The Doing of It

The novel’s written, the launch party’s over...so now what do I do with myself?

For weeks when John left the house each day to see clients or work in his “office” at Panera, I wanted to say, “Don’t leave. I don’t know what to do with myself.” I didn’t say it.

He left.

And then here I was pacing the house. I couldn’t clean. Cleaning takes concentration. I thought about putting things in piles—donate, sell, keep. Pare down. Get my life and this house in order. I’d pick up an old box of some cleaning product, and I’d think, “I should take this to the recycling center where they could properly dispose of it.” And then I’d put it back in the same spot. 

It was too quiet. I watched TV. I ate things.

I was exhausted. I had pains. Maybe my arteries were clogging? Maybe I was catching John’s heart problem? I went to the doctor. I was healthy as a horse. But why is health equated with horses? 

I reread Intentional and discovered some formatting errors. Imperfection. Aargh! Revisions would mean getting a new ISBN number, a new bar code. Resubmitting, fussing with the cover, redoing the Kindle and Smashwords versions. Would it mean a new Library of Congress number too? Just thinking about it made me feel even more exhausted.

The thing is, I was suffering from post book depression. Maybe it should be called Post Bookum Depression. It happens. When you're finishing a big creative project (or maybe any big project) there are frantic, final, all consuming finishing touches. When all the tasks are done, you’re wiped out. 

It’s over. Now what?

This isn’t to say that the month since the book launch has been all bad. Many people sent emails or even cards saying they liked my novel. And on March 11th, I got an email from Kirkus Reviews saying:

Your review for "Intentional" was selected by our Indie Editors to be featured in Kirkus Reviews 3/1 Issue. Congratulations! Your review appeared as one of the 20 reviews in the Indie section of the magazine which is sent out to over 5,000 industry professionals (librarians, publishers, agents, etc.) Less than 10% of our Indie reviews are chosen for this, so it's a great honor. You can view the 3/1 issue here: 

https://www.dropbox.com/s/02r3p9urpffgckd/Kirkus_Online_030115.pdf?dl=0 

And that was wonderful. But I was still in a funk.

Then yesterday I went into the room where I write. I’ve heard that sitting too much isn’t good for you, and I’ve been sitting too much. So I piled some things up and arranged my laptop at elbow height. I would stand at least part of the time to write the next novel.

I stood there reading over the first few chapters of A Bird in the House, which I’d started months ago when Intentional was off at the copyeditor’s. Then I wrote the gist of each chapter on post-it notes, so I could rearrange them on my white board, clarifying the order of events, and hopefully stop confusing myself.

Bird

I looked out the window and there was a shockingly red cardinal in the oak tree. All the chapters in the new book start with a bird quote or fact. Cardinal? Yes! Chapter 4 would be titled, “Cardinal Sin”. 

I started writing the new chapter. A sentence. Another sentence, and then it happened...words appeared on the computer screen that I hadn’t planned. This was it. The fun part! 

The funk lifted. It was my best day in a month. 

The best part isn't the party. It’s not the wine and hugs. It’s not the compliments on a job well done, although those are all very wonderful. 

The very best part is the doing of it.

Being Steven King

So you’re a creative person who likes to make things with words or paint. You’re also a nice person, or anyway, you usually think you are. There are love stories in you, flower petals to paint, and poems to your new baby or grandchild. You make pretty art; you paint sweet words; you kiss butterflies on the nose.

Then again...

What if you’re a nice person who also wants to cover a canvas in thick black paint, or fill it with naked bodies writhing in erotic passion? Can you allow yourself? What will people think? What if, in the story you’re writing, the bad guy—or worse, the good guy—licks the spit-up off the baby’s face. Ick. That's totally gross.

What if what comes out of your keyboard is unintentionally mean, revengie, and/or disgusting? Or worse...what if it’s sappy, stupid, preachy, or boring. What if it’s bad and you’re humiliated for life?

But what if it’s good and no one sees it?

Insecurity is having a party in my head, self-questioning is dancing a polka, doubt is twerking it’s fat butt at me. I just finished a final—I can’t say “the final”—revision of my novel about a suicide and what happens to the survivors, and I’m trying to be brave.

You can be creative without being brave. Your can hide your manuscript in a drawer or in a file folder on the computer, your drawings can be held captive in the closet. If you never expose your work, no one can judge you.

When Steven King writes one of his scary novels do you think he worries about whether anyone thinks he’s nice (which I’ve read, he is). He just does what he does, and then has a few trusted friends read it before going seriously public. 

So the first step after writing the book (which is really the first step) is imposing your masterpiece on some of your friends. 

The reviews of my novel (if graphed) would look like bad teeth.

• Barbara, John, Ann, and Joy all said they liked it. Were they being nice, or did they really like it? Maybe I should ask them again?
• Pat hated it (but loves me), and emailed, “I thought the characters were too black and white. Lacking nuances.” She was disappointed not to see the sly humor of my blog, which—since I’ve been working on novels—has been neglected. (The sly humor and the blog.)
• Carol wrote, “So intelligent and perceptive—a flowing, delightful writing style. The characters were very real.”
• Kristen, my environmentalist granddaughter, loved it and interspersed the manuscript with post-its of “Fun Facts,” most of which I added.
• Louise read two pages and returned it, she didn’t have time then, but never asked for it back.
• Jim DeLorey, who wrote an exciting thriller, Scream Cruise, took the time to write pages of valuable positive and negative comments. 
• Ed, retired professor of literature, had some helpful suggestions, but, bottom line, he said it deserved to be published. 
• My daughter, Sue, liked it, and I know she always tells me what she really thinks. 
• Bonnie said, “Ehh.” 
• Colette thought I should write a sequel. 
• Mary Cay said she liked it so much that she read it twice.
• Alison said, “The way you interwove the environmental issues felt very much like what Barbara Kingsolver does in her work, and I thought you did it equally well.” I immediately reread Flight Patterns. Alison’s comment was a stretch, but fun to hear, especially since I’m a fan of Kingsolver.

Most of these folks (likers and dislikers alike) had suggestions—excellent, helpful, and wise. 

Then five agents rejected the book.

After six months, with only an auto response saying they got it—the agent I was most hoping to work with—emailed, “We would be pleased to consider your manuscript, INTENTIONAL, for possible representation.” 

Woo Hoo! Yippee! Yay! Can you believe!

Nine weeks later—NINE WEEKS LATER!—that agent sent a rejection email, a nice one, but still a rejection. Six months plus nine weeks, that’s a lot of waiting time, and I’m aging quickly.

Friends say, “Hey, listen, five rejections is nothing. You know how many times Harry Potter was rejected?” The reassuring legend grows; the last I heard J.K. Rowling was rejected twenty-seven times.

Steven King is, from what I’ve read, a nice person, a gifted literary writer who writes terror in black paint. “Carrie” was rejected ten times.

But I’ve decided I’ve had enough rejection. Years ago self-publishing was a huge no-no, but times have changed. I’m going to be brave. I want people to read me. If they like me, great, if not, that’s okay too.

Two weeks ago I sent my book to a professional copyeditor. I should have it back in early December. Then, after more editing by me, and more fussing with my cover design, hopefully, by January (two and a half years since I began) it’ll be a real book. 

PS. Some names have been changed to protect the innocent (my much appreciated readers). I want to be able to ask them to read the next one.

Little Houses

When I was a little girl my mother sat with me at the kitchen table and taught me how to draw. It was nice, mostly being with my mother. But the thing that drew me the most was building houses. My first homes: a refrigerator box (nice and cozy); blankets hung from the clothesline (a little too roughing-it for my taste, even at 7); blankets over a table in my great-grandmothers flat. 

After mom divorced, she and I moved into my aunt Katie's house and shared the attic bedroom. My houses became much more sophisticated. Kim, my best friend, and I would walk up to the paint store and collect old wallpaper books. We got cardboard boxes from behind the grocery store and knives from the kitchen. Then we'd cut little windows and doors in the boxes, put in cardboard partitions and wallpaper the rooms. 

Then in the fifth grade my art teacher, Miss Schwitzer, taught us perspective. PERSPECTIVE! Wow. You can draw the inside of rooms with perspective! So on to the next phase, drawing my little houses and making floor plans. Bliss. I favored the cozy, efficient, no waste of space houses. This continued all though high school and beyond.


Ok, so that's some history.

My architect husband and I  now live in a four bedroom colonial house. As I get older this house gets bigger and bigger. More work. Too much stuff. 

A couple days ago I found a PBS video that I've played over and over. It's all about the small house movement.
http://video.pbs.org/video/1553961054. 


This video brings me back to a very appealing place that I used to live in in my head. Small (not my head). Cozy. And I owned nothing more than what I really needed. 
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The Doll House. The grandkids like it. John hates it. You can't please everyone.