A wedding ... oh, and some book news!

By Julie

It’s been a crazy couple of months. After I signed with the world’s best literary agent in late July (Elisabeth Weed, who works with the world’s best foreign rights agent, Jenny Meyer), and we sold Calling Me Home to St. Martin’s Press domestically and nine foreign markets in September and one in October, my son had the nerve to think it was the right time to get married.

(That's my handsome son and his beautiful bride over there to the right, in case you didn't guess ...)

Okay, the wedding had been planned for months. That wasn’t his fault.

Regardless, we had family in from California and Washington state for a total of ten days leading up to and continuing after the wedding, and we had a blast. For the duration, I didn’t think about the book much at all, as it should be. Family comes first!

Then there was Thanksgiving, which meant a visit from the newlyweds, a bountiful turkey dinner at the in-laws, and a week’s vacation for my husband and kids, including several movies, museum visits, and lots of eating out.

Then, of course, we’re just off our annual What Women Write retreat, and as always, we’re all energized and ready to take on the fictionalized world. Joan did a great job talking about what we each accomplished on Monday, but I'll say a little more about that in a minute.

Now here it is the second week of December! When I sold Calling Me Home in September, publication (early 2013) seemed a million moons away, but wow, I can see how people aren’t kidding when they say the time flies.

I thought you might be interested in hearing about the various and assorted things I’ve already encountered on my journey from sale to publication.

(If not, please note our new feature at the bottom of the blog with “You might also like” links to other posts. Ha.)

In September, I mostly took deep breaths and pinched myself a few thousand times and looked behind me to be sure “they” weren’t talking to someone else and counted my lucky stars.

Shortly after the domestic sale, I had the privilege of speaking with a film agent who is excited about the possibilities for getting Calling Me Home to the big screen, and he is working behind the scenes to help make that happen in the right timing and fashion.

In October, I received most of my foreign publisher’s agreements from around the world via Jenny and Elisabeth. A few weeks ago, I sent them back (all something like 250 sheets of paper—many of them signed, most of them initialed!).

I also learned in October--on my birthday, in fact!--that Calling Me Home was selected to be part of the France Loisirs Avant-Premiere program. France Loisirs is France’s one remaining book club, something like Doubleday or Book-of-the-Month-Club here in the U.S., where customers order books and/or receive certain ones on auto shipments. The “Avant-Premiere” designation means Calling Me Home will be a featured selection, and this happens before it’s available in any other format in France. I’m not sure what all the details are yet, but this sounds like an exciting and prestigious honor for a debut novel! My French publisher was very enthusiastic about it, and, of course, Elisabeth, Jenny, and I were delighted to get the news.

In late October, a foreign language translation deal for the Catalan language came in. I literally had to stop what I was doing and look up Catalan, wondering where or WHAT it was. It turns out Catalan is a language spoken in certain areas of Spain (an area called Catalonia), France, and other small pockets here and there. The publisher is located in Barcelona. And here I was thinking we already had Spain covered. You learn something new every day!

Near the end of November, I received my first editorial notes from Hilary Teeman, my editor at St. Martin’s Press, and a few days later, a fat envelope from Elisabeth containing my St. Martin’s contract, which has been studied and signed and sent off to be finalized.

I made a good start on my revisions during our annual www retreat, the absolutely best part of that being an impromptu brainstorming session where my critique partners allowed me to talk through a requested edit I was having trouble wrapping my brain around. With their help, in less than an hour, I was able to clearly see what I needed to do on something I’d been pondering with little breakthrough for days. Never underestimate the power of a good critique partner or group.

This week, I heard from a couple of other author friends that Calling Me Home appeared in industry news in the Historical Novels Review, a publication of the Historical Novel Society. I don’t subscribe to the publication, but one of my friends graciously offered to mail me her copy! (Which reminds me … Erika Robuck needs my address …) I was surprised to learn this as I have never classified my novel as historical fiction because one of my story lines is present day, but I’m certainly not going to argue! I have said “straddling the line between historical and mainstream fiction,” so there you go.

And today, I learned my German publisher wants an author photo in January and will soon be ready for other promo materials from me! And now I’m wondering how I’m going to lose that last 20 pounds by January … uh oh.

As you can see, things are moving right along. I can’t believe how time really is flying. I’ll try to pop in every now and then in upcoming months with a rundown like this, not too often so as not to be boring, letting you know what’s happening.

Anyone else in our What Women Write audience have any exciting news to share? We’d love for you to leave us a comment! (By the way, we are having a LOT of trouble with our comment form. We have discovered if you use Firefox, it works better. In Internet Explorer, it sometimes takes about three tries, so be sure and copy your comment before submitting in case it doesn’t take the first time. Sorry for the trouble—we are frustrated, too!)

Hope everyone’s gearing up for a happy holiday season!

Life

By Susan

In June, my family and I spent a luxurious week at the Paradise Village Resort in Nuevo Vallarta, Mexico, a much-anticipated and saved-for vacation. Our sunrise patio overlooked the yacht harbor. Our sunset dinners gave us a view of a Pacific expanse of purple skies, jagged mountain peaks, and a quiet surf. We sang along with the Mariachi band on Fiesta night and drank tequila out of little silly cups the resort staff hung around our necks on strings. We zip-lined over canyons, hiked in the rain forest, and swam in a cool stream famous for- of all things- being the set for the movie "Predator". My eight-year-old, with her hair done up in tight cornrows braided by an elderly Mexican woman on the beach, swam with me in the resort pool on our last day there, smiled broadly, and said "Mommy, this is THE LIFE."

In March I spent two weeks travelling in Ghana, West Africa for my work with Touch A Life Foundation. The capital city, Accra, teems with people; legless men sitting on modified skateboards dart through traffic, begging for cedis, the Ghanaian currency. Women carry baskets full of fresh bread, or bags of water, or shrimp, or hard-boiled eggs; they carry everything perched high on their heads in a Carmen Miranda-esque balancing act of both grace and danger. Their babies are tied to their backs with long swaths of fabric, safely sleeping, suspended there, legs wrapped around and feet pointing forward. People. Color. Sound. Everywhere. Everything smells, whether it's the sweet stickiness of body odor, the bursting blooms from the garden, old garbage, fufu cooking over an open flame, or the stench of open sewage. I work with children rescued from human trafficking -- kids who tackle me with hot and dirty hands and hugs and love every time they see me. I look around and say: "Wow. This is REAL LIFE."

In Texas, I have two dogs and a cat. I live in a neigh-
borhood of families who move silently in and out of their homes, and anything I could possibly want to purchase is within a five mile radius of my house. I have a husband who is crazy about World Cup soccer, the Tour de France, his children, and cooking (not necessarily in that order). My daughters do well in school, love to sing, play guitar, and play sports. I work full time (always have) and at night, when everything is quiet, I sit by myself, curled in a chair with my laptop, and I write. "Hmmm," I think to myself, "This is MY LIFE."

And it's all the same life. Writing is like this life too, whether it's an escape into a luxurious world we're not so sure we belong to, or something far-flung and foreign, or something comfortable and familiar. We can write about things we know, places we've been, and sunsets we've seen.

The important part is to connect -- to find the familiar, to write something that might mean something to someone. By writing this little blog, maybe you see my sunset in your mind's eye. You smell the streets of Accra with me, and you see me sitting here right now, in my quiet home, writing in the dark. We connect, ever so briefly, and share something together, without even knowing one another.

So pick your life, the one you live, and pick the one you write. Have your heroine swept away by that beautiful Mexican cabana boy or the handsome yet lonely stranger who owns the yacht in the harbor. Tell the stories of the scars on the bodies of the little boys rescued from slavery on the waters of Lake Volta, fall in love with a child who calls you "Ma" and leaves grubby smudges on your already sweat-stained clothes. Or write about the heartaches that go on inside every home on every street in America, where the hero lavishes himself with excess and still can't figure out exactly what he is missing in his life, because he already has everything that money can buy.

Just write. Write it all down and connect your story with mine. I'll connect mine, hopefully, with you. Choose your life and choose your story; just keep writing.

Back where I began (Sort of)

By Julie

Last week, for the first time in more than 20 years, I visited Denver, the closest thing I have to a hometown.

The main purpose for my stay was a three-day Immersion Master Class taught by Margie Lawson out of her beautiful log home above Denver in Coal Creek Canyon.

The class was a great opportunity to dig deep, one final time, into my current manuscript, to take it apart, bit by bit, and put it back together shinier than it's ever been. I'm still applying what I learned, but hope to be querying again soon.

My visit was also an opportunity to reminisce -- to see some of the neighborhoods I roamed when I was developing my love of reading and writing, and to catch up with not only old friends who influenced the person I am while I lived there, but new friends I've made in recent years via the Internet.

It was bittersweet at times. My years in Colorado were not the easiest ones of my life, but there were also good memories made there, and I recognize that my writing is largely a product of that time.

Driving through Cherry Creek, the neighborhood where I lived while attending high school, was a true test of my memory. Most of the businesses from those years are gone, replaced by trendy shops, offices, and lofts.

Developers had bulldozed the odd little house where I lived with my mother and brother, together with the house next door, the lots covered now by a small, but beautiful condominium complex.

The sign for the one of the original Village Inn Pancake Houses, which appeared in the first novel I attempted to write, still hangs outside the building, but the windows are dark. Perhaps the owners found more opportunity in their suburban locations, but I remember a time when a trip to the Cherry Creek Village Inn was a special treat.

The original Cherry Creek locations of the famous Tattered Cover bookstore serve other purposes now, just as the new store on Colfax formerly housed the Helen Bonfils Theater. I attended plays there as a student on field trips. It was bizarre, but fun to see the comfortable reading nook created from the former orchestra pit. (photo, left)

My hostess for my visit, a friend and fellow writer I met through an online writing class more than three years ago, lives in a neighborhood that used to be an Air Force base. "Back in the day," we had to drive miles out of the way to get to anything on the other side – now you can drive straight through while admiring the modern, multi-use community.

A visit to Boulder, where I spent my late elementary school years, brought an emotional "aha" moment. We parked in a city lot to spend an hour or so at a coffee shop in the Pearl Street Mall for one-on-ones with Margie, then eat dinner at the Boulder Dushanbe Tea House.

My throat thickened when I recognized the Boulder Public Library at the end of the lot -- my safe haven during a time when I'd moved from one part of the country to another and struggled to fit in, which seemed to become my theme, more or less, during my years in Colorado. (photo, right)

The librarians watched me arrive each week, nearly collapsing under the maximum number of books I could check out. They'd ask if I really read all those books, mock disbelief on their faces, but I knew they were delighted I was there. I suspect this influenced my decision to obtain my master's of library science degree eventually.

Strangely, I have no memory of the mountain that forms the backdrop for the building. As one of my classmates said that night, it was probably just wallpaper at the time. It took me completely by surprise.

I could go on, but it might take all night and a day besides to take you on the whole sentimental journey. Instead, let me ask you: What visits have you made to places years later, when they were hardly recognizable to you, yet as familiar as ever? Have these places appeared in your writing? Did you find, as I did, that not only have the physical locales shown up, but also the emotions you experienced during those times? Leave a comment and share if you'd like.

An advertisement for Margie – she teaches various classes online and in person. They're worth the hard work and money invested. I do believe the woman has more energy than anyone I've ever met.

If you take one of her Immersion classes, you might just get to see this view (which I used this week to make a new header for the blog!) on a quick hike to clear your brain from all the hard work you're doing.

Check out her website: www.margielawson.com

Perspective

My husband and I celebrated the seventh anniversary of our first date this past weekend. Just as we did seven years ago, we saw the Old 97s, an alt-country band that started out right here in Dallas-Fort Worth. You might have seen them in the concert scene in The Breakup or caught a mention of them in the first season of Friday Night Lights when Matt and Julie were supposed to see them, but football prevailed as always.

Last weekend's concert was held at the Bass Performance Hall, Tarrant County's premier concert venue and home of the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra, Texas Ballet Theater, Fort Worth Opera, and the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. We collected our tickets, the uniformed ushers pointed us toward the right section, and we passed through a private anteroom where we could leave an intermission drinks order, then settled into our plush first balcony box seats.

I gazed over the pristine edge of the balcony, at the crowd gathering in the orchestra level seating, toward the elegant stage, and up at the breathtaking Great Dome, painted to resemble white feathered wings embracing a Texas noonday sky.

And then I recalled my first Old 97s experience in 2002 at Fort Worth's Ridglea Theater, a west side landmark built as a state-of-the-art movie theater in 1948, but now constantly under the threat of closure. The Ridglea hosts an array of bands every week. Mostly young fans crowd into the fraying art-deco space, nearly all standing and likely ignoring the mural depicting the arrival of Spanish explorers in America while raising a beer bottle or the occasional Solo cup of soda in homage to their favorite bar bands.

A single word came to mind:

Perspective.

In the seven years between the two concerts, I've gained it. As I watched the Old 97s perform at a strange distance Friday night, my writer's brain kicked in. I compared not only the concerts, but also the writer I am today with the writer I was four or five years ago when I began this journey.

You wouldn't think there'd be so many similarities.

Back then, Todd and I were in the thick of it, edging as close as we could get to the stage, surrounded by rabid, mostly young Old 97s fans who danced right along with Rhett Miller and Murray Hammond, so near the band, our sweat probably mingled.

Now, Todd and I were content to watch them at a comfortable distance. The crowd stood in the orchestra section (yes, they stood, even at Bass Hall!), and we chuckled at the young girls who danced in the second row, gazing up adoringly at Rhett and Murray, and we raised eyebrows at the fans who appeared so devoted, but left two-thirds of the way through the show.

Back then, I edged as close as I could get to the writing world, inhaling craft books, agents' and writers' blogs, conference agendas, and acknowledgement pages, surrounded by other equally rabid novice writers, eager to plunge into this exciting venture.

Now, I'm content to keep a watchful eye on the writing world, often at a comfortable distance, jumping into the fray when it makes sense. I smile sentimentally at the newbies, so eager to learn everything on the fast track. And I raise my eyebrows at others who seemed so enthusiastic and likely to succeed when they drop out two-thirds of the way to publication, and I wonder what changed for them.

Back then, I didn't know the lyrics, much less recognize the songs. I knew I liked some of them, and I knew I was having a great time with a guy I hardly knew but already could tell was going to matter in my future.

Now, I recognized all but the latest songs, and was able to sing along in my head with many. I didn't worry much about the ones I didn't know or didn't like, because I knew another familiar favorite would come along soon.

Back then, I didn't know "the rules" of writing fiction. In fact, I'm not sure I even knew there were rules. I poured my everything into writing that first manuscript, clueless how many of those rules I broke along the way.

Now, I cringe when I come across a sentence or paragraph, or heaven forbid, an entire chapter where I've blatantly and badly committed the grievous sin of telling instead of showing. On the other hand, my heart races and my smile widens when I rediscover a section where I've either followed the rules to great effect or broken them brilliantly.

Between then and now, I've seen the Old 97s in other venues, and each time is a unique experience, some better than others, but all memories to cherish.

Between then and now, I've hidden several manuscripts away in files on two different computers, knowing those first attempts aren’t likely to surface again, but each holding valuable lessons and enduring feelings of accomplishment.

Back then, I was perhaps a little naïve. I imagined a perfect second marriage to my knight in shining armor, envisioning the two of us in our eighties with our walkers at standing-room-only Old 97s concerts.

Now, I look at my perfectly imperfect husband in his slightly creaky armor and imagine we'll still be attending concerts together well into our 80s, but we sure did enjoy those plush box seats. Having to shout at each other as we exited the concert half-deaf from the volume of the music was a scary reminder that hearing aids might not be that far in the future.

And I'm not too cynical. I know I made the right decision seven years ago when I accepted a blind date to see some alt-country band I'd never heard of.

Back then, I was perhaps a little naïve. I imagined a perfect world where I'd write a perfect manuscript on the first try, and agents would contact me and publishers would fight over the right to usher me into the world of bestselling authors. But the journey has been worth it, and now I've learned every word is one word closer to publication.

And I'm not too cynical, even from my new perspective. I know I made the right decision all those years ago when I accepted the challenge to plunge myself, heart and soul, into this writer's life.