Though quietly busy, my friend, Thad, took the time to review my book, “River of January.” More impressive when one considers his work as US Vice-Consul in China. Look what else occupied his time.
Read his remarks at http://www.river-of-january.com
Chapter heading designed by my publisher and her graphic artist daughter. Cool stuff.
Audience gathering at my first talk on “River of January” We had a nice turnout and a good time.
It is with great trepidation that I announce my first book presentation. In front of people. Sitting in front of me. Real people. Watching me. Yikes.
Send up good vibes, please.
http://www.river-of-january.com/
Need some good cold weather reading? Follow the link and relive the adventure of River of January
My computer crashed, but I have wonderful neighbors who are IT wonders. The little gadget is now up and working. Progress on all fronts with the book. Speaking engagements are lining up and books should be done by the end of the month.
Pictured is a telegram for Helen from an admirer, before she shipped off to Europe in 1932. The story appears in the book.
It’s Sunday, it’s raining, and my husband is watching golf. I have given myself credit for remaining conscious with so many reasons to go back to bed.
But I’m excited. The book talk on the radio yesterday came off smoothly.
Two days ago I spoke with the radio announcer on the phone filling her in a bit on the story. Either she was in a hurry to get back on the air or simply wasn’t impressed. That was okay. I am accustomed to impatience when I start to blather. After all, I taught school for decades.
However, despite her indifference, I decided to bring along some photos of my protagonists, Helen and Chum. Before we went on the air I shared them with the disc jockey. It was awesome. She lit up like a Christmas Tree. “I had no idea,” came out of her mouth. “I love this era, it was so glamorous,” she added. I simply replied “I know.” And the interview began.
All someone has to say is “tell me about your book,” and I am off to the races. She grew as animated as I felt, and brought up the photos a couple of times during the interview for listeners to understand. I think that it was a promising start to my book promotion. Not that everyone will like River of January mind you, but just a chance to explain the story, and how it evolved gave me heart.
My publisher, Yvonne Rousseau at Point Rider Publishing saw what I saw from the beginning. She has championed the book more than once when I was ready to abort the mission. Yvonne has proven very proficient at hand-holding when necessary. And her daughter, Brook Rousseau, the artist behind the cover design, has been nearly mystic in capturing the story in a bold image. I think many books will sell simply because of her exquisite design. A big thanks to Yvonne and Brooke–a true team of pros.
I suppose this promising start to River’s launch is exciting enough to keep my eyes open on this wet, gray day. In spite of listening to soft-spoken analysts murmuring boring commentary from the Cadillac World Golf Championship.
My book, River of January is not, I repeat, not a romance novel. Does it contain a love story? Yes indeed, and a good one too. However, the two destined to find each other, Chum and Helen, meet later in the book.
The manuscript has made a small circle of rounds, either for review or because someone felt they could help promote the work. And of all the folks who have read it, only two readers complained that the romantic part didn’t come soon enough in the story. I have to admit that was frustrating to hear, because so much cool stuff transpires before they meet in the book. Paris, London, Rome, Vienna, dancing, singing, and ocean liners for Helen. Tragedy, endurance, ambition, aviation, air racing, and adventure for Chum. And all of the action is true and verifiable. What do these readers think? Is real life no more than a love story? Is their life no more than a love story?
I understand enough to say that these folks are looking for a marketable formula. They look for the effort to possess the elements that sell in fiction. However my work is creative nonfiction and follows no predictable pattern, just like any persons life. These two people pursued avenues that opened to them, as we all do. It’s just that their paths included vaudeville stages, the silver screen and the golden age of aviation. Isn’t that enough? I wrote the book to chronicle two actual lives. If the work sells on that merit, that will be wonderful. My limit is changing the story up to fit a commercial template. To even think of shuffling the events around feels sleazy and unethical.
It was my son, my sage, who reduced the conundrum down to a simple truth. He explained that once I commit the words to paper I lose control of how readers perceive them. And he is right. After the telling, the tale belongs to each individual and their unique interpretations. And that means letting go of the outcome.
We had to euthanize our cat yesterday afternoon. She was old, would have been nineteen years in March. And despite the fact that we knew the day would arrive, no one told us it would be February 17, 2014. I had planned to vacuum.
It’s strange how losing such a little creature inspires such powerful pain. She’d been around so long, losing her seemed like it would never happen. I wasn’t prepared.
Odd how accustomed we became to her. Though small in stature, her presence loomed large around the place. The little thing had a combination meow-plus-purr sound that I found very predictable and comforting. Her chitter-chatter was as much a part of this cabin as the refrigerator vibrating, or the drip from the bathtub faucet. The void of her absence today shouts in its silence.
We most likely kept her going far too long. That was our issue. There had been earlier brushes with momentary paralysis, glandular issues, and diabetes. Yet the old thing still used her box properly, ate and drank like a truck driver, and talked and talked, rubbing herself on every door-sill and corner in our/her house.
That little girl surreptitiously weaseled her way so far into my heart, that my sorrow today has thrown me for a loop. An ice-cold straight razor has cut me from my heart to my stomach, flowing loss and regret.
Writing does help. I now seize the written word as my own form of exorcism and cleansing–banishing my demons of doubt and sorrow. Yet I can still picture her, lying on a towel, looking at us while the vet injected a syringe into her leg. Her little head lolled over, and my grief erupted.
Driving back up to mountains we kept telling each other it was the right thing to do.
We have a book cover!
Gail Chumbley 