One author's success story

Today's mail brought me an advance reading copy of Roll On, a novel by Fred Afflerbach. Fred is a former independent truck drive who left the road--something not all drivers can do with grace--and graduated from college at fifty and went on to become an award-winning journalist. His novel reflects his belief that American literature has overloked an important twentieth century figure, the long-haul truck driver who is, Afflerbach says, the descendent of sailors, explorers, mountain men and cowboys. Fred's novel gives you a chance to ride shotgun with one of these fiercely independent road warriors--and this author know of what he writes when he describes one trucker's battle against a changing world. Technology, business and family areall pushing truckers off the road.
Just before I retired from TCU Press, I was working with Fred on his novel. With a reader's appraisal in hand, I had suggested rewrites which he successfully made. My successor decided not to move forward with the project, so Fred and I corresponded, and I tried to encourage him, counseling persistence in trying other publishers. Fred and his wife came by the house and had a glass of wine when they were in Fort Worth.  Academy Chicago Publishers accepted the manuscript and are touting it as a unique portrait of an American individual. It will be available in ebook and trade paper later this month.
If Ubi Sunt (the trucker of the novel--the name is a long story, well explained in the book) is an American individual, Fred Afflerbach is the eitome of many of today's authors. Believing in himself and receiving encouragment, from his wife, from me and others, he persevered and his dream of being a published author is coming true. I hope he has other books in his mind or head or whatever.
Look for Roll On in your local bookstore or online and give it a try. It's very authenticity will make you glad you read it.

A new book plus a food lesson for Jacob and a small triumph

My mystery, Skeleton in a Dead Space, officially launched today, though it's been on Amazon and Smashwords since Saturday. Still this was THE day--and it was anticlimactic. Yes, I'm excited, but I've been excited for a long time. And yes, I got notes of congratulations and all that. Not sure what I expected. Maybe I'll feel different about it when I hold a print copy in my hands. My goal for so long has been to write and publish a mystery, and it's been a long road, maybe five or six years, so I guess it's hard to feel that it's really happened.
Meantime, I'm editing a young-adult manuscript by another author and fighting with Word--if I center the chapter title, it centers the last two or three lines of the preceding chapter; if I go back and justify them, it justifies the chapter title. Plus the track changes function is unforgiving--if I change something and  then change my mind, there's no going back. You end up with red all over the manuscript and it looks as though, as a prof once said to me, somone had bled on it. The one thing I remember from that class is "Never use red ink on a student's paper."
Jacob had a food lesson. While he ate his after-school snack of yogurt, I trimmed the ends off a whole pack of haricorts vert that I got at a bargain. I gave him a raw one to nibble, and he loved it, waxing eloquent over and over about how good they were, the best green beans he ever ate. He practiced saying haricorts vert but decided he would just say haricorts. Then when his mom came, he forgot it, had to be prompted, and ended with "But they're really carrots!" He tells me though that he's looking forward to eating them tomorrow night.  We'll see. I used this little teaching moment to talk about green is good, since his dad generally thinks if it's green and/or a cooked vegetable, he doesn't want to eat it. Salad and green beans are exceptions. Jacob and I talked about how good carrots and broccoli are and I promised to make him carrots Friday night.
Sophie has destroyed the jacket on yet another book, which means a lot of yelling from me--and then guilt. But we make up afterwards. She's clever--she piles all her toys right in front of her target spot on the bookcase bottom shelf, so I can't be sure if she's chewing a toy or a book. She's had three accidents today, all in my office, which I consider too many for as long as I've been working at this. If I happen to catch her at the right moment, she potties outside; if not, the corner of my office is convenient. But tonight a small triumph: she and I spoke the same language. I recognized her signal, rushed her outside, and she pooped. That may make up for the lethargy I felt earlier in the day. Now she's romping with her toys. Me? Chew books? Never!

911 call, a nice day, and some good news

Life is never dull. A friend a bit older than me with a bum knee (well, she just had a replacement) had been nagging me to get a medical emergency alert device because she knew I'd fallen several times in the last six months--all, as Colin says, because I don't look at where I'm going. The last time was last Sunday morning when I was alone with Jacob. So now I wear the laveliere religiously when I'm alone (except for the two days I couldn't find it--Jordan found it under my bed, and I suspect the cat!). Tonight I was brushing my teeth, walked too close to the drawers in the bathroom, which stand chest high, hit the button, and it went off. The "home station" began dialing people, and I began frantically trying to hang up (now I have discovered the stop button). Jordan called in a panic, and while I was talking to her a policement appeared at the front door. I had to get the key and unlock the deadbolt, then disarm the alarm system (see how safe I am?) and finally opened the door. He took one look at me, wearing the lavaliere and immediately knew what happened. But he was really nice about it, warned me about keeping the key away from the deadbolt (in case of fire I'd never find it) and left with a cheerful, "Well at least you know the button works." I'd been wondering how to find out and so, yes, now I know. And I'll have to be careful.
Nice day. Jacob was full of spit and vinegar this morning, wearing a Superman cape and running around the house yelling, "I'm Superman." He likes to work in my office, which means he explores a junk tray which has some things he really doesn't need to touch--I left for two minutes to go to the bathroom, and when I came back he had the most guilty look on his face! But I saw no damage, either to him or anything in the room. Then when I settled at my computer, he decided he had to sit on my lap and watch the Disney channel--made it hard to work. He went off with his mom about eleven, and I got ready for company, read, napped, caught up on e-mail.
I thought my dinner tonight was one of my better. Jean brought a good healthy green salad (having asked before, she omitted bell peppers), and my chicken loaf was the best I've ever done, really good. They liked it a lot. Instead of the fruit salad I'd promised, I grilled nectarine halves and fiilled them with feta and put foil over them so the feta would soften and melt--really good. Sometimes my indoor Jenn-Air grill is really wonderful, though tonight I had to soak and scrub the whole thing--a pain!
About six months ago I sent my mystery to a publisher who knew me and my work and asked to see the full manuscript when I queried; having heard nothing, I emailed a couple of weeks ago, but I thought somehow from the web that the woman I knew was no longer doing acquisitiions, and I sent it to someone I'd never heard of. Tonight, just when I was thinking of emailing again, I got a nice e-mail from her asking if she could keep it a little longer. She is waiting, she said, for the green light to acquire for 2011. I happily agreed, explained that as a publisher I knew all about overcrowded schedules. Sounded like a good omen to me. I did send a PS saying I had the sequel written. all that encouraged me.

Small press publishing, newspapers, and comfort food

My mind is on small presses tonight. I had volunteered to research five presses for AgentQuest, the Guppies (Going to be Published) online branch of Sister in Crime. I think many of us are going on the theory that credible agents are bombarded with proposals these days and a cold query isn't likely to go anywhere. It might be better to query small presses who are less likely to be overloaded. What I've learned is that we shouldn't underestimate small prsses--small does not mean they're open to everything. Often they have higher standards (and much more complicated submission procedures) than major presses. Still my first mystery manuscript, Skeleton in a Dead Space, is in the hands of a small publisher as I write and has been for what seems to me a long time but in the publishing world isn't long at all. I queried this press because I had years ago contributed, on request, stories to anthologies they produced (western, not mystery). So I'm hopeful. But researching small presses has been interesting--some want only noir fiction (not quite me), another in Nebraska wants only fiction with a historical slant--and I bet that means northern Midwest. I know at TCU our fiction has to have a Texas slant, and I wouldn't be interested in a novel set in Nebraska. Anyway, after forgetting about this assignment for a while, I have it done and ready to send in.
And I'm researching small presses for another project--the book editor at the Dallas Morning News suggested I do a column on how small Texas presses are faring during this recession or economic downturn or whatever you want to call it. The first three responses I've gotten so far are intersting--publishing, always an iffy business and particularly so for an independent, is holding its own in Texas. Often small presses are one version or another of Mom and Pop operatons, and as one publisher said to me you don't do it for profit, you do it for love. His press is officially going non-profit this year.
Some authors who have hit it big in New York claim that's the only way to go, but I disagree. There are a lot of writers out there with talent, good manuscripts, and good ideas who aren't going to make it in New York, no matter how many conferences they attend, agents they meet, queries they write. I think small presses and even in some cases self-publishing is the answer. Publishing, like everything else is changing--it's no longer the gentlemen's profession that Maxwell Perkins (Thomas Wolfe's editor and the classic of a gentlemanly editor who really edited) once said it was. The major houses are owned by corporations who care much less about literary quality than they do the bottom line. So for those of us who love writing and reading for their own sakes, it's often time to depart the main path.
Time magazine recently published a survey that indicated 10 newspapers most likely to fold or go online only within the year--and the Fort Worth paper was one. The prediction? It would be rolled into the Dallas paper. I talked to an executive at the Star-Telegram this morning who laughed and said, "That's someone who really doesn't know this market." With the arch-rivalry between the two cities, such a merger would never happen. And the Star-Telegram is apparently the flagship of the McClatchey syndicate. In an article this morning, the publisher was quoted as saying when the recession lessens, we will see a more robust paper--good news for those of us who have been complaining about the dearth of contents. Let's hope we get back to the good old days, because I dearly love a cup of coffee and my print copy of the paper.
Another cold, damp day, the kind that chills your bones. Betty and I had sort of skirted around going out to dinner and both decided it was a stay inside night. I made myself what lately I've come to think of as one of my favorite comfort foods--creamed tuna. I make a white sauce (I tried to explain this to Jordan and she instantly gave up), add a little white wine, tuna, peas, corn, and finally grated cheddar. Warm, mild, and good. This time, even with a small can of tuna, it turned out to be more than I could eat.
Most women crave pedicures. Not me. I crave a visit to the podiatrist, and I want to give the profession a plug. Dr. Johnson trims that one toenail that I can do nothing with (and the others too), smooths off the corn on my hammer toe and the rough skin on my bunions, and makes my feet feel like new. I'd go every week if I could; as it is I go every three months and come away feeling like dancing. That's how I feel today. If anyone had ever told me I'd get to the point I can't take of my own feet, I'd have hooted. But too late, I have realized (like a lot of other things) I took them for granted all my life--and I went barefoot way too much. The doctor comforted me by saying a lot of my foot problems are genetic--thanks, Mom, for your bunions, which you always said were because you wore ill-fitting shoes as a child. Now I know better.

More grandkis, food--and only a bit of writing

Jordan and I had a delightful time in Frisco with Jamie and his family--and Jacob was so loved on, he was exhausted. Both girls were delighted to see him. Edie kept giving him kisses and rubbing his head and cuddling close to him while they watched Spiderman (amazing technical effects--I'd seen the beginning but never that spectacular ending!). But Maddie was the little mother--Jamie told her this morning she was the cousin that all the others would think was like an aunt. At the moment she was busily cleaning a sippie cup and putting chocolate milk in it--a rare treat for Jacob. She's a natural born nurturer and really keyed in to Jacob's every need. When Jordan left the breakfast table to go get him dressed, she found Maddie had already dressed him and taken him to the potty again. He was so besotted with Maddie that any time she asked him if he wanted to potty, he did. Steak dinner, good company, a delightful time. I sat in a chair in the rec room last night with a book, but I kept staring at those three children huddled together. Maddie looked at me once and said, "What?" and I just said "I think you're all pretty wonderful." I am truly blessed with family.
Another lazy day--we were home by noon, and I unpacked my suitcase (it's amazing what it takes to be away even for one night), fed my neglected animals, ate some lunch, caught up on emails, and had a good two-hour nap. We lost an hour last night, of course, and I really didn't sleep well but still managed to doze until 7:45, which was 8:45 by this morning. I plan to go to bed early tonight and tomorrow, no one else will be in my office, so---shhh!--I don't plan to break my neck to get there at 8 a.m.
A food note: yesterday while waiting for Jordan to pick me up for the trip, I watched the food channel, and there were Paula Deen and a guest slathering butter, brown sugar, and cinnamon on dough and rolling it up to make breakfast rolls which they then iced (the icing to too much icing on the cake to my mind). I wanted to say, "Come on, Paula, stop acting like that was just invented--I've done it since I was a child." That's how my mom made coffee cakes, Christmas cakes, and pecan rolls, and if I weren't so lazy about rolling out the dough, I'd still be doing it. My kids clamor for home-made rolls, with Grandmother's recipe, at holidays, but it's a lot of work. Mom had what she called "Everlasting Dough" because you didn't have to bake it all at once--you could keep it in the fridge, though it did tend to rise out of its container. I don't know what kind of dough Paula was using, but you can't beat Everlasting Rolls. The recipe, with all its variations, is in my forthcoming cookbook. (A shameless plug!)
I've been reading a lot this weekend--a proposal for a novel, for one. The author sent the whole thing in some time ago, I sent it back with rewrite suggestions, and he sent back the first 50 pages. I was hooked and asked for the remainder, but he has a capitalization disease--capitalizes every other word, and my red pen itched, but I don't make marks on preliminary copy that will go to readers and the board. I sort of think I'll attach a note to the manuscript's trail for whoever edits. That worries me a bit--it's like I want to control every project (whoever edits will no doubt be perfectly capable of fixing those capitals) and I realize someday I have to retire and let go. It can't always be done my way. More's the pity!
I've also been reading an advances of a mystery. Patricia Batta posted on the Sisters in Crime listserv and asked if anyone would be willing to read galleys. I guess I was thinking in terms of proofs, because I thought she wanted a proof reader. Turns out it was a bound advance galley, and she wanted a blurb. That threw me, because I have no published mystery credits, so who am I to blurb a book? I read it, at first thinking how I would have done this and that, but her plotting is really good and I soon got caught up in the story. So tonight I sent off a blurb. I recommend you look for Why Did You Die in the Park soon at your local bookstore or on the Web. Now if I can only do as well. The book is, by the way, proof that you don't always have to hit the big New York publishers--this will come from Lillimar Publishing in Traverse City, Michigan.

A Nice, Long Weekend

A nice long weekend. I've been realizing lately that somehow when I worry about being faced with an empty weekend with no plans, things start to come up. I also think I'm beginning to be better about relaxing and going with the flow. Of courses this weekend, I've been proofing pages, which has kept me busy. Found some real errors in a couple of recipes, so am going back over it again, although I'm not quite through the first round.
Yesterday Texas showed its variable weather sides. What had been sunny and in the low 80s on Friday turned bitterly cold and windy Saturday, never out of the thirties. I went to two grocery stores and the hardware and came in and holed up for the day. Today it still qualifies as quite cool but its sunny and a definite improvement.
I spent part of the weekend feeding Christian. Jordan had made plans contingent on his working, and yet he didn't get a shift, so he came and had supper with me--with due warning in the morning so I could fix something he likes. We had chopped sirloin (with a sauce of red wine, beef broth and goat cheese) and salad, with a baked potato for him. We also had a long visit, a tad too much wine, and a thoroughly pleasant evening--I'd lit a fire in the fireplace and served dinner in the dining room instead of the family room since we didn't have to watch Jacob. I sent him home with a bag full of the ingredients for brunch today--and woke up this morning worrying about whether they had unpacked the bag and refrigerated as necessary. They did but confessed they forgot about it in the car until they began discussing what I was going to fix them for brunch today and Christian suddenly bolted for the car.
I fixed a new dish and altered it (no pun) to get around the tomatoes called for in the original recipe but one of the items on Christian's "do not eat" list.
I put three-and-a-quarter cups or water, a cup of corn meal, and a thawed 12 oz. pkg. of corn in a 9x13 dish, stirred it thoroughly, and baked it at 425 for 30 minutes (it came out soft polenta, but might have hardened if we'd let it cool completely). While it baked Jordan chopped a half cup cilantro, crumbled almost two cups of feta, and mixed them. I slit the casings on three bacon-and-onion sausages from Central Market's extensive lineup of homemade sausage--really debated over what flavor--and browned the meat in a skillet, breaking clumps with a wooden spon as it cooked. When it was no longer pink (a point about which Jordan is fanatical) I added some chicken broth and white wine (I had sent what I call a "travel" bottle of chardonnay, one of those little one-serving deals like you get on airplanes, and Jordan chilled it thinking I intended to drink it with brunch; I told her 11 a.m. was a bit early). When the polenta was done, we let it cool a bit, then topped it as evenly as possible with the broken up sausage meat and the feta/cilantro mixture. It was really really good. We had mini-blueberry muffins with it and needed no eggs. Jacob, who loves blueberries, thought there was something "yucky" in the muffins.
Tonight I'm fixing myself a dish that calls for an eggplant salad (made and in the refrigerator) with tuna in olive oil, grape tomatoes and mint. Sounds weird, I know, but then I'm the one who had a bit of egg salad on smoked salmon this morning before I went to brunch--I can't wait until 11 a.m. to eat. And I still have half of my sirloin patty waiting for me--maybe lunch tomorrow.
Someone left a comment on my last blog about whether or not I, as a small press director and owner of a Kindle, think digital reading machines are responsible for a downturn in publishing. Certainly there has been a downturn--a recent AAUP survey revealed something like 6-9% over the first six months of 2008, and that was before things began to go really bad. TCU Press isn't thriving like it did last year, although our sales are respectable. But, no, I don't think it's digital reading devices--someone still has to write the books and someone else publish them (I'm not sure but I don't think you can simply post your own book on Kindle). The thing that worries me about e-publishing is that it is often unvetted. TCU Press manuscripts go through two readers and then scrutiny (and I do mean scrutiny) by an editorial board. Some of the stories and books you see in the web have been read by no one but the author. Yet others come from reputable publishers who have chosen to print in newly developing forms, including e-books and Print to Order or Print on Demand. I think pubishing is changing at a rate that's almost scary, just because technology is changing that fast--but I believe there will always be hard copy books. People like to feel, hold, smell and read a real book--in spite of my Kindle, I'm doing that now, one called The Hearse You Came In On by Tim Cockey. It's a used book I got for a song at Booked for Murder in Houston, but the title sounded familiar and I thought I'd explore it. Nope, I think publishing is alive and well, maybe even a little bit "more well" than much of the economy, because one of the things I keep hearing is that in tough times, when they can't afford other entertainment, people stay home and read books.
My daughter, Megan, got a Kindle for Christmas and reports she loves it. She's rereading Pillars of the Earth and says the Kindle is so much easier to read than the big thick book. I find I like it because if I'm out of reading material, I can order a new book with a click and have it in minutes. My friend Mary Lu also got a Kindle for Christmas, and I'll have to ask how she's doing with it. Megan and Mary Lu both read in bed at night, something I simply can't do, so it may be especially great there.

A stalking cat and the dilemma of publishers, booksellers, and authors

My cat, at age 17, has become a stalker. He's always been affectionate and used to get on my desk and rub on my arm until he got a little love, but now he stalks. He sits on the end of the desk and stares intently at my dinner while I'm eating--as though willing the food to jump off the plate and to him. Tonight I locked him out of the study and enjoyed my supper in peace. When I'm in the kitchen he stares at me accusingly. He skulks around under the kitchen cabinets, looking for crumbs. The whole thing is he's hungry. His teeth are so rotten that he can no longer eat the dry food I used to leave out all the time. Now he eats the special kidney-diet canned food from the vet--read expensive there. Now I would give this aging friend all the food he wants--he deserves it at his ripe old age--but he wants fresh food every time. It's a delicate balance to give him enough but not too much--if it's left in his dish, even for an hour or two, he scorns it. My Scottish genes are too strong. I'm not going to throw out a perfectly good hunk of expensive food. So we're at war. I've won the early morning battle, I think by kicking visciously when he started to stalk me in the bed. Now he waits until the dog gets me up, and his dish is always cleaned of every little bit. So I know he can do it. Meantime, I alternate between feeling angry and guilty.
The Sisters in Crime blog is very informative and educational, and it's gotten me to thinking it's hard for both publishers and authors. Something I read last night made me think it's not wise to publish with the first independent small press that shows an interest--just when I was thinking okay, if a press likes my mystery and will do a decent job, I just want to see it in print. Agents don't want to look at you after you do that, and bookstores likely won't carry your book because it's probably nonreturnable. Ah, returns, there's the rub.
Bookselling is the only business I know where retailers can return unsold stock. My son Jamie is in the toy business, and the man who mentored him in that business, married to a publisher, used to rant, "Returnable! That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Once something is sold, it's sold." But it isn't. Returns are a long-standing tradition in publishing, and since "big chain" stores rely on them, we're not likely to get it to change. But the blog mentor today, a bookseller, pointed out that if a publisher tries to push a book on non-returnable terms, he reads that as a signal that the publisher doesn't have real faith in his title. But for publishers, returns are a nightmare, especially in January or February and midsummer when stores clean out their shelves to prepare for a new season.
And what does this mean to an author? Well, a publisher may be reluctant to take on a new author, envisioning cartons of returns. And if you publish with a small, independent press, your book will probably be sold nonreturnable and bookstores won't be anxious to carry it because who knows if they can sell it
Writing the book is the least of the problems, but it's where I'm stuck. I have one mystery ready to go, featuring a real estate agent who renovates old houses. It's out right now to one agent and one indie publisher. Should I work on the sequel? Should I start a new book--maybe I could achieve more depth, and it seems logical with my background and interests that I write about cooking--but there are so many mysteries about cookiing, what can I do to make mine stand out. A dilemma.
I'm reading a lot of fiction right now.

Life is Good

I'm almost afraid to say it, but I'm on a roll. This morning I gathered my courage and called the publisher who is supposed to do my cookbook. They'd had a change in personnel and a couple of months ago when I inquired I was asked to please let them sort things out. So today I half expected to hear they couldn't publish it--they don't have any new books for the fall season. But the director apologized for not getting back to me, asked if Iliked the cover, the illustrations, etc., and by afternoon I had an email detailing who was to edit, who was to supervise production, what I was to do. The ball is rolling.

And then, just before I left for lunch, we got a shipment of what happens to be my newest book but is also the first of our Texas Small Books that I'm so excited about. It looks wonderful! Feels good in the hand, is just a beautiful book. Betty and I went to dinner tonight, and when I showed her she said, "That's the most beautiful book I've ever seen!" She said she wants to buy several, and when I took lunch to Jeannie and Jim, she said they were perfect gifts for her daughters. I have a feeling these will be good. There are 505 backorders for Extraordinary Texas Women, which is really good for us.

I've been really afraid to talk about this, but with so much good happening, why not? When I turned on my computer yesterday morning, there was an email from an agent I queried. He said he'd read the entire manuscript of my mystery, and I emailed it promptly. Of course, today he wrote and said it sounded familiar and had I queried him before. I assured him I hadn't. Cross your fingers, please, that it doesn't read just like someone else's book.

And, I made an appointment with a designer who will come to the office to discuss web pages--we need to revamp our press webpage and add some sites, and I want my own web page to promote the mystery that isn't published yet but in which I have growing faith (hope I don't crash and burn tomorrow!). All this activity about the mystery is really generated by my having joined Sisters in Crime and signed up for two blogs or discussion groups or whatever. There's never an "aha!" moment but I've picked up lots of tidbits here and there, the names of agents, etc. I'm sort of a hesitant part of a community--not contributing often yet, but listening and learning.

And the final bit of the new me is that I had my first yoga lesson. Elizabeth, who worked in our office for three years as a non-traditional student at TCU, now gives private lessons in your home. She has remained a friend long after she was out of school--maybe ten years?--so I feel very comfortable with her, and she moved me into yoga slowly and with much encouragement. We had a hour-long session in which I did some things I told her I positively couldn't do. I've never been flexible, so I thought she would say I was beyond hope, but she said, "You're not a pretzel, but you're pretty flexible," and she praises me for taking good care of myself, etc. The boost in ego probably did as much for me as the yoga, but I did find it relaxing and tried a few poses myself tonight. Another lesson Saturday. I think it's like joining Sisters in Crime--no "aha!" moment but one day I'll discover I feel different--and better.

Yeah, life is good.

Jacob gets the idea

At twenty-two months, Jacob has the slightest inkling about the potty. He's obviously been watching his mama, not his father, because he backs up to it and wants to be lifted up to sit. He sits very seriously for several minutes and then raises his hand for you to lift him down. Of course, he's fully dressed the whole time--and I seriously doubt he's peeing in his diaper while he sits there. But, hey, it's progress!

Jacob and I were supposed to dine alone tonight, but Jordan's plans changed and she stayed for dinner. I defrosted a chicken breast, floured it, sauteed, then sauteed shallot, chive, parsley, and tarragon in butter and olive oil. Some chopped tomato went in, then white wine and chicken broth, and I let the the sauce thicken. Really good. We had broccoli, blue cheese salad, and baby artichokes. The latter were a bit of a disappointment. I've been wantingto try them for a while, but the leaves didn't have much meat on them and the hearts were tiny and hard to get to. I'll settle for an occasional splurge on a regular artichoke. I asked if I could give Jacob a Girl Scout thin mint cookie but Jordan pleaded exhaustion--she didn't want to stay up with a baby swinging from the ceiling at 10:30.

What a week! Starting with a stomach virus was probaby a bad sign. Then there was the grant proposal, some misunderstandings with the editors of the proposed series (thankfully, those were easily and pleasantly resolved and we ended up on the same page), then catalog copy came and had to be proofed instantly and prices finalized for the fall books--once you put it in a catalog, you can't change the price because . . . well, it just causes all kinds of you know what.

And then the dissatisfied author I thought I'd mollified came back to haunt me. He had written a nasty letter to the provost, saying that I ran off everyone--authors, editors, booksellers, even the garbage man I suppose--because I was so quick to offend. He contended that I was running the press like a fief (isn't the word fiefdom?) and ruining it and that many local historians were working on texts they wouldn't bring to TCU Press because of me. Since we publish a lot of local history, that came as great news, and in my anger I wanted to call and demand the names of those writers. I know he's misguided, distorting things, taking out his anger in an unprofessional way--but it's still worrisome. Knowing about the letter before I read it, I woke at 4 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep. I refuse to let someone like that rob me of my sleep, my peace of mind, or my sense of myself as a professional!

Often I dread slow weekends, but I'm looking forward to this one. I'm finishing that coffee house novel that I like, and then I have two Robert Parker novels. One of our fall authors is Parker's publicist and offered today to send me anything I wanted to read--wow! Tomorrow I'll shop, Sunday I probably go to church, and that evening Sue is coming for a glass of wine and I promised appetizers. Hmmm, deviled eggs with smoked salmon sounds like a place to start. Usually when I'm home alone on Saturday I cook something wonderful, but I have so much in the icebox--half a hamburger from today's lunch at a bistro, pieces of my chicken and Jordan's from tonight, my ever-present smoked salmon. I'll have to think of something to make me feel creative.

Or maybe I'll get to work on the Scots in Texas again.

Thoughts of an author

I've been proofreading my mystery novel one more time--it's amazing how many typos you find even the fifth or sixth time through. And today I sent a proposal--letter, synopsis, and five pages--off to an agent. I've queried three agents already--one that I know confessed reluctantly that he liked it but he didn't love it. We agreed that he's not into cozies but likes hard edge mysteries. He wants Ellery Queen and I'm writing Murder She Wrote. The other two agents declined to look at it, and I seriously doubt they read the proposal--it's hard to break through that circle. But I sent it today to an agent recommended to me who's web site says she handles lots of mysteries. PS: the title is Dead Space and it doesn't refer to outer space. It's made clear on the first few pages--but I'd love opinions about it.
I told Jamie once that maybe the reason I'd never sold well to NY publishers is that I didn't ever believe in myself enough to believe I could be a best-selling writer. He, who's all about self confidence, agreed. But this time I believe in that novel. I think its good. When I read a mystery, I'm delighted if I get so wrapped up in the lives of the people and their world that I'm reluctant to leave when I finish the book--and that's how I feel about this one. When I came to the final, climactic scene, I felt my anticipation rising--now I wrote that scene, so I know full well what happens. But I found the tension so strong that in the middle of reading it I got up to get a glass of wine! And now I'm already plotting and planning the second novel in the series--there's some great stuff to come. I can't figure out if working on the sequel (I've got about ten pages written and it beging smashingly with a woman confessing that she just shot her husband "in his sorry ass") is a sign of great self-confidence or a waste of time. I may go ahead and work on it until some paying job comes along. Meantime, my neighbor Sue, a most literate person though not a mystery fan, has asked to read the manuscript, and I'm delighted, waiting for her opinion.
And if this agent doesn't take it? I've got a couple of ideas up my sleeve--an old acquaintance with a possible publishing house, the first agent for recommendations of other agents. I'm not giving up. So send me your positive thoughts, please.
I took my cat to the vet today. He's 17, has been eating voraciously and yet seeming to lose weight, and his coat is not as lustrous and beautiful as it once was (he's a long-hair). In fact, his tail is downright puny, and it was once full and magnificent. I suspected thyroid--he was tested last May and got an okay on diabetes and kidneys but wasn't tested for thyroid. Today he showed early signs of kidney disease, so common in older cats, particuarly males. The thyroid comes back tomorrow but if positive, as both the vet and I expect, it presents a dilemma--the most effective treatment is radiation for $1200. I'd do it easily for a young cat, but it doesn't seem practical for a 17-year-old with incipient kidney disease. Fortunately, there are medications. Still I know I won't have him for many years and I'm sad--he's the best cat I ever knew, more loving and absolutely the most beautiful. He has a host of fans among my friends, including Carol who came, cat cage in hand, this morning to help me take him to the vet.
Whoosh, full and busy day. I think I'll go read a mystery.

Books are like Children

Texas novelist Bob Flynn, a good friend of mine, says that if someone asks you which is the favorite of your books, it's like asking you which is your favorite child (that's a big bone of contention among my children since they all claim to be the favorite and of course they are!). Which of mine (books, not children)? Various books for various reasons. After Pa Was Shot because I suddenly learned I can write fiction; Luke and the Van Zandt County War because I think it's the best y-a novel I ever wrote; probably Libbie because it was the most complicated story I tried to tell in adult fiction and it broke me into a new field of writing.
But two books have a special place in my heart. One is Sue Ellen Learns to Dance, my collection of short stories. It's special because it's darn hard these days to get anyone to publish short stories, and yet I really like those stories (okay, egotistcal, but I do!). They're stories of women in the American West, both of the past and a few contemporary. They're women who love and lose, women on the frontier, women during the Depression, women being women no matter the circumstances. I sent the collecition to two university presses. The reader at the first press said they should all be novels. Wrong! They are what they are--stories with one twist and, according to Poet's theory, suitable for reading at one sitting. The second press was very enthusiastic about them but then after a year or so decided they could no longer afford to publish short stores. I understand that. We don't publish them at TCU because they don't sell enough to justify the cost of publication.
But I wasn't ready to give up. An agent once told me never to publish a short story collection unless with a university press, because the next time a book of mine was presented to a New York publisher, they'd check sales numbers and shake their heads. But I'm past courting a New York publisher or two, so I sent it to a tiny tiny press in the Houston area--and they liked it. I will always be grateful to Guida Jackson and her Spring Creek Publishing for putting my stories into print--and using the cover art I wanted, a Dorothea Lange photo taken in 1936 of what appears to be a sharecropper's wife standing by an old Ford truck inside which her children sit. They are all worn down--by poverty, by dust, by despair. To me, she is Sue Ellen and she needs to learn to dance. "Sue Ellean Learns to Dance" is the story of mine that has been the most anthologized, even on audio tape.
The other book? It's not published yet, but it's the cookbook I've referred to from time to time in this column. (See how subtle I was in leading up to this?) It now has a title--Cooking My Way through Life: Kids and Books in the Kitchen--and it has a cover. (I hope tomorrow, at the office, I can insert the cover here--another learning lesson!) I sent the publisher all kinds of adorable pictures of my kids and pictures of family birthday parties, etc., because I thought they showed what a good time we had. None of them worked for her, and she came up with this burned mitt, which led each of my children to ask, "Is it yours?" and one to say, "We have some of those at our house." I love it.
Speaking of cooking, which I often do, I cooked a rib-eye tonight for Christian and Jordan--mostly for Christian because he loves his steak and he's so busy these days I rarely get to see him. It was a pound and a half, a good-sized steak to feed the three of us. I put the iron skillet in a 500-degree oven and got it really hot. Then, carefully, I took it from oven to stovetop, where the electric burner was set on high (how I long for a gas stove!). I had rubbed the steak with vegetable oil (maybe I should have used olive oil?) and sprinkled it with Kosher salt and pepper. I plopped that steak into a dry, sizzling hot pan and cooked it for 30 seconds (I made Christian time it), turned it with tongs (not a fork which breaks the skin and releases juices) and cooked it for another 30 seconds. Then the whole thing went back into that hot oven for 3 minutes on each side. The result was a wonderful medium rare steak. When I did it on the stovetop it turned gray, not brown, and I despaired, but in the oven it got a nice brown crust.
I love my iron skillet. Let me count the ways that I can cook with it . . . .

Nice day with some political thoughts

What a nice day! I had three emails in response to my Dallas Morning News column on Robert E. Howard (prolific pulp writer of fantasy, horror, westerns, and creator of Conan the Barbarian among others) that ran this morning, plus one comment on my blog. I felt like I was really talking to people. And it was a lovely day besides--I spent the morning getting ready for dinner guests--making a pot of chicken/vegetable soup, setting the table, etc. I lingered over the morning paper and then over watering the houseplants and trimming away the overgrown and dead parts. Tonight two good friends came for dinner--they were on their way home from Market in Dallas. We had a lovely visit, talk ranging from the old house they just bought to politics. The soup was okay, the salad really good, and the company excellent. The wine was so-so--they brought a cabernet called Wrangler. Since neither Linda nor I drink red, Rodger got to taste it and declared it tasted like wrangler wine--though eventually he said it improved after it had been open a while (he did admit that might be due to his having had a glass already). Linda and I drank a chardonnay called Cupcakes--she admitted she buys wine by the label, but it was perfectly fine I thought.
Today I also finished reading Sara Paretsky's Writing in an Age of Silence. It resonated with me for several reasons--she writes abut her heroine V.I. Warshawki's adventures in far South Chicago--not my part of South Chicago but still the same general territory. And she writes about commercial publishing--there used to be more than forty publishing houses in New York but today there are essentially seven publishers, and they are all big corporations with many businesses. Books, she points out, have become products, just like Pampers. (In fact, one corporate conglomeration brought in the head of their Pampers division to manage Simon & Schuster). Publishing today is strictly a bottom-line business and Faulkner, Thomas Wolfe, and a lot of other great American authors would never see print today. The days of Maxwell Perkins, the editor who published Wolfe and others because he loved books and good writing, are gone. Today's editors spend more time with spread sheets than manuscripts, according to Paretsky. It makes a great argument for university presses--but I, a frustrated mystery writer, find that cold comfort. On the other hand, as the director of a small academic press, I plan to use her comments with my administration.
Paretsky is even more powerful writing about the Patriot Act and its effect on freedom in the United States. She cites a horrifying list of individual cases--people being arrested and held for days without being able to tell their family where they are--all on the most flimsy charges. I closed the book with a profound sense of sadness for our country but a determination to do more to speak out--maybe this blog is my first step in that direction.
Another step--I sent a check, albeit small, to Hillary Clinton's campaign today. For me, it was a significant step. As an on-the-record liberal, I am beseiged with phone and email solicitations from the Democratic candidates, from Move-On, People for the American Way, and the national, state, and local Democratic parties, but I have held them all off, saying I would contribute when I made up my mind. And I think it was less Sara Paretsky than Meet the Press, George Stephanopoulos, and the MacNeill hour that made me decide today that the time has come to support Hillary. I think she has the courage, knowledge, and capability to begin to heal the economy, do something about health care, and, most important to me, end the war-with-no-end in Iraq. Whoever moves into the White House next year has an enormous task to fix the mess we're in, but I think she's the best choice.

Book clubs, mineral rights, and baby kisses

Oooh--I just got back from eating chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes at the Star Cafe, where I used to work. I'd forgotten how good it is--and how full it makes me feel.
This morning I talked to a book club, at the invitatoin of a friend from my church. Ten ladies, including my good friend Betty. I was to talk about my short story collection, Sue Ellen Learns to Dance and Other Stories, which I did but then the conversation veered off into books in general and publishing in detail. The ladies had questions about self-publishing, electronic books, all kinds of things. For me, the conversation was an ego boost. I think that what I do every day is just plain common sense and anyone could do it, but they kept talking about my knowledge of an entirely different world--the books I referred to, the terminology I used, the knowledge I had. And it made me feel good, like "Hey, I really do have an area of expertise!" I am really comfortable and at ease talking to small groups like that where I can perch on a footstool and have a conversation--just don't put me before a podium and a formal audience. These ladies had read the short stories and were enthusiastic about them, asking questions about specific stories and their origins, and so on. I came away feeling good about my career and my storytelling.
Ever since the Barnett Shale was discovered in North Texas, my neighborhood has been in a dither about mineral rights. Companies planned to put a drill pad on 8th Avenue, uncomfortably close to some of my distant neighbors. The neighborhood association urged us to act as a group and wait while a committee, including several lawyers, hammered out an agreement, which they did. It includes a more distant drilling site and a much better signing fee, plus the company donated a nice sum to the neighborhood park that we're building. So we're all set to sign. But today I got a contract from that company, plus one from a company that had not negotiated with the neighborhood and did plan to drill on 8th Avenue but was offering $1,000 more for sign-up (about $250 for most of us). So the dither began again, with a flurry of emails on the neighborhood news. I voiced my opinion that we should stay with the people who listened to our quality of life concerns, and most seemed to agree. But there it is--that uncertainty again. Given my druthers, I'd not sign at all. But I see that as a gesture as futile as spitting in the wind--drilling is inevitable, and if it's going to come anyway I might as well take the signing fee. Yes, it's going to be an enormous boost to the economy of this area--but you can't help worrying about risk and disruption of our peaceful neighborhood. I'm all for progress, but sometimes it's really painful to know which is the right course.
Jordan and Jacob were playing at a friend's house close to me tonight and ran by for a hug because Jordan knows I like to either hug my children or at least talk to them before they leave town. And all of the kids fly to California tomorrow for a weekend with their father. So after I gave Jordan a hug, I called the others. I somehow feel it's important to say, "Be careful, be safe, enjoy." A bonus tonight: Jacob has started giving kisses. He says "MMMmmmm" and puckers his little mouth. So adorable!

Cookbook daze

Today I heard from the publisher of my cookbook, and she suggested that it would be in print in the spring of 2009, possibly the fall of 2008. Of course, I pushed for fall, pointing out that I would market it strongly as a Christmas gift and suggesting a huge autograph party for which I would cook recipes from the book. She was enthusiastic, so I'm on pins and needles to see what will happen. But tonight I'm deep into working on it--the editors suggest it needs to be about 50 pages shorter--believe me, that's a lot of my golden prose to cut out! And it needs a new title: The Faux Gourmet doesn't do it for marketing, they suggested.
So my editor, Carly, asked me to ask blog readers for feedback: if you have title ideas for a book about a single mom cooking for kids, while writing and publishing books, I'd love to hear it. Not a gourmet cook but one who approaches the kitchen with enthusiasm and a sense of adventure, and one whose friends think she's a gourmet cook--they just don't know the definition nor the fact that gourmet cooks don't used canned soup or canned tuna.
The other question to ask your opinion on is regular binding or spiral? My instinct is for spiral, but Carly suggests that if she uses a spiral-bound cookbook much it gets nasty stuff stuck in the binding. Since all my well-used cookbooks are spotted and stained, I don't see that as much of a problem--but it may be. So please let me hear from you.
I know that there are more than two readers of the blog, because the other day a woman I'd never met was in my office to talk about a local history she wants to compile. And she definitely got on my good side when she said, "I love your blog." How to win a writer's heart!
Great day today. Deborah Crombie, author of eleven mysteries set in England and featuring Scotland Yard detectives Duncan Kincaid and Jemma James, spoke at a Pinkbag luncheon on campus. I got to play hostess and introduce her at the luncheon. I was of course prepared to be intimidated by a successful mystery writer whose books are sold in eight or ten countries, but she was charming, unspoiled, a lot of fun. And her talk was lively and interesting--with some insights into writing. If I ever have time to get back to trying a mystery, I may take her advice about plotting different story lines and seeing how they all go together. But right now I have no time for mysteries.
Tonight my friend Betty and I had a nice, lazy relaxed supper at a local bistro--a shared platter of tapas, a glass of wine each, and sinfully rich chocolate mousse for each of us. Perfect end to a nice day, although the day had its frustrations--I just won't go into that now.

Stuff

When I send my kids emails about a lot of things, I always put "stuff" in the tagline, and that's what this email is about--stuff.
First, amaryllis. Two friends sent me amaryllis bulbs for Christmas, and both have bloomed beautifully. Jordan took pictures of one before we went to Houston, and I was so glad, because by the time we came back, the blooms had drooped. Every year I tell myself I'm going to plant the bulbs, but I never do. One year I put them in the refrigerator, and then read that you should never put them in a fridge with apples, because apples do something bad to them. Too late--they were already in there with the apples that I almost never keep on hand. Maybe this is the year to plant them.
Jordan, Jacob, and I had a delightful weekend in Kingwood, outside Houston. I'm so lucky that she and I like to travel together and giggle a lot. Jacob proved to be a good traveler, except one time when he got way too hot in the back seat and was furious. And about a mile from home he decided he was ravenous, so I was leaning over the back of my seat, shoving a bottle in his little face.
The Houston Alters are flourishing--their house is spacious and comfortable, the suburb charming because it has lots of those pine trees you find north of Houston, and their baby, Morgan, a pistol. She was sweet with Jacob, petting him and sharing things--and then Sunday morning, it was like it all fell apart and she dissolved in tears. I think she was saying, "Enough already! I've shared. How long does this go on?" It was good training for her in anticipation of the baby brother expected in April. Morgan is really well behaved and every morning about ten takes herself off to nap--most of us would have done flips to have a baby do that. We went to a real Kosher deli (my request, and I loved the chopped liver), visited with Lisa's family, giggled our way through an amazing diaper disaster, and generally had a marvelous time. Colin and Lisa are great hosts, and Lisa wore herself out fixing a wonderful fajita dinner for ten of us Saturday night. On the way down and back, Jordan and I stopped at Sam's in Fairfield, a restaurant that I swear is one of the biggest buffets ever--good food, clean restrooms, a clean changing table. Who could want more?
But Monday morning I was back in the world of books and publishing. Monday night, Susan, the press editor, and I co-taught a class called "The World of Publishing." Actually it's four sessions, and last night, the third, was on New York publishing. We had author Carlton Stowers and his agent, who shall remain nameless for his own protections. They painted a realistic but grim picture--New York is where the money is, but it's so much a business now and not an art. If you've published before, a publisher will look up your sales at Barnes & Noble and Border's; not good? You haven't a chance. If you're unpublished, you have a better chance--but if that first book fails, forget it. I began to see my mystery fading into the woodwork. But today, the agent, said in an email that he thought quality still matters. If you can write really well, he said, there's someone out there to help you. Not necessariliy him, because he's busy out the kazoo, but he has agreed to look at a proposal for my mystery.
And that's my big accomplishment: I finished the first draft of the mystery tonight. I had been avoiding it, even to the point that I wrote the first pages of a second volume before I wrote the end of the first one. I knew where it was going, but I was literally scared of it. It involved a physical fight between two women, and having never been in a fight I wasn't sure how to handle it. Jordan suggested taekwando, but I decided that was too pat and eventually gave the heroine great strength from doing pilates. I don't really know many women who do martial arts, but I know a lot who do pilates. Anyway, the novel is done and is 69,920 words--close to the magic 70,000, which it will surpass with rewrites. I feel a great sense of relief. though I have no idea if the fight scene works. I really tried not to rush through it but instead to linger on the emotions, the feelings, the fear. Tomorrow, I'll print the whole thing out and begin the rewrite process. You know what, it's fun!