Birthdays and Catastrophe

I'm hoping I've been pre-disastered for a while. In the week before my birthday, I had what could only be described as severe unpleasantness involving a writer at the last conference I attended, I was robbed and had to cancel my credit credits, checking and savings accounts, and put a fraud alert on my Social Security number. My neighbor passed on the same congratulations he received when somebody busted into his truck. "Congratulations. You are now a Portlander."

On my actual birthday, not one member of my family called to wish me a happy day, and since they say things happen in threes, I thought that was it. But then I went into my Yahoo mail only to find that somebody hacked my account and sent out something funky and nasty in my name. Fortunately, I had everything canceled and alerted a few days before due to being robbed - at least the thief who busted the window of my truck and took my pack had excellent timing. But it was not looking like the new year of my life was off to an auspicious beginning.

But I had a good party, and for that I am grateful. It was the first party I threw in my apartment, and in Portland for that matter. Put to good use the Japanese dining table and throw pillows. I finally broke in the fireplace I've been yearning to burn wood in since I moved in. Friends made in massage school and at Breitenbush, as well as one connection from Juneau made it a lovely birthday. It was all very cozy and bohemian and I'm really starting to believe that starting over is a good thing and I can build a good life here. Now, that is much more like an initiation I care to remember.

It really is all about the finish. This last week really sucked, but today I'm only filled with the warmth and good feeling from last night.

CHICKEN!!!

And back to the writing... or at least the conference aspect of it...

Just got back from an Unnamed Conference at an Undisclosed Location for the sake of covering my ass if not for the sake of protecting the innocent. I must say of all the conferences I've been to in the past, I had the most fun at this one. I ran into 2 different women I met at previous conferences and met a few others. The Chicken incident happened at the peak of the conference, the banquet on Friday night.

Unbeknownst to myself and Lisa, we sat at the table holding the winner of the Fiction category of the writing contest that year. Christine was sitting with two other women who were friends from high school. Amy was pitching a book - Good Ones are Gone - about all the good single men being taken and her weekend cross country odyssey to see if that was true, complete with "man map" and everything. Denise was there pitching a book she wrote and she hailed the "Twilight" series as one that changed her life. She said reading those books made her realize how much she hated her life, which of course motivated her to change that and pursue her dreams. She said she was on a blog with several other women who had also started making major changes in their lives - like one woman losing 60 pounds - due to reading that series. Although I'm not a fan of the Twilight, I respect anything that has such a dramatic positive effect on other people. So bravo to Stephanie!

Now back to the Chicken Incident... The Unnamed Hotel at this Unnamed Conference was not on top of their game in so many ways this weekend and that banquet was a perfect example. They were serving buffet style and giving certain tables the nod when to go and get their grub. Everybody in the room was pretty tanked that night, and after a while we started to feel oh... hungry. We were at one of the tables in the middle of the room and looking around we noticed that just about everybody was served but us and after waiting a little longer, we finally got our nod. So we get in line, more than a little impatient to load up our plates because the collective stomach was growling. The empty salad bowl was an ominous foreshadowing. There are plenty of potatoes and pasta, but then we get to the main course, chicken with a honey lemon thyme sauce to find the platter empty. We stand in line with the space carved out for the chicken to wait for empty to be replaced with full, and wait some more. Servers pass by and we point out the empty chicken and wait some more. Then the dining room captain asks us to go back to our tables while the hotel deals with this and will bring the chicken to us.

So we've all but polished off our plates by the time we see one of the head waiters arrive with a plate stacked with chickens perched over his shoulder. But he doesn't slow down. All I can think of is "chicken," and it comes out of my mouth. He's passing our table. "Chicken!" I call out a little louder. And then it's clear that he's heading for the table of drunks who are more important than we are and I screech "CHICKEN!!!" and he turns and smiles with a nod and keeps going. In the meantime, my table starts laughing and echoes "CHICKEN!!!" which became the running joke of the night. The rest of the night was spent in the bar, and Christine called her husband and told us to shout "CHICKEN!" into the phone when we did.

Personally, I was relieved, not to mention grateful. I knew I just made an ass out of myself but fortunately due to the support of my table managed to get away with it. That doesn't happen very often. I suspect I gave voice to the ravenous hunger of everybody else. When we finally got our chicken - baked and without the honey lemon thyme sauce - it was rather dry and we wondered if they popped them into the microwave just to get us served.

But it doesn't end there. The next night, we Chicken Girls picked a table right next to the door where the buffet would be served, so we would not be left behind. Yet the first table to receive the nod was the unlucky table where we sat last night! The rumblings of discontent began immediately, but we remained cool, watching for how many rounds it would take before we got our nod. A few waves and we were not called to join. Server came up and asked if we'd like coffee, to which we snarkily answered that we'd like to eat first. Finally, Amy said: "Okay, if we don't get the next nod, we're going with the next wave." Sure enough, more people walked past and we did not get our nod.

"One, two, three," said Amy and on the last word, we stood up en force, a determined wave of women that would be well fed, and hit that line. The servers noticed and gave us these looks but they didn't dare tell us to get out of line. That would require audacity and who has that for those who refuse to be told what to do? Later, the same head waiter that walked past with a plate of dried chicken the night before came to our table, his manner gracious as he asked us if we got what we needed.

Chicken was on the menu again that night, along with pasta, potatoes, and wild salmon. We took as much as we wanted. The chicken was all right, but we all agreed the pasta was delicious.

My Last Walk With Scout

The meadow is blooming. I'm still buzzing from the pond lilies making unexpected sunbursts in the murky pool of water I saw moments ago. Stalks of lupine waving blue violet call me from the path in the woods to make my way through the long grasses and I answer.

Scout is more than willing to follow. I am one of many aunts and uncles that have adopted this dog from Kake - a Malamute, Husky, and possibly Labrador mix that was so popular in Southeast. Whenever Paula - Scout's official keeper - was at work, which was often, she had Scout in the car and left the door open. When he was a puppy, she was encouraging when it came to me taking her dog out for a walk. Now he's nearly a 100 pounds of Alaska dog, but Scout still thinks he's a puppy and hasn't become the bully he'll be once he knows he's bigger and stronger than other dogs. I can still walk him without a leash and he bounds along the ground, both soft and uneven. Scout bounds ahead, but always comes back to meet me.

Breathing deeply, the air is fresh, some sweet, a bit of spice, a hint of salt, and the meadow is filled with hidden flowers. The shooting stars are the hot pink of 70's slut pants, as well as the bright purple of Floridian 80's New Wave Faux Punk. But both of those images are far from my mind on this hike with a friend's dog. Wild irises are the royalty here, the deep purple with golden hearts delicate in the breeze. The chocolate lilies are a surprise, the rich brown almost vivid in vicinity to the bursts of color in the expanse of hay colored grass. The tiny blooms point to the ground, like most flowers that must thrive in the rain to protect their reproductive organs. But this day is sunny and cool, a day to be grateful for.

Scout and I make a steady rhythm and I feel the bliss coming on. My boots sink into the murky ground with each step, the dog and I stay in tune with each other. Scout bounds ahead while I maneuver my way through the lumps and bumps of water and grasses, the dog never getting too far from me. I lose myself in the connection to all around me - to Scout, to the ground I'm treading, the flowers blooming bright spots amongst the grass and inspiring bits of awe in me - and that brings me to peaceful ecstasy.

And finally the stretch of meadow is over at the cabin. Instead of heading to the rocky beach and the sea, I take the left trail down the side of the cabin and into the woods. It's rare to find cedar this far north of Ketchikan, but the closer we get to the lake, the more present it is. Scout and I still make our steady progress in harmony with each other's rhythm. My pace picks up because I want to get to the lake that much sooner. I'm praying the lake will be deserted because it's warm enough for a swim. It's gratifying when Scout and I get there and nobody else is.

To his confusion, I put the leash on Scout and tie him to the tree. I feel bad, but I don't want to worry about the dog running off during my swim. I take off my clothes and jump in, taking hard strokes to mellow the shock of the water. Then the cold becomes refreshing cool. I would be happy if Scout wasn't yelping in high pitch. I've never heard him sound like that. He doesn't even bark. I call to him that I'm all right and to calm down. I'm only swimming, but he chews through his leash in minutes and jumps in after me. I had no idea Scout had such problems with separation anxiety. I think it's fine to swim with the dog making his way frantically towards my head until he doesn't turn, but swims on top of me, his paws rudely scratching. The necessary flaw has come to humble the perfection. The balance of Yin and Yang has been restored. I make another attempt to bind the dog to have the swim, but he only chews through it again. The mystic moment has come to an end, the spell is over.

The walk was still memorable, however. I had no idea it would be our last and neither did Scout. But Paula got nervous when he became aggressive, saying it wasn't such a good idea, and he was her dog after all. Every time I walk by her car, Scout looks at me with hope in his eyes that I will open the door and take him out again. It always breaks my heart a little to move on without him.

Adolescent Sea Mammals and Kayaking

School should always be this much fun. They say good things come to those who wait, and I must say this time it was true. Our highly esteemed kayaking instructor who rashly canceled our original trip due to stormy weather (we all think he had a hot date and blew us off, the weather was quite calm) rescheduled our sea kayaking camping adventure for this past week-end.

Ooh baby! The makers of Prozac would go out of business if the general public were inclined to do such things. The first night we camped in the woods behind Berm Beach after leaving from Echo Cove - nice, but no big deal. The next day we kayaked to Benjamin Island. Pretty basic stuff until we reached the north end of the island. Dan and I shared a kayak because I was too much of a wimp to kayak alone, but I'm grateful to him. He showed me how to make kayaking a pleasure, encouraging me to not fight the water and work so hard. He set a pace that was easy for me to keep of a slow, steady rhythm, and that was when I fell in love with kayaking.

Right around the time I was exceedingly aware of how hurt my back, how tight my arms, how sore my shoulders, we became even more aware of a gang of sea lion bachelors. Brock compared them to a gang of teenage boys when they slithered into the water and bobbed their torsos, greeting us with barks and grunts, flipping around in the water and approaching us as we watched them.

It must have been a boys' week-end in the animal world - on the other side of us were a pod of bachelor humpbacks swimming along the opposite side of the channel. They exhaled through their blowholes and showed us lots of tail as they went in the opposite direction. According to Brock, the women whales in Hawaii don't want anything to do with them yet because they're too young too date - kind of like my little brother when he was twelve approaching seventeen year old babes and asking them their age. When they responded, he'd say "What a coincidence! So am I!" They'd laugh, ruffle his hair, and move on. Between the whales and the sea lions, it was tough to decide which way to look. Because the whales were in the distance and the sea lions right next to us, they won my attention.

Well, I guess that's the way of testosterone in all male animals. I think the sea lions got competitive because they followed us and did quite a performance of aquatic ballet. They swam with us alongside our kayaks, leaping out of the water like dolphins and flip-slapping the water while following us to the southeast side of the island. Most of them stayed behind, but a couple followed us, watching while we set up camp. I forgot I was exhausted from the magic of that moment.

The Dancing Symphony

Feeling the rhythm of the sea as the tide comes in, feeling the lull when the ocean pulls away and then comes in with more force. Even with the changing tides, the ocean does a strip tease with the shore line, coming in soft before coming in with force. Lying on the rocks, watching the rising and falling of the pale jade liquid against the rocks opposite, where the water is eroding and reshaping the stone a bit at a time, I redefine my concept of orgasm and recognize that sexual ecstasy can be long and slow, the subtlety of it lingering long after the coupling is over. No wonder so many people associate sexuality with the ocean. The sea catches me unawares and drenches me with a sneaker wave.

It is a dance and a symphony. Stepping on the rocks, I want to get closer to the point where two flows of the tide collide at the low point of the island of rocks interrupt the shore. The tides come in slow and easy and their embrace is just a peck on the lips. But then the current builds up and they collide in an explosion of foam. The love gets deeper as the tide coming in, crashing droplets of salty froth rising to meet me and sometimes above me. When it gets too much, I step away. My rubber boots - Extra Tuffs of course - doing a silent stomp against the rocks as I wave my arms, circle my hands, and twirl my fingers. A flamenco in the rhythm of the ocean, the waves booming against the rocks in a crescendo. Suddenly, I know for certain how dance came to be. People felt the rhythm of the world around them and started moving their bodies. I suspect music started in the same way, hearing the world around them and calling, clapping, stomping in response and in audio play. Wanting to play with the world around you and reveling when the world played back.

I'm fascinated watching the sea change. The music of the sea grows louder the further the tide comes in. The music of the ocean is louder, the rhythm faster, and the scenery only grows more devastating as time passes.

"This is fiercely beautiful," said Terina. And it is. A flock of pelicans fly over the waves - watery emeralds as they reach their crest and falling over in a crash of sea foam. The light is changing as the sun falls behind the clouds that are rolling past, sending beams of light across the sky. The sea is lavender slate at the horizon and I can see the waves rolling and crashing in the distance. The clouds don't touch the horizon, leaving the path clear for the sun to drop right in front of us. It's a ball of fire in the distance, making shadows of the birds flying across, the sea meets rock and shatters in silhouette, the drops of froth dark in the light of the sun behind them.

There are times I resent being dressed, wanting to feel the wind and take in the salt air through my skin. I compromise and take off my shirt and dance in my bra before the waves crashing in front of me until the sea gets aggressive and sends me back for warmth and safety. We're standing in a formation of rocks that make a bowl in the distance. The tide is coming in past us, running around the rocks on either side of us, the waves are crashing and rising high above us. But we are safe, in the back of the bowl, spits of ocean coming up the blowhole before us each time the sea rolls in.

We've been there for over five hours, bearing witness to the spectacle that happens at Yachats all the time. But it is especially beautiful on this day. Many others have come and gone, but we stayed. That piece of the Oregon Coast belonged to us for those few hours until we knew it was time to go. The sun has fallen and the sea is asserting its way to the shore to get in as far as that high tide will allow. We are exhausted and exhilarated as we leave, covered with salt. I can taste the ocean on my fingers.

Putting Their Stink on You

Let's talk about Shame.

This doesn't have much to do with writing - at least not directly - but since I'm pretty much in a holding pattern of waiting and more waiting when it comes to what I've already sent out, there's not much to tell anyway. But I think Shame has the potential to permeate all aspects of our lives, including writing. I definitely had an experience with an agent recently that applies...

This yoga class I'm taking, "Yoga and Body Image," was the last thing I expected. I thought it would be mostly yoga and some talk. But it's shaping up to be group therapy with a little yoga thrown in. And last night, we talked about Shame and how it is the center of our addictions and all we struggle with. Sarah Joy showed the cycle of Shame in addictive behavior. It was very insightful, and I think resonated with most of us. But what the angle that made me say AHA!!! was when she referred to times when others Shame us.

"Shame is not a feeling," she said. "It is an ongoing state of being. When others Shame us, it has to do with their own Shame."

In other words, the flaws we're accused of may have to do with their own. Or when you are doing well and reaching for something higher, how many times did somebody shoot you down? I was shocked at the way I was treated by my so-called "friends" when I came back from my book tour road trip. ** See freedomjunkiefables.blogspot.com **

I really wish I had this class around that time. I might have bounced back much sooner. As it was, I was devastated for three years and had to do the geographical cure to get to the next level. And even then, I needed to do the hermit and lick my wounds for a year before I felt ready to be myself again. The example Sarah Joy mentioned was Person A has a desire to be the center of attention - which we all do on some level or another - but Person A was taught in childhood that to be that and want that means self-absorption and narcissism. So Person A sees Person B as the center of attention. And even if Person B is not self-absorbed or narcissistic, just being themselves as they are, Person A is going to assume that and put that Shame on Person A as soon as they get the chance.

Here's my question, however. Given that Person A is the one with the deep rooted Shame, even if Person A succeeds in hooking into the hidden Shame in Person B and bringing that state of being out in them, what does Person A have for the long term? Is it a sense of victory or does the Shame come back to them and last longer?

As far as I'm concerned, this is one shit putting their stink on another. But is it effective? In my experience in the last ten years, I'm prone to writing letters to those who have done me harm describing - often times in a state of rage and sometimes in a clear state of mind - how their treatment made me feel and the effect it had on me. In other words, I sent the stink back and one memorable instance did not read the Shit's response. It was such a strong feeling I had to not open the email because I knew it would be horrible. So I deleted it without reading it and felt this tremendous sense of relief. And that's when I came up with the conclusion that when somebody does that to you, they're trying to put their stink on you.

So don't take the stink. And whenever you can, send it back to the Shit where it belongs.

That's all for now. Thanks for reading.

What is it About Procrastination?

Yesterday, I had a marathon of watching DVD's of my favorite series on my computer instead of writing on it. It was a rainy Sunday, perfect for writing. But instead of taking advantage of the splendid weather and getting some work done or even cleaning the house before the clutter I could tidy in less than an hour becomes another gargantuan mess I'd rather avoid, I watched television. I still have partials out to another agent and 3 editors. What if any of them comes back at me and says they'd like to see the FULL? It's going to be pretty embarrassing to say it's not ready. I always heard it takes months to hear back from these people - and although industry advice says no, many will say "how's your first 50 pages?" and then suggest to send them out because it will take longer than they say. Well, it's 2 months for one editor and this is coming into week 7 for everybody else. And I watched television.

Gotta love those self-destructive tendencies with deep roots. This isn't the first time performance anxiety has sunk its claws into my motivation. One time I remember was my first writing job I got at the local weekly - hired by the editor and everything. It was at least 3 months before I gave him anything. I ran into him at the therapist's office - small town - when he and his wife were coming out and I was going in. He gave me this befuddled look and asked, "so are you going to write us anything or what?" It was what I needed to thaw out and I got him something within a week. I was pretty lucky that time and had a great working relationship with that editor, but I know I've missed some juicy worms in the past getting to the hole too late. Frozen by a fear that feels like apathy.

Anyway, that's all for now. Thanks for reading.

Now Back to the Writing...

Well it's Thursday, Week 6, and I have not heard from Agent who said if I didn't hear from her in 6 weeks to assume she rejected my manuscript based on one sample chapter. And so, I'm now up to 7 rejections - 4 from query letters, 2 from partials, and 1 from sample chapter.

And after some feedback from my first writer's group last night, I may as well anticipate a rejection from the last agent to have a partial. I'm still crossing my fingers for him because of all those I met, I felt I connected with him the best. I can't find any info about him on the internet, however, and that's unnerving.

I had my first meeting for my writer's group culled from the random waters of Meetup.com. All the RSVP's filled. 1 canceled yesterday. 1 more canceled at 6:30 and I was expecting a group of 10, myself included. 5 came to make a party of 6 and everybody committed to being the core group of regulars and I'll assume the 2 cancelations will show next time until they don't. 4 were no shows and I will assume riff raff fallen to the wayside. I would be surprised if they ever came to a meeting.

For the most part, I'm pretty happy with the core group that did show. We were a healthy balance between men and women - 3 each and everybody agreed that it's more productive to read each other's stuff BEFORE we meet, so we can eat, drink, talk, and give feedback.

So far, I feel it's off to a good start even if I was a little unnerved having a bunch of strangers come to my house. Of all that I've seen on the internet, Meetup.com is the best use of it to get people together I've ever seen. Hopefully, everybody who commits will continue.

Hot Springs Highlights

I really meant to keep a log while traveling, but sometimes it's more fun to just travel and enjoy than to travel and record. Some highlights of the trip. LoLo Hot Springs "Resort" just over the border in Montana has super cheap cabins with no private bath, a pretty decent pool of 70 degrees outside and much hotter inside. Very flexible on checkout times. Also some very eccentric in a good way employees. For instance, when Cat - I think she's the owner - left me a message saying I could check in at the pool, the guy who answered the phone said yes, and "much to my displeasure." He was pretty funny, but easily rattled. He got into it with this Russian woman who asked if there was still a free first visit to the pool. That night I went swimming before going to sleep and the other guy looked like an old time miner. He was cool though. The couples making out in the indoor hot pool were not. Met some nice drunken folks on the way back to my cabin who had built up a great fire and offered me a beer. They told me about Camas, Montana as a place frozen in time and the most relaxing place in the world. Will have to check that out.

Before I left the area, I went back to Jerry Johnson and walked downhill from the trail to a pool that was next to the creek. The hot spring water came from a gentle waterfall along with the cold water trickling in from the creek. I had a splendid view of woods from the creek and the sounds of water falling and flowing were heavenly. Not to mention being in a pool with both warm and cool spots depending on where I was sitting. In some spots, cold water would be under me and warm to hot over me. It was amazing and if I didn't have to get going, I would have stayed all day. As it was, it was hard to leave.

In Darby, Montana, I heard that the Lost Trail Hot Springs Resort in Sula was "weird." But I already had my reservation. I saw it was for sale when I drove in and my cabin was open and ready for me as the lady said it would be. I thought the property was really cool with the cabins, the lodge, and the wood carved sculptures of Indians and Miners - go figure - and then I met the owners and I could see where the "weird" reputation came from. They did not give off happy energy or sweet vibes. I swam in their pool with them watching from the upstairs balcony. It was a little creepy. I left and then came back when I needed to use the restroom and the door to the pool was locked and technically they were supposed to be open. I strongly suspected this was no longer a labor of love for them but a burden. It's a pity. A little bit of love and some more options would be all that was needed to make the place a go.

I almost made it to the Horse Creek Springs, but the roads were too confusing and I had some distance to cover. I stopped and swam in the extremely hot Lava Hot Springs in Lava Idaho with my swimsuit on. Not as much fun as a natural pool, but it was enough to recharge me enough to keep driving. I was on a mission.

I have found that my tastes have changed in the years since I was last at Indian Hot Springs. I never realized the geo-thermal caves were like saunas and that's before you get into the pools. It was intense. I found I like fresh air to cool off in when the water gets too hot. It's effective for cleansing though.

I got home last night, much to my cat's relief. Ginger was a good sport, but all that driving was starting to get to her.

Feeding my Soul

This trip is getting better and better. To backtrack a couple of days, my first attempt to find Baker Hot Springs was an abort both times and I believe that was good judgment. First time it was getting too late and the next day between hiking and then deciding to drive and not finding it - I realized if I'd kept with a 2 1/2 mile hike I would have found it, but was feeling lazy. Then driving I couldn't find it and after two hours, I was hungry. Also the vague and vaguely alarming rumors that it might be "contaminated," without specifying how it may be "contaminated" dampened my enthusiasm somewhat. So that night I stayed at the Soap Lake Inn and had hot springs mineral water poured into my own private tub. And came to realize that mineral spring water has a different texture than fresh water. The water felt thicker, slippery, almost like an oil. And it had the notorious rotten egg smell, even after being filtered. Day one: Total wus

Day two was when I got lost trying to find the trail in coming dark and had to go back to the pools where Shad walked me back to the parking lot. Wus but used good judgment.

Day three: Aaahhhhhh..... Hiked a mile to Jerry Johnson hot springs and will be coming back in the morning for more. No catastrophes, starting to get my groove and a series of four pools in this meadow by a creek after a mile walk through the woods. It's amazing the effects of soaking for an hour with a view of woods, the sound of the creek. I felt completely at peace, and blissful all at once.

Each day, I get more and more excited and have more fun. I'm looking forward to sharing the hot springs caves with Shadow. But for now, strangely enough, the best part of this trip is how much fun I'm having alone. It's been a long time since I could make that claim, and does it get any more empowering to thoroughly enjoy myself with just myself.

I'm so glad I'm taking this hot springs road trip. It is totally feeding my soul.

I Love Hot Springs, but I Don't Love Getting Lost on the Way Back

One thing that pisses me off to no end - with myself - is that I worked so hard to develop some level of physical and psychological skill when it comes to outdoors adventuring. But if I am absent from that way of life for oh say, a year, I totally lose all the strength I gained both physically and psychologically. Just a mere 1/2 mile to the primitive hot springs pool in Weir Campground in Idaho. I hiked like a grandma tourist on the way in and got lost on the way out. I nearly had a panic attack until I got back to the pools where an awesome guy named Shad took me back to the parking lot. He claims he was heading back, so the timing was perfect. But I was so embarrassed being such a wimp. I blame the dark and the fact that I'd never been there before. But still...

By the way, there's no glory greater than hiking through the woods alongside a creek, only to come to a small pool with hot water with a fairly cute naked guy being regular as I'm taking off my clothes to join him, and our conversation completely mellow and easy. Not to mention we're in a hot spring in nature where the view is always gorgeous. Anybody who's shy about the hot springing way of life really needs to reconsider. It's a slice of heaven on earth, a divine moment in an otherwise mundane existence. A hint the Paradise because we really should be living like this all the time.

Even if I did get stressed out on the way out, it was still worth it. Let me just say, Aaaahhhhh.....

The Waiting Comes to its First End

Well, I got my first reply yesterday 6 1/2 weeks after I sent the partial. An agent from the PNWA conference. His rejection was kind as far as rejections go and given that he said "perhaps this is too fable like for me," I know it wasn't a form letter.

But it was still a pass. I braced myself as soon as I saw the name in my inbox because I can't help but think that if he wanted to see the full, I would have gotten a call. Well, everything I've read has warned me that I will be rejected. I will be rejected. I will be rejected. And I'm finding that it's true. So far, it's not breaking me. At least his response was timely as well as kind.

Cannon Beach may be Touristy, but it's Worth it.

Last spring I had my professional massage specifically for my lower body deep tissue massage class with a woman my teacher referred to as: "Maura is my hero." I can see why Jonathan would say that. Maura was vast and mighty, that's for certain. I'll probably take the post massage school course with her - the more I get to know about this healing art, the more I realize there is to learn. Anyway, she had her business at home and it was full of cool stuff, pictures, and artwork. Maura said she picked things that had vibe.

It's amazing how some things and places work for that reason. Cannon Beach is a town on the coast that has definitely been discovered and developed accordingly. But it still has vibe. Lazy Susan Cafe, and art gallery and cafe, Newman's 998 - a fine dining restaurant in a small house that used to be a B&B. And of course, the awesome little studio cabin I found in the woods yesterday (on the internet under pet friendly). Turk's Lodging was only 1/2 mile south of Cannon Beach but had a nice isolated in the woods feel to it, but the ocean was still within sight and hearing. Made a good change.

I can see why Cannon Beach is so beloved to Oregonians. Even though there's lots of tourists, there's also lots of vibe.

I found the coolest cabin in the woods yesterday. It's only a half mile south of Cannon Beach, but has a nice isolated feel to it and there's a view of the ocean through the trees. Some places are worth it for the vibe. And this placeHeading up to Seattle before the

Power Points

It's odd that of all the incredible trails in Juneau, my favorite is the Perseverance up to Granite Creek Basin. And it has been ever since I got here, when I thought that first summer would be my only summer and I went hiking at least three times a week to see as much as I could. But that was the hike I always went back to, repeating it at least once a week. And still my first hike every summer is as far as I can go up Perseverance. I have a few...what I call power points along that trail...places where I can go when I want to write, when I need to think, when I'm upset, when I'm depressed...and just hang out for a while and veg for as long as I need to...and when I leave I feel good. Sometimes I even go there when I'm in a great mood so I can feel fantastic. No other trail in Juneau has quite the same effect on me. My spots are that spot that juts out over Ebner Falls, an outcropping of rocks that juts into the Creek about a quarter mile before the turn off to Granite Creek Basin, and the top of the falls at the top of that creek. I just went hiking up there last night. We've had so much snow this year, and there were a lot of changes on that trail. We've lost a lot of trees due to avalanches this year, and they built up the trail the first half mile. It's as wide as a narrow road now and the grated bridges are gone. So is a lot of greenery. But, the water... I've never seen Gold Creek so swollen, so lush with excess water as I saw it last night. It was so high, it slithered over the rocks we usually sit on to face the creek, as it's tossing and churning downhill to the channel. I'm a water baby, I suppose. Gold Creek really does it for me, and the power of that water last night was just too much, and we still have plenty of snowpack left to feed it. Needless to say, I felt great when I left. So where's one of your power points? Hope you have some where you are.

Waiting and More Waiting

Cool, this font color bears a close resemblance to vomit, perfect for my mood around WAY-AY-Ay-ay-tee-ee-ee-enn-nnn-nggg. Not my favorite pastime. If patience is a virtue, I'm getting lots of practice. Partial of 50 pages and synopses for all 4 books in series to editor at St. Martins sent 5 weeks ago and counting. Not too torqued out because she told us she wouldn't get back to anybody for a long while. I'll wait until Christmas to panic. Partial of 110 pages sent to agent 5 1/2 weeks ago and counting. Never got his stats on how long it'll be until I hear from him. Or if I will. Query and sample pages to one agent that claims silence as her rejection. If I don't hear from her in 6 weeks, her answer is NO. Tomorrow it's 4 weeks from the day I sent it, and Wednesday I got her automated email reminding me I'll never hear from her again if she's not interested. So I have 2 more weeks to wait before I know if she's into my work or not. But there's something about that 4 week mark makes me think not.

The irony of it is if any of these people want the full manuscript, I'll hum and haw and say 4 more weeks please. That could be embarrassing...

Honestly, one either needs the perspective of Buddha or the perversion of a masochist or both to be a writer.

Thanks for reading...

I *Heart* Hot Springs

Hey y'all,

I have a sliver of two weeks to do a quick road trip before starting the next quarter in the healing art of massage, I'm taking advantage of it to take a quick road trip of visiting friends and hitting as many hot springs as I can. And I am in hot spring HEAVEN here in the Pacific Northwest.

I do love them so - how is it possible not to love being naked in hot water usually with stunning nature all around me? I defy the one who says they can't stand hot springs. It's like going back into the womb. And in some ways, we are when soaking in water heated in the earth.

My first hot springs experience was years ago at Indian Hot Springs Resort in Idaho Springs, Colorado. I was with a couple of friends from college and in an extremely irritated state of mind with one of them. Kelly was one of those people who always had to make everything hard. She was irritated I invited Kristy on a camping trip we planned because she wanted to practice her Wicca rituals and didn't feel comfortable with her there. Since I was visiting from Seattle and taking a break from an ass-hole boyfriend, I was pissed she put such a spoiler on it. Kristy had told me years before she didn't really like Kelly and on that morning I completely understood why.

But the three of us went to Idaho Springs and parked outside this old time 1920's ramshackle resort with underground caves where the springs were. There were signs everywhere detailing the history of the place and the people who came for the healing waters there. Of course, we had to confer in the car. Kelly was debating the cost of 7 dollars, and for a few minutes of drama, said she could pick us up later perhaps after practicing her Wiccan rituals. But ultimately, she had heard the caves were amazing and decided to come with us.

And amazing they were. All of us were from fairly conservative backgrounds and public nudity was not something we were used to. The caverns were gender segregated which made it easier, but we were still pretty self conscious going through the waiting room where there were a bunch of naked women taking a break, drinking some water, journaling and reading magazines. It was very mysterious to enter the cavern of pools with the Silence sign over the door. And it was a cave all right, carved out of black rock with a narrow path with small pools of various temperatures on each side. I'll never forget the woman sitting lotus on one of the tile benches above one set of pools. She was a female buddha with her eyes closed, meditating on the crystals in her hand. It definitely was an alien environment for me, and probably for my friends as well.

But as soon as we got into the pools, all the unease, tension, and the total aggravation I felt towards Kelly just melted away. We checked out the different pools and found that the temperatures got hotter the further we went to the grand finale pool at the end - which was HOT! It was Kelly that made the comparison that this was like being back in the womb, and it was. We took a few breaks, hanging out naked in the waiting room with the others and went back in quite a few times. Kristy said she never imagined being able to do that and feel comfortable, but we did. The experience was both earthy and spiritual at the same time. Sharing this with Kristy and Kelly who had never done anything like this before really connected us. All of us marveled at how nice it was to be comfortable in our bodies around strangers. Needless to say, the rest of the camping trip was a lot of fun. I remember we slept in Kelly's VW bus, but made a fire (thus it was a "real" camping trip), and talked a lot about sex.

I have since found many other hot springs that I love and enjoy - Breitenbush being my current favorite - but that is where my passion for soaking began. I have since had a falling out/growing apart (whatever you want to call it) with both women I enjoyed that with, but I still have that awareness with me. And where Kristy and Kelly are concerned, I'll bet neither of them soak on a regular basis. A friend of mine from Alaska just moved to Denver to go to school. I may have to take Shadow there where it all began...

By the way, for those who are interested, check out my other blog by going into my profile and clicking freedom junkie fables or go to freedomjunkiefables@blogspot.com.

Either way, thank you for reading.

Toxic Friends

I've heard it's best to stick with my prescribed topics on writing and getting published, but I don't think it's possible to be a writer and not have a strong interest in people and the human condition. All of our experiences are fodder for what we do.

And if anybody who has done enough living has had some painful experiences involving people, particularly friends. Or I should say "friends." I just read a book, "Toxic Friends," by Susan Shapiro Barash who really does a thorough job of covering all the kinds of women we know and suffer through, and then the ones we should cherish. I may have tackled the subject a little differently, but in all, I think she did a thorough job, and her labeling system was open to flexibility. The Leader, Doormat, Sacrificer, Misery Lover (friends we tolerate), then The User, Trophy Friend, and Frenemy (those we ditch or who ditch us to be honest), and last but not least: The Mirroring Friend, Sharer, and Authentic Friend (those we keep), and hybrids of these categories make up the spectrum of women we have the potential to know and suffer through, and those to value after doing some serious growing up.

I definitely recognized people I've known, those who dropped me, those I dropped, and of course myself in both the wonderful and not so wonderful categories. It also gave me an understanding as to why women make the choices they make when it comes to "power" versus "principle," especially in unjust social situations. They are very few genuine heroes out there.

I've never been a Frenemy, but I lived through several. And I found it reassuring to realize I wasn't the only one who has made some serious mistakes in who I chose to give my energy to. I also found it interesting that in her conclusion, Barash pointed out that out of all those she interviewed 15% found their Authentic Friend (who was the jackpot, in the writer's and in my opinion) a burden, while 20% of others found their Users, Trophy Friends, Leaders (Queen Bee), and Doormats more important.

So, 35% of women use friendship as a means of status and social climbing than love, affection, respect, or genuine support. Well, it's not the majority, but 1/3 is still kind of disheartening, even if it explains a lot.

Decent read. I recommend it.

If you want, check out my other blog freedomjunkiefables at blogspot dot com, or just go into my profile and click on the other blog. It's a resurrection about my book tour road trip from a five years ago that will segue in due time to more recent adventures in the realm of writing. Thanks for reading.

Chicks with Bics, RIP

A few days ago, I started a meetup group for writers frantically searching for those who wanted feedback and support on a faster level - sending more pages, breaking up into smaller groups, etc. I searched for a group similar to the one I was looking for in Portland and found nothing... Until I paid the money and committed for 6 months, then I found and established group that was exactly what I was looking for and here in Portland, no less. And then somebody I met at a conference called me up to join hers.

I guess setting intention really does count, but this really makes me miss the Chicks with Bics. I knew we had something special when we had it - how could I not with red wine, chocolate strawberry pizza, and laughter. Not to mention all the support. I know I wouldn't have gotten that collection of stories done had it not been for Judy and Alicia, I just didn't know it would be so difficult to get that again. I would be amazed if such a great fit happened with a random call over the internet. Why can't good things last forever?

Sigh...

The Waiting Begins

Yesterday marked four weeks of sending my first partial to an agent. I've heard it always takes them much longer to get in touch than they say it will. That's why I've been advised to send in even if the second half of the book needs work - which it does. Only thing is that this agent does not accept unsolicited submissions and I can't help but wonder if I'll hear from him sooner as a result. And it's going to be really embarrassing if he wants to see the full manuscript and I don't have it done yet. There's something about the four week mark that makes me think I might hear from him in a couple of weeks or within four weeks. And... all that may come of it is that I get a form letter or email saying "thank you for submitting, but this does not meet the needs of this agency at this time." I guess one good thing about waiting is that I know I haven't been rejected yet. ;)

My absolute deadline is to get this novel FINISHED by the time I go back to school in early October. It's coming...

Mister????

Okay, the good news is an editor from Tor wrote me a quick email and it wasn't a rejection!!!!!  The neutral news is that she asked me to resubmit my synopsis as an rtf because it didn't go through.  But the bad news is she addressed me as "Mr. Mahaffey."  OUCH!!!

Don't get me wrong, I know "Montgomery" is not exactly the most feminine sounding name in the world - thus the mistake is understandable.  I know that I met this editor at a conference where she met MANY writers.  In our consultation, she did say this was her first conference and I didn't see her taking notes - like some do.  The mistake's understandable, but it still would have been nice if she had remembered I'm a woman.    

So ends my little rant for the day.... 

The Hope Behind Writer's Conferences

I have vivid memories of my first writer's conference.  I had been on the road for more than six months, was staying in Santa Cruz and feeling pretty cocky after my DIY book tour that wasn't making me any money.  The Conference was in San Diego and the agents and editors there were pretty brutal and, as I was to find out later, more honest than they often are at conferences.  I remember the conference because the intensity of hundreds of writers wanting something from a handful of agents and editors really caught me off guard.  

As a self-published author at the time, I knew plenty about setting up a booth in art and craft fairs, coffee houses, storytelling naked in hot springs, and selling the book at random.  I knew plenty about how draining it is for the writer to sell her own work, developing a thick skin when dozens of people walked by not giving a damn about me pursuing my dream, thought my stories sucked, and learning to live for the "Yes" from those who bought my book and found my stories intriguing.  I also knew to NEVER tell the agents and editors I had self-published.

But I knew nothing about the business end of publishing.  When I went to classes about how to pitch, how to query, how to write a synopsis, I felt the presenters were speaking in a foreign language and they treated me as such.  Since 2006, I've been to several conferences and have come to realize that my dreams aren't necessarily going to come true because I'm meeting these people face to face.  I've also learned that these events are challenging for the agents and editors listening to us pitch in our eager-beaver-ready-to-make-my-dreams-come-true kind of way.  Writers spend hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars going to these each year for the opportunity to meet industry insiders face to face.  The main advantage is promotion of our writing from being an "unsolicited query and/or submission" that either gets rejected outright or left in the limbo of the slush pile for months to "Requested Materials from Such and So Conference 2010" that will get rejected most of the time, but at least the writer is guaranteed a look-see.  At the conferences, the speakers encourage us to build our writer's community from these events, stressing that leaving with a pocket full of cards from other writers is the most important thing we can hope to accomplish there.  And they're right.  The better conferences have classes that give a lot of useful information that you won't find in Writer's Market or on the Internet because the information is coming from the horse's mouth.  For example, I heard about Miss Snark at a conference.  I recently learned new techniques to engage the reader's emotions that I never knew before.  I have learned to pitch, query, and write a synopsis from these, enough that I'm calm talking to the agents and editors who responded by complimenting my pitching style as "perfect."  I know this doesn't mean I'll get published, but I feel ready enough to throw my writing into the ring.  I've already received 4 rejections from cold query letters, one with a partial to an agent I'd met 3 years before.  That rejection hurt my heart a little.  But I still have 5 partials out to 3 editors and 2 agents as well as one query with 10 pages to 1 agent.  That doesn't mean I'll get representation or a publishing contract.  Maybe I'll get one offer.

  

And I'm dreaming that I will.           

Writing and Dreaming

This is going to take some getting used to.  I've been hearing I needed a blog to create a presence on the web for years.  So now that I have 5 partials, 1 sample pages, and 1 query out to agents and editors, and have 4 rejections notched in my bedpost, I figured now would be a good time to start.

A little about me:

  

Name:  Montgomery Mahaffey

Nickname:  Mana

Gender:  Female

Age:  Ageless

Date of Birth:  Yesterday

Marital status:  Single, of course.

Pets: 1 Cat

Favorite color(s):  Red, purple, black

Favorite number:  8 

Occupation:  Collector of jobs

Dreams about:  Great sex, true love, becoming a world-class dancer (pipedream), traveling the world, oh and getting published and enjoying fame and fortune as a writer and storyteller.

I think that's enough for now.  Hopefully, I don't screw this up.