The Waiting Game

Once you've sent something out, there comes the horrible, horrible waiting game.
I currently have two things out, a novel and a short story. Having 4 novels published and two books of ghost stories and legends, you'd think the waiting game wouldn't bother me. Well, that's where you're wrong! Still does. And the longer the wait, the more nervous I get.

One writer friend on Facebook said, "Why are you worried? It's the same publisher, right? They know they have an audience for you." I hope he's right, and that my tiny but faithful audience is enough to keep them publishing my stuff. But I take nothing for granted. There's always the chance that they may say, "Hmmm...this one doesn't do it for us" or "the bottom has fallen out of the market, and we need to concentrate on bigger sellers." You never know.

I have a good feeling about the novel. It's the third book in the Duncan Andrews series, and I think my writing has improved with each book. And I hope it continues to improve. Right now I'm reading a book that I'm really not enjoying. I hate to NOT finish a book, but this one is really trying me. The writing style isn't to my liking, there are some really clunky sentences, and the book needed a good editor and obviously didn't get one. For instance, twice the author used the word "lightening" when she obviously meant "lightning." I truly hate to give a book a rating lower than 3 stars because I know (oh, how I know!) how difficult it is to actually write a novel. But...this one...sigh. Several times I've almost stopped and gone on to another book. It's pretty bad. Too much detail, for one thing. If I have to read about the main character making dinner one more time, I may scream.

But maybe I was meant to read this book at this time. Seeing someone else's mistakes will hopefully make me more careful.

You write for yourself, or at least you should. If you don't like what you write, no one else probably will. The short story I have out was really an sort of experiment. I'm not even sure it fits the anthology that I submitted it for, but that's for the editor to decide. And even then, they may not like it. It is, admittedly, not the usual fare (but then, are any of my stories?). I won't be heartbroken if it doesn't get accepted. Actually, I'll be surprised and thrilled if they like it.

What's the fun of playing it safe?

Memories

This morning my cousin, Debbie Cooper, passed away. She had been in the hospital for weeks, and had been in poor health for quite a while, but always she was a fighter and she overcame the odds so many times that it's hard to believe that she is no longer with us.

When someone passes, especially a family member, the memories come flooding into your brain. And I'd like to jot down a few of these. Debbie's father, my Uncle Don, passed away a short time ago. He and my dad were close, even before Don married by dad's sister, Nancy. The Coopers and the Osbornes lived in Lafayette while we were growing up, not far from each other, so we spent a lot of time with them. It's odd the things you recall at a time like this. I vividly remember picnics at the Coopers and Aunt Nancy serving us Kool-Aid in a metal pitcher. Why does that pitcher stick out in my mind? Maybe because I always believed, probably erroneously, that the metal somehow tinged the flavor of the Kook-Aid.
But mostly I remember holidays at my Grandmother's. My older brother Rob and Debbie's older sister Janet were always picking on us, as older siblings are wont to do. They cheated at Monopoly, making up the rules as they went along. No wonder Debbie and I never won! For meals, we sat at "the kids table," a card table set up in the living room. If you got up to go to the bathroom or something, inevitably you'd come back to find some mashed potatoes in your drink or something similar.
Last October the Coopers came to northern Illinois for a weekend visit. It was like old times. We even played Mousetrap, although it wasn't nearly as fun as we remembered it being. And the damn thing never worked properly. But we laughed and talked and shared stories (although, I have to admit, Rob and Janet have a lot of memories that don't seem to fit my recollection of things at all). It was a great weekend.
I think that's a memory I'll cherish. The four of us, once again, sitting at a table playing Mousetrap. Good times, good days.
Wings of angels, tears of Saints. Take care, Debbie.