A Writer’s Fix-A-Flat

I haven’t had the ability or desire to write a blog post – or do much else – in months. Those two posts I was able to make about my partner’s death were all I’d managed in the almost nine months since, aside from the news stories and features I write for a living.

Two days ago, I was thinking about Laura (as I do nearly all the time) and also about our good friend Kam, who died a couple years earlier from melanoma. She chose to die here on the farm, in a hospital bed in the living room.

All the way to the end, even when a brain tumor prevented her from being able to communicate, she managed to mutter repeatedly, “Not gonna get me, not gonna get me.” She fought for her life with everything she had, and she lost. Her words haunted me all the way until Laura died, when they were eclipsed for several months.

But two days ago, I heard those words again, and I thought about how wrong it was that Kam and Laura, both of whom invested so much thought and energy into improving the farm and running a horse-breeding business, should both wind up dying here.

I thought about how full of life everything seemed in those first five or six years, how full of energy, and how different it is now that I and one dog are the only ones left. I have been the embodiment of Alison Krauss’ song “Ghost in This House.”

I pulled a photo of Kam building a fence from a pile on the coffee table, then one of Laura tending a just-born foal.

Then, without even thinking about it, I opened a Word doc and started writing about those early days, writing with humor about all of our dumb mistakes – after all, we were straight from a major metropolitan area and none of us had ever lived on a farm before – and yet the courage, inventiveness, and strength we discovered in ourselves as we overcame challenges (usually by doing it the hard way, as we would discover with more experience).

I even laughed as I wrote, something I haven’t done much of lately. And the words just flew from my fingers, page after page after page. It felt so good, sort of like when you attach a can of “Fix-a-Flat” to a tire and the foam pours out and the formerly flat tire starts to become whole again.

If you live in the city and have AAA, you may not have done that before, but it’s like watching a miracle take place. Writing and writing – yes, the words were pouring from me, like the can of Fix-a-Flat, but I was also the tire, the one rising from being flat-on-the-floor, and that, too, was like watching a miracle.

Below is an excerpt from what I’ve been writing. It’s very slightly fictionalized. It takes place three weeks after we arrived at the farm and the day after a small tornado ripped apart one of our outbuildings and blew all the windows out of the house:

*  *  *

As we drove along the side – the WEST side, I reminded myself, though I had to look at the sun to figure it out – of our property, Laura said, “Hey, look. What’s that?” pointing up at the half-destroyed outbuilding. I had a hard time seeing what she was pointing at, but after she stopped the pickup and we sat a minute I saw an almost invisible arc coming up from the wreckage and falling back to the ground not far away.

“It’s water!” said Kam. “That place must have had water run to it!”

Oh my god, I thought. It’s been spewing out at that rate since yesterday. I wonder how long until the well runs dry?

We all must have been thinking the same thing, because Laura stomped on the accelerator, sped through our new red gate and down the gravel driveway out to the barely discernible track that led up to that outbuilding. She slammed on the brakes under some supple trees that had survived the tornado, and we jumped out.

The arc of water was coming from about three feet from the end of the wreckage. All that remained was the solid wood floor set on thick stone slabs. Ol’ Jess was right – the whole wall – the, um, north wall – was completely gone. I didn’t even see it out in the pasture. What was left of the north end was caving in.

Kam squatted, peered under what remained of the building. “I bet this was the original homestead, not just some outbuilding,” she said. “It used to have a crawl space, but it’s mostly filled in with dirt. But I can see the valve that turns the water off.”

She reached under as far as she could, but her fingers didn’t even come close. We stood there, wondering what to do. We didn’t know then that we could have just turned off that particular water pipeline at the well-house.

“Well, there’s only one thing to do,” said Laura. “Kam and I are the strongest, and you’re the skinniest, so we’ll just have to lift up this side of the house and you’ll have to crawl under and turn the water off.”

“Are you nuts?” said Kam. “Pick up a whole house?”

“This side shouldn’t be so bad, with the wall gone. And there’ll be two of us.”

Kam shook her head and positioned herself two-thirds of the way down the house, and Laura went to about the same distance from the other end. I got on my hands and knees in front of where the valve was. They squatted, felt for good handholds.

“Okay, now!” shouted Laura, and damned if they didn’t manage to lift up the side of the house about half a foot. I wriggled under and had to really yank the valve to get it to move, then realized I was yanking in the wrong direction.

“Hurry!” shouted Kam.

I finally got the valve shut and wriggled backwards out as fast as I could.

The arc of water was gone.

We all stared at one another. “I can’t believe we just did that,” said Kam.

“Goddamn! We did it! We take care of our shit!” shouted Laura, and started jumping around, pumping her fist in the air. Kam laughed and did some kind of karate-like dance – she’s a black belt. I just stood there watching them, but my face hurt, I was grinning so big.

“And you were the brave one!” said Laura, giving me a big hug.

“Why do you say that? I just turned a valve. I didn’t pick up a whole house.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have crawled under there,” said Kam. “What if we hadn’t been able to hold it? You’d have been killed!”

“Or what if there’d been a rattlesnake nest or a bunch of black widows!” added Laura, patting me on the back.

Now I was starting to feel a little less excited about what we’d done. Being killed hadn’t even occurred to me. Neither had rattlesnakes or black widows. I realized I had absolute faith in Laura and Kam, and wondered if that was such a smart thing.

The two of them danced back over to the truck and I walked behind, considerably slower.



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The Faith of an Atheist

Boy, the death of your long-time partner can really shatter your world, maybe especially if you’re an atheist, because then you have no pleasant notions of her being in a happier place or hanging around to make sure you’re okay, or that her spirit will slip into a newborn so that at some point she’ll re-enter your life, albeit in a different capacity.

It’s a natural disaster unlike any other – maybe something like a major earthquake where your heart used to be, followed by a volcano of anger and a tsunami of tears, and it all lasts not for split seconds or days but week after week after week. What with all the shaking and searing and drowning I haven’t been able to write a word since Laura died three months ago tomorrow. The earthquake threw me off a cliff, the tsunami rolled me into a cave, and ash from the volcano sealed off the entrance, turning it into a deep, dark hole.  Just continuing to breathe has been a victory.

But in the past couple weeks I have also managed to kindle a small fire in my hole, and by its light I can once again see that I had been working on a story, and I’ve recovered enough to remember that writing brought me joy and satisfaction. In the flickering light, I could even see the writing awards framed on my office walls and my collection of press cards and the stacks of magazines that have published my work. I think I used to be good at writing. Maybe I could be still.

The benefit of being an atheist is that I don’t have the guilt of thinking that Laura is out there somewhere shrieking at me to stop being so self-centered and to keep crying for hours on end every day. Not that she would ever do that, but if we exist post-death, who knows how the event might have traumatized us and what we might need or want from our partner?

I haven’t enjoyed being an atheist these past few months. Despite my avowed lack of belief, some part of me fully expected to feel Laura’s presence around me. I was afraid of but deeply wanted a supernatural experience that proved to me that I was wrong to be an atheist, that Laura still existed on some plane.

But either I’m so obtuse that I can’t sense her, or Laura did not survive her death. I’ve spent weeks just trying to come to terms with that, and I’ve been a non-believer pretty much my whole life. All the sobbing and self-blame didn’t help or please Laura because she’s, she’s … argh, I still have such a hard time saying it. She’s gone. Somehow that’s even harder to say than that she’s dead. She hasn’t just died; her light is extinguished and I will never bask in it again.

No, I am not going to cry, and I am not going to keep telling myself I failed her by not saving her. Those things are only harming me and, as far as I can tell, aren’t doing Laura any good.

Instead, I’m going to try to reclaim myself. I’m going to read and I’m going to write a blog and I’m going to get back to my novel.

Um, well, I may not get to the novel today, but I do feel something stirring in me again, like those first few days that you feel a baby moving in your uterus, and I’m trying hard to feed it so it will grow strong.

I started by reading a novel by the light of my little fire, and now I’ve come to the edge of my cliff-side cave where the volcanic ash is finally blowing away to holler out a few words and hope someone hears them. (Can you hear me?)

I’m going to strengthen myself so that I can stand relaxed at the edge of the cave watching the sun set into the water, looking for the beauty I know nature possesses despite its frightening cruelty.

Then I’ll sidle out onto the ledge and find a handhold and a jutting rock for my foot and start climbing back up the face of this cliff. One day I’ll find myself on solid ground and the purgatory I’ve been living in will be in the past and I will find myself again.

I’ll regrow those wings that have flown me through imagined worlds and brought me back safely time after time since I was four years old.

Laura’s love changed me for the better. Laura’s death blew me off the cliff. But as one songwriter wrote: I’m not lost; I’m not gone.

I can see the way back. And, atheist or not, I do have faith. My magical world of writing is still there, waiting for me. I can reclaim it. Doing so may mean quite a struggle, but I’m up to the challenge.

I have found my faith in that.


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The Deafening Sound of Death

This has nothing to do with writing, except that life-changing experiences always wind up in our writing. I just needed to write this. I’ll be back to blogging about writing and books soon; bear with me.

My partner, brilliant singer-songwriter Laura Shawen, died about two weeks ago. I was puttering around in the kitchen, making coffee and getting breakfast, and listening to Laura snoring in the bedroom—something she rarely did. She hadn’t really slept in a week, due to some medications she’d had to go on temporarily, so I was glad she was sleeping.

Her snoring stopped. Some people might have thought, “Oh, good, she’s turned over and is sleeping more peacefully,” but something caused me to run in and check on her.

She was turned on her side, silent. I came around the corner of the bed and saw that her face was blue. And she wasn’t breathing. With great difficulty, I managed to roll her onto her back and I shook her, hard, shouting, “Laura, wake up! Wake up!” But she didn’t.

I ran for the phone and dialed 911, and told the woman who answered that I thought someone was dying—the word “dying” coming out as a wail. I knew I needed to do CPR, but the dispatcher kept me on the phone long enough to ask for my address and for Laura’s symptoms, then assured me an ambulance was on its way.

I launched myself onto the bed and pinched her nose, tilted her head back, and breathed twice into her mouth. The air I gave her rattled out uselessly between her clenched teeth. I compressed her chest as hard as I could five times, then forced my air as far into her lungs as possible, then stopped and slapped her, screaming, “Laura, wake up!” Only she didn’t, so I went back to my CPR—something I could only barely remember how to do from a high school class taken thirty years ago.

This whole time I kept envisioning her coming back to life, gasping for air, opening her eyes, and having the glad knowledge that I’d saved her life, as she no doubt would have saved mine had the positions been reversed.

But I didn’t. I didn’t save her life. I heard the ambulance coming down our dirt road and ran out to unlock the gate so they could get in, then ran back in and continued with the CPR. Every now and then I stopped to listen for a heartbeat or rested my cheek against her lips to see if I felt her breathing, but nothing. No heartbeat, no breath. I kept on with my CPR and, my voice hysterical and quavering, shouted, “Laura, don’t you do this! You’re a fighter; you fight now!”

But then the EMTs came into the room and shooed me out so they could get her on the floor and check her and attach some kind of machine to her that gave spoken instructions that I could hear from the hall: “Stand Clear.” “Shocking.” “Checking for a pulse.” “No pulse.” “Stand clear.”

This went on for probably ten minutes until they gave up and got her on a gurney and hustled her out to the ambulance. They asked me to gather her medications and follow her. I quickly lost the ambulance, as they sped off down the highway, and all the way there I sang songs to keep myself sane: “This little light of mine. I’m a-gonna let it shine.” And “Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world,” songs from my childhood when things like this never happened.

Once at the hospital, I tried to go into the room where she was, but a nurse pulled me into a side room where I could be private and told me to wait there. She offered me water and cookies, but I didn’t want anything except for someone to come and tell me that they’d gotten her back.

But what seemed like an hour passed and then the doctor came into the room. His face said everything. I don’t even remember his words.  Just that Laura was dead and they’ve given up working on her.

A nurse led me down the echoing hall to the room where they’d kept her, covered with a sheet. I pulled the sheet back and stroked her face and told her how sorry I was that I hadn’t saved her, and that I loved her and would always love her, and that if she could, maybe she could stick around for a while because I couldn’t imagine being without her, the thought of it was enough to send me into a coughing fit as I tried to swallow my tears because, after all, I was I a public place and everyone knows a lady never cries in public.

After half an hour, I finally left and told the nurse to take her to Wharton’s Funeral Chapel, and she told me the medical examiner would probably want to do an autopsy, which was a terrible thought to me.

I wasn’t home ten minutes before a woman called saying Laura had been an organ donor, and could I give her a run-down of her medical history to see what she might be able to contribute to the lives of others. This, again, was a dreadful thought—her body dismembered and shipped all over the country—even though I knew that the appropriate attitude was to be glad that her death could benefit someone.

Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for untold others, Laura had had a form a cancer in the past that disqualified her for any organ donation. “I’m so glad I called you first before I started the paperwork,” she said cheerily, but her attitude only chilled me.

That night, I slept on the side of the bed the Laura died on. The sheets were stained with her body fluids, but I didn’t mind; I wanted to lie exactly as she was when she died. Morbid, I suppose, but it gave me some comfort.

Someone told me that the aftermath of a death is like a rollercoaster, and it is in a way. It’s like a rogue rollercoaster car that smashes through the length of your house, deafening and terrifying. I found I couldn’t tolerate any noise at all.

I slept the night through, and then the next day all emotion was put on hold because my parents were flying into Oklahoma City and renting a car to drive way out here in the boonies to me and I had to clean the house. All the time they were here  I nearly choked on the passionate emotion swelling my throat, but I couldn’t let myself cry because that freaks my parents out.

They did wonders with the place while they were here. My father, the mechanical engineer, fixed nearly everything in sight, and my mother cleaned her heart out all day and then cooked us delicious meals every night. I, on the other hand, answered phone calls, wrote thank you letters, ran errands like picking up Laura’s ashes or her death certificate, mailing packages of old family photographs and Laura’s ashes to her daughter, and tried to manage the many requests I was getting from people for this or that of Laura’s things.

We held a memorial service for Laura here on the ranch. Laura was pagan, so we did our best to create a pagan “transition” ritual that would call upon the protection of those who loved her best and who had passed on, and sort of giving her permission to explore her new existence. It was a beautiful ceremony, I thought, though few of us were there. We all had a role to play in it, and we threw Dragon’s blood (a resin from a Chinese tree) onto the fire where it flamed up and sparked beautifully and released gorgeous incense into the darkening day. I hope Laura approved.

Finally, the requests for Laura’s things became too much. Laura died without a will, and of course gay people can’t legally marry in Oklahoma, so everything went to her daughter, who lives in Florida. She wanted it all within a month, so I went through our things and separated out those that were Laura’s and packed them—a task for which no good adjective exists. Horrifying, yes, draining, certainly, but the sense of loss, of having lost Laura and then losing everything that reminds me of her piece by piece, disappearing into boxes to be sealed and labeled and stacked and waiting to be picked up—that is unimaginable, unless you’ve ever done it. As I packed, I kept an inventory of everything that was Laura’s and where it was packed in case someone contested something someday.

The big thing was our stallion, Cattammen, the living icon of our land. I and Laura’s ex-husband purchased him at a substantial price, but Laura had registered him under her name, so he went to the daughter. I didn’t resent that at all, though; a child should have a legacy from its mother. Laura’s ex-husband and I agreed on that, and her daughter and I have managed to get through this with perfect civility. Still, I have spent two weeks trying to get him fit to sell and find a buyer for him, and to learn how to transfer Cattammen to Laura’s daughter without taking the estate to probate (not necessary in Oklahoma), which would have eaten up any proceeds of the sale of the horse. Her daughter needed that money in order to come pick up her mother’s things and hold a memorial service in her mother’s home town.

The second week of my parents’ visit I found myself suddenly in the vice grip of overwhelming rage, the like of which I’ve never experienced. I don’t anger easily, but suddenly everything incensed me to an alarming degree. I was angry that I didn’t have the space to cry, pissed off at people asking for things of Laura’s when I was having to send every last thing that Laura owned to her daughter and so it wasn’t mine to give away in the first place—which I must have explained umpteen times– angry beyond belief at some of the highly insensitive things some people say in the throes of grief—like implying that I didn’t do a good enough job giving Laura CPR, essentially blaming me for her death, or implying that Laura was having a love affair with someone even though I knew damned well it wasn’t true—angry that people wanted her things so quickly so that I couldn’t let myself first accept her death and then let go of her things but must rip each last piece of Laura from my heart and put it in a box, and angry, angry, angry most of all with Laura for not being invincible, even though that is so unfair of me.

After two weeks, when my parents felt I was relatively settled, they went back to Maryland. They hadn’t been gone an hour before I was keening and wailing and beating my hands on anything that wouldn’t break under the force—so angry, still.

But that proved to be the last of my anger, at least so far. After that, I just cried a lot, lay on the couch in a fetal position and stared at nothing, and was generally useless. I was glad, though, the rage was gone. I started trying to mend the bridges I’d set afire with certain friends.

I still cry many times a day, and some days it seems like all I do is cry, but I’m not feeling as out of control as I was before. So maybe with time this will get better. I hate to even say that; it feels like a betrayal of Laura.

But, no matter what certain people said, Laura loved me. She chose to be with me. She understood me better than anyone ever has. She would understand this.

Laura, my love, I miss you every minute of the day. I can’t try to look ahead because all those days are without you, and I can’t stand that. But I am getting through the days, one by one, and trying be strong, trying to live up to the image you had of me as strong. For all eternity, Laura. I still mean it.


Filed under writing

Rose’s Will: Family drama incites belly laughs, tears

Poignant, funny, heartbreaking—Rose’s Will, the largely autobiographical debut novel by Denise DeSio, elicits a gourmet smorgasbord of emotions.

The novel examines the life and death of Rose, a mentally ill Italian-heritage New Yorker, and the fall-out in her children. Told primarily through Rose’s daughter Glory’s eyes—the viewpoint of a woman who suffered tremendous lifelong abuse at Rose’s hands—the narrative is balanced and lightened by the insightful and likeable first-person perspective of Eli, a well-educated, elderly Bulgarian Holocaust survivor who falls in love with Rose despite—or, perhaps, partly because of—her many flaws.

After Rose’s death, ancient wounds surface during her children’s search for the will, the bickering about how to divide Rose’s money in its absence, and the climactic morning of September 11, 2001.

Written in flowing prose and with a born writer’s nose for pace and dialog, Rose’s Will enriches the reader with its unaffected and honest appraisal of human nature.

Toward the end of the novel comes this paragraph, a sort of “nut graf” of what the novel is all about:

“Talking helped to contain the terror, make it feel controllable, keep it from devouring us, but in the end words were pointless. With only a bridge separating us from the massive tragedy unfolding in Manhattan, nothing we could say or do could protect us from the profound wretchedness of our common humanity.”

When I finished the last page, I found myself wanting to ask DeSio a few questions and shot off an email. She was good enough to promptly respond:

LOURDE: You’ve said that the character of the abusive Rose is based on your mother, and that the character Eli is based on the man who loved her. Was seeing your mother through his eyes difficult? Was it the real life Eli who helped you see your mother through different eyes?

DeSIO: It was the real life Eli who blew me away with his ability to love a person like my mother and still remain authentic. But seeing Rose through his eyes felt both inspiring and infuriating—infuriating because he hadn’t experienced the same type of verbal and physical abuse she heaped on her children. One of my book reviewers astutely pointed out how common it is for friends and families of survivors to invalidate or minimize the abuse, which impedes the ability to heal. It made me go back and take another look at the book from that perspective. It was shocking to see how each character conforms to her observation: Rose outright denies abuse ever happened, Eli wants to focus on only the good, Claire can’t even fathom how bad it was, and Ricky is too wrapped up in his own misery. Aunt Lucy is the only one who openly validates Glory, which temporarily allows Glory to step away from her pain and feel some compassion for her sick mother.

LOURDE: Did writing Rose’s Will help you come to terms with your mother’s abuse? If so, in what ways? Joan Didion once said, “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” Do you write in order to understand yourself or others, or does something else propel you?

DeSIO: Yes, writing Rose’s Will was incredibly valuable in that I had to inhabit all the characters in order to write it, and any time we walk in someone else’s shoes there is potential for understanding. I’m so grateful for that and I completely agree with Joan Didion. Words put everything into perspective for me. Articulating my experiences word by word, reordering sentences, compelling myself to slow down from lightning speed thoughts creates a rich environment for introspection. Most people don’t realize that writers read their own work–well, except for Danielle Steel maybe. Kidding. But seriously, I’ve read Rose’s Will many times, and each time I see something that I hadn’t seen before. The last time I read it I laughed out loud to see that I’d described one of the characters as having the depth of emotion of a deck a cards, and then unintentionally made her “shuffle” off to the other end of the room.

LOURDE: Why did you decide to put the sections dealing with Eli in first person, as well as the sections presented from Glory’s point of view, and yet you chose to put the sections from other characters’ POV in third person?

The first line of Ricky’s intro has him quietly entering the house not to disturb anyone. That’s who he is, a guy who suppresses who he is not to create a disturbance. As a result, he’s lost touch with himself and therefore can’t reliably speak for himself. Conversely, Glory and Eli both have a firm grasp on their identities and the ability to re-evaluate who they are. Whatever head-space they’re in, we believe them.

LOURDE: Didion (okay, one of my favorite authors) also said, “…writers are always selling somebody out.” How did the people who are still alive and on whom you based some of the main characters (Ricky in particular) react to their representations? How do you handle their reactions?

DeSIO: “Ricky” has been extremely supportive. I don’t feel like I sold him out. In fact, many readers empathize and identify with his character. We have a great relationship now and he’s actually kind of thrilled to be a main character. As for anyone else I might have thrown under the bus, well, they weren’t speaking to me before the book was released, so I gleefully exaggerated freely.

LOURDE: You’ve said that you spent ten years editing Rose’s Will. How did it evolve over time? With what basic premise did you begin, and did that change over the years? Were you at all surprised with where you ended up?

DeSIO: I’m not sure you could call the original document a basic premise, more like a cataclysmic whirlwind that vaguely resembled a memoir in the style of Mommie Dearest. It was awful and I have since destroyed the files for fear that one of my resentful family members might sell them to The National Enquirer someday. When I finally wore myself out (it took years), I went to a writer’s conference with a short story I’d written about Eli (now the prologue for Rose’s Will). It was very well received and I saw an opportunity to repurpose (read: edit like hell) the memoir and turn it into a novel. The new direction allowed me to switch my focus in the last couple of years and apply a maniacal degree of attention to the craft. In the end, no one was more surprised than I was to have a completed a novel. Surprise turned to shock when a publisher offered me a contract within weeks of my initial queries.

Thanks for such intelligent questions, Kathleen. I’m such a great fan of your writing and I can’t wait to read your debut novel! Oh, and make sure you include this line in the interview.

#    #     #

Rose’s Will is currently available only as an ebook. It will be out in print this summer.

Buy Rose’s Will by Denise DeSio for Kindle here, for Nook here, and for all other devices (PDF, MOBI, EPUB) here,

Like DeSio on Facebook at  http://facebook.com/ReadMyBooks, tweet her at @Topbee, and follower her blog at http://DeniseDeSio.com.


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Not Another Book Review Blog! Aaaaaaa!

As I approach the end of writing my first novel, I’ve started putting together a list of book review bloggers, complete with name, email, preferred genres, submission policies, etc., and let me tell you—I think more people blog about books than actually buy them. The more I work on this list, the more my list of sites to check out grows. Finishing this list may take longer than writing the novel. The list is eight pages long and I’m still on the As.

Some of these bloggers have tons of followers, but, once again, I’m starting to wonder if most of them are people who’ve written books and are hoping to get reviewed. How many people actually read books and don’t either write them as well or blog about them? And probably even fewer people read book blogs. I guess I should start reading the comments after the reviews to learn more about the people who read them.

I’m putting so much time into this list that I’m thinking I should make it public, once finished. Other writers could benefit from it. Or, shoot, it’s taking so much work, maybe I should sell it. But then I’ll probably finish page 105 of the list and discover that an even more comprehensive and easy-to-use list has already been published.

Regardless, I think it’s a good exercise. I’m getting a sense of what people are reading (or, at least, reviewing) and what they absolutely refuse to read. Lots scorn thrillers and horror, and here I thought those were two of the most popular genres. They always seem to be on the bestseller lists, at any rate. Odd.

Another thing I’ve noticed is that some book reviewers get burned out after a while. Feeling pressured to review books that come in by the score takes the fun out of reading, and god forbid. I haven’t even really started reviewing books yet (not sure that’s what I want this blog to be about), but I’ve got several lined up to review. And, yes, I feel pressured. Not just to read them, or even to write a review, but to write a review that doesn’t crush that fragile writerly ego.

Fortunately, what I’ve read so far of the first book I’ll review, Rose’s Will by Denise DeSio, is very good. The characters are well-defined and have unique voices. The romance between one of the primary narrators and her partner is a little too perfect to be believable, but maybe that will change.

Some reviewers have a star system for rating their books, and then organize their reviews by star so people can go immediately to the best of the bunch. Seems like a good idea. Maybe I’ll steal it.

You may be wondering why, if I’m anticipating a book review blogger list of at least 100 pages (it’ll probably be longer), I would bother to do what so many other people are already doing. Well, free books, natch. I need to keep an eye on contemporary fiction anyway, so why not get the books for nothing? Seems like a deal to me.

I have discovered, though, that it’s a good idea to know what you’re getting into before committing to reading and reviewing something, so if you’re a writer and you’d like a review, I’ve got a couple initial policies:

  1. Don’t just send the book; send me a query letter first (to kathleen@kathleenlourde.com). Put “review request” in the subject line and your book’s title and a brief synopsis in the body of the email. Be as long-winded as you like, but don’t tell me the ending. I’ll probably get back to you within a day or two and let you know if I think I might enjoy it.
  2. If you need a review quickly, then look somewhere else. I have a ton of things on my To Do list, and reading tends to fall below mid-way. It’ll be a few weeks, probably, before I get to your piece.
  3. I prefer to read literary fiction, including short stories, but I’m open to most genres, except Christian fiction and war-themed or apocalyptic work. I don’t like fantasy. On rare occasion I’ll read sci fi.
  4. If you’re okay with having criticism of your work appear on the Web, fine. If you’re not, some reviewers out there only write reviews if they like the book, so look for them.

That’s about it. Many reviewers dedicate a full page to all of their policies and “I will” and “I won’t,” but I’ll keep it at that unless I find myself needing to set more boundaries. Just to be a good Samaritan, I’ll look into posting my reviews on reader Web sites, like Goodreads, to expand my reach.

 I don’t plan to focus solely on book reviews. This blog is still figuring itself out, and I intend to let it. But as someone whose book will need reviewing soon, I want to give before I take.


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New free story on website

Hello, all,

Be sure to go to my website, http://kathleenlourde.com, to check out my most recently posted short story, “Enough Distance.” WARNING: This is not a story for people under age 18.

New blog and review coming soon–bear with me! And remember to let me know when you have a new story available for free (I have a very restricted budget for purchasing fiction). I’d love to read your work!

Take care, and KEEP WRITING! 


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Another step into the dizzying world of social networking

I woke up this morning and the first thing I did (after starting the coffee, of course) was pick up my laptop. I clicked the icon for my email, and more than a hundred messages were waiting for me to respond to them, even if that response is only to delete it. I’m finding that I have to spend a solid hour responding to emails in the morning before I can get down to what I really do: write. And limiting it to an hour means that ALL I can do is respond to emails; I don’t have time to read blogs or follow up on other interesting links that have found their way to me.

This morning, though, when I saw I had a hundred messages, all demanding attention, I just scrolled up and down the list and then closed my laptop and set it on the table. I’m a recluse by nature, even though I’m very loquacious in written forms of communication, like fiction, journalism, or just plain Facebooking.

But I’ve become more and more immersed in social media as I try to build some kind of presence among writers and readers in anticipation of my first novel coming out within a few months—or at least have the means to promote it to a large (currently very small) number of people.

So, I’ve been networking like a fiend, spending almost every waking hour on it (except for the time I spend writing). The social network monster is no longer the cute puppy it once was. I have a growing sense that social media is like an enormous cloud hovering head-level filled with millions, if not billions, of faces, all talking, singing, performing, ranting, educating, spreading hate, organizing protests, and everything else that so many different kinds of people do and say all around the world.

This morning, that cloud seemed to be pressing me down into the couch, threatening to slide down my throat and suffocate me.

So I closed the computer and did other things—fed the horse and the dogs, cleaned up the kitchen (I hate cleaning the kitchen after dinner. I always feel the house fairy should take care of that, but she never does), contemplated working on my novel all day and just ignoring all things social media today.

Then, I can’t remember exactly what happened, but my computer was open on my lap and I was looking at a blog site that apparently gets you lots of blog followers (and, as you can tell, I need them). Here’s the link, if you’re interested: http://sooozsaysstuff.blogspot.com.au/2011/12/write-on-wednesdays-wow-book-blog-hop.html. Let me warn you to read the whole set of instructions and then start over at the top and do things exactly in the order they recommend. Unfortunately, before writing this blog (should have done that first), I was filling in the form that would get people to come to my blog, so I did this all backwards. I hope they’ll forgive me.

Unfortunately, to take part in this, your blog is practically written for you. (So I’m rebelling by writing my own stuff first and then getting to the thing I’m SUPPOSED to write.)

To take part in this, you’re required to find eight evocative sentences in a book you’re reading right now. You then go to Amazon or someplace to find the image of that book and the copy that appears on the book’s back cover. You note the link that would get a reader to a place where he or she could buy the book. The goal is to help promote other writers’ work.

After writing out this information, you then do the same thing for a book of your own. Problem for me is that my book is almost, but not quite, complete. It should be out in a few months.

But, honestly, would this turn my readers off, my doing these kinds of blogs (interspersed with blogs on my original plan to examine ancient literary criticism to see what I, and maybe you too, can learn about the building blocks of fiction), or would they appreciate being turned onto a book they may not have read yet? I mean, I wouldn’t want to give space to a book that I didn’t honestly want to recommend.

I’d most love to help the promotion of some of the scores of writers I’ve gotten to know recently, but I’ve only read a few of their ebooks so far, and the ebooks I’ve read have either been riddled with typos or formatted improperly in a way that really messes with your ability to understand what’s going on. But I plan to read lots of ebooks and when I find one I really like, I’ll do one of these blogs on it.

Okay, enough explaining why I’m doing this. Please, please let me know if it turns you off. That’s the last thing I want to do.

What I’m reading now is, well, I’m reading several books. The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Lama and Howard Cutler, The Golden Notebook by Doris Lessing, The Girl Who Played With Fire (yes, I know I’m very behind times reading that one), and a book on Hypatia (one of  my all-time heroes) that so far is not good enough to recommend.

I’m also reading an ebook on how to develop a really popular blog (as I said, I’m not doing so well figuring that out on my own). Be forwarned that blogging success for this person seems to be successfully monetizing the blog, which means having ads on it, and doing product reviews, which I guess is what this is except that the product is not subsidizing my writing by placing an ad on my page, as this writer recommends in the book.  I don’t know that I want ads on my page. How is that perceived on a writer’s blog, I wonder?

Let’s do the ebook. Okay, here goes:

Teaser #1: Blogging for Pleasure and Money: A Shortcut to Blogging Profits for Beginners, by Lambert Klein

This being an ebook, it doesn’t have copy on the back cover. However, the product description reads as follows:

“Are you new to blogging and want to get off to a fast start? Been blogging for a while but haven’t found the audience and money you were hoping for? Stop trying to learn by trial and error. There is a better way to get up to speed quickly.

“Skip Right to the Good Stuff

“You can spend years figuring out what works and what doesn’t. Some testing and research is unavoidable, but why do more than you have to? Author Lambert Klein poured years of experience into “Blogging for Pleasure and Money” so you can avoid the pitfalls and go straight to profits.

“Increase Visitors, Visibility, and Earn More Profits

“The report is easy to understand and follow. Step-by-step instructions show you how to set up a blog and the critical steps that are commonly overlooked. With the tips and tricks included, you will quickly understand how to turn any blog into a highly profitable, money making machine!”

That’s not the whole product description, but you get the idea (it was too long to include the whole thing).

Sentences shared from page…well, this ebook doesn’t have page numbers. It’s 49% of the way through under the header “Just a Quick Review” (which you can find in the table of contents).

“You will need to find a domain name that is pertinent to your niche and that includes a key term. Consider the use of sub-domains for ease and cost-effectiveness. Choose a blog title that also uses the key terms or key phrase. As you post to your blog you will want to use the key terms in your headlines and sprinkle them throughout the content. But be careful not to overuse them. Your content should be reader-friendly and it should contain useful information. Keep in mind that you are establishing a relationship with your readers. The stronger a bond they feel with you the more likely they will be to trust you.”

Purchase for $2.99 on Amazon at: http://www.amazon.com/Blogging-Pleasure-Money-Successful-ebook/dp/B004C44ONY/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1328118393&sr=1-1#_.

Teaser #2: I have no book out yet to promote, so I’ll promote two short stories and two journalism articles free on my website kathleenlourde.com. Actually, for the sake of space, I’ll just review one of the two short stories: “Cow Chip Queen.”

“Cow Chip Queen” is the coming-of-age story of an over-protected small-town Oklahoma teenager who, after throwing cow patties in a competition, has won the title of Cow Chip Queen. She meets what the town considers a dangerous influence, is indeed influenced and likely changed forever.

The eight sentences (oh, dear; this story has long sentences) I’ll share are from the beginning:

I was Cow Chip Queen of 1981.

The Coweta Courier put a three-column picture of me on the front page, and my mother bought fifty copies and sent one to all our relatives, she was so proud, and as soon as she got me home she launched into plans for the Miss Oklahoma Pageant, and it didn’t matter how often I told her a beauty pageant is a sexist exploitation of the female body and I never would have run for Cow Chip Queen only Danny Childers put my name up and everybody called me chicken when I threw a fit, and, besides, I really didn’t think I’d win. And anyway, the Cow Chip pageant is different, not so sexist, seeing as how the contestants have to have a skill—tossing cow chips—and that’s my strong point. I just wrap my finger around the edge, twirl around a few times for show, and throw it like a frisbee.

But no matter how loudly I told her this, she never stopped saying how Miss America had to start somewhere and using words like strategy and career opportunities and scholarships; and somehow even though I’m so much against the male institution of beauty pageants, I couldn’t help catching Mom’s enthusiasm, falling into the excitement of winning and going up on stage in the frilly virginal dress my mother picked out to accept my crown and roses and seeing Dad in the hooting and hollering crowd with that soggy sweet look in his eyes that daddies get when their daughters do them proud.

Up there on that stage with everyone looking at me and my friends yelling and the crown slipping and my arm holding the roses trembling, I couldn’t help dreaming about a great destiny, a life always like that. And when we got home Dad brought out a bottle of champagne and a store-bought cake with The Most Beautiful Girl in the World written across it in pink icing, and yellow and pink roses all around the edges, and he said he bought it yesterday he was so sure I’d win. We all sat on the floor in the living room in front of the fireplace and drank the champagne out of the bottle and ate the cake right out of the box with our fingers

Available for free at www.kathleenlourde.com. Click on “Fiction.”

Thank you all for bearing with me as I try this experiment. If it works, I promise to do a much better job of finding good ebooks for people to read. I may have to resort to hardcopy books from time to time simply because I won’t have found an ebook I want to promote.

Please let me know your reactions to this blog. If it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, I won’t do it again. Talking with you is the reason I blog, so if you stop reading it I’ll just be talking to myself, and I do enough of that already. 😉


Filed under writers, writing