Historical layers (no, not hoodies)

What does a 14th century vampire have to do with a parasol?

We'll get there.

The mountains of Transylvania are dotted with castles, citadels, and crumbling fortresses, but only one castle bills itself as Dracula's Castle.

Which is strange, since the closest the historical "Dracula," Vlad Tepes, came to living in the castle was maybe spending a handful of nights there while fleeing invaders. The labyrinthine Bran's Castle is named after the pass it guards, but maybe it was the echo of Dracula's author's first name as much as Vlad's brief visit that solidified the castle's place in the world's imagination.

The castle started its life in 1378, when construction first began. Over the years, explosions, storms, and fires toppled parts of the structure, but people kept rebuilding and adding. The result is a maze of rooms that feels a little like a muggle version of Hogwarts.

If that architectural layer cake weren't sufficient complication for one castle, then there are the uses the castle's occupants have put it to over the years. After defending against invading Turks, then helping collect custom taxes from passing merchants, the castle served as a retreat for Romania's new monarchy in the early 20th century. The beloved Queen Marie and her daughter, Princess Ileana, used the castle as their summer residence. 

Finally, under the Communists the castle became a museum. It reverted to the royal family at the beginning of the 21st century, and after a couple of years, they decided to turn it back into a museum. It's now an extremely crowded (in the summer at least) tourist highlight.

But isn't it strange that one pile of stones can house both the blood of tortured Turks and the cozy porcelain fireplace alongside which a modern queen used to take her naps? Some windows still swivel out to allow defenders to shoot out crossbows (see below), while others have charming mullions.

Of course, historical fiction writers and readers know that history is made of layers. We live on top of an ancient city, metaphorically at least (and often literally). Beneath us are layers of civilization and culture left by those who came before us. Our economy is built upon knowledge gained and passed down, our writing is made of styles discovered and modified by those who created before us. As Susan Vreeland wrote in Luncheon of the Boating Party, "Art was collaboration, and standing on the shoulders of those who came before."

Queen Marie's charming bedroom.

Queen Marie's charming bedroom.

The best historical fiction exposes those layers, and shows how at any moment in time, humans are reaching both backwards, to receive the flame, and forwards, to pass it along.

A writing desk in Castle Bran.

A writing desk in Castle Bran.

Communicating without words: Historical tidbits #1

I write historical fiction, which means I spend a lot of time researching the way people lived their lives in, say, 1632 Holland, or 1936 Spain, or 1880 Guadeloupe. As L. P. Hartley famously wrote, "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." There may be more commonalities than differences in our shared humanity across the years, but I find comfort in the uniqueness of a particular era. Maybe because it suggests the uniqueness of our own times -- and thus, ourselves. So here is one in an irregular series of historical tidbits from my research.

Four hundred years ago, most people weren't literate. They might be able to puzzle out the alphabet, or scratch their name onto a document, but that would be the extent of it. In 17th century Holland, school was more like daycare for children, a place for their parents to leave them as soon as they were weaned and walking, and the beleaguered master or mistress had to manage them all. Children aged three to seven attended infant school, then they were passed off for five more years of primary school. Both boys and girls attended, and neither learned much, though apparently the boys faced slightly stiffer expectations. 

I suspect the situation was worse elsewhere in Europe and certainly in the European colonies. Parents needed children to work, and few had the resources to allow those littlest workers to invest in their own futures for fifteen or twenty years.

So yeah, many people couldn't read much. But they still needed to communicate beyond face-to-face conversation. Writing has the advantage of permanence and portability; before recording, speech was neither. So naturally, people resorted to images. (*I don't want to overstate the case. Certainly there were many literate Dutch citizens, as evidenced by the relatively robust publishing industry of the 16th and 17th centuries.)

In some Dutch towns, the birth of a baby was announced with a small placard made of wood and covered in red silk, trimmed with lace. For a girl baby, the proud parents would place a square of white paper of the center of the board. Stillbirths were announced with black silk (or linen, for poor families), instead of red. Twins, naturally, had two placards. 

Babies weren't the only things that needed announcing. People had to have a way of finding the right store they sought, even if they were new to town. So, in a precursor to today's branding, different types of stores labeled themselves in different ways. An apothecary would hang a stuffed crocodile outside the door. A craft guild (say, St. Luke's guild for painters and silversmiths) would display its emblem and heraldry on the exterior facade of its guildhall in a public demonstration of guild strength and contribution to the town's prosperity. (I've used quite a few of these images in my novel about artist Judith Leyster.)

Criminals' bodies left to rot in the elements, swinging from the trees, were an eloquent way of expressing the consequences of disobeying the law. So too the heads of traitors left on London Bridge in England -- and I suspect seeing those reminders kept the stories circulating. A new visitor to town is sure to ask how that not-yet-decomposed body got himself into so much trouble.

Even the signature economic craze of 17th century Holland was an effort to communicate without words: the tulip. Owning a tulip and letting it flower was an incredible, ostentatious display of wealth. The highest reliably documented price paid for a single tulip bulb was 5200 guilders, and other less prized tulips still went for hundreds and thousands of guilders, at a time when eight fat pigs were 240 guilders, two hogsheads of wine were 70 guilders, a silver drinking cup was 60 guilders, and a ship (yes, a ship!) was 500 guilders.

Interestingly, clothing in the United Provinces (today's Netherlands) during the first half of 17th century was not used much as a means of communication. Reportedly, the mistress and the servant would be nearly indistinguishable in their humble brown dresses. Protestant modesty prohibited flashy clothes, at least for a time. Eventually, it seems, people couldn't help but express themselves, and skirts got brighter and doublets more colorful.

I could go on -- paintings alone were a major method of communicating using known iconography. Even the way a figure posed or splayed his legs told the savvy viewer something about the artist's intention. But that's enough for now. Certainly the advent of wider literacy doesn't preclude the use of communicating with images. We do that every day, with baby photos on Facebook or brand symbols on our jeans. Though I'm still waiting to see CVS switch its logo to a stuffed crocodile.

Sources: 

Daily Life in Rembrandt's Holland, by Paul Zumthor, Trans. Simon Watson Taylor

Tulipomania, by Mike Dash

Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries, Ed. Prak, Lis, Lucassen, and Soly

Schooling a President

Apparently I'm on a "presidential boyhood home" kick. (Who's looking forward to hearing about presidential girlhood homes someday?) After touring George Washington's birthplace (and curious reconstruction) in January, we visited the place where Thomas Jefferson lived from the ages of two to nine, and also where he first attended school.

Tuckahoe Plantation, outside of Richmond, Virginia, is actually still a private residence. The grounds are open to self-guided tour (with an honor system payment), and guided tours can be arranged by appointment. We took a beautiful Sunday afternoon to wander the grounds ourselves, while the owners of the home unloaded groceries from the car and shot hoops. 

The Randolph family built the home between 1730-1740, and it's in a distinctive H-shape, with two large portions of the house joined in the middle. Thomas Jefferson's family moved to the house in 1745 so his parents could care for the orphaned Randolph children, in accordance with Mr. Randolph's will. He moved out when the oldest son came of age.

It's easy to imagine the young (white) children running out the door of the big house and following the chiding call of their teacher into the small schoolhouse to the left of the house. Even my five-year-old daughter, who affects to know everything, was surprised at the tiny scale of the school room.

But this is a plantation in Virginia, which means enslaved African Americans. Probably a lot of them for a farm that reached 25,000 acres at its height. To the right of the main house are three slave cabins. (The third cabin isn't visible in this picture; the building in the background is the stable.)

The stair treads up to this slave cabin door looked like stone to me, which suggests they are original. My heart ached to imagine all the pain those stairs carried, both at the beginning of another harrowing day of enslavement and at its exhausting conclusion. I imagine a good number of those children and their parents looked with longing to the other side of the lawn, where young Thomas and the other white children scampered into the schoolhouse. (Side note: I just finished James McBride's phenomenal Song Yet Sung, and I can't recommend it enough. He follows a cast of characters escaping, enduring, or perpetuating slavery in Maryland's eastern shore in the 1850s.)

The kitchen. Imagine working there on a hot Virginia day.

The kitchen. Imagine working there on a hot Virginia day.

I wonder too what Thomas thought as he watched those other children. I don't know enough about his history to have an opinion, and who knows, maybe he didn't have an opinion either. Maybe he had internalized the dehumanization of those enslaved black children so easily that it didn't occur to him to think they might yearn to join him. I'm sure that was the case for a lot of rich white children at the time. But who knows, maybe this particular boy had some other thoughts. That's where historical fiction comes in, right?

In 1752 the house returned to the Randolph family, and I guess some of them must have stayed there for a while. There's an appropriately creepy little graveyard with Randolph graves from the early 19th century. From what I could read, at least.

I don't believe in spiritual ghosts (though I wish I did). But I do believe in historical ghosts -- those echoes of history that reverberate through the generations. The legacy of slavery is an obvious one, and the inheritance of knowledge and education that we pass along every time a child steps into a schoolroom is another. The modern curriculum is probably almost unrecognizable from that which the young Tom learned in the 1740s, but I suspect the ghosts of what he learned and what he did are with us still.

 

Conferences for Historical Fiction Lovers

I'm a huge fan of writing/reading conferences. Over the years I've learned a ton, met some incredible people (including my fantastic agent :) ), laughed at late-night raunchy readings, drank too many cocktails, and, most of all, been inspired.

Since there are a few great ones coming up this year, I thought I'd share. Most of these are writing conferences, but some are great opportunities for readers too.

Books Alive 2017 | Washington Writers Conference. My beloved colleagues at the Washington Independent Review of Books always put together a fantastic conference, filled with unique panels and top-notch keynote speakers. The organizers take advantage of the wealth of writing talent in the DC-area to put together a fun event (like, oh, Ron Charles of the Washington Post and Marita Golden, among others this year). This year there's a panel on writing "across the cultural divide," which certainly applies to historical fiction no matter where your story is set. April 28-29.

The Muse and the Marketplace. This was the first conference to capture my heart, and though it doesn't focus specifically on historical fiction, there are always a couple panels that are aimed at history writers. Muse is exceptionally well-run, always with great speakers who have specific knowledge to impart. And if you can afford it, their unique Manuscript Mart is an amazing way to get honest feedback from agents and editors. This year the conference is April 29-May 1, and it's always in Boston.

RT Booklovers Convention. RT is huge, and like the previous two, the convention isn't exclusively for historical fiction. But they're having a panel on historical romance, a historical homes tour of Atlanta, and some great authors. May 1-7.

Historical Novel Society | North America Conference. The wonderful thing about this conference (aside from the amazing costume party and the roster of historical fiction rock stars), is that it's aimed at both readers and writers. I loved the event in Denver two years ago, and I'll be seeing you in Portland, Oregon this year! June 22-24.

Historical Writers of America. I attended the HWA debut conference last August, and it was one of the most fun things I did that year. The intimate conference brought together historical fiction legends like CC Humphreys and Margaret George in an atmosphere that encouraged conversation and connection. HWA is for both fiction and non-fiction writers, so there's always something to learn. This year's conference will be in New Mexico, September 21-24.

What conferences do you love? I've only listed US-based conferences, and I know HNS has some fantastic events in both the UK and Australia. What else? (And how do we find someone to pay for us to all go?!)

History's Fictions

On February 22, 1732, on a prosperous farm along the Potomac River, Mary Ball Washington gave birth to her first son, George.

I think you know which George I'm talking about.

His birthplace is now a National Monument, though the house where 22-year-old Mary labored is no longer standing. The periphery of that original house is outlined in the grass, and behind the phantom house presides an elegant manor house. But there are more ghosts than just a missing house at this site.

See that rectangular outline on the ground? That's the original house.

See that rectangular outline on the ground? That's the original house.

The congenial folks of the National Park Service will give you an excellent tour of the site, filled with details about life in the rural countryside of the American colonies. At this time of year, in the winter months, the white farmers would be hosting dances and parties in the broad entry hallways of their houses. (There were enslaved African Americans too, but they didn't get much mention in our tour.) The master of the house had the finest bedroom at the front of the house, the better to show off his fine embroidered counterpane and luxurious curtains.

Putting the "master" in Master Bedroom.

Putting the "master" in Master Bedroom.

But at the end of our tour, our guide let slip a bombshell.

This old manor house wasn't actually that old. In fact, it was built in the 1930s. And in fact, it's not really that historically accurate.

The house, he explained, represents more what the people of the 1930s thought about 18th century life than what modern-day scholarship tells us. But the National Park Service keeps this flawed reconstruction, in honor of those people from the 30s and as an interesting representation of how those people thought about the past.

I thought the cabinetry in the dining room looked suspicious ...

I thought the cabinetry in the dining room looked suspicious ...

The history-lover in me bristled at this. What a charade! What a misrepresentation! This wasn't really how people lived. 

But then, after a few moments reflection, the novelist in me thrilled to the site. This was, after all, historical fiction in the flesh (or the brick). The house was built to tell a story about how people thought other people lived. Today, we find that story still worth listening too, even if we acknowledge the flaws. 

What is "history" anyway? Is it some concrete truth that, with only enough scrubbing and dusting, we can eventually reveal in its entirety?

Of course not. The "true" George Washington is just as elusive to us as he was to our 1930s predecessors. Through research and study we can probably construct a narrative that comes close to the man, but he himself is irreparably gone.

The honesty of confessing that construction is exhilarating. We reach toward history and truth, but we are, in the end, telling a story.

Historical fiction writers are constantly balancing between the exigencies of "history" and narrative. How much of the known record can we tweak in service to our stories? There's no answer, of course, and writers will differ in their preferences. I just read two novels dealing with the same historical event, yet aside from the names and a general sequence of events, they could have been continents apart. Or put another way, my description of my mother would differ from her own, but neither of us are exactly wrong or right. We're both grasping and filtering details in our own manners, and trying to make sense of a complex person.

We all tell stories. Stories drawn from our own memories to craft a tale about our identities and our shared histories. We are wired to order the nonsensical into a "plot," a sequence of events with cause and effect. This is one of the things that makes us human.

The more we recognize that we are grasping in the dark, the more we grow comfortable with the discomfort of our inability to ever truly know, the better we will be. We realize we aren't walking on solid ground. But with enough confidence to balance all the uncertainty, we will find we are, instead, flying.

And in that sense, I salute the National Park Service's monument to fictional history.

The view from the manor house out over Pope's Creek and, beyond that, the Potomac.

The view from the manor house out over Pope's Creek and, beyond that, the Potomac.

Citizen in the World of Letters

Yes, New Year's resolutions tend to be good intentions that crisp and crumble under the glare of real life (though I really will be nicer to that guy at work this year). Nonetheless, I can't resist the tradition of taking stock at the end of each year.

Reading and writing are among the two most important activities in my life. Like many of you, I imagine, books are woven into the fiber of my soul, and my time on this Earth would mean much less to me without them. So it's important to me that I do right by this literary world.

Since I read Dan Kobolt's great essay on the importance of protecting reading time, I've been thinking about what we can do to increase the number and variety of books thriving in the world. For those of us who want to publish books, this is a deeply personal quest. Books need readers. And for those of us who read like we breathe, we want a marketplace that can thrive and support the broad array of authors we love and will love to discover. So how do we become better literary citizens?

In the spirit of goal-setting for the new year, I have a few suggestions. I'd love to hear yours too.

My Book Diary.

My Book Diary.

  • Read more books. That sounds both obvious and impossible, right? Well, let's examine the goal more closely. This year, according to my Book Diary, I read 46 books, not including multiple manuscripts and many literary journals. The books ranged in length from 1200+ pages (that would be The Complete Essays by Michel de Montaigne -- fantastic) to around 90 pages. That's not as many books as I had wanted, so this year I'm going to try to aim for 50. With a full-time day job outside of the house, two small kids, a marriage, a writing career and well, life, how can I make that happen? There's only one answer, really. Make reading a priority. Which brings me to ...
  • Watch less TV (or fewer movies). I realize that's an unpopular suggestion, and people tend to get defensive when I bring up television. Listen, watching TV doesn't mean you're a bad person! There are great programs out there. But our leisure time is limited. If you want to read more books, switching out TV is a straightforward way of finding time.
  • Carry a book at all times. I used to be fastidious about tucking a book into every purse or car door or bookbag. But since I've become more fond of my smartphone, I've sometimes let this slip. This is one area where I'm going to push myself. When I'm on the train or standing in line, even for a few minutes, I'll feel more contented if I pull out a book to read a paragraph, or a literary journal to read a poem, than if I scroll through Facebook. 
  • Read in public. Showing books out in the world makes them part of our cultural fabric. Strangers might wonder what you're reading, and friends might ask.
  • Talk about reading. If we ask people what they're reading these days, that increases the social relevance of books. Maybe the conversation might prompt someone who has forgotten about their love of reading to pick it up again. In the same way that talking about The Walking Dead gets folks excited to go home and watch it, talking about reading can increase our anticipation. We're social creatures, after all.
  • Read with children. Don't just read to your kids, but read in front of them. Modeling reading as a leisure activity is the best way to teach it.
  • Buy books. Whether your budget allows only a discount paperback at the used book shop or a new hardcover from the local bookstore, buying books helps them move through the marketplace. Money speaks, for better or worse. Even checking out books from the library is a form of buying, since the library pays for copies. Do what you can to support the literary ecosystem. (A corollary to this is giving books as gifts. Even if they're used books.)
  • Subscribe to literary journals. This should go without saying to writers who are trying to get published, but all readers can find delight in the many carefully-assembled litmags out there. A few are quite pricey but most are a great deal, particularly given the volume of beautiful writing they contain. A few of my favorites are: Silk Road, AGNI, Post Road, The New England Review (especially for their translation and global view), Natural Bridge (the three-part interview is so fun), The Cincinnati Review, Cossack Review, Ploughshares ... 
Some of my current litmag bounty.

Some of my current litmag bounty.

  • Read outside your genre. Prose lovers, read poetry. You'll see words and rhythm in a new light. YA lovers, read some of the classics. (My friend Dorothy Reno is writing a fun column about her tour through some of the classic cannon at WIROBooks, if you want a guide. Frankenstein is up next!) Procedural mystery lovers, read a YA historical fiction verse novel. Everyone, read writers from marginalized communities, and whose original language is not your own. You'll find something you love, I promise. (Then I want you to tell me about it so I can enjoy it too!)
  • Socialize literarily. Take your friends to book festivals, and spend happy hour at author readings. Pull up a barstool at a poetry slam, or cozy up with a book at a Quiet Reading Club. 
  • Review the books you love. This is definitely an area of improvement for me. I write some formal reviews for the Washington Independent, but I rarely go onto GoodReads or Amazon to write up my thoughts. I should.
  • Contact the authors you adore. Humans love to know their efforts are appreciated. Send a letter, care of the author's agent or publisher. Or contact someone via their webpage. If nothing else, send a quick shout-out on Twitter. I've been amazed at how grateful writers have been when I share my enthusiasm -- even the very famous ones. We can all use a little warmth in our days, so spread the love.

I'm expecting next year will be a difficult year for many of us, for all sorts of reasons that we may foresee or not. I hope that books are an anchor for you. Thank you for the beautiful literary community you've created.

 

phpKw7JFYAM.jpg

Brenda Drake's Guardian of Secrets ... Cover Reveal!

I'm so excited to join in the cover reveal party for Brenda Drake's forthcoming Guardian of Secrets. Libraries? Magic? Yes! 

Covers are an angsty thing for authors. We usually get very little input (see Steve Almond's great essay in the latest issue of Poets & Writers - though his article is not yet available online). So it's pretty exciting when a cover does match with the writer's vision. Here's what Brenda has to say about hers:

"I had an idea of what I wanted the cover of Guardian of Secrets to look like the entire time I was writing the story. I was delighted (I might have screamed) when the cover showed up in my email and it was EXACTLY what I’d imagined. I love that it’s blue since part of the setting of the book takes place in a cold climate. I’m thrilled the couple is on it, too. They resemble the characters I’ve created in my mind perfectly. The cover is so beautiful, and I’m beyond excited to share it with everyone!"

So here you go ... Guardian of Secrets (Library Jumpers, #2) by Brenda Drake, release date February 7, 2017!

Ha, just kidding. First, you want to know about the book, right? 

About Guardian of Secrets (Library Jumpers, #2):

Being a Sentinel isn’t all fairytales and secret gardens.

Sure, jumping through books into the world’s most beautiful libraries to protect humans from mystical creatures is awesome. No one knows that better than Gia Kearns, but she could do without the part where people are always trying to kill her. Oh, and the fact that Pop and her had to move away from her friends and life as she knew it.

And if that isn’t enough, her boyfriend, Arik, is acting strangely. Like, maybe she should be calling him “ex,” since he’s so into another girl. But she doesn’t have time to be mad or even jealous, because someone has to save the world from the upcoming apocalypse, and it looks like that’s going to be Gia.

Maybe. If she survives.

Now, for that beautiful cover:

Want to read more? Pre-order your copy of Guardian of Secrets (Library Jumpers, #2) by Brenda Drake today!

add-to-goodreads
Amazon | B&N | iBooks | Kobo | Amazon CA | Amazon UK

 

 

Drawing for Paintings: In the Dutch Golden Age of Art

When I set out to write my novel about Judith Leyster, I knew I would have to learn how she and other artists in early and mid-17th century Holland made their paintings. What material did she paint on? How did she make her paints, and where did they come from? Did she sketch out her paintings first? With the help of a few great books and one very generous Leyster expert, I was able to construct a studio and a process for Judith.

Judith Leyster, self portrait.

Judith Leyster, self portrait.

In my novel, she uses live models, props, and copy books to develop her paintings. Judith might sketch out a few scenes on her erasable tafelet, but she mostly paints as she goes, adjusting layer by layer.  

Was that how she really painted? We don't know. But the National Gallery of Art has an exhibit about drawing and painters' artistic processes.

Ambrosius Bosschaert

Ambrosius Bosschaert

Take a look at the National Gallery of Art's online demonstration of the underdrawings.  And if you can, head over to the exhibit. I'll see you there!

The Practice of Rejection

The summer before I started high school I attended a month-long summer camp in Coastal North Carolina. During the day, our all-girls camp sailed, swam, ate terrible cafeteria food, and tried not to let anyone spot our strange, changing bodies in the communal shower space. At twelve and thirteen years old, we were on the cusp of adolescence and independence.

Which meant, in other words, kissing.

Well, that's what I wanted it to mean. Our girl's camp was partnered with a boy's camp, and we had a few mixed dances. Once the stars came up in the bright, rural sky, we would titter among ourselves and stare longingly at the other sex. (Woe to any child who was staring longingly at her own sex. Such staring was, literally, prohibited.)

One night, we boys and girls sat in a large circle on the tennis court. Behind us, a few lucky couples danced to quiet DJ music. The counselors tried to make conversation, but honestly, they probably weren't much older than the rest of us. Finally, one of them said, "Well, aren't you all going to ask each other to dance?"

I sat next to my friend, or the girl who I could get to hang out with me that night. We were both wearing vintage dresses, which I thought were much more elegant than the sun dresses I had brought from home. My strappy yellow number was gauzy and beautiful, but a little too revealing, so I wore a white t-shirt beneath it. I felt pretty but conspicuous.

"Isn't someone going to ask someone else to dance?"

I took a deep breath. Then I stood up, walked across the large circle, and stood in front of a cross-legged boy. Everyone sat silently and watched.

"Would you dance with me?"

He was silent. My heart started to sink.

"Come on, give her an answer," said his counselor.

He was still silent. I shifted my weight, and was glad it was dark so no one could see the pink rising in my cheeks.

"No," he said quietly.

I turned back around and walked to my seat.

So, rejection. The word comes from French, which itself comes from Latin for "to throw back." When we're rejected, it's hard not to feel thrown back into the dung heap, tossed back to where we came from.

I don't think I ever asked a stranger to dance again.

But that's ridiculous, obviously. I don't know why that boy didn't want to dance. Maybe his foot hurt. Maybe he didn't want to stand up in front of all his friends. Maybe he didn't like girls in yellow vintage dresses. But what's certain is that he didn't know anything about me. We had never met, and could hardly see one another. Yet I felt as if he had thrown me back.

Writers deal with rejection all the time. Or, I should say, we get rejection all the time. I've had over 20 short stories rejected this year already, and 15 last year. (That's actually not much; I clearly didn't submit enough last year!) And I don't know a single writer who doesn't look at that pile of rejection slips and wonder why he's even bothering to try.

But I also know that I'm grateful for my rejections. I'm grateful that I didn't launch a writing career with the novel I first queried in 2009. I loved that manuscript, but I had no idea what I was doing. It took me six more years of writing (two more novels) and countless more rejections before I signed with an agent. Some of those rejections were helpful. Some of them hurt, because I felt a connection. All of them I had to let go.

If you don't let go of the rejections, if you decide you will never put yourself out there again, the only one you're hurting is yourself. I would have had a lot more fun dancing over the years if I'd asked a few more cute boys (or girls) to dance. I wish I had. I also would have gotten rejected again.

That's life, though. The universe doesn't owe me anything. So if I want to dance, or if I want to see my stories published, I have to keep trying. I'll learn from my experiences (pick a journal that publishes stories I love, and pick a dance partner who I've spoken with before). I practice getting rejected until I can shrug and say, "Oh well. That's too bad, but maybe next time." 

I practice yoga, and one of my favorite aspects of yoga is how every pose has an element of effort and an element of surrender. Even while struggling to hold my arms straight and my leg deeply bent in Warrior Two, I relax my shoulders. Even while surrendering myself in a humble forehead-to-floor Child's Pose, I exert a small amount of effort to lower my hips farther toward my heels.

Accepting rejection involves both exertion -- catching the work that has been thrown back to you, looking at it again, working over it again -- and surrender. I will accept that I can control very little about what happens to my work once I send it out there.

I'm writing this now because the PitchWars agent round is coming up, and some people will feel rejected if they don't get the requests they want from the agents participating. Some people will get rejections from those requests. Some writers will send out query letters and get still more rejections. (Which goes for non-PitchWars writers too, obviously.)

That's ok. If you love this, you will write because you need to. You'll try to get published because it's fun to have a dream. And you'll keep practicing. Everything.