Privilege

This past weekend, I had the privilege to open the UPS box containing Golden Heart entries for 2010. I did say privilege. I could be a bit biased. I conduct judge training for our local writing contest, Great Expectations, and I'm not convinced everyone has it in him/her to judge another's writing. Or, the luster from my two previous Golden Heart finals could be blinding me. Quite possibly, it could be the RWA networks I am part of have been buzzing for weeks speculating on the delay in shipping entries this year. But as I sat down at the kitchen table and slid the five-entry stack from the box, it came to me. The privilege part. For that, we have to go back one year.

Same table. Same favorite chair. Identical box. I had read other entries, maybe three, already. While waiting in my car. At a coffee shop. Between appointments. But for one in particular, I remember that chair, the morning sun slanting across the table's oak rings, steaming mug in hand. I read the title. I couldn't believe I hadn't picked it first. Two words, their complete juxtaposition wholly captivating. I dove in.

I can't say exactly when the writer had me. It might have been the first sentence. It might have been a half-page later when I realized this setting was unlike any in romance I'd ever read. I'm sure on the first page I sensed a kinship with her for writing outside the box, writing from her heart, and I know I admired her courage to commit something thought of in romance industry circles as "unpublishable" to paper, an entire novel to completion.

Soon, however, all of that fell away. I was in her world and didn't want to leave. I devoured her entry in one sitting, seemingly at one breath. My steaming mug grew cold, its contents untouched. When I'd finished reading, I walked to the computer, logged into RWA's site and entered a score of 9, the highest possible for an unpublished manuscript.

In March, when RWA announced the Golden Heart finalists, I looked for that two word title before the title of my manuscript. It's hard to explain how I could have been more excited to see another writer's work held up to prestige before my own, but I'd often wondered in the weeks and months after I typed in that 9 if the other judges who had read it believed in it as I did. Had they rewarded courage? Seeing that title, those two words, meant that what I write might have a chance in the publishing landscape, too.

When the finalists introduced themselves, I hesitated. I wanted to send her a private, unassuming email, but I didn't want it to seem look-what-I-did-to-help-you-final. So I stalked her website and blog for weeks. I wanted to know if she had acquired an agent or had contest wins. Did others get her story as I had? Finally, I wrote her. I wished her good luck on placing first, but told her she didn't need luck. She already had a winning story.

At the national conference, I met her in the afterglow of a publishing offer. Moments before, her agent had called her to say Harlequin had offered her a deal and she would be headed to their international markets. She had tears filling her eyes and gave me the most sincere thank you and a hug overflowing with dreams come true. She explained that finaling in the contest was the beginning domino, her open door. That night at the awards ceremony, she won the Golden Heart for her category and tears filled my eyes. Privilege.

She is now a Ruby Sister alongside me. I can't wait to see her debut take flight and read the rest of her story.

And I can't wait to get back to that box.

For the Love of Pete...and Vortex Readers

Over the holidays, I read an article about the hidden traps of online communities. You didn't know there was a boogey-man lurking behind that phone booth, did you? Or, so I've been told, there is a strong possibility of contracting MacGyveritis around here if you are already of the female persuasion. Always, you could be Rickrolled. Okay, time to be serious.

Those who received RWA's Romance Writer's Report know the article. Most of the cautionary tales involved things we writers know intuitively: watch what you say, don't join a community/blog just to promote your books, beware the time-suck. But something the author, Corrina Lavitt, touched on was a more insidious problem: a community can become so comfortable, so familiar, that it forgets about its silent lurkers.

I'm the first one to stand up and say I'm guilty of alluding to jokes or commenters without giving proper linkage to catch my newer, silent visitors up. For that, I shall Rickroll myself. I do think it's easy for blog owners to become comfortable in the familiar and forget to nurture that which is growing. I see you, lurker Vortex reader, and I get that sometimes there's nothing to be said besides, "For the love of Pete, what is she talking about?" (and who, exactly, is Pete? Pete Thornton?). I appreciate all of you, silent or otherwise. My true "itis" is cliques. Hate them. Everyone is welcome here at the wacky table.

Speaking of wacky, I'm co-coordinating a writing contest for the next month and I'd be remiss if I didn't pass along it's shiny awesomeness. Aside from the fact that wonderful things happened to me the year The Night Caller placed first, the Great Expectations contest is often mentioned alongside the Daphne and the Molly in romance writing circles for consistent, high-quality critiques. The deadline is tomorrow, so what are you still reading this blog for? Go forth and enter!

Are there any hidden traps you've noticed in online communities?

Great Expectations and The Writer's Palm

I'm on a blog holiday the rest of this week. Check out a great contest and a December 2007 revival post. Merry Christmas, everyone.

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Have a great romance or women's fiction story you want to get in front of major New York editors? My local RWA chapter, North Texas Romance Writers of America is sponsoring a Great Expectations contest. Deadline: December 27th. Membership in RWA is NOT a requirement.

Polish your manuscript and send in the first 25 pages plus a query letter. Category-specific score sheets. Paper or electronic entry. Cash prizes awarded to the top three finalists in each category. Rules and entry form.

Final round judges:
Contemporary—Megan Long/Editorial Assistant, Harlequin Books
Erotic Romance-Raelene Gorlinksky/Publisher, Ellora’s Cave
Historical—Esi Sogah/Editorial Assistant, HarperCollins
Inspirational—Melissa Endlich/Senior Editor, Steeple Hill
Mainstream w/RE—Megan Mckeever/Assistant Editor, Pocket Books
Romantic Suspense—Alex Logan/Assistant Editor, Grand Central Publishing
Single Title—Talia Platz/Editorial Assistant, NAL
Specialized—Chris Keeslar/Senior Editor, Dorchester Publishing
Young Adult— Alvina Ling/Senior Editor, Little, Brown Books for Young
Readers

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Recently, another author made me aware of the unique features writers carry in the lines of their hands. Of course, this opens up an entire discussion about whether the ancient mysteries of palm reading hold any truths about our inner selves and the path we're meant to follow in this life. How is it possible that even in utero, before the movement of the hands have created patterns of folds, these lines are visible?

Each February when I was young, I'd go to the annual Psychic Fair with my sister. We'd spend the entire day in the realm of the supernatural. Palm readings, tea leaves--you name it, we did it. I remember being fifteen, laying my hands on the black velvet in front of me and screaming inside, hoping she would say the man I would marry looked exactly like my high school crush. I can't remember much about the reading, we lost the sheet of notes my sister furiously scribbled as she spoke, but I do remember Carson Bell wasn't in my future.

In sixth grade, I made a project of studying palmistry, complete with a hokey demonstration--crystal ball and all--of me reading my teacher's palm. He'd Xeroxed his hand several weeks earlier for me to study, and the reading came out remarkably accurate. What happened after put an end to my curiosity.

After I'd nailed almost everything about my first "subject", the remainder of the class would ask me over and over to read their palms. I'd learned a little, enough to be freaky dangerous with the knowledge, and enough to know when not to say anything at all. One day a boy named Kevin asked me to read his palm while we were waiting in the milk line at lunch. Standing there, the pungent smell of corn chips smothered in chili wafting through the narrow hall, I saw the life line on both his hands were cut short. Judging from my sparse experience, in his twenties. The inevitable question most people ask when offering their hands is, "How long am I going to live?"

Kevin asked. It was the first life line I'd seen that didn't wrap around the thumb's mount, the completion of a long life stretched to the wrist. I didn't know what to say, so I replied, "I can't tell you." For six more years, through the halls of jr. high and high school, I'd encounter him from time to time and he'd hollar across a crowded throng of students, "How long?" with a smile on his face. It had become a running joke to him. To me, not so funny.

Today, I'll look at my own. I consider it a project in self-discovery, but I won't look at the palms of others. Maybe the metaphysical types are more highly evolved than I am at looking into the future and holding secrets I'm not sure we have a right to know, but when I hold the hands of family members, I never look. Some things are better left unknown.

And Kevin? Sadly, I don't know what happened to him. I'm hoping when my twentieth reunion comes around, I'll find him, alive and well. If not-if by some cosmic mapping I still don't understand his life was cut short-I'll know I gave him nothing more than the knowledge most of us carry. Not knowing. How differently he might have led his life if I'd blurted out in eleven year old ignorance that he wouldn't make it to adulthood. Would he have embraced life or lived in fear? A small stone dropped into his pond in sixth grade could have changed everything.

So I stay with the safe in this post. The pursuit of self-awareness. If you're a writer, here's what to look for:

~Mercury and Jupiter fingers with rounded tips signify creativity.

~The Apollo (artistry), Mercury (communication) and Luna (dreams, creativity) mounts should be pronounced.

~The "writer's fork" is found at the end of a drooping Head line indicates literary talent. Usually medium-sized.

~A small cross (X) on the Mercury mount is also known as a "writer's cross"

The dominant hand reflects those abilities that are closer and more prounounced in your nature.

Check out the comments section for which of these I have and post your own...