Breakup in Alaska

I’m sure there is a name for this season in other parts of the country. I have a friend from the North East, Vermont, she called it Mud Season. Quite accurate, as the frost leaves, the earth heaves convulsively reaching toward the surface and caught in the middle, all those once frozen water particles, leaving bogs and yards and paths and roads awash in goop.

My only experience with breakup has been in Alaska. There’s a dimension to breakup here that I haven’t heard discussed anywhere else.  Time. Certainly not the lack of time, but the over-abundance of it. Okay, not time exactly, but daylight.

A month ago, collectively, Alaskans began conversations with friends, and total strangers in line at the post office with, “Wow, isn’t it great? The light is coming back sooo fast!” It was still colder than %^$# heck, but, the light makes for a beautiful day. A day to plan and the light to execute.

Now, the urgency of spring is jam-packed with additional things to do. Unfortunately, we can do them, ALL, until 10:30 pm as each week the light surges closer and closer to Solstice.

Ahh, that’s the easy part-the hard part is getting enough sleep. May 1^st and there is so much that needs to be accomplished. The same things that were there in January or March, and now there are the added things. Gardens must be planned, yards must be raked and a project that can’t be done when one is ass deep in snow.

Cleaned? You collapse into a chair at 9 pm and lancing through the window a shaft of brilliant daylight, the curse of dust bunnies waving madly back at you, even the inside of the house is a disaster.

We love breakup for the light and tolerate the mud, because on a quiet evening the geese fly overhead like confetti tossed from a cannon. We know we must stop, listen, lift our faces and savor just for that moment, because winter is coming. 

DeNise Woodbury is the author of Cottongrass Lodge and Avery's Gift.

Long Cold Lonely Winter?

After my second head-cold, I decided to blame winter on all my ills, bad moods, inability to sleep at night and everything else I could toss on the heap. In the grip of frigid and windy nastiness, it was easy enough to do. I got out the makeshift desk I use when I want to work in the living room, and huddled there with my heavy down-filled blanket wrapped around me. Right in front of the pellet stove. And still froze my knuckles off. I hibernated even more than I usually do, refusing to go outside for anything other than shoveling, haunting the barn for bags of wood pellets to feed the stove, and tromping out to the mailbox. I grumbled, a lot.

This has been the worst winter on record for many regions across the US. Record lows. Record snowfalls. Record winds. Record yuck. Nobody seemed to escape the mess; reports would come in from various family members all over, and it was the same everywhere. Slush in the streets, cars spinning out on the freeway, ice coating the trees, inches of snow on the patio, breath-stealing winter air. And that was just in Atlanta.

Twice a year, I go home to Alaska. I have family in Fairbanks; darling daughter Sue Ann, handsome son-in-law John, and my adorable granddaughter, Faith. I spend at least a month playing Mom/Grandma catch up, and one of my trips invariably hits in mid-winter. Just the luck of the draw, I suppose. Friends and other family members always ask me why on earth I don’t travel north during the summer when Interior Alaska is at its most glorious. Well, this winter I finally had an answer that made them shut up in a hurry:

“My winter in Fairbanks was better than your winter, anywhere else!”

And I wasn’t lying even a little bit.

I landed at Fairbanks International Airport on February 9, mid-afternoon. I’d left Albany, New York early that morning wrapped in a heavy winter coat that I barely took off even on the plane. I wore my Uggs instead of packing them (my feet never got overheated during the entire trip). And thinking ahead to what February in Fairbanks usually meant, I steeled myself for the worst.

I spent the next thirty days with my coat unzipped, my hat abandoned and my gloves tucked in my pockets instead of on my hands. Oh, I’d have had to bundle up if I’d spent any amount of time outside, of course. Yet I took Faith outside sledding one day with no hat and never even noticed the lack.

I basked in the windless calm of a standard winter day in Fairbanks, secure in the knowledge that some things don’t change regardless of what kind of crud “Ma” Nature can splat on the rest of the world. I returned to New York refreshed, energized, and warm.

But not for long, because immediately I caught a cold. Then after I fought it off, I got sideswiped with bronchitis. I’m still coughing and blowing my nose. Go figure.

I guess what I brought back from all of this has less to do with the vagaries of winter and more to do with attitude. I think in some ways you can persuade your body to accept and then believe the opposite of what it expects to accept and believe. I lived in Fairbanks for many winters and I know what February is going to bring to my table: forty below, ice fog, black ice on the roads and the need to plug the car into the nearest available hot box so the engine doesn’t gag and die. What I tend to forget it also brings: calm, clear, crisp, gloriously bright albeit short days and long, snuggle-in-your-jammies nights. In that respect, my month of Arctic was blessedly, familiarly normal.

It’s all the other junk this winter that tossed me for a loop and made me want to stab Mother Nature with the nearest icicle I could break off the rain gutter.

Attitude is everything when dealing with unseasonably weird weather. Maybe you’ll catch the flu anyhow even if you were diligent and took the shot. Maybe this summer will be just as disappointing when it finally decides to show up. Whatever we all get, I’ve decided I’m not going to let it bother me, because we can’t control what mean old Mommy Nature dishes out.

But mainly because I’m headed back to Fairbanks this summer—sometime after RWA and San Antonio—and this time hubby Don can break away long enough to go with me.  ::Happy Dancing amongst the mosquitoes::

We’ll take some time, soak up the long, long days, enjoy our family; marinate ourselves in DEET so we can spend lots of time outside. Maybe we’ll stay longer than a month. Maybe we won’t come back until break up, 2015.

Yep, attitude is everything.

Char Chaffin is a member of AKRWA and CNYRW, a die-hard displaced Alaskan, and has just published her third novel, Jesse’s Girl. She goes home to Fairbanks when she can, hangs out on a sixty-acre farm in Upstate New York when she can’t, and divides her time between writing her next novel and being an Acquisitions Editor for Soul Mate Publishing.

You can find her here:

website: http://char.chaffin.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/char.chaffin

Twitter: http://twitter.com/char_chaffin

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5337737.Char_Chaffin

Book Trailer for Jesse’s Girl:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g5UBBoAqbWE

The Joy of Victory, the Agony of… Too Much in My “In Box”

Many years ago when I decided my second career would be writing romance novels, I, like many other newbies, was elated. I could stay home in my pjs, a wonderful thing after thirty-two years of professional dress and seven o’clock staff meetings.

I could cuddle up to the fire and dream of naughty and enticing themes in the calm warmth of my living room. I would be queen of my schedule and master of my future. No secretary would buzz a warning of some client on a rampage about to tackle my peace of mind with unsolvable dilemmas. I could watch all the things on television I had missed in working long hours and constantly taking or teaching night or weekend classes at UAA. I could do lunch with my husband. I could take a vacation any time of the year I wanted instead of working a holiday into the district’s school schedule.

I COULD SLEEP IN!

Right…

Everyone needs a fantasy, right? The grass is always greener, so they say. Right?

Wrong.

I quickly learned I didn’t own pjs, and as a full time writer I couldn’t afford to go shopping. Only veteran writers with published books and income can shop. I had forgotten that cuddling up to a fire in the calm of my home only put me to sleep. And I slept very well! I found out my secretary was the true queen of my schedule and she was so much better at it than I could ever be.

And master of my future…I wasn’t even master of my keyboard, let alone something as enormous as my future.

As for watching television, it was a giant time suck and a brain drain. I found myself critically evaluating every show I saw while eating everything in the cupboards as tasty commercials subliminally fed my mini binges.

I no longer worked long hours and kept pace with the night shift. In fact, I worked no hours and no night shifts. My husband got into the habit of calling me two hours before lunch so I would be on time and fully dressed.

Pathetic you say? Pretty much. My mid life career crisis didn’t last long as I have always been goal oriented and a bit of an over achiever.

So I pulled myself up by my slouchy sweat pants and faced the blank screen on my Mac. About a month and a half after I had become a “full time writer” my husband came home and actually found me at my computer writing. It was a beginning.

The challenge of finding yourself in a one-woman, self-dependent occupation is that you are alone and completely at the mercy of your own devices. The joy of a one-woman, self-dependent occupation is you have no one else to congratulate when you finish your first book, but yourself.

You find out that you are responsible for everything. You find out that you are not really alone and your own devices can fill a couple hundred pages if you commit them to paper. Those naughty and enticing themes sell. The joy of victory is so sweet…

Then comes the reality of writing as a career. It’s much harder than being an educator. Talk about burning the midnight oil. My characters demand their lives be committed to pages before I can sleep. Themes invade my mind and cry out for validation. I end up with more stories than I can ever write and readers who want more, faster. My email in-box is filled to bulging with requests for the next story, criticisms on my current books and deadlines that must be met. Covers must be developed, copies sent for review.

It’s exhausting… and wonderful… and satisfying… and a full time endeavor. If someone tells you “Oh, anyone can write brainless romance,” they are correct. But it takes a talented, dedicated author to construct, write and produce a romance novel. And that is just the beginning.

But I did it!

I developed, wrote and self-published my first romance novel. It only took a gallon of sweat, a quart of tears, $25.00 dollars for an ISBN number, $210.00 for a professional cover, many midnight critiques, and the unwavering support and assistance of friends and family. Oh yeah… and five years.

Becoming a romance author is not for those who sleep in, cuddle up to the fire and dream or do lunch out a lot. But it is for me.

>--- Miriam Matthews
miriamthewriter@gmail.com

Everything I Learned about Critique Groups, I Learned from Alaska

I got hit with a sobering and depressing reality check just the other day. I lived in Anchorage for three years. It seemed like a goodly amount of time if not NEARLY long enough. And to this moment it looms in my memory and my heart as if I left yesterday. But I didn’t. I’ve been back in Minnesota for five years.

Five years! Sob.

So much has happened in that time, but one thing hasn’t changed. I feel as close to my friends there as I ever have. They might not know it, but they are never ever far from my heart. Ever. I wondered why this is, and the answer came to me without me even trying. The people of Alaska are as big of heart, as varied in riches and gifts, and as unforgettable as Alaska is herself.

Things (all things—tasks, working, shopping, playing) move just a little more slowly in Alaska than they do Outside. I don’t mean things are “slow” (as in short bus slow), but there’s an ease born of a “Hey, what’s the rush? Where are you going to go?” attitude you won’t find in states where you could, potentially, get out in a hurry. This applies to friendships as well. There is/was SO much time to cultivate closeness. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

Alaska Chapter of Romance Writers of America - early years

And my friendships spilled over into my then baby seedling of a career so that my writing became my joy because my friends were with me. And they (my friends) also became my critique partners, and I hung on their words and advice, even when I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t want to hear them . And the more I got to know these friends’ secrets and true selves, the more their experiences and insights shaped my own. We were a band of sisters made up from many stripes and backgrounds and beliefs, but I had the time and space to learn from them all, and love our differences.

Let this sound like a mere exercise in being maudlin, I promise there’s a reason for my schmaltzy words. When I had to leave Alaska it took a big chunk out of my heart. Let’s don’t even talk about missing the land itself—that’s another blog topic entirely. It was the people I couldn’t stand leaving behind. But here’s the thing—I took them all with me. I didn’t realize it for a long time, but I eventually figured it out. I learned so much about working together and taking time to appreciate everything about a group of friends, that I can’t thank Alaska enough for giving me the opportunity.

I have a new critique group here in Minnesota. There are only four of us and still, it was very hard to start this group—it felt awkward and disloyal and not close for a long time. But I went back to the memories of Alaska and remembered all the big-hearted things I learned in the big-hearted place I still love: patience, admiration for differences, listening, taking time—lots of time—and seeing other peoples’ strengths. I learned to love my new critique group because I still love the first one. Everything I learned about how to make this work, I learned from Alaska.

See, she has a big, sharing heart that way!
So, salute to all my old CPs (AKA Best of Friends) still slogging away up North. Here’s wishing everyone a chance to fall in love with the people of Alaska just as I did!

--- Liz Selvig

The Difference Between Alaska and Colorado

Footwear of AKRWA members
Annual retreat in Soldotna, Alaska

On a map, Colorado is a rectangle --- and Alaska, stuck off in the corner, resembles a flung blob of spaghetti, but people still get them mixed up.

I recall an advertisement for an Alaska telecommunication company which featured kids sledding in the wonderful Alaskan winter. Except it wasn't Alaska. The mountains in the background included the Snowmass ski area.

Colorado advertisers aren't exempt from the confusion. A political campaign for a Colorado candidate included a photo of what he thought was Pike's Peak. Woops! It was Denali, Mount McKinley to everyone outside Alaska.

Mountains:

The mountains in Colorado look like Alaska but only if viewed from the north. Viewed from the south, where the Colorado sun shines hot and dry, these same mountains look like Arizona.

In Alaska, both sides of the mountains look like Alaska.

Weather:

Colorado is sunny. It snows a bit and then it's sunny. It rains and then it's sunny.

Alaska: fog, wind, snow, rain, more snow, overcast, ice fog, high winds. Alaska might get sun for an afternoon, maybe in June.

Plants:

Those conifers. You know what I mean, the type of conical trees you cut down for Christmas. In Colorado, they might be spruce or they might be pine or they might be fir or Douglas Fir.

In Alaska, if there are any around, they're spruce, different kinds of spruce, but still spruce. That is unless they're planted in a yard in Anchorage.

Animals:

In Colorado, your Chihuahua might get eaten by a mountain lion.

In Alaska, he's on the menu serving bears, wolves, eagles, and mosquitos.

Clothing:

Alaska is noted for having the worst dressed city in the US. We aren't sure if that distinction belongs to Anchorage, Juneau, Fairbanks, or Bethel.

Colorado is better dressed, but not by much. If in doubt, check the footwear. If you see waterproof boots such as brown rubber XtraTufs,
you're in Alaska.

Children dancing during book festival at Loussac Public Library. Anchorage, Alaska

--- Lizzie Newell writes science fiction romance. She lives in Anchorage most of the time but travels both inside and outside Alaska attending writers' conferences. Her travels frequently take her to Colorado.

Alaska on My Mind

When my first novel was published, my local Homer newspaper wrote an article about me, which then got picked up by the big-time Anchorage paper, where it went online and people got to comment on it. That’s when things got interesting. Someone sniped about the fact that I’d set the series in Southern California rather than Alaska. “Is Alaska too real for her?” they wondered.

Well, first of all, that’s just silly. Every place is real to those who live there. And I’m writing fiction, so frankly, none of it is “real.” I stated my case at length with that commenter -- completely in my own head, of course, since I’m not one for online arguments. Salient points: I started writing the series before I moved to Alaska. I wasn’t slighting my new state – I just didn’t know it well enough yet to set something there. Also, for that series I wanted the setting to be the kind of environment that SoCal offered. Something that wouldn’t take the focus away from the characters, the story and the romance.

The fact is, when you set something in Alaska, it’s hard to make Alaska stay in the background. It dominates, with its extreme weather and its magnificence and complicated characters. If your story takes place in the summer, you have to mention the endless daylight, and vice versa for winter. You have to know exactly where the story takes place – the harsh Interior? Rainy Southeast? Above the tree-line Nome? They’re completely different. There is no such thing as a “generic” Alaska setting. How do you incorporate all that rich, fascinating detail without Alaska becoming a full-fledged character in your story?

Once I moved to Alaska, my friends often asked me if I was going to set something here. “Sure, someday,” I always answered. What was I waiting for? “But I just moved here. I have to get a feel for it first.” But I’ve set other stories in places I don’t know intimately. I can learn enough from brief visits and from cruising the Internet, reading websites and scanning photos. Hey, that’s what Google Earth is for.

But Alaska … feels different. As a relative newcomer of only seven years, I don’t want to set something here until I feel that I can do this place justice. I want to get the details right, but much of that can be determined by doing research. More importantly, I want to get the spirit right. I wouldn’t want to write a book set in Alaska that feels as if it could take place anywhere with snow. There’s something about Alaska that sinks into your soul and fills you with awe. I think it’s a mark of respect for the state that I haven’t set anything here yet. I have no doubt the time will come when I write an Alaska story. Every day I spend here brings me closer to earning that moment. 

What do you think? How knowledgeable should an author be with the place where his or her books are set? Is it better to live there, or can enough be learned through research?

Jennifer Bernard's latest release is FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FIREMAN. Click the cover for more.



 Pizza, Clay, San Pellegrino, Fleetwood Mac, and Overalls

What do these things have in common? In my world—as of this moment—they equal inspiration. I'm an author, which means the things that inspire me don't always make a lot of sense to everyone else. Anything can inspire if you are open to listening. Except housework. I don't ever see that inspiring anyone. If it does, I'd like to hear from you so I can pick your brain.  

Currently it's after midnight (I love the time after midnight, but that's another subject) and Fleetwood Mac is playing on Pandora (I'm a huge fan) and I'm eating leftover pizza (two days leftover now as I don't have time to cook as well as clean) and drinking an orange flavored San Pellegrino. Magic happens when you put these things together.

Let's start with pizza:

The food of the Gods. Seriously, a food that brings together ALL the food groups. Meat, vegetable, bread, and dairy. Really? Perfection. Enough said.

Fleetwood Mac:

Creativity personified. Lyrics that bring about magic and fuel imagination. Plus Stevie Nick's clothes are the bomb. I strive to be like her. You should see my wardrobe.

Orange San Pellegrino:

Now here I get a little deeper. I'm currently writing a Russian Roulette Series that my agent is hammering for me to finish. She knows it's good and she's only seen the first 50 pages. Wait until she sees what I just wrote. Yeah, feeling pretty freaking awesome right now. That might change when I reread what I just wrote come morning (I'm always brilliant in the midnight hours). Still wondering how San Pellegrino comes into this?

Well, long story made short. I was a high school foreign exchange student to Finland where I had my first taste of orange San Pellegrino and was immediately hooked. You know how smells and tastes take you right back to a time and place? Well San Pellegrino does that for me. The first book in my Russian series is set in Finland. Getting the picture? But still lost on the clay reference? Relax, I wasn't going to leave you hanging.

Clay:

I'm an artist and clay is one of my mediums, words another. I can mentally paint with words, but I work in clay for form and function. Most artists have more than one creative outlet and sometimes, if you are lucky, they feed each other.

Clay feeds my writer's soul.  

Pottery is my hobby (profitable hobby, but hobby none the less). Writing is the full-time gig. Most times more than full-time as I tend to put in 12 hours a day at it. I can, and do, get burned out. When that happens, I head to my pottery studio. A few hours—or days—in my studio restores me, refills the creative well, so to speak. I feel amazing after a day throwing clay. I'm working with my hands, creating something tangible. With writing, I can't see it, feel it, or use it. Pottery is something I can get messy with. I can hold it, see it, form it. And while I'm doing all this my mind is free.

Overalls:  

In my studio you will find me wearing my grandmother's overalls. We were very close. She died seven years ago and was an artist in her own right as a wood carver. When she carved, she wore the overalls I inherited from her. I'm connected to her. She was also a published author and wrote many articles for the Alaska Journal and was featured in the hardcover publication of The Last Frontier. She is still my biggest inspiration. So I wear her overalls. I also set my Pandora station to Fleetwood Mac and then I play. While I'm playing, my mind is free to work, solve problems, think up new characters, and situations and how I'm going to really mess up my characters' lives. Subconsciously this is all happening. I'm not really aware of it as I'm singing at the top of my lungs along with Stevie. By the end of one of these sessions, I am renewed, reborn, energized.  

And feeling freaking unstoppable.

I can't be the only person out there who experiences this phenomenon. I'd like to hear what inspires you?

--- Tiffinie Helmer