Writer and Rider
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
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.
I’ve been living in a parallel universe recently. Isolated from my husband and friends, I live in a shadow world. My days fill with phone calls, long waits at the pharmacy, and housekeeping.
My mom’s in the hospital recovering from heart valve surgery. It’s been a four month journey for her to get here, due to the holidays and insurance.
Since my husband and I live an hour away, we go back and forth. There is much prayer, much hope, much pain. Everything is urgent. Every conversation might be the last.
I find it impossible to make plans for the future. Too many plans have been swept away.
Yet there are bowls of ice cream, smiles, and laughter. In this universe, there is plenty of time to talk and share memories. Learn family secrets I didn’t want to know. There is a season for everything under Heaven.
This is my season to pause.
On Fridays, I have four toddlers in the house. It’s delightful and exhausting.
When my daughter had twins, I was eager to help watch them. James looks like Dad and Kinsley looks like Mom. My daughter went back to work part time after six months. I started watching them on Fridays. It had been a long time since I had a baby in the house, and I was excited and terrified. My husband assured me he would help.
Two days before the twins were born, my husband and I got a new puppy. Davey is a border collie, a herding breed. We also have a beagle mix named Harley.
We wondered how our dogs would deal with having two babies in the house.
At first, the dogs were fascinated by the squirming, screaming bundles in the baby seats. Davey would place his toys beside them before stealing their pacifiers. At first, Harley hid away from them, but eventually she came out and licked their tiny hands. The dogs would sit and stare at them all day.
Almost two years later, the twins and our dogs are best friends and co-conspirators. Davey loves to roll his tennis ball down the twins’ Hot Wheels ramp. James throws a ball for Davey. I often find dog toys mixed into the twins’ toy box. Both dogs love to sit under the twins’ highchairs to catch tidbits Kinsley tosses on purpose.
Outside on the back porch, Davey shows his herding instincts by directing the twins away from the side gate. He thinks they might try to escape. When Kinsley takes a tumble, Harley is right there with a friendly lick on the face, making her giggle.
Wherever the twins go, our dogs must be there. At first, I was worried James or Kinsley might pull one of the dogs’ tails or hit them. I was quick to supervise all kid-dog interactions. The twins learned to respect the dogs, and the dogs know when to find a spot on the couch or behind a chair to take time out from the twins’ high energy.
I have read somewhere certain dog breeds, like border collies and beagles, have the intelligence of two-year-old children. As the twins advance on their second year, I definitely see it.
Every Friday, I chase around four toddlers. Two of them are human.
Have you ever decided to become an expert at something, only to find out the more you spend time doing it, the less you actually know about it?
In my earlier years, I was a visual artist. For most of my childhood, I expressed ideas through drawing and painting. My first degree was a BFA in Fine Arts. But after college, real life intruded, and I had to make money. My creativity was expressed in clothing displays and sale setups. I continued to draw and create intaglio prints at the local community college.
Then came motherhood. My creativity emerged in birthday cakes and scavenger hunt parties. My creative genes were passed down to my youngest, who although she drew and painted, she preferred photography and video.
When the retail industry choked after 9/11, I went back to school to become an elementary school teacher. In my classroom, my creativity generated bulletin boards and diagrams of the water cycle. When I took on the after school musical theater program, I created backdrops and sets.
After my husband suddenly died, writing became my comfort. I could write about my characters’ struggles and pain easier than my own. Although I’d always written short stories, I had my heart set on novels.
How hard could it be?
Years later when I retired, I imagined I would crank out novels every year to make up for all those earlier years with no time for writing. My short stories appeared in anthologies. I got my first writing advance ($15).
After I finished three novels, I began to send out query letters and sample chapters. My heart was set on traditional publishing, so I knew I needed a literary agent. As the form rejections rolled in, I realized I didn’t know as much about writing as I thought I did. It wasn’t just about having a great story idea. I was responsible for creating character arcs for all my major players, as well as the villain. Novels had to be divided into acts and move at a certain pace. Forget the glorious description of the setting. You needed to blow things up.
How could I get better?
I took classes. I attended writing conferences. I hired editors. But the most helpful step was joining a critique group. It would take a long time to go through my novel in a critique group, but it was well worth it. After three years, we finally reached the ending of my novel. My faithful critique group tore it to shreds. They had permission to do so, as they had lived with my story for a long time.
Who knew endings were so hard? I made some corrections and resubmitted to my group. Still it wasn’t enough. Or rather it was too much. Apparently, I had another entire novel embedded in it.
I can’t help it if I keep coming up with new great ideas.
After much soul-searching, I now sit in front of my laptop, cutting chapters and characters, trying to salvage my novel. I’ve learned a lot. My next novel will be so much better.
As of this date, I haven’t deleted this story yet. The revision process may be painful, but it is a good teacher. You can read all you can about how to write, but in the end, you have to go through the process yourself.
And blowing up the ending of your book is a great way to learn.
