Who am I kidding? How much more serious about being published can I possibly get? Any more serious and I would have to try bribing literary agents; you know, start selling stuff, like the family heirlooms, my dog, my firstborn ... Or I could fling my body across the desk of an agent, clinging to their lapels while bawling out his or her name, begging on pain of death that they represent me. Yep, that's pretty serious. Manic, but serious.
But who's got the time?
So I continue commit myself to more practical solutions to getting published. For instance, I have upgraded my website to where I'm quite proud of my branding and marketing. I now have website profile pages on Goodreads, on Romance Writers of America, and Wattpad (whoever they are). Speaking of Wattpad, I've even posted a novel for folks to read and offer comments. And there are the many Facebook pages that I have LIKED and groups for black women writers that I've joined. Now that's fun.
I'm starting to enjoy this writing community-group-profile-member-interracial author-kind of thing. I've entered contests (won first place in the 2014 CIMRWA), I am submitting to anthologies, sending out queries, sample chapters, and synopsizes. I stare at this screen until my eyes go blurry, I will be attending conferences, meeting folks, I may start a local writers group, and I may also find time to sleep.
And when all is said, I continue to write and envision what I will write next. And life will go on even after I get published.
Da Momma: Opinions, reflections, and other words of profundity, inspiration, humor... maybe some nonsense.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Creative Hibernation
You heard me.
It's winter. Let's admit it. All most of us want to do is curl up under the covers with our favorite steaming beverage-- and a steamier body beside us to cuddle. I certainly do. And with the limited chances to stray outside and enjoy nature (for you urban dwellers), it comes to pass that indoor pursuits are a priority for spare time amusements. Am I right?
What about me, you ask? Well, I love winter. The more severe, the better. I know that sounds sadistic and insane, but ask me why.
Okay, I'll tell you. I, like my colleagues in the arts, take this cabin fever afflicted opportunity to flex creative muscle. Plainly, I write and I paint. Well, I write more than I paint. I have no garden to tend, I limit my walks to de-iced foot paths (something non-existent around here; everything is icy), and the hunting season is over. Not much point in venturing out-of-doors, so I stay within the confines of my cozy woodland home and I tickle the keys of my laptop, bringing to life those machinations of my romantic imagination.
There's something about gazing out the window at a stark winter moonscape--watching the swirling wind whipped snow, the denuded trees, and best, hearing haunting wind howling through the forest--ooh, that gets my prolific author on!
So until spring sets its combative sights on this dormant season of hibernation and quiet, I shall happily take the time to write, to breath life into my characters so that I my fall in love with them.
Ah, yes. Winter is good.
It's winter. Let's admit it. All most of us want to do is curl up under the covers with our favorite steaming beverage-- and a steamier body beside us to cuddle. I certainly do. And with the limited chances to stray outside and enjoy nature (for you urban dwellers), it comes to pass that indoor pursuits are a priority for spare time amusements. Am I right?
What about me, you ask? Well, I love winter. The more severe, the better. I know that sounds sadistic and insane, but ask me why.
Okay, I'll tell you. I, like my colleagues in the arts, take this cabin fever afflicted opportunity to flex creative muscle. Plainly, I write and I paint. Well, I write more than I paint. I have no garden to tend, I limit my walks to de-iced foot paths (something non-existent around here; everything is icy), and the hunting season is over. Not much point in venturing out-of-doors, so I stay within the confines of my cozy woodland home and I tickle the keys of my laptop, bringing to life those machinations of my romantic imagination.
There's something about gazing out the window at a stark winter moonscape--watching the swirling wind whipped snow, the denuded trees, and best, hearing haunting wind howling through the forest--ooh, that gets my prolific author on!
So until spring sets its combative sights on this dormant season of hibernation and quiet, I shall happily take the time to write, to breath life into my characters so that I my fall in love with them.
Ah, yes. Winter is good.
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Back From the Brink
Ah, tis a weary road I've travelled in these last six months. To start, my home of 20 years at New Hope Farms in New York came to an end. The owners sold the property where my husband and I worked as equestrian caretakers since 1994.
Thus began an era of my life that involved finding a new home, yard sales, selling our horses and the horse trailer, disposing of sundry accumulations of stuff we didn't need, packing things into boxes, more yard sales, surrendering our beloved greyhounds, Dot and Dash (I don't want to talk about it), getting through my youngest child's high school graduation, sorting through mountains of books, selling fish tanks, finding a home for Jasmine, my eight foot boa constrictor (I don't want to talk about the, either!), helping realtors show the farm property ... Let's see, what else?
Did I mention that I was doing my utmost to ignore my health? It's a crime of omission that caught up to me right around Labor Day, when on a sweltering 90 degree day, I hauled six heaping 55-gallon garbage bags to the dump, vacuumed four second floor non-air conditioned bedrooms (with a Shop Vac), and all without drinking anything but an iced coffee.
Combine that with a visit to an acupuncturist for my heart, liver, kidneys, and a recurrent back problem, on the following Wednesday, I lay in bed giving my husband my last rites confession before I closed my eyes for the final time.
Yes indeed. I felt that bad.
After a visit to the emergency room, a very irate doctor chastised me for being overwrought, clinically exhausted, and acutely dehydrated. Yep, when your pee-pee is the same color as your hardwood flooring, you've got a big problem.
Suffice it to say that I put the brakes on everything and slapped myself into the bed with a pitcher of liquids, my Kindle App, and my TV remote.
Things occasionally came up:
"Lesa, could you handle a class?"
Nope.
"Lesa, could you help at church?"
Nuh-Uh.
"Lesa, I need ..."
Sorry. Not gonna happen.
That was the first week of September, and here we are about to enter February. I'm finally feeling better, although every time something physically challenging arises, my body sends out the war party, telling me, "You better nor, or else!"
And since I tend to take the lemons handed to me and make them into applesauce, I've spent these last months in cocoon mode, writing, editing, and sending out queries to agents and publishers.
And you know what? I rather enjoy sitting here in our new Pennsylvania home, looking out over the 12,000 acres of state land butting up against my backyard. Like in the days when Mary Shelly and friends wrote their best works in the foul weather of 1816 (lucky her-it was summer then), I look out on a two-foot plus white mantle of snow, icicles draping off my eaves, and the barren trees surrounding my house.
And I write.
Thus began an era of my life that involved finding a new home, yard sales, selling our horses and the horse trailer, disposing of sundry accumulations of stuff we didn't need, packing things into boxes, more yard sales, surrendering our beloved greyhounds, Dot and Dash (I don't want to talk about it), getting through my youngest child's high school graduation, sorting through mountains of books, selling fish tanks, finding a home for Jasmine, my eight foot boa constrictor (I don't want to talk about the, either!), helping realtors show the farm property ... Let's see, what else?
Did I mention that I was doing my utmost to ignore my health? It's a crime of omission that caught up to me right around Labor Day, when on a sweltering 90 degree day, I hauled six heaping 55-gallon garbage bags to the dump, vacuumed four second floor non-air conditioned bedrooms (with a Shop Vac), and all without drinking anything but an iced coffee.
Combine that with a visit to an acupuncturist for my heart, liver, kidneys, and a recurrent back problem, on the following Wednesday, I lay in bed giving my husband my last rites confession before I closed my eyes for the final time.
Yes indeed. I felt that bad.
After a visit to the emergency room, a very irate doctor chastised me for being overwrought, clinically exhausted, and acutely dehydrated. Yep, when your pee-pee is the same color as your hardwood flooring, you've got a big problem.
Suffice it to say that I put the brakes on everything and slapped myself into the bed with a pitcher of liquids, my Kindle App, and my TV remote.
Things occasionally came up:
"Lesa, could you handle a class?"
Nope.
"Lesa, could you help at church?"
Nuh-Uh.
"Lesa, I need ..."
Sorry. Not gonna happen.
That was the first week of September, and here we are about to enter February. I'm finally feeling better, although every time something physically challenging arises, my body sends out the war party, telling me, "You better nor, or else!"
And since I tend to take the lemons handed to me and make them into applesauce, I've spent these last months in cocoon mode, writing, editing, and sending out queries to agents and publishers.
And you know what? I rather enjoy sitting here in our new Pennsylvania home, looking out over the 12,000 acres of state land butting up against my backyard. Like in the days when Mary Shelly and friends wrote their best works in the foul weather of 1816 (lucky her-it was summer then), I look out on a two-foot plus white mantle of snow, icicles draping off my eaves, and the barren trees surrounding my house.
And I write.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Why I'm sometimes pissed.
Simple. Things anger me. Circumstances, people, news, events ...
For example, I become infuriated when my stinking fax machine makes copies instead of faxing my material. I want to choke some sprout-eating wiener hipster geek at Google when I constantly have to re-set my lousy password just to access my blog.
I get pissed when my truck tailgate drops down at 65 miles an hours and I lose a garbage can; when the dog pees in the entryway as I come home, when I can't unscrew a tube of paint, when I get rejection letters from agents and editors who don't want the story I labored to write. I'm angry about being spied on, listened to, and watched because I have the freedom to do what I want, and that fact pisses some power-hungry bureaucrat off.
Yes, I know. I let little things tick me off whenever I fail to keep sight of the big things. I know such is true in my head, but my emotions - well, there are times when I just need to vent, blow off stream, kick a can, curse, and go eat a Hershey bar (no, two Hershey bars!)
Then I'll go and hug that damn dog after I've let him back into the house, I fix the stupid truck tailgate, I'll keep querying agents, and then I'll take a hot bath. I still might throw that crappy fax machine out the second story window and delight as it splatters into the pavement. But that will give me an excuse to go out and buy a better one.
For example, I become infuriated when my stinking fax machine makes copies instead of faxing my material. I want to choke some sprout-eating wiener hipster geek at Google when I constantly have to re-set my lousy password just to access my blog.
I get pissed when my truck tailgate drops down at 65 miles an hours and I lose a garbage can; when the dog pees in the entryway as I come home, when I can't unscrew a tube of paint, when I get rejection letters from agents and editors who don't want the story I labored to write. I'm angry about being spied on, listened to, and watched because I have the freedom to do what I want, and that fact pisses some power-hungry bureaucrat off.
Yes, I know. I let little things tick me off whenever I fail to keep sight of the big things. I know such is true in my head, but my emotions - well, there are times when I just need to vent, blow off stream, kick a can, curse, and go eat a Hershey bar (no, two Hershey bars!)
Then I'll go and hug that damn dog after I've let him back into the house, I fix the stupid truck tailgate, I'll keep querying agents, and then I'll take a hot bath. I still might throw that crappy fax machine out the second story window and delight as it splatters into the pavement. But that will give me an excuse to go out and buy a better one.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
Looking Forward As I Look Back
April has finally arrived, and as I sit watching the sunset colors of ochre and slate, I mull over the transitions to come. Moving day will soon be upon me.
Changes are never easy, especially big, life-changing ones. By this time next year, I will no longer live at this farm, my home of the last twenty years. My youngest who was born here will be moving on after high school, as has her elder siblings. It will be my husband, my eldest special needs daughter, and me.
We will leave New York, and on one level I shall not regret that, given the ever-escalating encroachment by this state's tyrannical government. I spoke today with a deli owner who summed it up succinctly, "They just take everything you own," meaning personal income, freedom, etc.
What I will miss is this state's rural beauty, its wildlife, and the forests I have come to know as well as my own backyard. I will recall the days of autumn foxhunts; I loved a good gallop cross country. The memory of cool early-May mornings and the sound of the first birds as I waited to hear the tom turkeys gobble will probably fade. And would you believe, there may even come a time when I think I will miss cleaning out poop and pee from my horse's stall every morning.
But Pennsylvania horizons beckon. I look out the window of my studio and notice the sky changing from a pale cerulean to a pastel mauve, with the underlining of clouds reflecting the setting sun's glow. As I write, I will certainly miss these New York skies, and wonder if the skies of Pennsylvania will glow as beautifully, as brightly. I pray they inspire me with the same creative inspirations as I've known here.
Changes are never easy, especially big, life-changing ones. By this time next year, I will no longer live at this farm, my home of the last twenty years. My youngest who was born here will be moving on after high school, as has her elder siblings. It will be my husband, my eldest special needs daughter, and me.
We will leave New York, and on one level I shall not regret that, given the ever-escalating encroachment by this state's tyrannical government. I spoke today with a deli owner who summed it up succinctly, "They just take everything you own," meaning personal income, freedom, etc.
What I will miss is this state's rural beauty, its wildlife, and the forests I have come to know as well as my own backyard. I will recall the days of autumn foxhunts; I loved a good gallop cross country. The memory of cool early-May mornings and the sound of the first birds as I waited to hear the tom turkeys gobble will probably fade. And would you believe, there may even come a time when I think I will miss cleaning out poop and pee from my horse's stall every morning.
But Pennsylvania horizons beckon. I look out the window of my studio and notice the sky changing from a pale cerulean to a pastel mauve, with the underlining of clouds reflecting the setting sun's glow. As I write, I will certainly miss these New York skies, and wonder if the skies of Pennsylvania will glow as beautifully, as brightly. I pray they inspire me with the same creative inspirations as I've known here.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Back From a Long Winters Nap
Okay, so I wasn't napping. I was busy with my writing, and editing my novels with the help of J.J. and Amy Murray's Editing Service. Love those guys!
I sat so many hours sitting bleary-eyed in front of my laptop, munching on sesame seed crackers and guzzling mineral water, to polish a manuscript worthy enough for the eyes of literary agents.
I recently dusted off a novel I began in 1990 and completed in 1992. It's an epic fantasy, suitable for the new adult market; the new adult genre being stories for the 20-something age group who are still too old to be young adult and too young to be adult-adult.
I looked at the message I was trying to impart in this romance morality play. I was happy.
It turned out to be more relevant today than in 1992, and far more entertaining given our current cultural shift towards interracial couples/families becoming mainstream.
Looking ahead to getting it published. Wanting to be ahead of the trend. Getting ahead. Period.
I sat so many hours sitting bleary-eyed in front of my laptop, munching on sesame seed crackers and guzzling mineral water, to polish a manuscript worthy enough for the eyes of literary agents.
I recently dusted off a novel I began in 1990 and completed in 1992. It's an epic fantasy, suitable for the new adult market; the new adult genre being stories for the 20-something age group who are still too old to be young adult and too young to be adult-adult.
I looked at the message I was trying to impart in this romance morality play. I was happy.
It turned out to be more relevant today than in 1992, and far more entertaining given our current cultural shift towards interracial couples/families becoming mainstream.
Looking ahead to getting it published. Wanting to be ahead of the trend. Getting ahead. Period.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Transitions
Got up this morning. Sent hubby and the higher-schooler off for the day. Let out the dogs. Poured my morning tea. Checked the outside thermometer and I read -4.
Minus four degrees! I mumble, "No matter what they say about global warming, they lie!" I look back at the calendar. Next month is March. March is an iffy month at best. Wind, snow, balmy sunshine, more wind, cold rains, mud, freak snowstorms, morning ice ... Did I mention wind?
But March - for all its lion/lamb unpredictability - is a month of transition. Transition from how our planet angles itself toward the sun, from frigid to temperate, from a gray-brown landscape to a green-brown landscape, from minus four degrees to plus anything.
Transitions are good. Why? Let us say that I hope all transitions mean forward movement. Progress. Onward and upward. Not backwards, and certainly not standing still stuck.
As I approach my 60th birthday, I view seasonal change as a time for moving forward to new horizons, new challenges, new adventures. It is the Year of the Horse (yes, I was born this year-no coincidence), a year of blessing and freedom. I was also born on St. Valentine's Day, which I'm sure fate had a hand in, since I've always been a slobbering romantic, and I'm even more so now.
Leaving the fifties and transitioning into the sixties makes my perspective on all transitions of time something that I see as far more relevant. It's clearer to me that life moves forward, whether or not I embrace it as something to be anticipated and appreciated.
Perhaps that is why I have always looked forward to an unwritten future. As such, with another day at hand, I put my creative pen to page and write on as I wait for the frozen land beneath me to slowly transition into another spring,
Minus four degrees! I mumble, "No matter what they say about global warming, they lie!" I look back at the calendar. Next month is March. March is an iffy month at best. Wind, snow, balmy sunshine, more wind, cold rains, mud, freak snowstorms, morning ice ... Did I mention wind?
But March - for all its lion/lamb unpredictability - is a month of transition. Transition from how our planet angles itself toward the sun, from frigid to temperate, from a gray-brown landscape to a green-brown landscape, from minus four degrees to plus anything.
Transitions are good. Why? Let us say that I hope all transitions mean forward movement. Progress. Onward and upward. Not backwards, and certainly not standing still stuck.
As I approach my 60th birthday, I view seasonal change as a time for moving forward to new horizons, new challenges, new adventures. It is the Year of the Horse (yes, I was born this year-no coincidence), a year of blessing and freedom. I was also born on St. Valentine's Day, which I'm sure fate had a hand in, since I've always been a slobbering romantic, and I'm even more so now.
Leaving the fifties and transitioning into the sixties makes my perspective on all transitions of time something that I see as far more relevant. It's clearer to me that life moves forward, whether or not I embrace it as something to be anticipated and appreciated.
Perhaps that is why I have always looked forward to an unwritten future. As such, with another day at hand, I put my creative pen to page and write on as I wait for the frozen land beneath me to slowly transition into another spring,
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