I just thought it was funny enough to share with my blog that I received two strange emails yesterday.
In the subject line of the first message was something about a credit card. Upon opening it, I found that my cousin's husband had forwarded their credit card bill to Dillards! Since I've only once been inside a Dillards and since there are none that I know of on the West Coast, I figured somehow it was a mistake. The sender has no idea how it happened.
The subject line for the second email said "query." If you recall, when I sent my query to an agent recently, I had a couple of typographical errors, one of which was in the address. So I sent the same letter a second time to be certain he received it. Well, guess what?! He received both. I know because a duplicate rejection letter came yesterday.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Get on your mark...Get set...
This is the week of our Big annual race. Not a relay, silly. No; not a marathon. Nope, not an iron-man race either. You have had three guesses. Give up?
This is the week that the starlings and grackles return to our yard. They have come for (what they consider their own) harvest time. They come by the thousands, and they can wipe out an entire crop of grapes in one afternoon. They are bandits. Each year, we can expect to see at least one news article with pictures of the black birds diving by the thousands into a favorite chimney in this area.
We watch them arrive on a weather front and speckle our yard and skyline in throngs. They load the enormous electrical towers until there is no space for another bird. Once they arrive enmass, we know we are too late to even place our toes on the starting line. Okay, I admit that we have been known to jump the starting signal and harvest some very tart grapes.
There are many methods used by desperate folk to try to keep them away. One local farmer has a recording of a gunshot being fired every little bit.Some years ago, we even saw a carcass of one hanging on a fence. Of course, there are scarecrows, fake owls, hanging CD’s in order to reflect the sun, hanging streamers of video tape for the unfamiliar sound and movement in the trees, and always there is covering with net. This is the protective method we most often choose.
But, this year, our crop is small so we picked them when our family taster gave us the "go ahead.” Granted, the first frost has not yet arrived, but the fruit is sweet this year even before the frost. Yep, this year, we won the race. The crop was tiny, but the reward of tasting the fruits of John’s labor is sweet.
This is the week that the starlings and grackles return to our yard. They have come for (what they consider their own) harvest time. They come by the thousands, and they can wipe out an entire crop of grapes in one afternoon. They are bandits. Each year, we can expect to see at least one news article with pictures of the black birds diving by the thousands into a favorite chimney in this area.
We watch them arrive on a weather front and speckle our yard and skyline in throngs. They load the enormous electrical towers until there is no space for another bird. Once they arrive enmass, we know we are too late to even place our toes on the starting line. Okay, I admit that we have been known to jump the starting signal and harvest some very tart grapes.
There are many methods used by desperate folk to try to keep them away. One local farmer has a recording of a gunshot being fired every little bit.Some years ago, we even saw a carcass of one hanging on a fence. Of course, there are scarecrows, fake owls, hanging CD’s in order to reflect the sun, hanging streamers of video tape for the unfamiliar sound and movement in the trees, and always there is covering with net. This is the protective method we most often choose.
But, this year, our crop is small so we picked them when our family taster gave us the "go ahead.” Granted, the first frost has not yet arrived, but the fruit is sweet this year even before the frost. Yep, this year, we won the race. The crop was tiny, but the reward of tasting the fruits of John’s labor is sweet.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
Learning to Accept
Well, the very kind letter of rejection came in less than a week. The agent with the misspelled name did not write it; he asked an associate to let me know Jessie just does not fit their needs at this time. How does it feel? It is never easy to be rejected when the rejectors have never asked to see the book. The good news is that, on that very same morning, someone ordered two books through Lulu.com., bringing my total sales to 918 in just over 10 months.
Friday, September 7, 2007
life's little lessons
One does not have to know me well to know that God chose me to be John's humbling agent. Anything my hubby does is error free. In contrast, a motto I embraced early in life is "It's okay to be wrong as long as you are consistently wrong." That way, folks can often be fooled into thinking you may be right.
For example, two days ago, I sent a query letter to an agent for Jessie. This agent is one I have watched with interest because not only does he accept email but he also is reputed to answer queries within five minutes. For those who may not know, most letters of rejection don't arrive for agonizing weeks and by pony express or US postal service. Not only do I not know what an acceptance letter looks like,I do not even know anyone who does. Okey...okey...back to my original thought.
Well, without revealing this man's name for fear he could be inundated with manuscripts let me just continue. I wrote my letter in "Microsoft Word" and copied and transferred it to be emailed. It had been checked carefully for any possible problem, and (trust me) it was error free....until last night. Just as I was heading for bed, I decided to read this masterpiece one more time, to savor something done correctly. Just as my eyes grazed past the date, "What is this? Those computer gremlins have been working overtime!"
The agent's name was not spelled the same in the email address as in my greeting! Well, like a scab that is almost healed, this could not be left alone. I quickly removed the blatant letter of error and repaired his name to be the same as in the address. That was when I noticed a possible lifesaving error. Tucked in the left-hand margin of the space allotted for email addresses was a teeny, tiny dot (') that may have saved my skin. I can hope against hope that the first letter I sent is still searching for an agent whose address begins with an '. Meanwhile, I still await a reply.
My Mother had lots of wise sayings, one of which was "Two wrongs don't make a right." I am hoping, this time, that she was wrong.
Happy Birthday, Sam.
For example, two days ago, I sent a query letter to an agent for Jessie. This agent is one I have watched with interest because not only does he accept email but he also is reputed to answer queries within five minutes. For those who may not know, most letters of rejection don't arrive for agonizing weeks and by pony express or US postal service. Not only do I not know what an acceptance letter looks like,I do not even know anyone who does. Okey...okey...back to my original thought.
Well, without revealing this man's name for fear he could be inundated with manuscripts let me just continue. I wrote my letter in "Microsoft Word" and copied and transferred it to be emailed. It had been checked carefully for any possible problem, and (trust me) it was error free....until last night. Just as I was heading for bed, I decided to read this masterpiece one more time, to savor something done correctly. Just as my eyes grazed past the date, "What is this? Those computer gremlins have been working overtime!"
The agent's name was not spelled the same in the email address as in my greeting! Well, like a scab that is almost healed, this could not be left alone. I quickly removed the blatant letter of error and repaired his name to be the same as in the address. That was when I noticed a possible lifesaving error. Tucked in the left-hand margin of the space allotted for email addresses was a teeny, tiny dot (') that may have saved my skin. I can hope against hope that the first letter I sent is still searching for an agent whose address begins with an '. Meanwhile, I still await a reply.
My Mother had lots of wise sayings, one of which was "Two wrongs don't make a right." I am hoping, this time, that she was wrong.
Happy Birthday, Sam.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
A LOST ART
I received in the mail this week, believe it or not, a hand-written letter. This was not an oligatory thank you note for "the (fill in the blank) gift you gave us. I know we will use it a lot" No. This was a genuine 4-page piece of correspondence. There was nothing earth-shattering in the letter, just a hello and catching me up on her family's news.
In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.
My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.
Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,
In my recent letter, Patsy (the writer) shared with me about the camp we missed in eastern Oregon. Her best try for watermelon-seed spitting was just over 4 feet. She was whooped by a 10-year-old whose seed soared past 23 feet. There were photos from the camp: 1)tug-of-war, 2)beautiful sunset, and 3) look how my grandson has grown in one year. She purposely decided not to bring her needles and supplies for making pine needle baskets and, instead, brought a good book to read.
My Mother was a letter writer. For our 20 years in Alaska, Mother faithfully wrote me 2, 3, 5 times a week, sharing with me what she had seen at Gottschelks (her favorite store) or what she was fixing for dinner, or family news. Even after her death, I received two letters from her. Today is the anniversary of my father's death; he joined mother to their grave almost to the day one year later. I miss many things about my mother, but the greatest emptiness felt is evidenced each day when I open the mailbox.
Now, the reader may think that I am leading up to answering Patsy's letter with a pen-to-the-paoer letter from me, but that conclusion would be incorrect. At Christmas, I will send her one of our year-in-review newsletters,
Friday, August 17, 2007
WAXING NOSTALGIC...
I dare not speak how many years ago this day, I was ready to end the pregnancy. For only an elephant would have been expecting a child longer. It, like most of my stories these days, is a long one. Suffice it to say that, somewhere in the past year, I had had a miscarriage, and by the time the obstetrician detected that, I was pregnant again--also undetected.
Would this child be a little brother or a little sister for our firstborn? God only knew. We purposely took a bumpy ride up to Perseverance Theater to encourage the delivery. After all, another expectant friend (2 weeks past her due date) had announced to me that very day she was taking castor oil to induce her delivery. The race was on.
When my labor pains began, John and I ran for the phone book...not to call the doctor, but rather to come up with a boy's name. That's when the silliness started....but I won't bore my reader with that except to say that amidst all our giggles, the baby joined in...with the hiccups. The more bizarre the name, the harder the hiccup; the harder the hiccup, the more intense the nudge to be born.
Probably because in winter they needed to keep the steep hillside clear and sanded, parking was not allowed at the old Saint Ann Hospital. The climb from the block below took only moments. By the time, I was prepped for the delivery room, a chattering flash by my doorway returned to inform me "You better not be first!" In truth, I cannot say which of us delivered our baby girl first nor can I recall the family name. But somewhere in this world is a lady named Darian celebrating her birthday today.
And this day I will once again hold my daughter in my arms and remind her how very loved she is! And how much joy she has been in our lives.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICIA KAY.
Would this child be a little brother or a little sister for our firstborn? God only knew. We purposely took a bumpy ride up to Perseverance Theater to encourage the delivery. After all, another expectant friend (2 weeks past her due date) had announced to me that very day she was taking castor oil to induce her delivery. The race was on.
When my labor pains began, John and I ran for the phone book...not to call the doctor, but rather to come up with a boy's name. That's when the silliness started....but I won't bore my reader with that except to say that amidst all our giggles, the baby joined in...with the hiccups. The more bizarre the name, the harder the hiccup; the harder the hiccup, the more intense the nudge to be born.
Probably because in winter they needed to keep the steep hillside clear and sanded, parking was not allowed at the old Saint Ann Hospital. The climb from the block below took only moments. By the time, I was prepped for the delivery room, a chattering flash by my doorway returned to inform me "You better not be first!" In truth, I cannot say which of us delivered our baby girl first nor can I recall the family name. But somewhere in this world is a lady named Darian celebrating her birthday today.
And this day I will once again hold my daughter in my arms and remind her how very loved she is! And how much joy she has been in our lives.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PATRICIA KAY.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
LIGHTS ALONG THE SHORE.....
John and I just returned from a trip to the Washington coast; we spent time with three other Christian couples in a little-known RV park. After Friday's breakfast, John suggested he wanted to go into Westport to take pictures of boats. Everyone else decided to accompany him.
As we first entered the city limits, we spotted the top portion of a lighthouse towering over trees. Figuring that should lead us to some water, and perhaps boats, John turned left. However, when we approached the location, we could see that the lighthouse seemed to be in the middle of a forest. The road continued at least one-third of a mile with no water in sight. Turning around we did not stop to read the sign that was posted, so I drew my own conclusion (as I am prone to do). I decided it was not a real lighthouse but rather a restaurant or expresso structure.
Later, when the group decided to tour the local museum, I asked the lady who sold us tickets about the lighthouse in the woods not near the water. She told us the Grays Harbor Lighthouse is the tallest lighthouse in Washington State. It was built in 1898 and stood as a beacon for seamen for most of a century. However, silt from the Columbia River has changed the coastline, adding land in some places and subtracting land elsewhere. This structure of great pride is now more than half a mile from the shoreline. Later in our tour, we watched a video explaining the phenomenon further.
There is a hymn from my childhood (or maybe older) wherein God is our beacon, but we are the keepers of His lights along life's shore. Applying this natural phenomenon to life, I have been thinking about how each grain of sand that would distance one from the Father was so minute, no one would notice the change. I wonder how long and how far and how many grains of sand must accumulate before one realizes the perilous danger of being distanced from the Father. With the right equipment, one could dredge away the silt...but the better way is to live a pure and righteous life, unspotted from the world.
As we first entered the city limits, we spotted the top portion of a lighthouse towering over trees. Figuring that should lead us to some water, and perhaps boats, John turned left. However, when we approached the location, we could see that the lighthouse seemed to be in the middle of a forest. The road continued at least one-third of a mile with no water in sight. Turning around we did not stop to read the sign that was posted, so I drew my own conclusion (as I am prone to do). I decided it was not a real lighthouse but rather a restaurant or expresso structure.
Later, when the group decided to tour the local museum, I asked the lady who sold us tickets about the lighthouse in the woods not near the water. She told us the Grays Harbor Lighthouse is the tallest lighthouse in Washington State. It was built in 1898 and stood as a beacon for seamen for most of a century. However, silt from the Columbia River has changed the coastline, adding land in some places and subtracting land elsewhere. This structure of great pride is now more than half a mile from the shoreline. Later in our tour, we watched a video explaining the phenomenon further.
There is a hymn from my childhood (or maybe older) wherein God is our beacon, but we are the keepers of His lights along life's shore. Applying this natural phenomenon to life, I have been thinking about how each grain of sand that would distance one from the Father was so minute, no one would notice the change. I wonder how long and how far and how many grains of sand must accumulate before one realizes the perilous danger of being distanced from the Father. With the right equipment, one could dredge away the silt...but the better way is to live a pure and righteous life, unspotted from the world.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
