No such thing as bad publicity?

     The good news is that the local newspaper printed a photo of my recent book-signing.
     The not so good news is appears right beside a picture of a 9 pound sweet potato some woman dug up in her garden. It kind of puts into perspective what passes for news in a small town. Picture the retired farmer opening up the daily paper: "Hmm... this here gal wrote a novel, no doubt with careful attention to developing plot, characters, theme and ... Hey, hold up! THIS gal done growed herself a whopper of a yam! Hand me the scissors, Ma... this one's going on the fridge!"
     It's karma. I joked one too many times about the media in our area. And in truth, I like living in a town where crowds and traffic jams are virtually unknown... and where an unheard-of, self-published author like me can get full color coverage free of charge.

And ladies of the club

     Another author first for me came on Saturday when I addressed a book club at the invitation of my mother-in-law. As I'd never done this before, I was a little nervous, but they were all so friendly, they put me right at ease. The group was mostly mature ladies, many of whom I knew already. I opened with some brief remarks similar to the entries in this blog, and followed by reading a couple of one-page excerpts. These were the same readings I'd chosen for a book-signing in August, and in reciting a tense passage I thought, "Oh no! Will they be offended by the word 'damn?'" Apparently I wasn't overly shocking, as several ladies were kind enough to buy copies of the novel. The group had several thoughtful questions and I believe I managed to formulate some reasonably intelligent responses.
     One highlight was meeting a woman visiting from a major city, who passed along contact information for her running partner. She casually mentioned that this friend had a couple of published titles under her belt, and would be glad to hear from an aspiring author like me. That evening I did an Internet search on this friend and discovered she has many books and great reviews to her credit. (No, I'm not going to drop names.) Now I just have to work up the courage to actually contact her!
     So did I rake in loads of cash that day? No. Did I blow the room away with erudite literary insights? Hardly. But I successfully navigated a new experience and made some new contacts. Mostly I hope my remarks encouraged listeners to pursue their passions as I am doing. That's what I call a productive Saturday.

    

For your reading pleasure.. a second excerpt

O my soul, come not thou into their secret;

unto their assembly, ...

for in their anger they slew a man.

Genesis 49: 6 (KJV)

The unexpected sound of the plane overhead had interrupted a productive morning at Raul’s operation. After dumping yet another barrel of kerosene into the vat, he was laughing to himself again over something a colleague had told him - that Europeans considered cocaine a glamor drug. Mopping his brow with a crusty bandanna, he watched Platon and Mario kick off their grimy sandals to slosh their sweaty feet in the vat of coca leaves. They joked together to pass the time, each one daring the other to pee into the stuff. Glamorous? This?

That was when they’d heard the plane overhead - right overhead. What idiot was flying that thing? The landing caused a ripple of excitement through the camp, as did any hope of contact with the outside world. They'd been working three weeks without a break, and were hoping to wrap up this harvest soon.

Of course there were a dozen or more volunteers to go investigate at the airstrip, but Raul knew these muchachos would take half the morning at it, and he wanted to keep the work moving. Besides, he needed to check this out himself. He barked at them to keep working, he’d be back in half an hour, and he expected to see some progress.

The wooden planks of the boardwalk groaned under Raul’s considerable weight, as he trotted through the trees, his mind racing. He was not expecting any shipments - he already had more leaves than he could process in a week, and it would be several days before he had anything to ship out. Damn them all! What kind of production schedule was he expected to keep, anyway? Approaching the airstrip, he slowed to a walk, then crept around the trees, his pistol drawn.

He saw her in the clearing. Not who or what he’d been expecting at all. The plane had apparently made an emergency landing here.

He watched her play-acting with the gun and had to smile. Then when it went off and she was scared to death, he could hardly stifle a laugh. He watched as she packed the weapon away. And whatever was wrong with the plane, she clearly hadn’t a clue as to how to fix it.

He had seen enough. He smiled and put his pistol back into its holster. He would not be needing it.

He imagined his crew bugging out at the first sound of gunfire, afraid to show their faces near camp for days. But, Raul reasoned, it might be labor well lost to get some privacy with this little gringa.

Only the lonely

     With my husband out of town for a football game, I took advantage of the silence at home, spending the better part of the past weekend chained to my computer. Cranking out pages for the EV sequel, I ventured away only for food and sleep and a few other necessities. Sunday morning I decided three days without a shower was long enough. I finally had some human contact last night at a scheduled work obligation. Today I'm staying home to nurse a lower back injury, managing within the last hour to prop myself again at my desk with alternating hot and cold applications on the afflicted area.
   A three-day composition marathon has driven home a sad truth about writing: it's a lonely profession. If my back pain allows for it, I'm ready to head for Wal-Mart and strike up a conversation with the first living soul I encounter. I remember reading once about a writer who made a point of ordering a new suit every time he started a new book, just so he'd have an excuse to leave the house for fittings and converse with another human being.
     My local writers' group has become a sort of support group in this sense. I know that at least once a month I will go out and converse with like-minded people about what I'm working on, and I hope, offer some encouragement. If you are a writer with no such group to rely on, I highly recommend you try to start one. I tried and failed to do so twice before this group formed (third time's the charm?) so don't give up if it doesn't work out right away. I'm confident you will be benefit from seeing it through.

Twenty years in the making

     Since EV "went public" a few months ago, people have been asking me how long I worked on it, or how I got started. I honestly wasn't sure, because it's been part of my life, off and on, for such a long time. I know that I created Maggie as a character about my age, and she is 28. So I looked back today at the computer journal I kept when I was 28, and there were the entries I made when this novel was just a seed of an idea sprouting in my brain. It seems almost like another person who wrote those entries. Knowing that the finished product weighs in at a hefty 620 pages, it's funny to read about my struggle to reach the goal of 150 pages. 
     I began the project soon after losing my job as a reporter. The idea of writing fiction emerged, in part, as a way to fill the writing void I was experiencing. But I also had a toddler to look after, and soon another baby was on the way. My priority in life was to be the best mom I could be, and that meant putting my manuscript on the shelf, sometimes for months at a time. I don't regret that in the least. Five years into the project I decided to pursue a teaching career. A few years after that I went after my Masters in teaching. I changed jobs four times and raised two boys.
    So while I would have liked to finish the project sooner, I don't I regret that it took so long. It unfolded the way it was meant to, along with the other important developments in my life, and I wouldn't change a thing.

You can't judge a book by its cover... can you?

     I thought I'd mention a word or two about the cover design for Earthen Vessels. Although there is a romantic component to the book, I didn't want to emphasize that on the cover. And with apologies to any romance authors out there, I certainly didn't want to be cast into the same category as the formulaic love stories that crowd the paperback shelves. 
     The theme of EV revolves around the idea that everything in life is for sale on some level, that we trade various opportunities or situations around much as we do with money and possessions. So I toyed briefly with featuring some kind of currency on the cover, but that wasn't quite right either.
     What I most wanted to emphasize was the heroine's journey of discovery - discovery about the world and life and herself. The plant for which the protagonist, Maggie, is searching is the perfect metaphor for her epiphany, and the beautiful rainforest backdrop of the story seemed too gorgeous not to use. I had my plan.
     I then started searching the Internet for photos I might use. I felt it was important that the photo was actually taken in Colombia. Searching for my plant, much as Maggie does, I soon discovered the photo below.

    When I saw the image of that tree, emerging from the surrounding forest, I imagined myself as Maggie, feeling her excitement as she beheld it for the first time. (Does that give away too much?)

     It was taken in 2006 in Amacayacu National Park, Leticia, Colombia. I had already worked the town of Leticia into the story, so this seemed a little like fate. I contacted the photographer to get permission to use his image, and learned his name is Rhett Butler. I've been a fan of Gone with the Wind since I was 12, so it now really seemed like fate. I explained to him that I was self-publishing the novel, and didn't expect to earn much money from it, but if it ever turns a profit, I owe his organization a cut of the proceeds. He works for a group called Mongabay. which seeks to raise interest in wildlife and wildlands while promoting awareness of environmental issues. Visit their website at Mongabay.com

And now... an excerpt

Recovering today from what I can only assume was food poisoning, so instead of an original blog, it seems a good time to share an excerpt from the novel. Enjoy.
[From page 28]

Yet man is born unto trouble

As the sparks fly upward.

Job 5:7 (KJV)

A smell of gasoline. Sputtering engine. Loss of altitude. Controls not responding. Momentary panic. Think, think, think! A scan of the horizon… nothing. Think, dammit, think!

An abandoned airstrip a couple miles north popped into Marc’s head then, and he banked the plane in that direction. A glance at his passenger, sound asleep, lucky for her. No sign of the strip yet. Pinpricks of panic all over his skin. Still no sign of a landing spot. Was he wrong? Where the hell was it?

God, oh god! No more drug-running, God. No more screwing around. Please. I’ll call my parents. I’ll make it right. Just, please!

From the corner of his eye, a break in the endless sea of treetops, treetops that were getting closer by the second. Thank you, God! Thank you! He couldn’t let her sleep any longer.

“Hey lady.” No response. What was her name again? “Maggie?” She stirred and moaned but remained asleep. “Maggie! Hey, Mary Margaret!”

They were over the landing strip only seconds later. A sudden drop, a hard bump, and a long skid were each punctuated by various yelps and screams from Maggie, and Marc’s constantly muttering, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” They hit the ground going 90, and had to decelerate so suddenly it seemed the plane might roll end over end into a magnificent tree at the end of the strip. Maggie braced herself against the seat and shut her eyes tight. Loose cargo pitched forward, something hit the back of her head, she screamed again, luggage sailed into the windshield, glass shattered, the fuselage groaned … and then… suddenly … nothing.

Eyes still closed, Maggie sensed it was suddenly darker out there. Was she dead? Afraid to move or even breathe, all Maggie dared to move were her eyes. Slowly, one at a time, she opened them and they adjusted to the lower light under the jungle canopy. They took in a crystal spider web, the mosaic of shattered glass, and a gaping hole in the windshield made by a piece of flying luggage. Then her eyes traveled slowly along the branch of that magnificent tree she’d seen at the edge of the runway. It had stabbed through that gaping hole like an immense, sharpened exclamation point, missing her head and Marc’s by mere inches. Over the top of the branch, her eyes met Marc’s, round and white before they rolled back and closed.