Gwen Nell Westerman read at South Central College today–as part of the Sakatah series. She was a gift. Her language, her poetry, her humor, her pathos, all blended together so each poem was a gift: an encapsulated story-image that pulled at our heartstrings. I felt transported by each individual poem for that hour. As a reader, Gwen has a terrific sense of timing, too. She was able to let us down after each poem, maybe interject humor or a smile or comment, so we could collect ourselves for the next mini emotional journey. It was a wonderful reading. Today, I needed to hear beautiful poetry and be taken away for an hour.
Gwen Westerman’s poetry is magic: every single poem was a complete image that felt and could see with my inner eye. The hour flew past, and I loved every second. I needed that today. Gwen was a gift.
Today, I’m feeling as if I’m not quite all I’ve thought I am cracked up to be all these years. I’ve thought I’m a pretty good teacher. I think I’m a good writer–or at least a good reviser, enough so that my stories are fun to read. But today, I feel a little worried that I am evaporating. Maybe it’s because things are amiss at school, I’m frustrated with my agent, and my body isn’t performing quite as I’d like it to. I know why I feel this way. Because of my cold, I have only ridden my bike once in two weeks. That invaribly does this to me: no vigorous exercise? A slump of self-doubt always creeps in. That’s when it happens, so at least at this age, I know that about myself! I know I’ll climb out of the slump once I get back in routine.
My agent is a key in my feeling this way, however. My last book, Slider’s Son, which I truly believe IS a good story with likeable characters and a good plot, has received two rejections in the twenty-six months since George first received an earlier draft of the book. The first rejection was by Zondervan. Basically, they seemed to like the book, but rejected it because they wanted a little more history in it (not sure what that meant), and that I “don’t have a platform.” George and I eventually understood that to mean that I’m not writing from a platform of Christian fiction. My blog, my life doesn’t cry, “This is all about being Christian!” The second rejection, from Caulkins Creek, was from a thoughtful editor who gave me three pages of comments. I rewrote promptly, addressing each and every one of her concerns. The book is much better. Much. I sent that finished draft to George in early spring 2014. It took until July for him to submit it again. He gave Holiday House a one-month exclusive read. It’s been over three months now. And neither George nor his assistant have made any move to urge Holiday House to make a decision. At this rate, I don’t want to give George my next book. It’s timely and needs to move quickly. If he moves this slowly, as writing buddy Shelley Tougas says, I’ll be in the nursing home by the time Maddie and Rafi’s story sees the light of day.
Today, I found another obituary/memorial to a writer. She died at 72. This doesn’t seem unexpected or abnormal. The last writer I read about who died last week, died in her early seventies, too. If I’m on that clock, I only have FOURTEEN YEARS left and I better get crankin’! I can’t wait forever!
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