Second-time rain, second time revisions, and one big slug

This morning, when I got up, it was sunny. I'd taken the day off work to make revisions and headed to Starbucks, plunking away on the keyboard and sipping bold coffee in a "for here" cup. Things were going pretty well until I got the email from my BFF, to whom I'd submitted three revised chapters.

She didn't like them. She wants Mr. Darcy and I gave her Mr. Rogers.

I made an emergency tweet to Carol, in my critique group, who has Fridays off, and we met for lunch 20 minutes later. "Okay, yes," she said, "I thought it was good, but what she said is better."

I stared out of the dark gray clouds rolling in. Yeah, I know what she said is better, but I wanted sympathy. And commiseration. And maybe encouragement. Carol was wise enough to give me that, and still be on time to pick up her daughter, forty-five minutes later.

I couldn't do any more revisions. I have to wait and let it settle in, then the ideas will start and I'll begin again. I left and went to the grocery store. By the time I came out, it was second-time rain; that is the kind of rain that comes down so hard, it bounces back up so it can rain down a second time. I sloshed to my car, my hair plastered to my head, and tossed in the soggy grocery bag. I was wet and it was only 46 degrees outside, so cranked the heater dial up to the "Belize" setting, pressed my foot down to "Ignite Afterburner," and flipped the wipers to "Warp Eight."

To top matters off, there is an eight inch long slug sliming along the outside of my sliding glass door and the cats are taking turns leaping up to claw it off. Boooying Booooying Boooying.

Not an ideal start to a three day weekend, but better than a tornado.

Confessions of a Seven-Year-Old

My very close relative, who prefers to remain nameless, admitted her seven-year-old grandson will probably not become a priest. After what she told me about her grandchild’s first confession/first communion, I think most priests might even rethink their choice. It seems the lad, Indiana Jones (not his real name), was nervous before they piled into the car to go to the church for his first confession.

“I don’t know what to say,” he moaned. “I don’t know what to confess.” He paced around the living room.

His mother hoisted an eyebrow. “Well,” she suggested, “you could mention all the times you’ve smashed your brother, or the times you’ve said ‘no’ to me.”

He looked hopeful, but then his shoulders sagged. “No, that won’t work, because you can only confess to things that you are sorry about.”

When it was time, they filed out to the car and drove to the church. Indiana made his way in like a sacrificial lamb. The priest entered the center of the confessional and each child took a turn in the cubbyholes on either side. But something was amiss. A steady stream of children came and went on the priest’s right, but on the left, Indiana disappeared behind the curtain and did not return.

His father sat in the church, at first the proud papa, but as the minutes ticked by, his shoulders tensed and his breathing became shallow. His eyes on the lush curtain, he saw Indiana’s head poke out and the lad crooked his finger, beckoning his father to come to the confessional. His father slowly shook his head, glancing up for the bolt of lightning. Indiana vanished. The click of seven-year-old girl’s shoes, the creaking of wooden pews, and hushed whispers filled the next few minutes until Indiana inched out of the confessional, tears streaming down his cheeks. His father ran to his aid, but Indiana was so distraught, he couldn’t talk, couldn’t move.

It took a while to coax him to a bench and more time for him to tell, in hiccupped sobs, that the priest had told him to think of his own penance.

This was not what they had practiced. He didn’t know what to do. Little Indy kneeled in the confessional, trying to think of what penance he might give himself and waiting for the priest to okay it. The priest did not explain that he could leave, so Indy waited, and thought, and waited and thought until he could stand it no longer. When he asked for help, and his father abandoned him, it was more than he could bear.

Indiana’s father took him home and comforted him. When he asked his son if he had thought of any “sins” to confess, Indiana said, “Yes, I told the priest about six hundred things.”

Glory be and the saints be praised. No wonder the priest had him think up his own penance.

But that wasn’t the end of it. The next day they went to church for his first communion and Indiana realized he had no money to give when they passed the basket around. Not wanting to have to confess that the next time, he begged his mother to give him some coins. She dug in her wallet and handed him some cash which he carefully slipped into the envelope and sealed. But the collection basket had already passed him by. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The mass continued, but the little envelope burned in his hand. By the time mass was over and the priest turned and told everyone to “go in peace”, Indiana knew he had only one shot at redemption. Desperate, he vaulted from his seat, hurtled up to the front of the church and jabbed the envelope into the priest’s hand. When he turned around, the entire congregation stared at him.

I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t be surprised if poor Indiana became a protestant.

Good News, Bad News, Good News

Good news is that spring is here in the Northwest. That means rain with sun breaks.

The bad news is that the grass is growing really, really fast and if you don't stay on top of it, you have to ride the mower through a jungle of green. I've been working very hard on revisions and, I admit, my grass got pretty long. Then I couldn't get my mower started and it got longer. A friend came over and got it going, but then I couldn't get it into gear. The grass got longer. But today, I managed to get it started and get it into gear and off I went, mowing nearly a half acre of hidden obstacles in tall ground cover. If I wasn't running into a concealed fir branch, I was plowing through a mole hill. That is bad enough, but at the last moment, as I rode along the edge--the mower deck whirling and the engine booming--I saw the snake. I screamed, but it was too late.

Now I have about 30 pieces of snake all over the yard. It makes me almost hope there are crows around.

But the good news is that on my commute, I pulled into the driveway of this baby and learned she is two and a half weeks old, her name is Feather, she takes after her dad, and she is already learning to walk on a halter lead. Later I felt kind of bad because I never even asked the man his name. Just grilled him about the little, baby girl, took the picture and left. Am I lame, or what?

More good news is that the revisions are actually going pretty well. My critique group likes the results and I'm beginning to enjoy this round of revision.

Bad news is I'm not going to be posting much.

Toppling off the edge of the world

Back to Revisions

Writing a historical fiction novel has been quite a journey. Just to figure out how to begin the book took two months of research. To begin writing it in earnest took two years of research. At about 150 pages, it needed so much work, I rewrote the entire thing from 3rd person to 1st person POV.

At about 250 pages, when I was just about to give up, declaring it a worthless piece of garbage, I won second prize in the Pacific Northwest Writer's Association's literary contest. That gave me hope, which came at the time it was most needed.

Like magic.

I finished the manuscript, but then I bought the book, "Manuscript Makeover" and spent three months editing it. Then another month of stressing out about the query letter, writing and revising it until I wanted to toss my computer into a funeral pyre.

To send out the first query letter took two hours of hovering over the "send" button, and two fingers of brandy.

Luckily, I got some very good feedback and rewrote the book again, changing the ending, changing some of the personalities of the characters, adding in a "ticking clock." A few months later, the revision was done and I found some Beta Readers. That led to a few more revisions and then back to the query process.

Again, some very helpful feedback, which means another entire revision. At first I thought, "Oh wow, that should actually be pretty easy."

Maybe it is just me, but is any revision easy? I've struggled for two days and have only written two scenes, which have each become their own chapters. Today, I forced my poor mother into sitting with me for two and a half hours, while I revised the first new 799 word scene.

Good thing she still has to love me.

Wish me luck. It is another major revision. If I squint, I can almost see the other side. I hope I'm not just going to fall off the edge of the world.

Stocking up on Livestock

Today I saw something that made me question everything. It is true, I used to be a city girl, but really, I think in the last ten years I've gained a lot of knowledge about living in the hills. I've taken Wildlife Steward classes, and watched a few documentaries about farms animals. I've learned that eggs don't grow on trees, and the milk you see in the store does not come from the Milkyway.

My commute to and from work is filled with wonder, especially in the spring when babies animals dot the countryside. Little lambs frolic amid the flock, adorable foals graze in fields, a red calf trots along the fence-line, and fawns quiver in the woods, waiting for their mothers to call them into the meadow. It is something I don't take for granted. Every morning and evening is filled with breathless anticipation and expectation as I zoom out into the wilderness of the Northwest.

But when I rolled to a stop in the double left turn lanes that take me out of town and into the country this afternoon, this is what I saw.

Do you suppose everything I see on my commute is no more than plastic or mechanical animals? Is the Pacific Northwest really a huge theme park? Am I paying for a season pass disguised as property taxes? Am I a featured attraction in a heavily-visited amusement land?

Am I Goofy?

Suffering Through Spring Fever

I know this would never happen, but let's just say someone left their sunroof open on a hot, sunny, Oregon day in spring.

And let's just say they spent the night with family and when they woke in the morning, this was pouring rain.

And let's just say everyone in the family listens to Car Talk on NPR and knows that mildew is the worst enemy in a situation like that.

Here is what I would recommend:

1. Close sunroof and towel dry inside of car

2. Gather some quarters and use the vacuum at a car wash (with their permission) to see if that can vacuum up any moisture

3. Fill your tank with petrol

4. Start engine

5. Leave one rear window cracked open

6. Let engine run with heater going for five hours

Not that I know this for sure, since this is all hypothetical, but when you return to the car after five hours, everything will feel as dry as the Atacama Desert, including the carpeting and seats.

Will this prevent it from suffering mildew?

I'll let you know.

Worst Bird Picture Ever

Laughingbird Caye

Being aboard a 46 foot vessel with eight others for a week lends itself to a glimpse into the personalities of each shipmate, but it wasn't until this week I discovered a mean streak in all of them. They wanted me to put the worst bird picture ever on this blog--and claim it as my own--or they'd start leaving comments about it.

That is just vicious.

I like that in a person.

And perhaps I should mention my vision isn't as good as it should be. Without glasses, anything past the hood of my car has indefinite outlines and reading street signs is impossible, even with the most careful squint.

So, as I sat on the bow of the Bonac Witch II, swinging at anchor off Laughingbird Caye, I snapped pictures of birds in the distance on full zoom, and hoped when I brought the picture up on my computer, I could crop it into a decent picture. The above picture, with the help of cropping, became the picture below.

And the below picture, with some red, running rigging in the foreground,

was cropped into the below picture.

Then I saw a terrific shot, the kind my shipmates would find impressive. A whole group of pelicans bobbed in the water, just off shore, all grouped together. My hands fumbled to get the camera up. I squinted at the screen to center the shot, making sure it was at full zoom, all the while terrified they'd fly away before I could snap the picture. But they remained where they were. The rest of the crew nodded and smiled as I shoved the little camera screen in front of them later that day.

It wasn't until I cropped it on my computer I realized it was the worst bird picture ever.

Who would have thought a group of snorkelers would disguise themselves as pelicans?

It is a mistake anyone could have made.

Right?