First Drafts

It's late January, and in Ohio, that usually means snow is covering the ground and black ice is waiting to trip you up at every turn. But it's been an unusual winter so far and I'm loving still having a green front yard. Not a pretty green yard, but one with good bones. Kind of reminds me of a flash first draft.

Allow me to explain my logic. A first draft, at least my first drafts, are a loosey-goosey compilation of scenes that may or may not fit together. It's definitely not pretty, just bare bones. Kind of like my  yard in winter. Where are the flowers? The nice stone edging marking the beds where the crocuses will rise out of the snow in March? The yard art that shows my personality, my style?

All that happens later. After I finish the first draft, and see that I actually do have a story to tell and that there's a happy ever after ending to it, I go back to the beginning and start adding in the flowers,  the roses with their musky smell, the heady strong scent of the lilies and the sweet-smelling hyacinths.

I'm working through the second draft of my new historical, which is very dear to my heart, since it's based on family lore. My uncle and I have had many conversations about what could have happened and how, and his ideas are very much in play with this story. I'm adding in the color, the details, to the story now, making room for those scenes I was in too much of a hurry to write during the first draft and smoothing out some of my transitions. Once I finish the slightly more polished second draft, I'll go back to the beginning and start again, adding in the little details that elevate a manuscript to a published work. 

I expect to be working on this story, tentatively called Dance With Destiny, until March or so. I expect, at some time during the long days of February, to have my yard covered with snow, and black ice will make walking hazardous. I hope to not get buried in it, like my friend in the DC area last week, but this is Ohio and this lovely weather can't last.

At least I know I have lots to do, many revisions to make before this manuscript will be ready for publication. I will load up my house with food, and laugh at the weather. I will work hard, and maybe, just maybe, by the time the crocuses poke their heads through the snow, I will have a polished manuscript that both my uncle and I can be proud of.

February in Ohio

If you've been following the weather in the States, you are already aware that it's been an exceptional winter for snow in the midwest and east. With at least a foot of snow on the ground, I've been spending a lot of time watching television.

Over the past few days, I've spent hours watching a pretty young lady whose business is buying old homes, fixing them and flipping them. In my younger days, I did just that with several properties, but could never afford to make it a business. There's something about rescuing a house and making it shine again, a feeling you don't get from anything else. This particular woman has a passion for accurate restoration. No open concept floor plans for her. She wants the original integrity of the house brought back again. I like that.

And it got me to thinking how rehabbing a house is similar to fixing a bad manuscript. You take it a room, or a chapter, at a time, and strip it back to its basics, making sure the good bones are there. Then, staying true to the type of house or story you have,  you add details, color, embellishments, fix the holes, and move on to the next. In the end, you'll have a house that stands taller now that it's once again pretty, or you'll have a manuscript that everyone wants to read.

And, if I'm no longer able to do the heavy lifting involved with an actual house rehab, I can use my experiences to write a story about it. Stay tuned.

Anticipation

Ohio’s been locked in a cycle of rain for the past week. I love rain, and fog is an all-time favorite. You know, the whole creeping in on little cat’s feet and all that. Carl Sandburg created a lasting image for me with that poem.

But Ohio’s precipitation in December is supposed to be in the form of snow, not rain. As I enter my fourth winter in Ohio after boomeranging back here, I am pleased to discover that I don’t hate snow as much as I did when I was a kid. Of course, back then, when we got a heavy snow, Mom would send us kids out with a thermos of coffee and we’d share it with any stranded motorists. Every time I tell that story, people say, “That was awfully nice of your mother.” True enough, but she wasn’t the one trekking through hip-deep snow.

Nowadays, I eagerly await the first snow of the year. I love the silence of falling snow. It’s not the hard, driving sound of rain on the roof, but rather like brushing a pussy willow with your thumb. I equate it to finishing a novel. The first snow is when you type the words “The End.” The world is quiet and blanketed in a soft white glow as you take a deep breath and raise your eyes from the computer screen. Then comes the endless revisions of January and February, where you’re forced to shovel the drive countless times in order to get yourself out there.

By the end of February, you’ve about had it with snow, and pray that the work you’ve produced over the winter will catch someone’s eye. Then you can begin planting seeds on various blog sites about your work and pray that you can attract some butterflies to the flowers that are your books.

So, for now, as I try to get to “The End” on one of my novels, I am eagerly awaiting the first snow of the year in Ohio. It may happen next week. Or the week after. Maybe we’ll have a white Christmas this year. And speaking of that, it’s time for me to watch “White Christmas” again—my family’s favorite Christmas show. I can finish that novel next week. Or the week after.

For those of you who have snow in winter, please share with me your favorite, or not so favorite (remember the thermos of coffee), memories of years gone by. And remember, there's only one week left to enter my contest to win an autographed copy of my debut novel, The Reluctant Debutante.

Prelude To Winter

  

When I decided to move back to Ohio, I knew I was walking into harsh winters, lots of snow and cold weather.  Winter was not much fun here when I was a kid, walking through snow drifts that threatened to bury me, and freezing my little fingers and toes. Yes, there were some fun times, like taking the breathtaking ride on the sled time after time, down Dead Man’s Hill. But more often than not, it was simple drudgery.

As fall begins to creep into the air now, and I see the leaves start to turn from green to gold, I have to admit, I’m eager for winter to arrive. I love the textures and sounds of this time of year—putting flannel sheets on the bed to replace the cool cotton sheets of summer; curling up in my big recliner with a warm chenille blanket thrown over my body and my soft little dog lying next to me; adding a log to the crackling fire; the crunch of an early frost on the grass as I tiptoe out for the morning paper.

I’m in the middle of editing my second novel, which is due to be released before the snow flies, and working on the third book in the series. So, my days are spent at the computer, editing and typing away in order to meet my deadlines. But, when I do come up for air, and let my dog, Mary, out into the yard, I note how many more leaves now litter the ground. And how the air is a bit crisper than it was yesterday. As soon as I finish these edits, I’m going to put a leash on Mary and take her for a long walk in the neighborhood. We’ve both earned an afternoon where we can enjoy this pleasant time of the year, which arrived in the middle of the night and will be gone before we know it. Here’s hoping your fall is filled with apple cider, warm fires and love.