The Worst Part of Being a Writer: Waiting to Hear

My new book (working title: The Cottage on Fox Hollow Lane) was sent to my editor partway through April. At the start of May, my agent followed up with a gentle nudge, asking if they were interested in the book. Their reply had one extremely encouraging sentence followed by two extremely terrifying sentences:

"Yes, we are very interested. (ENCOURAGING SENTENCE!) However (EVEN THAT WORD IS TERRIFYING!), we are in a bit of a transition here. Our new publisher has been here a week and is adjusting our acquisitions (WHAT ARE THE ODDS THAT THIS ADJUSTMENT WILL WORK TO THE FAVOR OF MIDLIST AUTHORS LIKE ME?). If you could give us a bit longer, I would be grateful."

A "bit" longer will be four weeks tomorrow. 

I have been handling the delay in the worst possible way - NOT writing on the new project I thought I was so interested in, NOT reading from a delectable stack of library books, NOT doing anything but check my phone every few minutes in an agony of dread. (To be fair, we also had a delightful extended visit from David's niece, followed immediately by a week-long visit from two granddaughters, a welcome distraction from fretting).

I WANT THIS SO MUCH! As every author in the history of the world feels about the fate of their creations. But this time I want it not just for me, but for my cottage, my sweet cottage on my street filled with wonder and whimsy, which is really the main character in this middle-grade novel. I made use of so many features of my street, working them into the story with staggering cleverness: the purple house, the peace sign house, the mailbox that offers free seeds, the fairy garden, the tiny park at the end of a beckoning path. I love them so - they deserve literary immortality! 

For some reason, it's been helpful for me to remember that I didn't love the cottage at first. David and I decided to rent it after a hasty fifteen-minute tour, and once we signed the lease, I actually hated it on our second visit. In my journal I wrote:

 "Can I really be happy there? The house is some 100 years old... the built-in bureau in our bedroom has drawers that will tip out and crash to the floor if you open them too far. The upstairs nook that was supposed to be my writing refuge has sloping ceilings so low there is no room for bookcases, so it's really a strange and almost unusable space. Most of the windows look out on the neighbor's house two feet away or on a bare board fence. I can't even imagine being happy there with no beauty at all as a balm for my soul. I would be ashamed to have anyone visit. They'd feel so sorry for me! I feel so sorry for myself right now!"

THIS is what I once wrote about the cottage I now adore!!! The writing nook I once reviled is a paradise! 

I used to hate to entertain and now I seek out any opportunity to invite friends to share this enchanted space. One of my writing groups met here and even named themselves "The Cottage Coven" in its honor. 

I don't know why this thought is such a helpful one.... that I was initially so wrong about the cottage - that my emotions shifted from shame and despair to pride and joy... Maybe it's just knowing that things all the time can turn out differently from what you think they will and sometimes turn out (vastly!) better. Maybe it's a faith in the magic of the cottage, which changed my heart, translating into the sale of the book about it. (Magic, and the value of believing in magic, is the book's central theme.)

Whatever happens, whether my book will ever be published or not, I'm glad I wrote it. I'm glad I gave the cottage the honor of starring in a story about itself. I can't help believing that the world WILL want this book. Doesn't it HAVE to want this book?

Well, no, it doesn't. The world has been quite clear in the past about refusing to love what I insist that it should. But I love my cottage. My cottage BELONGS in a book. The cottage is IN a book right now, my as yet-unpublished book, every page of which was written in love. 

So there, world!

And maybe I'll get some news of its fate (oh, please let it be good news) tomorrow? 

The Month to REALLY Try Something New?

The book I've been writing for six months now, the one set in my sweet cottage on the street where I live, the street filled with wonder and whimsy, is now DONE. Currently titled The Cottage on Fox Hollow Lane, it has been revised after extensive comments from my writing group and sent off to my agent, who emailed me the next day with this lovely response: "It's wonderful! You created something truly magical. It might be your best book." 

Now, I do have to say that he is generally an extremely encouraging person. He even created a grant through the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) intended precisely to encourage people! I'm not joking! "Each year, the SCBWI Impact and Legacy Fund selects three wonderful children's book creators in need of encouragement and gives them each a $2,000 grant, no strings attached, supported by the incomparable and generous literary agent Stephen Fraser."

But still. His encouraging words were most pleasant to hear. 

So now the book is off to my editor, awaiting its fate. And now I am thinking about MY fate, my fate and future as an author. I pledged this year to try writing something NEW AND DIFFERENT. I promised myself this would be the year of joy and PLAY. But I have I actually tried something new? No, I have not, at least in any serious way.

But now, I think - I THINK - I am almost ready to do this. Current plan: literary short stories! For grownups!! Loosely based on my seven decades crammed full of material! Eagerly, I trotted down on foot to the wonderful indie Boulder Bookstore and came back with an appealing harvest of recent short story collections to read as "mentor texts" and for inspiration.

I unearthed the journal I kept on my honeymoon in the hill towns of Tuscany, which is very funny and scathing, from the first page written in the early morning on the flight to Rome: "Rich is mad at me because I let the flight attendant take my tray, on which he, unbeknownst to me, had laid the special foil-wrapped Earl Grey teabag that he was planning to reuse." Doesn't this already say an awful lot about this marriage and what it is going to be like? And what about the woman writing this? Doesn't she already seem to KNOW this? And yet is doing this ANYWAY? I'm already intrigued! Yes, I am!

So trying to make a short story out of this journal is my plan - hope? dream? - for May. We shall see!

When You Write DONE on the Last Page of the First Draft

Last month, I experienced the thrill of writing DONE in big letters after the last line of the last page of my 55,000-word work-in progress, a middle-grade novel set in a cottage, like my cottage, on a street filled with whimsy and wonder, like my street.

It turned out that my jubilation was a tiny bit premature, as there was still one very short scene (to be inserted a few pages earlier) that I had failed to write. But I speedily dashed that one off, and my book was indeed DONE! 

Well, at least for that one moment.

Next up would be sharing the manuscript with my writing group, the Writing Roosters, but I wanted to do what revision I could to have it ready for their review. Most of the changes I made had to do with consistency. I needed to make sure that the weeks of the story had seven days in them, not ten; that when I wrote "two weeks later," it really was two weeks later; that when I had my characters eating cherries from the neighborhood cherry tree, the cherries would indeed be ripe at that time of the summer in Colorado. A huge task! Extremely taxing for the brain! But I did it and also made myself a map of the order of the houses on the street, so that this, too, would remain consistent throughout the story.

Ta-dah!

But now I'm in the most excruciating time of a writer's life: WAITING. In particular, waiting to see what the world - in this case, my writing group - thinks about this book that has occupied me so intensely for the past half a year. There are so many things it is impossible to know until someone else reads it. 

The theme of the book has to do with magic. Is there such a thing as magic? And - the central question I'm exploring - might there be value in believing in magic, in believing in anything, actually, even if it turns out NOT to be true? I love this theme! My favorite philosophy essay ever is "The Will to Believe" by William James, asking this question about belief in God. I love movies that feature a conman coming to town and transforming it - and himself - for the better in the process, just from giving people something to believe in. Think The Music Man. 

I myself think the plot of my book poses this question in an ingeniously integrated way, where all the storylines offer some insightful revelation regarding it. I think I have produced something that itself feels magical in its construction - a thing of shimmering beauty!

But I can imagine all too well that readers who AREN'T me might think: "Oh, it feels so contrived! All the plot developments making the same stupid point over and over again! As if we didn't get it the first time! Talk about beating a dead horse to death!"

So: which is it? A thing of shimmering beauty or the flogged carcass of a dead horse?

I will know more when the Roosters meet on April 8. After having shared many a manuscript with them now, I'm pretty sure the answer will be something in between, something of the form, "We like a lot of things about this, but it needs more work."

That's okay. Revision is what writers do. That's why any DONE is always provisional. In a recent New York Times column, David Brooks reported that Marcel Proust "rewrote portions of 'Remembrance of Things Past' from his death bed." I hope I won't be doing that here! But for now, all I can do is wait. And wait. And then wait some more. 

When You're Writing a Book about a Magical, Enchanted Space . . . and Then the Magic Dies

Dear friends,

I have been writing a middle-grade children's novel set in a cottage like the one I live in with my sweetheart, on a street filled with whimsy and wonder like ours. The book has a quasi-magical quality to it, where wishes come true in unexpected ways - was it magic? or not? - or was the magic just the warmth of the connections among the people who live on this street and interact with each other in such a caring way? I finished the first draft of it a week ago - TA-DAH!

But then yesterday morning, something terrible happened. 

While David was out for a short walk with Gaia-the-dog (while I was off on an outing with my visiting grandchildren), he came back to find the front door open; he assumed he had somehow forgotten to shut it, which of course he never does (neither of us ever bother to lock it) - but what other explanation could there be? Then he saw, lying on the loveseat in the living room, a carton of orange juice and empty bottle of raspberry lemonade. What?? He couldn't fathom what could be happening, until in the bedroom he saw the contents of one of the nightstand drawers on the bed - and discovered that from his drawer his wallet was missing . . . and the two dongles for his Subaru ... and my spare car key, too. He looked out the window and saw his car was gone. Then he called 911. The intruder, unbelievably, had not only robbed him of his wallet and car in the fifteen minutes or so he was out with Gaia, but had gone into our fridge and drunk our juice and lemonade!! All this happening in broad daylight at 9:30 in the morning.

We are both devastated. Our sweet little cottage, our late-life love nest, has been invaded, violated, desecrated.

And WHAT ABOUT MY BOOK? One friend said, "Well, now you have a plot twist." I don't want a plot twist! And certainly not THIS plot twist! But can I still encourage young readers to believe that magical spaces do exist, that there are enchanted places right here in our world, like the one in my story? One adult character in my book even denies the existence of "bad guys"!

Well, maybe our "bad guy" wasn't so very bad. Maybe he was just thirsty! And curious about what was in those closed drawers.... and the wallet and car dongle were just too tempting. Maybe he will bring back the car, sorry for his impulsive act. In the book, he could end up being friends with the child characters, and the book's final scene would show everyone having orange juice and raspberry lemonade on the rooftop deck together.

Ooh! Maybe, rather than my needing to change the book to match this sad reality, the sad reality will shift to match this imagined ending to my book! David's car will be parked outside the cottage again tomorrow morning! Maybe my fictional magic is strong enough to change the lives not just of my characters, but of mine, their creator?

I'm still pretty sad today, ready to start locking not only the doors of the cottage (a locksmith has already come to change them), but of my trusting heart.

But once I launch into revisions of the book, maybe my own story will work its magic on me, and I will let myself, like my fictional children Piper, Lydia, Xander, and Gabi, start believing again. . . 

When the Writing Magic Happens

February was an intense writing month. For me, "intense" means faithfully writing for a (predawn) hour a day, every day, up in my writing nook, with all my cozy paraphernalia (fluffy bathrobe, lap-size afghan, hourglass, tea or hot chocolate, and candle lit to consecrate this holy hour). It also means - gasp! - occasionally having a SECOND writing hour somewhere ELSE. One day I took my writing self to the elegant lobby of the posh St. Julien Hotel; on another, to the Bookmark Cafe overlooking Boulder Creek at the Boulder Public Library.   

No other book of mine has invited me on such a meandering journey to find my way into the heart of the story. This was also the work-in-progress where I somehow managed to leave all my notes-in-progress and beloved, battered, fifty-year-old clipboard on the plane, gone forever. I kept reminding myself of Tolkien's oft-quoted line, "Not all those who wander are lost." Except that I WAS lost. 

But then. . . as I kept on wandering . . . I got found. I guess I could say the story found me, or else that by dint of daily diligence with pen in hand, I somehow found it myself. What bliss when the path before you finally becomes clear! 

I'm calling this my "Bluff Street book" because it's set in a cottage like my cottage on a street like my street, where I'm making use of the abundant whimsy and wonder I've found here, courtesy of neighbors I've never met, such as in this sign:

I'm making use of it all - the fairy garden across the street from us, the mailbox that offers free seeds, the beckoning path up to tiny Lovers Hill Park. 

But for the longest time, all I had was a jumble . . . a mood . . . four characters with their heartfelt yearnings. What I didn't have, and readers seem to expect in a book, is a PLOT. And now . . . I do have one! I've been writing scenes that are very exciting (in a quiet way, of course! there is no murder or mayhem, no mystery, no adventure, the stakes so small ... but oh, so important to the children who care about them). 

I wrote the most thrilling (for me!!) scenes this past week. One left me so drained I had to take to my bed after the writing of it! It was the single most exhilarating hour of writing I've ever had. Now all that is left for this first full draft is half a dozen short scenes that follow this climactic moment to bring all these strands together in what is (I hope!) a wonderfully satisfying way. Then will come weeks of revision, and sharing it with my writing group, and more weeks of revision. Who knows if it will ever get published? These days, I take nothing for granted. But when the magic DOES happen, when the Muses finally reward a writer's faithful toil, it all feels worth it. 

It really does. 

Joy Report as Month Two Begins

My ONLY goal for 2025 is: "stuff my creative life as full as I can of JOY and PLAY." I am here to report that this is turning out to be an excellent goal indeed! I mean, what's not to like about JOY? PLAY is a bit more challenging for me; I'm so product-oriented that play has often seemed, I hate to say it (so I'm lowering my voice to a whisper), a waste of time. But I'm opening myself to play as well (appropriately, as my WORD for the year is "openness").

So: I have been doing my best to slip out of bed every morning at 4:30 to have a full hour of writing on my work-in-progress for young readers, which I call my "hour of bliss." Bliss was already provided by the standard elements of my writing routine: my trusty hourglass, my favorite pen and pad of paper, Swiss Miss hot chocolate or tea in a teapot (kept warm with a Liberty of London tea cozy from a long-ago trip to England).

But for this to count as a year of joy, EXTRA joy needed to be added, right? I found two FABULOUS additional joy-suppliers.

We turn off the heat at night in our cottage, so it is downright chilly in the morning when I creep upstairs to the writing nook. So . . . TA-DAH!

I seldom buy anything new; most of my clothes come from Goodwill. This luxurious, soft, plush, warm, pretty L.L Bean bathrobe is an enormous treat. How cozy and comfy I am now as I write!

The second new joy-supplier is even more fabulous. I am a passionate fan of the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace, a series of books published mid-twentieth century, based on the author's childhood in Mankato, Minnesota (Deep Valley in the books) at the turn of the last century. In my favorite of the books, Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown, the four friends are going Christmas shopping, where their dimes (!) will ultimately be spent on Christmas ornaments, but along the way they pretend-shop for all kinds of other possible things. In the drug store, they "sniff assiduously" at the perfume counter and then each choose a fragrance: rose, lilac, violent, and new-mown hay,

Well, the Betsy-Tacy Society found a candle-maker to create candles in all four fragrances! And I bought them! And they are beyond adorable! Now I burn one each morning during my special, sacred writing time.

The writing on my book is going reasonably well, and I did try my hand at a draft of a personal essay which I kind of like, and I have a date this afternoon to brainstorm ideas for the picture book I want to write with my younger son's soon-to-be bride. So these are sources of joy and play, too. 

But, dear writer friends, consider splurging on a new bathrobe! And literary scented candles! I am hugging myself every day with happiness because of mine. 

Plans for the New Year: Joy and Play

I had lunch yesterday with a dear friend I hadn't seen for a long while. "Where was your new year's blog post?" she asked. "I was so looking forward to being inspired by it!"

Well, that was sweet to hear, of course, as well as guilt-inducing. But as the years go by, I have to confess that with each January 1, I feel I'm just making the same plans and setting the same goals I've done dozens of times before, blah, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, yeah, let's see if I actually do them this time. And yet... there is still something about the new year that gives me a tingle of anticipation, that tiny thrill that comes with a blank canvas, an open calendar, twelve months to fill with whatever I most want to fill them with.

So . . . 

I'm starting to feel I really am done with trying to coax the universe to shower me with its fickle, faddish fame and fortune, with shiny gold stickers on the covers of my books, with tiny tidbits of glory I can brag about on social media. I'm still not done with WANTING these, but I HAVE to be done with breaking my heart over not getting them. This year, I really DO have to write just for the joy of it. And writing still gives me so much joy!

There are few things I love more than to slip out of bed very early, tiptoe upstairs to my writing nook, with my hot chocolate or tea, and write for a blissful hour measured by my treasured hourglass.

I still want to write books for middle-grade readers, and I'm back on track writing the book for which I lost those fifty pages of notes on the plane in December. I thought maybe this was the universe's way of telling me to start the whole thing over again, but I am slowly rereading the 65 typed pages I already have of it, and have decided that whatever the universe thinks, I love this book, I do! And I want to keep going on it. So there, universe!

But this year I want to write lots of other things, too. I want to write poems for my sweetheart, David, to copy into the special book I created for his birthday three years ago. Many pages remain to be filled.

No other audience anywhere, ever, will love what I write more than he loves my poems. 

It's a tradition at my church that I deliver the sermon and preside over worship on the last Sunday of the year. I did that this past December, too, and they loved it as they always do, loving people that they are. I LOVE writing for people who love ME!

But I want to try writing some new and different kinds of things, too. I've always wanted to write (and yes, publish) personal essays. Now's the time to do that! There is a picture book I want to write with my younger son's bride-to-be. Now's the time to do that, too. At the least, it will be a way of deepening my already delightful connection with her. Could I try writing a play? I have an older friend who just wrote a play for the play-reading group at her retirement community, What fun it was to go there and see it performed by her friends and neighbors. I bet I could round up a group of friends who would have a blast reading a play of mine.

So, my ONLY goal for 2025 (well, except for being serious about using the waterpik with new faithfulness for my poor gums) is to stuff my creative life as full as I can of joy and play. I'm going to have FUN writing this year. Maybe I'll take myself to some delicious writing retreat somewhere. Or two or three! I'm certainly going to spend as many sweet hours in my writing nook as I can - this will be The Year of the Nook! I'm going to write with friends; I'm now in TWO groups of writers who are committed to a communal writing date each month. I'm going to EAT NICE THINGS while I write. Maybe apple turnovers? I do love apple turnovers...

Universe, are you listening? Whatever you decide my fate as a writer should be, I'm deciding my fate should be to give myself the gift of writing this year in the spirit of creative play, just for the joy of it.