Pearls My Mother Wore

We had 111 trick-or-treaters on Halloween.  Lutrell passed out candy while I stood behind him counting the number of children holding their sacks out.  Last year we had 55 kids, and in both 2007 and ’08 we had 79 little ones show up.  Typically, the costumed crowd starts ringing the doorbell around 6:00 and then dwindles off by 8:30.  On our calendar, I mark down the year, when the evening started and ended, and the number of children who came by.  I don’t know anyone else who keeps Halloween records like I do, so I think that makes me a little odd.  My fascination with trick-or-treater statistics is not all that different from people who keep weather or sports stats; I enjoy them as harmless conversation factoids.

For me, children on Halloween is must see reality.  It’s a good couple of hours of pure entertainment.  Watching their little expressions, a mixture of fear, joy, anticipation, wonder, and even gratitude cracks me up.  It’s the job of little people to gather candy on Halloween night, and they do it with such commendable determination.  I thoroughly enjoy seeing them, even the bigger ones.

Early in the day, as we’ve done every year we’ve been together, Lutrell and I carved our pumpkins.  Can you guess which one is mine?

Even earlier in the day, we went for a mountain bike ride, and I received many smiles and nods from the folks who saw my festooned handlebars.

It’s not unusual to think of a fiscal year as ending on December 31st or, in some accounting circles, June 30th.  They’re final wrap-up days that end one 12 month block of time and start another.  October 31st is that threshold for me;  I don’t pay taxes according it, but it does give me a significant cross-over feeling.  Getting a lot of sweets-seeking children at Halloween is like checking the last Profit and Loss Statement for the year and discovering I’m in the black.  It makes me happy and optimistic about the future.

Come November 1st, I’ll take whatever optimism I can get because just ahead are three of my least favorite days: Thanks Giving,  Christmas, and New Years Eve.  Facing down the tanker-truck loads of expectations and resentments  that come with those three holidays is hard work.  Having my year end at Halloween means that I can start the new 12 month cycle on a predictable  low note, but then I have 10 months to recover, ending on a predictable Halloween high note.  See?  My 12 month trajectory aims up instead of down, and I prefer it that way.

So everyone, Happy New Year!

I’ll post again next Friday.  In the meantime, enjoy the week.

24 mile ride along the Mohawk fire road

One of many lakes on the Round Lake Loop

Sure-footed trek

Round Lake at Sunset

Sierra Buttes Resort in Sierra City, CA

I’ve been home for a week, but I’m still in vacation mode.  I’m going about my business as if there is no rush.  I’m eating as if I was hiking and biking all day, and I’m staying up late reading, then struggling to wake up early.

I’ve got to scoot to work right now since I’m making up for lost hours while out of town.  For every vacation, there is an equal and opposite un-vacation.  I’ll post more tonight.

***

O.K.  I’m back.  It’s 9:30 P.M.

As you can see, the vacation to Sierra City was delightful.  We had great weather and enjoyed that marvelous combination of clear sunshine with brisk air.  We stayed at a favorite spot, The Sierra Buttes Resort.  That sounds hoity-toity, but it’s not.  It’s actually great quality, unpretentious lodging at affordable rates.  Google them.  The collection of small knotty-pine cabins are clean, comfortable, and nicely appointed.  Mike and Lindy, the owners couldn’t be nicer people.  They genuinely care about their guests and make everybody feel welcomed almost like family.  I gave Lindy a copy of Pearls My Mother Wore for their guest library.  She was reading it and seemed to be enjoying the story very much when we checked out.  It was funny when she reminded me that I had named Grayson’s employers Mike and Lindy.  I gave them different last names, of course, but I had completely forgotten those characters when I gifted the book.  How crazy is that to forget your own characters?

Just before leaving on vacation, I also gifted a copy of Pearls to a college professor I had while at Mills.  She’s no longer there, but their alumnae services helped to point me in the right direction for finding her.  Her classes where fantastic.  She was able to bring some of the most impenetrable 19 century American literature to life.  I remember her explaining that some writing was dense for a reason, so if we just stuck with it, it would be worth it.  And she was right.  Giving her a copy of Pearls My Mother Wore was a token of gratitude.  I had to think she would appreciate hearing (18 years later) that she had made a lasting impression in this student’s life.  Certainly, I hope she likes my novel, but that aside, I know she’s happy for me, and that feels great.

I can’t remember if back in March I mentioned that I had entered Pearls in “The 18th Annual Writer’s Digest International Self-Published Book Award.”   I had to send a copy of the novel plus $125.  They said that the winners would be announced in October.  So, today was the last business day of October, and I haven’t heard anything.  I’ve gone to their website and nothing is posted.  I’m not feeling too lucky at this point.  I would have thought the $125 would have at least bought me a “We’re sorry” letter.  I’ll let you know if I hear anything.

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

The question is whether I should pay $150 to have my novel listed in a brand new, quarterly supplement being produced by Publishers Weekly Magazine.  PW is a highly regarded trade magazine for literary agents, publishers, booksellers, media, librarians, and pretty much anybody who has an interest in the world of books.  PW, with their supplemental insert, is conceding to the fact that self-publishing is currently too big to ignore.

Here is their offer’s opening sentence:  “In recognition of the boom in self-publishing and as an acknowledgment that valuable works are being published outside traditional publishing, PW is giving self-published authors a chance to present their titles to the publishing trade.”

Is it me, or is that a little offensive?

Isn’t it saying:  “Here’s your chance to let us make money off of you”?

In April of 2010, the New York Times published an article by Virginia Heffernan titled: The Rise of Self Publishing.  Heffernan stated that in 2009 Bowker (issuers of ISBNs – International Standard Book Numbers) had issued 764,448 ISBNs to self-publishers and micro publishers vs. 288,355 to traditional publishers such as Random House.

PW isn’t exactly embracing self-publishers as much as they’re embracing their dollars.  $150 times more than 764 thousand authors, hello mama!  O.K.  Sure, not every self-published author is going to want to be listed in this new quarterly, but you surely can see the potential for amazing money.

The deal is sweetened by the promise that 25 of the titles submitted for the quarterly will actually be pulled for a bona fide review by staff at PW.  So then it becomes an odds game.  If 100 manuscripts are submitted then the odds of getting a professional review are not great, but not horrible either.  If 100,000 manuscripts are submitted, then that’s a bona fide long shot.

Every week I get a colorful envelope in the mail that contains coupons for discounts at local businesses: oil change, carpet cleaning, dog grooming, etc.  It goes straight from the mailbox to the trash while I grumble about wasted paper.  Is that what’s going to happen to this PW supplement?  How likely is it really that any of the book biz notables are ever going to lay eyes on my $150 worth of ink?  When was the last time you perused the phone book just to see if something interesting was in it?  Is the supplement going to get anything more than the most cursory glance?

But what if it is taken seriously, even if only by a few, or just one person?  Then, I think I want to be in it.  The PW website says they have over 80, 000 readers from across the literary spectrum.  Maybe a couple of those folks do actually read the magazine from cover to cover and love the supplements.  I don’t know.  Maybe.  Will $150 break my bank?  No.  But I don’t part with that amount of hard-earned cash without some serious thought to value.  I have doubts that this magazine insert carries any value at all.

Oh, I just don’t know.  I have until 10/31 to make up my mind.

I’ll be missing next Friday’s post, but I’ll write on the following Friday 10/29,  Have a great next two weeks!

Mills Hall October 2, 2010

Worth a closer look

Mills Alumnae Writers' Salon - not the best picture, but you get the idea

Saturday I returned to Mills College where I got my Bachelor’s degree in English.  I graduated in 1992, and it’s been almost that long ago since I was last on campus.  I was excited to see that the English department is now housed in this grand old building.  Mills Hall was originally erected in 1871.  Sometimes I wonder if I should take this writing thing more seriously and pursuit an MFA there.  Ugg!

Moving on, I’d like to say that I met a wonderful woman at the writers’ salon.  Gilena Simons was seated next to me, there presenting her memoir: “A Life Imagined.”  Perhaps the organizers put us together because of our subject matter.  While my widow is fiction, Gilena unfortunately lived through the sudden and unexpected death of her husband (from a brain aneurysm) in 1998, when they were 28 years old.  She couldn’t have been more vivacious, embracing me in thrilled amazement that we had both  written about the death of a deeply beloved husband and how that triggered coming to terms with the realities of a pathologically narcissistic mother.

Her memoir is, in fact, a love letter to her husband.  “A life Imagined” explains how Gilena was able to move forward, despite crushing grief, to embrace a life her loving husband would have wanted for her.

We have both confronted the stark contrasts between selfish and selfless love.  Treading on the sanctity of motherhood is risky business where sometimes “it takes one to know one.”  I totally get where she’s coming from.  She hasn’t read Pearls My Mother Wore yet, but she has a copy.  I hope she finds my fiction as validating as I found her memoir.

We are now Facebook friends.  Although she lives in Southern California, I’m happy to have her as a new friend.  We’ve exchanged reference titles that had helped us on our respective journeys.  She suggested I read “Will I Ever Be Good Enough” by Dr. Karly McBride, which I’m currently in the middle of and getting a lot out of.  And I told her about “Understanding the Borderline Mother” by Dr. Christine Lawson.

Looking forward, tomorrow I’ll be participating in something that is being called an “Open Floor” at 7 P.M. inside Book Passage in Marin.  Newly published authors have been invited to sit and share their experiences with publishing in today’s market.  There will be a Q & A session, wine, cake and other goodies, and an overall festive literary vibe.  It’s open to anyone who would like to attend, so please come and bring friends.  This is where anyone who is intrigued by authorship and/or publishing could have their questions addressed, if not answered.  It can’t be said enough, Book Passage is on the writer’s side.  They do everything they can think of to support writers.  Big Thank yous to all who work there.

Book Passage is the last event on my literary calendar, unless…one thing will lead to another, as has been the case all along.

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

Clo puts her hooves up to enjoy a little Pearls My Mother Wore in comfort.

Snoopy couldn't wait to start reading Pearls My Mother Wore.

If you build it, they will come.  Last Saturday at the Sonoma County Book Festival my friend Tami and I were the source of “tent envy.”  Tami works for Wine Country Party Supplies, and they were the lead sponsors for the whole book festival.  When the company found out Tami was presenting her book, Crystal Bound, they outfitted our 10′ x10′ booth in style.  We certainly stood out in the crowd.  Did that translate into big sales?  No.  But it was fun all the same.  We might have done better if it hadn’t been over 100 degrees out.

Tomorrow I’ll be a part of another author event.  Mills College in Oakland, my alma mater, is hosting a “Writers’ Salon.”  Mills alumnae with published works were invited to attend.  Every year the college puts on a three day event that includes the ceremonial start of the new academic year (Convocation) and special recognition of past classes, this year being those ending in 0 or 5 starting with 1935.  For the class of 1960, this will be their 50th reunion, and they will be fêted as “Golden Girls.”

The graduating class of 1990, the year I started, will also hold special honors.  It was then that students went on a historic strike to preserve the all-female distinction for undergraduates.  The School wanted to expand enrollment to include men, but the student body presented a powerful and united front against the idea, and they prevailed.

Honestly, at the time, I was hanging on for my academic dear life and had no surplus energy for conflict and protests.  In the two years that I attended Mills I never missed a class; I was terrified of falling behind.  I’m grateful to the people who sacrificed classroom instruction for their long-term vision and commitment to women’s education.  For all of the unisex institutions of higher learning, it still amazes me that a small number of woman’s colleges have remained.

I’ll be arriving at the event early enough to take some time to wander around the absolutely beautiful campus, visit old classrooms and see the new buildings that have been erected since my 1992 graduation.  I’m looking forward to sitting with published alumnae and greeting the guests who attend the “Writer’s Salon.”  Although many Mills graduates have attained much and even hold celebrity status, if they’re not wearing a larger-than-life costume, I probably won’t know who they are.  That’s a good thing because it will keep my humble and happy.

Until next Friday when I’ll post again, have a great week.

My Punk Rock phase ; )

In Punk parlance, I was, for the most part, “a poseur.”   This is me before my college education, before marriage, before I became a writer.  It’s from a time when fun was measured by how many risks were taken, how much alcohol was consumed, and how many laws were broken.  It was taken almost 30 years ago.

I was a D-list Punk Rocker.  The real, A-list Punks were way more extreme than I ever was.  I saw the real ones as extremely lawless but also extremely intelligent.  They screamed lyrics concerning social and political matters with supreme confidence and a brazen disregard for conventional musicality.  They seemed fully versed in both historic and current world affairs.  Their humor was brilliantly sardonic.  Their visual aesthetic, from head to toe, was wildly original.  They challenged the status quo not with peace signs and flower-power but with leather, spikes, chains, and the threat of anarchy.

Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Dead Kennedys, The Clash, The Sex Pistols, The Ramones: these were my role models.  They made an art form of Do It Yourself (DIY) recordings.  No apologies.  No excuses.  They didn’t ask for permission, and they didn’t care if you liked it.  But we liked it.

Those iconoclasts, if not paved the way, they at least cleared the path that makes my going a little easier.  As a self-published author, it’s that early Punk spirit that gives me the pluck to persevere.  Agents, publishers, editors, marketing departments, manufacturers, accountants, lawyers, reviewer, and booksellers can all get between the writer and the reader.  Or, I can do it myself.  For those in the know, the establishment, my efforts may appear a bit on the raw side, but I remind myself that I dig the raw side; it’s in my roots.  So I’m good.

Tomorrow, I’ll be at The Sonoma County Book Festival in Santa Rosa’s Old Courthouse Square talking-up Pearls My Mother Wore.  My fellow self-published author, Tami Casais, and I will be in our booth from 10:00-4:00.  It’ll be interesting to me if there’s much of a difference between our presentation and that of authors who are under the care of well-known publishers.  I’ll be sure to post pictures in next Friday’s blog.

Oh, and on the sidebar to the right, where my web address link is, you can go to my website and click on “Press Release/Reviews” to see some of the great reviews I got on Amazon.  You can post your own review by going to Amazon.com, search “Pearls My Mother Wore,” then click on the gold stars and proceed.  The more reviews and gold stars the better it is for the book.  Because of the recent review activity, I now see that the search box is feeding in my title before it’s all the way typed in, that’s new.  Thanks to everybody for your efforts.

Have a great week, and embrace your inner Punk.

This past Monday was the first day of the writers’ support group I’ve initiated at our local bookstore, Readers’ Books.  I’m calling the group WORDer, because similar to bird lovers who seek, discover, and enjoy birds (birders) I hope similar wonder and discovery over words will infuse this group.  I sent out a local e-mail saying, “Whether you are currently writing or simply curious about what might happen if you tried, this group is for you.”  I limited the group size to ten, and on Monday, we had six.  One more person may join us next Monday.  The group is scheduled to meet for six consecutive Mondays.  At that time, we can vote to continue or fold.

WORDer is not a class.  I’m not a teacher.  What I am is enthusiastic about the written word and a champion for the democracy of voice.  As the host of this support group, I hope to offer encouragement to those of us who write in the shadows, doubting our literary credentials.  We all have something to say.  For most of us, it’s scary to put our thoughts and opinions on a page.  The old, “Who do you think you are?” assault can obliterate the most innocent of statements.  Getting beyond the head chatter that demands justification for the slightest creative expression is an enormous challenge.  “Who do you think you are?” and “What right do you have to …?”  are creativity killers.  The anecdote: a support group.

This support group, WORDer, was inspired by a blogging group I use to write with.  Our expressed feedback consisted of what we liked, what we remembered, and what stood out.  Through reverse engineering, so to speak, I was able to build entertaining stories without trampling all over my little creative spirit.

We called our blog, “A Writer is Someone Who Writes.”  Do I need to say, “period?”  Because, a writer is someone who writes, period.  It took a while for me to accept that as truth.  Somewhere, I got the notion that writers had to have read every book on the planet, have PhD’s, be masters of grammar and punctuation, be well connected, and basically be everything I am not.

Today however, I consider myself  a writer because I write.  Good writing is my goal, but not my God.  I simply show up for the production piece, and when I get out of my own head-tripping ways, God takes care of the quality.

As always, I truly hope you have a good week, and I’ll post again next Friday.

Book affairs concern a big favor I have to ask.  I just realized that Amazon Book Reviews are a very good thing to have.  My big request is… would everyone who has read and enjoyed Pearls My Mother Wore go to Amazon and write a few (or a lot) of words praising the book?

Here is what you’d have to do:

Go to Amazon.com

Search for Pearls My Mother Wore

Click on the gold stars

Click on “See all reviews”

Click on “Create your own review”

Then the rest is up to you.  You will have my eternal gratitude.  Those gold star rankings and reader reviews could help get me and the novel noticed by a much broader audience.

Now for the fun.  Lutrell and I went down the Pacific Coast for a couple of nights over the Labor Day weekend and stayed at a place called Coastanoa.  It’s about an hour south of San Francisco, and the property is surrounded by three State Parks to the east and the Pacific ocean on the west side of Hwy 1.  The lodge has a very Zen quality about it, which was lovely, but they fell a little short of being fabulous.  Google it if you’re interested.  What was fabulous was all of the outdoor activities we enjoyed.

Since pictures tell the story so well, here are a few that Lutrell took:

Sail Surfing

Pigeon Point Lighthouse

Mighty Pacific with lighthouse in the distance

Mountain biking behind Coastanoa into Butano State Park

Up Gazos Creek Road, 18 miles of lush forest splendor!

Back to the beach

I Hope you’ve enjoyed this pictorial essay.  All is good.  I’ll post again next Friday.  Have a great week.

Like everywhere, school is back in session for the guys at Hanna Boys Center where I’m a volunteer.  There’s something wonderfully grounding about the beginning of a new school year.  It’s a fresh start, a clean slate.  There’s a hunkering down for the long educational haul ahead, and there’s a sense of renewed commitments to learning.  At least that’s the rosy way I see it.  The students?  Maybe not so much with the optimistic outlook.  Did I hear a collective groan of dread?

I find people often misunderstand what HBC is.  It’s not a juvenile detention center.  It’s a residential, fully accredited, Catholic high school for troubled boys. The students who attend must advocate for themselves to get in the doors.  They’re not court appointed.  It’s that self-advocacy that makes all the difference when it comes to their attitudes.  Not that they’re all thrilled to be there, but they’re willing to try.  The school’s tag line is, “Where hurt is turned into hope.”  And it is that noble mission statement that makes me so proud to be a part of the campus activities.

What I do is read individually with the ones who are having the most difficulty.  Because I struggled so much with reading as a child and young adult, I have a rather keen sense of where the guys stumble.  I know what it is to plod through a row of word and never get what’s being said.  It’s my job to slow them down so they can catch the meaning of a sentence, a paragraph, the story.

One of my best examples of this came when I was reading Born On a Blue Day with one of the boys.  It’s a memoir written by Daniel Tammet, an autistic savant.  His gift with numbers had landed him a spot on The David Letterman Show.  Tammet was describing his trip to New York and walking around Times Square.  When I asked my student if he knew what Times Square was, he said, “No.”  He could read the word “Times,” and he could read the word “Square,” but he hadn’t made the connection in the story.  So I asked him to take a guess.  He guessed that Times Square had something to do with math.  Of course he would think that; the whole story up to that point had been about the importance of numbers and numerical calculations in the author’s life.  “Times” tables, “Square” roots, that’s math.  When I told the student that it was the place where they drop that huge crystal ball at midnight on New Years Eve, his face lit up with instant recognition, and he exclaimed, “Oh, that place that looks like Tokyo?”  Yes!  Exactly!  And we gave each other high fives.  I’ll never forget it.

I have this sort of exchange with the students just about every session.  When there’s a disconnect between the student’s understanding of the world and what they’re reading, then they become lost, frustrated, and disgusted.  I tell them, “Ya, I hated to read too, when I didn’t know how.”  Word recognition is obviously an essential component to reading, but developing a mental picture of what’s being described is what turns readers into lovers of books.

This is my second year on campus,  so the guys are getting used to me and how I work.  They seem okay with the focused attention and a couple have even requested to sit and read with me.  What’s not to love about that.  I’m so lucky.

I hope you have a lovely Labor Day ahead, and I’ll post again next Friday.

Q & A session at Book Passage on 8/21/2010

Shortly after posting last Friday, I received a 911 style call from a friend in need.  She’s getting a divorce and was overwhelmed by the avalanche of uncertainty that comes with it.  To make this all about me   I have to say her call and subsequent visit put my gold-plated, performance anxiety problems into proper perspective.  My friend (not from Sonoma) stayed two nights and was able to attend my big Book Passage event.  The beauty of friendship is that I helped her and she helped me.  I got to stop thinking about myself for awhile, and she was able to divert some of her own head-chatter.

My lapel pins each had pearls of some variety in them

The Book Passage event was wonderful.  I was nervous that not enough people would show, but it turned out that the room was over two-thirds full.  During the Q & A, I passed around a collection of book markers I had made as a take-home gift for each of the audience members.  They were put together with ribbon and a slightly varied combination of pearls and beads that dangled from the ends.  It was delightful to notice the care and attention the guests took when making their selections.

Coming off my Saturday evening performance high, late Sunday afternoon I went to San Francisco by myself to a loft space were I heard writers read, actors act and a musician sing and play his guitar; he even led us in a sing-along.  This group calls themselves The Portuguese Artist Colony, and they meet and perform once a month.  I’m sure there’s a story behind that name, but I don’t know it just yet.  It was exciting to be among such talented, unpretentious folk.  Afterward I Facebook friended three of the performers.   I hope to attend more of their gatherings in the future because it was very cool… beat, if you know what I mean.

And lastly for the week, on Tuesday, I went into one of the two local bookstores that we have here in Sonoma where Pearls My Mother Wore is sold, Sonoma Bookends.  I didn’t see any copies of my book and wondered why.  Still massively insecure, I assumed they had pulled them because of a lack of sales.  Mustering up courage, I asked the clerk if she knew anything about my book.  She beamed, “Oh, Hi!  We’ve sold all but one, and it’s in the window.”  Can you believe that?  My novel.  In the window!  Talk about placement.  Ya can’t ask for better placement than that.

So the theme of my week has been questions and answers.  It’s been good for me to think about it in these terms because I’ve noticed how much courage it takes to wait for answers.  I didn’t know what was going to happen at Book Passage, so I had to go and see.  My friend doesn’t know what her future holds, so she has to put one foot in front of the other to find out.  I didn’t know where my books were, but rather than slink out the door and not bother anyone, I asked, and what a pleasant surprise I received.

Lots of reflections but that's Pearls My Mother Wore in the window

Whether it’s interior questions or straight-up question-mark questions, I hope I always have the courage to wait for the answers.

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