Author Archives: vt.com

Blogging the Future and the Past

While I’m waiting for a brilliant agent to discover the gem of my manuscript for Seeking Troy Donahue in his or her inbox, I might as well muse. This blog will irregularly give updates on my publishing journey and a peek into my (private) blogging past.

In 2006, my writing group Novel-ties decided to start a private blog as a way for us to converse. I’ve wavered on whether to move posts from that blog to this site, but here they are. While these posts were  musings to my writing intimates, in the end I decided they showed enough of how I think and feel about my characters and process that I wanted them part to be of my future.

Enjoy!

I Come by It Naturally

My grandpa Victor had a particular story he carried with him wherever he went after the harvest of 1952. It didn’t begin in a usual way—”once upon a time” or “so there was this guy.” It started every time he met someone new. Grandpa would be smiling and likely so would the other fella—Victor’s grin was infectious. So the fella would stick out his hand ready to make a new friend when out of Grandpa’s right pocket would come his stump.

There it would hover for a moment, close enough to the other fella’s hand that if the corn picker hadn’t picked more than corn the two would be firmly shaking. But the fella’s hand stalls, not sure for the split second that Victor leaves him guessing what he should do or where he should look. Then a sly snicker comes from the one-handed man and he swings his bear-paw of a left hand up into the fella’s right hand and the connection is almost dainty—like two lovers joining a square for a little do-si-do. That’s when Victor would tell the story of that cool but sunny October day when his life changed but was spared.

Grandpa lived his entire life in Brookings County, South Dakota, and yet he never ran out of people to tell that story to. Old friends would roust up new folks to introduce to Victor, just so they could see the way he started that story…and the way he ended it.

Even in his coffin, the ball of his right wrist cradled in the giant sling of his left hand, he looked ready to tell a story, ready to sit up and proclaim how glad he was we’d all come to say goodbye and did we have time for just one more tale before they shut the lid down.

This post was originally written May 16, 2007 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.

Slingshot

SPOILER ALERT!

It’s the second act of my book, by which time Aggie has proved her capacity for rage. Enter Eugenia, the woman who will eventually steal from Aggie everything. Everything.

For the betrayal to pierce Aggie (and the reader) as deeply as possible, I’ve decided I must employ a slingshot—I’m making them friends. The triangle between the two mothers and the one daughter will be most strong if the two mothers can at times work together to thwart—even gang up on—Stella.

Oh how slow is the work of making Aggie trust. But the devil comes bearing many delicious pies…and sympathy.

“Girls are trouble, Aggie. I know. I’ve raised one who lives in England, and although you will never meet her or even see a photo of her past the age of 16, you must believe me when I tell you. Girls are trouble. And as mothers we must keep them safe.”

Beyond a friend, who can Eugenia be to Aggie? Someone to take the brunt of Stella for a while? Someone to keep Stella safe, and in doing so, keep Aggie safe from herself—from what she might next do in rage? For that’s what Aggie needed, and still needs. Someone to keep her safe.

I already know how much betrayal the slingshot will propel. The question now is how far Aggie’s trust can stretch—for that is what will give the slingshot it’s power to devastate her.

This post was originally written January 14, 2013 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.

That Ain’t No Moby Dick!

After countless queries of “And what about your first book…” I’ve grasped the pulls of the metaphorical drawer and let it scrape open.

Adrift on the Dark Sea of Memory is in one reader’s hands (a young, nubile reader who is so literate for her age it makes me gasp), and by the end of tomorrow, it will be snuggled in the ample bosom of another—this one experienced, with soft edges, just the way a (book) lover should be.

The question before them is, could this book serve as a lure now that the waters of the publishing world are less murky and deeper?

In the old paradigm, with just one chance at a catch, I’d never have cast this younger, less seasoned book away from the safety of the drawer. There be monsters out there that will eat it alive, and along with it my single chance for a career.

But as the e-publishing splits open the possibilities, a new strategy can emerge. The first book first—a lure to catch the chum that will later call the whale.

I await my fate, while on the horizon I see a mist that may be the geyser of that long anticipated whale. I raise my sail, come hard about and squint, the sun breaking through the liquid plume and casting an arc of color across the sky.

This post was originally written March 30, 2012 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.

Fingers on the Keyboard

It’s Sunday afternoon. The wind chill is seasonably cold and, at the same time, unfamiliar in this warm winter we’ve been having. Tonight Ed and I will go to a meet my 18-year-old nephew and friends at a comedy club (what a blessing to have such a nephew, and I will work hard to be cool enough to warrant the invitation, but I am a VERY loud laugher and sometimes I even snort and occasionally cry).

My fingers are on the keyboard, as evidenced by this post. I long to plunge through to the world of Willie and Stella. And yet I hesitate.

There’s laundry and a pile of papers that need filing and that tax return to prepare for. And there’s the knot of how to finish the book. I keep hoping I’ll untie this last by doing all the other things, but I think I may need a geographic fix…an afternoon away from the house in a quiet cafe with a large window that looks out on the blinding surprise of snow, which reflects the returning light so brilliantly. There I can gaze long enough to reach 1959, knock the white stuff off my shoes at Aggie’s door and hope to be asked inside to witness the love and horror and mischief that is the Fords.

This post was originally written January 15, 2012 for the private blog of my writing group, Novel-ties.