Yesterday I wrote of my father. Today’s thoughts are of mom.
She was the one in the apron. The one who held us together with a spoon and a spatula. Mother knew how to knead. Her breads were beyond compare. Her cookies were devine. I know she tried to teach me culinary arts. Unfortunately, my best efforts came while standing at the kitchen sink, holding a glass of soapy water high above my head, tipping the glass until its contents trickled out like Bridal Falls near Crater Lake, Oregon.
Thinking of this now, I still seem to trickle out my best efforts. Last summer’s Finalist accolades at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association conference have still not produced an agent. An editor. I’ve religiously read the amazing help from Anne Mini at www.annemini.com and still I’m stymied.
Yet, I know there’s a recipe to be followed here. I know it takes placing one’s behind in one’s chair and tapping out (even with a screaming wrist) one letter after another to potential agents. It takes research, followed by further research. It takes paying twenty bucks a month to Publisher’s Marketplace to ferret out the prospective agents who represent similar material. It takes more manuscript edits to make certain I’m presenting the best possible product.
That’s what we’re offering, you know — a product!
Any other manufacturer wouldn’t be in business long if their product was inferrior. Why would a writer be any different? As I look through my local Border’s Books, I notice how the new writers are amazing. Just as my mother did, every word is kneaded just so. Every cookie is sprinkled with just the correct amount of sugar. Every recipe is followed to the letter.
So I’m putting on my apron. I’m using my best cookie cutters to make certain my words form perfect shapes. I’m making certain that everything is tasty.
Mom would be proud of me!