Author: jrizzotto0808

Writer of children's books and rider of Harleys, you'll find me huddled over my laptop or exploring back roads with my husband on our Freewheeler or Breakout. My tribe is the SoCal region SCBWI. We also enjoy year-round camping in Southern California with our two dogs, Harley and Davey (Davidson).

On submission

When your precious children, birthed after years of tears and struggle {otherwise known as your unpublished manuscripts), are out on submission, it feels like you’re in a nightmare. You know the one that cycles over and over again. Every time you reach for the exit door, it opens into darkness. Cruel laughter taunts you. Who do you think you are? You can’t even write a clever Instagram caption.

For years, I knocked on agents’ Querytracker doors, attended writers conferences, and scrolled through MSWL. If I had a literary agent, they would champion my books to editors and escort me through the publishing process. Within months, I would be able to walk into a bookstore and secretly sign copies of my book on their shelf. Kids would cheer me at my school assemblies when I talked about the joys of creating stories.

“I only need one yes.”

That was my whispered prayer when rejection after rejection hit my inbox. Then five books later, when I had almost given up, I got a phone call. And a Microsoft Teams video meeting.

Tia became my agent. After a few rounds of cleanup edits, we started the waiting game again.

“We only need one yes.”

First we sent out my MG novel. A couple of editors wanted to read it. More rejections. The MG market was soft. Then Tia and I revised my YA novel and sent it out. A few editors wanted to read it. More rejections.

“We only need one yes.” But the waiting is a nightmare. Even though I’m working on new projects, there is a certain space in the back of my mind where I hope for the yes. And worry about the no.

Maybe you’re like me, trying to launch your writing career. No matter where you are on your journey, keep pushing forward.

You only need one yes.

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Creepy Holiday Stories to Keep You Up at Night

As if worrying about the Christmas feast and visiting relatives wasn’t enough, you can cuddle up by that fireplace and read some creepy short stories from another great anthology edited by Knight Publishing. My story, “Homeless for the Holidays,” is included:

What would a homeless man do when he realizes he’s an exiled faery who needs to complete a heroic task to regain admittance to the Winter Court? Kill a little girl’s brother, of course.

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The quiet creative zone or what happens after you sign with an agent

For the last eight years, one of my writing goals has been to find a literary agent. Last October, in a surreal moment on my birthday, I got “the call.” Actually, in our post COVID world, it was a request for a Microsoft Teams virtual meeting.

It was really happening.

At the meeting, we talked about ourselves, our dreams, my book. Then Tia Mele made me an offer of representation. Because I still had my book out with other agents, I told her I’d get back to her after I notified them.

After I’d received prompt responses from the other agents, I made my decision. In October 2023, I became an agented author.

I went through two rounds of editing, and then Tia created a Google spreadsheet with the publishers she was sending my book to, similar to my querying spreadsheet. But my querying was done.

Now it was my agent’s turn.

After spending years researching agents, revising my query, synopsis, and pitch, it was someone else’s responsibility.

Now I was free to focus on my writing. At first, it felt weird. Like I should be doing something. In the back of my mind, I realize it’s the calm before the editing storm. But it feels good to take a breath and have more creative time.

If you’re still in the querying trenches, take heart. With a lot of hard work and a little courage, you will find the right person to champion your work.

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Happy Book Birthday to me and my friends

There is a chill in the air. Something is coming.

Change is coming.

It’s a time to celebrate. It’s a time to hide.

It’s a time to get ready for the things we don’t expect.

It’s time to open up the Autumn Breezeway.

Get your ebook or paperback now:

https://books2read.com/u/4EpjEe

Paperbacks at Amazon or Barnes and Noble:

https://www.amazon.com/Particular-Passages-Breezeway-Steve-Ruskin/dp/1628690631

https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/particular-passages-steve-ruskin/1144161402

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Message in a bottle

Waiting for a query reply is like being stranded on a desert island after you’ve sent out messages in bottles. As the waves continue to crash onto the shore, you squint against the blazing sun to scan the horizon. Hoping to see the glint of a returning bottle.

Or you check your email box. Twenty times a day.

Experienced writers advise you to start a new project. Ignore the fact that somewhere, someone is looking at your synopsis and deciding whether you’ll fit into their client list. If they even read it. Waves of anxiety crash against your overconfidence. Maybe your book wasn’t ready. Maybe your critique group doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.

Maybe your voice doesn’t matter.

This world doesn’t seem friendly anymore. Social media isn’t fun when every comment you make could be used against you. All your writer friends are being published. Everyone in your family is being published, even if they’re not writers.

Even a message asking for revisions would be a victory.

All you can do is on the beach, watching the waves crash against your dreams. Then you notice a seagull creeping up on the sand. It stares at the sandwich in your hand, cocking its head back and forth. The bird hops a little closer, reminding you of that boy in sixth-grade, the one who always wolfed down the hated liverwurst sandwich Mom packed for you.

Ideas flood your mind. Jumping up, you brush off sand and head to your laptop. As you furiously type away, you can still barely hear the waves in the background. You’ll check your email box later, but for now, the magic still works.

Then a bottle washes up on the sand.

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The Squirrel on the Wire

I have sassy squirrels in my neighborhood. The past few days I’ve had to bring my border collie, Davey, inside the house in the morning because he can’t stop barking at the tiny creatures.

The homes in my block were built in the late 1940s, back in the days when trash trucks picked up your cans from a network of back alleys. These narrow roads provide the route for our electric, phone, and cable since they were put in before the days of buried lines.  

Squirrels love to use electric lines as their personal bridges between the trees in our backyards. Davey notices everything, including the furry animals passing over his head. They cause him to bark like a vicious wolf since he believes the alley and its airspace are part of our property.

This makes the squirrels bolder, as they sit directly above Davey’s head, staring at him and twitching their tails. How they manage to balance on the wire is beyond my understanding. It’s fun to watch Davey and the squirrels interact, except for the part where he’s waking up the whole neighborhood.

Davey always barks and jumps at the squirrels, even though he never can reach them. He never gets discouraged. He never gives up. Even if he never gets his teeth on one fluffy tail, he will always try.

Seeking to get my first book traditionally published is like that. Those book deals sit up on the electric wire, taunting me with their advances, book tours, and international rights. There I am, on the ground, barking to get an agent or editor’s attention. Every day I get up, check my email for requests for pages. After sending pages, I stare at my phone, waiting for the Call.

Every day is the same. The squirrels tease Davey. He barks like a wild dog. My email inbox fills with rejections. The Call never comes.

It would be easy to get discouraged. No one would blame me for giving up. But I’m inspired by my border collie’s dedication to his job. He knows what he’s born to do.  

Even if I never get my teeth on a book deal, I will always try.

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Expecting the Write Things

As I hang on the edge of another writing retreat, I consider my expectations. This week, I will attend the SCBWI Writing Retreat in the San Bernardino Mountains, near Lake Arrowhead. Last year was our first in-person event since the pandemic. Last year was all about being in the presence of other writers, allowing their creative energy to infuse with mine.

I wonder what will happen this year.

Since the retreat is built around critique groups and writing time, I know I’ll spend a lot of time working on my book. My story has already been shaped by my other critique group, so I will need to concentrate on final revisions.

After attending this retreat for many years, I know the true magic happens when you’re eating breakfast and talking to the agent or editor at your table. Insight flashes between writers when we’re toasting at happy hour. The opportunity to have a fifteen-minute coaching session with a publishing professional is priceless.

In the first years I attended, I would drive up to mountains holding my breath. This would be my big break. I would meet the agent of my dreams. She or he would email me a contract when I got home. My writing career would be officially launched.

But I didn’t know what I didn’t know. My finished book projects needed more than properly placed commas. My plots needed more emotional depth. My endings needed to be more satisfying.

Years later, I will drive up the mountain with more realistic expectations. But my heart will still beat wildly when I arrive at the cabins. I will warmly greet our guest agents and editors. I will enjoy the company of my writer friends. I will take a deep breath of cool, pine-scented air.

Anything could happen.

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Why camping?

At home, my husband and I fall into routines. Every day, we get up at the same time, drink our coffee, make breakfast, clean our home. We run errands, meet friends for coffee, go to church. Since we are both retired, we mostly stay at home, working on projects, or playing with our dogs. I spend time at my laptop, creating and refining stories.  

But something magical happens when we go camping.

Our normal routines are placed on pause. We trade inside for outside. The air is fresher, the view is camera worthy. Errands are replaced by walking the dogs and reading in a lounge chair. Meals become simpler. There are few interruptions.

Getting out into nature refreshes my imagination. Many of my writing ideas percolated while sitting by a campfire, gazing up at a million stars or perched on a sandstone cliff, squinting at a sparkling blue ocean.

People are different when they’re camping. At home, we wave at our neighbors when we drive down the street, but we don’t often speak to them. When we’re camping, we spend most of our time outside. Strangers passing on their way to the beach often stop and talk. The neighbor at the next campsite might wander over to our campfire. They share their stories with us, giving me more writing ideas. Sometimes they need to borrow things they forgot at home. Sometimes we’re the ones whose lighter runs out.

Camping requires us to make sacrifices. The RV bed is not as comfortable as our king size bed at home. Going up and down the stairs, in and out of our RV, gets old after a while. Our tiny kitchen has no counter space. We can’t fit many groceries in our fridge. If the weather turns bad, we are crammed inside our RV with our dogs.

Although my husband and I both love camping, we are not ready to sell our home and live on the road. Our church, family, and friends keep us grounded in our regular home.

But camping is a pause. Watching the churning ocean or trees rustle in the wind resets our souls. Camping allows us to distance ourselves from our normal life to think and plan. When we stand with other campers watching the sun melt into the horizon, we have time to ponder our place in the majesty of creation. The problems and concerns we will return to in a few days become smaller, too.

Why not go camping, when its magic recharges our lives?

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The Season that Wouldn’t Go Home

You may argue Southern California doesn’t have seasons, but my umbrella would eyeroll if it could.

Usually Winter behaves itself nicely, not putting his feet up on the coffee table or rearranging the couch cushions. He usually arrives late and leaves early, making it possible for me to plan any number of outside gatherings and activities.

Not this year. Winter knocked on my door precisely on time. I didn’t complain because any Californian who likes a green lawn would tell you we need the rain. Needed the rain. And I have some really cute sweaters and boots I rarely have the opportunity to wear.

I like a good soaking rainstorm as much as anyone, but endless storms, week after week, began to annoy me. At least I wasn’t still teaching. I have many fond memories of plastic bridges laid over the flooded blacktop so my students and I could enter our portable classroom. You already know what children do when faced with a knee-deep puddle.

Remember the saying “If March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb?” Apparently, Winter forgot. Understandable really, considering the endless storms. Not to mention the tornados we’ve experienced, a novelty in California. Of course, Northern and Central California would argue that those of us in the south have nothing to complain about except a few landslides.

And Winter brought us much-needed gifts in the form of filled reservoirs and snowcapped mountains. In return, we entertained Winter by traveling to the snow and making snowmen.

But the hour grows late, and Winter shows no sign of leaving. I yawn. I clean up the dishes. But Winter is still stretched out on my couch binge-watching Midsomer Murders. As the hostess, I balk at telling my guests to leave, but I am weary of sodden, grey days. Doesn’t Winter know I have gardening and patio work to do?

Any day now Spring will be knocking at my door, but she won’t come in until Winter leaves. She thinks he’s rude, but we all know she depends on him to prepare her way. My mind blanks out as Winter drones on about the time he flooded the Colorado River so badly he created the Salton Sea. And we all know how well that turned out.

What can you do about a house guest that will not leave?

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Books are better

As I scroll through my streaming channels, looking for a TV series I haven’t watched twice already, I realize a great truth.

Books are better.

Books are better because on my Kindle, there is an endless supply of new stories. This is helpful when you finish a book at 3:00 am.

Books are better because I can skip over the boring parts. Or linger over the marvelously crafted ones.

Books are better because if I don’t like where the author is taking me, I can close the book.

Books are better because the way the characters look in my head is way more accurate than the actors chosen for the TV show.

Books are better because sometimes you can actually meet the author at a book signing.

Books are better because you get to know the characters in greater depth, including things they are too polite to say out loud.

Books are better because even if you are sitting in a hospital waiting room, you can escape to the Shire and have cake at Bilbo’s birthday party.

Books are more reliable to convey the author’s message. Even though there have been some great adaptations of books into TV shows and movies, most readers agree something is lost along the way.

And one last reason—reading great books inspires me to write my own.

That’s why if I’m not writing at my laptop, you’ll find me reading a book.

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