Press This

May 12, 2013 / Lisa / 2 Comments

A friend and I recently talked about indie authors creating small presses for their works.

The cynical side of me spoke up. Along the lines of how authors must still feel a tiny bit of shame that there isn’t a publishing house listed under their title. My friend explained the business sense behind having a press, and I get that. I’m even considering it, talking to another friend about starting a small local press.

But let me be brutally honest here. I would feel more like a ‘real’ author if I had a publisher’s name behind me. Heck, even a small press that I started would make me lose that tiny seed of shame when someone asks me, ‘who published your book?’ I could say the name of the press rather than ‘me’.

Dang that makes me mad. That tiny seed of shame. Why am I less of an author, in this day and age, because I am not under a contract, signing my life away to a big name? The truth is, I’m not less of a writer. My stories are just as valuable. Well, I may need a lot more editing than most, but that’s a previous blog post.

Now that my dander is up and I’m continuing the honesty theme, I think even using the phrase ‘I’m an indie author’ is covering up for that seed of shame. Otherwise I’d say ‘I’m self published’. Yes I know there’s a difference between self publishing and self publishing through a vanity press. Yes I know all the arguments for publishing free of an agent and big name. After all, I researched all the pros and cons before I chose which route to go. But still, there’s that ingrained sense of not being a truly published author yet.

You know what I think the problem is?

Age.

Think about it. I grew up when an author’s dream was to land an agent and get picked up by a major publishing house. All the resources for writers explained in detail how to market yourself to an agent.

These days, younger writers are growing up free from that. They are like my teenage son, who amazes me with his computer skills. Compared to me, growing up with a manual typewriter. These young people haven’t had those publishers held in front of them as the only path to being an author. Options and alternatives are more acceptable.

Guess I need to get with the times.

Think I’ll go start a small local press.

He’s also skilled with engines. Not that I’m bragging.

Guilt

April 27, 2013April 27, 2013 / Lisa / 8 Comments

Over the years I have struggled (and lost) to overwhelming guilt whenever I wrote.

You know what I mean. How dare you take time to sit and write, when there are dirty dishes in the sink? When dinner has to be made, eggs collected, dogs fed, etc., etc.

If it wasn’t the specter of chores slapping me with guilt, it was a little voice whispering that my writing would never benefit the family, that I needed to do something to help out more.

Then of course there’s the guilt for taking time to write ‘when you know you’re really not any good’. That’s the nasty inner guilt-slinger again.

Today is a very wet day in the woods. Raining, after days of rain. A perfect time to build up the fire, put on the kettle, and write. Right? Until guilt reared up. So first I went out into the rain and planted several things that were gasping in too-tiny pots. Into bigger pots, and some into the ground, went bell peppers, thyme, marjoram, parsley, costmary, lovage, sage, golden bush, forget-me-nots, beans, peas, and…well you get the idea. I came inside in late afternoon soaked.

Don’t get me wrong. I love that feeling of coming inside cold and wet, knowing you’ve accomplished something. There have been many, many times I’ve worked out in the rain. In the Pacific Northwest, if you wait for good weather, you’ll never get anything done. I remember days of climbing up into the woods with my father to repair the pipeline that brought water to a water wheel and generated electricity for us. Coming back down covered in mud, soaking wet, hauling a soggy backpack full of tools, smelling like pipe glue. I loved coming inside, where my mother would have tea waiting. Or hot chocolate and cinnamon toast. A reward for the work.

And that’s what I realized today. Writing is my reward for work. I have to ‘earn’ the words. If I do something first, I am then justified in taking time for myself. It’s stupid when I spell it out like this because no one puts that expectation on me. My husband is the first one to tell me, leave everything and go write. Matter of fact, he’s doing the dishes right now.

If the only way I can silence guilt is to buy it off by doing some chores first, then I guess that’s what I’m going to have to do.

Now what I need to learn is how many chores is enough. Because I also have a tendency to do so much that I end up too tired to write, or with no time left in the day. But oh well. One lesson at a time.

Minutiae

April 18, 2013 / Lisa / 3 Comments

A stressful week on top of getting slammed with allergies convinced me to stay home from work today. Instead of staring at government words on paper I’m staring at my words on paper. Plodding through the editing process. I made a pot of tea, opened up the document, prepared to knuckle down and work all day. And the very first sentence I saw was this:

The fire was stoked and beating back the chill in the old house.

Okay, easy to fix. Even I could see that without looking at editor comments. Well, after the fact of course. I didn’t see it when originally writing it. The sentence quickly became:

The stoked fire beat back the chill in the old house.

And then I got stuck. The editor suggested ‘of’ rather than ‘in’. I spent so much time going back and forth that I came here instead.

Really, is such a small word worth such indecision? It appears so.

‘Of’ makes me think of an old house that’s always cold, even in summer. Damp maybe, with that smell of something closed up too long. It speaks of a house not lived in, not loved, or maybe lived in once by a nasty old lady with binoculars.

When I think of ‘in’ I imagine there is an outside force making the house cold at this particular moment. Which is the case here as it’s winter, the protagonist is alone in a home she doesn’t belong to yet, and her mother is back making demands.

So I’m going to stick with ‘in’. It feels right to me.

And I’ve now spent half an hour debating between two-letter words. I do believe though, very strongly, that it’s this level of detail that makes a story. Just the right word in just the right place. Or at least what I perceive to be just the right word.

Dang, here’s another two letter word.

Cody opened up the journal. That just became, Cody opened the journal. Why didn’t I make that simple change while writing the story initially? Who knows. At least it was pointed out to me before going to print.

At this rate I’m going to spend all day on the first paragraph in this chapter. But at least I’m not at work, and the tea is still hot, and the next paragraph will be there tomorrow. For today, as they say, the devil is in the details.

I wonder how that expression came in to being. I refuse to google it and research it and delay my next two-letter word stumbling block.

Back to work.