Village Idiot

Every single day, parents do their darndest to keep their little ones alive.  

“Don’t eat those poison mushrooms!”

“Leave that bear cub alone!”

“Don’t jump in the deep end of the pool without three pairs of floaties on!”

But what happens when the parents have done all they can? What happens when parents need help preparing their young for survival?

Well, the old adage tells us that the local butcher, baker, and even candlestick maker step in to help teach children as well. Because, as we’ve all heard- it takes a village to raise a child.

I understand this on a few different levels now. Firstly, thank goodness for good teachers who are helping my little ones learn things they refuse to let me teach them.

And secondly, I now realize how imperative it is to have a team of people who are amazing at their job to get a book ready for market. Because, as I extend the village metaphor, as a parent of a new book, I am now the equivalent of the village idiot.  

Example 1: My editor asked me to send her some ideas for the cover. Since I cannot even draw a straight line with a ruler, I am extremely grateful that there is someone out there who can take my fractured, vague ideas and makes them into a real-life picture to turn into a real-life cover.

Example 2: It turns out I know very little about the English language. I had no idea how many mistakes my manuscript had. So, thank goodness for the editorial grammar ninjas who actually paid attention in English class when the rest of us were writing notes to each other.

As it is with children, it takes a village to get a book ready for market survival. And being the equivalent of the village idiot on a book team isn’t so bad if you’ve got great people around you to make up the difference.

I’d love to hear from any traditional or self-pub people out there! Who has helped you in your journey to market?

Straight-up Escapism

 My husband, my two kids and I are driving home from a long day which included, among the usual craziness, following a tow-truck with my husband’s car on the back to the mechanic...again. It was just one of those long, never-ending days.
 Actual transcript of what my husband tells me happened in the car:
“Dad, what happens if a tow truck breaks down? Who tows a tow truck?”
“They have bigger tow trucks to tow broken tow trucks.”
“What happens when the biggest tow truck ever breaks down?”
“I don’t know Jake.”
“Mom?” My son paused, because I’m not answering. “Mom!” he yells. Nothing.
“Kristin, Jake’s yelling at you. You ok?”
“What? Sorry, I wasn’t listening to you guys. I was thinking about Disneyland.”
Escapism. I’m guilty of it in spades. In the tough, mundane moments, my mind wanders to things that are pleasurable, like the characters I am developing, a new story plot, or sometimes, apparently, Disneyland.
I belong to more than a few writing groups filled with moms about my age. Of course, we claim to write for fun, for relaxation, because it makes us feel fulfilled…not many of us mention straight-up escapism very often. And I’m not talking, “Oh, writing is such a fun escape for me.” I’m talking, “I can’t handle it anymore. I’m going to go pretend I’m someone else for a little while.”
Maybe it is a dirty little secret of the writer/mom. When the diapers and the screaming and the bills and the mess and the dishes and the piles of laundry get too big to handle, maybe some of us literary types write stories about everything but being a 30-something mom with a whole bunch of kids and a whole bunch of unmade beds.
This quote from Graham Greene hits home: “Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.”
Reality TV and ice cream work for a lot of people I guess. Me? Sometimes I write to escape.   Hey, it’s cheaper than a day at the spa.

Orange Jell-o, After Dinner Mints, and a Manuscript

Christmas Eve, circa 1989: Little Me was gorging herself on large helpings of orange Jell-o and handfuls of those pillowy pastel after dinner mints. Not an hour later, I was expunging every ounce of Christmas cheer I had inside my little body into the nearest toilet in the form of the stomach flu. I’ve never been able to even be in the same room with those two products since. Ugh, just writing this is giving me the shakes. 

Everyone’s been here. You’ve eaten something- Top Ramen, a chili-cheese dog, the lingering piece of iffy three-day-old pizza- and not a few hours later you are puking your guts out. And even if the food had nothing to do with your sickness, you’ll never be able to look at pizza the same again.

I had a bad reaction yesterday- and no, this had nothing to do with any type of minty confection or gelatin dessert. I tried reading through my manuscript, the one that has been accepted for publication, and...whoa. NOPE. I didn’t even make it through the first chapter. I couldn’t physically do it. 

It might be all the times I’ve gotten rejected in the past.  Every single time stomach-turning. It might be that I’ve already read the thing in its entirety at least 15 times (without hyperbole), which is enough to make anyone sick of anything. It might be that I have way too much anxiety wrapped up in waiting to see whether this thing is going to be a success or a flop… 

Is there an “all of the above” option somewhere?

So, I’m putting the re-read on pause for a bit to see if I get over my strange aversion. Maybe bask a little longer in the glory of my acceptance and not worry about trying to re-read my work for a 16^th time for improvements just yet. 

And when I do need to re-read it when my editor gets back to me with her notes, I’ll be ready for it with fresh eyes and a iron stomach. And for good measure, I’ll try to have some Tums on-hand, and maybe…I don’t know…what’s the opposite of Jell-o?

Chips?

Yep. Sounds about right. Doritos it is!   

What do you guys do when you just can't stomach your own work anymore???

Death of a Bookstore

Remember the movie, “You’ve got Mail”? Meg Ryan, the cute and perky owner of a small bookstore wages a pointless war against the big-box bookstore and eventually loses. She gained Tom Hanks in the end, and though he’s NO Chris Helmsworth, she seems happy. But I digress.  

The only bookstore in my city has become a Staples. That in and of itself is fifty shades of sad. And it got me wondering. If Hollywood was to do a “You’ve Got Mail 2”, where would we find Joe Fox, the big-box bookstore owner? 

Because the world of online books has literally exploded in the last few years, he would probably be fixing to close many of the same stores that put the little mom and pop shops out of business just ten years earlier.  Dare I say, Fox books might even be heading toward bankruptcy and Mr. Fox himself would be looking into to taking a senior management position at…Staples?

I loathe that my bookstore is gone. I sit with the horse and buggy bunch, constantly cursing both Amazon.com and the Model T. But as an author in this brave new world of books, just as the buggy makers, I have to innovate along with the times or be left in the dust. 

My first novel is coming out as an e-book and Print-on-demand from Amazon, no bookstore necessary- since there’s really not many even around anymore. I’m lucky enough to have a publisher who is reading the market and staying slightly ahead of the curve since the publishing world is changing so quickly. Facebook advertising, website book-tours, the world of traditional publishing is dying a little more every day.

So, we say one final adieu to the old ways of publishing. You’ll find me reminiscing fondly about the smell and sights of the good ol’ bookstore, but bravely marching forward into the new world of publishing, and there's nothing traditional about it.