Love this! 🙂
Everything Has Its Time
Love this! 🙂
Reflection
Moose Tracks Sneak Peek #3 – Meet Jen and Zippy
This sneak peek comes from part-way through a chapter during which the novel’s 30-something year old protagonist, Elena, and her whole family (which is comprised of her mother, six other sisters, and some of their husbands and kids) are sitting in the hospital’s waiting room for Pa to come out of aneurysm surgery. Only their seventh sister, movie star Alexandra “Zippy” Wright, is missing, being late to arrive from out of town. Elena is desperate for a distraction from her worried thoughts, so she’s delighted when Jen takes matters into her own hands to liven up the waiting….
“Just as she had since they were little girls together, whispering from the dark confines of their bunk-bed, Jen seemed to possess an uncanny ability to click into Elena’s renegade thoughts, whether or not they were saying anything aloud. Now Elena made a goofy, eye-rolling face at her, and Jen’s half-smile shifted to a full-blown grin.
Her sister was out of uniform for the moment, her shoulder-length, dark hair loose from the usual clipped-up knot that was necessary for police protocol, and both her arms and her jean-clad legs crossed casually as she leaned against the doorjamb. She had long limbs, strong and toned, though Elena knew that even now Jen didn’t consider herself attractive in a physical sense. Too many years of more popular classmates taunting her with names like “Granny Oakley” and “spaghetti legs” had prevented that.
But Jen had grown into those legs eventually. By the time she was out of high school and the eighties were in full swing, braces had straightened her buck teeth and she’d cut her thick hair into a spiky, punk-style, ala Prince and The Revolution. She’d been a force to contend with then, tough as nails (especially to any guy who tried to get a little too cozy with Elena when they’d go out together on college breaks) but still the same funny, irreverent, insecure-on-the-inside Jen that she’d always been.
Elena couldn’t help wondering, sometimes, how Jen might have been different if she’d been gorgeous from birth, the way Zippy had been. Zippy, who’d earned her nickname for Continue reading
Find Joy in the Journey
This phrase happened to be on one of my tea bags this morning…but it’s something about which I remind myself regularly.
Life is a journey, but if you break it down even further, each book we read, song we listen to, film we watch…and yes, each day or even hour we live – is also a journey of its own sort. I end each of my books with an “Author’s Note” to give a little more insight into the history (for my historical romances) or the inspiration and content (for Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven), and those always end with this phrase: “Thanks for coming along on the journey.”
So many times we rush through to get to “the end”. I suppose it’s human nature in this fast-paced, modern world. But it behooves us to slow down and notice the moments, the details, the notes, the images. It’s all part of the lush experience, both good and not-so-good that comprises life. So, try to enjoy the journey!
Hot Tea and a Good Book
Snow coming down outside my classroom window
It’s a snowy winter morning here, and I’m at work rather than home, but I have a lovely blending of the two worlds today in that my teaching job will also allow me to do some reading…because the students have one of their very important “Free Reading Fridays”.
Such activity is based in scientific and educational evidence…the practice of sustained silent reading, of material students choose, increases student skill and promotes the possibility not only of creating life-long readers, but also life-long learners. Here’s a .pdf document about the practice, if anyone is interested in learning more about the pedagogy behind it.
I’ve been teaching for 26 years. In that time, I’ve seen stress, anxiety, and demands for students go up (in part thanks to high stakes testing) and the ability to focus not only on content but also on the joys of learning (and reading!) go down. This is one way of providing students with a bit of time away from academic demands that carries with it some good educational benefits simultaneously. And part of the process is that they see their teacher reading along with them – so I benefit as well (and heaven knows I have precious little “free reading” time of my own in my life outside of school). 🙂 Many students have thanked me over the years for these opportunities, as they find books they never knew about (I maintain two large book shelves of free-reading novels, non-fiction, and poetry for multiple reading levels in my classroom), a love of reading they didn’t know they had, and/or a little break from the constant pressure to perform in the classroom eight periods a day.
So it’s the best of both worlds for a few class periods today.
Advanced proof of A PLEDGE OF BETTER TIMES by Margaret Porter
My tea this morning is Twinning’s “Winter Spice”, and my book is an advanced reader copy of an historical novel by friend and fellow author Margaret Porter – her upcoming title A Pledge of Better Times (the link is to the Goodreads page for the author and book). It’s set at the end of the 17th and beginning of the 18th centuries, and follows the political and emotional worlds of Lady Diana de Vere and Charles Beauclerk, Duke of St. Albans. It’s fascinating and enjoyable reading. The novel will be publishing in April, and I’m sure I’ll post another reminder then.
Happy Friday, everyone!
Actual Temperature -19 F
That is not a typo.
Here’s the read on my vehicle’s outdoor temperature gauge to prove it. 19 degrees BELOW zero at 7:30am.
And that doesn’t include wind chill. It’s bitingly cold. My daughter walked outside, laughed, and said, “Wow, this makes my lungs hurt.”
It requires wearing one of the these: a long (to the knee) parka filled with down. Believe it or not, by the time I got to work I was too warm.
Of course my husband calls me a human furnace anyway. It’s much easier for me to get warm in the cold than it is for me to cool off in really hot weather. Must be the Germanic, British, and Celtic blood in me, LOL.
I find this weather lovely and beautiful. Outdoors it’s glorious, everything suspended in a kind of frozen tableau, with the snow creaking from cold and the view overhead especially vibrant. This morning’s sky took my breath away with its pretty colors, textures, and trailing white jet plumes.
The stars last night were brilliant, too, when I took our dog Cassie out for her last outdoor visit of the night, around 11:00pm. I wish my camera could have captured the utter sparkling clarity of Orion’s belt, but night sky doesn’t show well with my current photo set up.
I do feel badly for those who have to be outdoors in the cold without adequate protection, like these Amish folk in their carriage this morning. I know they often have little heaters or coal boxes in the foot area, but on frigid mornings like this, it just doesn’t make much difference without a fan to blow the heat around.
But it’s all part and parcel of living in the great north country of New York State, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything (Shhhh…don’t tell my husband, who fancies the idea of being a “snowbird” and flying to warmer climes in the winter, come retirement-time!) 🙂
Secret Ministry of Frost
image courtesy of The Teacup Chronicles
On this lovely, sunny frigid day in the north country of New York State, I thought it fitting to share this poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. It’s one of my very favorites from the Romantic Age, for its gorgeous imagery, moods, and textures…beginning quietly peaceful and reflective before shifting to bittersweet contemplation of memories and hopes for the future, and finally, ending with a heartfelt and lush appreciation of Nature’s majesty in all her moods and seasons.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
Frost At Midnight, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud–and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
’Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent ’mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
Cold But Beautiful
Look at that gorgeous gentle pink and blue morning sky with the moon resting atop it!
The weather in Upstate New York has been pretty typical for January (though by the reactions of many people online and in person around here, one would think we’d never experienced a cold snap before, LOL).
Lots of sand helps my studded snow tires to get me up this curvy, snowy road on my way into work
It’s below zero degrees Fahrenheit on the thermometer and -25 or so with wind chills factored in. The snow groans and creaks when my tires roll over it on the road, and sucking in a breath upon stepping outside can make your lungs seize up.
Sunrise over the snowy fields
Another pretty shot of the morning moon in the frigid, pastel sky
But I love it – mostly since I don’t have to work outside in it, have a nice warm home and workplace to retreat to – and because it’s pretty. The pictures sprinkled throughout this post are from my ride to work yesterday morning. Just gorgeous, tender, lovely hues to everything.
I’m a winter baby. My husband is a hot-weather lover. He’s always looking to get away to somewhere warm, and I’m always reveling in my warm cups of tea, coffee or cocoa, listening to the wind howl, the cold snap, and watching the snow swirl around. I guess opposites do attract! 🙂
Moose Tracks Sneak Peek #2 – Meet Jesse
From Moose Tracks on the Road to Heaven, available for preorder now for Kindle and Kobo, and for sale in print and all other venues on February 3, 2015.
Diary entry #1: June 30, 1981
This is Elena Elizabeth, and it’s my first time writing even though I got this diary five months ago when I turned twelve. I’ve been feeling a little guilty cuz Ma says I should be using it, so here goes. I met a new kid near Caveman Rock today. He seems like a jerk. . . .
     The first time Elena saw Jesse James Wilder she was up to her elbows in
dirt and a rotting layer of last autumn’s leaves. She was a definite outdoors
girl, tall for her age and in the habit of running free all day each summer—
sometimes playing with Jen (less often Zippy or Patricia) or maybe the
across-the-field-neighbors Lisa and Debbie. But lots of times she just
rummaged around in the woods by herself.
     She could spend hours looking at plants, collecting feathers,
pretending to be a pioneer or an Indian, and finding dead birds and other
animals to bury in the little animal graveyard Pa had helped them lay out
behind the camp’s outhouse. She’d be the first to admit that with only one
bathroom at the homestead, the outhouse could be useful in a pinch, even if
it was stinky and dark.
     She felt safe playing outside by herself all day. Ma had never had
to worry about weirdos trolling the streets and byways for kids to pick up.
Not in rural areas like Moose Junction, and certainly not out in the acres of
woods behind their house.
     On the rare occasions when Elena went with her sisters on the ten minute
bike ride down the highway to the lake (from which the nearby
town of Lake Pines derived its name), they’d all stuck together. The older
girls watched out for the younger ones, and bad drivers were more of a
concern than kidnappers.
     All in all, Elena relished those summer days of freedom, coming
home at dusk and covered in dirt, and, more often than not, with twigs and
even burdocks tangled in her hair.
     As it was already nearing suppertime on that particular day, she
looked quite a sight as she crouched in the dappled light, trying to scoop a
half mummified chipmunk carcass into an improvised Maple bark coffin.
She’d been concentrating so hard that she hadn’t been paying
attention to her surroundings. So when Jesse Wilder surprised her by
stepping into her little clearing with his size thirteen feet, snapping twigs
like a black bear, she’d lurched to a partial stand and nearly clocked him
with the stick she’d been using to dig at the dirt around the dead chipmunk.
In fact, she swung her improvised weapon within a few inches of his head
at the same time that she pretty much growled at him.
     Both of his big hands shot up in front of him in a fist-clenched,
defensive pose as he yelled, “Holy shit!” But the terrified look on his face
immediately made her feel a little better, considering her temporary lapse
of attention to her surroundings.
     “What the hell!” he added as his fists slowly came down, but his
shock was still apparent by the way his voice cracked on the last word.
Elena’s mouth turned down at the double profanities. She gave him
a quick onceover, none too impressed. First of all, he was obviously a city
slicker, and second of all, he was a boy (a.k.a. an alien species). A tall,
wiry boy, sporting a shock of honey-colored hair streaked with blond, and
staring at her through narrowed blue eyes.
     She finally let out her breath, standing up out of her stooped
position. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to use that kind
of language?”
     “My mother died when I was six.”
     That kind of set Elena back on her heels. “Oh . . . sorry.”
She didn’t really know what else to say. The truth was that she
didn’t know anyone on a personal basis who didn’t have a mother. The
thought of what it would be like not to have Ma, with her soft hands, sweet
smile, and gentle voice (except when Trish, Zippy, and Elena had been
squabbling so much that they’d driven her up one wall and down another)
took away some of the sting of indignation she’d been feeling.
     But the temporary peace lasted only as long as it took for the tall,
scrawny blond kid to open his mouth again, right after he returned the
favor Elena had given him with a disdainful onceover, his expression
having shifted by now from his initial shock to a look of cool mocking.
“What are you, some kind of crazy mountain girl?” His sarcasm
was only fair considering the way she looked, she supposed, but she didn’t
much care for logic at that moment. She snorted, taking in his Jordache
jeans, Nike sneakers, and perfectly pressed Ralph Lauren shirt.
     “Yeah. Just like you’re a walking billboard for name brands.”
     He did something Elena didn’t expect then. He laughed.
Writing’s Dirty Little Secret
That sounds luscious and gossip-y, doesn’t it? 🙂
Of course there are far more than one…but today I’m going to spill about one in particular that’s been giving me fits over the past several months. It’s this: The most beautifully written words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages the world has ever seen won’t matter a bit, if you can’t get a handle on the business side of being a writer.
It’s the dark horse truth that’s always been a factor in any author’s career, but it’s particularly apropos in this newer age of professional self-publishing (i.e. self-publishing that will approximate in quality and form what traditional publishers produce).
Very few will mention this dirty little secret. Most “writerly” discussion is about the work, the words, the characters, plot, themes, message…of writing from the heart and bleeding onto the page (represented by the colorful half of this brain). And all of that is good and necessary for the first leg of the writing journey that ultimately results in pulling a completed novel from an author’s head and placing it into a reader’s hands.
But it’s only the first half. The whole second half (represented by the not-so-colorful half of the brain in the illustration…since I don’t like the second half and I want it to come across as plain, boring, and uninteresting 🙂 ) is glossed over, like it doesn’t exist.
And maybe that’s because it really didn’t used to exist – at least not very tangibly – for authors during the era when the only path to publication was through the great gatekeepers and traditional publishing. Back then authors relied on their agents to do the work of negotiating and managing financial issues (for 15% of all gross earnings, beginning with advance and continuing through royalties), and the publisher, with its vast employee list, took care of all of all the nitty-gritty elements of bringing a book to market (for the measly fee of 100% of the profits, shifting down to 92% of profits, once the author’s advance was earned back for the publishing house). Even so, there is something to be said for the trade-off.
This business side of writing is not something that makes me comfortable and all cozy, like I prefer to be (reference my warm and fuzzy posts like the one here and here. Or venture over to the search box just above my picture up on the left toolbar and enter in words like “cozy”, “love”, “nostalgia” or “warm”. You’ll see posts about the things that make me happy). But it’s a necessity.
This cover art is the result of months of work gathering and trying various images and text placement and styles – probably nearly 50 – before settling on this one
Having to set up accounts at Amazon, CreateSpace, B&N, Kobo, Google, AllRomance, and iTunes, complete with tax ids and all sorts of technical information – having to think about a business plan, building and maintaining an online presence and platform, and keeping track of all the miniscule aspects that go into a book being available for purchase, like hiring out and working with a cover artist, editor, formatter, and conversion expert, and then reviewing e-files and formatted files, while also keeping track of how much money it costs to complete all those processes without getting into a financial hole one can never dig out of unless one’s book becomes a bestseller (which would be great, Universe, if you’re listening!) – all give me figurative hives. And it all takes a large amount of time, which as a person who really inhabits all of the roles listed under my picture up a bit and on the left, is in short supply.
But unless I’m going to be the only person who is ever going to read my book, it has to be done.
So there you have it. One of the dirty little secrets of being a (self-)published writer. I’m not very good at keeping secrets (I’m a “wear-my-heart-on-my-sleeve” kind of gal), so I feel better already, having shared it, LOL.
I’d love to hear your thoughts about this – or even one of your secrets (it’ll be like a self-help program!) Anyone have any (rated PG-13 or lower, please) to spill – whether as a writer, reader, artist, employee…heck a breathing human being? Join the fun in the comments. 🙂
Only 30 Days Left!
It’s been a great couple of weeks of Holiday celebration, but it’s winding down now and the grind of regular work/teaching is going to pick up again tomorrow.
Writing and all things book-related will have to take a back seat…so it’s a good thing I’ve got just about everything in place for the February 3rd release date of MOOSE TRACKS ON THE ROAD TO HEAVEN! Just 30 short days left, so place your pre-order now and secure the eBook version at it’s introductory price. Go here for amazon/kindle preorder or here for preordering from Kobo!
B&N doesn’t allow preorders of all books, unfortunately, and we’re working on getting it up at Google and iTunes – though preordering isn’t a guarantee there either. It will be up on all platforms by February 3rd, though.
In the next few weeks, I’ll be posting a few little sneak peeks, reviews, and other little tidbits from the novel, the inspiration behind it, and the process of writing, but until then, you can read an excerpt from the first three chapters here if you’d like.
It’s a different kind of book – set up in the style of Fannie Flagg’s Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop CafĂ© – but I hope anyone who ventures to read will enjoy it. 🙂
M. Reed McCall, Author 