Writing

After waiting four months, I got another rejection letter from Woman's World . This is pretty sad news, since, I really liked this story.

Rissa was dreaming of the hot Hawaiian sunshine when she felt a sudden crisp morning chill penetrate the warmth of her coat. A deep, gravelly voice further interrupted her pleasant thoughts saying, “I think this is your stop.” She forced her eyes open and realized that the line of people exiting the train had already poured onto the platform.

                “Oh goodness,” she said, grabbing at her belongings, trying to clear the fogginess from her brain.

                “Hold the door,” the man said, offering a smile and the wool hat she had just dropped. “I should have nudged you earlier. Better hurry,” he urged.

                As Rissa was racing out the door, the train pulled away and she realized she hadn’t the chance to thank him.

                Rissa’s commute began early every morning. It took over an hour to get from her house to her office on the train, but she enjoyed the extra reading time the commute provided, and she appreciated avoiding the heavy traffic and icy roads. Normally she read, but yesterday she had been tired. It had taken mere seconds before she drifted to sleep. She nearly missed her stop.

                This morning she juggled two piping hot chocolates and her laptop bag, hoping she would see her champion to properly thank him. She hoped that she would remember what he looked like. Rissa wished her hands weren’t full so we could concentrate on reading, instead she was distracted every time the train stopped letting in a waft of cold air and a crowd of new faces. Finally, a face sparked her memory, and he seemed to remember her, too.

                “Good morning,” he said, looking down at the hot chocolate in her hands.  “Is that for me?”

                “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she admitted. “But just in case, I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”

                He took the cup of hot chocolate from her, offering a small salute with his cup, “You’re welcome. I was afraid that after you thought about it, you would find it creepy that I knew your stop.”

                 “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it…” she trailed off and grinned. “Really, though, I’m grateful. I’m Rissa.” She pulled out a business card and offered it to him.

                “Greg.” He grabbed the seat across from her and smiled as he tucked her card into his breast pocket, then pulled out his own.

                “How did you know it was my stop?” Rissa asked after a moment.

                “I don’t know if I should admit that.”

                She gave an encouraging look.

                “Alright,” he conceded, taking a breath. “A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a beautiful woman reading one of my favorite books. I immediately wanted to strike up a conversation about it, but she left the train before I found the nerve.” He nodded at the book sticking out of her bag. “Every day she got closer to the end, I knew I needed to make a move. Yesterday, I finally got the nerve to sit beside her, only to find that she wasn’t reading…she was sleeping.”

                “How disappointing.”

                “Not as disappointing as you might think,” he admitted, “because it provided me with a perfectly good reason to speak to you today.”

                Rissa sat back in her chair, studying Greg. He seemed sincere. Not only was he handsome, but he was friendly and personable.

                “So this is your favorite book?”

                They spent the rest of her commute sipping hot chocolate and discussing the book until he said gently, “This is your stop.” He got to his feet, handing over her laptop bag as she adjusted her coat.

                “See you tomorrow?”

                “Definitely,” he said.

                The morning commute quickly became Rissa’s favorite part of the day. She often saved Greg a seat and they spent the morning talking. Their conversations ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous and everything in between.

                “I’ll save you a seat, tonight,” he said with a smile.

                Rissa was surprised, as she knew they did not take the same train home. But when Rissa boarded their usual car, Greg grinned at her. He was standing in the aisle and pointed to a single available window seat. She noticed that his normal place next to her was occupied by a mother, holding her baby.

                “This train is busier than the one I normally take,” he commented, smiling at the sleeping child and then at Rissa.

                They rode for several stops in silence, catching each other’s eyes while listening to the bustle of the other passengers. Occasionally he grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but return it.

                “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” He finally said.

                She nodded.

                “Then this is our stop.”

Rissa smiled. She liked the sound of that. He offered her his hand and they left the train together.

Empathizing with Jo March

There's a scene in Little Women (the movie -- because I never did finish reading the book) when Amy throws Jo's manuscript in the fire out of spite. Jo is, obviously, incredibly upset, swears that she hates her sister, and after a violent outburst, she falls into her mother's arms and mourns the loss of all her hard work.

I can empathize.

I've been writing for years. (Before I knew about Dropbox.com, and before I used Google Docs - now called Drive.) Here and there, and with not much success, but I like it, and I like the storeis, and even if no one ever read another thing that I created, it wouldn't matter. I like my characters and my banter, and sometimes I get verbiose and I don't care, because I like that too. But last year, when my computer was on its dying days I bought a new one and set the old one aside, and continued writing. I thought I had removed all the files I needed, or in my mind, I thought I had enough of my old computer left in order to retrieve the files I wanted.

But the other day, when I checked my external harddrive, I noticed that there was a whole folder, supposedly filled with several different stories, missing. I wasn't worried. I was certain they were on the other harddrive. But when I checked that, they were missing from there as well. Again, I did not panic. I have a thumb drive that most certainly had the files I wanted... until, no. They weren't there either.

I still didn't worry, because this has all happened to me before. My computer crashed once during finals week, and all I did was pull out the harddrive and insert it into a casing and plug it into a new computer and WALAH! I had access to everything I needed.

I spent an evening dismantling my whole computer (unnecessarily, because they make harddrives incredibly easy to remove) and putting it into a casing and optimistically I plugged it into my computer.

Nothing.

You would think that this would be the time for me to panic, but no. It wasn't a big deal because my dad would be in town in a month, and surely there could be something done in order to retrieve the files. (Why weren't they on the external harddrives like I though!?)

But last night, my dad pronounced the harddrive dead.

Honestly, it wasn't a surprise, but it was a sting -- no, a blow -- that I had been putting off now for months. I am devastated. How easily years of work and toil and creativity can be wiped away without so much as a by your leave! I can't remember the last time I curled into a ball on my mother's lap and cried, but that I did.

Sure, there are expensive processes whereby the data may be accessed. But, if it is $500-800, who can really afford that?

I know how Jo feels. Instead of a spiteful sister, I have a vindictive harddrive. Instead of a fire, I have malfunctioning technology. And instead of having sisters who can help recreate the entirety of the story with all the best parts, I have... my own memory of how things go and no way to actually  recreate any of it.

BLUE JEANS & BBQ

Alison finished singing the last bars of the song blaring on the radio before she switched off the ignition.

            “Was that what I think it was?” asked Megan, Alison’s neighbor and current couch landlord. “Were you just singing Country music?”

            “No! I don’t like--” Alison stopped. How many times had she caught herself listening to Country in the past weeks? She had always sworn she hated it. She laughed. “Fine, you’re right.” She jumped out of her Jeep. “I officially do not dislike Country. In fact…”

            She stopped at the sight of Chris Turner, the contractor running the renovations on her condo, walking towards them.

            “Your sudden interest in Country music doesn’t have anything to do with the cowboy coming our way, now does it?” Megan giggled.

            Alison swallowed before admitting, “It might.”

            Alison had gotten to know her contractor as her renovations had progressed. Chris was efficient. Honest. Attractive. Single. She hadn’t once regretted hiring him. He was also kind, generous and good-humored.

            “Ask him out.”

            “No.”

            “Why not?”

            “Because… technically, I’m his boss. And I don’t want to blur the lines before he finishes tiling my bathroom.”

            “Coward,” Megan said under her breath.

            Alison took a deep breath. She wanted to maintain a level of professionalism, even if her heart beat at irregular paces whenever he was near.

            “Are you sick of her crashing on your couch yet?” he asked Megan as he got closer.

“Oh yes, tell me her place is done!” Megan joked.

“She’s that bad?”

“Country. She swore to me she hated it when I agreed to let her stay at my place, but that’s all she’s been listening to for weeks!”

He laughed, tucking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans.

Alison tried to regain control of the conversation. “Are we near the end?” she said. “Please give me some good news. I’m ready to sleep in my own bed.”

“Ah. Yes. I have the guys finishing the subway tiles in the bathroom today. They’re looking great. It’s been a few days since you stopped by. Maybe you could come take a look?”

“You’re just fishing for compliments. I’ve seen your work; I know it’s going to look amazing. That’s why I hired you!”

He grinned, obviously pleased with her faith in his work.

“You’ve already finished tiling?” Megan asked, waggling her eyebrows at Alison. “It sounds like we need to celebrate. Dinner?”

“Megan, please, he’s too busy to eat your tofu and egg whites.”

            Chris pulled a face.

            “I take it you’re a carnivore?” Megan laughed.

            “Meat and potatoes kind of guy,” he admitted.

            “Alison is sort of a grilling master,” Megan suggested. “I’m sure we could do steaks. I’m not strictly vegetarian.”

            “I’m sure he–“

            “—that’d be great,” Chris said. “Unless it seems unprofessional...”

            “No. No! Of course not; it’s fine. Is six o’ clock a good time?”

            “I’ll have the guys clean up a little early.”

            “Great.”

            “Great,” he agreed. He smiled and then sauntered back to the job site, whistling the country song Alison had been singing.

            Alison was struggling with excitement and dread, she cast a look over to Megan who smiled benignly.

            “I guess we should pick up some steaks.”

            “What are you thinking? You know we don’t grill!”

            Proof of Alison’s last statement was pouring out of the inherited grill when Chris arrived.

            “Looks like you’ve got a good start,” he said, trying not to laugh at the smoke. “You haven’t put all the steaks on have you?”

            “Is chicken supposed to be this greenish-gray color?” Alison asked, coming in from the patio. “Oh! Chris! Hi.”

            Alison looked mortified and Chris gave in to a chuckle.

            “You’re not really a grill master, are you?” His eyes sparkled as he headed out to inspect the grill. “The coals aren’t even ready. They’re still black.”

            “Oh…oops,” Alison giggled. “No wonder the chicken’s still raw.”

            “Don’t worry, we’ll let you cook the steaks,” Megan said. “And while you’re doing that, I’m going to run to that bakery and get dessert.”

            “Domestic goddesses, the both of you,” he commented.

            Alison grinned. “You were under the impression we actually knew how to cook? There’s a reason that Megan sticks to tofu.”

“I see. And what exactly are you planning on doing with those updated appliances I just installed?”

She shrugged, “Maybe I’ll take a class.”

A slow grin spread across Chris’ face. “I’ll teach you,” he said as he took a step towards her. “I’m actually a very good cook.” Chris reached out a hand to Alison. “I’d be happy to start that first lesson right now.”

Alison took Chris’ hand as he led her to the patio. “You build things and you cook? You are the best of Country, come to life.”

rejected by Woman's World Magazine, November 2012 

New Old Love

Rejected from Woman's World Magazine July 2012

 “We’ve got to find Candace a man,” Aunt Patricia said to us as we ate our pulled pork BBQ. “That little girl needs a daddy.”

 I followed the looks over to my two-year old, Josie. Pat was right, but finding time to date was difficult as a single mother. When my ex had taken off to “find a job”, it took time to realize he just wanted a life without a wife and daughter. Now, work and school, and most importantly: my daughter, took priority to dating. 

Josie’s laughter floated over the noise of my family members and my heart squeezed. Despite the turmoil Luke had put me through, I wouldn’t trade any of it because of that that blonde darling. Scars or not, I looked around and felt nothing less than blessed and happy.

 “What about that Johnson boy?” Aunt Lori asked. “He’s handsome.”

 “Or there’s Mike Hanson’s son,” Patricia suggested.

 “You ladies leave this up to me,” my sister, Andrea spoke up. She knew I hated this sort of talk. Of course, the gleam in her eye suggested that she wasn’t interjecting just to save me.

 “Should I be nervous?” I asked.

 “I ran into someone yesterday. I have it all set up.”

I don’t think I imagined the clucking that overcame my aunts.

“Who?” They all asked.

A few days later, Andrea was fussing over the dress I had chosen. “You’re a sexy woman,” she complained. “Can’t you show just a bit of skin?”

“I’m a mother.”

“A young mother.” 

I looked at the bohemian dress in the mirror. Flowy sleeves, a modest neckline, knee-length… it didn’t show much, but I still felt pretty. And confident. “I like it,” I said, adjusting the belt. “Besides, if modesty isn’t important to him, then I don’t want to go out with him.”

She rolled her eyes as I was saved by the doorbell. Josie ran to the door and Andrea followed. “Candace!” Andrea called, even though she knew I was right behind her. She picked Josie up and opened the door wider.

My jaw dropped. “Mark.” I instantly recognized him.

Mark Burrows, my high school boyfriend, stood in the doorway. If Andrea hadn’t been holding my three-year old daughter in her arms, I wouldn’t have believed it wasn’t 1999. He hadn’t aged. My heart still raced. Instant familiarity flooded over me.

He smiled. “Hi,” he said. “Ready to go?”

Mark had been talking to Josie, giving me a few moments to pull myself together. I nodded, kissed Josie on the head, gave my sister a look, and walked to his car before laughing.

“Do you like it?” He asked, opening the door to his ’88 Delta Oldsmobile, a grin on his face. “My parents let me borrow it for our date.”

“It still runs?”

“Unbelievable, right? It’s always been a miracle car. Remember that time it got stolen?”

“Yes. I got pulled over for driving a stolen vehicle the day you got it back.”

“You were so mad.”

“I thought you had called the cops as a prank!”

The date was as easy as it had ever been. He had always been fun. Respectful. Kind. Everything that Luke wasn’t.

“Josie’s adorable,” Mark said, interjecting my thoughts. “Candace sends me pictures sometimes. And videos. I think she’s a little obsessed.”

“Just a bit,” I agreed.

My sister had recently moved from out-of-state, just to be closer to her only niece.

“She spoils her. But it is nice to have the extra help. She watches Josie so I can take classes at night.” 

“Really? What are you studying?”

“Phlebotomy.”

“Drawing people’s blood, huh?”

“I thought I would be good at it.”

“I thought you got queasy around blood?”

“Not anymore. Becoming a mom has increased my tolerance of ‘gross’.”

“Excellent! That means I made the perfect decision for dinner,” Mark said as he made a final turn into K’s parking lot. Despite its run down appearance and questionable food, Mark and I had spent the majority of our Friday nights sharing milkshakes and crinkly fries in the ancient diner. We slipped in a booth and ordered long-remembered favorites.

“Mark…”

“You’re wondering why I agreed to this date?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “You haven’t spoken to me in years.”

“We were 17 when you ended our relationship,” he explained. “When you wanted me back, I was angry and didn’t think you deserved a second chance.”

“Maybe I still don’t. What’s changed?”

“Candace, I’m not angry anymore. We’ve grown up and had life experiences we both needed to have apart. But I find myself still missing you. I decided a while ago,” he took a breath and grabbed my hand. “There should always be second chances for your first love.”

“I think so too,” I said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Blog Stalking

Blog stalking is something that most people who write blogs are perfectly fine with. As a blogger, I love the anonymous, and not so anonymous comments. I check and see if someone exotic has looked at my blog recently. And I revel in the moments when an acquaintance mentions something about something I've written.

And, as a blogger, I censor the things that I want to share with the world versus the things that I would rather keep private. Sometimes I share too much... but for the most part, I've created an online persona that I can deal with, and released information enough that I am not embarrassed or ashamed or anything about revealing. Every once in a while I think, "Why did I share that?" But then, it doesn't always seem to matter because the number of strangers that read my blog is rather small.

As I blogger, I understand that other bloggers have done much the same as I have. They've created their online characters and given glimpses into their personal lives, revealing with what they can live with and leaving us in the dark on many other important topics.

And that's where the true stalking comes in to play. After all, it isn't really stalking if you're just reading something that someone's posted on their public blog. It is stalking if you've noticed something about that person, but have no evidence to back it up and so you go searching for other clues.

e.g.

You read an old acquaintance's blog because it is funny and entertaining and it is fun to see where he (or she) is headed to next. You happen to know -- because you saw photo evidence on their blog or Facebook or wherever -- that they got married some years ago. And yet, you've noticed that their blog, and not even their Facebook, has shown any evidence that the marriage took place since the wedding pictures have been posted. There are always the blogs that go on and on about how great the DH is (I have always assumed that stands for "dear husband", can someone verify that for me?) or status updates about what you and the husband have been doing? Or that the wife is angry or.... whatever.

There's usually not nothing.

So does that mean there was a divorce?

Since it is really none of my business, it seems completely out of place to even ask. It seems sneaky and underhanded and gossipy -- in a very bad way -- to ask a mutual friend. And you know that if they had wanted to make it public, they probably would have written about it.

But that's just an example. There are other bloggers that may promise a follow-up on a rather personal story, but then never follow through. It's easy to forget about the things you are going to write about, so it's a possibility of having just slipped the writer's mind. On the other hand, they might have thought better of their intention to disclose their personal life, and decided not to post. In those cases, it seem like the reader can acceptably ask about the author's intentions, but then again, it also sounds a little stalkerish.

I guess what I'm getting at, is there is a line between blog author and reader. And most people, while dying to get to the nitty-gritty information, are not going to cross the line into prying. At least, I'm not. But it's still killing me that I don't know the answers!

Published in Woman's World

Well! It's happened... I'm in Woman's World  as the author of their romantic fiction story. It's so exciting!

The magazine offered to buy my story a few months or so ago, and I was thrilled with the idea, of course. I got the check a month or so after that, and then I eagerly waited for June to roll around to see my name in print. I knew that they were buying the rights to my story, and that their editors would probably rip it apart and put it back together again before actually publishing it. I thought I was fine with that. I thought that I didn't care, at all, how people changed and edited and modified my work to make it "better".

I thought.

When I read what was published, I had a mini-breakdown. Not emotional - although, somewhat panicked and hysterical. It was so beyond my recognition that I was afraid that I had sent the wrong version -- an earlier version -- of the story to them with my contract.

I went home and double-checked. Certain that I had made the biggest blunder in publishing history, that I had sent a rough draft when they had asked for a finished copy, I kept shaking my head and cursing myself. Why hadn't they told me! It would have taken one email, and I could have sent the right version! This isn't the story they purchased! Am I now in breach of contract?

I looked, and found that no, I had sent the right version. The end result is what they felt good about publishing in the magazine.

Huh.

So, I'm trying to shrug my shoulders and just be pleased by my name in print in a national magazine that I know at least two women (my mom and good friend, Suesan) purchase on a weekly basis. Even though, it's not really the story I had proudly signed my name to six months ago.

Once you've bought the magazine and read for yourself, if you'd like to see the unpublished version, I think I would be happy to send that your way. Just let me know.

Drawing Challenge Day #12 and 13

Everyone already knows about me being published in Woman's World magazine, but it is my definite most recent accomplishment. It can be picked up in the grocery stores in a few days. (Week of June 2)

Self explanatory, I think.

Payday

I was doubting a little bit that Woman's World might not want my story. But, the arrival of their check makes me think otherwise. -- Look for my story on June 2, 2011.

It's probably not really that professional to be blogging and flaunting your paydays on the internet, but I'm really excited about this, because I think that there is something very validating and official about being paid a significant amount of money for your work.

Here's hoping that there are more of these little babies in the future!

Just... the best day!

Yesterday it rained practically the whole day. The street outside my office was flooding! Usually when it is so dreary, I do not like to be at work. I prefer to be tucked in my bed sleeping or reading a book. But yesterday, it was fine.

It probably helped that my dad called with some news. I knew that he knew I was at work, so I figured he wasn't calling to just waste time, even if it was around his lunch hour. He told me that I had some mail, and he wasn't sure what it was - though it was probably junk mail. I told him to open it, and immediately he started reading this:

When I received the news (over the phone) that I was accepted in to BYU, I cried. When my dad read me this, I was practically jumping out of my chair! I had submitted a story to Women's World, knowing that it was a long shot.

According to the magazine, and several blogs dedicated to romance writers wanting to make a little money on the side, millions of submissions go through Bauer Publishing every year. But I submitted, knowing that I was only putting out a few stamps worth of effort, and then almost forgot about it.

Occasionally, I would think about how I hadn't heard from them. I figured that they probably didn't like it. The story is a little different than most of the stories I have read in the magazine, and they probably didn't want to publish it in their magazine. I submitted in December (on my mom's birthday) and only heard back yesterday! But it was so worth the wait!

The best part, for me - besides the fact that I just made a little extra money and can now be considered a real published author (maybe) - is the little handwritten note at the bottom telling me that the story is "unusual and authentic".

I don't know for sure if they will publish the story, but they are buying it from me so they can publish it whenever they want. They can also edit it as they want.... I'll be interested to see what they do to it. I hope that this is just the beginning of my writing.... and that there will be plenty of stories that get accepted by Woman's World, and maybe a successful novel or two. It might be too much to ask, but while I'm riding this high, I'm going to go with the idea that it is a definite possibility!

I was giddy with the news - I told everyone. Or, I tried to tell everyone... When I told my boss that I had good news, he jumped the gun, asked if I was engaged and then told me he would be sad if my engagement took me away from the office. Once I explained that I was not, in fact, engaged, he got distracted...Oh, well.

I was overwhelmed with the congratulations that I got (even if it was a bit solicited) and so thankful that everyone is as excited for me as I am for myself! It's so nice, so THANK YOU, everyone! This is also probably a good time to mention my gratitude to Suesan and Meghan, who helped edit the story before I submitted it. (You two are the best!)

After work, the rain had stopped and Meghan and I drove up to Salt Lake for dinner and a movie. On the way up, we saw a rainbow, which just added to the magic of the day. The food at La Hacienda is really, really good. And we watched the new version of Jane Eyre at this little Indie theater. I am still not sure how I felt about it.... if anyone wants to watch Jane Eyre, I will recommend the Masterpiece Theater version. It is much better.

From everything else that is going on, it sounds like several of my friends received good news yesterday, too. So it was just such a great day!

Goodreads.com

I've been a member of goodreads.com for over two years now, and I really love it. It's a way to keep track of the books I've read, the ones I want to read, the ones I'm going to read, and the ones that I never want to read. Other users go and post reviews for books and it allows you to see what others are saying about popular books and books you've never heard of.

Basically, it's a social network for readers. Which is totally cool.

And, it's a way to get authors all defensive about their work when you slander it. And then you become infamous, and they don't want you to buy any more of their books for fear of what you will say... all because of Goodreads!

But Goodreads is also a way for an author to get their name out. And so I uploaded my book as a goodreads.com book, and I'm hosting a giveaway for a few copies of the published book. So those of you who are not logged into goodreads.com, you should consider it.

There are literally hundreds of giveaways on Goodreads. So that's really cool, because free books are awesome! Since it is a way for authors to get their book out to readers, who will hopefully give their book a good review, thus inspiring many other readers to check out that particular book, many authors offer one to several copies that they mail out.

I recently won a giveaway. I should have read the description better, because it was for a book that is probably not of interest to me - although I can't say that I'm surprised I won it, literally seconds after I hit "enter giveaway" - it's a gay romance. Hahahahaha. Yeah. Whoops. Since I never win things, I'm pretty excited about this. There were 576 different people who tried to get this book, and yet I'm the one who won. (Becca, you see the significance of this, right?)

On the right hand side of my blog, you can see where to go to enter the giveaway for Unrealized Dreams. I have three copies, and I'm excited to send them out. Even if there are an exorbitant amount of errors and typos in this first edition.
Never fear! That is what future editions are for - to fix things like such as. 

If you have any questions, let me know.

I did it...

I do realize how late it is, but I have to announce that I decided to go with the self-publishing option for the time being.

Unrealized Dreams is now available to any and all who want to order it. Either print or electronic. Use the code: REMARKABLE305 to receive 15% off.



You can still read the first four chapters here.

Tell your mom, your friends...whoever.



I know that the print option is pricey. That was the lowest option they made available. So, just know that I am not getting rich off your purchases. Instead, I'm just getting the satisfaction of knowing that my book is out there on somebody's shelf, or propping up a table or being the lonely dog's chew toy.

Mondays

I've always thought that it would be fun to be published in Women's World magazine. They pay $25-100 for little short snippets about "funny" things children say, pictures of babies and pets and stuff like that, and I figured I could get paid to write their one-page romance story.

So I've been doing a little research online, and I've learned a few things. Women's World is a hard market to crack into. You get paid $800 per story. The stories have to be modern and under 800 words. I knew it had to be short...but I never realized that under two pages was the requirement! I had a hard enough time writing scholarship essays!

So for practice, I wrote a little something up. It comes in at 797 words. And I don't know... it's probably crap. But if I'm ever going to be published in WW, then I've got to learn how to write crap that doesn't sound half bad - that they would consider publishing. Because honestly, I could really use $800.

Mondays*

****UPDATE****
This story was bought by Woman's World!!!

Oh, so dorky. So cheesy! But... that's what the WW readers want! Right? I don't know. You try to write an uplifting story in under 800 words.

Unrealized Dreams

Chapters 1-4 of my first book, Unrealized Dreams have been made available on my blog. Check the Unrealized Dreams tab for the link.

Journal Writing

I am an advocate of journal writing, which is one of the reason I have a blog. Blogging is one of the best ways to journal where I can post my thoughts, feelings and happenings of my life and people can read it...or not. Even if no one read my blog, I would still write on it faithfully, the same as I write in my journal. I'm not great at writing in my journal, after all, it's usually about 1 a.m. when I'm climbing into bed and my eyes can't stay open long enough to ensure I'm writing between the lines and I'm so exhausted or laying in a weird position that my handwriting is barely legible. Still, I do it, because I know that there is some importance in keeping a record of my life here on earth.

I write my journal entries as though I know someone will one day find them interesting enough to read. That means, of course, that I don't always confess things straight out, or I have to take extra time explaining something that I would know instantly. Still, I'd be mortified if someone came into my room and just picked up my journal and started reading. Despite what some may think, I do actually censor this blog for who I know is reading. My journal, however, is different.

That of course doesn't stop me from flipping through and reading old journal entries. I wish I would record happier things. I've noticed that this latest journal (one that my old roommate, Maria, made for me for Christmas with a picture of things that we enjoyed when we still enjoyed living together) which spans almost 2 years, has basically the same themes in each entry. Apparently, I am using my journal as a way to scold myself. As if I don't get enough scolding from friends and family who love me dearly. The biggest difference of course, is that I'm mean. I berate and belittle and name-call and write things in my journal that I would never give voice to anyone else but myself. It's disheartening to think that really if someone did read my journal, they would think not so well of me because my journal portrays me as a fat, lazy, unmotivated slob who isn't able to take control of her life or make changes. There are vows and commitments that have been abandoned by the next entry - mostly because I had forgotten that I had even written down that goal by the time I close the book. Occasionally there is mention of a boy that I hate - hate, because I secretly liked him and he never noticed -- or worse, did notice and then ignored me still - and a date sporadically. Other times there are great testimony builders and recorded scriptures that meant something to me. And in the end, I think i am the only person who will treasure my journals.

The whole reason I've even been thinking about my journals at all is because I just finished reading These Is My Words by Nancy E. Turner. It's probably one of the better books I've read recently. And it is written in the format of a journal. The journal of Sarah Agnes Prine who write the tales of her life as a pioneer woman living in the Arizona territory just before the turn of the century. She write about the Indian wars and shooting guns and losing a father, a brother, two husbands, children and all sorts of calamities and mishaps with the land and its people. I read her journal entries (it's fiction, but very well researched from what I can tell) and think that her life is by far more interesting than mine will ever be. Not that I'd want to lose my brother to a rattlesnake bite or discover a man who had been trapped under the rotting carcass of his horse for a few days... But even when she talks about mundane things like doing laundry, or the cistern running low on water or making a trip to town or the passion she had for finding a wagon full of books I was so enthralled with the life that she was living. I can't imagine anyone caring about the TV shows I like to watch or the fact that I've been working on one class for six years of my life or how I desperately need money to accomplish the things that I am quite certain I will never be able to accomplish.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who likes historical fiction. This has everything. Romance, Indians, shootouts, death... etc. I may have even welled up once or twice.


But still, I continue to write. Because one day, maybe our world will become like the Jetson's, and people will wonder what it was like to drive down I-15, yelling and cursing Utah drivers instead of cruising through the atmosphere like it was nothing. Who really knows?

Over and Over Again

Have you ever looked at something so often that you can't stand to look at it anymore? Some people think that turning over their work to someone after they have invested so much time and effort into something is a cop out or somehow takes away from the integrity of the work.

But I don't see it that way.

If I could take this novel that I've written and give it to someone who would take it and shape and mold it into something better, I'd let them. I'm so done with it. I feel like I've read every passage over 100x. The clever and witty things that I thought were in there have disappeared. Not because I've changed it - but because I've read them so many times they have ceased to be clever and witty.

I would love it if someone would comb through and find the parts that aren't necessary (the parts that make them roll their eyes) and cut them out. There are too many things that now make me roll my eyes, but I refuse to rewrite anything else until I know exactly what I'm just sick of and what actually needs to go. I don't want to put it on the shelf for another year, but then again, if I have to read the whole thing another time, I might just delete it.

That's not the sign of a good piece of work. But then again, I never claimed it was a piece of literary brilliance. So now I'm torn. It is too big an accomplishment to scrap it. Too big of a nuisance to keep working on it. And too big of a disappointment if I just were to give up.

But since you haven't read it 100x, I am adding another excerpt, just for the fun of it:

One day, George burst in the kitchen where the ladies were preparing the evening meal. Myra, worried about his over-excited state, made him sit on a small stool and drink a whole glass of water before he related his news.

He’d just returned from New York, and though he had not told his family, McKay knew through Ashton that George had gone to ask for Miss Stanford’s hand in marriage.

Since she was sure of the news, she continued to knead the dough that would be their evening rolls.

“I’ve just come from New York,” he explained taking another gulp of water from the refilled glass his mother offered him. “There were…rumors going around town through some of the least reputable parts of town.”

“What?” Myra asked, looking nervously at McKay and then back to her son.

She seemed to be worried about whether or not her daughter and her niece should be hearing such goings on, but she did not dismiss them.

“You mean you didn’t go to the Stanford’s?” McKay asked, feeling her own confusion.

George looked at her and blinked, “Oh, well…yes, I did. But…”

“George!” Susanna cried with delight. “She said ‘yes’ didn’t she? And her father gave his permission?”

“Of course, she did,” George stuttered. “But…”

“Oh, darling!” Myra clapped her hands and hugged her son around his neck.

Susanna kissed him on the cheek in congratulations.

During all the commotion, McKay watched her cousin carefully. He was still flustered, and there was more to his story than the proposal. They had all known it was coming. He would have just slipped that information in at the dinner table, not come bounding in the room like a madman.

Just then, Homer supported Ashton into the kitchen and the celebration stopped as they looked at the bruised and bloodied man.

He had obviously been in another fight, and McKay could see the beginnings of some nice bruises on his face.

Homer placed him on a stool next to George, and Ashton winced as he bent his midsection. Broken ribs, McKay identified immediately. She would know them anywhere, having seen them on the ranch.

“What have you done to yourself?” She demanded as she came around the counter, wetting a towel in the water boiling over the fireplace.

He looked at her and grinned sheepishly, but then slumped back in the chair closing his eyes. Susanna screamed, thinking he had passed out, and Myra escorted her out of the room before coming back with a sewing kit. The cut above his eye would need stitches.

“Really, Ashton,” McKay said as she surveyed him. He definitely had two broken ribs. The cut above his eye was bleeding; he was bruised from head to midsection.

“I hope the other guy looks worse than you do,” she pushed on a dark bruise and he grimaced.

“I wouldn’t know. They kicked me out before I had a good look,” groaning again from the pressure McKay applied elsewhere.

“Are you going to explain to me what happened?” She took the needle that Myra had placed in the boiling water, stitching after Myra had cleaned the wound.

“No.”

“George?”

“Um…” George looked to his friend, but relented. “As I said, there were some rumors going on about McKay in some of the less reputable places in town. We know it was Lowell, spreading them around to some of the gi…er, some of his associates,” he corrected.

It was McKay’s turn to wince.

“Anyway,” George continued. “We had just stopped in… and overheard an argument. Ashton went to check it out and there was Lowell, still looking mighty green from that punch, McKay,” he added with a proud nod towards his cousin. “Talking about his latest… anyway, the man that Lowell was talking to was not pleased with the information Lowell was providing. A brawl started out immediately, and Ashton got in the middle of it somehow.”

“And how in the hell did you get in the middle of it?” McKay demanded. “They weren’t talking to you.”

“McKay!” Myra scolded.

She ignored her aunt.

“Of course they weren’t, but they were talking about you,” George defended his friend. “Besides, the blonde chap was talking about how you were his in a real jealous manner. I’ve never even seen the man; I doubt very much you’ve had a fellow calling on you the likes such as him.”

“Blonde fellow?” McKay repeated. Could it be? “Did you catch his name?”

George only shook his head.

Ashton sat quietly while she finished stitching and bandaging him up. She had removed his shirt by this time, bandaging his ribs. He watched her carefully, and McKay felt almost self-conscious with the way he was gazing at her through slits in his eyes. One was almost completely swollen. Her thoughts turned to the night when she had gone to check on his stitches. He had asked her to kiss away his fever. She wondered if he would ask her to kiss away his bruised ribs. Obviously, ribs took weeks to heal. And yet, she wouldn’t mind trying. She pushed the traitorous thoughts from her head. He had promised not to kiss her, and had kept that promise.

Though, it seemed the longer they went without the kissing, the more tension there was between them.

Only the night before, they had run into each other walking down to get a midnight glass of water. McKay had been overly modest in her dress, careful not to be caught indecently again, but he had walked around in nothing but his under drawers. The muscles in his sculpted chest had been defined in the moonlight as he had handed her the freshly filled glass. She had recently cut his hair for him, but his evening shadow had given him the look of a hard working cowboy. McKay couldn’t believe that he had been raised in the city as a businessman.

She had wanted to touch him, so badly. And when he had leaned in to flick a small mosquito from her neck, she thought he would kiss her and she held her breath in anticipation. But he did not. She had been disappointed, and reminded of his promise.

Only, he had said that she could use him anytime she wanted to. But she could not do that to him. It wasn’t fair. How could she use him for her own physical gratification, and then turn around and leave him?

In her distracted state, McKay bumped a particularly tender bruise and Ashton caught her arm and pulled her away from him.

“Are you done sticking me like a pin cushion?” He asked in his rough voice. She had not heard him sound so harsh for sometime. Since the Lowells he had been nothing but overly gentle and cautious.

“Yes, I suppose,” she answered testily. “Why don’t you take better care of yourself, so I don’t have to stitch you up every danged day? Who’s going to take care of you when I’m gone?”

He glared at her, and she glared back .Something was definitely off between them. Yesterday they had been friends. Today, they were bitter ex-lovers.

Finished product

A couple of years ago I started writing a book.

It was the product of reading several books that I just knew I could do better. The whole, "If this can be published - surely I can be published," really inspired me to write. I mean, have you read some of those - especially cheesy LDS fiction - books out there? And of course, I should probably thank Stats for being my inspiration as well. I'm certain out of the 510 pages, about 60% of my book was written while I was supposed to be doing stats, was doing stats or was sitting in class for stats. It certainly brings out my creative juices!

Anyway, after two years I've finished my book. It is a fairly huge accomplishment. I can't help but feel a little puffy about it. So I sent a few copies out for friends/editors to read and I printed out a copy for myself to begin the red-lining. I left out the 250+ pages sitting out and Roberta started reading it.

The first comment I heard from her about the book was through Becca who had overheard Roberta telling a friend on the phone that she was reading a book that "the little girl that lives with me" wrote, and that she was enjoying it. She finished it in a couple of days - yesterday, reading for 6 hours or so. And the consensus: She loved it. She had a lot of really good things to say about it, couldn't put it down, etc.

I am very pleased. We both know that there is some work to be done. Some rewriting to do and some congruency fixes. But according to Roberta, it is publishing-worthy. And, maybe even career-worthy. Which, I must say, I would love! And there are more books in the works, so I guess we will see. I will keep you updated as I edit, and start sending this piece of work to publisher.

One good review, and I've totally let it go to my head.

An excerpt:

He didn’t have to peek at his cards again because he knew exactly what he’d find. He’d mastered his poker face some time ago, but the knowledge that he was about to win a rather large sum of money made him want to smile. And it wasn’t because he actually needed the money; it was more the fact that the men he was playing with all needed a lesson in humility.

He looked at the blonde, scruffy man sitting across from him – not closely, he didn’t want to be caught staring – but enough to read the look of desperation on his face. This man needed to win. What was supposed to be a blank slate instead showed exactly what it shouldn’t – he was in deep. Of course, the man wasn’t going to win. Ashton had this in the bag, and for a second, he felt a little guilty. He really didn’t need to win. The casino they were sitting in was owned by his very wealthy grandfather, which would mean that he’d inherit the wealth eventually. He was the only grandson and his grandfather had promised him that he would get part of his inheritance as soon as he married. The death of his parents had already left him set in the financial department, anyway; though many wouldn’t know it considering his current state of homelessness.

This self-chosen placelessness was what found him in his grandfather’s casino in California. Here in California, men were throwing money and gold down as if it was as worthless as feed corn, and now that he was here, he was enjoying being a part of it.

“Call,” the blonde said as they went around the table again.

“Fold.”

“Fold.”

Ashton hid his smile behind a cough and laid his cards face-up on the table. He heard a few muffled grunts of approval and awe. He tried to ignore the cursing on the other side of the table and the threats. He didn’t think that the threats were something he should be worried about. He’d be leaving the casino as soon as possible, and probably the state. His grandfather was notorious for being notified of Ashton’s presence and he didn’t necessarily want to be found, which meant never staying in one area for too long.

“You cheated,” the blonde man accused him, rising from his chair.

“I don’t think so, friend,” Ashton said, gathering his chips carefully. He walked over to the counter to cash in, leaving the man in the hands of the other players who were trying to hold him back and calm him down. Yes, Ashton would leave the area tomorrow. It wouldn’t do to have some angry cowboy wanting his head over a game that he had won fair and square.

“Ashton Hurst?” The man behind the counter asked, before Ashton could say anything.

He nodded in assent and leaned against the counter, knowing what to expect.

“I have a message for you, sir.” The man slid the missive over to Ashton. Then the clerk took the pile of chips and began counting, giving Ashton a moment to read his letter.

The Old Toad had found him, at last then. Ashton looked at the time-worn letter that looked as though it had traveled all over the country, maybe just one step behind him. The crisp writing was familiar enough, though he had managed to avoid it for three years, and he already had a decent idea of what the letter would be commanding him to do. It was exactly why he had wanted to take off. Later that night, he ran his calloused fingers through his hair, and set the letter and his hat on the slab of wood that served for a nightstand next to his dirty bed. It would be heaven to just curl up and fall to sleep. No matter how dirty the bed was, he was worse off. He hadn’t seen even a body of water since last week’s cattle run. He unbuckled the belt that held his gun, and carefully hung it on the bed post. If his grandfather had any idea of what he had been doing for the last few years… he smiled as he imagined the old man’s usually green features turn into the burgundy that was commonplace during a full blown tantrum.

Ashton walked to the wash basin that held the tepid water that he knew would give him instant relief, and began wiping down his face and neck. The dirt and grime that clung to his body after everyday had become so familiar, that he almost felt naked without it. He looked back at the letter sitting on his nightstand. He hadn’t read it, yet. After cashing in his chips, he decided to use the money to go and see a man about a horse, literally. He wished that he had stopped at the bathing house, too. And now, he dreaded opening the wretched letter. Still, a morbid curiosity was dying to read it – he cursed his curiosity and then sighed. He supposed that now he had it, he might as well read it. In a few long strides, he was back in front of the nightstand with ancient letter in hand. It had probably been written months ago. The news might be so old that it wouldn’t matter, he reasoned, as he tore open the seal. Ashton scanned to the bottom of the letter, it was not signed. The Old Toad –as Ashton referred him, others knew him as Martin Hurst, proprietor, businessman, and influential personality in New York – did not need to make his mark. The seal on the back of the letter was enough, as were the words.