waiting for spring

Serial Box

/ R.J. Keller / 4 Comments

I’m excited to announce that Readers and Writers Blog will start serializing
Waiting for Spring on
Sunday, May 11.

Readers and Writers Blog was founded by a gentleman by the name of Sid Leavitt, a retired newspaper editor who once worked at the Portland* Press Herald. The site’s official description: “a combination website-weblog that promotes good writing. We give writers a place to publish their nonfiction, fiction or poetry of any length at no cost and give readers a place to comment on that work.” But what it is, really, is a haven for writers and a treasure trove for readers.

Currently posted work includes Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good; Disconnected by J. Cafesin; and Leavitt’s own Adrift in America. Needless to say I’m rather humbled by my own pending inclusion in this company, and would have touted this website even if my novel had not been accepted. The fact that it was makes it all the sweeter. You should check it out now. And, of course, check it out on May 11.

* Maine, not Oregon

Small town misery

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I’m inspired to post this excerpt from chapter 4 of Waiting for Spring after working an afternoon shift at the store yesterday. (I was covering for a girl who was suffering from Morning Afteritis.) This pretty much sums up about 75% of the customers I waited on:

I stood behind a young woman and her son. He was maybe five or six years old. Both of them were dirty. Smelly. Old, ripped clothes. Her groceries: a candy bar, a gallon of milk and a half gallon bottle of Allen’s Coffee Brandy. I clenched my teeth, because I knew. Even though it’s wrong to judge. Even though I’d been judged–unfairly–too many times to count and knew better than to do it to someone else. I judged her anyway.

And I was right.

I’d never had a problem with the concept of State Aid. Food stamps or MaineCare or even welfare. Because sometimes people fall on hard times. Sometimes people work hard and still can’t afford health insurance. Sometimes they roll out of bed one morning and find that their job has been shipped South or East. And that’s when they need a helping hand. A little something to see them through the rough spots. I’d been there myself.

Then there were people like this woman.

She paid cash for the twenty dollar bottle of liquor. Used her food stamp card for the candy bar and the milk. The milk that wasn’t for her son. He wouldn’t drink it with his supper tonight or dip any cookies in it for dessert or pour in onto his breakfast cereal in the morning.

He looked up and gave me a huge smile, and I smiled right back. He had greasy blonde hair and big blue eyes. Probably the kids picked on him at school because his clothes were dirty. Because he smelled. Because his front two teeth were black and rotten. But underneath the dirt he was a beautiful child.

I wondered how much longer it would be before he realized exactly what kind of family he’d been born into. Before he understood that the twenty dollars his mother was using for liquor should have been used instead for soap and shampoo and laundry detergent. Would he grow up resentful? Bitter? Would he rise above it, determined to make a better life for himself? Or would he grow up thinking that it was normal to live that way?

The woman turned back, too, and glared at me. She knew what I was thinking and I didn’t care. I wanted to say something to her. Wanted to tell her to go get some fucking help. Tell her that twenty bucks would buy a bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo and a box of cheap laundry detergent. Or maybe tell her about all the childless couples out there who would gladly take that little boy off her hands and give him a good life. A life that was filled with baths and toothbrushes. With leafy green veggies and cold milk. The kind of milk that was poured over breakfast cereal and not mixed with coffee brandy.

I didn’t, of course, because right now–right now–the boy was at least somewhat content. Living with a mommy who probably loved him at least a little. And he loved her. That much was obvious. Bad days were coming for him. I knew that, too. But right now, to him, today was The Day Mommy Bought Me a Candy Bar. I couldn’t turn it into The Day Mommy Yelled at the Mean Lady in the Grocery Store. So I gave the woman an almost friendly nod, waved goodbye to the boy, and watched them walk away. The little boy was holding his mommy’s hand. Because right now he still loved her.

Art and stuff

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Another Waiting for Spring question. Or rather, two questions:

Are you an artist, like Tess? And what is Van Dyke Brown?

* Do you consider this art? I call it:
Arms Up, Arms Down, Arms Behind Your Back

Seriously…no, I’m not. Like Tess I sometimes struggle to express myself verbally. Instead I have my keyboard. She has her paintbrushes. I did do a great deal of research before I put those brushes in her hand, though. I have a close friend who is an artist (her stick figures are much better than mine), and I peppered her with so many questions that she stopped answering her phone when she saw my name pop up on the Caller ID. Next I read several books and visited lotsa websites to fill in some of the blanks. Finally, I bought a canvas, easel, and a bunch of acrylic paints and brushes and went to work. The result was hideous, and was immediately destroyed (also research; if you’ve read the entire book, you’ll know what I mean), but it did give me a feel for the process. And it gave me one of the biggest headaches of my life. I was kinder to Tess, and let her paint with the windows open.

* Van Dyke Brown: CLICK HERE.

Boa constrictors from the inside.

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments


Today I got an email with a question about my novel, Waiting for Spring:

Anne of Green Gables obviously had a big impact on Tess, and your use of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainence hints at Jason’s struggle to connect with his father (or his father’s memory), but some parts of Waiting for Spring remind me of The Little Prince. Is this the case? And if so was it conscious?

–Lisa, Maine

I read The Little Prince for the first time when I was nine, the second time when I was nineteen, and I’ve read it several times since then. It’s probably obvious that I love the book, but any influence on Waiting For Spring was unconscious…except for this passage from Chapter 3:

And anyone unlucky enough to ask me that fatal question [“what do you do for a living”] without preceding it with at least two others–for example, what books have you read lately or who’s your favorite ballplayer–was answered with:

‘I’m a lumberjack.’

Because any person with a greater interest in what it is I do to earn enough money to afford rent and music and beer and food and jeans–rather than in the fact that I think Bill Lee is the coolest guy ever to climb onto the pitchers mound–deserves to think I spend my days in the woods cutting down trees.

It’s an homage to this, from The Little Prince, chapter 4:

When you tell [grown ups] that you have made a new friend, they never ask you any questions about essential matters. They never say to you, “What does his voice sound like? What games does he love best? Does he collect butterflies?” Instead, they demand, “How old is he? How many brothers has he? How much does he weigh? How much money does his father make?” Only from these figures do they think they have learned anything about him.

I can also say that Tess is a prime example of what happens when a person of artistic temperment grows up surrounded by people who see hats instead of boa constrictors from the outside.

A little aside (and a confession) regarding Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintainence. Originally, I used it as a hats-off to a buddy of mine (who is a frequent visitor of this blog.) He’s been trying to get me to read it for a few years now. So when I needed a cool, quirky book for a minor character to read that would show some hidden depth, that’s the first one that came to mind. It was only later, after perusing ZAMM myself, I caught the father-son angle and decided it would be a good way to show Jason’s internal struggle; thus I had Tess mention that it was one of his favorites.

Writers love feedback!! So do mothers!!

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I have joked in the past about the thousands of emails I receive each week from readers of this blog. Today, though, I speak the truth when I say I’ve gotten four different emails from four separate readers (none of whom are related to me by blood or marriage) in the past week with lots of feedback, and some questions, about Waiting for Spring. I’ll be honest…I’m wicked excited about that.

So far, the most commonly asked questions have to do with the characters; namely whether or not any of them are based on real people. The answer is a resounding NO. I especially want to make it clear, for the record, that Tess’ mother in no way resembles my own mother, who is the very model of a modern supportive Mom. She’s had a copy of a poem I wrote about banana bread hanging on her refrigerator since 1984. Or, to be more precise, she’s had the poem hanging on three consecutive refrigerators since then.

Another common question: Are New Mills, Brookfield, and Westville real towns in Maine? Again, the answer is No. Struggling mill towns are a sad reality up here, so it wasn’t difficult for me to create this fictional world, but Portland and Bangor are the only real places visited or mentioned in my novel.

Finally, a rather touchy subject: Yankee fans. I don’t hate them. I have a very good friend who happens to like…that team. We simply choose not to talk about baseball. This makes for very long and silent summers…

Stay tuned for more Q & A, and feel free to send me any of your feedback and/or questions. You can either email me at rjkeller.wfs@gmail.com or you can put ’em in the comments section of this post. Just one request: As a courtesy to those who are in the middle of the novel, please don’t post anything spoilerific here at the blog. Thanks!

Update on The Quest

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You may remember that a few weeks ago I let y’all know that an agent requested a partial (a two-page synopsis and the first five chapters) of Waiting for Spring, and then the full manuscript. Today the agent’s rejection came in the mail. She said “it’s not commercial enough for my client list.” Still, I’m not giving up hope.

In the meantime…if you haven’t read it yet, give it a try. Tell your friends. Several people who aren’t related to me by blood or marriage have enjoyed it.

[There’s a link to it on my new website as well.]

Hubris + insanity = screenplay

/ R.J. Keller / 2 Comments

From the makers of NaNoWriMo comes Script Frenzy!

Instead of writing 50,000 words of a new novel in a month, the goal is to write 100 pages of a screenplay. I’ve decided to throw my pen into the ring this year in order to bang out a movie adaptation of Waiting for Spring. *

Hubris: because I don’t even have literary representation for the book, let alone any immediate prospects for publication. The idea that I’ll ever need a screenplay is probably pretty remote, and that I’d be asked to write it even remote-er.

Insanity: because I’ve never written a screenplay before.

Sounds like fun to me!

*Speaking of shameless plugs, I’ve got a new website up and running. Still an embryo, but it’s a huge step forward. Much thanks to webmaster Tom Griffin. Check it out if you’ve got a sec.

http://www.rj-keller.com/

One Step Up

/ R.J. Keller / 4 Comments


Last month I got another request from a literary agent who wanted a synopsis and the first five chapters of Waiting for Spring. Last week Agent asked for the full manuscript. That makes three requests for the whole thing in the past month.

I’m trying not to get too excited. Still…I’m cautiously optimistic. Or is it optimistically cautious?

In the meantime, here’s the link–once again–where you can read a few excerpts.

Writing weaknesses

/ R.J. Keller / 3 Comments

Okay, Elle, to use a poor poker metaphor: I see your “dialogue is my weakest point writing-wise” statement and raise you an “action sequences aren’t my strong suit.”

I’m not talking about true action, ie fight scenes, sex scenes and the like. Those are great fun. I mean the boring stuff that happens between point A and point B. For example, during a recent editing session, I struggled for three days to get my girl, Tess, from her apartment to her car. Here is what I imagine was running through her head:

“Okay, Kel, I’ve been standing here for three fucking days. You’ve made my driveway wet and soupy with thick, brown mud to symbolize the shithole my life has become. So please–please–could you just write my fat ass down the stairs so I can get on with it?”

So after three whole days, how did Tess get to her car?

…I threw on my coat and clomped down the stairs…

Because–sometimes–that’s all there is to it.