bvk writes

 I’ve been reading for a very long time. Trips to the library with the book bag sewn by my mother filled with the maximum number allowed, I walked to and from the Brock Corydon Library buzzing with anticipation. On the way there, scanning shelves in my mind and on the way back, deciding what to read first. My reading at an early age was mostly the monthly Highlights Magazine and Enid Blyton mysteries. Any mystery, really – there was Trixi Beldon, Nancy Drew, The Hardy Boys. These books pulled me into worlds much different from my own. I never stumbled upon a mystery to be solved, though how I longed for it.

    

The gap between my reality and those thrilling reads was bridged when I discovered Harriet the Spy. Here was a character that resonated with me so soundly, that I reread that book at least six times and      still flip through it to this day. I started playing Town and writing things in a scribbler. This book taught me that my imagination would always keep me company.

When my interests veered towards the lives of writers, reading their biographies, I found an unexpected connection there. Maybe, I could write. My first attempts were terrible. I read through my stories and couldn’t figure out what was wrong with them. I went back to reading, studied for a career and became a working adult.

But the seed had been sown. I wanted to write. At the first opportunity, I took a class. I took two classes. I started submitting short fiction to literary magazines and have an envelope filled with rejection letters to prove it. One day, the unimaginable happened. Descant Magazine (sadly no more) accepted a story of mine. Define euphoria!

I kept at it. Descant accepted two more of my submissions. I started a novel. Finished it. Rewrote it about ten times. Sent it out. Filled another envelope with rejection letters. Until one day, a publisher asked to see the whole manuscript. I zoomed through it once more, not wanting to take too long to send it. Their response was humbling but encouraging. It was not ready. The manuscript needed a lot of revision. If I was willing to work on it, they would consider publishing. I had spent so long on it already and thought I was done. However, what else would I be doing? There was no point in not working on it, so I buckled down and rewrote. Blue Becomes You went on to be nominated for a Best First Novel Award sponsored by Amazon Canada. More chills and thrills!

I wrote two more novels with Great Plains Publishing:

 

Then I wrote two more that I have been unable to place with a publisher. One of these, I made available on Kindle Direct Publishing. I pulled it and have reworked it and am about the relaunch under a new title. The other I am still waiting to hear. Those first three novels landed in bookstores and had their turn of a few weeks in the spotlight and then faded away. This happens. It is not unexpected. 

Readers’ appetites have changed, publishers bottom lines have moved. Risk is no longer worth it. Self-publishing is exploding. I am sitting on two homeless novels. No more letters to stuff into my envelope. Just unanswered queries. After a year or so, I can safely guess it’s a no.

                                                    Holding a finished draft brings great joy!

I’ll probably place the fifth novel with Kindle Direct as well. The sixth novel is underway and the seventh is percolating in my brain. Writers write. bvk writes.

 bvk reads                                                                  bvk writes