I was going to write the standard letter to my younger self (quit trying to lose ten pounds, learn to say no, don’t date the bad boyfriend, etc.), but then I thought what would be really useful for this blog would be a letter to my starry-eyed, fresh-faced, debut self about the truth of being published. So here it goes:
The week your novel comes out, everyone you ever knew will get in touch with you. This will be fun, but also exhausting, and after a short time of this, you will become paranoid that even the neighbors are looking at you funny when you run out to pick up your mail, especially when they tell you they have your book.
You will embarrass yourself by wildly flipping through magazines in the supermarket aisle to read reviews of your own book, but you will at least have the grace to restrain from holding the page out so everyone in line can see and loudly proclaiming, “LOOK! I WROTE THIS!”
Quit trying to lose ten pounds before your first reading.
Just because a review insinuates that your book should rush up the bestseller lists does not mean it will. In fact, you will have to learn to quantify your success differently. Being on a list, while totally gratifying and good for your career, should not be your end goal in putting out a novel. If you start to believe this, you are hosed.
It will be difficult to sell a first, literary novel in hardback in the worst recession in fifty years, especially when said novel is about a giantess who murders people with herbal concoctions.
Your second book will be a challenge to write, so get started now. Somehow, you will have totally forgotten how to write a novel, in spite of the fact that you just edited, copy-edited, released, and promoted one.
By the time you’re almost finished writing the second book, your house will still be as messy as it was when you finished Book One, and, oddly, no one in the family will seem to care.
Eventually, you will come to a kind of grace about the whole process. You will receive many, wonderful emails from readers, and you will realize that, yes, you HAVE built an audience, and you will feel proud. You’ll figure out that success isn’t an overnight endeavor, and that getting to write stories and have them published is a blessing and a dream come true. Everything else is icing.
So, Debut Self, I hope you remember all of this as you get ready to start the whole, crazy carnival ride over again with your second novel. Good luck, work hard, and, remember, it’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game!
July 2nd, 2009
| Posted by Tiffany | 2009 Debs
| 5 Comments
We’re very happy to welcome guest author Sandra Kring to the ball. Her debut novel, Carry Me Home, was a Book Sense Notable pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nominee. The Book of Bright Ideas was a 2006 Target Bookmarked selection, and Thank You for All Things was All You magazine’s book club pick for October, 2007. Her fourth book, How High the Moon, will be released April, 2010.
Anyone who comments today will be entered to win an autographed copy of Sandra’s book, Thank You for All Things!
There have been many times in my life when I would have welcomed a visit from my future-self, so she–armed with the knowledge of how the story would end–could reassure me that I’d be okay.
But looking back, I realize that it was something more powerful than a promise from the future that got me through an abusive childhood, the loss of a baby, divorce, and the journey from aspiring writer to published author. It was faith fueled by the youngest part of myself. The part of me that believed it was magic that made Mexican jumping beans pop, and that if I got a pair of PF Flyers, I really could jump over buildings.
It was this youngest part of me who whisked me off on this writing venture, and believed without a doubt that we’d reach our destination, even though we’d be riding on nothing but a wing and a prayer. Fortunately for me, when I get so wrapped up in adult worries that I start confusing dire thoughts with “reality,” Life, in its infinite wisdom, points me back to her. And so it did, when I was laboring to finish my fourth book.
I was a month behind deadline, 27,000 words beyond a sane word count, and still my child narrator–who by her own admission has a mind that wanders like a puppy without a leash–was going strong. After working 10-12 hours a day for weeks, the only thing dwindling faster than my resolve was my bank account. So in an effort to take a pause and a breath, I took my son for dinner at our favorite restaurant. When we arrived, I excused myself to go to the restroom.
I heard the little girls behind one of the two stalls, and guessed that the little one doing most of the talking was about three. She was in the middle of a story, but stopped when she heard me close the stall door. “Hey,” she said. “I think somebody’s in here. Is there somebody in here?”
“Yep,” I said, as I flinched, because even the simple act of hanging my purse on a hook, hurt my neck and shoulders.
“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her, and she replied with, “Oh. My name is Kea. And that’s Kendsey on the toilet.” I smiled as I unzipped and sat down.
“I can see you,” Kea said, her matter-of-fact delivery telling me she was oblivious to the fact that maybe that’s not something a stranger who is sitting on a toilet might want to hear.
I peered through the narrow gap alongside the stall door, but saw only bright wall tiles. “I can’t see you,” I told her.
“Down here,” she said. “Look under the wall.” And there she was, on hands and knees, staring up at me as I peed. Kea. With a head full of blond ringlets, Crayola Cornflower- Blue eyes, and pink cheeks.
“You have very pretty curls,” I told her as she blinked up at me.
“Yeah,” she said. “And I got a puffy shirt, too.”
Kea disappeared and Kendsey hissed. “Kea, don’t! You aren’t suppose to open the door when someone’s on the toilet!” (Obviously, the girls’ mother didn’t think to also tell them that you aren’t suppose to peek under bathroom stalls, a fact that had me giggling.)
“But I want to show the lady my puffy shirt!” Kea insisted.
Seconds later, while I was zipping my jeans, my stall door (latched with only a magnet) burst open, and there was Kea. She looked down at her pink shirt where a plastic-covered picture bubbled over her heart.
“See my puffy shirt?” she said. “It lights up when you poke it. See? You wanna poke it?”
I was glad my bladder was empty, because by the time I got back to the table, I was laughing so hard I could hardly hold myself up. And I laughed until my eyes watered and my shoulders sighed.
Here in the adult world, where we are inundated with daily responsibilities, subjected to misfortunes, and chronically exposed to negativity, it can be easy to cave to feelings of anxiety and hopelessness. When I find myself in this place again (as I surely will), I’ll remember sweet Kea, so innocent and trusting, plagued by none of the shoulds and have tos and you-can’t-do-that messages that often confine us adults to spaces tighter than a public restroom stall. Kea was my protagonist, and my youngest self made visible. An arrow that pointed me back to the part of me that writes for the sheer joy of telling a story and believes wholeheartedly that it will be good when I’m done. I smiled all the way home that day, and finished my book four days later.
Whatever your dream, I hope your youngest, most trusting self, will be your traveling companion.
July 1st, 2009
| Posted by admin | 09, 2009 Debs, guest author, the past
| 27 Comments
Dear Katie,
Oh, Katie, Katie, Katie.
There are a lot of things I could tell you but won’t, because as tempting as it would be to give you all the lottery numbers and sports scores, that would change a lot of things that I’d just as soon not change.
Instead, I’ll just tell you that, yes, this is definitely your awkward stage. And yes, you will grow out of it. The funny thing is that someday the things you’re being made fun of for are going to be the things that your life is about. It’s okay to be smart, when you’re grown up. In fact, it pays better than being dumb.
It’s also fine to be a prolific writer, no matter what the bastards in 8th grade history said to you that one day. Also, your 8th grade history teacher was a bastard for letting them say those things. (Never trust anyone who says the Civil War had nothing to do with slavery.)
Here’s the thing–someday you’ll be prettier and your hair won’t be so, you know, awkward, and you’ll be better at putting on makeup and getting dressed. But you’re never going to wake up in the morning feeling the way you think the popular kids feel. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that even the popular kids don’t feel the way you think they feel. Maybe they learned early on how to blow-dry their hair or perfectly poof their expensive shirts out of their expensive shorts, but that doesn’t guarantee happiness.
So what’s the purpose of all the angst and lonely nights spent listening to that one New Kids on the Block album, over and over again? Here’s a hint: someday you’re going to write about girls like you. And the girls that read about those girls are probably going to be like you, too. And letting them know they’re not alone is actually a pretty good legacy.
Now, put on those generic Keds and the too-bright lipstick and go work on your observation skills and compassion. Nobody is ever what they seem to be, and you, my dear, are no exception.
Fondly,
Katie Alender (that’s right, you’ll eventually find a boyfriend and get married–don’t worry, you’ll kind of know him when you see him)
PS - The pearl ring is on your top bookshelf, and the heartburn is from nitrates! Nitrates! Put the cheap lunchmeat away!
June 30th, 2009
| Posted by Katie Alender | 2009 Debs, Katie Alender, childhood, junior high school, nostalgia
| 8 Comments
Dear Kris,
Stop taking yourself so seriously. No really. Stop it. Look, I know you feel like everything you do now will reverberate down through the decades and color your entire life, but guess what? You’re going to have babies and do other cool things that have nothing to do with the fact you slept through introductory geology on Friday morning. Believe me. I oughta know.
See, that fiasco the spring semester of junior year? The one that feels like it has ruined everything? It didn’t. Thirteen years later it barely registers, except as a stressful memory and a good life lesson in tying up all loose ends yourself. Same with winter semester, senior year. Older, wiser, etc.
Consider this: take a semester off from the college paper. I know, I know, The State News is awesome, the best college paper in the country, but three straight years is an awful lot of Chinese food and late nights wrestling with the file server and harassing college administrators for quotes between classes. It won’t ruin your journalism career to take a semester off and, I don’t know, work at the library or something.
Go to more of those seminars and lectures and fun, interesting things advertised on flyers and on the walkways in sidewalk chalk. You’ll miss the opportunity someday.
Also, say what you want to say more often. You know what I’ve figured out? If you say it politely, and with respect, you really can speak your mind and people won’t hate you. And if they do, well, they probably hated you anyway and were waiting for a reason to show it. Or they’re bastards. Whatever.
Final thought: plan for your future, but you might want to consider the fact that your life doesn’t go exactly according to script. And though it won’t always seem that way at the time, this is a good thing. Trust me.
Signed,
Older You
June 29th, 2009
| Posted by Kristina | 09, Kristina Riggle, Real Life & Liars
| 6 Comments
Here are some interviews with Deb Kristina about REAL LIFE & LIARS that have appeared in the last week: Lansing City Pulse, Traverse Magazine online edition, and a review in her hometown paper, The Grand Rapids Press, saying the book is “bursting at the seams with believable people.” You can also catch an archived radio interview performed by old college newspaper pals, here.
Kristina also this week had a guest blog appearance featuring her dog, Lucky, (complete with pictures!) and a lengthy interview at Writer Unboxed which focuses a great deal on craft and process.
FIRST COMES LOVE, THEN COMES MALARIA is now featured at the Diva Toolbox. A humorous (and helpful) article about travel tips for women, written by Deb Eve also appears at the Diva Toolbox. And the podcast of Deb Eve’s interview with Janet Powers will be be airing soon.
A feature article about Deb Eve appears in today’s Staten Island Advance.
Friend of the Debs–and recent guest–Joshilyn Jackson hit the NYT Best Seller List this past week with THE GIRL WHO STOPPED SWIMMING! If you haven’t read it, Joshilyn’s novel is a contemporary ghost story with a Southern Gothic twist, and a perfect beach read. It’s out in paperback! Congrats, Joss!
June 28th, 2009
| Posted by admin | 2009 Debs, Eve Brown-Waite, First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria, Kristina Riggle, Real Life & Liars, childhood
| One Comment
We’re very pleased to welcome Maggie Dana to the ball. A book designer and typesetter, Maggie is also the author of six books for children. Her first novel for grownups, Beachcombing, has just been published by Macmillan New Writing in the UK, where she’s been doing a book tour and hiding from her family.
Sometimes old flames burn the brightest…
This is the tag line for Beachcombing, my debut novel. Pretty catchy, huh? My youthful editor at Macmillan came up with it for the cover. But see the word old in there? That’s me. And the flames? The burning? That’ll be my face when my 16-year-old granddaughter discovers the two bedroom scenes in the book and realizes her grandmother still thinks about sex.
It’s silly, I know, to be embarrassed about sex when it comes to your family. I mean, none of them would be around if you’d not had any, right? I have three children and five grandchildren, so it’s pretty obvious I’ve had a few romps in the hay. But my very English parents (no sex please, we’re British) never discussed such things; nor did my teachers. I came of age in the fifties when married couples on TV sitcoms slept in single beds, and nice girls didn’t even get to first base. Not that we knew what first base was, given our national sport was cricket, and it had wickets, not bases.
Like most authors, I have a trusted reader and when I wrote that first love scene she was inconveniently down in Florida visiting a friend who didn’t, at that point, have email. So I faxed her the pages. Trouble is, I mistakenly faxed them to her friend’s business partner who is probably still scratching his head over them.
Are they very racy? Do they border on soft porn? Not in the least; then again, I don’t leave my reader at the bedroom door, either. But since they’re written in first-person point of view, I know I’m going to get some funny looks from family and friends once the book is published. Good thing I’ll be in the UK when it is. That way, my family will (hopefully) read it while I’m gone and by the time I get back, the initial shock will be over. Or so I keep telling myself.
All this makes it sound like I’ve written a geriatric Lolita or Lady Chatterly’s Lover. Far from it, but it is about a mid-life love affair and, quite frankly, there aren’t enough novels with 50-something heroines who’re not ashamed of their wrinkles and saggy boobs, as I’ve tried to show in this snippet:
We light the candles and watch one another undress, and for once, I’m not ashamed of my middle-aged body. Tonight my hips aren’t wide, they’re generous. My soft stomach is smooth and sensuous, and I’m proud of my full breasts that never passed the pencil test.
When Deb Kristina, who I met several years ago in an online writer’s forum, then in person (she’s absolutely gorgeous!), invited me to write an article, I decided to write about book design and typesetting which is what I do for a living. I love talking about fonts, about whitespace and leading, and why readability is a typographer’s first obligation to the reader. But Kris convinced me that while this is all very interesting, sex is even moreso. As she succinctly put it, “Marketing, baby. Sex sells.”
I just have to hope my kids don’t read this blog as well.
June 27th, 2009
| Posted by Meredith | 09, 2009 Debs, guest author
| 20 Comments
Did I ever tell you guys I used to do stand up comedy? This was a couple of years ago and I was actually aiming to brush up on my Spanish. But when I looked through the continuing education catalog from our community college there were no Spanish classes that fit my schedule. But, it turns out that STand up comedy comes right after SPanish in the course catalog … and well, the rest is history.
I’d like to do some stand up comedy for you right here. But alcohol licensing laws don’t allow me to serve alcohol over the internet. And good comedy requires a two-drink minimum. So you go right now and get yourself a few drinks. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
Are you back now? Am I starting to sound funnier already? And I’m cuter, too, right? Good, now just imagine me throwing out quips about the adhesive strips on feminine products (I mean, just where will these things go if they are not permanently adhered to your underpants? Has there been a rash of menstruating women leaving a trail of untethered sanitary pads behind them?)
And then imagine me talking about the question I hate most in the world: Did you have natural childbirth??? (Why, no. I had a synthetic one. Actually, we got little Johny here freeze-dried out of a vending machine and then just added water! Excuse me, but if the kid came out of any orifice in your body that’s natural childbirth as far as I’m concerned. I don’t care if they had to yank the screaming little banshee up through your tonsils!)
And then moving on to the dreaded childbirth education class. Because here was a woman who was on some sadistic mission to convince me to endure the most painful of all human conditions without the benefit of anaesthesia! And what I want to know is why isn’t this lady stationed outside of a dentist’s office? Excuse me, are you going in to have root canal, sir? You know it’s really better for you – and all of mankind – if you do it without anaesthesia.
But wait, it gets better because (true story, here) during one of these childbirth education classes, one of the dads was complaining about a headache. And does Ms. Just-Breathe-Through-The Pain childbirth educator tell whiny dad to just breathe through the pain? Hell, no. She hands the guy a bottle of Tylenol! Which was so unfair, because I was pretty certain that no matter how bad his headache got, there would be no little human being coming out of it anytime soon!
~Deb Eve
June 26th, 2009
| Posted by Eve | 2009 Debs, Eve Brown-Waite, First Comes Love, Then Comes Malaria
| 5 Comments
