In case you missed it last Friday, I posted the first part of a two-part short story.  I’m not waiting until this Friday to post the conclusion, because Fridays are slow days on teh internets.

Her Dying Wish (Part 2)

Normally, Saturday mornings were for her (as they are for everybody–as they are for you) bliss.  Waking up is a delight because you have slept well, your subconscious untroubled in slumber by the unpleasant prospect of being woken by an alarm and having to go to work and finding repose in the freedom of an entire day ahead of you to do as you please–or, if you are dying, an entire day to do the things you always wanted to do before you die.

This Saturday, however, she awoke feeling as if she had never slept at all.  Read the rest of this entry »

Authors, apparently, must also be Bloggers.  As part of my mission to re-vamp lrburt.com, I’m incorporating several regular features, including Fiction Fridays, which are dedicated to posts about writing or excerpts of my fiction projects.

Since my readers are probably more interested in what I write than in how I write it, I’ll kick off Fiction Fridays with a short story I wrote a few years ago.  Actually, it’s not terribly short, so I’ll break it into two parts to post this week and next.  It’s a humor piece, and a love story, and it stars a roll of toilet paper.  Something for everyone.

Her Dying Wish

by LR Burt

If you asked her what she wanted to do before she died, she would tell you things unsurprising and unremarkable: to travel to Europe, to write a novel, to go skydiving, maybe, if she was feeling adventurous.

If she told you this, you would believe her; after all, everybody, yourself included, wants to travel to Europe, write a novel, and skydive before they die.

Like everyone who claims these dying wishes, she never put spare change in a jar to save for that European vacation; she never sat down to write the first line of the novel that came to her as a lightning bolt of inspiration; she definitely never felt adventurous enough to sign up for a skydiving course.

No, what she dreamed of, in her secret heart, was to knock glass jars off supermarket shelves; to say swear words in places and in front of people she shouldn’t; to write a scathing letter to a person of great importance.

In short, what she wanted to do before she died was to become a menace to society.

Of course, if you asked her, she would never tell you that, because as far as she knew, she really and truly believed she was exactly like everybody else–and nobody else wanted to become a menace to society before they died. At least, no one told her otherwise. If anyone had, she might have recognized her real dreams sooner, without resistance or thinking she was going mad, and by pleasanter means than the threat of her imminent death.

Although, if she had recognized her real dreams under less urgent circumstances, she would not have realized that she’d never really lived at all, or felt so acutely what it meant to come to life. Read the rest of this entry »

“Those who can’t, teach.” John Marks is one of those who can’t. Or at least that’s what he thinks…

Piano teacher to prepubescent video game addicts…driver of a jalopy that might once upon a time have been a Honda (though no one knows for sure)…prematurely balding…divorced: hardly the life of sophistication and beauty John Marks envisioned when he embarked on a music career. He’s no catch, yet he catches the starry eye of Laura Lovelace, a music student at his old university who initiates their relationship by making fun of his name (which has something to do with a famous nudist and an American president) and disagreeing with his favorite maxim. Though he swore off singers after his ex, John’s nosey pastor’s wife urges him to step into the dubious role of mentor to Laura. Which, apparently, involves playing sheriff (literally, in costume, complete with fake guns) at the parties of substance-abusing music students–but with the bonus of securing his place as Laura’s knight in shining armor–until she discovers that his heart is protected by an entirely different sort of armor, which hid the identity of his ex. Leaving him with yet another ex–and more broken career dreams–unless he can learn to accept himself (receding hairline, rattletrap car, and all).

Ever wanted to read what I spend all that time holed up in my home office writing?  (Ever wondered if I really write anything at all?)  Now you can, because I’ve published the first 16 chapters of my novel, Songs for Piano and Voice, at Authonomy. I’m hopeful this site will help me get published or find an agent, but at the very least I expect I’ll get some helpful feedback. Which is where you guys come in.

Authonomy was set up by the HarperCollins publishing company to help emerging writers get noticed. The way to get noticed is to appear on the bookshelves and watch lists of members, and, of course, to get lots of comments. Each month, an editorial board from the publisher selects the top five rated books to be professionally reviewed. Not only is this a source of invaluable feedback, but it has even led to publishing deals.

You have to register at the site in order to comment on books posted there, but if you could spare a moment to do that (it’s a simple matter of registering your email address and creating a password and screenname) and leave a review saying you loved it, hated it, or have an idea that would make it better, I would be extremely grateful.  And if you’re an avid reader who enjoys promoting the work of aspiring authors, take a nose around the site and read and comment on other books.

Above all, I’m delighted to give this sneak peek of my work.  I hope you enjoy!

Recently I had occasion to fill out a Very Official Form that required me to state my occupation.  (Said Very Official Form was, in fact, a claim for exemption from jury duty.  Yes — I got selected for jury duty three weeks after giving birth.  I could only laugh at the timing.  Actually, I didn’t laugh.  I darn near cried.  Until I read further down the form and saw that parents who are the primary caregivers of children under the age of fifteen are not required to serve.  Although I think as a new parent I would also qualify as not being of sound mind.  But I digress.)

Usually, when I must put my occupation on a Not Very Official Form, such as a new patient form at a medical practice, I say I’m a freelance writer, or I leave it blank, depending on how I’m feeling about my writing at that moment.  There was always the homemaker option, but before I had a baby, I never felt comfortable calling myself a homemaker, because homemakers are generally assumed to be stay-at-home moms, not merely stay-at-home wives.  But when I was filling out my Very Official Jury Duty Exemption Form, I was doing so as a new mom, so I happily filled in my occupation as homemaker.  (Even though writer equally applied, as I was getting lots of rejection letters at that time, which a favorite writing teacher of mine always said makes him feel like a real, working writer.)

Fast-forward two weeks, to yesterday.  When, if I’d had to fill in my occupation on a Form of Any Kind, Official or Not, I would have had a meltdown of Chernobyl proportions.   Which I did anyway.  Well, maybe not on the scale of Chernobyl, but there was smudged mascara.

You see, I had to go grocery shopping.  I had to.  If I didn’t, we wouldn’t have anything for dinner.  (Actually, I’m now realizing we had stuff for Sausage and Peppers Rustica or Four Cheese Ravioli with Marinara; I stocked up on that stuff pre-baby for just such a situation as this.)

As you can probably guess, I didn’t make it to the grocery store (and I didn’t remember I had stockpiled for a nuclear holocaust) because I was having One of Those Days with Liam and couldn’t find five spare minutes to make a grocery list, because I couldn’t find five spare minutes before that to to put together a meal plan for the week.  Because the baby wouldn’t take a nap or go in his swing or let me hold him without changing positions every two seconds and crying or stop nursing.

Around noon, I did make it upstairs to the guest room, where Mr. Burt works.  And proceeded to cry.  Louder than the baby.

“Here,” said Mr. Burt, “let me take Liam for a while.  You need a break.”

I did need a break.  “But I don’t deserve a break,” I protested through my tears, withholding Liam from my husband.  “I haven’t done anything today to need a break from.”  I felt guilty for the shower — complete with leg shaving — I’d managed while Liam cried in his bouncer chair.

Mr. Burt looked at me like I didn’t qualify for serving on a jury on grounds of not being of sound mind.  “Haven’t done anything?  You’ve taken care of Liam all morning.”

“I’ve only nursed him and changed his diaper.”

A milder version of the look that said I was crazy was accompanied by a crooning tone of compassion.  “Honey, all he does right now is eat, poop, and sleep.”

This should have made me feel better, but more tears fell.  “Today he doesn’t sleep.  And I need to go to the store or we won’t have anything for dinner.”

“But you’ve been working hard,” said Mr. Burt.  “You deserve a break.”

So I took a break, even though I still didn’t feel like I deserved it — failed homemaker that I was — and the five minute drive to Arby’s for lunch cleared my head.  Mr. Burt was right.  Only nursing is a ridiculous way to look at it.  Newborns nurse 8-12 times a day.  For 20-30 minutes minimum each time.   That’s a full day’s work.  A full-time job.  And if Liam’s fussy, it doesn’t mean I fail at babies.  It just means he’s having a bad day, like we all do.  Or gas.

When I got home, Mr. Burt echoed my thoughts.  “You’re trying to fit Liam in around your old housekeeping routine.  Now you have to fit all that stuff around Liam.  He’s your job now.”

“The job I have no control over,” I said.  “As a writer, I’m used to having control over everybody else.”

Mr. Burt grinned.  “For now, Liam controls us.  It won’t always be that way.  But for now, if the other stuff doesn’t happen, it doesn’t matter.”

I felt better, and didn’t cry as I said, “The grocery shopping has to happen.  We have to eat.”

“Well, yeah,” Mr. Burt acquiesced.  “But we can go out to eat.”

So we had dinner at Chili’s(where I forgot to pick up my credit card).  Then I made a meal plan for next week.  And a grocery list.  And today I got myself together before Liam woke up, then fed him and got him dressed, and we were out of the house by 9 and home with more than a week’s worth of groceries by 10:45.  The rest of the day, I’ve managed to make the bed, run the dishwasher, bake muffins, and cook dinner around Liam.

Oh — and write this blog post, of course.

Today I was a homemaker (as I was yesterday, whether it felt like it or not; though getting four loads of laundry washed and dried, if not put away, helped).  As long as I’m home with my family, I’m a homemaker.

Maybe tomorrow I can be a writer, too.  I could stand to be in control of a few people.

“She began her career as the assistant to the agent who represented Stephen King…”

That was in an agent bio I read yesterday.  Now, she certainly has the credentials to justify name dropping, but it made me laugh nonetheless. Because it made me think of The Office:  “I’m Dwight Schrute, Assistant Regional Manager” and Michael cutting in, “Assistant to the Regional Manager.”  Finding things to laugh about is how I cope with the stress of the agent hunt.  (Actually, it’s how I cope with most stressful things, but this post is not about other stressful things.)

A few of my readers might be writers, and so you’ll know well the process I’m about to describe — and may not have any interest in reliving it!  But for those of you who have ever wondered what happens after a writer has finished a novel and before it’s published, this is what we go through.

After months, or even years (I started my first draft in April, 2008, and finished it in August, 2009), writing, editing and polishing your novel, making it the best it can possibly be, you’ve then got to summarize the entire scope of this 100 thousand word manuscript into a measly 100 words. That’s right:  all you have to sell your novel to an agent, who then must try to sell your novel to a publisher, is 100 words.  And it’s not just your novel you’ve got to sell.  In much fewer than 100 words, you’ve also got to sell yourself as a marketable commodity even if you have zero publications to your name and little writing experience apart from a few short stories in college.  Nothing makes you feel more vulnerable than sending that off to agents whose clients include bestsellers and award winners.  You hit “send” and then are left to wonder whether your novel will sound like the stupidest, most trite bit of writing ever to appear in their inbox.  It’s enough to make you lose sleep, throw up everything you eat (if you can eat at all), chew your nails down to the quicks,or  get really drunk.  Certainly you will check your email compulsively every five minutes.

Fellow writers, this need not be! I have developed the perfect no-stress method for querying agents:

Wait until the last 2-4 weeks of your pregnancy. Querying agents is a great distraction from waiting for your water to break, and nesting the excitement of the impending birth of your child is a great distraction from awaiting replies. And then, when you do receive three rejection letters out of your first four queries, you can’t even really feel that disappointed, because you’ve got a little bundle of joy and unconditional love and acceptance on the way.  It’s an absolutely foolproof strategy, I tell you!

Okay, so it’s really only foolproof if you happen to be pregnant.  What if you don’t have the distraction of a coming baby while you’re in the querying process?  How do you cope with the inevitable rejection?  Because you will be rejected.  Maybe once. Maybe twice.  Maybe three times.  (I was, three times, in the space of 12 hours.)  Maybe more.  Almost certainly more, the more queries you send out.  (And the more agents you query, the more likely you are to find one who wants to represent you.)  How do you deal with the negative responses? Read the rest of this entry »