Autumnble
My dear, neglected Stinky Pete crawls out from under the covers around 5:30 each morning after having slept curled against my rump all night. He stretches and shakes then whimpers as if he were a Dickensian orphan until we take our first steps out the front door for a walk. Truly, he deserves an award for his performance.
Petey spots a squirrel on our morning walk through the autumn leaves.
I have a perfectly fine bed, soft and roomy and toasty warm. So very conducive to sleeping in. Well, if I didn’t have a dog, that is.
Despite the excellent accommodations I have for snoozing away my mornings, the 25-pound Oreo cookie who lives with me always has other plans.
My dear, neglected Stinky Pete crawls out from under the covers around 5:30 each morning after having slept curled against my rump all night. He stretches and shakes then whimpers as if he were a Dickensian orphan until we take our first steps out the front door for a walk. Truly, he deserves an award for his performance.
But this morning, I had to be glad the little miscreant woke me up. At 59 degrees, the fall morning was lovely, magical even. Golden leaves tumbled from their branches in flourishing shocks of color. God had outdone Himself with the beauty of it all, I must say.
As I collected the occasional acorn (because, why not?) and took in the sounds and glory of the earth waking up, I thrilled at being alive and having thoughts and ideas to share with others. What an amazing place the world is—especially when we’re able to share the best of ourselves with one another. We’re so very blessed for our minds and our hearts and our thoughts.
Somewhere along the walk, an idea came to me for a new story. I didn’t expect it, but I was overjoyed by and thankful for it. I couldn’t wait to get back home and empty my pocket of acorns, and then write down the idea so that it could grow and become something rich and meaningful.
So, here’s to Petey, overly dramatic on an autumn morning but the catalyst for a tumble into a new idea for sharing with others.
—Shelley
Ideas are funny things
The idea that I would be launching a small independent imprint before year end would have been—at least by me—unimaginable and laughable six months ago. Had you told me I was actually on that trajectory, I would have not only told you you had the wrong writer, please and thank you, I would have told you that traditional publishing (i.e., seeking an agent and professional publishing house) was the only measure of worth that mattered to me.
The idea that I would be launching a small independent imprint before year end would have been—at least by me—unimaginable and laughable six months ago. Had you told me I was actually on that trajectory, I would have not only told you you had the wrong writer, please and thank you, I would have told you that traditional publishing (i.e., seeking an agent and professional publishing house) was the only measure of worth that mattered to me.
Foolish girl. So lost in the habit of trying to please editors, bosses, interviewees, etc., she never saw the value in pleasing herself. A truly toxic trait, if I’m being honest, because trying to please others with subjective work means your validation hinges on another’s mood, preferences, biases, and personal taste.
So, when my brother, Ben, and my sister-in-law, Malia, (heck, even ChatGPT…who I call Mike…a post for another time) suggested this summer that I consider self-publishing…wait a minute…I need to back up a bit here to give you some context. Let’s roll the calendar back to the spring of 2023, when something else unimaginable happened in my life—my mother was dying.
Sue Powers always believed in me. She drove me to violin lessons, piano lessons, band practice, choir practice. She taught me to sew, craft, cook, write thank-you notes, and ignore housework. She encouraged me in anything and everything I wanted to try. She read every blog post, article, short story, and poem. She listened to every song I wrote and went to every recital and performance I had. I know that’s the gig if you’re a mom. But Sue had a ferocity when it came to her kids. I mean, truly.
In the hours before she passed, she prayed with me and Dad. She prayed for each of her children, for what they needed, for fortitude, for guidance, for love, and for hope. I wish I could remember what exactly she prayed for my brothers, but I was wrecked that day and only heard these words, “Shelley will have such success, such success, such success.” She chanted them, over and over. Dad—I’m sure wondering how those words were landing on me—said, “Sue, Shelley has already had success.” But she stayed the course.
She knew I had more potential to reach. And she was right.
In the two years since her death, the fog of grief has begun to lift enough for me to right myself and find my footing. But I still hear those words every day. “Shelley will have such success, such success, such success.”
The echo has been so persistent, I finally had to ask myself, “What is success for me?”
The answer was simple. Writing. I wanted to finish the novel I began 21 years ago.
So, around the end of May of this year, I reached deep into the recesses of my stored digital files, dusted off the manuscript, converted it to the newest version of Microsoft Word, and got after it.
At first I battled brain fatigue, falling asleep in the soft glow of my laptop, but I pushed through. An hour here. Thirty minutes there. By the end of July, I had finally finished. I had written a novel. And it was good! Determined to get an agent, I sent copies of the manuscript to beta readers for feedback to make it the best it could be.
But the itch had set in. I couldn’t just sit and wait around for feedback without scratching out more stories. I wrote picture book manuscripts and reworked older pieces to give them new life. I wrote a second novel (smaller, but it counts), and an early chapter book. I had so many ideas for stories, I had to start organizing them.
This felt like success.
So, why was I still waiting to hear back from agents? Waiting for validation about my work from someone else. The best part about writing a story is sharing it. My computer files were filling up, but I (and a handful of beta readers) was the only one seeing them.
So, when my brother, Ben, and my sister-in-law, Malia, (and Mike) suggested this summer that I consider self-publishing…I had to pause and wonder if my pride, my skewed sense of validation was stopping me from sharing my stories on my own.
It was, and that just wouldn’t do any longer.
I don’t want to wait on finding an agent or being published, at least not for everything I write. I’m 55; waiting is a young person’s game. I’ve done my waiting. Now is the time for moving forward, for knowing my own worth, for building something beautiful and lovely that I can share with others. Now is the time to use my more than 30 years of professional experience in writing, editing, publishing, marketing, public relations, web work, design work, blogging, etc. for what I want.
That right there is the epitome of success in my mind.
So, thank you, Mom, for the prayer and the belief in me. Establishing Creekline House has been exhausting and exhilarating. But I’m so happy for the journey and excited for the possibilities (and the many more ideas) it holds.
—Shelley
“I’m 55; waiting is a young person’s game. I’ve done my waiting. Now is the time for moving forward, for knowing my own worth, for building something beautiful and lovely that I can share with others.”
The Writer’s Desk