Pearls My Mother Wore

     The first Monday of month has passed, which means I was with my Left Coast Writers group down in Marin at Book Passage (see links on my sidebar.)  LCW is one of the places I go to remind myself that I’m a writer.  It’s a social gathering/literary salon ripe with networking opportunities.  I’ve been a member for ten months now, and at every gathering I have extended myself beyond my comfort zone to speak to a stranger or near-stranger.  That shouldn’t be so hard, but to me, it’s a Homeric odyssey .  The group meets at 7 P.M. and usually goes to about 10:00-10:30.  Without exception, at every meeting, there is a voice in my head cooing words like, “Pajamas.  Slippers.  Cookies and milk.  Quiet.  Safe. Home.”  Way before I even get through the door, I’m tempted to turn around and forget the whole thing.  But I don’t, and I haven’t been sorry yet.

     The evening starts with a guest speaker, someone of note.  This month, because it’s National Poetry Month, we heard from Neeli Cherkovski.  I’m not all that keen on poetry, so I didn’t know of him, but what a great guy.  He was easily into his sixties, a wild-haired Beat Poet from the glory days of North Beach, San Francisco.  Before he got up to speak, he didn’t sit in the chair at the front of the room as much as he laid across it and the table next to him, like an indolent cat in a sunny window.  Once he was introduced and at the podium, he announced to the group that he was presently on his last day of unemployment insurance.  Frequently, he tugged at his hair, and when he did, I noticed that his pullover sweater was worn thru at the elbow.  His demeanor had that odd combination of groovy-mellow and frenetic-angst.

     He was good-friends with luminaries, Charles Bukowski and Lawrence Ferlinghetti.  Ferlinghetti was the founder of City Lights Books (1953) in North Beach, the first all-paperback bookstore in the country.  The bookstore is famous for supporting authors such as Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Denise Levertov, and William Carlos Williams.  And Charles Bukowski…well, here are a couple of his quotes:

“Some People never go crazy.  What truly horrible lives they must live.” 

Or,  “Sex is interesting, but it’s not totally important.  I mean it’s not even as important (physically) as excretion.  A man can go seventy years without a piece of ass, but he can die in a week without a bowel movement.”

And one more,  “There is a time to stop reading, there is a time to STOP trying to WRITE, there is a time to kick the whole bloated sensation of ART out on its whore-ass.”

     Cherkovski is the author of twelve books of poetry.  He read from about four of them, mostly love poems.  They were to men, but their homosexual nature had little baring on their meaning or the feelings they conveyed.  Occasional phases were truly beautiful, but I didn’t write them down, and now I can’t remember what they were.  He can be Googled.

     It was a pleasure for me to witness a serious writer who wasn’t all buttoned-up, corporate serious.  As a beginning writer, I see a lot of advice that scares my creative spirit to death: how to write what sells, how to pitch with flair, how to wow.  Cherkovski was none of that, and yet, I’ll never forget him.

     I’ll post again next Friday.  Have a great week!

     Several people have asked me if I’m going to submit my book to The Oprah Book Club.  Hey! That’s a great idea.  How?  It’s not like Ms Winfrey takes my calls regularly.  I went to the Oprah website and this is what it says:

Please be advised that The Oprah Winfrey Show no longer accepts unsolicited packages or fan mail. Additionally, Harpo Productions is not a publishing house or agency. Scripts or manuscripts will not be read, reviewed or returned.

I hope this is helpful. Please know we hope good things for you.

-HarpoBoard1, Oprah.com Community Moderator

     Not to be daunted, I found buried in another post from the Harpo staff a link for pitching a show idea.  Below is what I pitched.  It had to be less than 2000 characters including spaces with no compound words.

Overcoming illiteracy:  I did not read my first book until I was in my twenties.  Tackling this deficiency was not easy, but I was determined.  Now, I am almost fifty and proud to have a BA in English from Mills College, and I have written and self-published a novel: Pearls My Mother Wore. 

 As a young person, I was quiet and did not attract attention to myself.  As far as reading goes, I could phonetically garble through, but I could not pick meaning off the page.  I had no idea what all those words were saying. 

Recently, I have come to learn that a big part of my problem is field/ground perception.  For me, the white part of the page competes for my attention as much as the black letters.  Even today, it takes extra concentration for me to focus on the words.

There are so many people, young and old, who are functionally illiterate just as I was.  We look good, succeed in society, and we blend in, yet we either do not read at all or we take months and months to get through a book. 

I do volunteer work at Hanna Boys Center where I read one-on-one with students.  Without exception they tell me – I hate to read. I tell them – I am sure.  I hated to read too, when I did not know how.  It is great when I see a student have one of those ah-ha moments when the meaning light goes on.  Instead of marching through a string of vocabulary words, we will talk about what is there, and he will get it.  He will get the point, the mental picture, the big pay off that good readers get all the time.  When I hated to read, it was because I never got the big payoff.  Lurching through words was such a miserable task that comprehension was out of the question.  Having crossed over from being a non-reader to being a reader is like going from being a non-driver to being a driver.  You can get around, but you can not go very far, and it is just not that fun.

www.pearlsmymotherwore.com has my blog with more on this subject.

Thank you for your consideration.

     Wouldn’t that be a gas if I got through?  What are the odds?  Astronomical, but what the hell.

     It’s all good.  Have a great week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

     In 1977 when I began beauty college, we were taught that the ideal face shape was the oval.  Every hairstyle was arranged to frame and enhance that standard of perfection.

     Fortunately, by the time I graduated from beauty college, stylists Vidal Sassoon, Trevor Sorbie, and Paul Mitchell had broken that mold and were showing the world a new standard of beauty.  With them, often a hairstyle would be designed to accentuate the unique features in a face rather than camouflage them.  Hallelujah!  Variety is the spice of life.  There’s nothing wrong with ovals, but diamonds, squares, and hearts are also nice.

     When it came time to craft a press release for the novel, I struggled.  Pearls My Mother Wore is a story worth telling, but I’m one of the least likely people to have written it.  I’m a bit of  a square in the world of oval press releases.  It would be easier if I had a long list of credentials, literary accomplishments, or endorsements to tout, but I don’t.

     To the rescue – Cary Tennis - my friend and the Vidal Sassoon of press release writing.  See the handy link to his Salon.com column on my sidebar.

     With a sigh of relief (release) because I don’t have to feel like I’m presenting something I’m not, I share with you my press release:

From Illiterate to Published Author

Hairdresser / novelist 

Sonoma, CA  March, 2010 – I told Terry Sue Harms that I would help her write a press release but I would rather just tell you why I think her novel has merit even though she was illiterate into her 20s and is a hairdresser without an MFA. 

Ruth Henrich of Salon.com said that her hairdresser had written a novel and she thought I might be able to help her. 

So I met with Terry and copy-edited her novel for her. I corrected spelling and grammar mistakes. I made whole sentences out of run-ons and fragments.  I also made one structural suggestion — that she begin the novel where it begins today, with the protagonist returning home after the funeral of her husband and collapsing on the floor. 

What I find admirable about this work is its untutored fidelity to internal phenomena, a fidelity that is at times clumsy but is also fierce and unrelenting.  There are many ways to express grief, anger and revelation. A writer tutored in an MFA program might create a many-layered, lacquered sheen of grief, anger and revelation. What Terry has done, it seems to me, is make a large, true-to-life, lumbering monster of grief, anger and revelation. The monster has been made crudely but with the great loyalty of an innocent. What Terry seems to have done, and what interests me, is surrender herself to the material of consciousness that arrived unbidden, and she has done her best to be faithful to that. 

From a literary aesthetic point of view, there are some “mistakes” in this novel. There are things that you might “wince” at if you are a sophisticated reader. But there is also something I find rare in contemporary fiction, which is the sense of a writer going naked into the war-torn field of her own dreams and traumas and reporting as best she can the truths about herself that she finds there. 

So you might find this novel fraught with evidence of a beginner at work. She is indeed a beginner. She was, indeed, illiterate until she was in her 20s. 

And I did work with Terry on this book and she did pay me money to work with her on this book. My wife designed this book and Terry did pay her money to do that.

But I am not really being paid to publicize this book. Terry was going to pay me to write a press release but I decided I ought to just say what I think. And this is what I think.

 I hope you will take a look at this book and say what you think about it.

     And now, I send it out and see what happens.  I’ll keep you posted.  See you with next Friday’s installment.

     In my last post I raved about the Steven Pressfield book, The War of Art.  In it, under the heading Resistance and Love, he writes, “The opposite of love isn’t hate; it’s indifference.”

     Indifference, being ignored, given the silent treatment, snubbed — these passive acts of hostility are generally, in my case, more perceived than real; nevertheless, it’s the first thing I think when I’m not being responded to in the timely fashion I expect.  Currently, several of my novel related phone messages and e-mails have not been answered.  This makes me crazy.  Clearly, I’m not a top priority.  Rats!  I hate not being number one.  What can I say, I’m a Leo, or is that just being human?  At any rate, I know full-well that I’m insatiable when it comes to getting attention — positive attention preferred.   No amount will ever be enough.  Let’s face it,  I’m an attention glutton.

     The question then becomes, What am I going to do about it?

     The answer?  Stop it.  Stop expecting people to perform to my little script.

     It helps to stay in the moment, and here is an example of one recent, most gratifying moment.  I do volunteer work one day a week at a local all-boys, reform school — Hanna Boys Center.  It’s a residential, certified high school.  Their tagline is: “Where hurt is turned into hope.”  I read one-on-one with the students.  Because I couldn’t read as a kid, I have a particular sensitivity to where they’re missing the author’s point.  We talk about what is being said and how it may pertain to their own experiences.  Three of the Hanna boys attended my book launch: Alejandro, Darrell, and Robbie.  Four days later, I was reading Animal Farm with Alejandro, a two-hundred-plus pound, sixteen year old, gang escapee.  In the middle of his reading, unsure of exactly how to ask, shy but trying to appear tough, he said, “So Miss,” that’s how the boys often refer to me or any of the female staff, “So Miss, how long it take you to write that?”

     He wanted to know because he was thinking about trying to write something of his own.  I believe I got his attention and made an impression.  He got my attention.  No indifference, lots of love.

     Have a good week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

     P.S.  If you have any thoughts to share, I love to read them in the comment box.

     Not much has happened this week with the book except I’m selling copies, and I’m considering this second author portrait over the orange sweater shot I posted earlier.  It’s more casual but maybe a little more interesting.  What do you think?

     My friend Rita, in Arkansas, recommended a life altering read for me last week:  The War of Art by Steven Pressfield.  The writing is inspired and the book is a must for any person who has tried to create something new, whether it be a novel, a painting, a business, or an exercise program, anything where the voice of resistance has had an opportunity to stall the endeavor out.  The war is between life-affirming creative energy (inspiration) and withering forces of inertia.  This book pulled my covers.  It helped me recognize where I have been justifying the fact that I’m not getting to work on another creative writing project, and what I need to do about it: write!  And that’s write because I’m a writer, period.  What I write, and where it goes is none of my concern.  All I need to do is recognize that I get enough out of the writing process to sustain me, and doing it enhances my life.  It’s life-affirming for me to honor the gift of words that come to me.  It’s the force of inertia that tells me to do it some other day.  The battle is constant, so says Pressfield, but the creative side gets stronger with every victory, with every action I take to honour the creative.

   Honouring creativity is one thing, and feeding it is another.  Yesterday I had a brilliant feed-my-creativity day.  It was the best!  Everything about it was wonderful, starting with the glorious spring sunshine.  I drove an hour down to Berkeley, CA, across the sparkling San Francisco Bay, to a great destination spot, Fourth Street.  I went in search of the world’s best music store, Down Home Music.  Turns out, the fashionable Fourth Street location didn’t pay off for them, and they had moved back to their original location in El Cerrito.  No worries, EC was on my route back home. 

While on Forth Street though, I had lunch at the most, no exaggeration, fabulous Indian Chatt café and grocery, Vic’s.  It has got to be one of the hippest places on earth — delicious, lively, international, cheep.

After lunch I headed to El Cerrito.  EC has a lot of meaning for me since I lived there for a number of years when I was a kid.  It’s gotten much cooler over these last thirty-plus years.  Well, part of the deal may be that I wasn’t cool enough back then to patronize Down Home Music, even though they were there.  Down Home Music is also the home of the Arhoolie record label. Check out their link on my sidebar.  Walking in the store made my heart leap with joy, OMG an independent music store!  The place is packed with, get this, un-staged merchandise.  Racks are categorized, but they’re not arranged with slick posters and signage.  The posters, album jackets, and music memorabilia are honest-to-god originals.  The store specializes in “historical Blues, Jazz, Gospel, Soul, Cajun, Zydeco, Country, Old-Timey, Bluegrass, Folk, Mexican and Tex-Mex, Cuban, Balkan, British, European, African, Caribbean, and other musical varieties from around the world.” 

I was so in love, I bough sixteen CD’s.  One I would have bought even if it didn’t also include sensational music.  This John Santos Quintet: Perspectiva Fragmentada has two extraordinary quotes that alone made it worth the sale price:

1) “The artist must choose between freedom and slavery.” – Paul Robeson 

2) And my favorite, “It is no sign of good health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.” – J. Krishnamurti

Hallelujah, no joke, what a gem of a store; it was a great day!

I’ll post again next Friday – have a great week.

     I was asked to submit a 1000 word essay about my decision to self-publish to the Road Works blog for the Left Coast Writer’s club I belong to.  We meet at Book Passage in Corte Madera/Marin, CA the first Monday of the month to hear a guest speaker and then network the rest of the evening.  Book Passage is an amazing bookstore that provides extraordinary support to authors by way of clubs, classes and workshops, writing conferences, author events, and much more.

Here’s what I wrote:

My 180

     Now that my novel, Pearls My Mother Wore, is on the market, I’m satisfied that self-publishing was the right path for me to take, but four years ago when I started writing, I felt certain that I’d go the traditional route.  I tried not to think too much about a publisher while I was writing because I just wanted to get my story on paper.  It didn’t make much sense to get worked up over a publisher when the novel hadn’t been written yet.  But while I toiled and massaged the words into a satisfying novel, I’d occasionally drift into a fantasy of being taken under the wing of one of the venerated publishing house.  I imagined the acknowledgement page in my beautifully, hardbound book where I would thank a team of folks who had worked tirelessly to shepherd my novel into the world.  Together we would have tackled all of the behind the scenes aspects of literary success: contracts, manufacturing, marketing, placement, touring, reviews, awards, etc.  I would be taken care of.  I would be part of a team.

     With a completed and well polished manuscript in hand, I sent off the first chapter to my number-one pick for a literary agent.  I was elated when that agent replied that I should send the entire manuscript.  A few weeks later I got a call from that agent saying something to the effect of “Congratulations, you’ve written a really good novel.  I’ve got to go to New York, but when I get back we’ll get together to discuss how to present it to publishers.”  I was over the moon, the agent of my choice, first time out, I was golden! 

     Two weeks later, I got an e-mail taking it all back.  I don’t know what happened in New York, but the e-mail basically said that times had never been harder to sell fiction, and my work wasn’t good enough to try.  That was tough, especially after bragging to all of my friends that I’d reached this amazing milestone.

     I took a few weeks to digest and consider my next move.  During that time, I was soothed by a number of agents/publishing tales of woe that made mine pale by comparison.  The establishment wasn’t looking so great.  Writers seemed to experience dozens of rejection letters, if they were lucky.  It was accepted practice to be totally ignored.  I was cautioned about contractual traps that could leave me empty-handed.  Even if I made it in,  I was told not to expect any concentrated editing efforts.  I wouldn’t be allowed to design the book cover.  I couldn’t set the price.  I wouldn’t be able to control the release date.  I would have to create and fund my own book tour.  Marketing Platforms, I get it about marketing platforms, but the hustle/reward ratio seemed heavily slanted in the publishing house’s favor.  I do most of the work, agent and publisher collect most of the profit.  At least this is how I heard it in casual conversations.  

     All of this presented a heart-sinking dilemma — continue to pursuit other agents in the hopes that they could find me a publisher, or go it alone, self-publish.  My 180 came when I acknowledged that everything about the writing phase had been fun.  I enjoyed the classes I took, the people I met, and the deep emotional places my story took me to.  Writing had enriched my life and was incredibly rewarding.  So why, I asked myself, in the eleventh hour, would I want to subject my positive writing experience to such an ego bruising?  The answer was, I wouldn’t, and I didn’t have to.  Self-publishing had come a long way during the years that had passed, and it was absolutely a viable option.

      I did a little more work on the novel, hired an editor to make sure it was as clean as it could be, my husband and I designed the cover art, I worked with a book designer to put everything together in the most profession looking layout, and off it went to Lulu.com for self-publishing.  It was the perfect solution.  I don’t have the iron-clad self-esteem it takes to go the other way.  Chasing and courting complete strangers in the established publishing world had a little, “Are you my daddy?  Are you my daddy?” feel to it.  I guess I gave up before even trying, a case of “contempt prior to investigation.”

      What self-publishing has done for me is it has allowed me to hold and share my book.  I’ve been immersed in writing Pearls My Mother Wore for the past four years, my family and friends wanted to read it.  I continue to have great enthusiasm for my characters and the plot, and I have plenty of energy to do my own promoting.  I get to do that in my own way, on my own time, and I don’t have to worry about answering for any quotas, and as a print-on-demand operation, I’m not haunted by thousands of unsold books. 

      Lulu didn’t require any up-front money, and in some ways, you get what you pay for.  The customer service was seriously lacking.  When problems loading my PDF arose, it was like writing to an ATM and asking for tens instead of twenties.  My help e-mails were answered with pre-made, generic solutions that didn’t apply.  The fix required several re-downloads, several test-copy orders, and several agonizing weeks.  My other complaint is that the paper stock for the cover is pretty flimsy; the glue binding seems to be holding up well though.  Live and learn.

     If I had to do it again, I would try another self-publishing company, but I’d still go that route if I had to.  I don’t actually know what working with a traditional publisher would be like.  I’m holding out hope that sales of Pearls My Mother Wore become so impressive that they do a 180 and come courting me.

     Thanks for reading, thanks for commenting, see you next Friday.

     I’m telling you, Sunday evening was a blast!  I had a celebration for the production of my novel: Pearls My Mother Wore.  So many of my friends came out to support this four-year effort.  I couldn’t have asked for more.  Everybody seemed to enjoy themselves, and I concluded the evening with achy cheeks from smiling so much.  I talked a little about how the novel had come to be, I read a short passage, and then I finished with a few words about self-publishing.  I went to bed that night with absolutely no regrets; I hadn’t bombed. 

     And then Wednesday, I gave my first interview.  My friend Tammie Casis is writing a blog called “The Waiting Room.”  It is where writers will be able to talk about all the different waiting phases involved in writing: waiting for inspiration, waiting for reviews, waiting to hear back, waiting to get paid, etc.  She asked a few questions, and I talked away while she took rapid notes.  I think I was her first interviewee.  Once her blog is up and running, I will add a link here.

    The not-so high came yesterday when I learned I hadn’t made it through to the next round of eliminations in the Amazon contest.    See: “My First Contest.”  I thought I had a chance.  I’m not going to let the fact that I didn’t get this first nod discourage me.  Maybe it was a bit of a lottery ticket anyway.  I mean, how closely could they have read five thousand manuscripts in seventeen days?  Congratulations to the two thousand authors that made it through.

     It’s true that my ego would enjoy eye-popping literary recognition as much as anyone, but it’s also true that, in my heart, I believe showing up for my creativity is an absolute,  life-affirming, reward in itself.

     Happy to be on the path, and see you next Friday.

     I was talking to my friend Carol yesterday, and she told me something I had never heard before.  Carol studied and has specialized in learning disabilities.  When I told her that I couldn’t read as a child and didn’t read my first book until I was in my twenties, she was suprised and curious.  She asked me just a few questions, and in less than five minutes, she explained to me that my problem was related to Figure-ground perception, and I think she’s right. 

     I got through school without this ever being detected.  I would look at a page of words and not know where to focus.  I understood that sentences begin with the first word, but still my perception was overwhelmed by the entire page.  I couldn’t easily separate the black letters from the white background.  The white space competed for my attention as much as the black letters. 

     This is all making so much sense to me.  I compensated for this deficiency by becoming a good listener.

     It was only through shear will and determination that I was able to teach myself how to read when I was a young adult in my early twenties.  Even so, it still takes great concentration to track words against a page.  If somebody happens to hand me a card or a comic strip or even a menu, something that requires a quick read, I go blank.  It’s strange, but I’m use to it.  I have to focus intently before I can grasp what’s written.  In those quick instances, it usually helps if I read outloud what’s in front of me.

   I’m still turning this diagnosis over in my mind, but I find it fascinating and enlightening.  What really amazes me is that I broke through.  Where did I get the determination to read, then go to college, and then finally manage to write a complete novel?  Pearls My Mother Wore has been a long time coming.  I truly feel as though I have been the recipient of a miracle.

This famous illustration demonstrates field-ground perception.  Do you see a vase, or two faces in profile?

See you next Friday, and please use the “comments” link to share your thoughts on this topic or anything else you care to add.

   So I broke down and hired a professional photographer to get this head-shot, apparently a requirement, and I’m glad I did.  On Wednesday, I tried to take some pictures of myself using the automatic timer on the camera.  My thinking was that alone I could stay relaxed and not make a pained “Smile” picture.  The process was hilarious and ridiculous at the same time.  I’d set the camera for where I thought I’d be sitting, press the tiny timer button, jump over to my assumed spot, and wait for the picture to take.  Then I’d investigate the shot in the camera’s review mode.  Several times I wasn’t even in the picture.  And when I did manage to position myself in the frame, I looked anything but relaxed.  After an hour of this, I 911ed an actor friend and asked her for a referral.  Adrian Hyman is the professional photographer here in Sonoma that she recommended.  He took this shot.  We had a great time together.  He put me at ease completely.  Lesson 1,150: use trusted professional.  Thank you Adrian!

    To follow-up on last Friday’s post, I’ve decided to ”unfriend” facebook for now.  I just can’t get my head in that game.  I understand that it’s a great networking sight, but that’s mostly social networking.  I’m eager to network with readers, but not in facebook, digg, twitter, my space, big tent, linkedln, or any of the dozens of groups that are now out there.  That’s for a different bread of cat.  This blog feels like the right “social media” site for me.  If Pearls My Mother Wore should take off like wildfire in the young adult crowd, then I might reconsider.  But for now, this space is really beginning to feel homey.

     See you next Friday.      Stop by for a “comment” or two, will you?  Sincerely, Terry Sue

     This week I entered Pearls My Mother Wore in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Contest.  On February 25th I’ll find out if I’ve made it through the first round of eliminations.  2000 titles will be selected out of 5000 entrants.  There are four rounds of eliminations until June 14th when the winner will be announced.  I’ll post at the end of the month if I’ve made it into the quarterfinals.  The winner receives a contract with Penguin Books and a $15,000 advance.  That would be cool.

    I stumbled on the Amazon contest when I was noodling around the internet looking for how to get Pearls reviewed by the New York Times.  It turns out they don’t touch self-published work, sigh.  I suspect that will change before not too long.  Self-publishing is too big for a group like the New York times to stay away. 

     In the meantime, I’m working on exposure.  It has been strongly suggested, a number of times, that I get a “Fan Page” started in Facebook.  I’m gonna do it.  In fact I have already tried once, but I didn’t know what I was doing, so I deactivated the account.  I’m going to give it another try next week.  Wish me luck! 

     See you next Friday for my weekly post.