I have been thinking lately about Vermont. I lived there in my freshman and sophomore years of college, and fell in love with the place. It’s been a while since I’ve been back there, and never to the actual campus (well, two of them, but I am not sure on the plural of “campus.”) In a romance novel worthy bit, that school I went to before transferring to the school where I met Real Life Romance Hero? That was RLRH’s second choice school, so if he’d gone there, we would have met anyway. That’s not what I’m thinking about, though.
What I’m thinking about is that last night, we got our first snow. I did not get to witness it, that I was hard at work on Queen of Hearts edits, or I was before Melva found the draft I was supposed to be editing, which is now the job before me. We got snow flurries again today, nothing sticking, (please play an acoustic instrumental version of Noah Khan’s “Stick Season” softy in the background here) because of a delicious nap that can only happen on a gray November day.
But Vermont. The image that comes first to mind when I think of Vermont is the first time (there were more) I stood under a streetlight as the snow poured down, my head tilted up, captivated by the beauty of the snowflakes dancing their way down to earth. Vermont was where I learned that my favorite part of prepping the daycare classroom was mixing unique shades of tempera paints for the standing easels. Vermont was where I found a small used bookstore that became my second home, where my ire that there were Traditional Regency romances but no Traditional Tudors, Traditional Medievals, or Traditional Any Other Era, first took form. Vermont is where a friend chased me across campus to put what she promised would be one of my favorite books in my hand (she was right.)
Vermont was also where I wrote my first historical romance novel, now thankfully lost to the vicissitudes of fate. I would race back to my dorm from class, turn on the electronic typewriter (dating myself, but that’s fine. I’m delightful.) stick in a fresh sheet of paper, and off I went. In time, my dormmates figured out what I was doing, and it was common enough that I had an audience as I wrote. It’s not realistic to expect people to physically stand behind me, urging me to write faster, because they are reading the lines as they appear on the paper, but I can come close. This is the interwebs, after all. I do have a blog, and two websites, and the serial format does exist.
In a broader sense, I do associate Vermont with higher education, and that makes sense. It’s been a wild ride for the past few years. I prefer to think of multiple attempts to get back up on the metaphorical horse to point to a survivor’s spirit rather than a series of failures. I have been making notes lately on things I would like to blog (and vlog) about. There’s the fact that I feel like a stranger in a strange land in many bookish spaces. Mass Market paperbacks are no longer so “mass,” as trade size seems to be more prevalent. Historical romance is going through some changes (down but not out, broken bones heal stronger, all that) and I am back in the freshman phase of being the adult new kid once again. Now go make friends. Start with others in your major (genre? I am the very model of a modern major genre?) or those in your dorm.
The more I think on it, the more it fits. Beginner’s mind. Lots of reading. Take many notes. Talk to others doing the same thing I am. Study. Find your place. Fall down five times, get up six. Apple cider donuts are delicious (another important Vermont lesson) and the right hot beverage can be a boost like no other. This isn’t the blog I planned to post today, but it is the one that feels the most genuine, so this is what you get. Turned in on time is a good thing.
Typing With Wet Nails 