tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48856985281650290602024-02-08T12:27:19.188-08:00The Gerbil Farmer's DaughterHolly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.comBlogger77125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-74616071898399209912012-08-13T08:40:00.001-07:002012-08-13T08:41:41.941-07:00What Makes a Memoir “Great?”<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I just finished reading <i>Wild: From
Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail</i>, Cheryl Strayed's memoir
about hiking from California to Oregon after the death of her mother
sends her life spiraling downward. I'm still aching from the
powerful punch of this story, delivered with so much grace and humor
that I didn't even see it coming.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This book didn't just knock my socks
off. It knocked off my t-shirt, jeans and knickers, too. It's a
gripping adventure story that's brutally honest on every emotional
level, and I was left open-mouthed with awe by Strayed's brilliant
observations about everything from what it feels like to wake up with
thousands of tiny frogs hopping on your body to her profound grief
over the dissolution of her family.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As a writer, I've been mulling over
this book, trying to think about what made this memoir—along with
others I've loved by writers like Bill Bryson, Mary Carr, Alexandra
Fuller, Haven Kimmel, Peter Matthiessen, Michael Ondaatje, and David
Sedaris—rise to the level of art that's good for the soul. Here
are a few thoughts:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Make Your Memoir about More than Just
You</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Unless you're Bill Clinton or Mick
Jagger, nobody but your best friend cares about your life story (and
she might be pretending). How can you make your memoir compelling?
Find something unique about your narrative and focus the book around
that instead of navel gazing about your first dog, your last lover,
etc. For instance, Haven Kimmel does a brilliant job of this in
<i>Zippy: Growing Up Small in Mooreland, Indiana</i>. She broke out
big with this book by weaving her hilarious observations of
small-town life around her own coming-of-age story. And, in <i>The
Snow Leopard,</i> Peter Matthiessen writes about traveling in Nepal
and tracking the snow leopard as he asks some of the deepest
life-and-death questions common to all mankind. We learn about the
flora, fauna, and culture of the deep Himalaya as we follow his
spiritual quest and the two narratives meld to create a mystical,
timeless read.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Don't Whine.</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Enough said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Do Your Research
</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whether you're writing about kayaking
through Brazil after your Wall Street breakdown or the summer at Aunt
Mary's lake cabin when your father went nuts, do your research. This
means reading up on Brazilian history and wildlife or interviewing
family members until your memories of that lake cabin become vivid
and true. (You'll be amazed by how much your memories differ from,
say, your little brother's.)
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Be Respectful</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here's the thing: you may have grown
up in a dysfunctional family —if you're a writer, the odds are
pretty high that this is fact. But writers, no matter how neglected
or abused we were in our youth, have an unfair advantage: We have
public voices. The people we're writing about often don't. Think
long and hard about baring other people's secrets without asking
permission.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Be Generous</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Okay, so your mom liked to stand on
her head naked in the back yard and forgot to pack your lunches for
school. It was a tough life! But the point of writing a memoir
about it is to show how you resolved conflicts, just like any
character in a novel. This isn't therapy. The story has to go
somewhere. The best memoirs are those where writers arrive at a
place of acceptance and even forgiveness—as Mary Carr, Alexandra
Fuller, and Cheryl Strayed do in their books.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Build a Narrative with Tension and
Shape</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From that first scene, you want to
build enough tension into the narrative so that readers are turning
pages to find out what happens. Think about the natural start and
end points, and what the climax of the story looks like. Each
chapter should be shaped like that as well, with its own narrative
arc.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Play with Time</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Your memoir doesn't have to be
chronological. For instance, Strayed does a great job of playing
with time, starting the book in the middle of her journey, at a point
where her hiking boot literally tumbles off a cliff, then
backtracking to where she was before she left. She proceeds on her
trip and backtracks many times throughout the book to highlight
various high (and low) points in her life story. By the time we
finish reading about her journey, we understand why she had no choice
but to walk the Pacific coast alone to mend her heart and soul.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
Now that, my friends, is a truly great
memoir.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-50806062647633865832012-07-27T09:39:00.002-07:002012-07-27T09:39:29.550-07:00Hey Writer! What's Your Brand?<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Most of us are cynical enough by now to
see that life is all about branding, whether we're being bombarded by
ads for colleges, books, cars, shampoos, or a new designer line of
t-shirts ($90 for a white GOOP t-shirt, Gwyneth Paltrow? Really?).
Brands are built via movie placements, billboards, your Kindle's
sleep screen, your radio station, your Twitter Feed and Facebook
page. Sure, you can DVR your favorite TV shows and zip through
commercials, but there's no hiding from the marketing trolls.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know this. Yet, somehow I was still
shocked when a writer friend recently asked me to change her
quote after I interviewed her for a magazine story.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I can't say that sort of thing in
print,” she explained. “I've worked hard to build my brand, and
I need to be consistent.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh, okay,” I said. I edited the
quote, but I was stunned. When did writers start being brands?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This question led me through a maze of
other squirrely musings. If you write a memoir, are you forever a
memoirist? Is a writer of so-called “women's fiction” always
doomed to have a slender woman's body parts on her book covers? What
happens if a thriller writer dares to try his hand at romance?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Did Mark Twain have a brand? Was it
“Southern novelist and humorist?” What about Hemingway? “Lion
hunter, womanizer, and minimalist?”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
These questions really made my head
spin as I was redesigning my web site. (These days, a writer without
a web site is like a McDonald's without the golden arches.) I had a
perfectly lovely web site—one that I paid to have built when my
first book was published--but it was constructed using a software
program that made me sob like a napless toddler every time I tried to
navigate it, so I decided to switch over to every writer's best
friend, WordPress.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">In the process, I had an identity
crisis. What was my brand? Who was I?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I hadn't felt this confused since
trying to follow the plot of those Bourne movies. My first book was
a memoir. My second one was a novel categorized by some reviewers as
literature, by some as women's fiction, and by others as that poor
stepsister of women's fiction, “chick lit” (which everyone knows
is sexier and will probably catch the prince's eye at the ball).
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My third book, <i>The Wishing Hill</i>,
is being published by Penguin in spring/summer 2013. It, too, is a
novel. This one, though, is decidedly <i>not</i> chick lit, and more
women's fiction/literature. However, my next book—the one I'm
writing right now--is a paranormal novel featuring a dead voodoo
priestess.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, and I also write humor essays and
feature articles for national magazines--usually about parenting,
psychology, or health.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, who am I? What's my brand? Do I
have to spell it out in a theme of five words or less?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It would certainly be a lot easier for
marketing purposes if my work could fit neatly on one shelf in a
bookstore (even a virtual one). Think of bestselling writers who
have household names, and you'll see what I mean: Elizabeth George
writes British mysteries while Toby Neal sets hers in Hawaii.
Stephen King writes books that make you look under your bed at night.
John Grisham is known for his legal thrillers; each of Jodi
Picoult's novels is women's fiction with a contemporary news hook;
and Elin Hilderbrand writes books about women falling in love on the
beach. See what I mean?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the other hand, what about writers
who ignore the rules? I've just finished two splendid books by
writers who dare to scribble outside the lines. One was <i>Wild</i>,
a terrific memoir by Cheryl Strayed, whose first book was a novel and
who is widely known as an advice columnist by the name of “Sugar.”
Another is Carsten Stroud's skin-crawlingly creepy book, <i>Niceville,</i>
a horror novel along the lines of Stephen King, but one that reads
like a police procedural with snappy bad guy dialogue worthy of
Quentin Tarantino or maybe even Raymond Chandler. Previously, Stroud
was known for his nonfiction and more standard crime novels.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What about Tom Perrota? His early
novels, like <i>Election</i> and <i>Little Children</i>, were
satirical edgy domestic dramas. Then he gave us <i>The Leftovers</i>,
which crosses over into another realm ( literally), as he explored
what would happen if there really was a Day of Rapture where only
<i>some</i> residents of a certain town were chosen to be whisked
into the heavens.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="background-color: white;">How do you brand Tom Perrota, other
than calling him “brilliant?” And don't even get me started on
writer Neil Gaiman, a man who grinds through every genre like a happy
kid with one of those multipacks of tiny cereal boxes. Gaiman has
one quote on his Amazon page that says what I feel: “I make things
up and write them down.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the end of a good day, that's what
any good writer hopes to do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ultimately, I decided to stop worrying
about my brand and just put myself out there. What I want people to
be able to do is find me—and find out <i>about</i> me. I chose the
tag line “Writer and Red Dirt Rambler,” because my favorite place
on earth to write—and ramble—is Prince Edward Island in the
Canadian Maritimes.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whew. Thank heavens that's over. My
new web site will be live soon. Meanwhile, I can go back to making
things up and writing them down. </div>
Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-62982845437818056122012-06-22T13:37:00.001-07:002012-06-22T13:37:44.482-07:00Why Are Women Afraid of Mice?<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not afraid of much. I have hiked
through the Andes and the Himalayas, zip-lined through a Mexican
jungle, driven on motorcycles far too fast. I have given birth to
three children and beaten off two separate muggers intent on grabbing
my purse. I have jumped out of a moving car to avoid a man.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why, then, am I afraid of mice?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Recently, I came up here to Prince
Edward Island to open up our summer home. Not surprisingly, I had a
special greeter on the front stairs: a tiny gray mouse, a little
bitty guy who was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him. I
tried to stay calm and rational. But, since my husband wasn't here,
I had to deal with the intruder myself.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Get me a pan with a lid and a
broom!” I yelled to my friend Emily, a poet who had accompanied me
on this trip and who, despite being nearly six feet tall and having
sailed the seas in Newfoundland and conquered sweaty Buddhist
meditations, is even more panicked at the sight of a mouse than I am.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She fetched me my weapons while I
stood guard, looming over the rodent. Being just a child mouse, he
didn't know whether he should go up or down to escape this giantess
who, in his little mouse mind, would most likely swoop down and eat
him if he didn't seek cover. He scrambled up, but couldn't summit
the stair; he then sat and washed his worried little face, awaiting
his fate.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Emily handed me the broom and I got to
work, trying to brush the mouse into the pan. In my mind, it was a
perfect plan: brush the mouse into a tall spaghetti pan, cover it
with a lid, and take him outside (where the mouse would no doubt turn
around and come back inside for more yummy toast crumbs.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sweeping up a mouse isn't nearly as
easy as you think it will be, though. The mouse zipped back and
forth on the stair to avoid the broom, with me going, “Oh no, don't
you run up my pant leg!” in both English and, for good measure, and
who knows why, in Spanish. Finally the mouse decided to take his
chances and tried climbing up the wall beside the staircase.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, mice are good climbers, but this
wall had no wallpaper, so down he went, plummeting to the floor. If
it were one of us, it would be like falling from the Empire State
Building. But the mouse just scurried down the hall as if he'd meant
to do that, with Emily doing a little Mexican hat dance in the
hallway to keep her feet out of his path. The mouse then found his
bolthole beside the front door and made for the safety of the wall,
if only to drown out the shrieking of his tormentors.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All that first night, I had to keep
the light on, imagining the mouse scurrying up the bed frame and
burrowing into my pillow. All the next day, I kept slippers on, for
fear of stepping on this mouse or one of his many, many litter mates
who are no doubt just waiting for the cover of darkness before they
raid our cupboards.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I told myself this was ridiculous.
Irrational. I should be ashamed of myself, I thought, especially
since my dad raised gerbils for a living, and I routinely lifted them
out of their cages to change the shavings and even fed those little
buggers treats from my fingers. Yet, after I accidentally dropped
one of the chocolate covered almonds I was eating at my desk and it
rolled into a place beneath the heavy bureau that I can't possibly
reach, I panicked all over again, imagining a whole army of mice
running out to carry that huge treasure home, and oh yeah, me along
with it, like some giant Gulliver.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not the only woman in the world
afraid of mice; in fact, I don't know a single woman who isn't. “I
would have died if that had happened to me,” my friend Andrea
agreed. Then she told me a story of her own: something about
finding a mouse in the trunk of her car, and her driving to a
neighbor's house at sixty miles per hour with the music blaring,
hoping to scare the mouse out of its wits and keep it in the trunk.
They set a trap in the trunk of the car but never caught it; to this
day, Andrea checks the seats every time she gets into her car.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I finally went down to the hardware
store and had a long discussion about pest control with the clerk. I
couldn't bring myself to buy traps, because I knew I'd never be able
to empty them. The “have a heart” traps wouldn't work, either,
since they're basically just fun rides for mice who can easily figure
out how to hike back home. In the end I bought poison. Or rather,
“mouse treats,” which I suppose are the same kind of euphemism we
use when buying “roach motels.”
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I nail mine into place,” the
woman explained. “That way, the mice can't carry the bait off with
them and you'll know how much you have left.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I haven't put the treats out yet. I
keep remembering the look on that mouse's face, and his courageous,
foolhardy attempts to scale a staircase that was his personal Mt.
Everest. He was, by far, braver than I'll ever be.</div>Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-27930188394833517262012-06-09T12:11:00.000-07:002012-06-09T12:11:35.095-07:00One More Careless Teen Breaks Our Hearts<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This past week, when 18-year-old Aaron
Deveau of Haverhill, MA, was convicted of violating a recent law that
bans drivers from texting, he made history. He also broke a lot of
hearts on both sides of the case—especially among those of us
holding our breaths every time one of our teens gets behind the wheel
of a car.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Deveau, who'd had his license just six
months and was only seventeen at the time of the accident, swerved
across the yellow center line on the road and crashed into an
oncoming car driven by father and grandfather Donald Bowley, age 55.
Bowley died and left behind a grief-stricken family. Deveau, who was
also found guilty of motor vehicle homicide, is serving a year in
prison, doing community service, and having his license revoked until
he is 33 years old.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Not punishment enough, say many, to
pay for the life Deveau took. But let's not judge him too harshly.
This kid could belong to any one of us.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To me, in fact. I have four children
old enough to drive, and every one of them has gotten into an
accident of some sort, ranging from scraping up the side of the car
while backing down the driveway to driving into a ditch while trying
to switch stations on the radio.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nor am I immune from carelessness
behind the wheel. At age 22, I was driving too fast when my car
slid on black ice. I ended up doing a 360-degree turn into oncoming
traffic. I was just lucky that there wasn't any traffic coming at
precisely that moment. At age 28, I bought my first brand new car;
two weeks later, I drove around a city block too fast and sideswiped
a parked car. I was just lucky that nobody was inside that car, or
getting out of it at that exact moment in time.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, just a few years ago, a cop
pulled me over for swerving over the yellow center line because he
thought I'd had too much to drink. I hadn't been drinking at all. I
was just trying to reach down and push the lid onto my travel cup so
the hot tea wouldn't slosh around. I was just lucky that nobody was
coming from the opposite direction during those two seconds I took my
eyes off the road.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was just lucky all of those times.
I was also stupid, stupid, stupid.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We are all stupid sometimes. Mostly,
thankfully, we are also lucky. Think about how many times a day
you—and your children—climb into the driver's seat of one of
those sweet death machines, crank up the tunes, and zoom off to
dinner or a movie or the grocery store. We talk on the phone, put on
lipstick, sip hot coffee, and eat while we drive. We also make
optimistic assumptions about the other drivers: <i>Oh, that guy
won't go through the red light. No, that jeep isn't going to pull
out in front of me. That woman wouldn't dare turn left in front of
me at this intersection, no way!</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We are just lucky enough, until that
one sad moment when we are not.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grieve for Donald Bowley's family, I
do. They lost a man they loved. But my heart breaks for Aaron
Deveau and his family as well. This boy, so proud of his new license
and working hard as a dishwasher while still in high school, was as
stupid and unlucky as you can be. We must find it in our hearts to
forgive him—and to remind ourselves that it could have been any one
of us, or one of our children, behind that steering wheel.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We must remember that we are lucky
until that one bleak moment when we are not.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-69613408036288835872012-06-04T18:16:00.001-07:002012-06-04T18:16:21.184-07:00Do It Yourself or Die Trying<br />
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My husband came
upstairs last night sporting a satisfied smile.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Did you fix it?”
I asked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Yup.”
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“How?”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Paper clip,”
he said, and we both laughed.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
What my husband had
done was mend our broken toilet by using a paper clip to reconnect
the flush lever to the flush valve, thus proving once again how we're
not only surviving this Do It Yourself time in our lives, but getting
better at it.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We have never been
rich, but once upon a time, we had a little extra money every month.
That was before we put four kids through college, my husband was laid
off three times, and we had to pay for our own health insurance.
What did we do, back in those heady days of plenty?
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We paid other
people to do things for us: the plumbing, the house painting, the
carpentry, the snow plowing, the lawn mowing. When I look back at
those days now, I think, wow. What a waste. Think of the fun we
missed.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why did it take me
so long to get into the whole DIY thing? I blame it on growing up
with a father whose motto was “Do It Yourself or Die Trying.” My
father was a Navy officer who dreamed of becoming the world's most
famous gerbil farmer. After a popular magazine hailed gerbils as
“America's Newest Pets,” Dad spent his shore duties secretly
raising them in our garage. He was still in uniform when he bought a
remote, rundown farm and built a gerbil dynasty.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As Dad's first
employees, my brothers and I posed with gerbils for photographs he
could use for pet books. We cleaned cages and doled out green food
pellets. Meanwhile, Dad constantly reminded us that “frugal” was
our new middle name.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whether my father
had wanted to make it big by selling gladiolas or garage doors
instead of gerbils, the bottom line of any start-up company is
microscopic. Small business owners don't expect bailouts if they
fail. Dad reminded us that sweaters were cheaper than heat. His
office floor was a flotilla of coffee cans crammed with recycled
screws and rusty nails. If something needed doing, we were to do it
ourselves or perish in the process.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We put our backs
into making that old farmhouse a home. We built a stable for our
horses out of an abandoned barn that we tore down and hauled across
the street on a wheezing, Dr. Seuss tractor. Meanwhile, Dad's
gerbils went about the happy business of breeding. When they'd
multiplied enough to need a home of their own we built that, too,
turning sheet metal siding and bags of bolts into the nation's first
gerbilry.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
With me, Dad was a
total stop-spending vigilante. I had already cost him more money
than his other children combined; at age 12, my horse bucked me off
and I landed mouth-first, losing seven front teeth. The year that
Dad built his gerbilry, a dentist crafted a pricey, permanent set of
teeth for me. I was thrilled. No more dental humiliations, like the
time I laughed at a cute boy's joke and sent my false teeth flying
onto his shoe. </div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The down side was that Dad now materialized at my
elbow if I did anything more extreme than sleep. “Watch out for
your teeth, Holly!” he'd cry, trotting after me. “Teeth don't
grow on trees, you know!”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Dad monitored my
hot showers to the minute. I turned the toilet paper roll as
stealthily as possible, because if Dad heard me using it, he'd come
pounding up the stairs to knock on the bathroom door. “No more
than three squares!” he'd call. “More than three squares is
wasted!”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
This penny-pinching
paid off. By my third year of college, Dad had nearly 9,000 gerbils
housed in three buildings. He proudly announced that we could afford
a family vacation. “It's a celebration,” he said. “This year,
I made as much money as the governor of Massachusetts.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Wow,”
I said. “You must have sold a ton of gerbils.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“Of
course, the governor enjoys a few more perks than I do,” Dad added
generously. “A mansion. A staff. A secretary. A car at his
disposal, and so forth.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
“You
have a secretary,” Mom reminded him. “Grandmother's right
upstairs.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Given
my history, you can understand why, even when my husband and I
started struggling financially a few years ago, I dug my heels in
when he suggested that we become DIY sorts of people, taking on
projects like reshingling our own barn and putting in kitchen
cabinets from Ikea rather than pay a carpenter.
</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The
more we did things for ourselves, however, the more I realized that
we were doing more than just saving money. When we dug an entire
garden bed and laid the stone paths, when we stripped bedroom
wallpaper and repainted the walls, when we shoveled out the old pig
sty to create a pond, my husband and I felt, if not invincible, at
least like a strong enough team to face nearly any economic or
emotional challenge. Instead of drowning every time the economic tide turns against us, we know that we're going to bob to the surface of
whatever happens, because we're both paddling like hell and getting
stronger every day.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
So
far my husband has rebuilt that same toilet flush mechanism using
dental floss, paper clips, and strips of aluminum. Meanwhile, I've
become adept at street picking, gardening, painting, and refinishing.
Each DIY victory is sweet indeed.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
These
days, frugal is the new cool. Boxed wine is in. Fashion magazines
trumpet vintage finds. Waste not, want not, is the new reality--only
it feels like old times to me, the daughter of a gerbil czar who
wanted to do it all himself.</div>
<div style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<br />
</div>Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-81791649716508471502012-05-27T13:06:00.000-07:002012-05-27T13:06:46.303-07:00Don't Do What I Did: Make the KDP Select Program Work for You<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Self-publishing is about as democratic
as anything else, in the sense that 1) anyone is free to try it and
2) it takes money to make money.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have one self-published friend who
recently admitted to spending over $15,000 to market her Indie novel.
She's doing well and has more than tripled her investment. In
addition, she has built a platform of readers who are now eagerly
awaiting her next novel.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That story has a happy ending. But
what if you don't have $15,000, or even $5,000, to spend on
publicity? What if just getting your book published wipes out your
savings, because you already had to cough up a few thousand for the
cover, the design, the ISBN number and an editor, too? What do you
do then?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That's the situation I was in when I
published my novel <i>Sleeping Tigers</i>.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Fortunately, there is advice aplenty
for authors on how to advertise cheaply. Check out web sites for
Novel Publicity, Ereader News Today,World Literary Cafe, Digital Book
World, TeleRead, and The Book Designer for useful tips. These all
offer great advice on book marketing—and, yes, it's all free!
Indie authors J.A. Konrath and John Locke also have helpful blogs.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now, after three months of testing out
book marketing strategies, I can honestly say that probably nothing
can help you market your book more effectively than the KDP Select
Program.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>What is the KDP Select Program?</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Read the fine print on the Kindle
Direct Publishing web site, but here are the bare bones: if you
agree to participate in the KDP Select Program, you sign up for a
three-month exclusivity term. This means that you agree to sell your
ebook only in the Kindle format, but you can continue selling your
paperbacks however you wish.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In exchange for this exclusivity
agreement, you are granted five free promotional days during your
three-month term. Your book is also included in the lending library
for Amazon Prime members; this means that people with Amazon credit
cards can borrow your book for free—and Amazon will pay you a
royalty for each borrow.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many authors object to the KDP Select
program. Indie authors are a crowd of wild Mustangs and we hate
being reined in—that's why many of us self-publish. We object to
some of Amazon's monopolistic business practices. Plus, why would
anyone want to give a book away for free?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was one of those resisters. On the
other hand, despite my steady blogging and my shiny new Twitter
account, I was selling very few books. The first month after
publication, <i>Sleeping Tigers</i> sold just enough books for me to
take my husband to a movie or dinner, but not both. My novel was a
cross between literary fiction, chick lit, and romance—no zombies,
vampires, serial killers, cowboy lovers, or psychic detectives. In
other words, there wasn't the usual genre crowd to rely on for sales.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wasn't trying to get rich on this
novel—in fact, I didn't even imagine making back what I spent on
publishing it. But I am a writer who longs to reach out to readers.
I had tried everything but the KDP Select Program to market my novel,
so I signed up for the three-month term and chose my first two
promotional days. Then I sat back and waited.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Don't Make the Same Mistake I Did</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That was my mistake: I sat back and
did nothing.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While I did have more downloads during
the first two days my book was free—the book ultimately reached a
rank of #18 in Kindle's contemporary fiction and a rank of 185 in the
free Kindle store—after the promotion I was still selling only one
or two books per day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What did I do wrong?” I asked a
friend who also happens to be my guru in the Indie publishing world.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Did you advertise the fact that
your book was free?” she asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Uh. No.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the next month, my book was back
down in the ranks, sliding as low as 70,000 or so. I was getting
desperate; I had always sold my book at $2.99, but many Indie authors
who make it into the Amazon stratosphere sell their ebooks for $.99.
My next experiment was to try this strategy. I decided to lower the
price to $.99 to see what would happen. (This is called a “price
pulse” and you can find lots of authors discussing this strategy
online.) I even did a mild book pimping run on Twitter and Facebook
to see if I could garner interest in a week-long $.99 promotion.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The result? Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
In fact, my book rank plummeted, languishing around 134,000 or so.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You have to do another free
promotion,” my friend urged. “But advertise it this time.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>Do This Instead</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
For my second KDP Select Promotion, I
waited until I had that magical tenth positive review on Amazon,
courtesy of a generous book blogger in England. Then I set my
promotion for three days, choosing the end of tax season, April 15 to
17, as my dates, figuring people would finally be finished with nasty
paperwork and be ready for a fun read.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A week ahead of time, I emailed some
of the big e-reader sites that my book would be free on those days,
like <i>Pixel of Ink</i> and <i>Ereader News Today</i>. Then, to
take the “layered marketing approach,” as the saying goes, I
bought a (very cheap) ad on <i>Digital Books Today</i> to run right
after the promotion.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As I waited for April 15, I began
second-guessing all of my efforts. Was I making a mistake? April 15
wasn't just tax day, it was Patriot's Day, and the day of the Boston
Marathon! Who the heck would want to download books if there was a
holiday to enjoy? Why didn't I wait?
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Plus, even by April 14, I still
couldn't bring myself to blog, tweet or Facebook about the promotion.
Authors who spend their time sending out book pimping messages make
my teeth hurt. Yes, everything these days is “soft” marketing,
but I prefer content with my advertising. I didn't want to inflict
sales spam on people I'd come to know through social media channels.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I nearly pulled out of the second free
promotion for another reason as well: I was having a crisis in
confidence as a writer. How many readers are left in the world? In
my most pessimistic moments, I imagine everyone sitting around in
sports bars or lying on the couch watching <i>American Idol</i> or
YouTube videos. Maybe everyone who would be interested in reading my
book had already downloaded it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On April 15, I could barely bring
myself to check the downloads, but bam! There they were, and they
were coming fast! In the very first day of the second promotion, I
had as many downloads as the first two days combined! By the last
day of the promotion, my book had hit #1 in contemporary fiction and
#3 among all free Kindle downloads—with twenty times as many
downloads as during my first promotion.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What's more, sales have declined but
have remained steady. Thanks to the KDP Select Program, I may
actually make a small profit from <i>Sleeping Tigers</i>. More
importantly, I am creating an audience of readers and book bloggers
who I hope will be interested in the next novel I publish.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
What the heck happened to make this
possible?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The answer is easy: I took full
advantage of KDP Select Program's free promotional days. You can do
it, too. Here's how:</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Before joining the KDP Select
Program, check your book sales. Are you selling more on Smashwords
or Kindle? If the answer is Kindle, then you have nothing to lose
by going with the KDP Select Program—you can opt out again after
three months.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are two schools of thought
when it comes to deciding when to go with KDP Select: one is that
you should wait until you have at least ten positive Amazon reviews
(4 or 5 stars). The other is to do it right away, when you launch
your book. That will give your book a higher ranking from the
start. However, sites like <i>Pixel of Ink</i> are less likely to
pick up books without customer reviews, because so many authors
contact them, and of course it's in their interest to publicize the
best free books possible. I'd advise contacting reviewers early,
before your book is out, and waiting until you have the reviews
posted on Amazon before advertising your free promotion.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Remove your book from Smashwords
and other sites at least two weeks in advance. I ran into a slight
snafu, because I thought that removing the book from Smashwords
meant I'd successfully made my book exclusive to Kindle; however,
Smashwords distributes to a number of other sites, like Barnes &
Noble, and it can take 2-3 weeks for them to remove the book.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once you sign up for KDP Select,
make use of all five free promotional days, but don't do them one at
a time—spread them out between a two-day and a three-day
promotion. That gives readers time to see your book and download
it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Follow up your free promotion with
some modest paid advertising.</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that, my friends, is it. Simple
as can be. Will I sign up again for KDP Select? I already have.
I'll let you know how the next round goes. I'd love to hear your
experiences, too. What has worked for you?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-27838785889667258752012-05-18T20:18:00.000-07:002012-05-18T20:18:22.935-07:00How Obama Won Me Over with a Single SpeechI am not a gushy sort of person when it comes to celebrities, nor am I particularly political. So, when I heard that President Obama was going to speak during our daughter's graduation from Barnard College last week, I was less than thrilled.<br />
<br />
“Think of the security,” I said to my husband. “What a nightmare!”<br />
<br />
“We can't even bring water through the gates,” my husband grumbled, reading through the detailed commencement regulations. “Maybe we should skip it.” He gave me a hopeful look.<br />
<br />
We both wanted to bow out of the event. New York City is enough of an ordeal as it is. But New York plus Obama? Chaos. We actually considered missing the first half of graduation, figuring we could order photos online and sneak into the reception tents later.<br />
<br />
But of course we went, because we love our daughter, who worked hard to graduate from Barnard with honors. We're proud of her, and this is what proud parents do everywhere, every day: we sit on uncomfortable metal chairs in gymnasiums and stadiums and auditoriums, trying to unobtrusively read our phones or Kindles during the boring parts of school celebrations and athletic events.<br />
<br />
All of the advice from Barnard indicated that we should arrive on campus by 9 a.m., since they were going to close the gates by 11 a.m. Graduation wasn't scheduled until 12:30; there would be no food available, but the campus was providing water and paper cups. They were even confiscating umbrellas, I guess so nobody could stab Obama.<br />
<br />
We didn't arrive until 10:30. (I think that my husband was still hoping there might be an excuse to go to the Museum of Natural History instead.) The security screening was remarkably efficient—pretty much like airport lines—and it was amusing to watch the collection of confiscated umbrellas grow by the gates as we plodded through the maze of barricades constructed to control the crowd.
Inside the tent, we sat on the dreaded metal chairs and waited. And waited. Every building on campus was closed; this meant standing in line for forty minutes to use a portable toilet. The only food handed out consisted of one puny granola bar per graduation goody bag.<br />
<br />
Eventually the graduates joined us, a vibrant ocean of nearly 600 young women in pale blue robes. Then, like magic, Obama was beamed into place, presumably escorted onto the stage via one of the tent tunnels rendering him invisible to snipers.
I had been cynical about this whole idea of Obama giving a commencement speech. The election is coming up; this seemed like a pretty damn convenient move. I voted for this President, and I already knew I would vote for him again, given the choice between him and Romney. I disagree with Obama on certain issues (mostly military), but I agree with him on many, including abortion, gay marriage, and health care. At the same time, I'd have to say that for most of my adult life I've been that sort of passive, head-in-the-safe-suburban sand kind of liberal rather than any kind of activist.<br />
<br />
But, when Obama took the stage, I was suddenly cynical and passive no more. I don't know how to explain this bizarre transformation. The closest I can come is to say that the President emanated an energy that was so generous and good in spirit that I swear I could almost see the halo. (No, I'm not religious, either.) The effect on me was such that I wanted to move closer to him, to be included in that circle of warmth, the way you edge closer and closer to a fireplace on a winter's night.<br />
<br />
Obama is capable of being too academic and calm when he addresses a crowd. But he wasn't on this day. On this day, perhaps because he has two daughters of his own, the President's speech was inspired and inspirational. He made a few jokes and then talked seriously about the economic crisis—surely of uppermost importance in the minds of all new college graduates—and of how far women have come in the roles we play professionally, athletically, and politically.<br />
<br />
And then he laid things on the line, telling these young women, “After decades of slow, steady, extraordinary progress, you are now poised to make this the century where women shape not only their own destiny, but the destiny of this nation and of this world. But how far your leadership takes this country, how far it takes this world—well, that will be up to you.”<br />
<br />
Rather than spend too much time telling these remarkable young women just how extraordinary they were—which was the stump speech of almost every other person at the podium that day—Obama urged the graduates not to sit back and watch events unfold in the world, but to “stand up and be heard, to write and to lobby, to march, to organize, to vote.”<br />
<br />
This part of the speech transported me to my own post-college attempts to make the world a better place. I volunteered as a Spanish translator in a juvenile court; I served with the Big Brother, Big Sister organization; I tutored inner city kids in math and science; I wrote grants to fund science enrichment programs for at-risk high school students; I volunteered as a mentor to teen mothers.
Somewhere along the way, though, I got tired and my volunteer efforts flagged. These days I volunteer with local schools and libraries, but just a few hours a month, because I'm a working mom operating on too little sleep. My husband has been laid off one, two, three times. We worry all of the time about our own children and whether they'll have jobs, health insurance, and roofs over their heads when we're gone. Forget buying a house. Our kids will be lucky to pay their car repairs.<br />
<br />
Yet what have I been doing, to stand up and be heard?
Not enough.
Finally, Obama urged us all to persevere. “Nothing worthwhile is easy,” he said. “No one of achievement has avoided failure—sometimes catastrophic failures. But they keep at it. They learn from mistakes. They don't quit.”<br />
<br />
The President then shared a personal story of his own attempts after college to try and organize community meetings in a Chicago neighborhood plagued by gang violence. “Nobody showed up,” he said, despite the fact that they had done everything possible to get people there.
He was tempted to quit. So were the other volunteers. But they didn't give up. They just kept chipping away at the problems in the neighborhood.<br />
<br />
“Whenever you feel that creeping cynicism,” Obama told the Barnard grads and their families, “whenever you hear those voices say you can't make a difference, whenever somebody tells you to set your sights lower—the trajectory of this country should give you hope. Previous generations should give you hope. What young generations have done before should give you hope. Young folks who marched and mobilized and stood up and sat in, from Seneca Falls to Selma to Stonewall, didn't just do it for themselves; they did it for other people.”<br />
<br />
After the speech, Obama was whisked away immediately through another secret tent tunnel. One minute he was there. Then he was gone.
Except that he wasn't gone, not at all. I could still hear his words ringing in my ears and feel that warmth and
goodness, even as the gates to the campus were flung open and we cheered the graduates crossing the stage to receive their diplomas, young women with big smiles and, I hope, even bigger hearts, who will always stand up and be heard.<br />
<br />
I am back in my real life now, away from New York City. Yet I still hear the President urging me to do my part. It's never too late to “reach up and close that gap between what America is and what American should be,” as Obama concluded, and I intend to do exactly that.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-54576036999873978822012-05-07T12:54:00.000-07:002012-05-07T12:54:22.007-07:00Are We Ever Too Old to Be Called “Promising?”<b id="internal-source-marker_0.28617691434919834"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When I received my latest issue of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Poets and Writers Magazine</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I did what I always do: I put it in a special place on the nightstand, where I could devour it after finishing work, dinner, dishes, and putting my youngest son to bed. I've been subscribing to this magazine for many years, and the ritual is always the same. I treasure each issue for the same reasons my software engineer husband loves his subscription to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Technology Review</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: these magazines help us feel connected professionally, and keep our dreams of being successful alive.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Imagine my horror, then, when I read the interview in this recent issue with Ben Fountain, one of my favorite fiction writers since the appearance of his brilliant collection of stories, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Brief Encounters with Che Guevara</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, in 2006, and stumbled across this quote: “It's slightly ridiculous to be fifty-three years old and about to have your debut novel come out...There is an absurd and pathetic aspect to that...”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Really, Mr. Fountain? Really? These are the words of inspiration you have for the rest of us, on the eve of publishing your novel, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Billy Lynn's Halftime Walk</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, with Ecco?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Come on. It's not like writers are ballerinas who can't do splits without injuring ourselves after a certain age, or even football players too fat to run. Is it?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Or maybe it is. For a little while after I read that interview, I was fretting, thinking my prime must have zipped by me so fast that I didn't notice it leaving me behind. I didn't have the successful law practice Mr. Fountain had before luxuriating in the full-time writing life (courtesy of his very supportive attorney wife). I am a working mom, a fixer-upper of houses, and a wife. All of that means that I'm juggling more spinning plates in the air than I can count, and yes, I do occasionally drop one and smash it. Should I feel absurd and pathetic? Or even slightly ridiculous, on the eve of my own debut novel?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Many years ago—when I was a mere slip of a girl, scarcely 32 years old—I had a short story “almost accepted,” as I joyously raved to friends, by an institution no less brag-worthy than </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Atlantic Monthly</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. After receiving compliments in a letter from the magazine's fiction editor at the time, I decided to zip on down to the stately </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Atlantic</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> offices in Boston. Since I had no day care, I brought my first child with me, a son who today is old enough to be writing his own fiction.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Atlantic</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> editor was a curmudgeonly New Englander outfitted in a Mr. Rogers cardigan. He very gallantly admired not only my fiction, but the baby as well. Then, after we discussed the state of fiction at some length—at such a length that I had to nurse my baby right there in the office, to keep him quiet—the editor said something that made my blood run cold: “The thing is, you're a little too old to be called promising.”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Of course I was crushed. Once I could pick myself up off the chair, I gathered the baby, stuffed him into his snowsuit, and drove back to my seedy little apartment north of Boston, weeping the entire way home.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Did I stop writing? For a few days. And then I had another story idea, and another, and yet one more, and soon I was happily weaving together sentences for my own amusement. I got an agent, who tried to sell my novels but failed, until finally he sold my memoir. I cobbled a living together as a journalist and essayist, still writing fiction, still failing to sell it. Until, one day, I did.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It took me twenty-five years to sell a novel. I am, as the venerable Steven Tyler said recently on </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">American Idol</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, “Much too young to be this old.” And yet I don't feel pathetic, or absurd, or even slightly ridiculous, Mr. Fountain, thank you very much. I just feel happy. Really, really happy. My main thought is this: “Holy cow, I did it!”</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I suppose it has helped that my husband has fantasies of creating his own software product, and he isn't much younger than I am. He has worked for big companies and small start-ups, and he occasionally rants over seeing one of his friends—a billionaire, usually, who has sold some world-altering innovative product—featured in </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Technology Review</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. In his darkest hours, my husband also wonders if he's too old to become successful. We prop each other up however we can during these crises in confidence. I know that my husband can create a cool new product and have fun trying to bring it to market. It's just a matter of time.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Are we ever too old to be called “promising?” Do we really have to feel pathetic or absurd if we don't succeed at achieving our dreams until we're in our forties, fifties, sixties, seventies or even beyond? <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Not even a little bit, Mr. Fountain. For what is life, without passions to follow? That is the point of it all.</span></b><br />
<br />Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-25195534797154774412012-04-30T05:58:00.000-07:002012-04-30T05:58:41.837-07:00“Keep Your Book Warm” & Other Tips for Fighting Writer's BlockNo matter how long you've been writing, you've probably experienced that panic-induced paralysis known as writer's block. Common causes are a recent rejection, a good friend's sudden literary success, and the certainty that whatever you're writing is absolute crap.<br />
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So what do you do? The obvious answer is to quit while you're ahead. As Homer Simpson once said, “If something is too hard to do, it's probably not worth doing.” Really, nobody asked you to be a writer. It's not like there is a phalanx of agents and editors breaking down your door. Why not just read other people's books, which are surely better than your own?<br />
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Seriously. Just quit writing. It's easy! Lie down with a cold cloth over your eyes and say to yourself, “There, there. I don't have to feel bad anymore.”
On the other hand, if you're already addicted to the writing life and want to tame the symptoms of this nonfatal but debilitating condition, here are some home remedies to try:<br />
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<b>Keep your book warm</b>. Yeah, yeah. “Real” writers say that you should write 500 or even 1,000 words every day. But who are these people? Don't they have jobs and kids? Many writers are lucky to find just a scant half hour to work some days. Life gets in the way. But it's important to keep your work warm during slow spells. Even if you're not writing, visit your work. Just read it over once a day for five minutes.<br />
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<b>Know what comes next</b>. When you do write, stop only at a point where you know exactly what words you're going to put down next. That will make it easier to sit down the next day, because you've sidestepped the fear of the blank page or screen.<br />
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<b>Be armed and ready</b>. Always carry a small notebook. Sure, you think you'll remember that great idea you had while watching Jon Stewart, but you won't. Trust me.<br />
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<b>Unplug</b>. This should be obvious, but somehow it isn't to most people. Find a place where you can't get WiFi or plug in. You'll have the jitters at first, feeling sure you're missing something, but eventually you'll get used to the idea and focus better on the screen in front of you.<br />
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<b>Change locations</b>. If you typically write in the dining room, take your laptop to the bedroom or out to the screened porch. Being in a different location will help you read your work differently, because your senses will respond to the change in your environment. You can also change positions: try writing while you're standing up, or switch the chair at your desk.<br />
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<b>Describe what you see</b>. If you can't think of anything to write, try describing the things right in front of you: the weather, the scene outside the window, the pictures hanging on the wall. Go all out with the descriptions, too, and play with them: remember where you bought that picture, and what your roommate or boyfriend said when you brought it home. Or describe what the neighbor is wearing as she gardens and what kind of person would buy a hat like that.<br />
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<b>Retype sentences</b>. Sometimes our obstacles to creativity are all mental. Physical activity can get the creative breezes blowing again. If you can get out to walk or ride a bike, that's great. But what if it's midnight and snowing? Let your fingers do the exercising for you. Retype the last few sentences you wrote—and suddenly you'll find yourself being propelled forward, because your brain will no longer be frozen.<br />
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<b>Switch up the point of view</b>. Let's say you're writing a very romantic historical novel from the third person, and you can't quite get into the character's head. Put it in first person and rewrite two pages—that will give you a new understanding of your character even if you go back to third person. Or, if you're writing in a limited third person, broaden the perspective and write it from another character's point of view, or even from an omniscient point of view, as if the entire town is telling the story. That will allow your mind to stumble upon new descriptions and bits of dialogue that you wouldn't have discovered otherwise.<br />
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<b>Create a ritual</b>. Just as athletes have lucky objects in their pockets or ritual chants before a game, you might find it's easier to get into the writing zone if you have your own ritual: making a cup of mint tea, watering your plants, or feeding the cat just before you sit down can all be pre-writing rituals.<br />
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<b>Draw a story board</b>. Creating a visual map of your writing, complete with cartoon characters acting out some of the scenes, can help you understand the narrative in a new way and spot holes in the plot.<br />
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<b>Have fun</b>. Writing has three stages just like we do: childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. When you first start writing, let yourself play like a little kid, bouncing around with the language and forgetting everything you know about editing. As you revise what you write, you're creating an adolescent shape, taking off some here and there, letting it get bigger in other places, and giving it room to rant and rage if your writing needs to do that. Eventually you can give your writing some manners and polish up that final, sophisticated adult draft—but you have to have fun first.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-47762207052763039012012-04-19T08:26:00.002-07:002012-04-19T08:27:59.058-07:00Why One Aging Hippie Mom Loves TwitterMy friend Melanie finally lured me into joining Twitter Nation by bribing me with scones and tea. <br /><br /> “It's really easy, and it's great once you get the hang of it,” she said as we buttered scones. “Come on. I'll show you how to set up an account.”<br /><br /> “Next, you'll be pressuring me into smoking cigarettes and trying Botox,” I muttered, following her into the office, where she had already coerced another friend of ours, Anne, into Twitter Nation.<br /><br /> Melanie's rationale was simple: we're all writers. Writers must tweet if we're going to build name recognition. “You're building your brand,” she said.<br /><br /> “I'm not a cereal,” I said, still muttering. <br /><br /> Melanie is a tech-savvy journalist currently working on a nonfiction book about the oil business as well as a novel. Anne writes historical fiction. And me? I work as a magazine writer and celebrity ghost writer; I just self-published a novel and sold another one to Penguin. All three of us are old enough to have launched (or ejected) our kids out of the house; I still have a young teen at home, but he's already taller than I am.<br /><br /> In other words, all three of us are aging moms and, in my case, a bonafide aging hippie mom. Examples: I marched on Washington for various causes throughout the 1970's and into the 1980's; I worked as a Vista Volunteer; and I still prefer wearing natural cotton. <br /><br /> Another example: I hate carrying a cell phone. In fact, most of the time I hate having a cell phone. Why would I want anyone to know where I am at all times? Why would I want to answer the phone when I am, say, walking on the beach or sipping tea with my aging hippie friends?<br /><br /> Yet, I followed Melanie into the thick, mysterious, shrieking Twitter jungle, and guess what? I love this crazy busy place—but not for the reasons she thought I would. <br /><br /> As a book marketing tool, Twitter is fairly useless. Maybe it's because I'm not one of those people who tweets all day long about my books—I don't ever tweet great lines from my texts, I don't announce giveaways, I don't pester people with book reviews. Not because I think these things are necessarily a bad idea, but mainly because I don't find these kinds of tweets very interesting. <br /><br /> Instead, I delight in Twitter for other reasons:<br /><br />1) I love checking in with Twitter as a ticker tape kind of news service. I receive updates from various news feeds--yep, you guessed 'em, the New York Times, NPR, CNN, and The Daily Beast are right at the top of my hippie news feeds. <br /><br />2) I use Twitter to drive traffic to my blog posts on Huffington Post, Open Salon, and guest blogs.<br /><br />3) I rely on Twitter to gain professional insights on the rapid upheavals in book publishing, mainly by following writers, publishers, business journals, and book reviewers. Twitter leads me to all sorts of fascinating blogs and news articles, and has been enormously useful in helping me both think about my writing and decide where to sell it.<br /><br />4) Most importantly, I use Twitter to support other writers—and to be supported. In this way, I have discovered that writing doesn't have to be a lonely business, despite the fact that I work alone in a barn about eight hours every day (dressed in my hippie cotton pants and flannel shirts, a cup of tea at my elbow). In fact, through Twitter, I have made great new friendships, like the one with a mystery writer in Hawaii. This writer and I now exchange manuscripts for critique and chat on the phone. We hope to meet some day. Our friendship never would have been possible without Twitter (unless there's some kind of Match.com for women writers that I haven't found yet?) <br /> <br /> I still wonder about those people on Twitter who have gazillions of followers. Where did they get all of those followers? Do they ever interact with them? Do they have interns who post tweets for them? Maybe they're outsourcing their tweets?<br /><br /> Another friend once suggested, as we were sitting in a restaurant with relatives, that I should get a better cell phone so that I could tweet from it. “Just think, you could be sitting here right now and tweeting about what we're having for lunch.” <br /><br /> Really? And why would anyone care what I'm having for lunch? I'm not Kim Kardashian or Justin Bieber. Thank God. <br /><br /> “You could even use a service that schedules your tweets,” she added. “You know, write them all at once and then have them sent out on a regular basis to stay in constant contact with your followers.”<br /><br /> No, thanks. I'll keep tweeting in real time, venturing into Twitter for a few spare minutes here and there during the day. I love Twitter—especially for the friendships it has brought me. Otherwise, you can find me alone in my barn, pondering sentences and sipping tea.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-2895939140030292022012-04-12T06:43:00.001-07:002012-04-12T06:45:06.294-07:00Does It Matter Where You Go To College? Probably Not.Many of my friends have children who are getting their college acceptance letters—or rejections—this month. This means that I'm doing a lot of cheering--and consoling. <br /> <br /> The cheering is easy. We all love to see those nice fat college acceptance envelopes in the mail, proving that everything those kids (and their parents) have done is worthy: The sports practices! The play practices! The debate teams and chess clubs and robotics competitions! Our exhausted children and their cranky parents want proof that it was all worthwhile.<br /><br /> Then there is the consoling. This is much harder. I haven't figured out how to convince my friends that where their kids go to college doesn't really matter, or that a rejection from that “first choice” school might be the best thing that could ever happen to their kids.<br /><br /> I speak with some degree of experience about this as a parent—and also as someone who has worked in college marketing for the past twenty years. <br /><br /> Let's look at my anecdotal experiences as a parent first: I have four older children who have all gone to college; three have graduated and one is about to in May. Of my four children, only one got into his top choice school, one of the small New England independent colleges. You know: brick buildings, liberal arts, lots of snow and parties. He graduated with an English degree and got a great job right out of the gates as a marketing writer. <br /><br /> Our other son didn't make it into his first choice school. He chose one of his second choices—a mid-level private college too far west for him to be happy. He transferred to a local city college, graduated with a film studies degree, and is now working with special effects shops in Hollywood.<br /><br /> The oldest daughter also wasn't admitted into her first choice college—another small, private independent—and had to settled for the State university. She hated the idea of a huge school with lecture halls instead of small classes. Nonetheless, she stuck it out because it was the best financial package. Within a year she loved the school and had great friends, wonderful roommates, and went on to graduate with a degree in natural resources. She got a job immediately with an environmental engineering company in California, moved across country, and is now headed to Alaska to work for the U.S. Forestry Service.<br /><br /> Okay, on to daughter #2: She got into her first choice international school in Paris. After two years there, however, she decided she wanted a U.S. degree and transferred home, this time to an Ivy League women's college. She'll graduate this May. Her plan? She'll waitress and live in a cheap apartment, then spend next fall traveling through Brazil for a while. <br /><br /> So. Were my kids in the “best” colleges? Maybe. Eventually. For them, anyway. But that's not why they were happy, or why they got jobs. <br /><br /> The son now working as a marketing writer landed that job because he had started earning money writing for web sites while he was still in college—on his own time. The son who went to Hollywood? Sure, he has a film studies degree, but what got him started with special effects shops is the fact that he worked as a carpenter all through high school. His tool belt was his ticket into the movie business. <br /><br /> Meanwhile, the daughter who went to the big university took every opportunity that came her way, working as a laboratory assistant for one professor, doing field work in Indonesia, studying abroad in Spain, and doing environmental work with another professor over the summer. Yes, she graduated with honors, but her extracurricular activities got her career launched—and helped her discover what she loves to do. <br /><br /> All of our kids are passionate, curious, and smart. Their college experiences gave them time to explore and grow. But truthfully? They could have had those experiences at almost any college.<br /><br /> To those students who have been accepted into their top choice colleges, I want to say a hearty congratulations. You've worked hard and you deserve those honors. I hope the colleges turn out to be not just “top choices,” but also the best fit. If they're not, I hope you'll transfer out and find a place you belong. <br /><br /> And, for families whose kids are despairing because they made it only into their second- or even third-choice schools, I'm going to put on my college marketing hat for a minute. The reasons your child didn't make it into her top choice school probably has nothing to do with who she is or what she is capable of in the future. It's more about what those colleges had as an applicant pool this year. <br /><br /> What's more, as someone who writes college marketing materials and helps institutions “brand” themselves, I know firsthand that all of the literature and web sites you've looked at to find out more about your dream schools are carefully crafted (by people like me) to show you the best of the best. You know: the student profiles of talented kids, the enlightening community service opportunities, the innovative curriculum and honors courses, the close relationships with caring professors, the internships that lead to jobs, yada yada. <br /><br /> Yep. I've written about all of those things for dozens of colleges, from small four-year schools with minimal reputations to huge schools with lots of international clout. <br /><br /> And you know what? I wasn't lying. Every college has great students, wonderful professors, and boundless opportunities to enrich student learning outside the classroom. <br /><br /> In fact, the experiences that students have outside of class are probably more important than the degrees they earn. Every college offers work study opportunities, activities, sports teams. Every college offers an alumni network and career counseling, too, and many encourage study abroad, even if it's just for a short term. <br /><br /> A designer degree doesn't matter nearly as much in the long run as the things a student does while getting that piece of paper—especially the activities and jobs between classes and during the summer. Those are the things that will truly contribute to a depth of self-discovery, transforming college students into adults with not only education, but confidence, job skills, and a global perspective, too.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-49224838122337229432012-04-11T09:12:00.000-07:002012-04-11T09:15:21.839-07:002011 Book of the Year Award Finalists AnnouncedI'm pleased to announce that my first novel, Sleeping Tigers, is a finalist for the 2011 ForeWord Reviews Book of the Year award. <br /><br />ForeWord Reviews is the only review trade journal devoted exclusively to books from independent houses. Representing more than 700 publishers, the finalists were selected from 1200 entries in 60 genre categories. These books are examples of independent publishing at its finest.<br /><br />In this new Wild West of publishing, ForeWord Reviews' Book of the Year Awards program was established to help publishers shine an additional spotlight on their best titles and bring increased attention to librarians and booksellers of the literary and graphic achievements of independent publishers and their authors. Award winners are chosen by librarians and booksellers who are on the front lines, working everyday with patrons and customers. For a complete list of Book of the Year finalists, go to their web site, https://botya.forewordreviews.com/finalists/2011/ <br /><br />Sleeping Tigers is available as a paperback or ebook. Order it through your local book store or online here: http://www.amazon.com/Sleeping-Tigers-Holly-Robinson/dp/1466404833Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-62963174421968263852012-04-06T13:42:00.001-07:002012-04-06T13:56:30.666-07:00That Chipped Teacup Feeling: Life after Breast CancerNine years ago, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. This wasn't the “do something or die” kind of cancer that my friends Rachel and Kim went through last year. It wasn't even the “lump the size of a grapefruit” breast cancer my mom had removed after getting her first mammogram at age 78. It certainly wasn't the wildfire kind of breast cancer that killed my son's English teacher in high school, when my son and her daughter were both just sixteen years old. <br /><br /> Nope, my breast cancer was, thankfully, the “almost missed it” variety. I had a lumpectomy (described by my nurse as “the size of an orange”--why do they always use fruit metaphors?) Clear margins, no radiation or chemo. Nothing much to go through, by almost any medical standard. Why, then, was I so terrified? <br /><br /> I'd heard a lot about breast cancer—I am a journalist, after all, and I've known plenty of cancer survivors (and others who were less fortunate). But nobody told me about the fear. For several years after my lumpectomy, I felt as damaged as a chipped teacup. I worried that one more time through the dishwasher might shatter me completely. <br /><br /> As a mother whose youngest son was in kindergarten when I was first diagnosed, my biggest fear was that the cancer would return and kill me while my kids still needed me. I had other, lesser fears, too: losing what's left of my boobs, having my husband lose interest in me. <br /><br /> Gradually, though, I have somehow stopped being afraid. I had a couple of new scares, resulting in biopsies. My husband was diagnosed with diabetes, my stepsister with colon cancer, my mother with emphysema. Another good friend just found out that her son—the same age as my oldest boy—has lymphoma. <br /><br /> All of this was scary, but it also made me realize that each of us carries sleeping tigers inside us. That's what it feels like to me: that my cancer is this capricious jungle animal asleep inside me. It could wake at any moment, sharpen its claws, and slash my life to bits. Never mind feeling like a chipped teacup. Now I visualized a caged and potentially lethal animal inside me! <br /><br /> Somehow, though, this image has given me the strength to live without fear. There are some things you can't control in life—you can only accept that you, like anyone else, might experience disease, loss, grief, survival, death, surgery, whatever. We all go through something. Why worry about it until it happens? Let sleeping tigers lie, and get on with your life in the meantime.<br /><br /> After breast cancer, I became resolved to do things I'd always put off. I took a pottery class with my husband and finally made a solid commitment to write fiction and get it published. Our family traveled to England and Spain, and we bought a farmhouse on Prince Edward Island near my favorite beach. I bought a membership to AMC and started hiking in the White Mountains and joined a knitting group. I restored the old garden behind our house and, this summer, I'm going to try laying the paths through it myself. I'm also going to buy a new bicycle and map out some routes through my favorite small towns north of Boston. <br /><br /> No matter how short your life might be, or how deliciously long, why not cram in as much as you can? Sure, live in the moment, but glory in your past and plan for the future, too. Take on every adventure that appeals to you—and you're sure to embrace new opportunities to live with love, grace, humor, and compassion.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-5018613102473463542012-03-31T19:11:00.001-07:002012-03-31T19:13:20.638-07:00Wrestling with Point of View in Your WritingWhen I was in first grade, I had an art teacher who shamed me into crying in front of the entire classroom.<br /> <br /> She had given us an easy assignment. Handing out blocks of wood, she asked us to draw faces on them. I loved art, and happily got to work drawing a man's face. When I'd finished with his features, he looked more like an alien than a man, so I painted his face bright blue. (I blame my mother: she always read to me from her science fiction novels rather than from any of those boring children's books.) <br /><br /> The art teacher went down the row of student desks, nodding and smiling as the children held up their wooden faces for praise. And then she got to me, and nearly went into one of those whirling fits of rage I now associate with Roald Dahl characters. <br /><br /> “You painted your face blue?” she shrieked. “You can't paint a face blue! What kind of face is that?” <br /><br /> “It's an alien's face,” I said, tearing up. <br /><br /> I might as well have said “Satan.” The art teacher hauled me over to sit in the corner and made me paint another face while the rest of the kids tittered.<br /><br /> Now, this story happens to be true, but if I were writing fiction, I could have chosen to relay it from a different perspective. For example, I might have written it in limited third person from the teacher's point of view, or from the point of view of the town sheriff, who is called into school after the art teacher is found dead. Or I might have chosen to begin the narrative after an alien invasion, during which the art teacher and several other people in town are abducted! Then I probably would have used multiple points of view. <br /><br /> Wrestling with point of view is something that writers do every day in fiction, and it's one of the most frustrating—and fun—aspects of writing. Sometimes it takes several drafts before you get the point of view that works for a particular story. For instance, if you're writing about an alien invasion, you might want what's called an “author omniscient” point of view, which basically means that you're relaying the story from on high, from multiple points of view or even in multiple time frames. <br /><br /> In Sleeping Tigers, my first novel, I chose what's called a “limited third person” point of view—this means that I can only be inside the main character's head, and nobody else's. I did this because I wanted to create a tight emotional connection between my protagonist, a young woman named Jordan, and my readers, while still having the literary freedom to write lush descriptive passages of other characters and the setting (San Francisco and Nepal, in this case). <br /><br /> For my next novel, The Wishing Hill, to be published in spring 2013 by Penguin, I created the story of two women who are bound in ways they don't suspect, so I decided to alternate points of view between them. That lets the reader discover their complex interconnectedness even before the characters themselves know what's going on. I had to be careful to differentiate the voices. One speaks in longer sentences while the other has more hyphenated, staccato thoughts. <br /><br /> Now I'm writing a paranormal mystery. For this one, I initially tried a third person point of view for the first two drafts. I'm contemplating a first person point of view for the next draft to see if that will help ramp up the scare factor. Maybe the reader will be more likely to feel something cold and damp behind her in the hallway if she is the “I.” Using first person is an avenue for getting even deeper into the protagonist's psyche; at the very least, if I try it, I can always go back to the third person point of view, having learned new things about the character, right? <br /><br /> Take a closer look at the book you're reading or writing. What would have happened with another point of view? Try it—you might be surprised.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-60318043546261768502012-03-26T05:38:00.001-07:002012-03-26T05:40:08.546-07:00A Cat Living a Dog's LifeI never meant to adopt two cats instead of one, much less to fall in love with a cat that thinks he's a dog. But sometimes life surprises you. Or, in cat terms, sometimes life is a ball of yarn that unwinds into unexpected pleasures.<br /><br /> It all began when I gave into my son Aidan's request for a kitten. Aidan had a tall order: his kitten had to be gray, white-pawed, and female. After weeks of driving around New England, we finally found a shelter with the perfect gray kitten, snowdrop paws and all. <br /><br /> As we waited for the paperwork at the animal shelter, I glanced into a cage across the aisle. There, all by himself, lounged a cat as long as my arm, butterscotch gold and with a kinked tail. On impulse, I scooped him into my arms.<br /><br /> “Put him back,” I scolded my own impulsive self. The last thing I needed was another cat, much less two more. We already had two dogs and a gerbil. <br /><br /> On the other hand, I thrive on animal chaos. I grew up on a gerbil farm—at the height of his career, my gerbil czar of a father had 9,000 of these endearing rodents housed in three Sears prefab buildings behind our house—and my mother raised horses. Just for fun, we also had pygmy goats, sheep, geese, chickens, barn cats and house cats, a furious parrot, at least three dogs at a time, and peacocks that could scare the life out of you because their cries sounded like somebody being murdered in the back yard. In many ways, I get along better with animals than with most people. <br /><br /> At the animal shelter, the big yellow tomcat was as languid in my arms as he'd been in the cage, purring like a motorboat as he nuzzled my neck. He didn't care that he'd been abandoned. Life at this moment was a good thing and he was going to make the most of it.<br /><br /> Just like that, I was in love. Aidan and I walked out of the shelter with two cats instead of one.<br /><br /> It soon became clear that my new cat, Mini Wheat, was no ordinary feline. He is a CatDog like that hybrid cartoon animal on Nickelodeon, the one with a cat's head on one end of his body and a dog's on the other. If I walk our dogs on leashes, this CatDog struts between them as if he's on a leash, too. When I call the dogs to come inside, Mini Wheat comes running, tail wagging. If I toss a toy, he fetches it for me, purring. Our clever Cairn terrier wisely snubs Mini Wheat for his doggish antics, but our Pekingese lovingly accepts this CatDog into the pack. <br /><br /> As I write this, MiniWheat is curled in my lap, catlike. But I know that he's waiting expectantly for three o'clock, when it's time for our afternoon walk: me with a Cairn, a Pekingese, and one enthusiastic CatDog, who shows me how to think and live outside the box.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-87354680613573851452012-02-27T07:46:00.003-08:002012-02-27T07:48:02.957-08:00Pimping Your Book, Indie or TraditionalNow that I've got feet in both camps, I have a unique perspective on the good, the bad and the mysterious truths about book marketing. My memoir, The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter, was published by Random House. I leaped into the indie world when I self-published my first novel, Sleeping Tigers, a couple of months ago. My second novel, The Wishing Hill, will be published by Penguin in spring 2013. These experiences have taught me a lot about book publicity, but I'm still learning new things every day. There are some differences in how traditional and indie books are publicized, but those differences are shrinking by the nanosecond. The truest thing I can tell you is that, no matter how your book makes it into the world, you'll need to take an active part in the publicity. Here are a few tips to get you started.<br /><br />Mine the Free Resources<br />The Internet is a wonderful tutor. There are more free resources out there about marketing your book than you'll ever have time to read. Google anything from “picking a book cover” to “social media for authors,” and you'll get enough hits to last through a few thermoses of coffee each time you do it. Make good use of these resources. One of my favorites is Novel Publicity's “Free Advice Blog” at http://www.novelpublicity.com/publicity/ <br /><br />Prepare Your Platform<br />No matter who you talk to in publishing—agent, editor, publicist, or sales team—they'll tell you that their ideal is a good book written by an author with a “solid platform.” Basically, that means that they want you to be famous before you even give them a manuscript—or they want some hook, like you chewed off your arm during a battle with a grizzly bear. (Even then, they hope you've been blogging about it.) One easy way to start building your platform is by crafting a virtual identity. Social media tools are free and easy to use. Start a blog, create an author facebook page, get a twitter account, and set up a Goodreads page. Give people useful information—don't just pimp your book. If you know how to do something—anything from fly fishing to quilting—blog about that, guest post on other people's blogs, and people will start following you. Yes, it's time consuming, but it's also incredibly fun to connect with people. If you're trying traditional publishing avenues, it will help your editor sell your book to the publisher if she can prove that you have an active presence online. Indie or traditional, you're cultivating a loyal readership. <br /><br />A Publicist Is Just Part of the Picture<br />If you're traditionally published, expect to be assigned a publicist. It is that person's job to advocate for your book with print media, radio and television stations, bookstores, and online sites. Make yourself part of the publicity team. If the publicist suggests that you do something, do it! The more you help your publicist, the more she can help you. On the other hand, don't take it personally if the publicist is too busy to do more than a few early rounds of marketing pushes. She'll probably have a minimum of time and an even smaller budget to devote to your book. You'll have to keep up the momentum. Likewise, if you're an indie author, be prepared to devote part of every week to promoting your books. Writers with deep pockets may find it easiest to hire a publicist; even then, log the hours if you want results. <br /><br />Your Book Launch Is What You Make It<br />Long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, a book launch in traditional publishing was a Very Big Deal. Authors were sent on book tours to do readings and signings on the publisher's dime. The pre-sales of books, both online and in bookstores, determined pretty quickly which books were hits. That's because they knew that shelf life in bookstores was brief. This is all changing. Sure, it's great to gain traction the minute your book is available. However, with the advent of online book sellers and e-books, your book will stay around forever. Don't despair if it takes weeks, or even months, to see sales results. Keep at it, and eventually the numbers will climb. <br /><br />Give Away Your Books<br />Traditional publishers know that the best way to sell a book is to give it away first. They target who they give it to, of course—book reviewers, TV producers, book clubs—but, ultimately, the idea is to “seed” your book around the country so that people start talking about it. You can do the same thing on your own. Participate in giveaways on your own facebook author page or through Goodreads, or ask book bloggers if they'll host giveaways for you.<br /><br />Befriend Book Bloggers<br />Book bloggers are fairy godmothers for writers. Without their support and generosity, many of our books would never be read. Check out as many book blogs as you can find. When you discover a book blogger who reviews books like yours, write a personal note and ask if you can send a review copy. You might want to send her an e-book because it's cheaper than mailing a paperback, but if she says she'd rather have a paperback, send it! Media mail is cheap postage and print-on-demand paperbacks are inexpensive, too. Remember: she is the one doing you a favor, and it's a good investment. Most book bloggers post reviews on Amazon and Goodreads; once they're up, be sure to tweet and post those links on your own pages. Add them to your Amazon Author Central page as well.<br /><br />Look for Out-of-the-Box Marketing Opportunities<br />Just like parents know their own children better than anyone else can, you know your book: its content, style, and target audience. Use that expertise in thinking about out-of-the-box marketing opportunities. I contacted pet groups when I published The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter, for instance, and found a loyal following. For Sleeping Tigers, I'm contacting breast cancer groups, because my main character is a breast cancer survivor, and I know other cancer survivors will connect with this story about hope and starting over. <br /><br />Lasting Impressions <br />All of your marketing efforts will eventually come together. If you're a parent, think about how many times you had to show your toddler peas or carrots before that child stopped thinking of veggies as too weird to eat. The same is true of your book: keep putting it out there, and pretty soon people will start saying, “Hey, I remember that title. I meant to read that book!”Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-26991385574666176532012-02-20T11:15:00.000-08:002012-02-20T11:17:05.509-08:00How to Sell a Novel in Just 25 Years!When my agent called a few weeks ago to say that an editor at Penguin wanted to buy my new novel, The Wishing Hill, I literally had to lie down. Otherwise, I might have fallen out of my chair. After all, I've been waiting for this call for 25 years.<br /><br /> How did it take me so long to publish a novel? And why was this novel chosen, but not one of the other half dozen my loyal agent sent out? <br /><br /> I don't really know. I was doing what all writers do, really: I was writing fiction around the edges of my life. I've been married (twice). I've had children (three of my own, plus two stepchildren.) I've done some traveling. I've renovated old houses and summer cottages. I've made a good living as a nonfiction writer. <br /><br /> Despite having so many people to love and things to do in my life, however, I never stopped trying to write a novel good enough for an editor to say, “Hey. I want to publish that.” I got so frustrated with the wait that I finally published my own novel, Sleeping Tigers, just a few weeks before I got the call about Penguin wanting to buy The Wishing Hill. I'm delighted that not just one, but two of my novels, will now be in print. To those of you longing to do the same, I hope it takes you less time than it did me. Meanwhile, here are a few tips for outlasting the rejection letters:<br /><br />Watch Reality TV<br /> Shows like American Idol or So You Think You Can Dance can be just the antidote you need to a crisis in confidence. That single mother with the lip ring, the doughy girl who thought she'd never be a dancer, and the guy with the cowboy hat all have talent. But, just like writers, they have to hit the audience and judges at the right time to win the gold ring.<br /><br />If You're Writing, You're a Writer<br /> Lots of people say, “Oh, if I had the time, what a book I could write!” It's true that everyone has great stories to tell—but only a few of us actually write them down and revise them again and again. If you're writing, you're a writer, and you will get better as you go. <br /><br />Every Rejection Is Just One Person's Opinion<br /> We've all heard the stories about various novels being rejected, like, 800 times, before editors taking them. Every rejection letter is written by just one editor. Tear up the short, nonsensical notes (I once received a rejection that said, “This does not amuse.”) Editors send those out because they have to say something. Keep sending your work out. It can only get published if it's out there.<br /><br />There Really Is Such a Thing as a Good Rejection<br /> When a friend called recently, despondent because she'd received a rejection letter, I asked her to read it to me. The editor had clearly taken the time to read her novel carefully and had made constructive comments. Even better, the editor said she'd take another look at the novel if my friend rewrote it. There really are editors out there willing to take the time to do that. My advice? Put aside your ego and do it, then send your book back out.<br /><br />Be Not Afraid of Young Pups<br /> Pick up an issue of Poets & Writers magazine, and you can't help but envy all of the babes-in-arms out there winning fiction contests and earning publishing contracts before they're old enough to need their author photos digitally enhanced. Yeah, well. Some people are talented and lucky, and some of us are talented, but don't get sprinkled with lucky stardust until later in life. <br /><br /><br />Never Equate Being Published with Being Rich or Happy<br /> What did I do after I sold my first novel? I celebrated, of course—but only after picking my son up from school, throwing in another load of laundry, and doing the supper dishes. The thing about publishing a novel is that it won't make you rich, especially now that advances are lower and publishing companies are paying out in thirds or even fourths. Plus, don't forget to subtract your agent's commission and taxes on earnings. <br /> As for being happy? My contented writer friends were happy before they published their novels. And my writer friends who are unhappy? Yep. They were that way before they published their books, too. Being published really won't change your life, unless you happen to become as well-known as Stephanie Meyer or J.K. Rowling—and my guess is even those two could shop at the local Market Basket for eggs without being recognized. They just drive better cars.<br /><br />Surround Yourself with People Who Believe that Writing Is Worthwhile<br /> Writing is a long and sometimes lonely business, so it's key to have a constructive writing group, writer friends, and a spouse or partner who believe that the act of creating a story is a worthwhile use of your time. Without my incredibly supportive husband and my LIW (Ladies in Writing) group, with whom I swap not only manuscripts, but stories about rejection letters and agents, children and spouses, I never could have made it through the past 25 years of crafting stories and surviving doubt. They helped me remember that the creative journey itself is worth savoring and sharing.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-19815813532060169412012-02-08T06:19:00.000-08:002012-02-08T06:21:14.338-08:00Why Do Writers Need Readers? Not for the Reason You Might Think.A few weeks ago, a friend of mine asked if I'd like to participate in his “Books, Authors, and Wine Tasting” event. I had just published my novel Sleeping Tigers, so I said yes. I wasn't expecting to sell any books, really—I hadn't started marketing the novel yet, and this was the kind of event where the authors sit at tables displaying their wares, like a craft fair, while potential readers wander around with glasses of wine. <br /> <br /> As I lugged my box of books up the icy driveway that night, part of me was longing to be at home, sacked out on the couch and reading or watching TV. Imagine my surprise, then, when one woman, and then another, and then a third—twelve in all—found my table and excitedly said, “This is the book I was looking for!” as she picked up a copy of Sleeping Tigers and, miraculously, bought it.<br /><br /> “Really?” I asked in shock. <br /><br /> One of the women explained that there were two book clubs attending the event, and the members had all agreed to read my novel. Then she leaned forward and confided, “I've had breast cancer, too. That's why I want to read your book.”<br /><br /> She told me her story, then, of her diagnosis and surgery, of her recovery and good fortune to have survived the ordeal. Then she walked away, my book in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, held aloft like a torch.<br /><br /> The stories that many of the women told me as they stopped by my table lingered with me for a long time. We talked about breast cancer and motherhood, travel and books, husbands and jewelry, among other things. Afterward, as I toted my empty cardboard box back to the car, I was reminded again why being a writer is the most spectacular pursuit in the world: as you share your own stories with others, readers share their lives with you in return.<br /><br /> Of course there is a part of every writer that longs to be on the New York Times bestseller list. We would all love to make enough money from writing to put our kids through college, or even to put a dent in the grocery bill. More important than that, though, is our longing to connect with readers on an emotional level. Hearing someone say “I loved your book” is a great thing, but it's even better when a reader takes the time to say why: “My best friend is like your main character, only she's a tap dancer,” or, “You made me laugh because my mother used to cut my hair like that, too.”<br /><br /> After I wrote The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter, a memoir about growing up with a Navy father so obsessed with gerbils that he started raising them, I was stunned to discover how many readers had parents who were chain smokers. It was equally surprising to me how many people grew up with fathers who raised animals. I heard from one reader whose father hatched parrots in the basement, and another whose dad had tropical fish tanks in every single room of the house. Now, three years after that book was published, I still correspond with a thirteen year-old reader who is as passionate about horses and reading as I was at that age, as well as a woman in California who by now feels like a sister to me.<br /><br /> The point is that writers lead solitary lives. I work in a barn behind my house, usually in a flannel shirt and sweatpants. I finally get dressed and put on makeup (sometimes) when it's time to collect my son from school. Otherwise, I see few people and live inside my head, my fingers spinning stories on my laptop, never knowing if my plots and characters and settings will ever reach anyone beyond my best friends. <br /><br /> For most writers, every book takes months, even years, to write. We don't know how, or even if, that book will ever be published in the end, but something compels us to keep going. That “something” is the reader. In this age when so many bookstores have gone under and few books are reviewed in print, book bloggers and social media have become our lifelines. They let us reach readers, and we are forever grateful that they exist. Meanwhile, we'll keep seeking avenues to meet readers in person, especially the ones who aren't afraid to carry a glass of wine around as they shop for books.<br /><br /> We write, because we want to open our hearts and share our stories with you. We hope you'll do the same with us.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-22932075985279633672012-02-01T07:51:00.000-08:002012-02-01T07:54:48.866-08:00Maybe Private School is Cheaper than RitalinI was eating lunch when I got a text from my youngest son today. “95 on Spanish quiz!” he wrote. <br /> <br /> Ironically, at that very moment I was catching up on the New York Times, where I stumbled upon the January 28 article, “Ritalin Gone Wrong” by L. Alan Sroufe, a professor emeritus of psychology at the University of Minnesota. The point of his article was that we all need to wake up and question why three million children in this country take drugs for attention problems, despite the fact that “no study has found any long-term benefit of attention-deficit medication on academic performance, peer relationships or behavior problems.”<br /><br /> Wait. What?<br /><br /> I wanted to weep with relief—and frustration. Where was this article five years ago, when I really needed it?<br /><br /> You see, my youngest son was one of those fidgety boys whose teachers were always eager to share his flaws with me: “He never listens.” “He built the wrong kind of gingerbread house.” “He never remembers his homework.” “He can't sit still.” “He asks too many questions.” Or, my personal favorite, “He has potatoes in his ears.”<br /><br /> It's true that my son is active. If there's a high surface, you can bet he's on it. These days he spends most of his free time at skate parks and doing parkour. In his public elementary school, he was put on a 504 plan at my insistence because his teachers couldn't seem to figure out that keeping him in for recess was a bad idea.<br /> <br /> “We've tried punishing him by keeping him inside,” one of the teachers said, “but the punishment has no impact. He pays even less attention than before.” Thank you, Sherlock.<br /><br /> This was the same teacher, by the way, who gave a power point presentation during parents' night that left me so bored that I started fiddling with things on my son's desk. I ended up accidentally knocking a stack of books to the floor and got that “apple doesn't fall far from the tree” look. <br /> <br /> My son was bright but his grades in school were dull: A's in the subjects he liked, C's in classes he found tedious. He forgot his homework or didn't bother to do it. He lost things.<br /><br /> “It's ADHD and EDD,” another of his elementary school teachers assured me—while standing in the hallway at a school concert. “Medicate him and he'll be an A student.”<br /><br /> Frightened by the accumulating alphabet of pathologies, I took my son to a professional who specializes in testing for educational disabilities and sat in the waiting room with the door ajar. I fell asleep listening to the tester's droning voice as she had him do repetitive tasks to see if he had an attention disorder. Big surprise: he did.<br /><br /> Except, that is, outside of school. At home, he built the Taj Mahal out of Legos by himself, fashioned a go-kart out of a skateboard strapped to a leaf blower, and talked at great length about concepts like parallel universes. In the driveway, he would try tricks on his scooter for hours at a time until he perfected them. He loved helping his grandmother with her computer. His summer camp counselors said there was nobody more enthusiastic about hiking, canoeing, and dissecting owl pellets.<br /><br /> The teachers and the tester sent me to a psychiatrist, so that my son could be evaluated further for ADHD. The psychiatrist, a lovely young man with lots of degrees but no kids of his own, was so neat and tidy that he arranged pens by color on his desk. He chatted with my son and invited him to make paper airplanes. The psychiatrist spent a long time getting the creases just right on one paper airplane. <br /><br /> My son, meanwhile, built six really gnarly planes, weighing them down at the nose with paper clips and bending the wings in various ways so that the planes could fly in spirals or circles or shoot straight across the room, as one did—right into the psychiatrist's tender temple. After spending less than an hour with my son, the psychiatrist wrote a prescription for a stimulant that would help him focus in school “and rein in his behavior problems.”<br /><br /> “Should I give it to him on a weekend to see how it goes?” I asked.<br /><br /> The psychiatrist waved a hand. “No need. This is very mild. It'll be fine.”<br /><br /> Luckily, I ignored this advice and gave the drug to my son on a Saturday. It was a nightmare. Or, rather, it was my son's nightmare: he spun in circles, couldn't sleep, and said monsters were coming in the window.<br /><br /> We took him off the drug. We made him finish his public elementary school <br />through Grade 6, then tried our regional public middle school—the same one my older children had loved. It was a disaster. My son had classes of over 30 students apiece and, guess what? No hands-on activities and definitely no recess. He began hiding rather than get on the bus.<br /><br /> What could we conclude, but that our son was defective? At wit's end, my husband and I talked about another psychiatrist and different drugs. What stopped me from doing this wasn't any scholarly article—though I read everything I could find—but our babysitter, a college kid who had been put on Adderall in high school and taken himself off it after three years.<br /><br /> “The thing is,” the babysitter said, “I never knew whether it was me or the drug thinking, and after a while I felt like I'd never learn how to study if I had to depend on the drug.”<br /><br /> Finally I decided to abandon the public school and look at alternatives. We considered home schooling, Catholic school, a farm school, even a year at sea. We ended up in a tiny Montessori School where students did academic work at their own pace, had recess at least once a day, and spent a lot of time building things. Voila. My son was happy. It was so instant and complete a transformation that I had to keep pinching myself, waiting for the other shoe to drop.<br /><br /> It never did. “We love your son's creativity, his humor, and the way he thinks outside the box,” his math teacher told me. “He's a joy to have in class.”<br /><br /> No teacher had ever said that to me before. About my other children, yes, but not about this one. I adore my youngest son—he is funny, creative, witty, smart, daring, graceful, and loving. But I worried about him constantly, because I never thought I would see him succeed in school.<br /><br /> We had two blissful years at that Montessori School. Then what? In eighth grade, my son visited the public high school and was adamant about it not being the right place for him. This time, we decided to listen.<br /><br /> It was frightening to look at private high schools. My husband and I went to <br />public school, as did our four older children. We aren't wealthy; if we used our son's college fund for private high school, what would we use to pay for college? On the other hand, I felt certain that his best shot at getting into a college and doing well there was to prepare him beforehand. <br /><br /> Oddly, our son passed the private school entrance exams with flying colors. (Or maybe not so oddly: he has always stepped up to the plate when something matters to him.) When his test scores led him to be admitted to a small day school of his choice, I was joyful—but nervous that he wouldn't be able to handle things. <br /><br /> At first it seemed I might be right. This was a prep school, a very academic one, with lots of highly focused, talented kids who were diligent about homework, played sports, and were already talking about college. When our son had so-so first trimester grades, I had that knee-jerk reaction that all parents of children with attention issues have: was this the time for Ritalin or Adderall? Had we reached the end of the line, the point where our son's gifted intelligence and creativity could no longer compensate for his attention issues? I still hadn't gotten over the opinion of the experts that my son needed a drug to fix his brain.<br /><br /> This time, a friend came to the rescue. “We were told that it takes six months to get used to your new village in Africa as a Peace Corps volunteer,” she reminded me. “Maybe you should give him that long to get used to high school.”<br /><br /> So we waited. After all, our son might not be getting A's, but he was happy. He joined the cross country team and came home excitedly talking about his Western Civilization and physics classes. “Those teachers really should be on Jeopardy, Mom, they're so smart,” he said.<br /><br /> Now, at the close of second trimester, he is getting A's and B's. Why? Because the classes are small and calm. The teachers are keen to give him extra help. So are the other students. And, most importantly, his intellectual curiosity is on fire.<br /><br /> In “Ritalin Gone Wrong,” Dr. Sroufe concludes that attention disorders are likely not genetic at all, but the result of various environmental factors that demand further study. He believes strongly—as do I—that every child has such a unique profile made up of chemistry, personality, and environmental influences that “there will never be a single solution for all children with learning and behavior problems.”<br /><br /> I know there are children for whom psychotropic medications are literally life savers. But the point of telling my story is this: if you're worried about your child's focus in school, examine his learning environment to make sure it's the best fit. Your child needs to be learning in a place that will support his strengths rather than view him as a problem. For children who are bright or anxious, active or inattentive, simply changing how and where they learn can make all the difference.<br /><br /> Making the leap to a private school setting isn't an easy leap financially, but there are alternatives worth investigating. Charter schools are free and are often Montessori-based, with smaller classrooms and more hands-on experiences. Some schools with religious affiliations may also provide you with an affordable alternative and a smaller, calmer environment where teachers are as invested in your child's individuality as they are in test scores.<br /><br /> Listen to your instincts. If your child is telling you that school is a bad place for him, then it probably is. Consult the teachers and experts, sure, but make your own experience with your child the biggest part of the equation when figuring out solutions. You know your child better than any doctor or therapist does, or ever could. <br /><br /> Consider, too, Dr. Sroufe's final comments as you ponder your child's future: “...the illusion that children's behavior problems can be cured with drugs prevents us as a society from seeking the more complex solutions that will be necessary. Drugs get everyone—politicians, scientists, teachers and parents—off the hook. Everyone except the children, that is.”Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-5782281346245035162012-01-17T17:06:00.000-08:002012-01-17T17:12:39.420-08:00Why I Told My Daughter to Quit Her JobMy daughter called me last night to celebrate her news. “I got the job!” she said. “I'm going to be decorating cupcakes!”<br /><br /> I cheered. My daughter earned an honors degree in Natural Resources from a major university this past May. This is the happiest I've heard her sound in months.<br /><br /> You think that you know where this blog post is going: oh, no, another parent bemoaning the fact that our nation's newly minted college graduates can't find decent jobs! And why wouldn't you think that? New books like Slouching Toward Adulthood: Observations from the Not-So-Empty Nest are rolling off the presses daily to explain the “shocking truth” behind the fact that 5.9 million people between the ages of 25 and 35 are now living with their parents.<br /><br /> But you would be wrong. This is a very different rant. <br /><br /> My daughter is the poster child for why college matters. She went to a decent suburban high school, finished in the top quarter of her class, played varsity sports. Attending a State university allowed her to continue expanding her intellectual and social horizons. She worked closely with researchers in Natural Resources, learned Spanish, studied and worked abroad, explored electives that enriched her perspective. She continually added to her resume, too, always building toward her post-graduation dream of working as a scientist. <br /><br /> She did everything right, and lo and behold, the system worked. She landed a job with a West Coast environmental engineering company that paid her more money than she had ever dreamed of making right out of college. Hurray!<br /><br /> Slowly, though, things unraveled. My daughter loved living near San Francisco, but even on her hefty salary, she could only afford an apartment in a dire section of Oakland, which led to her being caught in the middle of a mini gang shootout. (She has a nasty bullet wound on her car to prove it.) Meanwhile, her spiffy new job bored her, and her bosses were often negative, even mean-spirited.<br /><br /> For months, she stuck it out. Her student loans were about to kick in and this job paid double what any of her friends were making, plus benefits. As time passed, though, my sunny girl grew more despondent. Every day, she dragged herself into work. And, every day, things didn't get better.<br /><br /> She started looking for work. In California, the unemployment rate is dire—11.3 percent, compared to 8.6 percent nationwide as of November 2011. One of her job interviews for a coffee company required four different interviews, plus test taking. My daughter got the job and was thrilled, especially because the position includes health benefits. But the pay was abysmal: minimum wage.<br /><br /> Did she really want to leave her posh job for minimum wage? How could she—a driven student, a hard worker, a young woman who had always set goals and reached them--possibly justify making that leap?<br /><br /> There wasn't any rational reason for her to quit. But there was every emotional reason to do so.<br /><br /> “Life is too short to be miserable for money,” I told her finally. “Just quit. Take the barista job and figure out something else while you're making lattes.”<br /><br /> I can hear the gasps of horror from most parents out there. How could I advise my daughter to join the ranks of the marginally employed, after our family invested so much into her college degree?<br /><br /> Easily. College, you see, is not really about preparing you for the job market. It's about gaining the knowledge and skills you need to seize opportunities—and that includes knowing when to walk away from something that makes you unhappy.<br /><br /> There's a lot of talk these days—well, all days, I suppose—about what good it is to get a liberal arts degree, what majors are most likely to lead to the best-paid and most stable careers, and the importance of building your resume while you're in school so that you have an edge when it's time to enter the almighty job race.<br /><br /> That's all true, mostly. Obviously, you have to eat. But maybe the goal of college shouldn't be so closely linked to employment. Actual life isn't that different from the game of Life, in the sense that there's a point where at the start we all have to choose the college path or the career path. You can earn the same money either way, and the same good (or bad) spins on the dial can send you into a tailspin of debt or misery: illness, accidents, divorce, tornadoes taking your house. College is no guarantee that you'll be rich, or even middle class. In fact, there are some arguments that suggest technical training is a better bang for the buck.<br /><br /> (A handy example: my younger brother never finished his four-year college degree, yet he makes ten times more money than my other brother and I do, and we both have master's degrees.)<br /><br /> College, if you're lucky enough to get there, is really about figuring out your friends and your values as well as your dreams for the future. Nobody—well, almost nobody—finds a top-paying position right out of college. Most of us have to pay our dues and climb a dozen different career ladders before we find one that has rungs we can reach--and a place at the top with a view that suits us. If you land that seemingly “perfect” job with a salary worth boasting about, but then you hate it and are afraid to quit, your wings are clipped. That “safe” job will kill your creativity, drown your enthusiasm, and smother your ability to get up in the morning with a bounce in your step. Why stay?<br /><br /> The answer most people give is “fear.” We've all heard the unemployment statistics.<br /><br /> But let's turn those around. The unemployment rate is high—even upwards of 12 percent in certain U.S. cities. But that means that 88 percent of people have jobs. Can they make a living on their wages? That depends on how you define a “living.” Maybe you don't need a new car, or a car at all. Maybe you can find a seasonal rental or roommates. <br /><br /> Jobs are like college courses. Each one you take teaches you a set of new skills and offers a fresh perspective on life. They aren't meant to be permanent, most of them. They are only stepping stones.<br /><br /> In my daughter's case, the barista job led her to have enough free hours to do what she really loves: draw comics. She's thinking about publishing her comics online. In her free time, she also happened to stop by a new gourmet cupcake store, where she chatted with the enthusiastic owner and was hired to decorate cupcakes and work the counter. Again, it's not much money, but combined with the coffee place, it's enough for her to scrape by. Meanwhile, she has moved out of Oakland and into an affordable room in a house near the beach in Santa Cruz. She's happily experimenting with cupcake flavors and thinking about helping this new business owner with social media and marketing. She is learning something new every day. Life is good.<br /><br /> When you quit a job, any job, it can be terrifying. But it's also exhilarating, as you open yourself to new possibilities. So go ahead. Take the risk. Quit that job, if you hate it. You might surprise yourself.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-78794733483251064802012-01-09T09:48:00.000-08:002012-01-09T18:21:32.906-08:00Did I Hammer a Nail into My Bookstore's Coffin?<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I gave myself a book for my birthday this year: my own novel. <br /> <br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>It's still tough to admit that I'm self-published, despite the fact that the publishing world is now a Wild West of rogue indie presses and bowlegged cocky ebook publishers firing their Twitterfeeds in every direction. <div><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Perhaps it's tough to admit because I've been a writer for such a long time, always with the goal of having an editor and publishing house to call my very own. In fact, three years ago, I achieved that goal when my first book, The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter: A Memoir, was published by a division of Random House. It was a great experience. I had a savvy, smart editor; a darling and energetic publicist; and great reviews in all the right places. </div><div> <br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>After twenty-five years of working in the trenches as a journalist, essayist, fiction writer, and humorist, I had finally succeeded. My career as an author was launched! Hooray for me! <br /><br />I didn't get a huge advance, but a reasonable one. Apparently, though, the publishing house paid me too much. I still haven't earned back a penny on that advance, despite selling more books than I ever dreamed possible. That was okay, though. I figured I could build my platform from there and do better with the next book.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>No, no, Nanette. Publishing doesn't work that way anymore. These days, if your first book doesn't earn out, that's probably the end of your career—unless you come up with a Really Big Idea, and hardly anybody knows what this is, except that it probably sucks blood.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Over the next three years, I wrote a series of nonfiction book proposals and two novels. Everything was rejected. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>One novel came close, however: Sleeping Tigers is an upmarket women's novel that my agent and I hoped would appeal to readers of Eat, Pray, Love. The book tells the story of a woman who starts her life over after a breast cancer scare. She decides to join her wildest childhood friend in San Francisco and track down her drifter brother, who harbors secrets of his own. And, when her brother flees the country, she follows him to Nepal, determined to bring him home. <br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>This was a book with both plot and emotion. It had to make it, right?</div><div><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Nope. After rejections from editors who were enthusiastic about many aspects of the novel, but “not getting enough support here to make an offer,” I put that book in a drawer. A really deep drawer: in despair over one particular rejection, I actually deleted the entire book from my laptop after consuming half a bottle of Grand Marnier and a box of dark chocolate truffles while watching that creepy movie, Moulin Rouge.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Unlike my other “epic fails,” as my skateboarding son would call them, however, this novel refused to lie quietly in the dark. I suppose that's because this novel had so much of “me” in it. <br /><br />Like the main character, I survived early stage breast cancer and felt, as my narrator does, that I carried a sleeping tiger inside me that could, at any moment, wake up and use its claws to tear my life apart. I had lived in San Francisco when I finished graduate school and am still enamored of that city, so I sent the main character there to begin her spiritual and emotional healing. And, because I have two brothers and love them dearly, and because I once spent several months trekking in Nepal, I gave my character a brother and took her on an adventure in Nepal that would change her life forever.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>When I reexamined Sleeping Tigers, enough time had passed for me to see it in a cold-blooded, critical way. I understood why the editors had turned it down. There were places where the plot dragged or became derailed by side characters who really had nothing to do with the story. There was some strained, self-conscious writing. Some of the images weren't as fresh or funny as I wanted them to be.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Decades ago, editors might have taken a chance on this book and bought it, then worked with me to rewrite it. That hardly ever happens anymore. Now publishing houses are short-staffed, editors are harried, and money is tight.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>After tearing apart the novel and rewriting it, I had to figure out what to do with my new draft. Take it back to my agent? He's currently sending another novel of mine around to publishers, plus I have a third novel nearly complete that I'd like him to send out as well. I didn't want to overload the poor guy.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Plus, having been through the traditional publishing process before, I knew that it would take two or three years after the book was accepted for it to be published. Did I really want to wait that long? No. <br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Finally, a good friend of mine, Terri Giuliano Long, who self-published her well-received novel, In Leah's Wake—a book that falls into the same basic category of commercial women's fiction as Sleeping Tigers—convinced me to be brave and do the same. <br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I went on the CreateSpace web site, saw that designing and publishing the book on my own could cost less than taking a class at the local community college, and clicked the necessary buttons. If nothing else, I thought that doing this would be tantamount to giving myself a crash course in digital publishing, social media, and publicity—a course that could be valuable no matter how I publish more books in the future. The reality is that every writer now has to be her own publicist.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Publishing Sleeping Tigers through CreateSpace was easy, cheap, and efficient. The staff was remarkably helpful and willing to stay on the phone for as long as I had questions. The process was as user-friendly as sitting in your friend's living room and drinking tea. Or maybe even Merlot.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Still, when my first box of books arrived—a scant seven weeks after starting the process--I immediately got cold feet. Who am I to think that my novel is good enough to be published? Am I now as pathetic as those street poets I used to see in Berkeley, peddling their sappy, mistake-laden chapbooks for a dollar a copy? And how the hell does a writer act as her own publicist?<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>To make matters worse, it wasn't until after clicking on CreateSpace that I started to think about my good friend here in town, who owns Jabberwocky, one of my favorite independent bookstores. She held the book launch for my memoir, and it was as grand a party as I could have hoped for; she does an incredible job of hand-selling authors she likes. For many years, Jabberwocky has provided a lively space for readers and writers like me to enjoy each other's company, but Amazon has hit her hard. CreateSpace is an Amazon company.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>On my web site, I offer people a button that will take them to the independent bookstore of their choice if they want to buy my book locally. Still, I worry that, by publishing Sleeping Tigers with an Amazon company, I've hammered yet another nail into the coffin of my favorite indie bookstores.<br /><br /></div><div> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>At the same time, I'm thrilled to have this option. The characters in Sleeping Tigers refused to die because they had a story to tell—a story I love, and one that I hope readers will love, too. And, in the end, that's why writers write, isn't it? Not for money or glory—admittedly nice perks--but for this simple reason: we want to share our stories.</div>Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-918086189986704162011-12-28T12:34:00.000-08:002011-12-28T12:35:50.996-08:00Saying Goodbye to a Good DogMcDuff, my Cairn terrier, looks more like a pot-bellied pig every day. His swollen abdomen is low-slung and his short legs bow out at the elbows—symptoms of Cushing's Disease. Recently we had to put up a baby gate to keep him from going upstairs; the last time McDuff tried to follow us up to bed, he slipped and went bumping down to the bottom of the staircase, his front legs useless as toothpicks against the pull of his massive weight.<br /><br /> He's an old man, our McDuff. Fifteen. Whenever he goes outside to relieve himself, he stands in one spot for a good five minutes, squinting a little, then turns right around and heads back inside. At this point, his medication costs half as much as our groceries. I don't know what we'll do when it snows. Shovel a path for him, I guess.<br /><br /> Or not. We have been debating, lately, about how and when to play God with our beloved pet. McDuff isn't in extreme pain, and he still wags his tail when I call his name. That's something, right?<br /><br /> But is it enough for a good dog's life? Or is it time to say goodbye?<br /><br /> I grew up on a farm where we had nearly as many dogs as we had horses. They were rescue dogs, mostly. These included one shepherd mix that loved to chase cars and always smelled of skunk; a feisty Yorkie mix; and an Afghan hound that bit anything gray, including our coats. I moved away from home before any of these dogs died or had to be put down; coming home and finding one less dog under the table was a source of brief sadness but not much more.<br /><br /> This is different. I can't stand the thought of losing McDuff.<br /><br /> As an adult, I've had to put just one dog to sleep. Ben was an American Eskimo mix that we adopted from a shelter. A frothy, white, joyful dog, Ben used to race around us in circles whenever we uttered his mantra: “Go Ben go!” <br /><br /> When my husband and I were married in our back yard (a second marriage that combined our four young children), Ben wore a burgundy bow to match my dress. As we repeated our vows in front of a small gathering of friends and family, Ben wandered up and sat down between our children, so that he would be included in the minister's blessing.<br /><br /> At age thirteen, Ben's heart and liver gave out. Making the decision to put him down was easier because he was in such pain that he cried out in his sleep. Still, the kids and I all wept: it was the first time that I fully realized a dog isn't just a dog, but a carrier of family history. <br /><br /> Saying goodbye to a dog you've had for years means shutting the door on an era. In our case, Ben's death earmarked the years between our wedding and the year our oldest son set off for college. Shortly after Ben's death, we moved out of our big family home and into a smaller one; my memories of Ben therefore carry complex emotions: joy and love and grief and loss, rolled into one white ball of fur.<br /><br /> McDuff started his life with us just as Ben was ending his. I got him in the worst way possible—on impulse, in a mall pet store—but for a good reason: I was with my stepdaughter, the youngest in our blended family and the one who always felt left out by our other three children. She was newly aggrieved by the arrival of our fifth and youngest child, who immediately displaced her as the baby in the family. Choosing this dog made her feel, for once, that she was in charge. <br /><br /> As a puppy, McDuff was scarcely bigger than the palm of my hand. Like most terriers, he was stubborn, territorial, and ferociously protective. We put a dog door in our basement so that he could come and go at will. His greatest joy was patrolling our yard and barking at any deer, squirrels, or wild turkeys that dared to infiltrate his space. <br /><br /> McDuff became a member of our family a few weeks after our youngest child was born. He has been through a lot since then: older kids graduating from high school and college, family trips to Canada and Wisconsin, youngest child moving through elementary school and into high school, job layoffs and career successes, the celebration of our fifteenth wedding anniversary. Saying goodbye to him means saying goodbye to boisterous family dinners, birthday parties with balloons and water slides, Christmases with so many presents under the tree that you couldn't walk around it, the death of my grandmother and my father, buying a second house in Canada, and the realization that nothing lasts forever.<br /> Not even a very good dog, who still lifts his head whenever I call his name.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-43881623016487613182011-12-19T10:22:00.000-08:002011-12-19T10:26:07.395-08:00How Much Is a Book Worth?Recently, I was nosing around a local bookstore in search of a perfect Christmas read for my father-in-law. He's a history buff; last year I gave him the stellar book Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. He's still raving about it. What can I possibly give him this year to top that?<br /><br /> As I shopped, I was distracted by prices. I'm still trying to claw my way out of debt incurred over the past few years through a tricky combo of college tuition bills and my husband's various layoffs. I often save money by borrowing books from the library. I frequent used bookstores and treasure hunt through the lonely remaindered books at Barnes & Noble. If a book isn't free, it's rare for me to pay more than $5 for it.<br /><br /> Except, that is, when I love a certain author—then I go hog wild and get the hardcover—or when I feel guilty. My guilt is brought on by the fact that I am a writer who sells words for a living. Over the past few years, I have been the book doctor or ghost writer for several celebrity memoirs. I have also published a memoir of my own through a division of Random House. I would love to have people buy the books I write, so that I can keep doing what I love. Therefore, I feel compelled to buy books by other writers.<br /><br /> But which books are worth buying? And how much should you pay for them?<br /> These are increasingly complex questions in this Wild West of self-publishing and ebooks. The Kindle and Nook are arm-wrestling for our attention. Without editors acting as gatekeepers for many books, and with the demise of book review sections in our newspapers—hell, what newspapers?--it's hard to know what's worth our precious time, never mind our money.<br /><br /> When my husband gave me a Kindle for my birthday, I immediately went for the deals. For instance, I paid $2.99 for Toby Neal's Blood Orchids, which I read on the train to New York, along with various other books by authors I hadn't tried before, simply because they bore that ever-popular promotional price tag of $.99. Heck, I can't even purchase a pack of gum for that money!<br /><br /> Several of my editor friends feel strongly that the self-publishing wave is one more example of civilization marching over a cliff. Lemming-like readers, they say, can't anticipate the plunge into bad writing, so they end up in the choppy, cruel waters of mean metaphors and sharp-toothed punctuation gaffes.<br /><br /> Um, was that a mixed metaphor?<br /><br /> It's true that there are a lot of bad (and badly edited) books out there. It's also true that publishers have helped bring this on themselves by giving million-dollar (or more) advances to certain writers or celebrities, and spending their advertising budgets to back up those advances, then acting surprised when the books don't earn out. <br /><br /> It's no news flash that traditional publishers, which once gave writers time to build their reputations, now expect a writer to earn back an advance immediately, if not sooner. If that doesn't happen, the writer is kicked right out of the stable, off to find another publishing home—or to roam the Wild West with the other raggedy Mustangs. <br /><br /> One writer friend of mine, who has been nominated for the National Book Award and has earned a flotilla of other literary prizes, has published seven books. Despite the high praise consistently coming her way from every literary quarter, and despite modest advances, she has earned royalties on only one novel. She works full-time as a university professor to support herself and her three children, grabbing what writing hours she can on weekends, summers, and, if she has the energy, at night.<br /><br /> Another writer friend, who has authored parenting books and popular chick lit titles under two different names for the past twenty years, told me recently that she used to hate seeing that quarterly royalties statement from her publisher in the mailbox. <br /><br /> “You know the one I mean,” she said, “that piece of paper that shows how many books you've sold, and then gives you that negative number under your advance, because you still owe the publisher money?”<br /><br /> I do, indeed, know all about that awful reckoning, having received my own royalty statements for my memoir, The Gerbil Farmer's Daughter. That book was considered a success by many at Random House, in the sense that the book earned positive reviews and was even showcased in several magazines, including the issue of People magazine with Michael Jackson on the cover soon after his death. I earned a modest advance for that book, but I have yet to see a royalty check two years later. <br /><br /> My friend had to change her name because her third novel did so badly. The publisher wanted to give her a fresh start as a debut novelist. The gamble paid off: recently, she got a statement for her last novel, a fun romantic read that was picked up by a major book club. “I opened the envelope at the mailbox, thinking I'd toss it into the recycling bin before I even got into the kitchen,” she said. “But then a check for $11,000 fell out!”<br /><br /> She had to lie down. So did I, when she told me that story, if only out of envy. <br /><br /> There are, of course, a handful of writers who must be living quite comfortably on royalties and movie deals. I'm sure you can name them as well as I can. But, for most writers, earning a living is a scramble. A fun scramble, but still. Making that next mortgage payment can be a challenge if there's no benefactor or spouse whose job includes health benefits.<br /><br /> In the end, I've decided to canter through the tumbleweeds into the sunset. My first novel, Sleeping Tigers, will be available just before Christmas. (Yes, this blog post is shameless self-promotion.) I'm self-publishing it—a novel vetted by my agent and several writer friends—and I think it's a good book. But how much is my novel worth? <br /><br /> I have to decide, since I'm the one in charge here, and it's tough. I earned an MFA in creative writing and I've been working as a writer for over twenty years. My previous book earned great reviews. I've won awards for my short stories. But does any of that really matter, when you're suffering the stigma of the self-published? <br /><br /> I have to charge a certain amount—a bit over $10—for the paperback to make back production costs plus a dollar for me, since it's print-on-demand. But what about the ebook? Should I go for that whopping price of $2.99, like Toby Neal? <br /><br /> Or would it be better, as my son urges, “to just charge $.99 for your ebook, Mom, because anybody will spend that much money. And you don't care if they read it. You just want people to buy your book.”<br /><br /> Well, as a matter of fact, I do care if people read my book. Does $2.99 say that I'm worth reading? Or am I still better off charging less than a dollar and letting people find that out for themselves? What does any of that matter, anyway, since I obviously don't write novels to pay the mortgage?<br /><br /> Meanwhile, back to Christmas shopping. If I buy my father-in-law a hardcover, it'll cost upwards of $20 even with my friendly independent bookstore discount. If I go online and read book reviews, I'll end up surfing various book blogger sites and reading Amazon customer reviews, checking out all of the writers vying for attention with book trailers and giveaways and Twitter feeds and blogs of their own, crying, “Look at me! Look what I can do! How much is my book worth?” <br /><br /> Which, when you're a writer with a writer's ego (this I know, being one myself), translates into: “How much am I worth? Do you love me? Please love me!”<br /><br /> My own memoir, for the record, has been out in paperback for a year. You can order it through your local bookstore for $14 (a price set by the publisher) or buy it for your Kindle for $9.99 (a price also set by the publisher). Now come on. Who would do that, with so many books out there for $.99? <br /><br /> But wait! On Amazon, you can also buy my book in paperback, new, for just $.94 plus shipping—or used for $.01! Now that's what I call a bargain basement read! <br /><br /> So tell me. How much is any book worth?<br /><br /> And what does the price of a book say about the author who wrote it?Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-87286174714763081002011-12-12T11:43:00.000-08:002011-12-19T10:19:59.302-08:00Upstairs, Downstairs: Torn Between My Books and My KindleMy husband gave me a Kindle for my birthday. (Forgive him, O Indie booksellers. He is an engineer who knows not what he does.) <br /> <br /> At first I protested. As a writer, avid reader, and patron of indie bookstores with cats curled on floral armchairs, what did I want with this devilish contraption? <br /> “Give it a try,” my husband suggested. “A lot of the books are free.”<br /><br /> Did he say free? As the daughter of a Do-It-Yourself-Or-Die-Trying gerbil farmer, “free” is my middle name, whether I'm surfing for curbside antiques or checking out sample cheeses at Market Basket. How could I resist?<br /><br /> Of course, like any addiction, that first hit lures you down the slippery slope of, “Oh, hell, just one more can't hurt.” Soon I was downloading books by the dozen, bemused and freaked by the fact that the Magic Hand of Amazon could find me even in bed. It could even find me in the White Mountains or riding the subway in New York City. Need a book? Press a button!<br /> <br /> The thing is, I started to love my Kindle. But I couldn't give up my obsessive fondling and purchasing of books. I also worried that my books—waiting so patiently in their pretty bright book cover dresses on my bookshelf, or climbing over each other on my nightstand in their zeal to be read—might be hurt by my disloyalty. Alternatively, I worried that my smart-mouthed, quick-on-the-draw Kindle would know I was cheating on her with her plumper, more beautiful cousins.<br /><br /> I agonized for weeks over which was better: digital books or “real.” At first, reading the Kindle was downright confusing. For one thing, what to do with that free hand flapping around while you hold such a slim rectangle and touch buttons to flip pages? (And why didn't I have a Kindle while I was breastfeeding my kids?) <br /><br /> How do you pretend not to notice an annoying neighbor if you can't hide your face behind an actual book? How do you loan your books to friends on a Kindle? What do you put on your bookshelves if you stop buying books? (Either wine glasses or my son's Lego collection, in our case.) And how do you stop ordering books on Amazon once you've seen how easy it is to get a fix?<br /><br /> Gradually, though, things smoothed out. My house has become like that popular British TV series, Upstairs, Downstairs: my supposedly more refined (though not necessarily more entertaining or informative) books reside upstairs, on the table next to my bed, where I contentedly read for an hour or so every night before I go to sleep. My Kindle stays downstairs with the dogs. <br /><br /> At the moment, my upstairs book is Island, a collection of lilting, atmospheric stories by the brilliant Canadian Alistair MacLeod. Reading his textured, elegant, emotional prose, it is impossible not to imagine that Cape Breton's misty cliffs loom just outside your window. <br /><br /> For instance, MacLeod's description of rain in the title story goes like this: “Sometimes it slanted against her window with a pinging sound, which meant it was close to hail, and then it was visible as tiny pellets for a moment on the pane before the pellets vanished and rolled quietly down the glass, each drop leaving its own delicate trickle. At other times it fell straight down, hardly touching the window at all, but still there beyond the glass, like a delicate, beaded curtain at the entrance to another room.”<br /><br /> Downstairs, meanwhile, my Kindle seems best suited to books by comics or mystery writers, as well as indie authors like Darcie Chan, whose books were never published by traditional publishers because they weren't deemed “good enough.” (Many of those authors, like Chan, have gone on to sell thousands of copies. Go figure.) <br /><br /> Digital books accompany me throughout the day, because they are so easily stowed in my purse or coat pocket. My Kindle does its work during doctors' visits, in the car while waiting for kids to leave sports practices, or on business trips that would otherwise require an extra piece of luggage for my paperbacks. <br /> <br /> On my Kindle, at the moment I'm reading Holidays in Hell by the conservative but consistently hilarious P.J. O'Rourke—somebody whose books I never wanted to pay full price for because of his politics. Check out his description of General Omar Torrijos of Panama: “Torrijos was a half-baked socialist and a blow-hard, but he was lovable and good-looking...He had genuine feeling for the poor, started some only moderately useless social programs and maintained a modest style of life, keeping no more than two or three mistresses on the side.”<br /><br /> I once read that Hemingway used to write his dialogue on a typewriter because it sounded more like people talking, but chose to write his descriptions in longhand. As a writer, I also go to different places and use different tools, depending on what I'm trying to work on. I often write in a journal when I'm collecting ideas, flesh them out at my laptop, and then edit on paper, standing up in the kitchen with a cup of tea at my elbow, I suppose because then it seems like my work is by a different writer and I can be more objective about revisions. For me, reading has become like that: I choose a book's delivery mode based on what kind of reading experience I anticipate. <br /><br /> So my books reside upstairs and my Kindle is downstairs. Different rhythms, different lives, different sensibilities lead me to choose whether I read fiction or nonfiction, short stories or poetry, ebooks or paper. The important thing is that, for every mood and moment, there is a story to treasure, no matter where I am—or in what form I read it.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4885698528165029060.post-5549537618372154212011-12-07T16:21:00.000-08:002011-12-07T16:22:19.511-08:00Staying Whole in a Fractured WorldYou know that panicky feeling you get when you drop your briefcase or purse and everything spills out in public? That's how I used to feel every day: embarrassed, furious, and anxious because I couldn't keep up with my life. <br /> The last straw may have been my new gym membership. I wanted to feel virtuous about working out four times a week without breaking the bank, so I chose the Wal-Mart of fitness factories, a place where pop music blares and the cardio machines all face TV screens. Insert headphones, work up a sweat, and pick your letters: ABC, CBS, CNN, ESPN, Fox, whatever. Get your news and culture fix here. <br /> I'm a radio junkie, so watching TV news was a novelty for me. At first I enjoyed channel surfing. Or rather, plunging. That's what it felt like, since TV shows give you about two seconds of substance punctuated by noisy, whirling ad tsunamis. <br /> Before long, though, I was feeling rattled and nervous. Despite the fact that the news was being delivered by beautiful couples who joked and flirted like Match.com dates, I learned that we apparently live in a world where pedophiles, robbers, muggers, drunk drivers, crooked politicians, and murderers frequent my local supermarket and shoe store. <br /> But maybe the gym wasn't the last straw. Maybe it was my new phone. Selected by my husband, an engineer who gets free upgrades and knows how to use them, this device easily outsmarts me. It can access restaurant reviews and movie times, deliver my email, play music, take pictures, and remind me that it's my mother's birthday. If I try to control it, the tiny keys play hide-and-seek. I might as well be wearing mittens.<br /> I dutifully started carrying this Mini Me everywhere, sticking it in my bra like an extra heartbeat if I didn't have a pocket. Now I could read my email at Market Basket, among the common criminals, or phone clients while walking the dogs. My husband and children could call me any time, for any reason. I was always on tap, talking or tweeting instead of thinking. <br /> Come to think of it, though, the final straw may have been my son's new laptop, which his high school required us to buy. He has textbooks on it—no more lugging that Western Civ tome around!--and homework assignments, too. He can make flashcards online, thanks to Quizlet, and Skype about video games with classmates. Between math problems, he can check Facebook or watch YouTube wonders. Sitting in the same room with my son and his laptop is like spending the evening with the Kardashians: too much, too soon, too often.<br /> For whatever reason, anyway, a month ago the last straw landed, and I lost track of my life. <br /> I was on my lunch break from work, trying to squeeze in errands—post office, dry cleaner's, the 30-minute speed workout at the gym—when my phone bleeped. I checked my email and got a call at the same time. The traffic light turned green; I sped ahead and pulled over to answer the call, but I was too late. <br /> I started to call the client back, then stopped, my thumb hovering over the phone screen. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I didn't want to know what was on my email. I didn't want anyone to know where I was or what I was doing. And I sure as hell didn't want to go to the gym. <br /> I shut off the ignition and sat there, simply trying to breathe as cars sped past.<br /> To my right, I spotted a tiny road I hadn't noticed before. I got out of the car—so what if I didn't mail the Christmas packages until tomorrow?--zipped up my jacket, and started walking. I accidentally left the phone in the cup holder.<br /> I've walked that road every day since. At the end of this half-mile lane is open land, some of which is being used as community gardens by town residents. There is an abandoned house on the property—a white Colonial surrounded by ancient perennial beds and a few majestic hydrangeas. The abandoned barn now houses only colonies of swallows, but when the wind is right, you catch whiffs of hay and horse.<br /> It is past the growing season, but I can tell that the gardeners were busy this summer. There are still remnants of various small harvests: kale and broccoli, lettuce and eggplant, withered tomato plants and sunflower stalks. There are a few fruit trees on the property, their gnarled limbs almost human. Best of all, a trail leads from the gardens through a field hemmed by ancient stone walls. The trail ends at the salt marshes; beyond that is the river and a big swatch of sky.<br /> I have visited this piece of land—my own circle of quiet—nearly every day. I don't stay long. I park my car at the end of the road and meander towards the field. Chickadees flit through the bushes, prehistoric-looking turkeys startle in the grass, and an occasional cardinal flashes bright. I spotted a great blue heron feeding in the marsh last week, and several times I've seen hawks circling the field.<br /> I don't bring my cell phone. I don't always go at the same time of day, either, because I love being surprised by how different the sky can look over the marsh, depending on the hour and the elements. I have even, like I did today, walked up the road and through this field in freezing rain, blinking hard and shivering.<br /> This walk, this forgotten field, and this quiet marsh give me a chance to take my life back once a day, and to feel whole again in a fractured world. It isn't praying or meditating, exactly. But it is peace on earth.Holly Robinsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04462441910530132918noreply@blogger.com0