Day 13 Reflection: Search

Humanity searches.

The poorest search for sustenance and shelter. The disenfranchised search for justice. The lonely search for love and belongingness.

We all search for meaning in a harsh, capricious world.

It’s hard to live in such a random world, where one’s life can be turned upside down by a natural disaster or a crash of the economy. It’s harder to live in a world where the wicked game the system and come out on top, where structures that disadvantage people by race and social class keep people down.

We all search for something beyond ourselves, for comfort, for meaning. Some find it in a Supreme Being, others find it in nature or music, still others find it in service to higher ideals. Sometimes our attempts to order our world yield injustice, as when we decide that those who are advantaged deserve their status by order of a deity. Sometimes, when we realize that what we thought was natural order are actually the structures of injustice, we make meaning of the need to right wrongs.

We define ourselves as the seekers of the Mystery — followers of the Book, calling ourselves Christian, Jew, or Moslem; Hindu or Buddhist or Zoroastrian; seekers of Truth. No matter how far we travel on our path, the Mystery of life will always be just beyond us, hiding in a random world.

Day 12 Reflection: Heal

I have been in a state of healing for most of my life.

I grew up with childhood trauma — sexual abuse and rape, bullying, an unstable parent. I will talk about resiliency later in this series, because today I want to talk about healing.

This is hard to write, because society tends to tell survivors to ‘get over it already’. The heart and mind don’t work that way. Childhood trauma changes one’s whole trajectory — how one sees oneself, what one believes is possible, how abnormal one feels compared to the children around them who haven’t faced the trauma and who blithely live their lives without picking around the traumatic experience.

I didn’t start healing until I left my hometown for college. Before that, I was still immersed in the toxic culture of the town and could not see my life as anything but pain. In my new life, however, I met people who loved me for myself, wreckage and all.

It was only then that I began to heal. I think love is an integral part of healing, because it shows us that we are more than the sum of our damage. It’s hard to let love in as an abuse survivor, but I had friends who persisted in loving me, and I became the person I had been denied.

I’m still healing, many many years later. It’s much better; the nightmares come rarely, and the memories have faded to neutral-toned snapshots, devoid of the pain. Sometimes I wonder how I would have turned out if I hadn’t had the childhood I had. But my life has turned out so much better than I had dreamed as a child, which I credit to healing.

I will likely heal for the rest of my life, as do many (if not all) of us. But healing is possible.

I’

For my cat Stinkerbelle

Stinky bit me in the nose last night.

Stinky — Stinkerbelle in full — earned her name as a kitten by crawling up my chest and sweetly punching me in the eye. Adopted as a feral kitten out from under a friend’s porch, she hasn’t mellowed in her fourteen years on earth.

Stinky has not come a long way since we adopted her. She chooses to stay upstairs, mingling only with our other five cats when wet food is served. She hogs the food and now rather resembles a soccer ball — black and white and round. She hisses at the other cats, at us, at inanimate objects. She likes to have her back scritched — until, suddenly, she doesn’t, hence the bitten nose. All in all a disagreeable cat.

But Stinky will sit on the bed sometimes, close to my head, purring just out of the happiness of being near me. She will rub up against my hand ecstatically when I pet her and eventually bliss out into a cross-eyed state. She doesn’t hate — she just doesn’t know what to do with herself.

So we love Stinky in the way one loves their problem children. Awkward, unbeautiful, cranky, at times lashing out. She reminds me of me as a child — roly poly and uncoordinated, unaware of how my intelligence put off people. I did not believe myself lovable, and told the school psychologist only the monsters were my friends.

I study Stinky and find my inner child, runny-nosed and crying, yet still worthy of love.

I’ve just sent about 20 queries of Prodigies (with the improved query letter and in in its publishing edited/developmental edited/diversity edits) to young adult/new adult agents, and I have the jitters.

The optimistic part of me thinks I’ve done hard work improving.

The pessimistic part of me is afraid it’s not going to be enough.

The pessimistic part of me is afraid there’s something fundamentally wrong with my stories and will keep thinking so unless I get picked up by an agent. Then the pessimistic part of me will be afraid there’s something fundamentally wrong with my stories until I have a publisher. Then …

The pessimistic part of me is a pain in the ass.

********
What is the path now?

Send Prodigies queries to Young Adult/New Adult agents (done)
Wait for a couple months.

Some of the agents will send generic rejection letters
Some notify acceptances/rejections via QueryTracker (highly recommended for agent searches: www,querytracker.com)
Some don’t send anything, so if I haven’t heard from them in 90 days, then they’ve rejected it
If I receive a request for more of the manuscript, weep tears of joy and send it. This still doesn’t mean I’ve been accepted.

Wait a bit longer and resend the new improved Prodigies to the fantasy agents who got version 2.0.
Wait for a couple of months …

Of course, I have a new improved cover letter for Voyageurs and it’s finally going through a developmental edit. Which means I will go through the process again for Voyageurs (see above).

Readers: I need your love, good wishes and prayers. I don’t ask for things like this a lot, so here I am. If you can make them non-anonymous, all the better!!

Meanwhile,

I love you.

I’ve gotten off track in my life. There was a time I held those three words in my mind when encountering everyone.

I learned that trick during a massage class years ago with Patch Adams (yes, that Patch Adams for those in the know). He saw massage as a way of giving to others and not a way to get into someone’s pants. (“If you want to get into someone’s pants, tell them, ‘Hey, I’d like to get into your pants.’ If you want to give them a massage, ask to give them a massage.”) He also told the class that if they held the thought “I love you” in their minds, it would make the massage better. And I did, because at that age it was easy for me to love.

As I got older, people seemed less approachable than they were when I was in college. I forgot how to give massages. I forgot how to hug. I forgot to hold “I love you” in my mind when interacting with people. I found myself burdened by grudges, jealousy, all those adult feelings that get in the way.

Last night, during my meditation, my wiser self reminded me of those words, and included others that would help people’s souls:

I love you.
I thank you for being here.
You are beautiful.

I will not say them out loud, because there’s so much baggage with these words, as if we were trying to get into someone’s pants rather than give a massage with no strings attached.

I love you.
I thank you for being here.
You are beautiful.

My worst fear

“What are you most scared of?”

“This scene: I am at a party in a green, shady place. There are lawn chairs around in a big circle, and people are drinking tall cool drinks or, in my case, wonderful coffee. Many people have come, some bearing small bags.

“I come to realize that I’m the honored guest at the party. I’ve only been the honored guest twice in my life — my sixth birthday and my high school graduation, and few people stopped to either event. I think there are twenty people here, and I’m nearly crying. People here — for me?

“I mingle — after all, this is my party — and make sure people have enough to eat and drink. There’s a beautiful berry trifle and a cake and cookies and pitchers of ice tea and lemonade, and I didn’t make any of it. It was here, simply here, for us. I move through a sheen of tears. I talk in my own peculiar way, not asking about the spouse and kids, but asking what they’re doing, what they’re creating, whether it be scrapbooking or music or a pretty home or quiet for themselves.

“Then someone makes me sit down in my chair, which they have moved to the middle of the circle. And each, one by one, comes up to me and gives me a hug and whispers to me that I am loved, that I am important. They hand me stars and hearts and flowers from the bags. They have scattered all over my chest, galaxies of shiny affection.”

“I want to run away I feel so uncomfortable. I don’t deserve this. Instead, I burst into tears and tell them, all of them, that I love them. And I hug all of them, fearing that this will go away as soon as I blink my eyes, that this will all be taken away from me.

“That’s why it’s my worst fear.”

The World Needs

The motto of NaNoWriMo is, as I have shared before, “The world needs your novel”.

I have doubted that, since the world hasn’t yet published my novel. There’s so many novels out there, however, that the world can’t see my novel. Too many people write, too many people get rejected because they’re not guaranteed in the current fashion — I may not be good at writing, but being rejected by the current agent process won’t tell me if I’m good.

I have an acquaintance who’s my role model — when a project doesn’t catch fire, he tries something else. He doesn’t have to deal with the huge time commitment of novel-writing, so it’s not quite the same. But I watch him keep trying and learning, and the story it makes is totally fascinating.

I am working to model his persistence. Nobody’s representing me? I seek out small press and publish my least sellable works on Wattpad. These aren’t likely to make me the “It” person at writers’ conventions, but I find hierarchies of fame tiring.

The world needs my perseverance.
The world needs my compassion.
The world needs my struggle.
The world needs my love.
The world needs my optimisn.

If you want to help — WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE A BETA READER?
This means you take on a manuscript and read it, making notes on parts you liked or didn’t like about it, places that you felt needed more description, more action, etc. I would like us to work through Mythos, which has been rejected once but is the first of a series I’d like to publish.

If you want to be a Beta reader (I need at least 3) please email me (soon!) at:

My email address

Discovery

Why am I writing?

The first and most important reason is that when I quit, my characters call me back until it becomes an obsession. The less I write, the more ideas pop in my head. Or ideas on how to edit an old story to make it better haunt me (I’m probably ready to embark on the sixth iteration of editing Gaia’s Hands.)

The second reason I write is because I want to be read. I want people to see my characters and what they go through. I want them to fall as much in love with my characters as I do. I may never get read. Currently I’m putting some of my short stories on Wattpad, because I want to attract readers. I don’t know if I will, honestly. I don’t know how to attract people to my stuff, and both agents’ slush lists and Wattpad are stuffed with hundreds of books from people who were told “the world needs your books”.

The third reason? Maybe I need more friends. I am currently in the large group of people for whom social media is an attempt at social contact. We count likes on Facebook, votes on Kindle Scout, comments on Wattpad, and followers on Twitter as if these likes translate into a real sense of belongingness, safety, esteem, and love — all of which live on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs:

I am one of the many people out there for which friendship is a problematic construct. It may be because I’m neurodivergent; others I know who are neurologically different report the same things: the difficulty in doing small talk (such as remembering to ask after someone’s kids), the feeling like one’s breaking unwritten rules; the general sense of the moment when ‘keeping it real’ silences a room; overhearing the word “weird”, “crazy”, or “different” when referring to you. (I didn’t overhear these; I’ve seen them on my course evaluations as well as “all over the place”).

I have a few close friends who also hate small talk, and after the “how are you doing?” question, we talk about politics, explore our similarities and differences, laugh, drink coffee, and shine. I have friends on Facebook, with some friendships spanning thirty years, but I can’t feel the glow of those conversations. I love them anyhow.

I’ve tried to meet these needs (especially esteem — notice that’s not just self-esteem) through trying to get published, envying the kinship popular writers have enjoyed with their fans. For whatever reason, this is not in the cards for me. So now what I need is to find other ways to get those needs met.

Tiny thought

In my heaven, we would all understand there are different types of love, and we would define ourselves in terms of how much we could love. We would understand different types of love enough that we wouldn’t try to make everything romantic, and we would not get jealous because we would respect boundaries. But love would be there, and we would be allowed it.

To All My Lurkers

Dear Lurker:

I don’t know who you are except by your country of origin, although even that could be spoofed. You read my blog for reasons I may never know (unless you’re a bot, in which case I can guess that you don’t really read my blog).

I will admit that I want to know who you are. First of all, I want to know for the same reasons that children launch a note in a bottle into the ocean and someone finds it on the shore 500 miles away and sends the child back a note. Or maybe it’s like sending Flat Stanley to your favorite aunt halfway across the country and she sends it on a series of local adventures and takes pictures. I have people from Turkmenistan and Russia and Portugal and Peru, and I want to see who I’ve rubbed elbows with — digitally at least.

I also want to know you because I want to hear your stories. My life is measured in others’ stories and I have had the pleasure of hearing many excellent stories. You have stories with power and poetry, or with humor, or with pathos — and I would love to hold those gifts in my hands.

Love,

Lauren