The Eleven Stages of Moving House

Stage 1 of moving: Excitement -- a new house!  Will they accept the offer? They did.  Oh. My. How. Wonderful.  Life is amazing. A new house to love!


Stage 2 of moving: Enthusiasm -- clean those cabinets, paint those doors, place those casserole dishes just where they will live into eternity in just the right spot. 


Stage 3 of moving: Hard Labor -- fill shopping bags with books, towels, doodads, books, paintings, shoes, blue jeans, and more books.  Carry to new house in 12-16 SUV loads.  Do again.  My route: Fill car, run to Goodwill. Run to storage unit, empty rest at new house.  Return.


Stage 4 of moving: Confidence -- Two men and a truck moved our fridge and piano and beds and other very heavy items.  We are sleeping in the new place.  Halfway there, right?  Wrong.


Stage 5 of moving: Disbelief -- stuff.  so much stuff.  why?  WHY?  Make it go away.  Twenty-one years in the same house turns out to be over 1000 weeks of adding stuff, one little item at a time.  We are moving from 3000 square feet that doesn't count the creepy basement and antiquated unfinished attic that are also full of "stuff" to 1400 square feet. From 5 bedrooms to 2 bedrooms. Do the math.


Stage 6 of moving: Decision-making Burnout -- The notes from every conference ever attended, keep?  No. No definitely not. Well... No. Yes! No.   The first clay pot your daughter made? Keep!  The seventeenth one you run across?  In the trash.  The curtains that one of my adultish children had in some apartment but who knows who?  Give away.  They'll never know unless you blog about it. Where will the trailer, bass boat, and two extra cars GO?  There is no place for them.


Stage 7 of moving: Mishaps -- the fridge was too tall for the new opening. Fixed.  The new basement where I want a media room gets water?  No problem we will deal with later. Put it on the list.  The hose, the furnace vent, the floor joist, the wall behind the washer, the floor in the pantry the poison ivy, the ants.  Fixed. Fixed. And...yeah...f.i.x.e.d.


Pause for dump of things that are not mentioned in these stages.  Utilities. Cable-man, geese, muskrats, hummingbirds, garbage can decisions, mail, rummage sale, estate sale. Marketing our house by owner, showing house (ugh must be pretty), while moving. 409 asphyxiation while cleaning post-move.  See two daughters off for summer, worry about two daughters. Wedding plans. Starting a new job and over 3000 miles of business travel. Oh, and all the wonderful but time-consuming remodeling work on the new house. Waiting. Lots and lots of waiting. It has already been 8 months since we found our new abode.  Molly-the-dog's moving anxiety. Annoying little bank, mortgage, insurance, roofing and electrical issues.  April snow-showers. June 109 degree heat indexes/indices.


Stage 8 of moving: Weariness-- there is no way to empty this house. The thousand cans of paint, the endless piles in the attic of dusty and grimey (now) camping supplies and old hard drives.  One thing, one thing I know for sure -- moving is serious business, not to be taken lightly.  Just say No whenever you can. 


Stage 9 of moving:  teeny, tiny Light at the end of the tunnel -- without landing ourselves in the hospital, (but with a lovely head cold for me) we have reached the day we hand over the keys. We are like abused and jaded golden retrievers, afraid to be excited or happy, afraid we will open a door and find yet another cache of (face it) junk that we forgot about.  We are bleary-eyed, and barely here, but, the day has arrived. 


Stage 10 of moving: Gratitude.  I thank God for my husband.  He has been a solid rock through all this.  He has been a maniac repairing, and dealing and dealing some more.  I am grateful to face each crazy week with his can-do attitude while I just face-plant at yet another obstacle.  Gratitude to God for helping find our new place, find buyers for the old place, and reasonably good health throughout this ordeal nightmare experience.


Stage 11 of moving: Excitement returns!  Oh. My. How. Wonderful.  Life is amazing. A new house to love!  As soon as we figure out how to keep that basement dry...

Its not about P O L I T I C S

Politics -- when there are two candidates, you really, really want yours to win, but they don't.  Or they do. Politics is when in 1980, 1984, and in about half the elections since where  'my' candidate lost, I was disappointed.  I was a bit incredulous that the 'other guy' could win.  That is politics.  Politics is kind of like sports but with a lot more to lose and gain than pride.  I felt bad for a while and I probably stewed in the 'loss' but I moved on.

The 2016 election and how disillusioned I feel has nothing to do with politics.  Nothing.

Sure I wanted Hilary to win, and wanted my daughters to see the first woman president.  I was disappointed she lost. That is politics.  And I know there were lots of valid arguments against voting for Hilary.  Valid political arguments. Politics.

Sure I wanted Bernie to win the primary and ANYONE but Donald to win the Republican primary.  Still politics.  Still you can tell me 'Sour grapes, move on.'  I did.

The reason I am heartbroken has nothing to do with Trump now being my president either.  I mean yes, he ran on a Hitler-esque platform and hates women, anyone who isn't white, immigrants besides his wife, makes fun of people with disabilities and our servicemen.  But I believe that any president has limited power and most of his crazy, evil plans will not come to fruition.  I'm sure some of them will, but that is still politics.  That is like all the people who have protested that everyone having health insurance is not good or American.  I think it is a great thing, others don't.  We disagree.  We DO move on.  Still politics. And if the health insurance gets replaced with Trump's carefully designed plan documented currently as  "Something Terrific," ?  Politics.  I will get over it. I will move on.

Building a wall?  Isn't former president Reagan still revered for tearing down a wall?    I guess no one can get to our country without walking or driving?  This was an idea he came up with that is offensive to many but to me just dumb.  Dumb does not equal wrong. I've dealt with plenty of dumb in the past and 'gotten over it'.  Politics

Not Christian enough/at all?  Politics.  My Christian friends may disagree, but the fact he doesn't regularly seek God's will, calls the sacrament of communion having 'his little cracker...as often as possible' is his idea of 'religion' means he unfortunately isn't a a Jesus freak like myself.  Still I would prefer not to, but can and would vote for a president who is not what I call a Christian.  That is politics. That is separation of church and state. Freedom.

And speaking of our new president, no one needs to tell me to treat him with the same respect and dignity that everyone provided to President Barack Obama the last eight years.  I know how to be a good American. (I do hope Presidents are required to read the Constitution)

I will even give you that in listing pros and cons of Donald Trump, there were some pros.  I love the idea of a good shake-up.  I love the idea of challenging the system.  I have no problems with his relationship-building with Russia.  That is politics.

What is not politics?  That people I  know, am friends with, respect, care about, family, co-workers would endorse and vote for such a prejudiced intolerant woman-hating anti-American anti-Veteran disability-bashing bully of a human.  He did all these things.  He said all these things.  No blame of the 'media' can account for the words that poured out of his mouth. Over and over again. Not one mistake.  Not one 'mispoke'.  Like Niagra falls, the values of a person who appears to respect no one but himself, poured out of him.

When he was asked if he had anyone die in the line of service, he said "I think I've made a lot of sacrifices.  I work very, very hard."  at that moment I was confident no reasonable person would vote for him, even if they were dying for a big upset. Big upset=interesting idea.  President who compares running a business to losing his own son, one who died for his country=wrong.

The man insulted our POWs. Wrong. 

The whole hidden recording where he said a bunch of sexist things about grabbing and forcing and pushing, and then women came forward to testify.  I can say 'not surprising'. I'm sure he said something similar thousands of times (unrecorded) and this would indicate this is not a priority for those who voted/endorsed his views.  If you want a president that thinks women are objects to be used you must not have a daughter.  You must not respect the opinions of all of our living former presidents, Republican and Democrat,  who at that moment withdrew all support for this human. Because it is wrong.
 
A man who doesn't pay his taxes used to be a criminal.  Now he is 'smart'.  What pays for all of our servicemen overseas, our military, our roads, our parks, our veterans and our retired citizens?  Taxes.  He doesn't care about any of those things enough to give one penny towards them?  Wrong. Perhaps for you or me,  cunning.  For the President of the United States of America, it is wrong. 

Let's all stop paying taxes and be like our new president.
Let's all build walls around our towns to keep out anyone who doesn't look or speak exactly like WE do.
Let's cheer for the predators of our daughters--who needs jails? That would require someone to pay taxes.
Let's denigrate the sacrifices of our troops, our fallen heroes, our POW's and veterans. We don't need a defense against enemies.

That is who you voted for.  That is who you voted for.

That is what the people I thought I knew voted for.    There is no other way I can look at it.  This is not about politics to me.  This is right and wrong.  A vote for Trump was a vote for bigotry, hate, division and anti-Americanism. It is not politics.  My father raised me to the tune of two main themes: Integrity and Initiative.  Mr. Trump may have initiative but he is sadly lacking in integrity.

Please stop telling me to get over it.  Move on.   This is not the Cubs losing the world series. It feels like a death.  It feels like the devil winning.

And though I will eventually get over it.  I'll remember the times my people were kind or helpful or loving.  I'll pray for the ability to overlook and forgive their endorsement of wrong that it now feels like they also embody having voted for this candidate.  And eventually I will.

I fully realize I'm being judgmental myself.  I'm judging that wrong is wrong.  And if anything I said in here offended you, I apologize.  It is not my intent to tear-down but to express my own current very strongly-rooted feelings.    I'm working on it. I'm praying about it.  And until I write about something, I can't move on.

And I'm praying we never go this low again and have this kind of election again.  Please Lord, let this be a wake up call and not the 'new normal'. And I pray for strength for all to put aside their differences and work together.  What else can you pray for?

This year things will be different: Plan B

Last year I left  this wonderful writer’s conference (Midwest Writer's Workshop in Muncie, IN)  with my weakling spirit crushed by doubts.  Suddenly nothing I wrote seemed authentic, original, creative, compelling, you name it.  I blogged about it here.  And except for blogging and a few flash fiction contests, I took a breather from writing the last twelve months.  Another way to say that might be I lost my nerve, which has happened half a dozen times now over 20 years plus.

Well last week I attended the conference again. Even though my embattled ego said don’t do it, something inside me said try again.  I came up with plan B.  Instead of signing up to pitch the to oh-so-exciting NYC literary agents, or have an expert review my query letter, or even have a perfectly nice person/author critique my first 500 words, I changed my tactics. I attended Thursday only, which is a full day with one author, on craft. Writing.  It was what I needed, motivational, and I enjoyed learning from Martha Brockenbrough very much. (Future post on FORTITUDE)

Then I departed Muncie and Plan B  evolved as I spent the next 72 hours in Middle-Of-Nowhere Indiana, with only coffee, wine, and a thousand and one fireflies to talk to:

 

Just me, alone in a cabin in the boondocks, writing, revising, tearing apart and stitching back together.  There is only so much writing you can do in 72 hours, but it was….so enriching. 

Silence.   An old Beatles LP on the turntable. Porch swing over looking this:

Books to savor, interspersed with writing, accented by chocolate, naps, wine and walking in nature. Alone.  A-happyme-lone.   To think without anyone interrupting any single thought.  No cell service, no internet.  No television.  No jet ski or shopping mall or even gas station within 20 minutes. (that I know of)  I took over 100 photos and plan to show more here in coming weeks.  But here is my

"Still Life for Girl Weekend" :

As you can see I brought only survival foods, as I did not leave the property for a full 48 hours, and so I came prepared. 

I had some highly productive work sessions, where I took my first draft of current work in process, and started playing with the scenes and revising:

But nature was the star of my weekend. The sun.  The bees.  The air.  I breathe.  The queen Anne's lace, the endless wildflower meadows.  Much serenity.  Space, room.  No hurrying, clocks, no schedules, appointments, no meetings, no target dates.  Just me and my sharpy and  a stack of index cards.  It was damn near heavenly. 

 

 

Just the right word

This is it.  My chance to make this the shortest writing slump I've ever experienced.  I feel like I haven't posted here in three years, but I see it was just mid-August.  That was only three months ago.
I am never sure what to call it, this dark feeling that entering my writing room is akin to fraternizing with the enemy.  I feel I have never experienced 'writer's block' and thus can not sympathize or understand it.  But today I clicked on a Writer Unboxed article about writing 'slumps' and I felt that spark of recognition.  A slump.  I get into these low valleys and it feels like my writing self is up at least at the camp halfway up the hill and I have no desire to do anything except stay down here. Immobile.  Where no harm can come to my writing ego.  Anonymous and happily so. It is safe in the valley of the writing slump.

But safe isn't forward movement. Safe is useful when needed.  But it isn't living really.  Living does mean taking chances.  And pushing yourself out of your comfort zone.

For me, writing means believing in myself and when my writing gets criticized I simply stop believing in myself.  I tell myself I'm just a reader and to stop pretending otherwise. It happens every time.  And before you start lecturing me I already know.  Any artistic endeavor requires a thick skin. It requires being able to learn from criticism and improve your craft.  I have been reading that mantra since I cracked open my first 'How to Write a Novel'.  But it isn't in me.  It isn't.  And during these slumps I start judging myself, because these same 47 books I've read say a real writer can't NOT write.  And I can.  I can not write.  For months and sometimes years at a time.

But when I start getting the urge to leave the valley, I see that I have been writing.  I've been creative.  I've been posting.  I've been letter-writing.  I've been researching and learning. Words are still an important part of my daily existence and the more of them I consume, the better my day has gone.

And the word 'slump' did it for me today.  I like having a label for it.  I like knowing the task ahead, to get out of this slump.  And my first urge to blog in three months comes with that recognition.  Recognition that even though I'm currently 51 and awfully old to be a beginning writer, I am going to have more of these slumps.  I just am.  And if I'm ever going to get a book finished, I'm going to have to be patient.  Now next Saturday I might write that I never expect to allow myself back down there again, but as of 11/22/14 I recognize this is a part of me that I need to accept.  And if I am feeling like I might be coming out of the slump, I probably am.  And so I need to reinstate my writing discipline and get back to work.

My goal this week will be to find the word for when you have just stepped above the cusp of the slump and have tentative aspirations again.  I love finding just the right word.

The Day my Breath Sang in my Geek Lungs

 I was sitting in my seat in the cool auditorium, beaming down good vibes on our speaker for the evening, Elizabeth Berg, anticipating the next two hours with tangible relish. It was like I was slicing a happy cake and sitting there with a large wedge of it on my porcelain plate, ready for the first delicious bite, fork poised.  Elizabeth Berg slips on her reading glasses and peers down at a yellow sticky note and says "Is there a Toni House Evans in the audience".  My physical reaction was so clichéd.  Slow motion, face turns red, eyes bulge, heart beats hard. Don't have a coronary Toni, you'll miss the talk.   It felt surreal to hear my name come out of her mouth.  In a crowd of several hundred. Plus I'd never heard my facebook name said aloud before so I hesitantly raised my hand inch by inch while I said in my head.  Yes, that is me, right?  That is my maiden name with my last name.

She spotted my hand finally, as I raised it high and grinned like an idiot. 

"I need you to see me afterwards.  I have something for you." said Elizabeth Berg.  To Toni Evans.

I was speechless.  Now anyone who knows me knows I am never short of a word or ten. I was now breathing in and out choir music through my lungs.

She went on to give a heart-warming, realistic, and thoughtful talk about becoming and being a writer and author.  I did my best to absorb each word.  I took notes. I said to myself, 'Self, use all your senses here, breathe it in, this is the good stuff'.

I have to pause here for a confession.   Somehow(??) on the day before this conference, when she posted on facebook page about her upcoming speech, I got uncharacteristically ballsy and posted a link to my blog post about her  on her facebook. And she read it.  Here is the proof, I just can't resist storing it here for my grandchildren to see (Someday. If my kids ever get married. Wait-- will Blogger still be around?...):

So I have a written compliment from my favorite author and she said my name out loud in public.  "But wait," the universe said, "there's more!"

Afterwards I perused her books and bought one (even though I already own every single one)  so that if I told her who I was and she said 'And I care because?' I could just give her my book to sign.  I got at the end of the line. This guy was carefully handwriting everyone's name on a sticky note and placing it on the correct page for Elizabeth, so she could more easily sign and keep the line moving and didn't have to ask how to spell, etc.  I assumed it was another of the many conference volunteers being gracious.  But when he got to me he stopped and chatted and said "I'm Bill by the way."  I had just given my name so I just kind of smiled nervously and bobbed my head and he said 'Her Bill' and he nods towards the book-signing table.  Suddenly my face became very animated and I got very friendly, because just like every other blood-sucking celebrity fan out there, I thought I might get some little insight or morsel of Elizabeth-ness from him.  We chatted for a while as the line was long and slow-moving.  I liked him.  He was not intimidating at all.

I guess I used up all my charm on Bill, because by the time I got to Elizabeth I said something non-sensical, and then Bill said something like 'this is her' and then Kelly standing nearby leaned down at the same time to say "This is the Toni you were looking for earlier" or something like that, the blood was pounding in my ears, drowning out reality.  I then said something unnecessary as she was signing my book, along the lines of "I think I've read them all except this one." Even though I have read this one (?).  Then she said "I have something for you. A signed first-edition of my first novel".  Except in my ears it was like trumpets and her mouth moving and I just smiled and nodded and accepted this from her:

So I then asked for a hug and leaned across the table very awkwardly (I'm not even a hugger) and she said 'What?  I thought said you were going to show me your tattoos?'  Yeah, I'm a silver-tongued beast. As I floated away from her table, hoping to get away before I did anything to spoil the iridescent-glitter haze I was in, Bill stopped me and said "There aren't very many of these in existence."  pointing to my gift. My signed, first-edition copy of Durable Goods. I just kept saying "Thank YOU" and smiling and backing away.

By the way, that photo was taken on my hotel room bedspread minutes later, before I pulled the ribbon and peeked inside.  It now has a place of pride in my living room. I have only shared this story with about three people, because if you aren't a book-lovin' girl down to your toes, I will just sound crazy here. (So if you are thinking She's crazy, it is ok, I don't blame you.)  But hey, blogging is about transparency, and it just doesn't get much more transparent than this.  At least not and still be fun to read.  Which is one of my goals here.

Bottom line: I am worthy.  Regardless of how I come across in person. The memory of July 25, 2014 is tied with a white satin ribbon and always will be.

Nine Years to the Day

I signed up to have my query letter evaluated by a professional query letter evaluator.  I signed up in February when I was sure I would have my manuscript not just drafted but polished, not just outlined but synopsised (is that a word?).  In February, July seems very distant.  Anything is possible.  Well somehow the day after tomorrow is July and I have not made the progress I'd hoped for.

The entries are due tomorrow.  So yesterday I went looking for my last query letter, thinking I could just have them review that and still learn from their analysis.  I found the query letter in my email history, faster than looking through an old laptop for it.

So I knew it had been a while since I gave up on book #1, stopped writing fiction, and stopped trying to sell that first child/novel. A while.  Like at least five years, maybe six.  Well, it turns out the last time I sent this query letter was June 28, 2005.  That is exactly nine years ago.  Nine years passed without my writing a new work.  Nine years without searching for an agent or attending a writers conference.  It is scary, what a little discouragement can do.  It rings true to the quote I often hear that successful writers are just those who don't give up.

 

But to the day, June 28th.  That catches my imagination up and I wonder, what changes will happen in my writing life between now and June 28, 2023.  That is only nine years from now.  I sure hope that it is more than zilch, zero, nada.  I hope that if this book #2 doesn't flesh out, that story #3 will pop out without pause.  And the fourth, and the fifth, until I am old (er) and gray (er) and even if all 17 have not found a publishing home, that I will look back and see that I did not give into discouragement ever again.  Once is enough.

 

Target: Muncie

This week I registered for the Midwest Writer's Workshop in July, which includes a manuscript critique, a pitch session with an agent, and a query letter review.  Each of these is about 3 minutes long, so I don't expect to stress about it.  I am feeling excited because I don't actually have a manuscript, query letter or pitch as of this moment.  I have a manuscript begun, a query letter from my last novel, and a plan to Google what a pitch session is.  But, I need this like I need water and chocolate: external, structured, kick-in-the-butt.  I have paid for the conference, I made hotel reservations, I took the days off work.  So now, assuming I get to my writing room three weekends out of four, I have a total of about 36 hours to achieve these goals.  Not much.  Do I start polishing the five chapters I have completed?  Do I work on a synopsis (part of the ms review) and try to plan out my story?  Do I go back and review the dreaded query letter that gained me 132 or so rejections last time around?  Do I practice my pitch to my dog Molly? 

What I need to do is first things first.  And first things, at least the next 5 or 6 weekends, is going to be going full-steam on my story.  I have no  hope of creating a synopsis or a pitch until I get the story arc figured out.  Then I can try for a synopsis, and then start polishing, the first five pages, which is actually the limit to what they will critique.

In any case, my blood pressure is up even though I'm sitting on a comfy bed with a velour throw and my laptop actually in my lap.  I'm primed for writing.  Now, to keep that excitement flowing.  Note to self: Blog about this next weekend....How to keep the fire burning.  And the following week...Elizabeth Berg.

Toni Re-read this Regularly

So I started writing again today.  And by writing, I don't mean that I ordered three books about writing that looked delicious from Amazon (although I did that too).  I don't mean that I posted humorously on facebook (did) or that I'm writing a blog post here.  Although you can tell that to get my writing engines running I have to do a darn lot of babysitting of my ego and self-persuasion.

But no, I mean I started a new story today.  I woke up and grabbed my laptop (yes I sleep with it under my bed) and started writing an idea for a story that has been brewing for some months.  I don't know why today is any different than any other Saturday morning.  But everyone was asleep, I have no plans whatsoever for the day (uh oh, that won't repeat itself), I'm healthy, I've been in the 'new year try again' mode for 19 or so days, and so I started writing.

Yay for me!

Now, it is a good time to make some promises to myself about the new story, fragile new attempt, and to reread these thoughts every time my thread breaks. Notes to self...

1. Examine the long gaps in your blog posts at least once per month.  Time flies whether you write or not.

2. Start writing your dreams when you wake up right next to your prayers before you fall asleep.

3. Practice being better at keeping secrets. I find in the telling and explaining to others I lose my energy for characters and a story.  Every time you are tempted to blurt out "I'm writing again!" instead blurt out "I love chocolate chip cookie. Don't you?"

4. Read the damn books that you order about writing.  Read at least one a month.  OK, read at least one per quarter.  There, an ATTAINABLE goal, measureable, and not painful in the least.

5. Stop the critical voices in your head the minute they start.  The ones that say things like, "Why are you obsessing about that character's first name instead of plotting?  You know that isn't something REAL writers do.  You must not be a real writer."  Instead tell yourself "I love Chocolate Chip cookies!" and smile.  Or, just stop.

6. Avoid the over-used elipses...

Whew, I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a book contract out of those six on how to motivate yourself to write.  Let's see, if I get the book contract, and then they interview me, I better have an answer to the question, "So where do you get your ideas?"

Oh yeah,  and

7. Repeat after me, or rethink after me, "Why do you write Toni? "  " Because I love to."  "Why?"  "Because I love to."  "WHY?"  "Because I l - o - v - e to write."

Courage: Part One

I found a Borders Gift Card in my top dresser drawer last week and, considering their sad situation, I decided I'd better go use it immediately to good purpose. While browsing the shrinking inventory I found a book on writing that is worthy of mention here. It is called "The Courage to Write" by Ralph Keyes. Subtitle, "How Writers Transcend Fear".

First I must admit I am only on page 42. Only about one fourth in. Somehow I can finish any fiction book in 24 hours (who needs sleep?) but with non-fiction it is a slower journey for me.

I have found this book affirming. Many of the pages and examples are from and about published authors. What? To think this anxiety, this feeling of extreme vulnerability that comes from presenting a few sentences for anyone else to read, is universal? And that it won't go away when the agent, editor, and public finally discover my work?

Ok, in some ways it is a hard little lesson too. Much easier to envision all my problems will be solved by (trumpets sound effect)...publication. All fears washed away. To instead read over and over again that this isn't true, that authors continue to feel nauseous levels of self-doubt almost every day, even on their twelfth novel. Even if they sell well.

But I feel both enlightened, and lightened. As if a truth has been revealed. And as if the burden of "pretending to be a real writer" were lifted -- they are all pretending. We are all pretending.  

I will continue to batter my way through job woes, back-to-school time crunch, moving one daughter into college and hopefully share further on this book. And on courage in general. Where to find it. How to keep it from drifting away.

Blessings,
Toni

Progress towards goals, this week:
     Finished "The Year of Magical Thinking" by Joan Didion
     Read "Between the Tides" by Patti Callahan Henry
     Movies I saw: "The Help" (give it a solid 'A') and "True Grit"

So what is your book about?

I wonder, do all writers feel the same way? I feel shy about discussing my book. The chances that the person who has discovered I'm a writer, enjoys the same type of fiction that I do are so slim. People will say to me, "OH, when can I read it? I like books. I read the latest Star Trek book last night."

Replace Star Trek with the novel of your choice. As if all books are alike, they are just books?

"So Toni, what is your book about?" If they persist, I'll try to summarize it in a short sentence or two, hoping their eyes won't glaze over too quickly.

"Well, it is about a small village in Illinois. Set around a lake. A woman moves there and..."

"OH, I bet it's Lake Shelbyville? No? Let's see, Lake Bloomington? No?"

"No, I just made the lake up. It isn't a real place. That is what fiction is, you make stuff up..."

And about this point in the conversation they notice their son really needs their help tying his shoes. Or they look at their watch. I never get very far. Which is why I don't want to start explaining what my book is about. Telling someone what a book is about is like telling someone what color a town is. You can't just pick a color and label things.

But, I'm in the middle of query season on book one, and I need to summarize the book. Not just summarize, but shrink it down to a paragraph or two. Man, am I having trouble with this. No matter how I try to get to the gist of the novel, I leave so much out. I change it, then I edit it, then I rework it, and then I end up throwing up my hands. Who knew the query letter would be as hard to write as the book itself?

For the purposes of this blog, let me tell you in one paragraph what my book is about, in an excerpt from draft #31 of my query letter:

"Jane Woolley leaves her staid suburban existance, dragging her teenage son along with her, to the quaint rural community of Lake Newberry, IL, population 711. On moving day she not only meets her neighbor Crystal, nineteen and independent, but ends up becoming intimately acquainted as Crystal goes into labor and needs Jane's help. Walter Cohen is seventy-nine and bored with retired life. He knows the chest pains he is having are not a good sign, but he ignores them, hoping they will go away.
These three characters meet in ALONE TOGETHER, a 76,000 word completed novel about friendships, interdependence, and support. They all seek the same thing: meaning in life. Alone they couldn't find it, but together, they can."

There you go, any of you that want to know what my book is about? You now know. If only I was sure that really encapsulates the pain and pleasure of the Lake Newberry folks.... Maybe I should try for draft #32?

If it sounds like a book you'd love to read, please forward my blog link to your sister-in-law, who just happens to be a very competent and caring, well-connected, literary agent, waiting to make my day.

Peace,
Toni