Facebook, Twitter, Teenagers, and Publication

Over the past three years, I've had the privilege of working with a group of middle-school girls at my church. Sometimes people raise their eyebrows when I tell them this. We all remember our own middle-school days and how turbulent they were. Some of us as parents of middle-schoolers know how emotionally challenging this age can be to parent and guide. But I love the girls I've been trusted to mentor and have so enjoyed watching them grow in maturity over these three years.

This weekend, I attended a leader retreat/seminar as a ramp-up to the new school year. One of the breakout sessions discussed social media. An interesting point was made about this generation and how they have to school their parents on social media because it is new and foreign to our generation and certainly our parents' generation. Facebook, Twitter, Skype, Stumble Upon, LinkedIn, Oovoo: these are new languages for us and can be incredibly intimidating. Last night, I had dinner with dear friends who parent teenagers. They voiced their lack of understanding of the social media their children use and their frustration with this lack of understanding. My daughter is too young to be on Facebook, but the girls I work with at my church are on it. And, as Adam Hann (check his brilliance out here: http://adamhann.com) and Matt Parks (check out his beautiful art and thoughts: http://ponderingloudly.blogspot.com) so artfully put it this weekend, these posts are a window into their souls. As parents, we must develop an understanding because social media isn't a fad. It's the way our children communicate. I mentioned to my friends last night that it actually allows us to monitor our children's activities and relationships in a much more intimate way than our parents were able to monitor us.

What does this have to do with my journey to get The Beauty of Grace published? Well, this weekend reminded me that I can't ignore this blog (as I've done over the last month), and I must learn how to effectively use social media to reach other writers, readers, and especially agents. The publishing industry is changing so rapidly. If I don't develop and nuture an online presence, I will be left behind.

True friends, keepers, and my favorite new MG author, Leslie Blow Rivvers

When I was in high school, I had two best friends. But as in life, the friendships didn't bleed into one another, were disparate, and each had their own purpose. One of those was Leslie Blow, now Leslie Rivvers. She was a blond beauty, on the cheerleading squad, a tiny pint of power, and an amazing friend. The fact that she was one of my best friends was ironic considering I was a geek (hard to imagine, right?), not a blond cheerleader and part of the "in-crowd," and I dated a football player from the rival school (treason in Alabama). I remember sleeping over at her house and daydreaming about college outside of Alabama. We both felt the need to escape. And I remember powdering our noses in physics class and joking (in a completely dorky way) about why putting a little powder on our noses would somehow make us infinitely more beautiful.

Bottom line: we got each other. But, life continued and we literally moved to the opposite ends of the country. She went to Alaska (then to Vermont) and I moved to Miami. We both married, had careers and kids, and then (no props intended) through the beauty that is Facebook, we reconnected. And the 8,000 miles and 20 years melted away. I love looking at pictures of her babies, Cameron and Grace, and chatting about how our paths paralleled one another. We both moved far from Alabama, but we both have an anchor in our Alabama roots. And we both love writing.

Leslie blessed me with her wisdom and edited my new novel, "The Beauty of Grace." Her comments were honest and incredibly helpful. She then honored me with the first draft of the first few chapters of her middle-grade novel, "Blackberries and Cream." I loved it and knew I could be honest with her about my thoughts.

You know how you have those friends who because of life's chaos you go months, even years, without talking to, but when you do, it's as if life hit a pause button? They're keepers.

My Mama's Smile

When my little brother, Todd, started talking as a toddler, he couldn't say my name because he couldn't say the "L." So he called me "Seesa." It only lasted a short time, but my parents found it adorable. Throughout my childhood, my Mom would affectionately call me "Seesa" sometimes. I haven't heard it or even thought about it in years.

Then two weeks ago, I flew down to Alabama to visit my dad and check on my mom. Her condition over the last six months has remained unchanged. She is wheelchair and bed-bound. She's lost her speech and depends on her caregivers to literally do everything for her. Most days, she sits with her eyes shut. Lost in the abyss of her disease. The day I arrived in Alabama, I found her in that condition. She opened her eyes for just a moment, but looked right through me. She didn't recognize my face. Of course it broke my heart.

But the next day as I leaned into her face, my dad whispered, "Seesa's here." My mom's eyes opened, she looked at me, and she laughed. A few more times that day, I would lean over and say, "Mommy, it's Seesa." Each time, she opened her eyes and then smiled at me. My voice--and my dad's--reached down deep into the recesses of her memory and snagged a tiny piece of her. Her dementia has smothered her almost entirely, but pieces still exist. Floating around in her darkness. And familiar voices combined with a word anchored in love reached her.

Last night, I wanted to give up on my writing dream. The chaos of life with young children and a busy husband loomed over me, shadowing my dream of getting published. It often feels like a painful exercise in futility. But then my fingers touch the keyboard and the words flow. Despite my focus on the business side of this endeavor, I am reminded of why I began the journey in the first place. Writing has always been, above all else, my catharsis. My love of words and the comfortable familiarity of the solitude reach deep inside of me and pull my fears, my pain, my frustration, and my joy from where I've buried them. Writing reaches into me and brings light to my eyes. Reminding me of who I actually am.

Words and Muffin Tops

We've all seen them...bellies hanging over pants that are a few sizes too small. I've even done it myself when I needed to wear dress pants that I'd bought when I was 10 pounds lighter. I camouflaged it with a "blousey" shirt, but it was underneath. Ready to make an appearance if I sat the wrong way or the wind blew too hard. I first heard the term "muffin top" come out of my husband's mouth several years ago after a trip that took him through the Miami Airport. I'd never heard it, but laughed at the preciseness of what it described. When you see muffin top on the street or in the grocery store or at the beach, you tend to see only that. The person might have a blinding smile or the darkest red hair you've ever seen or the sweetest eyes, but you miss the beauty and uniqueness of them because you can focus only on the muffin top.

I love words. When I read a poetic phrase in a novel, I re-read it. Letting the words sit on my tongue. I savor them. And hope that my work rises to that level some day. But no matter how beautiful prose is or thought-provoking or moving, there can be too much. As a reader, you find yourself tripping over the author and losing focus on the story. This is true in everyone's daily lives--not just readers and writers. We often say too much and want to take it back. Or push away someone who was so close because we didn't stop talking when we should have. Just one extra word can negate an entire conversation.

I've posted a few chapters of my new novel on Goodreads. If you do me the honor of checking it out, please let me know if you spy muffin top.

My Daddy

My daddy is a quiet soul. A righteous man. Growing up in Alabama, he taught me grace, humility, and patience. In my 40 years, I've never heard him yell. He will be 70 this year, which amazes me. In my mind, he'll always be that guy that I ran with up and down our driveway. Who I planted daffodils with in the yard. Who took us to the beach and held me on a float while I rocked the waves. Who knocked the crab off my back that grabbed skin and held on. Who taught me how to drive. Who helped me pack my stuff in a truck and drive down I-95 in traffic to dump the few things I owned into a 400-square-foot room on South Beach when I was 24-years-old to start my life as an attorney. Because he believed in me. He trusted my judgment. And although it killed him, which as a parent I can now finally appreciate, he let go. He trusted that what he'd sunk his heart and soul and life into for 20 years would stick. And that I would be okay.
On this Father's Day, I'm not going to tie the blog into my writing journey. Instead, I'm going to take the time to honor the man who has never, ever disappointed me and has always been my biggest cheerleader. He is the best dad. In. The. World. For those of you who know him, you know what he's been through. My older brother was in a car accident that left him paralyzed on one side. My dad stood beside him through painful and endless rehab. My little brother accidentally overdosed at 30. And my Mama lives in a nursing home dying of a horrible, degenerative brain disease. But my sweet daddy remains, and will always be, my hero. For his strength. And humility. And faith. And unconditional love.
I love you, Dad. Happy Father's Day.

Bama Football and Haters

In Alabama, there are many religions. One of the biggest is college football. You see, in other states, professional teams pull money and loyalty away from college sports. When I moved to Pennsylvania seven years ago, I heard about Penn State. But I heard more about the Philadelphia Eagles and Phillies and Fliers. The car tags, flags adorning front doors, and jerseys worn in grocery stores all showed allegiance to the professional teams. What you see depends on the season. In the fall, you see Eagles and Steelers jerseys. In the winter, the Fliers orange and black abounds. And in spring, the Phillies red and white is on every cap and t-shirt.
We don't have that down South. In Alabama, there are no professional football, baseball, or hockey teams. There's just Auburn and Alabama football. (If my friend, Jason Mitchell reads this, he'll note the obvious mention of Auburn before Alabama--War Eagle.) Because of this, the line in the sand runs deep and wide. There are no other teams to distract your loyalty. So on the day of the Iron Bowl (the annual Auburn-Alabama game), the streets go quiet because everyone is somewhere watching the game.
Then, something happened to bridge the divide. On April 27th, a series of tornados tore through the South causing unimaginable damage. At least 350 people were killed, homes were destroyed, and thousands were injured. In Tuscaloosa, the home of the University of Alabama, a mile-wide tornado laid an unbelievable path of destruction. Within days, Toomer's for Tuscaloosa was born. "Toomer's" is short for Toomer's Corner in Auburn, the heart of campus. Days after the storm, a few Auburn fans gathered to help their rivals, but brethren, in T-town. They utilized Twitter and Facebook to cry out to their neighbors to help thousands. If there was a need, someone would tweet or Facebook Toomer's for Tuscaloosa and boots were on the ground within hours. The help ranged from water to diapers to food to debris removal. As the movement expanded, clothing, furniture, and mobile homes were added to the list of things delivered. This grassroots effort provided miracles to people all over the state who were affected, and it was done so by volunteers.
As donations and help poured in, the founders of Toomer's--who are all volunteers--began the process of creating a non-profit to handle the donations and deal with the paperwork. But its number one priority was to field requests for help. To this day, they work tirelessly into the night to answer emails and dispatch donation trucks and clean-up crews.
But as with anything, there are haters. Their Facebook page has been peppered with people spreading rumors about the propriety of their work and where the money is going. The (volunteer) administrators have tried their best to field the questions and provide answers--all while continuing to dispatch resources and respond to cries for help. Yet, still there are the haters.
This illustrates a very important lesson for me. No matter who you are, what you do, or how altruistic your intentions, certain people will find a reason to criticize you. To be cliche: you can't please all of the people all of the time. I refuse to compare my manuscript with the mighty work being done by Toomer's for Tuscaloosa. But it reminds me that people will hate my work. They will read, "The Beauty of Grace" and say I'm anti-motherhood. Anti-faith. That I advocate suicide and vanity. But they will be wrong. Just as most haters are.

Why the query process is a bit like "The Deadliest Catch"

My husband, Jamie, and I love to watch "The Deadliest Catch." Why? Neither one of us fish. Or venture to Dutch Harbour, Alaska. Or suck on cigarettes at 2 am while sliding across a slimy deck. But there's just something about it that pulls us in. It's an hour of watching young men get thrown around a sloshing ship deck. Hauling gear. Setting bait. Swearing, smoking, reeling lines. In the abstract, the idea is boring. We watch these guys stick stinking fish guts into fish carcasses, climb into steel crab pots, and string it up. We watch them laboriously haul these pots overboard, one after the other, in the middle of the night. An endless, dark sky above them. Freezing water rushing over the deck and soaking them. Yet they continue to dump the pots, sling out the buoys, and stuff fresh bait. Over and over and over again. Hoping something bites. Praying that when they return to their pots, there will be crab. They dump all their gear into a bottomless ocean, then tuck themselves into bed with a prayer on their lips that their work won't be in vain. Because you see, with Alaska crab fishing, if nothing bites, you don't get paid.
I'm sure the metaphor is obvious, but such is the query process. You research your fishing grounds, making sure that you narrow where you throw your pots (query letters) to the most fertile grounds--agents who represent the type of novel you write. Then you work tirelessly to stuff your bait (craft your query letter) and sweat into the wee hours throwing it into a dark, bottomless chasm (cyberspace) hoping that something (an agent) will bite. You work, you sweat, then you climb into bed and dream that when you wake, you'll have a bite. Because if you don't, your blood, sweat, and tears were meaningless. Which means that the book I've poured my heart, soul, and little free time into, sinks to the bottom of the ocean and comes up empty. Making all the icy spray (rejections) I've felt along the way in vain. Yet still I must fish.