My novel, Other Wise, is finished and the next phase of the process is underway.  As I send it forth to agents — thank goodness for simultaneous submissions — I’m focusing on process and not publication. Publication will come.  I trust in that. I have options. There are always options. But for now, I’m exploring the world of queries and submissions. I’m in the process of crafting cover letters tailored to specific agents, researching the requirements of each, including the requested chapters or synopses or personal background statements or all three into the text of an email or attachment.

I’m learning. Ever learning. Adapting. Adjusting. Ever moving forward.

Rejection is a fact of the writing life. There is a sting when one comes in, of course; but, there’s often useful feedback to be garnered. One agent who had requested the first chapter, told me that she didn’t connect with my protagonist in the way she had hoped. STING. But, she added, “Please know that this is a subjective response, and that another agent may feel differently. I’m sorry not to be writing with better news, but always remember that even getting rejected means you’re still in the game.”  A tiny dab of salve to sooth the sting.

Meanwhile, I’m working on the second novel, new short stories, and a collection of poems. I’m considering a print edition of my audio-book (Out of the Dark, a collection of short stories). I continue to write bi-weekly children’s stories for a small paper.  And … so on.  You get the picture.  I’m not sitting around waiting for word.  I’m writing.  That’s what I do.  I am a writer.

Publication is wonderful.  I rejoice when a story of mine appears somewhere – finds a readership. I want Margaret’s story to be out in the world.  I feel obliged to get it out there.  And I will carry through on that obligation.  But I also know that publication is not the measure of my worthiness as a writer.  With every word I write, I am refining my craft, plumbing my depths.  As a former writing mentor often said, “Never a day without a line.” (nulla dies sine linea – Horace).

For years, I focused on writing and publishing short stories, then I asked myself a question.  How does it feel to write a novel?  To follow through to the end of a longer piece?  And so I wrote one.  Now I’m asking what it feels like to market my novel.  And so I’m querying.

I’m at my desk.  In process.  Answering my own questions.  And writing every day.

 

 

 

I didn’t want to go to either event when the time came.  I’d temporarily lost my oomph.  

The invitation for the first, a writers salon, had come in weeks ago.  I’d put it on my calendar and had nearly forgotten it.  With my nonproductive busy-ness and all that swirling political craziness, I was hunkered down, sluggish and feeling low.

Saturday came — the day of the salon.  I made an organic white bean dip with lemon and garlic and rosemary and got myself dressed, ambivalent still.  Then, I coaxed myself out the door.

I was welcomed into a circle of writers and poets I know from various contexts — my tribe.  Together we dove into an incredible afternoon. We responded to prompts and plunged into free writes and cultivated surprise and shared our discoveries. We laughed and we cried. We witnessed for each other as we dug deeply into fertile territory, unearthing what wanted to be said.  Shards and full blown poems surfaced.  Light filled the room.  

I left.  Full.  Inspired.  Alive.

 

 

When the second invitation came in last week, I registered with a wait-and-see attitude.  I was not sure if I’d go, but I reserved a spot nonetheless.  Just in case.

An artist friend, Sarah Haskell, would be a presenter at an event called PechaKucha.  I didn’t even know how to pronounce the word or what it was about.  It was a Thursday night and Thursday is a long day for me.  The list goes on of my reasons why I probably wouldn’t go. 

Thursday came.  I wanted to settle in for the evening, but I was curious.  I went.  I learned.  It was wonderful!

For those uninitiated like me, PechaKucha is the Japanese expression meaning chit chat or small talk.  It’s pronounced as 4 quick syllables with the accent on each “cha.”  Presenters offer 20 slides with 20 seconds to explain/discuss each one.  20 images/20seconds.  These events go on all over the world.  On this particular Thursday, there were 2 others going on in the US and 2 in Europe. 

The presenters included: a bird of prey educator and rehabilitator; a conservation photographer; a digital story teller; an architect; a man who takes kids into nature — hiking and mountain climbing — as a platform for healing and dealing with cancer in their families; a writer; a weaver & community art designer; and more.  Every one of them had something to say to me.

There was an overall note of positivity and good will and the full house applauded with enthusiasm.   The slides were dazzling.  The speakers were enchanting.  The totality of the evening was inspirational.  And, it was free!

There was so much offered.  I’m still processing.  And I’m writing.  And there’s this art piece at the far corner of my periphery that wants expression.

 

 

Two events came into my awareness.  I was intrigued but didn’t want to leave the house when each arrived.  I said yes to both anyway and came away energized and rejuvenated.

These are dark times for many of us.  It’s too easy to curl up and shut down.  It’s more important than ever for the writers and artists and innovators to share our gifts.  That’s the real work.

The Real Work, by Wendell Berry

It may be that when we no longer know what to do

we have come to our real work,

and that when we no longer know which way to go

we have come to our real journey.

The mind that is not baffled is not employed.

The impeded stream is the one that sings.

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NOTE:  many thanks to:

Nancy Wheaton Modern and her delicious artist/writer salons in her gracious home

Sarah Haskell for her amazing work and community art projects

3S Artspace for hosting the PechaKucha

and both the active and advisory committees for PechaKucha Portsmouth

 

 

I’m writing this because a tea bag told me to. Of course, it didn’t actually say, “Go write a blog post.” Or even, “Go write.” But it did send me here to my keyboard when it said, “Live light, travel light, spread the light, be the light.” (Yogi tea, Lemon Ginger)

I am a writer. I write. That’s how I can spread the light — be a light.

Recently, as I crawled out of my post-election stupor (even if you’re elated with the result, please be compassionate), I began seeking light. As my frozen brain began to thaw and my still open heart pulled me forward, I found comfort in the words of others. I found hope. I found light.

Synchronicity played with me as I searched. As I watched a tv series (rather than the “news”), a character resonated with me. Her name was Lucy and she was a Quaker. As a witness to a crime, she gave a vivid and precise description of what she’d seen. When asked how she could be so exact, she said that she tried to live her life with presence. Whenever she entered a scene, she became a still point in the chaos. And over time, she became a refuge for the world-weary, on-the-edge detective. I wanted to see more of her. I wanted to see a series entirely about her.

Because of her, I thought about a Quaker Elder I’d come across in the past — Parker Palmer. I googled him to see if he’d written anything lately and up came a column of his at www.onbeing.org with Krista Tippett. It was entitled, “Start Close In” after a David Whyte poem (which was included in the column). Palmer’s response to the stunning events of the past months, together with Whyte’s poem, was just the balm my grieving heart needed. He offered up some light and I received it with deep gratitude.

As I sat absorbing this, I looked to the pile of reading material beside me. On top was my latest Lion’s Roar (formerly Shambhala) magazine open to an article I had intended to read. It was  entitled, “On Being, Krista Tippett, VOICE OF AMERICA”S SPIRITUAL JOURNEY.” (I am embarrassed to admit I was unaware of her or onbeing.org until that moment.) I stopped to read the article and was again comforted and uplifted. My body, mind, and spirit felt lighter as I reread it, underlining passages that seemed written just for me to find. More light.

A friend likened my experience to finding a “thin place” — a concept from Celtic spirituality that I will further discuss in a later post — and I must admit, I longed to stay in that place. In keeping with that desire, I now have begun a “Start Close In” daily practice.  It’s something I fashioned for myself by listening to Parker Palmer and David Whyte, and by gathering all the light I find in the words of people I admire like Garrison Keillor and Anne Lamott and Mary Oliver.

In addition, I’ve developed a “Where is the Lucy in me?” practice.  I look each day for ways to be the still point, the refuge, the Lucy for someone else.  I look for ways to keep her story going in and through me.

I encourage you to read Palmer’s column(s) along with the words of others who inspire you. Therein you will find bursts or flickers of light.  Then I hope you will spread it around in your own creative way.  And hopefully you’ll share some of your resulting stories here.

Along with my cup of tea and its message on a dangling string today, I found a friend’s rendition of This Little Light of Mine on Facebook.  And so I am inspired to sing as I let it shine.  Join me, won’t you?

Blessings of the season to you and yours …