Let It Be Enough

On one of the kid-lit writers’ chat boards, a multi-published author was lamenting her lot. Yes, she has a great agent, a strong major publisher, and commercial success. But she has yet to get a single literary award, and now she must come to terms with the notion that maybe she just isn’t that kind of writer. A No-Newberry Nelly. Never.

The discussions on this board are always thoughtful and, not surprisingly, articulate. Writers chimed in to say that they only dream of the sort of success she has. That they can’t get their foot in the door of a New York publisher, or any publisher. Some said that while they are published, their trajectory pales next to hers. Others went on about how much they and their kids adore her books.

But then the conversation made a wrong turn.

Writers poured in their angst at all things literary. They declared they would read her amusing and joyful books over any Newberry winner, any day. To my un-humble mind, this was sour grapes. The fox can’t reach them, so he declares the grapes not worth having. 

©Von Bandersnatch

As often happens on the board, someone brought sanity back in. A writer told of the first time she saw her own book in print, and knowing the insatiable appetite for more worldly success and recognition, she said to herself, “Let it be enough.”

Wherever you are today, I wish you just this. May it be enough.

Author, AUTHOR!

We’ve all heard we must not let others define us. But last Saturday I did, and it was one of those *moments.* Whatever you may say about shoulds and shouldn’ts, there they are.

I attended a regional SCBWI conference. This unwieldy acronym stands for Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. You’d think such a literary bunch would have come up with a less awkward name, longer than some picture books. Regardless,  it’s a good and supportive organization run entirely by volunteers, and it welcomes all from the never-published to veteran professionals.

I’ve attended this very conference before, three years ago. Back then, my father had just been admitted to the hospital in what I sensed would be the final time, and I hadn’t had any book accepted for publication. I felt my ever-present shyness more than anything else.

This time I returned as a PAL author. (PAL=Published And Listed, and “listed” refers to SCBWI’s own list of "legitimate" publishers. They are not as accepting of vanity and self-publishing.) Their conference had my book for sale, and I had a desk with my name on it for signing.

I feared no one will buy my small and un-jazzy looking book, stacked next to the very spectacular offerings from other authors. (Three of the authors are famous, at least in kid-lit, and others have very trendy looking books.) But it did sell, and I did sign some, and the separate session for published writers was useful to me. My father is in the next world.  All an all, now is not three years ago…

I returned home with what DD described as a strange glow.

 “I’m an author,” I said to my husband.

“I know,” he said. “That’s what it says on our tax returns.” He was looking at those on screen. I squinted and looked also.

“No, it says ‘writer,’” I said. “I’m an author.”

He and DD looked at me funny.

“I sign books!” I said. That was about all they could take.

They didn’t get it. But you might. The very act of signing a book I wrote, which a stranger had just purchased, was one of those moments.

Yes. I’m an author. And I’ve got the sign from the conference^ as a memento.

STORIES TO DIE FOR

Some years ago, when thought of writing with the intention to publish was still a private one, I got the best advice. This bit of advice sustains me to this day.

It was a cozy morning of light rain falling outside, and tea and cookies inside. I was the mother of a kindergartner and a preschooler, and another mother from my son’s class asked me to her home for tea. I thought it was a getting acquainted sort of invitation. It turned out to be more than that.

The other mother showed me her work space, a corner oak table with a computer, and printed manuscript pages scatted about. She was writing a novel. She had asked me over not to talk about our sons or their school. She asked me to her home because she was hoping to pick my brain.

Really? With what I thought I had put out, I couldn’t imagine what pickings were there. But a comment I had made about a biblical character had sparked her fire, and now it was smoldering, just like the logs in her fireplace. I am so immersed in Old Testament stories it had not occurred to me that whatever I said reverberated. I didn’t even remember the comment. Now her fire was dying down and she had invited me to re-ignite it.

© Baba Buffalo

I no longer remember what her novel was about, only that the biblical character of Rachel bore some resemblance to her main character. But the whole setting sent me into a place I had neglected.

Except for my husband, on our very first real date, I never told anyone I intended to write for children. The chance of ever being published seemed remote, and it was better to keep such an endeavor private. But for some reason I told this mother, who I barely knew, about my secret hope and ambition.

“I have a few stories I would like to tell before I die,” I said.

She asked if I’ve been writing, and I said, “Not yet.”

“Maybe,” she said, “just maybe, if you don’t think of it as something to finish before you die, you might start and then even finish one.”

It was one of those sacred moments. Someone I barely knew had given me the key to unlock the door.

I have lost touch with this writer long ago. I heard she was agented and that her novel had sold. I looked for it periodically under her name, but never found it.

Wherever you are, KC, I owe you this chapter in my life.

BOOKS as FRIENDS

“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. And inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”

Groucho Marx

 

Let me linger with my favorite friends for a wee bit longer. Books. And this time I mean, specifically, paper printed books.

It was suggested, in a comment to my last post, that the solution to the space guzzling of my book-addiction is the great innovation of E-books. So true. So efficient. And also so contrary to the idolater in my nature.

To me a book is more than content. A book is presence. You can hug it like you would a dear friend, and glace at it with gratitude months after you met, got to know each other, and became part of each other’s lives.

It’s the idolater in me that keeps insisting the book, that physical presence in the form of a rectangular flattish sort of box, is a being that reciprocates to me what I am to it. I have hugged a book I loved, and even kissed a volume that opened my eyes just as only a dear friend could.

How do you hug an E-book? Pray tell. Really.

There is something ephemeral about all of e-things. Maybe it brings us back to the illusion that is all existence, or all matters of this world. Maybe there *IS* only thought, and E-books are a far closer representation of it. That’s a nice and very spiritual way to look at it. But I’m not evolved enough for this Jorge Luis Borges sort of ruminations in my everyday life.

I need my physical books, the way others hold to religious artifacts. I need physical reminders for what is supra-physical. 

And back to that deep thinker, Groucho Marx. E-readers now come with their own light. You now can read even inside of a dog.

Temptations

I generally avoid temptation, unless I can’t resist it.

I should avoid bookstores when money is tight. I always tell myself I’ll just look, read a little, and only purchase if it is a must.

And must it almost always is.

I don’t have issues with chocolate, or intoxicants. I have an issue with books.

Now it occurs to me why, no matter what living space I’ve occupied, I was driven out by books. First they asked me to just move over, squeeze a little. I’d do it for books, because they are worth it, and each one asks for only a little. Then they took over.

©Painting by Shelagh Duffett

I may have to sleep on the lawn, but I most certainly wouldn’t think of leaving my books there. They might, you know, get wet.

Now that I think of it, my parents’ home was walled with books. When they divorced, my father left with, as he later put it, only his books.

Briefly we had some shelf space, and then we didn’t. My mother eventually replaced the space he left with more books.

And my father’s home with his second wife got lined with books.

With such a legacy, what chance did I have?

I read them, I write them. But most of all- I get them. Then I get more.

I really should avoid temptation, unless I can’t resist.

Asking for Forgiveness

On the eve of Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, we are to ask others for forgiveness for offenses committed in the past year. “If we cannot forgive others,” said the Hassidic Master Israel Ba’al Shem Tov, “how can we expect G-d to forgive us?”

But it occurred to me that the effort not to be offensive can lead to not saying much and not doing much. I have been guiltier of that than of doing the wrong thing. Not only this last year, but most of my life.

The down side of only saying nice things is that sooner or later no one can take what you say as having any weight. No writer wants to end their days having said the equivalent of noting.

So rather than asking for your forgiveness for what I may have said or done that caused offense, I ask for forgiveness for all I should have done, could have done, but didn’t.

The times I should have stepped in to help.

The times I should have spoken up, even if some people wouldn’t like it.

The times I could have stepped out of my comfort zone, but I hid in my safe space instead.

Please forgive me.

Quotations as Inspiration

I often use quotations when I sit down to write on this blog. It’s a propeller for me, and a kick-starter for the post I’m about to write. Then I realize they said it best, and leave the quotation in.

I’ve heard variations on the notion that quotations are inspiration for the uninspired. I bow my head and say with uncharacteristic humility- I need every help I can get. Doing anything in a disciplined way means that at times I’m working when uninspired.

Once I start, the well begins to yield- first a drop and then a bucketful. But it’s that ‘how to get started’ thing, combined with the commitment I made to self, that requires aides.

How do you do it? How do you start to clean a house that needs so much you don’t know where to start? By starting. How do you get that ‘starting’ going?

Hopefully you avoid the pharmaceutical solutions. My only vice there is caffeine. A good cup of tea is the start of everything. If the situation is dire, Mr. Coffee is called in.



My second helper is a sort of parental inner voice that says, “You may NOT do [whatever you feel like] until you get that done.” That voice is not as scary as it is convincing.

But sometimes I need more convincing than other times. That’s when quotations come in.

“Life itself is a quotation.” ~Jorge Luis Borges

I’ll be pondering that one^ for a while.

Happy *Jewish* New Year

Wishing all of us who celebrate Rosh Hashanah*, the beginning of a Jewish New Year, a blessed and fruitful time of healing and fortification. I chose an Israeli card from the early 1960’s-

I like the image because it suggests you go and make your own canvas, while looking at what has been done before.

*And to anyone who wants to come along~~~

HAPPY NEW YEAR

The Writer as Reader

“There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.”

Joseph Brodsky

 

The first advice given to would-be writers is to ‘read-read-read.’ Unless we’re James Joyce, we are not reinventing the wheel. There is more to learn from those who came before than any instruction book could offer.

But I discovered a curious thing about the relationship between reading fiction and writing it. At least for me, I must stop reading when I’m about to write a first draft. I need a few days to ‘clear the air’ and calm the other writers’ voices, so mine can emerge.

The practical ramification is that I must alternate between reading and writing. This is easy to do when writing picture story books. It takes a stronger discipline when it comes to tackling longer stories.

My to-be-read pile grows ominously tall in those times. You wouldn’t want to brush against it accidentally, or you may get buried as the precarious stack collapses. My guilt at ‘not reading’ would grow also, but I know what I have to do, in order to do what I do.

Yes, it’s one of these times. I just cleared my pile, or almost. For the next few weeks it’ll have to start growing again.

The School of Experience

“Experience is a good school, but the fees are high.”

                                                                                                Henrich Heine

When I started writing with the thought of publication, more than seven years ago, I read something the late (and great) Sid Fleischman said- that his first three years were ‘tuition.’ At the time that seemed such a long time to be writing and making un-publishable stories, and I resolved to have every story count. Whether someone else finds them publishable or even makes an offer to publish, they would nonetheless become part of my writing resume, if only in my own eyes.

Some years later, and with two books strangers can actually purchase, I look back at my early efforts. Not without merit, but also no longer publishable even to my mind.

So I thought about Fleischman’s ‘first three years’ saying, and wondered how long it took me before I wrote well or, ahm, better.

It was about three years.

Oh, and did I mention that Fleischman was also a professional magician? It was both hubris and naiveté to think I can get anywhere faster than Sid Fleischman. But it was also necessary for me to feel that I wasn’t at a rehearsal, that this was the real thing, and every writing moment counted. That’s the way I work.

Maybe there’s a reason university degrees take as long as they do. The school of life can take a lot longer.

To Say or *NOT* to Say

“The trouble of talking too fast is you may say something you haven’t thought of yet.”

                                                                                                            Ann Landers

 She^ said it, and I doubt she regretted it.

The other day it occurred to me that in this new age, such ‘talking’ is often a comment left on a chat board, or to a blog post.

Oh, sure- you can delete your own blog posts, and you can edit or delete reviews on your own site. It’s true that once ‘out there,’ the Internet Wayback Machines can find deleted material. But who would bother?

It’s a different story when it comes to certain blogging services and the comments you leave on them. If you delete these, a record is left of who you are, and that you deleted whatever it was. I always find these ‘deleted by’ creepy, even though they were probably just correcting a typo. These deletes scream- SO~AND~SO SAID SOMETHING THEY NOW REGRET AND WANT HIDDEN. Talk about wanting less attention…

I’ve stopped posting anyplace that will not allow me to un-post or correct my typos in a seamless way. As I won’t post anonymously, I don’t need that inevitable ‘from’ turned to ‘form’ haunting me forever. (From/Form is my number one typo, present in every letter I ever typed. You’d think I have some subliminal unfulfilled bureaucratic ambitions.)

And this doesn’t even begin to touch on unintended offensive remarks. (The intended kind deserves a separate post.)

Because I like chiming in on others’ good blog posts, and love when others come to mine, I will try not to talk too fast. Like Winnie the Pooh, got to think. Think. Think.

Not a simple thing in this fast paced E-realm.

Getting Off the Duff

The end of summer also means the beginning of my writing year.

Oh, I write during the summer. I write Emails and blog posts. I write letters and grocery-shopping lists. I even revise my fiction and write critiques for writing friends. But I don’t write first drafts of new fiction stories.

I developed this pattern when my kids were little. As they had no babysitter, summer was at Camp Mama. It’s the nature of the Mama Job to be interrupted all the time with every sort of urgent task, and the focus that is required for new real writing wasn’t possible. Although I swear my kids still seem to think I’m eminently interruptible, I could probably manage to leave them alone and go off to some dungeon now. But the pattern of summers off was set, and I found it was good for me.

When the second part of August shows up, I begin to feel the twitches. Like running one’s hands over the car door, jiggling the keys, but not inserting the key or pushing the start button. Not quit yet.

And with that comes the Doubt Elf. Can you do it? Will the engine start? Doubt Elf brings with him the Excuses Guy. Excuses Guy says thing like, “Don’t start quite yet, you still have weeding/straightening/whatever to do,” and “Shouldn’t you be promoting your just published book?”

“Excuses will end when you stop making them”

Mirka M. G. Breen, August 2012

She’s right^. I remind myself of another thing-This is *for me.* I’m happiest writing the first draft.

On your mark, get set---

©Tony Carrillo

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to The Voice of Thunder

What is an author feeling when the real-honest-to-goodness paper Author Copies arrive?

First this^

Then this-

And finally that-

(^Thanks to DD for documenting, and rightly putting Author on cloud-nine with a bit of photo-finish^…)

And only days later, a note from the publisher said the release date was moved up to August 14. Wait a minute, that’s-

TODAY!

***Happy Birthday to you, THE VOICE OF THUNDER***

The Road Taken

Sometimes the road not taken was a life lesson, because the road you wound up on was a vast improvement.

Take for example the flight back home DD and I were supposed to be on- last flight out of Cleveland, fully booked to the last seat. A gate full of tired passengers waited when delay after delay turned into a flight cancelation, with the announcement that the airline had only enough hotel vouchers for half the passengers and will book us on the next available flight the next day, or whenever.

As we rushed to the customer service line, I told DD to prepare to spend the night on an airport bench. Instead, we were given vouchers for a nonstop flight not too early the next morning, vouchers for meals, and vouchers for a hotel nearby, all at the airline’s expense. Mind you, ours were the most economy-fare tickets, so we had no reason to count on first class treatment, which even first-class fare-payers can’t anymore. The hotel shuttle took the scenic route because the stand-up comedian driver said he wanted to do something special for his carload of ‘distressed passengers.’ I thought I had landed in the middle of this Thomas Kinkade Painting.

And then we found ourselves in the luxury suite, with a whirlpool bath in our room.

This made me think of another circuitous route that ended well- an offer from a publisher I had turned down a couple of years ago. The enthusiastic offer to publish my middle grade novel came with a condition for certain changes. This was just before I had an acceptance for my first picture book, and I was over the moon. After all, they only wanted me to cut one character, change the behavior of another, and change some minor details. None of the suggested changed seemed right to me, but, hey, I’m a novice and they are, well, experienced publishers who know what they are doing. Everyone says that you should ‘sit’ on such suggestions and maybe even sleep on it. Right?

But they wanted to change the ending too. That last one, no matter how much I tried to talk myself into, was a deal breaker. Oh, I did sleep on it. I also ran it by my beta reader who’s been with the story almost from the beginning, and he said, even more vehemently, they were wrong-Wrong-WRONG.

This same novel for middle grades found acceptance at the able hands of another publishing team, where the many editing rounds (three major, two minor) never stirred the story the wrong way. THE VOICE OF THUNDER is less than a month from its official release, and I could not be happier about the road I didn’t take and the one I did.

This brings me back to our relaxing extra night in Cleveland, and the following day’s flight. This time the plane was not full; we had empty seats between us. We arrived home in the middle of a beautiful sunny day, not in the dead of night.

One case where I had a choice and one where I didn’t. But both felt like emerging from darkness to light.

The road taken, once again, was the best road.

Breaks & Vacations

Well, it’s almost August, and I’m back.

I can still hear an elderly neighbor I had many years ago saying, “I need a vacation from my vacation.” She often went on cruises, and returned very tired. Seems she had way too much fun, and she needed the quiet of laundry, house cleaning and meal preparation, to recover.

That is about where I find myself. Fun and exhilarating moments can take a lot out of a person.

DD had the best time of her life (her words) at the international piano competition and managed to get through two of the four elimination rounds. They started with thirty semi-finalists, and she made it to the top ten. It was farther than she thought she'd get in this caliber of international competition, with the best of her generation of young pianists. Even better, while half were eliminated after the first round and never got to play their full concerto, (quite a feat) she got to the third round (the concerto round) and did very well. She made a good impression, and made some good friends.

I think it was good for me also. Most of all- while I suspected it, I didn't realize how important it is for me to stay off the Internet now and then. Ten days may be a lot, but it took about three days to adjust and get through Internet-withdrawal, so I may make it a yearly 'week off' from now on. At least for me it's the right thing to do.

I’m happy to be back, and after the three hundred and eighty seven Email messages get filed in their proper places, the real recovery will begin. That- and the task of getting household items into their places. The guys kept house, and with only ten days under their management, it is unrecognizable. They have an intriguing system of what belongs where. For example- Cheese crackers surely have a practical reason to be stored inside a hat. You get that, right? I’m a little slow, so don’t hesitate to solve that mystery for me.

Glad to be in blogosphere also and eventually I hope to get caught up with who’s been thinking about what.

But just for a few more moments, I need a vacation from my E-break vacation.

Artistic Competitions

While the guys hold fort at home, DD and I will be going to an international piano competition. She- as a semi-finalist, and I- as her devoted chaperone.

DD adores competitions. We never signed her to any, as both DH and I are ambivalent about artistic competitions. She has signed herself, has won many, and insists she loves them. We have allowed it, but my ambivalence has not abated. I had to recognize that my way is not hers, and allow her to don her own wings.

I know that every time I submit a manuscript I have entered a competition of sorts. But to me competitions are like sausage- I don’t want to see how they are made. I don’t want to see who I’m up against, and be there when results are announced. Give me the privacy of a rejection letter opened alone, and I can deal with it.

In addition, the nature of artistic races is peculiar. I’ll take an honest running race with a stop-watch, a whistle, and a clear finish line. The Olympics, anyone?

DD, on the other hand, finds the gathering of the talented to be inspiring, and has formed friendships with kindred spirits. She loves listening to the music-making of others, and it helps that she often wins or places in these. She is much better suited for this world- bless her.

And this makes me very happy.

{While we’re there, this blog will go on a mini-vacation, as its driver will be in the service of that other venture. Great opportunity to re-charge the blogging batteries, and take a break from all things computer. I’ll be back early August.}

Blog Awards

~It’s summer, time for fun and *games*~

And I got tagged for two blog awards. Summer says I’m playing. But just like  Monty Python’s Ministry of Silly Walks,  I’m going to do this run differently.

The {Booker} (not to be confused with the UK's The Booker) is for blogs that are at least 50% about books and the writing of books. This one comes with the request that I name five favorite books. If I name (only five?) wonderful books by writers I know or have ‘met’ in blogosphere, some very good writers will be left out. So I’m going to do this-

1.      The Teacher’s Funeral by Richard Peck

2.      Here Lies the Librarian By  Richard Peck

3.      The River Between Us By Richard Peck

4.      A Long Way from Chicago By Richard Peck

5.      A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck

{Detect a running thread here? I don’t know Richard Peck, and he surely doesn’t know me. No payment changed hands.}

*---*

The second blog award is called-

I noticed the ribbon is purply-pink. I’ll have to work harder for a blue ribbon.

For this one, I get to name five things I like and five I don’t.

First, the good news-

1.      Good books.

2.      Good movies.

3.      The Bay Area in summer.

4.      Jerusalem in winter.

5.      Strawberry-Rhubarb pie.

Now the bad news-

1.      Formulaic genre fiction = bad books.

2.      Blockbuster sequels = bad movies.

3.      The Bay Area in fall. (We don’t have real fall here)

4.      Jerusalem in summer.

5.      Soft-boiled eggs when the white isn’t quite cooked and still transparently jiggly and the waiter says it’s just right.

All right, I cheated a little with symmetry. But I did have a tiny twist there at the end.

Now I get to pass both awards to five worthy bloggers:

Barbara Bockman

Tina Cho

Diane Hower

Shannon Hitchcock

Katie L. Carroll

Have fun and don’t forget to kick some sand.

The Writer’s Tool Box

“When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem begins to resemble a nail.” This, from Abraham Maslow, the founder of Humanistic Psychology. I always liked his focus on the positive and not looking at individuals as ‘bags of problems.’ But what I really like about what he said was the plea to abandon formulas in favor of real thinking.

For people making a living from writing, formulas are a crutch and a necessity if they want to sell their work. Witness the plethora of writing courses and seminars, and degree programs in creative writing. My father used to sniff at the mention of these, saying, “I’d like to see a program in non-creative writing.” To him that would have been a more appropriate label for those degrees.

My father was a gifted writer, but he made a living teaching history, not from the exquisitely enigmatic poetry he wrote.

When I began my writing it was not formulaic. It became more so as I struggled to confirm to editors and critique-buddies’ suggestions. I find myself in a quandary now. Writing a new story is easier than ever but the result is more forgettable and leaves little residue.

Here’s what I’m after: the most deliciously luscious brownie in the world- made without chocolate, or a prize-winning pie that eats us back. Something to get me out of Ho-Hum town. A great travel story that never leaves home. When I figure it out I’ll let you know.

I’ve incorporated a lot of ‘how to,’ and now I need to figure out how to forget some of it. This last year almost every thing I tackled began to resemble a nail. Problem-quick-one-two-three-resolution- nailed it.

I must put the hammer down. Maybe look deeper into the tool box, or even outside of it.

Reading, wRiting and REVIEWS

In the three writerly Rs, the third is Reviews. Relieved that it’s not ‘aRithmetic?’ Relief may not last long.

I’m thinking less about the anxiety of being reviewed than my struggle with reviewing others’ work.

The great blogger/author/former agent Nathan Bradford asked in one of his posts if authors lose the right to review. This brought a barrage of comments, (writers have few rights already) and started writers’ chat boards buzzing. I should add that the Great Nate used the word ‘casually,’ as in casually trashing for the sport of it. I’m not a casual enough person, so it didn’t apply to me. But it got me reflecting on my own policy for self when it comes to reviews.

I should add that I adopted these self-rules before I became an author, and a beneficiary or possible target. I have no illusions that my few reviews amount to a mound of beans, but what I put out there matters to me.

The first self-rule was that I will use my real name. Anonymity is too tempting a place to release the snakes. No hiding behind Medusa from Maine or New York Nymph, (don’t I wish) – not for me.

The second was that I have no need to post publicly so-so reviews. It’s of no significance that this book was all right but well just not that great, and the main character could have… You get it. To me only clear endorsements or clear warnings of a deceptive dangerous product warrant attaching my name to them. Since one star reviews could draw attention to an otherwise seriously flawed book, I have yet to post one of those. I’d probably have to be pulled by a nose-ring to do it. (This may be one reason I don’t have a nose-ring.)

The third rule was to write few reviews, because it can become a full-time job to read and review. I still have other things to do. (One look at my house will confirm this.) To this end- my reviews are short, more like back-cover blurbs. No-retelling the whole story and never ever giving away the ending. I may wax eternal in private conversations about books I’ve read, but public utterances are in the no-spoilers-zone.

These are my own guidelines from which I am sure to stray, because I’m not a good rule-follower.

And to any out there who find any suggestion of constraint placed on their speech/reviews ludicrous, feel free to review this right here. I feel strongly that public discourse should be civil and considerate, so I set my comments to be ‘subject to approval.’ Censorship? Yup. But know that I censor myself first.

Phooey to Formulas

If I try to be like him, who will be like me?

That’s an old Yiddish proverb. {For someone who doesn’t speak Yiddish, I’m full of Yiddishisms. If there was ever a culture that looked at it itself with gentle irony and managed to balance humor and pathos, it’s Yiddish.}

I don’t have this subtle balance, and my utterings sound judgmental. So back to the ‘who will be like me’ point- how do you convey a dislike for formulaic thinking, formulaic writing, and, well, FORMULAS?

When I began writing I didn’t know all the you’re-supposed-to-thises and you’re-supposed-to-thats. I wrote, and wrote some of my most original stories. Not formulaic, and also not publishable. Eager to get more than form rejections, I learned to ‘be like him,’ to know what is expected. To study the rules and by-pass them only for a compelling reason. I still get a lot of rejections, but many are requests to re-submit and encouragement for my writing.

In the back of my mind that Yiddish voice, reminding me to ‘be like me,’ beckons me. Somehow I find myself searching for this balance- to be like him, and be like me.

{Now I wish I knew Yiddish, because if any language can embrace dichotomies and contradictions, this is it. You know about two Jews and three opinions, right?}

When editors say they are looking for something ‘different,’ writers on chat-boards have surmised they mean ‘something that is the same, but with a difference.’ Rare is the editor who is really looking for something that has no trace of formula in it. Something different.

Well, this is my struggle and my *sigh* today. Come sigh like me…

Marketing and the Shy Person

How does a shy person tackle this thing called self-promotion?

We don’t.

An old joke tells of how to distinguish a truly shy person from a run-of-the-mill introvert: the introvert may look at your shoes when talking to you, while a truly shy person looks at his own shoes. That’s about how high they dare to fix their gaze.

Writers who wish to publish must sell themselves at every stage. First, the why you (the publisher) should take my story. Then- the why the market (virtual or brick and mortar) should pay any attention. Finally- the why you (the reader) should read it. There is no hiding behind a well-oiled marketing department. Even the largest publishers expect all but their A-listers to self-promote. With smaller publishers this is even more so. And if writers go the self-publishing route, they must become promotion machines. Highly *not* recommended for shy people.

Some shy-types have found that the social sites allow them to have friends or followers in the thousands, and they never have to look at anyone’s shoes. {If you are one of mine, know that I appreciate each and every one.} But let’s be honest about this: these are not friendships. Real friends give their time and attention and real friendships require no less from us. The most socially gregarious person I have ever met has less than a hundred real friends. I’m in awe of this level of connectedness, and can attest to said person being very busy maintaining those close connections.

Chat boards allow a shy person to put the word out. But generally this is where the word stops, and there is stays.

The other day I had what to me felt like an epiphany. I put forth what I believe is a mighty good offering. Initially it’s called a manuscript, and when published it’s called a book. That’s what I owe the world, and the world, in return, owes me nothing.

The pressure keg of how to make my offering be noticed by someone, anybody out there, suddenly dissipated. I’ll continue to offer my best, and come what may- I’ve done it right.

Oh, and will you please check out my book? I think you’ll like it. {Blush.}

I just noticed my shoes need some polishing.

The Quiet life of a Writer Mom

There’s a Yiddish saying- You can’t ride two horses with one behind.

But (homophone intended) isn’t that what we moderns do all the time?

I look at my own life. By definition as a stay-at-home mom it’s a calm life. Oh sure, there’s driving the kids. Yes, some house work and residential dinner chef services included. Oh, and that other thing, that little hobby of writing, which I insist on calling a profession and try to get paid for.

Then please explain to me why I am always busy and never catch up? No Dahling, it’s not the swank parties I attend. I’m a shy person who doesn’t attend parties, and my few dear friends are not swanky. No, I don’t sit in front of the television eating bonbons. What are bonbons exactly? The last time I saw one I was probably eight years old, and I don’t remember that far. I also don’t play tennis at the club (no budget for a club) and I don’t spend mornings kicking sand at the beach. When it comes to the beach I can glance at it from afar, with little time to actually go there.

What I do is ride two, nay- several, horses with one behind. By that old Yiddish saying, my life is an impossibility.

Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE MY BLESSED LIFE; or should I say- my lives? How many horses is this fellow riding?

And I did notice he is not using his one behind at all. You do what you have to do. Ride on!

Laughing My Pants Off

When was the last time you laughed your pants off?

Speaking for myself, I never laugh my pants off. My pants stay put. But I do laugh until every cell in my body dances a ticklish dance.

You get my meaning. What was a strong visual, now overused, has become a cliché. Cross that one out and think anew.

My excellent editor for The Voice of Thunder crossed out a few of these worn visuals, and rather than come up with replacements, she wrote ‘CLICHÉ’ in the margins. Of all the revision tasks I discovered that replacing a cliché with a fresh custom-thought was my favorite.

One such was the sentence- “You could cut the tension with a knife.” A strong image that has long lost its edge, (pun intended, and another cliché) and in the case of the voice of thunder, it was a pivotal sentence.

What did I change it to? You’ll have to read the book. Or maybe I should say- Please (PLEASE) read the book.

And whether you read the book or not, re-thinking worn-out expressions is the best gift I’ll leave you with today.

Because replacing these is too much fun to miss. While re-working clichés, I laughed so hard my earrings fell off.