Top 11 Memoir Titles

Lately I’ve been restructuring my entire life as a writer, publisher. And I’ve tried to restructure my brain so I accept that some things are meant to be let go of when they don’t produce desired results.

Regardless of how tight I tried to hold onto them.

First and foremost on that list, books that aren’t flowing.

If you’ve been reading me over here for a while you know I’m a big believer in the whiteboard wall in my office. I schedule within an inch of my time and until a couple months ago that schedule kept me fully on track. Fully in line and enjoying the whole publishing life.

Then I started writing a new book, then another new book, then a re-write, all due to drop this year.

Luckily, I’m not with a traditional publisher because they would have dropped me from a punt off the rooftop of some forty-story Manhattan skyscraper weeks ago.

Because, a few weeks ago I took my eraser and wiped out every single thing on my whiteboard. You can read about why I was told to stop writing (and subsequently took that advice) here.

And since the day I took the eraser to the overwhelming list of shit I had to do to keep moving my stalled career in no real direction, I’ve never felt so clear about what I should be writing.

The funny thing about that? I’m not writing anything much different now. But more on that in an upcoming post because I’m not trying to be click-baity around here. Suffice to say, I’m working on three books at once and have zero plans to release them until they’re done.

My whiteboard remains mostly empty and it’s kinda liberating to be honest.

All this reworking of my work-life to get that ever elusive balance back on track had me considering just what I was after all along.

I figured, what better way to work out all of this shit than to write about it, right?

Ah, the life of a writer. When you have nothing to write about, write about it!

We all operate from this place of hypocrisy or irony or whatever the hell you feel like labeling it. Because none of us know how to do this any other way.

I decided to wipe out everything I’d worked on since November of last year. Line up my darlings against the wall and put the proverbial bullet in the backs of their heads. Because none of them deserved to live.

None of them were worthy of the time and energy I tried to devote to make them into something worth my time and energy.

I told you, hypocrisy.

But you know I have a snarky side and all that shooting made me thirsty to share my true inner thoughts on my flailing career. Possible memoir titles to define this ridiculous point in my life, if you will. Personally, I think they’re all pretty great.

1. Striving for Mediocrity

2. Writing a Book is a Giant Waste of Time

3. Indie Author Making a Living: Yeah, good luck with that

4. But Doing Laundry is Working (and other lies writers spew)

5. Let’s find out if Money Changes Me

6. How to Make a Living with Hard Work and 30 Years of Dedication: A Satire

7. Stretching out Your Arms and Swiping off the Desk (this is not a metaphor)

8. Giving Up: A guide to a better life by abandoning talent for cash

9. English Degrees are Useless: And other motivations from my high school guidance counselor

10. Only Rich People Say Money Isn’t Everything

11. You Got This, Maybe

Great titles, huh? Sadly, I have zero desire to write any of these stories for real. None of them could actually support a full-length memoir. So, you know what that means, right?

Hello possible new blog topics!

Kidding.

Maybe.

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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Being a Snowflake for Better or Worse

What makes you unique? The ultimate question in life. And in marketing. Because it's not enough to be good anymore, no. Now, we either have to the BEST or WORST versions of ourselves 100% of the time.

Live up to those public expectations, amiright?

Blogs offering the perfect advice for a perfect life or career. YouTube videos one-upping each other on challenges of perfect stupidity. Filtered Instagrams to let everyone know we are a perfect, unique snowflake. Just like everyone else.

Ugh.

I literally can’t stand it. The way people act to get attention. The way it seems a person has to act just so they can sell – a book, movie, album, out, their soul. I hate that it’s come to this point in history where writers have to pretend just to make some sales.

Become extroverts. Be all bold and big. Film videos of ourselves doing whatever furthers our message, like we aren’t more comfortable behind the camera.

(Side note: Yes, I know some writers are all about connecting with people, or, by some miracle of chance and luck, the opposite of introverted, it’s just, the majority of my colleagues aren’t those people.)

Thing is, I'm not supposed to sit here on this blog and tell you how much I loathe the market. Because when it comes down to it I don’t expect to write a book then magically become this rich and famous person overnight without trying at all.

I’m not that implanted in my fantasy world.

What I despise is what seems to be the only way to get stuff seen for all the effort.

Or, rather, the way the market forces us to be either shiny, happy, or straight up disaster in order for anyone to pay attention to what we do. Especially considering I’ve decided to insert myself into the machine of the modern world of entertainment production.

It’s like that quote from Practical Magic:

You can’t practice witchcraft while you look down your nose at it.

I know. Really, I do. And, it obviously doesn’t help to lament the long lost days of writing a good book, landing an agent, publisher, and having a career sprout from the effort.

But I want to wax nostalgic about that life. Because I’m seriously struggling to fit into either of the definitions of greatness in this new one.

<Insert whiny inflection of a pouty teenager who coulda/woulda/shoulda, here>

I want to figure out how to get my stuff seen by a wider audience, but I refuse to become what I hate most just to do it. What do I mean? I mean the five minutes of fame bitch who nobody remembers in a year. But, damn, did she sure sell out everything during those five minutes!

I’m more about the slow burn.

Unfortunately, nobody else is these days which leaves me in a slight jam.

People care about people who seemingly have it all. They also care about train wrecks. But what about the rest of us?

The "good enough" people.

If you've been with me for a while over here you know I'm not exactly shiny happy. One of my blog tags is "yeah I guess I am moderately fucked up after all" for God's sake. But I'm not a train wreck of a person either, hence, the 'moderately' in 'moderately fucked up'. My life is somewhat together in many respects.

And I refuse to fake it either way. I refuse to act like I'm totally perfect or totally jacked just to gain an audience. Some days are great, some suck. That's life.

Which, admitting to, makes me the most average of humans. A girl who fits in just enough to get by. And that sucks as a person with a product to sell because, these days, you better be a hot mess or otherworldly (or both) for anyone to talk about you and your shit.

How can we sell if nobody buys because they don't know who we are? And that's when we come back to the hook.

The unique snowflake inside that makes us different. The thing that sells your work by not even selling at all. The mystical alleged thing these gurus of whatever-the-fuck seem to have in droves.

What is it, that thing that makes some people rise to the forefront, makes them an authority? Special.

It's something I've thought about, more than I should have to, over the past few years. Because my real profession is thinking about how to market my work 24/7/365. How to make it stand out as unique in a mountain of others.

And that's how we circle back to disdain for what drives the market. And my lack of a hook. AKA: my inability to stand out enough to sell in the market despite my constant banging on the door, unwavering dedication to doing this fucking job.

And, breathe.

Because, I write cute stories about average people.

I'm not a politically, controversially, socially motivated writer. The themes in my books all revolve around family, friends, lovers, and how those relationships help shape the main character's world.

I like stories about everyday people who face obstacles in love and career and, though they deal with challenges to get there, they usually get there in the end. I'm all about writing the metaphorical pretty pink bow.

HEA, bitch.

So, how is that supposed to stand out? When there's an ever rising tide of words out there about Mr. Perfect or Ms. Train Wreck. It's tough not to get discouraged, I can tell you that.

And, yet, I keep doing it. Writing. Releasing books. Publishing words for the world to read. Whether 5 or 5 million read them, those books are forever.

Maybe I'll never find the hook, land the whale so to speak.

Guess I'm just average. And that's good enough for me. Because I’ll never fake it just to get where I want to go.

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In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Seven People at my Table

Someone once sang about one being the loneliest number. In theory, I get it. Nobody to talk to, and all that. But I can't believe that being 'one' means lonely or my days would get really depressing really fast.

I mean, I work alone. Monday through Friday, from about eight in the morning until five-ish at night, I rely on literally nobody but myself to do my job. That job? Actually creating people for a living.

Which, I’ve been known to point out to friends, means I’m never off the clock even when I say I am. Because it doesn’t matter if I’m alone, with one other person, or in a big group, there’s always inspiration for fiction floating in the air. Conversations. People watching. Even in my dreams.

Yeah, I know, fucked up right? When I think about it, I love that I get to do this but it is kind of weird. Characters, people, poof! Right out of thin air.

So, tonight I went to the monthly writer's meeting for Scottsdale Society of Women Writers and the presenter, Sarah McLean, led us in a writing exercise.

First, we spent about 5 minutes meditating (her profession is teaching meditation).

Can I be honest? I've never really taken to meditation. I've tried it, countless times, but I like my mind all cluttered like it is. And trying to de-clutter it just makes me feel anxious.

Again, I know, fucked up. You can probably guess how much I care.

The lights dimmed and she began guided suggestions.

I did try at the meeting. But thoughts kept coming at my head in rapid-fire succession. As always. A Five Finger Death Punch to my calm.

I paid attention to my breath, the candles, tried a few other tricks and techniques Sarah recommended. Sadly, no matter what I did, I couldn't turn it off. (Side note, it usually takes me an hour, or more, to fall asleep most nights.)

After the meditation and breathing, she gave us a writing prompt. Something we could use to guide our writing portion of the exercise.

Now that I can do!

Prompts are my favorite. Prompts were responsible for a lot of my early writing. Prompts got me started writing more serious fiction. Not to mention, my last 3 non-fiction titles, including 30 Chapters in 30 Days, were all about prompts.

When she said we only had 5 minutes to write, though, my first thought was, that's it? Why not twenty minutes? Of course, it was a dinner and presentation too, so we couldn't write all night. Damn it.

The lights came back up. She gave the prompt. I scribbled like mad.

After we finished she proposed we all choose a partner to read to and listen to.

Now, I don't mind reading out loud. And I've also done a similar raw reading thing in the past. Creative Writing class. Senior year of high school. So, admittedly, it's been a while, but doing it doesn't bother me. I just didn't feel like sharing what I wrote tonight.

Which worked out fine. I was odd gal out at the table. Literally. There were 7 of us and I was lucky 7.

Everyone paired off and I sat, listening to the chatter of white noise coming from half the room and then the other half of the room as each of the women across the six, full tables read what they wrote.

It was actually kind of cool, to hear everything and nothing at the same time.

The white noise was more comforting than the silence had been earlier in the night. So, instead of listening/reading to another gal, I went inside those chaos thoughts and I focused on my characters. I thought about my WiP and the next scene. One I was struggling to figure out.

Before I left for the meeting, I wrapped work early because I was a little stuck. On the way over I tried to piece things together. Nothing seemed right. Too cliché. Too disconnected. Wrong direction for supporting characters.

But, in the midst of the inaudible chatter, it hit me. The right direction. The next scene.

I came home, smiling, and decided to write this post tonight (Wednesday), instead of when I usually write/schedule (Thursdays), so I'd have all day to work on the next scene instead.

Maybe it was the meditation. The full, super, blood moon. Maybe it was me giving in to the noise in my brain. Or perhaps it was due to me being one, alone, while in a room full of people. A common occurrence for me. Sometimes it’s just easier to live inside my head than the real world, you know?

Whatever caused my mind to work double time, something broke through.

And tomorrow I will be alone, though anything but lonely. I have my characters to keep me company after all. And now I know just where they're headed.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Washing your Mouth out with Soap

For those of us born in a certain era, there were warnings tossed out by our parents or elders that elevated our fear level to that of panic. At least, some of us lived in fear. Some of us handily took matters into our own hands.

The first and most overplayed cautionary tale was, of course, wait until your father gets home.

Now, I didn’t personally grow up with that particular threat because my parents divorced when I was young enough that, even if my mom used it, I don’t remember. The days when my parents were still together are somewhat blurry but I can’t recall those words flying out of my mom’s mouth.

My dad didn’t “get home” after work to (apparently) lay down the law that my mom couldn’t (or didn’t want to) enforce.

I always wondered about that warning. Who were those dads? What kind of people were they when us kids weren’t playing in their back yard? When they were left alone with their family after getting a recap of the day? And what, exactly, would dad do when he got home? Yikes.

I actually heard it used with friends or other kids who still had two parents under the same roof. As far as I was concerned, having dad come home after going off all day to do some job nobody tried to understand, didn’t seem scary at all.

Why was that a believable threat? Like, the guy who is never there is suddenly going to take on the role of enforcer and that frightened kids? Why? Wasn’t dad the “fun” one? The parent who got to relax and take you out back to play catch? He wasn’t the heavy. That was mom.

The one who actually made the rules all day.

At least, that’s what I assumed because television taught me what it was like to have still-married parents. And it always went down the same way. Mom, home raising the kids, dad off to work, mom doing everything else but dad being the one who got a foot rub and a beer at the end of the day. He falls asleep in the recliner in front of the TV while mom finishes her chores.

So, when the warning was doled out, I just couldn’t wrap my head around why it frightened anyone. You mean to tell me that the guy who puts his ass in an overstuffed chair for five hours every night and makes a cursory attempt to teach his kids how to play ball on the weekends is suddenly going to become a growling bear of a man who lives to put you in your place? Because mom told him what you did hours earlier?

As if.

Mom would have kicked your butt long before dad even got home, right?

On the other hand, I’ll wash your mouth out with soap, holds a certain special place in my heart.

Did my mom/family ever wash my mouth out with soap? God no! But was I threatened with the possibility? Yes. Just once. But not by my family.

I distinctly remember the entire experience. Truly, it’s one of those days that I can recall just about everything about it – temperature, where I was, who I was with, who threatened me. Because the follow-up moments were insane.

 Well, I was insane.

The youngest daughter of my babysitter at the time, a girl in my sister’s class, and I were headed to the park. My after school sitter lived on the same street we moved to when I was in grammar school. We had a small park with a slide and a few swings right at the bottom of our street. I spent a good amount of time there and enjoyed walking the top of the chain link fence, trying to see if I could make it all the way from one end to the other without falling.

I have no idea if we were off to meet friends, just that we were walking down the street in that direction. Also, I have no idea what we were talking about but I do remember the word that came out of my mouth.

Fuck.

Just a word. One I still use in conversation to this day. Some things never change, I guess, despite the shocked look on her face and the following words out of her mouth:

“That’s a bad word! I’m telling my mom and she will tell your mom and you’ll be in trouble!”

For a split second, I actually felt like maybe I would be in trouble. But I went off to the park to enjoy my afternoon anyway. When I got back to my sitter’s house, I was greeted by the fact her daughter made good on her promise. She did, in fact, tell her mom.

And that’s when I actually felt the grip of fear.

For the first time in my life I heard the words, “I’m going to have to tell your mom and, if I was your mother, I’d wash your mouth out with soap.”

It was hours before my mom would get home from work. I had to live with the knowledge that my mother would take this horrible step the minute we got home. I paced. I panicked.

Soap? Like, real actual soap? In my mouth?

And what the fuck good would that do? It wasn’t like soap could actually wash a word out of my vocabulary.

Clearly.

But I digress…

I went to pee and that’s when I saw it.  A smooth bar of off-white soap sitting innocently in the dusty rose, built-in, porcelain soap dish on the wall. I stood at the sink, an eleven year old girl. Always in trouble for something.

How bad could it be, I wondered?

Before I could stop myself to really consider what I was doing, the soap went from dish, to hand, to mouth. I pulled my teeth in and just used my lips, she didn’t say she’d make me eat the soap so I took a chance.

I let my tongue flick across the slick finish of the bar. I didn’t get another chance. My stomach lurched and I spit the bar into the sink, gagging at the taste.

Thankfully, I must have wiped that part of this memory because I can’t seem to pull up a single adjective to explain how bad it was. But I definitely remember that I stuck my face under the faucet and proceeded to wash my mouth soap away.

Pretty sure I muttered what the fuck under my breath.

And then, the time went by. At least I knew what to expect when I got home. It wouldn’t be pleasant but I knew, once it was removed, I could wash the taste away. And I’d never curse in front of that girl again.

The sitter, me, and my sister met my mom at the front of their foyer at the top of the stairs, as usual. I looked down at the maroon pile carpet. Steeled myself for the inevitable. Ready to face being in trouble for saying a word.

And then, to my incredible shock and awe, we all said goodbye without another word about the word.

For days after I assumed she would call my mother and tell her. That the bar of soap was sure to find a way back into my mouth any day. But it never came.

I don’t know if my mom ever learned of my horrible transgression or if, somehow, my sitter found out I’d punished myself. Or maybe she just wanted to instill the fear into me so I’d never curse again but didn’t ever intend on telling my mom.

Either way, I learned one thing that day. Don’t eat soap, kids.

Soap tastes like shit.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Is Anyone Still Falling for this Scam?

Okay, I get it. The world is smaller, population larger, and employment pool shallow. So, if we want to survive in this world, we better be able to fend for ourselves. Get creative and learn how to make money in non-traditional ways.

But, is this idiot serious?

Wait. Let me back up for a second. This part of the backstory is important.

I got my first email address in 1997. It was an exciting time for me. Mostly, because I worked for a company that created and implemented healthcare software. I think. Honestly, I was the greenest person where IT was concerned.

No joke. Ten years or so prior to getting that job I sat in an office only a mile up the road as my mom worked an on-call shift and I uttered the words, “nobody in the world will ever use those stupid computer things. Who wants that in their house?”

Yeah.

In my defense, computers in the late eighties weren’t exactly the graphic wonders of ease they are today. They were big and clunky and so expensive my mom would have needed five jobs just to afford one of the things.

Fast forward to 1997.

Computers, for better or worse, were a thing everyone wanted in their house.

Oops.

Tired of a life of being a retail whore, I decided to get an entry level job in an office. Your friendly Receptionist, Jenn, at your service.

I started as a temp. It was the easiest work I ever did. And I don’t mean to demean Receptionists by saying that, there is a lot of work to do, it’s just, that work isn’t exactly solving the world’s problems. Or coding software.

Learn the phone system, everyone’s name, and password to the computer and literally anyone who can say “Thank you for calling MMS, how can I direct your call?” can do my first corporate job.

Monkey work. I was fucking great at that job. Zero real responsibility. Twice the pay I made at the mall. Every weekend off. Button pusher. Big fake smiler for visitors and employees. If I wasn’t doing what I was meant to do with my life right now, I swear I would go back and get a job as a Receptionist. One with zero ambition of advancement.

But that’s another story. This one is about why all that time in corporate America has me questioning the motivations of people in these modern times.

As a gal working with a bunch of techie types in most every corporate job I ever held, I guess I was at an advantage over the average Joe. I got my education on the job.

As little as I knew about the online world when I started that first job, nowadays, I’m pretty well seasoned to the internet-at-large. 1997 was the same year I heard the term ‘urban legend’ for the first time.

I distinctly remember when and why one of my co-workers shared those two glorious words. An email. Of course it was a freaking email. There was no other way to internet scam people back in those days other than through email.

We didn’t have social media. We had chat rooms. Nobody even used their real name, we certainly weren’t asking for each other’s bank account information. We talked about stuff like football and movie stars.

The email in question, however, scared me. Some poor person had their kidney removed and woke up in a bathtub full of ice!

I mean, can you even imagine?

I was a club girl. For years my nights from Thursday through Sunday were spent in dark, smoke-filled, loud-as-fuck nightclubs. Most of the time I was broke. And I loved (correction: still love) to dance. I also despise falling over. So 90% of the time I went dancing, I was stone sober.

Club guys didn’t like that. They wanted me drunk and pliable. Sucks to be them. Thanks for asking, you can get me a bottled water and I’ll let you grind up on me on the dance floor. But you probably won’t be taking me home. This is about dancing mofo.

So, when I opened that email I started thinking of the other 10% of the time. The times I went out and actually had a couple bucks to spend as well as a desire to get plastered. How easy would it be to wake up in a hotel room after being drugged? How easy would it be for someone to surgically remove my kidney and leave me to die in a tub?

I clicked forward and sent that warning to most of the people I knew.

Moments later, I learned the term urban legend, as provided by one of the techs at the company. He was, of course, nice enough about it but made sure to let me know it was in fact a scam.

From then on I learned to filter the internet through my cynicism before forwarding anything.

But, just to be safe, I pretty much stopped drinking when I went dancing.

That urban legend email was the day my curiosity with the interwebs came to a screeching halt. Wait, what? People try to steal your money online? And nobody has lost a kidney in a hotel bathroom?

My mind flashed back to the office with my mom. I suddenly wished I’d stuck to my guns. Computers were nothing more than a big waste of time. Right?

I got all the scams, but was lucky enough to know they were false. So, I guess I assume that twenty years later everyone with an email address has seen and dismissed just about every email scam that’s ever been tried. That old scams were forever a thing of the past.

That is, until I opened my email this morning and read this:

Dear: Friend.Assalammu'Alaikum I am Mr Hamza Mohammed, I need your assistance to transfer an abandoned sum of(US$20.5million us Dollars) into your Bank account 50/percent will be your share,50% for me and 10% for any income expenses that will come during the transfer,I need your assistance only keep the business secretly. No risk involved but keeps it as secret. Contact me for more details. Please reply me through my alternative email id only for confidential reasons,( mrhamzamohammed8@gmail.com ) I am waiting for your urgent respond to enable us proceed further for the transfer. Yours faithfully,Mr Hamza Mohammed.

Really?

I mean, if this former tech neophyte could learn what not to do online then I figured everyone with an email already knows to filter shit like this to spam.

Who is still falling for this con that someone is still selling this con as legit?

Does anyone think they might hear about millions of dollars in abandoned money (earmarked for them) in a freaking email? No, I mean, like I said, I was once very green too but come on. Even back then I never would have fallen for something like that. Who just gives a stranger their bank account information?

Who reads this and thinks, “Oh good, my ship finally came in!”

The email alone tells us everything.

Things wrong:

1. The email sender: mrhamzam9@aol.com. I know some people still use AOL but, really? Again, welcome back to 1997. I’m pretty sure if I get an email that someone wanted to give me up to 10 million dollars it would come from @lawfirmofchoice.com.

2. Math. Look, I’m a writer and numbers aren’t exactly my forte if you will, but even I know the cliché of “I gave it 150%” can’t be real. 100% is the actual maximum available. Especially when we’re talking about a finite number. For example, “US$20.5million us Dollars.” So if we take “50/percent,” and add that to “50% for me,” then again add 10%, I’m simply left scratching my head. Where exactly does Hamza expect to find “10% for any income expenses” lying around? Which one of us must sacrifice our $2mil to these foreseen expenses?

3. That grammar. I literally can’t even. That sentence is about as fragmented as it gets and it still makes more sense than any single sentence in Hamza’s email.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind the 1997 throwback (especially with a book set in the mid-nineties about to drop [Makeup Your Mind] I’m pretty much all about the decade right now), but the guy might as well have told me someone was going to steal half my liver and stitch me up with yarn.

I know better. That 10% of the time I spent drinking took care of my liver.

Try again Scammy McScammerson.

Photo courtesy quick meme

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Some People have Cats…

I think I might have a teensy little problem. Apparently I’m a calendar and charts kind of girl.

Some people have cats, I have a white board. Or four. And a day planner. Plus a handmade paper chart. But that’s only because I ran out of room on the whiteboards!

Okay, I get it. That doesn’t exactly help my case against being a crazy cat, er, whiteboard, lady.

But, in my defense, they’re all crucial to my process.

A process that is quickly evolving into something bigger.

In other words, I’m gonna need a bigger whiteboard.

See, when I freaked out on that other post, it prompted a long, hard look at my current state of things. Then Matt and I sat down and talked about all things career. Mine. His. Where we’re both heading and what it will likely take to get us there.

He wants to see me succeed as much as I want to see me succeed so we talked about increasing my advertising/marketing/publicity budget. Okay, to be fair, we actually talked about me having a budget to begin with.

As someone who doesn’t pull in a big income every month, and someone who feels like I’m bleeding money every time I start setting up a new book for sale, I always feel weird about spending more.

But, this market of authors is quite saturated and I need to remember that every day I go to my job. I need to get my name out there. Especially as a sole proprietor trying to build a business in a creative industry. The truth is, we have to spend money to make money in this world.

Even an office worker doesn’t get paid to go to and from their job. Car repairs, gas, food during the day, all of that comes out of the money they make for the job they do. Money they spend to get to work to make money.

So I tore apart my old marketing plan and developed a new plan. A good plan, I think. Again, still green to all this promotional stuff but the plan I developed for the next six months or so should help to keep a buzz going.

Hey, even one Africanized bee buzzes, it might be quieter than a swarm but swat at it and see how long it takes for that swarm to arrive. Am I right?

I’m using that mentality to approach my revived interest in marketing.

But with all new projects comes brainstorming, scheduling, a great need for organization. Hence, the corner full of erasable marker.

Okay, I’m not ashamed to admit it - I love whiteboards!

Because anything and everything can easily wipe away in an instant. In fact, as soon as I’m done with a task for the month, week, day, I take my eraser and clean the task off my calendar.

Whoosh!

See ya!

I do that because I don’t like mental clutter and there’s plenty of that going on just having the boards up in the first place. I mean, you saw the picture in this post, right? When I can declutter my brain of looking at something I already finished, it frees me up to concentrate on the next task.

In any given day at work I rarely complete the same task two days in a row. True, I write almost every day but it isn’t even the same writing every day. Nor at the same time of day every day.

Thus, a room full of erasable surfaces.

So, the first whiteboard breaks down the current month by days and weeks.

The next is my advertising schedule and budget broken out into the next six months by week.

Below that is my big, blue, paper chart for tracking characters in my California Dreamin’ Series.

Next whiteboard is current book(s) in process (timeline, character development, general story notes) and a bunch of magnets I don’t know what to do with (plus the list of all sites where I need to update info on a new release and my list of beta readers).

Finally, I’ve got an eight month projection board where I list out all the stuff I need to do in a given month on books themselves (AKA: write it, send to betas, edit, etc.), giveaway schedules, free/other promotion schedules, and the rare days I will allow myself to completely disconnect from my job and take a damn vacation.

The day planner? That’s for personal stuff like actually making sure we leave the house occasionally (hockey, concerts), paying bills, seeing family, scheduling time with friends.

I’m ready. I’m organized. I’m maybe a bit over the top with my calendars and charts but, damn it, no scattered business owner ever made it very long. And after working out a realistic marketing and advertising budget for the next year, I fully intend to do everything I can to stick around as long as I can with my business.

Resolve renewed.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Lighten it up with some Girlie Things

So, after my last post, I kind of got the feeling like people were concerned. For my safety, specifically.

Sorry to everyone who got scared, freaked out, etc. by the things I wrote. That wasn’t my intention and I just want to say the fact you reached out means a lot. Writing is my therapy, always has been, and perhaps that’s the first time you read something in that vein over here.

I want to clear the air and reboot a little bit because the concern actually shocked me. But then I went back and re-read the post and, yeah, I can see how some folks might have been wondering about my mental state.

I’m not, however, sorry for sharing the post because it was something (is something) I felt needed off my chest and in a very publicly shared way.

You should probably know that my mental state is basically fucked all the time.

No exaggeration, I pretty much think like that most days at some point or another. A common occurrence since I was ten or eleven years old. I call it the curse of the creative.

I need to feel things. Everything. Enhanced emotions are what keep me working. When’s the last time you read a book where the characters never experienced anything? Never cried, screamed, flung their arms around the one they love to tackle them to the floor?

Exactly.

I tap into my highs and lows on a daily basis in order to craft my worlds.

Last week’s blog post was a reflection of that deep seeded personality trait bubbling up into my world. That’s all. I swear, if you pulled out my journals from any year of my life since age 14 you would be amazed at how much of that super dark shit comes out.

I don’t often share that kind of raw emotion over here but on that particular day it was something I felt I needed to do.

I’m not defending it, don’t feel I owe anyone an explanation per se but I at least wanted everyone to know that I am a-okay.

But you should also know that I still feel the same. Still frustrated, still a bit lost. But I will find my way and appreciate all the hands I have to hold on the way. Love you all!

Now, in an effort to flip-flop right over to the other side of my self-diagnosed bipolarity, I thought it would be fun to share something here that I haven’t done in a long time.

Nail art! (See ya dudes…)

I’ve been getting back into it lately, watching (read: binging like a zombie) YouTube videos about anything and everything under the sun. So last week while I was working on this manicure:

I decided to give a bunch of different styles a little practice. Since I have a silicone nail art mat I decided all of the designs would be something I could lay down to save until I did my mani this week. And it worked to create a skittle manicure (meaning all fingers are different).

I’m calling it Cohesive Color Chaos.

None of them came out perfect, far from it, but I had a lot of fun creating each of the designs, keeping an eye on the color theory of the full manicure, making sure the two hands were balanced (for example, if I did a white/teal/iridescent on one hand I did the same on the other in a different design), and learning which are my favorite techniques.

So far, I’m not a big fan of water marbling, am only a partial fan of freehand, and love stamping.

Without further ado, here’s the mani in full detail by finger then a mashup of the two hands so you can see what it looks like all together.

First, here’s the mat with most of the self-created decals laid down.

The two on my pinky fingers were supposed to be those pink and white ones but they crumbled a bit and I had to use some backups.

Now here are the nails as I see them, from left to right, starting with the pinky on my left hand.

Drag marble

Blobicure

Stamped flamingoes

Water marble with glow in the dark

Freehand sunglasses and letters

Stamped sunglasses

More attempts at water marble

Freehand flamingo with acrylic paints

Drag marble

Smoosh marble

And here are both hands side-by-side. What do you think?

Personally? I love the mani, not as thrilled with my application. Some of them are already starting to peel up in the corners (applied Saturday) and I’m sure it’s because my nails are so C curved that the decal just didn’t bond with the base coat of polish I laid down.

No biggie, I’ll keep practicing and get better at some of these techniques.

Bottom line, this fun, upbeat girl is who I am today (and every day). It’s just that some days she has to let the darkness surface.

Just like nail polish, I have to let something sucky take the lead every once in a while and share that fail with the world. Because that lets me remove the layers and get back to my natural starting point. The clean slate of my nails and my brain.

xoxo

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.

Contract Extension

Did you know I’ve been doing this full-time writing thing for five years? That’s right, five whole years have expired into the abyss of stringing letters together, directly under my fingertips.

My first (and presently, only) novel, Ripple the Twine, dropped in 2012. My first born. My baby. Also, my problem child.

Because that book is awful but it became the foundation I built my career on top of like a card house in a tornado.

I rushed it into production and publishing because I wanted to get it out there. And I got it out there to so many people. People who promptly judged my abilities. And, in the eyes of the general public, those abilities sucked.

I’d been working on the thing since NaNoWriMo in 2009. Three years of character and story development.

Three years of forcing something I’d never done before – typing The End on a full-length story.

And, quite honestly, I was tired of looking at it. Tired of thinking about it. Tired of trying to make it perfect because I didn’t have a freaking clue how to do that and was too broke to hire the help I needed to make it better.

I didn’t know how to edit a book. Because I’d never done it before. I didn’t know that nobody wants to read a story with no real purpose other than to tell a story. That characters need extra motivation these days. And by extra I mean that telling a story about four people simply living a snippet of their lives isn’t enough anymore.

That first kisses are out and bondage is in. That cute and sweet equates to snooze and forget. How was I supposed to know that a girl falling in love just doesn’t carry a story these days?

It’s boring. It’s not enough punch to force anyone to want to read it. People want action, drama, challenges that write a writer into a corner they have to force their characters to claw their way out of because it’s the only way to survive.

Sex. Murder. Controversy.

No matter how many sharks are leapt over in the process.

People don’t want to read cute stories about tomboys and their random friends.

At least, not the one I wrote. Because, I’ll say it again, the book is awful.

Ripple needed about two more rounds of professional edits, a different lead character, and three (read: 11) shots of vodka if it was ever going to do the thing I wanted it to do.

Which, if you’ve been reading my blog for more than a minute, you know that “thing” was: propel me into a full-time career as a book writer.

Okay, to be fair I am working full-time as a book writer. So maybe that’s the wrong choice of words.

What I meant to say is: Ripple needed to propel me into an agented life of glamourous Hollywood parties that I was invited to simply because I wrote the book of the century.

Okay, I’m literally laughing at myself. That’s a stretch even by my deluded standards of how awesome and relevant I am to the entertainment world.

But I did think someone with some kind of clout would read it, review it, love it, and start telling their friends so I’d be able to write books for a living. That, out of the BILLIONS of people on the planet I might be able to find, like, 50,000 super fans who would gobble up everything I’ve ever written.

That’s literally only like .008% of the entire world’s population or some other math equation that, when written out with words, equates to fucking tiny in the grand scheme.

With a tiny number of fans (read: huge to me), I could MAKE A LIVING at my long-hours, mental bullshit, trapped alone most of the time, career.

What I failed to factor about my plan for glory is that the book sucked. I knew it. Friends and family (sweet as they were about telling me they enjoyed it) knew it.

I wasn’t getting “famous” on that piece of crap.

So, what did I do?

I went and wrote another book. Duh. Because that’s what book writers do when faced with a terrible book. They just keep writing.

And my second child was a much better book.

A book with murder, mayhem, tension, both plot and sexual.

One with a broken-hearted but still slightly rational female main character, tossed (by page three) into a totally irrational and heart-pounding situation.

And, not to entirely toot my own horn or anything but, Reckless Abandon is a good fucking book. Finally, I had written the thing I wanted to write all along. A good book. A marketable book. A book that would bust open a series. One that could sustain my writing life for years to come.

That book also dropped in 2012. So, as far as I’m concerned, we can all just forget about the first book and pretend Abandon is book one, right?

Because, after writing and releasing that book I made a promise to myself. Hell, I developed an entire business plan around a promise to myself.

I was giving myself five years and then, if things didn’t show signs of major traction, I would go back to writing as a “cute little hobby” instead of a career and go get a soul-sucking job.

Because, you know, bills don’t go away just because a girl has a dream.

Reality is, I can’t afford to have dreams now.

October marks five years since Abandon hit the market.

Shit.

Here I am, three months away from my self-imposed deadline for glory and where am I at?

Well, truth told I feel like something is happening. I mean, for the past 17 or so months I’ve made a royalty every single month. So that’s something, right?

Is it paying the mortgage? Hell no.

But is it more realistic than my delusion back on April 21, 2012 when I envisioned opening my email to a notice that thousands of copies of my first book magically sold overnight?

Hell yes.

But, because I want to make a real living as a writer a few things have been bugging me lately.

First, I still don’t know how to do any of this shit aside from the writing.

Talking about marketing of course.

And, truth be told, that's really the only thing bugging me right now. I’ve been blogging here for ten years this October but what has it gotten me besides therapy? Is it moving my career forward? I don’t think so. And all the marketing pros would tell me that means every time I write a post I’m wasting time.

So what should I be doing instead, then, huh?

I’ve tried putting myself out there on all the social networks and connecting to people who might be my readers (fail), tried starting a writing-advice-by-writers-for-writers business with a fellow writer (fail), tried amping up the advice on my website (fail, see a trend?).

And I came to quickly realize that I suck at all that shit too. Because, just like my books, I don’t know how to tell people about any of it. At least, not the right people. I don’t know how to get it out there.

Yet I just keep wasting time doing it all as if in some magical universe somehow it all makes any kind of difference. Like a stupid dreamer.

It’s funny. I know people (AKA: authors who actually make a living as writers) would be horrified to read this post – “oh my god what a whiny bitch complaining that she gets to live a life as a full-time writer and telling people all this truth about her life and career, doesn’t she know you’re supposed to fake it until you make it these days?”

To a point, I agree. However, the only people who actually read this blog are the four people in my family who already know all of this shit anyway so I seriously doubt anyone will gasp in surprise at my admissions.

Anyway, there’s another new title releasing in September – 30 Chapters in 30 Days and then I’ll wrap up this year with the 3^rd book in my California Dreamin’ Series hitting shelves in late November.

After that, I’m just not sure what to do anymore.

I’ve been writing so long it’s a personality trait so the likelihood of entirely giving it up is slim. But I can’t work this many hours a week for free anymore. I just can’t. My worth as a person, a human, is waning big time with every minute I bang my head against the keyboard so I can rejoice at my $2.76 royalty check at the end of the month.

This is literally not fulfilling.

Because the writing isn’t the thing I’m bad at. It’s promoting the writing. It’s selling the books. But I don’t know how to do it so I’m definitely stuck.

I’d love to ask everyone to tell their friends, review my books, but, again, the four people who read this blog have already done that in SPADES and I love them for it like I can’t even express. But that doesn’t get me 50,000 super fans.

That doesn’t make this a career. It makes this a very long break from reality.

I literally don’t know what to do with myself if I’m not going to be a writer. And that might sound like drama but it’s true. Nothing ever made me feel like I was doing the right thing before.

The problem is that all those other things paid me to be their bitch. And I really like to eat, have a roof over my head, all that shit that a person actually needs money for in this real world.

I honestly don’t mean this to be a pity party, it isn’t like that, more of an affirmation that I’m giving myself a year extension. If I don’t see major (I mean fucking MAJOR) improvement in my writing to income ratio by next fall then I might just release this dream and be done with it all.

Because, sometimes, dreams are just stupid.

• • • • • • • • • • •
In addition to this drivel I also write books, both fiction and non-fiction.
Learn more on my author page.