I've been meaning to post an update for what feels like a lifetime. Some days I'll even log on -- then I'll see my last post, my final tribute to WunderGuy, and I'll feel all the energy drain out of me.
Nothing I want to write seems appropriate for The Next Post. Compared to losing Robert, everything seems trite. Unimportant. Frivolous.
I thought of closing up shop -- shutting the blog down and calling it quits. Some days I could muster no answer to the question of "What's the point?"
But there is an answer: Life goes on.
I can't be blog blocked forever. Robert may be gone, but the world continues to spin. So I'm going to take Robert's fix-all tech-guy advice. Whenever I would get stuck and grumble with frustration (I can grump with the best of them, let me tell ya), he would ask: "Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on?"
For the past 6 months, this blog has been turned off. Now it's time to turn it back on.
This summer, God willing, I've got plans to launch another blog. And maybe a newsletter (further bulletins as events warrant). This will remain up and running, but it's going to go through a makeover.
By my estimate, there are roughly 13 bazillion blogs and websites out there that dispense writing advice. More power to them. In the near future, I'm going to spend some time archiving and culling a lot of the posts from the past 12 years. I'll leave some of the most popular ones up. (This post on "How to Write a Foreword," for instance, is one of the first things you see if you Google the question. It'll stay.) I'll also continue to help new and struggling writers in my workshops and at Write2TheEnd. But I'm going to blog less about the writing process and more about the way-cool stuff I keep running across in my research for various writing projects.
Eighth grade graduation. It's a thing.
[Lately, I'm all about runaway slaves in eighteenth century America and Pickett's Charge at the Battle of Gettysburg. Oh, and historical UFO sightings. Research FTW!]
So this post kicks off life post-WunderGuy. It's greyer. Lonelier. Some days feel like they are encased in fog, cloying, thick, and heavy. But there are good things, too. A partial list of Things That Make My World a Better Place:
* My kid. She is awesome and funny and lovely; she laughs at my jokes and joins in on loud, word-tripping renditions of the "Hamilton" soundtrack. Plus, she rocks the tiny kitty headband like no one's business.
* Dogs. Mine (I've got four -- all essential for my health and well-being) as well as others'. Kestrel's dignity, River's enthusiasm, Zephyr's devotion, and Major's pure silliness make every day worthwhile.
* Friends. Friends who brunch, breakfast, and lunch are invaluable. So are the friends who share their cool artistic talents, who shame me into going to the gym, and who indulge in over-eating sugar-based foodstuffs to counteract that whole gym nonsense.
* Sunshine. Do not mock me. I live in Michigan. We do not take the Golden Orb for granted. Rather, we celebrate it when it makes an appearance.
* Chocolate. And raspberry sherbet. And Hot Tamales. And anything salted caramel or toffee.
* Coffee. Some days all it takes is a hot cuppa to make life worth living.
* Creativity. No one lives forever. But when we're gone, the work remains. Plus, nothing matches the creative high. Nothing.
Maybe you're in a place that could use a little life rebooting too. Maybe you feel like you've been turned off and are ready to power back up. If so, why not try making a list of things that make your world better? See if it helps you. And feel free to add to my list. We're all in this together.
On Saturday, December 3, shortly before 10 a.m., Robert, my husband of 28 years and my best friend for over 3 decades, passed away.
Robert had a great sense of humor, but he was never a great joke teller. Though one of our first dates including trading increasingly awful jokes, punch lines were never his forte. For years there has been only one joke that he told often and well: I want to die peacefully, in my sleep, like my grandfather... (slight pause for effect) Not yelling and screaming like the passengers in his car.
He got his wish. No joke.
On Saturday, the house was crawling with people who came to pay their respects and to keep me company.
The Hospice nurse came shortly after I called her. Though Robert had been unable to communicate or to respond for several weeks, I'd gotten in the habit of speaking to him as if he could understand everything that was going on around him. I had to resist the urge to introduce him to the Hospice nurse and explain to him the reason she was in the house.
The nurse pronounced him dead, signed an official-looking piece of paper, and then began a seek-and-destroy mission for Robert's meds. With my husband's body lying behind me, those of us who were alive and remained dumped his medication into a plastic baggie full of kitty litter to create a goopy toxic sludge.
I spent the day calling friends and family to tell them the news.
My gorgeous 20 year-old boyfriend.
Later in the afternoon, Bryan and Kendyll, came from the funeral home. They put Robert's body on a gurney and covered it with a black plastic body bag. The bag had a multi-colored quilt design on it; oddly homey. I remarked on it. "He didn't strike me as a red velvet type of guy," Bryan said, which made me realize that every time he gets a call, he has to make a decision -- red velvet or homey quilt? -- about someone he has likely never met.
Friends came, and kept coming, offering condolences, bringing cookies, asking what they could do to help.
On Sunday, the medical supply company came and retrieved Robert's hospital bed that had dominated our little living room and the wheelchair that was parked at our dining room table. In the space of a few hours, much of the trappings of this past year, the physical markers of Robert's slow demise, were gone.
Robert and I met in the early weeks of our freshman year at Andrews University. In those days, before cell phones, night owl me stayed up with some friends and prank called the boys' dorm. One of the numbers I called was Robert's. We ended up talking for over two hours.
The next day, as I was standing in the cafeteria line with my boyfriend, I heard "Hey Ami!" When I turned, a boy waved at me. "It's Robert!" Shortly after that, we started dating.
On our second date, he asked me to marry him. Which freaked me out. Of course I said "no"! I told him to wait a year, and if we were still together to ask again. We married four years later, the week after we graduated.
Our engagement photo.
I suffer from Only Child Syndrome: I have enormous personal space and I enjoy being alone. Robert: not so much. He was the first person I was ever able to spend 24 hours with and not get totally sick of. For the past 10 years, with the exception of his hospital stays, we've spent practically all day, every day together. I never got tired of him.
The funeral home provided a form for me to fill out that helped Bryan craft Robert's "official" obituary. In a few short paragraphs, it mentions his education, his profession, his church involvement, and his hobbies. I approved it and they posted it. In a way, that's all there is to say. But the those few paragraphs don't do justice to my guy.
For instance, there is no mention of the fact that though he liked super spicy food, really hot stuff gave him the hiccups -- and that always made me laugh.
He had a true geek's love of all things Star Trek and Star Wars. C.S. Lewis, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Terry Brooks, and Eoin Colfer were all quotable friends. We had such a shared repertoire of books and TV shows and movies that we practically had our own language of references and in-jokes. (One friend called it "Hendrickson-speak" and lamented that, though she understood every word we said, she had no idea what we were talking about!) I miss that.
I miss his bright blue eyes, his beautiful smile, his easy laugh, and his calm, genuine presence.
Robert was always warm, always generous, always honest, always real. He was my WunderGuy.
Earlier this month, my dear friends Barbara, Kathy, Kim, and Lisa put on a Reader's Theatre event to benefit our family as we deal with the fallout of WunderGuy's rapidly failing battle with this last brain tumor. I presented "The Crisis Cure" as part of the event. Here's the video:
The following is an updated version of that piece...
THE CRISIS CURE
It’s
mid-June. My husband, Robert, who had his fourth and final brain surgery at the
end of January, has been home from the hospital less than two weeks.
Robert’s
right side doesn’t work very well. He can’t walk more than a few steps, and
that only with assistance. He thinks he can do more, so he randomly gets up off
of the wheelchair or bed or toilet, only to crash to the floor. I’ve learned
the medical description ofthis is “his
brain writes checks his body can’t cash.” He literally must be watched every
moment of every day. He can feed himself, brush his teeth and use the urinal. His
speech is limited. He sleeps 2 or 3 hours at a time. So I sleep 2 or 3 hours at
a time. We are in crisis. We’ve been in crisis all year, it seems.
Obviously,
given our situation, we are top-tier candidates to invite to a sushi party. Which
is exactly what our friends Dana and Jeff Johnston do.
It doesn’t
matter that they have to figure out a way to cobble together a ramp so Robert’s
wheelchair can navigate the steps into their house. It takes five people, all
crowded around my man, grabbing various pieces of his chair, heaving and
pushing and pulling up two sets of stairs, but we find a way.
The
Johnstons go all out. The table is packed with big bowls of sticky rice, green sheets
of nori, tofu, eggs, julienned carrot and squash and cucumber, pickled burdock
root, marinated mushrooms, avocado slivers, and more. Little bowls of dipping
sauces, ranging from salty to spicy, complete the set up. We take turns using
the square bamboo mat, each assembling his or her masterpiece of flavors, then
rolling it, slicing it, and passing it around for everyone to sample.
We roll and
eat and laugh and talk for two hours. The whole time, I am thankful for my
blessings: thanks to my friends, crisis is averted for awhile.
It is the
end of July. Robert is on his second round of experimental chemotherapy. The
docs aren’t suggesting that it will reduce the existing brain tumor. We just hope
it will slow the growth.
Robert can
feed himself, but it takes effort. He can brush his teeth. He gets confused and
mistakes the urinal for a waterbottle. So he wears briefs at night. I have
learned to say “briefs” instead of “diapers.” I get up once or twice a night to
change him. We are still in crisis.
Clearly,
what we need is an arty party.
Which is
exactly what my friend Kelly Smith (who had the audacity to move away because
she found gainful employment elsewhere) brings when she visits. In addition to
delicious homemade pesto and bread, she totes a stack of coloring books and a
rainbow of colored markers and pencils. We sit at my dining room table and hang
out and catch up; exactly as we would do if there weren’t a hospital bed taking
up most of my living room floor and if my husband weren’t incapacitated. It’s not
a way I’ve spent many Sunday afternoons in my life, but it’s the most normal
thing I’ve done in months.
“This is
wonderful,” I say, my mouth crammed full of chocolate banana bread. “Exactly
what I needed.”
“I wasn’t
sure,” Kelly confesses. “So I Googled ‘What To Do For a Friend in Crisis.’ It
said, ‘Don’t ask what to do. Just do something. Something specific. Something
you’d like if the situation were reversed.’”
Crisis cured.
For now.
It’s August.
Not only did the experimental chemotherapy not work, there is some indication
that it contributed to two possible brain bleeds. No more chemo. No more
experiments. No more... anything. The docs are out of options. They talk about
hospice, but we’re not ready to go down that road yet.
Most of the
time, Robert can still feed himself, but it takes forever. I brush his teeth. I
bathe him. I dress him. He wears briefs all the time now. He no longer launches
himself out of his chair or his bed, thinking he can walk. He no longer walks
at all. The crisis continues.
And yet...
Nick
volunteers to watch Robert while I take our daughter to school so I don’t have
to figure out a way to get him up and dressed and out the door first thing in
the morning.
Thanks to Wendy,
a surprise delivery brings eight big boxes of necessities to our door: briefs,
exam gloves, mattress protectors. And I am overwhelmed with gratitude. Because,
believe me, nothing says “I love you
and I’ve got your back” like absorbent disposable underwear and diaper wipes.
Stacey, my
roommate from college visits from Ohio and chucks her diet so we can spend a
weekend self-medicating with chocolate.
Karen, whom
we haven’t seen in years, flies in from California to spend time watching silly
shows and reconnecting.
CoffeeCoffeeCoffeeCoffee!
Alyson
sends me two 10-pound shipments of high-end “bougie” coffee. A devout Mormon,
she wouldn’t know good coffee if it scalded her. “I didn’t know what to get,
but knew you drank decaf,” she said. “So I got some of every kind of decaf they
had.”
Other
friends help in ways too numerous to count.
Some sit
with Robert so I can get out of the house.
Some are
willing to make time in their busy schedules to meet for coffee or breakfast
whenever I can get away for a moment.
Some send
notes of encouragement. Some call to chat.
Some pray
without ceasing for healing. For strength. For courage. For peace.
Some
collude together and plan a benefit for our family and talk me out of my
initial prideful skepticism and into the idea.
Maybe they
Googled “Crisis Friends” as well. Because each one helps part the clouds that
hover overhead to let the sun shine through.
It’s the beginning of November.
Robert cannot shift his own weight. He cannot feed himself. He cannot hold
himself upright. He cannot hold a conversation. He responds best to “yes / no”
questions – and even then, you have to double- and triple-check his answers to be
sure of what he means to say. Often, the words he says make no contextual
sense. He literally must be told what muscles to use to swallow his meds or to
open his hand. Some nights he is so restless he gets no sleep. Sometimes he
gets so frustrated he bellows with rage. Barring a major medical miracle, he
will not improve, but will, instead, continue a slow but steady decline.
I have
learned when someone calls and asks “what’s happening?” not to answer “my
husband just literally pooped in my hand as I was changing him.” Despite what
they may say, people don’t really want to know exactly what’s going on.
Instead, I say, “Same old, same old. What’s up with you?”
Because I
know we are not alone.
You see: we
aren’t the only ones in crisis. Since mid-June, a dear friend has discovered he
has advanced Lyme disease seriously affecting him both mentally and physically.
Another friend is this close to needing
a liver transplant. One person has been looking for work while simultaneously
battling debilitating back pain. A client has a teenaged daughter who is
terminally riddled with cancer. Everybody is going through something. No one
escapes this Earth unscathed.
People are reading this
who are not currently experiencing the Perfect Life. They are dealing with
problematic medical tests, worrisome relationships, housing concerns, career
issues, mental health challenges, loneliness, pain, and loss. Maybe one or more
of those things is affecting you right now. If it isn’t, I bet someone you know
is.
We’re all stewing in one big Crisis
Crockpot. So what do we do?
Amazingly, Google is right. Just
do something. Reach out. Connect. Be there. Do the thing you wish
someone would do for you.
Don’t say
“let me know if there is anything I can do.” Because when my hands are killing me
from lifting a 200 pound man who has forgotten how to use his legs and I
haven’t had a shower in two days and I really – really – didn’t know a single human being could possibly produce that much urine, frankly, there is
nothing I can tell anyone to do to make things better.
I certainly
would never say: “send me gourmet coffee,” or “text me a goofy picture of your
cat,” or “bring over a bunch of tie-dyeing materials and let’s have a party.”
Yet, when my friends do those things, they are exactly the things I need to keep crisis at bay for awhile.
Crisis is a
part of life. It’s the price we pay for existing. But if we’re lucky, we don’t
go through it alone.
Puppy Therapy: River won't leave Robert's side.
It’s today.
My husband has not been out of bed in two weeks. He can no longer reliably swallow. To get him to take his meds, I have to depress his tongue and pull it forward, hoping he will swallow, but not choke or aspirate. It's all I can do to get any food into him. Boost and applesauce and pureed vegetable soups are keeping him alive... but we all know it's not for long. We prayed that he wouldn't pass away on Thanksgiving, and he didn't. But things aren't looking good for him to still be here by Christmas.
Still, thanks to our friends, we are not in crisis at the moment. Rather, we are
overwhelmed with their kindness. Their caring. Take it from me: that is the
crisis cure.
Fred refuses to quit. Wish he'd just give up and skulk off to shrivel up and leave us alone.
Recently, Robert's brain tumor is causing his entire body to spasm into the equivalent of a giant, human fist. He juts his head forward, perching his chin on his chest, stretching his neck. He cranks his knees up to his nose. Then, as the tension in his body builds, he bellows like a bull stabbed by a matador.
Imagine the joy that permeates our house when this begins at, say 3 a.m.
We're trying the gamut of things from meds to alternative options to try to help him relax. Because we've all discovered: if Robert can't sleep, can't nobody sleep.
I've learned a few things in the last month. At the top of the list, I've learned what extraordinarily bad taste it is to begin a conversation with "Have the doctors given you a time frame?" As if I am able to mark on my calendar "Should be a widow" on a specific date. As if I would want to.
I've learned that if you want to connect with People Who Get Things Done, blogging is an effective tool. Not long after I posted the last update, in which I related my abysmal meeting with some local Hospice representatives, a higher Hospice muckety-muck called me. We chatted a bit and she put me in touch with someone who coordinates a different branch of Hospice volunteers. It all sounds very promising, but nothing has actually happened yet. Still: yay, blogging!
I've also learned to be less prideful. I've always been very good at doing things on my own. I'm an only child. I'm a Virgo. I'm a Midwestern farm girl. I am the epitome of "I've got this." But I am discovering that if others offer to help share the load, it is a great blessing to let them.
When dear friends wanted to set up a GoFundMe for Robert's medical expenses, I balked. I'm not big on the idea of asking people for help. There are lots of folks worse off than we. But then my friend Paul set me straight. "Get over yourself," he said. "People might want to help and have no idea what to do -- because, really, there is nothing they can do. This gives them an outlet." So I squelched my pride. And I have been overwhelmed -- truly steamrolled flat -- by others' generosity.
That generosity is currently in overdrive. The same friends who did the GFM campaign are hosting a live theatrical reading event on November 6, here in Southwest Michigan, to benefit our family. I can't even wrap my brain around how much work and energy and time and effort these wonderful people have put into doing this. When eventually, I'm on the other side of crisis (I believe this will happen. Someday.), I want to remember this and pass it on.
And I've learned that there is no such thing as letting go gracefully. Nor should there be. Life is worth fighting for. It's bright and messy and sharp and sweet. It's an uneasy ratio of exhilaration and boredom, punctuated by both joy and pain. Robert's brain is shutting down. I hate this. Most of the time he cannot even reliably answer "yes / no" questions. But he will respond to some things on autopilot. If you say "How are you today?" He'll say "Great."
Some days I find myself saying "I love you" just to hear him say "I love you, too." On those days, I don't care whether he knows what he's saying or not.
A week ago, my friends Wendy and Aaron watched Robert so I could get out of the house for a little while. When I returned, Wendy said Robert had woken up from a catnap and been a little weepy. This was so unusual, I asked him if he remembered that. He did. I asked if he remembered what made him cry. He smiled: "I had a dream. I dreamed I was healed."
Recently, my uncle made a DVD of a bunch of old family movies and sent it to my father. There, for the first time, I saw my great-grandmother -- a Native American woman I had heard about my whole life, but had never seen a picture of.
My father's grandmother was Native American. No one knows What tribe she was from. To hear Dad tell it, His grandfather married her Because he loved her, Never mind how much it Angered The rest of the family.
I have seen her: A thin woman In a faded print dress. The grainy Sixty-year old Super 8 film Renders her skin The same shade of gray As everyone else's. And yet--
When she died, The family refused To even name her In her obituary. To the best of my knowledge, She has no tombstone.
My father spent years Trying to follow That branch Of our family tree. But it is long gone, Leaving a hole in the sky As every branch does When it falls. Still-- My father, Eighty-one years young, Remembers her. And every time I look in the mirror, My Great Grandmother peers back at me.
Perhaps that's because when you're within the same four walls all day, every day, the days all sort of blur together. Perhaps it's because I delude myself into thinking that not much has changed and, therefore, an update isn't really necessary.
But when I stop to take stock of things, I realize that they have changed. And so, here is an update on our continuing War on Fred:
The big news is that the experimental chemotherapy did not work. In fact, there is some indication on the latest MRIs that it may have contributed to two separate minor brain bleeds within the tumor. Since that was our last great hope for a Modern Medical Miracle, the medical docs have run out of options. They have washed their hands of WG and have told us to contact Hospice.
Which I did. However (warning, minor soapbox rant coming)...
I was unaware of the realities that are Hospice. I'd always thought Hospice, if personified was a sort of kindly grandmother of the medical community. Anytime someone said "Mother is on Hospice," I envisioned a well-coordinated army of nurses who took turns caring for the terminal person, giving companionship and supporting the family through the dark days that lay ahead.
I never imagined the two nurses / Hospice sales team who came and sat in my dining room. They set me straight. Since I am WGs sole caregiver, and he requires constant supervision 24 / 7, I could really use someone to come and sit with him so I can leave the house to do things like get groceries or pick up our daughter from school. Yeah, no: Hospice doesn't do that.
The nurses were clear. They were all about the money.
HospiceNurse: Hospice will cover all of his medical expenses, including his drugs and briefs.
Me: Great! But he's a brittle epileptic. He has to be on brand name anti-seizure drugs. The generics send him to the ER.
HN: Oh... Well, he'd have to be on generics. But they would be free! Also, he won't have to pay to see the doctor.
Me: Can he still keep our family GP and his neurologist of the past 20 years -- the doctors who know his history best -- as his docs?
HN: No. But it won't matter. If he gets pneumonia or something, if he's on Hospice, we can't treat it.
Me: So you just let him die?
HN: Hospice does not provide palliative care. Now let's talk about Medicaid.
Me: He's not on Medicaid. He has a small IRA which, since I'm caring for him instead of working, is essentially my retirement fund. We don't qualify.
HN: Well, you could always spend down the IRA and divorce him so he could go on Medicaid. Then Medicaid will pay for him to go to a facility and you won't have to be stuck here taking care of him anymore.
I am not making this up.
About that time, I showed them the door.
Don't get me wrong: I am sure that Hospice is staffed by wonderful, empathetic, competent people who genuinely care about doing the best they can for those who are nearing the end of their lives. We may still have to call them when WG gets a little closer to the end. But I was wildly unimpressed with the Sales Force. >:(
And so, we sit together here at home. I schedule my day like a general planning a military maneuver, so I can still get my work done in addition to taking care of WG.
As for Robert, he continues a slow but steady decline. He can no longer shift his weight in his wheelchair, or feed himself, or brush his teeth. Before he takes his meds, I have to remind him to think about swallowing, and talk him through what to do -- otherwise, he chews his pills. Since some of the pills are extended release, chewing them makes him practically comatose for the next 12 hours. (Fun fact: a week ago, I had to call the paramedics to come pick WG up off our driveway when he sank to the ground like a 200 pound sack of pudding as I was trying to get him in the car. In the rain. Med chewing. ::sheesh::)
But we're not giving up. We are still blessed that he is in relatively little pain. It's also not clear how aware WG is of his condition, which is something of a blessing. He sleeps a lot. He's not really able to hold a conversation. But he still has his gorgeous smile. I can run on one of those for hours.
We have the best friends in the world, who support us in countless ways. From the church members who hand-made bolsters for him to make his wheelchair more comfortable, to those who sit with him on occasion so I can get out on my own for a few hours, to those who bring a portable tie-dyeing party to our house, we are surrounded by fabulous people. One dear friend who is a nurse sent us an EIGHT BOX delivery of briefs and wipes -- all greatly appreciated. And I am forever grateful to Kathy, Kim, Barbara, and Lisa: writerly friends who started a GoFundMe for WunderGuy to help offset some of the bills insurance deigns not to pay. Like the $4000+ ramp for his wheelchair (an ongoing appeals battle continues), or any part of the handicapped accessible bathroom we had to put in, or skilled nurses to watch him if I have to go out, for instance...
Here's the thing: we're not complaining. Everyone is going through something. Right now, what we're going through is obvious and overt and we're grateful to those who are pulling for us. What you're going through might be more subtle and less readily recognized. Know this -- everything here on Earth is only temporary. We delude ourselves if we think that our relationships, our situation, our lives will continue in any particular way forever. This may be depressing to hear when things are going great. But it's a great blessing to think about at the moment.
Last week, I reviewed The Cursed Dagger, book II in Alyson Peterson's YA series featuring geeky alien prince Ian Quicksilver.
This week, Alyson kindly agreed to an interview in which she discusses the special challenges of writing a book series.
Q. What things must a writer keep in mind when writing Book I of a series, as opposed to a stand-alone book?
A. It's good to remember that whatever you put into one book has the potential to spill over into other books. One thing I struggle with when starting a new series is planning out what is key to future books. Half the time I don't know where a certain element is going until I am nearly done writing. I keep careful notes on where I want my characters to go so I don't end up putting a scene or a character in that doesn't fit the series as a whole.
Q. What challenges must be addressed when writing additional books in a series?
A. My biggest fear is that I will write a sequel that is boring. I'm always having to top the previous book, make it more exciting, more interesting etc. What I absolutely DON'T want to do is repeat the exact same story line over and over again. Keeping the story fresh while not sacrificing the personalities of my characters is my biggest hurdle.
Q. What are some tips for avoiding an info-dump in books that fall later in a series while bringing readers up to speed on what happened in earlier books?
A. I HATE info dump. It makes stories sluggish. I read a lot of YA series. I take a highlighter pen to the books that don't info dump and study what the author did to keep the reader interested at the same time as they bring the reader up to speed. Bringing up past experiences in dialogue both internal and verbal help the reader know what's going on without a page an a half of super boring backstory.
Q. What advice do you have for keeping a character fresh and growing through a series of books?
A. Characters learn and grow much like their real life counterparts. I compile a list of characteristics and then order them by importance to the character. Minor characteristics can change, but the major ones can not. Ian's loyalty, snarkiness, bravery and deep sense of mercy is key to his story. Minor flaws can be altered, like Ian's awkwardness, immaturity and willingness to ignore difficult situations.
Writing young adult characters are my favorite because their personalities are not fully developed at 14, 15, and 16 and giving them experience and growth keeps them fresh on the page.
Q. How can you know if that book you are writing has series potential?
A. My brain rarely works in stand alone novels. I wish it would, but once I get cranking on a book, plans for future books start sneaking in. I am defective that way. If writing a character keeps me up at night and all day I'm thinking about what I want to do in book two, three and four, I've got a solid series on my hands.
Q. What suggestions do you have for writers who are pitching what they hope is the first in a series?
A. Make sure book one grabs your reader's attention. Not just grabs, but holds and makes them beg for more. You've got to have a solid hook so that when you pitch book two, you generate more excitement.
It's hard to sell certain publishers and agents on series, but good pubs and agents know the value of a well written series and can sell it as such. Pitch to your friends, hash out story line with an experienced writer or someone who understands and loves a good storyline and bounce ideas off them. You can tell a lot about how well your story is developed by the level of excitement you receive from honest reviews.
Q. As you worked on Books II and III, did anything about your characters or your story surprise you?
A. Ari went through the biggest change with her personality. She was pretty quiet in book one, but the more I got to know her she really blossomed on the page. Marvin had a lot more to say in book two that I enjoyed writing. Corbin is still Corbin and he is a stick in the mud when it comes to his personality, but I also found in him a core of genuine loyalty that I was happy to see. The story exploded in my face as I was writing book three. I thought I had firm idea on who my warriors were going to be and the type of fighters they were, but I was so very wrong. As I wrote the story and re-read passages from books one and two, book three became harsher and more absolute. That was very unintentional.
**** The Cursed Dagger is newly released from Cedar Fort. Be sure to watch for Book III of the adventures of Ian Quicksilver in 2017!
