Is anybody really out there?

I can remember when we got our first telephone. Only Mom and Dad were allowed to use it: it was a utility, not a toy. Dad worked for the railroad and a mysterious person called "The Caller" would phone and tell him what train he was scheduled to work on (nowadays we'd call him a dispatcher). These calls were important because if Dad missed one, The Caller would go to the next person on the list and Dad would forfeit a day's wages.

Mom waged a constant vigil on the neighbors who shared our party line. If she thought they were tying up the line too long she would ask them politely to hang up so Dad could get the call he was expecting. Most of the time they cooperated because they knew they might have an emergency and need the same favor themselves.

What really made her mad was when she caught someone listening in on a conversation. You could tell by the "click" when a person picked up and if they didn't hang up as soon as they realized someone else was on the line she would make some comment to let them know that she knew they were there. This didn't always work and she would fume about "people who don't have anything better to do." Of course, at that time television was just an idea in someone's head.

Even as teenagers, when Dad had moved up to a supervisory position and pretty much knew what his schedule was going to be like, we didn't spend hours on the phone. We made arrangements to meet at someone's house or at the pizza parlor or soda shop and did our talking there.

As a young mother, the telephone became a link that no doubt saved my sanity. I could call friends who were similarly housebound with infants and toddlers and have conversations that didn't include "Spit that out--now!" or "Please stop banging your brother on the head with his bottle."

When our sons reached adulthood and migrated like so many radarless geese to three different states to raise their own families, the telephone became a necessary link because -- let's face facts -- the generation after mine does not write letters. But we called to transmit information, not just to chat. Long distance calls cost money and we watched the minutes carefully.

All this has changed in a breathtakingly few years. Everyone has a cellphone. I am no longer startled by a person walking down the street apparently talking to himself. I just assume he has a phone attached to his ear.

People can text on their phones and send e-mails. There is no lack of a way to communicate-- just pick one.

What amazes me is that people (including myself) are no longer satisfied with communicating with friends and relatives. Now we reach out to everyone on the planet and beyond with our Web pages, blogs and tweets. I have discovered so many interesting, informative and humorous blogs that I could spend my day just reading them.

The reverse side of this observation is that when I blog or tweet or update my Website, I have to wonder if anyone is really paying attention. Of course, friends make comments on occasion, but mostly I have no idea if anyone has seen my posts. But I can't be certain, and that, as someone famously said, "is the rub." So I am careful of what I post because I don't want some rash statement to come back to haunt me.


Alas, some people aren't careful at all, as we have learned. The Internet is like a vast party line and you'd better watch not just what what you say but the photos you send out there to the ether because nowadays nothing is private. Yes, someone really is out there. And they are listening in.

The Dreaded Deadline

After 10 years of newspaper work, I retired with dreams of never having to meet a deadline again. Or of having to write a specified number of words to exactly fit the space alloted to it on page four.

Not to mention writing headlines that both made sense and spanned two or three columns of type without running out of space.

Now I find that these skills still matter. While the length of a title may not matter, it must hint at the content of the story in a way that catches the casual bookbuyer's eye. The title is your first "hook."

Writing to an exact word count is a little more difficult. I mastered that skill by writing a weekly column that had to measure 11 1/2 inches. No more, no less. I learned to cut sentences and find one word that meant the same as a two- or three-word phrase. Conversely, there were times I had to stretch my brain to add another sentence so as not to leave that dreaded empty space at the bottom of the page.

I worked with a publisher who insisted on writing a column. Because I was the editor and responsible for layout, I would tell her how much space she had. Invariably, she went over by five or six inches. I would politely tell her she needed to cut. She would not so politely tell me she either didn't have time or that her prose was too precious to drop one word.

I never understood why she couldn't learn to trim her words to an acceptable length. War and Peace is one thing; a weekly outburst of what she was feeling at the moment was another.

That's why it is important to understand if you are writing a short story, a novella or a novel. If you read a publisher's submission guidelines and they ask for novels of 60,000 to 150,000 words, you don't send them a 300,000-word epic. If your novel is too long, look through it for places you can cut: a scene that doesn't move the action forward, a meandering backflash that doesn't really add anything to the plot, a detailed description when a few well-chosen words could just as easily evoke the scene.

In the newspaper business, deadlines loom over everyone involved, from the publisher down to the to part-time clerk. I don't miss the stress of writing with one eye on the clock.

I work at home and no one is standing over me insisting I write at least one chapter a week. It's hard to set your own deadlines after having them externally imposed for so many years, but I do realize their importance. If I didn't set internal deadlines I would still be on chapter one and my last blog would have been written six weeks ago.

Newspaper writing and fiction are worlds apart, but what I learned in the newsroom has given me a solid foundation for my writing. The three rules I took with me were 1) Don't act as if you have a lifetime to write your book or you will never write it; 2) Make certain you have chosen just the right words to convey your story; and 3) Write what you have to say and then stop.

Self-publishing or self-immolation?

My writing partner and I decided to take the plunge. We had finished our novel, Plotz, and were eager to see it in print. We'd read the pros and cons of self-publishing and thought, "Why not?"

Isn't that akin to saying "Why not?" when someone invites you to join their trek up the Matterhorn? Doable, but not without a lot of struggle and pain first. But you don't think about that when gazing at the summit.

He designed a cover and I formatted the book in Word, as advised, and we sent for a proof copy. Looking through it, we found many typos not evident when reading the manuscript on the computer screen. Moreover, the cover that looked so good as a .JPEG on my photo editing page was chopped off on the book. The design depends on balance and that was sadly askew.

I reworked the cover more times than I can count before getting one that came near our vision. And I reformated the copy, correcting all the typos. I thought.

We ordered another proof copy and lo! we found mistakes. We also had some other readers look at it and they found additional errors. No two readers found the same errors, which is interesting.

So we ordered another proof copy and looked through it. My partner said he thought everything had been corrected. I couldn't look at it again. I was getting heartily sick of the entire project. The cover looked as good as we could make it and the chapters started and stopped where they were supposed to. We put it out there, hoping someone would buy it.

Then I reformatted the thing for e-publishing, which is an entirely different matter. It took more hours and if I was tired of reading the same sentences over and over before...well, you can't throw a computer across the room although I was sorely tempted.

That done, I thought I would move on to another project. My mistake. My husband asked if he could read the book. I was thrilled. I've written several books and this is the first one he has shown any interest in reading.

A few minutes later he came into our office where I was busily adding a chapter to "A Question of Boundaries."

"Honey," he said, his finger holding his place in the book. "I'm not sure, but shouldn't there be a quote mark here?"

"Yes, there should be." I gritted my teeth. Maybe no one else would notice.

A few minutes later -- "Honey, this sentence doesn't make sense."

Of course not; in the process of editing an entire line had been eliminated. No chance of anyone not noticing that!

I gave him a blue marking pen and made him honorary editor. He is now happily marking typos and errant copy.

I guess we are going to have to repeat the process one more time.

Self publishing is not for the faint of heart. I hope the story is good enough that the people who purchased the book will excuse a few errors.

I hope there are only a few errors.

PLOTZ is available in paperback and e-reader on www.amazon.com, www.barnesandnoble.com and coming soon on www.smashwords.com

But you might want to wait a week or two and get the latest, hopefully-error-free-edition.

The Letter

I could tell the minute I took the envelope from the mailbox -- a rejection.

An acceptance would have come in a large kraft envelope, big enough to hold a contract. It would not have come in a slim #10 envelope that I instantly recognized as the one I had enclosed with my manuscript almost a year earlier.

Yes, a year. The publisher had told me up front that it would be 11-12 months before I received an answer, so I put the submission in the back of my mind and tried to forget about it. As the year drew to a close, I began imagining The Letter. Or better yet, The Phone Call.

As if to add salt to the wound, the rejection came the day before Mother's Day. I guess that's not as bad as coming on my birthday. Or Christmas.

A year is a long time. I know you can send multiple queries, but sending multiple manuscripts is frowned on. Once a publisher has asked for en exclusive look, a writer has to hold back on further queries lest another request to view the story comes along. And then what do you do?

I know, it's a long shot and I probably should have continued sending queries. At the very least I could have written an agent and told her "Hey, I have two (or three) publishers wanting my book, how about you representing me and getting the best deal?"

The blog title says it all: I am by definition, a dreamer. For a year, I dreamed of that acceptance.

Pop! A rude awakening.

I am not giving up, though. I immediately wrote another query letter, attached a synopsis, and sent it off to a different pulisher.

And tomorrow --well maybe not tomorrow, my husband has promised to take me out to dinner for Mother's Day (and his birthday) so maybe it will be early next week before I send another query. And another. Until I get The Letter.

In Your Easter Bonnet ...

Remember that old song? "In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it ..."

Alas, somewhere during my lifetime the Easter bonnet went the way of the Easter parade and white gloves. In fact, Jackie O's pillbox is the last hat I recall seeing on a woman's head unless she was at the beach. Or happened to be Queen Elizabeth. Or an African-American church lady. Oh, those hats! Make me weep with envy, especially when I think of all the bare heads in my own church.

I used to have hats. I loved hats and occasions to wear them. I had a hat covered with pheasant feathers, a felt slouch that made me feel like Greta Garbo, a cloche of white roses. I wrapped them in tissue and put them in boxes to keep them clean. The time between removing the hats from the boxes became longer and longer and eventually the hats disappeared during a spell of intense closet cleaning.

I did wear hats during chemo. It got so I could spot a fellow sufferer a mile off by the hat on her head. No one else wore them.

This year, I noticed an advertisemment for hats in a store ad. Pretty hats with brims and flowers. Hmmm. Could hats be making a comeback? Did someone else besides me recognize the perfect diguise for a bad hair day, let alone a no-hair day?

Went to church Sunday and gasped. Someone wore a hat. A perky yellow straw hat that sang out "Spring!" An Easter bonnet.

I hope more women follow her example. A hat is necessary accessory, not just to disguise a bad hair day, but to make a statement. Choosing the right hat reflects who you are. A hat can lift not only your mood, but the spirits of those who see you. A hat makes you feel feminine and yes, let's use that old-fashioned word, ladylike. I can't see a young woman cussing like a sailor while wearing a frilly hat.

African-American women already know this. In our hearts, we know it, too.

I could seque from this to a metaphor on writing, but I'm not going to.

Sometimes a hat is just a hat.

Just do it

When my middle son and his wife moved to Texas, I planned to visit them ... soon. But something else always seemed to take precedence. We drove to Florida, to New York, to Ohio. but not to Texas.

The trip seemed so long, and let's face, it unfamiliar. I had been to those other places before. I knew the rest areas and the best places to stop and eat. I had a favorite motel if we decided to break the trip up into two days. And so I kept putting it off.

When I said I didn't want to drive that far, someone suggested flying. Oh, no, too much hassle and besides I'd have to drive to the airport in Charlotte. I hate Charlotte traffic.

I looked into taking a train, but the price was higher than an airplane and it took four days. Not for me.

So when my son announced they were thinking of moving to California, I said, "Well, that's a long way to go for a visit."

'Mom." Pause. "You can not visit me in California just as easily as you don't visit me in Texas."

Wow. Talk about a wakeup call. Had it really been 10 years since they moved from Louisville? And yes, we did visit them there.

So, I said to myself, I'm going. Now. I thought I would have to go alone, but my sister agreed to go with me. We set a date, notified the kids -- in their forties, but still kids to me. (My mom was calling my sister and me "you girls" when we were in our sixties.)

We set off, armed with a Google map and TomTom.

We made it. We had a grand time, the kids were wonderful hosts, and I saw parts of the country I never thought I would see. Our only problem was getting lost in Houston traffic, but we managed to get back on track to arrive at our destination. Now I wonder why I waited so long.

Isn't that like writing a book? You think about it, you make tentative plans, but never start. Then something happens and you know it is now or never. At first it goes along easily, but then you bog down. The plot is going nowhere, you can't see your way to the ending you visualized so clearly.

Then you find your way out and go on and suddenly realize you have accomplished what you put off for so long.

Happy travels!

It seems I still have a job

One of my long-deferred dreams was to take a trip to Texas to visit our middle son and his wife. I kept postponing it, always busy, always thinking I'd have time. Then he announced they were thinking of moving to California and I decided to follow Rabbi Hillel's advice, "...if not now, when?"

So my sister and I decided to drive down, leaving her husband with mine to fend for themselves. (Note: their idea of fending was to go out for breakfast, lunch and dinner every day we were gone.)

What has this to do with writing? It was like having written a book instead of telling everyone you are going to write one. Making the trip was similar: now I can say I did it, not that I am going to ... someday.

Three days after our return, I attended the daylong Carolinas Writers Conference. I was impressed that the main speakers gave their presentations and then went on to attend the workshops just like the attendees: accomplished writers both teaching and learning from fellow writers. I came away with many new ideas, not only about improving my craft, but also improving how I approached it.

When I retired from my full-time job, I thought I would have loads of time to write. It hasn't turned out that way because I am constantly sidetracked: volunteer work, part-time paid work, books to read, housework, a husband, and yes, spontaneous trips across the country.

But what I heard, over and over again, was treat your writing like a job. It is your career. Have a work space that is yours alone and set definite hours.

I do have a work space, but my hours have been wildly erratic. This is going to change. After setting definite number of hours to work each day, I plan to set goals. I do this all the time in my head, but I realize now that doesn't count. So now, I am going to write my goals on paper and give them a deadline. My hope is that looking at a list of goals each morning and noting the date they should be accomplished will make me keep my butt in my chair and my fingers on the keyboard. No surfing, no reading e-mail, no games until that day's goal can be marked off with a checkmark.

I think I can do this.

I got to Texas, didn't I?