Friday, May 29, 2009
Okay, the self-publishing controversy is driving me batty.
It seems that everyone has an opinion driven by their own motivations. Agents and writing publications warn against self-publication as a taboo that will make you undesirable to "real" publishers, while other frustrated writers hail it as a life-line for the undiscovered members of the never ending slush pile.
So which is it? Will self-publishing really hurt my chances of ever becoming the author I want to be? Or is it just that this industry - like so many others - is simply resistant to change? Could it be that the growth of self-publication is just a logical next step that corporate publishers don't want to acknowledge?
What do I think? I have to admit that self-publishing looks enticing. Not only because of how hard it is to find that traditional agent and publisher, but because of the creative control that you maintain as an artist - and as a control freak, that sounds great. The idea of handing over my fledgling manuscript to strangers who aren't nearly as invested in each word and detail is frightening to me.
So I'm wondering...how many of you out there have ridden the self-publication wave? And for those of you who haven't, what stops you?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
It's a fact. People love to read. They do. They love to curl up on the couch under a warm blanket with a hot cup of tea. They like to lay out with the sun blistering on their backs while they turn page after page. People love to read so much that there are whole genres titled simply by the places people like to read: "a good beach book" or a "rainy day book"... People create entire clubs around the books they read to discuss the words and lines they like the most!
So I ask you. If people love to read so much, why don't they treat those of us in the midst of providing them such pleasure with a bit of respect? Why do we have to prove ourselves? Why is it not a worthwhile endeavor in the world's eyes until we are published and making money for some big firm?
Don't people realize that we writers AGONIZE over sentence structure and plot lines...we AGONIZE over which word choice will give you, the reader, the maximum emotion or understanding... And what do we get for this exhausting and time consuming AGONY? Nada. We get our toil and work called a "hobby" or "long-shot".
Well, if every would be writer gave up so easily and didn't follow their passion and aim for that "long shot" success, then we'd all be missing out on the the great heirlooms of literature like Gone With The Wind and Of Mice and Men...we'd have missed out on the sleeper successes of The Kite Runner and Memoirs of a Geisha...
So for every reader out there who looks at the aspiring writer and wonders why they are wasting their time or calls their life's work a "hobby", next time just think where you might be if all the would be writers in the world instead went out and became engineers and pediatricians.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
“I think you are about done there, love,” Aunt Kitty said, scooping up the rubbery dough into her floury hands. “What are you so busy day dreaming about anyway?”
Andie smiled and leaned back against the counter. She wiped her hands on the gingham apron at her waist. “Just about my mom. About how we used to make pies like this when I was little.”
“Really?” Her Aunt raised a disbelieving eyebrow.
“Well, sure.” Andie threw her hands up in mock exasperation. “Well, okay, when I was REALLY little…before all the black tie benefits and stuff. But I remember it very clearly.”
“What happened, Andie?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happened to your mom? What made her so sad? So hopeless.” Kitty turned to face her now, her face pale and drawn. “When she left
“People change,” Andie said flatly.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” She pulled Andie into the fold of her warm arms and squeezed tight.
“Hmmmm?” Her voice muffled against Andie’s hair.
“I think my dad took it from her.” Kitty loosened her hold and tried to catch Andie’s eyes, but she had turned quickly to wash her hands at the sink. “He took up all the dreams…all the spotlight, she said. “I guess even though my mom found things to do, she never found something to make her whole. She just wasn’t whole without him. It was like she left
“Yes, Andie. Are you whole?” Kitty stopped and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Are you happy?”
“I’m trying, Aunt Kitty. I thought I was. I really want to be.” The kitchen filled with silence as Andie wiped the flour from the counter top onto her hand and flung it into the sink. The kitchen smelled of Fantastic and bleach and reminded her more than a little of the emergency room at her dad’s hospital. Sterile.
“I found her you know,” she finally said evenly. As she glanced up, she saw her Aunt leaning against the door jam with quiet tears sliding down her cheeks and forming little polka dots on her apron. It struck Andie yet again how someone else could be brimming – no, overflowing - with deep and raw emotion while at the same exact moment, she felt completely detached from it all. She would have given almost anything to taste just a moment of that fire. Selfishly, she decided to go on. She decided that she needed to see the emotion face to face even if she herself could not feel it. So she began matter of factly with her back leaning against the light blue corion counter top.
“I had left work early that day to help my mom get ready for my dad’s big night. The hospital was presenting him with the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Award for dedication to patient care and innovation in surgical procedure.” She sniffed at the irony of a man so in tune with his patients and yet so out of touch with his own family.
“My mom and I talked every morning on my way to the office and usually again on my way home. I’d tell her about my newest case or a judge that had really pissed me off. She’d always throw in her two cents and tell me I deserved a treat. Often she’d say my dad was working late and offer to meet me for dinner. We had a little Pub just outside the city where we always met. We’d take a table near the jukebox so she could pump five dollars worth of quarters into it to guarantee a healthy portion of country tunes mixed in with the usual pop and rock. We’d laugh whenever Kenny Rogers or Ronnie Millsap rolled up right after Funky Cold Medina.” A smile turned the corners of her mouth ever so slightly at the memory.
“When I called that last morning, my mom had sounded a little under the weather, so I left work early to go see if I could help her get ready for the banquet. It wasn’t like her to sound so low. Usually before a big event, she’d be flitting around getting her nails and hair done. I figured she must be really sick. When I got there, the house was dark so I let myself in and turned on the kettle. I thought a cup of tea and honey might perk her up enough to attend the dinner later. Then I went upstairs - careful to avoid the top step that had creaked ever since I was a kid. It used to tip me off when she was coming upstairs at night so I could turn off my light and pretend I was asleep.”
“When I got to the end of the hallway, her bedroom door was ajar so I pushed it open a little and called softly to her from the doorway. When she didn’t answer, I opened the curtains. You know, I thought a little light might wake her up gently. Then I climbed under the covers just like I always used to do when I’d have a bad dream in the middle of the night. I put my arm across her belly. I was lying so close that I could smell the lavender of her hair. Mommy, I whispered. It’s time to get up. And as I lay there waiting for a murmured hello or her gentle tug on my hand pulling me closer to her, I knew that something was wrong. I just felt it. Then I saw the pills. Two bottles open on the bedside table. Both empty. She was gone.” Andie stopped and wrapped her arms tighter around herself. Her voice was steady and unmoved.
“Her body was still warm from being under the duvet and I couldn’t help but snuggle closer to her. When my dad came home to get ready, he was carrying his tuxedo and a corsage of African Violets. He found us there.”
By now Kitty was sobbing into her hands. Not the soft rhythmic cries of sadness but the loud and uncontrolled hiccupping sobs of utter despair. Andie stood motionless, taking it in and feeling comforted in a way by the hysteria around her.
Finally she went to her Aunt and wrapped her in her arms. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’s okay.”
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Okay, so I've been a little distracted lately. Could be the lovely spring weather. Could be all the fuss around the house about the 20 days left of school. Could be the baby turning one. Could be the cat being sick. It could be a number of things. But it isn't.
I think I'm just still in mourning about putting my first project behind me. It's rather lonely without it. I miss carrying it around with me and jotting notes in the margins when a really great idea strikes. I even find myself thinking about Andie late at night as I fall asleep. Yup, I've got it bad.
But today I'm pulling myself up by the boot straps and getting back to work.