For the second time in just a few short months, we’ve been drawn to our televisions by a tragedy too horrific to even fully grasp. Once more, we learn of the loss of a child, one who was only 8. And as I write this on Tuesday evening, a second fatality of the bombings in Boston has been identified, a young woman who was a child to her mother.
I’m an author and pretty good, really, at putting words together. I have thousands of readers now, which I mention here only to underscore my first statement. I’m pretty good at putting words together. And yet I don’t know if I can adequately convey to you what it is to lose a child.
For those of us who are mothers, we who carried our babies under our hearts for nine months, our baby remains our baby, in a very real if emotional sense, always.
It’s tragic when the victims of these senseless acts of violence are children, not yet even teens. But every life is precious, and every person lost was at one time a newborn babe held in his or her mother’s arms.
And every death, every life ended by violence of any kind, is the loss of someone’s baby.
It’s the hardest thing in the world to endure, the loss of a child. It’s unnatural. We’re not supposed to bury or children. And yet, some of us do.
When your child has died you miss him or her every day for the rest of your life. The raw and bleeding wound of loss does scar over, eventually. You can remember the good times without shattering into a million pieces, eventually.
But at first the grief and the pain are so immense you don’t know how you can manage to live through them. And yet you do live through them. The initial shock of having that knock at the door, of hearing that news, is very much like being stabbed in the heart. It is a sharp, jagged tear to your flesh, a burning, raging fire in your soul.
Almost immediately, there are details to be seen to, and ritual to be observed. Numbness descends and you find yourself going through the motions, taking that next step, doing that next thing. You have a list, and a schedule, and you don’t think, you just…do.
Sometimes those first few days and those rituals are like escaping into a bubble, where as long as you have something to do, the agony, and the reality, are held at bay. You can’t fall apart; you have to take care of your child.
It is the last thing you will ever be able to do for him or her.
Then of course comes that awful moment, when the ritual is over and you are left alone with your loss. You fall apart then, because you know that it’s over: the nine months of gestation, the pain and joy of delivery; the birthday cakes, and the report cards and the Christmas mornings.
They are gone, forever.
If you’re a person of faith then you do take comfort in the knowledge that death is not the end; you’ll see your child again, in God’s presence. And in time, the pain dulls, so that you can remember the good times and the bad, and fall apart less often. You can remember, and you can smile.
But the hole that is in your heart is never filled, and that sense that something is missing in your life is constant. And when you watch your television and hear of the loss of someone else’s baby, you ache for them.
Because you know, and in a sense that defies logic, for a space of time, you are them.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
April 10, 2013
Life with a new puppy is really a lot like life with a new baby. I’m not altogether certain I was completely aware of that fact before we got the puppy. Having said that, however, I can tell you that I’m really pleased with how it’s all working out so far.
Tuffy—named by my husband, and short for “tough guy”—really is a bit of a tough guy, lately. He’s become very protective of his family. If there is a sound he doesn’t recognize, or if he is startled, he sets to growling, and sometimes even barking. Not only that, he gets all puffed up (his fur actually stands on end) and he places himself between us and whatever monsters may be about to break down the door.
This little, not quite three-pound creature of mostly fluffy fur truly has the heart of a lion.
He’s also very adaptable, and he likes his routine. This is a blessing for me, because the one thing I was worried about was that being home with the little guy every day while my beloved headed off to work would infringe on my writing time.
So far, that’s not happening. Yes, I know. I crossed my fingers and knocked on wood as I wrote that.
Tuffy gets up for the first time at 4:15 a.m. when the alarm goes off. He is happily scooped from his play pen on wheels that is in our bedroom over night—no mere ‘crate’ for this little guy—and he lays on the sofa with my husband until 4:45 a.m. Then it’s time for breakfast and a bit of a play while his daddy gets ready for work. Sometimes, if my daughter doesn’t have any clients first thing in the morning after dropping off her dad, she’ll bring one or more of her puppies with her when she comes to pick him up. So that gives the tough guy a few minutes of romping play with one or two of his buddies, as well.
While all this is happening, I am completely oblivious, because I am still in bed, asleep. Then when my beloved leaves for work, he puts Tuffy back into his playpen. The little guy settles right down and goes back to sleep. Rarely does he wake me before I get up, which is around 8:15.
We greet the day together in lazy fashion, play, and generally wake up. But that’s fine, because after two hours, tops, he’s dropping off to sleep again. I move his play pen out of the bedroom, into the living room, and he settles down, in his safe place, with his chew bars and squeaky toys and his little house. He sleeps on that house as often as he sleeps in it.
I made it clear to my beloved, when we got this new family member, that I would be happy to baby sit for him while he was at work. Yes, I stressed those two words, baby sit. Because we had been in agreement for the last several years that once our old puppy left us, there would be no more dogs as we’ve had somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 in our lives together.
In truth, it was David who was the most adamant about this, and I, over time, matched his intensity of dedication to this dictum.
However, neither of us had taken into consideration how much he had invested, emotionally, in that old dog. Nor were either of us prepared for the loneliness that he would experience once his beloved Rochie dog passed on.
So it really didn’t take much arm twisting for my daughter to “talk me into” getting this puppy for her father. On the weekends, the two are inseparable. I refer to them as “Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy”. I love the puppy too, of course. But mostly, he’s his daddy’s dog.
My brother was quite surprised and not at all pleased when he found out about the new addition to the family. Pets have never been particularly important to him. He said, “Well, hell, I thought you were going to be done with animals. Now look what you’ve done! You’re stuck with a puppy!”
I just shrugged. And I told him the truth.
My husband is happy, really happy with his new best friend. In light of that reality, nothing else really matters.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Tuffy—named by my husband, and short for “tough guy”—really is a bit of a tough guy, lately. He’s become very protective of his family. If there is a sound he doesn’t recognize, or if he is startled, he sets to growling, and sometimes even barking. Not only that, he gets all puffed up (his fur actually stands on end) and he places himself between us and whatever monsters may be about to break down the door.
This little, not quite three-pound creature of mostly fluffy fur truly has the heart of a lion.
He’s also very adaptable, and he likes his routine. This is a blessing for me, because the one thing I was worried about was that being home with the little guy every day while my beloved headed off to work would infringe on my writing time.
So far, that’s not happening. Yes, I know. I crossed my fingers and knocked on wood as I wrote that.
Tuffy gets up for the first time at 4:15 a.m. when the alarm goes off. He is happily scooped from his play pen on wheels that is in our bedroom over night—no mere ‘crate’ for this little guy—and he lays on the sofa with my husband until 4:45 a.m. Then it’s time for breakfast and a bit of a play while his daddy gets ready for work. Sometimes, if my daughter doesn’t have any clients first thing in the morning after dropping off her dad, she’ll bring one or more of her puppies with her when she comes to pick him up. So that gives the tough guy a few minutes of romping play with one or two of his buddies, as well.
While all this is happening, I am completely oblivious, because I am still in bed, asleep. Then when my beloved leaves for work, he puts Tuffy back into his playpen. The little guy settles right down and goes back to sleep. Rarely does he wake me before I get up, which is around 8:15.
We greet the day together in lazy fashion, play, and generally wake up. But that’s fine, because after two hours, tops, he’s dropping off to sleep again. I move his play pen out of the bedroom, into the living room, and he settles down, in his safe place, with his chew bars and squeaky toys and his little house. He sleeps on that house as often as he sleeps in it.
I made it clear to my beloved, when we got this new family member, that I would be happy to baby sit for him while he was at work. Yes, I stressed those two words, baby sit. Because we had been in agreement for the last several years that once our old puppy left us, there would be no more dogs as we’ve had somewhere in the neighborhood of 15 in our lives together.
In truth, it was David who was the most adamant about this, and I, over time, matched his intensity of dedication to this dictum.
However, neither of us had taken into consideration how much he had invested, emotionally, in that old dog. Nor were either of us prepared for the loneliness that he would experience once his beloved Rochie dog passed on.
So it really didn’t take much arm twisting for my daughter to “talk me into” getting this puppy for her father. On the weekends, the two are inseparable. I refer to them as “Augie Doggie and Doggie Daddy”. I love the puppy too, of course. But mostly, he’s his daddy’s dog.
My brother was quite surprised and not at all pleased when he found out about the new addition to the family. Pets have never been particularly important to him. He said, “Well, hell, I thought you were going to be done with animals. Now look what you’ve done! You’re stuck with a puppy!”
I just shrugged. And I told him the truth.
My husband is happy, really happy with his new best friend. In light of that reality, nothing else really matters.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
April 3, 2013
Have you ever heard something, in the course of a day, that strikes you as so profound that it seems as if the world pauses just so you can take it in?
I had such an experience yesterday, and I have to tell you, my mind is still trying to process that moment. I was with my “second daughter”, who is a nurse. But not just a nurse, she is a psychiatric nurse, and she works at a large, inner city hospital in the lock-down psychiatric unit.
We were discussing someone we’d come to visit on another unit of that hospital, someone who’d been a patient there for a few weeks, and who’d been admitted with some sort of an infection. Sometimes, medicine is an inexact science. The doctors have been unable to determine the source of the infection, but have been treating it, more or less, with a general course of antibiotics.
At one point this person was unable to communicate, or to even sit up. Then, as the infection began to clear, speech returned, but it aphasic speech at first. Nothing she said the last time I visited her last week made any sense at all.
We went to visit her yesterday, my second daughter and I, only to discover that this person was in the process of going home—against medical advice. We added our voices to the voices of the staff, urging her to remain in hospital. We tried to convince her husband that her going home was not the best course of action, even if it was what she wanted to do. But reason no longer seems to have sway with this woman. In fact, I do believe that reason has fled her for good.
Her husband only wanted to do what she asked of him, and would not consider that it wasn’t for the best.
As we were leaving, I lamented that something could not be done, because quite frankly, without further treatment, this person will not get well. Then my second daughter said, “I know you’re upset, and I understand. But she’s not a danger to herself or anyone else, and she has the right to be crazy.”
She wasn’t using that word lightly for it has become clear over the last several months—and I am probably the last person aside from her husband to see this—that this person really isn’t quite sane anymore.
You know, I never before considered the possibility that one could have the right to be crazy.
For me, life has always been what I would characterize as a challenge to be faced. It’s something to be lived, certainly, but lived judiciously, and even strategically. Sort of like an obstacle course where you must meet and surmount challenges before going on to the next level—or the next thing.
I’ve only ever considered that life is damn hard work, with some rewards and nice surprises along the way—but only some, and that my perception is yes, right for me, but basically recognized as valid by everyone.
And all along, instead or maybe as well, one has had the right to be crazy.
There’s no question in my mind that my second daughter is right, of course. I wouldn’t force my religious or political views on another person; I would never dream of telling someone what sort of music they should like, or movies they should watch or books they should read.
If someone is living in an alternate reality, responding to ideas that are only in their own minds, believing things that are not as I know them to be, who am I to judge them? Who am I to insist they must conform to my standards over theirs? If they are no danger to themselves or someone else, then they do indeed have the right to be crazy.
I’ve known for some time that this person—the one that we visited in hospital—truly only felt secure and happy in her home. It doesn’t matter, does it, what ‘home’ is? In this case it’s a very small apartment in a large building. She’s lived there for probably more than 20 years.
It’s her place, and where she needed to be, so of course as soon as she was well enough to communicate this desire, she told her husband she wanted to go home.
Yes, she needed to stay in hospital and be treated—in my point of view.
But as much as I demand to be granted the right to live my life on my own terms, when it comes to those I care about, I have to give way and allow them to live their life on their own terms. It’s not easy, but I shouldn’t be surprised at that.
As I’ve often said, and as I’ve always believed, life isn’t easy. Nor is it supposed to be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
I had such an experience yesterday, and I have to tell you, my mind is still trying to process that moment. I was with my “second daughter”, who is a nurse. But not just a nurse, she is a psychiatric nurse, and she works at a large, inner city hospital in the lock-down psychiatric unit.
We were discussing someone we’d come to visit on another unit of that hospital, someone who’d been a patient there for a few weeks, and who’d been admitted with some sort of an infection. Sometimes, medicine is an inexact science. The doctors have been unable to determine the source of the infection, but have been treating it, more or less, with a general course of antibiotics.
At one point this person was unable to communicate, or to even sit up. Then, as the infection began to clear, speech returned, but it aphasic speech at first. Nothing she said the last time I visited her last week made any sense at all.
We went to visit her yesterday, my second daughter and I, only to discover that this person was in the process of going home—against medical advice. We added our voices to the voices of the staff, urging her to remain in hospital. We tried to convince her husband that her going home was not the best course of action, even if it was what she wanted to do. But reason no longer seems to have sway with this woman. In fact, I do believe that reason has fled her for good.
Her husband only wanted to do what she asked of him, and would not consider that it wasn’t for the best.
As we were leaving, I lamented that something could not be done, because quite frankly, without further treatment, this person will not get well. Then my second daughter said, “I know you’re upset, and I understand. But she’s not a danger to herself or anyone else, and she has the right to be crazy.”
She wasn’t using that word lightly for it has become clear over the last several months—and I am probably the last person aside from her husband to see this—that this person really isn’t quite sane anymore.
You know, I never before considered the possibility that one could have the right to be crazy.
For me, life has always been what I would characterize as a challenge to be faced. It’s something to be lived, certainly, but lived judiciously, and even strategically. Sort of like an obstacle course where you must meet and surmount challenges before going on to the next level—or the next thing.
I’ve only ever considered that life is damn hard work, with some rewards and nice surprises along the way—but only some, and that my perception is yes, right for me, but basically recognized as valid by everyone.
And all along, instead or maybe as well, one has had the right to be crazy.
There’s no question in my mind that my second daughter is right, of course. I wouldn’t force my religious or political views on another person; I would never dream of telling someone what sort of music they should like, or movies they should watch or books they should read.
If someone is living in an alternate reality, responding to ideas that are only in their own minds, believing things that are not as I know them to be, who am I to judge them? Who am I to insist they must conform to my standards over theirs? If they are no danger to themselves or someone else, then they do indeed have the right to be crazy.
I’ve known for some time that this person—the one that we visited in hospital—truly only felt secure and happy in her home. It doesn’t matter, does it, what ‘home’ is? In this case it’s a very small apartment in a large building. She’s lived there for probably more than 20 years.
It’s her place, and where she needed to be, so of course as soon as she was well enough to communicate this desire, she told her husband she wanted to go home.
Yes, she needed to stay in hospital and be treated—in my point of view.
But as much as I demand to be granted the right to live my life on my own terms, when it comes to those I care about, I have to give way and allow them to live their life on their own terms. It’s not easy, but I shouldn’t be surprised at that.
As I’ve often said, and as I’ve always believed, life isn’t easy. Nor is it supposed to be.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
March 27, 2013
In just a few short weeks, my beloved and I will be heading to the first—and this year, the only—conference of the season. Our last year was jam-packed with travel as we attended the three different author-related events that were on our schedule. For someone like me who really does not like the traveling part, that was just too much. I felt as if I completely missed my summer here at home.
This year, there is only one conference in our plans, and it’s at the end of April.
I’m looking forward to attending the Romantic Times Booklovers’ Convention, as I always do. This year it’s being held in Kansas City, Missouri. RT is my one major “promotional” event of the year. It’s where I go to put my “gregarious extrovert” cap on, and put my best foot forward.
I do genuinely enjoy meeting new people, be they readers or fellow authors. I am, however, by nature an introvert. I do not need to socialize or be with other people on a regular basis in order to be happy. In other words, I could blissfully spend most of my life (and I do, actually) in my writing cave, with my computer keyboard at my fingertips and a coffee pot, bathroom and bed nearby.
This year, as he did last year, my husband will be going with me to RT. He really enjoyed himself at the convention last year in Chicago. This year, he’s going to “officially” attend all the festivities. Of course, his main role will continue, as he coined it last year, to be my “stand by and stand here” guy. I really appreciated having his assistance, because it is very difficult for me to manage at such an event all on my own.
It’s neither fair nor is it right for me to depend upon my acquaintances—the people I used to room with at these things—to be there to help me get around, or get where I need to be on time. I had been doing that up until last year, but really, that didn’t work out very well for any one. So last year David made the decision that he should go with me and do what he could to help.
In more than one way, Chicago’s conference was a watershed event for me. My life took one of those turns that can only be considered a complete shake-up. At first, I thought that what happened was the worst thing ever, but I have since changed my mind about it all, for I came away from the Windy City with two brand new best friends. I was blessed to meet for the first time, face to face, with my fellow Siren authors Heather Rainier and Peyton Elizabeth. Mr. Rainer accompanied his wife, and our two husbands seemed to hit it off very well. I have no doubt that being practically the only two men in the room had at least something to do with that.
A few months after that initial meeting, near the end of summer, we spent time with Ms. Peyton and the Rainiers at a conference in Dallas where we also met another Siren author, Corrine Davies and her husband. While I huddled with the women and discussed all things writing it was gratifying for me to see my beloved spending time with the men, all of whom appeared to enjoy themselves immensely.
At RT, we will not only have the pleasure of the company, once again, of the Rainiers and the Davies, and Peyton Elizabeth, we will also be meeting and spending time with Peyton’s new fiancé. Yes, there will be eight of us, all told, chumming around, wreaking havoc. While we ladies host our publisher’s table in Club RT, who knows what shenanigans those men might get up to?
Since all the men are attending all the dinners and the parties, too, there really is no telling what kind of mayhem may ensue when the eight of us are together. My beloved and I don’t get out much, so we tend to store up a lot of mischief and energy, just waiting for the best time and place to let it all loose.
The way I see it, that’s just one more thing to look forward to.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
This year, there is only one conference in our plans, and it’s at the end of April.
I’m looking forward to attending the Romantic Times Booklovers’ Convention, as I always do. This year it’s being held in Kansas City, Missouri. RT is my one major “promotional” event of the year. It’s where I go to put my “gregarious extrovert” cap on, and put my best foot forward.
I do genuinely enjoy meeting new people, be they readers or fellow authors. I am, however, by nature an introvert. I do not need to socialize or be with other people on a regular basis in order to be happy. In other words, I could blissfully spend most of my life (and I do, actually) in my writing cave, with my computer keyboard at my fingertips and a coffee pot, bathroom and bed nearby.
This year, as he did last year, my husband will be going with me to RT. He really enjoyed himself at the convention last year in Chicago. This year, he’s going to “officially” attend all the festivities. Of course, his main role will continue, as he coined it last year, to be my “stand by and stand here” guy. I really appreciated having his assistance, because it is very difficult for me to manage at such an event all on my own.
It’s neither fair nor is it right for me to depend upon my acquaintances—the people I used to room with at these things—to be there to help me get around, or get where I need to be on time. I had been doing that up until last year, but really, that didn’t work out very well for any one. So last year David made the decision that he should go with me and do what he could to help.
In more than one way, Chicago’s conference was a watershed event for me. My life took one of those turns that can only be considered a complete shake-up. At first, I thought that what happened was the worst thing ever, but I have since changed my mind about it all, for I came away from the Windy City with two brand new best friends. I was blessed to meet for the first time, face to face, with my fellow Siren authors Heather Rainier and Peyton Elizabeth. Mr. Rainer accompanied his wife, and our two husbands seemed to hit it off very well. I have no doubt that being practically the only two men in the room had at least something to do with that.
A few months after that initial meeting, near the end of summer, we spent time with Ms. Peyton and the Rainiers at a conference in Dallas where we also met another Siren author, Corrine Davies and her husband. While I huddled with the women and discussed all things writing it was gratifying for me to see my beloved spending time with the men, all of whom appeared to enjoy themselves immensely.
At RT, we will not only have the pleasure of the company, once again, of the Rainiers and the Davies, and Peyton Elizabeth, we will also be meeting and spending time with Peyton’s new fiancé. Yes, there will be eight of us, all told, chumming around, wreaking havoc. While we ladies host our publisher’s table in Club RT, who knows what shenanigans those men might get up to?
Since all the men are attending all the dinners and the parties, too, there really is no telling what kind of mayhem may ensue when the eight of us are together. My beloved and I don’t get out much, so we tend to store up a lot of mischief and energy, just waiting for the best time and place to let it all loose.
The way I see it, that’s just one more thing to look forward to.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
March 20, 2013
Today is the first day of spring!
Of course, you wouldn’t know that from looking out my window here in Southern Ontario. The weather forecast calls for a high of 27 degrees Fahrenheit, but with the wind chill it will feel more like 18. Brrr. Have I ever mentioned that I hate the cold?
Yet, despite the cold temperatures that were slow in coming this winter and now apparently loath to depart, it is the first day of the new season. I hear the birds early in the morning, and that is one of only two real signs I’ve seen that it is indeed nearly time for the cold and the snow to retreat. The other sign are the green shoots poking up through the snow and ice as my daffodils and tulip bulbs have come awake and are preparing to bloom for another year.
If they survive this last bit of winter, that is.
I cherish the cycle of nature that finds us going from season to season each year. I guess part of the reason for that is despite the changes we’ve all witnessed in climate, and even though the characteristics of each season seem to no longer be as consistent as once they were, the seasons nonetheless do change. They occur each year, forming a rhythm to life that is at once comforting and exciting.
Spring has always been my favorite time of year. I love it not only because the temperatures slowly climb from the cold of winter toward the heat of summer. I love it because it is the season of renewal and rebirth. It is, if you will, the season of second chances.
I am a great believer in redemption and second chances.
When I think back to the days of my youth, I remember Saturday morning, awakening to the sound of birdsong. I would sleep with my window open as soon as it was mild enough to do so, and my favorite days were the ones when the breeze coming through my window was that wonderful aroma we used to call fresh air.
I’m not trying to be facetious, but there really was a quality to the air that was different forty years ago, than it is today—although still, every once in a great while I step outside and do inhale that treasured, remembered scent.
The trees would be enveloped in an aura of green—that point when the buds are there, but haven’t yet burst into leaves. The sun would shine in the vibrant blue sky of springtime—a different blue than the pale of winter—and for those moments, those precious moments, it felt as if anything, anything at all was possible.
As a young wife and mother, springtime always made me itchy to get my hands in the soil, to work up flower beds and plant my vegetable garden. It seemed a long wait from those first stirrings of the new season until our traditional planting time—the May 24th weekend. We waited that long to ensure the danger of frost was past.
I’m no longer young, and playing in the soil is different for me now. I have window boxes that fit on my porch railing, so if I want to plant, I can do that. I was finally successful in getting my beloved to plant a few flowers in my yard, and those I am hoping, as I see their tiny green shoots above the snow, will survive and bloom.
Most people think of change, of starting fresh and making resolutions on New Year’s Day. I’d much rather—if I was going to do such a thing—perform that ritual when the breezes of springtime first caress the land.
It seems more fitting a time to make vows of self-improvement, and the spirit of renewal in me would have a resounding echo in the world that surrounds me.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Of course, you wouldn’t know that from looking out my window here in Southern Ontario. The weather forecast calls for a high of 27 degrees Fahrenheit, but with the wind chill it will feel more like 18. Brrr. Have I ever mentioned that I hate the cold?
Yet, despite the cold temperatures that were slow in coming this winter and now apparently loath to depart, it is the first day of the new season. I hear the birds early in the morning, and that is one of only two real signs I’ve seen that it is indeed nearly time for the cold and the snow to retreat. The other sign are the green shoots poking up through the snow and ice as my daffodils and tulip bulbs have come awake and are preparing to bloom for another year.
If they survive this last bit of winter, that is.
I cherish the cycle of nature that finds us going from season to season each year. I guess part of the reason for that is despite the changes we’ve all witnessed in climate, and even though the characteristics of each season seem to no longer be as consistent as once they were, the seasons nonetheless do change. They occur each year, forming a rhythm to life that is at once comforting and exciting.
Spring has always been my favorite time of year. I love it not only because the temperatures slowly climb from the cold of winter toward the heat of summer. I love it because it is the season of renewal and rebirth. It is, if you will, the season of second chances.
I am a great believer in redemption and second chances.
When I think back to the days of my youth, I remember Saturday morning, awakening to the sound of birdsong. I would sleep with my window open as soon as it was mild enough to do so, and my favorite days were the ones when the breeze coming through my window was that wonderful aroma we used to call fresh air.
I’m not trying to be facetious, but there really was a quality to the air that was different forty years ago, than it is today—although still, every once in a great while I step outside and do inhale that treasured, remembered scent.
The trees would be enveloped in an aura of green—that point when the buds are there, but haven’t yet burst into leaves. The sun would shine in the vibrant blue sky of springtime—a different blue than the pale of winter—and for those moments, those precious moments, it felt as if anything, anything at all was possible.
As a young wife and mother, springtime always made me itchy to get my hands in the soil, to work up flower beds and plant my vegetable garden. It seemed a long wait from those first stirrings of the new season until our traditional planting time—the May 24th weekend. We waited that long to ensure the danger of frost was past.
I’m no longer young, and playing in the soil is different for me now. I have window boxes that fit on my porch railing, so if I want to plant, I can do that. I was finally successful in getting my beloved to plant a few flowers in my yard, and those I am hoping, as I see their tiny green shoots above the snow, will survive and bloom.
Most people think of change, of starting fresh and making resolutions on New Year’s Day. I’d much rather—if I was going to do such a thing—perform that ritual when the breezes of springtime first caress the land.
It seems more fitting a time to make vows of self-improvement, and the spirit of renewal in me would have a resounding echo in the world that surrounds me.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
March 13, 2013
I don’t often do this, but this essay is directed toward my fellow wordsmiths, those hard working colleagues of mine who put (metaphorically) pen to paper in order to create stories with a view to entertaining readers, and whose work is digitally produced.
When I first got published in 2007 this medium of “e-books” hadn’t been around for very long. It was a brand new way of producing books for readers to read. And like most brand new ways of doing something that had been done basically the same way for a very, very long time, [since the production of the Guttenberg Bible back in the 1400s], as a medium, as a form of fiction, it was derided.
Suddenly, they said, anyone could be an author! And those of us who suddenly were authors, were subjected to an attitude of exclusion and yes, disdain by print publishers, professional authors’ associations, and by some print authors, themselves.
We weren’t professional, they said. We were less.
As a reaction to that, e-published authors griped and complained about being treated as the red-headed step-children of the writing world.
Do y’all remember that?
At that time, I suggested that if we wanted to be treated as professionals in this brave new world and stand shoulder to shoulder with those writers who were published by “New York publishers” then we needed to start out that way—that we needed to behave as professionals.
The times have changed, but not a whole lot. They have changed financially for the e-published author, that’s for certain. Here is a tiny bit of information from my publisher’s “About Us” page: “Over three dozen Siren-BookStrand authors consistently receive a 5-figure royalty payment quarterly, with about a dozen of these authors earning between $100K to $350K annually.”
If one is an author who hopes to find readers, I would suggest to you that you can consider yourself a success—and a professional—if you have sufficient readers to earn that kind of an income. That should be the end of the debate.
And yet.
And yet there are those who continue to cling to the belief that those authors who are “e-published” are not as good as, and not as professional as, the traditionally published writer. And there are, unfortunately, some e-published authors who are more than happy to demonstrate that point.
How do we combat that sort of intransigent attitude on both sides of the equation?
I don’t think the strategy has changed, really. If I want to be treated as a professional, then I first have to behave like a professional. I need to adhere to professional standards. What are these standards? Well, let’s pull our old, retired friend, Common Sense, out of the closet, dust him off, and with him, think about that little thing for a moment.
If I want to behave as a professional, then first I have to guard my words. I’m a writer, remember, and if I want to be known for my words, I want to be known for the ones in my essays and my novels—and no others.
I have to be kind and courteous, and treat everyone with respect—especially those people who are in “my sphere of influence”. That would be my publisher, my readers, my editors, and fellow authors—especially those authors who are published by the same house as I. When do I do this? Always!
If I want to have a rant, or a temper tantrum, I need to be careful. I do not want to earn the reputation of being a “diva”, or a “whiner” or worse. Therefore, when I feel like having a rant, a temper tantrum or just “getting it all off my chest and out there”…I go into my bathroom, shut the door, and scream. When do I do this? Always!
I say nothing, I write nothing that at any time insults or slaps at the people in my sphere: not in a blog, or in a Yahoo! loop, not in a book review, or on Face Book, or Twitter…not anywhere. When do I behave according to this standard? Always!
I take care that every time I communicate with my readers that I do so in a kind, compassionate and grammatically correct way. If I offer a prize, I award it; if I make a mistake, or if it is perceived that I have made a mistake, I apologize for it. And I conduct myself at all times as if God Himself was watching every move I make—because, well, He is, and always!
I take to heart the saying, “words of edification will never come back to bite me in the butt.”
And I do what I can to support, promote and cheer on my fellow digitally produced wordsmiths—just like a real professional would do.
Because I aim to be one—always.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
When I first got published in 2007 this medium of “e-books” hadn’t been around for very long. It was a brand new way of producing books for readers to read. And like most brand new ways of doing something that had been done basically the same way for a very, very long time, [since the production of the Guttenberg Bible back in the 1400s], as a medium, as a form of fiction, it was derided.
Suddenly, they said, anyone could be an author! And those of us who suddenly were authors, were subjected to an attitude of exclusion and yes, disdain by print publishers, professional authors’ associations, and by some print authors, themselves.
We weren’t professional, they said. We were less.
As a reaction to that, e-published authors griped and complained about being treated as the red-headed step-children of the writing world.
Do y’all remember that?
At that time, I suggested that if we wanted to be treated as professionals in this brave new world and stand shoulder to shoulder with those writers who were published by “New York publishers” then we needed to start out that way—that we needed to behave as professionals.
The times have changed, but not a whole lot. They have changed financially for the e-published author, that’s for certain. Here is a tiny bit of information from my publisher’s “About Us” page: “Over three dozen Siren-BookStrand authors consistently receive a 5-figure royalty payment quarterly, with about a dozen of these authors earning between $100K to $350K annually.”
If one is an author who hopes to find readers, I would suggest to you that you can consider yourself a success—and a professional—if you have sufficient readers to earn that kind of an income. That should be the end of the debate.
And yet.
And yet there are those who continue to cling to the belief that those authors who are “e-published” are not as good as, and not as professional as, the traditionally published writer. And there are, unfortunately, some e-published authors who are more than happy to demonstrate that point.
How do we combat that sort of intransigent attitude on both sides of the equation?
I don’t think the strategy has changed, really. If I want to be treated as a professional, then I first have to behave like a professional. I need to adhere to professional standards. What are these standards? Well, let’s pull our old, retired friend, Common Sense, out of the closet, dust him off, and with him, think about that little thing for a moment.
If I want to behave as a professional, then first I have to guard my words. I’m a writer, remember, and if I want to be known for my words, I want to be known for the ones in my essays and my novels—and no others.
I have to be kind and courteous, and treat everyone with respect—especially those people who are in “my sphere of influence”. That would be my publisher, my readers, my editors, and fellow authors—especially those authors who are published by the same house as I. When do I do this? Always!
If I want to have a rant, or a temper tantrum, I need to be careful. I do not want to earn the reputation of being a “diva”, or a “whiner” or worse. Therefore, when I feel like having a rant, a temper tantrum or just “getting it all off my chest and out there”…I go into my bathroom, shut the door, and scream. When do I do this? Always!
I say nothing, I write nothing that at any time insults or slaps at the people in my sphere: not in a blog, or in a Yahoo! loop, not in a book review, or on Face Book, or Twitter…not anywhere. When do I behave according to this standard? Always!
I take care that every time I communicate with my readers that I do so in a kind, compassionate and grammatically correct way. If I offer a prize, I award it; if I make a mistake, or if it is perceived that I have made a mistake, I apologize for it. And I conduct myself at all times as if God Himself was watching every move I make—because, well, He is, and always!
I take to heart the saying, “words of edification will never come back to bite me in the butt.”
And I do what I can to support, promote and cheer on my fellow digitally produced wordsmiths—just like a real professional would do.
Because I aim to be one—always.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
March 6, 2013
There was a time, when, “if you read it in the (New York) Sun” or if you heard it from the mouths of Huntley, Brinkley or Cronkite, then it was so.
There was a time when you could count on the integrity of the reporters and the veracity of the news they were reporting.
Sadly, that time is not now.
The Internet is full of blogs, which anyone can create. You don’t need a degree in journalism. Integrity and veracity are not requirements. You don’t have to prove you are not an idiot. All you really need is that undocumented, very biased opinion, a computer, and an Internet connection.
I do believe that everyone ought to be able to express their opinion. However, that does not mean that their opinions should in any event, be taken as Gospel. And while expressing one’s opinion is a government-bestowed right through the first ammendment, you have to be careful not to overstep a God-given commandment when you do so.
What people should not be allowed to do, is lie.
Of course they do lie, and they have always lied and were it not so, there would be no need for those wise old chestnuts like, “caveat emptor” – let the buyer beware. I just wish we would all take that principle to heart and take as much care about “buying” someone’s words as truthful as we do buying a dishwasher—or a computer.
There were several instances in the last year when blog opinions, or outright lies were repeated as factual stories. They were repeated as such on national news networks as part of their election cycle coverage, until finally there were hundreds if not thousands of people swearing the stories reported were true.
Who do we blame for this profanity [for surely that’s what it is]? The opinionated or biased ones who vent their opinions and tell their lies? The media, who repeat these opinions and lies as if they are fact? Or the end user, the reader, the viewer or listener who seems in this day and age strangely willing to believe, well, pig swill?
Why do we lately seem so willing to believe the words we find on the Internet, or inn the news without benefit of thought? They say that “trust” is at an all time low. You’ve heard others say, “you can’t trust anyone anymore”, parents warn their children, “you can’t trust strangers!”But apparently there is no distrust when it comes to outrageous opinions, lies and inflammatory stories written or reported on line.
It bothers me that a piece written on a blog as either opinion, or as an obvious attempt at sarcasm can be repeated by a television news station as “fact” without that station even bothering to verify the piece. It bothers me when people are willing to believe the most ludicrous things, because it suits their need to vent, or to hate, or to smear.
It bothers me that many of those same people proclaim in loud and boasting voices that they believe in God, and then act in decidedly ungodly ways.
I don’t like liars or cheaters, but somehow, in today’s world, it seems the liars and the cheaters are the only ones thriving, the only ones getting ahead, and the only ones being believed.
Yes, I do believe that the truly righteous will receive their reward in Heaven. But I also know that they should be receiving a bit more of the goodies here on earth, too.
And they probably would be—if there weren’t an overabundance of liars, cheaters and idiots gobbling them all up.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
There was a time when you could count on the integrity of the reporters and the veracity of the news they were reporting.
Sadly, that time is not now.
The Internet is full of blogs, which anyone can create. You don’t need a degree in journalism. Integrity and veracity are not requirements. You don’t have to prove you are not an idiot. All you really need is that undocumented, very biased opinion, a computer, and an Internet connection.
I do believe that everyone ought to be able to express their opinion. However, that does not mean that their opinions should in any event, be taken as Gospel. And while expressing one’s opinion is a government-bestowed right through the first ammendment, you have to be careful not to overstep a God-given commandment when you do so.
What people should not be allowed to do, is lie.
Of course they do lie, and they have always lied and were it not so, there would be no need for those wise old chestnuts like, “caveat emptor” – let the buyer beware. I just wish we would all take that principle to heart and take as much care about “buying” someone’s words as truthful as we do buying a dishwasher—or a computer.
There were several instances in the last year when blog opinions, or outright lies were repeated as factual stories. They were repeated as such on national news networks as part of their election cycle coverage, until finally there were hundreds if not thousands of people swearing the stories reported were true.
Who do we blame for this profanity [for surely that’s what it is]? The opinionated or biased ones who vent their opinions and tell their lies? The media, who repeat these opinions and lies as if they are fact? Or the end user, the reader, the viewer or listener who seems in this day and age strangely willing to believe, well, pig swill?
Why do we lately seem so willing to believe the words we find on the Internet, or inn the news without benefit of thought? They say that “trust” is at an all time low. You’ve heard others say, “you can’t trust anyone anymore”, parents warn their children, “you can’t trust strangers!”But apparently there is no distrust when it comes to outrageous opinions, lies and inflammatory stories written or reported on line.
It bothers me that a piece written on a blog as either opinion, or as an obvious attempt at sarcasm can be repeated by a television news station as “fact” without that station even bothering to verify the piece. It bothers me when people are willing to believe the most ludicrous things, because it suits their need to vent, or to hate, or to smear.
It bothers me that many of those same people proclaim in loud and boasting voices that they believe in God, and then act in decidedly ungodly ways.
I don’t like liars or cheaters, but somehow, in today’s world, it seems the liars and the cheaters are the only ones thriving, the only ones getting ahead, and the only ones being believed.
Yes, I do believe that the truly righteous will receive their reward in Heaven. But I also know that they should be receiving a bit more of the goodies here on earth, too.
And they probably would be—if there weren’t an overabundance of liars, cheaters and idiots gobbling them all up.
Love,
Morgan
http://www.morganashbury.com
http://www.bookstrand.com/morgan-ashbury
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