I will buy you flowers…

I know this is not the typical blog post.  I know, logically, that I’m supposed to push my books and entertain you.  But you all have very real lives as do I.  You are as real as I, your problems, your family, your fears…they are all real.  Here I am, sitting alone before my laptop working on my latest novel.  I’ve written in about 10k word increments, because I’ve closed myself off in my little hidey hole and dove right in.

But my mind wandered a bit ago.  I’m thinking about You. It’s the time of year to be thankful, followed by possibly the most glorious time of year for some – yet the loneliest for others.  As our hours of sunlight start to diminish as we head into the winter season, depression kicks in.

I have a handful of folks in my life that are suffering at the moment.  My own suffering ended a very short time ago and positivity started radiating through my life.  I won a long and grueling custody battle.  I landed the trifecta of book deals and a mass reduction in stress just graced my presence.  I still have stress, don’t be misled.  But it’s not as bad as it was earlier this year.  I spent the most of 2013 in turmoil, with stomach aches and nightmares as I worried about the future of my offspring.  I sat through meetings with Child Protective Services, therapists and lawyers.  It…was…hell.  I wanted to grab a bottle of vodka and take it to bed with me.  I wanted to pass out and sleep through the madness.  But I had a duty – one that comes with motherhood.  I would fight, to the death if need be, for my babies.

There is a lot of sadness surrounding me.  For some, it’s the heartache of having a child grow into an adult.  It’s left them with a gaping hole where parenthood once resumed.  For others, it’s the end of a marriage leaving devastation and confusion in its wake.  There are parents, sobbing because the children they would lay down and die for, have turned their back, spitting on the very bond so many would give anything to have.

But I do remember all of you.  I remember you sharing with me, cheering me on, when I thought all was lost.  I remember the warm embraces, the love and understanding you showed when my knees would buckle and I didn’t think I could get through one more day.  I will not forget the support you showed me and my family.

I am here for you.  I will smile for you; curse those who’ve hurt you and hold you up when your knees are weak.  I will send you the flowers he should have, so you don’t forget how it feels.  I will buy them so you know what is waiting for you, after the healing has commenced.  I will wrap my arms around you and squeeze.  You can even cry and snot on my shirt.  It’s okay, I’m a mom.  I’ve had tears and snot on  me before.

Most of all, I’m here to give you back some of the love you’ve given me.  Because without you, I could not have made it this year.  It’s my turn.  And in the spirit of this month’s holiday, I’m thankful for you all.

 

 

No Apologies!

What does it mean to be an author?

Writing is a solitary existence.  You sit alone for hours pounding out as many well-crafted words as you can.  Then you toil over plot, prose, character development and tone.  If that’s not enough, there’s rounds and rounds of edits before you even send your novel out to beta readers.  You will have to write and publish numerous novels to start making real dough.

Research First

As an author, I spent years online reading the blogs of those who made it work, such as Joe Konrath.  The man makes a truck load of money on his books.  It wasn’t overnight and it took a bunch of work, I mean a bunch.  Read his blog archive if you think I’m joking.  This guy hit the pavement and just did not take “no” for an answer.

I’ve followed Social Media expert, Kristen Lamb.  Not only is she very real, she’s super helpful and friendly.  I happen to also enjoy her sense of humor and deep affection for Star Wars.

But I digress; these are two examples of people I’ve followed.  The list is long.  One commonality of these folks is that they serve the reader.  Another likeness that appeals to me, is their willingness to share their personal stories (at least with regards to writing) and the struggles it took for them to reach their success.  Mr. Konrath doesn’t mind telling you he starved for a while.  The wonderful Ms. Lamb doesn’t mind telling you her family thought she was cuckoo for leaving her professional career to dive in as a writer.

Be Who You Are

I am who I am.  I drink sometimes.  I smoke, though I wish I didn’t.  I use foul language at times.  My stories nearly always contain violence and sex.  It isn’t for everyone, and that much I understand.  I don’t expect those folks to purchase my books.  I remember reading somewhere that authors put a bit of themselves in characters and that much I believe, I’ve done it myself, even when I didn’t realize it.

But part of being who you are, is understanding who you are.  Don’t apologize for it!

I never have, nor will I ever, apologize for who I am.  Several events in my life have aided in forming who I am today.  I’ve always been one of those people who is very accepting.  I keep it simple: as long as you’re not hurting anyone, you’re okay by me!

But there are those fanatics and nuts who will judge you.  They won’t like how you represented this or that subject matter.  They will say things about you that are not nice.

But this business demands thick skin.  If you don’t have it, bow out gracefully.  My skin is thick.  It’s not that words don’t hurt me, because they do.  I often times will go over something someone has said that was negative and see if I can find a positive aspect.

But I am who I am.  “I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none.” ~Shakespeare

No Apologies

I’m not advising you to run around and be a douche.  Purposefully damaging others who’ve not harmed you is just plain nonsense.  As an author, we must try to maintain a certain amount of professionalism.  But for Christ’s sake, do not apologize.  Be loud, be proud, be you.

Ye have little faith!

When the spouse and I made the decision for me to quit my 60 hour a week, thankless job and write full time, it wasn’t a decision we took lightly.  Not at all.  Since November, I’ve published one book and just finished the first draft of another.  That’s not the speed I wanted, but that’s where I am.

My dirty little secret is that I started cleaning houses to give me a little cash.  It’s slow going but a few more houses and I’ll be making a living.  But again, I don’t really see why this affects anyone else.

I’ve reached a point of frustration recently that I never saw coming.  What I do for a living now takes thick skin.  I have to keep faith in myself, my writing and my ability to market etc.  So when family calls to tell me that Home Depot is hiring cashiers, I want to scream.  First, I have a college education and a decent IQ.  I will not be a cashier, thank you very much.

There are support groups for insecure writers.  There are countless blogs about writers in disbelief that they’re actually getting somewhere.  It isn’t easy keeping yourself motivated on an average day.  But I find the strength to dig down deep and hold my head up high. I do believe in myself.  My wonderful husband believes in me and has taken all of the financial stress on himself so that I can do this.

If you are writing, publishing and selling books, you’re an AUTHOR.  It’s a thankless job.  It’s not a get-rich-quick lifestyle.  Even if you go the traditional route, your advance is between $5k-$15k especially as an unknown author.  But like any business, you must make an investment to reap the reward.

Home Depot can keep their cashier position.  I’m building a legacy here!

Tell me, Authors… how do you keep your head up?  What line did you draw in the sand to say, “Hey, I’ve made it!”?

Not 21 Anymore! My Boob Hurts.

With the spouse working an ungodly amount of hours, summer break here and our half of the summer with our children, it’s been all responsibility and no adult time for weeks.  So my parents took my kids for the weekend, his daughter stayed with friends and his adult son watched the dogs for us.

What did we do?  Oh, we forgot that we’re not 21 anymore.  We partied with friends Saturday night, then slept for a few hours before taking the three hour long drive to Michigan International Speedway.  Tired and a little hungover I figured I could sleep in the car.  Wrong.  I just couldn’t get there with my head bouncing off the doorjamb and Pantera blaring at 20 billion jigawats!

Driving through three hours of rain, it wasn’t looking good for the race.  I had checked the weather the day before and it called for rain in the morning, but it looked like there would be a race.  Now, I wasn’t so sure and in the state I was in, my judgement definitely needed questioning

We huddled under a large umbrella and commenced taking in a little Hair of the Dog.  Thanks to the rain gear and alcohol, we really didn’t care much that it was raining.  We made friends with our neighbors, as we most often do tailgating at any NASCAR track.

The rain finally cleared and we made the nearly two mile walk to our spot in turn 4 of the infield.  Sitting in the sun, I finally was able to doze of for awhile, despite the roar of the race cars.

Poor Joey hit the wall

My girlfriend, her husband and I took the nearly mile walk to the restrooms halfway through the race.  On the way back, my attention span was that of a peanut.  So much to look at, trying to see the cars, fatigue and a little intoxication I wouldn’t have noticed a freight train coming at me.  So when I heard, “Look Out!” it was too late.  I caught a football in my right breast.

My friends were worried.  The football hit me hard.  I kept walking and told the guy as he tried to apologize that I was fine.  I grew up on a farm surrounded by boys and it wasn’t the first ball that hit me.  It’s actually not the first ball to hit the chesticle either.  By the time we got back to our seats, it really hurt.  I took a water bottle from the cooler and tucked it inside my bathing suit.  Truth was, dad may have taught me to be tough, but I was crying inside.  My BOOB?  REALLY?  Not the ta taas!

I’m trying to smile… really I am.

I finally got some sleep, re-hydrated and I’m off and running today.  I have to drop my dog off for x-rays, drive half an hour to get my kids then go clean a house.  The chesticle still hurts a bit today but thankfully, I think the girls will be just fine.

But, I’m too damned old to party like it’s 1999 any more.  My boobs just can’t take the heat!

Getting a Reaction

I recently joined a discussion where a local personality posted something that got a rise out of a lot of people.  She said that men had no right to comment on this subject.

She further frustrated / angered the men by telling them to get to work fixing something or mowing the lawn.  Now, I “got” what she was saying.  She was treating men the way women have been treated for a very long time.  I also understand  that a decision to breast feed is a personal one.  I did it for my children.  The online discussion was that boobs are for babies and not the property of men.

But come on… seriously.  I mean… seriously?

If you do something absurd or shocking you’re going to get a reaction, which is exactly why Time published this article and put this photo on the front.   You have the right to feel however you feel about this topic or the subjugation of this child for the sake of selling magazines.  My personal feelings?  Someone needs to beat the crap out of this mother.  By the way, this woman is a blogger in DESPERATE need of attention, obviously.

Now, onto the facts, “attachment parenting” is a relatively new idea and as far as I’m concerned there are already too many men who need to cut the strings.  But if a child can use a fork and spoon and eat solids, and can CLIMB ON A CHAIR to get at the tit… you’ve gone too far.    Personally, as soon as the little bastards started biting me, they got the bottle.  But that’s me.  However, even mammals in the wild understand what a reasonable time is to wean the babies.

Yes, boobs are for babies.  Yes, the US has turned them into something entirely different.  I’ve traveled abroad and let me tell you, there are bare breasts all across the world being exposed and the earth doesn’t crack in half and the beaches aren’t full of dudes with wood.  I also understand the appeal of a nice rack and if I ever get the funds, I’ll procure a nice pair of my own.

But Time, and this mother, got what they were looking for… attention.  They got people emotionally invested in the discussion, in the article and some people are even trying to push to get Child Protective Services involved.

That reaction is what all writers strive for.  We want our readers emotionally invested in our books so that they keep reading, and buying.  With few exceptions, writers live by modest means.  We don’t make a ton of money at this profession, but it is a “for profit” situation.

And emotionally involved, interested readers create a for profit situation for the author.  If an author can tap into your prefrontal cortex with their writing, they’ve hooked you.  I’ve been that reader, so tired my eyes are bouncing but I can’t put the book down.  That’s good writing.  That’s talent and what we writers strive to achieve.

So as I get feedback from my betas, I realize I’m beginning to get a lot better at tapping into that little nugget.  My readers (even though the group is small) are getting emotionally involved with my characters.  So while I’m an abusive author who has turned my main character of Taking Control and Losing Control into a woman who is nuttier than rat shit in a pistachio factory, her demise and / or success is something my fan base has come to care about.

I count that as success.

 

Power of Words

Words

Words move you.  Lyrics in a song bring about emotional responses.  Poems are a reflection of  emotion.  Verbal abuse causes scars that last a life time.  That…is…power.

Never under estimate the power of you words, verbal or written.  Words, the order we put them in, the inflection we use all have power.

I never really paid attention to how very powerful language is.  I never really cared.  But then I started to write, and heal from the verbal abuse I suffered at the hands of a tyrant.  My books had nothing to do with my abuse, or my survival.  They are/were an escape.  Well, they were for me, and I hope they are for others.

Then I started paying closer attention.  I paid attention to how I reacted to what I read, heard and such.  Then the realization hit me as to what we all have the capability of. (yep I ended in a preposition – shoot me.)  I paid attention to the lyrics of songs that made me happy, sad, angry… the music works in unison, of course.  But ultimately, it’s what the words in the songs had to say.

To my fellow writers, wield your sword with care.  YOU have the ability to move others as others have moved you.  I’m now concentrating more on how the words I write emote the reader.  It isn’t just about entertaining the reader, you must captivate them.  Grab them by the balls and don’t let go.  Make your reader laugh.  Make them cry.  Make them want to kill your protagonist.  Evoke rage, elation, sadness.  Do it, do it well and do it often.

My evil plan is working.