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A journey to authenticity: 72 months and counting

It’s been 72 months and counting, and Finding Maria may not have launched a thousand ships, but it did inspire a series, publishing company, and a journey that continues to unfold. Nov. 24, 2016 was the sixth anniversary of the launch of our first book. So fitting that our anniversary fell on American Thanksgiving this year, because there are so many people to thank for this. An author may write a book, but it’s a global village that helps polish, produce, market and appreciate the effort involved. All of that investment, however, is paid forward in the ability to write more books, and in our case, publish books by other authors, helping them realize some reward for their dreams and hard work in the process.

To whom am I grateful? Family and friends, of course. They continue to be my first line of defence, support, hugs, encouragement, kick-ass pep talks and wine. In a class by himself is my business partner, with the thankless job of also being my muse. It is his story that is at the root of the Finding Maria series, and it was at his insistence that my simple gift of a short story for him become a book for everyone to see. Neither one of us were prepared for the world of authorship and self-publishing, running purely on curiosity and blind faith, but this very private person has huing in there while his story, currently in the form of four novels, makes the rounds of bookstores, street fairs, libraries and social media. He’s still hanging in there, even as the conpany sprouted new branches. In addition to our books, we have now published books for two new authors and have offered our editorial and management services to self-publishing authors as well. We are working with local artists and suppliers, have built and donated a Little Free Library to our hometown, and worked with school groups, seniors groups, writing groups, book clubs, and basically anyone wanting to share love for the printed word. t’s all been possible because of you the readers, who buy, borrow, and read our books, then share valuable word-of-mouth praise via conversations and social media. You keep authors and publishers employed. No question.

I’ve been asked often: who is Maria? All will be revealed in the stories. On a larger scale, FInding Maria is not just a story, a book title, or a domain name. It is a journey, into ourselves, in search of the authentic in each of us. So far, it’s taken me here, celebrating my sixth anniversary as an author and publisher, and so ready for more. Where could it take you? For starters, thanks for being here.

– Jennifer

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in Marechal Media Inc. See more at www.FindingMaria.com

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Left to tell the tale: Remembering their part and ours

I will never know most of the millions of lives changed and sacrificed through military service, but I know and love a few of them – relatives, acquaintances, and a friend you’re about to learn more of. This gives me the empathy and safe distance to relive the sacrifices of which we rarely think. The pride through tears of a parent seeing their child off on a mission; those folks in uniform may be all grown up but they will always be little to the ones who bore and raised them. The agony of saying what could be a final goodbye to the man or woman you love, bidding farewell not only to the person but to the memories you have yet to make, the children you may never have, and the safety of kissing them goodnight, every night. The loneliness on both sides of service, for those toiling in the heat, cold, and danger of countries a world away and the loved ones toiling in the daily routines of chores, solo nights, and worry on the homefront.

I recently led some writing workshops at an elementary school, where during question time a student asked if I could write a story about Remembrance Day. I replied that I already did, then paused. Could I share even the existence of an adult story that started as a memory, grew to a chapter in one book and then garnered a book of its own? More than 40 years later the topic of Vietnam is still fraught with conflicting opinions and emotions. Even the man who shared his story with me did so with some hesitation. Yet all the students needed to hear was that I knew and shared a soldier’s story. They cared not about specifics or politics: hearing that a story had been honoured and the spirit of Remembrance Day supported, they nodded in appreciation and moved on with their day. It was a brilliant moment: the simple wisdom of children that cuts through the petty details and gets to the heart of the matter. For me, that was owning my fears dredged up by the powerful gift of such a story, reawakening my pride in it, and moving forward not with hesitation, but with gratitude.

Now, the friend I promised you’d learn more of: when he reported for duty, draft letter in hand, he was 20, just two years older than my son is today, my son who so proudly and reverently played Last Post and Reveille on his trumpet for veterans and students gathered this week at two school assemblies. In contrast, the young man who boarded the bus for basic training returned home two years later;  after 15 months in country he returned alive and intact. He recalls years later sharing his story with a fellow vet who mused about the odds of going over there and surviving, let alone returning unharmed. At the time he gave his fate little thought but eventually wondered if perhaps he was left alive as a witness. There were horrors in country but there were horrors at home, too: citizens that treated their veterans as the enemy, violence in the name of peace, judgements on who served and who dodged based on where they lived or were born. Bombs may have fallen on foreign lands throughout the ages but war zones spread and took root in our lands, too, in the form of misinformation, stereotypes, and worst of all, apathy. To agree or disagree with armed conflict is the product of a free society, but to dismiss it as unimportant, worthless, or forgettable is to dismiss human lives as dispensible, invisible, powerless. That becomes a frighteningly easy thing to do when there is not tangible memory to cling to, no image or icon to direct our response. When invited into his story, I responded not with imagination, but fear. This was too powerful, too intense. I railed at the tears that came every time I looked at photos of the young man with wistful eyes suited in green, his life in the balance. I cringed at the sound of choppers that rang in my ears as I tried to sleep, the ache of sleep deprivation and scorching weight of the helmet as I re-created on paper his patrols and assignments and constant nightly seiges of mortar fire. I knew this opportunity to write through another’s eyes was a gift, but simmering underneath was resentment. I didn’t ask for this. I couldn’t handle it. Even if I could, who’s going to read it. There I was, in my own battle zone. I even had a dog tag.

That’s what brought me around. A 1×2 inch piece of tin that contained the atoms of a life in service. Name. Service number. Blood type. Religion. In that order. Two tags on a beaded neck chain that a soldier never removed, until service was done. For too many, the removal was by an officer – one tag for the records, the other left with the body. The soldiers surviving their tour removed the tags themselves, two souvenirs of a iife untaken, but forever changed. Therein lies my gratitude. I have a dog tag not from personal effects, not from the hands of an officer imparting condolences on behalf of a thankful nation. I have a dog tag as a gift from a soldier who not only survived but retained his presence of mind, his integrity, and his courage that years later would compel him to share his story, and me to write not one, not two, but four books based on his quiet yet remarkable life. Attached to this tiny piece of tin is a chain of beads and of words that led us both to the brink of our deepest fears. The journey continues. Now I have images, memories, and the printed word as icons to direct my response and to remind me: we must never forget.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and a partner in publisher Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com

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The Path Less Travelled

I looked down over a cliff and with only a belief, a calling and a trusty pair of flipflops, I started down. This was the beach calling me, not one with tidy boardwalks and crowded with tourists, but shards of sandstone around me and underfoot, and not a soul around.

It is not unlike the writing life, this trail less travelled. Our ability to spot paths few others can see, then craft a map of words to follow draws us into a life much craved by those watching, but lonely in its midst. It requires us to spend vast amounts of time in places no one else sees, imagines, or wants to be. Loneliness is not just a side effect, it is a catalyst to dive in, discover, finish, and connect. In this moment, however, I didn’t recognized any of this. I only knew I felt inside as awash and submerged as the rocks below, a day beautiful above but churning within.

It wasn’t nearly as tough as I thought, the descent. For the first time in hours, I thought of nothing: my fears as a writer, my failures as a friend, my irritation that seemed to rise like the tide to a frenzied pitch then recede leaving me dark, empty, confused. With that energy diverted to muscle and focus, each movement found solid footing, each step inched me closer to my goal. Seated on a throne carved by centuries of the sea, surrounded by surf, warmed by sun, I had arrived. I was whole in that moment: body and spirit. I could do anything I was called to do.

Then I looked up. The path I had seen on my descent was gone. The gravity that was my ally was now my adversary, working against my every step. And who the hell was I kidding? I was a fat old lady in a dress and flipflops, which were now wet in my dance with the sea, not a rock climber. I had followed my impulse without any thought to getting myself out. And my companions were off looking at historical plaques and fishing boats. I wasn’t even missed. Or so I thought. How quickly the powerful woman of moments ago was washed away by that one word: thought. I know I can. I think I can’t. Why does thought win?

Because it’s safer that way. Think it through, we are taught. Don’t act without thinking. There is merit to the advice, but only as a reinforcement, not as a decision. Our bodies know our capacity, which is often far greater than our brains give us credit for. You got yourself down here, you can get yourself back. That wasn’t thought. That was knowledge. A fact. So, I stood, stretched toward the sun, breathed, and found a new path, one foothold at a time. Just like writing, one word at a time. If it’s too dark to see, write another word or another scene. If there is no way out, keep inching forward. Write your name, gibberish, anything to keep the blank screen from having the last laugh. It’s in you. Keep moving.

I did. Rock by rock. Foot by foot. I was at the top. And I was not alone. I never was. Tanya was taking pictures the entire time, a witness then and giving me a continued reminder for shadowy times like today. She asked how I got down there. The path and the call I followed were clear only to me. In those moments of descent, of feeling the spray from untamed waves, of rising again with no skill, training or equipment, I was more myself than I had been all day. No strategies, no calibration, no predicting or judging or worrying: just a belief, an impulse and my trusty wet flipflops. And now, a lesson and reminder I can carry with me when I think I’m incapable, overwhelmed, unworthy. I know now what I can do with my thoughts. Use them to shine, not to hide. And wear sneakers. A little preparation doesn’t hurt.

Photos by Tanya Petraglia. Used here with much love and gratitude.

Jennifer Hatt is author of the Finding Maria series and partner in publisher Marechal Media Inc.
www.FindingMaria.com