Well, I'm moving along trying to position myself for the release of my book.  My editor still has it and says she likes it very much.  We will see if I drown in the red ink 😀

So in the hopes that "She's Not You" will be released in a month? six weeks? I've set up a new website... simple clear and hopefully easy to use.  Please visit it at:   https://judigetchbrodman.wordpress.com/ or use the link listed on the right side, "Judi's web site."

Let me know what you think!
Till,
Judi

Working with the editor....

Judi's book cover by Solstice Publishing

My blog is almost four years old; I started in June 2014 under "A writer's dream..."  Some time in 2016, I was locked out of that blog... don't ask please, and I continued with this one.  When I first wrote, I was writing, editing and rewriting the very same manuscript that was just picked up by a publisher.  So it took me 3 1/2 years to produce a saleable story - even after I thought it was done!  And you followed me through my steps... writers groups, courses, more of the writers group and more workshops.  Each and every one of these steps brought this manuscript closer and closer to being a story that a publisher would be interested in.  And the work I did last winter with Heidi pushed me over the finish line.  YEA!!

This week I received an email from the publisher saying, "You are about to embark on a journey that few people go on. From final draft to completed book."  It struck me then how lucky I was.  And as my family said, "Part of it was luck, but most of it was your hard work and your terrific writing."  

This email also introduced me to my editor.  We've emailed and she seems to be pretty reasonable... I'll make the final judgement when I see her edits this week.  She and the publisher have said that the changes are mine to make so the story will maintain my voice.  And as a writer, that's pretty important.  We each have our voice, our way of saying things... as do our characters.  

I'm hoping this editing process goes quickly - I'm so excited and want the book out there.  I have been talking to another local writer who has published four books.  His main guidance is that I be true to myself, that I remember that it's my book and my story.

I'll continue to keep you up-to-date as I move along.

My muse is calling... :-) 

Till, Judi


#WorldBookDay

Truly random thoughts along the beach...

© photo by Judi Getch

I know as a writer, I'm suppose to collect random thoughts and write them down... I'm not always good about capturing them, but today, I needed to write and share them.  So here are my thoughts for today.

Every time I walk along the beach my mind flashes back to my time in the Marshall Islands.  Don't ask me why because I can't give you a good reason.  It could be the beach, but the beaches down there are covered with poisonous stone fish.  I could never tell what was a real rock or a stone fish hiding, so I'd always walk the beaches wearing shoes.  Maybe it's the sunrises and sunsets, tropical and vivid... .   I remember those so well.  I had to be up early to catch my flight to work, but first had to walk to the Officers Club for breakfast just as the sun rose.  Or maybe it's the feel of the humid air on my hair and skin.   I have naturally curly hair and the humidity wreaks havoc with it - still.  I have to smile... those were great days.  We worked long hours but on our days off, a gang of us would reserve a boat and take off.  There was no fee... just go.  Swimming was difficult off the boat because of the GIANT men of war.   The guys of course never cared, but then the next day at work, they suffered with the huge welts that the men had left on their backs as they floated by.  For some reason, the smell and sounds of the ocean bring me back to Kwajalein.  I guess maybe I should write an entire blog on my time in the Pacific... I'm so glad that I took those opportunities to travel when they were offered.

Then as I continued along, I met a lady who identified with my Tee... Wellfleet of course.   She had spent her childhood summers in Truro, the next town north of Wellfleet, at a rented cottage on Ballston Beach.  The cottage was taken during one of the large Nor'easters to hit that area.    I had spent probably those same years as a kid in Wellfleet.  We talked about how much fun it had been to be a kid down there... the swimming every day, the family around, cookouts on the beach... those summers felt like they went on forever.  I could see the happiness on her face as she remembered her days spent there with family.  Her Dad had died early as mine had.  We had much in common.

I finally sat down on the beach to sip my coffee.  I had sat in this very spot ten years ago with my long time girlfriend - we had met on our first day of work in the Human Resources office.  We always laughed about that day because she thought that I must have been a secretary or Administrator because of the way I was dressed and how I looked... I certainly couldn't be an engineer like her.  She had come to visit me at the beach... she loved the ocean like I did.  We sat in the sand talking about everything... boyfriends, husbands, weddings, work.  .  The only thing that we didn't talk about was her dying... it was like the scene in the movie Beaches (Forever Friends) - the two friends sitting on the beach at sunset.  I cherish those days spent with her... we went through much after that, chemo and more chemo, but the ending was the same.   .

This is why writer's keep a journal... to catch these random thoughts.  These were mine today... along the beach.

Till,
Judi

A Father's Belated Gift...

After I wrote the blog entry yesterday, I found the airport piece that I had referred to.  I wrote this story years ago, capturing what I personally felt.  Here's a bit of it...

"People milled around, waiting to board a flight leaving for Los Angeles from my sister's arrival gate.  One group stood right in front of me, an older man saying goodbye to his daughter and her family.  I tried not to eavesdrop, but something in their body language drew me to their conversation. 

 “I’ll miss you Dad.”

“I’ll miss you too, my darling.”  He hugged his daughter tightly, closing his eyes.  He pulled back and touched her shoulder length brown hair. 

 “I really wish you would think about flying out to see us this summer.  It’s not a long trip.  You can stay a month or longer if you like.”

“I’ll think about it.”  Her father smiled a placating smile that only a parent can pull off.  I had seen that look on my own father’s face.

“Think about it, please.  We are hoping to come back for the holidays,” she added, trying to make him feel better.

“That will be wonderful.”  The sadness in his words said it all.  For him, being alone, it was a long time from May to the Christmas holidays.

An announcement to board their plane interrupted the conversation.

“Oh Dad, I hate to leave you.  Please fly out and visit us.” She hugged him, tears filling her eyes.

“I’ll think about it, my dear.  Don’t worry about me, I’m fine,” he whispered, the grief of her leaving etched in his lined face.

“We have to go.”  She kissed him, touched his cheek, and then, grabbed the hands of the children while her husband embraced the older man.  Seconds later, the family ran down the passage way, waving back to where he stood.  They were gone, the door closed, and he and I were there alone, in what felt like a total vacuum.  The life and vitality that filled the room only moments before had been sucked out.  Even I felt it.

The plane taxied away from the door.   He stood in front of the large plate glass window.  I sat behind him.  He watched for his daughter’s plane to take off; I waited for my sister’s plane to arrive, both lost in our own thoughts.

A few minutes later, the huge LA bound airplane lifted off the runway in front of us.  He knew it was her airplane.  Without thinking, he reached up his hand and touched the aircraft through the glass as the plane fought its way up, higher and higher - a final contact, the final embrace with a child as she flew away. 

In that one moment, the poignant tableau of a father trying to connect with his daughter one last time touched me so that even though he had been in my presence for all of ten minutes, his words and actions stayed with me to this day.  I often wonder if his daughter knew how much her father loved her and missed her as soon as she was out of his sight.  Did she know how much her leaving hurt him, how he couldn’t let her go, yet did?

The sorrow of the loss of my own father surfaced.  I have learned over time to keep the sadness of living without my Dad locked away.  Yet, this day, this father and daughter interchange unlocked it all.  I yearned for one last goodbye moment, like the one I had witnessed.  I hadn’t had that.  One minute he was there – the next minute he was gone. 

I wanted him to see me like this father saw his daughter, a grown woman with children of her own.  I craved to see the love on this stranger’s face for his daughter on my father’s face for me as he touched my face and hair – once more.  I wished for things I couldn’t have."

I don't think that I can add much to this... till,

Judi

Novel still coming along!!

My novel is going through the process... still some time before it's to be published.  I'm in the queue waiting for an editor to be assigned.  Once I have an editor to work with, it should go quickly.  I'm still thrilled to be moving from "writer to author" as an article by Joni Cole states in  'The Writer' magazine .  It is exciting, yet a bit overwhelming.  Since this is my debut novel, I can't wait for it to be published.  And time seems to have slowed down, which normally I would appreciate, but now... not so much. :-)

Speaking of 'The Writer' magazine, there was another interesting article in the July 2017 issue (yes, I'm a bit behind in my reading) titled "This Week on Extreme Hoarders: Dr. Victor Frankenstein" by Susan Perabo.  She talks about how, when she was in college, she was writing and writing until her professor finally said, "I think you are about done with this material."  She didn't understand until he said, "I think you should write another story."  What he meant was that she was telling her story over and over again.  She states that she felt free, it was her "Get out of Jail" free card until it dawned on her, where was this new material going to come from?   She said she had gotten very good at imagining herself in different situations, but someone new?  Haven't we all been there?  You know yourself, your feelings, your life, situations you've been in, places you've visited, people you've met... good and bad, that have made you happy or sad.  But it was always you as the character.  Now he wants you to build someone else.  How??

Susan recommends that you build an extreme hoarder house filled with stored experiences, people you've seen, etc. and begin to build your character, "your character who is not anyone, until you make him someone."   She recommends you sit quietly, close your eyes and go into your "extreme hoarder" house and see what's there... she made me remember an older man I saw at the airport who was seeing his daughter and her family off.  They were going back to CA and he was on the east coast.  He was so brave until they boarded their flight.  He stood watching for their flight to take off and then, there it was... rumbling down the runway, lifting up , up.  His hand traced that plane along the window like he was trying to touch them as they left... it happened years ago, but that scene stayed with me and still hurts my heart.  What was their story?  His story?  That's what she was talking about... a woman sitting on a bench, crying... why?  You build her story, what she feels, what she had been through, look around your life and your hoarder house and find other things you have seen... different from you.  Look for baggage she says, just not your baggage.  It's hard, I know, since we are always told to write about what you know, but that can be the location, etc, but the character has to be anyone but you.  He or she has to be complete, she says, when the character emerges from the house.  And then, she drives the story... let her go.  You follow her as she starts doing her thing.  Follow her and let her tell the story in the first draft.  Susan says, at this point you, the writer, never ask what she calls "workshoppy" questions... like, "what am I trying to say."  You are not telling the story, your character is.

I thought that Susan's article was intriguing.  Follow her advice and see where your character takes you!

Will be back when I have more news about my novel or something new to discuss.  In the meantime, I'm working on three other manuscripts - and doing many other things.  Never a dull moment for me.

Keep writing,
Till,
Judi

Publication of my novel is coming along...

Cover for "She's Not You" novel

Well, the front cover is finished.  I don't have a release date yet, but here's a peek at the back cover blurb:

"A small, isolated fishing village on the tip of Cape Cod, a place where the town’s jail has one cell with a broken lock and the police force consists of the chief and two deputies, seems an unlikely spot for dead women to be washing ashore. And yet, so far this summer, two bodies have been discovered on the morning tide, both resembling each other and Jamie Janson.

Jamie returns to Oyster Point to clean out and sell her grandaunt Pita’s Cape Cod cottage, a place filled with family memories—when there had been a family. Her homecoming is marred by the discovery of a woman’s body during her morning run along the beach. Huddled around the seaweed encrusted form is a group of men, including Oyster Point’s Chief of Police, Jack Hereford. Is their meeting destiny, chance, or orchestrated by Pita? Jack soon realizes that Jamie’s emotional fragility belies her inner strength and courage—unspoken qualities by Pita when she asked him to watch over Jamie. That deathbed promise will turn out to be the toughest part of his job and maybe the best part of his life.

As Jamie settles into her life on the Cape, an unknown male with camera in hand shadows her everywhere—on the beach, around her cottage, even at Jack’s sister’s house. With her life spinning out of control, Jamie’s visions resume, dreams she hasn’t had since her parents were killed when she was sixteen. Making a vow to confront the stalker and keep him from forcing her to live in fear, she and Jack devise a plan to entice the suspected stalker out into the open. The scheme backfires and Jamie’s gone…"

You'll be holding your breath as you follow this adventure to the end.

I love the way that Jamie and Jack play off of each other using their very different skill sets and backgrounds.  Will they have more 'cold case' solving escapades together... you bet.   

As soon as I have a release date, I'll let you know.

Till,
Judi

A Christmas memory... again

Please enjoy a reprint of my Christmas story... my elf still watches over me :-)  Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays to all!

Till,
Judi

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Many years ago, the Christmas season couldn't come fast enough for one little girl.  When she and her Dad arrived at the local church lot to pick out a tree, that's when it began.  It was always a glorious day... the trees stood straight on their own or leaned on wooden saw horses.  Some towered over her, some she could pat on the top, some she could reach around and others, well, they were three times as round as she was.  Bright lights twinkled everywhere and Christmas music blared through scarred old speakers at the entrance to the lot.  If she were lucky, she might even catch a snow flake or two on her tongue.

She roamed the makeshift trails through the forest of Christmas trees, singing and twirling.  Finally, she stopped.  Yup, this was definitely the one.  She stared up at her father and pointed a hand knitted mitten toward the oh too tall tree.  Her father smiled and said, "A bit too tall?"  She shook her head, he paid the man and off they drove with the prize tree tied to the roof of the car.

A week before Christmas, the tree stand, lights and decorations made their way down from the attic in the usual parade - bags and boxes of ornaments, the satchel of lights and the new boxes of tinsel and angel hair.  Dad brought the tree into the living room after he had secretly trimmed branches off the top and sawed off a bit from the bottom.  "To allow the tree to drink," he would say.  The rest of the day would be filled with laughter, singing, hot chocolate, and hanging silver tinsel on the tree and on her sisters' heads.  The tinsel hung from their hair like silver braids making them laugh even harder.  Once the ornaments had lovingly been placed in their usual spots on the tree, Mother would stretch angel hair from limb to limb.  Then Father would plug in the lights and everyone "oohed and ahhed" and the season began.

The day after the tree was decorated, a group of small elves arrived, one for each of the three girls.  They sat on a cloud of angel hair on top of the television observing the behavior of all throughout the Christmas season.  The little girl couldn't touch her elf or he would lose his magic, her mother told her.  And so, each morning she would check that he was still there, watching. 

When she crept down the old creaky stairs on Christmas morning, he had disappeared.   Mama said, "After Santa places all the gifts under the tree, he takes the elves back to the North Pole on his sleigh." 

As years went by, the little girl grew up and lost touch with her elf.  Christmases went by and she never saw him or even thought about him.  And then, one magical Christmas, many years later after her parents had died, she hung an old wreath in her window, the one that had hung on the front door when she was a child.  As she opened the box of ornaments that had been moved from her childhood home's attic, she saw a flash.   She looked up and there, in all his glory, sat her elf on a copper wind twister in front of the ancient wreath.  She laughed and cried at the same time.  He hadn't forgotten about her even though she had left him behind. 

And so, her elf returns each Christmas season to help the little girl, now a grown woman with a family and home of her own, make new memories and new traditions.  But he reminds her constantly of the child who once chose the tree with her Dad and who laughed, sang and drank hot chocolate as she decorated the tree with her Mother and sisters - he brings back all of her childhood holiday memories.   

May this season bring you peace, new memories and a return of the excitement that you felt as a child during this time of year.

Till,
Judi