That Feeling of Being Rich

Carolyn J. Rose 

 For me, feeling rich has very little to do with the possessions I own, or the amount of money I have in the bank. And that’s a good thing, because I don’t own much, and I never made much to deposit. Money wasn’t a huge driving force in my life. Craving cash didn’t motivate me to pursue a sales-oriented career or strive to climb a corporate ladder. My financial goal was to make enough for food, shelter, transportation, and recreation.       Reaching that goal depended on how I defined those terms.

FOOD: I’m not a foodie and I don’t get much pleasure from cooking. I’m all for eating out, but cost plays a role in my enjoyment. My taste buds are happy with pasta, salad, an occasional dessert, and a bag of cheesy snacks now and then.

SHELTER: If my house has a roof that doesn’t leak, a decent heating and cooling system, and room for me to sleep, shower, relax, and set up my computer, that’s enough. I don’t need a mansion. I want a shelter, not a showplace.

TRANSPORTATION: It’s sweet to be able to afford a new car, but I shop for practical ahead of luxury. I go for a good deal over a bunch of buttons and gadgets.

RECREATION: Except for a brief time in my teens, I never dreamed of cruising around the world on a private yacht, gambling away thousands in Monte Carlo, or climbing Mt. Everest. I enjoyed hiking and camping and canoeing in my younger years, but now it’s all about movies, trips to the coast, Scrabble with friends, and water aerobics.

While it’s reassuring to check my bank balance and find I’m not in the red, the bottom line has little to do with feeling rich. That feeling depends far more on other factors.

HEALTH: I’m still standing. Better yet, I’m still standing on my own. At the age of 70, that makes me feel like I just found a handful of change under the sofa cushions.

ATTITUDE: Lately, given the political climate, I’ve been looking for—and leaning toward—the positive. I’ve tried not only to keep my sense of humor, but to use it to make others smile and even laugh. If I can lighten their moods, I feel I’ve contributed something of value.

FRIENDS: I don’t have a vast number of friends, but the ones I have are prime. They’re accepting, amusing, and not easily offended by remarks I might blurt out without thinking. We take each other as we come, and as we are.

PETS: The dogs, cats, and birds I’ve lived with haven’t all been perfect roommates. But they’ve all left me with lessons about love, loyalty, and letting go.

BOOKS: I’ve been privileged to have had the time, energy, and imagination to write 20 books. More importantly, I’ve been privileged to read thousands. Some I bought, but most I borrowed. I love bookstores, and I love libraries. 

Checking out an armload of books from the beautiful library in downtown Vancouver gives me a sense of wealth far more powerful than receiving a dividend check from an investment fund.

The Books of Summer

THE BOOKS OF SUMMER

Carolyn J. Rose

Recently I read Pecos Valley Diamond, a mystery set 90 years ago in southern New Mexico and told from the point of view of a nineteen-year-old young woman. The character’s voice and the gentle tone of the book took me back to the summers of my early teens when I had hours to myself, when I could stretch out in the shade of a maple and sink into a story. Within moments I would be in another place, another age, with real people or fictional characters. All of them were braver, smarter, and had more interesting lives than I did, but they all seemed willing to share their experiences, to confide their thoughts.

I had the ability back then to set reality aside, to let the words wash over me, to submerge as if into a warm lake. I would go so deep that all sound was muffled, even my mother’s call to dinner or my father’s shout that my chores hadn’t been completed. Sometimes I wouldn’t note the chill of evening, a rising wind, or the first drops of rain.

I read accounts of exploration and travel to far lands—Kon Tiki and Aku-Aku. I read the “traditional” books for girls—Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie and the adventures of Nancy Drew. I read tales of the detecting Hardy boys and the westerns my father enjoyed—stories by Zane Grey and Max Brand and Louis L’Amour. I read the books I found on my grandmother’s shelves, classics by Hawthorne, Melville, and Cooper. I read The Egg and I, and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

I didn’t always understand the themes and deeper meanings, but I connected with the characters, the settings, and the feel of those books. I lived inside the covers until I read the final words. Often, I read the books again the next summer.

Now I tend to read with one eye on the clock—Is it time to check that pie, meet that friend, turn out the light and go to sleep?—and one ear on the sounds of my surroundings—the dogs, the washer, the mail truck. Most of the books I read are as “busy” as I am, but Pecos Valley Diamond lulled my multi-tasking mind.

Was that due to Alice Duncan’s skill at creating her world, her characters, and the tone of her story? Or was that due to my unconscious desire to revisit and reclaim the reading experience of my youth while walking the sun-blistered roads of fictional Rosedale, New Mexico?

Even the most skillful writer can’t capture a reader who doesn’t want to be caught, so my conclusion is that it was a bit of both and Alice Duncan and I met each other halfway.

Comments? I love comments, especially about your reading experiences and the books of your summers.

Thank you, Elizabeth Lyon. (I think.)

         

For ten years, until the end of 2010, I was an associate editor for Elizabeth Lyon’s Editing International.Under her guidance, I worked on 10-12 projects a year, learning to identify strengths of manuscripts as well as weaknesses and/or missing elements. I learned how to model ways to convert “information dumps” into bits of backstory woven into the tale and how to link that backstory and description to character development. I learned to demonstrate how to turn narrative into dialogue and how to inject conflict and subtext. I learned how to link description to action and point of view, and how to enhance character voice and author style . . .

During those ten years I edited for writers who disputed every word of my evaluations and for those who wrote to thank me for my suggestions and kept me updated on their progress toward publication. I edited for writers who probably still have my photo up on their dart boards, and for one or two who became friends.

By the end of that decade, I was pretty good at editing. And I was so tired of it I couldn’t wait to retire.

I came to think of it as having the job of carving the Thanksgiving turkey for a hungry group already gathered at the table. There was no time to admire the bird. I had to slice it apart and get it on the platter.

Other days I thought of editing as looking through a window at an awesome view for a moment, then focusing on the smudges and streaks on the glass, the cracks and chips, the fact that it was only a single pane and not insulated.

Editing changed the way I responded not just to the manuscripts that came across my desk, but to every book I opened.

So, thank you Elizabeth Lyon, for making me aware of what makes characters feel real, what makes dialogue sound like conversation overheard, what makes a story satisfying, layered, rich, memorable.

Thank you for insisting that I demonstrate and model as I evaluated. Because of that, I internalized elements of novelcraft that previously I’d struggled to learn.

And—sigh—thank you for making me aware of all the reasons that a book might fall short. My search for missing elements and weak spots made me better able to see the flaws in my own projects.

Thanks to you, Elizabeth Lyon, I’m a better writer than I was when you first asked me to “take a look” at the mystery written by a client.

But, thanks to you, Elizabeth Lyon, I’ve grown impatient. If a book doesn’t hook me in the first few pages, I put it down. If an author writes away from a critical scene, summarizes a fight in narrative, gives me talking heads in a generic setting, or intrudes to explain something, then I close that book.

Thanks to you, Elizabeth Lyon, I’m so aware of the skeleton beneath the skin, of the muscle and meat and tendon, that it’s difficult for me to see the whole Thanksgiving turkey, to simply enjoy the experience.

Thanks, Elizabeth Lyon. You made me the reader I am today—picky, picky, picky, picky.

http://elizabethlyon.com/