Sniff, sigh, wipe a tear from your eye

My children were four and five years old, my first husband named John was in Chicago for three months training for his new job, and my job was to find us a house. And I did.

It was a charming little house with character, a repossession that FHA had cleaned up. They’d cleared out trash (left by the previous owners), painted, reroofed, and refinished the hardwood floors. It was a bargain—but for a young family just out of the Air Force, expensive—$13,500. Whoa baby, it was scary to think we were in so much debt after we signed the mortgage papers. This was 1967.

The only pictures I have of our little brown house.

It was our first house after six years of rentals near military bases in California and Massachusetts.  There were two small bedrooms and bath on the main floor, a tiny dining room, and likewise, a tiny kitchen, a finished attic bedroom, and a garage you couldn’t park a car in because there were two big oak trees in front of it.

My kids grew up there, and I grew up there too.

I loved that house. When my first husband named John when out of town for a week to six weeks for more job training, I always had a surprise for his return. Once I took out all the upper cabinets in the kitchen and put in mirrors and open shelves. Another time I removed the plaster from the outer walls in the cold, cold bedrooms, insulated and put up new plasterboard. I built a concrete sculpture on a chicken wire armature in the back yard.

My children opened Christmas presents under the tree in that living room. They played with our dog, Teddy. They dressed up for Halloween there. Sue learned to play the clarinet, and Jim built a telescope out of a cardboard tube. They went though grade school and junior high while we lived in that house. They survived their parents’ divorce when they were 12 and 13, and still that house was their home. The summer after Sue graduated from high school, and Jim finished the eleventh grade, I sold the house.

I sometimes drive by “our” house. I don’t know why. Maybe just to check on it? In Spring I check to see if the twenty mail order 6 inch azaleas that I planted are still blooming. Last year they were huge festoons of shocking pink, at least 5 feet high, surrounding the brick front terrace that Sue and I built.

A few days ago, I drove by and a high cyclone fence that came out to the front sidewalk surrounded the house. Why, I wondered? Was it condemned or what? I didn’t see any notice in the window.

Then the day before yesterday, not even thinking about the fence, I was on my way home from Costco and just turned down North Connecticut. I was confused for a moment. Something was missing.

It was the house. Totally gone. Gone. I felt weepy. I looked at that small bare lot and thought about how big our lives were when we lived there, and what a small about of space we took up in the world. Our four lives were full and rich in less than 700 square feet.

The three big oaks still stand, will they disappear too.

That night I called my kids. They were both distressed. Sue talked about how her elementary school and her junior high school were both gone, and her high school was now a junior high...nothing of her childhood still existed. Jim said he still had dreams about that house (I do too).

Maybe I shouldn’t have told them? Maybe they never do drive-bys? But it mattered to both of them, and in my sadness I had to talk to someone who’d share that loss.

I won’t drive down our old block again. I don’t want to see the big-foot that will replace our little brown house, but then again...no promises.

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.

The Book Report

Thank you to all my friends and family, 
who came out on a cold dark Monday night 
to help launch my book. 

It's been a busy week since my book launch party last Monday night. Here's the story...

February 8th...Sunday

I spent the day having an anxiety attack. It was supposed to rain and it was freezing cold. Rain and cold equals ICE! No one would come. I wouldn't even be able to get to the church. I expected to hear travel alerts any minute. 

Pacing. Nervous. What would I say. I hadn't written a speech. Damn, I should have written a speech. Whatever was I thinking? But then, why worry? Freezing rain—no one would come.

February 9th...Monday morning. 

No ice on our driveway. NO ICE! 

I drove north to the church to get the key, so we could lock up after the party. I dropped off a couple books. Talked to Jim Shettel about the arrangement of chairs and tables in the Pavilion. Butt tested a table—I was thinking I'd sit on the table edge instead of standing at the podium. Nice and relaxed, unless you break the table and fall on the floor. 

On the way home I stopped at Trader Joes for more treats and wine. No ice on the road!

My sister-in-law Terry stopped by. She brought a huge hug and a beautiful bouquet.

I studied my book, finding passages to read after John confirmed or looked skeptical. I decided against reading one of my favorite lines in the book, “What the fuck, Chuck!” I was going to be reading in a church, for God’s sake.

That Night

My dear husband, who had heart surgery in September, loaded boxes—four heavy boxes filled with 100 books and a case of wine—into the van. (Here, so you’ll know I’m a good and loving wife, I will mention that he’s been working out everyday—including a lot of weight lifting.) I loaded bags of treats and sweets, and we picked up Ann Amenta in route to BOOK NIGHT.

My Helpers: Keith Brown, Ann Amenta and Joy Powell.
John's busy somewhere. 

Keith arrived early to set up the church’s coffee pot. The red and white checked tablecloth was spread on the treat table, and things were looking good. Ann arranged Terry’s bouquet. Joy arranged cookies.  John and I arranged the books in piles on a table at the front of the room—same table that would hold my butt. 

People started coming, lots of hugs happened. Then some folks wanted books but couldn’t stay, so John and I stationed ourselves at the table. He took money and I signed books.

The room filled. All these people had come out in the cold on a Monday night. As I looked around at all the faces, I realized that these people were all my friends. People I liked, who liked me back. I wasn’t nervous. I plopped my butt down on the edge of the table and talked. I read some passages (none with the F word). The table didn't break. At one point I meant to take a sip of wine, and the glass shook so bad that the wine splashed out. Okay, so I wasn’t nervous…the wine glass was. 

Relaxing after my talking was done.

At the end of my talking and answering a few questions, John spoke up. He told everyone that he wasn’t there at the conception of my book. He was though…I remember running ideas past him and his fertile encouragement. Then he said, right there in front of everyone, “I’m really proud of you.” It was a high point for me.

John thinks that 70 people came. I'm not sure, but I was thrilled and honored that each one of you took the time to come out.

Thank you all!

This week I’ve met friends who wanted a book, but missed the launch party. I still have more deliveries to make. Libraries: Huntington Woods and Royal Oak each have a copy, and this week Ferndale and Birmingham are also getting gift books. So if you don’t have one, and want to read it, ask your librarian. 

Vertical books are waiting for their owners.
Horizontal books are resting until they're adopted.

Books are also available on amazon.com for paperbacks, and Kindle books. And smashwords.com has iBooks. 

PS. After the love and kindness you’ve all shown, I feel guilty asking one more thing. But, if you're so inclined, please consider writing a brief (or long) review and rate the book on my Amazon page. You don’t have to buy the book from Amazon to write a review. Reviews really do matter.

Love you all!

IT'S A BOOK!!!

 Delivered: January 24th (After 3 proof copies)

Weight: 1 pound

Height: 9 inches, Width: 6 inches, Pages: 264

Given name: Intentional, A Novel

There will be a party celebrating this book's very difficult delivery.

YOU'RE INVITED!

Monday, February 9th, 2015

7:00 till 9:00

The book's Mom will read a bit (showing off her new born), 

and answer questions.

Get your autographed copy

There with be copies available for purchase 

($15.00 each)

The mom is covering shipping costs.

Such a deal!

 Wine, sweets and coffee will be served.

Location:

Birmingham Unitarian Church

38651 Woodward Avenue

Just North of Lone Pine Road 

Bloomfield Hills, MI 48304

Please RSVP 

Facebook friends RSVP in comments.

Blog Friends RSVP by email.

If you forget to RSVP, come anyway. Bring friends.

If you can't come, you can get a signed book from me,

or shop on Amazon.com.

E-book versions will be available-- 

Kindle, Smashwords and iBooks after February 7th.

PS. I've read it, and it's pretty good.

The shiny cover feels good to the touch. 

Yeah, I admit it, I pet the book. 

Oh Baby, the Sun was Shining

I've been nervously waiting for several weeks to hear what Kirkus Review would write about my novel. Then when the email came yesterday, I was afraid to open it. But forcing myself to be brave, I clicked on it, and it was very good news. The reviewer didn't use any of those words I was worried about, like "boring," "sappy," "stupid," "icky," or "don't bother with this one." 

It was good. And most exciting...the reviewer read the exact book I wrote. He or she got it.

Then another good thing happened on sunshiny Monday.

The proof copy of Intentional came from CreateSpace, and I'm thrilled. It looks better than I expected. IT'S A REAL BOOK! White and Shiny. There were a couple things that I need to fix (like adding a "praise page" using some lines from the Kirkus Review) and putting the Acknowledgements page back in (now how the heck did that get lost). 

So I'm hoping for a publishing date of January 30. Crossed fingers. We'll see.

In the meantime, here's the review...

KIRKUS REVIEW

In this novel, a woman’s friends and family deal with the aftermath of her suicide as they try to understand her reasons and their own roles.

The last Lily Cummings hears from her best friend, Dust Steward, is a text message: “I love U. Be.” Be what? Dust (shortened from Dusty) can never tell her, because she shoots herself with her husband’s gun in the fancy bathroom of their home’s luxurious new addition. Lily, 37, together with Dust’s husband, daughter, mother and neighbor, struggles with her grief, confusion and guilt. Dust left no note and had apparently been planning the suicide for some time. Why? A passionate environmentalist, Dust hated the house extension and its enormous carbon footprint—concerns that her husband, Robert, with his conservative political ambitions, dismissed. He also threatened to keep their daughter, Grace, from her if she tried to divorce. Now, he must face up to his role: “I’m not innocent….Everything she believed in, I smacked down. I did it.” With good cause or without, everyone wonders if they could have done more. Dust’s suicide becomes a catalyst for other major life changes elsewhere—a collapsing marriage, rapprochement with a long-gone mother, etc. Throughout this intelligent and perceptive novel, Arbor traces with strength and delicacy the many strands leading up to and away from a suicide. She brings out the textures of people’s lives through their in-jokes and little customs so that readers can feel the web of living connections that Dust was part of and left behind. The childhood friendship between Lily and Dust is shown to be full of the shared fears, hopes and joys that kept them friends into adulthood, which helps define the scope of loss. Though everyone tries to play detective to understand Dust’s suicide, the answers are messy. After Dust’s death, one of her jigsaw puzzles, unfinished, lies gathering dust, the pieces never put together.

A thoughtful, sensitive but never saccharine exploration of what suicide leaves behind.--Kirkus Review

INCOMPATIBILITY

No, no, don’t get excited, this isn’t about anyone’s marriage.

This is about the final drama of making a manuscript become a book. Ugh. This isn’t the fun part.

Two and a half years ago, on July 2, 2012, I wrote the first 500 words of my novel. It was the beginning of the fun part. I'd wake up at 5:00 a.m. with some idea gelling in the dark, then get up and hang out with imaginary friends, while writing in the Pages  program on my Mac laptop. This was very entertaining.

But at some point I discovered that publishers only want books written in Microsoft Word, so in 2013 Santa brought me Word for Mac for Christmas. This year Santa bought himself a new PC laptop and Mrs. Santa gave him the latest version of Microsoft Word for PC’s. Aren’t we romantic?

Learning a new computer program was a struggle, but hey, Wonder Woman can conquer anything. All you have to do is stand in the middle of a room and twirl. Yeah, right. 

But I did it. I figured out Word for Mac. I completed the novel, sent out the manuscript, and got the rejected manuscript back several times.

Then I decided that before I was buried six feet under with my skin decomposing, I would make it a real book. I decided to use CreateSpace (Amazon) for paperbacks, and Smashwords for e-books. I would become an Indie (Independent) Publisher, so I registered my assumed identity with the State of Michigan for ten bucks. Ta da! Now I’m Spring Forward Publishing.

Nancy Massa designed my logo. Awesome. Life is sweet.

Then came the cover design. Since I spent years at the College for Creative Studies learning how to do such a thing, there was no question—I would (with tweaking help from Nancy) design my own cover and the inside pages of the novel.

There were several incarnations of cover designs: a dark room with candles flickering (it seemed to be selling a spiritual-self-help-New-Age book); hot air balloons floating in a New Mexico blue sky. Although there’s a scene in the book with hot air balloons, it just looked too light and fluffy. Finally with votes from my blog friends and Facebook friends, the white cover was the winner.

Did I mention that I had to buy a bullet for the cover image? Ms. Anti-gun got the heebie-jeebies going up to the gun counter. John hid in another part of the store while I had a clerk pull bullets out of boxes so I could pick the prettiest. I only needed one, but I had to buy a whole box. $24.99 plus tax. I'll donate them to our police department.

Next, I learned that I’d need to buy ISBN numbers from Bowker. Since I might print other versions of my book and write more books in the future, it’s recommended that I buy a package of ISBN numbers. So I did. Then I needed to buy a bar code for this book. So I did.

I almost forgot about the emails to Rogers and Hammerstein for permission to use the lyrics from "My Favorite Things." That'll be $75 up front for the license which covers 500 copies of the book. Thank you very much. 

White board with my To-Do list

I have a very good art/graphic design education, but my grammar knowledge makes me insecure. You can ask your friends to read the book. But, you should never ask them to check your grammar. Who knows, you might need a kidney donor some day. I needed some serious professional help, so I hired a copy editor...very expensive, very worth it.

I’m going to need a Library of Congress number too. So yesterday I filed a request and in a week I should have a form to fill out and return. If you get one through Amazon they charge, but if you go though the actual Library of Congress it’s free.

Then yesterday I ran into a huge snag. The book has to be submitted by email as a PDF file. When I made the PDF, my page numbers were missing their cute little bottom halves. After several hours of tearing my hair out and reading on line forums, I decided to move the numbers to the top of the pages. When I did that, the headers disappeared. That’s the area at the top of the facing  pages that should have my name and the books title.

Desperate,  I took my book file via a little detachable drive downstairs and plugged it into John's PC. SOLUTION!

Not so fast. Word on the PC is a different animal, a wet dog maybe. The whole program looked alien. The buttons, knobs and pulleys were all in different places. Damn you, Bill Gates!

I was tempted to throw in the towel. I was also tempted to throw both the computers out the window. Maybe I should just let someone at CreateSpace deal with my layout? For $199 CreateSpace would format my book for me. Or just forget the whole thing? Just stick the damn book in a file drawer and be done with it. 

No. Hell no. I’ve already invested so much I can’t just discard the book. My heart's in there...plus thousands of hours and dollars. I bought bullets for God’s sake.

Okay, calm down. Find the help menu. Read it. No, don’t just skim it. Read it again...every word. Hey, there’s a button I didn’t know I was supposed to click (it’s not on the Mac version).

Woo Hoo, I got page numbers and heads at the top of the page. Now just put it on my Mac upstairs and check how it prints.

Dang! All my nice Helvetica Light chapter heads had transformed into something obnoxious. My darling husband and I have incompatible fonts. However, the Garamond body copy looked fine. Now what? Use the C word. Compromise. I changed all the heads to Garamond. Not exactly what I wanted, but it would work.

Remember Geppetto in Pinocchio, wishing for a real boy. Well, I’m wishing for a real book. Someday. But it’s harder than wishing. You have to push the right button.

When OK isn't okay

Back when dinosaurs roamed the planet, I worked as a graphic designer and shared a room in a graphics studio with Nancy Massa for about twenty years. Nancy’s nickname was Half-Point, because she would send copy back to the typesetters and ask them to reduce the spacing by a half point—that’s like a hair’s difference. She's a meticulous designer. 

So, of course, Nancy was the person I wanted to help me when I was working on my book's cover. We spent hours together nudging the elements (title, post-it notes, chalk, chalk crumbs, bullet, etc.) into position.

I remember how Nancy used to squint at paragraphs of type. It should look consistently gray—never blobby or bumpy with some letters looking thinner or thicker than the rest. The way black type colors up on a white page matters.

A couple weeks ago, my novel came back from the copyeditor. She fixed my misuse of commas, found misplaced words, removed the extra “L” that I consistently added to the word cancelled, oops, I mean canceled. One L is common in American English, while two L’s is common in Britain, Canada, and Australia. She broke up my run-on sentences. She corrected my tenses, “been there, done that,” “is there, doin’ that,” “will be there, and do that.” I’m getting tense just thinking about it.

She also changed “okay” to “OK”. 

I went through the manuscript and made the corrections she suggested, but the “OK’s” haunted me. “OK” seemed too loud, the capital letters almost acted like bold type. OK jumped out of the paragraph and yelled at me. Whereas, “okay” with it’s lowercase letters, was quiet, more passive and colored up better on the page. It merged with the other words and didn't draw special attention to itself.

The word “okay” is easy, calm, not excited. Well, unless you’re in a pissed-off mood, and someone’s bugging you to do something that you don’t want to, and you have to yell, “Okay, already!”

In many publications, okay is not OK. Only a third of publications use “okay.”

• The Wall Street Journal and The Chicago Manual of Style, 16th edition uses OK.
• The New York Times uses O.K.
• Reuters uses okay.

Well, too bad. I don’t like the way "OK" colors up on the page. Nancy would agree. "OK" is just too loud. So I went back through the manuscript and typed “ok” into the search box in Microsoft Word. I changed all the "OK’s" back to "okay" (consistency is important).

There are creative liberties to consider here. In her wonderful novel, The Orchardist, Amanda Coplin wrote the dialog without quote marks. It added a sense of quiet to the pages.

My novel has people who talk with quote marks around their words, maybe not as creative as Coplin, but that's okay.