Happiness is a book contract

I have waited a long time to say this, and here it goes:

I have signed a contract with a publisher, a three-book contract with Black Opal Books.

I am beyond thrilled.

I am beyond giddy.

I am sore from jumping up and down, but I still hop whenever I think about it

I have no release dates yet. The editing process takes a while — anywhere from six to eighteen months — but my thriller, No Stranger Here, and the first two books of my mystery/suspense series, Dead Man’s Eyes and Never Broken, will finally make their ways into readers’ hands.

I have Pennwriters to thank.

I first heard about Black Opal Books in May during a Pennwriters conference, where I met a couple of authors who had signed with the Oregon-based company. It is important to be cautious with small publishers. I’ve heard stories about contracts and rights lost when small publishers folded, but Black Opal Books has been around for a while. They are also approved by Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers, two high-profile groups that advocate for crime writers.

Even more important though was that the authors I met were happy. Black Opal Books was founded by people in the publishing industry who wanted to do more for authors. They wanted to publish high-quality, well-edited works while offering a percentage of royalties that surpasses the big publishing houses.

I looked into submitting when I returned, but the publisher was closed to submissions until June.

The summer got busy with a family reunion and the high school graduation of our oldest. In the midst of it all, I forgot about submitting to Black Opal Books, focusing instead on writing a new novel. Then I got an email from Pennwriters. I had won first and second places in the organization’s 2017 Novel Beginnings Contest. Pennwriters wanted updates from past contest winners for its newsletter. I remember my conversations about Black Opal Books.

This was in November. Black Opal Books was open for submissions until Dec. 31.

So I did it, and I am glad that I did.

I will post more about the release dates when I know more.

And now, if see me hopping, you’ll know why.

On the verge

Update: More patience is required. I’m told one more week!

We all handle rejection differently.

Some laugh. Some cry. Some get mad, allowing jealousy to devour their ambitions.

My own practice has been to remind myself that the timing could be much better, that it’s okay, and maybe even beneficial, to wait a little longer.

I began working on my first novel when our oldest was a toddler and our daughter was an infant. That was sixteen years ago. Since then, we have grown as a family with the addition of twins, who are twelve. I completed four novels between cross-country moves and part-time gigs as an adjunct instructor, a book editor, a freelancer and a taxonomy specialist, and I started two more. I self-published a nonfiction book as well.

I went through two literary agents and a couple of “almosts” from acquisition editors during that time. It was disappointing. No doubt. But I knew that publication in the early years of parenthood would leave me torn between my passion for my kids and my passion for my work.

My kids will always need me, but their needs were more physically intense in the earlier years. With each rejection, I told myself there would always be time to become a successful author, but that the window for successful parenting was limited. That was my consolation.

It was okay, I said. I could wait.

But the kids are older now.

I am ready and so are they.

I have exciting news to share, but I need to be patient just a little bit longer.

More next week!

Bye-bye Kindle Fire; Hello Kindle Paperlight: In search of a mentally healthier diet

I thought I was done with e-books, that for me, they were a passing fad.
My Kindle Fire often lost its charge due to lack of use. I found myself attracted to it only when I had writer’s block and, even then, I ignored the books I’d bought, seeking something more mindless. I played Angry Birds, determined to get three stars on each level.
Then, one day, one of our seven-year-olds burst into tears. His refurbished Kindle Fire has lost its ability to take a charge. He’d been playing Minecraft with his twin. I let him use mine, figuring I didn’t really need it.
And that got me thinking.
My sweet husband had bought me a Kindle nearly seven years ago, soon after they were first introduced. He wanted me to have something I could throw in my diaper bag and take anywhere when the twins were babies. I was starving for mental stimulation at the time. I devoured book after book.
The end came when he replaced my simple reader with a Kindle Fire.
Suddenly, I had all kinds of distractions at my fingertips. Yes, I could read, but I could also play games, check my email and surf the Web. Each time I picked it up, I had to make a decision and, when my brain was exhausted from writing, I chose mental junk food.
I chose Angry Birds.
I fully returned to physical books for reading, but I read only when I consciously made the time, when I knew it was safe to pull myself out of reality and let my mind drift in another universe. With four children and a traveling husband, I found it harder and harder to give myself permission. I read less and less.
My Kindle Fire, I realized, had become a bad habit, much like the handfuls of semi-sweet chocolate chip morsels I would grab from the pantry when I was tired. Angry Birds was junk food for my mind, the temporary boost that left me mentally malnourished.
What would happen, I thought, if I eliminated the temptation?
I took the plunge.
Without allowing myself time to think, I gave my Kindle Fire to my son and ordered the Kindle Paperlight, a lightweight version of the device that does nothing but allow owners to read. With it, I ordered a cover that turns the Kindle on instantly when it is opened.
From the moment I first held it in my hands, I was in love.
This devices calls me. With nothing else to do, it begs for an unread book, forcing me to buy a new one when the last one is complete. I can’t help but to comply. It reloads in an instant, and then sits there within reach, begging me to read that book, the only thing it has to offer, even as I sit at my laptop and write.
It’s a trick of the mind.
I know that.
But it’s gotten me reading again.
I’m floored by the time I wasted on other distractions. With the new Kindle, I worry less that I will become too immersed to read just a few pages at a time because it saves my place when I close the cover and reopens to the very same spot, shouting, “Read me! You have no choice!”
No finding my place when a bookmark slips out. No finding a bookmark when I want to stop. No waiting until bedtime to read because I don’t want to be bothered. And, most important, no “home” button that offers a plethora of other choices.
Simple.
I’ve read three full novels since I received it two weeks ago and I’m also reading a physical book that I keep on my treadmill. The balance between physical books and e-books is back as is the joy of escape.
Perhaps my battle with chocolate chip morsels inspired me. That habit was born with the twins, a product of exhaustion. A few weeks before I ordered the new Kindle, my sister Kathy persuaded me to add two ounces daily of eighty-six percent cocoa bars to help prevent cancer (She is on her third battle and determined to beat it.).
After just a week of healthier chocolate, I realized I hadn’t touched the morsels. The craving was gone. I ran out of dark chocolate two weeks ago, forgetting to replace it, but I still have no craving. Nor do I have a craving for Angry Birds.
I have a healthier body and a healthier mind.

Writers as book club members: Is it even possible?

When we first moved to rural Pennsylvania three years ago, a few well-meaning folks suggested I join a book club to get to know like-minded people.
I thought about it … for about two minutes.
While I would greatly enjoy the wine (What’s a book club without wine?) and the socialization, I know I would be a lousy and annoying member.
I cannot think of a novel I have read in at least the past two decades without an edge of criticism, and it’s not the kind of criticism other readers would want to hear.
It’s sentence structure.
It’s word choices.
It’s how well and with how much artistry the author has suspended my disbelief.
It’s logical flow of plot and voice.
It’s pacing.
It’s whether the facts are right (because, yes, a good author strives for accuracy even in fiction).
While other members reach for deeper meaning, I can imagine myself reaching for a red pen.
So my question is this: Am alone in this?
Can writers succeed as book club members?
Or should we just skip the criticism and stick with the wine?
Do you, as a writer belong to a book club, or do your book club have a writer as a member?

Who Am I Now? Honest Conversations with Stay-at-Home Moms

Five years ago, I had an idea.
A great idea, according to several agents and publishers.
Who Am I Now: Honest Conversations with Stay-at-Home Moms was supposed to be a collection of interviews with mothers of all ages from all over the country who discussed, entirely in their own words, the sociological, the financial, the psychological and the physical impacts of their decisions to remain home with their children.
No condescension from the experts, no supermoms held up as role models: only candid interviews with real women of all ages.
More than a dozen women, strangers at first, gave selflessly of their time, their hearts and their souls to make this book happen.
Their motivation was not money.
There were no promises of compensation.
They spoke to me because they wanted to help.
They were no longer strangers by the time we were through and I am forever grateful that I had the opportunity to know them.
I couldn’t wait to share their experiences, their raw honesty, their wisdom with the world.
But then came reality.
Pull a parenting book off the shelf.
Chances are the author is a celebrity of some sort — a talk show host, an already well-known writer, an actor, a nationally or internationally renown doctor. The publishers who were interested in Who Am I Now? wanted that same status from me.
They wanted me to freelance for national parenting magazines, speak at conferences, blog on parenting sites — do anything I could to become a “parenting expert” before they would consider publication.
But I am not an expert and I never will be.
I am a stay-at-home mother of four who was once a journalist and is now writing fiction. I am a woman who struggled with staying home, who took comfort in the voices of others and who wanted share that comfort with others who were struggling. I was to be the compiler of Who Am I Now?, not the writer, not the expert.
It has pained me to think that those women wasted their time, their energy and their honesty.
So I had another idea.
Every two weeks for the next several months, I will publish one of those interviews on this blog.
I will promote the blog wherever I can and I will count on the interviewees to share as well.
Together, we’ll get the word out. We’ll reach those moms who need us, those mothers who are struggling with their new roles and with the identities they left behind, who are searching, sometimes through eyes swollen with tears, for the answer to that question: Who Am I Now?

Once published, each segment will be available on a new blog: Who Am I Now? Honest Conversations with Stay-at-Moms.

Slump. Please help.

I am in a reading slump.
And it’s disappointing.
Until recently, I’d always had two or three books going at once. I kept one on my nightstand, one on the kitchen counter and one near the treadmill in the basement.
Now, only the nightstand holds a book and it’s gathering dust.
I just haven’t had time to pick it up.
Time.
Maybe that’s the problem.
I haven’t used the treadmill since summer.
I’m always on the defensive in the kitchen these days, trying to keep our very-independent twins from emptying the fridge, pretending to cook on the stove and pushing chairs up to cabinets to get the van keys out of my purse.
I never seem to sleep anymore.
I have too much to do.
But I love to read.
I crave a good novel.
I enjoy the escape.
This is a place where I cannot remain.
It is time to map a new course.
The trouble is that I don’t know where to begin.
Do I try to get more sleep, foregoing the measly hour a night I get to hang out with my husband, cuddle, watch silly sitcom reruns and talk uninterrupted?
Do I climb on the treadmill more often, ignoring the editing, writing, cleaning and cooking that tear me in other directions? And, oh yes, our four kids?
Do I remove all glass and hot sauces from the fridge, disconnect the gas from the stove and disable the horn button on my key chain so I can just set the twins loose in the kitchen while I read?
Or am I looking in the wrong direction entirely?
Is it the novels?
Is that the problem?
It seems that over the summer, the novels I picked up were impossible to put down. They pulled me out of my world with so much force that I couldn’t resist. Not even four kids, a messy house and a pile of unedited interviews could keep me in reality.
Nothing I’ve read lately has done that for me.
So, perhaps, it’s not the time constraints at all.
Maybe, what I really need is a good book.
Any suggestions?