Sisterhood Award goes to The Underground Gift team

Last Wednesday I learned that I’d been selected to receive a blog award from former critique partner and fellow blogger Rosi Hollinbeck (http://rosihollinbeckthewritestuff.blogspot.com/). Rosi, an excellent author whose children’s short story Helen’s Home Run recently won first place in the 34th Annual Foster City International Writers’ Contest, passed along the Sisterhood Award, which she received for her critiquing skills. I am so honored; thank you very much, Rosi.

As with other blogging awards, this is meant to be given forward to other bloggers to thank them for their special friendship. Diana Hansen (http://www.dianarambles.com/) created this award after having been inspired by the book The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.

I would like to bestow the Sisterhood Award to online critique partner Judy Gumina (http://judysjotting.blogspot.com/). Judy is nothing short of phenomenal. A new grandmother, she works full time, recently received her bachelor’s degree and is working on her master’s. And her writing and critiquing skills are incredible. She’s already had a children’s story published in a magazine, and I know that’s only the beginning of her professional writing career. Judy stood up her blog this last week, and it will be exciting to watch it grow. I don’t know where my Civil War book manuscript would be were it not for Judy’s advice, encouragement and inspiration.

This is the perfect time to thank the rest of the members of my Underground Gift team, as I think of each of them. Although not all of them have blogs, they have invaluable critiquing and cheerleading skills, which have been true gifts on my journey to completing my first young-adult book.

• Ed Sehr and Elizabeth “Mitty” Varadan (http://elizabethvaradansfourthwish.blogspot.com/), for being readers in progress for the first chapters of my manuscript. Their invaluable insight enabled me to more clearly see how I wanted to develop my plot, when it seemed at the time as if I had more questions than answers. Both are exceptionally talented writers and top-notch critiquers who are destined for highly successful writing careers.
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• Frank Eldridge, aka Uncle Butch, my dad’s younger brother who said that if a 70 year old can do Facebook, a 43-year-old niece can start a blog!
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• Jean Remley, cheerleader extraordinaire, who believed in me before I believed in myself. Jean has been with me every step of the way with this book, checking in with biweekly phone calls to ask, “Has Benjamin Michaelson gotten what he deserves yet?” She's also an invaluable reader in progress.
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• Pat Erwin, my mom, who also couldn’t wait to see how Benjamin Michaelson got his. Between Mom and Jean, my antagonist has suffered a dozen different—and very creative—deaths. Sorry, Mom, but there just aren’t any alligators on the Kansas-Missouri border; hope you enjoy being a reader in progress anyway. :)
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• Marcelo Fayard, my husband and a true saint, not only for doing all the cooking and cleaning whenever I was in the middle of a writing frenzy but for patiently clearing a path and standing safely out of the way every time I called out “Pen, paper, I have an idea!” and took off running toward the writing studio. And his ideas for Michaelson’s downfall were wickedly wonderful. That’s a history major/former Army officer turned librarian for you!
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• Mary Jane O’Neill and Jodi Azulai, co-workers at my day job who, several times a month, e-mailed encouraging words and checked in to see how the plot was thickening. By the way, Mary Jane is another gifted author who is on her way to having a professional writing career.
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• Michelle Wood, a former critique partner from the town where I used to live who is so good at giving constructive feedback she could do this as a full-time career. She is not only a gifted writer but a brilliant photographer (www.michellewoodphotography.com); she’s presently working on creating images for a coffee table book, which she plans on pitching as Rachael Hale + Anne Geddes = Michelle Wood. I’m so lucky she will be one of the readers in progress for the finalized draft.
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• Stephen Barnett, author of The Road to Makokota (http://michellefayard.blogspot.com/2011/03/book-review-road-to-makokota.html) and, by an amazing coincidence, another colleague of mine at the University of California. We’d been working together for more than two years before we realized we’re both authors in our off-duty time. It is a true honor to have Steve as a reader in progress for the finalized draft, as he is a master at describing scenes in chilling detail, in plotting a narrative that is full of subtleties and symbolism, of developing layers of meaning that are open to interpretation, and of selecting the right words to convey a meaning.
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• None of these other thanks would have been possible had it not been for Nancy Carter, our Realtor and a quilter, who first introduced me, back in July 2006, to the role quilts might have played in the Underground Railroad. This one sentence, casually mentioned while we were in her office looking at homes for sale, sparked the entire manuscript. Plus she’s an incredible Realtor!
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• And to author and critique partner Joyce Scribner, whom I deeply regret no longer is with us. An angel from heaven couldn’t have been more encouraging of my goals.

Opportunity for writers ends April 21

If you’re serious about being a professional writer, Bradford Literary Agency of San Diego is one of the best you can have representing you. This year one of their top agents, Natalie Fischer, who otherwise is closed to submissions, is participating in a pitch contest open until April 21 or until the first 150 entries are received, which ever comes first. Complete details are available at YAtopians’ blog, http://yatopia.blogspot.com/2011/04/pitch-contest-with-natalie-fischer.html#comments.

Later this evening I’ll be submitting a two-sentence pitch and opening sentence from my recently completed young-adult book set during the months when Civil War troubles between Missouri and Kansas are coming to a head.

Benjamin Michaelson, a sadistic slave owner, is someone you’ll love to hate, as he keeps the plot pounding forward with psychological twists. Michaelson is determined to break the strong spirits of the two teenage protagonists, Josepha and Reeca, one a slave and the other the daughter of an abolitionist, who come under his control for two different, but equally dark, reasons. It’s a rollercoaster of fear, mystery and revenge, a book that has been a challenge and a joy to write.

As a Californian, I admit I have a soft spot for an agency based in my home state. I look forward to hearing which of my writing friends also will be taking part in this opportunity. Good luck to each of us!

Natalie Fischer

Signs of spring

 

My dad’s youngest brother taught me something new last week. Pine trees know when it’s Easter.

At least one type of pine, which grows in the southeastern United States where Uncle Butch lives, starts its new growth in the weeks before the Christian celebration. By the time it’s Easter Sunday, these pines will have formed yellow shoots at the ends of their branches; the small lateral shoots that appear on the tallest end growth resemble a cross.

I remember when I was growing up where the Midwest meets the Midsouth, the blooms of the dogwood trees always seemed to come out around Easter time. Many of the old-timers said the red stripes were a symbol of blood while the four petals themselves also formed the shape of a cross. Some also said the center of the flower resembles a crown of thorns.

Legend explains that the cross on which Christ was crucified was made from a dogwood tree. God decreed that from that day onward the dogwood tree never would grow large enough to be used to make a cross. Today’s dogwood is a small, understory tree whose blooms look like the last fall of snow before green returns to the forests.

Other legends involving plants and Easter include the passionflower, symbolizing the passion of Christ, and Easter lilies, which appeared in Christ’s empty tomb.

Other plants also naturally bloom near certain holidays including poinsettia (Christmas), Christmas cactus, Easter cactus and Thanksgiving cactus. Although no scientific evidence exists that plants bloom because of a holiday, it is comforting to speculate that it’s more than just favorable weather conditions or the availability of pollinators that causes nature to do what she does.

What says spring to you?

Suburbia is where the developer bulldozes out the trees then names the streets after them.—Bill Vaughan (1915-1977)

My name is Bird

Dad and I, August 1969

When I was in junior high, Dad and I began a tradition that lasted until I graduated from college. Seventh grade was the pits. I was the shortest kid in my class. I was a four-eyed bookworm in a Jane Fonda aerobics era. And Dad’s company transferred him to second shift.

I tried to be glad about the promotion. According to the company’s mission statement, White-Rodgers produced HVAC and appliance products that made people everywhere feel better. Everyone except me. I’d lost my breakfast date. I’d lost my after-school math tutor. I felt like a child from a broken home, reduced to seeing my dad only on weekends.

One morning Mom tried to cheer me by suggesting I eat breakfast at Dad’s desk. Trying to accept this substitute, I sat on a small section of Dad’s big, black chair. I stared at the desk’s smooth top for several seconds before noticing a napkin with blue letters on it. "Dear Bird," the note began.

We exchanged messages on every kind of paper—the backs of envelopes, wrappers from packages and pieces of newsprint. The delivery point always was Dad’s desk, the area where he placed his evening glass of iced tea and morning cup of coffee. Dad would find his messages at 11 p.m. when he came home from work, and I’d find mine when I woke up in the morning.

Dad never really explained why he began calling me Bird. True, I had pale, thin legs. Yes, I loved the sound of my own voice, and if I weren’t speaking, I was singing. I hoped Dad had picked the moniker for more glamorous reasons, but the bottom line was if Dad chose it, I loved it.

Some notes contained jokes, while others motivated or consoled me. Napkins and envelopes were there for me when I didn’t get a dream date for my junior prom and when I was one point away from getting a full scholarship to the college of my dreams.

When I began college, I assumed I would trade notes on napkins for notes on Western Civ. Coming home one weekend to celebrate my birthday, I stumbled from my old bedroom to the bathroom to find Dad had drawn a birthday cake with candles on a piece of toilet tissue. That white square with blue ink is one of the most cherished items in my memorabilia box.

Not long after I graduated from college, Dad began exhibiting the signs of Alzheimer’s. He no longer called me Bird, and my family stopped using the name too, as it caused Dad too much confusion.

A decade later, as Dad entered the final stages of the disease, I met the man who would become my husband. I almost dropped the dish I was washing the first time Marcelo called me Bird.

I’ve never figured out how the two most important men in my life both chose the same nickname for me. Like Dad, Marcelo never has been able to completely articulate his selection. I still eat like a bird, move like a bird and stand like a bird. (Did I mention that I like to relax with my left foot resting on my inner thigh as I balance on my right leg like a 64-inch egret?)

My first year of marriage, I was sent to cover a news story about a television crew filming a Japanese action-adventure series at a Northern California sky-diving firm. The name of the series was “Hyakuman,” and the hero was someone who could do anything, including free falling to rescue a bag of gold coins dropped from the antagonist’s airplane. My husband’s pet name for me took a spin that day as well, as he began calling me Hyakubird. Anytime an editor handed an assignment to me I just knew I couldn’t accomplish, Marcelo would say, “Nonsense. Hyakubird can do anything.”

Quick. Get a napkin. I need to write a note to tell this man how much I love him.

Who gave you your nickname and why?

Marcelo and I, 1998