Human Nature, Traditional publishing

Delivery Jitters

It takes years, seemingly half a lifetime, to see that prick of daylight, subtle light, not enough to accost the eye’s delicate lens.

The final “perfect” word on a novel manuscript doesn’t mean a celebration of tinkling ice in a celebratory drink. Not so fast. Well, perhaps maybe one, but if the said story is going to shipped off, it’s the query or cover letter and proposal package that leaves the bleeding bald spots on the scalp, the rock hard shoulder and neck muscles, and the mind divided between real life and the life of being hunched over a keyboard with non fiction facts, or characters who have become living beings.

But a writer’s life is real, it’s hard and it’s tedious. Spouses who like to read still don’t, and really can’t fathom the work behind so much as a short paragraph, the all important bio. The brief 50 words or less to sum up our existence.

They don’t know that alliteration, even unintended, isn’t allowed. They’re in the dark about the cover or query letter. The light of knowledge doesn’t reach them: how much information goes into the allotted one page, cut short by the proper to and from addresses and date, the short but oh-so- carefully loaded paragraphs, all to conform with the standard etiquette. They, those unsuspecting spouses and partners we live with, say they understand, yet they don’t understand what they’re saying they understand. It’s possible they’re trying to connect with us, soothe our nerves. And it really isn’t helping, is it? We need feedback, a fresh perspective —a writing fairy to whip up the all important everything that goes with a proposal or submission.

It’s the writer’s life to live, eat, nod off and guzzle coffee at our keyboard in solitude with our craft. And it seems best this way. Leave out the spouse unless we’re finished with the full-out pounding heart, like a stamping machine, the delivery jitters of hitting the send button or dropping the package into a mailbox.

“Oh that’s good, honey,” they’ll say.

Writing is a life of solitude. If it weren’t for writers’ groups, we may end up babbling softly, incessantly at our pets. Pets understand. Maybe our soft and sometimes loud murmurs of frustration are actually the solution to solitude.

I sent my submission yesterday. I don’t know how long it will take to grow back pulled hair. Or when my neck and shoulder muscles will unknot. When I will hear back from the medium-sized publishing house, but I figuratively went in with my little boots and kicked around a few big chairs. Because  sometimes courage will pay off.

Maybe “They All Wore Black” will noticed. For the love of words, I hope so.

I’ll post about my novel when I realize in my whole mind that it won’t be as submission, just a share.

Thanks for reading.

Humour, Traditional publishing

Glorified Forced Rest


I have a lack of understanding for ‘just wait a while longer.’ It’s glorified forced rest, that’s all. It’s the rest that comes before the task so large, you kinda wish you never stopped waiting. So, yeah, I must chill while I wait for a yes or no. I think I know what makes my cats feel anxious when I’ve got their food bag in one hand the phone in the other. As soon as I hang up from Madame Garrulous, they’ll get fed. And they wait….

But I’m waaaiting to hear back from a publisher. I don’t want to be an Indie author, I want the challenge of the process of traditional publishing. See, where I went wrong in the first place was to ask God for more patience. Well it turns out He doesn’t just hand it over. He sends trials to build the skill. So anyway, I was under the influence of God when I decided to send out a realistic drama-type novel. It isn’t for the faint of heart, it’s hardboiled, and so is mental illness. It’s also dark, and funny, and meaningful.  Coach House Books, a small press in Toronto, did send a note to say it’s in their reading queue, and it was going to be about six months. We’re just a tad past that, and I believe they’re good for their word. I have a 100-word synopsis handy, I’ll drop it in here and if you want, you can help me wait for that cat kibble to drop in the dish, so to speak.  Would you mind? Waiting. It makes me pace.

Thank God for this rest, I suppose. People I hardly know think it’s going to make its way, so I’ll be complaining about the task soon enough maybe. Here’s the synopsis:

Lynn P. Penner

Fifteen-year-old Brad Fadden trudges with his head down and his guard up. His unassertive mother didn’t stop it, and she’s fearfully reticent about it. His protective sister fled at the age of sixteen because of it, and the family’s raw scars spread far beyond what their clothes cover. It’s 1988; ganja, cocaine—whatever—easy snag for minors. Even so, Brad’s illusion of escape does not squelch resentments and suspicions which compel him to harass his freshly dead, psychopathic father’s socially inept boozing pal to exhume the guarded, pivotal truth. The truth will set you free, they say. They’re wrong.

Careful what you ask God for. 😉 Thanks for reading~