44. Andria, or A~ as I came to know her
Before I get to Andria Flores, I need to do a little backstory-telling. (No surprise there). For those of you who are reading my blog, but have not read other parts of my website, the following section will be new to you. Those of you who have spent time reading things on the site, this will be familiar. Still, to get a real sense of who Andria is and why she was the perfect choice as MY editor, another read through might help. The following is from the About section of pullingthreadsnovella.com.
Storyteller
I am a storyteller, one who never refers to herself as a writer. I know enough about the English language to get by, and I have published a book (more about that later) but my strength is the story, in the crafting of it, and the telling of it.
Two years ago, I penned the first sentence of a story titled, Bullet Bungalow. A month later, after typing the words, The End, I added the words, More to come… Surprisingly, there was more to come, namely, Netti Barn and Cutters Cove. To date, there are 16 stories that follow the lives of the Mahoney-Maxwell clan, and the cast of characters who help light their way, or darken their doorstep. When I wrote the final words of the third story, I was filled with pride and an eagerness to get them out there — for all the world to see. I soon learned that there were many people who needed to read my manuscripts before the world had a crack at my books.
I found an editor and followed his advice, “Change your fonts, use Times New Roman, abandon the novella idea, combine these stories into one book, don’t use chapter headings, use chapter numbers, and don’t use the word, boobs.” Wait? – What? My desire to present my stories in the right way, whatever the hell that means, coupled with a huge dose of inexperience, nudged me toward making decisions that ultimately turned my dream into a nightmare. In the process of trying to make things better, I made them worse. I took my novellas, hacked away parts of each of the stories, and combined them into a single book, a 350 page book.
Then I found an editor, a great editor, who helped me make that book into a really good book — one I self-published, then self-unpublished a few weeks later. I knew something was wrong when the overriding feeling from my publishing experience was disappointment. How was it possible that the dream I had nurtured since grade school left me feeling so unfulfilled? The answer was simple — I didn’t publish my book. I did not write a 350 page book, I wrote three 200 page novellas.
When I pulled the threads on all of this, I realized that I never told my new editor that I had altered my stories. Correction: I never told my new editor that I had disrespected my work by walking away from my original format. When I came clean, and told her I wanted to publish my work as novellas, she encouraged me to do so — and in doing so, I have put the story back into my stories.
I am ready to gift them to the universe in their full and original form. I sincerely hope that those of you who turn the pages of a Pulling Threads book enjoy the story because, in the end, that’s what this writer had in mind when she first put pen to paper.
Thank you for accompanying me on this journey,
Sheryll
In fairness to the first editor with whom I worked, my manuscripts needed lots of work. He said the storylines, and characters, and dialogue were very good, but the mechanics needed work — lots of work. (Yeah — okay. Got it.) He wasn’t wrong about that, but he was insane if he thought I, Sheryll O’Brien, could write anything without using the word, ‘boobs’ — or any other word that suited my fancy.
What’s a girl to do? — Look for a new editor.
I went to an online place called Thumbtack. When I paged through the options, I saw Andria’s introduction:
As a freelance writer and editor, I am committed to communicating every message accurately. My strength is preserving the author's voice without sacrificing excellence in language. I am prompt, professional, and friendly—and I love collaboration!
The words: My strength is preserving the author’s voice without sacrificing excellence in language, was all I needed to see — this editor will let me say boobs! This editor is the one I want.
I wrote an introductory email, she wrote back, we exchanged a few more emails, and she suggested we talk by phone. When I answered the call a few days later, my heart was racing and my hands were sweating. And when I heard the soft, sweet, almost songlike Texan drawl on the other end, I immediately wondered if ‘boobs’ were in my future. Andria sounded so Cinderella. I envisioned her standing at a window with a blue ribbon in her hair and a bluebird upon her finger enjoying a lovely moment before her feathered friend lifted the corner of a page in a book Cinderella was reading.
I briefly explained I was writing stories and an editor had read one and portions of another and objected to the use of the word ‘boobs’. (See, I honed in on what was important to me — and left ‘it needs lots of work’ out of the conversation). The woman with the ‘soft, sweet, Texan drawl’ said, “The editor must have been a man.”
I laughed. We went into a whole conversational give-and-take about Sex and the City, and how impossible it would have been to tell that story if the characters got hung up on the word, ‘boobs’.
“Can you imagine Samantha saying breasts?” the Texan asked through a breathy giggle.
That was it – I’d found my editor.
But I wanted her to read a few pages first.
She agreed so I sent off the prologue and a few pages of Chapter 1 — quickly changing them back to their original titles, It all began, and One giant hopscotch jump. I’m including the first few pages of my first published book, Bullet Bungalow for your enjoyment. (Copyrighted material).
It all began.
Yesteryear
Maria and Patrick Mahoney worked at the summer home of wealthy industrialist, Alexander Eaton, in Laurel Falls, Massachusetts. By summer home, it should be noted that the Eaton place was like the mansions along the cliffs of Newport, grand estates with beautifully kept grounds and fiercely kept secrets.
Maria, a squat woman with tree-stump legs, thumped about the kitchen. She stirred this, cleaned that, and muttered in a language that was of her own making. Part of “Maria-speak” came from her native Italian, part from her husband’s native Gaelic, and part from her easily enraged and foul-mouthed employer. A domestic in the Eaton estate, Maria was always short on time and temper when her husband came in for lunch. “Patrick, damn mangia, cheana,” she demanded.
Patrick took the cheese sandwich from a chipped China plate she pushed his way, grabbed an apple, and kissed his squat woman atop her head before escaping the heat of Maria’s kitchen and Maria’s ire. A stone mason, Patrick moved to the far end of a wall he was extending and sat amid the tall grass of a windswept dune. He watched his employer walk the wet packed sand near the ocean’s edge, dressed in a white button shirt cuffed to the elbow, trousers tucked into gentlemen’s socks, and a pair of spit-polished Florsheims. Patrick shook his head at the man. “Damn fool,” he muttered, using one of his employer’s favorite sayings.
Alexander Eaton dressed for what he was, an exceedingly wealthy man who came by his initial wealth the old-fashioned way—he inherited it. Then he parlayed his fortune tenfold. “Radio, television, movie production—that’s where the money and the fun are,” he told his associates and the lovely ladies that draped his arms. In early 1927, the wealthy industrialist told his domestic and stone mason, “I am deeding a parcel of land on the far edge of my property to you.” The husband and wife offered small smiles as they clasped hands. Uproariously, Eaton insisted, “This parcel is not for you to keep. It is for me. The deed is temporary, and the land will be reversed to me if times become tough.” Two short years later, times became tough for Alexander Eaton. “It’s crashed? It’s gone?” The no-longer-wealthy, and oh-so-despondent industrialist retired to his study one evening, took a silver revolver from his desk, and put a bullet through his head.
“O Signore!” Maria cried at the gruesome sight. Her trembling hands flourished the sign of the cross, then found her wetting cheeks. Patrick moved past his wife into the room, went to the desk upon which his deceased employer was sprawled, and took from within the deed that granted the domestic and the stone mason ownership of two acres of beachfront property in Laurel Falls. He folded the deed, took hold of his squat woman’s hand, and walked out the front door muttering a final, “Damn fool.”
To my complete delight, Andria agreed to edit my book and several days later, she wrote these words in an email:
Hello Sheryll...just a quick note to say I love your story! Not only are you a wonderful storyteller, but a fabulous writer. There are many clever things you do with words that are funny, brilliant, or playful. I am having the best time working on your book. (I just finished reading about the faux, faux date! ;)
As time went on, Andria learned I do clever things with words that aren’t always funny — to her, anyway. Like when I just make them up, or turn perfectly good nouns into verbs. As soon as I received her edited work on Bullet Bungalow and saw the comments suggesting we might want to stick to the English language, I gave her the playful name of, The Warden, and accepted her advice here and there. She eased in when she really objected, but she lived by her words to ‘preserve the author’s voice without sacrificing excellence in language’ AND she was savvy enough to know that I didn’t want to be micromanaged. Trust me, I wasn’t always the easiest author to throw-in with.
As soon as I jumped all-in with the Mahoney-Maxwell-Watts-Serpico group in my Pulling Threads stories, I knew the first three novellas had legs, so I dragged Andria along on what would become a 17 book series. She dragged Nancy Pendleton into the shit fest when she agreed to get back into the publishing game with us. That’s when the three of us traveled the world together — without ever leaving our office chairs. We left the North Shore of Massachusetts and went to France, and Italy, and London, and Canada, and South America, and Australia, and Spain, and cities and towns all across America.
We worked hard. We had a blast. We became friends.
And. Then.
The final book of the series, Alva, was written, but not yet edited, or proofread, or formatted, or uploaded, or promoted, or, or, or — but I’d happily moved on because my job on the writing team was to write. I was several chapters into a new book titled, Treble Clef — and the publishing team members were all doing their thing. A publication schedule for the final book of the Stony Beach series and the Pulling Threads series were agreed upon and Guru Jessica was creating covers and ads and social media announcements.
Life was looking good.
Until I learned my future was looking bleak.
Before anyone else (except for Tim and my girls), Andria Flores, Nancy Pendleton, and Jessica Champion, learned their writer — their friend — wouldn’t be doing what she loved, and they wouldn’t be coming along on any more fictional trips across the world because I was terminal.
What do you do when your writer emails you out of the blue and says she’s dying?
If you’re Andria Flores you rearrange your editing schedule with other clients, and push all-in on editing Sheryll O’Brien’s final books.
Then you do this.
On what has seemed like a daily basis, I have received brown Kraft paper envelopes with a return address in Texas. Inside the pretty-scripted envelopes there have been handwritten cards from my friend, Andria. On the front of each card is a quote from one of my books, on the inside are her thoughts about the quotes, or about us. I am going to share them with you.
Words in books. Words from the heart.
“Boobs” … she said, “boobs!” (Bullet Bungalow)
And that was how ‘it all began’. Boobs. You told me on our first phone call in your northern accent that your previous editor told you not to say boobs. Ha! Didn’t take me long to learn not to tell Sheryll O’Brien to refrain from saying anything she damn well pleases. Muah! A~
“After the law enforcer leaves to do law enforcing things…” (Rescues)
Yep! You said that. In print. And for the record, I let it be! I love your Sheryll-isms. I love you! A~
“He is wearing an anxious expression on his face and a hole through the carpet.” (Rescues)
Yes, you are a story-teller. There’s no question about that. But with lines like these, you are an exceptional writer – my personal fave! Muah! A~
“You have lighted my darkest days and have shown me how to move through rough waters.” (Alva)
Such a beautiful line. Love, A~
“Holy the fuck, what?” (Adrift on Stony Beach)
I love how you even crack yourself up with the shit that comes out of your mouth! You, my friend, are a real piece of work. A~
“For weeks, those words have looped incessantly, frayed her nerves, and shredded what remains of her heart.” (Her Scream)
Hmmm … isn’t that the truth? Even in fiction, you have the gift of capturing what’s real. The next line reads, “She forbids this new set of tears from falling.” I don’t do it every day, but today I’m forbidding mine. Love you big! A~
“He bangs through life with wrecking ball precision.” (Her Scream)
Gosh, I love this line – and a million others just like ‘em! You are one of a kind, that’s for sure! A~
“There are many ways to categorize Caitlyn English – accomplished, brilliant, conscientious, dogged, earnest, fearless…” (Her Scream)
There are many ways to categorize Sheryll O’Brien – astute, banging around in my head, committed, deeply intuitive, educated, fucking badass… I could do this all day! A ~
“The words came from behind Rocco and Joy, who were mid-ting of a champagne flute toast…” (Alva)
I love all of your words! I especially love your perfectly imperfect made-up words. Don’t tell The Warden. A~
“…Annie works on Christmas brunch… There is chicken and broccoli casserole, rice pilaf, candied ham, scalloped potatoes, pineapple stuffing, ham and cheese omelets, cheesecake, banana bread, eggnog, and sparkling apple cider.” (They Choose)
This is how I always imagine Christmas at the O’Brien’s. I hope everyone’s hearts and bellies are full. Sending my love, Andria.
“Their hands find their homes.” (Ashore on Stony Beach)
I love the way you write subliminal, seemingly automatic, gestures with such meaning. A~
“The man loved me to distraction.” (Torment)
I have always loved this line. It is very steamy, and reckless, and solid as a rock. A~
“I’m happy, Kittridge.” — “Me too, Fred.” (Tango)
I love it every time they make this little exchange. It says so much. Kitt and Fred and three small words with the weight of a thousand. I love you, A~
“…Callie sings from the kitchen in tune with ‘Hey Jude’ — the soundtrack of my life.” (Bullet Bungalow)
What’s currently playing on the soundtrack of your life? I’m sure some of your soundtrack is loud and noisy, but I hope most moments are filled with love, with gratitude, and with peace. A~
“…Sage headed to the terrace for an afternoon with her precious array of floral friends. She’d taken to calling each by name and telling stories, much like she did with her Momma before things got bad.” (Rescues)
This scene and so many others, are imprinted in my memory as if I’d actually seen it with my own eyes. What a gift. A~
“Big tears begin wetting her lashes as they take to their journey. One by one they slide across and down her cheeks, some pooling in her ears, others finding her pillow.” (Her Scream)
You have a way with details. You seamlessly describe common experiences to readers in a way they haven’t even realized for themselves until they read your words on the page. Impressed. A~
“What. A. Fucking. Heirhead!” (Awake on Stony Beach)
I’m probably breaking a dozen social and grammatical rules by writing the F-bomb on the front of a greeting card. But my favorite author breaks the rules of writing — All. The. Fucking. Time. — And it serves her well. Muah! The Warden
“By the end of that year, Curtis had moved on from Bertha.” (Torment)
Even your backstories make me swoon. I always loved Mama Girl and her story. A~
And there were many other brown envelopes.
I can’t include some cards because they give away a little too much storyline — others because they are more personal in nature, but you get the gist of things.
My editor — a very busy editor with many important clients, carved out time from many, many days to handwrite cards to me — to remind me of the stories I wrote and the characters to whom I gave life and words. She kept them alive for me and kept our relationship vital and new.
And. Then. This. Happened.
Yesterday afternoon I asked my daughter, Jessica, to organize all of the little brown Kraft paper cards I’d received from Andria in chronological order. This morning I opened a word doc and began writing this blog. Twenty or so minutes in, I received a text.
Andria: I ’m reading your blog…the end of Turn. Turn. Turn. Part Two.
Me: I’m writing your blog. It’ll be 44. You know how I love my double numbers.
Andria: Hahaha! Yes ma’am. I’m reading #42. I’m at the part where the hospice nurse enters mid-shit fest.
Andria then shared a personal text about the passing of her mother. We’ve shared many conversations over the years about the deep love they shared, and the difficult path Andria has walked since her mom’s passing. In the past few months, my dear friend has expressed concern for Hannah and Jessica as they prepare for what lies ahead for them. Always the thoughtful, sweet woman from Texas — caring about those whom I love.
Her text went on to champion my right to call the shots while I can and warmly reminded me that Tim has a right to want to help me because ‘he loves you so’.
She loves me, too. I feel it every day and it is on full display in the many cards she’s written. And on a day like today, when she’s reading a blog of mine while I’m simultaneously writing one about her, I know there is a little heavenly intervention at play.
In one of my books, I think it’s Rescues, I have my detectives head to San Antonio. While there, the men meet a bar-owning-broad, a character loosely based on Andria’s mother — who owned her own bar — or ran one as though it was her own — down in the Lone Star State. Anyway, real-life Paula loved the show Cheers, so I gave my character Sam Malone’s last name — and thus a character was born — Paula Malone, in honor of my friend, Andria Flores.
Andria and I have discussed a possible meeting between me and Paula. I hope when we do meet we’ll pull up a couple stools and tell our stories of Our Girl.
Today’s events make me think Paula might be on my welcoming committee.