Never Surrender

It’s been a few months since I last blogged. Bet you all thought I was done with this writing thing, huh? The truth of the matter is that I’ve had both nothing and everything to blog about, which leads me to…avoid blogging altogether.

I wanted to craft a post on how miserable catching Covid was and all the secondary problems I ended up with that caused me to be sick for over a month. (Still considered a “mild” case.) I wanted to talk about how amazing my community was for coming together to deliver food and medicine when I was in absolutely no condition to go out and husband was fishing in the remote wilderness of Canada.

I thought about writing a post on the difficulties and disappointments of being a still-querying writer after almost 8 years, of having 9 manuscripts finished, having queried 5 of them and still not having agent representation. On the last book, 9 agents requested the full manuscript to review. Most of those came back as form rejections with no feedback. 2 came back as R&Rs, which means revise & resubmit. Translation: “The agent loves it, but there are some aspects that aren’t going to be marketable. Change those up and send it back.” I’m still working on those changes. (And 2 of the 9 are still out for consideration with agents.)

I debated writing about accepting life as a spoonie, about knowing my own limitations and realizing I need to live within them. My hiking days are over. Guess I’ll just have to find new things to dive into… But only after I figure out how to walk without pain. Realizing at age 43 that my mobility is already affected, I’m concerned for what the future holds. In a world that is already so intolerant of those with disabilities, it’s difficult not to be fearful of where I may eventually end up.

Today’s appointment with the podiatrist who did my surgery in 2020 resulted in a script for custom ankle braces to help stabilize my very unstable ankles when I walk. Maybe I’ll have the older teen paint iridescent dragon scales on my ankle braces. But first, I actually have to get them, which requires another appointment in two weeks for a custom mold. Who knows how long after that until I actually receive them? (Hope I can walk without (much) pain during our first college tour next month…) In the meantime, I’ve used the wait time as an excuse to purchase myself a much needed gift that I plan on using daily for my foot pain.

I thought of writing about healthcare in general. About the $1400 in medical bills we received in the mail for husband’s monthly injections to keep his cancer from advancing despite having met our deductible in – wait for it – FEBRUARY. I wanted to talk about having to spend hours on the phone to sort out the mishap to find out we don’t owe that money at all (as we already knew and the people issuing the bills did not). The mental gymnastics already ill people have to go through in this country every time they have to deal with doctors and hospitals is exhausting.

So here it is. My post about nothing and everything. And it’s not all bad. My kids are thriving, one involved in ice skating, one in volleyball. They are excelling in middle and high school and enjoying various clubs – art, science, language, and more. They love the school atmosphere. It’s gratifying to see how much they’ve persevered despite all that’s happened in the past two years.

Their perseverance is also a lesson for me, teaching me never to give up. Giving in? Sure. Life is all about making adjustments.

Giving up? Never.

#8pmWritingSprint

Any artist will tell you the key to progressing in an artistic endeavor is consistency. This applies to painting, drawing, digital art, music composition, and yes, writing. Maybe especially writing.

It should come as a surprise to exactly no one that, six months ago, I was deep in a writer’s block. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write–I really, REALLY did. Putting aside the very unexpected whirlwind that stemmed from my husband’s second cancer diagnosis in four years, I didn’t know where the story was going, I didn’t have a reliable outline, and I had zero motivation to sit down and get the words down. I was so paralyzed by my fear of taking the story in the wrong direction and disappointing readers that I basically took it in no direction.

Fast forward to November, a month when writers simultaneously delight and despair in NaNoWriMo, an attempt to get 50k words written in a single month, and I forced myself to get words written. I still didn’t know where the story was going, but I knew I could definitely bullshit my way through at least 10-20k words with random scenes that would probably find their way into the novel somewhere. So that’s what I did.

Hooray, block over!

If only.

I added 10k words to the already existing 30k I had for a grand total of–drumroll, please–40k. Or less than half the word count needed for this novel.

It wasn’t until January that I really found my motivation again. In chatting with author Margot Ryan on Twitter, who also seemed to be lacking proper motivation, we decided to sprint.

What’s that? Oh, no no! Not sprint-sprint. (I think we’ve covered this in earlier blogs. Lorraine doesn’t run. Lorraine’s joints will not allow such a thing to happen.) Anyway, I’m talking about a writing sprint. Set the timer, write as many words as you can get down in 25 minutes, take a 5-minute break, then do it all over again for another 25 minutes. Report back on Twitter each time with word count, and boom–sprint is over.

In January, I added 20k words to my novel. Yes, my 40k was now 60k. We’re a week into February, and guess what? My 60k is now 70k. I don’t know what it is about this sprint that forces my brain to work, but suddenly, plot lines are falling into place, characters are setting up perfectly for their next scenes, and everything about this book is cruising.

So apparently, my brain just needs the threat of being judged by my friends and peers. I didn’t want to report back that I’d stared at a blank screen the entire time, right??? I couldn’t possibly let everyone down by getting in only half a dozen words! That would be mortifying! I had to succeed. I had to shine. I had to win. Is this my leftover AP Honors student mentality from high school? Who knows? But it worked.

Accountability apparently really is key to my productivity. And consistency has played a big part because ever since that day, Margot Ryan and I have been running the #8pmwritingsprint every night, where writers at any stage of the game (outlining, writing, editing – whatever!) have joined us to focus on their WIPs in two 25 minute sessions. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. The writing community on Twitter is beyond anything I could have imagined when I first joined. I’ve met so many amazing people I’m proud to call my friends.

So if you’re in the mood to write, but you don’t know what, come sprint with us. I promise the looming threat of your peers judging you will kick your brain right into a productive session. If nothing else, we’ll be there to cheer you on! (Because no one in the #8pmwritingsprint actually judges anyone. It’s not a competition. It’s a mini-intensive. Every night.)

Community is where it’s at. And the #8pmwritingsprint has it in spades. Come join us!

The Train

I wrote this essay months ago, just as schools across the country opened amidst a worldwide pandemic, and we faced yet another unique set of challenges in the Storms household. Months later, as 2021 comes to a close and the schools plan to open on schedule starting January 3, 2022 regardless of the dramatic spike in local Covid cases, I feel, again, that I’ve boarded a train I just can’t seem to disembark no matter how hard I try.


“You’re waiting for a train. A train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don’t know for sure. Yet it doesn’t matter, because we’ll be together.”

The words are from Inception, a 2010 blockbuster film that delved deep into dreams, and challenged the nature of reality with delightful, mind-boggling cinematic special effects. I introduced it to my kids recently, and after initially groaning about having to watch my choice of movie, my teen and tween couldn’t tear their eyes from the television.

Now, several weeks later, the quote about the train strikes me as particularly relevant. Facing a secondary liver cancer diagnosis after four years of being free from a rare pancreatic cancer diagnosis, husband and I feel as though we’ve boarded a train with no idea of our destination.

When people say “Cancer sucks,” the phrase should be taken literally. Cancer sucks your life away. It sucks away your dreams, your plans, your future, your hopes. It sucks away your children’s innocence and their childhood, leaving worry and anxiety in its wake. Cancer sucks away your motivation and your ability to do things as simple as figure out what’s for dinner tonight. Your mind is no longer yours because the thoughts you once dwelled on no longer seem important.

We don’t know how or why Nate developed a pancreatic neuroendocrine tumor four years ago, and having seen some of the best doctors in the country, we were confident that the cancer had been eradicated through a surgical procedure that left him with half a pancreas, no spleen, and no gallbladder. (That’s a distal pancreatectomy with splenectomy and cholecystectomy, if you’re in the market for medical terminology. Try saying that to your friends and family for months on end.) Even though he had complications that left him with increasingly larger drain tubes in his abdomen for six months, which meant we took nineteen trips to Philadelphia in a matter of twenty-three weeks—sometimes spending more hours on a train and in a car than we did in Interventional Radiology—we were optimistic that his cancer was history.

Since Nate’s most recent diagnosis, my mind is like a laundry room dryer, endlessly spinning the same pieces of clothing in dizzying circles. Only, the “pieces of clothing” are my thoughts, tumbling round and round, trying to piece together the information I’ve been given, sure that if I just think hard enough, I’ll be able to make sense of this diagnosis, to solve this hundred-thousand-piece puzzle that has no marked beginning and no good end.

And yet, once you’ve been given a cancer diagnosis, the idea of cancer never really goes away, even when you’ve been pronounced “cured.” Each time Nate gets a follow-up CT scan, we hold our breath. With each clear result, we release a sigh and get back to living, to work and school, to navigating the challenges of living in Covid-pandemic times. To celebrate his 3-year cancer-free anniversary, we donated blood together last year.

Then, two-weeks ago came the scan we’d been dreading since the start—the one with glaring anomalies on his liver. If a first-time cancer diagnosis was the earthquake of uncertainty that brought our world to a grinding halt, a secondary cancer diagnosis eighteen months into a worldwide pandemic is the tsunami that threatens to take down everything we’ve built.

The future we’ve allowed ourselves to envision in our imagination after those first shaky months and years since the initial diagnosis has once again been wiped clean to a blank slate of the unknown. His oncologist seems optimistic. The embolization procedure they want to use to starve the tumors by killing the blood flow that feeds them has a history of success.

But long-term success? That’s an outcome no one can predict.

We’ve unwittingly boarded a train with a mystery itinerary, and I have a funny feeling our journey won’t be like the tours offered by travel agencies to globetrotting hodophiles, since I sincerely doubt we’ll be allowed to disembark in Curaçao or Portugal.

Somehow we’ve managed to climb aboard the cancer train in the middle of a pandemic. This feels grossly unfair as we can’t even actually travel right now, and yet, the cancer train is still making all its regularly scheduled stops. To add insult to injury, once we’re on the cancer train, we’re not allowed off until the train comes to a complete stop and the doors open, which means we’re in for one hell of a ride. One might say the train is more like a roller coaster, and my family knows exactly how much I loathe noisy, rickety, vomit-inducing roller coasters.

The last time we went through this, we were reluctant to allow close friends and family to get wholly involved, but there were times we had no other choice. When Nate needed surgery during the last week of school, it was my newly-retired father who came to stay with my kids and pets while local friends drove the kids to and from school.

When Nate spiked a fever in the middle of the night two weeks after his drain tube was put in, we counted our blessings that our kids’ piano teacher could come over at midnight to stay with our already-sleeping seven- and eleven-year-olds.

When I was distraught because I had to tell the kids we couldn’t go out for simple treats like movies or ice cream because money was stretched thin and we just didn’t know what the next day would bring, an internet-made friend from halfway across the country begged for my address and sent gift cards so the kids could experience what kids should, even in—and maybe especially in—the worst of times.

When our trips to Philadelphia took longer than anticipated, or the train (the real train, not the metaphorical one) broke down and we had to walk twenty blocks, our neighbors were here to pick up our children from school, watch them, help them with homework, and feed them dinner until we came home, deflated and utterly exhausted.

So when he received the diagnosis this time, I wasn’t surprised by the outpouring of love and support from friends and family near and far. Offers to watch our pets, our house, our kids, make meals, or start a crowdfunding campaign were endless. Despite their own exhaustion, regardless of pandemic fatigue, friends and family provided us with a safety net of physical, emotional, and practical support.

“Whatever you need,” they said.

But what happens when you don’t know what you need?

Personally, I think I could use a two-hour full body massage and a week sitting at the beach to forget about the world, but that’s not going to happen right now. Instead, I get to homeschool an eleven-year-old who’s on our public school’s virtual learning platform due to Covid, but who, only months ago, was diagnosed with severe anxiety and OCD with ADHD tendencies, which means there’s no way she can tackle this amount of work on her own without my help. I play the role of a sixth grade teacher frequently in our house, and we’re only a week and a half into school. The pandemic may have made virtual schooling necessary, but cancer has made me not near as patient a teacher as I should be.

I’m a writer who is two and a half books deep into a fantasy trilogy, who promised my readers a third book by February of 2022, but who may have to break that promise for no reason other than that my brain won’t let me process words, let alone figure out plot and character arcs. So cancer has taken that, too, or at least pushed the completion of that final book to a distant train platform somewhere in my future.

I’m a mother who’s responsible for getting kids to volleyball practice, piano lessons, doctor appointments, dentist visits, and therapy appointments (because after a cancer diagnosis, we all have anxiety disorders in this house). That was the deal my husband and I made when I quit my full-time job five years ago in exchange for part-time work that allowed me more time to focus on writing, but cancer has taken that time and filled it instead with phone calls, emails, appointments, and endless, endless research.

And now I once again play the role of caregiver to a two-time cancer patient. (Which, for the record, is not nearly as exciting as being a two-time Academy Award winner.) I made a promise to my husband eighteen years ago that I’d be here for him in sickness and in health. As many times as it takes, no matter the destination, I’ll board any train with him, anywhere, always.

I am grateful for our support network. I’m grateful that no matter how fast this cancer train seems to have whisked us away, we have dozens, maybe hundreds, of people who are banging on the doors, breaking the windows, clinging to the roof, or hanging onto the steps of that train, ready to help us in whatever way possible.

I just wish I knew where the train was going.

2021 Wrap Up

Every year I do a quick summary of what I’ve accomplished in my writing career and sometimes what I’ve accomplished in life. It’s a great way to look back and realize I actually *have* been pretty busy, no, I *wasn’t* slacking as much as I thought, and hey, this year wasn’t so bad. (Covid and cancer aside.)

Writing Life

Books published: 0
eBooks published: 0
Signing events attended: 2
Independent Book Award Entries: 6
Book Awards Won for A Thousand Years to Wait: 1 first place (Young Adult Fiction), 1 second place (Cover Design) , 1 honorable mention (New Author Award), (plus 3 outstanding until 2022)
Online Writing Retreats Attended: 3
Failed In-Person Writing Retreat Attempted: 2
Online Writing Webinars Taught: 1
Personal Essays Written: 1
Manuscript words written: >125,000
YA manuscripts finished: 1
PB manuscripts finished: 5
YA manuscript WIP: 1
Adult manuscript WIP: 1
Manscripts queried: 3
Queries sent: 104
Query rejections: 57
Query no response: 23
Queries still open: 20
Partial Manuscript Requests: 3 (1 from a 2020 query)
Full Manuscript Requests: 2
Total accumulative completed manuscripts (2011-2021): 13
Online pitch contests entered: 1
Blog posts written: 16
Books read: 50
Friends’ Manuscripts read: 3
Blurbs appearing on published books: 1
Writing friends made: Never enough! Writers, find me on Twitter.

Personal Life

Returning cancer diagnosis: 1 (husband😭)
Days spent helping to kick cancer’s ass: 126
Bland Embolization procedures & hospitalizations for husband: 2
Family Covid tests taken: 8 (all negative)
Medical Bills: Infinite
Days spent as 6th grade homeschool/virtual school teacher: 119
Stray animals found: 2 dogs, 1 cat, 1 chicken
Stray animals rescued: 2 dogs, 1 cat, don’t ask about the chicken (I tried!)

Identity

One of the biggest rules in writing stories of any length is “write what you know.” That’s not to say I know anything about real magic, or talismans, or chaos. I mean, really, who really does? (Well, okay, I know a *little* about chaos these days.)

But the bigger takeaway from this rule is generally that you shouldn’t write from an identity that isn’t yours. White folks shouldn’t try to write from a Black point of view in their novel. Or a Maori warrior. Or an Egyptian prince. Or a Native American. Or…

Okay, you get my point.

Wait! What? But there are so many amazing and diverse stories out there to be told! Why wouldn’t we write them?

Because there are also so many amazing and diverse writers of all different identities who can (and should) tell them, and they won’t get that chance if someone else dominates the narrative.

So what happens when you’re a third/fourth generation American immigrant whose family has been in the country for a hundred years and whose ethnicity looks like this?

Who are you? And what stories do you write?

This is something I’ve been pondering a lot lately as I read books from authors with cultural ties around the world. What I find as I read them, though, is that even though the authors are American, many times they have direct ties to the cultures they write about; they’re typically first or second generation immigrants whose very lives are influenced daily by the part of the world they (or their parents) came from.

Take, for example, Lauren Blackwood’s Within These Wicked Walls, an Ethiopian-inspired fantasy by a Jamaican-American author; Children of Blood & Bone by Tomi Adeyemi, a Nigerian-inspired fantasy written by a Nigerian-American; An Ember in the Ashes by Pakistani-American author Sabaa Tahir; or Forest of a Thousand Lanterns, an East-Asian-inspired fantasy by Julie C. Dao, a Vietnamese-American.

These books are positively amazing, their storytelling lush, their settings fresh and rich with detail, the history unknown to me, the folklore like nothing I’ve read before. I fall into these stories with reckless abandon, a constant thirst for more, more, more.

But it also leaves me wondering…

What kind of fantasies should I be writing…if, that is, I should be writing fantasies at all?

My ethnicity is over 60% Italian, but my ancestors came to America in the immigration boom of the 1910s and 1920s, so beyond my grandmother’s recipe for pasta sauce (ahem, gravy), I have virtually no claim on my Italian ancestry. I wouldn’t feel remotely qualified to write an Italian-inspired fantasy. In fact, I would think only someone from Italy (or maybe a first generation Italian-American) could do justice to an Italian-inspired fantasy.

And if I can’t write Italian-inspired fantasies, then I’m *certainly* not qualified to write from any other part of my ancestry (even if I’ve often been tempted to lean into my Croatian heritage).

So what does that leave?

American fantasies?

I’m plagued suddenly by images of fantasies featuring the Wild West, a time period which I neither understand nor romanticize about. No, but really? How can there be an American-inspired fantasy? Our country was founded on land stolen from entire murdered civilizations, then established further as a “cultural melting pot” (Isn’t that the term they used in third grade?) with no one, single culture comprising our identity as Americans.

All this to say, as ethnically-mixed Americans who’ve been in this country long enough to no longer have strong cultural ties to our roots, but not nearly long enough to rival true Native Americans, what defines us? What makes us eligible to tell, or not tell, certain stories? And how do we know which ones are ours to tell?

I don’t have the answers.

I’m genuinely asking.

How to Make Lemonade

The day after husband’s oncologist used the ‘C’ word at his 4-year followup visit, he got up early to go fishing. (A common occurrence in our household, as our friends and acquaintances know well.) When he returned, he was mumbling to himself as he walked in the front door, but I caught only the tail end of the conversation as he headed through the house and to the shower.

“Just need to figure out how to make lemonade. That’s all.”

But making lemonade isn’t something you do with rotten lemons, and I’ve been pondering his words ever since. So I did something new today. I wrote an essay and submitted it for publication.

An essay.

Me.

I wrote an essay. Something that didn’t involve fictional characters, magic, and dragons.

I haven’t done that since my college days. But today, as my fifteen-year-old slogged through a 500-word essay on The Scarlet Letter (which, for the record, she hated, and let’s be real, who doesn’t?), I, too, tapped away at the computer keys, crafting a story of all we’ve been through in the past four years since Nate’s initial cancer diagnosis. Before I knew it, I had almost 1600 words of love, fear, support, uncertainty – pretty much everything that sums up life with a secondary cancer diagnosis in the middle of a worldwide pandemic.

Maybe it will go nowhere. Maybe it doesn’t need to go anywhere. Maybe I just needed to write it.

But I hope it’s accepted somewhere that will reach thousands of people, not because I want recognition, but because if my words can somehow help others who are also struggling through dark times, then I’ve succeeded in making lemonade out of some pretty nasty lemons. And that’s something.

Try

Have you ever wanted something in your life so badly you can’t imagine living without it? Have you ever felt that if someone just gave you a chance, you know you could succeed?

This?

Is every writer I know. Every dreamer.

We write, we create. We make real our fantasy worlds, give breath to characters who live only in our minds until our words bring them to life. We pursue our love of storytelling, of words, of poetry, of sound – all without ever knowing what success, if any, our words will bring.

I watch writers around me succeed. (And I cheer, my friends. I cheer!)

But more often, I watch them fail. Then I watch them fail again. And again. Some shove the words away into a deep, dark drawer, never to be seen again, thoroughly convinced they aren’t “the chosen” writer or they haven’t produced “the chosen” work the world wants to see.

More often than not, they are wrong. More often than not, there are simply too many ways to stumble when it comes to publishing, and it has nothing to do with the writer at all. How many Harry Potters never made publication? No, I don’t mean how many times was Harry Potter rejected. I mean how many other stories are just as marvelous, just as fantastical, just as ready for the eager eyes of excited readers? Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Perhaps even thousands.

Thousands of manuscripts with talented, good-hearted authors behind their fiery pages, and marvelous minds behind the creation of their worlds. But these stories may never be seen, may never be known. Because in the end, publishing is a business and business is about money.

Oh, how much art has been lost to money!

My heart weeps for the number of manuscripts I’ve known (both my own and those written by friends) that may never make an editor’s desk, and, therefore, may never see the inside of even the smallest bookstore or library.

But, writers.

Do not walk away. Failure is only failure if you stop trying. So, friends?

Try.

The world needs your words.

Fakers, Bakers, and Music Makers – Bonding via Unforgettable Characters

How do you sum up a weekend adventure that had approximately 865,342 high points?

I’m not sure I can, but I’ll at least attempt to highlight a few moments that made my time at the #UCIJretreat2021 amazing and memorable and oh-so-worth-it. (That’s Unforgettable Characters & Incredible Journeys, in case you were wondering.)

A few months ago, author Ralph Walker put out a call for writers. The response was overwhelming, and RW successfully arranged a virtual retreat via Zoom for 20 lucky writers to learn plotting techniques and how to dive deep when it comes to creating memorable characters. In the retreat’s inaugural weekend, writers from all walks of life and all stages of writerhood (Is that a word? It is now.) gathered in their Brady Bunchesque Zoom boxes to talk craft, brainstorm, laugh, and have a good time.

I’m happy to report I was one of those lucky writers. One might wonder: How much can a writer learn from…other writers? The answer is a lot. The thing about writing is that there’s never a time you’re done learning. There’s never a point where a writer can say they’ve mastered the craft so expertly that there’s nothing more to be learned from others. (I guarantee you this is still the case even for Stephen King and Nora Roberts. I promise they, too, can still learn. Knowledge is like Thanksgiving dinner. You may think you’re full, but there’s always room for dessert.)

Plus, friends. Who doesn’t want new friends!? So many writers I’d known via Twitter, but had never gotten to actually know on a more intimate level, and now I had the opportunity! And they write everything. I followed along with characters from everywhere and anywhere (hence the title of this post) and what a ride it was. I fell into so many amazing worlds and so many raw emotions.

To read the words of a fellow writer is a special gift. It’s an invitation into a person’s soul, into their world, into a special place in their heart, and no one who reads a writer’s words should take that honor lightly. I am so very grateful to have been trusted with the words of so many kindred spirits.

As you might have guessed by the name of the retreat, the weekend encompassed creating unforgettable characters and incredible journeys. We discussed what makes a character unforgettable and how to take a reader on a journey with all its rollercoaster twists and turns while still providing an explosive ending that delivers.

And the swag! Did I mention the swag? A box full of goodies and treats, writer fuel (coffee and tea), a #5amwritersclub mug, stickers, and an organized binder chock full of information. It’s clear RW put a lot of work into this retreat, and how grateful I was to have been on the receiving end of it!

Plus, secret envelopes. Did I mention the secret envelopes? RW is a master at the secret envelopes and they were filled with…

Wait.

…if I tell you, they won’t be secret anymore. I guess you’ll just have to apply for the Fall 2021 UCIJ Retreat to find out.*

Bonded by a shared retreat. Love these faces!

*Seriously, do it.

Slogging

We don’t talk enough about how difficult writing really is. I mean, as writers, we talk a lot about how much we love writing. Characters – yay! Plot – so good! Setting – build those worlds, Queen! Tropes – all the tropes!

“I can’t wait until you can all see what I see in my head! Ahhhh!”

Hey. <snaps fingers>

Over here.

Yeah. I have some tough news to deliver. You* actually need to sit down and put those pieces together into a coherent story word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph, chapter by chapter. Before others can share in the excitement, you* have to create the thing you* say you’re* so excited about creating.

Well, damn.

I guess that means writing words. And that probably means blogging about how writing is difficult doesn’t contribute to the story I’m currently slogging through.

(And reading about someone else’s difficulty writing doesn’t contribute to the story you’re supposed to be writing either. So why are you still here? Go write.)


*By “you,” I clearly mean me.

2020 Wrap Up

I shoot some stats just about every year, mostly to prove to myself that, yes, I *am* actually moving forward in this thing called a writing career.

Given the craziness of 2020 all around, *I* wouldn’t even blame me if I’d chosen to fall off the face of the earth, or hide under a blanket and never come out. But we’re stronger than that here in the Storms household. Which means, nevertheless, we persist.

And persist we did.

2020 Writing

Books published: 1
eBooks published: 1
Signing events attended: 0 – Thank you very much, COVID. (Also, get your vaccine so you can come to 2021 signings. Because they will be happening as soon as I get my vaccine and the world is in a better place all around.)
Independent Book Award Entries: 4
Manuscript words written: >90,000
YA manuscripts finished: 1
PB manuscripts finished: 1
YA manuscripts started: 1
Adult manuscripts started: 1
Manscripts queried: 3
Queries sent: 96
Query rejections: 55
Query no response: 33
Queries still open: 19
Total accumulative completed manuscripts (2011-2020): 7
Online pitch contests entered: 2
Blog posts written: 11
Number of new SCBWI critique group members discovered: 1 (We’re up to 5 in our cozy little group!)
Writing friends made: Never enough! Writers, find me on Twitter.

Happy Holidays, friends! I hope you’re all safe and healthy and happy and that 2021 brings new and great things. (Preferably all good things, no more disasters and viruses, please. 2020 brought plenty of that, thanks.)

Much love to you all, from my house to yours! xo

Santa came to our house. If you celebrate, hopefully he visited you, too!