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Against Their Will – Will the Pressure Ever Stop?
As I rush to conform to the demands on my shoulders, two traits, perfect and quick, are holding me back! I feel the need to be perfect in my words and ideas so maybe, just maybe readers will get hooked and keep reading, or even better recommend the book to a friend who buys a copy and so on. You work every spare moment of every day (and night in my case), and just when you think you’ve got it right, something else causes you to stumble and question everything you’ve ever considered in trying to write, promote, and sell your work. Most any writer can relate to this unless he or she has superpowers and can bypass this obstacle!
Pushing forward to produce work worthy of selling, I keep desiring quick; quick results, quick rewards, and quick everything related to my goal of creating work worthy of being read. Yet, unexpected bumps come along, as they do for any writer working to get their work seen and appreciated. There seems to be some detail or issue about your book you never thought in a million years would be a problem. Deadlines get changed without warning, and new demands, insisting you “market yourself and your work” get added to the mix of stomach-churning, acid-burning stress that clinches your insides with anxiety and keeps you awake at night.
The person who can develop, find, or produce a cure for this will be worth millions to those who benefit from their cure! But, one cannot let his or her guard down once your work starts to get noticed. That’s just the beginning of deadlines, pressure, and stress. And, when it looks promising that it will be picked up by a publisher, don’t think you’re home-free just yet!
“Oh, we need a revised and edited manuscript by next week. You can do that, can’t you?” I groan just thinking of this. Then there is the other applecart upset of the week, “We can’t publish your book, this year. The budget isn’t big enough”, or “We need to see more interest in your book”. The clincher for me is, “We need someone who can invest more time and money in their project.”
Okay, this is just a glimpse of what it is like to try to make it in the world of publishing. Not all aspiring authors face this. Some are truly blessed to be noticed and acquired without jumping through a world of hoops and other obstacles. So, how do those of us not so blessed; those who feel as if they’re constantly vibrating from stress constantly streaming through their veins survive?
Survive, that is the word. And, it is one I’m still working to achieve. Somedays, I’m on a cloud, so elated that something promising happened that pushed me one step nearer my goal, that I can’t stop grinning. Then a day or so later, I’m as low in the dumps as one can be because that promise of publishing, or getting an agent, or a contract for a movie script all fell apart with little more than one big sneeze.
Ah, so is life. If one is not stressed through one aspect of their work, there is certainly another job that can produce even more stress. And when that wave washes over me I’m just as destroyed as I would be if it had been a giant tsunami.
Stress is not limited to aspiring authors. It happens to all of us at one time or another. It’s a fact of life. How we survive it, is by our perspective on the big picture. Sometimes we have to give ourselves permission to fail, learn from it, and move forward with revisions made to our game plan. If we want something bad enough we won’t give up. If we do throw the towel in, then we believe we aren’t worthy of the reward of what we were chasing.
For me, all this is true. But, I do have one person who’s on my side, who truly cares for me and wants only the best for me in all things. And, in my love for Him, I am grateful that He sees a much bigger picture than I do. The fight is all in His ability to get me to see, hear, and listen to what He wants. For, He alone knows what works best, both in the plot and in life.
Who is He? Jesus Christ, my Lord and my Savior. In the end, it will all work out according to plan and it will be good.
Against Their Will – the beginning
Against Their Will – Prologue
Infernal stoplight. Could it take any longer to change?
Sweat dripped down Max Duncan’s back and dotted his brow. It soaked through his formerly pristine shirt and left stains under his arms and on his collar. Cars swept past, slinging stifling, muggy Houston air into his face. He wanted to slap it away. Instead, he shifted from foot to foot.
“I ain’t got time for this freakin’ . . .” A string of obscenities slipped out under his breath. He glared at the crowd pressing against him, pushing and nudging him. He bared his teeth as if he were a lion ready to pounce and rip the entire throng to shreds. Then, he thought of all the germs, the stink, and the sweat that would contaminate him, and he pressed his lips together in a solid line, as if they could be a protective barrier from the totally sub-perfect world bumping against him.
The temperature rose, heat bearing down on him with such intensity that he was certain a giant magnifying glass was over his head, concentrating the sun’s rays on his scalp. When the signal finally changed, Max pushed through the crowd so that he led the pack as he raced across the scorching pavement.
On the other side of the street, he stopped in front of the bank’s wall of windows. His reflection stared back at him from the tinted glass. With a stubby forefinger, he dabbed at a smudge on his forehead. Lately, it was as if the years were melting away, like a river birch’s curling bark peeling away to reveal the pristine white trunk beneath. If it weren’t for that hideous tag of skin growing under his jaw, he could be on the next cover of People’s “Sexiest Men Alive” issue – but that tag. It had only appeared recently. It was just a flap of extra skin, ridged like a gill, but with no color. He shrugged. Youth and energy, why they were the two greatest forces in life. They were all that mattered. He had been blessed with a lot of each lately. Although he didn’t understand why or how, he didn’t care. Max never questioned the generosity of any giver.
He glided through the brass-trimmed doors of the old bank and into the cavernous marble-floored lobby. He sniffed. Despite artificially cooled air, he could smell it- money, old money. It was like slipping into a favorite pair of jeans, comfortable, comforting. Odd, he didn’t remember being around it before.
At the teller’s window, Max pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket, glanced at it, and then said, “I’m here for Gerald Humminger.”
There was a momentary pause as the woman glanced up at Max and narrowed her eyes. After a few seconds, she said very stiffly, “May I tell him who wishes to see him?”
Max patted his tie. “Yeah, you can tell him Max Duncan is here.”
Soon, a tall gentleman in the dark, cut-to-perfection uniform of the business world approached and extended his bony hand.
“It’s Max now, is it?” Gerald Humminger grinned. “What a pleasant surprise! I certainly didn’t expect to see you again, at least not so soon.” He gripped Max’s elbow and spoke close to his ear. “But, I must say, you’re looking better than ever – at least ten years younger. You must tell me about this youth potion you’ve obviously discovered!”
Max’s fat fingers encircled the man’s bony ones as they shook hands. His brows knitted into a frown. Who was this guy?
Moments later, seated in a leather chair in Humminger’s office, Max studied the man. How could Mr. Humminger be surprised to see him again? He was certain he had never met the lanky banker before.
As the thought traversed the neural pathways in Max’s mind, a small chisel started hammering inside his skull. The throbbing was moderate, just enough to make Max grimace. He pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead.
“Are you all right?” Gerald leaned forward and squinted. Max nodded. “Want some ice water, perhaps, something stronger?”
Max shook his head. “No . . . thanks.”
“Well then, what brings you here today? Last I heard, you were in some federal prison. It seems something was said about an inmate stabbing you.” Humminger giggled. “I believe it was with a fork! Even heard you didn’t make it. But, it looks like you not only resurrected yourself, new name and all, but you shaved a few years off while you were at it. If it wasn’t some magic youth potion, then it must’ve been one incredible plastic surgeon!”
Max stared at Gerald, his expression blank. Who was this man that he even cared what Max looked like? It was none of his business, except Max couldn’t deny the slight pleasure he got from the envy the other man held toward him.
Gerald’s smile faded. “Look, we’re old buddies. I’ve held your hand through the worst of them. This room is safe. You can tell old Gerald what’s really going on.”
“Going on? Nothing’s going on. I’m fine.” Max shifted in his seat. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swiped it across his forehead. Then he glanced at his watch. “Look, I need to make a transfer. I’ve got to split twenty million between three accounts. One’s in the Grand Caymans. The others are in Switzerland.”
“Twenty million? You have that much left? I thought our ‘I-feel-your-pain’ uncle took all your possessions. IRS and all.”
All his possessions? He was simply transferring money on behalf of his new employer.
“It’s not mine,” Max said as he pushed a sealed envelope across the polished desk. “It’s my employer’s. The authorization’s there,” he added, pointing to the envelope.
“New employer, huh? You not only flirted with death, cheated and won; you’re also not wasting any time getting new work, are you?” Gerald tore open the envelope and quickly read the single sheet inside.
“Says here this is your money, and you want it split between three accounts opened nearly five years ago.” Gerald dropped the sheet and stared at Max. “Want to tell me the real truth? What’s going on, Milo?”
“Milo?” Max frowned. “I tell you, nothing’s going on. Never in my life have I had money like that!” The chisel in his skull morphed into a jackhammer.
“Milo, Max, whatever. You’ve never had that little money in your life. You’re used to handling many times more than a paltry sum of twenty million. You controlled accounts the world over. The Grand Caymans was just play money. That’s why you can’t remember!” Gerald grinned as he patted Max’s shaking hand. “Sure, it must be hard giving up what you had. Looks like you’re on your way back, though. Pull a few wise investments, and in no time, you’ll have all you had before plus some.”
Max tried to swallow but couldn’t. So much saliva had accumulated it threatened to overflow and dribble down his chin. Without warning, a wave of nausea slammed into him, sending a fresh sweat river down his cheeks. Yet, he managed a smile as he nodded at Gerald.
“Very well.” Gerald stood. “You must sign the proper forms and all that. You know the routine.” He rounded the desk and started for the door. “Just sit back and relax. I’ll get my secretary on it right away.” The door shut behind him.
Max started shaking. He felt like a leaf whipping around in a storm, and he couldn’t stop himself. Ringing echoed in his ears. A frantic urgency pushed and pulled at his insides. He got up and started pacing in front of the wall of windows. He felt like he would die if he stopped moving. On the street below, traffic and pedestrians flowed. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Max stared at them and wondered why he envied them.
Gerald returned, breezing through the door with a small stack of documents in hand.
Max spun around and hurried back to his seat in front of Gerald’s desk. He pointed at the papers. “Where do I sign?”
“Just like every time before, wherever you see yellow highlighting.” Gerald pointed at the various blanks. “These forms authorize this bank to move the money you requested to the accounts you specified, and so on and so on. Soon as they’re signed, we’ll enter the instructions and wait for confirmation. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
The signing completed, Max shoved the papers back over to Gerald who then took them to someone waiting outside the door. As suddenly as it had come over him, Max’s urgent energy vanished. His muscles, no longer tight and hard, crumpled into a limp mass. Yet, the pounding in his head jumped to double-time. He had to get out of there. He didn’t know why; he just had to do it. Right then. Aiming for the door, Max staggered as the room tilted and then straightened.
Gerald gripped his elbow. “What’s your hurry?” He bent over so that he could peer into Max’s eyes. “Are you all right? You’re looking a little pale. Sure I can’t get you something?”
Max focused on Gerald for a moment, and he realized suddenly he didn’t know why he was there. Max shook his head, unable to answer.
A young woman in a form-fitting suit pushed through the door and smiled. “Mr. Humminger, the confirmation just came back. I’ll have the hard copy in just a moment.”
“Thanks, Bonnie, dear,” Gerald said. His eyes lingered on her shapely form, and she glared at him as she backed from the room and slammed the door.
The pounding, the ringing, the nausea, all of it closed in on Max. He lunged for the door and reeled through it.
“Wait! You don’t have your papers!”
“I’ll . . . get them later.” Max rubbed his temple furiously. Without warning, he gagged, but only saliva streamed from his mouth. He managed to push through the door and half ran, half staggered toward the elevator.
Once inside, he leaned against the wall and panted. Swirling images crept across his vision, distorting the light and the area around him. When the doors opened, he nearly fell into the arms of a waiting woman. Instead, he caught himself and stumbled past her, aiming erratically for the outer doors and the bright light beyond. If only he could make it to the light.
The pounding and ringing intensified, shutting out all sound. Desperate to stop the pain, he pushed his palm against his ear and then pulled it away and stared at it. It was warm and sticky, dripping with bright-red blood. Max stumbled forward. He didn’t hear the shouts behind him or car horns blaring before him. He just searched for the light. He pushed his feet faster, desperate to find it.
When Max finally found his light, he didn’t see the car to his left. He couldn’t feel the crunching and cracking of his bones, the scraping and tearing of his flesh. His world wobbled and spun, dragging him with it. By the time he hit the pavement, it was black. The ringing stopped, and the pounding slowed. Thump … thump … thump … thump …
The newscaster’s professionally bleached teeth filled the television screen.
“In downtown Houston today, a tragic accident took the life of billionaire, former federal prison inmate, and allied Mafia kingpin, Milo Dolnia. Eyewitness accounts vary, some saying Dolnia was holding his head, with blood running through his fingers prior to staggering into the path of a speeding car in the one-hundred block of Louisiana Street. Others could not confirm his injury but saw him moving erratically prior to running in front of the oncoming vehicle. Dolnia did not respond to shouts or car horns. No charges have been filed s this time; however, an investigation continues. Dolnia was the focus of a recent controversy after being released from Bastrop Federal Prison after serving only a small fraction of his sentence for tax evasion and fraud. He …”
The petite, flame-haired woman hit the “off” button on the remote and threw it on her desk. Hands on her hips as if she were the steel-plated superhero, she whirled about to face the towering, almost superhuman-looking man entering her office. Despite the white lab jacket covering a starched shirt and silk tie, he looked more like a professional wrestling star than the genius he was as tested on the Wechsler Scale.
“Did you see that? Did you?” The woman’s voice rose. “They just won’t leave it alone, will they? They’ll do their investigations, prodding and poking until their brains freeze over. Why can’t they believe it was an accident and leave it at that?”
“Whatever are you worried about, Cherie?” The tone of the man’s voice was mostly neutral, except for when he pronounced her name. It was drawn out like a long, soft caress. She might have wondered about him, his heritage, if indeed there was some French ancestry there, but she was too preoccupied to consider his bloodline. More important issues related to blood kept her focused.
“Even with an autopsy, all they’ll find, beside broken bones and contusions, is a subdural hematoma, a small intracranial hemorrhage. They’ll assume that’s what caused him to run blindly into the street. Believe me; they will never know the truth.”
“I hope you’re right, Charles. For all of our sakes, I hope you’re right.”
“Why do you doubt, Cherie? Do you not believe me when I tell you of our progress, of our achievements? We have attained the unthinkable, things so unbelievable that if one did not witness them personally, one would never believe them possible. Yet, you have see it all, firsthand.”
Cherie’s lips curled into a self-satisfied grin as she rubbed her hand along his thick arm. “Oh, I know, Charles! It’s just I get scared sometimes. We’ve worked for so long on this, put so much into it, that to consider any setback now when we’re so close … well, it just curdles my stomach! You’re right; we’re almost there. I mean, Milo authorized that transfer of twenty million, not even a question asked! Think of the implications!” A low, guttural laugh rose from her throat.
“Implications?” Charles shook his head. “What is means is we still have not solved our problem. We still cannot determine why they succumb at exactly the same point.”
“So who cares if they fall over? At least we can get them to do our bidding first.” She licked her lips. “Charles, consider the potential. We’ve stumbled onto something that could be even more productive than you silly little cures. Why not use it?”
“Silly little cures?” His voice clipped the air with a cold, steel edge. “I thought what mattered most was not to make them our puppets but to perfect the miracles, to give them hope. Is that not the goal, what we are all waiting for, hope?”
Cherie rubbed her chin. “I suppose you can have your hope. Pity, though. We’ve proven the potential. It would be a shame to waste it.”
“Waste it?” He backed away from her. The air between them had become charged. “No, it would never be wasted, but we desperately need fresh blood. Somewhere, there is a person holding the right DNA key, the right genetic blueprint to give us what we lack. When we find that, then we have success. We can give them our miracles and keep them alive.”
Cherie rubbed a red-painted fingernail slowly across her plump lips. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. In a low, seductive tone, she said softly, “Charles, you will find your success. I know you will. In the meantime, though, we can have some fun, can’t we?” She moved behind him and began to knead his shoulder muscles through the cloth of his lab jacket. As her fingers poked and prodded the tight muscles, she smiled her trademark Cheshire grin.
“Yes, Charles, we’ll have our fun, and you’ll solve your problems. You’ll get what you need, and you’ll be happy. I will be too, for you will have given me what I’ve searched for, no, longed for all these years. I’m banking the reputation of our entire project on your promises, and you know to whom I answer.”
Charles spun around so that his gaze met hers. The heat seemed to shimmer like pavement on a hot summer day. He nodded and said quietly, “I am well aware of the power behind you. But I cannot produce your miracles, or your puppets, without help.” Not waiting for a response, he spun sharply on his heel and hurried from the office. The door slammed behind him.
Cherie crossed her arms and stared blankly at the door. Slowly, a smile spread across her face. “Good,” she said, though there was no one to hear her. “Glad you understand.”
Plopping into her swivel chair, she kicked her feet out, and with a soft “Whee!” she spun it once before pulling it up to her desk. She picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers as she muttered to herself, “Now for that little matter of genetic variety.”
Web Conspiracies Everywhere? –
Just because a building looks official or imposing, does that mean everyone it represents is honest and trustworthy?
If you’ve read my book, Against Their Will, you know I’m into conspiracy stories. When the first stirrings of ideas for the book formed in my brain, it was still a bit inconceivable that normal, everyday citizens should ever have to worry about any type of conspiracy, much less ones government induced.
Now after the advent of Edward Snowden, the NSA, WikiLeaks, Drone spying, claims that vaccines harm us and that Wal-Mart is closing stores in the Southwest to make room for Chinese troops to come train on US soil and more, it is much more conceivable that things might be going on that we don’t really want to know are going on.
Granted there are all sorts of ideas floating on the web about who did what to whom. I will admit, some make a lot of sense. Others are discredited almost immediately when I see a lack substantiation or proof as to what the writer is claiming. Merely “preaching an idea” does not necessarily make that idea true. Nor does a credible looking website that states something is true without facts or references to back it up really mean that what is said is true.
Jazzy web-designs, easily obtained today in numerous places, can make a site credible looking. Formats that appear to be news-worthy can draw in visitors quite easily, and if the content is presented in the right manner, can even deceive the reader into believing all that is said is true.
This just emphasizes the ease with which a modern day web-surfer can be misled or down-right lied to. Fiction belongs in a book that is labeled as fiction and not pushed on the public in ways that deceive the reader into believing they are true, or fact.
Have I been stung by truthful-looking web-sites? Maybe. . . But, despite what I think about what I read on the web, I will say, there is an abundance of material out there that churns up a pot-full of ideas for plotting my next novel. No doubt, there is probably enough truth mixed in with the screaming headlines and provocative intros that even those ideas that are not true, may certainly seem true.
What’s good about all this? Well, this makes the beauty of fiction writing all the more alluring. It doesn’t matter! A fiction writer can craft just about any story, and given a few exceptions, never have to prove its merit or truthfulness!
But, as with all things, moderation is key. It all depends on the story being told and the audience to which it is pitched. Still, the internet makes for one huge world of interest just waiting to be manipulated into a best-seller. Thriller style!
Twelve Gifts for Writers
Give them time – Writers get pressures pushed on them all the time by those who either don’t have a clue or who sit in judgment as to what they really fill their time with. Give the gift of time to your writer; be considerate. If you want or need them to do something besides write, ask with hope and genuine understanding that you know what they’re doing is important.
Giving precious gifts to others doesn’t always require money or gift wrap!Image courtesy of cescassawin at FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Give them understanding – Even if you don’t know what it’s like to be under a deadline, or the pressure of being creative, let them know you are trying to understand. Writers work as hard as anyone else, but because they usually do it on their own time, not their bosses time, so many people jump to erroneous conclusions that they must be lazy or really don’t have work to do and then make erroneous judgements on the writer’s work ethic.
Give them reasonable expectations – Just as we all struggle to fit everything that is demanded of us into our days, writers do as well. How we communicate to writers about what we want or need determines the level of pressure the writer feels in meeting those unspoken expectations.
Give them encouragement – Encourage them in their work. Even if you don’t understand what it is like to be a writer, let them know you’re supportive and are wishing them the best. Writers need encouragement, from those who write and those who don’t.
Give them space – Don’t constantly ask them to go to lunch, or to this event or that function. This is not to say writers don’t need a break. But if you ask and the answer is no, let them know you understand. Reaffirm that you would love to get together but on their time frame.
Give them help with daily chores or duties – If you are the spouse of a writer, or even the roommate of one, help them out when they are deep in the middle of a tangled plot line and can’t stop to put the dishes in the dishwasher. They may lose that all important train of thought that solves the mystery of the primary characters!
Give them peace and quiet – If your writer works while you are in the same space, try to be considerate and let them have few to no distractions while working. Compromise is the great truth to this scenario. And it can go both ways. By giving your writer some space, you’ll most likely get consideration as well. When that big game is on, shouts and screams for your team won’t get snarled at – unless your writer roots for the opposite side!
Give them protection from distractions – If your writer is busy at work and the phone rings (yours or the home’s) don’t wait and make the writer get it. The same goes for if someone is at the door.
Give them your ear – Listen to your writer. Encourage them to talk about their plot, or their characters. Don’t be too eager to jump into the conversation but rather encourage them to talk by asking questions, or for clarification. This is helpful in it gets the writer to think about his or her work and can often led them into new insights on their work.
Give them your support – Support is really one that sums up several of the other items. But it also includes being their for your writer when they get that 100th rejection letter, or they inadvertently lost everything from chapter 15 due to forgetting to hit the “save” button. Sometimes writers, like all of us, just need to know someone else stands on the same side with them.
Give them your honesty – If you are asked to read a portion of the writer’s work; be honest. Being honest is telling the truth but with love/gentleness and so on wrapped around it. Like, “Gee, I know you’ve been working so hard on this piece, but for me, I just don’t think the male character is a good fit for your protagonist. I envision something more like. . .” Cushion the criticism by making it only your opinion and stating your preferences, not what you think it should or should not be.
Give them your unconditional love – Finally, give your writer some love. When we hear the word love, we usually think romantic love. But, there are many more types of love to give and receive in life. While you’ve been encouraged to give honesty, support, your ear, encouragement and space to your writer friends and family, more importantly, you can give them your unconditional love. This means that no matter what he or she does, you will still love them. This makes a safe place for anyone to retreat to whenever the world gets too rough or sour and one needs to “lick their wounds” and retreat. Loving someone unconditionally means that no matter what they do, they can be forgiven and not lose their standing with the person who is doing the forgiving. This type of love has almost become a foreign concept in today’s world. But, many years ago, Unconditional love was born in a lowly manger, born to take on all the bad things each and every one of us does in our life time. And there is nothing we can do to earn His love and forgiveness. It is given freely. Once we accept this free gift of forgiveness, we learn that we are loved, no matter what, and that is the most liberating gift anyone, not just writers, can receive.
Merry Christmas and don’t just give these gifts to your writer, but to anyone in your life.
Distorted Words
Distorted thinking. Most people hear this term and think some type of mental dysfunction is at play. But in reality, we all are affected by distortion in our lives.
These windows distort the light, so images cannot appear true when viewed through this distorted lens.
We get so used to it, however, that after a while, we don’t see it or even notice it.
So, what does this have to do with writing? First of all, when writing, it is very easy to “get lost” in the story, the characters or even the setting. We see our work as “complete” when in reality it may be missing key pieces, such as words, punctuation, or even information that was intended to be included but left out.
Writing distortion can happen to anyone. You don’t have to be a new writer to suffer from it. In fact, seasoned writers may be more prone to distortion since they have developed a routine of writing that causes the brain to develop a picture of what is perceived and therefore makes it harder to detach from that picture and actually see missing words or words that are out of place.
It is frustrating to read works that are well thought out, executed and meaningful only to see the word that should have been deleted, or is the wrong tense, or uses the wrong “two” instead of the correct “too” glaring at you. It’s like an email you get that tells you “your” going to love whatever it is they are selling. Instead, most likely “you’re” going to by-pass that message, dismissing it because of the glaring mis-use of a word. I could just scream!
I recently read an excellent, fast-paced, and thrilling novel. It was truly one that I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. The problem? I lost count after finding thirty-five “distortions” (words missing or unnecessary, ones that made no sense, or had the wrong spelling) in the first chapter alone. I enjoyed the book but let the author know that a good and thorough copy edit was needed.
And this brings up the whole point of editing. We all need it! We need someone other than ourselves to carefully read through and check for these types of mistakes. In this day and age of computers, spell checks and even predictive text, it is easier than ever to overlook these distorted words. It happens to every writer.
Yeah, I know. Not every writer can afford a professional edit. But the truth is, even if you get picked up by a traditional publisher, most authors, unless already well known, are responsible for the edit. So, how does a writer deal with such things?
Get a friend to read your manuscript. Be open to any suggestions made. If you have a friend who teaches or is a big reader; especially of the genre you are writing, even better. Again, it may not be the high priced edit, but it will help you get your work to the place you want it to be.
Another option is to put your manuscript in a drawer or somewhere that it won’t constantly remind you of its presence. This only works if deadlines are not in play! After your work has aged appropriately, pull it out and savor your words. Look at each one slowly and without haste. Judge it as if it is a fine wine that only gets better with time. Imperfections will show up easier and you won’t be as likely to overlook them. Even with this route, it is still a great idea to have another person read it, preferably someone who did not read it earlier.
None of us is perfect and that will never change. We can work to be the best we can be, with each attempt improving us and our talent. Even though we all know we won’t achieve perfection, we can reach for this goal and that makes for work that is worth attention, good, positive attention. We want to be noticed, but for all the right reasons.
Go grab that glass of wine. Swirl it about your glass. Notice the fine details. Consider how the meniscus marks the side of the glass. Study the clarity of the liquid. Inhale the vapors and savor the aroma. Don’t be afraid of age, both in the wine and in your work. Both can produce an even better product. Cheers!
Alternatives to Traditional Publishing – Self-Publishing; is it a Dirty Word?
We’re not in Kansas anymore!
As discussed before, traditional publishing is starting to take a back seat to new alternatives. The old stigma of never paying for publication and the often negative association with the terms “vanity press” causes many authors to avoid these options altogether. But, today is a new day, Things are changing in the world of writing and publishing, in some cases quite rapidly. As new technology grows, changes in attitudes toward these new options are growing as well. Authors now have more opportunities to get their work in the hands of readers. This is truly good news.
Independent and self-publishing platforms are rapidly becoming the new norm for today’s authors. I read an article just last week about a main-stream author who has been writing in excess of 20 years. This person has written numerous books that were published by traditional presses. Even with “success” in the traditional publishing realm, this author felt there were greater opportunities to be had by switching to independent publishing; which this person has done with success.
Going the independent route for authors offers a sense of control over the project. Depending on the company and the package of services the author acquires, the levels of control may vary. Still, authors have a say in most every step of the process. If you have strong opinions on a cover design, how the book should be formatted, or even as to which color the ink should be, these are options where the author is in charge. The book size, the paper used for printing and word length can be chosen by an author. Another area of control is the timetable. How quickly an author wants to release a book can be tweaked, depending on the author’s schedule, and other factors. Pricing is another area of input. Some companies leave it entirely to the author what to charge; others “suggest” a price and others give a minimum price which reflects costs and the author can determine how much mark-up is needed.
For those independent spirits out there, this path seems like an ideal approach to get one’s work in the hands of the public. However, for all the positives, there can be negatives. These can be minimized or avoided if the author does the homework and considers all potential variables that will affect how successful the results are. The costs involved are not just financial, but personal as well. Writers who choke and stammer with fear at the thought of speaking to a literary group or book club must realize they will have to do things outside their comfort zones. If you’d rather cower in a corner with green gills and streams of sweat running down your temples than hand out book marks at a writer’s convention and tell others about your work, you may have trouble getting significant sales with this method of publishing. Those with marketing savvy most likely will find the sales pitch a bit easier to swallow. But, even for those with marketing backgrounds, the process can be daunting. Let’s face it, we authors are much more comfortable sitting in front of a laptop screen than standing before a crowd of strangers telling them why they should read our books.
Some of the bigger independent publishing companies have figured this out. They’ve capitalized on the demand for help in marketing and put together various packages to help authors promote and sell their work. This can be a great way to go for some authors, but not all. Not every one of us has thousands of dollars to spend on marketing and we must make our money count!
Authors are creative and this evidence shows in some of the ways they devise to attract attention to their books. Anything from email “signatures” with links to their book, to social media campaigns that offer something unusual in exchange for a review or other promotional considerations; the sky really is the only limit.
Finding success with independent publishing requires commitment, determination and a “failure is not an option” mentality. We have to come out of our comfort zones, shove those bookmarks in readers’ faces, “brag” about our work and never be afraid to tell others that we’re an author, a published author! Yes, I include myself in that demographic! I’m the one over there, huddled in a corner, a nice shade of green creeping up my throat and sweat running down my temples as I hear my name being announced as the next speaker at a literary event. How bad do you want it? That’s the question. As for me, I carry extra bottles of TUMS in my pocket. After all I’ve shoveled down my throat, I think I should buy some stock in the company, but I’m not giving up. Neither should you! In this new world of publishing I think Dorothy said it best, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore!”
Next time I’ll discuss some of the companies offering publishing packages and give my two cents worth on what an author should look for when considering these options.
How maybe to possibly, hopefully, sometime soon, get published!
Nancy Livingstone discusses her book, Against Their Will with host Sue Lucey
Last week I was the featured speaker at a writer’s festival in our town. While the questions the moderator asked me were about my recently published book, when it came time for audience questions, they seemed much more interested in how I got my book published.
Now, I’m fairly certain there’s not a one of you writers out there that hasn’t given some (okay maybe a lot) of thought to the part about getting your work published. And you’ve probably figured out by now that the traditional way of publishing is pretty much gone, unless you have connections, are a star or have done some outrageous thing that put your name in the headlines and therefore created enough name recognition to carry a book. Unfortunately that leaves the other 98 percent of us out there struggling, trying to determine what to do to get someone to read our number one bestseller. After all, we wouldn’t be writing if we weren’t certain that our story is the best, the most unusual, the most gripping, terrifying, funny and tear-jerking story ever written. Why can’t those publishers see that right away?!
The traditional query to the agent or publisher can still be sent out, however the rate of return on that investment is rarely more than zero. Yes, there are those few who get past the censors and land their manuscript on a decision maker’s desk. That is absolutely the exception and not the rule. The first line of defense in a publishing house are the readers, those who screen through the stacks (physical, but more and more electronic) of queries. In this case the writer must come up with a good hook, something short, sweet and sums up the story in an appealing way in just two to three sentences. Sadly, even with the best hook ever, some manuscripts are never seen. There are just too many of them for assistants and others assigned the task to determine the fate of those poor souls whose work is siting in front of them. It becomes easier for them to just stick a pre-made little note in your SASE and toss your work in the trash. Some queries land in good hands and may genuinely strike the reader as great material, but the timing is wrong. You’ve written a detective novel, but they’re looking for true detective works. Do your research and send your query to the right house and person. Even though the odds are most often against you, if you believe in yourself and your work, then don’t stop!
If you want to pursue the traditional route to getting your work published, go for it. The key is persistence. Keep at it, even when the rejection slips exceed the storage limit of your email account. It is not impossible to get published going this route, but it is frustrating and sometimes, downright depressing.
Today, most writers are getting creative in their efforts to draw attention to their work. And creative they are. But hey, aren’t writers supposed to be creative? Whatever route you use to get published, you need to generate interest in your work. Your goal is to make readers run to grab a copy of your latest. Next time, I will discuss some ways authors have succeeded in getting their work recognized.
Audience questions
Until then, keep those ideas flowing!
Against Their Will 