Starting In The Right Place

I have a novel that I want to publish. And please do not laugh. Because everyone reading this might say: “SO, big deal. We all have a novel we have either written or its all there in our heads!”

Yes. I get that. Mine is a kidnapping story, that over the years has changed…and changed again. And yes, I have blogged about my writing heroes like Donald Maass, who read portions of my work, praised my creativity. Was I thrilled? Yes. But the novel is still unpublished. 

At a writing conference, here in Chicago, I met an agent who eventually also rejected my query…thus, I went on and queried another 20 agents. All of them either sent back a standard NO…or basically ignored my query. IT IS TOUGH OUT THERE.

One agent said she was looking for a rich, intense, female-centric domestic suspense, with marginalized characters in the starring roles. Perfect description of WHEN THE COTTONWOODS BLEW. Thus my log line in my query: 

When Ella Singleton’s only child is abducted, memories of her dead mother Cecile, take on new power, propelling Ella into a search that will not only redeem four-year-old Sarah, but also extricate Ella from a debt Cecile and society owe the kidnapper. 

So, I will never give up on this novel, or the two others I have written. (I shortened one, wrote about it being available on Amazon KDP. TITLE: AFTER PAPA LEFT.

I’m also preparing to release a nonfiction work: 10055 Wood Street, the Story of a Family. I wrote it to remember my childhood, to honor the four people who learned how to support one another, help one another after my father died, leaving my mother with a six, three and three-month old. It’s a story of LOVE, FAMILY, of the woman who raised an English professor-published writer; a well known and loved music writer-promotion artist….and me.  

But…am I starting in the right place?

“Mama, I can’t do this shit. Make it stop, make it stop!”

Sixteen-year old LaToya Jackson, primigravida, no prenatal classes, now in labor, Ella Singleton’s first patient on her 3-11 shift.

“I need you to push, LaToya, like we just talked about…you can do this…so when you feel a pain starting, take a deep breath, bear down and push, like you mean it.” 

LaToya’s mother with her, silent, sitting in a chair, watching the television, occasionally leaning forward, as if by some miracle the birth might already be over, her new grandchild waving as he or she appeared in the world.  

“I can’t do this shit, Mama. Make it stop. Tell the lady, make it stop.”

 Ella tried again. “LaToya, you are having a baby, everything’s okay, but you have to push. It’s what all woman do to have a baby. Your mother had to, I had to…” Ella struggling to keep her voice firm but quiet, her patient just a girl, a sixteen-year-old girl having a baby. And though Ella had helped many like her at Chicago Community Hospital, LaToya was more frightened, fragile…her chart failing to indicate that maybe some boy she hardly knew…or a man who took advantage of her innocence was the father, LaToya’s face one of pain, fear…Ella having to urge the girl again, eager for her to finally get it, stop thrashing, focus and push this baby out, each push now revealing more dark hair that advanced, then receded, LaToya writhing in the grip and the release of her contractions..

“Now remember, when the pain starts, hold your breath and push.”

Ella had experience with patients of all ages, different backgrounds, she able to remember her position, focus and not get caught up in her patient’s pain, though being a mother, Ella still remembered the burning of perineal tissues, every pain receptor lashing out at the weight, the force of that head.  

 “Mama, please.          

“You can do this Toy.” The mother’s voice like warm pudding, smooth, soothing, she glancing at the girl, then at the television, face flaccid, the distance in her demeanor palpable in this chaos of beeping monitors, thrumming IV pumps, the click of the blood pressure machine beginning its fifteen-minute check…and then LaToya screaming….“Shit—cut me, make it fucking stop.”  

 Familiar words, Ella checking the infant’s progress on the fetal monitor, the fetus’s heart tones dipping during a contraction from pressure on the umbilical cord. Time to have LaToya change position, get the baby off the cord, heart tones quickly recovering, 130’s, 140’s—strong, quick beats, Ella moving to the head of the bed, wiping the girl’s forehead with a cold cloth.   

 “You’re doing great, almost time to move to the delivery room, you can do this, LaToya, I’ll help you have this baby.”

 “Mama?” Tears now mingling with sweat on the girl’s face, then the crumpling of smooth skin, LaToya grunting, “Get this outa me!”

 Now Ella moved quickly, no need to again check her patient with sterile, gloved fingers…when LaToya bore down, a large circle of dark curly hair, approximately four centimeters.   

 “MOVING THREE!” 

Thanks for reading.