Sincerely, not

Tags

Indie Author, Inspiration, Writer's Life

A while back an acquaintance of mine (sort of a devolved friendship with someone I don’t really talk to or hang out with anymore) began emailing, FB messaging, and calling me to reach back out to her about “something”. Seriously, if she were a family member I’d have thought someone died with her dogged pursuit to contact me. My husband, ever talented in the art of reading people, told me, “Yeah, she probably wants to sell you something.”. I thought, naaaaah, you wouldn’t contact someone out of the blue like this for such a self-serving reason. Right? That’s just awkward and ugly.

Well, you can probably guess where this is going. When I spoke with her it was a weird, stilted conversation wherein she talked in this artificially bright voice, dropping questions about details in my life she likely gleaned from social media in an effort to convince me she actually gives a damn about it. I wondered if she thought I was so starved for acknowledgement that I wouldn’t see through this.

“I heard you published a book! That’s awesome!”

She was so impressed she didn’t know the title, that it happened over a year ago, and that I’d published several other works.

“How’s everything going with your husband?”

I guess our cancer scare didn’t come up on her wall when she did a quick review before the conversation.

“It’s been WAY too long since we last got together!”

Yup, the last time was when she came unannounced to my house right in the midst of getting my toddlers down for a nap. The sole reason for the stop was to collect baby clothes my daughter no longer used which I didn’t have ready to go at all. She insisted on waiting and then sat in my living room while I ran around collecting them. She left immediately afterward. No calls followed.

Finally, she’s gets to her pitch. She’s thinking of starting a home business selling products for women for a vendor company but has to watch an orientation video about it beforehand and wouldn’t it be fun to do it with a group of us?? Then afterward we can have a girls night, squeeee! As if I couldn’t spot the recruiting scam from a mile away. Honestly, the fact that she thought I’d see this as a sincere attempt to get together just royally insulted my intelligence.

The sad thing is it’s not like this sort of behavior–using a friendship for purely personal and mercurial advancement–is unprecedented. I’ve seen it before with invites to Mary Kay or some type of Tupperware party. And there are plenty of people who don’t mind it, I’m sure, and even have fun at these things but I wonder if it too easily falls into the situation I just went through–A hamfisted attempt to act like you care about someone in order to get them to sign up/spend money. Are people really so eager to trade in their integrity? We all know that’s done in politics but it hurts to think friendships are treated this way. Am I being idealistic here?

Indie authors are sometimes accused of doing this as well when marketing their books. I’ve seen it–authors following bloggers and then blasting them with spotlight requests on all their social media platforms, unfollowing them just as quickly if they don’t get what they want. It’s a hit-and-run with no interest in actual interaction with said blogger, as if they are just a means to an end, as if their site is run by a book promoting vending machine rather than a living person doing their best. It’s gross. And short-sighted.

Not that I’m claiming that all or even most Indies are this way. Most Indies I’ve gotten to know are wonderful people who comprehend networking as a long-term relationship thing. They promote each other. They comment on each other’s posts. They correspond. They reply to tweets and retweet one another. Okay, yes, the original move to reach out to another Indie or a blogger might be from personal interest, but the investment in the relationship is what makes it sincere. These friendships are what make this whole self-publishing/writer’s-life thing fun, especially if you’re still trying to get your name out there. I mean, let’s face it, this gig can dole out the punches. You need some pals in your corner.

Needless to say, the concept of sincerity has been on my mind since the yucky fake-friend invite thing. Obviously I didn’t go. I wish I could tell you guys that I told her off in such terms as to make her feel small and ridiculous for being such a disingenuous phony. The truth is it just made me kinda sad and I couldn’t summon the will to do it. Odd really, since I have no trouble with articulation when I see a need to stand up for someone else. Then I come shouldering in, snarling protectively. We can’t be all things at all times I suppose.

Anyway, that’s what I want to leave you with–heavy and potentially cliche as it is for a Monday–the thought that we need more sincerity in this life. Because the truth is when we’re open and genuine with each other the world is simply a brighter place to live in.

A Work In Progress

Tags

Family, Inspiration, New Years Resolutions

Well, we’ve arrived again at that time of year when everyone reflects back on the past 365 days, their missed and achieved goals, where they went off track or how they managed not to, etc. etc. etc. As if, unless we tally up the things we’ve done and graded our productivity, we’ve somehow missed the point. Or worse, we run the risk of complete and utter disorganization in the year looming ahead (God forbid we don’t have a ten point plan). Don’t get me wrong. Goals are important. Setting your sights on what you’d like to do is important, as is taking stock, but I often feel like these “To Do” lists inevitably lead us into a negative zone because, honestly, we put too much on them. That we should aim high and expect the best from ourselves goes without saying (I hope), but I often worry that in our hard scrabble pursuit to get where we want to be in life, we forget to appreciate where we are now.

At this point you’ve probably figured out I’m not in not in my happy place at the moment. Just before Christmas my husband got some test results back. He has cancer. He got the news through one of those nurse phone calls where they dropped the C-bomb on him and then proceeded to prattle on about next steps and appointment setups while the poor guy’s ears are still ringing from the word. They said it’s entirely treatable and will require just a bit of surgery, probably no radiation. “If you have to pick a cancer, this is the one to have,” the doctor said, at which point I wanted to find the nearest rock to hurl at that idiot’s head. How about we don’t want to pick a cancer? How about he’s only 36 and we have three children ages five, three, and one? How about this just massively sucks and that’s all there is to it? FYI, if anyone tells you they or a loved one has cancer, the best and only thing you should say at that moment is, “I’m really sorry. That really, really blows.” and NOT, “Bah, he’ll be fine, don’t worry. They know how to deal with that stuff these days.” Yeah, not reassuring. And when it’s you it DOES NOT feel that way.

Okay, I realize I’m transferring my struggle with this onto the reaction of others to the situation. The sad truth is that I find myself seeing the whole thing in the context of its impact, and potential impact, to me and the tidal wave of agony I feel about this news. Which is terribly selfish, even if it is terribly normal (a word which doesn’t often come up in a sentence where I’m involved).

Here’s the thing:

This happy, loving marriage I enjoy with my husband, it’s something I hoped for but little expected to find. I come from a family of women with a long history of domestic abuse. I’ve had my own personal dealings with it as well. I mention this to emphasize how incredibly unlikely I figured it was for me, someone who grew up in that environment and the subsequent man-hating aftermath, to find myself with someone like my husband, someone who even ten years into our marriage still writes sweet notes for me to find, who buys me chocolate, who still gets that I’m-about-to-pounce-on-you look in his eye when I put on that dress he likes so much…or a fitted shirt, or my PJs, or, well, anything really. He’s a randy lad. And before anyone quirks an eyebrow my direction, not to worry, he gets plenty of care in return. In fact, he recently got a shiny new, longed for PS4 Pro that I managed into our budget through tricks and treachery.

He and I are by no means perfect at all times. We’ve had some rockin’ arguments as well as those piddly ones about nothing, but I’ve always felt safe which is a huge deal for someone in my shoes. So, you can imagine this whole cancer thing, well…Let me put it this way: There are people who love me in my life, but precious few who are loving. My husband is and has always been the one who occupied the top of that list. My self-worth is not dependent on him, but we built this life together and I like it as is. We don’t have much, but have found our wealth in our children and in each other. Team Deen, we call it. Cancer has no place here.

In a few days, it’ll be a new year. Yes, I’ll be thinking ahead to goals I’d like to accomplish with plans to be productive. I’ll still be writing (because I’ll go crazy if I don’t, especially now) and finishing projects, but this year my number one is to remember what I have. And if you’ll allow it, cliche as it might seem, let me leave you with this thought: Appreciate the moment–No, not just because it’s fleeting or gone-too-soon, but because it’s yours and always will be if you remember to keep it close. Add it to your pile of riches, the ones that last forever. When you write that “2017 To Do” list, be realistic with it and don’t add so many things for Future-You to get through that Present-You doesn’t have enough time or peace of mind to recognize what you already have. I’ll admit that I’ve been as guilty of this practice as the next person. Want to talk New Year’s resolutions? Want to talk Work-In-Progress? This is mine. We all have places to go in our lives, that glowing “one day” we want to get to, but don’t forget the right-now. Right now is precious too.

Silent Night

Tags

#amwriting, Craft, Indie Writer, Inspiration

As is typical of Minnesota, it releases us from winter’s snow and ice only to plunge us into summer’s wrath, as if the place is irritated it has to warm up for any portion of the year and makes us suffer for it. Tuesday a huge storm cell rolled through the Twin Cities and, naturally, as I left work that day the thing was just making its debut. Timing is ALWAYS perfect for me when it comes to these things. There I am, driving home, obsessively looking in my rearview mirror, watching as this mass of roiling black clouds chases me down the highway.

The sky turned green. Streets flooded with torrential rain. Howling winds ripped trees from their roots. Thunder and lightning crashed hard enough to rattle the windows and make me wonder if Thor could be something more than mythological. Of course, if he looks like Chris Hemsworth I might be willing to convert.

Then BOOM! The nearby transformer explodes and everything goes dark. Thus began our two-day stint without power. This was made all the more awesome by the fact that my daycare is closed for the week (where they didn’t lose power), the air temperature the following days was 90 degrees without a breeze and two out of my three kids had a fever. I shuffled us over to my mother’s house but my mom has this aversion to using air conditioning, thus keeping her house at a balmy 84 degrees (still cooler than my house).

When the Xcel Energy truck showed up at last to repair our transformer, people came out of their houses in droves. We sat on the curb watching the guys work on it, our stares fixed on their movements, hopes and prayers thick in the air. Then someone yelled from a kitchen window that the lights came on and a cheer went up. A block party almost broke out except we all ran home to huddle around the cool air coming out of our vents.

Yes, I’m being dramatic here but it was a tough couple of days. And I did feel a little guilty about my internal (and external) complaining as I remembered other places that had storms in the past which knocked out power for weeks, sometimes months at a time. I can’t even imagine it.

But something interesting arose from all this chaos…the complete lack of it at night. When the kids were in bed, the coolers of food squared away, and the paper plates disposed of (don’t hate me for using them), I sat down at my table to write. By candlelight.

I may or may not admit to feeling a tad Jane Austin as I did this. I had taper candles too. There I was, scribbling along the page, adjusting the angle of the light as the wax burned down, the flame flickering when my breath swished past it. Writing in such an environment, surrounded by shadow beyond the candle’s corona, narrows one’s focus to what’s in right front of you: the page.

This is what it was like every day for writers of the past (except maybe for the full belly, ball point pen, and superior state of health). There’s a silence to the night when the world is that quiet, when the house is soundless but for the scratch of your pen and the thoughts in your head. I experienced an odd contradiction of emotion as the hours rolled by. I felt both more connected to my work and more isolated. Fulfilled and empty. Satisfied and yearning. I attribute this a bit to distraction withdrawal, but also I think it’s because the night has two faces when distilled to its primary essence of silence and darkness. It embraces and it smothers. Soothes and frightens. The intensity of the atmosphere takes creativity to amazing places. There are only the words and the page. It was “A lonely impulse of delight.” to quote Yeats. Beautiful and strange.

Have you ever written by candlelight? What was it like for you?

Striking Notes

Tags

#amwriting, Dystopian, Inspiration, Science-Fiction, Writing Tips

It’s probably not news to anyone that music is inspirational. It stirs memory and emotion in a way nothing else can. As an author I find it immerses me into the scenes of a story line and energizes my creative thinking. Music is another one of those things that I’m in awe of, particularly since I haven’t any talent in it myself. Yeah, I can play a little “Heart and Soul” on the piano and I can sing on key (Don’t look for me to appear on “The Voice” or “American Idol”. I have a firm grip on the extent of my singing abilities), but that’s about it.

The odd thing about me though, and I don’t know if others share this, is that the music needs to have decent lyrics for me to really enjoy it (if it has vocals). Musical lyrics, like poetry, are the most abbreviated version of a story out there in my opinion. They have little space to communicate emotional impact so every word counts. You’ve heard a song with tons of filler or one that tells a story in a way you’ve heard a thousand times. It lessens the piece. It seems writing, in any form, is hard.

Hearing a song with music and lyrics that feel like a soundtrack to a story I’m writing is like getting hit by a lightning bolt. It doesn’t even have to be a new song. It can be one I’ve heard before that suddenly takes on a new meaning. I’ll easily surpass two thousand words in a day when this happens. I know, I know, a lot of authors out there write double or triple that (Lindsay Buroker is renowned for her writing speed), but I don’t usually go that fast. Three kids and a full time job will do that.

As I’ve been writing the installments of my short story series Insurrection I came across a few songs that zapped me in the inspiration department. Since it’s in the Sci-Fi/Dystopian genre, it has themes centered around rebellion and redemption.

Muse’s song “Uprising” is a track I’ve replayed quite a few times while writing. Their videos are pretty radical. Raging teddy bears, etc.:

Then there’s the new version of “The Sound of Silence” by Disturbed. I found a fan video that paired it to images from Mass Effect (love that game!) and it’s pretty awesome. Since part of my story line involves a past where humanity was almost destroyed by an alien force, it felt like watching a piece of my own story. Of course the details are completely different, but the music and the visual accompaniment of a world on the brink of annihilation is exactly what I’d envisioned.

How has music inspired you creatively? Are you like me in that the song has to have good lyrics in order to really capture your attention, even if there’s a good beat?

Guest Post: On Perseverance

Tags

Inspiration, Self Published Book, Writing Tips

Self-published author and blogger Jonathan Kile brings a little perspective on forging through the peaks and valleys of the writing life to get things done. It’s an awesome article, so let’s just get right to it.

Take it away Jon!

The other day Anela asked me to talk a little about persevering as an independent writer. Just a few hours later, I got a message from a friend asking “How do you keep at it? How do you find the time?” So, I take this all as a spooky coincidence that has nothing to do with the position of the moon, or a conspiracy that Google is feeding friends subliminal messages to my contacts via Android phones. (Where’s my tin hat?)

A little background. I have a full time job as an outside sales rep. I have two kids under six. My wife works full time at a college and the free time in my day starts at about 9:15 p.m… the exact time it is as I write this. We also have a busy social life and I serve on a non-profit board. So how did I write, edit and publish a novel in 12 months and keep up two blogs? How did I write the sequel in nine months? (It’s in editing now.) There are two answers. One simple answer, and one that’s more complicated.

The simple answer, I just did it. The time between 10pm and midnight (and sometimes 1 am – when I’m on a roll) is for writing. 95% of my writing take place late at night. That’s when I can fit it in. Is that when I’m most inspired? Hell if I know. I don’t get the chance to write in the morning after the coffee kicks in. Maybe your schedule is different, but you have to use the time you have available to write for… um… writing. Stop watching Netflix, get off Facebook, step away from Instagram (whatever that is) and write. A recent scientific study conducted by Cambridge University found that 0% of books were written without an author writing them (+/- 3% margin of error.)

The more complicated answer to persevering as a writer is passion. I suppose it takes a lot of discipline to delay sleep and start writing at 10pm. But for me, it isn’t discipline at all, because I want to do it. Sure, I wish I had time at noon, but I don’t, and I want to write books. If I’m going to have 7 novels in 7 years, I’m going to have to write when time allows. I love writing. It isn’t a hard decision. An article in last Sunday’s New York Times talked about why child prodigies so often flame out. A child may have an uncanny ability to play the piano at 3 years old. But unless they develop a passion for it, they’ll never put in the hours of practice it takes to become exceptional at it. If sitting down to write is something you dread, is it really something you want to pursue?

I mean, really, we all have this rosy image of the “life of a writer,” retreating to a remote cabin with the family in tow, writing at big mahogany desk, sipping tea (or bourbon) and occasionally zipping off to New York to meet your fancy editor. But we all know that those writers end up getting stalked by serial killers through the woods, or their kids attack them with farm tools because that cabin was haunted. And that New York editor? They’re looking for a job. In reality, by the time you have your “overnight bestseller” you will have spent thousands of unpaid, unrecognized, unappreciated hours writing hundreds of thousands of words you may never share with a soul.

After the first book in my series came out, I spent 2015 writing the sequel and laying the groundwork so that I can build an audience with two books in my catalogue (it’s called a sales funnel.) I just got my 1099 from Amazon. With the hours I have in invested, there are shirt-makers in Bangladesh who pity my wage as a writer.

Yet I keep at it and I just do it, with passion. But don’t get me wrong. I’m not special. I don’t have some rare insane motivation that other people lack. There are days and sometimes weeks that I don’t write a word. In fact, I stewed for almost three weeks before writing the climactic showdown in my next book. It took me over two months to write the last 5,000 words – something that could have taken me two or three days. But I kept at it, and behold, I have another novel to publish.

Hemingway could have written this 750 word blog post more concisely. In fact, he did when he said, “The shortest answer is doing the thing.” Go do the thing.

Thanks Jonathan for such an inspiring and hilarious kick in the pants! Always needed on a Monday. Want to know more about this author and his work? Explore his website at Well Oiled Author.

For Sale $0.99!

Transporting a family heirloom across the country seemed like an easy task for disillusioned Michael Chance. But before he can cross the Mississippi, the secrets of his family’s grandfather clock and a mysterious French woman put him on an uncertain path. The life Michael knew is about to be left behind as he searches for answers amid a dangerous conspiracy that will lead him from the museums of Paris to Nazi havens in Argentina.

The Grandfather Clock is a globe spanning thriller with rich characters, history, action, romance and mystery.

About the author:

By day I am a peddler of petroleum products, navigating a Glengarry Glen Ross landscape of cutthroat sales. By night I assume the identity of novelist and child-wrangler. With an undergraduate degree in economics from Florida State University and graduate work in Florida Studies at USF St. Pete, I spent 12 years in non-profit fundraising. I now use that experience to volunteer for causes care about. My first published novel The Grandfather Clock is available on amazon.com. I am currently writing my second and third novels, blogging on my website and cursing my editor.

The Inheritance of War

Tags

Family, Fantasy, Inspiration, Self Published Book

During the Vietnam conflict, the U.S. military began an herbicidal warfare program called Operation “Ranch Hand”. Between the years of 1961 and 1971 they sprayed a toxic compound known as Agent Orange on roughly 10% of South Vietnam. It was meant to defoliate the forests and mangroves used by the Vietcong as cover to move supplies and men up the Ho Chi Minh Trail. What they didn’t account for (or didn’t give a damn about) was the devastating impact it had on the land, the crops, the Vietnamese people, and our own American soldiers on the ground, one of whom, was my father.

Born and raised on Oahu, before Hawaii became a state, my dad grew up in a place of abundance. A place where he and his friends would grab fruit off the trees on their way home from school, a place of warm sea air, bright feathered birds, and sands soft as powder. He never wore shoes till he was maybe nine years old, and ever afterward, only with reluctance.

He was a young man when he joined the Marines, and like many, had no idea what was in store for him when he was deployed. I often wonder what his thoughts were during his battles in Vietnam, this young Hawaiian boy born from peaceful islands. Did he try to recall the sound of the Pacific waves rolling in? Did he try to hold on to the chime of the morning birds, and memory of swaying palms while he struggled there in the mud and the violence? He never spoke of it much to me. Only a mention of watching friends die and a soft admission that, “Dad had to kill people.”

When it was all over he suffered nightmares and depression. He went to the VA for help, and was told it would subside on its own and he would be fine. Later, when he started to notice he couldn’t mow the lawn without getting dizzy and short of breath, he went back and was told he had to lower his cholesterol. Did the government realize that the Dioxin these men had been exposed to was already destroying their bodies?

My dad suffered his first heart attack in his thirties. His first of many. He was sick my whole life. I can’t think of a time when he wasn’t on heart medication. By 2013, near the end, only 16% of his heart was functioning. It killed some part of me to watch him wasting away, the round, full face and dark stare I’d always known thinned down to hollow skeletal cheeks and sunken eyes. I’d sit for hours while he told me every story of his life growing up, trying to give those memories to me as quickly as he could because he had run out of time.

After he died, the autopsy showed his death, and lifetime of illness, was from Ischemic Heart Disease, a condition directly connected to his exposure to Agent Orange. My dad suffered all of his life with a heart condition and had been told, repeatedly by the VA, that it was from high cholesterol. They’d only ever given him 10% disability for his back from when he was blown off of a truck. He’d deserved so much more, but the rage that eats at me isn’t just about how he struggled financially because of medical bills and physically because of his ailing health. It’s the callous disregard for his service to his country, the blatant deception when he’d sought help from Veterans Affairs time after time, only to be told his condition was his own fault. And we know now that the toxin seeped into the DNA of the soldiers as well. I, too, carry the potential for the illnesses Agent Orange can cause. As do my children. As will their children.

It was with a kind of desperation that I turned to my writing again to deal with his death and all its implications. This led to starting a blog. To signing on as a submission reader at Fantasy Scroll Magazine. To becoming an advocate for the self-published. And finally, to finishing a book called A Ransom of Flames that I plan to self-publish in March. It’s not a silver lining. It could never be. But I believe in God and His way of leading us to paths we belong on, even when life’s cruelty makes it hard to take a single step.

Although my book is of a Fantasy world I created, my main characters are from a place much like Hawaii trying to cure a world afflicted by a Blight. The protagonists are not based on my family, but they struggle with anger and pain for a past that cannot be changed, just as we do.

There are many, many people I’m grateful to who encouraged and helped me along the way, my husband, mother, and betas to name a few. But at its heart, it was inspired by my dad.

This one is for you, Makua kane. I miss you and pray that you have returned to the islands of your youth, a place without pain, with clear, blue seas and shores that know nothing of war.

Lessons from the Crypt

Tags

Craft, Inspiration, NanoWriMo, Shakespeare, Speculative Fiction

Lately I’ve been reading Shakespeare again. I know what you’re thinking (Nerd!) but hear me out. After all, the guy was a speculative fiction author. Fairies, ghosts, witches, you’ll find all of these creatures in his work. And seriously, who doesn’t love Puck?

I also find reading him helps steady the cadence and structure of my writing. This might sound strange since it’s challenging just to understand what the hell characters in his plays are even saying, but it’s so worth the effort. There’s a reason why they call him the master.

It’s often taken for granted just how integrated certain lines from these stories are with the common vernacular. Many don’t realize they are actually quoting Shakespeare when they use them.  A few examples:

“Murder most foul.”

“The lady doth protest too much…”

“To sleep–perchance to dream.”

“All the world’s a stage…”

“This above all: to thine own self be true.”

“To be or not to be, that is the question.”

“The rest is silence.”

And this is only from Hamlet. So, why are they remembered so well? In a word: Simplicity. It’s what I notice most about his works. He uses simple words to convey weighty themes like love, grief, and betrayal. This is a good reminder as we approach NanoWriMo. It’s so easy to fall into purple prose with wildly uncommon word choices. We think we’re weaving poetry when really we’ve just wandered into metaphor mania.

Put the Thesaurus down and back away slowly

The puzzle of language has always held a fascination for me. It drove me to learn several languages. Those unknown vowel and consonant combinations would stare back at me like a wall I couldn’t see past. The curiosity to know what they said, unfiltered by translation, became a fire that consumed me. Living abroad, I was that student who’d randomly flip through the language dictionary just for the fun of learning new words. (Okay, go ahead and say it. — Nerd! — I know.)

Miraculous lines of code, that’s language, even if you speak only one. For the speculative fiction writer, it translates into a universe of worlds. Shakespeare did it with just twenty-six letters and he didn’t reach for complicated words to accomplish this, not even in some of those amazing soliloquies. One of my favorites — and I have many — is from Hamlet in the crypt, that moment he indulged in grief and frustration, when he wondered aloud if we put up with so much cruelty in life because the confrontation of it may consequent our deaths, and so through fear, we do nothing:

“…Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.”

*ecstatic shudder*

Proof that the lyrical and the memorable do not have to come from ten-letter words or complicated metaphors to be effective. Simplicity. It’s the lesson I continually learn.