Small Things You Notice

The door was open. I didn’t see it until the pastor got up front to welcome us but then I couldn’t stop looking at it. On either side of the altar area there’s a door. The left one opens into a small room and has a door to the outside where pastor can come in and robe up. The right one opens into the altar guild room and was left gaping by a clueless acolyte (or Alf). It didn’t seem to bother a single person in the front pew on that side, but it drove me crazy. Why didn’t one of them get up and shut it? Why? Would have taken about 12.5 seconds. Ugh. After a while I decided listening to the Word was probably more worthy of my attention, but still. Grrr. I mean, what if pastor left that outside door open and a bunch of mice wandered in? One at a time they'd start making demands. No cats allowed. Free cheese. A church mouse choir. C'mon, people wise up. Shut the door. 

After church hubby and I went to watch granddaughter, Anna, play basketball. We got to the gym early (I’m married to someone who is “late” if he gets there on time). Anyway, while we waited I observed two little girls playing on some mats beneath a set of stairs. They were having a ball. One of them had a braid half way down her back and it was a beautiful thing. Sable colored, tightly woven, and it swung back and forth as she played. So pretty.

This morning just before dawn we heard the snowplow chug down the road. As I made my way downstairs I wondered how much of the white fluff we’d gotten so I turned on the light by the back door to take a look. About an inch. But in that inch were tiny footprints trailing away from the door. Perfect little paws padding through the snow. Our Agnes was inside so I wondered if it was the “other” cat we’d seen hanging around with Sister before we rescued her from the wild. Hmmm.

It was just brought to my attention – via one of those bathroom trivia books – that the original Three Musketeers candy bar came in three pieces and three flavors. Vanilla. Chocolate. Strawberry. I’m trying to remember if I remember that but chances are I’m too young.

So – what small things have you noticed of late (besides that snowboarder Shaun White now has short hair – the long red curls are gone)? And if Shaun's hair has been short for five years, don't tell me. Sometimes I notice things way after. 

Image: freedigitalphotos.net

Rejection or Regret?

A few days ago I wrote up a short piece on rejection (of the writing variety) to submit to a publisher seeking anthology stories. I looked at a few things I’d already written on the subject but none quite suited. So, I did up a new one and sent it off. But this one, an oldie, isn’t too bad. I wrote it when I hadn’t nearly as many rejections as I’ve accumulated since. If you’re a writer I hope this helps. If you’re not – well – insert some other effort and the message still rings true. Right?  

The ‘R’ Word

Ah. You’re here because you think I have something to tell you about rejection, right? I’m going to disappoint you. I rarely write about things I hate. Besides, you already know that your writing is going to be rejected by someone, somewhere, sometime. It’s going to hurt your feelings. And everything any other writer or friend or your mom has ever told you is true. You’ve got to get over it and carry on. I’ll tell you why.

It’s because of that other ‘R’ word…regret. When I was very young I hated it when older, wiser people would say things to me like…if you don’t finish this class you’ll regret it later in life. Phooey, I thought. But guess what? I got older. Guess what again. They were right. To spare you the boredom of reading about my regrets I’ll just say I have many.

So here’s the nightmare. I’m sitting in my wheelchair at the ‘home’ blathering on about what a great writer I could have been. But my list of excuses for why I didn’t do this is longer than my list of pills. And to my everlasting bewilderment, nobody wants to hear about it.

Here’s the dream. Two years from now I’m strolling through a Barnes and Noble. I head to the mystery and thrillers section. A book is displayed on an end cap. The woman next to me picks it up and begins to turn the pages. She reads the title out loud. She catches my eye.

 “ I love this book,” she says.

 “ You do?” I say. “Then let me sign it for you. I’m the author.” 

  I don’t want the nightmare of regret. I want the dream. And so do you. Go for it.

Image: freedigitalphotos.net 

Wandering Back in Time

Since, here in the east, we're smack dab in the middle of a whopper snow storm, I thought you might have time for a bit longer post today. So, out of the archives I've pulled a piece that was published in Prairie Times last year. Hope you enjoy! Stay warm and stay indoors if you can. 

An Unexpected Reverie

By Susan Sundwall

One gloomy Saturday I found myself in the laundry room facing several items that needed a touch of ironing. They’d been there for awhile waiting – kind of forlorn like. So I decided to hunker down and just do it.  As I stood at the board listening to the steam hiss from the dimpled face of the iron, I thought back to the days when women had to iron all the time. There’s almost no such thing now, but I have to tell you, a sense of contentment washed over me as I ran the hot appliance over my favorite denim shirt. I was doing something useful and productive. And I had to stand still to do it.  

There’s a pleasant scent that rises from freshly ironed clothes. It’s fleeting but floats up from cloth and hot metal coming together to smooth out wrinkles. As each piece is finished there’s a great sense of satisfaction in seeing a line of wrinkle free shirts lined up in the closet. As a kind of bonus, while that task was being performed, I was able to let my mind happily wander; right there doing such an old fashioned thing.

Don’t get me wrong, I never want to go back to the days of the old nursery rhyme where one would wash on Monday, iron on Tuesday, scrub on Wednesday, etc.  No thank you. I’m a modern gal and think it’s marvelous what machines do now, freeing us from the drudgery of days gone by. But as I pressed and turned my shirt, smoothing out the sleeves along the ironing board, other thoughts crept in.

I kind of miss the routine of washing and drying dishes. Really. When my sisters and I were growing up, we’d do the dishes together. After we’d tried every trick in the book to get out of it, we’d usually settle down and get the job done. We’d use this time to sing some of the songs we’d learned in school. We, the three oldest, all had the same elementary school music teacher and our voices rang out over the sudsy water and clank of plates. Songs like “White Coral Bells,” and “Shenendoah,” drifted through the kitchen then.

At other times we’d play beat the clock. “Okay,” I’d say. “It’s six thirty. I’ll bet we can get this whole stinking mess cleaned up in twelve minutes.”

“Never happen,” said one sister.

“Come on, let’s try it,” said the other.

“Ready? Set? Go!”

And we were off like an illegal firecracker. We usually made our time and if you watched us you’d have seen quite a ballet. Dipping, reaching past, and dodging each other. At intervals we’d each throw a glance at the clock.

“Three minutes to go! Hurry up.” Then we’d put on the speed and congratulate ourselves when the last dish was dried and the sink was cleaned out. Dad was a real stickler for doing that last bit.

Years later when the younger brothers and sister came along (eventually there were nine of us) Mom and Dad were able to afford a dishwasher. I was out of the house by then but I’ve always wondered what those siblings found to facilitate bonding. Playing Pac Man, maybe?

As I ironed my next piece I thought of a conversation I’d had with my daughter-in-law not too long ago. We spoke of the school playground games that were prevalent when we were kids. She, too had played Four Square and Tetherball. I usually got clobbered at Four Square primarily because the boys were killer shots. I hardly ever made it to square one. But let me tell you about Tether Ball.

I was one of the queens at that game. There were about four of us in the fifth grade who ruled in the tether ball arena. My chief rivals were Cynthia and Donna. If you got off a good first punch you almost always had the advantage. The trick was to keep that ball flying so high over your opponent’s head she couldn’t reach it to send it back at you. If, on the other hand, she got in a couple of whomping pows! herself, well then the game was afoot. I relished the challenge and frequently won. I had a good right arm back then. And the boys? They pretty much stayed out of the way for that game. They were usually off somewhere in the kickball field or dribbling like crazy on the basketball court.

Grabbing a hanger for that last shirt, I smoothed the collar and thought of how pleasant it can be to give in to some long put off chore that nonetheless fosters reverie. Ironing probably lends itself more to that indulgence than some other things, like scouring the toilet. As a girl I would have scoffed at the idea of a pleasant hour of ironing, but those days are gone. I know better now.

There are things we remember from childhood that burn in our memory. They are not always the giddy with excitement times or the horribly embarrassing ones. No, sometimes a simple task like ironing will bring the more eduring ones to the fore in a lovely, and unexpected, reverie.     

Image: John Kasawa                                 Free Digital Photos

Water - A Few Random Thoughts

There was a woman, Ruth, who attended our church a while back who’d been a missionary / teacher in Tanzania, Africa. She was so interesting. We learned much from her as she spoke of her experiences in that country. One thing that stuck with me was how she never had a proper shower while she lived there. If I recall what they did to stay clean was sit on the floor near a drain and pour water over themselves. Unbelievable. And of course that got me thinking about water.

When our boys were young I’d get up early in the summertime and go out on the hill and work in the garden. When I was filth from head to toe I’d head back to the house and hop into a hot shower while they had their breakfast. On recalling that wonderful feeling of being washed clean, I have to tell you, it was just like being baptized. All the awful gets flooded away in this wonderful substance called water and out you come – a new creature. I know, I know, we’re only baptized once, but this was sort of like seeing a great movie over and over. Feels so good to do it again.

Water doesn’t just clean, it nourishes. Think of all the stuff you eat that has water as a component. A juicy apple or orange, a crisp head of lettuce, a frothy mug of beer. When I was a little girl living in Northern Minnesota there were ads for Hamm’s Beer. The jingle began, “From the land of sky blue waters . . .” A little bear danced while the virtues of the beer were extolled. That’s probably how I learned that Minnesota is called the land of ten thousand lakes. Lucky guy who got to count them.

Water has immense power. You just have to stand at the edge of Niagara Falls to understand that. Or any other falls you may be able to stand next to. We tap that power for electricity. Okay, not “we” but some genius who stood there and thought, how can I channel that roar into lighting my home and cooking my steak? Hmmm.

Water can be destructive, too. Russell Crowe stars in an upcoming movie titled, Noah. I’ll bet the writers and producers had to think about water A Lot for that flick. Can’t wait to see it. Yeah, I’m sure they’ll take liberties with the original story line. But, hey, that’s what Hollywood does, Jack (oh – sorry - channeling Si Robertson there for a minute). There’s also Katrina to remember – with a shiver.  

Soon the water that became snow will become rain all gathered in the water table just below the surface waiting for us to use in all the varied ways we need to for our very existence. Meanwhile I’m going to shower, kick back, plop down in my recliner (maybe with a beer) and pretend to like the Super Bowl this Sunday. And maybe I’ll try that new recipe I found for cheesy bacon potato bites with ranch dressing. Think that would go pretty good with beer? 

Have a Super weekend!

PS: Here’s a link to Ruth’s blog http://mylifeintz.blogspot.com/

Image: samuiblue                                 Free Digital Photos

Selling to Quarterlies

Howdy, fellow freelancers! Here's a slightly modified article I wrote a few years ago that appeared in Writing for Dollars. I  hope you find it of use as you seek markets for your work. 

Have You Considered Quarterlies?

By Susan Sundwall

A couple of times a year I give my submissions spreadsheet a good going over, looking for reprint possibilities and pieces that haven’t sold but still have potential. In a recent such move I noticed the number of quarterlies I’ve sold to and there were quite a few.

Many writers won’t consider quarterlies – or put them at the bottom of their ‘possible market’ lists – for the following reasons.

1.    Trying to remember due dates for various publications is bothersome.

2.    Issues are themed and some writers don’t like to be restricted by them.

3.    Too many quarterlies are literary journals.

4.    Pay is non-existent or low.

That’s why I never wrote much for them either. Then I took the bull by the horns and got some re-prints out there and – sure enough – three of them sold to quarterlies. For instance, The Lutheran Digest takes, even prefers, reprints and I sold to them. The editor took my essay about the family recipe box and that sale was number five for that piece.

Themes can be a bane or blessing. The bane part would come in the limitations set by an established topic not of one’s choosing. The blessing comes with having a topic to tackle from the get-go. It saves you from having to guess what to write about. Or worse, writing so far out of the publications parameters that you totally bomb.  But you might find that quite often the theme is broad. When you read the guidelines try to read between the lines a little to determine if your enchanting article about where best to invest your lottery winnings would fit into a broader theme of ‘family,’ or ‘finances.’ You might be surprised what an editor will consider.

Literary journals and magazines can be tough. Many of them pay in copies and if you only want the prestige of having your piece in one of them – well, okay then.

Now, as for those pesky deadlines. Simply make a log for them. Look at it in the first part of each new quarter to determine when you’ll need to get your work in for consideration. Note which ones take reprints and which tend to be themed. Try color coding. Add new markets as you find them.

So, are quarterlies worth it? I think so. The truth is they probably won’t yield you buckets of money. But here’s a little math. You set a goal of submitting three pieces a month to quarterlies. If your ratio of sales to subs is three to one then you’ve sold twelve pieces in a year. If each of those pieces garners $50 to $100 you’ve made anywhere from $600 - $1200 for that time span. Not a lot all by itself, but a nice little chunk of change to add to your other revenue streams. And if some of those are reprints, you’re that much further ahead in the game. Same goes for your evergreen pieces.

Take a look at these for starters.

The Lutheran Digest – Pays $35 http://lutherandigest.com/write-for-us/

Catholic Forester – Pays $50 http://www.catholicforester.org/servicecenter/catholicforestermagazine/WriterandArtistGuidelines.aspx

Range Magazine – Pays $50 - $400 per article http://www.rangemagazine.com/guidelines/index.htm

The Georgia Review – Pays $50 per printed page http://garev.uga.edu/guidelines.html

Have a great Wednesday everybody!

Image: Free Digital Photos

Life - A Leaky Boat

Yesterday we went to watch our eight-year-old granddaughter, Anna, play basketball. She’s doing okay having learned court aggression tactics from her older brother. Sam and his buddy came along to watch and as I gazed down the row he seemed intent on the game before him. And then I noticed the money. He was flipping two dollars back and forth and I had one of those Boomer flashbacks, accompanied by head shaking, that pop up at odd times.

Two dollars when I was a girl was the equivalent of four hours of babysitting, 20 Hershey bars or, when I was a bit older, two lunches at the high school outdoor snack bar (the best burgers ever). Sam was probably thinking of a bag of Skittles and maybe a ring pop. Boy, how time and money have changed.

I never got an allowance. Dad could just about keep us in food and clothes (often hand-me-downs) and it never occurred to him that his kids might want a little jingle in their pockets. Well, maybe it did but he knew then as I know now that appreciation for money comes when you have to go out and get it yourself. Once, when I was about fourteen, I’d managed to save twenty dollars. I’d earned it babysitting, cleaning houses and ironing for a couple of neighbor ladies. I stashed my cash in an envelope in my dresser and counted it with great pleasure. Then Mom took me shopping.

Now, my mother had peculiar ideas about fashion and when she saw the plastic coat with the giant mother of pearl buttons she just knew I would love it. It was also lined with fake fur – really – I am not making this up. And, since my fashion sense wasn’t much better and she being so excited about it and all, I spent my hard earned money on the Thing. I’d also purchased a pair of shoes that were a kind of modified saddle shoe, very trendy, I thought. But the unyielding hard sole clacked on the tile floors of the middle school and that, along with my crunchy plastic coat, made for a cringe worthy memory. Clack, crunch, clack, crunch – must be Sue heading for her locker. Who needed a bully when you were so skilled at bringing great humiliation on all by yourself?

I’m sure Sam and Anna will come to appreciate money some day. And there will be many cringe worthy “moments of intense self awareness” to call their own. Like this past  Saturday when Anna grabbed her brother’s shorts for her game, flew out of the house, and didn’t realize her error until it was way too late. She tucked her shirt into them so they’d stay up which gave her an odd pear shape. The crotch was at her knees but, God bless her, she played on. And yesterday in a moment of frenzy she attempted to make a basket for the other team. Yup, she did. Even the ref laughed.

Nobody gets by without a bit of humiliation in this life and we all make mistakes with our money. But it’s a blessing when we’re able to look back and laugh because we realize we’re all in the same leaky old boat called Life. All in all a very cool thing.

Image: bplanet                                            Free Digital Photos 

A Poem for the Season

I wrote this poem a long time ago – okay, it’a rhyme – and since so many of us are enduring a humdinger of a winter I thought you might get a chuckle from it. I've had a few discussions with other writers about poetry. Some think it should always rhyme while other claim the term (poetry) should be viewed more broadly. I've written rhyming and non-rhyming poems, sold both, and would love your thoughts on it. Really. Just put them down there in the comments. 

Out For The Paper

By Susan Sundwall

Winter, that old man, came calling

and set bitter cold at my feet

I’d only stepped out for the paper

but found myself stuck on the street

My keys somehow fell in the snow bank,

no gloves on my hands nor a hat

And then, didn’t I spy through the window

our dog Lula Belle and the cat 

I spotted my wife right behind them,

foot tapping in robe trimmed with silk

She opened the door but then slammed it again,

I’d forgotten to bring home the milk!

Thanks for reading, stay warm, and remember that spring is lurking right under the surface of all that cold. And won't it be glorious when she finally shows her face? Hmmmm - I think I have a poem for that. 

Image: Free Digital Photos