Be a Squirrel

 

Dear Lovely Reader:

I must apologize, first of all, for missing my essay slot two weeks ago. I was, as usual, experiencing technical difficulties, this time with my Google account. I'd changed my password . . . and that set off a chain of reactions that included my phone, my calendars, my contacts, and my email. Things are working again--but I don't feel totally secure. This has always been a seamless process in the past. We are told to regularly change our passwords, after all. But this time . . .

Anyway, much anguish later, and I'm back to work. I think I've finished formatting Strawberry Moon Mystery using the Atticus software. It was quite easy to manipulate, so the test will be how it works with KDP/Amazon. First, though, I want to print out a copy for my proofreader. And I still need to create the full print book cover. That was dependent on formatted pages, so this is the next step. 

So, I will give you both an essay AND a micro-fiction this week. 

***

BE A SQUIRREL

Last week I bought a large bag of bird seed. When I opened it, I almost wanted to dig into it myself. With nuts and seeds galore, it smelled like an earthy granola. It was pricey, too. But I wanted to attract the cardinals and bluejays and woodpeckers along with nuthatches, chickadees, and tufted titmice. 

It worked, but the bounty also attracted the bane of my Maine home existence, the gray squirrels. 

They are so fat, the three of them. I think they are a family: a mom and two grown babies. That's just the feeling I get watching their behavior. They hang upside down from the top of the feeder and feast on the nuts and seeds. 

When I tap the window, they stare at me. Then they go back to eating. If I go outside onto my porch, they may or may not scurry to the lilac tree. It's only when I approach that they will scamper across the lawn to one of several trees. 

Ten minutes later, they are back.

They are tenacious little buggers. 

Lately I've seen a lot of "let's get real about publishing" messaging on blogs and Substacks and podcasts. The general mood seems to be dour and/or resigned. The phrase, "It's okay to subsidize your writing with a day job" is EVERYWHERE. It's coming from agents. It's coming from editors. It's coming from book coaches. 

If I can't laugh about this, I will cry. 

Here's the thing: these people are not wrong. Publishing right now is harder than ever. The trades are tightening their belts. Everyone wants a Sure Thing. For every Taylor Jenkins Reid who hits the jackpot with an $8M/book deal there are countless small and indie and midlist authors begging for scraps from the pubs, desperately trying to carve out a niche in the market, or quietly quitting. 

So what are our choices? Simple. Quit or keep going. 

I've decided to be a squirrel. The market might tap on my window. The market might chase me away from the feeder. I'll scamper to my desk, write the next book or story, and I'll hop back over to the trough to pick up a seed or two. 

I've decided to let go of my expectations. 

By this I mean, I'm not even going to take outcomes into consideration any more. I won't EXPECT to make money on any project. I won't EXPECT, well, anything! 

I've built a lean system around me so I'm not spending a ton of money on my endeavors, probably less than some spend on hobbies like golfing, skiing, snowmobiling, or even fancy cooking! I spend much more on my reading hobby, aka books, than I do on my writing now. I'm a lean, mean, writing machine. A slow one, sure, but pared down to the basics, I think I can do this for the remainder of my days. 

If I gather a readership, wonderful. If I make a little back, lovely. But if I don't, that's okay. I'm gonna be a squirrel and keep reaching for those nuts, baby. 

***

Halloween Story--It's still okay to read one a couple weeks later. Hope you like it. 

Halloween Story

Eloise was the kind of woman who believed in fir swags and twinkle lights at Christmas, forsythia and lilac for spring, red-white-and-blue bunting on the 4th of July.

But for Halloween she went truly bonkers.

The entryway of her ground floor condominium elicited delighted exclamations from her neighbors’ children every year. She hung billowy white sheer curtains that floated eerily in the autumn breeze. She attached bat decals around the door to send shivers up the spine. She piled pumpkins in front of pots holding bare branches which she hung with little sachets of birdseed to attract the local crows whose dark, glossy feathers gleamed in the slanted sunlight of the season.

There was something ghostly about Eloise, herself. Her fair skin and silvery fair hair, her long, thin legs and arms, the ballerina flats that made no sound as she floated past the neighbor’s doors. Nobody knew much about her, other than she’d once been a dancer, maybe even famous, and now she lived quietly alone in their apartment complex in a small city north of Boston, a cold New England place in the winter months but spectacular in the fall with its brilliant foliage and clear blue skies.

One day nearing Halloween, Eloise replaced a bulb in the entryway light, and a crow thwapped from one of the branches and landed on her shoulder. He pecked at the shiny silver hoop in her ear. He whispered, “Suet and peanuts and pumpkinseedfloss; tell me your secrets of heartache and loss.”

Eloise turned a shade paler, if that was possible, and brushed the crow from her shoulder. ”I’ll give you your suets and your seeds,” she said. “But I keep my secrets. Be gone now.”

The next day, when Eloise placed a pot of glorious, deep red chrysanthemums near the front door, the crow landed on Eloise’s shoulder and whispered the same words. Eloise sighed and thought about her lost love, the ending of her career due to an injury, the death of her mother. She shook her head. “Go away. Those are my secrets to keep.”

On the third day, Eloise carved a jack o’lantern, for it was All Hallow’s Eve. She stuck a candle in the grinning gourd as twilight fell. In the flickering glow, two black beady eyes glittered from behind the chrysanthemum pot. The crow cawed softly and whispered his demand for the third time.

A rush of feeling swept through Eloise, and she trembled with sorrow and loss. For a moment she was tempted to give the spirit what it wanted, for of course she knew the crow’s true nature. He craved her sadness and her tears. But then she heard the delighted laughter and chattering voices of the neighbor’s children. They ran to her front porch dressed as pirates and princesses and scarecrows and some cartoon characters she didn’t recognize.

Her heart lifted as they gathered at her doorstep. “Trick or treat!” they yelled in unison. Eloise laughed and the crow was so frightened, he flew away, never to return.

Have a Spooky Day!

XOXO Shelley Burbank

Unintended Consequences

 One of my favorites phenomenons in the universe is that of unintended consequences. We think we have every angle covered resulting from our plans, only when things unfold, at the very least exposing a new wrinkle, or in the worst case scenario, have the entire scheme blow up in our faces. If you're a writer, you learn to appreciate the value of unintended consequences. After all, the best stories start with bad decisions, which at the time, seemed actually like good decisions. Unintended consequences make for great plot twists. Crooks rob a bank thinking it'll be an easy haul, only to discover all kinds of unintended consequences. Like the money brings out treacherous greed from your accomplices, or that the heist inadvertently bankrupted the family of a detective and the investigation becomes a personal vendetta. Better roads into the mountains to improve traffic safety brings more tourists, creating a demand for more housing, driving up the cost of real estate, requiring more infrastructure, straining water resources, drawing more traffic, and in full circle, a need for better roads! Wars are replete with unintended consequences, namely that they spin out of control. 

Closer in, I've started feeding the neighborhood squirrels. Yes, I was aware that soon I'd become beholden to the squirrel mafia and their relentless demands for more peanuts and bird seeds. And I was aware that I would become attached to several of the furry critters, even to the point of giving them names. In this case, one of the unintended consequences was that well-fed squirrels would mean well-fed foxes. Thankfully, none of our favorite tree rodents has gone MIA. But a good unintended consequence was that beside feeding the squirrels, the crows helped themselves to our offered bounty. And very unexpectedly, one of the crows brought this glass bead in appreciation.