That’s the advice I received from one of the many people in the industry to whom I whined about the last rejection I received. “Pull up your big-girl panties and move forward.” Solid advice from a woman in the know.

We’re all entitled to our bon-bon moments. It’s as simple as that. And it should be remembered that bon-bons and other ego-soothing remedies must be used immediately if the healing process is going to be speedy. For the record, my ‘bon-bons’ substitute is my whine and moan. Just so ya know.

Well, I’m done whining and moaning and I’m ready to have another look at my work to see if I can determine why it was rejected and how to either make that story better or do so for the next one. Yes. That means the dream will not go away. A dream – if it’s real – will haunt you until you do all you can to see it come true. I don’t know when I’ll be published. I just know that story-telling is as important to me as caffeine – and that’s saying something for sure.

And so, onward I go. As much for publication as for my own sense of self.

Oh. And those ‘big-girl panties’ I spoke of? Well… make mine red. With black lace.

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Otherwise known as rejections or the big “R”.

As a writer, I know rejections come with the territory. Writing is such a subjective art that to expect anyone else to ‘get it’ is presumptuous at best, arrogant at worst. But to hope… well, that’s another story.

As a writer, I’ve written stories that intrigue me. I’ve developed characters about whom I care. I’ve given them twisted backgrounds a company of therapists would vie to take on. And I’ve allowed those characters to find themselves, face their pasts and forge new outlooks and relationships in the form of happily ever after. I’ve upped the stakes for them, hoping to challenge them in every way possible without tipping to farce, in order to show how life, from the outside looking in, is much easier to live than from the inside looking out.

Too bad I can’t apply that same vision to myself. For now, I sit with a long-in-coming rejection. One I’d imagined would never arrive. I thought this was ‘it’, the big break, and that from here my writing path would be free of at least one obstacle. I would like to look in from the outside but, when I try, I only see hours, days, months, years of working toward a dream that has yet to come true. I can only wonder whether I’ve invested too much to stop now, or whether I’ve invested too much to bother investing more.

I always pose this question when a rejection comes through. And I always seem to overcome it with new energy, new determination. New characters and stories. Now? I don’t know. I guess I can’t speak for what will happen or how I’ll think in the coming months. But at this moment, I can only say it’s time to turn over, fluff the pillow and find myself a new dream.

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Those who know me know I am an avid QUEEN fan – more specifically, I’m a Freddie Mercury fan. Now, what kind of fan would I be if I let today pass without acknowledging what just might have been Queen’s (and Freddie’s) finest moment? Yes, that would be their performance at Live Aid.

Twenty-five years ago today, Queen took the stage as one of many acts to help stave off famine in Africa. To this day, discussions about Live Aid include some reference to the quality of Queen’s performance. I, as a fan, can’t help but do the same. Their set was tight, high-energy and packed with some of their greatest songs. Freddie’s enthusiasm and connection to the crowd was undeniable and his voice, spot on. He wooed the audience and easily managed to have everyone clapping in unique rhythm to Radio Ga-Ga as if they were all there to see Queen and only Queen.

Perhaps they hadn’t arrived as Queen fans, per se, but certainly they left feeling that way.

And so, for your viewing pleasure, I bring you QUEEN at LIVE AID -

My thanks to Oberon1966 for posting these videos on YouTube for all of us to enjoy.

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Today marks three months since my trip to Colorado to be with my Grandmother before she passed away. I didn’t make it there in time to see her or speak to her. I’ve been told by well-meaning people that it wouldn’t have made a difference. She knew how much I loved her and that was enough. Or that she didn’t want me to see her that way and just knowing I was on my way was enough for her. Or that she was comforted by the fact that I’d have family around me when I learned of her death. Or that saying goodbye, or hearing me say it, would have made leaving that much harder for her.

The last thing I’d want to do is make anything harder for anyone – most especially someone as ill as she had been. But I wonder if I didn’t need to have a difficult time of it for myself. To suffer through the moments before she passed. Showing up after the fact let me off too easily. Like closing a book after the story is read. Difference being, you can always open the book again to revisit moments that touched you. I can’t do that with my grandmother. Yet there are so many moments I’d love to revisit.

Grief is a disastrous thing. It makes you physically ill. Mentally absent. Emotionally unpredictable. But grief is also a gift. A tribute to the one who has passed. It’s the pain, the yearning for one more conversation, one more hug, one more shared and knowing glance, that reminds us of how much we had and how special it was. It should also remind us not to take anything for granted again, and maybe it does, though I’d bet for only the briefest of times.

Something else comes to us in grief. A sort of wonder. My grandmother lived nearly a century and yet it wasn’t until after her passing that I was able to connect with moments of her past. Moments I wish I’d known about earlier – moments about which I should have asked when I had the chance. It was while lovingly handling her precious belongings that the important or life-altering moments of her life became more apparent. A small leather purse with a handful of war rations. A newspaper clipping siting her as recipient of the Employee of the Month Award in April of 1945 – a clipping where she had crossed out her carelessly misspelled name and printed it properly with pen. Rosary beads. Photos of family. Birthday and mother’s day cards my mom, my sister and I had given her over the years. Tenderly crafted and delicate doilies, bedspreads and tablecloths. Intricate crochet samples created from her own imagination. Stunningly beautiful treasures without value yet priceless to me.

We gave away much of what she had. We wanted people who needed it to have it, use it, and appreciate it. We also packed some of what she had in boxes – things too precious to give away, too absorbed by memories of her use to be used by us. Those things will not be forgotten in those boxes, but preserved, remembered and always connected to her.

Three months have gone since my trip to Colorado to be with my grandmother before she passed. Three months since I lost her. Three months have reminded me of what I had – a buddy. A wonderfully comical, witty, sarcastic and caustic little wonder who loved me for who I was, not caring to change me in any way, who accepted me as though I had not a flaw. Or at least, that’s how she made me feel. Like I was perfect. And for her, I wanted to be.

I ache to not have been there to tell her again that I loved her. I ache to have been miles away, to have stopped for a cup of coffee instead of going straight to see her – those minutes would have made all the difference. But I ache more because of how much she shaped my life – as a child, a teen, and a wife, mother, granddaughter.

I hope in my time of death, I am reunited with her and that she still believes in me. I will strive to make it so.

For Grandma. My riceball. My buddy. My Sicilian pain in the ass. I love you.

I confess… I prefer to ask questions of people in the know rather than thumb through a book searching for an answer on my own. Now, I understand how that might seem lazy to some people but, in my defense, I have to say it’s not that at all. It is simply my inability to realize when I’ve researched ‘enough’. Yes, the Gemini in me comes into play when I research.

“But why…?” “And how…?” “So if she does this then shouldn’t he…?”

Sad but true. I am the Question Diva.

Take recently while I was researching hiking and backpacking for a new story. There is an extraordinary amount of information out there on the subject. I borrowed books from the library. I followed unending links online. I questioned fellow writers who have experienced this first hand. I even went to sporting goods stores to handle gear and determine precisely which items my inexperienced heroine might use as opposed to those which my seasoned-hiker hero would use.

And then what? I became hooked. I wanted to know more. And more. I contemplated a backpacking trip with my family to the very mountains where my story was set. Me. Backpacking. The girl who won’t even stay in her own yard long after the sun goes down because of mosquitoes, slugs, raccoons and… whatever else might lurk in the darkness of an urban backyard.

We never did go on that trip – no surprise there – but I wish we had. I wish I’d had the guts. Why? Because after all that research, I wound up sabotaging myself, thinking I could never know enough about this subject to write it like a pro. If I’d experienced it myself, I could write it from my own perspective. I would have learned all I needed to learn in order to write about my heroine’s first experience with hiking/backpacking.
There’s a line Barbra Streisand sings in a song from Yentl – “The more I live – the more I learn, the more I learn – the more I realize the less I know.”

I love that line. It sums up life – and research – so well. We can never know all there is to know but if we respect and acknowledge our limitations, especially as writers, we can share what we’ve learned in a way that whets the appetite of others. Then, perhaps, they will become so energized by what has been shared that they will go out and take that backpacking trip.

Now, how wonderful would it be to receive a note from a reader saying how a story you wrote made them ache for the adventure your characters experienced?

Bliss.

But now, my research has taken me to some other place. A place I don’t want to visit. Weaponry. Fortunately – or not, depending how you look at it – there are plenty of people knowledgeable in this area. And these people are willing to share what they know. In fact, many are thrilled to answer questions, no matter how dark or sinister they might be. Why? Because they’ve done their research and they’re proud to share their knowledge, and… most importantly… they don’t worry if they can’t answer every question. In fact, they know they can’t.

I have finally realized something… I don’t have to handle or shoot a gun in order to write about my hero or heroine doing so. I have only to take enough time to understand how they would feel doing it – what it sounds like, what the recoil feels like, how it affects them emotionally when they hit someone. Or miss.

My stories are about characters. About the way they see the world and interact. Whatever research I do, has to be with my characters in mind. They ARE taking that hiking trip. They ARE shooting that .38 Special. And it has to be with my readers in mind, because they are taking that trip or shooting that gun right along with the characters. And I want them to feel every delicious and decadent second of it.

The best part of being away from my writing… the only good part about being away from my writing… is coming back to it to find I actually like what’s already there.

Being too close to the work while also tackling some of life’s harsh demands, makes the process difficult and the prose less than poetic. Or so it seems. It isn’t until a break from the work clears my mind that the writing actually makes me smile. In relief.

I just finished reading my current chapter-in-progress aloud to Daughter who gave it the thumbs up. And when I asked what questions the scenes prompted in her mind, she told me exactly what I hoped to hear. Naturally, I won’t be answering those questions just yet. This is Romantic Suspense, after all. Knowing I was headed in the right direction before life pulled me away makes me eager to get back into it and see where these characters will take me next.

Man, I love my job.

I cannot say how sad I am to have seen the end of 24. I’m going to miss the tortured and tragic Jack Bauer. I’m going to miss the upright, uptight and downright loyal Chloe O’Brian. And, in truth, I’m going to miss the stress-induced asthma attacks and nausea of this show’s high-stakes and intensity-riddled plot.

In fiction, we’re forced to suspend disbelief. Many times during 24’s eight-year run, we did just that. Sometimes naturally, and sometimes as a sacrifice to the greater good. Yes. That means not all of it was believable… by any stretch. Yet, we remained loyal fans, knowing, in the end, Jack would grip us by the throat and take us along for the ride we were there to enjoy.

In the years since 9/11, when many people first imagined John McLane swooping in to wallop the bad guy and save us all, Jack Bauer has doled out his fair share of ‘justice’. And we cheered him on nearly every step of the way.

Would we cheer him on if he were a real government agent? Doubtful. But then, as Colonel Jeesep said, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it!”

Jack was our hero. Not because he tortured people. Certainly not. But because, through him, we knew someone was out there fighting for us. Fighting for what was ‘right’. Sacrificing everything he cared about for the benefit of his country, and often doing it on his own. That is, in the rare moments when Chloe didn’t have his back.

It wasn’t just the self-sacrifice and tragic lead character that I will miss. It’s the standing date my family and I had. Fine, our attention was riveted to the television, not to some gripping conversation about how our days were, but… and this is important… the show prompted conversations between us about fear, about right and wrong, about interpretation and about relationships – both healthy and not.

My daughter grew up watching 24. She was just turning seven when it first aired. Back then, we only spoke about it with her, she didn’t watch it. But soon, she was as interested in the real-time program as her parents. Eventually, she started asking questions. Real quality questions. And soon, she offered her opinions. Quality opinions. I remember how the wide-eyed and curious little girl who didn’t understand the depth of the storyline grew into a young lady who not only understood but could debate plot points and logic in the most thoughtful way.

I’m going to miss “24”. I’m going to miss Jack and Chloe and the exciting moments and conversations they brought into my home 24 hours a year now that they have…

shut it down.

Yesterday I decided to look over some of my past work and was reminded that I’d entered a couple of contests – synopsis contests, first 100 word contests, passion contests. What I found most interesting was not so much the final scores, but the judges’ comments.

In one contest, two judges read the first chapter from one of my stories. One judge had mounds of praise. The other, clearly, wasn’t all that impressed. Both, however, touched on the same issue and that was the takeaway for me.

In another contest, a synopsis was judged and I found a particular comment very interesting. One dropped word from that synopsis changed the entire meaning for one of the three judges who’d read it.  In changing the meaning for that judge, the missing word took logic and flow right out of the synopsis and she was left thinking I’d failed to tie up all the loose ends in a satisfying way. And, she was right. My fault. Instead of saying the villain was my hero’s “business partner”, I simply said he was my hero’s “partner”. When the villain did all of his crazy things and met his end, I, naturally, didn’t delve into the emotional trauma this would have for the hero on an intimate level. They weren’t lovers, they hadn’t been in a relationship beyond business. And yet, because of that one missing word, my synopsis left this one judge feeling dissatisfied and annoyed.

I know the written word is much easier to misunderstand than the spoken word. Because of that, I do try to say precisely what I mean. Unfortunately, that goal is not always met and so misunderstandings, misinterpretations occur. The best we, as writers, can do is aim for clarity. Write our stories, walk away and come back to them with fresh eyes. Chances are, problems will be more apparent after a break from the text and we’ll be able to make the necessary adjustments. Having a critique partner or two is also a tremendous aid in fixing issues like this – and others.

It’s not easy to put our work out there for scrutiny. We pour our energy, love and time into these stories, these characters that we develop from nothing, nurture and guide as if they were of our flesh. And then someone picks them apart, telling you what  “doesn’t quite work” for them. It’s hard to knock down that ego-protecting wall we build around us, but it’s vital to do so.

When I first read the comments from the judge who misunderstood, I couldn’t imagine what she was thinking. When she mentioned, toward the end of her critique, that I would no doubt submit this work to a publisher open to non-traditional relationships, I finally realized what she thought. Confused as to why, I had to review what I’d written and that’s when I found the word “partner”.

It’s very simple – you cannot catch every glitch and you cannot please everyone. But we have to be open to criticism when we put such a subjective product out there with our names on it. Not everyone will “get it” the way we hope they will, but those who do will be your audience and it is for the sake of your audience that feedback of all kinds is to be embraced.

Keep writing! Keep improving! And keep an open mind.

So… I was starting to feel kinda lonely here on my blog since no one had posted a comment in quite some time.  However, I just learned that my “comment” option was not working properly.  Instead of posting comments, it was taking people to a blank page. Well, I am not tech-savvy so I cried and moaned to everyone I know who is. No one was able to fix my problem – not even WordPress.

Finally, I contacted the host of my website and blog. I know.  Duh. What can I say? I’m a slow learner. Anyway, they acknowledged technical difficulties and have now repaired the glitch in my blog.

Now… I don’t know if anything is going change or if people are going to flock here to read and comment, but at least the comment option is functional again.

Sunny day.  Birds singing. Great music on the radio (Tom Petty, in case you’re wondering). AND a blog that is now fully functional. What more could a girl want?   That is… at this particular moment… 

I just bought myself a NOOK. Cousin to the Kindle. I couldn’t wait to hold it in my hands, to turn it on and start reading.

The first book I downloaded was Jude Deveraux’s, Lavendar Morning. The second book I downloaded was Jude Deveraux’s, Days of Gold.

Sense a pattern?

I was concerned about purchasing the NOOK. Well, not about purchasing it, but about using it to read my books. I love cuddling up in the corner of my sofa with a cup of tea and a great read. Would I feel as connected to the story with an e-Reader? How could I? You can’t bury your face into it, you can’t smell the pages and you can’t fan through them either.

But so many of my friends are E-published and I wanted more than anything to take their books with me wherever I went so I could snuggle up and read. The NOOK surprised me. It’s not at all like reading a book via my laptop. That’s like working. The NOOK is the size of a book. I bought a case for it that opens like a book and I can hold it in my hands JUST LIKE A BOOK.

I have since downloaded… uploaded? …E-books I’ve previously purchased and stored on my computer. Now, I can proudly scan through the covers of my friend’s books. I can choose which one to read. Again. And best of all, I can carry all of those books with me wherever I go. They’re all neatly stored in a tiny file somewhere on my lovely little NOOK.

No. I can’t smell the pages, but I can flip through them. I can snuggle up and connect with the story the same as if I held a paperback in my hands. I will never give up my hardcopy books, but I’ve already fallen in love with my e-Reader.

Oh. And the case I bought for it contains a wonderful quote by G.K. Chesterton that sums it all up –
Literature is a luxury;
fiction is a necessity.