Update

Where I Am

Dear readers,

Earlier this week, I began to, once again, post the daily story of my mom’s turbo cancer and my son’s death in 2022. It is the revised and edited version that I have been working on, while sending query letters and submissions to publishers and literary agents. I have had a short introduction to the business end of the literary world, and I am now uncertain of whether it is a place where I even want to fit in.

I have had two conversations with publishers. The first was a call with a salesman who hadn’t bothered to read my query letter or submission. While he insisted that his was not a vanity press, it was very clear that the content of my book did not matter, as long as I had money to pay for the services.

The second conversation was more positive. The publisher had read my submission and felt that my story was powerful. He explained that the difficulty with my book, from a printing standpoint, is the inclusion of the photos and documents that prove the validity of my story. He said that each page would need to be created individually in adobe. He said that the pictures need to be placed so that they align with their part in the story, and that it would take many hours of work, for which I would be expected to pay. I walked away from that conversation thinking that I need to purchase the software and learn to set up the pages myself.

I have two problems. The first is that I have no money with which to pay these publishers. I have raised small amounts of money through Substack subscriptions and ko-fi, but it is not nearly enough. The second problem is that I want to work with somebody who I feel believes in my book in the way that I do. While I understand that publishing is a business, and that business cannot exist without the exchange of money, I feel that my story is more important than its potential profitability. It is a work of art. I want an old-school, traditional publisher who believes in me and is willing to take on the risk.

Art and money are strange bedfellows. I am not against the idea of supporting myself with my art. I have a home in need of repair. I would like to put up a fence for sheep and buy a spinning wheel. Those things require money, and selling my story would certainly help with all of that. Also, a publisher with a marketing team would help me to spread my message, which is the whole point. At the same time, I don’t want my book to be seen as a commodity, but as soon as I sell it, It becomes exactly that. It is an artist’s conundrum.

I have been pushing my story out through the internet for people to read it and for it to be known. I want the whole world to hear about what happened. I want my mom to be the face of the vaccine injured. I want to be a catalyst for justice. I want my mom’s suffering, my son’s suffering and my suffering to have had a greater purpose.

Nonetheless, what I want does not matter. It turns out that whether or not I have a greater purpose is not actually up to me. I have been given time to write and to create art while healing from trauma. What becomes of my creation is in the hands of God. I have to have faith that I did write my story for a reason, but that I do not get to decide what that reason is.

The most important thing for me to do is for me to tell the story, and to maintain my conviction that those who are meant to find it, and to read it, will do so. I have more Substack subscribers now than I did the first time around, so, perhaps, there is a wider audience right here.

I have been fortunate enough to have had a few quiet winter months. I have had a nice break from displaying at art fairs and teaching local art classes. I have been able to get cozy and work on my editing and on my craft. The slow pace and solitude have allowed me to settle into my heartbreak, which is a good thing. At times, I feel at peace with the sorrow that has become a permanent part of me. I know that sounds sad, but it really is ok. My grief is a part of my story.

I have been making broken heart pins out of wool. I imagine that one cannot live to be my age without having had ones heart broken. I decided to wear my broken heart proudly on the outside of my chest. I have made twenty hearts so far, and plan to make hundreds. These days, there is a lot to be broken-hearted about. It has been suggested to me that my hearts may be used in a gallery installation this summer. If that happens, I will be very exciting.

My chickens are grown up and laying eggs. We currently average two eggs a day. I lost one of my hens to a hawk, which was sad. I am learning that, in the real world, death is a part of life. I put several plastic owls in my trees and acquired a rooster in the hopes of protecting the remainder of the flock.

Other than that, I have been cleaning and organizing. I think that a tidier house is most likely a sign of a healthier mind. I have struggled, emotionally, for several years, but I think I am getting better.

I hope that you will read and share my story. It exists to be heard.

To support my work, make a one-time donation or purchase art on Ko-Fi: