Elusive Focus

Boo and Snow waiting for me to play ball

I have so many things I want to do right now, that I can't seem to focus on a single thing. 

I'm struggling to get my key plot points figured out before I can really get a good start on Helen's Story (I really need to come up with a better working title). My mind continues to think up changes I should make to my finished manuscript, Guardians of Grace. (Which means it isn't truly finished, so it's more of a final draft—a classic oxymoron if I've ever heard one.) And I continue to think up ideas to toss into the sequel, Earth's Grace, even though I've told myself to wait until NaNoWriMo in November to tackle that manuscript. And Lordy but I've got ideas for a prequel, Obsidian's Wings. It's no wonder I haven't blogged in weeks...

But wait! I'm perfectly capable of piling even more guilt onto myself. 

There's my pottery. I've neglected my pottery studio for a full year, so I took a couple of hours to straighten it out and assess its condition. Bags of clay are brick-hard and must be rehydrated. Greenware waits patiently to be bisque-fired, but when I look critically at it, I'm ready to toss most of it into a bucket of water and recycle it instead. I'll never be a good potter if I don't carve out time each week to practice the craft. Meanwhile, it creates a nagging little niggle in the back of my mind, drawing my attention away from writing.

As does my knitting. Oh sweet yarn, how can I abandon thee? That one's easy. I really should stay away from sweater patterns that call for fingering weight yarn. I'm lucky if I make it through an inch a week with the current linen-blend tee-shirt I'm working on. It'll be done about the time the first blizzard hits next winter. There was a time I could knit a complete sweater in a month. Sigh.

 Pollinator Garden along the railroad tracks (2018)

I'm doing okay with the gardening...so far. The flowers, that is. The vegetables are questionable because of the heat and drought we've experienced. I only got one decent batch of radishes before the next batch withered away, and my spinach bolted a month ago. I'm afraid to see what my beets and turnips are doing underneath the soil. Probably getting tough and woody. My one dog, Snowy, likes to munch on the turnip leaves, so there's that...

My reading list is suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder. (Or the reader is.) How many books can one person read concurrently? I must have at least five going. They're great books, but I don't always seem to have the concentration left at the end of the day to read without falling asleep mid-page. So I start another one because it's too darn easy to get caught up in the latest book that Facebook slips into my feed with a tantalizing photo of a bare-chested, long-haired werewolf/ dragon/ vampire/ fae prince/ alien/ alpha/ billionaire type. If the female character sounds like she's full of sass and snark, I'm a goner. I'll never get through my official reading list that way. 

One of the trails at Great River Bluffs State Park

But the worst thing about too much to do and too little time? My pups are getting fat because I'm not getting out for long walks around the lake or hikes in the state park with them. So am I, for that matter. 

I need a vacation. Or a clone.

Great River Bluffs State Park

When Current Events Get In The Way Of Fiction

Back in 2017, I began my first novel, Her Yarn Is Organized. The book is about three middle-aged knitters motivated to political activism because of current events. I finally gave up on the book because my plot couldn't keep up with what was actually happening in real time. It was outdated before the first draft was, well, drafted. Someday I'll figure out how to make that book work because I love Julie, Maeve, and Lyndsay - my main characters.

I tried to be smarter for my next book, Guardians of Grace, by setting it in the near future. It ends in the year 2035, and the sequel will pick up in 2050. Even then I feel like I'm racing against time to get the book published before my future world becomes current world. My latest book, Helen's Story, is historical fiction taking place between 1945 and 1951. I should be safe, right? My problem is that one of the characters is a VMI cadet (Virginia Military Institute). My Dad went to VMI, so I have a lot of resources to help get the details right. I've got photos, letters, his yearbook, and a lifetime of listening to stories about his time as a 'Rat'. I've even been able to interview one of the few classmates still alive today. And then, this week, VMI is splashed all over the news—and not in a favorable light. Granted, my story takes place more than 70 years ago. But will my book be less marketable because of one of the settings? Hell if I know. 

    Darn current events. Even history isn't safe.

Love Letters

Outside my window a huge sheet of ice is floating by on the Mississippi River. The ice up in the backwaters is breaking loose. Eagles are playing in the air currents and cruising the treetops of the island across from us. They're also keeping a close eye on the commercial fishermen who are setting a net across this back channel to harvest carp. In the front yard, the birdsong and squirrel chatter is gloriously loud and joyful. The sedum and daylilies are waking up, and I expect the lungwort to break through a crust of matted leaves any day now. I really should get the trimmers out and hack down the remains of my roadside garden. 

Yesterday I received the first shot of vaccine, and I found myself dancing around the house. The dogs aren't sure what to make of me. 

It's time for a new beginning. I've put my sequel to Guardians of Grace on hold and started a new project. It all began when I decided to go through the letters my mother saved in a shoebox for more than sixty years—the love letters my father wrote to her when he was still in the Virginia Military Institute and she was 400 miles away in Dayton, Ohio. I also found a big envelope full of memorabilia from her time training for the Cadet Nurse Corps at Good Samaritan Hospital in Dayton, OH. In that period, 1945 to 1951, with the war finally ended, the future seemed bright and hopeful for a young couple and a nation. I want to capture that story. 

Because of the war, so many nurses were recruited into the Army or Navy that the civilian hospitals were in dire straits. This situation was made worse because physicians were entering military service, leaving nurses to take over more responsibilities for heath care on the home front. And as cities of industrial workers sprang up overnight to support the war effort, public health nurses were badly needed. Meanwhile, military hospitals were filling with wounded. In 1943, Congress passed a bill to provide for the training of nurses for the armed forces, governmental and civilian hospitals, health agencies and war industries. And thus was born the U.S. Cadet Nurse Corps.

Schools of nursing were eligible if they agreed to accelerate their programs to 30 months, followed by a 6-month residency for each senior cadet in her home hospital, a state or federal hospital, or other public health service facility. Between July 1943 and October 1945, 179,000 young women joined the Corps and 124,000 graduated by the end of the program in 1948. (Women already in the program were allowed to finish after the war ended. My mother was in the last class.) 

Like my mother, girls were recruited out of high school enticed by free education, the chance to serve their country in uniform (they were pretty snazzy uniforms), and the opportunity for a lifetime career. For a girl in small town Ohio with limited prospects, this was irresistible. 

She met my father two years after graduation, when he was a senior cadet at the Virginia Military Institute, but attending a summer camp at Wright-Patterson Air Force Base in Dayton. He started writing letters to her as soon as he returned to Lexington, Virginia for his last year. When he graduated with a civil engineering degree, he received a commission into the Air Force, reporting to Edwards Air Force Base in California. The letters ended when he was able to get back to Dayton in November— just long enough to marry my mother, buy a car, and drive back to California together.  

I am thoroughly enjoying the research for this project. The book will be historical fiction, allowing me to play around with the plot and the characters to tell a story of hope.  It feels right at a time when I'm feeling pretty hopeful after surviving 2020 and the pandemic.

A Poem of Intent

Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

I recently had a chance to stop and think about what I'm trying to do with my stories. I thought about that first novel I started, about three middle-aged (er, late middle-aged) women who join the Women's March in 2017 and the different paths they take afterward. I was frustrated at the time, wanting to do something, but unable to really connect with the younger people in my community with their busy lives and their familiarity with each other. I decided to write a story of how things could have been different.

Here's a silly little poem to explain how I feel. 

The Mature Protagonist

There comes a stage in the life of a woman
when she becomes invisible—
ignored,
discounted.

Slow in body must mean slow in mind,
in passion,
in worth.
Relegated to the background in stories of courage and triumph—
the neighbor,
the elderly mentor,
the comic relief.
But the women I know and love wield powerful weapons
of strong character,
sparkling wit,
and earned wisdom—
honed by the years, not worn.
The world needs heroes who are
capable,
tempered,
pragmatic.
So many adventures lie ahead
to savor,
to embrace,
to learn. 
And all of it still beckons to               
The mature protagonist.

—Nancy Lyn Pellowski

I have a number of ideas for books going forward, and I will always include main characters who aren't bright and shiny youth. I want to highlight and celebrate the inner strength of older women. They're worth it.

Photo by Fernando Maté on Unsplash

Meanwhile, in the slow and steady portion of today's blog, I'm happy to say I finished my revision of Guardians of Grace to improve the pacing and tension. So now I'm back to querying - including making pitches directly to three agents at the Minnesota Writer's Conference in a few weeks. Yikes. Whatever happens, I look at it as an opportunity for immediate feedback on what is or is not working about my pitch or my concept. Deep breaths, Nancy.

Now I can focus on my short stories and Book 2. In other words, I can get back to the creative part that feeds my soul, instead of, well, the soul-sucking part of being an author. 

2021 is finally here!

Photo by Raimond Klavins on Unsplash

It's a new year. 

Finally. 

Last year was, well, let's not talk about it. Okay?

I've got plans for 2021. This is going to be the year. The year of the Book. The year of the Short Story. The year of my Author's Platform.

First, the good stuff for you, dear reader. If you look over at this blog's menu on the right, you'll find several additions: 

• I'm adding a page to share My Reading List, and if I read something I absolutely love, I'll put that in the recommended list on the bottom. I already listed my favorite books from 2020—check them out! 

• There is also a page of Recommended Resources. It's still in development, but the idea is to share all the great resources I've learned about in my journey to becoming a published author. I'm open to additions if any of you have encountered a helpful website, group, or anything else you can think of.

Now, on to my writing goals for 2021. These are not resolutions. I stopped doing resolutions 30 pounds ago. This is very simply what I plan to focus my writing on as I approach 2021 with eager optimism.

• Revise Guardians of Grace. That's right. I'm taking it apart and putting it back together with more conflict and tension and stronger character arcs. I want to finish that this quarter and get back in the querying trenches to find a literary agent, or a publisher.

• Finish Earth's Grace, the second book in the Earthen World series and get some beta readers on it.

• Start my next book. I've got several projects rattling around in my head. I'll tease you with the titles: The Scent of Death, The Stacks, The Family Tree (series)

• Submit one short story per month to a Literary Magazine. (Gotta build up those writing creds...) I'll let you know if anything gets published. 

Goodness, I'd better get cracking!

May your 2021 make up for 2020!

Torn Gift Wrap

Here's a little short story as my gift to you this Christmas...

Kiersten held her breath and listened carefully to the purr of the garage door lowering. She peeked out of her bedroom window to make sure Mom and Dad were on their way to Mom’s office party. To be safe, Kiersten tapped on her brother Kyle’s bedroom door and stuck her head inside. Yep, he left, too—probably hanging out with friends. She had the house to herself. 

She raced into the master bedroom and threw the closet door open. Where did Mom hide them this year? Her ponytail bounced as she hopped up and down, trying to see if Mom tucked any shopping bags up on the shelf. Nothing. She chewed her lip. Where would they be? She bent over to peer into the shadows underneath Mom’s dresses. Hmm. Was that box there before?

Kiersten kicked aside some shoes and dragged the large cardboard box out into the open. She lifted one flap. And there they were. Christmas presents! Last year she found the presents still unwrapped. Mom was ahead of schedule this year. Darn. Kiersten glanced at the clock on the nightstand. They shouldn’t be home for at least an hour. Did she dare?

Yes, of course she dared. Kiersten ran downstairs to the kitchen to fetch a letter opener and scotch tape. Before she could get back to the bedroom, she heard a clicking noise and froze. What was that? When she realized the noise was the whoosh of the furnace fan, Kiersten relaxed. 

Her slipper fell off on the way back up the steps, but she simply kicked off the other one rather than fetch one lousy slipper. Back in the closet, Kiersten carefully slit the tape on the first gift and released it from the paper. Oh! A Younker’s Department Store box. It must be that cashmere sweater she asked for. Pleased, the nosy tween lifted the lid. Oh yuck. It’s a hideous flannel granny gown. 

She opened another present, the size of a glove box. But instead of the concert tickets she hoped for, the box contained the ugliest Christmas socks in the history of Christmas socks. What was Mom thinking? 

One present left. A jewelry box? She opened one end, thinking she could just slide the box from the wrapping. Oh no! One edge of the box ripped a long tear in the paper. She can fix that. She opened the box and felt like crying when she saw the tacky Christmas jewelry inside. How could Mom get it so wrong this year?

Then she heard the back door open. Yikes! She could hear footsteps on the stairs and held her breath until Kyle’s bedroom door closed and strains of music seeped out. As quickly as she could, she re-wrapped the presents, patched the one with tape, dropped them into the cardboard box, and shoved it back into place. She carefully put Mom’s shoes back in a neat row in front of the box and slipped out of the closet. The door closed with a soft click.

 

“Oof!” She crashed into Kyle in the hallway.

“What were you doing in there?” Kyle asked.

“I was, uh, looking for…” Kiersten’s mind spun. “... for, uh, my slippers. I thought I might have left them in there when I was talking to Mom earlier.” 

“They’re on the stairs, Brat. I could have broken my neck.” Kyle grinned. “As compensation, why don’t you go fetch me a plate of those Christmas cookies? And a glass of chocolate milk.”

Kiersten scowled, but skipped down to the kitchen to comply. While fixing up the treat, she heard the garage door hum; followed by the slam of car doors and the sound of Mom and Dad bellowing out Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. 

“Sounds like you two had a good time,” she said. “Want some cookies?”

“Heavens, no! I’m stuffed from the party.” Mom kissed Kiersten’s cheek. “But you are so sweet to ask.” 

For the next week-and-a-half, Kiersten focused on two things. The first was being the best kid in the world–the kind of kid who would never sneak around and open gifts ahead of time. The next was practicing how to sound surprised and pleased when she opened the presents on Christmas Day. It wasn’t easy. She knew she hated the gifts. Maybe Mom would let her exchange them for something better after Christmas. But that would hurt her feelings, wouldn’t it? Why did she ever open those presents? Stupid, stupid, stupid. 

Christmas morning finally came. Kiersten planned to find the gift with the torn wrapping paper first. Mom must not have noticed when she put them under the tree, but Kiersten could still get caught.

“I’ll pass the presents out,” Kiersten volunteered. “You guys just sit there and enjoy your coffee. You too, Kyle. I’ve got this.” 

But Kiersten couldn’t find that box. The other two presents were there, but not the little jewelry box. “Is that everything?” She looked at her mother.

Mom nodded. “Why? Were you hoping for more?”

Kyle made a face. “You know things are tough this year, Brat. Don’t be so greedy.”

Kiersten felt the sting of tears, but she swallowed them away. She watched the others open presents instead of tearing into her two. Somehow, she just didn’t feel very enthusiastic. She caught her Dad looking at her with concern written all over his face. With a deep breath, she opened the bigger gift with exaggerated care. 

But it wasn’t a granny gown. This was the softest pink cashmere sweater she had ever seen. It was perfect! She reached for the other package and… concert tickets! Four of them. Enough to take her best friends!

“And one more, sweetheart.” 

Kiersten looked up and saw her mother holding out a jewelry box, in a completely different wrapping paper than before. Kiersten turned bright red. 

“Go ahead,” Mom said and tossed it into Kiersten’s lap.

Kiersten opened it to find a sterling silver charm bracelet with one charm—a tiny wrapped present with a bow on top. 

“My mother gave me one when I was your age,” Mom said. “I had such fun collecting charms for years. I hope you like it.”

“It’s beautiful, Mom,” Kiersten whispered. “But I don’t deserve any of these gifts. What happened to the others? The ones I was supposed to get?”

“Others? You mean the gifts for the Giving Tree at church?” Mom turned to Dad. “You dropped those off last week, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Dad looked confused. “Why? Did the secretary tell you she had to re-wrap one? It must have bounced around in the back of the car and the wrapping tore. I swear it wasn’t my fault.”

Kiersten hung her head in shame. “It was my fault. I tore the wrapping. I snooped.”

Kyle laughed. “You? You’re little miss perfect.”

Tears slid down Kiersten’s cheek. “I’m so ashamed. You should take these presents back. I’ve ruined Christmas.”

Mom moved to the floor next to Kiersten and gave her a big hug. “It’ll never happen again, will it?”

Kiersten shook her head.

Dad laughed—a genuine belly laugh. “Ask your mother how she knows it will never happen again.”

Kiersten looked at her mother. 

Mom grinned. “Let’s just say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

NaNoWriMo Interrupted

Photo by Mona Eendra on Unsplash

Happy Thanksgiving to all my friends! 

Today I am furiously trying to write a few thousand words of my next novel while my darling husband is baking pumpkin pie. Why? Because this is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). The month when about a half-a-million people try to write 50,000 words of a novel in 30 days. (1,667 words per day if the writer is disciplined, which I'm not.)

If you've wondered why I haven't updated my blog in awhile—well, this is why. In October, I diligently plotted out the entire story, a sequel to Guardians of Grace, with intersecting plot lines and character arcs for four main characters. I even drafted a 'hook': At the age of fifteen, Grace saved the world by killing a demon. Now, fifteen years later, she has to save the world again—this time from itself.

Photo by Amador Loureiro on Unsplash

I should have known better. 2020 is the year the world went to hell, after all. I don't know about you, but my bingo card isn't big enough for all the crazy. Between the election drama and Covid in the family, I'll be lucky to have my 50,000 words by the end of December, let alone November. But who knows what fresh hell 2020 has in store, huh?

I'm not going to sweat it today. Instead, I'm going to think about how blessed I am to have such a wonderful husband, two adorable dogs, and great friends. I'm thankful that my Dad got Covid after doctors figured out how to better deal with it. I'm thankful my brother is still laughing. I'm thankful for FaceTime and Zoom. 

I'll write a scene, play with the dogs, peel some potatoes, call a friend, eat too much (even though it's just two of us), sip some whiskey, watch Christmas Chronicles II on Netflix, and knit a few rows. And that, my friends, is a day to be thankful for.

Love you all!

Nancy