New Starts

I'm like 2008.

I'm new. Just beginning this writing journey.

I've spent the last year writing, and learning all I can about writing. The more I learn, the more I know I don't know very much. But I'm not discouraged. Its a wonderful place, this place of words.

I'm knee deep in non-fiction at the moment. Thinking, writing, planning, organizing - its nothing like fiction (well, duh! you say, but truth is, I'm not sure how many people who don't write both know how different they are from one another). I have a deadline for the non-fiction (read more about it on my web site http://www.bonniegrove.com/: Living Out of Your Strengths)

But today my head was turned by fiction again. I received a letter from a professional sceening service (check them out at: http://www.writersedgeservice.com/) about my manuscript Talking to the Dead (also see my website for more details). Here is what the reviewer said:

"I very much enjoyed reading your sample chapters. Your premise is intriguing, and the writing is excellent, with vivid images, effective pacing, seamless scene shifts, and a distinctive tone. The opening is attention-getting; readers will be with you from the first line.

"Both your writing experience and the fact that this has the potential to be a three-book series will be significant positives to publishers.

"This is one of the strongest fiction submissions I've evaluated in quite a while. I sincerly hope you are contacted by a publisher."

As you can imagine, I handled this news like the true professional I am: I bawled like a newborn and hugged my husband for a really long time.

It's a new year.

What a wonderful start.

It's a glorious thing, to be filled with hope.

It's my wish for you that you too, will be filled with hope in 2008.

Peace

Secrets

Secret things

We all have secrets. Some are unspeakable. Some we just don't speak of. We carry them around with us all day. In our back pocket, our change purse, the back of our mind. But we never allow them to ride in the front seat.We have secret things: rituals we perform to ward off evil (I used to avoid using the word 'goodbye' so the person who was leaving would not die), charms we hold on to because, even though we don't really believe its lucky, we cannot bring ourselves to throw it away - just in case. We say secret words so that we will not blow a fuse, get a divorce, hurt a child, or get too big for our britches.

Secret places

We have places we go, real or imagined. We go to a place that is our own and do things there that we tell no one else about. We long for these places. We miss them when we cannot go there. A chair, a song, a memory, a fantasy. We can say and do what we like in these places. We hide there when the world is big and hairy.Sometimes they are places of peace, where we take center stage and feel good. Sometimes they are places of sorrow, where we feel pain in a way we can control. A place where we can hold the knife ourselves. We tell no one of these secret places. That way we do not have to justify them, share them, joke about them, or feel ashamed about them.

Secret fears

We are all afraid of something we do not talk about.I knew a woman who was afraid for her marriage; that her husband would never leave her. She wanted him too, but she feared he never would. I used to sleep with the covers over my neck so that the vampires would not come and suck the blood from my veins while I slept.We tell no one of our secret fears. Because one of our fears is being found out. Afraid of being judged. Of being misunderstood. Of ourselves, and what we are capable of.

Secret tellers

I tell secrets. They are your secrets. I write them out on white sheets of paper. I confess them, share them, pass them to others in the hallway at school. I do this for your own good. For my good. For the common good. You read your secrets, the ones I have written out. You read them to yourself, to others, to the audience in your secret place, out loud. It makes you sigh to see them there, in black and white. It makes you glad that someone else told. For you. Instead of you. You read them and you know you are not alone, crazy, going to hell. I tell your secrets, and you are secretly glad. Relieved. Un-burdened. And so am I.

New Ideas

That's my family. Me, well, I'm the glint in my mother's eye. I'm not in the picture, but you can't have everything.

Everyone in the picture is grown up now. Even my parents. The girl on the left, my oldest sister, she's a grandma - four times over. My brother is dead. Wrung out, and overcome by mental illness, he took his life when he was 37. He'd be 54 now. I still miss him.

Those babies, the twins (mono zygotic, to be fancy) well, they took different paths. The blond is single, and thrives on steady routine and 'sameness'. The dark haired one is newly married at 43 and thrives on change and diversity.

Then there's me. The baby. I never knew what my life would be like and so I lived many years being tossed around by life. Stomped on sometimes, as life will do. I made a few messes, but I never stopped dreaming. Never stopped coming up with ideas.

Now, I have a new idea. I'm nearly done my first novel: Talking to the Dead (you can read chapter one at: http://www.bonniegrove.com/). I'm knee deep in my non-fiction (published by Beacon Hill Press, you can find out more about it on my website too) - facing the business end of a publication deadline, and yet - oddly, magnificently, I have a new idea.

A new book - another novel - that spans time, examines love and passion, and, of course, mental illness. It will walk on the edge of what we define as normal.

I'm excited about this book - this idea - this story.

We are even renovating our basement in order to create a real office for me (now that I'm officially an author, I have to have a place to write besides on the computer bottom of the basement stairs!)

What's wonderful about new ideas, for me, isn't the idea itself so much as it is the reality, the knowledge, the fulfilled hope, that I have more than one book in me - I'm not a morning glory, a one hit wonder. I've got it in me. And I needed to know that.

Running like your pants are on fire? Busy? Hurried? Days crammed pack?

Me too. Except it’s all just in my head. Sure, there are dishes in my sink, kids to be picked up, laundry to be washed, friends waiting to hear back from me. . . but, I’m busy thinking.

My husband, Steve, rushes in the room. “I’m taking the van in to be serviced, Ben needs to be picked up at school and Heather has swimming lessons.”

“Hmm?” I say, not looking up from my computer screen. “Do you think zinnias grow well this far north?”

“What are zinnias?” says Steve.

I flip to another screen. “Would you describe this color as ‘gun metal’ or ‘stainless steel’?”

“Bonnie,” he sighs. “We really need to get going.”

“Where?” I ask, as I follow him out the door. We climb into the van and I say, “Have you ever picked a lock with a pencil? I mean, do you think it can be done?”

“What are you doing in the van?” says Steve. “You have to take the car to get Ben. And where is Heather?”

I get out of the van and walk around to the driver’s side. I tap on the window. “Do you think people eat bunt cake at funerals most often, or are brownies more common?”

“Finger sandwiches, and don’t forget to pick me up at the garage when you are done at Heather’s swim lesson,” Steve hollers as he drives off.

Pretty good. I fish for the notebook I always keep on me and write ‘fgr sands’. I’m sure I’ll know what it means when I read it later. My daughter, Heather, finds me standing on the driveway scribbling in my notebook. “I’m ready,” she says.

“For what? Hey, Heather, do you think someone could climb up that lattice?” I say, pointing to the structure leaning against the house. “Or do you think it would break?”

“Sure. You could do it, Mommy.” She climbs into the backseat of the car.

I hesitate. She could be right, but she’s only four, and I doubt she knows much about it. I write it down anyway. I’m walking back to the house when I hear Heather call, “Mommy? I have swimming lessons.”

“Oh yeah, uh, I know. I was just going to call Ben.” I holler into the house, “Ben!”

“Ben is at school,” Heather says.

I check my watch. 3:45. I’m fifteen minutes late picking him up.

“How was school?” I say to Ben when I finally reach him.

“We had a substitute teacher. He had a big nose,” He says

“How big,” I say. “Big like a ball of dough, or big like a ski slope?”

“Big like a pickle,” says Ben.

“Wow. That’s really good Ben.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Big like a pickle. Good for you,” I jot it down in my notebook, put the car in gear, and head it toward the pool.

I leave my daughter with a girl I'm reasonably sure is her swimming instructor and sit by the poolside. Soon, I'm transfixed by the movement of the water. I mumble to myself and scratch in my notebook. “Hey Ben, what do you think that water looks like? Besides wavy. You can’t say wavy.”

He thinks for a moment, head tilted to one side. “Bumpy.”

I roll my eyes. Six year olds. But I write it down anyway.

After swimming, I head to the library. The kids run for the children’s section while I get lost in the instructional books. I’m immersed in a passage detailing the invention of toilet paper when my son pokes his head around the book shelf. “I’m hungry, when are we going home?”

“Soon,” I mumble as, once again, I hear the theme from The Pink Panther playing loudly. “Why on earth do they keep playing that song over and over again?” I say as I write down the name Joseph Gayette.

“Mommy, your purse is playing that song,” Ben says.

Oh, yeah. Steve downloaded it as a ring tone for my new phone. Rats. “Hello?”

“Bonnie,” says Steve. “Where are you?”

“The library, of course. Did you know the ancient Romans used wool soaked in rose water as toilet paper?”

“No. I’ve been waiting for over an hour. I’ve called and called.”

“Waiting for what? Hey, Steve, only fourteen percent of households had bathtubs in 1907.”

“Good to know. Please come and pick me up at the garage.”

“The garage? What are you doing there?”

Later that night, I lay in bed exhausted. I lean over and kiss my husband goodnight. “I’ll be glad when this book is done,” I say. “You don’t know how consuming writing is.”

He smiles and says, “Oh, I think I do.”

New Release: Hot Apple Cider Anthology

Nearly ready for release this anthology boasts an all Canadian cast of writers. The book was commissioned by World Vision as part of their "Girl's Night Out" events. Over 30,000 women across Canada will receive a copy of the anthology when they attend a "Girl's Night Out" event at a local church.

Oh, did I mention this anthology is written by Canadian Christian authors? Don't let that deter you. This is no preachy tomb, no doctrinal dinosaur, instead it is a message of hope, love, grace, and understanding regardless of whatever sociological label one could apply to them self (or someone else).

My short story The Stuckville Cafe is featured in the anthology. I've posted the first two paragraphs of this 3500 word story to give you a taste of Hot Apple Cider.

Follow this link to Amazon for availability and ordering (the book is not yet available, but you can pre-order and they will ship it directly to you [even if you aren't a Canadian!] when it is released)
http://www.amazon.com/Hot-Apple-Cider-Words-Heart/dp/0978496302/

The Stuckville Café
By Bonnie Grove

The town has a real name, but I call it Stuckville. Because, boy, oh, boy, I'm stuck here. Plunked down in the middle of nothing-to-write-home-about by a husband who wanted a change (so we moved here), then wanted a bigger change (so he left me). Now, I'm the sole proprietor of one rinky-dink café right across the street from the train tracks. I sell ice cream, espresso drinks, and Mexican food. I know the combination sounds cock-eyed, but most everything about this town is cock-eyed.

Don't think there aren’t times I think I should cut bait and run. But I suffer from the worst of human maladies - a double whammy of a total lack of a plan and an over-developed sense of responsibility. Like I said: stuck.

*********************************************************************************

Based on previous posts, you may be wondering what juicy juxtapositions of language and meaning, sound and construction, the 'said' and the 'unsaid' can be found in this story?

There are places in the story that can be considered, if not a salute, at least a generous tip of the hat to writing gurus I have read.

At one point in the story a "train across the road blows long ‘whuuuuunnnnnk, whuuuuunnnnk’ whistles" as it "screels and skreeks" past the cafe. I owe this risky bit, this dance with possible overkill to the fortifying chapter on onomatopoeia from Arthur Plotnik's book Spunk and Bite.

At a different point in the story I describe looking at a hunky man's car: "I see his car out the window, a speeding bullet of a BMW." I admit I like this passage because it bothers my critique partner ("How can it be speeding if it's parked outside?)

There is a gentle passage in The Stuckville Cafe that simply pauses to notice the smallness, the glory of simple things. I secretly hope E.B. White would read it and nod, allowing a bend in the rules of engagement: "Gene throws his head back and laughs until it becomes a deep cough. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a hanky and hacks into it. I wonder how long it’s been since the thing has seen the inside of a washing machine. When he's done bringing up a lung he puts the hanky away and I sop up the coffee he spilled over the table and floor. I pour him another."

I read once, that writers should avoid using the immediate present tense except for brief, necessary scenes. Thus, I decided to write the entire piece a la Faulkner - one heart beat at a time.

I love the rules. I love to follow the rules (after all, they are rules for a reason). But I love to see how far I can bend or shape a rule to fit the fiction.

I'm enjoying the journey.

Hot Apple Cider

Nearly ready for release is a new anthology featuring an all Canadian cast of writers. This book was commissioned by World Vision for use in conjunction with their "Girl's Night Out" events. Over 30, 000 women across North America will receive a copy of this book when they attend a "Girls Night Out" event at a local church.

Oh, did I mention the authors are all Canadian Christian authors. But don't let that scare ya. This book is no preachy tomb. Instead, it attempts to build bridges of grace and love between all people regardless of whatever sociological lable you can think to apply to yourself (or others).









My fiction piece The Stuckville Cafe is featured Hot Apple Cider. For your reading enjoyment I have included the first two paragraphs of this 3500 word story.









To view this book on Amazon follow this link:
http://www.amazon.com/Hot-Apple-Cider-Words-Heart/dp/0978496302/









Here's a taste of Hot Apple Cider:









The Stuckville Café





By Bonnie Grove

The town has a real name, but I call it Stuckville. Because, boy, oh, boy, I'm stuck here. Plunked down in the middle of nothing-to-write-home-about by a husband who wanted a change (so we moved here), then wanted a bigger change (so he left me). Now, I'm the sole proprietor of one rinky-dink café right across the street from the train tracks. I sell ice cream, espresso drinks, and Mexican food. I know the combination sounds cock-eyed, but most everything about this town is cock-eyed.





Don't think there aren’t times I think I should cut bait and run. But I suffer from the worst of human maladies - a double whammy of a total lack of a plan and an over-developed sense of responsibility. Like I said: stuck.