light moments

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

You must have worn blue;
maybe an overcoat
as we rushed into the rain.

We drank coffee,
talked about writing;
the state of the world.

Did you make an
awkward joke?
Take my hand?
Say my name?

We measure national debt,
average rainfall, yearly income,
overall satisfaction with everything
from online banking to
mail order brides.

We mark height and holidays,
historic moments, essays, exams,
final resting places—
then celebrate or mourn them
with cheesy greeting cards.

We don’t mark
light moments
like we mark the dead.

I want to remember
the look on your face
when you walked my way;
the feel of your hand
on the small of my back
when you walked me home.

My Cranky Muse

Often, I think of quitting my job as a writer.  Throwing in the towel.  Never penning another poem; stopping all efforts to improve my novel for youth; never sending another query letter out begging a publisher to notice my talent and “pick me, pick me!”

Yes, I have a publisher for my non-fiction books for youth, and I’ve put out a whole collection of poetry – but I have yet to find a publisher for my youth novel and children’s picture books. Not that I expected to be an overnight success, but it’s been a long journey to get to where I stand today, and I still have so much more I want to present to the world. Some days, it feels that some of these stories will never see the light of day – they might just sit in my computer forever – and that thought frustrates me to no end. I know, I know, Babe Ruth struck out some 1,330 times. I’ve only received about a dozen rejection letters. I need to keep at it – and I am. Some day, I’m going to appreciate the trips to that mailbox to get those letters that read, “We regretfully decline….” because they represent the blood, tears, toil and sweat I’ve put in. Maybe someday I’ll even have one framed in my (oceanfront) office. Hey, a woman has to dream.

On top of that, I feel like a publicity whore. I’ve never marketed myself more than I have this year, and I’m not always comfortable in that role. It’s a little weird to Google myself and find 14 pages of results – including, to my amusement, a listing for Where the Butterflies Go available online  at TARGET. It’s a little weird that I’m actually writing a blog confessing to you all that I Google myself.  Well, at least I’m honest — and web-savvy.

Sometimes I feel like this whole process of trying to find a traditional publisher/agent/ for my fiction is a game of chance and nothing else. Like I’m playing the lottery. Like talent and hard work just don’t matter anymore, because these editors have slush piles of submissions four-feet-high on their desks, and in the end, they are only looking for sure-hits by big name writers. That’s when I think: maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead.

But that’s not me talking. That’s my cranky muse. The term we writers use for  inspiration. And, oh my, does my muse get irritable. Often. It wants everything it ever helped me create published and credited. It wants all the children’s poems I’ve ever written in an anthology – not in a year’s time, but NOW. It wants all the picture books – and there must be a dozen – illustrated and on the shelves – NOW. It wants it all and if it can’t have it, it’s going to throw a tantrum bigger than any tantrum our three-year-old has ever thrown.

I know my turn is coming – perhaps it’s just around the corner – but my cranky muse isn’t buying that.

Maybe it just needs a good long nap.