Something I've Neglected to Blog About

My first novel, The Suitcase, was published in early October, 2020. That was during a difficult time of my life, which I already blogged about. Anyone can read about that in a past blog on this blog site. Only 100 people got notice that I published my book under the pen name I use for fiction, Alicia Tycho. The Suitcase was published by Amazon. Finding my The Suitcase is impossible if you don't look for a book by Alicia Tycho. I own the copyright by my legal name, Alice H. Dunn, but you can't find the book under my legal name, only under the name Alicia Tycho.

Why did I choose to use a pen name, anyway? Well, I've always considered my name rather commonplace, and my husband advised me to use a pen name to steer readers I know away from seeing themselves as the model for a character or a problem in the plot one they have lived through. Besides, he considered "Alicia Tycho" an attractive, catchy name for a writer. Besides, I didn't want to have to create a persona and separate copyright for my alter ego, even though anyone who pays attention to the copyright page can easily make the connection.

Looking for my book by it's title is also futile. If I publish another book through Amazon, I will search their library for any titles I might be thinking of using. I was flabbergasted to see how many books Amazon sells named "The Suitcase." Mine had the working title "Wheeling a Suitcase Coast to Coast." I still prefer it, but my beta readers said it was too long or it gave away too much. For a while, I thought to use just "Wheeling a Suitcase," but I didn't want to mislead prospective readers into thinking they would get a story about passing through many airports. My ultimate choice seemed fine, and I guess it was, judging by its popularity, but it turned out to be just another complicating factor for prospective purchasers of my book.

In my previous blog, posted last November, I mentioned that I had never missed a month so far receiving a small royalty. "Small" is the key word, but "never missed a month" still applies. I can brag that the book will have its third book club review (that I've heard about) in May. I am relieved to know that the royalties seem to be slowly getting larger each month, too, although they have a long way to go before "small" no longer applies. With my tongue in my cheek, I can brag that my Amazon 1099, which recently arrived for filing my taxes, shows that in 2021 I earned almost enough to pay for the ink and paper I used for printing its copies. Considering that by far the most copies were via computer from version to version and from my computer to beta readers and Amazon's computers, I didn't use a lot of paper or ink.

My next novel, Il Prato, (actually the first novel I wrote) is currently in my third edit. I expect this edit to cut it to 100,000 words or thereabouts. I'm in the process of finding a professional editor, a nicety I skipped with The Suitcase. I hope this will reduce the 125 +/- errors one of my readers counted in The Suitcase to zero in Il Prato--or very nearly zero at worst. Have you ever read a book that contained zero errors? I'm more tolerant of other's errors now that I know from experience how difficult to achieve perfection is. 

I hope to have Il Prato accepted by what I've come to call a "legitimate" publisher. That will avoid the tedious job of formatting it for Amazon. Also, should I find it necessary to publish with Amazon again, you can be sure I'll check the title for duplicates before I submit it.

Update Following a Long Silence

     Twenty-two months have passed since I last contributed to this blog. I lived in Pocatello, Idaho then. Now I live in Salt Lake City Utah, Let me catch you up, and you will understand why. 

    During the Spring and early Summer of 2020, I worked hard every day editing a novel I wrote rather quickly, stimulated by seeing a man wearing a back pack and pulling a suitcase as he strode along old US-30, now a frontage road paralleling I-80 in Western Wyoming. There was no town, not even a house, let alone any old, broken-down cabin in sight, nothing but scrubby, scanty sage brush on flat land except for the tail-end of a small mountain range, which both we and he would soon pass into more of the same flat countryside. Then and for weeks following, the same question played continuously in my mind: Why would anyone be walking pulling a suitcase in such a place? The question festered until I succumbed, and I began writing about a disabled man who walked for therapy before setting off on a walk across the United States to a destination on the opposite coast.

    At the start, I was in the throes of editing a serious novel I had worked on for several years. It could rest a while longer, but the walking man could not. There was a great deal of research to be done and writing to churn out. Then, impatient to have a novel published, I decided to send this new, less serious work off to Amazon and see how it went. This meant I had to learn how to format my work, first for a Kindle edition, then differently for a paperback book. Many decisions were required, such as how much it would cost one of my friends to buy my book.

    Meanwhile, my husband Wendell's health was deteriorating, one problem after another. In one way, this gave me more time to write and edit, as he didn't want to go anywhere or do much and began sleeping a lot. Also, we were not leaving our property because of the Covid-19 pandemic. A kind nephew was seeing to that. He bought our groceries and did anything we needed that would have taken us into proximity with Covid. But with problems piling up, Wendell began losing weight because of a swallowing problem. As his caregiver, I kept busy finding food he could get down other than bread and milk with peanut butter, his favorite emergency supper. I worried about how to otherwise best care for him. Through all this, in late July I was able to submit my manuscript for the Kindle version of my book, now titled The Suitcase, off to Amazon a few days before the deadline and begin work on formatting for the paperback, deadline 1 October. I considered that a piece of cake with two months to complete the work.

However, I couldn't find a pre-made cover for my book. All the available choices seemed to portray violence or sex. This book was neither. I sketched out what I envisioned, went to the grocery store, and bought a plastic water color kit with 8 colors and a brush, the same kind we each purchased in my seventh grade class when the teacher decided to teach us something about water color art. I also bought a tablet of drawing paper because the store had no art paper. After I completed the cover, I was up a creek because I didn't have the advanced apps of the program I needed to send the cover to Amazon. A grand-niece who uses that program in her work rescued me. I couldn't believe she did it in little more than fifteen minutes! As published, my artwork looks pretty washed out, but it suits the novel, maybe in more ways than I would like.

    Mid-August, came. Just walking through the living room, Wendell took the tumble he had long feared. He forgot his cane, fell, and could not get up, although he tried heroically. I tried to help him, but I'm very small, and getting him up was a futile effort, so I turned to my neighbors, one of them enlisting the other, who was a recently retired EMT. They got Wendell into a chair. That's when the EMT discovered his knee had swollen to the size of a soccer ball and was quickly turning black. "Call the ambulance, Alice. He must get to the hospital."

    Hospital stay, blistering of the knee because of internal bleeding, draining of the blister, release to home and home health, infection, hospital stay, release to rehab with no visitors except me, and that through the window because of Covid, another fall, another hospital stay, and after many weeks, at lat sent home, only to slip away the next day, 25 September 2020. At least all of our six children got to say goodbye, and we buried him with a small, commendable funeral they planned and carried out in spite of the restraints of Covid.

    Then they all went home. So, what happens to their grieving Mother? I work like fury formatting my paperback version and submit it before the deadline. The Suitcase becomes available on Amazon 6 October 2020, two days before the release date. It hasn't been a best seller, but I've received a small royalty every month since. For reasons I don't know, the Kindle version was on the site but never available for purchase. The book was on its own. Amazon prints and sells these author submitted books, but they do not advertise them. That is up to the author. I had no opportunity to do more than send an email to the 100 people I had previously listed.

    Once the novel was off my plate, my situation became clear: What can I do with a large yard and thirteen-room house to care for alone? I'd been doing as much as I could during Wendell's decline with hired help, but how could I continue to afford that? Should I continue to rely on my husband's nephew to see to my needs? On kind neighbors to bail me out when things got bad? No. We have six grown, successful children. They felt their responsibility. Three of them live in somewhat close proximity in the Salt Lake City vicinity. I decide to sell our home, the first new house we ever owned, where we had lived for almost twenty-eight years after nine previous residences, and move to Utah and rely on those three. With their help, I spent the rest of October house-hunting and bought a large apartment in a condominium on 29 October 2020.

    On the way back to Pocatello, my son, who was driving me, noticed something not right with me. Instead of home, he took me to immediate care, where I was tested and found to have Covid. Twenty-two days followed flat in bed not caring whether I lived or died with each of two daughters taking leave from their jobs to fly in and nurse me for two weeks each. The same son, recovered from his mild case of Covid, cared for me for a fifth week before I was finally back on my feet and able to put my Pocatello home up for sale. Blessings came in the form of a hot market, and it sold over Thanksgiving weekend. I was able to pay for the Utah condo and became a Utah resident just before Christmas. 

(Incidentally, my other son was probably exposed to Covid by the same Covid victim who exposed me, and although not so ill as I, he was more ill than the first son, who no doubt caught it from me. With gowning up, masking and shielding, wearing rubber gloves, and following extremely careful sanitation protocols, my daughters did not become infected.)

    I will probably never be as strong and healthy as I was before Covid, but I am able to live alone, write, and could enjoy my Ninetieth birthday at a party hosted by the Utah contingent of the Dunn family with a few more nearby relatives and new friends from the condominium celebrating with us in the fresh air of its patio. One of these days, the editing of my first novel will be complete. Let's hope that with what I learned about cutting the length of a novel to reasonable word count while editing The Suitcase, I'll be able to sell this first novel to what I have come to joking call a "legitimate" book publisher. One hundred thousand words or less is difficult to achieve for a "wordy" soul like this old woman, but I know more folks will buy and read it if I do.

    

Wedding Anniversaries

Today is my parents' 94th wedding anniversary. Of course they haven't lived to see this many years of wedded bliss, but they did celebrate 73. This reminded me of the huge celebration we had for our 70th last September. I put on a dinner for my parents' 70th and invited all their living siblings and their spouses. Everyone had a wonderful time. It didn't compare with our 70th. The last Sunday of August, we were ushered into the social hall after church. What a surprise! Everyone had stayed and brought food. We were seated beside a table with photos from our wedding day, balloons, a "Congratulations" banner, a gorgeous bouquet (It lasted 20 days!), and a decorated cake with a gold "70" popsicle stuck in it. Everyone else served themselves, but plates of food were brought to us, which we ate while the others circulated and greeted us, many giving us cards as well. We were barely over that when our son-in-law Bill arrived in his coach with his prospective son-in-law on board to wait on us while Bill drove us in great comfort and convenience to Spokane for the wedding--and another celebration of our 70th wedding anniversary. The wedding was in the back yard (several acres) of their home at the base of Mt. Spokane. It was everything our granddaughter wanted. Down the center was a chapel of white dressed chairs tied with burgundy sashes. At the front, a large arch was bedecked with flowers where the couple took their vows. Her father walked her down the aisle wearing a full Scottish kilt, which he wore all evening. The bride and groom, however, hurried out of their beautiful wedding regalia as soon as pictures were taken so they could enjoy the celebration. There were two tents, one for a movie, the other for food. A food truck stood nearby. Giant size games were scattered all about. Tables provided places for the large crowd to eat. Part of the crowd was there from near and far to honor us, for the bride chose to be married on our 70th anniversary! Friends came from near and far to honor us as well as the bride. Such fun!

Idaho Magazine Article Published

Idaho Magazine published my story "Idaho Icons" in the January 2020 issue. It was about both icons people create with their hands and icons they make out of natural phenomena. My first reaction upon seeing the article in print was pure elation. It looks so-o-o good. After I came off cloud nine, reality struck. My emphasis was on what becomes iconic to people, but what was published became mostly how I feel about nature's icons illustrated mostly with stock photos. There were two reasons for the alterations: (1) The editor asked me to make it more personal, even suggesting (thank you) places in the text where I should do so. (2) The layout editor used only one of my photos and added added seven photos from his own stock. Most of them (lava tube, lava flow, City of Rocks, Fort Hall Replica interior were wonderful. They made my story a big spread, much more important looking than it otherwise would have been. And he did use my "Lady on the Mountain photo, but without credit to my son Sam, who was the photographer, and no pictures of man-made icons. Also, the photo of Bear Lake barely showed any water, and his photo of the Soda Springs geyser was not of that geyser! I think it is one from Yellowstone Park. I am, however, grateful for the space they gave my story and how impressive it looks. I hope I will be able to remember to take and send more photos next time and make sure they are excellent illustrations of my topic. Obviously, the will pick and choose.

Getting Brave Enough to Publish

My novel Wheeling a Suitcase Coast-to-Coast is close to publication at last, but I am considering a shorter title. Perhaps just Suitcase or maybe The suitcase. It feels good to be this close to the end and ready to begin the big edits on the novel I finished first. I'm more confident about its title. It takes a hard look at one's work to let go of the

darlings

to whittle the verbiage out. Bravery is what I need to put my work out there for strangers to read--obviously. I don't even post on my own blog very often for fear of how possible readers will judge my writings. I'll post again when my book is available on the market.

It's about time I wrote about my writing. As a long-time member of Idaho Writer's League, I enter the contests that organization conducts annually. Since being a member, I have entered and won prizes every year except the year I was a receiver, which disqualified me from entering. I don't consider humor my forte, but one year I was runner-up for the humor award for a silly poem on the assigned title, "The Woman in the Orange Coat." I just thought the tittle was silly, which seems to have stimulated what little humor I am blessed with. This year I won three prizes, one for an article, one for light verse, and one for serious verse. I've done better other years. My first published poem was in a high school anthology,Young America Sings, collected from high schools in eight states of the Intermountain West by National High School Poetry Association. What I learned in the class for which I wrote that poem is the only formal training I have received in writing poetry. Still, I have written poems throughout my life. Sometimes it was doggerel for a poster. Maybe much of the rest wasn't much better, but I often wrote a poem to express a deep-felt emotion. I enjoy the poetry of Christina Rossetti, William Blake, Robert Service, Robert Frost,and Emily Dickinson, have puzzled over Wallace Stevens until ultimately appreciating at least his "Emperor of Ice Cream," while wondering why anyone can be bothered with reading Alexander Pope's "Rape of the Lock"--so many words about something so ludicrous. Since I've belonged to IWL, I have used poetry as a way to experiment with language and found it a good way to find colorful words to brighten up my prose. Having my poetry judged has helped me learn more about writing it, but I would love to study with a good poet for a semester or so. Reading books about writing leaves it all up to my limited understanding. Day-to-day critique would surely help me more. Over the years I have collected a fat packet of rejection letters from publishers to whom I have submitted my work. Nowadays I flirt with the idea of self-publishing. Is it any different than the vanity publishing of the past in any way other than less costly? I did get a poem published in one of those anthologies that make money off all us amateurs by selling us the huge, hard-bound book, and I actually received a cute little red heart charm for my poem from Shoe Woman. I am reasonably successful at selling articles or at least getting them published, but I have not earned enough money with my writing to pay for equipment, ink, and paper. Yet I keep at it My husband says, "You won't get published unless your submit your work," so I recently sent off "Strangers on the Mountain," a too long short story to a contest that accepts long stories. I think it is my best work. I hope they will think so, too. and I am busy just now preparing to submit my children's book, Summer Visitors, to yet another publisher. The fat packet, however, is not getting fatter. It seems that now that we writers submit via the Internet, publishes have stopped responding to anything they don't accept for publication. That's not to say form letter rejection notices told us much other than "no thanks." See why I've been reluctant to write about my writing?

On Artist’s Egos An artist needs ego to succeed. How this ego gets used affects the artist’s ultimate reputation. No matter which discipline the artist follows—painting, music, poetry, sculpture, fiction writing, bronze casting, whatever—at some point in the life of each artist, an important question arises: How much ego should an artist cultivate? Let us hope that every artist considers this question thoughtfully and discerns appropriately to find the point somewhere between the egotistical buffoon and the shrinking violet where ego serves him best. I got to thinking about this ego business following the opening of a new concert hall. No less than a dozen soloists and groups had been invited to perform in various musical disciplines to showcase the versatility of the hall. Each performance required a change in set up--boom boxes (the acoustical system had not yet been installed) and wires, risers, adjustment of the acoustical panels for the best effect for the type and size of the group, and so on. Although the stage crew worked fast, these changes proved cumbersome, and the program grew excessively long. For the opening of this spectacular building, every important politician in the state was in attendance. The entire staff of architects who designed the building came. The governor, who emceed, kibitzed heroically to fill in while set-ups were in progress. And of course, the donors were present. This audience, gathered for the most part for its partiality, demonstrated its appreciation for the beautiful, new hall with lively applause. Unfortunately, almost every artist interpreted this applause as a call for an encore. Good grief! Couldn’t they count the many numbers listed on the program? Couldn’t they see the logistical problems caused by so many different kinds of performances? At the ninety-minute point, when most concerts have ended, intermission finally arrived. I heaved a sigh of relief and informed our guests that the second half always goes faster than the first. My confidence discounted the artistic egos already displayed. Immediately following the half hour intermission, members of a jazz combo that regularly performs at one of the state’s major resorts took their places on stage. I admit that I am not a jazz afficionado. I prefer art songs, easy listening, and classical music. However, on a program like this, I expected two short jazz numbers to be worth a listen. The lights dimmed, and the musicians played—for thirty minutes! How can two jazz numbers possibly take thirty minutes? With continuous, boring vamps, that’s how. Thirty minutes of vamps! Maybe vamps serve those musicians well in a cocktail lounge where everyone moves about and carries on conversations, but on a concert stage? On a program that is already running excessively long? What egos! And did they notice decreased enthusiasm in the applause? Not on your life. At least their encore was a bit shorter than their program numbers, I concede. Our guests, with a baby sitter at home, were obliged to depart during the applause. Others left, as well. They had to miss the most important performers of the evening, two New York City musicians brought in on special arrangements by the benefactor who had put up most of the money for building the hall. The next two performances, local groups, probably the least egotistical of the evening’s list of artists, came and went, even with encores, in the amount of time one might have expected. I heaved a sigh of relief, looked at my watch, and thought we still might be home in bed at a decent hour, for next up, the program showed those New York City guests whose section appeared to be all of one piece with a big choir backing them up in a finale number. Why weren’t the stagehands setting up risers? “And now,” the governor announced, “I have a special treat for you.” Bless his heart, he had invited someone special, someone whom those who arranged the program either did not think of or did not have the pull to book. As the governor made the introduction, we older folks looked at each other and asked, “Who’s she?” while the yuppie crowd went wild. As she began to play, however, we oldsters did recognize music played on our stereos—much too loudly—when we were raising teen-agers. It seems that this notable composer had retired to the backwoods of our little state where the governor got to know her personally! And, yes, after playing her two numbers, she quickly returned to the stage to “honor” us with an encore. I guess it does take ego to succeed. Reflecting on this need, I came to recognize a personal problem: failure to develop my own ego properly. I used to be a singer. I wasn’t bad. I was often chosen as the soprano soloist in the church choir. I sometimes performed as the soloist at concerts or in special programs and was gratified by critics who referred to me as an artist. I sang the lead in several musicals—Musette in Victor Herbert’s Fortuneteller, for instance, no easy role, and I performed those coloratura passages with pizzazz. Leads in musicals require auditioning. Sometimes the competition gets tough. My ego proved sufficient for me to sign up, work hard, and appear at the audition. I could stand in front of the audition judge and perform. If I won the part, I could perform in front of a big audience without panic. If I lost, however, I felt the panic of total humiliation. It took time to work through that humiliation, but I was able to do it and turn the loss into a learning experience. I studied the winner’s techniques, evaluated my own performance in relation to hers, and worked hard to improve before my next try. My ego, coupled with an innate compulsion to be a singer, got me through that kind of obstacle. One might say, however, that my lack of ego created another, very major stumbling block. Something very loud and clear shouted inside my mind that I should never foist my voice uninvited on anyone. I stood back, waiting to be asked, while others pushed themselves forward volunteering to perform. I never sang an encore unless I felt sure the applause indicated genuine desire to hear more. I wanted opportunities so badly I could taste it, but I needed validation even worse. Did I lack moxie, or did I simply have a destructive type of ego, the kind that says, “I’m too good to need to beg?” Singing depends on breath. About the time I should have reached my peak, a nasty virus put an end to my dependable supply of that valuable commodity. I could still produce clear, bell-like tones over a wide range. I could still learn the words to a French or Italian or German aria. I could still work up an emotion charged interpretation of the music. But I could no longer guarantee that breath would support the phrase. My voice might die at the most inopportune moment. Invitations to sing now meant I had to say, “I’m sorry. My voice isn’t dependable anymore.” With the right kind of ego, I might have fulfilled my potential before this unfortunate disability struck, but my time had passed. Don’t get me wrong. I still love music. I still sit at my piano and sing. But the only places I now sing in public are the church congregation and community sings. There I belt it out with joy—except in those spots where my voice eludes me. Then I suck in my best breath and start again. The way I phrase the music has become—well, choppy. Thank goodness for groups. In them no one seems to care how I huff and puff. Music is but one kind of art. A true artist, no matter the discipline, must muster enough ego to get the notice required to sell the product. The little dancer with great talent who doesn’t study with a competent teacher, practice, develop her muscles, and eat right to grow strong bones will never become the prima ballerina of the big city ballet. Nor will she become the star if she hangs back and does nothing to promote herself. Sacrifice goes along with ego. In olden times when books had to be copied by hand, starving artists who earned their living with their quill pens found the ego to decorate those mundane letters with beautiful pictures and create illuminated pages prized down through the ages. Even after developing enough of a reputation to be commissioned to create great frescos, Michealangelo lay on his back on scaffolding for many months, sometimes not coming down for days on end, to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Van Gogh starved and went mad, but his ego kept him painting even though only those who acquired his paintings were to, much later, become rich from them. Louisa May Alcott was turned away by editor after editor who informed her that her books would never interest anyone, but she persisted. No matter what the art, the true artist cannot help but pursue the means of expression that drives him, that holds him captive; but without sufficient ego, the products of the art that captivates him might well languish, never to be noticed by anyone. Deprived of the art I loved, my artistic bent, of necessity, submitted to another captor: writing. A writer is plagued with the inability to not write, and so it has always been with me, scribbling away. During the years when music seemed to me the ultimate art, I didn’t notice my compulsion for writing. Writing is the loneliest of arts. It’s tools, the pen (or computer) and paper, are brandished in privacy. The substance of writing is gathered through quiet observation and solitary study. If it weren’t for writing groups, where could a writer turn to assuage this loneliness? Also alone, the writer seeks for someone to notice his art. Unlike when the choir director, hearing my soprano ringing true and sweet, invited me to be the soloist in the next cantata or during a Sunday service, merely writing something brilliant doesn’t get me noticed by an editor. No editor will accidentally stumble across my latest manuscript and beg me to let him publish it. No producer will hear my latest play and ask me to present it upon his stage unless I buck up my ego and make it happen. And then there’s that Catch 22: a writer needs an agent to get published, and agents don’t deal with writers until they are published. It’s up to me to discipline my reluctant ego and bring my newest art to public notice. It takes ego to search through Writer’s Market and find publishers that fit the writing. It takes ego to write query letters attesting one’s own ability as a writer and the marvels of her manuscripts. It takes ego to repeat that process over and over and over. I would most likely have stopped singing the first time someone so much as hinted that my voice wasn’t up to snuff, but a writer has to learn to subject herself to an ever expanding packet of rejection notices. One might say that writing has forced me to develop the ego an artist needs. If only I had developed that ego when I was a singer! This in no way infers that I don’t suffer with each rejection. I open the letter with expectation, read it, feel my cheeks begin to burn with shame, and slide into a spell of depression. It takes a day or two to get over it. Then I am able to re-read the letter looking for some hint of how I can do better next time. When it’s a manuscript that’s been rejected, I always hope the editor has been kind enough to include some reasons why, some guidance that might help me improve my writing. Even a cutting remark seems less of a blow to the ego than a form letter. Who knows. The barest critique might prove the guidance needed toward eventual success, and as I used to do when I was singing, turn defeat into a learning experience. Now that I write and promote my work, I’m developing a much more useful ego. I only hope that I don’t let it run wild. With use, the ego doesn’t just grow, it matures. It can find its proper place. It can learn to present the artist when presentable, to accept the limitations of the artist’s talent pragmatically, and to motivate continued improvement in plying the art. Yes, an artist needs an ego to succeed—a realistic, well disciplined ego. But please, please, save me from ego that hogs the limelight. My hope is for an ego more like those of the two performers from New York. They graciously allowed those of us who didn’t sneak out early to get home before daylight.