Newbie

In just two short days, Incineration, will be available for people to read. Let’s be honest…for friends and family to read. That’s the downside of self-publishing; very few people outside of your inner (and outer) circle will find out about your novel.

            Honestly, I’m okay with that. Already, I’ve had a ton of support from people I know and even garnered some interest from people I don’t know (mind-blowing to me!). Regardless of how many readers I reach, I enjoy writing.

            In a perfect world, readers will love my books and recommend them. I’ll be able to write for a living. Nobody will ever get sick, and we’ll all ride off into the sunset…

            In a realistic world—the one I live in—writing will continue to be a hobby. But I’m hopeful. Hopeful that I’ll sell enough books to justify hiring an editor and cover artist. If I can do that, I can keep self-publishing.

            Being a stay-at-home mom, has afforded me so much. I’ve had the privilege to watch my kids grow and be at their school to volunteer occasionally. Being at home, I was able to learn how to cook and BAKE—which is a good thing because we all need to eat. It taught me how to be happy--and elated--that I get paid with hugs and kisses. But it also allowed me to continue writing.

            I’m trying to navigate my world out of this stay-at-home status, and back into a world where I am part of the workforce. But, I’m learning that it’s nearly impossible to stop being one, and shift over to the other. I can’t simply just disappear from the mornings before school and afternoons when it’s over. I have to find a balance.

            I’ve taken for granted the freedom you have as a stay-at-home parent. Sure, we’re slaves to our children, but we get to decide when we go to the grocery store. If we’ve had a particularly rough night, most of the time we can take it easy the following day.

            I’ve mentioned before that I keep myself busy by taking on insane projects or overcommitting to outside obligations. I incorrectly assumed that what I was doing was comparable to being at work all day.

            The two are completely different things; both busy and hectic but different. Raising little people and having them hang on you, shout at you, and love on you all day is a roller-coaster that is both exhausting and exhilarating. I was wrong to assume I could just sever myself from that and step right back into the working world.

            So, I’ve tried to step back into it casually. Paint a pet portrait here and there. Help out my mother(-in-law) at the flower shop occasionally. But primarily I write.

            I’ve treated writing as a job for years now, even though I have yet to earn anything from it. I set a schedule and stick to it because I know I’m useless once the kids are in the house. I’m lucky to get five minutes uninterrupted. Many of you know what I’m talking about.

            Finally, I feel like my dedication is paying off. Sure, I didn’t get the attention of a literary agent; but I’m still publishing. Considering I’ve already written eight books, it took me a little while to finally jump off the cliff.

            Still, there’s so much to learn. I know many authors offer advanced reader copies to people for review. I can’t even pretend I know how to do that or who to contact. Advertising is also important—and uncomfortable. So…baby-steps.

            In two days, I hope many of you will take the time to check out my book. I want to make this a career and that’s only possible if I have readers, reviewers, and recommendations. I’m so excited and nervous to see what you all think. Please leave a review on the site that you purchased it from (hopefully a good one).

            Thanks for all the support!

Atrophied

We all struggle at some point in our lives to figure out who we are and who we want to be. We spend countless hours shaping that ideal image and even more maintaining it. I’m not talking about a physical image, I’m talking about what it is that we all do to give our lives meaning.

Doctors spend years studying and practicing to learn their craft. Mechanics tediously learn the intricacies of the inside of a car. We all put effort into our goals whatever they may be.

And then…something happens to disrupt the focus you place on yourself. Something catastrophic in your personal universe. You realize how unimportant so much of your life is. You had always envisioned yourself as a cog in this machine that runs the world, but when a gear close to you stops working and the world keeps moving, you realize how insignificant as individuals we really are.

We like to believe that our presence in the world makes a difference. We have to believe that so our lives have meaning and we’re not just spinning our wheels.

But then…

This event happens and you think how selfish you are. How it’s ridiculous that you spend hours a week keeping the house tidy or fretting if you have time for a run. All those wasted hours spent on insignificant things—things that will be there tomorrow.

You start to evaluate everything you do. Is it really necessary for me to train for a marathon? What point is there in writing if it never publishes? What point is there if it does?

You put your life on pause to deal with this event. You’re grateful for the borrowed time you have and mystified how the world can keep moving when you feel like your feet have been cast in concrete. You continue to function on an “as needed” basis doing all the things you have to do to keep your kids and pets alive and happy.

Inside, the person who you worked so hard to become begins to atrophy. You question the point of everything. Why have I spent so many hours working on my craft? Why do I bother cleaning the floors every day when they just get dirty again?

The gear that represents you is faltering, but the machine still works. You actually don’t make as much of a difference in the world as you thought.

You look at what’s going on around the world—at the division within our own country—and ask what difference one person really makes.

As part of the collective population, you are insignificant, but that’s how a group is supposed to work. Each individual has a task, but they are replaceable within the group. Hence: teamwork.

However, from an individual perspective, the cog that was taken away from the machine too early in life is irreplaceable. But still…the machine still works—despite your feelings.

One person’s absence affects the gears that surround them. Each of those gears falter…stutter. They keep turning with jagged movements until they learn how to move without the broken gear. Soon, they’ll begin to spin smoothly again, happily performing their job because together we work better and keep each other afloat.

Just like we as individuals will learn to move on and continue working on ourselves and on our community despite missing a gear—a person. We are survivors. When we heal we gain back the muscle that atrophied. We adapt to our new reality and persevere. We work on our craft because, despite missing an integral part of our machine, there are so many other reasons to keep that machine running.

My life is stuck right now, in the stuttered periphery of a stolen gear. I have to relearn how to run smoothly again—how to enjoy my role in the machine that keeps everything going. It will happen because the gears that surround me keep churning, helping me through my stutter.

Tipping the Scales--Inherent Value

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about what has intrinsic value, and how much is assigned to all life. A giant gorilla, Harambe, was shot in order to protect a small child’s life. The internet is alive and shouting with various opinions on the matter.

On one hand, you have the animal-lovers of the world crying foul, demanding someone be held responsible for the loss of an innocent gorilla’s life.

On the other hand, you have the people arguing that the child’s life was worth more than the gorilla’s life.

I’m learning just how divided our country is, and this is only one example. The U.S. was born with the hopes of being one cohesive nation working together in pursuit of freedom. Between the protests concerning certain potential presidential nominees, and now the gorilla versus boy argument, I’m suddenly aware of how divided our country truly is.

It’s not in human nature to go with the flow and agree with every single thing presented in front of us. That skepticism and curiosity is what has formed us into a forward moving species. We are presented with a problem, we try to find a way to fix it. We’re constantly coming up with easier ways of getting things done. Sometimes, we think of too many ways to solve that problem—hence the division.

There’s nothing wrong with that, but somewhere along the line, I feel the scale of how much value certain life forms hold is out of balance. Am I happy that a beautiful, majestic gorilla was shot? No. But I think the zookeepers were put in an impossible situation, and they chose to ensure the safety of our own species. I would expect no less.  

If a lion starts walking around a baby elephant but hasn’t pounced yet, do you think the herd of elephants should wait to see what happens? They don’t. They charge the lion because animals are hard-wired to protect their own species.

Listen, this argument could go on and on starting with having animals in captivity, letting nature take its course, to protecting endangered animals. We could argue that the parents are at fault, but honestly, my kids outnumber me and have on more than one occasion been out of my sight. We can’t blame them. Accidents happen. Results of those accidents aren’t always easy. The lines always blur when you aim these situations at the human species and not elephants versus lions. Ultimately, it’s a comparison of the value of life.

This mentality extends into various aspects of life. Terrorism, hate crimes, gender discrimination. All of it begins with a skewed perspective on how much value a particular population has.

I easily understand how people can have a different opinion concerning political nominees or gun control. What I can’t understand is how we forget that we are all the same species. The life of the homeless man begging for food doesn’t have less value simply because he has fewer things or is afflicted with addiction or mental illness. His life still holds value.

In most of my books, I’ve tried to include some sort of discrimination or oppression. While I write because I love the creative process, I also have something to say. It’s not usually the focus in my stories—I don’t think my skills are fine-tuned enough to create an exemplary literary novel—but I include it to provoke thought.

I just finished writing my seventh book, and I’m already brewing a new story. I grabbed a current issue from this decade and I’m going to inflate it, project how bad it could really get, and then try to navigate our society through it. The heart of the problem has ties with how people measure an individual’s value. I have to admit, at this point, I’m not sure which “side” I’ll be on in my story. That is, blurred lines.

Reading the articles about Harambe definitely made me ache for the gorilla, but also for the family. I am not envious of the situation the zookeepers were placed in. I know if it was my kid that fell into the enclosure, I would do anything to ensure their safety. Just like a herd of elephants would do anything to protect their baby from a lion.

I want my next story to introduce that confusing ache. That feeling that no matter what the outcome, a tough decision has to be made. I want the readers to question themselves: how would they react? 

Time to Wake Up

The last eighteen months have included some of the most difficult months in my life. There’s been illness and death—that dreaded word: cancer. My body is healthy, but my heart is weighted. Each beat is a heavy pull of blood through the chambers. If you know me, you know that I bury that pain deep within me.

You know that I don’t cry about it. I keep chugging through life, the wheels turning uninterrupted. In fact, I keep myself so busy I leave little time to think. I clean too much, organize too much, and relax too little.  

It’s not the first time in my life that I’ve had to deal with things that are difficult. We all have those moments in time. I know my way to get through it is quiet. I know that I bury myself in books and writing. I sequester myself away from people. But my patience thins. I appreciate good things in my life a little less. If I’m numbing myself to the pain, I’m also numbing myself to the joys in life. I’m indifferent.

My body might hold all the stress; I might look perfectly content on the outside, but I can’t fool how my system handles it. Occasionally, my heart beats a little faster for no reason. My ability to tolerate simple stressors reduces and I become irritable more often (sorry Cory). Not always, just sometimes. Caffeine and sugar only make it worse which is horrible because I love to bake and subsequently eat it. I can do without the caffeine, but sweets!?—come on.  

This past weekend, I was able to go back to the Chicago area to see family—some of whom I haven’t seen in nearly eleven years. It made me realize how much I love these people. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed, cousins will always pick up right where they left off. My heart is so full for a different reason. It made me realize, that maybe I should disrupt the spin of the wheels moving me forward.

I should slow down and pay attention to the way my kids laugh when they’re happy. I look at my nine-year-old (ten next month), and I realize that he’s not such a kid anymore—and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s almost as tall as me. Another year (crossing fingers). My daughter has broken out of her shy shell and blossomed into a girl, comfortable in her skin. My youngest still gives me the kind of hugs only a toddler can give even though he’s almost six, and we’ve managed to survive his crazy antics. That will all be gone soon; I need to pay attention. I can’t afford to miss it.

Writing is an outlet as much as it is a passion. I consider it work—it doesn’t necessarily relax me but I enjoy it tremendously. If I don’t get all the stories in my head out, I feel stressed, so writing is therapeutic. If I could afford to write all day, every day, I absolutely would. Same as reading, it helps my heart to slow and provides a canvas for me to bleed out my pain. Let me rephrase that, not pain, but bleed out my indifference. My numbness. It wakes me up and affords me the ability to live.

Life experiences feed creativity—no matter how good or bad they are. 

So...I'm expecting some decent book writing from myself. :)

Balance of Writing and Family

***It’s two in the morning and I’m wide awake. The night-silence is the perfect backdrop for what I’m doing—no distractions can invade my thoughts. My fingers skim across the keys, barely touching, as I zealously try to get the words out of my head and onto the screen.***

That was typical a few years ago, but I’ve had to dedicate my nights back to sleep. Without sleep, my morning persona is even uglier than normal (I’m NOT a morning person). And, it’s kind of embarrassing when my son has caught me going back to sleep after the alarm on a couple of occasions.

So…I’ve had to work on balancing my writing with the most vital thing in my life—family. I’m not earning any money, so technically it’s just an obsessive hobby I have. Being a stay-at-home parent doesn’t warrant any monetary imbursement either, but one day I have to release these tiny people into the world. I’d feel a lot better knowing that we’ve done our best at molding good, moral people.

Since my home and my kids are my real job, I have to get out of the house to get any decent writing done. Otherwise I multitask. I mean, there’s really no excuse why I can’t do laundry and write at the same time. And, when a 140 pound dog starts asking for a walk, I’m pretty inclined to give it to him. Needless to say, my best writing happens without distractions.

So I make time.

I “clock-in” three times a week at a local Starbucks. I see the same faces frequently, so I refer to them as my coworkers. I grab a tea, or some sugared up latte-ish beverage, put in my earbuds, and write for as many hours as the day will allow (usually five).

But I wasn’t always so dedicated. When I became a mom, I thought I had to give up parts of me. I stopped reading, writing, and painting on any sort of regular basis. I was satisfied being just a mom for many years, but I always did have a feeling that I was meant to be more.

When they were little and I started writing more frequently, it was for a purpose. My daughter wanted to grow up and be just like me—so she picked up a broom. To me, it was devastating. I am so much more than a housewife. It became important to me in that moment that my kids know who I really am—what I gave up to raise them. So I started to write more often, and I picked up my paintbrush again.

Now, they still want to mop or help clean the house (on occasion), but I also catch them writing little stories of their own with elaborate pictures to go with them.

In my own tribulations, I’ve learned that you don’t have to give up anything to start something new; you just have to find a balance. I’ll be honest, it’s something I struggle with every day. If I start a book, it’s really hard for me to put it down. I could sit at the computer and write my stories all day. If I’m painting a pet portrait, I sit for seven hours straight…forget dinner.

I know that if I find success as a writer, and it becomes an official job, the balance will have to change again. I’ve read the blogs of many famous writers, and I take note of the traveling they do. Many of them will take a solo trip somewhere just so they have peace and quiet to write.

I will probably always struggle with balancing everything in my life—partly because I think I can do it all.

Can’t I?

Inadequate?

Today I’m struggling with the feeling of inadequacy. In the past if someone asked me what I did for a living, I would proudly tell them that I was a stay-at-home rock star. But today, today was different. Today, all three of my kids are in school. Telling someone I stay at home doesn’t feel like a glorious reply anymore.

I know I still do a lot—I’m the person that keeps busy. If I’m not writing I’m cleaning, fixing, volunteering, landscaping, budgeting (attempting to), homework helping, pet portrait painting, entire house painting, etc. I don’t allow myself a lot of down time—which is a shame because I LOVE to read.

Yet, for some reason, when I replied to that simple query, I felt down. Because I can’t very well call myself a professional writer—you have to publish to be professional. I can’t call myself an artist—I’ve given away all my paintings so far. I can’t hang onto the coattail of my college accomplishments anymore—nobody cares what I studied or what awards I earned.

In addition, the time I usually write has been eaten away by life-stuff the past few weeks. My writing feels disjointed, leaving me unsatisfied. That in itself is enough to put me in a bad place. Creativity left untended leaves a gaping hole that one can fall into. The cherry on top of my unwanted sundae: I haven’t gotten a single positive reply from the literary agents I reached out to.

I’m a realist. I know that patience and perseverance are the key to getting published. I’m stubborn enough to have written nearly seven books without having published a single one. That’s hundreds of thousands of words that have flown through my fingers—for nothing. The fact that I’m still plugging away is enough for me to believe in myself and my dream of publication. Just today, my patience with publication has disappeared, making me feel subpar.

If I am being completely honest with myself, I found my purpose nearly ten years ago when I had my first kid. I know I should feel accomplished that I’m raising three awesome kids (my husband gets credit here, too). My life is full and I should be focusing on that. It’s just…I’ve always wanted to be something more.

After all, when I was younger, I wasn’t satisfied to just play soccer. I had to swim, play softball, gymnastics, volleyball, track, take piano and art lessons; and I had to do well in school. I wasn’t satisfied with anything less. It should be no surprise to me that being a stay-at-home parent isn’t enough anymore.

So, today, it’s not enough. I feel inferior. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow I won’t feel like I’m drowning in to-dos. I’ll look around and feel pretty stupid that I had a moment of self-deprecation.

I’m lucky to be a stay-at-home mom so I can tackle this crazy goal of mine before going back to work. I’m fortunate for the opportunity. And the next time someone asks me what I do, I won’t allow myself to hang my head with my reply. 

Creativity versus Lunacy

I’m sitting here at the “office”—aka Starbucks—thinking of ways to kill a character. This character is particularly villainous, so it has to be good. I don’t want it to be as simple as a stab wound or a gunshot.

It occurs to me that if someone saw my search history, they might think I’m planning a murder.

So, I’ve decided you have to be a little crazy to be a writer. It must be a fine line between creativity and lunacy. Think Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath...

You have to be able to think up original stories that normal people just wouldn’t imagine. Normal people won’t picture how to kill off a character in their mind. Normal people won’t research weapons and ways to die in order to avoid sounding like an idiot in that particular scene.

So, I’m a little cracked. And stubborn. Let’s be honest, they kind of go hand in hand. You have to be crazy to continuously showcase your work to the masses where you will receive good and bad criticism. That kind of exposure is a little foolish. It’s like going to school naked every single day. People are going to look and judge.

To be a writer, you have to be persistent. Rejection is lurking around every corner. If you’re not prepared to accept that you’ll hear “no” a lot more than “send me more,” you’re in for a big surprise. This kind of persistence borders stupidity (crazy). If a child burns their hand on a hot plate, they’ll think twice before touching the next one. If a writer gets rejected, they just keep writing.

And writing a book doesn’t mean you’re finished with it. You have to edit it a thousand times. You need your publishing package all put together with a query letter, pitch, logline, long synopsis, short synopsis, and outline. And let’s be honest, if a literary agent shows interest and asks you to harness the sun’s power…you’ll find a way to do it.

For me, the crazy/untraditional way my brain works provides me with what I need to be a writer. I’m a dabbler, a Renaissance woman, who requires a challenge and a change of cerebral scenery on a regular basis. It’s why I studied literature, organic chemistry, biology, art, etc. It’s why reading and writing are my favorite things to do. I have several books in progress and even more stories suffocated by my meninges, searching for a way out. My imagination is in charge of the scenery.

The hodgepodge of information floating around in my head is the perfect catalyst for my stories. Writing forces you to pull from within yourself and present it to the world. It also forces you to research something new to keep things intriguing. If all writers wrote about main characters with the same profession, books would get boring. How many billionaire romance novels are out there? It’s getting old, isn’t it?

So instead of forcing myself to buckle down and get a traditional job, I’m embracing the knowledge and skills that I have to pursue my dream first (there’s a deadline…I can’t be a stay-at-home mom forever). I’m crazy enough, persistent enough, and willing to put in the work.

Check out my current projects, and please share! ;)

(Yup...that's me in a Chewbacca onesie--crazy ;) )

The Good, the Bad, and the Digital

Anyone can publish a book. Digital publishing has made it easy for writers to fulfill their dreams of becoming a published author and reach an audience.

However…anyone can publish a book. Which means among the gems of self-published e-books out there, there are really, really poor examples of writing.

I’ll be honest, I’ve read my fair share of quality books and junk books. I give new authors a try because I know what it’s like to want to take that first step and publish on your own. I can even overlook a few typos (if it’s excessive, I may throw my e-reader across the room).

Many successful authors started by selling their books online. Some published a few chapters at a time; some gave their book away for free to gain interest. Whatever the method, it can be argued that self-publishing is a viable method. Their success, however, is directly related to the reader and how far the writer’s platform can reach.

Along with the newish freedom of publishing, the voice of the reader has gotten louder. Anyone can review your work. Readers all have likes and dislikes and the reviews are more accessible than they were in the past.

It’s great if you receive a stellar review, but many over-readers are very hard to please. Their reviews are frequently negative. It takes a lot to impress an avid reader.

When I purchase a new book on my e-reader, I look at as many reviews as possible. Readers matter. Their opinions are powerful. Their reach is beyond the old word-of-mouth method of recommendation. Readers make an author just as much as writing the book does.

So, although anyone can publish a book, everyone can easily review it. It’s a responsibility to reach more readers and help new authors.

Read on…

It's Awkward to Self-Promote

Today self-publishing is a viable option in this industry. The main drawback is self-promotion—at least for me. 

As a natural introvert, putting myself out there is not exactly easy. The first time I had someone read my writing I felt so exposed. I know, I know…what’s the point of writing a book if you aren’t going to let anyone read it? So, I’ve gotten over that vulnerability.

When I got more serious with a desire to publish, I started to up my Facebook game, but, honestly, I still don’t like projecting an image of myself like that. I feel phony talking about myself so openly when I really only do that with my close friends and family.

To successfully self-publish, you need to have a platform. Social media makes having a platform easy (Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, BlogSpot), but the idea of flooding my friends’ pages with constant streams of self-promotion makes me uncomfortable.

The crux, do I promote myself at the risk of annoying every friend I have in the digital realm in order to build a platform; or continue along the traditional route with a literary agent?

The answer is both. I am trying to publish traditionally while self-promoting so publishing e-books is still an option. I have to go outside of my comfort zone to succeed. 

I created this blog years ago to build my platform. As you can see from my lack of posts, I’ve failed miserably so far. After all, it’s fun to write fiction and hardly feels like work. Writing a blog post is much harder for me. I’m determined to reach an audience of potential readers, so I will keep posting.

I hope you follow me along this journey of self-promotion and witness when I first publish. I say “when” because I will never quit writing.

Thanks for reading, and please check out my current projects. I’d love to hear your comments!  

It's in the "How"

I had a teacher in college who claimed that there were only 54 different types of stories. That’s it.  Fifty-four storylines that vary only in how they are told. I thought he was ridiculous (he wasn’t my favorite teacher), but then I stopped and thought about the books that I’ve read. Sure, they were different. Some involved vampires, ghosts, antiheros, etc. But at the core, each story was essentially the same. Man vs. man, man vs. nature, man vs. technology, man vs. self, love triangle, rags to riches, voyage and return, etc.

When I looked into it a little bit more, I found that many people believed there were even fewer plot lines. It sort of made sense to me.

I read a lot, so over time I realized how true his words rang. If I read a particular genre often enough, I can usually see the ending coming from a mile away. Somehow, it doesn’t usually bother me. The voice of the character and the structure of the story are intriguing enough to keep me interested.

So, being a writer, I understand that the main difference between all the basic plots that exist is not what it’s about but how it’s told. I can’t tell you how many young adult novels I’ve read with basically the same premise: damaged girl finds herself and love in a bad boy…HEA. While I’m reading, I know it’s happening, but I love all the ones that are written well. It’s my go-to genre when I need a pick-me-up.

I’m trying to publish a post-apocalyptic-dystopian-thriller with a romantic presence. I love reading dystopian novels; after all Brave New World is my favorite book. As much as I want to say all the dystopian books I’ve read are all different, the bare bones are essentially the same. It’s the “how” that makes them unique. It’s the answer to “how” that keeps bringing me back to the same genre. 

With that in mind, I consciously try to make my stories different from others out there, not only with the variations in the plot, but also in how it’s told. I add symbolism that will carry through the book and hopefully add an extra dimension. I have journals full of notes on character traits and drawings. They become real people in my mind. I fashion my story around what the character would do in a particular situation.

I spend my driving time thinking about different plot-twists and forms of conflict. I go to bed imagining up new scenes or pondering what would make my storyline better. I have hundreds of notes scattered in different journals and in my phone. The “how” of my stories drives me through my day and pushes me into the next.

It’s the “how” that makes it fun to write. It’s the “how” that makes it fun to read.

So, although it seems there are fewer basic plots than the mind would like to believe, it really doesn’t matter. Our curious nature demands an answer to “how”, and keeps us coming back for more.