Imperfect

Blog #4

Yes, mistakes happen. But they don’t happen to ME. I’m careful. AND methodical!

I’ve been skipping along (bluebirds chirping) getting it all done: ad refinement, getting reviews, TikTok videos, writing book two—oh, and a day job. A continuous stream of improvement and productivity (my picture is right there in the dictionary). 

Then one sunny afternoon while I was making incremental improvements to my backmatter, it happened. The trade paperback and the hardcover were open to the same chapter number…and the chapter titles DID NOT MATCH. 

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeek!!!!!

Clouds blotted out the sun. Thunder cracked. The theme from Psycho screeched from invisible speakers. The camera zooms in on my ghost-white face as all the possible implications of this unfolded in my quaking brain: every version of my book was broken, it would be impossible to find out what went wrong, and even more impossible to fix. 

I was alone and my writing career sunk when it had hardly begun. (Cue the violins as the camera zooms out and I’m trembling under my own personal storm cloud.)

Thank god for therapy tools. Diaphragmatic breathing. Stepping back from the computer (rather than throwing it across the room—that was the real win of the day). Giving myself a minute. Coming up with a plan before I did anything. Weirdly, as I went to write down my plan, my hand scraped across my trackpad and I accidentally dragged and dropped a chapter to a new place in my Vellum document. WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL? It seamlessly renumbered my table of contents and the chapter title (so helpful!). No permissions asked! 

Before I’d even begun my forensic work, I had the answer to how did this happen? And was this drag-and-drop faux pas really an accident? Or was it supernatural intervention? You decide. But I know what I think.

Anyway, I went back to the clean Word doc I received from my editor—it became my bible. I took a paperback proof, checked the chapters. Huzzah! They matched (it’s the little things, isn’t it?). That became my source of truth. I checked the hardcover. Chapter 26 had gotten dumped all the way down at 39. Big fat farty ugh. But fixable! I made a color-coded legend and checked every printed version, ePub and Vellum file. It was only the hardcover. Shwoo! 

After one sleepless night, a few hours of kicking myself (yes, while I was down), it was technically solved. New files uploaded to IngramSpark.

But I was left with a stack of beautiful but broken hardcovers. I could throw them away or burn them (the twinkle comes into my eye) or…

I’ve made a little instruction guide on how to read the book (maybe it’ll be a thing that catches on?) and placed them lovingly in Little Free Libraries around the city. Each is tagged with a QR code—maybe I’ll find out if these poor puppies have gone to good homes?

As for the distribution channels—who’s got what in stock, what will become of the bad stock—well that will be another episode of How the Book Turns—once I get it all figured out. 

But for now, I’ve done what I could, I’ve offered myself some grace (callback to CIVIL. Maybe life does imitate art?), and I’m planning for the best—knowing I’ll have to deal with whatever arises. Onward ho!

I’d love for you to come on this hilly journey with me. Maybe share a story about a hill or two that you’ve climbed. And if you’re here because you adopted one of these sad editions, drop me a note (okay, fill out the stupid contact form) and let me know.

Until then, when life gives you defective books, write an instruction guide and keep moving forward.

Living in the Fray

Blog #3

CIVIL: True North got a Kirkus starred review. Huh, True North got a star—only 3% of indie books receive one. It named my book in the same breath as Kosiński and O'Brien, which is the kind of sentence you read three times to make sure it's not a typo. That happened. I get to breathe that in.

Here is the part nobody prepared me for: the star didn't sell a single book by itself. (Sad, but true.) It sat there, gleaming, while I spent a week staring at Amazon's ad dashboard trying to figure out why my campaigns had impressions and then, abruptly, didn't. Turns out the algorithm had throttled delivery, not judged my content. A diagnosis, not a verdict. Small comfort at 11pm.

That's the rhythm right now. Mild panic and small wins (okay, sometimes big wins), back to back, no transition, no slack in the pace. A Kirkus starred review, an Amazon ad no one clicks on, local bookshop picks it up. Nobody tells you about the whiplash you have to deal with at 90mph.

And, oh yeah, there's Book 2. Twenty thousand words in, which sounds like a lot until you remember it's a fraction of a fraction. I write it in scraps — the twenty minutes before a full-time job starts, two hours after it ends. Trying to keep track of all the precise logistics of the reality I’ve created in between. Rachel and Chet don't care that I have a day job. Neither does the war I put them in.

Is this sustainable? If by sustainable you mean "I keep doing it anyway"—then yes. Some days the ad spend makes no sense and the manuscript makes even less. I do it anyway. There is an engine inside me that won’t let me stop. It reminds me every day, it would loathe sitting in a comfy chair watching TV. 

So here I am—struggling, creating, learning, and trying to fit in some living. It's a status update from the middle of the siege (and what led to my new tattoo). If you're trying to create and build something with what’s left after a full time job, you know this particular math. It doesn't add up cleanly. You do it anyway.

More soon. The Raven isn't finished yet, and neither am I. 

And I’ve got to go check on that algorithm…

…now I have to market it????

Blog #2

I wrote the damn thing and now I have to market it? For fucksake. I know, I’m not the first author to utter those words. But here we are…and I need to wrap my head around it.

Don’t get me wrong—I love my book. I think if people knew about it, they’d want to read it.

So here we go—a mental reset in real time. Come along with me.

This is waaaay outside of my comfort zone, but nobody will ever find my book if it just sits on my coffee table. And if I have to market it, I may as well enjoy it. And the way to do that is to make it my own. I can watch a thousand YouTube videos on the “right way” to do it, but none of those ways are me. Am I stupid for not just following a formula? Well, we’ll find out because if I’m going to put my voice out there it seems like it should be authentically mine. I’ve spent too long wearing a facade that didn’t fit. I’m done with it. I wrote this book because I needed to examine emotions that were roiling inside of me. I didn’t write it to meet the tropes or some market niche that was underserved—though I get why authors do…and have great success with it. That is just not me.

So here it is, blue ribbon or participation trophy, I will not bend my authentic voice. I will do my best to learn from others and make it my own. I will carry my enthusiasm about the whole birthing-a-book process along with me. And if my energy flags or I doubt myself, I’ll come back here, to these pages, and write my way back to believing.

Hello, world ;-)

Blog #1

Here it is: the website (that was a rock fight to build) exposing all my creative bits to the world. Let me tell you, it’s been a thing to get here. 

There have been stops and starts—often with years in between. There’s been birth and divorce and death. There’s been a shit ton of doubt. And chocolate cake eaten while prone on the couch. But I’m here now.

Where’s here? Me in my right-sized skin, claiming my creativity and sending it out to be received however it is received. I’m not looking for validation, I’m seeking to do the one thing my soul has begged for: share my creativity with the world. 

What will become of it? Who knows. Does it matter? Not a whole bunch (oh, come on, we all know I want to make a splash). But the point is I’m doing it! 

And to anyone who feels the pull but has felt not creative enough, too tired, like you don’t have anything to say, that everything has already been said, yada yada yada…FUCK THAT!

Giving voice to what’s inside you is its own reward. And its own little engine. Give it two minutes a day, while lying flat on your back. Use your crowbar of desire to pry open the well of you. See where it takes you. Be afraid and sad and tired. Do it anyway. Let me know what you find.

Here’s a bonus poem that I wrote before that crowbar cracked open my creative well. I Am a Radio Station