Repeat the Sounding Joy

Usually, I become a deep thinker at Christmas time. A ponderer. A sponge for the lovely, bittersweet, joyous and sometimes maudlin emotions winging out from most December souls. I can't help it: I'm a born empathizer. But at times, I even annoy myself.

This December, the season has been especially busy. I realize that I alone am not suffering under the hectic pace of the holidays, but for some reason I'm feeling it this year a bit more than usual. I've been trying to kick the feeling, and it's beginning to budge.

Last night, after my husband had returned from work and taken over toddler duty, I made a trip out for last-minute teacher gifts and groceries. My town was fairly empty, and the white lights lacing the trees on Main Street, the huge Christmas tree at the courthouse, the snowflakes on the power poles, they all glowed, dripping with rain. The grocery store was fairly calm, and I moved beneath the florescent lights from aisle to aisle in a bit of an exhausted trance. I didn't see anyone I knew, and this was a bit of a gift. It was nice to be alone.

On my way home, I couldn't help but drive slowly down my street, looking at the lights. Candles lit the windows of so many houses, and it seemed like even the most humble of apartment-dwellers had given in to the season, stringing a lone strand of fat colored bulbs up one railing. It made me smile. The glowing Santa statuette on my neighbor's lawn, these lights, my own, seemed suddenly a small reach for joy.

Yesterday before the evening store run, I'd put my toddler down for a nap like I always do, and had collapsed on the couch, quite literally unable to keep my eyes open. My limbs felt heavy, and welcoming blackness engulfed me. I may not have emerged for hours later, save for the incessent ringing of my cell phone and my daughter's wails over the monitor. I woke groggy, still caught by sleep, and stumbled to her room. It had been as if my body and my brain shook on it, and decided to take me by force.

My husband insists that this was my stress--work, home, motherhood, impending trip, Christmas business--having its way with me. He may be right, but it still feels strange. Stress? I have a great family, a home, an avocation, my health, and a Christmas tree. What do I truly have to be stressed about?

I think I just needed a nap. This is odd for me, as I'm a pretty peppy person. But I believe if I lie down, even now, I might sleep until Spring.

So, no nap. A shift, refocus. On Christmas--that most mysterious time, that awakening. Here's my recipe, if you will, for a return to Christmas cheer. (I cannot guaruntee this will work for you, should you be filled with Christmas ennui... but it does for me):

1. Throw off plans. If you need to order out for supper, do it. Ask for the Christmas burrito.

2. Sit in front of the fireplace until your back burns.

3. Read Christmas stories, to your kid(s), your significant other, your friends, heck--even the dog. I suggest Van Allsburg's The Polar Express. It doesn't get more magical than train of children chugging through a snow-filled forest, wolves pacing beneath the Christmas moon.

4. Eavesdrop at a small-town post office. Standing in line earlier this week I heard lovely Christmas greetings between friends old and new. There's nothing like a big, fat smile on a wrinkled face. Pure magic.

5. Watch Christmas movies, lots of them, whenever you can. Even if it's after midnight. I suggest: White Christmas, The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, The Family Stone, Love Actually, and, of course, It's a Wonderful Life. Forgo any sarcastic thought, any lingering of cheese. It's Christmas.

6. Step outside. Breathe deeply. Consider the sky: starry or dark, it's the same sky looked upon by the ancients, the holy, the sinner and the saint. It is full of Mystery. And that's okay.

Wishing all of you joy in this season of Light,

K

Happy Holidays! Or, As We Say in Russia, Весёлого Рождества!

This was a major toddler morning.

For those of you who have kids, you'll know what I mean. For those of you who don't, simply picture a ten-car pile-up on the freeway, stir in a little background whining, some nuclear bombs exploding in the near distance, ten car alarms going off at once--and no one turning them off, and getting smacked in the face by an indignant little person. There, can you see it?

This was my morning. We were thirty-five minutes late to preschool, and I missed my twice-weekly hike in the national forest with my dog: a time I treasure, one I look forward to for days for the rich smell of the winter earth and the life-affirming cold of the air near the river, for the silence and the sight of my dog bounding up the trail ahead of me, for the thinking time. Instead, I barely managed to brush my teeth, throw on my bra and a fleece coat (I still wore the fleece pants I slept in), slap a toboggan on my head and tuck my daughter under my arm like Heisman, and make it to the school.

This was after the Mexican stand-off over the yogurt. It wasn't blueberry, and so really, it had it coming. The banana, bless its heart, became a giant crayon which my dear child used to smoosh into the coffee table, to "draw" with.  It was World War III over the coat, the right cup, the treatment of the dog. I said "gentle hands" and other inanities so many times I think I'll change my name to Rainman.

I have a pint-sized problem.

She's my little Czarina. My precious little despot. A two year-old schizophrenic with dimples and a killer left-hook. Here's her photo. (See how tall she is? She did NOT get this from me. That, and the tyranny she gets from her father. The big mouth may be my fault.)

Do not be fooled by the blonde hair and the dimples. She's a tyrant, I tell you. A gorgeous little centuries-old Russian despot. The other day, the despot came with me to the post office, and the postmistress gave her a few Priority Mail stickers to keep her happy. I stuck them on her chest and told her I was shipping her to Siberia. Or maybe her grandparents'.

Learning how to be a mother, a wife, a college teacher, and a writer--not to mention a functioning friend, family member and a generally good person at Christmastime--has been tricky. I'm about to add graduate student to this mix, and I've really avoided thinking much about it. I'm not sure if this is wise, but it's the way I'm going about it. That is, until Dec. 28th, when I fly to Vermont for my first ten-day residency in the MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. A stack of manuscript pages for my first VCFA workshop (which I'm seriously excited about reading) I've had to put at the bottom of the pile of to-be-graded English final exams and essays on my desk, simply to keep them out of sight. Because, I lack self-control when it comes to reading. Last night, I almost lost my just arrived copy of Diana Gabaldon's The Scottish Prisoner to the lukewarm depths of my bath. Because I fell asleep there. (Not because of the novel--it's fantastic. Because I. am. officially. an. old. person.)

I'm not sure how some writers do it. There's this famous anecdote about best-selling romance novelist Nora Roberts, and how she wrote her first novels at the breakfast table while her boys were eating cereal. I am not Nora Roberts. (Sigh.) In my life, I think the cereal could become airborn. A spoon makes a good catapult... I'm sure my little pumpkin pie would figure that out pretty quickly. She's sly. Maybe she's not Russian. Hidden beneath that exterior of sweetness is the soul of a secret agent. Maybe she's Mossad.

I swear I'm doing almost everything I can to spread Christmas joy. To be enveloped by the magic of the season, a magic I have so genuinely believed in since childhood. Our house is lit with white lights, candles in the windows; our tree is small but hardy, full of glowing bubble lights and beloved ornaments, our stockings hung by the chimney with care, our manger scene placed just out of the sweet little puddin' pie tyrant's reach. Heck, there's even a Santa hat on the rocking horse. We dig Christmas in this family, let me tell you.

See, here we are, enjoying Christmas. Look how calm the despot is. Can you see that blue hundred-yard stare? I think she's just biding her time.

Perhaps I can make a deal with that sweet little schizophrenic Czarina: give me back my precious toddler of yore, and you may return at 16. We'll even let you obscond with the peasants. But despots don't make deals, do they? I think I remember this from World History. They lop off heads. Or utilize efficient firing squads. So maybe I'll lay low, hide behind the dog, play "Frosty the Snowman" on the DVD player as many times as I possibly can, at least until my husband gets home. Until then, writing anything except for this blog post may have to be put on the back-burner, sad as it makes me.

Because a girl's got to make it through the day, нет?

Special Review Copies of Keowee Valley are Here!

A big, beautiful, brown box arrived at my door recently, bearing within it the Special Format Review Copies of my forthcoming historical novel, Keowee Valley. Since my two year-old was napping, I hefted the box in my arms, tip-toed across the hardwood floors of our 1940s house--trying not to trip over the 88 lb black lab at my heels--whipped a knife out of the chopping block, and went to town. I'd like to say that I slit open that box with the elegant precision of a heart surgeon, but since this is a moment I've been dreaming about since I was about 12 years old, I abandoned the knife halfway through and ripped, packing tape be damned.

I have to admit, it's a bit disconcerting to see your own face and name (in my case, three of them) on the covers of an 8 x 10 copy of a manuscript that you know, in less than a year, will be a book. I set the box beside my desk, which currently resembles a Jabba the Hut of exploding English essays, and stared at it. I gave it a wide berth on my way to other rooms. I eyed it warily, as if it'd pounce. And then I got to work.

Finding the right people--authors, industry experts, etc--to review your  novel and to perhaps provide a blurb or quote (or, God willing, praise) for it, is an interesting process, one into which I'm delving for the first time. A while back, after I'd finished the novel and found my literary agent, I did some big dreaming, forming a wish-list of authors for the job. Now that my novel has a home with Bell Bridge Books, and I've got those big, beautiful review copies in hand, that list has become a very real starting point--and a bit intimidating. Trying to convince experienced authors (some pretty darn famous) to take a chance on a debut novel and its fledgling writer is a much tougher process than you'd think.

So, I've reached out via whatever method I've found--email, Facebook, home addresses, agent addresses--with a letter of introduction and an earnest, honest request. I know that I'll be refused by most--they have, after all, their own novels and jobs and families tugging at their time--but maybe, just maybe, one of them will remember what it was like to be in my shoes, and give me a chance. It'll be interesting to see who does.

One very welcoming group I've discovered: bloggers. I've already had some great blogger/book reviewers request to read the novel and review it, and I'm hoping to discover plenty more. I just adore folks who love books, and love talking about books: they are my people.

My publisher will be sending out review copies to pertinent reviewers as well, but I'm all about being an active participant in the process. I think it's an adventure. And as anyone who knows me can tell you, I'm a sucker for a good adventure.

Stay tuned!

And, just because it makes me grin like a giddy kid, here's another photo of the Special Format Review copy of Keowee Valley:

Live from Asheville, it's...

As most of you know, my debut historical novel, Keowee Valley, will be published by Bell Bridge Books in August 2012 (HOO-rah). This Thursday, I'm going to get a chance to talk about the novel (and other things) live and on-the-air.

Here are the details:

On Thursday, Oct. 13 from 11 a.m. to noon, my teacher-writer colleague, Jennifer McGaha, and I will be live with Asheville, N.C. radio station 103.5 FM, in a segment called "Asheville and the Arts" with host Carol Anders. We'll be talking about writing, publishing, our current projects, and reading from our work. If you're in the Asheville area, please tune in! But if you're not, you can catch the program streaming live from the station web site: http://www.main-fm.org/. (Click the "listen" button at the upper left-hand corner of the page.)

(On a side note, my college students were simply disconsolate at the news that they won't have to come to English class that morning. I just don't know what they'll do.)

The Flurry of Fall

Though Friday is officially this year's first day of Fall, here in the mountains of Western North Carolina it's arrived early: bringing with it cooler temperatures, chilly rain, tulip poplars already yellowing, and, in our family, the annual advance into the attic.

Our house, a small bungalow-type with a random 1950s addition, was built in either 1948 or 1949, and our attic is a walk-up: albeit, precarious and musty, but still a generous space--which in our case means plenty of room for a multiplying assortment of plastic bins. Last winter, our fifth as a married couple in the mountains, my husband trekked into said attic and in a move of sheer valiance (and desperation) spent several weeks laying out insulation. (Our sweet house lacks insulation in the walls, in the attic, in the floors, and we keep it COLD.) The arrival of our daughter insisted we warm things up a bit. Honestly, it gets old seeing your breath crystallize before your face as you huddle in your bed beneath sheets, a fleece blanket, and a corduroy quilt the width and depth of Texas. So stay posted, this winter, to see how we fare. Ha.

Last week, I made the first journey into the attic for the winter clothes. This is an inaugural trip, and I look forward to it. I love digging through my favorite fleece jackets, winter boots, toboggan hats and scarves; love shaking out my favorite pair of corduroys, my plaid flannel shirts I've hung onto since the grungy '90s. Despite the dusty, musty smell, and the knowledge that I've got several loads of laundry to do and an insurgence to launch against the summer clothes occupying my closet, this ritual is a precursor to my absolute favorite time of year. Once I've done this, Fall may just be a little bit closer. (Two other rituals of the cinematic type include watching Runaway Bride--who doesn't love rural Maryland in Autumn, small-town shenanigans, and a little Julia Roberts/Richard Gere action?--and also pulling out my complete seasons of the Gilmore Girls. For some reason, I'm hooked on cool-weather settings, small towns, and witty dialogue. For some reason, it makes me feel like Fall.)

Yummy Richard Gere with his yummy silver hair. Gorgeous Julia. On horseback. Gotta love it.

Picturesque Stars Hollow, Connecticut. Yes, it's fictional, but I miss it; I do.

Moving along. This time of year, things are in a flurry. There are my classes to be taught (if you saw the state of my desk, and the stacks of papers to be graded--by tomorrow--you'd wrinkle your nose in disgust), my daughter to get squared away at preschool, my house to be cleaned and dusted and prepared for closed windows and heat, a lot of football to be watched, a website to be created (for my novel, Keowee Valley, forthcoming from Bell Bridge Books in Fall 2012... cough), writing--any writing--to be done, a yard to be cleaned and a wilting summer garden to be cleared, and a decidedly insane (though inspired) journey back to graduate school--and all the work this entails--for which to be prepared. I've also got to actually pay attention to my husband. Really. The man gets lost in the shuffle, and though he's understanding about it, I'd like to remedy that.

In the midst of the flurry, I am determined to live deliberately. To embrace the chaos. To become adept at my many roles. I swear it: the attempt will be worthy.

In other news, I'm still doing the happy dance (even in public) about my novel being published by BelleBooks/Bell Bridge Books in Fall of next year. The official title: Keowee Valley. My official "author name": Katherine Scott Crawford. (Which is my real name, by the way. Really.) Currently, I'm working on the author/novel website and on building social media with two friends, high school buddies who are web designing and PR pros. My husband, a marketing guy, is set to be guru. I'm hoping to have these things--web site, Facebook site, etc--up and running by the end of this year. Then, in January, editing should begin on my novel, and I couldn't be more excited and ready for, and open to, the entire process.

In the meantime, I'm looking for advice for managing the chaos, embracing the moment, and enjoying Fall to the fullest. On the menu: cooking black bean chili later today, heading to Death Valley to watch Clemson play (and hopefully, whup up on--sorry, Seminole fans) Florida State on Saturday, grading essays while possibly enjoying some Gere/Roberts repartee (don't tell my students), and apple-picking at a local orchard with family and friends, later in the month.

What are your big plans for the Fall? Here is my dog's plan:

End of an Era

Four years ago on an October afternoon, I was driving away from the Gallatin Field Airport in a purple P.T. Cruiser and into the curving gold of the Montana hills. I had a Montana highway map and a fat mug of airport coffee on the seat beside me, and my husband on the cell phone; he was following my route from his office back in North Carolina. The day was deepening, hills growing subtly darker, and as I drove the snow-capped Rockies began to engulf my little car. I felt free and fine as a bird in flight.

I started this blog because of that trip: I'd been awarded a full fellowship to the Montana Artist Refuge, an artists' enclave in a tiny, former mining town in Southwestern Montana called Basin, and I wanted an easy way to keep family and friends posted while I was there.

The fellowship couldn't have come at a better time. My husband and I had been married a little over three years, I was teaching as an adjunct English professor at a small, liberal arts college in Western North Carolina--a job I loved and poured my energies into, but one that took its toll on my writing (and our meager finances)--and I'd just begun to emotionally recover from a miscarriage that had occurred only four months before. An adventure was in order.

So many wonderful things came of my time at the Montana Artists Refuge, most of which are chronicled in my earliest blog posts from 2007 (see "Bring it On, Big Sky" to start). I wrote, and wrote; I slept alone for the first time in years. I hiked, and hiked, in some of the most incredibly stunning and patently visceral country I've seen in my life. And, I made a great friend. An essay I wrote about my time at MAR, "Deep Breathing Under Big Sky," won Third Place in the Santa Fe Writers' Project 2007 Literary Awards Program, judged by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Robert Olen Butler. But so much more than this came of that one shining month.


I felt like a writer. Sitting in that sparse room at my laptop, away from my world at home; hiking through the snow; talking and laughing with other writers; driving my ridiculous car to places I'd only dreamt about, like mysterious Yellowstone National Park and the haunting Big Hole Battlefield; floating weightlessly in the Boulder Hot Springs, talking of life with a friend and watching mule deer venture forth from dusk-lit spruce; buying groceries like a local in Butte; giving a novel reading at the Helena Book Festival; and doing it all courtesy of a fellowship: this was something BIG. It gave me hope.

Virginia knew what she was talking about when she said that in order to write, "a woman must have ... a room of her own."

Sadly, the place and the people that gave me my first true room of my own are closing their doors. These brutal economic times are taking their toll, and many are suffering, including the Arts and the Montana Artists Refuge. I can never repay their generosity, their hope in me, with neither words nor money--though I've attempted with both.

When I left the Montana Artists Refuge there was snow on the ground. Yellowstone National Park had closed to motorized vehicles for the winter, the highways and roads in the high mountain passes were littered with gravel, and I felt, driving away from it all, certain that I'd return.

I was, just maybe, a writer.

A Sale, a Start

Good things DO come to those who wait. (And persevere. And pray. But that's another story.)

I'm pleased to announce that I've sold my novel, KEOWEE VALLEY. A mainstream historical adventure and romance, it will be published in Fall 2012 by Bell Bridge Books. Set in the Revolutionary-era Carolinas and in the Cherokee Country, it's part the story of an independent young woman making a new life for herself against all odds, and part the story of an incredibly beautiful and dangerous country--and a mysterious, powerful people on the verge of life-altering change.

Whew. It's difficult to describe a 450+ page novel, particularly your own. I plan to get better at this as the year moves forward. The Publisher's Marketplace announcement does a much better job.

I couldn't be happier with my publisher(s). Bell Bridge Books is an imprint of Belle Books, a small to mid-sized (depending on whom you ask) press based in Memphis, T.N., which was founded and is run by smart, savvy women--most of them prolific authors. I had a chance to meet three of them in Asheville, N.C. a couple of weeks ago, and I walked away sure of my choice and hopeful for the future of my novel and my career. (I think I floated down the street. I wonder if anyone noticed?)

Going with a smaller press has many advantages, one of them being the opportunity to formulate and enact my own marketing plan in addition to the publishers'. So, while editing on the novel won't start until after the new year, I'm going to take the Fall to build a web site and to develop other opportunities for social media, etc. I've got some great guys helping me--my husband, and two of my best friends from high school--who are all experts in their fields (marketing and public relations).

This is going to be fun!

More about the process to come in the following weeks and months....