Dog Tag Dedication

I never knew my maternal grandfather. He died in the late sixties, several years before I was born. My paternal grandfather passed away even earlier than that - when my dad was still a kid. When I was younger, I never gave much thought to not having a grandfather; like most children, I accepted the ins and outs of my family dynamic without question. Other children had granddads, and of course I understood the concept. I just didn't have one of my own.

We never really talked about my dad's father - I guess he was just too young when his dad died to be able to relay much about him to us - but my mom talked about her father every so often while telling me stories of her childhood. I remember being fascinated by these tales of my mother as a girl. I listened faithfully, rapt in her memories, learning about my grandfather (whom my mother referred to as "Daddy" and my sister and I always called "Papaw"), his huge heart and wicked sense of humor. There weren't many of these anecdotes, and I can still quote them chapter and verse. But they were still only a handful of glimpses into the rich life of a man who passionately loved his town and his family.

In recent years I've grown much more interested in our family's history. I discovered some interesting facts about my heritage, such as my grandmother's membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Daughters of the Confederacy. I learned I was related to two governors of South Carolina (both held office in the 1700's). I also found out that my great-great grandfather, Yelvon Brown, was an officer in the Confederate Army in Virginia. What a lineage!

Yesterday while I was visiting with my family for Easter, I found a bag of my mom's "keepsake jewelry". Through the plastic I saw the distinctive shape of dog tags tucked in with assorted bracelets, watches, pins, and charms. I dug them out and was delighted to find they were my grandfather's. They list his name and Army serial number, next of kin, and religion. There was also a small weatherproofed portrait of my grandmother with the tag, and on the opposite side of her portrait was a real four-leaf clover pressed against the photo's backing paper, perfectly preserved under the clear plastic. Mom said my grandmother had it made for him, just before he was shipped out.

Mom gave me the dog tags to keep for a while. I asked for them; I felt compelled. Now I can't stop thinking of my grandfather in the war: a couple years younger than me, homesick for his town and his wife, proud to help his country end the war as however he could. He wore this chain overseas and back home again; it was around his neck as he wrote letters to my Mamaw and slogged through mud and wished on evening stars to get back safe to his home in the Appalachians. He looked at the picture of my grandmother thousands of times in the two and a half years he was at war, wishing he could step right into its black-over-white composition and take her into his arms. He pressed his thumb over that four-leaf clover for luck over and over again as he faced dangerous situations, and its magic never failed him. Wearing these tags, I have the clearest sense of him as a real person I've ever had.

Eight months ago, I started a journey. One month left. It's an uphill battle but I refuse to surrender. I'm using this totem to remind me of the bravery I come from; the determination and pride which runs in my family. In me. I'm wearing the tags around my neck right now. That four-leaf clover is getting a workout, let me tell you.

As for Music Monday... This post might not be entirely music related, but I do have a thought for you. Long ago my mother told me what my Papaw's favorite song was. I think I'll go listen to it now. So, friends, if you know "Sixteen Tons" by "Tennessee" Ernie Ford, feel free to hum along.

Spring has Sprung... Happy Friday!

Here in the South, spring is creeping over the hills and edging into your peripheral vision. Everywhere you look something new is blooming. The Bradford Pear trees are a few days away from becoming their annual spring puffballs. A light, playful breeze has taken up residence during the days, while the nights have become warm and filled with cricket and frog duets. Flowers are peeking up through the soil, fruit stands are making themselves ready for the next few months of craziness, and everything in my town smells new and green and faintly fabulous.

That is, of course, if you can smell... My allergies have brought on some sort of ailment, so I've spent the last couple days of this beautiful transition in bed. I'm not sure if it's allergies or a cold or a sinus infection or what, but the result's the same... clogged sinuses, aches, sneezing, coughing, and a wish for death when bright light hits my eyes... Phew. I'm sure it'll pass soon, but this really blows.

However, I've been using the time to my advantage. I haven't stopped posting on the blog (as you can see, heh) and I've been writing and writing and writing and writing and... yeah. Last night I hit 70,000 words and 240 pages. I wrote for hours in kind of a drug-induced, dreamlike state. I'm not even sure what exactly happened in the pages I wrote, now that I think about it... I mean, I could give you the general gist of it, but the actual passages escape me. That's the best kind of writing for me... when I'm so deep in the Zone, going back over pages produced becomes kind of a fun surprise. The book is steadily marching along to its climax, and all I can do is hang on for the ride, ailment or no ailment.

I'm also kind of excited about the fact that I now have three short stories rolling around in my head, waiting to be born. I'm not thinking about them too much while I'm finishing the novel - I feel like I only have enough headspace for one project at a time at this late stage in the game. But it's exciting and encouraging to know I have other things I can work on when this is done. I plan on working on the shorts when I set the completed MS of the novel aside for a few weeks (I've heard this is a good practice; once the book's completed you must let it rest for a bit). That should help me keep out of the MS and really let it rest as it needs to.

Now the weekend's here, so I'm going to concentrate on resting and let myself kick whatever this is out of my system. Writers' meeting is tomorrow morning, and I'm excited about it. I can't wait to hear what my group thinks of the new pages. And I'm so excited to read new stuff from them as well. Gail has been working on a wonderful new novel, Fireworks: Interference Equation and I'm hooked. I can't wait for the next installment.

Hope everyone out there in the blog-o-sphere has a great weekend and enjoys the new spring weather! Take care, all.

Update on the Novel

For those of you that aren't aware, I'm writing my first novel, which I expect to be completed the first of May. I've never attempted writing a book before, and I've found this to be the most exhilarating writing experience I've ever had.

It's also the longest experience I've ever had - this is definitely the most prolific thing I've written. I've composed many shorts over the years, and had a few published, but this project left those stories in the dust, length- and content-wise, months ago. It's intimidating to go back over those pages. Sometimes I look at all of them and say, "did I really write all this stuff?? When did that happen?!" It took me a long time to commit to writing a novel because I wasn't sure I had one in me. Now I feel like book-length manuscripts are all I want to write!

Composing a novel-length manuscript is its own emotional roller coaster ride. I've never experienced such amazing highs (and lows) concerning one particular project. I started writing in August of last year, and gave myself nine months to complete the project. It might seem weird, but chose the nine month mark because I feel as if I'm giving birth to something. I kind of think of this book as my first child, and I want to give it enough time to grow and mature and change into whatever it's going to be.

Recently (after hitting 50,000 words last month) I've realized the book has finally become its own entity. Knock out all the supports and props from underneath it and it still stands - shaky, grappling for purchase sometimes, holding on to whatever it can to steady its steps - because it has become its own creature, which lives and breathes through me. Soon it'll be ready to unleash upon an unsuspecting world.

I currently have 217 pages and 63,000 words. My goal is 100,000, and I feel sure I will either meet that goal or come close enough to rock-throwing distance of it by the first of May. I've reached the beginning of the real action in the story, leading up to the climax, and it's so exciting! I can't stop writing. The story has taken me over.

I've also learned so much about my own novel writing process with this project. I'm sure the next baby will be born after less than nine months... and it'll be an easier delivery, too.

It's a strange piece of horror I'm composing, one that includes ghosts, telepathy, peach orchards, red clay, witchy women, death, insanity... all tied together by the dark undulating ribbon of Southern culture. I can't wait for it to be done.

Important Milestone

Friday night I hit 50,000 words in the novel.

I started writing the book in early August. When I realized I was actually going to try to write a full-length novel, I set a goal for myself of 100,000 words (or about 350 pages, double spaced) to be completed on May 1st. I gave myself nine months. Creating this book will be like giving birth, I thought to myself then (and still do now, the labor pains will be coming in the next month or so, and I look forward to them with a mixture of exhilaration and terror); I need to give myself ample time to make it come alive.

And so it has. The characters have started breathing and thinking and speaking of their own accord, and I'm just following them around trying to take down as much as I can before it's forgotten. They're moving around and doing their own things, and I'm just observing. It's great. And insane. But all writers are at least a little crazy, right? It's par for the course.

I held back from trying to write a book for a long time. I've never been good at follow-through, even from the time I was a child, and I didn't want to build up excitement and expectations for myself and then let myself down. Short stories were a medium I could get into because they required only a few days' commitment - then the story was done and editing could ensue. Quick like a flurry of punches or stolen kisses. I knew my propensity for starting things and never finishing them, and I didn't want that to jinx a long project.

But no long project is completed if it's not started, and back in August when I finally realized the short story I'd been writing deserved to be its own novel, I knew I had to try. Now or never, my Mamaw would've said, time's a-wastin. And that was the truth. I realized it was time to make it happen. So I started, and gave myself a goal, and kept pushing against the invisible wall that stands between reality and fiction.

Now I'm at 50,587 words and the story is developing at a much faster pace than it has been over the last six months; it's like the book has hit its stride and is ready to whisk me along to its conclusion, for better or worse. I know I'll finish, or at least get to my goal by May; right now I'm just grinning like a fool and hanging on for the ride.

Riding the Rejection Train

Friday.

It's raining here in South Carolina, and it's cold. Wet, raw and gray. Which pretty much matches my feelings when I get a rejection letter in my inbox.

Rejections are never easy. Every story I send out goes with hope, well wishes, and fantastic daydreams. The act of pushing it out the door is a leap of faith. "It's good," I'll say to myself, "really good. I could get paid for this!" I insist, tightening my tentative grasp on new-found confidence. I scour the internet looking for markets to submit to, and use sites like duotrope.com to find a publication that may be a good fit for my piece. Once I find a hopeful-looking market, I go back over my fiction and make sure it's as clean as it can be, and meets the submission guidelines (some markets are very particular about spacing, font, line indents, etc). I compose a carefully worded cover letter, read over it to make sure it says what I really mean (and for Christ's sake, addressed to the right place), and then I sit there for a moment, index finger hovering over the mouse button.

Click.

Sometimes I hear back in a matter of hours - Necrotic Tissue rejected me in less than a day. More often it's a waiting game: most small markets will get back to you in 3-6 weeks. Larger publications, like Weird Tales and the time immemorial Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction have thousands of submissions a month, so it may take much longer to hear back from them. Patience is important; I've mastered the art of forgetting about pieces I've sent. It does no good to obsess about them. Switch that part of your brain off as well as you can, fellow writers.

And then, more often than not, the answer is no. No, it's just not a good fit. No, we appreciate the submission, but it doesn't have what we're looking for. We enjoyed reading this, but we're going to pass. And so on. The trick is to look for the encouraging words, buried in the rejection email like tiny nuggets of gold: It has some great moments. This is well written, and you had me hooked. You have a wonderful grasp of imagery. And then there's the coveted phrase, please consider submitting to our market again. YES!! I immediately turn around and send them something else when I hear that - as I did this morning, when my story "Yellow Bus Tuesday" was rejected by Pedestal Magazine. Five minutes after receiving their pleasantly-worded rejection, I had my story "Knights of the Road" headed their way.

Riding the rejection train isn't easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I find if I keep in mind how many rejections it takes to get an acceptance, I can handle it with a positive attitude. In 2009, I submitted 19 times and was accepted once. Once. Because of those kind of statistics, I remind myself every time I get a "no" in my inbox that it's a numbers game. The story is good, so someone will take it sooner or later, right? I always hope it's sooner, but that's not always the case. There's a long journey ahead of me, and I'll be traveling a lot of it via one long, black train... more often than not through cold, gray weather like what's visiting South Carolina today.

Starting Your Life in the Middle of Your Life

...and this is your life, writers.

Or, maybe not. It's my life. But I bet you'll see similarities in our paths through the universe. We're artists, after all, aren't we? You can boil down universal callings to bare minimums: Teacher. Healer. Leader. And so on. One of these basic concepts is The Artist. This isn't a path you travel lightly; it's not a life of whim and circumstance. It's a path that's given to you by a higher power, not something you choose for yourself. It's hard, and frustrating, and lonely. You don't fall in love with it for the money or the fame or the glamor. But in the end you've made your mark, not just on your immediate surroundings but on the people who've experienced your work. They'll carry that influence with them, and the ripples of your vision will carry out into infinity. Your art is the stone you cast into the pool of humanity... how many people will those ripples touch? It's indefinite.

I wrote my first "book" at the age of four. It was a thin volume covered in green construction paper; two leprechauns danced jauntily on the cover. The whole story was less than ten pages in length, complete with illustrations. But even back then, I was hooked. Making up stories filled my days, took precedence in my mind above almost everything else. I took my "book" to my mother and told her I wanted to be a writer when I grew up (she still has it; guess I got my romantic nature from her, eh?). I've repeated that same ambition countless times since that day, although I've learned that growing up is probably not my immediate future... but that's all right, I'd trade normalcy and complacency for vision and substance every time.

I grew up with an aptitude for creating the written word. I attended classes; I went to schools for talented children. I received a scholarship to college for an original monologue I'd written. I was driven to be better, cleaner, faster, punchier. I out-wrote the majority of my fellow students, but still wasn't satisfied. My attention deficit disorder, coupled with other issues, defeated my passion for a long time. It was as if I had a huge compass inside me, and it was constantly turning, searching for true north. I turned away from writing for a few years, went on to living my life and paying my bills and being as good of a person as I could be (which, unfortunately, was never as good as I wanted to be). For a long time I ignored that restless turning of the compass needle, concerning myself more with fitting into the molds built for me by my family and society itself.

Meltdown ensued.

Five years on the other side of the break - the one that finally showed me I had no choice but to honor the needs and desires of my real self, and forget what society and the rest of the world wanted for me - I look back and carefully survey the road I've traveled, the perils I've faced. And I can honestly say I've come out the stronger, with more material than ever to use. I've thrown myself back into writing over the last three years, and it's going well. I've been published four times, and I am working on the first draft of a novel. It's the scariest thing I've done in a long time, but I'm about halfway through it, and it's going really well.

I can't promise wisdom in this blog. I can't even promise consistency - it might be weeks or even months between updates. But I can promise you honesty, reader - over the course of my path, I've learned that it's one of the most important factors in a person's life. Honesty dictated to me, finally, that I had to stand up and be the person I'm supposed to be or fall down and die. Never being a quitter, I decided to stand up and write.

This is the journey... come with me, why don't you? I could use some company on the way. I need a good listener, too; I hope you're ready for some stories.

I've got too many of them to tell to just keep my mouth shut anymore.