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Saturday was a good night. Warm and enthusiastic writers, agents and publishers crowded into a huge ballroom, eager to see who and what would happen at this year’s Royal Palm Literary Awards . The conversations all around me were vibrant, creative and filled with talk of books, writing and plots. My book came in first place, Memoir. The second and third place winners were accomplished, published authors with some meaty subject matter (One book was about a mother who’s son was in the war in Iraq, the other, a story told by a cancer survivor). I was very honored that my book, a tale where a donkey serves as a metaphor for grasping for a dream and failing, held up so well. Most startling was walking up to receive the award and hearing the announcer read my bio. With credentials including an  MFA, teaching experience, and a list of other awards I was lucky enough to win since the last time I received a Royal Palm Award, I realized that while I often feel I’ve not accomplished any of the things I had hoped for when I moved to GA, I really have made great strides despite the challenges I’ve endured. And THAT made me feel prouder than any chunk of etched glass that symbolized winning an award. Our lives are nothing but the accumulation of small steps, and walking up to that podium, I realized that even if I am not yet at my hoped for destination, I’ve walked miles in the right direction.  

Later, I had a wonderful meeting with a very established agent who not only asked for my book, but took the time to share insight as to why my queries have not been getting the responses I hoped. She said no one will touch a memoir that runs 110k words, even if it’s amazing. I have to pare the book down to 80K words to be saleable in this market. OK then….. so tonight I begin the arduous task of cutting material from the book to prepare it for a new agent and a fighting chance to earn a place in the publishing world. I embrace the task. Every change, painful as cutting can be, makes for a stronger book, and bidding good-bye the fluff is bound to make My Million Dollar Donkey a more intense and poignant read.

My date, David, had great class. He helped make the evening special, doing all he could to make me feel beautiful, accomplished, and talented (I suppose the Chardonnay helped me feel good too.) I appreciated his genuine support and efforts to make the celebration all it could be. 

After reading my last blog, my friend George texted me to wish me good luck. He said, “Pack light, Ginny. It’s time you start lugging only a carry on with you.” Made me laugh.
George has always been both practical and wise, and his words came to mind more than once that night as I sat in that crowded room among strangers. I felt grounded and at home because it occured to me that special friends are with me always, in spirit, in heart, and in the smiles they inspire; smiles that resognate long after the moment of first impact.    

Ginny, the writer, is back. It feels right and good to be blogging again, but I’m afraid not tonight. I must attend to my editing…..

    This weekend I am going to a writing seminar, the first I’ve attended in years. On Saturday night I will go to a banquet where the winner of the Royal Palm Literary Award will be announced. I am one of three finalists in the memoir category.

    I am not particularly excited or anxious about the results. I’m just going to see what happens. This particular contest fills me with memories and reflection and serves as a poignant reminder that life can be filled with important lessons, the kind of lessons that must be viewed through an honest lens.  

      I won the Royal Palm Literary Award ten years ago for the first full book I ever wrote, a historical romance called SISTERS OF FATE (the book was renamed more than once during a long, slow evolution.) I was thrilled beyond belief, except for the fact that my husband and I had a fight after the awards ceremony. He felt I didn’t thank him enough during my moment on stage and the focus of my winning this exciting award was quickly diverted from my writing and personal accomplishment, to his feelings that he was not appreciated enough or given enough credit for his part in my success. In retrospect, his needing to be given credit for anything and everything I did and his having to be the center of attention was a common theme in our marriage and not something I will get into here. But because of that memory, I know that when or if they call out my name tomorrow night, my delight will be dampened by the nagging resonance of my disappointment and hurt over a 20 year love affair that was completely out of balance. Memories and the baggage we can’t seem to put down are a bitch.  While some people can shrug and move on easily from a broken past, for others, the sorrows of a failed life linger like ghosts making the hair stand up on your arms for reasons you can’t quite explain. I fall into the latter category.  Sigh.

     Writing. What a journey it’s been.
 
     Winning this particular award way back when gave me something much more important than an ego rush. Dumbo was handed a feather and told that as long as he held it, he could fly. Damn if the elephant didn’t take to the air after that, convinced he could defy gravity just because someone gave him a symbol proclaiming his potential. Confidence is a wonderful thing.

     I had been dabbling in romance writing for some time.    I’ve wanted to write since I was a child, and in those tender years when I was expected to pick a career, I came darn close to going to school for journalism, but dance had such a grip on my heart and had a short shelf life, I moved to New York to pursue that dream instead. Still, I clung to the notion that when dance was done with me, I’d tackle the writing dream. I held that plan close to my heart for as long as I could remember and years of writing articles for magazines and journaling privately while I worked as a dancer kept writing a vibrant hope for me. 

     I opened a dance studio out of necessity to support myself way back when I first moved to Sarasota as a single mom, and some ten years later when it at long last became stable enough to afford me snippets of time and energy I could allocate towards something other than survival, I started writing fiction again. I wrote romance for reasons I won’t go into here, but to be honest, I was living vicariously on paper. My personal life was greatly devoid of physical intimacy, but I loved and adored my husband, so I found myself acting out, having the affair of the century with a complex, handsome man who lived in 1847 England. He was sexy and had ethics and absolutely loved his woman with conviction. He was everything I longed for, and the romance I plunged into on paper provided me with the passion and tenderness I needed and lacked in my real life.  Acting out on paper was a good thing, because it won me the Royal Palm Literary Award for Historical Fiction. In that way it is fair to say my husband WAS the reason that book won the award, because sheer loneliness and isolation in my marriage drove me to write the dang thing.

     Anyway, I won the award and, with it, a lovely burst of confidence, but selling a book is much harder than writing one, especially when you are unwilling to make compromises and write books that are format friendly for the genre publishing arena. I suppose I could have plowed on and eventually made enough adjustments to the book to get the dang thing published, but I chose to go another direction. If everyone was so convinced I had talent (I kept hearing this from teachers and agents and publishers who felt the book needed more work, but the “writing” was deeply promising) and if I was winning awards on sheer talent without so much as a lick of training, imagine what I could do if I seriously studied the craft! I didn’t want to be a published author. I wanted to be a GOOD published author. So, I applied for some very competitive MFA programs and low and behold, was accepted by Lesley University in Boston.

     I got my acceptance notification on the very day we received an offer from someone to buy our business. Fate was giving me a sign, I thought, so I readily and willingly let go of dance to embrace the second dream. I had worked hard for 20 years building a business at great personal cost, and now I had earned the right (and enough money) to retire and try my hand at something that meant the world to me. At least, that is how I viewed the choice to sell FLEX and walk away from my dance career at the time.

     The rest of the story is told in my memoir, My Million Dollar Donkey, which may or may not win the very same award that started it all. Life has a twisted sense of humor sometimes. I did all I could to get my ducks in a row to achieve this latent dream, but my chance was stripped away by someone with a different agenda.  It was a bit like Jack in the Beanstalk, selling the cash cow for a handful of beans. Only in our case, Mark didn’t plant the beans in rich soil so a towering beanstalk leading to another world would rise from his choices. His choices were not out of character for him and after a 20 year history of watching him make similar mistakes, I should never have expected things to unfold differently. What happened next makes for a sad and miserable personal life story, but a good book – one that just might be good enough to win me the Royal Palm Literary Award again. There is good in everything, I suppose.

     Anyway, this weekend I will sit there in a room with other aspiring writers and while I should be gaining inspiration, my mind will no doubt slip to the dream that almost was, the man I loved more than I ever should have, and everything I endured to lead me to my writing this memoir. 
     I worked like a dog to get through my MFA program,  harboring a wonderful anticipation that when I was through, I’d be ready and able to pursue a writing career full steam. But no sooner did I have the skill and the education to follow “the plan” than life took a turn and my entire world fell apart. Instead of love and happiness and the happy, creative life that was right within grasp, my life became a nightmare of financial stress, isolation and loneliness. Voila – I landed back where I began 20 years prior, a single mother needing to open a business to support herself out of necessity, (and this time with far fewer resources and time to accomplish the deed than when I began last time.) Sadder still is that this time, I am dragging that heavy bag too – a bag that I continually strive to let go, but seems chained to my wrist, a perpetual warning that love takes more away from your life than it gives – or at least that has been my experience. (And now we know why this girl can’t write romance anymore.)

       Maybe I’ll win the award this weekend. Maybe I won’t. It doesn’t really make a difference. What counts is that life often comes full circle, giving you opportunity to see behind you without your having to turn around or walk backwards to see where you’ve been. This award is symbolic in that way, a tangible reminder that dreams never die, they just get buried or sidetracked or chained up by someone else so that no matter how much you do to give them their darnest shot, they may never get the space to breathe.  

    I will meet with two agents on Sunday. They will probably ask to see the book, they always do, because it is impolite and awkward to sit fact to face with a hopeful writer and say no. I understand that nothing may come of the opportunity, but there is always the long shot chance. Because of my personality, I have no choice but to hang in there, throwing darts, because someday, eventually, I believe if I keep writing and winning awards and hoping and dreaming, someone will say “yes” and one of my books will at long last manifest on paper. When that happens, I have every confidence that, thanks to my grit, determination and natural gift for business, the story will sell well. That, in turn, will affect my teaching, my career; my attitude and most importantly, it will give purpose to all I’ve endured and explain why my life has unfolded in such challenging ways. That would be the best gift of all.

     It is not enough to be a good writer. What counts is that you have something of value to say. Having a voice that resonates with the world at large begins with a broadened perspective of the human experience. Life certainly gave me that.
     This weekend, I’ll be remembering every step I’ve had to take in this long painful journey to get where I am now . . .  right back where I began. Bags in tow.  

I just looked up my last post. It was 423 days ago. Eeesh. I am certain I’ve lost my former audience (once up to 8 thousand hits) . But trust me, the time spent away was important – a time of healing  – the kind of thing that must be done in private. 
So, I’m ready to blog again and see where the words take me. Since I doubt anyone is really going to read this, I wont’ bother to write an involved catch up passage. I’m now single. I have a new business. I’m living in Florida and piecing together a new life with slow, deliberate determination. That sums things up.
It feels good to be back.
It feels even better to feel good enough to be back.  
 

Happy Holidays from the Hendrys! It as been another merry year – all the better because we had oodles of homemade wine to celebrate with.

Christmas is certainly not about gifts for me, but this year I received a few very meaningful items, so I must show them off.

Denver made made me a broach of hammered silver that has a hand beaded piece attached. All portions of this creation were designed and made by her at school. I love it.

She also made me a hammered silver and a copper shawl pin. I almost bought one of these pins when we visited the fiber fair, but she talked me out of it, saying she could make me one out of something more permanent than aluminum. But after that day, I forgot about them completely. Meanwhile, she went back to school and worked out a design for one. Now, when I finish spinning my wool and make something to throw around my shoulders, I’ll have these nifty pins to hold it in place.  Wow.


She also made me some handcrafted silver earrings, but I don’t have a picture of them. Oops. I wish her work photographed better. Everything is so beautiful in person, and so original…

Mark and I were not exchanging this year (we are going to coffee school instead) but he said he made me something anyway. Since it was free he claims this isn’t breaking the “no gift” rule. That is debatable, but nevertheless . . . .

A week or so ago, he mentioned he and Kent went Christmas shopping for me. When I asked where they went, he grinned and said “In the woods.” So I was wondering what these two were planning. 
  
Here it is… they made me some Knot Birds. I collect Knot birds, but  I only have a few little, lumpy sparrows.  Nevertheless, I think they’re cool because it involves taking a chunk of scarred tree and turning it into a likeness of a bird so I always buy one when I see them in a festival or store.

But none are as unique (or meaningful) as these. Mark made me a peacock. He carved the head, used the knot as the body and made the tail out of a piece of ceder which he is working on in the workshop to make a coffee table.

Kent looked long and hard for a knot that he could make into a duck – my other favorite bird pet. He made me the most wonderful knot duck by carving a head and tail and putting nail heads in for eyes. 

I was thrilled. Homemade gifts are the best ever!





While I’m on the subject of gifts. This is the year Kent got his first car. A 2000 Mercury with leather seats, power everything and a sunroof. Lots of miles on it, but it is clean and sporty and a perfect first car for a kid. He was hopeing for a car, of course, but he didn’t think we were in a position to give him one at this time, so he was really overwhelmed. He wanted sone so badly. We parked it behind Mark’s truck and hid the key on the Christmas tree. When he found it (at the end of present opening) we all stood outside and shouted “Move that bus…” to reveal the gift. (We are all big fans of that stupid show Extreme Home Makeover, if you can’t guess) and don’t ya know, Mark drove his car out of the way to reveal the gift and Kent’s response was just like the people on the show. He cried. He hugged us for about ten minutes, hiding his face – overcome.

It was touching, and very, very fun.


Since moving here, my kids have changed. They are so down to earth, appreciative of their life, and thoughtful of us. They don’t have that sense of entitlement here that they had when we lived in a more cosmopolitan place. Anyway, Kent was really classy in expressing his gratitude, which made the gift all that more satisfying to give.
And everyone else was lovely too about what they gave and received too.
Now, Neva has disappeared for hours ago to play on her new Wii.
Denver went home to throw a load into her used washer and dryer and to make room for her new workbench for jewelery making. 

I had a few “make your own” sorts of gifts to give. Denver and Dianne both got everything to make homemade cordials themselves now – the book, the booze and the containers. And Di got a pressure canner and books and all the various supplies for canning because she has a successful garden and she’s expressed interest in learning to preserve. Not that I don’t enjoy sharing what I make, but every woman wants to play in her own kitchen. The problem is, getting all the paraphernalia to get started isn’t always easy. Anyway, they’re outfitted now.

Of course, there were the typical jackets, sweaters, books and games. It’s the American way… 

And of course, it wouldn’t be Christmas without food. Last night, I cooked. I veered from tradition this year and skipped the expensive beef tenderloin that I usually wrap in pastry. It’s fancy, but frankly, we’re not big meat eaters, and since it was just our family alone this year, I went for a chicken dish over a puffed pastry and stuffed mushrooms (Kent’s plea) and sherried fruit, corn pudding, broccoli, rice, and walnut salad.  The crew couldn’t help but poke gentle fun at me for my dessert display this year. I made a red velvet cake in the shape of a present, an eggnog flavored cheesecake, and a grasshopper mint pie. Must get the colors and flavors of Christmas in the mix, ya know. So it was a bit much for just us… but it was pretty and now I have something to share with the chickens tomorrow.
 

It is now midday. Mark is napping – I’ve just returned from the barn where I went to dote on my animals a bit.
This is my favorite part of Christmas.
I’m always a bit glad when the craziness is over. I like the quiet after the celebration. I like picking up paper, and putting things away, and clearing the breakfast dishes and having everyone disappear to rest. Then, I sit with a cup of coffee before the tree, thumb through a gift book (this year I got a wine making book and the game wineopoly) and amidst all the clutter, I contemplate the new year.

I think 2008 is going to be an important one. But that is subject for another blog.
In a few hours we will go to Dianne’s for her big dinner, my workload is over. Yippee. 
Merry Christmas to all. May your dearest dreams come true.

As long as I emptied my camera today, and I’m using pictures to save time, I thought I’d post a few more.
Here is a picture of my new dining room set. Pretty, Hun? 
Oh, you only see trees. Well, where do you think furniture comes from, Silly. Rooms to Go?
That reminds me of a funny thing that happened this summer. Neva and I were picking blackberries by the side of the road on our mountain, and a man walked by who was renting a cabin (a city boy). He said, “What are you two doing?”
I said, “We are picking blackberries.”
He wrinkled his nose and said, “Why bother? It is not like you can eat them.” And he left.
Neva said, “Why did he say that?”
I explained that some people thought food only came from the grocery store, as if dropped down from the sky all nicely packaged in plastic and filled with preservatives. Apparently, that fellow felt food that had been “outside” must be spoiled or something. Ha. we had a good laugh over that one.

Anyway, here is my fabulous new dining room chair, in the hands of the grunt that will slave away to make it.
Gee Wiz – he doesn’t even look Korean to me. His sidekick is an alledged “apprentice” to this project. When he heard that he could learn to make these chairs and they would sell for about 600 bucks, little cars flashed in his pupils, like a boy obsessed.  I think now would be a good time to tell you (as a friend) to put you money in Calamine lotion stock!


 

This is my assistant holding up her bag of lichen. Nothing like sending your child into the deep dark woods on a creative mission to prove your overprotective mothering gene has passed the freshness date on the lable. Next to her is a picture of our house from the area where we are digging a small lake this week (thus the trees would have been destroyed and that is why we are harvesting them now.) I’m told I am a real annoyance when I am hanging around with a camera. I would be more appreciated if I were willing to drag trees out of the woods. I figure, I’ll be the one cleaning this furniture, and moving it aside to vacumn so eventually I’ll pay my wood hoisting dues . The house is pretty though, don’t ya think?


I have to go take my little woodsprite to soccer. All that running keeps her in shape for hunting dye material, so I am willing to cheer.

Yesterday, at 6.22, Mark’s father passed away.

I had gone over in the morning to give Dianne an hour out of the house, just to get coffee and breathe. In the afternoon, I took Sonia, Mark’s mother, out for a pedicure and manicure. This was just an excuse to pry her outside where the sun still shines, and to give Dianne a break. Sometimes, what people need most is just some touching, and she did say that the pampering “saved” her.

When we returned, we could see Bill was failing, so I went to get Mark at the house site, and the kids and we all visited for an hour. Then, quietly, his breathing got shallow with long pauses in between, and eventually it just stopped. It was very peaceful – with all his loved ones nearby (although, regretfully, Denver came a short bit later due to the fact that we had to call her at work). I don’t suppose it could have been any better, considering the circumstances.

I’m glad my kids were there. They were sad, of course, but they handled it well, and it gave them a chance to ask questions. I don’t want them to be afraid of death and it doesn’t hurt for them to see their dad cry or the last exchange between a man and his wife after 60 years of living together. It is all a part of life and serves to remind them that “how” we live is very important.

After someone passes away in the intimate surroundings of their own home, Hospice must arrive to declare them legally dead and then the funeral home will come to take them away. That means the body remains at home for a few hours. It was lovely to watch family members stop by to stroke Bill’s hand or kiss his head. And about an hour later, I see that he has some small flowers in his hand. Apparently, Neva went outside to cry, then picked flowers and put them in his palm and a few on his chest. It was touching.

I told her I was proud that she wasn’t afraid, and she leaned in to me and whispered, “You know, Mom, that isn’t really Grandpa anymore.” And she rolled her eyes upward as if to remind me where Grandpa was now. Obviously, the talking is good.

It was a quiet day, sad yet satisfactory too, one that reminds me of how precious life is and how fleeting. Amazing how our lives, our presence, affects others and influences their experience of living, even if you aren’t attempting to do so.