Author of the novel WHEN YOU LOSE CONTROL

I came here to post a poem I finished this morning, but instead I submitted it to a magazine! It feels so good and so strange to be actually putting myself out there and trying to write again.  Scary, but oddly freeing.  Wish me luck! And good luck to all the other authors and poets trying to get their work out and into the world!

My mother taught me That all dogs were Scary She said Evey dog would try and Bite me She ran If we saw one, Leaving me She told Frightening stories about Mean dogs Now I go to bed Every night Cuddling two My big, blue-eyed  Catahoula Leopard  Dog My smaller, silly Lemon beagle and Hound mix They are the Kindest  Dogs  And they are The very best Snugglers It's neither the first Nor the last time She is wrong

Since my long and formal edit/overhaul of my novel, I have submitted 5 more queries. The last 4 were sent through to the 2021 PitMad event.  I've done a total of 45 queries now. I've received 16 rejections. 10 sounded like they never read my work and/or they were the basic automated "thanks, but no thanks." 5 were nice and came with some compliments. 1 was amazing and I actually saved it. The agent ended the email with a personalized message and told me to keep at, that they believed I'd realize my publishing dreams and they would be very interested in my future writing projects. The querying road is long and lonely, but I really hope it leads somewhere happy and fulfilling. I kind of feel like Dorothy, except I'm trying to get to Oz and stay there.

Slow down and take the time to listen, really listen.  Maybe it's taking time to sit down with a song you've heard a thousand times and really, deeply, listen to it. Really hear the words, the meaning. Maybe learn the story behind it. 

I hate querying. I hate putting myself out there. I hate that the numbers are incredibly stacked against me and there's little to no chance that an agent even reads my submission, let alone reads it and makes a full request.  I hate that someone, some stranger, has so much power over my life and my dream. I hate not having control. I hate that I'm questioning being good enough to self publish but knowing I need an editior and I just hate this process. I hate that because of some stranger my work, my soul, is in a slush pile. That I could self publish but then just end up ignored in the abyss of Amazon.  I hate that I know I won't feel this was worthwhile or successful until an agent, some stranger, actually takes notice and a chance. I hate that writing my novel felt like I was in a dream, a good dream, a movie even, and now I just feel upset and disgruntled and disenchanted. I wrote my novel because I had to. Something came over me, a story came over me, and I had to get i

Speak it into existence.  I realized that whispering "my novel will be published" was not the same as speaking it. I sat in the library parking lot and said, actually spoke the words out loud, in a confident voice, "my novel will be published." How many tries will it take? How long until my statement becomes "my novel is published," I wonder? Do my whispers count? What about all the times I've repeated it in my head? Does ESP count when one attempts to speak something into existence? I've done the work. I sat down, wrote my novel, and edited my novel. A lot. Like, a lot. For two weeks I did nothing but. I have a degree in writing. I've tried querying, PitMad, networking and making social media accounts... My novel will be published.  Couldn't hurt to write it down, could it?

Sensitive to sounds Too much clamor Cut to imagine of The Grinch Noise, noise, noise  It's not like I need silence More, an absence  Of the pounding against the floor Slam, slam, slam Maybe just a break From incessant words Constant, squeaking, racket Shrill, shrill, shrill Fade away, away Sounds become light music The wind, a rustle, gravel Hush, quiet, still

The library was my happy place as a kid. To this day, I adore the smell of paperback books and the tapping sound a plastic mat makes against industrial carpet as someone walks over it. I still find comfort in seeing stacks and stacks of books, and I adore the blissful hush among all the words, ideas, and text.  A few days ago, I was at the library with the kids I nanny. I was explaining to the three year old that while yes, he loves dinosaurs, he probably wouldn't enjoy the picture-less encyclopedia-like book about them, much less be able to pick it up. I was growing exasperated and took a seat on the floor to try and explain everything to him, again. A little girl with a Mrs. Wallace haircut (I very much prefer this term) came up to me and said with equal parts terror and neccessary confidence,      "Hi, my name is _______. I'm in the first grade and today was my second day of school. I just moved here. Can you please help me find books about geese? I saw some today and I

There was a tree at the edge of a swamp, a perfectly normal tree. It wasn't too tall, or too small. It took in just enough sun and all the water it wanted. Some of its roots arched up at the waters edge and if the conditions were just right, the occasional squirrel or chipmunk would scury around and under the dark, damp, roots.  The tree liked it best when the entire grove was one expanse of green, when the little animals would run around, when the water and life were still, and when the sun quietly shined down.  Each year as autumn started to come around, the tree would grow weary. It did not want its bright green leaves to turn red. It did not like the crisp air, the wind rippling the water, or the peaceful green blanket becoming a rustling quilt of earthy colors. It especially missed the sunshine, as the nights became longer each day.  However, the seasons do not stop, not even for a tree, and autumn would arrive each year. And each year, the tree would become red, ashamed it no

Back with Mac I hope no sacks It's been too long, I'm glad they're back Touchdowns, let's loose produce   All their victories he's conduce  He's just twenty-three, thereabout  I've been looking at the sky Air Kraft One's so high Forget the hearse 'cause this team'll never die They got ten lives First prize  Winnin' every game and running wild 'Cause they're back Yes, with Mac Well, they're back Yes, with Mac Well, they're back, back Well, with Mac, Mac Yes, Mac in quarterback  (Just a silly parody/ode to Mac Jones to the tune of Back in Black by AC/DC, of which I have no rights/affiliations etc etc.)

An anxious fearful mess You had your first panic attack Before the first grade Mom never liked you She loved your brother  Dad yelled a lot Cold at catholic school  Mrs. Gleason delighted  In bullying you every day Changing to public school The building with moldy carpets Trying to be androgynously invisible  Regional junior high A cheerleader who didn't belong  The blonde kid called you ugly, another spat in your locker  Then we moved to a hick town  Rotten start, poor in every way Dark, choking, depression High school, new school  Bumbling, desperate, confused Panic attacks up to eight times a day I didn't want to go to college  I didn't like it  And to be honest, I still resent it...all of it At least I can say I am relieved and happy To not know you anymore 

After spending what felt like most of August editing, overhauling, and perfecting my novel, I did my first #PitMad. (As of this writing, no responses.)  After the Twitter event, I edited my edits and worked some more on my book. I feel like I'm finally happy with it.  After much apprehension about putting myself out there, again, and possibly (probably?) getting more rejections, I began to query again.  After redoing my query letter (less weakness, more confidence) and changing my summary, synopsis, pitch, etc., I sent out query number 42 yesterday, hoping this one will break the streak.  I ask the universe, please let this work out!

Poem taken down.....possibly publishing it! 

Do you ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something? Every now and then signs will appear to me. There's no rhyme or reason to it, but sometimes it just feels like there's something in the air, something around you that will reinforce, suggest, etc... As I struggle to find an editor, literary agent, and the confidence to put my book out there-eek!- I've entered into one of those sign-times. Yesterday afternoon, I sat down at my patio table, cranked open the umbrella, and sat down. Two seconds later, a fairly large white spider came crawling out. I yelped and jumped but then wondered, what could it mean? From Uniguide.com:  "The color white symbolizes purity and simplicity. Therefore, seeing a white spider can be a sign to embrace more minimalism and simplicity in your life. This can even relate to your own thought processes. Most of us have very cluttered thought, repurposing the same thoughts over and over that don’t really help us. The white spider say

I participated in my first #pitmad on Twitter today! It's sort of like speed dating, but for writers and literary agents.  As always, I way overprepared. We needed 3 tweets re: our writing project, I had 7. I set alarms for my spaced out throughout the day tweets. I cross promoted on Facebook. The event was great for networking and confidence boosts.We'll see if anything pans out.  I've been trying to get a literary agent since mid June, I'm astounded that people query for years and years and years, this is exhausting! Props to those who never give up. As a life long anxious person who struggles with self-esteem, this whole journey has been very out of my comfort zone. However, with each new foray into the unknown, I feel a little more confident. If nothing else. I'm going to keep trying.