For All of You Kvetching that You're Too Old to Make It

Take a few minutes to read about debut memoirist Harry Bernstein, 96.
The Invisible Wall, his story of the Christian-Jewish divide in Manchester, England, sounds even more fascinating than that of his unlikely success as a writer. I'm looking forward to reading it.

Here's hoping the rest of us won't have to wait quite so long to make that kind of splash. :)

The Siren Call of Hysterical Self-Promotion

I sold my first novel back in 1998 (though this historical romance came out in May of '99), and at the time, I was eager -- make that obsessed -- with doing everything within my power to make certain it succeeded. Part of this was due to the fact that I had some time on my hands. Though I was working what would become my second book, the long lead times and the infusion of energy from *finally* getting The Call, along with my introduction to a fresh-faced and equally manic number of other young writers, combined to convince me that self-promotion was the key.

I pulled out all the stops and threw myself into a phase I've come to call "Hysterical Self-Promotion." I built my own website, spoke every place that would have me, lined up signings out the wazoo, penned articles, dredged up enough cash to place an ad in Romantic Times, and forced myself (not easy, since I'd mostly been in the closet about writing) to tell as many people as I could about my impending *authordom*.

I hope this fervor was regarded with the fond smiles of forbearance one would reserve for a large and overly-enthusiastic puppy. That's the way I look at it when I see other new authors succumbing to the same siren song. And to be fair, all this gushing excitement is WAY more attractive than those cynical and jaded hacks who rain all over everyone's parade with their torrents of bitter disappointment. (Note to self: Quit the business before crushing hopes and dreams of starry-eyed newcomers.)

A dozen sales later, I still do some self-promotion. In the competitive world of writing single-title, mass market paperback romantic suspense, I feel the pressure to do something to help get my name out to both readers and others working in the industry. Such activities have their place, but that place, IMHO, needs to be the back seat to the continued production of damned good stories.

Over time, I've developed a few rules to help guide my efforts:

Never again will I blow my entire advance (and then some, in one particularly dim-witted case) on more self-promo than I can afford. These days I set a strict budget, which amounts to no more than 10% of my advance. Less, when I feel I can get away with it.

Never again will I do stuff I sincerely hate doing. (Namely, in my case, aggressively "pushing" my books on the profoundly-disinterested. I'd never make a decent living in used car sales either.) If you're so shy, you stink at booksignings, don't do them. The results will be painful for everyone involved. If you despise public speaking, you probably won't be good at it. (As a former teacher, I love teaching, so I don't mind at all speaking to groups of writers. But even so, I have to honestly ask myself what's in it for me each time I'm invited.)

Never again will I dis-count my own time as part of the cost factor. This is the one that still gives me the most trouble. I frequently forget that my time on this planet is not an endlessly-refilling well. Time spent on self-promotion activities takes time from my writing (which had better be a priority), my family (which really is a priority), my other obligations (my next life needs to come with a staff), and my chance for rest and relaxation. If I cut short any one of these at the expense of self-promotion, my quality of life -- as well as my work -- suffers.

So how much self-promotion is too much? Are you finding yourself feeling pressured to spend hours "friending" folks on MySpace or spend your hard-earned earnings on schemes of questionable value? Where do you draw the line on the pressure to package not only your work but yourself for the consumer? And do you ever long -- as Dean Koontz's wonderful character Odd Thomas puts it -- for a simple life selling tires to folks who need them?

A fitting tribute to my first novel

At critique group Friday night, we Midwives were discussing cover art from our first novels. I loved the cover art on the hardcover of my firstborn, Crazy for Trying, but Gary promptly dubbed this trade paper version "the blow job cover." In an eloquent statement about keeping one's art in perspective, my daughter Jerusha used an old copy to wallpaper our downstairs bathroom.

Those #$@! Typos

In this morning's Houston Chronicle, an article ran called "Sometimes We Have to Write the Wrongs," which apologized for an embarrassing error (helpfully pointed out by many alert readers) that ran in yesterday's Star section, where some celeb photographer said Anna Nicole Smith "could barely right a sentence." The article goes on to list a number of bone-headed and often humorous errors for the amusement of Houstonians.

Instead of laughing, I winced. First of all, while skimming yesterday's Star section, my eye snagged on that same line. But I never noticed the typo, just as I skip over an embarrassing number in my own work. Although I'm a good speller and taught English for years, I am not a great detail person. With my attention focused on the "global", I insert many bone-headed substitutions, such as "the" for "of" and "your" for "you're", along with occasional permutations that bear little resemblance to English, much less the sheer brilliance (!) I was attempting to transcribe. For some reason, this happens much more regularly with novel manuscripts -- where the big picture is much more complex -- than with articles, e-mails, or other short pieces.

Because I'm a perfectionist about my work, I frequently find myself angry and frustrated when, after many readings, the typos continue to appear. (Do they breed in the manuscript after I've shut down the computer? I'm suspicious.) I've recently set up my laptop to read aloud each chapter and highlight each word as it does so. This helps me a great deal, as do the wonderful, gifted writers kind enough to read my work before it's submitted. I'm also incredibly grateful to the editor and copy-editors who catch not only typos but the seriously-important stuff. Yet even with all these eyes and brains, I still invariably catch a few errors at the galley (page proof) stage. And I never read the published book, because I'm terrified I'll see something glaring that is now beyond my ability to change.

But sure enough, once in a great while some helpful reader will write me to point out something that I -- and every one of the legion of proofreaders -- has managed to miss. Recently, one such entrepreneur made a list for me and helpfully offered her services (for an undisclosed fee) as an editor.

I cheered myself by correcting all the errors in her e-mail before deleting it. Clearly, those mistakes bred inside her file between the moment she hit "send" and the message appeared in my mailbox.

Today, I'd like to know, how do you combat the evil typo? Or perhaps you have stories to share about your own helpful reader letters or battles with perfectionism.

The Tortoise Straps on Ears

I've never made any secret of the fact that I'm "the tortoise" when it comes to writing. I don't sprint to my deadlines but rather keep up a methodical pace by writing a small number of pages per day, five days per week. This gives me "think time," the chance to edit as I go, and an opportunity for some kind of balance in my life. As a long-term strategy, it's worked well for me, though I know plenty of blind-panic deadline maniacs who procrastinate for months before completing their books (often late) in the white heat of marathon sessions.

If the "hare" styles works for you, I don't knock it, but I'd personally find it crazy-making. Except that I've agreed to an uncomfortably-short deadline. Since I absolutely cannot be late (we're really cutting this one close as it is), nor can I stand to be late (I was the annoying Hermione-type in school, who turned in papers a day early), I've discovered the "twin ears" needed to put this tortoise into hare mode: a desk calendar and simple division.

That's my low-tech secret. First I took my deadline and subtracted three weeks from it (though I would prefer a full month) for feedback and editing. Then I estimated the remaining pages and divided by the number of weeks, then divided again to get a per-day count needed. Then I marked the calendar with "P=" for each day's projected page count. Below it, I have "A=" for the actual page count. I scheduled in a couple of days off to attend to unavoidable chores (waving to IRS) and maybe one or two R&R days, which can be used as catch-up days as needed.

What I found was that my usual five pages a day plodding pace will work, if I stick religiously to this plan. I won't feel panicked if I can see that I'm on course. I won't get to have a lot of fun either, but since it would be spoiled by the threat of missing the deadline, I can live with that for the next couple of months. And afterward, I've planned a short vacation to "refill the well" before jumping into the next project.

I don't think there's any right or wrong way to handle deadlines (so long as you do). The important thing is learning your own working style, your strengths and weaknesses and tolerances, and going with what's doable for you.

Fitz this side of paradise

According to Garrison Keillor's Writer's Almanac yesterday:

It was on this day in 1920 that This Side of Paradise was published, launching 23-year-old F. Scott Fitzgerald to fame and fortune. The first version of the book was called The Romantic Egotist, and Fitzgerald had started writing it in the fall of 1917 while awaiting commission as an army officer. He wrote most of the manuscript at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, and sent chapters as he wrote them to a typist at Princeton where he had been a student. In March 1918, he submitted the novel to Charles Scribner's Sons. Scribners rejected the novel but encouraged Fitzgerald to revise it. He submitted a new version titled The Education of a Personage to Scribners in September 1918, but that second version was also rejected.

In July 1919, after his discharge from the army, Fitzgerald returned to his family's home at 599 Summit Avenue in St. Paul. He pinned revision notes to his curtains and rewrote much of the novel. In August 1919, Fitzgerald finished a new draft, now titled This Side of Paradise. He gave it to a friend from St. Paul for a final edit and sent the new typescript to Scribners on September 4, 1919. Two weeks after he mailed the manuscript, Fitzgerald received Maxwell Perkins' letter accepting the book. Fitzgerald was so excited that he ran outside and stopped cars on the street to announce the news.

Would the real Joe Hill please stand up

Every once in a while this biz gives me such a chortle...

Back in 2004, a guy named Joe Hill self-pubbed a little book of poems through PublishAmerica, a POD (print on demand) press, which vehemently denies being a vanity press. Kinda like I deny being a WASP. (I'd so much rather think of myself as a Viking.) Under the "Editorial Reviews" section for Surviving, there's only this:

Book Description
I am a thirty-six-year-old man, born in Des Moines, Iowa. I have an eleven-year-old daughter and sixteen-year-old nephew, both of whom I love very much. Without them this world would be unbearable. They give me reasons I never knew I had to live. I thank God every day for the things He has given me, even the things I don't understand. Poems and my children help ease the pain that everyday life can cause. I have recently found out that you can do anything you want when you believe in yourself. And that's what I will be teaching my children.

There are no media or buyer reviews, probably because of the complete lack of both media and buyers that undoubtedly greeted this publication...

Until a few weeks ago.

When the New York Times Book Review trashed Heart Shaped Box, which happens to be the debut novel of Stephen King's son, who is writing under the name...

Joe Hill.

Out of curiosity, I looked to see if there was another Joe Hill. The first time I looked, the Amazon sales rank of Surviving was in the top 1000. I can't decide which makes me laugh louder, the looks on the faces of all those rabid Stephen King fans when they get their little poetry books or the look on "poems and children help ease the pain" Joe Hill's face when he gets his next check from Amazon.

Like the man said:

I thank God every day for the things He has given me, even the things I don't understand.

That's gotta hurt.

Looks kinda like the Orion nebula, but it's actually where my seatbelt was after Chucklenuts the Trucker decided to make an illegal left, slamming into some unsuspecting schmoe, who then slammed into me. Stuff like that tends to ruin your whole weekend. Home from the hospital now with aching back and hammering headache, I was reminded by a friend that I actually wrote a glib little column about the redeeming social value of pain back when I was doing my syndicated "Earth to Joni" column.

Earth to Joni April 20, 2003

That's Gotta Hurt: Searching for perspective in the House of Pain

I'm not a masochist, but I don't entirely hate pain. There's something mouth-wateringly alive about it. It's visceral, it's animal. It transcends the grinding norm, transporting us to an adrenaline-soaked plane of existence where we suddenly see with crystal clarity the true value of our temple bodies.

Oddly enough, when I shared this insight with Gary on the way to the minor emergency clinic, he was less than receptive. He'd somehow managed to trip over his own shoe (face it, honey, some people are not meant to walk backwards) and was certain his wrist was "utterly shattered."

"On a scale of one to five, how bad does it hurt?" asked the triage nurse. Gary's face reflected a struggle between the need to not sound wimpy and a desire for the big drugs. A manly response would be, "Ah, 'twarn't nuthin' but a two, little lady." But shrieking "Seven! Seven! Hit me in the head with a croquet mallet, for the love of mercy!" might better convey an immediate need for Darvon.

It's really not a fair question. Pain, emotional or physical, is relative.

For example, pain incurred without a good story is definitely worse than pain associated with a clever anecdote. Last year I fractured my instep, and because my foot was swollen up like a Buick, they immobilized it with an extra large boot, which meant I had to walk around like Ronald McDonald for five weeks. When anyone (and everyone) asked me what was up with the giant blue platypus attached to my ankle, I had to pile insult upon injury by telling the clunky truth. Somehow the "paratrooping into a nest of Qaida operatives" fracture gets a lot more props than the "stepped funny on the church playground" fracture.

I don't even try to match pain stories with my father. In the Pain Hall of Fame, Dad is firmly ensconced between Evel Knievel and that coyote in the Roadrunner cartoons. He's fallen from various tall places, been sat on by a horse, survived a triple bypass, and received high voltage electric shocks. He's crashed, careened, and catapulted off every mode of transportation imaginable, from a pop-up camper to my son's rollerblades. And he's always very jovial about his current injury, which makes it all the more tragic and brave.

"What, this? Oh, I hit a deer on my motorcycle. And what that deer was doing on my motorcycle I'll never know! Har-har!"

Fortunately for Mom, he still can't top the pain of giving birth. A man could be set upon by flaming wolverines and dragged off the Hoover Dam viewing platform--a woman still trumps him with childbirth. And mom did labor-times-six. Pain resulting from a selfless act is far more painful than pain resulting from general shenanigans. It's a fundamental truth: you will never experience the depth of agony your mother went through to bring you into this world. (And still, you forget to take out the garbage. But--as long as you're happy. That's all that matters.)

To Gary's chagrin, his wrist wasn't broken. It's badly sprained, which is so unfair. All the torment with none of the drama. He's getting plenty of mileage out of the torn ligaments, though. I feel his pain. Especially when I think of all the yard work I'm going to be doing.

"I feel your pain" has become something comedians say when they're sending up Bill Clinton, but we do literally hurt for each other. We cringe when we hear about the root canal, the stubbed toe, the star-spangled migraine. I defy you to refrain from crossing your legs when I tell you my friend Brad once jumped out a kitchen window and landed with one leg inside a barrel and the other leg out. Pain is something every human understands. That understanding provides a root system for compassion, and in our best moments, its fruit is mercy.

A world without it would be excruciating.

The Superstitious Writer

A short time after I finished reading a wonderful book called The Thirteenth Tale, by Diane Setterfield, I accepted an offer to make my thirteenth sale. Thirteenth novel sale, that is, of a romantic thriller I'm called The Salt Maiden. Strange coincidence or woo-woo moment? I'm not normally superstitious -- I'm about as grounded in reality as one can get -- but for some reason, I was feeling particularly nervous about sale #13.

Many athletes and actors are said to have off-beat superstitions, from lucky socks to ritual meals to you-name-the-oddity. Perhaps we're susceptible as writers, too, because so much that is important to us remains outside the bounds of our control. Maybe that's the reason I feel compelled to read a book with the number fourteen in the title the next time I'm up for contract -- or perhaps J.D. Robb's fourteenth Eve & Roark book would suffice.

Do you have any writing-related superstitions? If so, I'd love to hear about them.

“It's a very neurotic time, but I’m trying not to succumb to it.”

So says writing guru and "unlikely Christian" Anne Lamott in a Boston Herald interview today. She's talking about book tour, but you could apply that to a whole lot about her life -- and mine -- including publishing, politics, and parenting.

There is no one less likely on earth to have found a church, and certainly being a Christian is the last thing I had in mind. But a spiritual path is a lot of things - registering voters, feeding the poor, getting the homeless off the street. My message is there’s something out there and you will find it. I think Augustine said, ‘To seek God is to have found him.’

Lamott's latest Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith hits bookstores this week.

Some excellent writing advice from Tom Robbins:

Get yourself in that extreme state of being next to madness. You should always write with an erection. Even if you’re a woman.

My own version of that philosophy: Write from the torso; edit from the head.

The first is that utterly visceral, instinctive, and natural state in which we have to shut off the censorship that wants us to be nice, to fit in, to not piss anyone off, to be accepted, to make our parents proud. The second is where cool judgments and harsh cuts have to be made, little darlings have to be slaughtered, and the marketplace has its say.

When the book reaches the shelf, it's (hopefully) a fruitful marriage of art and commerce. The Apollonian/Dionysian Conflict resolved.

Waspish at work

On our way home from France a couple months ago, Gary discovered he'd lost his keys somewhere in Paris, so when we got home, I had to climb a ladder and enter the house through my office window. We being the slackadaisical homeowners we are, the screen is still off, and now a large paper wasp is building an elaborate home for her coming offspring in there.

When I first noticed her, my knee jerk response was "RAID!" I'm a year-round windows open kind of person, and this is a honkin' big wasp with a wicked-looking stinger. But as I've been turning myself inside out the last couple weeks, driving hard to finish my novel in progress, I've begun to feel a sort of sisterhood with her. We're both single-minded and diligent. We look at each other once in a while, then lower our heads to our tasks again.

I can't bear to brush her work away, so I'll keep the window closed, I guess, and watch her work unfold and fly away. I only wish I was as beautiful as she is. And I hope the offspring I'm gestating will have the wings -- and the sting -- to make it past my office window.

Tipping Yourself Over

More from Ray Bradbury's brilliant Zen in the Art of Writing:

"We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled.

The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out."

This past week, I've tipped myself over by showing up at the page every day. My minimum, as suggested by a writers' challenge group I've joined, is a mere 100 words. None too challenging for a professional, one might think, and even on the busiest, most messed-up day, running on a few hours' sleep (as I am now, since my new dog was sick again last night), I can force out those 100.

But the 100 words have proven to be a rusty faucet for me. Once I muster up the energy to break it loose, "the beautiful stuff" has spilled out, pages and pages of it.

So this next week, I'm continuing my goal of writing at least a little every, single day to keep the story flowing and the magical muse's cup refilling every night.