As a high school teacher, I learn as much from my students as I teach them. For example, several weeks ago, when I was teaching my students about the root “therm,” I got an education on thermite, and the fact that it can burn underwater. More recently, I overheard one of my students, who is getting ready to apply for a specialty arts program, say something really simple, but really profound, to a classmate sitting in her little pod of student desks: “I really hope they [the judges/admissions committee] like my art and that I get in, but at the end of the day, regardless of the results, I am still an artist.”
“I really hope they like my art, but at the end of the day, regardless of the results, I am still an artist.”
This statement resonated with me because, for the last few months, I have been sending query letters for my debut novel, Goodbye for Now, out into the ultra-competitive world of literary agents and publishers in the hopes of following the traditional route to seeing it published. So, far I have queried about fifteen agents (though it feels more like 1500)–some of whom have thanks-but-no-thanksed me the very day they received my query. I won’t lie and tell you that isn’t disheartening, because it is–it really, really is. But not disheartening enough to stop me. Not yet. I intend to query at least one agent a week for the entirety of 2017 before switching my tactic. If December 31, 2017, rolls around, and I still don’t have a single offer of representation, I will either reevaluate my query or attempt a new route altogether.
On those days when maybe the rejection starts to get to me just a little, I will remember the words of my student, and I will remind myself: At the end of the day, regardless of the results, I am still a writer.
And on those days when maybe the rejection starts to get to me just a little, I will remember the words of my student, and I will remind myself: I really hope agents and publishers and readers like my book, but at the end of the day, regardless of the results, I am still a writer. That part of my identity is not reliant on the validation of the mainstream publishing world (though it would be nice, and it is my goal…), nor is it dependent on recognition from critics or reviewers (though that would be nice, too). It relies only on the fact that I continue to do one thing: write. And that, my friends, I most certainly will do.
Your identity as a writer does not rely on the validation of the mainstream publishing world, nor does it depend on recognition from critics or reviewers. It relies only on the fact that you continue to do one thing: write.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and following close on its heels is Black Friday. If we haven’t already done so, it’s time to start thinking about the thoughtful, meaningful gifts we can give to our loved ones–or perhaps the thoughtful, meaningful gifts we hope to get from them. Whether you’re focused on finding the perfect gift for someone else, or on crafting your own wish list, here are some ideas.
The first literary magazine I ever read was the result of a gift subscription from my aunt and uncle, who signed me up for Cicada Magazine, a young adult literary magazine put out by Cricket Media. Subscription costs range from $4.95-$59.95, depending on the duration of the subscription. This gift was of paramount importance in my writing life. Not only did it introduce me to the concept of what a literary magazine was, but it also led me to begin submitting my writing for publication. Cicada was the first non-school-related publication to which I ever sent work, and it was the first not only to publish several of my poems over the course of a few years, but also to pay me for them. I doubt when my aunt and uncle subscribed to this magazine for me, they could have imagined what an important role it would end up playing in my passion. The vindication I felt upon receiving my first acceptance letter and contract from Cicada was lasting and immense. Gifting a reader/writer with this magazine may open the door not only to memorable and fascinating works of literature, but also to her own opportunity for publication.
Gifting a loved one with this magazine may open the door not only to memorable and fascinating works of literature, but also to her own opportunity for publication.
My father, a fellow English teacher, was the person who first introduced me to OneStory, an aptly named and phenomenal little literary magazine. Each issue features only–you guessed it–one story. I love this magazine, because I am an exceptionally busy person whose time is always at a premium. I rarely have time to finish a novel during the course of the school year (though I devour them in the summer months). I do, however, have time for one story now and again. OneStory arrives once a month, so I know I always have about four weeks to finish the story, which can usually be read in one sitting (the challenge becomes finding time for the sitting!). A one-year subscription costs $21.
The best thing about OneStory is that even someone as busy as I am can usually find time to read just one story a month.
If your loved one likes a little board game fun, I highly recommend you consider one of these family-friendly, literary, board-based competitions as a gift.
For Writers, in General
When I was about half-way through the first draft of my novel (I am now working on the seventh draft of my novel), my sister and brother-in-law gifted me with an engraved pen and pen case from Things Remembered. Not only is it elegant, beautiful, and practical, but it was also one of the most meaningful and thoughtful gifts I have ever received; it showed me that they believed in me and in my dream, and that vote of confidence in the form of this pen still motivates me today. Every time I see the case and open it to retrieve the pen, my faith in my dream is renewed, and my motivation to write is revived. I am reminded that someone thinks I can do it. The pen is a manifestation of their faith.
The engraved pen and case showed me that they believed in me and in my dream, and that vote of confidence in the form of this pen still motivates me today. Every time I see the case and open it to retrieve the pen, my faith in my dream is renewed, and my motivation to write is revived. I am reminded that someone thinks I can do it. The pen is a manifestation of their faith.
Engraved pens and cases run between $5 and $300 at Things Remembered. I recently spent just shy of $50 on a pen with both the pen and its case engraved, and the recipient, an aspiring children’s book author, loved it.
Membership to a Local Writing Organization
Joining James River Writers was one of the best moves I ever made regarding my writing. In fact, it’s safe to say my novel would never have been finished had I not joined this group and begun participating in their many Writing Shows, events, and conferences. Membership to a local writing group yields many benefits, including reduced fees for workshops, events, and conferences; networking; exposure to agents and other literary professionals; motivation; regular newsletters; education–just to name a few. Paying for a loved one’s membership would no doubt be a welcomed gift.
One of the newest digital magazines for writers, writeHackr Magagzine, features author interviews and information on writing, craft, branding, ideas, the writing industry, the publishing industry, etc. To get a feel for the magazine, check out their blog. You can also find them on Instagram. I subscribe myself, and have even written a few pieces for the publication. I highly recommend it for all writers!
Membership to a Poetry Society or Organization
If you are local, buying a beloved poet membership to the Poetry Society of Virginia would be a practical, thoughtful, and meaningful gift. Benefits include a regular newsletter; reduced rates for attendance at the annual festival and other events; and participation in workshops, readings, and open mic events–to name just three. Other outcomes are motivation, inspiration, networking, and support.
I recently heard an interview with the famed memoirist Mary Karr on NPR. In 2015, she came out with a new book called The Art of Memoir, on which the interview focused. Listening to the interview, I wanted not only to read the book (I myself have listed it on my own Christmas Wish List), but also to be her friend. She was so genuine, honest, and raw–things I am often afraid to be when writing nonfiction. I feel I could really learn something from her–and her book. She was painfully honest in the interview, as I expect most memoirists must learn to be, at some point or another–particularly about herself. She did not shy away from saying about people things that might upset them. She was unabashed. To listen to the captivating interview, click here.
For Writers Aspiring to be Published
Subscription to Writer’s Digest
Writer’s Digest purports to be the #1 magazine for writers, and features publishing tips, craft tips, information on techniques, etc. There are three subscription options: A one-year digital subscription costs $9.96; a one-year print subscription costs $19.96; both digital and print combined cost $21.96 for one year.
The 2017 Writer’s Market
There are lots of options concerning The Writer’s Market books, so you can really tailor your purchase to the writer you’re buying for. Options include, but are not limited to: Novels and Short Stories Writer’s Market, Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition, Writer’s Market 2017: The Most Trusted Guide to Getting Published, and Guide to Literary Agents. On Amazon, they range in price from $9.90 to a digital edition of Writer’s Market 2017: The Most Trusted Guide to Getting Published, to $34.79 for the print version of Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition. Writer’s Market books also exist for poets and children’s books authors and illustrators.
For Dog Lovers
Richmond Animal League 2017 Calendar
What animal lover wouldn’t like to greet each new month with the photograph of an adorable rescue dog or cat–and the knowledge that the purchase of that calendar helped to find forever homes for even more loving animals? Each year, Richmond Animal League (RAL), a no-kill shelter in Virginia, hosts a calendar contest as a fundraiser. Contestants compete to see who can raise the most money for the shelter. The top twelve fundraisers’ pets are then featured within the calendar’s pages. To raise even more money in support of homeless animals, RAL then sells the calendars for about $15 each. They make a great gift!
Richmond Animal League Luminary
To honor the memory of a pet, or to celebrate the life of one still with you, as well as to help raise money for homeless pets, you can purchase in your loved one’s name (and/or their pet’s name) a luminary for the Richmond Animal League Operation Silent Night event. Luminaries start at only $20 and can be purchased here. Gifting an animal lover with a luminary not only honors him or her, as well as his or her beloved animals, but also helps provide hope for a homeless pet.
I have made some very meaningful memories and spent some high-quality bonding time with my dogs through training classes. My sweet beagle who, it turns out, hates “doggy school,” has still completed a basic training class, and my whippet-jack russell mix, who is quite the little scholar, has completed basic training and earned his Canine Good Citizen certificate at our local Petco. He and I have also participated in agility classes at levels A, B, and B/C at the Richmond SPCA. These classes not only enrich a dog’s life, but also strengthen and enhance the human-dog bond. When you gift someone with a training class, you are improving communication and understanding between the person and his dog; enriching the overall relationship; providing stimulation and, in some cases, as with agility, physical fitness for both dog and human, among other positive outcomes.
Doggy Swimming Lessons
One wish-list item that appears on my personal Christmas list this year is swimming
lessons with my whippet-jack russell, who, over the summer, discovered an absolute passion for swimming. He swam in the bay. He swam in the creek. He swam in the river. He swam in the sound. But it’s too cold to swim in the winter. Unless, that is, you enroll in lessons at Alpha Dog Club, or a similar organization near you, that has an indoor swimming facility for dogs. Swim sessions at Alpha Dog Club range from $25-$60 after a mandatory $60 introduction/evaluation session.
You can’t go wrong with light-up, reflective, or glow-in-dark doggy gear for safety. Many companies make collars, leashes, harnesses, vests, and collar charms that emit or reflect light so your canine companion is visible on those night-time or early morning jaunts.
Someone with a particularly energetic and agile dog, as well as a large enough yard, might find agility equipment, such as tunnels, ramps, teeters, and jumps, an excellent gift. Training on the equipment together is not only stimulating for the dog, but also good exercise for humans and dogs alike, and a great way for humans and dogs to bond.
Canine Life Vest
For those dog lovers and dogs who love to boat, fish, or swim, a doggy life jacket could be just the thing. It makes a dog’s aquatic adventures that much safer, and also assists him when he swims. You might also check out Ruff Wear‘s waterproof and wear-and-tear proof products. Click on the photographs below to enlarge them and read the captions.
Sadie’s swim is made easier with a canine flotation device.
Jack stands proudly on the bow of the speed boat, sporting his neon green life vest.
Safe in his canine life vest, Beans plays fetch in the waves.
Beans is king of the canoe in his canine life vest.
Donation in a Loved One’s Name
If you have a loved one who has no need of or want for anything, and whose pet is also already aptly provisioned, you might consider making a donation to an animal rescue organization in his or her name. Last year for Christmas, I donated to a bird rescue foundation as a gift for my dear friend who has always loved and kept birds. I was able to give him an information card on the bird species his gift was helping to support, as well as a few other mementoes to commemorate his gift.
Canine First Aid Certification Course
Just as with donating to an animal rescue organization, paying for a loved one’s enrollment in a Canine First Aid and CPR course could be a useful, practical, and life-saving gift. The hands-on, three- to four-hour course offered at Alpha Dog Club in Richmond, Virginia costs $75, a fee which then helps fund scholarships for shelter dogs who could benefit from the aquatic services offered at the facility. The certification lasts for the participant’s lifetime, and participants receive a canine first aid book to keep on-hand, as well as a few first aid supplies.
If any of these ideas helped you, please help me by sharing this post on Pinterest, or to your own social media accounts! In this season of thanksgiving and always, I will be very grateful. 😉 Happy Thanksgiving and gift-giving!
Recently I’ve realized that I would get more sleep if I had less ambition and, ironically enough, fewer dreams–at least of the variety that I want to turn into reality. In an attempt to maintain my motivation, and remind myself why I keep trading sleep for writing, here are my writing dreams, no holds barred!
After a long morning walk with my dogs followed by a three-ish mile jog and a hot shower, I settle in under a plush blanket with some loose leaf hot tea. My beagle is snuggled into her lush dog bed on the floor. My whippet’s warm little body leans into my thigh. My laptop whirs quietly on my lap. I open it and log onto my blog, where I spend thirty minutes to an hour responding to the dozens (maybe hundreds!) of comments a handful of my several thousand followers have left on my last few posts. My tea cooling and my legs growing stiff, I ask my dogs if they “wanna go for a walk.” Tails wagging, they are all too eager. We take a brisk stroll through the neighborhood, and return to the couch, where I read and comment on a few of my favorite blogs before checking my social media for a few minutes. Before I have time to see how much revenue my blog has generated this month, my cell phone rings. It’s my agent.
“I’ve got the best news for you since finding a publisher for Goodbye ForNow last year.”
Sitting up a little straighter, I anxiously scratch behind my whippet’s ear. That was pretty good news, and I am not really sure she can top it.
“I’m listening,” I tell her.
“It’s gonna be a movie!” She is practically screaming. I can almost see her now, both hands flailing, smile broad and toothy, eyes squeezed shut, muscles tense with excitement–and I wonder where she is, who can actually see her, and how, with all the hand flailing, she has managed not to drop her cell phone yet.
“What? What is?” Surely she isn’t telling me my debut novel, Goodbye For Now, published roughly one year ago, is going to appear on the big screen.
But she is. That is exactly what she’s telling me.
“And there’s more,” she breathes.
What could be more? My blog has gone viral. My recreational writing classes are always well-attended. My novel is published. My novel is going to become a movie. And there’s more?
It takes an inhuman effort for me to control myself, and I can’t wait to get off the phone so I can stop trying, and start dancing around the family room and kitchen, both dogs hovering around my feet, the sound of their little talons on the hardwood and tile floors musical and festive.
(Note: I have no idea how long making a movie actually takes…)
Yesterday was my 36th birthday. Today, I will walk down the red carpet, my husband and dogs (I insisted they be allowed to come–family, after all) by my side, to see the movie premier of the book I wrote. I don’t know how to confirm this is my reality–this is my life. For so long it was a sometimes elusive-seeming dream. But it was a dream I never stopped believing in, never stopped working for, never stopped loving to dream. And maybe all that is what has made today–has made this life of mine–possible.
And the best part? It’s not over. I have a new novel in the works; an anthology of poetry due out in the spring, when I will spend several weeks in Florida with my sister’s family; a collection of personal narratives about to come out; a few articles set to run in The New York Times and The Atlantic, along with some other, smaller publications; and book signings, writing conferences, and lectures at schools and libraries pepper my calendar. And of course there will be those quiet days of peaceful writing, the dogs cuddling beside me, the candles burning, and maybe, on a really special day, a few flakes of snow drifting down in a sort of choreographed chaos outside my window.
Come summer, I will take a break from formal appearances and teaching classes I designed to take my writing on the road, spending a few weeks writing on the shores of Lake Huron in Lexington, Michigan, taking sunrise and sunset strolls on the breakwater with my dogs. Then, we’ll head to the sound side of the Outer Banks, where I will read and write from the screened porch overlooking the sound, the sun dipping into its waters just before disappearing, the frogs and bugs ushering in the moonlight. And of course I will spend countless days indulging my literary habits on my back deck at home in the sunshine, and in the rural Northern Neck of Virginia, home to farmers and fishermen alike.
My niece sits on a train somewhere in Europe, a few weeks into her study abroad adventure. Across the train car from her, a woman is reading a novel, Auf Wiedersehen fuer jetzt. My niece smiles, the homesickness she had been feeling just a few minutes before assuaged, at least for now. The woman glances up and their eyes meet. My niece smiles warmly, and the woman smiles back, over the top of her book.
“My aunt wrote that book,” my niece tells her over the clamor of the train, the landscape outside the window behind the woman a blur of green fields and gray skies, just brush strokes of color speeding by.
The woman sets the book down on her lap, keeping her place with a finger.
“Wirklich? Deine Tante?” Her eyes glimmer with star-struck disbelief.
“Ja. Meine Tante.” My niece nods, the warmth of pride and a sense of never being alone swelling up in her chest.
A great grandnephew I have never met browses a used bookstore in downtown Richmond. He and his girlfriend pull books off the shelf, smelling the pages and flipping curiously through them. His girlfriend pulls a book off the shelf, its pages yellowed, its cover well worn. She flips the pages with her thumb, holds the book in front of her face, and takes a deep breath. The cover catches my great grandnephew’s eyes.
“Hey,” he says, gently taking the book from her hands. He turns the front cover towards her. “Look at this.” He points to the name of the author at the bottom.
“Amanda Sue Creasey,” his girlfriend slowly reads. “Creasey like you. Do you know her?”
“No. She died right before I was born, but she’s my great aunt.”
“Wow…” His girlfriend takes the book back. “That’s really cool.”
“It was made into a movie and everything.”
“Really? We need to buy this book–and we should watch that movie tonight.”
My great grandnephew smiles.
“Okay,” he says.
As they wait in the checkout line, the book held tightly against my great grandnephew’s chest, his girlfriend turns to him.
Maybe you’ve heard you can do anything you put your mind to. Maybe you’ve heard you can be anything you want to be. Maybe you’ve heard you can grow a pineapple by planting the crown of a store-bought fruit in soil. Maybe you’ve believed these things. Maybe you haven’t.
They’re all true.
Each step you take in support of your goal propels you forward.
Let’s start with the pineapple. When my dad handed me the crown of a fruit he’d just chopped into chunks and told me to plant it–it’d grown, I didn’t believe him. But, to humor him, I went ahead and plunked the “plant” in a pot of dirt. Imagine my surprise when days, weeks, months later, it wasn’t dead. Imagine my further surprise when years later, I had re-potted it several times, until it grew almost too heavy to move, and spread itself out almost four feet in diameter. But I got my biggest surprise from Mr. Pineapple, as
my husband and I had taken to calling the plant (that’s right–the plant had seen me graduate from college, get married, buy a house, and start my career), when, upon watering him one day, I noticed what looked like a miniature pineapple sprouting from the center of his crown. Mr. Pineapple was pregnant! Years ago, when I had first potted that pathetic, little crown, brown on the edges, I had never expected it to live. Not only had it lived and grown and thrived, it was now producing its own fruit.
Since then, I’ve grown nearly a dozen pineapple plants, and enjoyed the homegrown sweetness of their plant-ripened fruit. But the reward is not without its pains. Through growing pineapples, I have learned a lot of things–about pineapples, and about life.
Years ago, when I had first potted that pathetic, little crown, brown on the edges, I had never expected it to live. Not only had it lived and grown and thrived, it was now producing its own fruit.
First, a newly-planted crown will often look sickly for weeks after it has been planted. But don’t give up on it. If even the slightest hint of green remains, it is alive, and silently biding its time, building its resources. Just when you start to believe it is really dead, a miracle occurs and the plant comes alive, growing so quickly it will require multiple pots before it reaches maturity.
Second, a plant will not produce fruit until it is at least two years old. Often, it takes longer. Even when the flower appears, the time from first flower to edible fruit is about six to seven months. But at the end, you will savor the absolute sweetest, juiciest fruit you have ever tasted. It’s better than candy.
Third, the creative cycle never ends. After you harvest its fruit, the plant lives on, and while it will not flower or fruit again, it will produce an offshoot capable of producing fruit. In addition, the crown from the harvested fruit contains its own potential to produce fruit. It needs only to be planted, water, and tended to a bit.
Much like a pineapple requires several new pots before it reaches maturity, my novel apparently requires several new drafts before it reaches maturity. And that’s okay. The evolution of both plant and plot are fascinating.
Perhaps you have already guessed where I am going with this: Goals and dreams are like pineapples.
First, you must never give up on them, even when the outlook seems bleak. Remember, the darkest hour precedes the dawn–and the pineapple bursts into life just when it looks like it might die instead. Along those lines: Today, I received a rejection letter from a literary magazine to which I had submitted a short story. That was, to say the least, disappointing. But–today, an article I wrote appeared in the September issue of writeHackr, and an article by a friend of mine appeared in the local paper. Though I will for the course of my literary career assuredly receive more rejections than acceptances, I hold to my acceptances. Those are my “slightest hint of green,” and they mean my writing career is still alive. In addition, no agents have shown even the slightest bit of interest in my novel (yet), but I have not given up. I don’t even feel all that discouraged, actually. Instead, I have decide to revamp my query letter and restructure my novel–a complete overhaul. Much like a pineapple requires several new pots before it reaches maturity, my novel apparently requires several new drafts before it reaches maturity. And that’s okay. The evolution of both plant and plot are fascinating.
Second, be patient with the process. Progress might be slow. It might be invisible. Never wearying, you must patiently persevere, nurturing, cherishing, and waiting on success, quietly working in the background. Remember, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Each step you take in support of your goal propels you forward.
What seem like the mere scraps of your spoils are really their own seeds of future successes. Plant them.
Third, reach your goal, reap the benefits, savor the fruit of your labor. And then don’t stop. What seem like the mere scraps of your spoils are really their own seeds of future successes. Plant them. Much like the crown of a pineapple, so easily discarded and forgotten, can be the start of another succulent fruit, a chapter you had to cut from your novel might prove the jumping-off point for your next big idea.
Just as I didn’t recognize the potential of that first pineapple crown years ago–had no idea what it was capable of–you might not know what stories, poems, novels, or screenplays you have stored up inside of you. Not, at least, until you cultivate them, nourish them, take the necessary steps to bring them to life. No matter what.
Yesterday morning, I attended my final writing critique group meeting of the summer. Next week marks the start of my school year, the demands of which will make attending critique group meetings impossible. I will miss the insightful, honest feedback of my peers, but truth be told, I always left critique meetings feeling discouraged, deflated, and defeated, my writing having been found guilty of a litany of literary sins.
My hawk-eyed fellow writers advised me to use stronger verbs instead of adverbs (a rule of thumb I am of course aware of, but apparently incapable of applying to my own writing–though I am keen to point out the weakness in my students’ work).
In short, each meeting was a reminder that I am not, after all, the best writer in the entire universe.
They accused me of head-hopping, a name for the writerly sin of jumping perspectives at will and seemingly randomly–essentially, inconsistent point of view. I thought I was just writing in third-person omniscient.
They suggested I tighten up my prose, stop overwriting, restructure my plot, and rename a few of my characters.
In short, each meeting was a reminder that I am not, after all, the best writer in the entire universe. In other words: These meetings ground me. They bring me back down to earth and humble me.
And you know what? I need that. I need that, and to grow a thicker skin, as well as to remember my purpose for attending a critique group in the first place.
It wasn’t for accolades. It wasn’t so someone would say my idea was fascinating or the ending of one of my chapters was masterful (thought those moments were nice when they did happen). It wasn’t for my ego. It was for feedback–constructive criticism. A critique group is where you go when you want someone to tell you that, yes, you really do look fat in that dress–but here are a few options that make you look slim and slender; here is the way not to look fat in that dress. A critique group, like the sister or best friend you can trust to be honest, often has to be cruel to be kind. If I am blind to my overuse of adverbs, I need someone to open my eyes. If a particular scene is confusing or poorly written, I need someone to tell me.
A critique group is where you go when you want someone to tell you that, yes, you really do look fat in that dress–but here are a few options that make you look slim and slender; here is the way not to look fat in that dress. A critique group, like the sister or best friend you can trust to be honest, often has to be cruel to be kind.
At my first critique group meeting, the members communicated at the beginning that every criticism offered had one goal: To help all of us produce the best writing we could. And I’ll be the first to admit, it was hard sometimes (all the time) to hear that what I had brought to the group was in fact far more imperfect than I could have ever imagined, that I had not yet produced the best writing I could.
But even as I walked out to my car at the close of a meeting, wondering why I even bother writing at all, feelings of inspiration, motivation, and encouragement always began to bubble up, and my bruised ego started to mend. Within minutes of getting into my car and turning the ignition, I was already eager to get back to my piece and improve it, applying the kind, thoughtful advice I had just minutes ago viewed as a personal affront to my writing ability.
An inflated ego isn’t going to supply that kind of motivation, or propel me any closer to my goals.
Last Friday morning, my friend Lauren and I set out with my two dogs for a day trip to the Northern Neck of Virginia. We anticipated a day of sunshine and salty breezes, scouring the sand for sea glass and cooling our skin in the brackish water on the quiet beach, where the fresh waters of the Potomac River begin to mix with the saltier waves of the Chesapeake Bay. Our plan was to leave Richmond by 8 o’clock, landing ourselves on the warm sand by ten. We’d spend about four hours in a state of summer solitude, just two friends and two dogs soaking up the sunshine, catching up on each others’ lives, and strolling the strip of sand that is the beach. By 2 o’clock, we’d enjoy cruising the country roads home.
Last June, I equally optimistically started a different kind of journey: writing my first (and so far only) novel. I was convinced I could accomplish this goal before the end of the summer. I wrote almost every single day, anywhere from 500-3500 words a day. I spent hours outside on my back deck, typing away, bringing my characters and their circumstances to life, my whippet and beagle by my side. My plan was to have a near-perfect draft finished before another school year began in the fall.
After a pit stop or two, Lauren, the dogs, and I found ourselves finally on the road leading to the beach. This road is the absolute only way to reach the beach. As we rounded the last curve before the straightway to the water, we were greeted by three or four standing vehicles, a fire truck, a utility truck, and a few people pacing the street or leaning nonchalantly against their cars. The orange lights perched atop the utility truck were silently flashing, as were the lights atop the fire truck. Directly in front of the two emergency vehicles, a large, downed tree draped in power lines like tinsel on a Christmas tree blocked the road.
I slowed to a stop.
“Well,” I said. “This is probably the most exciting thing to happen here since forever.”
A man dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt approached and, hoping for an explanation, I rolled down my window and learned that though the fire department was on-scene, the power lines were still live, and the firefighters could do nothing about the downed tree or blocked road until the power company shut off power. No one knew when that might be.
“What do we do?” I said. “Do we just turn around and go home?” It seemed such a sad solution after driving so far, with such high hopes.
Lauren and I deliberated for a few minutes as to our other options, and adjusted our plans. At my parents’ recommendation, we drove to a small, public beach about 15 minutes away, hoping to let the dogs stretch their legs in the sand, and sit on the beach to eat the sack lunches we had packed. Then, perhaps we would revisit the scene of the fallen tree in hopes that everything had been cleared up, and the road reopened.
When the end of August arrived, my novel was closer to finished–but not actually so. That was okay, I told myself. The James River Writers Annual Conference was in October, and I could pitch to an agent then. I simply adjusted myself to the idea of a new deadline: October. As long as I was finished by October, and ready to pitch to an agent, I would be satisfied. And so, whenever I could find time between grading research papers and essays, I kept writing. The goal seemed achievable.
As we pulled into the little gravel parking lot at the end of the country road to Vir Mar Beach, the skies darkened slightly and the breeze picked up, the day feeling more like late October than late July.
“Watch. Now that we’ve finally found a beach, it’s gonna rain,” Lauren joked. No sooner had she spoken than a few stray drops landed with quiet taps on the windshield. Despite the spitting skies, I harnessed up the dogs and led them up the wooden steps, over the dune, and onto the beach.
Or at least what was left of it.
The tide must have been in, and it was so windy that the waves were rolling up almost to the sea grasses at the base of the dune, leaving only a small strip of damp sand, at its widest point perhaps a foot thick. In addition, the beach itself ran only about thirty to fifty feet in either direction before we were abruptly met with “Private Beach” signs, warning us back onto public sands. I walked the dogs to one end of the beach and back in less than three minutes, and Lauren and I ate our lunches in my parked car.
I wasn’t done with my novel by October, though I did make my first (albeit sorry) attempt at a pitch to a kind agent at the James River Writers Annual Conference, who told me she couldn’t really do anything without a manuscript, but generously offered to read sample pages if I sent them her way when I had a completed draft. I left the conference feeling both discouraged and inspired. I had not met my second deadline: my novel was still incomplete. I had not met my goal: I did not have an agent. But I did have reason to keep writing. So I did.
As Lauren and I finished our lunches, the same breeze blowing water across the beach to effectively obscure it, became more helpful, and began blowing away the low, dark clouds to allow the sun to make an appearance.
“Should we go back and see if the tree and power lines are all taken care of?” I asked.
Lauren agreed, and we were pleased to round the curve and find a clear route to the beach.
Just two days before Christmas, I finally completed the first draft of my novel. Few accomplishments in my life have been so satisfying, and though I knew my work was not done, I could finally say it: I wrote a book.
Although we had a mere hour before we needed to head home in time to be ready for our separate evening obligations, Lauren and I were rewarded for our determination to reach the beach. The sun broke through the clouds and warmed the sand. The water was clear and not as roiling as it had been earlier in the day, when we had seen it spilling onto the sands of little Vir Mar Beach. We found handfuls of colorful sea glass, and the dogs gleefully sniffed and wandered and waded.
By this June, I had completed three drafts of my novel, and felt ready to start the querying process. In July, I was thrilled to see an e-mail in my inbox from one of the agents to whom I had sent a query and some sample pages. My enthusiasm was dampened slightly when I opened the message, a polite and warmhearted thanks-but-no-thanks. I was not surprised, really, but I was somewhat disappointed. Still, I press on, more or less undaunted, and am currently working on the fourth draft, which I hope will fare better in its quest to find an agent, when the time comes.
While it was hard to go home so soon after finally reaching our destination, I found inspiration in the ultimate result of the day. Lauren, the dogs, and I had had to go through several obstacles to reach a goal we originally took for granted as easy to attain. We had had to be flexible. We had had to be persistent. We had had to remain steadfast in our goal despite many reasons to give in: a blocked road and seemingly inclement weather, with no clear end in sight for either. And because we had succeeded in all these, we had gotten an hour more on the beach than we would have gotten otherwise.
The connection between that Friday adventure and my writing is clear to me: We could have turned around, abandoning our goal altogether, at the first sign of trouble. But we didn’t. Many times in my writing process, I could have done the same. But I haven’t.
My dedication and determination to not only finish my book, but also to find an agent and publisher for it, once it is more polished, and Lauren’s and my dedication and determination to just make it to the beach are one in the same. I am confident that if, like Lauren and I last Friday, I can remain optimistic, perseverant, and dedicated, I will ultimately hold my book in my hand–and maybe someday, see it in the hands of others. And when that day comes, I will finally be able to sit back, turn my face to the sun, and bask on my own beach.
Just for a few minutes–before I start writing again.