What My Editor Said

August 26, 2014 By

 

My muse, acrylic on canvas, copyright, Joan Z. Rough 2002

My muse, acrylic on canvas, copyright, Joan Z. Rough 2002

It’s back. You know … the manuscript I sent to my editor a few weeks ago. Although there were a number of beta readers who read it after I wrote the first draft, this time things feel very different. When I sent it out to Kathy, Shirley, Jane, Judy, Kevin, Bill and Sue, early in the year, I was excited at having gotten that far. I knew my story  needed lots of work. But I also needed a sense of what it could be. Why go on if it wasn’t going to be a story that people would want to read?

Their verdict, in all cases, went something like this, “Powerful story. Send it to a developmental editor.”

After many months of tearing it apart, deleting, adding new material, and putting it back together again, I sent it out to Dave Malone, who  has a great reputation for his work in helping writers look at the “Big Picture.” Last week he sent me a fifteen page document with his comments, accompanied by my manuscript with more detailed comments.

At first I was overwhelmed. When I sent the manuscript out to him, I was totally sick and tired of my story. I had a few thoughts about killing it off and moving on to something else.

Okay, I’ll start painting again. Maybe I’ll go back to writing poetry. I’ll start working on my bucket list. I still have that urge to visit Mongolia. What about going back to Africa and taking Bill with me this time, so he can see the elephants living in the wild where they belong?

But still, there was that silly, naive hope  that I was just tired, and that this highly recommended editor would think my book was perfect. 🙂

Thankfully, Dave started his comments with, “I have a lot of feedback for you, and despite how intensive it may be, know that I believe in your memoir, and I do hope you continue moving forward with it to publication.”

He added other wonderful compliments and commendations, but it was the rest of what he had to say that gave me pause and an increasing ache in my already tempestuous stomach.“Delete this; delete that; show, don’t tell; add more of this and less of that.” 

I set it all aside for a few days, worked in the garden, spent some time with friends, and had a great massage.

All along I knew there was no killing it off, going back to Africa, painting, or writing poetry. At least for the moment. I picked up Dave’s comments and reread them. The “big picture” I’d had in mind was willing to change a bit.

I liked much of what he suggested … like choosing a different starting chapter and eliminating a lot of stuff that is unnecessary and repetitive. But there are other things I still don’t agree with him on. Perhaps as I start rewriting again, I’ll change my mind about those things and begin to see his point of view. But maybe I won’t. I have the major puzzle pieces of my story before me and hopefully I can put them back together in a way that makes sense to all of my future readers.

To his comments, Dave graciously added: “What I say is NOT the law. Merely suggestions (though confident ones nonetheless). You must own your changes; you must own your edits.”

As I begin the next stage of my process, I’m taking all of his words seriously. I’m staying open, letting go of expectations, and dancing with my muse. I’m allowing myself to take my time. I’ll continue to take risks, make mistakes, and start all over again if need be. After all, that’s what life is all about.

Do you allow yourself to risk making mistakes? How do you react to what you consider failure?

The Winner of Last weeks Book Give Away of Bonnet Strings, An Amish Woman’s Ties to Two Worlds, by Saloma Miller Furlong, is Dorothy Sander, over at Aging Abundantly. 

 

Filed Under: Editing, Life, Memoir, The Muse, Writing Tagged With: ,

A Letter to My Mother: Posthumous Reconciliation? And A Book Give Away

August 19, 2014 By

bonnetstrings-1Always interested in reading about other writers’s spiritual journeys, I recently picked up a copy of Saloma Miller Furlong’s second memoir, Bonnet Strings: An Amish Woman’s Ties to Two Worlds. I just finished reading it and highly recommend you take a look at it.

Next week, one of my readers who leaves a comment on this page, will have a chance to receive a free copy of that book. Just leave a comment. I’ll pick a name at random and perhaps you will be notified that Saloma’s book is on it’s way to you.

Currently, Saloma is at work on a letter to her mother in book form,  in which  she tries to reconcile with her mother, who is now dead. Both Saloma and I have had difficult mothers to deal with during our lives. It is through this new writing, that Saloma is working her way to understanding and forgiving a mother, who like mine, used her children as scapegoats.

Without further ado, I welcome and thank Saloma for being my guest today and sharing her story. 

I have seen Joan around the online world several times. I decided it was time we “meet,” after reading about her incredible journey. Though I have not cared for an aging parent, I can relate to Joan’s story in many ways. I eagerly await the publication of her book. I am honored to be here today. Thank you, Joan, for hosting me.

We’ve all heard the bittersweet stories of people reckoning with their mortality when they are about to leave this world. They took stock of their lives and asked to speak with someone with whom they’ve not spoken to for years. In their waning days or hours, reconciliation and forgiveness happen. The bitter of the story is all those wasted years when reconciliation could have happened. The sweet of the story is that reconciliation did happen.

When my mother was dying, I kept hoping she would come to the place of needing reconciliation, when she would gather her sons and daughters around her and deal with any unfinished business with each of us, alone.

I was hoping there would be a time when she would let her guard down, so that I could tell her how I’ve had a hard time reconciling my memories of her when I was small and innocent from those when I was in my teens.

I know Mem loved me when I was little. I remember her bathing me in the galvanized tub in the living room in winter. After the bath, she would sit me on her big, soft lap, wrap me in a warm towel she had warmed by the woodstove, dry me off, and then dress me in the fresh-smelling clothing she had laid out for me. I remember standing on a stool, helping her knead bread. I remember being terrified of leaving her when I started Kindergarten.

I also remember the sound of her solid footsteps from the time I was a six, and had just said something she perceived as backtalk. Those footsteps would go to the china cabinet, where she would take down the latest whip or leather belt. She would stand there and in her most forceful voice, demand that I, “come here.”

I could not run. I could not hide. I could not resist that voice. I had to step over to her, where she would raise my Amish dress and slam that whip or belt across the backs of my legs, until I thought I would lose my mind from the overpowering pain.

When Mem lay dying, I wanted to hear her admit that she had been taking out her own frustrations on me when she whipped me. That she had harmed me, instead of “doing it for my own good.” I wanted to hear her say, “I am so sorry.”

But that is not what happened. Mem told us not to cling, and said it was her time to go. It seemed that she couldn’t duck out of this world fast enough. There was no chance of reconciling with her. Even before that day, she did not want to dig into the past. “For what good would it do?” she would say.

When I said my last good-byes to my mother, I told her that I would think of her in her heavenly home, and love her always. I wrote her a letter the night she was dying, because I could not be by her side. When I read it now, it sounds like I had no unresolved issues with her. However nine years later, I realize I’ve never reconciled the mother who was so nurturing and caring, with the one who was so harsh and cruel.

In an attempt to reconcile with Mem, I am writing a letter to her. I sift through memories and reflect on them. I do this, not knowing “what good it will do.” I don’t know if I will have a better understanding of her, but that is my hope. I like to think that there is still time to find resolution, even though she is not here in person.

So far, I find the act of writing to be powerful. Instead of sitting down in the inner reaches of my unconscious, I am recalling the past, allowing it to surface, one piece at a time. I am examining my memories of Mem, my relationship with her, and ultimately, my life.

As I write this, I don’t yet know who my audience is. Right now, that is not as important to me as doing the writing. Maybe I will decide to publish it. Or maybe someday one of my sons or grandchildren will find it, and at least learn something about their lineage.

I cried when I read the quote, by Christina Baldwin, that Joan uses at the top of her home page. I recognized it as the compelling reason for why I feel the need to write down my memories. “Making story of our family history doesn’t mean we change the realities of our forebears’ lives … we don’t turn a thief into a pillar of virtue … but we learn to carry the story differently so the lineage can heal.” What a beautiful thing to hope for: “for the lineage to heal.” What more is there?

Are there issues with your mother you wish to come to terms with? Do you think it is ever too late?

 

dsc_0017Saloma Miller Furlong is the author of two books, Why I Left the Amish and Bonnet Strings: An Amish Woman’s Ties to Two Worlds. Her story is featured in the PBS documentaries “The Amish” and “The Amish: Shunned” on American Experience. You can read more of Saloma Furlong’s biography by following the link.

Website: http://salomafurlong.com/
Blog: http://salomafurlong.com/aboutamish/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/SalomaFurlong
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4487564.Saloma_Miller_Furlong
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Saloma-Miller-Furlong/e/B004SXYJXE/ref=ntt_dp_epwbk_0

 

Filed Under: Abusive Relationships, Books, family, Healing, Memoir, Navigating Through Life Tagged With: , ,

How Do You Know When You Need Some Downtime?

August 11, 2014 By

DSC01745.JPG“Downtime is where we become ourselves, looking into the middle distance, kicking at the curb, lying on the grass or sitting on the stoop and staring at the tedious blue of the summer sky. I don’t believe you can write poetry, or compose music, or become an actor without downtime, and plenty of it, a hiatus that passes for boredom but is really the quiet moving of the wheels inside that fuel creativity.”
Margaret Roach

I finished the third rewrite of my manuscript on Wednesday afternoon. I was cross-eyed, had a headache, and felt like crap. I emailed it to my writing coach, Kevin. Then sent a note to my developmental editor, Dave, telling him I’d have one more look-see in the morning before sending it off to him the following day.

I woke up the next morning, still feeling awful. My eyes were crusted over, glued shut, and when I thought about taking another look at my manuscript, I got nauseous. I’d had a weird dream in which I didn’t know where I was. Though the place I was in wasn’t a prison, I felt imprisoned. I sat around a dining table with a bunch of other women. They were all smiling. Conversation was nonexistent. And there was no food on the table. The dream made me feel scared and very vulnerable.

I ate breakfast, took a quick walk, and sat down at my computer, intending to just glance through my “finished” draft. When it popped up on the screen, I knew I couldn’t do it. I was sick of it. Tired of rewriting, rereading the same-old, same-old, I’d been working on all summer long. Even the two brief “vacations” I ventured on hadn’t been enough to keep this excruciating burn out from happening.

Overcooked, like a stingy pot roast, I simply attached the draft to an email and sent it off to Dave, too exhausted to give a %#$@ about it. I had to get rid of it. I desperately needed time to simply be, without trying to be the perfect writer. A chronic overachiever, I had done myself in again. I cried some, argued with Bill a lot, and was a general pain in the butt, even to myself.

When Bill took off Saturday on one of his long planned theatre trips to New York, I went out into my garden and started deadheading faded blooms. I pulled weeds, tore out a whole section of dead, sun loving perennials that had been overtaken by dense shade, and thought about what to plant in their place next spring …  more ferns, lenten roses, and shade loving hostas.

After lunch, I took time to read a novel I’d been enjoying, then had a nap. When I went back into my studio, my head was much clearer. I started going through the long list of old emails on my computer that I’d been meaning to reread, but now found uninteresting. I deleted many of them. After a dinner of yummy left overs … locally made kielbasa and my fabulous potato salad, I finished the novel and tucked myself into bed at nine-thirty.

I’m on my way back to being my old self, again, but I need more rest and a lengthy break from the mind boggling material I’ve been writing about.  I hadn’t noticed how exhausted I’d become. Or how obsessed I’d been with my story and getting it right. I had just kept on rewriting, forgetting to take breaks when I couldn’t see the computer screen in front of me any longer.

I still need a real vacation. I’ll finish out this week without Bill, by doing as little as possible. Maybe I’ll go to a movie. I’ll start  reading a new book from the huge pile next to my bed, and perhaps sit in the garden in the evening, watching the night come on, listening as bird song is overtaken by the rattle of cicadas, crickets, and tree frogs. I’ll make myself some lucious rice pudding, and take long, lingering naps every afternoon.

Even the things we love doing, like writing, can become overwhelming if we don’t remember to provide ourselves with downtime.

As for perfection … there is no such thing. No matter how many time I rewrite my story, it will never be perfect. And it might actually begin to lose its sheen as I dab away at its yet unseen glow.

Yes, there will be at least one more rewrite, but before that happens, a little self-care is in order.

How do you know when you need downtime?

Filed Under: Being Creative, Dreams, Mental Health, Perfectionism, Quotes, The Garden, The Process, Writing

A Close Look At PTSD

August 5, 2014 By

 

IMG_0714Over the last twenty or so years, I’ve been diagnosed with PTSD, three times. Though I was never sexually abused, my father who suffered from PTSD himself, beat me and my brothers, and made growing up into healthy adults, almost impossible. His experiences during the Second World War, screwed up his brain, and like so many other soldiers in every war that has ever been fought, my father brought his “invisible wounds” home with him. At the time, veterans such as himself, were said to have, “Shell Shock.” There was no treatment for what would later be called, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Those warriors just had to get over it by themselves.

My mother, was abused as a child herself, and later by her husband, my father. She rarely, if ever laid a finger on me, yet her psychological abuse of me made an already difficult childhood, even more challenging. She was also loving, and at times an ally in my never ending struggles with my father. But she’d also threaten me with, “Just wait till your father comes home! He’ll get you to behave.” I was left to pray that she’d forget what I had done to anger her. Mostly though, I simply had to face the music when Dad came home from work. When he turned physical and brought out the leather horse crop he sometimes used to beat me, my mother would completely disappear, never protecting me from who we all, including Mom, called King Kong. Her behavior was confusing to say the least, and her constant betrayals did not help me to build trust or confidence in her.

I’ve struggled with extreme anxiety, depression, and flashbacks most of my life. When I became my mother’s caretaker during the final seven years of her life, my symptoms grew worse. She lived with me, for most of that time, and because I was there, I became bore the brunt of her sadness and anger. We were constantly at war with one another, making my intention to help her to be as comfortable as possible through her waning years, impossible.

I knew that I needed help after my mother died, and for the third time, I was told I was struggling with PTSD. I finally let go of my denial, and sought treatment with a therapist whose specialty was dealing with Trauma. With her help and a village of other supporters, including my husband, I began a slow recovery, pulling together the lost and broken pieces of my life. Writing my memoir about those difficult times has been the act that has most helped me to celebrate who I am and have become. I look forward to it being published soon.

I’m happy to say that eight years later, I feel like a new person. Though I’ll never be perfect, I no longer struggle every day with anxiety. When depression tiptoes in, I know who it is, and it makes a hasty retreat. Yes, I can still react to certain triggers, but now I usually catch myself before I react and cause extensive damage to my own ego and those around me.

Living with the likes of PTSD has an extremely steep learning curve. Just a few weeks ago, I learned an important lesson about dealing with those nasty triggers. I was sitting in the dentist’s chair, being fitted with a new mouthguard which I need to use at night, in order to keep myself from grinding my own teeth away. It was a new product, much harder and stiffer than the mouthguard that I had been using. My dentist, who is the kindest and best of them all, was struggling to get it seated properly. Suddenly out of nowhere, I had a panic attack, and started struggling against him. I was in tears and for a few moments didn’t understand what was happening.

We took a break from the fitting and in a few minutes I realized that I had been reacting to some unremembered trigger event. I confessed to the doctor, that I have a history of abuse and have struggled with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I had never considered telling him about it. What does dental care and PTSD have to do with each other? Having been a military dentist in Iraq before opening his practice here, he knew exactly what I was talking about.

At the time, I had to admit that there is still a bit a shame involved in owning my PTSD. But it is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing I did caused it. And just because it isn’t on the list of ailments we’re supposed to check off when we see a new caretaker, doesn’t mean it should be ignored. True self-care is learning to accept ourselves as we are and honoring our own minds and bodies.

Finding my center amidst the panic, I learned that it is important to let caregivers of any kind know about the problem I have. My general practitioner has known all along, but being upfront about PTSD with everyone is important.

Is there anything in your life that you’re ashamed of owning?

Filed Under: Abusive Relationships, Caring for an aging parent, Change, Trauma Tagged With: ,

Huggable Robots?

July 29, 2014 By

IMG_1187I’m on vacation in the spectacular mountains of North Carolina, less than five minutes from my daughter, her partner and my grandkids. I’m staying in a cute, little cottage tucked into the side of a mountain, with gorgeous views. Though there are houses nearby, I can’t see many lights after dark. We are way up in the trees. When the cicadas and tree frogs start their evening cacophony, it’s more than raucous. By morning they’re done and an early bird chorus takes over. This morning as I walked the dogs down our steep driveway to our twisty road, I heard the song of wood thrushes and the drumming of woodpeckers. It’s heavenly and a great place to get some writing done.

A few weeks ago I took some down time and made a trip with my theatre-obsessed husband, to the Contemporary American Theater Festival, in Shepherdstown, West Virginia. We saw five plays, sat in on a playwright’s roundtable, and ate wonderful food, all in four days time.

My favorite show of the weekend was a new play, Uncanny Valley, by Thomas Gibbons, an award winning playwright from Philadelphia. The term “uncanny valley,” is a well-known idea in the field of robotics, artificial consciousness and computer animation. Since my last full post here was about work being done to create robots that can be caretakers to the aging, writing about this show seemed a perfect follow up to that post.

Gibbons got the idea for his play while reading a National Geographic article about the LifeNaut Group, in Vermont, who are investigating the possibility of downloading human consciousness into artificial beings, so that humans can extend their life span, by perhaps two hundred years.

It sounds pretty freaky to me. I have no want or need to hang around for that long. Sure, I’d like to see my grandkids grow into young adults, but I’m not keen on the idea of seeing what else might arise long-term, as the climate continues to change and the wars that seem unending, continue to take up headline space. On the other hand, this kind of research might lead to making those steel and plastic robots now being tested as caretakers in Japan, into huggable beings that remind us of our favorite relatives when we become incapable of caring for ourselves. Wouldn’t holding a hand that feels warm and soft, be preferable to one that is cold, hard, and so obviously artificial?

In the play, Uncanny Valley, Claire, a scientist, is played by Barbara Kingsley. Her field of study is artificial consciousness. She is preparing robot, Julian, played by Alex Podulke, to be downloaded with the consciousness of a wealthy business man who will be soon be departing this earth. We watch, fascinated, as Julian’s voice changes from the flat, nasal tone of a robot, into one of a conscious and feeling, human man. We watch as he is given arms and later, legs. At first his movements are jerky and typical of what we think of as robotic. But they gradually become graceful and athletic.  And Julian, the robot, looks just like the man whose consciousness he will soon be carrying, when he was a young man.

Though the term “science fiction” was repeatedly heard as I exited the theatre, these ideas are not the stuff of science fiction. According to the timeline in the program, in 2009: “Multiple organizations work together to create Bina48, a humanoid robot that is created as a physical replica of a real woman, Ina Rothblatt. Bina48 is the most advanced robot of its kind, able to carry on conversations utilizing Ms. Rothblatt’s beliefs, morals, tastes, and speech patterns.” In February, 2011: “The 2045 Initiative is founded by Russian billionaire, Dmitry Itskov. The 2045 Initiative aims to help humans transcend the average lifespan by uploading their consciousness to non-biological carriers such as computers, robots , or even holograms. Itskov hopes that by 2045, hologram-like nano robots will be available on a mass market scale for human beings to extend the life of their minds indefinitely.”

I’m not exactly sure whether I was more fascinated by the ideas and the ethical problems humanoid robots of this ilk will create, or the talented actors who pulled off one of the most thought provoking plays I’ve ever seen. That is exactly why I so enjoy going to this play festival every summer. Instead of seeing the same old summer musical favorites that most summer theatre consists of, the plays you’ll see here are new, mind boggling, discussion inducing, and a refreshing change from the usual stuff all theatre goers know all too well.

This year, there was an extra bit of a side show. As the final play we were enjoying was about five minutes from its conclusion, my husband’s cell phone, which he had on vibrate, let out a terrible shrieking sound, letting him know that a tornado was whirling around the area. When the show was over, torrential rain was being blown sideways.  We stayed inside the theatre for more than thirty minutes waiting for the storm to abate, where we had wonderful conversations about that last play with other festival fans. We’ll go back next year for sure, tornados or not.

looking down on the driveway from the deck.

looking down on the driveway from the deck.

Filed Under: Robots, Theatre Tagged With: , ,
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