A post-Stan world

 

Snapped yesterday on another excursion to the shore.

I just finished reading through the first novel of my current series. It was going to be the final revision before leading to publication, but two days ago I felt compelled to look up a few more agents, despite submitting this series to over thirty last fall. I'm waiting for a sci-fi novel to arrive, written by woman who I just learned this morning currently lives here in Humboldt County. Once her novel arrives, I'll give it a read, then either feel compelled to query this series in a very limited fashion or get a book cover made and release it myself. Life in this post-Stan world is full of inexplicable notions.

My brother-in-law Stan died a year ago last week. My husband and I went to the beach recently and the southern end of the shore was basically GONE. A huge shelf where we took our granddaughters last fall has been sucked back into the Pacific, such power the ocean possesses, but lately the waves have been huge and erosion is as endless as the water, as lives appearing then ending. Makes me feel not sad, but aware that change is as much a part of the human experience as the calm we crave, or the peace we should be seeking. But even that peace is fleeting because something is always emerging to stir it up far beyond our feeble attempts at maintaining it.

After getting no requests for my manuscript, I came to the conclusion that this story, and the series evolving from it, were simply meant for a very small audience, ha ha. I was fine with that, and still am. I'm actually feeling unsettled at the prospect of querying it again, although I'm not bothered by waiting three more months before I publish it, assuming no one again bites. That gives me more time to figure out cover art and tweak it a wee bit more, and maybe write the fifth book in the series. Revising The Hawk as I have been most nights for the last few weeks will satisfy the itch to put out a new story, then the new series will see the light of day sometime in May unless God has other plans for it. I'm not bothered either way. Well actually, I am a little leery of getting others involved. Isn't that funny? I was so hoping an agent would request it four months ago, now I wish to grip it tightly to my chest, not wanting outside interference, not that a few query letters guarantees instant interest, but the possibility of a request for the manuscript remains if I send those letters.

If I send those letters.... I won't know until I get the novel in the mail, and none of this would even been a consideration if Stan hadn't died. If he was still alive, I never would have written the second book in the series in the first place.

That's a slightly crass way to put a wonderful man's death in perspective. No, it's pretty damn crass. Or maybe it's me in my late fifties accepting those I love who were older than me weren't all gonna live as long as I would have liked, and moving on is essential. Stan died, I came home, then a few weeks later I started writing a cathartic exercise loosely based on how he died. I gave it a great twist, then a deplorable ending, grousing for a couple of days. Then I realized I could incorporate an abandoned chapter written in 2022, turning one long novella into something else entirely. And now a year after Stan's death, I'm allowing God to continue whatever is supposed to come from that man's passing, because ultimately, what else is there for me to do? People die and life goes on, and we harness who they were to us in whatever manner we can, then hopefully use that influence to be better than we were and help others. Picking ourselves up and dusting off the sorrow, we gaze at the horizon, uncertain where it leads, but acting fearlessly in accepting that forward is the only positive way to go. It's the way of growth, further change, although hasn't there been enough alteration already? Can't I just arrange a book cover, write a little blurb, then put out this novel?

Maybe I will, in May. Maybe these few query letters will be as unsuccessful as the rest. Maybe I'll read Becky Chambers' book and say to myself, "Yeah, I'm not on that level." Or I'll read her book and think, "My novel is this well-written, but I'd prefer to not seek representation." Because despite all my wishing for authorial recognition, anonymity is nice too. Well, it's less work, lol. And since Stan's death, I'm not as young as I used to be. 

I'll never be that youthful again, but that's fine. The aging process cannot be stopped, deaths of loved ones impossible to erase. Appreciating each other has to become paramount, also accepting the changes we never wished would have occurred. Like the shore eroding. Like books birthed from grief. Like another day in my life post-Stan....