Gluten Free
An orange peel grapple is a big machine. Excavator on the bottom. Long arm in the middle. And a metal grapple on the end that looks like a horror movie claw. The base spins. The arm moves up and down. The grapple grabs stuff like SUVs and big piles of metal.
You may come across one while driving, and if you have a little boy in the car, you may have to pull over to watch the thing move cars into a tractor trailer. Otherwise, nothing about this machine will rock your world.
But an orange peel grapple changed my life.
My life was a complete disaster at the time. Though I had a beautiful baby boy and a good husband, I had a job in an industry I swore I would never return to, at a company that wanted nothing more than to suck the blood directly from my heart with a curly straw. This, after I had already sold all the blood in my heart to the film industry, which after a few meetings and screenwriting awards, looked like it might want to take a sip from that straw.
A sip, because as good as things were looking, I saw a long road in front of me. My work was not “commercial enough,” and my manager had made it clear that years would pass before I would be able to convince anyone that this lack of commerciality was a quality that was, well, commercial.
But no. My husband lost his job, and I found work in the fashion industry soon after. What I rapidly discovered was that, though out-of-towners could schedule meetings back-to-back all over town, Angelenos were expected to take a meeting at the last minute, or blithely accept a rescheduling. My boss, on the other hand, had no interest in moving around my personal days, and my sick days dwindled in my first three months on the job. It took only a few months for the meetings to dry up and for me to start writing a Santa Claus script out of desperation.
So, the blood-sucking fashion job with the inflexible hours was right next to a scrap yard, which apparently opened at the crack of dawn because when I got there at seven thirty every morning, the orange peel grapple was already grabbing away. If I had a minute, I watched it go up and down as I clutched my coffee, and I thought, one day I should get a video camera and film this because my son would love it. Really love it.
My son was about eighteen months old and just learning to talk. I missed him while I was at work, adored him when he was awake and with me, and the rest of the time, I found room to resent him for taking me away from writing. He was then, and has remained, a fireball of energy. His teacher alternated between calling him a Jack Russell terrier and a buzz saw. He is also obsessive. Right now, he has a room full of Legos. Before that, it was Thomas the Tank Engine, and before that, it was trucks. Big yellow trucks. He wouldn’t fall asleep unless he gripped a toy truck in each fist. When he received a Tonka loader for Christmas, it was love at first sight. He called it “lolo.”
One morning, with the vision of that big ‘lolo’ that I would later know as an orange peel grapple dancing in my head, I dialed a friend’s number. I’d known this man from Brooklyn, and he’d come to Los Angeles a few years earlier to attend the American Film Institute. Most importantly, he had a camera. When I got his answering machine, instead of asking him for the camera, I said something else entirely, something like, “Hey, wanna produce a kid’s video together? Here’s the pitch. Trucks. Okay, bye.”
That moment may not seem pivotal, but most turning points don’t when they happen. That moment, I took control of my creative life. My friend called me back the minute he got up, and we began the journey toward becoming business owners. We did not pitch the idea around town, and we did not ask permission to bring the work to the public. We put the DVDs on Createspace, and eventually had to hold inventory to meet the demand.
Lolo Productions and the Totally Trucks series have had ups and downs, but the process taught me two things. One, my concepts need to be simple. If I can’t pitch it in five words, it’s not a concept I should develop. My second lesson is that I can be in control of my product and my creative life. If I think something is worthwhile, I can bring it to my customers. Becoming the producer and publisher of my work means I understand now what agents and studio executives meant when they said “commercial.”
Without my son, I never would have taken the life-sucking job. And without that job, there would have been no orange peel grapple. And without that scrapyard, there would have been no Totally Trucks. No eye for the commercial and no control of self-publishing. Who knows what I would have made without all the things that pissed me off for interrupting my work.
Christine’s novel, Dead Is The New Black: A Fashion Avenue Mystery is available on [easyazon_link asin=”1466338121″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Amazon[/easyazon_link] and Barnes and Noble.
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
When I was a little girl I used to make up stories at bedtime for my younger sister, Michelle. The most vivid centered on a boy and a girl who received a piece of gum for Halloween in their trick-or-treat bag, and when they chewed it, they were transported to a magical land where they were granted unlimited wishes. Even at such a young age, the process of concocting stories was effortless. My mind revolved like the reel of a movie spinning inside my head.
I spent many hours daydreaming as a child. Back then everything was as beautiful and white as a freshly painted fence. I fantasized about the day I would get married, the children I would have, the house I would own, and the life I would live when I was all grown up.
When I was a teenager, my mind still swirled with girlish hopes and dreams. I remember lying on my bed in my room staring at a poster on my wall of James Dean. He was hunkered down on the seat of a motorcycle, and Marilyn Monroe was perched behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist, and her head resting on his shoulder. I wanted to jump into the poster like the girl in A-Ha’s Take on Me video and ride off into life’s highway, just me and James. Together, forever.
When I became an adult and moved out on my own to attend college at the tender age of eighteen, I thought I had my whole world figured out. I’d developed a slight obsession with Agatha Christie and knew mysteries and thrillers were the perfect genre for me as a writer. All kinds of ideas flowed for the first novel, and I thought I was on my way. There was just one problem: I never started writing.
Why?
I wasn’t prepared for the events that were about to take place in my life or how they would affect my journey. Life didn’t turn out to be the dream I thought it would be, and I struggled—a lot, and faced challenges and trials that at times seemed more than I could bear. My relationships didn’t always work out, and all the babies I hoped to have didn’t come like I’d planned. There were times when I felt like my life was like a shattered mirror, and I was on my hands and knees desperately searching for all the pieces of myself so I could glue them back together and feel whole again. During those times I wondered how many other women out there in the world felt the same exact way.
Time went on and I struggled, but eventually I picked myself back up and I healed. With a new lease on life and a positive attitude about what I’d overcome, I thought about writing again. In 2009 I wrote Black Diamond Death, the first novel in my Sloane Monroe series. Sinnerman followed six months later and now I’m hard at work on the third, I Have a Secret.
As I sit here and write this, I’m shocked that I am being so candid. Normally, I safeguard my feelings. To say I’m a private person is an understatement, but I feel compelled to get this out. My message in all of this is to never lose sight of your hopes and dreams. Never forget who you are, where you came from, and what you are capable of accomplishing in your life. And if you have a passion, foster it with everything you have inside you. Let it shine. Let it breathe. Let it be.
When I pondered about the dedication I would use for Sinnerman, my direction was clear and I wrote the following:
This book is dedicated to anyone who’s ever had a dream. We have but one life, and one opportunity to live it. Make it last, make it count, and make it the best it can be. Live your dreams, I know I am.
Today, I’m no longer waiting for James Dean to ride up on his shiny black motorcycle. I’ve fallen for a different kind of boy now, one who dreams of wide open spaces and a simple life. One who wants to be a cowboy when he grows up. Now the poster I see in my visions is one of man hoisting me up on the back of his trusty steed while we ride away together into the Wyoming sunset.
If you asked me ten years ago if this was the life I thought I wanted, my answer might have been no, but if you asked me today I would say I’m right where I’m supposed to be. My life isn’t perfect, the challenges are still there, and I still have a lot to learn about myself. But no matter what the future holds for me, I know one thing for sure: I’ll never stop writing.
*******
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
*******
Cheryl’s book’s on Amazon:
[easyazon_link asin=”B004RCNW2U” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Black Diamond Death (Sloane Monroe)[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”1466291206″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Sinnerman[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B006YYJZK2″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Whispers of Murder (Till Death do us Part)[/easyazon_link]
To learn more about Cheryl, visit her here:
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Fact: I was born on a bathroom floor. Literally. My arrival into this world was followed seconds later by an unceremonious drop onto the cold tile of St. John’s Hospital in Detroit, Michigan. You see, I was the fifth out of six children. My mother knew my delivery would be fast, but the nurse at the hospital insisted she go to the bathroom before the doctor arrived.
Later, after the drama and I was pronounced healthy, my mother told the doctor that the nurse should have listened to her, that she had warned the nurse that the baby (me) was going to arrive any second. That, having already delivered four children, she knew her body pretty well.
The doctor said, “Five kids, huh? Maybe you should tell your husband to keep it in his pants.”
True story.
***
Both of my parents were born in Italy. They emigrated to the U.S. in the 1950s. My father always said the biggest difference between Italy and America at that time was that you could work your ass off in Italy and have nothing to show for it. If you worked hard in America, you could eventually become wealthy. He started a construction company and worked 6 days a week, from dawn to dusk. Eventually, he was successful.
My mother raised six children. She is a strong woman. Both she and my father share a love of aphorisms. The one I remember most? “A well-made flour sack stands on its own.”
It was almost like a mantra with her.
At a key point in my writing life, that phrase came in handy.
***
So there I am. I’ve got a full-time job in advertising. I’m writing about products that suck, working for people I can’t stand, and with two good friends, drinking every night after work. At a little bar not far from the office. I’m averaging about five or six drinks a night. Every weeknight. More on the weekends.
But on those weekend mornings, I’m writing fiction. Just short stories that I try to picture in The Paris Review. Everything gets rejected with remarkable efficiency.
One night, probably half in the bag, I come across THE DAY OF THE JACKAL on television. The original movie is pretty campy and the remake with Bruce Willis is a pure load of crap. But the book. The novel by Frederick Forsyth is one of my all-time favorites. The scene on television is the best part of the movie: It’s where the Jackal is sighting in his rifle. He paints a little face on a small melon, then blows it apart from 500 yards away.
There’s no epiphany. I go to bed. But as I toss and turn, vodka fumes in a cloud around my pillow, I think about the narrative structure of the story. I’ve read the book several times. Even have a collector’s edition. The chase. The tension. The violence.
When I wake up the next morning, I make an especially strong pot of coffee. I push aside my short literary fiction, and start a new story.
It’s about a hitman and a female escort.
Later that day, during some interminable meeting where everyone is throwing out insidious phrases like “let’s get on the same page,” and “think outside the box,” I realized what I was doing. I was writing to please others, instead of focusing on the kind of stories and books I like. Crime fiction. Thrillers. Suspense.
I had forgotten one of my mother’s cardinal rules. A well-made flour sack stands on its own.
***
I know it sounds melodramatic. But the truth is, everything changed after that night. I still despised the advertising industry, but I no longer let it bother me so much. I begged off going to the bar with my friends, instead choosing to work out and then get some writing done in the evenings. Eventually, I finished several crime novels. Even landed a big New York literary agent.
But a funny thing happened. My agent, and publishers, seemed to have endless debates about how to market me. Should I be a hardboiled crime novelist? A thriller writer? A traditional mystery author? There were suggestions to change this book and change that one. Then change it back. Then change it to something else. But now I had learned. I was smarter. I told them thanks, but no thanks. It was time to stand up and be the writer I wanted to be. So I became an indie author.
And when my first book became a Top 10 Mystery on Amazon, I knew I had made the right decision.
Never underestimate the power of an Italian mother armed with an aphorism.
Dani’s Books on Amazon:
[easyazon_link asin=”B00FFH1QEW” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Death by Sarcasm[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B005KKUVX6″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Dead Wood[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B006NAAGBO” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]The Killing League[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B0061JQMM4″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]To Find A Mountain[/easyazon_link]
To learn more about Dani, visit her at http://www.daniamore.com
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
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When I started writing funny women’s fiction fifteen years ago, if anybody had given me a realistic idea of my chances for publication, I’d have chosen a less stressful hobby, like do-it-yourself brain surgery, professional frog herding, or maybe staging an all-Ayatollah drag revue in downtown Tehran.
As aCalifornia actress with years of experience of cattle-drive auditions, greenroom catfights and vitriolic reviewers, I thought I had built up enough soul-calluses to go the distance. But nothing had prepared me for the glacial waiting periods; the bogus, indifferent and/or suddenly-out-of-business agents; and the heartbreaking, close-but-no-cigar reads from big-time editors—all the rejection horrors that make the American publishing industry the impenetrable fortress it has become.
But some of us are too writing-crazed to stop ourselves. I was then, as now, sick in love with the English language.
I had three novels completed. A fourth had run as a serial in aCaliforniaentertainment weekly. One of my stories had been short-listed for an international prize, and a play had been produced to good reviews. I was bringing in a few bucks—mostly with short pieces for local magazines and freelance editing.
But meantime, my savings had evaporated along with my abandoned acting career; my boyfriend had ridden his Harley into theBig Sursunset; my agent was hammering me to write formula romance; and I was contemplating a move to one of the less fashionable neighborhoods of the rust belt.
Even acceptances turned into rejections: aUKzine that had accepted one of my stories folded. But when the editor sent the bad news, he mentioned he’d taken a job with a smallUKbook publisher—and did I have any novels?
I sent him one my agent had rejected as “too over the top.” Within weeks, I was offered a contract by my new editor—a former BBC comedy writer—for [easyazon_link asin=”B009ZXF3UA” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Food Of Love[/easyazon_link]. Included was an invitation to come over the pond to do some promotion.
So I rented out my beach house, packed my bags and bought a ticket to Gainsborough, Lincolnshire, where my new publishers had recently moved into a 19th century former textile mill on the banks of the river Trent—the river George Eliot fictionalized as “the Floss.”
George Eliot. I was going to be working and living only a few hundred yards from the ruins of the house where she wrote her classic novel about the 19th century folk who lived and died by the power of Lincolnshire’s great tidal river. Maybe some of that greatness would rub off on me.
At the age of… well, I’m not telling…I was about to have the adventure of my life.
I knew the company published mostly erotica, but was branching into mainstream and literary fiction. They had already published the first novel of a distinguished poet, and a famousChicagonewspaper columnist was in residence, awaiting the launch of his new book.
But when I arrived, I found the great Chicagoan had left in a mysterious fit of pique, the “erotica” was seriously hard core kink, and the old building on theTrentwas more of the William Blake Dark Satanic variety than George Elliot’s bucolic “Mill on the Floss.”
Some of my fears subsided when I was greeted by a friendly group of unwashed, fiercely intellectual young men who presented me with generous quantities of warm beer, cold meat pies and galleys to proof. After a beer or two, I found myself almost comprehending their northern accents.
I held it together until I saw my new digs: a grimy futon and an old metal desk, hidden behind stacks of book pallets in the corner of an unheated warehouse, about a half a block from the nearest loo. My only modern convenience was an ancient radio abandoned by a long-ago factory girl.
I have to admit to admit to some tears of despair.
Until, from the radio, Big Ben chimed six o’clock.
That’s six pm, GMT.
Greenwich Mean Time. The words hit me with all the sonorous power of Big Ben itself. I had arrived at the mean, the middle, the center that still holds—no matter what rough beasts might slouch through the cultural deserts of the former empire. This was where my language, my instrument, was born.
I clutched my galley-proof to my heart. I might still be a rejected nobody in the land of my birth—but I’d landed on the home planet:England. And there, I was a published novelist. Just like George Eliot.
Three years later, I returned toCalifornia, older, fatter (the English may not have the best food, but their BEER is another story) and a lot wiser. That Chicagoan’s fit of pique turned out to be more than justified. The company was swamped in debt. They never managed to get meUSdistribution. Shortly before my second book [easyazon_link asin=”B008MM29QG” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]The Best Revenge[/easyazon_link] was to launch, the managing partner withdrew his capital, sailed away and mysteriously disappeared off his yacht—his body never found. The company sputtered and died.
And I was back in the slush pile again.
But I had a great plot for my next novel.
Unfortunately, nobody wanted it. I was now tainted with the “published-to-low-sales-numbers label and my chances were even worse than before.
So I wrote two more novels. Nobody wanted them either.
Then I started a blog. I figured I could at least let other writers benefit from my mistakes. My blog followers grew. And grew. The blog won some awards. My Alexa and Klout ratings got better and better. Finally, publishers started approaching ME. (There’s a moral for writers here—social networking works.)
And finally, six years later, another publisher, Popcorn Press, fell in love with FOOD OF LOVE and sent me a contract. Soon after, they contracted to publish THE BEST REVENGE, too.
And this September, a brand new indie ebook publisher called Mark Williams International Digital Publishing asked if I had anything else ready to publish.
Just happen to have a few unpubbed titles handy, said I.
He liked them.
So in October and November of 2011, those three new comic mysteries will appear as ebooks:
[easyazon_link asin=”B009PO86NA” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]The Gatsby Game[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B00HSV199U” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Ghostwriters In The Sky[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B006HKTCV0″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Sherwood Ltd. (The Camilla Randall Mysteries)[/easyazon_link] (that’s the novel inspired by my English adventures.)
A fifteen-year journey finally seems to be paying off.
Did I make some mistakes? Oh yeah—a full set of them. But would I wish away my English adventures?
Not a chance.
Blog http://annerallen.blogspot.com
Twitter @annerallen
Authorpages: At Amazon.com , at amazon.co.uk , on Facebook
SHERWOOD, LTD (Romantic comedy/mystery: MWiDP) A penniless socialite becomes a 21st century Maid Marian, but is “Robin” planning to kill her? Buy at amazon.co.uk , amazon.com, or Barnes and Noble
THE BEST REVENGE (Romantic comedy/mystery: Popcorn Press) A suddenly-broke 1980s celebutante runs off to Californiawith nothing but her Delorean and her designer furs, looking for her long-lost gay best friend—and finds herself accused of murder. Buy at amazon.co.uk or amazon.com and in paper at Popcorn Press or in paper at Amazon.com .
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
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How many of us go through the day like this – from one task to another, checking off the “to do” list with satisfaction and moving to the next chore, until our days are nothing but managed tasks? I have always been a list maker. There is something so satisfying about checking off those tasks. Perhaps it is part of my goal-oriented personality. I am most satisfied when I am “accomplishing something.” But I used to be able to do my tasks, and then relax. Rest.
Even God took a break. The Bible tells us, For in six days the LORD made the heavens and the earth, the sea, and all that is in them, but he rested on the seventh day. Therefore the LORD blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy (Exodus 20:10-12). So, let me get this straight. God created the universe and still had time to take a day off, but I don’t? Whether you believe in God or not – it is valid, this idea of taking a sabbath. A quick look at an online dictionary tells me that sabbath is defined as a “time of rest.” An entire day of doing nothing. Resting. I live on a lake, so a day of resting in the summer is not hard to imagine. It involves sun and water and floating. But in the middle of an Indiana winter? What does that look like? What would I do to rest? And, an entire day! Surely you jest.
Perhaps, today, I will try it for an hour. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Goal for the day: An hour of doing nothing.
But, now on to my other work in progress – a four book series I will refer to as CM [Update – this is my first public mention of the series that would become the [easyazon_link asin=”B008MP38DG” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Cooper Moon[/easyazon_link] series]. The rough draft of the first novel is done. Now working on rewrites. I love this book. I love these charcters. How fun to be able to spend the day with them.
I will leave you with the quotes on rest that I looked up. That way, looking them up won’t seem like a complete waste of time. (Yes, I know. I’m working on it though)
How about you? What do you do to rest? Let me know in the “comments” section. The only thing I can think of is a long and hot bath (see great quote below by Sylvia Plath). But there is only so much time you can spend in the bathtub! What do you do to rest and relax?
Rest……….
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass on a summer day listening to the murmur of water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is hardly a waste of time. Sir John Lubbock
I still need more healthy rest in order to work at my best. My health is the main capital I have and I want to administer it intelligently. Ernest Hemingway
Sometimes the most urgent and vital thing you can possibly do is take a complete rest. Ashleigh Brilliant
There must be quite a few things that a hot bath won’t cure, but I don’t know many of them. Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
The mark of a successful man is one that has spent an entire day on the bank of a river without feeling guilty about it. Author Unknown
To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring – it was peace. Milan Kundera
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30
Cheryl Shireman is the bestselling author of several novels, including [easyazon_link asin=”1461026504″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Broken Resolutions[/easyazon_link], the [easyazon_link asin=”B004JU21YU” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Life is But a Dream series[/easyazon_link], and the [easyazon_link asin=”1478153652″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Cooper Moon[/easyazon_link] series. She is also the author of ten books for toddlers including the eight [easyazon_link asin=”1475291531″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Let’s Learn About[/easyazon_link] series focusing on different animals and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660014″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Girls[/easyazon_link] and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660022″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Boys[/easyazon_link].
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Sometimes it’s easy to pinpoint those moments in your life where everything is suddenly changed. When you look across the room and say to yourself, I’m going to marry him. Or stare down at those two pink lines on the pregnancy test, when you’re only twenty-two and been married for a month and a half and are living on only $800 a month because you’re both still in school and my God how is this going to work?
And sometimes it’s a bit harder to remember.
Until I was eleven, my parents tell me they thought I was going to be a ‘hippy’. I wandered through the trees, swamp, and fields of our 2 ½ acre lot, making up poetry and songs and singing them to myself. I’m not sure what happened by the time I’d turned twelve, whether family pressures or the realities of school changed me, but it was like I put all that creativity and whimsicalness into a box on a high shelf in my mind. By the time I was in my late-teens, I routinely told people: ‘I haven’t a creative bone in my body.’ It makes me sad to think of all those years where I thought the creative side of me didn’t exist.
When I was in my twenties and a full-time mother of two, my husband and I took our family to a picnic with his graduate school department. I was pleased at how friendly and accepting everyone seemed.
And then one of the other graduate students turned to me out of the blue and said, ‘do you really think you can jump back into a job after staying home with your kids for five or ten years?’
I remember staring at him, not knowing what to say. It wasn’t that I hadn’t thought about it, but that it didn’t matter—it couldn’t matter—because I had this job to do and the consequences of staying home with my kids were something I’d just have to face when the time came.
Fast forward ten years and it was clear that this friend had been right in his incredulity. I was earning $15/hr. as a contract anthropologist, trying to supplement our income while at the same time holding down the fort at home. I remember the day it became clear that this wasn’t working. I was simultaneously folding laundry, cooking dinner, and slogging through a report I didn’t want to write, trying to get it all in before the baby (number four, by now) woke up. I put my head down, right there on the dryer, and cried.
It was time to seek another path. Time to follow my heart and do what I’d wanted to do for a long time, but hadn’t had the courage, or the belief in myself to make it happen.
At the age of thirty-seven, I started my first novel, just to see if I could. I wrote it in six weeks and it was bad in a way that all first books are bad. It was about elves and magic stones and will never see the light of day. But it taught me, I can do this!
My husband told me, ‘give it five years,’ and in the five years that followed, I experienced rejection along my newfound path. A lot of it. Over seventy agents, and then dozens and dozens of editors (once I found an agent), read my books and passed them over. Again and again.
Meanwhile, I just wrote. A whole series. Then more books, for a total of eight, seven of which I published in 2011.
And I’m happy to report that, even though I still think of myself as staid, my extended family apparently has already decided that those years where I showed little creativity were just a phase. The other day, my husband told me of several conversations he had, either with them or overheard, in which it became clear they thought I was so alternative and creative—so far off the map—that I didn’t even remember there was a map.
I’m almost more pleased about that than anything else. Almost. Through writing, I’ve found a community of other writers, support and friendship from people I hadn’t known existed a few years ago, and best of all, thousands of readers have found my books in the last year. Here’s to thousands more in the years to come . . .
Links:
My web page: http://www.sarahwoodbury.com/
My Twitter code is: http://twitter.com/#!/SarahWoodbury
On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/sarahwoodburybooks
Links to my books: Amazon and Amazon UK
Smashwords BarnesandNoble Apple
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
It is January. The beginning of a new year. A time of renewed hope and planning.
I thought about creating this blog last November. I was in the middle of working on a novel (I still am) and thought it might be interesting to have a running account of that work in progress. I asked my husband to create the page (he designs websites) and the page remained empty. In the mean time, I seemed to be slipping deeper and deeper into a hole of my own making. I spent the last year working – almost every waking hour. I was working a part-time job, and also published my first novel. And then a second novel. And a third. One project after another piled up, creating a non-stop atomosphere of work and creation. On top of that, in August, I started watching my two-year-old granddaughter two days a week – by far, the best decision of the year.
I was working 85 hours a week, and that does not include the time watching my granddaughter (which is not work, but a joy).
It got to the point where I could not relax. I started working at five or six in the morning and would not stop working until at least nine at night. And even then, I could not relax. Even though my laptop was closed, my mind was still tangled in the work and my thoughts were trapped. I would try to watch a television show and, instead, just stare at the screen and not hear the words. Sleep offered no escape. Even in my dreams, I was writing or working on a project for my part-time job. I went to sleep thinking about work, I dreamed about work through the night, and I woke from sleep to immediate thoughts of work. I was tired all of the time. I lost the ability to have fun and time spent away from work seemed more like an intrusion than a break. Except for the time spent with my granddaughter, if I was awake, I was working.
Then in December, sometime around Christmas, a tragic event happened not far from my home. A precious little girl was killed. I did not know her or her family. And yet, I cried for three days. It was a horrible event, and surely worthy of many tears. But my reaction was more than that. This horrific event prompted an emotional collapse. I crumbled. For three days I did nothing but stare at the television and fight tears. Slowly, I crawled out of that hole.
A couple of weeks ago, I got up on Monday morning, turned on my laptop to get my day started, and was unable to work. I just stared at the computer screen. One hour turned into two and, still, I stared at the screen. I had a conference call scheduled for noon. I needed to get some work done before that call, but still, I stared at the screen. I couldn’t do it. I did not have one more drop of energy in me. I thought about quitting my part time job, off and on, for six months – ever since I started watching my granddaughter. It was just too much. Something had to give. I could not continue to work the part time job, watch my granddaughter, and write. Despite the fact that the part time job was my major source of income, and I love the people I work with, I knew it was the right choice. Perhaps not the wisest choice – perhaps not the choice that made the most sense – but the right choice.
That was almost two weeks ago. I’m still struggling to relax. It seems I have lost the ability. Even as I type this, tension creeps its way across my shoulders and up my neck.
I am working on a novel. It is the first of a series of four books. I am more excited about this writing project than any I have ever attempted. It is the “work in progress” that I had in mind when I began this page. But, now, I realize – I am the work in progress. This year, I will pursue my life-long dream of writing. For the first time in my life, I am writing full time. But I must also learn to live again. To find joy in life outside of the creative process of writing.
Earlier this year, I attended a writing workshop in Positano, Italy with the amazing (and oh so cool) writer, Elizabeth Berg. She asked us to write a statement of intention concerning our writing. I wrote – I want to write true. I meant, I want to write about characters and situations that feel true – that make my readers feel true emotions. That make readers think, Yes, I have felt that too. That’s the way it is.
Now, I would like to add to that statement of intention. Yes, I want to write true. It is my goal as a writer. But I also want to live true.
For the next year, this daily blog will focus on that journey – it will follow my attempt to balance the creative process of writing while living my life with joy. Is it possible to do both? I don’t know. I’ve always been an “all or nothing” kind of girl and have a difficult time with balance. But, this year, I am a work in progress. I want to write true and live true. Is it possible? I honestly don’t know. But join me and we will see.
Are you a work in progress, too? Are you working too hard and not enjoying your life? Are you thinking about pursuing a life-long dream but always find a reason not to? Do you dream of writing, or starting a new business, or simply changing your life to live in a way that honors your dreams? Are you tired of wondering what your purpose in life is? Are you ready to start the exploration? If so, please join me. I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to share your thoughts in the “comments” section. Maybe my journey will inspire your own. Maybe your journey will inspire mine.
I leave you now with one of my very favorite quotes.
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. Marianne Williamson
Cheryl Shireman is the bestselling author of several novels, including [easyazon_link asin=”1461026504″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Broken Resolutions[/easyazon_link], the [easyazon_link asin=”B004JU21YU” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Life is But a Dream series[/easyazon_link], and the [easyazon_link asin=”1478153652″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Cooper Moon[/easyazon_link] series. She is also the author of ten books for toddlers including the eight [easyazon_link asin=”1475291531″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Let’s Learn About[/easyazon_link] series focusing on different animals and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660014″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Girls[/easyazon_link] and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660022″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Boys[/easyazon_link].
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I used to think I had to be perfect. Of course, I fell short of perfection on a regular basis so I frequently felt like a failure.
The only way to prevent failure is to hide. If we don’t put ourselves out there, we can’t fail.
To prevent myself from failing, I hid in a fantasy world. As a young child, I longed to be a ballerina. I loved to dance, but more than that, I wanted to escape into the fantasy world of the ballet. I wanted to live inside a fairytale, and in my mind, I did. I invented worlds I could escape to, perfect worlds that seemed more real to me than life. Meanwhile, I ate, and ate, and ate. Not ideal, if you want to be a ballerina. My reality never matched my inner world.
I created this pattern, this external and internal disparity, throughout my life. I brought it into my marriage, convincing myself that my marriage was perfect, while in reality it was a mess. Instead of leaving, I found escape in writing. I lost myself other times: ancient Egypt, ancient Greece, ancient Rome—worlds as far away from my reality as possible. In my writing, I disappeared for hours, days, years. I got a job working at an airline so I could travel and do research. I got an agent. I felt sure I would be published.
Then my world fell apart. After nineteen years of marriage, my husband wanted a divorce. I fought it. Divorce didn’t fit my idea of perfection, my fairytale. I viewed this loss as a disaster, but in truth it was an opening, a hole leading me to greater understanding and compassion for myself and others.
I was broke, trying to live on what I made at the airline. I was lonely. I had no time to write. Worst of all, I had to admit my life wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t perfect. Forced to accept myself with all my imperfections, I discovered that the more I could accept myself, the more I could accept others. Even my ex-husband. To this day, we remain friends.
Because I no longer had time to sit down and write for hours, the kind of time it takes to write a novel, I wrote short stories. I wrote about my experience, about my struggles as a woman of fifty going through divorce and entering the dating world. Initially, I wrote the stories for myself as therapy. Then I began to share the stories with my writing group. They encouraged me to submit the stories to magazines, and several were published. I read a couple of stories at our local library and people laughed. Then my good friend, Blake Crouch, convinced me to publish the stories on Kindle. A frightening prospect. What if my stories weren’t good enough? What if they weren’t perfect?
At first I resisted. I’d had two literary agents, and a longtime dream of being traditionally published. Self-publishing didn’t fit my idea of perfection. But, in reality, I no longer had an agent, and I hadn’t worked on a novel for several years. What did I have to lose? Nothing. So I published [amazon_link id=”B003XYFN5M” target=”_blank” container=”” container_class=”” ]Dating My Vibrator (and other true fiction[/amazon_link]).
My world changed, not because I was finally published, but because I changed. I finally found the confidence to pursue my dream despite my imperfections. I found the courage to stop hiding and put myself out into the world. This freed me.
I rewrote my novel, [easyazon_link asin=”B004G093HQ” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Vestal Virgin (Suspense in Ancient Rome)[/easyazon_link]. Originally, my characters were a bit flat. Why? Because they were too perfect! I hadn’t looked at the manuscript for two years, and a lot had changed for me in that time. I rewrote the book with a cold eye: cutting, digging deeper. My characters became multifaceted, real people with flaws.
I became busier and busier, caught in a whirlwind, trying to hold down a full-time job, write, promote my books and have a life. Trying, once again, to be perfect.
And then the universe stepped in.
I had an accident at work. While moving a jet stair (which weighed over 1,000 pounds) away from the aircraft, my right foot got crushed. I fell, screaming, onto the tarmac while passengers onboard the plane watched. A coworker rushed me to the hospital for the first of three emergency surgeries. I suffered intense pain due to nerve damage, broken and dislocated toes and, ultimately, amputation of a toe. As I write this, I’m still recovering.
I spent five weeks at a nursing home, a good place for me (even though most of the patients were over eighty years old), because it would have been close to impossible for me to take care of myself at home. While there, I had a chance to meet a lot of the patients and residents. All of us had obvious holes.
I learned a lot from the other patients. And I was forced to face my own mortality. Aging offers us the gift of acceptance. In order to age gracefully, we must the release the idea of perfection. We learn there are some things we can change, and some things we must accept. And, when we accept what is, we may find the good in even the most difficult situations. We learn to accept the holes in ourselves and others. We even welcome imperfection.
Since the accident, I’ve been thinking about holes a lot. I’ve been thinking about being whole, in relation to loss. How can loss make a person whole? I’ve learned that loss can make a person strong, more self-reliant. Loss can make us more compassionate to ourselves and others.
Where I had a toe, there’s now a hole, and that hole reminds me that I’m not perfect. But, despite my imperfection, I am whole. I am me. It would be ridiculous to think that I am any less of a person, because I’m missing a toe, because I have a hole. Just as it’s ridiculous for any of us to think we must be perfect.
Physical wounds can’t be hidden as easily as emotional and psychological wounds. And that’s a gift. Physical wounds make us confront our mortality, our humanity. Physical wounds can’t be denied. They are tangible and force us to accept ourselves, with all our imperfections.
It’s impossible to get through life without being wounded. Some wounds are obvious. Others are internal, even spiritual: the loss of the ability to trust, to connect deeply, to hold a friend and know that you are loved.
We run away from wounds. Try not to look at them. We think they’re signs of weakness, but our wounds—the holes in us—provide a doorway, a soft spot in our armor. We walk around armored, protecting ourselves with platitudes and false smiles, never touching our own vulnerabilities, afraid to share our tender rawness with another or even with ourselves.
If we can touch the tender spots, allow ourselves to feel fear, sorrow, loss, we become closer to wholeness. The more we accept our holes, the more compassion we can have for others. When we feel compassion we are able to connect. We are able to expose our soft underbelly to another human being and share the salt of our tears, the sweetness of our joy. That’s what I want to write about, that’s what I want to share, because salt makes all the difference between a bland, protected life, and a true life: pulsing, bloody, messy, passionate and truly whole.
Flaws, or holes, are what make a character seem real—in life and in fiction. Perfection is impermanent, an illusion. A person who seems too perfect is repulsive. We don’t trust him. We know that person can’t be real. Holes speak of truth. Holes allow us to connect, to ourselves and to each other. Our holes make us human, make us beautiful. Holes allow the light to shine through.
If someone had asked me last spring, “Would you give up a toe in order to learn, in order to have time to write your next novel?” I might have said, “Yes.”
Funny, how life works.
Sometimes life changes in a day. I work for an airline, and this past summer a gigantic jet-stair ran over my toes. That got my attention. I’d been asking for a break, and boy did I get one! My story has a happy ending: the accident gave me time to finish my recently released novel, Hetaera—Suspense in Ancient Athens. It also gave me time to connect with the Indie Chicks; what a fantastic group of women! We wrote an anthology together and all the proceeds go to fighting breast cancer—the disease that took my mother. I hope you enjoy, Holes, my contribution to the Indie Chicks Anthology. Sometimes discovering our holes, our weakness, allows us to become more compassionate and ultimately more whole.
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
Links:
My blog: Who’s Imagining All This?
Suzanne Tyrpak on Facebook
Twitter: @SuzanneTyrpak
[easyazon_link asin=”1460943147″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Vestal Virgin: Suspense in Ancient Rome[/easyazon_link]
[easyazon_link asin=”B006KYE4ZM” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Hetaera–Suspense in Ancient Athens (Agathon’s Daughter)[/easyazon_link]
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After writing forever, I decided to finally go down the independent road in 2008. At that time, it was called self-publishing and the track I decided to take was POD. Part of my reason for the move was that my books had been declared commercially viable by the UK literary consultancy that assessed them, but in every instance they were declined by the Big Six.
The only time I had any sort of meaningful comment prior to POD publication was from a highly regarded English agent who said she loved the novels and knew she would kick herself for declining but felt I lived too far away to engage with. I know I reside in the southern hemisphere, in a place called Australia, but this is a new world in which we exist. Amazingly there is a thing called email, something else called Skype and even video-conferencing, so I was rather gobsmacked at her antiquated approach. This, I felt, was the time to take my destiny in my own hands!
You see, I was getting older and with age comes a degree of intransigence and that was when I took up the POD offer… basically in a fit of disgust at the ‘old ways’.
I did everything right: good covers, great PR, super website and then a blog with which to engage with the reading public, even radio and print media interviews… you name it, I did it. Book Two came out and I continued to sell to a niche market online and in stores. At one point, my first novel took the prime display position in bricks and mortar stores, selling more than any other unknown first release for that chain.
Then, whilst working on A Thousand Glass Flowers, I had the misguided idea that it would be nice to secure an agent who could handle all this PR and marketing stuff and maybe help me push the barrow further. With the success of the first two novels under my belt, with stats of web and blog hits as well, I contacted the first Australian agent on my list.
Imagine my surprise when two days later, on a Friday afternoon, she rang me to talk business.
Her first comment after a loud monologue on her credentials was ‘Why in the hell did you POD your first two books?’ Ironic snicker followed this acid question.
‘Because I was tired of submitting the old way and getting nowhere in a very long time.
‘But you’ve signed your own death warrant.’
‘Then why are you talking to me?’
‘I am intrigued that you managed to get the web hits and the book-sales you have.’ Her tone was sarcasm incarnate. Something about good books and hard work was on the tip of my tongue.
I was so flummoxed at this point that I allowed her to ram-raid me and roast me. Heaven help me, I agreed to send her mss of the first two novels (even though they had been published!) Perhaps I am a masochist. Who knows?
She read them and sent them back slashed to pieces. These were fantasy novels about love, loss, grief and revenge, novels that have secured 5 star reviews. She had deleted every conceivable piece of emotion from the manuscripts so that they expressed nothing. If she read them right through, I’d have been surprised as she asked elementary questions about the plot resolution… questions that were answered in the denouement of each of the novels. Her editing was unbelievable, her spelling appalling and she got my name and address wrong for the return of the mss. Now remember… this is supposedly one of the top agents in my country, top obviously not equating with manners and sensibility.
When I rang her to say politely, thanks but no thanks, she lambasted me and said, ‘You are a self-fulfilling prophecy. Small-time.’
My reply was that if she had taken me on, what a good talking point she would have had about her exciting new author. As it was, I continued, I was declining any further involvement with her as my books were out there and selling.
‘You have committed professional suicide.’
***
In the last three years, this agent is the only negative in my writing career and far from depressing me, it proved to be the biggest shot of tenacity in the arm! Reverse psychology at its very best!
So guess what, Mrs. So Got it Wrong Agent, I’m having a ball. The books are now in e-form and selling well. My third novel consistently took a place in the Top 100 of Kindle novels in its category not long after publication. I’ve sold across the globe, I have a niche following, I’ve made the friends of a lifetime and I am master of my own destiny. There are two further books to be published in The Chronicles of Eirie and in a step sideways, my first ever historical fiction will be published in February.
And at this point in my life, I don’t regret not having an agent one bit!
***
Addendum: Whilst writing this piece for the Indie Chicks anthology, I nursed my little muse, the dog who would jump up behind me on my chair and sit whilst I typed. He had terminal cancer and in the intervening time between publication of the anthology and the posting of my piece on these blogs, he has gone quietly to his rest… a brave, funny companion who was my inspiration. I dedicate the above tale to him… to Milo.
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
Website: http://www.pruebatten.com
Blog: http://www.mesmered.wordpress.com
Facebook: Prue Batten
Twitter: pruebatten
Books may be purchased at: Amazon.co.uk http://amzn.to/v2mosZ
And at Amazon.com http://amzn.to/rHBVoy
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By Cheryl Shireman
I’m a Baby Boomer. Which means that I remember bell-bottoms, Happy Days, and having only three channels on the television. I played Donny Osmond albums on a record player. My parents watched Gunsmoke, and on Sunday nights we all watched The Wonderful World of Disney. In the living room. Together. On the only television we owned. Imagine that! I remember the first time I saw Bonanza in color. I remember the first time I heard about remote controls for televisions. The whole idea seemed ridiculous. With three channels, really, how often would it be needed? I remember the Watergate hearings playing on the television when I came home from school.
I also remember watching feminists (does anyone use that word anymore?) burn their bras and march for equal rights. I grew up believing that a woman deserves equal pay for equal work and that a woman is not defined by the man she marries or by the children she gives birth to. In fact, we were told that both men and children were optional. The idea seemed revolutionary at the time. It still does. Women were mad as hell and they weren’t taking it anymore. We called it Women’s Liberation, and though it was never said, it was certainly implied (and believed in most circles) that a woman who did not work was a bit inferior to a career woman. That was when such women were called housewives and not “stay at home” moms. Women were divided into two groups – those who worked and those who didn’t. Back then, no one thought that staying home and taking care of a family and home was work. The women of my generation wanted more, demanded more, and believed we were entitled to just that – more. We sometimes looked at our own mothers, most of whom did not have real jobs, as women who simply did not understand that there was more to life than being a mother. If truth be told, we thought they were a bit simple-minded and we secretly vowed to do more with our lives.
And yet…as this Baby Boomer looks at her life, I realize nothing I have ever done, or will ever do, is as important as being a mother. Not career, volunteer work, graduate school, or any creative pursuit. Nothing else even comes close to being a mother. Period.
One of my children lives half an hour away, another is one state away, and the third is on the other side of the world in Denmark. Yesterday, my husband and I spent the entire day with our two-year-old granddaughter. She then spent the night. As I write this, I hear her gentle breathing in the baby monitor positioned atop the table close to where I sit.
To say that my children, and now my granddaughter, have filled my life with love and joy is an understatement. As children, they expanded my heart in ways I could never have imagined. For the first time in my life, I not only understood, but received unconditional love. As adults, they are three people that I know I can always count on. They will always be there for me. Just as I will always be there for them. Can you say the same about your career?
There used to be a television show called Fantasy Island. People visited the island and lived out their fantasies – no matter how wild (okay, not that wild – this was primetime family tv in the seventies). Not too long ago, my husband and I had a discussion about that old tv show and asked each other – What would your fantasy be? Mine was easy. If I could have a Fantasy Island day, I would relive one day with my children. My son would be 10, which would make my daughters 4 and 2. We would spend the day doing whatever they wanted. Going to the park, going to the movies, playing games, baking cookies, or just sitting on the floor playing with Legos and Barbies. I would hug them a lot. And kiss the tops of their heads. And take tons of pictures. I wouldn’t cook. I wouldn’t clean. And I wouldn’t worry about my career.
I would watch my son show his younger sisters how to do things, like he always did in his older brother sort of way. I would watch my 2 year-old daughter follow her older 4 year-old sister around the room, shadowing her every move. Just as she did, even through their college years when they shared an apartment near Indiana University. I would watch the older sister taking care of her younger sister, as if she were her baby. Which is what she called her when she was born – my baby.
Bedtime would be later than usual on that fantasy night. I would tuck them into their beds, fresh from baths and smelling of shampoo. The girls smelling like baby lotion. My son would hug me goodnight with his long skinny arms and tell me he loves me. And I would feel the truth in that. I would tuck in my girls and tell them it is time to go to sleep. I would take extra care in covering the older girl’s feet, because she always kicked her blankets off during the night. I would kiss the baby and hold her a little longer, because I would know that, as I type this she is in Denmark which makes visiting tough.
And, as I walk down the hall and turn out the lights, I would call out to all of them, as I always did… “Goodnight. Love you. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.”
And that would be my fantasy day. Oddly enough, it has nothing to do with my career as a writer. Even though being a writer has always been my dream. My first novel, Life is But a Dream: On the Lake, was published earlier this year. The main character, Grace Adams, is a woman facing an empty nest and the possible demise of her marriage. Grace withdraws to a secluded lake cabin to redefine her life and try to find a reason to continue living. While at the lake, Grace not only finds renewed purpose and hope, but when things take a turn for the worse at the lake, she finds a strength she never knew she possessed. The novel is thought-provoking, sometimes frightening, and often funny (just like life). It is also, very definitely, fiction.
I’m not Grace. Even though my “nest” is empty, I am enjoying this time and this new focus on my career. I am not suicidal or lacking in purpose. My husband and I both work from home (he designs websites), we live on a lake, and our schedule is our own. It is truly a wonderful time in our lives. Sometimes I have popcorn for dinner. Enough said.
But, would my current life be as wonderful if I had not pursued career and graduate school and developed the skills I am using now? Probably not. I managed to combine work and school and motherhood. I believed I could have it all, and do it all, but to be honest – the kids always came first. And being a mother is the strongest and best part of my identity. It is the thing I am most proud of. My greatest achievement. And, once in a while, I miss those days when toys where scattered across the floor, the washer was always running, and we bought eight gallons of milk a week.
If you have children at home, cherish those simple every-day moments with them. They really will be gone in the blink of an eye – sooner than you can possibly imagine. Put this book down. Now. Go sit on the floor and play a game. Pop some popcorn, put on one of their favorite movies, and cuddle up on the couch. Live that “fantasy” right now. You will never be able to recapture these moments. Enjoy them now. There is no greater gift than the love of your children. Spend the rest of your day letting it pour over you. And pour your love right back over them. You can come back to this book tonight, after they are asleep.
As I type this, I can hear my granddaughter waking up. I am shutting my computer off. Right now, I am going to go upstairs and scoop her up from her crib. She will probably wrap her little arms around my neck and ask, “Play blocks, Bomb Bomb?”
And we will play blocks.
This is one story from [easyazon_link asin=”B0060ZTM62″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories[/easyazon_link] To read all of the stories, buy your copy today. Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels!
Also included are sneak peeks into 25 novels! My novel, Life Is But a Dream: On The Lake, is one of the novel excerpts featured. It is available at most online retailers in trade paperback as well as e-book formats.
Cheryl Shireman is the bestselling author of several novels, including [easyazon_link asin=”1461026504″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Broken Resolutions[/easyazon_link], the [easyazon_link asin=”B004JU21YU” locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Life is But a Dream series[/easyazon_link], and the [easyazon_link asin=”1478153652″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Cooper Moon[/easyazon_link] series. She is also the author of ten books for toddlers including the eight [easyazon_link asin=”1475291531″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]Let’s Learn About[/easyazon_link] series focusing on different animals and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660014″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Girls[/easyazon_link] and [easyazon_link asin=”1625660022″ locale=”US” new_window=”default” nofollow=”default” tag=”cherylshire03-20″ add_to_cart=”default” cloaking=”default” localization=”default” popups=”default”]I Love You When: For Boys[/easyazon_link].
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