Hiatus and Hope

I’ve been offline for a while and I apologize for not keeping up with my posts. Even my Facebook folks know I’ve disappeared for a while. I could give you the usual reason of the day job and life in general overwhelming me, and they would be true. However, life overwhelms everyone, particularly during the holidays.

However the real reason for my absence is that an opportunity came up that looked invaluable to my career. It proved time intensive as well and everything went fluid and understanding (God bless kind husbands) went on hold while I dove into it.

The wonderful event involved a literary agent requesting that I make changes to my manuscript, Specter of a Chance, and then email her the whole thing. The suggested changes all revolved around tightening up the story, which only helped with flow once I saw what she was talking about. No one to date has asked for the whole manuscript so imagine my feelings when I saw those words in the email.

My tears welled up with joy.
My mouth broke into a broad, beaming smile.

A few seconds later, my hands began to shake.
My heart pounded in anxiety.
My brain started shouting, “don’t screw this up!”

Once calm reality set in, I made a plan to put changing the manuscript, a long and meticulous effort, over everything else. Writing on the new work stopped. Dinners became a parade of insta-meals and takeout. In addition, social media moved to the back burner.

Specter of a Chance has flown off on the wings of electronic angels. After scrubbing my nasty looking house and cooking a feast for loved ones, I entered the waiting mode and dealt with neglected projects. Oh, and I started obsessively checking my email twenty times a day for replies.

The moral is that when an editor or literary agent asks for changes, or a part of your book, get it to them ASAP. Don’t send crap. Take the time to polish it to perfection but don’t let it lay around for months. Don’t give them time to forget why they liked the little samples.


A 2015 photo of a Michigan lighthouse. Notice the frozen lake beyond. It is opposite to what we are seeing this year.

As ever, happy writing!

Should Critique Groups Include Children?

Most of this story actually occurred, but I’ve changed names and details so my writers’ group won’t rage and come after me with pitchforks and torches. I added some exaggeration as well, but not much.

Once I took the only remaining seat in the writers’ circle, I stared at the person next to me, noticing the wholesome face, bright eyes, and glint of braces on her teeth. Having heard about us from a poster on a bulletin board, sixth-grader Daphne radiated happy enthusiasm at joining the adult group.

I wondered how this new situation would play out. The assembly at the table included mostly those nearing retirement, my middle-aged self, and two twenty-something ladies. Some of them were hobby writers while a few were interested in a career in publication. But a kid? Daphne happily bounced in her chair, whispering to me questions about the group, which only added to the dull roar of everyone else talking at once.

The leader shouted for attention and we started going around the room, reading our selections. The doubts ate at my mind as I brought my selection out. Why is she here? My stuff isn’t kid friendly. How can I possibly read this out loud?

As the evening progressed, the memoirs and poems that folks read aloud stayed G-rated and lovely. Daphne added comments here and there but mostly asked sotto voce questions to me about “what did she mean…?”

When I answered in a low voice, the leader glared at us for talking around the others, and loudly suggested only one voice at a time should speak. Okay, now I feel like the twelve-year-old who got caught passing notes in the back of middle school English class. My sense of professionalism limped away to cry quietly in the corner.

The next contributor’s story focused on funeral arrangements in some detail. Daphne’s eyes widened a bit as she whispered more urgent questions to me on the side.

“People read about this?”

“Yes. You can write about anything. Lucy’s making a point about how this major event really changed her life.”

“So this is real?”

“Yeah, it is a memoir. Sometimes people find creative ways to write about the events in their lives.”

Her blue eyes widened even further. “I didn’t think anyone wrote about dead people.”

I smiled at her and nervously shifted my thriller/horror piece about a kidnapper tormenting and then killing his victim. “Uhm, yeah. Adult fiction often does.” Thank God I didn’t bring my ghost story then.

Her 12-year-old attention span swung back to the offered comments on Lucy’s piece while I stared at my manuscript.

Holy crap, how could I read this aloud while she was in the room? At the same time, I wanted this piece reviewed before I started submitting it to a few choice contests.

            Brenda went next, taking time to explain to Daphne who the characters in her fantasy story were, including a weasel the size of a horse. Once she finished, I raised my hand and offered a suggestion. Yes, we are back in grade school again, I thought.

“The part where you’re talking about describing her as a ‘courtesan in rags’ caught my attention. The word, courtesan, has very specific meanings as an entertainer beyond the obvious connotation. They usually look beautiful, like geishas. The rags part kind of doesn’t fit.” My eyes flickered over to young Daphne for a moment. “Perhaps it would be better to use a more, ahh earthy word… you know, “earthy?” Like a “w” word that is more … aah, well…earthy?”

The older poet on the other side of me turned and said, “like woman?”

“Ahh, yeah…” Daphne watched with the intense laser vision of a child trying to comprehend some mystic secret. “You know, earthy woman…” Now I’m squirming a bit, wondering why I spoke up at all.

Brenda nodded, “Yeah, I get it. That kind of woman,” finally relieving me of my discomfort.

Next it is my turn. “Ahh…” I hesitated, biting my lip. Since we pass out copies for folks to read along, skipping the offending parts wouldn’t work. “My material has some rather fruity terms. I’m not sure I should read it tonight.”

The reviewers, which included at least three-fourths of the women in the “grandma” category, exchanged looks just as Daphne calls out “Hi, Mom!”

We all turn to the tall figure by the door. Flooded with relief, I thought, great, I’m saved by the parent!

            Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Mom, probably encouraged by the fact an adult group was taking her young author seriously, offered the child more time for us to finish up.

When I protested, again mentioning the fruity language in my content, she laughed and said, “she’s probably heard it all before.”

            Okay….at least they were warned.

So I started reading. The “bullshit” phrase flew off with only a giggle from Daphne, but then we got to “his foot first connected to the man’s genitals” phrasing and I paused. Damn! Forgot about that phrase. After a nervous cough from one of the others, I continued.

“Attack me one more time and you’ll learn there are quick ways to die and slow ways. I’ll just blow a finger off or put one into your balls.”

Another nervous cough came from the leadership section and a giggle from the junior chair. Luckily, the rest of the material proceeded without much more than a few death threats and references to Edgar Allen Poe (and Daphne asking, “Who’s that?”).

The reviewers chimed in their comments, which were positive and helpful. I wrote them down while fielding questions from the youngster,

“Why did he kidnap the guy?”

“He wants revenge.”

“Why is he in the cave?”

“I’ll explain that next week when I read the next section.”

“He’s really mean.”

“Uhmm, well yeah. He’s the bad guy.”

On my way home, I pondered the conflict that I felt with having a kid in our group. On one hand, I believed in nourishing a love of reading and writing from a young age, picturing little inquisitive Daphne as the next great literary genius. On the other, I realized I couldn’t read the rest of the story, which included such fine quality words like “prick” (as in the body part) and a graphic description of rats eating their way through a man’s stomach. Nor could I later read sections of my book, which included a tasteful but necessary sex scene and joking references to necrophilia. My ears already burn a bit red at the thought of reading controversial stuff to friends and colleagues. Daphne might find it amusing but, channeling my own motherly concerns, I didn’t feel comfortable with her hearing my material.

Personally, I hope she finds us boring enough after a few visits to stop coming. As selfish as it sounds, I want the ability to provide R-rated material to the critique group. It is what I write and the way I think. Keeping myself to G-rated stories really limits my options for feedback, and I didn’t plan on leaving the thriller and horror genres. In addition, I’m can easily picture the scenario where she brings in her work, with all the mistakes and issues found in the very young author’s material. Sometimes it is hard enough to listen to bad amateur writing from an adult. Will she really understand the nuances of “show, don’t tell?” If we offer a range of suggestions for improvement, will she react with pouting, exasperation, or even a fit? Some newbie adults do and it is unpleasant. I dread finding out how a child would react.

So dear readers, what is your opinion on this issue? How would you feel about having children present during your critique group?