Life Happens When You Are Busy Making Plans

I was planning on taking a sabbatical from teaching my workshops starting in January. But, after careful thought, I have decided to modify it. The feedback I received, coupled with my own reluctance to give up doing something I love (even thought it’s for another something I love), has made me rethink taking a year and half off teaching.

My motivation for issuing myself a sabbatical came from the amount of work I have for school, which is only going to increase come my third semester in January. The third and fourth semesters at Pine Manor’s Solstice program (little plug) are designated for writing your thesis–not one but two, one in each of those semesters. So, looking at my life, coaching and tutoring (my work) and then my children (I have a 16 month old and almost 6 year old), I realized, I cannot do it all. Something has to give.

However, after receiving quite a few emails that asked if maybe I would consider running one or two more abbreviated workshops before I go, I thought–there’s got to be a way to continue to teach and get the time off I need.

So, I came up with a plan: Between February and June, I will run five Saturday afternoon intensive workshops that will focus on journaling your way to storytelling–perfect for anyone interested in writing anything from short, creative nonfiction essays, novels, short stories–anything creative. I will teach the powerful techniques that are the hallmark of Releasing The Writer Within and introduce some new things that I have learned at school. I will also throw in some during the week one-night two hour classes–possibly a class on revision and a Critique & Feedback. So, my sabbatical will really be from July to when I graduate in January 2011.

Don’t forget, too, that I am offering online tutorials–classes online for individuals rather than a group of students. Those tutorials can begin at a designated date that I will determine with the student. I also am offering online classes that begin the first Wednesday of every month and run for four weeks. The cost for the classes and tutorials are the same.

Click here for the schedule for all these classes. Don’t forget becoming a member of Releasing The Writer Within enables you to receive the very steep discounts on all classes as well as writing coaching sessions and packages.

Self-Trust, Self-Publish, Self-Promote

The Rug Pulled Out

I am getting better at riding out the shit that life throws me. Right now, in my personal life, the life I don’t write about in my blog (believe it or not I do keep some things to my self), I have had something happen to me that is best analogized with this: You are walking on, what appears to be, a lovely bike path, nice and flat, miles and miles of easy asphalt ahead of you.  You are just going and swinging alone, enjoying the feeling of moving forward, the lovely scenery with water to your left and a thicket of trees to your right.  Then, suddenly, upon the next step, you drop, fall, down, down, down, and land in  new place, bruised and lost. It’s sudden. There’s no warning. And now, you have to figure out what to do.

This “shit” that life has thrown me is not the worst thing to have happened to me ever-that would be death, divorce, or illness. It’s none of those. Maybe that’s why while this sometimes wakes me in the middle of the night, but my heart doesn’t pound and I don’t get a tightness in my chest. While I am consumed with it in my head during the day, it’s more just the buzz and noise behind everything else.

So, it’s not that bad. I guess.

But, the point is, the reason for me sharing this with you all is that this “shit” has given me some perspective on my writing, and more importantly, (what this blog entry will eventually be about) on the marketing of my new book, Fear of Falling.

Struggle?

Due to this shit in my life, marketing my book seems like a minor concern and yet, at the same time I say that, I feel guilty. I shouldn’t neglect this book.  Marketing is my duty in a way that when you create something, with it comes the responsibility of caring for its well being. I know the book isn’t my child, and I have blogged about realizing my old metaphor of birthing books and parenting them into the world doesn’t really work. A book is not a child. I get that. But still, I wrote the thing and published it. Shouldn’t I tend to it regularly? Or, is it like what happens with your pets once you have children? Where all your energy used to go to loving Fido, now poor guy is lucky if you clean his food bowl once in awhile. 

Guilt?

While I feel guilty about Fear of Falling not getting as much of my time as it should, I am well aware of how futile book marketing efforts can be. That I can do every single thing short of tying the book to my neck like a necklace and still not sell a lot of books. I have talked at length about the going-up-hill-with-a-bag-of-rocks-on-my-back experience of book marketing.  The reality is that you just don’t know what will work, and you do a lot of shooting arrows in the dark.  That was fine with the first and second book and that was fine before I had two children and that was fine when I wasn’t in school and that was fine when my business was slow. But now, I am pressed for time. Now, I have other things that are simply more important.

Frustration

Even when I was a marketing nut, the result was almost the same as not doing a whole lot. With book one and two, I did every single thing possible and sold a total of a bit more than 1500 (and I still sell some here and there). That is fantastic for self-published with no help. But the amount of time and energy it took was enormous, and I don’t regret it, but my life is very different now and I can’t live that way. I have to make money to support my children, and so my time has to go to children, work, and husband. Plus, I am in school, and school comes before marketing my book. I have to accept my limitations, and I have to let go of these voices that say “You should have waited to publish this one” or “You should have tried harder for a new agent or tried at least once with submitting to a regular publishing house.”

Should’ve, could’ve, would’ve.

And...more frustration

It’s frustrating to love your book and believe in it but feel as though the time it takes for promotion is futile. Shot in the dark, and if you keep shooting and missing, you get pissed because your time could be spent doing something else. Recently I sent out a gazillion press releases, spent $800 on it and got only one response. Seriously? WTF?

And...more struggle

The struggle is with the guilt I feel for not devoting the amount of time I did with book one and two. The struggle I feel is the sadness of how so few will get to read this current book.  How, in many ways, this is the most important one. The struggle is to say, “I did this for simply the sake of my art and not to sell or promote.”  Which is the truth.  I went into this one saying, “I am publishing book three because I have to.  Because if only two people read it and are moved and touched– it’s worth it.”  I don’t regret self publishing it. I just wish that the few things I do for marketing would snowball effect out and bring in more readers.

Self-Trust When You Self-Publish

When it comes down to it all, I have to trust my self and my process with this book, and I have to remind myself why I did it and reconcile myself with the reality that some of the marketing I have done, which cost lots of money and time, isn’t working, and so that’s it. That’s it, as in, time to stop wasting money and time and just do what’s easy and accessible and free. 

Forgive and let go...

I am done efforting with marketing and from here on, I will market only in ways that are easy. And if I don’t sell any more books, I accept that.

The struggle between work, school, marketing, children, husband, house. I really understand I no longer can do it all and do it all to the best effort. One of those things will suffer. It can’t be the children or husband or work or school. Those are, in ways, effortless.  It’s the marketing of this book. Sorry, book. I love you, but I can’t do much more than I am doing.

----------

Told you all, way back before I released this book, that  I would be really honest about the third time around in self-publishing.  So, here’s the update on the book’s progress.

Middletown High School in Middletown, RI ordered 12 copies to give out as awards to teachers for a unit they did on bullying.  MHS is my alum and place I taught a few years back. I wish they would invite me to come and do a workshop. Cross your fingers. I have put it out there so...

I had a signing at Barrington Books and sold 20 copies between the three books.

Reviewing/blog goddess and student/friend of mine Joanne Carnevale posted the first official review.

A fellow named Marc Marc Archambault, author and blogger, will review the book on his blog My Indy Book Review.

Devyn Burton from 5 Awesome YA Fans has the book and will review some time next year on his blog http://fdreview.blogspot.com/. The Faerie Drink Review

I submitted to the IPPY awards.

I have acquired 73 fans on Facebook!

The Bristol Phoenix Wrote a lovely piece about the book and me. http://www.eastbayri.com/detail/131943.html

The Jewish Voice will be running a blurb and a head shot in their next issue.

Mt. Hope High school here in Bristol asked me to come and do a workshop.

The Barrington Library– so I hear– has a display of my books!

Clark’s Alum magazine featured a quick blurb about the book.

A reviewer from the Young Adult Book Club website is set to review the book shortly.

On the other hand...

The Newport Daily News has passed on writing an article about me.  Too bad. They did a nice job a few years back on my first book.

A few weeks back there was a request from the press release service I used. Haven’t heard back, though. I spent $800 on this wire/press release service. I only got one response. Lesson learned.

I haven’t set up any more signings yet.

Ran a contest only one person submitted to. : (

If you have any easy and quick marketing ideas, email me!  I will post any that I try out. 

Book Giveaway Contest/Excerpt of Hannah's first two books!

Write Naked runs its first EVER book giveaway contest. 

The Contest
Write a review of Fear of Falling and post it on Amazon.  Then, send Hannah the link to the review, and she will send you a free, autographed copy of My Sister’s Wedding or My Summer Vacation–your choice! But hurry, only the first five reviewers will win the prize!!!!

Deadline is November 20th!

_______________________________________

From Chapter 1 of My Sister’s Wedding

“For God’s sake Barb, the waste paper basket was right next to you!” My mother screams from the bathroom. “Did you have to vomit all over the $700 veil?
     We are in my mother’s bedroom and Mom is in the bathroom furiously scrubbing the veil in her sink and screaming every profanity possible. Barbara is standing in her dress bawling, makeup running. I am holding the bustle up with one hand and wiping Barbara’s face with a tissue with the other hand.
     “Sorry Mother, I guess I missed!” she spits back at her.
     I am tired. Tired of my mother getting upset over the wrong thing. How come she doesn’t say: “For God’s sake. Barb, did you have to get trashed the night before your wedding?”
     Instead we stand around screaming and crying over a veil.
     Moments later, after I tuck Michael’s ring (designed by his father who owns a swank jewelry store in town) into my tiny, blue-beaded purse, we tumble into the white stretch limo and are on our way to meet Michael, my dad, and Michael’s parents at the temple. We are fifteen minutes away. My mother is discussing draperies with the limo driver (she constantly tries to recruit more customers, no matter the situation).
     “Now, Mrs. Hickman, my wife wants to buy all these curtains and pillows. I tell her: You make it! Why do you have to buy them? Women used to make this stuff. Why does she have to buy it?” says the limo driver, who is a balding, wrinkled man with a toothy smile.
     “George is it?” My mother asks him. He nods, teeth gleaming. “George, your wife probably is a busy woman. She takes care of you and maybe the grandchildren–”
     “Great grandchildren!” He announces as if they were a prize.
     “My!”
     “Six!”
     “Well, then, George, don’t you see how hard she works?” George nods vigorously. “Does she really have time to make drapes and pillows?” She stresses the word “drapes”. My mother refuses to say curtains.
     “I guess not.” Poor George has been defeated by Martha.
     “Let me give you my card....”
      My sister and look at each other and roll our eyes. She mouths to me, “Sucker!”
      My sister busies herself with her compact, fixing her lipstick. It all somehow doesn’t seem real; my sister is getting married and leaving the house. It just doesn’t seem possible.
      My mother closes the deal with George and turns back to us. She looks over at Barbara and says, “Did you bring any concealer?”
     “Why?”
     “Because you have circles under your eyes.”
     I stare at my mother. And that’s because...?
     My sister looks into her mirror. “I already put some on.”
     “Well,” my mother smoothes her dress. “You need more.”
     “No, I don’t, Mother.” Barbara turns to me. “Do I need more concealer?”
     I stare at her, not wanting to get involved. Not wanting to open my mouth for fear that I may scream, who gives a shit! You’re friggin’ hung over! Can we just say it already?
     I say nothing because now they are going at it. I tune them out and stare out the window. I have started to become aware of my family and how screwed up it is.    

From Chapter 5 of My Summer Vacation

I feel like a child who smells chocolate chip cookies and is lured out of her room and into the kitchen by the hypnotic smell. Inside the music shack, some instrument cases and stands are scattered around the scuffed hardwood floor. As I peer around the corner of the foyer area, I see curly brown hair flopping up and down. The boy who owns the hair looks up and the playing stops. Red blotches creep up his thick neck. He’s stocky. Tan with dark black hair. Cute in a cuddly way.
     “I’m sorry,” I say. “I was walking by and I heard the song and—”
    “That’s okay. I was just messing around. I hope it’s okay.” His voice is deep but soft.
     So he’s not a CIT. But he looks and sounds way too old to be a camper. The cook’s kid or something? He reminds me of Jack Black. Maybe his younger brother.
     “Is it okay?” Now he’s asking me. He closes the piano. “Are you one of the JCs?”
     “No, no. I’m a CIT. In the pub shop. Are you a—?”
     “Camper,” he finishes for me. “I’m a camper, but it’s my first year. I’m starting a little late. I’m going to be fifteen in July.” Fifteen is the cut-off age for older campers before they have to either be a CIT or forget coming to camp.
     Pause.
     “I love John Lennon,” I say. “No one my age likes Lennon or the Beatles.” I motion to the piano.      
     “You’re really good.” I like this kid. Immediately. He could be my Peter for the summer. Not that I want to bump out David. But I think David will be otherwise occupied.
     “How old are you?” he asks.
     “I just turned sixteen.”
     “You look older. I thought you were a counselor.”
     “You too.” We both laugh. Instant cocoa and marshmallows. That’s what my sister says when she connects with someone. It’s something she picked up in rehab from a sixty-year-old recovering alcoholic who was her group therapy counselor.
     I walk over to him and lean against the piano. “What else do you play?”
     He starts clanging out the John Lennon song, “Woman.” I feel a shiver that doesn’t belong in this stickyhot weather. His voice is gravelly but deep and strong. It doesn’t belong on anyone under forty. I hide my tears with a cough and eye rub.
     He finishes the song and looks up at me. “So how did you get into old music?”
     “I have a sister who’s nine years older than me.” I stop, not sure I want to reveal the full reason for Barbara’s appreciation for older music.
     “My brother, Orin, is nine years older than me.” He tugs on his curls and runs his hand rapidly over the back of his head. “A real screw-up. But a great musician. If he hadn’t blown a major record deal, he’d be a Behind the Music episode.”
     His candor nails me to the floor. “Maybe it’s an older-sibling trend to be a screwup. Mine’s a recovering alcoholic.”
     “At least she’s recovering,” he says. “Although Orin, I guess, is too. He’s always recovering or trying to recover or in recovery.”
     Holy shit.
     I feel compelled to top him but I can’t. “Wow.” It’s all I can come up with.
     “Even fucked up, Orin is a rockin’ singer and guitar player. Arista Records wanted to sign him last year after they heard him play with his band Couch Brats. They wanted just him. He fucked that up. Never showed up for their first meeting. They even sent a car to our house. The record dude even called and asked to come by. Orin was busy at the hospital.”
     He stops, and I notice he has a sort of weird tic, where he moves his jaw slightly from side to side. I haven’t moved from my position, arms leaning on the piano. I fiddle with a hangnail on my left thumb and wait for the end of the story.
     “Yeah, he was busy getting his stomach pumped. Too many pills along with the coke the night before.” He slides his jaw.
     I want to say Wow again, but instead I say, “That sucks.” Pretty original.
     “He’s one of those people that went to school stoned every day and got straight A’s. I can’t even have a bad night’s sleep and make it through first period. He’s OD’d five times and died on the table twice.” He moves his jaw. He talks like his singing voice sounds ... over forty.
     “I’m Maddie,” I offer.
     “Brian.” He leans back a little on the bench, holding on to the piano. “Do you play anything?”
     “No. But I love music. I wish I could play.”
     “I can teach you.” He leans into the piano keys and lightly plays a few. “It’s easy. Do you read notes?”
     “Actually, yeah.” I inch over to the bench and sit next to him.
     “I can’t.” We both laugh again. “Maybe you can teach me that.”
     “So you play by ear?” I ask him as I slid on to the bench next to him as naturally as brushing hair out of my face. “My father’s mother could do that. I never met her. Supposedly she was nuts and would play the piano in this bright pink housecoat all day. Local bars wanted to hire her but every time she was supposed to play, she’d wear her damned housecoat. My dad says she thought she wouldn’t be able to play without it. I get why my dad married my anal-retentive mother. Imagine what his home life was growing up!”
     “Yeah, I think it’s genetic. My mom, her grandmother, Orin, and me.”
     “No one else I know can do it. Play music, I mean.”
     “Maybe you can.” He grins. “You just don’t know it.”
Brian keys a few bars of “Imagine” by John Lennon. Another one that makes me cry. This time I don’t bother hiding it. Cocoa and marshmallows. Brian plays the entire song and when I look over at him toward the end, he’s tearing up too.
     After I leave the music shop, I realize I hadn’t thought about Justin once.

An excerpt from my new book Fear of Falling

Fresh off "the worst year of her life," sixteen-year-old Maddie Hickman has sworn off love and her once-beloved self-help books in favor of editing the school paper and "banging out weepy poems." When she receives an anonymous letter from a gay student who's been physically threatened, Maddie is forced to step out of her self-imposed isolation, face her own personal problems, and take a stand. But how far is she willing to go? Will her best friends Peter and Susan stand with her? Can friendship survive past and present personal problems as well as challenging parents and unbending school administrators? And just how far are the three friends willing to go?

From Chapter 5  

Fear of Falling

I turn to Mrs. Leahy. “Mrs. Leahy? Do you have a minute?”

She cocks her head. “Where have you been all week?” I understand what she’s really asking. I tick the answer in my mind: Not hanging around after school, clacking out sad poems. All my editing for the paper was done in between “meetings” at Susan’s house and the three pounds of homework from AP History. Thank God the school paper is published triweekly.

“Sit,” she instructs. “Listen, I think it’s great that you’ve been busy with other things besides school.” She smiles. “So, what’s up?”

I look at the spine of The Great Gatsby on her desk. Then a deep breath. “I’ve decided to write the article about being gay in high school.”

Confusion or maybe anger flashes across her face as she looks away. Then her tiny hands flutter to her desk and she purses her lips. “Well.” Her face flushes while she looks from me to the door and back to me. “Where are you going next period?”

            “I have History.”

            She knows, just like I do, that Mr. Morgan is the kind of teacher that says if you’re taking AP History and are late, you’re obviously the kind of student who has a good reason. She gets up and closes the door so silently that there’s not even a click when it shuts. Like she’s trying to be quiet because a baby’s sleeping or something.

            “Listen, Maddie. That letter you received. We’re dealing with some serious stuff. Very. I don’t want you involved.” She suddenly looks young, like a student almost. Her eyes are wide and slightly watery, just the way most of us look the first few periods of the day. Her hands rest on the desk; she’s holding her left pointer finger with her right hand. “To be quite honest with you, I’m not sure if an article is a good idea.”

            “But why?”

            She sighs and shakes her head. “I’m not sure how much of this I should get into with you…”

            I don’t blink or move.

            Another sigh. “Mr. West thought he might be able to figure out who the student is. And he told me he’d take care of it, that he would keep everything anonymous. He told me not to worry. Of course I did, but … listen, this isn’t your responsibility—”

            “Anonymous wants me to help him.” I’m angry now. I stand.

            “I know, Maddie. But this isn’t your battle to fight.”

            “But he came to me!”

“You aren’t the adult here.”

I step back like she punched me. “What do you mean? God, Mrs. Leahy, you’re the one who tells us to write how we feel and not be afraid to share it with people. That the written word can change people and society. You’re the one who lectures us on bigotry and homophobia. I mean, why shouldn’t I fight this fight?  Why shouldn’t I fight for the freedom, the right to publish this article? Why shouldn’t I fight for Anonymous?”

            “Maddie, this is a public school, and it might not be the place to—”

            “Oh, my God! If this isn’t the place, then—” I throw my hands up. “So what do you want me to do? Forget that this kid called on me, asked me to help him? You always tell us to do the right thing and stand up for people who can’t stand up for themselves. To be a voice and spokesperson. I don’t get why I can’t just—”

            I swear I see tears brimming. “I’m sorry Maddie. I really am. But this … this situation. It’s really out of my hands. And yours.”

She reaches for my arm but I pull away.

“You have to let this go and focus on yourself, Maddie. You have a lot going on as it is, and—”

            “Forget it, Mrs. Leahy. Forget it.” I slam out of the classroom, surprised at my own anger, and that I even let her see it. I pat my pocket; at least I didn’t show her the draft.

Writing Through The Block: Avoidance, Fatigue, Parenting, & Yoga

Below are my random thoughts on this week, a week of sick children and husband, a week of exhaustion, a week of low creativity.

***

Avoidance

I’m avoiding the homework. Not homework for school but for the adult writing class I teach every week at the East Bay Chamber of Commerce in Warren, RI. So, I'm sitting here until something comes up–even if it's garbage or rambling. So bear with me.

OCD

Because I have to keep my blogging commitment and because I am OCD about my writing commitments, I am using this for my blog. This both motivates and blocks me.  Other people will read this, and, therefore, some holding back and censoring will happen.  Not in the first draft, but in the draft you all are reading now.

Tired

I am tired. My oldest daughter was sick all week,  my baby is teething and the suckers won’t pop through.  For four days she has been swollen, unable to suck her pacey or drink her bottle. She clings to me, her sister, her daddy, and her nanny like a baby koala.  Her grip is desperate. She laughs when we distract her, but it’s like she’s trying really hard to keep it together and then by about 3 pm, she can’t.

Peace?

You go to another place when your children are ill. Pleading, desperate, scared, anxious, and then kind of numb, autopilot.  Today, though, Viv (the baby) napped, my husband now has a sinus infection so we put him down for a nap too. My oldest, Chels, is all better, so she and I hung out on the porch and enjoyed the silence, well the no-crying silence.  The wind blew the leaves and also the pages of the magazine we shared.  But it was a moment to let my shoulders down.  It was peaceful.  It gave me a moment to be grateful that although I am tired, although I haven’t had ANY moment alone this week, the kids and hubby are all okay, nothing serious.

Exhaustion and Letting Her Help

But dealing with your children is a kind of exhausting that is indescribable. You become angry, irritable, resentful but then in an instant, you look at their faces, or, in my case, watch your daughters take a bath together (because everything else has failed to soothe the baby). Chels washes her sister, lovingly and gently, crooning, “It’s okay, Vivi, I’ll make it better.”  Then she turns to me and says, "Mama, her skin is so soft.  I never touched her belly like this.  It's so soft!" The baby turns and notices her sister has joined her,  and her beautiful cheeks and lips smile and dimple and then she claps. It's her way of saying, "Yay!  Good idea, big sis!" The bubbles spray, and this makes her giggle harder, and then it makes my oldest giggle, and so they are giggling and spraying bubbles.  I watch how my older daughter steps in at those moments that I really can’t do one more thing.  “Mom, I’ll play with Viv, it’s okay.” And off she will go, holding her baby sister’s hand, into the living room, to stack blocks or read a book together. Chelsea has made getting through these last three days, possible.  As soon as she felt better, she stepped in and said, “Mom, let me help.”  As guilty as I felt for possibly putting this burden on her, I let it happen. 

My Daughter's Gift

Saturday morning because of Viv being so uncomfortable, I couldn’t go to yoga as I usually do.  The Saturday routine is I go to yoga, Mike drops Chels off at her yoga class, and I meet her when I am done and wait in the nearby café and write. I live for this every week. This week I really needed it, but as it happened, I couldn’t get there that morning. So I take  Chels to yoga and fifteen minutes before her class ends, an adult class begins. Having long since missed my own regular class, I desparately wanted to join and jokingly told the teacher that just before she went inside to teach. She said, "Come on in!"  I told her she made my day.  I went in, not really prepared with a towel or my yogi toees or a mat or water, but the spontinity and the love of my teacher inviting me in was healing. It gave to the parts of me that did all the giving this week and the parts that cried out that they needed to be nurtured.

Feel The Guilt But Do It Anyway

Amazingly as the fifteen minutes ended, I turned and saw Chels, who had just finished her class, looking through the window at me, she smiled and waved. I hurriedly got out of my pose and went to her but she said, "Mommy go back,  it’s okay. I’ll be fine” and her teacher chimed in to say she could stay with her while I finished. The class was just an hour total and had another 35 minutes or so left. 

I wish I could say that I went back in and had this blissful experience, but I didn’t I was clogged with guilt and though I was and even confessed to the teacher I felt that, I stayed until almost the very end, and I was really glad I did.

Here's What I Don't Want To Write About

I don’t really want to write about the struggle of motherhood. The guilt of motherhood. The feeling like I’m complaining, bitching, or nagging. I have so much to be grateful for, and when I write about this struggle, it feels wrong. Who am I to complain? Maybe it’s not complaining about the struggle that I want to do. It’s something else. To capture the indescribable.

This week I felt moments of intense emotional pressure and squeezing, and I felt this sharp and clear inability to meet my own expectation of good mothering. I snapped at my older daughter when I shouldn’t have, I begged and cursed at the baby during the 100^th hour of crying. I snapped, bitched, and nagged at my husband when I shouldn’t have. I am infallibly human and unable to be the calm, serene, do-it-all mom I want to be.

And yet...

I resent...myself?  Society?  The media? For my wanting to be this do-it-all serene mother. 

I don’t want to write about that so…

I don’t want to write about this, and, yet, I must blog. I don’t want to write about my writing or work for school this week. I don’t want to write about the stuck feeling I have– not a block, not a huge wall in front of me.  Just kind of inability to move my feet quickly, to push through the fatigue.  Yep. I am tired, and I long to take a break in the routine of writng, working, mothering…I long to go for a long walk with a girlfriend and talk about anything, even about the writing, working, and mothering. But I want to take a break from the treadmill of it.  I’m tired of doing, of not being able to slow down.  Of being sooo in the very moment. Of just trying to survive it all this week.

Ready To Do Homework

So now, having written what I didn't want to, having written about the tough parts of the week, my creative block is moved. Now I'm ready to get to that homework assignment. If you'd like to read what it was, click on the link below. 

http://docs.google.com/View?id=ddwr3rgq_75hfqgkmfz

Internal Struggle: Some Thoughts

For me, self-promotion causes a wretched internal struggle between me as an adult and me as a kid. The adult sees this is as a necessary part of the business of publishing. No big deal. But the kid, she sees self promotion as one of those nightmares where you find yourself in Math class...totally naked.

***

I’m self-conscious of the email blasts I sent out last week for the new book. Will people open them? Does anyone care? Does anyone want to read another book of mine? Do I sound self-serving?  Self-consciousness oozes into sadness:  I’m all alone in promoting my book. I worked so hard on this book, and what if no one gets to read it?  Then, I get angry at myself for not being more Zen/hippy about the whole thing. For not “trusting the universe, trusting my process”.

So…gotta take a giant step back. When the struggle begins, I don’t stop doing what needs to get done. I continue to blog, send out emails, put reminders of the first book signing (October 18 at 1 pm, Barrington Books) up on my social networks, mail out copies of the book to contests and reviewers, and tell every single person who comes into my office about my new book. But inside, I’m a little kid, red-faced and embarrassed, standing at the front of the classroom, forced to present some school project to the class, toeing the ground, terrified to look up at a sea of faces.  Inside, I protest, crying and yelling, I don’t want to do this! I, like the red-faced little kid,  don’t want to have to feel that fear of being rejected, of being laughed at.  I want to cling to my mommy and hide my face so I don’t have to go out there and self-promote.

When My Self-Consciousness Began

I wondered about this as these feels came to me this week.  Was I always so self-conscious? Nope. Before high school, I was the center of my social circle, loved to have parties at my house, never thought twice about standing up in front of my class to do a report. Never felt any kind of social anxiety.   It never dawned on me to be self-conscious.  I was too busy having fun. But, then...


I remember the summer before Freshmen year, I gained weight and eventually got very fat.  I felt really self-conscious around the group of girls who had been my middle school best friends. Instead of talking to my friends about my fears and anxieties, I just retreated and acted like nothing was happening (at least on the outside). I tried to hide the weight with clothing. Of course, it was no secret and hard to really hide. My solution was to run away from my group of friends because I assumed if I tried to stay, they would reject me anyway. Who wants to be friends with the girl who used to be pretty and popular but is now a loser Fat Girl? It’s awful, and it's wrong–being fat or thin, ugly or pretty, is not what makes others like you, but I was fourteen and that’s how I thought. My deeper fear was that those were the only reasons to like me–so called popularity or being pretty and thin– and since I lost that, wouldn’t they all just walk away? My fear of rejection and my embarrassment was so scary–I just avoided anything or anyone that might say “no” to me.  This was all in my head, but it felt very real. That avoidance, that act of walking away before I gave my friends a chance to reject me, while it was done as an act of self-preservation, only increased my fears of rejection and my anxiety.

As the years passed in high school, I got more comfortable with myself. Yes, some of it was that I lost the weight I gained.  Some of it was a new sense of being the observer in a crowd. Not being the center of attention was a relief in many ways, and I got very comfortable in that role.  But I had created a phobia for myself.  I avoided any kind of "putting myself out there" situation. By senior year, I had kept myself as safely away from rejection as possible–when it came to dating or friends. I avoided parties and went to a lot of dances stag. Often times, I felt lonely and limited. Why not go to a party once in awhile? Why not ask someone to a dance? Over time, I realized that if I kept avoiding embarrassment and rejection, that fear would keep growing, and I would continue to live in this little shell.  I would always be and feel on the outside looking in.

So, senior year I vowed to not let embarrassment get to me and that I would do something to face my fear. I chose Senior Night, an evening of entertainment brought to the school by the Drama Club. So, I, along with some of my Drama Club cronies, got up on stage and lip synced to Aretha Franklin’s Respect…While I was up there shimmying and shaking, I realized I didn’t even care who was in the audience or what anyone thought. The idea of being self-conscious seemed so….almost narcissistic. Who am I but one individual among a sea of many? What does this moment on stage mean really?  It means nothing to them, or maybe it means I’m an idiot, but what they thought didn’t matter because this moment meant I was free from fear of rejection and embarrassment. It was a pivotal moment to me. It meant I had arrived, and I was not afraid. I also realized that I had to stop obsessing over my perception of what others thought or didn't think about me. Again, I was just another person in a sea of many.

Then & Now

So what’s the connection? I guess it’s that I fear rejection now as I did when I gained weight in high school. The weight gain was something I thought other people would reject me for.  Because, let’s face it, being heavy in high school is hard, even if no one makes you feel self-conscious, the reality is, you are not usually as readily accepted when you are heavy because you are “different” from everyone else.

And now, as an adult, I feel “different” in this world of publishing. I fear rejection now as I did as a teen. I’m not a “pretty and popular” (a.k.a mainstream) YA author. I’m a self-published YA author, an unknown, one who has been rejected by the mainstream publishing world, and there are not a lot of us. I fear rejection because, in my head, I think, who wants me if I am not cool, hip, “in”?

But then I think of me, at age seventeen, on stage, singing and dancing and free of the albatross of fear, of self-consciousness.  I come back to my thirty-four year old self and realize that none of this– my crazy thinking, my anxieties– matters. What matters is the act of doing, of getting out there, of sharing my work and connecting with other people and the only way to do that, is self-promotion.

Random Thoughts On The Journey of Self-Publishing

The Undiscovered Gem

Coral, a deep red or pink precious gemstone, can only be found by divers who are deployed into the faraway waters of Northeast Asia, Northeastern Australia, and areas in the middle east.  Lapis Lazuli, a deep blue gemstone, is retrieved by professional climbers who traverse the “inhospitable” mountains of Afghanistan. Tanzinite, a violet blue rare gemstone, is found by miners in the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro.  My question is, how did someone know to look in these places to find such rare beauty? Was it more of an accident?  Where they looking for something else and then just stumbled up gorgeous stones?

I wonder if my books will be like an undiscovered gemstone, hidden in the deep crevices of some mountain or buried deep in the middle of the ocean or, worse, found in some mine no one can get to? Perhaps, one day, probably when I am dead, someone will uncover my books, buried beneath the ruins of my home office. Someone will find them and hold them up for all to see, hailing, “I have found the precious books! They are rare, they are beautiful!”  Maybe deep sea divers and miners will be deployed to excavate the remains of my office so that all the remaining copies can be retrieved. And, finally, the world will know the adventures of plucky Maddie Hickman, her angst, her friends, and her foibles.

It's a nice fantasy.

But a better one is that someone stumbles upon them now, holds them up to the masses, and proclaims that they are the next big thing in YA literature. I would rather be alive for the Big Moment, you know?

Seriously, this is going to be hard.


Back at it with book three....

I have to pound pavement with a heavy sack.  I have to knock on dead bolted doors. I have to send emails and post information on websites that no one may even read. I have to get the word out because no one else will.

I hate how self conscious and dumb I feel going into the local indie bookstore, three four times because the owner says she wants to host a signing, says she will display the books I have given her.

Yes, given her...until she puts the order she says she will put in...She keeps saying that she wants to get the best discount and make sure they are returnable...I keep reassuring her that if she calls iUniverse, they will take care of her, even gave her the extension to dial once she calls.

She has my books bound together with a large rubber band on the shelf in her office and hasn’t been able to contact iUniverse...Something about “they didn’t pick up.” I don’t argue with her. I give up. I will go and retrieve my books by the end of this week if I don’t hear from her, and then, I will just let go of the idea of a signing there anytime soon.

I have pounded on that door enough.

I Know The Leaf

I struggle with the marketing and publicity of this book.

Ignorance was bliss the first time around with self-publishing. Knowledge kills ignorance and can also kill the spirit that comes from not knowing. The sprit of not knowing is curiosity.

Watching my 14 month old journey through our yard, pausing to inspect leaves and rocks.  She can do this for hours.  She can sit with one leaf and inspect it, rub her fingers over it, tear it up.  Learn about it viscerally. Lose herself completely in it, in order to know it. 

I know about that leaf already. I know that if it’s dry and dead, it makes a crinkle noise.  That if it is freshly fallen, it has an earthy smell and smooth feel. I know because I have experienced the leaf thousands of times. Each leaf is unique and each experience with it is too, but I am not going to spend hours inspecting and learning about it. My curiosity about the leaf is less than it was thirty years ago.  I will have a moment while sitting with my baby outside. I will reach over, out of curiosity about what she is seeing, smelling, and feeling.  But it will be a flash, and soon after I inspect it, I’ll be on to the next thing.

I Know Self-Publishing

I know self publishing. I don’t have the stay-for-hours curiosity I had five and a half years ago. I pounded pavement and knocked on doors happily, hungrily, blindly, ignoring the wrinkled noses and funny looks of people when I told them I published with iUniverse that, yes, I was self published, but I did have a publisher you could call and order the books from.  Hell, you can get them from Ingram too. I schlepped those books to every gig I had, every class I taught, every speech I gave, every workshop I ran. I brought them with me if we were visiting family in other states, and I would scour the areas for local indie bookstores, and I would bustle in and say “Carry my book, whatever percentage you want to consign with me is fine. Just carry them.” No ego. No fatigue. I just cared about getting my book to people, any way I could.

It’s hard now.

I know the pushing-the-rock-up-a-mountain-with-ankle-and-wrist-weight feeling of self publishing. I know exactly how hard it is and exactly what hurdles I will have to traverse. It makes the pounding pavement that I know I must do all the more difficult. To market and publicize, you must have energy, time, and money. I have very little of all three. How will anyone reach this book?   I used to have the spirit of this whole experience is amazing. It’s new and fresh, and even when I would attend a whole bunch of gigs and not sell a lot, the experience of those gigs was just fabulous. I didn’t care about numbers.  Things have changed now, and I have a lot more responsibilities. I have two children instead of one, and I have a business with clients I really know, care about, and frankly provide me with my income. I am in school working harder than I ever have on my craft. I have to focus my energy on those things, giving myself whatever crumbs are left over.  The fact is, I can’t do marketing the way I did before  any more. I just can’t, and I believe that I need to approach this in a completely different way.  I can’t do every single thing that floats by my in box. I can’t give away books to friends and family. I can’t beg bookstore owners to buy my books and host a book signing.  I just can’t.

I Know This Book Is That Good

See, I don’t want me to sell the book.  I want the book to sell itself, and I am just the author. I don’t want to be on the red carpet, but I want my book to be. I like being behind the scenes and that’s why I write. The way I sold a lot of books the first time around was by attending sooooo many gigs,  I stopped keeping track. I sold books only because of me and my unwavering tenacity.  Also, I can perform well and work a crowd.  When I taught middle school, I could get a study hall of 250 kids to shut up and sit down. In a crowd, I can lose myself in a role and entertain, and if you get a kick out of me, you will probably buy my book. When I showed up at a gig and felt on, I performed and sold books. When I felt off and sat quietly or just did my thing robotically, I sold little or none. It never occurred to me that pulling back would ever work, that the books would sell themselves. What, in life, works that way? Nothing.

And I certainly don’t expect the book will sell without my effort, but what I want is to expose this book to as many people as possible, without draining my time and energy,  in the fastest way.  I need to figure that part out.

I want to have a book signing 

Yet, books signings are not always fun.

And...the reason is marketing. Booksellers usually put the signing in the local paper’s calendar section. But I’m not sure  how many people read that section any more, since so many people get their news online. Some bookstore owners may display the books with a poster or some visual to attract readers. 
But, some don’t.  And, bookstore owners may or may not put it on their website because they may or may not have one that they update more than once in a while. I always do a crazy blitzkrieg online marketing through social networks and my own data base. But not everyone on my list wants to or can attend the signing. Some of these things are really no ones “fault” just facts of the situation.

If little marketing was done or if the marketing was just not effective, when you actually show up for the signing, people come in and look at you, sitting with your books at a table. You feel a little like an orphaned puppy in need of an owner, and people look at you like they should come over and pet you, but they hesitate because they don’t want to take you home.

Right now I am trying to book myself  a signing, but it’s proving to be so difficult.  There appears to be an interest, but a hesitation to commit. Consignment isn’t really an option.  It’s a big pain in the ass.  I did that a lot the first two times. I had to purchase my books, and then sell them, and I am not good at the bookkeeping of that and wound up giving too many away or at too low of a discount. Some bookstores lost my books and never bothered to tell me.  I had to call or come in many times.  If they lost it,  I didn’t want to put up a fight. It seemed so ridiculous.

The reason I don’t consign any more is because my books all have the highly coveted returnability.  Highly coveted to a Print-On-Demand published author. Now that I have this returnability, there’s no difference between me and a regularly published author, from the book purchasers point of view.  The whole thing with return-ability is that many of us Print-On-Demand published authors have our books available with the big wholesalers that bookstore owners purchase from at a discount, like Ingrahm, but our books, historically, have not been able to be returned.  iUniverse, for a relatively low fee, allows its authors books (only the ones that are deemed qualified which means the well edited ones)  to be returnable.  Due to some errors (which have all been corrected) on the part of iUniverse through the process of publishing my recent book, they offered this to me for all three books at no cost.  Now every bookstore can house my book or have me be at a signing without worrying about purchasing books from me on consignment. They can order the books, and whatever is left over, send back to the distributor. In other words, it makes having me do a signing much easier and less of a pain in the butt.
This bookstore owner seems skeptical of my returnability.  If I was an author with a mainstream publisher and a publicist booking the signing, none of this would matter. None of this extra wasted time would happen–for me or for the bookseller.  The bookstore owner certainly doesn’t want to be calling publishers, etc.  This is a fact of the self-published author, not me being bitter.  It’s a fact I accept. I don’t blame the bookstore owners for being so conservative. But it makes all of this more difficult. 

A Party

So, I have decided that instead of launching this book at a bookstore, if I can’t get anyone to host me by the end of this week, I will have my own book party. Location and time to be announced.  But, you are all invited. : )

And...I think that this journey with this book will begin to shape into something that reflects where I am in my life.  My time and energy constraints will simply force me to narrow the focus on the things that work, that work with little struggle.

For example, I recently got a reply from one of my favorite, award winning authors, Alex Sanchez, who agreed to allow me the pleasure of sending him a copy of my new book. I admire and respect his work so much and just to have him say yes, means more than anything.  To me, this is the type of reaching out efforts I want to do with my book.  I also just sent a mini media kit with some of my books to a charity event.  This was little effort but felt good and right. So, I will step forward, one foot at a time, focused, eyes open. One reader at a time.  No struggle.