If I'd had a crystal ball, I would have made a prediction about an anthology I've been editing. Several well-known authors have contributed stories. Very exciting, except I was worried about dealing with divas.
And I definitely am.
They fight every suggestion made by me or the other editors, copyeditors, and proofreaders. Even when five people on the editorial team insist something isn't working, they totally ignore the suggestions. They skip over requests for edits, so the manuscript has to be sent back multiple times requesting the same rewrites. They're so tied to their words that they argue about even small changes. Exactly what I was expecting, except...
The writers who are doing this are NOT the big-name authors.
The multi-published authors are a dream to work with. They turn in their edits on time and do a wonderful job on any requested rewrites, making the story stronger each time. They say "thank you" for the suggestions and say that the edits have improved the story. And every single one of them ends with a final line something like this: "If this doesn't work, please let me know, and I'll be glad to rewrite it."
So who are these divas I'm working with? They're the pre-published writers, the newbies, the ones who have had two magazine stories published in local magazines. They're the ones who are so puffed up about being included in an anthology with "real" authors that they cling doggedly to every word, every idea. "If this story was good enough to get me accepted, it should be ready to publish as is" is their mantra. They fail to realize that most editors accept on potential, not perfection. And sadly, they're making a name for themselves as being hard to work with, which may mean this could be their only shot at publication.
So while my peek into the crystal ball was accurate, the details were murky. I've learned that far from being divas, published authors are willing to work at their craft and seek ways to improve what they write. Which, most likely, is the real reason they're published.
I once read that most people dread public speaking more than death. And who's one of the shyest groups? Authors, of course. So combine the two and what do you get? Double dread. We write because we can do it privately, can mull over our words, can hide. We may spend years slaving over a book. Then what happens?
We're thrust into the public eye. At first it's not too bad. We see our name mentioned online when our books go up for sale. Then it progresses to reviews--magazines, newspapers, and online. OK, we manage to deal. We try not to cringe when we're misquoted or people misunderstand what we were attempting. We survive having our biographies splashed around the Internet and our pictures on Facebook. Some authors even revel in these bits of fame. Next come blog tours. OK, we can still use our writing skills, spellcheck, and cut & paste--all the author survival tools we know and love.
Then comes the dreaded phone call. "Will you speak to..." You freeze. Your mouth dries up. (OK, those are cliches, but you know that's what happens.) You manage to choke out a strangled yes. You have to do this, right? Appear in public. Before groups of people. All of them eyeing you. Gulp.
So you do one of two things. You scramble to prepare a talk and rehearse it. Ad infinitum. Or you procrastinate. You avoid thinking about it. And suddenly the day arrives and you have no idea what you'll say. Actually, it doesn't matter, because ready or not, when you walk to the podium, fear sucks every coherent thought from your brain. The notecards you wrote, if you planned ahead, look like a foreign language. The outline makes no sense. If you wrote your speech out word-for-word, the words blur together.
You stand there quaking and croaking. Words come out, but they make no sense. Your tongue races through a marathon of tangled thoughts. You stop. People applaud, but you aren't sure if it's because they're glad the torture is over, if they're being polite, or if you left them with some great insights. Still relief floods through you. It's over. You survived. Finally, you can relax.
Nope, not yet. You need to paste on a smile, answer questions, listen to people describe (in excruciating detail) every book idea they've ever had, and... Yesss! Sign books. The joy of a writer's existence. You love this as much as hearing, "I enjoyed your talk." But you live for the greatest gem of all, "I love your book." And for that, writers will endure almost anything.
Can a writer ever have too many friends or get too much marketing advice? I'm giving this award to Market My Words, because I've been reading this blog for quite a while now, and Shelli always has unique words of wisdom on how to call attention to your book.
She interviews editors, publicists, agents, publishers, marketers, and best-selling authors. All of them give tips on getting publicity for your book. Best of all, Shelli's part of a larger circle of friends that gave me my first writing gig, that introduced me to my fabulous crit group, that cheered me on when I made my first sales, and that is one of the best networks I know for children's writers--SCBWI, the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators.
Published authors soon discover that their dreams--fans snatching multiple copies of their books from the shelves, begging for autographs--rarely match reality. Often a book disappears into the vast ocean of books, making barely a ripple. Sure, you sell a stack of copies to your relatives and best friends. Maybe the local library or bookstore sets up a signing, where you sit amongst copies of your newly minted book and wait...and wait... and wait...
So where are those hordes of fans? The adoring public? A few people gaze at you and your sign. Several wander over, mostly to tell you about their dreams of being a writer. Your mom arrives, dragging a few friends in tow. You manage to sell, um, three copies? Count yourself lucky. Those are average first-time booksigning sales unless you're an exceptionally good salesperson who buttonholes people and convinces them to buy.
Unfortunately, most authors prefer keyboards to conversation, so high-powered salespersonship is beyond their powers. They shrink as people approach the table and pray they won't have to come up with an opening gambit. So if you're a shrinking violet, how can you ensure that you have plenty of visitors to your signing (besides having your mom strong-arm her friends)? Try the old safety-in-numbers trick. The more authors, the more mothers to marshal friends to the table. The larger variety, too, will encourage more browsers. Who knows? Maybe one of those visitors (or more) may pick up your book. It's worth a try.
Oh, and a little chocolate always helps. If it doesn't attract the customers you'd hoped for, you can use it as comfort food.
The Susquehanna Writers are taking their own advice and banding together to brave the world of booksignings. You can meet many of us at the Midtown Scholar Bookstore in Harrisburg, PA, on December 19, 2009.
If you want to know where and when to show up, here are the additional details:
3-5 pm, December 19, 2009
1302 North Third Street Harrisburg, PA 17102 (717) 236-2665
Get autographed copies of romances, mysteries, self-help, thrillers, history, YAs, and more. And the Midtown Scholar offers the largest array of rare and used books between New York and Chicago. They have more than ONE MILLION secondhand and out-of-print books in all fields.You’ll find something to please everyone on your holiday gift list.
So bring Mom, Dad, Sis, Bro, and even crazy Uncle Albert. We promise you a delicious holiday treat (if we don't eat it all first). A good incentive to show up early before all the the best stuff is gone.
The Susquehanna Writers are pleased to welcome author Tracey Cramer-Kelly today. Tracey is the author of the romantic suspense novel Last Chance Rescue. Not only is Tracey a helicopter pilot--helicopters figure heavily in the story--but she also rides motorcycles and owns her own cycle shop. We've invited Tracy to share a bit about her life with motorcycles. She's also chosen an excerpt from her book that highlights her interest in and knowledge about helicopters.Take it away, Tracey...
Although motorcycles don’t make an appearance in Last Chance Rescue, they are certainly an integral part of my life—and a great way to meet interesting people.
And people are the seed—before I know it I’m creating characters based on bits and pieces of someone I met or an experience I had.
As a bonus, I thought your readers might enjoy the following piece about The Great Motorcycle Spirit…
My transformation is almost complete.
“Where the devil did I put those gloves?” I mutter.
By “gloves,” I don’t mean winter gloves. I mean riding gloves.
Because today—for a few hours, at least—I am, simply…a biker chick. Today I will seek comfort and tranquility where I have found it so many times before: in the arms of an “iron horse.”
There is ritual in my preparation. I slip my feet into well-worn black leather boots that reach up my calves. I pull my favorite blue jeans down over them.
Then it’s time for my leather chaps. I wrap the top belt around my waist, making sure to tuck my shirt in properly. Once the belt is engaged I wrap my legs in leather like a tortilla. I run the zipper—bottom to top—on the inside of my leg and thigh.
I slip into my favorite leather jacket—the one with fringe and a rose emblem etched into the hide—the way another woman might slip into a dress or a suit.
My psychologist is waiting for me in the garage.
My psychologist is silver and black with just the right amount of chrome. I never have to wait two weeks to get an appointment, and it doesn’t cost anywhere near $180 an hour.
I swing my leg over my psychologist and settle into my new seat. I turn the key and hit the switch. I can’t resist twisting the throttle just to hear that distinctive motorcycle “growl.”
Finally I nod to my husband and we are off…
The throttle is easy in my hand and I have to check my speed. After two decades of riding, the gears are an extension of my body, and I shift without conscious thought. I take comfort in the cadence of two wheels on pavement—and on the shadow that rides beside me.
Yet I find myself still tied to concern. For the friend whose 36-year-old sister recently died in a car accident, leaving two children (six and nine) motherless. For the production problems and the competitor who copied our product. For the friends who are struggling through a painful divorce…
The list could go on, but I know I must shake it off. I must let the tranquility that comes with riding find me and cleanse me.
It is a glorious day in Minnesota and we are riding one of my favorite routes—gentle hills and county roads that curve and sweep toward and along the Mississippi River. The tips of the trees are showing evidence of fall—splashes of red, yellow and orange.
Eventually, the Great Motorcycle Spirit works its magic. Yes—I am even smiling!
Gratitude begins to flow again. Gratitude for my children and husband. Gratitude that I have the health and the means to ride…and that the country I live in allows freedom of choice. And yes, gratitude for work that I love (most days!), and a hobby—riding a motorcycle—that never fails to remind me of my own personal freedom.
This flow of gratitude becomes a torrent as I stand on the banks of the Mississippi River, my husband’s hand in mine and the sun kissing my head, spreading its warmth. I tilt my head back and smile into the heavens—to the Great Motorcycle Spirit.
Wow, Tracey, that was an amazing ride we took with you. And now we're off into the wild blue yonder with a lengthy excerpt from Tracey's book, Last Chance Ride:
The helicopter shuddered and swayed as it lifted off the helipad. Instinctively Brad Sievers gripped the edge of the bench, willing his stomach to calm down.
The chopper was so full he could hardly move, and he felt overly warm and claustrophobic. Though he wore a headset, he could hear the Colorado air pulsing through the giant blades above.
Minutes ago he'd been terribly insistent about tagging along on this search-and-rescue mission; now he wasn't sure it was a good idea. What the hell am I doing? he thought. I'm in advertising, for Chrissakes!
"Okay, listen up," the team leader said.
The movement of the chopper was so foreign to Brad that he had difficulty paying attention. The team leader talked about the missing snowmobilers -- what they looked like, where they were last seen and probable scenarios. He threw out a lot of numbers -- coordinates, Brad realized later -- and assigned teams to what he kept calling quadrants. "And Jessie will take our ride-along in CHIPS," he finished.
Brad had known Jessie Van Dyke since kindergarten -- in fact, it was entirely possible he'd chased her around the playground in "kiss and tell" -- but they'd been only casual acquaintances through high school. He hadn't seen her in ten years -- until he showed up at their high school reunion in Minnesota just weeks ago, hoping to impress his old crush, Aimee Kinderbach -- who blew him off in the end.
He must have had a blank look on his face because Jessie said, "CHIPS is our medevac chopper. It's equipped with heat-seeking equipment, electronic mapping, medical equipment -- the whole nine yards. It's parked at our rendezvous helipad." She tugged on Brad's harness, adjusting the fit like another woman would adjust a tie.
They disembarked on a plateau that was in the middle of nowhere according to Jessie. Brad wouldn't have known it; the plateau was lit up like the Fourth of July, a line of snowmobiles idling to one side. A blast of cold air hit him, making him thankful for the jacket.
Jessie tapped his arm. "This way." She led him around the helicopter they'd just landed in. Behind it was the smaller helicopter, CHIPS. It, too, had its propellers going.
Jessie swung open the back door and plugged in her headset.
"Hey guys," she said. "We've got company tonight."
She indicated that Brad should take the rear-facing seat, and showed him where to plug in his headset. She introduced him to "Pilot Sam" and "Navigator Rick."
"Brad's been hanging out with us and couldn't resist sticking around for the real thing." Jessie settled herself into the seat across from Brad.
A pair of lit-up computer screens in front of Rick caught Brad's attention. "How does that work?"
As if in response to his inquiry, a voice came over the radio. "Checking all systems ... all teams power up."
Lights began blinking on the computer screen. "Every team has a transmitter as well as GPS on their radio," Rick explained. "We can track them from above and the mission coordinator can track them from the base site."
Brad found himself riveted to the lights on the screen as the teams responded one by one: "Ready on Alpha." "Ready on Bravo." "Ready on Charlie ..."
It took him several minutes to realize what the words meant. "Team names?"
Jessie nodded. "Based on the military alphabet. That was the team leader, Dan, calling for the ready-check."
Finally Rick spoke into his mouthpiece. "We have audio and visual on all teams. We are ready to rock and roll."
"Ditto on the ground," another voice said. "Move out!"
The helicopter began to rise as snowmobiles passed it on the right. Out the rear window panel, Brad watched as the launch pad and snowmobile lights disappeared from view. "How do you know where to look?" he asked.
"Sometimes we don't," Rick said. "But in this case, we have fairly reliable information about where they are."
"If we didn't, we may have been put on standby until the ground teams found them -- or first light," Jessie said.
"Or if the weather was really crappy," Rick added.
"Here. Make yourself useful." Jessie was holding something that looked like a cross between binoculars and 3-D glasses. "They're night-vision goggles."
Brad wasn't sure what he was looking for but it felt better to be contributing, so he strapped the goggles on and peered out the window at the ground below. His thoughts drifted to the woman across from him…
Their chance encounter at the reunion had stuck with him after he returned to his new job in Dallas. He tried to forget the way she touched his lapel when she said, "I never would have guessed you for advertising; I didn't think that would give you fulfillment." And the way her eyes searched his when she teased him about being shallow.
And then he lost his job.
And the self-doubt -- was he the reason they'd lost the account? -- started eating at him. He'd been drinking himself to devastation every night, but it hadn't made him feel any better. If anything, that brief conversation with Jessie came to mind more often. So, on a half-drunken whim, he'd driven from Dallas to her home state of Colorado, intending to put her "shallow" comment to rest.
But the conversation didn't go the way he'd envisioned it ...
"Team Foxtrot has a visual." The voice cut into Brad's thoughts, jarring him back to the present. He wasn't sure how long they'd been flying.
"Cannot confirm it's our target," the voice continued. "We'll check it out."
"Are we close enough?" Sam said.
Rick was studying a map on one of the computer screens. "That's southwest of us about 20 miles," he said. "If it's not legit, we can circle back easily and still cover prime terrain."
It was Sam's turn to radio. "CHIPS to back up Foxtrot." He swung the chopper around.
"Affirmative, Chips II."
"Who's on Foxtrot?" Rick asked.
"That would be Micah and Ryan," Jessie said. Brad had just had a long conversation about stock car racing with Ryan, a young Vietnamese-American who was full of jokes.
Fifteen minutes later Rick said, "We're coming up on Foxtrot."
"They look stationary," Jessie said. "I have a visual on their objective ... looks like a wreck, all right."
Well, if you want to read more, and I can't imagine why you wouldn't--I'm guessing everyone will be rushing right out to snag a copy of this one--why don't you leave a comment for Tracey? She's on a blog tour this month, and will be selecting a random commenter as the winner of a copy of Last Chance Rescue.
Either drop Tracey a line telling her what you liked about her postings or share your own transportationstory--bike, plane, train, dirigible, camel, whatever--if it gets you from here to there, it counts.
I just spent part of today in a redwood forest. I find forests inspiring; they have a hushed, holy feel. And this one with its undergrowth made me think of untouched wilderness. I always come away with a deep desire to write, to pour out my soul on the pages.
But as I stood there today, I was reminded of the writing process. The primal understory with its tangle of vines, the deep, fertile ground of subconscious. Those huge redwoods towering overhead grew from a tiny seed, and each one was different. Some had many branches and offshoots. Others went straight to the sky. So like the writing process that springs from a tiny seed buried deep in the subconscious and grows... and grows... Until like the towering redwood, it's large and impressive, awe-inspiring.
When we stand there and marvel at the trees, we often forget how long it took them to get to that height and all the hardships they endured along the way--droughts, fires, being overshadowed by other larger trees. Still, they persevered and lived through the pain, struggled to reach their heights. And so will we.
When I look at the Susquehanna Writers, I feel the same awe as I do in the forest. I knew many of them when they were struggling, unpublished writers. We were saplings together. Sharing the pain of rejections, the frustration of learning the craft, the struggle to find someone--anyone--who appreciated our work enough to take a chance. And now we've all arrived at the stage where we're published authors; most of us are multi-published.
At one time, we thought that was the goal, the be-all and end-all. Now we know, though, that like the redwoods, we still have much more growth ahead of us. We all continue to write and submit, of course, but now we're branching out with a new skill--marketing. Which means the growth process is ongoing. But someday soon we'll all be towering redwoods that inspire others.
I've noticed that writers are often travelers. And I once read that a large proportion of writers have lived in more than one country during their lives. Something about being displaced forces one to write, perhaps? Or is that these writers have absorbed two different cultures, two different settings, so creating new worlds comes easily for them. The more sensory details you add to your repertoire, the more those will pour out in your writing.
It's not easy writing in a vacuum. You can create a description of a place you've never been, but often the details are missing--the sounds, the smells. Visuals you can recreate from reference photos, but the essence is missing if you haven't walked the streets, sniffed the air, tasted the food, heard the cadence of the language, or danced to the beat of the music.
Maybe that's why they often say "write what you know." The only way to truly capture the whole experience on paper is to experience it for yourself. So much of writing is sitting at a computer and typing in words. But if that isn't balanced by sensory stimuli, a key component may be missing from your page. So push yourself away from your desk regularly and get out into the world. You'll not only come back refreshed, but you'll return with plenty of new details to add to your story world.
Years ago when I was a struggling--and starving--writer, I agonized about paying the dues for a national writing organization. At that time, it came down to a choice between paying the dues or buying groceries for my five children. Which would you choose? Of course I forked over the dues--after squirreling away nickels and pennies for a year and setting aside my birthday money. And I've never regretted the decision. It set me on the course to being a professional, and well-paid, writer.
This week, when I was contacted to write material for a high-profile, national TV series, that sacrifice paid off big time. I traced a line back from this job opportunity to a writing assignment 3 years ago with a major textbook company, which came about from contacts at a CA book publisher who was shutting down, which came from a referral by a magazine editor, who knew and had published work from one of my critique group members--a friend I'd made through that writing organization more than 10 years ago. Without that friend, I'd never have found my first paying writing gig. Without that friend, I'd never have had my first book contract. Without that friend, I never would have made this long, convoluted journey to being a paid writer.
Each one of us is interconnected, and you never know when an author you meet may hold the key to your success. And conversely, you never know when you might be that vital link in the chain for another writer. I've heard it said that you're only 6 people away from publishing success (provided you've studied your craft and worked hard). You never know who that person might be, so it pays to be generous with your time and knowledge whether the person you meet is a newbie or an experienced writer. Help others as much as you can. Someday they may help you in return.
As a I look back along my writing path, I see many friends and critique partners who contributed to making me the writer I am today. I could have never done it without their support. And, though I still have a long way to go and much to learn, these cheerleaders, mentors, and supporters have moved me much farther along that path than I ever could have gone on my own. I only hope that I, in turn, aided them in their journey. So many thanks to all of you out there for what you've contributed to my life. You know who you are...
And so, I offer you all a networking opportunity. Here's a chance to meet one of my many groups of colleagues, friends, and fellow writers:
Several of The Wild Rose Press authors have banded together to offer a blog bouquet today. Twenty authors are each offering a different prize for stopping by and commenting on their blogs. Who knows what possible connection might open up for you by meeting these authors! I wish you all the wonderful friendships and possibilities that meeting other writers can afford. Good luck!!
Summer Lovin' is now available for purchase in print at Barnes & Noble and Amazon(no cover picture there yet, unfortunately).
It wasn't supposed to be out until July 10, so I'm excited! My author copies are winging their way to me now. To celebrate, I'm posting an excerpt and will give away a copy of the e-book to one lucky person who comments either here or at my blog.
Do you remember your first love? Your first kiss? Drop by and tell us about it.
BLURB:
SUMMER LOVIN’ is a collection of love stories by authors Dara Edmondson, Laurie J. Edwards, Mona Ingram, Kimberlee R. Mendoza, Sydney Shay, and June Sproat about life on a ranch, summer jobs, sandcastle competitions, the tragedy of a flood, and falling in love with a rock star.
My story in the anthology is “Summer Storms”: Sixteen-year-old Paige nearly drowns as she rescues a Pomeranian trapped in floodwaters that sweep through her town. Chase, the hottie who saves her, wants to help her and her mother, but Paige won’t accept charity. And can she risk him unmasking the family secret she’s kept hidden?
EXCERPT (Paige and her mother try to escape the flood sweeping through town. Waves have just smashed the branches of an uprooted tree through their window):
Picking her way over the broken glass, Paige lunged for the tree. Icy water soaked her sneakers and jeans. The suitcase banged against the trunk and almost slid from her grasp. Her fingers raked down the rough bark, tearing her palms. The tree bobbed up and down as water assaulted it.
Paige climbed on and wrapped one arm around an upright branch. Staying seated was like riding a bucking bronco. She wedged the suitcase between two branches and then leaned forward to extend a hand to Mama, who was scrambling for balance.
As she got Mama situated, another wave rocked the tree. The suitcase slid. Before Paige could grab it, it plunged into the water below. What had they lost? Her mind was a blur. But Mama was safe. That was the important thing.
She wrested the other suitcase from Mama’s grip and slid the handle over an upright tree branch. Mama clung to another branch as the tree shuddered. As long as the tree didn’t roll, they could float to safety. She hoped.
Wood cracked and splintered. Only a bit more and the branch would break free. Then they’d be at the mercy of the river.
A tiny yip caused Paige to turn. A Pomeranian paddled furiously in the sludge between their house and the one next door. Its fur slicked tight to its head, the dog panted as it struggled to keep its head above water. The tree had dammed the floodwaters between the buildings, but once the dog reached the rushing water, it would be doomed.
Paige clutched the branch with one hand and leaned back until her muscles screamed in agony. The dog struggled closer, but she couldn’t reach it. She gripped the trunk between her legs and let go of the branch. Still, the gap was too great.
Mama screamed, “No, Paige, no!”
But Paige ignored her. She inched backward and reached for the dog. With a great rending sound, the branch holding the tree in place tore free of its mooring. And with a sucking sound, the tree shot into the raging current.
Want to find out what happens next? Pick up a copy of Summer Lovin’. “Summer Storms” is only one of six stories in the anthology. All the stories in the anthology are different, so I’m sure you’ll find one you just love.
May 22 will be the big day. My YA biography, Rihanna (People in the News) is due out from Lucent then and so is Summer Lovin', the YA anthology that contains my romance, "Summer Storms." Summer Lovin' will be out from The Wild Rose Press as an e-book that day; the print version will come out 7-10.
I feel like a proud Mama with two very different offspring. Can't wait!!
If I'd had a crystal ball, I would have made a prediction about an anthology I've been editing. Several well-known authors have contributed stories. Very exciting, except I was worried about dealing with divas.
