Electrifying. . .Terrifying: The Road to Indie Publishing

I'm scared. . .almost to the point of pure terror. How's that for a confession? I emailed a PDF file I formatted and designed of Rain to two people, both who have been super supportive and helpful (weak word) of me and the book. It was a very personal edition as I did it strictly for them, even designed the front and back covers myself. As yet I don't know what they thought of it. I wrote that I was not expecting any critique or feedback from them on the current edited copy I used. But knowing the ways of one of them I believe I will get some there.

You see I've decided to publish Rain independently and electronically. I don't know how long it is going to take me. There is a lot I need to figure out. My personal goal? I'd like to have it out within the next fourteen days, a purely arbitrary deadline as I have no idea what I'm doing.

Dozens of sites are out there loaded with advice and how-to's but a simple checklist is hard to find. Something simple like this (which is far from inclusive or even in the correct order) :

1. Finish editing.
2. Send to copyright office
3. Get IBSN number
4. Find cover artist.
5. Format for electronic upload by doing the following (step by step instructions which are no more than two sentences long)

I'm finding most of the "lists" and "advice" overwhelming right now when I want all I want is a simple list I can check off as I go. Details I can go back for.

Maybe this is a case of "if you want it, you should write it." The idea does get me thinking. Not all of us process information in the same way. Perhaps I will journal my experience (away from this blog) and comeback with a list of my own.

Every journey begins with a single step.

 

Yeah, nice platitude, Shelia. And what if you're standing on a drop-off, huh?

Why Kill a Heroine?

 

 

 

 

She's right. So many male writers who write love stories do kill off the heroine. I remember a best seller in 1970 called "Love Story". The book was, of course, made into a hit movie. Everyone was talking about how grown men were coming out of the theater with tears streaming down their faces. Exaggeration? No, not really. I recall seeing the movie, not being super impressed, but both of the guys (it was a double date) had traces of tears on their faces.

 

Sparks does it. Segal did it. Shakespeare did it. A lot of notable male authors do it. OK, Shakespeare killed off the hero, too.  Come to think of it, didn't Sparks kill off the hero in The Horse Whisperer?

 

But why do they do it? I mean why do they kill off heroines? Predominately, anyway. I have a little theory of my own which may or may not hold water.

 

One word: perfection. It's probably not the best word but it's the best word I can find and what I am thinking may be just a little 'anti-male'. But thinking back on stories I've read I cannot help but draw the conclusion. If the love interest dies she never changes in memory. She remains beautiful, loving, intelligent, and full of laughter. Back to the original word: perfect, whatever attributes she embodies. The love remains perfect. It's never tested by time, marriage, children, and age. There is weeping for her removal at the peak of her life---the 'potential' of their possible idyllic life together. As a couple, they will never bury parents or (heaven forbid!) a child together. He will never forget her birthday and she will never forget he hates green peppers. Time will be frozen while everything is still perfect.

 

Killing off the heroine preserves all the romantic perfection. It will never change or be challenged by life and its circumstances. It does make for a beautiful love story, doesn't it? Romance . . . love. . . tragedy.

 

I can't even say I will never write such a story. I might. But I will confess that even though I have said my stories do not start with a theme a writing friend recently found one. After practice pitching both Rain and Snow with her, she found one. Yes, running through the both of them and so simple I was taken aback at first--- Love Endures.

 

She was right. It's there. I didn't consciously start out with a theme; I was just writing a story.

 

No, I probably will not kill off a heroine. It goes against my nature and doesn't fit my writing or my philosophy currently. I prefer love to change, grow, and endure.

 

 

 

 

 



Writing in a Crowded Room

No, this isn't about Nanowrimo, that mega-writing event taking over next month in some writing circles. I write every day so I don't need the incentive. It would be like performing the Heimlich maneuver on someone who isn't choking.

I've said I started late to writing and I've said my teachers in junior and senior high didn't see half my writing. That is all true. But I remembered something I did a very long time ago which should have told me something. The memory drifted back into my current consciousness after I asked someone if they would like to look at some character sketches. I may be a pantster in the plotting department but sometimes I think I overdo it a bit in the character department. Where did that come from? Where did that start? Very simple

When I was around 13 or 14, maybe younger, I started doing something when dragged by my parents to an event I didn't want to go to. Sometimes it was a public event; sometimes it was a family reunion where half of the people were unfamiliar to me.

I took a notebook and a pen with me. Looking around I would spot a face in the crowd that interested me. Where my older brother would start drawing a picture I would start describing their face, the way they wore their hair, what they wore, what caught my attention, how they moved. how they used their hands as they talked, their facial expressions. After getting down all I could see (but actually could not hear---I was never close enough to hear and too shy to approach), I would start my usual Pochemuchka-like behavior.

• What did they do for a living?
• What were they doing in that venue?
• How did they fit or not fit?
• Why were they happy or unhappy?
• What was making them feel/act that way?

Shall I stop now? I could write more questions. It comes easily to me. And, yes, out of all those questions a little story would arise. I didn't write down the story I'm sad to say and all of those character sketches have been lost over the years. Probably stuffed into a box and tossed out as useless later. I'd probably have them in a zip file if it had all happened in the Internet Era.

I do think it molded my method. Character comes first--story comes out of the character. I don't think I can state without hesitation my stories are character-driven. I don't think they fit that definition. It's more a matter of creating a character complex enough, real enough for them to tell their story to me.

How long or how well I can execute that method I don't know. But I keep discovering characters and listening.

An English Confession

Yes, it's confession time.

I always hated the analysis of literature in English, in particular the words theme and symbolism. I'm sure there were others in the mix. What is the theme of this story/book? What does it tell us? What I kept hearing was theme = meaning. I just wanted to read the story---not analyze it for meaning and I certainly didn't care what the rose bush beside the steps in "The Scarlet Letter" symbolized. I really didn't.

The insistence of my English teachers (hush, Barry, you taught me Spanish!) on all of that turned me completely off literature, especially in my senior year. My teacher was very sweet but I learned to loathe Thomas Hardy. I passed primarily because I could, as the old saying goes, : if you can't dazzle them with brilliance---baffle them with B--S--. 

No, I was not a good student and I doubt if any of them ever thought I would persue a writing vocation. Seriously. Well, except for Mrs. Langley in junior high. She was the one who encouraged me to continue writing poetry and tried to get me into honors English in high school. It didn't happen.

I took a journalism class but dropped it after one semester when I found myself tooling around town selling ads for the yearbook to local businesses. Journalism is a business; I do understand that. But there were never any classes--no instruction whatsoever.

College was much better. I flew through Basic Comp I and left the instructor wondering why I was taking it. Simple answer: it was required for my major. It seems a lot of students were having trouble writing a coherent sentence. I was having a problem with boredom. Technical writing was required for my nursing major and I did well in it but it was boring, too. Creative writing I and II sparked my interest at last; I did well there because I liked what I was doing. I was writing a story. That was fun! No searching for meaning, no analysis pending, no symbology necessary. Just tell the story!

No, I'm not writing the Great American Novel nor do I have any ambition to do so.  I will simply write the best story I can, put my heart into it, and leave the reader to decide if it speaks to them . . .  and all that theme and symbolism stuff.

“A book is never, ever finished. You simply get to a point where you and your editor are reasonably happy with how it is and you go with that. Left to our own devices, a writer would endlessly fiddle with a book, changing little thing after little thing.”
― Kimberly Pauley


Yes, I'm in the throes of revision and understand that quote far too well!

Bad Poetry? Of course, it is!

A poet who reads his verse in public may have other nasty habits.

Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love, 1978

 

 

I have found the quote by Heinlein I mentioned so many posts ago. I'm glad I remembered it correctly enough to google it.

 

I don't know if Mr. Heinlein liked poetry or not. Well, not beyond the odd limerick and the songs of Rhysling, the Blind Singer of the Spaceways from The Green Hills of Earth. And I think he liked Kipling. But beyond that I'm not entirely sure. I will leave it to more scholarly Heinlein students to answer that question but I don't think he liked many and the quote states that clearly to me.

 

I haven't been reading my verse in public but I've certainly been publishing it for all the world to see here.  I've never seen a study or made a survey but I can't help but draw the conclusion that a poet either considers their work to be very good or very bad. Yes, I consider mine bad poetry. Very rarely do I consider it good at all. Sometimes I think a particular poem approaches what I consider "acceptable" but that's about it. This isn't false modesty. To me it is simple fact.

Poetry is an emotionally dense medium to me. I love reading it but can only manage a couple of poems at a time then I must put it down and digest. If the poem is extremely dense I may put down after a few lines. My own poems are not as dense to me, which may be a matter of personal perception. On rare occasion they capture the moment and the emotions. I just keep trying. I have no ambition whatsoever to be a true "published" poet. Sometimes there will be one written especially for a friend who seems to enjoy it but that is as high as I wish to go.

One could, I suppose, study poetry, take classes, and 'bleed' on the paper (or screen) but that is so 'not me'. They are simply bits and pieces of my heart, however inadequate they may be. My heart sings and I, the musically inept, try to put it down on paper. So, to me, it's "bad" poetry---always "bad" poetry. If it happens to touch one person in any fashion whatsoever I smile and say "thank you". That is enough for me.

So, if you happen to like the poetry that appears here, thank you. And if you don't, that is perfectly alright. It really is. I will try not inflict too much on you. I do understand. It is bad poetry.

 



Excerpt or Snippet?

After posting some excerpts and a snippet from both finished projects and works in progress the thought occurred to me some may not be clear on the differences between the two. Excerpts vs snippets, that is. I thought I would take a moment and explain how I distinguish between the two.

A snippet is a piece of dialogue or scene I've written which concerns a particular character or perhaps thought about putting into the story. Sometimes it is simply back story; sometimes it's a piece of a scene that helps define character or back story but either doesn't move the story along or I took the story a different route. I don't pay a lot of attention to 'cleaning it up' because it's never meant to appear in the first place. It is always rough draft form. Sometimes I am thinking with my fingertips on the keyboard, formulating as I go. I actually write that way. OK, I do correct the spelling. I have a thing about words being spelled incorrectly. Don't get me started!

An excerpt is a piece from a work in progress. What I post as an excerpt is at least a first revision, not a rough draft. I have cleaned it up and it is part of the story. What I try to do is have enough so it does make sense even if I did lift out of the original  context.

My recent snippet from Rain--"Judith" is definitely rough and a little rambling. What it holds is back story and a look into what motivates my male character. The excerpt from Snow is an actual conversation taking place between my female character and her brother. The dialogue shows, not just background for the main story, but part of the plot development.

Now I shall have to think for awhile. Snippet or excerpt? Rain or Snow? I can't decide. Would anyone care to express an preference? Go ahead. It's easy.


First drafts are for learning what your novel or story is about.

                                                                                          Bernard Malamud           

Sanity? I Was Sane Once?

Well, actually it hasn't. I don't think so anyway. I've spent the better part of today finishing up my homework for the DFW Writers Conference. Yes, the Romance workshop I signed myself up for in a sudden fit of brazenness.

My pitch session was emailed to me not too long ago and I initially was super excited about it. I looked at it again and groaned. Just from looking at the time my session is scheduled for the end of the day or pretty close to it. End of the day. I can't make up my mind if that is a good thing or a bad thing. I'm leaning toward the latter with various descriptors tumbling through my mind: tired, hungry, thirsty (for a stiff one), and aching (me at least).

Ah, well, as I told the friend who is carpooling with me. "It's practice. You're going to have to do it sooner or later. And there's always going to be a first time so just do it!" I was actually negging on her after she told me she wasn't going to pitch her manuscript. No way was I going to let her get away with such cowardice! Last night we talked for almost an hour and yes, she will be pitching as well. Yes! After all, misery loves company, yes? OK, I didn't urge her to do simply for that reason but it will  be a double learning experience. We debrief each other extensively afterwards I'm sure.

I will not be posting here again until  Saturday night at the earliest or Monday at the latest. In other words, if I hear encouraging words I will probably be posting Saturday; if the words are discouraging I will probably post Monday. All of which means absolutely nothing--------------everyone here knows I'm going to keep writing no matter what is said.

Cookies, Presentations, and Other Terrors

What do cookies, presentations, and other terrors have in common? It doesn't look like there is a common thread or pattern to it but there is.

All of them are focused on one particular weekend, the weekend of the DFW Writers Conference.

1. I do have cookies to bake. I had major problems with my early bird sign-up and two conference gurus went out of their way to get in the system and get the problems solved. Dealing with a bat-sh*t crazy lady in a totally courteous and prompt manner won them extra points. I gave them their choice of cookies. Chocolate-chunk Pecan cookies it is. Challenge accepted!
2. I  have an appointment scheduled with a literary agent. I will be pitching Rain. In a well-intentioned fit of either insanity or foolhardy bravery I picked the scariest agent I could find, thinking if I can get through it I can get through any pitch. As the time grows closer I am starting to wonder what the heck have I done? I've read article after article about pitching your work and as many blog entries. I've read everything I can find on the agent, including the agent's blog. I still have no bloody idea what I'm doing! Everything I've read has poured through my brain cells like soup served in a sieve, leaving only the aroma behind.
3. I also signed up for a Romance Writer's Workshop. This may have been an actual error on my part. I thought I was signing up for a nice little creative workshop. A teacher/facilitator, some blank paper, some writing exercises. After I signed up I got my homework assignment.
1. Cover Page
2. Query Letter
3. First two pages
4. Plot description

I have seriously thought about withdrawing from that one. Cover Page is no problem, first two pages are no problem, query letter is a bit of a daunting one, but the plot description has me dreaming of anti-emetic medications. Only four sentences allowed in that section. I wonder how compound and complex I can get without making anyone's eyes cross?

I think I will bake cookies tomorrow. Gotta start somewhere I guess.

Do You Remember Your First Kiss?

I've been tempted to post a little excerpt or story I wrote some years ago in response to one man's query on a dating website. It's strange the questions you can get asked. But I was asked this very simple question and in my usual story-telling way I took off with it. The question? As I said very simple:

Do You Remember Your First Kiss?

New Year's Eve, 1969. I was seventeen years old and a senior in high school. Too bright and sharp tongued for my own good when I wasn't terminally shy. . .especially around guys. The more attracted I was to them the worst it was. Go figure, huh? So, no, I didn't date much. I didn't date at all. I never asked; I never was asked. How I wished I was slender and pretty like all the girls who did get asked. Yes, more than sweet sixteen and still hadn't been kissed.

I had kissed a guy. If you wanted to count Mike under the mistletoe in journalism class. But it was a peck on the cheek, not a proper job at all. Drat it! Mike knew I liked him, too. He tried to talk Bill into getting under the mistletoe with me. . .and Bill literally ran. Strange, isn't it? I realized later that Bill must have actually liked me and I've always wondered what kind of a kiss I would have gotten if he had had just a speck more courage. The vagaries of adolescence!

Unlike me, my brother had few difficulties with the opposite sex. At least, he had a girlfriend, even if he didn't have a driver's license or a car. Her name was Sheryl, a pretty and vivacious brunette. They went out a lot in spite of my brother's lack of transportation. How? Very simple. Sheryl's sister drove. Rita was older, out of high school, employed, and had her own car. Sometimes I suppose she had a date of her own but sometimes she didn't and Sheryl would talk her into driving anyway. I really don't remember how it worked; I just remember that it did. On occasion, I would be asked to come along. I enjoyed the company so I went.

Long time residents will remember Shoney's Big Boy Restaurant on University for two things: fresh strawberry pie and that old teenage ritual known as "cruising". Friday and Saturday nights were big nights. Saturday was the biggest. There were outside parking spaces and menus for curb service. It always seemed like the place was packed from sundown till closing. The ritual consisted of two phases and in no particular sequence. You either parked and ordered then started circling or you circled for awhile then parked and ordered. Today such behavior would land a teenager into trouble with the law. Endless circling of a drive-in restaurant for no other purpose than to look at other people, primarily those of the opposite sex. Our kids would probably think it really dorky or something but we enjoyed it. "Did you see him? Isn't he cute?" "I can't believe it!" "Don't you honk at him!" There are some birds who have a less elaborate mating dance and ritual.

It was New Year's Eve. No place to go if you weren't invited to a party and , not being in the partying crowd, what party? I was asked if I wanted to go along with them. Sure, why not? As I said I enjoyed the company and it did get me out of the house. We went to Shoney's on University, me and Rita in the front seat, my brother and Sheryl in the back seat.

I can't remember if we went around a couple of times before we parked and ordered or not. It was really immaterial. We parked, drank our cokes, and watched other kids drive around. It might as well been Saturday night. I remember the place as being very busy.

Rita was in a devilish mood or something. She started waving back at some of the guys as they drove around. In particular, she waved at two guys in a green Volkswagen bug. "Rita!" "Don't worry. I know what I'm doing." They waved back enthusiastically. They drove around again and again. Rita waved; they waved. They honked the horn at us. I think we all laughed.

After they disappeared around the back of the restaurant for what must have been the sixth or seventh time Rita decided it was time for us to bug out. She pulled out and we started south down University. In back of us was a green Volkswagen.

"Rita, they're following us!"

"I know. . .I know!"

I was terrified. Followed by two guys we had never seen before in our lives. Rita pulled over into a parking lot and the Volkswagen followed. She got out of the car and approached the two guys who got out. Both were tall and , in my teenage viewpoint, grown men. They had to be in their early to mid twenties. More Rita's age than mine. One was dark headed and the other lighter but not a true blond. Both were attractive. They smiled and talked with Rita for a few minutes then she got back into the car as they got into theirs. She started up the engine.

"Their names are Rick and Gary. They're just driving through town and looking for some company. I invited them to the house."

"WHAT!"

Rita and Sheryl's folks had gone to a New Year's Eve party and wouldn't be home until well after midnight. The house was empty. I think I groaned. Rita assured me, in her best ‘I can handle this' way, that she would set down the rules or ask the guys to leave. We'd simply listen to music, talk, have a coke or two, and maybe dance. They seemed like perfectly nice guys. The dark headed one, Rick, was hers. The lighter-headed one, Gary, was mine. I gulped. My own brother sat silent in the backseat with Sheryl.

We got to the house and Rita did set down the rules in a matter of fact manner that brooked no nonsense. Some things were NOT going to happen so they might as well know that from the get go. They had to leave before midnight. No one was allowed beyond the bathroom in the hall. Yes, it sounded kind of tough but that was Rita.

Rick was the talkative one; Gary was really very quiet but not shy. He talked more than almost silent me. I don't remember what we all talked about. The conversation is too old in my memory for that. But they were essentially nice guys. We put on records and when those ran out, we simply turned on the radio.

I had danced with at least one guy before so Gary asking me to dance was only slightly scary. I was already at my full height of 5'2" so my hand didn't reach his shoulder. It didn't seem to bother him at all. Was he a good dancer? I didn't have much experience to base an opinion on at the time but he certainly seemed at ease with the basic concepts. He didn't hold me out at arm's length or step on my toes. He actually led and kept with the music. And the music did what music has always done to me. I relaxed into it and before I fully realized it I was being held very close indeed but not tightly. It was very nice. He smelled good, too.

How long we danced I don't remember. Long enough that resting my head against his chest felt right. I remember wanting to say something to him or tell him something so I raised my head. I never got a chance to say a word. I was being kissed. . .very warmly. . .very throughly.

A surprise? It was a surprise. I was too young and too naive to expect it. It caught me totally off guard. I don't remember freezing up or making a sound. I don't remember what I did except that it went very well. I wasn't keeping a journal then. If someone had asked me the next day I probably could remember.

Was he a good kisser? I had no basis for comparison at the time. . .but it felt perfect to me. Me? I have no idea except that after it broke off I retreated for a minute back to my previous position with thoughts like "Whoa!" "Wow!" then "Did that really just happen?". I raised my head again and it happened again. . .and again. . .and again.

My brother remarked later that he looked up from the couch where he was necking with his girlfriend and thought to himself, "Hey, that's my sister!" then thought again. "Oh, well, I guess she has the right to be a girl same as any other." I found his observation funny. First time in our lives he ever had a ‘protective' thought then realized it was OK for little sister to like being kissed. He went right back to Sheryl.

Gary never suggested sitting down. We kept dancing. . .slowly. He never pressed for anything more than warm, deep kisses that curled my toes. I've sometimes wondered if he had known the depth of my inexperience if he would have tried but I don't think so.

Eventually the guys had to leave. How Gary and I said good bye is something else I don't remember. I remember Rick saying they were coming back through town and taking Rita's phone number. I remember looking forward to seeing them again. I was disappointed, of course, but I don't recall the disappointment being intense or perhaps I've simply gotten over it.

Yes, it was dangerous. My mother would have had a fit. Picking up strange guys at Shoney's? Yes, we were lucky. I was lucky. Gary was nice, sweet, and not pushy or demanding at all. I could have been in really deep trouble really fast. I've sometimes wondered what would have happened if they had come back. I've also wondered from time to time where Gary was, what he was doing, and how he viewed that New Year's Eve. I never told him that he was the first guy to ever kiss me. How I kept from doing that I don't know. A guardian angel, perhaps. I wonder if he remembers me as warmly as I remember him.

Just an added aside: Strange though it may sound, I can't remember the name of name of my first date. Go figure, huh?

No, I wasn't that long in my response. I was quite short actually but I wrote the story down and kept it around. Do you remember your first kiss?

Beginning a New Season

This year will be ending soon and in it I 'celebrated' my sixtieth birthday. Actually there was no celebration of any kind which suited my contemplative frame of mind. I've watched other years flow by without much of that except on rare occasions. This year was different. Both of my parents were gone and I was reading about the passing of old high school classmates on Facebook, one by one. There are still a great many of us left but it brought home to me with crystal clarity one simple idea: I had stories to tell. Yes, stories half-written. Outlines and character sketches. All begging to be completed. . . to be told. Now. I half started at 40 when my husband died but other issues pressed in, along with other negativities.

1. You are a highly and expensively trained professional and you want to give it up for what?
2. You can't support yourself writing. No way. No how. Even if you could, it's not going to be a decent living. You like beans and cornbread?
3. Do you actuallly want others reading your stuff? Who would pay to read it?
4. Do you really have anything to say or contribute?

OK, number 1 is accurate in the first part. I am a highly and expensively trained professional but even though there parts of it I loved I was not happy with other parts of it. No, I don't particularly like living on beans and cornbread (a carry-over frugal plan from my childhood/early youth) but I can do it. The decision to write comes from my heart where my profession came from my mind.

When it comes to number 3, does it matter? Does it really matter? Oh, yes, it does. I want my stories to be read. I do want audience. I have one story, rough and in need of editing, posted elsewhere and it surprises me how much I want that. If anyone will pay to read it that would be a bonus. It really would but I am at the point where I hav to write those stories regardless. Whether or not I have anything to say or contribute I can't really say. Readers will make that decision. I did take 12 hours of writing in college and remember my professor explicitly telling us to refrain from putting 'meaning' into what we wrote. It would come out.

So here I am at another season of my life. It's time. Hence the title of this blog: Different Seasons. What will it consist of? I'm not quite sure about everything. There will be poetry, an occasional essay, and more. We will see.

Today's Quote:

"Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma —which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary." -Steve Jobs