Reflecting

      Eight years old, but still relevant; Toni Morrison talks about her motivation for The Bluest Eye.



http://youtu.be/_8Zgu2hrs2k

A Good Week

     This was a really good week, considering that I got very little writing accomplished, had a couple of deadlines diddled with, and earned embarrassingly little. There were a couple of accomplishments that made all of that worthwhile.
      First, in the aftermath of the recent horrible tragedy of the Afghan shooting rampage by a US soldier, I realized that my manuscript Holy Buckets, which is a novel about a soldier with untreated PTSD, should go out this week. So often book deals seem to hinge on timing. So on Monday morning I sent an excerpt to the press that I would most like to see publish it, and was thrilled that the very same day an editor wrote back and asked me to send the whole thing. I realize that probably means nothing at all, yet it was the most encouraging letter from a publisher I have ever received. I spent about ten hours making final edits and sent it off. Here's hoping...
     Also, spent a few hours preparing my first (I think my one and only) comedy routine. I performed as Sasha Shatner at a local fundraiser called Shatner Beat Night, delivering a version of All The Single Ladies in the style of William Shatner. This was the third year that this event took place in my community, and though I was interested in participating before I had always chickened out. I decided not to allow myself to do that again, and made myself enter the very male-dominated competition. Though I was as fierce as I could be, I only took second place, and that was not publicly acknowledged. It was still quite rewarding to go where no woman had gone before, most of all, me.

 

True Story

     The Red Cross has banned me from giving blood which I have been doing since I was in high school and had to lie about my weight. I added two pounds to my 98 to reach the required limit. Now I answer all of the questions posed to me honestly, even the ones that do not apply to my gender (a new policy of theirs). And because I lived in Europe for a few years my blood is considered risky. Mind you I have been home for twenty years and have given blood in the interim, but the nurse/ person said I should not have been, and is afraid I carry Mad Cow Disease. I was tempted to point out that since MCD is fatal and I showed up at the blood drive in what I like to think is a fairly convincing state of not-quite-dead-yetness, perhaps that was a good indication that I did not have it, but since I sometimes do feel like a mad cow, I decided not to argue the point, and turned tail and came home, in what I concede was a rather docile cow-like fashion.

Aww shucks

So flattering to find myself on this list this morning.

http://www.wirenh.com/features-mainmenu-18/cover-stories-mainmenu-53/5575-the-wires-2012-readers-poll.html

On Shakespeare

       I never was much of a fan I'm afraid. That is until recently. Having just returned from my first trip to England I have come home with an increased respect for all things English, and that includes a bit of a first time crush on the bard. I had no idea what a fascinating man he was. I was intrigued by the story proposed in the movie Anonymous which I watched before going on vacation. It portrayed Will Shakespeare as a dolt, in great contrast to the reputation I, as a student of literature, have known of him. Quite insulting to his memory, but I like stories that get you to think about accepted theories and that question authority. Then my daughter and I toured the Globe Theatre in London and it's museum. (Unfortunately no plays are performed in winter.) And that type of physical immersion in history is just so fascinating to me, you get the profound feeling that you missed out on something so special, though the smells alone are unimaginable, the sights and sounds would have been (almost?) worth the bear-baiting and bubonic plague exposure. While at the gift shop I couldn't resist picking up a copy of Bill Bryson's work on Shakespeare. As I suspected it is a pleasure read on the subject of just who the man was. I enjoyed it immensely, and recommend it to all those for whom "love is a spirit all compact of fire".
(Venus and Adonis, 151) 

     What I have been most impressed to learn was the sheer number of beautiful turns of phrase that are part of our everyday English that are attributable to Shakespeare. What an amazing legacy, measured in quality or quantity, but most of all for endurance. Here is a good sampling; http://www.pathguy.com/shakeswo.htm. It is stunning.

     Here are a few of the photos we took at the Globe.

Query Weary

     A couple of days ago I attended a talk at the UNH English Department given by Joanne Wyckoff, of the Carol Mann Agency. She spoke about the role of the literary agent and getting published, or not. I found her talk very helpful. I especially liked how she kept reiterating that if a book is good it will find it's way. There is a lot that can be taken from that advice. I hope I got it. Just a few minutes ago I sent her a query with the first 25  pages of my manuscript, after putting about six or seven hours of work into it. Keep some stuff crossed please!
     While her talk was very interesting, I did find myself just a bit distracted having just come from tending my husband's grave. We met in Durham, and I chose to bury him there, so whenever I am in town I pay a visit. This poem (first draft follows) was percolating in my head all afternoon.

Dad's Rock

We celebrated our second tenth anniversary,

which made remembering the first

so much more sweet, hard to swallow bitter-sweet;

in the dark of a rented mountain cabin,

where you got down on one knee, finally,

and gave me a diamond anniversary ring,

our babies content in corners, sweet sleepy

love tucked tight into every bed,

an unimpressed moose ambling by outside.

Now, I come to your resting place,

the gravestone we call "Dad's Rock",

still choking on unspoken words as then.

I designed this stone for you, my last gift,

a Scottish thistle chiseled in its center

because I didn't know what else to do.

I notice that lichen has begun to grow here.

A similar scaliness has also formed on me,

an unimpressed car speeding by.

Sharing the Sunday morning love

"Dear Tammi Truax, 

Thank you very much for submitting your manuscript, Holy Buckets, to The Big Moose Prize. 
Unfortunately, your work has not been chosen as the winner of the prize or as a finalist. 

We wish you the best of luck in your future writing and publishing endeavors. 

Sincerely, ..."

      Doesn't seem right to send out reject letters on Sunday morning.

      Have decided to make some major changes to this manuscript that I thought I was done with after getting some very helpful feedback from a few friendly readers. So I have put my historical novel on hold while I go back and attend to Holy Buckets. I hope the rewrite doesn't take too long...

Yes, I'm a Bob

     Five poems submitted this week, all to the "I'm A Bob" contest at a local playhouse for an upcoming production of The Vagina Monologues.  Can't wait to see the show and hear the local contributions!
       Here's something just for fun;

Kidlit Project

     If you are into children's literature please consider the request made in this blog;
     http://taralazar.wordpress.com/2012/02/07/wikipedia-kidlit-project/

Someone made this for me I'm sure.

Today's column

Assiah Russell: 'High tide floats all boats' | SeacoastOnline.com

Gleanings

Gleanings from Old Shaker Journals by Clara Endicott Sears

     Reading this on line as part of the great amount of research I'm doing for my current novel.

Yesterday I completed a couple of hours on the subject of New England women's underwear in the nineteenth century. A lot more involved than it may sound not just because of changing fashion trends over those decades, but because of the differences among the classes. I want to know what the poor and rural young woman had going on under her skirt because it is so important to me that my historical fiction be quite historically accurate. Most of the information available is, not surprisingly, about what was under the abundant skirts and hoops of the wealthy class. Fun work, but frustrating, almost gets my panties in a bunch. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

      On a related note, I am also trying to figure out what term residents of New England had for the outhouse in the latter half of the 1800's. I doubt they referred to it as the outhouse, and think privy is too British, but haven't seen any other references. Please respond if you have any ideas.

                                         1850's split bloomers

Apps for Writers

     I'm trying to maximize the use of my iPhone the way I know a writer should. But the truth is I can't even maximize the use of my iPhone the way anyone should. The truth is, contrary to what my daily use of a computer might indicate, I am practically a Luddite. I have no technical skills. My daughter remarked in anger when I purchased myself an iPhone that I should not have one because I am incapable of using it. I rely on both of my teenagers to assist me with all small devices. I still rule when it comes to automobiles and laundering machines. That's about it. So I have been thinking about apps for writers and starting researching them to find one that might make my life easier, not more complicated. It took me a few weeks to adjust to making my notes on the phone instead of my little old notepad. But the important thing is ~ I did adjust. I'm the turtle, not the hare. Always have been, always will be. If you have any recommendations please let me know. Here are those of one writer who is not a techno-moron;
http://www.mywritingblog.com/2011/05/best-writing-apps-for-writers.html
     Last night I attended Author's Night at a local vineyard. A nice little event celebrating New Hampshire writers published by small presses. I met, for the second time, Cynthia Neale, a historical fiction writer that I admire. Things are going relatively well for her as a writer, but I am reminded how much dues I have yet to pay. So I'd better get back to work....

A Resolution for 2012

           Like a bad virus this is making its way around the Internet, but I wanted to save it for reviewing on a regular basis. I know grammar is my weakness, and that my writing annoys the hell out of grammar geeks. I care, but not very much to be perfectly honest. (Yes, I know that is a cliche' and I shouldn't be remarking on it as a parenthetical statement.) I do, however, care enough to try to do better, because I agree bad writing "sucks". I will review this list maybe a million times. Promise.

Miscellaneous Musings

      The other night someone (thank you Lesley) asked me to post another installment of my new novel on this blog. It was such a welcome complement! I was thrilled. And it was gratifying too since I have been hard at work on it all week; immersed full time in research for it and having reached an 8300 word count as of this morning. It is easily the most exciting writing project I have ever embarked on. That is because I love historical fiction so much, and doing the research for it is just joy for me.
       It all began with the interest two of my best girlfriends, a poet and a photographer who often collaborate with each other (thank you Kate and Sarah), had taken in Shaker history and architecture. I had always had a simmering interest in that subject but hadn't had a chance to indulge it much. Their enthusiasm was quite catching and I soon joined them on an overnight trip to the last operating Shaker village in the world at Sabbathday Lake in Maine. On our way north we whetted our appetites at the exhibit of Shaker artifacts at the Portland MFA which was stunning.The next day we were so fortunate to be able to attend Sunday worship and meet all of the surviving Shakers afterward over coffee and cookies and a grace one would expect to find there.
     My interest in writing something when we started out, maybe just an article, had blossomed into a full blown book idea before we had left Portland and was taking shape throughout the weekend. I have been devouring books ever since for accurate background information.
     Last night I hosted my gf's to a Shaker study dinner. I served them an authentic menu of Shaker recipes, well, except for the wine. We had garden salad (a strange combination of spinach, carrots and cauliflower) with Shaker herb dressing, followed by oyster stew with homemade bread, while listening to shaker hymns on my laptop. Then we watched the 1989 Ken Burns documentary called The Shakers,
 which I think they all found as fascinating as me.
     So you know what 2012 will be devoted to for me ~ the study of devout and ecstatic celibacy! Stay tuned. Here are a few photos I took on our field trip a couple of weeks ago. We weren't allowed to use our cameras indoors.

     

Out this morning;

Jim Tierney: 'Not ready to go' | SeacoastOnline.com

The Christmas Story

     I've decided to post an excerpt from the novel that I just started this week. Primarly because of this passage's similarity with the Christmas story. It has nothing at all to do with the that story, but you'll see the similarity. Of course, I would love to hear what you think of this very rough first draft. Do you get a good sense of time and place and who the character is?

      She had always loved being in the barn. It was a safe and happy place where she had enjoyed many of the best moments of her childhood, while the little cape house that stood nearby was more marked by hard memories and drudgery. So when nature called her to seek a squatting spot she went to the barn.

      Choosing the northwest corner because it was the farthest from the house, she hiked and tucked her heavy linen skirt up and under her armpits so as to save it from soiling. Then lowered herself down onto the hay she had just minutes ago kicked into a fresh fluff in the dark corner of her father's enormous barn. Reaching down around her still small but full belly she deftly slid her long cotton stockings down to her ankles and then extended her legs in front of her where nature told her to put them. Her head was the last part of her body to make contact with the straw, but she couldn't leave it long at rest, and would turn her whole head left to right and back again in rhythm with her pains while the moon rose. Though still young she had seen life of various sorts enter this world many times and knew that the time it took a mother to deliver a babe varied widely, especially with her first attempt. Already she regretted not going to or sending for the village midwife, though that wish was more for companionship than any real assistance. But fear had prevented that, and since her impending arrival had remained undiscovered by anyone, she simply could not bring herself to declare it to be. It had been hard enough to accept it for herself, to the limited degree that she had. She had been able to ignore her blossoming belly and breasts until she saw with her own eyes the movements of a strong little body lying therein. A little body that would not be denied.

      Fear was the fuel on which she had been forging forward for so long it didn't really seem like an unusual way of life. Though the problems that developed for her seemed to grow more serious and frightening with each passing year. She saw herself as just an instrument of what was to be, with little ability to influence the outcome of her own life. The negative prospect of her travail, that she or the babe or both would not survive, was no less frightening than the prospect of their hearty survival. Perhaps much less so.

     The rapid progression of the pains overtaking her body was of no surprise and in fact, felt fitting, and she did not fight their powerful possession of her. She knew that she was just an instrument. A bodily vessel of providence. Now a vessel for a babe. A sudden need to grunt from deep inside escaped her throat unbidden and surprised the silence she had committed herself to. Instinctively, she slid herself up the wall a bit, and drew her booted feet close to her body. With her right hand she grabbed a piece of her dirty skirt hem and placed it in her mouth, closing her teeth around it. Then she slid her hand down to her womanhood and felt the crowning of a child. She registered no surprise when her hand felt the warm, wet but wiry little pate. Rising up on her hands she bore down with a silent strength that she didn't know she possessed, and that made her feel as if she were indeed possessed. Pushing with all her might,  … praying with a last bit of residual energy,  … squeezing and pressing with all of the muscles that held her young bones together.     

     At the moment that it felt as if death had arrived to rip her in half, she wanted to scream. Instead she rolled her head back against the old oak timbers, and looked up for salvation. She saw only an exquisite spider's web stretched out in the corner, canopying her in the semidarkness, the mother spider still but watching in her new midwifery role. Beady little bug eyes met big green girl eyes as Prudence bit down, bore down, and with the last of what she had, spilled forth the babe. Mother and child lay where they were for several minutes, breathing in chilly silence. When she re-gathered her vigor, rose up on her hands again and could look down between her legs Prudence saw a wee baby girl who wriggled and grimaced as if protesting the prickly underlayment that served as her cradle and the cold Maine morning air that served as her blanket. An almost invisible steam rose off her oddly colored purplish-brown body which shimmered in the bleak rays of early morning light that penetrated the cracks between the barn boards.

     After the briefest respite she delivered the afterlife and Prudence pushed herself back up against the wall and surveyed the situation before her. Kicking the bloodied hay away, she reached to her right for the bundle she had brought with her. Slowly she unrolled the small blanket that she had tied shut yesterday with a string. She used the string to tie a strong knot in the life cord, and then she used the blanket to pick up the infant whom she wiped and warmed and then swaddled with the cloth. She unbuttoned her blouse to her waist and tucked the swaddling into and against her chest as she lay back down upon the hay backrest. Pulling her heavy cloak over both of their bodies she lay down to rest and await what was to be. Milking time was not far off.

copyright protected: Tammi J Truax

These kinds of stories...

absolutely make my head spin. How does one know where to turn or what to do next? I concede I am clueless. I am going to stick with the old-fashioned submission process for now, but am not sure for how long. I call this part of the process pimping out my book. It is utterly unenjoyable.

http://online.wsj.com/article_email/SB10001424052970204770404577082303350815824-lMyQjAxMTAxMDAwOTEwNDkyWj.html?mod=wsj_share_email

Opening paragraph

       As promised I will post a bit now about reworking the introductory paragraph of my novel which I have done with the generous cajoling of author Hallie Ephron. She had offered to read one paragraph of emailed work to everyone in attendance at a talk she gave to writers during NaNoWriMo. I immediately knew I would be sending her my first paragraph. I knew it wasn't good enough and yet I was stuck on and attached to the clunky first draft design of it. They were my big purple babies that I just couldn't bring myself to chop. At least not until I had the encouragement of someone wiser, who has toughened to the task of killing her darlings.
      Here's what blogger Sue Rich says about the opening paragraph;
    

Grab the editor by the throat.  No, I don't mean for you to run to an editor's office, wrap your hands around his neck and shake him until he agrees to read your manuscript.  But if the opening paragraph of your story doesn't accomplish that, you're finished before you begin.

If you want your work to explode out of the slush pile and fire an editor's interest, then you must achieve that with the first line, or at the very least, the first paragraph.

Here's an interesting tidbit:  One editor told me (I won't mention names) that when she opens an envelope containing a submission, she pulls the first page only half-way out and reads a few lines.  If her interest isn't piqued by then, she slides the page back in and puts the envelope on the rejection pile.

Don't let that happen to you.

All of us are tempted to start with background--the reasons and motives for our character's behavior--but those of us who have made the hurdle into the ranks of published know a secret.

Background can wait.

First and foremost, you must get the reader's attention, and make them want to know what happens next--and that's no easy feat in just a few sentences.

     I'm not going to share my original draft. I'm actually rather embarrassed by it now. Here is the revised edition and I am most willing to hear any thoughts that come to mind when you read it. Thanks!

     She stood in silence, smiling slightly. Sarah Marie Kelley, now Ms. Kelley, Grade One teacher at Robert F. Kennedy Elementary School was reporting for duty on the first day in her own classroom. No more professors peering over her shoulder to critique her every move. No more well-meaning mentors telling her what to do. Her very own first grade classroom. She would finally get to do things her way, and she had such big plans for the year! She knew how each month, even each week, would unfold for the next 186 days.

     I actually miss the challenge of brainstorming a picture book idea every morning, but it is time to get on with doing something with all of those ideas now. Many of my ideas were about sharing Native American philosophy with children, and now I hope to do a series of children's books on that subject to follow the one I have already finished. Since I have yet to send the finished one out to potential publishers, I will now be able to add the idea of a forthcoming series to my queries, which hopefully will be viewed positively.
      My novel is also getting ready to hit the road. I have two people (OK, friends) reading it right now to offer me feedback, and have finished a complete edit of it myself. I submitted it the The Big Moose new novel competition last week, but unfortunately I did that while it still had a bad first paragraph. Already I think it was bad enough to get it tossed out immediately. I have been reworking the first paragraph this week, with the kind-hearted mentorship of Hallie Ephron. That slaughter of some of my ugliest babies will be the subject of my next post.
     I wrote one new poem this week which I will probably post after it is work-shopped in class tomorrow. I do like it though and was glad to get it down on paper. It had been percolating in my mind for a long time. Funny, there was a little Native American influence there too. Right now I am tweaking on older poem to read at the PPLP hoot this evening. It is one of my poems that I actually like and have read in December before; Mary's Travail.
     Finally, sent out one proposal this morning for The Prickly Pear Poetry Project (my non-profit foundation) to present our workshop at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival in April. Stay tuned...

Tell me what you think...

http://www.seacoastonline.com/articles/20111201-LIFE-112010306

Pitchapalooza

     Well, I guess I put the looza in pitchapalooza. Although it was a big step for me as it was the first time I ever pitched a book, and to do it publicly in front of about one hundred strangers was not the easiest thing to do. I did get some positive feedback. Two of the judges used the word "fascinating" after I gave my one minute pitch for my novel at a local book store. .. But I did not come in the top three. The fishing guys won first place and their book about fishing in New Hampshire has a pretty limited market.
     I also got some negative feedback. Two of the four judges said my title, Holy Buckets, sucks and needs to be changed. Of course, I'm rather partial to it, and still resistant about that. What do you think?

     Here I am mid-pitch...

Update

     I'm sure it appears by my lack of blog posts lately that I've been slacking, but as tends to be true, things are not really what they seem to be. It feels like I have been working harder than ever. Not earning more than ever, just working harder. There certainly have been distractions; the usual home and family mini-emergencies which are tolling in on a very regular basis of late. Time and dollar consuming disturbances to my writing. I have been forced by fiscal necessity to look for additional employment and selfish potential employers have been making me jump through all sorts of hoops for them. More time and dollar consuming disturbances to my writing.
      But I have been writing. Some. I am still tweaking the novel, and still enjoying the revision phase. I wish I had more hours to devote to it. A dear friend read and edited it for me and I am using all of that feedback. I started a monthly poetry class that has me revisiting poetry writing which I had been neglecting while focused on my book. I have also been participating pretty faithfully in PiBoIdMo, and have found the process to be far more fun and worthwhile than I ever anticipated. I have come up with some ideas that I am excited about and fully intend to pursue later. Additionally I have been participating in as many NaNoWriMo events at my public library as I can. They have been such wonderful supporters of writers this month.
     One of those events was the opportunity to attend a talk given by Hallie Ephron. She gave a humorous and warmly inspiring talk to a few writers, and I wished I had had the money to buy her book written just for writers (see below). She was kind enough to offer to critique a paragraph of our work if we chose to send her one which I'm going to do tonight.
     I haven't covered everything I have been up to the last couple of weeks, but I'm going to write to Hallie now, and will continue with the update tomorrow.