berek’s family is taken.<span> </span>Misty is threatened.<span> </span>And the notebook has given her the courage to do something unthinkable – leave the confines of the biosphere.<span> </span>The young couple treks into the Outland, looking for help.<span> </span>And a way to fight Tech Central.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 150%;"><strong>Plugged In - First 250 Words:</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A strong breeze swept past Misty Evan’s face, causing her long red ringlets to twist and snarl, but she didn’t move to untangle them.<span> </span>Her mind was elsewhere, her hazel eyes staring through the dense chain link as if it weren’t there, watching the water lap at the rocky shore of the distant reservoir.<span> </span>She ached to touch it, to test her theory of how cold the water would be, but knew she never would.<span> </span>Imagining the sound of the water kissing the rocks and the damp air touching her face, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back to soak up the August sun. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You’ll get more freckles, you know,” her best friend Berek Mulholland whispered in her ear, and she giggled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Do you ever wonder how cold the water is?” she asked, squinting against the sun as she looked up at him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">His dark hair blew across his face, hiding his cobalt eyes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“Nope.<span> </span>I’m too busy trying to figure out how to get around the latest Tricks that’ve been coded in the Big Game. I’ve gotta stay ahead of the guys.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Berek turned away from the fence to look at the mountain that towered over the west side of their city. She knew he wasn’t being completely truthful when she saw his cheek twitch.<span> </span>He’d never been good at lying to her.</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He wouldn’t admit it, but it had to bother him as much as it bothered her, that they couldn’t go outside of the boundary of their city.</span>TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-79665462209382492352012-04-04T22:49:00.000-06:002012-04-04T22:49:43.058-06:00Procrastination, Writer's Block, or Something Else?I missed the revision date that I circled in my planner.<br />
<br />
I have a hundred 'reasons' for missing it. A promotion - and still doing my old job in addition to my new job until they hire someone. Budget season and School Board Meetings. Drill Team finishing up the year, and all that entails for a mom whose daughter doesn't drive yet. The beginning of baseball season - and did I mention that my sweet husband told them I'll keep score? Housework. Church work. Homework. The list could go on and on.<br />
<br />
But are they reasons or excuses? <br />
<br />
Is my list a form of procrastination? Am I suffering from writer's block? Or is it some combination of both, or something else all together?<br />
<br />
In all honesty, I think I just needed a breather.<br />
<br />
While I was anxious to make the revisions to my story, I also worried that I was too close to see everything that needed to be done. So a step back was healthy, right?<br />
<br />
The break gave me a chance to get excited about my story again. It gave me the energy to dive in and make changes.<br />
<br />
I've set a new deadline for myself. April 30. Yes - of this year. And I have a writing partner who is working on revisions, too. <br />
<br />
Now I need to turn off Twitter and Facebook and all of the other distractions the internet offers, and get to work. TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-81686755974933997452012-02-27T22:24:00.000-07:002012-02-27T22:24:02.608-07:00The Scariest Word Ever: RevisionOkay, so it's not really the scariest word ever, even if I used to believe it was.<br />
<br />
That was before.<br />
<br />
Before I completed a novel. Before I reworked and edited and rewrote and changed the words so many times my head was spinning. And before I had a few crit partners read my story.<br />
<br />
My outlook on revision has changed drastically in the last couple of weeks.<br />
<br />
You see, I've had some input now. And it was good, helpful input. I can see where my characters are weak. I can see where I need to describe more, where I need to alter the world, where I need to skip a scene or add a scene.<br />
<br />
I've been provided with a new view of my writing, and because of that, I'm ready for revision. Or Re-Vision - my new term, which is possibly less scary than the word 'revision'.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I now have a new vision of certain parts of my story, and I'm ready to incorporate some changes. My re-visioning will be put on paper, so to speak. (As a writer I reserve the right to make up words as needed.)<br />
<br />
I'm giving myself a deadline. I need to push myself to do it. The date I'm shooting for is circled in my planner. In red. <br />
<br />
And once I reach my goal of finishing my Re-Vision, I'll work on my query.<br />
<br />
Now THERE'S a scary word!TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8877409001099817098.post-76805273796189471732012-02-20T18:30:00.001-07:002012-02-20T21:01:26.002-07:00Once Upon a Time...<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Once upon a time there was a little girl who loved to imagine things.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It wasn't surprising, really. When she visited one set of grandparents, she would hear wild tales of a young Indian boy, including the howls of wolves and hoots of owls that accompanied his travels. Or she'd hear about the gypsies who roamed the countryside, waiting to steal away young children who wandered too far from home. At her other grandparents', she would make up stories about what was hidden up the narrow, twisted stairway that was behind the kitchen door. Her heart would beat wildly as she considered climbing to the top to peek at the goblins she knew would be there.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">At home, her mother told her stories of little girls who had exciting adventures. Naturally, there was always one named Tina. She was a princess or a dancer or a unicorn trainer. Anything was possible in a story.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When her older sister would shut the bedroom door, demanding that she picked up her toys, the little girl would imagine a crooked old witch, setting a timer and threatening her with dark magic if she wasn't finished in time. Monsters and faeries would battle around her as she worked. Her vivid daydreams were full of brightly colored creatures. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">One day, the little girl discovered a story about a mermaid who loved a human. Turning page after page, she came to the tragic end of the story. Tears filled her eyes. It was the first time she understood the incredible power of words. She was seven.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">By that summer, the library had become one of her favorite places. It was there that she borrowed every book she could get her hands on, transporting herself to different worlds - from the moors of England to the red villages on Mars - always landing back in the safety of her own room.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And then, she realized that she could tell stories, too. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">She wrote story after story over the years, usually hiding them away - keeping her wild imaginings to herself. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Then, one day, as a grown woman with children of her own, she decided it was time to stop hiding her words. </div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Embarking on a new journey, she started to write a story that she would share. She was excited. And scared. Her words wouldn't be for her own eyes only anymore.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Using every extra (and not so extra) moment, she wrote. And edited. And dreamed of the story she was telling. And when the story was finished, she worked on a way to share it.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And that is where we'll leave her story.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">You may ask how this tale ends, but nobody knows. The ending hasn't been written yet. ;)</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div>TYHatchhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00654651712633828288noreply@blogger.com0