I’m sitting at my desk, sliding door to the deck open. It’s a beautiful summer afternoon. The sun goes in and out from under gray clouds that tease us with the possibility of rain later this evening while throwing long shadows across the yard as the afternoon wears on. I don’t have to work today and I’ve done enough housework to quell any feelings of guilt so now I’m enjoying the down time while revising the final chapters of “Mary Bishop”.

A light wind stirs the leaves, clacks tree limbs together. Every now and then our doe comes wandering quietly through the yard in hopes I won’t catch her nibbling at the hostas. Song birds sing a chorus above while squirrels chatter and chase each other up and down tree trunks; a chipmunk plays under the ferns. Children ride by on their bikes out front, calling to each other. Dogs bark at them from across the street as they pass. A neighbor is mowing his lawn.

These are the sounds of my childhood and they make me both happy and a little sad at how fast the years are passing by. This is when I miss riding my bike to the public swimming pool with my brothers and sister. This is when I miss watching my own children, now grown and living too far away, play on their swing set in the back yard.

These sounds make me remember the smell of chlorine, the taste of root beer popsicles. Bells ringing from the Catholic Church on the hill. As I write this I am reminded this is the weekend of the Fireman’s Picnic back in my hometown. A carnival with rides and games, cotton candy, hamburgers and chicken dinners, dances, a parade on Sunday and fireworks to cap off the weekend. This was the height of summer in my hometown, and every little town around us. You could go to a different parade/picnic every Sunday of the summer if you wanted.

I think of long afternoons in the backyard, lathered in Johnson’s Baby Oil or Coppertone, a cold Fresca or Tab and a book to pass the time. The hope was for a tan, but usually ended with a burn. The fire whistle blew at noon and we knew we had about five minutes to make it home or we’d not get any lunch.

As the sun went down and our tree-lined street grew dark with only the overhead lights and maybe a bright full moon to light our way, we’d play kick the can. I close my eyes and I can still hear the squeals and laughter and cries of “no fair” as we raced each other around the house to see who could get to that coffee can first.

I grew up in a small mid-western town in the 1960s and ‘70s. We didn’t worry about kidnappers or terrorists. We could ride our bikes anywhere, and we did, even far out into the country. We just had to tell mom where we were going and when we’d be back. The only gangs we knew were our own groups of friends, and they were good gangs. We carried squirt guns, not semi-automatic weapons and handguns. We didn’t have cell phones or video games. We had a watch, our parents’ trust, and a basketball.

Benjamin Franklin said, “He that can have patience can have what he will.” He also said, “Motivation is when your dreams put on work clothes.” How very true for the writer.

I started writing “Mary Bishop” in February 2015. Now that I’m in my final round of revisions, nearly a year and a half later, I can appreciate Mr. Franklin’s words of wisdom. Without patience I never would have gotten this far, but the game isn’t over yet. After this I start the next round of patient waiting, potentially longer than the initial creative stage. It’s called marketing.

Time to do some research into which publishing house or literary agency I think will be most receptive to my book. I’ll need to write a compelling cover letter and synopsis to convince that editor or agent that I’m the one they’ve been looking for, the one they’ll want to read/talk to over and above all the other inquiries they receive. It’s a daunting task.

For one thing, it can be more about timing than talent. Yes, it’s important to have the latter, but I could be the next great American romance writer to shoot straight to the top of the best seller list and it doesn’t matter if I’m one step behind someone else with a similar manuscript. Or if I catch that person on a bad day, mad at the world or maybe just not feeling well. Or my book could be wonderful but I’m just not selling it because of a hastily and poorly written synopsis.

I could also sabotage myself by not doing my research. There’s nothing worse than sending your inquiry to the previous editor because you didn’t bother to find out that person has moved on and there’s someone new in the chair. Or perhaps that publisher has changed direction; they no longer want romance but are now only reading science fiction or steam punk. Maybe the agent likes to read X number of chapters or pages with the synopsis, but I only sent the synopsis, or vice versa, because I failed to closely read the submission guidelines. They might be very particular in their formatting rules, as well, including the type of file and whether or not it’s an attachment or part of the body of my email. There are so many things to know about an editor or agent before I submit, so much research to do in advance.

And after all that, I wait…and wait, and wait…perhaps weeks, perhaps months. Hopefully they’ll be interested in seeing more. Maybe they’ll be so impressed, so excited by their new find, that they’ll send edits and a contract. Maybe they’ll say thank you for considering us but we are not interested in your manuscript at this time. Then I start all over.

If writers weren’t patient by nature we’d be a world without so many entertaining and inspiring books. J.K. Rowling’s first Harry Potter book was rejected by twelve agents before being accepted. Stephen King’s “Carrie” was rejected thirty times! In our current politically correct culture I dare say “The Bible” would be rejected as being potentially offensive. Guinness World Records puts The Bible at the world’s best-selling and most widely distributed book with recent estimates of more than 5 billion copies printed annually.

Patience. If a writer believes in their work they must be patient. And what do they do with their time while being patient? Why, work on the next book, of course. You never know, that editor/agent might love “Mary Bishop” so much they ask what I’m working on next. I want to be ready with an answer.

Sometimes the best thing we can do for our writing is to not write. You heard me. Stop writing! Instead, turn your thoughts to something else for a while. Read a book. Go fishing, to the beach, for a walk. Do anything else. Think about anything other than your work-in-progress. It could be for just a day, or for a week, or maybe an extended vacation where you don’t have your computer or your manuscript anywhere nearby. You’ll come back with a clearer vision of what you’ve written.

That’s what I’ve done. While in Canada fishing I did take a couple hours mid-week to make revisions to my last chapter. It was a rainy day and the others wanted to go out anyway but I wasn’t that enthused that I was willing to sit in the rain, so I took a day off from fishing to finish the rewrite of my novel I’d been working on for so long. I wanted to have that step done while I still had the momentum of my changes pushing my brain along. But then I set it aside and for about a week and a half I didn’t touch it; didn’t open the computer file or the binder with my hard copy. I tried not to think about it but that was a little more difficult. I knew I wanted to have one more go-through but I wanted to do it with fresh eyes.

You see, our eyes read what they expect to see so we miss typos, read right over where we’ve switched point of view or used the wrong character’s name. (It took a friend’s read to point out to me I’d used my heroine’s dead husband’s name in place of her new love’s. Yikes! No, Earl had not been visiting Mary. This is not a paranormal romance.) We become so in love with our own writing abilities that our “baby” still looks beautiful to us even though she’s been playing in the mud all day and needs a good scrubbing, clean clothes, and maybe even a haircut.

So I opened that binder with red pen in hand. I’m reading “Mary Bishop” the way my readers will, on paper. (Except for the red pen, I hope.) I’m reading from start to finish and I won’t open the computer file until I’m done. You see, the words look different on paper than on the computer screen. They look “fresh”. When I was slowly creating it chapter by chapter I didn’t get to experience the story as a whole. Now I’m listening to Mary tell her story uninterrupted and, yes, even though this is not my first revision, I’ve found a few more typos.

Stop writing! I say it again. Take a break. Rejoin the real world of real people and real summer sunshine. Then, when you do go back to your writing, you’ll have a clearer picture of whether or not it really says what you want it to say. Take an example from this seagull. He just feasted on the leavings from our shore lunch and now he’s just floating along enjoying the afternoon. He’s not worried at all whether or not he remembered to fact-check that important historic detail.

I spent last week at Stanley’s Resort on Eagle Lake near Vermilion Bay, Ontario, some of the most beautiful country I’ve seen and a marvelous staff. I was there with my husband, brother-in-law and his wife learning to fish and I couldn’t help but be struck by how much fishing is like writing.

Casting for fish is like casting for ideas, or that perfect word. You throw your line into the water and hope for a bite. Sometimes they strike immediately, but most of the time you have to sit and wait and then troll to another location where you might have better luck. In the meantime, you sit quietly watching the shoreline, listening to the song birds and the call of the loons as your muse, your heart jumping with hope at every little tug or catch on the bottom.

Most of the time your catch will go right back into the water as either too big or too small, that illusive, manageable middle ground hiding back in the weeds. Even the keepers can be hard to pull into the boat, fighting your efforts to control them the entire time. But when that perfect catch does break the surface you know it! You tease it; chase it back and forth until you get that first glimpse of it flashing in all its glory in the sun and you know it’s the one you’ve been searching for so long and so patiently. (Or, not so patiently!)

And at the end of the day you sit around with your friends and a cooler full of beer and talk about the ones that got away. The ones that just didn’t quite stay on the line and reel in the way you would have liked, despite your best efforts.

Here’s a picture of my biggest catch of the week, a 40 inch northern made possible by our guide, John, in the background. Yes, it was too big and had to be thrown back, but it makes for a heck of a “fish story”.

 

 

 

 

By the time you’re reading this I will be in Canada fishing…and writing, of course. So, while I’m away, I’ll leave you with some of my poetry. I hope you enjoy and I’ll see you back here next week.

June Bugs by Jane Yunker

Fat bodies hurled
against bedroom windows
attracted by the light.

Shells click
frenzied thumps
wings buzz desperation.

Do they want to read over my shoulder
or are they just afraid of the dark?

After The Rain by Jane Yunker

Past dirty ankles the water rushed
tumbling the dam of leaves and sticks
built so carefully by muddy fingers
to stop the dreaded pirate ship
from plummeting down the sewer.

************

An earlier version of “June Bugs” appeared in the Summer 2013 issue of Creative Wisconsin, published by the Wisconsin Writers Association.

“After The Rain” appeared in The Villager, Oct 1985, and Priority Parenting, July 1992.

We all come with baggage. It starts collecting from the moment we are conceived and doesn’t end until the day we die. It’s what we do with that baggage that builds our character, the ever-changing person we become.

We are born with a coin purse full of the beginning events that shape us both physically and mentally: perhaps mom smoked while pregnant, or had a few too many glasses of wine. She may have been in a car accident or had health problems that risked our own well-being when we were at our most vulnerable. There’s our very DNA, the building blocks that not only determine what we look like, but whether or not we will one day fall victim to certain diseases.

As we get older there are the teachers who inspire us and the athletic coaches who terrorize us…or, for some, it’s the other way around. There are best friends and neighborhood bullies. We earn recognition for our accomplishments, are given raises and promotions, awards. We are laid off, or just plain fired, from a job we loved, or perhaps forced to stay in a job we hate. There are injuries, illnesses, and deaths.

Events totally out of our control will change the way we perceive our world, our safety. There are hurricanes, tornados, fires, droughts, and wars. Who wasn’t affected by the events of September 11^th? Everything we do now, all the precautions, the long lines at the airport and the travel warnings, perhaps even the way we look at others around us, goes back to that horrible day.

We get married, have children, and maybe end up divorced. Or we might never find that right person and remain single all our lives. There are many couples who desperately want children but find they can’t conceive, and children who desperately want “forever” parents but grow up without.

We all come with baggage, both good and bad. We start with that little coin purse and we end with a trunk-full. What do you do with all those experiences? Do you focus on the horrible, the unfair, until your trunk becomes so heavy you are completely weighed down by it? Or do you push aside the bad and focus on the good so that your trunk goes almost unnoticed? I’d argue most of us fall somewhere in-between, and it depends on the day. Some days it feels like you just can’t win and others you’re on top of the world.

I had one of those extra good days recently. The final judging results for WisRWA’s 2016 FabFive competition were announced and my book Mary Bishop ended in fourth place in the historical category out of twenty two initial entries. I will hear soon whether either of the final judges, an editor and an agent in the historical romance industry, want to read more, but even if they don’t, in my mind it’s still a win.

First love. Young love. Puppy love. True love. Second chance at love. Love makes the world go round. Whatever you call it, we are all in love with love.

From the day we are born we look for love, we give and we long to receive. We love our parents. We love our teachers, our best friends, that boy (or girl) who sits across the aisle from us in class. It’s why the romance industry is thriving. We buy chocolates, flowers, cards, rings to demonstrate just how much we love someone. There are entire cable television channels dedicated to romance! And we love to read a good romance novel.

The Romance Writers of America (RWA) sites 2013 statistics of over $1 Billion in sales a year; 32% of mass market paperback sales are romance novels. Not surprisingly, 84% of romance readers are female; yet, surprisingly (to me) 16% of romance readers are male. Let’s face it, we all love a happy ending and romance novels are all about happy endings.

I continue to work on my revisions for Mary Bishop. I’m working on the last chapters, expanding on the plot line that threatens to keep Mary and Oliver apart. I get the thrill of writing my happily-ever-after ending all over again. It’s a second chance at love for both, something neither one of them ever expected, and I’m just as excited about it as I was the first time I wrote it.

At the same time, I’m anxious to get started on my next project, The Healing Heart. A young girl finds love during WWI and the great influenza pandemic of 1918…but more on that later.

I’ve been debating which romance to read next. It’s not as easy of a decision as you might think. So much depends on what kind of a mood I’m in. Historical or contemporary? Usually historical. Then, which historical era? There’s a lot of history to consider. Then there’s theme. Am I thinking suspense, political drama, big city or small town? The choices are endless and I’ve been known to change my mind multiple times before I actually start reading, but I think I’ve made my choice. Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander has been on my Kindle for some time and I feel the draw to read it next. And after reading it I will put the Starz network series on my Netflix list and watch that.

The senses can bring back a flood of memories. I seem to be particularly susceptible to this in the summer. The distant whine of a lawn mower and, with it, the smell of fresh cut grass. The clean tang in the air after the rain has passed by. The song of the morning dove outside my bedroom window.  The announcer and cheering crowds of the softball games at the nearby school athletic fields reminds me of the sounds of the public swimming pool in my hometown. When I think of summer, I think of the feel of the rubber grip of a golf club in my hands as I focus on that little pink ball taunting me from the grass below. When I think of summer I immediately taste buttery corn on the cob, salted tomato slices fresh from the garden, strawberry shortcake and watermelon. I remember the Fireman’s Picnic, parades, and days at the lake.

One of my strongest childhood summer memories is that of hanging wash on the line to dry. You don’t see that much anymore, even in the small towns. If you want to see clothes flapping in the wind to dry you need to drive the back country roads, past the mid-west farms where many such things are still done the traditional way. Admit it, there’s nothing like the feel and smell of fresh sheets still warm from the sun.

The following poem originally appeared in the Wisconsin Writers’ Association publication, Creative Wisconsin in the summer of 2012.

Hanging Wash On The Line
by Jane Yunker

Wet towels flap, snap, in the hot summer wind.
My mother hums a nameless tune as she carefully
pins them, ends overlapping ends to conserve space,
for row after row to bake in the sun until dry.

My mother has strict rules for hanging wash on the line.
Rules passed down from her mother, and now to me, a code.
Rules my own daughter would only laugh at, if I told her.
Rules that, if broken, would surely incite gossip and shame.

Hang clothing of like sex together.
Never should my father’s underwear hang co-mingled
with my mother’s, nor my brothers’ with my own.
What such a display might suggest was beyond decent explanation.

Hang clothing of like type and size together.
Men’s socks hung neatly from largest to smallest,
pairs matched, of course. Women’s follow, in same.
This orderliness outdoors was proof of a neat orderly home indoors.

Shirts were hung from the bottom, while pants hung from the top.
And, never, not under any circumstances, do you drape…you pin.
We are civilized beings lucky enough to be born in America,
a nation blessed with basic necessities like the clothespin.

But the one rule that, if forgotten, could drive a family from their home,
was to hang all intimate apparel on the inside lines and surround them
with large items to block their view, preferably sheets and towels.
The neighbors should only assume one wears underwear.

 

 

Family. Narrowly defined it’s two parents and their biological children; extended it includes grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Now the definition has become much more fluid. The parents could be two men or two women, might be married but could also be living together without the benefit of marriage. A parent might not be biological. A child could easily have more than two parents once you count in the step parents after divorce and remarriage. They could be foster parents or adoptive parents.

Family. Often we think of our pets as family. Many would argue pets are much more reliable, much more loyal, to us than our human family. Pets won’t fight over who gets grandma’s jewelry or the profits from the sale of great-auntie’s house. If a dog gets his feelings hurt all you have to do is smile at him and scratch behind his ears and all is forgiven. When you walk in the door after a hard day’s work, your cat will curl up in your lap and your dog will just about knock you over at the door with happiness. Neither one comes running to tattle on the other.

Family. It’s said our friends are the family we get to choose. In my book Mary Bishop, Mary is alone after the Civil War has decimated the home, the life, she once knew. Her daughter died shortly after birth, her son died at Gettysburg, and her husband later commits suicide. She reaches out to an old friend, Sarah, from her life back in Virginia. She doesn’t know if Sarah is alive or dead, but she has an address where her friend once lived. To Mary’s delight, Sarah still lives at that old address and doesn’t hesitate to drop everything and run to Mary’s side. It’s a long and difficult journey (train from St Paul to Stillwater, steamboat upriver from Stillwater to Taylors Falls, and then a ride with a travelling minister north from Taylors Falls) but she does this without being asked. “Why?” Mary asks. Why is her friend doing everything she can to make her old friend happy again? “Because we are family,” Sarah answers. Something Mary told Sarah years before when Sarah’s husband was killed and Mary refused to leave her side until Sarah could pick herself up again.

Family. These are the people who are there for us no matter what. They might judge us, but only lovingly. They defend us against those who would tear us down. They will sit with us and just listen, all night if need be. They might be biological, they might be steps or halves, or they might be a very good friend.

Have you ever just sat alone and listened to the world around you? Even in the middle of the night, when everyone is asleep and we think it’s perfectly quiet, it’s not. The house makes little noises as it settles, beams expanding or contracting with the changing temperature, creaking and snapping. Outside tree limbs brush against the house as the wind tosses them, not always so gently. There could be the distant rumble of an approaching storm, or the forlorn wail of a train whistle.

On an early spring evening I can hear the peeper frogs singing in our garden as they look to attract a mate. Come summer, there’s the deep-throated croak of a toad and the chirps of crickets rubbing their legs together in the long grass along the neighboring woods. I can even hear the trucks passing by town on the highway. A heavier footfall in the woods leaves me to wonder, is that a deer, or a bear? I know there are bears in our woods and they like to wander into the neighborhood to raid bird feeders and garbage cans.

These night time sounds can be restful, like the patter of rain on the sky lights of our bedroom and on the leaves of the trees outside. Or, they can be scary, particularly if I’ve spent the evening before watching horror movies. But I tell myself, I am no longer a pretty young co-ed, and I would never dream of investigating a noise in the basement while wearing only my underwear, so I’m probably safe. (For the same reason I’d change from my red uniform shirt to my yellow if Captain Kirk ever asked me to beam down to the planet surface with the away team.) At worst, the noise I think I hear within the house is a mouse and it will soon find its way onto one of the sticky traps set out for that very purpose.

Solitude recharges our batteries. If you concentrate on each little sound and not let the worries of the day intrude, you will feel your heart rate slow, your muscles relax. And if you’re a writer, you might even be able to hear your character’s voice telling you the answer to the plot problem that’s been troubling you all day.

Listen to the silence.