Vancouver Lake in March

Have you ever witnessed something so incredible that you wanted to share it with others? Sometimes it is as simple as running your finger over the velvety softness of a purple pansy petal, but other times it is more complex, like the very first laugh of a baby.

Photograph by Melanie Sherman

A few years ago I bought a kayak. It was the kind of sunny, warm March day when you feel spring nipping at winter’s heels. I loaded my kayak onto my car and sped down to Vancouver Lake. I lugged the vessel down to the water’s edge and strapped myself into the life jacket. Squeezed into the little cockpit, I set out on the lake, paddling toward the small island in the middle. A bald eagle circled and I stopped to watch. His wings spread wide to catch the wind, he circled once, twice, three times. Then he glided down, barely touched the surface of the water and lifted again, a fish clutched in his claws. It was magnificent.

Photo by KetaDesign

He flew to the island and with graceful flapping, settled on a bare tree branch. I paddled closer toward the island and then I saw another eagle, perched in the same tree. My gaze swung to the next tree. Two or three eagles clung to the naked branches. I paddled closer until the kayak bobbed twenty feet from shore and my breathing came quick and shallow. Every tree supported at least one eagle, but some as many as five. There must have been sixty or seventy.

Photograph by Andrew (Tawker)

And there, flying helter-skelter between the empty branches in a grove of trees, three juvenile eagles chased each other in a hectic game of tag. Over the gentle lapping of water I could hear the sound of their wings hitting the bark as they weaved through the maze of limbs at full speed, while the adults watched from their perches.

Photo by KetaDesign

When I got home, I sent out emails to kayaking friends. The next weekend, a dozen of us motored into the parking lot and rigged our kayaks, buckling into our life jackets, adjusting our sunglasses, slathering on sunscreen. We set off toward the middle amid the joyous silence of anticipation. But something was different. There were no birds flying, none preening in the branches, no teenagers cavorting. The trees loomed; empty and barren.

I stopped and gazed up, disappointment welling inside. When my eyes lowered to the water, nearly a dozen kayakers surrounded me and stared, one of them plucking little sprays of water from the surface with his blade. “An island filled with eagles, huh?” one of them scoffed.

My mouth dropped open, but it took several tries before the words came out. “They were here last week. Honest they were.” I pointed to the stillness of the island. They stared a while longer before, one by one, they turned and paddled back to shore.

Photograph by Tequesquitengo

Yes, I was sad I didn’t get to see the birds again, but my biggest disappointment was not being able to share it with others, because the wonders of the world are best when shared.

Microfiction Monday

Microfiction Monday #69

Welcome to Microfiction Monday, where a picture paints 140 characters, or even fewer.

I decided to join in on Microfiction Monday over at Susan's Stony River. We are invited to write a story about a select picture in 140 characters or less (including spaces and punctuation). Microfiction means the shortest of short stories, which is quite the challenge for me. Even little notes I leave myself to remember to buy gas are longer than 140 characters.

Here’s this week’s picture followed by my story:

"Even in this dreary second story flat, I must block out the afternoon light, lest the sun infiltrates the clouds to vaporize me."

Now hop on over to Susan's to see the other entries and have a great Monday.

Very Little Sympathy

I did it. I sent it in. Oh, dear Lord, why did I send it? What was I thinking? It is like buyer's remorse. Do any other writers feel the angst when they send in a manuscript?

It wouldn't be so bad except Hobiecat and Schooner give me little sympathy. Hobie was lying on the back of my chair, purring, and I mentioned to him that my palms were sweating. He flopped over and snored in my ear.

Photo by Eddy Van 3000 from in Flanders fields - Belgiquistan - United Tribes ov Europe

So I ran my hands down my pant legs and gritted my teeth, trying to come to terms with my anxiety, but a little whimper escaped, which made Schooner roll his eyes. "Shut up about it, already," he growled.

Photo by Winfried Bruenken (Amrum)

And then Schooner brought out a toy and wanted to play fetch. They really don't understand.

It Is The End

Two of the beta readers have politely intimated disappointment at the end. Two others were non-committed about the ending, just mostly smiling and nodding and stirring their half-empty cups of coffee. One beta reader began correcting the grammar of one of my characters. One liked the "hero"and wants him in the next book. One liked the nautical vocabulary, learning with the main character. One skipped over it, but thought it wasn't "too much" to skip. One wanted to read more. One admitted she doesn't like historical fiction.

All felt they were there, on the ship, experiencing life at sea and liked the main character.

So after all of this, there comes a time when one must admit defeat and end it...

...differently.

So that is what I have done. I've saved my old ending, but have written a new one. I am afraid it might be a little sappy, but perhaps it will be more pleasing than the ending I had. I'm sure it will have to be revised a thousand more times, but I think I'll start the query process again.

But first I'll send it to my BFF.

Wish me luck.

Boiler Bay Beta

The sun came out after a long bout of rain. What better way to recover, when the sun entices and you have three new CDs, than to hop into the car and careen to the beach? Boiler Bay is south of Lincoln City, close to Depot Bay.

The buttons for the sun roof still work after three months of being shut tight against the rainy gloom. In a small parking area, I settle back into the seat, flip open a book, listen to Mozart and pray seagulls won't fly directly over the opening in my roof.

But I'm anxious. The beta reader has finished the book, but she is away this weekend and I cannot get her review until she returns. This cannot be good. If she liked the book, she would have cancelled her weekend plans and joyously met with me. Right? Right?

And I think my book is not really her "genre." In fact, I know it isn't. I can't sit still, even when my favorite part of the Clarinet Concerto comes on. I get out and walk over to the fence, pacing and wiping my damp palms on my sweater.

What if she hated it? What if the comments are like something my mother would say. "Well, dear, you've written a book. That is quite an accomplishment." Yikes. That ranks right up there with, "Well, dear, you are as pretty as you can be." Which means what? That you are dog ugly, but that is as pretty as you are capable of being?

What if it is worse? What if she says I should put it in a drawer and take up knitting? What if she says that perhaps I should fill my free time with volunteer work. Or (gasp) housework?

They say that rum is bad for you. I guess I'd better finish it off then.

Resplendent Shimmering Beams

In the Northwest, we don't always see the moon. It shivers behind the shrouds of gloom and sneaks out only when the clouds open the ports. When I walked out of work a couple of days ago, I had to whirl around in the silvery sparkle and snatch up my camera.

Beta readers are just as rare. When you find a good one, it is time to celebrate. Many people will offer to be a beta reader, but I have found out all who offer should not be selected. Twice I gave my manuscript to readers who never read it. After three weeks, one woman had been too busy, but would get to it soon. I took it back and gave it to another. Another three weeks, again the next person hadn't gotten around to it. I got smart and started asking if they could do it in two weeks. I explained that I wanted to send it off to my BFF as soon as possible. The third beta reader read it in one week, but she forgot to fill out the chapter-by-chapter check list. She wrote a nice little paragraph about it, however, which had me panting in panic. She said some wonderful things, but it was this that skewered me on the terror-o-meter:

"The in-depth research into ships, history, sailing, and life on the sea really showed. Amazing amount of detail and new-to-me vocabulary."

This was disaster.

First of all, the research shouldn't be obvious. Neither should the "history." And the vocabulary; an amazing amount? Dear Lord. Too much. Way too much.

I made an appointment and bought her coffee at Starbucks and began the grilling. I wanted to bring hot lights to shine in her eyes, but my critique partner, Carol, wouldn't let me. The reader assured me that what she had said was a "good" thing. She said the amount of detail put her on the ship. She was there with them. The vocabulary was interesting, entertaining, fun. It was fascinating to find out some well known terms are nautical in origin by "watching" the scene unfold where it was used in its original habitat. She liked it (the vocabulary).

She has offered to read anything else I write. In fact, she is willing to read any of my critique group's manuscripts. She is the resplendent shimmering beams of the joyful moon.

I rejoice.

I have an appointment with another reader next week. She's in the middle of Chapter 28, and wants to finish it tonight, but she hasn't a free moment to meet me "for the grilling" until Monday. I'll get her opinion about the vocabulary then, but I'll need to buy six more bottles of Maalox to get me through the weekend.

I'm so terrified.

Stoltzman's Innisfree

Gratitude

I'm grateful to be able to sit amid a flock of Canada geese at lunch time. I'm grateful for my car stereo. I'm grateful I can google (yes I believe it is now a verb) things and people, and learn about them on the computer. Although I prefer the instant gratification of going to a store and being able to walk out with my purchase, I'm grateful I can buy hard-to-find things on Amazon and have them arrive at my mailbox a few days later.

Earlier in the week, before the rain set in, I found out my friends, the Canada Geese, were back near the little pond near my work. At lunch I drove to the spot and settled in. With the window only partially open, I listened to Richard Stoltzman play Mozart's Andante K315 on his clarinet, while I edited my manuscript. It was beautiful, tranquil, lovely. That is, until some predator, probably an eagle, sent the birds flapping into the air in a frenzy of honking terror. Then there was no peace for anyone. I might as well have had heavy metal playing and been setting small houses on fire. It was almost a relief to return to work.Friday, I went to the post office and there it was, my new Stoltzman CD, "Open Sky". I ripped open the package, carefully removed the CD and slipped it into my player. I drove to the "geese" spot, but they were not there, maybe because a red-tailed hawk lorded over the meadow in a naked tree. I'm not really sure the geese would be afraid of the hawk, but the meadow was barren. I'm also not sure the hawk appreciates my music like the geese do, but I set Innisfree on repeat and tortured myself for 45 minutes, watching the hawk and swiping at the tears. It is so very beautiful. I don't know how Stoltzman was able to put so much emotion into his instrument, but I can't listen to it without sobbing. Probably best not to listen to that particular piece while I'm driving. The other music on the CD is lovely, yes, but does not evoke my utter surrender, as Innisfree does.

When I got home Friday evening, I googled Stoltzman, found out he is currently at a well known music conservatory and I sent him an email, thanking him for the perfection of that song and for sharing his gift with us. He'll probably think I am stalking him and delete the email, but Hayward's Daily Review newspaper columnist, Ray Orrock, once said that if someone has touched your life, made it better, you should thank them.

You've no idea how it will affect them, of course, but I know such a simple task can mean a lot to some. On a whim a few years ago, I wrote a thank you note to one of my college instructors years after my degree. I received a letter back from his wife. He was in hospice. She read him the letter, and she didn't know if he understood, but the letter cheered her and renewed her resolve to stay strong for him. He died a few days later and she took my letter to the college newspaper and had them publish it as a tribute to him. I doubt he was well enough to comprehend the letter and, although I thought about it every so often, I never wrote to him until it was too late. I regret that.

If someone had a positive effect on your life, send them a note. It doesn't matter if it was a neighbor, a teacher, a relative, a movie star, or a clarinetist. Do it now, before it is too late.