I own a collection of beautifully illustrated children’s books, some from childhood and others I’ve collected throughout the years. I seem to be especially drawn to those about the holidays that occur this time of year.
What I love about these books is that the stories are charming, the endings typically happy, and it’s hard to not feel good after reading one of them on my own or to a curious and delighted child. Plus, they are often colorfully and beautifully illustrated. I send books to my nieces and nephews and to friends’ children. Books are lasting, and what better way to share the joy of this season than by giving a book that represents the timelessness of the holiday.
I also like to browse in bookstores during this time of year, sometimes buying; sometimes not, but the sheer numbers of books that are available for people of all ages create excitement and a sense of wonder. I’ve gotten immersed in various versions of The Nutcracker, The Night Before Christmas, The Polar Express, an exquisitely illustrated version of Robert Frost’s Stopping by the Woods on a SnowyEvening, and several that tell the story of a miracle that happened more than two thousand years ago that caused a light to burn for eight days instead of one and created the Jewish holiday of Chanukah. Then there are the picture books and photography books that show gardens and parks in their splendor, books from arboretums and conservatories and nature preserves. If you want a sense of how beautiful the season is, take a look at one of those.
Curious about how cultures unlike my own celebrate the holidays, I’ve read books about Kwanzaa, the festival that recognizes the African diaspora and pays homage to African unity, heritage and culture in the United States and other countries; and Diwali, the Indian festival of lights, to name two. What strikes me is that all the holidays, however diverse, share one major theme: the lighting of candles and the emphasis on light. Our lives certainly are made brighter during these short, dark days.
Some years we decorate a little more, sometimes less, depending on our schedule and our inclination. Without fail, each year around this time I put the coffee table books away and retrieve those we’ve lovingly collected over many years that represent the holidays. They’re pretty, yes, but it’s also a pleasure to reread and revisit them each year to help get into the spirit of the season.
I’m attracted to the books because they make me feel good. The messages of hope and redemption, the miracles we don’t think about much at other times, the beautiful and colorful illustrations and sometimes, even, the music and recipes that accompany them. There’s something in each that inspires me and causes me to reflect upon what this time of year really represents.
I’ve been an oft-willing guinea pig for different adventures, events, experiences, and foods. I’ve sampled shark (gross!), swallowed two uncooked eggs for the Dare portion of the game (thank you, seltzer and Pepto for averting an unwanted revisit to keep from answering a question truthfully!), been arrested and jailed on self-defense protecting my unborn child (that jail stay I gave Casper his first lockup experience in JERSEYDOGS); lived two years in Gettysburg–yes, it’s one of the most active paranormal activity places in the U.S.–and enjoyed many adventures I’ll share over time. The journey I’m semi-proud to say: before I indie-published in 2018, it visited a house previously accepting smut. As it’d opened its doors to other genres, I was that guinea-pig-experiment-gone-spectacularly-wrong. I took my MS back, but not without a hell of a fight.
I can laugh about that episode five years hence come mid-2020. But during and the unreal months after, t’weren’t at all pretty. I almost tossed being a full-time writer, thinking I’d been a colossal flop in this business. How could I not’ve thought that: 60 rejections before said house. Some form. Some ghost. One, a polite “Gee, thanks for thinking of us, Missye, but your novel’s dialogue is a tad overwhelming.” (#WaitWhat? 🤔🤨) I mean, a Pyrrhic victory‘s not all that it’s cracked up to be, that’s for sure. I found the house in the black. And broadening its reach past the typical Girls! Girls! Girls! fare, enter naive, giddy me. Gave JERSEY‘s partial (first 13 chapters) according to the Submittable directions, and I moved on.
Three days later, an email arrives they loved the offering, and could I send the full. Sure I do. And I again forgot about it.
A week in, I’m speaking with Ms. Publisher herself as I walk home from work. After the 90 minute conversation, in which I asked every question I could think of, remembered to ask, and asked on the fly, I make the long-awaited announcement to my family: I HAVE A BOOK CONTRACT!!!!!
Finally!
I’ve arrived! Better than a journalism byline! Better than a hot scoop!
I. Am. IN!!!!
And to make that moment sweeter, another small house saw JERSEY‘s potential, loved it, but I let this publisher know I’d had another offer arrive at the same time.
Talk about adrenaline-fueled elation, wow. It was summer vacation, a fantastic kiss from my crush, Christmas morning, sleepaway camp, flying a hang-glider, the birth of my kids, and going on my first-ever crazy rollercoaster ride at the same time. To quote my son, I was like our cattle dog when everyone was home. Yeah, well, in my birthday month, too? Hell YEAH I was!
Instinct, although happy for me, began its objectionable tin cup banging against my conscience. That’s a sound you can’t ignore long.
I’m assigned the first of three editors, joined the then Yahoo list group, only to learn within two weeks of getting to work, a family member died in a car accident. We didn’t know it at the time it’d happened that it’d happened, as my husband had lost his phone. When we received word, I needed to be his support. The house gave me as much time I needed, which was sweet of them. During this, I’d filled out my cover art form details, and what did I want my web page on their site to read for my e-book purchase portal.
The first editor, clearly used to shaping XXX-rated MSs, didn’t know shorts of longer works–album song titles, book chapters, news and magazine articles, etc.–used quotation marks like dialogue. She incorrectly put every song in JERSEY in italics, which is strictly for longer works (books, albums, periodicals, etc.), and the van Gogh pantings references in quotes. Not only did I re-do her work, she declared she hated the McGuinness/Pedregon crew. After a quasi-heated exchange–I’m proud I kept my side civil, but can I help it if my pointing out the obvious and my editorial prowess excelled hers by time and experience?–she complained about me to the managing editor.
The cover art form submission? Returned to me, according to my notes and what they’d “put” together. “Cobbled” or “scrounged” would be more accurate to describe that effort I hated on sight.
Sigh. The honeymoon was clearly over.
Toldja so, Instincts chimed in.
Oh, shut up, I snapped back.
Editor #2, Ms. Managing Editor assigned me to–a single mom to a young teen, a FT double-major, working FT, and shaping five other books with mine. Tactfully, I queried how could she manage my MS with all on her plate, but she insisted she had it covered. Fortunately, I didn’t hold my breath.
That one fizzled over ellipses. Can you imagine? I listed what the Chicago Manual of Style said to do on this punctuation mark. She noted Ms. Publisher doesn’t want my brand of ellipses (dot-space-dot-space-dot) over hers. (dot-dot-dot). CMoS is my brand of ellipses now? Guess first thing Monday I’d better bug the University of Chicago’s Press for royalties I’m long due for. **smirk**
Managing Editor tells me, four months after signing, I’d be edited by Ms. Publisher–the Great and Powerful Oz–herself. By now, my instincts were ponding its tin cup on my emotional walls so hard they shot off sparks, so I wasn’t scared. Pissed, more like, but that comes later.
Ms. Great/Powerful asked why did I argue with Editor #1, so I told her. What was wrong with Editor #2, she wondered. Nothing, I explained–I just felt it unfair to me, my book, and her being a single mom, to be part of her obviously impossible workload. Ellipses issue aside, I had to bow out in good conscience.
This wouldn’t last, either. This issue was pettier: semi-colons. You know, these things? —->;<—-. That. Ms. Publisher called them ancient, the trend at the time were em-dashes. I’ve two questions, I said: what’s wrong with the semi-colon?
We need to follow the trend, she answered.
I thought we authors shouldn’t chase trends. Conferences, workshops, writing references preached that until they’re blue in the face, I countered. What’s different now?
No reply.
Then she declared Mitchell’s use of them in Gone With the Wind old-fashioned when I cited the Pulitzer Prize winning book–which sold copies in pace of The Holy Bible at one point, but that holds no bearing on this story :)–was loaded with them. Correctly used, too. Its Oscar-winning movie was eight decades old before James Cameron’s Titanic broke the record. Isn’t that saying something, I asked.
Ancient, was her curt, single reply.
After more tussling over word choices, fonts, and transit specifics of the NYC setting where the book is, that conversation in late January 2016 wasn’t as pleasant as the call six months prior. I felt out of sorts and emotionally and creatively handcuffed, albeit proud I defended myself and my work. Yet I was contracted, and scared green I’d lose creative control on a book I slaved to shape for a decade-plus. What could I do?
Sleep. That was in my control. Maybe what Einstein theorized about problems seemingly without a solution when awake would be solved in a sleep-dream state.
That theory better come through.
5:30am, Groundhog Day Eve, I’m bolted awake, but my instincts are sound asleep. This wasn’t working out, so I found an out without needing to hire an attorney I couldn’t afford to break my agreement: Argue my way out.
I got to work. Ms. Publisher insisted e-book platforms all used a universal format (true), so all chapters in mine would be centered. With it out now in indie pubbed status–and using Reedsy for drafting, Vellum for formatting and uploading–I asked could it be formatted in right-side heading justified. No, Ms. Publisher said. But other books in print and e-books did this; I sent three samples across three genres as proof. Why couldn’t this house do the same?
No answer. I went to sleep that night feeling tingly, like I’d done something heinously wrong.
Groundhog Day, 2016, 2pm, EST, this email awaited me–
“Dear Legal Name At the Time, Regretfully, your contract has been rescinded. I find your argumentative nature and stances unconducive for my establishment. Attached please find 3c and 7a of the contract breechedby you, which is basis for our relationship to end. I wish you the very best in your future publishing endeavors. Sincerely, Ms. Publisher, Acme Publishing.”
That Pyrrhic victory delivered a punch I won’t soon forget.
I might’ve been free, but not long after, I felt SO lost. Was fighting for my first book’s life worth that much a hit?
Was she right–do I argue too much?
Isn’t it worth being a little imprisoned for the name-on-spine glory so many authors are after, that so many have achieved?
To be fair, I didn’t read and re-read the agreement’s fine print–I was too giddy for the acceptance to see or care what I was in for. So for that, I take responsibility. Even so . . . many questions ran through my mind if I did the right thing, but one bulldozed through-did I argue too much to make it in this business?–I still wrestle with today.
I drifted. I mourned. I cried. I just said the hell with it all, the world didn’t need my voice among the billions clamoring for the few eyes to find their stuff, love their stuff. I hated myself, hated writing, hated everything on which this industry stands for, is built on, hated nobody stood up for me then–and sometimes now. Even an author in my corner while shaping my first book, within the month of the contract dissolution, succumbed to complications relating to a car accident several years back. Already on the emotional and creative precipice before receiving this news, I fell in the abyss. My uncle gone in 2007 who encouraged me in my teens to keep writing. Losing the deal. Then her passing weeks later.
What. Was. The. Point?
I stayed at the chasm’s bottom and waited to creatively die.
An email for book covers came to my inbox, and curiosity drove me to the site despite my deep funk. Covers I perused were just silly. Laughable. Ghastly. ColorForms-Ain’t-Fun pictures suited for first-grader billboards than books. Hilarious in a bad way. Macabre. Ridiculous. Hideous. Head-scratchers. Psychotic. Boring. Or just plain dumb.
Then one appeared that made my heart jump and pump harder. Not to make a comparison, but it fits: it felt like when Elizabeth, while bearing John the Baptist when she heard Mary’s voice, Elizabeth’s child leapt in her womb knowing his cousin Jesus was there with him. That’s how special this cover was–and still is.
The one showed a loner who seemed to know how I felt. How Logan, Casper, and Jay Vincent felt at some point in their series’ lives. Unsure. Scared. Alone. Vulnerable. Misunderstood. Mislabeled. Humbled. Proud. Scrappy. Untamed. Strong. A warrior.
Eventually, should I get a house to make this story a 2nd edition, the cover I have in mind will be very different. It’ll be, I hope, one I love as much as I do this one.
I snapped it up . . . and slowly got back to work.
Had I stayed with the house, I’d be six months out from either renegotiating terms or leaving altogether. In hindsight, I’m glad I ended the relationship, but I could’ve been more thoughtful and professional in my exit.
Just because a house expands from erotica doesn’t mean your MS(s) will fit, may fit, should fit, or the publisher will treat you with professionalism or fairly. Going through this experience showed I’m stronger than I thought, that if I don’t defend my work, who else will, and I need more refining before being traditionally published, if ever I am. It’s a good lesson. Finding my place for my baby is very much like dating–I need to grow and evolve, and kiss a few bushelfuls of toads before that prince(ess) comes along for the potential HEA. I’m still argumentative in general–my husband Pete and I had a spirited debate recently, now since resolved–but I’m more discerning which hills I’ll die on for my work or any topic. The house-to-be need to love my offerings as I do, see what I do, but be open to guide me and let me have my lead as I’m open-minded for theirs.
While the patience kills me softly in waiting, I’ll stay busy crafting shorts, haikus, flash, and of course, my two series’ books. A hefty imagination’s a great cure-all for all peeves IRT (that’s shorthand for “in real time” for those of you in #RioLinda! 🙂 ) . . . so it’s time to get back to work.
While The Husband loved the TV show Seinfeld and still occasionally watches DVDs of it, I found it stultifyingly boring and even more uninteresting. It was heralded as a show about nothing, and as far as I am concerned it definitely succeeded. However, it was undeniably popular. (Does that say something about me, or about everyone else?) I much prefer shows in which the actors are attractive, shows in which there is something going on – explosions, genuine humor, dead bodies, passionate kisses on a sunset beach… something!
Still, I have to admit that the show did something right to be so popular and on the air for so long, so I’ve decided to explore its particular trope and find out what made it so successful. Except I can’t find what it is. All I can find is that it is regarded as a show about nothing. (Perhaps a metaphor for the supposed emptiness of modern urban life?)
Okay, I can run with that. Most of our lives are filled with nothing. Oh, we’re busy all the time, usually with things that seem important at the time but have little cosmic impact. Things like deciding what to serve for dinner tonight. (Always a biggie for me, as The Husband is a very picky eater and I am a rather indifferent cook.) Shopping for same. Making lunches in the morning. Laundry – what gets tumble dried and what gets line dried and if any of it gets bleach. Deciding if I really want that cute pair of shoes we saw at the mall. Trying to switch the appointment for a much-needed oil change because that’s the only day I can take an elderly neighbor to a much-more needed dental appointment.
See? All important at that minute, all demanding your immediate attention, but in the grand scheme of things generally dismissed as the minutiae of life. Six months – heck, six weeks – afterward, are you going to remember if you had that oil change on Wednesday or Friday, or if those shoes were the red ones or the blue ones?
So what does this digression have to do with murder? Because everything in a murder is important. How many times does the detective (professional or amateur) bring the miscreant to justice by reason of a single fact uttered some time before? Jessica Fletcher was a master of this – a throwaway line uttered perhaps days ago in the storyline, perhaps at the very beginning of the show, and she remembers it. Worse, I can’t remember it at all. Of course, now that I write mysteries my ‘sleuth’ instinct is honed to dangerous acuity, watching every line and usually being able to figure out what is a clue. That, however, is a reader/viewer trick, trained by far too many hours spent absorbing other people’s stories.
Real detectives, however, don’t have that luxury. They can’t automatically know that the fact so-and-so wore red shoes on Tuesday is important. They have to give every bit of information weight. They don’t have editors and beta readers and directors and cinematographers giving focus to every necessary nuance. I think that’s the main reason most real-life cases are not wound up in 20 chapters or 47 minutes. There is too much everything to deal with and that unfortunately translates to nothing to deal with.
So – I am getting too close to saying something instead of sticking with my intended policy of blogging today on nothing. That’s perhaps fortunate, as I have nothing else to say on nothing.
Stay warm this during this cold winter, write well, read widely and don’t get overwhelmed by nothing.
Happy Holidays, Everyone! If you are American, I hope you enjoyed a happy Thanksgiving. Whether it was with, family, friends, or time to yourself. And now we are approaching another holiday. I’m not sure how many cultures have a holiday in December, but for my family it is Christmas.
I enjoy learning about other cultures. If you are celebrating something besides Christmas, I’d love to know a bit about it. Please comment below.
If I had the money and the time, I would love to be a world traveler. In High School I loved World Geography. Our teacher had been to a lot of places so he could give us information that you don’t get from text books. He made learning about other people and cultures exciting. I think that, and my infatuation with the Nez Perce band that lived in the county where I grew up, is why I like to have Native American characters in my mystery books. I can show people a past they may not know about and a culture they have only seen stereotyped.
I’m excited about the book I’m writing now and the one that I will be writing after this one. They are both set in the places I visited this year. I’ll get to add in the cultures I experienced and have my characters see similarities with their lives.
Right now, I’m pleased to say that the 4th Gabriel Hawke book has released. It is available in ebook and print.
Chattering Blue Jay
Killer on the loose.
Tracking Rivalry.
Revenge could get them killed.
Fish and Wildlife Oregon State Trooper Gabriel Hawke is set to teach a class at a Search and Rescue conference in Idaho when a dangerous inmate breaks out of prison. It is believed the man is headed to Hells Canyon.
Hawke is enlisted to find the escapee. He’s paired with a boastful tracker who doesn’t follow directions, making them both targets.
Before the dust settles, the other tracker is dead and Hawke is twisting in the wind for letting the possible killer get away.
The first book in this series, Murder of Ravens, is also available in audiobook.
Book 1 of Gabriel Hawke series
The ancient Indian art of tracking is his greatest strength…
And his biggest weakness.
Fish and Wildlife State Trooper Gabriel Hawke believes he’s chasing poachers.
However, he comes upon a wildlife biologist standing over a body that is wearing a wolf tracking collar.
He uses master tracker skills taught to him by his Nez Perce grandfather to follow clues on the mountain. Paper trails and the whisper of rumors in the rural community where he works, draws Hawke to a conclusion that he finds bitter.
Arresting his brother-in-law ended his marriage, could solving this murder ruin a friendship?
I’m a romance author. Historical western, contemporary, even a little erotic; romance is my genre. So, imagine my surprise – and frankly, horror – when I awoke one morning with the idea for a mystery rolling around in my brain. At first, I wasn’t sure of the intricacies of the story. Would it be a thriller? A police procedural? Crime fiction? I sat down, opened a new Word doc, began typing, and that’s when it became clear – cozy mystery. The genre had chosen me.
Writing a cozy mystery is worlds apart from penning a romance, but I dove in, repeatedly reminding myself that the focus of the story was not the romantic interaction between my main character and her love interest, but rather the clues and intrigue leading the pair to solve the mystery. And that’s where the fun began. As a new-to-me genre, I harbored no preconceived notions about how to write the story; instead, I allowed the words to tumble onto the page at will, each one building on the next to thicken the plot and guide the characters to discover not only the who, but the why, how, and where.
On the subject of characters, their development in my cozy mystery – it’s titled Finn-agled, by the way – came about differently than how I usually create them. I’d explain it if I could, but even as an author, I don’t know exactly how to put into words the process. They simply originated in my brain in their own unique way and demanded that I bring them alive on the page. They’re pesky, that way.
If interrogated, and under threat of never again being allowed access to my Netflix password, I’d admit that certain aspects of Finn Bartusiak’s personality (she’s the main character and star of the show) mirror my own. She lives in a seaside town (I grew up three miles from the ocean), she’s quirky, fiercely loyal to those she loves, her hair frizzes in humid weather, and she has more than her share of ‘squirrel’ moments.
What was I saying?
Oh, right; our similarities. Like Finn, I adore a great pierogi – though I’m only half-Polish and she’s full-blooded – and we both own Basset Hounds who are follicly-challenged. And, while the most complex mystery I’ve ever solved was locating my keys, I like to think that should one present itself, I’d be up to the challenge. How hard can it be?
To my faithful readers who love romance, not to worry. My romantic streak is firmly intact (I have several ideas for future romance stories floating around in my gray matter), but now that cozies have taken hold, it’s safe to say they’re not going anywhere either.
After all, the genre did choose me. 😊
Finn-agled
A secret message hidden inside of an antique wooden box, an unidentified dead body, and a mother determined to marry her off to the high school crush whom she hasn’t seen since…well…high school. There’s no doubt about it; Finn Bartusiak’s life in the seaside town of Port New is about to get interesting.
Coming into possession of a 19th-century, bronze and mahogany writing box under somewhat suspicious circumstances, Finn’s accidental discovery of a coded note leads her and Spencer Dane, bestselling novelist and love of her life (though he doesn’t know it yet), on a quest to unravel the mystery behind the jumble of letters. But they’re not the only ones interested in the cryptic message. There’s a con man on their trail, and he’ll stop at nothing, including murder, to claim the ‘treasure’ for himself.
It wasn’t until later in life that Kristine Raymond figured out what she wanted to be when she grew up, an epiphany that occurred in 2013 when she sat down and began writing her first book. Sixteen books in multiple genres later, she’s added the title of podcasting host to her resume, thus assuring that she will never be idle.
When a spare moment does present itself, she fills it by navigating the publishing and promotional side of the business. When not doing that, she spends time with her husband and furbabies (not necessarily in that order), reads, or binge-watches Netflix.
Ladies of Mystery 
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