A Message from Us

All,

Hi. This is Gershwin. I’m writing today because we (The Plants) have been keeping up with Seph’s blog, and noticed that right after he wrote “Black Hole Week Is Over,” he promptly took a week off from blogging. We found this quite unacceptable, and wish to remedy it.

Planty thought we could sneak onto his computer while he was sleeping, but he would most certainly take notice of it, as getting on his Word Press the next morning, he’d realize that not only did he have a bunch of hits from all of you who adore us, he would also have a new post on the home page. Which is kind of a giveaway.

Aided by the girls and Arun, I came up with a proposal to present to Seph, who thought it was a good idea and accepted. I now have a Word Press account (Writing from it now!) and I’m in charge of taking care of the blog this week.

So, today I’m writing a post, Ophelia and Gloriette want to write something tomorrow about, I dunno, plant pot fashion maybe? No idea. I think they said something about interior decoration…And Planty would love to do a political piece on Friday but Seph has told him not to be too controversial. Planty said OK but none of us have fallen for his compliance act. (Fortunately they will all be using my account thus they have to get my permission first, so don’t worry about getting offended, lol)

I guess this was my post then! It’s a pleasure and a thrill to be taking care of the House of Happy, and this is going to be a bucket load of fun!

Signed,
Gershwin McLelund, Planty Van Shuegeld, Ophelia Caddy, Gloriette Emiline Sullivans, Arun Cadmire-Hancock.

P.S. If you have no idea who we are, or what’s going on, read this page.

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To Rhododendron II

Rhododendron
166 Koninklijke Blvd.
Elsewheredam, Nederlands

Rhododendron—

I’m just writing to say that everything has been going MUCH better over here. 🙂

When your letter came in, Seph got it before I could stop him, and he opened it. He read it…then he folded it back up, came over, and put me in the sunlight.

So I’ve been getting a lot more sunlight now…And he’s been watering me nearly daily!!! Life is fantastic.

So please give my regards to the whole family, and please give my condolences to Aunt Rhody…The old gray goose shall be missed.

You will find some pics enclosed for your enjoyment.

Much Love 

—Planty

Me n' Seph enjoying some sun…

Looky how much me has grown!! 🙂

 

To Planty

Planty
Seph’s House
Somewheretown, U.S.A.

 

Dear Planty—

Seven years ago, you went to live at Seph’s house. And seven years ago, you were about 2 and a half inches tall.

Today, you are still at his house, sitting in his bedroom in a little green pot. And today, you are about five inches tall.

I wanted to say how sorry I am to hear that Seph’s been neglecting you. Aunt Rose tells me that you go for weeks (& months!) on end sometimes without getting watered? Tsk, tsk! Seph doesn’t seem to have been the best owner—we had doubts about him when you went to go live there, we tried to tell you. But you wouldn’t listen. Not that I’m trying to make you feel guilty…

But, I must also commend your efforts. For I know that you are the most forgiving of plants. Cause you’re still around, even if you don’t get watered. We’re very proud of how you’re taking life.

I hope Seph will be watering you more often now.

Stay strong. Stay green. Please reply soon to tell us how you’re faring.

Your cousin,
—Rhododendron

I Have An Agent, But Don’t Get Too Excited…

 

Um, wrong kind of agent…

 

DISCLAIMER: Please do not get über-excited near the end of this post. I appreciate your interest in my publishing life, but I don’t want you to get disappointed when you get to the punchline. It’s not wut u think. 🙂

Well, faithful readers, here I am. I was inspired by my wend Stephen today. He’s got a pretty busy life, from what I’ve read over on the Undiscovered Author blog. He’s married, has a kid (and an escape-artist of a dog), is going to school, has a job, etcetera! And still, he found time to post a big huge thing today on The Last Day.

Wow, Stephen! I figured, if you can fit that into your life, I can fit this one post into my life.

My manuscript has been a trial, and a practice in love and faithfulness. I have had to tend to this screaming baby on and off for the past 3+ years. It’s been a finicky baby. Here’s my story.

The initial idea that came to me was somewhat simple—ooh, a city underwater! I wrote the story, and it was a good length for what I was writing at the time. And yay, I finished a book! (A fairly rare occurrence for me, mind you!) Then, it came time to re-read it…oh my goodness, Mr. Cabit, what were you thinking when you wrote this? I asked myself. 🙂 (Come on, who HASN’T gone through that in their writing career?) So I rewrote it. Ah, a beautiful, long, rambly manuscript.

But then one day, my truthful beta reader gave me his honest opinion about what he thought of the thing. Eesh, was it really that bad? Time for another rewrite.

So, my third version was complete. Now, it needed to be published. It needed to be introduced to the world. Who would do it for me?

Ah, those query letters. I remember them so…well, er, unfondly actually.

I sent about sixteen query letters, and all of those who have written back have rejected it. A lot of them were very polite rejection letters. They were sort of “This-isn’t-my-kind-of-book” rejections. Granted, it’s a very unique book—not a typical paperback romance, true-crime murder mystery, ghosts-and-goblins fantasy flick, sorcery and witchcraft YA thriller, chick lit “giggler,” Oprah-Book-Club read, etcetera etcetera. I imagine there aren’t that many agents out there who would consider it “Their kind of book.” 🙂 Oh, but wait! There is one agent who would appreciate it…

And into the scene steps this guy. This guy is willing to take on the book, and submit it to a publishing house, and try to get it into print.

Yes, folks, my news is that I’ve ended my search for an agent. I have found an agent, and I don’t know if he’s going to be a good one, but it’s the one who’s accepted me, and I’ll have to work with what I have.

Hey, at least I will have saved myself 15% of my profits if I “Win.” 🙂

So, in conclusion, my manuscript is not dead, but my search for agents is. The quest is over, and it’s come full circle.

I am going to be my own agent!!!

A Letter

Dear Bloggers—

Greetings from my corner of the world! I know it has been a long time since I wrote, please forgive my delay. I have been having a crazy life recently with school, work, and that etcetera that we all have.

That etcetera that we don’t really want to publicly hang all over the internet…not that it’s bad, or embarrassing, or humiliating, or anything negative like that. In fact, there’s some wonderful stuff going on. But as you have probably figured out by now, I’m wary of the internet, and I just don’t want to write every detail up on here. I don’t even have a facebook, lololol…

So, this is me, in an old skool way, writing to you all. Let’s pretend this is a piece of paper. There’s a coffee stain on it, as well as a change in ink halfway through because my first pen died. The second type of ink is even nicer, though. The letter came in a heavy, green envelope. On the back is a”Get well Soon” sticker—an indicator of how rushed the endeavor was.

Warmest Regards,

—Seph

The Natural Disaster: A Just-In-Time Story

The story of the week! Yay!

The theme of the week was reflections, although it’s a little sketchy how I fit that in this week. See if you can figure out how it relates to the theme.

* * *

Putting my car into park, I yanked the key from the ignition. The house keys, prison keys, and trinkets from Russia jangled noisily as I clipped the carabiner onto my belt loop. Had I made it on time? was the only thing on my mind as I reached for the stamp-covered envelope on the passenger seat.

I threw the car door open, looking both ways before running out into the congested street. Cars honked as I dodged them like an Indian. Jay-walking, I knew, but I had to make it on time. It was worth the risk.

“Seph!” called a voice from down the sidewalk. I groaned inside, and knew I had to ignore her if I wanted to be on time. It was Miss Lamey, who worked as a full-time grocery stocker on the corner. She was an eccentric lady who had no time for life, as she poured it all into putting cans of powdered milk on shelves and sweeping red and black tiled floors. Miss Lamey was the last thing I needed, because she had this terrible habit of looping the end of her umbrella around my arm as she talked incessantly, to make sure I didn’t “Run away.” And she’s used that exact wording—“Run away”—which makes her an even stranger person, socially.

I tried not to see her. I looked up and around me, at the tall brick buildings contrasted by a sepia sky (pollution, ugh). The warning sirens stood like gargoyles on a cathedral, ready in case the Natural Disaster should happen by. As I ran for the blue mailbox awaiting my deposit, I felt a wooden crook latch onto my jean sleeve aggressively. Sweat forming on my brow, I turned to face the pink-clad stocker (or stalker?) apprehensively.

“Have you heard the news?”

I shook my head, and made one attempt for the mailbox, rudely shaking her umbrella off my arm. One final leap brought me to the patchy-blue mailbox with a brushed-metal sheen. As I pulled the mouth open, my eyes fell upon the notice next to the pick-up times. COLLECTED EARLY TODAY. HOLIDAY.

I kicked the mailbox, and the empty shell clanged noisily. I had missed it!

“What’s wrong with you today, Seph?” asked Miss Lamey. “You’re so rude today!”

“Sorry Miss Lamey,” I said, realizing that what I was saying wasn’t true. “I have a deadline to catch.” Suddenly, my eye fell on a streaked white truck making its way around the corner. I could just make it if I ran fast. Without bothering to say goodbye to Miss Lamey, I booked it over the sidewalk, running my palm across the pumice-smooth brick walls. As the postal truck sat at a stop sign, the world crystalized into a fragile golden moment. I didn’t want it to break.

My feet slapped over the hard cement, and I lunged at the truck as it was starting to roll forward. It was that moment, heralded by the warning sirens, that the Natural Disaster decided to blow through the streets.

It started slowly at first, that distinct rumble of sand, that distinct grinding sound as it brushed past brick buildings worn smooth from years of this phenomenon. Then I could see it—a huge, hundred-foot-tall cloud of particles barreling through the narrow streets. The postal truck stopped dead in its tracks, and the driver told me to come inside. I jumped in, and the truck rocked on its shocks.

“Just in time,” he said with a thick Southern accent, smiling a crooked grin.

I nodded, and we watched the sand careening toward us. It hit the car, pushing it back a little, grinding across the windshield.

As the storm stopped, I heard the street-sweeping vehicles coming out of garages and  scratching over the roads, pushing the sand on its way back outside the city limits lest we all be buried alive. Every time the sand-storm stopped, everything was smoother and shinier. Perhaps not because they were actually noticeably different, but because it got everyone’s mind on the subject.

I handed the postman my envelope. “Just in time,” he said again, slipping it into his bag.