The What-If Game

Recently I discovered a file marked "Media: 2003-Present", except it clearly doesn't contain anything from the present as most of the articles I found make bold exclamations about my rising career as a self-published author—my "present" couldn't be further from that reality. Despite my lack of success at becoming the next Judy Blume, these articles do reveal what my life was like during this period of my time, and they contain so much hope and enthusiasm it is hard not to get caught up a little in the what-if game (come on, you play it, too!). Now that I am two years into my forties, I can look back with detachment and even a little awe—I did accomplish a lot for a nobody-writer. So even if those dreams didn't come true, they are fun to remember.

Below are some of my favorite articles about that initial dip into local celebrity...

The Wave, November 2003

What is particularly funny to me about this is that basically the writer is questioning my sanity...which, looking back, makes a lot of sense!

Really, things were looking hopeful and promising...the New York publishers were calling...Also, I was VERY pregnant in this picture. 

Some time between April and June, 2004.

Now this is a little newsletter from the school district I last taught in...shocking that they refer to the characters having sex! Don't think this would happen today!

June,1 2004, Newport Daily News

What's great about this article is how my superintendent READ the book and my principal put it on the summer reading list. Very cool. The reporter made me feel like a celebrity. I mean I was on the front page of the paper, so come on!

The Jewish Voice & Herald, May 28, 2004

Probably what I like the most about this article is that they call the main character "Maggie" instead of "Maddie". Oh, well.

April 13, 2005, The Providence Journal

 

I was particularly proud of this piece in The Providence Journal because they had been rejecting me for awhile when I sent them the first press release. This felt like a real victory to me. 

Writer's Digest, 2004

Though this is a very small blurb, seeing the words "first place" next to my very first novel was really the best moment for me. After that, no other accolades about my novels really could compete. 

KLIATT, January 2005

And...my first review! This appeared in KLIATT, which is no longer in print but at the time was a pretty big deal!

Now what?

Since parting ways with my former agent last October, I have slowly allowed myself to widen the scope and perspective I have on writing and publishing. Over the course of the last 10 months, I've written several blog posts, a book review, articles, papers for school, and published a novel on SwoonReads.

Newest Novel!

As I begin the college application/essay season (my 13th as a college counselor/essay coach) and listen to countless stories of overcoming failure, I can't help but think of my own failures over the last five years (documented, here, on this blog).

Students who write about failure generally talk about what they learned or how a failure changed and affected them. They don't psychoanalyze themselves or their failures, and they don't try to figure out the why or even the how.

When I've written about failure over the last few years, I spent a lot of time on the why and how and not so much on the now what. When my students write about failure, they talk about the now what.

Finally, I am, too.

Now what?

My failures in publishing have caused me a lot of emotional pain and suffering because I had the mistaken belief that because I was doing all the right things, failure was impossible...So, when failure happened, I blamed myself—when, in fact, failing in publishing is a lot like failing to win the lottery.

No one controls the lottery.

I cannot control agents or publishers. I can only control myself and what I write.

So, now I have a new goal.

One reader.

That's it. Not how many books I've sold or how many comments I get or how much money I make (ha!). And, most importantly, not how many publishers I've submitted to (and been rejected by). My writing goals are to write what I want, make it the best I can, and then reach ONE reader who reads my work, whether it's a book or a blog post. From this post forward, I aim to reach one person with each piece I write, and I don't necessarily even need to know who that person is or even have evidence that they have read this, meaning comments or feedback through an email, etc.

I am going on faith. On hope.

So, dear reader, I believe that if you are reading this, you have been touched in some way, and I hope that you will come back for more (and maybe leave a comment ;)

I also hope that you are still reading this post because I would like for you to read my novel Till It Stops Beating on SwoonReads.com. Click here.

Thank you, Reader, whoever and wherever you are.

Parental Discretion Is Advised.

DISCLAIMER: The following material contains adult subject matter. Parental discretion is advised.

  

I’m serious. Tell the kids under 18 to leave. 

Okay, here is what has been in my head lately:

Literary masturbation=Self-publishing

I did not come up with the GENIUS analogy, that self-publishing is akin to masturbation. That credit belongs to John Winters in one of my favorite articles called “I’m aself-publishing failure”. Read the article. Very helpful. Very inspiring.

I mentioned the idea of literary masturbation and referred to John Winter’s article in a recent blog, and I can't stop thinking about it.

GET OUT OF THE ROOM, CHILDREN! This is about to get very adult.

I republished MSW recently, and it felt awesome. A self-induced pleasure, of the publishing kind. There was that build up that goes on while revising and editing and proofing and then—bam—I hit "publish" and a rush of sensations and emotions went through me. I was left with a sweet calm inside, a satisfied contentment.

See how this analogy is PERFECT?!

Doing this act of self-pleasure is so, so much easier today and so much more acceptable than 10 years ago when I self-published MSW the first time. Though, some still say it is something to be ashamed of. But we will get to those hater-folks later. 

Self-publishing is EASY, and it FEELS GOOD (most of the time, but more on that in another blog post). It’s faster than regular publishing, and you have all the control (see how this analogy really is perfect?). Regular, traditional publishing, however, is not analogous to any kind of sex, at least not in my experience.  

A-hem.

Simply put, it's a hell of a lot easier to get laid than to get published. I think all of us in the biz can agree with that.

DISCLAIMER: This is based on MY experience. SO no HATE MAIL from people who have had an easy, swinging time with their book deal.

So, people of earth, listen up, ALL of you. Yeah, you who just finished that first or second draft of a manuscript and are combing through The Writer's Market   or Agent Query, and, yeah, you, too, writer who has received numerous positive rejections from a major publisher. And you, who have an MFA and have been published in several anthologies and magazines and have an agent and are on your sixth manuscript, even YOU, you need to listen and listen carefully.

Getting that book published will be a nearly impossible feat. Traditional publishing is like to getting into Brown, 8.9 percent.

People, NINE F*$KING PERCENT!

ACTUALLY, hold on. I just googled this, and it's a whole lot worse than that.

"Statistics?  I've heard that only 0.03 percent of all manuscripts submitted in the publishing industry in the United States each year actually get published.  That means out of every 10,000 manuscripts which are submitted, only 3 are actually published." 

--From www.tarakharper.com/faq_pub.htm

So, BAD NEWS, folks. Getting published is a whole lot harder than getting into BROWN.

Everyone reading, take a deep breath. I’m sorry to have killed that buzz you had from all of your accomplishments as a writer and all of your efforts climbing the hill towards a book deal. I share that buzz-kill myself.

I know this news is devastating to a writer. Any writer. Newbie or seasoned vet. It devastates ME!

We writers crave to be heard and seen, and we NEED that release of publishing. Our words released to the public. It’s a rush. It’s fantastic.  

Thus, that is why the following statistic is not surprising:

Almost 400,000 books were self published in 2012 according to Bowker. And the number of Self-Published Titles Grows Nearly 60% in 2012 according to the website digitalbookworld.com.

AND. . . The number of self-published books has quadrupled from 2007 to now!

Now, about those hater-folks. . . Sure, many people who have solid careers as authors and writers claim that those of us who self-publish are narcissistic animals who don't have the talent to earn the right of a publisher to consider us. I was reading a thread about us no-talent animals and couldn't believe how ANGRY some people are about those of us who have self-published.

And to those people I say, I am not offended by your opinion. What you claim about us is true sometimes and in some cases. But, I would make the same claim to those in the non-self-published category. There are a lot of narcissistic animals who do get book deals and who have ZERO talent and who have definitely NOT earned the right to get published. Can we all say the word “celebrities”?

But this is not a post about being MAD at folks who hate on us self-published animals. Nor is this a blog lamenting the woes of a self-published author. Nor a post about hating celebrity authors. Some write damn fine stuff. Jamie Lee Curtis has a children’s book I really enjoy called, When I Was Little.

This is post about WHY I chose to and still do, to a certain extent, self-publish. . . even though for all of these 10 years that I've been out there I have had an agent, had work published in lit. mags, newspapers, etc. . .even though I have the resume and experience that would indicate a book deal is around the corner. Even though I still very much want and am striving to be published by a traditional publisher. And by the way, there are a lot of us, like me, who have many years, decades into this business and have not reaped the equal and opposite rewards that both experience and talent warrant in EVER OTHER F*$KING PROFESSION.

Yes, I do think I am (somewhat) talented, and finally, I feel and know and understand that talent alone is not what helps you get a book deal. The elusive market is an enormous factor.

 Look, it's been wizards, vampires, and porn for the last decade. My shit doesn't line up with that. But this could be the year of voicey, contemporary YA fiction. A girl can only dream.

Years ago, when I won the first place award from WD www.writersdigest.com self-pub contest a few folks likened me to the next Judy Blume. I thought, wow, my dreams are coming true because (like many YA writers in my age bracket) when I was nine and reading Judy Blume, I felt, in my whole body, that some day I would write books like hers and people would love those books—I would become a real author.

And it looked like I was on that path ten years ago, when I hit publish and sold over a thousand books pretty quickly and got an agent. . .

While I still am on the path and haven't arrived at the destination, I have continued to self-publish.

Why am I replaying this tune on self-publishing? Because I republished MSW as a ten year anniversary gift to myself. The original had a lot of errors, and I wanted to clean it up and make it look prettier. I did this republish solely por moi. The decision is a little like a choice for cosmetic surgery. Like a facelift or Botox. While I haven't done either of those yet, never say never, and I don't judge those who do. I suppose that this choice really was narcissistic. But it also was for the small group of readers who continue to email me about my Maddie books and who are rooting for me. 

The feeling I got when I republished MSW. . .  was good. I mean that good.  Sorry, but it's true. IT felt SOOOO good.

To republish it using ten years of wisdom was very cathartic. No, I didn't rewrite the entire thing like I wanted to, that wasn't my intention. But I gave it a face-lift, so I could feel really good about it being out there. Because, believe it or not, that book continues to sell!

AND. . . That is why, after receiving over 50 rejections for my short story anthology Big, Fat, Broken Hearts a few years ago, I decided to self-publish a literary anthology that would feature my (rejected) short fiction as well as all those other writers out there who were in need of that good feeling that publishing gives.

In just a little over a week, I will self-publish again (along with my staff). Sucker Literary, volume 3. And it will feel DAMNED GOOD!

But guess what, so will getting a book deal. And I don't think that the two are mutually exclusive. 

So keep writing and keep climbing the mountain. But don't be afraid to take care of yourself once in awhile.

Aspiring to Fail

“I’m a Self-PublishingFailure” so says author John Winters in his eponymously entitled article on Salon.com.

Winter’s piece covers the aspirations, dreams, fantasies, and crashing realities of his self-publishing experience. Case in point: Books Winters sold—zero. Books Winters has given away—1000.

Feeling a sense of camaraderie with Mr. Winters, I posted the link to the article on my personal Facebook page. My writerly FB friends chimed in.

Fellow Rhody Blogger KirstenDiChiappari said, “I aspire to be a self-published failure. It's all about perspective.” Did she read the same article I did? Another FB friend just responded by posting, “Funny!”

Aspiring to fail and calling it funny?

Huh?

So I posted, “I didn't think it was funny as much as honest. The reality of self-publishing.”

Then, Kirsten’s second post came, moments later:

“Yes, very honest but funny, too. That's funny, as in, self-deprecating humor, like when that's all that you've got. Well written.”

I decided to read the article again.

And this time, I saw it. It was funny, in that poking-fun-at yourself way, as Kirsten said.

And, it was the following line—that I swear didn’t exist in the first read—that was not only hysterical, but also so very, very spot on:

“Self-publishing is the literary world’s version of masturbation, except the results are quite often less thrilling. . .”

Ha, I thought, and I would add, “and self-publishing is a public activity that, in some cases, should be kept as private as masturbation.”

Case in point: When I self-published for the first time ten years ago, I knew, as one would expect, nothing about publishing. So, I produced a book that was poorly copyedited and had a cover that made me feel the same way as when I was in fourth grade and my mother convinced me to buy and wear this red and white-checkered skirt and top. Affectionately entitled The Pizza Hut Dress by my classmates, my feeling when I wore it was train-wreckingly embarrassed. But I had promised my mother I would wear it, and a daughter’s guilt is as looming and large as a mother’s.

As time went on, and I self-published a few more times, learning more about effective covers and copyediting necessities, I continued to keep My Sister’s Wedding on the shelves of online and live bookstores.

It was like wearing the Pizza Hut dress for 10 years.

The analogy isn’t perfect, but you get the idea, I continued to keep this book out there, despite my embarrassment. Oh, and by the way, did I mention this very same book I had some shame issues about won the first place award in the Writer's Digest Self Publishing Book Awards, Children's Book division? 

But, I digress!

So, I have republished My Sister’s Wedding, and while it isn’t perfect, it is (and looks) a whole lot better. My writing has evolved and changed, so it was a little rough on my eyes to reread the manuscript, and now that I’m an editor, really hard not to ripe it apart and completely rewrite it. But it is better and, more importantly, it’s not wearing a bad, tablecloth-inspired dress anymore.

So, check out My Sister’s Wedding, the ten-year anniversary edition, and because I clearly have no shame anymore, take a look below at the old cover. . .  and then the new.

Old

1st edition

New

10th anniversary edition

Yet, Another Blog On The Struggle To Accept And Trust Myself.

Last week I had one of those moments…You know, those moments where you are going along in your life, making decisions about things both big and small–"I’m gonna self publish again" and "I’m gonna buy myself a new pair of over priced jeans"– feeling confident, feeling like, "yeah, man, I know what I am doing."

You are going about your life, doing things that on a PMS-feeling-fat-and-ugly-day you might obsess over or question yourself on, but not on this day. On this day, you are sailing. You are in charge. You know what’s right and ain’t nobody gonna bring you down and then–

BAM.

You get an email or phone call, or maybe it’s an actual in-person encounter, but whatever IT is, it’s that small moment, a little tiny patch of words spoken or flashing on the screen that takes you down a notch. Words that you didn’t expect to read/hear. Words that you didn't expect to HIT you so HARD.

Well, THAT happened to me last week.

First, I should back up and tell you that I decided to go ahead and start the process of self-publishing the third Maddie book. It wasn’t just one thing that made me decide to move forward. It was several:

• An invitation to participate in the 1st RI Self Published Authors Fair (a sign to me that we have a chance at being legitimized).
• The outpouring support of Facebook Friends for my work (reviving interest and sales in a book that is now 5 years old).
• A phone call from Barnes and Nobles in Smithfield asking me to be part of their local authors’ fair in May.
• An invitation to be part of 5 Awesome YA Fans book of the month club in August (You should check out their site. They rock!)
• A no-response from yet another agent who has already rejected one book and then requested another but hasn’t given me word one about its status.
• The manuscript has been edited and copy edited since September, sitting, collecting dust, ready to go.
• My first residency experince in January at Pine Manor College, where I realized that I can focus on craft, writing new things, and still self-publish this next book, that my self-publishing doesn’t matter, doesn’t define who I am as a writer.

These signs hammered the nail on my decision to self-publish again. I have come to realize that I’ve been waiting 3 years (a total of 10) for a publisher to pick up my series, and I can’t wait any more. I was patient. I have done all the “right things”. Click here for the list. So, these were signs to me that, okay, the bottom line is, your book, your writing– some people want it, and so it’s now your job to get it to them, and since you can’t get a publisher to do it, you gotta do it yourself. Focus on who wants you, not who doesn’t. Let go of all these struggles, of trying to break into mainstream publishing, and accept where you are, which is without a prospect for a book deal and with the possibility of self-publishing.

Of course, there’s a real problem when you make a decision to do something based on someone, anyone, other than yourself. If the deciding comes from the outside verses the in, it’s actually a very thinly-made decision. It’s this subtle affirmation and validation to yourself that you, in fact, don’t matter as much as other people and what other people think. So even if I make this decision for those “who want me” as opposed to “those who don’t”–it’s still based on the flimsy validation of other people. I don’t mean flimsy to insult, but more on the reality that at the end of the day, it’s you who you see in the mirror, and you who you gotta wake up to every morning. Feel me?


Of course, I didn’t realize any of this until last week, when I saw those words in that email.

“Maybe you should wait to self-publish.” This was followed by a few reasons, none of which really matter to this blog (but I will talk about those VERY GOOD reasons in my next blog) The reasons aren’t the point; it’s how these words all hit me, that’s the point.

So, I read those words, and instead of taking a deep breath and reminding myself that I totally understood and knew that this person was just giving his/her opinion and from a very caring place, that I should listen and consider these reasons even if I do go ahead and decide to self-publish now, instead of doing that, I freaked.

My head and emotions will do what they do…So, I took his/her comments, spun them into “s/he doesn’t support me, s/he’s talking down to me, oh-my-god everyone is going to be mad at me. They are going to kick me out school…

Yeah, I lost my mind. Totally.

In making the decision to self-publish, I didn’t do something that’s very crucial to the process of making a good decision, a solid decision. I didn’t “ground myself in my feelings” as my husband always advises me to do before I do anything that I feel insecure about. Before you do it, just sit with yourself and get grounded in exactly what you feel. Make sure that what ever you decide to do, ultimately, that decision comes from you and not a desire to please someone else or guilt over someone else. Translation: if you are gonna do something, do it for you and not for anyone else and be prepared that some people will not like what you do, but if you are solid and grounded in you, it won’t matter. In fact, you will hear that person’s opinion, and it won’t even bother you because you are so grounded.

Recently, and I will get back to my story in a minute, but you know that I had to mention my father in all this because, of course, in the middle of all this lingers the ghost of my “Daddy issues”, which, I know are where all this looking outside myself for approval came from. Well, in the last two weeks, as I was preparing to self-publish, my father and I got onto a battle royal that resulted in me making a huge decision to let him go, officially. I got grounded in this decision before I made it. I wrote a well thought-out caring letter that said, “ I need to say goodbye for now because this relationship does nothing but make me feel bad.” Then, of course, he responded, and I was thrown, off course. Started to second-guess myself and my decision, etc.

So, as you can see, I’m kind of sensitive, anyway, right now. My dad has a way of making me feel wrong about myself, untrusting of myself so this email, those words, to me, implied that my decision to self-publish was wrong.

Now, back to today to the email.

As I said, I started the process of self-publishing book 3 and going into this experience, this time around, I made a decision that I thought I was grounded in. My decision was to do this in a really no-frills, no-stress way. That is, not run around begging for endorsements to put in the book, not send out a press release way in advance. This time I was going to publish it, and do mainly things on-line and kind of let things happen, you know. Make it fun and organic. Realistically, I have to consider this time around that I have less time and money to spend on pre-publishing publicity. I decided to rely on my online presence and my already established fan base (as small as it is). Let things happen. After all, I wasn’t publishing for profit or fame but for the sake of sharing with people.

However, I thought about contacting this one particular person (who sent me this email), not to get approval for doing this but to see if s/he would maybe want to read it and give me a quote. Something I might put on the cover or website. I made sure to stress that he/she totally had an out, and I wouldn’t be insulted if s/he said no. I chose this person because I thought that s/he understood me as a writer, as an author, understood this long journey I have been on.

Here’s what happened:

Instead of a “yay” or “nay” or “go get ‘um tiger but I don’t know if I have time to read it”, instead of any variation of those responses I got:

Wait. Maybe you are rushing into this.

Which, in and of itself, is not a bad or negative response. I mean it's not what I expected. Only because I hadn't asked what this person thought about me self-publishing, but that's okay. I welcome input.

But… suddenly (thanks to daddy issues circulating my emotional stratosphere) I was zoomed back to a terrible experience I had with an author on a message board who told me I should “stop all this self-publishing and work on being a better writer so you can get a real book deal and be legitimate.” I won’t out her here, but she is a very famous author. She spent several postings ripping me– publicly– a new one. I gently invited her to read my work before she called it “not legitimate” and she never responded. Other people on the list who had read my work told her that I was, in fact, a very good, if not better writer than a lot of regularly published authors. Well, I left the message board and left them all to debate me and my legitimacy.

That was 4 years ago.

This week, staring at these words and those reasons why I shouldn’t self-publish, I felt just like I did four years ago. I felt not legitimate. I felt wrong. I felt stupid.

Just when I got my groove back, my self-published author mojo, someone who I thought supported and understood why I would go back and self-publish again, just– BAM– knocked me out of orbit.

But can I blame the person who wrote this email? Just like with Dad. Can I blame anyone for my mind going a-flutter? For my own lack of self-trust? No. I can’t. I can’t blame anyone when I have a sudden second-guessing moment. Well, I can blame someone.

ME.

This is all about me, as per usual.

When I hear something about myself–an opinion of someone about me and what I am doing–I typically jump to “oh, they must be right”. Up until I was 30, I believed those people (okay, my father) who told me I was wrong. Wrong about my career path. Wrong about my decision to work from home and be with my children. Wrong about self-publishing. As a child, I often felt like I was such a mess that I couldn’t be trusted to make a good decision. After all, I am too “impulsive”, too “talkative”, too “emotional” and too “expressive”.

But I am 33.75 now and truly don’t believe any of the above, but I’m still insecure and some times it still can take very little to shake my foundation. Considering my vulnerable state last week thanks to “daddy issues”, my foundation was a little shaken by those words.

So, shake it, these words did. However, those words didn’t break it.

The thing is, I want to self-publish and don’t see what difference it makes to my work at school or to anyone. Really, isn’t self-publishing about me?

Isn’t it?

But another thing for me to consider, to understand, to chill out about is, people are going to tell you what they think, and most of the time, as in this particular time, it is out of caring for you, not putting you down or telling you what to do. The only reason why I, we, anyone gets nuts when stuff like this happens, is because we are not fully grounded in our selves and part of us, a large part needs/wants the validation of others. But, truthfully, others don't matter as much as yourself and what you feel and know to be right for you.

And now that I have gotten my baggage out of the way, I can really hear what this person who sent me that email has to say because what they have to say does matter.

It really does.

But, I'm still gonna self-publish.

And it's all okay.

Back To School

The following blog is a kind of meditation inspired by this past week at Pine Manor College where I am about to complete my first 10 day residency in the Solstice MFA in Creative Writing program.

It’s hard to not over edit this piece as you can imagine; I have just spent this week dissecting and rewriting my work to the point where everything I write seems wrong some how.

And, yet, in the spirit of “writing naked”, I hand you the following piece:

Part I:
Glowing Objects

I sit at the square table in a low cushioned chair. My teacher, late 40’s, mustached, hair short, spiky but not trendy, is waxing serious about podcasts, Abby Hoffman, and character development. His genius at pulling seemingly unrelated and even odd elements together to illustrate his point is slightly hypnotic-- even if you aren’t quite sure what he is talking about.

I sit so straight up, it’s as if there’s an opening at the crown of my head, an opening where this teacher’s wild, odd brilliance pours into me, and hopefully, transforms me from a good writer to a great one.

As much as I want to focus on this energy pouring into my brain, as engaged in this moment, as hypnotized as I am, something distracts me.

Just to the left of my chair in my overstuffed backpack are two precious items that nag at me, beckon me. A beckoning I feel so strongly that I fear they might actually be glowing, glowing hotly, brightly, trying to get my attention. Now I’m convinced that any moment they will actually develop arms, hot glowing arms, to reach up and unzip the bag, and burst free in all their glowing glory. I glance over at the backpack, surprised when all I see is this ordinary, slumped over, olive green bag. No glowing. No smoke. Nope it’s just me, as usual, overly and hyperly self-conscious about these two items.

I take them with me wherever I go, even places that have nothing to do with writing or reading. I take them on trips to my in-laws and leave them the glove compartment in my car for when I do errands.

Just in case.

Just in case, over the course of conversation or errand running or in-law visiting, the Subject comes up-- oh, you’re a writer? What have you written? Well, actually, POW, look at that, here they are actually. Would you like a copy? I often examine why I feel the need to do this. I have no clear explanation. It might be insecurity, it might be a need to connect with other beings.

So of course I brought them with me to school, to my low residency MFA program, Semester 1. And now, sitting in this class, they have decided to do a light show in my mind, calling attention to themselves and forcing me to take them out.

Okay, not really, but that’s what it feels like. Even though, when I packed them, I tucked them deep into my bag, not really to show anyone, but more to remind me that this is a part of my writer-self, a part I often feel self-conscious about, especially when I do “writer stuff”, like attend a class or retreat or workshop. I carry them much like how I wear a tiny Jewish star necklace, to remind me of who I am. Even if who I am brings up issues of fear or shame or just good old fashion self-consciousness.

I don’t take out my books during the workshop. But the entire time I feel their hot and glowy presence and worry they might just come out on their own.

They didn’t.


Part 2:
Sordid Past

I feel weird about it. About my seemingly, at least to me, “sordid” publishing past.

Why didn’t I just whip out my books for my classmates and teachers to see? Was it because I feared looking like an insecure, egotistical, ass? Was it because I worried it would set a tone for “show off” or “she thinks she knows everything” or “why the hell is she here if she thinks she’s so great?”

Yes. That’s exactly why I didn’t do it.

Within in just hours of arrival, days before that workshop, I realized in talking with some of my new classmates, that I came to this program with a little more “baggage” about publishing and even writing than most of my fellow MFA students. I already have a membership (recently expired) with SCBWI, know the art of the query, understand the frustration of rejection and submission– a.k.a the waiting game. I even know about agents, book signings, and school visits. I know about royalties and Amazon ranking.

In the MFA program, the premise seems to be that you have NOT been published, that you need/want to study BEFORE publication. That we take our work seriously and want real, full lives as writers. Therefore, someone like me, who started off writing and submitting, studying craft at retreats and workshops, someone like me, is well, I don’t know. In the first draft of this blog I said that I felt like a fraud and then an impostor. But now, it’s the second to last day here, and I realize that my classmates and teachers do not feel that way about me. In fact, I don’t think anyone really cares what I did before, the self-publishing. It’s kind of irrelevant. But my background as an author (which, truthfully, I feel weird calling myself) is not the norm among my classmates. And, as usual, whatever is different about me, I obsess about and worry over. I want to fit in and felt, at first, this might be the thing that makes me NOT fit in. It turned out to not be, however. It turned out, it didn’t matter.

But, none-the-less, I am self-published, which in and of itself, might be viewed by some of the serious writer students, MFA students, as fraudulent and “self indulgent”.

Don’t get me wrong here. NO ONE during this week has said this or made me feel this way. My anxiety, once again gentle reader, (those of you who are new, please take the time to read some previous blogs and you will see my history of self-flagellation) is all in my head.

And I realize, finally, why I am so judgmental about my self-publishing. Because I did it, I published the books myself because I couldn’t make it the other way. So, really, my reasons were more out of defeat than anything else. I guess I can’t quite get over that, get over my failure to break in the way I wanted to, with a book deal. That's why I feel weird calling my self an author. I am not sure if I have earned that, not because a self-published author isn't a real author but because I didn't want to self-publish. I did it because I failed the other way.


Part 3
Secret’s out

During the course of the week, I let people know, as needed, that I self-published some books. As it comes up, as conversation leans toward discussion of publication and submission, I offer, simply, my own experience. Ironically, I feel by not telling, I would be fraudulent. I would be pretending to be innocent and naive to the ultimate reality of life after the MFA, the thing that we will face, hopefully, later on.

But one thing I did not do was take out those hot, glowing, eager little books and show them, in all their glowing glory, to anyone. If I did, it was brief, like taking them out to get other things, a brief flash, but not to share. Yet, I carried them with me. Every day.


Part 4
Relief

I have to say it’s a relief to finally be somewhere in the writing world where publication is NOT the focus in the process. Where it is not emphasized, in fact, it’s discouraged from the dialogue for 1st and 2nd semester students. I guess a writer doesn’t need to know the ugly realities of publishing while they are in the process of honing their craft. It is distracting and burdening. It was distracting and burdening to me all these years. So, for now, I feel relieved. Back in my regular life, I even tell my own writing students, let’s focus on craft, publication will come later, and it’s a relief to have teachers telling me that here. Leaving that subject off to the side keeps the purity of the art we are trying to create. Entering the world of query letters and submission means losing the innocence and purity of just working on craft. So, it makes sense to not emphasize that.

Part 5
Acceptance

I am here because I want to study craft more. Not because I don’t think I’m a good writer already but because there’s a greatness deep inside that I’m too close to myself to be able to pull out and make room and space for. That a set of good teachers and talented fellow writers will help. I’m not deluding myself into thinking that this is the brass ring though. But, now, I can challenge the assumptions and insecurities I have about writing and my self-publishing with something I can stand on. My craft will be validated through receiving my MFA. Instead of worrying about the sales of my book as validation, I can stand on a body of work and a degree that proves-I did it.

My contradictory feelings about being self-published, pride with shame, power with fear. I can’t fully explain. I haven’t reconciled the feelings. I used to try and in the trying I would struggle.

My theme in my life is letting go of struggle, coexisting with any pain or conflict, with not struggling with the frustration around me and my not getting a book deal. I want to just be, be whatever/whoever I am and not justify it.

Maybe my past experience in publishing can help, help me and my fellow writers. But I think the real challenge is for me to not let one world collide with the other. Now, I can have separateness between craft and business. Finally.

Part 6
Conclusion

I stand in between the chairs that form rows in an old, dark wooded, high ceilinged room where Virginia Woolf sits like a guru in a painting. This is where we sit each night and listen to our teachers read. The hour and a half always flies by as we travel far away into our mentor’s stories hypnotized by their voices reading from their own work.

But of course I’m distracted. We haven’t begun yet and are just arranging our hats and coats and bags around our seats. My spiky-haired, mustached teacher is in front of me doing the arranging winter gear dance the rest of us are doing. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him. I stall sitting down because once I sit, I will lose the courage and those two books will start to burn brightly in my bag and will probably ruin the rest of the evening for me. I stall by arranging and rearranging my hat, coat, and gloves tucking and folding and moving and shifting. My teacher is about to sit, and I know if I don’t act now I will lose the moment, the opening. So, I reach into my bag and grab them. They are cold from being in my backpack all day while I traipsed around campus. I turn to my teacher quickly and thrust the books at him. I mumble something about wanting him to have them and he says I was going to ask you… We both laugh. It’s clearly awkward but he asks me to sign the books and I do, fumbling and uncertain of what to write.

No one around us really notices the exchange, and if anyone does, they don’t say anything. When I sit down and the first reader begins, I am wholly focused, completely engaged, and not once thinking about those two glowing objects now in my teacher’s bag.

I can't make you love me, if you don't.

I woke a few mornings ago, way too early, and immediately the worry/depression train began. It started with the, once again, crashing/crushing reality that I don’t have a book deal. That three Maddie books and one short story collection are collecting dust on my desktop. That Gina still has not landed us a contract, and I say that not to blame her but more to point out that you can have the best person, the most qualified, the one who believes in you the most, by your side and still, and still it can be a long, long upward climb.

A little side bar: I don’t wake up thinking about this daily any more. It seems to go in cycles. Every few months I just, out of the blue, feel like shit about not having a book deal yet.

I think my penultimate, my brass ring in life, my EVERYTHING is this friggin' book deal that seems to be floating out in the universe unattached to anything like a soul waiting to be recycled and reincarnated.

As I lay in bed, on my side, of course– as Vivian (my baby girl inside my belly) plays kick-the-Mommy really hard– in the wee hours of each and every morning, as I lay there and feel the swift jabs and kicks of my little boxer, I think, “Hey, why can’t this baby– throwing myself into this baby– why can’t that be enough for me to feel totally happy and fulfilled? Why do I have to go back to this totally depressing, crushing reality, a reality I have absolutely no, no control over.” I mean, I know, in a sense I have some control over the process of getting a book deal, by submitting my work, etc, but you know that song by Bonnie Raitt? I Can’t Make You Love Me? Well, it’s a bit like that, you know? I can’t make the publishing world love me. I can show myself to them, I can submit, I can go to workshops and meet with editors, I can do that until I have blisters all over, but I can’t make someone love me if they don’t.

So, in the wee hours of sharp baby kicks, I turn to the Universe, as I always do when I have these crushing, crashing bouts of depression in the wee hours of the morning, and I say, as I always do, please, please show me a sign that I am on the right course here with everything. Meaning, tell me that I am doing the right thing, right now, by having my agent deal with submissions, by taking a break from pushing my self-published books, by sitting back and seeing what happens in the “regular” publishing world. Sitting back is not something I do well. But I am doing it because it is the one thing I have not tried in all these years of trying to get published. I spent my pre-Gina years, pushing, pushing, pushing. Submitting over and over and over. Even during the first two Gina years I attended every single workshop and conference possible and pushed myself up to the front to speak with editors and agents, handing out manuscripts and copies of my book. None of this resulted in a book deal. SO, I thought to myself at the time, hey, banging your head against this proverbial wall is not doing anything. Maybe you should try not banging. So, as of last summer, I stopped. No more conferences, etc. I’ve also stopped pounding the pavement about my self-published books. No more emails and calls to schools and books stores, begging to get booked for events, etc. If something lands on my doorstep, fine. If not, I am done.

So, here I am in bed needing a sign, an affirmation that I am on the right course. I need some affirmation.

I got it. Two-fold.

Later in the morning, the real morning, not the dark, wee hours of terribleness that I will soon will be experiencing with my lovely Vivian. Once the real sunlight morning came and I was sitting at the table while my daughter played on the computer for WAY too long. Once I was upright and somewhat functioning and having my regular morning chat with my mother, on the phone, over a cup of coffee (decaf of course), the terribleness of the morning was all but forgotten. Until my mom said to me, “Guess what I found this morning? I found that story Rachel’s House. And I wanted to just call you and tell you that first, I am so sorry the divorce caused you so much pain, but I also wanted to tell you that I think the writing was incredible, and I don’t understand why you don’t have a publisher! Damnit!”

A little side bar: She had me crying from the moment she mentioned my novella, Rachel’s House, which is about a thirtish woman and the devastation of the estrangement between her father and sister and the continual pain she feels about the divorce between her parents. Yeah, semi-autobiographical…Okay, very autobiographical! My mother had a copy because when I wrote it over a year ago, I wanted to convey to her that I understood the reasons for her anger at my father and even the estrangement between my sister and father but also, at the same time, felt my own unique pain. It totally worked. The first thing she said to me after she read it the first time was, “You totally nailed me.” Amen.

Anyway, my tears got a little heavier as I held the phone to my ear, when she made the comment about the publishers not picking me up. Yes, it was my mother and yes, she is supposed to say stuff like this, but her timing today was impeccable, and, really, I took it. I took it, her comment, because I will take whatever I can get. I took it as the sign from the universe that I should and can and will go on. That my process and path towards publication is real and possible. That there’s a glimmer of hope.

By the way, if you want to read Rachel’s House, email me, and I will gladly send it to you because now I am at a point with my writing that the unpublished stuff feels so suffocated, and it just wants to be read, that any willing person who wants to read my stuff, please please do!

Then, another thing happened. I got an email from a former student. Turns out she works at a Tea Bar now and is in charge of booking writers and teachers and performers for events.

You know where this is going. The last time I did an event was last May. And that was a total solicitation. Nothing I pushed. I was at the beginning of my I-let-go thing with the books. So, to hear an invitation to come and do a reading and signing was, in a word, awesome.

We are working out the particulars, but she is a great person, very supportive of my endeavors, and I feel like even if three people show up to the event, it will be wonderful and a great way to keep myself going.

So, all this brought me back to a familiar place. Self-publishing. Should I again or shouldn’t I? It’s a bit like another area of my life that has not yet been resolved, should I or shouldn’t I join a temple. Both self-publishing and joining a temple have HUGE barriers to them, namely money, so I constantly focus on that as the reason. With the temple, I feel like it’s the right thing to do for my daughter. I want her to have the whole Jewish thing and the only way to really do that is through Sunday school and all that. But I put barriers up, and I blame it on money, but I have always been a “where there’s a will there’s the money” type of gal. I think there are deeper reasons why I don’t belong to a temple. But that’s for another blog entry. The self publishing thing…it’s money but, like the temple, it’s also other things…Namely, that I am a little self conscious of doing that right now…I feel like I need to give Gina more time without me interfering. Actually that’s not the entire reason. The truth is that self-publishing is exhausting. If I want to sell anything at all, and if I want to get some reviews and awards, I have to do it all on my own without any support when I self-publish. It’s HARD. I have been there and done that and I am TIRED. I know that even with a regular book deal, I will have to pound the pavement but at least I will have the backing of a publisher, not that that is a guarantee financial support for marketing but it’s something, if not just psychological! I also feel like I shouldn’t have to self-publish any more. I have proven to myself that I have books that people want to read. So, why doesn’t a publisher see that and WANT me? I don’t know. The publishing world isn’t always logical. Another reason why I don’t think I am inclined to self-publish again is…I guess I am not desperate enough like I was with the first two books. I am not sure why I’m not desperate. I certainly feel desperate, especially in the wee hours of the morning when it hits me that I still don’t have a deal. Also, I am desperate to give birth to these other books. ‘Cause that’s why I did it the first time and the second time. I wanted to just simply share my work. I was desperate to do so.

I worry that my readers of this blog might think I am disparaging self-publishing by saying that I did it because I was desperate, but I think self-publishing is a very personal thing and there’s no wrong reason. Everyone who self-publishes does so for different reasons and that was mine. I venture to say that if I do it again, and I will if nothing happens within the next few years, if I do it again, it will be from a desperate need to share my books with the world and a desperate need to see the books in their published form. I still think self-publishing is the mark of a courageous writer and sometimes it is the mark of a desperate, talented, overlooked-by-the-industry author as well. I think I am both. I have said this before: I only chose to self-publish because I had not had any success the other way, and for me, at the time, time was running out. I wanted to hold my books and smell them and share them and sell them, and it wasn’t happening the old fashion way and like a woman desperate to have a child but unable to, I took matters into my own hands and found another way to “give birth” to my book. But two things that are seemingly contradictory can be true at the same time: I can choose to self-publish but still want that genuine real book deal.

But, I can’t make you love me if you don’t! I understand exactly what it means to be rejected over and over by many, many, publishers of all kinds. Independents and big ones. It means a lot of things but mostly that I do not fit into the vision these publishers have of what is good YA literature. It really doesn’t matter to me any more that most of the time we are rejected, it’s after careful, careful ruminating on the part of the publisher. That many of them have kept my work on their desks for months, reading and reading talking with their colleagues and saying she is a damn good writer but what do we do with her? This no longer matters to me. The bottom line is what matters to me, and the bottom line is that they may like me and think I am talented, but it’s not enough. They don’t love me and I cannot make them.

So I am not sure what I will do in the future with self-publishing, but for now, I am waiting for that publisher that does love me, in that effortless way that people fall in love, and I know that publisher is out there, somewhere.