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

Acupuncture, Past Lives, and High School Reunions

IT ALL GOES BACK TO HIGH SCHOOL

Today, due to an amazing acupuncture session, all the shit is coming out, and as per my acupuncturist’s wise advice, I’m going to write about it.

While out for drinks with, ironically, writer-friends one evening about 2 years ago, one friend called me a Jew Bag.

Needless to say, that floored me, actually that broke me, emotionally, through the proverbial floor. I wrote about it as I habitually do when something happens, and I am moved in a plate tectonic way.

I wasn’t writing it with much forethought, however, and when the person I wrote about read the blog, s/he un-friended me (a major one-two punch in today’s world) but what was worse is that s/he didn’t bother to chew me out or yell at me or even contest what I basically was accusing him/her of.

I thought, oh, well, whatever. That person isn’t someone who I really was close with anyway . . . and I even saw him/er at an event this summer, and though my heart was pounding that s/he would say something mean or rude—or worse—ignore my presence, it was fine.

I was over it.

Or was I?

I haven’t been able to blog that honestly since that time. I mean, I have blogged and wrote things, but I’ve avoided writing about situations and moments where I was shaken or moved for fear that I might offend and alienate some folks on that (so-called) friends’ list (more on FB in another blog post) and a lot of stuff has happened that has floored me.

Take my 20-year reunion in July. Two people came up to me and accused me of hurting them in middle school, excluding them from parties, and one person said that he showed up to my house and I slammed the door in his face. Apparently, I threw some epic parties back in the diz-ay. I felt awful, really terrible, especially about the slamming the door thing: one, that I did that and two, that I don’t even remember it. The other person accused me of discluding her from those same epic parties and sleepovers. . . but my recollection was I didn’t invite her to my house because she and her older sister harassed the shit out of me and that we were more of frenemies than friends. Obviously, she saw the situation differently.

Other things happened at the reunion, but those two incidents stuck, and I wanted to write about them and really examine what I felt and then share it because I was certain that everyone has had a moment like that, where your past actionsyou're your history returns and blindsides you.

The reunion and the planning of it. . . the late night conversations between me and my co-chairs, the private messages from classmates expressing sheer terror about going and facing so-and-so. . .  it was fascinating and very moving and it made me aware of perspective and the relativity of truth.

But, sadly, thanks to my own insecurities about my likeability factor and friends list,  I haven’t been able to tap into those themes and write about them.

Until now.

We had another, smaller reunion, recently (2 Fridays ago).  Me and my favorite friends from middle and elementary school. Epic night of crazy conversations, memory rehashing, declarations (by me, of course) of “I’ve been wanting to say this for 20 years. . . ” and most of all, just all-out love and support for one another. We did do some gossiping, and we did do some drinking. But, it was, in the end, harmless and healing fun. I shared with them my perspective of the ending of our friendship in high school, and they shared theirs. We certainly saw things differently.   

This event, like the events at my reunion, and the event back two years ago, is one of many in my life (and yours and everyone’s) where I (you) see a situation so differently from the other person. Where I feel so wronged and so hurt and the other person simply doesn’t see it the same way. But this is the relativity of Truth and perspective.

My initial reaction to the person who made, what I consider, a bigoted/prejudiced comment about my being Jewish was that s/he simply was an asshole, especially when s/he never apologized and even more so when s/he unfriended me.

But the second reaction I had was. . . I don’t like when people don’t like me. I mean it. I really mean it. I have friends who don’t care if they are liked, and it’s not like they are rude or go around just without a care about other people’s feelings, but they—I guess—just don’t really attach themselves and their worth to how well or how much they are liked. And so even though I thought this person was an asshole I was upset s/he unfriended me. Seriously, I was hurt.

Now, however, I’m certainly not hurt and don’t care what s/he thinks of me because I get why s/he unfriended me, and I think about that situation a little differently. No, I do not excuse or condone or even understand those words s/he said to me that night in the bar. But I know now that s/he truly must feel like s/he did nothing wrong and that we simply saw the situation very, very differently.

ACUPUNCTURE AND PAST LIVES

So, about this interesting accupunture appointment that set off this beautiful explosion of thoughts and willingness to write about said thoughts. . . In summary, my acupuncturist thinks the chronic pain (almost 10 years) I’ve been experiencing is related to something I’ve been holding on to in the past. . . as in, past life. Yeah, I’m with you. That shit is cray-cray. But I view her comment more as a metaphor. So when she said that, she also said that she felt that the pain had been remaining more as a reminder, like a physical post-it on my body. She asked me some more questions, and then I remembered an experience from when I was about 17.

It was senior year, and I was, once again, obsessing over Bad Boy; we were, once again, on and off in this weird hamster wheel of a non-relationship/relationship. My mother had had enough. So, she brought me to one of her fantastically, interesting friends who was this kinesiologist and who did something about past life regression. Long and short of it, in the session, it came out that Bad Boy Who Broke My Heart had actually been my son in a past life and now we were in this kind of mess of a relationship where, clearly, it wasn’t good (particularly for me), but we couldn’t get away from each other. But the reason was that he had been my son. . . Okay, so, totally bizarre and not really sure if I bought it at the time, but all I know is, after the session, shit went down with Bad Boy and the result was me calling him and saying if we aren’t going to be normal, I’m out. Suffice it to say, our non-relationship/relationship ended that day.

Fast forward to today, when my acupuncturist brought up that she thought this chronic pain was related to a past life experience that I was holding on to, but not as in can’t-get-over but more as a reminder of some experience I absolutely need to remember in order to pass along the lesson. Now this chronic pain is on my left side and the left side is related to receiving while the right side is related to giving, according to my acupuncturist. What is true about my life is that I am much better at giving than receiving. Well, what woman isn’t?  

As my acupuncturist and I spoke more, we put it all together that since I have two daughters, this pain is a reminder to teach my daughter about boys (or girls) and men (or women) and to, as my acupuncturist put it, help them realize and understand what they want and what will make them feel good and happy. My mother— God bless her!— talked to me about a lot of things but never about relationships with men (did anyone’s mother?). And as that terrible, awful relationship continued to unfold and refold and unfold and refold, my mom kind of stood by pretty helpless until that day she grabbed me and took me to her magical  friend who actually saved me, I think. Because it was from that moment onward that I started to actually let go and say no to Bad Boy.

           

Interestingly, as I haven’t really thought about the above in probably 20 years, when my acupuncturist asked me today, at the end of the session, what did I want back then from Bad Boy? I really didn’t have an answer right away. I thought for a few minutes and then realized that what I wanted was so simple. I wanted him to say sorry, to admit all of the shitty stuff he did to me and to apologize.

           

But sitting here now, today, with my 10-year-old daughter as she asks me about everything from did I like school in 4^th grade to why do some people write their names really fancy, I realize no, I didn’t want an apology back then. What I wanted, back then, was for him to be kind and sweet to me, and what I probably want now (but not like I’m walking around conscious of this) I think now, what I want is an apology. Kind of like those people at my reunion might have wanted from me.

           

The Bad Boy and I had a brief interaction a few years ago on good ole FB, and it was closure—in some respects—but not the closure that was satisfying. The exchange made me realize that the way he saw things in the past, his perspective, was probably that he did nothing wrong or at least anything that was that big of a deal, nothing certainly that he had to apologize for.

Truth and perspective are the things that bring people together and keep them apart. But what I really care about is that post-it pain and its message to me. No matter what, my Truth and my perspective are mine and it’s okay to voice them, even if it’s ten, twenty years later. Not to mention those truths hold valuable lessons I will pass on to my daughters.

And if this post makes you unfriend me, I’m totally okay with it. . . kind of. 

Bleeding, Crying, and Doubting

It's been awhile since I've blogged but wanted to follow up on my last post Writer's Wall.

So I fell into the even more debilitating state shortly after that post—Writer's Depression. Some psychotherapy to lift my spirit and some acupuncture to deal with chronic pain coupled with overall being nicer to myself, and in a few months—presto!

Well, not quite.

I'm MUCH better spiritually and emotionally. Writer's block is over. Writer's Depression is being kept at bay. I'm thigh-deep into revisions on a new manuscript and working on putting together Sucker Volume 3. My day job is fantastic and the kids and hub are healthy.

My world is in as much balance as possible. . . knock on wood.

To sum up what I've learned, I will share with you a thought that I had about a month ago as I was composing this new manuscript. This is a thought that I've put on my computer scribbled onto a green sticky note:

If you aren't bleeding and crying and doubting, then you aren't creating art.

So now when the critic inside starts yelling at me I yell back, THIS MEANS I'M AN ARTIST! and then continue on my way.

Happy doubting and bleeding everyone.

Writer’s Wall

This blog post is a simul-post on Henandinkbytes.com 

My writer’s block has been going on awhile. When I visualize this “block”, I see myself in a 4-sided brick structure that I’ve resurrected myself, all alone, no assistance. And I always see a brick or two, unsteady at the stop, about to fall right on me. While I’ve never been literally struck in the head and fallen into a coma, my writer’s block feels like one of those precarious bricks at the very top has fallen on my head and struck me unconscious, rendering me silent.

Go ahead and head-shrink me. Clearly, I have some issues.

****

I had an “awakening” recently when Sharon Creech gave her keynote speech at the NESCBWI, 2013 conference I attended a few weeks ago. As Ms.Creech spoke to us, an audience that filled a giant ballroom of the Hilton, I jotted snippets of her speech into my notebook. Each nugget of wisdom jolted me, and by the end, I woke from my writer’s block induced comma. 

“. . . frantic excitement. . . ”

The story she opened with contained the words “frantic excitement”. Those words were from a young reader who wrote to  Ms.Creech  about her own work being published and how she felt this “frantic excitement” about her work being out there for the world. Those words moved  Ms.Creech   but more importantly, they moved me. When  Ms.Creech  spoke them, this flicker inside me, a memory-flame of myself, age 11. Frantically writing in a yellow five-subject notebook, the spark of an idea so crackling, I wrote dozens of pages with “frantic excitement” in just a few days. . .

“. . . intense need . . . ”

I scribbled those words in my notebook but without any context. I don’t remember what the words are connected to in  Ms.Creech  s speech. But I heard them, and another flicker crackled inside me. Another, more recent memory. . .This past November during NaNoWriMo. Racing to my computer between all the duties of a working-from-home-mother, just to type the words to a new novel. Each day of that month I rode this internal, intense, aching need to GET THE STORY OUT. No judgment. No evaluation. No worry. The intense need so scorching, that I couldn’t hear the voices in my head of doubt and fear, I was so distracted by the burn of needing to write.  

“It’s okay to be inspired by another, but we need to find out own voice.”

The only full sentence of all the notes I scribbled onto the lined pages of my composition pad. And these words filled my entire body with an energy that glowed warm and soft inside. The deadness of my creative mind plumping up with life. The energy pouring out of me and easily vaporizing the brick wall of writer’s block.

As  Ms.Creech  came to her final words, we all stood up and clapped, and that’s when the grip of fear inside released completely, manifesting in some salty tears dotting the corners of my eyes. When we took our seats after, I jotted in my notebook: “Thank you, Sharon Creech. Thank you.”

***

That afternoon and evening, I wrote. I went into the current three WIPS I’ve been working on and started to revise the opening pages. The energy from Sharon’s speech stayed with me, and I typed, feeling a surge of simpatico with myself with what was happening in my head and on the computer screen.

It was, in a word, lovely.

After I returned home, I watched myself put bricks up, one by one, with each passing day. Once again, I was walled in on all sides.

This time I called upon the words from Sharon Creech:

“. . . frantic excitement. . . ”

“. . . intense need . . . ”

“It’s okay to be inspired by another, but we need to find out own voice.”

Like a silent prayer, I say the words to myself as I remove each brick, one by one. Soon the only walls that surround me are walls of words, inspiring me.

Thank you, Sharon Creech. Thank you.

P.S. Thank you to my agent, Erzsi Deak, who asked me to write about why Sharon Creech made me cry. 

Top 10 Things I heard in Differing Forms and Across Several Different Workshops and Conversations Over the Weekend

Disclaimer: These are my thoughts/reactions/responses/interpretations to what I heard and at the New England SCBWI conference last weekend. My intention is not to relay to you the exact events or words from the conference or to represent any of the participants or speakers or the organization.

1. ON REJECTION

• Vent your disappointment in private and be professional. Don’t put folks on blast in social media or talk smack at a conference. Translation: Be a lady first!
• Don’t be so quick to think getting an agent/book deal means This it it! I’m set! There were lots of stories from established authors who faced rejection, even after being published.

2. ON OVERCOMING REJECTION

• Onward! One foot in front of the other after wounds are licked or coddled. Name of this game is Persistence (intentional capitalization).
• Be encouraged by rejections that say something GOOD.

3. ON SELF-ESTEEM/EGO

• Envy KILLS the art and craft of your writing.
• Blaming yourself as to why you aren’t published isn’t always based on truth. Way too many aspects that are out of your control (market, personal taste of agents/editors).
• It’s not about YOU but the work. Get the hell out of the way.

4. ON DREAMING

• We writers all want a book deal, all dream the big dream, and yet the realities of this do not measure up to the expectations we have. Even with established writers. Well, maybe not Sharon Creech. (God, I love her!) 

5. ON MARKET/BRAND/GENRE

•  Don’t write for the trend (too changeable), yet you still need to be AWARE of the trends.
• You have to write the book that you hear inside your brain and your heart the one that you WANT to write, have to write.
• Know your brand.

6. ON CRAFT

• One thing you can “fix” is your craft, and many “practice” with 2 to 10 manuscripts. (Personally, I’ve heard this for YEARS! This reality typically SHOCKS the newbie conference go-er. Not I. I’m on book numero 4 :)
• Be loyal to your characters . . . as if character is a really close friend, a real person.
• Don’t be in such a hurry to finish the draft. Take the time you need. Be in the moment.
• The idea of writing a book is one that involves the art of engaging the reader, of asking the reader to come along on this little journey with you, to trust you.

7. ON YA

• YA is a wide age range and wide maturity range. This makes it difficult, at times, to know what kinds of books to recommend to parents and teachers for their kids and students.
•  It is debatable whether or not it’s proper protocol to have parents and teachers flag material possibly not suited to age group. Should children make the decisions themselves?
• We can all agree that censorship is NOT okay.

8. ON INSPIRATION

•  Someone else’s words (from a song, poem, book, speech) can hit you in particular ways that ignite ideas and stories.
• It’s okay to be inspired by other folks, but we need to write and express from with our own voice.

10. ON SELF-PUBLISHING

•      Many writers are having a hard time and feeling like their publishers are not taking the best care of them or meeting their basic needs.
•      Self-publishing is booming and a lot of it seems to reflect a more SELF versus PUBLISHING.
•      It’s okay to self publish, and you can even do both self and traditional.
•      Marketing is the single most difficult task whether you are self-publishing or traditionally published.
•      Self-publishing is a business venture as well as an artistic venture and writers need to consider that as they make the decision to self-publish. Make the product (your book) the very best you can. Invest in editors and marketing consultants if you truly want to honor your readers.
•      Researching and hiring the proper consultants is VITAL when you take on this task.

Other Thoughts:

Workshops/Lectures I attended

Learning To Live Within Rejection with Christine Brodien-Jones.

Save My Cat: How to Rescue Your Manuscript in a Single Bound with Dawn Metcalf

The Art of The Outline with Elizabeth Papademetriou

Independent Editors and New Models for Publishing Our stories with Emma Dryden

Keynotes that made me cry

Sharon Creech

Panels that made me ponder

Edgy YA  with Scott Blagden author of Dear Life, You Suck (who is a REALLY cool dude!)

Books I purchased for self and daughters

No Cream Puffs Karen Day

Sea Monsters First Day Kate Messner and Andy Rash 

Crooked kind of Perfect Linda Urban

Dear Life You Suck Scott Blagden

Self-editing for Fiction Renni Browne and Dave King

Writing the Break Out Novel Donald Maas

.

The Burden of Expectation on the Creative Life

I’ve had writer’s block since November 22^nd 2012. It began after I finished an exuberant first run in NaNoWriMo, whereby I completed a manuscript—start to finish—in less than 21 days. A record for me.

I spent some time trying to write after I finished NaNoWriMo, not the manuscript I had completed during the NaNoWriMo month, but a different one. By the New Year, I was really depressed so I did something I have never done since I made the commitment to be a writer decades ago:

I gave up writing fiction. . . completely. Since that time I have been journaling in that messy, self-pitying/angry/ranting way that is ultimately very healthy but not good for creating a world, a story nor is it good for public consumption.

The good news is that after these 4 months of journaling, I have identified what’s up with me.

It’s so f-king simple that you are going to probably stop reading this blog right after you hear it.

Drum roll, please:

I expected that after 16 years of writing, submitting, receiving awards, and even achieving agented status, I would, by now, be further along in my writing career.

This is almost funny. I mean what writer trying to “make it” hasn’t had that feeling? What writer doesn’t expect, want, pray, hope for more? So the thing that blocks me now, that makes writing bone-crushingly painful is the burden of expectation.

***

Since childhood I’ve dreamed of being a writer. I’ve always had the dream. Not only that, but in all parts of my life, I am a dreamer. I believe, in my bones, that dreaming actualizes reality. I have lived that Truth; that is how I have made everything in my life happen. My books, my business, the literary anthology I founded, even my marriage, my children. . . all began with delicious, lovely dreams.

BUT

The dream of writer once felt lovely, empowering, and it drove me. Lately, though, my dreams to write fiction feel more like extra weight, like I put on about thirty pounds. My cadence has slowed. I’m lumbering. I’m pulled to closer to the earth. Why? Because what was once a dream, became—somewhere along the way—an expectation. Expectations are heavy. Dreams are not.  

***

I have tried to go back into my manuscripts, but I second-guess every stroke of the keyboard. I delete more than I write. The word-counts of each current WIP—healthy 60,000 plus—only burden rather than motivate me.  

I just keep questioning the big picture. It’s not just the specific book I am working on; it’s this path of being a writer that I am on.

I used to like to work hard just for the adrenaline-high of it. The burn of it, like a fast run outside. I was very committed to that feeling of nose-to-the-grindstone with my writing, revising until I felt sweaty and tired. Whether it was writing books or getting an MFA in writing, the process of hard work was enough for me. I was in love with the process of creating fiction. I enjoyed every single moment, losing myself deeply in each project.

But now the process of the hard work has felt bone-crushingly painful. Because what was once an airy, ethereal dream is now a feet firmly planted expectation.

And I really just don’t know what to do except, well. . . write about it.

*** 

My dreams as a writer are probably similar to yours. (I assume mainly writers are reading this, but you can apply it to any dream).

I dreamt that I would have a book deal by 25. Then when 25 hit and it didn’t happen, I just worked harder and dreamt it would be 30. Then, you guessed it, when 30 hit, I worked even harder and aimed for 35.

I turn 38 this year. You know what the new dream is?

To be able to sit down and write a book with ease, with joy, with a sense of fun.

  

My oldest daughter is the same age I was when I decided that when I grow up, I was going to be an author, like Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary. My fourth grade teacher, although very surly and liked to knock down my over-confidence with remarks like “You are the second best reader in the class, not the first”, awarded me with a badge at the end of the year: “Ambition Is To Be An Author”. Not Best Writer. No, my “award” was for my ambition. Pretty telling.

My dreams and ambition fuel me and the burden of expectation kills the creative dream.

I need to go back to dreaming and let go of expectations.