European Update & Cutting Characters from My Novel

My friend K and I are back at her home in Wien (Vienna) for the weekend before my flight back to the US on Monday after spending a few days in Hungary on our way to and from Romania. I can't remember when I've enjoyed a trip more!

We stayed in Gyor, another Hungarian city I was unfamiliar with and would visit again. What a lovely little jewel of a city! K and I didn't have time to take a proper tour, but walking through the town square and down little streets is usually all I need to get a good sense of a town, village or city. We sat in the town square sipping Radler beers, eating amazing goulash soup with crisp frites and people watching while the sun set behind the main church on the square. Amazing.

K and I had both been to Budapest, Sopron and the Lake Balaton region, so we headed home early to have more time in Vienna. I still wanted to visit the house my ex-husband, children and I lived in 25 years ago. I also have several churches and the Belvedere Museum I would love to go through and enjoy before my departure on Monday morning.

                                                          . . . .

So, yesterday was May 1, also called May Day in Europe and Labour Day in England. K and I decided to head back to my old stomping ground of the 19th district in Vienna. We bought two gorgeous lilac bouquets along the way and found my old street address on her map. Nothing looked familiar as we approached my old street, but when we turned the corner and looked up the steep, cobblestone street, I remembered...memories of pushing the English pram that held my three year old and one year old came back to me. Some things you never forget. My body remembered the strain and I remembered how difficult it was for me, a young mother with no German language, living in Vienna at the time. Vienna was our first overseas posting as a young married couple and the first time I lived in Europe as an adult, not an Army dependent. My children are now 28 and 24 years old and I am happy to have photographs to share with them.

As I write this blog post, my long-time friend is still in hospice in Northern Virginia. Her daughter and family have decided to take her off antibiotics that aren't helping with a severe infection that is coursing through her body and the last thing I heard was that the family had also decided to take her off the feeding tube...all very emotionally charged and strained. I don't know if everyone in the family is in agreement with this decision. I will only support their decision and my very private opinion will remain that...private. I've asked the necessary questions (to me) and I'm leaving that to the family and God.

I also received a very kind note from the agent who had the exclusive read on my manuscript, A Decent Woman. His recommendation to take out the chapters of Serafina, the second most important protagonist in my novel, is spot on. I've often thought that my two female protagonists were vying for first place. Years ago, I wondered if the story would be better served by focusing solely on Ana and have Serafina be a minor character. I will do just that. I highly concur with him. It is Ana's story to tell. The narrative momentum must remain strong.

I've decided to save the original manuscript and make a copy where I remove Serafina's chapters and rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. Last night, I emailed the agent to ask whether he would accept a second look at my manuscript once I make the necessary changes and beef up Ana's story. He said yes last night. I was thrilled.

This morning, I have renewed faith and again, have hope that I'm on the right track with this book and this agent. He has seen something in my story worth pursuing...or he's been super polite. Regardless, I am highly encouraged by the agent's quick responses to my emails this week and his "yes" in answer to my question about resubmitting.

Early next week when I depart Vienna and arrive in the US, I begin the rewrites after I am reunited with my precious children and visit the hospice on my way home to my furry babies in WV. 

My lifelong friend's battle with life is precarious at this time and I am again reminded of how precious life is. This trip has reminded me of how beautiful life and the world is. I'm very thankful to my friend K and her family for the kind and gracious invitation to spend three weeks with them. She gave me a beautiful gift.

Peace and love,

Ellie

Thoughts of Dogwoods and Life

The sidewalks and streets in my neighborhood are wet and my garden is green again. I looked out the window this morning and smiled. No snow and the sun is out. I instantly felt energetic and wonder if the lack of sun affects me or is it just that I love the sun and sunny days. I immediately feel more energetic even if I'm home and don't go out in the sun, just seeing the sun makes me feel better. My neighbors must feel the same way as I hear my neighbor's children playing in the yard and all this week, I've heard birdsong around dawn. Spring has arrived.

After breakfast, I walked through my garden in my white robe, sipping hot tea and checking on all my babies. I hope that the perennials I planted last summer bloom again. I spotted two robins along the back fence and noticed new growth on the hydrangea plants and the astilbe. The daffodils and lilies are six inches high now and the ivy in the pot is as strong as ever. I still have this month to prune my ancient grapevines and the little dogwood tree my friend D gave me last year has tiny buds on the branches. That made me happiest of all. 

Last year on Earth Day, my friend D was offered two 'twigs', dogwood trees with roots in a plastic bag of dirt. She surprised me with one 'twig' last year as a house warming gift and couldn't have known how happy that made me. D said she didn't know if the 'twig' would survive, but I was hopeful and so pleased.

You see, dogwoods were my mother's favorite tree. They will always remind me of my mother who passed away in 1992. She also loved lilac bushes. I love both. My parents had several flowering dogwood trees on their property in Northern Virginia. Beautiful dogwoods in creamy white and shades of light and darker pink. They're delicate-looking, compact trees that don't grow huge like an oak or a maple, perfect for a smaller yard like mine. Well, I was thrilled.

A Virginia dogwood had ended up in a West Virginian garden. Just like me, a Virginia transplant in a new home, I told D. I too, had been delicate, fragile, and had replanted myself many times after my divorce. My kids, family and many friends feared for me in a new town and state, worried that I'd hate West Virginia and that I'd made an awful mistake in moving. It didn't matter that it hadn't been my choice to leave Europe, end my marriage, and move across the Atlantic, but here I am.

I immediately planted the little dogwood in a large clay pot and decided that we would no longer call it 'twig'. It's a dogwood and I babied that tree all last spring. Midsummer D visited again and we planted the dogwood in my yard. I decided to plant it along the side fence away from the wind that always blows like crazy through the side yard. She reminded me that I would have to move it, but I was dead set in protecting it first. I staked the little dogwood and it has thrived there. The dogwood grew four inches last year and I'm praying that it survives the winter and continues to thrive. But, I might have made a small mistake with my precious little dogwood...

I planted it along the side fence, way too close to the fence, actually. In my attempt to protect and save the sapling, I'd forgotten about trust and allowing things to progress as they are meant to. I'll have to move it to a location where it is able grow as large as it wants. The spot is confining and not conducive to future growth...I forgot to trust.

as I write this blog post, it feels eerie. The comparisons between my new life in West Virginia and this little dogwood are amazing to me. I've always felt in tune with nature, so this shouldn't surprise me.

Two springs ago, I moved to West Virginia to start a new life. I bought and move to a house that I could well afford and to a location that would allow me to write full time. At the time, I saw no other option. Friends and my children encouraged me to look at other houses, but I was so afraid that I just made the decision and did it. West Virginia isn't forever, but it sure has been a soft place to land and I've been able to live my life as I envisioned it. I've felt safe and protected in this place. The experience of moving on my own has been difficult at times because I'm away from my two adult children, but I've healed here. I'd put down tender, shallow roots and they spread. I've grounded myself in this town and I feel I've thrived...

but, I now realize that I've planted myself real close to the fence in an attempt to regroup after divorce. I wonder what would have happened if I'd trusted and been a bit more patient? Well, I'm not one to dwell on the past nor agonize over decisions. I did what I thought was right for me. I finished my novel and have begun to write my second book. I've made friends and feel a part of my crazy and colorful neighborhood. I've also protected my heart in many ways...there it is.

Is it time for me to move away from the fence? What will moving away from the fence mean for me? What will it look like?

It looks like book #3, that's what it looks like :) The outline is already written because I've lived it. That book will be the sequel to the book I'm writing now or the ending...and I didn't realize it until just NOW. Just this second.

Trust.

Peace and love,
Ellie

I Sure Can Pick 'Em

Do you remember the Disney film with Kurt Russell where a chimp watches television shows and picks the top show of the week? I don't remember the title, but I do remember watching the movie as a teenager.  I also remember reading the newly published children's book, Jumanji to my kids when they were toddlers, saying, "This would make a great movie!" Later, I read Jurassic Park to my kids who were nine and seven at the time, thinking that a movie had to be made of that amazing book. When my daughter went to college and I was on my way back to Belgium via Puerto Rico to visit my cousin, I was reading, The Da Vinci Code. I read it in two days, couldn't put it down and really hoped to see it on the screen. Voila. My picker was right.

Another book I've always thought would be AMAZING on the silver screen is The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. I would pay good money to see it. Maybe a movie studio has already bought the movie rights for the book and if not, why not? The book would make a fabulous movie in my humble. The other book is mine.

I smile now because as a new writer, the first draft of my historical novel, A Decent Woman was a screenplay of sorts. I was learning the ropes (still am) and very passionate about my book (still am). I just had to get the words down as quickly as I could and because I didn't know any better, I made lots of mistakes. I often said that the characters whispered in my ear as I wrote. I still have the first draft of my novel and I kind of cringe when I read the first chapter. The characters are interesting, but not fleshed out and the dialogue is a he said, she said type of ping pong match! There is more intrigue now with meatier chapters, fleshier characters, meaningful dialogue, flashbacks, and back story. As I've written draft after draft, I've learned a lot and I'm still learning. The more I read, the more I learn about the craft of writing.

When I wrote that first draft, I could see my characters as clearly as if they were standing in front of me. I saw the hurricane just off the coast, I smelled the salty ocean, heard babies cry, and felt the spray off the waves on my face as Ana stood thinking back to her childhood in Cuba. I cried with my heroines, prayed with them and laughed at what came out of their mouths. I heard them speak, whisper and I fell in love when they did. I rooted for my characters when they were in dire straits and although I dreamed of happy endings for them all, I complicated my character's lives and then tied up loose ends only to have another challenge present itself.

From the beginning draft of my novel to the draft I now hold in my hands, I've lived and breathed with my characters. As I patiently wait on the verdict of the exclusive read the agent asked me for - I am hopeful. I still see this book as a movie. I'd watch it :)

Patience, patience, and more patience on this blustery day in March.

Peace and love,
Ellie

That's Life - Asi Es La Vida

You see this Spanish-style house with the light blue shutters? I used to own it. The house sits between two vineyards in a small French village. It was sold after my divorce when I'd moved back to the US. I loved that house. We have many happy memories of that time in our lives.

There's a house in Puerto Rico with a tiled roof, very similar to this house. My grandparents used to own it. Neither house belong to me or my family any longer. Both houses were sold because life is life and it goes on whether we approve or like it one bit.

My maternal grandparents owned the house in Puerto Rico where I lived when I was a week old. That house was a constant in my life until my mother passed away in 1992 and my grandmother decided it was too much house for her after my grandfather passed away. I think she was running away from memories and the loss of two daughters, as well. I didn't blame her. You can't walk through the house without memories rushing in.

Family Christmas parties and parrandas, summer vacations from May to late August when my mom, sister and I would visit, and the year we lived with my grandparents, waiting for my father to return from Vietnam. The toilet where the iguana came out of and the chaos that ensued, graduation from high school when we lived in Puerto Rico for two years and returning to the island with my daughter when I was pregnant with my son. Another summer when my then-husband, my kids and I vacationed in PR when we lived overseas. So many memories. This house was my home - my refuge, my solace and my love.

So you see, this house isn't just a house to me. It is so much more than that. I'd wanted to buy my grandparent's house. While my then-husband and I considered the purchase, a family member bought it. I was bummed, but very glad that the house where I spent many happy times members would remain in the family. Her in-laws immediately moved in and lived there until she sold the house. I didn't know a thing about the sale until I visited Puerto Rico last December with my friend. I was dumb-struck and heartbroken when I'd found out it had been sold.

I parked the rental car across the street and immediately, I found it hard to speak. The white house was now painted a charcoal gray, not appropriate for a tropical climate. As soon as my friend D and I exited the car, I felt greeted by my departed grandparents, my mother, aunts and uncles and a cousin who died when he was 18. Memories of family photos taken in the front garden when I was little rushed in. I showed D the place where I cut the salamander's tail off to see if the myth was true about the tail remaining 'alive' afterward. The spot along the wrought-iron fence where a boy named Richard said he loved me just before my high school graduation and the enclosed porch, malquesina, where my daughter proudly showed her grandmother and great-grandmother her dancing skills while my son chased lizards in the back patio, under the huge mango tree.

I had tears in my eyes as the new owner's daughter gave me a tour of my grandparent's house. The floor tiles were the same, the remodeled bathroom was still yellow, and the kitchen where my grandmother lovingly prepared food hadn't changed. It will always be my family's house to me. My bedroom was non-recognizable, however. I got ready for my Junior and Senior Proms in that room, I cried there when my boyfriend died in a motorcycle accident, and when the room used to be my grandparent's room. There are stories of me as a toddler, ripping my grandfather's newspaper in shreds before he came home from the bank at noontime and of me as a teenager having a hissy fit that my grandmother was holding me hostage when my parents flew back to the US on business. She had a ring of keys to prove that she was in charge, much like a prison marm :)

I cried for my mother, my grandparents and the past as the tour came to an end. I had mixed emotions, I didn't know what to do with. I wanted to tell the new owner that she shouldn't have bought the house and at the same time, I was thankful that she'd been home and offered us a tour. I felt closer to my mother and my grandparents; there were around me, but I also felt like an interloper. I missed my mother so much at that moment and shook my head to compose myself as we headed to the cemented patio where a lush tropical garden had been.

"The mango tree is gone," I said to the new owner. She looked at me for a moment and said, "I didn't know you ever lived in this house."

Oh yes, I did. And, then some.

Some days, we're more nostalgic than others. Maybe it's all the cold meds I'm taking?

Peace and love,
E