Anyway. The last week has been gorgeous, sunny, and warm. Which means the last of The Snow has finally melted, and has thereby turned my world into one giant mud puddle. Since I have two small children, that naturally means that the mud puddle has worked its way into the house. And onto what feels like their entire wardrobes.

Now, I’m not usually the type to fuss too much about stains. My good friend Karlene once said, “I decided that kids’ clothes aren’t sacred and just assume they’ll get ruined.” I’ve embraced that because, well, it takes a lot of stinkin’ effort to keep their clothes spotless!

But I did try to get the mud out this past week. I have soaked in OxiClean. I have pretreated with Shout and Resolve and used super-strength detergent. I have used hot water, cold water, washed things multiple times. And still some of those stains just won’t come out.

On Monday (laundry day in the White household) as I rubbed stain remover into yet ANOTHER mud splatter, I thought, “This really stinks. I’ve got a whole arsenal of things specifically designed to do this with no effort, and what am I doing? Scrubbing clothes by hand.”

And that was when epiphany struck. (Do you hear the angels in the background singing that “Ahhhhh!” chime thingy?”) How, I wonder, did people keep their clothes clean before OxiClean and Resolve and Shout and Tide and whatever else I have in there? Because they did. I have proof, in the form of a lot of vintage clothing. Then the answer came: “They used lye, you dummy.”

Oh . . . right. Now, I have no desire–none whatsoever–to use lye soap. Nope. That temptation has never struck. It’ll ruin your hands even as it saves your clothes, and I’m just way too vain for that. 😉

But, wait. Lye . . . pretty strong stuff, right? Sure, the soap form isn’t as nasty as straight lye, but still. It’s harsh. It’s strong. It works. Whereas this stuff that doesn’t destroy my soft skin . . . it also doesn’t always take the stains out of my kids’ clothes.

And that got me wondering. How often do we do the same thing in life? How often to we take Truth or Lessons and say, “Well, that’s havoc on the emotional manicure. And it doesn’t smell very nice, metaphorically speaking. Let’s try this instead.” It’s sweeter. It’s gentler. It has a prettier label.

But it just–doesn’t–work.

I’m fine with being a sissy about lye and laundry. Sure, some of the stains will persist, but they’ll grow out of the clothes in about two minutes anyway, so whatever. But life . . . I don’t want to be a sissy about life. I don’t want to turn my eyes away from the truth because it’s too harsh, too strong, too blinding. I don’t want to shrug and say, “Well, the stain didn’t come out, but I did the best I could with what I have.” That’s just not good enough. Not when it comes to my heart, my soul.

I’m not allowed to be lazy about that.

Why knew that laundry could teach me something so valuable?

In the publishing industry, sales numbers are king. They rule the day. They determine whether you earn out your advance, whether you get any royalties, whether you get another contract. They determine what the advance on your next contract will be. Sales numbers are the measure by which a writer’s success in gauged.

Roseanna isn’t much of a success, LOL.

Now, I’m small press at this point, so expectations are different. We don’t expect to sell 50K in the first year. (Would like to, but . . .) We don’t expect to hit any charts. (Would like to, but . . .) We don’t expect to do much more than break even, so I’m not holding my breath on royalties. (Would like to, but . . .)

In a way, the fact that I can actually count my sales is humbling. I mean, other authors on one of my loops were talking about sales that must be in the tens-of-thousands category for our genre or they’re a flop. A friend of mine is dealing with needing to boost her sales in order to get another contract. Me, I don’t have to worry about my publisher, given that I’m married to him. 😉 But I do have to consider whether or not this book can be used as a stepping stone to contracts with bigger publishers, which is unlikely without those all-important numbers.

But you know, I had a realization yesterday. We got an email from the head of a book club who is interested in doing Stray Drop with her group and was inquiring about the discounts WhiteFire offers. And I got excited. Not just “Hey, that would be cool,” but giddy-excited. Because my numbers are small enough that each one counts, each one is important, and each one makes me praise the Lord. There’s something cool about that. About knowing that each book we ship out gets covered with praise, each one is sent with my love. Each reader is important to me.

Yes, I hope that someday I won’t actually be able to count all of my readers, I hope that I won’t have to jump up and down each time an order comes in. But I hope I never lose my excitement for the people that take an interest in my stories, that I never take readership for granted.

Sales matter in publishing, yes–and I’m so thankful for each individual one. =)

~*~

Have you ever paused to take account of your friends? Tried to categorize them? Mentally nudged a particular person from one category to the next? How do you rate them/think of them/judge them? Do you have friends like the ones we see in novels, that gal pal who’s always there to shed light on our darkest moments?

Yesterday I spent the day with one of my oldest friends. As our little girls ran around and played, Amber and I chatted about things like growth and development and homeschooling (things that come up often when you put two young mothers together, lol), our families, our husbands, our goals. And throughout this came a few memories–like the roller skating circuses we used to have in my basement, some of the old jokes that would have us laughing for hours. We yet again fielded questions of “Are you two sisters?” and answered, as we always did, with, “Yep,” even though we share no blood.

Amber is one of those “always” friends in my mind. Her family was in missions for most of her childhood, so while I was home living my normal life in my normal family, she was off in exotic locales being homeschooled while they ministered to gypsies and the underprivileged. Because of that, we only saw each other a few times a year and never talked on the phone. But when we got together–watch out! We had a ton of fun to make up for! In highschool Amber moved back to our area and attended my school, and our moms would be like, “Why don’t you call each other? Get together?” And we’d look at each other and be like, “Oh, I guess we could . . .” but it wasn’t the way we worked. Still, we always knew that we were “always” friends. You know?

I have other friends I used to be closer to, but who have drifted apart. A few of those I’ve had to nudge from the “best” category down to the “passing” category, some all the way into “used-to-be.” A few from back in the day I consider “low maintenance,” because we can go months at a time without talking and then just pick back up. Those are handy in this busy world.

I have my “highschool” friends. I feared falling into having “college” friends, but those remain “constant” even now. I have those friends I made in Annapolis, but I refuse to call them “Annapolis” friends. We might not see each other often, but they deserve the “constant” title too.

Then I started making “writing” friends. I have a ton of these now, and I’m thankful for each and every one. But the ones that moved from mere “writing” friends to critique partners are the dearest to me, because they’ve become real, true, genuine friends, above and beyond writing. Some of those writing friends, who were also just internet friends, I now talk to more than my local friends, more than my own mother in some cases (though I talk to my mom a lot!)

At which point I have to mention Stephanie. We started emailing about writing, but we were also both pregnant at the time, so we’d chat about that too. As the months passed and turned into years, our emails increased and we told each other every passing thought, it seemed, so that we realized simultaneously that this “writing” friend, this “internet” friend had become a “best.” When we met for the second time in September, we joked that we wouldn’t know how to talk without computers between us, but that was no problem. Together with Mary and Carole, our other awesome friends who round out our critique group, we had a fabulous time.

I’m sure I have a point to all this, but I think it’s mostly a reflection of the roles friends play in my life, and how grateful I am for each and every one. It seems like each one has a special place, ministers to me in her own way. And after spending the day with Amber, I just wanted to give a nod to friends old and new. No matter where we met or how much time goes by between chats, you’re all so dear to me. Thanks!

And while I’m reminding, don’t forget to check out giveaways of A Stray Drop of Blood on ICFW, A Fiction-Filled Life, and Mary’s Musings.

When David got his Jeep, it was only a few years old but had over a hundred thousand miles–it was a guy’s business vehicle, and he made a lot of trips with it. All highway miles, and it had been very well maintained. This was round about the time the Anastasia animated movie came out, which I adored. I promptly dubbed his Jeep Bartok, after the little white bat in the movie, which was by far my favorite character. (The Jeep’s green, but you know. Who cares about details like that?)

So, Bartok the Jeep underwent more commuting with David’s step-father, who drives for a living . . . and then went to college with us. College was 2.5 hours away, just close enough to mean we came home every other weekend or so. Far enough that those miles kept piling up on the odometer.

Bartok now has approximately 370,000 miles. Yes, you read that right. Three hundred seventy THOUSAND miles. (We’re doing all we can to get it to a million. Think the Jeep folks will give us some kind of prize for that??)

Well, when a fifteen year-old Jeep has that many miles, you just have to assume it’s going to be even quirkier than I am. That weird jingle? Yeah, that’s been there for years. The vibration in the dash? Get used to it.

But sometimes Bartok goes beyond quirky and into growl-inducing. Yes, it’s to be expected. But when the thing follows up weird noises and fritzed-out dash lights/blinkers/heaters with not restarting? Not. Cool. Luckily, this happened the other day when we were at the Library, so had it not started back up, we would have at least been stranded with limitless reading material. =)

For those curious, my hubby managed to jiggle wires in the steering column until the key would turn and we could get home, but still. I had to give Bartok a pat and say something like, “Poor old boy. We’ll get you fixed up.”

Because you just can’t abandon a work horse that will gladly travel over chunks of ice, puddles of slush, barrels of mud, and feet of snow. A machine that keeps going and going as that half-mil mark draws ever closer on its odometer. A member of the family that will probably outlast the more stylish and luxurious Xander, who lives in the garage bay beside it.

So here’s to Bartok. You deserve a toast, baby. We’ll get you all fixed up with a new relay or whatever in no time. (And will have that rust fixed soon too!) Three cheers to you, ol’ boy!

~*~