Roadblocks

So, there comes a magical time in the life of every parent when their child's mouth becomes inflamed and swollen as teeth cut their way through their precious little gums. Alright, in all honesty, it isn't remotely magical. It's filled with crying and biting and whining.  There is an alarming lack of sleep involved as the boy doesn't sleep due to the hurt in his mouth, which keeps Mama awake all night. It's loads of fun. 

It also leads to an extreme decrease in productivity.  I began this entry two days ago, and am actually trying to finish it on my fifteen minute break at work. Why? It's the only time I've had to myself in a while.  At home, the boy works his way into my lap no matter where I sit, or what I'm attempting to accomplish.

Ok, the pity party is over.   A new publishing option was brought to my attention, though I should have thought of it on my own.  A friend mentioned that I shouldn't waste my time fishing for a literary agent or dish out the money to self-publish.  They recommended sending my manuscript to publishers directly.  I haven't had a chance to research it yet, but I have a sneaking suspicion that most publishers won't accept unsolicited manuscripts.  Who knows, though?  Maybe there are still a few small publishers that will take a gander.

I hope to begin researching publishers later this week while the boy naps.  We'll see if I get anything accomplished.  Here's hoping that blasted tooth comes out of the gum already and the boy gets a break from those pesky buggers for a bit.

The Rest of Chapter One

I haven't had time to devote to any additional publishing research as of late.  The boy turns one in less than a month, and all of my spare time has been going into making invitations and gathering party supplies.  I'm hoping that once that little milestone is behind us that I will find more time to focus on the book.

I'm still leaning toward Amazon for their self-publishing package, but want to explore a few more options to see if I can get a similar setup for less investment.  It's hard to convince myself that I want to invest $1750 in a book that still hasn't been edited completely.  I think that's where my desire to find a literary agent comes in.  If I had an agent's support, I would know at least one other person doesn't think this manuscript is crap.  Sometimes that's all you need, you know?

That being said, I have managed to finish up the edits for the remainder of chapter one.  You'll get to know Gram and the main character a bit better as this is where the dialogue actually makes its first appearance.  For me, the characters really live through the dialogue.  Sure, interior monologues can reveal a lot about the protagonist, but nothing makes them come alive like dialogue.  Interaction with other characters is what makes them well-rounded.  I hope mine doesn't leave them feeling flat or uninteresting. Hope you enjoy!




We ride down Route Three in silence.  It’s not a very long drive to get to the town of Lowville, but the silence stretches every second into an hour.  We pass over Beaver Falls.  I cracked my window to let fresh air into the car, and I can hear the water rushing over the rocks below the bridge.  Years ago, people would dive from the side of bridge, free-falling into the deep pool below the falls.  The river was swollen then and its depths made it safe to jump from the bridge's height.  Even those thrill seekers wouldn’t risk jumping from the bridge now.  The water is too low to survive the fall.  In places, it barely covers the rocks as it flows over them.
Even though the autumn night is chilly, I can hear the crickets send their songs across the river.  They fill the air around Beaver River with their high pitched chirping.  As we pull further away from the bridge, the cricket songs fade and the car lapses into silence again.  Soon, I find myself talking just to break the quiet.
"I'll put the kettle on the stove as soon as we get home, and I'll make you some tea.  I have that English Breakfast stuff that you like.  If you want, you can take a shower while water's boiling.  You'd be able to wash the smell of smoke out of your hair."
For a few seconds, I think she’s going to stay mute, and I struggle to think of something else to say.
"I think a bath might be nice.  I'd like to soak the smoke out of my skin."
"As soon as we get home, I'll show you where I keep the towels.  I can lend you a clean nightgown too, if you'd like."  I keep referring to my house as home, but for Gram, it isn’t.  We’re currently driving away from her home, or what is left of it, anyway.  To her, my house will never be home.  It will just be my house.   I scold myself for my poor word choice. Gram either doesn't notice or chooses to ignore it.
"Don't worry about making any tea, dear.  I think once I'm done in the tub that I'm just going to go to bed.  Don't trouble yourself."
"Are you sure, Gram?  It's not any trouble at all, and will only take a couple of minutes."
"No, no.  A towel and a nightgown will be just fine.  You should think about getting some sleep yourself."  I choose to ignore the implication that I look tired and run down, mostly because I know it is the God-honest truth.  I feel tired down to my bones.
"You sure you don't want any tea? Or maybe a light snack or something?" I know I'm being a bit pushy, but tea is the one consolation I'm able to offer to her. It would make me feel better to see her begin to relax with a steaming cup of tea in her hands.
"I could hardly eat a thing right now, honey." Gram continues to politely decline my weak attempt to comfort her, and I finally resign.
"Okay.  We'll both head to bed, then.  I'll fix breakfast in the morning.  I think we'll have a long day ahead of us."
"Why do you say that?" Gram sounds more tired than curious, but I answer anyway.
"Because we'll have to head out to the house tomorrow, you know, to see what's left."  I regret the words as soon as I've said them, and I suck a bit of air through my teeth.  Too abrupt.  They just popped right out.  I've never been known for my tact, and my frayed nerves have clogged the poor chat filter I normally do have. "Oh, Gram, I'm so sorry." I sputter, wishing I'd just kept my mouth shut.
"It's okay, dear.  You're right.  I'll have to face it one way or another.  Might as well get it out of the way."  She sounds drained and it seems to take a lot of effort for her to find her words.  I know she’s as exhausted as I am, although I am the only one of us who looks it.  I don’t know how she has made it through the night.  I wonder if I should be worried that, of the two of us, I’m the one that looks worse for the wear.  
We fall back into silence.  I don’t trust myself to make any more small talk.  If I stay quiet, at least I know I won’t mistakenly mention the house again, or worse, my grandfather.  My grandmother has lost a lot tonight, and I don’t want to force her to talk about anything she isn’t ready to discuss yet.  Thoughts of just how much she lost tonight occupy us both until I pull into my driveway.
My house is nothing fancy, but it I love it.  There‘s a small eat in kitchen, and the living room is through an open archway in the far wall.  When you’re standing under the kitchen archway, there is a door in the far wall of the living room that leads out to a set of concrete steps down into the front yard. To your left, there is a short hallway.  The bathroom is the first door on the left.  The second door is a closet that holds my linens and a bunch of other things that I don't have a better place to store.  The only door on the right is my guest bedroom.  The door at the end of the hall leads to my bedroom.  I’m happy to see that it’s shut.  Even as tired as she is, if Gram saw the state of my bedroom, she would still give me a lecture on cleanliness, for sure.  I lead her to the guest room.  There's a brass day bed against the right wall.  I have a small desk pushed into the left corner on the far wall.  During the day, the sunlight from the window on that wall sheds natural light on the desk top and makes it a great space to write.  A small closet set into the left wall offers extra storage for anything that won't fit into the set of drawers directly to the right of the door.  
“The dresser is empty.” I say. I point to the chest of drawers as if Gram may not be able to spot it on her own.  “The closet is also empty.  Since you'll be staying here for a bit, feel free to decorate the room however you want.  If you want to rearrange the furniture or anything, just let me know, and I'll help you move it.”
“I'm not going to rearrange your furniture.  It's fine where it is.  As for the closet and dresser, I don't have anything to put in them.  What you see is what I've got.” She says.  She grabs one side of her bathrobe in each hand and holds her arms out by her sides.
“I'm sorry, Gram. I forgot that you don't have any other clothes.  I'll take you over to Wal-Mart first thing in the morning to pick out some new things.  Let me grab you a clean nightgown.”
I don't like the way nightgowns tangle around my legs while I'm sleeping, so I usually won't sleep in them. I'm much more comfortable in a tank top and pair of shorts, but I know I have some nightgowns hidden away that were Christmas gifts from Gram.  Only guilt has kept them safe from Goodwill so far. I wade through the mess on my bedroom floor to my dresser.  The nightgowns are in the bottom drawer, and may be the only clothing I own that is actually in its place.  The majority of my wardrobe is currently on the floor of my room or in a laundry basket on top of the dryer.  I pick a white cotton gown out of the dresser drawer, not bothering to close it before I head back to Gram.
My grandmother is sitting in the center of the daybed when I walk back to the guest room.  Her legs are so short her soot covered black slippers hang a few inches from the hardwood floor.  The fake fur of the slippers is matted, and it looks like the fuzz may have melted in a few places.
“Here you go, Gram.” I say as I pass her the nightgown. She takes it from me with shaky hands.
“Thanks, Jody.”
“Is there anything else I can get you, Gram? You sure you don't want that tea?” I know, I said I resigned, but I have to push it one more time. I would really like to see her with some chamomile tea. I think it would be good for her nerves. Alright, maybe my nerves too, but mostly hers.
“No, honey. I'm just going to take a bath and then get to bed.”
“Ok," I say, really giving up this time. I pat her on the hand to let her know I'm really letting it go.  "The bathroom is just across the hall.  There are towels in the hall closet.  There should be an extra toothbrush under the bathroom sink.  Help yourself to anything else in the house.”
This time she just nods.  She slides down off of the bed and shuffles out into the hallway.  She closes the bathroom door behind her, and I hear water begin to fill the tub.  I can smell the smoke in my own clothes and hair, but I'm too tired to wait until Gram is done to hop in the shower.  I'll just shower in the morning. I peel my smoky clothes off and toss them in the pile by the bedroom door.  I pull my hair back into a loose braid to keep its smokiness away from my face.  I crawl into bed, and I think I fall asleep before my head even reaches the pillow.

A Taste of What's to Come

So, my husband has been out of town for the last week, which means I have had zero time to myself.  My eleven month old doesn't even let me pee by myself.  Needless to say, it has been difficult to find any time to devote to the book.  What about when he's sleeping you ask? This boy doesn't sleep. Not for longer than an hour at a time anyway (yes, even during the night), so if I ever want any work around the house to get done, it takes precedent. Unfortunately.

So, now that the hubby is back, I have hidden myself away to devote some much-needed attention to this book (and this blog).  I have a nice cup of tea and some yummy toast and jam, and I am ready to get down to business.

Ages ago, I posted the rough draft of the first chapter on an old blog.  I've decided I'm going to post the edited version here.  It's still a work in progress, and I am very open to criticism (even the nasty sort), so have at it.  I'm especially terrible at slipping in and out of present tense and using passive voice. I'm aware of these weaknesses, but a lot of errors still escape my notice.  To all of you grammar nazis out there: please use your red ink liberally.



Chapter One: The Survivor
The heat is suffocating, so we keep our distance.  The shadows of the flames flicker across our faces, and our eyes ignite as we watch the house burn.  Four eyes stare, entranced as the house sacrifices itself to the fire.
I glance at my grandmother.  Her aged cheeks are dry.  The heat from the flames prevents her tears from falling.  She stands silent, just as helpless as the rest of us.  I can’t recall a time when I have ever considered her helpless.  Yet even her well of control can’t douse the inferno before us, so we just watch it burn.
Ashes dance through the air, fiery around the edges at first, then fading as the air sucks the warmth from them.  One lodges itself in my grandmother's hair.  She’s unaffected by its landing.  I don’t think she’s even aware that a piece of her home now rests in her curls.  Although she was roused from sleep and forced to flee for her life, my grandmother's curls hold firm.  The ash in my grandmother's hair is pale gray, only a few shades darker than the hair around it.  It comforts me to see she doesn't look disheveled.  In a small town like this, and for a granddaughter teetering on the edge of freaking out, appearances are everything.  The burning would be even harder if its disaster was mirrored by her appearance.
My hand instinctively reaches up to my own hair.  Wisps fly around my face like the dancing ashes.  The elastic band just barely holds the bulk of my long hair away from my face.  I swat at a wayward piece of ash that floats in front of my nose.  The wind generated by my flapping hand catches it and pulls it further away from me, drawing my eyes back to my grandmother.  Her eyes stare at the hollow windows.  The heat of the force raging inside the house shattered them long ago.  I wasn’t here when the glass shattered.  The window frames already gaped by the time I got here.  The flames reach through the glassless frames, hungry for the oxygen in the open air.  The darkness of the night swallows the smoke as it rises away from the remains of the emblazoned house.  My grandmother's sharp eyes take it all in, her irises ignited like a setting sun.  Her face is radiant in the house's glow.
The powder blue paint bubbles and peels from the wooden siding like sunburned skin.  It cowers in front of the flames, dripping fiery blue drops onto the singed grass.  Bit by bit, the color is devoured until the siding becomes a charred remnant of its former self.  Pieces of it cling to the foundation it has held for more than fifty years, but I know it won’t be long until they, too, are torn away.  They glow bright orange when the wind blows against them, then fade into the night's blackness.
The streams of water from the fire fighters' hoses turn to steam when they meet the flames.  The water sizzles like oil in a frying pan, but is ineffective in dousing the flames.  Not long after they turn their hoses onto the house, one of them approaches us.  The bright yellow suit may be fire resistant, but I can see that the heat is still taking its toll on him.  When he lifts the visor of his helmet, I can see that his face is saturated with sweat.  Ash is beginning to clump in the wrinkles by his eyes and the creases in his forehead.  He avoids looking at my grandmother directly when he speaks.  The look on his face tells me everything that I need to know.  I don't even need to listen to the words that tumble out of his mouth, words that fall flat against the gravel driveway when met by my grandmother's ears.  The fire has defeated them.  It’s just too strong for their hoses to quell.  That look tells me that there is no more any of us can do except keep a vigilant watch to ensure the flames are contained within the house's shell.  My grandparents' house will only be able to feed the flames for a few more hours at the longest.  By then, the fire will run out of fuel and will burn itself out.  The fireman guarantees me that they’ll make sure the flames are doused completely before they leave.  There’s no reason for my grandmother and I to stay here any longer, no reason for us to witness the remaining damage that will be done.
Before he walks away, he puts a gloved hand on my grandmother's shoulder.  He apologizes for their late arrival, though it’s doubtful the house could have been saved either way.  My grandparents don’t live close to town, and the firetrucks arrived as quickly as they could.  Even if the call had been placed immediately, the fire station is at least fifteen miles from here, so it would most likely still have been too late for them to save anything.  I know he really just wishes there was more they could have done.  I wish the same thing.  I wish I knew what to say to my grandmother, or what to do to make this situation easier for her.
The fireman's last words to my grandmother assure her that it was painless.  Since the fire came while he was sleeping, my grandfather never woke up.  If the flames hadn’t taken him, the smoke inhalation would have.  The fireman tells my grandmother she’s lucky that she was able to get herself out of the house in time.  My grandmother just shrugs his hand off of her shoulder.  She doesn’t thank him for the words that were meant to bring comfort.  I know they failed to bring her relief, but at least he made the effort.
After a moment, the fireman slinks away, his duty to my grandmother completed.  I watch his hasty retreat back to the small circle of yellow coats near the fire engine with envy.  He won’t have to face my grandmother again after tonight.  He can go home to his family and never think about this fire again.  It's one tragedy in a long list that has left him personally unaffected.  Gram's eyes never leave the burning bedroom window.  I’m sure she’s not feeling particularly lucky, at all.
When they first arrived at the scene, the firemen gave us each a blanket.  The fabric is cheap and itchy against the bare skin of my arms, but it does provide minimal warmth.  Although the fire rages mere feet away from us, I drape the other flame resistant blanket around my grandmother's shoulders.  I hope the small warmth it offers will give her a little bit of comfort.  As soon as I let go, she snatches it off and throws it to the ground.  It crackles with static as it’s torn away from her bathrobe.
"I don't need that damned thing. I'm fine." She says without turning to me.  Her voice hisses like the water as it meets the heat of the house fire.  I’m a little annoyed with her for throwing the blanket onto the ground when she could have just handed it back to me, but I know she’s upset.  I let it slide.  Under the circumstances, her stubbornness is not surprising.  I pick the blanket up out of the gravel and shake it.  A puff of dirt and a few twigs flies into the air as I shake, but finds its way back to the driveway after a few seconds.  I roll the blanket into a ball and toss it into the backseat of my car.
My grandmother once made beautiful quilts.  She made one for each of us, and gave it to us when we graduated from high school.  A slave to convention, every stitch was done by hand.  She refuses to acknowledge the convenience of a sewing machine.  Quilts stitched by hand are something to be proud of.  Machines make cheap bed covers with shoddy stitching.  Her grandchildren deserve better.
The quilt she made for me is a log cabin pattern.  Every rectangle is a different pattern, but they’re all the same shades of blue and green.  I didn’t really care about it when she originally gave it to me.  I mean, how much can a teenager really care about a stupid blanket? I think I tossed it into the bottom of my closet.  I rediscovered it after I graduated from high school, and I packed it with the rest of my things when I went away to college.  Somehow, in the years I was away from home, the blanket grew on me.  I love it now.  It’s beautiful, even after years of spin cycles in the washing machine.  I keep it on my bed year round.  There’s absolutely no better feeling than crawling under that quilt on a frosty day in January.  It traps in your body heat and, slowly, chases away the chill.  My toes are always the last part of me to warm up beneath the quilt's bulk.
With the memory of my grandmother’s quilt so fresh in my mind, the fireman's blanket suddenly seems more itchy against my skin.  I take it off and throw it into the seat on top of my grandmother's.  I lean against my rear door, wrapping my arms around myself instead.  I can feel the cool metal door through my t-shirt, but it's a refreshing contrast to the heat of the fire.  I look over at my grandmother.  There isn’t a thing in the world that could divert her eyes away from those flames.  She stands in silence, wringing her hands.  I stare at her hands as she squeezes one, and then the other.  Her hands were once so dexterous, but arthritis has disfigured them to the point that they’re almost useless.  She hasn’t quilted in years, and I don’t think she’ll ever try to make a quilt again.  Her clumsy hands frustrate her too much.
After a few moments, I realize I need to get her away from here.  I know that if I don’t force her to go, she’ll never leave.  She’ll continue to watch her house get reduced to ashes, wringing her hands raw.  I walk over and touch her lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on, grandma.  Let's go back to my house." I say softly, like my words might hurt her if they came out any louder.
She's reluctant to leave, as I knew she would be.  I begin to lead her over to my car, pulling her gently by the arm.
"I'll make you some tea, grandma, and we can sit at the kitchen table and try to unwind a bit before going to bed."
My grandmother doesn’t look at me when I speak to her.  She doesn’t even make an attempt to continue the conversation.  Instead, she begins to resist me and plants her feet firmly in the gravel.  I stop pulling on her arm, fearing I may unintentionally hurt her if I don’t let go.  She looks at me and I see that her eyes are now moist, her mouth still set in a firm line.
"Please, just give me five more minutes.  I promise, then, I'll be ready to go."
Her voice wavers, and I can hear the anguish she is trying so hard not to show.  How can I refuse such a simple request?  I don't. I stand beside her for the entire five minutes.  I might even throw in a few extra for good measure.  This time, when I lead her to the car, she offers up no resistance.
Once I have her settled into the passenger side of my silver Honda Civic, I climb behind the wheel.  My grandmother's eyes are fixed on the passenger window, but I know she is really looking beyond the glass.  I can see the house reflected in her eyes.  She doesn’t turn away until the house dips below the horizon and the darkness of the night finally swallows the glow of the flames.

The Waters Deepen

So, what did we learn today, kiddos? That tracking down a literary agent is a hell of a daunting task.  We begin with a basic Google search.  The top websites are AgentQuery and Writers.net.  When we open up their homepages, the screen is so swamped with ads, that it's hard to navigate.  There are so many links to click that's it hard to decipher what is text and what is a link to another page.  It's beyond frustrating and many pop-up windows are involved.

When I finally figure out which links are friends and which are money-sucking foes, I browse through some results.  Writer's.net doesn't have an option to search by area.  Does it even matter if your agent is close to you? How often will you actually even speak to these people? Who knows?  I opted to search for those that are within a reasonable driving distance from where I live.  This opened up the greater DC Metro area.  I was repeatedly met with 'only established authors' and 'closed to new submissions'.  Those that were accepting new queries paid much less in royalties than the self-publishing route.  Many offered 10-15% of the royalties.  There is a huge difference between 10% and the 40-85% offered by Amazon, Barnes&Noble, and Smashwords.  On top of that, some agents charge reading fees.  That's right, folks.  These agents can charge me money to send me a letter of rejection.  Fabulous.

So, this leads me to believe self-publishing may be the best option.  Sure, I will have to promote the book myself.  It won't sell nearly as many copies as it would if I could get an agent to sell it to a major publishing house, but the process will be much quicker and I might still be able to turn a small profit.  To be honest, I'm not really in it for the money anyway.  There's something exciting about seeing your own book in print.  Although, I can't pretend I wouldn't be outrageously overjoyed if my book was an indie sensation. Let's make it happen, folks, let's make it happen.

It begins

So, in 2010, I took the NaNoWriMo challenge to write a novel in a month.  I never figured I would reach the 50,000 word goal, but I did, and I continued to write and polish the original manuscript.  I'm still in the editing stages (and beginning to think I always will be), but I wanted to check into publishing options.  I figured researching the end goal would give me the extra kick in the ass I need to see this novel get finished.

It turns out the world of publishing is a hell of a lot more complicated than I want it to be.  With Amazon/CreateSpace, self-publishing has become a viable option.  They have made it (relatively) affordable to get your book into print, and will even help you with the more daunting tasks of copy-editing and book design.

I haven't even begun to see if attaining a literary agent is even a possibility, but know it will be a necessity if I want to go with conventional publishing.  Query letters confound me, and I'm honestly afraid they will tell me I am wasting their time.  At least with self-publishing, the only person's whose time and money will potentially be wasted is mine...

Seems like I am slowly sapping my own optimism here.

So, the tl;dr here is I want to self-publish, but am afraid I will fail at marketing and the book will be a flop.