Yes, Kathryn, there really is a Santy Claus by Kathryn Magendie

Days ago, I wrote a yog post about my Grinch’s heart. Who knew that these words really would be slipping from my fingers, when I wrote: “And perhaps by Christmas, somehow, someway, some magic will have happened...and I will write, ‘It happened...it really happened...’”

For my Christmas miracle seems to have arrived. No unwrapping pretty paper. No big red bow. But, amazing all the same. My good friend said, “Ha! Told you your Christmas magic would happen; but it isn’t magic, it’s the Baby Jesus! Told you I’d send out word.” I laughed. I said, “Baby Jesus, huh?” Last night I went outside to an almost silent, beautiful starry night. There were so many stars I could never count them in this lifetime or the next. The creek was rushing as it should from our recent rains (another gift?), and the air was crisp but not too cold. I stared up at the sky and said, “Thank you…” I thought, “How do I know where gifts come from? Who am I to question the source?” We search for answers, and sometimes those answers just will not be forthcoming. Sometimes the mysteries of the universe are just that.

And here, days before Christmas, I have a gift I have wanted for so long. One that I’ve worked so hard for. One that I have dreamed about and wished for and called out to the universe (and my friend has called out to Baby Jesus). What is the gift, you may be asking? I was going to say the gift is a publisher offering me a contract for my Virginia Kate novel—that is what all this is about and I am stunned with happiness and in love with Bellebooks; but then I realized suddenly that though that is the gift, the miracle comes from the feelings brought forth by the gift. Everything lined up just as it was supposed to for this to happen. What I did in the moments and days I did them was exactly what I was supposed to do—and it’s not just a “hindsight is 20-20” moment. It’s as if Santy Claus (or my friend’s Baby Jesus) is twinkling his eye right now, having set into motion the very things needed to bring me right where I am right now. Four days until Christmas. And I am feeling the spirit. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away

Christmas is here,
bringing good cheer,
to young and old,
meek and the bold,
ding dong ding
that is their song
with joyful ring
all caroling…

Funny Women by Barbara Quinn

I spent a few days at an Algonkian Pitch & Shop Conference in New York City. This is an intense four day workshop where participants learn to perfect a pitch for a novel, and then give it to a series of editors. One of the best parts of the experience was being in close contact with a group of very funny women. I love humor, and being around funny women is an uplifting experience. I was with a group of 16. 15 of us were women.

Women love to laugh, love to have a good time. There’s a long tradition of female comics. I always loved Lucy, Carol Burnett, Goldie Hawn, and shows like The Golden Girls, Mary Tyler Moore, and Designing Women. Now we have Tina Fey and 30 Rock, Sarah Silverman and Amy Pohler, and many, many more. I’ve been influenced by funny comediennes since I was a kid. And I strive for that type of humor in my own writing. I learned from these women who had great timing and instincts for getting people to laugh. And I learned at the conference too. The conference was a lot of work, but it was worth the struggle. I came away with a much improved (and funnier) pitch. And soon the manuscript will be on its way to the editors who requested it.

Thank you funny women! Keep on cracking those jokes. Lots of us are listening. And some of us are learning too!

36C - Life in Lingerie

One of my novels is called, 36C. It's the story of a lingerie shop girl's search for the perfect fit.
You can read more about it at:
http://www.diskuspublishing.com/barbaraquinn.html

Here's a short summary:
Tressa Connell dreams of finding the right fellow, of putting her graphics art degree to work, and of traveling to Venice. The reality is that she's stuck in a dead-end job selling lingerie to rail-thin women who prowl the high-end Manhattan boutique where she works. Hounded by a helmet-haired boss, befriended by a troubled Latina makeup artist, and wooed by a Jewish cop, Tressa also dreams she has a giant grandfather clock strapped to her back, a bushel of eggs in her arms, and her mother cracking a Pampers whip over her head.