Dear DARA Members:

Today you learned why I never show my initial rough draft to anyone. . .it's pretty much garble. And I have to be able to revise in order to make any sense.

At the meeting today, I was completely overwhelmed and surprised to be honored with the Robin Teer Memorial Service Award. I didn't know Robin, but I do know many of the wonderful DARA members who have received the award, and to be included in the company of those who have given so much to DARA is truly an honor.

In 1992, I was just beginning to venture onto the Internet--Prodigy to be exact. Only a few people were posting on the writers' boards, but I met a gentleman named Will who introduced himself to me by saying that his epitaph would read, "Here lies the greatest unpublished writer who ever lived."

He was the first aspiring writer I ever met . . . someone with a dream that mirrored mine. This was back in the age of innocence, before Internet predators, and so trust was easily given. I emailed him the first sentence of my novel. He was impressed and sent the first sentence of his. I was equally impressed. So I sent him my paragraph, he sent me his. To make a long story short, through a battle of one upmanship (a page, a scene, a chapter), we eventually read each other's entire unpublished manuscript and when I finished his, I asked why he wasn't shopping his around.

Too many rejections. They told me I couldn't write.

They're crazy. You need to send this out and keep sending it out until someone recognizes the potential in your work.

After much prodding, and after I sold my first book in Feb. 2003, and he saw that yes, indeed selling was possible, he sent out his query to multiple agents. He emailed me one day that he was happier than he'd ever been. An agent wanted to see the proposal. "You got me into this," he said, "you have to get me out" . . . he had no idea how to write a synopsis.

So we spent the weekend emailing back and forth, getting his synopsis into shape. And he sent the proposal off that Monday. Two weeks later, on Mother's Day, at the age of 48, he suffered a heart attack and passed away. His sister emailed me because he'd been telling her about this writer he'd met who thought he had potential.

The day of his funeral, she called me. She'd returned to his house to find a letter from the agent, praising the proposal and wanting to see the complete manuscript, certain he could sell it. It broke my heart, because he'd been so close to touching his dream, but he'd allowed others to cause him to doubt his talent . . .

Life is short and dreams are so precious. I gave Will immortality in the prologue and epilogue to ALWAYS TO REMEMBER, but it wasn’t enough. So the time that I give to DARA and to you, I give in memory of my friend Will because if something that I do can help one person hold onto that dream or even touch that dream . . . then Will isn't the greatest unpublished writer as he thought . . . but my inspiration to help others in this insane business where rejections are often rapidly-fired and for some reason, loom larger than encouragement or praise.

DARA is a group of wonderfully talented, hard-working, supportive people. It is my honor and my privilege to be of service. You give far more to me than I could ever give to you . . . I wish you all the joy of holding your dream in the palm of your hand, but even if it seems beyond your grasp, don't stop reaching . . . simply look around, and you'll find another DARA member willing to help you . . . because truly I've never known so many people who give so unselfishly of their time and talents. You all inspire me.

I thank you all not only for the recognition today, but for the many times you've offered support, encouragement, a smile, or a hug. You are the best, and I'm grateful especially to Karen Leabo, Judy Christenberry, Barbara Harrison, and Donna Gimarc, who on a cold, rainy night in February 1995 welcomed a nervous, newbie writer to her first booksigning and said, "You're not a member of DARA? You should join."

How right they were.

Thank you, DARA, from the bottom of my heart.

Lorraine