Tuesday, October 30, 2012

In the Aftermath of the Storm



As I sit here drinking my morning coffee, watching the news coverage of Hurricane Sandy and the devastation she has left in her wake, I am mindful of the blessings in my life.  

I’ve been obsessing over what I will write this year during NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month), feeling anxious and just a little scared that the deep well of words that normally flows pretty freely in me will dry up before I reach the necessary 50,000 (that’s 1,667 words per day) to complete the challenge. But my fellow NaNoWriMo-ians in the northeast are worrying about real wells and real water—too much and too little--and food and heat and electricity, and snow and cold and safety. My heart and prayers go out to them.

I am determined, now, to focus on sending as much white light as I possibly can in their direction, to family and friends, connections and associates, writers and readers and loved ones. Writing is a my joy and my passion. My family and my friends are my life. 

Friday, October 26, 2012

Politics and Baseball: May the Best Men Win



May the Best Man Win . . .

As for politics: I’m not sure how we can possibly make that determination anymore or what that term really means. Who is the best man? Between negative ads and the assertions of unqualified facts, figuring out who is best suited for the job, or any job, is a ridiculous proposition. Actually, I’m not sure that it has ever been easy to elect the best man or woman for any post during any election be it for leader of our country, state representative, county clerk, or sixth grade class president.

In 1966, Roger Foster, our much beloved and feared, whip-cracking, English Leather-wearing sixth grade teacher encouraged our understanding of the political process by holding an election for class president. Somehow, my hat was tossed into the ring (I swear I don’t know how that happened. I’ve never been known to wear a hat!) and I found myself campaigning against my good friend and ally, George Carr.

I honestly don’t remember doing much real campaigning. George and I each had our own pretty-much-evenly-divided contingent of supporters (as I recall, the election was also tinged with a battle-of-the-sexes element, boy against girl) but despite our proximity to Washington, DC, less than sixty miles from Reisterstown, Maryland, we  eleven-year-old sixth graders were decidedly apolitical.

What I do remember from that experience is pacing the shiny-tiled hallway outside the classroom door while the votes were cast by our classmates; whispering to George that no matter who won, we’d still be friends; wondering how the heck I’d gotten myself into this situation (I was already taking my turn working in the school store, serving as library assistant, and singing in the school choir); and hoping against hope that I would win if only to claim victory for my sex.

And then the heart breaking moment arrived. The ballots were cast, the votes were in, my opponent and I were ushered into the room. Brenda Brilliant announced the winner: George Carr! George shot off the floor and into the air like a rocket amid the cheers of every boy in our class. Relief swept over me as I congratulated George with a handshake and a sincere smile. But wait! Brenda consulted with her fellow ballot-counter Robin. Then they shook their heads in anguish. “There’s been a mistake,” Robin said. “We got the totals mixed up. The winner is Colleen!”

There must have been shrieks of joy from the girls in our class but all I could hear was the groan from the boys; all I could see was the look of defeat on George’s face as he crashed and burned; all I could feel was the bitterness of his disappointment and my own confusion in that moment of tainted victory. 

That election left a bitter taste in my mouth. As I grew older and watched the process of electing the best man unfold and change and become the media circus it is today, I always thought of George and I still do. George was a great guy and a good friend. He would have made a memorable class president. At least more memorable than me who doesn’t remember one thing I accomplished in office that year.

As for baseball: Despite Mr. Foster’s determination to introduce us to the ins and outs of the electoral process, and inadvertently the bitterness of defeat, during that fall election season, we tasted the joy of victory on another field of battle: the Baltimore Orioles beat the Los Angeles Dodgers 4-0 in the World Series and the best man of all was Frank Robinson, MVP. (Although personally, a case could be made for Brooks Robinson or Boog Powell. But that’s another story.)

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Downtime

At this moment, I am a writer in downtime. There is a pause for me as I take a breath and wait for the next push from a character, a new one or an old familiar face. I am waiting for a voice to come forward, for the urgency to build, for the desire to speak to reach a crescendo that I can't ignore. Until that time, I read and think and walk around my yard; I dust and putter and let my mind roam free, unburdened by the need to begin the next chapter or paragraph or sentence or find the perfect word. I have faith that the words will find me when the time is right, when the plot thickens like a stew left to simmer. I will know when the time is right to stir the pot and that time is not now.

In the meantime, I visit the websites of other aspiring writers. I read their blogs and books and feel less alone in my quest. Don't ask me what that quest is. I'm still letting that simmer, too.

This is the perfect time for me to be in downtime. As the leaves fall from the one deciduous tree in my yard, nestled in among the palms and oranges, I pine for long winter nights and hibernation, log fires and good books.

And if all else fails, if I become restless or mired in inconsequential thoughts and things, I turn off the stove and my mind completely, and

I go to the sea . . .


Thursday, October 18, 2012

Self Publishing ≠ Rejection

The underlying myth of self-publishing seems to be this: the only writers who self-publish are those writers who have been rejected by publishers and must resort to another means (any other means!) to get published. I, for one, would like to dispel this myth. I am a publisher-free self-publisher. There. I've said it. My secret is out.

My four books--available on Amazon--have never been submitted for representation or publication. I don't have a stack of rejection letters (no, not one!) because I've never offered my books and stories up to an agent or publisher for vetting or review. I've never tied my dreams of success to the whims and wishes of someone else. I've never turned over control of my destiny to someone who cares not a whit for my personal success but is responsible for the success or failure of a company (or a career) not connected to me. This is not to say that if an offer to work with a publisher came down the pike that I would run away in terror, but I would have to think long and hard about what signing on the dotted line would mean to me, to my books, and to my ability to continue to live my own dream.

Every day I am confronted with the prejudice of people who believe that having the support of a publisher is the only path to validation as a writer. In fact, more often than not, "Who's the publisher?" is the first question people ask me when I offer them a copy of my book. When I say, "Me!" a look of disdain comes into their eyes and I know what they're thinking. I'm not a mind reader but I've had this conversation so many times in the past that I know the signs by heart. No publisher = no good. Self-published = rejected.

I believe that as a society, we have been brainwashed into thinking that anything that does not come with a recognized stamp of approval must be deemed not worthy of our time or attention. As I check out blogs and comments and essays on the internet, my belief is confirmed. But as I read bad novel after bad novel sanctioned by publishers dedicated to churning out fodder to satisfy their own fabricated ideas of the wants and needs of readers, I am disgusted and amused. And then I go back to writing what I want to write, what comes naturally to me, and what feels right for me. And then I self-publish.

My dreams may never come true. I may spend the rest of my life self-publishing book after book and never attain the readership to which I aspire. I may break down and decide to offer up my soul for inspection and approval. Who knows what may come in the days and years ahead. For now, I am content to write and work toward dispelling the myth that only rejection leads to self-publishing. And I will remember the words of Abileen Clark from The Help despite my lack of letters be they acceptance or rejection: You is kind. You is smart. You is important. And I am a writer, a good one, with or without a publisher.



Wednesday, October 17, 2012

A Writer Writes

How do you know you're a writer? That question, or some derivation of it, seems to pop up on so many blogs and discussions that I almost feel as though I'm piling on here. When do you know? What does it take to be able to say to yourself and others, "I am a writer?" I think it's a legitimate question to ponder as so many writers are deciding whether or not to pursue self-publishing rather than follow the traditional track. (As I write this, I can see clearly in my head an image of me tied to a railroad track with a steam engine bearing down on me. The train is black and menacing and a sign on the front reads, "Publish or perish!") If I do it on my own, am I still legitimate? Does that make me a writer? The answer depends on who you're asking and has many different levels.

Level 1: Society in General: Most people seem to think that the label "writer" is reserved for only those people who receive a paycheck in association with their writing. Throughout my life, I've considered myself a writer although in many of the jobs I've held, writing had nothing to do with how I earned my paycheck. Writing was not my hobby or my way to let off steam or something that I did to while away the hours when I couldn't sleep in the dead of night (although that is often when I'd write while holding down a full-time job or two at a time). Writing was, and is, as much a part of me as breathing. Always has been, always will be.

Level 2: Professional Identification: Years ago, while going to school in Fairfax, Virginia, I tried to join a writers' club. During the application process, I was asked how many and in what genres I'd had books published. When I admitted that I was an aspiring writer hoping to one day publish, hence the desired affiliation, I was rejected out of hand. Writers are published, I was told. Come back when you're a writer. I've heard the same line from other clubs and agents and publishers through the years. It's like the old story of trying to find a first job: you need experience to get experience. You need to be published to get published. And I'm finding that self-publishing doesn't count.

Level 3: Personal: My brother is a musician; a very talented, gifted, brilliant musician. He hears music in his head; he experiences life through his music in a way that I will never fully understand (imagine August Rush), except that I do understand in a strange way because I experience my life through words. While Brad hears the rhythms of life in a musical way, I see the potential of words all around me. Our older brother is an amazingly talented painter whose art belongs in museums and galleries around the world. I'm sure that Randy sees the world in colors and brush strokes to which I am blind (imagine What Dreams May Come) but I understand because I find emotion in words and feel the pull of the pen or the pencil or the keyboard throughout my day and often late into the night. Brad is a musician. Randy is a painter. I am a writer. We are what we are because we live through our art to understand our experiences of life.

So perhaps the best appellation is the one that feels right to you. A musician plays. A painter paints. A writer writes. Despite what anyone else tells me or believes about me or thinks of me, I am a writer. It is what I am.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Surfing

My weekend was spent surfing. I glided from one wave to another in that vast ocean of information catching glimpses of strange and far off lands (the wild world of publishing) and people just like me, writers and indie-publishers, lining the shores. Again, all I can say is, "Yikes!"

I thought my surfboard was unique. I thought that if I floated it past every buoy, stopping to post a message, if I offered it for free I'd be, well, special. As it turns out, there are thousands of surfers out there doing the same thing, offering free rides for a few days to build interest and momentum, flying "Read Me" flags, and waving to each other to exchange stories and information and books.

I feel sore and tired today, the muscles in my legs cramping from clenching my toes to stay afloat but I am heartened that I am not alone out here. I've discovered little inlets of hope and inspiration and people who have sailed these waters before. Having stuck my toe into the waters, I'm preparing for my next big adventure, reading the maps and gearing up. With gritted teeth and fingers crossed, I'm setting sail for what I hope will be friendly shores, a land called, "Agent." I'll let you know what happens.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Connected

While working on several stories/novels/books, I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be "connected." There are so many opportunities on the internet to reach out, get in touch, join, friend, like, and expand my circles that I'm a little confused about what, exactly, all of it means and what, exactly, I am hoping to accomplish as I throw myself open and out there in the public domain.

I am not a social person by nature. I have never been a joiner of cliques or clubs or groups even if I share a common interest. My friends list on Facebook is growing, and I love the friends I have, but I am not one to chat and share and poke on a whim. I sometimes wish I could throw myself with reckless abandon into the lives of the people around me but I can't and I don't and I won't. Even my status updates are considered at length so writing a blog, although fun, offers yet another moment to ponder whether or not what I write adds to or detracts from the human experience in general and on the internet or if it's just more noise.

I like to write, writing brings me joy, and I believe that any offering of joy adds a positive vibration to the world. That's what I look for in my quest to be "connected" to the world of Facebook and Linked-In, and Google+, as well as to the universe at large: a positive vibration of joy. I may not comment and respond and add my two cents to every conversation or discussion, but I read and participate in my own small way, through the feelings of joy that come with being a part of something bigger, something meaningful, and something positive. And then I write about it.

What does being connected mean to you? I'd really like to know.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

FREE Kindle Download of A Solitary Life

FREE KINDLE DOWNLOADS!

My latest book, A Solitary Life, will be available for FREE on Kindle as well as the Kindle app for your Iphone, Ipad, and PC. Be sure to get your copy!

Friday, October 12th through Sunday, October 14th. 

I hope you'll take advantage of this opportunity to read A Solitary Life and then let me know what you think.





Promotion (Yikes!)

When it comes to promoting my books, I am a wuss. While sitting at my computer writing, I feel confident, creative, and capable. While delivering freshly printed copies into the hands of friends and family, I am elated. When confronted with the next step of getting my books out there into the world of strangers, my head spins with excitement while my stomach curls up into a little ball and mutters, "Yikes!" This is where I am today: excited--with a stomach ache.

I'm still learning the ins and outs of book promotion on the internet. I have a website; I have ads on Facebook and Google+; I am developing an Author's Page at Amazon and a similar page on Facebook; and I am writing a blog, which is actually fun! Building a following takes time, I hear, so I am reading and researching and writing and trying to stay on track which is a challenge with the two warring sides of me screaming for attention. So, I've come up with a temporary solution to satisfy my logical mind which revels in the thrill and excitement of promotion while placating my gut-wrenching fear:

FREE KINDLE DOWNLOADS!

Beginning on Friday, October 12th, A Solitary Life will be available for FREE on Kindle as well as the Kindle app for your Iphone, Ipad, and PC. This three-day promotion will end on Sunday, October 14th, so I hope you will take advantage of this opportunity to read my latest book and then let me know what you think.

Which leads me back to the concept of promotion: Yay! Lots of people will get to read A Solitary Life for FREE! And, then, of course, YIKES!

Friday, October 5, 2012

Hope (and Fear)

Hope and fear: two sides of the same coin. We can't have one without the other. I hope I can find time to finish my work; I'm afraid there won't be enough. I hope people read my books; I'm afraid they won't like them if they do. I hope they find my books meaningful; I'm afraid I've missed the mark. I hope, I hope, I hope; I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid. We can hope but hard on hope's heals is fear. Good old gut wrenching, hope smashing, life altering fear.

Writing is a scary process. There is always the chance that when I sit down at the keyboard nothing will come up, no thought will come forward to bear fruit, no idea will spring to life in a whisper or a roar. Add to that the fear of wasting time, of not being good enough, of not following a traditional route and putting my life and my work in the hands of someone else. And then there's daily life and all of its demands. I have journals full, files full, closets full of hopes and fears for my family. Sometimes it helps to write about them. Sometimes it's even fun to play through a scenario in my head or on paper that shifts my hopes into high gear and puts running shoes on fear. Hope for the future, fear of zombies. Now how rational is that?

All the hope and fear in the world, hours and days and weeks and years of it, won't change a thing. So I am practicing leaving hope behind me with the idea that its sidekick fear will evaporate, too. I am putting belief into daily action and letting action expand to take my life where it will. I believe that there is plenty of time to finish my work. I believe that people will read my books. I believe they will like them and find them meaningful. I believe that I am doing what is right for me.

I am learning each and every day that life just is. Regardless of what I hope my life will be and my fears of what it's not, life really just is what it is. And that's pretty spectacular. Or so I believe.

Thursday, October 4, 2012

Stepping Away

Photography has always fascinated me. Capturing an image, especially in black and white, feels romantic to me. My own photos, usually taken while trying to corral three kids, are anything but romantic, more often than not taken out of focus and with a finger (mine) over the lens. It has only been recently, with the introduction of an iphone into my life, that I have discovered the real joy of taking photos that can be edited and manipulated and turned into something completely different, and more, than a simple snapshot.

There is something very satisfying in turning a full-color photo of a yellow rose into a black and white image and then teasing out the colorful detail and illuminating the dew drops that cling to the petals. Photography is the visual aspect of the words that run through my head while I am idly spinning stories and ideas, the distraction that allows my fingers to leave the keys and take up the brush. I think about subtle shading and am amazed at the colors that spring to life, even in the greys and blacks and whites that are muted or vibrant depending on the light and the angle and the time of day.

I know nothing about F stops or lenses and I don't want to know. I like that with the click of a button, I can change the tone and the feel and the vibrance of a point-and-shoot photo I've taken; I can delete the elements that appear as clutter in the background. I like that I can cut and crop and edit to my heart's content and still come up with something that has meaning for me. And all the while, my brain is clicking away, looking for the subtle shading of my next dark character.


Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Reader Karma

Every time I've ever bought, been loaned, or shown an avid interest in an item or a book on Amazon, I've received an email asking me to rank and rate my experience not only with Amazon but with the item or book itself. In the past, I very rarely responded unless the item I ordered was delivered in record time or did something unexpected when it popped out of the box ("Oh, look! It's got a clip on the end and it sparkles!"). My usual response was to hit delete and go along my merry way.

But then I published my first book on Kindle and through Amazon's Create Space and my mind-set on the way reviews are handled changed completely and instantly. Suddenly, reviews and rankings became very important--but only to me, it seemed. I could not for the life of me get my family and friends to write a review. They loved the book! They recommended it to all their friends! My Facebook friends sent me messages full of praise and congratulations but no one, not one person would write a review. (I take that back. One friend in Ohio finally wrote a review but Sue is a writer herself and understands the importance of reviews. Even then, after long debate, she gave Ripple four stars, "because people will know we're friends and think that I only gave it a five out of loyalty and not because I believe it deserves five stars which it does.") So, despite my continued urging, despite the book having made it through the first round of Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award Contest, despite moderate sales and views, Ripple has one four-star review. And I feel like a mother whose child is the last one picked for dodge-ball.

Now, I look back at all of those opportunities to write a quick review, to rank a product or a book and I regret not taking the time to do so. I'm sure there are others out there just like me who scan their product pages looking for evidence that someone, anyone was moved enough by their product or their story to give it a ranking and write a review. In this fast-paced, grab-and-go age of "like me," I realize how important it is to offer feedback and praise. I think it has always been important, but in the past our triumphs were often delivered privately in glowing fan letters rather than publicly on pages that determined whether or not a product sells. Liking something used to be based on personal taste and opinion and not on what other people "liked" with a thumbs up. Times have changed, though, and our hard work and joy is out there for everyone to see and rate and rank in a very public forum.

So, the next time you receive that email asking for a rating or a ranking or a review, think about taking a moment to express how you feel about the item or the product or the book. I do. I believe that if I write reviews and comments and give out deserving stars that other people may follow my example and finally make their way around to my books. You've got to give to get; what goes around comes around; write a review to get a review. That's reader karma.


Tuesday, October 2, 2012

Me and Not Me

When other writers write, little pieces of themselves must slough off and jump into the mix to resurface in words and scenarios that portray shades of themselves. I believe this to be true because I see shadows of me reflected in my characters. Shadows, mind you. My characters are not wholly me and I am not wholly them although it is fun when I find myself writing a familiar scene that resonates with humor or anger or honesty. Writing allows me to see moments from my life from different perspectives, with an eye toward caution or forgiveness or understanding that didn't necessarily shine through in reality. And there is satisfaction in finally being able to shout the words on paper in bold capital italics that I could not, would not, or did not say but wanted to. Writing can be cathartic but it can also be just plain fun.

Mary Margaret, my heroine from A Solitary Life, came into being very quietly. I was confused by her appearance at first, not sure where she was taking me. Like all of my characters, she came into my head very early in the morning. I could see her groggy and in need of coffee (like me), perplexed by her life (like me), but on a path completely alien and different from mine. She was, however, enough like me for me to wonder what my life would have been like had I followed in her footsteps, had I had her experiences, had I lived a life other than my own, had I stayed and not moved on. Those thoughts opened the gates of my imagination and led me, as always, to the land of What If. What If is a comfortable place for me, a land rich in possibilities and potential for illusion. Sometimes a story springs new and whole from my imagination but sometimes just the thought of what if takes me to a new twist on an old truth.

When a friend read an early draft of A Solitary Life, she asked me how I would handle the questions that most writers are asked: Is this you? Did this happen? Is this story true? My answer is, Of course not! but that doesn't mean that the experience is any less real for Mary Margaret. I want my stories to feel real; I want readers to feel the angst and pain and love and hope that my characters feel as I write them. To get there, a little piece of me must be written into the mix, to balance the fantasy with the reality, to temper the steel with real heat. But that doesn't mean that the story is mine. I'm simply the teller, the writer, the eyes and the ears and the mouth of my characters. Me and not me.




Monday, October 1, 2012

Publishing

Life is not a fairy tale. I keep reminding myself of this little fact every chance I get. But that doesn't mean I believe it. Oh, I've long given up on princes and glass slippers and magical kisses, but I'm not so sure about the fairy godmother thing. A part of me still wants to believe that somewhere out there, out in the mists on the edges of reality, someone is lurking, someone with kind intentions and all the right answers, someone who lugs around a magical wand and a bag of fairy dust, someone who--with a wave or a poof or a sprinkle-- can make my life magical. Out there somewhere is someone who can make my books sell. Right now, I'd settle for someone with a few connections who knows how to write html code and and has at least some inkling of how the world of Kindle and self-publishing works--with or without fairy dust.

The world of self-publishing is exciting, frustrating, fulfilling, and anticlimactic all at the same time. Exciting: Yay! The book is finished, it's been edited a hundred and one times, and I have a cover. (Time: 12 seconds) Frustrating: The file uploads easily but all of the pages are skewed and the first page number begins at 125. (Time: 4 hours or 4 days--it feels like forever) Fulfilling: I did it. I actually DID IT! (Time: 5 seconds) Anticlimactic (also known as panic-mode): You know how in the movies there are always scenes where the writer smokes a cigar or pops open a bottle of champagne when the book is finished and finally ready for sale? Well, that's not exactly the feeling for me. The giddiness is momentary and then panic sets in. What if no one reads it? What if someone does read it and doesn't like it? What if a lot of people read it? What if . . .? And then I smack myself in the head and remind myself why I write in the first place. Because I have to. Why do I self-publish? Because I can. In this wonderful world of online connectivity and freedom, I can write my books my way in my own time. And that means a lot to me. Would I like the books to be best sellers? Of course I would! Will that happen? I hope so. Which leads me back to the fairy tale.

Following the traditional path of publishing seems strange to me. I can throw myself and my work out there through submission after submission and hope and pray that someone in the publishing world will find it acceptable and agree to publish. Or I can throw myself and my work out there into the world of self-publishing and hope and pray that my friends and family will find their way to my books and then encourage others to do the same. Either way, there must be a little magic involved somewhere along the line. So although I continue to tell myself that life is not a fairy tale, I keep an eye out for the flutter of wings or the glimmer of sparkly dust and keep writing. And writing. And writing.