She Taught Me Everything
Wrote it. Now for the next part.
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Have I been slacking at book promotion this summer? Yes, yes I have.
Is it because I'm lounging on the divan, popping bonbons into my gullet and binge-watching David Attenborough? No, not at all. First, I don't have an actual divan. Second, I can't eat dairy. Third, well, honestly, I do enjoy his lovely voice, but television is not my vice. Instead I have been listening to a playlist heavy on Anaïas Mitchell, Allison Kraus, Hozier, and Rhiannon Gibbons, working on the next thing.
The next thing.
If I were a younger writer, I might have put this next thing aside and focused instead on writing another novel like She Taught Me Everything. A contemporary family drama, say. It would be a smart career move, to focus on building a brand for my readers to more easily identify me. Excellent strategy long-term. But I am not a young writer. So rather than thinking about building a brand within a genre, I have passions. Ambitions. Wild horsey dreams.
Plus this other chunk of words: what I've labeled on my computer as the "Woodkeep trio."
These are three (actually five now, but okay, it started as three) related stories clamoring to become as big as a Rubens, and which ask significant chunks of time from me. 
Saint George and the Dragon by Peter Paul Rubens ~1605.
The three (five) are very different from She Taught Me Everything --like set in a pre-Industrial magic fairy-tale world different.
If I've lost you at fairy tale, so be it. The folks clamoring in my imagination don't care about genre conventions. Who am I to argue with fictional characters and their demands? They have a story to tell, dammit! But enough excuse-making. They are who they are. 
Two Scottish ballads haunt me. One is Tam Lin, about Janet, a spunky noblewoman who will NOT be told what to do. Forbidden to go to Carter Hall, she hikes up skirts and skedaddles, "for young Tam Lin is there."
As night follows day, Janet finds herself pregnant, and thinks to end the pregnancy with some herbs at Carter Hall. Tam Lin confronts her and when she says that she will NOT be having a baby with some freaky-deeky fairy knight, he tells her that he's just a poor human, held prisoner by the Queen of Fairyland. And if Janet is willing, she can save Tam Lin from a fate worse than death this coming Halloween... 
The other ballad is Thomas True or Thomas the Rhymer, in which a guy is snatched up by the queen of fairies — that hussy! — and when he tells her that he wants to go home to the world of humans, she says fine, be that way, and she lets him go...giving him the gift of speaking only truth. Nice gift!
And that's partly what is inspiring me this summer. These two ballads, along with The Princess Bride, the concept of true love, and a cat. Not a real cat, because allergies, but a cat. I don't have a title yet (working on it!), but I do have a date with my editor. Which means, I must hustle back to the—oh, yeah, I am already at my computer.
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Ah, the feared and abhorred red ink. Yeah, no, not the accounting red ink. We are all pretty good at ignoring debt, I think. I refer instead to teacher ink. Correction ink. That big red check mark that screams:"WRONG!"  It's also those scarlet suggestions, notes, generalized messages that teachers and editors are prone to making. They often use red pencil, actually, which likewise does not erase from the page. When I am an editor working on someone's paper manuscript, I like to use green ink or purple, just to mix it up. Still, even if it's purple, it's red. And when you are a writer, red = love. Or in my world it is. Because when I have plunked down cash, it's nice to hear from my editor that they like a turn of phrase or the story is interesting. But far better is the attention, time, and—yes--love poured into a note that says something along the lines of, "I think this section could be tighter. Does this word convey the emotion you want? Why are we learning this right now?" The point of a critical editorial reading is to improve the work. In the immortal words of the original Soloflex ad, it's hard to make improvements.  So when the manuscript returns with lots and lots of red ink—and yes, the modern version is a Word or Google annotated file, which provides less emotional connection, as you aren't seeing the hasty checkmarks grooved deeply into the page —it's a joy.
Because it's gonna hurt, but it's gonna be better at the end. As soon as someone admits to me that they want to write, I point out that there one single action that writers do, and which nobody else does: they write. You want to write? Write! Like everybody offering unsolicited advice, I'm pretty awesome at suggesting solutions. As for following my own recommendation? Erm.  Why yes, I constructed that rather large ball from grapevines. I offer no reasons. If my house is clean, and there's a complicated meal in the oven, and I have reorganized the books or weeded all the gardens, let's just say as a writer, there's room for improvement. Since I'm working mostly for myself (and you, dear readers) these days, I go easy on my work shortcomings. Distractions are merely side-quests.  Yeah, no, I don't know what I'm going to do with the rather large, albeit decorative globe. In the novel that I'm trying to finish right now, (or is it a novella? It's a lot shorter than She Taught Me Everything but okay) one of the characters spins wool and linen. The story's set in a pre-Industrial world where there's magic, but she's often to be found spinning away. Do I know how to spin wool or linen? Do I need to know? Pffft! I make up shi—ooh! There's a CLASS! Just so happens I bought a plastic sack including some wool and a spindle last year at the thrift store. One human's trash is another person's back-up hobby supplies. Add in a pleasant day spent in the company of an enthusiastic teacher (thanks Julia at the Thousand Islands Arts Center!) I now, as have our ancestors for thousands of years, can use a drop-spindle to make wool yarn.  Spinning wheels are SO 17th Century...Copyright-free image from the British Museum. The process of making fiber behave is not unsimilar to making twine from nettles or willow. Missed that craze? here's my link: http://www.amysmithlinton.com/blog/paleo-crafts Spinning can be pretty lo-tech: a hank of wool, a stick, and within moments, you create a fluffy bit of innovation. Kind of like magic, really. Or like writing...  One of the funny things about publishing is that nearly everyone involved—from writers themselves, to editors, sales people, service providers, web designers, readers—has an interest in words. (I promise you, this statement is not reductive.) For example, I use an internet service that helps me keep track of where and when I send stories into the world. The service, duotrope.com, also tells me about sketchy markets to avoid, contests that might appeal to me, and publications that might match my story. It's a nifty tool, especially if you are submitting a lot of stories to a lot of publications. But to my wordy point: let me share this little gem from Duotrope:  This is a partial screen grab from a story submitted somewhere in 2020, and which I just recently updated as "Never Responded." This is a LOT less uncommon than you'd think. A roaming black hole in the publishing universe swallows many a hope, dream, and story.
But note, if you will, how the designer of the page labels that date when I say the publication "Never Responded." It's not the date Accepted or Rejected. It's the Capitulation date. I have capitulated, which means "to cease resisting" or "to give in." Someone behind the scenes at Duotrope is absolutely slaying it. How about a proper introduction to this novel?  Here's the pitch:
She Taught Me Everything When 26-year-old Nicola Jones gets that phone call in the middle of the night––the one she's been dreading her whole life––she doesn't stop to ask questions. What else does she need to know? Her charismatic older sister Viv has been in a car crash. She packs a bag and races to her sister's hospital bedside. Until then, she would have said she and Viv were as close as––well, as close as sisters. Once in Nashville, however, Nicola discovers that Viv has been concealing one terrible secret after another. With her own life on hold as she waits for Viv to wake, Nicola must delve into the mystery of their shared past and decide what their future will be. She Taught Me Everything is a story about sisters and secrets, and about the choices we make that shape a family.  Like a rose smelling just as sweet, that quality that keeps people chasing their dreams in the face of rejection... Call it what you will. I like temerity. And sauce. Also mulishness. I have my very first rejection letter (from Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine!), which was a formulaic "Thanks, but this is not for us," along with a list of multiple-choice adjectives. Some anonymous, hard-working reader at the magazine had circled the word "opaque" before sending it back at me in my self-addressed stamped envelope. Being in the eighth grade, I had to look the word up, and even then, re-reading my feverish and (it still gives me a pang of shame) incoherent story, I had to agree. Nevertheless, I continued to shoot submissions into the literary stratosphere. Nobody claims it's easy; luckier yet, I had no concept that I might be resistible. Srsly. Getting that first acceptance letter (from a tiny 'zine produced in someone's mom's basement) was nice. I should have celebrated it more vigorously, but my myopic high-school eyes were straining toward the next thing. Later, when I'd amassed a portfolio of newspaper and national magazine stories and what-not, publication didn't seem like all that and a side of fries. I've said that I lucked into journalism (thanks Diane Roback of Publisher's Weekly! Thank you Jon Wilson of the St. Petersburg Times!). Heartfelt gracias, Kevin Walker of the former Tampa Tribune!  I do appreciate every door journalism has opened for me. Go on –– walk right up to anyone, armed with a pencil stub and a cub-reporter notepad, I dare you! But that wasn't my dearest ambition.
A published novel, that's what I wanted. Yeah, baby –– and not just one. Do I have any advice for aspiring writers? Yes: Polish them brass balls, puff out your metaphorical chest with self-esteem, cling to your belief in yourself, and take joy in every little victory. When victories are not forthcoming, change the battlefield. I wrote a novel a while back. It's a thing. I'm writing an additional two more, though I've been feeling a sense of a cork in the bottleneck...  But having written the living bejeebers out of that first novel, and hooking up with a dang high-powered literary agent (in Manhattan! Squee!), and the agent not working out for me (in super slo-mo! actual years passed!), and fully exploring the advice of so many writers before me (Keep trying! Never surrender!), 2023 seems like the time to take a different route.  Independent publishing. AKA self-publishing. These days, publishing my own dang book means I need to relearn the business of publishing and more or less form my own publishing house. And my own public relations strategy. Et cetera. So after waiting waiting waiting, I am angling my toes into the the starting blocks and getting ready to get ready to go. But first, a timeline. Chicken, meet a dozen eggs.  Here are some of the administrative bits and bobs I have to put in order and execute:
 And heeeer we go, she said, with an uneasy giggle.
Those of you sweet readers who are still with me, thanks! I can't tell you how cheering it is to know you're out there interested in my stacks of words. Hope to brag some good news soon. I'm thinking late summer/autumn 2023 to bring this novel to market. If you have advice, don't hesitate to drop me a line. There's so much to learn about all this... |
