I want to remind my readers that I write books. I don’t mention that much.
I write romantic fantasy and fantasy romance. The difference between those is the emphasis; fantasy romance is mainly romance and romantic fantasy mainly fantasy.
The fantasy romance novels concern the Kringle Society, a secret society of Santas that infiltrate towns with good deeds. Quirky people fall in love and become involved in the community. You will find Santa scholars, Renaissance re-enactors, toymakers, college professors, and the occasional accountant among the people featured. These are sweet romances; ‘closed door’ in romance parlance.
The romantic fantasy novels feature an agricultural collective, what some might call a commune. The residents are hard workers; they are pacifists, back-to-nature sorts, and people who seek community. Add to the mix immortals, the earth-soul Gaia, and the possible demise of humanity, and you have a people with life-changing secrets hidden in plain sight.
My dream job, which should not surprise regular readers of this blog, would be an author. I am an author now; the difference would be that I actually received enough money from my writing to live on.
Making a living as an author is difficult, especially when one is an indie author. The indie writers I know who support themselves write romances and publish several a year. I will never be that prolific, although I’ve had years where I’ve written two novels.
The odds of my being able to support myself as a writer are infinitesimally small. The only way I will write full-time is after I retire. I have accepted this.
I believe we influence the path our lives take by our thoughts. Would I go as far as saying our thoughts cause reality? Realistically, no, but I can be superstitious. At the very least, I believe that my thoughts subconsciously affect my actions.
This comes to play in my writing career (can I call it a career?) I am afraid of people discovering my books. I have a walloping fear of being exposed as a fraud, of being called a bad writer, of people objecting to my sometimes controversial twists. There’s an entire list of lurking fears.
Could this be impeding anyone discovering my writing? As I said, I can be superstitious. It’s not consistent with the rationality of a professor, but I leave room in my life for the less-than-rational. Which means I have to do something about this.
I am envisioning a simple ritual, where I write all the things I’m afraid of on a good piece of paper with my favorite fountain pen, and then I burn it. Probably in the sink, so I don’t catch the house on fire. Do I believe this will work? It fits in the framework of the superstition.
I learned about mission statements as a professor, when an assignment I inherited was to make students write professional mission statements. The source I found said that mission statements should be short and explain what one wants to accomplish but not how. I use that definition still.
I believe in mission statements. I think it’s motivating to have a statement to look at that gives direction and inspiration. Unlike a motivational statement, a mission is tailored to the individual.
I don’t have a personal mission. I think this is a bad thing, because it means I drift from day to day, doing what I need to do. And in a way, I think that is true. Perhaps it’s because I’m over sixty, or because I don’t feel driven to do things the way I used to. Perhaps it’s because I’m being treated for bipolar. At any rate, I have no personal mission.
I do have a teaching mission and a writing mission, however. Maybe it’s because those are things I do rather than who I am. My teaching mission is togive people the ‘Aha!’ reaction. Notice it’s short and sweet and does not talk about how. It’s my responsibility to make the ‘aha’ part of how I teach. My writing mission is to make fantasies romantic and romances fantastic. As I write fantasy romance and romantic fantasy, this is an accurate mission, even with the wordplay.
I still think I need that personal mission. I don’t want anything trite or false. I want a catchy mission because I like words, or as a friend once said, “words like me”. Maybe something like to make my life an ‘aha’ experience. That’s close. Let me think about it.
Do I have New Year’s resolutions? Not really, but over the next two days, I try to include all things that I would like to continue over the year. Some will be the habits I want to start; others the habits I’d like to keep. So I will write at least a little, walk a bit, drink coffee, and the like. It’s a superstition of sorts, a reminder of what is important.
We will eat good luck foods. The ones we have slated are pork (German), noodles (Chinese), and pickled herring (Scandinavian). Not simultaneously. We have Chinese peanut butter noodles on the menu, and that’s one of my favorite comfort foods, so I’m all in.
Every year, we have a Lord of the Rings marathon starting on New Year’s Eve. I’m not tired of it yet. We don’t stay up till midnight, because I need my sleep and my body is picky about when I get it. We don’t party because we’ve always thought New Year’s parties are depressing.
So if you wanted to know how two old nerds spend their New Year, here you go.
By the way, Reclaiming the Balance goes live tomorrow!
My novel Reclaiming the Balance comes out January 1st, and I’m feeling pretty blase about it. I had an online celebration for the first two books but found it awkward (just as I would a real book launch party, I suspect). I don’t throw myself parties well; I haven’t had parties for any of my milestone birthdays, for which I am relieved.
I find myself craving attention, but I feel embarrassed when I get it. I’d love the recognition as long as I don’t have to be there for it (“We had a party for you. It went great.”) This must be part of the phenomenon I have named ‘Midwestern female syndrome’ where one feels the need to be inwardly perfect while maintaining an external shell of mediocrity.
So I will mark New Year’s Day with a note in the blog, on Facebook and Blue Sky and maybe Threads. I highly suggest reading the book, although I would recommend the first two (Gaia’s Hands and Apocalypse) first.
We decided to stay in Des Moines overnight to break the trip back into a couple of days. Des Moines is a comfortable big city; I could live here. Richard, on the other hand, is worried about the snowy weather, which we are not having right now. It’s 46 degrees out and perpetually rainy. We’re waiting out the dense fog advisory south of us, so we’re at a Starbucks so I can write.
I’m bouncing ideas off Richard for a future novel in the Hidden in Plain Sight series. Apparently six is not enough. I like the characters in the series too much to quit writing. Right now, it involves the desert commune, Hearts are Mountains, and threats to the Archetypes there. If you’re preternatural beings with lots of power, this shouldn’t be much of a problem, right? But there’s the part where you don’t want to reveal your true, near-immortal identity. And the part where you used to be guardians of the humans, charged with keeping their ancestral memories, but as guardians you also can’t allow yourselves to be killed. The threat extends to the first child born in the commune, and the collective is immoderately protected of him… The story needs much more thought, but leave it to say there are problems with just killing the aggressors, and problems in not killing them. This is just an idea. There are other ideas, and we have another 2.5-hour drive to come up with them.
It would be nice if this story idea would break my writers’ block. I have been taking a break from writing because it’s not coming easily for me. I’m fighting the usual misgivings that come with being a writer. I have heard I would have these misgivings even if I were a writer on a contract like few lucky writers are.
Does the world need to hear my stories? Probably not as much as I need to tell them. But I always keep hope.
I met him on the stairs in the hall. I hadn’t seen him in forever, wizened man, twinkling blue eyes. He held his arms out for a hug; as always, nothing could make life any better than that moment.
He told me he ventured out to visit his other family, whom I had heard of but didn’t know. I watched him Out the door, into the cold.
Only then, I remembered we had buried him years before.
Today I’m sitting in the one coffeehouse in Ottawa IL that is not corporate, Jeremiah Joe’s. It’s housed in a former department store building, so it’s a large space with tables and comfortable chairs scattered throughout. My spot is a little drafty, located close to the large display windows. I’ve put on my coat.
I remember Famous Department Store, whose name is still outlined in the entrance to the building. We didn’t shop here a lot while I was growing up, preferring the less expensive Sears and Montgomery Ward’s, and often the deep-discount Bel-Mill (pronounced ‘Bel-Mell’) in Marseilles (pronounced ‘Mar-Sales’). There’s my obligatory useless reminiscence, which I feel is part of my reward for living 61 years.
I’m drinking an excellent latte, which tastes of an espresso blend with some real character. It’s cloudy enough outside that I’m wondering if we’ll get snow. The forecast says no. Ah, well, no white Christmas for us, but there’s Christmas music on the sound system and lots of decorations throughout Ottawa.
In a perfect world, there would be a university here, and I would be teaching at it. I would live somewhere in Ottawa, where I would be close enough to Chicago to occasionally pick up a play or concert. It is not a perfect world, however, and I work at a university in a town that could a little rejuvenation and some more quirk. We certainly don’t have ‘Feminists Against Fascism’ in Maryville MO. Or an independent bookstore, an indie coffeehouse or the jewel of the state park system. (To be fair, Maryville MO has a Starbucks in the university library, which makes it exceptional for both Starbucks and university libraries. Maryville also has a city-maintained park which features cabins, fishing, and a hotel.)
Maybe Ottawa would not be as cozy to me if I lived here. Maybe it wouldn’t feel like Christmas here if it were something I experienced daily. Maybe the lack of Trump signs here lulls me into a false sense of security. But people are hugging in the cafe, and the baubles hanging from light poles downtown add a needed festivity, and Wal-Mart is not the center of the community.
Let me soak up a bit more of the atmosphere and find myself window-shopping downtown. I need to store it up to last me a year or so.
We made it to Utica/Ottawa/Starved Rock Illinois, and we are settled in for the next couple days. The cabin is the same one we’ve stayed in previous years, with a fireplace and a cozy atmosphere. The bathroom is a bit chilly to remind the occupants that this is absolutely a cabin.
Before we checked in, we wandered over to Ottawa to check out The Cheese Shop. It is actually a decent cheese shop and deli, and the lunch special was that specialty of LaSalle County — pork tenderloin sandwiches. The tenderloins here are thin and tender and crispy and bigger than the buns — all one wants in a pork tenderloin sandwich. Ottawa is decked nicely, and there’s a Kristkindl (sp?) market near the river that I wished I had time to wander. It will probably be gone by the time we get back Monday.
I am in the Great Hall at the lodge proper right now. There are massive wood tables and low couches in a rustic style that have to be over 50 years old, probably older. I’ve seem lots of hugs; families are gathering for Christmas.
This is the fireplace in the Great Hall. It is actually two-sided, but the other side is blocked off for a wedding or something.
There’s a little gift shop just off the lobby. It’s an eclectic blend of souvenirs, jewelry, t-shirts, and outfits for women of all ages certain age who shop. Not me, though; I’m pretty casual (and cheap). There are some flannel shirts I covet on one display rack and what looks like a big leather backpack which I really covet (but can’t afford). Ok, false alarm — the backpack is not leather.
There’s a young girl in flannel pajamas with her father who’s wearing his flannel pants as well, and a gingerbread house contest spread along a couple tables. I think the replica of the hotel wing of the lodge (Made by the Maintenance Department) wins, with the chalet in second place.
I’m supposed to write a romance novel about this place. I wish I had the guts to ask to tour the kitchen, because it’s part of the story. I do know, however, what commercial kitchens look like and how they operate, because I spent my college years in them as a prep cook and my thirties volunteering as a head cook for a soup kitchen.
I have discovered that there is a paucity of outlets in the Great Lodge and the cabin, but there are (or at least were) a bevy of writing desks somewhere on second floor of the hotel section that probably have outlets. I’m going to have to give up my scenic view before long because my iPad is down to 36 35% battery.
Maybe some more typing (I might actually write some of the story) and then a dip in the hot tub and a nap or enjoying the fireplace in the cabin. It’s going to be a relaxing Sunday for sure.
Words Like Me 