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optimism and waiting

Apocalypse is ready for querying, but I’m going to sit on it for a while, until I know what’s happening with Prodigies. If Prodigies gets accepted by either DAW or the remaining agent on my list, it changes the whole dynamic. 

I’m thinking positive. My good Germanic role models on my mother’s side of the family would discourage my positive thinking. The Koenig family motto is “Don’t look forward to anything; you might be disappointed.” The problem with this, though, is that all that time I’m not looking forward to a positive outcome doesn’t make the rejection any easier, and in fact, prolongs the misery.

Optimism always makes me worry that I might be hypomanic; as someone with Bipolar 2, this is not an idle worry. But I’m not being kept awake by disparate thoughts linking  with each other like boxcars in a railyard, so maybe this is true optimism.

So I wait.  

An excerpt from Gaia’s Hands

I am getting so tired of editing.

That’s all I’ve been doing this summer — editing/rewriting whole novels, starting with Apocalypse (almost ready for querying) and continuing with Gaia’s Hands (my current source of despair). But it’s between that and putting them in a drawer somewhere, and I think that, now that I have a sense of what the novels need, they deserve the second (actually fifth) chance.

When I started writing, I thought that my first draft was the final product, which was my honor-student hubris speaking. Those rejections were the best thing to happen to me, because they made me work harder and learn more. 

That being said, it’s time to go back to editing Gaia’s Hands. My commitment to Camp NaNo is one hour per day, but I’ve been doing two just to be safe. 

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Now, an excerpt:

On Wednesday, Jeanne arrived at her office after her 11:00 class to find Dean Davidson, who she had previously only met at college meetings, standing at her office door with two other men. All wore bespoke suits that probably cost as much as her monthly salary.
“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson said in his light, cultured voice as he stood at her office door with two other men. “This is Jack White, the Chief Financial Officer of Growesta — “ Jeanne shook hands with a middle-aged man with silver hair and a tan — “and Enzo Patricelli, Board of Directors.”

Jeanne shook Patricelli’s hand. His eyes, ice blue in a pale, strikingly handsome face, held eye contact for a hair more than was polite, and Jeanne wondered if he was from another country. He seemed foreign to her with his auburn hair falling just a little too long for Corporate America, and a slightly stiff manner about him. Austere, even chilly, but handsome in a compelling way. Jeanne wondered what his role in the proposal would be.

They discussed nothing significant on the trip to the steakhouse, nor did Jeanne expect to. Nor did they talk over the dinner of steak and potatoes. True to what she suspected, the men served the proposal with dessert and coffee.

“Jeanne,” Dr. Davidson led the gambit, sipping his coffee, “I understand you’re applying to become a full professor this fall.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Jeanne said.  “I have my materials together; you should receive them for review the first of August.” She remembered the earlier hints Davidson had dropped.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t brought any grants into the department lately,” Davidson replied.

Jeanne felt herself tense up, her hands flatten on the table. She took a deep breath. “I received a grant two years ago, a sizeable grant from the National Science Foundation.”

“Still,” Davidson said.  “I believe we can offer an opportunity that would not only fund your research, but would vastly improve your changes of promotion.”

“Okay,” Jeanne said, knowing she sounded tactless, “tell me about it.”

“Well,” Jack White began, “Growesta is reaching out to make connections with promising faculty in various agricultural institutions, and we decided to start here at home. We at Growesta have been following your career with interest. You have an excellent track record in research with your — uh — Jeannie Bean. You have media exposure in the Chicago market talking about your research, and you come off with integrity, all things we’d like to capture.”

Capture. Jeanne hoped that was an unfortunate choice of words. “So what is it you’re offering?”

“We’d like to invite you into a collaboration with us where you could help us promote new varieties of beans for the agricultural market. You’re known for your work with beans.”

Jeanne took a deep breath. “You’ve looked at my work. I bred a perennial bean for larger bean size to make it more interesting to a consumer market. These beans were developed to be planted within the context of permaculture gardens, which are by definition organic. Are you offering an opportunity for me to work with you on promoting beans for organic applications?“

“We aren’t pursuing organic strategies at this time,” White replied. “But someday, I suppose, we may get to that point. We want you to promote our herbicide-ready products to the public, who has become increasingly distrustful of our products. You have captured the imagination of — of at least the marketing department at the University, and the regional media as well, as is evidenced by your interviews with Chicago-area stations. We would like to have you speak for us.”

“But my research — “ Jeanne stammered. “It’s not —”

“I know what your research has been,” Dean Davidson interrupted smoothly, “and it has been excellent research. But look at the opportunties here. We’re talking about money for you to continue your research, which we will treat as a grant for the purpose of your portfolio and taxes. Upward of $50,000 a year. And this should pretty much guarantee your promotion to full professor.”

That money would fund a lot of research, Jeanne considered. But tenure … “You can’t guarantee me full professorship.”

“You would be surprised,” Patricelli spoke for the first time, in clipped words. “Corporate dollars go far into greasing the wheels of the college administration.” In his words, Jeanne heard promise — and warning.

“I don’t know,” Jeanne nearly stammered, meeting Patricelli’s eyes in their icy regard. “Please let me consider this offer.”

“Okay,” White said. “But we can’t wait for too long. The ad campaign would need to be drawn up soon.”

Ugh

Back home. I’m staying home to write today because I’m feeling under the weather — but not enough under the weather to not make my two hours writing for Camp NaNo.

My head feels like two gerbils are nesting in it. My tummy feels like — oh, how novel. I have food poisoning from the suspect sushi I ate yesterday. 

Writing will be postponed.

Strange activity on the blog

Occasionally, my blog will get bursts of energy, with several countries visiting all at once — a bouquet of visitors from Japan and Ukraine and Moldova and Sweden and Moldova. All on the same type of browser. All reading the same note — which is not the current post. Usually a day or two after I’ve last posted on a slow post week.

The most obvious solution is that my post count has been increased by a bot, probably one that can spoof countries. But why? Why bother spoofing different countries? Why bother actually connecting to a post? (I’ve noticed times when my hit count has increased with no specific blog posts hit). It doesn’t seem to be an effort to disseminate porn links (which happens now and again). If it’s a DDOS attack — well, it’s too modest for a DDOS attack. 

The only thing I can think of is that something or someone is trying to inflate my reader numbers. Thanks, I think.

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Today I’m at the Graduate Hotel in Iowa City, IA, home of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop (the ranks of which are too rarefied for me).  Here’s a picture, apropos of Gaia’s Hands:


Writing in Beaver Dam WI

Another day at Higher Grounds in Beaver Dam having just finished another three hours of writing. I’m at 14 hours out of 30 for Camp NaNo July, and I’m at least getting more words for Gaia’s Hands. I think it’s going to go through another dev edit because it deserves it and it’s now a much different book.

Richard has just gone through a line edit of Apocalypse, which means a couple fixes and it’s ready to go into Query Mode. It’s a very different book than the one that failed in querying. I think I’ve grown a lot from when that was the second (and third) book I’ve written.

One thing I’ve discovered: Nobody’s impressed that I’m a writer. I’m secretly amused by this, because there’s this part of me who dreams of impressing people. In reality, it’s “Oh, you’re a writer? You’re not published yet? Have you tried children’s books?” I have nothing bad to say about children’s books, but unless they involve ancient lore, preternatural bad guys, and the reincarnation of King — Oh, sorry, that’s Susan Cooper’s Dark is Rising sequence. Loved that stuff.

I stay optimistic, maybe because I’ve won one short story contest and been a runner-up in another. (I’ve been rejected by three times this many zines and contests, though). 



Vacation in Horicon

I haven’t written because I am having good family time in Wisconsin, celebrating the Fourth the way I like to: bratwurst and sauerkraut, good cheese and beer.

During summer, my dad lives in a camp trailer at The Playful Goose just outside of Horicon, on the Rock River and not far from Horicon Marsh. It’s a cozy place cluttered with hobbies: woodworking tools, winemaking, a ham and bean soup in the crock pot.  

It’s a great time for family stories, with my dad and my Uncle Ron telling their adventures from childhood (and the time Uncle Ron set off illegal fireworks years ago on the lawn of the house on Beloit Avenue). Storytelling is an important part of relating in my family.

It’s much easier to be around my family since I’ve been on my mood management medications. I used to feel so much pressure to talk that it was hard for me to be there. Now I’m relaxed, and I enjoy it a lot more.

I’ll leave on Sunday with more stories and more appreciation for my family.

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I’m in Camp Nano right now, and I’m trying to maintain two hours per day to keep up. My family’s accustomed to me ducking out to write. I’ll keep you posted.

All that’s left is the bones

That scream you just heard? That was my story after I gutted and flayed it.

I am revising Gaia’s Hands — or so I thought. I looked over the structure of my story and realized it needed … a lot. The bones are solid: the unlikely couple of Jeanne Beaumont and Josh Young, their struggle against a corporate-academic partnership that threatens Jeanne’s livelihood and more, the development of their relationship with the World-Soul Gaia and their talents. The flesh on the bones — the particulars, the pacing — all off.  

In other words, the outline needs reshaping, and large amounts of it need to be completely rewritten knowing what I know now about writing. 

I really don’t know if I’m up to rewriting this story.

Sigh.

Indolent Days

Hours stretch into nothingness on a hot Sunday — no reason nor inclination to go out, no desire. But I do desire — it’s time for me to finish a long, drawn-out wrestling match with a novel.


I spend a long day writing in the corner of the living room, held in a bubble where the outside world with its triple-digit heat index doesn’t touch me. I triumph over the tangle of words I sorted out to create this story.

In this, I have privilege, a virtual room of my own and the space to be creative, an air conditioner in the heat, time enough for timelessness. 

What can I give in return? Gratitude for this moment, this place, this space in the universe. Time and heart to help those who struggle. My words, that they may comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable, as Mother Theresa once said*. 


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*To those who object to my quoting Mother Theresa, I agree that Mother Theresa was a disturbing figure who had the means to lift her afflicted charges rather than comfort them, yet did not because she believed that suffering glorified God. As such, she has much to answer to. On the other hand, her statement makes a great mission statement even though she failed to live up to it.

Sunday: Classical music and tea

I’m late today — just warming up for today’s reading/tweaking of Apocalypse. My last thorough pass-through, I hope. I plan to get halfway through the second half of the book; all the way through if my eyes don’t start to bleed (that’s meant figuratively; don’t panic.)

I don’t like the phrase ‘warming up’ on days like this because it’s dangerously hot this weekend in Missouri. Like 100 degrees hot. I haven’t even gone to work at the cafe this weekend because that’s too hot for me to go outside in. (Ok, fine, I could go outside in it but that much heat makes me lazy.)

The drink du jour is Ten Ren No. 913 King’s Oolong/Ginseng tea, a good solid Taiwanese tea a friend of mine gave me. It’s amazingly refreshing hot tea. My frumpy calico cat Girlie-Girl (of the six, the one most attached to me) sits on the couch right behind me, cleaning herself. 

Playing on the stereo: Concerto in A Major, Bach. In my life, Sunday mornings lend themselves to leisure and tea/coffee and classical music in a room cluttered with hobbies and cats.