To Market, To Market

January 4, 2013January 9, 2013 / roughwighting / 54 Comments

Oh boy, is this hard. I’ll just share with you right now that I am not comfortable writing this post. Okay, here I go, here I go….

I’m almost ready to publish my book, The Right Wrong Man.

The genre? Romantic suspense. But who likes labels? The book is a fun page turner, spell-binding, sexy, with a main character who is flawed (after all, aren’t we all?) and funny at times, clueless at others, and interesting enough that you (the reader) will want to follow her down her own little rabbit hole and see the horrible mess she’s in.

Well, there, that wasn’t so difficult to publicize (also known as hype, tout, flaunt, plug, oh my gosh so many words under “to market”).

I’m a writer, not a promoter. (That’s sort of like saying “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”) I like the idea of taking the high road (you know, I just love the creative process, not the hard-as-nails side of advertising and marketing).

writing process, writing, publishing, marketing, all-terrain highway

The all-terrain highway of writing.

But writing now is an all-terrain highway. The ups, the downs, the writing, the selling.

So I’m proud to shout out I’VE WRITTEN A GOOD BOOK! I love Meredith, my main character. I’m fascinated by the right wrong men in her life, Gregory and Parker. (Or are they the wrong right men?)

Either way, I’ve written the book and edited it and drafted it 2 or 20 or 33 times. My novel has been read and edited and reviewed and critiqued by men and women who all exclaim, “WHAT A GREAT READ!”

The cover is complete, the formatting from Word to Kindle is just about there, and all I need to do now

Is.

Market It!

Ack, but that’s the HARD part.

Can you believe that? Writing a book is supposed to be the most difficult component of publishing.

Making up a character (but truly, that was easy, because Meredith just popped on the page for me);

Finding and following a plot (well, again, I had no idea where Meredith was going, but before I knew it, she flew away from her comfy home in Boston to visit a stranger in a yacht off of St. Thomas and before she knew it…oh, never mind, you have to read the book to find out);

Getting to ‘The End’ (but you know what? The pages just flew on the tip of my pen from page 1 to 286).

Easy peasy.

Just a gallon of sweat, a bucket of blood.

But now, to market, to market.

If you have any suggestions on how to promote The Right Wrong Man, please pass them on.

Just remember, I’m kind of low on blood right now…

Letter to Myself, December 28, 1969

December 28, 2012December 28, 2012 / roughwighting / 22 Comments

To my younger self. (http://murfinc.webs.com/tutorials.htm)

Dear Pam,

Believe, believe, believe in yourself. Truly, you’ve got to believe me in this. (Ha, get it? Believe in yourself/believe in me?).

Yes, we’re one and the same, only I’m you more than 35 years later. Strange, huh?

But you believe in strange things, don’t you?

Trust me when I tell you, you’re beautiful. You’re not fat. You’re not awkward-looking. And you’re not uncoordinated. In a couple of decades, you’ll be running 10-mile road races. You’ll be stretching in amazing yoga positions and walking an hour a day.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. If you wrote a book with that title now, you’d make a fortune! You’re probably puzzled about what that expression means, but basically, continue like you are.

For a teenager, you don’t worry much now except about the large things, like “is something wrong with me because when I look out the window, trees turn gold and white and I feel like I’m flying?” and “am I really an alien who was placed here on Earth to mingle with the creatures from a different planet?”

person flying, teenager, adult talking to teenager, imagination

One way of looking at the world.(http://www.listofimages.com/by-itself-clouds-colorful-island-ocean-reflection-rocks-sky.html)

Keep asking those questions – they’ll entertain you throughout your life. But you’re so right to not worry about whether that red mini-dress is too short, or if Bev is shunning you because her boyfriend Tim pays attention to you. In fact, Tim will leave Bev for you, but that’s another story, and I’m not supposed to tell you your future; I’m just permitted to leave you words of wisdom for that future.

Oh, be nicer to our brother. Chuck is so off your radar now, but pay more attention to him. Decades from now, you two will become good friends, even though you never live near each other, and you’ll fly thousands of miles to vacation together, and go to each other’s kids’ weddings. He’s a good guy. Stop treating him like a door mat.

Here’s another word of advice that will knock your socks off (and by the way, feel those fluffy thick socks you’re wearing now? I’m still wearing the exact same kind of socks while I sit here typing to you, oh so many years later). KEEP ON WRITING. Right now (in 1969), yes, I know you have your diary hidden in our underwear drawer, and those two short stories you wrote are stashed between the third and fourth books on the second shelf of our bedroom bookcase. Guess what? In the future, not only will you stop hiding your writing, you’ll share your stories – personal pieces as well as your fiction – on a public ‘web’ forum for friends, family, and lots of strangers. Okay, Okay, I lost you here, but I’m not lying. Truly.

Finally, your love for our sweet dog Suzie, and her love for you, teaches you to be a good friend, a warm and loving mother, and a faithful companion to several special dogs in your future. Give her a special hug tonight.

And after mom closes the bedroom door, let Suzie hop up and sleep with you.

Happy New Year!

Love from your future self,

December 28, 2012

SNOW FALLS SILENTLY

December 21, 2012December 21, 2012 / roughwighting / 39 Comments

Snow falls as silently as stardust on a bright clear night.

Stardust covers the houses and the trees and the ground and you –

if you’re out on a star-filled night.

The sound is a hush.

A hush as haunting and beautiful as a

mother’s lullaby to her newborn babe.

It’s the same sound of snow falling on oak and dale,

on lampposts and driveway, on forest and plain.

But the snowflakes are exposed by their very nature;

they are white and pristine on a background of pewter sky.

The snow shines like elegant moving polka dots

floating with the grace of a thousand ballerinas.

It’s the dance of nature’s beauty,

of the grace of life and death,

of love from the spirit of the universe.

Snow falls silently so we can hear

our own delight at nature’s spectacle.

Snow falls silently so we can accept

our life, and death,

on nature’s terms.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO MY ROUGHWIGHTING READERS

FROM MY HOUSE – TO YOURS

Cell Phone Abuse and Miracles

December 14, 2012December 14, 2012 / roughwighting / 26 Comments

My early morning walking view, with eyes straight ahead.

Many of you know that I delight in the early morning joy of walking my heart out, and my lungs and my muscles. This week, during my normal 7 a.m. routine of walking the S.F. bay area shoreline with my four-legged companion, Henry, I note that I see more top-sided humans than I used to (compared to, say, a few years ago).

Top-sided human, eyes down to cell phone.

Remember when, back in the day, people strolled the neighborhood – sidewalks or nearby hills – and nodded to one another as they passed, maybe even calling out a cheery, “good morning,” or “so good to see you out and about, Mr. Brown!” Well, no more niceties now during the Age of Cell Phone Abuse. Nearly everyone has their heads turned down to their cell phone, to… what? Peruse the latest e-mail from a friend? Read their newspaper, check out the gossip on Facebook, twitter a quote to a stranger? But look what they’re missing right in front of their noses, if they’d only pull their noses, and eyes, front and center. In the early morning mist, pelicans cavort like babies in a bouncy house, racing back and forth, diving deep down and then soaring upward, to savor the school of visiting herring.

dog, golden retriever, walking along San Francisco Bay

Henry, chuckling.

A woman with her two little bichons passes me and my big monster of a dog (to a bichon, an 11-year-old golden is a big bad scary beast). The white furry animals bark like seals in heat (and yes, I know that sound, since in the spring I hear the randy seals by the bay shore rocks, barking away).

The embarrassed woman gets out her big guns, a spray bottle, and I hear the swish swish of water aimed at her doggies as Henry and I leap by. I swear Henry’s head twirls toward them, chuckling at their humbling discipline.

And then there’s the man sitting in his car at the depot museum parking lot, reading his newspaper, which is propped up over his steering wheel. I notice him almost every morning, and make up a story. His wife kicked him out, again, and he’s getting his early morning coffee and front page read before he goes back home and asks for forgiveness, again. When my imaginings are more creative, he’s a C.I.A. agent who knows that soon a spy for the ‘other side’ will be passing secrets at any minute, here, in front of the bay and the pelicans and the seals, threatening world peace unless he’s stopped.

railroad museum, SF Bay, walking, miracles, trains

Railroad Depot Museum, at dawn.

But sometimes I just listen to my footsteps on the concrete path, tapping in exercise mode; Henry’s paws on grass, muted and happy; the hundred pelican wings swishing in harmony, ethereal and magical; tiny dogs barking in the background and a woman’s soft voice chastising, “quiet now, quiet.” Swish Swish.

Can you hear those sounds, while your head is down, perusing your cell phone?

Does a tree make noise when it falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it?

What magic do we miss, when our eyes aren’t front and center of the everyday wonder occurring right in front of us every second?

I ponder these thoughts as I peer through the small museum’s windows, windows that overlook the bay and the creatures who live in and around it. To my surprise, I spy a tiny Santa’s elf, playing with the big toy trains that are tooting around and around the platform.

I snap a quick picture – will it turn out, or is he a figment of my imagination – and continue on my magical walk.

Cell phone in pocket, eyes straight ahead.

Santa’s elf!

A PERFECTLY IMPERFECT LOVE

December 7, 2012December 7, 2012 / roughwighting / 12 Comments

I’m in 12th grade English and the teacher comes up with another ho-hum assignment.

“Write about your grandparents,” she demands.

Not so easy. My grandmother died when I was six, and my grandfather went from VA Hospital to nursing home in short order, dying five quick years later. What do I write about? Funny thing is, the one thing I know for sure is that my grandparents loved each other.

How do I know that so certainly, considering how little I knew them?

Physically, they were a mismatch. Boo-Pa was six foot two, as straight and solid as a tree, with a large, angular face and thick straight dark blonde hair that was snow white by the time I was 5.

Nanny was petite, as delicate as a tiny bird, with small wise light blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled, a small, heart-shaped mouth that was always curved upward, and tiny feet and hands.

He was gruff and quiet, with a large presence.

She was dainty and sweet with a kindness that enveloped all who came near.

My other grandmother, Marmu, proclaimed to me years later that Nanny had been a true saint.

“Not saintly, not just a nice person or any of that,” Marmu explained earnestly. “But an honest-to-God saint.”

How does a saint live with a sinner. How does a sinner live with a saint?

I saw their marriage in stark relief when I was five years old, early Christmas morning.

They were staying with us and sleeping in my brother’s bedroom. Despite my mother’s protestations, I tiptoed in their room to wake them up. I wanted to play. BooPa was snoring. They were curled up in each other’s arms. I giggled, then jumped on their bed.

They woke with a start, Nanny with a smile on her tiny face, BooPa with a snarl as he jumped out of bed.

He was naked! I’d never seen a naked man, and I was absolutely fascinated.

“Phil,” my grandmother admonished. Just that one word, spoken softly but with an edge to it, got him moving faster than I thought a big man should. He jumped into his boxer shorts and turned to look at her abashedly.

“I didn’t know she’d wake us up!” he said, ignoring me, wanting only approval from his wife.

She gave him a kiss and told him to get dressed, then allowed me to snuggle in the bed with her.