I live at the top of the Rocky Mountains, and enjoy every season. (Well, I don’t enjoy the typical May, “mud month,” much.) The other eleven are palatable at least, and some are even beyond glorious. But I am not Yeti, Frosty, or even the Abominable Snowman. I get COLD.
Most parts can be covered with wool, down, snazzy techno fabrics, or (brace yourselves) fur, and stay warm. But hands and feet freeze, despite enough circulation-enhancing treadmill miles to walk to the West coast. I have been driven off the cross-country-ski course more often than I care to admit because my extremities were numb, and visions of frostbite danced in my head. (Cut me some slack—Christmas was yesterday.)
Enter Grabbers and Little Hotties. They work. Period. Stick a Little Hottie in the tip of your mitten, and your fingers toast for hours. Better yet, smack the adhesive side of a Grabber on top of your socks at the toes, and your feet believe they’re on the beach for at least five hours as you schuss (or tumble gracelessly) along.
Since I do storyline development while cross-country skiing, I might cite products named Toasties and Little Snuggies on the first novel’s acknowledgment page. But Grabbers and Little Hotties sound suited to something written in a wildly inappropriate genre, so sadly, only blog readers get the tip. Happy snow days to you and yours!
I’ll admit it: I am a Christmas freak.
When I was a kid, it was (of course) primarily about presents. I enjoyed carols and hymns at church, and was one of few angels in the choir loft not sleeping through our big entrance at pageant’s end. As a twenty-something, Christmas was a break in a hectic professional life, a time to enjoy family and assess faith.
As a mother of young children, the holiday was again, to my regret, about presents. I vividly remember the last time I exited Toys ‘R Us, confident I’d never return. I cherish this victory lap as one of the happiest moments in a really extraordinary life. No lie.
When the kids became teenagers, Christmas was calmer. We’d head to our ranch perched on the Rockies’ snowy top. Drink cider and hot cocoa, build fires, ski and snowshoe, watch elk, play Cranium on Christmas Eve, and just generally chill. We reconnected in near-holy solitude cherished by my hermit personhood. These are my fondest Christmas memories. Our holiday time there wove unbreakable threads that connect us wherever life takes us.
But this year, I’ve worried myself. I am not Scrooge, but have struggled to build momentum toward this most amazing time. It’s not depression or fiscal, but a disconnect. Maybe it’s vitriol left from the election. Or persistent bad news — from economic to war in the Middle East. Maybe I’m distracted by fabulous activity on my manuscripts, moving at an unprecedented pace with publishers you’d recognize.
Today, I watched the season’s first snowstorm. Did more holiday baking. Addressed Christmas cards. Played carols. Prepared packages to ship to family. Focused on the Christ child. Was thankful for God’s grace.
Bit by bit, I’m inching my way to Christmas cheer. The snow came just in time.
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A top-tier Literary Agency contract is as difficult to secure as a publishing contract with a Big Six Imprint. They’re elusive.
For five-plus years, I’ve read about the one-percent chance an unpublished author will sign with an agency of repute. Split that number for a publishing contract. It’s grim.
Since most well-respected agents receive more than 10,000 queries every month, and many won’t review an unpublished author’s letter, I understand odds are not in the favor of an individual spinning a yarn. There’s the added problem that literary agents are traditional publishing’s gatekeepers now: no agent = no publisher. This is business in today’s manuscript environment, and has propelled the growth of self and hybrid publishing, even though traditional remains the platinum ring everyone wants to grab.
But after twenty-five years writing professionally in marketing, two years developing concepts and manuscripts, a year of blood-letting via professional edit, and the excellent Christian Writers Guild Craftsman course (highly recommended!), I present the signing of my contract with an amazing literary agency.
I feel as if I’m finally at the “adult table” for Thanksgiving. Miracles never cease.
After much gnashing of teeth, a dash of profanity — on the designer’s part, not mine, dozens of phone calls, and a modicum of stress, The Cuneiform has migrated to this beautiful new host. Now I can post photos of Isabelle, mountains as they wear the seasons colorfully, and landmarks in my publishing adventure. (Expect a big one this week.)
Even the critters are excited, like this fellow on the rock bench Thursday. (He looks excited, doesn’t he?)
So give me a couple of days to input old blogs, and prepare for the ride. Thanks for your patience during the transition. And greater thanks to my dear old friend whose talent, tenacious spirit, and general curmudgeonly attitude makes all graphic things possible.
