This past March, I lost a bit of Paris, the pashmina I bought from a vendor on the Champs-Elysees, on my first and only trip to Paris nine years ago.
I’m wearing it in this head shot. I muscled my way into this trip when a good friend and colleague, Linda, told me she and her best friend were going to take a girl’s trip to Paris. I asked to tag along, and said I’d sleep on a pull out. Linda’s friend decided not to go, so it was just the two of us.
I got Rosetta language tapes from my local library to learn some Francais, and learned how to ask where the women’s bathroom was, although I had to ask how to flush the toilet, and purchased three tickets for the first level of La Tour Eiffel, rather than one ticket for the third level. (They were very nice about refunding my money and getting me the ticket I wanted).
We saw the Mona Lisa at the Louvre, toured the Musee d’Orsay and got stranded on a Metro train near Notre Dame that stopped its runs for that day.
I’ll never forget the man who saw me and Linda sitting there, in an empty train, waiting for it to start up again.
He said, in English, “Train is done.”
We got off, went shopping, and drank the best brandy I’ve sipped in my life.
This week Harlequin discontinued a number of their lines, leaving many wonderful authors and editors stranded.
Those lines are done.
I hope they went shopping and sipped brandy.
I can buy another pashmina (although it will never be quite the same).
The Harlequin editors and authors will hopefully find new homes and places for their work to shine.
But Harlequin will never be quite the same, either. Pieces of it are gone.
But I have the images on film (digitally, and hard copies) of both Paris and me wearing my pashmina and we have the stories these Harlequin authors and editors worked on to make them the best they could be, in print and digitally.
I’m not sure I will get back to the Champs-Elysees (although I would return tomorrow if I could) or if Harlequin will bring new lines in to replace the ones they’ve cut, or bring those authors and editors back onto the train.
Sometimes we lose things.
And it just plain sucks.
In my day job, I had the privilege of coming across one of the best love stories I’ve ever heard or read.
And as a romance reader and writer, I’ve heard and read a lot.
But it would never sell.
It’s a December/December romance with no back story, which makes it so amazing.
Think of “The Notebook” without the back story, but the couple are in good health – such good health they roller skate nearly every day.
At ages 74 and 89, Carole and Russell skated at the same roller rink. Carole was reeling from the sudden death of her husband and although her balance was bad, she always wanted to take up roller skating, so she did.
And she got good at it.
Her locker at the roller rink was next to Russell’s. She found him easy to talk to, but she had no interest in dating anyone.
They worked together to serve coffee and donuts to the “skating family,” and went out after skating sessions with the group for lunch.
Carole enjoyed spending time with Russell so much, she asked him out.
Russell hesitated. He liked her – a lot – but he knew she suffered a terrific loss with her husband, was aware of their age difference, meaning he would likely die before she did, and wanted to spare her another round of grief.
But he took her out for a hamburger, and let her know that he had no intentions of getting married again. He’d lost his first wife in the early ’80s after 30 years of marriage and his second marriage failed.
Carole told him she didn’t have any plans to marry again either.
So they dated and skated.
And on the wheels of love, they grew inseparable.
Russell wanted Carole to go with him to a reunion of the World War II veterans who served aboard his ship. He joined up when he was only 17 in 1945.
Carole told him she would go with him, but not as his mistress.
“She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he said.
So they got hitched, moved in together and skate together four times a week.
And they are in love. She calls him “honey” with a twinkle in her eye, touches him often, and really laughs at his jokes.
It’s the real deal.
And it would never sell.
And that’s just a damn shame.
Matisse said creativity takes courage. He was speaking of placing colors, but this is more than true of placing words on a page or screen.
I belonged to a critique group a few years back. We met in a local Borders book store, that’s how long ago it was, and one night one of our casual members, Mitch, brought his friend, a lovely older woman who was losing her sight to the group.
Mitch gave us some of her work to read, which were written in an essay form from the point of view of Violet, a fictional, delightful, eccentric older woman. She had written these, a great number of them, when she was younger.
They were wonderful.
And she had never submitted them for publication.
She was afraid – not of rejection, but that someone would steal the character. She said someone in the advertising business had told her years ago to be very careful with Violet.
And she was. I don’t think she ever sent it anywhere.
Another member of our group thought she would self-publish her children’s books because she didn’t want to face rejection.
Rejection simply sucks.
Whether you are pitching to agent face-to-face, getting e-rejections, or never receiving anything back at all from an agent or editor you’ve submitted to, it’s disheartening, to say the least. And it can make you scared to keep trying, or simply want to give up.
I nearly did.
I asked a member of the local chapter of my Romance Writers of America group, who writes as Anne Lawson, “When do you decide that it’s just not working?”
She begged me not to give up and to submit to her publisher.
I did and I have eight novellas under contract with them.
Still, I face rejection. And it sucks.
Another member of my RWA chapter, who has ten books published (or soon to be) with Harlequin, and praise for her one of her books in her suspense series from author R.L. Stine, said she got over 100 rejections before she got published.
But only if you let your work see the light of day.
And with that may come rejection.
But I think of Violet who languished in file cabinets for years. I so hope that lovely lady got past the fear of someone stealing the delightful character she created and submitted it for publication, or published it herself to great acclaim, as it deserved.
And quirky Violet gives me courage to keep writing and sending things out.
I had the privilege to interview Sara after she turned 104, as a staff writer for a local newspaper.
Sara’s brother taught her to dance the Charleston when he returned home from World War I, much to the chagrin of her very strict Italian immigrant parents. She never dated her husband Vito unchaperoned until she married him when she was 17, in what she hinted at was an arranged marriage.
And she spends her days reading romances.
In the days before e-readers, everyone knew what you were reading.
I really started to devour romances when my children were babies. I got disdainful looks from people at the beach, my daughter’s dance class and on airplanes after they glanced at the cover. I wrote a couple, had an agent for one year, but no success.
I finished college with my journalism major and got a job as staff writer where I’ve been for 17 years.
I got serious about writing romance again as our nest emptied. I joined my local chapter of Romance Writers of America, and got some real help, guidance and encouragement, and have eight books under contract with Black Opal Books. Four are out, “Under the Riptides,” “Reclaiming Lexi,” “Double Dare, and “In the Depths,” (just released) “Maybe your next one will be a mystery,” my 83-year-old mother has said more than once. And my father, also 83, says, “It’s not that I wouldn’t read a book with that content…it’s that my daughter wrote it.”
I get it.
Then I think of Sara.
She lives on her own in an apartment (not assisted living) throughout the week and her family takes her out on the weekends. I asked her how she spent her time, and what her favorite things were, did she watch TV?
“I don’t watch TV,” she said. “I read.”
“What?” I asked.
She held up the current one she was reading and pointed to a neat stack she had on a table in her tidy apartment.
She raised two daughters with Vito. When her daughters were teenagers, Sara worked for the war effort during World War II in a plant in Detroit that made airplanes.
“They call me Rosie the Riveter,” she said. “If you don’t put the rivets on the right place, the planes might have blown up. When the war was over, they fired everybody to call the former workers back, but they kept me. It was nice. I had a lot of friends there,” she said.
The company wanted her to work the night shift, but her husband didn’t want her to work nights, so she quit.
She was married to Vito for 56 years until he passed away in the 1985. She didn’t remarry.
And now she gets in lost love stories, as I do, reading them and writing them.
I don’t know that Sara will read my stories, or if she is still with us.
But she is still with me, with every word I write.