An Indie Chick writes out the grief…

Melissa Smith’s story sent shivers down my spine. Grief is the most profound emotion. It often features in my novels in various ways and I dig into my soul and recall the feelings I had when Dad died. I think you should just read on and see what she has to say…

Writing Out the Grief

Melissa A. Smith

A common question people ask a writer is what made them decide to sit down and start writing in the first place. For me, it was grief.

While in high school, I wrote. I had taken journalism and the teacher loved my writings. Two pieces of my work had been published in two different school publications. I was also asked to join the staff for the school paper, but declined. I just didn’t like writing the things wanted for a paper. I liked creating stories to take you places. Inventing new worlds and people to live in them. I stopped writing after getting out of school and didn’t start again for several long years.

December 2008 had started like any other December before it. I was out shopping for those perfect gifts for each member of my family, and loving every minute of it. By my side was my shopping partner. My mom. My best friend. This year was a little different, as we made our rounds trying to get most of her shopping done earlier than her normal pace of slow (she was known to be out shopping as late as Christmas Eve), because she was set to have her final knee replacement surgery on the 19^th. That day was also the last day of work I had before school let out for Christmas Break.

We had almost done everything she’d wanted to have done, done. But there were still a few things to gather, like stocking stuffers and things of that nature. She went in for her surgery and everything went great! The last time she’d been in the hospital, for the first knee 6 months prior, she’d contracted hospital-acquired pneumonia. Her doctor, wanting her to be healthy for the rigorous knee therapy that follows two days after surgery, released her the following day. The 20^th.

Wanting to forgo giving you all the details, I received a phone call early on the 21^st. A phone call no one wants to get. My father, who’d awoken to find his partner for the past 34 years gone, couldn’t make that call. The responding police officer had to do it for him. Pneumonia had taken her from us.

So started my decent into grief.

We were supposed to do some shopping before I took her to physical therapy that day. We were supposed to do a lot of things during my break, because she too had it off for recovery.

Instead, I had to help my dad organize a funeral.

During the year and a half that followed, I read over 230 books. All while working full time and tending to a family.

It was the start of summer vacation in 2010 when I’d run out of books to read. I dove into spending time with my boys and vegging at the pool daily. I thought it had been long enough, and maybe the grief wouldn’t be so sharp. I was wrong. Without having someplace for my mind to wander, to live in, I was a mess of tears.

It was then I’d woke up in the middle of the night, leaving a dream that made my brain buzz. I tried to shake it off, leave it where I found it. In my dreams. But it wanted to be let out. So I sat down in secret and started writing.

At first when my family noticed my switch from books to the computer and all my constant typing, they asked what I was doing. I lied. I told them I was writing to my sister who lives in Texas. At first they bought it, but as the typing went on, they were puzzled as to why I didn’t just call her and talk to her. Again, I lied. But this time I said she’d asked me to write down some things about our mom.

While they still were puzzled by all the clicking going on at the keyboard, they left me alone.

Three months later, I’d written and finished my first novel. Cloud Nine. During that time I also started on another story which I finished and released four months later.

While writing started out as therapy for a grieving soul, it is now something I must do to keep all the exciting characters quiet. I love it! I only wish it could have developed without such dark beginnings, but nonetheless, my mother would be proud.

******

This is one story from Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble

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Also included are sneak peeks into 25 great novels!

My young adult paranormal romance, Cloud Nine is one of the novels featured.

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Honestly…

I’d had a good morning. Dressed in my city jeans, city shirt and city shoes (favourite camel JP Tods bought from the USA), city perfume, city makeup, jewelry, clean hair … you know, the sort of thing you do when you are going shopping. Not dressed up to the nines but a damn sight better than the last five months of aged shorts or farm jeans.

I went to the kitchen shop and replaced some of my aged cooking utensils, to the bathroom shop and bought new loo brushes, to the carpet shop to get samples so that we can replace our damaged carpet, to the hairdresser’s to track down Morrocan oil, to the newsagent’s to buy glue to stick down the tape that binds embroidery hoops ready for next week’s Master Classes.

Then took lunch to the farm for OH who was foot-paring today.

And that was my mistake.

He was in the farmyard close by the barn, opening gates.

‘I need your help to move the barn paddock (all paddocks have names) mob to the yards.’

‘But I haven’t got my boots.’

‘You won’t need them. Take the ute, I’ll take the four-wheeler.’

So I parked my car. Hopped out, walked daintily across damp grass looking down, seeing water stains gathering on the shoes. Sighing. Climbed up (like a rock wall for me) into the ute, and took off into the paddocks after OH. We rounded up the flock and began to drive it toward the yards … not so bad, shoes might dry, and the dust inside the ute mightn’t leave too many marks on my pale blue shirt.

Got to the yards and the mob did the time-honoured thing of stalling at the gates, thinking ‘yes, no, yes, no’ and making a break past us. Stopped them.  Back to the gates. Realised that I would have to get out of ute to start making appropriate sheep-moving noise: ‘Hut, hut, hut, HO!’ Whistling, clapping hands. (The kelpie pushes with a  little too much force so we only use her right inside the yards). Sighed as I jumped down onto sheep poo. Hopped from pad of grass to pad of grass, cursing OH, sheep and life.  Doesn’t he realise how much I love my JP Tods? Stones, dirt, manure … gee thanks, darl!

All done.

He and the contractor began work and I took myself off home, climbing the cream carpeted stair and forgetting to look underneath my shoes to make sure they were clean.

Left a trail of sheep poo all perfectly imprinted with the JP Tod rubber stop marks.

It’s sooo lucky we’re getting new carpet!

I think I can, I think I can…

Bells ring when I read Michelle Muto’s story of how she came to be published. I often say of my books, when I see a wonderful spike upward in their sales, that they remind me of the little engine that could, puffing up the hill and saying ‘I think I can, I think can.’

That is exacly what Michelle’s books have done. And then some!

Read on…

THE MAGIC WITHIN AND THE LITTLE BOOK THAT COULD

That’s what I’ve been calling The Book of Lost Souls, the book that started my path to publication. I’ve always loved to write. I’ve always loved the way imagination and words blend on a page, the way they transport a reader to faraway worlds, or right next door, where witches live. From the time I was very young, books were an amazing world to me. There was no greater joy than going to the library with my mother whose love of books knew no measure. When I was very young, my mother read to me every night. As I grew older, we’d talk about the books we were reading.

Even as a young child, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. But, writing wasn’t what paid the bills. I got a regular job and life went on, although I still dreamed of writing. My father always told me to believe in myself and to never give up on what I firmly believed in. A few years after his death, I took up writing again. My mother, who was now ill and who had moved in with my husband and me, was happy to read what I wrote, or to set the table in order to give me a few more minutes of writing time.

And so I wrote and edited and revised. Just before the book was ready to send to agents, my mother died. I set the book aside. Writing was too painful, too full of memories.

But, the stories in my head wouldn’t let up, and so after a few years I started writing again. This time, I wrote about a teen witch named Ivy and her life in a small town, and I quickly fell in love with the story and the eclectic group of characters. I think of it as Buffy meets Harry Potter. When I typed the last line, I actually felt a pang of sorrow—I didn’t want to say goodbye. Ivy and her story became The Book of Lost Souls, and after polishing it up, I sent it off to agents. Plenty were interested and requested the full manuscript. Unfortunately, most of them thought the book was too light. Too cute. Too Disney. They offered to read whatever else I had, as long as it was darker. Darker sells! Or so they said.

So, after two revisions for two separate agents that eventually didn’t pan out (they said the book still had a lighthearted feel to it that wouldn’t appeal to publishing houses), I set The Book of Lost Souls aside and started working on an outline for a much darker book.

It was around this time that the economy began to collapse—hard—and I was given the pink slip on Friday the 13^th, right after I had completed a project that saved the company $400,000 annually. Say goodbye to eighteen years of loyal service! Suddenly, writing a darker, more dystopian book about the afterlife on top of losing my job seemed too much to take. Still, I recalled my father’s wisdom of believing in myself even when no one else did. I wrote and finished the next book, Don’t Fear the Reaper, in about seven months.

Still unemployed despite literally hundreds of applications, I began to worry we would lose our home or deplete our savings before I found a job. My career in IT was gone—off shored as they call it. I also wondered if I’d ever see any of my books published. I was so close to getting an agent so many times. Agents wrote back: You’re a strong writer. Or, The Book of Lost Souls is a great story and is well-written, but it’s not for me.

Nearly every morning, my inbox was filled with rejection letters from jobs and agents, yet I tried to stay positive. I kept repeating my father’s words to believe, to never give up. For every rejection, I sent out twice as many applications, twice as many query letters. I just tried harder.

I had been querying Reaper for about three months when I got an editorial letter from one of New York’s biggest literary agencies who’d had The Book of Lost Souls for nearly a year. A year! But, the letter was so enthusiastic about the story and my writing that I sat down and made every last revision they suggested. I turned it in and waited. Months went by. In the end, they rejected the story—not because they didn’t love it, but because in the year and change they’d had the manuscript, another client had submitted a proposal for a story about a teen witch. Conflict of interest, they called it.

And that was that. My novel, the book that was finished, was dumped for someone else’s book that hadn’t yet been written. Somewhat angry and depressed, I set The Book of Lost Souls aside. Again. By now, I was at the end of my rope. I was still unemployed and out of unemployment benefits. The only work I could find was the occasional short-term computer job, some tech writing gigs, or dog-sitting. Nothing full-time, and certainly nothing we could count on.

If the near-miss with Super Agency wasn’t enough, I found myself running into similar situations with Don’t Fear the Reaper. Now, agents were saying, Too dark! But, you’re a talented writer and we’d love to see other work. Or, You’re capable of incredibly incisive scenes—the opener is still one of the best things I read all year. And, my personal favorite, In this economy…

It was then that I learned about self-published authors such as Karen McQuestion and Amanda Hocking. I decided to go indie as well, starting with The Book of Lost Souls. What did I have to lose? A lot if I didn’t figure out a way for our household to stop hemorrhaging money. The only problem? I had no idea where to start. I sent an email to Ms. McQuestion, in the hopes she could point me in the right direction. She was so incredibly kind! Not only did she reply, she sent me a wealth of information on self-publishing. Today, she shares all that information on her blog. I’m incredibly grateful to her.

I got a cover I could afford with the help of another indie, Sam Torode. Two editor friends went over my work. Finally, I formatted the book and the rest is history. I uploaded The Book of Lost Souls in early March, and it’s been getting consistently great reviews ever since. As for being too lighthearted? I receive emails all the time from people who love that the book is funny, upbeat, and clean.

Within my first five weeks of self-publishing, I hit three best seller lists on Amazon. Me. An indie author without a publicist or a big agency or publisher behind them. Just me, my computer, my loving husband, and the devotion of two dogs at my feet.

I’ve been asked if there will be a sequel to The Book of Lost Souls. The answer is yes. Two more books, maybe a third. I just haven’t thought that far out yet.

And the other, darker book? After some revisions, Don’t Fear the Reaper debuted in late September 2011. On its first day, the book reached lucky #13 on Amazon’s Hot New Releases, Children’s Fiction, Spine-Tingling Horror.

I’m only sorry that my parents aren’t here to see this. I took my father’s advice and my mother’s faith and reinvented myself. I still dog-sit and take on small computer jobs and tech writing gigs to help keep us afloat financially. But one day, I hope that my hard work will pay even more of the bills. Until then, I’m at peace with the way things are.

Henry Ford once said, “If you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.” Great advice. And so, The Book of Lost Souls, the book that nearly wasn’t, became the little book that could. I’m a firm believer that hopes and dreams are something to hold onto and fight for. Believe in the magic that is you. Keep your dreams close, and set your imagination free.

I’d like to dedicate my section of this anthology to readers everywhere—words alone cannot express how much I appreciate you believing in me. You’re every bit as much a part of the magic as Ivy herself.

So, thank you, Dear Reader. Sincerely. Because, every author with a story to tell writes with you in mind.

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Createspace: The Book of Lost Souls Don’t Fear the Reaper

Side trip to Saint Eadgyth’s…

This post was prompted by an idea a friend (EA West.com) had for a trip around the feature settings of various novels. She asked me where I would go and I chose a special place from Gisborne: Book of Pawns and decided to write a travel diary…

I had heard about the little priory from fellow travelers. It’s hidden inland a few miles from Great Yarmouth and friends had remarked on the secret tranquility of the place. But I was fascinated with illumination also and I discovered Saint Eadgyth, a mystic and scribe, little known now of course, was canonized not long after her death in the late 900’s on account of the miracle that occurred with her beautiful calligraphy.

In my journeying, I found a piece of her penmanship and fortuitously it was the fragment that was responsible for her canonization. The revered title of saint was conferred when her Madonna, illuminated most simply in the early Medieval style, cried real tears on the anniversary of Christ’s death. The fragment is stored as a valuable relic in the depths of the Bodleian although I have heard that the Vatican would like it transferred to their arts and antiquities collection.

Thus, fascinated not just with illuminated manuscripts but with legendary medieval priories, I determined to proceed with only the vaguest directions inland from the city of herrings…

I ignored the beaches and piers and followed the Rive Yare upstream, pausing where it split into two and thence found a track leading me to a thick clump of trees and shrubs and a little raised above the surrounding country.

The ruins of the tiny priory lay sheltered by trees younger than itself and shielded by a duck-egg blue sky. I can remember I took a sharp breath because the ghosts of history touched my shoulders. The quiet wrapped itself around like a blessing and for a moment I could quite see that what I had read was true:

‘A dulcet quiet drifted over us – bees, birds, water trickling somewhere, and silence. Whilst Gisborne had ensconced me in a number of religious houses, this one had a different air. There were similarities to be sure, but the preciously small nature of the place made me feel as if Mary had taken me in her arms and lifted me to some place beyond strife.’

I moved along what were most likely the cloisters – carved stone and the odd elegantly plain arch indicating a gracious and subtle design.

‘We proceeded at a measured pace and because the remains of the earlier mists had dissolved, I had time to observe that the walls continued further than I had thought. There was a hedge across the end of the herb garden and through a withied gate I could see the ordered rows of a vegetable plot and the longer pasture and wildflowers that underlay an orchard of trees.’

I walked beyond the arches in the hope I might find the remains of an orchard and infirmary garden and maybe even the headstones of the small burial ground. At first I thought the years had swallowed it all but I began to find plants: Pulmonaria, Samphire, Herb Robert. Then the cracked remains of a cistern, perhaps the original waterwell.

And finally the tumbled blocks of the headstones.

The carving was faded and illegible but I spat on my finger and rubbed at moss and lichen, the grain of the stone pitted like orange skin. And when I had all but given up with my finger red and sore, a letter began to emerge that might have been a ‘G’.

I sat on a weed-covered mound and gazed at the climbing rose thought to have been bred in this quaint place and which shrouded what was left of a wall.

‘I did not speak this time but noticed a rose lying with my self-styled cluster of the day before. A stunningly folded petal that looked as though it were shaped from fabric, a bud that had almost but not quite opened, as if it were shy of showing what it really was. It was as faded as a copper platter that might have been found in the burial mounds that littered the fields of England. I had never seen a colour like it, almost implausible. Kneeling on the dew-wet grass, I touched it with my finger.

 Ghislaine’s rose gleamed in the late afternoon light, the sun catching the centre, the stamens and folds shining like gold leaf and I was prompted to think on the centuries’ old life I had stumbled upon. Where gold leaf was worked into the edges of parchment and burnished like the centre of the rose.

I left as quietly as the silence around me, with a mind full of memories and a fallen rose-petal in my hand.

It was enough.

NB: Saint Eadgyth’s Priory, Saint Eadgyth herself and everything within this post (apart Great Yarmouth and the rose, actually known as Julia) is fictional, taken from the afore-mentioned book, but I hope you enjoyed the journey anyway!

 

Lemons become chocolate… an Indie Chick’s magic!

Life can be painful, there’s no doubt. There can be moments that halt the creative flow, moments so annihilating you wonder if you will ever get the flow back. However as Talia Jager says ‘when life hands you lemons…toss them out, grab your stash of chocolate, your writing materials, and head for the bathroom. You may just end up writing a book.’

Read Talia’s story:

Paper, Pen, and Chocolate

“Mom!” a voice yelled from the other room. “Make her stop!”

“I didn’t do anything!” another voice yelled before I could even get up to see what was going on.

I sighed and struggled to get off the couch where I had just started writing a scene. Four months pregnant with our sixth child and the varicose veins were already causing problems for me. I wondered where my husband was hiding that he couldn’t handle this.

Fortunately, the yelling quieted down. Instead of checking on them, I made an Executive Decision. I snuck into my closet, grabbed some Hershey’s chocolate from my stash, and slipped into the bathroom where I ate it with the lights turned off. Nobody would find me there.

Flicking on my flashlight, I took out the notepad and pen I had stashed in the magazine rack and wrote down some thoughts on the scene I had been writing.

The quiet lasted 3.5 minutes. Then my time in the bathroom was up. I crept back out to the living room where I settled a new argument, secretly wishing I could go back to the bathroom.

Now, you may ask…Married with how many kids? And you write books? WHY? HOW? Let me tell you.

From the time I was a little girl, I have had two dreams. One: To have a large family. Two: To be an author. There was a time not long ago when it seemed neither would come true.

Maybe it was being an only child that allowed my imagination to run wild and my mind to create stories; it definitely made me wish for a big family of my own. It’s lonely to grow up without a sibling.

In school, writing was my passion. I wrote constantly. I’d slip my story under a notebook in class and when I was supposed to be taking notes, I’d really be writing my story. At night when I was supposed to be asleep, I’d hide under the covers in bed with a flashlight, pen, and paper.

Time went on, and although I had many stories written, I was too chicken to do anything with them. So, they sat. When I fell in love and started a family, writing got pushed to the side. Sure, I still loved it, but I never had time. Deep down, I was mad at myself for not at least trying to do something with them. But, at the time, I felt I couldn’t. Family came first.

My dream of having a large family wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but it had begun to come true. We had two beautiful little girls and wanted more. Unfortunately, I suffered through many miscarriages over the years. After having a number of tests done, I was diagnosed with a blood disorder so complicated that I have no idea what it actually is except that it can cause miscarriages. Getting pregnant had never been an issue; staying pregnant was. When I didn’t get and stay pregnant for over a year, the depression got worse.

Losing a baby is a devastating thing to go through; losing six is downright depressing. There’s no amount of crying, begging, negotiating, or praying that brings them back. Believe me, I tried it all. It didn’t matter how many people told me it wasn’t my fault–I blamed myself anyway. Finding out that it was due to a blood disorder made my guilt that much worse. It was my fault. My body’s fault anyway. Then I started asking myself: Why do some of my babies live and others don’t? What did I do different? I had children before I started medication for the disorder, and I’ve had miscarriages since getting on the medication. None of it makes sense and it’s still something I struggle to understand. I was in such a deep depression; it was like my creative button had been turned off. I had no desire to write.

When we finally “gave up” and decided that we’d be a family of six, we found out I was pregnant again with our fifth daughter.

This pregnancy was much harder on my body than the others. I found myself on the couch most of the day with my legs up. It was around this time that some online friends found out that I loved to write and encouraged me to share my stories. I did so nervously and they loved them! I reached deep down and found the courage to start submitting queries to agents. Each time my hopes were smashed to pieces.

 My husband started talking about eBooks and self-publishing. I wasn’t too sure about going that route. I wanted to see my books in print, so I could hold them in front of my face. I wanted to smell my book. But, as time went on, eReaders became more popular and I figured…why not?

So, here I am, with five children, trying to find the time to write, while juggling mom-duty, wife-duty, household chores, errands, and more. During the earlier part of this year, you could find me up until the wee hours of the morning writing. You see, that is the only time it’s quiet enough to get anything done. Three a.m. is the time when all little girls are sleeping, the husband is snoring away, and my mind is clear. I can throw myself into a character’s psyche and let my imagination flow. Everything was going perfectly. I was getting a lot of writing done and then we got a surprise. Baby #6 was on the way.

As happy as we were, this put a serious damper on staying up until three a.m. I just couldn’t do it. My one-year-old is at the age where she needs to be followed around and supervised constantly. If I don’t, I find my computer monitor has become a coloring book.

My four-year-old is in between the “play with me” stage and the “playing alone” stage. The older three are in school, which provides a break for me, but since my four year old adores her older sisters, it makes it hard. She’s constantly whining for them to come home.

It’s hard enough juggling the four younger ones, but throw in a hormonal teenager and chaos ensues. Dealing with her has made me positive that my mother cursed me for acting out as a teenager. Not a week goes by that I don’t find myself in tears over something she does or says. Like the time recently when I told her I was pregnant again, she made nasty comments accusing me of ruining her life. Or the time I had to punish her for kicking her sister, and she informed us that she could run away and be adopted by her friend’s parents.

I’m sure you find yourself wanting to ask how I get a minute to myself. Or how do I deal with no time alone? Or what if I get an idea during the day?

Remember that stash of chocolate in the closet? I simply get some, slip into the bathroom, and take a few minutes. Sometimes I just think. Sometimes I jot down a few ideas on that hidden notepad.

As crazy and chaotic my life is, I wouldn’t change a thing. And it sure gives me plenty of things to write about.

So, when life hands you lemons…toss them out, grab your stash of chocolate, your writing materials, and head for the bathroom. You may just end up writing a book.

Damaged: Natalie’s Story, available at:

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Pinterest…

For a little while recently, I had observed increasing fascination with Pinterest but had never bothered to look at it myself. My writer’s life is full of research, writing in longhand, transcribing, editing, my blog, Facebook-Writer, Facebook-Private, Twitter and a writer’s office business. I felt introducing any more online bit and bobs into my life would cause my writing to suffer.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered the most perfect, lush Pinterest set up by the author Lucinda Brant http://pinterest.com/lucindabrant/, whose books I thoroughly enjoy. As I read her books, I always have an image in my mind of what she is writing about but with her Pinterest boards, she has given her readers vivid food for their imaginations.

I remember viewing a discussion online about the value of enhanced e-books and some fiction readers saying they didn’t wish to have images placed in front of them as they preferred to ‘imagine’ the books, characters, settings etc in their own way. In terms of historical fiction, the reader is of course able to go to any number of sources to verify what might be in their imagination and such activity thus nullified an enhanced e-book anyway.

In the case of the e-book Gisborne: Book of Pawns, my UK publisher has issued it as an enhanced e-book but on release of the print edition by my Australian publisher, there will be no illustrative plates throughout. It will simply be a work of fictional text.

Which of course brings me to http://pinterest.com/ 

Over the years, I’ve collected files of visual images that inspire me for each of my novels, thus giving me colour for my narrative. Or in the words of one blessed reviewer of Gisborne: ‘…3D and surround sound … in the very best way.’ The files are like old-fashioned scrapbooks and when I saw what Lucinda had done, the thought occurred to me that I too could share my inspirational images with any readers who may tread Pinterest’s path. So I owe enormous thanks to her for showing me the way.

I began shyly. A couple of boards, a few images.

It took 20 minutes to work out the idiosyncracies of the technique, and suddenly, just like with my embroidery I had a new hobby. Not only that, I was finding the most wonderful images on other boards that were feeding my imagination.

There are the inevitable problems with attribution of some images and I’ve tried to circumvent that as best I can. Most of the original images I use are sourced from Wikimedia Commons which is like wandering through the Louvre, the BM, the V and A and any other illustrious arthouse or museum. But in my bookmarked files on my computer, I have many pics I’m unable to pin – stunning pieces from Getty Images or Veere that I would adore to share but which would contravene rigid copyright.

In the meantime, I am having such fun. It’s so addictive and I invite all and sundry to http://pinterest.com/pruebatten/ to view the inspirations for all of my work. Come on over and see real enhancement at work!

Easter in Gisborne’s arms…

Happy Easter everyone!