Writer on the Verge
April 13, 2007 by A Slice of Orange in category Writer on the Verge by Kate Carlisle tagged as Writer on the Verge
What’s Wrong With Me?
As I write this, I am temporarily blind in my left eye from a migraine headache.
Naturally, I’m wondering why I didn’t simply shoot a quick email to let everyone know I wouldn’t be able to blog today. But that seemed like the wimp’s way out. I mean, I’ve been getting migraine headaches since I was a teenager, so if I’d cancelled every little thing over a stupid headache, I would’ve missed out on a lot of my life. So I pop a migraine pill and keep going.
But right now the pain is forcing me to take a good, long look at myself—which I really hate to do most of the time, but this weakened state forces me to endure that tiny part of myself that occasionally insists on self-reflection. So I go ahead and ask myself, am I so tied to my image of being a writer that I can’t pass up one opportunity to blog (i.e., blather about ME) in favor of taking better care of myself?
The short answer is clearly NO.
My need to show up for the Blog probably stems from that same part in me that is willing to persist in a business that does its best to reject me at every turn. It’s the same part that keeps me going year after year, the part that shrugs off the “R’ word, the part that gets excited about a new idea, a new contest, a new literary agency, a new trend. It’s the part that studies Publishers Marketplace every day to see what’s hot, what’s new, who’s sold, and it’s the part that keeps me sending my work out and keeps me at my desk, writing and re-writing and brainstorming and yes, blogging.
And I’m not the only one.
So why do we do it? Persistence? Patience? Insanity? All of the above?
It hurts to think about it too deeply right now, but whatever you call it, it’s that thing that keeps us going, keeps us writing, submitting and yes, blogging. Through headaches and rejections, we just keep going…and going…and going…
Hey, my headache’s gone!
Kate Carlisle is a Golden Heart Winner and American Title finalist who writes Romance, Mystery, and Young Adult fiction.
5 0 Read moreWriter on the Verge
March 14, 2007 by A Slice of Orange in category Writer on the Verge by Kate Carlisle tagged as Writer on the Verge.
By Kate Carlisle
That’s me, on the verge. But really…on the verge of what? Stardom? Publication? A nervous breakdown??
Hey, and what is a verge, anyway? Like some kind of cliff, I think. The edge. The brink. The limit. Land’s end. Ah, it might be fun to just relax and jump.
But wait! It might hurt! Maybe I need to be talked off the ledge. Help!
Yeah, good luck with that. I’m here to tell you, you can try begging for help off the ledge, but your friends, the real friends, the people who nag you and worry for you and laugh and talk and share your pain are yelling “jump!â€
What’s up with that?
It’s scary here on the verge! You just want to step away, maybe go take a nap. But they won’t let you! No, they want you to enter another contest, query another agent, stop screwing around and get serious about your work.
And if you try to sneak away? Ha, they band together and refuse to let you pass. They operate in packs, they form tag teams, they nudge you closer to the verge, whisper sweet words of encouragement, coax and coo and smile and cajole you into believing that you’ll be happier if you jump. They insist the plunge itself only lasts a few seconds and you’ll suddenly find yourself in a new and better place. A lovely place that finds you closer to a contest win, the end of your book, your dream agent, your first sale, the bestseller list.
And then? Well, then you’re on the verge of something else! Yeah, somewhere along the road you realize that with every step you take, you find yourself at the edge of another cliff.
So what do you do? Take a nap? No, those people, those friends, they won’t let you! Really, they are a bunch of nags! Nope, there’s only one thing you can do when you find yourself on the verge.
Jump!
Kate Carlisle is a Golden Heart winner and American Title finalist who writes romance, mystery and Young Adult fiction.
Coming Through
February 26, 2006 by A Slice of Orange in category 25 Days of Romance, Contests, From Our Archives tagged as Contest - 25 Days of Romance, Contests, Maureen Child, Valentines Day
A Slice of Orange is closing the 25 Days of Romance Contest by bringing you a Bonus Blog from Maureen Child. We plan to announce the winner of the contest on March 6th. Thank you all!
On Valentine’s Day, my daughter Sarah called on her drive home from work. We usually get a lot of chatting done while she’s stuck on the freeway and that day was no different. Of course, the conversation turned to Valentine’s Day and she asked me if her father had given me the box of See’s Bordeaux that has become tradition in our house. When I assured her he had, she said, “Your sweetheart always comes through, doesn’t he?”
It wasn’t until much later that I realized how true her statement really was.
Mark and I were married when we were kids (although we were not twelve as Sarah insists) and we’ve been married a long time. We sort of grew up together and I can honestly say that even when he makes me nuts, I’m still nuts about him.
Nothing shakes Mark. Where I’m volatile and explosive, he’s steady and quiet (not that he gets much chance to talk around me). He’s the patient one and I’m the one most likely to erupt like some long dormant volcano suddenly springing to life when everyone least expects it. We were a team when the kids were little and now that they’re grown we’re still a team. The team we were when we first started out. And it’s even more fun this time.
Mark is the rock in my world. I’ve always been able to count on him. When my car breaks down in the worst possible place at the worst possible time, I know I can call him and he’l ride to the rescue. When I’m feeling like the world is crashing down around me, he makes me laugh like no one else ever has. When I’m on deadline, he listens to me whine. When I’m obsessing about a new book, he never asks what I’m doing as I stare blankly into space.
And back when I was sure I’d never sell a book, Mark always believed in me.
Romance isn’t just the stuff we write books about’the first flush of love, the excitement charging the air. It’s also about being there for someone every day. It’s about laughing together over jokes no one else will ever understand. It’s about holding hands in the movies and dancing in the kitchen.
It’s about always coming through.
Maureen Child
http://www.maureenchild.com/
EXPECTING LONERGAN’S BABY, Desire, April, ’06
STRICTLY LONERGAN’S BUSINESS, Desire, May ’06
SATISFYING LONERGAN’S HONOR, Desire, June ’06
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Reflections of Love
February 25, 2006 by A Slice of Orange in category 25 Days of Romance, Contests, From Our Archives tagged as Contest - 25 Days of Romance, Sandra Paul, Valentine's DayBy Sandra Paul
“I have a great idea!” I told my husband enthusiastically. “Why don’t we put mirrored closet doors in our bedroom? It will not only give the room more depth, it will bring in more light!”
“Why don’t we just buy another lamp?” he replied dryly. “It would be easier.”
Obviously, he didn’t share my enthusiasm. Possibly because I’d been coming up with “great” ideas to improve our fixer-upper ever since we’d bought it two years earlier. Since then, my husband had spent nearly every weekend replacing windows, repairing walls, re-roofing, hanging siding, ripping out carpets, nailing down floors, fixing plumbing, laying bricks, cementing, yanking out tree stumps, laying a lawn, drywalling, plastering, and painting.
All of which he now reminded me of in unnecessarily specific detail.
“But the bedroom is a special project,” I reminded him in turn. “I envision it as our personal, private haven where we can relax. A getaway from the kids, pets—and endless chores.”
I think it was the chore bit that got him. At any rate, he didn’t argue further but put in the mirrored doors for me the following Saturday. When he finished, I stood in the doorway of our newly redecorated room, admiring how the lamplight bounced from the softly glowing burgundy walls to the gleaming mirrored doors and back again. I was totally thrilled with the result of my latest great idea. . . until the next morning.
While lying on my side, I opened my eyes—and stared in horror at the image before me. Less than four feet away was my own reflection, revealed in unforgiving detail in the harsh morning light. My once blonde hair looked dull and lifeless. My eyes were red and swollen almost shut. My skin was puffy and blotchy.
Involuntarily, I made a sound between a horrified gasp and a moan that caused my husband to sit bolt upright next to me.
“What is it? Are you hurt?” he demanded, leaning over me. He tugged down the sheet I’d lifted to cover my face.
“No, it’s those mirrors!” I blurted without thinking. “I look so awful. And now I’m going to have to face that fact, every single morning when I wake up!”
His green eyes widened with surprise, and then narrowed on my face. He stared at me as if he’d never seen me before.
Which was so not true. I’d first met those green eyes when we were in high school. We’d now been married over 20 years, and during those years, we’d spent less than twenty nights apart. I’d studied his expression countless times during countless days, hours and seconds. There was no face on earth including my children’s, I suddenly realized, who I gazed at more often than his. And if that was true for me, then it had to be true for him as well.
Shuddering at the thought, I jumped out of bed as he started to say something, wishing I hadn’t called my looks—or lack thereof—to his attention. I kept busy all day, avoiding mirrors, avoiding my husband’s gaze. And I went to bed that night, determined to forget the whole thing.
But when I awoke the next morning, I was lying on my side again. And I knew, without even opening my eyes, that I was facing those darn mirrored doors. It doesn’t matter; just don’t look, I told myself. I took a deep breath, and resolutely opened my eyes.
My gaze locked; I stared at the doors in amazement. Then my eyes grew misty. But that didn’t matter, because what I saw is forever imprinted on my mind and heart.
Sheets of notebook paper covered the glass. On them my husband had written, “You are beautiful. And I love you.”
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