Author Archives: Ginny East Shaddock

The winter issue of New Southerner, a literary magazine of alternate living, is now available on line at www.newsoutherner.com. You don’t want to miss this year’s award winners, primarily the essay Threads of Meaning, by yours truly. Check it out. I read the bios of the fiction and poetry winners, and I must say, I’m in good company. Since this essay is a chapter in my memoir, I couldn’t be more pleased. The timing is great considering several agents have shown an interest in the book. Makes me seem like a promising up and comer, or so I like to think. Anyway, I just wanted to share.

Winter is here. Ho Hum. This is when I wonder what the heck I am doing with all these animals. My fingers are perpetually frozen as I crack the surface of water buckets each day. I have to exchange rabbit water bottles for ones from home because they freeze solid each night. Even my hose and water pump is frozen solid, so I’m back to carting gallon jugs to the barn so my nursing llama has a plentiful supply of fluids.  I watch my diminishing hay supply with concern . . . I’m probably going to run out by March –crap. Something picked off over a dozen chickens, (my favorites, of course) in one week, so now I’m keeping my flock in the pen. This makes for cranky chickens and a peacock with a rotten attitude, but I’m determined to keep them alive till spring. When the food supply grows short, chickens are sitting ducks, so to speak. My ducks, on the other hand, are thriving. I bought more ducks than I wanted or needed this fall, because I figured a few would inevitably get picked off. Apparently, as a group, they are survivors. I have this huge quacking click of always hungry birds parking themselves on my dock now. Just goes to show, you can’t control nature and shouldn’t even try to second guess it. I have two mallards which started out as solid black ducklings. Their heads turned green last week and their body colors are changing. I am always fascinated with watching different breeds of animals change as they mature, so these birds are my entertainment de jour this season. My raw “nature education” never grows dormant here.

We put up our Christmas tree last week. It’s a monstrosity of a thing – twelve feet high with a billion branches that require shaping and fitting into individual brackets. After hours of working to put it together, we got to the last few rows and the plastic branch brackets started crumbling. Apparently, our fake tree didn’t take well to the heat and/or cold of the attic. Oops. Suddenly, the tree started wilting and  branches started falling off. It looked like Charlie Brown’s tree, only the blown up version. There was a time when we would have shrugged and gone out and bought another tree. That’s not us anymore. We were determined to make it work for a variety of reasons.
• We have at long last adopted the “Use it up and wear it out” country mentality and we’re no longer comfortable or interested in a disposable lifestyle, so we don’t want to replace the tree for financial or ecological reasons.
• We don’t’ believe we will be living here next Christmas, and since this spectacular tree is designed for this spectacular house, we certainly don’t want to replace it for a single season. The next house will require a different size (and less laborious) tree – maybe we will even go  back to something real.       
• We’d already put two hours into erecting the dang tree, and the idea of taking it apart and having to start over with something else another day was unacceptable. Besides which, we were planning to decorate and take pictures to send to a magazine for next year, and the plan hinges on using what have and know works. 

So, Denver, Kent and I decided to get creative. We started with super glue. That didn’t work. We tried rolls and rolls of duck tape. No good. I suggested we try tying the branches up to the base with a complex series of pulleys and supports hidden in the branches. In the end, a combination of all three things allowed us to rig the tree for one more season. For three hours, we coaxed, manipulated and cursed at the tree, begging it to hang in for one more season. We bullied it into submission. Lights, ribbon, and ornaments hid our cheating machinations, and voila, the tree is as pretty as ever, just so long as you don’t peer inside to witness the mishmash engineering involved. Between you and me, I like knowing we are getting one more year out of this baby… it’s the principal of the matter, but I imagine taking it down won’t be much fun. Perhaps I should ask for a hatchet for Christmas.

After getting the tree up, I turned my attentions to gifts for business associates, neighbors and friends. Mark has a long list of people he wants to acknowledge this season since he is working again. Last year, we brought wine to everyone and it was a big hit, but I hate being easy to second guess, so this year I decided to put a twist on our family offerings. I made dozens and dozens of jars of wine jelly and made up baskets with a variety of other canned goods (since wine jelly is an acquired taste, I thought each basket deserved something more traditional too.) I especially like my raspberry, cranberry conserve made with apples. Nice discovery – almost hate giving it away. I’ve been in the kitchen with the holiday music cranking, watching the clock because I musn’t forget to feed the animals early, before the dark sets in and makes the task more miserable than need be.   

More news. . .my son has a girlfriend now. We adore her. She has snow white hair, and a lithe, lengthy body. My first thought was, “Wow, I would have adored having that body in dance class.” My second thought was, “What the heck is that girl doing holding my son’s hand?” Humm… Later we were told about the budding romance. It’s been flourishing for a few weeks, but my son took his time sharing the news, either because he wanted to be sure the relationship was going somewhere, or because he though it was going somewhere and he didn’t want his queer-bo family to embarrass him sooner than necessary. Anyone’s guess.

He really likes this girl. I know because he brought her over and showed her his dance pictures. That’s a first. Why do I like her? For starters, her family raises and trains horses and this girl has been showing for years. She is an avid reader and when she came over, I was finishing up A Thousand Splendid Suns, and she smiled and said, “I read that book months ago. I liked it better than the Kite Runner, how about you?” She reads a book a day and loves animals. Bingo, we have things to talk about. Besides this, she makes my son blush – that alone means she had me at hello. She plays in the band, is a model student, and has a sense of humor. She still has to pass the ultimate test, of course, which is whether or not she can decorate a Christmas cookie well enough to pass muster, but till that’s been established, she’s OK in my book.

Neva is playing the trombone now. It is quite a sight watching her practice, her short arms barley able to stretch far enough to maneuver the horn’s sliding parts. But she has a knack for band, good wind, and other than the fact that she has to carry the instrument to school each day and it’s bigger than her, the trombone suits her. On Sunday, we went to the first and only concert that both my kids will play in together (because this is the only time the sixth grade performs with the high school). It was spectacular. Mark and I still can’t believe that in the tiny town of Blue ridge such a progressive and impressive music program exists. We are delighted Neva is giving band a shot – it was touch and go for a while there because she didn’t think it was “cool” enough. Eesh.

Kent has turned out to be quite the drummer, and so he was selected for the honorary position of drummer in the school’s specialty jazz band. They will perform on Thursday, and honestly, they are as good as any jazz quartet I ever listened to in clubs in New York. Yes, the music area of our lives has been rewarding since moving to Georgia.  

Neva caught the Twilight bug last week, and finished all four of those big books in four days. Her Christmas list is now filled with paranormal teen romances. I’m like, “Are you kidding me? If you want to read romance, why not try a historical?” She rolls her eyes as if to say, “Vampires are sexier than men in cutaway jackets and top hats.” Foolish girl. I’m hoping it is a phase that she will pass through – I’m not a big paranormal buff personally. I did steal away last weekend to take her to the first movie of said book and she spent the time leaning over and whispering what was wrong with the story because the book did it this way or that. I nodded and pretended to be interested as a good mother should. Ah well, I’m just thrilled she loves to read and her delight over discovering the appeal of romance amuses me to no end. She’s a passionate kid. Love that about her.

I should probably talk about Denver too while I’m on the subject of kids. She is doing well and has two jobs and a new boyfriend we very much approve of. But there is a small drama unfolding at her place of employment because she chose to handle a moral delimma in a professional manner. Until it is resolved, I think I’ll leave the subject of Denver for another day. I will say she is maturing and becoming a very, very socially conscientious young woman. She applied to be a volunteer for the Peace Corps last week. Don’t know if anything will come of that, but I am proud of her activist bent and passionate nature too. She still aspires to go to California to study jewelry design and is working towards that goal.

Now, I have to get to work. I’m working on my thesis novel again. Ugh. This is a book about dance, and because dance is a subject I feel still feel strongly about, it is hard not to be preachy or melodramatic or . . . well, this is a hard book for me to write. But I also think this particular book is one only I can write, and my professors say those are the books we are born to wrestle with, so, I keep returning to the manuscript. Cranky but compelled. When I get too exasperated, I’ll go back to the historical novels – my vacation from life. I think the dance book will be years in the making.

The point is, I keep working, working, working, even if I feel like I am on a writing treadmill going nowhere. At least I have my little essay to feel good about this month, and since that circles me back to the beginning of this blog, it makes for a good ending subject. So –  Bye.

It has been a crazy busy week. We flew to Miami for a former student’s wedding (which was very, very lovely) and the day we returned, got a call that someone was flying in from West Palm Beach to view our house.

This meant dropping everything to get the house ready. Not that the house isn’t in good shape, but I still had pumpkin decorations and fading mums on the porch and other remnants of fall that were past their prime… So, we hustled to spruce everything up to be show-room ready. That afternoon, my mother called to say she and Dad decided last minute to visit. They would arrive the next day. Some people may want more notice for a family visit, but the house was going to be clean anyway, so this seemed awfully good timing to me. I was delighted. We enjoyed a fun three days.

I had applied to the Georgia wild life commission to receive fish to stock our lake and was told to bring three 20 gallon containers to a specific place at a specific time to retrieve them. The lake has been left alone for a year to get ecologically balanced and at long last is ready to support fish. Mark was working, but since my parents were here, they joined me for the two hour drive to get this bounty. We argued about whether we should take the truck and if our containers were big enough to support all those fish on the long drive home. We wondered if they would smell or splash water, and speculated all manner of fish related issues. When we got to the hatchery, the game warden went to a tank and started weighing fish that were half the size of minnows. I was thinking, “Gee, they must be giving me these bate fish to feed the bass, brim and catfish I’m hear to pick up. But no, this was the stock. I received about a teacup of minnows, which considering their size might indeed be a hundred or more, but still, the paultry handful of fish seemed silly for those big containers.

“Is that all I get?” I asked.  The warden claimed my teacup of fish was all a one acre pond can support. I was lucky they approved my application. Had I purchased the fish from a private hatchery, they’d cost twice as much and still be this size. Well, there ya go. Ya learn something everyday.

My dad and I couldn’t help but make jokes about these itty bitty fish that we drove so far to get, but the man assured us they would be full size and laying eggs by spring. He even said he gave us sixteen additional fish, just to be nice.  I can’t imagine these minut fish ever being big enough to catch, but whoever buys our house will have a fully stocked lake, or so the theory goes. It took a full day to get the fish and introduce them properly to the lake, and considering I won’t be living here, you might wonder why I bothered. Well, if the new owners don’t want to feed my ducks, I know my beloved birds will always have something to eat. Besides which, it was a new experience and it’s always fun to see how these things are done. Now I can say I’ve stocked a lake. Check off another item in the life experience column.

The showing went well, and the woman viewing the house seemed impressed. She asked if she could schedule a second showing as soon as her husband could arrange to fly up. That seems promising. That night, we got another call from a gentleman’s secretary. He was one of the power executives we mailed our fancy brochure to, and one of his staff members was calling to arrange a future conference call with Mark to discuss the house and another showing. I’ve made jokes for years about “I’ll have my people call your people,” and dang, if this isn’t proof there really are people calling people for people. Ha. We next got another call from an agent who said she had someone who might be interested if we would consider taking less.  Well, all I can say is thank you Mr. Obama for finally sending the message across America that the world may turn once again. After the last few dismally quiet months, the sudden interest in our home is much appreciated.

While we were preparing for the house showing, I got another call. This was from the New Southerner Literary Magazine. Apparently, I won their essay contest. When I applied for the fellowship, I was dismayed to note how inadequate my résumé was in the literary department, so in a last ditch effort to validate myself, I sent a few essays out to some literary venues. I haven’t sent anything to contests in years, and frankly, I’d forgotten about it, but dang, if my revised essay Threads of Meaning didn’t win.   They called to tell me my prize check will be in the mail and to ask if they could change one thing. In the piece, I didn’t state where I lived, and they thought readers would want to know where in the country the story occurred (it is about spinning wool fiber). No problem. Sure. Change away. I am now to sign a contract that promises I’ll give credit for first publication to New Southerner if I ever have the essay reprinted. This essay happens to be a chapter in my new memoir, so I don’t see this as a problem. The publication rules are all new to me and I learn as I go. Fascinating.

Before leaving for the wedding, I sent out 40 query letters to agents to introduce my new book, (finally finished) called My Million Dollar Donkey. I was hoping one or two professionals would agree to read the material and consider representing it. The first day, I received three bounce back messages from agencies not accepting material. Bummer. Even though I knew this probably wasn’t a reflection on my work, it made me feel low. What if no one will read this book and it lies dormant like the historical? I’m proud of the memoir. It deals with important issues in a fun way and I have high hopes for the project. If it ends up collecting dust, I’ll be gravely disappointed.

A week later, I started getting responses. I’ve heard from 7 agents so far and five of them are asking for partials, a synopsis and author’s bio. Though I’ve had  great faith in this project, I didn’t expect such a wealth of positive responses. I’ve been conditioned to expect rejection, I guess. This is a grueling business to break into. So all week, I’ve been preparing more material for agents. A request for material is a long way from selling, but it’s a very important step in the process. I’m grateful agents are taking me seriously enough to at least give the book fair consideration.

My two no’s were by mail. Today, I went to my file to make notes about them and realized one of these agents was never sent a Donkey query. Ha. This rejection is for my other book. So, I’m batting even better odds than I thought with my memoir. Of course, just as I closed the file and went into my e-mail, there was another “the concept sounds intriguing, but I think I’ll pass” response. Ah well. So much for my blooming overconfidence.

Anyway, this is a week filled with promise and hope.

Perhaps the house will sell. Our new house is half finished, standing at the other end of our land like a beacon of the hoped for the future . . . if only . . .    We put construction on hold until our current home sells. I can’t describe how good it will feel to see that construction cranking again and see Mark covered in saw dust, his most becoming state in my opinion.

I can’t help but feel with all the darts being tossed at my writing dart board something is going to hit soon. I care about this book. I can’t wait ‘till it is in the hands of someone who can help place it with a publisher. Perhaps an agent will be my Christmas present. 

I won a literary contest. Cool beans. I will let everyone know when and where they can read the publication. I’m validated now – sort of.

My historical novel, which I lovingly refer to as the Albatross (because I can’t seem to let it go even though it drags me down into despair and frustration constantly) is sitting on a senior editor’s desk for a huge romance publisher. Well, to be truthful, she has only a partial. We met at a seminar, had a lively conversation about commercial fiction and how it clashes with a formal literary education (she was in a PH.d program and left it to be a romance publisher) and she requested the book. I should be excited, but I’ve gotten so use to rejections and comments like, “This is a good story but it is not a romance,” that if the book ever did get published I’d probably have a heart attack on the spot. And yet, I keep flinging the albatross back into the world. I am persistent if not practical. So, since I am counting blessings, I’ll throw this one in for good measure.

Even an exciting week has its low points. Here it is. I ran over one of my chickens. Squashed her flat. About ten little hens were crossing the road (to get to the other side, no doubt) as I was driving down to feed the donkey. I went slow, mumbling “Get a move on chicks.”
 
They usually scurry aside when a vehicle comes through, but when I got out of the car, I looked back and dang if there wasn’t a chicken pancake. Oops. That’s a first. I would feel guiltier except I’ve decided she must have been a very stupid chicken anyway.  Nevertheless, I’m stopping the car next time I see a chicken speed bump before me.

Donkey is fine. Peacock is still laying. Mark eyes every omelet as if I’m out to poison him.  The horses are dirty. Washed them on one of the last warm days of the season and they went out and rolled in the mud, looking worse than ever within the hour. I gave them the cold shoulder for two days because this means I’ll have grubby horses till spring, but I couldn’t stay mad. Dirty, happy horses are better than clean, disgruntled horses, after all.

Pauli, the baby llama, is so tame you’d swear he was a wolfhound rather than a camelid. He rubs against my legs and gives me kisses whenever I go into the barn. What a cutie. Did I say I was going to sell my llamas? I take it back.

My angora rabbit is due to have babies any day now (Ready for new homes for Christmas) and nothing has been picked off by a predator (unless you include cars) for months. Yes, the barnyard is well adjusted and in harmony with the universe. I dug out my gloves and I’m gearing up for the searing cold ahead. Time soon to crack the ice on drinking buckets and to cuss when the metal gate closures freeze shut. Lots of good times ahead.

Now, I must make three cheesecakes for a huge open house we are having for 40 realitors this Thursday to show off the house. I’m planning my desert table and appetizers in advance. My mother in law is coming for dinner tonight too, so I have an excuse to make something fun – think it will be chicken in a creamy sauce on a puffed pastry with a salad. Perhaps a pie.  Cooking still brings me joy. If I was smart, I’d be writing cook books – less tormenting to the heart, I suspect.

Back to work.

For most people, it takes discipline to blog. For me, it takes discipline NOT to blog.

So much of my writing time gets absorbed by my essay length entries about my country adventures, that several weeks ago I decided if I was every going to finish my book in progress, I’d need to take a blog sabbatical. And that is what I did.

The good news is, I’ve just completed my memoir project. I still need to do some rewriting and tweaking, but the basic skeleton of the novel is in place. I’ve even written query letters for agents or editors, though I won’t send them out until the book is truly polished. I’m aiming for the end of November. Unlike my historical novels, which are difficult to place because they straddle the line between commercial romance and literary historical, (thanks to too many rewrites and my drastic evolution as a writer) the memoir has a distinctly marketable subject matter. It’s timely, and thanks to it being an “after the MFA” project, I can honestly say it is far better than my previous work. Anyway, I have high hopes for it.

I’ve also spent this time off applying myself to building a writer’s dossier. I joined AWP(Association of Writers and writing programs) to set up a career services file and made requests for letters of recommendation from professors, put together a resume, worked on a writing sample, and tried to drum up some teaching experience. I’ve made arrangements to teach memoir writing at the arts association of Blue Ridge (no easy feat to set up considering this will be new subject matter in the program) and contacted Appalachian Tech  about trying some creative writing classes again, this time at their main facility. It’s frustrating, because I’d have so many outlets for teaching if I lived anywhere else, but here in the mountains, pick’ins are slim. Teaching, as you can guess, comes naturally to me. I don’t believe there is any better a way to celebrate your art and indulge your idealistic values than by teaching others. I’m as committed to teaching creative writing now as I once was about dance. So, I’m starting at the bottom and trying my best to find an outlet. And I’m diligently working on classroom material and a syllubus.
 
I applied for a two year fellowship at Emery University. The competition will be steep, and frankly, I fall short in the teaching experience category (which is a killer considering all my teaching experience in dance makes me a seasoned communicator, but still, it doesn’t count) so being selected for a fellowship at a fine school like Emery is a long shot, but I applied anyway. Sometimes, the act of trying is as valuable to your growth as succeeding. I’ve certainly learned a great deal by putting my packet together. Today I received confirmation that the department received my information. I swallowed, thinking “Did I do the best I could?” Of course, its too late to worry about that now. But I am glad I made the effort. Sucess begins with seeds of effort.

Mark says, “What if you actually did get it? Are you going to drive all the way to Atlanta everyday to teach at Emery? That will be a killer.”

True, but I’ll worry about that when and if it happens. Like I said, this is a long shot. But even so, I’m willing to go where I must go and do what I must do to build a foundation for this new career. You have to operate that way if you’re serious about your craft. I remember all the inconvenient and impractical (in a monetary terms) endeavors I undertook to build a dance career. Years later I could attribute much of my talent and experience to those early efforts. I can’t help but believe it will be the same for writing.
Anyway,  this is why I haven’t been posting.

Now, I’m ready to resume my casual meandering about my reinvented life. Of course if I’m ever selected for a fellowship or teaching position, I’ll not be able to write about it, other than a general announcement and expression of glee. Blogging about my students, fellow teachers or employers is just too invasive and threatening to consider, even when you doubt they will ever stumble on the site. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that a blog is PUBLIC, even though it feels like an intimate exchange between friends.

Confidentiality is paramount to developing the intimate environment necessary for helping a student through the discomfort that surrounds personal growth as an artist. I’ve thought a lot about this. I’ve only been able to blog these past years because everyday adventures – animals, family and country living, are safe subjects, easy to address. I sure never could have blogged while owning FLEX. Eesh, the very thought makes me laugh. The potential for catastrophe would have been greater than the atomic bomb. Besides which, when the people involved in your livelihood are invited into your head, you can’t resist but to become on guard. You end up saying what you think they want to hear, or worse, sending subtle messages that deep down you wish you could say to their face. Either way, the work is affected. If you can’t be really honest, writing is a waste of ink.

So this is my announcement that I’m back. And since catching up is hard, I’ll just pretend you haven’t missed anything and write about whatever is going on in the present as if I didn’t take a break. If you missed all my riviting talk about llamas and chickens and bears, oh my, you won’t have to wait long for more . . .