By L’Tanya Durante

Please hurry!

My mouth waters, my belly growls as I wait for you. I know you won’t disappoint. My spoon gently sliding in a crevice, through the crunchy outer layer that protects your most vulnerable inner spaces. Your thick, chicken-infused pudding squishing between my teeth and gums. Saltiness playing tag with your sweetness. Your tender, flaky soft crust, a scaffolding for chicken, green peas and carrots, milk and butter. . .and memories. 

I remember those times when a whiff of you called the family to the dinner table. A mother who served you in three bowls. A father who kicked off his mortar-encrusted boots before eating. A daughter who sat between them, enveloped in protection and love, who said, “If anything ever happens to either of you, I’ll jump off a building.” You patiently listened to our laughter, our stories, and our fears.

But that was then. Now, I shiver from a life I no longer recognize. 

Hurry up, chicken pot pie. Wrap me like a soft fleece blanket. Remind me of what used to be. Fill me with childhood memories. 

Bare feet wiggling by the fire. 

A black-light poster of a panda whose eyes shone light green in the dark. 

The sound of a needle, fuzzy and crackling as it glides across vinyl. 

A mother. A father. 

Home.

About the Writer:
Over the course of a life that included a marriage that didn’t reflect her values, jobs that didn’t resonate with her interests, and providing care for growing children and an aging adult, L’Tanya Durante thought her voice had disappeared. It hasn’t. L’Tanya writes creative nonfiction and loves reading and writing flash nonfiction. Several of her “Tiny Truths” have been published in Creative Nonfiction Magazine. You can follow her on Twitter @writeordiegirl.

By Anne Pinkerton

Writing is hard. Writing about loss is hard. Writing about family is hard. Writing about the truth of your own psychic pain is hard. I found it even harder figuring out how to package and commodify all that writing.

I thought it should have been easier for me. For nearly two decades, I’ve worked in marketing communications, so I’m experienced at writing to promote other people along with their businesses and offerings. Awareness building, calls to action, and selling are my bread and butter. Except when it comes to myself.

After years of doubting whether my story was even worthy of committing to paper, much less of actual value to anyone else, my MFA classmates and professors, followed by readers of my short publications, bolstered my confidence with lots of positive feedback. As focus groups of sorts, they were encouraging. So, when my thesis-turned-manuscript was close to a full draft, I realized how much I wanted to be able to put a real book out into the world.

The manuscript focuses on my beloved brother’s sudden death and my search for answers about how he died, who he was, and how I would live without him—sad, personal, and vulnerable stuff. Twelve years older than me, David was a successful radiologist, elite athlete, and generous, funny, handsome, loveable guy. Growing up, he had changed my diapers, taught me how to ride a bike, and made up hilarious stories to put me to bed. He seemed infinitely kind and heroically strong. Yet, during a solo hiking excursion, David made an unknown mistake and simply fell.

I illustrate the difficult and messy process of working through my grief alone, with family, with my husband, with my friends, with David’s friends, in a bereavement group, in therapy, and by researching and reading obsessively. I confess to not knowing David as well as I’d imagined. I pour my pain out onto the page.

Now, in order to sell the book, I had to sell it. I had to hold it unemotionally at arm’s length, scrutinize and summarize it, compare it to other works, and argue why it deserved not just to be read, but represented and sold. It felt as if I was exploiting myself. I was equal parts terrified and bored stiff by the idea of writing a book proposal—a necessary step toward publication—so over and over, for months and months, I put it off.

Thankfully, through my MFA, I’d made a connection with the brilliant and generous author Suzanne Strempek Shea, who offered a workshop on the process of book proposals and submissions, as if in perfect response to my near-paralyzing dread. A gifted teacher and widely published author, Suzanne is the best cheerleader any writer could want, and she’s great at pushing people to do their best, so I signed up.

Suzanne patiently walked me through how to condense a sixty-thousand-word tale into a ten-page overview, to brag about myself in my biography, to research comparative titles by best-selling authors and somehow, how to put my name in the same document as theirs. My proposal now includes loose comparisons to both Joan Didion and Jon Krakauer, and I’m almost at peace with it.

Sharing examples of several real proposals that sold books, Suzanne threw open the curtain, revealing all kinds of surprising tricks that she encouraged me to employ, including the use of pop culture examples to support the belief that, once published, my book would have an audience. Thanks to her, I now mention successful adventure films, podcasts about grief, and online platforms dealing with loss and outdoor sports, things I never would have considered without her guidance.

And—understanding the changing market as she does—Suzanne ensured that I thoroughly expressed my willingness to hustle for my own sales by describing the numerous websites, social media channels, email lists, literary events, bookstores, and more that I would use to spread the word, along with the op-eds I would write, colleges I would contact, and organizations I would partner with. Even though I had to pretend my future book was already in the hands of a book group who wanted me to appear for a gathering via Skype, I learned to play along. 

Trudging through the chapter summaries section illuminated where there were holes in my story that needed plugging and areas that needed rearranging. That exercise led me to another revision of the manuscript, an exhausting, but vital, chore.

Though I doubt it was exactly her intention, I started to see my project reaching fruition by going through the process, week by week. Through the workshops, not only did the marketing document—the proposal itself—take shape, but, so too did my belief that I could actually land a book deal someday.

I’m finally pitching literary agents now. It’s scary and humbling work, but I have all the proper weapons in my arsenal: a query letter, a proposal, sample chapters, and a full manuscript that I can piece together and pull apart as needed, not to mention a fake-it-til-you-make-it confidence. It’s still hard to think about the story of losing my big brother as a product I want to sell, so I try to focus on how my book could make someone else feel better after suffering a loss. Promoting comfort is something I can work with.

About the Writer:
Anne Pinkerton studied poetry as an undergrad at Hampshire College and received her MFA in creative nonfiction writing from Bay Path University. Her writing has appeared in Hippocampus Magazine, Ars Medica, and Modern Loss, among others. Her blog is truescrawl.com.

By Rita Ciresi

My first icicles came out of a box marked Brite Star.  My sisters and I draped the crinkly silver tinsel over the branches of our artificial Christmas tree, all the while singing, “O Tannenbaum, O Tannenbaum, thy leaves are so unchanging.”

Later in December, real icicles hung from the gutters, shiny crystals against the cold blue Connecticut sky.  We snapped the icicles off the porch overhang, cradled them between our wet woolen mittens, and sucked them like Popsicles. 

I grew up and moved to places where winter always was described as “brutal.” Glistening tree branches bent under the weight of frozen water.  Houses were coated like cupcakes in icy frosting. 

I no longer snapped the ice off overhangs and raised it to my mouth as if it were a delicious summer treat.  Instead, I cursed the ice as I slipped and slid down the treacherous driveway to pour boiling water down the side of my car, because the doors were frozen shut once again. 

Now I live in Florida and the only ice I deal with comes in bags stuffed in my freezer as preparation for another hurricane.  When the power thunks off during a storm, the bags become yet another soggy, sloppy mess I have to mop up. 

At Christmastime, I walk through our neighborhood at nine o’clock at night— when it’s still close to 90 degrees—to see the holiday decorations.  I ooh and ah at the icicle lights our neighbors have hung from their roofs and eaves.  I’ve moved to the Sunshine State to get away from snow and ice—so why do I still long for the brilliant white of my childhood winters?

About the Writer:
Rita Ciresi is author of the novels Bring Back My Body to Me, Pink Slip, Blue Italian, and Remind Me Again Why I Married You, and four award-winning story collections, Female Education, Second Wife, Sometimes I Dream in Italian, and Mother Rocket. She is a professor of English at the University of South Florida, a faculty mentor for the Bay Path MFA program, and fiction editor of 2 Bridges Review. Her website is www.ritaciresi.com.