Libraries and the Internal Critic

July 30, 2023 / Lisa / 10 Comments

One of the challenges for authors is the difficulty of reaching a wide audience. In a world with trillions of stories it’s nearly impossible to float to the top and become visible. Add to that those writers who take the independent (indie) path to publishing and it’s even harder.

One thing that helps authors get into bookstores is if their book is available through library systems. If libraries carry your book, then a bookstore is more willing to take an author seriously.

So how does an indie author with no big publishing house/contract behind them get into a library system? One way is to spend money through places like Ingram Sparks. These are reputable organizations that review your book and help you go through the process of being added to library catalogs. I’ve gone back and forth about this because it’s hard for me to part with money.

Another option is to check your email one day and find out you’ve been added to the Indie Washington Program which puts indie authors into library catalogs in the state they live in. This is a program through the Office of the Secretary of the State of Washington Library system and part of something called Biblioboard. Each state has this program. Books are submitted, vetted, and hopefully added. Although not all library systems are part of the Indie Project yet.

This Deep Panic is now part of Indie Washington. I’ve been sitting on the news because I’m full of contradictory emotions and not quite sure if I’m excited or sad. So I decided to break those emotions down here.

Excited. Something I wrote is now available to library patrons. Fearful. Now more people will realize I’m not a very good writer. Ashamed. I’m not good enough to wear the label of ‘author’ so I don’t belong in this space. Discouraged. I haven’t been writing for personal reasons and now I’ll let people down. Pressured. I better figure out this angst and ask some new stories to come visit. A bit stupid. I know better than to listen to my cruel inner critic.

As you’ll see from the list above, there are far more negative emotions than positive. I’m working on that and the first step is confessing here that some people out there thought something I wrote, something that lived in my imagination, should be in a library.

That’s what I shall try to focus on rather than that damn inner critic’s voice. My friends and my husband are excited for me so I’ll fake it until I believe them. Promise.

And in case you’re wondering, all these photos were taken over the two days of filming the book trailer for This Deep Panic. Two perfect days with laughter and rain and friends and a silent inner critic.

The Stories We Become

June 11, 2023 / Lisa / 8 Comments

‘In the end we all become stories.’

I don’t know who said that but I keep returning to those words. At the ending, or maybe the beginning, when we’re gone, those words are all that’s left. But oh, how those remaining stories are priceless!

How many times have we said to one another, ‘remember when…’ and suddenly time rolls back?

The words of a story and we’re laughing.

The power of a story and we’re melancholy.

Or grieving.

I love the reminiscing that makes me laugh. There’s nothing better than the warm feeling that brings everything briefly to life again. Or reminds me of the magic of a place, like Auntie’s kitchen with all the wonderful scents and her telling us stories of a time long past. Or all the times she put me on her lap and let me bang away.

In the end that’s all we’re left with. Stories blown out into the wind like dandelion seeds.

Someone I care for was recently talking about giving away his possessions. He said some might look like junk and people might wonder why he kept them. I suggested he write down the story of each object. Not only where it came from, but why it was important to him.

The story would make the object priceless.

I have two very old, smoke-stained christening baby gowns. Hand-stitched and fragile. I framed them under archive glass. My husband suggested I type up their story and put it under the paper backing of the frame. That way, no matter where the dresses end up, someone will know their value.

*Claire – an amazing, unique woman and the one who wore the christening gowns.*

In the end, everything becomes a story. Places that are gone. Things we cherished. Paths we walked. Old songs we used to sing.

This past weekend I saw that several plants in a flowerbed had been flattened. Immediately my hands went to my hips and I said, very irritated, ‘damn it Arwen!’. Then I realized the old dog was gone and wouldn’t nap in the plants anymore. It made me momentarily sad but then I had to laugh, remembering how much she loved snoozing in sun-warmed dirt or pillowed on a bed of rosemary. Something that used to drive me nuts is now a story I cherish.

*Still don’t know how she managed this one.*

Oh, the unbearable sweetness and sadness, the laughter and tears, of the stories we leave.

A Well-Loved Book

April 21, 2023April 21, 2023 / Lisa / 5 Comments

My husband was reading a brand-new book with dinner last night and dribbled beet juice across a pristine page. He wasn’t happy. A few cuss words might have been involved. My first thought, which I kept silent, was ‘it’s now our book!’.

What does a well-loved book look like in your space? I promise each new book that comes into our house that I will love and cherish it. I’m careful and respectful the first time I open the cover, being cautious about bending the cover back too far. I try to find something nice for a bookmark. I wipe my hands on my clothes (pages are more important). I don’t dog-ear pages and try not to break the spine.

That lasts until, maybe, the first chapter and I’m immersed in the story and forget the real world. It depends on how far I read before I have to put the book down. The next time open it, anxious to get back into the new story world, the bookmark will have wandered away so a corner of paper towel or a torn envelope, or the cell phone gets used. And of course, in my happiness, I open the book wider, weigh the pages down with the greasy butter dish, and give no thought to the spine.

Our books are read over and over, and if they were dogs, they’d have a great life. They get hauled around. They go on car rides. They go outside. They get table scraps like beets. They get snuggles on the comfy chair by the fire with a blanket. They get undivided attention.

We have some books so well-loved and well-read, and so old, that pages are falling out. My husband has some where whole chapters have gone missing. He has even lost covers. But he’ll still re-read them because he knows what happens in those missing bits. And there’s always the hope that they’ll show back up some day with their own stories about hanging out with lost socks.

I also have books showing their age and looking elderly and fragile. I’ve bought second, and sometimes third, copies of them in order to keep the original from getting worse. I love opening them carefully, tucking the loose pages back inside, and seeing my very young handwriting on the inside cover. Or my sister’s young handwriting. She had a habit of claiming my things.

*She’s also the only photogenic one in the family.*

I see my handwriting and try to remember who that little girl was and what she thought the first time she opened that book. Little did she know all the years of friendship and enjoyment those characters would give her. And she’d never have believed it if someone had told her she’d still be reading the same book when she was that old.

There’s a lot to be said for the new book smell, the pristine pages, the not-cracked spine, the new adventure waiting. There’s a place for that.

But there’s also a very special place for long-time friends that are maybe showing their age but are still willing to whisk you away on an adventure or sit with you and share their story.

Here’s to old friends and well-loved books.