I blog sometimes

I've been studying the pros and cons of advertising through social networking (just saying that makes me want to say "yuck" and refuse to eat my vegetables). I knew going into this that the first book (Sing which, by the way is now on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Sony, Diesel, Kobo, and iTunes), would be experimental in some respects. This was why I chose pre-polished work so I could focus on learning the mechanics of the market place and so forth.

This was probably one of my wiser decisions. Just like editing and formatting, Marketing a book is hard work--not for sissies or the antisocial. And frankly, I'm finding out that I'm a lot less social, even online, than I thought I was. My facebook page has a large list of people (and I'm grateful for all of them), but I hate to tell you how few of those contacts I've initiated. Even online I'd prefer to keep my circle of acquaintances to small and select. There's my inner circle, and then there's everybody else.

Yeah. Not going to work. Not if I'm going to make a go of writing as a business (as opposed to the occasional sale or rejection letter from agents). Luckily I'm coming into the market at a good time. A lot of experienced (social) folks have gone ahead of me and are sending maps back tied to the legs of virtual homing pigeons so the rest of us slogging through the swamps, like Lewis and Clark, can find the way.

One of these veterans is a writer by the name of Russell Blake  who recently guest hosted on  writing.ie. I ran across Russel on Twitter , saw a couple of his well-written comments and grew curious about what else he had to say (See? Social Networking does work).  His article, Six Easy Tips for Publishing Digitally was a wealth of help. Russel is the author of several books. I'm currently reading  Fatal Exchange and, though this isn't a genre I would typically select (I suspect that his target audience is male) I have to say, it's excellent, on the edge of your seat reading.  

One of the pieces of advice that appears on every list of to-dos, including Russell Blake's, is to keep a blog. Which we know I already do. But I'm apparently supposed to be blogging regularly. Which means I can't let things collect dust around here as often as I have been over the last year or so.  So today's entry is--in part-- about committing to doing this more than sometimes. Even once classes start I can probably fit an entry or two in a week. And we all know I can always find something to say. A lot of something.  Maybe not something everyone wants to hear. But something. I like my kids, husband, puppies, gardening, books, writing, horses, Obama (yes, I did and I will do so again in November), and poetry. Surely something in that list will make someone want to come back and read again.

So if you're one of those inner circle readers who is still checking back in after--how many years? Seven? Thank you. And I mean that. And if you're just now arriving by way of twitter or facebook or  someone else's blog or my web page, or even Google--Welcome. Please come in and stay a while. Excuse the dog hair. We're glad to have you. Feel free to add to the discussion or make fun of me (though I'd be sure you're faster than the dogs).      

So this is a midlife crisis?

In mid June I decided to stop lying to myself. I was getting nothing done and pretending that I was. Rather than continue this fiasco, I simply stopped doing anything but blogging and even that was spotty. I wanted to play outside, work in the garden, read, and contemplate my next move. So I did. I had a good garden and feel physically better than I've felt in some time.

In truth, as I faced turning forty-four, I found myself quite suddenly standing beside the mile marker of middle age and not liking the view at all. I suppose for the first time it occurred to me that getting older was not an option, that I could not turn the car around and go back the way I'd come, that there would be no redos. A vague, nagging sort of grief followed closely behind this realization.

I know I'm not supposed to feel this way. I know this because people who are older than I am have rolled their eyes and assured me that I don't know how lucky I am (Oh yes I do) and if I was busier I wouldn't have time to feel this way. That if I was living the kind of life I should, I'd be feeling fulfilled and satisfied right now. Shame on me, I guess.

I kept the sad secret to myself until Gary and I went camping and, after a second glass of wine one night, confessed my discovery. Gary can be trusted with deep secrets and fears, no matter how minor, or how disturbing. This is one of the many reasons I love him. He is four years older than I am and knows the terrain. It felt good to have another time traveler say, "How you're feeling is normal. No it is not easy. Yes, it does pass." We talked until the early morning hours and I felt better at the end of it. No real answers, exactly. I just found a certain degree of peace.

I am anything but unhappy with my life. I'm very much where I want to be, doing what I want to be doing and I'm aware that this is a rare admission. The only ongoing dissatisfactions I have are things I must change within myself and the so far unmet hope that some day some agent will think something I've written has value. With those being my only complaints, I suppose I have no real problems. However acknowledging this does not change how I feel (believe me, I've applied "counting your blessings" as a treatment for this and the good feelings only last until the next time it occurs to me that I'm forty-four). This is a powerful awareness of the passage of time, of getting older, of the relative brevity of all of this, my own mortality, and trying to figure out how to get comfortable with what has been a very fluid, abstract fact that only happens to other people. Until it happened to me.

Like many creative sorts I am at my best when I'm suffering from some kind of angst. I came home from our camping trip with a story idea, the first of its kind in better than six months. It was inspired by a combination of experiences--a coincidence, a note from a friend, observations of a strange man camping alone at a nearby site, and my own serious preoccupation with mortality. It is a sci-fi/thriller, far darker than I've tackled up until now, and far more serious. No title yet. Like Troubled_Waters and its sequel, the story was born complete, with a beginning, middle, and an end. I've typed out a rough outline and will probably start it in November.

Meanwhile I suppose, for lack of a better idea, the kids aren't the only ones who are hitting the books this month. I've committed to sending out another round of letters to whoever I haven't queried at this point (I'm pretty sure there are one or two left). This is largely an exercise of principle at this point, an unwillingness to "not try", on my part. TW is an entertaining series with the sequel stronger than the original, but maybe not as strong as the next story will be. I don't feel like I can just abandon the project after the amount of work I've put into it.

Bad Books

Bad books have a purpose. Of course, they give those of us who are trying to get published some hope. But more than that . . .

They are great blogging fodder.

I read a real groaner this week. It was a sneaky one. It passed my first page test(this is the quick read I do as I stand by the book rack, trying to ignore my husband and whatever boys are hanging around, drumming their fingers and wishing I'd hurry up). In this case, the good writing even continued through the second page. After that, I can't quite figure out what happened to the writer, but I suspect they simply decided that the writing didn't matter and I feel cheated. Even the writer's bio fooled me (it sounded like they should know what they were doing).

Terrible, terrible dialogue, writing that sounded like some of the "beginnery" stuff we get in Rorschach's at TUF (where you expect to find it), and characters that couldn't quite make up their mind what they wanted to be.

Why did I keep reading you ask? That's what my fourteen year old asked after I complained. "Because I bought it and I want to get my money's worth and because I keep hoping it will get better. Plus . . ." I leaned over, "It gives me something to read out loud to you."

After two lines of dialogue, he clapped his hands over his ears. "Stop! Stop! Before I start to bleed!" I did, but not before I taught him the words "Info dumping" and "suspension of belief" and "long passages of unrelated extraneous information" (something I'm bad about giving in person, but should never find its way into a book, or a blog for that matter . . . hmmm . . . ).

I didn't know characters in a book could over-act until I read this one.

Interestingly this is not this person's first book (we all have to write them and they are often not our best work). In fact there are quite a few others. I won't be reading them, but it's nice to know that this writer has been so successful. They've obviously found a market for their work.

Now all I've got to do is figure out how to repeat that success. Only with better writing.

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Sometimes I amaze myself

After I finished a query letter this morning I sat back and looked at it with some pride and said to myself, "That is a great letter. Wow. Sometimes I amaze myself." I smiled at the thought and at my terrific letter. This isn't something I say to myself very often and I wondered briefly why it seemed so familiar. Then I remembered where I last heard it.

My oldest son, yesterday, after repairing several household computer issues. He actually says it pretty regularly. So often, in fact, that I bought him a t-shirt saying the very same thing for his 18th birthday last year. He is a naturally positive kid. Gary and I both appreciate this buoyancy as neither of us have ever possessed this level of confidence. And we(quietly) take some credit for it.

Our parents were from a different era. His mother is German raised in a post WWII depressed Eastern Germany, his father a soldier who'd grown up on a farm in Kansas, himself the product of a harsh environment. My Dad was raised by a poor family in east Texas. The oldest of five, he was often left in charge of his brothers while his parents worked numerous jobs. His mother was an alcoholic and his (step)father often indifferent to his oldest adopted son's need to be acknowledged for his strengths. Both Gary's mother and my father have a deep-seated fear of ever being poor again and it was reflected in their attitudes about their lives as we were growing up.

Neither of us ever questioned whether our parents loved us. But we often wondered if they liked us. We certainly didn't feel accepted. They were harsh, demanding that we be perfect (look perfect, make perfect grades, have perfect manners, etc) and expressing a great deal of anger when we weren't. That anger took the form of verbal and sometimes physical abuse. Quite frankly, while the beatings were bad, the things they said were worse and still resonate occasionally in those late night, soft-underbelly bearing discussions couples sometimes have.

We now know we were basically along for the ride, part of the package deal whether we wanted to be or not, as these adults sorted out their own lives. This sorting included divorces, remarriages, job changes, and moving around. Ultimately, they dragged themselves into middle(in my father's case, upper) class living and were determined to stay there. In their minds, having nice homes, nice cars, lots of money, perfect spouses, and perfect kids were the key elements of success. There was no tolerance for anything that didn't fit into that list of expectations.

Fast-forwarding through the years, we have both arrived in our forties in basically one piece. We've come to grips with our parents' struggles and (finally) understand that they faced issues that were far larger than just raising their children. As imperfect beings ourselves, we've forgiven them, in part because we love them, but also because we've made our own mistakes and had to forgive ourselves for plenty.

But we came into this parenting thing with very clear concerns and very focused on not repeating the patterns. It was/is important to us that our kids know how valuable they are to us and how much we genuinely like them. We've tried really hard to strike a balance between discipline and character building and celebrating who they are. Sometimes I think we've made it, other times I'm not as sure.

This occasionally brings frowns (and criticisms) from our conformity loving parents (by the way--my hippie Mom is not a part of this discussion--that's another story for another entry). It's not easy to blow past their comments (do we ever get past wanting to please our parents?), but since we really like our kids (in case you missed it), and we've gained a certain amount of perspective on both our paths and that of our parents, we do just that.

Do we pray that we're getting this right? Every day, sometimes multiple times. It is often my first thought when I get up in the morning and my last as I drop off to sleep at night. But when we see our oldest son about to graduate from high school with honors and strike out into the world with his "sometimes I amaze myself" attitude, we suspect that we're at least close. And when I see Daniel or Sam or Joe beaming after they've accomplished some goal they've set for themselves, I'm pretty sure of it.

Monday

Another week begins. I'm running behind this morning because Gary convinced me to stay up late and hang out with him. Sometimes I suspect he and I are not very good for each other (more on that another time). I got up intending to walk and was greeted by a thunderstorm. So much for good intentions. I'll try again at lunch time--try to run between the raindrops, maybe.

If you're male or don't have a lot of patience with personal confessions, you might want to skip to the next two paragraphs. I simply must get this out of my system.

Confession: I am really struggling with my weight these days and am heavier than I've been in a long time. I suppose this is an improvement on many years of disordered eating. Every weight management program I entered wound up the same way: binging, purging, ritualistic eating, obsessing over every bite I put in my mouth, always seeing a fat woman in the mirror. Being a size five was great, but at what cost? However, this isn't healthy either. I suppose it's a good sign that I've learned to measure myself differently over the last few years, that being my best isn't about how I look, but by what I accomplish and who I am. If it weren't for Gary's unconditional love and constantly reminding me that I am more than the sum of the numbers on the bathroom scale and the size on the tag on my clothes, I'd very likely be in a hospital or program with women with eating disorders.

I'm an avid walker; that hasn't changed. I need the seratonin that it releases to keep me in balance and I love being outdoors. However, between a slowing metabolism (turning 40 has a magical effect on the female body), genetics (all the women in my family are over-weight) I am wearing a size I never thought I'd see again. I will beat this; I've done it before. Fourteen years ago I lost a 100 lbs so thirty pounds shouldn't be as big a deal. Right?

Okay, that was probably an uncomfortable couple of paragraphs for my male readers, if there are any. If you're still with me, lets move on. I promise, I'll occasionally make note of my progress here, but but my vanity is not the focus of this blog.

My writing schedule is going to have to change so that I can accomplish everything I've set out to do. As usual I walk first thing in the morning four days a week--Monday/Wednesday/Friday and Saturday or Sunday. School the boys on Monday, Wednesday and Friday--this leaves Gary handling it the other two days of the week so I can work at the office. Tuesdays and Thursdays are packed--I leave first thing in the morning around seven and don't get in some days until after six--sometimes only to turn around and go back out the door again. This means that I'll be writing after nine at night. I can do this, I just can't surf much or play around on the forums until I'm done.

Meanwhile, I've got this query letter to write. I'm going to take a shot at it this week and see where it winds up.

Okay, time to call the kids together and get some work done.