Rejection-letter box of Kleenex: $2.00.

Rejection-letter ice cream, “Death Wish” size, from Cold Stone Creamery: $8.00.

Rejection-letter “Better-Writer-In-A-Box” bookstore spree: $49.96.

A (reputable) magazine finally accepting one of your articles for publication: Priceless!

Yes, folks, it’s finally happened: a real magazine is actually going to publish one of my articles. Because I’m a superstitious person, I will refrain from jinxing the deal by blabbing here which magazine, though I will tell you that it’ll be in print this fall.

I received the e-mail this morning after spending a particularly broody few days feeling like nothing good would ever come of this writing thing (I guess that “Deux Ex Machina” thing must not be just a literary device), so emotionally speaking, the news could not have come at a better time.

In the hours since reading the news, I have been floating around with what I know must be a sublimely goofy smile plastered to my face, utterly ridiculous. There have only been a few other times in my life when I wandered around all day with my feet several feet off the ground and a silly grin on my face, and most of those had to do with love or infatuation (or in some cases, being really, really drunk).

The realistic voice in my head keeps trying to shake me by the shoulders, yelling “Snap out of it! It’s just one article! It’s just one magazine! It took you three years of writing to get this one published!”

To which voice I calmly reply, “Yes, I know. It’s only one article. And yes, thank you very much, I know it’s not for The New Yorker. But it is ONE.” And it is precisely because of this event’s singularity that I am determined to bask in it, to wallow in it, to slather it onto my parched and callused ego. Who knows if there will be other opportunities? And if they do come, who’s to say that they won’t take another three years, or five, or even twenty to arrive?

I feel like my reserves of confidence had become so depleted that in this moment of plenty, I need to lay in new stores against another long, unbroken winter of scarcity. So I am gorging on happiness, feasting on self-satisfaction (and a bagel layered in celebratory swirls of Nutella, my guilty celebratory treat), building reserves of fat contentment to see me through the next dry spell.

Yes, for me, a little validation goes a loooong way; that’s okay, because it may have to. But in the meantime, ahhh. Priceless.

I’ve had a few ups and downs this week in terms of my writing. I did some revising of my novel Widow Woman (thank you to my readers for their feedback) and began working on writing my next one. Putting a Go Day out there for everyone to see made me accountable and productive: I actually finished Chapter One this afternoon. Hurray for me!

But  in spite of this achievement, off and on this whole week, I’ve been questioning my choice of a career; (can you actually call it a career if you’re not making any money at it?) I’ve been questioning whether I have what it takes to become a writer, be it skill, talent, luck, marketing ability, whatever; questioning my sanity–this has just been a week to be wracked with self-doubt.

Into the fray have stepped friends and family, just at the moment when I needed them the most. Bus-stop buddies telling me “To heck with traditional publishers! What do they know anyway?–let’s just get you onto Amazon! We know you’re going to be a star!” A colleague reading my first draft told me she has no doubt that I will get this novel of mine published. Several others who have been reading the manuscript have been telling me how good it is and asking for other things I’ve written. My “troops” have really been rallying behind me, for which I am intensely grateful.

But in this week of violent self-doubt, nothing has meant more to me than the support of one person–my husband.

Think that that kind of support doesn’t matter, or that it can be replicated in the encouragement of anyone else? It can’t. It is irreplaceable and invaluable. I was reading On Writing by Stephen King this afternoon and came across this passage: “And whenever I see a first novel dedicated to a wife (or a husband), I smile and think, There’s someone who knows. Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.” Well, I haven’t been published yet, so I don’t have a formal dedication page yet, but I already know that I wouldn’t have gotten this far without him, so why wait–this one is for you.

I am so incredibly fortunate to have so many people out there who believe I’m going to succeed. Thanks to all of you for being there when my faith in myself wavers.

But to my husband, especially, thanks for reminding me that  though this may be a long haul, you’re there right behind me to push me when I need pushing, to pick me up when I stumble, or even to drag me the last few feet if I need to be dragged (if you ask him, that’s more often than not much of the time.)

Stephen King is right: Writing is a lonely thing. Thanks for keeping me company along the way.

In spite of what you might infer from the length of time that’s passed since my last post, when I vowed to write every day, I have actually been doing so. I’ve written a couple of articles and have been continuing to work on the research for my next book. I’ve also been writing a number of query letters to agents. Don’t scoff–those can be incredibly time-consuming! My goal has been to complete five queries each week and so far I’ve been meeting my quota.

I started doing some additional research in the hopes of writing a “killer” query letter. One literary agent’s blog waxed rhapsodic about a writer submitting to him who had the first chapter of her manuscript posted on her Web site. “She already had a Web site!” I do, too, and that entry started me thinking about posting my first chapter as well. I’m such a nervous Nellie, though–want to know what my biggest concern is? It’s not that no one will read it, or if they do read, that they won’t like it. It’s that there’d be some unscrupulous person out there who’d plagiarize it. But I guess that’s a concern no matter where you’re publishing. Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and get it out there.

If I do, you’ll be the first to know.

In the meantime, I am labeling today “Go Day” because it is time for me to begin writing the next book. The voices in my  head have reached an unbearable crescendo and I have to get them out of there before I become a crazy person muttering to myself all day. Oh, wait–I already do that.

I had not planned on starting the book today, but my daughter, who is definitely serving as my life coach at this point (how scary is it when your 10-year-old is filling that function for you?), handed me a beautiful drawing yesterday. We’d been in the car listening to Miley Cyrus belt out “The Climb”. That’s the great thing about having kids: you don’t have to think up an excuse for liking their music; you can just pretend you’re only listening to it for them. Anyway, as we were listening, I told her, in regards to my writing, that I often felt those opening lines myself: “I can almost see it, that dream I’m dreaming; But a voice inside my head says ‘You’ll never reach it'”.

She sat down with paper and crayons as soon as we got home and presented me with the most inspirational writing I’ve ever seen. She’d drawn a beautiful green mountainside (Get it? “The Climb”?), and above it she had written “May The Writing Gods Be With You.” But that’s not what did it for me. She had drawn book covers of some of our favorite books floating in the sky above the mountains. Among this pantheon of our favorites, she had drawn a book cover that featured what she knows I have chosen as the title for the book I’m about to begin: The Water Bearers. 

What an act of faith. So today will be the day. Thank you, dear girl, for the nudge; I needed it.

I have a weird sense of humor and I like to laugh–a lot. What this often means is that I might appear to be a less than serious person (true) and that occasionally, I am the only one laughing (also true).

Personally, I subscribe to the belief that “Laughter is the best medicine”, although I do draw the line at those new “Laughter Yoga” classes; as a general rule, I prefer laughing at people in exercise classes rather than laughing with them.

Yesterday was a banner day for laughter, even for me, so I thought I’d share with you a couple of the things that made me giggle:

First, a line from the book The Stingray Shuffle by Tim Dorsey. You don’t have to know anything about the book to appreciate this line, particularly if you are, as I am, the parent of two young boys: “How can we play Hot Wheels without lighter fluid?” All I had to do was imagine my older son speaking those words and I was rolling on the floor (also doing a mental check of where I last saw our fire extinguisher.)

Later, I noticed a small fire burning in the back yard of a neighbor’s house and called another neighbor to ask what the huge cloud of smoke was. She replied, “It’s Mike*.” I asked, “What is he doing?” “Gardening.”

I think that one speaks for itself.    (*Name changed to protect The Combustible Gardener’s true identity, although I do have to wonder if he was just playing Hot Wheels with his sons.)

Ain’t life funny?

With the world evidently going to hell in a hand cart, I think we’re in the position of either laughing or crying. I’d rather laugh–the world can be such a funny place, if you’re paying attention and not afraid to laugh alone.

People ask me all the time where I get ideas for my books and stories (particularly those who have read some of my more twisted works and who, while asking me, appear to be edging toward the emergency exits in case I decide to act out a choice scene).

The truth is, inspiration comes in many forms for me, but it almost always starts with the same question: What if?

For example: What if someone who was already mentally unstable were subjected to social ostracism and isolation? What if you found out that someone whom you thought you knew and loved turned out to be a complete stranger to you? What if prayer really worked? What if we had the power to truly change ourselves?

I don’t always immediately recognize the question as the nucleus of a story; more often than not, the question lodges itself in my mind and nags at me, always there,  irritating the lining of my brain like a grain of sand in an oyster. Sometimes, the journey from grain to pearl, from inspiration to completion, takes years (my first novella took five); sometimes, it feels as though the pearl was born complete and lovely and whole right from the start, delivering an entire plot from beginning to end to my mental doorstep. I love it when that happens.

I am inspired to write today, however, not by a question (the “What if?” moment for the new book I’m working on occurred two months ago), but by a lovely French song, “Le Festin” by Camille (featured in the Disney movie Ratatouille.) The lyrics are in French, but loosely translated, are all about not hiding your light from the world and the conviction that your life is a feast, just waiting for you to tuck in: “Let me astonish you, and take flight.”

That song does it for me every single time. Every time that I feel discouraged or uninspired or frustrated about my writing, about what to do with it next, all I have to do is listen to that song and I find myself renewed, restored, and ready to write again. My “What if?” questions today are more about process than plot: What if today, I find my voice? What if today, I weave the loose ends together just right? What if today, I bring to full and vivid life the character who’s been whispering in my ear nonstop for the last two months? What if today is the day?