My agent is shopping my latest manuscript and let me tell you the waiting is killing me. As a matter of fact, just this morning I noticed my hair is definitely grayer than it was last week.
When she first sent it out, we got an immediate response from a major publisher and boy was I excited. They raved about the author voice and the premise. They asked if the author had another book that could be packaged with it. Then they took it to committee, whatever that means, and the next thing you know they were saying things like, “It’s not for our list after all.”
Bummer. I felt like dumping my head in the washing machine while it was on the spin cycle. That got me thinking about all the authors out there that now have N.Y. Times bestsellers. Did they ever want to stick their head in the washer? I’d call them up, but I don’t have there numbers. Plus they’d think I was crazy so I’d probably just tell them how much I enjoyed their book and not mention their washing machine.
Maybe placing a project is so frustrating because of the way I first got published. I went to this book conference. At the reception I literally bumped into Ron Pitkin, the president of Cumberland House Publishing. He was kind enough not to notice I spilled his drink and asked what I was working on. When I told him fiction, he promptly replied, “That’s a crap shoot.” Definitely not what I wanted to hear. I mean, I’d paid good money to come to this conference and he’s raining on my party, big time. “Well,” I said, “that’s too bad, because I have a dynamite opening line.” I was prepared to walk away, when he gently took hold of my elbow and said, “So what’s your opening line?”
“The morning I died, it rained.” Keep in mind this was long before The Lovely Bones.
“God! I want to see that book,” he said, doing an about face.
“Ah, I don’t have a book,” I said. “I have a great opening line and a hundred pages.”
He asked if I had it with me. “Of course. I’m getting it evaluated in the morning. It costs forty-five dollars.”
He told me to give it to him, he wouldn’t charge a thing. I immediately went to my room and brought back the pages. I had a prologue, and the last chapter and the epilogue along with the rest of it. It wasn’t finished, but I knew where it was going.
Mr. Pitkin thanked me and went on his way. Come Sunday morning with the conference over, everyone was checking out. I spotted Mr. Pitkin making his way toward me and thought, oh-oh, this is where he’s going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me to get a real job. To my surprise he handed me the manuscript and said, “I want this and I want it yesterday. Go home and finish it!”
I figured if I took forever to finish it he’d never even remember that he liked it. I stayed up and wrote around the clock for the next five days, took the weekend off, stayed up again and wrote around the clock for the next five days and sent it off to Mr. Pitkin. I marked my calendar for three months, thinking it might take that long for him to get back to me. I started in on my second book. Just like all the books on writing said to do. The following Friday evening my phone rang. I answered. A voice said, “This is Ron Pitkin at Cumberland House and we’re going to bring your book out in hardback.” I said, “Ya? And I’m the tooth fairy.” And I hung up on him. The reason I did this is that the only person other than my husband who knew I’d sent off the manuscript was a good friend of mine who can mimic any voice he’s ever heard. He’d been going to this conference where I’d met Mr. Pitkin for years and has heard him speak many times. It had to be this friend playing a joke on me. Not a very funny one either. I wasn’t amused.
I went upstairs to comb my hair and put some lipstick on. My husband was starving and wanted to go and get something to eat. Poor thing, he probably was starving. I stopped cooking when the kids left home and I took up writing. No sooner did I get to the bedroom when the phone rang. This one has caller ID, the others don’t. I leaned over and saw CUMBERLAND HOUSE flashing on the screen. I’d hung up on Mr. Pitkin for real!
I picked up the handset, leaned into it and barely whispered “Hello?”
“What’d you hang up on me for?” he said. “Ah, it’s a long story, a very boring story,” I said.
“Well, we’re bringing out your book in hard back and bumping back our memoir piece on Dale Earnhardt (he’d been tragically killed), to make Roseflower Creek the lead book. What do you think of that?”
I was hyperventilating and finding it impossible to speak. I did my best. “Didn’t you say fiction was a crap shoot?” I asked
“Yes—and it is,” he said.
“Then I think your crazy or my protagonist got herself a miracle. What do you think of that?”
Mr. Pitkin laughed and said he’d be seeing me. This is a true story and a pretty amazing way to get published. I should have known there’d be rocky roads ahead. It brings to mind the old adage if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is. Oh well, maybe after the storms pass, I’ll find a rainbow. One can always hope. In the interim I’ve got everything crossed, including the hair on my husband’s head—all three strands.
Jackie Lee Miles is the author of Roseflower Creek, Cold Rock River and the newly released Divorcing Dwayne. Dear Dwayne debuts April 1st, 2009. Visit the website at www.jlmiles.com. Write to Jackie at Jackie@jlmiles.com
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Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
I’ve noticed lately I’m getting more and more wrinkles. If this keeps up my face will look like a roadmap. I saw this ad on TV that said I could turn back time—just by buying their product. I bought three jars. They lied. The only thing that got turned back was the check I wrote to pay for their products. It didn’t quite clear my bank. I called them up (the product people, not the bank) and told them it would be alright. I was going to ask for a refund anyway. They weren’t amused.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
I think that any and all products being advertised should do exactly what they say they’ll do or the people advertising them should immediately suffer serious and permanent consequences, like getting a case of incurable dandruff, or developing uncontrolled facial ticks. Take the skin care folks—at the very least they should be hit with a terminal case of zits.
The problem is, before long thousands of people would be running around with dandruff and pimples and facial ticks. I say this because it seems everyone selling something lately exaggerates and gets away with it. I went to this laser clinic for hair removal. They promised with six treatments I’d never shave my legs again. They said it was virtually a painless procedure. Always listen up when someone uses the word “virtually”. It means the same thing as when a doctor says there might be some discomfort.
The only thing the laser clinic didn’t lie about was the price. It would be three mortgage payments, payable in advance. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after that fiasco, but oh no, I’m still out there reading and believing all the hype slick advertisers hand out. Just last month, I read an article in the newspaper—well, it looked like an article, but was actually an ad for weight loss camouflaged to look like an article written by some prominent doctor I’d never heard of. Anyway, their product guaranteed that you would lose seven pounds in your sleep the first week alone. I bought some of that, too. And I did lose seven pounds, just like they said. Mostly because I lived with my head stuck in the toilet for eight days straight. The product made me sicker than my cat when she swallowed a year’s supply of fur balls in one setting.
And that’s just one of the weight loss products on the market. There are approximately three millions others that claim you can achieve the same results. In addition to weight loss, skin care, and hair removal, there are scads of other companies promising to remove cellulite, firm your under arms and whiten your teeth, not to mention give you fingernails stronger than nails, erase under-eye circles and stop you from ever passing gas. Right, like I believe that. But, you name it, and there’s a product out there promising to fix it. And that’s just products. What about all the procedures being touted as a total cure-all for what ails one. There’s liposuction, micro-dermabrasion, Botox, silicone and collagen. The list goes on. Basically, the entire human body can be re-done so that your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Now, why would I want that? It’s taken me all these years to get her to notice me in the first place. But that’s another story. Right now I think I’ll just stop believing in all the hype I read about or see on television and be content that I’m getting older (and hopefully wiser), and I have the looks to prove it. In the meantime, be careful what you believe in. There are a lot of advertisers out there with a lot of hype and mostly they can say what they want and charge what they will. Buyer beware!
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek. Visit her website at http://www.jlmiles.com/ or write to her at Jackie@jlmiles.com.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
When it comes to words, whether written or spoken, I believe women automatically need more of them to convey whatever it is they wish to convey. I’m not trying to be sexist, mind you, just honest.
If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”
Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.
And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.
When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.
A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.
Sally wrote:
The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.
Frank wrote:
Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.
Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.
http://www.jlmiles.com/
Jackie@jlmiles.com
If I want my husband to take out the garbage I might say, “My hands are full and the kitchen trash is overflowing the bin! Can you be a sweetie and take it out for me?”
Were the situation reversed he’d say, “#%!! damn!” And of course I’d come running. That’s his two words to my twenty-three.
And if I’m feeling rather tired and don’t feel like attending the neighbor’s ballyhoo, I might say, “You know I’ve had a tough week and I’m feeling really beat. Do you mind if we send over a bottle of wine and our apologies?” If he were the one not wanting to go he’d simply say, “Tell’em we’re not coming.” His four words to my twenty-six.
When I share my thoughts with him on why I feel the world has gotten too commercial and ask him why that is—hoping to coax him into a meaningful conversation about the shifting times—he says, “Dunno.” One word and he’s back to his newspaper.
A woman’s need for an abundance of words not only includes the ones spoken, but those written, as well. I read this story that totally supports this hypothesis. Apparently, Sally and Frank—both writers by profession—kept daily journals. Upon their untimely demise my friend was sorting through their papers and discovered the following entries dated January 26th.
Sally wrote:
The New Year is not even one month old and Frank is acting very strange. We made plans to meet for a drink right after work. I got tied up and arrived late. He didn’t say anything, but seemed very distant. I asked if anything was wrong. He said, “No.” I asked him if he was upset that I was late and hadn’t called. He said, “No.” When we got home, he immediately turned on the television and started surfing channels. I’d counted on a romantic evening in front of the fireplace. I sat down and tried to cuddle up to him. He smiled slightly, but never said a word. I felt like he definitely had something on his mind, but was hesitant to discuss it. The silence was too much for me. I went to bed. Soon he joined me and much to my surprise he responded to my caresses and we made love! But afterwards, he fell asleep immediately. I lay there and cried. I’m almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. It’s like he no longer wants anything to do with me. My life is a disaster. I just know I’m losing him and I don’t know what to do.
Frank wrote:
Didn’t get the promotion, but had a great roll in the hay.
Words—too many or not nearly enough? Either way, I rest my case.
J. L. Miles is the author of Divorcing Dwayne (April 2008, Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow), Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek.
http://www.jlmiles.com/
Jackie@jlmiles.com
Monday, April 14, 2008
HAVE BOOK. HAVE AGENT!
I have an agent! Somebody who believes in me. Well, in addition to my mother, that is. Her name is Rachelle Gardner—my agent, not my mother (her name is Lois). Rachelle’s with WordServe Literary and if you look on Google under agents that are incredible, you will find her. And she has a great blog. Check it out at My Blog.
Having no representation, I was sort of desperate, but not completely. I mean, I had an agent, once. She left the industry when she birthed two babies back-to-back at age thirty-nine. Personally I would have killed myself—I always left at least twenty-one months in between child tearing, ah, I mean child bearing, but we’re talking New York, so what can I say? They move real fast up there.
But that was then; this is now! And I’m in heaven. Rachelle is shopping my latest project The Heavenly Heart, which was inspired by an actual CBS News program where a man received his daughter’s heart. You can read more by clicking on this link: Saved By His Daughter's Heart - CBS News. Of course my story is fiction. The tagline is as follows: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go. And letting go is the last thing on her agenda.
It’s kind of like It’s a Wonderful Life in reverse. Lorelei gets the opportunity to view her life as though she hadn’t died and makes some remarkable discoveries in the process.
While Rachelle and The Heavenly Heart make the rounds, I’m busy launching the first in my Dwayne Series: Divorcing Dwayne debuted April 1st. It features Francine Harper, who’s under felony assault charges for shooting at her husband Dwayne and his stripper/lover Carla from the Peel ‘n Squeal. Francine discovers her strengths and regains her dignity via a trail and many errors. Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne will follow.
In Dear Dwayne Francine’s not doing too well after the divorce. Her therapist suggests it might be helpful to her recovery if she pretends to write letters to Dwayne and gets everything off her chest. But it’s not her chest that has her worried. It’s her belly; she’s pregnant. And if that’s not bad enough, while divorcing Dwayne she had a fling with a Hollywood cad (as portrayed in Divorcing Dwayne). She also had a close encounter of the intimate kind with Dwayne during that same period. And wouldn’t you know? She’s expecting twins. WHO’S THE FATHER??? I should say fathers. But, not to worry, Francine’s now dating the mayor, a Danny DeVito-type character who Francine insists is good husband material, “even if he does only come up to my navel.”
In Dating Dwayne things don’t work out for Francine and the mayor. On their wedding night, in all the excitement, he has a heart attack. (Think Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin). Soon Francine takes solace in Dwayne’s company. Good grief! Well, not good but, lots of grief. Ray Anne, her best friend since first grade says, “Francine, have you got a boulder in your head, or what?” Will the struggling new widow with toddler twins come to her senses or end up, once again, married to Dwayne?
You can check out my touring schedule by going to my website at http://www.jlmiles.com/. Hope to see you! In the interim, please excuse me. I need to call my mother and let her know she was right. I do have some talent. It just took the right person to notice. Praise the Lord! I feel like Rodney Dangerfield. I’ll finally get some respect.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Life and Death in a Big City
My daughter-in-law just died. She was thirty-two years old. Not an up subject, I know. But, there it is, right in your face—for real—as in dead and she’s gone, and it hurts so bad, and how can we stand it, and will this never end, and we’re all gonna be there someday, so get ready.
Alana came into my son’s life when she was fifteen and he was seventeen. She had the smile I wanted all my life. Big and bold and beautiful with perfect teeth. She was traveling with her dance company that she’d been part of since she was five years old. My son was traveling with his wrestling team. Amidst a backdrop of teenage ballet dancers and wrestlers they made an undeniable connection. Several conversations and a farewell breakfast at Perkins later all my son had was her address on a piece of hotel stationary and an empty bottle of Sundance Raspberry Sparkler they’d shared the night before.
They each went back to their respective home towns. A week later a long-distance romance began with a flurry of letters flying back and forth. For a year and a half the letters and a handful of phone calls sustained them. Then the unexpected happened. Alana’s Grandmama offered to pay the airfare for my son to visit. She put him up in her condominium, probably to keep a watchful eye on the lovebirds. The sparks were flying.
He brought back all these really cute pictures of them, but my son moaned around the house, one lovesick pup. Then we’d grant permission for another phone call—long distance charges in those days were horrendous—and he made pancakes for breakfast and whistled Dixie—okay we lived in the north, he whistled something else I can’t remember—and then they’d be back to their letter writing and so it went.
My son graduated high school and went on to college. More time passed. The young couple never wavered in their devotion. Alana graduated from high school six months early and they decided to move to Salt Lake City. There she would continue her dance career at the University of Utah, and my son would decide what to do when he got there. Being with Alana was all that mattered to him at the time.
They were doing great and then sort of great and then not so great. Alana had many goals in her life that included becoming a professional ballet dancer, traveling the world, and earning a PhD in medicine or science. And my lovelorn son aspired—well, frankly—to be with her. Young love is like a soap opera. You never know what will happen next.
She ran off with a professional football player. And she became a professional dancer and she went on to get her undergraduate degree in Biology. My son kept in touch as best he could. Years went by. They exchanged two letters, eight phone calls and got together for a single twenty-five minute visit when she had a lay over in Phoenix where my son was living at the time. Then Alana went about pursuing her dreams. Meanwhile my son mostly went into depression. He recovered from the heartbreak of his first grown up love but never married and continued to compare all the other women in his life to her—sad and so futile, right? I wrote many letters to no avail.
Then, the unexpected happened. When he was in his thirties, still a bachelor, he typed in her name and did a google search, but used her maiden name for Petey’s sake. Good luck! But up she popped, freshly divorced and back to her maiden moniker. Go figure. They conversed. Thirteen years had gone by—lots to talk about. She never married the football player. She married and divorced a doctor. She was in Minneapolis. He was in Phoenix. They flew back and forth. They clicked. Here’s where the drama comes in.
She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That’s how he happened to find her. The article on google said she’d defied the odds, gone on to Princeton, and gotten her master’s degree as a Molecular Biologist all the while smitten with a brain tumor. All the while my son was still smitten with her.
They married. She moved to Arizona. They bought a house. And the cancer grew. Two years went by. The doctors said, “Look’n good.” And the cancer grew. They decorated their home. They met the neighbors. The doctors said, “Doing fine.” And the cancer grew. They painted and laughed and cooked spaghetti. The doctors said, “No problem.” And the cancer grew. They bought two miniatures dachshunds. They named them Dave and Jack. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “Way to go!” They climbed Mount Sonoma and camped out and made love. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re amazing.” And the cancer grew. They danced and planted their yard and bought a new car and had company visit. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re doing great.” And the cancer grew.
But, one day her back hurt, and her head hurt, and she collapsed, and they took her to the hospital, and the doctors said. “It’s bad. The cancer’s back. And the cancer said, “That’s right! And I’m going to kill you.”
And it did.
If you’d like to read Alana’s story go to www.helptgen.org. Scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click on Alana’s Story.
J. L. Miles is the author or Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek. Email her at jackie@jlmiles.com. Or check out her website at www.jlmiles.com.
My daughter-in-law just died. She was thirty-two years old. Not an up subject, I know. But, there it is, right in your face—for real—as in dead and she’s gone, and it hurts so bad, and how can we stand it, and will this never end, and we’re all gonna be there someday, so get ready.
Alana came into my son’s life when she was fifteen and he was seventeen. She had the smile I wanted all my life. Big and bold and beautiful with perfect teeth. She was traveling with her dance company that she’d been part of since she was five years old. My son was traveling with his wrestling team. Amidst a backdrop of teenage ballet dancers and wrestlers they made an undeniable connection. Several conversations and a farewell breakfast at Perkins later all my son had was her address on a piece of hotel stationary and an empty bottle of Sundance Raspberry Sparkler they’d shared the night before.
They each went back to their respective home towns. A week later a long-distance romance began with a flurry of letters flying back and forth. For a year and a half the letters and a handful of phone calls sustained them. Then the unexpected happened. Alana’s Grandmama offered to pay the airfare for my son to visit. She put him up in her condominium, probably to keep a watchful eye on the lovebirds. The sparks were flying.
He brought back all these really cute pictures of them, but my son moaned around the house, one lovesick pup. Then we’d grant permission for another phone call—long distance charges in those days were horrendous—and he made pancakes for breakfast and whistled Dixie—okay we lived in the north, he whistled something else I can’t remember—and then they’d be back to their letter writing and so it went.
My son graduated high school and went on to college. More time passed. The young couple never wavered in their devotion. Alana graduated from high school six months early and they decided to move to Salt Lake City. There she would continue her dance career at the University of Utah, and my son would decide what to do when he got there. Being with Alana was all that mattered to him at the time.
They were doing great and then sort of great and then not so great. Alana had many goals in her life that included becoming a professional ballet dancer, traveling the world, and earning a PhD in medicine or science. And my lovelorn son aspired—well, frankly—to be with her. Young love is like a soap opera. You never know what will happen next.
She ran off with a professional football player. And she became a professional dancer and she went on to get her undergraduate degree in Biology. My son kept in touch as best he could. Years went by. They exchanged two letters, eight phone calls and got together for a single twenty-five minute visit when she had a lay over in Phoenix where my son was living at the time. Then Alana went about pursuing her dreams. Meanwhile my son mostly went into depression. He recovered from the heartbreak of his first grown up love but never married and continued to compare all the other women in his life to her—sad and so futile, right? I wrote many letters to no avail.
Then, the unexpected happened. When he was in his thirties, still a bachelor, he typed in her name and did a google search, but used her maiden name for Petey’s sake. Good luck! But up she popped, freshly divorced and back to her maiden moniker. Go figure. They conversed. Thirteen years had gone by—lots to talk about. She never married the football player. She married and divorced a doctor. She was in Minneapolis. He was in Phoenix. They flew back and forth. They clicked. Here’s where the drama comes in.
She’d been diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. That’s how he happened to find her. The article on google said she’d defied the odds, gone on to Princeton, and gotten her master’s degree as a Molecular Biologist all the while smitten with a brain tumor. All the while my son was still smitten with her.
They married. She moved to Arizona. They bought a house. And the cancer grew. Two years went by. The doctors said, “Look’n good.” And the cancer grew. They decorated their home. They met the neighbors. The doctors said, “Doing fine.” And the cancer grew. They painted and laughed and cooked spaghetti. The doctors said, “No problem.” And the cancer grew. They bought two miniatures dachshunds. They named them Dave and Jack. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “Way to go!” They climbed Mount Sonoma and camped out and made love. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re amazing.” And the cancer grew. They danced and planted their yard and bought a new car and had company visit. And the cancer grew. The doctors said, “You’re doing great.” And the cancer grew.
But, one day her back hurt, and her head hurt, and she collapsed, and they took her to the hospital, and the doctors said. “It’s bad. The cancer’s back. And the cancer said, “That’s right! And I’m going to kill you.”
And it did.
If you’d like to read Alana’s story go to www.helptgen.org. Scroll down to the bottom of the screen and click on Alana’s Story.
J. L. Miles is the author or Divorcing Dwayne, Cold Rock River, and Roseflower Creek. Email her at jackie@jlmiles.com. Or check out her website at www.jlmiles.com.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
HAVE BOOK, NEED AGENT . . .
Yikes—I’ve been orphaned! Let me explain: I had what I felt was a great agent—with a New York agency no less, but she left the industry after birthing two babies back-to-back, and she did so without telling me, so now I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t so great or maybe I’m not so hot, depending on what time of day it is I’m thinking it. In the morning I tell myself, “Hey, no problem! You’ve given a workshop titled The Art of the Query: Getting An Agent When Others Don’t at least five times to critical acclaim for petey’s sake—piece of cake.” By nightfall, and two more rejection letters later that slice of cake is getting hard to swallow. I get my good friend and Dixie Diva touring comrade Karin Gillespie of Bet Your Bottom Dollar, A Dollar Short, and Dollar Daze fame to read my query. “This is great!” she says. So what gives on this agent thing? I have two books out in hard cover (Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek), both in their second printing, a three book series sold to Cumberland House (The Dwayne Series), Divorcing Dwayne debuting April 2008, with Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow, and I tour with the Dixie Divas, four nationally published book-writing belles with a passion for promotion serving up helpings of down-home humor and warmth. (It says so in our press kit.) And I’ve just completed The Heavenly Heart, inspired by an actual FOX News Network program: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father, who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go—and letting go is the last thing on her agenda. Sounds good to me. Anyone else think so? Hollywood finds the subject matter appealing and is developing a one-hour drama featuring organ donors and recipients with enough weekly pathos to bring a tear to even the most hardened eyeball. And the United Network of Organ Sharing (UNOS) is launching a national campaign on the need for organ donation (eighty thousand Americans will die this year before finding a match), so the subject is timely and rife with radio and television publicity possibilities. My good friend, bestselling author Barbara LeBey (Remarried with Children: Ten Secrets for Successfully Blending and Extending Your Family, and Family Estrangements: How They Begin, How to Mend Them, How to Cope with Them), thinks so and recommends me to her agent. I send her my query along with copies of my books and a couple of chapters of The Heavenly Heart. She calls me immediately! Boy, am I flying, let me tell you. “This is great stuff,” she says. I’m on the ceiling. “But I only do non-fiction,” she adds. I crash land on my hard wood floor. Luckily, she thinks enough of my work to recommend me to a colleague who does represent fiction. I send her my query along with copies of my books and the complete manuscript of The Heavenly Heart. I’m now waiting (and watching the calendar and swallowing my nails whole), to hear from her. I once bumped into the former president of a major New York publishing house at a book festival and mentioned to him I’d recently been orphaned. He said, “That’s worse than losing your mother!” I’m not going there. But speaking of mothers, when I commiserate with mine she says, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, honey.” Right—until you lose. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, if anyone likes my work and has an agent scouting for new talent, let me know. I have a large section of my will made out to you.
http://www.jlmiles.com
Jackie@jlmiles.com
Yikes—I’ve been orphaned! Let me explain: I had what I felt was a great agent—with a New York agency no less, but she left the industry after birthing two babies back-to-back, and she did so without telling me, so now I’m thinking maybe she wasn’t so great or maybe I’m not so hot, depending on what time of day it is I’m thinking it. In the morning I tell myself, “Hey, no problem! You’ve given a workshop titled The Art of the Query: Getting An Agent When Others Don’t at least five times to critical acclaim for petey’s sake—piece of cake.” By nightfall, and two more rejection letters later that slice of cake is getting hard to swallow. I get my good friend and Dixie Diva touring comrade Karin Gillespie of Bet Your Bottom Dollar, A Dollar Short, and Dollar Daze fame to read my query. “This is great!” she says. So what gives on this agent thing? I have two books out in hard cover (Cold Rock River and Roseflower Creek), both in their second printing, a three book series sold to Cumberland House (The Dwayne Series), Divorcing Dwayne debuting April 2008, with Dear Dwayne and Dating Dwayne to follow, and I tour with the Dixie Divas, four nationally published book-writing belles with a passion for promotion serving up helpings of down-home humor and warmth. (It says so in our press kit.) And I’ve just completed The Heavenly Heart, inspired by an actual FOX News Network program: After a fatal accident, sixteen-year-old Lorelei Goodroe follows the lives of five people who receive her organs, including that of her father, who gets her heart. Lorelei’s untimely demise has left her in turmoil. She finds she is unable to move on without first letting go—and letting go is the last thing on her agenda. Sounds good to me. Anyone else think so? Hollywood finds the subject matter appealing and is developing a one-hour drama featuring organ donors and recipients with enough weekly pathos to bring a tear to even the most hardened eyeball. And the United Network of Organ Sharing (UNOS) is launching a national campaign on the need for organ donation (eighty thousand Americans will die this year before finding a match), so the subject is timely and rife with radio and television publicity possibilities. My good friend, bestselling author Barbara LeBey (Remarried with Children: Ten Secrets for Successfully Blending and Extending Your Family, and Family Estrangements: How They Begin, How to Mend Them, How to Cope with Them), thinks so and recommends me to her agent. I send her my query along with copies of my books and a couple of chapters of The Heavenly Heart. She calls me immediately! Boy, am I flying, let me tell you. “This is great stuff,” she says. I’m on the ceiling. “But I only do non-fiction,” she adds. I crash land on my hard wood floor. Luckily, she thinks enough of my work to recommend me to a colleague who does represent fiction. I send her my query along with copies of my books and the complete manuscript of The Heavenly Heart. I’m now waiting (and watching the calendar and swallowing my nails whole), to hear from her. I once bumped into the former president of a major New York publishing house at a book festival and mentioned to him I’d recently been orphaned. He said, “That’s worse than losing your mother!” I’m not going there. But speaking of mothers, when I commiserate with mine she says, “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, honey.” Right—until you lose. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, if anyone likes my work and has an agent scouting for new talent, let me know. I have a large section of my will made out to you.
http://www.jlmiles.com
Jackie@jlmiles.com
BEST-SELLER BLUES
I started my writing career when our children left home and my husband insisted they weren’t coming back unless they needed money. Previously, I wanted to be a movie star, but when the mirror confirmed that my theatrical-clock had not only stopped ticking, it was at the cemetery, I thought writing might be a better choice. While at the dentist waiting on a root canal—never make career decisions while waiting on a man with a knitting needle who intends to stab you in the mouth with it—I picked up a tattered paperback entitled The Writer's Little Instruction Book.
Spooky! I was merely contemplating the idea of becoming a N.Y. Times bestselling author and the perfect manual appeared. Surely God, his angels, and all the saints were trying to tell me something, right? I didn’t consider that maybe the devil and his deceivers were having a good laugh. The book listed 365 (give or take) secrets for writing and getting published. Perfect! It was an omen. In 365 days I’d be on the bestsellers list. I simply needed to master one little ol’ secret a day. The first one I came across was the key to a successful story. It was threefold: 1. Get your protagonist up a tree. 2. Put a tiger under the tree. 3. Get your protagonist out of the tree.
Elementary! I was on my way and about to discover secret #2, when the receptionist called my name. It was time for my root canal. Piece of cake—I was on a mission to greatness. Not even that flashing knitting needle held high in Dr.I-Forget-his-name’s hand would stop me now. Four injections (the first three didn’t take), and two hours later I drove home not the least bit interested in the N. Y. Times, its bestsellers list, or who was on it.
Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee. However—don’t you hate that word?—I forgot about one character defect I’ve struggled with most of my life: I’m a world class procrastinator. If they ever give out Pulitzer’s on the subject, I’ll be a major contender. Not to say I don’t get things done. I do. But I tend to do them one minute before time’s up.
Procrastination is not a good attribute for an author. All the best books on writing (there are slews of good ones; here are my favorites: Anne Lamott, Elizabeth Berg, Julie Cameron, Stephen King—and Walter Mosely's brand new contribution), state clearly that writers are to place themselves before the computer (or notepad, or typewriter) at precisely the same time each day for precisely the same amount of pre-determined hours each day (weekends and holiday included), in order to not only hone one’s craft, but to complete the manuscript at hand. Ahhh. . .that might be a problem.
The moment I get out of bed, I tend to explore the world around me and assess the damages, making a list as I go. Stupid little things like, I forgot to do the laundry, again and there’s no clean underwear, the milk’s sour, there’s nothing to eat but cat food, the garbage hasn’t been dragged to the curb in a month, and the refrigerator filter hasn’t been changed since we invaded Iraq. The list grows as I walk from room to room. Are those fur balls under the dining room table really having grandchildren? Can’t be, last week they were barely parents. I climb under to investigate. I meander from room to room, procrastination taking over the morning. I get out the phone book. Surely there’s an organization that can assist me. There has to be. I’m on the verge of being a bestselling author! I need recovery.
The yellow page lists Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, Cheaters Anonymous, Kleptomaniacs Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous. There are groups for Obsessive Compulsion Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, and Bi-Polar Disorder, but absolutely no procrastinators support group. There must be an organization meeting somewhere. Actually a helpline would be my choice. A number I could call the moment I find no underwear I’m willing to wear or encounter a chore I’m tempted to do—featuring a commanding voice like my mothers that will instruct me to immediately march over to my computer and bolt myself to the chair for a minimum of three hours, and call her in the morning.
I look through the entire collection of yellow pages I’ve amassed, as well as the local newspaper’s classified ads and find nothing to assist me. Obviously, I’m one of a mere handful of major procrastinators in existence. There are simply not enough of us to require a network of supporters. Yikes! I’m on my own. I search the room for answers and spot my computer. It’s waiting, perfectly able to do my bidding. And I only have 364 more secrets to master. Glory be—I’m ready to discover them!
I dash to the computer, sit down triumphantly, and put my hands on the keys. At last! I’m ready to write the great American novel. However—the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s waiting on me. “Did you forget you need to take me to the dentist?” Ahhh. . .yeh, I did, but I don’t tell her. “I’m on my way!” I say instead. I get up from my computer and grab my car keys.
Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee.
J. L. (Jackie Lee) Miles is the author of Cold Rock River, the critically acclaimed Roseflower Creek, and the soon to be released Dwayne Series. Divorcing Dwayne debuts April 2008. Dear Dwayne & Dating Dwayne to follow.
Write to Jackie at mailto:jackie@jlmiles.com.
Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/
I started my writing career when our children left home and my husband insisted they weren’t coming back unless they needed money. Previously, I wanted to be a movie star, but when the mirror confirmed that my theatrical-clock had not only stopped ticking, it was at the cemetery, I thought writing might be a better choice. While at the dentist waiting on a root canal—never make career decisions while waiting on a man with a knitting needle who intends to stab you in the mouth with it—I picked up a tattered paperback entitled The Writer's Little Instruction Book.
Spooky! I was merely contemplating the idea of becoming a N.Y. Times bestselling author and the perfect manual appeared. Surely God, his angels, and all the saints were trying to tell me something, right? I didn’t consider that maybe the devil and his deceivers were having a good laugh. The book listed 365 (give or take) secrets for writing and getting published. Perfect! It was an omen. In 365 days I’d be on the bestsellers list. I simply needed to master one little ol’ secret a day. The first one I came across was the key to a successful story. It was threefold: 1. Get your protagonist up a tree. 2. Put a tiger under the tree. 3. Get your protagonist out of the tree.
Elementary! I was on my way and about to discover secret #2, when the receptionist called my name. It was time for my root canal. Piece of cake—I was on a mission to greatness. Not even that flashing knitting needle held high in Dr.I-Forget-his-name’s hand would stop me now. Four injections (the first three didn’t take), and two hours later I drove home not the least bit interested in the N. Y. Times, its bestsellers list, or who was on it.
Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee. However—don’t you hate that word?—I forgot about one character defect I’ve struggled with most of my life: I’m a world class procrastinator. If they ever give out Pulitzer’s on the subject, I’ll be a major contender. Not to say I don’t get things done. I do. But I tend to do them one minute before time’s up.
Procrastination is not a good attribute for an author. All the best books on writing (there are slews of good ones; here are my favorites: Anne Lamott, Elizabeth Berg, Julie Cameron, Stephen King—and Walter Mosely's brand new contribution), state clearly that writers are to place themselves before the computer (or notepad, or typewriter) at precisely the same time each day for precisely the same amount of pre-determined hours each day (weekends and holiday included), in order to not only hone one’s craft, but to complete the manuscript at hand. Ahhh. . .that might be a problem.
The moment I get out of bed, I tend to explore the world around me and assess the damages, making a list as I go. Stupid little things like, I forgot to do the laundry, again and there’s no clean underwear, the milk’s sour, there’s nothing to eat but cat food, the garbage hasn’t been dragged to the curb in a month, and the refrigerator filter hasn’t been changed since we invaded Iraq. The list grows as I walk from room to room. Are those fur balls under the dining room table really having grandchildren? Can’t be, last week they were barely parents. I climb under to investigate. I meander from room to room, procrastination taking over the morning. I get out the phone book. Surely there’s an organization that can assist me. There has to be. I’m on the verge of being a bestselling author! I need recovery.
The yellow page lists Alcoholics Anonymous, Overeaters Anonymous, Cheaters Anonymous, Kleptomaniacs Anonymous and Sex Addicts Anonymous. There are groups for Obsessive Compulsion Disorder, Attention Deficit Disorder, and Bi-Polar Disorder, but absolutely no procrastinators support group. There must be an organization meeting somewhere. Actually a helpline would be my choice. A number I could call the moment I find no underwear I’m willing to wear or encounter a chore I’m tempted to do—featuring a commanding voice like my mothers that will instruct me to immediately march over to my computer and bolt myself to the chair for a minimum of three hours, and call her in the morning.
I look through the entire collection of yellow pages I’ve amassed, as well as the local newspaper’s classified ads and find nothing to assist me. Obviously, I’m one of a mere handful of major procrastinators in existence. There are simply not enough of us to require a network of supporters. Yikes! I’m on my own. I search the room for answers and spot my computer. It’s waiting, perfectly able to do my bidding. And I only have 364 more secrets to master. Glory be—I’m ready to discover them!
I dash to the computer, sit down triumphantly, and put my hands on the keys. At last! I’m ready to write the great American novel. However—the phone rings. It’s my mother. She’s waiting on me. “Did you forget you need to take me to the dentist?” Ahhh. . .yeh, I did, but I don’t tell her. “I’m on my way!” I say instead. I get up from my computer and grab my car keys.
Tomorrow, I’d begin the great American novel, the minute my feet hit the floor, the instant my brain met the coffee.
J. L. (Jackie Lee) Miles is the author of Cold Rock River, the critically acclaimed Roseflower Creek, and the soon to be released Dwayne Series. Divorcing Dwayne debuts April 2008. Dear Dwayne & Dating Dwayne to follow.
Write to Jackie at mailto:jackie@jlmiles.com.
Visit the website at http://www.jlmiles.com/
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